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The Last Look: A Tale of the Spanish Inquisition, a fiction by William H. G. Kingston |
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Chapter 9. Freedom |
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_ CHAPTER NINE. FREEDOM We must return once more to the unhappy Leonor de Cisneros. She was seated on a rough bench in her dungeon beneath the halls of the Inquisition. One gleam of light only was admitted by a small aperture, leading into a courtyard, far above her head. The gleam fell on her marble countenance, pale as that of one who has ceased to breathe. Her once rich hair, now glistening like snow, hung over her shoulders, while her figure was draped in the dark robe she was doomed to wear. Heavy chains hung on her arms, which she could with difficulty lift to her head, whenever she strove to press her hands upon her burning brow. Even the agony of mind and body which she had endured had scarcely dimmed her beauty. Though her eyes had lost their lustre, yet in them was a fixed look of courage and resignation. Now she knelt down on the cold stones before the stool, and lifted up her manacled hands to heaven, towards which her countenance was turned, earnestly imploring strength and resolution to withstand the fearful temptations to which she was exposed. She was not disappointed. While she thus knelt, the door of her dungeon grated on its hinges. Slowly, and not without difficulty, she rose from her knees, and stood prepared to receive her visitor, whoever he might prove to be. She dreaded lest she should see the arch-fiend Munebrega; but instead of him, Don Francisco de Vivers stood before her. He advanced a few paces into the vault, and placed the lantern he bore on a stone shelf projecting from the wall on one side of the cell. He did not speak till the door closed behind him. He then stood before her with his plumed hat held in his hand, keeping still at the distance of a few paces. "Dona Leonor," he said, "I come to bid you farewell. The words you spoke to me during my last visits to you sunk deep down in my heart. The glorious truths you explained took root, and have since by God's grace been abundantly watered. I obtained a copy of His blessed Word. I sought for instruction from those able to give it, and I am now ready, if it is His will, to add my testimony to the truth by my blood. I was sent here to win you back to life, and to gain you over to the false faith of Rome. You have been the cause of my becoming a thorough Protestant, and being made willing, if called upon, to suffer death-- such death, that is, as man is able to inflict upon his fellow-man. Yet I am young, and do not desire to die. I have therefore resolved to quit my country for another land, where I may freely worship God according to the dictates of my conscience. I knew that you would rejoice to hear this. I therefore resolved, at every risk, to seek another interview with you. Dear lady, you will pardon me for the words I spoke to you on my former visits. I uttered them in my ignorance. I thought that I was thus benefiting you, instead of endeavouring to deprive you of that joy unspeakable which is prepared for those who truly love the Lord, and are ready to give up all for Him." "Oh, believe me, Don Francisco, when I say it, I have nothing to pardon," replied Dona Leonor. "I rejoice to hear of your determination. Alas! I fear you would not benefit our unhappy countrymen by remaining among them. The spirit of evil has gained the supremacy; and while he reigns, with the sanguinary inquisitors as his ministers, the truth can never make progress in the country. Go, then, Don Francisco; my prayers, day and night, will be offered up to the throne of mercy that you may be protected from the dangers of your journey, and safely reach the haven of rest. It is mockery to speak of joy, but such joy as I am now capable of feeling will be mine when I hear that you have safely reached your destination. And oh, Don Francisco, pray for me, not that my life may be prolonged, but that I may have courage and support in the trials I may be called upon henceforth to bear; and that it may be God's will that I may, ere long, be emancipated from my bondage, not to go forth into the world, but to be raised on wings of light to join my martyred husband, now singing praises with the heavenly choir before the great white throne of our loving Father." "Dona Leonor, your wishes shall ever be a law to me," answered Don Francisco. "I shall see you no more on earth. Even should I be successful in escaping from this unhappy country, I believe that I shall never again return to it; and even if I did, I should not be permitted to see you. I hear that many Spanish Protestants are assembled at Genoa, among whom are several who were once monks at San Isidoro. Thither I have resolved to bend my steps, that I may worship with them, and gain from them instruction and counsel." "I thank our Heavenly Father that you have resolved on this step," answered Leonor, "and I pray that you may be more successful than were my beloved Herezuelo and myself. Oh, that I had not believed the falsehoods that were told me before that dreadful day when I last met him on earth! Bitterly have I repented my weakness and want of faith. I should have known that no human power would have induced him to deny his Lord and Master, even for the sake of saving his life and being reunited with me. Ah, how weak and faithless was I! but I thank my God that, through the influence of the Holy Spirit, I had strength and power given me boldly to declare my faith in the truth, even though my so doing has brought me into this dungeon, and will ere long cast my body amid those flames which consumed the mortal frame of my husband. Oh, believe me, Don Francisco, to that day I look forward with eagerness and joy. My heart will bound with thankfulness when I am told to prepare for going forth to the stake." Don Francisco stepped forward and raised the manacled hand of the speaker to his lips. Then, casting one more glance of respect and sorrow at that still lovely countenance before him, he hastened from the cell, drawing his hat over his brow to conceal his agitation; then wrapping his cloak around him, he took his way through the narrow passages which led to the vaults, guided by one of the familiars of the Inquisition, till he reached the door of an apartment, at which his guide stopped and knocked. A voice desired him to enter. Don Francisco passed through the doorway, and stood in the presence of the Archbishop Munebrega. "Do you expect to move her, Don Francisco?" asked the Archbishop, eyeing him narrowly. "My lord, I do not," answered Don Francisco, firmly; "yet I warn you that severe treatment will not effect your purpose. For myself, I would beg that I might not be again requested to visit her; but I yet entreat that her chains may be removed, and that she may be placed in a room where the light of day is allowed to enter, and be supplied with food such as her delicate nature requires." "Don Francisco, you ask what it may be impossible for me to grant," answered the Archbishop, again casting a penetrating glance towards him; "but I will make known your request to my coadjutors, and, should they see fit, it may be granted." Don Francisco was glad when the interview with the Archbishop came to a close. He well knew the character of the man with whom he had to deal, and he dreaded lest any word he might incautiously drop should betray him. He hurried home. Already he had made every preparation which was possible for his journey. As the shades of evening drew on he left his house, and all the comforts and luxuries it contained, feeling that he should never return. Keeping his countenance concealed with his cloak, he passed unquestioned through the gates. Now he hurried on at a rapid pace for a league or more from the city. Then, turning on one side, he entered a small wood. He had not gone far when he found, standing under the trees, two horses, held by a short man in the costume of a muleteer. "Ah! my friend Julianillo, I knew that I could trust you, and I am thankful that you have not failed me. It is time, if I would save my life, that I should leave Valladolid. Already the savage Munebrega suspects me, and I have bidden farewell to her for whose sake alone I should desire to remain in Spain. I could not bear to see her die; and yet, knowing the savage hearts of her persecutors, and her own firm resolve, I feel sure that, ere long, she will add another to the glorious list of martyrs. She has bidden farewell to the world and her fellow-creatures, and places her trust in One who alone can give her strength to undergo the trials she may be called upon to endure." "True, Don Francisco, true," answered Julianillo; "but we must not delay. A few minutes may make the difference between life and safety, and imprisonment and death. When our brother Don Domingo de Roxas attempted to escape, from a short delay caused by his visit to the noble De Seso, he fell into the power of the inquisitors. But you, I trust, are not suspected, and we may in safety gain the borders of Spain without impediment. It will be necessary, however, to use caution, and above all things to trust to no one. There are guards on all the roads, and spies at every inn, ready to entrap the unwary." Saying this Julianillo held the stirrup while Don Francisco threw himself into the saddle. He then mounted his own horse, and together they rode out of the wood, and took the road towards the frontier. Julianillo knew every part of the country. Each highway and every by-path was as familiar to him as if he had it mapped down before his eyes. Often and often he had travelled those roads, with his bales of goods surrounding the copies of the Bible and the works of Luther and others, which he had brought across the Pyrenees into Spain. He had, of late, however, been compelled to give up bringing any more copies of God's Word into the country. He had, instead, devoted himself to assisting Protestants to escape from their persecutors. Those who had trusted themselves entirely to his care and guidance he had never failed to convey safely to their destination. Their horses were fresh, and they were thus able to gallop in the greater part of the night. When morning broke, Valladolid was many miles behind them. As soon as the horses were rested they again proceeded on their journey. They thus continued till they were within a half-day's journey of the frontier. "We are now approaching the most dangerous part of the road," observed Julianillo to Don Francisco. "It would be safer for you not to appear to be under my guidance. I may possibly be suspected, and as I am well-known, I should certainly be seized, while you might be allowed to continue your journey. But whatever happens, take no notice of me, and let us appear to be total strangers to each other." These remarks were made when the travellers were yet some distance from the inn where they intended to stop. Julianillo rode on ahead, Don Francisco following at a distance, so as just to keep him in view. When Don Francisco entered the common room of the inn, Julianillo was already there, seated among a number of muleteers and other persons, laughing and joking with them. Don Francisco, on entering, took no notice of him, but placed himself at an unoccupied part of the long table, at the other end of the room. The guests were waiting for dinner, and in a short time large dishes of fried beans and pork were placed on the table. Don Francisco could with difficulty partake of the rough fare put before him. He ordered, however, a flagon of wine, and requested the host to partake of it, who, nothing loth, accepted his offer. The guests had only just seated themselves when a party of mounted alguazils arrived at the inn, and, having stabled their horses, walked in to partake of the dinner going forward. Julianillo appeared in no way to be disconcerted. It was an anxious time for Don Francisco, for he could not help fearing that the alguazils were in search of suspected persons. Having allowed time for the horses to rest, Julianillo started up, and beginning to sing a well-known comic air, sauntered out of the inn towards the stables. Don Francisco waited till he supposed his companion was on the road, and then, paying his reckoning to the landlord, begged that his horse might be brought round. Just as he was mounting, the landlord whispered in his ear-- "Stop not till you have gained the other side of the border, and then be not content till you are many leagues from it." "I know not what you mean," answered Don Francisco, carelessly; "but supposing the advice to be of value, I should be truly grateful to you for it." Saying this he rode quietly through the street of the village. He had not gone far when he heard the mounted guards who had entered the inn following close behind. Instead of attempting to escape them he drew in his rein to allow them to come up with him. It was a moment to try the nerves of most men. They, however, rode by, saluting him as they passed, when they continued at a rapid rate. Fearing, should he show any inclination to push on, he might be stopped, he continued at a leisurely pace in the direction taken by Julianillo. In a short time the sound of horses approaching him reached his ears, and he saw the very same party he had met before returning with someone among them. As he drew near, great was his grief to recognise Julianillo. Following the advice given him by that brave man, he approached the troop with as unconcerned a countenance as he could assume. "Who have you got there?" he asked in a calm tone. "A culprit who has long eluded us, but who has been caught at last, as many others who now think themselves safe will be ere long," was the answer. Anxious as he felt to assist Julianillo, he was well aware of the uselessness of making the attempt; the words he had just heard making him more anxious than ever to escape from the country. He therefore rode forward with the same unconcerned air which he had assumed on approaching the emissaries of the Inquisition. Following the advice of the innkeeper, as soon as he was out of sight of the party he put spurs to his horse, and ere night closed in he was many leagues within the territory of France. His adventures were like those of others who made their escape from the Inquisition. Being well supplied with money, he had, however, less difficulty than many others. He ultimately succeeded in reaching Genoa. There, though he was at first looked upon with suspicion, he was soon able to prove the sincerity of his conversion, and was received as a faithful Protestant among the brethren assembled in that city. Meantime Julianillo was led by his captors to Seville. He was there brought before the Inquisitors. With undaunted eye and firm countenance he confronted his judges, who were at the same time his accusers. He denied nothing. He was accused of having been one of the chief instruments in disseminating the Gospel throughout Spain. He smiled calmly at the words addressed to him. "I should indeed be proud to have performed so excellent a work," he answered; "but those who have far more influence than I possess have had that honour. If I brought the Word of Life to those perishing for lack of it, I merely performed the part of the baker's boy who brings the loaves to the door. It depended upon the people whether they would take the Bread of Life; and if they took it, whether they would feed on it. Hear me, ye ministers of tyranny and falsehood: I glory in declaring that I believe the only knowledge we possess of the perfect and all-sufficient sacrifice which Christ offered up once for all on Calvary, is that revealed to us in the Bible, and applied to our hearts by the Holy Spirit. I believe that the Pope and priests of Rome are ignorant of this great and glorious truth, that 'the just shall live by faith,' and faith alone. In this belief I have now for many years lived, rejoicing also." "Silence him! away with him!" cried the inquisitors, in deep and angry voices. "He is hopelessly contumacious. A speedy death by fire must be his doom." Julianillo smiled calmly as he heard these words pronounced. "For many years I have been prepared for this," he answered. "When I undertook the work in which I have been engaged, I counted the cost. I knew that I should have a rich reward, and all you can do is to hasten the time when I am to wear that crown of glory prepared for me in the skies; and, humble though I am, I feel well assured that it is a brilliant and a glorious crown." Before Julianillo could say more he was hurried away from the hall of the Inquisition, and thrown into a dark and noisome dungeon, there to remain till the day fixed for the next _auto-da-fe_, at which he was to suffer the extreme penalty inflicted by the Inquisition. He was among those who suffered on the day already described, when Don Carlo de Seso received the crown of martyrdom. Though he boasted of no exalted rank or lineage, yet, bold in the faith, he died as bravely as the most noble. On the morning of the _auto_, addressing his fellow-prisoners, he exclaimed, "Courage, comrades! This is the hour in which we may show ourselves valiant soldiers of Jesus Christ. Let us now bear faithful testimony to His truth before men, and within a few hours we shall receive the testimony of His approbation before angels, and triumph with Him in heaven." These words were repeated to the inquisitors, and they, knowing full well his courage and determination, ordered him to be gagged, lest, when marching forth among the other condemned criminals, he should address the multitude, and perhaps gain their sympathy, or induce them to accept the truth, for holding which he was condemned to suffer. In spite of the gag, he continued by his gestures to encourage his companions condemned to death with himself; and thus until the flames rose up fiercely around him, he bore witness to the truth, and endeavoured to support them to the last. Meantime the unhappy Leonor de Cisneros lingered on in prison. Every effort was made by the inquisitors and their familiars of high and low degree to induce her to recant, but she continued contumacious. Once only a gleam of satisfaction was seen to pass over her countenance; it was when a few words, incautiously let drop by one of her visitors, informed her that Don Francisco de Vivers had escaped from Spain, and had arrived safely at Genoa. Was it in mercy, because her bigoted persecutors yet hoped that she would recant, that her life was still spared? or was it because their vindictive feelings made them unwilling to liberate their captive, and terminate her sufferings by consigning her to that death for which she waited longingly? Often she exclaimed with the Apostle Paul, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection of the just to happiness unspeakable, "For me to live is Christ, and to die is gain." Year after year passed by, and still she remained a prisoner in those dreadful dungeons. She had but numbered twenty-two summers when consigned to them, and eight long winters of existence passed afterwards over her head. During those weary years that heroic woman, with the most perfect constancy, endured insults, torture, starvation, while compelled to listen to all the arguments which cunning priests could adduce to make her change her faith. At length, once more she stood before the judgment-seat of the inquisitors, among whom the Archbishop Munebrega presided. Did no recollection of that young woman's mother, whom he had once fondly loved, or thought he loved, cross his mind? Did he not remember Dona Leonor herself, when in her early youth, radiant in beauty, he first beheld her, and heard from her lips the startling acknowledgment that she believed the simple Word of God and trusted to it? Now she stood before him a pale wan woman, weighed down with grief and physical suffering. Again she was asked if she would recant, and reminded that it was for the last time. "Oh, no, no!" she answered, her heart bounding with joy at the announcement. The captive was to be set free. Now, in solemn mockery, the inquisitors arose, and pronounced Dona Leonor de Cisneros hopelessly contumacious, and condemned her to the flames. A bright gleam rested on her countenance as she heard her sentence, but she uttered not a word, she made not a movement till summoned to return to her cell. The 26th of September, 1568, at length arrived. Ere the dawn had broken in the outer world she rose from her hard pallet. Yet, hard as it was, her slumber had been calm and sweet. She knew not that it was her last day on earth. Kneeling, she lifted up her hands in prayer. She prayed for her persecutors. She prayed that the day-star might yet arise over Spain, and the Gospel be preached throughout the length and breadth of the land. The door opened. A harsh voice ordered her to rise from her knees; prayer was not for one whom the Church had excommunicated. She obeyed. A monk, with a savage gleam in his eyes, stood before her. At the door were several familiars. The monk's errand was soon told. He had come to conduct her to the courtyard where the victims destined to appear in the _auto-da-fe_ were collecting. The cruelties, the mockeries, the blasphemies of those hideous spectacles have often been described. All, all, Leonor endured, not only with patience and courage, but with a rejoicing heart. Calm and unmoved she listened to the long sermon poured forth by the Bishop of Zamora, who, from a lofty pulpit, addressed himself both to the victims and the populace. When the blasphemous ceremonies were brought to a conclusion, joy lighted up her countenance. Firmly she walked to the place of execution, and submitted without a murmur to be bound to the stake. The moment she had longed for had arrived! The flames rose up around her, and her emancipated spirit flew to rejoin her beloved husband, and to be for ever with their Lord. [THE END] _ |
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