University of Virginia Library

The Chief Inquisitor speaks:—

“. . . So you were caught red-handed in the fact! . . .
You, one of Dona Inez' pious house,
Serving her Saintliness as handmaiden,
Are seen, by moonlight, stealing out of doors,
What time all honest women are abed,
Are watch'd by Dona Inez' only son
(Himself abroad upon some godly quest),
And follow'd,—Whither? . . . To a cursèd den
Down in the Calle de la Moreria,
Where herd the votaries of false Mahound,
Intent on hellish orgies, heralding
Their prophet's birthday. Wherein having bode
The live-long night, at peep of early dawn
Behold you once more threading through the town,
Bound for the pious home wherefrom you came,
Which, entering, by a purloinèd key,
You lie you down and simulate sound sleep,
Then rise, and do your service, ignorant
That any wotted of your evil ways.
But Retribution, with unfailing feet,
Follows on impious deeds! Your lady's son,
After much goodly precept and wise talk,
Meant to allure your spirit back to God,
Seeing the evil rooted, and your soul
In nightly peril through your own misdeeds,
Informs the Holy Office of your crime,
In which I, humble servant of the Lord,
Hold high authority; when, having pass'd
Through the appointed Interrogatory
(Whereof the purpose is, to move the mind
And loose the flood-gates of veracious speech
By wholesome maceration of the flesh),
How do you seek to palliate your sin? . . .
By that which aggravates the first offence
And adds a slander to your heresy!
(You, that are barely fifteen years of age,
To show such contumacy!)—You declare
That your own mother, when you were a babe,
Deserted by her paramour, your sire,
Enter'd the service of a wealthy Moor,
Who, presently, enamoured of her charms,
Added her to the company of slaves
He call'd his wives. That this same wealthy Moor
Had you instructed in whate'er you know,
Was second father to you, in a word,
And used you tenderly. That, some time since,
Your mother lying at the point of death,
He privily inform'd you of her state,
She calling out to see you once again,
Whereon,—not many times, as is averred,
But only once, and this through filial love,—
You sought her side, and had her blessing thus,
Wherein is aggravation of offence
For divers reasons: First, that, being bound
To pious Dona Inez of pure fame,
You broke the promise made her, and in stealth
Sought out your mother that was twice accurst
In that her life of infamy was crown'd
By one which through so foul association
Brought her the wherewithal to live at ease;
And, secondly, that, having done this deed,
You neither made confession of the same,
Sought absolution, nor display'd remorse,
Nor hearken'd to the pious exhortations
Your master utter'd of his good intent.
And, furthermore, what say you in defence,
And what in accusation? . . . That this youth,
Vincenzio, good Dona Inez' son,
Has tried to lead you into evil ways,
Importuned you with proffers of his love,
Which, being scorn'd, he straightway forms a plan
To compass your destruction! Some, no doubt,
Had credited your tale, and set your word
(You, base-born daughter of a courtesan!)
Against an honest man's; but not so I,
Who know right well (not being born a priest)
What manners gallant gentlemen assume
To serving-wenches that are fair of face!
A jesting word, a compliment, maybe,
So far, so good! . . . Vincenzio himself
Denies not this; but you, in arrant spite
And desperation, knowing yourself known,
Seek victims for your malice! . . . Mark me, girl,
This sland'rous falsehood works you direr ill
Than any of your previous misdeeds!
E'en as the scorpion, ring'd about with flame,
Directs its venom'd sting upon itself,
So do your words recoil upon your head! . . .
Then, what is this that furthermore you say
Of seeking to convert your mother's mind,
And bring her back, when on her dying-bed,
To the one only true and living Faith
Wherefrom (you likewise say) she bade you mark
She never had departed, which, to prove,
She drew from off her neck and hung on yours
A jewell'd cross, your caitiff father's gift,
Which, even now, is hidden in your breast? . . .
‘Jewell'd’? . . . Why, know you not that all your goods,—
Those silver pins, the coral in your ears,—
Whate'er you own'd, is now your own no more,
But confiscate, and forfeit, till we prove
(If prove we may!) you clear of all offence? . . .
Give me the cross! . . . Nay, girl! no holding back!
The Holy Office may not be defied! . . .
Mother of God! What do mine eyes behold! . . .
These nine square table-rubies, and the pearl
That, like a tear-drop, hangs about the base! . . .
Your father's gift? . . . Given your mother, when?
Before your birth,—some sixteen years ago?
You are sixteen, or near it? God in heaven! . . .
That is your proper age; you have not lied?
Yes! Hers the lips, the chin, the rippling hair;
But whose the eyes that seem to hurl defiance
Even at me? Methinks I know them too! . . .
Ah, Caterina! . . . (Said you not her name
Was Caterina?)

. . . Nay, child, take it back!
My fingers shake with ague,—it may fall!
Your silver hair-pins and your coral drops—
I do not want them,—you may keep them too!
Beneath this great carved Justice, with her sword
And scales, and bandaged eyes, I cannot find
You wholly guilty in the sight of God;
This is a first offence,—you, but fifteen! . . .
Now see old Dona Inez use you well;
If not, redress is handy. . . . As for him,
Her son Vincenzio, with his milksop face,
It were an easy matter to contrive
His prompt translation to a better sphere.
Yet, should he promise marriage, it were wise,
Knowing him Dona Inez' only child,
And she so well endow'd with worldly goods.
Nay! we can force him to make this amends
For finger-screw and foot-rack! . . . Mark my words,
He shall be forced! . . . Be, like the serpent, wise;
Enwind this foolish fellow in your toils,
Remembering, if evil come of it,
I stand your friend, through good report and ill!
He shall not serve you as your father served
Poor Caterina! . . . (who, you say, is dead,
Having about her comforts to the last? . . .
Died too, you tell me, in the one true Faith? . . .
God has dealt mercifully! . . .)

. . . All my limbs
Shake as with palsy! This accursèd crypt,
Whose walls, in parching summer, reek with damp,
Strikes ice into the marrow of my bones
And makes me fully feel my fifty years! . . .
(So, she is dead! She did not beg or starve. . . .
—Died in her bed, and in the one true Faith! . . .
God has dealt graciously with me, His servant!)
Bless you, my daughter! Go, and sin no more!”