7. CHAPTER VII.
HOW THE HOLY MOTHER HELPS HER CHILDREN.
I DOUBT not my reader is gentle, good, and tender-hearted,
easily moved by tales of suffering, and nothing
delighting in them; and that, with such benignant qualities
of heart and such commendable virtues of taste, he will excuse
me if I turn from following the young Spaniard, who
has now come to be temporarily a hero of my story, and
leave to the imagination the details of the long round of
misery he endured in his wanderings through the interior of
the old Cû.
Pathologists will admit they are never at fault or loss
in the diagnosis of cases of hunger and thirst. Whether
considered as disease or accident, their marks are unmistakable,
and their symptoms before dissolution, like their
effects afterwards, invariable. Both may be simply described
as consumption of the body by its own organs; precisely
as if, to preserve life, one devoured his own flesh and
drank his own blood. Not without reason, therefore, the
suicide, what time he thinks of his crime, always, when
possible, chooses some mode easier and more expeditious.
The gradations to the end are, an intense desire for food
and drink; a fever, accompanied by exquisite pain;
then delirium; finally, death. It is in the second and
third stages that the peculiarities show most strangely;
then the mind cheats the body with visions of Tantalus.
If the sufferer be thirst-stricken, he is permitted to see
fountains and sparkling streams, and water in draughts and
rivers; if he be starving, the same mocking fancy spreads
Apician feasts before his eyes, and stimulates the intolerable
misery by the sight and scent of all things delicious and
appetizing. I have had personal experience of the anguish
and delusions of which I speak. I know what they are. I
pray the dear Mother, who has us all in holy care, to keep
them far from my gentle friends.
A day and night in the temple, — another day and night,
— morning of the third day, and we discover the page sitting
upon the last of a flight of steps. No water, no food
in all that time. He slept once; how long, he did not know.
A stone floor does not conduce to rest even where there is
sleep. All that time, too, the wearisome search for the door;
groping along the wall, feeling the way ell by ell; always
at fault and lost utterly. His condition can be understood
almost without the aid of description. He sits on the step
in a kind of stupor; his cries for help have become a dull,
unmeaning moan; before him pass the fantasies of food and
water; and could the light — the precious, beautiful light, so
long sought, so earnestly prayed and struggled for — fall upon
him, we should have a sad picture of the gay youth who,
in the market, sported his velvet cloak and feathered bonnet,
and half disdainfully flashed the royal signet in the faces of
the wondering merchants, — the picture of a despairing
creature whom much misery was rapidly bringing down to
death.
And of his thoughts, or, rather, the vagaries that had taken
the place of thoughts, — ah, how well they can be divined!
Awhile given to the far-off native land, and the loved ones
there, — land and loved ones never again to be seen; then
to the New World, full of all things strange; but mostly to
his situation, lost so hopelessly, suffering so dreadfully.
There were yet ideas of escape, reawakenings of the energy
of despair, but less frequent every hour; indeed, he was becoming
submissive to the fate. He prayed, also; but his
prayers had more relation to the life to come than to this
one. To die without Christian rite, to leave his bones in
such unhallowed place! O, for one shrieving word from
Father Bartolomé!
In the midst of his wretchedness, and of the sighs and
sobs and tears which were its actual expression, suddenly
the ceiling overhead and all the rugged sides of the passage
above the line of the upper step of the stairway at the foot
of which he was sitting were illumined by a faint red glow
of light. He started to his feet. Could it be? Was it not
a delusion? Were not his eyes deceiving him? In the
darkness he had seen banquets, and the chambers thereof,
and had heard the gurgle of pouring wine and water. Was
not this a similar trick of the imagination? or had the
Blessed Mother at last heard his supplications?
He looked steadily; the glow deepened. O wondrous
charm of life! To be, after dying so nearly, brought back
with such strength, so quickly, and by such a trifle!
While he looked, his doubts gave way to certainty. Light
there was, — essential, revealing, beautiful light. He clasped
his hands, and the tears of despair became tears of joy; all
the hopes of his being, which, in the dreary hours just
passed, had gone out as stars go behind a spreading cloud,
rose up whirring, like a flock of startled birds, and, filling
all his heart, once more endued him with strength of mind
and body. He passed his hands across his eyes: still the
light remained. Surer than a fantasy, good as a miracle,
there it was, growing brighter, and approaching, and that,
too, by the very passage in which he was standing; whether
borne by man or spirit, friend or foe, it would speedily reach
the head of the steps, and then —
Out of the very certainty of aid at hand, a reaction of
feeling came. A singular caution seized him. What if
those bearing the light were enemies? Through the glow
dimly lighting the part of the passage below the stairway,
he looked eagerly for a place of concealment. Actually,
though starving, the prospect of relief filled him with all
the instincts of life renewed. A door caught his eye. He
ran to the cell, and hid, but in position to see whomsoever
might pass. He had no purpose: he would wait and see,
— that was all.
The light approached slowly, — in his suspense, how
slowly! Gradually the glow in the passage became a fair
illumination. There were no sounds of feet, no forerunning
echoes; the coming was noiseless as that of spirits.
Out of the door, nevertheless, he thrust his head, in time to
see the figure of a man on the upper step, bareheaded, barefooted,
half wrapped in a cotton cloak, and carrying a broad
wooden tray or waiter, covered with what seemed table-ware;
the whole brought boldly into view by the glare of a lamp
fastened, like a miner's, to his forehead.
The man was alone; with that observation, Orteguilla
drew back, and waited, his hand upon his dagger. He
trembled with excitement. Here was an instrument of
escape; what should he do? If he exposed himself suddenly,
might not the stranger drop his burden, and run, and
in the race extinguish the lamp? If he attacked, might
he not have to kill? Yet the chance must not be lost.
Life depended upon it, and it was, therefore, precious as life.
The man descended the steps carefully, and drew near the
cell door. Orteguilla held his breath. The stepping of
bare feet became distinct. A gleam of light, almost blinding,
flashed through the doorway, and, narrow at first but
rapidly widening, began to wheel across the floor. At length
the cell filled with brightness; the stranger was passing the
door, not a yard away.
The young Spaniard beheld an old man, half naked, and
bearing a tray. That he was a servant was clear; that
there was no danger to be apprehended from him was equally
clear: he was too old. These were the observations
of a glance. From the unshorn, unshaven head and face,
the eyes of the lad dropped to the tray; at the same instant,
the smell of meat, fresh from the coals, saluted him, mixed
with the aroma of chocolate, still smoking, and sweeter to
the starving fugitive than incense to a devotee. Another
note: the servant was carrying a meal to somebody, his
master or mistress. Still another note: the temple was inhabited,
and the inhabitants were near by. The impulse to
rush out and snatch the tray, and eat and drink, was almost
irresistible. The urgency there is in a parched throat, and
in a stomach three days empty, cannot be imagined. Yet
he restrained himself.
The lamp, the food, the human being — the three things
most desirable — had come, and were going, and the page
still undetermined what to do. Instinct and hunger and
thirst, and a dread of the darkness, and of the death so lately
imminent, moved him to follow, and he obeyed. He had
cunning enough left to take off his boots. That done, he
stepped into the passage, and, moving a few paces behind,
put himself in the guidance of the servant, sustained by a
hope that daylight and liberty were but a short way off.
For a hundred steps or more the man went his way, when
he came to a great flat rock or flag cumbering the passage;
there he stopped, and set down the tray; and taking the
lamp from the fastening on his head, he knelt by the side
of a trap, or doorway, in the floor. Orteguilla stopped at
the same time, drawing, as a precaution, close to the left
wall. Immediately he heard the tinkling of a bell, which
he took to be a signal to some one in a chamber below.
His eyes fixed hungrily upon the savory viands. He saw
the slave fasten a rope to the tray, and begin to lower it
through the trap; he heard the noise of the contact with
the floor beneath: still he was unresolved. The man
arose, lamp in hand, and without more ado, as if a familiar
task were finished, started in return. And now the two
must come within reach of each other; now the page must
discover himself or be discovered. Should he remain?
Was not retreat merely going back into the terrible labyrinth?
He debated; and while he debated, chance came
along and took control. The servant, relieved of his load,
walked swiftly, trying, while in motion, to replace the lamp
over his forehead; failing in that, he stopped; and as fortune
ordered, stopped within two steps of the fugitive. A
moment, — and the old man's eyes, dull as they were, became
transfixed; then the lamp fell from his hand and
rolled upon the floor, and with a scream, he darted forward
in a flight which the object of his fear could not hope to
outstrip. The lamp went out, and darkness dropped from
the ceiling, and leaped from the walls, reclaiming everything.
Orteguilla stood overwhelmed by the misfortune. All the
former horrors returned to plague him. He upbraided himself
for irresolution. Why allow the man to escape? Why
not seize, or, at least, speak to him? The chance had been
sent, he could now see, by the Holy Mother; would she
send another? If not, and he died there, who would be to
blame but himself? He wrung his hands, and gave way to
bitter tears.
Eventually the unintermitting craving of hunger aroused
him by a lively suggestion. The smell of the meat and
chocolate haunted him. What had become of them? Then
he remembered the ringing of the bell, and their disappearance
through the trap. There they were; and more, —
somebody was there enjoying them! Why not have his
share? Ay, though he fought for it! Should an infidel
feed while a Christian starved? The thought lent him new
strength. Such could not be God's will. Then, as often
happens, indignation begat a certain shrewdness to discern
points, and put them together. The temple was not vacant,
as he at first feared. Indeed, its tenants were thereabouts.
Neither was he alone; on the floor below, he had neighbors.
“Ave Maria!” he cried, and crossed himself.
His neighbors, he thought, — advancing to another conclusion,
— his neighbors, whoever they were, had communication
with the world; otherwise, they would perish, as he
was perishing. Moreover, the old servant was the medium
of the communication, and would certainly come again.
Courage, courage!
A sense of comfort, derived from the bare idea of neighborship
with something human, for the time at least, lulled
him into forgetfulness of misery.
Upon his hands and knees, he went to the great stone,
and to the edge of the trap.
“Salvado! Soy salvado! I am saved!” And with
tears of joy he rapturously repeated the sweet salutation of
the angels to the Virgin. The space below was lighted!
The light, as he discovered upon a second look, came
through curtains stretched across a passage similar to the one
he was in, and was faint, but enough to disclose two objects,
the sight of which touched him with a fierce delight, — the
tray on the floor, its contents untouched, and a rope ladder
by which to descend.
He lost no time now. Placing his dagger between his
teeth, he swung off, though with some trouble, and landed
safely. At his feet, then, lay a repast to satisfy the daintiest
appetite, — fish, white bread, chocolate, in silver cups and
beaten into honeyed foam, and fruits from vine and tree.
He clasped his hands and looked to Heaven, and, as became
a pious Spaniard, restrained the maladies that afflicted him,
while he said the old Paternoster, — dear, hallowed utterance
taught him in childhood by the mother who, but for this
godsend, would have lost him forever. Then he stooped to
help himself, and while his hand was upon the bread the
curtain parted, and he saw, amidst a flood of light pouring
in over her head and shoulders, a girl, very young and very
beautiful.
