University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.

During the whole time of the march from Tlascala
to Cholula, an unusual gloom lay upon the spirits of
Calavar; and so great was his abstraction, that,
though pursuing his way with a sort of instinct, he
remained as insensible to the presence of his kinsman
as to the attentions of his followers. He rode at a
distance from the rear of the army; and such was
the immobility of his limbs and features, saving when,
stung by some secret thought, he raised his ghastly
eyes to heaven, that a stranger, passing him on the
path, might have deemed that his grave charger moved
along under the weight of a stiffened corse, not yet disrobed

of its arms, rather than that of a living cavalier.
When the army halted at noon to take food, he retired,
with his attendants, to the shadow of a tree; where,
without dismounting, or receiving the fruits which
Jacinto had gathered, to tempt him to eat, he sat in
the same heavy stupor, until the march was resumed.
Neither food nor water crossed his lips, during the
entire day; nor did the neophyte suffer any to be proffered
him, when he came to reflect that this day was
an anniversary, which the knight was ever accustomed
to observe with the most ascetic abstinence and
humiliation. For this reason, also, though Iamenting
the necessity of such an observance, he neither presumed
himself to vex his kinsman with attentions,
nor suffered any others to intrude upon his privacy,
excepting, indeed, the Moorish page, whose gentle
arts were so wont to dispel the gathering clouds.
But this day, even Jacinto failed to attract his notice;
and, despairing of the power of any thing but time,
to terminate the paroxysm, he ceased his efforts,
and contented himself with keeping a distant watch
on all Don Gabriel's movements, lest some disaster
might happen to him on the journey. No sooner, as
had been hinted by Fabueno, had the army arrived
at its quarters in the sacred city, than the knight betook
him to the solitude of a chamber in the very
spacious building; where, after a time, he so far
shook off his lethargy, as to desire the presence of
the chaplain, with whom he had remained ever since,
engaged in his devotions. Hither, guided by Marco,
came now Don Amador, conducting Jacinto. The
interview with Cortes had swallowed up more than
an hour, and when the neophyte stood before the curtained
door of his kinsman, a light, flashing through
the irregular folds, dispelled the darkness of the chamber.
As he paused for an instant, he heard the low
voice of the priest, saying,

“Sin no more with doubt.—Spera in Deo: grace
is in heaven, and mercy knoweth no bounds.—Misereatur
tui omnipotens Deus.”—

A few other murmurs came to his ear; and then
the chaplain, pushing aside the curtain, issued from
the apartment.

“Heaven be with thee, my son,” he said to Amador;
“thy kinsman is greatly disordered, but not so
much now as before.”

“Is it fitting I should enter, father?”

“Thy presence may be grateful to him; but surely,”
he continued, in an under voice, “it were better
for the unhappy knight, if he were among the priests
and physicians of his own land. A sore madness
afflicts him: he thinks himself beset with spectres.
—I would thou hadst him in Spain!”

“If heaven grant us that grace!” said Amador,
sorrowfully.—“But he believes that God will call
him to his rest, among the heathen.—Tarry thou at
the door, Jacinto,” he went on, when the father had
departed; “have thyself in readiness, with thy lute,
for perhaps he may be prevailed upon to hear thee
sing; in which case, I have much hope, the evil spirit
will depart from him.”

He passed into the chamber: the knight was on his
knees before a little crucifix, which he had placed on
a massive Indian chair; but though he beat his bosom
with a heavy hand, no sound of prayer came from
his lips. Don Amador placed himself at his side,
and stood in reverential silence, until his kinsman,
heaving a deep sigh, rose up, and turning his haggard
countenance towards him, said,—

“Neither penance nor prayer, neither the remorse
of the heart nor the benediction of the priest, can
wipe away the sorrow that comes from sin. God
alone is the forgiver;—but God will not always forgive!”

“Say not so, my father,” cried Amador, earnestly;
`for it is a deep crime to think that heaven is not
ever merciful.”

“Keep thyself free from the stain of blood-guiltiness,”
said Don Gabriel, with a manner so mild, that
the neophyte had good hope the fit had indeed left

him, “and mercy will not be denied thee.—Have I
not afflicted thee, my friend?” he continued faintly.
“Thou wilt have much to forgive me; but not long.
I will remember, in my death hour, that thou hast not
forsaken me.”

“Never will I again leave thee!” said Amador,
fervently. “I forgot thee once; and besides the pang
of contrition for that act, heaven punished me with
a grief, that I should not have known, had I remained
by thy side. But now, my father, wilt thou not
eat and drink, and suffer Jacinto to sing to thee?”

“I may neither eat nor drink this night,” said Calavar;
“but methinks I can hear the innocent orphan
chant the praises of the Virgin; for to such she will
listen!”

Amador strode to the door; but Jacinto had vanished—He
had stolen away, the moment that his patron
entered.

“Perhaps he has gone to fetch his instrument.
Run thou in search of him, Marco, and bid him
hasten.”

Before the novice could again address himself to
his kinsman, Marco returned. The page was not to
be found; the sentinel at the door had seen him pass
into the court-yard, but whether he had re-entered or
not, he knew not;—he had not noted.

“Is it possible,” thought Don Amador, “that the
boy could so wilfully disobey me? Perhaps the general
hath sent for him again: for, notwithstanding all
his protestations of satisfaction, it seemed to me, that,
while he spoke, there was still a something lurking
in his eye, which boded no good to Abdalla. I will
look for the boy myself.”

He charged Marco to remain by his lord, sought
an audience with the general, whom he found engaged
in earnest debate with Duero, De Leon, and
other high officers. Don Hernan satisfied him that
he had not sent for Jacinto,—that he had not thought
of Abdalla; and with an apology for his intrusion,
the novice instantly withdrew.

“The story is true!” said Cortes with a frown,
“and that pestilent young cub of heathenism has fled
to give the traitor warning. But he that passes, unquestioned,
at the gate where Sandoval stands the
watchman, must have the devil for his leader, or, at
least, his companion. I hope he will not murder the
boy; for he is a favourite with Calavar, a subtle
knave, a good twangler; and it is natural he should
play me even a knave's trick for his father!”

In the meanwhile, after hunting in vain about the
different quarters of the building, as well as the court-yard,
for the vanished Jacinto, the novice returned
to the chamber of his kinsman. But Calavar also
had disappeared,—not, indeed, in disorder, but in
great apparent tranquillity; and he had commanded
Marco not to follow him.

“He has gone to the fields,” muttered Amador;
“such is his practice at this season: but there is no
good can come of solitude. I know not what to think
of that boy; but assuredly, this time, it will be but
my duty to censure him.” And so saying, Don Amador
also passed into the open air.