University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

Don Amador sought out the apartment of his kinsman,
with a troubled heart. A deep dejection, in
part the effect of extreme fatigue, but caused more
by the strange and melancholy events of the last
twenty-four hours, weighed upon his spirits, and had
increased, ever since the spectacle of the divinity,
notwithstanding the bustle and excitement of the conflicts
which ensued.

In the passage, before he had yet reached the
chamber, he stumbled upon Fabueno. The secretary
looked confused and abashed, as if caught in a dereliction
of duty; but before the cavalier could upbraid
him, he commenced his excuses.

`The opiate was strong; the knight was in a deep
slumber,' he said; `and, as Marco was sitting at his
side, he thought he might leave him for a moment, to
discover wherefore the soldiers had ceased fighting.
He hoped his noble patron would pardon him: he
would presently return.'

“Seek thy pleasure now, Lorenzo,” said the novice,
with a heavy sigh. “Return when thou wilt,—or
not at all, if thou preferrest to rest with thy companions
of last night. I will now, myself, watch by Don
Gabriel.”

His head sunk upon his breast, as he went on, for
his heart was full of painful reflections. Near the
door of the chamber, he was roused by a step, and
looking up, he beheld the padre Olmedo approaching.

“Holy father, it rejoices me to see thee,” he said.
“I had, indeed, thoughts to seek thee out, and claim
thy benevolent counsels and aidance, but that I deemed
me there were many among the wounded, and
perchance the dying, who had stronger claims on
thy good offices.”

“Thou art not hurt, my son?”

“I have a scratch, made by the unlucky spear of a
friend, but no harm from the enemy,” said the cavalier.
“I had indeed a blow also on the head, that
made my brain ring; but both, I had quite forgotten.
I am well enough in body, reverend father; and perhaps
may be relieved in mind, if thou wilt vouchsafe
me thy ghostly counsels.”

The good Bartolomé, making a gesture of assent,
followed the youth into the chamber.

The knight was, as Fabueno had declared, lost in
a deep and, his kinsman was pleased to see, a
placid, slumber; but Marco, instead of watching,
lay sleeping full as soundly, hard by. This circumstance
seemed to embarrass the cavalier.

“Father,” said he, “I thought no less than to find
the serving-man awake; and it was my intent to discharge
him a moment from the chamber, not fearing
that what I might say to thee, would disturb my afflicted
friend. But I have not the heart to break the
rest of this old man,—a very faithful servant,—who
closes not his eyes, except when to keep them open
would no longer be of service to Don Gabriel.”

“He sleeps as soundly as his master,” murmured
the priest. “A good conscience lies under his rough
breast, or it would not heave so gently.”

“My father breathes gently, too,” said Amador,
mournfully.

“May heaven restore him,” said the padre. “His
guilt lies deeper in his imagination than in his soul.”

“Dost thou think so indeed, father?” said Amador
warmly, though in a low voice.

The father started—“The history of thy kinsman
is not unknown to thee?”

“What I know is but little, save that my friend
is the unhappiest of men,” said the novice. “But
heaven forbid I should seek to fathom the secrets of
the confessional. I was rejoiced to hear thee say,
my kinsman was not so miserable as he deems himself;
for indeed I have begun to think there is something
in the blood that courses in both our veins, so
inclined to distemperature, that a small sin may bring
us the pains of deep guilt, and a light sorrow pave
the way to madness.”

The knight and the man-at-arms lay in a slumber
not to be broken by the whispers of confession. The
father retired to the remotest corner of the apartment,
and Don Amador knelt humbly and penitentially
at his feet. A little taper shed a flickering ray
over his blanched and troubled forehead, as he bent
forward to kiss the crucifix, extended by the confessor.

“Buen padre,” said he, “the sins I have to confess,
I know thou wilt absolve, for they are sins of a hot
blood, and not a malicious heart. I have been awroth
with those who wronged me, and thirsted to shed
their blood. For this I repent me. But the sins of pride
and vanity are deep in my heart. I look about me
for those acts of darkness, which should have caused
the grief wherewith I am afflicted; but, in my self-conceit,
I cannot find them. And yet they must
exist; for I am beset with devils, or bewitched!”

The father gazed uneasily from the penitent to the
sleeping knight; but the look of suspicion was unnoticed.

“We are all, as I may say, my son, beset by devils
in this infidel land. They are worshipped on the
altars of the false gods, and they live in the hearts
of the idolaters. But if thou hast no heavy sin on
thy soul, these are such devils as thou canst better
exorcise with the sword, than I, perhaps, with prayers.
I think, indeed, thou hast no such guilt; and, therefore,
no cause for persecution.”

“Holy father, I thought so myself, till late. But

cast thine eyes on Don Gabriel. Thou seest him,
once the noblest of his species, yet, now, the shadow
and vapour of a man,—a wreck of reason,—a living
death,—for his mind hath left him. This I say to
thee with much anguish. I could strike another who
said it; but it is true—He is a lunatic!—It is I that
have robbed him of reason. This is my sin; and I
feel that it is heavy.”

“Thou ravest, good youth. Thy love and devotion
are well known; and he hath, out of his own
mouth, assured me, that thy affection surpasses the
love of man. Rest thee content. A deeper cause
than this, and one wherein thou hast no part, has
afflicted him. An accident of war, tortured, by a
moody imagination, into wilful guilt, hath turned him
into this ruin.

“It was an accident, then, and no murder!” said the
cavalier, joyously, though still in a whisper. “I thank
God that my father is unstained with the blood of a
woman.”

“I may not repeat to thee secrets revealed only to
God,” said the confessor; “but this much may I say,
to allay thy fears,—that the blow which destroyed
a friend, was meant for a foe; for rage veiled his
eyes, and the steel was in the hands of a madman.
This will assure thee, that thou hast had no agency
in his affliction, but hast ever proved his truest comfort.”

“This indeed is the truth,” murmured the novice,
“and this convinces me, that by robbing him of his
comfort, I gave him up to the persecution of those
thoughts and memories, which have destroyed him.
When I fought by his side at Rhodes, when I followed
at his back through Spain, his malady was
gentle. It brought him often fits of gloom, sometimes
moments of delirium; he was unhappy, father,
but not mad. I had acquired the art to keep the evil
spirit from him; and, while I remained by him, he
was well. I left him,—at his command, indeed, but
he did not command me to forget him. The servant

slept, and the sick man perished. While I was gone,
his infirmity returned; and the madness that brought
him to this infidel world, though I follow him, I am
not able to remove. I found him changed; and, by
my neglect, he is left incurable.”

“I think, indeed, as thou sayest,” replied the confessor,
mildly, “there is something in thy blood, as
well as in Calavar's, which inclines to convert what
is a light fault, into a weighty sin. Thou wrongest
thyself: this present misery is but the natural course
of disease, and thou hast no reason to upbraid thyself
with producing it.”

“Father, so thought I, myself, till lately,” said
the cavalier, solemnly; “for we have ever in our
hearts some lying spirit, that glosses over our faults
with excuses, and deludes us from remorse. But it
has been made manifest to me, by strange revealments
and coincidences, by griefs of my own as well
as of others, that my neglect was a grievous sin, not
yet forgiven. And verily, now do I believe, that had
I remained true to my knight, much sorrow would
have been spared to both him and me.”

“I cannot believe that thy unfaithfulness was a
wrong of design,” said the father. “If it be, make
me acquainted with it, and despair not of pardon.
Thou wert parted from the knight at his own command?”

“To gather him followers for the crusade meditated
against the infidels of Barbary,” said the
novice,—“a brave and pious enterprise, from which
the emperor was quickly diverted by other projects.
This change being proclaimed, there remained nothing
for me to do, but, like a faithful friend and servant,
to return to my kinsman. Had I done so, what
present affliction and disturbing memories might not
have been prevented! Know, father, for I tell thee
the truth, that it was my fortune, or rather my unhappiness,
to discover, at the sea-port in which I
sojourned, a Moorish maiden, of so obscure, and,
doubtless, so base, a birth, that even the noble lady

who gave her protection, knew not the condition of
her parents. Yet, notwithstanding this baseness of
origin, and the great pride of my own heart, (for
truly I am come of the noblest blood in the land!)
I was so gained upon by the beauty and excellent
worth of this maiden, (for I swear to thee, her superior
lives not in the world!) that I forgot even that
she was the daughter of an idolater, and loved her.”

“A Moorish infidel!” said the confessor. “It is
not possible thou couldst pledge thy faith to an unbeliever?”

“Holy father,” said Don Amador, “this sin was at
least spared me. The maiden was a Christian, tenderly
nurtured in all the doctrines of our faith, and
almost ignorant that the race from which she drew
her blood, knew any other; and, father, I thought,
until this day, that the soul of Leila dwelt among the
seraphs. Moreover, if the plighting of troth be sinful,
I am again innocent; for, before I had spoken of love,
she was snatched away from me.”

“She is dead, then?” demanded the padre.

“Surely, I think so,” said the cavalier, mournfully;
“yet I know not the living creature that wots of her
fate. Father! the sin of deserting my kinsman was
first visited to me through her; and because I was a
sinner, Leila perished.—How, father, I cannot tell thee.
She vanished away by night,—carried off, as some
averred, by certain Moorish exiles, who, that night,
set sail for Barbary; or, as others dreamed, murdered
by some villain, and cast into the sea; for the veil
she wore, was found the day after, dashed ashore by
the surf. But, whether she be dead, or yet living,
again I say, I know not; though I affirm on the cross
which I hold in my hand, I beheld her this day, or
some fiend in her likeness, under the similitude of a
priestess, or a divinity, I know not which, carried on
the shoulders of the infidels, and by them worshipped!”

The confessor started back in alarm, surveying the
excited features of the penitent, and again cast his
eyes towards Don Gabriel. Then, laying his hand

on the head of the cavalier, he said, gently, but warningly,—

“Cast such thoughts from thee, lest thou become
like to thy kinsman!”

“Ay!” cried the cavalier, clasping his hands, and
turning an eye of horror on the father,—“thou
speakest confirmation of mine own fears; for I have
said to myself, this is a frenzy, and therefore I have
come, at last, to be like my kinsman! The thing that
I have seen, is not; and the reason that made me a
man, has fled from me!”

“Nay, I meant not that,” said the padre, endeavouring
to soothe the agitation he had, in part, caused.
“I desired only to have thee guard thyself against the
effects of thy fancy, which is, at present, greatly
over-excited. I believe that thou didst indeed see
some pagan maiden, strongly resembling the Moorish
Leila;—a circumstance greatly aided by the similarity
of hue between the two races.”

“And dost thou think,” said the cavalier, his indignation
rising in spite of his grief, “that the adored
and most angelic Leila could, in any wise, resemble
the coarse maids of this copper-tinted, barbarous
people? I swear to thee, she was fairer than the
Spanish girls of Almeria, and a thousand times more
beautiful!”

“In this I will not contend with thee,” said the
father, benignantly, well satisfied that anger should
take the place of a more perilous passion. “But I
may assure thee, that, among the princesses of the
royal household, whom, I think, thou hast not yet
seen, there are many wondrous lovely to look upon
and, to show thee that even a barbarian may resemble
a Christian, it is only needful to mention that when
at our first coming to these shores, the portrait of
Cortes, done by an Indian painter, was carried to
Montezuma, he sent to us, by the next messengers
with rich presents, a noble of his court so strongly
resembling Don Hernan, both in figure and visage
that we were all filled with amazement.”

“Well, indeed, thou speakest to me words of comfort,”
said Don Amador, more composedly, though
still very sadly; “but I would to heaven I might look
again on this woman, or this fiend, for I know not if
she may not be a devil! In truth, I thought I beheld
a spectre, when she turned her eyes upon me; and,
oh father! you may judge my grief, when thus thinking,
and beholding her a spirit worshipped by idolaters,
I knew she must be of the accursed!”

“I have heard of this woman from others who
beheld her,” said the father, “and, I doubt not, she is
a mortal woman, esteemed holy, because a priestess,
and therefore received by the people with those marks
of respect, which thou didst mistake for adoration.
It was reported to me, that she was of marvellous
great beauty.”

“Marvellous, indeed!” said the youth. “But, father,
here is another circumstance that greatly troubled
me; and, in good sooth, it troubles me yet. It is
known to thee that my kinsman had, until yesternight,
a little page,—a Moorish boy, greatly beloved
by us both. As for myself, I loved him because he
was of the race of Leila; and I protest to thee, unnatural
as it may seem, I bore not for my young brother
a greater affection than for this most unlucky urchin.
A foolish fellow charged him to be an enchanter; and
sometimes I bethink me of the accusation, and suppose
he has given me magical love-potions. Last night he
was snatched away, I cannot say how; but what is
very wonderful, my kinsman and two of his people
saw, almost at the same moment, a terrific phantom.
Father, you smile! If it were not for my sorrow, I
could smile too, and at myself; for greatly am I
changed, since I set foot on this heathen land. A
month since, I held a belief in ghosts and witchcraft
to be absurd, and even irreligious. At this moment,
there is no menial in this palace more given over to
doubts and fears, and more superstitious. Is not this
the first breathing of that horrible malady?”

“It is the first perplexity of a scene of novelty and

excitement. Fatigue doth itself produce a temporary
distraction, as is very evident when we come to fling
our over-worn bodies on our couches, to sleep. This
is the land of devils, because of idolaters; and I may
not deny, that the fiends have here greater power to
haunt us with supernatural apparitions, than in the
lands of our true religion. Yet it is not well to yield
too ready a belief to such revelations; for heaven will
not permit them, without a purpose. Rather think
that the infirmity of thy kinsman, and the ignorance
of his people, were deluded by an accidental deception,
which a cooller observer might have penetrated, than
by any real vision. But what wert thou saying of
the Moorish page?”

“Father,” said Amador, earnestly, “at the moment,
when the train that surrounded that wonderful priestess,
alarmed to see me rush towards them, (for that
supernatural resemblance did greatly move me,) fled
into the temple, I heard the voice of Jacinto screaming
aloud among the infidels, as if, that moment, offered
by them a victim to their accursed divinities.”

“God be with his soul, if it be so!” said the confessor,
“for barbarous and bloody in their fanaticism
are the reprobates of Tenochtitlan. Yet I would have
thee, even in this matter, to be of good heart; for it
is believed among us, that Abdalla, his father, has
been received into the service of the Mexican nobles,
to teach them how to resist our arts, and how to
compass our destruction; and it must be evident, that
for that traitor's sake, they will spare his boy, stolen
away from us, as it appears to me to be proven, by
the knave Abdalla himself. But think thou no more
of the boy. He was born to inherit the perfidy of his
race; deception and ingratitude have rendered him
unworthy thy care; and if, some day, the nobles
should yield him to the priests for a victim, it will be
but a just punishment for his baseness. Give thy mind
to other thoughts, and refresh thy body with sleep;
for much need have we of all the assistance thou
canst now render us. Sleep, and prepare for other

combats; for this day is but the prologue of a tragedy,
whose end may be more bloody and dreadful than
we have yet imagined. Thy soul is without stain,
and heaven absolves thee of sin. Brood over no more
gloomy thoughts; believe that Providence overshadows
thee; sleep in tranquillity; and be prepared for
the morning.”

The good father concluded the rite of absolution
with a blessing parental and holy, and stole away
from the chamber. Don Amador sighed heavily, but
with a relieved mind, as he rose from his knees. He
gazed upon the marble features of the sleeping knight,
smoothed the covering softly and tenderly about his
emaciated frame, and then crept to his own couch.
His thoughts were many and wild, but exhaustion
brought slumber to his eyelids; and starting, ever and
anon, at some elfin representation of the captive page,
or the lost maid of Almeria, bending over him with
eyes of wo, he fell, at last, into a sleep so profound,
that it was no longer disturbed by visions.