University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

Meanwhile, what of the unfortunate Egiza? He was hurried back to his strong
prison in despair. He had seen enough to know that his uncle was himself in danger,
and under suspicion; and as he knew not what course the judgment of Roderick
had taken in reference to him, he with reason questioned his ability to effect his
rescue, as Oppas had promised him in their brief interview. We shall not attempt
to describe his feelings and his fears. The anxiety, the apprehension, the despair—
not for himself, nor for his own life, but for her honor and her safety, who was far
more than life to him. He threw himself upon the floor of his narrow cell, when
the keeper had retired, and wept scalding tears. In this position the keeper found
him, when he brought him his evening repast. The man seemed to regard with a
feeling of compassion the desponding captive before him; and, indeed, a something
of respect, almost amounting to reverence, marked his language and manner while
addressing him—arising, probably, from the belief that his prisoner was a monk, as
his garb denoted.

“Arise, father, arise and eat,” said Guisanard; “you are feeble; your limbs lack
the sustenance of food. Here is that which shall revive you.”

“I need it not,” replied Egiza, faintly; “take it away; I shall not want it. Let
me sleep.”

The reply, though not churlish, was abrupt, and uttered in a manner which was
intended to discourage all further solicitation. The keeper did not urge the youth
but placed the food on a little table beside him, and was about to withdraw in silence;
but his heart seemed touched by the evident self-abandonment of his prisoner,
and as he looked upon his face and watched the noble and delicate features
which the strifes of manhood had not yet seamed with callous furrows, a stronger
sentiment of commiseration penetrated his bosom.

“Father,” said he, “your food is beside you; though you need it not now, perhaps
hunger will come upon you before you sleep; and you will be better able to
meet the trials which are before you, if your body take its needful support. The
water-jug is in the niche where it is cool. Is there aught that I can serve you in
ere I retire?”

The youth barely raised his head as he replied:

“Nothing—I thank you. I need nothing but sleep. I would sleep, since I may
not strive; I would forget, where to remember is to madden. Leave me.”

The keeper obeyed him, but much he wondered at the deep sorrow which the
seeming monk expressed—so unseemly in one so young, and so inconsistent with
the ferocious criminal who had aimed his bloody knife at the bosom of his sovereign.
Guisenard was a worthy man, devout without rage, and executing his trust
with punctilious exactitude, yet without severity. He left his prisoner with a mind
troubled with the thought of that strange inconsistency with which he had been so
struck, between the show of human feeling in the assassin and the deed of wanton
malice which he had striven to commit. His own thoughts in no way helped him
to reconcile the discrepancy, and he unfolded them to his young wife, as they sat
down to their own evening repast, in the corner of the prison which had been assigned
them as their dwelling. But Amreeta was as little skilled in the elucidation
of such mysteries as he, and she diverted all thought of the captive from his mind,
by placing their young boy—the sole and lovely pledge of their union—upon his
knee. He danced the urchin in air, kissed his rosy and full cheeks, and forgot, in
that happy moment, all thoughts and things but such as belonged to the devoted

father While thus he toyed, a signal at the portal demanded his attention. He put
down the boy, and admitted Romano. He stooped for the blessing of the father,
and then led him to the table from which he had just risen. Fresh viands were
placed before the zealot, but he declined to eat.

“Give me but bread, bread and water,” he said; “this dainty food is ungracious,
and of hurt to him who labors for eternal love. My daughter, thou art blessed; and
the boy”—

“Is also blessed, my father, for see the health upon his cheeks—how they glow,
and how his eyes kindle; and he never cries, my father—he is the meekest, most
patient child”—

“Stay, Amreeta—thou art too proud of thy firstborn,” said Guisenard, while a
fond and approving smile played upon his lips. “Stay thy idle self-flattery, for
thy praise of the boy is but praise of thyself. Is thy child healthier, or lovelier, or
better than that of any mother?—will not all speak like thee?”

“Ay, but scarcely with so much truth,” said the confident mother.

“Thou speakest truly, dame,” said Romano, gently; “many mothers may make
a boast, like thee, but few with so much truth. Thou art blessed in thy firstborn,
who is lovely beyond compare, and possessed of no less strength and health than
loveliness; but let us pray thee to make thy boast with humility—for the vain of
heart and the strong in confidence but provoke the wrath of Heaven, which comes
like the tempest suddenly at midnight. The bloom upon those cheeks which is now
a glory in thine eyes, may be pale like death ere the morning.”

The fond mother involuntarily drew the child away from the hands of the priest,
as if the certainty of evil lay in the bare possibility which he had suggested. Romano
smiled, but proceeded:

“Be hopeful, but not proud of thy child, my daughter—for the hope which looks
to the favor of Heaven for its fruition, is a direct admission of its power, and such
admission must ever secure its grace. Thy son is the gift of God: let thy charge of
him be such that in years to come he may be worthy of God's giving. Train not
thy child as if he were thy toy, thy plaything, but as if he were an immortal soul,
worthy of the favor of a God, yet not secure from the dreadful slavery of the devil.
My son,”—turning to Guisenard—“I would speak to thee alone.”

The keeper gave a nod to Amreeta, who, taking her child in her arms, was about
to leave the apartment, but, with a sudden impulse, she knelt before the priest, and
lifting the infant towards him, she implored his blessing. His hand rested a moment
upon her head in benediction, his lips moved, but the prayer which he spoke
was inaudible to mortal ears. He felt the beauty of the scene.

When Amreeta had retired, Romano abruptly addressed Guisenard in the following
manner:

“Of what secret crime hast thou been guilty, oh my son! unknown to and unabsolved
by me, for which the Lord has singled thee out for such a heavy weight of
punishment?”

“How!—what mean you, my father?” replied the pious keeper, in unqualified
alarm.

“Thou hast confessed to me thy frequent sins and errors,” continued the priest,
“and thy penance has been slight and easily borne. Thy confessions were only
of light offences, and such as were readily removed by due atonement and the endurance
of thy penance with a right spirit of humility and an uncomplaining temper
What heinous crime is it thou hast withheld from my ears? Why is it that our
Heavenly Father hath chosen thee for this terrible judgment?”

The consternation of Guisenard underwent due increase as he heard these words,

particularly as the air and manner of the priest was grave and solemn, and adapted
fitly to the singular language which he employed. He dreaded that some terrible
calamity indeed impended over his head, and looked every moment to behold the
cloud part and see himself sink beneath the rushing bolt. Ere he could demand an
explanation, the priest proceeded:

“Thou hast in thy custody a prisoner, newly brought to thee by Edeco?”

“I have, my father,” was the reply.

“Wherefore was he not despatched to the other prisons, by the city barriers?—
why was he sent here to thee, my son?”

“Nay, I know not, my father, unless it be that as this prison is in the heart of
Toledo, it is deemed more secure than all the rest. Thou knowest that the prisoner
is doomed to death—that he hath sought to do murder, even upon the person of the
sovereign.”

“Thou speakest idle things, my son, and I fear that thou hast grievously sinned,
as a just God has willed that thou shouldst be chosen to be the keeper of this
prisoner whom thou holdest in bonds, and of whom thou speakest most ignorantly
This prison is more secure than all the rest, thou sayest—as if any one were secure
when the will of God ordains that the chain shall be broken, that the wall shall part
and the captive be free to walk forth, even as did holy Saint Peter over the prostrate
bodies of his guards. This prisoner is doomed, thou sayest—as if man could
doom and execute when the succor of God is nigh, like a spear that never bends and
a shield that never breaks, to resist the doom, and to destroy the evil judge. And
shalt thou call this holy man a murderer, whom God hath commissioned to destroy?
It were truly an impious speech, my son, and thy penance should be great for its
utterance.”

“I know not, my father,” said Guisenard, after a brief pause; “I know nothing
of the matter of which thou speakest. I am in charge as the keeper of this prison,
under king Roderick, and it is my duty to keep well and securely the captive whom
he sends here in trust. It is not for me to question the decrees of my sovereign, or
to say which I shall heed and which I shall reject. My head were scarce certain
upon my shoulders were I to determine thus.”

“Oh, blind and self-sufficient as thou art!” exclaimed the priest; “thou who
darest not set thy judgment against the will of an earthly prince, yet art not too fearful
to defy that of the Prince of Heaven! I tell thee, my son, that it is God's messenger
that thou keepest in bondage—it is the executioner of His wrath that thou
keepest from the performance of his proper duties.”

“Truly, my father, I should be grievously sad to think that I should do anything
which should be displeasing in the eye of Heaven; and if it were a thing apparent
to my mind that the execution of my earthly trusts, as I have been taught to perform
them duly, were unseemly in the eyes of God, I would fly from the commission
of such an evil as I would fly from the sword and the pestilence. But I cannot
think it evil to obey the king who rules in the nation—nor can I think it evil to detain
under the command of the proper laws, the person of one who hath striven to
murder, in defiance equally of the commandments of Heaven and the laws of earth
Much do I pity the unhappy man who is sent to me for keeping. He is but young
to suffer death.”

“And thinkest thou, vain man, and self-deceiving as thou art, thinkest thou that
he will suffer—that the Almighty Father will leave his servant to perish? Thinkest
thou that He will not break his bonds, and open a way for him through the
walls of his dungeon, scorning your bolts, and heeding none of your common ways
of outlet? He will—look to it—He will; and, if it be that thou shalt not heed the

counsel which I give thee—if, in thy obstinacy and pride of place, thou wilt not
undo thy bolts and bid the man of God depart in peace, then shall the doom fall on
thy head also; for what saith the Lord?—`the chains of the captive shall fall from
his limbs, he shall walk erect in the open places, and his guards shall be slain by a
sword that is secret.”'

“I hear thee in sorrow, my father. What thou sayest to me is beyond my comprehension
and knowledge. I know not that this man is the man of God—I cannot
think it; else would he come not with the commission to slay.”

“As if God slew not his thousands when it needed—as if he smote not in the
high places, in the strength of the palace, in the thick of the host, by hands seen
and hands unseen, by day and by night,” exclaimed Romano, with impetuous and
loud accents.

“I know it, my father; and such I hold to be often the design and the deed of the
Lord. But how are we to know the executioner who is sent, from him who, with
a bad heart, hath deputed himself for murder? If it be that what thou sayest is to
be the rule of common judgment, then would no murderer suffer harm, and then no
good man could walk in peace and security. If it be that this man is of God, and
from God, then will God work out his deliverance without aid from me”—

“He will! He will! vain officer, He will!” replied Romano, interrupting the
speaker. “Fear not that the Lord will not work out his deliverance, and without heeding either thy help or mine. He hath divine agents which are ready to perform
when human agents fear to do, or fail Him. But, out of my love for thee, Guisenard,
would I have moved thee to this service, because I would not see thee come
to harm. Thou shouldst free this holy man, and thou shouldst follow him. Alas!
my son, thy thought, I fear me, is too much upon the lowly cares and devouring
wants of this earth.”

“Of a truth, father, I love the earth, and I love this life, for there are many things
in it to command my love; but I love it not to sin for it; and greatly, to my poor
mind, should I sin, if, heedless of the trust which is given to me by my superiors, I
set this man free, again to murder.”

“Thy superiors! Thy superior is God; Him shouldst thou obey. But let me to
see thy captive, Guisenard; let me mingle my prayers with those of the holy man
in bondage. Would that his bonds were mine, so that I wore the favor which he
wears, and which is the free gift of the Father.”

Guisenard freely complied with the request of the priest, with whose enthusiasm
he seemed to be familiar. He led the way to the cell, and left Romano with the
prisoner