University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

Sleep, in the dungeon of Egiza, had kindly come to the relief of its inmate
Care, fatigue, pain, had produced their united and natural effect upon him, and, in
spite of thought, he slept. But he slept not soundly. The jarring and sliding of
the bolts aroused him; and, in the dim light, uncertain of the character of his visiter,
and thinking only of enemies, he at once apprehended that the executioner sent by
Roderick was at hand. He started to his feet, resolved to provoke, by a violent resistance,
a more summary death than that of the axe; but, in the next moment, he
felt how idle was the resolve, since he was weaponless. The anguish of that conviction
who shall describe? The consciousness that he lay, like one bound hand

and foot, having neither the power to fight nor to fly, at the mercy of his enemy,
was humbling and maddening at the same moment. To strive to the last, opposing
blow to blow and skill to skill, would, to the desperate mind, be a rapture of itself,
and would effectually soften, if it did not disarm, death of all its terrors. But to die
without stroke or struggle—to await the blow, effortless, yet anxious—the mind toiling,
yet with a body unperforming, though writhing—is to die of a shame, and an
agony, having stings far beyond those of death. These stings were in the mind of
Egiza, as he felt the helplessness of his situation. But his confidence was not entirely
subdued.

“I have limbs, I have strength, I am still a man!” he exclaimed aloud; “and I
am unbound!”

With these words, he rushed toward the entrance, where the outline of the intruding
person was dimly perceptible. The words of Romano reached the ear of the
captive, ere he approached him, and before he could strike the idle but premeditated
blow.

“Ay, brother; and thou shalt have freedom!” exclaimed the monk.

The progress of the prisoner was arrested; his clenched fingers relaxed, his hands
fell at his sides.

“Who art thou?” he demanded, abruptly. “I thought that thou wert my executioner.”

“No, my brother; I am the poor monk who provided thee with thy garments;
and I come from the Lord, to strengthen thee with hope, so that thy triumph over
thy enemies may be complete.”

As Egiza heard these words, his thought was of the promise of the archbishop
Oppas.

“He hath not, then, deserted me!” he exclaimed.

“Deserted thee, holy brother! the thought was sinful. Never yet did He desert
those who put their crust in His word. He sends me now upon the work of thy
deliverance from the Amalekite; and thought the path is dim before me, and scales
upon my vision still intercept the light that is to guide us forth, yet do I nothing fear
that the gates shall be opened wide, and thy deliverance be as sudden as it is certain.
It may be that, for the more effectual revelation of His power, He may delay thy release
until the latest moment—ay, until the very moment which the Belshazzar of
this land hath decreed for thy destruction. He will set at defiance the decree; He
will defeat the bloody and unrighteous judge; He will give thee vengeance upon thy
enemies.”

In the feverish state of Egiza's mind, such language did not seem exaggerated.
He regarded the monk truly as a fanatic, and as one in the employ of the archbishop;
but he did not for a moment conjecture the sacred light in which he himself appeared
to his companion. Had he done so, he might have felt and spoken in tones of much
greater hesitation and humility, nor shown that composed and sternly elevated mood
which came rather from a despair of all help than a confidence in any heavenly
interposition. The monk, on the other hand, ascribed to this latter cause, the firm
tones, the fearless defiance, the reckless hardihood of the captive's demeanor. He
beheld in his, one who had the very words of the Deity for his assurance, and who,
however he may have doubted his own security for an instant, was too much filled
with sanctity and preternatural strength, to remain doubtful for any longer period.
His deportment toward the youth was that of one who stood in the presence of a
superior intelligence. He regarded Egiza as upon that higher eminence of divine
favor to which his own eyes were turned in hope and holy expectation. So adroitly
had the suggestions of the archbishop been insinuated, which appealed to the monomaniacal

tendencies of the fanatic, that he had ceased, after the first moment of their
utterance, to regard the speaker except as a humble agent for transmitting them from
the divine source of all intelligence to himself. Holding Egiza as one to whom he
was a chosen auxiliar, the escape of the former and the successful prosecution of
his divine mission were, of consequence, paramount aims with himself, through
which alone his ambitious desires could be realized. The rescue of the youth was,
therefore, his greatest object. For this he was not merely ready to suggest plans,
and to undergo toils, but to destroy all who stood in his path, and to pour out his
own blood with as little scruple. The madness which reconciled an otherwise correct
mind, and a heart rather gentle than otherwise, to such extremes, was at the
same time potent enough to color objects and arguments with the same false and
morbid complexion. Then it was that the merely human fears and feelings which
Egiza uttered before him, were all tinctured with a most heavenly coloring. The
vehemence of the youth was zeal for his Master; his despondency a noble humanity,
which had been the true cause of the Deity's selection of him; and the fear of
death, which had moved him to the first show which the captive had made of violence
toward him when entering his dungeon, only sprung from a desire to perform
his work ere he departed for his reward.

“Thou hast well rebuked my impatience, holy father,” replied Egiza, referring to
the supposed eulogy which the monk had passed upon the lord Oppas; “thou hast
only done him justice. He hath been a true friend to me ever, when other friends
failed me; and I look not to find him forget his promise.”

“He spoke to thee, then, my brother. He promised thee; with His own lips He
spoke to and promised thee!” exclaimed, rather than demanded, the excited enthusiast.

“Ay, this very day, with his own lips, he promised to send one to me on whom
I might rely.”

“And I am he! Oh, Blessed among the blessed! the Glory where all is glorious!
Supreme Father! Divine Principle, which is every where, carrying life and
light, doing wonders without ceasing! wherefore is it that the poor worm is so honored
with Thy grace? what am I, that Thou shouldst lift me to Thy holy work? what
are my poor prayers, that Thou shouldst heed them—or my vain wishes, that Thou
shouldst hearken to them? Lord! give me strength and grace, that I prove not unmindful
of Thy service. Strengthen me, oh Redeemer! that I fall not back—that I
yield not to the Tempter, whether on the right side or on the left, but pursuing the
steady light of Thy holy will—which burneth for ever before my eyes, in the sunshine
and in the storm—that I toil on without ceasing, nor weary in the well-doing
which I have begun! Oh my brother!” he exclaimed, now addressing the wondering
Egiza; “Oh, my brother! favored and blessed among men! I joy with a full
heart that I have been chosen to minister to thy release. Thou shalt go forth from
these feeble walls; they shall not restrain thee. I see thy deliverance with my soul,
even as I shall see it with mine eyes; for though the keeper hath once denied me to
let thee go free, yet do I not despair that he will relent, that he will yield to my
prayers, that he will give heed to my warnings, and let thee forth in safety, ere the
doom fall upon him also, even as it shall fall upon the hardened heart of the Pharaoh
who enslaveth this nation.”

“He hath denied thee? Thou hast sought him, my father?” said the prisoner,
to whom the latter part only of the zealot's ravings had been comprehensible.

“He hath, my brother,” was the reply; “but Guisenard is a worthy man, who
meaneth well, and whom I have long tutored. He hath a love and reverence for
me which shall, I trust, move him to my wishes. I have other arguments in store

for him which must prove triumphant over his rebellious heart, though he fear not
the displeasure of Heaven. He will”—

“Hast thou gold?” demanded Egiza, interrupting him. “The man who would
scorn all your arguments and mine, would yield to the reason which is in gold, my
father. Has not the lord Oppas given thee gold for this purpose?”

“Of a truth, he has; but I had forgotten!” The zealot took a heavy purse from
his garment, as he replied; “but how couldst thou know that, my brother, unless
Heaven had opened thine eyes to a divine perfection of sight?”

“'T is but reason, my father, that the lord Oppas should avail himself of an influence
having a power upon most men, in these corrupt and dishonest times,” replied
Egiza.

“'T is a divine instinct, my brother, which makes thee to know it. It must be
that Heaven intends that this gold—as it were to mortify the poor vanity of my
mind which made me to think that my frail arguments could move thy close and
stubborn keeper—is the power which, under God's permission, shall alone set thee
free. Let me go, my brother, that I may make trial of it upon Guisenard,” replied
Romano.

“It will do more than all thy arguments, holy father,” said the melancholy captive,
whose words were nevertheless held to be oracular. “I doubt not that it will
be received as reason, when thy promise of Heaven, and thy threats of its wrath,
would only be heard with laughter or defiance.”

“It must be so, my brother,” replied the monk; “and yet Guisenard hath ever
been a dutiful believer, and a man humble in carriage as in desire. I will speed to
him at once, and make the trial of this yellow temptation; for, as God wills that it
should be tried, it is holy; and the Power that created may well use, for His own
glory, the thing of His creation.”

He was about to depart, when Egiza arrested him:

“Ere thou goest, my father, hast thou not with thee some weapon—some instrument
which shall guard life or give death. If thou hast, give it me: if thou hast
not, bid the lord Oppas provide thee with one, which thou shalt bring me.”

“He hath already done so, my brother; but I had forgotten. But thou knowest,
thou seest all things. I go to plead with Guisenard.”

He gave a dagger to Egiza, and with a few words of respectful benediction, as if
receiving the blessing which he bestowed, he turned away and would have left him;
but when he sought egress from the apartment, he found that the door had been
cautiously fastened upon him also, by the watchful Guisenard.

In the first moment of this discovery, distrusting all men, and inferring danger
from all circumstances, the gloomy Egiza apprehended that the agency of the monk,
as an emissary of the archbishop, had been discovered, and that the plan for his escape
was thus defeated for ever.”

“They have listened—they have heard us, my father; they keep watch over us
both.”

“Fear nothing, my brother,” replied the sanguine Romano, whom no misfortune
seemed to discourage; “the Lord is our strength and our redeemer; He will not deliver
us to our foes. Of a certainty, he will shield thee and give thee release, my
brother; though I—poor and feeble worm that I am, whom He hath only too much
honored already—should be left behind to perish. But I will call to the keeper,
who will give us speech, and show wherefore he hath thus closed the bar upon us.
Guisenard!”

The priest called aloud, while, with the handle of his dagger, Egiza beat upon
the door within.

“At least!” exclaimed the latter, exultingly, while waving the glittering instrument
in the dim chamber in which it was yet distinctly visible; “at least, I have a
sharp weapon which will help me in the struggle. I shall not perish like a chained
beast, whom the sportsman may strike at pleasure, and without fear. If I must
perish, I will perish like a strong man, and some among my enemies shall perish
likewise.”

But there was no cause of present apprehension. The jailer came to the relief of
Romano, whom he quickly permitted to come forth, apologizing gently for the detention
which he said had been unavoidable, as he had been summoned to other duties
in a distant part of the prison. How strong was the disposition, at that moment, on
the part of Egiza, to rush forth also, and to rely upon the strong arm for his release!
But prudence got the better of the ill-advised suggestion. He knew that there were
other and bolted doors through which he must pass; and when he gazed upon the
keeper, and measured his vigorous frame with his eye, he felt that nothing but entire
imbecility of soul on the part of the latter could possibly enable him to succeed.
He resolved patiently to wait events, relying on his uncle, and the zealous Romano,
whom he saw depart with anxiety and regret.

Romano retired with Guisenard to the apartments of the latter; but brief time for
conference was allowed them. A heavy summons at the main portal of the prison,
announced the arrival of others destined for its occupation; and he signified to the
monk the necessity for his leaving.

“It is already beyond the hour, my father; and if the espatorio should hear of
this irregularity, it would go hard with me—it might be the means of losing me my
office.”

“Beware!” exclaimed Romano, anxiously, when he found all his persuasion of
no avail in obtaining permission to continue the conference longer; “beware that
the love of thine office does not make thee forget thy love to God, and thy proper
performance before him. To be the officer of Roderick should not be a desire so
great with thee as to be the servant of Jesus; and in fulfilling thy trust to the one,
and that one the wrong-doer, I warn thee that thou mayst do grievous offence to the
other—and He thy Saviour or thy Destroyer, as thou thyself only shall by thy acts
determine.”

The keeper heard him respectfully, but insisted on the performance of his duties
to his earthly sovereign.

“Another time, my father,” said he, impatiently; “I will hear thee. To-morrow
and to-morrow night; any time before the hour set for extinguishing the lights and
closing the gate.”

Romano prepared to depart, as Guisenard hurried him. The necessity for doing
so seemed to become more and more evident every moment, as the thundering at the
outer entrance grew more and more violent. But the zealot was not content to acknowledge
this necessity, and murmured to the last. He was a little pacified, however,
as, ere he went, the keeper begged for his blessing.

“I give it thee, my son, with the hope that this night the spirit of the Lord shall
come upon thee, and that thou mayst have a better knowledge of what thou hast to
perform; for, in truth, the peril is at hand, and as thou standest as one in a dangerous
place, to whom a step to the right or the left may prove fatal, I pray that thou
mayst have a blessed counsel from Heaven, teaching thee to hearken to those who
know the path of safety, and are ready to guide thee in it. I bless thee, my son,
and I pray that thou mayst be blessed with the divine counsels which we all need,
and thou more greatly than any, in the work which is before thee.”

“Amen! my father,” replied Guisenard, with reverence, as they parted.

Stimulated by the religious fury which filled his bosom, Romano had no desire
for sleep; and, though the hour was late, yet trusting to find Oppas still up, or most
probably not giving the doubt a thought, he proceeded to the archbishop's palace.
He had been waited for. The latter was too deeply interested in the subject of the
monk's mission to resign himself to sleep while the labors of the priest were yet unconsummated;
and his anxiety to hear, though suppressed by the stronger policy
which governed him, was scarcely less active than was that of Romano for speech.
It will not need that we should dwell upon their conference. It is sufficient to say
that the archbishop, still aiming at an entire control over the mind of the zealot, furnished
new arguments and repeated old ones in a novel form, calculated to inflame
his fanaticism, and prevent its rage from subsiding. The religion of the zealot is
most commonly the vanity of a strong but unequal intellect, of a mind in which the
faculties are not equally balanced—some few, and those, perhaps, the most selfish
(such as the imaginative) being too greatly in the ascendant to forbear tyrannizing
over the rest; and whether the man in whom this occurs be of the religion of Jove
or Brahma, of Manco Capac or Mahomet, the mere principles of his professed faith
will have but little influence in modifying the madness under which he moves. Any
religion would serve equally well, in the hands of a cunning prompter, to impel such
a person to the foulest crime, who, in its commission, would never for a moment
question in their own minds, or suffer others to question, the great service they were
rendering to God.

The archbishop was a prompter cunning after this fashion. Cunning, not wisdom,
was the art which he employed. The distinction between these two powers
is not sufficiently dwelt upon. The former pursues an object, whether it be good or
evil, without scrupling to employ in its pursuit every agent that may serve it, whether
right or wrong. Wisdom has but one single aim, and that is right; and she
employs but one set of agents, and those are all right. We should have reason
always to suspect the propriety of employing any other, since, when was it ever
known that the powers of evil came freely to work for the principle of good? Truth
is always single; and if we kept this fact continually in mind, truth would be a common
virtue of the household, which is now a mystery.

But power and perverse passions were the objects for which the archbishop toiled,
not virtue; and the practice of fraud and subtlety, from having been employed by
him for the attainment of these objects, became objects of themselves in time, and
he derived pleasure from their practice. The pursuit of mischief called for his ingenuity,
and the love of the curious and the ingenious is a natural love of man. Had
Oppas not aimed at power—had he not craved the satisfaction of passions which, in
his instance, were denied—he would still have practiced the cunning with which he
controlled and prompted Romano, for a pleasure of its own. But in their use, the
creature which they moved was suffered to behold none of the secret springs. The
art concealed itself, and the heedless fanatic assumed to himself, as innate discoveries,
the various plans and purposes, every one of which the other had insinuated.
Not a word spoken by Oppas was without its signification; and when, that night,
Romano left him, he went forth, ready, as the minister of Heaven's wrath, to commit
any crime that might tend to bring about the purpose which he had constantly
in view

That night and the ensuing day was a weary and a painful time to the prisoner.
The keeper, Guisenard, came more than once to speak with him. The manner of
this man was kind, and in his language he strove to be consoling. He evidently
pitied Egiza on account of his youth, and much he wondered that one wearing the
holy garments of the priesthood should have been prompted to the attempt at crime

which had been charged against him. He was led to think, from the interest which
Romano had taken in him, that there must be some mistake in the matter; and this
led him to yield sundry little indulgencies to Egiza, which were not often bestowed
upon convicts. Water was furnished him for his ablutions, a mirror, and a light;
and when he came to the cell and sat down with the prisoner, Egiza thought he
could see in his features the evidence of that natural spirit of benevolence which had
shown itself in conduct very different from that usually of persons in his occupation.
Guisenard even brought his son into the cell with him, and in the display which he
made of a father's tenderness, his features grew still more softened to the eye of the
prisoner.

“Thou hast friends?” asked the jailer.

“I know not!” was the gloomy reply.

“Thy father lives—or thy mother?”

“No! thank Heaven!”

“What! dost thou rejoice,” exclaimed the other, half revoltingly, “that they are
no more?”

“No! I rejoice that they live not to share with me the terrors of this place—of
their son's shame, and the cruel doom before him.”

“And why didst thou provoke that doom, my father? Why—if thou hadst a
terror of this death which is before thee, and of the shame that comes with it—why
didst thou risk the foul crime for which thou art to suffer?”

“Foul! dost thou call it?” said Egiza, sternly.

“Ay, foul! What other name, my father, for the deed of the assassin? I had
thought that in the solitude of thy dungeon, and the impartial current of thy serious
thoughts, thou too wouldst esteem that to be foul which nothing but the greatest
provocation could excuse, and which I hold in thee to be the fruit of a sudden impulse.”

“And so it was! But the impulse was that of justice, sir keeper! and my sorrow
is that my blow was defeated that would have hurled the base tyrant from life,
and to his deserved hell, in the same instant; for I would have stricken him while
in the full fury of his sin!”

“It is a bad thought, and it were a very cruel deed, my father; and it were God's
providence that thou didst not strike surely!” said the keeper.

“It was a most unhappy fortune for this accursed land that I failed in the blow,
and that the slaves of the tyrant set upon me. Hear me, sir keeper; thou art wedded,
thou hast a child—I see in the dim light of this dungeon that it is lovely. Is
the child of our sex? or of that weaker and fairer, more dependent and suffering,
and therefore dearer sex, which lies at the mercy of man, and, failing in his protection,
is lost! lost! dreadfully and deplorably lost for ever! Is thy child a girl?”

“No, my father!” replied the keeper, startled by the vehemence of the speaker,
and clasping the little one closer in his arm as he spoke; “he is a boy.”

“Thou hast reason thank Heaven, and bless his mother, that gave thee not a
woman child! Else, like me, thou mightst have stood to see her a victim, or struggled
vainly to protect her from the brutal lusts of the tyrant, and perchance of his
slaves. Leave me, sir keeper! leave me! Look not upon me, I pray thee! I am
cursed!”

The tide of thought was overpowering, and for a moment reason seemed to be
swept away by its impetuous torrent from the brain of Egiza. He threw himself
upon his face on the stony floor, and shivered and writhed as if wrung by convulsions.
The child screamed, terrified by the vehement action of the prisoner. The
keeper, to quiet him, withdrew in silence; but he felt more commiseration for the

speaker, and more horror at his approaching doom, than he had conceived it possible
for him to have felt for any criminal, before this revelation reached his ears