University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

That night, the food given to Egiza was from the table of Guisenard, and far
superior in quality to that provided for the prisoners. But he touched it not, though
the keeper in person entreated him to eat. He neither looked upon the food nor the
keeper, but with a moody spirit he turned his face upon the wall, and answered
in monosyllables only to the salutations of Guisenard. From this mood, the
good-natured keeper strove, but vainly, to turn the current of his thoughts. He
spoke of many things, of passing events which he thought might interest him; and
at length he referred to the subject of his assault upon the king: but on this, Egiza
sternly silenced him.

“Enough!” said he, “Enough that I failed in the blow; that I could not save.
I would pray now to forget.”

When Guisenard was about to leave him, the better feelings of the prince predominated,
and he came forward, and with gentle accents prayed the keeper's forgiveness
for any harshness of speech which he might have employed:

“But, in truth,” he said, “I am too wretched to respect any, even those who love
me. I know not what I say.”

He requested Guisenard to lead the monk Romano to his cell, whenever he should
come, and the jailer then retired, more than ever impressed with sympathy for his
suffering prisoner.

When Romano came, he proceeded as usual to the private part of the prison, in
which the keeper dwelt, and partook of his evening meal, along with the family, as
if he were one of them. Guisenard had much to say of his prisoner, in whom he
had become interested; and Romano was not slow to encourage the favorable impressions
which the mind of the latter had received. But vainly did the enthusiast
strive to fill the more human understanding of the keeper with his own elevated fancies.
He could not be persuaded that Egiza had striven to slay the king as the special
agent of the Deity. He had seen enough in his interview with the prisoner, the particulars
of which we have briefly recorded, to know that passions and feelings of
earth prompted the blow of the avenger, even as they had prompted the criminal
excesses of the king which had provoked it. The efforts of Romano, therefore, to
inspire a reverential regard for the convict in the bosom of Guisenard, failed entirely;
and he smiled only at the bigotry of the monk, in which he could not participate, to
the great annoyance and the unsuppressed displeasure of the latter.

“Thou art blind, my son—be not wilful,” said he, in tones of mingled entreaty
and rebuke. “It is for the ignorant to be humble. They should hearken to the
words and obey the directions of those who are blessed with a better vision. Thou
seest nothing in this holy man, but a goodly youth who hath been wronged in his
earthly possessions, and has sought, with the base frenzy of a feeble spirit, to revenge
himself after the fashion of earth upon the wrong-doer. Alas! that the noble
self-sacrifice of the martyr should go unheeded thus among men! How many are
the holy spirits, suffering for God and for the truth, whom the blindness of men hath
thus deprived of the glory which is of right their due! But they can not do injustice
always; and eternity heals the wrong as it overturns the vain and capricious
powers of time. It is fortunate that tyrants can only kill: they can not hurt They

rend the body with their powers of torture, but the soul—the soul, my son—that
smiles at the sacrifice, and rejoices at the place of human punishment, as at a sure
token of eternal reward. Their revenge is the revenge of virtue; and that consists in
the great final triumph of the truth. If they rejoice to behold the tyrant writhing in
the unquenchable flame, which his own hellish heart hath kindled, it is not because
they would witness his suffering—except that in his suffering the truth proves itself
triumphant and makes itself secure. This holy man had no purpose in his effort to
destroy Roderick, except to rescue the church, and to vindicate the superiority of
God. He strove not, as thou idly thinkest, to revenge a personal wrong, and to appease
a merely human feeling. He hath been commissioned for higher objects, and
by a higher power; and the justification which thou wouldst make for him, in the
deed which he aimed at, is only truly human, as it derived its perfect sanction from
the countenance and direction of God. There is no justification for crime, unless
such justification come from the express will of Heaven; and man may shed no
blood, and take no life, unless it be for the salvation of Holy Church, and for the
protection of that sacred principle of truth, which is beyond all value, which the
recklessness of the tyrant who should be cut off, would otherwise endanger. Look,
then, upon this holy messenger in his proper light, Guisenard, ere thou suffer from
the anger of the Lord, with him against whom the decree hath gone forth. I see it
written in letters of fire upon the wall—`Roderick is devoted!' I hear it spoken in
tones of thunder! Now, even now, I hear it! Hark!” And he paused, with uplifted
finger, and looked up, as if listening to some passing sounds. “Dost thou not
hear?” he continued.

“No, my father, I hear nothing,” replied Guisenard.

“Alas, my son! thou art deaf as well as blind. I tremble for thee, Guisenard,
unless the Lord suddenly and of his free grace touch thy senses with a keen perception.
Thou seest not the writing which flames before me. Thou hearest not the
deep voice which rolls along these thick walls, and says, plainly to my ears—`The
wrath of the Lord is on its way, winged with red lightning and confounding thunder.
Roderick, thy kingdom is taken from thee! The Mede is at thy gate—the
Persian is on thy throne!' I hear these words, and I tremble. Thou hearest not,
Guisenard—and Roderick heareth not; but though ye hear not, ye shall both tremble.
I would not have you perish, Guisenard, with this evil-minded and devoted
king, for whom the two-edged sword of doom is even now whetted. Provoke not
the wrath of the Destroyer, but yield thyself to His will, and let His people go. Say
to the prisoner, whom thou hast in bonds—which God will burst in his own good
time to thy confusion, if thou heed not the words which I say to thee—say to him,
`Depart in peace, and the blessings of God go with thee.' Say to him thus, this
night, this hour, my son, if thou wouldst have the blessings of eternal favor upon
thy head.”

“If I would have Roderick take my head, thou surely meanest, holy father. I
were but a rash man to risk such danger for any person, however holy and praiseworthy
his life, who was not of kin or connexion with me; and still more to risk the
lives of my wife and little one: for, of a surety, the king would devote us all to
that fate from which thou wouldst have me release the prisoner.”

“He would not—he dare not!” exclaimed the monk, vehemently. “Terribly
would the wrath of God avenge thee, my son, upon the head of thy impious murderer!”

“Perhaps, father, perhaps; but I love not vengeance, and thy own teaching makes
it unholy. I would rather not provoke the wrath of Roderick, to my own undoing,
since the vengeance of the Lord upon him, for the murder of myself and mine,

would be of little account to me, after my own blood were shed,” replied the jailer,
with a more worldly, and perhaps more natural sort of calculation than comported
with the superhuman imagination of Romano.

The indignation of the fanatic seemed almost unbounded, as he exclaimed:

“Oh, thou of little faith!—thoub lind, yet unbelieving; who canst not see of thyself,
yet will not trust to the guidance of the Lord! Dost thou think that He would
suffer thee to perish, if thou servest Him? When hath He ever failed those who
put their trust in Him? Thou canst not show me! Yield to His desires and thou
art safe; but put thy trust in princes of the earth, and I tell thee, Guisenard, thou
shalt perish! Save this holy man, and, if thou heedst my words, the vengeance of
Roderick can not touch thee. Thou shalt fly with him thou savest!”

“What! to be hunted by the soldiers of the king through all places, wild and
strange, and among all sorts of men, more savage than the hills they live among!
No, no, my father!—such were a folly in any man; and a greater folly in him who
hath a young wife and an infant child to provide for. It behoveth such, as thou
hast often tutored me, to be contented in their places, to be patient of their trials, and
bear up meekly under the toils which are put upon them.”

“Alas! my son, that thou shouldst take the sacred councils of the church for
their perversion. True, I have taught thee these things; but I have nowhere taught
thee to minister to tyranny, to yield to the exactions of vice, to make thyself the
bondman of sin and injustice. If thou servest this tyrant in his tyranny, thou art
also the tyrant—for a tyrant is a thing made up of yielding instruments and directing
vices. If the tools were not there for the artisan, vainly would his hands strive in
the erection of the palace or the prison. If the slaves were not ductile to the desires of
the master, vainly would he strive to slaughter in his hate, and debase and dishonor
in his lust. If there were no ready men like thee to keep the keys of the dungeon,
the good man would not often be torn from the blessed sunshine of Heaven, and the
sweeter sunshine of life and freedom. Roderick has no strength save from thee and
such as thee. Thou makest his strength, my son, but thou canst not sustain it.
Thou tellest me that his soldiers will hunt thee, among the savage hills and in the
secret places; and I tell thee—for the spirit of prophecy is come upon me, even as
it came upon Saul, so that men wondered—I tell thee that the hour is at hand when
Roderick shall have no soldiers to pursue either thee, or thine, or others. But a
little while—but a few more hours of mortal time—a few more blessed and lifting
thoughts, and this worm, whose very power is come from corruption, and who rules
like death in the rottenness of humanity, shall perish, and be cast out from among
men, and they who bow down to him now, in fear if not in honor, shall turn away
from his loathsome carcase in a worse fear, and with a bitter sorrow for their past
servitude. It is against this shame that I would warn thee—it is from this doom
that I would save thee, Let the holy man go free; and do thou and thine fly with
him to the hills, in fear of the wrath which is to come. Fear not, I tell thee, the
wrath and the soldiers of Roderick. Ere long his wrath shall turn into trembling,
and his soldiers shall perish in battle or fly to the mountains, as I now counsel thee
to fly Let me not pray to thee or counsel thee in vain.”

“And even were I to escape his wrath, and the soldiers who would pursue us,”
replied Guisenard, who seemed to take no note of Romano's prophecy, “what then
should keep us from starvation? I know those hills and secret places, and if they
do yield a shelter, it is like that of the house of famine, which all men are glad to
shun. I should be forced to descend the hills to the cities for food, lest my wife and
young one famish; and that were delivering myself at once to the sword from which
I had fled so vainly.”

“Mark how the providence of God pursues thee, my son,” answered the zealot,
drawing from his cassock the full purse of gold which the archbishop Oppas had
given him; “Behold, this is the lucre which thou art loth to resign. It is in such
as this that Roderick rewards thee, as the minister of his tyranny and crime. The
Lord is heedful of thy safety; and that thou mayst lack no reason to follow the safe
course upon which I would set thee, that gold—the slave of God, not less than of
man—the gift of the church, I bring to thee, so that in flight thou mayst not suffer
from want, neither thou nor thy child. Take it; it is thine, my son. Go, set thy
prisoner free.”

The single-minded keeper paused for an instant, ere he replied; but not in doubt,
or deliberation. A feeling of surprise overcame him, and, though he had already
regarded Romano with the most respectful and reverential feeling, he now looked
upon him with a sentiment of distrust if not dislike. At length he replied:

“Take back thy gold, my father; if thy pleadings availed not to move me, if my
own sorrow for the poor youth availed not, I were base indeed to let thy gold do
more than these. Take it back, father Romano; I sorrow that it should be brought
to me in temptation, and I doubly sorrow that thou shouldst bring it. For thee, I
would do much; but that which I would not do for love of thee or pity for him, I
would not do for the criminal love of gold—nay, scarcely in the fear of immediate
death!”

“In the fear of death then be it, my son Guisenard; for, of a surety, God will
punish thee with death and with judgment, if thou wilt not let His servant go,” answered
Romano.

“Be it so, then, my father! I believe thou meanest me well; but I feel that I
am right now, and I fear that following thy counsels I might be wrong. In God is
my trust, and if I err, He, who sees my heart, knows that I err not through a love
of error, or a selfish love of life.”

“But, my son,”—

Romano would have spoken further, but the keeper interrupted him:

“Thou wouldst see the prisoner, my father. He desires—I had almost forgotten
it—he desires to have counsel with thee, and he prayed me that thou mightst seek
his cell soon after thy coming. The hour is late; if thou wouldst see him to-night,
thou must hasten, for we have but little time ere the outer porch of the prison must
be fastened.”

Without waiting for any reply, which the monk nevertheless made, the keeper
led the way to the cell of Egiza.

“Alas!” exclaimed Romano, “wherefore wouldst thou close the outer porch of
this dungeon, which can not long confine this holy man? If the outer porch of thy
heart were open, my son, thou wouldst be rescued, not less than he. But it availeth
not to speak, when the neck is stiffened, when the heart is hardened, when the victim
is chosen. Yet I would that it were not so. Guisenard! Guisenard! my son!
thou hast listened to me always, and heard my words with a becoming reverence.
Let them not fall upon thine ears unheeded now. Give ear in season, and take the
promise and the security of safety from my lips. I would save thee, my son, from
the bolt that is threatening. I warn thee; I pray thee! Wherefore wouldst thou
perish?”

The keeper was firm, though gentle, in his reply:

“Wherefore, my father, wouldst thou urge me further?”

“I would save thee! Deny me not! Say that thou wilt free the prisoner and
live!”

“Nay, father Romano, no more of this! I have already answered thee!”

“God have mercy upon thee, then, Guisenard; thou art in His hands only. Lead
on!”

These words were uttered by the fanatic in the solemn manner of a judge consigning
a prisoner to his final doom. They were not without their effect upon the
keeper, though not in the slightest degree to weaken his resolution. He felt a momentary
chill about his heart, but he replied, unshrinkingly:

“So be it, my father. I commend myself and mine, in hope and confidence, to
God. The cell is open, father.”

Romano entered, and the door was closed upon him instantly. He was alone with
the prisoner.