University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

“Brother, dost thou sleep?” said Romano, advancing toward the unhappy captive.

“No, father; I longed for thy coming too anxiously to sleep. What tidings dost
thou bring me? May I hope? What says the keeper?”

“God has hardened his heart, my son, even as he hardened the heart of Pharaoh,
that he may the more certainly perish. He denies to let thee go.”

“He denies me! Didst thou offer him the gold, my father?”

“I did; but he refused it!”

“Then all is lost!—life, love, vengeance!—all! all! This, this is bitterness!
God be with me!—God strengthen me to the last, and save where I can not!”

With these words, he fell upon his face in all the self-abandonment of despair.
The monk knelt down by his side, and his hand rested upon the head of Egiza.

“No, my brother; all is not lost. Despair not; the dawn is a sister of the dark.
The day is breaking before my vision, and I bring succour to thee from God. What
though man denies thee, and in his fear or in his hate, his selfishness or his scorn,
he shrinks from thee in the hour of thy trial, and with a weakness like that of the
blessed Peter—which, at moments, is too strong for the purest faith—yet will He
who moves man at his pleasure, strengthen thee and save. He will save thee now,
according to the promise made to thee even in the presence of thy human judge; He
sends me to save thee, and I am ready for my commission. Rise, rise, my brother;
lift up thy head and hear the counsels with which Heaven hath inspired me.”

Much wondering at the manner of the monk, and anxiously curious to hear what
was to effect every thing, at a moment when he was the most hopeless of all things,
Egiza arose from the floor on which he had lain, and stood in silent attention. Romano
did not suffer any time to elapse before he proceeded thus:

“Thou hast the weapon of death, my brother, which I gave thee. Thou wilt not
fear to use it when thou hast a commission from Heaven for its use, and when it is
in the name and on the behoof of God that thou wilt strike.”

“What mean you, my father?” replied Egiza, in some surprise. “Upon whom
should I use it; whom should I strike? If it be the tyrant, believe me, thou canst
not put me upon a task which shall prove more grateful to a famished spirit.”

“Ay, and that task shalt thou have also; but it is not now the tyrant that thou
wilt have to strike. It is one of those who toil for him—one of his arms, his creatures.
It may be that thou wilt have to execute many such, ere thou executest at
full the vengeance of the Lord. Thine arm may grow weary of mowing where the
tares are thick, yet must thou not grow weary in spirit where the service is so sweet

to the soul. The servants of the tyrant are tyrants also, since in upholding his
wrong they are also wrong-doers. It is one of these that thou must gird up thy
loins to slay. The victim is chosen for the sacrifice, and the Lord will deliver him
into thy hands.”

“Of whom dost thou speak, my father?” demanded Egiza.

“Of whom but Guisenard, thy keeper? Hath not the Lord shown him to your
eyes, and taught thee in a vision what thou shalt do to him? I have been more favored,
my son; I have seen, and thy labors are clear before thee. Thou hast the
weapon of death, and the victim will soon be ready. When I summon him to let
me go forth from thy prison, then shalt thou rush out upon him. In the dim light
of the long passage, it will not be easy for him to mark the difference of thy form
and features from mine, since our habits are the same; and this will enable thee to
encounter with him before he can apprehend thy purpose. Thou wilt then smite
him down, in the name of the Lord; and Heaven give thee strength, my son, so that
thy hand shall fail not in the holy performance.”

The astonishment of Egiza may be more readily imagined than described. He
found it impossible to reconcile the continued and devout references of the monk to
the Deity, and the bloody suggestion, which he uttered as if under Heaven's own
promptings. There was no tremor in Romano's voice as he made a proposal so full
of horror, such as would most probably affect the voice of almost any criminal, however
hardened he may have been in the practice of crime. There was no husky hesitation
in his accents, nor were the tones more than advisedly suppressed in which
he spoke. On the contrary, if there was any thing to affect the calm evenness of
its utterance, it was something like exultation, as if assured that the approval of the
hearer would follow the counsel given, as certainly as that of God would follow the
execution of the deed. The wonder of the captive rendered him almost speechless.
He had no knowledge of the madness which preyed upon, and prompted the movements
of Romano's mind; and the steady composure of his voice and manner, drove
all idea of insanity from his thought. While, therefore, he paused in wonder, the
monk grew somewhat impatient.

“Thou hast heard me, brother?” said he.

“Ay; and thou wouldst have me strike the keeper. It is that.”

“Even so!” replied the monk; “there is no course else; it is the will of God.”

“Thou hast tried the gold, thou sayest?”

“I have, my brother.”

“And he refused it?”

“Ay, in the hardness of his heart he rejected the rich gold of the church's coffers,
and the richer gold of its counsels and its prayers. The church hath no further need
of the soul which hath heard its counsels and its prayers with scorn,” said the stern
fanatic.

The thoughts of Egiza were wild and various. He had no hope but from this
man, who had evidently been sent by his uncle; and all means had been tried (so he
said) but the one, the thought of which had filled his bosom with so much horror.
The hope of life, of freedom, and revenge, made him pause; and the strife within
his mind, as he endeavored to deliberate, was almost torture. However, his better
spirit prevailed.

“This man,” he said, as if musing, “this man hath come to me in my dungeon—
he hath sat with me, and sought to cheer me—he hath spared no kind offices which
would give relief—and shall I slay him now?”

“Ay, slay him even as the Lord hath appointed; for hath He not declared that
all the means shall fail thee but this. Hath He not hardened this man's heart, that

he might perish? There is but one way, and that is the appointed. Vainly, my
son, wouldst thou seek for another; and it were an arraigning of Heaven's justice
wert thou so to seek. It is decreed that this man is to die, and that through his death
shalt thou seek for thine own safety. Thou must do it.”

“He hath a wife, too, my father; perchance a young and lovely woman.”

“A most blessed woman is Amreeta. God will provide for her; He tempereth the
wind to the shorn lamb, and the birds shall bring tribute to the widow.”

“And the sweet child, my father! He brought the child to my cell, and dearly
did he seem to love it!”

“Of a truth, he does, my son; and the child is one most lovely and winning of
love. And it is wonderful to me that the unhappy father, having the double blessing
of a fond wife and a beloved child, should so run counter to the wishes of the
Lord, through whom alone come these blessings, and by whom they may be taken
away. Oh! that he were wise for life. Oh! that he were wise for his own happiness
and safety. But he is not. The Lord would have gathered him, even as a hen
gathereth her chickens; but he would not, and the doom is gone forth against him.
He must die.”

“No! my father,” exclaimed Egiza, firmly; “he must live! I can not strike that
man, though it be save my own life. He hath been kind to me, when kindness was
service; he hath spoken gentlest words to me, and I know he is pained in soul that
I am doomed to suffer. I can not hurt him; my heart refuses—my hand would fail
me at the stroke; I would perish rather.”

“Thou must not perish, my brother, for the Lord hath need of thee; nor do I censure
thee for a shrinking spirit, since I now see that God hath designed thee for another
work than this. It is enough service for thee to slay the greater tyrant. To
other hands may fitly be given the toil and the glory of the smaller sacrifice. Father!
be with me, and make me strong! I see the duty which is before me, and I
gird up my loins and nerve me to the task! Brother! this dagger is not for thee;
give it me!”

Egiza had not heeded the speech of the monk. The last words, however, met his
ears and he freely resigned the weapon which he had determined not to use. With
the handle of it Romano beat upon the door, and summoned the keeper with a loud
voice. When he heard the steps of Guisenard he became silent for a moment, but
his lips were moved in prayer.

“Pray for me, my brother; thou who art so near to God, will do well to pray for
me now. Pray that I be endowed with the needful strength to execute the purposes
of Heaven.”

While he spoke, the door was opened, and the monk immediately emerged from
the apartment; the door was shut instantly, and it was only as the retreating footsteps
ceased to be heard by the prisoner, that he began to meditate upon the conduct
of Romano, and to conjecture a sinister import in the language which he had employed.
His heart misgave him as he mused on his last words, and he reproached
himself for having yielded up the dagger; but such reflections came too late. The
keeper was beyond the reach of his voice, and he waited in painful anticipation of
events which his imagination but partially conceived. He did not wait long.

With all the solemn devotedness of spirit, such as might be supposed to have
filled and governed the patriarchs of old, when they imagined themselves to be called
by Heaven to the performance of new and trying labors, Romano prepared himself
for those tasks which he fancied were assigned to his hands by the direct mandate of
the Lord. He yielded but little, if any thing, to the seeming necessity for circumlocution
and subterfuge which one about to do that in which he looked to meet with

resistance wonld find it prudent to employ; and the very dagger which Egiza had
given him, was not placed within the concealing folds of his garment until he was
in the passage with Guisenard, nor was it then placed there with the view to its concealment.
He deemed no such precaution necessary, as he did not doubt, in his own
language, that “the Lord had delivered up the victim for the sacrifice,” and nothing
could avail for his safety, when He willed it otherwise. The passage was long and
dark, nor did the doubtful lantern which the keeper carried tend very much to enliven
its gloom. The light which it gave seemed only to guide their feet, step by step,
to the entrance of the prison; and the impatience of Romano to execute his commission
did not allow him to delay his performance until they had reached that point.
When about midway, he abruptly stopped, and placed himself directly in front of
Guisenard. The latter spoke in surprise:

“What mean you, father? Come, hasten, for Amreeta awaits us. She has prepared
some fruits”—

“Fruits!” exclaimed Romano, “fruits! It is thus that we dream of life in the
midst of death! It is thus that we talk of indulgence when the scourge hangs over
our heads! It is no time for us to think of fruits, my son; no time for me—still less
for thee. Hear me, Guisenard! I come to thee with a message from the Lord. He
hath seen thy blindness—He hath heard thy wilfulness. Once, twice, thrice, already,
hath He sent me to thee, praying thee—for thine own sake, and for His service—
to let His servant go. Once more He sends me to thee with this prayer; nor with
a prayer only, but with a warning also. Undo thy bolts, Guisenard, throw open thy
doors, and bid the holy man of God depart in peace, ere the wrath of Heaven fall
upon thee and blight thee into blisters. He who keepeth the apostle of the Lord in
bondage, keepeth a fire which shall consume, a storm which shall rend him—a pestilence
which shall make him a damned and loathsome thing for ever. God hath
blessed thee, Guisenard, and thou hast much to live for. He hath blessed thee, as
He now sends thee counsel whereby thou mayst disarm His anger and secure His
favor. But His further blessings shall depend on thee. Wilt thou let His servant
go?'

“Alas! my,father, why wilt thou press this matter upon me? Have I not said to
thee, I can not? Greatly should I grieve to bring upon me either the wrath of God
or thy reproof; but I can not think that because I keep the prisoner who was alloted
to my keeping by the espatorio, safely as I am bidden, that I should vex Heaven, as
I certainly would not displeasure thee. I am sorry for this unhappy youth, who
hath surely suffered wrong; but I dare not let him go.”

“Thou art not sorry!—thou dost not think that he hath suffered wrong!” cried
Romano, “else thy plainest sense of merely human justice would have thee set him
free! But I argue and plead with thee no more. It is in the name of the Righteous
Judge and the Relentless Executioner, that I now speak!”

“Nay, father, let us in; Amreeta waits for us.”

And the keeper would have led the way on, as he spoke, but Romano caught his
arm and detained him, while he replied.

“She must wait, and thou must wait, Guisenard, while the judgment of God is
spoken. Hear me, my son. The bolt of Heaven is uplifted—the doom is ready to
fall, and thou hast but one more moment left thee for grace! Once more, Guisenard,
I demand of thee, in the name of the Mighty One of Israel, wilt thou let His servant
go?”

“No, my father! I”—

The words were arrested. The blow was as sudden as light—or as the heavenly
vengeance which the fanatic Romano insisted that it was. The dagger was buried

deep, by a nervous hand, in the bosom of the keeper; and the words of the murderer
that followed it were as stern as if heavenly vengeance and heavenly power to execute
its vengeance were both equally in the possession of the speaker.

“I pleaded to thee, I prayed thee, I counselled thee, and gave thee warning; but
thou wast blind with a wilful blindness, and I now thrust thee out among the lost
ones!”

The blow was a fatal one. The words of the wounded man were few, and betrayed
the paralyzing effect of the stroke he had received.

“Ah! you, father! Ah! my Amreeta!—my boy—my boy!”

He grasped the arm of Romano a moment after, with both his hands, the lantern
yet swinging upon one of them; but his strength was not sufficient to restrain that
of the assassin. Romano drew forth the steel, and the whole frame of Guisenard
quivered like a fringe tree shaken in the sudden wind of September. He gasped the
prayer for mercy which he could not speak, and by the light of the lantern he saw
the gleaming rust of the steel, as it was driven a second time toward his heart. His
prayer was not heard—it did not stay the blow; again the steel was buried, and this
time broken in his bosom. He fell upon his face without a groan, crushing the lantern
and extinguishing the light beneath him as he fell.

In the deep silence which followed, the hands of the wild fanatic were uplifted in
prayerful acknowledgment to Heaven; and through the dense gloom that was around
and above him, he distinctly beheld an eye like an emerald, peering out in glory and
approbation through the pitchy darkness of the night and place. He stooped to the
body a moment after, and dispossessed it of the massive bunch of keys which hung
at the keeper's girdle. Then moving back firmly and without swerving, yet with no
other light than that of his zeal, and as if he were really governed and guided by the
divine instinct which he assumed to himself, he proceeded directly to the cell of the
prisoner, without faltering once in his attempt to find it. A moment sufficed to set
the captive free.

“What hast thou done, my father?” asked Egiza, as he came forth from his dungeon.

“As I was commanded. Praise be to the Father, and to the Son, for they have
broken thy bonds, my brother; they have freed thee, and sent thee forth upon thy
goodly work.”

“But the keeper?” exclaimed Egiza, in doubt and apprehension.

“Stay!—he lies before thee; step this way, or thou wilt tread upon him!” said
Romano.

“Thou hast not slain him!” cried the prisoner, as he started back in horror.

“Yea; I smote him, as I was commanded, so that he died. Follow me; the way
is dark, but the eyes of God are upon us, and all will be light ere long.”

They had now reached a spot where the passage opened into another, which led
to the apartments occupied by the keeper's family. When there, they heard a voice
gently calling:

“Guisenard! Guisenard!”

The tones were those of Amreeta—of the widow, fond and happy in her ignorance,
whom a few hours, perhaps moments, would awaken from her dream of joy
to the reality of her loneliness and the anguish of her despair. The heart of Egiza
felt chill within him as he heard these tones, and he reproached himself for all the
misery which he knew must follow the discovery of the truth.

“Let us hasten, father!” he said, hurrying forward as if to escape from the reproaches
which every sound of the widow's voice carried to his inmost soul.

“It is Amreeta, the wife of Guisenard,” said the priest, as he drew forth the key

which was to undo the gate before them. “Wilful man!” he continued, as if in
reflection to himself, “but for his devoted blindness—but that he was bowed down
to the footstool of this accursed Pharaoh—he had still been happy with his young
and gentle wife, and the sweet boy which she brought him.”

“No more, no more, father! I pray thee, no more!” cried Egiza, in tones of agonizing
reflection. “Let us speed—let us fly from this place; I would not hear her
voice again! Quick, my father; thrust back the bolt; let us feel the cool air, or I
faint.”

“The gate is wide, my brother. God hath delivered thee in safety; to Him be all
the glory and the praise. I have been but a humble instrument in His hands; even
as this iron instrument hath been in mine. Thou art free. The walls of the pagan
Scipio are before thee; the palace of the accursed Roderick on the left. A light thou
seest is burning in his chamber; but how soon, my brother, will all be dark in that
palace! It is with thee alone, my brother, thou knowest; and I crave not for thy
secret.”

“I am free!” exclaimed Egiza, not seeming to hear the monk, while the sweat
poured freely down his forehead and his neck. “I am free, father, and I thank
thee for thy service—though I would”—

He was about to say, “though I would not that thou shouldst have paid so dear
a ransom for me”—but he forbore, since it would have seemed ungracious for him
to have done so; and he now began to discover the madness under which his companion
labored.

“Thank me not, holy father,” replied the priest; “it is my joy to serve the Lord,
and to help him whom the Lord honoreth. Thou little knowest how my heart rejoices
that I have been permitted to do for thee so much. Tell me what more I may
do for thee, and increase the happiness which is now living in my soul.”

“Lead me to the lord Oppas!” was the reply, and they trod the streets in silence;
Egiza filled with thoughts and feelings that troubled and rebuked him; while Romano,
his hands reeking with blood, felt nothing but a holy fervor, which increased
with every moment of his internal self-contemplation.