University of Virginia Library

40. CHAPTER XL.

There was a marked and lively sensation throughout the
assembly. The savage and mercenary soldiers of that day were
not wholly insensible to the courage of a truly noble soul, and,
little loving, as they were, of the foreigners who had mortified
their pride, on such frequent occasions, the Castilians were compelled
to acknowledge how admirable, calm, fearless and chivalrous
was the whole bearing of Philip de Vasconselos.

But Don Balthazar did not lift the glove. There might have
been seen a red suffusion coloring suddenly his swarthy cheeks
as he heard the epithets applied by the knight of Portugal; but,
otherwise, he was apparently unmoved. He answered with a
cool and quiet indifference, which betrayed the long and hard
training of his political life.

“Nay, Señor, thy glove is no longer such as an honorable
knight and gentleman may lift without stain upon his fingers.
Thou hast not the right to claim the ordeal of battle. This would
be thy right were I the accuser, and the only witness against thee!
Then mightst thou claim to put thy body as thy word against
mine, and cry upon God to defend the right! But such is not
now the case. Thy crimes, partially confessed by thyself, are
also proven by sundry Christian witnesses, sworn on Holy
Evangel. I claim the judgment, your Excellency,”—turning
to De Soto,—“upon the arch traitor, Philip de Vasconselos, who
hath betrayed the counsels and the trusts of His Most Catholic
Majesty, given him in keeping, and hath meditated and devised
still further treasons, as hath been shown by sworn witnesses.
I claim the judgment upon the said traitor, and that he be done
to death without delay!”

There was a momentary start,—a slight recoil on the part of
Vasconselos, as he heard the words. It is barely possible that he
had not apprehended that the malice of his enemies would attain
to this extremity; but, if his emotion expressed surprise, it was
without fear. He looked on and listened, without other show of
emotion.

“What hast thou to say, Philip de Vasconselos, against this
plea for judgment?” demanded the Adelantado.

“What should I say, Señor?—what could I say, that would
avail for my safety? To endeavor to speak at all—to seem to
hope, indeed, any thing from my speech, or any speech, in this
juncture of affairs,—would only show me as ignorant of the malice
of the base, as they are of the virtues which are always hateful
in their sight! I would not seem weak and foolish even in
the eyes that hold, or pretend to hold me, dishonored! I have
no more to say. I am in the power of mine enemies. I shall
only speak to God!”

“You are in my power, Philip de Vasconselos.”

“And you, Señor,” replied the other boldly, “assured as you
deem yourself of the powers which control your will and passions,
are yet serving the passions of others—passions which make
thee as fearfully mine enemy, as if thy deliberate will and thy
own bitter prejudices and dislike had made thee so. The power
that is passionate and proud, and the pride that is prejudiced,
are thus ever the instruments of injustice, and the blind creatures
of the cooler and subtler criminal. The cunning arts
which, taking advantage of thy passionate moods, have made
thee to look coldly and even harshly upon me from the beginning,
have not been unseen by me, though unsuspected by
thee. They have triumphed, in this present consummation,
over my life and honor, as they have triumphed over thy magnanimity
and prudence. I can in no way oppose them. No words
of mine can now enlighten thee. Thou must work thy will, according
to thy sense of what is justice. I yield to the fate to which I
can oppose neither argument nor valor. But, if I perish by thy
doom, and by the arts of that foul and subtle knave and slanderer,
who has woven around me these snares and meshes, I perish
without shame or dishonor. Nor do I perish without redress.
Here, now, in the last words which I address to thy ears, Hernan
de Soto, I cite thee for judgment with myself before the Sovereign
of Judges, whom no arts can mislead, whom no pride, or passion,
or prejudice can turn from paths of justice! Thou shalt
meet me before God's tribunal! There shalt thou behold that
traitor confounded eternally, who now sits, smooth and smiling,
cold and cunning, exulting in the base consciousness of a triumph
over one who knows his baseness, and who could, this day, as he
well knows, speak of him such things as should make the foulest
heart in this assembly turn from him with horrid shudder, and a
hideous loathing. I shall say no more. Do with me as thou wilt.”

The patient submission which resigns itself calmly to inevitable

fate, always wears an aspect of great nobleness. When
Philip de Vasconselos was led from the presence of the assembly,
he was followed, on all sides, by glances of silent admiration and
a compelled respect. He was withdrawn, by the guards, while
the Adelantado and his council sate in private judgment on his
fate. Long was the conference that followed. Don Balthazar
strenuously urged the doom of death. But De Soto, filled with
chivalrous notions, was not prepared to yield to the malignant
suggestion. It is possible that he somewhat suspected that there
was some truth in the charge of malignity and slander which
Philip had brought against Don Balthazar. He had long been
aware of the dislike which they mutually felt for each other. He
said to the latter—

“Verily, Don Balthazar, this knight of Portugal hath bitter
thoughts of thee.”

“When had the criminal other thoughts of him who declares
his crime?”

“But I somewhat fear that thou hast pushed this matter to the
uttermost.”

“Grant it be so, Señor;—there is enough, besides, in the confession
which he made to suffice for his conviction.”

“True! True! He hath confessed to the betrayal of our
purpose to the princess, and to the charge of assault upon our
officers, and her rescue.”

“These are crimes worthy of death! This is treason! What
had Cortez or Pizarro done to the knight, or knights, who had
rescued Montezuma and the Inca from their guards, and set
them free to work the ruin of the army and the enterprise?”

“They had been made to taste of the sharp edge of the axe!
—But I will not slay this knight of Portugal! He hath done us
good service, and there is some rebuke of conscience that I feel,
for his too much neglect, and for the cold aspect which I have
shown him. Besides, I owe him a life. But for his succor I
had probably perished under the savage assault of the fierce Floridian,
Vitachuco. I cannot forget these things. I will not take
the life of this man!”

“What! Wilt thou forgive such treachery? Wilt thou suffer
this traitor still to harbor with thee and devise new treasons?”

“No! the army shall be purged of him! nor shall he escape
without due punishment. He is proud! He is a belted knight,
and hath won his spurs in Christendom! I will degrade him,
according to the proper laws of chivalry, which he holds in such
veneration! His shield shall be reversed; his scutcheon shall
be defaced; his armor shall be taken from his breast, and shall

be battered into shapelessness; his sword shall be broken before
his eyes; his helmet shall be fouled in the morass; and, with
rope about his neck, his spurs shall be hewn from his heels, by
the axe of the common executioner! Then shall he be driven
with blow and buffet from the army, and, tied to a tree of the
forest, he shall be left to the mercies of these red savages of Apalachia,
to whom he hath shown such favor. Doubtless, they
will remember the service, and take him into some sheltering
wigwam!”

De Soto having declared his purpose, there was no further argument.
Don Balthazar, however, though confounded for a moment
at the novel terrors of the proposed punishment, would
yet have greatly preferred the sharp and summary judgment of
the axe. `Dead men tell no tales'—and so long as Philip de
Vasconselos had the power to speak, so long did he feel for the
safety of his terrible secret. He did not appreciate the hurts of
honor so highly as De Soto.

The knight of Portugal was once more brought before the Adelantado.
From the lips of his haughty judge he heard the doom
pronounced, even as we have already heard it. Then did the
cheeks of the brave cavalier grow pale; then did his lips quiver;
—then was his soul thrown back upon itself, without being able
to find support! Hoarsely, with a cry almost, as he heard the
judgment, he implored for a change of doom!

“Death! Death, rather than such doom as this!”—was the
passionate entreaty.

And shuddering, he knelt—the proud man knelt—humbling
himself before man—before the man who had already wronged
him,—who wronged him still; — but in whose power he stood,
and who, alone, in that world of wilderness, possessed the power
to save him! In our day, we should fail justly to appreciate
the terrible character of the doom pronounced by De Soto upon
the knight of Portugal. The fantastic chivalry was still a religion
with its sworn followers. Such degradation as was decreed
by the Adelantado, was the obliteration of the whole previous
life! It inured to the future. It tainted the name of fame forever!
It was the reproach of all former deeds of valor! It
was the death of the soul, and of all the hope, and pride, and
glory, which the spirit of chivalry held most precious in esteem!
Philip de Vasconselos succumbed beneath it! He sank upon his
knees—he humbled himself as we have seen,—he prayed for the
axe—for death,—for any doom but this!

He was denied—denied with words and looks of scorn!
Then he rose, stern, silent, resolved —and strong to endure, because

of that denial, and those words and looks of scorn! He
arose, erect, and looked coldly on his judges. But there was a
terrible glare from his eyes, which made all other eyes look aside!
His lips were now compressed, but big drops of blood could be
seen slowly to ooze from between them, and to form themselves
in beads upon his beard. He stood, and for a few moments
there was a deep pause in the assembly. Then, at a signal from
De Soto, the executioner came forward with his assistants. They
passed a halter about his neck. He offered no resistance. He
did not even turn his glances upon them, when they laid hands
upon his shoulder. But as they led him out, he looked steadily
at De Soto, and said solemnly:

“A Dios!”

The words were not spoken by way of farewell. They were
in the nature of a citation; and so De Soto understood them;
and a sudden paleness, the shadow of a presentiment, overspread
his face. But the emotion passed from his soul. The drums and
trumpets sounded. The assembly was broken up, and the army,
forming a grand procession, was marched at once to the place of
execution.

And there, the central object of that great array, stern, lofty,
helpless, but resigned, stood the noble victim—resolute to submit,
but not wholly able to conceal the terrible emotions which
racked his soul! There, bound by the degrading halter to the tree,
by the hands of the common executioner, he was subjected to all
the details of the cruel and malignant judgment, as we have reported
them. His sword was broken, his shield reversed, its
blazonry obliterated, before his eyes! The armor was torn from
his person, and battered with blows of a club; his helmet was
hurled into a neighboring morass. And he saw and was silent,
—looking the while steadily upon the Adelantado, with eyes of
a deep mysterious solemnity, that spoke for dread and terrible
thoughts, as well as sufferings!

But when the executioner approached with his axe—when the
prisoner was made to lift his feet and place them upon the block,
and when, one by one, the golden spurs of knighthood were hewn
from his heels by repeated blows, then broke the groan of agony
from his overcharged bosom, and he threw out his powerful arms
and grasped the stalwart executioner, even as he had been an
infant in his grasp, and hurled him away, staggering, while a howl,
rather than a cry, following the groan, seemed sent up to heaven
—by way of reproach, for that it looked on, and beheld this terrible
injustice, while the great eye of the sun peered down from
the noon-day skies, as bright and serene as if all below was as

becoming in heaven's eye as it was beautiful to that of man!
Vasconselos hurled away the executioner, but not before his task
was done! The spurs had been smitten off, clean at the heel,
and the work of degradation was complete. His violence was
the sudden impulse of an accumulated despair, which was no
longer suppressible.

A moment after this one demonstration of agony and violence,
and the knight of Portugal remained passive. Still fettered
by the cord of the hangman, and, by the neck, to a sapling of the
forest, he looked on the rest of the proceedings with a strange,
but not unnatural calm.

Then De Soto made a speech to his army, the substance of
which we may conjecture. The bugles sounded; the cavalry
wheeled into compact squadrons, the infantry shouldered arms,
and, to the sound of triumphant music, the whole army marched
from the ground. Fettered to the tree, with only a sufficient
length of rope to enable him to sink down at its foot, Philip de
Vasconselos was left alone, in the centre of that now dreary
forest.

The army was under marching orders. Preparations for the
renewal of its progress had been made before the trial, and that
act consummated, the legions of De Soto departed the spot to
see it no more! Philip was left to his fate—the fangs of the
wolf, the scalping-knife of the savage, or the crueller death, by
remorseless hunger! He could hear the distant music, gradually
growing fainter: finally, the faint bugle-note advised him of the
movement of the rear-guard; and soon, this too melted away in
the great world of space, and he remained with silence, in the
depths of the Apalachian solitudes!