Chapter XII: Part 12

The commander of the _San Cristofero_, while he seemed to be leaving the _Trionfo_ to her fate, had been only making use of a stratagem. He sheered off from the English ship, and rowed to a considerable distance, fully intending to return so soon as the mariners, engaged in boarding the great galleon, should have left their own vessel deserted and defenceless. Then he hoped, with some help from the survivors of the _Trionfo_, to sink or take her without difficulty. But the cowardice (as he esteemed it) of those who commanded the galleon, in capitulating to the English, somewhat disconcerted his plans. On seeing the white flag put up, however, he at once ordered the slaves to row back to the scene of the conflict. This was done with the rapidity and directness which gave the galleys, in their independence of the action of the wind, such an advantage over sailing-vessels. Then he issued orders for an immediate onslaught. But he did not find the English as utterly unprepared as he expected. Moreover, the _Trionfo_ failed to co-operate with her ally. Already she had moved away; and either honour, prudence, or most likely the absolute necessities of her own situation, prevented her return to help the _San Cristofero_. So it was possible that, ere the end of that day’s conflict, the commander of the galley might have occasion to recall the Spanish proverb about those who “go out for wool, and come home shorn.”

By the time that José, not without difficulty, climbed the ladder and stood on the deck, the English had already driven back their assailants, and pursued them on board the galley—roused to tenfold fury by their captain’s hint that an Englishman was chained to one of its oars. Eagerly did José gaze at the _San Cristofero_, but to his unpractised eye it presented nothing save hideous and bewildering confusion. Those uncouth figures, roughly clad, simply armed, swarmed all over it, with strong cutlasses in their hands, hewing, smiting, struggling, in fierce conflict with the stately, well-appointed Spanish soldiers.

But anon something happened that even José understood full well. The first care of the English, on boarding the galley, had been to supply the slaves with the means of freeing themselves from their fetters. Now the work was accomplished, and with one fierce yell the gaunt figures arose, each from his place, and sprang upon their hated tyrants like blood-hounds on their prey. The vengeance of years was in every blow they struck. José distinctly saw the quatrero—the captain of Walter’s oar—seize the commissary, and after a moment’s desperate struggle, whirl him round and fling him over the galley’s side into the seething depths beneath. Then he saw the young sailor who had been his own guide on board the English ship stand for one moment face to face with Walter Grey—then put his arm round him, guard him through the _mêlée_, and lead him to the spot where the captain was.

But what followed utterly baffled José’s comprehension. It was not until afterwards that he learned that the soldiers of the _San Cristofero_, now attacked at once by two terrible enemies, feared their own slaves more than the English, and were glad to yield to the latter, and to be taken on board their vessel as prisoners of war. That done, the liberated slaves, who were now the masters of the galley, returned once more to their oars and rowed away, free to go whithersoever they pleased, provided only they came not within the shadow of the yellow flag of Spain.

But little did José care whither they went,—in that rapturous moment when he grasped once more the hand of Walter Grey, and knew that his friend was a free man now and for ever. He had thought it impossible to be further surprised at anything, that day of surprises. But he was certainly astonished to see the English captain take Walter Grey in his great blood-stained arms, kiss him mouth to mouth, and then, throwing off his cap, and raising his eyes to heaven, thank God solemnly before them all. The rough mariners who stood around seemed to share his emotion: they also bared their heads and added a reverent “Amen” to the thanksgiving. Then a few anxious words, spoken hurriedly by Walter Grey, won a brief but apparently satisfactory answer from the captain. Then the young sailor, José’s guide, came forward also and embraced his rescued countryman. And at last the strange proceedings concluded with a ringing, vociferous English cheer which made José’s heart leap to his lips.

Before its echo had died away he was going back to the cabin to tell the patre all, when Walter Grey intercepted him, embraced him affectionately, and taking his hand, led him to the captain, to whom he spoke a few words in his native tongue.

The captain immediately stretched out his own right hand to the Indian. “Don José,” he said, in his imperfect Spanish, “Master Walter Grey, who is my dear friend and kinsman, tells me that you have been a true brother to him in the time of his adversity; and that, but for you, he would not be here alive this day. I owe you more thanks than I can speak in a breath. Come and sup with me. Our worthy chaplain is fluent in your tongue, and will find words better than I can for what I wish to say to you.”

About an hour afterwards a select party assembled in the state-cabin of the _Sea Snake_. It consisted of Captain George Noble; two or three gentlemen-volunteers on board his ship, including his own younger brother and José’s guide, James Noble; the chaplain, Sir Thomas Hartfield; Walter Grey, dressed now like an English gentleman; Fray Fernando; and, lastly, José. The commander of the _San Cristofero_ had been courteously invited, but had excused himself, to the comfort of all.

The viands were indifferent; but the wine, which was part of the spoil of the _Trionfo_, made amends, and was duly appreciated by most of the party. But whatever else the little festival lacked, in one thing it was favourably distinguished from many more pretentious entertainments—every man who took his seat at the board had a truly happy and thankful heart. Even although the attack of the _San Cristofero_ had prevented their rifling the _Trionfo_ as thoroughly as they would otherwise have done, gold and silver enough had been won that day to make the fortunes both of the owners and of the crew of the _Sea Snake_. If it was not strictly true of the latter, that “the youngest cabin-boy amongst them might be a captain for riches,” the glowing hyperbole was little more than a natural and pardonable exaggeration. Perhaps only those who have greatly dared and greatly suffered can taste the full joy of such success, more than crowning their utmost hopes.

Yet this was the least joy of that joyful day. When the meal was over, the captain filled a cup of wine, and, addressing Fray Fernando and José in the best Spanish he could muster, said, very simply, “Señores and true brothers, I desire to pledge you this day in grateful friendship. First, however, I would fain let you know what I and others owe to your kindness. I have not much Spanish, as you perceive; but our good chaplain, who has the tongue of the learned, shall speak for me.”

“Nay,” said Walter Grey, with eager emotion, “let me speak. I know all.”

“Tell your own tale, if you will, my boy,” said the captain, looking at him affectionately. “Mine you cannot tell, for as yet you know it not.”

“And mine,” Walter acquiesced, “our dear friends know already.”

Here the chaplain, a quiet, good-looking man in a cassock, took up the word, addressing himself in very fair Castilian to Fray Fernando and to José:—“Señor Walter Grey, as doubtless you are already aware, is the only son of his mother, and she is a widow. You also know, probably, in what manner he left his home, and why.”

“That,” Walter again interposed, and in English, “I have not shrunk from telling these my friends, humbling and painful as was the confession. Yet,” he added, with crimsoned cheek, “for the sake of others who are here present, I repeat it now. Allured by vain dreams of gold and glory, I selfishly and wickedly forgot all that I should most have remembered—my mother, my duty, my God.”

“That is but one side of the story, and not too fairly put either,” said the captain. “Sir Thomas, obey orders, and speak out without fear or favour. Let these, our Spanish friends, know that it was not altogether through Master Walter’s own demerit that he proved a runagate.”

Sir Thomas resumed his interrupted discourse in Spanish:—“The captain desires me to inform you that he considers himself the person most to blame for the fact of Señor Walter’s flight, which took place from his father’s house in London.”

“_You_ to blame, Cousin George! No—a thousand times, no!” Walter cried; but there was a look in the bronzed face of the sea-captain that warned him to be silent, and to hear the rest.

“The captain says,” continued the patient narrator, “that although he was well aware of his young kinsman’s passion for the seaman’s life, he yet took no pains either to win or to keep his friendship and confidence. On the contrary, he treated him with scorn, as a child, a book-worm, a landlubber; though all the time in his heart he envied his superior bearing. He rather made-believe to despise him, lest he should be despised by him. At last they had an open quarrel; and a very foolish, childish quarrel it looks now.”

“So it was, on my part,” was Walter’s commentary.

“Worse on mine,” said the captain. Then, in his eagerness, quite forgetful of the effect of the confusion of tongues, he finally discarded the chaplain’s mediation, and spoke in his own language and his own person:—“Cousin Walter, I mocked and taunted you, and that bitterly. I was sorry a moment afterwards, as I tell you now. I need tell no man whether I was sorry when I knew you were gone—driven from us, likely enough, by those angry words. I laid the sin from that moment at my own door. And your letter, which you wrote to your mother from the _English Merchantman_, only made matters worse with me. Had I not been as blind as a mole, I could have guessed what was likely to happen, and might have hindered it. But I said nothing to any man; and a few days after, we weighed anchor, and off with us to the Turkish seas. A man is apt to forget things, knocking about the world, as I have done from my childhood. Yet, should I reach the age of the patriarchs that lived before the Flood, never—never shall I forget my last home-coming. The _English Merchantman_ touched London Quay a matter of three days before us. She brought home that tale about you, left on the deck of the Spanish ship—whether living or dead, no man knew for certain. If you had seen my father’s face when he told it to me! Woman’s tears are bad enough—and neither my mother nor Lilias spared theirs—but man’s grief is worse to see. And my father blamed himself; though, indeed, _he_ was blameless in the matter. All made their minds up at once that you were dead. But, for my part, I never thought so. And by-and-by I learned what made me certain you were not. My mother went to yours, to comfort her in her sore anguish. When she came back to us, these were her words: ‘My sister lives, because she hopes and prays still.’ Then I took my resolution. Straightway I arose, and went to my father, and told him everything. ‘Father,’ I said, ‘I drove Walter away. Therefore I should peril goods and life to end this horrible suspense, and bring back—himself, if it may be; if not, certain tidings of him. Do not withhold me. It is borne in upon me that I should do this thing.’ But he shook his head, and with deep anguish told me, what he hoped the sorrowing mother knew not yet—the frightful claim of the Inquisition. His best hope was your death. As for your rescue, no wilder dream could enter the imagination of man. ‘Still,’ I pleaded, ‘in any wise let me go. Wild dreams come true sometimes. At all events, my heart burns within me. I must needs fight the Spaniards—and avenge him, if I cannot deliver him; or I will die.’ Then he said,—Walter, you know how good, how generous he is. And you also, my friends,”—glancing round the table—“you know him well. This was the outcome of all: I went to Kent, Walter, and I saw your mother face to face.” Here, for a moment, George Noble’s voice trembled; and the blunt, simple frankness of his manner was almost swept away by a rising tide of emotion. “No; I cannot tell you what she said to me. But this I will say,” he added reverently. “When a woman’s tender heart is bowed to the will of God, He puts a strength and calmness there of which we men could not dream unless we saw it; and we are better men all our lives for having seen it once.

“At last, I laid my hand in hers, and I said, ‘Mother, if he lives, I will bring him back to you, God helping me.’ How I came to promise that, without fear or faltering, dead against all human probability of fulfilment, to this hour I know not. The words seemed put into my mouth; I could not but speak them. I knew she knew _the worst_; and whether or not my rash promise gave her any comfort, I could scarcely tell. But you all know, comrades, a promise is a promise. If a man cannot redeem it, he can die in the effort; and death wipes all scores out. So I sold my share in the _Royal Tudor_; and it brought me a goodly sum, for God had prospered us. We bought the _Sea Snake_, then almost ready for the Spanish Main. My father helped largely therein; and, moreover, invested a share for my brother James, who must needs go out with me. These gentlemen, my friends, have shares also. We were chartered for the Pacific, to get sandal-wood.”

“Ay, sandal-wood, to be sure!—and _nothing_ else!” It was young James Noble who spoke, glancing round the board with a significant smile.

“Hold thy tongue, lad!” said Captain Noble. “Nothing else that matters now,—especially in the presence of these honourable gentlemen;” and he looked at Fray Fernando and José.

“Who, as our captain seems to have forgotten, do not understand a word he has been saying for the last ten minutes,” said the chaplain.

“Indeed, I did forget,” said Captain George Noble, looking disconcerted. “Prithee, Sir Thomas, ask them to pardon me. Say to them what I would say in their own tongue, if I could. We owe it to their Christian charity that Cousin Walter was kept alive until deliverance came to him. But for them, he tells us, he would have sunk long ago under his bitter and cruel bondage. Thanks, first to God, from whom all goodness comes; then to these, His servants—‘This our brother was dead, and is alive again; was lost, and is found.’”

Sir Thomas Hartfield interpreted what was said to Fray Fernando and José. But the hearty clasping of hands and drinking of healths that followed, with true British cheering, needed no interpreter.

One word more in Spanish was addressed to the strangers, and this time it was Walter Grey who spoke. “I have told Cousin George, and all our friends here present, that you are truly one with us in faith and hope. You will come with us to England? And as surely as friends, homes, welcomes await us there, so surely all these are yours as much as they are ours.”

With glistening eye and quivering lip Fray Fernando thanked him, and accepted his offer, for himself and for José.

XLIII.

Foam of the Sea.

“Ask’st thou my home? My pathway wouldst thou know,
When from thine eye my floating shadow passed?”

SCHILLER.

It was night—glorious tropical night—surely “not made for slumber.” There was no moon, but her place was well supplied by the soft radiance of large luminous stars—Argo in the zenith, the Southern Cross near the horizon, while, far away towards the north, “the stars of the Great Bear shone with almost fearful magnitude.”[55] Nor was the deep that lieth under less marvellous for glory and for beauty than the sky that stretched above. Beneath the vessel’s keel burned a sheet of living fire, kindled by mysterious phosphoric lights. Jets of flame—blue, and red, and purple—flashed out here and there; while a shoal of dolphins, sporting about the ship, cut the waves in long circling lines, that gleamed and sparkled with prismatic hues.

Two, perhaps three, were enjoying this sight from the deck of the _Sea Snake_. Fray Fernando and Walter Grey sat together, now talking in low quiet words, now silent, but always in true communion each with the other. A little further off José stood, leaning against a mast, either wrapped in his own thoughts or sharing those of his friends.

The strength of all three had been sorely wasted by previous sufferings; but quiet of mind, fresh sea air, and unbounded care and kindness from every one on board the English ship, were gradually restoring them. Even Fray Fernando, whose recovery had at first been looked on as more than doubtful, both by others and by himself, was now improving day by day. A little while ago José,—who, as ever, waited upon him with the most devoted love,—said to him, his dark face glowing with thankful joy, “I knew it, patre, from the very hour they rescued us; you will not die, but live, and declare the works of the Lord.” Only his limbs, enfeebled and well-nigh crippled by long confinement, had not yet regained, if ever they would regain, their former strength and activity. Two or three turns up and down the deck were still abundant exercise for him.

And now Walter Grey was pouring into his sympathizing ear a detailed description of the quiet English home, “among the rose-hung lanes of Kent,” that would, he hoped, be his home also. He was confident that his mother and Fray Fernando would thoroughly understand and admire each other. He could talk and think of that mother now, not indeed without deep penitence for his wrong-doing, but without the aching remorseful pain, the great shadow of doubt and dread, which had lain on his heart so long. He thanked God for keeping alive her hope for him throughout those sad years. For he knew that, with her, hope meant prayer; and he believed that, but for the prayers which, like unseen angels, kept guard about him, he would not now be sitting on the deck of the _Sea Snake_ a free and thankful man, but dead long ago in his despair and anguish.

Something of this he even ventured to hint to Fray Fernando; for in starlight much may be spoken that the glare of day would frighten into silence.

“Yes,” Fray Fernando answered, after a thoughtful pause, “I do rejoice, Walter, at the prospect of seeing your happy English home. If a measure of strength is given back to me—and I begin to think God means to give it—He will find work for His servant, with whom He hath ever dealt so graciously, beneath the stars of the northern hemisphere, as well as under the Southern Cross—and for my José too.”

“Ah! as to that,” said Walter, in a lighter tone, but very heartily, “Don José Viracocha Inca will be a great hero amongst us. We shall never keep such a wonder in our quiet home. The Queen and the Court will rob us of him all too quickly.”

At that moment the captain’s loud, cheerful voice was heard from the fore-deck, “Cousin Walter, I want you here.”

Walter rose, saying to Fray Fernando, “I will come back as soon as I can.”

When he was gone, José came slowly forward and stood before the monk.

“Patre,” he said, and his voice was low and sorrowful,—“patre, listen to me.”

“My son, what is it?” Fray Fernando questioned, startled by his tone.

“My father, be patient with me. I have that to say which wrings my heart.” Here he paused; then, suddenly pointing to the luminous waters, he exclaimed, “Look there, patre!” A sportive dolphin had described a larger circle than usual; it burned for a moment, a diamond ring of flashing foam, then faded quickly away. “Viracocha is but the foam of the sea. He comes and goes like that.”

“I do not understand you, José. What are you talking of?” asked the bewildered Fray Fernando.

“My father, if Christ the King were now to call your son and servant to His home, instead of yours, would you not give him up?”

Fray Fernando trembled and grew very pale. “What mean these strange words?” he faltered. “Are you ill?”

“No, patre.”

“I know well you have suffered, and far more than you would ever acknowledge. But surely life is coming back to you, as it is to me. Is it not so? Speak to me, José—my son José!” There was anguish in his tone.

“Yes, patre, life is coming back to me; and with life, a message from my King. Patre, patre,—I know not how to tell that message. Yet, woe is me if I withhold it—if I fail to obey!”

“A message! What message, José?”

“‘Go home to thy friends, and tell them how great things the Lord hath done for thee, and hath had compassion on thee.’”

Fray Fernando started—shuddered, as if an arrow on an errand of death had suddenly pierced his heart.

“José, you may be deceived—mistaken,” he said hurriedly. “When first did you feel or fancy this?”

“Patre, when I lay in the dark hold of the _Trionfo_, He stooped from His golden throne, looked with pitying eye upon my great anguish for my people, and gave me rest and peace. Even with that peace came that message first. But I only smiled in my heart, and said to Him, ‘Inca, thou knowest all. I would speak for Thee if I could, but Thou art calling me instead to die for Thee.’ But when He took us both out of the horrible pit, gave me the dying charge of Don Francisco Solis to deliver, and then restored you to life, I heard his voice again.—Patre, it is just this way with me. In my sore hunger and thirst He reached me, with His own right hand, golden fruit from the tree whose leaves are for the healing of the nations. I ate, and thirst and hunger passed away. I was satisfied. But within the golden fruit the seed lies hid; and he who eats the fruit must needs plant the seed. That charge is laid upon him.”

“And you would leave me, José?” The words were quiet, but depths of tenderness,—of anguish,—of entreaty, lay veiled beneath them.

José’s dusky countenance grew pale, and his steadfast lip trembled. Unconsciously he wrung his hands together in the bitter pain of his heart. “Had the King asked my life,” he said with deep emotion, “it were given readily. Now, He asks more. But He cannot ask too much—not too much!” After a pause he added, in a more natural voice, “Still, I have no right to make my burnt-offering of that which belongs to another man. Nor would He accept such. Wherefore, patre, if you—you who bought me, you who own me—if you forbid me to do this thing, I yield, and I go with you to England.”

Fray Fernando’s heart leaped to his lips. The dreaded separation averted, José his—his altogether, his for ever—all for one word! And yet, sorely as he longed to do it, he _could not_ speak that word. He dared not.

At last he said, evasively, “I scarcely understand yet what it is you purpose.”

“Patre, in a few days the _Sea Snake_ must put in at a place on the coast of the mainland known to the captain, to take in water for the long voyage. Thence I can make my way back to my own country and my own people, and give them the message that burns on my heart and on my lip—the message of love from their King and mine.”

“And travel first many hundred leagues through unknown lands, filled with barbarous tribes? José! José! you will never reach Peru alive.”

“Haply yes; haply no. Alike in either case it is well with me.”

“And then,” Fray Fernando continued with anxious haste, “even suppose you do, there are the priests and friars. You will be hunted down as a heretic.”

José smiled, and pointed to the waves beneath them. “The white men know as little what we talk and think among ourselves as we know the thoughts of God’s innocent creatures down yonder,” he said. “Once with my people, I am safe. But for _you_, patre—” His voice faltered, died away.

After a long pause he resumed, stretching out his right hand,—“Yet, if you are willing to send me forth on this service, and bid me God-speed,—take this hand of mine in yours.”

There was a struggle in Fray Fernando’s heart. Not long if measured by time,—not five minutes’ work, perhaps. Yet he was years older when it ended. He took the thin brown hand in his and pressed it. “God’s will be done in thee and me,” he said firmly.

“Amen,” José murmured, and turned to go. But turning back, he added, the trembling of his voice kept under by an iron will, “Patre, I think that on the happy shores of the good land beyond the sea, God will make His promise true to you, who have left all for His sake—‘an hundredfold now in this time, houses, and brethren, and sisters, and mothers, and children, and lands.’”

Far away on the other side of the world, in a region José never knew, stands a wild mountain famed in song. Near its summit is a lonely rock, consecrated by a strange legend. It is said that he who dares to sleep upon it will be found at daybreak with life extinct;—with reason fled for ever;—or else endowed with the matchless gift of song, heir to the poet’s immortal crown. There are lonely places of conflict to which souls are sometimes led, not unlike the rock of Cader Idris. Sore is the peril of madness—of despair, which means death; but if God answers His servant from the secret place of thunder, and with His own right hand upholds and delivers him, he will come down from that mountain with face transfigured, and lips baptized with living fire. It is to such God gives His messages. And those messages they must needs deliver, or die.

Days and nights glided by, noiselessly and all too swiftly,—until at last there came a day unlike any before or after. A day “much to be remembered,” marked evermore in Fray Fernando’s calendar, though not with white.

All through its sultry hours the sun blazed down upon the grimy hull of the _Sea Snake_, lying moored in a quiet bay. Dense woods of lofty smooth-stemmed palms with fan like feathery crowns, and luxuriant thick-leaved ceibas, met the pebbly beach, and fringed the bay on either side; while the one bold headland of granite that formed its southern extremity stood out into the sea, bare and bleak, save for a solitary cluster of graceful cocoa-palms that crowned its summit. Already it is late in the afternoon. The last water-cask has been rolled on board; the last loiterer has come back from the woods with his spoil of cocoa-nuts and bananas. The wind is favourable; the sails are set; soon the shores of the New World will glimmer and fade away beneath the eyes that watch them from the deck of the _Sea Snake_. If it were only on this fair earth that watching loving eyes must look their last!

Every one on board, from the captain to the cabin-boy, has wrung the brown hand of José, and prayed God to speed him on his way. And more than one manly eye has glistened through unaccustomed tears at his earnest, simple words of grateful farewell. Walter Grey he has embraced, with a fervent “God be with thee, true friend.”

And now, as he stands for the last time on the deck of the English ship, all see him—but he sees only one.

Yet once more he turns to Fray Fernando, kneels at his feet—“My father, bless thy son.”

Fray Fernando raises him, folds him in his arms—“God’s best blessings rest on thee, now and ever—my son—my son!” Heart beats against heart, lip burns against lip, in one long passionate embrace. But the end must be. “We shall meet—yet,” Fray Fernando murmurs.

“When they come from the East and from the West to the feast of the great King,” José answered. Then the white-robed figure descended the ship’s side, entered the little boat, and was rowed on shore. There were others besides Fray Fernando who could not see for tears how it disappeared into the forest.

But by-and-by, as the ship sailed leisurely along under the headland, José Viracocha was seen once more. Beneath the tall graceful palms, the feathery fringes of their great leaves quivering in the evening breeze, and the crimson-tinted clouds of sunset glowing over them, he stood, a statue of bronze, his dark hair floating loose as he waved his scarlet cap in parting salutation.

“Child of the Sun—Child of Light! God guard and keep thee, until one day He set us both in His light together!” Fray Fernando prayed weeping.

But the sun set; the ship sailed on; the cocoa-palms, the rocky headland, the forest-clad shore faded into distance, and were seen no more. And with them passed away the Foam of the Sea. Never more, except in dreams, did those dark wistful eyes look into Fray Fernando’s, or that beloved voice breathe any song or legend from the “lengua del Inca” into his listening ear. Never more on earth.

XLIV.

Old England Again.

“Waft, waft, ye winds, His story:
And you, ye waters, roll,
Till, like a sea of glory,
It spreads from pole to pole.
Till o’er our ransomed nature
The Lamb for sinners slain,
Redeemer, King, Creator,
In bliss returns to reign.”

HEBER.

Once more we revisit the old manor-house in Kent. It is the evening hour. The great hall no longer looks gloomy and cheerless, for a noble wood-fire blazes and crackles on the hearth, lamps are lighted, and servants are passing to and fro, placing bread and meat and ale upon a board spread with snowy drapery. And soon the family take their seats around it. A tall fair-haired man presides, wearing a cassock and Geneva bands—the Reverend Walter Grey, known far and near as a faithful shepherd of souls and true servant of his divine Master. Opposite sits his pretty, useful, loving wife, Dame Lilias—after the fashion of those times still often called Dame Lilias Noble. There are two fair children, glowing with health and happiness, and just now clinging lovingly to a gray-haired lady, whose thoughtful chastened face wears that look, rarely seen, but unmistakable, of one who has passed through suffering into peace,—who has trod the great water-floods upheld by a Saviour’s hand, and ever afterwards retains the memory of that touch. Lastly, there sits beside Walter Grey a man whom certainly “no one could have passed without remark.” His dress is plain, and might be taken for that of an English merchant or yeoman; but southern suns have browned his cheek and kindled the fire that burns in his dark eye. His frame is worn; health has never quite returned since that long agony in the hold of the Spanish ship, yet enough is left to him for much labour in the cause dearest to his heart. Here he is only an honoured guest; his home lies far away, amidst the din and smoke of that great city whither come the exiles from foreign lands to whose wants of soul and body he delights to minister.

On this occasion Fray Fernando has come down to Kent to be present at the baptism of Walter’s third and youngest child, for whom he has promised to answer at the font.

One absorbing topic fills all hearts to-night, and would have filled all mouths, but for tender consideration for the feelings of the Spanish guest. It was the year 1588—the glorious year of “England’s Salamis.” Scarcely has one moon run her course since “the great Armada, boastfully called ‘Invincible,’ was, by thirty of Her Majesty’s ships of war and a few of our own merchants, beaten and jostled together, even from the Lizard in Cornwall—first to Portland, from Portland to Calais, and from Calais driven with squibs from their anchors, were chased out of sight of England, round about Scotland and Ireland.”[56] Even now, as then, England has good reason to give thanks for the result of that conflict. And even now, as then, England ascribes the glory, not to her gallant navy or her stout merchantmen, not to the brave hearts and hands of her dauntless sons, but to Him, and Him alone, who was unto her “a strong tower from the face of her enemies,” and who “blew with His wind, and they were scattered.”

Just then the great nation’s heart was thrilling with the joy of deliverance from a near and terrible danger. There were many private as well as public causes of rejoicing. The gentle heart of Lilias was very glad, since her three brave brothers, Harry, George, and James, were safe and well, and honoured for signal gallantry in the hour of danger. Nor was Fray Fernando without his interest in the great event, though he did not allude to it until, the pleasant social meal and the family worship that succeeded it being over, all had retired to their places of rest, except himself and Walter Grey.

As they sat together by the fire, Walter addressed his friend in Spanish. “We are determined to keep possession of you this time,” he said; “I hope you are prepared.”

Fray Fernando shook his head, and answered in the same language. “But for your letter, and the pressing message sent me through your good uncle, I should not have left London at all. Those crowds of miserable soldiers and seamen, my poor unhappy countrymen, who are now in the city, waiting for the means of transport beyond the seas, need all, and more than all, that one man can do for them.”

“You must own, at all events,” said Walter, “that our gracious Queen is behaving with a large-hearted generosity that beseems her well, in sending these her enemies, who came to destroy her and her people, freely to their homes again.”

“True,” said Fray Fernando. “And your uncle and others contribute in a noble and Christian spirit to the relief and comfort of the prisoners; thus returning good for evil. Nor am I without hope that some of these poor captives may take home with them, instead of the English spoils they thought to gain, a treasure of which they never dreamed,—even the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ. God grant it! He only knows how my heart yearns over those my brethren according to the flesh.”

“I have some thoughts,” Walter answered, “of going back with you, and helping for a season in your good work; that is, if I can provide for my duties here.” And then he talked a little of his own parish with its cares and interests, of Lilias, and of the children.

“You have not yet told me,” Fray Fernando said, “what name you have chosen for my god-son.”

“We are all agreed,” Walter replied with a smile, “in giving him the English form of a dear friend’s honoured name—Ferdinand.”

“Nay, my friend, not so,” returned Fray Fernando. “Do not choose _that_ name.”

“And why not, my friend and father?”

“For many reasons. In the first place, it is no name of mine. My true baptismal name, unused for half a lifetime, would be strange to your ears, and indeed to my own now. But if, indeed, you list to please the wayward fancy of a lonely man, then call your boy for me by the name of the patriarch’s best loved son—the separate from his brethren, upon whom the blessing came—‘Joseph is a fruitful bough, a fruitful bough by a well, whose branches run over the wall. The archers have sorely grieved him, and shot at him, and hated him: but his bow abode in strength, and the arms of his hands were made strong by the hands of the mighty God of Jacob.’”

“So be it then, with all my heart,” said Walter Grey; “and God add his blessing to the child. It is a name that I too have cause to remember with grateful love.” After a pause, he asked rather suddenly, “Father, do you ever revisit in dreams that far-distant land where you and I first saw each other’s faces?”

“Indeed, Walter,” Fray Fernando answered, with a smile half bright, half sorrowful, “I dream of little else. Night after night I seem to gaze upon the snowy line of the Andes as we used to see them from Callao, or the grand peaks of crystal that pierce the sky of Cerro Blanco; or perchance I look down from the height on the lovely vale of Nasca winding far beneath. Sometimes I wander through those marvellous tropical forests, pushing my way amongst the thick shrubs and the tangled lianas, and gathering great white and purple flowers—dream-flowers, yet not more wonderful than those I have actually seen and touched. Anon we are floating over crystal seas, with the mild light of the Southern Cross shining in the far heavens above us. All is so real, so present, that I cannot choose but take it for a pledge that these eyes shall yet behold again that new, familiar world beyond the western wave. Yes, Walter, when the King comes, and this beautiful ruined earth is cleansed and renovated, and made fit for His throne and habitation, I dare to cherish a hope that my foot shall press those shores once more—that I shall walk there with—with—” But here his voice failed,—died away into that silence which is more eloquent than many words, and often like a fragrant balm preserves and consecrates our dearest names.

After a pause of sympathy, Walter resumed—“There is much for the King to do when He comes.”

“There is much for us to do while we wait and watch for His coming,” Fray Fernando answered with cheerful earnestness. “We have to hasten that coming by our holy conversation and godliness, our prayers and our efforts to spread abroad the knowledge of His name. And amidst all the sin and all the sorrow that we see around us, we have to keep fast hold of our faith in Him, and to rejoice in sure and steadfast hope of that blessed day when the kingdoms of this world shall have become the kingdoms of our Lord, and of His Christ, and He shall reign for ever and ever. And ‘the earth shall be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord, as the waters cover the sea.’”

“Amen!” said Walter Grey. “THY KINGDOM COME.”

FOOTNOTES

[1] Sweet bread.

[2] No sound corresponding to the letter D is found in Quichua. Its place is supplied by T.

[3] Empress.

[4] Alas!

[5] Tribe, descendants.

[6] Yahuar-Huaccuc.

[7] Prince.

[8] The same word serves for both in Quichua.

[9] This is given as a specimen of the Inca legends and traditions.

[10] Tunic.

[11] The anecdote told above is related, by different historians, of several of the Incas. Other remarkable acknowledgments of the One True Invisible God are attributed to these heathen princes.

[12] Flowery meadow.

[13] Luna.

[14] The Deluge, of which most of the American nations preserved traditions.

[15] From a Quichua cradle-song.

[16] Trenches.

[17] The Moon.

[18] It is a Spaniard who tells us this—Don Marcio Serra de Leguisano, in his “Last Will and Testament”—a very noble testimony to the conquered race.

[19] Factories.

[20] Slaves.

[21] All the details given above are, of course, strictly true. The most harrowing instances of cruelty and oppression are, however, purposely omitted.

[22] Sweet-william.

[23] Poet.

[24] Songs.

[25] Allotment of land.

[26] “What is most wonderful is that all the labour and toil they used for their kings was their greatest delight and recreation; and such was the good rule and order observed in it that no labour was tedious, but rather of contentment and satisfaction.”—JOSEPH DE ACOSTA. (Other Spanish testimonies might be quoted, to the same effect.)

[27] Atahualpa, nevertheless, had some redeeming features of character: and it is almost certain that his cruelties were greatly exaggerated.

[28] This riot actually took place, and from the cause assigned in the text.

[29] This hereditary guild of doctors still exists among the Peruvian Indians, and they still pursue their calling as described in the text.

[30] The ease with which the Spaniards made their vast conquests in the New World was owing, in great measure, to the awe and terror inspired by their horses, animals entirely unknown to the aborigines; it has been even said that it was the horse, not the man, that conquered America.

[31] The “last of the Incas,” Tupac Amaru, who died as above related in 1571, must not be confounded with a far more remarkable character, the heroic and unfortunate Inca chieftain, José Gabriel Condercanqui, who assumed the name of Tupac Amaru, and led his people in their last gallant struggle for independence towards the close of the eighteenth century.

[32] Literally, _you shall count_; but used to mean virtuous, excellent.

[33] In Quichua, Coyllur means a star; Sumac, beautiful.

[34] Temple of the Sun.

[35] The Peruvians were as successful as the ancient Egyptians in the art of embalming the dead. The bodies of all the Incas, from Manco Capac downwards, were placed in the great Temple of the Sun at Cuzco. There each sat in state, in his royal robes, the llautu on his head and the sceptre in his hand; his Coya being seated opposite. At the approach of the conquerors the natives removed and concealed them; but the bodies of the three greatest Incas—Viracocha, Yupanqui, and Huayna Capac—with those of their Coyas, were afterwards found, and honourably interred, even the haughty conquerors baring their heads in silent reverence as they were borne past.

[36] Slave.

[37] The Peruvians paid extreme regard to omens, and were very superstitious about them.

[38] Sarmiento.

[39] Garçilasso de la Vega.

[40] Lily.

[41] Yes, yes.

[42] Humboldt.

[43] Officer whose duty it was to preserve and interpret the Quipus.

[44] Narrative of Job Hortop, in “Hakluyt’s Voyages.”

[45] The Spaniards called all the Indian princesses Pallas, though the title properly belonged only to the married ones amongst them.

[46] This fidelity of the Peruvians to any master to whom they had once yielded themselves, is described in very striking terms by Garçilasso de la Vega.

[47] The precious metals were very plentiful in those regions, and prices, of course, proportionably high.

[48] A hundred such stories could easily be gathered out of the blood-stained records of the Spanish conquests in America.

[49] The Incas believed that “Pacha-camac had appointed the same care to be taken of the wild as of the tame flocks;” for this reason they would not hurt or destroy them, except so far as was necessary for the food, the clothing, or the safety of man.

[50] See “Ollantā, an Ancient Ynca Drama, Translated from the Original Quichua by Clements R. Markham. C.B.”

[51] Out of thirty-six persons who were thus banished at one time, no less than thirty-five died within the space of two years.

[52] The arms granted by Charles V. to the Inca family.

[53] Garçilasso de la Vega.

[54] Alluding to a graceful custom of his royal forefathers. When they desired to honour any man, they would send him a cup exactly the same as that from which they drank themselves with the message.—“The Inca drinks with thee in this cup.”

[55] Humboldt.

[56] Sir Walter Raleigh.