Chapter IX: Part 9

He need not have so entreated. The friar’s strength was failing through intensity of emotion. He sank unconsciously into the seat. “I am losing my reason,” he murmured. “What did you say?—Who are you?”

“I am Melchior del Salto, reprieved at the last moment, because their reverences received information that it was another hand than his which struck down Tomas Varguez that fatal night. And you—_you_?—Nay, señor, not one word.—You are _Señor Don Alfonso_!”

“Melchior!—Brother risen from the dead!” exclaimed Fray Fernando; and in another moment two hearts that had long been sundered were beating against each other. Then they “lifted up their voices and wept.”

When words were possible, they were broken, faltering, inconsequent.

“Now I know why I loved you from the first,” Melchior del Salto murmured. “I used to listen for the sound of your voice, to watch for the very shadow of your cowl. But, ah, how altered,—señor, my brother!”

“Throughout these long years I believed my brother died for me—the death of fire.”

“And _you_, instead, lost all for that brother’s sake.”

“Oh no; the crime for which I suffered was my own. And you, my brother—you have suffered—how sorely! Sixteen years in the galleys!”

“God has not forsaken me. His goodness and mercy have followed me every step of the way. Till now—at last—He has given me this great crowning joy,—to see your face again!”

Thus they talked, and might have talked till midnight, had not the new bell, recently brought from Spain for the church of Callao, rung out its musical summons to prayer at the vesper hour.

Fray Fernando heard not the sound; but upon Melchior del Salto it had a magical effect. It transformed him instantly into the galley-slave and the matador. “Our hour is long past,” he said. “This must not be. The Englishman will share the blame that is due to me. Besides, the privilege another time may be withheld.”

The thought of sending back his newly-found brother to the cruel slavery in which he had pined so long, seemed absolutely horrible to Fray Fernando. Still, it was inevitable. They must part. Sorrowfully acknowledging the necessity, he accompanied the two galley-slaves to the _San Cristofero_, and excused them to the captain, taking upon himself the blame of their late return. “I will see you to-morrow—early,” he said, as he bade Melchior del Salto farewell.

XXX.

The Magic Stone.

“Every man is a friend to him that giveth gifts.”

PROV. xix. 6.

Fray Fernando’s thoughts were very busy during his five minutes’ walk from the _San Cristofero_ to his own humble lodging. He came to the determination that he would tell José everything that had happened. He had great reliance on the Indian’s tact and skill in dealing with those who held the destinies of the galley-slaves in their hands. But, independently of this, his adopted son deserved his full confidence, and he should have it.

“José,” he said, “I have something to tell you.”

José, at a moment’s notice, buried the treasures of new knowledge he had just received from Walter Grey, and was longing to examine, in some deep place within his heart, and stood prepared to listen.

“Do you remember the tale I told you in the tampu beside the Apurimac?” asked the monk.

“Every word of it.”

“Shall I lose for ever your love and your reverence, José, if I confess to you that the Don Alfonso of that tale stands before you now?”

José’s countenance showed no emotion; neither horror nor amazement, not even surprise, was depicted there. It was, in fact, no more than for a long time he had suspected. At first the suspicion brought keen sorrow and perplexity to his loyal heart; but he had, fortunately, been able of late to persuade himself that the patre was quite justified in his resistance to Spanish cruelty and oppression. How he reconciled this belief with his respect for the Catholic faith and the authorities of the Church, it is impossible to say. But indeed there were so many unreconciled contradictions in the mind of José, that this one might well pass unnoticed amongst them.

He said very quietly, “I always knew that the patre was a noble amongst his own people. And what did he, in fighting for the deliverance of the oppressed, save to show himself the friend of the Poor—like a child of the Sun?”

Then, in words few and broken by emotion, Fray Fernando told him the strange sequel of the story. But, to his amazement, José listened with cold incredulity. Was the patre quite sure that there was no mistake, no delusion—that the galley-slave was in very truth the person he represented himself to be?

Now, if the patre had told him that he had just been honoured with a visit from the Virgin Mary, José would have received the communication with the deepest reverence and the most unquestioning belief. For it would then have been “a mystery of the Faith;” and José was in the habit of divesting himself of his reason and common sense whenever he entered the temple of the supernatural. Scarcely any marvel could be proposed to him there to which he would hesitate to give implicit credence. But upon the platform of this world and its affairs, and within what he considered the legitimate domain of his reason, he was a shrewd and careful investigator of facts. He inherited the practical ability of his fathers, who were accustomed to decide hard cases, and to do justice and judgment between man and man.

The half astonished, half angry Fray Fernando found he had no alternative save to set his doubts at rest by a full and circumstantial account of his interview with the matador.

This could hardly fail to convince the most sceptical; and once convinced, José was ready to prove himself an invaluable ally.

“We will save him,” he said. “Spain is far away; Spaniards will do anything for gold.”

Fray Fernando pondered. “But I have no gold,” he objected.

“I have,” José answered quietly. “Moreover, the time is favourable. The Commandante has gone to Cuzco. Only the Capitano remains. He has his price. Let me treat with him, patre. Nothing easier for him than to give out that the men are dead.”

“The _men_?”

“Yes; the stake I mean to play for is the deliverance of both—the matador and the Englishman.”

“For Heaven’s sake, José, beware what you do,” cried Fray Fernando in alarm. “You will peril all. The Englishman is a prisoner of the Holy Office.”

“So is the other.”

“Ay; but consider the difference. Melchior was condemned to the galleys full sixteen years ago, in Spain. The matter was never known here; and by this time is well-nigh forgotten everywhere. But Walter Grey—fresh in every man’s mind and memory, and under the very eyes of their reverences who pronounced his sentence!—No, no, José; unless you want to ruin us, you must leave him alone.”

“Well, I can wait,” replied the imperturbable José. And rising from his seat, he began to prepare their frugal supper.

But Fray Fernando could not eat. Out of the fulness of his heart he talked to José of the former days, and of Melchior del Salto; until it became absolutely necessary for him to attend to his evening devotions. When these were over, José prevailed on him to lie down, and at least endeavour to take some rest. Sleep was not possible to him; but it was good to lie motionless in the dark on his mat, to think over the past and the present, and to thank God for His great mercy.

José, when left alone, meditated for a little while on the patre’s strange history, then disinterred his own treasure, and began to examine it.

The bitter disappointment that he felt at first had by no means passed away. He quite believed all that Walter Grey had told him. This, from his point of view, was both natural and reasonable. His forefathers had gone forth to propagate the worship of the Sun, as the best and purest religion they knew. And yet that worship had not wholly satisfied the more intelligent amongst them; and they had turned readily, nay, eagerly, to the Spaniards as the depositaries of a more satisfying faith, which they gladly learned from them. But José had had abundant cause to suspect that the Spaniards were not what they professed to be, the chief favourites of the true, invisible God, nor their kind of worship the most acceptable that could be offered to Him. What more reasonable than to suppose that the wise and powerful English, from whom he hoped so much, would be better instructed?

But, granted that Walter’s words were true, what they revealed was still “a mystery of the Faith,” and nothing more. And in far more educated minds than José’s mist and mystery are closely allied. The hopes that had seemed so real, so substantial, so near, were relegated at once to the land of dreams and shadows. Hence the chill disappointment, the utter helpless sadness, that settled down upon his soul.

After a long interval of desultory brooding, that did not deserve the name of thought, he roused himself, trimmed the lamp Fray Fernando had left lighted, and sat down to read over, yet once more, that sublime psalm—the song of the King who should reign in righteousness.

With kindling eyes, and a beating heart, he followed the description of what the King should be. Step by step his soul seemed lifted upwards, until at last it reached the footstool of God Himself—“The Lord God of Israel, who only doeth wondrous things.”

“‘Blessed be His holy name for ever,’” José read half aloud, “‘and let the whole earth be filled with His glory. Amen, and amen!’ His glory—whose? The great King’s? No, God’s—the God of Israel’s. And yet the great King’s also, if Señor Hualter’s words be true—for He is God—God and man—Sufferer, Saviour, Redeemer, King.” Thus for the first time, in all its grandeur, the great Truth broke upon his mind. It was like the uprising of the sun—a rapid tropical sunrise.

Would that King then, he questioned with himself, really come in His glory, take the part of his people, and avenge them upon their enemies, the cruel Spaniards? Might not this, after all, be possible? And if so, what a vengeance His would be! José was neither merciless nor bloodthirsty; he desired no wholesale massacres, no tortures. And yet, as he sat there with the Breviary still open before him, a vivid panorama rose before his eyes. He saw the great square of Cuzco filled with Indians, mounted upon splendid horses, and carrying fire-breathing clubs,—all guarding a grim scaffold draped with black, where a stately Spaniard, with the features of the Viceroy Toledo, was about to bow his haughty head beneath the fatal axe.

But a loud knocking at the outer door dispelled his vision into air. He hastened to unbar it, and confronted a sunburnt mariner from the _San Cristofero_.

At the same moment he became aware that his lamp was useless,—the day was breaking.

“One of the slaves is very ill,” said the mariner. “Will the padre come and see him, for the love of God? Ask him also to bring ‘sa majestad,’ for the man seems to be dying.”

“I will waken the patre,” said José. “Tell me the name of the sick man.”

“He is called the matador.”

Fray Fernando came forth from the inner room. “I have heard all,” he said, looking greatly agitated. “You need not have asked the name. I knew it.”

Quickly and silently he made the necessary preparations. No wonder that José, in his ignorance, looked with trembling awe upon the little silver box, which he was taught to believe actually contained his Creator and his God! Upon this occasion, however, the thought flashed through his mind—“Was the King of whom Señor Hualter spoke really there? If so, how could He be ‘gone away into heaven’?” But it soon gave place to a reflection of a more practical kind,—“The patre has had no food since yesterday forenoon. If he goes forth fasting he may take the calenture.—Patre,” he said aloud, “I pray you drink at least some of this chica ere you go.”

Fray Fernando shook his head. “I shall communicate with him,” he said.

Nothing more was spoken until they were on their way, Fray Fernando bearing the precious viaticum, and José the little silver bell with which he failed not to warn bystanders to show fitting reverence.

Then Fray Fernando said, “If it be possible to remove him, we must do it.”

“What becomes of galley-slaves when they are ill?” José asked.

Fray Fernando sighed. “The only place for them is the hold,” he said. “And that is so dark, and withal so horribly unclean, that, I have heard, many die at the oar rather than enter it.”

“Surely the chihuayhua flower, the emblem of pity, does not grow on your side of the Mother Sea,” said José with quiet bitterness.

“But sometimes there is leave given to bring them on shore to the prison, or to some hospital,” Fray Fernando resumed.

“This man shall come on shore, and neither to prison nor hospital,” José answered determinately. “Here we are, patre. Look, there stands the captain by the helm. I am to deal with him, you understand? But he must bring me to his cabin. I can do nothing within earshot of his men.”

So successfully did José deal with the captain of the _San Cristofero_, that in less than an hour the sick man was taken gently from the dark and horrible hole into which he had been thrown to die, placed on a rude litter made out of a couple of spare planks covered with José’s mantle, and borne carefully to the lodging of Fray Fernando.

“You succeeded marvellously—how did you manage?”—the monk asked of José, so soon as he had rendered Melchior the cares his situation immediately demanded, and had seen that he was slumbering from exhaustion.

“I had, in the clasp of my yacollo, a certain magic stone, which I did but show the captain, and the sight of it bowed his heart at once.”

“And what said he to you?”

“Many things, which seemed utter unreason. Such as these: ‘Pray devoutly and hammer on stoutly.’ That ‘the golden load is a burden light,’ and that he was not like the tailor of Campijo, or Campillo, or some such place, who wrought for nothing, and found his customers in thread.”

“What answer made you to his litany of proverbs?”

“None; save to give him that glimpse of the magic stone. And to tell him I knew the poor fellow was dying (which in truth I know not at all); and that if he died on shore, there would be no man the wiser—but one man the wealthier. But had I known these were proverbs, I might have favoured him in return with one of ours, from the lips of the wise Inca Pacha-cutec: ‘Anger and passion may be cured; but folly is incurable.’ And of all the follies under God’s heaven, the worst, as I think, is that of the white men, who will do nothing for pity and for mercy, for the fear of God and the love of man; but everything for gold and silver, or for children’s toys of coloured or sparkling stones.”

Fray Fernando sighed. “You have done well, José,” he said. “But I fear the deliverance has come too late.”

“Nay, patre. Our people indeed die easily; but the white man is strong, and he clings to life as the lianas cling to the forest trees. With care and God’s blessing, I think we may save him yet.”

XXXI.

The Years that the Canker-worm hath Eaten.

“Tell him, when he is a man, to reverence the dreams of his
youth.”

SCHILLER.

Melchior del Salto felt as if heaven had begun already for him. It was no wonder. His limbs, freed from their galling fetters, lay in luxurious rest on a couch of vicuña-skin; his toil-worn, well-nigh crippled frame was stretched at ease the whole day long; and his ears, so sadly used to blasphemies and cries of pain, had only to drink in the gentle tones of Fray Fernando, or the quiet words of José. He was very happy, and deeply thankful. Still, he did not recover. He had no disease; he was only worn out—“used up.” It was time. Sixteen years was a good term of service at the oar, even for a strong man.

Melchior’s strength had been failing for more than a year; though the lengthened swoon, that drew attention to the fact, was caused by the agitation of his interview with Fray Fernando. He afterwards told his foster-brother that deliverance from bondage had come to him just at the right moment: not too soon, else he might have had to return to a strange unfamiliar world, like a ghost come back from the dead; not too late, since it was good to rest for a little while, ere he went forth on his journey to that home wherein he should rest for ever.

Only one regretful thought troubled the calm of those declining hours. And at last, one day, when José had gone to Lima, and Fray Fernando alone was sitting by his side, the secret sorrow found words.

“Do you want anything, my brother?” the monk asked tenderly, noticing that Melchior’s eyes were fixed upon him with an earnest inquiring gaze.

“Nothing, Señor Don Alfonso. Except what I am trying to find, and cannot.”

“Perhaps I could find it for you.”

“Would to God you could!” Melchior answered with a mournful smile. “I am looking, in that worn, old face of yours, for the dear, young, noble face my heart so loved and reverenced in the days gone by.”

“Then indeed you look in vain, my brother. Don Alfonso Garçia de Fanez is dead and buried long ago; and he who sits here is only Fray Fernando, the Franciscan friar.”

“But this I would fain know, señor, and my brother—where is Don Alfonso buried, and what has he left behind him? He should not have passed away without mark or remembrance. For he was made for great things.”

“So seemed many another who has come to ruin, as he.”

“There was no other like Don Alfonso.—Nay, let me speak, señor. In the galleys I spoke but little, and very soon I shall speak no more. You were the passion, the idol, of my boyhood and my youth. And even now I do not wonder. You learned with ease all that other men learn with pain. You knew a thousand things I had never dreamed of, yet you knew all I knew also. You did all that I could do, and better than I.”

“You say too much for me, Melchior.”

“I say the truth, señor. Always you made us feel that you were more than you did; that the ready stroke and spring at the bull-feast, the thrust and parry in the tilting-ring, were but earnests given of great deeds yet to be. O brother, brother, do you not remember all those old talks in the orange-grove by the river-side? All those plans, that came to nothing? How you were to raise a corps of volunteers, and help to rend Ireland (that fair jewel, you called it) from the crown of the English usurper? And how you were then to settle and colonize, taking me with you, and getting for me also a grant of land among the saffron-kilted kernes? My brother Francisco was to be our priest, and Miguel and Ruy to till the ground.”

“Dreams—all dreams!” Fray Fernando answered sadly. “They are no more to me now than the tales José loves to tell us of his Inca forefathers.”

“But, señor, my brother, you yourself told me long ago that the dreams of youth are the flowers, the doings of manhood the fruit. Woe for the flowers that they have fallen, and left no fruit behind!”

“The tree was blighted, and is dead. Whence, then, could the fruit come?”

“That work was mine. There, señor, is the thought that wrings my heart.”

“Put that thought away from you, dear and generous brother,” Fray Fernando eagerly interposed. “It was not your work; it was my fate.”

“What do you mean by that word ‘fate,’ señor? I am a poor ignorant man, yet I know this: it was no fate that happened to me, but the will of God. How much more you—wise, learned, and a churchman!”

“I am learned in nothing, Melchior, save in sorrow.—But this is ungrateful,” he added presently. “God has healed my worst sorrow in giving you back to me.”

“He will heal the rest too,” said Melchior. “And though the flowers faded so long ago, I think the fruit will come yet.”

Fray Fernando sighed. Then his own secret trouble rose half unconsciously to his lips. “I am not at peace with God,” he said. “I have trifled with His grace in His sacraments.”

“I know but one way of making peace with God, señor. That is through Christ. He is our way, and He is our peace.”

Fray Fernando looked somewhat surprised. “How do you know that, Melchior?” he asked.

“Because, Señor Don Alfonso, I have trod the way, and I have found the peace.”

Just then José entered, carrying a pataca, or covered native basket, from which he produced some articles of food and other things that he had purchased in the city. Amongst them was a flask of wine from the old country, which he gave to Melchior, saying, “My Father smiled upon the fruits of your native land, and they have sent their best juices hither to make sick men well.”

“Don José, you are very good to me,” said Melchior gratefully.

“I ought to be good to everyone to-day,” José answered, as he seated himself, and loosed the fastening of his yacollo, which was now a simple golden pin—his mother’s tupu—instead of a large and lustrous emerald, Yupanqui’s gift. “I have heard such good tidings. But I ought first to tell you, patre, that I failed to do your errand at the Franciscan monastery. The monks would not trust me with the Book, without a written order from yourself.”

Fray Fernando had sent to request the loan of a copy of the Vulgate. Perhaps his motive for this request might have been found in certain conversations he had lately held with Walter Grey, who was now permitted to come to him three times a week for religious instruction.

José went on: “Whatever may have caused their hesitation, it was scarcely the value of the Book, since I offered to leave them my gold bracelet in pledge for it. I think they feared I might do myself or some one else a mischief with it, as if it were a carbine or musket. It reminds me, patre, of the old times in Cerro Blanco, when I stood in such awe of your Breviary, believing that a spirit dwelt in it, which spoke to you when you read it.”

Then Melchior said reverently, “It is quite true, Don José, that a Spirit dwells in the Book you were to have brought to-day; and He will speak to you, if you read it with prayer and humility.”

“You are making pictures, Melchior,” José answered readily.—“I see.” He himself was quite as anxious for the Book as Fray Fernando, because he thought it would tell him of his King.

“But you have not yet told us the good tidings, José,” Fray Fernando resumed presently.

José’s black eyes kindled with a vivid inward fire, but no other feature of his face showed emotion, and his voice was calm, even low, as he spoke. “Some Spanish soldiers have just come back to Lima from the country of the Chunchos, which you call the Montaña. They have brought with them—sore wounded and sick unto death—Don Ramon de Virves. It was at his own earnest request they brought him so far, for he thought to embark for Spain. But he will never see Spain again. God has visited his iniquities on his head.”

“Take care, José,” said Fray Fernando gravely. “Long ago the wise man said, ‘Rejoice not when thine enemy falleth, and let not thine heart be glad when he stumbleth: lest the Lord see it, and it displease Him, and He turn away His wrath from him.’”

“Who is Don Ramon de Virves?” Melchior asked with interest.

José turned to him and answered, still in the same low quiet voice, “When I was a child I dwelt with my kindred in a little green spot in the great southern desert—a ‘paucar,’ we call it. One day that Don Ramon de Virves came thither with his Spaniards. We were mostly women and children; we neither could fight with them, nor desired to do it. So we gave them to eat and to drink, and let them lie down in our huts to sleep. But while we slept they arose, drew their Spanish steel, and slew all—men, women, and little children—without remorse or pity.[48] That was their way of ‘reducing’ Indians to the obedience of the crown of Spain and the faith of Christ. Yet it was well for those who died. Thrice more unhappy were the two spared—my mother and I. Bound and guarded, we watched the flames that burned our home to ashes. But the Children of the Sun know how to die. When night came again, my mother kissed me, and said, ‘Pacha-camac cares for the wild beasts on the mountain,[49] he will also care for thee, my child.’ Then she bade me go to sleep. When I awoke, she was dead. I am a man now, and I thank God that she won her freedom thus; but I was a child then, and I wept and wailed over her lifeless form in the bitterness of my anguish. Yet I too would have died, rather than be Don Ramon’s slave, if the patre had not bought me. Judge whether or no _I_ have cause to rejoice that Don Ramon is dying now in pain and misery—forsaken of God and man.”

“José, my son José!” Fray Fernando interposed, in a tone of grieved surprise. “Remember that vengeance belongs to God, not to us. To Him we ought to leave it.”

“I have left it to Him,” José answered calmly, “and He has taken it.”

“But did you never hear,” said Melchior, raising himself and looking earnestly at the Indian youth—“did you never hear that our blessed Lord Himself, when He hung on the cross, prayed for His murderers, and said, ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do’?”

“No?” José said, interrogatively, and with a perplexed, discomfited look.

“How can you say ‘No,’ José?” Fray Fernando asked, a little jealous perhaps for his reputation as instructor. “You have heard it a hundred times. And what says the Paternoster,—almost the first thing I taught you?”

José struggled with a thought he did not choose to admit, and putting it from him with an effort, answered doggedly, “It says, ‘Thy kingdom come.’”

“It says also, ‘Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.’”

“And,” Melchior added, “none have part in the kingdom that is to come save those whose trespasses are forgiven.”

José received these sharp arrows of truth without remonstrance, but without acquiescence. He bore their sting as he would have borne physical pain—silent and unmoved, though keenly sensible. In any other case he would have been very angry with the hands that winged them; but he knew not how to feel anger towards a dying man like Melchior, still less towards the patre. But how unreasonable, how unjust, how cruel the requirement!

_Whose_ requirement? That he did not ask himself just yet. With a lowering brow and a heart full of bitterness he went forth; nor did either Melchior or Fray Fernando see him again that night.

XXXII.

Walter Grey’s Advice.

“Forgive!—for ’tis sweet to stammer one letter
From the Eternal’s language: on earth it is called ‘Forgiveness.’”

LONGFELLOW (_from the Swedish_).

José Viracocha was not at all more vindictive than other men. He inherited from his ancestors no implacability of disposition, no burning thirst after vengeance. On the contrary, it was their special glory—a glory that ought to last when other glories fade away—that they saw the beauty of fair Mercy, and wooed and won her to sit beside them on their golden throne. Many a deed of generous magnanimity had place amongst his cherished traditions. He could not remember the first time he had heard how the Inca Mayta caressed and fed the little children of his enemies; how the Inca Huayna Capac taught and acted upon the noble maxim, “We ought to spare our foes, for they will soon be our subjects.” But he had now come to a point at which these traditions could not help him. Although the clemency a monarch extends to despairing suppliants at his feet is a fair thing to look upon, and very grateful to eyes fatigued with the monotonous crimson of battle-fields and massacres, still it is _not_ the forgiveness of keen and cruel personal injuries. As surely as the crystal rings when struck, so surely does human nature respond, with the sharp cry of hatred, to the stroke of wrong. There is only _One_ Hand whose touch can bring peace and make silence there.

José could not forgive Don Ramon: he had no wish to do it—his soul rose in rebellion at the very thought. He saw clearly all that it involved. If he pardoned Don Ramon, he must pardon also all his enemies, with all their injuries, public and private. He must pardon Don Francisco Solis; and him he hated quite as bitterly as he hated Don Ramon. And there were times when his resentment against both paled and faded before the intensity of his indignation against the spoilers of Tahuantin Suyu. Them also—even _them_—he must pardon! Impossible!

Yet a suspicion, gradually becoming a conviction, was stealing over his heart. It was no other than the King whom he sought—the Divine Monarch and Deliverer, the great Inca of the East—who required this thing of him, who demanded it as the test of his allegiance. If, instead, He had but asked his life-blood!

In his sore dismay and perplexity, he bethought himself of Walter Grey, to whom he was becoming every day more strongly attached, and to whose comfort he ministered in every possible way. Walter would give him the English view of the matter; and that, most probably, would be the true one. So, after Walter’s next visit to Fray Fernando, José returned with him to the beach; and standing before him as he rested for a little in the welcome shade of a rock, he briefly acquainted him with the strange demand that had been made upon him.

“If,” he said, “I proposed stabbing the man through the back, or setting fire to the house where he lies wounded, I could understand the King having somewhat to object. Nor, indeed, would the Incas have approved such practices. But to bid me forgive him from my heart! How can it matter what I feel there? Whose business is that, save my own?”

“It is God’s business, José;—and the King is God.”

“I know it,” said José reverently.

“God sees your heart, reads it through and through, claims it for His own.”

José lay down on the sand, and turned his face away from Walter. At last he said,—

“I almost wish I had never met you, Señor Hualter.”

“And why that, Don José?”

“You trouble me. Better not to know the King, than to know Him and not to obey Him; and He is hard, _hard_ to obey.”

“Oh no!”

“But yes. I know now why none of the Spaniards really obey Him, though they pretend to do it,—They cannot. Nor can I; I am afraid of Him.”

“You ought not. He loves you, He died for you;—and He only wants you to be like Him.”

“Well, if need were, I could die for Him. But” (a tremor shook his whole frame; not violent—none of his movements were that—but telling of intense repugnance) “this thing I cannot do;—I will not. What use to try? I could never forgive that man, unless I were taken to pieces and made over again.”

“‘Except a man be born again,’” said Walter Grey, “‘he shall in no wise enter into the kingdom of God.’”

“Who says that?”

“The King Himself.”

“I do not understand.—Stay, I do!” he added, after a thoughtful pause. “I remember the patre said those words to me. He told me they meant my baptism. He said I was born then into the Christian Church.”

“You remember your baptism?” asked Walter.

“Of course I do; I was ten years old.”

“What did you feel? Did you receive a new heart, and begin a new life then?”

“In one way, yes. I felt great love for the patre, who, I thought, was claiming me for his own by certain mystic rites and ceremonies; and I gave myself up to him very gladly. But as for thoughts of God or the Church, I had none. Until long afterwards, I worshipped my Father the Sun.”

“It is very plain that you still need to be born of water and the Spirit, and to receive the new heart which God alone can give you. And He will. You have only, on your part, to ‘give yourself up to Him very gladly,’ as you did to the padre.—Don José,” said Walter Grey, starting up suddenly, “I could talk to you for hours; but I dare not linger. Look yonder! The sun touches the sea already; and ere it sinks, I am bound to be on board. There is not a moment to waste; the sunsets are so rapid here. Wonderful, like everything else in this wonderland of yours!”

“I am with you, Señor Hualter,” said José, suiting the action to the word.

As they walked along together, Walter remarked: “I dare not make the captain angry by delay, lest he should deny me leave another time; and few other times may be left to me now, Don José. The Commandante returns from Cuzco to-morrow, and it is whispered he has orders for us. I fear we may be sent to some distant shore, where I shall never see your face or that of Fray Fernando again. It is so lonely on board, now the matador is gone; though, God knows, my heart rejoices at his deliverance. Farewell, Don José!”

Next morning José said to Fray Fernando: “Patre, I am going to the city to visit some of my people. Will you give me a letter to the monks, and I will bring you back the Book you want?”

“Willingly, my son. But, I pray of thee, come back thyself as speedily as thou canst; for since yesterday there are five men ill of the calenture, and two of the Creoles from San Domingo are dying, as I fear.”

“I will hasten.”

“Hasten thine errands in the city—not thy footsteps by the way; for the heat is fearful to-day, and I would not have thee get a sunstroke.”

“No fear of that. My Father never hurts his own; he only smites the Spaniards,” said José, as he started at a brisk pace on his seven miles’ walk.

His assertion was not strictly true, however; for the burning sun of Lima proved fatal to many of the Inca family exiled by Spanish tyranny from Cuzco and its neighbourhood, and forced to take up their residence on the hot, unhealthy coast.

That day José brought back with him in triumph a formidable-looking volume. Fray Fernando laid it aside until the evening; but when the door of their humble dwelling was barred for the night, and the lamp was lighted, he set it on the table before him, and began to read. Melchior prayed him to read aloud, translating the Latin into Spanish as he read. There were few things which he could have refused Melchior; so he turned from the Epistles of St. Paul (which he had been exploring to test the accuracy of Walter Grey’s quotations, and to discover, if possible, some key to the perplexities they awakened), and, rightly judging that the Gospels were the best food for the unlearned, he found the opening page of the New Testament, and began to read “The Gospel of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.”

No man had ever two more attentive hearers. Melchior was soon to know more than even that Book could tell of Him whom his soul loved. Yet every word it revealed was precious. What if, ere long, he should drink from the fountain-head? Hitherto only a few drops in a tiny cup had been borne to his thirsting lips; therefore for the present it was joy enough to stoop over the running stream and drink, and give God thanks for the draught.

José, meanwhile, had not yet drunk; though he was sore athirst, and the water was near him. From the day when he learned who the King was from Walter Grey, until that other day when the summons to forgive his enemies smote him to the heart, José had occupied somewhat the position of a devout Jew “waiting for the consolation of Israel,” looking with earnest faith for a national Messiah, a great Redeemer and Deliverer, who should save his beloved people from all their enemies. Such a Deliverer he was prepared to welcome and to obey, even to the death. But now a lightning flash, scathing and burning while it illumined, had revealed to him the necessity of another deliverance, hitherto undreamt of,—a personal deliverance from sin. He was learning that the Son of God must be sought as the Saviour of the soul, or He will not reveal Himself as the King of the nations. Even the question, “Will He restore the Incas?” was postponed, of necessity, until their child found an answer to that other question, “Will He receive _me_, and make me over again, so that I can serve and please Him?”

He who read was seeking as earnestly as those who listened. Fray Fernando’s difficulties were far more complex than those of José. He needed everything—truth, peace, light, pardon. There were times when the last seemed the most pressing need of all. If each had tried to condense his longings into a single prayer, that of Fray Fernando would probably have been, “Wash me throughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin;” and that of José, “Create in me a clean heart, and renew a right spirit within me.” Though it is likely José would soon have added, “Do good in thy good pleasure unto Zion” (meaning what stood for Zion in his mind); “build thou the walls of Jerusalem.”

XXXIII.

The King Found.

“He came to me in Power; I knew Him not.
He came to me in Love; and my heart broke;
And from its inmost depths there rose a cry—
‘My Father, oh, my Father, smile on me!’
And the great Father smiled.”

_Night and the Soul._

A quiet month glided by, bearing the _San Cristofero_ away to more northern shores; and slowly—almost imperceptibly—drifting another bark, long tossed by storms, towards the haven of welcome rest. So gradually was Melchior sinking, that although Fray Fernando watched him, hour by hour, with the devoted love of a brother born for adversity, and José with tender kindness, it was probable that the coming Visitant, the shadow of whose presence any stranger might readily have seen in his face, would take them both by surprise. The more accustomed they grew to the pleasant office of tending him, reading to him, talking with him, the less they seemed to think that all must have an end, and that shortly.

By this time they had read the Gospels through—and not once or twice. They had read the Epistles also; they had explored the narratives and prophecies of the Old Testament; they had even, to José’s intense delight, made some acquaintance with “the book of the Golden City,” as he called the Apocalypse. But always they turned back to the Gospels with fresh wonder, interest, and joy. What one of them, at least, found therein, will appear in the following conversation.

It was a close and sultry afternoon. Fray Fernando had gone out to perform the duties of his office towards some poor fever-stricken mariners, who lay in a rude shed on the beach, called by courtesy the Hospital. José sat beside Melchior, gently fanning him, and, as he did so, chanting in a low harmonious voice some melody of his people.

“Ancha Incay Hocca?” Melchior repeated, opening his eyes with a smile. “If I were you, Don José, I would rather sing a psalm than those heathen words.”

“The words I sing are a psalm to me,” José answered; “but if they trouble you I will stop.”

“Oh no. But I did not think there were any psalms or sacred songs as yet rendered into your tongue.”

“Nor are there, so far as I know. These are words from a Play which my fathers used to act before the white men came.”

Melchior heard him with indifference. What were plays to a dying man? He had done with “vain shows;” where he was going all would be real. Still he felt that a little interest in what interested his Indian friend was the least proof he could give of his gratitude for a thousand benefits; so, when José said, “Shall I tell you about it?” he answered promptly, “If you please, Don José.”

José, with evident pleasure, began his story. “There was once,” he said, “a great and brave chieftain, whose name was Ollantā. He rebelled against his lord the Inca; he took for himself the province given him to rule over; and he slew those who were sent against him. For he would fain obey no lord, but be lord and Inca over all himself. But, after a long time and a grievous war, in which many men were killed, he was overcome and made prisoner; and his friends, who aided him in his rebellion, were taken also. With their hands bound and their eyes bandaged, they were led to Cuzco. Then, at last, the bandage was taken away. Behold! they stood in the presence of the sole Inca. He sat on his golden throne, the high priest on his right hand, the great general whose valour had won the victory, on his left; and standing around him, like stars around the sun, all his glorious court. He looked awful in his majesty. Right sternly he asked the trembling captives, ‘Why have you done this thing?’ But they only bowed their heads and answered, ‘Father, we have nothing to say.’ Then the Inca turned to the high priest, ‘What do these men deserve?’ he asked. Too well the high priest knew the answer, but his lips refused to utter it. ‘The Sun has given me a merciful heart,’ he said. So the Inca looked from him to the victorious general, whose heart was cast in a harder mould. And he spoke out boldly, ‘Inca, these men have slain our fathers; they must die. Let them be tied to stakes driven into the ground, and let their servants, who fought for them, be made to march over their bodies. Then let those servants also be slain with arrows.’ Then the Inca looked upon the captives; and his face was sad and stern; ‘You have heard your sentence,’ he said.—‘Take them away.’ And the servants wept and wailed and made sore lamentation. But Ollantā and his friends spake never a word; for they knew that their doom was just. As they had sown, they must reap. Only they looked up to the glorious Sun, and around them on the fair earth, as men who take their farewell look of all.

“Then once more spake the Inca. ‘Stay,’ he said. ‘Unbind those men. They shall not die, but live. Ollantā, I forgive thee.’ And turning to the guards that stood around, he added, ‘Bring the golden helmet, the mace, and the arrows.’ (These were the signs of Ollantā’s forfeited honours.) ‘Give them back to him. And to his friends likewise restore their maces of office, their arrows, and their bracelets.’ Moreover, forasmuch as pardon is not complete without trust restored, he said to him, ‘Ollantā, thou shalt govern Cuzco for me when I go forth shortly upon my warlike expedition to Collasuyu.’ And he sealed all with the generous word, ‘I shall go with joy; leaving, to govern here, my faithful Ollantā.’

“Oh, my friend! Ollantā’s eyes were dry at the terrible death-sentence; but I tell you he wept then! Ollantā never knelt at the Inca’s feet to implore his life; but I tell you, when the Inca forgave him thus, he flung himself in the dust before him, and swore to be his slave for ever! And, at last, the grateful, reverent love that overflowed his heart, found voice in the words I sang just now.

‘O Inca! this is too much
For a man who is nothing.
Mayest thou live a thousand years.
I am as thou makest me;
Thou dost give me succour:
Crippled, thou makest me stand;
Fallen, thou raisest me up;
Poor, thou enrichest me;
Blind, thou givest me sight;
Dead, thou restorest life;—
Thou, indeed, teachest me to forget.’”[50]

“What, Don José, are you weeping at your own tale?” asked Melchior, wondering at the emotion that filled the eyes and well-nigh choked the voice of José.

The Indian dashed the unbidden drops away. “Not often do we weep, we Children of the Sun,” he said. “Yet Ollantā wept at the Inca’s pardon; for his heart grew soft within him, like the heart of a little child. And I too—O Melchior, can you not read the meaning of my tale? Listen, then. I am Ollantā, the rebel. I did not know my King, my Inca. I would not obey Him; I fought against Him; I wanted to be lord and ruler myself, and to do my own will, not His. But He conquered me, and took me, and led me step by step, as it were with bandaged eyes. And now, at last, the bandage is taken away. I have seen Him. First _there_,” indicating with rapid gesture the Book on the table; “then _here_,” laying his hand on his heart. “He has pardoned me—pardoned, blessed, restored; made me His free, happy servant; told me to live and work for Him.

‘O Inca! this is too much
For a man who is nothing.
I am as thou makest me;
Thou dost give me succour:
Crippled, thou makest me stand;
Fallen, thou raisest me up;
Poor, thou enrichest me;
Blind, thou givest me sight;
Dead, thou restorest life;—
Thou, indeed, teachest me to forget.’

Ranti! Ranti! Capac Inca! Huacchacuyac!”

There was a long silence, filled with happy thought. Then, at last, Melchior asked gently, “What of Don Ramon de Virves _now_, Don José?”

“Have I not said, ‘Thou, indeed, teachest me to forget’?” José answered. Presently he added, with a smile, “It is not told in the Play; but for my part, I have always believed that Ollantā stretched out his hand that day to the general who was his enemy and sought his life, and said to him, ‘Let us be friends for the Inca’s sake.’—But I am sorry for Don Ramon de Virves. He is gone where my pardon cannot reach him. I have told all to the King; and I have asked Him to let me show some of them how He teaches to forget.”

“Don José, you ought to tell Fray Fernando what you have just told me. I would die without a shadow on my heart if only he—he too—”

“_He?_ the patre? Of course he has known all this, and far more, for many a year—from his childhood, I suppose. I wish indeed from my heart that I could tell Señor Hualter, who is far away from us now. He it was who first told me about Christ the King. Instead of the gem I sought—the hope of deliverance for my people—he put that day into my outstretched hand a little seed, like a grain of sand. I was grieved and angry, for to my eyes it had no beauty: it did not burn and quiver in the light like the stones of fire. But I buried it in my heart; and lo! it sprang up and grew, until at last there came forth a living flower, brighter and more glorious than a thousand cold dead stones.—But the patre, oh,—he knows everything!”

“I am sure God has marked him for His own,” said Melchior—“‘chosen him in the furnace of affliction,’ as he read yesterday from the good Book. But if it were not for the hope in Him, life would be a sad thing enough for my brother and for me, Don José. Does he seem to you an old, broken, world-weary man, with the wrinkles on his brow and the gray streaks in his hair? In years he is yet almost young. If he has numbered eight and thirty, it is the utmost.”

“I know he has suffered as few suffer, even in this sad world.”

“You may well say that. Think of those long, dark, weary years! And now I go hence—I who have cost him so much, and been able to give him back so little. But I turn to you, Don José. All that I would have been to him, all that I would have done for him, and never can be or do, I leave to you—you, his adopted son. I pray you to help him, guard him, watch over him.”

“I vowed to do that, Melchior, ere I ever saw your face.”

“Yet promise now once more, to please a dying man.”

“With all my heart I promise. Perhaps,” he added, “you may be able to watch over him yourself, from your place in yonder sky.”

“I do not think that, Don José. What do we know, after all, save so much as that Book tells us? And it tells us scarce anything of the dead, but that they are ‘with the Lord.’—Ah, there is Señor Don Alfonso at the door. I would know his step amongst a thousand.”

Another was at the door also, though neither José nor Fray Fernando heard his footsteps. But at midnight he entered unbidden, touched Melchior with his shadowy hand, and whispered the gentle yet imperative summons, “Arise, and go hence.” Not always without a struggle does the flesh leave the spirit free to obey that call. With Melchior the struggle lasted “until the breaking of the day.” But in the end there was peace. For the last time on earth, the foster-brothers held converse together. What passed was unheard, even by José, who kept watch in the outer room. If “the rites of the Church” were administered, José did not know it, and was amazed at the apparent omission.

And when the sun arose in glory, the weary spirit won its freedom. There was one more look and smile for “Señor Don Alfonso,” there was a murmured word of grateful farewell for José, and then the brave and faithful heart of Melchior del Salto ceased to beat.

Fray Fernando closed his eyes, and sat down and wept beside him.

But José said, “You should not weep for him, patre. He sees the King in His beauty.”

Yet Fray Fernando did well to weep. There are tears that bring help and healing with them. Of such were the tears he shed over the lifeless form of the brother whom God had given back to him so strangely from the dead. Instead of the thoughts of restless anguish, of remorse and shame, that had haunted him for sixteen weary years, he could think of Melchior del Salto, now and henceforward, with tender regret; not indeed unmixed with pain, but still calm and soothing. Meanwhile, for himself, the long conflict of his life seemed over. Peace and reconciliation had come to him at last, breathed softly by dying lips. And with peace there came strength also. Possibilities of new life, of a life of healthful, holy activity, began from that day forward to open out before him. Even yet he might serve the God to whom Melchior del Salto had lifted up his heart in the hour of need, and who had heard him, and saved him out of all his distresses.

XXXIV.

The King Followed.

“So I go on not knowing;
I would not if I might!
I would rather walk in the dark with God,
Than walk alone in the light;
I would rather walk with Him by faith,
Than walk alone by sight.”

ANON.