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CHAPTER XXI.
TWO ANGELS

We will now return to Alcala, whom we left on his way to the prison.

Slowly the conveyance in which the cavalier was seated, guarded by several alguazils, rolled through the streets of Seville. Alcala sat as far back in the vehicle as he could, to avoid the gaze of curious eyes; for many of the populace were eager to get a sight of a hidalgo sent to prison for White Judaism, that mysterious crime. Once only did Alcala lean forward in his seat, and that was to catch a glimpse of the outer wall of the huge Coliseo of Seville, the Plaza de Toros.

What a gush of thankfulness came into the breast of Alcala at the sight of that place, the scene of his rash, ungodly venture! Had he been left to expire in that arena which it had been a crime to enter, where would his soul now have been! But the heavenly Father, whom he had so deeply offended, would not suffer the sinner to perish in his sin. Mercy had not only snatched him from destruction both of body and soul, but had made the rebel a son, had granted to the transgressor the privilege of suffering for the sake of the gospel. The realization of the freeness of God's grace, the depth of His love, excluded for the time from the spirit of the Spaniard all less powerful emotions.

It may be said that there are two heaven-sent guides appointed to lead through life's pilgrimage all those who in faith seek a heritage above. The fear of God and the love of God are these two guiding angels. The former, in somewhat austere beauty, appears in garments of spotless white; for the fear of the Lord is clean, and on his snowy pinions is inscribed the word "obedience." Blessed are they who are led by this spirit of reverence, as a poet has nobly expressed the thought, – "Fearing God, they have no other fear."²¹

It is this angel who is wont to meet pilgrims on the outset of their career, to guide their first feeble steps in the narrow path of duty; but oftentimes he yields place to another spirit even more glorious than he. Not that the fear of God can ever be far removed from the Christian, but his form is half hidden by the radiance of his twin-brother, the second guide of the pilgrim. Holy fear is fair indeed, but who can describe the seraphic beauty of holy love! He shines with the glory reflected from the smile of a reconciled God; all the tints of heaven's rainbow glitter in his quivering wings, their motion is light, and their inscription is "joy." The fear of God leads us onward, the love of God bears us upward. Blessed, thrice blessed, those over whom the second angel waves his pinions of joy!

Often, very often, has this spirit been sent on a special mission to those who suffer for conscience' sake. When he is near, earthly griefs seem to have lost their power to pain; his soft whisper drowns with its music the scoff of the persecutor, the yell of the furious mob. Cheered by that whisper, the martyr has gone with light step and joyous countenance to meet the king of terrors. He has felt, though man could not see, the waving of the bright wings, and has, with cheerful courage, embraced the cross or the stake.

It is this angel of light who has come into many a sick-room, and turned it into a chamber of peace. He has gently smoothed the pillow, touched the pain-wrinkled brow, and its furrows have disappeared; there has been such happiness imparted by the presence of the love of God that weeping, wondering friends have owned that the last enemy himself has lost all his sting.

 
"No smile is like the smile of death,
When all good musings past
Rise wafted on the parting breath,
The sweetest thought the last!"
 

Alcala, on his way to his prison, was accompanied by this invisible angel, and, in the strength imparted by the love of God, could make an apostle's words his own. He could say, "We rejoice in the glory of God. And not only so, but we glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience; and patience, experience; and experience, hope. And hope maketh not ashamed; because the love of God is shed abroad in our hearts!"

CHAPTER XXII.
STRANGE COMPANY

The vehicle which conveyed Alcala to his destination stopped at the entrance of a dark and gloomy building, situated in a narrow street. Through a vaulted passage, dimly lighted, Alcala was conducted to a door in which was a grating formed of thick iron bars. At this door one of the alguazils who escorted the prisoner knocked. The face of a jailer was dimly visible through the grating, and then there was the sound of withdrawal of bolt and turning of key; the heavy door was slowly swung back, and Alcala entered the prison.

Through a vestibule the cavalier was then conducted to an office-room, in which, seated at a high desk, appeared the alcalde of the prison, a hollow-eyed, melancholy man. He glanced at the warrant which was formally presented to him by one of the alguazils, then rose, and with gloomy ceremony welcomed his involuntary guest.

"Señor," said the alcalde, with a low inclination of the head, "may your residence here be a brief one. Permit me to have the honour of myself introducing you into your temporary abode. I regret to see that the health of the illustrious caballero appears to be impaired."

After a ceremonious exchange of courtesy with the alcalde who had arrested him, and who retired after delivering up his charge to the prison authorities, Alcala followed his jailer to a huge grated door, which was guarded by a couple of turnkeys. This barrier also was passed, and with a heavy, echoing clang the massive door closed on the prisoner. Alcala and his jailer were now in a corridor, lighted by narrow barred windows, looking on a patio, in which a number of prisoners were taking what air and exercise its confined space permitted.

"Most noble caballero," said the jailer, who now walked by the side of Alcala, "in this melancholy abode there is preserved a due distinction of ranks. We have a few apartments reserved for illustrious señors like yourself, whom misfortune may have led to visit our retreat for awhile."

As Alcala only replied by a slight inclination of the head, the alcalde thought that his hint had not been understood by his captive.

"Cavaliers are permitted to furnish their apartments according to their good pleasure, señor; and they are waited on by the attendants with the distinction becoming their rank. But, of course, this alleviation of the trial of detention within these walls belongs only to those who – " The alcalde hesitated, so Alcala relieved him from the difficulty of further explaining his meaning.

"I suppose that the private apartments are reserved for those who have the means of paying for them," said Alcala. "This, señor, I have not."

"I regret that on the present occasion every one of these rooms is occupied, illustrious caballero," observed the jailer, still – though disappointed of his expected gains – preserving his ceremonious politeness, as he ushered Alcala into the large vaulted gloomy dungeon which the cavalier was to share with the fifty or sixty criminals who crowded the place.

The sight, the scent of the den in which he was to pass, perhaps, the remainder of a brief life, were enough to try the fortitude of any one who had, like Alcala, been gently nurtured. The place was dirty to a disgusting degree, and utterly unfurnished. The brick floor, on which some of the inmates were squatting and others reclining, served at once for chair, table, and bed. Offensive odours poisoned the air; the aspect of the place was revolting.

To an artist, indeed, the scene, as beheld by light struggling through grated windows coated with dust, might not have appeared devoid of picturesque effect. There was no clipped hair to be seen, no prison-dress common to all the inmates; each criminal wore what he would, and a curious variety of costumes appeared before the eyes of Alcala. There were here and there dashes of bright colour from waistcoats of green or blue silk, worn, uncovered by coat or jacket, over shirts with large flowing sleeves. These gaudy articles of costume marked the bandit race, who had probably been committed to prison for robbery or murder on the highway. On other criminals appeared the sheep-skin of the peasant, or the mantero of the citizen; one man was seen in buff jerkin, with jack-boots reaching half-way up his thigh. Most of the prisoners wore the faja, or waist-belt, so characteristic a part of Spanish costume, – being a very long piece of cloth, usually black or red, twisted round the middle of the person, and forming a receptacle for the purse, and sometimes the dagger.

Of course the entrance of a new companion in misfortune awakened curiosity, and attracted the attention of all the motley groups. A murmur of "'Tis a caballero!" was heard from the dark recesses of the place of confinement.

But though the den was mostly filled with miscreants who had broken every one of the ten commandments, an Englishman must have been struck by the absence of brutal coarseness, whether of manner or conversation, which he would have expected amongst the lowest class of criminals thus promiscuously thrown together. Men who had preserved no sense of honour, no scruple of conscience, men who might have robbed a church or murdered a brother, demeaned themselves as though they preserved some self-respect still. It is a peculiarity of the Spanish race that, to a certain extent, even the poorest appear to be gentlemen born. The beggar has his dignity; the picker of pockets his grace. Alcala had to encounter no insolent banter, no brutal jests, when he found himself amongst the scum of Spanish society in the common prison of Seville.

The cavalier's first feeling was one of utter disgust and repulsion, and an intense longing for solitude, were it even only to be sought in the darkest and most narrow of cells. Alcala had been brought up in aristocratic seclusiveness, and his besetting sin was pride. He reproached himself now for the selfish haughtiness which would fain have raised an impenetrable wall between himself and his companions in suffering.

"How is it that I, myself rescued from depths of guilt, dare to despise my fellow-sinners?" mused Alcala. "Who hath made me to differ from them? Wherefore should I desire to be secluded from all opportunities of serving my kind, because my pride shrinks from contact with those whom I deem beneath me? Here is the post which my Lord has assigned me. May He give me strength to bear witness for Him even in the prison, and deliver His message to some who, if they had heard it before, might never have entered this horrible den."

Alcala had scarcely had time for these reflections, when he was accosted by a lithe, active-looking man of very dark complexion, who had come from the further end of the dungeon on seeing him enter.

"Most illustrious caballero, Don Alcala de Aguilera, we have met before," said the man.

"And where, my friend?" asked Alcala.

"In the Plaza de Toros, señor. My name is Diego. I was one of the chulos who planted a banderilla in the neck of the bull which your worthiness met so bravely."

"I am engaged in a different contest now," said Alcala, who was resolved not to let either the weariness of his frame, or the repugnance of his spirit, prevent his entering into conversation with the companions whom he hoped to influence for their good. The cavalier seated himself on the floor, supporting his back against the wall; and the chulo, who was inclined to be sociable, stretched himself, resting on his elbow, beside the señor.

"Your worship finds yourself in strange company," observed this self-constituted cicerone of the prison, lowering his tone so as not to be overheard by the ruffians around him. "Yonder, jabbering their Egyptian gibberish, is a party of Zingali: the worst punishment to them is to have a roof over their heads; the Gitano would rather lie in a ditch than a palace, boil his kettle under a hedge than feast at the governor's table. To the left there, señor, are smugglers from Cadiz; many a contraband bale has galled the backs of their mules as they moved over the sierra by moonlight. He in the red faja behind them is a highly respectable man; he merely hacked a rival to death in a combat with knives: it is strange that the alguazils should have thought it worth while to arrest the poor fellow for a simple affair like that. But yon gentleman with the bright blue jacket has earned his lodging at Her Majesty's expense; he is a brigand from the Sierra Morena, and has, I trow, cut more throats than he has fingers upon his two hands."

Alcala wondered silently for what crime his communicative companion had himself been committed to prison. Diego did not long leave him in ignorance of the cause.

"It is a shame to put me with such as these," said the talkative chulo; "I am a political offender," he added, with something like pride. "Not a Carlist, mind you, señor; I am locked up in this kennel merely for saying what all the world thinks, though not all have the courage to speak out their minds. I did but say that it is a disgrace that such a wretch as he whom the Queen has always at her elbow should be suffered to ride rough-shod over the necks of the Spanish nation, and that I wished that the nun Patrocinio would keep to her cell and leave politics alone. I did add – and I care not who knows it," continued the chulo, "that we shall never see good days till we have our exiled General Prim back again! Prim is the man to make Spain once more what she was in the glorious old times!"

CHAPTER XXIII.
PREACHING IN PRISON

Diego was not suffered long to monopolize conversation with the new-comer. One of the smugglers drew near, and addressed himself to Alcala.

"I trow, caballero, that you've not seen the inside of a prison quite so often as I have; you are new to this kind of lodging. Maybe you've been sent hither for some little duelling affair; you've run some rival through the body, and, to judge by your looks, he has returned the compliment by giving you a taste of his steel."

There was a general hush in the conversation which had been going on amongst the various groups of prisoners, all listening to hear Alcala's reply.

"No," answered De Aguilera, "I have injured no man."

"You're a Carlist?" suggested the brigand, who stood near, with his brawny arms folded across his broad chest.

"I have taken no part in politics," was the reply.

"What then have you done?" asked Diego; "gentlemen are not given free quarters for nothing."

"I have been placed under confinement," answered Alcala, "for the crime of reading a book aloud in my own private dwelling."

This reply excited a good deal of surprise amongst the assemblage of gipsies, foot-pads, smugglers, and thieves. They were acquainted with most kinds of crimes; the novelty of this one whetted their curiosity.

"What was the book, señor?" was asked by half-a-dozen voices at once.

"The Bible," replied Alcala.

"Ah! that's what the friars are mad against," said one.

"What the monks want to burn," muttered another.

"What is to Claret and the rest of 'em what the red flag is to the bull," observed Diego the chulo.

Alcala remarked that not one of the speakers appeared inclined to make common cause with the priests.

"I wonder what there is in that Bible to make men fear it as if a stiletto were hidden between its two boards!" said the robber.

"Have you the book with you, caballero?" asked the smuggler who had before addressed Aguilera.

"Unfortunately I have not," said Alcala; "but I have committed to memory many portions of its contents. If it would be any gratification to the gentlemen present," – Alcala glanced around him as he spoke, – "I would willingly let them judge for themselves whether or not it is wise and right in the priests to try to put the Bible beyond the reach of the people."

"Let's hear, let's hear," resounded from every side, and the groups at the further end of the dungeon drew nearer to listen. Curiosity, the love of novelty, and eagerness to hear anything that would break on the wretched monotony of prison life, were powerful incentives with all.

That was a strange audience indeed! Villains stained with various crimes thus brought together to hear for the first time in their lives the gospel message of mercy. Alcala silently prayed for wisdom and the bodily strength which he so sorely needed; for what with the heat and the scent of the place, the fatigue which his weakened frame had undergone, and the reaction after excitement, the cavalier doubted whether his physical powers would hold out under the strain. Diego noticed the deadly pallor of the prisoner's face, and stretching out his hand where he lay, the chulo drew towards him a jar partly filled with water, which had been left near the wall.

"Let the señor drink first," said Diego. "Pity 'tis that we cannot offer him the good wine of Xeres; but water is better than nothing."

"It is the gift of God," thought Alcala, as he first drank eagerly of the contents of the jar, and then pouring some into his hand, moistened with it his feverish brow and aching temples. The refreshment was great, and Alcala's strong will could now for a time master the weakness of nature. Diego, who seemed to think that the fact of their having attacked the same bull formed a kind of link between himself and Alcala, now helped the cavalier to rise to his feet. It was only in a standing posture that Aguilera could make himself heard by his numerous auditors, but he still leaned for support against the friendly wall of the prison.

"I will repeat to you," began Alcala, "the Bible account of the imprisonment, after severe scourging, of the Apostle Paul and Silas his friend and companion. You shall hear how they endured their sufferings, how they prayed and received such an answer from Heaven, that their jailer himself, struck with terror, came trembling and fell at their feet."

This preface commanded the silent attention of those who were themselves inmates of a prison.

Simply, but impressively, Alcala repeated the narrative contained in the sixteenth chapter of Acts; but when he came to the jailer's all-important question, "What must I do to be saved?" the speaker made a solemn pause, and gazed earnestly on the wild dark faces before him.

"What must I do to be saved? is not that question echoed by each one here?" said Alcala, every word welling up from the depths of a soul filled with that love to the Saviour which overflows in love to the souls which His life-blood bought. "Can reason answer that question?" The speaker paused; no voice made reply. "How does the Church of Rome try to answer it? She bids us trust the safety of our undying souls to confession to man, and absolution pronounced by man, to the penance which man may prescribe, to forms and rites and Latin prayers, and the intercessions of those who were themselves but men in need of salvation. In the Romanist Church man comes between the sinner and the Saviour. But what was the answer to the cry, 'What must I do to be saved?' given by the holy apostle whom the Spirit of God inspired?" The prisoner for conscience' sake forgot all but the glorious truth which he uttered when repeating another prisoner's words, "'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved!'"

"Is that message for us too?" asked Diego, whose voice was the first to break the silence which ensued.

"It is for all," cried Alcala; "the offer of mercy embraces all. Will you hear in how singular a manner it was brought home to me?"

The time had not been long past when it would have been impossible to the proud young Spaniard to have owned a weakness, or confessed an error, before such an audience as this. The cavalier would sooner have died than have stooped to place himself on a level with such outcasts as those now before him. But pride, a strong man armed, had been overcome by a stronger than he. Alcala told how his own soul had been darkened by the shadow of death, how the future had seemed a terrible blank, and how life and light and joy had been brought by a single verse from that Book which the Church of Rome would shut out from the people. The cavalier told of the strange coincidence, which to some of his hearers appeared a miracle, by which the torn leaf once flung to the dust, then written upon by himself, had reappeared at the moment when most he needed its message of peace. Then, leaving all personal themes, Alcala spoke of justification by faith, of free pardon offered to rebels, but not that they should continue in their rebellion against a merciful God. Alcala spoke of what that pardon had cost, – of the cross and passion, the agony and bloody sweat, and of the return of love which the redeemed must make for such unutterable love! Scripture truths in Scripture words flowed spontaneously from the lips of Alcala; and while the fervour of the spirit overcame the weakness of the suffering flesh, the Spaniard was indeed as "a dying man preaching to dying men."

The effort could not last long; the address was a brief one, and all the more forcible because it was brief. When Alcala, faint and exhausted, stretched himself on the hard floor of his dungeon, and closed his eyes, he experienced that sweet rest which has been described as "a sense of duty performed." The captive had borne witness for his Master, he had glorified God in the fires, he had been permitted to scatter seeds of life where no sower had ever laboured before. Alcala left the result in the hand of Him who once from a cross spoke the word of grace to a thief.

"Is he sleeping – or dead?" said one of the robbers to Diego, who was nearest to the now prostrate form of Alcala.

"I trow that he sleeps, – but he looks as if the sleep would be his last," was the softly-uttered reply. The chulo took off his own mantle, and laid it gently over the young cavalier.

"No marvel that the Bishop of Cadiz calls the Bible contraband," observed a smuggler; "if it were carried through Spain by such men as this caballero, I trow that it would spoil the business of friar and monk."

"And ours too," muttered the robber.