"From De Valero? Did you learn from him?" The pale cheek of Carlos crimsoned for a moment, then grew paler than before. "Tell me, senor, if I may ask it, how long have you been here?"

"That is just what I cannot tell. The first year stands out clearly; but all the after years are like a dream to me. It was in that first year that the caitiff I spoke of anon, who was imprisoned with me--you observe, senor, I had already asked for reconciliation. It was promised me. I was to perform penance; to be forgiven; to have my freedom.

_Pues_, senor, I spoke to that man as I might to you, freely and from my heart. For I supposed him a gentleman. I dared to say that their reverences had dealt somewhat hardly with me, and the like. Idle words, no doubt--idle and wicked. G.o.d knows, I have had time enough to repent them since. For that man, my fellow-prisoner, he who knew what prison was, went forth straightway and delated me to the Lords Inquisitors for those idle words--G.o.d in heaven forgive him! And thus the door was shut upon me--shut--shut for ever. Ay de mi! Ay de mi!"

Carlos heard but little of this speech. He was gazing at him with eager, kindling eyes. "Were there left behind in the world any that it wrung your heart to part from?" he asked, in a trembling voice.

"There were. And since you came, their looks have never ceased to haunt me. Why, I know not. My wife, my child!" And the old man shaded his face, while in his eyes, long unused to tears, there rose a mist, like the cloud in form as a man's hand, that foretold the approach of the beneficent rain, which should refresh and soften the thirsty soil, making all things young again.

"Senor," said Carlos, trying to speak calmly, and to keep down the wild tumultuous throbbing of his heart--"senor, a boon, I entreat of you.

Tell me the name you bore amongst men. It was a n.o.ble one, I know."

"True. They promised to save it from disgrace. But it was part of my penance not to utter it; if possible, to forget it."

"Yet, this once. I do not ask idly--this once--have pity on me, and speak it," pleaded Carlos, with intense tremulous earnestness.

"Your face and your voice move me strangely; it seems to me that I could not deny you anything. I am--I ought to say, I _was_--Don Juan Alvarez de Santillanos y Menaya."

Before the sentence was concluded, Carlos lay senseless at his feet.

XLII.

Quiet Days.

"I think that by-and-by all things Which were perplexed a while ago And life's long, vain conjecturings, Will simple, calm, and quiet grow, Already round about me, some August and solemn sunset seems Deep sleeping in a dewy dome, And bending o'er a world of dreams."--Owen Meredith.

The penitent laid Carlos gently on his pallet (he still possessed a measure of physical strength, and the worn frame was easy to lift); then he knocked loudly on the door for help, as he had been instructed to do in any case of need. But no one heard, or at least no one heeded him, which was not remarkable, since during more than twenty years he had not, on a single occasion, thus summoned his gaolers. Then, in utter ignorance what next to do, and in very great distress, he bent over his young companion, helplessly wringing his hands.

Carlos stirred at last, and murmured, "Where am I? What is it?" But even before full consciousness returned, there came the sense, taught by the bitter, experience of the last two years, that he must look within for aid--he could expect none from any fellow-creature. He tried to recollect himself. Some bewildering, awful joy had fallen upon him, striking him to the earth. Was he free? Was he permitted to see Juan?

Slowly, very slowly, all grew clear to him. He half raised himself, grasped the penitent's hand, and cried aloud, "_My father?_"

"Are you better, senor?" asked the old man with solicitude. "Do me the favour to drink this wine."

"Father, my father! I am your son. I am Carlos Alvarez de Santillanos y Menaya. Do you not understand me, father?"

"I do not understand you, senor," said the penitent, moving a little away from him, with a mixture of dignified courtesy and utter amazement in his manner strange to behold. "Who is it that I have the honour to address?"

"O my father, I am your son--your very son Carlos!"

"I have never seen you till--ere yesterday."

"That is quite true; and yet--"

"Nay, nay," interrupted the old man; "you are speaking wild words to me.

I had but one boy--Juan--Juan Rodrigo. The heir of the house of Alvarez de Menaya was always called Juan."

"He lives. He is Captain Don Juan now, the bravest soldier, and the best, truest-hearted man on earth. How you would love him! Would you could see him face to face! Yet no; thank G.o.d you cannot."

"My babe a captain in His Imperial Majesty's army!" said Don Juan, in whose thoughts the great Emperor was reigning still.

"And I," Carlos continued, in a broken, agitated voice--"I, born when they thought you dead--I, who opened my young eyes on this sad world the day G.o.d took my mother home from all its sin and sorrow--I am brought here, in his mysterious providence, to comfort you, after your long dreary years of suffering."

"Your mother! Did you say your mother? My wife, _Costanza mia_. Oh, let me see your face!"

Carlos raised himself to a kneeling att.i.tude, and the old man laid his hand on his shoulder, and gazed at him long and earnestly. At length Carlos removed the hand, and drawing it gently upwards, placed it on his head. "Father," he said, "you will love your son? you will bless him, will you not? He has dwelt long amongst those who hated him, and never spoke to him save in wrath and scorn, and his heart pines for human love and tenderness."

Don Juan did not answer for a while; but he ran his fingers through the soft fine hair. "So like hers," he murmured dreamily. "Thine eyes are hers too--_zarca_.[#] Yes, yes; I do bless thee--But who am I to bless?

G.o.d bless thee, my son!"

[#] Blue; a word applied by the Spaniards only to blue eyes.

In the long, long silence that followed, the great convent bell rang out. It was noon. For the first time for twenty years the penitent did not hear that sound.

Carlos heard it, however. Agitated as he was, he yet feared the consequences that might follow should the penitent omit any part of the penance he was bound by oath to perform. So he gently reminded him of it. "Father--" (how strangely sweet the name sounded!)--"father, at this hour you always recite the penitential psalms. When you have finished, we will talk together. I have ten thousand things to tell you."

With the silent, unreasoning submission that had become a part of his nature, the penitent obeyed; and, going to his usual station before the crucifix, began his monotonous task. The fresh life newly awakened in his heart and brain was far from being strong enough, as yet, to burst the bonds of habit. And this was well. Those bonds were his safeguard; but for their wholesome restraint, mind or body, or both, might have been shattered by the tumultuous rush of new thoughts and feelings.

But the familiar Latin words, repeated without thought, almost without consciousness, soothed the weary brain like a slumber.

Meanwhile, Carlos thanked G.o.d with a full heart. Here, then--_here_, in the dark prison, the very abode of misery--had G.o.d given him the desire of his heart, fulfilled the longing of his early years. Now the wilderness and the solitary place were glad; the desert rejoiced and blossomed as the rose. Now his life seemed complete, its end answering its beginning; all its meaning lying clear and plain before him. He was satisfied.

"Ruy, Ruy, I have found our father!--Oh, that I could but tell thee, my Ruy!"--was the cry of his heart, though he forced his lips to silence.

Nor could the tears of joy, that sprang unbidden to his eyes, be permitted to overflow, since they might perplex and trouble his fellow-captive--_his father_.

He had still a task to perform; and to that task his mind soon bent itself; perhaps instinctively taking refuge in practical detail from emotions that might otherwise have proved too strong for his weakened frame. He set himself to consider how best he could revive the past, and make the present comprehensible to the aged and broken man, without overpowering or bewildering him.

He planned to tell him, in the first instance, all that he could about Nuera. And this he accomplished gradually, as he was able to bear the strain of conversation. He talked of Dolores and Diego; described both the exterior and interior of the castle; in fact, made him see again the scenes to which his eye had been accustomed in past days. With special minuteness did he picture the little room within the hall, both because it was less changed since his father's time than the others, and because it had been his favourite apartment "And on the window," he said, "there were some words, written with a diamond, doubtless by your hand, my father. My brother and I used to read them in our childhood; we loved them, and dreamed many a wondrous dream about them. Do you not remember them?"

But the old man shook his head.

Then Carlos began,--

"'El Dorado--'"

"'Yo he trovado.'

Yes, I remember now," said Don Juan promptly.

"And the golden country you had discovered--was it not the truth as revealed in Scripture?" asked Carlos, perhaps a little too eagerly.

The penitent mused a s.p.a.ce; grew bewildered; said at last sorrowfully, "I know not. I cannot now recall what moved me to write those lines, or even when I wrote them."