“Why did you testify such horror at the funeral of Father Olavida?”
“Everyone testified horror and grief at the death of that venerable ecclesiastic, who died in the odour of sanctity. Had I done otherwise, it might have been reckoned a proof of my guilt.”
“Why did you interrupt the preacher with such extraordinary exclamations?”—To this no answer. “Why do you refuse to explain the meaning of those exclamations?”—No answer. “Why do you persist in this obstinate and dangerous silence? Look, I beseech you, brother, at the cross that is suspended against this wall,” and the Inquisitor pointed to the large black crucifix at the back of the chair where he sat; “one drop of the blood shed there can purify you from all the sin you have ever committed; but all that blood, combined with the intercession of the Queen of Heaven, and the merits of all its martyrs, nay, even the absolution of the Pope, cannot deliver you from the curse of dying in unrepented sin.”
“What sin, then, have I committed?”
“The greatest of all possible sins; you refuse answering the questions put to you at the tribunal of the most holy and merciful Inquisition;—you will not tell us what you know concerning the death of Father Olavida.”
“I have told you that I believe he perished in consequence of his ignorance and presumption.”
“What proof can you produce of that?”
“He sought the knowledge of a secret withheld from man.”
“What was that?”
“The secret of discovering the presence or agency of the evil power.”
“Do you possess that secret?”
After much agitation on the part of the prisoner, he said distinctly, but very faintly, “My master forbids me to disclose it.”
“If your master were Jesus Christ, he would not forbid you to obey the commands, or answer the questions of the Inquisition.”
“I am not sure of that.” There was a general outcry of horror at these words. The examination then went on. “If you believed Olavida to be guilty of any pursuits or studies condemned by our mother the church, why did you not denounce him to the Inquisition?”
“Because I believed him not likely to be injured by such pursuits; his mind was too weak—he died in the struggle,” said the prisoner with great emphasis.
“You believe, then, it requires strength of mind to keep those abominable secrets, when examined as to their nature and tendency?”
“No, I rather imagine strength of body.”
“We shall try that presently,” said an Inquisitor, giving a signal for the torture.
The prisoner underwent the first and second applications with unshrinking courage, but on the infliction of the water-torture, which is indeed insupportable to humanity, either to suffer or relate, he exclaimed in the gasping interval, he would disclose everything. He was released, refreshed, restored, and the following day uttered the following remarkable confession. …
… The old Spanish woman further confessed to Stanton, that …
… and that the Englishman certainly had been seen in the neighbourhood since;—seen, as she had heard, that very night.
“Great G—d!” exclaimed Stanton, as he recollected the stranger whose demoniac laugh had so appalled him, while gazing on the lifeless bodies of the lovers, whom the lightning had struck and blasted.
As the manuscript, after a few blotted and illegible pages, became more distinct, Melmoth read on, perplexed and unsatisfied, not knowing what connection this Spanish story could have with his ancestor, whom, however, he recognised under the title of the Englishman; and wondering how Stanton could have thought it worth his while to follow him to Ireland, write a long manuscript about an event that occurred in Spain, and leave it in the hands of his family, to “verify untrue things,” in the language of Dogberry—his wonder was diminished, though his curiosity was still more inflamed, by the perusal of the next lines, which he made out with some difficulty. It seems Stanton was now in England.
About the year 1677, Stanton was in London, his mind still full of his mysterious countryman. This constant subject of his contemplations had produced a visible change in his exterior—his walk was what Sallust tells us of Catiline’s—his were, too, the “foedi oculi.” He said to himself every moment, “If I could but trace that being, I will not call him man,”—and the next moment he said, “and what if I could?” In this state of mind, it is singular enough that he mixed constantly in public amusements, but it is true. When one fierce passion is devouring the soul, we feel more than ever the necessity of external excitement; and our dependence on the world for temporary relief increases in direct proportion to our contempt of the world and all its works. He went frequently to the theatres, then fashionable, when
“The fair sat panting at a courtier’s play,
And not a mask went unimproved away.”The London theatres then presented a spectacle which ought forever to put to silence the foolish outcry against progressive deterioration of morals—foolish even from the pen of Juvenal, and still more so from the lips of a modern Puritan. Vice is always nearly on an average: The only difference in life worth tracing, is that of manners, and there we have manifestly the advantage of our ancestors.
