Part 7
And here I saw several of the prisoners who were wicked or weak of heart abjure their religion; and the manner thereof was this. The renegado is set upon a horse, with his face towards the tail and a bow and arrow in his hand. After him is carried a picture of the Nazarene Christ, as they call Him, feet upwards, at which he draws his bow with the arrow therein; and thus he rides to the place of abjuration, cursing the father that begat him, the mother that bore him, his kindred, and his country. Then, coming to the place of oath-taking, he says: ‘Allah il Allah, Mahomet Rasoul Allah’; and afterwards he is called a renegado, that is a Christian denying Christ, and turned Turk; of which sort there are more in Algiers and in Barbary than natural Turks.
Among the slaves of the Emir Hassan who were seized by the Dey was one, a Spaniard, with whom I became intimate in this wise. We two, with many others, were employed as ferrashes, that is as carpet spreaders, sweepers, and so forth; for in the summer the Dey would desert his palace and live in tents in airy places where he could best catch the cooler breezes that blew from the north, and then the whole work of the camp would be carried on by us. Now, the Ferrash Bashi, or chief of the Ferrashes, was a Dutchman who had been a pirate, mainly preying upon those Spanish vessels which came richly laden from the settlements of Peru, and which, when they had passed all the dangers of the sea and were near their port, were cruelly taken almost within sight of land: and these pirates having fast ships, the heavy Spanish men-of-war could seldom come up with them before they had taken their prizes. I suppose from the nature of his former vocation the Dutchman looked upon all Spaniards as his enemies: but whatever might be the reason, he treated my friend Pablo with a cruelty and brutishness that must have been hard to bear, as without doubt it was hard for me with the blood of a free Englishman in me to look upon with coolness. One day this man, who was called Hendrik vander Stok, being in a more surly mood than usual, found some fault with the manner in which Pablo had discharged those duties which appertained to him; and with his courbash or whip of hide chastised him so terribly that he lay there in his blood without sense or motion. When I saw this, and saw that even then he would not give over his blows, I spoke to him and bade him desist; whereupon in his blind rage he turned and spat in my face, at the same time striking me with his whip. But the next moment he lay without motion on the ground, for I had given him a blow behind the ear, and he fell like an ox. He never moved again, but none but the slaves saw him fall, and therefore I escaped punishment, for they all hated him, and gave the Turks to understand that he had died of an apoplexy (and, indeed, he had died of a stroke) which they the more readily believed seeing that he had no wound; and moreover they would not be troubled to inquire more nearly, for they held a slave’s life as a thing of nought. When Pablo recovered, and learnt that it was I who of my generosity and disregard of danger of my life had bravely saved his, his gratitude knew no bounds. Thenceforth he would endeavour to do all my work for me, and to give him satisfaction, I let him do as much as he could without observation of the Turks. He would also bring me what food he was able, which was very acceptable, seeing that our allowance was but scanty, and would talk with me in his own tongue, which was the only one he understood, but which I soon picked up by the help of the Italian which I already knew. He had a lute, which he may have brought with him for all I know, upon which he played not without skill; and in this he was encouraged by the Turks; for, although the music of these heathens (if it may be called by that name) resembles not at all those sweet sounds which ever delight the ears of polite men and Christians, yet the music of the Spaniards is somewhat betwixt that of Christians and of Turks.
One day I heard him discourse these verses:
How long, O Death, must I then on thee call? To most, alas! thou comest all too soon: To young, to old, to rich and poor, to all Thou art a curse--to me alone a boon. Yet, nathless, I’d not have thee take me here: For if my country I may never see, That beauteous land that still I hold most dear, Let it at least afford a grave to me! My bones can never rest in foreign earth; If death be sleep, ’tis therefore I can’t die, Enshrined in that dear soil that gave me birth Alone ’tis possible for me to lie! In mine own land the seasons come and go, Spring blossoms bloom, and autumn leaves do fall; The Sun still shines, the gentle rivers flow, And birds still make the woodlands musical. My absence makes no discontinuance there, The waters of oblivion close me o’er: Friends I had once that used to speak me fair-- Now I am gone, they think of me no more. And yet, not all--there’s one still thinks of me, Still weeps for me, still watches, and still prays; And, in my dreams, her tear-dimmed face I see, That gives me strength to bear my evil days.
This made me curious to hear his history, which without much pressing he related as follows.
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_THE STORY OF PABLO FRAXADO Y RIBADENEYRA_
My father’s name was Antonio Fraxado de Castañeda, and he occupied the office of master of the mint in the ancient town of Segovia. My mother came of the noble family of Ribadeneyra, but her I cannot remember, for she died while I was yet an infant, so that my only experience of a mother’s love was from my old Catalan nurse, who also served as housekeeper to my father in his modest dwelling on the banks of the Eresma, hard by the mint, whose name was Christiana Irurosqui, which was shortened into la Cria. The household was completed by a boy of Moorish blood of about my own age, who came the Lord knows whence, called Pedro el Moro, who served as my playfellow when young, and my servant when he grew older. My father was a man of retired habits who seemed to have no friends save a priest called Dom Vicente, who used to sup with him at least once in the seven days, and with whom he loved to talk of the nature of the things of this earth, and their virtues and qualities; for, indeed, it was shrewdly suspected that my father sought for the philosophers stone, and even dabbled a little in the black art. Nay, some went so far as to assert that el Moro was a devil that he had called up, and who now was only biding his time to fly away with his soul. And yet my father was a pious man who faithfully fulfilled all the duties of our holy church, and fasted when there were fast days (which, alas! I thought, came with undue frequency); but nevertheless it was fortunate for him that no accident had happened at the mill, or it might have gone hard with him. I loved him greatly, but perhaps feared him more, for he seldom took any notice of me, and never unbent before me, or played with me, much less fondled me. Yet when he had occasion to speak to me he was always kind, and I never had a harsh word from him.
When I had arrived at the age of nine years, Dom Vicente suggested to him that it was time that my education should be seen to, and himself undertook to instruct me in the rudiments of the Latin tongue, for I was a great favourite of his, and he hoped to make a priest of me. Moreover he taught me of the hidden secrets of nature, of the precious stones, and how they engender of the sap or juice of other stones distilled within crevices; though some, as he told me, who take upon themselves to sift more narrowly the secrets of nature, affirm that they are sublimed from the sap or marrow of the precious metals. Of their divers properties he told me that which they call Nicolaus maketh him that weareth it sad and melancholic, and so wrests the spirits and inward parts that it stirs up wonderful passions in the mind. He also talked of a stone called Opal, most fickle and changing in colour, which maketh as many perish as wear it; and also of another called Natron, which, as is wonderful to relate, being cast upon the water straightway kindles into flame without the help of fire; a thing rather mystical than agreeing with our capacity. There is also the Ruby, which chaseth away melancholy, prevents dreams and illusions at night, and serves as a counterpoison against corrupt air. The Sapphire represents fire in its most vehement heat, as also the azure sky, being most calm and clear. For the use of physic, there is no stone of greater price, seeing that it is of so great virtue by reason of its coldness that it presently staunches bleeding of the nose, heals the eyes, and, if placed on the tongue of them that suffer from fever, mortifies the disease. It also serves as a counterpoison against all venoms, and defends all infections of the air from such as wear it in pestilent times. The Hyacinth defends from thunders. The Turquoise chaseth away all troubles from the brain. He also told me many wonderful things of fishes: one of the most wondrous things, so miraculous as to be almost incredible, is that those dumb creatures do lift themselves out of their moist element to pierce the air as birds do with their wings. There is also the fish which is called in Latin the Torpedo, which hath a hidden property which is very strange, for if a man do touch it with an angle rod, she enchanteth forthwith his arm, so that often time he is constrained to abandon his prize. There are also fish of the likeness of men, saving that their skin is like to the slough of an eel; they have two little horns on the head, and on either hand have but two fingers. The feet end in a tail, and on the arms are two wings as a bald mouse hath. Furthermore, he taught of the nature of plants, as, for instance, of the herb Basil, which, if a man chew and place under a stone, will straightway engender a scorpion. Also the herb called Pulicaris hath such a cold virtue that being cast into boiling water it will kill the heat thereof. The Squilla, if hanged in a house, delivereth men from charms and sorceries, and the Parsley, by a certain secret property, engendereth in us the falling sickness. Furthermore, the Consyre hath so great a virtue to knit and make to grow together fresh hurts, that being put into a pot with fresh pieces of flesh, it will knit and join them together. These and many other things he taught me, very curious, but which I cannot now call to mind; and being thus well tutored in all learning by Dom Vicente, yet unwilling to take orders as he wished, my father set me to work in the mill in the purification of the metals, in which the knowledge that I had gained was of use. But I liked not the occupation, and would steal away whenever I was able to the more congenial pursuit of a fair face that had caught my roving sight through a window grill, the lovely Dolores Escañuela, who was unfortunately an heiress, and therefore sought after by all the gallants of Segovia. Scarcely a night passed but what she was serenaded by some young blade, so that the town musicians had no rest, neither had she, without she stopped her ears with wool, and what young maiden would do that to shut out the sweet incense of a serenade? Frequent were the brawls which took place under her window, insomuch that her father made complaint to the alcalde; but the alguazils durst not interfere, for many had their heads broken. As for the young gallants, it was almost an act of suicide to serenade her unless in a party of ten or twelve, when some very pretty fighting generally took place. For my part, I had no friends; for besides the bad odour in which my father was held for his reputed dealings in the black art, his retired habits prevented him from making the acquaintance of his fellow-townsmen, and therefore prevented me from being on familiar terms with their sons. Nevertheless, so great were the attractions of Dolores’ charms, that I too, alone as I was, ventured to serenade her in the following verses:
Alas, arise! And cast thy eyes On me, love stricken, that dares thy feet to kiss; Ah, pity take! And for love’s sake List to my suit, and drown me all in bliss
I scarce dare raise My voice in praise Of the charms with which so richly thou’rt endued; Thou wilt not deign A humble swain That of so many gallant swains are wooed!
Nathless a youth, That loves in truth, Beyond what words can e’er to thee express, Can never find Thy heart unkind To leave him in such dire unhappiness!
Ah, sweetest one! I am undone: Give me some sign that thou wilt look on me! I cannot live If thou’lt not give Some token of thy gentle charity!
As I came to the last verse, what was my joy to see a white flower drop at my feet! I caught it up and covered it with kisses, and was about to depart in the seventh heaven of happiness, when a band of the retainers of the Count de Villegas, who was also one of Dolores’ suitors, rushed upon me, so that I had scarce time to draw my sword to defend myself. However, I set my back to the wall and did what I could. El Moro had fled at the first onset, so there was I alone to thrust and parry as best I could against six; but the odds were too great, and in a short time I fell covered with blood from several wounds. Undoubtedly I should have been killed had not several alguazils, hearing the noise of clashing steel, come just at that moment to the end of the street, taking good care to leave the other end free for escape, and letting their presence be known by their flashing lanterns, by striking their wands on the pavement, and their shouts of ‘Seize the peacebreakers!’ and the like; when, seeing that the Count de Villegas’ men had fled, and there finding me stretched upon the ground for dead, they were for carrying me to prison for a brawler. Fortunately for me, Dolores’ father just then came out, who, after examining me, bound up my wounds with his daughter’s assistance; and recognising me, ordered some of his servants to carry me home. My father was much grieved at the calamity which had befallen me, and showed more tenderness than I had hitherto thought he had. After applying some healing balsam, he and la Cria set themselves to watching by my bedside in turns, where I was soon in a raging fever. By the great care of my father, and with the aid of a good constitution, in about ten days I had so far recovered as to be out of danger of my life; and as soon as I was strong enough, I searched through the garments that I had worn on that fateful night to find my guerdon, the flower which I had thrust into my bosom before the attack; and though my search was in vain, I nevertheless found to my great joy a handkerchief embroidered with the first letter of Dolores’ name, which I supposed she had used for staunching my wounds. My father still watched by me, and great was my desire to embrace him and open my heart to him. I think that he would have been pleased had I done so; but as I grew better, so his stiffness grew upon him again, and before I could muster courage to address him the opportunity was lost, he had returned to his ordinary occupations, and the old relation between us of outward coldness was resumed. It was not so with la Cria. She was never tired of fondling me, and wishing all the foulest deaths she could think of to fall on the house of Villegas, to be followed by eternal punishment in the lowest hell hereafter. To Dom Vicente, who was a frequent visitor, she would confess her sin of uncharitableness as he told her that it was; I say, she would confess it to him every time, in order that she might have a free conscience to sin again in the same manner directly afterwards. My father wished to complain before the corregidor of the unprovoked attack, but Dom Vicente with much ado dissuaded him; for, as he pointed out, in any case the Count de Villegas would bring all his influence to bear, and it was not likely that the corregidor would withstand that at the suit of a plain citizen. He forbore to tell him his more potent reason, that the vulgar of the town looked askaunt upon him for his supposed magical powers, and disliked him while they feared him. My father, who was a man of sense, acknowledged that the advice was good; nevertheless he fretted that he could not be avenged, and all the more since anything that disturbed the usual placid course of his life made him quite unable to follow those pursuits which he so much loved. Had his means been sufficiently great, he would say, to supply those costly earths, precious stones, and alembics, and so forth, that he found needful for his studies, he had left the neighbourhood of cities, and would have retired to some quiet mountain hermitage, where, undisturbed by the distractions of the world and the necessity of mingling with vulgar souls, he might commune with Nature, and win those secrets from her reluctant hand for which he so greatly thirsted and so patiently laboured. But, what avails talk like this, he added; there is no peace in this world. He who hath no relations to distract him, no one to consider but himself, will pine for the sympathy of his kind. The work he has done, even the fame he may win, turns to bitterness and gall. He will ask himself of what use to him is a name known far and wide, to be remembered even after its bearer is no more, a mere breath associated with the idea that once a living man owned it, and that too would die in a few years and be forgotten, only to be remembered now and again by the curious delvers in the history of the forgotten past. If, on the other hand, our unfortunate lot gave us friends or relatives to love, did not their pains, their accidents, their griefs or their misdoings, fall upon us as though we had the capacity to bear the ills of many with the physical body of but one? But la Cria had no patience with him when he was in one of these moods. It is not for us, she would say, to ask why we are here more than anywhere else, or to repine at the position in which we are placed. Cry when you are moved to tears, laugh when you are moved to mirth, hate your enemies and love your friends. These were the maxims upon which she acted, and accordingly made el Moro’s life a burden to him with her gibes against him for running away, in spite of his oaths that he went but to obtain succour, perceiving that so he might do his master the greater service. On the other hand, she scraped acquaintance with Dolores’ duenna, and would bring me news of my mistress which so gladdened my heart that I made a rapid recovery.
As soon as I was able I went to the Church of the Seven Sorrows, which I knew was frequented by Dolores, and to my great joy I saw her, recognising her in spite of her veil, for what veil will not a lover’s eye pierce? I knelt beside her, and had hardly the patience to let pass one quarter of an hour before I addressed her. I saw by her mantling blush that she recognised me as I spoke. ‘Fair lady,’ I began, ‘it seems that the Saints take pity on those that truly love, since I have the felicity to meet you here, the sight of whom is life. I beseech you excuse me if, having ended my devotions, I begin to pray you to take pity upon me, whose flame is so ardent and affection so passionate, as either I must live yours or not die my own.’ To this Dolores answered: ‘Sir, since your devotions can neither be pleasing to God nor profitable to your soul if you come here merely to have speech with me, so it would be equally sinful in me to reply to your civil speeches either as your present action or real merit deserves.’ I was not so great a novice in the art of love as to be put off with the first rebuff, but rather seeing that the perfection of her mind corresponded with the beauty of her form, resolved to return to the charge, and therefore boarded her thus: ‘Sweet lady, where can truth be more fitly spoken than in the temple of truth, or where else could my hard lot afford me an opportunity of speech with one who hath the power, so great is my devotion, to make me brave all the evil of this world or the next? If you will not have me speak to you here, until, as I ardently hope, you condescend to plight your vows to me before the altar, at least give an opportunity of speaking to you elsewhere, that I may assure you of my unfeigned love and undying devotion.’ At this, Dolores, repenting her of her harshness towards me, replied: ‘Noble sir, when I am as well acquainted with your heart as with your speeches I may perhaps pardon your indiscretion in thus addressing me, and since I may have wronged your merits and virtues, if you will be at the wicket gate of my father’s house soon after the first watch of the night, I will give you then an opportunity to explain your intent at greater length.’ So saying, she bowed to me, and going forth, left me in so happy and eager a state that I scarce knew what I did, but only that the day seemed to be the longest that I had ever passed.