Disclosures.

The opportunity for free converse with his brother which Carlos desired, yet dreaded, was unexpectedly postponed. It would have been in accordance neither with the ideas of the time nor with his own feelings to have shortened his period of retreat in the monastery, though he would not now prolong it. And though Don Juan did not fail to make his appearance upon every day when visitors were admitted, he was always accompanied by either of his cousins Don Manuel or Don Balthazar, or by both. These shallow, worldly-minded young men were little likely to allow for the many things, in which strangers might not intermeddle, that brothers long parted might find to say to each other; they only thought that they were conferring a high honour on their poorer relatives by their favour and notice. In their presence the conversation was necessarily confined to the incidents of Juan's campaign, and to family matters. Whether Don Balthazar would obtain a post he was seeking under Government; whether DoÑa Sancha would eventually bestow the inestimable favour of her hand upon Don Beltran Vivarez or Don Alonso de Giron; and whether the disappointed suitor would stab himself or his successful rival;—these were questions of which Carlos soon grew heartily weary. But in all that concerned Beatriz he was deeply interested. Whatever he may once have allowed himself to fancy about the sentiments of a very young and childish girl, he never dreamed that she would make, or even desire to make, any opposition to the expressed wish of her guardian, who destined her for Juan. He was sure that she would learn quickly enough to love his brother as he deserved, even if she did not already do so. And it gave him keen pleasure that his sacrifice had not been in vain; that the wine-cup of joy which he had just tasted, then put steadily aside, was being drained to the dregs by the lips he loved best. It is true this pleasure was not yet unmixed with pain, but the pain was less than a few months ago he would have believed possible. The wound which he once thought deadly, was in process of being healed; nay, it was nearly healed already. But the scar would always remain.

Grand and mighty, but perplexing and mournful thoughts were filling his heart every day more and more. Amongst the subjects eagerly and continually discussed with the brethren of San Isodro, the most prominent just now was the sole priesthood of Christ, with the impossibility of his one perfect and sufficient sacrifice being ever repeated.

But these truths, in themselves so glorious, had for those who dared to admit them one terrible consequence. Their full acknowledgment would transform "the main altar's consummation," the sacrifice of the mass, from the highest act of Christian worship into a hideous lie, dishonouring to God, and ruinous to man.

To this conclusion the monks of San Isodro were drawing nearer slowly but surely every day. And Carlos was side by side with the most advanced of them in the path of progress. Though timid in action, he was bold in speculation. To his keen, quick intellect to think and to reason was a necessity; he could not rest content with surface truths, nor leave any matter in which he was interested without probing it to its depths.

But as far at least as the monks were concerned, the conclusion now imminent was practically a most momentous one. It must transform the light that illuminated them into a fire that would burn and torture the hands that held and tried to conceal it. They could only guard themselves from loss and injury, perhaps from destruction, by setting it on the candle-stick of a true and faithful profession.

"Better," said the brethren to each other, "leave behind us the rich lands and possessions of our order; what are these things in comparison to a conscience void of offence towards God and towards man? Let us go forth and seek shelter in some foreign land, destitute exiles but faithful witnesses for Christ, having purchased to ourselves the liberty of confessing his name before men." This plan was the most popular with the community; though there were some that objected to it, not because of the loss of worldly wealth it would entail, but because of its extreme difficulty, and the peril in which it would involve others.

That the question might be fully discussed and some course of action resolved upon, the monks of San Isodro convened a solemn chapter. Carlos had not, of course, the right to be present, though his friends would certainly inform him immediately afterwards of all that passed. So he whiled away part of the anxious hours by a walk in the orange grove belonging to the monastery. It was now December, and there had been a frost—not very usual in that mild climate. Every blade of grass was gemmed with tiny jewels, which were crushed by his footsteps as he passed along. He fancied them like the fair and sparkling, but unreal dreams of the creed in which he had been nurtured. They must perish; even should he weakly turn aside to spare them, God's sun would not fail ere long to dissolve them with the warmth of its beams. But wherefore mourn them? Would not the sun shine on still, and the blue sky, the emblem of eternal truth and love, still stretch above his head? Therefore he would look up—up, and not down. Forgetting the things that were behind, and reaching forth unto those that were before, he would fain press forward towards the mark for the prize. And then his heart went up in fervent prayer that not only he himself, but also all those who shared his faith, might be enabled so to do.

Turning into a path leading back through the grove to the monastery, he saw his brother coming towards him.

"I was seeking thee," said Don Juan.

"And always welcome. But why so early? On a Friday too!"

"Wherein is Friday worse than Thursday?" asked Juan with a laugh. "You are not a monk, or even a novice, to be bound by rules so strict that you may not say, 'Vaya con Dios' to your brother without asking leave of my lord Abbot."

Carlos had often noticed, not with displeasure, the freedom which Juan since his return assumed in speaking of Churchmen and Church ordinances. He answered, "I am only bound by the general rules of the house, to which it is seemly that visitors should conform. To-day the brethren are holding a Chapter to confer upon matters pertaining to their discipline. I cannot well bring you in-doors; but we do not need a better parlour than this."

"True. I care for no roof save God's sky; and as for glazed and grated windows, I abhor them. Were I thrown into prison, I should die in a week. I made an early start for San Isodro, on an unusual day, to get rid of the company of my excellent but tiresome cousins; for in truth I am sick unto death of their talk and their courtesies. Moreover, I have ten thousand things to tell you, brother."

"I have a few for your ear also."

"Let us sit down. Here is a pleasant seat which some of your brethren contrived to rest their weary limbs and enjoy the prospect. They know how to be comfortable, these monks."

They sat down accordingly. For more than an hour Don Juan was the chief speaker; and as he spoke out of the abundance of his heart, it was no wonder that the name oftenest on his lips was that of DoÑa Beatriz. Of the long and circumstantial story that he poured into the sympathizing ear of Carlos no more than this is necessary to repeat—that Beatriz not only did not reject him (no well-bred Spanish girl would behave in such a singular manner to a suitor recommended by her guardian), but actually looked kindly, nay, even smiled upon him. His exhilaration was in consequence extreme; and its expression might have proved tedious to any listener not deeply interested in his welfare.

At last, however, the subject was dismissed. "So my path lies clear and plain before me," said Juan, his fine determined face glowing with resolution and hope. "A soldier's life, with its toils and prizes; and a happy home at Nuera, with a sweet face to welcome me when I return. And, sooner or later, that voyage to the Indies. But you, Carlos—speak out, for I confess you perplex me—what do you wish and intend?"

"Had you asked me that question a few months, I might almost say a few weeks, ago, I should not have hesitated, as now I do, for an answer."

"You were ever willing, more than willing, for Holy Church's service. I know but one cause which could alter your mind; and to the tender accusation you have already pleaded not guilty."

"The plea is a true one."

"Certes; it cannot be that you have been seized with a sudden passion for a soldier's life," laughed Juan. "That was never your taste, little brother; and with all respect for you, I scarce think your achievements with sword and arquebus would be specially brilliant. But there is something wrong with you," he said in an altered tone, as he gazed in his brother's anxious face.

"Not wrong, but—"

"I have it!" said Juan, joyously interrupting him. "You are in debt. That is soon mended, brother. In fact, it is my fault. I have had far too large a share already of what should have been for both of us alike. In future—"

"Hush, brother. I have always had enough, more than I needed. And thou hast many expenses, and wilt have more henceforward, whilst I shall only want a doublet and hosen, and a pair of shoes."

"And a cassock and gown?"

Carlos was silent.

"I vow it is a harder task to comprehend you than to chase Coligny's guard with my single arm! And you so pious, so good a Christian! If you were a dull rough soldier like me, and if you had had a Huguenot prisoner (and a very fine fellow, too) to share your bed and board for months, one could comprehend your not liking certain things over well, or even"—and Juan averted his face and lowered his voice—"your having certain evil thoughts you would scarcely care to breathe in the ears of your father confessor."

"Brother, I too have had thoughts," said Carlos eagerly.

But Juan suddenly tossed off his montero, and ran his fingers through his black glossy hair. In old times this gesture used to be a sign that he was going to speak seriously. After a moment he began, but with a little hesitation, for in fact he held the mind of Carlos in as true and unfeigned reverence as Carlos held his character. And that is enough to say, without mentioning the additional respect with which he regarded him, as almost a priest. "Brother Carlos, you are good and pious. You were thus from childhood; and therefore it is that you are fit for the service of Holy Church. You rise and go to rest, you read your books, and tell your beads, and say your prayers, all just as you are ordered. It is the best life for you, and for any man who can live it, and be content with it. You do not sin, you do not doubt; therefore you will never come into any grief or trouble. But let me tell you, little brother, you have a scant notion what men meet with who go forth into the great world and fight their way in it; seeing on every side of them things that, take them as they may, will not always square with the faith they have learned in childhood."

"Brother, I also have struggled and suffered. I also have doubted."

"Oh yes, a Churchman's doubts! You had only to tell yourself doubt was a sin, to make the sign of the cross, to say an Ave or two, then there was an end of your doubts. 'Twere a different matter if you had the evil one in the shape of an angel of light—at least in that of a courteous, well-bred Huguenot gentleman, with as nice a sense of honour as any Catholic Christian—at your side continually, to whisper that the priests are no better than they ought to be, that the Church needs reform; and Heaven knows what more, and worse, beside.—Now, my pious brother, if thou art going to curse me with bell, book, and candle, begin at once. I am ready, and prepared to be duly penitent. Let me first put on my cap though, for it is cold," and he suited the action to the word.

The voice in which Carlos answered him was low and tremulous with emotion. "Instead of cursing thee, brother beloved, I bless thee from my heart for words which give me courage to speak. I have doubted—nay, why should I shrink from the truth? I have learned, as I believe, from God himself that some things which the Church teaches as her doctrines are only the commandments of men."

Don Juan started, and his colour changed. His vaguely liberal ideas were far from having prepared him for this. "What do you mean?" he cried, staring at his brother in amazement.

"That I am now, in very truth, what I think you would call—a Huguenot."

The die was cast. The avowal was made. Carlos waited its effects in breathless silence, as one who has fired a powder magazine might await the explosion.

"May all the holy saints have mercy upon us!" cried Juan, in a voice that echoed through the grove. But after that one involuntary cry he was silent. The eyes of Carlos sought his face, but he turned away from him. At last he muttered, striking with his sword at the trunk of a tree that was near him, "Huguenot—Protestant—heretic!"

"Brother," said Carlos, rising and standing before him—"brother, say what thou wilt, only speak to me. Reproach me, curse me, strike me, if it please thee, only speak to me."

Juan turned, gazed full in his imploring face, and slowly, very slowly, allowed the sword to fall from his hand. There was a moment of doubt, of hesitation. Then he stretched out that hand to his brother. "They who list may curse thee, but not I," he said.

Carlos strained the offered hand in so close a grasp that his own was cut by his brother's diamond ring, and the blood flowed.

For a long time both were silent, Juan in amazement, perhaps in consternation; Carlos in deep thankfulness. His confession was made, and his brother loved him still.

At last Juan spoke, slowly and as if half bewildered. "The Sieur de Ramenais believes in God, and in our Lord and his passion. And you?"

Carlos repeated the Apostles' Creed in the vulgar tongue.

"And in Our Lady, Mary, Mother of God?"

"I believe that she was the most blessed among women, the holiest among the holy saints. Yet I ask her intercession no more. I am too well assured of His love who says to me; and to all who keep his word, 'My brother, my sister, my mother.'"

"I thought devotion to Our Lady was the surest mark of piety," said Juan, in utter perplexity. "Then, I am only a man of the world. But oh, my brother, this is frightful!" He paused a moment, then added more calmly, "Still, I have learned that Huguenots are not beasts with horns and hoofs; but, possibly, brave and honourable men enough, as good, for this world, as their neighbours. And yet—the disgrace!" His dark cheek flushed, then grew pale, as there rose before his mind's eye an appalling vision—his brother robed in a hideous sanbenito, bearing a torch in the ghastly procession of an auto-da-fÉ! "You have kept your secret as your life? My uncle and his family suspect nothing?" he asked anxiously.

"Nothing, thank God."

"And who taught you this accursed—these doctrines?"

Carlos briefly told the story of his first acquaintance with the Spanish New Testament; suppressing, however, all mention of the personal sorrow that had made its teaching so precious to him; nor did he think it expedient to give the name of Juliano Hernandez.

"The Church may need reform. I am sure she does," Juan candidly admitted. "But Carlos, my brother," he added, while the expression of his face softened gradually into mournful, pitying tenderness, "little brother, in old times so gentle, so timid, hast thou dreamed—of the peril? I speak not now of the disgrace—God wot that is hard enough to think of—hard enough," he repeated bitterly. "But the peril?"

Carlos was silent; his hands were clasped, his eyes raised upwards, full of thought, perhaps of prayer.

"What is that on thy hand?" asked Juan, with a sudden change of tone. "Blood? The Sieur de Ramenais' diamond ring has hurt thee."

Carlos glanced at the little wound, and smiled. "I never felt it," he said, "so glad was my heart, Ruy, for that brave grasp of faithful brotherhood." And there was a strange light in his eye as he added, "Perchance it may be thus with me, if Christ indeed should call me to suffer. Weak as I am, he can give, even to me, such blessed assurance of his love, that in the joy of it pain and fear shall be unfelt, or vanish."

Juan could not understand him, but he was awed and impressed. He had no heart for many words. He rose and walked towards the gate of the monastery grounds, slowly and in silence, Carlos accompanying him. When they had nearly reached the spot where they were to part, Carlos said, "You have heard Fray Constantino, as I asked you?"

"Yes, and I greatly admire him."

"He teaches God's truth."

"Why can you not rest content with his teaching, then, instead of going to look for better bread than wheaten, Heaven knows where?"

"When I return to the city next week I will explain all to thee."

"I hope so. In the meantime, adios." He strode on a pace or two, then turned back to say, "Thou and I, Carlos; we will stand together against the world."