Reaping the Whirlwind.

Nearly a fortnight passed away before a tiny lace kerchief, fluttering at nightfall through the jealous grating of one of the few windows of Don Manuel's house that looked towards the street, told Juan that he was at liberty to seek admission the next day. He was permitted to enter; but he explored the patio and all the adjacent corridors and rooms without seeing the face of which he was in search. He did not, indeed, meet any one, not even a domestic; for it was the eve of the Feast of the Ascension, and nearly all the household had gone to see the great tabernacle carried in state to the Cathedral and set up there, in preparation for the solemnities of the following day.

He thought this a good opportunity for satisfying his longing to visit the apartment his brother had been wont to occupy. In spite of what his uncle had said to the contrary, and indeed of the dictates of his own reason, he could not relinquish the hope that something which belonged to him—perhaps even some word or line traced by his hand—might reward his careful search.

He ascended the stairs; not stealthily, or as if ashamed of his errand, for no one had the right to forbid him. He reached the turret without meeting any one, but had hardly placed his foot upon the stair that led to its upper apartment, when a voice called out, not very loudly,—

"Chien va?"

It was Gonsalvo's. Juan answered,—

"It is I—Don Juan."

"Come to me, for Heaven's sake!"

A private interview with a madman is not generally thought particularly desirable. But Juan was a stranger to fear. He entered the room immediately, and was horror-stricken at the change in his cousin's appearance. A tangled mass of black hair mingled with his beard, and fell neglected over the pillow; while large, wild, melancholy eyes lit up the pallor of his wasted face. He lay, or rather reclined, on a couch, half covered by an embroidered quilt, but wearing a loose doublet, very carelessly thrown on.

Of late the cousins had been far from friendly. Still Juan from compassion stretched out his hand. But Gonsalvo would not touch it.

"Did you know all," he said, "you would stab me where I lie, and thus make an end at once of the most miserable life under God's heaven."

"I fear you are very ill, my cousin," said Juan, kindly; for he thought Gonsalvo's words the offspring of his wandering fancy.

"From the waist downwards I am dead. It is God's hand; and he is just."

"Does your physician give hope of your recovery from this seizure?"

With something like his old short, bitter laugh, Gonsalvo answered—"I have no physician."

"This must be one of his delusions," thought Juan; "or else, since he cannot have Losada, he has refused, with his usual obstinacy, to see any one else."

He said aloud,—"That is not right, cousin Don Gonsalvo. You ought not to neglect lawful means of cure. SeÑor Sylvester Areto is a very skilful physician; you might safely place yourself in his hands."

"Only there is one slight objection—my father and my brothers would not permit me to see him."

Juan was in no doubt how to regard this statement; but hoping to extract from him some additional information respecting his brother, he turned the conversation.

"When did this malady seize you?" he asked.

"Close the door gently, and I will tell you all. And oh! tread softly, lest my mother, who lies asleep in the room beneath, worn out with watching, should wake and separate us. Then must I bear my guilt and my anguish unconfessed to the grave."

Juan obeyed, and took a seat beside his cousin's couch.

"Sit where I can see your face," said Gonsalvo; "I will not shrink even from that. Don Juan, I am your brother's murderer."

Juan started, and his colour changed rapidly.

"If I did not think you were mad—"

"I am no more mad than you are," Gonsalvo interrupted. "I was mad, indeed; but that horrible night, when God smote my body, I regained my reason. I see all things clearly now—too late."

"Am I to understand, then," said Juan, rising from his seat, and speaking in measured tones, though his eye was like a tiger's—"am I to understand that you—you—denounced my brother? If so, thank God that you are lying helpless there."

"I am not quite so vile a thing as that. I did not intend to harm a hair of his head; but I detained him here to his ruin. He had the means of escape provided, and but for me would have been in safety ere the Alguazils came."

"Well for both of us your guilt was not greater. Still, you cannot expect me—just yet—to forgive you."

"I expect no forgiveness from man," said Gonsalvo, who perhaps disdained to plead in his own exculpation the generous words of Carlos.

Juan had by this time changed his tone towards his cousin, and assumed his perfect sanity; though, engrossed by the thought of his brother, he was quite unconscious of the mental process by which he had arrived at this conclusion. He asked,—

"But why did you detain him? How did you come to know at all of his intended flight?"

"He had a safe asylum provided for him by some friend—I know not whom," said Gonsalvo, in reply. "He was going forth at midnight to seek it. At the same hour I also"—(for a moment he hesitated, but quickly went on)—"was going forth—to plunge a dagger in my enemy's heart. We met face to face; and each confided his errand to the other. He sought, by argument and entreaty, to move me from a purpose which seemed to him a great crime. But ere our debate was ended, God laid his hand in judgment upon me; and whilst Don Carlos lingered, speaking words of comfort—brave and kind, though vain—the Alguazils came, and he was taken."

Juan listened in gloomy silence.

"Did he leave no message, not one word, for me?" he asked at last, in a low voice.

"Yes; one word. Filled with wonder at the calmness with which he met his terrible fate, I cried out, as they led him from the room, 'Vaya con Dios, Don Carlos, a braver man than you have I never seen!' With one long mournful look, that haunts me still, he said, 'Tell Ruy!'"

Strong man as he was, Don Juan Alvarez bowed his head and wept. They were the first tears the great sorrow had wrung from him—almost the first that he ever remembered shedding. Gonsalvo saw no shame in them.

"Weep on," he said—"weep on; and thank God that thy tears are for sorrow only, not for remorse."

Hoarse and heavy sobs shook the strong frame. For some time they were the only sounds that broke the stillness. At length Gonsalvo said, slowly,—

"He gave me something to keep, which in right should belong to thee."

Juan looked up. Gonsalvo half raised himself, and drew a cushion from beneath his head. First he took off its outer cover of fine holland; then he inserted his hand into an opening that seemed like an accidental rip, and, not without some trouble, drew out a small volume. Juan seized it eagerly: well did he know his brother's Spanish Testament.

"Take it," said Gonsalvo; "but remember it is a dangerous treasure."

"Perhaps you are not sorry to part with it?"

"I deserve that you should say so," answered Gonsalvo, with unwonted gentleness. "But the truth is," he added, with a wan, sickly smile, "nothing can part me from it now, for I have learned almost every word of it by heart."

"How could you, in so short a time, accomplish such a task?" asked Juan, in surprise.

"Easily enough. I was alone long hours of the day, when I could read; and in the silent, sleepless nights I could recall and repeat what I read during the day. But for that I should be in truth what they call me—mad."

"Then you love its words?"

"I fear them," cried Gonsalvo, with strange energy, flinging out his wasted arm over the counterpane. "They are words of life—words of fire. They are, to the Church's words, the priest's threatenings, the priest's pardons, what your limbs, throbbing with healthy vigorous life, are to mine—cold, dead, impotent; or what the living champion—steel from head to heel, the Toledo blade in his strong right hand—is to the painted San Cristofro on the Cathedral door. Because I dare to say so much, my father pretends to think me mad; lest, wrecked as I am in mind and body, I should still find one terrible consolation,—that of flinging the truth for once in the face of the scribes and Pharisees, and then suffering for it—like Don Carlos."

He was silent from exhaustion, and lay with closed eyes and deathlike countenance. After a long pause, he resumed, in a low, weak voice,—

"Some words are good—perhaps. There was San Pablo, who was a blasphemer, and injurious."

"Don Gonsalvo, my brother once said he would give his right hand that you shared his faith."

"Oh, did he?" A quick flush overspread the wan face. "But hark! a step on the stairs! My mother's."

"I am neither afraid nor ashamed to be found here," said Don Juan.

"My poor mother! She has shown me more tenderness of late than I deserved at her hands. Do not let us involve her in trouble."

Juan greeted his aunt with due courtesy, and even attempted some words of condolence upon his cousin's illness. But he saw that the poor lady was terribly disconcerted, and indeed frightened, by his presence there. And not without cause, since mischief, even to bloodshed, might have followed had Don Manuel or either of his sons found Juan in communication with Gonsalvo. She conjured him to go, adding, by way of inducement,—

"DoÑa Beatriz is taking the air in the garden."

"Availing myself of your gracious permission, seÑora my aunt, I shall offer her my homage there; and so I kiss your feet.—AdiÕs, Don Gonsalvo."

"AdiÕs, my cousin."

DoÑa Katarina followed him out of the room.

"He is not sane," she whispered anxiously, laying her hand on his arm; "he is out of his mind. You perceive it clearly, Don Juan?"

"Certainly I shall not dispute it, seÑora," Juan answered, prudently.