"Don't be afraid, good woman, but speak English.We are all English here, and Protestants too.Tell us what they have done for you.""Another trap! another trap!" cried she, in a strong Devonshire accent."You be no English! You want to make me lie again, and then torment me.Oh! wretched, wretched that I am!" cried she, bursting into tears."Whom should I trust? Not myself: no, nor God; for I have denied Him! O Lord! O Lord!"Amyas stood silent with fear and horror; some instinct told him that he was on the point of hearing news for which he feared to ask.But Jack spoke--"My dear soul! my dear soul! don't you be afraid; and the Lord will stand by you, if you will but tell the truth.We are all Englishmen, and men of Devon, as you seem to be by your speech; and this ship is ours; and the pope himself sha'n't touch you.""Devon?" she said doubtingly; "Devon! Whence, then?""Bideford men.This is Mr.Will Cary, to Clovelly.If you are a Devon woman, you've heard tell of the Carys, to be sure."The woman made a rush forward, and threw her fettered arms round Will's neck,--"Oh, Mr.Cary, my dear life! Mr.Cary! and so you be! Oh, dear soul alive! but you're burnt so brown, and I be 'most blind with misery.Oh, who ever sent you here, my dear Mr.Will, then, to save a poor wretch from the pit?""Who on earth are you?"
"Lucy Passmore, the white witch to Welcombe.Don't you mind Lucy Passmore, as charmed your warts for you when you was a boy?""Lucy Passmore!" almost shrieked all three friends."She that went off with--""Yes! she that sold her own soul, and persuaded that dear saint to sell hers; she that did the devil's work, and has taken the devil's wages;--after this fashion!" and she held up her scarred wrists wildly.
"Where is Dona de--Rose Salterne?" shouted Will and Jack.
"Where is my brother Frank?" shouted Amyas.
"Dead, dead, dead!"
"I knew it," said Amyas, sitting down again calmly.
"How did she die?"
"The Inquisition--he!" pointing to the monk."Ask him--he betrayed her to her death.And ask him!" pointing to the bishop; "he sat by her and saw her die.""Woman, you rave!" said the bishop, getting up with a terrified air, and moving as far as possible from Amyas.
"How did my brother die, Lucy?" asked Amyas, still calmly.
"Who be you, sir?"
A gleam of hope flashed across Amyas--she had not answered his question.
"I am Amyas Leigh of Burrough.Do you know aught of my brother Frank, who was lost at La Guayra?""Mr.Amyas! Heaven forgive me that I did not know the bigness of you.Your brother, sir, died like a gentleman as he was.""But how?" gasped Amyas.
"Burned with her, sir!"
"Is this true, sir?" said Amyas, turning to the bishop, with a very quiet voice.
"I, sir?" stammered he, in panting haste."I had nothing to do--Iwas compelled in my office of bishop to be an unwilling spectator--the secular arm, sir; I could not interfere with that--any more than I can with the Holy Office.I do not belong to it--ask that gentleman--sir! Saints and angels, sir! what are you going to do?"shrieked he, as Amyas laid a heavy hand upon his shoulder, and began to lead him towards the door.
"Hang you!" said Amyas."If I had been a Spaniard and a priest like yourself, I should have burnt you alive.""Hang me?" shrieked the wretched old Balaam; and burst into abject howls for mercy.
"Take the dark monk, Yeo, and hang him too.Lucy Passmore, do you know that fellow also?""No, sir," said Lucy.
"Lucky for you, Fray Gerundio," said Will Cary; while the good friar hid his face in his hands, and burst into tears.Lucky it was for him, indeed; for he had been a pitying spectator of the tragedy."Ah!" thought he, "if life in this mad and sinful world be a reward, perhaps this escape is vouchsafed to me for having pleaded the cause of the poor Indian!"But the bishop shrieked on.
"Oh! not yet.An hour, only an hour! I am not fit to die.""That is no concern of mine," said Amyas."I only know that you are not fit to live.""Let us at least make our peace with God," said the dark monk.
"Hound! if your saints can really smuggle you up the back-stairs to heaven, they will do it without five minutes' more coaxing and flattering."Fray Gerundio and the condemned man alike stopped their ears at the blasphemy.
"Oh, Fray Gerundio!" screamed the bishop, "pray for me.I have treated you like a beast.Oh, Fray, Fray!""Oh, my lord! my lord!" said the good man, as with tears streaming down his face he followed his shrieking and struggling diocesan up the stairs, "who am I? Ask no pardon of me.Ask pardon of God for all your sins against the poor innocent savages, when you saw your harmless sheep butchered year after year, and yet never lifted up your voice to save the flock which God had committed to you.Oh, confess that, my lord! confess it ere it be too late!""I will confess all about the Indians, and the gold, and Tita too, Fray; peccavi, peccavi--only five minutes, senors, five little minutes' grace, while I confess to the good Fray!"--and he grovelled on the deck.
"I will have no such mummery where I command," said Amyas, sternly.
"I will be no accomplice in cheating Satan of his due.""If you will confess," said Brimblecombe, whose heart was melting fast, "confess to the Lord, and He will forgive you.Even at the last moment mercy is open.Is it not, Fray Gerundio?""It is, senor; it is, my lord," said Gerundio; but the bishop only clasped his hands over his head.