<h2>CHAPTER II.</h2>
<h3>A SAUNTER THROUGH SEVILLE.</h3>
<div class="drop">
<ANTIMG src="images/l.jpg" width-obs="100" height-obs="103" alt="L" class="cap" />
<p class="cap_2">Lucius Lepine was the son of an officer of the royal navy. The youth
had been eagerly and successfully pursuing a course of education in
one of the public schools of England, when the sudden death of his
father had deprived him of the means of completing it, and of leaving
Rugby, as he had hoped to do, at the head of the school. The widowed
mother of Lucius was left to support, on very slender means, a
numerous family, of which he was the first-born. The youth's ambition
had been to enter one of the universities, with a desire—as yet
mentioned to no one—of preparing himself for the ministry of the
Church. He now saw that the desire must be suppressed, the ambition
relinquished. Lepine's first earthly object must be to become, not a
burden, but a stay to his mother. Lucius had for some time exerted
himself unsuccessfully to discover<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</SPAN></span> some means of earning
independence, when a situation was offered to him in the firm of
Messrs. Passmore and Perkins, which conducted an ironware factory in
Seville. A boyish fancy, which had induced Lucius to acquire the
Spanish language that he might read Don Quixote in the original, great
intelligence, and a talent for keeping accounts, made the admiral's
son peculiarly qualified to fill such a situation with credit to
himself and advantage to his employers. Mr. Passmore's terms were
liberal: he was at least good as a paymaster, whatever he might be as
a man. Lucius did not hesitate long ere accepting the offer made to
him. He took the "plunge" so bravely, and apparently cheerfully, that
none, save perhaps his mother, guessed with what an inward shudder of
repugnance it was made.</p>
</div>
<p>When thus separated from his family and all the companions of his
youth, Lucius, who was of a genial temperament, looked around him for
friends in what was to him a land of exile. He had had no letters of
introduction, and the society of Mr. Passmore, the working head of the
firm, and of a few merchants and manufacturers occasionally met with
at his table, by no means satisfied the yearning of the young man's
heart for intercourse with congenial spirits. The only person in
Seville towards whom Lucius felt drawn by a feeling of<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</SPAN></span> sympathy was
the stately young Spaniard, De Aguilera,—who had, like himself, been
induced by liberal offers to accept a situation in the firm of Messrs.
Passmore and Perkins. The aristocratic bearing of Don Alcala de
Aguilera, his refined manners, his lofty courtesy, gave to him an
interest in the mind of Lucius—an interest made up of mingled
admiration, curiosity, and pity. The Spanish clerk, compared to his
English employer, appeared to Lucius like a polished Toledo blade
compared to a kitchen utensil. Lucius was occasionally reminded by the
mien of his companion of other qualities of the rapier besides its
exquisite polish. Insult, or what he deemed such, would make the
Spaniard's dark eyes flash with an expression which told that his
pride was not subdued, and that his anger might be dangerous. It was
perhaps well that Mr. Passmore's inability to speak Spanish with
anything approaching to fluency made him generally employ Lepine as
the channel of communication between himself and De Aguilera. Many a
dictatorial command or coarse reproof, uttered by Passmore, came
softened from the lips of the English gentleman,—words which, if
repeated in the tone in which they had first been spoken, would have
made the haughty Spaniard lay his hand on his stiletto.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/image3.jpg" width-obs="401" height-obs="640" alt="THE ALCAZAR OF SEVILLE. Page 20" title="" /> <span class="caption">THE ALCAZAR OF SEVILLE.<br/>
Page 20</span></div>
<p><span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>"Inglesito!" (Englishman!) muttered a gitána (gipsy), looking after
Lucius as, after courteously inquiring his way, he passed down one of
the narrow winding lanes which give to a great part of Seville the
character of a labyrinth. It would have needed no gipsy skill to have
detected the nationality of the stranger, even had the gitána but seen
him with his back turned towards her. The quick, firm step of Lepine
could not be mistaken for the step of a Spaniard. But the woman had
seen the face, bronzed, indeed, by the southern sun, yet of complexion
naturally fair; the bright gray eye; the auburn hair, clustering at
the temples, and shading the upper lip. Lucius might have been singled
out as an Englishman amongst crowds of the cigar-puffing idlers who
were enjoying their <i>dolce far niente</i> at the corner of every street.
And at that hour of gorgeous sunset, under the most brilliant of
skies, there was indeed in Seville a luxury in mere existence which
might form some excuse for the indolence of its people. As Lucius
emerged from a lane into one of the open plazas, he was strongly
sensible of the charm which enwraps the queen-city of Andalusia.</p>
<p>Bathed in golden glory rose the Alcazar, that splendid monument of
Moorish art which has been compared to a palace of fairies, with its
gorgeous<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</SPAN></span> colouring, its profusion of ornament, its gilded arches and
marble columns. At some distance, in strong relief against the sky,
appeared the glorious Cathedral, a rival in beauty, but a contrast in
style, being the most magnificent Gothic building to be found in all
Spain. The square tower of the Saracenic Giralda—grand relic of the
past when the Moors bore sway in Andalusia, but now used as belfry to
the Cathedral—glowed rosy red in the beams. Lucius paused for several
minutes to admire the exquisite beauty of the buildings around
him,—that beauty which to a poetic mind is heightened by the charm of
antiquity, the colouring of romance. The Englishman seemed to have
left every care behind him in the counting-house in the Calle San
Francisco,—cares can be readily thrown aside at the age of nineteen.</p>
<p>The eye was not the only sense that drank in delight. The air was
fragrant with the perfume from orange-trees, and musical with the peal
of bells from the summit of the Giralda, blending softly with the
nearer sound of a Spanish song, sung in rich tones to the
accompaniment of a guitar.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/image4.jpg" width-obs="390" height-obs="640" alt="SPANISH SENORAS AND THEIR DUENNA. Page 22." title="" /> <span class="caption">SPANISH SENORAS AND THEIR DUENNA.<br/>
Page 22.</span></div>
<p><span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>"What a glorious city is this Seville!" said Lucius to himself as he
went on his way. "There is not an object on which the eye rests in
which an artist would not find a subject for a sketch. What a picture
might be made of yonder donnas, with their mantillas and graceful lace
veils, as, accompanied by their duenna, they ascend the steps of that
magnificent church! No women are lovelier than those of Seville,—long
may they keep their graceful costume! How picturesque is yon group of
gipsies by the fountain—the man in his striped mantle of many hues
leaning over the back of his ass, as he talks to the dark-eyed girl
with scarlet blossoms wreathed in her raven-black hair! The very
beggars wear their rags with grace! And what thoughts of the past
crowd upon the mind in this old city of the Moors! Yes, what thoughts
of the past!" repeated Lucius to himself, while a sterner expression
marked his features; for he had now reached a spot associated with
memories of the Inquisition, which had held its headquarters at
Seville. Again Lucius paused, but it was not now to admire, and it was
before the mind's eye that a picture of thrilling interest arose.</p>
<p>"Do I indeed stand on the very spot where, a few centuries ago,
thousands of martyrs yielded their bodies to the flames, their souls
to their God?"<SPAN name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</SPAN> mused Lepine. "Was it here that—clad<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</SPAN></span> in their
yellow san-benitos,<SPAN name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</SPAN> and surrounded by curious crowds to whom their
pangs were a pastime, and fanatical priests to whom their torments
were a triumph—men and tender women endured the most painful of
deaths! Yes; this pure balmy air was once polluted with the smoke from
human sacrifices—this sunshine darkened with the clouds rising from
stakes to which living victims were bound! What deeds of heroism—what
unblenching courage—what unshaken faith displayed in the hour of
nature's agony, have made this spot holy ground! Here—a spectacle to
angels and to men—martyrs showed what the sons of Spain could dare
and her daughters endure! Are the idle, self-indulgent inhabitants of
Seville in the nineteenth century descendants or representatives of
heroes who counted not their lives dear to them, but who, having
embraced evangelical truth, grasped it firmly even unto death? Or can
it be that martyrs have suffered in vain—that the light which they
kindled is quenched for ever in Spain? Is the cry, 'How long, Lord,
how long?' never to meet an answer as regards this benighted though
beautiful land? I cannot believe it;" and Lucius resumed his rapid
walk. "The seed sown amidst tears and blood must spring up one day,
and ripen to a harvest<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</SPAN></span> of light! Happy—thrice happy—the reapers!
Spaniards will show themselves worthy of their martyrs, and no longer
appear to the world as a degenerate race, indifferent to their highest
interests, or cold in the holiest cause. But what right have I to
upbraid them either with indifference or coldness? Here am I, proud of
the name of Englishman, thankful for having been brought up in the
clearness of gospel light. I have been for a year in Seville, and I
have never so much as shown to a Spaniard the New Testament in his own
language, which I carry now on my person. Nay, the only man in this
country for whom I have a feeling of friendship—the man whom I meet
almost every day of my life—he knows nothing of the faith which I
hold, save that he probably deems me a heretic, simply because I was
reared in England. Of Alcala's inner life, his views, his hopes, I,
his friend, am as ignorant as if we had never met till to-day! I
cannot tell—I have never inquired—whether De Aguilera be a bigoted
son of that Church which is drunken with the blood of the saints, or
whether, like many of his countrymen, he has adopted sceptical views,
the pendulum swinging from superstition into infidelity—from
believing that which is false, into denying that which is true.</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>"And the Spaniard may now be on the eve of meeting a violent
death—of having the martyr's agonies without the martyr's crown! I
have been made uneasy by the bare rumour of the danger to which his
person may be exposed. How little have I thought of the perils which
surround the soul of one brought up under the dark shadow of Romish
error! I must see De Aguilera, and speak to my friend as I have not
ventured to speak before. God help me to break through a reserve which
I have often suspected to be cowardly, but which I now feel to be
criminal!"</p>
<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>
<div class="footnote"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></SPAN> It is said that in the year 1461, when the Inquisition
was established in Seville, it sacrificed <i>two thousand</i> victims; and
that from the same date to 1517, <i>twelve thousand</i> were burned alive.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></SPAN> A garment, covered with representations of demons, worn
by the condemned.</p>
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</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</SPAN></span></p>
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