Spinoza. Auerbach Berthold

shadows when I saw the maiden, who had met me on entering the parlor, now sitting on a stone by the roadside. She did not notice me, and I passed her; hardly was I three paces distant, however, when I was moved to return as if by enchantment.

      ​"Señora," I said, "I have no right to penetrate the secrets of your heart; but I have a right, if you are in need of help, to offer it you, and you to demand it from me."

      She told me afterwards that the earnest tone of my voice had given her more confidence in me than my chivalrous words could have done.

      "Leave me alone, kind Caballero; my knight must be death alone," said she, in a voice in which tones of sorrowful refusal and timorous appeal combined in exquisite harmony. Oh, what an indescribable charm was in her whole appearance! I felt it, though in the twilight, and hidden by the carefully adjusted folds of her mantilla, I had seen little of her except her brilliant eyes.

      An inexplicable thrill passed through me as I stood before her; I remained fast bound to her vicinity. It was more than mere pity, more than sympathy with unknown grief, that held me there; I did not know it was love, which reveals itself when we approach the being whom the Lord has created for us.

      I talked longer with the maiden, or Manuela, as she was called. She excused herself for refusing my aid; I must not think ill of her; misfortune and grief had taught her mistrust of men. Tears choked her voice.

      So grief was the companion of her youth also. Ah! the unhappy understand one another easily. ​She told me that her father had already been imprisoned in the castle three months. She wished to wait here till the Inquisitor should return from the town; she knew well enough that her own life was in danger, because the law forbade any one, even though a child, to beg for the pardon of one accused of heresy; she would die with her father, and yet she feared the approaching night.

      "I see already," she said, "it must be so; and I must evermore await the morrow in weeping and wailing."

      She rose, and went quickly away. I stood as one rooted to the spot, and when she disappeared from my eyes at a turn of the road, a longing like home-sickness overcame me, and I rushed after her. From the brow of the hill overlooking the magnificent bridge over the Guadalquivir I saw three veiled figures in white cloaks approaching with measured tread. Manuela threw herself at the feet of the foremost one; a piercing cry of grief reached me, and Manuela was forced aside. I sprang forward; the men quietly pursued their way, and advanced towards me; I checked my rapid course, removed my hat and bowed; it was the Inquisitor accompanied by two Dominicans, who were returning to the Castle of Triana from a hunt for souls.

      The minutes I spent in humble trembling guise—a thousand curses for this villain, and a thousand cares for Manuela in my heart—were a foretaste of ​hell. Like an arrow shot swiftly from a bow, I sped on to support Manuela, whose trembling steps approached the gates. She recognized me, and stood still. I could not speak for gasping, and only grasped her hand.

      "Leave me, I pray you," she said, but without withdrawing her hand. I swore to her—oh, then I felt how dreadful it was not to dare name the Holiest by which a man can swear! I thought my tongue would become incapable, when I, at the moment when I would have given the greatest assurance, was obliged to swear by St. Jago. I could not speak, my whole soul was so agitated. Manuela clasped my hand in both hers, her tearful eyes met mine confidingly.

      "Yes," she said, "I will follow my impulse; unhappier than I am I cannot be; come with me, you shall hear all."

      I offered her my arm, and with some hesitation she laid her trembling hand on it.

      "These streets have never seen me thus," she said in a low voice as we turned into a side street from the gate.

      I tried to soothe her; she was silent, and folded her mantilla closer. Without a word we went on, till in a narrow street, not far from the church of Our Lady of the Pillar, we entered an insignificant little house.

      "Have you come at last, Manuela?" cried a loud ​treble voice; and a round figure, with a light, rolled like a woolsack down the steps.

      "I have already prayed thirteen Ave Marias, and vowed a three-pound wax-candle to St. Jago, if you should come home safe. Ah! my sweet little dove, whom have you there? Praised be the Virgin, is not that Don Alfonso Sajavedra from Valencia? Excuse me, sir, my old eyes—"

      "You have indeed seen wrong, Laura; it is not my cousin, but a stranger—a friend, I should have said, who will help us."

      "Then I was right," continued the old woman; "have I not often told you that if you went some one would help us? Whenever I went I was thrown aside like a squeezed orange: but laugh away," she croaked on; "it is just as the proverb says, 'A fresh stamped real, with the king's image—God save him!—is better than one defaced with use.' You may pride yourself, noble knight, that my trembling dove has made an exception in your favor."

      The old woman was never tired of praising Manuela, and said it could only be by a miracle that I had gained so much from her. Manuela silenced her with difficulty. After the old woman had reviewed me to her satisfaction, she went out. Manuela must have met my gaze, for she dropped her eyes.

      "Señor," said she, and hastily grasped my hand, "Señor, what are you thinking of me?"

      ​"That we love each other," I answered, kissing her hand.

      "Yes, we love each other," said she. "God in heaven knows it, we love each other. O mother, mother, why must you die before seeing the infinite happiness of your child!"

      The tears coursed down her glowing cheeks at these words.

      "Dare I love you, Señor?" she whispered, and covered her eyes and cheeks with both hands; "do you know me? do I know you?"

      "We knew each other," I answered, "the moment God kindled the spark of love in us; we love each other: is there a more intimate knowledge?"

      Ah! it is but a feeble echo of that feeling that I can reawaken from the past; but even now, when I approach the grave, even now it thrills me like lightning, when I think how once almighty love exalted me. It was God's providence, this self-knowledge and comprehension without effort or search. Then, I confess, I felt nothing of this; sunk in unanticipated felicity I did not recognize the unseen hand which guided me as clearly as now it is evident to me it did.

      In the midst of her joy, the memory of the joyless hours spent by her imprisoned father recurred to Manuela. I consoled her, promised my brother's aid; but she trusted little to that.

      The old woman came in with the supper.

      ​"What is the noble Caballero's name?" she whispered to Manuela; I saw the maiden's confusion.

      "Tell my name aloud, Señora," I broke in; "it sounds well in this land, and this good mother has guessed the half prophetically. I am Alfonso de Espinosa."

      We sat down in comfort; the old woman watched me continually, and bade Manuela notice whether she were right or not in saying my hair was like this or that friend's.

      "By G—'s blood!" said she, "how glad I am that there is again a sombrero on the nail! Two womankind alone are but desolate creatures, and who knows how things may go with old Valor?"

      This name startled me; I pressed my Manuela to tell me her father's history; she looked down, and began after a short pause.

      "You know there were many Moorish ladies from Grenada in Cardia when the edict was read, that in future none would be permitted to go out veiled in the national manner. Among the ladies whose veils were torn off by the soldiery in the market-place of Cardia was my uncle's wife, called the beautiful Mirzah. Her beauty was so great that you would have thought an angel from Paradise had been sent to bless the boldest of the followers of the former lords of Spain. No strange man's eye had ever rested on this loveliness, and ​now to be the prize of the rude mob! The news of this dreadful occurrence spread quickly amid the lamentations of the ladies; it was as if a violent earthquake had shaken the whole of Aljaniz, for the intention to abolish the remaining customs of the converted Moors was unmistakable. I do not know why I relate the story; I never knew Mirzah, who was cruelly repudiated by her husband, and her fate was wholly