Picturesque enough were the figures of to-day in the old grey capital of the Visigoths, yet they were not as real for me as other figures which only my mind’s eye could see.
Here was the long, flat façade of the building legend had chosen as the palace of Wamba the Benefactor—the Farmer King. I saw the old man waking to life in the dungeon where the treachery of one loved and trusted had thrown him, dressed in the monkish garb which never again could be changed for robes of state. I saw a haggard company of Jews marching into “Tarshish,” scarred and bleeding from the persecutions of Nebuchadnezzar who had flung them from Jerusalem. I saw Moorish men fighting to take Toledo—the “Lookout,” “the Light of the World,” and fighting again to save it for themselves.
There, in the towering Alcázar, had Rodrigo betrayed his beautiful queen, Egilona, for the still more beautiful Florinda, daughter of Julian, Espatorios of Spain; at least, so legend said, mingling the romantic music of its ballads inextricably with the deep organ notes of history. Below, on the cliff above the Tagus, in the Tower of Hercules, had Rodrigo taken the painted linen cloths from the enchanted casket, and seen the awful vision of the Moorish horde with his own figure fleeing before them, one day when he forgot the prophecy which warned all kings of Spain against entering that mysterious, locked door.
Up this narrow street in the town, behind that barred window with its curious cannon-ball decorations, perhaps the incomparable Doña Flor of Dumas’ “Bandit” had smiled and pierced the heart of the “Courier of Love” with her beauty.
It was like awaking from a brilliant dream when the Cherub stopped abruptly, to point up at the vast, incongruous bulk of the cathedral towering over us. But there was nothing incongruous in the rich, Gothic splendour within; and my sole shock of disappointment came when I gave up hope of finding Monica.
They had punished her by changing their plan of campaign, and I must seek her elsewhere. But I could not wrench my friends from this great monument of Spanish glory, merely because I cared more to look on Monica Vale’s face than the face of any saint, carved or painted by a master’s hand.
I stayed, therefore, finding such consolation as I could in the jewelled gleam of rare old glass, the magnificence of bronze doors; tombs of kings and heroes; and all the wonders of gold, silver, pearls, and diamonds which, stored in the sacristy, do honour to the famous Black Virgin, the cathedral’s Queen.
Coming out again into the town was like stepping with a single stride back from Europe into Africa; for nowhere can Moslem and Christian civilizations be more closely tangled than in Toledo. Moorish streets were like scimitar strokes cleft deep in the city; narrow chasms lined with secretive houses, giving here and there a glimpse of some bright, flowery _patio_, through half-open doors studded with iron bosses, and heavy enough to resist a siege; yet above the tiled roofs soared Christian spires in the translucent blue.
No one cared for us now that we were no longer gods in a car, except an occasional beggar, to whom the Cherub would murmur, “God will aid you, sister!” “Pardon me, brother!” and then, changing his mind, drop a penny into a withered old hand, or a pink, childish palm.
“They’ll leave the shopping to the last, because Lady Monica told us it was to be done first,” said Pilar sagely; so we wandered through the shabby aisles of Rag Fair, Pilar hoping against hope to unearth a treasure; because, did not a man once pick up, for a song, a Greco worth a fortune, and did not one always find something at least amusing in the Rag Fair of Madrid? Thence we went on to the Moorish mosque, which the Visigoths began, and so to San Juan de los Reyes, which, Pilar said, I must like better than anything else in Toledo, because she did. With an air of possession she explained the votive chains of captive Christians darkly festooning the outer walls, and I did not tell her I had heard the story long ago. She shuddered as she pointed to the crucifix which used to go with the procession of the _auto-da-fé_. “Only think how different times are now!” said she. “When Philip the Second was going to be married to his bride, not fourteen, a great show in honour of the marriage was a burning of heretics, here in the Zoco—the market-place of Toledo! I shouldn’t have cared much to see a royal wedding then. I don’t even like to look at that crucifix, it gives me such thoughts. But see, aren’t those carved stone galleries where Ferdinand and Isabel used to hear mass, like two great chased silver goblets? I hope the king and queen never sat there watching the poor wretches bound before marching off to the Zoco to die; but I’m sure Isabel wouldn’t: she was so sweet, she must often have wished she hadn’t made that awful promise to Torquemada.”
“You’re Catholic, yet you say that!” I exclaimed, as we stood looking at the gorgeous shields of Los Reyes Católicos. Dick was near, listening with concealed eagerness for the girl’s answer,—and no wonder, since he was Protestant, and not the man to be a turncoat, even for his love.
“Oh yes, I’m Catholic,” said she. “But,”—half whispering,—“Spaniards, even the most ardent Catholics, didn’t really love the Inquisition. It was thrust on them; and—I suppose in those brutal old days it was a horrible excitement to see the burnings. It’s natural to us Latins to have excitement; and after years of such dreadful ones as we had in those times, do you wonder the people clamour for bull-fights?”
“Then you don’t think we Protestants deserve burning?” asked Dick, staring at the crucifix.
“How can you ask such a question?”
“But you—couldn’t make a real _friend_ of one, I suppose, or—er—let yourself care about one much?”
“I should try and convert him—or her.”
“Supposing you couldn’t?”
“Then, I’d have to like him—or her—in spite of all. And he—or she—would have to leave my religion alone. But I’m tired of solemn things; and brother Cristóbal’s dying to buy metal-work.”
I don’t think that Dick knew whether he had been encouraged or not. And he must have remembered that the Conde de Roldan is the best and most eligible of Catholics. Poor Dick! Perhaps he was beginning to realize how much easier it is to advise another man to be sensible than to be sensible yourself.
Pilar had been right in her surmises as to the workings of Carmona’s mind. When we came to the showroom of the Fabrica de Espadas, where the dusk was shot with a thousand gleams and glitters of strange weapons, there were those we had sought in vain till now. The Duchess, yellow with fatigue, was resting her stout person on a bench in the long, low room, Lady Vale-Avon beside her, looking tired and bored. But Carmona was at the glass-covered counter, begging Monica’s advice in the selection of his purchases.
His back was towards us as we entered, and, unnoticed by him, we saw him hold up to the light a small sharp dagger, with a handle beautifully ornamented. He was indicating with his finger, for Monica’s benefit, the delicate tracery upon gold, when, warned by lack of attention and wandering glances on the part of his companion, he turned in our direction. Then, hastily laying down the dagger, he pushed it away as though resenting the intrusion of our eyes.
“After all, we went to the Cave of Hercules,” said Monica, “and to the house where the Moorish nobles were supposed to be murdered; so we missed you when we got to the cathedral. Señorita O’Donnel, do come and help me choose presents for some girls at home, in England.”
She spoke brightly, yet wistfully, as if wondering whether she would be allowed to go back to those girls, a girl herself, and able to call England home.
Pilar crossed to her at once, and Dick and I followed. The good Cherub tactfully engaged the attention of the Duchess and Lady Vale-Avon, looking so innocent that it was more than they could do to be rude to him. And while the Duke sulked, we picked out wonderful knives and forks for our luncheon-hampers, and thin sword-sticks of leather which imitated bamboo and concealed blades so flexible that they could be rolled up like watch-springs.
“Let’s all buy presents for each other, in memory of the day,” suggested Dick; and began by offering Pilar a pair of splendid hatpins. She retaliated with sleeve-links; so, emboldened by this prelude, I begged Monica to accept a brooch shaped like a shield. “Now I shall never lack protection,” said she, with gentle emphasis; and it was well for me that the Cherub was showing Lady Vale-Avon some marvellous sword passes. “Let me see,” the girl went on, when she had defiantly pinned the trinket into her lace cravat, under Carmona’s furious frown. “What shall I give you for luck? Shall it be a dagger? Where’s the one you were looking at, Duke?”
“I don’t know,” he answered, so angry with me for my presumption that he could hardly speak, though not daring to show his true feelings and imperil his chances. “It seems to have disappeared. But we must really go at once. My mother is tired, and we still have several things to see before I can take you back to the hotel to rest.”