We will abandon for awhile Maison-Forte of the Baron des Anbiez, and the little city of La Ciotat, in order to conduct the reader on board the galley of the commander Pierre des Anbiez.
The tempest had forced this vessel to take refuge in the little port of Tolari, situated on the east of Cape Corsica, a northerly point of the island of the same name.
The bell of the galley had just sounded six o’clock in the morning.
The weather was gloomy and the sky veiled with black and threatening clouds; frequent and violent squalls of wind were raising a strong swell within the port.
On whichever side one might turn, nothing could be seen but the barren, solemn mountains of Cape Corsica, at the feet of which the steep road wound its way.
The sea was heavy in the interior of the basin, but it seemed almost calm when compared to the surging waves which beat upon a girdle of rocks at the narrow entrance of the port.
These rocks, almost entirely submerged, were covered with a dazzling foam, which, whipped by the wind, vented itself in a soft white mist.
The sharp cries of sea-gulls and sea-mews scarcely rose above the thundering noise of the sea in its fury, as it rushed into the channel which it was necessary to cross in order to enter the road of Tolari.
A few wretched-looking fishermen’s huts, built on the beach where their dried boats were moored, completed the wild and solitary scene. Tossed by this heavy swell, Our Lady of Seven Sorrows, sometimes rising on the waves, would strain her cables almost to breaking, and sometimes seemed to sink into a bed between two billows.
Nothing could be severer or more funereal than the aspect of this galley painted like a cenotaph.
A hundred and sixty-six feet long, eighteen feet wide, narrow, slender, and scarcely rising above the level of the sea, she resembled an immense black serpent, sleeping in the midst of the waves. In front of the parallelogram which constituted the body of the galley, was scarfed a sharp and projecting beak-head, six feet in length.
At the rear of the same parallelogram was a rounded stern, the roof of which inclined toward the prow.
Under this shelter, called the stem carriage, lodged the commander, the patron, the prior, and the king of the chevaliers of Malta.
The masts of the galley, hauled down at its entrance into harbour, had been placed in the waist, a narrow passage which ran through the entire length of the galley.
On each side of this passage were ranged the benches of the galley-slaves. Below the stem carriage, attached to a black staff, floated the standard of religion, red, quartered with white, and below the standard a bronze beacon designated the grade of the commander.
It would be difficult, in our day, to comprehend how these slaves, composing the crew of a galley, could live, chained night and day to their benches,—at sea, lying on deck without shelter; at anchor, lying under a tent of coarse, woollen stuff, which scarcely protected them from the rain and the frost.
Let one picture to himself about one hundred and thirty Moorish, Turk, or Christian galley-slaves, dressed in red jackets and brown woollen hooded mantles, on this black galley, in cold, gloomy weather.
These miserable creatures shivered under the icy blast of the tempest and under the rain, which deluged them notwithstanding the awning.
To warm themselves a little they would press close to each other on the narrow benches, to which they were chained, five and five.
All of them preserved a morose silence, and often threw an uneasy and furtive glance on the convict-keepers and the overseers.
These contemptible officers, clothed in black, and armed with a cowhide, would go through the waist of the galley, on each side of which were the benches of the crew.
There were thirteen benches on the right, and twelve on the left.
The galley-slaves, constituting the palamente, or the armament of rowers, belonging to Our Lady of Seven Sorrows, had been, as was the custom, recruited from Christians, Turks, and Moors.
Each one of these types of slaves had his peculiar physiognomy.
The Turks, sluggish, dejected, and indolent, seemed to be a prey to a morbid and contemplative apathy.
The Moors, always excited, uneasy, and of ungovernable temper, appeared to be continually on the alert to break their chains and massacre their keepers.
The Christians, whether condemned or enrolled of their own will, were, in their way, more indifferent, and some of them were occupied in weaving straw, by which they hoped to reap a profit.
Finally, the negroes, captured from Barbary pirate vessels where they rowed as slaves, remained in a sort of torpor, a stupid immobility, with their elbows on their knees and their heads in their hands.
The greater part of these blacks died of grief, while the Mussulman and Christians grew accustomed to their fate.
Among these last, some were horribly mutilated, as they belonged to the class recaptured in their efforts to escape.
In order to punish them for attempting to escape, according to the law, their noses and ears had been cut off, and even more than this, their beards, heads, and eyebrows were completely shaven; nothing could be more hideous than the faces so disfigured.
In the fore part of the galley, and confined in a sort of covered guard-house, called rambade, could be seen a battery,—the five pieces of artillery belonging to the vessel.
This place was occupied by the soldiers and gunners.
These never formed a part of the crew, but composed, if such a thing may be said, the cargo of the vessel impelled by the oars of the galley-slaves.
About twenty sailors, free also, were charged with the management of the sails, with the anchorage, and other nautical manoeuvres.
The soldiers and gunners, considered as lay brothers and servants, wore coats of buff-skin, hoods, and black breeches.
Sheltered by the roof of the rambade, some, seated on their cannon, busied themselves in cleaning their arms; others, wrapped in their hoods, lay on the deck asleep, while others still—a rare thing even among the soldiers of religion—were occupied in pious reading, or in telling their rosaries.
With the exception of the galley-slaves, the men on board this galley, carefully chosen by the commander, had a grave and thoughtful countenance.
Almost all the soldiers and sailors were of mature age; some were approaching old age. By the numerous scars with which the greater number were marked, it was evident that they had served a long time.
More than two hundred men were assembled on this galley, and yet the silence of the cloister reigned through it.
If the crew remained silent through terror of the whip of the keepers and overseers, the soldiers and sailors obeyed the pious customs maintained by the commander Pierre des Anbiez.
For more than thirty years that he had commanded this galley of religion, he had tried always to preserve the same equipment, replacing only the men that he had lost.
The severity of discipline established on board Our Lady of Seven Sorrows was well known at Malta. The commander was perhaps the only one of the officers of the religion who exacted a strict observance of the rules of the order. His galley, on board of which he received only men who had been proven, became a sort of nomadic convent,—a voluntary rendezvous for all sailors who wished to assure their salvation by binding themselves scrupulously to the rigorous requirements of this hospitable and military confraternity.
It was the same with the officers and young caravan-iflits.
Those who preferred to lead a joyous and daring life—which was the immense majority—found the greater part of the captains of the religion disposed to welcome them, and to forget everything in their union against the infidels, as their mission of monk-soldiers was at the same time that of saint and warrior.
On the contrary, the very small number of young chevaliers who loved, for its own sake, this pious and austere life in the midst of great perils, sought with eagerness the opportunity to embark on the galley of the commander Pierre des Anbiez.
There nothing offended, nothing prevented their religious customs. There they could give themselves up to their holy exercises without fear of being ridiculed, or of becoming perhaps weak enough to blush for their own zeal.
The master gunner, or captain of the mast of the galley, an old sunburnt soldier, wearing a black felt jacket with a white cross, was seated in the guard-house of the prow, or rambade, of which we have spoken.
He was talking with the captain of the sailors of Our Lady of Seven Sorrows, whose name was Simon. The first speaker was Captain Hugues, who, with his companion, had always sailed with the Commander des Anbiez.
Captain Hugues was polishing with care a collar of steel net. Captain Simon from time to time was looking through the opening of the rambade, examining the sky and the sea, so as to prognosticate the end or the increase of the storm.
“Brother,” said Hugues to Simon, “the north wind blows strong; it will be several days before we arrive at La Ciotat. Christmas will be past, and our brother commander will be grieved.”
Captain Simon, before replying to his comrade, consulted the horizon again, and said, with a serious air:
“Although it is not proper for man to seek to divine the will of the Lord, I think we may hope to see the end of this tempest soon: the clouds seem not so low or so heavy. Perhaps to-morrow our ancient companion, the old watchman on Cape l’Aigle, will signal our arrival in the Gulf of La Ciotat.”
“And that will be a day of joy in Maison-Forte, and to Raimond V.,” said Captain Hugues.
“And also on board Our Lady of Seven Sorrows,” said Captain Simon, “although joy appears here as rarely as the sun during a westerly wind.”
“Look at this furbished collar,” said the gunner, regarding his work with an air of satisfaction. “It is strange, Brother Simon, how blood will stick to steel. I have rubbed in vain: you can always distinguish these blackish marks on the mesh!”
“Which proves that steel loves blood as the earth loves dew,” said the sailor, smiling sadly at his pleasantry.
“But do you know,” said Hugues, “that it will soon be ten years since the commander received this wound in his combat with Mourad-Reis, the corsair of Algiers?” “I remember it as well, brother, as that with one blow of the battle-axe I struck down the miscreant who had almost broken his kangiar on the breast of the commander, who was fortunately defended by that coat of mail. But for that, Pierre des Anbiez would be dead.”
“So he still keeps this collar, and I am going to carry it to him now.”
“Stop,” said the sailor, seizing the gunner by the arm, “you have chosen an unfortunate time,—the brother commander is in one of his bad days.”
“How?”
“The head cook told me this morning that Father Elzear wished to enter the commander’s chamber, but there was crape on the door.”
“I understand, I understand; that sign suffices to prevent the entrance of any person in the commander’s chamber before he gives the order to do so.”
“Yet to-day is neither Saturday nor the seventeenth day of the month,” said Captain Hugues with a thoughtful air.
“That is true, for it is only upon the return of these days that his fits of despondency seem to overwhelm him the most,” said Captain Simon.
Just at this moment a deep, hollow murmur was heard outside among the crew.
There was nothing ominous of evil in this noise; on the contrary, it was only an expression of satisfaction.
“What is that?” asked the gunner.
“Doubtless Reverend Father Elzear has just appeared on deck. At the very sight of him the slaves think their lot less miserable.”
Elzear des Anbiez, brother of the sacred order, royal and military, of Our Lady of Mercy, for the redemption of captives, had in fact just appeared on the deck of the galley.
The slaves welcomed his presence with a murmur of hope and satisfaction, for he always had some word of pity for these unhappy men.
The recognised discipline of the galley was so severe, so inflexible, and of such relentless justice, that Father Elzear, notwithstanding the tender attachment which bound him to his brother, the commander, would not have dared ask the pardon of an offender. But he never spared encouragement and consolation to those who were to undergo punishment.
Father Elzear advanced with a slow step into the middle of the narrow passage which separated the two rows of benches on the galley.
He wore the habit of his order: a long white cassock, with a mantle of the same material caught up on the shoulders. A rope girded his loins, and notwithstanding the cold, his bare feet had no other protection than leather sandals. In the middle of his breast showed the coat of arms belonging to his order, an escutcheon diapered with gold and gules, surmounted with a silver cross.
Father Elzear resembled Raimond V. His features were noble and majestic, but the fatigues and austerities of his holy, self-abnegating profession had stamped upon them an expression of constant suffering.
The top of his head was shaven, and a crown of white hair encircled his venerable brow.
His pale, emaciated face, his hollow cheeks, made his soft, serene black eyes appear larger still, and a sweet, sad smile gave an expression of adorable benevolence to his countenance.
He stooped a little in walking, as if he had contracted this habit by bending over the chained captives. His weak wrists were marked with deep and ineffaceable scars. Captured in one of the numerous voyages he made from France to Barbary for the ransom of slaves, he had been put in chains, and so cruelly treated that he bore all his life the marks of the barbarity practised by pirates.
Having been ransomed by his own family, he voluntarily went into slavery again in order to take the place in an Algerian prison of a poor inhabitant of La Ciotat, who could not pay his ransom, and whom a dying mother called to France.
In forty years he had ransomed more than three thousand slaves, either with the money of his own patrimony, or with the fruit of his collections from other Christians.
With the exception of a few months passed, every two or three years, in the house of his brother Raimond V., Father Elzear, noble, rich, learned, with an independent fortune, which he had devoted to the ransom of slaves, had been travelling continually, either on land for the purpose of collecting alms, or on sea, on his way to deliver captives.
Sacredly vowed to this hard and pious mission, he had always refused the positions and rank that his birth, his virtues, his courage, and his angelic piety would have conferred upon him in his order.
His self-abnegation, his simplicity, which possessed an antique grandeur, struck all minds with respect and admiration.
Endowed naturally with a noble and lofty spirit, he had directed all the powers of his soul toward one single aim, that of giving consolation, by imparting to his language that irresistible charm which won and comforted the afflicted.
And what a triumph it was for him, when his tender, sympathising words gave a little hope and courage to the poor slaves chained to their oars, when he saw their eyes, hard and dry from despair, turn to him moist with the sweet tears of gratitude.
We are overwhelmed with admiration when we reflect upon those lives so unostentatiously devoted to one of the most exalted and most sacred missions of humanity. We are lost in wonder when we think of the sublime fortitude of these men, voluntarily placed under the very cutlasses of cruel pirates. We are speechless with amazement when we think of the men who risked their lives every day in order to exhort the slaves, whom barbarians oppressed with labours and tormented with blows, to patience and resignation. What unbounded self-sacrifice and long suffering were demanded of those Brothers of Mercy who went and ransomed, in the midst of the greatest perils, people whom in all probability they were never to see again.
The priest and the missionary enjoy, for a time at least, the good which they have accomplished, the gratitude of those whom they have instructed, relieved, or saved; but the men who devoted themselves to the redemption of slaves held by pirates, were hardly acquainted with the captives whom they delivered, inasmuch as they left them for ever, after having given them the most precious of all boons, liberty!
Nevertheless, it was a joyous day for the Brothers of Mercy when those whom they had ransomed embarked for Marseilles, and there in the church offered solemn thanks to Heaven for their deliverance.
Little children clothed in white, holding green palms in their hands, accompanied them, and their tender hands removed the chains from the captives, a touching symbol of the mission of the Brothers of Mercy.
When Father Elzear appeared on the deck of the galley, all the chained slaves turned to him with a simultaneous movement.
At every step he took, the captives, Moor, Turk, or Christian, leaning beyond their benches, tried to seize his hands and carry them to their lips.
Although Father Elzear was accustomed to receive these evidences of respect and affection, he was never able to prevent tears coming to his eyes.
Never, perhaps, had his pity been more excited than to-day.
The weather was cold and gloomy, the horizon charged with tempest, the environage wild and solitary, and these poor creatures, the greater number of them accustomed to the hot sun of the Orient, were there half naked, shivering with cold, and chained perhaps for life to their benches.
Although the compassion of Father Elzear was equally divided among all, he could not help bestowing most pity upon those whose lots seemed to him the most desperate.
Since his departure from Malta, where he had joined his brother with ten captives that he had carried back to La Ciotat, he had observed a Moorish slave about forty years old, whose countenance betrayed an incurable sorrow.
No man of the crew fulfilled his painful task with more courage or more resignation. But as soon as the hour of rest arrived, the Moor crossed his vigorous arms, bowed his head on his breast, and thus passed the hours in which his comrades tried to forget their captivity, in gloomy silence.
The captain of the mast on the galley, knowing the interest that this gentle and peaceable captive inspired in Father Elzear, approached the priest, and told him the Moor was about to suffer the usual punishment for insubordination.
That morning, this Moor, plunged in his profound and habitual reverie, had not responded to the commands of the overseer.
The officer reprimanded him sharply, and still the Moor sat in gloomy silence.
Incensed by this indifference, which he construed into an insult or a refusal to submit to service, the overseer struck him over the shoulders with the cowhide.
The Moor jumped up, uttered a savage roar, and threw himself on the overseer to the full length of his chain, throwing him down in the violence of his rage, and, but for several sailors and soldiers, would have strangled him.
The captive who raised his hand against one of the officers of the galley was subjected to terrible punishment.
He was to be stretched half naked on one of the largest cannon in the rambade, called the chase-gun, and two men, armed with sharp thongs, were to lash him until he lost consciousness.
This sentence had been pronounced that morning on the Moor by the commander. Knowing the inflexible character of his brother, Elzear did not think of asking mercy for the offender; he only desired to soften the cruelty of the sentence by informing the captive himself.
The Moor had but recently embarked, and was utterly ignorant of the fate which awaited him. Father Elzear feared that, by informing him suddenly or sternly of the punishment he was about to undergo, the poor captive might give way to another outburst of fury, and thus incur additional suffering. Approaching him, he found him in that condition of torpor and melancholy into which he always sank when not in the exercise of his painful tasks. He wore, like the other galley-slaves, a mantle of gray stuff with a hood, and linen drawers; an iron band encircled one of his naked legs, and the chain by which he was fastened reached the length of an iron bar from the side of the bench. His hood, drawn over the fez or red wool cap which he wore, threw a transparent shade over his sunburnt face; he held his arms crossed over his breast; his fixed and open eyes seemed to look without seeing; his features were delicate and regular, and his whole exterior announced nothing except a man habituated to fatigue and hard labour.
Father Elzear, as did the greater number of the Brothers of Mercy, spoke Arabic fluently. He approached the captive gently, and, touching him lightly on the arm, woke him from his reverie.
As he recognised Father Elzear, who had always had for him a consoling word, the Moor smiled sadly, took the hand of the priest, and pressed it to his lips.
“My brother is always absorbed in his sorrows?” said Father Elzear, seating himself on the extremity of the bench, and taking the two hands of the slave in his own trembling, venerable hands.
“My wife and my child are far away,” replied the Moor, sadly; “they do not know that I am a captive; they are waiting for me.”
“My dear son must not lose all hope, all courage. God protects those who suffer with resignation. He loves those who love their own; my brother will see his wife and child again.”
The Moor shook his head, then, with a sadly expressive manner, he lifted his right hand and pointed to the sky.
Father Elzear comprehended the mute gesture, and said:
“No, it is not up there that my brother will see again those whom he longs for. It will be here,—on the earth.”
“I shall die too soon, father, so far from my wife and child; I shall not live to see them again.”
“We ought never to despair of the divine mercy, my brother. Many poor slaves have said, like you, ‘I shall never see my loved ones again,’ yet at this moment they are with their own, peaceful and happy. Often the galleys of religion exchange their captives; why, my brother, should you not be included some day in these exchanges?”
“Some day! Perhaps! That is my only hope,” said the Moor, despondently.
“Poor, unhappy man! then why will you say ‘never’?”
“My father is right. Never,—never—oh, that would be too horrible! Yes,—perhaps,—some day!”
And a pathetic smile played upon the lips of the Moor.
Father Elzear hesitated to make the fatal confidence. Yet the hour was approaching and he resolved to speak.
“My brother has won the confidence of all by his gentleness and courage; why, then, this morning did he—”
Father Elzear could not continue.
The Moor looked at him, astonished.
“Why, this morning, instead of obeying the overseer’s orders, did my brother strike him?”
“I struck him, father, because he struck me without cause.”
“Alas! no doubt you were, as a little while ago, absorbed in your sad reflections; they prevented your hearing the overseer’s orders.”
“Did he give me orders?” asked the Moor, with a startled air.
“Twice, my brother; he even reprimanded you for not performing them. Taking your silence for an insult, he then struck you.”
“It must be as you say, father. I repent having struck the overseer. I did not hear him. In dreaming of the past, I forgot the present. I saw again my little home in Gigeri; my little Acoub came to meet me. I was listening to his voice, and, raising my eyes, I saw his mother opening the blinds of our balcony.”
Then, with these words, returning to his former position, the Moor bowed his head in heaviness and despondency, and two tears flowed down his bronzed cheeks, as he said, with a heartrending expression: “And then, nothing more,—nothing more.”
At the aspect of this man, already so unhappy, the good brother shuddered at the thought of what he must tell him; he was on the point of giving up the painful mission, but he took courage, and said;
“I am very sorry that my brother was so absorbed this morning, because I know he did not mean to strike the overseer. But, alas, discipline demands that he must be punished for it.”
“Pardon me, father, that I was not able to repress my first movement. Since my captivity, it was the first happy dream I have had. The blows of the whip tore me away from this cherished dream. I was furious, not with pain, but with sorrow. Besides, what matters it? I am a slave here; I will endure the punishment.”
“But this punishment is cruel, my poor, unfortunate brother,—it is so cruel that I will not leave you during its execution; it is so cruel that I will be near you, and I will pray for you, and my loving hands at least shall clasp your hands contracted in agony.”
The Moor looked at Father Elzear intently, then said, with an accent of resignation, almost of indifference:
“Shall I have, then, to suffer so much?”
The priest, without replying to him, pressed his hands more strongly in his own, and fixed his tearful eyes on his face.
“Yet I did my duty as a slave, the best that I could possibly do. But what matters it!” said the Moor, sighing; “God will bless you, father, for not forsaking me. And when am I to suffer?”
“To-day—presently—”
“What must I do, good old father? Bear it, and bless God that he has sent you to me in this fatal moment.”
“Poor creature!” cried Father Elzear, profoundly moved by this resignation, “you do not know, alas, what you will have to suffer!”
And, with a trembling voice, the priest explained to him in a few words the nature of the suffering he was to endure.
The Moor shuddered a little, and said: “At least, my wife and child will know nothing of it.”
At this moment the captain of the mast and four soldiers, wearing cassocks of black felt with white crosses, approached the bench to which the Moor was chained.
“Hugues,” said Father Elzear to the captain, “suspend the execution, I pray you, until I have spoken with my brother.”
The discipline established on the galley was so severe, so absolute, that the gunner looked at the priest with an undecided air, but, thanks to the respect that Father Elzear inspired, he did not dare refuse his request.
The father hastened to the chamber of the commander, in order to intercede with him for the unhappy Moor.
After having crossed the narrow passage which conducted to his brother’s apartment, he saw the key of the door enveloped in crape.
This sign, always respected, announced that the commander forbade absolutely and to all the entrance to his chamber.
Nevertheless, the Moor inspired such interest that Father Elzear, although well-nigh convinced of the futility of his effort, desired to make one last trial.
He entered the commander’s chamber.
The spectacle which met the eyes of Father Elzear was both frightful and solemn.
The chamber, which was very small, and lighted only by two narrow windows, was hung with black.
A coffin of white wood, filled with ashes, and fastened to the floor by screws, served as a bed for Commander Pierre des Anbiez.
Above this funereal bed was suspended the portrait of a young man wearing a cuirass, and leaning on a helmet. An aquiline nose, a delicate and gracefully chiselled mouth, and large, sea-green eyes gave to this face an expression which was, at the same time, proud and benevolent.
Below the frame, on a tablet, was written distinctly the date December 25,1613; a black curtain hanging near the picture could be drawn over it at pleasure.
Weapons of war, attached to a rack, constituted the sole ornaments of this gruesome habitation.
Pierre des Anbiez had not observed the entrance of his brother. On his knees before his praying-desk, the commander was half covered with a coarse haircloth, which he wore night and day; his shoulders were bare. By the drops of coagulated blood, and by the furrows which veined his flesh, it could be seen that he had just inflicted upon himself a bloody discipline. His bowed head rested on his two hands, and now and then convulsive shudders shook his lacerated shoulders, as if his breast heaved under the agony of suppressed sobs. The praying-desk, where he was kneeling, was placed below the two small windows, which admitted an occasional and doubtful light into this chamber.
In the midst of this dim light the pale face and long white vestments of Father Elzear contrasted strangely with the wainscoting hung with black; he looked like a spectre. He stood there as if petrified; he had never believed his brother capable of such mortifications, and, lifting his hands to Heaven, he uttered a profound sigh.
The commander started. He turned around quickly, and, seeing in the shadow the immovable figure of Father Elzear, cried, in terror:
“Are you a spirit? Do you come to ask account of the blood I have shed?” His countenance was frightful. Never remorse, never despair, never terror impressed its seal more terribly upon the brow of guilt!
His eyes, red with weeping, were fixed and haggard; his gray, closely shaven hair seemed to bristle upon his brow; his bluish lips trembled with fear, and his scraggy, muscular arms were extended before him as if they entreated a supernatural vision.
“My brother! my brother!” exclaimed Elzear, throwing himself upon the commander. “My brother, it is I; may God be with you!”
Pierre des Anbiez stared at the good brother as if he did not recognise him; then, sinking down before his praying-desk, he let his head fall on his breast, and cried, in a hollow voice:
“The Lord is never with a murderer, and yet,” added he, raising his head half-way and looking at the portrait in terror, “and yet, to expiate my crime, I have placed the face of my victim always under my eyes! There, on my bed of ashes, where I seek a repose which flies from me, at every hour of the day, at every hour of the night, I behold the unrelenting face of him who says to me unceasingly, ‘Murderer! Murderer! You have shed my blood! Be accursed!’”
“My brother, oh, my brother, come back to your senses,” whispered the father. He feared the voice of the commander might be heard outside.
Without replying to his brother, the commander withdrew himself from his arms, rose to the full height of his tall stature, and approached the portrait.
“For twenty years there has not passed a day in which I have not wept my crime! For twenty years have I not tried to expiate this murder by the most cruel austerities? What more do you wish, infernal memory? What more do you ask? You, also,—you, my victim, have you not shed blood,—the blood of my accomplice? But alas! alas! this blood, you could shed it, you,—vengeance gave you the right, while I am the infamous assassin! Oh, yes, vengeance is just! Strike, strike, then, without pity! Soon the hand of God will strike me eternally!”
Overcome by emotion, the commander, almost deprived of consciousness, again fell on his knees, half recumbent upon the coffin which served him as bed.
Father Elzear had never discovered his brother’s secret. He knew him to be a prey to profound melancholy, but was ignorant of the cause, and now was frightened and distressed at the dreadful confidence betrayed in a moment of involuntary excitement.
That Pierre des Anbiez, a man of iron character, of invincible courage, should fall into such remorseful melancholy and weakness and despair, argued a cause that was terrible indeed!
The intrepidity of the commander was proverbial; in the midst of the most frightful perils, his cool daring had been the wonder of all who beheld it. His gloomy impassibility had never forsaken him before, even amid the awful combats a seaman is compelled to wage with the elements. His courage approached ferocity. Once engaged in battle, once in the thick of the fight, he never gave quarter to the pirates. But this fever of massacre ceased when the battle-cries of the combatants and the sight of the blood excited him no longer. Then he became calm and humane, although pitiless toward the least fault of discipline. He had sustained the most brilliant engagements with Barbary pirates. His black galley was tie terror as well as the constant aim of attack among the pirates, but, thanks to the superiority of equipment, Our Lady of Seven Sorrows had never been captured, and her defeats had cost the enemy dear.
Father Elzear, seated on the edge of the coffin, sustained the head of his brother on his knees. The commander, as pale as a ghost, lay unconscious, his brow wet with a cold sweat At last he regained his consciousness, and looked around him with a sad and astonished air; then, throwing a glance upon his arms and naked shoulders, scarcely covered by the haircloth, he asked the priest, abruptly:
“How came you here, Elzear?”
“Although there was crape on your door, Pierre, I thought I could enter. The matter which brought me to you is a very important one.”
An expression of keen dissatisfaction was depicted on the commander’s countenance, as he cried:
“And I have been talking, no doubt?”
“The Lord has been moved to pity by your words, but I have not understood them, my brother. Besides, your mind was distracted; you were under the domination of some fatal illusion.”
Pierre smiled bitterly. “Yes, it was an illusion,—a dream,” said he. “You know, I am sometimes overcome by dreadful imaginations, and become delirious,—that is why I wish to be alone in these periods of madness. Believe me, Elzear, then the presence of any human being is intolerable to me, for I fear even you.”
As he said these words, the commander entered a closet adjoining his chamber, and soon came out dressed in a long robe of black woollen cloth, on which was quartered the white cross of his order.
The figure of Pierre des Anbiez was tall, erect, and robust. His thin, nervous limbs showed, in spite of age, an uncommon vigour. His features were severe and warlike; thick, black eyebrows shaded his deep-set, hollow, burning eyes, which seemed always to glow with the sombre fire of a fever; a deep scar divided his brow, and furrowed his cheek until it was lost in his gray, short, and bushy beard.
Returning to his chamber, he walked back and forth, his hands crossed behind his back, without saying a word to his brother.
Finally he paused and extended to the priest his hand, which had been painfully torn by a gunshot, and said:
“The sign which I had attached to my door ought to have assured my solitude. From the first officer to the last soldier on my galley, no one dares enter here after seeing that sign. I thought myself alone, as much alone as in the depth of a cloister, or the most hidden cell of the great penitentiary of our order. So, my brother, although you have seen, although you have heard, permit me to ask you never to say a word on this subject. Let what has passed here be forgotten,—as sacred as a confession made by a dying man under the seal of the confessional.”
“It shall be as you desire, Pierre,” replied Father Elzear, sadly. “I think of it only with pain that I cannot help you in the sorrows which have burdened you so long.”
“Reassure yourself. It is not given to the power of man to console me,” replied the commander. Then, as if he feared to wound the affection of his brother, he added:
“Yet your fraternal friendship and that of Raimond Digiare very dear to me; but, alas, although the dews of May and the sweet rains of June may fall in the sea, they can never sweeten the bitterness of its deep waters. But what did you come to ask me?”
“Pardon for a poor Moor condemned this morning to the chase-gun.”
“That sentence has been executed, and it could not be, my brother, that I should ever grant you this pardon.” “Thank God, the sentence has not been executed; there is still some hope left me, Pierre.”
“The hour-glass stands at two. I gave order to the captain of the mast to tie the Moor to the chase-gun at one o’clock; the slave ought to be now in the hands of the surgeon and chaplain,—may God save the soul of this pagan, if his body has not been able to endure the punishment.”
“At my earnest request, the captain of the mast suspended the execution, my brother.”
“You cannot say what is not true, Elzear, but this moment you have made a fatal gift to the captain of the mast.”
“Pierre, remember that I alone am responsible. Pardon, I pray—”
“Holy Cross!” cried the commander, impetuously, “for the first time since I have commanded this galley, shall I pardon, in the same day, two of the gravest faults that can be committed: the revolt of a slave against a subordinate officer, and the want of discipline in the subordinate officer toward his chief? No, no, that is impossible!” The commander took a whistle from his belt and blew a shrill note through the little silver tube.
A page clothed in black appeared at the door.
“The captain of the mast!” said the commander, abruptly. The page went out.
“Ah, my brother, will you be altogether without pity?” cried Elzear, in a tone of sad reproach.
“Without pity?” and the commander smiled bitterly, “yes, without pity for the faults of others, as for my own faults.”
The priest, remembering the terrible chastisement that his brother had just inflicted upon himself, realised that such a man must be inexorable in the observance of discipline, and bowed his head, renouncing all hope.
The captain of the mast entered.
“You will remain eight nights in irons on the rambade,” said the commander.
The sailor bowed respectfully, without uttering a word.
“Let the chaplain and surgeon be informed that the Moor is to be chastised on the chase-gun.”
The captain of the mast bowed more profoundly still and disappeared.
“I, at least, will not abandon this poor wretch!” cried Father Elzear, rising hurriedly in order to accompany him.
The good brother went out, and Pierre des Anbiez resumed his slow promenade in his chamber.
From time to time his eyes were attracted, in spite of himself, by the fatal portrait of the man for whose murder he suffered such remorse.
Then his steps became irregular and his face became sad and gloomy again.
For the first time perhaps in many years, he felt a thrill of pain at the thought of the cruel suffering the Moor was about to undergo.
This punishment was just and deserved, but he remembered that the unhappy captive had been, up to that time, gentle, submissive, and industrious. Yet such was the inflexibility of his character that he reproached himself for this involuntary pity, as a culpable weakness.
Finally the solemn flourishes of the trumpets of the galley announced that the execution was finished. He heard the slow and regular step of the soldiers and sailors, who were breaking ranks after having assisted at the punishment.
Soon Father Elzear entered, pale, dismayed, his eyes bathed in tears, and his cassock stained with blood.
“Ah, my brother! my brother! if you assisted at these executions, never in your life could you have the heart to order them.”
“And the Moor?” asked the commander, without replying otherwise to his brother.
“I held his poor hands in mine; he endured the first blows with heroic resignation, closing his eyes to arrest the tears, and saying nothing but, ‘My good father, do not abandon me’. But when the pain became intolerable, when the blood began to gush out under the thongs, the unhappy man seemed to concentrate all his powers upon one thought, which might give him courage to endure this martyrdom. His face took on an expression of painful ecstasy; then he seemed to conquer pain, even to defy it, and cried, with an accent which came from the very depths of his paternal heart, ‘My son! my son! Acoub, my beloved child!’”
As he told of the punishment and last words of the Moor, Father Elzear could no longer restrain his tears; he wept as he continued:
“Ah, Pierre, if you had heard him—if you only knew with what passionate feeling he uttered those words, ‘My son! my beloved child,’ you would have had pity on this poor father, whom they have carried off in a state of unconsciousness.”
What was the astonishment of Father Elzear, when he saw the commander, overwhelmed with emotion, hide his head in his hands and cry, sobbing convulsively:
“A son! a son! I, too, have a son!”