"It is the gift of God," thought Alcala, as he first drank eagerly of the contents of the jar, and then pouring some into his hand, moistened with it his feverish brow and aching temples. The refreshment was great, and Alcala's strong will could now for a time master the weakness of nature. Diego, who seemed to think that the fact of their having attacked the same bull formed a kind of link between himself and Alcala, now helped the cavalier to rise to his feet. It was only in a standing posture that Aguilera could make himself heard by his numerous auditors, but he still leaned for support against the friendly wall of the prison.
"I will repeat to you," began Alcala, "the Bible account of the imprisonment, after severe scourging, of the Apostle Paul and Silas his friend and companion. You shall hear how they endured their sufferings, how they prayed and received such an answer from Heaven, that their jailer himself, struck with terror, came trembling and fell at their feet."
This preface commanded the silent attention of those who were themselves inmates of a prison.
Simply, but impressively, Alcala repeated the narrative contained in the sixteenth chapter of Acts; but when he came to the jailer's all-important question, "What must I do to be saved?" the speaker made a solemn pause, and gazed earnestly on the wild dark faces before him.
"What must I do to be saved? is not that question echoed by each one here?" said Alcala, every word welling up from the depths of a soul filled with that love to the Saviour which overflows in love to the souls which His life-blood bought. "Can reason answer that question?" The speaker paused; no voice made reply. "How does the Church of Rome try to answer it? She bids us trust the safety of our undying souls to confession to man, and absolution pronounced by man, to the penance which man may prescribe, to forms and rites and Latin prayers, and the intercessions of those who were themselves but men in need of salvation. In the Romanist Church man comes between the sinner and the Saviour. But what was the answer to the cry, 'What must I do to be saved?' given by the holy apostle whom the Spirit of God inspired?" The prisoner for conscience' sake forgot all but the glorious truth which he uttered when repeating another prisoner's words, "'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved!'"
"Is that message for us too?" asked Diego, whose voice was the first to break the silence which ensued.
"It is for all," cried Alcala; "the offer of mercy embraces all. Will you hear in how singular a manner it was brought home to me?"
The time had not been long past when it would have been impossible to the proud young Spaniard to have owned a weakness, or confessed an error, before such an audience as this. The cavalier would sooner have died than have stooped to place himself on a level with such outcasts as those now before him. But pride, a strong man armed, had been overcome by a stronger than he. Alcala told how his own soul had been darkened by the shadow of death, how the future had seemed a terrible blank, and how life and light and joy had been brought by a single verse from that Book which the Church of Rome would shut out from the people. The cavalier told of the strange coincidence, which to some of his hearers appeared a miracle, by which the torn leaf once flung to the dust, then written upon by himself, had reappeared at the moment when most he needed its message of peace. Then, leaving all personal themes, Alcala spoke of justification by faith, of free pardon offered to rebels, but not that they should continue in their rebellion against a merciful God. Alcala spoke of what that pardon had cost,—of the cross and passion, the agony and bloody sweat, and of the return of love which the redeemed must make for such unutterable love! Scripture truths in Scripture words flowed spontaneously from the lips of Alcala; and while the fervour of the spirit overcame the weakness of the suffering flesh, the Spaniard was indeed as "a dying man preaching to dying men."
The effort could not last long; the address was a brief one, and all the more forcible because it was brief. When Alcala, faint and exhausted, stretched himself on the hard floor of his dungeon, and closed his eyes, he experienced that sweet rest which has been described as "a sense of duty performed." The captive had borne witness for his Master, he had glorified God in the fires, he had been permitted to scatter seeds of life where no sower had ever laboured before. Alcala left the result in the hand of Him who once from a cross spoke the word of grace to a thief.
"Is he sleeping—or dead?" said one of the robbers to Diego, who was nearest to the now prostrate form of Alcala.