Happy had it been for the wretched Hinzára had this insensibility to mundane ills been the perpetual sleep of death! But inscrutable, my friend, are the ways of Providence! The innocent victim of this fiendish plot woke only to the torments of the Inquisition!—Oh that an institution, ordained to effect so much good, should in this instance have been the means of inflicting such unmerited anguish! But what human works are all perfect?
I must not attempt, Don Carlos, to raise the veil that covered the events which followed. The disappearance of Hinzára, whose virtues yet more than her beauty caused her to be universally beloved, excited much solicitude. But time swept on; and at length all, save one, seemed to have forgotten the existence of the ill-fated maiden. That one, however, persisted in his endeavours to trace her out; and, dangerous as was the attempt, to penetrate even the secrets of the Holy Inquisition. But all his efforts were unavailing.
Still, however, Ramiro clung to the idea that she had not been removed from Ronda; and despising the alluring prospects of wealth and distinction, at that time held out by the discovery of a new world, he remained rooted to the spot. At length his sad presentiment was but too truly realized. A mysteriously-worded billet, left by an unknown hand, warned him of approaching calamity; shortly after, public notice was given that an execution of heretics was about to take place; and on the appointed day, headmost of the wretched criminals, and clothed in a dress of surge, representing flames and demons,—indicative of her impending fate,—was the hapless daughter of Abenhabuz.
The frantic Ramiro soon distinguished her from the rest. The pile that was to immolate his lovely, innocent Hinzára was already lighted—the criminals destined for execution were about to be given over to the secular power—when, rushing to the feet of the Grand Inquisitor, the proud descendant of the bluest blood in Spain, on his bent knees, supplicated for mercy. With the eloquence of despair, he pleaded her youth, her virtues, her piety;—but, alas! he pleaded in vain!—“Let me at least,” said he at length, “make one effort to induce her to confess?—my known loyalty—my birth—my station—entitle me to this boon.”
The Inquisitor was moved;—Ramiro’s entreaties were seconded by a faint murmur that ran through the crowd; and his request was granted, despite the frowns of Don Guiterre, into whose hands, as governor of the city, the condemned were about to pass.
A passage was quickly opened for Ramiro through the dense multitude, and, amidst loud vivas, he flew to his Hinzára. The maiden’s countenance brightened at the approach of her long separated lover. Starting from the posture of prayer, in which she was devoutly attending to the exhortations of one of the holy brotherhood appointed to the sad office of attending her in her last moments—yet not without first raising her eyes in gratitude to the great disposer of all things—“Thanks, beloved Ramiro,” said she, “for this last, convincing proof of affection! I almost fear, however, to ask—didst thou receive my message?”—“I did,” replied her lover; “but let me implore thee, adored Hinzára, to change thy purpose—alas! beloved of my soul, hope not that thy silence will aught avail thy father. Be assured his fate is sealed—nay—I know not but that he may already have been sacrificed; for, during many weeks past, I have in vain sought to gain tidings of him.—Declare then all thou knowest, and at least save thyself, and me—who cannot survive thy loss—from the fate that hangs over us.”——“No, Ramiro,” replied the maiden, in slow but steady accents, “my resolve is fixed. Since there is yet a chance of saving my father, we must part—let us hope to meet again hereafter.—I trust thou hast been able to comply with my desire?”—He motioned assent.—“Then Heaven bless thee, dearest Ramiro! as thou lovest me, obey my last injunctions—return not evil for evil—there is another and a better world—risk not our chance of possessing in it the happiness denied to us here.”
One moment of human weakness succeeded—it was but one—Hinzára’s head fell upon her lover’s breast—her bloodless lips met his for the first—the last time. Recovering herself quickly, “Now, beloved,” she exclaimed, “thy promise!—and thou, oh blessed Saviour, before whose holy image I now, on bended knees, offer up my last supplication!—who seest the pile already laid to torment with infamous publicity thy too weak servant!—plead, oh plead forgiveness for this act, which hastens me, by but a few short moments, into the presence of an omnipotent, all-merciful creator!”
Ramiro listened to the words of the prostrate maiden with intense and agonised attention, and at the conclusion of her short but earnest prayer drew from his breast a glittering poignard—Hinzára snatched it hastily from his hand,—and the next moment fell a corpse at his feet!
The horror of the spectators, at this unlooked-for termination of Ramiro’s interference—the consternation of the officials of the Holy Inquisition—the rage and invectives of the Governor—were such that, amidst the general confusion which ensued, Ramiro, snatching the poignard from the reeking body of his mistress, darted through the crowd, and effected his escape.—Don Guiterre vented his impotent rage on the lifeless body of his victim, by having it burnt, amidst the groans and indignant cries of the assembled multitude.
Every attempt to trace the flight of Don Ramiro failed; but information was eventually received, that an individual answering his description had embarked at Malaga, in a vessel bound to some Italian port.