“We must not ask for justice at the hands of the Almighty,” urged Ignacio; “We are all born in sin, in sin we all live; mercy is what we must pray for."
“Mercy!” I exclaimed; “Why was I born in sin? Why led to commit crime? Why....”
“Your unbridled passions led you to transgress the laws of your Creator,” replied Ignacio; “be thankful that you were not cut short in your mad career, and that time has been allowed you for repentance.”
“Repent!—I cannot—I have ever denied, I cannot now believe in the existence of a Maker.”
“Unhappy man!” ejaculated the worthy priest; “unhappy, impious, inconsistent man! You deny the existence of the Being against whose justice your voice was raised e’en now in reproaches! Do you not look forward to behold again to-morrow the bright luminary round which this atom of a world revolves? Look on that pale moon, which perhaps you now see rising for the last time—Observe that fiery meteor which has this moment dashed through the wondrous, boundless firmament; and ask yourself if this admirable system can be the effect of accident? Do the trees yearly yield us their fruits by chance? Is the punctual return of the seasons a mere casualty? If so, how is it that this accidental atom—this globe we inhabit, has so long held together without accident? Has any work of man, however cunningly devised, in like manner withstood the effects of time? Is not the protecting hand of the Deity clearly perceptible in the unvarying continuance of these phenomena?
“My son, had you studied the Holy Scriptures more, and the philosophy of Voltaire and other infidels less, you would not have been brought to this strait; neither would you have shocked my ears with a confession, which, a few years since, would have consigned you to the dungeons of the Inquisition. Repent! unhappy man, repent! and save your soul—there is still time. Nay, an omnipotent Maker may even yet think fit to prolong your life here below, for the perfection of this good work, if you will but pray to him in all sincerity.”
The pious father saw that I was touched, and, pouring in promises of future happiness, brought me to reflect. I begged him to be with me early on the following morning. He came; I had passed the night in prayer; and now unburdened my mind, by making to him a full confession of my sins.
Ignacio remained comforting me, until the hour of the arrival of the post, when he repaired, as usual, to the Corregidor, to ascertain whether any pardon had reached him. He returned not, however. Eleven o’clock was the hour fixed for my execution; it came, but still Ignacio did not appear. Hours passed away, and not a soul visited me; the sun again sank below the horizon, and I yet lived.
It was evident—so, at least, I thought—that a pardon had arrived, and my spirits rose accordingly. At length, towards nightfall, Ignacio entered my cell. “Blas,” he said, “though it would appear there is no longer a chance of your receiving a pardon, yet your life has been miraculously spared this day, to give you time for repentance. I trust you have turned it to good account.”
“How!” I exclaimed, “have I not been pardoned? What, then, has occasioned this delay?”