The Serapion Brethren, Vol. II

by E. T. A. Hoffmann

Edgar wished to speak, but the old gentleman prevented him, assuring him that the slightest exertion would be dangerous to him still. It was natural that he should be surprised at finding himself in such surroundings, but a few words would be sufficient, not only to put him at his ease, but to explain why it had been necessary to place him in this dreary prison.

Edgar now learnt all. When he fell wounded in the breast the intrepid "battle-brethren," in spite of the hotness of the fire, had taken him up and transported him into the town. It happened that in the thick of the confusion Don Rafaele Marchez (this was the old man's name) saw the wounded Edgar, and instead of his being sent to the hospital he was carried to Don Rafaele's own house at once, so that the friend of his Baldassare might have every possible care. His wound was serious enough in itself, but the peculiar danger of his condition was the violent nervous fever, traces of which had previously displayed themselves, which now broke out in all its fury. It is matter of notoriety that a tremendous fire had been kept up on Valenzia for three days and nights with the most terrible effect, that all the terror and horror of this bombardment spread abroad in this city thronged to excess with people--that the self-same populace, excited to fury by the Junta, after insisting that Blake should keep up the defence to the very utmost, turned round and demanded an immediate surrender under the most violent threats--that Blake, with heroic self-command, drove the crowds asunder by Walloon Guards, and then made an honourable capitulation to Souchet. Don Rafaele Marchez would not allow Edgar, sick unto death, to fall into the enemy's hands. As soon as the capitulation was arranged and the enemy within the walls of Valenzia, Edgar was removed to the vault, where he was safe against discovery. "Friend of my sainted Baldassare," (thus he finished his narrative) "be my friend too. Your blood has flowed for my country--every drop of it has fallen seething into my breast, and washed away every vestige of the mistrust which cannot but arise in this fateful time. The same fire which enflames the Spaniard to the most bitter hatred flashes up in his friendship too, making him capable of every deed, every sacrifice, for his ally. My house is occupied by the enemy, but you are in safety, for I swear to you that whatever happens I will rather let myself be buried under the ruins of Valenzia than betray you. Believe me in this."

In the daytime a profound stillness as of the grave reigned around Edgar's room, but in the night he often thought he heard in the distance the echo of soft footfalls, the hollow murmur of many voices together, the opening and shutting of doors, the clatter of weapons. Some subterranean action seemed to be going on during the hours of sleep. Edgar questioned the Franciscan, who only--and that rarely--quitted him for an instant or two, tending him with the most unwearied care. But the Franciscan was of opinion that as soon as Edgar was well he would hear from Don Rafaele what it was that was going on. And this was so. For when Edgar was well enough to leave his bed, Don Rafaele came one night with a lighted torch and begged Edgar to dress and follow him with Father Eusebio, which was the name of the Franciscan, his doctor and nurse.

Don Rafaele led him through a long and rather narrow passage till they came to a closed door, which was opened on Don Rafaele's knocking.

How amazed was Edgar to find himself in a spacious vaulted chamber brilliantly lighted, in which there was a numerous assemblage of persons for the most part of wild, dirty, sullen appearance. In the middle stood a man who, though dressed like the commonest peasant, with wild hair and all the marks of a homeless, nomadic life, had in all his bearing something of the dauntless and the awe-aspiring. The features of his face were noble, and from his eyes flashed a warlike fire which bespoke the hero. To him Don Rafaele conducted his friend, announcing him as the brave young German whom he had rescued from the enemy, and who was prepared to take part in the grand contest for the freedom of Spain. Then Don Rafaele, turning to Edgar, said, "You are here in the heart of Valenzia, which is besieged by our enemies--the hearth on which burns for ever that fire whose unquenchable flame, ever blazing up with renewed vigour, is destined to destroy our accursed foe when the moment comes when, misled by his fallacious successes, he shall surpass himself in defiant arrogance. You are here in the subterranean vaults of the Franciscan Monastery. Along a hundred bye-paths unknown to betrayers the chiefs of the brave make their way to this spot, and hence, as from a focus, they dart in all directions rays which carry death and destruction to foreigners. Don Edgar, we look upon you as one of ourselves. Take your part in the glory of our undertakings."

Empecinado (for the man dressed as a peasant was none other than the renowned Guerilla chieftain)--Empecinado, whose fearless daring formed the theme of many a popular tale amounting to the miraculous--who set at defiance all the efforts of the enemy, like some incarnation of the spirit of vengeance, who when he had vanished without a trace would suddenly burst forth with redoubled force--who at the very moment when the enemy announced the utter annihilation of his bands would suddenly appear at the very gates of Madrid, placing the Pretender's life in danger--this Empecinado took Edgar by the hand, addressing him in enthusiastic words.

At this point in the proceedings a young man was brought in bound. His face, of deathly pallor, wore all the signs of hopeless despair; he was trembling, and appeared to find it difficult to stand upright when placed in the presence of Empecinado. The latter pierced him through and through with his glance of fire, and at length spoke to him, in a tone of the most appalling calmness. "Antonio," he said, "you are in league with the enemy. You have several times had interviews with Souchet, at unusual hours. You endeavoured to hand over, by treachery, our Place d'Armes at Cuença."--"It is so," answered Antonio, with a terrible sigh, not raising his bowed-down head. "Is it possible," cried Empecinado, breaking out into the wildest anger, "is it possible that you are a Spaniard--that the blood of your ancestors runs in your veins? Was not your mother Virtue personified? Would not the slightest suspicion that she was capable of betraying the honour of her house be an atrocious outrage? But for this I should believe you to be a bastard sprung from the most despicable race on earth. You have merited death. Prepare yourself to die."

Antonio threw himself at Empecinado's feet in anguish and despair, crying, "Uncle! uncle! do you not know that all the furies of hell are rending my breast. There are times--often--when the subtlety of Satan can bring anything to pass. Yes, uncle, I am a Spaniard. Let me prove it. Be merciful. Grant that I may blot out the disgrace which the most abominable arts of hell have brought upon me--that I may appear to you and to the Brethren purified from my offence. You understand me, uncle? You know the reason of my so imploring you!"

Empecinado seemed somewhat moved by the young man's entreaties. He raised him, and said gently, "Your repentance is sincere. You are right in saying that the cunning of Satan is able to accomplish much. I know the reason of your entreaty. I pardon you. Son of my dear sister, come to my heart!" Empecinado with his own hands untied his bonds, embraced him, and at once handed to him the dagger from his own girdle. "My thanks," the young man cried. He kissed Empecinado's hands, bedewing them with his tears, then he raised his eyes to heaven in prayer, and drove the dagger deep into his heart, falling dead without a sound.

This occurrence so shook the invalid Edgar that he nearly fainted. Father Eusebio took him back to his chamber.