Our Lady of the Pillar

by Eça de Queirós

The knight started so sharply in his astonishment, pulling back the reins, that his good horse reared up as if struck by the same fright. 'With me to Cabril?’ The man bent his spine, displaying all the bones sharper than the teeth of a saw through a long rent in his tammy shirt. 'Sir,’ he prayed, 'deny me not, for I shall receive a great reward if I do you a great service.’ Then it suddenly occurred to Don Ruy that that might well be some dreadful trick of the Demon, and fixing his piercing eyes on the dead face which was upraised to him, anxiously awaiting his consent, he slowly made a large Sign of the Cross. The hanged man bent his knees with startled reverence. 'Why do you try me with that Sign, sir? By it alone we obtain remission, and from it alone I hope for mercy.’ Then Don Ruy thought that if that man was not sent by the Demon, he might well be sent by God, and so, straightway, devoutly, with a gesture of submission in which he abandoned all to Heaven, he consented and accepted his awful companion.

'Come with me, then, to Cabril, if God sends you, but I shall ask you no questions, and you must ask none of me!’

He took his horse down the road all lighted up by the moon. The hanged man followed at his side with such airy steps that, even when Don Ruy galloped, he kept touching his stirrup, as if he were borne along by a silent wind. Now and then, to breathe freely, he pulled back the knot of the cord that was twisted round his neck, and as they were passing between hedges where the scent of wild-flowers was wafted about, the man murmured with extraordinary relief and delight, 'How good it is to run!’ Don Ruy was filled with amazement and a torment of care. He understood clearly now that that was a corpse revived by God for a strange and hidden service. But why did God give him such a terrible companion? To protect him? To prevent Donna Leonor, beloved of Heaven for her piety, from falling into mortal sin? But had the Lord no Angels left in heaven that He must needs employ a man who had paid the death penalty on so divine a mission of such high favour?... Ah, how gladly would he turn his horse towards Segovia were it not for a knight’s gallant loyalty, his pride in never turning back, and his submission to the orders of God which he felt weigh upon him....

From a high part of the road they suddenly caught sight of Cabril, and the towers of the Franciscan Convent showing white in the moonlight, and the farmhouses sleeping among the gardens. Very silently, with never a dog barking behind the gates or from the top of the walls, they descended to the old Roman bridge. In front of the Calvary the hanged man fell on his knees on the flags, lifted up the livid bones of his hands, and remained a long time in prayer, now and again heaving a deep sigh. Afterwards, as they entered the narrow lane, he drank much and took comfort from a spring that ran and sang under the branches of a willow-tree. As the path was very narrow, he walked in front of the knight, his whole body bent, and his arms firmly crossed over his breast, and made not a sound. The moon was mounting high in the heavens, and Don Ruy gazed with bitterness on that full and lustrous disc which shed such indiscreet brightness all around on his secret. Ah! how the night that should have been a divine one was being spoiled! An immense moon was coming out from between the mountains to lighten up everything. A hanged man descended from the gibbet to follow him, and know all. God had so ordained it; but how sad for him to reach the sweet door, sweetly promised, with such an intruder by his side under that brilliantly clear sky!

The hanged man pulled up sharply and raised his arm, from which his sleeve hung in tatters. It was the end of the lane which opened out into a wider and more beaten road: and in front of them the lengthy wall of the Lord of Lara’s quinta showed white, with its belvedere and little stone balconies, the whole covered with ivy. 'Sir,’ murmured the hanged man, respectfully holding Don Ruy’s stirrup, 'the gate by which you must enter the garden is only a few paces from this belvedere. It is best you should leave your horse here, tied to a tree, if you think you can safely trust it, for in the business we are undertaking the mere sound of our footsteps is too much!’ Don Ruy dismounted silently and fastened his horse, which he knew to be faithful and sure, to the trunk of a poplar tree, and, so submissive had he become to that companion imposed by God, that, without further consideration, he followed him touching the wall beaten by the moonlight. The hanged man advanced now with leisurely caution, on bare tiptoe, watching the top of the wall, scrutinising the blackness of the hedge, and stopping to listen for noises which only he perceived—for Don Ruy had never known a night more deeply asleep and dumb. And this fear in one who should have been indifferent to human perils slowly filled the brave knight also with so deep a distrust that he took his dagger from its sheath, folded his cloak round his arm, and walked on guard, with his eyes flashing, as if he were in a place of ambushes and strife. In this manner they arrived at a low door, which the hanged man pushed, and which opened without a creak of the hinges. They penetrated into a walk, on either side of which were thick yews, up to a tank full of water, where leaves of water-lilies floated, which was surrounded by rude stone seats covered by boughs of flowering shrubs. 'That way!’ murmured the hanged man, extending his withered arm. It was an avenue, beyond the tank, vaulted over and darkened by dense and ancient trees. They went down it like shadows in the shade, the hanged man in front, Don Ruy following, very cleverly, without brushing a branch, and scarcely touching the sand with his feet. A slight thread of water purled among the lawns, and climbing roses grew up the tree-trunks and gave a sweet smell. Don Ruy’s heart began again to beat with loving hope. 'Hush!’ uttered the hanged man. Don Ruy almost stumbled over the sinister creature, who stopped short with arms outstretched like the bars of a gate. In front of them, four stone steps mounted to a terrace, where the light was full without a shadow. Crouching down they clambered up the steps, and at the end of a treeless garden full of well-fashioned flower-beds, edged by short box, they espied one side of the house beaten by the full moon. In the middle, between the breast-high windows, which were closed, a stone balcony, with pots of basil at the corners, had its glass windows opened wide. The room inside was blotted out, and made a dark gap in the bright façade bathed by the moonlight; and leaning against the balcony was a ladder with rungs of cord. Then the hanged man sharply pushed Don Ruy away from the steps into the darkness of the avenue, and there, in a pressing manner, dominating the knight, exclaimed: 'Sir! it is best that you should give me your hat and cloak now! Stay you, very still, here in the darkness of these trees, and I will go and mount that ladder and peep at that room, and, if it be as you desire, I will return here, and God make you happy.’ Don Ruy recoiled in horror at the idea of such a creature mounting to that window. He stamped his foot and cried quietly: 'No, by God.’ But the hand of the hanged man, livid in the darkness, roughly tore his hat from his head, and pulled his cloak from his arm, and now he covered himself, now he wrapped himself up, murmuring in anxious supplication: 'Don’t deny it me, sir, for if I do you a great service, I shall gain a great reward.’ And he climbed the steps—he was on the broad, illuminated terrace. Don Ruy, dazed, went up and watched, and—oh, wonderful!—that man was himself, Don Ruy, all himself, in figure and gait, as he advanced between the flower-beds and the short box, lightly and gracefully with his hand on his girdle, his face lifted smilingly towards the window, and the long scarlet plume of his hat swaying in triumph. The man went forward through the splendid moonlight. The chamber of love was there waiting, open and dark. Don Ruy gazed with flashing eyes, and trembled with amazement and anger. The man had reached the ladder; he unwound his cloak, and set his foot on the cord rung. 'Oh! there he is going up, the villain!’ roared Don Ruy. The hanged man went up, and now the tall figure which was his, Don Ruy’s, was half way up the ladder, and made a black patch against the white wall. He stopped!—no! he had not stopped; he mounted—he reached the top—now he had carefully rested his knee on the rounded edge of the balcony. Don Ruy gazed despairingly, with his eyes, his soul, and all his being. And lo! suddenly a black figure rises out of the dark room, a furious voice shouts, 'Villain, villain!’ and the blade of a dagger rises and falls, and again rises, shines again and comes down, and once more shines, and once more is driven in! Like a bundle the hanged man falls heavily from the top of the ladder onto the soft earth. The glass windows and doors of the balcony are immediately shut to with a crash, and there is nothing more but the silence, the gentle calm, and the moon high up and round in the summer sky. In a flash Don Ruy had comprehended the treason, drawn his sword and retreated to the darkness of the avenue, when—oh, wonder! the hanged man appears running across the terrace, seizes his sleeve, and cries to him: 'To horse, sir, and let us be off, for the meeting was not one of love but of death!’ They both descend the avenue at full speed, hug the tank, under the protection of the flowering shrubs, plunge into the narrow walk edged with yews, pierce the gate, and stop for a moment out of breath in the road, where the moon, now fuller and more refulgent, turned night into day. And then, only then, did Don Ruy discover that the hanged man still had the dagger nailed in his breast up to the guard, while the point, shining smooth and clean, issued from his back!... But immediately the terrible man pushed and hurried him: 'To horse, sir, and let us be off, for treason is still upon us!’ Terror-struck, and burning to close that adventure full of miracles and horrors, Don Ruy plucked up the reins and rode off full tilt, and straightway, in great haste, the hanged man leapt also onto the crupper of the faithful horse. The good knight shivered all over at feeling the contact with his back of that dead body which had been hanged from a gibbet and pierced through by a dagger. With what despair he galloped then along the endless road! But violent as was his career, the hanged man neither moved to one side or the other, but sat rigid on the crupper like a statue on a pedestal, and Don Ruy felt each moment a more freezing cold congealing his shoulders as if he bore on them a sack full of ice. As he passed the Calvary, he murmured: 'Lord aid me!’ Past the Calvary he gave a sudden tremble, in the fancied fear that his funereal companion would remain with him for ever, and that he was destined to gallop over the world in an eternal night bearing a dead man on his crupper.... And he could not contain himself, but shouted behind him, in the wind that struck them like a switch in their career: 'Whither do you wish me to take you?’ The hanged man, leaning his body so much against Don Ruy that he hurt him with the hilt of the dagger, whispered: 'Sir, it is expedient you should leave me on the hill.’ It was a sweet and immeasurable relief for the good knight, for the Hill was near, and its pillars and black beams could already be discerned in the pale light. Soon the trembling horse came to a stand, white with foam, and immediately the hanged man noiselessly slid down from the crupper, and bearing up Don Ruy’s stirrup like a good attendant, his skull uplifted, and his black tongue put further out from between his white teeth, he murmured in respectful supplication: 'Sir, do me now the great favour to hang me once again from my beam.’ Don Ruy trembled with horror. 'For God’s sake! I hang you?’ The man sighed, opening his long arms. 'Sir, it is God’s will, and Hers who is dearest to God!’ Thereupon, in resignation and submission to the commands of the Most High, Don Ruy dismounted and began to follow the man as he mounted pensively towards the hill, bending his back, from which the shining point of the dagger came sticking out. They both stopped under the empty beam. Round about the other beams hung the other carcasses. The silence was sadder and more deep than other earthly silences. The water in the lagoon had grown black. The moon was descending and waning. Don Ruy contemplated the beam where the piece of cord he had cut with his sword was left short in the air. 'How am I to hang you?’ he exclaimed. 'I cannot reach that piece of cord with my hand; nor can I hoist you up there by myself.’ 'Sir,’ replied the man, 'here, in a corner, there ought to be a long roll of cord. You will tie one end of it to this knot I have on my neck; the other end you will throw over the beam, and then, if you pull, you will, with your strength, easily be able to hang me again.’ Both men bending down and walking slowly looked for the roll of cord, and it was the hanged man who found and unrolled it.... Then Don Ruy took off his gloves, and, taught by the man who had learned his lesson well from the executioner, he tied one end of the cord to the noose the man had on his neck, and vigorously threw the other end, which undulated in the air, passed over the beam, and remained suspended close to the ground. Driving in his feet and tightening his arms, the bold knight pulled and hoisted the man until he was there suspended and black in the air like a natural hanged man among the others. 'Are you right as you are?’ Slow and sinking came the voice of the dead man. 'Sir, I am as I ought to be.’ Then to make him fast Don Ruy twisted the cord in stout knots to the stone pillar, and removing his hat and wiping with the back of his hand the sweat that covered him, he contemplated his sinister and miraculous companion. The latter was already rigid as before, with his face hanging down under his falling tresses and his feet stiffened, and the whole of him was smooth and worm-eaten like an ancient carcass. The dagger was still nailed in his breast, and above, two crows slept quietly. 'Now, what more do you want?’ asked Don Ruy, beginning to put on his gloves. From above, the hanged man murmured in a low voice, 'Sir, I earnestly beg you now that, when you reach Segovia, you tell everything faithfully to Our Lady of the Pillar, your Godmother, for I expect a great favour from her for my soul in exchange for this service that at her command has been done you by my body!’ Then Don Ruy de Cardenas understood all, and, devoutly kneeling on the ground of sorrow and death, said a long prayer for that good hanged man. Afterwards he galloped towards Segovia. The morning was growing light when he passed through the gate of St. Mauros, and the clear bells were ringing for matins in the pure air. Entering into the Church of Our Lady of the Pillar, still in disarray after his terrible journey, Don Ruy, prostrate before the altar, told his divine Godmother of the wicked design that had taken him to Cabril, and the help he had received from Heaven, and with warm tears of repentance and gratitude, swore to her that he would never more set his desire in the way of sin, nor open his heart to thoughts that came from the world and from evil.

III

At that hour, in Cabril, Don Alonso de Lara, with eyes standing out with wonder and terror, was searching diligently all the walks and nooks and shades of his garden. When, after listening at the door of the room where he had shut up Donna Leonor that night, he slily descended at dawn into the garden and did not encounter the body of Don Ruy de Cardenas below the balcony, close to the ladder, as he had expected with delight, he felt certain that the hateful man after falling down had, with his little remnant of life, dragged himself along, bleeding and gasping, in the attempt to reach his horse, and get away from Cabril. But the villain would not drag himself for many yards with that stout dagger which he had thrice buried in his breast, and had left there, and he must be lying in some corner cold and stiff.

Then he searched again and again in every path, every shadow and every mass of shrubs, and, wonderful to say! he discovered neither the body, nor footprints, nor earth that had been disturbed, nor even a track of blood on the soil! And yet with a sure hand, thirsting for vengeance, he had thrice driven the dagger into the man’s breast and there had left it! And the man he had killed was Don Ruy de Cardenas, for he had recognised him well straight away from the dark depths of the room where he was watching when he crossed the terrace under the moonlight, confident and gay, with his hand on his girdle, and his face uplifted with a smile, and the feather in his hat tossing in triumph. How could so extraordinary a thing be—a mortal body survive a dagger that had thrice pierced its heart and remained nailed there? And the greater marvel was that that strong body, though it had fallen like a bundle, heavily and inertly from such a height, had left not a mark on the ground below the verandah where a strip of wallflowers and lilies ran along the wall! Not a flower was crushed—all were erect and full of life, as if freshly out, with light drops of dew! Don Alonso de Lara stopped there, motionless with surprise, almost with terror, contemplating the balcony, measuring the height of the ladder, staring at those wallflowers, erect and fresh, without a stem or leaf bent. Next he began again a mad race down the terrace, the avenue, and the yew-path, still in hopes of finding a footprint, a broken branch, or a stain of blood on the fine sand. Nothing! The whole garden exhibited an unaccustomed order and fresh neatness, as if neither the wind that strips the leaves, nor the sun that withers, had ever passed over it. Then as evening was coming on, devoured by uncertainty and the mystery of the thing, he took horse and, without squire or groom, departed for Segovia. Bent and secretly, like a fugitive, he entered his palace by the orchard door, and his first care was to hasten to the vaulted gallery, unbar the shutters of the windows, and greedily spy the house of Don Ruy de Cardenas. All the latticed windows of the Archdeacon’s old dwelling were dark and open, breathing the freshness of the night; and seated on a stone bench at the door, a stable-youth lazily tuned his guitar. Don Alonso de Lara went down to his room livid, thinking that certainly no misfortune could have happened in a house where all the windows were open to cool it, and where servants were amusing themselves at the street door. Then he clapped his hands and angrily called for supper, and as soon as he was seated at the head of the table, in his tall chair of carved leather, he sent for the steward, and at once offered him a cup of old wine with unusual familiarity. Whilst the man drank respectfully, standing the while, Don Alonso, drawing his fingers through his beard and forcing his sombre face to a smile, asked for the news and rumours of Segovia. Had any event caused surprise and murmuring in the city during these days of his stay in Cabril?... The steward wiped his lips and affirmed that nothing had occurred in Segovia that was being talked about, unless it was that the daughter of Don Gutierres, the young and rich heiress, had taken the veil in the Convent of the Barefooted Carmelites. Don Alonso insisted, fixing his eyes greedily on the steward. And had not there been a great quarrel?... had not a well-known young knight been found wounded on the Cabril road?... The steward shrugged his shoulders; he had heard nothing in the city of quarrels or wounded knights. With a rough gesture Don Alonso dismissed the steward, and, after a spare supper, he returned at once to the gallery to watch the windows of Don Ruy. They were now closed; in the end one at the corner shone a trembling light. All the night Don Alonso watched, tirelessly revolving in his mind the same wonderment. How could that man have escaped with his heart transfixed by a dagger? How could he?... When morning dawned, he got a cloak and large hat and descended, all muffled up and concealed, into the square, and remained patrolling in front of Don Ruy’s house. The bells rang for matins. Tradesmen in ill-buttoned jerkins came out to raise the shutter-doors of their shops and hang out their signs. Market-gardeners, urging on their donkeys laden with baskets, were already shouting their cries of fresh vegetables; bare-footed friars, with their wallets on their shoulders, begged an alms and gave their blessing to the girls; and cloaked beatas, with great black rosaries, threaded their way greedily towards the church. Then the city crier stopped at a corner of the square, sounded a horn, and in a powerful voice began to read a proclamation. The Lord of Lara had stopped, gaping, near the fountain, as though enraptured by the song of the three spouts of water. Suddenly it occurred to him that that proclamation, read by the city crier, perhaps referred to Don Ruy—to his disappearance.... He ran to the corner of the square, but the man had already rolled up his paper and majestically departed, beating on the pavement with his white staff. When he turned round to spy the house again, lo! his astonished eyes encountered Don Ruy—Don Ruy whom he had killed—coming walking to the Church of Our Lady, gaily and airily, lifting a smiling face in the fresh morning air, wearing a bright jerkin and bright plumes, one of his hands resting on his girdle, the other absently twirling a stick with tassels of golden braid! Then, with halting, aged steps, Don Alonso went back to the house. At the top of the stone staircase he met his old chaplain, who had come to greet him, and who penetrated with him into the antechamber, and, after respectfully asking for news of Donna Leonor, at once told him of an extraordinary event which was causing serious murmuring and surprise in the city. Late the evening before, when the Corregedor went to visit Gallows Hill, because the Feast of the Holy Apostles was drawing nigh, he had discovered, to his great amazement and scandal, that one of the hanged men had a dagger nailed in his breast! Was it some wicked rogue’s jest? A vengeance that not even death had sated?... And to make the prodigy greater still, the body had been taken down from the gibbet, dragged in some vegetable or flower-garden, since tender leaves had been found clinging to the old rags, and afterwards had been hanged again, and with a new rope!... And such, then, was the turbulence of the times that not even the dead escaped outrage! Don Alonso listened, with hands trembling and hair on end. And immediately, in an anguish of agitation, shouting and stumbling against the doors, he wanted to set off and verify the dismal profanation with his own eyes. On two mules, hurriedly caparisoned, they both started away for Gallows Hill, he and the astounded chaplain, whom he dragged after him. A large concourse of the people of Segovia had already collected on the hill, gazing on the marvellous horror—the dead man who had been slain!... They all stepped aside for the noble Lord of Lara, who hurled himself up the ridge and stood and gazed, staring and livid, at the hanged man, and at the dagger which pierced his breast. It was his dagger—it was he who had killed the dead!

He galloped in terror to Cabril, and there shut himself up with his secret, and straightway began to grow yellow and pine away, always keeping at a distance from Donna Leonor, and hiding in the gloomy walks of the garden, murmuring words to the wind, until early one St. John’s Day, a maidservant, returning from the fountain with her pitcher, found him dead below the stone balcony, all stretched out on the ground, with his fingers fixed in the bed of wallflowers, where he seemed to have been raking the soil for a long space, searching....

IV