Tired, at last he returned to his hotel, just before it was dark. The company there were numerous; everybody for miles distant had come to Goa to witness the auto-da-fé,—and everybody was discussing the ceremony.
“I will see this grand procession,” said Philip to himself, as he threw himself on his bed. “It will drive thought from me for a time; and God knows how painful my thoughts have now become. Amine, dear Amine, may angels guard thee!”
Chapter Forty.
Although to-morrow was to end all Amine’s hopes and fears—all her short happiness—her suspense and misery—yet Amine slept until her last slumber in this world was disturbed by the unlocking and unbarring of the doors of her cell, and the appearance of the head gaoler with a light. Amine started up—she had been dreaming of her husband—of happiness! She awoke to the sad reality. There stood the gaoler, with a dress in his hand, which he desired she would put on. He lighted a lamp for her, and left her alone. The dress was of black serge, with white stripes.
Amine put on the dress, and threw herself down on the bed, trying, if possible, to recall the dream from which she had been awakened, but in vain. Two hours passed away, and the gaoler again entered, and summoned her to follow him. Perhaps one of the most appalling customs of the Inquisition is, that after accusation, whether the accused parties confess their guilt or not, they return to their dungeons, without the least idea of what may have been their sentence, and when summoned on the morning of the execution they are equally kept in ignorance.
The prisoners were all summoned by the gaolers from the various dungeons, and led into a large hall, where they found their fellow-sufferers collected.
In this spacious, dimly-lighted hall, were to be seen about two hundred men, standing up, as if for support, against the walls, all dressed in the same black and white serge; so motionless, so terrified were they, that if it had not been for the rolling of their eyes, as they watched the gaolers, who passed and repassed, you might have imagined them to be petrified. It was the agony of suspense, worse than the agony of death. After a time, a wax candle, about five feet long, was put into the hands of each prisoner, and then some were ordered to put on over their dress the Sanbenitos—others the Samarias! Those who received these dresses, with flames painted on them, gave themselves up for lost; and it was dreadful to perceive the anguish of each individual as the dresses were, one by one brought forward, and with the heavy drops of perspiration on his brows, he watched with terror lest one should be presented to him. All was doubt, fear, and horror!
But the prisoners in this hall were not those who were to suffer death. Those who wore the Sanbenitos had to walk in the procession, and receive but slight punishment; those who wore the Samarias had been condemned, but had been saved from the consuming fire, by an acknowledgment of their offence; the flames painted on their dresses were reversed, and signified that they were not to suffer; but this the unfortunate wretches did not know, and the horrors of a cruel death stared them in the face!