In furthest Ind

by Sydney C. Grier

In such trifling thoughts, and in gaping and staring about me, the time passed away, and the sermon being over, there come into the pulpit, one after the other, two persons to whom it pertained to read out the accusations brought against the prisoners, and the punishments that were adjudged to ’em. Last of all, as in the order of place, come those destined to the flames, whose processes when he had read, the officer went on to repeat that notorious and hypocritical saying—viz., that since the Inquisition dared not show mercy to these persons on the account of their impenitence, and found itself indispensably obliged to punish them according to the rigour of the law, it delivered them over to the secular arm and justice, whom it earnestly entreated to use clemency and mercy towards these miserable wretches, and that if there should be imposed upon them the penalty of death, it might at the least be carried out without effusion of blood. And as the name of each unfortunate was read (all having their name and crime wrote upon their samarras), he was led up to the lower altar, and there the alcaide of the Holy House held him while as the rest was said. And all having been gone through, the alcaide struck him a light blow on the breast, whereupon the tipstaff of the lay court seized and led him away. And this they call delivering him to the secular power, since the Inquisition has no authority to take life. And I saw that some of the condemned, that were said to have refused to confess their crimes, but yet to have submitted themselves humbly to the Inquisition, and acknowledged the doctrine of Holy Church, had their sentences changed from burning to branding and the galleys, whereupon their godfathers did testify extreme delight, embracing them and making them very many compliments. But with me there was neither embracing nor compliments, and my godfather led me away sullenly enough.

Thus we went again through the streets, passing always fresh crowds of people, until we come to that same bridge where I had stood with Father Sebastian and Dom Lewis and his cousin on that day wherein I was arrested. So then we reached the burning-place, and the Viceroy and his court was set in their stone seats, and the Grand Inquisidor in his tribune, and the people of the poorer sort pressing everywhere around. And in the midst was the stakes set up, one for each person of those condemned to be burned, and piled about ’em was faggots of wood and furzes. Then before they attempted anything against any of us, there was many ceremonies necessary to be performed, such as his highness’ rehearsing afresh his oath of office, and the like, while as the priests were most zealously exhorting us to recant and confess before it should be too late. Then they demanded of us in turn in what religion we wished to die, and to those that declared they died Catholics, it was granted that they should be strangled before they were burnt. But I declared myself to die as I had lived, a Protestant, and so prepared myself for that last and greatest torment.

But on a sudden, as I stood there, waiting to be led and fastened to my stake, I observed a stir in the crowd, and certain men on the outskirts thereof crying something with loud voices. Then all the people swayed and eddied hither and thither, and some cried one thing, and some another, and then the crowd began to melt away, like a heap of sand when the waves reach it, and the voice of their crying came to us where we stood, and sent the hands of all the nobles and gentlemen to their swords, and set all the common sort shrieking and treading down one another, in their desire to flee. For they were crying—

“Seva Gi! Seva Gi! the Morattys are coming!” in all their outlandish tongues.

Then, when all around that were not fled were turning their eyes across the river, for to discover the original of this tumult, I felt myself suddenly severed from those unfortunates among whom I stood, and surrounded altogether by a company of men, that wore the slops^[78] and doublets of our English sailors. And before I had time to think what this might mean, they had cut the cord that bound my hands, and torn off from me that shameful dress, the samarra and carocha, and flung it over the gentleman of Goa that had the ill-luck to be called my godfather, and elbowed and nudged him out of their way. Then he that seemed the chief among them wrapped me in a cloak, for to hide the strange striped habit that I still wore, and said in a hoarse whisper in my ear—

“Stoop, Master Ned; stoop, and we will hide you among us. You are too tall.”

This I did, though still in an extreme confusion of mind, and the troop of sailors gathered round me, and, keeping close together, pushed through the crowd, swaggering mightily, and using their fists not a little, and reviling the Portugals in good round English for not making a way for them. Thus we passed through the crowd, that was now thronging every street and bridge that led from the burning-place, and pouring into the city itself. Prisoners and tipstaves and nobles and officers and godfathers were all pressed and thwacked together, and all ran and cried to take refuge in the fortress, and to shut the gates on the Morattys. Now all this seemed very greatly to divert the honest fellows that had me in charge, so that I heard them laughing and jesting among themselves as if the whole matter were but a play. But when at last we got clear of the bridges and causeys, and come to the place where a ship’s boat was moored with two men left in her, they stopped for a moment, and mounted upon a great pile of timber that lay hard by for to see better. Then as they became quiet, looking and hearkening, there seemed to be borne to me upon the air the sound of fighting, and a great cry, as of rage or victory, that was in no Christian tongue, but had the sound of—

“Hoor! Hoor! Mohawdio!”^[79] and this we heard again and again.

Then he that seemed the chief of the seamen swore a great oath, and came down from the wood-pile with a pale face, for, “On my life” (says he), “the Morattys are really there.”

“And why not there, sir?” says I. “Sure that is what the people have been crying all the time.”