The Last Look: A Tale of the Spanish Inquisition

by William Henry Giles Kingston

“A gracious boon, forsooth! And this Church calls itself after the name of the gentle, loving Saviour, who went about doing acts of kindness and mercy, and saving from physical suffering all who came to Him desiring to be cured!”

“I came not to bandy words with you,” cried the monk; “the flames which you will feel to-morrow will give you a foretaste of those you will have to endure throughout eternity as the consequence of your obduracy.”

“Our blessed Lord says, ‘I say unto you, My friends, be not afraid of them which kill the body, and after that have no more than that they can do. But I will forewarn you whom ye shall fear: Fear Him, which after He hath killed hath power to cast into hell; yea, I say unto you, fear Him.’” Herezuelo spoke these words calmly, and added, “Now, friar, I own that you and those you serve can kill my body, but you can do no more: my soul is in the keeping of my loving Saviour; neither the powers of earth nor hell can prevail against it; therefore I am fearless.”

With a curse, the friar turned and left the cell. Herezuelo sought strength in prayer for the fiery trial he was to go through. “It will endure but for a few minutes, and oh, then the eternity of bliss which will follow!” he ejaculated. “Why should I fear? why should I tremble? My trust is in God.”

Ere the sun, rising in a cloudless sky, gilded the spires of the numerous churches of Valladolid, on the 21st of May, 1559, their bells began to toll solemnly, and crowds to assemble in vast numbers in the streets. It was Trinity Sunday; but it was not because it was the Sabbath that the citizens were so early afoot, but there was to be a grand spectacle, looked for with almost the same eagerness as a bull-fight. The first grand auto-da-fé of Protestants was to take place that day, and all the people were eager to gaze at it—most of them for the sake of seeing so many lost and abandoned monsters put out of the world.

For this it was that the people came from all parts of the city and surrounding country into the grand square of Valladolid to witness the spectacle which had been prepared for them by those who impiously called themselves ministers of the loving Jesus. In a short time the whole of the grand square was filled with impatient spectators, except that space occupied by two large platforms between the church of Saint Francis and the house of the Consistory. In front of the town-house, and close to the platform intended for the inquisitors, a large box or deep-covered balcony had been erected for the use of the Royal Family, which they could enter without interruption from the crowd, and from whence they could enjoy a full view of the prisoners. Near it was a high altar, with the usual crucifixes, candlesticks, vases, and other ornaments of the Romish worship, made on this occasion as imposing as possible. In the box sat Doña Juana, Queen-Dowager of Portugal, and governess of the kingdom during the absence of her brother, Philip the Second, in the Netherlands. She was accompanied by her unhappy nephew, Don Carlos, heir-apparent to the throne, then a lad only of fourteen. It is said that on that occasion he vowed an implacable hatred to the Inquisition. To that fell tribunal, there can be little doubt, he became a helpless victim. Intimation of the intended festival had publicly been made in all the churches and religious houses in the neighbourhood. The attendance of the civil authorities and of the clergy was requested; and that the multitude might be encouraged to come, an indulgence of forty days was proclaimed to all who should witness the ceremonies of the act.

While outside preparations were going forward, the officials of the Inquisition were busy within the walls of the prison. The prisoners, being assembled, were clothed in the several dresses in which they were to make their appearance in public. Those who had erred only in a slight degree were clothed simply in black. The other prisoners wore a san-benito, a loose garment of yellow cloth, called in Spanish zamara, and on their heads was placed a high conical pasteboard cap, called coroza. On the dresses of those who were to be strangled were painted flames burning downwards, called fuego revolto, to intimate that they had escaped the fire; while the san-benito and coroza of those doomed to be burnt alive were covered with flames burning upwards, around which were painted devils carrying the faggots or fanning the fire.

Now, on that bright May morning, a procession was to be seen moving forth from the Inquisition of Valladolid. First marched a band of soldiers to clear the way, and then came a number of priests in their gaudy robes—alb, chasuble, tunic, and other garments, the names of which are familiar to modern ears. They were attended by acolytes and boys of various theological colleges, chanting the Litany in alternate choruses. Then came the mournful band of prisoners—those in black first, those marked with the fuego revolto following, and those destined to the flames walking last. Each prisoner was attended by two familiars of the Inquisition, and each of those destined to die, in addition, was accompanied by two friars, who employed all the arguments they could bring forward, all the eloquence they could command, in endeavouring to induce the prisoners to recant and confess their errors. Among the last of the sad band came Antonio Herezuelo. Though his face was pale, he walked with a firm step, and he replied now with a smile, now with a few gentle words, to the exhortations of the two friars. He, as was the case with his companions, had a halter round his neck, and in his hand he carried an extinguished torch, while his companions destined to the stake also carried extinguished torches or crosses. Many trembled and tottered as they moved along; indeed, no one bore himself more bravely than the young advocate. After the prisoners came the local magistrates, the judges, and officers of state, accompanied by a train of nobility on horseback. Then came the secular and monastic clergy; and at some distance, as if they were too great and important to mingle with ordinary people, rode in slow and solemn pomp the members of the Holy Office, preceded by their fiscal, bearing the standard of the Inquisition. That accursed bloodstained banner was composed of red silk damask, on which the names and insignia of Pope Sextus the Fourth, and Ferdinand the Catholic, the founders of the hellish tribunal, were conspicuous; and it was surmounted by a crucifix of massive silver overlaid with gold, which the ignorant populace had been taught to hold in the highest veneration. These were the persons who were to take the chief part in the performances of the day; they were followed by their familiars on horseback, who, with many of the principal gentry of the country, formed their body-guard.

With a few years’ judicious educating by the Jesuits, and a continuance of supineness and incredulity as to Rome’s designs on the part of British Protestants, of which all denominations are guilty, it is not at all impossible that similar scenes may be enacted in England. Ritualistic forms and ceremonies, and public processions, and, still more, the insidious teaching of numbers professing to be ministers of religion, are accustoming the people to a system which must end in their subjugation to sacerdotal despotism.

An immense concourse of people of the lower ranks closed the procession, vociferating to one another, with open eyes and necks stretched out eager to catch a sight of the condemned prisoners and the grand inquisitors as they ascended their respective platforms. The latter took their places, and then the Queen-Regent and the young prince took their places in the royal box, or bed of state, as it was called, surrounded by a number of the chief nobility of the kingdom.