The Last Look: A Tale of the Spanish Inquisition

by William Henry Giles Kingston

It was six o’clock in the morning, and the sun was already glittering on the gilded crosses and other devices on the tops of the banners, when, the company having taken their places, Francisco Baca, the presiding inquisitor, was seen advancing to the bed of state on which the Regent and her nephew were seated; and then, in an authoritative tone, he proffered to them an oath to support the Holy Office, and to reveal to it everything contrary to the faith which might come to their knowledge. The Prince was seen to hesitate, and not till urged by his aunt would he consent to take the oath. It was the first time such an oath had been exacted from any of the Royal Family. Poor Prince! that look of his sealed his fate!

Antonio Herezuelo, from the moment he saw his wife dragged off by the familiars of the Inquisition, had been kept in utter ignorance of what had become of her. Not a reply could he get from any of the stern familiars who attended him. It vain he petitioned to be told whether she was in their power—whether she was well in health—whether she had been placed under examination. A sinister look was the only answer he received.

“Ay, I must trust in God!” Yes, Antonio, you—all who are in trouble, sickness, or any other adversity—may trust in Him with confidence, assured that He in His good time will bring you out of all your troubles.

As the familiars were clothing the prisoners in their habits of infamy, Herezuelo thought to himself, “How can I more advantageously employ the last moments of my life than by declaring to the misguided people the glad tidings of salvation, by telling them of the Saviour’s love, and that they require no other priest, no other intercessor than He?” Thus resolved to speak, he walked firmly onward to death, like a soldier to the fatal breach; but ere he reached the platform, at a sign from the monks, who had in vain, with all the sophistries they could utter, been endeavouring to shake his faith, one of the familiars thrust a gag into his mouth, which the other secured, and he was rendered speechless. Bitter for an instant was the anguish he felt, but prayer quickly restored to him his serenity.

“See! see! there is his lordship Melchior Cano, Bishop of the Canaries, mounting the pulpit. Listen! he is to preach the sermon,” was repeated by many in the crowd.

In flowing language and sonorous tones the Bishop put forth the claims of the Church of Rome to infallibility. He spoke of the importance of unity, of the crime of heresy and schism; and, finally, he enlarged on the duty of all Catholics to deliver over to justice all who were in the slightest degree guilty of those crimes. The sermon concluded, the clerk of the tribunal read the sentence of the penitents, who, on their knees, and with their hands laid on the Missal, repeated the confession. Those around them stood aside as the presiding inquisitor, descending from his throne, advances to the altar, and absolves the penitents a culpa under the obligation to bear the several punishments which have been awarded, whether banishments, penances, whipping, hard labour, or imprisonment—the deprivation of property being in all cases rigidly enforced, to the great advantage of the inquisitors. The Bishop, then, in a loud voice, administered to all present on the platform, as well as to the surrounding multitude, an oath binding them to live and die in the communion of the Roman Church, and to uphold and defend against all adversaries the tribunal of the Holy Inquisition.

As he spoke the multitude fell on their knees, lowly bowing their heads. Of the vast assemblage two men only were standing, with heads erect and arms folded on their bosoms. They were the martyrs resolved to undergo the fiery trial of the stake rather than disavow one article of their holy faith. They were Antonio Herezuelo, the advocate, and Francisco de Vibero Cazalla, parish priest of Hermigos, who was likewise gagged. There were twelve other unhappy persons condemned to death, but, having confessed, they were allowed the poor favour of being strangled before their bodies were committed to the flames. They, less courageous than the advocate and Francisco Cazalla, were compelled to kneel. But why does Antonio Herezuelo start and cast an inquiring look towards the group of black penitents kneeling near the altar? Before he could cast a second look they were hid from his sight; and now the Bishop of Placencia advances towards the group of those sentenced to death, and with a knife commences the operation of degrading the priests by scraping off the crown of the head the part which was supposed to have received the holy oil at their consecration. Then garment after garment was torn from them, the Bishop pronouncing all the time terrible curses on their heads. This done, the secular judges were summoned to receive the prisoners, and the Inquisitor formally delivered them over into their hands, saying, as he did so, in a hypocritical tone of compassion, “We beseech you to treat these poor people with the utmost commiseration—not to break a bone of their bodies, nor to shed a drop of their blood.” He said this, not only knowing that the prisoners were to be executed, but having especially arranged that they should be so—having, indeed, a few days before, acquainted the judge with the number of prisoners to be delivered over to him, in order that the required quantity of stakes, faggots, and other things necessary for the execution might be in readiness. The canons of the Romish Church, however, denounced against ecclesiastics who should be accessory to the inflicting of any bodily injury, and the above-mentioned expressions were used to avoid the censure of irregularity. The magistrates, on their part, swore that they would faithfully execute the sentences against the persons of the heretics delivered over to them.

All these ceremonies—audacious mockery of justice—occupied several hours; and now the condemned prisoners were compelled to march in front of the royal box, and pass those who had by recanting escaped the extreme penalty of the law. Again Antonio Herezuelo looked eagerly at the black penitents. What an expression of agony was seen to rise on his countenance as he beheld among them his beloved Leonor, the wife of his bosom, formerly united to him, as he supposed, in the one blessed faith and hope which animated his own soul. Who could paint the feelings which passed through his swelling heart? He would have given worlds to have been able to utter a loving entreaty to her again to take hold of the blessed truths of which he was even then reaping the fruition; but the gag prevented him. One prayer he breathed from the depths of his soul for her, and as he passed he cast at her a look of such unutterable agony, yet of such loving reproof and regret, that, like the lightning’s flash, it went to her heart. Well she understood its meaning. “Oh, my beloved Leonor,” it seemed to say, “why did you not seek for grace to hold fast to the truth, and for strength to go through the fiery trial, that, as we have lived happily together on earth, we might have ascended together to be ever with our risen Lord and Saviour?”

Full well she understood that silent appeal. It sunk into her heart. “Yes, yes, my Antonio, I will join you,” she exclaimed, stretching out her hands towards him. In vain she made the attempt to rush into his arms, for the cruel familiars held her back. In vain she struggled. She saw that to join her beloved lord in life was hopeless. She drew herself up with dignity. “Inquisitors, I will die with my husband,” she exclaimed. “I renounce for ever the gross errors of the Romish faith, which I have been induced to assume. I am ready to die as a true Protestant—a believer in the simple truths of the Gospel.”

“Away with her! Away with her to prison!” cried the Inquisitor. “She is mad; she is beside herself!”