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Speaker 1: The torture by hope by Villiere delis Adam many years ago,

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as evening was closing in the venerable Pedro Abuez de Espila,

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sixth Prior of the Dominicans of Segovia and third Grand

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Inquisitor of Spain, followed by a fra redemptor, and preceded

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by two familiars of the Holy Office. The latter, carrying lanterns,

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made their way to a subterranean dungeon. The bolt of

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a massive door creaked, and they entered a mephitic impache,

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where the dim light revealed between rings fastened to a wall,

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a blood stained rack, a brazier and a jug. On

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a pile of straw loaded with fetters, and his neck

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encircled by an iron carcan sat a haggard man of

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uncertain age clothed in rags. This prisoner was no other

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than Rabbi Assa Abbabknell, a Jew of Arrogan, who accused

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of usury and pitiless scorn for the poor, had been

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daily subjected to torture for more than a year. Yet

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his blindness was as dense as his hide, and he

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had refused to abjure his faith, proud of a filiation

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dating back thousands of years, proud of his ancestors, for

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all Jews worthy of the name are vain of their blood.

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He descended talmudically from Othoniel and consequently from ipsy Boa,

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the wife of the last Judge of Israel, a circumstance

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which had sustained his courage amid incessant torture. With tears

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in his eyes at the thought of this resolute soul

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rejecting salvation, the venerable Pedro Abouz de Espillah, approaching the

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shuddering Rabbi, addressed him as follows, my son, Rejoice, your

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trials here below are about to end. In the presence

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of such obstinacy, I was forced to permit, with deep regret,

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the use of great severity. My task of fraternal correction

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has its limits. You are the fig tree, which, having

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failed so many times to bear fruit, at last withered.

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But God alone can judge your soul. Perhaps infinite mercy

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will shine upon you at the last moment. We must hope.

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So there are examples. So sleep in peace to night.

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To morrow you will be included in the otto d'afay,

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that is, you will be exposed to the Quamadero, the

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symbolical flames of the everlasting fire. It burns, as you

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know only at a distance, My son, and death is

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at least two hours, often three in coming. On account

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of the wet iced bandages with which we protect the

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heads and hearts of the condemned. There will be forty

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three of you placed in the last row. You will

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have time to invoke God and offer to him this

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baptism of fire, which is of the Holy Spirit. Hope

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in the light and rest with these words. Having signed

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to his companions to unchain the prisoner, the prior tenderly

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embraced him. Then came the turn of the fra Redemptor,

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who in a low tone, entreated the Jew's forgiveness for

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what he had made him suffer for the purpose of

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redeeming him. Then the two familiars silently kissed him. This

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ceremony over, the captive was left solitary and bewitched in

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the darkness. Rabbi Assa Arbabanel, with parched lips and visage

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worn by suffering, at first gazed at the closed door

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with vacant eyes closed. The word unconsciously roused a vague

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fancy in his mind. The fancy that he had seen

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for an instant the light of the lanterns through a

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chink between the door and the wall. A morbid idea

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of hope, due to the weakness of his brain, stirred

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his whole being. He dragged himself toward the strange appearance. Then,

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very gently and cautiously, slipping one finger into the crevice,

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he drew the door toward him, marvelous. By an extraordinary accident,

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the familiar who closed it had turned the huge key

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an instant before it struck the stone casing, so that

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the rusty bult not having entered the hole, the door

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again rolled on its hinges. The Rabbi ventured to glance

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outside by the aid of a sort of luminous dusk,

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he distinguished at first a semicircle of walls indented by

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winding stairs, and opposite to him, at the top of

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five or six stone steps, a sort of black portal

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opening into an immense corridor whose first arches only were

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visible from below. Stretching himself flat, he crept to the threshold. Yes,

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it was really a corridor, but endless in length. A

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wan light illuminated it. Lamps suspended from the vaulted ceiling

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lightened at intervals the dull hue of the atmosphere. The

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distance was veiled in shadow. Not a single door appeared

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in the whole extent. Only on one side, the left.

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Heavily grated loopholes sunk in the walls admitted a light

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which must be that of evening. For Crimson bars at

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intervals rested on the flags of the pavement. What a

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terrible silence. Yet yonder, at the far end of that passage,

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there might be a doorway of escape. The jew's vacillating

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hope was tenacious, for it was the last. Without hesitating,

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he ventured on the flags, keeping close under the loopholes,

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trying to make himself part of the blackness of the

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long walls. He advanced, slowly, dragging himself along on his breast,

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forcing back the cry of pain. When some raw wound

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sent a keen pang through his whole body. Suddenly, the

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sound of a sandaled foot approaching reached his ears. He

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trembled violently. Fear stifled him. His sight grew dim Well

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it was over, no doubt. He pressed himself into a niche,

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and half lifeless with terror waited. It was a familiar.

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Hurrying along, he passed swiftly by holding in his clenched

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hand an instrument of torture, a fright figure, and vanished.

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The suspense which the Rabbi had endured seemed to have

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suspended the functions of life, and he lay nearly an

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hour unable to move. Fearing an increase of tortures if

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he were captured, He thought of returning to his dungeon,

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But the old hope whispered in his soul, that divine

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perhaps which comforts us in our sorest trials. A miracle

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had happened, he could doubt no longer. He began to

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crawl toward the chance of escape. Exhausted by suffering and hunger,

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Trembling with pain, he pressed onward. The sepulchral corridor seemed

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to lengthen mysteriously. While he, still advancing, gazed into the gloom,

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where there must be some avenue of escape. Oh Oh,

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he heard again footsteps, but this time they were slower,

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more heavy. The white and black forms of two inquisitors appeared,

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emerging from the obscurity beyond. They were conversing in low

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tones and seemed to be discussing some important subject. For

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they were gesticulating vehemently. At this specter, Rabbi Asser Arbabanel

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closed his eyes. His heart beat so violently that it

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almost suffocated him. His rags were damp with the cold

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sweat of agony. He lay motionless by the wall, his

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mouth wide open, under the rays of a lamp, praying

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to the God of David. Just opposite to him, the

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two inquisitors paused under the light of the lamp, doubtless

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owing to some accident due to the course of their argument. One,

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while listening to his companion, gazed at the rabbi, and

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beneath the look, whose absence of expression, the haplessnes man

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did not at first notice, he fancied. He again felt

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the burning pincers scorch his flesh. He was once more

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a living wound, fainting, breathless, with fluttering eyelids. He shivered

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at the touch of the monk's floating robe. But strange

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yet natural fact, the inquisitor's gaze was evidently that of

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a man deeply absorbed in his intended reply, and ghost

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by what he was hearing. His eyes were fixed and

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seemed to look at the jew without seeing him. In fact,

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after the lapse of a few minutes. The two gloomy

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figures slowly pursued their way, still conversing in low tones,

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toward the place whence the prisoner had come. He had

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not been seen. Amid the horrible confusion of the Rabbi's thought,

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the idea darted through his brain. Can I be already

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dead that they did not see me? Hideous impression roused

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him from his lethargy. In looking at the wall against

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which his face was pressed, he imagined he beheld two

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fierce eyes watching him. He flung his head back in

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a sudden frenzy of fright, his hair fairly bristling. Yet

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no his hand groped over the stones. It was the

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reflection of the inquisitor's eyes, still retained in his own,

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which had been refracted from two spots on the wall.

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Forward he must hasten toward that goal, which he fancied absurdly,

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no doubt, to be deliverance, toward the darkness from which

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he was now barely thirty paces distant. He pressed forward,

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faster on his knees, his hands at full length, dragging

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himself painfully along, and soon entered the dark portion of

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this terrible corridor. Suddenly the poor wretch felt a gust

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of cold air on the hands resting upon the flags.

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It came from under the little door to which the

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two walls led. Oh heaven, if that door should open outward,

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every nerve in the miserable fugitive's body thrilled with hope.

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He examined it from top to bottom, though scarcely able

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to distinguish its outlines in the surrounding darkness. He passed

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his hand over it. No bolt, no lock, a latch.

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He started up, the latch yielded to the pressure of

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his thumb. The door silently swung open before him. How

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Illuliah murmured the Rabbi in a transport of gratitude. As

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standing on the threshold, he beheld the scene before him.

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The door had opened into the gardens above which arched

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a starlit sky into spring, liberty, life. It revealed the

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neighboring field, stretching towards the sierras, whose sinuous blue lines

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were relieved against the horizon. Yonder lay freedom. Oh to escape,

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He would journey all night through the lemngros, whose fragrance

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reached him. Once in the mountains, and he was safe.

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He inhaled the delicious air. The breeze revived him, his

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lungs expanded. He felt in his swelling heart the veni

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foras of Lazarus, and to thank once more the God

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who had bestowed this mercy upon him. He extended his arms,

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raising his eyes toward Heaven. It was an ecstasy of joy.

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Then he fancied he saw the shadow of his arms

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approach him. Fancied that he felt these shadowy arms inclose

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embrace him, and that he was pressed tenderly to some

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one's breast. A tall figure actually did stand directly before him.

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He lowered his eyes and remained motionless, gasping for breath,

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dazed with fixed eyes, fairly driveling with terror horror. He

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was in the clasp of the Grand Inquisitor himself, the

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venerable Pedro Abuez Despilla, who gazed at him with tearful eyes,

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like a good shepherd who had found his stray lamb.

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The dark robed priest pressed the hapless dew to his

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heart with so fervent an outburst of love that the

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edges of the monochal haircloth rubbed the Dominican's breast, and

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while Esa Abarbanel, with protruding eyes, gasped in agony in

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the Ascetic's embrace, vaguely comprehending that all the phases of

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this fatal evening were only a prearranged torture. That of Hope.

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The Grand Inquisitor, with an accent of touching reproach and

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a look of consternation, murmured in his ear, his breath

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parched and burning from long fasting, what, my son, on

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the eve perchance of salvation, you wished to leave us?

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End of the torture by Hope, by Villie delis Adam,