With an impulse I could
not resist,--an impulse borrowed from the horrors of my dream, I flung
myself at his feet, and called on him to “save me.”

“I know not, Sir, nor is it a problem to be solved by human intellect,
whether this inscrutable being had not the power to influence my dreams,
and dictate to a tempting demon the images which had driven me to fling
myself at his feet for hope and safety. However it was, he certainly
took advantage of my agony, half-visionary, half-real as it was, and,
while proving to me that he had the power of effecting my escape from
the Inquisition, proposed to me that incommunicable condition which I am
forbid to reveal, except in the act of confession.”

Here Melmoth could not forbear remembering the _incommunicable
condition_ proposed to Stanton in the mad-house,--he shuddered, and was
silent. The Spaniard went on. “At my next examination, the questions were more eager and earnest than
ever, and I was more anxious to be heard than questioned; so, in spite
of the eternal circumspection and formality of an inquisitorial
examination, we soon came to understand each other. I had an object to
gain, and they had nothing to lose by my gaining that object. I
confessed, without hesitation, that I had received another visit from
that most mysterious being, who could penetrate the recesses of the
Inquisition, without either its leave or prevention, (the judges
trembled on their seats, as I uttered these words);--that I was most
willing to disclose all that had transpired at our last conference, but
that I required to first confess to a priest, and receive absolution. This, though quite contrary to the rules of the Inquisition, was, on
this extraordinary occasion, complied with. A black curtain was dropt
before one of the recesses; I knelt down before a priest, and confided
to him that tremendous secret, which, according to the rules of the
Catholic church, can never be disclosed by the confessor but to the
Pope. I do not understand how the business was managed, but I was called
on to repeat the same confession before the Inquisitors. I repeated it
word for word, saving only the words that my oath, and my consciousness
of the holy secret of confession, forbade me to disclose. The sincerity
of this confession, I thought, would have worked a miracle for me,--and
so it did, but not the miracle that I expected. They required from me
that incommunicable secret; I announced it was in the bosom of the
priest to whom I had confessed. They whispered, and seemed to debate
about the torture. “At this time, as may be supposed, I cast an anxious and miserable look
round the apartment, where the large crucifix, thirteen feet high, stood
bending above the seat of the Supreme. At this moment I saw a person
seated at the table covered with black cloth, intensely busy as a
secretary, or person employed in taking down the depositions of the
accused. As I was led near the table, this person flashed a look of
recognition on me,--he was my dreaded companion,--he was an official now
of the Inquisition. I gave all up the moment I saw his ferocious and
lurking scowl, like that of the tiger before he springs from his jungle,
or the wolf from his den. This person threw on me looks, from time to
time, which I could not mistake, and I dared not interpret;--and I had
reason to believe that the tremendous sentence pronounced against me,
issued, if not from his lips, at least from his dictation.--“You, Alonzo
di Monçada, monk, professed of the order of ----, accused of the crimes
of heresy, apostacy, fratricide, (“Oh no,--no!” I shrieked, but no one
heeded me), and conspiracy with the enemy of mankind against the peace
of the community in which you professed yourself a votary of God, and
against the authority of the holy office; accused, moreover, of
intercourse in your cell, the prison of the holy office, with an
infernal messenger of the foe of God, man, and your own apostatized
soul; condemned on your own confession of the infernal spirit having had
access to your cell,--are hereby delivered to----”

“I heard no more. I exclaimed, but my voice was drowned in the murmur of
the officials. The crucifix suspended behind the chair of the judge,
rocked and reeled before my eyes; the lamp that hung from the ceiling,
seemed to send forth twenty lights. I held up my hands in
abjuration--they were held down by stronger hands. I tried to speak--my
mouth was stopped. I sunk on my knees--on my knees I was about to be
dragged away, when an aged Inquisitor giving a sign to the officials, I
was released for a few moments, and he addressed me in these
words--words rendered terrible by the sincerity of the speaker. From his
age, from his sudden interposition, I had expected mercy. He was a very
old man--he had been blind for twenty years; and as he rose to speak my
malediction, my thoughts wandered from Appius Claudius of
Rome,--blessing the loss of sight, that saved him from beholding the
disgrace of his country,--to that blind chief Inquisitor of Spain, who
assured Philip, that in sacrificing his son, he imitated the Almighty,
who had sacrificed his Son also for the salvation of mankind.--Horrid
profanation! yet striking application to the bosom of a Catholic. The
words of the Inquisitor were these: “Wretch, apostate, and
excommunicate, I bless God that these withered balls can no longer
behold you. The demon has haunted you from your birth--you were born in
sin--fiends rocked your cradle, and dipt their talons in the holy font,
while they mocked the sponsors of your unsanctified baptism. Illegitimate and accursed, you were always the burden of the holy
church; and now, the infernal spirit comes to claim his own, and you
acknowledge him as your lord and master. He has sought and sealed you as
his own, even amid the prison of the Inquisition. Begone, accursed, we
deliver you over to the secular arm, praying that it may deal with you
not too severely.” At these terrible words, whose meaning I understood
but too well, I uttered one shriek of agony--the only _human_ sound ever
heard within the walls of the Inquisition. But I was borne away; and
that cry into which I had thrown the whole strength of nature, was
heeded no more than a cry from the torture room. On my return to my
cell, I felt convinced the whole was a scheme of inquisitorial art, to
involve me in self-accusation, (their constant object when they can
effect it), and punish me for a crime, while I was guilty only of an
extorted confession. “With compunction and anguish unutterable, I execrated my own beast-like
and credulous stupidity. Could any but an idiot, a driveller, have been
the victim of such a plot? Was it in nature to believe that the prisons
of the Inquisition could be traversed at will by a stranger whom no one
could discover or apprehend?