At the close of twilight, every steeple in the city was vibrating
with the tolls of their well-plied bells. I was in an upper room of the
house. There was but one window; but, hiding myself behind the blind,
which I withdrew from time to time, I had a full view of the spectacle. The house of the Jew looked out on an open space, through which the
procession was to pass, and which was already so filled, that I wondered
how the procession could ever make its way through such a wedged and
impenetrable mass. At last, I could distinguish a motion like that of a
distant power, giving a kind of indefinite impulse to the vast body that
rolled and blackened beneath me, like the ocean under the first and
far-felt agitations of the storm. “The crowd rocked and reeled, but did not seem to give way an inch. The
procession commenced. I could see it approach, marked as it was by the
crucifix, banner, and taper--(for they had reserved the procession till
a late hour, to give it the imposing effect of torch-light.) And I saw
the multitude at a vast distance give way at once. Then came on the
stream of the procession, rushing, like a magnificent river, between two
banks of human bodies, who kept as regular and strict distance, as if
they had been ramparts of stone,--the banners, and crucifixes, and
tapers, appearing like the crests of foam on advancing billows,
sometimes rising, sometimes sinking. At last they came on, and the whole
grandeur of the procession burst on my view, and nothing was ever more
imposing, or more magnificent. The habits of the ecclesiastics, the
glare of the torches struggling with the dying twilight, and seeming to
say to heaven, We have a sun though yours is set;--the solemn and
resolute look of the whole party, who trod as if their march were on the
bodies of kings, and looked as if they would have said, What is the
sceptre to the cross?--the black crucifix itself, trembling in the rear,
attended by the banner of St Dominick, with its awful inscription.--It
was a sight to convert all hearts, and I exulted I was a Catholic. Suddenly a tumult seemed to arise among the crowd--I knew not from what
it could arise--all seemed so pleased and so elated. “I drew away the blind, and saw, by torch-light, among a crowd of
officials who clustered round the standard of St Dominick, the figure of
my companion. His story was well known. At first a faint hiss was heard,
then a wild and smothered howl. Then I heard voices among the crowd
repeat, in audible sounds, “What is this for? Why do they ask why the
Inquisition has been half-burned?--why the virgin has withdrawn her
protection?--why the saints turn away their faces from us?--when a
parricide marches among the officials of the Inquisition. Are the hands
that have cut a father’s throat fit to support the banner of the cross?”
These were the words but of a few at first, but the whisper spread
rapidly among the crowd; and fierce looks were darted, and hands were
clenched and raised, and some stooped to the earth for stones. The
procession went on, however, and every one knelt to the crucifixes as
they advanced, held aloft by the priests. But the murmurs increased too,
and the words, “parricide, profanation, and victim,” resounded on every
side, even from those who knelt in the mire as the cross passed by. The
murmur increased--it could no longer be mistaken for that of adoration. The foremost priests paused in terror ill concealed--and this seemed the
signal for the terrible scene that was about to follow. An officer
belonging to the guard at this time ventured to intimate to the chief
Inquisitor the danger that might be apprehended, but was dismissed with
the short and sullen answer, “Move on--the servants of Christ have
nothing to fear.” The procession attempted to proceed, but their
progress was obstructed by the multitude, who now seemed bent on some
deadly purpose. A few stones were thrown; but the moment the priests
raised their crucifixes, the multitude were on their knees again, still,
however, holding the stones in their hands. The military officers again
addressed the chief Inquisitor, and intreated his permission to disperse
the crowd. They received the same dull and stern answer, “The cross is
sufficient for the protection of its servants--whatever fears you may
feel, I feel none.” Incensed at the reply, a young officer sprung on his
horse, which he had quitted from respect while addressing the Suprema,
and was in a moment levelled by the blow of a stone that fractured his
skull. He turned his blood-swimming eyes on the Inquisitor, and died. The multitude raised a wild shout, and pressed closer. Their intentions
were now too plain. They pressed close on that part of the procession
among which their victim was placed. Again, and in the most urgent
terms, the officers implored leave to disperse the crowd, or at least
cover the retreat of the obnoxious object to some neighbouring church,
or even to the walls of the Inquisition. And the wretched man himself,
with loud outcries, (as he saw the danger thickening around him), joined
in their petition. The Suprema, though looking pale, bated not a jot of
his pride. “These are my arms!” he exclaimed, pointing to the crucifixes,
“and their inscription is εν-τουτω-νικα. I forbid a sword to be drawn,
or a musket to be levelled. On, in the name of God.” And on they
attempted to move, but the pressure now rendered it impossible. The
multitude, unrepressed by the military, became ungovernable; the crosses
reeled and rocked like standards in a battle; the ecclesiastics, in
confusion and terror, pressed on each other. Amid that vast mass, every
particle of which seemed in motion, there was but one emphatic and
discriminate movement--that which bore a certain part of the crowd
strait on to the spot where their victim, though inclosed and inwrapt by
all that is formidable in earthly, and all that is awful in spiritual
power--sheltered by the crucifix and the sword--stood trembling to the
bottom of his soul. The Suprema saw his error too late, and now called
loudly on the military to advance, and disperse the crowd by any means. They attempted to obey him; but by this time they were mingled among the
crowd themselves. All order had ceased; and besides, there appeared a
kind of indisposition to this service, from the very first, among the
military. They attempted to charge, however; but, entangled as they were
among the crowd, who clung round their horses hoofs, it was impossible
for them even to form, and the first shower of stones threw them into
total confusion. The danger increased every moment, for one spirit now
seemed to animate the whole multitude. What had been the stifled growl
of a few, was now the audible yell of all--“Give him to us--we must have
him;” and they tossed and roared like a thousand waves assailing a
wreck.