The archbishop was confounded. He had not expected a death so singular and
so sudden. He saw, from the moment of Romano's return with the fugitive, that
the tenure of his life was slight as the solitary fibre from which the indefatigable
spider depends with all his fortunes; but he looked to see him linger on while the
quick and animating spirit of his phrensy was still within his bosom to sustain it.
Such might have been the case, had any new duty been assigned him by Egiza, as
the Messenger of Heaven. The pious fury which had sustained him so long without
food, would have sustained him to the end. But the body—the frail garment of
mortality—was, in his instance, upheld and warmed and invigorated by the moving
principle of mind, wrought upon by the highest of all mortal powers, religious zeal,
and concentrating every faculty of thought and feeling upon a given object. This
object consummated, the chords were naturally and necessarily relaxed. The

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steward had fulfilled his trusts; to employ his own words, and at the same time afford
the proper clue to his sudden death—the duties of life were fairly over, and the
laborer had gone to his reward.

It was fortunate that, at the moment of Romano's demise, the archbishop was
alone. Though confounded by the event, he did not forget his customary policy.
He carefully closed the door of the apartment, secured the key, and leaving the body
where it ceased to live, he retired to his own apartment. Here he deliberated upon
what he should do in the present difficulties. It was manifestly necessary that the
corpse should be removed. If, in the search which he knew would be made after
the fugitives, it should be found in his dwelling, the suspicious which must follow
in the mind of Roderick would be difficult to parry, and, as he well knew the scorn
if not hatred which the latter entertained towards the priest—a scorn that only for
bore injury as it too little esteemed the object, or was governed by a policy that
feared to break utterly with a powerful priesthood—he dreaded lest Roderick should
identify him and his feelings with those of the deceased. This was a well-grounded
fear, and it called for especial caution on his part, not merely to avoid the hostility
of the despot, but to disarm those suspicions which might otherwise stand greatly in
the way of his farther projects. It was his policy, not merely to avoid all question
of his fidelity, but particularly to inspire the king with confidence in it. He aimed
at the employment and direction of Roderick's power, not less than the aggrandisement
and promotion of his own; and this could only be secured by a policy as tortuous
and refined as his desires seemed to be ultimate and difficult. But the removal
of the corpse of the fanatic was absolutely and immediately necessary. This was
resolved upon; and the mind of Oppas, while he resolved, conceived a project in
which boldness seemed the fruit of necessity. He gave orders to his servants to retire
to their offices for the might, while he prepared to undress himself alone. This
done, he arranged a habit which he wore only upon occasions of similar necessity,
and which effectually disguised his person. Having put on this dress, he waited
patiently the progress of the night. When the hour had become sufficiently late,
he descended without a light to the apartment in which he had left, the body of the
monk, and with ease raised it upon his shoulder. The burden was slight. The
miserable ascetic, to whose wretched system of life the irregularity of his mind and
exhaustion of frame, might be ascribed equally, was a mere skeleton, and the powerful
limbs of the archbishop, better calculated for the fatigues of the field than the
humbling devotions of the cloister, bore the corpse as if it were unfelt. Cautiously
moving through the apartments, Oppas made his way without interruption into the
outer court of his dwelling, and paused under its archways, until he could note the
appearance of the street. Finding all quiet, he emerged from his place of concealment,
and went resolutely forward in the direction of the royal palace, which rose
before his eyes at a little distance. He had not gone far when he beheld the shadow
of a mule, and a man lying beside him, seemingly asleep, against one of the columns
of the public aqueduct. He laid the corpse down upon the ground, and went
forward to reconnoitre the spot. The man slept soundly. He was a water-carrier,
and only waited thus the coming of morning to commence his duties. The
goat-skins in which he carried the water, lay about and beneath him; and the
patient mule, as if long accustomed to his present station, stood by, entirely untethered,
and yet immovable. Having satisfied himself that he might pass unnoticed,
the archbishop hastened back, and resumed his burden. He passed the aqueduct,
and the sleeping man, in safety, and approached the palace. When he came in
front of it, he paused abruptly, and sank behind one of the rude stone abutments
of the fabric A soldier paced along sluggishly, before the court, and was then

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approaching. The apprehension of the archbishop was, that he might walk the
whole length of the palace, and if he did he could scarce escape detection. To be
discovered, was to lose everything, and the resolve of the stern churchman was as
fierce as it was ready. He felt for the handle of his dagger in his bosom, made it
easy to his grasp, determined, if he came nigh, to stab him to the heart. But he
was spared such a cruel alternative. The soldier sauntered but a little distance in
front of the court, then wheeled about, and proceeded in the same listless manner
toward the opposite tower. With the change in his movement, the archbishop resumed
his own, and reaching the entrance of the palace unobserved; immediately
darted beneath the arches. It was here that he resolved to leave his burden; and
with something of tenderness toward the corpse, he placed it directly before the
massive gate which opened upon the great hall of the royal dwelling. This done,
he hurried away. With cautious steps he moved onward until he had got fairly
beyond the reach of the guard, when he resumed the unruffled and composed gait
of one who had no motive for flight or fear. He reached his own habitation without
any adventure, and slept, in an hour after, as composedly as if nothing had
occurred.