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It were not just if we should say that these seeming marvels had no effect upon
Roderick, when they affected the greater body of the people. It was his pride to
conceal his sufferings and apprehensions. Whatever he believed or feared, was a
secret between himself and the lord Bovis, who, whatever might have been his anxieties
or his apprehensions, certainly entertained none of supernatural dangers. On
the contrary, he regarded the wonders which so imposed upon the fancies and fears
of others as coming entirely from human origin; and in his argument to the king,
both before and after his visit to the enchanted tower, he referred to a human policy
alone as that which should keep him from his purpose, and when consummated,
which should strengthen him to meet its consequences fearlessly and wisely.

“I fear not Hercules,” he would say, “but I misdoubt these priests, Roderick,
whom thou art but too ready to offend. Beware, for of a truth I tell thee that the
word of the church is of more power with the Iberian—ay, and with thy own people—
far more, than any word of thine.”

But Roderick was insensible to danger coming from men like himself. The moment
he was relieved from his superstition, he was relieved from all other forms of
fear. The argument of Bovis, which went to persuade Roderick that the marvels
which he saw were of priestly contrivance, only aroused him to anger against the
church. In due proportion to the feeling of scorn which he was ever disposed to
entertain for his enemies, was his recklessness now of those earthly dangers which
his faithful counsellor warned him against; and it was to the lord Bovis a subject of
regret that he had indicated the source of those wonders to the king, which had so
annoyed him; for he now saw that he had but let loose an angry enemy upon the
priesthood, whose fury would be such as inevitably to blind him to those dangers
upon which he was bent to run in aiming at their ruin.

“I will pursue them, Bovis, I will drive them from my kingdom! The pope himself
shall feel me; and, like Witiza, I will tell the proud pontiff that from his treasury
shall my soldiers be paid!”

“It was Witiza's folly that he so spake, oh king!” said Bovis, gravely; “he lost
his crown by that and other like madnesses.”

“I will not lose mine, Bovis; yet will I have my revenge for this insolence.”

“Yet be not too quick to anger, oh king! Remember, I have but given thee my
opinion of this priesthood, and that is not the thought of any other of thy nobles.
It were neither wise nor just to do aught against them until thou art sure.”

“I will be sure,” replied Roderick, “and if what thou sayest be true, the saints
shall not save them!”

That day Romano had an interview with the lord bishop Oppas. The fire which
burned in the eye of the venerable zealot was like that of madness. His figure appeared
to have grown, and to have expanded; and the belief to which he had been
persuaded, and, indeed, to which he had persuaded himself, that he had been chosen
as a divine instrument, had elevated his mind, and warmed his spirit into the most
fearless fury of fanaticism. The subject before them was the recent destruction of
the tower.

“The people cry aloud in horror,” said Oppas, “and speak of it, Romano, as an
immediate act of Heaven.”

Romano smiled, but said nothing. Oppas watched his countenance narrowly,
however, and saw that he had much to say.

“They speak,” he continued, “of most wondrous things. They say—for many

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of them watched all night—they say that `they beheld an eagle fall right down from
the sky, as if it had descended from heaven, carrying a burning fire-brand, which it
laid upon the top of the house, and fanned with its wings,' until it blazed, and thus
came the fire, which, as we know, was dreadful and all-consuming. Didst thou
hear this story, Romano?”

Another smile overspread the lips of Romano as he heard this legend, which was
the tradition for ages after among the common people of Spain; and Oppas saw by
his smile that the ancient man knew a far truer story of the conflagration. He
replied:

“The story is an idle one, my brother Oppas; it was no bird, no messenger from
heaven, which consumed the house. It was this hand, my brother, that bore the
torch and set the fire to the house within. These hands piled the fuel; and, with
my brothers, I sang praises to Heaven, even while the flames danced around us and
licked the high walls overhead. We saw them cling like serpents to the roof, and
we cried aloud in our rejoicing. A divine spirit seemed to move us all, for we
shouted and clung to one another, even while the flames gathered strength and body,
and there seemed no escape for us but by passing through them to the far secret passage
which opens upon the Tagus. Yet when we would have gone, for the roof
began to crumble and the wall rocked around us, the flame-wall suddenly parted
from before us at the mouth of the narrow passage, even as the waters of the sea
divided at the bidding of Moses before the flight of the Israelites; and we knew from
this sign, and from others, that the blessing of God was upon our work, and that
He would now have us leave it.”

“And sayest thou, Romano, that this work was thine, and not that of Heaven?
Methinks it doth not become thy humility to say so, and thou hast grown proud
because the Lord hath so distinguished thee above all thy fellows. It was Heaven's
deed, and not thine, my brother—though thy hands may have been employed by the
Blessed Father to do his purposes. They were then no longer thy hands, but the
hands of Heaven, Romano; and thou shouldst be heedful not to let thy heart forget
its place of humility, in the high honor to which it is uplifted.”

“Thy reproof is just, my brother, and the scourge to-night shall be the penance
which shall subjugate my vain and rebellious flesh.”

The venerable zealot folded his arms upon his breast and looked up to heaven as
he spoke these words, with an aspect of most towering humility. His pride had
been duly increased by the artful sophistry of Oppas. But the archbishop had not
done with him.

“Thy speech was a vain one, my brother, for the deed which thou didst had a
voice in thy own heart, which counselled it. Wilt thou say that that voice was
thine own, my brother? Alas, no!—whence came thy authority?”

“Of a truth,” said Romano, “it must have been a voice from God.”

“It was, Romano; and because thou wert within the chambers of the house, and
not without to see with thine own eyes, wilt thou pretend to deny the things of their
sight to others? Wilt thou, in thy heart's vain confidence, presume to say that because
thy hands were chosen to put the fire within which consumed the house, that
God sent not another messenger, even from the heavens, to light the flame without?
Know'st thou not that the flames raged even more furiously without the tower than
they could have done within?”

“There is reason in what thou say'st, my brother. Thou art strong, and I am
weak,” replied Romano.

“Truly do I believe, Romano, what the people declare; and further, my brother,
inasmuch as thou wert chosen by Heaven to do thy spiriting in secret, hidden by the

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thick walls of the cavern from the sight of all, so do I hold that it was meant that
thou shouldst say nothing of thy service to Heaven. Wilt thou boast, my brother,
of thy aid to God? Wilt thou clamor for thy recompense before the day of reward
cometh? Wilt thou forget the command of the scripture, and suffer thy left hand to
have knowledge of the doings of thy right? and—greater sin—wilt thou cry aloud to
the people, with a mighty voice, of that performance which God has made thee to
execute in secret? In truth, Romano, this were a heavy sin.”

“It were, indeed, my brother; but I trust to have mercy. I have spoken but to
thee of this matter.”

“It is well; and it may be that Heaven has suffered thee to speak thus much in
my ears that I may counsel thee, and declare to thee thy penance. I do counsel
thee, my brother, to hear and to believe the testimony of the people, for assuredly
do I hold it to be the truth. The eagle which brought the brand from heaven to
destroy the tower was an outward sign to the crowd, significant of what thou didst
within; and the marvel which they saw is yet further to be expounded, my brother,
for thy benefit. The eagle was emblematic of thy spirit in this great service, and
its coming from heaven indicated the source of thy ardor. The lighted brand which
it bore was thy heavenly gift of eloquence which is required to enkindle in the cause
of God the true worshippers of the Cross in Spain; and was not the tower which it
destroyed a sign of the power of this usurper, Roderick, who had desecrated it, as
he has desecrated all other holy things of this realm to his most unholy purposes.”

“It is light which I see, father Oppas—a glorious light!” exclaimed Romano.
“I have been blind before. And thou, too, art honored in God's employ, as thou
hast been chosen to declare to me the truth.”

“Remember then, my brother, that as God sent his eagle with the lighted brand,
that his purpose might be seen of the people, and has dispatched thee with a secret
counsel to a secret performance, it follows that thy doings should be hidden in thine
own heart, and thou shouldst only speak of that which Heaven intended should be
known. The eagle bore the fire and destroyed the tower, my brother; not thee—
not thee!”

“Of a truth it was the eagle, lord bishop. Forgive me, Heaven, that I made a
vain boast of my own feeble toils in this service!”

The point of the bishop was obtained, and the popular story was generally circulated,
and as generally credited, with many additions. It was said further—for fear
becomes fancy in such cases—that “after a while there came a great flight of birds,
small and black, which hovered over the ashes of the tower; and they were so numerous
that, with the fanning of their wings, all the ashes were stirred up and rose
into the air and were scattered over the whole of Spain, and many of those persons
upon whom the ashes fell appeared as if they had been besmeared with blood. All
this happened in a day, and many said afterward that all those persons upon whom
the ashes fell died in battle when Spain was conquered and lost; and this was the
first sign of the destruction of Spain.”