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- 5425
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- 2026-01-30T07:57:55.409Z
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- 5357
- text
- He said that he is twenty-nine years of age, and broken in body and
mind; that when finally dismissed by the court, he shall not return
home to Chili, but betake himself to the monastery on Mount Agonia
without; and signed with his honor, and crossed himself, and, for the
time, departed as he came, in his litter, with the monk Infelez, to the
Hospital de Sacerdotes.
BENITO CERENO.
DOCTOR ROZAS.
If the Deposition have served as the key to fit into the lock of the
complications which precede it, then, as a vault whose door has been
flung back, the San Dominick’s hull lies open to-day.
Hitherto the nature of this narrative, besides rendering the
intricacies in the beginning unavoidable, has more or less required
that many things, instead of being set down in the order of occurrence,
should be retrospectively, or irregularly given; this last is the case
with the following passages, which will conclude the account:
During the long, mild voyage to Lima, there was, as before hinted, a
period during which the sufferer a little recovered his health, or, at
least in some degree, his tranquillity. Ere the decided relapse which
came, the two captains had many cordial conversations—their fraternal
unreserve in singular contrast with former withdrawments.
Again and again it was repeated, how hard it had been to enact the part
forced on the Spaniard by Babo.
“Ah, my dear friend,” Don Benito once said, “at those very times when
you thought me so morose and ungrateful, nay, when, as you now admit,
you half thought me plotting your murder, at those very times my heart
was frozen; I could not look at you, thinking of what, both on board
this ship and your own, hung, from other hands, over my kind
benefactor. And as God lives, Don Amasa, I know not whether desire for
my own safety alone could have nerved me to that leap into your boat,
had it not been for the thought that, did you, unenlightened, return to
your ship, you, my best friend, with all who might be with you, stolen
upon, that night, in your hammocks, would never in this world have
wakened again. Do but think how you walked this deck, how you sat in
this cabin, every inch of ground mined into honey-combs under you. Had
I dropped the least hint, made the least advance towards an
understanding between us, death, explosive death—yours as mine—would
have ended the scene.”
“True, true,” cried Captain Delano, starting, “you have saved my life,
Don Benito, more than I yours; saved it, too, against my knowledge and
will.”
“Nay, my friend,” rejoined the Spaniard, courteous even to the point of
religion, “God charmed your life, but you saved mine. To think of some
things you did—those smilings and chattings, rash pointings and
gesturings. For less than these, they slew my mate, Raneds; but you had
the Prince of Heaven’s safe-conduct through all ambuscades.”
“Yes, all is owing to Providence, I know: but the temper of my mind
that morning was more than commonly pleasant, while the sight of so
much suffering, more apparent than real, added to my good-nature,
compassion, and charity, happily interweaving the three. Had it been
otherwise, doubtless, as you hint, some of my interferences might have
ended unhappily enough. Besides, those feelings I spoke of enabled me
to get the better of momentary distrust, at times when acuteness might
have cost me my life, without saving another’s. Only at the end did my
suspicions get the better of me, and you know how wide of the mark they
then proved.”
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