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This is referred to in the Pilgrim, at the Interpreter's house, by the representation of a man in an iron cage, who says, 'I cannot get out, O now I cannot! The awful account of Spira's despair must have made a strong impression upon Bunyan's mind. It commences with a poem. 'Here see a soul that's all despair; a man All hell; a spirit all wounds; who can A wounded spirit bear?
Strange trophies those Turkish heads were for the residence of a Christian bishop! Spira's entrance diverted my eyes and thoughts from these horrible proofs of Montenegrin ferocity; and after partaking of an inviting little breakfast of Mr Popham'a arranging I mounted my mule, and we set out. He rode also, and Spira and Giuro trudged alongside.
Now, to have the heart so hardened, so judicially hardened, this is as a bar put in by the Lord God against the salvation of this sinner. This was the burden of Spira's complaint, 'I cannot do it! O! how I cannot do it!
There we were, I am afraid to pay how many hundred feet above the sea, but overhanging it so completely that a pebble dropped from one's hand fell into the waves. The Ragusan steamer looked like a nutshell from our eminence. The ascent had occupied two hours and a half; it took us three more to reach our halting-place, Cetigna, Spira's home.
Saddened, and rather repelled, I went back to your uncle; but scarcely five minutes later a ringing cry from Spira's part of the house made us both start. We hastened to the spot, and beheld little Nilo stiff and blue in his father's arms his frame convulsed, and his throat emitting that kind of barking sound which accompanies violent croup. Basil, as he held him, looked the image of despair.
About this time I did light on that dreadful story of that miserable mortal, Francis Spira, a book that was to my troubled spirit as salt when rubbed into a fresh wound; every groan of that man with all the rest of his actions in his dolours, as his tears, his prayers, his gnashing of teeth, his wringing of hands, was as knives and daggers in my soul, especially that sentence of his was frightful to me: "Man knows the beginning of sin, but who bounds the issues thereof?" We never read anything like Spira's experience and Grace Abounding and Giant Despair's dungeon in the books of our day.
It really was a relief to get away from the motley group, and under Spira's guidance I soon reached the clean little inn of Cetigna. Here, in the bright, low kitchen, I found Mr Popham on his knees, toasting bread, and at the same time giving our Cattarese landlady useful hints as to the grilling of some fine trout her boy had just caught.
It was anxious work, with Basil's dark, distrustful eyes lowering upon me, but, thank Heaven, a blessed and complete success crowned our efforts. Half an hour later, the cold, stiff, little limbs had relaxed, the breathing had become soft, and natural glow and moisture had returned to the skin; the child knew his father, and lifted his hands caressingly to stroke Spira's face.
I meanwhile yielded to Spira's urgent wish, and turned into her cottage to be introduced to the remaining members of her family.
Whatever he might feel, he was too proud to betray anxiety in our presence; and taking the boy off Spira's shoulders he addressed him thus: "Fear not, Nilo, little Nilo; thou shalt live and grow up to be a man, and cut off more Turks' heads in thy day than thy father and thy grandfather, put together."
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