"Señor, Señor," he said, with a mingled look of regret and indignation, "he that backbiteth not with his tongue, nor endureth a reproach against his neighbour, he shall never be moved. I knew it could not be true; I knew the boy I taught at my knee could not be a traitor; I knew—" "Señor Padre," interrupted Jack, "you don’t mean to say you have told him?" "Indeed, and what more natural? Is it right to condemn unheard? Should I not ask of the man himself what—" "Come to the general!" shouted Tio Jorge, catching the priest by the arm. "Come to the general! He must know of what you have done." They made their way to Palafox’s room, where none but Don Basilio remained with him. "Don José needs sleep," said the chaplain, meeting them at the door. "What do you want with him?" "Caramba, Padre!" cried Tio Jorge, "he must know whether the man be a traitor or not. Listen to Padre Consolacion!" The priest seemed amazed at the fuss Tio Jorge was making. "I went, Señores, to find Don Miguel Priego, to ask him, on his honour, whether there was a word of truth in the English Señor’s story. He was indignant, as I knew he would be. He demanded to know why he, a loyal son of Spain, should be suspected on such flimsy grounds. He scoffed when I spoke of the scorched paper, and—" "You told him that, Padre?" said Palafox, raising himself on his elbow. "I did, of course, and he flew into a passion, and said that with morning light he would come and meet his accuser and give him the lie to his face." "Send for him now; bring him here instantly. Shall there be treason in our midst? Tio Jorge, do you go and command Don Miguel Priego instantly to my presence." It was an hour before Tio Jorge returned. "Proof! Proof of treason!" he cried furiously. "He is gone; he and his man. See what your meddling did, Señor Padre! No sooner was your back turned than the accursed afrancesado fled." "Fled!" echoed the priest in consternation. "’Meet his accuser—give him the lie to his face’, you said," exclaimed Tio Jorge with bitter mockery, "’with morning light’! He is gone, and even now, I doubt not, is making merry with the French who have hired him. A curse light on him! May he die by a traitor’s hand, even as he is a traitor!" "Write, Don Basilio," said Palafox, "write a proclamation! Proclaim Miguel Priego to all men a traitor, and call upon all true men to seize upon him and bring him before us to suffer the penalty of his crime. My unhappy country! Let me die, let me die!" He turned his face to the wall. The stern chaplain wrote a proclamation; within an hour printed copies were distributed throughout the town, and the name of Miguel Priego, hitherto lauded to the skies, was now hissed with venomous hate by every loyal citizen of Saragossa. *CHAPTER XXVII* *The Eleventh Hour*