“Yes, my daughter, and that is what chances to those who put their faith in princes. I have served this marquis well for many years—to my soul’s hurt, I fear me—hoping that he who stands so high in the favour of the Church would advance me to some great preferment. But instead, what does he do? He robs me of a few trinkets that, had I not found them, the sea would have swallowed or some thief would have taken, and declares me his debtor for the rest, of which I know nothing.” “What preferment did you want, Father? I see that you have one in your mind.” “Daughter, a friend had written to me from Seville that if I have a hundred gold doubloons to pay for it, he can secure me the place of a secretary in the Holy Office where I served before as a familiar until the marquis made me his chaplain, and gave the benefice of Motril, which proved worth nothing, and many promises that are worth less. Now those trinkets would fetch thirty, and I have saved twenty, and came here to borrow the other fifty from the marquis, to whom I have done so many good turns—as you know well, Inez. You see the end of that quest,” and he groaned angrily. “It is a pity,” said Inez thoughtfully, “since those who serve the Inquisition save many souls, do they not, including their own? For instance,” she added, and the priest winced at the words, “I remember that they saved the soul of my own sister and would have saved mine, had I been—what shall I say?—more—more prejudiced. Also, they get a percentage of the goods of wicked heretics, and so become rich and able to advance themselves.” “That is so, Inez. It was the chance of a lifetime, especially to one who, like myself, hates heretics. But why speak of it now when that cursed, dissolute marquis——” and he checked himself. Inez looked at him. “Father,” she asked, “if I happen to be able to find you those hundred gold doubloons, would you do something for me?” The priest’s foxy face lit up. “I wonder what there is that I would not do, my daughter!” “Even if it brought you into a quarrel with the marquis? “Once I was a secretary to the Inquisition of Seville, he would have more reason to fear me than I him. Aye, and fear me he should, who bear him no love,” answered the priest with a snarl. “Then listen, Father. I have not made my confession yet; I have not told you, for instance, that I also hate this marquis, and with good cause—though perhaps you know that already. But remember that if you betray me, you will never see those hundred gold doubloons, and some other holy priest will be appointed secretary at Seville. Also worse things may happen to you.” “Proceed, my daughter,” he said unctuously; “are we not in the confessional—or near it?”