Bernaldez turned white, and the old Jew bit his nails; but Inez tapped the priest upon the shoulder. “Are you thinking of betraying us?” she asked in her gentle voice. “Look here, friend, I have some knowledge of poisons, and I swear to you that if you attempt it, you shall die within a week, tied in a double knot, and never know whence the dose came. Or I can bewitch you, I, who have not lived a dozen years among the Moors for nothing, so that your head swells and your body wastes, and you utter blasphemies, not knowing what you say, until for very shame’s sake they toast you among the faggots also.” “Bewitch me!” answered Henriques with a shiver. “You have done that already, or I should not be here.” “Then, if you do not wish to be in another place before your time,” went on Inez, still tapping his shoulder gently, “think, think! and find a way, worthy servant of the Holy Office.” “A thousand doubloons!—a thousand gold doubloons!” croaked old Israel, “or if you fail, sooner or later, this month or next, this year or next, death—death as slow and cruel as we can make it. There are two Inquisitions in Spain, holy Father; but one of them does its business in the dark, and your name is on its ledger.” Now Henriques was very frightened, as well he might be with all those eyes glaring at him. “You need fear nothing,” he said, “I know the devilish power of your league too well, and that, if I kill you all, a hundred others I have never seen or heard of would dog me to my death, who have taken your accursed money.” “I am glad that you understand at last, dear friend,” said the soft, mocking voice of Inez, who stood behind the monk like an evil genius, and again tapped him affectionately on the shoulder, this time with the bare blade of a poniard. “Now be quick with that plan of yours. It grows late, and all holy people should be abed.” “I have none. I defy you,” he answered furiously. “Very well, friend—very well; then I will say good night, or rather farewell, since I am not likely to meet you again in this world.” “Where are you going?” he asked anxiously. “Oh! to the palace to meet the Marquis of Morella and a friend of his, a relation indeed. Look you here. I have had an offer of pardon for my part in that marriage if I can prove that a certain base priest knew that he was perpetrating a fraud. Well, I can prove it—you may remember that you wrote me a note—and, if I do, what happens to such a priest who chances to have incurred the hatred of a grandee of Spain and of his noble relation?” “I am an officer of the Holy Inquisition; no one dare touch me,” he gasped. “Oh! I think that there are some who would take the risk. For instance—the king.”