“Father,” she faltered, “I come to implore your pity.” “No need to implore it, child. Should I withhold pity who stand myself in need of pity, being a sinner—as are we all.” “It is for my father that I come to beg your mercy.” “So I supposed.” A shade crossed the gentle, wistful face; the tender melancholy deepened in the eyes that regarded her. “If your father is innocent of what has been alleged against him, the benign tribunal of the Holy Office will bring his innocence to light, and rejoice therein; if he is guilty, if he has strayed—as we may all stray unless fortified by heavenly grace—he shall be given the means of expiation, that his salvation may be assured him.” She shivered at the words. She knew the mercy in which the inquisitors dealt, a mercy so spiritual that it took no account of the temporal agonies inflicted to ensure it. “My father is innocent of any sin against the Faith,” said she. “Are you so sure?” croaked the harsh voice of Ojeda, breaking in. “Consider well. Remember that your duty as a Christian is above your duty as a daughter.” Almost had she bluntly demanded the name of her father’s accuser, that thus she might reach the object of her visit. Betimes she checked the rash impulse, perceiving that subtlety was here required; that a direct question would close the door to all information. Skilfully, then, she chose her line of attack. “I am sure,” she exclaimed, “that he is a more fervent and pious Christian—New-Christian though he be—than his accuser.” The wistfulness faded from Torquemada’s eyes. They grew keen, as became the eyes of an inquisitor, the eyes of a sleuth, quick to fasten on a spoor. But he shook his head. Ojeda advanced. “That I cannot believe,” said he. “The deletion was made from a sense of duty so pure that the delator did not hesitate to confess the sin of his own commission through which he had discovered the treachery of Don Diego and his associates.” She could have cried out in anguish at this answer to her unspoken question. Yet she controlled herself, and that no single doubt should linger, she thrust boldly home. “He confessed it?” she cried, seemingly aghast. The friar slowly nodded. “Don Rodrigo confessed?” she insisted, as will the incredulous. Abruptly the friar nodded again; and as abruptly checked, recollecting himself. “Don Rodrigo?” he echoed, and asked: “Who mentioned Don Rodrigo?” But it was too late. His assenting nod had betrayed the truth, had confirmed her worst fear. She swayed a little; the room swam round her, she felt as she would swoon. Then blind indignation against that forsworn betrayer surged to revive her. If it was through her weakness and undutifulness that her father had been destroyed, through her strength should he be avenged, though in doing so she pulled down and destroyed herself. “And he confessed to his own sin?” she was repeating slowly, ever on that musing, incredulous note. “He dared confess himself a Judaizer?”