“A Judaizer!” Sheer horror now overspread the friar’s grim countenance. “A Judaizer! Don Rodrigo? Oh, impossible!” “But I thought you said he had confessed.” “Why, yes, but... but not to that.” Her pale lips smiled, sadly contemptuous. “I see. He set limits of prudence upon his confession. He left out his Judatting practices. He did not tell you, for instance, that this deletion was an act of revenge against me who refused to marry him, having discovered his unfaith, and fearing its consequences in this world and the next.” Ojeda stared at her in sheer, incredulous amazement. And then Torquemada spoke: “Do you say that Don Rodrigo de Cardona is a Judaizer? Oh, it is unbelievable.” “Yet I could give you evidence that should convince you.” “Then so you shall. It is your sacred duty, lest you become an abettor of heresy, and yourself liable to the extreme penalty.” It would be a half-hour later, perhaps, when she quitted the Convent of St. Paul to return home, with Hell in her heart, knowing in life no purpose but that of avenging the parent her folly had destroyed. As she was being carried past the Alcazar, she espied across the open space a tall, slim figure in black, in whom she recognized her lover, and straightway she sent the page who paced beside her litter to call him to her side. The summons surprised him after what had passed between them; moreover, considering her father’s present condition, he was reluctant to be seen in attendance upon the beautiful, wealthy Isabella de Susan. Nevertheless, urged on by curiosity, he went. Her greeting increased his surprise. “I am in deep distress, Rodrigo, as you may judge,” she told him sadly. “You will have heard what has befallen my father?” He looked at her sharply, yet saw nothing but loveliness rendered more appealing by sorrow. Clearly she did not suspect him of betrayal; did not realize that an oath extorted by violence—and an oath, moreover, to be false to a sacred duty—could not be accounted binding. “I... I heard of it an hour ago,” he lied a thought unsteadily. “I... I commiserate you deeply.” “I deserve commiseration,” answered she, “and so does my poor father, and those others. It is plain that amongst those he trusted there was a traitor, a spy, who went straight from that meeting to inform against them. If I but had a list it were easy to discover the betrayer. One need but ascertain who is the one of all who were present whose arrest has been omitted.” Her lovely sorrowful eyes turned full upon him. “What is to become of me now, alone in the world?” she asked him. “My father was my only friend.” The subtle appeal of her did its work swiftly. Besides, he saw here a noble opportunity worth surely some little risk. “Your only friend?” he asked her thickly. “Was there no one else? Is there no one else, Isabella?”