A fear came upon me; I could answer nothing; and presently the man resumed, as if to himself: “Yes,” he said, “O yes, I know it. I have passed its doors. There was snow upon the pass, the wind was driving it; sure enough there was death that night upon the mountains, but there was worse beside the hearth. I took him by the arm, Senor, and dragged him to the gate; I conjured him, by all he loved and respected, to go forth with me; I went on my knees before him in the snow; and I could see he was moved by my entreaty. And just then she came out on the gallery, and called him by his name; and he turned, and there was she standing with a lamp in her hand and smiling on him to come back. I cried out aloud to God, and threw my arms about him, but he put me by, and left me alone. He had made his choice; God help us. I would pray for him, but to what end? there are sins that not even the Pope can loose.” “And your friend,” I asked, “what became of him?” “Nay, God knows,” said the muleteer. “If all be true that we hear, his end was like his sin, a thing to raise the hair.” “Do you mean that he was killed?” I asked. “Sure enough, he was killed,” returned the man. “But how? Ay, how? But these are things that it is sin to speak of.” “The people of that house . . . ” I began. But he interrupted me with a savage outburst. “The people?” he cried. “What people? There are neither men nor women in that house of Satan’s! What? have you lived here so long, and never heard?” And here he put his mouth to my ear and whispered, as if even the fowls of the mountain might have over-heard and been stricken with horror. What he told me was not true, nor was it even original; being, indeed, but a new edition, vamped up again by village ignorance and superstition, of stories nearly as ancient as the race of man. It was rather the application that appalled me. In the old days, he said, the church would have burned out that nest of basilisks; but the arm of the church was now shortened; his friend Miguel had been unpunished by the hands of men, and left to the more awful judgment of an offended God. This was wrong; but it should be so no more. The Padre was sunk in age; he was even bewitched himself; but the eyes of his flock were now awake to their own danger; and some day—ay, and before long—the smoke of that house should go up to heaven.