Amongst the saddest moments in a man’s life are those in which he begins to suspect the sovereign efficacy of those remedies for the ills of humanity in which hitherto he has trusted without question. They may not, perhaps, have availed for him; but that, he has told himself, is his own fault—he has not applied them rightly. An undercurrent of hope remains that he may do so yet, or that others may do it for him. He may be dying of thirst, yet still the waters of Shiloh go softly; his wound may ache unhealed, yet still there is balm in Gilead. But who shall bring help or comfort to his despairing soul if once he surmises that the fountain is not in Shiloh, that there is no balm in Gilead, nor any physician there? Hitherto Fray Fernando had blamed himself; he had not doubted his Church. Her mystic sacraments brought no mystic blessing to him, only because he did not fulfil the indispensable conditions of blessing. That they could bring no blessing to others was a new, and, as it then seemed to him, a still more terrible thought. “Patre,” José resumed, little guessing what was passing in his patron’s mind—“patre, _my_ friend comes to-day. I know you will be very kind to him for José’s sake.” “For _your_ sake, surely! But a galley-slave is a strange friend for Don José—the Child of the Sun. What have you seen in this youth?” José answered evasively, “He is so young, patre, to have suffered so much. And he has hair like the tears of Ynty, and eyes the colour of the cloudless sky. Moreover, he is gentle; and he never uses oaths or evil words.” “Ah! I have observed that myself. I know something of his story: his case is a singular one.” Fray Fernando was aware that Walter Grey had been a prisoner of the Inquisition. And he surmised that the “penitence” that saved his life was not, probably, the most sincere in the world. If he were a Dominican friar, with heart and soul devoted to the interests of the Holy Office, he might seek for symptoms of a “relapse”—but he was nothing of the kind; he had no wish to meddle in such matters. Whatever he might suspect, or even ascertain, the poor lad should be safe with him, unless he should prove himself unworthy of favour. He said aloud: “You may trust me, José. I will be kind to your friend.” “Thank you, patre.—Ah! here they come. That tall, brown, bent man is called the matador. He and the Englishman are friends.” Fray Fernando went to the door to meet his guests, whom he welcomed with the customary “_Pax vobiscum_.” They bowed; the old man bending low, the younger slightly, like an English gentleman acknowledging the salutation of an equal.