Here he stopped suddenly; for two large, heavy tears fell from the dark eyes of José, blotting the pages of the book. “Why do you weep?” he asked kindly. José’s words came slowly out of a depth of quiet despair,— “For my lost hope. I thought there was a real king. But it is only a mystery of the Faith.—One said so to me long ago. I ought to have believed her.” “O Don José, you do not understand! He is truly all—more than all—your heart desires. And as surely as to-morrow’s sun shall rise, He will come again, and reign upon this very earth on which we stand now, to make an end of sin, and to bring in everlasting righteousness.” “But He is the Judge of all. He is the God of the Spaniards. He takes their part now—hereafter, perhaps?” “Hereafter the proud Spaniards and their master, the Pope of Rome, shall lick the dust beneath His feet. Their plagues shall come in one day—death and mourning and famine; and the word shall be fulfilled to them, ‘Rejoice over her, thou heaven, and ye holy apostles and prophets, for God hath avenged you on her.’” Then, with a sudden change of tone, and growing pale,—“But I should not speak thus. I forget myself. Don José, I have put my life into your hands. You will not betray me?” José placed his hand in his. “Do not I also hate the Spaniards?” he said. “But your words cut my heart in two, like a sword. I thought I had grasped a strong hand to help my people; and lo! it is but a dream—a shadow. There is no help for us, in heaven or on earth.” “Do not think so. The King will help you, if you come to Him.” “How can I come to Him?” “Has not the padre taught you to pray?” “Surely. But what use in that? It is only speaking words. As well might I speak to the spirits of my ancestors—and better, since they are my own race: I know them.” “And Him you do not know? Ask Him, Don José, to reveal Himself to you. He loves you—died for you.” So engrossed were José and Walter Grey in their conversation, that it occurred to neither to observe the very unusual length to which the matador seemed to be protracting his confession. Instead of wondering, as they might well have done, at the delay, they felt like men suddenly awakened from a dream, when the slight cane door of the partition was thrown open, and the matador came forth. He looked, Walter thought, as though he had been weeping; yet his brown cheek was flushed, his eyes were bright with animation, and his bent form seemed for the time to have regained the erect stateliness of youth. José, for his part, did not spend a thought, scarcely even a glance, on the matador. He had abundant occupation for his thoughts at home. Yet, preoccupied as he was, the moment he saw Fray Fernando, he was struck by a strange alteration in his appearance also. Bidding a hasty, though warm and grateful, farewell to Walter Grey, he turned, full of affectionate solicitude, to his adopted father.