But the substance of his confession caused Fray Fernando great surprise. He felt like one who has prepared himself to drink a bitter potion to the dregs, but finds the draught instead some rare old wine, fragrant with the sunshine and the dews of the summers of long ago. It was no pleasant task to hear the confessions usually made by the galley-slaves. But the soul of this poor man seemed sensitive to the touch of sin, as polished metal to the lightest sullying breath. He did not, like the others, regard _his sins_ as so many debts, to be paid somehow or somewhere, lest disagreeable consequences should follow. He had learned to look upon _his sin_ as something which interposed an unwelcome cloud between a reconciled Father and a loving child. Indeed, he spoke as one who knew a secret, which, to say the truth, was as yet unrevealed even to his earnest and conscientious father-confessor. Fray Fernando listened with compassion and interest, not unmixed with a strange kind of reverence. The very dialect in which the matador spoke deepened the impression of his words. It was the soft liquid “Andaluz,” which he himself, in his early days, had been accustomed to hear spoken in his native city of Seville. Willingly, and with slight penance imposed, he bestowed his absolution and his blessing. And when the matador had risen from his knees, he said to him, “Stay a minute,—I would willingly know something more of you. I think you are not destitute of the grace of God, who giveth to all men as He will.” The matador, be it observed, had not in his confession revealed his real name, or the crime for which he suffered. Such a revelation, though usual, was not obligatory; unless it happened to be the penitent’s first confession since the commission of the crime. “God has been very good to me,” he answered quietly. “I am, moreover, grateful to you for your kindness, holy father.” “I have done little for you; I would willingly do more, if I knew how. Something occurs to me at this moment. I have no doubt you are from the old country? Probably a native of Seville?” The matador bowed. Fray Fernando checked some remark that rose to his lips, ere he said, “My position here gives me many opportunities, did I care to use them, of holding communication with Spain. It may be you have friends or relatives yet living there to whom you would gladly send a letter. Can you write?” “I could write once, your reverence; but my hands have held the oar too long to hold the pen now.” “I will then, if you wish it, write at your dictation.” “I thank you, reverend father,” the matador answered, slowly and rather doubtfully. Fray Fernando rose to procure the necessary materials from the next room. But the matador stayed him. “If you please, father,” he said with hesitation, “I do not think—I do not know”—and he slowly raised his worn right hand to his forehead, and held it there horizontally, lightly touching his brow with its fingers.