As one possessed, Fray Fernando sprang from his seat, seized the poor man’s arm, and in tones not loud, yet fierce and wild, exclaimed, “Man, ’tis false! You—whoever you are—you are _not_ Melchior del Salto—An evil spirit takes the form to mock me—_He_ was burned to ashes at the stake.” “On the faith and truth of a Christian man, Melchior del Salto stands before you. But—but—” It was the matador’s turn to tremble now and falter. When he spoke again it was with low, imploring voice. “Father,” said he—“_Señor_—for Heaven’s sake take off your hand—sit down—let me look you in the face.” He need not have so entreated. The friar’s strength was failing through intensity of emotion. He sank unconsciously into the seat. “I am losing my reason,” he murmured. “What did you say?—Who are you?” “I am Melchior del Salto, reprieved at the last moment, because their reverences received information that it was another hand than his which struck down Tomas Varguez that fatal night. And you—_you_?—Nay, señor, not one word.—You are _Señor Don Alfonso_!” “Melchior!—Brother risen from the dead!” exclaimed Fray Fernando; and in another moment two hearts that had long been sundered were beating against each other. Then they “lifted up their voices and wept.” When words were possible, they were broken, faltering, inconsequent. “Now I know why I loved you from the first,” Melchior del Salto murmured. “I used to listen for the sound of your voice, to watch for the very shadow of your cowl. But, ah, how altered,—señor, my brother!” “Throughout these long years I believed my brother died for me—the death of fire.” “And _you_, instead, lost all for that brother’s sake.” “Oh no; the crime for which I suffered was my own. And you, my brother—you have suffered—how sorely! Sixteen years in the galleys!” “God has not forsaken me. His goodness and mercy have followed me every step of the way. Till now—at last—He has given me this great crowning joy,—to see your face again!” Thus they talked, and might have talked till midnight, had not the new bell, recently brought from Spain for the church of Callao, rung out its musical summons to prayer at the vesper hour. Fray Fernando heard not the sound; but upon Melchior del Salto it had a magical effect. It transformed him instantly into the galley-slave and the matador. “Our hour is long past,” he said. “This must not be. The Englishman will share the blame that is due to me. Besides, the privilege another time may be withheld.” The thought of sending back his newly-found brother to the cruel slavery in which he had pined so long, seemed absolutely horrible to Fray Fernando. Still, it was inevitable. They must part. Sorrowfully acknowledging the necessity, he accompanied the two galley-slaves to the _San Cristofero_, and excused them to the captain, taking upon himself the blame of their late return. “I will see you to-morrow—early,” he said, as he bade Melchior del Salto farewell. XXX. The Magic Stone.