He laid it down again with a look of satisfaction. Evidently “the words of the wise had been heard in quiet;” the fame of the patre’s simple yet fervid eloquence had reached at last the dignitaries of his Church, and induced them to pay him a high, but well-merited compliment. “My heart is glad,” said José. “You will make the walls of that great cathedral echo to grand, glorious words of truth. And on Easter-day, too! You will tell them Christ is risen!” But Fray Fernando’s face did not reflect the joy that beamed from the dusky countenance of José. On the contrary, it wore an expression of anxious thought. “How can I tell them Christ is risen,” he said, “without telling them also—Oh, my son, do you not perceive the strait I am in?” José understood him; and the gladness faded from his face. But he placed his hand on Fray Constantino’s book. “Have you not told me that _he_ preached for years in the cathedral of Seville, and no man even suspected him of believing as you do?” “Not quite as I do. That last terrible mystery”—his eyes sought the little silver casket, rarely used of late—“having dared to let _that_ go, José—” “We keep Christ, the King. He will guide us,” José said reverently. “Perhaps it were best to accept this call, and, once for all, tell out all the truth in the face of the great congregation!” José shuddered inwardly. He knew the Holy Inquisition as a vague, dark shadow, nothing more. Neither Walter Grey, nor Melchior del Salto, nor Fray Fernando himself, would ever talk of it. Presently he drew close to the patre, laid his hand, as a son might do, on his shoulder, and began to speak—eagerly, fluently—in low, soft, pleading words, that fell from his lips like ripe fruit “dropped in a silent autumn night.” Tears glistened in Fray Fernando’s eyes. “My son,” he answered tenderly, “it must be God’s will even before yours. If He has given me back—after all those years of anguish—light, joy, hope, liberty,—is it too much that I should bring Him a thank-offering?” “Many thank-offerings you will bring Him, patre; such as the soul of that poor man who died yester-even calling upon Christ the Saviour.” “It may be He has other work for me. But I know not. Rest content, José; I will go nowhere, I will do nothing, save as He leads my footsteps.” “I ought to rest content with that, patre. The King will lead you, and by the right way.” There was a pause, which Fray Fernando broke at last. “José, do you remember—long ago, on our journey from Cerro Blanco to Cuzco—that moment when, suddenly emerging from the darkness of the rock-hewn passage, we came in sight of the deep ravine of the Apurimac, spanned by the bridge of sogas?” “I remember it well, patre; but what brings it to your mind just now?”