José’s long agony of suspense had an end at last. One evening after nightfall, the familiar who attended his cell conveyed to him a courteously-worded but peremptory order to put on his cap and mantle and follow him forthwith. José obeyed, wondering; and was yet the more surprised to see the attendant make a package of the clothes and other matters belonging to him which were lying about the cell, preparatory to taking them away. “Are they going to set me free at last?” he asked. But, as bitter experience might have led him by this time to anticipate, he received no answer. The familiar, carrying a torch and the packet he had made up, conducted him to a side-door of the Santa Casa. This was opened immediately, and he saw—though dimly, for the night was dark—a little troop of horsemen waiting outside. Then a horse, ready saddled, was brought to the door, and a person who seemed to be the leader of the band directed him to mount; adding, however, as he hesitated a moment before obeying,— “Be not afraid, Indian; one of these gentlemen shall hold your bridle.” “I am not afraid,” said José, who, though he had never been on horseback in his life, scorned to show reluctance or timidity before these strangers; “but I should like to know whither you are about to take me.” The officer bent down from his saddle, and whispered—“Let well alone, Indian. You have been most mercifully dealt with by their reverences. Learn that ‘silence is holy,’ and that your tongue may hurt but cannot mend your case.” Having given José this significant hint, he turned to the still open door, where the alguazil was standing, torch in hand. “How long are we to be kept waiting here?” he asked impatiently. “He is coming, señor,” said the attendant. José mounted without further demur. Then another horse was brought to the door, and held in readiness for another rider. After a brief delay, one came slowly forth, wrapped in a Franciscan monk’s gray cowl and mantle. José half uttered a cry of surprise, perhaps of joy. It was the patre. But the officer again interposed. “_Quiton!_” he said, and touched his sword. Nor was Fray Fernando permitted to utter a word. The rapid ride from Lima to Callao was accomplished in perfect silence. The two captives soon found themselves on the seashore. They were then transferred to a little boat, which conveyed them to a stately galleon lying moored in the bay. They were put on board; and a guard of soldiers received them. One steep ladder after another had then to be descended by their unwilling footsteps, until at last the ship’s hold was reached,—and there they lay in midnight darkness, and for a time, it may almost be added, in despair. Even their reunion, after so long a separation, failed to kindle joy or hope: they seemed brought together again only to die. Fray Fernando was the first to recover himself so far as to speak. “_You_ here, my son José! Why this? Of what have they accused _you_?” he asked.