“In truth, I know not,” José answered, in a weary, hopeless tone. “I was never informed—never tried—never judged.” “What! never even examined? That, indeed, is strange.” “I had an interview once with two black monks.” “Well, and what said they to you?” “They asked if I could repeat my Credo. I answered,—‘Will your reverences hear it in Quichua, in Spanish, or in Latin?’ In the next place, they inquired if I knew the doctrines of the Catholic faith. I told them they might question me therein. Then, did I detest the wicked idolatries for which my forefathers had gone into everlasting fire? I made answer promptly—‘As for my forefathers, Christ shall judge them, not you; as for myself, I thank His grace that I have turned from dumb idols to serve the living and true God.’ Then—But what does it all matter now?” said José wearily, while the momentary animation of his tone and manner quickly died away. “It matters much to me, José; for I fear it is on my account you have suffered all this misery.” “Nay, patre; do not think it. It was—But why seek for reasons? Enough—I am an Indian. The hatred they bear my race—my poor doomed race!—accounts for all.” After a gloomy pause, he resumed—“And you, patre? You have been ill. I fear—” “Fear nothing for me. I am well—now,” said the monk. But his faint and broken tones gave the lie to his words of cheer. Then José shook off the dull lethargy that had well-nigh overpowered him, and roused himself to attend to the one duty that yet remained to him. He drew close to the patre, embraced him tenderly, and from that moment took him completely into his charge. With some of his own clothing he managed to contrive a tolerably comfortable resting-place for his wasted form. He bathed his burning brow; he held his hand in his; he bore the jar of water that had been left in their dungeon once and again to his fevered lips,—but he scarcely spoke a word. They had before this become aware that the vessel had weighed anchor, and was in motion. By-and-by food was brought to them, and José requested the use of a lamp. He had still the means of bestowing a bribe, as the usual custom of searching prisoners on entering or leaving the Santa Casa, and depriving them of their money and valuables, had been dispensed with in his case. The lamp made its appearance accordingly; a supply of oil was even promised. But at first the light that revealed their faces each to other appeared a doubtful boon: so ghastly, worn, and death-like did Fray Fernando look to José; and such settled, hopeless sorrow did he read in the dusky countenance of his Indian friend. Yet between the two there was a marked difference—like the difference between the morning and the evening twilight. Ill and feeble as Fray Fernando was, he seemed to carry some light within that, as time passed on, kindled into greater brightness hour by hour; while José simply faded.