“Have you no wish, José, to learn whither we are going, and with whom?” Fray Fernando asked, wondering at his apparent indifference to all things save one—Fray Fernando’s own bodily comfort and well-being. “I can tell you somewhat;—though but little, it is true. My case, I have been informed, has been referred to the Table of the Holy Office at Valladolid; though how and wherefore you have been involved in my misfortunes, I am ignorant as yet. But this, at least, I know: we are at present in the _Trionfo_—a great and brave galleon, which is making her voyage, with the rest of the Plate fleet, to the mother country.” “We shall never reach it,” said José. “God only knows,” Fray Fernando answered; and the conversation dropped. A day or two afterwards Fray Fernando resumed it:— “One of us, at least, will scarcely see the shores of Spain. José—my son José!” “I am here, patre, close beside you.” “Come closer yet. Take my hand in yours; let your loving eyes look into mine. I have somewhat to say to you.” José obeyed. His hand did not tremble and no tear dimmed his eye as he answered, “Speak on, my father.” “Some there are who die in the face of day, ten thousand eyes to witness their suffering and their patience, ten thousand hearts to judge their cause. José, for years and years my thoughts dwelt upon such a death. I feared it—shuddered at it—fled from it. Ay, when God sent you to me first, a little child, your innocent talk dispelled many a frightful vision of the hideous zamarra, the gazing multitudes, the burning pile. You know all now, José. It is true, you cannot know—but you can guess, far off and dimly—the dark remorse, the haunting terror, of those dreary years.