Fray Fernando’s voice came out of the gloom,—a little lower, slower, more restrained than usual. “I should like to tell you a tale of the things that happen in my country,” he said. “I like well to hear those tales, patre,” José answered. “You will not like this one. It is sad as death—sadder!—sad as life.” José understood him. He knew what were the lives of the mitayos in the obregas and the mines. Fray Fernando went on, still in the same quiet tone, like one treading the crust of a volcano with light and wary footsteps, lest perchance he should disturb the hidden fires beneath:—“In that land beyond the Mother Sea where I was born, José, is a great and fair city called Seville. There are noble churches and stately marble palaces, glittering white in the sunshine; and there are fragrant orange-groves and delicious gardens, fringing the banks of the bright river, loved of all Spanish hearts, the peerless Guadalquivir.” And on that bleak mountain, at the other side of the world, Fray Fernando paid the tribute of a passing sigh to the memories of his sunny native land. “In that fair city,” he went on, “dwelt the two boys whose story I wish to tell you. They were foster-brothers. One was of noblest lineage, and bore an honoured name; his father’s father had been amongst the conquistadors.” “I call not such lineage noble, but base,” said José, forgetting for a moment his habitual caution. “There you err,” the monk returned. “The conquistadors of Seville were brave men, who rescued the city from the Infidels, and planted the Cross where the Crescent had glittered for centuries, to the shame of Christian Spain. The memories of such a conflict stir the heart of youth like the sound of a trumpet, and the noble’s son I speak of had his training in the midst of them. His foster-brother shared them also; his parents, though poor, were old Christians, respected by all in the district where they dwelt. That district was—but I shall have to speak of it hereafter. Pleasanter is it to speak of Melchior—gallant Melchior, with his handsome face, curling black hair, bright dark eyes, brave yet gentle heart. Fearless always, quick to resolve, strong to do and dare, impetuous yet persevering. He grew up a regular _majo_.” “What is that, patre?” “A gallant youth of Seville, who ruffles it on the Prado or in the street, resplendent in velvet and silver lace, his dagger in his belt, his guitar on his shoulder, ready for a fight, a bull-feast, or a dance, and always ready to do homage to bright eyes and fair faces. Yet Melchior, gay as he seemed, was simple and pious, kind to his troop of young brothers and sisters, and never forgetting in his wildest moods to say his prayers, or to bring his offering to the Virgin’s shrine.—Ay de mi!” “Patre, you are forgetting the other lad, the young noble. You have not even told me his name.”