“Yes,” said José briefly. They were, to him, amongst the many incomprehensible things on the other side of the sea. “Melchior dreamed of winning gold as well as glory by his feats as matador. In truth, he was far too daring. I sometimes warned him that he might tempt fortune once too often. An hour came when I wished to God that he had bled his young life out beneath the horse-hoofs on the sand of the arena!” “Then you knew those foster-brothers, patre?” asked José with interest. “Yes,” Fray Fernando answered. He resumed after a pause, and in an altered tone, “What comes next is not easy to tell. Yet it must be told. You know what heresy is, José?” “Anything against the Catholic Faith—such as what the Jews believe,” José replied promptly. “Right. In Seville, just before the time I speak of, there had been many heretics, but they were discovered and punished by the Holy Inquisition.” “I pray you tell me, patre, what is the Holy Inquisition?” “A tribunal for the discovery, trial, and punishment of heretics.” “Are people, then, in your country punished for believing wrong?” “Most assuredly. What can be more necessary and proper?” said Fray Fernando with decision, and perhaps with a little sharpness. “The lady whom Juanita served,” he continued, “though to all outward seeming truly pious, was in heart a confirmed heretic. And she dropped the subtle poison of her false faith day by day into the unsuspecting ear of the simple peasant-girl. Poor Juanita thought her words good and holy, and very comforting to the heart. In truth, these people often begin with good words, such as no Catholic could object to, and thus they deceive the unwary. You know what the Gospel says of wolves in sheep’s clothing, José! Juanita used to remember what she heard, and repeat it all to Melchior, who dreamed of harm no more than she did. They were children, playing at the mouth of a volcano, gathering flowers unconscious of the fire that slumbered beneath, ready to break forth and overwhelm them. “One day Don Alfonso came home from walking on the Prado. He was light of heart; the solid earth seemed air beneath his feet; for those blue eyes of which I spoke had beamed graciously upon him. He said within himself, ‘I will cross the bridge of boats to Melchior’s dwelling, and tell him.’ But as he took again the montero he had laid aside, his little foot-page came to say, ‘Melchior del Salto is in the patio, desiring to see you.’ Gladly did he go thither, but on entering, his mood changed in an instant. There sat Melchior on the settle, his head bowed upon its oaken arm, over which his curled hair fell in disorder. His attitude spoke despair; and neither at the step nor at the voice of his friend did he move or look up. Don Alfonso’s anxious and repeated questions at last drew forth the murmured answer, ‘She’s gone!’ “‘Gone!’ reiterated the other, in utter bewilderment. ‘Gone!—whither?—when?’ “Melchior spoke again,—‘At midnight—the alguazils of the Holy Office.’