“José, you know not the despair, the dread despair, where _that_ doom falls upon a loved one. They who sit and weep beside their dead,—they it is who are envied then. For we know, at least, that the dead are safe from the troubles of this miserable world—that they are in the hands of God, not of man. But years may pass before the watcher without hears so much as a whisper of the fate of him—or her—upon whom the gates of the Triana once have closed.” “O patre!” cried José in horror, “is that the justice they do in your country?” Fray Fernando now became conscious that he had said more than he ought to the unlearned Indian youth, thus “offending one of the little ones,” as his class were wont to speak. So he drew the monk’s frock over the man’s beating heart, and hastened to explain:—“You must not think there is any injustice, José. God forbid. Their reverences, the lords inquisitors, are wise and holy men. Heresy is fearful sin, and when the Church has to deal with it, as one of her ablest doctors has most truly said, ‘Severity is mercy, and mercy severity.’” José listened with becoming awe. “But then, patre,” he ventured to say, “that poor girl meant no harm. It seems hard she should suffer thus.” “You cannot understand,” said Fray Fernando wearily. “Indians never can understand.” José was not at all convinced of the natural disabilities of his race, but he was very anxious for the rest of the story. So he said presently, “Tell me about Melchior, patre.” “The dark hour that saw the gate of the Triana closed behind Juanita changed Melchior into another man. He grew moody, restless, sometimes even fierce. No more bull-feasts, no more gay walks on the Prado, no more dances in the evening—one absorbing occupation filled every moment snatched from work or sleep. Love alone could teach the patience with which day after day, night after night, he used to take his stand beneath the wall of that gloomy fortress. Not quite in vain. The first tears that relieved his breaking heart fell as he told his friend how he caught a glimpse of the face he loved—pale and changed—behind the bars of a grated window.