“None. The morning light found the rioters broken, scattered, flying. Most of them were themselves soon made prisoners of the Inquisition. Spite of all precautions, Don Alfonso’s share in the matter was suspected; but his family sheltered him, and placed him in concealment. Of course, his career was ruined, his prospects blighted. And if _that_ had been but all! But besides his share in the riot, a great and guilty secret lay upon his heart. He knew that in the conflict his hand had dealt a mortal blow to an alguazil of the Inquisition. That was a crime to rank with heresy itself. Like heresy, blood could not wash it out—fire must burn its stains away.” “I do not understand, patre,” José said, half shuddering. The friar’s answer was slow and faltering. “I mean, the punishment was—_death by fire_!” “Horrible!” cried José. “Was Don Alfonso saved?” “From _that_ doom, yes. His relatives managed to procure for him, under a feigned name, a passage in a vessel bound for these unknown shores. It was the best they could do; and he was grateful for it—more than grateful, because they did not hate and curse him, though he had sinned against the Holy Inquisition. Father and mother blessed the wanderer—the last comforting memory left him to cling to.” Fray Fernando was silent, until at last José asked, “Where, all this time, was Melchior?” “Don Alfonso often inquired after him; and was assured that he was safe, and in hiding. But he believed too easily. In due time he embarked. The vessel dropped down lightly from Seville to San Lucar, a port on the coast; where she lay at anchor waiting for merchandize. Don Alfonso, standing at her side, gazed listlessly, through the golden evening light, on the quiet waters, and the low green shore, where the herds of oxen were browsing peacefully. From the shore came a little boat, with a passenger, whom business or pleasure had detained in Seville, and who, not to lose his passage, had ridden hard from the city. On board, he met an acquaintance, with whom he discussed the news of the day, walking up and down the deck, within earshot of Don Alfonso. But he heeded little; till at last a word was spoken that thrilled his soul. ‘To-day is taking place the great and long-expected _Auto-da-fé_.’” “The—_what_, patre?” José had to repeat his question. The monk seemed unwilling or unable to answer. “What is an _Auto-da-fé_?” “A solemn sacrifice,” Fray Fernando said at last; and he said no more. “Let me make an end,” he resumed presently. “The stranger named the names of the victims, as he had heard them from his uncle, a Dominican. Happily, Juanita was not amongst them. I suppose she died in prison. There were some notorious heretics, several foreigners. And at last—” “Patre, what ails you? Are you ill?” asked José, who was himself trembling at the vague, imperfectly understood horrors of the tale.