“No,” said the monk, lifting up his hand with a forbidding gesture, as José, now thoroughly alarmed at what the firelight revealed of his looks, seemed about to spring to his side. He continued, though with evident effort:—“At last Don Alfonso heard the words ‘Melchior del Salto also is to be burned alive.’ The sky grew black, and the earth reeled around him. Yet, gathering all his strength, he held himself from swooning, that he might hear the end.—‘Why _that_ doom for him—never once suspected of heresy?’—The voices seemed to come from a great distance, but the words were clear and distinct.—‘He dealt a mortal blow to an alguazil of the Holy Office. The thing was proved beyond dispute. The poor man lived two days; and though he had not seen the face of his assailant, he swore to the dress, discerned by the torchlight. Nor did the prisoner deny the fact.’—At that word, Don Alfonso fell senseless. Better had he died thus,—save for his unhappy soul!” “Patre,” said José, with decision, “you shall tell me no more such stories. This one is killing you.” Fray Fernando wrestled in silence with some strong emotion ere he answered:—“What is begun shall be ended. José, that man did not die. When consciousness returned, he would fain have thrown himself from the ship, and rushed back to Seville. But too late! All was over now, all gone—save blackened ashes. So he let the winds and waves bear him onward where they would, with broken heart, and memory filled evermore with the image of the brother who died for him.” “Did he kill himself?” asked José, whose race parted with life too lightly. “No. He feared God, against whom, in His ministers, he had sinned most grievously. But he carried the mark of Cain on his brow—the doom of Cain in his heart. ‘My punishment is greater than I can bear. Behold, Thou hast driven me out this day from the face of the earth; and from Thy face shall I be hid; and I shall be a fugitive and a vagabond in the earth.’” “Poor, unhappy man! Does he live yet, patre?” “It may be. To me it seems that, were he near death, he ought to confess his deed. Not simply to a priest, for his soul’s sake, but also to some faithful friend, who for love of him would cross the sea, and, by revealing the truth, clear away the stain of infamy from the name of him who died in his stead.” “A faithful friend, who for love of him would cross the sea!” José repeated. “Has he such, patre? Then there is hope for him yet.” It was some time before Fray Fernando answered. When he did, his voice was choked and faltering, like the voice of one that wept. “Your words are wise,” he said. “Perhaps wiser than you think. Never ask me more of this, José. Never speak of it, to me or to another.” “You may trust me, patre.” “I do. Now lie down and sleep.”