At long last, the obstinate shadows of the cypresses, which had seemed nailed to the ground, began to lengthen. The sundial, with its absurd motto about the flight of time, showed that at least time moved. And the two ladies, who had been observing it on the terrace, went indoors to dress for late afternoon supper.

At the foot of the main stairway inside, they encountered the Marquis de Carvajal with a lackey bearing his cloak and sword. He was on the point of departure for an evening gathering at the Bishop's and wore his usual somberly rich dress, which set off the magnificent cross of the Knighthood of Santiago.

He was a middle-aged man with a square, gray beard that had the proper uptilt of distinction. His prominent dark eyes were languid with authority. Long ago, perhaps, he had been an individual; but as time passed he had become simply the Marquis de Carvajal, an incarnate title which had absorbed its owner. If he loved money and display, as people said, these were hardly characteristic traits: they went with his position.

Antonia Hernandez and Luisa curtsied; they received his bow and Luisa, in addition, a kiss on the forehead.

"Good night, my daughter. I am always chagrined at not seeing you

of an evening—but there are social duties. Tomorrow night I shall ask you to attend me with your lute. Meanwhile, practise an Italian song or two, and you will not miss me."

"I cannot help missing you, my lord," she answered with perfect modulation.

"That is only natural. Be sure you pray for me. She is regular in her prayers, Doiia Antonia?"

"Extremely devout, my lord."

"Muy bien! Good night."

He dismissed them with a graceful movement of the hand and passed on. Luisa continued upstairs, hardly conscious, because so used to it, of the empty feeling that her father left with her. Besides, it would be sunset in an hour; the thought eclipsed everything else.

Dressing took a long time that evening. It did not matter that it would be night when she and Pedro de Vargas met and that the grille of the gate would separate them. She selected one gown, then changed to another, reflecting that silver brocade showed best in moonlight. She plucked a rebellious hair from the perfect arch of her eyebrow, applied a touch of rose water to her cheeks, throat, and hands: again consulted the mirror. Her mantilla looked most becoming this way, as if it had slipped by chance, revealing the fillet of gems in her hair. The approach of evening heightened the soft pallor of her face and brought out in contrast the darkness of her almond-shaped eyes.

When she had finished, the sunset notes of birds sounded from the garden. She stood awhile at the window, half listening, gazing far off at the deepened sky. Then she rejoined Antonia.

The Marquis de Carvajal, like many Spanish noblemen of the time, had been profoundly influenced by contact with Naples, and he had laid out his garden with Italian or Sicilian models in mind. Something of Capri, something of Palermo, mingled in its general atmosphere and pattern. There was the same use of terraces, to which the hilly character of Jaen lent itself; the same billowing darkness of foliage—laurel and rhododendron, ferns and ivy—forming a screen that surrounded and isolated it. Along the center, an occasional pool reflected the guardian cypresses, and there were side paths leading to green bays, over which a moss-grown Pan or sat)T presided. The small dome of a pavilion, half-glimpsed from the palace, rose among the trees; the walls of the terraces were draped with vines, so that masonry, softened by vegetation, gave an impression of luxuriant age.

In the hour after sunset, the garden released its fragrance on the

cooler air—the haunting fragrance of orange blossoms mingling with other flowers—as if it wooed the descent of night. Color faded from the sky; dim stars became suddenly visible; and the moon, which had already risen, proclaimed itself. The lonely diapason of frogs in the remoter pools grew louder.

Senora Hernandez and Luisa lingered awhile on the terrace, leaning against the marble balustrade, then strolled down the steps, and so gradually farther on between the cypresses. It was the usual proceeding after supper. No palace servant, however inquisitive, would pay heed to them.

"Just when is nightfall?" asked Luisa, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.

"When it gets dark," replied Antonia, "like it is now. . . . Why?"

"We wrote him to come at nightfall."

"Yes, and I'm sure he's here already."

They were approaching the far end of the garden. Luisa stopped.

"Already? Then oughtn't we—?"

"Certainly not. You wouldn't have him think that you were counting the moments, would you? He must be kept waiting. He must begin to wonder, despair."

Antonia was more than a little thrilled herself. Gallantry was exciting; it was the one really exciting thing in life. As an expert, she enjoyed all the finesse, all the strategy of love.

"In an hour will be time enough."

"A whole hour?"

"Not a minute less." Antonia slipped her arm around the girl's waist. "I know how it is, Primacita. But trust me, nothing helps so much as to keep a man in doubt—never quite sure. Besides, we must wait for the moon if you want him to admire you. We'll go to the pavilion and you can practise your Italian songs. That'll pass the time."

"I couldn't!"

"For two reasons, you must practise them," Seiiora Hernandez added. "You'll be heard in the palace, and they'll know what you were doing if the Marquis should happen to ask. He'll remember about the songs. Then too, someone else may hear you, my rose. You sing quite well."

The lane outside the garden wandered between high walls covered with moss and overtopped by vines. It was unfrequented at this hour, and silent except for the rustle of an occasional lizard. Darkness came on more rapidly here than elsewhere, but even so it was not entirely dark when Pedro de Vargas posted himself opposite the gate.

He too was uncertain as to what had been meant by nightfall—perhaps late afternoon or dusk or night itself—and he took no chances. After the endless, languishing day, it was a relief to get to the lane as soon as possible. Now, muffled in his cloak, like a shadowy projection of the wall behind him, he stood consumed by a slow fire of expectation and impatience.

Though he did not realize it, his state of mind was partly conventional. It was the proper thing for lovers to wait and pine, to haunt the night, discreetly muffled in their cloaks. Tradition dem.anded it. But there was more to his vigil than this. Youth's vague idealism, colored by desire, had been brought for the first time to a burning focus. He might act like any one of a thousand lovelorn cavaliers; but yesterday morning's experience in the church, the ray of light, the upflaring of his heart toward the beauty and grace of Luisa de Carvajal, were personal and uncopied.

Twilight became night—so dense a blackness that even his cloak was indistinguishable. Between the walls of the lane, the air lay close and heavy with the cloying perfume of flowers. As long as he lived, the scent of orange blossoms would immediately recall that hour to liim. Once or twice people with lanterns entered the lane, and he strolled to meet them so that they would not find him opposite the Carvajal gate. Moreover, he had not entirely forgotten his father's warning or the events of yesterday. But for the most part, he stood motionless in a waking dream.

Not until the darkness faded and moonlight silvered the top branches of trees beyond the gate did he begin to have misgivings. This was certainly nightfall, and he had been waiting a long time.

The moon grew brighter until, through the ironwork of the gate, he could see the path and space of lawn surrounded by the laurels. It had the mystery and suspense of an empty stage. Perhaps the letter had only been sent in fun. Perhaps Luisa had no intention of appearing. Perhaps she was am.using herself at this very moment with the thought of him and his foolish expectation. After all, he had been guilty of too extravagant a hope that the daughter of a grandee would condescend to unworthy clay like himself.

And now the minutes crawled past, each one emptier and more disquieting. The moonlight spent itself in vain. She would not come. He was a pathetic fool.

Suddenly a distant lute broke the silence with ripples of sound, and a voice rose somewhere from beyond the trees. By contrast with the preceding quiet, it was abruptly sweet, like the tones of a nightingale. Pedro recognized the melody as an Italian air which his sister often

sang. He knew it so well that he could distinguish the words. They were by his mother's countryman, Lorenzo de' Medici.

"Quanf e hella giovinezza che si fugge tuttavia! chi vuol esser lieto, sia . . "

The recent blankness was gone. Her voice! It must be hers . . .

"Youth is sweet, a fount upwelling, Though it slips away! Let who will be gay: Of tomorrow there's no telling.

"Bacchus, Ariadne, playing,

Lip to lip and heart to heart. Make the most of time a-Maying, Never roam apart.

"Nymphs and other silvan creatures Frolic at their play. Let who will be gay: Of tomorrow there's no telling."

Silence again, but this time vibrant; the rhythm of the song continuing soundlessly after the music had stopped. He waited breathless, the refrain echoing in his mind—"of tomorrow there's no telling."

Perhaps this was all he could expect: she could find no other way to keep the tryst with him—her voice in the night, a song, a greeting. Or was it more than that—a half-promise "Of tomorrow there's no telling"? If that was her meaning, he would return here and wait tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. He stood with one hand on the gate, peering into the moonlit circle beyond.

So tranced he was that Luisa de Garvajal had crossed halfway between the laurels and the gate before he was aware of her. Or rather, she seemed at first a thought picture, vague and steeped in moonlight, out of which she appeared to take form. The silver brocade of her dress and the pallor of her face against the black of the mantilla helped this effect. Then he recovered his senses only to lose them again completely.

She was here; it was not a vision.

He had prepared and rehearsed a fine opening speech, which seemed to him polished and poetic; but he could not recall a syllable of it,

Mental panic seized him. He could only stare hypnotized through tht grille of the gate.

Luisa felt equally confused. Being a girl, she could have acquitted herself well enough if he had spoken; as it was, she came to a helpless stop a few feet off. The dim figure of Antonia Hernandez in the background did not relieve matters.

At last desperately he whispered, "Buenas noches, senorita."

"Buenas noches, sefiorf'

Then nothing. She expected eloquence, romance. He knew that she expected them. What had happened to him? It wasn't the first time he had met a girl. Usually he was as fluent as the next man.

In his embarrassment, he straightened his arm against the bar of the grillework, which he was holding, and was startled that the gate swung open. Evidently it had been left unbolted. More dashed than ever, he closed it again sharply between them and muttered an excuse.

"I didn't know it was unlocked."

"I didn't either."

In the shadow of the laurels, Seiiora Hernandez smiled. She had done what she could. If the two young dunces didn't take advantage of the gate, there was no help for them. But giving them every chance, she now recklessly moved from sight, though remaining close enough behind the shrubbery.

'T heard you sing," Pedro faltered. "It was beautiful."

She murmured something, and he cast about for the next remark. Appalling as had been last night's interview with the Inquisitor, it was easy compared to this.

"Very beautiful."

"Did you really think so?"

"Yes."

In his prepared speech, there had been references to Cupid and holy water and Luisa's letter; there were flowery compliments and passionate avowals. That was all in ruins. He couldn't piece any of it together in a way that wouldn't sound sillier than his present woodenness.

"I know the song very well. You see, Mother's a Florentine."

"Really?"

"Yes. My sister, Mercedes, sings it."

Why, in God's name, was he talking about his mother and sister now!

He staggered on. "But not like you—nothing like." And on the point of running down again, "Quant' e hella giovinezza!"

"Do you sing?"

"No—that is, pretty badly. A ballad sometimes."

At this point he became aware that the duenna had disappeared. Somehow it made a difference. His tenseness relaxed, his blood warmed again, and thought began flowing. But he did not want to revive the speech he had rehearsed so often that day. It did not seem to fit in now.

"You were kind to send me the letter," he said, a new ring in his voice. "I never dreamed ... It was like a miracle. After seeing you in church. I had been praying to San Pedro and the Blessed Virgin. But I never dreamed . . . Since then I've been thinking of you every minute." His hand strayed to his doublet. "I have it here," he went on, pressing the paper against his heart. "I know every word of it as well as the Pater Noster."

She drew a step nearer, her own shyness melting a little. This was what she had imagined it would be—not quite, indeed, because Cousin Antonia had said that he would talk poetically, and his words were very simple, but she had never heard any like them.

"San Pedro and the Blessed Virgin, senor?"

"Yes."

Forgetting himself, intent only that she should feel what it had meant to him, he told her about the ray of sunlight. She listened with parted lips.

"And then I knew. I knew, whether you cared for me or not, that I would always be your cavalier. It was the will of heaven for me; it meant heaven for me. I shall always serve you, always adore you, seek honor in your name. And perhaps sometime I might be worthy . . . No, not that, but still you might care for me—sometime."

Yes, now it was everything that she had imagined it would be, and more—much more.

"Why?" she breathed. "Why do you care for me?"

Why! Blessed saints! As he looked at her, the answer to that question was inexpressible. She was incarnate moonlight; she was desire and worship and beauty, ethereal and yet warm and living.

He could only answer, "Because I love you."

The benevolent gate once more opened under the stress of his emotion, but this time he did not close it. Antonia Hernandez need not have worried: he and Luisa were learning fast without a tutor.

Amazing that a girl like her should forget decorum at such a moment. Instead of showing alarm or displeasure that the gate remained open when propriety demanded bars between them, she moved closer, so that they stood face to face.

"But you don't know me. How can you be sure?"

Approaching footsteps sounded in the lane, a murmur of voices.

"Ay Maria!" she whispered. "Quick! Come inside—they'll see you." He shut the gate softly behind him, and they stood close together within the wall, while the footsteps passed. Her nearness, the fragrance of her dress, the silence as they waited, set his pulses throbbing. Her mantilla, slipping a little, showed the sparkle of her jeweled hair net in the moonlight and the wave of her hair.

When the passers-by were gone, he kneeled suddenly and raised her hand to his lips.

On a low stone bench within the bay of lawn and to one side of the gate, she listened while he poured himself out in the high-flown style of Andalusian lovers. The words flowed of themselves, urgent, vibrant. She listened, but was conscious too of a strange fermentation in her own mind, as if a new order of life and thought were beginning. It struck her that until now she had never possessed anything of her own; that she had been like a doll in the hands of other people. But now the doll in the silver brocade and jeweled hair net was coming to life, was taking possession of herself.

He told her about France, the invitation from Bayard. He would not have her think of him as a local stay-at-home. He would make himself worthy to be her cavalier,

"When do you go?" she asked, trying to keep the droop out of her voice.

"In autumn, Madonna." He added gallantly, "With your leave."

She counted rapidly. Two months of evenings—evenings like this.

"My father says that Monseigneur de Bayard loves tournaments," he went on. "The thought of you will give me strength. If I win, the credit and prize will be yours."

"They say that French ladies are beautiful," she put in lightly, though all at once she hated the thought of them.

"Perhaps." He had become an adept in the last ten minutes. "How shall I be able to tell? You have made me blind to them."

Half-seated on the bench, he slipped again to one knee.

"Will you give me a token. Madonna, some favor to wear? It would be my saint's relic and bring me fortune. Forgive me for asking. I know that it is too much to ask."

Even Antonia Hernandez could have found nothing to improve in his manner. The hour had changed him as well as Luisa; he was not the same youth who had entered the lane.

Luisa felt caught up and swept along by a current too swift for coquetries and delays. Somehow his earnestness did not permit them.

Without hesitation, she gave him her handkerchief, a tiny scrap of cambric edged with Venetian lace. It was perfumed with rose water and had the softness of a rose, as he pressed it to his lips.

"I wish I had something better to give you, Pedro de Vargas."

Better? If he had received the Golden Fleece at the hands of the King, it would not have meant half so much. His brain reeled with happiness and pride. She had accepted him, she permitted him to call himself hers. Now there was no difficulty on earth so arduous that he could not overcome it for her; no prize so lofty that he could not win it for her. The hot blood pounded in his ears; his imagination soared like a released falcon. To express himself was impossible. When he spoke, his voice seemed strange to him.

"I will give my life for you. I would give my soul for you."

A discreet cough sounded beyond the laurels, and he regained his feet as the Seiiora Hernandez reappeared.

"Tomorrow night?" he whispered. "Every night, I'll be in the lane."

He could barely hear the answer. ''Si, cuando puedo."

He bowed to Antonia.

"Vaya!" she said archly. "Is it the custom of gentlemen to enter gates and to forget the proper distance?"

He appeared startled. "It is enchantment, senora. I did not know that I had passed the gate."

"Not bad!" she approved. "I see that you're a charming liar." And to Luisa, "We must go in, Primacita. There are lights moving in the palace. Your father must have returned."

Still dazed, still half-incredulous of his happiness, Pedro wandered back through the town, heedless of the cobblestones and turnings of the streets. The years stretched before him in a haze of gold, a limitless horizon. With love inspiring him, he could do everything—everything!

Not far from his house, a dark figure detached itself from a doorway, and at once he was on guard.

"Pedro de Vargas?" hissed a voice.

"Yes."

"I am Manuel Perez, Gatana's brother—he of the prison."

It took an instant's effort to remember.

"Yes?"

"You saved my sister from de Silva's men. I am not one who forgets. I have been here for an hour, hoping to head you off."

What was the fellow driving at?

"Head me off? "

"You must not go to the Casa de Vargas. It's a trap. They're waiting for you."

Clearly the man was crazy. "Who's waiting for me?"

"Those of the Holy Office. They have taken your father, mother, and sister to the Castle. With my own eyes, I saw them brought in. I heard the talk about you. Then I got away, though it would cost my head—"

"The Castle? The Holy Office?"

"Yes. Get out to the Rosario. Catana will help. You must take to the mountains. It's your only chance."

Kill

In the hot darkness, Pedro stared at the almost invisible face close to him. His mind, suddenly numb, refused to act.

After a long moment, he stammered: "I'm sorry, friend. I don't understand. What did you say about the Holy Office?"

Manuel Perez repeated the incredible news. Even on a second hearing, it filtered but slowly into Pedro's consciousness. His father, Francisco de Vargas, arrested! One of the town's leading citizens, a famous man, dragged to prison! Pedro's mother and sister taken! The family house seized and already occupied by strangers, who were waiting to lay hands on Pedro himself! At a single blast, the solid world of his entire experience seemed to be blown to fragments.

Perez gripped his shoulder. "Your Worship has no time to lose. You can get down by the east wall. Come on. Hurry! I'm due at the Castle."

Docilely, as if in a trance, Pedro suffered himself to be led on for a short distance, until at last the complete realization of what had happened struck him and he shook off the other's grasp.

"By God, no!"

''Que pasa?"

Pedro clenched his fists. The monstrous absurdity of the thing beggared language.

''Why?" he demanded. ''Why? What reason? They must have given a reason. What did they say, in the name of God?"

"Say?" echoed Perez. "Is it for the Santa Casa to give an account of itself? Senor, no! It isn't in the habit of answering questions; it asks them." And with a touch of gallows humor he added, "I wouldn't advise Your Worship to wait for the question. Come on."

De Vargas squared himself. The thought of his family behind the walls of the prison shut out every other consideration.

"I'm going to the Alcalde, to the Bishop. They're Father's friends. They don't know about this. It's a mistake. They'll act at once . . ."

'"Don't be a fool," put in Perez, forgetting rank. "What mistake? His Honor, the Alcalde, was at the Castle when Don Francisco and the ladies were brought in. Do you think the Bishop could raise a finger against the will of the Santa Casa? I tell you once more, senorito, you have no time to lose."

His call last night on Ignacio de Lora crossed Pedro's mind. Could that have anything to do with it? Had his connection with the ill-omened business of Garcia brought him and his family under suspicion? Was the Inquisitor taking that way to cover up the bribe he had accepted? The Holy Inquisition! They were impious, ugly thoughts which two days ago would have been impossible.

"I'll see Father Ignacio himself."

"Oh?" said Perez. "In that case, I'm a fool for my pains."

The dry note in the man's voice spoke volumes. Pedro stood shifting from one foot to another in a sweat of indecision. To whom could he turn? Among his father's friends, who would be able to take his part if the highest officials of Jaen were excluded? Had he not better head for the mountains, as Perez counseled, until influence could be brought to bear and public sentiment force a release? Perhaps, indeed, the arrest was only a mistake.

But the walls of the Castle were thick, and even more insuperable was the fear of the Inquisition. Greater men than Francisco de Vargas —much greater—had disappeared from the friendly world into the cold shadow of the Holy Office, and no one had dared to ask too many questions. The King, perhaps, or a grandee—

The Marquis de Carvajal!

On Pedro's anguish, the name flashed like a beacon. Here was the one man in Jaen who might help. He was not an official, but his word had immense weight. He stood at the summit of the social scale in the district. His power would impress even the Inquisitor. Best of all, he had served with Francisco de Vargas in Italy and called him by his first name. That he was Luisa's father did not occur to Pedro at the moment. He was simply the natural refuge in this case.

"The Marquis de Carvajal!" Pedro exclaimed aloud. "I'll go to him.''

Perez drew back a step; he said nothing for a moment. Then hesitantly, "Yes, the Marquis—he's a big nobleman. If Your Worship has

credit with him, perhaps— That's out of my line. Perhaps big noblemen stand by their friends against the Santa Casa. Your Worship knows best. I've got to hustle, or it's a twisted neck for me. Senor Cavalier, go with God."

He was on the point of hurrying off when Pedro caught his arm.

"Thanks, friend. I won't forget your kindness."

"Forget or remember," said the man gruffly. "I did it for Gatana."

"You'll tell my parents how matters stand?"

"I'll do that. Adios."

A great emptiness descended on Pedro when the other was gone. The fellow had at least represented human helpfulness and good will. Now de Vargas found himself in an almost unbearable loneliness, like a swimmer at sea, left to his single efforts.

With a heavy heart, although painfully alert, he retraced his way uphill through the narrow, winding streets toward the Garvajal Palace. The familiar town had suddenly become alien and hostile. Every passer-by, fumbling towards him in the darkness, every beggar loitering under the overhang of a house, was a possible enemy. The scurr)' of rats in the gutter, the racing of scavenger dogs along the alleyways, the hunting scream of a cat, was enough to set his pulses racing.

As he approached the palace, his first confidence in turning to the Marquis faded. What if he could not obtain an audience at this hour? What if the great man had retired? Pedro knew him only formally. He was not old or important enough to insist on seeing him. But if that were impossible, where could he hide for the night?

The palace garden occurred to him as a possibility—if the gate was still unlocked. No one would think of searching for him there. And with that came the thought of his recent happiness. A half hour ago he had everything, now nothing.

He emerged at last on the quiet square in front of the palace. It was shaded from the moonlight by a few plane trees. Rounding them, he stood looking up at the stone facade, massive and formidable, its occasional windows covered with thick bars like the front of a prison. It had nothing in common with the garden behind it but seemed as detached from that place of enchantment as the Gastle itself. Not a light showed; the building was wrapped in a ponderous, austere silence.

Desperation goading him, Pedro at length summoned courage enough to approach the main door and lift the heavy ring that served as knocker. The crash of it broke the stillness of the night like a musket shot. It seemed to him that it must rouse the neighborhood, and he had the sense of an echo resounding in the hollowness of the palace. But

nothing stirred. It took still more courage, after waiting a long while, to ply the knocker a second time.

Continued silence. Then, without warning, a sliding panel of the door jerked open, and he could make out dimly a patch of face and two eyes through the grating.

"Caramha!'' hissed a voice. "Who are you and what do you want? Vaya una hora de venir! Can't you see that lights are out?"

"It's a matter of life and death," returned Pedro recklessly. "I must see His Grace."

''Whose life and death?"

"A friend of the Marquis—my father, Francisco de Vargas."

The porter gave an unconvinced gnint. ''Cdspita! His Magnificence has retired."

"Just the same, inform him. He'll not thank you if you don't."

Slowly, doubtfully, the panel closed, and Pedro remained in the moonlit stillness. He did not know whether the man intended to carry his message or not. Somewhere an owl shrilled; a watchman from one of the near-by streets called the hour. Pedro stood with his heart thumping. In due time, the watchman would reach the square, would want to know who it was in front of the Marquis's door. No doubt orders had been sent out for Pedro's arrest. Standing in the glare of the moon, he was perfectly visible.

The monotonous call came nearer.

Then unexpectedly bolts were drawn, and a section of the door opened.

"All right," grumbled a voice. "Come in, but I warn you that His Grace does not care to be disturbed for trifles."

A dim lamp, held shoulder-high, lighted the servant's bearded features and showed an expanse of stone walls. Pedro followed, as the man led the way through a cavernous hall and then to the right up a curving staircase to the second floor. Here a confusion of corridors branched out.

"You're Pedro de Vargas, eh?" said the porter, turning into one of these. "Don Francisco has only one son."

"Yes, Pedro de Vargas."

He had an impression that a door on the left closed suddenly, as if it had been slightly ajar, and it seemed to him that he heard a low exclamation. But he was too absorbed by the approaching interview to think twice of it.

His guide stopped finally at the end of the corridor, parted some

hangings, led him across an antechamber, and announced his name to the candlelit twilight of a large room. Then he withdrew.

It was a moment before Pedro could distinguish the huge four-poster bedstead in an alcove facing him at the end of the apartment. Some pieces of richly carved furniture, a vague portrait, the oaken mass of a wardrobe against the wall, were details barely noticed as compared with the bust of the man propped against pillows within the curtains of the bed and visible in the flare of a couple of tall candles.

The Marquis had drawn a brocaded robe over his shoulders, but he had not yet adjusted his nightcap, which remained at an angle. His eyes, still blinking at the light, his square beard and hooked nose, gave him a solemn, owl-like expression. He did not, however, permit the unexpected to roughen the perfection of his manners.

"Draw near, young sir," he invited. And when Pedro stopped with a low bow and flutter of excuses outside the alcove, "No—here, if you please. The son of Francisco de Vargas has always the bedside privilege with me. That's better."

Pedro entered the alcove, bowed low again, and repeated his apologies. Th€ Marquis gave a slight wave of the hand.

"Do not mention it. I was not asleep, and even if I had been, I am always at your father's service. There is no one whom I more affectionately admire. what is the matter that concerns him? I gathered from my servant that all was not well. It is an honor that you turn to me; it will be thrice an honor if I am privileged to help. Speak quite frankly and be at your ease."

Relief at this gracious welcome made Pedro's eyes smart. For the first time in the last hour, life seemed normal. He was once more the son of an eminent gentleman, and no longer helpless or friendless.

As form required, he sank to one knee, though the Marquis made a gesture of protest.

"Vuestra Merced is too good, too generous! God reward Your Grace! When my father hears of Your Grace's kindness, he will express his thanks better than I can. Vuestra Merced, the trouble is this."

Confidently, he now told what had happened and poured forth his bewilderment. Naturally the Marquis, knowing his father, would realize that this arrest was all a preposterous blunder. No one was a more devoted son of the Church than Francisco de Vargas—a fact of public knowledge. That he should be accused of heresy made neither rhyme nor reason. But it was not his father who concerned Pedro at the moment so much as Doiia Maria and his sister. The shock to them might be serious, especially to a young girl like Mercedes, who had always

been frail. He did not know what to do, implored the Marquis's counsel.

The light of the candles turned one side of Pedro's hair to red flame, and Carvajal, who was an amateur of art, reflected that a portrait painter would have been pleased with the effect—that Venetian fellow, Titian, for example, whose work he had admired in Italy. Aesthetically interested, he looked more owl-like and benevolent than ever. When Pedro had finished his plea, he half-expected the warmhearted nobleman to rise from bed, summon his lackeys to dress him, and set out at once to effect the release of the prisoners, or at any rate to make his influence felt.

There was a long pause, during which Carvajal fingered his beard.

"My dear boy," he said at last, "believe me, you have my complete sympathy. I am more than touched by your distress. It grieves me too that Don Francisco and Dona Maria, together with your charming sister, should be temporarily detained. Tomorrow I have pressing affairs, but next day it will really give me pleasure to make inquiries. Meanwhile, as you say, it is probably a mistake which will clear itself in a short time."

He sipped his words as if they were honey.

"Vuestra Merced — '' Pedro gasped.

Carvajal flowed on. "If it were a case before the civil courts, I might be more helpful; I might even be able to do something. But the Holy Office is a different matter. What right has a layman to intervene in spiritual affairs? As good Catholics, we must have utter confidence in our Mother, the Church, and render her complete obedience at whatever personal sacrifice." The Marquis raised a forefimger in admonition. "The Holy Office is charged with defending the purity of the Faith; it must protect the fold from taint. Perhaps something in your parents' lives—"

"Your Grace knows them! How could there be anything!"

Carvajal shook his head. "Ah, my son, you are perhaps blinded by natural affection. I say there may be something in your parents' lives or in yours, for that matter, or even in mine, of which we are unconscious, but which would not escape the keen eyes of our Holy Mother. In that case, we must bare our backs to the scourge and humbly beg for correction to the salvation of our souls. Yes, my son, even if that correction meant the destruction of our base and fleshly bodies."

It was plain that the Marquis enjoyed his own sermon. He spoke in a solemn cadence and turned his eyes up at the crucifix which hung facing him between the curtains at the end of the bed.

"Thus, with complete assurance, we may entrust this affair to the

saintly Inquisitor of Jaen, Father Ignacio de Lora, a man who beatifies our city with his presence."

Mocking echoes stirred in Pedro's mind: "Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty," accompanied by the clink of gold. He felt a growing tautness along the spine.

"If there is no guilt," concluded the Marquis, "your parents will go free. If there has been sin, you should rejoice at the expiation. Far better a temporal than an eternal punishment; far better—"

"How many go free?" Pedro demanded. "Does Your Grace know of any, guilty or not—"

''That, my son," interrupted Carvajal with the utmost gentleness, "is a rebellious, nay, an impious question. It reflects on the integrity of the Church. No doubt everyone, if closely examined, is guilt)'- of sin and deserves some punishment. The reverend fathers are too conscious of their mission not to do all they can for the souls of those who come under their notice. But it has happened, I believe, that more than one has been discharged free from blame. I hope that this will be true of your parents."

Pedro's hope had turned to lead, but a growing ferment of anger sustained him. He got to his feet.

"Your Grace's advice then—?"

"Is to rely on God, my dear boy, and on the justice of the Holy Office. I shall do all in my power, all in my power."

De Vargas controlled himself, though his voice thickened. "What would Vuestra Merced suggest for tonight? Our house has been occupied. If I turn to an inn, I'll be arrested. I have no place to go."

In view of the fine promises, he could at least expect that the Marquis would offer him shelter for the night. Because of that, he had to keep his temper.

"No place to go?" Carvajal repeated. "My son, you have one place above all to go. You should proceed at once to the Castle and give yourself up. It will tend to show your innocence; it will be an act of filial lovalty to your father. You should support your parents in their hour of trial."

Undoubtedly there was weight to this advice. Perhaps, indeed, surrender was the best course. But an alarm began sounding in Pedro's head. Give himself up? Deprive his family of the only voice left to take their part outside of prison? He wanted to think that over.

"It's a late hour," he hesitated. "Would Your Grace generously allow me to remain here until morning? I shall then decide—" But at the look of astonishment on Garvajal's face, his words faded out.

"Young man, what you ask is impossible. It would expose me to the gravest charges. You should know that anyone who shelters a person sought by the Inquisition is considered equally guilty. Allow me to point out that it is indelicate to make a request which I must, of course, refuse."

Indelicate! A smother of heat submerged de Vargas. He thought of poor Manuel Perez, who had risked his neck to save him, while this stuffed effigy of a grandee, his father's avowed friend, declined the most trifling help! But he mastered himself.

"I shall then take my leave, Your Grace. Vuestra Merced has been exceedingly kind."

The irony made no dent on the Marquis's self-satisfaction.

"You are quite welcome. It is a pleasure to advise the son of an old friend. If there is any service I can render, please call on me. And present my affectionate regards to Don Francisco and Dofia Maria. No doubt they will soon be at liberty. I take it you are now going to the Castle—the best plan."

Pedro did not enlighten him. He felt that another minute of that honeyed voice would lead to murder. With a stiff bow and a half-smothered buenas noches, he turned out of the alcove.

"Buenos noches, my dear boy," answered the Marquis, raising his eyebrows at such abruptness. "If you will wait in the anteroom, a servant will attend you to the door. Farewell."

He pulled the tassel of a bellrope languidly; a remote tinkle sounded. Then, being drowsy, he snuffed the bedside candles himself and relaxed on the pillows. He was conscious of having graciously fulfilled the duties of his position.

But Pedro did not wait in the anteroom. He could find his own way downstairs, por Dios; and with long strides, jerky from anger, he followed the dark corridor towards the entrance hall. If he had been less headlong, he might have heard a light step hurrying in front of him, as if someone had left the anteroom just as he entered it; but he had nearly reached the hall landing when he was startled by a touch on his sleeve.

"Sefior de Vargas," whispered a voice. "Senor, one moment."

Even in the darkness, he recognized Luisa de Garvajal and the perfume of her dress.

She led him across the threshold of a room to the side, which was vaguely lighted by a single taper. Evidently the place, a sort of antechamber belonging to a guest suite, was not used at present.

"I had been saying good night to my father when you came," she whispered. "I heard you give your name to the servant."

She still wore the dress of brocaded silver and the jeweled net over her hair, but to Pedro it seemed a very long time since they had met in the garden. His anger with the Marquis was suddenly forgotten.

"I had to know why you were here," she went on; "I listened in the anteroom. Ay Dios, how awful! What are you going to do?"

"I don't know," he answered dully.

Footsteps approached along the corridor. She pushed the door to and stood with fixed eyes and one hand at her throat as the lackey answered his master's bell. Then, a minute later, the servant, discovering that the light in the Marquis's room was out, returned grumbling along the gallery.

She drew a breath when he had passed. What if he had caught the glimmer of the candle in her hand! The new self which had awakened in the garden, the new pulse beat of independence, struggled against the habit of her doll-like training. What if anyone should find out that she was here in a room with Pedro de Vargas! She turned faint at the thought.

"Are you going to give yourself up?" she breathed.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps."

She would have liked to go back to her father's room, throw herself on her knees, entreat him for Pedro. He could help—she knew that; he could at least contrive to send Pedro out of Jaen. But that her father should learn that there was anything between her and young de Vargas was an idea too terrifying to contemplate. Besides, prudence told her that her suit would be useless: it would bring down the Marquis's wrath upon her, and WouId make matters worse for Pedro himself.

"Perhaps," he repeated. "But I'll wait till morning."

It crossed her mind that she could hide him here; there were several rooms in the palace where no one went, where he would be safe. But again the risk appalled her. Better not—

She wrung her hands. "I'll pray for you."

He was deeply moved. It did not occur to him that she could help him othenA'ise. The thought of hJmself in the prayers of Luisa de

80

Carvajal was enough—more than enough—a dizz)' honor that restored a measure of confidence.

"If you will do that, I need nothing else."

It seemed to her that she heard footsteps again. Perhaps the doorman, waiting below, had grown suspicious, would climb the stairs to investigate.

"I'll pray for you always. You must go now."

"Yes, of course."

His green eyes were burning. She could almost feel the heat of them on her upturned face. . . . Surely there were footsteps.

"You must go . . . Hurry!"

"Listen, querida mia, this trouble will pass. I shall fight my way through. Then I'll come back. I'll come back with my head up. It's a vow. Remember that—and pray for me."

"I'll always remember," she whispered. "HurnM I'm afraid . . ."

Opening the door, he disappeared into the darkness of the hall. She heard the click of his heels on the stairs beyond and the faint rattle of his sword.

Sinking to her knees, she besought the Virgin for him, praying a long time with hot, aching eyes and a lump in her throat. But somehow it brought her no comfort; she had no conviction that her prayer reached beyond the oaken beams of the ceiling. It was easy to pray.

"After all," she thought weakly, "I'm only a girl. It would have been improper to have done more. It was improper anyway. Maria! If anyone knew that I had spoken with him here! Salve Regina! Queen of Heaven, protect Pedro de Vargas!"

Again the prayer dropped like a pellet of lead.

After the doorman, none too graciously, had seen him out, Pedro walked across to the shadow of the plane trees and stood pondering. His glimpse of Luisa had the effect of a cordial; it heated his blood and raised his spirits. But it had not changed the thorny difficulties of his position; he had still to find shelter for the night, and he had still to decide what he would do after that. Should he give himself up, or should he follow Manuel Perez's advice and make for the sierra? What he most wanted now was time to think.

In the darkness of the plane trees, he was balancing one course against the other when, as often happens in such cases, events took charge. Without warning, a group of men, carrying lanterns, burst into the little plaza and headed straight between the trees. The light on their corselets and headpieces, the rattle and jangle of them, denoted the

watch or, at least, an armed squad of soldiers. Pedro had only a second in which to step behind a tree and to make himself as small as possible.

"I'll bet that cursed fellow was lying," growled one of the party. "Why would de Vargas be hammering on His Grace's door at this hour? It's a wrong scent."

Pedro held his breath. The posse was indeed looking for him. Some loiterer, whom he had not been aware of, had recognized him as he stood at the door of the palace, and had reported him.

"It's the only scent we have," retorted another. "Probably he got wind of something—thought the Marquis was his best chance. We'll wait a minute, then do some hammering ourselves."

They had come to a stop witlriin three feet of Pedro, who stood glued to the tree trunk. A voice demurred that they had better think twice before interrupting the Marquis's repose. But the other, who seemed to be an ofnccr, cut him off.

"Christ!" he swore. "I've had my orders to bring young de Vargas in wherever I found him. The Holy OfSce doesn't care for duke or marquis. It won't hurt to wake the porter, will it? I'd rather face him than His Reverence."

It wasn't the watch then; these were de Lora's people. The shifting lantern beams darted here and there. Pedro wondered whether he shouldn't make a break for it. The instinct of flight blotted out the thought of surrender.

"Ho! By God, who's this!"

In a flash Pedro cut loose from the tree trunk and raced for the nearest street opening.

Raucous whoops sounded behind him, and a scurry of feet. "Al ladron! Al ladron!"

With his cloak over one arm, his sword hitched up to free his movements, Pedro dashed forward headlong, aimless for the moment except to shake off pursuit. With a head start and unencumbered by armor, he had the advantage; but the men who followed were no mean runners either, and their shouts reached in front of him.

''Al ladronr

A group emerging from an inn blocked his road, and he had to cut back to an alleyway, thus coming almost within reach of his pursuers. He felt the fingers of one of them brush his shoulders, but a leap set him ahead again. God grant that the alley wasn't a dead end! No, it opened to the right.

''Al ladronr

He catapulted against two heavy figures in the dark and heard their

yells mingle in the growing clamor behind. He turned left, then right, and found himself on the path that followed the inner side of the town walls. But exactly where? Yes, it wasn't far to the North Gate, If he turned in that direction, the densest quarter of the town, he was lost. His one chance lay to the east, though it meant an uphill climb. One part of the wall there was lower, and from childhood, when he and other boys had raided near-by orchards, he knew the trick of scaling it. '"Al ladron!'' The following pack had caught sight of him in the moonlight. Panting, he turned along the upward curve of the path.

It was a grueling course. Blocks of stone, which had fallen from the neglected wall. Uttered the way and made running hard. The slope grew steeper. It was especially unfavorable to those who had dined and wined late, or to those of more years than agility. Without turning his head, Pedro could hear the chase stringing out; the yells were more distant, the footsteps more spaced. But do what he could, one pair of jackboots kept pace with him, sometimes nearer, sometimes farther, though a clanking sound which accompanied them showed that the man was running in his steel jacket.

"God's curse on him!" thought Pedro, whose breath grew shorter.

Up. Up. Jackboots hung on, stride for stride. If only someone did not blunder down in the opposite direction!

At last, with lungs at the bursting point, Pedro saw ahead of him the disused steps which had once served for manning the walls. His legs felt like butter, his mouth like leather. He had to make those steps. If he could once reach the top of the wall—

Tripping over a stone, he pitched full length to the ground.

Convulsively he was up at once—up just in time to meet Jackboots with his shoulder and gain room for defense. The two swords gleamed and clashed in the same moment. Mindful of the flight of steps several yards behind him, Pedro drew back foot by foot. The man followed; and, as his mind cleared, de Vargas recognized in the moonlight the features of Sebastian Reyes, whom he had talked with at the door of the Inquisitor.

"Ha! Reyes!" he panted. "Hold back, for God's love! I thought you were a friend."

"Friend be damned!" gasped the other, thrusting. "I serve the Holy Office. Give yourself over."

Pedro realized that he had perhaps a minute in which to dispose of the fellow and gain the wall before the rest of the posse came up. He retreated step by step, struggling to catch his breath, feeling the ground behind him with his heels, parrying blow after blow, with now and then a thrust of his own to keep Reyes back. The man's helmet and

cuirass left only his face and arms unprotected. Shouts and the sound of running grew nearer.

In point of exhaustion, the two opponents were even; but in the science of fence, Pedro had the advantage. Not for nothing had Francisco de Vargas drilled him in every trick of combat. Alone with Sebastian Reyes, he would have had no trouble; it was cavalier against ranker. The problem, however, was one of time.

"Socorro!" the man shouted, and an approaching yell answered.

Where were the steps? Pedro groped desperately for them with his heels.

At last!

But time was gone. Around the curve of the path appeared two hulking figures, then three. Pedro hitched himself a foot up; Reyes followed, cutting at his legs; one of the new arrivals struck at him from the open side of the steps; he was vaguely conscious that another was attempting to clamber to a level above and thus take him in the rear.

Putting everything he had into one last effort, de Vargas whipped a ringing cut to Reyes's steel cap, stopped him for an instant, then backed this up with a kick that landed full force on the man's chest. Reyes came down on his hams; and at the same moment Pedro, turning, fled upward, pausing only to thrust at the face of the soldier who had gained a kneehold on the edge of the steps. The fellow toppled back. A second later Pedro reached the summit of the wall, sheathed his sword, straddled the battlement, and lowered himself to arm's length on the other side.

Footholds were here that he knew of, but he had no time for them now. Letting go, he dropped twelve feet, landed on the slope, lost his footing, and rolled several yards until stopped by a clump of underbrush.

Oaths rained from the top of the wall.

He paused a moment to shout, "Buenas noches!" before plunging on downhill.

XV

Outstretched on the straw which filled the shallow bedstead in her garret room, Catana Perez found it hard to sleep. This was unusual with her; as a rule, she dropped off catlike in half a minute. Perhaps the heat of the cubbyhole, which had baked all day under the roof of

- 84

the inn, or the moonlight streaming through the sashless window kept her awake. But for whatever cause, the routine of the evening—a blur of faces, jokes, oaths, wine cups, horseplay, and guitar music—drifted dully through her mind.

It was unusual, too, that she felt depressed. She had danced well and had collected almost half a peso in odd coins. The picture of herself mingled in the drift of the other pictures—herself in obscure conflict with Hernan Soler, who danced opposite her, his hawk face dark with desire, his narrow eyes fixed on her.

The conflict between them was several months old. He wanted her, demanded her. He was handsome enough, dressed gaudily, lived high. That he and his men held the mountains between Jaen and Granada, cut throats and purses, and would probably end on the gibbet, did not trouble her. So far as that went, she liked courage and dash. But she hated Soler and had no illusions about him. She knew him for a brute under his perfume and velvet.

Yet all men were brutes, she reflected—only of different kinds: some mean and niggardly, some merely savage. She liked the latter best. All men were brutes, all whom she knew. Except one.

Pedro de Vargas, the unobtainable, the never-to-be-forgotten!

She clenched her hands in a sudden paroxysm, then pressed her face against her naked arm as if to bind back the hot tears. There was only one thing she wanted, after all, one thing that made life worth living; and that was as remote from her as the cold moon. Then what did anything else matter—Soler or another? God in heaven, how it hurt under her breast, this heat of love, this ache of love!

Below in the courtyard of the inn, Lubo, the watchdog, burst into a fury of barking that stopped suddenly; but she did not heed it. The slow drift across her mind went on. Bearded faces, wine-sour breaths, leering eyes, gross caresses, and herself in the reek of it, posturing and pirouetting, showing off her body to the twang of a guitar. Tomorrow night and tomorrow after that and tomorrow again; or, if she mated with Soler, the same thing in another place until she got old and undesirable. Yet ail the while, a part of her, the essence of her, unseen and unsuspected, would be escaping behind Pedro de Vargas on Campea-dor.

She tried now to conjure up the various times she had seen him. Staring at the ceiling, she gradually relaxed and her eyes closed.

Then, at a footfall outside her door, she was wide awake, practical, and on guard. A footfall meant usually one thing; but there was a stout bar across the door, she had her knife and feared no man.

A low knock sounded; the latch rattled. She got up and slipped on her shift.

"Who's there?"

"Sancho Lopez. Let me in."

"Why?" she answered, alert to the ways of men.

"Hell!" returned the mutter. "Open up; I've something to tell you."

Reassured, but still on guard, Catana drew back the bar, and Lopez entered. The first glimpse of his dark, preoccupied face set her fears at rest. He stood a moment, pinching his chin, the bristles on his face making a rasping sound against his fingers.

"It's young Pedro de Vargas," he said.

She repeated the name soundlessly.

"He's here. Something with the Holy Office. His family's in the Castle. Almost taken himself—had to fight his way out. Wants to make the sierra. I've put him in the hayloft of the stable till morning. He's badly tuckered."

She stared at Lopez, still clutching her shift together at the throat, her eyes black pools of excitement.

"Give him some wine and victuals," the innkeeper went on. "I don't want to mix in this. First thing in the morning, see that he leaves. Hernan Soler's his best bet. But he can't stay here."

Instantly she flared up. "Are you afraid, Sancho Lopez? I didn't think you were a coward."

"Anda!'' he snapped, though keeping his voice down. "D'you think I'm a fool? I'd do what I could for young de Vargas, but I won't be ruined or burned for him. No Santa Gasa for me! Take some rags along. He's bleeding."

"Hurt?"

"A scratch on the leg—nothing bad. And now I'm washing my hands, d'you see? It's your business, if you want to take the risk."

She had already picked up her skirt. "Take the risk!" she echoed, dropping the garment over her head.

"Yes. If you're caught helping him, it's the garrucha for you, and maybe the stake. Remember, I don't know anything. What you do with your galdn doesn't concern me."

Galdn! Lover! The word made her blood simmer. Pedro de Vargas, her galdn! She put on her bodice, hooking it quickly, and coiled up the dark rope of her hair.

"Don't worry, Sancho Lopez."

Barefooted, so as not to make a sound, she stole out, threaded the dormitory of snoring guests who occupied the upstairs of the inn, and

clambered down the ladder to the main room. It took only a minute to fill a basket with food and to slip out through a side door into the courtyard.

''ChitoUj Luhocito!" she cautioned the watchdog, who followed her to the stable.

Inside the black, smelly place, dense with the sleep of beasts and of several mule boys who had a shakedown there, she made her way carefully toward the ladder to the spare hayloft. It was a space partitioned off from the main supply of fodder, and was the only corner of the stable that offered concealment. Climbing the ladder, she rapped gently at the trap door over her head.

"It's Catana," she whispered.

The dim rays of a lantern seemed almost bright as the trap rose and she clambered up into the loft. She said, "Hush!" and laid a finger on her lips, waiting until Pedro had again lowered the door into place.

Her heart quailed at the change in him. His usually curly hair, now matted with dust and sweat, clung in sharp points to his forehead; his face was dead white and showed hollows at the cheeks; his eyes seemed unnaturally large. He had drawn off one of his boots and laid bare a gash on the shin, where a sword had cut through during his fight on the steps. It was not much of a wound, but it had drenched his ankle and foot with blood.

"My poor seiior!" she exclaimed softly. "What the devil have they done to you!"

His lips relaxed. "Not too much. Not yet. By God, you're an angel, Catana! Have you got some wine in that basket?"

He sank back on a mound of hay, while she poured him out a cup and set the basket in front of him. Then, as he told her between mouth-fuls what had happened, she sponged off the wounded leg with wine and skillfully bound it up with a strip of clean linen. Sympathetic oaths in a low voice punctuated his story. When she had finished bandaging, she sat with his foot still in her lap, one arm braced on either side, her angular face intent and her mouth hooked down.

It seemed so natural for her to tend him, to sit like this sharing his ill chance, that it did not occur to either of them how strangely natural it was.

"And your fine new doublet!" she lamented, when he told her of his drop from the wall. "The lovely breeches! Had you been to a jestin this evening?"

He had put on his holiday clothes for the rendezvous with Luisa, itnd now glanced down at the ruin of them.

"No;' he evaded, "not exactly."

He did not enlarge on it; but she guessed, and jealousy twisted its knife in her, though her face showed nothing. She merely gazed beyond him at the slope of the hay.

"You are an angel," he repeated. "I felt cursed lonely on the road from Jaen. You've made a new man of me, Catana. I'll kiss you for it."

She shrugged her shoulders. "Be sensible, sefior. It's no time for kisses. Who do you think accused you to the Santa Casa? De Silva?"

The suggestion startled him. He had not thought of de Silva. Now he remembered the quarrel at the pavilion, the man's veiled threats, the fact that he was a familiar of the Inquisition. It was possible, but unlikely. No cavalier would stoop to a thing like that. Even the knife of a hired bully would have been cleaner. He fell silent, turning the possibility in his mind.

"Is she beautiful?" Catana asked suddenly.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean the girl you dressed up for tonight."

He stared at first, then frowned. That anyone of Catana's station should refer to Luisa de Carvajal, his princess of honor, as a girl, shocked him.

Catana understood. "Lord Christ!" she flared, but caught herself and looked down, then faltered, "I'm sorry."

He felt ashamed but said formally, "There is a certain great and lovely lady, Catana, whom I am privileged to serve—let it suffice you."

She felt deservedly rebuked. Indeed, if he had spoken or acted differently, he would have lessened himself in her eyes. From the standpoint of the times, he spoke and loved as a hidalgo should. If her rival had been a wench like herself, she would have thought of murder; but the greatness of the lady altered things. She knew that he should worship some highborn hidalga in that world of his which was unknown to her, that she should count herself honored by the scraps of his regard. And because her humility was sincere, they both took it for granted.

"We must make plans," she said. "You must get away from here in the morning. Do you know Hernan Soler?"

"The robber?"

"Yes."

"I've seen him here."

"He has a hiding place I know of two leagues toward Granada. You could stay with him until you decide what to do. At worst he could get you to the sea—Malaga or Valencia."

"Why should he? He doesn't know me at all."

"He knows rae.'' She forced a smile. "He's a friend of mine."

"I have no money. He's not a man to do something for nothing."

"That's my business. Leave it to me. He's an amigo muy intimo."

At that moment she made her decision. There was no use telling Pedro, because he would protest it. All that mattered to her was that he should escape. A girl had the right to dispose of herself, and Hernan Soler would be glad of the bargain.

But jealousy, though he would not have called it such, now took its turn with Pedro.

"A fine friend!" he snapped. ''Muchas gracias! I can look out for myself. I know the sierra."

She shook her head. "You can't live in the mountains with every door closed to you on account of the Holy Office. Hernan's your one chance. He's a good Christian, but his brother died in an auto-da-fe at Seville. He hates the Santa Casa—"

She broke off and stared sharply at the partition behind her.

"Did you hear anything?"

"No," he said.

They could not have seen the eye which had been applied to a knothole in the partition and at that instant withdrew. It belonged to Jose, the mule boy of one of the arrieros stopping at the inn. He had wakened at Catana's entrance, had heard voices, and with the curiosity of his age had climbed to the main hayloft for a possible peep at forbidden mysteries. But the sight of Catana and Pedro de Vargas, sitting opposite each other across a lantern, was of no interest, and he retired disappointed.

Only the usual rustling sounds rose from the stable.

"I suppose it was nothing," she concluded. "No, senor, I'll guide you to Hernan in the morning."

"The risk for you?" he hesitated.

"That's nothing."

It would have been desecration to compare Catana in any way with Luisa de Carvajal. That the one was willing to dare everything for him and the other nothing did not present itself to his mind. Luisa was not expected to dare; her value was ethical, transcendental; she existed to be adored. Between this and Catana's practical courage, there was no connection. But for a moment Pedro de Vargas felt the heat of something that was more even than adoration. It bewildered him.

"Vdlgame Diosf' he muttered. "I love you."

"I love youj" she answered simply.

He leaned toward her. The consent in her eyes, raised to his, the softness of her lips, drew him closer.

"I love you, Catana," he repeated.

Suddenly a clatter of hoofs filled the courtyard, a clanking and ring of steel, hammering on the door of the inn, summons to open.

At once she was on her feet, alert and tense. In an instant the lantern was out, the basket hidden beneath the hay. She crouched listening beside the trap door.

Confusion started below, the snorting and stamping of awakened animals, shouts and oaths. The stable door was flung back as ostlers and mule boys trooped out to gape at the invasion.

"Cover up with the hay," she directed. "I've got to show myself. Nobody's seen you. We'll put them on the wrong scent."

Raising the trap, she slipped under it, lowered it behind her, and a moment later mingled with the throng in front of the inn.

XVf

There were about a dozen mounted men. Rugged but respectful, Sancho Lopez confronted the captain of the troop, who sat glaring down from his saddle. To lend him support, Catana appeared, as if from the inn, and stood beside him.

"No, Seiior Captain, he is not here; he has not been here this evening. . . . Yes, I know Pedro de Vargas—as who doesn't? He has stopped at the Rosario for refreshment. . . . No, I have seen no one pass on the road, Senor Captain."

"But I have," Catana's husky voice interrupted. "Vaya, it must havt been an hour ago. The watchdog wakened me. I looked out and noticed a man on the road. It was bright as day. He walked fast uphill. I said to myself, 'It's no time of night for an honest traveler.' "

The news sent a rattle of steel through the troop. Sebastian Reyes demanded, "By God, what're we waiting for? That's he. It'd be pretty close to an hour ago."

"If it was he," returned the captain, "he's in the sierra by now and safe till morning."

"Unless he stopped at Juan the Woodcutter's," drawled Catana indifferently, "up the Guardia. He's hunted through the mountains and knows Juan."

The captain sat tight. He was not the man to leave one covert un-

beaten for the sake of another. Besides, he knew all about the Rosario.

On the point of ordering a search, he happened to drop his skeptical eye on Jose, the mule boy, and found him grinning. Why? Nobody else grinned. 

"You!" he barked. "Come here."

The youth's self-importance vanished. In the dead silence, he faltered forward. The captain drew a coin from his belt purse, tossed it in the air, caught it in his gauntlet. A gold coin.

"You look a sharp lad," he said. "What d'you know?"

"Nothing, Sefior Captain. I—I don't know anything."

"Take a hitch on his arm," directed the other. "Jog his memory. The dog wouldn't be sniggering for nothing."

Two men, who had dismounted, stepped over to Jose. One collared him, the other grasped his wrist.

"For God's sake!" screamed the boy.

Slowly his arm rose behind his back. What did the arm of a ragamuffin matter except to himself? If he knew nothing, he shouldn't have grinned at the wrong time.

The captain sat tight.

"For God's sake! ... Let me go .. . I'll tell."

He was in a hard pinch. If he did not tell, they would break his arm. If he told—

Catana watched him inscrutably over the shoulder of one of the men, She was chewing a straw.

"Going to speak?" asked the captain.

The fear of imminent pain overbalanced the remoter fear; but he lied as much as possible. To betray Pedro de Vargas was one thing— he might get away with it; to betray Catana meant at best the knife of one of her admirers between his ribs before tomorrow's sun.

She stood watching him as he stammered about the cahallero in the spare hayloft. The gentleman had let himself into the stable and climbed the ladder. He didn't know whether it was de Vargas or not. Catana arched her eyebrows with interest and shifted the straw between her teeth. ''Diga, diga! Well, well!" she remarked.

The troopers were streaming across the courtyard. Jose plucked at the captain's boot.

"The money, sir?"

He received a cut from the other's whip that sent him back with his hands to his face. When he lowered them, Catana was standing in front of him. She might have been joking for all that a bystander would have noticed.

"The money, sir?" she mimicked; and, removing the straw, she drew it lightly across Jose's throat. "Better find a priest, Joseito. That's what you need more than money, sir—a priest."

They brought Pedro de Vargas into the inn; but, except that his hands were bound, they treated him with the courtesy due a gentleman. The captain drank his health, and Sebastian Reyes complimented his swordsmanship. When he complained of the tightness of the cords, they loosened them so that he could make shift to drink. Save for their duty, they wished him the best. No reference was made to what awaited him in the Castle of Jaen; good manners forbade it.

But Sancho Lopez and the Rosario fared worse. Now that they had got their prisoner, the men of the Holy Office relaxed. They guzzled Lopez's wine, devoured his victuals, and took over the premises. They might have taken him over as well for sheltering an accused heretic; but when Pedro declared that he had entered the stable without the innkeeper's knowledge, they let it go at that. Lopez could count himself lucky to get off with horseplay—sword pricks in the behind and, when the fun grew madder, a blanket-tossing in the courtyard. Some of his guests had the same treatment.

Pedro's chief concern was for Catana, but he soon realized that he need not worry. She belonged to this element, like the devil to fire or a fish to water. She appealed to one bully against another; left them quarreling; slipped from the arms of a third to the knee of a fourth; turned the laugh on a fifth; flew into white-hot rage that took the breath from the next man; laughed, swaggered, dominated. In the end a guitar was found, a tune struck up, and she danced her audience into groggy adulation. That the Rosario, though battered, survived the evening was largely due to her.

Seated against the wall between the captain and Reyes, with the table a bulwark in front of them, Pedro half-dozed. At last consciousness split into fragments like a dream. He could see the moonlight on the fairy round in the garden; the owl face of the Marquis de Carvajal; Luisa's pale beauty lighted by the candle; the melee at the steps; the road between the olive trees from Jaen; Catana facing him in the hayloft; and now, jumbled with this, the uproar in front of him. A dream, or rather nightmare because of the cords on his arms and the dread of tomorrow.

Catana pirouetted near them, but he might have been a stranger for any recognition in her eyes. Only the professional smile. He understood: she had to pretend that she didn't know him to save her skin; but he felt terribly alone.

The windows had suddenly turned gray. It was already tomorrow.

Head-splitting din greeted the end of the dance. ''Bis! Bis! Viva la Catana!"

''Viva!'' bawled Reyes. "Salud, de Vargas!"

"Salud!" Pedro mumbled. He fingered his cup, then lurched forward on the table.

"By God, he's asleep," said a distant voice.

He knew nothing more until several hours later, when he wakened with his arms numb and his head bursting.

XV(/

It was well into the morning when the troopers shook off last night's carouse and got ready to start for Jaen. Seated, filthy and disheveled, on the rump of a horse, his legs dangling, his arms tied, a rope binding him to the rider in front, Pedro seemed to himself already a prison scarecrow. The sun burned down from a pitiless blue sky, adding sweat and heat to the other discomforts.

"Oiga, mozaf called the trooper in front of Pedro to Catana, "one more cup of water. Lopez's foul wine has left my mouth like a pigsty."

"Perhaps it found it that way, m'lord," she drawled; but, fetching a pitcher, she filled a cup for the man and handed it up to him.

She looked pale from the night, and her black eyes seemed larger because of the hollows under them. Shifting to Pedro, they narrowed a little. The impersonal look was gone. They spoke fiercely, passionately. He knew that she was trying to convey some message.

"May I have a drink, Catana?"

"A sus ordenes." She filled and held the cup high, so that, bending a little, he could drink. "Valor y esperanza, senor!" she added lightly.

Courage and hope! Her eyes narrowed again. It seemed to him that she stressed the last word.

The captain mounted, gave the word of command, and the little squadron clanked out of the courtyard. Looking back, Pedro saw Catana standing arms akimbo, gazing after them. She gave a brief wave of the hand; then, turning abruptly, she entered the inn.

It was a league downhill to Jaen, and because of the heat and dust, the captain rode slowly. Moreover, more people than usual were heading for the town, so much so at times they almost blocked the highway. Peasants in holiday clothes, on foot and on donkeys, trooped forward

as if to some gala event. But they were in a queer humor too, a feverish humor that showed itself in forced hilarity and use of the bottle, with a sprinkling of sober faces in between. They made way docilely for the horsemen and with sidelong glances when they saw" the pennon of the Holy Office, which was borne at the head of the troop.

Absorbed by his own concerns, Pedro wondered vaguely at first what saint's day it was. Then a witticism, flung at him by a yokel on a burro, recalled what had slipped his mind.

"Get a move on, heretic, or you'll miss saying hasta la vista to your friends."

Yes, he had forgotten. It was a big day. A couple of dozen men and women were scheduled to make confession of their sins in the public square and to receive penance. For some, the lash and the galleys; for some, the lash and prison; for some, the stake. It was rumored that six were to burn.

He turned faint a moment; black dots wheeled in front of his eyes. But remembering himself, he fought the dizziness off, lifted his head. He had witnessed several auto-da-fes with the indifference bred of familiarity. Now his point of view" had suddenly altered, and it took no great shrewdness to understand why.

The pride of an hidalgo helped him out. He was carried forward amid the taunts of the crowd, impassive as a statue, closing his mind to the future, scornful of the present.

At last the shadow of the city gates shut off the sun. The troop plodded uphill through streets choked with people flocking in the same direction. As they drew closer to the Plaza Santa Maria in front of the cathedral, it was only by sheer weight of horseflesh that the riders could force a passage.

"Why not see the show?" called one of them to the captain, when they plunged into the milling crowd that filled the square.

"No, not till we've reported to the Castle," came the answer. "We'll have time later. Skirt the crowd."

But it was not so easy. The place was packed to suffocation, except for the center where a cordon of pikemen kept sufficient space clear. Brought to a halt in spite of himself, the captain looked for a crevice, through which he could wedge his way, and found none.

With new eyes, Pedro stared at the objects in the center of the plaza. There was the familiar low platform, erected during the night and standing a few steps above the cobblestones. On one side, it supported low benches, where the condemned would sit; and facing these were higher seats for the Inquisitor and the town magistrates. There, not far

off, half-hidden by faggots, stood the thick, blunt posts with their blackened chains.

"Demonio!" chafed the captain, standing in his stirrups. But at that moment came a sound that put an end to any thought of advance.

It was a distant chant, growing steadily louder. The pikemen on the opposite side of the square, shouldering and shoving, cleared the end of the street leading down from the Castle. A hush fell on the crowd, as the diapason of the chant came nearer.

''Miserere mei, Deus, secundum magnam misericordiam tuam: et secundum multitudinem miserationum tuarum dele iniquitatem meam."

Into the square, under the hot sky, slowly advanced the procession. To a philosopher, such as Germany was then producing, it might have symbolized many things: a once redeeming faith now fossilized and distorted by human corruption into the opposite of everything its Founder had advocated; a demonstration of the past, still powerful and alert to keep the New Age in leading strings. But Pedro de Vargas was no philosopher. He had been conditioned to accept humbly and in trembling the sternness of God as exercised by a divine Church. Not for him to question or protest; the very instinct of protest was in itself a proof of Original Sin. To the people in the square and to him among them, this ought, indeed, to be a joyful occasion: it manifested the victory of God over the forces of evil.

So, humbly and in trembling, he gazed at the banner of the Inquisition borne in front, and then at the column of chanting friars—white, black, and gray—of the monastic orders, and then at the shuffling procession behind. These last were the penitents. They came in single file, each one flanked by Soldiers of Christ, as the familiars of the Holy Office styled themselves. Each penitent was clad in the hideous san-henitOj to be worn by many of them till death, a loose, yellow garment like a nightshirt, plastered front and back with red crosses. Each had a rope about the neck and carried a long, green candle unlighted.

They limped and stumbled forward on limbs dislocated by torture. Their faces were putty gray, their hair matted; they blinked painfully in the unfamiliar sunlight. One old woman, too crippled to walk, was drawn on a hurdle, her distorted frame bumping over the cobblestones. At a pause in the chanting could be heard her shrill outcries. Most of the penitents were of Jewish or Moorish blood and had confessed to lapsing back into heresy. A few were self-admitted practitioners of the Black Art; a few were convicted blasphemers.

Hobble, hobble. They dragged themselves up on the platform, each

to his or her appointed place on the benches, in the order in which they would receive judgment. The old woman, still feebly moaning, was carried to her place and propped upright between two Jews. The ranks of scarecrows behind their candles looked like a red and yellow crazy quilt threaded with green. Now that they came nearer, Pedro recognized some of the faces, but was struck by the change in them. They were half-crazed men and women, only a blur of what they had been once. Fortunately, too, their minds seemed blurred, and they sat vacantly blinking at what went on.

The procession closed with another column of chanting monks and a detachment of soldiers. Then, from the cathedral, emerged the dignitaries of Church and town: the Bishop in purple, the canons and lesser clergy in their finest laces and berettas, the Alcalde and Alguazil Mayor with their badges of office, the leading noblemen of Jaen and officers of the Miliz Christi. Silks and velvets, gold and jewels. The crowd gaped. The peasants from the country had something to talk about for the rest of the summer. There was the Marquis de Carvajal, his beard uptilted above the Cross of Santiago on his chest, his eyes heavy with self-importance. There (Pedro's lips tightened) was Diego de Silva in black and gold. A red plume curled from the jeweled brooch of his velvet cap. Pedro knew all of them; but, concealed by the shoulders of the trooper and by the coating of dust on his face, they would hardly have recognized him. For the fraction of a moment, he expected to see his father among them.

They were only a background, however. In fact, it seemed to him that the whole concourse in the square, spectators and actors alike, was merely a setting for the white-robed figure of Ignacio de Lora. Every eye focused on the Inquisitor, as he headed the glittering procession onto the platform and took his raised seat opposite the condemned. Except for his glowing black eyes, he looked more than ever like a granite statue.

Unnecessarily the criers proclaimed silence, for everyone was now intent enough. A mass was said at an improvised altar on the platform, and then de Lora rose to preach the day's sermon. He spoke in a business-like, penetrating voice that reached everywhere and had an effect on the mind like the probing of a lancet. He discussed heresy, God's wrath, and hell-fire. He extolled the mercy of the Church, who, by bringing souls to a state of grace and by imposing a brief and corporal penance, saved them from the eternal flames.

The voice ran on. Pedro's dangling legs felt heavier, his arms more numb. Sweat streaked his face. He tried to escape from the insistent

voice by gazing up at the gothic front of the cathedral, at the roof line of houses hemming in the square.

But at one point his glance happened to fall on a man in the crowd next to the pikemen. Something familiar about him fixed Pedro's attention. Then suddenly he recognized him. It was Garcia. Although now disguised in the steel helmet and cuirass of a soldier, the broad nose, bull neck, and bulk of the man were unmistakable.

What was he doing here? Wasn't this the morning when—? Pedro stiffened. Wasn't Garcia's mother to have been discharged from prison this morning? Then why—?

From where he gazed, Pedro could see only Garcia's profile, but he observed that the man was not looking at de Lora. He stood with a fixed stare turned on the benches of the penitents. Following it, Pedro noticed the old woman who had been carried to the platform, and who was being held upright by the arm of one of the Jews. Looking more intently, he recognized, in spite of the skeleton features and sparse white hair, Dorotea Romero.

She looked more like a clay-colored mummy than a woman. Her face had been contorted by pain into a mask; but some dim resemblance to her former self lingered on. Glancing back at Garcia, Pedro saw that he did not move or take his eyes from her. Only now and then he ran his tongue between his lips as if to moisten them.

Well, this was de Lora's way. After all, perhaps he could not be expected to release the woman secretly. When it came her turn to receive judgment, he would declare her free.

Meanwhile, Pedro, forgetting his own situation, shared Garcia's suspense. He wondered what the latter would do when his mother had been discharged. His military disguise was a clever stroke. Probably he would present himself as a soldier out of service, who had been paid by the woman's brother to take charge of her. It remained to be seen whether he could get away with it.

The sermon ended, and the crowd stirred with suppressed excitement. Even the human derelicts on the benches stirred. The supreme moment of the day had arrived.

In a booming voice, an ecclesiastic of the Inquisitorial Court summoned the penitents one by one to hear their imposed penance.

Francisco Cadena stumbled forward and lurched to his knees in front of the Inquisitor's high seat. He was shaking in every limb. Pedro knew him as a prosperous owner of olive groves in the vicinity of Jaen. He had a young wife whom he was proud of and liked to dress in the newest style. Of course, whatever penance he received, all that was now

over, because everything he possessed had already been confiscated by the Holy Office. The same held true for the other penitents. They had nothing left to lose but their skin and bones.

The deep-voiced clerk reviewed Cadena's crimes. His maternal grandparents had been proved to be Jews. He had confessed to ma-rrania, a lapse into Jewishness from the Catholic faith. For this deadly sin, he now felt true repentance. The Church, ever merciful, decreed the following penance, upon the performing of which she would reconcile him to herself.

The clerk paused. Cadena groveled and rubbed his hands feverishly.

"Three hundred stripes on horseback and ten years in the galleys."

Cadena still groveled. It meant only protracted death. First, the slow parade through town, half-naked, bound to a horse's back, while the executioners plied their whips. Then the rower's bench and the scourge of the overseers. Ten years.

He raised his clasped hands toward the Inquisitor.

"Your Reverence, Your Reverence," he babbled, "think ... in the prison . . . three times the garrucha, three times the trampazo . . . Have mercy!"

De Lora made a motion with his hand. Francisco Cadena now belonged to the secular arm. One of the hangman's lackeys took charge of him, haled him back to his bench, where he sat mumbling and staring. He would never reach the galleys, Pedro reckoned.

"Panchito Marin."

An apostatay a backslider of Moorish blood. He was "reconciled" at the price of two hundred lashes and eight years at the oars.

Dolores Marin, his wife. "Reconciled" for two hundred stripes and eight years of prison.

The toughs in the crowd licked their chops; the whipping of heretics made good entertainment. Pedro closed his mind to the possibility of another day several months later. . . . No, it was absurd. He wouldn't think of it. Looking at Garcia, he saw a bead of sweat roll down the man's cheeks and drip to the ground.

"The Church, ever merciful . . . perpetual prison . . . the sanbe-nito for life . . . lago Hasta . . . two hundred stripes . . . blasphemer . . . the galleys . . ."

The clerk's unctuous voice rolled along like an innkeeper's announcing his bill of fare. The penitents' benches were now filling up with those who had heard their sentence. Some looked unmoved, as if the capacity for suffering had been exhausted; others wept feebly; others sat shrunken and trembling. The mind of one man snapped; he

threshed his arms about, making faces at the crowd. And meanwhile those who had not yet heard were on tenterhooks, for the sentences ol-death came last. If a church painter had sought models for a "Lasi Judgment," the choice would have been rich. The platform exhibited a corner of hell.

"Henriquez Guzman . . . the Church, ever merciful . . . 'reconciled' ... to burn presently at the stake."

A higher wave of excitement swept the crowd. There were eight left. This meant that eight, not six, would burn. An unexpected bonus of two. No wonder that there was an unusual supply of faggots! The executioner began laying out his instruments, the "agony-pears," which, being thrust into the mouths of those condemned to burn, stopped their screams and thus spared the ears of too sensitive spectators.

Whether it was by chance or design, Dorotea Romero's name was read last. It occurred to Pedro that probably de Lora wished to end the proceedings with one act of complete mercy, which would redound to his reputation for saintliness. After all, the crowd would never hear of the eight hundred ducats. But the suspense was hard on Garcia. His face had grown white; it looked as if his nerve was on the point of cracking.

At last—"Dorotea Romero." Two guards bundled the old woman forward, thrust her on her knees. The clerk detailed her crimes. She had confessed to a pact with Satan; she had attended the Black Mass; she had compassed the death of sundry people by her spells. She now repented of these unspeakable sins, and the Church, ever merciful, admitted her to penance.

"Wherefore she is now remanded to the secular arm to be burned presently at the stake."

For a moment Pedro stared incredulously at the granite figure of the Inquisitor. Surely even now he would intervene. He had taken the bribe, he had given his word. But de Lora's features looked as stony as ever. Then, in a devastating flash, Pedro understood the cheat. Was not Dorotea Romero being delivered from prison on the day assigned? A casuist, like de Lora, could maintain that the promise had been kept. And at that moment something perished in Pedro de Vargas, perished utterly, something which had given to life one of its best illusions.

But he had no time to realize that now. Dorotea, exhausted as she was, had understood the meaning of her sentence and burst into a wail of entreaty. Not the stake! If what she had already suffered could but be taken into account! She didn't beg to live, but if His Blessed Reverence would grant her a quick death—

De Lora shook his head. Then Pedro saw Garcia step forward.

"By your leave, comrade," he said, thrusting past one of the pikemen.

His uniform and casual manner made way for him. The soldier gaped, but did not try to hold him back. He strode forward, one hand on his sword, to the platform.

"A boon!" he called up to the Inquisitor. "A boon, Your Reverence!"

De Lora raised his eyebrows. "What boon, my son?"

"I am Juan Gomez, in the service of Captain de Lora in Seville. I had leave to come to Jaen for this occasion."

"Well?"

"This woman, Dorotea Romero, caused the death of my wife, Ines, by poison. She was hired to it by an enemv. I crave the boon of carrying her myself to the stake and of thrusting the 'pear' between her jaws. Grant me this, Your Reverence, for the love of God. It is a vow I have taken."

The heavy rumble of his voice filled the square. In the silence people craned their necks for a glimpse of him. Pedro's heart stood still.

Perhaps de Lora was pleased to have this unexpected testimonial to the justice of his sentence; perhaps, too, understanding mass psychology, he perceived that the crowd sided with this bluff soldier and bereaved husband. In any case, he nodded.

"So be it, Juan Gomez. But I counsel you to beware of hatred. Cleanse your heart of rancor. The woman has repented of her sins, and in her death she will be reconciled with the Church."

He had hardly spoken before Garcia was on the platform and had caught up the shrinking woman in his arms. Then, carrying her as if she had been a child, he stepped down to the level of the square and set off toward one of the posts half concealed by faggots. A hangman's assistant joined him.

"Pray you, brother, stand back. I need no help. It is part of my vow."

All of what happened then, Pedro could not see, for Garcia's back was towards him. But the woman's cries suddenly stopped. Garcia walked more slowly. To the crowd's amazement, the victim's thin arms circled his neck. Those facing him on the other side of the square, however, had seen more.

"Look out!" yelled a voice, half joking, half in earnest. "The witch is putting a spell on him. Have a care!"

De Lora, at once alert, gave an order; but so intent was everyone that not a man stirred.

Garcia had now reached the faggots. He paused a long moment; then, bending a little, as if to shift the burden, he did something with

his hands. When he straightened up, a Ump form lay outstretched on the bed of firewood surrounding the stake. He stood looking down, his huge fingers still curved to the shape of the woman's throat.

Suddenly he raised his clenched fists toward the platform and roared: "Now she's safe enough, you bastards! Now you can have her!"

Making the most of the crowd's stupefaction, he hurled himself, like a mad bull, against the wall of people, and broke through it. Pedro saw a brief eddy, heard shouts and a scuffling of feet; but Garcia had already disappeared.

XwII

At that period, the Inquisition had not yet, to the same extent as later, acquired its own special prisons, so that the Castle of Jaen was used for offenders of all classes. It afforded thieves or heretics the same accommodations.

Jaded by the events of the past night and shaken by the last scenes of horror in the public square, Pedro found it a relief at first to be alone in a cell under one of the corner towers. Sitting head in hand on the edge of a bunk filled with moldy straw, he tried to shut out the memory of Garcia and of the execution of the condemned wretches that ended the auto-da-fe. It had all become personal with him now, so personal as to nauseate him. Not until several hours later did the immediacy of the recent sights and smells fade out into an increasing awareness of his own present and future.

Through a fifteen-foot wall, a slanting funnel, ending in a crack, allowed the passage of a ray of light intense at first but gradually dimmer as the sun moved westward. The cell had the damp atmosphere of a cr)'pt tainted with the stench of excrements. It swarmed with vermin. As Pedro emerged from his sick apathy, the sight of a sleek rat, uplifted motionless on its haunches in the beam of light, did more than anything else to remind him of his situation. Soon it would be night, and the creatures would come scuttling out to people the darkness. Still worse, perhaps, was the complete silence of the place—no whisper of any human sound. And yet he knew that this was one of the better cells. It had light for a part of the day at least, whereas some were completely black at all times.

Uncertainty and imagination soon began working. Getting up, he started to pace the twelve-foot length back and forth. Where were his

lOI

father, mother, and sister? When would he be brought before the tribunal? Of what would he be accused? How would he stand the Question? Fear of the torture grew momently like a nightmare which he could not shake off. On the other hand, he had heard of people who had been locked in to die of starvation or thirst. Perhaps that would be the way with him—for lack of evidence.

Back and forth.

The beam of light, having crossed the floor, now slanted up against the wall and fell on a line of rough scratches above the bed. "Miserere mei, Domine." Then, as if this were its farewell, it withdrew and left the place in darkness.

Back and forth. He must tire himself out in order to sleep. He lost the notion of time, how many hours he had been here. Now and then unconnected snatches of the past few days rose to the surface of his mind. . . . His pursuit of de Silva's Indian servant. How little he had dreamed then that the boot would soon be on the other foot! He wondered whether Coatl had got away, and winced at the thought of the scruples he had felt about helping him. The best deed of his life! . . . His resentment at Garcia's impertinence in even suggesting the possibility that Doiia Maria de Vargas might ever be in a like case with Dorotea Romero. Nothing to resent now. . . . His cloud castles last night after leaving the Carvajal garden. This was his castle, this hole of shame and heartbreak. Would Luisa know what had happened? Would she still pray for him? Every thought seemed ironic, bitter as gall. What was that Italian verse his mother quoted—about remembering lost happiness—Dante's verse?

All at once, as if it had been a thunder crash, he started at the sudden grinding of the key in the lock. The door banged open, and its aperture with the space behind it was blocked by the figures of several men, one of whom carried a lantern.

"You, there," said a squat, bare-armed fellow in a leather jerkin— "ready for the first chat?" He had a clanking contraption of chains in his hands, which he now deftly attached to Pedro's wrists and ankles. They were heavy and crisscrossed so as to hamper any movement. "Feel talkative, eh? Want to cough up your sins? Adelante!''

Grasping Pedro's arm, he half-led, half-shoved him out to the others in the corridor. They were men of the same type, square, bull-necked, crop-headed. With their hairy, naked arms and blunt faces, they looked like butchers or what they were—hangman's lackeys.

Flanked by two of them, Pedro shuffled and stumbled along the passage, which multiplied the sounds of footsteps and chains. They went

down some twenty feet of steps to a lower level and followed another passageway, the lantern hovering vaguely on blank doors and sweating walls. It was more like a tunnel, narrow, low, and stifling, than a corridor. They continued on to a dead end and to an open door on the right.

"The prisoner, Pedro de Vargas," announced a soldier on guard there, stepping to one side.

"Let him enter," came a voice from within, "and leave me alone with him."

Pedro found himself in a large, vaulted room, dimly lighted by cressets. It was probably an ancient guardroom, for a fireplace occupied one end, and empty weapon racks stood along the walls. At the other end, opposite the hearth, rose a dais, such as judges used, with three chairs now empty. In front of this on the floor stood a small wTiting table. But these details made only a half-impression. As the door closed upon the withdrawing soldier, it was the commanding, white-gowned figure of Ignacio de Lora standing in the center of the room that held Pedro's attention.

The monk's high forehead caught the light, which fell also on his silver crucifix. He stood with his head thrust forward a little and his eyes hidden under their dark brows. Then, turning, he walked ovet to a high-backed chair against the wall and seated himself.

"Come here, my son," he directed. "I want a word with you."

But when Pedro, carrying his chains, stopped in front of him, de Lora said nothing for a while, merely eying the prisoner from head to foot and fingering his beard.

At last he remarked, "You look changed since the other night. It occurred to me then that we would be meeting soon. In your case, the wages of sin have not been delayed."

Until then fear had been uppermost in Pedro's mind; now it was submerged by a rising smother of hatred. He found it easy to return de Lora's stare with interest.

"Sin?" he repeated, and de Lora expertly noticed that his voice had grown older since the last time they had met. "I hope Your Reverence doesn't mean that I've taken a bribe or broken a promise. That would be unjust."

The Inquisitor's eyes did not waver. "Be careful, my son. Impudence calls for physic which you may not like. I took no bribe and broke no promise as your pertness implies. The Church accepted a fine; it released the prisoner, Dorotea Romero. What your evil imagination conceives has no importance."

An imperious wave of the hand cut off Pedro's answer. "Senorito mio, we are not here to discuss your opinions, but what, I take it, is of more value: your soul, which is black with evil and destined to hell. I shall be frank. Your hearty and humble repentance can alone save it— not to mention your body."

"Repentance for what?"

De Lora shook his head. "The stubbornness of sin! Well, you will learn soon enough, before the Holy Tribunal, of what things you stand accused. If you hope for mercy to yourself and your family, if you would save the souls and bodies of all of you, there is still a way of pardon left open. Take it; prove to me that your repentance is sincere; and I will do all I can for you. Otherwise—" The Inquisitor shrugged slightly and opened his hands.

"A way?" Pedro repeated.

"Yes. Tell me the whereabouts of the escaped murderer and matricide, Juan Romero, who calls himself Garcia."

"I have no idea v.here he is."

"A lie. You lied to me about him three nights ago. Reveal his hiding place. It will go hard with you and yours if you do not."

"I can't tell what I don't know."

De Lora grasped the arms of his chair. "Listen. You have committed two capital crimes: first, that you did not report an escaped criminal to justice; second, that you connived with him against the Holy Inquisition. For the last time, I ask you where he may be found."

The damp air of the vault seemed to grow sultrier. The friar's lips, framed by his beard, showed a straight line; his eyes drilled into Pedro's. Then, after a silence, he got up and walked over to the small writing table.

"So Pedro de Vargas will not speak," he murmured with angr)' gentleness. "He makes light of the Holy Office. Like father, like son."

"My father knows nothing of this."

"We shall endeavor to find out," said de Lora. Lifting a silver bell from the table, he rang it. And when the soldier appeared, "Inform the reverend friars that it is the hour of the tribunal. Summon the other de Vargas prisoners." And to Pedro, "We do not often examine mis-doers together, but in this case I think that more will be learned from a common confession."

He drew back within himself. Harsh and inhuman enough before, he now seemed to lose his individuality, to become an incarnate s)Tnbol of office. When two other Dominican friars appeared, he ascended the tribunal with them and took his place in the center. An inferior of

the same order stood at the table and began arranging various papers. A guard led Pedro to the proper place before the dais.

Lastly, from outside came a confused sound of halting footsteps and clanking iron. The door opened.

"Prisoners to the Holy Tribunal: Francisco, Maria, Mercedes de Vargas," announced the soldier.

XIX

Although he carried himself erect as always in spite of his irons, Francisco de Vargas showed the effect of twenty-four hours in prison. His face was gray, and his thin hair, uncurled, hung lank about his neck. Similarly, Dona Maria's usually neat appearance had suffered. Her plump person now looked oddly shrunken and faded. Upon seeing Pedro, her eyes filled, though she tried to smile. As for Mercedes, who was little more than a child, it was to be expected that the terror of the place would unnerve her. She kept pressing her face against her mother and twisting her hands. Fortunately neither she nor Dofia Maria had been put into chains.

Don Francisco greeted his son in a voice which showed small reverence for the tribunal; and Pedro, taking heart from the sight of him, answered in kind.

"Silence!" barked one of the guards.

"Silence yourself, dog!" returned the old cavalier. "I'll have no prison cur ordering me."

Before the flame in him, the man shrank back.

De Lora's stern voice cut in. "This is no place for swagger, Francisco de Vargas. A gag may teach you what old age has not."

But Don Francisco met the stare from the bench with his lower lip thrust out. "It would be wiser of you, Ignacio de Lora, to explain this outrage upon my family and person than to waste your threats on a man who does not fear them. I demand to know by what right you lay hands on me or mine."

Unused to such boldness, the Inquisitor found nothing to say except, "Tou demand!" But the exchange reassured Pedro in one respect: his family had not yet been put to the question; this was their first appearance before the tribunal. Probably de Lora had waited for Pedro's capture.

Without further delay, the indictment was now read by the clerk

at the writing table, and immediately any need to impose silence ended. With growing stupefaction, Francisco de Vargas gazed at the clerk, while a dull red crept into his cheeks.

The indictment, involved and wordy, took a long time to read. In substance, it charged that a great-grandmother of Francisco de Vargas had Moorish blood, although she belonged to the ducal family of Medina Sidonia. His claim to limpieza or pure Christian descent was, therefore, invalid. This taint manifested itself in him by an irreligious attitude, shown especially in scofHng and scurrilous remarks against the Holy Inquisition and its familiars. He had even threatened one of the latter with physical violence for upholding the Santa Casa against his attacks. He had indoctrinated his family in these blasphemous principles to such an extent that his wife and daughter showed horror at the very mention of the Holy Office; while his son, inflamed by such ill precepts, had been guilty of notable crimes.

To wit: the said Pedro de Vargas on St. Peter's Day, June 29th, had fallen on two familiars of the Holy Office in the mountains; had broken the arm of one and cruelly whipped the other, all the while expressing himself in incredible obscenities against the Inquisition. That same day, in the presence of his father, he had shown an insolent and threatening attitude toward another highly respected familiar of the same reverend body. That night he had conspired with an escaped murderer, one calling himself Juan Romero or Juan Garcia, to defeat the ends of ecclesiastical justice. He had insinuated himself into the house of the Most Reverend Father Ignacio de Lora, Inquisitor of Jaen, with a subtle intent, which had been frustrated for the moment by the vigilance of the said Reverend Father, but which had since borne disastrous fruit. On the night of June 30th, Pedro de Vargas, being called to answer for such enormities, had resisted arrest and inflicted bodily hurt upon several soldiers of the Holy Tribunal.

{''Bravo, Pedrito!" put in his father at this point.)

In conclusion, the indictment recorded that since their incarceration the de Vargas family, far from showing the patience and humility of repentance, had in haughtiness of word and bearing substantiated the testimony against them.

And to all these charges, credible witnesses had given oath.

The clerk, having finished the reading, sat down and prepared to take notes.

For a long minute, silence hung heavily under the vaults of the crypt, a silence both of amazement and of doom. The sting of the indictment consisted in the few strands of truth, all innocent, that it con-

tained. Out of these, exaggerated and distorted, had been spun the whole web. But it was a web that allowed no escape.

Finally Ignacio de Lora spoke. "You have heard the indictment, Francisco, Pedro, Maria, and Mercedes de Vargas. It remains for you to confess these sins and to seek reconciliation with the Church through penance. The tribunal awaits your confession."

But again there was silence.

"Do you confess these sins?" de Lora demanded. "Let Francisco de Vargas, the root and source of them, speak first."

To Pedro's amazement, his father took a step forward and said, "Yes, I confess."

Surprise was not confined to Pedro; even the schooled features of the Inquisitor sharpened.

"Well?" he returned after a pause.

"I confess one crime not mentioned in the bill. Why it was not included, I do not know—perhaps because it has the distinction of being true and would therefore ill agree with the others. I confess to the black sin of refusing to sell my property outside the walls to Diego de Silva."

The words had a marked effect on the tribunal. Shocked groans escaped from de Lora's two colleagues, and the Inquisitor's eyelids drooped to a slit. The clerk's quill scratched hungrily. When it stopped, de Lora found his voice.

"You have taken that down. Father Ambrosio?"

"Yes, Your Reverence. It is unnecessary to point out that the prisoner's remarks are of a piece with the charges against him. In our hearing, he accuses the Holy Office of corruption and venality."

"Not yet," Don Francisco put in. "That remains to be seen. For the moment, I accuse your 'highly respected familiar,' Diego de Silva, of bearing false witness, and of perjury from motives of cowardice and greed. Let him answer it if he can."

"He will answer it." De Lora looked over the heads of the prisoners toward someone behind them. "You have heard this libel, Diego de Silva. Is it your pleasure to repeat your statement?"

From the tail of his eye, Pedro was aware of a figure striding forward, the silken footstep hardly audible. Stopping at one side of the dais, toward which he bowed, de Silva scrutinized the prisoners. He was dressed as always in the extreme of fashion: black hose and doublet, with silver slashes on the trunks and sleeves. Bareheaded out of respect to the court, he carried his velvet cap and red plume in one hand. Though outwardly grave, his insolent black eyes danced.

''For Dios," said Don Francisco in a clear voice, "I thouglit there was a cursed bad smell in the place."

But the newcomer paid no attention, except for the lift of an eyebrow. He spoke to de Lora.

"Your Reverence has my testimony, given under oath. It was plainly set forth in the indictment. What need to repeat it? As for my motives, if I say that devotion to the Faith led me to prefer these charges, I hope Your Reverence will believe me. It is beneath the dignity of a Christian and a member of the Miliz Christi to defend himself against the slander of a desperate old man."

The Inquisitor nodded. "True."

Don Francisco gave a short laugh. "Notice, son Pedro, how convenient the dignity of a Christian is. 'Sblood! But he needn't worry. A gentleman does not stain his sword—your pardon, Doiia Maria— with a piece of dung."

Perhaps de Silva's white face turned a shade paler; otherwise he seemed unconcerned. It was de Lora who took action. He gave orders to the burly, bare-armed man who had conducted Pedro from his cell and now stood with his mates at one side of the room.

With the skill born of habit, they made preparations. A rope was lowered from a pulley in the vault above; two wooden horses were brought forward out of the shadow of the room, and a roller operated by handspikes was adjusted between them. The lackeys then attached one end of the rope to the roller, giving it several turns to secure purchase. Weights of various sizes, with staples in them, were set down in readiness. It was the celebrated garrucha or strappado, and everyone present knew the use of it. A bench, like a horizontal ladder, knotted cords of various sizes, strips of linen, a ewer, and several iron instruments, were set up at one side.

This was part of the territio, the preface to torture, which consisted in displaying to victims the tools about to be used on them in default of a confession. It took strong nerves to look at these things. Dofia Maria did not look, but kept her eyes on the crucifix above the tribunal, while her lips moved silently. Mercedes clung to her mother's arm. Pedro remembered the scarecrows in that morning's procession, the vacant faces. They were the products of those tools. He braced himself, trying not to think. The dankness of the place clung like sweat. It seemed deadly quiet in spite of the movements of the men setting up their apparatus.

Then Francisco de Vargas laughed again. "Clumsy stuff, Pedrito! The infidels are more ingenious. When I was prisoner to the Sultan

of Tripoli, I saw a number of torments, compared with any one of which this flummery is a pastime. The Holy Office should travel for ideas."

De Lora fixed his grim eyes on the railer; but at that moment de Silva stepped in front of the tribunal and spoke in a low voice, which the other leaned forward to hear.

"You say well," de Lora nodded. "Francisco de Vargas, for the last time I ask whether you will confess the sins of which you stand charged."

"Bah!" returned the old soldier. "Confess that I'm a Moor? My blood is as good as the King's and thrice better than yours—a fact known to every cavalier in both Castiles. Confess that I'm a renegade to the Faith? The lie stinks. Confess that I taught irreverence to my family? Nonsense! My son can speak for himself; but as to what you accuse him of, I don't believe it. A truce to this! I demand the release of my family and myself."

In answer de Lora pointed to Mercedes de Vargas. "Begin with the girl. From the lips of children, we are apt sooner to hear the truth. Bring her closer before us."

Overcome with terror, Mercedes sank down, clasping her mother's knees. While one of the lackeys held Dofia Maria's arms, another half-dragged, half-carried the child to a place directly in front of the Inquisitor, where he kept her on her feet with one arm around her waist.

Meanwhile, the mother cried, "No, Your Reverence! Pity, Your Reverence! Take me! She's so young! She's innocent—you can see for yourself! Good Your Reverence, take me!"

"Peace, wife!" Don Francisco commanded. "Would you give these dogs satisfaction?" But his face was as drawn as that of the image on the crucifix.

Pedro, straining at his manacles, tried to shuffle forward; but a guard gripped him behind. Diego de Silva smiled. The friars on the tribunal fastened their intent, hard gaze on the drooping girl.

"Mercedes de Vargas, do you confess that your father, Francisco de Vargas, by his evil precepts . . ." The Inquisitor's words fell distinct and separate like the clicking of a rosary. They came to an abrupt end.

It is doubtful whether Mercedes heard them. She hung limp within the circle of the han2:man's arm.

"Apply the cords," directed the cold voice. "You may save your daughter, Francisco de Vargas, if you choose to confess. On your head be it!"

In a haze, Pedro heard his father's answer as if it were at some dis-

tance. "I will not save her by a lie, Ignacio de Lora. If you do this thing, look to your own soul."

Torture, when skillfully used, became a crescendo. It began with the flesh, passed to the muscles, ended with the bones. Its background was the helplessness of the victim. Mad with fear, the child screamed, struggled feebly, was dragged beneath the pulley.

"The cords," repeated de Lora.

The loop of the rope was passed under one arm; the girl's wrists were lashed behind her; the tightening wedge was inserted. Then they hoisted her slightly, the lackeys making a careful turn or two of the roller.

Every nerve in Pedro's body writhed. He was vaguely conscious of his mother's weeping, of de Silva's smile, of his father's haggard face, of the judges leaning forward, of the clerk sitting with his poised quill. He looked here and there in spite of himself, his eyes trying to escape.

Came a thin, sharp scream.

"Do you confess? You will save yourself pain."

Then silence.

Pedro stared at the ground. He looked up at a confused muttering among the attendants.

"Your Reverence," stammered one of them, "she has fainted."

"Revive her. You know your business."

The slender body was lowered. The bare-armed men clustered round, stooped over. "Give her air, curse you! Hand the water . . ."

At last, uneasily, his face blank, the chief of them burst his way from the group, and stood in front of de Lora.

"Your Reverence, at the first twist of the cords—Your Reverence, she's dead." 

A low cr)' came from Dona Maria.

"Dead?" de Lora snapped. "Bungling fool! Have you no skill in your craft?"

"It's never happened before," the. man muttered.

In the tense stillness, a voice, so altered that Pedro did not at firsv recognize it, spoke. "Now God has shown His mercy, and upon you all rests His curse," said Don Francisco.

The Inquisitor burst out, "Remove the body. We'll proceed." But the judges on either side of him leaned toward him, whispering. Finally he said, "Perhaps. We would get nowhere at the moment. Return them to their cells. Tomorrow night will be your turn, Maria de Vargas, then your son's. Think well until tomorrow night." He stared at Don Francisco. "Your turn will come last."

"No." answered the other in the same remote voice, "your turn will come last."

"By God," Diego de Silva drawled, "it seems to me that without being Moors we have got under the skin of the noble gentleman."

XX

"Think well." There was nothing else to do in the darkness under the corner tower—a heat of thinking in which memory and anticipation equally mingled. And in that furnace of thought, Pedro de Vargas's youth was consumed. Out of its ashes emerged only the metal of hatred and a savage kind of fortitude, the metal of the chained tiger.

His eyes ached. It would have been a relief if he could have wept; but the death of Mercedes, the torment to which he and his parents were subjected, lay beyond tears. At times he had glimpses of the old days, that now seemed glimpses of heaven: Mercedes at her lute or facing him at table; the family together on that last night in the pavilion; his father's heartiness, his mother's smile; Mercedes again—

At times every detail of what had just passed renewed itself. At times the dread of what impended shut out everything else—the tliought of his mother in the hands of the executioners and himself forced to watch. At times he writhed with self-reproach at having meddled in the affairs of the ill-omened Garcia. Would it have made a diflference if he had kept out of them? He told himself no. His father was right: the visit to the Inquisitor had merely reinforced de Silva's schemes.

De Silva!

Hatred took the form of prayer. If he might be permitted only once to close his hands around that white throat, he asked nothing more; he would be content with hell.

Out of habit invoking his patron saint, he suddenly broke off. There were no saints. As to hell, he was now in it. As to God? The blackness about him was of the grave. God? What God?

Now and then his mind from sheer exhaustion faded into unconsciousness; but it was only to sink into a welter of visions, from which the clanking and tossing of his chains awakened him.

After one of these intervals, still half in the grip of the nightmare, ft seemed to him that he was no longer alone. A blur of light showed 'rom a lantern, which was cut off by the bulk of a man, who had just

closed the door. At first it seemed merely another phase of the dream; but as Pedro's brain struggled back to consciousness, he recognized the huge bare arms, bull neck, and leather jerkin of a turnkey Havmg lost count of time, he gathered that the twenty-four hours had passed and that he was about to be haled again before the tribunal. He lay staring at the broad back of the man, trying to fight down a rising fit of madness...

The fellow stood motionless awhile. Then, puttmg down the lantern together with some other objects, he turned around. He was a monster of a man; Pedro noticed the bulging arms and thicket of black hair emerging above the neck of the jerkin. He moved slowly toward the bunk°his misshapen shadow hovering on the vault above.

"Are you awake?"

Certainly it was a dream or a trick of Pedro's crazed mind. As the man squatted down to seat himself on the edge of the bunk, his facein spite of the dimness became familiar.

"Yes."

"Then compaiiero, don't you know me?

The breath stuck in Pedro's throat. "Juan Garcia!"

"Who else?" rumbled the voice. "Did you think I would leave you in this hell-pot while I could raise a hand? You're the best eyeful I've had since the Indies." 

"Juan Garcia?" repeated Pedro. "How—?"

"Money." The other gave a profound nod. "Money's the key to most locks. Besides, there's Manuel Perez. He wouldn't be able to face his sister again if he didn't do what he could. She's been stirring things up, I can tell you. But first," Garcia's big chest heaved "You've got to forgive me. I've got something on my heart." And when Pedro could only stare, "God curse me for a rat! When things went like they did with Madrecita—or perhaps you don't know?"

"Yes," Pedro nodded.

"At first I thought you had taken the money and played nie tor a fool. Out of my head, d'you see-half-crazy. Then I heard what had happened to you, and I knew better. I'm sorry." Garcia laid a huge hand on Pedro's shoulder. 

"It's nothing," murmured the other. He explamed how he had been in the cathedral square. "His holy, hellish Reverence played us both for fools." 

Garcia sat opening and clenching his hands. "Perhaps someday-

You know why I killed her? You understand, don't you; "Yes," Pedro said.

"She blessed me," said Garcia, "before I—"

He drew his hand across his eyes. Then, fumbling in the pocket of his jerkin, he brought out a key with which he unlocked Pedro's manacles. "Keep them on," he cautioned. "Others may drop in here."

Walking over to the door, he returned with what looked like a piece of sacking.

"A sword and dagger," he said, unwrapping them. "We'll make a break for it just before the hour of the tribunal. Manuel Perez will let us out by the postern. It's a thin chance, but we'll take it together."

Pedro's heart, which had begun hammering, suddenly slackened.

"My father and mother?"

"Yes, they'll come too. That's the trouble. I knew you wouldn't budge without them. I've seen Don Francisco. We'll head for the sierra, then for Almeria, then for Italy. He says if we can reach there we'll be safe on account of your mother's kindred. Hernan Soler vows he can manage it." Garcia spat. "But I'm not fooling myself. It's a thin chance."

"Hernan Soler?"

"Yes. It's Catana's doing. He's a galdn of hers." Garcia stood listening. "I'll push on now," he said uneasily. "The jailer's a friend of Manuel's, and he's had his pay; but there wasn't cash enough for everybody. They may wonder about the new hand."

"How can you get away with it?"

"Maybe I can't. But, for one thing, these prison lads aren't looking for Juan Garcia in the Castle; for another, I stick to Manuel and stay where he tells me."

"But if you're spotted?"

Garcia picked up the lantern and shrugged. "Why then, adios! They won't take me alive. I've got a knife."

"Thanks," Pedro said. "I can't tell you—"

"No need," said Garcia. "I'm not forgetting what you did for me, nor what it's cost you. We'll stand together—here or anywhere. Hasta la noche!"

"Hasta la noche!" Pedro answered.

Not until the other had gone out, locking the door behind him, did de Vargas first notice the streak of sunlight slanting from east to west through the funnel mouth of the embrasure, and realize that he had still long hours to wait.

But the whole quality of time had changed. Instead of despair, hope and with it suspense almost equally tormenting. What if Garcia were recognized? What if someone entered to inspect his chains and found them unlocked? What if the hour of the tribunal were put forward?

A mere trifle could snap the thread of luck upon which everything depended.

He forced himself to think only of escaping from the Castle. As to the long leagues over the mountains to Almeria, the difficulty of fast travel for an elderly man and woman, the constant danger of being overtaken, the risk of relying on a cutthroat like Soler, the chance of securing a ship on the coast, he kept his mind closed. It would be almost enough, he thought, to breathe free air again and to die free.

At any rate, this tremendous difference existed between now and before Garcia's visit—the knife. Whatever happened, no one would take him back to the tribunal. His deliverance from that lay concealed in the straw at his side.

And something else there was too: in the cold blackness of his mind, the flickering of a tiny flame, a new warmth such as his careless youth had not yet known. The meaning of friendship dawned upon him, devotion of man to man, deep as the love of woman, though different. Born in the darkness of the prison, it kindled a new faith which might in time partially replace what had been lost. "A friend 1" he exulted.

Hours dragged by. Once in the course of the day, a turnkey entered with food and water, while Pedro, knife in hand, tense as the spring of a steel trap, pretended to sleep.

"Wake up," said the man, "if you want any grub before the rats get it." But he did not inspect the chains.

When he was gone, de Vargas forced himself to eat in order to keep his strength up. He also walked back and forth for a while and flexed his limbs to avoid stiffness.

The ray of light followed its appointed arc, rested once more on the despairing scrawl of the unknown prisoner. "Miserere — '' Pedro glanced at it. Superstitiously perhaps, or because of a new hope in him, he even repeated it as night fell.

Then, for the first time, he slipped off his chains; slung the baldric, to which the sword was attached, over his shoulder; fastened the knife to his belt; and, lastly, stretched out again on the bunk, with the loose irons draped over him as if they were still in place.

At least several hours remained; but his suspense increased sharply as the minutes passed, increased to an almost unendurable tension. Had something happened to Garcia? Surely it was time. It seemed to him w that he had lain stretched out there for an eternity.

In the end, when he was on the verge of panic, the key grated in the lock, the outer bar slid back, and the door opened.

"Thank God!" he began, but the words died out.

It was not Garcia's burly figure on the threshold; the silhouette formed by a lantern in the corridor behind stood tall and thin. As it entered the cell, followed by the lantern bearer, Pedro found himself staring up at the white face of Diego de Silva.

"Put down the light, fellow. Close the door and wait outside. After talking with the old cock, I want a word with the cockerel."

The turnkey—it was the same who had brought the food earlier— knuckled his forehead. "Yes, Your Worship. It lacks a half hour until Their Reverences meet. I'll wait, Your Worship."

So, hope was over. Garcia had failed. Despair surged back again, but not only despair. Eclipsing it, rose the lust of hatred. As Pedro stared up at de Silva, the thirst of it tingled in his mouth; his pulses beat a paean of thanksgiving. He knew at least that de Silva would not leave the place alive. By God, yes—there was a God, and He had led the victim to the trap.

Meanwhile, de Silva, gazing down, pinched his chin. He studied the other's grim face under the thatch of bronze-colored hair, the wide, unswerving eyes, and in part read them perfectly.

Then he laughed. "Hate me, eh? Well, young Pedro, that won't last, I promise you. By the time we finish, I'll change that glare of yours into something else. Ever seen a well-whipped spaniel grovel?"

Strangely Pedro felt no hurry. Like an epicure inhaling rare wine, he enjoyed the sensation of putting off the too short moment of killing. It was almost a pleasure to scrutinize de Silva's pointed ears, the affected wisp of hair along his cheek, the bantering, conceited eyes, the foppery of his lace collar.

"Perhaps you wonder why I trouble wath the de Vargas family," he wxnt on. "They're of no consequence and hardly deserve notice. But I'll tell you. It's a policy of mine to remove whoever stands in my way, whoever offends me, even if it's someone of no importance. I never make an exception. If a young lout, Pedro de Vargas for example, strikes one of my servants, he has to pay for it. If a pretentious old fool like Francisco de Vargas prevents me from rounding out my estate in spite of generous offers, he has to be eliminated. You see, it gets around in the end that Diego de Silva does not let himself be trifled with. And soon people who are of importance make way for him. After that his path through life is smooth and undisturbed. That's the reason for my interest in you, young Pedro."

At another time Pedro would have felt the calculated sting of this speech, but his hatred was too complete for any further anger. In the

calm of his present assurance, de Silva's words even amused him, and to the other's surprise he smiled.

"When you eliminate people, senor, you are careful not to risk your own skin—which is probably wise. Tell me some more about your policies."

It was not the effect that de Silva looked for. The coolness and the smile visibly nettled him, but he kept his drawl.

"If you mean that I do not give swashbucklers the satisfaction of a duel, you are quite right. Why should I give them satisfaction at all? My object is simply to remove them as a warning to others. Perhaps in the end even your dullness will learn that my method is thorough."

Pedro nodded. He wanted to spin the moment out as long as possible. "Yes, cahallero, I admit your method is thorough—I'm not quite so dull as that—thorough as your dishonor, if possible." He smiled again and added, "If possible."

But he had gone too far. De Silva's temper snapped. The brute behind his mockery broke through, though he managed a short laugh.

"Well, hijo, dirty-tongued brats must be taught politeness one way or another. Get up when a gentleman speaks. You crow louder than the old carrion, your father."

Reaching out, he laid hold of Pedro's manacles with the evident purpose of jerking him up, but staggered back with the irons in his hands. And at the same instant de Vargas leaped, his grip closing on the other's throat.

Back they reeled to the opposite wall, de Silva wrenching at the hands that worked their way into his neck. More powerful than he looked, he was fighting for his life and kept Pedro at bay for a moment with arms and knees. A moment—long enough suddenly with a desperate twist to break loose. De Vargas stood between him and the door. He sprang for it, but was thrust back; and in the same instant he drew sword and dagger.

"Socorro!" he yelled. "Guard! You, outside there!"

Pedro had most to fear from that quarter. But no one answered. Probably the fellow had strolled off. There might be time.

''Socorro."

The two swords met, grinding hilt against hilt, and de Silva leaped back from the dagger in Pedro's left hand.

"What about satisfaction now, whoreson?" jeered de Vargas. "Where's your policy and method?"

He moved slowly forward, one step after another, his eyes watchful. He had no doubt of the result. He knew that he could kill the man by sheer fury—if only he had time. That was the trouble. A minute, two minutes before the guard returned. He must strike fast.

His sword leaped at de Silva's face, avoided the parry in quarte, flicked to sixte and ripped through the muscles of the right hand. As the sword slithered down, Pedro stepped on it. De Silva shrank back, for a moment out of reach against the rear wall of the cell. Kicking the fallen sword to one side, de Vargas resumed his slow advance. Now at the moment of success, he took no chances, even with an enemy who had no weapon but a poniard.

His opponent saw a face with hollow cheeks and above it a cluster of hair, red at the tips where the light shone through. He saw a pair of green eyes, unblinking as a cat's. And terror such as he would not have felt in open day on a fair field descended on him, terror of the burning thrust which in a moment would put an end to him. An end—

He gave a sudden gasp, his eyes on the point of the sword. "For God's sake ..."

Within easy reach, Pedro repeated his first attack, a feint and cut, this time to de Silva's left hand, which dropped the dagger.

"One by one," he said.

De Silva raised his bleeding hands in front of his breast, his mouth working, his eyes on the door. Pedro skewered his velvet cap with its jeweled buckle on his sword's point and flicked it off.

"Bareheaded before death, senor."

"No," screamed de Silva—the words came in a babble—"you wouldn't kill an unarmed man, de Vargas; you wouldn't murder me. I was joking only. You'll go free from the tribunal."

"You have a moment left," Pedro answered. "Spend it thinking of the girl who was killed last night."

The other sank to his knees. "Mercy!"

To his relief, the dreadful point sank a trifle as if hesitating. He stared at it, hypnotized.

"Well, if you grovel—" sounded the voice above him.

But de Silva was beyond shame. "I sinned," he quavered.

"You would make amends perhaps? Secure our release? Pay a suitable fine? Make public apology?"

"Yes," breathed the man. It was well that he could not see the madness in Pedro's eyes nor the face of Mercedes de Vargas whom the boy was staring at. "Yes, everything, anything."

"Could I trust you?"

"I swear it before God."

"No, not before God," came the voice. "Perhaps if you renounced

God, I'd believe you. Renounce God, de Silva. You're a familiar of the Holy Inquisition, you're an officer of the Miliz Christi. Soldier of Christ, renounce God."

The point leaped up, drew close.

"I—I renounce God."

At that instant Pedro thrust the blade home, down through the man's body till the point caught on the pavement.

"Now burn in hell forever, soldier of Christ!" he whispered.

Drawing out his sword, he stared at the blank face, the motionless body at his feet.

The door opened. They could come now; he was ready. His hand tightened on the hilt of his poniard.

It was Garcia.

"Hurry. We've got no more than a minute. I was held up."

"The guard?"

"He won't bother us—or anyone else." Garcia's eyes were on the body. "Good work!" he added.

xxi

Manuel Perez, his unshaven face urgent and anxious, hurried the three de Vargases and Garcia out of a small postern door opening on one of the steep slopes of the castle hill. Under a low moon, the decline looked precipitous and long. Delayed by de Silva's visits to their cells, the fugitives had practically no time left for escape. At any moment I the tribunal would be summoning its prisoners, and their flight would be immediately discovered. They had perhaps a ten minutes' start until pursuit was organized. After that, nothing but speed counted, for the pursuers knew what road would be taken. Only the mountains offered a hiding place, and the mountain route only was feasible.

When he had locked the door on the outside, Perez tossed the key away and thus prudently withdrew from the service of justice. Between him and Garcia, Dofia Maria was half-carried down the slope; while Pedro gave his arm to his father, whose stiff knee made hurry difficult.

At the foot of the decline, a couple of men impatiently waited with a string of horses. "By God," said one of them, "it's well you came, for in another half-minute we would have been spurring. Take a look at the Castle."

Here and there at windows and embrasures of the stone mass, lights came and went like distracted fireflies. They gave every sign of agitation and hurry within the walls. Another minute's delay would have been too late{ As the party mounted, a trumpet from the other side of the Castle, clear and imperious in the still night, sounded assembly.

"We've got to race for it," said the man, "if we're to keep ahead of the whoreson troopers. It's no help to be riding with a woman."

Don Francisco, undaunted as ever, flung back at him, "What we lose in speed, we gain in honor—honor to be riding with Dona Maria de Vargas."

Inevitably, he at once took command; inevitably too, everyone obeyed him.

"Pedro, you and Senor Garcia hold the rear. It's the post of danger, and except for your mother, I would ride with you. Mind you keep a good distance behind us, so that we may have timely warning of attack. These men"—he included the two strangers and Perez—"will ride fifty yards in front of you. I'll lead with Dona Maria. And bear in mind the proper intervals; leave space for sword and charge. No use bunching like sheep in a pen. So forward, and God be with us!"

"Vaya!' declared Garcia, as he and Pedro galloped knee to knee behind the others, "there's a real hidalgo! Your father talks as if he were leading a foray. There's a captain, por Dios! Look how these bandit rascals obey him."

In front, with a horse between his legs, the familiar weight of a sword at his thigh, the free stars overhead, Francisco de Vargas felt his spirits revive from the desolation of the past days. Except for what had befallen Mercedes, he might even have welcomed the chance that swept him again from his peaceful moorings into the stream of action. This was his native element, and he had spent most of his years in just such nips and tucks of danger. He drew a deep breath of the warm night air.

"Talk of miracles!" he observed to Doiia Maria. "My dear, who would have imagined some hours ago that you and I would be free of that hell-hole to try our luck again in the open! A manifest act of God and the saints—which shows that not the devil himself can keep us from Italy."

His wife, who had a stitch in her side from the unaccustomed move-."ment of the horse, gave a breathless answer.

"This Senor Garcia," continued her husband, "may be who he will, but he has served Pedro and us as a trusty friend, and for my own part I shall ever remain in his debt. Relax, my love, breathe naturally and go Vvith the horse. You will soon get back to the swing of it. He spoke to

"9

me of Hernan Soler, the robber, by whose favor somehow we have these horses, and I doubt not they are birds of a feather. But after the Judases and scoundrels we saw last night, I do not cavil at an honest ruffian. By the Virgin, no! And here is something to cheer you which Pedro whispered to me as we left the Castle."

"My lord," gasped Doiia Maria, "can we not slacken a little? I'm nearly spent."

"No, we cannot," said the other flatly; "we must win to the high sierra by daybreak. Do as I tell you and breathe deep. But listen. The cursed dog, de Silva, is dead. Pedro sheathed his sword in him when he came to taunt our son in the prison. By the Cross, I feel ten years younger for it!"

Dofia Maria was a good woman, but the joy of the news made her forget the pain in her side.

"Maraviglioso!'' she exclaimed. "Well done!"

Don Francisco threw back his head. "Well done indeed! And, wife, our Pedro is a boy no longer. From henceforth he's a man. He can use my war cry and carry my pennon."

Uphill though it was, they rode hard—too hard, for about a half-mile north of the Rosario, Doiia Maria's horse cast a shoe and fell to limping. Without drawing rein, Don Francisco summoned Manuel Perez to come up.

"Is another mount to be had?" he asked. "Or must we make the best of this? He'll be apt to go down with my lady."

"Horses enough, sir," answered Perez, explaining that they were to meet Hernan Soler with some others of his band at the Rosario. The chief himself would escort them through the sierra.

"Then it's of no moment," said de Vargas. "But keep a tight feel of the jade's mouth, Maria, lest he stumble. Adelante!" And with a laugh, "Little I thought the other night when I was flogging Pedro on account of that damned tavern that I would soon be risking my neck in a hurry to get there!"

Thus far no sound of pursuit had reached them, but even Don Francisco felt relief when he saw a group of horsemen, black in the moonlight, waiting in front of the inn.

Their leader rode forward. He was a loose-limbed, gaunt man in complete armor, and he managed his powerful horse gracefully. A gaudy baldric, much too bejeweled, crossed his cuirass and glittered in the rays of the moon. He had a long face and a toothy smile. What stripe he was showed at once in the oiliness of his manner.

"Gracious sir and lady," he bowed, "Your Worships' servant, Hernan

Soler. I never expected the honor of devoting myself to the service of so renowned a captain, of so noble a seiiora."

He was clearly showing ofT—perhaps for the benefit of the tall girl who stood in the shadow of the archway. Don Francisco returned his compliments adequately, if not effusively; but when Soler launched upon another series of them, he interrupted him.

"I thank you from my heart, cahallero, but we are like to be soon hard-pressed. Dofia Maria needs a fresh mount. If you have an odd piece or so of armor for my son and me, they may be of use before dawn."

"At your command," waved Soler.

The shifting of Dofia Maria's sidesaddle to another horse and the adjustment of armor, which was gladly supplied by several of the men to piece out a sketchy equipment for Don Francisco, Pedro, and Garcia, took a few minutes. During the bustle, when Pedro had slipped on a cuirass and was reaching around for the side straps, a familiar, husky voice at his shoulder remarked: —

"I'll buckle it for you, sefior." In the hurry, he had not seen Catana, but when he tried to turn, she added, "No, wait, you made me lose the strap."

Turning his head, he could feel her hair against his cheek.

He whispered, "Queridaj how can I thank you for everything, for all you've done!"

"There!" She tightened the buckle. Then beneath her breath, "Stand still. Don't let on we're talking. Promise me something."

"Yes, but what do I care who listens! I'd tell anyone what I owe you. Why not let on?"

"Because I'm Soler's girl now. He might be jealous. I want him to get you across the mountains."

Pedro stififened. "Catana? You didn't—you didn't get this help from Soler by—"

"Of course not! Be still!" She rebuckled one of the straps. "Didn't I tell you the other night about Hernan and me? Vaya, I love him. Promise me something."

"Anything. What is it?"

"That you'll think of me wherever you are."

"No need to ask that."

"No, I mean—" She stood a moment fingering the buckle. "We may not see each other again. You'll be a famous captain—I know it, Pedro de Vargas—when I'm hanged for a thief's trull in Jaen. But I wish— If you'll think of me a moment only, every day at the hour of Angelus? Will you?"

"At the Angelus. I swear it."

"And I'll think of you."

Soler walked up.

"That's a tight fit for a big chest," she added, clapping the breastplate with her palm, "and hard to buckle. Well, hombreSj will you ride?"

Soler kissed her full on the mouth—the kiss of possession. "Aye, querida mia. Meet me in a day or so at the place you know of. And adios!"

Pedro bowed as if she had been a great lady. "God be with you, Catana!"

"And with you," she said, "always."

The little troop, grown now to some fourteen horse, cantered off. She stood in the middle of the empty road, watching it, watching one figure in the rear by the side of Garcia. His steel cap sparkled in the moonlight. Had he already forgotten her? Would he look back once more? She clasped her hands.

"Maria gratia plena —''''

He turned and raised his arm.

''Adios, amado mio, amado mio!" she whispered.

When he had disappeared, she still looked at the turn of the road.

But suddenly a sound startled her. It came from the direction of Jaen —the distant racing of horses' hoofs.

XXd

If they could have had the start originally planned, the fugitives might have reached the Sierra de Lucena and taken refuge in the fastnesses of the Granada Mountains before their pursuers had been long on the road. As it was, they could not hope to reach the pass without a fight; and even if this were at first successful, it would be hard to shake off pursuit. For it would not do merely to gain the mountains; they must disappear long enough to find their way undetected to the coast— Almeria or Cartagena—and with luck secure passage for Italy. To be penned in the mountains would be fatal, as it would give the Inquisition time to cut off their escape by sea. After that, with a price on their heads and the province raised against them, their ultimate capture was inevitable.

Warned by a shout from Pedro, whose quick ears had picked up the

sound of approaching, though still distant, horsemen, Don Francisco dropped back for conference. Like a veteran captain, he had his plans ready for the event and now communicated them to Pedro, Garciaj and Soler.

"Look you. I remember a trail to the right not more than five furlongs ahead. We used it in the Moorish wars. It's impossible for a woman, but fair enough for men. Am I wrong, senor?"

"No," agreed Soler, "but it's better for goats. It leads west to Priego and hits the road to Puente Genii."

Don Francisco nodded. "The same. Pedro, your mother cannot take that path. She must keep to this road, and I must guard her. Half the men should ride with us. We'll press on as fast as may be. You with the others might wait for the dogs here. Hold them in play, but fall back. Then take the trail to the west. My guess is they'll follow you, thinking that all of us have gone that way. I grieve to propose this, for it means danger, and I would like my share of it, but Dofia Maria cannot be left alone."

It was clearly the only possible plan. Soler, rising in his stirrups, selected a handful of his best men to form the rear guard with Pedro. To his credit, he did not flinch from the post himself, but the value to the elder de Vargases of his personal escort as far as the sea was too great to be sacrificed. Garcia declared that, of course, he would stay with his friend.

Meanwhile, the little column had briefly halted.

"A word between us," said Don Francisco, beckoning Pedro to one side. "There's no use afflicting your mother with farewells. I'll tell her that you will join us beyond the pass. For myself, I know that whether we meet again on earth is God's affair. If we reach the sea, we cannot wait. You must find your own way to Italy. Whatever happens to us, your kinsman, Cardinal Strozzi, will protect you. And now bear yourself well. I'd give my life to be with you in this skirmish, but I cannot. Here they come. Shout 'Santiago y Vargas.' My blessing goes with you!"

Their hands met in a hard clasp to be long remembered. Then Don Francisco wheeled his horse and galloped up the road. The little group of men, Pedro, Garcia, and five others, waited. Below them the clatter of hoofs grew loud. The moon, slanting across the defile, lighted half of it.

For a first stand, the place was well-chosen. A projecting cliff, around which the road zigzagged, cast its shadow over the defenders, while anyone rounding it from below came fully into the moonlight. The sound of Don Francisco's party in front would throw the pursuers off their guard as to an ambush on the other side of the cliff. In addition, Pedro had the advantage that neither he nor any of the hard-faced rascals with him had anything to lose by fighting. Their lives were forfeit in any case, and most of them had memories of the prison and pillory, the hangman's whip or knife, the execution of friends and relatives, to avenge; whereas the horsemen from the Castle had no such coeent motives for risking their necks.

The noise of the riders came closer; a shout or two; then three ot them abreast swept around the cliff.

Far up the road Don Francisco heard the onset, and his heart yearned Avithin him. At that moment his common sense and his loyalty to Dona Maria underwent their hardest test.—"Santiago y Vargas! —The cry floated back above the clash of swords and trampling of horses. His lower Up crept out, he half reined up; but then, closmg his ears, he spurred doggedly ahead, while his wife breathed prayers to the saints.— "Santiago y Vargasl"—It was as if all his past life were calling to him calling him back. He groaned and struck the pommel of the saddle with his clenched fist, but rode on.

Though trained in the tilt yard, it was Pedro's first experience of an actual melee, and he Bamed with excitement. He would have given anything now for five minutes on Campeador, whose weight and spirit would have stemmed the tide more effectively than could his present sorry mount. But even so, he fared well enough. Two of the three troopers in front went down before the first unexpected charge, their bodies tangled between the horses' feet. Others closed in, jamming the road between the cliff and the opposite bank, hampered by the narrowness of the defile, a confusion and hubbub. Pedro cut and thrust, hardly knowing what he did. Perhaps his war cry accomplished more than his efforts. It was a famous shout known to all of the assailants, who gathered that Don Francisco himself confronted them. One horse, losing his footing, went down, and another piled on top. The road was temporarily blocked. The onrush wavered.