“I believe—­I fear—­I had.”

“Are you his descendant?  Are you the repository of that terrible secret which—?” He gave way to uncontrollable agitation.  Gradually he recovered himself, and went on.  “It is singular that accident should have placed me within the reach of the only being from whom I could expect either sympathy or relief in the extraordinary circumstances in which I am placed—­circumstances which I did not believe I should ever disclose to mortal man, but which I shall disclose to you.”

II.—­The Spaniard’s Story

I am, as you know, a native of Spain; but you are yet to learn that I am a descendant of one of its noblest houses—­the house of Moncada.  While I was yet unborn, my mother vowed that I should be devoted to religion.  As the time drew near when I was to forsake the world and retire to a monastery, I revolted in horror at the career before me, and refused to take the vows.  But my family were completely under the influence of a cunning and arrogant priest, who threatened God’s curse upon me if I disobeyed; and ultimately, with a despairing heart, I consented.

“The horror with which I had anticipated monastic life was nothing to my disgust and misery at the realisation of its evils.  The narrowness and littleness of it, the hypocrisies, all filled me with revolt; and it was only by brooding over possibilities of escape that I could avoid utter despair.  At length a ray of hope came to me.  My younger brother, a lad of spirit, who had quarrelled with the priest who dominated our family, succeeded with great difficulty in communicating with me, and promised that a civil process should be undertaken for the reclamation of my vows.

“But presently my hopes were destroyed by the news that my civil process had failed.  Of the desolation of mind into which this failure plunged me, I can give no account—­despair has no diary.  I remember that I used to walk for hours in the garden, where alone I could avoid the neighbourhood of the other monks.  It happened that the fountain of the garden was out of repair, and the workmen engaged upon it had had to excavate a passage under the garden wall.  But as this was guarded by day and securely locked by night, it offered but a tantalising image of escape and freedom.

“One evening, as I sat gloomily by the door of the passage, I heard my name whispered.  I answered eagerly, and a paper was thrust under the door.  I knew the handwriting—­it was that of my brother Juan.  From it I learned that Juan was still planning my escape, and had found a confederate within the monastery—­a parricide who had turned monk to evade his punishment.

“Juan had bribed him heavily, yet I feared to trust him until he confided to me that he himself also intended to escape.  At length our plans were completed; my companion had secured the key of a door in the chapel that led through the vaults to a trap-door opening into the garden.  A rope ladder flung by Juan over the wall would give us liberty.