And now the Grand Inquisitor of Spain,
With all the fifty horsemen of his train,
His awful name resounding, like the blast
Of funeral trumpets, as he onward passed,
Came to Valladolid, and there began
To harry the rich Jews with fire and ban. 
To him the Hidalgo went, and at the gate
Demanded audience on affairs of state,
And in a secret chamber stood before
A venerable graybeard of fourscore,
Dressed in the hood and habit of a friar;
Out of his eyes flashed a consuming fire,
And in his hand the mystic horn he held,
Which poison and all noxious charms dispelled. 
He heard in silence the Hidalgo’s tale,
Then answered in a voice that made him quail: 
“Son of the Church! when Abraham of old
To sacrifice his only son was told,
He did not pause to parley nor protest
But hastened to obey the Lord’s behest. 
In him it was accounted righteousness;
The Holy Church expects of thee no less!”

A sacred frenzy seized the father’s brain,
And Mercy from that hour implored in vain. 
Ah! who will e’er believe the words I say? 
His daughters he accused, and the same day
They both were cast into the dungeon’s gloom,
That dismal antechamber of the tomb,
Arraigned, condemned, and sentenced to the flame,
The secret torture and the public shame.

Then to the Grand Inquisitor once more
The Hidalgo went, more eager than before,
And said:  “When Abraham offered up his son,
He clave the wood wherewith it might be done. 
By his example taught, let me too bring
Wood from the forest for my offering!”
And the deep voice, without a pause, replied: 
“Son of the Church! by faith now justified,
Complete thy sacrifice, even as thou wilt;
The Church absolves thy conscience from all guilt!”

Then this most wretched father went his way
Into the woods, that round his castle lay,
Where once his daughters in their childhood played
With their young mother in the sun and shade. 
Now all the leaves had fallen; the branches bare
Made a perpetual moaning in the air,
And screaming from their eyries overhead
The ravens sailed athwart the sky of lead. 
With his own hands he lopped the boughs and bound
Fagots, that crackled with foreboding sound,
And on his mules, caparisoned and gay
With bells and tassels, sent them on their way.

Then with his mind on one dark purpose bent,
Again to the Inquisitor he went,
And said:  “Behold, the fagots I have brought,
And now, lest my atonement be as naught,
Grant me one more request, one last desire,—­
With my own hand to light the funeral fire!”
And Torquemada answered from his seat,
“Son of the Church!  Thine offering is complete;
Her servants through all ages shall not cease
To magnify thy deed.  Depart in peace!”

Upon the market-place, builded of stone
The scaffold rose, whereon Death claimed his own. 
At the four corners, in stern attitude,
Four statues of the Hebrew Prophets stood,
Gazing with calm indifference in their eyes
Upon this place of human sacrifice,
Round which was gathering fast the eager crowd,
With clamor of voices dissonant and loud,
And every roof and window was alive
With restless gazers, swarming like a hive.