“Where is Dona de—­Rose Salterne?” shouted Will and Jack.

“Where is my brother Frank?” shouted Amyas.

“Dead, dead, dead!”

“I knew it,” said Amyas, sitting down again calmly.

“How did she die?”

“The Inquisition—­he!” pointing to the monk.  “Ask him—­he betrayed her to her death.  And ask him!” pointing to the bishop; “he sat by her and saw her die.”

“Woman, you rave!” said the bishop, getting up with a terrified air, and moving as far as possible from Amyas.

“How did my brother die, Lucy?” asked Amyas, still calmly.

“Who be you, sir?”

A gleam of hope flashed across Amyas—­she had not answered his question.

“I am Amyas Leigh of Burrough.  Do you know aught of my brother Frank, who was lost at La Guayra?”

“Mr. Amyas!  Heaven forgive me that I did not know the bigness of you.  Your brother, sir, died like a gentleman as he was.”

“But how?” gasped Amyas.

“Burned with her, sir!”

“Is this true, sir?” said Amyas, turning to the bishop, with a very quiet voice.

“I, sir?” stammered he, in panting haste.  “I had nothing to do—­I was compelled in my office of bishop to be an unwilling spectator—­the secular arm, sir; I could not interfere with that—­any more than I can with the Holy Office.  I do not belong to it—­ask that gentleman—­sir!  Saints and angels, sir! what are you going to do?” shrieked he, as Amyas laid a heavy hand upon his shoulder, and began to lead him towards the door.

“Hang you!” said Amyas.  “If I had been a Spaniard and a priest like yourself, I should have burnt you alive.”

“Hang me?” shrieked the wretched old Balaam; and burst into abject howls for mercy.

“Take the dark monk, Yeo, and hang him too.  Lucy Passmore, do you know that fellow also?”

“No, sir,” said Lucy.

“Lucky for you, Fray Gerundio,” said Will Cary; while the good friar hid his face in his hands, and burst into tears.  Lucky it was for him, indeed; for he had been a pitying spectator of the tragedy.  “Ah!” thought he, “if life in this mad and sinful world be a reward, perhaps this escape is vouchsafed to me for having pleaded the cause of the poor Indian!”

But the bishop shrieked on.

“Oh! not yet.  An hour, only an hour!  I am not fit to die.”

“That is no concern of mine,” said Amyas.  “I only know that you are not fit to live.”

“Let us at least make our peace with God,” said the dark monk.

“Hound! if your saints can really smuggle you up the back-stairs to heaven, they will do it without five minutes’ more coaxing and flattering.”

Fray Gerundio and the condemned man alike stopped their ears at the blasphemy.

“Oh, Fray Gerundio!” screamed the bishop, “pray for me.  I have treated you like a beast.  Oh, Fray, Fray!”