“Amen!” said Yeo.

Amyas’s whole countenance had changed in the last half-hour.  He seemed to have grown years older.  His brow was wrinkled, his lip compressed, his eyes full of a terrible stony calm, as of one who had formed a great and dreadful purpose, and yet for that very reason could afford to be quiet under the burden of it, even cheerful; and when he returned to the cabin he bowed courteously to the commandant, begged pardon of him for having played the host so ill, and entreated him to finish his breakfast.

“But, senor—­is it possible?  Is his holiness dead?”

“He is hanged and dead, senor.  I would have hanged, could I have caught them, every living thing which was present at my brother’s death, even to the very flies upon the wall.  No more words, senor; your conscience tells you that I am just.”

“Senor,” said the commandant—­“one word—­I trust there are no listeners—­none of my crew, I mean; but I must exculpate myself in your eyes.”

“Walk out, then, into the gallery with me.”

“To tell you the truth, senor—­I trust in Heaven no one overhears.—­You are just.  This Inquisition is the curse of us, the weight which is crushing out the very life of Spain.  No man dares speak.  No man dares trust his neighbor, no, not his child, or the wife of his bosom.  It avails nothing to be a good Catholic, as I trust I am,” and he crossed himself, “when any villain whom you may offend, any unnatural son or wife who wishes to be rid of you, has but to hint heresy against you, and you vanish into the Holy Office—­and then God have mercy on you, for man has none.  Noble ladies of my family, sir, have vanished thither, carried off by night, we know not why; we dare not ask why.  To expostulate, even to inquire, would have been to share their fate.  There is one now, senor—­Heaven alone knows whether she is alive or dead!—­It was nine years since, and we have never heard; and we shall never hear.”

And the commandant’s face worked frightfully.

“She was my sister, senor!”

“Heavens! sir, and have you not avenged her?”

“On churchmen, senor, and I a Catholic?  To be burned at the stake in this life, and after that to all eternity beside?  Even a Spaniard dare not face that.  Beside, sir, the mob like this Inquisition, and an Auto-da-fe is even better sport to them than a bull-fight.  They would be the first to tear a man in pieces who dare touch an Inquisitor.  Sir, may all the saints in heaven obtain me forgiveness for my blasphemy, but when I saw you just now fearing those churchmen no more than you feared me, I longed, sinner that I am, to be a heretic like you.”

“It will not take long to make a brave and wise gentleman who has suffered such things as you have, a heretic, as you call it—­a free Christian man, as we call it.”

“Tempt me not, sir!” said the poor man, crossing himself fervently.  “Let us say no more.  Obedience is my duty; and for the rest the Church must decide, according to her infallible authority—­for I am a good Catholic, senor, the best of Catholics, though a great sinner.—­I trust no one has overheard us!”