g of them to a mad
priest, would scarcely carry conviction to the Courts of Spain and
Austria, or to an astonished world. But, for him to declare them the
garbled and unauthentic utterances of an aberrant mind, and to make
public such statement in his own name, would save the situation,
possibly the Rincon honor, even though it stultify his own.

His Holiness waited a few moments for the priest's reply; but
receiving none, he continued with deep significance:

"You will not make it necessary, we know, for us to announce that a
mad priest, a son of the house of Rincon, now confined in an asylum,
voiced these heretical and treasonable utterances."

The voice of His Holiness flowed like cadences of softest music,
charming in its tenderness, winning in its appeal, but momentous in
its certain implication.

"In our solicitude for your recovery we commanded our own physicians
to attend you. To them you owe your life. To them, too, we owe our
gratitude for that report on your case which reveals the true nature
of the malady afflicting you."

The low voice vibrated in rhythmic waves through the dead silence of
the room.

"To them also you now owe this opportunity to abjure the writings
which have caused us and yourself such great sorrow; to them you owe
this privilege of confessing before us, who will receive your
recantation, remit your unintentional sins, and restore you to honor
and service in our beloved Church."

Jose suddenly came to himself. Recant! Confess! In God's name, what?
Abjure his writings, the convictions of a lifetime!

"These writings, my son, are not your sane and rational convictions,"
the Pontiff suggested.

Jose still stood mute before him.

"You renounce them now, in the clear light of restored reason; and you
swear future lealty to us and to Holy Church," the aged Father
continued.

"Make answer!" commanded one of the Cardinal-Bishops, starting toward
the wavering priest. "Down on your knees before the Holy Father, who
waits to forgive your venial sin!"

Jose turned swiftly to the approaching Cardinal and held up a hand.
The man stopped short. The Pontiff and his associates bent forward in
eager anticipation. The valet fell back, and Jose stood alone. In that
tense mental atmosphere the shrinking priest seemed to be transformed
into a Daniel.

"No, Holy Father, you mistake!" His voice rang through the room like a
clarion. "I do not recant! My writings _do_ express my deepest and
sanes