that, they had sent
him to work as a slave in the mines. But a certain powerful friend of
his mother's, who lived in the lonely abbey out on the plain, near the
great water-wheel (Serra remembered the dashing of the water in his
babyhood before he could remember anything else), got him this good
place with Dom Teruel, who had been his comrade of the seminary. And so
now his mother was safe--aye, if she sold her fine white meal openly
like so much salt. For who in all Murcia would touch the mother of a
First Familiar of the Holy Office. They reverenced her more--much
more--than the village priest who held the keys of heaven and hell--for,
after all, these were far away things.

But the Holy Office--ah, that was another matter. None spake of that
either above or below their breaths, from one end of Spain to the other.

So Serra the Murcian communed with himself, and with only an occasional
tug at the ropes that bound his captive to the white mule of Don Jordy,
he continued his way, rejoiced in heart.

But the other two, ordinary criminals with but little influence,
contented themselves with hoping for the freedom of the broad champaign,
the arid treeless plains of old Castile, the far-running sweeps of
golden corn, the crowded _ventas_ with their gay Bohemian company, the
shouted songs, and above all, the cool gurgle of wine running down
thirsty, dust-caked throats--ah! it would be good. And it might come
soon, if only they served the Holy Office well!

Both of them hated and despised Serra, because of his place, his zeal,
and especially because of his favour with the Surintendant.

The senior of the two underlings, Felieu Calbet, from the Llogrebrat
(Espluga the name of the town, where they are always fighting and every
one lives on the charity of the fathers of Poblet), was ill at ease, and
said as much to Andres Font, a little lithe creature with a monkey's
hands and temper, treacherous and vile, as a snake that writhes and
bites in the dust.

These two were trudging behind, their long Albacete knives in their
hands, ready for any attempt to escape. But the tall young maid sat
steady on the broad back of Don Jordy's white mule. She said no word.
She uttered no plaint.

Said Felieu Calbet of Espluga, senior familiar, to little wizened
Andres, third of the band, "Our brave Serra is content. Hear him! He is
humming his Moorish charms--the accursed wizard that he is! But for me,
I am not so sure that all goes well.