sting
upon the flags; it came from under the little door to which the two
walls led.

Oh, Heaven, if that door should open outward. Every nerve in the
miserable fugitive's body thrilled with hope. He examined it from top
to bottom, though scarcely able to distinguish its outlines in the
surrounding darkness. He passed his hand over it: no bolt, no lock! A
latch! He started up, the latch yielded to the pressure of his thumb:
the door silently swung open before him.

"HALLELUIA!" murmured the rabbi in a transport of gratitude as,
standing on the threshold, he beheld the scene before him.

The door had opened into the gardens, above which arched a starlit
sky, into spring, liberty, life! It revealed the neighboring fields,
stretching toward the sierras, whose sinuous blue lines were relieved
against the horizon. Yonder lay freedom! Oh, to escape! He would
journey all night through the lemon groves, whose fragrance reached
him. Once in the mountains and he was safe! He inhaled the delicious
air; the breeze revived him, his lungs expanded! He felt in his
swelling heart the _Veni foras_ of Lazarus! And to thank once more the
God who had bestowed this mercy upon him, he extended his arms,
raising his eyes toward Heaven. It was an ecstasy of joy!

Then he fancied he saw the shadow of his arms approach him--fancied
that he felt these shadowy arms inclose, embrace him--and that he was
pressed tenderly to some one's breast. A tall figure actually did
stand directly before him. He lowered his eyes--and remained
motionless, gasping for breath, dazed, with fixed eyes, fairly
driveling with terror.

Horror! He was in the clasp of the Grand Inquisitor himself, the
venerable Pedro Arbuez d'Espila, who gazed at him with tearful eyes,
like a good shepherd who had found his stray lamb.

The dark-robed priest pressed the hapless Jew to his heart with so
fervent an outburst of love, that the edges of the monochal haircloth
rubbed the Dominican's breast. And while Aser Abarbanel with
protruding eyes gasped in agony in the ascetic's embrace, vaguely
comprehending that _all the phases of this fatal evening were only a
prearranged torture, that of_ HOPE, the Grand Inquisitor, with an
accent of touching reproach and a look of consternation, murmured in
his ear, his breath parched and burning from long fasting:

"What, my son! On the eve, perchance, of salvation--you wished to leave
us?"

ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN

_The Owl's Ear_