knew
you would come back hither, and now I can do with you as I will. How
much the Prior knows or suspects of this pleasant subterranean retreat I
am unable to determine. At any rate you cannot expect that he will be
very much delighted with your performances. But, mark you, it is I, and
not he, who will rack your body till you weep and howl for mercy. I have
studied these dainty instruments. I alone put them in order--I, Luis
Fernandez, whose home you broke up, whose house you burnt down to the
bare blackened walls, whom you made desolate of the love of woman----"

"Nay," cried Rollo, hot on a sudden as El Sarria himself--"the love of
Dolores Garcia never was yours--no, nor ever would have been in a
thousand years!"

"It would--I tell you!" responded Fernandez, as fiercely. "I know these
soft, still, easy-tempered women. They cannot do without a shoulder to
lean upon. In time she would have loved me--aye, and better than ever
she did that hulking man-mountain of a Garcia! Do you hear that?"

Rollo heard but did not reply.

"So this is my sweet revenge," Fernandez continued. "The good
Father-Confessor prates of heretics and times for repentance. But he is
mad--mad--mad as Don Quixote, do you understand? I, Luis Fernandez, am
not mad. But if you have any reason for desiring to live--live you
shall--_on my terms_. All I ask is that you answer me one question, or
rather two--as the price of your life."

Only Rollo's eyes looked an interrogation. For the rest he held his
peace and waited.

"Tell me where you have hidden Dolores Garcia--and at what hour, and in
what place Ramon, her husband, lays him down to sleep! If you declare
truthfully these two things, I promise to leave you with three days'
water and provisions, and to provide for your liberation at the end of
that time. If not, I bid you prepare to die, as the men died who have
lain where you lie now!"

Rollo's answer came like the return of a ball at tennis.

"Senor Don Luis," he said, "if I had ten Paradises from which to choose
my eternal pleasures, I would not tell you! If I had as many hells from
which to select for you the tortures of the damned, I would not speak a
word which might aid such a villain in his villany! Let it suffice for
you to know that Dolores Garcia is now where you will never reach her,
and as for her husband--why, you cowardly dog, asleep or awake, sick or
well, you dare not venture within a mile of him! Nay, I doubt greatly if
yo