tick will convince these young demons of the village that
thrice-blessed ground is not a draught-house wherein to play their evil
cantrips! I declare to the Virgin I have worn out an entire plantation
of saplings chasing them forth of the holy place."

Last of all (but this will cost another _real_ and is worth the money)
the peasant-guide shows you the Place of the Holy Office. That black
stain against the wall is where they burnt the last rack in Spain. One
or two great wooden wheels with scarce a spoke remaining, loom up,
imagined rather than seen, in the dusky shadows above.

"This way along a passage (take care of your honourable head!) and I
will show you the window from which Luis Fernandez was cast forth like
the evil spawn he was."

"And was anything ever heard thereafter of the Prior or the Brethren?"
you ask, looking around on all the wasted splendour.

The old man shakes his head, but there is something in his eye which, if
you are wise, causes you to slip him a piece of silver.

"Nothing more," he says, "nothing!"

Then looking about him cautiously, he adds, "But upon a certain evening
near the time of sundown there came one all clad in poor garments of
leather, worn and frayed. He wore a broad hat and the names of many holy
places were cut on his staff--altogether such a wandering pilgrim the
man was, as you may see at any fair in Spain. And very humbly the
penitent asked permission of me to view the ruins. So knowing him for a
pilgrim and thinking that perchance he desired to say a prayer in peace
before the great altar (and also because I had no expectations of a
gift), I let him go his way unattended, and so forgat about him. But
when I came up out of my vegetable garden a little after sunset to close
the great gate, such being the order of the Governor of the Province who
pays me a yearly stipend (four duros it is, and very little, but I
depend upon the generous charity of those who like your Excellency come
hither!)--well, as I say, coming out of my pottage garden I remembered
of this pilgrim. I went in search of him, and lo! he stood weeping in
the place where the Abbot's great chair had been.

"Then looked I full in his face and all at once I knew him. It was Don
Baltasar Varela--of a surety the last Abbot of Montblanch. There was no
mistake. For many years I had known him as well as I knew my old dame.
And through his tears he also knew that I knew him. So he said
presently, 'Reveal not that