o de Susan," he said,
in a gentle voice. "God help and strengthen you, my child, against the
trials that may be in store for you. What do you seek at our poor hands?
Speak, child, without fear."

"Father," she faltered, "I come to implore your pity."

"No need to implore it, child. Should I withhold pity who stand myself
in need of pity, being a sinner--as are we all."

"It is for my father that I come to beg your mercy."

"So I supposed." A shade crossed the gentle, wistful face; the tender
melancholy deepened in the eyes that regarded her. "If your father is
innocent of what has been alleged against him, the benign tribunal of
the Holy Office will bring his innocence to light, and rejoice therein;
if he is guilty, if he has strayed--as we may all stray unless fortified
by heavenly grace--he shall be given the means of expiation, that his
salvation may be assured him."

She shivered at the words. She knew the mercy in which the inquisitors
dealt, a mercy so spiritual that it took no account of the temporal
agonies inflicted to ensure it.

"My father is innocent of any sin against the Faith," said she.

"Are you so sure?" croaked the harsh voice of Ojeda, breaking in.
"Consider well. Remember that your duty as a Christian is above your
duty as a daughter."

Almost had she bluntly demanded the name of her father's accuser, that
thus she might reach the object of her visit. Betimes she checked the
rash impulse, perceiving that subtlety was here required; that a direct
question would close the door to all information. Skilfully, then, she
chose her line of attack.

"I am sure," she exclaimed, "that he is a more fervent and pious
Christian--New-Christian though he be--than his accuser."

The wistfulness faded from Torquemada's eyes. They grew keen, as became
the eyes of an inquisitor, the eyes of a sleuth, quick to fasten on a
spoor. But he shook his head.

Ojeda advanced. "That I cannot believe," said he. "The deletion was
made from a sense of duty so pure that the delator did not hesitate to
confess the sin of his own commission through which he had discovered
the treachery of Don Diego and his associates."

She could have cried out in anguish at this answer to her unspoken
question. Yet she controlled herself, and that no single doubt should
linger, she thrust boldly home.

"He confessed it?" she cried, seemingly aghast. The friar slowly nodded.
"Don Rodrigo confessed?" she insisted, as will the incredulo