"Good! But you need not wait. I shall not be ready for half an hour or
more."

As the key turned in the lock, the _soi-disant_ friar threw back his cowl.
"Now, Señor Fortescue," he said, with a laugh, "I am ready to hear your
confession."

"I confess that I feel as if I were in purgatory already, and I shall be
uncommonly glad if you can get me out of it."

"Well, purgatory is not the pleasantest of places by all accounts, and I
am quite willing to do whatever I can for you. By way of beginning, take
this ointment and smear your face and hands therewith."

"Why?"

"To make you look swart and ugly, like the zambo."

"And then?"

"And then? When the turnkey comes back we shall overpower, bind, and gag
him--if he resists, strangle him. Then you will put on his clothes and don
his sombrero, and as the moon rises late, and the prison is badly lighted,
I have no doubt we shall run the gauntlet of the guard without
difficulty.... That is a splendid ointment. You are almost as dark as a
negro. Now for your feet."

"My feet! I see! I must go out barefoot."