seemed gray, and gray the utter Ocean that stretched no
man knew where. The gray was the gray of fetters and of
ashes.

The tide made, and as the waves came nearer, eating the
sand before me, they uttered a low crying. _In danger--
danger--in danger, Jayme de Marchena!_

I had been in danger before. Who is not often and always
in danger, in life? But this was a danger to daunt.

Mine were no powerful friends. I had only that which
was within me. I was only son of only son, and my parents
and grandparents were dead, and my distant kindred cold,
seeing naught of good in so much study and thinking of
that old, dark, beautiful, questionable one, my grandmother.
I had indeed a remote kinsman, head of a convent in this
neighborhood, and he was a wise man and a kindly. But
not he either could do aught here!

All the Jews to be banished, and Don Pedro with a steady
forefinger, "That man--take him, too! Who does not
know that his grandmother was Jewess, and that he lived
with her and drank poison?" But the Dominican, "No!
The Holy Office will take him. You have but to read--only
you must not read--what he has written to see why!"

Gray Ocean, stretching endlessly and now coming close,
were it not well if I drowned myself this gray morning
while I can choose the death I shall die? Now the great