drawn over the face. The monk bowed his head meekly, advanced into the
cell, closed the door, and seated himself, on a stool--which, save the
table and the pallet, seemed the sole furniture of the dismal chamber.

"Daughter," said he, after a pause, "it is a rugged and a mournful lot
this renunciation of earth and all its fair destinies and soft
affections, to one not wholly prepared and armed for the sacrifice.
Confide in me, my child; I am no dire inquisitor, seeking to distort thy
words to thine own peril. I am no bitter and morose ascetic. Beneath
these robes still beats a human heart that can sympathise with human
sorrows. Confide in me without fear. Dost thou not dread the fate they
would force upon thee? Dost thou not shrink back? Wouldst thou not be
free?"

"No," said the poor novice; but the denial came faint and irresolute from
her lips.

"Pause," said the friar, growing more earnest in his tone: "pause--there
is yet time."

"Nay," said the novice, looking up with some surprise in her countenance;
"nay, even were I so weak, escape now is impossible. What hand could
unbar the gates of the convent?"

"Mine!" cried the monk, with impetuosity. "Yes, I have that power. In
all Spain, but one man can save thee, and I am he."

"You!" faltered the novice, gazing at her strange visitor with mingled
astonishment and alarm. "And who are you that could resist the fiat of
that Tomas de Torquemada, before whom, they tell me, even the crowned