An Episode of the Inquisition in Seville

Apprehension hung like a thundercloud over the city of Seville in those early days of the year 1481.  It had been growing since the previous October, when the Cardinal of Spain and Frey Tomas de Torquemada, acting jointly on behalf of the Sovereigns ­Ferdinand and Isabella ­had appointed the first inquisitors for Castile, ordering them to set up a Tribunal of the Faith in Seville, to deal with the apostatizing said to be rampant among the New-Christians, or baptized Jews, who made up so large a proportion of the population.

Among the many oppressive Spanish enactments against the Children of Israel, it was prescribed that all should wear the distinguishing circlet of red cloth on the shoulder of their gabardines; that they should reside within the walled confines of their ghettos and never be found beyond them after nightfall, and that they should not practice as doctors, surgeons, apothecaries, or innkeepers.  The desire to emancipate themselves from these and other restrictions upon their commerce with Christians and from the generally intolerable conditions of bondage and ignominy imposed upon them, had driven many to accept baptism and embrace Christianity.

But even such New-Christians as were sincere in their professions of faith failed to find in this baptism the peace they sought.  Bitter racial hostility, though sometimes tempered, was never extinguished by their conversion.

Hence the alarm with which they viewed the gloomy, funereal, sinister pageant ­the white-robed, black-mantled and hooded inquisitors, with their attendant familiars and barefoot friars ­headed by a Dominican bearing the white Cross, which invaded the city of Seville one day towards the end of December and took its way to the Convent of St. Paul, there to establish the Holy Office of the Inquisition.  The fear of the New-Christians that they were to be the object of the attentions of this dread tribunal had sufficed to drive some thousands of them out of the city, to seek refuge in such feudal lordships as those of the Duke of Medina Sidonia, the Marquis of Cadiz, and the Count of Arcos.

This exodus had led to the publication by the newly appointed inquisitors of the edict of 2nd January, in which they set forth that inasmuch as it had come to their knowledge that many persons had departed out of Seville in fear of prosecution upon grounds of heretical pravity, they commanded the nobles of the Kingdom of Castile that within fifteen days they should make an exact return of the persons of both sexes who had sought refuge in their lordships or jurisdictions; that they arrest all these and lodge them in the prison of the Inquisition in Seville, confiscating their property, and holding it at the disposal of the inquisitors; that none should shelter any fugitive under pain of greater excommunication and of other penalties by law established against abettors of heretics.

The harsh injustice that lay in this call to arrest men and women merely because they had departed from Seville before departure was in any way forbidden, revealed the severity with which the inquisitors intended to proceed.  It completed the consternation of the New-Christians who had remained behind, and how numerous these were may be gathered from the fact that in the district of Seville alone they numbered a hundred thousand, many of them occupying, thanks to the industry and talent characteristic of their race, positions of great eminence.  It even disquieted the well-favoured young Don Rodrigo de Cardona, who in all his vain, empty, pampered and rather vicious life had never yet known perturbation.  Not that he was a New-Christian.  He was of a lineage that went back to the Visigoths, of purest red Castilian blood, untainted by any strain of that dark-hued, unclean fluid alleged to flow in Hebrew veins.  But it happened that he was in love with the daughter of the millionaire Diego de Susan, a girl whose beauty was so extraordinary that she was known throughout Seville and for many a mile around as la Hermosa Fembra; and he knew that such commerce ­licit or illicitly conducted ­was disapproved by the holy fathers.  His relations with the girl had been perforce clandestine, because the disapproval of the holy fathers was matched in thoroughness by that of Diego de Susan.  It had been vexatious enough on that account not to be able to boast himself the favoured of the beautiful and opulent Isabella de Susan; it was exasperating to discover now a new and more imperative reason for this odious secrecy.

Never sped a lover to his mistress in a frame of mind more aggrieved than that which afflicted Don Rodrigo as, tight-wrapped in his black cloak, he gained the Calle de Ataúd on that January night.

Anon, however, when by way of a garden gate and an easily escaladed balcony he found himself in the presence of Isabella, the delight of her effaced all other considerations.  Her father was from home, as she had told him in the note that summoned him; he was away at Palacios on some merchant’s errand, and would not return until the morrow.  The servants were all abed, and so Don Rodrigo might put off his cloak and hat, and lounge at his ease upon the low Moorish divan, what time she waited upon him with a Saracen goblet filled with sweet wine of Malaga.  The room in which she received him was one set apart for her own use, her bower, a long, low ceilinged chamber, furnished with luxury and taste.  The walls were hung with tapestries, the floor spread with costly Eastern rugs; on an inlaid Moorish table a tall, three-beaked lamp of beaten copper charged with aromatic oil shed light and perfume through the apartment.

Don Rodrigo sipped his wine, and his dark, hungry eyes followed her as she moved about him with vaguely voluptuous, almost feline grace.  The wine, the heavy perfume of the lamp, and the beauty of her played havoc among them with his senses, so that he forgot for the moment his Castilian lineage and clean Christian blood, forgot that she derived from the accursed race of the Crucifiers.  All that he remembered was that she was the loveliest woman in Seville, daughter to the wealthiest man, and in that hour of weakness he decided to convert into reality that which had hitherto been no more than an infamous presence.  He would loyally fulfil the false, disloyal promises he had made.  He would take her to wife.  It was a sacrifice which her beauty and her wealth should make worth while.  Upon that impulse he spoke now, abruptly: 

“Isabella, when will you marry me?”

She stood before him, looking down into his weak, handsome face, her fingers interlacing his own.  She merely smiled.  The question did not greatly move her.  Not knowing him for the scoundrel that he was, guessing nothing of the present perturbation of his senses, she found it very natural that he should ask her to appoint the day.

“It is a question you must ask my father,” she answered him.

“I will,” said he, “to-morrow, on his return.”  And he drew her down beside him.

But that father was nearer than either of them dreamed.  At that very moment the soft thud of the closing housedoor sounded through the house.  It brought her sharply to her feet, and loose from his coiling arms, with quickened breath and blanching face.  A moment she hung there, tense, then sped to the door of the room, set it ajar and listened.

Up the stairs came the sound of footsteps and of muttering voices.  It was her father, and others with him.

With ever-mounting fear she turned to Don Rodrigo, and breathed the question:  “If they should come here?”

The Castilian stood where he had risen by the divan, his face paler now than its pale, aristocratic wont, his eyes reflecting the fear that glittered in her own.  He had no delusion as to what action Diego de Susan would take upon discovering him.  These Jewish dogs were quickly stirred to passion, and as jealous as their betters of the honour of their womenfolk.  Already Don Rodrigo in imagination saw his clean red Christian blood bespattering that Hebrew floor, for he had no weapon save the heavy Toledo dagger at his girdle, and Diego de Susan was not alone.

It was, he felt, a ridiculous position for a Hidalgo of Spain.  But his dignity was to suffer still greater damage.  In another moment she had bundled him into an alcove behind the arras at the chamber’s end, a tiny closet that was no better than a cupboard contrived for the storing of household linen.  She had-moved with a swift precision which at another time might have provoked his admiration, snatching up his cloak and hat, and other evidences of his presence, quenching the lamp, and dragging him to that place of cramped concealment, which she remained to share with him.

Came presently movements in the room beyond, and the voice of her father: 

“We shall be securest from intrusion here.  It is my daughter’s room.  If you will give me leave, I will go down again to admit our other friends.”

Those other friends, as Don Rodrigo gathered, continued to arrive for the next half-hour, until in the end there must have been some twenty of them assembled in that chamber.  The mutter of voices had steadily increased, but so confused that no more than odd words, affording no clue to the reason of this gathering, had reached the hidden couple.

And then quite suddenly a silence fell, and on that silence beat the sharp, clear voice of Diego de Susan addressing them.

“My friends,” he said, “I have called you hither that we may concert measures for the protection of ourselves and all New-Christians in Seville from the fresh peril by which we are menaced.  The edict of the inquisitors reveals how much we have to fear.  You may gather from it that the court of the Holy Office is hardly likely to deal in justice, and that the most innocent may find himself at any moment exposed to its cruel mercies.  Therefore it is for us now to consider how to protect ourselves and our property from the unscrupulous activities of this tribunal.  You are the principal New Christian citizens of Seville; you are wealthy, not only in property, but also in the goodwill of the people, who trust and respect, and at need will follow, you.  If nothing less will serve, we must have recourse to arms; and so that we are resolute and united, my friends, we shall prevail against the inquisitors.”

Within the alcove, Don Rodrigo felt his skin roughening with horror at this speech, which breathed sedition not only against the Sovereigns, but against the very Church.  And with his horror was blent a certain increase of fear.  If his situation had been perilous before, it was tenfold more dangerous now.  Discovery, since he had overheard this treason, must mean his certain death.  And Isabella, realizing the same to the exclusion of all else, clutched his arm and cowered against him in the dark.

There was worse to follow.  Susan’s address was received with a murmur of applause, and then others spoke, and several were named, and their presence thus disclosed.  There was the influential Manuel Sauli, who next to Susan was the wealthiest man in Seville; there was Torralba, the Governor of Triana; Juan Abolafio, the farmer of the royal customs, and his brother Fernandez, the licentiate, and there were others ­all of them men of substance, some even holding office under the Crown.  Not one was there who dissented from anything that Susan had said; rather did each contribute some spur to the general resolve.  In the end it was concerted that each of those present should engage himself to raise a proportion of the men, arms and money that would be needed for their enterprise.  And upon that the meeting was dissolved, and they departed.  Susan himself went with them.  He had work to do in the common cause, he announced, and he would do it that very night in which it was supposed that he was absent at Palacios.

At last, when all had gone, and the house was still again, Isabella and her lover crept forth from their concealment, and in the light of the lamp which Susan had left burning each looked into the other’s white, startled face.  So shaken was Don Rodrigo with horror of what he had overheard, and with the terror of discovery, that it was with difficulty he kept his teeth from chattering.

“Heaven protect us!” he gasped.  “What Judaizing was this?”

“Judaizing!” she echoed.  It was the term applied to apostacy, to the relapse of New-Christians to Judaism, an offense to be expiated at the stake.  “Here was no Judaizing.  Are you mad, Rodrigo?  You heard no single word that sinned against the Faith.”

“Did I not?  I heard treason enough to.”

“No, nor treason either.  You heard honourable, upright men considering measures of defence against oppression, injustice, and evil acquisitiveness masquerading in the holy garments of religion.”

He stared askance at her for a moment, then his full lips curled into a sneer.  “Of course you would seek to justify them,” he said.  “You are of that foul brood yourself.  But you cannot think to cozen me, who am of clean Old-christian blood and a true son of Mother Church.  These men plot evil against the Holy Inquisition.  Is that not Judaizing when it is done by Jews?”

She was white to the lips, and a new horror stared at him from her great dark eyes; her lovely bosom rose and fell in tumult.  Yet still she sought to reason with him.

“They are not Jews ­not one of them.  Why, Perez is himself in holy orders.  All of them are Christians, and...”

“Newly-baptized!” he broke in, sneering viciously.  “A defilement of that holy sacrament to gain them worldly advantages.  That is revealed by what passed here just now.  Jews they were born, the sons of Jews, and Jews they remain under their cloak of mock Christianity, to be damned as Jews in the end.”  He was panting now with fiery indignation; a holy zeal inflamed this profligate defiler.  “God forgive me that ever I entered here.  Yet I do believe that it was His will that I should come to overhear what is being plotted.  Let me depart from hence.”

With a passionate gesture of abhorrence he swung towards the door.  Her clutch upon his arm arrested him.

“Whither do you go?” she asked trim sharply.  He looked now into her eyes, and of all that they contained he saw only fear; he saw nothing of the hatred into which her love had been transmuted in that moment by his unsparing insults to herself, her race and her home, by the purpose which she clearly read in him.

“Whither?” he echoed, and sought to shake her off.

“Whither my Christian duty bids me.”

It was enough for her.  Before he could prevent or suspect her purpose, she had snatched the heavy Toledo blade from his girdle, and armed with it stood between the door and him.

“A moment, Don Rodrigo.  Do not attempt to advance, or, as Heaven watches us, I strike, and it maybe that I shall kill you.  We must talk awhile before you go.”

Amazed, chapfallen, half-palsied, he stood before her, his fine religious zeal wiped out by fear of that knife in her weak woman’s hand.  Rapidly to-night was she coming into real knowledge of this Castilian gentleman, whom with pride she had taken for her lover.  It was a knowledge that was to sear her presently with self-loathing and self-contempt.  But for the moment her only consideration was that, as a direct result of her own wantonness, her father stood in mortal peril.  If he should perish through the deletion of this creature, she would account herself his slayer.

“You have not considered that the deletion you intend will destroy my father,” she said quietly.

“There is my Christian duty to consider,” answered he, but without boldness now.

“Perhaps.  But there is something you must set against it.  Have you no duty as a lover ­no duty to me?”

“No earthly duty can weigh against a spiritual obligation....”

“Ah, wait!  Have patience.  You have not well considered, that is plain.  In coming here in secret you wronged my father.  You will not trouble to deny it.

“Jointly we wronged him, you and I. Will you then take advantage of something learnt whilst you were hiding there like a thief from the consequences of what you did, and so do him yet this further wrong?”

“Must I wrong my conscience?” he asked her sullenly.

“Indeed, I fear you must.”

“Imperil my immortal soul?” He almost laughed.

“You talk in vain.”

“But I have something more than words for you.”  With her left hand she drew upon the fine gold chain about her neck, and brought forth a tiny jewelled cross.  Passing the chain over her head, she held it out.

“Take this,” she bade him.  “Take it, I say.  Now, with that sacred symbol in your hand, make solemn oath to divulge no word of what you have learnt here tonight, or else resign yourself to an unshriven death.  For either you take that oath, or I rouse the servants and have you dealt with as one who has intruded here unbidden for an evil end.”  She backed away from him as she spoke, and threw wide the door.  Then, confronting him from the threshold, she admonished him again, her voice no louder than a whisper.  “Quick now!  Resolve yourself.  Will you die here with all your sins upon you, and so destroy for all eternity the immortal soul that urges you to this betrayal, or will you take the oath that I require?”

He began an argument that was like a sermon of the Faith.  But she cut him short.  “For the last time!” she bade him.  “Will you decide?”

He chose the coward’s part, of course, and did violence tomb fine conscience.  With the cross in his hand he repeated after her the words of the formidable oath that she administered an oath which it must damn his immortal soul to break.  Because of that, because she imagined that she had taken the measure of his faith, she returned him his dagger, and let him go at last.  She imagined that she had bound him fast in irrefragable spiritual bonds.

And even on the morrow, when her father and all those who had been present at that meeting at Susan’s house were arrested by order of the Holy Office of the Inquisition, she still clung to that belief.  Yet presently a doubt crept in, a doubt that she must at all costs resolve.  And so presently she called for her litter, and had herself carried to the Convent of St. Paul, where she asked to see Frey Alonso de Ojeda, the Prior of the Dominicans of Seville.

She was left to wait in a square, cheerless, dimly-lighted room pervaded by a musty smell, that had for only furniture a couple of chairs and a praying-stool, and for only ornament a great, gaunt crucifix hanging upon one of its whitewashed walls.

Thither came presently two Dominican friars.  One of these was a harsh-featured man of middle height and square build, the uncompromising zealot Ojeda.  The other was tall and lean, stooping slightly at the shoulders, haggard and pale of countenance, with deep-set, luminous dark eyes, and a tender, wistful mouth.  This was the Queen’s confessor, Frey Tomas de Torquemada, Grand Inquisitor of Castile.  He approached her, leaving Ojeda in the background, and stood a moment regarding her with eyes of infinite kindliness and compassion.

“You are the daughter of that misguided man, Diego 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 incredulous.

Abruptly the friar nodded again; and as abruptly checked, recollecting himself.

“Don Rodrigo?” he echoed, and asked:  “Who mentioned Don Rodrigo?”

But it was too late.  His assenting nod had betrayed the truth, had confirmed her worst fear.  She swayed a little; the room swam round her, she felt as she would swoon.  Then blind indignation against that forsworn betrayer surged to revive her.  If it was through her weakness and undutifulness that her father had been destroyed, through her strength should he be avenged, though in doing so she pulled down and destroyed herself.

“And he confessed to his own sin?” she was repeating slowly, ever on that musing, incredulous note.  “He dared confess himself a Judaizer?”

“A Judaizer!” Sheer horror now overspread the friar’s grim countenance.  “A Judaizer!  Don Rodrigo?  Oh, impossible!”

“But I thought you said he had confessed.”

“Why, yes, but... but not to that.”  Her pale lips smiled, sadly contemptuous.

“I see.  He set limits of prudence upon his confession.  He left out his Judatting practices.  He did not tell you, for instance, that this deletion was an act of revenge against me who refused to marry him, having discovered his unfaith, and fearing its consequences in this world and the next.”

Ojeda stared at her in sheer, incredulous amazement.

And then Torquemada spoke:  “Do you say that Don Rodrigo de Cardona is a Judaizer?  Oh, it is unbelievable.”

“Yet I could give you evidence that should convince you.”

“Then so you shall.  It is your sacred duty, lest you become an abettor of heresy, and yourself liable to the extreme penalty.”

It would be a half-hour later, perhaps, when she quitted the Convent of St. Paul to return home, with Hell in her heart, knowing in life no purpose but that of avenging the parent her folly had destroyed.  As she was being carried past the Alcazar, she espied across the open space a tall, slim figure in black, in whom she recognized her lover, and straightway she sent the page who paced beside her litter to call him to her side.  The summons surprised him after what had passed between them; moreover, considering her father’s present condition, he was reluctant to be seen in attendance upon the beautiful, wealthy Isabella de Susan.  Nevertheless, urged on by curiosity, he went.

Her greeting increased his surprise.

“I am in deep distress, Rodrigo, as you may judge,” she told him sadly.  “You will have heard what has befallen my father?”

He looked at her sharply, yet saw nothing but loveliness rendered more appealing by sorrow.  Clearly she did not suspect him of betrayal; did not realize that an oath extorted by violence ­and an oath, moreover, to be false to a sacred duty ­could not be accounted binding.

“I...  I heard of it an hour ago,” he lied a thought unsteadily.  “I...  I commiserate you deeply.”

“I deserve commiseration,” answered she, “and so does my poor father, and those others.  It is plain that amongst those he trusted there was a traitor, a spy, who went straight from that meeting to inform against them.  If I but had a list it were easy to discover the betrayer.  One need but ascertain who is the one of all who were present whose arrest has been omitted.”  Her lovely sorrowful eyes turned full upon him.  “What is to become of me now, alone in the world?” she asked him.  “My father was my only friend.”

The subtle appeal of her did its work swiftly.  Besides, he saw here a noble opportunity worth surely some little risk.

“Your only friend?” he asked her thickly.  “Was there no one else?  Is there no one else, Isabella?”

“There was,” she said, and sighed heavily.  “But after what befell last night, when...  You know what is in my mind.  I was distraught then, mad with fear for this poor father of mine, so that I could not even consider his sin in its full heinousness, nor see how righteous was your intent to inform against him.  Yet I am thankful that it was not by your deletion that he was taken.  The thought of that is to-day my only consolation.”

They had reached her house by now.  Don Rodrigo put forth his arm to assist her to alight from her litter, and begged leave to accompany her within.  But she denied him.

“Not now ­though I am grateful to you, Rodrigo.  Soon, if you will come and comfort me, you may.  I will send you word when I am more able to receive you ­that is, if I am forgiven for...”

“Not another word,” he begged her.  “I honour you for what you did.  It is I who should sue to you for forgiveness.”

“You are very noble and generous, Don Rodrigo.  God keep you!” And so she left him.

She had found him ­had she but known it ­a dejected, miserable man in the act of reckoning up all that he had lost.  In betraying Susan he had acted upon an impulse that sprang partly from rage, and partly from a sense of religious duty.  In counting later the cost to himself, he cursed the folly of his rage, and began to wonder if such strict observance of religious duty was really worth while to a man who had his way to make in the world.  In short, he was in the throes of reaction.  But now, in her unsuspicion, he found his hopes revive.  She need never know.  The Holy Office preserved inviolate secrecy on the score of deletions ­since to do otherwise might be to discourage delators ­and there were no confrontations of accuser and accused, such as took place in temporal courts.  Don Rodrigo left the Calle de Ataúd better pleased with the world than he had been since morning.

On the morrow he went openly to visit her; but he was denied, a servant announcing her indisposed.  This fretted him, damped his hopes, and thereby increased his longing.  But on the next day he received from her a letter which made him the most ample amends: 

“Rodrigo, ­There is a matter on which we must come early to an understanding.  Should my poor father be convicted of heresy and sentenced, it follows that his property will be confiscated, since as the daughter of a convicted heretic I may not inherit.  For myself I care little; but I am concerned for you, Rodrigo, since if in spite of what has happened you would still wish to make me your wife, as you declared on Monday, it would be my wish to come to you well cowered.  Now the inheritance which would be confiscated by the Holy Office from the daughter of a heretic might not be so confiscated from the wife of a gentleman of Castile.  I say no more.  Consider this well, and decide as your heart dictates.  I shall receive you to-morrow if you come to me.

“Isabella.”

She bade him consider well.  But the matter really needed little consideration.  Diego de Susan was sure to go to the fire.  His fortune was estimated at ten million maravédis.  That fortune, it seemed, Rodrigo was given the chance to make his own by marrying the beautiful Isabella at once, before sentence came to be passed upon her father.  The Holy Office might impose a fine, but would not go further where the inheritance of a Castilian nobleman of clean lineage was concerned.  He was swayed between admiration of her shrewdness and amazement at his own good fortune.  Also his vanity was immensely flattered.

He sent her three lines to protest his undying love, and his resolve to marry her upon the morrow, and went next day in person, as she had bidden him, to carry out the resolve.

She received him in the mansion’s best room, a noble chamber furnished with a richness such as no other house in Seville could have boasted.  She had arrayed herself for the interview with an almost wanton cunning that should enhance her natural endowments.  Her high-waisted gown, low-cut and close-fitting in the bodice, was of cloth of gold, edged with miniver at skirt and cuffs and neck.  On her white bosom hung a priceless carcanet of limpid diamonds, and through the heavy tresses of her bronze-coloured hair was coiled a string of lustrous pearls.  Never had Don Rodrigo found her more desirable; never had he felt so secure and glad in his possession of her.  The quickening blood flushing now his olive face, he gathered her slim shapeliness into his arms, kissing her cheek, her lips, her neck.

“My pearl, my beautiful, my wife!” he murmured, rapturously.  Then added the impatient question:  “The priest?  Where is the priest that shall make us one?”

Deep, unfathomable eyes looked up to meet his burning glance.  Languorously she lay against his breast, and her red lips parted in a smile that maddened him.

“You love me, Rodrigo ­in spite of all?”

“Love you!” It was a throbbing, strangled cry, an almost inarticulate ejaculation.  “Better than life ­better than salvation.”

She fetched a sigh, as of deep content, and nestled closer.  “Oh, I am glad ­so glad ­that your love for me is truly strong.  I am about to put it to the test, perhaps.”

He held her very close.  “What is this test, beloved?”

“It is that I want this marriage knot so tied that it shall be indissoluble save by death.”

“Why, so do I,” quoth he, who had so much to gain.

“And, therefore, because after all, though I profess Christianity, there is Jewish blood in my veins, I would have a marriage that must satisfy even my father when he regains his freedom, as I believe he will ­for, after all, he is not charged with any sin against the faith.”

She paused, and he was conscious of a premonitory chill upon his ardour.

“What do you mean?” he asked her, and his voice was strained.

“I mean ­you’ll not be angry with me? ­I mean that I would have us married not only by a Christian priest, and in the Christian manner, but also and first of all by a Rabbi, and in accordance with the Jewish rites.”

Upon the words, she felt his encircling arms turn limp, and relax their grip upon her, whereupon she clung to him the more tightly.

“Rodrigo!  Rodrigo!  If you truly love me, if you truly want me, you’ll not deny me this condition, for I swear to you that once I am your wife you shall never hear anything again to remind you that I am of Jewish blood.”

His face turned ghastly pale, his lips writhed and twitched, and beads of sweat stood out upon his brow.

“My God!” he groaned.  “What do you ask?  I...  I can’t.  It were a desecration, a defilement.”

She thrust him from her in a passion.  “You regard it so?  You protest love, and in the very hour when I propose to sacrifice all to you, you will not make this little sacrifice for my sake, you even insult the faith that was my forbears’, if it is not wholly mine.  I misjudged you, else I had not bidden you here to-day.  I think you had better leave me.”

Trembling, appalled, a prey to an ineffable tangle of emotion, he sought to plead, to extenuate his attitude, to move her from her own.  He ranted torrentially, but in vain.  She stood as cold and aloof as earlier she had been warm and clinging.  He had proved the measure of his love.  He could go his ways.

The thing she proposed was to him, as he had truly said, a desecration, a defilement.  Yet to have dreamed yourself master of ten million maravédis, and a matchless woman, is a dream not easily relinquished.  There was enough cupidity in his nature, enough neediness in his condition, to make the realization of that dream worth the defilement of the abominable marriage rites upon which she insisted.  But fear remained where Christian scruples were already half-effaced.

“You do not realize,” he cried.  “If it were known that I so much as contemplated this, the Holy Office would account it clear proof of apostasy, and send me to the fire.”

“If that were your only objection it were easily overcome,” she informed him coldly.  “For who should ever inform against you?  The Rabbi who is waiting above-stairs dare not for his own life’s sake betray us, and who else will ever know?”

“You can be sure of that?”

He was conquered.  But she played him yet awhile, compelling him in his turn to conquer the reluctance which his earlier hesitation had begotten in her, until it was he who pleaded insistently for this Jewish marriage that filled him with such repugnance.

And so at last she yielded, and led him up to that bower of hers in which the conspirators had met.

“Where is the Rabbi?” he asked impatiently, looking round that empty room.

“I will summon him if you are quite sure that you desire him.”

“Sure?  Have I not protested enough?  Can you still doubt me?”

“No,” she said.  She stood apart, conning him steadily.  “Yet I would not have it supposed that you were in any way coerced to this.”  They were odd words; but he heeded not their oddness.  He was hardly master of the wits which in themselves were never of the brightest.  “I require you to declare that it is your own desire that our marriage should be solemnized in accordance with the Jewish rites and the law of Moses.”

And he, fretted now by impatience, anxious to have this thing done and ended, made answer hastily: 

“Why, to be sure I do declare it to be my wish that we should be so married ­in the Jewish manner, and in accordance with the law of Moses.  And now, where is the Rabbi?” He caught a sound and saw a quiver in the tapestries that masked the door of the alcove.  “Ah!  He is here, I suppose....”

He checked abruptly, and recoiled as from a blow, throwing up his hands in a convulsive gesture.  The tapestry had been swept aside, and forth stepped not the Rabbi he expected, but a tall, gaunt man, stooping slightly at the shoulders, dressed in the white habit and black cloak of the order of St. Dominic, his face lost in the shadows of a black cowl.  Behind him stood two lay brothers of the order, two armed familiars of the Holy Office, displaying the white cross on their sable doublets.

Terrified by that apparition, evoked, as it seemed, by those terribly damning words he had pronounced, Don Rodrigo stood blankly at gaze a moment, not even seeking to understand how this dread thing had come to pass.

The friar pushed back his cowl, as he advanced, and displayed the tender, compassionate, infinitely wistful countenance of Frey Tomas de Torquemada.  And infinitely compassionate and wistful came the voice of that deeply sincere and saintly man.

“My son, I was told this of you ­that you were a Judaizer ­yet before I could bring myself to believe so incredible a thing in one of your lineage, I required the evidence of my own senses.  Oh, my poor child, by what wicked counsels have you been led so far astray?” The sweet, tender eyes of the inquisitor were luminous with unshed tears.  Sorrowing pity shook his gentle voice.

And then Don Rodrigo’s terror changed to wrath, and this exploded.  He flung out an arm towards Isabella in passionate denunciation.

“It was that woman who bewitched and fooled and seduced me into this.  It was a trap she baited for my undoing.”

“It was, indeed.  She had my consent to do so, to test the faith which I was told you lacked.  Had your heart been free of heretical pravity the trap had never caught you; had your faith been strong, my son, you could not have been seduced from loyalty to your Redeemers.”

“Father!  Hear me, I implore you!” He flung down upon his knees, and held out shaking, supplicating hands.

“You shall be heard, my son.  The Holy Office does not condemn any man unheard.  But what hope can you put in protestations?  I had been told that your life was disorderly and vain, and I grieved that it should be so, trembled for you when I heard how wide you opened the gates of your soul to evil.  But remembering that age and reason will often make good and penitent amends for the follies of early life, I hoped and prayed for you.  Yet that you should Judaize ­that you should be bound in wedlock by the unclean ties of Judaism ­Oh!” The melancholy voice broke off upon a sob, and Torquemada covered his pale face with his hands ­long, white, emaciated, almost transparent hands.  “Pray now, my child, for grace and strength,” he exhorted.  “Offer up the little temporal suffering that may yet be yours in atonement for your error, and so that your heart be truly contrite and penitent, you shall deserve salvation from that Divine Mercy which is boundless.  You shall have my prayers, my son.  I can do no more.  Take him hence.”

On the 6th of February of that year 1481, Seville witnessed the first Auto de Fe, the sufferers being Diego de Susan, his fellow-conspirators, and Don Rodrigo de Cardona.  The function presented but little of the ghastly pomp that was soon to distinguish these proceedings.  But the essentials were already present.

In a procession headed by a Dominican bearing aloft the green Cross of the Inquisition, swathed in a veil of crepe, behind whom walked two by two the members of the Confraternity of St. Peter the Martyr, the familiars of the Holy Office, came the condemned, candle in hand, barefoot, in the ignominious yellow penitential sack.  Hemmed about by halberdiers, they were paraded through the streets to the Cathedral, where Mass was said and a sermon of the faith preached to them by the stern Ojeda.  Thereafter they were conveyed beyond the city to the meadows of Tablada, where the stake and faggots awaited them.

Thus the perjured accuser perished in the same holocaust with the accused.  Thus was Isabella de Susan, known as la Hermosa Fembra, avenged by falseness upon the worthless lover who made her by falseness the instrument of her father’s ruin.

For herself, when all was over, she sought the refuge of a convent.  But she quitted it without professing.  The past gave her no peace, and she returned to the world to seek in excesses an oblivion which the cloister denied her and only death could give.  In her will she disposed that her skull should be placed over the doorway of the house in the Calle de Ataúd, as a measure of posthumous atonement for her sins.  And there the fleshless, grinning skull of that once lovely head abode for close upon four hundred years.  It was still to be seen there when Buonaparte’s legions demolished the Holy Office of the Inquisition.