Naked to the waist, his hands bound behind him, his grizzled locks hanging about his breast, his keen eyes fixed upon the faces of his heathen foes in menace rather than in supplication, his thin lips muttering prayers, Father Pedro passed on to the place of his doom, now and again shaking his head fiercely to free himself from the torment of the insects which buzzed about it.
I looked upon him and wondered.

I looked again and knew.

Suddenly there rose before my mind a vision of that gloomy vault in Seville, of a woman, young and lovely, draped in cerements, and of a thin-faced black-robed friar who smote her upon the lips with his ivory crucifix and cursed her for a blaspheming heretic.

There before me was the man.
Isabella de Siguenza had prayed that a fate like to her own fate should befall him, and it was upon him now.

Nor indeed, remembering all that had been, was I minded to avert it, even if it had been in my power to do so.