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.
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