I remember well how his face changed as I spoke, from
kindliness to the hue of blackest hate, and how he answered speaking to
himself rather than to me.
'Devils,' he said, 'devils set on their work by the chief of all devils
that live upon the earth and shall reign in hell. Hark you, my son
Thomas, there is a country called Spain where your mother was born, and
there these devils abide who torture men and women, aye, and burn them
living in the name of Christ. I was betrayed into their hands by him
whom I name the chief of the devils, though he is younger than I am by
three years, and their pincers and hot irons left these marks upon me.
Aye, and they would have burnt me alive also, only I escaped, thanks to
your mother--but such tales are not for a little lad's hearing; and see
you never speak of them, Thomas, for the Holy Office has a long arm. You
are half a Spaniard, Thomas, your skin and eyes tell their own tale, but
whatever skin and eyes may tell, let your heart give them the lie. Keep
your heart English, Thomas; let no foreign devilments enter there. Hate
all Spaniards except your mother, and be watchful lest her blood should
master mine within you.'
I was a child then, and scarcely understood his words or what he meant
by them. Afterwards I learned to understand them but too well. As for my
father's counsel, that I should conquer my Spanish blood, would that I
could always have followed it, for I know that from this blood springs
the most of such evil as is in me.
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