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. I stood by and let the victim pass, but as he passed I spoke to
him in Spanish, saying:
'Remember that which it may well be you have forgotten, holy father,
remember now the dying prayer of Isabella de Siguenza whom many years
ago you did to death in Seville.'
The man heard me; he turned livid beneath his bronzed skin and staggered
until I thought that he would have fallen. He stared upon me, with
terror in his eye, to see as he believed a common sight enough, that of
an Indian chief rejoicing at the death of one of his oppressors.
'What devil are you,' he said hoarsely, 'sent from hell to torment me at
the last?'
'Remember the dying prayer of Isabella de Siguenza, whom you struck and
cursed,' I answered mocking. 'Seek not to know whence I am, but remember
this only, now and for ever.
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