"And now it is growing cool again. I suppose it may have been four months--six months ago. What think you?"
Carlos thought it nearer the latter period than the former.
"I believe we have been visited six times by the brethren," he said. "No; only five times."
These visits of inspection had been made by command of the prior--himself absent from Seville on important business during most of the time--and the result had been duly reported to him. The monks to whom the duty had been deputed were aged and respectable members of the community; in fact, the only persons in the monastery who were acquainted with Don Juan's real name and history. It was their opinion that matters were progressing favourably with the prisoners. They found the penitent as usual--docile, obedient, submissive, only more inclined to converse than formerly; and they thought the young man very gentle and courteous, grateful for the smallest kindness, and ready to listen attentively, and with apparent interest, to everything that was said.
For more definite results the prior was content to wait: he had great faith in waiting. Still, even to him six months seemed long enough for the experiment he was trying. At the end of that time--which happened to be the day after the conversation just related--he himself made a visit to the prisoners.
Both most warmly expressed their gratitude for the singular grace he had shown them. Carlos, whose health had greatly improved, said that he had not dreamed so much earthly happiness could remain for him still.
"Then, my son," said the prior, "give evidence of thy gratitude in the only way possible to thee, or acceptable to me. Do not reject the mercy still offered thee by Holy Church. Ask for reconciliation."
"My lord," replied Carlos, firmly, "I can but repeat what I told you six months agone--that is impossible."
The prior argued, expostulated, threatened--in vain. At length he reminded Carlos that he was already condemned to death--the death of fire; and that he was now putting from him his last chance of mercy. But when he still remained steadfast, he turned away from him with an air of deep disappointment, though more in sorrow than in anger, as one pained by keen and unexpected ingratitude.
"I speak to thee no more," he said. "I believe there is in thy father's heart some little spark, not only of natural feeling but of the grace of God. I address myself to him."