"My lord," Don Antonio de la Ronda murmured, "the stars are beginning to turn pale, and the day will soon dawn; we are still far from the hatto, would it not be better to set out without further delay?"
"Silence!" the Count answered, with a smile of contempt. "Pedro," he added, addressing one of his domestics, "a match."
The valet dismounted and advanced with a long sulphured match in his hand.
"The two thumbs," the Count said, laconically.
The domestic approached the monk; the latter offered his hands without hesitation, although his face was fearfully pale, and his whole body trembled.
Pedro coolly rolled the match between his two thumbs, passing it several times under his nails, and then turned to the Count.
"For the last time, monk," the latter said, "will you speak?"
"I have nothing to say to you, my lord," Fray Arsenio replied, in a soft voice.
"Light it," the Count commanded, biting his lips till they bled.
The valet, with the passive obedience distinguishing men of this class, set fire to the match.