“I can pay,” said Castell, and motioned to Inez to proceed.
As yet, however, she had not much more to say, save that they must have good horses at hand, and send a messenger to Seville, whither the Margaret had been ordered to proceed, bidding her captain hold his ship ready to sail at any hour, should they succeed in reaching him.
These things, then, they arranged, and a while later Inez and Israel departed, the former carrying with her a bag of gold.
That same night Inez sought the priest, Henriques of Motril, in that hall of Morella’s palace which was used as a private chapel, saying that she desired to speak with him under pretence of making confession, for they were old friends—or rather enemies.
As it chanced she found the holy father in a very ill humour. It appeared that Morella also was in a bad humour with Henriques, having heard that it was he who had possessed himself of the jewels in his strong-box on the San Antonio. Now he insisted upon his surrendering everything, and swore, moreover, that he would hold him responsible for all that his people had stolen from the ship, and this because he said that it was his fault that Peter Brome had escaped the sea and come on to Granada.
“So, Father,” said Inez, “you, who thought yourself rich, are poor again.”
“Yes, my daughter, and that is what chances to those who put their faith in princes. I have served this marquis well for many years—to my soul’s hurt, I fear me—hoping that he who stands so high in the favour of the Church would advance me to some great preferment. But instead, what does he do? He robs me of a few trinkets that, had I not found them, the sea would have swallowed or some thief would have taken, and declares me his debtor for the rest, of which I know nothing.”
“What preferment did you want, Father? I see that you have one in your mind.”
“Daughter, a friend had written to me from Seville that if I have a hundred gold doubloons to pay for it, he can secure me the place of a secretary in the Holy Office where I served before as a familiar until the marquis made me his chaplain, and gave the benefice of Motril, which proved worth nothing, and many promises that are worth less. Now those trinkets would fetch thirty, and I have saved twenty, and came here to borrow the other fifty from the marquis, to whom I have done so many good turns—as you know well, Inez. You see the end of that quest,” and he groaned angrily.
“It is a pity,” said Inez thoughtfully, “since those who serve the Inquisition save many souls, do they not, including their own? For instance,” she added, and the priest winced at the words, “I remember that they saved the soul of my own sister and would have saved mine, had I been—what shall I say?—more—more prejudiced. Also, they get a percentage of the goods of wicked heretics, and so become rich and able to advance themselves.”