“I have no desire for your protection.”

“Nevertheless, you have it. I have told you before that there are certain forces over which I have no power. I would ask you for your sake and for the child you will have and that other whom you have taken under your protection to be careful of yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“That you could be in acute danger if you do not profit from John Gregory’s instructions. You have enemies. You have made more in the last few weeks. You will be watched, spied on; and as I tell you, it might not be in my power to save you. Think about this. You are impetuous. Have a care. That is what I would say to you.”

I smiled at him and he avoided my smile. It was as though he feared it as something evil.

“I suppose I should thank you,” I said. “You speak for my good.”

“I am anxious that you should bear this child.”

“And when I have borne it you have promised that you will return me to my home.”

He did not answer. Then he said: “There are some months before the birth. In the meantime it will be necessary to take care.” I was dismissed.

It was two days later when John Gregory said that I was to go into La Laguna. It was on the instructions of Don Felipe.

“Why should he wish me to go?” I asked.

“There is to be a spectacle which he wishes you to see.”

“And my sister?”

“You only, I believe. You are to go with me and with Richard Rackell.”

I was puzzled.

It was a warm day and the sun beat down on us as we rode our mules into the town. There were crowds coming in from the countryside, all making their way into the city.

I said: “I have never seen so many people here. It must be a great festival.”

“You will see,” said John Gregory quietly.

I studied him; I had come to know since our sessions together that he was a man with secrets. For one thing he was English. Why then should he have Spanish masters? I had already noted the marks on his cheek and wrists. I had seen another on his neck. Sometimes in his instruction he seemed overfervent, at others almost languid. I had tried to ask him questions about himself, but he was always evasive.

Now I realized that he was deeply moved.

I said: “Has something happened to disturb you, John Gregory?”

He shook his head.

There were crowds of people in the square. Several stands had been erected; I was led to one of these most ornately decorated with an emblem blazoned on it.

I mounted to the platform. There was a bench on which I sat. John Gregory was on one side and other members from the household on the other.

“What is going to happen?” I asked Gregory.

He whispered: “Do not speak in English. Speak Spanish and quietly. ’Tis better that it were not known you are alien.”

A sense of horror then began to take hold of me. I guessed now that what I was about to witness was something so horrifying that I had only visualized such happenings in my nightmares. I recalled those days when the smell of smoke had come drifting down the river from Smithfield. I had now seen the piles of fagots and I knew what they meant. Recalling my last conversation with Don Felipe, I realized now why he had wished me to come here.

I said to John Gregory, “I feel ill. I want to go back.”

“It is too late,” he said.

“This will be bad for my child.”

He only repeated: “It is too late now.”

Never shall I forget that afternoon. The heat, the square, the chanting of voices, the tolling of Cathedral bells; the figures in their robes, their hoods covering their faces and their eyes looking out through the slits, menacing and terrifying. None could have been unaware that something horrifying was about to be enacted.

I wanted to shut out the scene. I longed to get up and go. As I half rose in my seat John Gregory’s arm was firm around me, holding me in my place.

“I can’t bear this,” I whispered.

He whispered back: “You must. You dare not go. You would be seen.”

I half closed my eyes, but something within me forced me to open them.

Even now it is vivid in my memory; it is like a kaleidoscope changing first here, first there, until the complete horror was before me.

People had crowded into the square; only the center was left clear for the hideous tragedy to be played out. I looked into that sea of faces and I wondered if any among them had come to look on the dying agonies of a loved one. Were they all “good Catholics”? Did their faith in their religion which was said to be based on the love of their fellowmen blind them to the misery they were about to behold? Could they reconcile themselves to this cruel intolerance because they believed that men and women who thought differently from them should die? I wanted to get up and shout to these people, to rise up against cruelty and intolerance.

And then they came—the wretched victims in the tragic sanbenito—that shapeless gown with flames and devils painted on it—their faces gray from long incarceration in dank foul cells; some had been so cruelly tortured that they could not walk. I was about to cover my face with my hands when John Gregory whispered: “No. Remember you will be watched.”

So I sat there, my eyes lowered that I might not look on this fearful scene.

Suddenly all had risen; they were chanting words which I realized was the Oath of Allegiance to the Inquisition. John Gregory had moved in front of me so that I was hidden from view. I felt sick and ready to faint. My child stirred then as though to remind me that for its sake I must feign to be one of these people and pretend to accept their beliefs. This was why I had come here. It was Don Felipe’s way of telling me in what danger I stood. I could so easily be one of those people below in the yellow sanbenito; I could be led to my pile of fagots to be bound there while they crackled into flame below me.

I owed it to the child to live. Nor did I wish to die. Once again I knew that I would cling to life no matter what it held for me.

I was there when the fires were lighted. I saw that the authorities were merciful to some because they strangled them before committing their bodies to the flames. The unrepentent, those who declared they would cling to their beliefs, were not given that benefit; the flames were lighted under them while they still lived.

I sat there and I remembered the fires of Smithfield and the day when my mother’s stepfather was taken away. I remembered that my grandfather had died by the ax for sheltering a priest and my mother’s stepfather had burned at the stake for following the Reformed Religion; and a fierce hatred was born in me for all abuse of religion, Catholic or Protestant.

We must never have the Inquisition set up in England. I would tell them of this day when I reached home. We must fight against it with all our might.

And as I sat there I felt a great desire to crush all intolerance, to fight all cruelty.

I heard the cries of agony as the flames licked already mutilated mangled bodies.

“Oh, God,” I prayed, “take me away from this. Take me home.”

I lay on the bed in my darkened room. I had felt faint on the way home and found it difficult to sit my mule. As soon as I was in the house I went to my bedroom and lay on the bed.

I could not get the sight of what I had seen out of my mind.

Don Felipe came in and sat by the bed. He was in riding habit, so he had evidently just returned to the Hacienda. It was significant that he had come first to me.

“You attended the auto-da-fé,” he said.

“I hope never to witness such a spectacle again,” I cried. “And most of all I marvel that this is done in the name of Christ.”

“I wished you to see for yourself, to realize the danger,” he said gently. “It was to warn you.”

“Would you not be glad to see me among those poor creatures? It would be a new turn to your revenge.”