bottom, though scarcely able to distinguish its outlines in the
surrounding darkness. He passed his hand over it: no bolt, no lock! A
latch! He started up, the latch yielded to the pressure of his thumb:
the door silently swung open before him.

* * * * *

"Halleluia!" murmured the rabbi in a transport of gratitude as, standing
on the threshold, he beheld the scene before him.

The door had opened into the gardens, above which arched a starlit sky,
into spring, liberty, life! It revealed the neighbouring fields,
stretching toward the sierras, whose sinuous blue lines were relieved
against the horizon. Yonder lay freedom! O, to escape! He would journey
all night through the lemon groves, whose fragrance reached him. Once in
the mountains and he was safe! He inhaled the delicious air; the breeze
revived him, his lungs expanded! He felt in his swelling heart the _Veni
foras_ of Lazarus! And to thank once more the God who had bestowed this
mercy upon him, he extended his arms, raising his eyes toward Heaven. It
was an ecstasy of joy!

Then he fancied he saw the shadow of his arms approach him--fancied that
he felt these shadowy arms inclose, embrace him--and that he was pressed
tenderly to some one's breast. A tall figure actually did stand directly
before him. He lowered his eyes--and remained motionless, gasping for
breath, dazed, with fixed eyes, fairly drivelling with terror.

Horror! He was in the clasp of the Grand Inquisitor himself, the
venerable Pedro Arbuez d'Espila who gazed at him with tearful eyes, like
a good shepherd who had found his stray lamb.

The dark-robed priest pressed the hapless Jew to his heart with so
fervent an outburst of love, that the edges of the monochal haircloth
rubbed the Dominican's breast. And while Aser Abarbanel with protruding
eyes gasped in agony in the ascetic's embrace, vaguely comprehending
that all the phases of this fatal evening were only a prearranged
torture, that of HOPE, the Grand Inquisitor, with an accent of touching
reproach and a look of consternation, murmured in his ear, his breath
parched and burning from long fasting:

"What, my son! On the eve, perchance, of salvation--you wished to leave
us?"

THE BOX WITH THE IRON CLAMPS

FLORENCE MARRYAT

I

Molton Chase is a charming, old-fashioned country house, which has been
in the possession of the Clayton family for centuries past; and as Harry
Clayton, its pres