house? You look sad and ill. I know my uncle would do much for one who has saved the life of his favorite nephew.”
“And what may your uncle's name be?” replied Junius, touched by the lad's ingenuous words and winning manner.
“Baron Berlaymont.” The effect of this name upon Francis Junius was electrical.
“You, the nephew of the Tiger of Brussels?” burst from the preacher's lips. “Is it possible to rear a dove in a falcon's nest?”
“The Tiger of Brussels,” repeated the boy in astonishment. “is that what people call my uncle? Why should one so good and kind be called a tiger? It is unjust, monstrous!”
“Ask Baron Berlaymont to take you to the dungeons of the Inquisition in Brussels, where hundreds of your fellow countrymen languish in noisome cells, or to witness the spectacle, far from rare, of the terrible auto da fé. Your uncle's voice is heard in all the councils. His lips are the first to denounce the heretic. You will then find an answer to your question.”
The youth gazed spellbound into the stern face of the preacher. His cheek flushed and paled. The fruits of the tree of knowledge were already producing bitterness of soul. Hugo whispered rather than spoke the words, “Is my uncle one of the inquisitors?”
