It was a few days later when Diego came into his daughter’s room without warning; he saw her sitting with her embroidery in her hand, staring before her with an expression on her face which Diego could only construe as fearful apprehension.

His mind was full of the conspiracy which was coming to its climax, and he thought: My dearest child, she has sensed what is about to happen and she is terrified of what will become of me.

‘My darling,’ he cried, and he went to her and embraced her.

She threw herself into his arms and began to sob passionately.

He stroked her hair. ‘All will be well, my daughter,’ he murmured. ‘You should have no fear. No harm will come to your father. They frightened you, did they not . . . with their black hoods and their mournful chanting voices! I grant you they are enough to strike terror in any heart. But they shall not harm us. Your father is safe.’

‘Safe?’ she murmured, in a bewildered voice. ‘You, safe . . . Father?’

‘Yes, yes, daughter. This is our secret . . . not to be spoken of outside these walls. But you, who know me so well, have sensed what is happening. You know why the Captain of Justice and his friends come to the house. You have heard the injunctions from the Convent of St Paul. Yes, my child, we are going to rise against them. We are going to turn them out of Seville.’

La Susanna had been so occupied with her personal tragedy that she had not given much thought to the new laws which had been brought to Seville. The conspiracy, of which her father was the head, seemed to her, in her ignorance – for she had always lived in the utmost comfort and luxury, sheltered in her father’s house – a trivial affair. She could not conceive that her father, the rich and influential Diego de Susan, could ever fail in his dealings with the authorities; and this conspiracy seemed to her a childish game compared with her own dilemma.

She had never been able to restrain her feelings. Her wild and passionate nature broke forth at that moment, and she burst into loud laughter.

‘Your conspiracy!’ she cried. ‘You are obsessed with that and give no thought to me and what may be happening to me. I am in dire trouble . . . and you are concerned only with your conspiracy!’

‘My dearest, what is this?’

She stood up, drew herself to her full height and, as he looked at her body, in which the first signs of pregnancy were beginning to be apparent, he understood.

She saw him turn pale; he was stunned with horror; she realised with triumph that for a moment she had made him forget his conspiracy.

‘It is impossible,’ he cried out, angry and pathetic at the same time. He was refusing to believe what he saw; he was imploring her to tell him he was mistaken.

La Susanna’s uncontrolled emotions broke out. She loved him so much that she could not bear to hurt him; and because she was self-willed, defiant and illogical she now hated herself for having brought this tragedy on him; and since she could not continue to hate herself, she must hate him because his pain made her suffer so.

‘No!’ she cried. ‘It is not impossible. It is true. I am with child. My lover visited me at night. You thought you had me guarded so well. I deceived you. And now he has gone and I am to have a child.’

Diego groaned and buried his face in his hands.

She stood watching him defiantly. He dropped his hands and looked at her; and his face, she saw, was distorted with rage and grief.

‘I have loved you,’ he said. ‘I could not have loved you more if you had been my legitimate daughter. I have cared for you . . . I have watched over you all these years, and this is how you repay me.’

La Susanna thought: I cannot endure this. I am going mad. Is it not enough that I must bear my child in shame? How can he look at me like that? It is as though he no longer loves me. He thinks to rule me . . . to rule Seville . . . me with his strict rules; Seville with his conspiracy. I cannot endure this.

‘So you regret taking me into your house! Have no fear. I shall ask nothing of you that you do not want to give.’

She was laughing and crying as she ran from the room and out of the house. She heard his voice as he called her: ‘Daughter, daughter, come back.’

But she went on running; she ran through the streets of Seville, her beautiful black hair escaping from its combs and flying out behind her.

She was thinking of her father whom she had loved so dearly. She could not forget the expression of rage and sorrow on his face.

‘I love him no longer . . . I hate him. I hate him. I shall punish him for what he has made me suffer.’

And, when she stopped running, she found herself outside the Convent of St Paul.

It was dusk, and still La Susanna had not returned to the house.

Diego was frantic. He had searched for her in the streets of Seville and beyond; he had wandered along the banks of the Guadalquivir calling her name, imploring her to come home.

But he could not find her.

He thought of her wandering in the country in the darkness of the night, at the mercy of robbers and bold adventurers who would have no respect for her womanhood. It was more than Diego could bear. His anxiety for her had made him forget temporarily the plan which was about to come to fruition to oust the Inquisitors from Seville.

He returned to the house, and when he heard that she had not come home he wandered out into the streets again, calling her name.

And at last he found her.

She was quiet now, and she walked through the streets as though she were unaware of everything, even herself.

He ran to her and embraced her; she was trembling and she could not find words to speak to him. But she was coming home.

He put his arm about her. ‘My little one,’ he said, ‘what anxiety you have caused me! Never run away from me. This has happened, but we will weather it together, my darling. Never run away from me again.’

She shook her head and her lips framed the words: ‘Never . . . never . . .’

Yet she seemed distrait, as though her mind wandered; and Diego, who knew the wild impetuosity of her nature, feared that some harm had been done to her mind by the shock she had suffered.

He murmured tenderly as they came towards the house: ‘All is well now, my little one. Here we are at home. Now I shall nurse you back to health. We will overcome this trouble. Have no fear. Whatever happens, you are my own dear daughter.’

They entered the house. It seemed unusually quiet. One of the servants appeared. He did not speak, but at the sight of his master and La Susanna he turned and hurried away.

Diego was astonished. He strode into the small parlour, and there he found that they had visitors, for several men rose silently as he entered.

They were the alguazils of the Inquisition.

‘Diego de Susan,’ said one of them, ‘you are the prisoner of the Inquisition. You will accompany us to the Convent of St Paul for questioning.’

‘I!’ cried Diego, his eyes flashing. ‘I am one of the leading citizens of Seville. You cannot. . .’

The alguazil made a sign to two guards, who came forward and seized Diego.

As they dragged him out of the house, Diego saw that La Susanna had fainted.

The news spread through Seville. Its leading citizens were lodged in the cells of St Paul’s. What was happening to them there could be guessed. The Inquisitors were determined to show the citizens of Seville that a mistake had been made if it was thought they did not mean to carry out their threats.

Others were arrested. Did this mean that the cells of St Paul’s had been turned into torture chambers?

La Susanna, who had collapsed at the sight of the alguazils who had come to arrest her father, had been lying on her bed in a dazed condition. When at length she arose, her grief was terrible. It was the grief of remorse.