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I was born in July, 1626, in the French city of Tartas to my father Christopher de Lis and my mother Elisabeth de Pas. She nursed me with her own milk, taught, educated, and held me on her own lap…
I admit my guilt that about a year ago I was in the home of Juan Estevan when his daughter Inés said to me: “Come here, cousin, would you like to see your mother who is long deceased? and to save your…
I admit my guilt . . . in that I was told of a maiden who was [there] the daughter of Juan Estevan who had ascended to heaven and was approached there by an angel, and how she had told of the many…
And in that drowning instant
as the water heightened over me
it suddenly did come to pass
my preterite eternity
the image of myself intent
on several freedoms
fading to
myself in yellowed Basle…
I admit my guilt in that Christmas past, my said husband Juan Estevan told me how his daughter Inés had ascended to the sky and saw there the deceased and the living; and how the conversos were very…
This is the moment Francisco has been waiting for. Day after day and week after week he has imagined the court’s questions, turned them over in his mind, and minutely rehearsed his answers. Now fear…