“May I beg to close the doors?” he asked.  “It is a matter of great moment, which you might not care to have any one hear.”

Wonderingly Madeline inclined her head.  The padre gently closed one door and then the others.

“Senora, I have come to disclose a secret—­my own sinfulness in keeping it—­and to implore your pardon.  Do you remember that night Senor Stewart dragged me before you in the waiting-room at El Cajon?”

“Yes,” replied Madeline.

“Senora, since that night you have been Senor Stewart’s wife!”

Madeline became as motionless as stone.  She seemed to feel nothing, only to hear.

“You are Senor Stewart’s wife.  I have kept the secret under fear of death.  But I could keep it no longer.  Senor Stewart may kill me now.  Ah, Senora, it is very strange to you.  You were so frightened that night, you knew not what happened.  Senor Stewart threatened me.  He forced you.  He made me speak the service.  He made you speak the Spanish yes.  And I, Senora, knowing the deeds of these sinful cowboys, fearing worse than disgrace to one so beautiful and so good as you, I could not do less than marry you truly.  At least you should be his wife.  So I married you, truly, in the service of my church.”

“My God!” cried Madeline, rising.

“Hear me!  I implore you, Senora, hear me out!  Do not leave me!  Do not look so—­so—­ Ah, Senora, let me speak a word for Senor Stewart.  He was drunk that night.  He did not know what he was about.  In the morning he came to me, made me swear by my cross that I would not reveal the disgrace he had put upon you.  If I did he would kill me.  Life is nothing to the American vaquero, Senora.  I promised to respect his command.  But I did not tell him you were his wife.  He did not dream I had truly married you.  He went to fight for the freedom of my country—­Senora, he is one splendid soldier—­and I brooded over the sin of my secret.  If he were killed I need never tell you.  But if he lived I knew that I must some day.

“Strange indeed that Senor Stewart and Padre Marcos should both come to this ranch together.  The great change your goodness wrought in my beloved people was no greater than the change in Senor Stewart.  Senora, I feared you would go away one day, go back to your Eastern home, ignorant of the truth.  The time came when I confessed to Stewart—­said I must tell you.  Senor, the man went mad with joy.  I have never seen so supreme a joy.  He threatened no more to kill me.  That strong, cruel vaquero begged me not to tell the secret—­never to reveal it.  He confessed his love for you—­a love something like the desert storm.  He swore by all that was once sacred to him, and by my cross and my church, that he would be a good man, that he would be worthy to have you secretly his wife for the little time life left him to worship at your shrine.  You needed never to know.  So I held my tongue, half pitying him, half fearing him, and praying for some God-sent light.