“I do not know what he said to you last night,” he concluded.  “I give you a dead man’s words, as he spoke them to me; but I have no right to those he spoke to you.  This is true, that I have told you, as I hope for forgiveness of my own sins.  If you stay in this house, by the truth of God, I believe that your life is not safe.”

“You believe it, I am sure,” said Veronica.  “But I cannot.  The most I can believe is that poor Bosio was already mad when he told you this.  It must be true.  Even supposing that my uncle were the man you think, and had ruined himself in speculations and had taken money of mine without my knowledge, would it not be far more natural that he and my aunt should come to me and confess everything, and beg me to forgive and help them for the sake of their good name?  Of course it would.  You cannot deny that.”

“It is what I told Bosio,” answered Don Teodoro, shaking his head; “but he answered that they feared you, and that your death would be a safer way, because you might not be so kind.  You might go to the cardinal and lay the case before him, and they would be lost.”

“I might.  I probably should.”  Veronica paused.  “That is true,” she continued, “but whatever I did, I could not allow the matter to come to a prosecution—­for the sake of my own name, if not for theirs.  But I do not believe it—­I do not believe it—­indeed, I do not believe it at all.  Poor Bosio was not in his right mind.  That is why he killed himself.  He was mad, even when he talked with you the day before yesterday—­it is the only possible explanation.”

“Nevertheless, something must be done,” said Don Teodoro.  “Your safety must be thought of first, princess.”

“I feel perfectly safe here,” answered Veronica.  “All this is madness.  The countess is my father’s sister.  I admit that I have not always liked her, but she has always been kind.  You really cannot expect me to believe that she and my uncle would plot against my life—­especially now, in this terrible trouble and sorrow!  I have listened to you, Don Teodoro, and I am sure that you wish me well, but I never can believe that you are right.  Really—­with all respect to you—­I must say it.  It is wildly absurd!”

And the longer she thought of it, the more absurd it seemed.  The girl was naturally both sensible and brave, and the whole tale was monstrous in her eyes, though while he had been telling it she had fallen under the spell of its thrilling interest, forgetting that it was all about herself.  She looked at the quiet old priest, with his extraordinary face and quiet manner, and it was far easier to believe that a man with such features might be mad than that her Aunt Matilde meant to kill her.  He was silent for a few moments.