“You cannot imagine, Tomasa, what those men make me suffer.  I will subdue them because I am the master, because they owe me obedience by the rule of discipline without which there can be neither Church nor religion; but they oppose and disobey me.  My orders are carried out with grumbling, and when I assert myself even the last ordained priest stands on what he calls his rights, lays complaints against me and appeals either to the Rota[1] or to Rome.  Let us see, am I the master or am I not?  Ought the shepherd to argue with his sheep and consult how to guide them in the right way?  They sicken and weary me with their complaints and questions.  There is not half a man amongst them, they are all cowardly tale-bearers.  In my presence they lower their eyes, smile and praise His Eminence, and as soon as I turn my back they are vipers trying to bite me, scorpion tongues which respect nothing.  Ay, Tomasa, my daughter! pity me! when I think of all this it makes me quite ill.”

[Footnote 1:  Ecclesiastical court.]

The prelate turned pale, rising from his seat as though he felt a sudden spasm of pain.

“Do not worry yourself so much,” said the old woman, “you are above them all, and you will overcome them.”

“Clearly, I shall defeat them; if not, it would fill my cup, for it would be the first time I had been vanquished.  These squabbles among comrades do not trouble me much after all, for I know in the end I shall see my detested enemies at my feet.  But it is their tongues, Tomasa!—­what they say about the beings I love most in the world, that is what wounds me, and is killing me.”

He sat down again, coming quite close to the gardener’s widow, so as to speak in a very low voice.

“You know my past better than anyone; I have such great confidence in you that I have told you everything.  Besides, you are very quick, and if I had not told you, you would have guessed.  You know what Visitacion is to me, and most certainly you are aware of what those wretches say about her.  Do not play the fool; everyone inside and outside the Cathedral listens to these calumnies and believes them.  You are the only one who does not credit them because you know the truth.  But ay! the truth cannot be told, I cannot proclaim it, these robes forbid me.”

And he seized a handful of his cassock with his clenched fingers as if he would rend it.

A long silence followed.  Don Sebastian looked fixedly at the ground, clutching with his hands as though he were trying to grasp invisible enemies; every now and then he felt a stab of pain and sighed uneasily.

“Why do you think about these things?” said the gardener’s widow; “they only make you ill, and you ought not to have disturbed yourself to come and see me, you would have done better to remain in the palace.”