“Thou art tired, mijita, no?  Wilt thou not go to bed?”

“Not without making my confession, if you will permit me.”

“Very well; go.”

Pilar left the room and closed the door behind her.  Alone in the hall, she shook suddenly and twisted her hands together.  But, although she could not conquer her agitation, she opened the door of the chapel resolutely and entered.  The little arched whitewashed room was almost dark.  A few candles burned on the altar, shadowing the gorgeous images of Virgin and saints.  Pilar walked slowly down the narrow body of the chapel until she stood behind a priest who knelt beside a table with his back to the door.  He wore the brown robes of the Franciscan, but his lean finely proportioned figure manifested itself through the shapeless garment.  He looked less like a priest than a masquerading athlete.  His face was hidden in his hands.

Pilar did not kneel.  She stood immovable and silent, and in a moment it was evident that she had made her presence felt.  The priest stirred uneasily.  “Kneel, my daughter,” he said.  But he did not look up.  Pilar caught his hands in hers and forced them down upon the table.  The priest, throwing back his head in surprise, met the flaming glance of eyes that dreamed no longer.  He sprang to his feet, snatching back his hands.  “Dona Pilar!” he exclaimed.

“I choose to make my confession standing,” she said.  “I love you!”

The priest stared at her in consternation.

“You knew it—­unless you never think at all.  You are the only man I have ever thought it worth while to talk to.  You have seen how I have treated others with contempt, and that I have been happy with you—­and we have had more than one long talk together.  You, too, have been happy—­”

“I am a priest!”

“You are a Man and I am a Woman.”

“What is it you would have me do?”

“Fling off that hideous garment which becomes you not at all, and fly with me to my father in the City of Mexico.  I hear from him constantly, and he is wealthy and will protect us.  The barque, Joven Guipuzcoanoa, leaves Monterey within a week after the convent closes for vacation.”

The priest raised his clasped hands to heaven.  “She is mad!  She is mad!” he said.  Then he turned on her fiercely.  “Go!  Go!” he cried.  “I hate you!”

“Ay, you love me! you love me!”

The priest slowly set his face.  There was no gleam of expression to indicate whether the words that issued through his lips came from his soul or from that section of his brain instinct with self-protection.  He spoke slowly:—­

“I am a priest, and a priest I shall die.  What is more, I shall denounce you to Dona Concepcion, the clergy, and—­to your mother.  The words that have just violated this chapel were not said under the seal of the confessional, and I shall deal with them as I have said.  You shall be punished, that no other man’s soul may be imperilled.”