‘Isabella de Siguenza,’ I said, ’I am your friend, the best you ever had and the last, as you shall learn presently.  Tell me where this man is, for there is that between us which must be settled.’

’If you are my friend, weary me no more.  I do not know where he is.  Months ago he went whither you will scarcely follow, to the furthest Indies; but you will never find him there.’

’It may still be that I shall, and if it should so chance, say have you any message for this man?’

’None—­yes, this.  Tell him how we died, his child and his wife—­tell him that I did my best to hide his name from the priests lest some like fate should befall him.’

‘Is that all?’

’Yes.  No, it is not all.  Tell him that I passed away loving and forgiving.’

‘My time is short,’ I said; ‘awake and listen!’ for having spoken thus she seemed to be sinking into a lethargy.  ’I was the assistant of that Andres de Fonseca whose counsel you put aside to your ruin, and I have given a certain drug to the abbess yonder.  When she offers you the cup of water, see that you drink and deep, you and the child.  If so none shall ever die more happily.  Do you understand?’

‘Yes—­yes,’ she gasped, ’and may blessings rest upon you for the gift.  Now I am no more afraid—­for I have long desired to die—­it was the way I feared.’

‘Then farewell, and God be with you, unhappy woman.’

‘Farewell,’ she answered softly, ’but call me not unhappy who am about to die thus easily with that I love.’  And she glanced at the sleeping babe.

Then I drew back and stood with bent head, speaking no word.  Now the Dominican motioned to all to take the places where they had stood before and asked her: 

‘Erring sister, have you aught to say before you are silent for ever?’

‘Yes,’ she answered in a clear, sweet voice, that never even quavered, so bold had she become since she learned that her death would be swift and easy.  ’Yes, I have this to say, that I go to my end with a clean heart, for if I have sinned it is against custom and not against God.  I broke the vows indeed, but I was forced to take those vows, and, therefore, they did not bind.  I was a woman born for light and love, and yet I was thrust into the darkness of this cloister, there to wither dead in life.  And so I broke the vows, and I am glad that I have broken them, though it has brought me to this.  If I was deceived and my marriage is no marriage before the law as they tell me now, I knew nothing of it, therefore to me it is still valid and holy and on my soul there rests no stain.  At the least I have lived, and for some few hours I have been wife and mother, and it is as well to die swiftly in this cell that your mercy has prepared, as more slowly in those above.  And now for you—­I tell you that your wickedness shall find you out, you who dare to say to God’s children—­“Ye shall not love,” and to work murder on them because they will not listen.  It shall find you out I say, and not only you but the Church you serve.  Both priest and Church shall be broken together and shall be a scorn in the mouths of men to come.’