“Then listen to me, for it is my turn to speak.  When, eight months ago, you sought the shelter of that blessed roof, it was for refuge from a woman that had cursed your life.  It was given you.  You would leave it now to commit an act that would bring another woman, as mad as yourself, clamoring at its doors for protection from you.  For what you are proposing to this innocent girl is what you accepted from the older and wickeder woman.  You have been cursed because a woman divided for you what was before God an indivisible right; and you, Diego, would now redivide that with another, whom you dare to say you love!  You would use the opportunity of her helplessness and loneliness here to convince her; you would tempt her with sympathy, for she is unhappy; with companionship, for she has no longer the world to choose from—­with everything that should make her sacred from your pursuit.”

“Enough,” said Hurlstone hoarsely; “say no more.  Only I implore you tell me what to do now to save her.  I will—­if you tell me to do it—­leave her forever.”

“Why should you go?” said the priest quietly.  “Her absence will be sufficient.”

“Her absence?” echoed Hurlstone.

“Hers alone.  The conditions that brought you here are unchanged.  You are still in need of an asylum from the world and the wife you have repudiated.  Why should you abandon it?  For the girl, there is no cause why she should remain—­beyond yourself.  She has a brother whom she loves—­who wants her—­who has the right to claim her at any time.  She will go to him.”

“But how?”

“That has been my secret, and will be my sacrifice to you, Diego, my son.  I have foreseen all this; I have expected it from the day that girl sent you her woman’s message, that was half a challenge, from her school—­I have known it from the day you walked together on the sea-shore.  I was blind before that—­for I am weak in my way, too, and I had dreamed of other things.  God has willed it otherwise.”  He paused, and returning the pressure of Hurlstone’s hand, went on.  “My secret and my sacrifice for you is this.  For the last two hundred years the Church has had a secret and trusty messenger from the See at Guadalajara—­in a ship that touches here for a few hours only every three years.  Her arrival and departure is known only to myself and my brothers of the Council.  By this wisdom and the provision of God, the integrity of the Holy Church and the conversion of the heathen have been maintained without interruption and interference.  You know now, my son, why your comrades were placed under surveillance; why it was necessary that the people should believe in a political conspiracy among yourselves, rather than the facts as they existed, which might have bred a dangerous curiosity among them.  I have given you our secret, Diego—­that is but a part of my sacrifice.  When that ship arrives, and she is expected daily, I will secretly place Miss Keene and her friend on board, with explanatory letters to the Archbishop, and she will be assisted to rejoin her brother.  It will be against the wishes of the Council; but my will,” continued the old man, with a gesture of imperiousness, “is the will of the Church, and the law that overrides all.”