MarÍa fixed her eyes on Paoletti’s face with a softened gaze. The circumstances were so solemn that even the good little priest, accustomed as he was to melancholy and emotional scenes, was deeply moved. Controlling himself however, he went up to the bed, and taking the fevered white hand that she held out to him, said with mystical enthusiasm:

“We are alone, my beloved daughter—my sister and friend, whom I love most truly; alone with our spiritual thoughts and sacred fervour. Fear has no place here; joy reigns alone. Arise, pure conscience, fear not; appear in all your brightness, rejoice in your own beauty, and instead of dreading the hour of release look forward to it eagerly. Oh Triumph! do not disguise thyself under a false semblance of defeat.”

MarÍa, less eager than usual to swallow the sweet droppings of this mystical honeycomb, was thinking, in fact, of something else. It was with bitterness as well as sadness that she said:

“I have been deceived.”

“With a pious purpose,” replied Paoletti promptly. “The alarming state of your health required the concealment of the painful truth. Forgive me if I too lent myself to the deception which was, as I repeat, a deed of Christian charity. I saw how necessary it was to second your husband’s beneficent plan....”

“And he has kept me, and is keeping me, under that woman’s roof,” she exclaimed, half-choking.

“It was through no fault of his. There was no other house within reach where you could have the requisite medical attendance and be properly taken care of. I entirely approve of your having been brought here. A life in imminent peril is not a thing to be lifted and carried about like a sack. The best thing that could happen to you was to be here.”

“And I dreamed it—and when I woke they denied it.” She was too weak to speak more than a few words at a time, and it is impossible to give any idea of the feeble, extinct, quavering tones of her voice. It was like that of a forsaken child, wearied out with calling and crying for its mother.

“And my husband and that woman,” she went on, “will meet hour after hour in this house to embrace and to count ...” again her voice failed her, and Paoletti himself felt a lump rising in his throat.

“To count the minutes I have left to live—as I count the beads of my rosary.”

There was a pause, during which the confessor tried to regain his composure.

“My dearest friend in the Lord,” he began, “this is really a monstrous invention of your fancy. Listen to me while I tell you the exact facts, the truth to which I bear witness as a servant of God. The truth can do no harm to a noble soul like yours; a conscience so brave and so blameless will not be unhinged by a revelation of human weakness which cannot in any way affect it, any more than the dust blown up from the highway can affect the purity and whiteness of the clouds in the sky. You shall hear the whole truth, with nothing kept back and nothing added. Don Leon, it is true, loves this lady; he himself owned as much to me; and as he did not tell me under the seal of confession, I may and ought to tell you. But at the same time, I solemnly declare to you that the lady is not now at Suertebella, but that your husband himself begged and desired her to leave. Decency I may say required it, which is the outward sign of the grace of modesty. Your unhappy husband is, of course, incapable of any moral feeling; but, thanks to a cultivated mind, he has the religion of appearances, and can always assume that superficial guise of virtue which we term chivalry.”

MarÍa made no reply. Her white hand, which had not, during her brief illness, had time to grow thin and retained its delicate roundness, was playing with the fringe of the counterpane. Not far from this restless hand was the small bullet-head of the Italian; his face pale and lifeless when he sat with his eyes cast down, though, when he looked up, they glittered with a flash that suggested the sparkling of fireworks.

“I cannot believe,” said the priest fixing MarÍa with the fascination of that glance, “that a spirit so fortified by divine love as yours is, can allow these facts to disturb it. I know you well, and I cannot imagine that beautiful soul fettered and dragged down by trivial anxieties like any ordinary woman, or detaching its thoughts from the sublime ideal spheres to wander through the murky paths of worldly disputations, like idle minds that find time too long. Am I right my beloved daughter? Am I mistaken in thinking that those eyes, accustomed to the splendours of Heaven, can no longer deign to look down on the feebler lights of earth?”

“I am jealous,” said MarÍa the tone in which we state a pathetic truth. And just as the centurion gave the Redeemer a sponge dipped in vinegar for refreshment when he was athirst, the priest poured honey and vinegar into MarÍa’s parched soul.

“Jealous!” he said. “Jealous, when you have fired your heart with the love that is never unrequited! Unless I have failed to enter into the feelings of my illustrious penitent, she must have fortitude, and grace, and a sense of divine love which will raise her above such base anxieties. Jealous—of whom? Of another woman, and for the sake of a man; jealous, of nothing in a creature who is nothing and who is worth nothing!—Some radical change must have taken place in your mind, my dear daughter. What has occasioned it?”

“Jealousy,” murmured MarÍa from the depths of her anguish.

Then, by slow degrees, frequently pausing to rest, MarÍa related all that had happened since Pilar de San SalomÓ had told her of Leon’s infidelities, until she lost consciousness. She told the priest everything, omitting nothing of importance, nor any interesting detail.

“Excepting your outbursts of indignation, your sacrifice to worldly prejudice in the matter of dress, and your overhasty action, there is nothing reprehensible in your conduct,” said Paoletti as he sat with his head resting on his hand and his eyes cast down on the floor—like a weapon laid by in its sheath, listening to her story, word by word, drop by drop like an extract distilled from an alembic. MarÍa breathed a sigh of relief.

“I thought I had sinned heavily,” she said.

“You have sinned no doubt, in the way I have said; but it is no mortal sin. I see in your visit nothing more than a woman’s natural impulse to prevent the rupture of a sacred tie. I have told you already, many times, that your pure desire to cultivate the spiritual life, and his deep contempt for the faith cannot exempt either of you from the duties of married life. So long as you both live, you are bound together by the sacrament of marriage, and when one strove to burst the bonds it was only natural and right that the other should fly to prevent it; nay to tighten the tie if that were possible. Ah! my most precious daughter, how often have we talked it over!”

MarÍa nodded affirmatively and fixed her eyes on the ceiling.

“When my object was to give a fixed purpose to your beautiful life, I have often said this,” continued Paoletti, not lifting his gaze from the ground, but staring at the carpet, as if he did not know where to look. “Many times as you know, I have quieted your mind on this point when you were disturbed by scruples. ‘No,’ I have said, ‘God cannot require a married woman to close her mind to every consideration of what she owes to her husband.’ He, even though he may have erred in spiritual things, has a right which cannot be abrogated even though his ideas and principles may be in direct opposition to those of his wife. Although, seeing his contumacious incredulity it is impossible that you should give him an atom—I say an atom since I must perforce use a material image—an atom, I say, of your exquisite spirit, of those graces which are claimed by their Creator; although you cannot have any single idea in common, nor that confidence which might fill him with vain hopes that he could ever turn his wife out of the path of perfection in which she is walking—still, all that is not of the spirit is his; all that is essentially of the flesh and world. You have confided to me all your most intimate thoughts, all the tender secrets of your soul—all your husband’s expressions and opinions; I have fully appreciated him and on my knowledge of the facts I laid down for you a scheme of life to which you have perfectly conformed until now, when I find you distraught and wandering from the path. But remember all we have said about it, and my arguments which will set everything in its right light; and never confuse spiritual things with what is merely human, or that which is of God with the things of the flesh.”

MarÍa said nothing, but turned herself wearily on her pillow.

“Speak to me, my dear and precious lamb.”

“My husband said a great deal....” she murmured.

“Yes; and you know that in our delightful discussions I was always able to confute his sophistical arguments; you always saw I was right—you were always convinced.”

“But then I was not jealous—and jealousy—I know it now as surely as I know God—jealousy is my way of loving.”

“Yes, you loved him!” said Paoletti a good deal confused, as he glanced up for a moment and then looked down again, “because you took an interest in him, and did not wish him to suffer; and in this I supported you—always supported you.”

“But still, he said a great deal,” repeated MarÍa in the same weary tone of an unhappy child. “He said that you....”

“Well, that I?”

“That you, by constantly pruning my affections to concentrate them on God, by pruning my ideas, from a terror of atheism, by robbing him of my heart and leaving nothing but duty, had left him nothing of his wife but the slave of his desires.”

“Oh! woman, woman!” exclaimed Paoletti eagerly and not without some dignity. “How often have I refuted this argument, which is terrible only in appearance, and left you soothed and reassured!”

“But can you refute the fact....”

“What fact?”

“That I am jealous, envious; that now I long for what is no longer mine.”

The worthy priest looked up and raised his head: nay, not content with this, but wishing, it would seem, to let the light of his eyes shine forth like a beacon to guide the wandering seaman, he rose to his feet and stood looking down on his penitent. He was in fact uncomfortable, ill at ease, and, if the truth must be told, not entirely pleased with himself.

“My dear lady,” he went on, piercing her with his glance as an angel might pierce with his sword, “I shall be compelled to speak to you with a severity which ill accords with the friendship—Friendship, do I say?—respect, veneration, which I feel for you; for indeed your many and great perfections have made me cease to regard you as a penitent or even as a friend in the Lord; I have learnt to think of you as a saint, as a pure and exquisite creature, far above myself in every respect. And now...!”

There was a pause. MarÍa, moved by this appeal, folded her white hands and exclaimed fervently:

“O Lord! and my precious brother! come both of you and help me!”

“Call upon them with a heart purified from all baser affections, which are, as I may say, the rust of the soul,” said Paoletti, feeling the fount of his eloquence unsealed. “If you call upon them so, they will respond. A fervent spiritual impulsion, my sweet friend,” and he pressed his hand to his heart as though he were clutching it. “A deep yearning from the soul, an afflatus arising from two aspirations: the desire to cast off this foul body and the craving to fly up and away to the radiant and serene realm above, never to return. Courage, beautiful soul—on whose wings we may already see the pearly reflections of the glorious day of Paradise—courage! and let not your wings droop. You are near the goal. Gaze upwards,” and he suited the action to the word, “do not look down; that will make you giddy—look up, and you will see the loveliness and splendour that lies before you, infinitely beyond anything that your fancy can dream of in its most rapturous flights. There you will hear celestial strains, and feel that exquisite and joyful ease which will wrap you in ecstasy, in a robe of ravishment, and in heavenly contemplation. Do not look back, seraphic soul, I entreat you; for your own sake and for ours who look on you as an example, for the Glory of God who made you so perfect as His crowning work, for His own pleasure and glory; on my knees I beseech you—I a humble priest of no worth, of no account, but that it has been my privilege to lead you in the path to eternal joys, oh beatific soul! Thus winning some small merit which is as nothing by the side of yours.”

There was a silence. Paoletti was a man of entire good faith and meant all he said; he knelt down and clasped his hands.

“You—on your knees,” murmured MarÍa. “No no—not that. I will do as you desire me. But how am I to escape from the feelings that possess me?”

“Feel something different,” said the Italian rising. “You must know it well; you who have schooled your heart and mind with the care and watchfulness of a saint. Do you experience any diminution in the fervour or depth of your love to God, in your pious zeal?”

MarÍa waved her hand in negation. Then, turning her head towards Paoletti that he might hear her better, she said:

“And if I do not cast out—what you bid me cast out, will it delay my salvation?”

“Nay, angel of goodness! Never for an instant have I doubted of your salvation. What, can a soul so full of merits be lost? Never.—There is no need for you to tell me that these feelings which have come to agitate you are untainted by rancour, and will not prevent your full forgiveness of those by whom offences have come. Am I wrong?”

MarÍa shook her head.

“Then your salvation is sure. If I try to eradicate this insignificant weed it is only because I long to see so lovely a soul absolutely spotless—because I cannot be satisfied with a victory, but crave a triumph and long to see you wear the crown, not merely of virtue but of sanctity. What I desire,” he added enthusiastically, “is that you should rise to Heaven bathed in light and glory, hailed by rejoicing angels and that you should not look back from the everlasting threshold of star-sown sapphire, even to cast a glance of contempt at this world. What I desire to see in you, is absolute purity, the celestial essence of love!”

“All this I can have without being able to free myself from earthly griefs. If I can be saved as I am, God may take me as I am.”

Paoletti was silent; suddenly he said:

“My dear daughter, do you, with all your heart, forgive those who have sinned against you?”

A pause.

“Yes,” said MarÍa, when the priest had given up all hope of a reply. “I forgive my husband whose infidelity has killed me.” And as she spoke the tears flowed down her cheeks.

“And her, too—the woman who has robbed you of your husband’s affection.—Do you forgive her?”

Paoletti stood waiting with his eyes fixed on the dying woman’s face. MarÍa closed hers in deep abstraction. The priest thought it was the end; he bent over her in great alarm. But presently he heard a sob which said: “Yes—her, too.”

“Then my beloved and noble daughter, if you forgive—which is the only way to expel the evil leaven from your soul, you will enter the gates of Heaven in triumph,” said the Padre in a voice of dramatic solemnity.

There could be no doubt that he held the key of those gates. Suddenly, inspired as it seemed by the supernatural influence the priest exercised over her, MarÍa rallied her strength and particularly her powers of voice. Even her pale cheeks recovered a tinge of colour which gave fresh brilliancy and eagerness to her eyes.

“Your words have given me new life!” she said, without difficulty. “I had a cloud, a veil before my eyes, and it has vanished; I see clearly—so clearly that I can only marvel at the mercies the Lord has vouchsafed to me in shedding this light on my soul, and know not how to thank Him. He has shown me the path by which I may go to Him, and called me with the voice of His loving kindness. I will follow—I come, I come, my God, Father and Redeemer, I clasp thy cross!”

“This, this is what I longed for, my beloved penitent and friend,” exclaimed the enraptured priest, while tears started to his eyes and ran down his cheeks. “Soon your spirit will dwell in the realms of eternal bliss. How blessed is it, my daughter, to have no fear of death, but, on the contrary, to look forward with joy to the moment when the last spark of this miserable existence is lost in the first radiance of a life of endless glory! Sweetest soul, purified by prayer, by unfailing piety, by heroic mortification of the evil within, by incessant absorption into the divine idea—spread your wings, whiter than sunlit clouds—fear not, soar upwards, fix your eyes on the goal, open your ears to the hymn that greets you, inhale the ineffable fragrance of Paradise, be bold to enter the fatherly presence of the Creator of the sun and stars—who will welcome you with the smile which gave birth to light itself, and receive you as a martyr and a saint.”

“Yes—” said MarÍa folding her hands calmly across her bosom. “I feel myself float upwards, and I can find no words to express my happiness. I feel as if I had already forgotten the language of this world and could not speak it. My last words still shall be that I forgive with all my heart, those who have sinned against me.”

There was a pause during which the priest murmured a prayer.

“Father,” said MarÍa letting her hand fall on the bed to rouse him from the mystic trance into which he seemed to have fallen: “It strikes me that I ought to tell my husband that I forgive him.”

“It is unnecessary, but you can do so.”

“Who knows but that a few words spoken in such a solemn moment may not have an awakening effect on his perishing soul.”

“Yes, indeed; it is an idea worthy of your lovely character.—We will tell him.”

“At such a moment,” added MarÍa recurring to the ideas which Paoletti regarded as beneath her, and talking with nervous eagerness, “he cannot contradict me. Ah! he is so ready with his answers when I accuse him that he sometimes confounds me. Once....”

She paused a minute and then went on. “Once he came to me very melancholy and weary. It was a very wet night—and the poor fellow, having lent his carriage to a friend who was ill, was wet to the skin. The same day a friend had died, to whom he was very much attached, a well-known atheist, who, as you know, had constantly shared my poor Leon’s studies and opinions. Yes—he was very sad.—I pitied him as I saw him come in, but I was at my prayers, and I could not interrupt them. He changed his clothes, but he shivered just as much in his dry things as in his wet ones; he was trembling with fever. I ordered the servants to prepare some warm tea for him, and then went on with my prayers, beseeching God that He would touch his heart—but He never heard me!—Suddenly Leon came and sat down by me on a low stool almost at my feet, and took my hand and kissed it; his lips were burning: ‘I want to love and to be loved,’ he said. ‘Living like this, we are like two thistles growing each by itself in a field.’ It was all I could do not to listen to him. I was obliged to put down my prayer-book, but I went on praying without it, and kept my eyes fixed and my mind concentrated on holy things, so as to keep out all other thoughts. That very day you and I had talked together for a long time about the tactics employed by an infidel mind to entrap the godly. I fortified myself by recalling your words and let the electric current of affection that came from me to him pass by. I remained a perfect statue; I knew that I ought to be angry, so I was, and I flung his atheism in his teeth. He shivered with his chill and said: ‘Well, as my home is empty for me, I will go to some asylum.’ What things he said! ‘I want to love and to be loved,’—he said that again and again. He would laugh and pay me compliments like a boy; then he would talk about the house, and the children we never had.—But I was firm and as cold as ice, for if I had shown him the least tenderness, how elated he would have been, and I utterly humiliated!—And I should have felt that my humiliation was the abasement of the Christian Faith and Church. My plan was traced out for me—and how wisely! I rose from my knees: ‘Be converted and then I will listen to you,’ I said, and I left him alone.—How well I remember that night. I remember that as I went into my own room, I was quite grieved to see him so cold, and I took a cloak down from the door. I had begun my prayers again in my room when I heard him say: ‘Curses on those who made you what you are!’”

“But my beloved daughter,” said Paoletti, “you are agitating yourself unduly with these reminiscences.”

“I think I can see him now!” she went on with an ecstatic fire in her eye. “He was so pale, and his eyes were full of a desolate melancholy—he looked like a hungry child that puts out its arms to seek its mother’s breast and finds a stone.—I fancy I can still feel the rough touch of his beard on the back of my hand, and the weight of his weary head on my knees. I did not let it rest there, but I looked at him, asking myself why God had allowed materialism and disbelief to find a place in such a handsome head. And there is something fascinating in his black eyes—the grasp of his hand is so firm and manly—he has a combination of gravity and brightness—strength that does not detract from the beauty....”

“Friend of my soul,” interrupted Paoletti, “I conclude that when you dwell at length on his perfections, it is only to wonder how the Omnipotent in his supreme wisdom could join them to a blind soul, spiritually dead.”

“Just so, just so.—But these memories crowd upon me and I cannot shake them off. They are too strong for me.—I remember one day, after several days of disagreement, he came into the room quite furious. It was the first time I ever saw him in a passion, and it frightened me excessively. He spoke very violently, took my hand and shook it as if he wanted to wrench it off. I fell on my knees.—I fancy I can feel his hand now with a grip like a vice; oh! if I really felt it I believe it would make me wish to live!—He said cruel things to me, but even though he was so angry, he could not be brutal. This sudden fit of rage was in fact a joy to me, for it showed me how much he loved me; but as I had no doubts of his fidelity I did not choose to make any show of affection. I knew very well that he would not hurt me, so I said to him: ‘You may kill me if you like, I do not care; but give me an hour—I am dividing my clothes among the poor.’ That was the truth; above a hundred poor wretches were waiting at the door. I was so proud of my charitable action that I could afford to despise the tyrant.—And he said: ‘It is horrible to have a wound aching in one’s soul and not to be able to return blow for blow, to take the smallest revenge, to kill or even to punish....’ But ah! he was splendid in his wrath.”

“Enough of this,” said the priest with sudden decision “I cannot allow another word of these memories which imperil your soul. You, who could then struggle to keep your spirit pure, will surely not succumb now.”

“No, I will not succumb”—said MarÍa, but there was a look of anguish in her white face which betrayed what it cost her to break the mysterious chains that held her even in this supreme hour. “I have mortified myself indeed, and fought many battles to divest my mind of the sense of his attractions, and see the bare and hideous skeleton of the man. It was you who advised me to think of him as a skeleton—and it has been my salvation.—For my soul would inevitably have been lost.—Father, would it not?—if I had yielded to his persuasions. It would have led me into sin—Father, would it not?—He would have triumphed over me spiritually speaking and have led my soul astray—Father, would he not?” And at each question, betraying her doubts and inward struggle, the priest replied by an emphatic sign of assent. “I said to him: ‘I am yours in all indifferent matters, but my spirit you shall never subdue.’—Sometimes I forced myself to pass weeks without saying a word to him—I was right, was I not?”

“My poor unfortunate friend,” said Paoletti with a sigh, “you are asking me things you have asked a thousand times before. Let us turn over this gloomy page which we have amply discussed already, and discourse of God and of forgiveness....”

“Of forgiveness!” said MarÍa raising her head without moving her body. “Of what forgiveness?”

Her eyes had the wild glare that prognosticates delirium; she suddenly sat up in bed and clasping her hands to her head, exclaimed:

“I do not forgive, I do not forgive—I cannot—my husband only—I forgive him. Leon I will forgive you if you will return to me.—Not her, not her....” She could say no more; she threw up her arms and fell back as if she were dying.

Paoletti gazed at her in horror; MarÍa kept her eyes fixed on his with a crazy glare. The priest felt the cold sweat start on his brow, and his heart beat as though it would burst his ribs. Presently MarÍa closed her eyes; the crisis wore itself out in exhaustion, sighs, and sobs. Paoletti said in tones which he meant to be awful:

“Thou Soul! that I believed to be victorious, and that art yet yielding to the Foe: God will not forgive those who show no forgiveness!” And falling on his knees, he took the crucifix between his hands and prayed in silence. He was in truth in deep distress—a shepherd striving to save his favourite lamb. For some time MarÍa neither spoke nor moved. At length, with a deep sigh, she said in accents of despair: “I am a miserable sinner and cannot hope to be saved.”

The hapless tortured soul was struggling like a shipwrecked wretch, one hand stretched up to Heaven and the other feeling for earth.

“I am overwhelmed with grief,” said Paoletti looking up, and his face was wet with sincere tears. “The soul that I believed I had won to fill a glorious throne in Heaven, has suddenly fallen into the abyss....”

“Into the abyss,” echoed MarÍa with a heart-breaking sob.

“And still I beseech the Lord that he will save it—that he will save this most precious soul; that he will not condemn it, that he will have mercy upon it.—Oh! Merciful Saviour I have seen her Thine, wholly Thine, and to see her now, given over to Satan!—Is she not a pearl of great price? How canst Thou bear that she should fall into the pit of everlasting punishment? Hast Thou not purified and tried her as a jewel to be worn by Thee throughout eternity? Hapless soul,” he went on, turning to MarÍa, “listen to my last appeal if you hope not to see the robe of purity and beatitude turned into one of agonizing flames. Return to a better mind; to that sweet and elect state which affords greater delights than the most exquisite perfumes, the most delicious food, and the loveliest sights on earth. Save thyself yet, if not from this world, at least from Hell!”

This vigorous allocution produced its effect; the reverend orator continued to pour out his poetical eloquence, not without feeling though somewhat theatrical and full of figurative rhetoric; and lavishly adorned with “celestial splendour, seraphic choirs, divine love, and white-robed spirits.” When he had ended, MarÍa, kissing the crucifix that her pastor put into her hands, shed a few bitter tears as she said:

“I resign all to Thee, blessed Redeemer—there is no leaven in my soul of baser affections. I resign them all with my life and cast them into the fire. Still, one thing remains; but you, Father, who can do everything, can pluck out this last thorn from my heart.”

“What is that?”

“Prove to me that Pepa’s child is not my husband’s.”

“How can I prove that, unfortunate woman?” cried Paoletti thunderstruck. “How should I know the secrets of hearts? It may be so, my child—and it may not.” And then the worthy man, knowing only the surface of human nature and not the depths of the heart, added in perfect good faith: “She is a pretty little girl.”

This was seizing a spear to pierce the heart and shorten the agony. MarÍa writhed in her bed.

“Noble and beautiful soul,” exclaimed Paoletti rising to his feet with glowing looks and an uplifted hand: “Throw off this last earthly anxiety, cast away these dregs of life, and keep the vessel pure to receive the precious water of eternal glory.”

“I want to be saved,” murmured MarÍa, who now looked more dead than alive.

“Then free yourself, purge your soul completely, and forgive.”

“I do—I will—I forgive....” The words sounded like the faint mysterious whisper of a soul escaping, and dying on the lips of the speaker.

“Forgive, and your salvation is assured.” The priest seemed to grow taller with his solemn and mystical enthusiasm. MarÍa’s was mingled with a superstitious terror which made her hair stand on end, and hang dishevelled like grass swept down by the swift rush of a passing train.

“Kiss this sacred image,” said Paoletti, “and forget the world—totally, absolutely.”

“I do,” murmured MarÍa from the depths of the gulf of self-mortification into which she had fallen.

“That there is such a thing as a man or woman in it.”

“I do,” said the voice, more softly, as though from a lower depth.

“Let it be quite indifferent to you whether your body is at Suertebella or in your own house. Mortify your self-love to a conviction that the temporal triumphs of the wicked cannot affect you. Divest yourself of every feeling of aversion for this house, and remember that the chapel here is dedicated to St. Luis Gonzaga, whose very image and portrait our beloved Luis was.”

This reminiscence seemed to rouse MarÍa.

“Yes—I am reconciled to the place. The mere sound of your name, my most blessed brother, fills me with joy. May your glorified spirit come to succour mine.”

“Amen, amen!” MarÍa kissed the crucifix.

“I wish all I possess—if I possess anything—to be given to the poor. You and my husband will agree about that. I wish to be buried by my brother’s side, and let Masses be said over my body at the altar of the saint I most venerate: St. Luis Gonzaga.”

“Yes, my beloved daughter. It cannot matter to so noble a soul that the altar is at Suertebella.”

“Nothing matters, I forgive with all my heart.—I am reconciled to my Saviour and can hope!”

Paoletti with outstretched hands and half-closed eyes solemnly, slowly pronounced absolution.

“Now that you are reconciled to God,” he said with some emotion, “you can receive the Holy Sacrament.”