In vain the costly wedding gifts were heaped upon the table. Neither the diamonds in their blue velvet caskets, nor the embroidered piÑa, nor the pieces of silk had any attractions for Maria Clara. The maiden looked at the paper which gave the account of Ibarra’s death, drowned in the lake, but she neither saw nor read it.

Of a sudden, she felt two hands over her eyes. They held her fast while a joyous voice, Father DÁmaso’s, said to her:

“Who am I? Who am I?”

Maria Clara jumped from her seat and looked at him with terror in her eyes.

“You little goose, were you frightened, eh? You were not expecting me? Well, I have come from the provinces to attend your wedding.”

And coming up to her again with a smile of satisfaction, he stretched out his hand to her. Maria Clara approached timidly and, raising it to her lips, kissed it.

“What is the matter with you, Maria?” asked the Franciscan, losing his gay smile, and becoming very uneasy. “Your hand is cold, you are pale.... Are you ill, my little girl?”

And Father DÁmaso drew her up to him with a fondness of which no one would have thought him capable. He grasped both the maiden’s hands and gave her a questioning look.

“Haven’t you any confidence in your godfather?” he asked in a reproachful tone. “Come, sit down here and tell me your little troubles, just as you used to do when you were a child, when you wanted wax-candles to make wax figures. You surely know that I have always loved you.... I have never scolded you....”

Father DÁmaso’s voice ceased to be brusque; its modulations were even caressing. Maria Clara began to weep.

“Are you weeping, my child? Why are you weeping? Have you quarrelled with Linares?”

Maria Clara covered her eyes with her hands.

“No! It is not he now!” cried the maiden.

Father DÁmaso looked at her full of surprise.

“Do you not want to entrust your secrets to me? Have I not always managed to satisfy your smallest caprices?”

The young woman raised her eyes full of tears toward him. She looked at him for some time, and then began to weep bitterly.

“Do not cry so, my child, for your tears pain me! Tell me your troubles. You will see how your godfather loves you.”

Maria Clara approached him slowly and fell on her knees at his feet. Then raising her face, bathed in tears, she said to him in a low voice, scarcely audible:

“Do you still love me?”

“Child!”

“Then ... protect my father, and break off the marriage!”

Then she related her last interview with Ibarra, omitting the reference to her birth.

Father DÁmaso could scarcely believe what he heard.

“While he lived,” continued the maiden, “I intended to fight, to wait, to trust. I wanted to live to hear him spoken of ... but now that they have killed him, now there is no reason for my living and suffering.”

She said this slowly, in a low voice, calmly and without a tear.

“But, you goose; isn’t Linares a thousand times better than....?”

“When he was living, I could have married ... I was thinking of fleeing afterward ... my father wanted nothing more than the relative. Now that he is dead, no other man will call me his wife.... While he lived, I could have debased myself and still had the consolation of knowing that he existed and perhaps was thinking of me. Now that he is dead ... the convent or the tomb.”

Her voice had a firmness in its accent which took away Father DÁmaso’s joy and set him to thinking.

“Did you love him so much as that?” he asked, stammering.

Maria Clara did not reply. Father DÁmaso bowed his head upon his breast and remained silent.

“My child!” he exclaimed, his voice breaking. “Forgive me for making you unhappy without knowing it. I was thinking of your future; I wanted you to be happy. How could I permit you to marry a native; how could I see you an unhappy wife and a miserable mother? I could not get your love out of your head, and I opposed it with all my strength. All that I have done has been for you, for you alone. If you had become his wife, you would have wept afterward on account of the condition of your husband, exposed to all kinds of vengeance, without any means of defense. As a mother, you would have wept over the fortune of your sons; if you educated them, you would prepare a sad future for them, you would have made them enemies of the Church and would have seen them hanged or exiled; if you left them ignorant, you would have seen them oppressed and degraded. I could not consent to it! This is why I sought as a husband for you one who might make you the happy mother of sons born not to obey but to command, not to suffer but to punish. I knew that your friend was good from infancy. I liked him as I had liked his father, but I hated them both when I saw that they were going to make you unhappy, because I love you, I idolize you, I love you as my daughter. I have nothing dearer than you. I have seen you grow. No hour passes but I think of you; I dream of you; you are my only joy.”

And Father DÁmaso began to weep like a child.

“Well, then, if you love me do not make me eternally unhappy. He no longer lives; I want to be a nun.”

The old man rested his head on his hand.

“To be a nun, to be a nun!” he repeated. “You do not know, my child, the life, the misery, which is hidden behind the walls of the convent. You do not know it! I prefer a thousand times to see you unhappy in the world than to see you unhappy in the cloister. Here your complaints can be heard, there you will have only the walls. You are beautiful, very beautiful, and you were not born for it, you were not born to be the bride of Christ! Believe me, my child, time will blot it all out. Later you will forget, you will love your husband ... Linares.”

“Either the convent or ... death!” repeated Maria Clara.

“The convent, the convent or death!” exclaimed Father DÁmaso. “Maria, I am already old, I will not be able to watch you or your happiness much longer.... Choose another course, seek another love, another young man, whoever he may be, but not the convent.”

“The convent or death!”

“My God, my God!” cried the priest, covering his head with his hands. “Thou punisheth me. So be it! But watch over my child.”

And turning to the young woman: “You want to be a nun? You shall be one. I do not want you to die.”

Maria Clara took his two hands, clasped them in her own and kissed them as she knelt.

“Godfather, my godfather!” she repeated.

Immediately, Father DÁmaso went out, sad, with drooping head and sighing.

“God, O God! Thou existeth, for Thou punisheth. But avenge Thyself on me and do not harm the innocent. Save my child!”