“You are ill, Inez, and want some medicine; tell me where and how you suffer?”

“No, no.  I want nothing from you or yours:  I come to help, not to ask.  Mary, why is it you have made me love you so, when I hate yonder dark-eyed girl?  But I am losing time.  I come to warn you of danger, and even now I am watched; but no matter, listen to what I have to say.  The Padre hates you, even as—­as I hate him, and has sworn your ruin.  I tell you now you must fly from San Antonio, and fly quickly, for danger is at hand.  My countrymen are many here, and he is stronger than all.  You and I have thwarted him, and the walls of a far off convent are our destination—­you, and your cousin, and myself.  I am at heart no Catholic; I have seen the devil, if there be one, in my confessor.  I have heard him lie, and seen him take the widow’s and the orphan’s portion.  Mary, if there was a God, would he suffer such as my Padre to minister in his holy place, and touch the consecrated vessels?  No, no; there is none, or he would be cut off from the face of the earth.”

“Inez!  Inez! stop and hear me.”

“No, no! time waits for none, and I have little more to say, Mary, you are deceived; your cousin is not what you think.  She is a Catholic; for mine own eyes have seen her in the confessional, and mine own ears have listened to her aves and paters.”

Mary uttered a deep groan, and clasped Inez’s arm, murmuring—­“You are—­you must be delirious or mad:  Florry deceive me! impossible!”

“Ah! poor deluded Mary:  do you trust any on earth?  Yet I would trust you, with your white face and soft blue eyes; and there is one other I would trust—­but no more.  You will not believe that Florence has turned from the faith of her fathers?  Go to her as she sleeps yonder, and feel with your own hand the crucifix around her neck.  Ha! you hold tight to my arm:  I tell you your Cousin Florence is as black-hearted as the Padre, for he told me she had promised her dying father to follow his advice in all things, yet she tells you not of this:  and again, has she not won the love of a good, a noble man, and does she not scorn his love; else why is his cheek pale, and his proud step slow?  Marinita, I have read you long ago.  You love your Doctor, but he loves that Florence, whose heart is black and cold as this night You are moaning in your agony; but all must suffer.  I have suffered more than you; I shall always suffer.  My stream of bitterness is inexhaustible; daily I am forced to quaff the black, burning waters.  Ha!  I know my lot—­I swallow and murmur not.  Mary, I am sorry to make you drink so much that is bitter to-night; but you must, for your own good; better a friend should hold the cup and let you taste, than have it rudely forced upon you.”

“Why have you told me this, Inez?  I never did you harm, or gave you pain.”