The venerable bishop spoke with extraordinary deliberation, making long pauses at the end of his sentences, which lent great dignity to his discourse. His voice was sweet and clear, and rang through the silent nave of the church like sweet music. He went on to trace with terrible accuracy the details of the religious life, spreading out before the young woman's eyes all the apparatus of mortification which it involved; the pleasures of the world entirely forgotten, the senses crucified, earthly affections, even the purest, crushed; and this, not for a day, not for a month, not for a year only, but for all days, all months, all years, until the hour of death, always eagerly seeking for pain as others seek for pleasure. But after he had painted the gloomy picture of the mortification, he went on to express eloquently the pure, lively pleasures to be found in it. "To trust one's self to the arms of God, as a child goes to its mother, that he may do with us as he pleases. To find God in the depths of bitterness and grief, to unite one's self to Him.... To possess Him ... and to be the beloved child in whom His infinite grandeur can take delight.... To live eternally united to Him.... To be His bride!... Is not that a sufficient recompense for the petty sorrows that we may experience in a life so brief?"
Began the profession of faith. The bishop asked, reading his questions from a book, if she were ready to leave the life of the world and intercourse with its creatures, to consecrate herself exclusively to the service of God. Maria replied that she had heard the voice of the Lord and hastened at the call. The prelate asked once more if she had meditated well on her resolution, if she had made it from some mundane consideration, wounded by some ephemeral disillusion. Maria replied that she came of her own free will to give herself up to the Beloved of her soul and rest in Him; all the armies of the earth could not make her retrace her steps, for the Lord had made her steadfast and immovable as Mount Zion.
Over the heads of the faithful appeared a great silver waiter, the same which a few hours before was in one of the convent cells, and on it the habit of the novice of San Bernardo. The prelate blessed it.
Then were heard the sharp, nasal tones of the organ, and the procession took up the line of march: Maria in front, and at her side her godmother and Marta; next came the bishop and behind him the clergy. Some of the people followed and some stayed in the church. Near the door was the entrance to the convent, through which they passed, penetrating into a large, gloomy cloister, illuminated at intervals by a bright sunbeam coming through the swell of the arches. At the end of one of the galleries was an open door, and guarding it, silent, motionless, were seen the white figures of two nuns with wax tapers in their hands. The bride-elect again knelt, and instantly rising she convulsively pressed her sister to her heart. It was the last embrace. When she wished to extricate herself, Martita's arms were so tightly clasped about her neck that it required the intervention of several ladies to accomplish it. She also kissed all her girl friends, who wept bitterly, while she, giving an example of sublime serenity, joyous and smiling, entered the house of the Lord escorted by the two nuns.
The doors closed. Though it was the month of August, Marta and her friends felt a sudden chill in the cloister, and hastened to take refuge in the church, where Don Serapio, accompanied by the organ, was annihilating Stradella's beautiful prayer.
All waited some time with impatient curiosity. No one paid any attention to the cracked voice of the proprietor of the canning factory; the eyes of the congregation were fixed, glued to the choir of the Bernardas, gazing through the bars at the little door in the rear.
At last she appeared. She came, escorted still by the two nuns. The garb of novice made her look a little older. Yet she was beautiful; very beautiful; for she really was beautiful, that saintly and extraordinary creature. The people devoured her with their eyes, and repeated in a whisper, "She comes smiling, she comes smiling."
Ah, yes, the new bride of Jesus Christ was smiling, in her expectation of the sweet reward for her sacrifice. But the venerable man who, at that same instant, was walking alone through one of the state departments of the Elorza mansion ... he did not smile! And the young man who, at the same time, was sitting with folded arms, and head sunken for his breast, face to face with a woman's portrait, was he perhaps smiling?... No, no! neither did he smile.
The prelate came to the grating, and said to the novice,—
"Thou shalt not call thyself Maria Magdalena, but, Maria Juana de Jesús."