"My daughter, hast thou been of late with that Protestant girl, by name Mary Irving?"
"I have seen her twice since last confession."
"Where did you meet her?"
"Once at Señora Perraras, and once she came for me, to walk with her."
"Answer truly. Upon what subjects did you converse?"
Inez seemed striving to recall some portion of what had past. At last she said, "Indeed, Padre, I cannot remember much she said. It was mostly of birds, and trees, and flowers, and something, I believe, about this beautiful town, as she called it."
"Think again. Did she not speak lightly of the blessed church, and most holy faith? Did she not strive to turn you to her own cursed doctrines, and, above all, did she not speak of me, your Padre, with scorn?"
"No, my Father, most truly she did not." Again she raised her eyes to his face. Piercing was the glance he tent upon her. Yet hers fell not beneath it: calm and immovable she seemed.
He lifted his hand menacingly.
"I bid you now beware of her, and her friend, the trader's wife. They are infernal heretics, sent hither by the evil one to turn good Catholics from their duty. I say again, beware of them!" and he struck his hand heavily on the table beside him. "And now, my daughter, have you relieved your conscience of its burden? Remember, one sin withheld at confession will curse you on your death-bed, and send you, unshriven, to perdition!"