“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.”