“With her....” And she pointed in the direction of Suertebella.
“María” said Leon gravely and turning pale, “I do not like to see you a propagator of base slander. I should find it very difficult to cease to respect you; but if you wish that I should never fail in the consideration which I owe to you, never repeat that question. Be silent ... go ... leave me. You do not want my love since your religion is all in all to you; go, serve your altars, and leave me alone with my conscience.”
María drew herself up, clenching her arms against her breast like a wild beast preparing to spring; her eyes for a moment seemed dimmed, but the next instant they flashed fire.
“Coward, villain!” she exclaimed. “Do you dare to tear yourself away from me, your lawful wife, the wife to whom you belong and whom you shall never escape!... No, never—since God has pronounced us one? Who are you, a miserable wretch, to desecrate a sacrament and disobey the Father of us all?”
“Desecrate a sacrament? I ... I?” Leon stood up and went close to his wife. “It is not I,” he said, “who desecrate the sacrament.”
“Who then?”
“You,” he said, pointing with his finger so close to her face that it was as if he meant to put out her eyes.
“I?”
“You.—You cast it to the winds. When I was trying to save our home and peace you said to me: ‘My God requires me to say that I do not love you.’”
For a second María was abashed and silent; her wrath had abated a little.