“I forgive you the word,” said Paoletti looking down. “Now Señor—Yes or No.”
“Do you intend to kill her?”
“I!” and then, with a sigh, he added: “We will ask her who it is that has killed her?”
Leon’s heart sank within him; after a moment’s reflection he stamped his foot. A stamp sometimes strikes out an idea as a spark may flash from an iron shoe. Leon had an idea.
“Let us go, at any rate,” he said. “I will leave so delicate a matter to your own conscience.”
“And to prove worthy of your confidence,” said the priest, unable to conceal his satisfaction, “I may promise you to reconcile truth and prudence as far as lies in my power, and to do my utmost not to agitate the last hours—if the Lord so wills it—of my precious daughter in the Church. I am perfectly certain that my presence will be the greatest comfort to her.”
“Come then.”
“I am at your service in an instant,” said Paoletti, hastening as much as he could with his heavy step to fetch his hat and cloak. But pausing in the door-way he observed: “it is very early; you, perhaps have not had breakfast. Will you have some chocolate?”
“No thank you,” said Leon bowing. “No indeed.”
And an hour later they got out of the carriage at the door of Suertebella.