The padre’s eyes grew bigger.
“She is a treasure of great price...” he said.
“She was a treasure of great price,” said Leon, tying a knot in his napkin and drawing it very tight, “but with coarse passions and a nature at once visionary and sensual.”
“A purifying hand was extended to cleanse away the dross...”
“A hand of ice—that snatched out the diamonds and left false stones instead.”
“Why did the owner neglect his jewel?”
“When the thieves do not break in by the door, but mine underground, the owner does not discover them till they have stolen his gem.—They robbed her of her love, generosity and trust, and left me nothing but cold duty and moral proprieties. She was like a crystal fountain—they dried up the spring, the water became stagnant, and when I hoped to drink nothing remained but filthy sediment. By constantly flowing, the water, though somewhat bitter, would have grown sweet. But they stopped the current and a foul swamp was the result.”
“Nay, the water is sweet and of wondrous power,” said Paoletti with a seraphic look. “The mystic water, freely bestowed; the very essence of the soul: Divine Love. Where so precious a fount is found on earth it is only just that God should absorb it, and break the cup.”
“Nay, the cup is just what has been left for me.”