"Here!—with the door thrown open to any talebearer OR PERHAPS TO MY WIFE HERSELF? Never! Hear me, Father," he went on hurriedly: "these men have come from San Francisco—have been to Mazatlan. Can you believe that it is possible that they have never heard of this woman's search for me? No! The quest of hate is as strong as the quest of love, and more merciless to the hunted."
"But if that were so, foolish boy, she would have accompanied them."
"You are wrong! It would have been enough for her to have sent my exposure by them—to have driven me from this refuge."
"This is but futile fancy, Diego," said Father Esteban, with a simulated assurance he was far from feeling. "Nothing has yet been said—nothing may be said. Wait, my child."
"Wait!" he echoed bitterly. "Ay, wait until the poor girl shall hear—perhaps from her brother's lips—the story of my marriage as bandied about by others; wait for her to know that the man who would have made her love him was another's, and unworthy of her respect? No! it is I who must leave this place, and at once."
"YOU?" echoed the Padre. "How?"
"By the same means you would have used for her departure. I must take her place in that ship you are expecting. You will give ME letters to your friends. Perhaps, when this is over, I may return—if I still live."
Padre Esteban became thoughtful.
"You will not refuse me?" said the young man, taking the Padre's hand. "It is for the best, believe me. I will remain secret here until then. You will invent some excuse—illness, or what you like—to keep them from penetrating here. Above all, to spare me from the misery of ever reading my secret in her face."
Father Esteban remained still absorbed in thought.