“Hurt you!” he panted, setting down the glass and mopping 246 his hot brow, as he settled back into the chair again. “Caramba! who hurts when he loves?”
“You––do––not––love––me, Padre!” she gasped under his tight clutch. “You have––only a wrong thought––of me––of love––of everything!”
“Bien––but you love me, pretty creature, is it not so?” he mocked, holding up her head and kissing her full on the mouth.
“I––I love the real ‘you’––for that is God’s image,” she murmured, struggling to hold her face away from his fetid breath. “But––I do not––love the way that image is––is translated––in your human mind!”
“Caramba!” he threw himself back and gave noisy vent to his risibility. “Chiquita mía! What grand language! Where did you learn it?”
For the moment the girl seemed to forget that she was in the fell clutches of a demon incarnate. Her thought strayed back to little Simití, to Cucumbra, to Cantar-las-horas, to––ah, was he searching for her now? And would he come?––
“It was Padre Josè; he taught me,” she whispered sadly.
“Padre Josè! Maldito! The curse of God blast him, the monkey-faced mozo! Caramba! but he will teach you no more! You have a new master now to give you a few needed lessons, señorita mía, and––”
“Padre Diego!” her tense voice checked further expression of his low thought. “You have no power to curse anything! You have no power to harm me, or to teach me anything! God is here! He will protect me! He keeps all them that love Him!” She gasped again as his clutch tightened about her.
“Doubtless, my lily. Caramba! your skin is like the velvet!” He roughly drew the girl up on his knees. “To be sure He will protect you, my mariposa. And He is using me as the channel, you see––just as you said a few moments ago, eh?” His rude laugh again echoed through the room.