“Yes, there is a Jesuit here, an envoy from the Pope.”
Ambrosia sat up in bed, her eyes distended in horror.
“Then it is true,” she said. “It was not a dream. It was good in you to care for me and not desert me in my pollution, but I know now it is true, and you need not deny it.”
“But,”—began Mrs. Rizal.
“I will not talk about it,” interrupted the girl, “and God will reward you who are so different from other women in that you did not turn away from the victim as from a thing polluted. No, do not interrupt. I am strong now. There is only one thing I may do with the remnant of life left to me. I have no longer father or mother, God or redeemer. I have no place in society on earth. I have no lover, no chance for home or respectability. But I have hope and a purpose. It has just come to me. Do not deny me in the plan I have.”
“I will listen to your plan, but you are weak and not yet able to do anything.”
The girl leaped out of the bed, let down her hair and hunted a pair of shears. “Cut off my hair, closely,” she said.
“I fear you are not yet over the fever,” remonstrated Mrs. Rizal.
“I have had no fever,” said the girl, “and I am well. I shall be strong for vengeance and justice. Nay, do not fear, good Mother Rizal, I am sane.”
“You have not told me your plan.”