“But why? My God! is it anything that concerns me?”
Sebastião, when they had entered, closed the door, leaving Mendez in the parlor. He placed the light upon the table, on which were remnants of food on a plate, and a little wine in a glass; he took a few turns up and down the room, nervously snapping his fingers, and then stopping abruptly before Juliana,—
“Give me the letters that you stole from your mistress,” he said.
Juliana made a movement as if to open the window and call for help. Sebastião caught her by the arm, and forcing her into a chair, said,—
“You need not scream out of the window, because there is a policeman in the house. Give me the letters; if not—”
Juliana mentally caught a glimpse of a dark cell in Limoeiro, of the broth served out to prisoners.
“But what have I done?” she stammered.
“You have stolen those letters. Give them to me quickly!”
Juliana, seated on the edge of the chair, clasped her hands together with a gesture of desperation, and muttered between her teeth,—
“The hypocrite! the hypocrite!”