"One moment," he pleaded in low, insistent tones. "Here and now let me say, once for all, that neither next Sunday nor any other day can I do myself this great honor. Senhor Jorge, I shall never forget the extreme compliment you have paid me. Senhor, I trust you to keep my secret. I cannot ask for Margarida because ... already ... I am..."
"You are married already," hissed the lavrador, blazing into terrible indignation.
"No. No, no, a thousand times. But ... I am plighted to another Bride."
He turned away abruptly and walked to the tiny window. The scudding moon had escaped from the black rain-clouds, and Antonio thought he could discern the white belfry of the abbey chapel rising above the distant pine-woods.
"Another bride?" echoed Senhor Jorge, more wrathful than ever. "Who? Where? When? It's that chalk-faced chit of a Rosalina Saldanha!"
"No," Antonio answered, wheeling round. "Neither Rosalina Saldanha nor any other mortal woman you've ever seen or heard of."
"Then where is she? Why does she leave you year after year alone? Tut! A fine bride. Let her take you or leave you. You're a fool to stand it."
"We will not quarrel," said the monk. "If you knew all, you would not malign Her. It may be years, many years more, that I must live alone. But my faith is plighted, and there's an end."
This time it was the older man who walked to the window. After a long time he asked, without looking round:
"Why did not your Worship think of this before? Why did he come here to-night, leading on my poor Marge, and setting all the tongues a-wagging?"