The monk knew that an answer was not expected; so he sat silent. But later on, when some calmness had returned to her, she put the question again.
"Why must we be so unhappy? If God can do everything, why has he made a world that goes so badly? Why has he made the easy things sins and only the hard things virtues? Why has he made his creatures so inclined to anger him or forget him? It seems mad. It seems almost diabolical. I've never met a wicked man or a foolish woman who could be foolish enough or wicked enough to make a world like this if they had the power. Why is God worse than we are?"
"You do not mean what you say," he answered, soothing her. "You know you are not putting it fairly. You—"
"I know, I know," she interrupted. "I am shallow, I am unjust, I suppose I'm almost blasphemous. Forgive me if I've hurt you. Only, your God is so terrible. I believe in Him; but I'm frightened. He is nothing but grandeur and majesty. He will have no rebellion, He insists on everybody's homage all the time."
"He is Love, everlasting Love," said Antonio warmly, "and if any words of mine have made you doubt it, may He forgive me. I see the world's unbelief, first and foremost, as Love rejected; and if I am a monk it is in the hope that my whole life's prayers may perchance be one poor drop of balm poured into Love's wounds. But these matters are too weighty to be talked of like this. The origin of evil, the mystery of free-will—you have raised the problems that none can solve."
"Let us leave them alone," she pleaded. "I hate them. Deep down in my heart, I do not disbelieve. Before you had half finished your story, my pride was broken. Yes, when you pictured the chapel on the night you returned, and the moonlight lingering on the crown of Jesus, I knelt with you in spirit before that altar and words came back to my lips that I hadn't said since I was a child."
In exceeding thankfulness he was about to speak; but she hurried on.
"Antonio," she said, "if you send me away, perhaps you will think of me as a temptress—a woman raised up by the devil to blandish you aside from your holy purpose, and to lure you into trampling upon your vows. Promise you will never think of me like that. Kneeling here on my knees, I swear before God that I am not ... that."
She paused. Then, with her head bent so that he could not see her face, and in low tones, she added slowly:
"I have only wanted to be near you—to be with you, to spend all the rest of my life listening to you, helping you. Heaven knows there has never been for a moment anything ... anything base in my love. I know what most people mean by love and I loathe it. Tell me you don't misunderstand. Say you believe me. Promise you'll never think of me like that."