"And you?" she demanded.
"I? No doubt we should meet sometimes."
"No doubt, no doubt," she echoed with scorching scorn. "We should meet sometimes, and talk about the weather. You nearly make me hate you. Have you blood in your veins or water? Have you a heart in your breast or a cold stone? I tell you this is a crime, it is a blasphemy. You call it religion: I call it a black sin against God."
Her terrible earnestness challenged Antonio to answer once and for all.
"Isabel," he said sternly. "Crime and blasphemy are hard words. You speak of God. I will speak of God too. If there is one thing I am sure of, it is that God has called me to live this life which I am living, and to do this work which I am doing. I am more sure of it than I am of these rocks under our feet. As for your father, God knows that I do not speak heartlessly; but your father's life is in God's hands, not mine. You can rid yourself of Mrs. Baxter and compel him to rest in England without forcing me to break my vows."
"Your vows, your precious vows, always your vows!" she cried, in anger and great contempt.
"Yes," he retorted instantly, "my vows, always my vows. They are precious to me indeed, and I will beg you not to speak of them lightly."
She faced him with increasing anger. But, before she could speak, Antonio suddenly repented himself of his sharpness.
"Isabel," he said, in quieter tones. "Think. You despise me for keeping my vows. But suppose I had vowed my vows to you. And suppose I should break them, for some other woman. What then?"
"I would kill her. And you too."