"Why have you tried to murder me?"
"Because ... because you're in the pay of that accursed Viscount. Murder you? Yes, God helping me, I'll do it this minute!"
"God is not helping you, and you won't do it this minute," said Antonio calmly. "Now that I've got back my wind you haven't a ghost of a chance. You lost two fingers fighting, like a brave man, at Oporto. Understand. If there's no other way, I shall have to twist either your right wrist or your left ankle to keep you quiet. So—"
His mouth was stopped by José's lightning onslaught. Once more they rocked to and fro in a terrible embrace. But Antonio had spoken the truth. His wind had come back, and there was no chance for José. Within forty seconds the monk had his man fairly down. He pinned him, face upwards, on the grass, kneeling upon his thighs and gripping his shoulders with hands like steel. And all the time the streaming rain came pouring, pouring, pouring down.
"José," began Antonio, in a voice of infinite pity and kindness, "my poor friend—"
A horrible imprecation broke from the writhing peasant. It was the more frightful to hear because it so evidently came from lips which rarely cursed or swore.
"José," the monk commanded, altering his tone, "in the name of Jesus Christ I charge you to listen. I am your friend. I am not in the pay of the Viscount of Ponte Quebrada. I was in the abbey to-night simply to pray and to worship God."
But José was staring at him with wide eyes. The hatred had died out of his face, and he struggled hard to seize some elusive memory. Suddenly he cried:
"Tell me. That night. There were young monks, two monks, at the gate. One coughed and was like death. The other ..."
He paused and looked at Antonio with eyes that yearned. The monk started. If he answered, his secret would be out. Yet how could he be silent? An inward voice bade him answer freely.