"That fear is terrible enough, but is not what troubles me most."
"What is it that troubles you?"
Christian sobbed aloud: "You do not yet know all. The monk is Brother St. Ernest-Martyr."
"He is a true disciple of Christ! Often did Mary La Catelle tell me he inclined towards the Reformation."
"Listen, Monsieur Estienne. The monk was hardly in the house, where he arrived worn to a skeleton by a slow fever, when he lost consciousness. I gave him all the care I could. I divested him of his frock, laid him in my bed, and watched over him. A few leaves of paper dropped out of his clothes. I picked them up. As I ran my eyes over them I read the name of my daughter. I admit that I yielded to an impulse of curiosity, blameworthy, perhaps, but irresistible. I opened the leaves. What a discovery!"
"The leaves of paper—"
"Contained fragments of a sort of diary, to which the thoughts of the young monk were confided. From them I learned that he was chosen for the confessor and instructor of my daughter at the convent of the Augustinian sisters—and he became enamored of her. He loves Hena to distraction!"
"Does he know you to be aware of his secret?"
"Yes. When he recovered consciousness he saw the fragments of his journal in my hands. He uttered a cry of fear. 'Be calm,' I said to him; 'it is the soul of an honest man that stands reflected in these revelations. I can only pity you.'"
"Is your daughter here in the house with him?"