"Because it would mean the sacrifice of my whole existence. I am human.
I hesitate, as long as there is any other hope."
"I do not understand. As for sacrificing your existence—that must be an exaggeration."
"Not at all. If it were only my own, I should not have hesitated, perhaps. I do not know. But what I should do would involve a great and direct injury to many others—to hundreds of other people."
Taquisara looked at him harder than ever, understanding him less and less.
"You seem to have a secret," he said at last, thoughtfully.
"Yes," answered the priest, resting his elbow on the old table and shading his eyes with his hand, though there was no strong light to dazzle him. "Yes—yes," he repeated. "I have a secret, a great secret. I cannot tell it to you—not even to you, though you are one of the most discreet men I ever met. You must forgive me, but I cannot."
"I do not wish to know it," replied Taquisara. "Especially not, if it concerns many people."
A short silence followed, during which neither moved, nor looked at the other.
"Don Teodoro," asked the Sicilian, at last, in a low voice, "please tell me your view of the case, as a priest. Am I, at the present moment, in consequence of what happened a fortnight ago, actually married to Donna Veronica, or not?"
The priest hesitated, looked down, took off his spectacles, and put them on again, before he answered the question.