“That you may believe that I have always loved you.”
Crisostomo smiled bitterly.
“Ah! You doubt me, you doubt the friend of your infancy, who has never hidden a single thought from you,” exclaimed she in grief. “I understand you. When you know my history, the history which they revealed to me during my illness, you will pity me and you will no longer answer my grief with that bitter smile. Why did you not let me die in the hands of my ignorant doctor? You and I would have been happier then.”
Maria Clara rested a moment and then continued:
“You have doubted me; you have wished my mother to pardon me. During one of those nights of suffering, a man revealed to me the name of my true father, and forbade me to love you ... unless my true father should pardon you for the offense you committed against him.”
Ibarra recoiled and looked in terror at the maiden.
“Yes,” she continued. “This man told me that he could not permit our marriage, since his conscience would not allow it, and he would find himself compelled to publish the truth at the risk of causing a great scandal, because my father is ...”
And she whispered a name in the young man’s ear in a scarcely audible voice.
“What was I to do? Ought I to sacrifice to my love the memory of my mother, the honor of the man who innocently supposes himself my father, and the good name of my real father? Could I do that without you despising me for it?”
“But the proof? Have you proof? You need proof!” exclaimed Crisostomo, deeply agitated.