“He confessed it?” she cried, seemingly aghast. The friar slowly nodded. “Don Rodrigo confessed?” she insisted, as will the incredulous.
Abruptly the friar nodded again; and as abruptly checked, recollecting himself.
“Don Rodrigo?” he echoed, and asked: “Who mentioned Don Rodrigo?”
But it was too late. His assenting nod had betrayed the truth, had confirmed her worst fear. She swayed a little; the room swam round her, she felt as she would swoon. Then blind indignation against that forsworn betrayer surged to revive her. If it was through her weakness and undutifulness that her father had been destroyed, through her strength should he be avenged, though in doing so she pulled down and destroyed herself.
“And he confessed to his own sin?” she was repeating slowly, ever on that musing, incredulous note. “He dared confess himself a Judaizer?”
“A Judaizer!” Sheer horror now overspread the friar’s grim countenance. “A Judaizer! Don Rodrigo? Oh, impossible!”
“But I thought you said he had confessed.”
“Why, yes, but... but not to that.” Her pale lips smiled, sadly contemptuous.
“I see. He set limits of prudence upon his confession. He left out his Judatting practices. He did not tell you, for instance, that this deletion was an act of revenge against me who refused to marry him, having discovered his unfaith, and fearing its consequences in this world and the next.”
Ojeda stared at her in sheer, incredulous amazement.