“It was to have been feared,” he said, and sighed.
“There is but one remedy, lest worse follow and all be ruined. Don Sebastian must go.”
“Go?” Fear robbed her of breath. “Go where?”
“Away from Madrigal—anywhere—and at once; tomorrow at latest.” And then, seeing the look of horror in her face, “What else, what else?” he added, impatiently. “This meddlesome provincial may be stirring up trouble already.”
She fought down her emotion. “I... I shall see him before he goes?” she begged.
“I don’t know. It may not be wise. I must consider.” He flung away in deepest perturbation, leaving her with a sense that life was slipping from her.
That late September evening, as she sat stricken in her room, hoping against hope for at least another glimpse of him, Dona Maria de Grado brought word that Espinosa was even then in the convent in Frey Miguel’s cell. Fearful lest he should be smuggled thence without her seeing him, And careless of the impropriety of the hour—it was already eight o’clock and dusk was falling—she at once dispatched Roderos to the friar, bidding him bring Espinosa to her in the parlour.
The friar obeyed, and the lovers—they were no less by now—came face to face in anguish.
“My lord, my lord,” she cried, casting all prudence to the winds, “what is decided?”
“That I leave in the morning,” he answered.