Instead of flushing with anger, as I had expected, he looked grieved. It was apparent that my position was a bitter disappointment to him. For several minutes he sat gazing at the crucifix on the wall across, in sorrowful meditation, forgetful even of his wine.
"Padre," I at last said. "I love her with a love that dwells much upon my own happiness, but more upon hers. I now know she loves me. Do you not think such love God's will?"
He crossed himself. "God give me light! I am not among those who believe that the love of man and woman is of necessity an impure desire. God, not Satan, made Eve to be a companion unto Adam. Therefore true love is sacred in the eyes of God, and marriage a sacrament."
"In effect, if not in form, Your Reverence, that is the belief and practice of my people. With us a wife is the dear life companion who shares our triumphs and our defeats, our joys and sorrows, who brightens our pleasures, purifies and ennobles our impulses, and inspires us with the highest aspirations."
"Such, alas! is not the attitude of my people toward women," he sighed. "Yet to give a daughter of the Church to a heretic! Santisima Virgen! It is a knotty problem."
"To me, or to such a man as Medina," I argued—"which would be the greater sin?"
"Her uncle is set upon giving her, not to Medina, but to one as bad—one as bad!" he repeated. "My son—my son! if you could but become a Christian!"
"God gave me my reason, padre. If it is wrong to use my reason as I use it, I trust that He will forgive the error."
"You are a true, clean man, and you love her as no man in New Spain can love her."
"I do, padre."