Raphael started. His netted fingers let go his knee, which in its turn slowly relaxed and allowed the foot to sink to the ground, as through a dense medium.
"I do not understand you, my father," he said, breathing deeply, his eyes fixed on the priest's mild and smiling face.
"If your cousin be a Protestant, a heretic," continued the Jesuit, "I do not see that there is any difficulty——"
"You mean——?" said Raphael, his face now of a livid paleness.
The priest beckoned him a little nearer, placed his lips, still smiling, close to the young man's ear, and whispered two words.
"No—no—no!" gasped Raphael, starting back, "not that—anything but that! I cannot—I will not—anything but that!"
"Then there is, I fear greatly, no other way!"
"None?"
"Your soul is the Church's—your body the King's," said the Jesuit; "take care that you offend not both. For such there is no forgiveness, even in the grave. Besides, you could never get a dispensation to marry a heretic. Trust me, my way is the best."
"She would return to the Faith," said Raphael, who, though a man of no half measures in his own plottings, yet stood aghast and horrified at what the smiling priest proposed to him.