A half hour later, one of the rowers claimed to have seen traces of blood near the shore, but his comrades shook their heads in doubt. LIV. FATHER DAMASO EXPLAINS HIMSELF. In vain the precious wedding presents heaped up; not the brilliants in their velvet cases, not embroideries of pina nor pieces of silk, drew the eyes of Maria Clara. She saw nothing but the journal in which was told the death of Ibarra, drowned in the lake. Suddenly she felt two hands over her eyes, clasping her head, while a merry voice said to her: "Who is it? Who is it?" Maria sprang up in fright. "Little goose! Did I scare you, eh? You weren't expecting me, eh? Why, I've come from the province to be at your marriage----" And with a satisfied smile, Father Damaso gave her his hand to kiss. She took it, trembling, and carried it respectfully to her lips. "What is it, Maria?" demanded the Franciscan, troubled, and losing his gay smile. "Your hand is cold, you are pale--are you ill, little girl?" And he drew her tenderly to him, took both her hands and questioned her with his eyes. "Won't you confide in your godfather?" he asked in a tone of reproach. "Come, sit down here and tell me your griefs, as you used to do when you were little, and wanted some tapers to make wax dolls. You know I've always loved you--never scolded you----" and his voice became very tender. Maria began to cry. "Why do you cry, my child? Have you quarrelled with Linares?" Maria put her hands over her eyes. "No; it's not about him--now!" Father Damaso looked startled. "And you won't tell me your secrets? Have I not always tried to satisfy your slightest wish?" Maria raised to him her eyes full of tears, looked at him a moment, then sobbed afresh. "My child!" Maria came slowly to him, fell on her knees at his feet, and raising her face wet with tears, asked in a voice scarcely audible: "Do you still love me?" "Child!" "Then--protect my father and make him break off my marriage." And she told him of her last interview with Ibarra, omitting everything about the secret of her birth. Father Damaso could scarcely believe what he heard. She was talking calmly now, without tears. "So long as he lived," she went on, "I could struggle, I could hope, I had confidence; I wished to live to hear about him; but now--that they have killed him, I have no longer any reason to live and suffer." "And--Linares----" "If he had lived, I might have married--for my father's sake; but now that he is dead, I want the convent--or the grave." "You loved him so?" stammered Father Damaso. Maria did not reply. The father bent his head on his breast.