"Senhor da Rocha," said Isabel, dryly and rather coldly, "we are at cross purposes. You will be shocked; but I can't help it. I don't believe in monks and monasteries, nuns and nunneries. The monks' heaven is my hell. Their God is my Devil. Forgive me if I hurt you; but it seems to me that there can be only two kinds of monks. Those who are not fanatics are hypocrites; and those who are not hypocrites are fanatics. How can any really sane and honest man worship the Creator by despising His creation?" Antonio was about to reply, when she added hastily: "No. Forgive me. I have spoken too plainly. Let me return to the point. I mean this: on behalf of any ordinary man or woman who loves this place for old sakes' sake I would work my hardest to spare it. But not for dead monks." "Then work your hardest for me," pleaded Antonio eagerly. "Don't you regard me as an ordinary man, who loves the place for old sakes' sake?" "No, I don't," she said, recovering her ease. "You are not an ordinary man. You will grieve over the azulejos for a few days; then, amidst your many interests, you will forget them. Or, better still, you will come to be glad that they have been taken away from a dark, shut-up hill-side sepulcher and placed where millions of people can see them and admire them." "You mean," he said scornfully, "that if I were a poor man; if I had a beautiful wife; if she and I had grown up together almost from the cradle; if her life were altogether bound up with mine--you mean that if someone should take her away by force and show her every night from the stage of a theater, to a thousand people ... you mean, I ought to be grateful and glad!" His own illustration startled him. It had leaped into his mind and out from his lips without his consent. It startled Isabel still more; for the tones in which it was uttered were sharper than knives. Once more she lost the mastery over her eyes. "We must be going," she said curtly, as soon as she could frame a sentence. They descended through the wood without further speech until the monastery gleamed between the trees. Then Isabel halted and said: "You ought to believe that I am a better judge than you of my father's character. I repeat that I shall do more harm than good by asking him to spare these tiles. To ask him such a thing will be a more difficult and unpleasant task than you imagine. But, if nothing else will satisfy you, I will try." "I thank you with all my soul," answered the monk. "But I will exact no promises. As you say, you are the best judge." "Let me speak one more word--for your comfort," she added. "This morning my father returned from the chapel dejected. He is no longer confident that he can strip the azulejos from the wall. Remember, not a single tile must be broken or the buyer will not have them. My father may fail." "God grant he may," said Antonio fervently. "You must indulge me," she answered, "if I find it a trifle hard to say Amen." VI