The last syllable had hardly sped clear of his lips when the monk was struck dumb by the truth. It flashed from Isabel's radiant eyes like a flaming sword into his heart. A moment later she had turned away her face; but she could not hide the magic roses, the great crimson roses, which sprang to full bloom upon her cheeks. He knew her secret; and she knew that it was known. To cover her trouble and confusion, she moved to find her little gloves and the embroidered bag. Antonio stooped down before her and was the first to pick them up; but she snatched them almost roughly out of his hand. "We've stayed too long," she said. "I must go." In a twinkling she had crossed the stepping-stones and was in full flight for home. No wood-nymph pursued by a god of old ever flew with more gazelle-like grace; and the ravine seemed shorn of nearly all its beauty when the trees hid her from Antonio's eyes. IV On Monday morning, although he had business in Navares, Antonio was early at the pool. Throughout a sleepless night his moods had wavered from bitter self-reproach to laborious self-justification. But, amidst all the waverings, one decision stood firm. He must see Isabel at once. He must not run away. He must not tolerate, either on his part or on hers, any spurious delicacy, any eluding of a thorough understanding. Try as he would Antonio could not wholly close his eyes to the grim humor of the situation. Within the narrow space of three weeks two young and handsome heiresses had thrown themselves at his, a monk of Saint Benedict's, head. But, while this oddity brought a bitter smile to his lips, he was not able to take pleasure or pride in events which were bringing pain and humiliation to others. The feeling uppermost in his heart was one of shame and sorrow for his indiscretion and weakness in meeting Isabel so secretly and so often. About half-past ten she came, looking pale and rather frail. But she had nerved herself for the ordeal before her, and she was calm and self-controlled. "I knew you would come," she said quietly. "Yet I feared you wouldn't. Early this morning I nearly sent Jackson down to the farm with a note; but I didn't want people to talk." "I came nearly an hour ago," the monk replied. His tones were so grave and his manner so solemn that a flush of resentment rose to her cheek. "Don't make things worse than they are," she cried angrily. "Aren't they difficult enough already? You won't help matters by looking and speaking as if you've come to a funeral." Antonio could not retort that he was indeed standing by a graveside and that he had come to drop a farewell tear upon their dead happiness. He waited for her next words.