"It's happened to other women, no doubt. But the other women weren't so hungry and thirsty for a little happiness as I was. They didn't have mothers who died the day they were born. They didn't have fathers who forget their very existence for months and months at a time. They've had homes, they've had friends, they've had all the lesser love. But I ... I have had nothing, from anybody, anywhere, ever." She laughed a laugh like iron against iron. The monk could endure it no longer. He sprang to her side. For the first time, he touched her hand. She snatched it free as if he had burnt it, and looked at him fiercely. "Go away," she cried, "I hate you!" "No," he said. "I won't go away till you are less unhappy, and till you forgive me." His gentle compulsion mastered her. She allowed him to lead her back to the boulder. This time he sat down at her side. As he did so she bent her head. Tears came into her eyes. Suddenly she covered her face with her hands and wept without restraint. Antonio, sitting so near to her that he could have encircled her with his arm, suffered as bitterly as Isabel. The momentary temptation to trample on his vow no longer had the slightest power over him; but his whole heart yearned to end her grief, or, at the least, to comfort her. She was so like a sobbing, heartbroken child that it seemed inhuman to sit beside her without drawing her head to his shoulder or even stroking her hands. Yet he knew that it would be more inhuman still to rise up and move away. She overcame her sobs at last; and, turning upon him eyes like April skies, she demanded abruptly: "This Bride? What is she like?" "Let us not talk of her now," said Antonio, as soon as he could command his words. "Surely it is better not." "Is she like Margarida?" "No." "Prettier?" "For Heaven's sake," he pleaded, "do not ask these questions?" "Answer me at once. Is she prettier than I am? In England they call me pretty. I suppose I'm ugly to a Portuguese. I suppose she's a hundred times more beautiful than I am." "There are different kinds of beauty," said Antonio. "Is she clever?" Antonio considered well. Then he replied: "In Her case I should not use the word 'clever.' But, I entreat you, ask me no more." He rose to his feet with a look which silenced her. A moment afterwards she too sprang up. Stepping quickly to the pool, she dipped her little handkerchief in the laughing water and tried to bathe away the traces of her tears. When she sailed back towards him she came proudly. "This ought to be the end," she said. "I ought not to see you alone again. But I don't forbid you to come just once more. Perhaps I shall be here to-morrow morning. I don't say I shall, and I don't say I shan't." Her steady gaze commanded an answer: but it was only by a huge effort that Antonio succeeded in replying: "You have spoken truly. We ought not to meet alone again."