She faced him with increasing anger. But, before she could speak, Antonio suddenly repented himself of his sharpness. "Isabel," he said, in quieter tones. "Think. You despise me for keeping my vows. But suppose I had vowed my vows to you. And suppose I should break them, for some other woman. What then?" "I would kill her. And you too." For a moment her wrathful excitement hindered her logical perceptions; but as soon as she recognized his meaning she cried: "It's different, all different! I'm real; your Bride isn't. Besides, She has deserted you. She's run away, or She's dead. You are free." "No, Isabel," he said. "Think again. Suppose to-day I should vow my vow to you. Suppose your father, or someone else, should pluck you suddenly from my side so that I could never find you again. Nay, more. Suppose you were untrue to me and that you abandoned me. Would you have me say: 'She has gone. I shall never see her again. To-morrow I will seek another bride?' No, Isabel, no. If you say Yes, I shan't believe it. I know your soul too well. Even if you broke yours, my vow would still be there, and you would despise me for not keeping it. Am I right or wrong?" He had unguardedly lowered his tones to a perilous tenderness, and he was unconsciously gazing at her with the gaze she could never resist. Her lips lost their hardness and began to tremble, and her eyelids drooped over her eyes. Antonio involuntarily recoiled from the danger. He knew in an instant that his fate was quivering in the balance. His heart had bled at every harsh word he spoke to her; and he knew that to sweep away the last shaken ruins of his defenses, she needed only to throw herself weeping into his arms. He knew that if she should once sob out, "Antonio, Antonio, don't send me away," his doom would then and there be sealed. All this Antonio knew. But Isabel did not know it. His sudden movement of recoil stung her back into anger. "Are you right or wrong?" she echoed bitterly. "You're right, of course. You always are. Even when you're wrong fifty times over, you can argue yourself into the right. I call it cowardly." He exhaled a deep breath. The peril was past. Her scorn he could withstand. "I have come to the end," she cried. "The very end. Listen. You are blighting my life, but I won't let you blight your own. Mark me well. This place is mine. These lands are mine. I have the right to go to-night and to set the whole abbey ablaze; and where will your work be then?" The threat did not alarm him; but the cruelty of it, coming from such lips as hers, cut him to the marrow. He was on the point of retorting that the place was not hers at all, and that her father had deceived her on a wretched point of money. But her anguish was bitter enough without this new mortification; so he held his peace.