"I can make a bonfire of it this minute," she went on passionately. "I hate it. How I should love to see it blaze! But I won't. And I won't sell this place. And when I've left it on Thursday, I'll never come back till you seek me on your knees. Never!" Still Antonio held his peace. Isabel picked up her little bag. But she did not turn immediately towards home. She stood awaiting his final word. When it failed to come her indignation rose to its climax. "No!" she cried. "I've altered my mind. I will come back. I foresee the end. You will never seek me. You hate me. But I will come back. You'll go on slaving, slaving, starving, starving, praying, praying, and breaking hearts in the name of God. But I will come back. You'll succeed. You'll regain the abbey. You'll fill it with monks. But remember. I will come back. On the day of your triumph, I will be there. It isn't only you Southern people who love revenge. I will be there. I will come back!" Antonio had been silently praying for sudden grace in his own dire need; but he ceased to pray for himself and prayed with all his soul for her. She turned to go. They stood facing one another as they had stood so often during these two bitter days of their ordeal. Try as he would the monk could not conceal his agony of holy love; and under the spell of his gaze the devil of revengeful hate which had entered into Isabel rent her poor heart and fled away. They looked at each other a long time. Then, in a breaking voice, she said softly: "Antonio. I don't hate you. I love you. This is the very last time. Do you send Isabel away? Is it true that I must go?" With a sharp moan of anguish and with hands thrust out for mercy he gave his answer. "For the love of Jesus Christ," he cried. "Go! And may the merciful God help us both!" He closed his eyes in desperate prayer. But God and the Virgin Mother and the whole company of heaven seemed to have forsaken him. No light shown, no supernal fortitude came down. Instead of a vision of ministering angels, his mind's eyes saw only Isabel. Isabel, standing there. Isabel, weeping. Isabel, wounded to death by his cruel sword. Isabel, hoping against hope for his mercy. Isabel, his Isabel, rarer than gold, lovelier than the dawn, purer than snow, waiting to dart like a bird into the nest of his love. He could fight no longer. Stepping one staggering step forward he held out his arms and opened his eyes. She had vanished. A moment later he caught sight of her pressing up the path above him. She was going swiftly, looking neither to the right hand nor to the left. Now and again a ray of the sinking sun shone upon her hair, till she seemed a queen crowned or a saint glorified.