After a pause, Antonio began to relate his history from the moment of his quitting the council at Navares. Every fact that threw light on his operations for regaining the abbey he stated with precision. But he did not mention Margarida, and he referred to Isabel only as Sir Percy's moneyed daughter. When he had finished, Sebastian looked at him with steadfast pitiful eyes and said: "These have been great sacrifices and cruel hardships for the sake of our Lord, and they will not be in vain. But you have not told me all. My brother, I feel that you have kept silence concerning your most costly sacrifice, your bitterest ordeal. Why not tell me all?" Antonio's pride rebelled. The desire to ease his heart by pouring out its hoard of solitary grief was strong; but his gentleman's instincts of reticence were stronger. For some time he remained silent. But an inward voice sternly bade him speak; and he spoke. He told the short tale of Margarida. Then he unfolded the whole case of Isabel, glossing over nothing. He scrupulously added an account of his actions and feelings on the night and morrow of her flight. When he had finished he sat with bowed head and waited for Sebastian's judgment. But Sebastian remained silent. "You do not speak," said Antonio. "Perhaps I have given you the impression that my ordeal was carnal, and that this English maiden was a direct emissary of Satan. If you think so, I have spoken blunderingly indeed." "Satan exists and he is busy enough," returned Sebastian. "But in trying to find the cause of any strange thing that happens I have learned to think of Satan last. Nearly all our temptations arise from our own self-love and carelessness. Many other temptations are God's provings and perfectings of our spiritual mettle. Satan is not omnipresent and his angels are only a shrunken legion. But have patience. Let me think." He resumed his meditation. At last he turned and said: "This was not a temptation from the devil. Neither did it spring from corruptness in your heart or in hers. I am persuaded that our Lord's work is somehow in it all. Perhaps you will never know in this world what work it is; but that is not your affair." "Sometimes," said Antonio slowly, "it troubles my conscience. As I told you just now, I didn't hold out to the very end. I gave way within my heart; but when I opened my eyes she had vanished." "You do wrong to be troubled," said Sebastian. "You held out to the bitter end of the trial God had appointed you. When you told this Isabel finally to go, she went. That was the end. All that happened afterwards was mere reaction." "The next day," persisted Antonio, "I did not say my Office. My heart bled for her as it never bled for the Abbot, or for you, Sebastian, or for this place."