But why waste I my Latin and logic on thee, who art incapable of both? Mark me, I will use but one unanswerable argument, the which whoso gainsayeth is a--gainsayer--that’s all. The Inquisition at Goa knows the truth of what I have asserted, and who will dare deny it now?”--“Not I!--not I!” exclaimed Donna Clara; “nor, I am sure, will this stubborn boy. Son, I adjure you, make haste to believe what the reverend Father has told you.”--“I am believing as fast as I can,” answered Don Fernan, in the tone of one who is reluctantly swallowing a distasteful mess; “but my faith will be choaked if you don’t allow it time to swallow. As for digestion,” he muttered, “let that come when it pleases God.”--“Daughter,” said the priest, who well knew the _mollia tempora fandi_, and saw that the sullen and angry Fernan could not well bear more at present; “daughter, it is enough--we must lead with gentleness those whose steps find stumbling-blocks in the paths of grace. Pray with me, daughter, that your son’s eyes may yet be opened to the glory and felicity of his sister’s vocation to a state where the exhaustless copiousness of divine benignity places the happy inmates above all those mean and mundane anxieties, those petty and local wants, which----Ah!--hem--verily I feel some of those wants myself at this moment. I am hoarse with speaking; and the intense heat of this night hath so exhausted my strength, that methinks the wing of a partridge would be no unseasonable refreshment.” “At a sign from Donna Clara, a salver with wine appeared, and a partridge that might have provoked the French prelate to renew his meal once more, spite of his horror of _toujours perdrix_. “See, daughter, see how much I am exhausted in this distressing controversy--well may I say, the zeal of thine house hath eaten me up.”--“Then you and the zeal of the house will soon be _quit_,” muttered Fernan as he retired. And drawing the folds of his mantle over his shoulder, he threw a glance of wonder at the happy facility with which the priest discussed the wings and breast of his favourite bird,--whispering alternately words of admonition to Donna Clara, and muttering something about the omission of pimento and lemon.