"Oh, I don't know. I suppose so. I meant it at the time, Marcos. It seems to be the only thing to do. Everything seems to point to it. Every sermon I hear. Everything I read. Everything any one ever says to me. But now--" she turned and looked at him, "--now that I see you again I cannot think how I did it." "Am I so very worldly?" "Of course you are. And yet I suppose you have some chance of salvation. It seems to me that you have--a little chance, I give you. But it seems hard on other people. Oh, Marcos, I hate the idea of it. And yet they are so kind to me--all except Sor Teresa. If anybody could make me hate it, she would. She is so unkind and gives me all the punishments she can." Marcos smiled slowly and with great pity, of which men have a better understanding than any woman. He thought he knew why Sor Teresa was cruel. "They are all so kind. And I know they are good. And they take it for granted that the religious life is the only possible one. One cannot help becoming convinced even against one's will." She turned to him suddenly and laid her two hands on his arm. "Oh, Marcos," she whispered, with a sort of sob of apprehension. "Can you not do something for me?" "Yes," he answered. "That is why I am here. But it must be done at once." "Why?" she asked. And she was grave enough now. "Because they have sent to Rome for a dispensation of your novitiate. They wish to hurry you into religion at once." "Yes," she said. "I know. But why?" "Because they want your money." "But I have none, or very little. They have told me so." "That is a lie," said Marcos, bluntly. "Oh, but you must not say that," she whispered, with a sort of horror. "Father Muro told me so. He represents Heaven on earth. We are told he does." "He does it badly," said Marcos, quietly. Juanita reflected for a moment. Then suddenly she stamped her foot on the pavement worn by the feet of generations of holy men. "I will not go into religion," she said. "I will not. I always feel that there is something wrong in all they say. And with you and Uncle Ramon it is different. I know at once that what you say is quite simple and plain and honest; that you have no other meaning in what you say but that which the words convey. Marcos--you and Uncle Ramon must take me away from here. I cannot get away. I am hemmed in on every side." "We can take you away," answered Marcos slowly, "if you like." She turned and looked at him, her attention caught by some tense note in his voice. "What do you mean?" she asked. "Your face is so odd and white. What do you mean, Marcos?" "We can take you away, but you must marry me." She gave a short laugh and stopped suddenly. "Oh--you must not joke," she said. "You must not laugh. It is my whole life, remember." "I am not laughing. It is no joke," said Marcos steadily. "What...?" For a moment they sat in silence. The low chanting of vespers came to their ears through the curtained doors of the Cathedral.