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“But, Vicente,” said Feliz, in a hard, embittered voice, “in our lot there was a show of justice. If you would have a more unmitigated use of pitiless craft, think of the fate of your own cousin Inez.”

The child within the shadow of the wall was listening breathlessly. Her innate rebellion against all authority made her quick to grasp the situation; a secret detestation of the coarse-handed, loud-voiced village priest who had succeeded Padre Francisco at Tres Hermanos quickened her apprehension. She looked at Vicente with glistening eyes. “Ah, well I remember poor Inez,” he said; “forced by her father to become a nun, that at his death he might win pardon for his soul by satisfying the greed of his councillors, she implored, wept, raved, fell into imbecility, and died; and her sad story, penetrating even the thickness of convent walls, was blackened by the assertion that she was possessed of devils foul and unclean,—she, the whitest, purest soul that ever stood before the gates of heaven.”