Beautiful she looked, with the feverish glow on her cheek, and her
large Spanish eyes, restless and piercing, flashing out at times the
thoughts of her inmost soul. She threw the mantilla round her head,
and turned toward the church. The step was firm yet hasty. She seemed
endeavoring to escape from herself.

The streets were silent and the Plaza deserted, and naught seemed
stirring save the swallows that twittered and circled round and round
the belfry of the church. There was something soothing in the deep
stillness that reigned on that balmy morning, and Inez felt its
influence. She paused at the entrance of the gray old church, and
stretched forth her arms to the rosy east.

"Peace, peace!" she murmured, in a weary tone, and sunk her head upon
her bosom. The door opened behind her, and raising herself proudly,
she drew the scarf closer about her, and entered.

A basin of holy water was placed near, and hastily she signed the
figure of the cross and proceeded down the aisle to a side door
leading to one of the wings. She pushed it noiselessly ajar and passed
in.

A solitary tin sconce dimly lighted the small confessional, dark and
gloomy as night, at that early hour. A wooden cross suspended from the
wall, a stone bench, and table, on which lay a rosary and crucifix,
and a small vessel of holy water, formed the entire furniture. Before
this table sat Father Mazzolin, his face buried in his hands. Her
step, light as it was, startled him; yet without rising, he murmured,
"Benedicit."