"Because she had fallen in love with a damned rascal," said Gallito
bitterly, "after the manner of women."

"After the manner of women," José nodded, and whispered behind his hand,
so that the two mountain ladies might not overhear him. "Believe it or
not, many have loved me. But women like extremes, too; if they love
rascals, they also adore saints. They see the saint standing there in
his niche, so calm, so peaceful and composed, entirely forgetful of
them, and this they cannot endure. Their brains are on fire; they spend
their time scheming and planning how they can claw him down from his
pedestal. They burn candles and pray to all the saints in Paradise to
help them, and they offer hostages to the Devil, too. They do not really
know the difference between devil and angel or between good and bad; but
they cannot bear it that the saint is indifferent to them. That is
something that drives them mad. Ah, it is a strong saint that can stand
firm in his niche against their wiles."

"It is an experience that you will never suffer from, José."

"But who can say?" exclaimed José, and speaking with gravity. "Some day
I shall devote myself to good works and to making my peace with the
church, and who knows, I may yet be a saint. But one thing I am sure
of, I shall never leave my niche for a woman."

"You know nothing, José."

"I know that I will never waste my cooking on a woman. I will enter a
monastery of fat monks first and cook for them. They will appreciate it.
But to return to Saint Harry and your daughter now--"