He was silent from exhaustion, and lay with closed eyes and deathlike countenance. After a long pause, he resumed, in a low, weak voice,--
"Some words are good--perhaps. There was San Pablo, who was a blasphemer, and injurious."
"Don Gonsalvo, my brother once said he would give his right hand that you shared his faith."
"Oh, did he?" A quick flush overspread the wan face. "But hark! a step on the stairs! My mother's."
"I am neither afraid nor ashamed to be found here," said Don Juan.
"My poor mother! She has shown me more tenderness of late than I deserved at her hands. Do not let us involve her in trouble."
Juan greeted his aunt with due courtesy, and even attempted some words of condolence upon his cousin's illness. But he saw that the poor lady was terribly disconcerted, and indeed frightened, by his presence there. And not without cause, since mischief, even to bloodshed, might have followed had Don Manuel or either of his sons found Juan in communication with Gonsalvo. She conjured him to go, adding, by way of inducement,--
"Doña Beatriz is taking the air in the garden."
"Availing myself of your gracious permission, señora my aunt, I shall offer her my homage there; and so I kiss your feet.--Adiõs, Don Gonsalvo."
Doña Katarina followed him out of the room.
"He is not sane," she whispered anxiously, laying her hand on his arm; "he is out of his mind. You perceive it clearly, Don Juan?"
"Certainly I shall not dispute it, señora," Juan answered, prudently.
"I have a soul and body that exact A comfortable care in many ways."
Don Juan's peril was extreme. Well known as he was to many of the imprisoned Lutherans, it seemed a desperate chance that, amongst the numerous confessions wrung from them, no mention of his name should occur. He knew himself deeply implicated in the crime for which they were suffering--the one unpardonable crime in the eyes of Rome. Moreover, unlike his brother, whose temperament would have led him to avoid danger by every lawful means, he was by nature brave even to rashness, and bold even to recklessness. It was his custom to wear his heart on his lips; and though of late stern necessity had taught him to conceal what he thought, it was neither his inclination nor his habit to disguise what he felt. Probably, not even his desire to aid Carlos would have prevented his compromising himself by some rash word or deed, had not the soft hand of Doña Beatriz, strong in its weakness, held him back from destruction. Not for one instant could he forget her terrible vow. With this for ever before his eyes, it is little marvel if he was willing to do anything, to bear anything--ay, almost to feign anything--rather than involve her he loved in a fate inconceivably horrible.