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 eagerly to this act of devotion that would make another flinch to think of it, and shudder and turn sick."

"It can be accounted for that way, then. Would you do as much for Don Gerronimo?"

Doña Magdalena did not reply. She turned her face to look out of the open door, where the moon made it almost as bright as within. Borromeo lifted his eyes slyly, creeping up on her in a manner of espionage, it appeared, as if to study the secret of her fealty and learn how far she would venture on account of it, and so be able to weigh his findings against the protestation of her lips. No such protestation came from Doña Magdalena. Borromeo looked at the soft line of her throat, the poise of her handsome head, as she turned in that manner as from a triviality that deserved no more than silence.

"Doña, you would do it. And you would do more," he said. "A man might expect it of his mother, and if I had a wife so devoted, doña, I would preserve her in oil."

"Like a herring," Magdalena laughed, but to relieve her own embarrassment rather than to discount his protestations.

"Of course Juan does not know of this," he said.

"How should he know? shut up like a bee. No, if he knew anything about it, that would be the end. It would not do."

"Yes, Our Señora might think it was a plot, an arrangement between them, to bring his suffering to her notice."