been officers of the Holy Inquisition, Helena thought, judged by the unsympathetic harshness of their faces, their fixed determination upon the business that lay in their hands.
Don Abrahan sat silent a little spell, drawing the written sheets of paper together before him, arranging them in a way that seemed to tell of his thoughts being detached from the action of his hands. Helena's heart was laboring as if it lay under a stone; her limbs trembled, her hands were cold. She did not know that Don Abrahan was a master of suspense; that every movement of his hand was calculated, every moment of silence gauged against the perturbation of her breast.
"There is a matter of gravity on our hands, Helena, my desired," Don Abrahan began, his measured words, his slowly lifted head, his deliberate, searching eyes, all adding to the weight of that cold stone which seemed pressing upon the warmth of her redundant heart. "If I have your permission, I will speak."
"Assuredly, Don Abrahan."
"We spoke last night, Helena, of your betrothal to my son."
Don Abrahan paused; his eyes sought the papers on the table, the first of which he lifted, seeming to read beneath.
"That is ended, Don Abrahan," Helena said, the tremor of her heart in her words.
"It is a heavy thing to speak of lightly, and in haste, as I said last night, my dear. Let us go
