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Simão Botelho's wound was too serious to yield quickly to the farrier's treatment. The bullet had passed sideways through the muscle of his left arm without breaking the bone. However, it had ruptured an important blood vessel, and the compresses could not stop the bleeding. Hours after the attack, the student went to bed with a fever and allowed the farrier to treat him. João da Cruz applied the remedies he knew, although the case was beyond his experience. Meanwhile, the muleteer left for Coimbra with orders to spread the false news that Simão had remained in Porto.
More than the pain and the fear of losing his arm, Simão was tormented by having no news of Teresa. João remained on watch, fearing that the authorities might come looking for him. People returning from the fair in Viseu said that two men had been found dead. They were said to be servants of a nobleman from Castro Daire. No one, however, attributed the killings to any particular people. Until then, those responsible for the crimes remained unidentified.
That afternoon, Simão received a letter from Teresa. ‘May God grant that you reached those good people's house safely,’ she began. She said that something mysterious was happening at home which she could not understand. Her father had spent the morning shut away with Baltasar and would not let her leave her room. Tadeu had ordered her inkpot to be removed, but Teresa had hidden another one beforehand. A poor woman had come to beg beneath the window, and Teresa had signalled to her to wait. Without that providential visit, she would have found no way to send the letter. The woman had mentioned dead servants, but Teresa had not properly understood her words. At that moment, young Rita was signalling to her from behind the panes of the Botelho house. That was how Teresa learnt that the two dead men were her cousin's servants. ‘Now I understand everything,’ she wrote, overcome by fear. She asked whether Simão might be wounded and whether she herself would be the cause of his death. She now asked God for nothing except that his life be spared. Teresa begged Simão to flee from there, go to Coimbra and wait for time to improve their situation. She also asked Simão to trust that unhappy woman, who was worthy of his devotion. The messenger was already returning, and Teresa ended quickly: no one was saying anything about Simão, and she prayed that God would preserve that silence.
Simão replied in a way intended to reassure Teresa. He mentioned the wound so casually that it seemed not even to require treatment. He promised to leave for Coimbra as soon as he could do so without fearing that Teresa would suffer during his absence. And he asked her to summon him as soon as the threat of the convent became a reality.
Meanwhile, the authorities summoned Baltasar Coutinho to assist the investigation. He confirmed that the dead men were his servants and had come with the family from Castro Daire. He declared that he knew of no enemies they had in Viseu. He added that he suspected no one. Neighbours near the place had heard two shots at the same time and a third shortly afterwards. One witness had merely noticed that the nearby scrub had been cut. That information did not reveal who had fired or who had killed the men. With no further evidence, the investigation could not advance.
The narrator makes clear, however, that Tadeu de Albuquerque had been complicit in the attempt on Simão's life. When Baltasar told him why Teresa had gone out so often during the night of the ball, Tadeu suggested the attack. Baltasar had turned that suggestion into the orders given to the servants to ambush Simão. Now both the old man and his nephew needed to erase any sign linking them to the two deaths. In their eyes, the servants were not worth taking revenge for if doing so would dishonour their masters. Nor could they produce evidence against Simão. They believed he was already on his way to Coimbra or sheltering at his father's house. They still hoped that he had been wounded and would die far from the place of the ambush.
As for Teresa, Tadeu decided to confine her in the Monchique convent in Porto. The prioress of that house was a close relative. Tadeu wrote to the prioress asking her to prepare rooms and instructed his agent to obtain the necessary ecclesiastical permissions. Those permissions would take time. Fearing an incident during the wait, Tadeu did not want to keep his daughter at home. He therefore asked for her to be held temporarily in a convent in Viseu.
At dusk, the poor woman delivered Simão's reply, hanging it from a thread. Teresa had just read it and hidden it against her breast when her father entered. Tadeu ordered her to dress, and she picked up a cloak and a shawl. ‘Dress as befits someone who still bears my family name,’ he ordered. Teresa replied that she had not thought it necessary to dress better for going out at night. ‘Do you know where you are going?’ Tadeu asked. ‘I do not know, Father.’ ‘Then dress and do not give me orders,’ Tadeu commanded. ‘If you intend to force me to marry my cousin, listen to me,’ Teresa asked. ‘I shall not marry him; I shall die, and die content, but I shall not marry him.’ Tadeu replied that Baltasar no longer wanted her either and that she was unworthy of him because she spoke to lovers in the garden at night. ‘Dress quickly, because you are going to a convent,’ he concluded. Teresa accepted at once, reminding him that she had often asked for that fate.
When she was alone, Teresa burst into tears and wanted to write to Simão. But at that hour she had no one to carry the letter. She then knelt before the image of the Virgin, the confidante of her love. She sincerely asked for protection for herself and strength for Simão to withstand the blow and remain faithful through the trials ahead. Then she dressed and hid the inkpot, paper and bundle of Simão's letters against her breast. As she left, she gave the image one last tearful look and asked permission to take it. Her father replied that the image would follow later and insulted his daughter, contrasting her devotion with the shame he said she lacked.
One of her cousins, Baltasar's sister, drew Teresa aside. She told her that she could still put the family's troubles right if she agreed to marry Baltasar. Teresa replied with a smile that her cousin did not want her. Her cousin said that Tadeu was beside himself because of his love for his daughter and offered to speak to him. ‘I shall only be your sister-in-law when I no longer have a heart,’ Teresa replied. Baltasar knew that she loved another man. Teresa wanted to live for that man. If they forced her to die for him, she would bless all her executioners. She asked her cousin to repeat those words to Baltasar before she forgot them. When Tadeu called, Teresa replied that she was ready.
The convent gate opened, and Teresa entered without shedding a tear. She kissed her father's hand, which he did not dare withhold in front of the nuns. She embraced her cousins with an almost joyful expression. When the door closed, she surprised the nuns with a declaration. ‘I am freer than ever,’ Teresa exclaimed. ‘Freedom of the heart is everything.’
The nuns exchanged glances, as though the word ‘heart’ were a heresy inside the house of God. The prioress sternly asked what Teresa had said. Teresa merely replied that she felt very comfortable there. The convent secretary immediately corrected her form of address: she must say ‘Mother Prioress’. The prioress then explained that no one entered a house of God in order to feel comfortable. There, one had to mortify the spirit and leave worldly passions outside. She then entrusted Teresa to the mistress of novices, who was responsible for guiding her.
In the prioress's rooms, Teresa learnt that she would be the prioress's guest while she remained in that convent. The nun did not know whether Tadeu would choose that house or another for his daughter to take vows in a wealthy order. ‘I do not want to be a nun here or anywhere else,’ Teresa protested. The prioress replied that she would be whatever her father wished. Teresa insisted that no one could force her to take religious vows. The other woman admitted that this was true but reminded her that a year as a novice might accustom her to that life. She assured her that there was no life more restful for the body or healthier for the soul. Teresa smiled and reminded her that she had just said no one went to a convent in order to feel comfortable. The prioress called that a figure of speech and described the convent as a paradise without passions, worries, intrigues or gossip.
She went to fetch supper and left Teresa with the organist and the mistress of novices, whom she presented as models of virtue. As soon as the prioress turned her back, the organist called her an impostor. The mistress added that she was also stupid and the greatest schemer in the house. The mistress of novices advised Teresa not to trust her hostess and to ask her father for other company. They said that, when young, the prioress had caused more scandals than any other nun. Even after growing old, she had still wanted to love and be loved. Now she hid her decrepitude behind pious missions and remedies for indigestion. Despite her distress, Teresa could not suppress a laugh. She had remembered the life of perfect harmony that the prioress had just praised.
Soon afterwards, the prioress returned with supper and asked what impression the two nuns had made on her. Teresa said that they had seemed very pleasant. The old woman pursed her snuff-stained lips and made a suspicious sound. She then displayed two chicken legs and a broth which, she said, even the angels could eat. Teresa replied that she would eat nothing. The prioress insisted that no one could endure without food and scorned the passions that made women suffer while men lost nothing. She claimed never to have known such passions, although fifty-five years in the convent had shown her plenty of other women's foolishness. At that moment the convent secretary entered, picking her teeth, to ask for a glass of the tonic wine she drank every night. The prioress told her that she had been revealing the faults of the organist and the mistress to Teresa. The secretary said that they were both in the portress's cell, probably making fun of the newcomer. Delighted by the intrigue, the prioress sent her to listen at the door.
While the secretary carried out the mission, the prioress spoke about her to Teresa. She said that she was not a bad person but had the fault of getting drunk. She spent her generous income on wine and sometimes staggered into the choir. When she drank too much, she attacked everyone and revealed the faults of her own friends. She had even accused the prioress of leaving the convent for amorous meetings. The offended woman considered the accusation especially shameful because it came from a woman who drank with admirers at the grille. Despite everything, she ended with feigned indulgence: no one was perfect. When the bell summoned them to the choir, the venerable lady drank a second glass of tonic wine. She then asked Teresa to wait for a quarter of an hour and left for prayers. As soon as she was alone, Teresa covered her face with her hands and thought in horror, ‘A convent, my God! So this is a convent!’
The secretary returned and criticised the prioress for leaving a guest alone. Teresa asked her to go to the choir, hoping that she might be able to weep in peace. The nun refused, saying that Teresa would be terrified and that the prioress would soon find a way to escape the prayers. She immediately wanted to know whether the prioress had spoken ill of her. Teresa denied it, but the secretary called her superior a living sponge who never spoke well of anyone. She poured herself a glass of the prioress's wine and began listing the prioress's former admirers, including the chaplain who supplied her wine cellar. She also accused her of wasting and stealing the community's income. Finally, she regretted that Teresa was lodged in that hypocrite's rooms. She said she knew that Tadeu had ordered the prioress not to let his daughter write or receive letters. Despite that, she offered her an inkpot, paper, sealing wafers and her own room. If anyone wished to write to Teresa, the letters could be addressed to Dionísia da Imaculada Conceição. Encouraged by that possibility, Teresa thanked her and asked whether she could send a message to the poor woman who lived in an alley. Dionísia promised to send someone in the morning but advised Teresa not to trust any other nun. The offer might help Teresa, although it came from the same inquisitive, drunken and malicious woman whose true nature the convent had just exposed. When she saw the prioress enter, Dionísia immediately changed the subject and began praising convent life. The two women pretended to be friends and exchanged compliments in front of their guest. As Dionísia was already late for the choir, the prioress excused her absence and gave her another glass of tonic wine as a penance. Dionísia cheerfully performed the penance and left, claiming that she was leaving the prioress to her prayers.
The narrator refuses to prolong this example of the convent's supposedly evangelical and exemplary life. Tadeu had left his daughter there while a prison presented as even more purifying was prepared for her at Monchique. After only two hours, Teresa's heart was full of bitterness and disgust. She had imagined convents as refuges of virtue, innocence and eternal hope. The letters from her aunt, the prioress at Monchique, had given her the image of a saint. She had also heard old, devout noblewomen credit those Dominican nuns of Viseu with virtue, charity and even miracles. The disillusionment was profound, and Teresa longed to escape from there. Her prayer to the Virgin had been sincere; what revolted her was the gulf between faith and the conduct of those nuns.
Teresa's bed stood in an alcove divided off by curtains inside the prioress's cell. When she was told that she could go to bed, Teresa asked whether she might write to her father. The nun replied that she would allow it the next day, despite Tadeu's prohibition, if she happened to have ink and paper in the cell. Teresa went to bed, and the prioress knelt before an oratory to pray in a low voice. By the second Our Father, she began nodding off and could no longer manage the first Hail Mary. She rose, made a wavering bow to the holy images, went to bed and began to snore. Teresa carefully drew back the curtains and took the hidden inkpot and paper from among her clothes. By the faint light of the lamp, she knelt beside a chair and wrote to Simão everything that had happened that day.
The letter ended with a firm and affectionate appeal. ‘Do not fear for me, Simão,’ Teresa wrote. All those sufferings seemed light to her when she compared them with what he had endured for love of her. Misfortune did not shake her resolve and must not deter Simão from his plans. They were only a few stormy days, nothing more. Any new decision by her father would be reported as soon as Teresa was able. If no news came from her, Simão must attribute the silence solely to the impossibility of communicating. ‘Love me in my unhappiness,’ she asked. It seemed to her that the unfortunate were precisely those most in need of love and comfort. She would try to forget everything in sleep. ‘How sad all this is, my dear friend! Farewell.’