Part 36 (1/2)
”_Madre de Dios!_ Be prudent, I pray you, Juan!” warned Don Pedro. ”Such words are best left unsaid.”
”Are they?” I demanded. ”If to-morrow every free-minded man in New Spain spoke out his real thoughts, to-morrow this land would be free from Old Spain.”
”_Maria santisima!_” gasped Dona Marguerite, dropping her fan and sitting erect.
”We forget that Don Juan is a citizen of the Anglo-American Republic,”
said Alisanda, calmly. ”In his land men are not accustomed to wear muzzles.”
”Because our fathers rebelled and triumphed over the tyrant who oppressed them,” I added.
There followed a tense silence. The sun had set, and I could barely distinguish the features of the others in the fast gathering twilight.
There was a shadow upon them, not alone of the night.
Before any one spoke, the silence was broken by the peal of a huge church bell. Instantly all others than myself bent forward, crossing themselves and murmuring hasty prayers--”_Ave Maria purisima!_” ”_Ave Maria santisima!_”--while slowly the great bell pealed forth its deep and sonorous note.
In the midst a little hand slipped out and rested for a moment upon my hard knuckles. I turned my palm about to clasp the visitor, but it flitted like a b.u.t.terfly. An instant later _la oracion_ was brought to a close by a merry chime of smaller bells. The senoras began to chat in lively tones, and servants hastened in with waxen tapers to relieve the deepening gloom.
Greatly to my annoyance, Walker rose to leave. I might have surmised that he was prompted to the action by jealousy, but my ignorance of local etiquette made me apprehensive of another blunder. This forced me to follow his lead and join in his polite refusals of the pressing invitations of our host and hostess to remain for the evening. In a land where, upon an introduction to a man in the plaza, he presents you with his house, and later is not at home to you when you call at that same house, it is as well to take the most urgent of invitations with a grain of salt.
As we bowed to the ladies, Dona Dolores demurely slipped aside and drew the attention of the others by a piquant remark about one of the fine paintings upon the wall. Alisanda took the opportunity to flash me a glance which set my heart to leaping with the certainty that I had lost nothing by my crossing of the barrier. Just what I had gained was yet to be seen. I knew I had gone far toward winning my lady's heart--I had crossed the barrier of nationality and birth. But I did not forget that I had yet to cross the gulf of religion.
With that one swift glance, she drew back, and Don Pedro escorted us to the door. We exchanged bows with him, and moved down the gallery to the head of the stairway. Here we turned and again exchanged bows. We descended to the first landing, and paused to return the bow which he made to us over the gallery rail. Another exchange of bows from the edge of the beautiful flower-and-shrub-embowered court, and we at last escaped out through the tunnel-like pa.s.sage to the great gate.
Pa.s.sing through the wicket into the street, which was lit up by the red glare of a resin torch, we found ourselves face to face with Father Rocus and Lieutenant Don Jesus Maria de Gonzales y Medina. The aide-de-camp bowed stiffly and stared from Walker to myself with a glance of fiery jealousy. I gave him a curt nod, and hastened to grasp the proffered hand of the beaming padre.
”G.o.d be with you, my son!” he exclaimed.
”My thanks for the kind wish, padre!” I replied ”I see you are coming to call upon my friend Senor Vallois.”
”Your friend!” muttered Medina, for I had spoken in French.
”My friend,” I repeated. ”I had the pleasure of meeting Don Pedro in my own country. But now, senor, with regard to our misunderstanding this morning, I wish to express my regrets and to explain that the error was committed through inadvertence.”
”Ah--if you apologize,” he said, with a complacent half-sneer.
”You mistake me, senor. I do not apologize. I merely explain.”
He turned, without answering, and swaggered in through the archway.
”You _Americanos_!” protested Father Rocus, reaching up to lay a hand upon my shoulder. ”Can you never be prudent? Medina is a swordsman. Your friend here will tell you that out of five duels, the aide has to his credit three deaths on the black record of Satanas.”
”If he is a swordsman, I am a pistol shot,” I rejoined.
”Then all turns upon the chance of who challenges and who has choice of weapons. G.o.d grant the choice fall to you! He is in strong need of a lesson.”
”That is true!” muttered Walker, with a shrug.
”Meantime, my son, it will be well for you to consider the peril of your soul and come often to the _Parroquia_ to hear me preach,” admonished the padre. He spoke in a severe tone, but I fancied I caught a twinkle in his eye as he turned to enter the gate.
Walker took me familiarly by the arm, and as we sauntered back to his quarters, first inquired particularly as to my skill with the pistol, and then went into the details of Medina's duels. Before he had finished I divined that he and others of the officers at Chihuahua would be more than pleased to see some one trim the comb of the braggadocio aide-de-camp. If an outsider could be inveigled into taking the risk, so much the better.