Part 28 (1/2)

”And that man?” he asked me at last.

”I could have killed him with my own hands,” I said. ”I was the stronger. He had his pistols on him, I am certain, only I could not be a party to an a.s.sa.s.sination....”

”Oh, my son, it would have been no sin to have exerted the strength which G.o.d had blessed you with,” he interrupted. ”We are allowed to kill venomous snakes, wild beasts; we are given our strength for that, our intelligence....” And all the time he walked about, wringing his hands.

”Yes, your reverence,” I said, feeling the most miserable and helpless of lovers on earth; ”but there was no time. If I had not thrown him out, Castro would have stabbed him in the back in my very hands. And that would have been------” Words failed me.

I had been obliged not only to desist myself, but to save his life from Castro. I had been obliged! There had been no option. Murderous enemy as he was, it seemed to me I should never have slept a wink all the rest of my life.

”Yes, it is just, it is just. What else? Alas!” Father Antonio repeated disconnectedly. ”Those feelings implanted in your breast----I have served my king, as you know, in my sacred calling, but in the midst of war, which is the outcome of the wickedness natural to our fallen state.

I understand; I understand. It may be that G.o.d, in his mercy, did not wish the death of that evil man--not yet, perhaps. Let us submit. He may repent.” He snuffled aloud. ”I think of that poor child,” he said through his handkerchief. Then, pressing my arm with his vigorous fingers, he murmured, ”I fear for her reason.”

It may be imagined in what state I spent the rest of that sleepless night. At times, the thought that I was the cause of her bereavement nearly drove me mad.

And there was the danger, too.

But what else could I have done? My whole soul had recoiled from the horrible help Castro was bringing us at the point of his blade. No love could demand from me such a sacrifice.

Next day Father Antonio was calmer. To my trembling inquiries he said something consolatory as to the blessed relief of tears. When not praying fervently in the mortuary chamber, he could be seen pacing the gallery in a severe aloofness of meditation. In the evening he took me by the arm, and, without a word, led me up a narrow and winding staircase. He pushed a small door, and we stepped out on a flat part of the roof, flooded in moonlight.

The points of land dark with the shadows of trees and broken ground clasped the waters of the bay, with a body of s.h.i.+ning white mists in the centre; and, beyond, the vast level of the open sea, touched with glitter, appeared infinitely sombre under the luminous sky.

We stood back from the parapet, and Father Antonio threw out a thick arm at the splendid trail of the moon upon the dark water.

”This is the only way,” he said.

He had a warm heart under his black robe, a simple and courageous comprehension of life, this priest who was very much of a man; a certain grandeur of resolution when it was a matter of what he regarded as his princ.i.p.al office.

”This is the way,” he repeated.

Never before had I been struck so much by the gloom, the vastness, the emptiness of the open sea, as on that moonlight night. And Father Antonio's deep voice went on:

”My son, since G.o.d has made use of the n.o.bility of your heart to save that sinner from an unshriven death------”

He paused to mutter, ”Inscrutable! inscrutable!” to himself, sighed, and then:

”Let us rejoice,” he continued, with a completely unconcealed resignation, ”that you have been the chosen instrument to afford him an opportunity to repent.”

His tone changed suddenly.

”He will never repent,” he said with great force. ”He has sold his soul and body to the devil, like those magicians of old of whom we have records.”

He clicked his tongue with compunction, and regretted his want of charity. It was proper for me, however, as a man having to deal with a world of wickedness and error, to act as though I did not believe in his repentance.

”The hardness of the human heart is incredible; I have seen the most appalling examples.” And the priest meditated. ”He is not a common criminal, however,” he added profoundly.

It was true. He was a man of illusions, ministering to pa.s.sions that uplifted him above the fear of consequences, Young as I was, I understood that, too. There was no safety for us in Cuba while he lived.

Father Antonio nodded dismally.

”Where to go?” I asked. ”Where to turn? Whom can we trust? In whom can we repose the slightest confidence? Where can we look for hope?”