Chapter Eighteen.
A Challenge in a Church.
While carrying on my eye-courtship with the kneeling devotee, I stood somewhat in shadow. A column, with the statue of some canonised churchman, afforded me a niche where I was concealed from the other worshippers.
But there was a darker shadow behind me—occupied by a darker substance.
Tia Josefa was not the only spy present in the Cathedral.
I was made aware of it, by hearing a voice—of course spoken in a whisper, but so close to my ear, that I had no difficulty in distinguishing every word.
The voice said:—
“Por Dios, caballero! You appear greatly interested in the oracion! You cannot be a heretico, like the rest of your countrymen?”
The sting of a wasp could not have caused me a more unpleasant sensation. The double meaning of the speech was not to be mistaken. The speaker had observed the eye signals passing between Mercedes and myself!
I glanced into the gloom behind me.
It was some seconds before I could see any one. My eyes dazzled with the splendour of the church adornments, refused to do their office.
Before I could trace out either his shape, or countenance, the whispering stranger again addressed me:—
“I hope, señor, you will not be offended by my free speech? It gratifies us Catolicos to perceive that our Holy Church is making converts among the Americanos. I’ve been told there is a good deal of this sort of thing. Our padres will be delighted to know that their conquest by the Word is likely to compensate for our defeat by the sword.”
Despite the impertinence, there was something so ingenious in the argument thus introduced, that I was prevented from making immediate reply. Stark surprise had also to do with my silence.
I waited upon my eyes, in order that I might first see what sort of personage was speaking to me.
Gradually my sight overcame the obscurity, and disclosed what the corner contained: a man several degrees darker than the shadow itself, up to his ears in a serapé, with a black sombrero above them, and between hat and “blanket” a countenance that could only belong to a scoundrel!
I could see a bearded chin and lip, and a face lit up by a pair of eyes sparkling with sinister light. I could see, moreover, that despite the badinage of the speeches addressed to me there was real anger in them!
The sarcasm was all pretence. He, who had given utterance to it, was too much in earnest to deal long in irony; and I did not for a moment doubt that I was standing in the presence of one who, like myself, was a candidate for the smiles of Mercedes Villa-Señor.
The thought was not one to make me more tolerant of the slight that had been put upon me. On the contrary, it but increased my indignation—already at a white heat.
“Señor!” I said, in a voice with great difficulty toned down to a whisper, “you may thank your stars you are inside a church. If you’d spoken those words upon the street, they’d have been the last of your life.”
“The street’s not far off. Come out; and I shall there repeat them.”
“Agreed!”
My challenger was nearest to the door, and started first. I followed three steps after.
In the vestibule I paused—only for a second—to see whether my exit was being noted by the kneeling Mercedes.
It was. She was gazing after me—no longer by stealth; but in surprise; I fancied in chagrin!
Had she divined the cause of my abrupt departure?
That was scarcely probable.
In the position lately occupied by my unknown challenger, she could not have seen him. The statue interposed; and the column covered him, as he stepped towards the door.
I returned her glance by one intended to reassure her. With my eyes I said:—
“A moment, sweet saint, and you shall see me again!”