The Governor listened with a gathering scowl upon his face, till suddenly he started up with such haste that his chair fell backward with a noisy clatter.
"Santa Maria! Dead of the black vomit? And you come hither with the vile contagion clinging to your very garments!"
"Nay," said the friar's deep, hollow voice, as he lifted a reassuring hand. "I have changed my robes. You and yours are in no danger, my son."
"In no danger!" repeated the Governor, his face becoming purple and his voice choked; "no danger, when the foul carcass lies unburied, tainting the very air with death! Throw it over in the sea—nay, set fire to the miserable hut in which it lies, and let all be consumed together!"
"Who is it that is dead?" asked Doña Orosia. She had risen, and stood with one hand holding back her skirts, her full, red upper lip slightly drawn, and her delicate nostrils dilated, as though the very mention of the loathed disease filled her with disgust.
"A wretched half-breed boy, some thieving member of the padre's flock," exclaimed the Governor impatiently. "Set fire to the hut, I say!"
But Doña Orosia interrupted once again. "Padre, what is it that you desire?"
The sombre eyes were turned on her for the first time. "The boy was a Christian, my daughter, and I would give him Christian burial."
"Surely," said Doña Orosia. "What is to prevent?"
"Would you spread the infection through the town?" exclaimed the Governor, white with fear.