In a tone of ill-suppressed range, Nevarro retorted:
"My uncle's authority shall compel you to fulfil the engagement! You shall not thus escape me!"
"As you please, Señor. Yet let me tell you, compulsion will not answer. The combined efforts of San Antonio will not avail—they may crush, but cannot conquer me." She bowed low, and left the room.
Every feature inflamed with wrath, Nevarro snatched his hat, and hurried down the street. He had not proceeded far, when a hand was laid upon his arm, and turning, with somewhat pugnacious intentions, encountered Father Mazzolin's piercing black eyes.
"Bueño tarde, Padre."
The black eyes rested on Nevarro with an expression which seemed to demand an explanation of his choler. Mañuel moved uneasily; the hot blood glowed in his swarthy cheek, and swelled like cords on the darkened brow.
"Did you wish to speak with me, Padre?"
"Even so, my son. Thou art troubled, come unto one who can give thee comfort."
They were standing before the door of the harkell occupied by the priest: he opened it and drew Mañuel in.
An hour later they emerged from the house. All trace of anger was removed from Nevarro's brow, and Father Mazzolin's countenance wore the impenetrable cast he ever assumed in public. It was his business expression, the mask behind which he secretly drew the strings, and lured his dupes into believing him a disinterested and self-denying pastor, whose only aim in life was to promote the welfare and happiness of his flock.