“Whoever is this yere?” exclaimed Buckhart.
“It’s the old priest,” said Merry, as he saw the cloaked and hooded figure.
The old man was once more leaning on his crooked staff, which Merry had dropped as he hastened to meet his brother. Even in the gathering darkness there was about him an air of agitation and excitement.
“My son,” he said, in a trembling voice, still speaking in Spanish, “I hope you are not harmed.”
“Whatever is this he is shooting at you?” inquired Buckhart. “Is it Choctaw or Chinese?”
Paying no attention to Brad, Merry questioned the monk, also speaking in Spanish.
“Father,” he said, “who were those men, and how came they to be here?”
“My son, I knew not that there were so many of them. Two came to me to pray in the mission. The others, who were hidden outside, I saw not until they appeared. Why did they attack you?”
“Because they are wicked men, father, who have stolen from her home a little girl. I am seeking her, hoping to restore her to her friends.”
“This is a strange story you tell me, my son. Who is the child, and why did they take her from her home?”