“They were frauds, father—frauds and rascals of the blackest dye.”
“But two of them came here to pray,” murmured the priest, as if he could not believe such a thing possible. “Have we not suffered indignities enough? Our lands have been taken from us and we have been stripped of everything.”
“They were infidels, father. You may be sure of that.”
“Infidels and impostors!” exclaimed the old man, with a slight show of spirit. “But I couldn’t think men who spoke the language of old Spain and who prayed to Heaven could be such base creatures.”
“What they certain deserve,” growled Buckhart, unable to repress his indignation longer, “is to be shot up a whole lot, and I’d sure like the job of doing it.”
“I don’t understand it—I cannot understand it!” muttered the monk. “It’s far beyond me to comprehend. Why did they set upon me, my son?” he questioned, his unsteady hand touching Frank’s arm. “Why did they seek to slay you?”
“Wait a minute, father, and I will explain,” said Merry.
He then told briefly of the abduction of Felicia and his pursuit of her captors. As he spoke, the aged listener betrayed some signs of excitement.
“My son, is all this true?” he solemnly questioned. “You are not one of our faith, yet your words ring true.”
“I swear it, father.”