Behind an Iron Grating
“Say,” remarked Dick in a stage whisper, “there'd be a big drop in the bee industry if all the world turned Protestant and bought no more great wax candles.”
We were standing inside the Moorish arch of the Puerta del Perdon, in the Court of Oranges. Beyond, where the stuffed crocodile swung in a light breeze, was the entrance to the cathedral, black as the mouth of a cave. The wind which rocked that huge reptile—the gift of a disappointed Sultan—sent the petals of ten thousand orange blossoms drifting over our heads in a perfumed snow-storm. Past us trooped a dark-robed brotherhood, each man with his tall candle raining wax on the grass-grown stones of the old court.
This it was which had drawn forth Dick's reflection; but I scarcely heard his words. I was watching for Monica; and my last chance must come soon if it were to come at all.
Pilar and her father were not with us. They had gone into the cathedral, where they had secured seats not far from the royal chapel, and in the best position to hear the Miserere. Though it was early still, not quite nine o'clock, vast crowds were gathering and it was possible, they thought, that Carmona and his guests were already in their places. If they were seen there, Colonel O'Donnel would send out a messenger (a man employed in the cathedral) with a word for me.
Earlier, this person had come to the hotel, where he had been told to look well at me that he might not fail to recognize me again. And Dick and I had not stood on sentinel duty for fifteen [pg 256]minutes when he appeared, beating through the opposing tide of the multitude as it swept towards the cathedral.
“His worship the Colonel O'Donnel, wished their worships the two señoritos, to know that those they wished to find were not visible in the cathedral.”
“Could they be there, and invisible?” I asked.
“The cathedral is very dimly lighted; and they might not be seen if they were in some chapel. There are several with many people in them, and the doors are locked.”
“Is that allowed?”