The man and the priest addressed as Diego embraced warmly.
“Padre Diego Guillermo Polo, I have the extreme honor to present my friend, the eminent Padre––” ceremoniously waving a hand toward Josè.
“Josè de Rincón,” supplied the latter, bowing.
“Rincón!” murmured the priest Diego. Then, abruptly, “Of Cartagena?”
“Yes,” returned Josè, with awakened interest.
“Not of Don Ignacio––?”
“My grandfather,” Josè replied promptly, and with a touch of pride.
“Ha! he owned much property––many fincas––about here; and farther west, in the Guamocó country, many mines, eh, Don Jorge?” exchanging a significant look with the latter.
“But,” he added, glancing at the perspiring Honda, “this old tub is going to hang up here for the night. So do me the honor, señores, to visit my little cell, and we will fight the cursed mosquitoes over a sip of red rum. I have some of very excellent quality.”