Josè and Don Jorge bowed their acquiescence and followed him up the muddy road. The cell referred to consisted of a suite of several rooms, commodiously furnished, and looking out from the second story of one of the better colonial houses of the town upon a richly blooming interior patio. As the visitors entered, a comely young woman who had just lighted an oil-burning “student” lamp and placed it upon the center table, disappeared into one of the more remote rooms.
“My niece,” said the priest Diego, winking at Don Jorge as he set out cigars and a garrafón of Jamaica rum. “I have ordered a case of American beer,” he continued, lighting a cigar. “But that was two months ago, and it hasn’t arrived yet. Diablo! but the good médico tells me I drink too much rum for this very Christian climate.”
Don Jorge swept the place with an appraising glance. “H’m,” he commented, as he poured himself a liberal libation from the garrafón. “The Lord surely provides for His faithful children.”
“Yes, the Lord, that’s right,” laughed Padre Diego; “still I am daily rendering no small thanks to His Grace, Don Wenceslas, future Bishop of Cartagena.”
“And eminent services into the bargain, I’ll venture,” added Don Jorge.
Padre Diego’s eyes twinkled merrily. Josè started. Then even in this remote town the artful Wenceslas maintained his agent!
“But our friend is neither drinking nor smoking,” said Padre Diego, turning inquiringly to Josè, who had left his glass untouched.
“With your permission,” replied the latter; “I do not use liquor or tobacco.”
“Nor women either, eh?” laughed Padre Diego. “Por Dios! what is it the Dutchman says?
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‘Wer nicht liebt Wein, Weib und Gesang, Der bleibt ein Narr sein Lebenlang.’ |