We halted during the great heat of the day, and the Fra once more “rigging” out his capote for a hammock, Donna Maria lay down for the siesta, while I cut grass for Charry, and rubbed her down. Long fasting had made us all more disposed to silence, so that a few monosyllables were all that passed. When the time came to resume the road, I am proud to say that the Fra bore his privations with less equanimity than did we. His sighs grew heavy and frequent; any accidental interruption on the road evoked unmistakable signs of irritation; he even expostulated with certain saints, whose leaden images decorated his sombrero, as to the precise reasons for which his present sufferings were incurred; and altogether, as hunger pinched, showed a more rebellious spirit than his holy discourses of the preceding evening could have led me to suspect.
One time, he charged his calamities to the score of having eaten turtle, which was only half fish, on a Friday; at another, it was upon that unlucky day the journey had been begun; then he remembered that the Mexican was only a half-breed, who possibly, if baptized at all, was only an irregular kind of a Christian, admitted into the fold by some stray missionary, more trapper than priest. Then he bethought him that his patron, Saint Michel of Pavia, was of an uncertain humor, and often tormented his votaries, by way of trying their fidelity. These various doubts assumed the form of open grumblings, which certainly inspired very different sentiments in Donna Maria and myself than edification. As evening closed in, and darkness favored us, these ghostly lamentations afforded us many a low, quiet laugh. A soft pressure of the hand, which now, by mere accident, of course, she had let fall near me, would sometimes show how we concurred in our sentiments, till at length as the thicker gloom of night fell around, such was our unanimity that her hand remained clasped in my own, without any further attempt to remove it.
If the Fra's gratitude burst forth eloquently as we came in sight of some spangled lights glittering through the gloom, our sensations were far more akin to disappointment.
“Bexar at last, praised be Saint Michel!” exclaimed he. “It has been a long and dreary journey.” Here I pressed Donna Maria's hand, and she returned the pressure.
“Two days of disaster and sore suffering!” Another squeeze of the Señhora's fingers.
“A time I shall never forget,” muttered he.
“Nor I,” whispered I to my fair companion.
“A season of trouble and distress!” quoth the Fra.
“Of love and happiness!” muttered I.
“And now, my worthy young friend,” said he, addressing me, “as we are so soon to part,—for yonder is Bexar,—how shall we best show our gratitude? Would you like a 'novena' to 'Our Lady of Tears,' whose altar is here? or shall we vow a candle to Saint Nicomedè of Terapia?”