“Thanks, holy Father, there is no need for either; mine was a slight service, more than requited by the pleasure of travelling in your company and that of this pious maiden. I have learned many a goodly lesson by the way, and will think over them as I wander on my future pilgrimage.”
“And whither may that tend, Señhor?”
“To the shrine of 'Our Lady of Sorrows' at Aguaverde, by the help of Saint Francis.”
“Aguaverde!” exclaimed Fra Miguel, with a voice that bespoke anything rather than pleasure; “it is a long and a dangerous journey, young man!”
“The greater the merit, Father!”
“Trackless wastes and deep rivers, hostile Indians and even more cruel half-breeds. These are some of the perils,” said he, in a voice of warning; but a gentle pressure from the Señhora's fingers was more than an answer to such terrors.
“You can make your penance here, young man, at the Convent of the Missions. There are holy men who will give you all good counsel; and I will myself speak to them for you.”
I was about to decline this polite intervention, when a quiet gesture from Donna Maria arrested my words, and made me accept the offer, with thanks.
Thus chatting, we reached the suburbs of Bexar, and soon entered the main street of that town. And here let me record a strange feature of the life of this land, which, although one that I soon became accustomed to, had a most singular aspect to my eyes on first acquaintance. It was a hot and sultry night of June, the air as dry and parched as of a summer day in our English climate; and we found that the whole population had their beds disposed along the streets, and were sleeping for the benefit of the cool night air,—al fresco. There was no moon, nor any lamplight, but by the glimmering stars we could see this strange encampment, which barely left a passage in the middle for the mule-carts.