“Oh, it is too late, far too late!” cried the father, wringing his hands.
“Let me speak with Maria herself. Let me also speak with this Don Lopez. I may be able to make him understand reason, however dull his comprehension.”
“This cannot be, Señhor Caballero,” said another voice. It was Fra Miguel, who, having heard all that passed, now joined the colloquy. “Nothing short of a dispensation from the Holy See could annul the marriage, and Don Lopez is not likely to ask for one.”
“I will not suffer it,” cried I, in desperation. “I would rather carry her away by force than permit such a desecration.”
“Hush! for the love of the Virgin, Señhor,” cried Don Estaban. “Don Lopez is captain of the Alguazils of the Guard, and a Grand Inquisitor.”
“What signifies that in Mexico?” said I, boldly.
“More than you think for, Señhor,” whispered Fra Miguel. “We have not ceased to be good Catholics, although we are no longer subjects of Old Spain.” There was an air of cool menace in the way these words were spoken that made me feel very ill at ease. I soon rallied, however, and, drawing the Friar to one side, said, “How many crowns will buy a candelabrum worthy of your chapel?”
He looked at me fixedly for a few seconds, and his shrewd features assumed a character of almost comic cunning. “The Virgin de los Dolores is too simple for such luxuries, Señhor Condé,” said he, with a sly drollery.
“Would she not condescend to wear a few gems in her petticoat?” asked I, with the easy assurance of one not to be balked.
“She has no pleasure in such vanities,” said the Fra, with an hypocritical casting down of his eyes.