“Would she not accept of an embroidered handkerchief,” said I, “to dry her tears? I have known one of this pattern to possess the most extraordinary powers of consolation;” and as I spoke I drew forth a bank-note of some amount, and gently drew it across his knuckles.
A slight tremor shook his frame, and a short, convulsive motion was perceptible in the hand I had “galvanized;” but in an instant, with his habitual calm smile and mellow voice, he said, “Your piety will bring a blessing upon you, Señhor, but our poor shrine is unused to such princely donations.”
“Confound the old hypocrite,” muttered I to myself; “what is he at?—Fra Miguel,” said I, assuming the business-like manner of a man who could not afford to lose time, “the Virgin may be, and doubtless is, all that you say of her; but there must needs be many excellent and devout men here, yourself doubtless among the number, who see numberless objects of charity, for whom their hearts bleed in vain. Take this, and remember that he who gave it, only asks as a return your prayers and good wishes.”
The Friar deposited the present in some inscrutable fold of his loose garment, and then, drawing himself proudly up, said, “Well, now what is it?”
“Am I too late?” asked I, with the same purpose-like tone.
“Of course you are; the ceremony is finished, the contracts are signed and witnessed. In an hour they will be away on their road to the Havannah.”
“You have no consolation to offer me,—no hope?”
“None of an earthly character,” said he, with a half-closed eye.
“Confound your hypocrisy!” cried I, in a rage.
“Don't be profane,” said he, calmly. “What I have said is true. Heaven will some day take Don Lopez,—he is too good for this wicked world; and then, who knows what may happen?”