“But why?” cried Don Ramón. “Is there no sense in what I say? Cannot you understand?”
“My son, my understanding goes no further than my faith, my duty, will allow. I am not a clever man. I live by faith, and my duty to my sacred office. Understand that I do not understand.”
“Good-day, Father!” said Ramón, suddenly rising.
“Go with God, my son,” said the Bishop, rising and lifting his fingers.
“Adios, Señor!” said Cipriano, clicking his spurs, and putting his hand on his sword as he turned to the door.
“Adios, Señor General,” said the Bishop, darting after them his eyes of old malice, which they could feel in their backs.
“He will say nothing,” said Cipriano, as he and Ramón went down the steps. “The old jesuit, he only wants to keep his job and his power, and prevent the heart’s beating. I know them. All they treasure, even more than their money, is their centipede power over the frightened people; especially over the women.”
“I didn’t know you hated them,” laughed Ramón.
“Waste no more breath on them, my dear one,” said Cipriano. “Go forward, you can walk over broken snakes such as those.”
As they went on foot past the post-office square, where the modern scribes at little tables under the arches sat tapping out letters on their typewriters for the poor and illiterate, who waited with their few centavos to have their messages turned into florid Castilian, Ramón and Cipriano met with an almost startled respect.