Padre Anzar half-turned, scowling. For answer, he only pointed to the severed fuchsias.
The other looked, covering any regret with simulated astonishment. “These were dropping of themselves yesterday,” he began between breaths. “They—they fell fast in the night—er?” He came beside the other now, partly to support the suspended Loretta in his hands. “I saw them—truly.”
“Bah!” And Padre Anzar gave Loretta such a shake that she tumbled, squawking and sputtering, from the other’s hands and again hung, heels above head, like a chicken caught for the block.
“She did but what the wind hadst done,” faltered Padre Alonzo. “Sst! sst!” (This to the parrot.) “Such language from a lady!”
“Ah-ha!” grunted Padre Anzar. “I told thee not to buy a bird that was raised in a garrison town.”
“To-o-ny! To-o-ny!” pleaded the parrot. “A-aw, To-ony!”
“Yes,” he went on solemnly, addressing her, “and thou art of the devil, and hast as many tricks. Twice I forgave thee—once for shouting ‘Fire’ on St. John’s Day as the censer passed; again, for pulling the feathers out of Señor Esteban’s choice hen. But thou wilt not escape now. Now, thou’lt go to the kitchen and be shut in with Gabrielda’s black mouser. There thou shalt shed some quills.”
With this dire threat, he departed along the path, Loretta still hanging head down at his knee.
Scarcely a moment later a commotion sounded from the distance, a commotion muffled by ’dobe wall. First came the voice of old Gabrielda, then the clatter of an overturning pan, next the terror-stricken shrieks of Loretta. Presently, Padre Anzar appeared, his jaw set, his eyes shining with the look of duty done.
“She will be nicely scared this time,” he told Padre Alonzo. “She will match her busy beak with Tomasso’s claws, and she will remember hereafter to let my blossoms alone.”