“Perhaps,” began Padre Alonzo, deprecatingly, “perhaps ’twere as well to take her out of temptation’s way, to——”
Padre Anzar raised his shoulders, strode over to knife and trowel and caught them up. “Move her as thou wilt,” he said grumpily, “and the farther the better. Tony is proper for us, pretty and songful. But that parrot,”—he shook his tools as if they were Loretta—“how altogether useless and ugly and noisy and blasphemous and good-for-naught!”
With this he departed into the shrubbery.
Sounds were still coming from the kitchen—Gabrielda’s cracked voice, Loretta’s cries, the sullen yowling of a cat. Nodding sadly, Padre Alonzo waddled to the perch, vacant and formed like a cross. This he lifted and bore to a place along the wall opposite the great crucifix, where climbed no flowers. Then, smiling gently, as if with some tender thought, he waddled back to the trellis, took the cage from its nail, and, returning to the perch, hung Tony close beside.
Late that night, on coming out of the chapel, Padre Alonzo discovered a little black something blocking his way along the moonlit path. As he paused, leaning forward to peer, the black something sidled nearer him, and saluted.
“Buenos noches!” it said, its voice monotonous and human with grief and weariness; “buenas noches! buenas noches!”
The padre bent lower and lifted the parrot to the level of his face. “Aye, good-night truly, as thou sayest,” he repeated proudly. “Thou hast some wicked words of a garrison town, but thou knowest the difference between sun and moon.”
“Aw, Lora,” murmured the parrot; “aw, Lo-ra! Lo-ra!”
“Yes, Tomasso has used thee badly.” Padre Alonzo patted her head. “I shall put thee on thy perch,” he went on; “though I trust good Anzar will not know it. But the moon is up, and my heart is tender. Alas! one does many things when the moon is up. And the next day—one does penance.”