The Archbishop eyed him.
“She loves him?”
“She loves him.”
“He is poor!”
“She is rich.”
“You should marry her,” said the Archbishop, and shrugged his shoulders.
A week after he met them all again; and this was that evening in the garden.
VI.
Now, this arch-priest had been a peon, and a soldier in del Torre’s army; and then he had left it, and had seen the viceroy and been traitor to the rebels, and so became a priest; and then, heaven and the vice-queen knew how, bishop; and but that his archiepiscopal credentials were now fresh from Rome, del Torre, still a Catholic, had called him traitor! Del Torre could not like the man, though he stood between him and God; and he knew that disliking must be mutual; and he marvelled, simple soldier! that the intoxicating message came from him. But he put this cup of heaven from his lips.
For del Torre, from his fierce August of war, had learned to love this April maiden with all his heart, and with all his life and his strong soul. Were not his hairs gray, and his face so worn and weather-beaten? And his heart—he had none fit for this lady of the light. Enough that it was his pearls that clasped her slender waist.