[CHAPTER IV.]
THE LEGATE OF HIS HOLINESS.
As he rose from his seat and advanced toward the iron chest, the curtain of the doorway was thrust aside, and the light shone upon a slender form, clad in black, and upon a pallid face, framed in masses of jet-black hair.
"Gaspar Manuel! at last!" ejaculated Martin Fulmer.
"Pardon me for this intrusion," said Gaspar Manuel, in a tone of quiet dignity,—"I would have seen you ere this, but unexpected events prevented me. It is of the last importance that I should converse with you without delay."
The entrance of the man, whose slender form was clad in a frock-coat of black cloth, single-breasted, and reaching to the knees,—whose face, unnaturally pale, was in strong contrast with the blackness of his moustache and beard, and of the hair, which fell in wavy masses to his shoulders,—created a singular and marked impression.
With one impulse, Godlike, Yorke and Randolph rose to their feet. For the first time, they remarked that the stranger wore on his right breast a golden cross, and carried in his left hand a casket of dark wood,—perchance ebony.
"I wish to see you in regard to the lands in California, near the mission of San Luis," said Gaspar Manuel, his voice, touched with a foreign accent, yet singularly sweet and emphatic in its intonation.—"Lands claimed by yourself, on behalf of the Van Huyden estate, and also by the Order of Jesus. Many acres of these lands are rich in everything that can bless a climate soft as Italy, but there are one thousand barren acres which abound in fruit like this."
He placed the casket upon the table, unlocked it, and displayed its contents.