"Shame, nonsense," said Montoro good-humouredly. "In my boyhood, when I first came out here under the great Admiral, I and others paid loving reverence to our Saviour before one of these native crosses. And doubtless, He who sees the hearts of men accepted our prayers and praises, for the spirit with which they were offered."
Cabrera's superstitious fears seemed somewhat relieved.
"What sayest thou, father?" he asked.
Father Olmedo paused a few moments. He was a good and merciful man, and a good priest; but his training had cramped his intellect, and he could not quite as readily as Diego grasp at true and noble thoughts. Until now he had felt almost as horrified as the worshipper himself, that Christian prayers should have been offered up at an idol's feet. But Cabrera was impatient.
"Say, father, do you also think that I have placed my soul in no jeopardy?"
Bartolomé de Olmedo must reply.
"Thy soul in jeopardy?" he repeated hastily. "Nay, then, nay; there is here no question of thy soul, my son, seeing thou didst it but in ignorance; and for those who sin in ignorance our Lord hath said the stripes shall be few."
"But still, then, there will be those few," muttered the young Spaniard, eyeing the small cross vindictively, before he turned back to Montoro with the reproachful query—
"Diego, thou couldst stop the father from kneeling to false gods, why wert thou too careful of thy breath to spare me a word of warning?"
Montoro smiled at his unreasonable companion.