The girl bowed and disappeared, returning a moment after to tell the two gentlemen that they could enter. They were then introduced into a rather spacious room, lighted by four glazed windows—an extraordinary luxury in such a place—in front of which hung heavy red damask curtains. This room, entirely lined with stamped Cordovan leather, was furnished in the Spanish style, with that good taste which only the Castilians of the old race have kept, and was, through its arrangement, half drawing room, half oratory. In one corner an ebony prie-dieu, surmounted by an ivory crucifix, which time had turned yellow, and several pictures of saints, signed by Murillo and Zurbaran, would have caused the apartment to be taken for an oratory, had not comfortable sofas, tables loaded with books, and butacas, proved it to be a drawing room. Near a silver brasero two persons were sitting in butacas.
Of these, one was a lady, the other a Franciscan monk; both had passed midlife, or, to speak more correctly, were close on fifty years of age.
The lady wore the Spanish garb fashionable in her youth—that is to say, some thirty years before. Although her hair was beginning to grow white, and a few deep wrinkles altered the purity of her features, still it was easy to see that she must have been very lovely once on a time. Her skin, of a slightly olive hue, was extremely fine, and in the firm marked lines of her face, the distinctive character of the purest Aztec race could be recognised. Her black eyes, shaded by long lashes, and whose corners rose slightly, like those of the Mongolians, had an expression of strange gentleness, and her whole face revealed mildness and intelligence. Although she was below the ordinary height of women, she still retained the elegance of youth; and her exquisitely modelled hands and feet were almost of a microscopic smallness. Fray Serapio was the true type of the Spanish monk—handsome, majestic, and dreamy—and seemed as if he had stepped out of a picture by Zurbaran. When the two gentlemen entered, the lady and the Padre rose.
"You are welcome, my darling child," the old lady said, opening her arms to her son.
The latter rushed into them, and for some minutes there was an uninterrupted series of caresses between mother and son.
"Forgive me, Padre Serapio," Stronghand at length said, as he freed himself from the gentle bondage; "but it is so long since I had the pleasure of embracing my mother, that I cannot leave off."
"Embrace your mother, my child," the monk answered, with a smile; "a mother's caresses are the only ones that do not entail regret."
"What are you about, Padre?" Thunderbolt asked; "Are you going to leave us already?"
"Yes; and pray excuse me for going away so soon; but after a lengthened separation, you must have much to say to one another, and a third person, however friendly he may be, is always in the way at such a time. Moreover, my brothers and I have a good deal to do at present, owing to so many white hunters and trappers being in the village."
"Are you satisfied with your neophytes?"