"Still," the count remarked, "this is only a palliative, after all. The marriage cannot take place yet. A fortnight, perhaps a month, will elapse ere I have rendered myself master of a city. Till then Doña Angela must remain in the camp where she has hitherto been."
All eyes were anxiously turned to the missionary.
"No," he said, "if the young lady will allow me to offer her a shelter."
"A shelter!" she said with an inquiring glance.
"Very simple and most unworthy to receive her, doubtlessly," he continued, "but where at least she will be in safety, in the midst of a family of honourable and good persons, to whom it will be a delight to receive her."
"Is the shelter you offer me, my father, very far from here?" the maiden asked quickly.
"Twenty-five leagues at the most, in the direction in which the French expedition must proceed on its march into Sonora."
Doña Angela gave a cunning smile at having been so well understood by the good priest.
"Listen, my father," she said with that resolution which was one of the principal features of her character. "Your reputation reached me long ago, and I know that you are a holy man. Even if I did not know you, the friendship and respect Don Valentine professes for you would be to me a sufficient guarantee. I trust myself in your hands. I understand how unsuitable my presence in the camp now, at any rate, is. Take me wherever you please. I am ready to follow you."
"My child," the missionary said with charming unction, "it is God who inspires this determination. The grief you will feel at a separation of a few days at the most will double the happiness of a reunion which no one will dare any longer to oppose—which will not only raise you again in the public opinion, which it is always precious to preserve, but also give your reputation a lustre which it will be hopeless to try and tarnish."