The father lit a candle of yellow tallow standing in an iron candlestick, and, aided by Don Pablo, laid the wounded man on his own bed; after which the young man fell back into the butaca to regain his breath. Father Seraphin, on whom, spite of his fragile appearance, the fatigue had produced no apparent effect, then went downstairs to lock the street door, which he had left open. As he pushed it to, he felt an opposition outside, and a man soon entered the yard.
"Pardon, my reverend father," the stranger said; "but be kind enough not to leave me outside."
"Do you live in this house?"
"No," the stranger coolly replied, "I do not live in Santa Fe, where I am quite unknown."
"Do you ask hospitality of me, then?" Father Seraphin continued, much surprised at this answer.
"Not at all, reverend father."
"Then what do you want?" the missionary said, still more surprised.
"I wish to follow you to the room where you have laid the wounded man, to whose aid you came so generously a short time back."
"This request, sir—" the priest said, hesitating.
"Has nothing that need surprise you. I have the greatest interest in seeing with my own eyes in what state that man is, for certain reasons which in no way concern you."