“Ave Maria! Santissima!” ejaculated the padre, crossing himself and kissing his cross; “I pray for him. You must give him to me, doctor. I will make him a little priest, and he shall swing the censer and chant the Misericordia when I get the new chapel built.”
“Time enough to think of that, mi padre, when he gets strong again. But just now all the prayers you can say for him will do him no good, and so I hope you won’t put yourself to the trouble.”
“Cierto, amigo, doctor; but don’t sneer at the prayers of the 77 Church. They do good; they ease the soul and soothe the pangs of Purgatory.”
“Ah! and how long do you expect to stop in Purgatory?”
“Ave purissima! What a question to ask your pious and devout Padre Ricardo!”
“Question the devil when you want fire,” retorted the doctor, as he opened a book lying on the table before him, and put an end to the dialogue. His companion quietly helped himself to a measure of pure gin, and unclasped the covers of his richly-bound missal.
Scarcely, however, had their conversation ceased, when a hoarse hum of many voices was heard in the direction of the sheds without, mingled with shouts in all tongues and uproarious laughter.
“Peste!” said the doctor, looking out of an open window; “the people have knocked off work and are coming home to their supper. They seem to have brought some of the crew of the felucca with them too. We shall have a loud night of it, for the captain has sent them a pipe of wine and a barrel of rum to carouse with.”
“Pobre çitos! they have had a hard time of it during the summer––short of rum, and water too, I hear, and they need refreshment and repose. So many of my poor flock killed, too, by that savage American corvette, and I not near to administer the last consolations and holy rite!” sighed the padre, as he kissed the crucifix and bowed his head. “There is Lascar Joe, too, among the missing! He refused the sacrament, infidel as he was, the day before he sailed; but what turtle-soup he made!” The padre hereupon sighed deeply again, but whether for the loss of the Lascar or the soup, no one knows.
The noise without increased––the rattle of crockery, the clinking of glasses, the moving of feet, and all the sounds of hungry, boisterous sailors at table. Soon, too, a shout or cheer would be heard, then a verse of a song, roars of laughter, and now and then the tinkle of a guitar struck by vigorous fingers in waltz or fandango.