"Spain," said Lopez, severely—"Spain is a Christian country."
"True—true; I forgot," said Brooke.
"In an infidel country," continued Lopez, "like England or America, the State regulates marriage, of course; but it is different in Spain—very different."
Brooke scarcely heard this. He was groping about mentally in search of an idea. Another one came—a hopeless one, like the last—but he caught at it, since there was nothing else to do.
"This priest," said he, "is an Englishman."
"Well!" said Lopez, with a slight expression of surprise.
"I didn't know but that it might make some difference," said Brooke, meekly.
"Difference! How?"
"Not—not knowing your language, you know."
"My language!" said Lopez; "what does that matter? He has the language of the Church, and that language every priest uses in the formulas and services of the Church, whether he is a Spaniard, or an Englishman, or an African negro. He celebrates the sacraments in the words laid down by the Church, and the languages of the various nations have nothing to do with these holy rites. I fear, señor, you are raising objections which will seem as strange and unreasonable to your friend, this good priest, as they do to me."