“That doesn’t fit it. They would have told us. It’s more likely that a priest has come with extreme unction, in need of a guide through the forest.”
“No. That doesn’t fit it. The man who fetched the priest would be the guide. And the priests here need no guide to any of their flock.”
“A revivalist preacher would draw these negroes,” Hilary said.
“Not these Catholics, and certainly not without telling us,” his sister answered. “It must be one of two things, Hilary. Either there has been some miraculous appearance in the wood, which would draw them out to worship, or these rum-runners have devised something. I begin to be afraid, Hilary.”
“I’m not afraid,” he said. “Do not you be afraid. Listen a moment. That tom-tom noise seems louder.”
They listened, while the thudding resolved itself into the plodding of a trotting carriage-horse coming from the direction of the port.
“A carriage,” she said. “It may be Paco with his buggy.”
“It’s more likely to be Colonel Mackenzie,” he said.
They listened, while the jog-trot of the horse drew so near that they could hear the noise of the wheels behind him. A carriage lamp shone through the trees. One of the city caleches came to a standstill before them. The driver told his fare that this was Los Xicales.
Hilary lit a new copy of La Nacion, so that he might see this fare. The man got out of the caleche and came towards him. He was a sleepy-looking man with a face seemingly made of wood. He blinked as he spoke. His speech came from somewhere in the northern midlands.