“Gracias for thy affectionate remembrance of me, even with the thought of the scourge in thy mind; but it must not blind us to the fact that thou didst purloin a choice melon from the garden, having previously flouted Fray Antonio, and having subsequently seduced thy fellows, and done many things which thou shouldst not have done.”
“It was very wicked of me,” said Diego; “but would you for that have me taken from the convent and carried to certain destruction?”
“Tut!” said the friar, scornfully.
“But he will do it,” whined Diego. “You heard what the man said, that he had not yet his complement.”
“Tut!” said the friar again.
“I see how it is,” said Diego, trying a new tack, “you bear me malice for calling you old, and you would have me removed from the bosom of the church. You care nothing for my future welfare. ’Tis unchristian to hate me so bitterly.”
“Tut, tut! tut, tut!” said the worthy friar, uneasily. “‘Tis because I cherish thee in my heart, thou scape-grace! that I will not do thee the wrong to punish thee insufficiently. How many times have I praised thee for thy facility in declension and conjugation? How often have I told thee that thou wert the best student of them all and wouldst be a credit to us but for thy scampish tricks? How often hast thou cajoled me, in my love for thee, and escaped the punishment thou shouldst have had in justice?”
“You have indeed been very good,” said Diego, watching the face above him out of the corner of his eye; “why then will you wreck my wretched life now? I tell you, Martin Alonzo will snatch me from the convent and take me with him. I feel it in my heart.”
There was uneasiness in the heart of the friar, for he loved the boy, and there was enough in what he said to make an impression on his fears, too. Martin Alonzo might do the thing Diego dreaded, or pretended to dread. Diego saw that the good man wavered, and a grin overspread his countenance. The friar, chancing to look down, saw the grimace.