The young Manilian who confounded the Tagalo with the Greek entered, trembling.
Every one was greatly astonished. His Excellency must be much annoyed to make the monks wait this way. Said Brother Sibyla:
“I have nothing to say to him, and I’m wasting my time here.”
“I also,” said an Augustin. “Shall we go?”
“Would it not be better to find out what he thinks?” asked Brother Salvi. “We should avoid a scandal, and we could remind him—of his duty——”
“Your reverences may enter,” said the aid, conducting back the young man, who came out radiant.
The fathers went in and saluted the governor.
“Who among your reverences is the Brother Dámaso?” demanded His Excellency at once, without asking them to be seated or inquiring for their health, and without any of those complimentary phrases which form the repertory of dignitaries.
“Señor, Father Dámaso is not with us,” replied Father Sibyla, in a tone almost as dry.
“Your Excellency’s servant is ill,” added the humble Brother Salvi. “We come, after saluting Your Excellency and inquiring for his health, to speak in the name of Your Excellency’s respectful servant, who has had the misfortune——”