“Too late, too late!” sobbed Nenetzin.
And she passed out the door; the curtain dropped behind her; and Tula went to the couch, and wept as if her heart were breaking.
Not yet have all the modes in which ills of state become ills of society been written.
CHAPTER IV.
ENNUYÉ IN THE OLD PALACE.
“Father, holy father!—and by my sword, as belted knight, Olmedo, I call thee so in love and honor,—I have heard thee talk in learned phrase about the saints, and quote the sayings of monks, mere makers of books, which I will swear are for the most part dust, or, at least, not half so well preserved as the bones of their scribblers,—I say I have thus heard thee talk and quote for hours at a time, until I have come to think thy store of knowledge is but jargon of that kind. Shake thy head! Jargon, I say a second time.”
“It is knowledge that leadeth to righteousness. Bien quisto! Thou wouldst do well to study it,” replied the padre, curtly.
A mocking smile curled the red-haired lip of the cavalier. “Knowledge truly! I recollect hearing the Señor Hernan once speak of thee. He said thou wert to him a magazine, full of learning precious as breadstuffs.”
“Right, my son! Breadstuffs for the souls of sinners irreverent as—”