Olmedo attempted to speak.
“Open not thy mouth, father, except to breathe. I will talk until thy tire is over. I was on the Moors. A fine race they were, bating always their religion. Of their songs, thou hast probably heard that mournful roundelay, the Loves of Gazul and Abindarraez; probably listened to Tales of the Arabian Nights, or to verses celebrating the tournaments in the Bivarrambla. Certainly, thou hast heard recitals of the rencontres, scimitar in hand, between the Zegris and Abencerrages. By Sta. Agnes! they have had warriors fit for the noblest songs. At least, father, thou knowest—” He stopped abruptly, while a lad mounted the roof and approached them, cap in hand.
“Excellent Señor, so it please thee, my master hath somewhat to say to thee in his chamber below. And”—crossing himself to Olmedo—“if the holy father will remember me in his next prayer, I will tell him that Bernal Diaz is looking for him.”
“Doth thy master want me also?”
“That is Diaz’s massage.”
“What can be in the wind now?” asked Alvarado, musingly.
“Hadst thou asked me that question—”
“Couldst thou have answered? Take the chance! What doth thy master intend?”
“Look, Don Pedro, and thou, good father,” replied the page; “look to the top of yon pile so ridiculously called a temple of—”
“Speak it, as thou lovest me,” cried Alvarado.