CHAPTER XXI
What Padre Libertad saw or heard he did not particularize. But when Keith Bryton, the day of the Spanish dance, had arisen and dressed, and talked a little with all those known to him in the Mission, except the mistress of it, the bearded priest closed the door on them all, and came and sat beside him.
"To-morrow, my friend, we go," he said.
"Can I—will she speak to me—once?"
"What is there to say to a woman like that? God! To think that such a one should be Rafael Arteaga's wife!"
"No," agreed the other; "there is nothing to be said. Only I would like to see her face once, even though she should not know it. Could that be?"
"It is not wise; it sends you away with more of a heartache; but there is one place she goes each evening as the stars come out. There is one saint left in one niche of the old ruin. Since she rode with us from the hills, flowers are always there, and she goes from her own chapel there—to pray, perhaps. She has not said so, but—"
"I can see her there. Will you—will you try to manage that no one else comes? Oh, it will be brief enough, even if we speak. But the statue in the niche—I can't remember."
"It is in the shadow. The draperies of red are very faded, and so is the gilt of the embroideries now. Once it was very gorgeous, and it is called Maria Madalena."