A little later the Padre Libertad was stopped in the corridor by Raquel. He had been watching the dancers, and was about to start south. Like Bryton, he meant to ride at night, instead of in the hot sun.
"Wait," she said, imperatively; "the chapel is open; I would confess before you go."
"But to-morrow—your own padre—"
"To-night," she said; "and I want no other padre."
"If you have remembered a sin—" he began, hesitatingly; but she interrupted.
"I think it is neither sin nor remorse," she said, quietly; "but it is you that must listen to me."
He closed the door behind them. Old Polonia crouched unnoticed beside it, and in perhaps ten minutes he came out again, and started to walk the road to the sea. Rafael saw him, and laughed at the queer crack-brained padre who preferred walking to riding a good horse. Others laughed also, and the dance went on, until the partners of Doña Angela grew impatient, and a gay party with guitars started to encircle the plaza for her, singing love-songs of appeal as they went.
“Things Known and Never Told”
The white gleam of the brocaded gown caught the eyes of the singers, and then a great cry went up in the night, and the music of the dance ceased, and the people crowded about the dead woman on the altar steps, and the old Indios crossed themselves, and said in their own tongue: