A nun in a coarse habit passed; the rough woolen of her gown caught in the hem of the young lady’s silk dress, and showed a pair of little feet in flesh-colored silk stockings and satin shoes.
“At the feet of the young lady,” said Patsy, “I desire greatly to purchase a photograph. Will she do me the divine favor of choosing?”
“I kiss the hand of the horseman. It appears this large one is the most good; it is, as well, the more dear.”
The slight lisp, the smell of jasmines, the turn of wrist, as the pink fan opened and shut, were all familiar. Where—when—had we seen her? Patsy knew: it was Luz of the agate eyes!
I forget what day it was that Pemberton and I stayed at the cathedral after mass to hear the Archbishop’s sermon, but this seems a good time to tell about it. The Archbishop was a refined, silvery old ascetic, who looked like Cardinal Newman. He preached as the students of the Theatre Français talk, as if speech were first a fine art, second an expression of thought. Pausing now and then from exhaustion, he poured out an eloquent appeal to love the Mother of God. After service the Archbishop was escorted to the episcopal palace near the cathedral, by a sacristan, carrying a silver mace, another with a tall, double cross, and six haughty young priests in new purple silk gowns.
“Do you notice,” asked Pemberton, “the difference between the Italian and the Spanish priests? The Italian looks at you sidelong, when you are not looking; sizes up your feeling about him and his church. Your Spaniard is a bird of a different feather; he doesn’t give a maravedi what you think of him. You are on trial, not he. The only question is, are you what you should be? That he is, there can be no peradventure.”
We joined the crowd of women and beggars following the Archbishop in his fine violet robe, scarlet moire skull-cap, and amethyst cross. A wild-eyed woman with a bruised face threw herself at his feet, holding up a despairing hand as if in appeal. Tired and feeble, the old man paused patiently, and said some words of fatherly comfort. She kissed the great sapphire on his transparent old hand and drew back weeping, as if ashamed.
“The heart of man changeth not,” said Pemberton. “In the days of the Inquisition there were priests tender-hearted as the Archbishop. He could not send a cat to torture or the stake. That big priest, with the brutal jaw, the one who limps, looks cruel as Torquemada; he would condemn a man to la Parra (the dungeon in the Bishop’s Palace over there) as quick as winking—if he could!”
The shadow on the sun-dial over the palace door pointed to twelve. We followed the women into the handsome courtyard, hung with blue and striped hangings, and watched the Archbishop totter feebly up the fine marble stair. At the door he turned and gave the episcopal blessing, two fingers raised, and went indoors with his escort. He was followed by people bearing gifts of fruit and cakes. Four strong men carried up a large tray of yellow frosted pyramids stuck all over with candied cherries.
“Red and yellow, the Spanish colors,” said Pemberton. “I hope Torquemada and the others stay to luncheon and eat up those pyramids; they would not be good for the Archbishop.”