He was not in the Cathedral—at least, I could not see him. I had my own thoughts about the cause of his absence.
Less accustomed to “sparkling wine,” he had not borne its effects like the boon companion who shared the revel along with him; or had not so readily recovered from it.
Certainly he was not there. So much the less trouble for Tia Josefa!
I could have told Dolores a tale that would have given her gratification. I wanted to do as much for Mercedes.
The time passed—chant and psalm, lesson and prayer, rapidly succeeding one another. Bells were tinkled, incense burnt, and wax candles carried about.
Still kept Mercedes her eyes upon the altar; still seemed she absorbed by a ceremonial, which to me appeared more than absurd—idolatrous.
In my heart I hated it worse than ever in my life. I could scarce restrain myself from scowling upon the priest. I envied him the position that could make his paltry performance so attractive—to eyes like those then looking upon him.
Thank heaven they are mine at last—at last!
Yes: at last they were mine. I was seen, and recognised.
I had entered the Cathedral without thought of worshipping at its altar. The love I carried in my heart was different from that inculcated within those sacred walls—far different from that inscribed upon the tablet: “God is love.” My love was human; and, perhaps, impure! I shall not say that it was what it should have been—a love, such as we read of among troubadours and knights-errant of the olden time. I can lay claim to belong to no other class than that of the simple adventurer; who, with tongue, pen, or sword—as the chances turned up—has been able, in some sort, to make his way through the world!