Before I could trace out either his shape, or countenance, the whispering stranger again addressed me:—
“I hope, señor, you will not be offended by my free speech? It gratifies us Catolicos to perceive that our Holy Church is making converts among the Americanos. I’ve been told there is a good deal of this sort of thing. Our padres will be delighted to know that their conquest by the Word is likely to compensate for our defeat by the sword.”
Despite the impertinence, there was something so ingenious in the argument thus introduced, that I was prevented from making immediate reply. Stark surprise had also to do with my silence.
I waited upon my eyes, in order that I might first see what sort of personage was speaking to me.
Gradually my sight overcame the obscurity, and disclosed what the corner contained: a man several degrees darker than the shadow itself, up to his ears in a serapé, with a black sombrero above them, and between hat and “blanket” a countenance that could only belong to a scoundrel!
I could see a bearded chin and lip, and a face lit up by a pair of eyes sparkling with sinister light. I could see, moreover, that despite the badinage of the speeches addressed to me there was real anger in them!
The sarcasm was all pretence. He, who had given utterance to it, was too much in earnest to deal long in irony; and I did not for a moment doubt that I was standing in the presence of one who, like myself, was a candidate for the smiles of Mercedes Villa-Señor.
The thought was not one to make me more tolerant of the slight that had been put upon me. On the contrary, it but increased my indignation—already at a white heat.
“Señor!” I said, in a voice with great difficulty toned down to a whisper, “you may thank your stars you are inside a church. If you’d spoken those words upon the street, they’d have been the last of your life.”
“The street’s not far off. Come out; and I shall there repeat them.”