“Certainly I see it,” answered the other, after depressing the telescope. “And the thicket we came through on its further side—quite distinctly.”
“Look to the right of that, then you’ll observe a large house, standing in the middle of the maguey fields. Have you caught it?”
“Yes; why do you ask?”
“Because that house has an interest for me—a very special one. Whom do you suppose it belongs to; or I should rather say did, and ought to belong to?”
“How should I know, holy father?” asked Kearney, thinking it somewhat strange his being so interrogated. “True,” responded the Abbot; “how could you, my son? But I’ll tell you. That magueyal is mine by right, though by wrong ’tis now the property of our late host, the Governor of the Acordada. His reward at the last confiscation for basely betraying his country and our cause.”
“What cause?” inquired the young Irishman, laying aside the glass, and showing more interest in what he heard than that he had been looking at. Country and cause! These were not the words likely to be on the lips of either monk or highwayman.
And that the man who had spoken to him was neither one nor other he had fuller proof in what was now further said.
“A cause, Señor Irlandes, for which I, Ruperto Rivas, am ready to lay down life, if the sacrifice be called for, and so most—I may say all—of those you’ve just met at almuerzo. You heard it proclaimed in the toast, ‘Patria y Libertad!’”
“Yes. And a grand noble sentiment it is. One I was gratified to hear.”
“And surprised as well. Is not that so, amigo?”