Against the wall was a picture of this, the patroness Saint of Mexico—for there is one in every Mexican house—and, while speaking, the young girl had risen from her chair, glided across the room, and fallen upon her knees before it. In this attitude she remained for some moments, her hands crossed over her breast, her lips moving as though she muttered a prayer.
Altogether differently acted the Condesa. She was not of the devotional sort, where it seemed unlikely to be of practical service. Good Catholic enough, and observant of all the ceremonies, but no believer in miracles; and therefore distrustful of what Santa Guadalupe, or any other saint, could do for them. She had more belief in the Cromwellian doctrine of keeping the powder dry; and that she meant to practise it, not with powder, but with her purse, was soon made evident by her speech.
“It’s no use kneeling there,” she said, starting to her feet, and again showing spirit. “Let us pray in our hearts. I’ve been doing that already, and I’m sure so have you. Something else should be done now—another effort made—this time with money; no matter how much it takes. Yes, Luisa, we must act.”
“I want to act,” rejoined the other, as she forsook the kneeling posture, with an abruptness not common to devotees; “only tell me how. Can you?”
For some seconds the Condesa let the question remain unanswered. Once more her hand had gone up to her head, the jewelled fingers met and clasped upon her brow—this time to quicken reflection; some scheme, already half conceived, needing further elaboration.
Whatever the plan, it was soon worked out complete, as evinced by her words following.
“Amiga mia; is there in your service one we can implicitly trust?”
“José. You know we can trust him.”
“True. But he won’t do for the first step to be taken: which is, indeed, only to deliver a letter. But it needs being adroitly done, and a woman will be the better for that. Besides, José will be wanted for something else, at the same time. There are two or three of my own female following could be relied on, so far as fidelity is concerned; but, unluckily, they’re all known on the Callé de Plateros, as well as the street itself; and there isn’t any of them particularly intelligent or dexterous. What we stand in need of now is one possessed of both these qualities—either woman or girl.”
“Would Pepita do?”