A cuculla flew into the padre's face. He brushed it gently away. It returned to wander over the long wisps of grey hair which straggled over the collar of the hot, dignified coat. The padre took the cuculla in his fingers, and placed it gently upon the leaves of the bougainvillia vine.
"I certainly think that the sweetest songsters I ever heard are the nightingales in this enclosure."
A footstep sounded on the graveled pathway which ran close to the veranda.
"Buen' noch', Señor."
Silencio started nervously.
"Ah! It is you, Andres? Buenas noches." Silencio raised his hand with a warning gesture. Andres's stolid face expressed as stolid acquiescence.
"Buen' noch', Señor. We did not find her at the asta de lanterna, Señor."
"Andres, take the child home; he is weary."
The tone was curt, unlike the kindly Don Gil. It was as if he had laid his hands on Andres's shoulders and were pushing him along.