The wife's face was a study in strong courage battling with emotion. Her gray eyes, no longer soft, were steady, however. Her brows were markedly drawn. Her lips, too, were firm, heroically firm.
She held out her letter to the Padre. It was noticeable she did not offer it to Murray.
"Read it," she said. Then she added: "You can all read it. Alec, too."
The two men closed in on either side of Father José. The woman looked on while the three pairs of eyes read the firm clear handwriting.
"Well?" she demanded, as the men looked up from their reading, and the priest thoughtfully refolded the paper.
Alec's tongue was the more ready to express his thoughts.
"God!" he cried. "It means—massacre!"
The priest turned on him in reproof. His keen eyes shone like burnished steel.
"Keep silent—you," he cried, in a sharp, staccato way.
The hot blood mounted to the boy's cheek, whether in abashment or in anger would be impossible to say. He was prevented from further word by Murray McTavish who promptly took command.