“Baptisto, I thought you were a good Catholic?”
“So I am, senor,” returned the Spaniard, smiling.
“Yet you went to an English church-yesterday, I hear?”
“Yes, senor. I go there very often.”
“Why, pray?”
“Simply out of curiosity. Mr. Santley is a beautiful preacher, and has a silvery voice. While you were away, I went once, twice, three times. There is a young senora there who plays sweetly upon the great organ; I like to listen, to-watch the congregation.”
“Humph! By-the-bye, Baptisto, I have been thinking over the dream of yours, when—when you were lying there.”
“Yes, senor?”
“Pray, what put such a foolish idea in your head?”
“I cannot tell, senor; all I know is, it came. A foolish dream, do you say? I suppose it is because the clergyman was here so often, when you were away. And madame is so devout! I trust, senor, my dream has not given you offence; perhaps I was wrong to speak of it at all.”