“The old chief’s word can be trusted. He will not harm you,” Basil said, and then was sorry he had spoken, for that was not the question at all.
“I was not thinking of that. It never occurred to me,” the priest answered simply. “I was thinking that this man had killed a priest, and was outside the Church.”
Don Juan, understanding the momentary confusion in the other’s mind, laid a hand on his arm. “Dolores Lasara never killed a priest, Father,” he said, “and it is Dolores who is dying.”
Ten minutes later the launch was on its way to Katubig. Basil went down to the beach to see them off. He was longing to ask Don Juan about Mrs Bush; but, somehow, he could not get the words out, and the old Spaniard, being fully occupied with the matter in hand, forgot to mention the Scout officer’s wife; although he had intended to tell the Constabulary officer how, on hearing that Dolores Lasara was at the point of death, Mrs Bush had volunteered herself to go up to the mountains and nurse her, knowing, as she did, of the great love there had been between Felizardo and the daughter of the Teniente of San Polycarpio. But if Don Juan did not tell Basil Hayle then, he told Felizardo himself later, and the old chief did not forget, as he proved afterwards.
At Katubig, which was now being rebuilt, they found John Mackay, who had been Mr Joseph Gobbitt’s companion in the adventure of the head-hunters. Also, they found half a dozen of Felizardo’s men and three horses.
“It is not far,” the leader of the outlaws said. “If the Reverend Father and the other Senors do not mind travelling in the dark, we shall be there in two hours. The road is easy enough for horses—when one knows it.”
So they rode into the darkness, up the mountain-side by an easy trail, the existence of which no man would have suspected, and at last they came to Felizardo’s own dwelling, a large cave with an entrance screened by great boulders. Inside, a number of rooms were partitioned off, and in the largest of these Dolores Lasara lay dying.
Felizardo himself met them outside, looking as an old man does look when the greatest sorrow of his life is coming upon him; but his eyes brightened when he saw the priest. “I thank you, my friends,” he said to Don Juan and John Mackay. Then he saluted the priest. “You are an American, Father?” he asked.
Father Doyle nodded. “I am an American, yes; but first I am a priest of the Holy Church.”
“I am glad”—the old man spoke almost dreamily—“I am glad, because the Americans are a strong people, who will rule these Islands well in the end, when they have learnt——” Then suddenly he pulled himself together. “I have sent for you to marry me, Father,” he said.