"Why, no, Father," he said in a tired voice. "I'm going back to the palacio. I can't stick it out any longer. I was just going back when those bells broke loose and—"
"What are you going to do there, my son?" interposed the priest.
"I ... well, I'm going to try to get the señora to go with me, after all...." He paused, looking at the father, and added with a touch of defiance: "All this stuff about heaven and hell—that's all right for them that like it. I don't mean to be disrespectful to any man's religion. I was brought up to respect every faith—Christian, Mohammedan, Buddhist. They're all all right if a man lives up to 'em," the American finished his strange declaration of catholicity. He felt better now that he had told the priest of his intentions. He let his bundle down frankly into his good hand, and nodded at the father. "Well, good-by, and good luck. I thank you for what you tried to do for me. I know your intentions were of the best. So long," and he turned away.
The priest had stood perfectly still through this outburst, looking with an impassive face at the American. Now he took a step after Strawbridge and touched his arm.
"My son, you can't take her now," he said in a strange voice.
Something in his manner stopped the drummer, puzzled him and filled him with a vague apprehension.
"Why?"
"She is out of your reach forever."
The drummer's eyes widened, his mouth dropped open.
"You ... you don't mean she is dead?" he whispered.