They passed through the transept and round behind the high altar. In the passage they found another priest, walking slowly back and forth, reading some religious book. Gumersindo introduced Strawbridge to Father Benicio. The priest's face held the worn, ascetic look of a celibate who endures the ardors of the tropics.
"Señor Strawbridge is the American gentleman whom I brought back from Caracas," proceeded the editor; "perhaps you noticed my article about him in the 'Correo'?"
"I have not seen to-day's 'Correo,'" said the father, looking, with the shrewd eyes of his calling, at the American.
Gumersindo was already drawing from his pocket a damp copy of his paper. He opened the limp sheet and handed it to the priest, with his finger at the article. Then he turned away and pretended to inspect the carving on the reredos, glancing repeatedly toward the readers to see what effect his article was producing.
The article itself was typical Spanish-American rhetoric. It referred to the drummer as a merchant prince, a distinguished manufacturer, a world-famous exporter, and once it called him the illustrious Vulcan of the Liberal Arts, a flourish based on the fact that Strawbridge sold hardware.
When they had finished reading, the black man turned with his face beaming in anticipation of praise.
"Elegantly done, Gumersindo," pæaned the priest. "You have a very rich style."
The editor lifted his brows.
"I never hope to command a style, Father. I always write simply. It is all I can do."
Father Benicio patted the black man's arm and smiled the rather bloodless smile of the repressed.