“That will be explained hereafter,” the young man replied. “If you will follow my directions the marriage shall be prevented.”
“What do you wish me to do?” asked Margarita.
“Only to delay your preparations as long as you can, and if the Texans do not arrive before the hour—”
“Nine o’clock is the time,” interrupted Margarita, “and it wants but half an hour of it, now.”
“I know,” said the other, “but linger as long as possible. Do not tempt the count to any violence; when you can delay no longer, go to the altar, and you will understand what I mean.”
There was no alternative but to trust him; and Margarita did so the more willingly, because he dictated the only course she could see open to her—procrastination, in the hope of relief. His motives were plain enough, though she could not fathom them. He claimed the hacienda as his own, but he knew that if it once fell into the hands of a man, whose grasp was as tenacious as that of the count, his title would have but small chance of successful assertion, and he was therefore interested in preventing his union with Margarita.
In the mean time, the good Padre Aneres was seated in one of the southern wings of the hacienda, recruiting his energies, after an exhausting journey of two miles from Embocadura. The robes and appointments of his clerical office were arranged with a neatness which scarcely distinguished his personal appearance; for he was about to celebrate a sacrament, which he viewed as hardly less important than the last unction administered to the dying—to which, indeed, it furnished no indistinct parallel. Preparatory, however, to the performance of the ceremony, he was fortifying himself with a liberal supply of delicate viands—that to which he applied himself most frequently being a large silver bowl of red Parras wine.
He had been thus agreeably occupied for half an hour or more after his arrival, and having recovered his breath, began to feel comfortable again, when a hasty but timid knock was heard at the door. The worthy padre pushed the bowl of wine a little farther from him, hastily swallowed the morsel in his mouth, and having settled himself in an attitude of meditation, gave a gentle invitation to enter. The door was pushed timidly open, and the young messenger presented himself, in most singular plight. His clothes were studiously disarranged; his hair was disheveled, and covered with dust and ashes, while his eyes gave signs of recent violent weeping.
“Oh, padre!” he exclaimed, in evident distress, throwing himself at the good Father’s feet. “Peccavi! Peccavi! I have sinned! I have sinned! O, Father! Hear me, and forgive.”