“And see, yonder thin black priest—he is the canon of San Roque,—the best preacher that ever mounted pulpit.”
“There leave him, my good friend,—I hate the drowsy race. Ha!—Who is that noble-looking person in the green uniform faced with gold?”
“That is General Paez. Saints and angels!—here comes the archbishop of ————”
“Never mind the archbishop. Who is the silver-headed veteran with the hat and scarlet plume?”
“Oh, that is Admiral Cordova. But the Dominican who bears the banner——”
Again the irreligious foreigner broke in. “Confound them both! bearer and banner. Look, man!”—as another, and the fairest portion of the procession, walked slowly past the pillar, strewing flowers as they moved along. “Ay,” said the stranger, “that sylph-like girl, with blue eyes, is worth all the monks and cardinals who ever said an ave, or carried a blessed candle. But see!—mark you that lovely girl in silvered satin?—she with the ebon locks, and downcast eyes. How beautiful is that air—the easy movement of her walk—the grace with which each flower drops from her hand! I must not, dare not look.”
“‘Twere better not,” remarked the soberer of the twain; “she is for the last time in worldly company: in another week she enters the convent of Saint Agatha, and she will be professed immediately.”
“Professed!” exclaimed his companion,—“what means that? But see—the procession halts!” and at the moment, the beautiful religieuse stopped at the base of the very pillar against which the gay stranger had taken his position.
“Who is that sweet girl?” said the latter, impatiently.
The sudden halting of the long array caused the fair flower-bearer to look up, and her eyes encountered those of the stranger which were turned upon her in breathless admiration. The beautiful devotee coloured to the brows, and again her eyes dropped upon the tesselated pavement. It was probably from agitation that a small bouquet, composed of the most delicate flowers which a tropic clime produces, fell unconsciously from her hand, when, unperceived by any but the lovely religieuse and his own companion, the stranger picked it up, pressed it for a moment with ardour to his lips, and then carefully deposited the floral treasure in his bosom. Again the procession moved, the beauteous devotee exchanged a passing glance; and if it were intended to reprove the boldness of the daring adventurer, or express sorrow at the loss of her fragrant bouquet, neither feeling was conveyed, for the look was the sweetest one imaginable.