Antonio bungled much, and squinted fiercely in the delivery of this; yet he contrived to make the lady faintly understand the meaning of Greaves’ speech. She tapped on her knee with her fingers, and seemed to keep time with the beat of her foot to an air that she inaudibly hummed; her black eyes were downward bent, but at swift intervals the fringes lifted, and a glance of light sparkled at me or Greaves. I noticed a pouting play of mouth. In fact, her air was that of a girl who has been spoiled by indulgence since her childhood. One figured her as the goddess of the fandango, the burden of the midnight guitar, and the heroine of a score of sweethearts.
“Duck is very well for dresses, sir,” said I. “She is thinking of under-linen.”
“We are not to know anything about under-linen,” said Greaves. “She must make what she wants. She doesn’t seem grateful enough to please me. To bother me about dress now, after four days of that cinder, and the deliverance recent enough to keep most people hysterically sobbing and thanking God in fervent ejaculations!”
Antonio addressed her. I guessed he wanted to know if he could go. She spoke to him, and the man, awkwardly smiling, said:
“The señorita asks if you are Catholics?”
“Yes and no, for my part,” answered Greaves, looking at her gravely, “I am heading that way. I believe I shall hoist the Papal flag yet, but it’s not flying at present.”
“Is the capitan a Catholic?” repeated the lady.
“Ay, but not a Papist,” said Greaves.
“Are you a Catholic, señor?”
“I love God and hate the devil,” said I. “That is my religion. It is broad, and there is room for many names upon its back.”