The following day was Sunday, the liveliest, or rather the only day with
any life at all, in Macao, for the visitors from Hong Kong then go about
the city sight seeing to be ready for the early return of the steamboat
on Monday morning.
A pleasant spot, and one not often molested by visitors on account of
the somewhat toilsome climb required to reach it, is the church of Our
Lady of Pehna on the summit of Mt. Nillau. Built in 1622 on this high
point to be more easily protected from any possible invasion of the
Chinese from the main island of Heang Shang, the church serves now only
as an addition to the picturesqueness of Macao, and though repaired in
1837 is again in ruin. Priscilla and her affianced chose this for their
Sabbath walk, for it is only through nature that the Protestants in
Macao can worship nature's God, and surely the incense of flowers could
bear to Him on high the thanksgiving of those two happy hearts, as truly
as the frankincense and myrrh which the good Fathers of the last century
burnt upon Mt. Nillau. The narrow but well paved streets with their
stuccoed houses, barred windows and little peep-holes at the doors, for
questioning the doubtful applicants for admission, even the two months
old posters of Chiarini's circus had a new charm this Sunday morning;
for Adams it was a day of quiet after his week of noise and bustle in
Hong Kong, while for Priscilla it seemed a gala day full of life after
the six silent days of sleepy monotony. "I can see that Pedro is not
friendly toward you Robert," she said; "I could hear him walking during
all the night and am sure he is planning something to annoy you, I know
his ways so well." "Don't worry, Priscilla, Dom Pedro was probably
troubled over some loss at the fan-tan table; they say he won five
hundred Mexicans last week and then lost that sum doubled."
"That may be so, Robert, but our approaching marriage is a great cross
to him. It is hard to tell what Pedro's thoughts are; his eyes are like
our Macao windows of isinglass and let very little light either way."
The winding road between ruined walls of gray stone, half covered with
clinging ficus, spanned by broken arches, with here and there a fallen
urn, led them through picturesque turns and by mossy steps to the foot
of the huge black cross erected before the empty church. Neither spoke;
they did not care for words and the only expression which framed itself
audibly was that oft repeated _jubilate_ of health and youth, "How
beautiful it is to live!"
Dim in the distance, of almost the same shade as the sky, rose the
White Cloud Hills; lesser hills more distinct in waving outline lay
before them; then rocky promontories and islands with grotesque forms
like the twisted dragons of Chinese embroideries, and the low stretch
which marked the position of the wonderful city of Canton. On the yellow
water here and there were junks with tanned sails and gay banners;
islands with graceful pagodas were seen, and the huge white cathedral of
the near dependency of Taipa. Then in the foreground at their very feet
was Macao, a feast of colour, red roofs, many-hued walls, green trees
and brilliant gardens, beautiful as the jewel-set sheath of a Venetian
dagger, with its poison and death-dealing wickedness hidden.
Dom Amaral with his wife had gone to the new cathedral to services;
their well appointed chairs had scarcely left the court and the gates
been bolted behind them when Dom Pedro came from his room. His face had
changed greatly since the day before; the loss of sleep and the
bitterness of his heart had made him look pale and thin. For the first
time in his life he had spoken harshly to his valet, and that meek
Celestial wore an expression of grief and surprise, for Pedro Amaral,
whatever his faults, did not have the vulgar one of venting his spleen
upon his inferiors, so that his lifelong servant was at a loss to
account for the sudden change.
Dom Pedro walked to the library and drawing the curtains behind him sat
down before the cases filled with brilliant steel. Suddenly he looked
away and picked up a book from the table, opening it at random but
constantly his eyes reverted to the cases before him. Slowly his
features relaxed and with a broken sigh he was about to replace the book
when a small photograph card fell from its pages; the face was that of
Robert Adams, the book Priscilla's "Common Prayer." Like a flash the old
lines came back in his forehead; he went to the case and opening the
glass doors, carefully took down a small, silver sheath, the work of
some artist of Goa, wherein the influence of both India and Europe
showed in the execution. The pressure of a button pushed out a grooved
dagger which fitted so low in the sheath as to show only the head of its
jeweled hilt. Dom Pedro removed the dagger, wrapped it in his
handkerchief and then putting it in his breast pocket replaced the empty
sheath in its old position.