NOW, this arch-priest had been a peon, and a soldier in del
Torre’s army; and then he had left it, and had seen the viceroy and
been traitor to the rebels, and so became a priest; and then, heaven
and the vice-queen knew how, bishop; and but that his archiepiscopal
credentials were now fresh from Rome, del Torre, still a Catholic, had
called him traitor! Del Torre could not like the man, though he stood
between him and God; and he knew that disliking must be mutual; and he
marvelled, simple soldier! that the intoxicating message came from him.
But he put this cup of heaven from his lips.
For del Torre, from his fierce August of war, had learned to love this
April maiden with all his heart, and with all his life and his strong
soul. Were not his hairs gray, and his face so worn and weather-beaten?
And his heart--he had none fit for this lady of the light. Enough that
it was his pearls that clasped her slender waist.
The Archbishop, too, had seen his gray hairs; yet he thought that it
was best? He had said so. Perhaps he wanted her possessions for the
Church. His nephew Don Ramon cursed the Archbishop for sitting there
that night, and saying to her--what? Novitiate and convent, perhaps, or
his own sins. For the lady Dolores was devout as only girls can be who
have warm hearts and noble souls, and are brought up in cloisters.
Del Torre stood on the other side of the Calvary hill, where the
sunset lay, and looked at it, dimly--for his heart was breaking;
the Archbishop kept close his converse with Dolores; perhaps he saw
her fiery younger lover lurking in the branches. She rose--she and
Jacinta--and the priest walked home with them. He talked to her of
nephew Ramon and his crimes--not his sins with women, for the priest,
too, was a crafty man, and did her sex no honor--but of his gambling,
his brawling, his unsaintliness. He said Ramon was a coward; and when
Dolores’ pale cheek reddened, he marked it again; and when she broke
at this, he told her a trumped-up story of his last battle under his
grave uncle. For Dolores, noble maiden, had not yet confessed her
life’s love to herself--how then to her confessor?
The Archbishop walked slowly home with her, Jacinta just behind, and
left her under that old stone scutcheon on the door. Del Torre and
Don Ramon lingered behind; and when they had passed her window, she
was sitting there, looking weary. The old General passed by, sweeping
off his hat, his eyes on the ground. He had been talking to the youth
of all the duties of his life and love; but Ramon was inattentive,
watching for her. As they passed her window Ramon lingered, daring a
word to Dolores through the iron bars. He asked her for a rose she
wore. She looked at him a moment, then gave it to him, with a message.
The Marquis saw her give the rose; he did not hear the message. Don
Ramon did; and his face turned the color of a winter leaf. As he walked
on, he crushed the rose, then threw it in the gutter. For the girl,
womanlike, had told the rival first.
That night Ramon intoxicated himself in some tavern brawl. He had a
companion with him, not of his own sex; and when another officer
reproached him with it, for his cousin, he swore that he would marry
her, and that she had been---- Then they fought a duel, and both were
wounded.