Enraged beyond degree, the soldier grasped what little collar was afforded by the habit he wore.

“You infernal, canting hypocrite!  I swear by Cortes I’ll kick you to a jelly—­I’ll bastinade you till you won’t know the Virgin from the Devil, if you don’t instantly let me in, and keep your lying tongue in your Jesuit head.  Think you to gull me with your holy talk?  I know you all:  you are a blessed, holy brotherhood, truly.  Have I not seen your letters to Mexico, you canting scoundrel?” He shook the Padre violently as he delivered this benediction.

Now Father Mazzolin, like many of his sex, was fond of supporting his dignity, and reverence for his sacred person was especially inculcated by his teachings.  Yet when firmly met his threats melted away, and, to all appearances, his choler too, for he knew full well when to succumb and when to oppose belligerent demonstrations.  The expression of rage that darkened the face of the soldier, left no doubt that he would execute his threat if further opposed.  And Father Mazzolin, fully satisfied that the organ of reverence was altogether omitted in his cranium, thought it best to comply.

“Ha! you can understand Irish logic as well as the next brave one.”  And he entered, followed by the Padre, who ground his teeth with mortification.

An hour later they stood again on the threshold in earnest converse, not perceiving the dark form which fled, on the reopening of the door, to the old hiding-place.  They turned to go in different directions; the stranger stopped, and calling to the Padre, desired him to keep well the secret, and in no way divulge a breath of their conference.

“It could not be in safer hands,” was answered back, and they parted.

A low, bitter laugh escaped Inez’s lips as, waiting till it was safe to venture forth, she rose from the chapperal and hastened homeward.

“Padre, cunning though you are, we are well mated; there are few like unto you and me.”

CHAPTER XXIII.

  “I simply tell thee peril is at hand,
  And would preserve thee!”

  BYRON.

Two days later the cousins sat in their front room, Florence intently reading, Mary watching beside the couch of pain, bathing her aunt’s brow, and chafing the hands.  Aunt Lizzy was suffering from violent nervous headache:  all day she had tossed restlessly about, and now, soothed by the gentle touches on her brow, had fallen asleep.  Her fingers had tightly clasped Mary’s small, thin hands, but gradually relaxing their hold, sunk beside her.  Softly smoothing back the disordered hair, the young nurse failed to perceive the entrance of Dr. Bryant, and only looked up when a beautiful bouquet of flowers was laid upon her lap.  The feverish glow deepened on her cheek as she warmly thanked him.

“I am glad you like them, Miss Irving.”

“How could I do otherwise?”