University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

In years, he could not have exceeded twenty-five, yet
the countenance was that of one well versed in intrigue.
The cast was Italian—the crisp black hair, swarthy complexion,
and never-to-be-mistaken eyes. A large amount
of Jesuit determination was expressed in his iris, blended
with cunning, malignity, and fierceness. The features
were prominent, particularly the nose; the lips finely cut,
but thin; the teeth beautiful and regular. In stature he
was low, and habited in the dress of his order, a long black
coat or gown, buttoned to the throat, and reaching nearly
to the feet.

Glancing at his watch as the sound of the last step died
away, he paced round and round the altar, neglecting now
the many genuflections, bows, and crossings with which
he had honored the images in the presence of his flock.
His brows were knit, as if in deep thought, and doubtless
he revolved the result of some deep laid plan, when the

door was hurriedly opened, and a man, bowing low before
the images, approached him. The dress of the stranger
declared him a ranchero: he wore no jacket, but his pantaloons
were of buckskin, and his broad sombrero was tucked
beneath his arm.

“Benedicit, Juan!”

“Bueño noche, Padre.

“What tidings do you bring me?” said Father Mazzolin.

The Mexican handed him a letter, and then, as if much
fatigued, leaned heavily against the wall, and wiped his
brow with a large blue cotton handkerchief. As the priest
turned away and perused his letter, a smile of triumphant
joy irradiated his face, and a momentary flush tinged his
dark cheek. Again he read it, then thrusting it into his
bosom, addressed the bearer:

“May the blessing of the church rest upon you, who
have so faithfully served your Padre;” and he extended his
hand. Warmly it was grasped by Juan, with a look of
grateful surprise.

“Este bueño?” inquired Juan.

“Si mui bueño. Juan, do you read American writing?”

“Chiquito,” was answered, with a slight shrug.

“What is the news in the el grand Ciudad?”

“They have a strong ox to pull the ropes, now Santa
Anna is at the head. `Bravura!' and the ranchero tossed
his hat, regardless of the place.

It was, however, no part of Mazzolin's policy to allow
him for one moment to forget the reverence due the marble
images that looked so calmly down from their niches, and

with a stern glance he pointed to them, crossing himself
as he did so. Juan went down on his knees, and with an
“Ave Maria,” and a Mexican dollar (which he laid on
the altar), quieted his conscience.

“Señor Austin is in the Calaboose,” he said, after a
pause.

Mazzolin started, and looked keenly at him, as if striving
to read his inmost thoughts.

“You must be mistaken, Juan; there is no mention of it
in my letter!” he said, in a tone of one fearing to believe
good news.

“Not at all, Padre. We started together—there were
fifteen of us—and after we had come a long way, so far as
Saltillo, some of Santa Anna's caveleros overtook us, and carried
Señor Americanno back with them, and said they had
orders to do it, for he was no friend to our nation. I know,
for I heard for myself.”

“Do you know the particular reason of his arrest?”

Juan shook his head, and replied, “That the officers did
not say.”

“Did you mention to any one your having a letter for
me?”

“No, Padre; I tell no man what does not concern him.”

“A wise plan, Juan, I would advise you always to
follow; and be very careful that you say nothing to any
one about my letter: I particularly desire it.”

“Intiendo,” said Juan, turning toward the door. “I
go to my ranche to-morrow, but come back before many
sunsets, and if you want me again, Padre, you know where
to find me.”

“The blessing of the `Holy Virgin' rest upon you, my
son, and reward you for your services in behalf of the church.”

“Adios!” And they parted.

Father Mazzolin drew forth the letter, and read it attentively
for the third time, then held it over one of the twelve
candles, and deliberately burnt it, muttering the while,
“Ashes tell no tales.”

Extinguishing the candles and locking the door of the
church, he said to himself.

“All is as I foresaw; a breach is made which can only
be closed by the bodies of hundreds of these cursed heretics;
and Santa Anna is blood-thirsty enough to drain the last
drop. Alphonso Mazzolin, canst thou not carve thy fortune
in the coming storm? Yea, and I will. I am no unworthy
follower of Loyola, of Gavier, and of Bobadillo. Patience!
a Cardinal's cap shall crown my labors;” and with a chuckling
laugh he entered the narrow street which led to his
dwelling.

“There is but one obstacle here,” he continued; “that
Protestant girl's work is hard to undo,” and his step became
quicker. “But for her, I should have been confessor
to the whole family, and will be yet, despite her warning
efforts, though I had rather deal with any three men. She
is as untiring as myself.” He reached his door, and entered.