It was the first time I had made my devotions in a Roman Catholic Cathedral; and I shall not say that I then worshipped as I should have done.

Santa Gaudalupe--beautiful as the sensuous Mexican priesthood have had the cunning to conceive her--glorious as she appeared in her golden shrine--was scarce regarded by me.

More attractive were the black lace shawl and high comb of Mercedes Villa-Senor--not for themselves, but for the lovely countenance I knew to be underneath them.

I watched them with eyes that wandered not. In my heart I anathematised them as the most detestable screens ever interposed between a lover's eye and its idol.

While engaged in her devotions a Mexican _senorita_ a.s.sumes three distinct att.i.tudes. She stands, she kneels, she _squats_. I regret my inability to express in more elegant phrase, that peculiar species of genuflexion, which may be described as the dropping down from the kneeling att.i.tude to one a degree lower. It is a feat of feminine gymnastics that has long mystified me; and I am not anatomist enough either to comprehend or explain it.

Mercedes Villa-Senor appeared perfect in every _pose_. Even her _squatting_ was graceful!

I watched her changing att.i.tudes as the ceremony proceeded--the chant, the prayer, the lesson. During all these she never once looked round.

I thought she must be a _saint_--a thought scarce in keeping with the conjectures I had hitherto shaped concerning her.

It gave me but slight pleasure to think she was so holy. I should have preferred finding her human--that angel of angels!

Dolores appeared less devout. At all events, she was less attentive to her prayers. Twenty times I perceived her eyes averted from the altar-- turned toward the doorway--peering into shadowy aisles--looking everywhere but upon the officiating priest.

His shaven crown had no attraction for her. She searched for the shining curls of "querido Francisco!"

He was not in the Cathedral--at least, I could not see him. I had my own thoughts about the cause of his absence.

Less accustomed to "sparkling wine," he had not borne its effects like the boon companion who shared the revel along with him; or had not so readily recovered from it.

Certainly he was not there. So much the less trouble for Tia Josefa!

I could have told Dolores a tale that would have given her gratification. I wanted to do as much for Mercedes.

The time pa.s.sed--chant and psalm, lesson and prayer, rapidly succeeding one another. Bells were tinkled, incense burnt, and wax candles carried about.

Still kept Mercedes her eyes upon the altar; still seemed she absorbed by a ceremonial, which to me appeared more than absurd--idolatrous.

In my heart I hated it worse than ever in my life. I could scarce restrain myself from scowling upon the priest. I envied him the position that could make his paltry performance so attractive--to eyes like those then looking upon him.

Thank heaven they are mine at last--at last!

Yes: at last they were mine. I was seen, and recognised.

I had entered the Cathedral without thought of worshipping at its altar.

The love I carried in my heart was different from that inculcated within those sacred walls--far different from that inscribed upon the tablet: "G.o.d is love." My love was human; and, perhaps, impure! I shall not say that it was what it should have been--a love, such as we read of among troubadours and knights-errant of the olden time. I can lay claim to belong to no other cla.s.s than that of the simple _adventurer_; who, with tongue, pen, or sword--as the chances turned up--has been able, in some sort, to make his way through the world!

In my designs there may have been selfishness; but not one iota in the pa.s.sion I felt for Mercedes Villa-Senor. It was too romantic to be mean.

In her first glance I read recognition. Only that and nothing more,--at least nothing to gratify me.

But it was soon followed by another, on which I was pleased to place a different interpretation. It was the warm look that had won, and once more seemed to _welcome_ me!

There was a third, and a fourth, timidly stolen through the fringe of the _chale_. The very stealth flattered my vanity, and gave a new impulse to my hopes. There was more than one reason for it: the sacredness of the place; the reticence of maiden modesty; and perhaps more than either: the presence of Tia Josefa.

Again our glances met--mine given with all the ardour of a love long restrained.

Once more they met in sweet exchanging--once more, and once more. I had won Mercedes from her worship!

No doubt it was wicked of me to feel joy at the thought; and, no doubt, I deserved the punishment that was in store for me.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

A CHALLENGE IN A CHURCH.

While carrying on my eye-courtship with the kneeling devotee, I stood somewhat in shadow. A column, with the statue of some canonised churchman, afforded me a niche where I was concealed from the other worshippers.

But there was a darker shadow behind me--occupied by a darker substance.

Tia Josefa was not the only spy present in the Cathedral.

I was made aware of it, by hearing a voice--of course spoken in a whisper, but so close to my ear, that I had no difficulty in distinguishing every word.

The voice said:--

"_Por Dios, caballero_! You appear greatly interested in the _oracion!

You_ cannot be a _heretico_, like the rest of your countrymen?"

The sting of a wasp could not have caused me a more unpleasant sensation. The double meaning of the speech was not to be mistaken.

The speaker had observed the eye signals pa.s.sing between Mercedes and myself!

I glanced into the gloom behind me.

It was some seconds before I could see any one. My eyes dazzled with the splendour of the church adornments, refused to do their office.

Before I could trace out either his shape, or countenance, the whispering stranger again addressed me:--

"I hope, senor, you will not be offended by my free speech? It gratifies us _Catolicos_ to perceive that our Holy Church is making converts among the Americanos. I've been told there is a good deal of this sort of thing. Our _padres_ will be delighted to know that _their_ conquest by the Word is likely to compensate for _our_ defeat by the sword."

Despite the impertinence, there was something so ingenious in the _argument_ thus introduced, that I was prevented from making immediate reply. Stark surprise had also to do with my silence.

I waited upon my eyes, in order that I might first see what sort of personage was speaking to me.

Gradually my sight overcame the obscurity, and disclosed what the corner contained: a man several degrees darker than the shadow itself, up to his ears in a _serape_, with a black sombrero above them, and between hat and "blanket" a countenance that could only belong to a scoundrel!

I could see a bearded chin and lip, and a face lit up by a pair of eyes sparkling with sinister light. I could see, moreover, that despite the _badinage_ of the speeches addressed to me there was _real anger_ in them!

The sarcasm was all pretence. He, who had given utterance to it, was too much in earnest to deal long in irony; and I did not for a moment doubt that I was standing in the presence of one who, like myself, was a candidate for the smiles of Mercedes Villa-Senor.

The thought was not one to make me more tolerant of the slight that had been put upon me. On the contrary, it but increased my indignation-- already at a white heat.

"Senor!" I said, in a voice with great difficulty toned down to a whisper, "you may thank your stars you are inside a church. If you'd spoken those words upon the street, they'd have been the last of your life."