nsuality of sloth, my mind swiftly compared the scene with
the cold chamber looking northward on the mountains, where the daughter
dwelt.

That same afternoon, as I sat upon my knoll, I saw the Padre enter the
gates of the residencia. The revelation of the daughter's character had
struck home to my fancy, and almost blotted out the horrors of the
night before; but at sight of this worthy man the memory revived. I
descended, then, from the knoll, and making a circuit among the woods,
posted myself by the wayside to await his passage. As soon as he
appeared I stepped forth and introduced myself as the lodger of the
residencia. He had a very strong, honest countenance, on which it was
easy to read the mingled emotions with which he regarded me, as a
foreigner, a heretic, and yet one who had been wounded for the good
cause. Of the family at the residencia he spoke with reserve, and yet
with respect. I mentioned that I had not yet seen the daughter,
whereupon he remarked that that was as it should be, and looked at me a
little askance. Lastly, I plucked up courage to refer to the cries that
had disturbed me in the night. He heard me out in silence, and then
stopped and partly turned about, as though to mark beyond doubt that he
was dismissing me.

"Do you take tobacco-powder?" said he, offering his snuff-box; and then,
when I had refused, "I am an old man," he added, "and I may be allowed
to remind you that you are a guest."

"I have, then, your authority," I returned, firmly enough, although I
flushed at the implied reproof, "to let things take their course, and
not to interfere?"

He said "Yes," and with a somewhat uneasy salute turned and left me
where I was. But he had done two things: he had set my conscience at
rest, and he had awakened my delicacy. I made a great effort, once more
dismissed the recollections of the night, and fell once more to brooding
on my saintly poetess. At the same time, I could not quite forget that I
had been locked in, and that night when Felipe brought me my supper I
attacked him warily on both points of interest.

"I never see your sister," said I casually.

"Oh, no," said he; "she is a good, good girl," and his mind instantly
veered to something else.

"Your sister is pious, I suppose?" I asked in the next pause.

"Oh!" he cried, joining his hands with extreme fervour, "a saint; it is
she that keeps me up."

"You are very fortunate," said I, "for the most of us, I am afraid, and