pe. Ah, yes, Don Felipe! Her teeth
came together with a snap, for she knew that, even after what had
transpired, he would follow her.

Padre Antonio walked silently homeward without so much as turning round
once to look at the others. Not even after arriving at the great iron
gate before the garden did he pause to allow the others to pass in ahead
of him as he otherwise would have done, but walked straight on to the
house and entered the living-room without so much as looking round,
leaving Chiquita to dispose of old Juana and the child for the night.

Padre Antonio was no fool. Perplexed though he was by what had occurred,
he knew there was a time for silence as well as a time for speech. He
also knew that Chiquita would join him as soon as the others were
settled for the night, and that she would then tell him her story.

Outside, the garden was almost as light as during the day, and the room,
though partially in shadow, was illumined by the moonlight to an extent
that rendered objects within it distinctly visible. The events of the
evening had sorely taxed his strength. He was thoroughly tired, and with
a sigh he threw himself into his large leathern chair to rest until
Chiquita returned.

"What was the mystery in connection with the child?" he asked himself,
closing his eyes in thought. Don Felipe's story could not be true. "It
was absurd, preposterous!" he cried aloud, opening his eyes with a
start. As he did so, his gaze fell upon a picture on the wall opposite,
gleaming conspicuously in the full flood of moonlight. It was that
beautiful illustration of what human faith may accomplish; the familiar
representation of Saint Elizabeth of Thuringia meekly displaying the
contents of her apron before her lord, the Landgrave--that heavy,
sporadic type of whiskered ass whose only mission in life seems to be
that of pulling the stars and all else down about his wassail-soaked
head and ears through sheer avoirdupois and stupidity. Padre Antonio
experienced a sudden thrill as he gazed at the picture. Clearly, it was
the hand of God directing him. So did Saint Elizabeth deliberately deny
the truth, and yet the bread in her apron was turned to roses.

Instinctively he recalled Captain Forest's last words. And then, putting
two and two together, he also recalled the fact that he had noted
something during the scene which nobody else seemed to have noticed,
namely: that the face of the child, Marieta, was the living image of