He bore upon his person the stamp of
intrepidity and assurance.
Both halted, each staring at the other, a faint smile on the lips
of the stranger--who, in the fading light, might have been of any
age from thirty to fifty--a puzzled frown upon the brow of the
friar. Then the man swept off his broad-brimmed hat.
"God save your paternity," was his greeting.
"God save you, my son," replied Frey Miguel, still pondering him.
"I seem to know you. Do I?"
The stranger laughed. "Though all the world forget, your
paternity should remember me"
And then Frey Miguel sucked in his breath sharply. "My God!" he
cried, and set a hand upon the fellow's shoulder, looking deeply
into those bold, grey eyes. "What make you here?"
"I am a pastry-cook."
"A pastry-cook? You?"
"One must live, and it is a more honest trade than most. I was in
Valladolid, when I heard that your paternity was the Vicar of the
Convent here, and so for the sake of old times--of happier times--
I bethought me that I might claim your paternity's support." He
spoke with a careless arrogance, half-tinged with mockery.
"Assuredly . . ." began the priest, and then he checked. "Where
is your shop?"
"Just down the street.
Pages:
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109