"Go, then, now! You will find him at the _Parroquia_." "But first, dearest one--" "No, no! Go at once. We approach my uncle's house, and it is as well he should not see you." "Then, if you bid me go, _au revoir!_" I said, stopping short. She gave me a lingering glance which told all that her lips refused to speak. Dona Dolores dropped her beads and looked up at me with one of her bright, mischievous glances. "_Santa Maria!_ but you do not leave us, senor? You have been so entertaining!" "And you, senora,--I could not have asked for a kinder duenna." She muffled a peal of girlish laughter beneath the folds of her _rebozo_, and hurried Alisanda away, fearful, I suppose, that we had attracted too much attention. I wheeled in the opposite direction, and returned to the _Parroquia_. Aside from a few women kneeling here and there before the wall shrines, the great church Was now empty. But a young acolyte who came in to arrange the altar very courteously directed me to the parsonage, where, he said, I should find Father Rocus. When I announced my name at the entrance, the gate porter at once admitted me, and rang a little bell. In a moment who should appear but Chita, my lady's Spanish maid. She courtesied and motioned me to follow her, without betraying the slightest sign of recognition. But the moment we were out of sight of the porter, she paused to whisper: "_Tsst!_ Say nothing. They have sent me here that I might not aid her to see you or write to you. They do not know that the padre is a friend. It is as well that he even does not know how greatly I wish to aid you. Senor, you are a _caballero_ and a man, and she loves you. It is right that you should have her, though you be twice over a _heretico_. But she will not wed unless the padre gives his blessing. It is true love between you. If you cannot be a Christian, make pretence. For her sake, bow to the holy images and cross yourself. Deceive the padre--for her sake!" "No, Chita," I replied. "A _caballero_ may lie to save a lady's good name, but not to win her." "_Peste!_ Then you will lose her!" "We shall see. Lead me in." She took me into a cosey library, where I found Father Rocus seated in a huge easy-chair, one foot cushioned upon a stool, a glass and decanter at his elbow, and a book of philosophy in his jewelled, white hand. "_Hola_, Don Juan!" he called at sight of me. "You come in good season. Be seated on the saddle-chair It will save your new coat-tails a creasing. I will not rise. A touch of the gout, as you see,--the first in months." "Too much port," I suggested, swinging astride the narrow chair of carved mahogany. "Better take to sour claret for a while." "_Nada!_ not while I can bear the pain. I might pass for an English squire--I cannot forego the port." "I will write you a prescription that will ease the pain. Nothing will cure you but abstinence."