"Are you so ignorant, then?" demanded the padre, in a heat, "that you must be told who was Moteuczoma Xocojotzin, that is, _the younger_,--the second of that name who reigned over Mexico?--the very magnificent and unfortunate emperor so basely decoyed into captivity, so ruthlessly oppressed and, as I may say, by a figure of speech, (for, literally, it is not true) so truculently slain, by the illustrious Don Hernan Cortes, the conqueror of Mexico? Perhaps you are also ignorant of the great names of Tizoc, of Xocotzin, and of Ixtlilxochitl?" "I have no doubt," replied the American, with courteous humility, "that in the histories of Mexico, which I have ever delighted to read,--in the books of De Solis, of Clavigero, of Bernal Diaz del Castillo, and especially in that of Dr. Robertson,--I have met these illustrious names; but you must allow, that, to one ignorant of the language, and of the mode of pronouncing such conglomerated grunts, it must be extremely difficult, if not wholly impossible, to rivet them in the memory." The curate snatched up his bundle, and surveyed the stranger with a look in which it was hard to tell whether anger or contempt bore the greater sway. "De Solis! Diaz! Clavigero! Robertson!" he at last exclaimed, irefully. "_Basta! demasiado?_ What a _nino_, a little child, a _pobre Yankee_, have I fallen upon! That I should waste my words on a man who studies Mexican history out of the books of these jolterheads!" The padre was about to depart, without bestowing another word on the offender. The American was amused at the ready transition of the curate from deep reverence to the most unbounded contempt. He was persuaded the wits of the poor father were unsettled, and felt there was the greater need to humour and appease him: and, besides, he was curious to discover what would be the end of the adventure. "Father," said he, with composure, "before you condemn me for acquiring my little knowledge from these books, you should put it in my power to read better."--The padre looked back.--"What information should be expected from incompetent writers? from jolterheads? When I have perused the histories of father Cristobal, it will then be _my_ fault, if I am found ignorant of the names of his imperial ancestors." "_Ay de mi!_" said the curate, striking his forehead; "why did I not think of that before? _Santos santisimos!_ I am not so quick-witted as I was before. I could forgive you more readily, had you not named to me that infidel Scotchman, who calls the superb Moteuczoma a savage, and all the Tlatoani, the great princes, and princesses, the people and all, barbarians! But what more could you expect of a heretic? I forgive you, my son--_you_ are a Christian?" "A Christian, father; but not of the Catholic faith." "You will be damned!" said the curate, hastily. "A point of mere creed, perhaps I should say, mere form--"