cotton cloth, with a purple fillet of Maguey thread crossing his low forehead and circling his dull black hair, and with evident signs of travel on his sandaled feet and dusky limbs. The latter were scarred and bleeding, from the thorns of the mezquite bush through which he had forced his rapid way. It struck me that the fellow’s countenance was sly and sinister; but I had little time to observe him, for the ceremony commenced. Our porters and their loads were duly sprinkled with holy water: a few prayers, and a blessing, or something in barbarous Latin that represented one, were mumbled out, and the Church gave full sanction to our journey. We Protestants looked on with undisguised impatience, and even the French clerks sneered as they beat a tattoo with their boot-heels on the dusty ground; but the peons brightened up wonderfully, and they set off at a good round pace down the hill, as the monk concluded.
“‘Thank you, Father Bartholomew,’ said I, handing over a dollar to the chaplain, whose eyes twinkled as he received it; ‘you have done a miracle on our behalf, turned bronze men into living sentient creatures, and your fee is well earned.’
“‘Ah, Señor Inglese! ah, noble sir! don’t be too hard on our poor flock,’ said the monk, rolling his eyes and speaking in meek tones; ‘they are unlearned peasants, but the solace of the Church is very dear to them. I have a favour to beg of you. Please to permit yonder Indian, a good man, to travel home to the suburbs of the city under your valiant protection.’
“Well! this, you will say, Tom, was but a small boon to ask, but I own I hesitated. Some unerring instinct whispered to me that all was not right; that Father Bartholomew’s affected humility meant mischief. He was seldom commonly civil in his intercourse with us. In his cups—for his reverence had an unsaintly love for maize brandy and pulque—he was well known to rail bitterly at his heretic paymasters, and to gloat over the future torments which were destined for us all, and now he was cooing as gently as any sucking dove.
“Why, too, was this stranger in such an amazing hurry to get back to Chihuahua? He might well need a little repose after a march of fifty miles. It was odd, very odd. The monk had some experience in reading the human face,—a book he knew better than his manual. He saw my indecision, and began to whine out a long, rambling statement concerning the Indian: how he was one of the most pious and respectable of his old parishioners, whose affection for his former confessor had induced him to undertake this journey, all the way from the suburbs of Chihuahua, on purpose to relieve his tender conscience, by imparting his griefs and scruples to his favourite director. How he was now far from home, separated from his wife and babes, and in great peril from savages, jaguars, and broken soldiery, should he be compelled to return alone, and on foot. Lastly, how it would be so kind and generous, if my clemency would permit this interesting penitent to voyage under the guard of our invincible rifles.
“‘Hang it, Slingsby, the poor man can’t eat us!’ cried young Arthur Lake, always good-natured, as he noticed my hesitation; ‘let him come, and let’s be off, for look, the peons are already at the swinging-bridge.’
“I gave my consent. ‘March!’ was the word, and our men stepped gaily out, and descended the hill at double-quick, followed by the Indian protégé of Father Bartholomew. The latter snuffled out some valedictory words, and stood watching our start. It so happened that my own eyes were averted from the chaplain just then, for a pistol belonging to a clumsy German in front went off accidentally, causing some confusion, and inflicting a slight graze with its bullet on the man nearest him. The injury was only skin-deep, but a great deal of clamour ensued, and, what with rating Hans for his awkwardness, tying a silk handkerchief round the wounded man’s arm, and getting the party into order, I quite forgot the monk. When we were across the ravines, and had overtaken the porters, Arthur came to my side.
“‘Slingsby,’ said he, in a low voice, ‘that padre is a queer customer. You didn’t see the expression of his face as we started. I did, and if ever a face expressed malignant triumph, his did then. I hope he has no mischief in his head. You know he thinks it a moral duty to hate heretics.’
“‘Pshaw! what can Father Bartholomew do?’ answered I, with a laugh. ‘Nobody doubts how gladly the worthy man would see our schismatical flesh frizzling in the blaze of a good pile of tar-barrels; but his malice finds vent in impotent curses and black looks, and Britons, even in Mexico, can bid defiance to such enemies as he. I don’t half like the face of that demure Indian, whom his reverence recommended to us, and shall keep an eye on him till we are clear of the disturbed districts.’
“We found the village of Quexhatepec in an uproar. There was news from Chihuahua of another political outbreak. The comprador came bustling to meet us, with uplifted hands and eyes of tragic meaning. He informed us that a wicked conspiracy on the part of the Liberals—those fiends who longed to confiscate Church lands and melt down Church plate—had been discovered. General Gomez had put down an attempt at rising with a strong hand. Executions were frequent, and martial law proclaimed. Blood, added my imaginative informant, ran like water through the streets of the capital. Military detachments scoured the country in search of proscribed fugitives. Of course our excellencies would see that our journey was impossible!
“Our excellencies saw nothing of the kind. We were foreigners, in no way concerned with the domestic broils and massacres of the distracted country. We were subjects or citizens of states able and willing to protect or avenge us. We were bound on a lawful errand—why should we turn back?
“This was clear and logical, and yet the comprador groaned as he gave orders for the horses and mules to be equipped for the road, and the whole population followed us to the end of the