by Mayne Reid
CHAPTER FORTY TWO.
A HOLY BROTHERHOOD.
"Where the deuce am I?"
It was Florence Kearney who asked this question, interrogating himself;time, the morning after their retreat up the mountain. He was lying ona low pallet, or rather bench of mason work, with a palm mat spread overit, his only coverlet the cloak he had brought with him from DonIgnacio's carriage. The room was of smallest dimensions, some eight ornine feet square, pierced by a single window, a mere pigeon-hole withoutsash or glass.
He was yet only half awake, and, as his words show, with but a confusedsense of his whereabouts. His brain was in a whirl from the excitementthrough which he had been passing, so long sustained. Everything aroundseemed weird and dream-like.
Rubbing his eyes to make sure it was a reality, and raising his headfrom the hard pillow, he took stock of what the room contained. An easytask that. Only a ricketty chair, on which lay a pair of duellingpistols--one of the pairs found under the carriage cushions--and his hathanging on its elbow. Not a thing more except a bottle, greasy aroundthe neck, from a tallow candle that had guttered and burnt out, standingon the uncarpeted stone floor beside his own boots, just as he had drawnthem off.
Why he had not noticed these surroundings on the night before was due toextreme fatigue and want of sleep. Possibly, the Burgundy, mixed withthe Madeira and Old Pedro Ximenes, had something to do with it. In anycase he had dropped down upon the mat of palm, and became oblivious,almost on the moment of his entering this strange sleeping chamber, towhich the mayor-domo had conducted him.
"Queer crib it is," he continued to soliloquise, after making survey ofthe room and its containings, "for a bedroom. I don't remember everhaving slept in so small a one, except aboard ship, or in a prison-cell.How like the last it looks!"
It did somewhat, though not altogether. There were points ofdifference, as a niche in the wall, with a plaster cast on a plinth,apparently the image of some saint, with carvings in the woodwork,crosses, and other emblems of piety.
"It must be an old convent or monastery," he thought, after noticingthese. "Here in Mexico they often have them in odd, out-of-the-wayplaces, I've heard. Out of the way this place surely is, consideringthe climb we've had to reach it. Monks in it, too?" he added, recallingthe two men he had seen on the preceding night, and how they wherehabited. "A strange sort they seem, with a _captain_ at their head--myprison companion! Well, if it give us sanctuary, as he appears to thinkit will, I shall be but too glad to join the holy brotherhood."
He lay a little longer, his eyes running around the room, to note thatthe rough lime-wash on its walls had not been renewed for years; greenmoss had grown upon them, and there were seams at the corners, stainsshowing were rainwater had run down. If a monastery, it was evidentlynot one in the enjoyment of present prosperity, whatever it might havebeen in the past.
While still dreamily conjecturing about it, the door of his room wasgently pushed ajar, and so held by whoever had opened it. Turning hishead round, Kearney saw a man in long loose robes, with sandalled feetand shaven crown, girdle of beads, crucifix, cowl, and scapular--inshort, the garb of the monk with all its insignia.
"I have come to inquire how you have slept, my son," said the holy man,on seeing that he was awake. "I hope that the pure atmosphere of this,our mountain home--so different from that you've been so latelybreathing--will have proved conducive to your slumbers."
"Indeed, yes," rejoined he inquired after, conscious of having sleptwell. "I've had a good night's rest--the best allowed me for a longtime. But where--"
While speaking, he had dropped his feet to the floor, and raised himselferect on the side of the bed, thus bringing him face to face with thefriar. What caused him to leave the interrogatory unfinished was arecognition. The countenance he saw was a familiar one, as might beexpected after having been so close to his own--within a few feet ofit--for days past. No disguise of dress, nor changed tonsure, couldhinder identification of the man who had partaken of his chain in theAcordada; for he it was.
"Oh! 'tis you, Don Ruperto!" exclaimed Kearney, suddenly changing tone.
"The same, my son," rejoined the other, with an air of mock gravity.
At which the young Irishman broke out into a loud guffaw, saying:--
"Well, you're the last man I should ever have supposed to be a monk!"
He recalled some strong denunciations of the Holy Brethren he had heardpass the lips of his late fellow-prisoner.
"Ah! Senor Don Florencio, in this our world of Mexico we are calledupon to play many parts, and make out home in many places. Yesterday,you knew me as a prisoner, like yourself in a loathsome gaol; to-day,you see me in a monastery. And no common monk, but an Abbot, for know,_amijo mio_, that I am the head of this establishment. But come! Asyour host I am not now playing the part I should. You must be halffamished; besides, your toilet needs attending to. For the first,breakfast will be ready by the time you have looked to the last. Here,Gregorio!" this was a call to the mayor-domo outside, who instantlyafter appeared at the door. "Conduct this gentleman to the lavatory,and assist him in making his ablutions." Then again to Kearney: "If Imistake not, you will find a clean shirt there, with some other changesof raiment. And may I ask you to be expeditious? It has got to berather a late hour for breakfast, and the Holy Brethren will be gettinga little impatient for it. But, no doubt, your appetite will promptyou. _Hasta Luega_!"
With which salutation--the Mexican custom at parting for only a shortwhile--he passed out of the room, leaving his guest to be looked afterby Gregorio.
Surrendering himself to the mayor-domo, Kearney was conducted to anouter room, in which he found a washstand and dressing-table, with toweland other toilet articles--all, however, of the commonest kind. Evenso, they were luxuries that had been long denied him--especially thewater, a constant stream of which ran into a stone basin from some puremountain spring.
And, sure enough, the clean shirt was there, with a full suit ofclothes; velveteen jacket, _calzoneras calzoncillas_, scarf of Chinacrape--in short, the complete costume of a _ranchero_. A man of mediumsize, they fitted him nicely; and arrayed in them he made a veryhandsome appearance.
"Now, your honour," said the individual in charge of him, "allow me toshow you the Refectory."
Another turn along the main passage brought them to the door, from whichissued a buzz of voices. His host had prepared him to expect company,and on stepping inside this door he saw it in the shape of sometwenty-five or thirty men, all in the garb of monks of the same order asRivas himself.
The room was a large one, saloon shape, with a table standing centrally,around which were benches and chairs. A cloth was spread upon it, witha multifarious and somewhat heterogeneous array of ware--bottles andglasses being conspicuous; for it was after eleven o'clock, and the meal_almuerzo_, as much dinner as breakfast. The viands were being put uponit; three or four Indian youths, not in convent dress, passing themthrough a hatch that communicated with the kitchen, and from which alsocame a most appetising odour.
All this the young Irishman took in with a sweep of his eye, whichinstantly after became fixed upon the friars who had faced towards him.They were standing in two or three groups, the largest gathered round anindividual who towered above all of them by the head and shoulders.Cris Rock it was, clean shaven, and looking quite respectable; indeed,better dressed than Kearney had seen him since he left off his NewOrleans "store" clothes. The Colossus was evidently an object of greatinterest to his new acquaintances; and, from the farcical look upontheir faces, it was clear they had been doing their best to "draw" him.With what success Kearney could not tell; though, from the knowledge hehad of his old comrade's cleverness, he suspected not much. There wasjust time for him to note the jovial air of the Brethren, so little inkeeping with the supposed gravity of the monastic character, when theAbbot entering led him up to them, and gave him a general introduction.
"_Hermanos_!" he said, "let me present
another of my comrades inmisfortune, the Senor Don Florencio Kearney--an _Irlandes_--who claimsthe hospitality of the convent."
They all made bow, some pressing forward, and extending hands.
But there was no time for dallying over salutations. By this severaldishes had been passed through the hatch, and were steaming upon thetable. So the Abbot took seat at its head, Kearney beside him; whilethe Texan was bestowed at its foot, alongside one who seemed to act asvice-chairman.
If the table-cloth was not one of the finest damask, nor the warecostliest china and cut glass, the repast was worthy of such. In allthe world there is no _cuisine_ superior to that of Mexico. By reasonof certain aboriginal viands, which figured on the table of that Aztecsybarite, Montezuma, it beats the _cuisine_ of old Spain, on which thatof France is founded, and but an insipid imitation.
The monks of this mountain retreat evidently knew how to live, courseafter course being passed through the hatch in a variety which seemed asif it would never end. There were pucheros, guisados, tomales, and halfa score of other dishes Kearney had never before heard of, much lesstasted. No wonder at their dinner of the preceding day having left such_debris_ for supper.
And the wines were in correspondence--in quality, profusion, everything.To Kearney it recalled "Bolton Abbey in the olden time." Nor evercould the monks of that ancient establishment on the Wharfe have drunkbetter wines, or laughed louder while quaffing them, than they whosehospitality he was receiving on the side of the Cerro Ajusco.
Some strange speech, however, he heard passing around him, little inconsonance with what might be supposed to proceed from the lips ofreligious men. But, possibly, just such as came from those of theTintern and Bolton Brethren when around the refectory table. Not all ofit, though. If the talk was worldly, it savoured little of wickedness--far less than that of the cowled fraternity of olden times, ifchronicles are to be trusted. And never in convent hall could have beenheard such toast as that with which the breakfast was brought to aclose, when Rivas, rising to his feet, goblet in hand, the othersstanding up along with him, cried out--
"_Patria y Libertad_!"
Country and Liberty! Strange sentiment in such a place, and to bereceived with acclaim by such people!