The Insurgent Chief

"I rely on your word."

"Rely on it; but as to yourself?"

"I?"

"Yes."

"I will keep the promise I have made you."

"All?"

"All."

"Well, do not distress yourself about anything; but – giving, giving?"

"That's agreed."

"Now, come; they expect you. This long stay may excite suspicion; more than ever, prudence is necessary."

They proceeded. At the moment when they entered the first cloister, a black figure came away from an obscure corner, which, until that moment, it had remained shrouded in darkness; and after having made a threatening gesture to the portress, it appeared to vanish like a fantastic apparition, so rapidly did it glide through the corridors.

Arrived at the door of the superior's room, the portress knocked gently twice without receiving any answer; she waited a moment, and then knocked again.

"Adelante," was then answered from within.

She opened the door, and announced the stranger.

"Beg the gentleman to enter; he is welcome," answered the abbess.

The portress disappeared, and the general entered; then, on a sign from the superior, the portress withdrew, closing the door behind her.

The superior was alone, sitting on her great abbess's chair; she held open a Book of Hours, which she appeared to be reading.

At the entry of the young man she slightly inclined her head, and, with a gesture, directed him to a seat.

"Pardon me, Madame," said he, bowing respectfully, "in thus coming so inopportunely to disturb your pious meditations."

"You are, you say, Señor caballero, sent to me by the governor of the town. In that capacity my duty is to receive you at any hour that you please to come," pursued she, in a tone of cold politeness. "You have no apologies to make me, but only to explain the reason for this visit."

"I am about to have the honour of explaining myself; as you so graciously request it, Madame," answered he, with a constrained smile, taking the seat which she had pointed out.

The conversation had commenced in a tone of frigid politeness, which completely expressed the relation which the two speakers wished to hold towards each other during the whole interview.

There was a silence of two or three minutes.

The Montonero turned and returned his hat in his hands with a vexed air; while the abbess, who pretended to read attentively the book which she had not abandoned, stealthily cast a mocking look at the officer.

It was he who, feeling how strange his silence would appear, recommenced the conversation with an ease which was too marked to be natural.

"Señora, I do not know what causes the displeasure that you appear to have in seeing me; will you acquaint me with the reason, and accept, meanwhile, my humble and respectful apologies for the annoyances that, to my great regret, my presence occasions you?"

"You are in error, caballero," answered she, "as the meaning I attach to my words. I do not feel any annoyance, believe me, at your presence; only I am vexed at being obliged, at the good pleasure of the persons who govern us, to receive, without being prepared for it beforehand, the visits of envoys – very respectable, no doubt – but whose place should be anywhere else than in the room of the superior of a convent of women."

"That observation is perfectly just, Madame. It is not my fault that this has occurred. Unhappily it is, for the present, a necessity to which you must submit."

"So," resumed she, with some sharpness, "you see that I submit to it."

"You submit to it – yes, Madame," he pursued, in an insinuating tone, "but complaining at it, because you confound your friends with your enemies."

"I, Señor! You make a mistake, no doubt," said she, with compunction; "you do not reflect on who I am. What friends or what enemies can I have – I, a poor woman retired from the world, and devoted to the service of God?"

"You deceive yourself, or, which is more probable – excuse me, I beg, Madame – you do not wish to understand me."

"Perhaps, also, it is a little your fault, Señor," she resumed, with a slight tinge of irony, "owing to the obscurity in which your words are enveloped, unknown to yourself, no doubt."

Don Zeno repressed a gesture of impatience.

"Come, Madame," said he, after a pause, "let us be candid, shall we?"

"I wish nothing better for my part, Señor."

"You have here two prisoners?"

"I have two ladies that I have only received into this house on the express injunction of the governor of the town. Is it of these two ladies that you speak, Señor?"

"Yes, Señora, the same."

"Very well, they are here; I have, indeed, very strict orders with respect to them."

"I know it."

"These ladies have nothing, that I can see, to do with this conversation."

"On the contrary, Madame; it is them alone that it concerns; it is on their account alone that I have come here."

"Very well, Señor, continue; I am listening."

"These ladies have been made prisoners by me, and by me also conducted into this town."

"You could even add – into this convent, Señor; but continue."

"You are wrong in supposing, Madame, that I am the enemy of these unfortunate women; no one, on the contrary, interests himself more than I do in their fate."

"Ah!" said she, with irony.

"You do not believe me, Madame; indeed, appearances condemn me."

"Meanwhile, you condemn these unhappy ladies; is it not so, caballero?"