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Chapter 5

           

           Andonlythepriestcontinuedhispacing,flingingroundtheskirtofhissoutaneateachendofhisbeat.Decoudmurmuredtohimironically:“Thosegentlementalkabouttheirgods.”

           FatherCorbelanstoppedshort,lookedatthejournalistofSulacofixedlyforamoment,shruggedhisshouldersslightly,andresumedhisploddingwalkofanobstinatetraveller.

           AndnowtheEuropeansweredroppingofffromthegrouparoundCharlesGouldtilltheAdministradoroftheGreatSilverMinecouldbeseeninhiswholelanklength,fromheadtofoot,leftstrandedbytheebbingtideofhisguestsonthegreatsquareofcarpet,asitwereamulti-colouredshoalofflowersandarabesquesunderhisbrownboots.FatherCorbelanapproachedtherocking-chairofDonJoseAvellanos.

           “Come,brother,”hesaid,withkindlybrusquenessandatouchofrelievedimpatienceamanmayfeelattheendofaperfectlyuselessceremony.“AlaCasa!AlaCasa!Thishasbeenalltalk.LetusnowgoandthinkandprayforguidancefromHeaven.”

           Herolledhisblackeyesupwards.Bythesideofthefraildiplomatistthelifeandsoulofthepartyheseemedgigantic,withagleamoffanaticismintheglance.Butthevoiceoftheparty,or,rather,itsmouthpiece,the“sonDecoud”fromParis,turnedjournalistforthesakeofAntonia’seyes,knewverywellthatitwasnotso,thathewasonlyastrenuouspriestwithoneidea,fearedbythewomenandexecratedbythemenofthepeople.

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