Pollok.

In years, he could not have exceeded twenty-five, yet the countenance was that of one well versed in intrigue.  The cast was Italian—­the crisp black hair, swarthy complexion, and never-to-be-mistaken eyes.  A large amount of Jesuit determination was expressed in his iris, blended with cunning, malignity, and fierceness.  The features were prominent particularly the nose; the lips finely cut, but thin; the teeth beautiful and regular.  In stature he was low, and habited in the dress of his order, a long black coat or gown, buttoned to the throat, and reaching nearly to the feet.

Glancing at his watch as the sound of the last step died away, he paced round and round the altar, neglecting now the many genuflections, bows, and crossings with which he had honored the images in the presence of his flock.  His brows were knit, as if in deep thought, and doubtless he revolved the result of some deep-laid plan, when the door was hurriedly opened, and a man, bowing low before the images, approached him.  The dress of the stranger declared him a ranchero:  he wore no jacket but his pantaloons were of buckskin, and his broad sombrero was tucked beneath his arm.

“Benedicit, Juan!”

“Bueno noche, Padre.”

“What tidings do you bring me?” said Father Mazzolin.

The Mexican handed him a letter, and then, as if much fatigued, leaned heavily against the wall, and wiped his brow with a large blue cotton handkerchief.  As the priest turned away and perused his letter, a smile of triumphant joy irradiated his face, and a momentary flush tinged his dark cheek.  Again he read it, then thrusting it into his bosom, addressed the bearer: 

“May the blessing of the church rest upon you, who have so faithfully served your Padre;” and he extended his hand.  Warmly it was grasped by Juan, with a look of grateful surprise.

“Este bueno?” inquired Juan.

“Si mui bueno.  Juan, do you read American writing?”

“Chiquito,” was answered, with a slight shrug.

“What is the news in the el-grand Ciudad?”

“They have a strong ox to pull the ropes, now Santa Anna is at the head.  Bravura!” and the ranchero tossed his hat, regardless of the place.

It was, however, no part of Mazzolin’s policy to allow him for one moment to forget the reverence due the marble images that looked so calmly down from their niches, and with a stern glance he pointed to them, crossing himself as he did so.  Juan went down on his knees, and with an “Ave Maria,” and a Mexican dollar (which he laid on the altar), quieted his conscience.

“Senor Austin is in the Calaboose,” he said, after a pause.

Mazzolin started, and looked keenly at him, as if striving to read his inmost thoughts.

“You must be mistaken.  Juan; there is no mention of it in my letter?” he said, in a tone of one fearing to believe good news.

“Not at all, Padre.  We started together—­there were fifteen of us—­and after we had come a long way, so far as Saltillo, some of Santa Anna’s cavaleros overtook us, and carried Senor Americano back with them, and said they had orders to do it, for he was no friend to our nation.  I know, for I heard for myself.”