They talked earnestly
together, the clerigo, every now and then, indicating by significant
nods and glances towards us, that we formed the burden of his song,
whatever that might be. Campana seemed exceedingly unwilling to
communicate the message, which we guessed he had been entreated to carry
to us, and made one or two attempts to shove the friar in propria
persona towards us, that he might himself tell his own story. At length
they advanced together to where we stood, when he addressed me.
"You must pardon me, Lieutenant; but as the proverb hath it, strange
countries, strange manners; my friend here, Padre Carera, brings a
message from El Senor Picador Cangrejo, one of our magnates, that he
will consider it an especial favour if you will can on him, either this
forenoon or tomorrow."
"Why, who is this Cangrejo, Don Ricardo? if he be not the father of the
poor fellow I mentioned, there must be some mystery about him."
"No mystery," chimed in the monk; "no mystery, God help us, but mucha,
mucha miseria, hijo mio; much misery, sir, and more impending, and none
to help save only"--He did not finish the sentence, but taking off his
shovel hat, and shewing his finely turned bald head, he looked up to
heaven, and crossed himself, the tears trickling down his wrinkled
cheeks. "But," continued he, "you will come, Mr Cringle?"
"Certainly," said I, "tomorrow I will call, if my friend Don Ricardo
will be my guide.
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