Page:Death Comes for the Archbishop.pdf/155

 collected. As the people sank on their knees, one boy, a gawky lad of ten or twelve, remained standing, his mouth open and his hat on his head. Padre Martinez reached over the heads of several kneeling women, snatched off the boy’s cap, and cuffed him soundly about the ears. When Father Latour murmured in protest, the native priest said boldly:

“He is my own son, Bishop, and it is time I taught him manners.”

So this was to be the tune, the Bishop reflected. His well-schooled countenance did not change a shadow as he received this challenge, and he passed on into the Padre’s house. They went at once into Martinez’s study, where they found a young man lying on the floor, fast asleep. He was a very large young man, very stout, lying on his back with his head pillowed on a book, and as he breathed his bulk rose and fell amazingly. He wore a Franciscan’s brown gown, and his hair was clipped short. At sight of the sleeper, Padre Martinez broke into a laugh and gave him a no very gentle kick in the ribs. The fellow got to his feet in great confusion, escaping through a door into the patio.

“You there,” the Padre called after him, “only young men who work hard at night want to sleep in the day! You must have been studying by candle-light. I’ll give you an examination in theology!” This was greeted by a titter of feminine laughter