A Conspiracy.

The bell was announcing the time of prayer the evening after. At its sound every one stopped his work and uncovered. The laborer coming from the fields checked his song; the woman in the streets crossed herself; the man caressed his cock and said the Angelus, that chance might favor him. And yet the curate, to the great scandal of pious old ladies, was running through the street toward the house of the alférez. He dashed up the steps and knocked impatiently. The alférez opened.

“Ah, father, I was just going to see you; your young buck——”

“I’ve something very important——” began the breathless curate.

“I can’t allow the fences to be broken; if he comes back, I shall fire on him.”

“Who knows whether to-morrow you will be alive,” said the curate, going on toward the reception-room.

“What? You think that youngster is going to kill me?”

“Señor alférez, the lives of all of us are in danger!”

“What?”

The curate pointed to the door, which the alférez closed in his customary fashion.

“Now, go ahead,” he said calmly.

“Did you see how I ran? When I thus forget myself, there is some grave reason.”

“And this time it is——”

The curate approached him and spoke low.

“Do you—know—of nothing—new?”

The alférez shrugged his shoulders.

“Are you speaking of Elias?”

“No, no! I’m speaking of a great peril!”