r sides for the better ease of the bell ringers. Its bright mosaic
peak rose peaceful and still in the clear air.

The Emperor and suite arranged themselves within, and the Inditos gaped
stolidly outside, to hear the Te Deum for their broken shackles. At the
most solemn moment, the Grand Chaplain availed himself of his exclusive
privilege, which was to present the Gospel to the royal lips. Assisting
him in the general service was the hacienda curate. This curate,
obscurely found in the Huasteca wilds and yet not a Mexican, was a large
sleek man whose paunch bulged repulsively under the priestly surplice.
His flabby jowls hung down, and gave his head the shape of a pea, in the
top of which were the eyes set close together. They were restless
fawning little eyes and they roved constantly. But more than aught else,
they were adventurous; two bright, glowing beads of adventure. From the
folds of dull yellow flesh they peered forth at the august worshipers.
They hovered first over the Emperor before his cushioned
_prie-dieu_. Then, in hungry search, they began to roam. They
lingered with General Almonte for a moment, but darted on, unsatisfied.
They fluttered yet longer over Miguel Lopez, the gorgeously uniformed
colonel of Dragoons, and left him only reluctantly. But when they
lighted on Monsieur Eloin, they gleamed. There was no longer
uncertainty. They laid bare the man as the print of a mass-book, and
found him profitable reading. After that, the adventurous orbs returned
to their larger prey, the Emperor, and gorging themselves, scintillated
more adventurously than ever.

And such a feast as the unconscious Hapsburg afforded the ghoul of a
priest! It was a loathsome surgery; greedy fingers trembling on the
knife, the victim's soul flayed, each nerve of a vanity, or tendon of an
ambition, or full-throbbing vein of hope, each and all lifted one by one
from the clotted mass and scrutinized exultantly. There was not a
feature but held a revelation as sure as vivisection. The high, broad
forehead of a gentle poet was often shaded by a dreamy melancholy, but
never once did it furrow in either craft or cruelty. In that the priest
knew his man for a devout mystic, knew him for a child confidingly
looking to a Destiny to inspire his every footstep. Then there was the
beard. It was too great a wealth of whisker, its satin, glossy flow of
too dandified a precision. The delicate finger tips stroked it softly,
affectionately, to th