back of his
head, exposing his large calm forehead, and the kind honesty of his
countenance. Then he started a little, for his nerves were not quite
as strong as when they had good feeding, at the sudden sense of being
scrutinized by the most piercing gaze he had ever encountered.

The stranger was an old man of tall spare frame, wearing a shovel-hat
and long black gown drawn in with a belt, and around his bare neck was a
steel chain supporting an ebony cross. With a smile, which displayed the
firm angles of his face, he addressed the young man in a language which
Scudamore could not understand, but believed to be Portuguese.

"Thy words I am not able to understand. But the Latin tongue, as it is
pronounced in England, I am able to interpret, and to speak, not
too abundantly." Scudamore spoke the best Latin he could muster at a
moment's notice, for he saw that this gentleman was a Catholic priest,
and probably therefore of good education.

"Art thou, then, an Englishman, my son?" the stranger replied, in the
same good tongue. "From thy countenance and walk, that opinion stood
fast in my mind at first sight of thee. Every Englishman is to me
beloved, and every Frenchman unfriendly--as many, at least, as now
govern the state. Father Bartholomew is my name, and though most men
here are heretical, among the faithful I avail sufficiently. What saith
the great Venusian? 'In straitened fortunes quit thyself as a man of
spirit and of mettle.' I find thee in straitened fortunes, and would
gladly enlarge thee, if that which thou art doing is pleasing to the God
omnipotent."

After a few more words, he led the hapless and hungry Englishman to
a quiet little cot which overlooked the noble bay, and itself was
overlooked by a tall flag-staff bearing the colours of Portugal. Here in
the first place he regaled his guest with the flank of a kid served with
cucumber, and fruit gathered early, and some native wine, scarcely good
enough for the Venusian bard, but as rich as ambrosia to Scudamore. Then
he supplied him with the finest tobacco that ever ascended in spiral
incense to the cloud-compelling Jove. At every soft puff, away flew the
blue-devils, pagan, or Christian, or even scientific; and the brightness
of the sleep-forbidden eyes returned, and the sweetness of the smile
so long gone hence in dread of trespass. Father Bartholomew, neither
eating, drinking, nor smoking, till the sun should set--for this was one
of his fast-days