The good padre was
not quite sincere when he spoke of a poor meal. While getting the
aguardiente for his guest he had given orders, and he knew how well such
orders could be carried out. He lived alone, and generally supped simply
enough, but not even the ample table at San Fernando could surpass his
own on occasions. And this was for him an occasion indeed!

"Your half-breeds will think I am one of themselves," said Gaston,
showing his dusty clothes. "I am not fit to be seated with you." He,
too, was not more sincere than his host. In his pack, which an Indian
had brought from his horse, he carried some garments of civilization.
And presently, after fresh water and not a little painstaking with brush
and scarf, there came back to the padre a young guest whose elegance and
bearing and ease of the great world were to the exiled priest as sweet
as was his traveled conversation.

They repaired to the hall and took their seats at the head of the long
table. For the stately Spanish centuries of custom lived at Santa Ysabel
del Mar, inviolate, feudal, remote.

They were the only persons of quality present; and between themselves
and the gente de razon a space intervened. Behind the padre's chair
stood an Indian to wait upon him, and another stood behind the chair of
Gaston Villere. Each of these servants wore one single white garment,
and offered the many dishes to the gente fina and refilled their
glasses. At the lower end of the table a general attendant waited upon
the mesclados--the half-breeds. There was meat with spices, and roasted
quail, with various cakes and other preparations of grain; also the
black fresh olives, and grapes, with several sorts of figs and plums,
and preserved fruits, and white and red wine--the white fifty years
old. Beneath the quiet shining of candles, fresh-cut flowers leaned from
vessels of old Mexican and Spanish make.

There at one end of this feast sat the wild, pastoral, gaudy company,
speaking little over their food; and there at the other the pale padre,
questioning his visitor about Rachel. The mere name of a street would
bring memories crowding to his lips; and when his guest would tell him
of a new play, he was ready with old quotations from the same author.
Alfred de Vigny they had, and Victor Hugo, whom the padre disliked. Long
after the dulce, or sweet dish, when it was the custom for the vaqueros
and the rest of the retainers to rise and leave the gente fina to
themselves, the