The good padre looked benignantly on the company about the fountain,
and took his seat with some emphasis on a stone bench, while the
handmaid hastened to bring him a glass of sparkling water. He sipped
it deliberately and with a relish, tempering it with one of those
spongy pieces of frosted eggs and sugar so dear to Spanish epicures,
and on returning the glass to the hand of the damsel pinched her cheek
with infinite loving-kindness.
"Ah, the good pastor!" whispered the student to himself; "what a
happiness would it be to be gathered into his fold with such a
pet-lamb for a companion!"
But no such good fare was likely to befall him. In vain he essayed
those powers of pleasing which he had found so irresistible with
country curates and country lasses. Never had he touched his guitar
with such skill; never had he poured forth more soul-moving ditties,
but he had no longer a country curate or country lass to deal with.
The worthy priest evidently did not relish music, and the modest
damsel never raised her eyes from the ground. They remained but a
short time at the fountain; the good padre hastened their return to
Granada. The damsel gave the student one shy glance in retiring, but
it plucked the heart out of his bosom!
He inquired about them after they had gone. Padre Tomas was one of
the saints of Granada, a model of regularity, punctual in his hour
of rising, his hour of taking a paseo for an appetite, his hours of
eating, his hour of taking his siesta; his hour of playing his game of
tresillo, of an evening, with some of the dames of the Cathedral
circle; his hour of supping, and his hour of retiring to rest, to
gather fresh strength for another day's round of similar duties.
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