the share. The good man was in a state of holy calm. His
stout figure rested on one easy-chair, his stout ankles on another,
beside a table spread with oranges and limes, guavas and pine-
apples, and all the fruits of Ind.

An Indian girl, bedizened with scarfs and gold chains, kept
off the flies with a fan of feathers; and by him, in a pail of ice
from the Horqueta (the gift of some pious Spanish lady, who
had "spent" an Indian or two in bringing down the precious
offering), stood more than one flask of virtuous wine of Alicant.
But he was not so selfish, good man, as to enjoy either ice or
wine alone; Don Pedro, colonel of the soldiers on board, Don
Alverez, Intendant of His Catholic Majesty's Customs at Santa
Martha, and Don Paul, captain of mariners in The City of
the True Cross, had, by his especial request, come to his assist-
ance that evening, and with two friars, who sat at the lower
end of the table, were doing their best to prevent the good man
from taking too bitterly to heart the present unsatisfactory
state of his cathedral town, which had just been sacked and
burnt by an old friend of ours, Sir Francis Drake.

"We have been great sufferers, Señors,--ah, great sufferers,"
snuffled the bishop, quoting Scripture, after the fashion of the
day, glibly enough, but often much too irreverently for me to
repeat, so boldly were his texts travestied, and so freely inter-
larded by grumblings at Tita and the mosquitoes. "Great
sufferers, truly; but there shall be a remnant,--ah, a remnant
like the shaking of the olive tree and the gleaning grapes when
the vintage is done.--Ah! Gold? Yes, I trust Our Lady's
mercies are not shut up, nor her arms shortened.--Look,
Señors!"--and he pointed majestically out of the window.
"It looks gold! it smells of gold, as I may say, by a poetical
licence. Yea, the very waves, as they ripple past us, sing of
gold, gold, gold!"

"It is a great privilege," said the intendant, "to have
comfort so gracefully administered at once by a churchman and
a scholar."

"A poet, too," said Don Pedro. "You have no notion
what sweet sonnets------"

"Hush, Don Pedro--hush! If I, a mateless bird, have spent
an idle hour in teaching lovers how to sing, why, what of that?
I am a churchman, Señors; but I am a man and I can feel,
Señors; I can sympathise; I can palliate; I can excuse. Who
knows better than I how much human nature lurks in us fallen
sons of Adam? Tita!"

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