Roused by the bold language of the stranger, the Padre, though anxious
to learn his errand, was still true to his policy, and could in no
measure compromise the dignity of his person.

"There is no obligation resting on me to do so against my will, and no
man shall bully or threaten me, a priest of our holy church." He had
partially opened the door, but closed it again.

Enraged beyond degree, the soldier grasped what little collar was
afforded by the habit he wore.

"You infernal, canting hypocrite! I swear by Cortes I'll kick you to
a jelly--I'll bastinade you till you won't know the Virgin from the
Devil, if you don't instantly let me in, and keep your lying tongue in
your Jesuit head. Think you to gull me with your holy talk? I know you
all: you are a blessed, holy brotherhood, truly. Have I not seen
your letters to Mexico, you canting scoundrel?" He shook the Padre
violently as he delivered this benediction.

Now Father Mazzolin, like many of his sex, was fond of supporting his
dignity, and reverence for his sacred person was especially inculcated
by his teachings. Yet when firmly met his threats melted away, and, to
all appearances, his choler too, for he knew full well when to succumb
and when to oppose belligerent demonstrations. The expression of rage
that darkened the face of the soldier, left no doubt that he would
execute his threat if further opposed. And Father Mazzolin, fully
satisfied that the organ of reverence was altogether omitted in his
cranium, thought it best to comply.

"Ha! you can understand Irish logic as well as the next brave one."