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Without paying any
attention to the rich odor of chocolate, or to the rattle of boxes
and coins which came from the treasury, and scarcely acknowledging
the respectful and deferential salute of the procurator-brother,
he entered, passed along several corridors, and knocked at a door.
"Come in," sighed a weak voice.
"May God restore health to your Reverence," was the young Dominican's
greeting as he entered.
Seated in a large armchair was an aged priest, wasted and rather
sallow, like the saints that Rivera painted. His eyes were sunken in
their hollow sockets, over which his heavy eyebrows were almost always
contracted, thus accentuating their brilliant gleam. Padre Sibyla,
with his arms crossed under the venerable scapulary of St. Dominic,
gazed at him feelingly, then bowed his head and waited in silence.
"Ah," sighed the old man, "they advise an operation, an operation,
Hernando, at my age! This country, O this terrible country! Take
warning from my ease, Hernando!"
Fray Sibyla raised his eyes slowly and fixed them on the sick man's
face.


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