Padre Salvi happened to raise his eyes, but made not the slightest movement that might have been taken for a salute or a recognition of them.

He merely stood erect, so that his cope fell over his shoulders more gracefully and elegantly.
In the street under the window was a young woman of pleasing countenance, dressed in deep mourning, carrying in her arms a young baby.

She must have been a nursemaid only, for the child was white and ruddy while she was brown and had hair blacker than jet.

Upon seeing the curate the tender infant held out its arms, laughed with the laugh that neither causes nor is caused by sorrow, and cried out stammeringly in the midst of a brief silence, "Pa-pa! Papa! Papa!" The young woman shuddered, slapped her hand hurriedly over the baby's mouth and ran away in dismay, with the baby crying.
Malicious ones winked at each other, and the Spaniards who had witnessed the short scene smiled, while the natural pallor of Padre Salvi changed to the hue of poppies.

Yet the people were wrong, for the curate was not acquainted with the woman at all, she being a stranger in the town..