It was a dark vaulted closet on the ground-floor, gaining light from the stable-yard through a barred iron grating.

At the first glimpse it looked like a prison cell; looking more deliberately at the black tresseled bed, and the votive images hanging on the wall, it might have been a tomb.
"It is the best," said the landlord.

"The Padre Vincento will have none other on his journey." "I suppose God protects him," said Guest; "that door don't." He pointed to the worm-eaten door, without bolt or fastening.
"Ah, what matter! Are we not all friends ?" "Certainly," responded Guest, with his surliest manner, as he returned to the veranda.

Nevertheless, he resolved not to occupy the cell of the reverend Padre; not from any personal fear of his disreputable neighbors, though he was fully alive to their peculiarities, but from the nomadic instinct which was still strong in his blood.

He felt he could not yet bear the confinement of a close room or the propinquity of his fellow-man.