Terence gazed at him fixedly in
order to impress on his mind the features of the man whose ambition had
cost Portugal so dearly, and at whose instigation so much blood of the
most honest and capable men of the province had been shed. The face fully
justified the idea that he had formed of the man. The bishop was of
commanding presence, and walked with the air of one who was accustomed to
see all bow before him; but on the other hand, the face bore traces of his
violent character. There was a set smile on his lips, but his brow was
heavy and frowning, while his receding chin contradicted the strength of
the upper part of his face. There was, too, a look of anxiety and
restlessness betrayed by a nervous twitching of the lips.
"The scoundrel is a coward," Terence said to himself. "He may profess
absolute confidence, but I don't think he feels it, and I will bet odds
that he won't be in the front when the time for fighting comes."
Terence walked away after the procession had passed.
"If one could get hold of the bishop," he said to himself, "one might get
an order on the superior of the convent to hand over Mary O'Connor to the
bearer, but I don't see how that can possibly be managed. Of course, he is
surrounded by priests and officials all day, and his palace will be
guarded by any number of soldiers, for he must have many enemies.
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