To those that
dwelt in it, it was wholly apart from all the world of man.
Most of its tall white houses with green doors were gathered about
the market-place, in which were pigeons and smells and declining
sunlight, as Rodriguez and his escort came towards it, and from
round a corner at the back of it the short, repeated song of one
who would sell a commodity went up piercingly.
This was all very long ago. Time has wrecked that village now.
Centuries have flowed over it, some stormily, some smoothly, but
so many that, of the village Rodriguez saw, there can be now no
more than wreckage. For all I know a village of that name may
stand on that same plain, but the Saint Judas-not-Iscariot that
Rodriguez knew is gone like youth.
Queerly tiled, sheltered by small dense trees, and standing a
little apart, Rodriguez recognised the house of the Priest. He
recognised it by a certain air it had. Thither he pointed and la
Garda rode. Again he spoke to them. "Can Morano speak Latin?" he
said.
"God forbid!" said la Garda.
They dismounted and opened a gate that was gilded all over, in a
low wall of round boulders. They went up a narrow path between
thick ilices and came to the green door. They pulled a bell whose
handle was a symbol carved in copper, one of the Priest's
mysteries. The bell boomed through the house, a tiny musical boom,
and the Priest opened the door; and Rodriguez addressed him in
Latin.
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