Decoud murmured to him ironically:
"Those gentlemen talk about their gods."
Father Corbelan stopped short, looked at the journalist of Sulaco
fixedly for a moment, shrugged his shoulders slightly, and resumed his
plodding walk of an obstinate traveller.
And now the Europeans were dropping off from the group around Charles
Gould till the Administrador of the Great Silver Mine could be seen in
his whole lank length, from head to foot, left stranded by the
ebbing tide of his guests on the great square of carpet, as it were a
multi-coloured shoal of flowers and arabesques under his brown boots.
Father Corbelan approached the rocking-chair of Don Jose Avellanos.
"Come, brother," he said, with kindly brusqueness and a touch of
relieved impatience a man may feel at the end of a perfectly useless
ceremony. "A la Casa! A la Casa! This has been all talk. Let us now go
and think and pray for guidance from Heaven."
He rolled his black eyes upwards. By the side of the frail
diplomatist--the life and soul of the party--he seemed gigantic, with
a gleam of fanaticism in the glance.
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