“Candiola is nobody’s neighbor. The girl is always in the company of the soldiers since they lost their house.”
“She goes among them to help take care of the wounded.”
“It may be; but it looks to me as if she likes best those who are strong and hearty. Her charming little face does not show a whiff of shame.”
“You snake in the grass!”
“It is the truth,” said the friar. “She’s a chip of the old block. Do they not say all sorts of things about her mother, Pepa Rincón?”
“Perhaps she used to take a little something to make her happy.”
“It’s not a bad kind of happiness. When she was abandoned by her third gallant, Señor Don Jerónimo took charge of her.”
“Enough of scandal,” said Montoria. “Even when we talk of the worst people in the world, we can at least leave them to their own consciences.”
“I would not give a farthing for the souls of all the Candiolas put together,” replied the friar. “But there comes the Señor Don Jerónimo, if I am not mistaken. He has seen us, and is coming over here.”
Candiola was indeed coming slowly along the Coso, and came up to the convent door.
“Good evening to you, Señor Don Jerónimo,” said Montoria. “I live in hope that our grudge is all gone.”
“A moment ago your innocent young daughter was here looking for you,” said Luengo, maliciously.
“Where is she?”