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At that moment there appeared the face of Placido Penitente, who was accompanied by the pyrotechnician that we saw receiving orders from Simoun. The newcomers were surrounded and importuned for news. "I haven't been able to talk with the prisoners," explained Placido. "There are some thirty of them." "Be on your guard," cautioned the pyrotechnician, exchanging a knowing look with Placido.
You wear the scars of a penitente because you think it will help you to make money and to do what you want. You are just like MacDougall, except that he uses money and you use words. A poor man can only choose his masters, and for my part I have more use for money than for words.” So saying, the blunt old savage walked to the other end of his store and began showing a Mexican woman some shawls.
Meanwhile, the groups began to move inside, for the professor of physics and chemistry had put in his appearance. The students appeared to be cheated in their hopes and went toward the interior of the building with exclamations of discontent. Placido went along with the crowd. "Penitente, Penitente!" called a student with a certain mysterious air. "Sign this!" "What is it?" "Never mind sign it!"
"What kind of time did you have, Penitente?" was his question as he again slapped him on the shoulder. "So, so," answered Placido, rather bored. "And you?" "Well, it was great! Just imagine the curate of Tiani invited me to spend the vacation in his town, and I went. Old man, you know Padre Camorra, I suppose?
None of those fellows like MacDougall; they’re all afraid of him. All they like is his money. You haven’t so much money, but you could spend some. You could give a few bailes. You are Mexican; your family is well-known. If you were a penitente, too.…” Cortez left his sentence hanging in the air. He nodded his head slowly, his cigar cocked at a knowing angle, looking at Ramon through narrowed lids.
His grandfather had whittled this famous image out of a cottonwood tree, whereon a saintly Penitente had been crucified after the custom of the order of Flagellants.
A few days later one bright morning Ramon was sitting in the sun before the door of his friend, Francisco Guiterrez, feeling still somewhat sore, but otherwise surprisingly well. Guiterrez, a young sheep-herder, held the position of coadjutor of the local penitente chapter, and one of his duties as such was to take the penitent to his house and care for him after the initiation.
If he gave Archulera to understand that he would marry the girl, word of it might get to town. “He’ll never find her,” he said confidently. “I’ll do nothing unless he comes to me.” “I don’t know,” Cortez replied doubtfully. “Is he a penitente?” “Yes; I think he is,” Ramon admitted. “Then maybe he’ll find her pretty quick.
No bawd could have written a more seducing letter to an innocent country girl, than the 'directeur' did to his 'penitente'; who I dare say had no occasion for his good advice.
One man that was elected to Congress—they say that the penitente stripes on his back carried him there. And he was a gringo too. But I don’t know. It may be a lie.…” “But tell us about that procession you saw when you were a little boy,” Julia broke in. She was leaning forward with her chin in her hand, and her big grey eyes, wide with interest, fixed upon his face.
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