“Another cemetery,” said Sara, as the white crosses and head-stones shone out in the sunset on one side of the road.
Mokes, stimulated to unusual conversational efforts by the successes of the day, now brought forward the omnipresent item. “This is--er, I suppose, the old Huguenot burying-ground, a--er--a spot of much interest, I am told.”
“Yes,” replied Sara. “This is the very spot, Mr. Mokes.”
“Oh no, Miss St. John,” said Aunt Diana, coming to the rescue, “you mistake. This is Tolomato.”
“It makes no difference. I am now convinced that they are _all_ Huguenot burying-grounds,” replied Sara, calmly.
The little cemetery was crowded with graves, mounds of sand over which the grass would not grow, and heavy coquina tombs whose inscriptions had crumbled away. The names on the low crosses, nearly all Spanish, Minorcan, Corsican, and Greek, bore witness to the foreign ancestry of the majority of the population. We found Alvarez, La Suarez, Leonardi, Capo, Carrarus, Ximanies, Baya, Pomar, Rogero, and Hernandez. Among the Christian names were Bartolo, Raimauld, Rafaelo, Geronimo, Celestino, Dolorez, Dominga, Paula, and Anaclata.
“It looks venerable, but it only dates back about one hundred years,” said John. “Where the old Dons of two or three centuries ago buried their dead, no one knows; perhaps they sent them all back home, Chinese fashion. An old bell which now hangs in the cathedral is said to have come from here; it bears the inscription, ‘Sancte Joseph, ora pro nobis; D. 1682,’ and is probably the oldest bell in the country.”
“And what was it doing here?” said Mokes, with the air of a historian.
“There was once an Indian village here, called Tolomato, and a mission chapel; the bell is supposed to have come from the chapel.”
“Is that the chapel?” asked Mokes, pointing to a small building on the far side of the cemetery. He was getting on famously, he thought, quite historical, and that sort of thing.
“No; that is a chapel erected in 1853 by Cubans to the memory of Father Varela. The old Tolomato chapel was--was destroyed.”
John glanced toward Sara with a smile. “Oh, go on,” she said, “I am quite prepared! A massacre, of course!”
“Yes, a massacre. The Indians stole into the chapel by night, and finding Father Corpa engaged in his evening devotions, they slew him at the altar, and threw his body out into the forest, where it could never afterward be found. The present cemetery marks the site of the old mission, and bears its name.”