That day Rosendo left his bed. Two days later he again set out for GuamocÓ.

“There is gold there, and I must, I will find it!” he repeatedly exclaimed as he pushed his preparations.

The courage of the man was magnificent. On its rebound it carried him over the protest of DoÑa Maria and the gloomy forebodings of his fellow-townsmen, and launched him again on the desolate trail.

But JosÈ had uttered no protest. He moved about wrapped in undefinable awe. For he believed he had seen Rosendo lifted from the bed of death. And no one might tell him that it was not by the same power that long ago had raised the dead man of Nain. Carmen had not spoken of the incident again; and something laid a restraint upon JosÈ’s lips.

The eyes of the Alcalde bulged with astonishment when Rosendo entered his store that morning in quest of further supplies.

“Caramba! Go back to your bed, compadre!” he exclaimed, bounding from his chair. “You are walking in your delirium!”

“Na, amigo,” replied Rosendo with a smile, “the fever has left me. And now I must have another month’s supplies, for I go back to GuamocÓ as soon as my legs tremble less.”

“Caramba! caramba!”

The Alcalde acted as if he were in the presence of a ghost. But at length becoming convinced that Rosendo was there on matters of business, and in his right mind, he checked further expression of wonder and, with a shrug of his fat shoulders, assumed his wonted air of a man of large affairs.

“I can allow you five pesos oro on account of the gold which the Cura brought me yesterday,” he said severely. “But that leaves you still owing ten pesos for your first supplies; and thirty if I give you what you ask for now. If you cannot pay this amount when you return, you will have to work it out for me.”

His little eyes grew steely and cold. Rosendo well knew what the threat implied. But he did not falter.

“Bien, compadre,” he quietly replied, “it will be as you say.”

Late that afternoon Juan returned from Bodega Central with a half ounce of quinine. He had made the trip with astonishing celerity, and had arrived at the riverine town just as a large steamer was docking. The purser supplied him with the drug, and he immediately started on his return.

The Alcalde set out to deliver the drug to Rosendo; but not finding him at home, looked in at the parish house. JosÈ and Carmen were deep in their studies.

“A thousand pardons, SeÑor Padre, but I have the medicine you ordered for Rosendo,” placing the small package upon the table.

“You may set it down against me, Don Mario,” said JosÈ.

“No!” exclaimed the Alcalde, “this must not be charged to the parish!”

“I said to me, amigo,” replied the priest firmly.

“It is the same thing, Padre!” blurted the petty merchant.

The priest’s anger began to rise, but he restrained it. “Padre Diego is no longer here, you must remember,” he said quietly.

“But the parish pays your debts; and it would not pay the full value of this and Juan’s trip,” was the coarse retort.

“Very well, then, Don Mario,” answered JosÈ. “You may charge it to Rosendo. But tell me first how much you will place against him for it.”

The Alcalde reflected a moment. “The quinine will be five pesos oro, and Juan’s trip three additional. Is it not worth it?” he demanded, blustering before JosÈ’s steady gaze. “If Rosendo had been really sick it would have saved his life!”

“Then you do not believe he was dangerously ill?” asked JosÈ with some curiosity.

“He couldn’t have been really sick and be around to-day––could he?” the Alcalde demanded.

The priest glanced at Carmen. She met the look with a smile.

“No,” he said slowly, “not really sick.” Then he quickly added:

“If you charge Rosendo eight pesos for that bit of quinine, Don Mario, you and I are no longer working together, for I do not take base advantage of any man’s necessities.”

The Alcalde became confused. He was going too far. “Na, SeÑor Padre,” he said hastily, with a sheepish grin. “I will leave the quinine with you, and do you settle the account with Juan.” With which he beat a disordered retreat.

JosÈ was thankful that, for a few months, at least, he would have a powerful hold on this man through his rapacity. What 94 would happen when the Alcalde at length learned that Rosendo was not searching for Don Ignacio’s lost mine, he did not care to conjecture. That matter was in other hands than his, and he was glad to leave it there. He asked now only to see each single step as he progressed.

“Did Don Mario say that stuff would cure padre Rosendo?” asked Carmen, pointing to the quinine.

“Yes, chiquita.”

“Why did he say so, Padre?”

“Because he really believed it, carita.”

“But what is it, Padre––and how can it cure sick people?”

“It is the bark of a certain tree, little one, that people take as medicine. It is a sort of poison which people take to counteract another poison. A great school of medicine is founded upon that principle, Carmen,” he added. And then he fell to wondering if it really was a principle, after all. If so, it was evil overcoming evil. But would the world believe that both he and Rosendo had been cured by––what? Faith? True prayer? By the operation of a great, almost unknown principle? Or would it scoff at such an idea?

But what cared he for that? He saw himself and Rosendo restored, and that was enough. He turned to the child. “They think the quinine cures fever, little one,” he resumed.

“And does it?” The little face wore an anxious look as she put the question.

“They think it does, chiquita,” replied the priest, wondering what he should say.

“But it is just because they think so that they get well, isn’t it?” the girl continued.

“I guess it is, child.”

“And if they thought right they would be cured without this––is it not so, Padre dear?”

“I am sure of it––now,” replied the priest. “In fact, if they always kept their thoughts right I am sure they would never be sick.”

“You mean, if they always thought about God,” the child amended.

“Yes––I mean just that. If they knew, really knew, that God is everywhere, that He is good, and that He never makes people sick, they would always be well.”

“Of course, Padre. It is only their bad thoughts that make them sick. And even then they are not really sick,” the child concluded. “They think they are, and they think they die––and then they wake up and find it isn’t so at all.”

Had the child made this remark to him a few weeks before, he had crushed it with the dull, lifeless, conventional formulÆ 95 of human belief. To-day in penitent humility he was trying to walk hand in hand with her the path she trod. For he was learning from her that righteousness is salvation. A few weeks ago he had lain at death’s door, yearning to pass the portal. Yesterday he believed he had again seen the dark angel, hovering over the stricken Rosendo. But in each case something had intervened. Perhaps that “something not ourselves that makes for righteousness,” the unknown, almost unacknowledged force that ceases not to combat evil in the human consciousness. Clinging to his petty egoisms; hugging close his shabby convictions of an evil power opposed to God; stuffed with worldly learning and pride of race and intellect, in due season, as he sank under the burden of his imaginings, the veil had been drawn aside for a fleeting moment––and his soul had frozen with awe at what it beheld!

For, back of the density of the human concept, the fleeting, inexplicable medley of good and evil which constitutes the phenomenon of mortal existence, he had seen God! He had seen Him as all-inclusive mind, omnipotent, immanent, perfect, eternal. He had caught a moment’s glimpse of the tremendous Presence which holds all wisdom, all knowledge, yet knows no evil. He had seen a blinding flash of that “something” toward which his life had strained and yearned. With it had come a dim perception of the falsity of the testimony of physical sense, and the human life that is reared upon it. And though he counted not himself to have apprehended as yet, he was struggling, even with thanksgiving, up out of his bondage, toward the gleam. The shafts of error hissed about him, and black doubt and chill despair still felled him with their awful blows. But he walked with Carmen. With his hand in hers, he knew he was journeying toward God.

On the afternoon before his departure Rosendo entered the parish house in apprehension. “I have lost my escapulario, Padre!” he exclaimed. “The string caught in the brush, and the whole thing was torn from my neck. I––I don’t like to go back without one,” he added dubiously.

“Ah, then you have nothing left but Christ,” replied JosÈ with fine irony. “Well, it is of no consequence.”

“But, Padre, it had been blessed by the Bishop!”

“Well, don’t worry. Why, the Holy Father himself once blessed this republic of ours, and now it is about the most unfortunate country in the whole world! But you are a good Catholic, Rosendo, so you need not fear.”

Rosendo was, indeed, a good Catholic. He accepted the faith of his fathers without reserve. He had never known any other. Simple, superstitious, and great of heart, he held with 96 rigid credulity to all that had been taught him in the name of religion. But until JosÈ’s advent he had feared and hated priests. Nevertheless, his faith in signs and miracles and the healing power of blessed images was child-like. Once when he saw in the store of Don Mario a colored chromo of Venus and Cupid, a cheap print that had come with goods imported from abroad, he had devoutly crossed himself, believing it to be the Virgin Mary with the Christ-child.

“But I will fix you up, Rosendo,” said JosÈ, noting the man’s genuine anxiety. “Have DoÑa Maria cut out a cloth heart and fasten it to a stout cord. I will take it to the church altar and bless it before the image of the Virgin. You told me once that the Virgin was the RincÓn family’s patron, you know.”

“Bueno!” ejaculated the pleased Rosendo, as he hastened off to execute the commission.

Several times before Rosendo went back to GuamocÓ JosÈ had sought to draw him into conversation about his illness, and to get his view of the probable cause of his rapid recovery. But the old man seemed loath to dwell on the topic, and JosÈ could get little from him. At any mention of the episode a troubled look would come over his face, and he would fall silent, or would find an excuse to leave the presence of the priest.

“Rosendo,” JosÈ abruptly remarked to him as he was busy with his pack late the night before his departure, “will you take with you the quinine that Juan brought?”

Rosendo looked up quickly. “I can not, Padre.”

“And why?”

“On account of Carmen.”

“But what has she to do with it, amigo?” JosÈ asked in surprise.

Rosendo looked embarrassed. “I––Bien, Padre, I promised her I would not.”

“When?”

“To-day, Padre.”

JosÈ reflected on the child’s unusual request. Then:

“But if you fell sick up in GuamocÓ, Rosendo, what could you do?”

“Quien sabe, Padre! Perhaps I could gather herbs and make a tea––I don’t know. She didn’t say anything about that.” He looked at JosÈ and laughed. Then, in an anxious tone:

“Padre, what can I do? The little Carmen asks me not to take the quinine, and I can not refuse her. But I may get sick. I––I have always taken medicine when I needed it and could get it. But the only medicine we have in SimitÍ is the stuff 97 that some of the women make––teas and drinks brewed from roots and bark. I have never seen a doctor here, nor any real medicines but quinine. And even that is hard to get, as you know. I used to make a salve out of the livers of mÁpina snakes––it was for the rheumatism––I suffered terribly when I worked in the cold waters in GuamocÓ. I think the salve helped me. But if I should get the disease now, would Carmen let me make the salve again?”

He bent over his outfit for some moments. “She says if I trust God I will not get sick,” he at length resumed. “She says I must not think about it. Caramba! What has that to do with it? People get sick whether they think about it or not. Do you believe, Padre, this new escapulario will protect me?”

The man’s words reflected the strange mixture of mature and childish thought typical of these untutored jungle folk, in which longing for the good is so heavily overshadowed by an educated belief in the power of evil.

“Rosendo,” said JosÈ, finding at last his opportunity, “tell me, do you think you were seriously ill day before yesterday?”

“Quien sabe, Padre! Perhaps it was only the terciana, after all.”

“Well, then,” pursuing another tack, “do you think I was very sick that day when I rushed to the lake––?”

“Caramba, Padre! But you were turning cold––you hardly breathed––we all thought you must die––all but Carmen!”

“And what cured me, Rosendo?” the priest asked in a low, steady voice.

“Why––Padre, I can not say.”

“Nor can I, positively, my friend. But I do know that the little Carmen said I should not die. And she said the same of you when, as I would swear, you were in the fell clutches of the death angel himself.”

“Padre––” Rosendo’s eyes were large, and his voice trembled in awesome whisper––“is she––the little Carmen––is she––an hada?”

“A witch? Hombre! No!” cried JosÈ, bursting into a laugh at the perturbed features of the older man. “No, amigo, she is not an hada! Let us say, rather, as you first expressed it to me, she is an angel––and let us appreciate her as such.

“But,” he continued, “I tell you in all seriousness, there are things that such as you and I, with our limited outlook, have never dreamed of; and that child seems to have penetrated the veil that hides spiritual things from the material vision of men like us. Let us wait, and if we value that ‘something’ which she seems to possess and know how to use, let us cut off our right hands before we yield to the temptation to place any 98 obstacle in the way of her development along the lines which she has chosen, or which some unseen Power has chosen for her. It is for you and me, Rosendo, to stand aside and watch, while we protect her, if haply we may be privileged some day to learn her secret in full. You and I are the unlearned, while she is filled with wisdom. The world would say otherwise, and would condemn us as fools. Thank God we are out of the world here in SimitÍ!”

He choked back the inrush of memories and brushed away a tear.

“Rosendo,” he concluded, “be advised. If Carmen told you not to think of sickness while in GuamocÓ, then follow her instructions. It is not the child, but a mighty Power that is speaking through her. Of that I have long been thoroughly convinced. And I am as thoroughly convinced that that same Power has appointed you and me her protectors and her followers. You and I have a mighty compact––”

“Hombre!” interrupted Rosendo, clasping the priest’s hand, “my life is hers––you know it––she has only to speak, and I obey! Is it not so?”

“Assuredly, Rosendo,” returned JosÈ. “And now a final word. Let us keep solely to ourselves what we have learned of her. Our plans are well formulated. Let us adhere to them in strict silence. I know not whither we are being led. But we are in the hands of that ‘something’ that speaks and works through her––and we are satisfied. Are we not?”

They clasped hands again. The next morning Rosendo set his face once more toward the emerald hills of GuamocÓ.

As the days passed, JosÈ became more silent and thoughtful. But it was a silence bred of wonder and reverence, as he dwelt upon the things that had been revealed to him. Who and what was this unusual child, so human, and yet so strangely removed from the world’s plane of thought? A child who understood the language of the birds, and heard the grass grow––a child whom Torquemada would have burnt as a witch, and yet with whom he could not doubt the Christ dwelt.

JosÈ often studied her features while she bent over her work. He spent hours, too, poring over the little locket which had been found among her mother’s few effects. The portrait of the man was dim and soiled. JosÈ wondered if the poor woman’s kisses and tears had blurred it. The people of Badillo said she had died with it pressed to her lips. But its condition rendered futile all speculation in regard to its original. That of the mother, however, was still fresh and clear. JosÈ conjectured that she must have been either wholly Spanish, or one of the more refined and cultured women of Colombia. And she 99 had doubtless been very young and beautiful when the portrait was made. With what dark tragedy was that little locket associated? Would it ever yield its secret?

But Carmen’s brown curls and light skin––whence came they? Were they wholly Latin? JosÈ had grave doubts. And her keen mind, and deep religious instinct? Who knew? He could only be sure that they had come from a source far, far above her present lowly environment. With that much he must for the present be content.

Another month unfolded its length in quiet days, and Rosendo again returned. Not ill this time, nor even much exhausted. Nor did the little leathern pouch contain more than a few pesos in gold dust. But determination was written grim and trenchant upon his black face as he strode into the parish house and extended his great hand to the priest.

“I have only come for more supplies, Padre,” he said. “I have some three pesos worth of gold. Most of this I got around Culata, near Don Felipe’s quartz vein, the Andandodias. Caramba, what veins in those hills! If we had money to build a mill, and knew how to catch the gold, we would not need to wash the river sands that have been gone over again and again for hundreds of years!”

But JosÈ’s thoughts were of the Alcalde. He determined to send for him at once, while Rosendo was removing the soil of travel.

Don Mario came and estimated the weight of the gold by his hand. Then he coolly remarked: “Bien, SeÑor Padre, I will send Rosendo to my hacienda to-morrow to cut cane and make panela.”

“And how is that, Don Mario?” inquired JosÈ.

The Alcalde began to bluster. “He owes me thirty pesos oro, less this, if you wish me to keep it. I see no likelihood that he can ever repay me. And so he must now work out his debt.”

“How long will that take him, amigo?”

“Quien sabe? SeÑor Padre,” the Alcalde replied, his eyes narrowing.

The priest braced himself, and his face assumed an expression that it had not worn before he came to SimitÍ. “Look you now, my friend,” he began in tones pregnant with meaning. “I have made some inquiries regarding your system of peonage. I find that you pay your peones from twenty to thirty cents a day for their hard labor, and at the same time charge them as much a day for food. Or you force them to buy from you tobacco and rum at prices which keep them always in your debt. Is it not so?”

“Na, Padre, you have been misinformed,” the Alcalde demurred, with a deprecating gesture.

“I have not. LÁzaro Ortiz is now working for you on that system. And daily he becomes more deeply indebted to you, is it not so?”

“But, Padre––”

“It is useless for you to deny it, Don Mario, for I have facts. Now listen to me. Let us understand each other clearly, nor attempt to dissimulate. That iniquitous system of peonage has got to cease in my parish!”

“Caramba, but Padre Diego had peones!” the Alcalde exploded.

“And he was a wicked man,” added JosÈ. Then he continued:

“I know not what information you may have from the Bishop regarding me, yet this I tell you: I shall report you to BogotÁ, and I will band the citizens of SimitÍ together to drive you out of town, if you do not at once release LÁzaro, and put an end to this wicked practice. The people will follow if I lead!”

It was a bold stroke, and the priest knew that he was standing upon shaky ground. But the man before him was superstitious, untutored and child-like. A show of courage, backed by an assertion of authority, might produce the desired effect. Moreover, JosÈ knew that he was in the right. And right must prevail!

Don Mario glared at him, while an ugly look spread over his coarse features. The priest went on:

“LÁzaro has long since worked out his debt, and you shall release him at once. As to Rosendo, he must have the supplies he needs to return to GuamocÓ. You understand?”

“Caramba!” Don Mario’s face was purple with rage. “You think you can tell me what to do––me, the Alcalde!” he volleyed. “You think you can make us change our customs! Caramba! You are no better than the priest Diego, whom you try to make me believe so wicked! Hombre, you were driven out of Cartagena yourself! A nice sort to be teaching a little girl––!”

“Stop, man!” thundered JosÈ, striding toward him with upraised arm.

Don Mario fell back in his chair and quailed before the mountainous wrath of the priest.

A shadow fell across the open doorway. Glancing up, JosÈ saw Carmen. For a moment the girl stood looking in wonder at the angry men. Then she went quickly to the priest and slipped a hand into his. A feeling of shame swept over him, 101 and he went back to his chair. Carmen leaned against him, but she appeared to be confused. Silence fell upon them all.

“Cucumbra doesn’t fight any more, Padre,” the girl at length began in hesitation. “He and the puppy play together all the time now. He has learned a lot, and now he loves the puppy.”

So had the priest learned much. He recalled the lesson. “Bien,” he said in soft tones, “I think we became a bit too earnest, Don Mario. We are good friends, is it not so? And we are working together for the good of SimitÍ. But to have good come to us, we must do good to others.”

He went to his trunk and took out a wallet. “Here are twenty pesos, Don Mario.” It was all he had in the world, but he did not tell the Alcalde so. “Take them on Rosendo’s account. Let him have the new supplies he needs, and I will be his surety. And, friend, you are going to let me prove to you with time that the report you have from Cartagena regarding me is false.”

Don Mario’s features relaxed somewhat when his hand closed over the grimy bills.

“Do not forget, amigo,” added JosÈ, assuming an air of mystery as he pursued the advantage, “that you and I are associated in various business matters, is it not so?”

The Alcalde’s mouth twitched, but finally extended in an unctuous grin. After all, the priest was a descendant of the famous Don Ignacio, and––who knew?––he might have resources of which the Alcalde little dreamed.

“Cierto, Padre!” he cried, rising to depart. “And we will yet uncover La Libertad! You guarantee Rosendo’s debt? Bien, he shall have the supplies. But I think he should take another man with him. LÁzaro might do, no?”

It was a gracious and unlooked for condescension.

“Send LÁzaro to me, Don Mario,” said JosÈ. “We will find use for him, I think.”

And thus Rosendo was enabled to depart a third time to the solitudes of GuamocÓ.