Juan’s startling announcement linked JosÈ again with a fading past. Standing with his arm about Carmen, while the child looked up wonderingly at her grimly silent protector, the priest seemed to have fallen with dizzy precipitation from some spiritual height into a familiar material world of men and events. Into his chastened mentality there now rushed a rabble rout of suggestions, throwing into wild confusion the orderly forces of mind which he was striving to marshal to meet 109 the situation. He recalled, for the first time in his new environment, the significant conversation of Don Jorge and the priest Diego, in Banco. He saw again the dark clouds that were lowering above the unhappy country when he left Cartagena. Had they at last broken? And would carnal lust and rapine again drench fair Colombia with the blood of her misguided sons? Were the disturbance only a local uprising, headed by a coterie of selfish politicians, it would produce but a passing ripple. Colombia had witnessed many such, and had, by a judicious redistribution of public offices, generally met the crises with little difficulty. On the other hand, if the disorder drew its stimulus from the deep-seated, swelling sentiment of protest against the continued affiliation of Church and State, then what might not ensue before reason would again lay her restraining hand upon the rent nation! For––strange anomaly––no strife is so venomous, no wars so bloody, no issues so steeped in deadliest hatred, as those which break forth in the name of the humble Christ.

A buzzing concourse was gathering in the plaza before the church. Leaving Carmen in charge of DoÑa Maria, JosÈ mingled with the excited people. Juan had brought no definite information, other than that already imparted to JosÈ, but his elastic Latin imagination had supplied all lacking essentials, and now, with much gesticulation and rolling of eyes, with frequent alternations of shrill chatter and dignified pomp of phrase, he was portraying in a mÉlange of picturesque and poetic Spanish the supposed happenings along the great river.

JosÈ forced the lad gently aside and addressed the thoroughly excited people himself, assuring them that no reliable news was as yet at hand, and bidding them assemble in the church after the evening meal, where he would advise with them regarding their future course. He then sought the Alcalde, and drew him into his store, first closing the door against the excited multitude.

“Bien, SeÑor Padre, what are you going to do?” The Alcalde was atremble with insuppressible excitement.

“Don Mario, we must protect SimitÍ,” replied the priest, with a show of calm which he did not possess.

“Caramba, but not a man will stay! They will run to the hills! The guerrillas will come, and SimitÍ will be burned to the ground!”

“Will you stay––with me?”

“Na, and be hacked by the machetes of the guerrillas, or lassoed by government soldiers and dragged off to the war?” The official mopped the damp from his purple brow.

“Caramba!” he went on. “But the Antioquanians will come 110 down the SimitÍ trail from Remedios and butcher every one they meet! They hate us Simitanians, since we whipped them in the revolution of seventy-six! And––Diablo! if we stay here and beat them back, then the federal troops will come with their ropes and chains and force us away to fight on their side! Nombre de Dios! I am for the mountains––pronto!”

JosÈ’s own fear mounted by leaps. And yet, in the welter of conflicting thought two objects stood out above the rest––Carmen and Rosendo. The latter was on the trail, somewhere. Would he fall afoul of the bandits who find in these revolutions their opportunities for plunder and bloodshed? As for Carmen––the priest’s apprehensions were piling mountain-high. He had quickly forgotten his recent theories regarding the nature of God and man. He had been swept by the force of ill tidings clean off the lofty spiritual plane up to which he had struggled during the past weeks. Again he was befouled in the mire of material fears and corroding speculations as to the probable manifestations of evil, real and immanent. Don Mario was right. He must take the child and fly at once. He would go to DoÑa Maria immediately and bid her prepare for the journey.

“You had best go to Don NicolÁs,” replied DoÑa Maria, when the priest had voiced his fears to her. “He lives in Boque, and has a hacienda somewhere up that river. He will send you there in his canoe.”

“And Boque is––?”

“Three hours from SimitÍ, across the shales. You must start with the dawn, or the heat will overtake you before you arrive.”

“Then make yourself ready, DoÑa Maria,” said JosÈ in relief, “and we will set out in the morning.”

“Padre, I will stay here,” the woman quietly replied.

“Stay here!” ejaculated the priest. “Impossible! But why?”

“There will be many women too old to leave the town, Padre. I will stay to help them if trouble comes. And I would not go without Rosendo.”

Shame fell upon the priest like a blanket. He, the Cura, was deserting his charge! And this quiet, dignified woman had shown herself stronger than the man of God! He turned to the door. Carmen was just entering. He took the child by the hand and led her to his own cottage.

“Carmen,” he said, as she stood expectantly before him, “we––there is trouble in the country––that is, men are fighting and killing down on the river––and they may come here. We must––I mean, I think it best for us to go away from SimitÍ for a while.” The priest’s eyes fell before the perplexed gaze of the girl.

“Go away?” she repeated slowly. “But, Padre––why?”

“The soldiers might come––wicked men might come and harm you, chiquita!”

The child seemed not to comprehend. “Is it that you think they will, Padre?” she at length spoke.

“I fear so, little one,” he made reply.

“But––why should they?”

“Because they want to steal and kill,” he returned sadly.

“They can’t, Padre––they can’t!” the girl said quickly. “You told me that people see only their thoughts, you know. They only think they want to steal––and they don’t think right––”

“But,” he interrupted bitterly, “that doesn’t keep them from coming here just the same and––and––” He checked his words, as a faint memory of his recent talks with the girl glowed momentarily in his seething brain.

“But we can keep them from coming here, Padre––can’t we?”

“How, child?”

“By thinking right ourselves, Padre––you said so, days ago––don’t you remember?” The girl came to the frightened man and put her little arm about his neck. It was an action that had become habitual with her. “Padre dear, you read me something from your Bible just yesterday. It was about God, and He said, ‘I am that which was, and is, and is to come.’ Don’t you remember? But, Padre dear, if He is that which is to come, how can anything bad come?”

O, ye of little faith! Could ye not watch one hour with me––the Christ-principle? Must ye ever flee when the ghost of evil stalks before you with his gross assumptions?

Yes, JosÈ remembered. But he had said those things to her and evolved those beautiful theories in a time of peace. Now his feeble faith was flying in panic before the demon of unbelief, which had been aroused by sudden fear.

The villagers were gathering before his door like frightened sheep. They sought counsel, protection, from him, the unfaithful shepherd. Could he not, for their sakes, tear himself loose from bondage to his own deeply rooted beliefs, and launch out into his true orbit about God? Was life, happiness, all, at the disposal of physical sense? Did he not love these people? And could not his love for them cast out his fear? If the test had come, would he meet it, calmly, even alone with his God, if need be?––or would he basely flee? He was not alone. Carmen stood by him. She had no part in his cowardice. But Carmen––she was only a child, immature, inexperienced in the ways of the world! True. Yet the great God himself had caused His prophets to see that “a little child shall 112 lead them.” And surely Carmen was now leading in fearlessness and calm trust, in the face of impending evil.

JosÈ rose from his chair and threw back his shoulders. He stepped quickly to the door. “My children,” he said gently, holding out his arms over them. “Be not afraid. I shall not leave SimitÍ, but remain here to help and protect all who will stay with me. If the guerrillas or soldiers come we will meet them here, where we shall be protecting our loved ones and our homes. Come to the church to-night, and there we will discuss plans. Go now, and remember that your Cura has said that there shall no harm befall you.”

Did he believe his own words? He wondered.

The people dispersed; Carmen was called by DoÑa Maria; and JosÈ dropped down upon his bed to strive again to clear his mind of the foul brood which had swept so suddenly into it, and to prepare for the evening meeting.

Late that night, as he crossed the road from the church to his little home, his pulse beat rapidly under the stimulus of real joy. He had conquered his own and the fears of the Alcalde, and that official had at length promised to stay and support him. The people’s fears of impressment into military service had been calmly met and assuaged, though JosÈ had yielded to their wish to form a company of militia; and had even agreed to drill them, as he had seen the troops of Europe drilled and prepared for conflict. There were neither guns nor ammunition in the town, but they could drill with their machetes––for, he repeated to himself, this was but a concession, an expedient, to keep the men occupied and their minds stimulated by his own show of courage and preparedness. It was decided to send LÁzaro Ortiz at once into the GuamocÓ district, to find and warn Rosendo; while Juan was to go to Bodega Central for whatever news he might gather, and to return with immediate warning, should danger threaten their town. Similar instruction was to be sent to Escolastico, at Badillo. Within a few days a runner should be despatched over the GuamocÓ trail, to spread the information as judiciously as possible that the people of SimitÍ were armed and on the alert to meet any incursion from guerrilla bands. The ripple of excitement quickly died away. The priest would now strive mightily to keep his own thought clear and his courage alive, to sustain his people in whatever experience might befall them.

Quiet reigned in the little village the next morning, and its people went about their familiar duties with but a passing thought of the events of the preceding day. The Alcalde called at the parish house early for further instructions in regard to 113 the proposed company of militia. The priest decided to drill his men twice a day, at the rising and setting of the sun. Carmen’s lessons were then resumed, and soon JosÈ was again laboring conscientiously to imbibe the spirit of calm trust which dwelt in this young girl.

The Master’s keynote before every threatening evil was, “Be not afraid.” Carmen’s life-motif was, “God is everywhere.” JosÈ strove to see that the Christ-principle was eternal, and as available to mankind now as when the great Exemplar propounded it to the dull ears of his followers. But men must learn how to use it. When they have done this, Christianity will be as scientific and demonstrable to mankind as is now the science of mathematics. A rule, though understood, is utterly ineffective if not applied. Yet, how to apply the Christ-principle? is the question convulsing a world to-day.

God, the infinite creative mind, is that principle. Jesus showed clearly––so clearly that the wonder is men could have missed the mark so completely––that the great principle becomes available only when men empty their minds of pride, selfishness, ignorance, and human will, and put in their place love, humility and truth. This step taken, there will flow into the human consciousness the qualities of God himself, giving powers that mortals believe utterly impossible to them. But hatred must go; self-love, too; carnal ambition must go; and fear––the cornerstone of every towering structure of mortal misery––must be utterly cast out by an understanding of the allness of the Mind that framed the spiritual universe.

JosÈ, looking at Carmen as she sat before him, tried to know that love was the salvation, the righteousness, right-thinking, by which alone the sons of men could be redeemed. The world would give such utterance the lie, he knew. To love an enemy is weakness! The sons of earth must be warriors, and valiantly fight! Alas! the tired old world has fought for ages untold, and gained––nothing. Did Jesus fight? Not as the world. He had a better way. He loved his enemies with a love that understood the allness of God, and the consequent nothingness of the human concept. Knowing the concept of man as mortal to be an illusion, Jesus then knew that he had no enemies.

The work-day closed, and Carmen was about to leave. A shadow fell across the open doorway. JosÈ looked up. A man, dressed in clerical garb, stood looking in, his eyes fixed upon Carmen. JosÈ’s heart stopped, and he sat as one stunned. The man was Padre Diego Polo.

“Ah, brother in Christ!” the newcomer cried, advancing with outstretched hands. “Well met, indeed! I ached to think I might not find you here! But––Caramba! can this be my 114 little Carmen, from whom I tore myself in tears four years ago and more? Diablo! but she has grown to be a charming seÑorita already.” He bent over and kissed the child loudly upon each cheek.

JosÈ with difficulty restrained himself from pouncing upon the man as he watched him pass his fat hands over the girl’s bare arms and feast his lecherous eyes upon her round figure and plump limbs. The child shrank under the withering touch. Freeing herself, she ran from the room, followed by a taunting laugh from Diego.

“Caramba!” he exclaimed, sinking into the chair vacated by the girl. “But I had the devil’s own trouble getting here! And I find everything quiet as a funeral in this sink of a town, just as if hell were not spewing fire down on the river! Dios! But give me a bit of rum, amigo. My spirits droop like the torn wing of a heron.”

JosÈ slowly found his voice. “I have no rum. I regret exceedingly, friend. But doubtless the Alcalde can supply you. Have you seen him?”

“Hombre! With what do you quench your thirst?” ejaculated the disappointed priest. “Lake water?” Then he added with a fatuous grin:

“No, I have not yet honored the Alcalde with a call. Anxious care drove me straight from the boat to you; for with you, a brother priest, I knew I would find hospitality and protection.”

JosÈ sat speechless. After a few moments, during which he fanned himself vigorously with his black felt hat, Diego continued volubly:

“You are consumed to know what brings me here, eh? Bien, I will anticipate your questions. The country is on fire around Banco. And––you know they do not love priests down that way––well, I saw that it had come around to my move. I therefore got out––quickly. H’m!

“But,” he continued, “luckily I had screwed plenty of Masses out of the Banco sheep this past year, and my treasure box was comfortably full. Bueno, I hired a canoe and a couple of strapping peones, who brought me by night, and by damnably slow degrees, up the river to Bodega Central. As luck would have it, I chanced to be there the day Juan arrived from SimitÍ. So I straightway caused inquiry to be made of him respecting the present whereabouts of our esteemed friend, Don Rosendo. Learning that my worthy brother was prospecting for La Libertad, it occurred to me that this decaying town might afford me the asylum I needed until I could make the necessary preparations to get up into the mountains. Caramba! but I 115 shall not stay where a stray bullet or a badly directed machete may terminate my noble life-aspirations!”

JosÈ groaned inwardly. “But, how dared you come to SimitÍ?” he exclaimed. “You were once forced to leave this town––!”

“Assuredly, amigo,” Diego replied with great coolness. “And I would not risk my tender skin again had I not believed that you were here to shield me. My only safety lies in making the mountains. Their most accessible point is by way of SimitÍ. From here I can go to the San Lucas country; eventually get back to the GuamocÓ trail; and ultimately land in Remedios, or some other town farther south, where the anticlerical sentiment is not so cursedly strong. I have money and two negro boys. The boat I shall have to leave here in your care. Bien, learning that Rosendo, my principal annoyance and obstruction, was absent, and that you, my friend, were here, I decided to brave the wrath of the simple denizens of this hole, and spend a day or two as guest of yourself and my good friend, the Alcalde, before journeying farther. Thus you have it all, in parvo. But, Dios y diablo! that trip up the river has nearly done for me! We traveled by night and hid in the brush by day, where millions of gnats and mosquitoes literally devoured me! Caramba! and you so inhospitable as to have no rum!”

The garrulous priest paused for breath. Then he resumed:

“A voluptuous little wench, that Carmen! Keeping her for yourself, eh? But you will have to give her up. Belongs to the Church, you know. But don’t let our worthy Don Wenceslas hear of her good looks, for he’d pop her into a convent presto! And later he––Bien, you had better get rid of her before she makes you trouble. I’ll take her off your hands myself, even though I shall be traveling for the next few months. But, say,” changing the subject abruptly, “Don Wenceslas sprung his trap too soon, eh?”

“I don’t follow you,” said JosÈ, consuming with indignation over the priest’s coarse talk.

“Diablo! he pulls a revolution before it is ripe. Is anything more absurd! It begins as he intended, anticlerical; and so it will run for a while. But after that––Bien, you will see it reverse itself and turn solely political, with the present Government on top at the last, and the end a matter of less than six weeks.”

“Do you think so?” asked JosÈ, eagerly grasping at a new hope.

“I know it!” ejaculated Diego. “Hombre! But I have been too close to matters religious and political in this country all my life not to know that Don Wenceslas has this time committed 116 the blunder of being a bit too eager. Had he waited a few months longer, and then pulled the string––Dios y diablo! there would have been such a fracas as to turn the Cordilleras bottom up! Now all that is set back for years––Quien sabe?”

“But,” queried the puzzled JosÈ, “how could Wenceslas, a priest, profit by an anticlerical war?”

“Caramba, amigo! But the good Wenceslas is priest only in name! He is a politician, bred to the game. He lays his plans with the anticlericals, knowing full well that Church and State can not be separated in this land of mutton-headed peones. Bueno, the clever man precipitates a revolution that can have but one result, the closer union of Rome and the Colombian Government. And for this he receives the direction of the See of Cartagena and the disposition of the rich revenues from the mines and fincas of his diocese. Do you get me?”

“And, amigo, how long will this disturbance continue?” said JosÈ, speaking earnestly.

“I have told you, a few weeks at the most,” replied Diego with a show of petulance. “But, just the same, as agent of your friend Wenceslas, I have been a mite too active along the river, especially in the town of Banco, to find safety anywhere within the pale of civilization until this little fracas blows over. This one being an abortion, the next revolution can come only after several years of most painstaking preparation. But, mark me, amigo, that one will not miscarry, nor will it be less than a scourge of the Lord!”

Despite the sordidness of the man, JosÈ was profoundly grateful to him for this information. And there could be no doubt of its authenticity, coming as it did from a tool of Wenceslas himself. JosÈ became cheerful, even animated.

“Good, then! Now when do you expect to set out for San Lucas?” he asked. “Rosendo may return any day.”

“Diablo! Then I must be off at once!”

“To-morrow?” suggested JosÈ eagerly.

“Caramba, hermano! Why so desirous of my departure? To be sure, to-morrow, if possible. But I must have a chat with our good friend, the Alcalde. So do me the inexpressible favor to accompany me to his door, and there leave me. My peones are down at the boat, and I would rather not face the people of SimitÍ alone.”

“Gladly,” assented JosÈ.

The man rose to depart. At that moment DoÑa Maria appeared at the door bearing a tray with JosÈ’s supper. She stopped short as she recognized Diego.

“Ah, SeÑora DoÑa Maria!” exclaimed Diego, bowing low. “I kiss your hand.”

The woman looked inquiringly from Diego to JosÈ. Without a word she set the tray on the table and quickly departed.

“H’m, amigo, I think it well to visit the Alcalde at once,” murmured Diego. “I regret that I bring the amiable seÑora no greeting from her charming daughter. Ay de mÍ!” he sighed, picking up his hat. “The conventions of this world are so narrow!”

Don Mario exclaimed loudly when he beheld the familiar figure of Padre Diego. Recovering from his astonishment he broke into a loud guffaw and clapped the grinning priest heartily upon the back.

“Caramba, man! But I admire you at last! I can forgive all your wickedness at sight of such nerve! Ramona!” calling to his daughter in the patio. “That last garrafÓn and some glasses! But enter, enter, seÑores! Why stand you there? My poor hovel is yours!” stepping aside and ceremoniously waving them in.

“Our friend finds that his supper awaits him,” said Diego, laying a hand patronizingly upon JosÈ’s arm. “But I will eat with you, my good Don Mario, and occupy a petate on your floor to-night. Conque, until later, Don JosÈ,” waving a polite dismissal to the latter. “If not to-night, then in the morning temprano.”

The audacity of the man nettled JosÈ. He would have liked to be present during the interview between the Alcalde and this cunning religio-political agent, for he knew that the weak-kneed Don Mario would be putty in his oily hands. However, Diego had shown him that he was not wanted. And there was nothing to do but nurse his temper and await events.

But, whatever deplorable results the visit of Diego might entail, he had at least brought present comfort to JosÈ in his report of the militant uprising now in progress, and the latter would sleep this night without the torment of dread apprehension.

The next morning Diego entered the parish house just as master and pupil were beginning their day’s work.

“Ha!” he exclaimed, “our parochial school is quite discriminating! No? One pupil! Bien, are there not enough children in the town to warrant a larger school, and with a Sister in charge? I will report the matter to the good Bishop.”

JosÈ’s wrath leaped into flame. “There is a school here, as you know, amigo, with a competent master,” he replied with what calmness he could muster.

It was perhaps a hasty and unfortunate remark, for JosÈ knew he had been jealously selfish with Carmen.

“Caramba, yes!” retorted Diego. “A private school, to 118 which the stubborn beasts that live in this sink will not send their brats! There must be a parochial school in SimitÍ, supported by the people! Oh, don’t worry; there is gold enough here, buried in patios and under these innocent-looking mud walls, to support the Pope for a decade––and that,” he chuckled, “is no small sum!”

His eyes roved over Carmen and he began a mental appraisement of the girl. “Caramba!” muttering half to himself, after he had feasted his sight upon her for some moments, “but she is large for her age––and, Dios y diablo! a ravishing beauty!”

He stood for a while wrapped in thought. Then an idea seemed to filter through his cunning brain. His coarse, unmoral face brightened, and his thick lips parted in an evil smile.

“Come here, little one,” he said patronizingly, extending his arms to the child. “Come, give your good Padre his morning kiss.”

The girl shrank back in her chair and looked appealingly at JosÈ.

“No? Then I must come and steal it; and when you confess to good Padre JosÈ you may tell him it was all my fault.”

He started toward her. A look of horror came into the child’s face and she sprang from her seat. JosÈ swiftly rose. He seized Diego by the shoulder and whirled him quickly about. His face was menacing and his frame trembled.

“One moment, friend!” The voice was low, tense, and deliberate. “If you lay a hand on that child I will strike you dead at my feet!”

Diego recoiled. Cielo! was this the timid sheep that had stopped for a moment in Banco on its way to the slaughter? But there was no mistaking the spirit manifested now in that voice and attitude.

“Why, amigo!” he exclaimed, a foolish grin splitting his ugly features. “Your little joke startled me!”

JosÈ motioned Carmen to leave.

“Be seated, Don Diego. It would be well to understand each other more thoroughly.”

Had JosÈ gone too far? He wondered. Heaven knew, he could not afford to make enemies, especially at this juncture! But he had not misread the thought coursing through the foul mind of Diego. And yet, violence now might ruin both the child and himself. He must be wiser.

“I––I was perhaps a little hasty, amigo,” he began in gentler tones. “But, as you see, I have been quite wrought up of late––the news of the revolution, and––in these past months there have been many things to cause me worry. I––”

“Say no more, good friend,” interrupted the oily Diego, his beady eyes twinkling. “But you will not wonder it struck me odd that a father should not be permitted to embrace his own daughter.”

Dead silence, heavy and stifling, fell upon JosÈ. Slowly his throat filled, and his ears began to throb. Diego sat before him, smiling and twirling his fat thumbs. He looked like the images of Chinese gods JosÈ had seen in foreign lands.

Then the tortured man forced a laugh. Of course, the strain of yesterday had been too much for him! His overwrought mind had read into words and events meanings which they had not been meant to convey.

“True, amigo,” he managed to say, striving to steady his voice. “But we spiritual Fathers should not forget––”

Diego laughed egregiously. “Caramba, man! Let us get to the meat in the nut. Why do you think I am in SimitÍ, braving the wrath of Rosendo and others? Why have I left my comfortable quarters in Banco, to undertake a journey, long and hazardous, to this godless hole?”

He paused, apparently enjoying the suffering he saw depicted upon JosÈ’s countenance.

“I will tell you,” he resumed. “But you will keep my confidence, no? We are brother priests, and must hold together. You protect me in this, and I return the favor in a like indiscretion. Bien, I explain: I am here partly because of the revolution, as I told you yesterday, and partly, as I did not tell you, to see my little girl, my daughter, Carmen––

“Caramba, man!” he cried, bounding to his feet, as he saw JosÈ slowly rise before him. “Listen! It is God’s truth! Sit down! Sit down!”

JosÈ dropped back into his chair like a withered leaf in the lull of a winter’s wind.

“Dios y diablo, but it rends me to make this confession, amigo! And yet, I look to you for support! The girl, Carmen––I am her father!”

Diego paced dramatically up and down before the scarce hearing JosÈ and unfolded his story in a quick, jerky voice, with many a gesture and much rolling of his bright eyes.

“Her mother was a Spanish woman of high degree. We met in BogotÁ. My vows prevented me from marrying her, else I should have done so. Caramba, but I loved her! Bien, I was called to Cartagena. She feared, in her delicate state, that I was deserting her. She tried to follow me, and at Badillo was put off the boat. There, poor child, she passed away in grief, leaving her babe. May she rest forever on the bosom of the blessed Virgin!” Diego bowed reverently and crossed himself.

“Then I lost all trace of her. My diligent inquiries revealed nothing. Two years later I was assigned to the parish of SimitÍ. Here I saw the little locket which I had given her, and knew that Carmen was my child. Ah, Dios! what a revelation to a breaking heart! But I could not openly acknowledge her, for I was already in disgrace, as you know. And, once down, it is easy to sink still further. I confess, I was indiscreet here. I was forced to fly. Rosendo’s daughter followed me, despite my protests. I was assigned to Banco. Bien, time passed, and you came. I had hoped you would take the little Carmen under your protection. God, how I grieved for the child! At last I determined, come what might, to see her. The revolution drove me to the mountains; and love for my girl brought me by way of SimitÍ. And now, amigo, you have my confession––and you will not be hard on me? Caramba, I need a friend!” He sat down, and mopped his wet brow. His talk had shaken him visibly.

Again oppressive silence. JosÈ was staring with unseeing eyes out through the open doorway. A stream of sunlight poured over the dusty threshold, and myriad motes danced in the golden flood.

“Bien, amigo,” Diego resumed, with more confidence. “I had not thought to reveal this, my secret, to you––nor to any one, for that matter––but just to get a peep at my little daughter, and assure my anxious heart of her welfare. But since coming here and seeing how mature she is my plans have taken more definite shape. I shall leave at daybreak to-morrow, if Don Mario can have my supplies ready on this short notice, and––will take Carmen with me.”

JosÈ struggled wearily to his feet. The color had left his face, and ages seemed to bestride his bent shoulders. His voice quavered as he slowly spoke.

“Leave me now, Don Diego. It were better that we should not meet again until you depart.”

“But, amigo––ah, I feel for you, believe me! You are attached to the child––who would not be? Caramba, what is this world but a cemetery of bleaching hopes! But––how can I ask it? Amigo, send the child to me at the house of the Alcalde. I would hold her in my arms and feel a father’s joy. And bid the good DoÑa Maria make her ready for to-morrow’s journey.”

JosÈ turned to the man. An ominous calm now possessed him. “You said––the San Lucas district?”

“Quien sabe? good friend,” Diego made hasty reply. “My plans seem quite altered since coming here. Bien, we must see. But I will leave you now. And you will send Carmen to 121 me at once? And bid her bring her mother’s locket. Conque, hasta luego, amigo.”

He went to the door, and seeing his two negro peones loitering near, walked confidently and briskly to the house of Don Mario.

JosÈ, bewildered and benumbed, staggered into his sleeping room and sank upon the bed.

“Padre––Padre dear.”

Carmen stood beside the stricken priest, and her little hand crept into his.

“I watched until I saw him go, and then I came in. He has bad thoughts, hasn’t he? But––Padre dear, what is it? Did he make you think bad thoughts, too? He can’t, you know, if you don’t want to.”

She bent over him and laid her cheek against his. JosÈ stared unseeing up at the thatch roof.

“Padre dear, everything has a rule, a principle, you told me. Don’t you remember? But his thoughts haven’t any principle, have they? Any more than the mistakes I make in algebra. Aren’t we glad we know that!”

The child kissed the suffering man and wound her arms about his neck.

“Padre dear, he couldn’t say anything that could make you unhappy––he just couldn’t! God is everywhere, and you are His child––and I am, too––and––and there just isn’t anything here but God, and we are in Him. Why, Padre, we are in Him, just like the little fish in the lake! Isn’t it nice to know that––to really know it?”

Aye, if he had really known it he would not now be stretched upon a bed of torment. Yet, Carmen knew it. And his suffering was for her. Was he not really yielding to the mesmerism of human events? Why, oh, why could he not remain superior to them? Why continually rise and fall, tossed through his brief years like a dry weed in the blast?

It was because he would know evil, and yield to its mesmerism. His enemies were not without, but within. How could he hope to be free until he had passed from self-consciousness to the sole consciousness of infinite good?

“Padre dear, his bad thoughts have only the minus sign, haven’t they?”

Yes, and JosÈ’s now carried the same symbol of nothingness. Carmen was linked to the omnipresent mind that is God; and no power, be it Diego or his superior, Wenceslas, could effect a separation.

But if Carmen was Diego’s child, she must go with him. 122 JosÈ could no longer endure this torturing thought. He rose from the bed and sought DoÑa Maria.

“SeÑora,” he pleaded, “tell me again what you know of Carmen’s parents.”

The good woman was surprised at the question, but could add nothing to what Rosendo had already told him. He asked to see again the locket. Alas! study it as he might, the portrait of the man was wholly indistinguishable. The sweet, sad face of the young mother looked out from its frame like a suffering. Magdalen. In it he thought he saw a resemblance to Carmen. As for Diego, the child certainly did not resemble him in the least. But years of dissipation and evil doubtless had wrought their changes in his features.

He looked around for Carmen. She had disappeared. He rose and searched through the house for her. DoÑa Maria, busy in the kitchen, had not seen her leave. His search futile, he returned with heavy heart to his own house and sat down to think. Mechanically he opened his Bible.

When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee. Not “if,” but “when.” The sharp experiences of human existence are not to be avoided. But in their very midst the Christ-principle is available to the faithful searcher and worker.

DoÑa Maria came with the midday meal. Carmen had not returned. JosÈ, alarmed beyond measure, prepared to set out in search of her. But at that moment one of Diego’s peones appeared at the door with his master’s request that the child be sent at once to him. At least, then, she was not in his hands; and JosÈ breathed more freely. It seemed to him that, should he see her in Diego’s arms, he must certainly strangle him. He shuddered at the thought. Only a few minutes before he had threatened to kill him!

He left his food untasted. Unspeakably wearied with his incessant mental battle, he threw himself again upon his bed, and at length sank into a deep sleep.

The shadows were gathering when he awoke with a start. He heard a call from the street. Leaping from the bed, he hastened to the door, just as Rosendo, swaying beneath his pack, and accompanied by LÁzaro Ortiz, rounded the corner and made toward him.

“Hola, amigo Cura!” Rosendo shouted, his face radiant. “Come and bid me welcome, and receive good news!”

At the same moment Carmen came flying toward them from the direction of the shales. JosÈ instantly divined the motive which had sent her out there. He turned his face to hide the tears which sprang to his eyes.

“Thank God!” he murmured in a choking voice. Then he hastened to his faithful ally and clasped him in his arms.