The twisted, turbid “Danube of New Granada,” under the gentle guidance of its patron, Saint Mary Magdalene, threads the greater part of its sinuous way through the heart of Colombia like an immense, slow-moving morass. Born of the arduous tropic sun and chill snows, and imbued by the river god with the nomadic instinct, it leaps from its pinnacled cradle and rushes, sparkling with youthful vigor, down precipice and perpendicular cliff; down rocky steeps and jagged ridges; whirling in merry, momentary dance in shaded basins; singing in swirling eddies; roaring in boisterous cataracts, to its mad plunge over the lofty wall of Tequendama, whence it subsides into the dignity of broad maturity, and begins its 129 long, wandering, adult life, which slowly draws to a sluggish old age and final oblivion in the infinite sea. Toward the close of its meandering course, long after the follies and excesses of early life, it takes unto itself a consort, the beautiful Cauca; and together they flow, broadening and deepening as life nears its end; merging their destinies; sharing their burdens; until at last, with labors ended, they sink their identities in the sunlit Caribbean.

When the simple-minded Conquistadores first pushed their frail cockleshells out into the gigantic embouchure of this tawny stream and looked vainly for the opposite shore, veiled by the dewy mists of a glittering morn, they unconsciously crossed themselves and, forgetful for the moment of greed and rapine and the lust of gold, stood in reverent awe before the handiwork of their Creator. Ere the Spaniard had laid his fell curse upon this ancient kingdom of the Chibchas, the flowering banks of the Magdalena, to-day so mournfully characterized by their frightful solitudes, were an almost unbroken village from the present coast city of Barranquilla to Honda, the limit of navigation, some nine hundred miles to the south. The cupidity of the heartless, bigoted rabble from mediaeval slums which poured into this wonderland late in the sixteenth century laid waste this luxuriant vale and exterminated its trustful inhabitants. Now the warm airs that sigh at night along the great river’s uncultivated borders seem still to echo the gentle laments of the once happy dwellers in this primitive paradise.

Sitting in the rounded bow of the wretched riverine steamer Honda, Padre JosÈ de RincÓn gazed with vacant eyes upon the scenery on either hand. The boat had arrived from Barranquilla that morning, and was now experiencing the usual exasperating delay in embarking from Calamar. He had just returned to it, after wandering for hours through the forlorn little town, tormented physically by the myriad mosquitoes, and mentally by a surprising eagerness to reach his destination. He could account for the latter only on the ground of complete resignation––a feeling experienced by those unfortunate souls who have lost their way in life, and, after vain resistance to molding circumstances, after the thwarting of ambitions, the quenching of ideals, admit defeat, and await, with something of feverish anticipation, the end. He had left Cartagena early that morning on the ramshackle little train which, after hours of jolting over an undulating roadbed, set him down in Calamar, exhausted with the heat and dust-begrimed. He had not seen the Bishop nor Wenceslas since the interview of the preceding day. Before his departure, however, he had made provision for the burial of the girl, Maria, and the disposal of her child. 130 This he did at his own expense; and when the demands of doctor and sexton had been met, and he had provided Marcelena with funds for the care of herself and the child for at least a few weeks, his purse was pitiably light.

Late in the afternoon the straggling remnant of a sea breeze drifted up the river and tempered the scorching heat. Then the captain of the Honda drained his last glass of red rum in the posada, reiterated to his political affiliates with spiritous bombast his condensed opinion anent the Government, and dramatically signaled the pilot to get under way.

Beyond the fact that SimitÍ lay somewhere behind the liana-veiled banks of the great river, perhaps three hundred miles from Cartagena, the priest knew nothing of his destination. There were no passengers bound for the place, the captain had told him; nor had the captain himself ever been there, although he knew that one must leave the boat at a point called Badillo, and thence go by canoe to the town in question.

But JosÈ’s interest in SimitÍ was only such as one might manifest in a prison to which he was being conveyed. And, as a prisoner of the Church, he inwardly prayed that his remaining days might be few. The blows which had fallen, one after another, upon his keen, raw nerves had left him benumbed. The cruel bruises which his faith in man had received in Rome and Cartagena had left him listless, and without pain. He was accepting the Bishop’s final judgment mutely, for he had already borne all that human nature could endure. His severance from a life of faith and love was complete.

Nor could JosÈ learn when he might hope to reach Badillo, though he made listless inquiry.

“Na, SeÑor Padre,” the captain had said, “we never know where to find the water. It is on the right to-day; on the left to-morrow. There is low tide to-night; the morning may see it ten feet higher. And Badillo––quien sabe? It might be washed away when we arrive.” And he shrugged his shoulders in complete disclaimer of any responsibility therefor.

The captain’s words were not idle, for the channel of the mighty river changes with the caprice of a maiden’s heart. With irresistible momentum the tawny flood rolls over the continent, now impatiently ploughing its way across a great bend, destroying plantations and abruptly leaving towns and villages many miles inland; now savagely filching away the soft loam banks beneath little settlements and greedily adding broad acres to the burden of its surcharged waters. Mighty giants of the forest, wrested from their footholds of centuries, plunge with terrifying noise into the relentless stream; great masses of earth, still cohering, break from their moorings and 131 glide into the whirling waters, where, like immense islands, they journey bobbing and tumbling toward the distant sea.

Against the strong current, whose quartzose sediment tinkled metallically about her iron prow, the clumsy Honda made slow headway. She was a craft of some two hundred tons burden, with iron hull, stern paddle wheel, and corrugated metal passenger deck and roof. Below the passenger deck, and well forward on the hull, stood the huge, wood-burning boiler, whose incandescent stack pierced the open space where the gasping travelers were forced to congregate to get what air they might. Midway on this deck she carried a few cabins at either side. These, bare of furnishings, might accommodate a dozen passengers, if the insufferable heat would permit them to be occupied. Each traveler was obliged to supply his own bedding, and likewise hammock, unless not too discriminating to use the soiled cot provided. Many of those whose affairs necessitated river travel––and there was no other mode of reaching the interior––were content at night to wrap a light blanket about them and lie down under their mosquito nets on the straw mats––petates––with which every peon goes provided. Of service, there was none that might be so designated. A few dirty, half-dressed negro boys from the streets of Barranquilla performed the functions of steward, waiting on table with unwashed hands, helping to sling hammocks, or assisting with the carving of the freshly killed beef on the slippery deck below. Accustomed as he had been to the comforts of Rome, and to the less elaborate though still adequate accommodations which Cartagena afforded, JosÈ viewed his prison boat with sinking heart. Iron hull, and above it the glowing boiler; over this the metal passenger deck; and above that the iron roof, upon which the fierce tropical sun poured its flaming heat all day; clouds of steam and vapor from the hot river enveloping the boat––had the Holy Inquisition itself sought to devise the most refined torture for a man of delicate sensibilities like JosÈ de RincÓn, it could not have done better than send him up the great river at this season and on that miserable craft, in company with his own morbid and soul-corroding thoughts.

The day wore on; and late in the evening the Honda docked at the pretentious town of Maganguey, the point of transfer for the river Cauca. Like the other passengers, from whom he had held himself reservedly aloof, JosÈ gladly seized the opportunity to divert his thoughts for a few moments by going ashore. But the moments stretched into hours; and when he finally learned that the boat would not leave until daybreak, he lapsed into a state of sullen desperation which, but for the RincÓn stubbornness, would have precipitated him into the 132 dark stream. Aimlessly he wandered about the town, avoiding any possible rencontre with priests, or with his fellow-passengers, many of whom, together with the bacchanalian captain, he saw in the various cantinas, making merry over rum and the native anisado.

The moon rose late, bathing the whitewashed town in a soft sheen and covering with its yellow veil the filth and squalor which met the priest at every turn as he wandered through its ill-lighted streets. Maganguey in plan did not depart from the time-honored custom of the Spaniards, who erected their cities by first locating the church, and then building the town around it. So long as the church had a good location, the rest of the town might shift for itself. Some of the better buildings dated from the old colonial period, and had tile roofs and red brick floors. Many bore scars received in the internecine warfare which has raged in the unhappy country with but brief intervals of peace since the days of Spanish occupation. But most of the houses were of the typical mud-plastered, palm-thatched variety, with dirt floors and scant furniture. Yet even in many of these JosÈ noted pianos and sewing machines, generally of German make, at which the housewife was occupied, while naked babes and squealing pigs––the latter of scarcely less value than the former––fought for places of preferment on the damp and grimy floors.

Wandering, blindly absorbed in thought, into a deserted road which branched off from one of the narrow streets on the outskirts of the town, JosÈ stumbled upon a figure crouching in the moonlight. Almost before he realized that it was a human being a hand had reached up and caught his.

“Buen Padre!” came a thick voice from the mass, “for the love of the good Virgin, a few pesos!”

A beggar––perhaps a bandit! Ah, well; JosÈ’s purse was light––and his life of no value. So, recovering from his start, he sought in his pockets for some billetes. But––yes, he remembered that after purchasing his river transportation in Calamar he had carefully put his few remaining bills in his trunk.

“Amigo, I am sorry, but I have no money with me,” he said regretfully. “But if you will come to the boat I will gladly give you something there.”

At this the figure emitted a scream of rage, and broke into a torrent of sulphurous oaths. “Na, the Saints curse you beggarly priests! You have no money, but you rob us poor devils with your lies, and then leave us to rot to death!”

“But, amigo, did I not say––” began JosÈ soothingly.

“Maldito!” shrilled the figure; “may Joseph and Mary and Jesus curse you! A million curses on you, maldito!” Pulling itself upward, the shapeless thing sank its teeth deep into the priest’s hand.

With a cry of pain the startled JosÈ tore himself loose, his hand dripping with blood. At the same time the figure fell over into the road and its enveloping rags slipped off, disclosing in the bright moonlight a loathsome, distorted face and elephantine limbs, covered with festering sores.

“Good God!” cried JosÈ, recoiling. “A leper!”

Turning swiftly from the hideous object, his brain awhirl with the horrible nightmare, the priest fled blindly from the scene. Nauseated, quivering with horror, with the obscene ravings of the leper still ringing in his ears, he stumbled about the town until daybreak, when the boat’s shrieking whistle summoned him to embark.

The second day on the river seemed to JosÈ intolerable, as he shifted about the creaking, straining tub to avoid the sun’s piercing rays and the heat which, drifting back from the hot stack forward, enveloped the entire craft. There were but few passengers, some half dozen men and two slatternly attired women. Whither they were bound, he knew not, nor cared; and, though they saluted him courteously, he studiously avoided being drawn into their conversations. The emotional appeal of the great river and its forest-lined banks did not at first affect him. Yet he sought forgetfulness of self by concentrating his thought upon them.

The massed foliage constituted an impenetrable wall on either side. Everywhere his eyes met a maze of lianas, creeping plants, begonias, and bizarre vegetable forms, shapes and hues of which he had never before had any adequate conception. Often he caught the glint of great, rare butterflies hovering in the early sunlight which filtered through the interlaced fronds and branches. Often when the boat hugged the bank he saw indescribable buds and blossoms, and multicolored orchids clinging to the drooping bejucos which festooned the enormous trees. As the afternoon waned and the sun hung low, the magic stillness of the solitude began to cast its spell about him, and he could imagine that he was penetrating a fairy-land. The vast stream, winding, broadening, ramifying round wooded islets, throwing out long, dusky lagoons and swampy arms, incessantly plying its numberless activities, at length held him enraptured. As he brooded over it all, his thought wandered back to the exploits of the intrepid Quesada and his stalwart band who, centuries before, had forced their perilous way along this same river, amid showers of poisoned 134 arrows from hostile natives, amid the assaults of tropical storms and malarial fevers, to the plateau of Cundinamarca, the home of the primitive Muiscas; and there gathering fresh strength and inspiration, had pushed on to the site of Santa FÉ de BogotÁ.

A cry suddenly rang through the boat. “Man overboard!”

The clang of the pilot’s bell stopped the clumsy craft; but not before the ragged little negro boy who had served at JosÈ’s table as steward had been swept far away by the rapid current.

The utmost confusion immediately prevailed. Every one of the rabble rout of stokers, stewards, and stevedores lost his wits and set up a frenzied yell. Some who remembered that there was such a thing, tore at the ropes which held the single lifeboat. But the boat had been put on for appearance’s sake, not for service, and successfully resisted all efforts at removal. No one dared risk his life in attempted rescue, for the river swarmed with crocodiles. There was vain racing, counseling and gesticulating; but at length, the first wave of excitement over, passengers and crew settled down to watch the outcome of the boy’s struggle for life, while the pilot endeavored to turn the unwieldy steamer about.

“Now is the time to put up a prayer for the youngster, Padre,” said a voice behind JosÈ.

The priest turned. The speaker was evidently a native Colombian. JosÈ had noticed him on the boat when he embarked at Calamar, and surmised that he had probably come up from Barranquilla.

“An excellent opportunity to try the merits of a prayer to the Virgin, no? If she can fish us out of purgatory she ought to pull this boy out of the river, eh?” continued the speaker with a cynical smile.

“I would rather trust to a canoe and a pair of stout arms than a prayer at present,” returned JosÈ with candor.

“Corriente!” replied the man; “my way of thinking, exactly! But if I had a good rifle now I’d put that little fellow out of his misery, for he’s going down, sure!”

It was not unkindly said; and JosÈ appreciated the man’s rude sentiment. Minutes passed in strained silence.

“Hombre!” cried the man. “He’s going!”

The lad was evidently weakening. The rapid, swirling current continually frustrated his efforts to reach the shore. Again the head went under.

“Dios!” JosÈ exclaimed. “Is there no help?”

Jesus had walked the waves. Yet here his earthly representative, trained in all the learning and culture of Holy Church to be an Alter Christus, stood helplessly by and watched a 135 child drown! God above! what avail religious creed and churchly dogma? How impotent the beliefs of men in such an hour! Could the Holy Father himself, with all his assumptions, spiritual and temporal––with all his power to loose from sin and from the imaginary torments of purgatory––save this drowning boy?

JosÈ turned away in bitterness of heart. As he did so a murmur of awe arose from the spectators. The priest looked again down the river. Impelled from below, the body of the boy was hurled out of the water. Then, as it fell, it disappeared.

“Cayman!” gasped the horrified crew.

JosÈ stood spellbound, as the ghastly truth dawned upon him. A crocodile, gliding beneath the struggling lad, had tossed him upward, and caught him in its loathsome jaws when he fell. Then it had dragged him beneath the yellow waters, where he was seen no more.

Life is held cheaply by the Magdalena negro––excepting his own. Shiftless and improvident child of the tropics, his animal wants are readily satisfied by the fruits and fish which nature provides for him so bountifully. Spiritual wants he has none––until calamity touches him and he thinks he is about to die. Then witchcraft, charm, incantation, the priest––anything that promises help is hurriedly pressed into requisition to prolong his useless existence. If he recovers, he forgets it all as hurriedly. The tragedy which had just been enacted before the Honda’s crew produced a ripple of excitement––a momentary stirring of emotion––and was then speedily forgotten, while the boat turned and drove its way up-stream against the muddy waters.

But JosÈ could not forget. Nature had endowed him with a memory which recorded as minutely and as lastingly as the phonographic cylinder. The violent death of the boy haunted him, and mingled with the recurrent memories of the sad passing of the little Maria, and his own bitter life experience. Oh, the mystery of it all! The tragedy of life! The sudden blighting of hopes! The ruthless crushing of hearts! What did it mean? Did this infinite variety of good and evil which we call life unite to manifest an infinite Creator? Nay, for then were God more wicked than the lowest sinner! Was evil as real as good, and more powerful? Yes. Did love and the soul’s desire to be and do good count for nothing in the end? No; for the end is death––always death! And after that––who knows?

“We are coming to Banco, Padre,” said the man who had addressed JosÈ before, rousing him from his doleful meditations 136 and pointing to the lights of the distant town, now shimmering through the gathering dusk.

As the boat with shrilly shrieking whistle drew near the landing, a crowd hurriedly gathered on the bank to receive it. Venders of guava jelly, rude pottery, and straw mats hastily spread out their merchandise on the muddy ground and began to dilate loudly on their merits. A scantily clad man held aloft a rare leopard skin, which he vigorously offered for two pesos gold. Slatternly women, peddling queer delectables of uncertain composition, waved their thin, bare arms and shrilly advertised their wares. Black, naked children bobbed excitedly about; and gaunt dogs and shrieking pigs scampered recklessly through the crowd and added to the general confusion. Here and there JosÈ could see dignified looking men, dressed in white cotton, and wearing straw––jipijapa––hats. These were merchants, patiently awaiting consignments which they had perhaps ordered months before. Crazy, ramshackle dwellings, perched unsteadily upon long, slender stilts, rose from the water’s edge; but substantial brick buildings of fair size, with red-tile roofs and whitewashed walls, mingled at intervals with the thatched mud huts and rude hovels farther within the town. In a distant doorway he descried a woman nursing a babe at one breast and a suckling pig at the other. Convention is rigid in these Colombian river towns; but it is widely inclusive.

“Come ashore with me, Padre, and forget what is worrying you,” said JosÈ’s new acquaintance, taking him by the arm. “I have friends here––Hola! Padre Diego Guillermo!” he suddenly called, catching sight of a black-frocked priest standing in the crowd on the shore.

The priest addressed, a short, stout, coarse-featured man of perhaps forty, waved back a vigorous salutation.

“Hombre!” the man ejaculated, holding JosÈ’s arm and starting down the gangplank. “What new deviltry is the rogue up to now!”

The man and the priest addressed as Diego embraced warmly.

“Padre Diego Guillermo Polo, I have the extreme honor to present my friend, the eminent Padre––” ceremoniously waving a hand toward JosÈ.

“JosÈ de RincÓn,” supplied the latter, bowing.

“RincÓn!” murmured the priest Diego. Then, abruptly, “Of Cartagena?”

“Yes,” returned JosÈ, with awakened interest.

“Not of Don Ignacio––?”

“My grandfather,” JosÈ replied promptly, and with a touch of pride.

“Ha! he owned much property––many fincas––about here; and farther west, in the GuamocÓ country, many mines, eh, Don Jorge?” exchanging a significant look with the latter.

“But,” he added, glancing at the perspiring Honda, “this old tub is going to hang up here for the night. So do me the honor, seÑores, to visit my little cell, and we will fight the cursed mosquitoes over a sip of red rum. I have some of very excellent quality.”

JosÈ and Don Jorge bowed their acquiescence and followed him up the muddy road. The cell referred to consisted of a suite of several rooms, commodiously furnished, and looking out from the second story of one of the better colonial houses of the town upon a richly blooming interior patio. As the visitors entered, a comely young woman who had just lighted an oil-burning “student” lamp and placed it upon the center table, disappeared into one of the more remote rooms.

“My niece,” said the priest Diego, winking at Don Jorge as he set out cigars and a garrafÓn of Jamaica rum. “I have ordered a case of American beer,” he continued, lighting a cigar. “But that was two months ago, and it hasn’t arrived yet. Diablo! but the good mÉdico tells me I drink too much rum for this very Christian climate.”

Don Jorge swept the place with an appraising glance. “H’m,” he commented, as he poured himself a liberal libation from the garrafÓn. “The Lord surely provides for His faithful children.”

“Yes, the Lord, that’s right,” laughed Padre Diego; “still I am daily rendering no small thanks to His Grace, Don Wenceslas, future Bishop of Cartagena.”

“And eminent services into the bargain, I’ll venture,” added Don Jorge.

Padre Diego’s eyes twinkled merrily. JosÈ started. Then even in this remote town the artful Wenceslas maintained his agent!

“But our friend is neither drinking nor smoking,” said Padre Diego, turning inquiringly to JosÈ, who had left his glass untouched.

“With your permission,” replied the latter; “I do not use liquor or tobacco.”

“Nor women either, eh?” laughed Padre Diego. “Por Dios! what is it the Dutchman says?

‘Wer nicht liebt Wein, Weib und Gesang, Der bleibt ein Narr sein Lebenlang.’

“Caramba! but my German has all slipped from me.”

“Don’t worry,” commented Don Jorge cynically; “for I’ll wager it took nothing good with it.”

“Hombre! but you are hard on a loyal servant of the Lord,” exclaimed Padre Diego in a tone of mock injury, as he drained another glass of the fiery liquor.

“Servant of the Lord!” guffawed Don Jorge. “Of the Lord Pope, Lord Wenceslas, or the Lord God, may we ask?”

“QuÉ chiste! Why, stupid, all three. I do not put all my eggs into one basket, however large. But tell me, now,” he inquired, turning the conversation from himself, “what is it brings you into this region forsaken of the gods?”

“Sepulcros,” Don Jorge briefly announced.

“Ha! Indian graves again! But have you abandoned your quest of La Tumba del Diablo, in the Sinu valley?”

“Naturally, since the records show that it was opened centuries ago. And I spent a good year’s search on it, too! Dios! They say it yielded above thirty thousand pesos gold.”

“Diablo!”

“But I am on the track of others. I go now to Medellin; then to Remedios; and there outfit for a trip of grave hunting through the old GuamocÓ district.”

“GuamocÓ! Then you will naturally come down the SimitÍ trail, which brings you out to the Magdalena.”

“SimitÍ?” interrupted JosÈ eagerly, turning to the speaker. “Do you know the place?”

“Somewhat!” replied Padre Diego, laughing. “I had charge of that parish for a few months––”

“But found it highly convenient to leave, no?” finished the merciless Don Jorge.

“Caramba! Would you have me die of ennui in such a hell-hole?” cried Diego with some aspersion.

“Hell-hole!” echoed JosÈ. “Is it so bad as that?”

“Hombre! Yes––worse! They say that after the good Lord created heaven and earth He had a few handfuls of dirt left, and these He threw away. But crafty Satan, always with an eye single to going the Lord one better, slyly gathered this dirt together again and made SimitÍ.” Diego quickly finished another glass of rum, as if he would drown the memory of the town.

JosÈ’s heart slowly sank under the words.

“But why do you ask? You are not going there?” Padre Diego inquired. JosÈ nodded an affirmative.

“Diablo! Assigned?”

“Yes,” in a voice scarcely audible.

The Padre whistled softly. “Then in that case,” he said, brightening, “we are brother sinners. So let us exchange confidences. What was your crime, if one may ask?”

“Crime!” exclaimed JosÈ in amazement.

“Aye; who was she? Rich? Beautiful? Native? Or foreign? Come, the story. We have a long night before us.” And the coarse fellow settled back expectantly in his chair.

JosÈ paled. “What do you mean?” he asked in a trembling voice.

“Caramba!” returned the Padre impatiently. “You surely know that no respectable priest is ever sent to SimitÍ! That it is the good Bishop’s penal colony for fallen clergy––and, I may add, the refuge of political offenders of this and adjacent countries. Why, the present schoolmaster there is a political outcast from Salvador!”

“No, I did not know it,” replied JosÈ.

“Por Dios! Then you are being jobbed, amigo! Did Don Wenceslas give you letters to the Alcalde?”

“Yes.”

“And––by the way, has Wenceslas been misbehaving of late?––for when he does, somebody other than himself has to settle the score.”

JosÈ remained silent.

“Ah,” mused Diego, “but Don Wenceslas is artful. And yet, I think I see the direction of his trained hand in this.” Then he burst into a rude laugh. “Come, amigo,” he said, noting JosÈ’s dejected mien; “let us have your story. We may be able to advise. And we’ve had experience––eh, Don Jorge?”

But JosÈ slowly shook his head. What mattered it now? SimitÍ would serve as well to bury him as any other tomb. He knew he was sent as a lamb to the slaughter. But it was his affair––and his God’s. Honor and conscience had presented the score; and he was paying in full. His was not a story to be bandied about by lewd priests like Padre Diego.

“No,” he replied to the Padre’s insistent solicitations; “with your permission, we will talk of it no more.”

“But––Hombre!” cried the Padre at last, in his coarse way stirred by JosÈ’s evident truthfulness. “Well––as you wish––I will not pry into your secrets. But, take a bit of counsel from one who knows: when you reach SimitÍ, inquire for a man who hates me, one Rosendo Ariza––”

At this juncture the Honda’s diabolical whistle pierced the murky night air.

“Caramba!” cried Don Jorge, starting up. “Are they going to try the river to-night?” And the men hurried back to the landing.

The moon was up, and the boat was getting under way. Padre Diego went aboard to take leave of his friends.

“Bien, amigo,” he said to Don Jorge; “I am sorry your stay is so short. I had much to tell you. Interesting developments 140 are forward, and I hope you are well out of GuamocÓ when the trouble starts. For the rivals of Antioquia and SimitÍ will pay off a few scores in the next revolution––a few left over from the last; and it would be well not to get caught between them when they come together.”

“And so it is coming?” said Don Jorge thoughtfully.

“Coming! Hombre! It is all but here! The Hercules went up-river yesterday. You will pass her. She has gone to keep a look-out in the vicinity of Puerto Berrio. I am sorry for our friend,” nodding toward JosÈ, who was leaning over the boat’s rail at some distance; “but there is a job there. He doesn’t belong in this country. And SimitÍ will finish him.”

“Bah! only another priest less––and a weak-kneed one at that,” said Don Jorge with contempt; “and we have too many of them now, Lord knows!”

“You forget that I am a priest,” chuckled Diego.

“You! Yes, so you are,” laughed Don Jorge; “but of the diocese of hell! Well, we’re off. I’ll send a runner down the trail when I reach the TiguÍ river; and if you will have a letter in SimitÍ informing me of the status of things political, he can bring it up. Conque, adios, my consummate villain.”

The Honda, whistling prodigiously, swung out into mid-stream and set her course up-river, warily feeling through the velvety darkness for the uncertain channel. Once she grated over a hidden bar and hung for a few moments, while her stack vomited torrents of sparks and her great wheel angrily churned the water into creamy foam in the clear moonlight. Once, rounding a sharp bend, she collided squarely with a huge mahogany tree, rolling and plunging menacingly in the seaward rushing waters.

“Diablo!” muttered Don Jorge, as he helped JosÈ swing his hammock and adjust the mosquito netting. “I shall offer a candle a foot thick to the blessed Virgin if I reach Puerto Berrio safely! Santo Dios!” as the boat grazed another sand bar. “I’ve heard tell of steamers hanging up on bars in this river for six weeks! And look!” pointing to the projecting smoke-stack of a sunken steamer. “Caramba! That is what we just escaped!”

But JosÈ manifested slight interest in the dangers of river navigation. His thoughts were revolving about the incidents of the past few days, and, more especially, about Padre Diego and his significant words. Don Jorge had volunteered no further explanation of the man or his conversation; and JosÈ’s reticence would not permit him to make other inquiry. But, after all, his thought-processes always evolved the same conclusion: What mattered it now? His interest in life was at 141 an end. He had not told Don Jorge of his experience with the leper in Maganguey. He was trying to forget it. But his hand ached cruelly; and the pain was always associated with loathsome and repellant thoughts of the event.

---

The eastern sky was blushing at the approach of the amorous sun when JosÈ left his hammock and prepared to endure another day on the river. To the south the deep blue vault of heaven was dotted with downy clouds. Behind the laboring steamer the river glittered through a dazzling white haze. Ahead, its course was traceable for miles by the thin vapor always rising from it. The jungle on either side was brilliant with color and resonant with the songs of forest lyrists. In the lofty fronds of venerable palms and cedars noisy macaws gossiped and squabbled, and excited monkeys discussed the passing boat and commented volubly on its character. In the shallow water at the margin of the river blue herons and spindle-legged cranes were searching out their morning meal. Crocodiles lay dozing on the playas, with mouths opened invitingly to the stupid birds which were sure to yield to the mesmerism. Far in the distance up-stream a young deer was drinking at the water’s edge.

The charm of the rare scene held the priest spellbound. As he gazed upon it a king vulture––called by the natives the Vulture Papa, or Pope Vulture––suddenly swooped down from the depths of heaven and, lighting upon the carcass of a monster crocodile floating down the river, began to feast upon the choicest morsels, while the buzzards which had been circling about the carrion and feeding at will respectfully withdrew until the royal appetite should be satiated.

“Holy graft, eh, Padre?” commented Don Jorge, coming up. “Those brainless buzzards, if they only knew it and had sense enough to unite, could strip every feather off that swaggering vulture and send him packing. Fools! And we poor Colombians, if we had the courage, could as easily throw the Church into the sea, holy candles, holy oils, holy incense and all! Diablo! But we are fleeced like sheep!”

To JosÈ it did not seem strange that this man should speak so frankly to him, a priest. He felt that Don Jorge was not so much lacking in courtesy and delicate respect for the feelings and opinions of others as he was ruggedly honest and fearlessly sincere in his hatred of the dissimulation and graft practiced upon the ignorant and unsuspecting. For the rest of the day Don Jorge was busy with his maps and papers, and JosÈ was left to himself.

The character of the landscape had altered with the narrowing 142 of the stream, and the river-plain now lay in a great volcanic basin flanked by distant verdure-clad hills. Far to the southwest JosÈ could see the faint outlines of the lofty Cordilleras. Somewhere in that direction lay SimitÍ. And back of it lay the ancient treasure house of Spain, where countless thousands of sweating slaves had worn out their straining bodies under the goad and lash, that the monarchs of Castile might carry on their foolish religious wars and attempt their vain projects of self-aggrandizement.

The day wore on without interest, and darkness closed in quickly when the sun dropped behind the Sierras. It was to be JosÈ’s last night on the Magdalena, for the captain had told him that, barring disaster, the next afternoon should find them at Badillo. After the evening meal the priest took his chair to the bow of the steamer and gave himself over to the gentle influences of the rare and soothing environment. The churning of the boat was softly echoed by the sleeping forest. The late moon shimmered through clouds of murky vapor, and cast ghostly reflections along the broad river. The balmy air, trembling with the radiating heat, was impregnated with sweetest odors from the myriad buds and balsamic plants of the dark jungle wilderness on either hand, where impervious walls rose in majestic, deterrant, awesome silence from the low shore line, and tangled shrubs and bushes, rioting in wild profusion, jealously hung to the water’s edge that they might hide every trace of the muddy banks. What shapes and forms the black depths of that untrodden bush hid from his eyes, JosÈ might only imagine. But he felt their presence––crawling, creeping things that lay in patient ambush for their unwitting prey––slimy lizards, gorgeously caparisoned––dank, twisting serpents––elephantine tapirs––dull-witted sloths––sleek, wary jaguars––fierce formicidae, poisonous and carnivorous. He might not see them, but he felt that he was the cynosure of hundreds of keen eyes that followed him as the boat glided close to the shore and silently crept through the shadows which lay thick upon the river’s edge. And the matted jungle, with its colossal vegetation, he felt was peopled with other things––influences intangible, and perhaps still unreal, but mightily potent with the symbolized presence of the great Unknown, which stands back of all phenomena and eagerly watches the movements of its children. These influences had already cast their spell upon him. He was yielding, slowly, to the “lure of the tropics,” which few who come under its attachment ever find the strength to dispel.

No habitations were visible on the dark shores. Only here and there in the yellow glow of the boat’s lanterns appeared the 143 customary piles of wood which the natives sell to the passing steamers for boiler fuel, and which are found at frequent intervals along the river. At one of these the Honda halted to replenish its supply. The usual bickering between the negro owner and the boat captain resulted in a bargain, and the half-naked stevedores began to transfer the wood to the vessel, carrying it on their shoulders in the most primitive manner, held in a strip of burlap. The rising moon had at last thrown off its veil of murky clouds, and was shining in undimmed splendor in a starry sky. JosÈ went ashore with the passengers; for the boat might remain there for hours while her crew labored leisurely, with much bantering and singing, and no anxious thought for the morrow.

The strumming of a tiple in the distance attracted him. Following it, he found a small settlement of bamboo huts hidden away in a beautiful grove of moriche palms, through which the moonbeams filtered in silvery stringers. Little gardens lay back of the dwellings, and the usual number of goats and pigs were dozing in the heavy shadows of the scarcely stirring trees. Reserved matrons and shy doncellas appeared in the doorways; and curious children, naked and chubby, hid in their mothers’ scant skirts and peeped cautiously out at the newcomers. The tranquil night was sweet with delicate odors wafted from numberless plants and blossoms in the adjacent forest, and with the fragrance breathed from the roses, gardenias and dahlias with which these unpretentious dwellings were fairly embowered. A spirit of calm and peaceful contentment hovered over the spot, and the round, white moon smiled down in holy benediction upon the gentle folk who passed their simple lives in this bower of delight, free from the goad of human ambition, untrammeled by the false sense of wealth and its entailments, and unspoiled by the artificialities of civilization.

One of the passengers suggested a dance, while waiting for the boat to take on its fuel. The owner of the wood, apparently the chief authority of the little settlement, immediately procured a tom-tom, and gave orders for the baile. At his direction men, women and children gathered in the moonlit clearing on the river bank and, while the musician beat a monotonous tattoo on the crude drum, circled about in the stately and dignified movements of their native dance.

It was a picture that JosÈ would not forget. The balmy air, soft as velvet, and laden with delicious fragrance; the vast solitude, stretching in trackless wilderness to unknown reaches on either hand; the magic stillness of the tropic night; the figures of the dancers weirdly silhouetted in the gorgeous moonlight; with the low, unvaried beat of the tom-tom rising dully 144 through the warm air––all merged into a scene of exquisite beauty and delight, which made an indelible impression upon the priest’s receptive mind.

And when the sounds of simple happiness had again died into silence, and he lay in his hammock, listening to the spirit of the jungle sighing through the night-blown palms, as the boat glided gently through the lights and shadows of the quiet river, his soul voiced a nameless yearning, a vague, unformed longing for an approach to the life of simple content and child-like happiness of the kind and gentle folk with whom he had been privileged to make this brief sojourn.

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The crimson flush of the dawn-sky heralded another day of implacable heat. The emerald coronals of palms and towering caobas burned in the early beams of the torrid sun. Light fogs rose reluctantly from the river’s bosom and dispersed in delicate vapors of opal and violet. The tangled banks of dripping bush shone freshly green in the misty light. The wilderness, grim and trenchant, reigned in unchallenged despotism. Solitude, soul-oppressing, unbroken but for the calls of feathered life, brooded over the birth of JosÈ’s last day on the Magdalena. About midday the steamer touched at the little village of Bodega Central; but the iron-covered warehouse and the whitewashed mud hovels glittered garishly in the fierce heat and stifled all desire to go ashore. The call was brief, and the boat soon resumed its course through the solitude and heat of the mighty river.

Immediately after leaving Bodega Central, Don Jorge approached JosÈ and beckoned him to an unoccupied corner of the boat.

“Amigo,” he began, after assuring himself that his words would not carry to the other passengers, “the captain tells me the next stop is Badillo, where you leave us. If all goes well you will be in SimitÍ to-night. No doubt a report of our meeting with Padre Diego has already reached Don Wenceslas, who, you may be sure, has no thought of forgetting you. I have no reason to tell you this other than the fact that I think, as Padre Diego put it, you are being jobbed––not by the Church, but by Wenceslas. I want to warn you, that is all. I hate priests! They got me early––got my wife and girl, too! I hate the Church, and the whole ghastly farce which it puts over on the ignorant people of this country! But––,” eying him sharply, “I would hardly class you as a real priest. There, never mind!” as JosÈ was about to interrupt. “I think I understand. You simply went wrong. You meant well, but something happened––as always does when one means well in this world. But now to the point.”

Shifting his chair closer to JosÈ, the man resumed earnestly.

“Your grandfather, Don Ignacio, was a very rich man. The war stripped him. He got just what he deserved. His fincas and herds and mines melted away from him like grease from a holy candle. And nobody cared––any more than the Lord cares about candle grease. Most of his property fell into the hands of his former slaves––and he had hundreds of them hereabouts. But his most valuable possession, the great mine of La Libertad, disappeared as completely as if blotted from the face of the earth.

“That mine––no, not a mine, but a mountain of free gold––was located somewhere in the GuamocÓ district. After the war this whole country slipped back into the jungle, and had to be rediscovered. The GuamocÓ region is to-day as unknown as it was before the Spaniards came. Somewhere in the district, but covered deep beneath brush and forest growth, is that mine, the richest in Colombia.

“Now, as you know, Don Ignacio left this country in considerable of a hurry. But I think he always intended to come back again. Death killed that ambition. I don’t know about his sons. But the fact remains that La Libertad has never been rediscovered since Don Ignacio’s day. The old records in Cartagena show the existence of such a mine in Spanish times, and give a more or less accurate statement of its production. Diablo! I hesitate to say how much! The old fellow had arrastras, mills, and so on, in which slaves crushed the ore. The bullion was melted into bars and brought down the trail to SimitÍ, where he had agents and warehouses and a store or two. From there it was shipped down the river to Cartagena. But the war lasted thirteen years. And during that time everything was in a state of terrible confusion. The existence of mines was forgotten. The plantations were left unworked. The male population was all but killed off. And the country sank back into wilderness.

“Bueno; so much for history. Now to your friends on the coast––and elsewhere. Don Wenceslas is quietly searching for that mine––has been for years. He put his agent, Padre Diego, in SimitÍ to learn what he might there. But the fool priest was run out after he had ruined a woman or two. However, Padre Diego is still in close touch with the town, and is on the keen search for La Libertad. Wenceslas thinks there may be descendants of some of Don Ignacio’s old slaves still living in SimitÍ, or near there, and that they know the location of the lost mine. And, if I mistake not, he figures that you will learn the secret from them in some way, and that the mine will again come to light. Now, if you get wind of that mine and attempt 146 to locate it, or purchase it from the natives, you will be beaten out of it in a hurry. And you may be sure Don Wenceslas will be the one who will eventually have it, for there is no craftier, smoother, brighter rascal in Colombia than he. And so, take it from me, if you ever get wind of the location of that famous property––which by rights is yours, having belonged to your grandfather––keep the information strictly to yourself!

“I do not know SimitÍ. But I shall be working in the GuamocÓ district for many months to come, hunting Indian graves. I shall have my runners up and down the SimitÍ trail frequently, and may get in touch with you. It may be that you will need a friend. There! The boat is whistling for Badillo. A last word: Keep out of the way of both Wenceslas and Diego––cultivate the people of SimitÍ––and keep your mouth closed.”

A few minutes later JosÈ stood on the river bank beside his little haircloth trunk and traveling bag, sadly watching the steamer draw away and resume her course up-stream. He watched it until it disappeared around a bend. And then he stood watching the smoke rise above the treetops, until that, too, faded in the distance. No one had waved him a farewell from the boat. No one met him with a greeting of welcome on the shore. He was a stranger among strangers.

He turned, with a heavy heart, to note his environment. It was a typical riverine point. A single street, if it might be so called; a half dozen bamboo dwellings, palm-thatched; and a score of natives, with their innumerable gaunt dogs and porcine companions––this was Badillo.

“SeÑor Padre.” A tall, finely built native, clad in soiled white cotton shirt and trousers, approached and addressed him in a kindly tone. “Where do you go?”

“To SimitÍ,” replied the priest, turning eagerly to the man. “But,” in bewilderment, “where is it?”

“Over there,” answered the native, pointing to the jungle on the far side of the river. “Many leagues.”

The wearied priest sat down on his trunk and buried his face in his hands. Faintness and nausea seized him. It was the after-effect of his long and difficult river experience. Or, perhaps, the deadly malaria was beginning its insidious poisoning. The man approached and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Padre, why do you go to SimitÍ?”

JosÈ raised his head and looked more closely at his interlocutor. The native was a man of perhaps sixty years. His figure was that of an athlete. He stood well over six feet high, with massive shoulders, and a waist as slender as a woman’s. His face was almost black in color, and mottled with patches of white, so common to the natives of the hot inlands. But there 147 was that in its expression, a something that looked out through those kindly black eyes, that assured JosÈ and bespoke his confidence.

The man gravely repeated his question.

“I have been sent there by the Bishop of Cartagena. I am to have charge of the parish,” JosÈ replied.

The man slowly shook his finely shaped head.

“We want no priest in SimitÍ,” he said with quiet firmness. His manner of speaking was abrupt, yet not ungracious.

“But––do you live there?” inquired JosÈ anxiously.

“Yes, Padre.”

“Then you must know a man––Rosendo, I think his name––”

“I am Rosendo Ariza.”

JosÈ looked eagerly at the man. Then he wearily stretched out a hand.

“Rosendo––I am sick––I think. And––I have––no friends––”

Rosendo quickly grasped his hand and slipped an arm about his shoulders.

“I am your friend, Padre––” He stopped and appeared to reflect for a moment. Then he added quickly, “My canoe is ready; and we must hurry, or night will overtake us.”

The priest essayed to rise, but stumbled. Then, as if he had been a child, the man Rosendo picked him up and carried him down the bank to a rude canoe, where he deposited him on a pile of empty bags in the keel.

“Escolastico!” he called back to a young man who seemed to be the chief character of the village. “Sell the panela and yuccas Á buen precio; and remind Captain Julio not to forget on the next trip to bring the little Carmen a doll from Barranquilla. I will be over again next month. And Juan,” addressing the sturdy youth who was preparing to accompany him, “set in the Padre’s baggage; and do you take the paddle, and I will pole. Conque, adioscito!” waving his battered straw hat to the natives congregated on the bank, while Juan pushed the canoe from the shore and paddled vigorously out into the river.

“Adioscito! adioscito! Don Rosendo y Juan!” The hearty farewells of the natives followed the canoe far out into the broad stream.

Across the open river in the livid heat of the early afternoon the canoe slowly made its way. The sun from a cloudless sky viciously poured down its glowing rays like molten metal. The boat burned; the river steamed; the water was hot to his touch, when the priest feebly dipped his hands into it and bathed his throbbing brow. Badillo faded from view as they rounded a 148 densely wooded island and entered a long lagoon. Here they lost the slight breeze which they had had on the main stream. In this narrow channel, hemmed in between lofty forest walls of closely woven vines and foliage, it seemed to JosÈ that they had entered a flaming inferno. The two boatmen sat silent and inscrutable, plying their paddles without speaking.

Down the long lagoon the canoe drifted, keeping within what scant shade the banks afforded, for the sun stood now directly overhead. The heat was everywhere, insistent, unpitying. It burned, scalded, warped. The foliage on either side of the channel merged into the hot waves that rose trembling about them. The thin, burning air enveloped the little craft with fire. JosÈ gasped for breath. His tongue swelled. His pulse throbbed violently. His skin cracked. The quivering appearance of the atmosphere robbed him of confidence in his own vision. A cloud of insects hung always before his sight. Dead silence lay upon the scene. Not a sound issued from the jungle. Not a bird or animal betrayed its presence. The canoe was edging the Colombian “hells,” where even the denizens of the forest dare not venture forth on the low, open savannas in the killing heat of midday.

JosÈ sank down in the boat, wilting and semi-delirious. Through his dimmed eyes the boatman looked like glowing inhuman things set in flames. Rosendo came to him and placed his straw hat over his face. Hours, interminable and torturing, seemed to pass on leaden wings. Then Juan, deftly swerving his paddle, shot the canoe into a narrow arm, and the garish sunlight was suddenly lost in the densely intertwined branches overhanging the little stream.

“The outlet of La Cienaga, Padre,” Rosendo offered, laying aside his paddle and taking his long boat pole. “Lake SimitÍ flows through this and into the Magdalena.” For a few moments he held the canoe steady, while from his wallet he drew a few leaves of tobacco and deftly rolled a long, thick cigar.

The real work of the boga now began, and Rosendo with his long punter settled down to the several hours’ strenuous grind which was necessary to force the heavy canoe up the little outlet and into the distant lake beyond. Back and forth he traveled through the half-length of the boat, setting the pole well forward in the soft bank, or out into the stream itself, and then, with its end against his shoulder, urging and teasing the craft a few feet at a time against the strong current. JosÈ imagined, as he dully watched him, that he could see death in the pestiferous effluvia which emanated from the black, slimy mud which every plunge of the long pole brought to the surface of the narrow stream.

The afternoon slowly waned, and the temperature lowered a few degrees. A warm, animal-like breath drifted languidly out from the moist jungle. The outlet, or caÑo, was heavily shaded throughout its length. Crocodiles lay along its muddy banks, and slid into the water at the approach of the canoe. Huge iguanas, the gorgeously colored lizards of tropical America, scurried noisily through the overarching branches. Here and there monkeys peeped curiously at the intruders and chattered excitedly as they swung among the lofty treetops. But for his exhaustion, JosÈ, as he lay propped up against his trunk, gazing vacantly upon the slowly unrolling panorama of marvelous plant and animal life on either hand, might have imagined himself in a realm of enchantment.

At length the vegetation abruptly ceased; the stream widened; and the canoe entered a broad lake, at the far end of which, three miles distant, its two whitewashed churches and its plastered houses reflecting the red glow of the setting sun, lay the ancient and decayed town of SimitÍ, the northern outlet of Spain’s mediaeval treasure house, at the edge of the forgotten district of GuamocÓ.

Paddling gently across the unruffled surface of the tepid waters, Rosendo and Juan silently urged the canoe through the fast gathering dusk, and at length drew up on the shaly beach of the old town. As they did so, a little girl, bare of feet and with clustering brown curls, came running out of the darkness.

“Oh, padre Rosendo,” she called, “what have you brought me?”

Then, as she saw Rosendo and Juan assisting the priest from the boat, she drew back abashed.

“Look, Carmencita,” whispered Juan to the little maid; “we’ve brought you a big doll, haven’t we?”

Night fell as the priest stepped upon the shore of his new home.

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CARMEN ARIZA

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BOOK 2

Ay, to save and redeem and restore, snatch Saul, the mistake, Saul, the failure, the ruin he seems now,––and bid him awake from the dream, the probation, the prelude, to find himself set clear and safe in new light and new life,––a new harmony yet to be run and continued and ended.

––Browning.

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