“Padre dear,” said Carmen, “you know the question that we put under the altar of the old church? Well, God answered it, didn’t He?”

“I––why, I had forgotten it, child. What was it? You asked Him to tell us why the people thought they had to die, did you not? Well––and what was His answer?”

“Why, He told us that they were frightened to death, you know.”

“True, chiquita. Fear killed them––nothing else! They paid the penalty of death for believing that Feliz Gomez had slept on a bed where a man had died of the plague. They died because they––”

“Because they didn’t know that God was everywhere, Padre dear,” interrupted Carmen.

“Just so, chiquita. And that is why all people die. And yet,” he added sadly, “how are we going to make them know that He is everywhere?”

“Why, Padre dear, by showing them in our talk and our actions that we know it––by proving it, you know, just as we prove our problems in algebra.”

“Yes, poor Feliz, and Amado, and Guillermo died because they sinned,” he mused. “They broke the first Commandment by believing that there was another power than God. And that sin brought its inevitable wage, death. They ‘missed the mark,’ and sank into the oblivion of their false beliefs. God above! that I could keep my own mentality free from these same carnal beliefs, and so be a true missionary to suffering humanity! But you, Carmen, you are going to be such a missionary. And I believe,” he muttered through his set teeth, “that I am appointed to shield the girl until God is ready to send her forth! But what, oh, what will she do when she meets that world which lies beyond her little SimitÍ?”

Rosendo had returned to GuamocÓ. “The deposit will not last much longer,” he said to JosÈ, shaking his head dubiously. “And then––”

“Why, then we will find another, Rosendo,” replied the priest optimistically.

“OjalÁ!” exclaimed the old man, starting for the trail.

The day after Don Jorge’s departure the Alcalde returned. He stole shamefacedly through the streets and barricaded himself in his house. There he gave vent to his monumental wrath. He cruelly abused his long-suffering spouse, and ended by striking her across the face. After which he sat down and laboriously penned a long letter to Padre Diego, in which the names of JosÈ and Carmen figured plentifully.

For Don Jorge had met the Alcalde in Juncal, and had roundly jeered him for his cowardly flight. He cited JosÈ and Rosendo as examples of valor, and pointed out that the Alcalde greatly resembled a captain who fled at the smell of gunpowder. Don Mario swelled with indignation and shame. His spleen worked particularly against Rosendo and the priest. Come what might, it was time Diego and his superiors in Cartagena knew what was going on in the parish of SimitÍ!

A few days later an unctuous letter came to JosÈ from Diego, requesting that Carmen be sent to him at once, as he now desired to place her in a convent and thus supplement the religious education which he was sure JosÈ had so well begun in her. The priest had scarcely read the letter when Don Mario appeared at the parish house.

“Bien, Padre,” he began smoothly, but without concealing the malice which lurked beneath his oily words, “Padre Diego sends for the little Carmen, and bids me arrange to have her conveyed at once to Banco. I think Juan will take her down, is it not so?”

JosÈ looked him squarely in the eyes. “No, seÑor,” he said in a voice that trembled with agitation, “it is not so!”

“Hombre!” exclaimed Don Mario, swelling with suppressed rage. “You refuse to give Diego his own child?”

“No, seÑor, but I refuse to give him a child that is not his.”

“Caramba! but she is––he has the proofs! And I shall send her to him this day!”

The Alcalde shrilled forth his rage like a ruffled parrot. JosÈ seized him by the shoulders and, turning him swiftly about, pushed him out into the road. He then entered the rear door of Rosendo’s house and bade DoÑa Maria keep the child close to her.

A few minutes later Fernando Perez appeared at JosÈ’s door. He was municipal clerk, secretary, and constable of SimitÍ, all in one. He saluted the priest gravely, and demanded the body of the child Carmen, to be returned to her proper father.

JosÈ groaned inwardly. What could he do against the established authority?

“Bien, Padre,” said Fernando, after delivering his message, “the hour is too late to send her down the river to-day. But deliver her to me, and she shall go down at daybreak.”

“Listen,” JosÈ pleaded desperately, “Fernando, leave her here to-night––this is sudden, you must acknowledge––she must have time to take leave of DoÑa Maria––and––”

“SeÑor Padre, the Alcalde’s order is that she go with me now. I must obey.”

JosÈ felt his control oozing fast. Scarce knowing what he did, he quickly stepped back through the rear door, and going to Rosendo’s house, seized a large machete, with which he returned to face the constable.

“Look you, Fernando,” he cried, holding the weapon menacingly aloft, “if you lay a hand on that girl, I will scatter your brains through yonder plaza!”

“Caramba!” muttered the constable, falling back. “Bien,” he hastily added, “I will make this report to the Alcalde!” With which he beat an abrupt retreat.

JosÈ sank into a chair. But he hastily arose and went into Rosendo’s house. “DoÑa Maria!” he cried excitedly, “leave Carmen with me, and do you hurry through the town and see if Juan is here, and if LÁzaro Ortiz has returned from the 196 hacienda. Bid them come to me at once, and bring their machetes!”

The woman set out on her errand. JosÈ seized his machete firmly in one hand, and with the other drew Carmen to him.

“What is it, Padre dear?” the child asked, her eyes big with wonder. “Why do you tremble? I wish you wouldn’t always go around thinking that two and two are seven!”

“Carmen, child––you do not understand––you are too young, and as yet you have had no experience with––with the world! You must trust me now!”

“I do not trust you, Padre,” she said sadly. “I can’t trust anybody who always sees things that are not so.”

“Carmen––you are in danger––and you do not comprehend––” cried the desperate man.

“I am not in danger––and I do understand––a great deal better than you do, Padre. Now let me go––you are afraid! People who are afraid die of the plague!” The irony of her words sank into his soul.

Juan looked in at the door. JosÈ rose hastily. “Did you meet DoÑa Maria?” he asked.

“No, seÑor,” the lad replied.

“She is searching for you––have you your machete?”

“Yes, Padre, I have just come back from the island, where I was cutting wood.”

“Good, then! Remain here with me. I need you––or may.”

He went to the door and looked eagerly down the street. “Ah!” he exclaimed with relief, “here come DoÑa Maria and LÁzaro! Now, friends,” he began, when they were assembled before him, “grave danger threatens––”

“Padre!” It was DoÑa Maria’s voice. “Where is Carmen?”

JosÈ turned. The child had disappeared.

“LÁzaro!” he cried, “go at once to the Boque trail! Let no one pass that way with Carmen, if your life be the penalty! Juan, hurry to the lake! If either of you see her, call loudly, and I will come! DoÑa Maria, start through the town! We must find her! God above, help us!”

The afternoon dragged its interminable length across the valley. JosÈ wearily entered his house and threw himself upon a chair. He had not dared call at the Alcalde’s house, for fear he might do that official violence. But he had seen Fernando in the street, and had avoided him. Then, of a sudden, a thought came to him from out the darkness. He sprang to his feet and hurried off toward the shales. There, beneath the stunted algarroba tree, sat the child.

“Carmen!” He rushed to her and clasped her in his arms. “Why did you do this––?”

“Padre,” she replied, when she could get her breath, “I had to come out here and try to know for you the things you ought to know for yourself.”

He said nothing; but, holding her hand tightly, he led her back to the house.

That evening JosÈ sent for Don Mario, the constable, and Juan and LÁzaro. Assembling them before him in his living room, he talked with them long and earnestly.

“Compadres,” he said, “this week we have passed through a sad experience, and the dark angel has robbed us of three of our beloved friends. Is it your wish that death again visit us?”

They looked at one another in wonder. The Alcalde scowled darkly at the priest beneath his heavy brows. JosÈ continued:

“Bien, it is planned to seize the little Carmen by force, and send her down the river to Padre Diego––”

“Dios y diablo!” Juan had sprung to his feet. “Who says that, Padre?” he demanded savagely. The Alcalde shrank back in his chair.

“Be calm, Juan!” JosÈ replied. “Padre Diego sends for her by letter––is it not so, Don Mario?”

The latter grunted. Juan wheeled about and stared menacingly at the bulky official.

“Now, friends,” JosÈ pursued, “it has not been shown that Carmen belongs to Diego––in fact, all things point to the conclusion that she is not his child. My wish is to be just to all concerned. But shall we let the child go to him, knowing what manner of man he is, until it is proven beyond all doubt that he is her father?”

“Caramba! No!” exclaimed Juan and LÁzaro in unison.

“And I am of the opinion that the majority of our citizens would support us in the contention. What think you, friends?”

“Every man in SimitÍ, Padre,” replied LÁzaro earnestly.

“Don Mario,” said JosÈ, turning to the Alcalde, “until it is established that Diego has a parent’s claim to the girl, Juan and LÁzaro and I will protect her with our lives. Is it not so, amigos?” addressing the two men.

“Hombre! Let me see a hand laid upon her!” cried Juan rising.

LÁzaro spoke more deliberately. “Padre,” he said. “I owe you much. I know you to be q good man––not like Padre Diego. I know not what claim he may have on the girl, but this I say: I will follow and support you until it is shown me that you are in the wrong.”

JosÈ went over and clasped his hand. Then, to the town officials:

“Bien, amigos, we will let the matter rest thus, shall we not? We now understand one another. If harm comes to the child, the death angel will again stalk through this town, and––” he looked hard at Don Mario, whilst that official visibly shrank in size––“Bien,” he concluded, “a sharp watch will be kept over the child. We will submit to proofs––but to nothing less. And violence will bring bloodshed and death.”

“But––Caramba!” cried Don Mario, at last finding his voice. “If Diego has the Bishop back of him, he will force us to deliver the girl––or the Bishop will have the government soldiers sent here! I can ask for them––and if necessary I will!”

JosÈ paled slightly. He knew the Alcalde spoke truth. Don Mario, seeing that his words had taken effect, quickly followed up the advantage. “Now you, Juan and LÁzaro, do you think the little whelp worth that?”

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when Juan leaped across the floor and fell upon him. JosÈ seized the lad and, with Fernando’s help, tore him loose. LÁzaro held his machete aloft, ready to strike. JosÈ’s voice rang out sharply:

“Hold, men! Stop! Go you to your homes now! Juan, do you stay here with me!”

The lad faced the Alcalde and shook his fist. “Bien,” he sputtered, “send for the soldiers, fat dog that you are! But when I see them crossing the lake, I will come first to your house and cut open that big belly!”

“Arrest him, Fernando!” shrilled the Alcalde, shaking with rage.

“I will cut off the hand that is laid on Juan!” cried LÁzaro, advancing.

“Men! Men! Don Mario and Fernando, go now! Enough of this! And for God’s sake think twice before you make any further move!”

Don Mario and his constable departed in sullen silence. JosÈ let LÁzaro out through the rear door, while he bade Juan pass the night in the parish house. A consultation was held with DoÑa Maria, and it was arranged that Carmen should sleep in the room with JosÈ, with Juan lying before the door, until Rosendo should return from the mountains. Then JosÈ sat down and wrote to the Bishop.

No reply came from Cartagena until Rosendo returned at the end of the month. Meanwhile, JosÈ had never for a moment permitted Carmen to leave his side. The child chafed under the limitation; but JosÈ and DoÑa Maria were firm. Juan lived with the priest; and LÁzaro lurked about the parish house like a shadow. The Alcalde and his constable remained discreetly aloof.

But with Rosendo’s return came letters from both Wenceslas and Diego. The latter had laid aside his unction, and now made a curt and peremptory demand upon JosÈ for the child. The letter from Wenceslas was noncommittal, stating only that he was quite uninformed of Diego’s claim, but that an investigation should be made. JosÈ wondered if he had blundered in laying the case before him.

“Hombre!” ejaculated Rosendo, when he heard JosÈ’s story. “It is as I feared! And now the Bishop has the matter in hand! Caramba! We shall lose her yet!

“And, Padre,” he added, “the deposit is played out. There is no more gold there. And, now that we shall have none to send to the Bishop each month, Carmen’s fate is settled––unless we go away. And where shall we go? We could not get out of the country.” He hung his head and sat in gloomy dejection.

For more than a year Rosendo had panned the isolated alluvial deposit, and on his regular monthly returns to SimitÍ he and the priest had sent from thirty to ninety pesos gold to Wenceslas. To this JosÈ sometimes added small amounts collected from the people of SimitÍ, which they had gratuitously given him for Masses and for the support of the parish. Wenceslas, knowing the feeble strength of the parish, was surprised, but discreet; and though he continually urged JosÈ to greater efforts, and held out the allurements of “indulgences and special dispensations,” he made no inquiries regarding the source of the monthly contributions.

For many days following, Rosendo and the priest went about as in a thick, black cloud. “Rosendo,” said JosÈ at length, “go back to the mountains and search again. God was with us before. Have we any reason to doubt Him now?”

“And leave Carmen here, exposed to the danger that always hangs over her? Caramba, no! I would not go back now even if the deposit were not worked out! No!” JosÈ knew it would be futile to urge him.

Carmen came to the priest that same day. “Padre, I heard you and padre Rosendo talking this morning. Have you no money, no gold?”

“Why, child––there seems to be a need just at present,” he replied lightly. “But we might––well, we might send another of your questions to God. What say you?”

“Of course!” she cried delightedly, turning at once and hurrying away for pencil and paper.

“Now,” she panted, seating herself at the table. “Let us see; we want Him to give us pesos, don’t we?”

“Yes––many––a large sum. Make it big,” he said facetiously.

“Well, you know, Padre dear,” she replied seriously, “we can’t ask for too much––for we already have everything, haven’t we? After all, we can only ask to see what we really already have.

“Say ‘yes,’ Padre dear,” she pleaded, looking up appealingly at him staring silently at her. Oh, if she could only impart to him even a little of her abundant faith! She had enough, and to spare!

“Well, here it is,” she said, holding out the paper.

He took it and read––“Dear, dear God: Padre JosÈ needs pesos––lots of them. What shall he do?”

“And now,” she continued, “shall we put it under the altar of the old church?”

He smiled; but immediately assumed an expression of great seriousness. “Why not in the church here, the one we are using? The other is so far away?” he suggested. “And it is getting dark now.”

“But––no, we will go where we went before,” she concluded firmly.

Again he yielded. Taking matches and a piece of candle, he set off with the girl in a circuitous route for the hill, which they gained unobserved. Within the musty old church he struck a light, and they climbed over the dÉbris and to the rear of the crumbling altar.

“See!” she cried joyously. “Here is my other question that He answered! Doesn’t He answer them quick though! Why, it took only a day!”

She drew the old paper from beneath the adobe brick. Then she hesitated. “Let us put this question in a new place,” she said. “Look, up there, where the bricks have fallen out,” pointing to the part of the altar that had crumbled away.

JosÈ rose obediently to execute the commission. His thought was far off, even in Cartagena, where sat the powers that must be held quiet if his cherished plans were not to fail. He reached out and grasped one of the projecting bricks to steady himself. As he did so, the brick, which was loose, gave way with him, and he fell, almost across Carmen, followed by a shower of rubbish, as another portion of the old altar fell out.

“Hombre!” he ejaculated, picking himself up. “What good luck that the candle was not extinguished! And now, seÑorita, are you willing that we should bury this important question here on the floor; or must I again try to put it in the altar itself?”

“Up there,” insisted the child, laughing and still pointing above.

He rose and looked about, searching for a convenient place 201 to deposit the paper. Then something attracted his attention, something buried in the altar, but now exposed by the falling out of the fresh portion. It was metal, and it glittered in the feeble candle light. He reached in and hastily scraped away more of the hard mud. Then, trembling with suppressed excitement, he pulled out another brick. Clearly, it was a box that had been buried in there––who knows when? He gave the candle to Carmen and bade her stand up close. Then with both hands he carefully removed the adjacent bricks until the entire box was in view.

“Hombre!” he muttered. “What do you suppose this is? A box––”

“Oh!” exclaimed the girl in delight. “A box to put our question in, Padre!”

“More likely the answer itself, child!” muttered the excited priest, straining and tugging away at it. “Carmen! Stand aside!” he suddenly commanded. “Now––” He gave a final pull. A crash of falling bricks followed; the candle was extinguished; and both he and the child were precipitated to the floor.

“Carmen!” called the priest, choking with dust, “are you hurt?”

“No, Padre dear,” came the laughing answer through the darkness. “But I’m pretty full of dust. And the candle is buried.”

JosÈ groped about for the box. It lay near, a small, wooden coffer, bound about with two narrow bands of steel. He dragged it out and bore it down the aisle to the door, followed by Carmen.

“Padre!” she exclaimed eagerly. “What is it?”

He dusted it off and examined it carefully in the fast fading light. It was some twelve inches square by three deep, well made of mahogany, and secured by a small, iron padlock. On the top there was a crest of arms and the letters, “I de R,” burned into the wood.

Night had closed in, and the priest and girl made their way hurriedly back home by way of the lake, to avoid being seen. Under his cassock JosÈ carried the box, so heavy that it chafed the skin from his hip as they stumbled along.

“Carmen, say nothing––but tell your padre Rosendo to come to me at once!”

With the doors secured, and Carmen and DoÑa Maria standing guard outside to apprise them of danger, JosÈ and Rosendo covertly examined the discovery.

“I de R!” pondered Rosendo, studying the box. Then––“Caramba! Padre––Caramba! It is Ignacio de RincÓn! Hombre! 202 And the crest––it is his! I have seen it before––years and years ago! Caramba! Caramba!” The old man danced about like a child.

“Ignacio de RincÓn! Your grandfather!” he kept exclaiming, his eyes big as saucers. Then, hastening out to get his iron bar, he returned and with a blow broke the rusty padlock. Tearing open the hinged cover, he fell back with a loud cry.

Before their strained gaze, packed carefully in sawdust, lay several bars of yellow metal. Rosendo took them out with trembling hands and laid them upon the floor. “Gold, Padre, gold!” he muttered hoarsely. “Gold, buried by your grandfather! Caramba!––

“Hold these, Padre!” hurrying out and returning with a pair of homemade wooden balances. Again and again he carefully weighed the bars. Then he began to calculate. It seemed to JosÈ that the old man wasted hours arriving at a satisfactory result.

“Padre,” he finally announced in tones which he strove vainly to control, “there cannot be less than six thousand pesos oro here!”

JosÈ drew a long breath. “Six thousand pesos––twenty-four thousand francs! It is a fortune! Rosendo, we are rich!”

The trembling old man replaced the bars and carried them to JosÈ’s bed. The priest opened the door and called to Carmen.

“What was in the old box, Padre?” she asked happily, bounding into the room.

He stooped and picked her up, almost crushing her in his arms. “The answer to your question, chiquita. ‘Before they call I will answer: and while they are yet speaking, I will hear.’”