Days melted into weeks, and these in turn into months. SimitÍ, drab and shabby, a crumbling and abandoned relique of ancient Spanish pride and arrogance, drowsed undisturbed in the ardent embrace of the tropical sun. Don Jorge returned, unsuccessful, from his long quest in the San Lucas mountains, and departed again down the Magdalena river.

“It is a marvelous country up there,” he told JosÈ. “I do not wonder that it has given rise to legends. I felt myself in a land of enchantment while I was roaming those quiet mountains. When, after days of steady traveling, I would chance upon a little group of natives hidden away in some dense thicket, it seemed to me that they must be fairies, not real. I came upon the old trail, Padre, the Camino Real, now sunken and overgrown, which the Spaniards used. They called it the PanamÁ trail. It used to lead down to Cartagena. Hombre! in places it is now twenty feet deep!”

“But, gold, Don Jorge?”

“Ah, Padre, what quartz veins I saw in that country! Hombre! Gold will be discovered there without measure some day! But––Caramba! This map which Don Carlos gave me is much in error. I must consult again with him. Then I shall return to SimitÍ.” JosÈ regretfully saw him depart, for he had grown to love this ruggedly honest soul.

Meantime, Don Mario sulked in his house; nor during the intervening year would he hold anything more than the most formal intercourse with the priest. JosÈ ignored him as far as possible. Events move with terrible deliberation in these tropic lands, and men’s minds are heavy and lethargic. JosÈ assumed that Don Mario had failed in the support upon which he had counted; or else Diego’s interest in Carmen was dormant, perhaps utterly passed. Each succeeding day of quiet increased his confidence, while he rounded out month after month in this sequestered vale on the far confines of civilization, and the girl attained her twelfth year. Moreover, as he noted with marveling, often incredulous, mental gaze her swift, unhindered progress, the rapid unfolding of her rich nature, and the increasing development of a spirituality which seemed to raise her daily farther above the plane on which he dwelt, he began to regard the uninterrupted culmination of his plans for her as reasonably assured, if not altogether certain.

Juan continued his frequent trips down to Bodega Central 219 as general messenger and transportation agent for his fellow-townsmen, meanwhile adoring Carmen from a distance of respectful decorum. Rosendo and LÁzaro, relaxing somewhat their vigilance over the girl, labored daily on the little hacienda across the lake. The dull-witted folk, keeping to their dismally pretentious mud houses during the pulsing heat of day, and singing their weird, moaning laments in the quiet which reigned over this maculate hollow at night, followed undeviatingly the monotonous routine of an existence which had no other aim than the indulgence of the most primitive material wants.

“Ah, Padre,” Rosendo would say of them, “they are so easy! They love idleness; they like not labor. They fish, they play the guitar, they gather fruits. They sing and dance––and then die. Padre, it is sad, is it not?”

Aye, thought the priest, doubly sad in its mute answer to the heartlessly selfish query of Cain. No one, not even the Church, was the keeper of these benighted brothers. He alone had constituted himself their shepherd. And as they learned to love him, to confide their simple wants and childish hopes to him, he came to realize the immense ascendency which the priests of Colombia possess over the simple understanding of the people. An ascendency hereditary and dominant, capable of utmost good, but expressed in the fettering of initiative and action, in the suppression of ambition, and the quenching of every impulse toward independence of thought. How he longed to lift them up from the drag of their mental encompassment! Yet how helpless he was to afford them the needed lustration of soul which alone could accomplish it!

“I can do little more than try to set them a standard of thought,” he would muse, as he looked out from the altar over the camellia-like faces of his adult children when he conducted his simple Sunday services. “I can only strive to point out the better things of this life––to tell them of the wonders of invention, of art, of civilization––I can only relate to them tales of romance and achievement, and beautiful stories––and try to omit in the recital all reference to the evil methods, aims, and motives which have manifested in those dark crimes staining the records of history. The world calls them historical incident and fact. I must call them ‘the mist that went up from the ground and watered the face of the earth.’”

But JosÈ had progressed during his years in SimitÍ. It had been hard––only he could know how hard!––to adapt himself to the narrow environment in which he dwelt. It had been hard to conform to these odd ways and strange usages. But 220 he now knew that the people’s reserve and shyness at first was due to their natural suspicion of him. For days, even weeks, he had known that he was being weighed and watched. And then love triumphed.

It is true, the dull staring of the natives of this unkempt town had long continued to throw him into fits of prolonged nervousness. They had not meant to offend, of course. Their curiosity was far from malicious. But at hardly any hour of the day or night could he look up from his work without seeing dark, inquisitive faces peering in through the latticed window or the open door at him, watchful of the minutest detail of his activity. He had now grown used to that. And he had grown used to their thoughtless intrusion upon him at any hour. He had learned, too, not to pale with nausea when, as was their wont of many centuries, the dwellers in this uncouth town relentlessly pursued their custom of expectorating upon his floor immediately they entered and stood before him. He had accustomed himself to the hourly intrusion of the scavenger pigs and starving dogs in his house. And he could now endure without aching nerves the awful singing, the maudlin wails, the thin, piercing, falsetto howls which rose almost nightly about him in the sacred name of music. For these were children with whom he dwelt. And he was trying to show them that they were children of God.

The girl’s education was progressing marvelously. Already JosÈ had been obliged to supplement his oral instruction with texts purchased for her from abroad. Her grasp of the English language was his daily wonder. After two years of study she spoke it readily. She loved it, and insisted that her conversations with him should be conducted wholly in it. French and German likewise had been taken up; and her knowledge of her own Castilian tongue had been enriched by the few books which he had been able to secure for her from Spain.

JosÈ’s anomalous position in SimitÍ had ceased to cause him worry. What mattered it, now that he had endeared himself to its people, and was progressing undisturbed in the training of Carmen? He performed his religious duties faithfully. His people wanted them. And he, in turn, knew that upon his observance of them depended his tenure of the parish.

And he wanted to remain among them, to lead them, if possible, at least a little way along what he was daily seeing to be the only path out of the corroding beliefs of the human mind. He knew that his people’s growth would be slow––how slow might not his own be, too! Who could say how unutterably slow would be their united march heavenward! And 221 yet, the human mind was expanding with wonderful rapidity in these last days. What acceleration had it not acquired since that distant era of the Old Stone Man, when through a hundred thousand years of darkness the only observable progress was a little greater skill in the shaping of his crude flint weapons!

To Padre Diego’s one or two subsequent curt demands that Carmen be sent to him, JosÈ had given no heed. And perhaps Diego, absorbed in his political activities as the confidential agent of Wenceslas, would have been content to let his claim upon the child lapse, after many months of quiet, had not Don Jorge inadvertently set the current of the man’s thought again in her direction.

For Don Jorge was making frequent trips along the Magdalena river. It was essential to his business to visit the various riverine towns and to mingle freely with all grades of people, that he might run down rumors or draw from the inhabitants information which might result in valuable clues anent buried treasure. Returning one day to SimitÍ from such a trip, he regaled JosÈ with the spirited recital of his experience on a steamboat which had become stranded on a river bar.

“Bien,” he concluded, “the old tub at last broke loose. Then we saw that its engines were out of commission; and so the captain let her drift down to Banco, where we docked. I was forced, not altogether against my will, to put up with Padre Diego. Caramba! The old fox! But I had much amusement at his expense when I twitted him about his daughter Carmen, and his silly efforts to get possession of her!”

JosÈ shook with indignation. “Good heaven, friend!” he cried, “why can you not let sleeping dogs alone? Diego is not the man to be bearded like that! Would that you had kept away from the subject! And what did you say to him about the girl?”

“Caramba, man! I only told him how beautiful she was, and how large for her few years. Bien, I think I said she was the most beautiful and well-formed girl I had ever seen. But was there anything wrong in telling the truth, amigo?”

“No,” replied JosÈ bitterly, as he turned away; “you meant no harm. But, knowing the man’s brutal nature, and his assumed claim on the girl, why could you not have foreseen possible misfortune to her in dwelling thus on her physical beauty? Hombre, it is too bad!”

“Na, amigo,” said Don Jorge soothingly, “nothing can come of it. Bien, you take things so hard!” But when Don Jorge again set out for the mountains he left the priest’s heart filled with apprehension.

A few weeks later came what JosÈ had been awaiting, another 222 demand upon him for the girl. Failure to comply with it, said Diego’s letter, meant the placing of the case in the hands of the civil and ecclesiastical authorities for action.

Rosendo’s face grew hard when he read the note. “There is a way, Padre. Let my woman take the girl and go up the Boque river to Rosa Maria, the clearing of Don NicolÁs. It is a wild region, where tapirs and deer roam, and where hardly a man has set foot for centuries. The people of Boque will keep our secret, and she can remain hidden there until––”

“No, Rosendo, that will not do,” replied JosÈ, shaking his head in perplexity. “The girl is developing rapidly, and such a course would result in a mental check that might spell infinite harm. She and DoÑa Maria would die to live by themselves up there in that lonely region. What about her studies? And––what would I do?”

“Then do you go too, Padre,” suggested Rosendo.

“No, amigo, for that would cause search to be instituted by the Bishop, and we certainly would be discovered. But, to take her and flee the country––and the Church––how can I yet? No, it is impossible!” He shook his head dolefully, while his thoughts flew back to Seville and the proud mother there.

“Bien, Padre, let us increase our contributions to Don Wenceslas. Let us send him from now on not less than one hundred pesos oro each month. Will not that keep him quiet, no matter what Diego says?”

“Possibly,” assented JosÈ. “At any rate, we will try it.” They still had some three thousand pesos gold left.

“Padre,” said Rosendo, some days later, as they sat together in the parish house, “what do you think Diego wants of the girl?”

JosÈ hesitated. “I think, Rosendo––” he began. But could even a human mind touch such depths of depravity? And yet––“I think,” he continued slowly, “that Diego, having seen her, and now speculating on her future beauty of face and form––I think he means to place her in a convent, with the view of holding her as a ready substitute for the woman who now lives with him––”

“Dios! And that is my own daughter!” cried Rosendo, springing up.

“Yes––true, Rosendo. And, if I mistake not, Diego also would like to repay the score he has against you, for driving him from SimitÍ and holding the threat of death over him these many years. He can most readily do this by getting Carmen away from you––as he did the other daughter, is it not so?”

Rosendo came and stood before the priest. His face was 223 strained with fearful anxiety. “Padre,” he said in a low voice, “I shall end this matter at once. I go to Banco to-morrow to kill Diego.”

“You shall do nothing of the kind!” cried JosÈ, seizing his hand. “Why––Rosendo, it would mean your own death, or lifelong imprisonment!”

“And what of that, Padre?” said the old man with awful calmness. “I have nothing that is not hers, even to my life. Gladly would I give it for her. Let me die, or spend my remaining days in the prison, if that will save her. Such a price for her safety would be low.”

While he was speaking, Fernando, the town constable, entered. He saluted the men gravely, and drew from his pocket a document to which was attached the Alcalde’s official seal.

“SeÑores,” he said with much dignity, as if the majesty of his little office weighed upon him, “I am commanded by SeÑor, the Alcalde, to exercise the authority reposing in him and place Don Rosendo Ariza under arrest. You will at once accompany me to the cÁrcel,” he added, going up to the astonished Rosendo and laying a hand upon his shoulder.

“Arrest! Me! Hombre! what have I done?” cried the old man, stepping back.

“Bien, amigo, I do not find it my duty to tell you. The SeÑor Alcalde hands me the document and commands me to execute it. As for the cause––Bien, you must ask him.”

“Come,” said JosÈ, the first to recover from his astonishment, “let us go to him at once.” He at any rate had now an opportunity to confront Don Mario and learn what plans the man had been devising these many months.

The Alcalde received the men in his little patio, scowling and menacing. He offered them no greeting when they confronted him.

“Don Mario,” asked JosÈ in a trembling voice, “why have you put this indignity upon our friend, Rosendo? Who orders his arrest?”

“Ask, rather, SeÑor Padre,” replied the Alcalde, full of wrath, “what alone saves you from the same indignity. Only that you are a priest, SeÑor Padre, nada mÁs! His arrest is ordered by Padre Diego.”

“And why, if I may beg the favor?” pursued JosÈ, though he well knew the sordid motive.

“Why? Caramba! Why lay the hands of the law upon those who deprive a suffering father of his child! Bien, Fernando,” turning to the constable, “you have done well. Take your prisoner to the cÁrcel.”

“No!” cried Rosendo, drawing back. “No, Don Mario, I will not go to the jail! I will––”

“Caramba!” shouted the Alcalde, his face purple. “I set your trial for to-morrow, in the early morning. But this night you will spend in the jail! Hombre! I will see if I am not Alcalde here! And look you, SeÑor Padre, if there is any disturbance, I will send for the government soldiers! Then they will take Rosendo to the prison in Cartagena! And that finishes him!”

JosÈ knew that, if Diego had the support of the Bishop, this was no idle threat. Rosendo turned to him in helpless appeal. “What shall I do, Padre?” he asked.

“It is best that you go to the jail to-night, Rosendo,” said JosÈ with sinking heart. “But, Don Mario,” turning menacingly to the Alcalde, “mark you, his trial takes place in the morning, and he shall be judged, not by you alone, but by his fellow-townsmen!”

“Have I not said so, seÑor?” returned Don Mario curtly, with a note of deep contempt in his voice.

As in most small Spanish towns, the jail was a rude adobe hut, with no furnishings, save the wooden stocks into which the feet of the hapless prisoners were secured. Thus confined, the luckless wight who chanced to feel the law’s heavy hand might sit in a torturing position for days, cruelly tormented at night by ravenous mosquitoes, and wholly dependent upon the charity of the townsfolk for his daily rations, unless he have friends or family to supply his needs. In the present instance Don Mario took the extra precaution of setting a guard over his important prisoner.

JosÈ, benumbed by the shock and bewildered by the sudden precipitation of events, accompanied Rosendo to the jail and mutely watched the procedure as Fernando secured the old man’s bare feet in the rude stocks. And yet, despite the situation, he could not repress a sense of the ridiculous, as his thought dwelt momentarily on the little opÉra bouffe which these child-like people were so continually enacting in their attempts at self-government. But it was a play that at times approached dangerously near to the tragic. The passions of this Latin offshoot were strong, if their minds were dull and lethargic, and when aroused were capable of the most despicable, as well as the most grandly heroic deeds. And in the present instance, when the fleeting sense of the absurd passed, JosÈ knew that he was facing a crisis. Something told him that resistance now would be useless. True, Rosendo might have opposed arrest with violence, and perhaps have escaped. But that would have accomplished nothing for Carmen, the pivot upon which events were turning. JosÈ had reasoned that it were better to let the Alcalde play his hand 225 first, in the small hope that as the cards fell he might more than match his opponent’s strength with his own.

“Na, Padre, do not worry,” said Rosendo reassuringly. “It is for her sake; and we shall have to know, as she does, that everything will come out right. My friends will set me free to-morrow, when the trial takes place. And then”––he drew the priest down to him and whispered low––“we will leave SimitÍ and take to the mountains.”

JosÈ bent his heavy steps homeward. Arriving at Rosendo’s house, he saw the little living room crowded with sympathetic friends who had come to condole with DoÑa Maria. That placid woman, however, had not lost in any degree her wonted calm, even though her companions held forth with much impassioned declamation against the indignity which had been heaped upon her worthy consort. He looked about for Carmen. She was not with her foster-mother, nor did his inquiry reveal her whereabouts. He smiled sadly, as he thought of her out on the shales, her customary refuge when storms broke. He started in search of her; but as he passed through the plaza MaÑuela Cortez met him. “Padre,” she exclaimed, “is the little Carmen to go to jail, too?”

JosÈ stopped short. “MaÑuela––why do you say that?” he asked hurriedly, his heart starting to beat like a trip-hammer.

“Because, Padre, I saw the constable, Fernando, take her into Don Mario’s house some time ago.”

JosÈ uttered an exclamation and started for the house of the Alcalde. Don Mario stood at the door, his huge bulk denying the priest admission.

“Don Mario!” panted JosÈ. “Carmen––you have her here?”

Fernando, who had been sitting just within the door, rose and came to his chief’s side. JosÈ felt his brain whirling. Fernando stepped outside and took his arm. The Alcalde’s unlovely face expanded in a sinister leer. “It is permissible to place even a priest in the stocks, if he becomes loco,” he said significantly.

JosÈ tightened his grip upon himself. Fernando spoke quickly:

“It was necessary to take the girl in custody, too, Padre. But do not worry; she is safe.”

“But––you have no right to take her––”

“There, SeÑor Padre, calm yourself. What right had you to separate her from her father?”

“Diego is not her father! He lies! And, Don Mario, you have no authority but his––”

“You mistake, SeÑor Padre,” calmly interrupted the Alcalde. “I have a much higher authority.”

JosÈ stared dully at him. “Whose, then?” he muttered, scarce hearing his own words.

“The Bishop’s, SeÑor Padre,” answered Don Mario, with a cruel grin.

“The Bishop! But––the old man––”

“Na, SeÑor Padre, but the Bishop is fairly young, you know. That is, the new one––”

“The new one!” cried the uncomprehending JosÈ.

“To be sure, SeÑor Padre, the new Bishop––formerly SeÑor Don Wenceslas Ortiz.”

JosÈ beat the air feebly as his hand sought his damp brow. His confused brain became suddenly stagnant.

“Bien, SeÑor Padre,” put in Fernando gently, pitying the priest’s agony. “You had not heard the news. Don Mario received letters to-day. The old Bishop of Cartagena died suddenly some days ago, and Don Wenceslas at once received the temporary appointment, until the vacancy can be permanently filled. There is talk of making Cartagena an archbishopric, and so a new bishop will not be appointed until that question is settled. Meanwhile, Don Wenceslas administers the affairs of the Church there.”

“And he––he––” stammered the stunned priest.

“To be sure, SeÑor Padre,” interrupted Don Mario, laughing aloud; “the good Don Wenceslas no doubt has learned of the beautiful Carmen, and he cannot permit her to waste her loveliness in so dreary a place as SimitÍ. And so he summons her to Cartagena, in care of his agent, Padre Diego, who awaits the girl now in Banco to conduct her safely down the river. At least, this is what Padre Diego writes me. Bien, it is the making of the girl, to be so favored by His Grace!”

JosÈ staggered and would have fallen, had not Fernando supported him. Don Mario turned into his house. But as he went he spitefully hurled back:

“Bien, SeÑor Padre, whom have you to blame but yourself? You keep a child from her suffering father––you give all your time to her, neglecting the other poor children of your parish––you send Rosendo into the mountains to search for La Libertad––you break your agreement with me, for you long ago said that we should work together––is it not so? You find gold in the mountains, but you do not tell me. Na, you work against me––you oppose my authority as Alcalde––Bien, you opposed even the authority of the good Bishop––may he rest with the Saints! You have not made a good priest for SimitÍ, SeÑor Padre––na, you have made a very bad 227 one! And now you wonder that the good Don Wenceslas takes the girl from you, to bring her up in the right way. Caramba! if it is not already too late to save her from your bad teachings!” His voice steadily rose while he talked, and ended in a shrill pipe.

JosÈ made as if to reach him; but Fernando held him back. The Alcalde got quickly within the house and secured the door. “Go now to your home, Padre,” urged Fernando; “else I shall call help and put you in the stocks, too!”

“But I will enter that house! I will take the child from him!” shouted JosÈ desperately, struggling to gain the Alcalde’s door.

“Listen to me, Padre!” cried Fernando, holding to the frenzied man. “The little Carmen––she is not in there!”

“Not––in––there! Then where is she, Fernando?––for God’s sake tell me!” appealed the stricken priest. Great beads of perspiration stood upon his face, and tears rolled down his drawn cheeks.

Fernando could not but pity him. “Bien, Padre,” he said gently; “come away. I give you my word that the girl is not in the house of the Alcalde. But I am not permitted to say where she is.”

“Then I will search every house in SimitÍ!” cried the priest wildly.

“Na, Padre, you would not find her. Come, I will go home with you.” He took JosÈ’s arm again and led him, blindly stumbling, to the parish house.

By this time the little town was agog with excitement. People ran from house to house, or gathered on the street corners, discussing the event.

“Caramba!” shrilled one wrinkled beldame, “but SimitÍ was very quiet until the Cura came!”

“Na, seÑora,” cried another, “say, rather, until that wicked little hada was brought here by Rosendo!”

“Cierto, she is an hada!” put in a third; “she cured Juanita of goitre by her charms! I saw it!”

“Caramba! she works with the evil one. I myself saw her come from the old church on the hill one day! Bien, what was she doing? I say, she was talking with the bad angel which the blessed Virgin has locked in there!”

“Yes, and I have seen her coming from the cemetery. She talks with the buzzards that roost on the old wall, and they are full of evil spirits!”

“And she brought the plague two years ago––who knows?” piped another excitedly.

“Quien sabe? But it was not the real plague, anyway.”

“Bueno, and that proves that she caused it, no?”

“Cierto, seÑora, she cast a spell on the town!”

JosÈ sat in his little house like one in a dream. Fernando remained with him. DoÑa Maria had gone to the jail to see Rosendo. Juan had returned that morning to Bodega Central, and LÁzaro was at work on the plantation across the lake. JosÈ thought bitterly that the time had been singularly well chosen for the coup. Don Mario’s last words burned through his tired brain like live coals. In a sense the Alcalde was right. He had been selfishly absorbed in the girl. But he alone, excepting Rosendo, had any adequate appreciation of the girl’s real nature. To the stagnant wits of SimitÍ she was one of them, but with singular characteristics which caused the more superstitious and less intelligent to look upon her as an uncanny creature, possessed of occult powers.

Moreover, JosÈ had duped Don Mario with assurances of coÖperation. He had allowed him to believe that Rosendo was searching for La Libertad, and that he should participate in the discovery, if made. Had his course been wholly wise, after all? He could not say that it had.

But––God above! it was all to save an innocent child from the blackest of fates! If he had been stronger himself, this never could have happened. Or, perhaps, if he had not allowed himself to be lulled to sleep by a fancied security bred of those long months of quiet, he might have been awake and alert to meet the enemy when he returned to the attack. Alas! the devil had left him for a season, and JosÈ had laid down “the shield of faith,” while he lost himself in the intellectual content which the study of the new books purchased with his ancestral gold had afforded. But evil sleeps not; and with a persistency that were admirable in a better cause, it returned with unbated vigor at the moment the priest was off his guard.

Dawn broke upon a sleepless night for JosÈ. The Alcalde had sent word that Fernando must remain with the priest, and that no visits would be permitted to Rosendo in the jail. JosÈ had heard nothing from Carmen, and, though often during the long night he sought to know, as she would, that God’s protection rested upon her; and though he sought feebly to prove the immanence of good by knowing no evil, the morning found him drawn and haggard, with corroding fear gnawing his desolate heart. Fernando remained mute; and DoÑa Maria could only learn that the constable had been seen leading the girl into Don Mario’s house shortly after Rosendo’s arrest.

At an early hour the people, buzzing with excitement, assembled for the trial, which was held in the town hall, a long, empty adobe house of but a single room, with dirt floor, and a few rough benches. The Alcalde occupied a broken chair at one end of the room. The trial itself was of the simplest order: any person might voice his opinion; and the final verdict was left to the people.

In a shaking voice, his frame tremulous with nervous agitation, Rosendo recounted the birth of the child at Badillo, and the manner of her coming into his family. He told of Diego’s appointment to SimitÍ, and of the loss of his own daughter. Waxing more and more energetic as his recital drew out, he denounced Diego as the prince of liars, and as worthy of the violent end which he was certain to meet if ever that renegade priest should venture near enough for him to lay his hands upon him. The little locket was produced, and all present commented on the probable identity of the girl’s parents. Many affected to detect a resemblance to Diego in the blurred photograph of the man. Others scouted the idea. Don Mario swore loudly that it could be no other. Diego had often talked to him, sorrowfully, and in terms of deepest affection, about the beautiful woman whose love he had won, but whom his vows of celibacy prevented from making his lawful wife. The Alcalde’s recital was dramatic to a degree, and at its close several excitedly attempted to address the multitude at the same time.

Oratory flowed on an ever rising tide, accompanied by much violent gesticulation and expectoration by way of emphasis. At length it was agreed that Diego had been, in times past, a bad man, but that the verbal proofs which he had given the Alcalde were undoubtedly valid, inasmuch as the Bishop stood behind them––and Don Mario assured the people that they were most certainly vouched for by His Grace. The day was almost carried when the eloquent Alcalde, in glowing rhetoric, painted the splendid future awaiting the girl, under the patronage of the Bishop. How cruel to retain her in dreary little SimitÍ, even though Diego’s claim still remained somewhat obscure, when His Grace, learning of her talents, had summoned her to Cartagena to be educated in the convent for a glorious future of service to God! Ah, that a like beautiful career awaited all the children of SimitÍ!

JosÈ at length forced himself before the people and begged them to listen to him. But, when he opened his mouth, the words stumbled and halted. For what had he to say? To tell these people that he was striving to educate the girl away from them was impossible. To say that he was trying to save 230 her from the Church would be fatal. And to reiterate that Diego’s claim was a fabrication, added nothing of value to the evidence, for what did he know of the child’s parentage? He feebly begged them to wait until Diego’s claim had been either corroborated or annulled. But no; they had the Bishop’s corroboration, and that sufficed. “And, Caramba!” cried Don Mario, interrupting the priest in a loud voice, “if we oppose the Bishop, then will he send the government soldiers to us––and you know what––”

“Cielo, yes!” came from the multitude in one voice.

JosÈ sank down thoroughly beaten. His hands were tied. The case now rested with her God.

The people drew apart in little groups to discuss the matter. Don Mario’s beady eyes searched them, until he was certain of the way the tide was flowing. Then he rose and called for order.

“Bueno, amigos y amigas,” he began with immense dignity; “what say you if we sum up the case as follows: The proofs have the support of the Bishop, and show that the girl is the daughter of Padre Diego. Rosendo is guilty of having kept her from her own father, and for that he should be severely punished. Let him be confined in the jail for six months, and be forced to pay to us a fine of one thousand pesos oro––”

“Caramba! but he has no such sum,” cried the people with mouths agape.

“Bien, I say he can get it!” retorted the Alcalde, looking meaningly at JosÈ. “And he should pay it for depriving the child of a father’s love and the religious instruction which he would have given her!”

JosÈ jumped to his feet. “Friends!” he cried, playing his last card. “Will you not remember that more than that amount is due Rosendo for the care of the child? Who will repay him?”

The whimsical, fickle people broke into excited exclamations.

“Cierto!”

“The Cura is right!”

“Let Rosendo pay no fine––he has no gold, anyway!”

“Cut down the sentence, Don Mario. We do not like this!”

The Alcalde saw that he had gone a bit too far. “Bueno, then,” he amended. “We will cancel both the fine and Padre Diego’s debt to Rosendo, and the sentence shall be reduced to––what say you all?”

“A month in the jail, Don Mario, no more,” suggested one.

An exclamation of approval from the crowd drowned the protest which JosÈ sought vainly to voice. Rosendo rose quickly; but Fernando and others seized him.

“Bien, it is approved,” bawled the Alcalde, waving his thick arms. “Take the prisoner to the cÁrcel, SeÑor PolicÍa,” turning to the constable.

“And the girl, SeÑor the Alcalde––when will you send her to her father?” called some one.

“Yes, Don Mario, she must be taken to Padre Diego at once,” piped a woman’s shrill voice.

“Bien,” shouted the Alcalde, following his words with a long, coarse laugh, “I was wise enough to know what you would decide, and sent the girl down the river last night!”