The candles and smoky oil lamps of Banco threw a fitful shimmer out upon the great river, casting huge, spectral shadows across its muddy, swirling waters, and seeming rather to intensify the blackness that lay thick and menacing upon its restless bosom. Rivermen who follow their hazardous calling along the Magdalena do not lightly risk the dangers of travel by night in their native canoes, when at any moment a false stroke, a sudden crash against a tossing forest tree, and a cry through the inky blackness, might sound to the straining ears of hushed listeners on the distant banks the elements of another of the mighty river’s grim nocturnal tragedies.

But on the night following the trial of Rosendo in distant SimitÍ a canoe stole like a thing ashamed through the heavy shadows along the river’s margin, and poked its blunt nose into the ooze at the upper edge of the town. Its two scantily clad bogas, steaming with perspiration and flecked with mud from the charged waters, sprang lightly from the frail craft and quickly made it fast to one of the long stilts upon which a ramshackle frame house rested. Then they assisted the third occupant of the canoe, a girl, to alight; and together they wended their way up the slippery bank and toward the town above.

“Caramba, compadre!” ejaculated one of the men, stumbling into a deep rut, “it is well you know where we go. Hombre! but I travel no more on the river by night. And, compadre, we had best ask Padre Diego to offer a candle to the Virgin for our safe arrival, no?”

The other man chuckled. “To be sure, friend Julio. Don Diego has much influence with virgins.”

“Hombre! I like not his dirty work.”

“Bien, amigo, what would you? You are well paid; and besides, you score against that baby-faced priest, JosÈ, who drove you out of SimitÍ because you were not married to your woman. You cannot complain, compadre.”

“Caramba! I have yet to see the color of the pesos. I do not much trust your Padre Diego.”

“Na, amigo, a bit of rum will put new life into your soaked gizzard. Cierto, this trip down the river was a taste of purgatory; but you know we may as well get used to it here, for when we pobres are dead who will buy Masses to get us out?”

“Caramba!” muttered the other sullenly, as he stumbled on through the darkness, “but if we have no money the priests will let us burn forever!”

The girl went along with the men silently and without complaint, even when her bare feet slipped into the deep ruts in the trail, or were painfully bruised and cut by the sharp stones and bits of wood that lay in the narrow path. Once she fell. The man addressed as Julio assisted her to her feet. The other broke into a torrent of profane abuse.

“Na, Ricardo,” interrupted Julio, “hold your foolish tongue and let the girl alone! You and I have cursed all the way from SimitÍ, but she has made no complaint. She shames me. Caramba, I wish I were well out of this business!”

A few minutes later they struck one of the main thoroughfares. Then the men stopped to draw on their cotton shirts and trousers before entering the town. The road was better here, and they made rapid progress. The night was far spent, and the streets were deserted. In the main portion of the town ancient Spanish lamps, hanging uncertainly in their sconces against old colonial houses, threw a feeble light into the darkness. Before one of the better of these houses Julio and the girl were halted by their companion.

“Bien,” he said, “it is here that the holy servant of God lives. Caramba, but may his garrafÓn be full!”

They entered the open door and mounted the stone steps. On the floor above they paused in the rotunda, and Ricardo called loudly. A side door opened and a young woman appeared, holding a lighted candle aloft. Ricardo greeted her courteously. “El SeÑor Padre, seÑorita Ana?” he said, bowing low. “You will do us the favor to announce our arrival, no?”

The woman stared uncomprehendingly at the odd trio. “The Padre is not here,” she finally said.

“Dios y diablo!” cried Ricardo, forgetting his courtesy. “But we have risked our skins to bring him the brat, and he not here to receive and reward us! Caramba!”

“But––Ricardo, he is out with friends to-night––he may return at any moment. Who is the girl? And why do you bring her here?” She stepped forward, holding the candle so that its light fell full upon her face. As she did this the girl darted toward her and threw herself into the woman’s arms.

“Anita!” she cried, her voice breaking with emotion, “Anita––I am Carmen! Do you not know me?”

The woman fell back in astonishment. “Carmen! What! The little Carmen, my father’s––”

“Yes, Anita, I am padre Rosendo’s Carmen––and yours!”

Ana clasped the girl in her arms. “Santa Maria, child! What brings you here, of all places?”

Ricardo stepped forward to explain. “As you may see, seÑorita, it is we who have brought her here, at the command of her father, Padre Diego.”

“Her father!”

“Yes, seÑorita. And, since you say he is not in, we must wait until he returns.”

The woman stood speechless with amazement. Carmen clung to her, while Ricardo stood looking at them, with a foolish leer on his face. Julio drew back into the shadow of the wall.

“Bien, seÑorita,” said Ricardo, stepping up to the child and attempting to take her arm, “we will be held to account for the girl, and we must not lose her. Caramba! For then would the good Padre damn us forever!”

Carmen shrank away from him. Julio emerged swiftly from the shadow and laid a restraining hand on Ricardo. The woman tore Carmen from his grasp and thrust the girl behind herself. “Cierto, friend Ricardo, we are all responsible for her,” she said quickly. “But you are tired and hungry––is it not so? Let me take you to the cocina, where you will find roast pig and a bit of red rum.”

“Rum!” The man’s eyes dilated. “Caramba! my throat is like the ashes of purgatory!”

“Come, then,” said the woman, holding Carmen tightly by the hand and leading the way down the steps to the kitchen below. Arriving there, she lighted an oil lamp and hurriedly set out food and a large garrafÓn of Jamaica rum.

“There, compadre, is a part of your reward. And we will now wait until Padre Diego arrives, is it not so?”

While the men ate and drank voraciously, interpolating their actions at frequent intervals with bits of vivid comment on their river trip, the woman cast many anxious glances toward the steps leading to the floor above. From time to 234 time she replenished Ricardo’s glass, and urged him to drink. The man needed no invitation. Physical exhaustion and short rations while on the river had prepared him for just what the woman most desired to accomplish, and as glass after glass of the fiery liquor burned its way down his throat, she saw his scant wit fading, until at last it deserted him completely, and he sank into a drunken torpor. Then, motioning to Julio, who had consumed less of the rum, she seized the senseless Ricardo by the feet, and together they dragged him out into the patio and threw him under a platano tree.

“But, seÑorita––” began Julio in remonstrance, as thoughts of Diego’s wrath filtered through his befuddled brain.

“Not a word, hombre!” she commanded, turning upon him. “If you lay a hand upon this child my knife shall find your heart!”

“But––my pay?”

“How much did Padre Diego say he would give you?” she demanded.

“Three pesos oro––and rations,” replied the man thickly.

“Wait here, then, and I will bring you the money.”

Still retaining Carmen’s hand, she mounted the steps, listening cautiously for the tread of her master. Reaching the rotunda above, she drew Carmen into the room from which she had emerged before, and, bidding her conceal herself if Diego should arrive, took her wallet and hastily descended to where the weaving Julio waited.

“There, amigo,” she said hurriedly, handing him the money. “Now do you go––at once! And do not remain in Banco, or Padre Diego will surely make you trouble. Your life is not safe here now. Go!” She pointed to the door; and Julio, impressed with a sense of his danger, lost no time in making his exit.

Returning to Carmen, the woman seated herself and drew the girl to her. “Carmen, child!” she cried, trembling, as her eyes searched the girl. “Tell me why you are here!”

“I do not know, Anita dear,” murmured the girl, nestling close to the woman and twining an arm about her neck; “except that day before yesterday the Alcalde put padre Rosendo into the jail––”

“Into the jail!”

“Yes, Anita dear. And then, when I was going to see him, Fernando ran out of Don Mario’s house and told me I must go in and see the Alcalde. Julio Gomez and this man Ricardo were there talking with Don Mario in the patio. Then they threw a ruana over me and carried me out through the patio and around by the old church to the Boque trail. When we 235 got to the trail they made me walk with them to the Inanea river, where they put me into a canoe. They paddled fast, down to the Boque river; then to the Magdalena; and down here to Banco. They did not stop at all, except when steamboats went by––oh, Anita, I never saw a steamboat before! What big, noisy things they are! But Padre JosÈ had often told me about them. And when the big boats passed us they made me lie down in the canoe, and they put the ruana over me and told me if I made any noise they would throw me into the river. But I knew if I just kept still and knew––really knew––that God would take care of me, why, He would. And, you see, He did, for He brought me to you.” A tired sigh escaped her lips as she laid her head on the woman’s shoulder.

“But––oh, Santa Maria!” moaned the woman, “you are not safe here! What can I do?––what can I do?”

“Well, Anita dear, you can know that God is here, can’t you? I knew that all the way down the river. And, oh, I am so glad to see you! Why, just think, it is eight years since you used to play with me! And now we will go back to SimitÍ, will we not, Anita?”

“Pray to the Virgin to help us, child! You may have influence with her––I have none, for my soul is lost!”

“Why, Anita dear, that is not true! You and I are both God’s children, and He is right here with us. All we have to do is to know it––just really know it.”

“But, tell me, quick––Diego may be here any moment––why did he send Ricardo for you?”

The girl became very serious. “Anita dear, Padre Diego says I am his child.”

“What!”

“Yes––his daughter––that he is my father. But––is it really so, Anita?”

“Madre de Dios!” cried the woman. “What a beast!––what a beast! He saw you in SimitÍ when he was last there––and you are now a beautiful––No, child, you are not his daughter! The wretch lies––he is a sink of lies! He is rotten with sin! Oh, Dios!”

“Why, no, Anita dear, he is not a beast––we must love him, for he is God’s child, too,” said Carmen, patting the woman’s wet cheek with her soft hand.

“He!––God’s child!” She broke into a shrill of laughter. “Carita, he is Satan himself! You do not know him!”

“I don’t mean that what you think you see is God’s child, Anita dear; but that what you think you see stands for God’s child, and isn’t real. And if we know that, why, we will see the real child of God––the real man––and not what you call a beast.”

Ana apparently did not hear. Her thought was with the future. Carmen looked about the room. “Oh, Anita,” she exclaimed, “what a beautiful place, and what beautiful things you have!” She rubbed the tile floor with her bare foot. “Why, Anita dear, it is just like the palaces Padre JosÈ has told me about!” She walked around the room, touching the various toilet articles on the dresser, passing her hands carefully over the upholstered chairs, and uttering exclamations of wonder and delight. “Anita––Anita dear! Why, it is a palace! Oh! oh! oh!”

The woman looked up with a wan smile. “Chiquita, they are nothing. They are all cheap trinkets––nothing compared with what there is in the big world beyond us. You poor dear, you have lived all your life in miserable little SimitÍ, and you haven’t the slightest idea of what there is in the world!”

“But, Anita dear, SimitÍ is beautiful,” the girl protested.

“Beautiful!” The woman laughed aloud. “My dear, simple little girl! You have seen only this poor room, and you think it wonderful. I have been to Barranquilla and Cartagena with Padre Diego, and have seen houses a thousand times more beautiful than this. And yet, even those are nothing to what there is in the world outside.”

Carmen went to the bed and passed her hand over the white counterpane. “Anita––why, is this––is this your––”

“Yes, chiquita, it is my bed. You have never seen a real bed, poor little thing.”

“But––” the child’s eyes were wide with wonder––“it is so soft––you sink way into it––oh, so soft––like the heron’s feathers! I didn’t sleep at all in the canoe––and I am so tired.”

“You blessed lamb!” cried the woman, springing up and clasping the girl in her arms. “But––what can I do? When he returns, he may come right up here! Santa Maria, help me!––what shall I do?”

“Anita––let me sleep in your bed––it is so soft––but––” looking down dubiously at her muddy feet.

“Never mind them, child.” The woman’s face had set in grim determination. She went to the dresser and took out a small stiletto, which she quickly concealed in the bosom of her dress. “Get right in, just as you are! I will take care of Diego, if he comes! Santa Maria, I will––”

“Anita dear,” murmured the girl, sinking down between the white sheets, “you and I will just know that God is everywhere, and that He will take care of us, and of Padre Diego too.” With a sigh of contentment the child closed her eyes. “Anita dear,” she whispered softly, “wasn’t He good to bring me right to you? And to-morrow we will go back to SimitÍ––and 237 to padre Rosendo––and Padre JosÈ––and––and Cantar-las-horas––you haven’t seen him for such a long time––such a long––long––Anita dear, I––love––you––”

The child dropped asleep, just as a heavy step fell outside the door. Ana sprang up and extinguished the lamp, then went quickly out into the rotunda. Padre Diego was standing on the top step, puffing and weaving unsteadily. The woman hurried to him and passed an arm about his waist.

“Oh!” she exclaimed in a tone of feigned solicitation. “I feared you had met with an accident! My heart beats like the patter of rain! Why do you stay out so late and cause me worry?”

The bloated face of the man leered like a Jack-o’-lantern. “Spiritual retreat, my love––spiritual retreat,” he muttered thickly. “Imbibing the spirits, you know.” He laughed heavily at his coarse joke.

The woman gave him a look of inexpressible disgust. “But you are home safe, at any rate,” she said in a fawning voice; “and my fear is quieted. Come now, and I will help you into bed. Not in there!” she cried, as he lurched toward the door of the room where Carmen lay; “in your own room to-night!”

He swayed to and fro before her, as she stood with her back against the door.

“Nombre de Dios!” he muttered, “but you grow daily more unkind to your good Padre! Bien, it is well that I have a fresh little housekeeper coming!” He made again as if to enter the room. The woman threw her arms about his neck.

“Padre dear,” she appealed, “have you ceased to love your Anita? She would spend this night alone; and can you not favor her this once?”

“Caramba!” he croaked in peevish suspicion, “but I think you have a paramour in there. Bien, I will go in and shrive his wicked soul!”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you!” cried the desperate woman, her hand stealing to the weapon concealed in her dress. “Pepito came this evening with the case of Oporto which you ordered long ago from Spain. I put it in your study, for I knew you would want to sample it the moment you returned.”

“Caramba!” he cried, turning upon her, “why do you not tell me important things as soon as I arrive? I marvel that you did not wait until morning to break this piece of heavenly news! Bien, come to the study, and you shall open a bottle for me. Dios! but my throat is seared with Don Antonio’s vile rum! My parched soul panteth for the wine of the gods that flows from sunny Spain! Caramba, woman, give yourself haste!”

Suffering himself to be led by her, he staggered across the rotunda and into the room where long before he had entertained for a brief hour Don Jorge and the priest JosÈ. Ana quickly broke the neck of a bottle of the newly arrived wine and gave him a generous measure.

“Ah, God in heaven!” murmured the besotted priest, sinking into a chair and sipping the beverage; “it is the nectar of Olympus––triple distilled through tubes of sunlight and perfumed with sweet airs and the smiles of voluptuous houris! Ah, Lord above, you are good to your little Diego! Another sip, my lovely Ana––and bring me the cigarettes. And come, fat lass, do you sit beside me and twine your graceful arms about my neck, while your soft breath kisses my old cheek! Ah, Dios, who would not be human! Caramba! the good God may keep His heaven, if He will but give me the earth!”

Ana drew his head against her bosom and murmured hypocritical words of endearment in his ear, while she kept his glass full. Diego babbled like a child. He nodded; struggled to keep awake; and at length fell asleep with his head on her shoulder. Then she arose, and, assured that he would be long in his stupor, extinguished the light and hurried to her own room.

Carmen was sleeping peacefully. The woman bent over her with the lighted candle and looked long and wistfully. “Ah, Santa Maria!” she prayed, “if you will but save her, you may do what you will with me!”

Tears flowed freely down her cheeks as she turned to the door and threw the bolt. Coming back to the bed, she again bent over the sleeping girl. “Santa Virgen!” she murmured, “how beautiful! Like an angel! Dios mÍo––and that beast, he has seen her, and he would––ah, Dios!”

Going again to the dresser, she took from a drawer a sandalwood rosary. Then she returned to the bed and knelt beside the child. “Blessed Virgin,” she prayed, while her hot tears fell upon the beads, “I am lost––lost! Ah, I have not told my beads for many years––I cannot say them now! Santa Virgen, pray for me––pray for me––and if I kill him to-morrow, tell the blessed Saviour that I did it for the child! Ah, Santa Virgen, how beautiful she is––how pure––what hair––she is from heaven––Santa Virgen, you will protect her?” She kissed the cross repeatedly. “Madre de Dios––she is so beautiful, so pure––”

Carmen moved slightly, and the woman rose hastily from her knees. “Anita dear,” murmured the child, “Jesus waked Lazarus––out of his––sleep. Anita, why do you not come? I am waiting for you.”

“Yes, child, yes! But––Dios mÍo!” she murmured when Carmen again slept, “I am too wicked to sleep with so pure an angel!––no, I can not! I must not!”

She spread a light shawl upon the tile floor near the window and lay down upon it, drawing a lace mantilla over her face to protect it from the mosquitoes. “Santa Virgen”, she murmured repeatedly, “pray the blessed Saviour to protect her to-morrow––pray for her, Madre de Dios––pray for her!”

---

The piercing shriek of a steamboat whistle roused the woman just as the first harbingers of dawn spread over the river a crimson flush that turned it into a stream of blood. The child was asleep. Ana bent over her and left a kiss on her forehead. Then she stole out of the room and into the study. Padre Diego lay sunk in his chair like a monster toad. The woman threw him a look of utter loathing, and then hastily descended into the patio. Ricardo lay under the platano tree, sleeping heavily. She roused him with a kick.

“Up, man!” she cried, shaking him by the shoulder. “Padre Diego sends you this money, and bids you go. He is well satisfied with your work.” She held out a roll of pesos.

The man, after much vigorous persuasion, got heavily to his feet. “Caramba, seÑorita!” he muttered in a dazed voice. “That last tragito––it was a bit too much, no? But––Bien, I would see the good Padre. Caramba, my poor head! What rum! But, seÑorita, do me the great favor to ask the good Padre to see me one little moment. I must deliver this letter to him.” He fumbled in his wallet and drew out an envelope.

“He will not see you, Ricardo. He––”

“Caramba!” ejaculated the man loudly, as his senses returned. “But I believe there is something wrong here! Bien, now I shall see the Padre! I am responsible to him!” He pushed the woman aside and entered the house.

Ana started after him, and seized his arm. A scuffle ensued, and Ricardo’s voice was loud and shrill as they reached the stairs. The woman clung to him desperately. “Ricardo––anything you ask––double the amount, if you will go! Leave the house––I will tell the Padre––I will give him the letter––”

“Caramba, but I will see him myself!” shouted the lightheaded Ricardo.

“Dios y diablo!” A heavy voice rolled down from above. “Bien, enamorada, is this the paramour whom you hid in your room last night? Caramba, you might have chosen a handsomer one!”

Ana sank down with a moan and buried her face in her hands. Diego heavily descended the stairs. “Ha, Ricardo!” 240 he exclaimed, recognizing the man. “Bien, so it is you! And the girl?”

“I do not know, Padre,” cried the man excitedly. “SeÑorita Ana, she made me drunk last night. I brought the girl––I waited for you, but the seÑorita––”

“Caramba, I understand!” replied Diego, turning to the woman.

Ana had risen and was making for the stairs. Diego sprang to her and seized her by the wrist. With her free hand she drew the stiletto from her bosom and raised it to strike. Ricardo saw the movement, and threw himself upon her.

“Dios!” cried Diego, as Ricardo felled the woman and wrenched the weapon from her grasp. “My pretty angel, you have the venom of a serpent! Sly wench! did you think to deceive your doting Padre? But––Dios nos guarde!”

Carmen, awakened by the noise, had left her bed, and now stood at the head of the stairs, looking with dilated eyes at the strange scene being enacted below.

Silence fell upon the group. Ana lay on the ground, her eyes strained toward the girl. Ricardo bent over her, awaiting his master’s command. He knew now that she had forever lost her power over the priest. Diego stood like a statue, his eyes riveted upon Carmen. The girl looked down upon them from the floor above with an expression of wonder, yet without fear.

Diego was the first to find his voice. “Ah, my pretty one!” he wheedled. “My lovely daughter! At last you come to your lonely padre! Wait for me, hermosissima!” He puffed painfully up the steps.

“Carmen!––run!––run! Don’t let him come near you––!” screamed Ana in a voice of horror. Ricardo clapped his hand heavily over her mouth.

But the child did not move. Diego reached her and seized her hand.

“Carissima!” he panted, feasting his eyes upon her, while a thrill passed through his coarse frame. “Madre de Dios, but you have grown beautiful! Don Mario was right––you are surely the most voluptuous object in human form that has ever crossed my path. Bien, the blessed God is still good to his little Diego!”

He started away with her, but was detained by the loud voice of Ricardo.

“Bien, Padre, my pay!”

“Cierto, hombre!” exclaimed Diego. “I was about to forget. But––a father’s joy––ah! Bien, come to me to-morrow––”

“Na, SeÑor Padre, but to-day––now! I have risked my life––and I have a wife and babes! You will pay me this minute!”

“Caramba, ugly beast, but I will consign you to hell! Maldito! get you gone! There are more convenient seasons than this for your business!” And, still holding tightly to the girl’s hand, he led her into the study.

The woman turned upon Ricardo with the fury of a tiger. “See now what you have done!” she screamed. “This will cost your life, for you have put into his dirty hands the soul of an angel, and he will damn it! Santa Virgen! If you had only taken the money I brought you––”

“Demon-tongue, I will take it now!” He snatched the roll of bills from her hand and bolted through the door. With a low moan the woman sank to the ground, while oblivion drew its sable veil across her mind.

Reaching the study, Diego pushed Carmen into the room and then followed, closing the door after him and throwing the iron bolt. Turning about, he stood with arms akimbo upon his bulging hips and gazed long and admiringly at the girl as she waited in expectant wonder before him. A smile of satisfaction and triumph slowly spread over his coarse features. Then it faded, and his heavy jowls and deep furrows formed into an expression, sinister and ominous, through which lewdness, debauchery, and utter corruption looked out brazenly, defiantly, into the fair, open countenance of the young girl before him. A sense of weariness and dull pain then seemed to follow. He shook his heavy head and passed a hand across his brow, as if to brush aside the confusion left by the previous night’s potations.

“Madre de Dios!” he muttered, falling heavily into a chair, “but had I known you were here, little rosebud, I should have tried to keep sober.” He reached out to grasp her; but she eluded him and went quickly to the open window, where she stood looking down into the street below. The morning sunlight, streaming into the room, engulfed her in its golden flood and transmuted the child of earth into a creature divinely radiant, despite the torn gown and stains of river travel.

“Bien, carÍsÍma,” the man wheedled in a small, caressing voice, “where is your greeting to your glad padre? Dios mÍo!” he muttered, his eyes roving over her full figure, “but the Virgin herself was never more lovely! Come, daughter,” he purred, extending his arms; “come to a father’s heart that now, praise the Saints! shall ache no more for its lost darling.”

The girl faced about and looked at him for a few moments. What her glance conveyed, the man was utterly incapable of understanding. Then she drew up a chair that stood near the window, and sinking into it, buried her face in her hands.

“Caramba, my smile of heaven! but why weep?” chirped 242 Diego, affecting surprise. “Is it thus you celebrate your homecoming? Or are these, perchance, fitting tears of joy? Bien, your padre’s doting heart itself weeps that its years of loneliness are at last ended.” He held the sleeve of his gown to his eyes and sniffed affectedly.

The girl looked up quickly. “I am not weeping,” she said.

“Bien, and what then?” he pursued.

“I was just knowing,” she answered slowly, “that I was not afraid––that God was everywhere, even right here––and that He would not let any harm come to me.”

Diego’s eyes widened. Then he burst into a coarse laugh. “Hombre! and you ask Him to protect you from your adoring father! Come here, little wench. You are in your own home. Why be afraid?” He again held out his arms to her.

“I am not afraid––now,” she answered softly. “But––I do not think God will let me come to you. If you were really my father, He would.”

The man’s mouth gaped in astonishment. A fleeting sense of shame swept through his festering mind. Then the lustful meanness of his corrupted soul welled up anew, and he laughed brutally. The idea was delightfully novel; the girl beautifully audacious; the situation piquantly amusing. He would draw her out to his further enjoyment. “So,” he observed parenthetically, “I judge you are on quite familiar terms with God, eh?”

“Very,” she replied, profoundly serious.

The joke was excellent, and he roared with mirth. “Bueno, pues!” he commented, reaching over and uncorking with shaking hand the bottle that stood on the table. Then, filling a glass, “Suppose you thank Him for sending his little Diego this estimable wine and your own charming self, eh? Then tell me what He says.” Whereat he guffawed loudly and slapped his bulging sides.

The girl had already bowed her head again in her hands. A long pause ensued. Diego’s beady eyes devoured the beautiful creature before him. Then he waxed impatient. “Bien, little Passion flower,” he interrupted, “if you have conveyed to Him my infinite gratitude, perhaps He will now let you come to me, eh?”

Carmen looked up. A faint smile hovered upon her lips. “I have thanked Him, Padre––for you and for me,” she said; “for you, that you really are His child, even if you don’t know it; and for me that I know He always hears me. That was what the good man Jesus said, you know, when he waked Lazarus out of the death-sleep. Don’t you remember? And so I kept thanking Him all the way down the river.”

Diego’s eyes bulged as if they would pop from his head, and his mouth fell open wide, but no sound issued therefrom. The girl went on quietly:

“I was not afraid on the river, Padre. And I was not afraid to come in here with you. I knew, just as the good man Jesus did at the tomb of Lazarus, that God had heard me––He just couldn’t be God if He hadn’t, you know. And then I remembered what the good man said about not resisting evil; for, you know, if we resist evil we make it real––and we never, never can overcome anything real, can we? So I resisted evil with good, just as Jesus told us to do. I just knew that God was everywhere, and that evil was unreal, and had no power at all. And so the bogas didn’t hurt me coming down the river. And you––you will not either, Padre.”

She stopped and smiled sweetly at him. Then, very seriously:

“Padre, one reason why I was not afraid to come in here with you was that I thought God might want to talk to you through me, and I could help you. You need help, you know.”

The man settled back in his chair and stared stupidly at her. His face expressed utter consternation, confusion, and total lack of comprehension. Once he muttered under his breath, “Caramba! she is surely an hada!” But Carmen did not hear him. Absorbed in her mission, she went on earnestly:

“You know, Padre, we are all channels through which God talks to people––just like the asequia out there in the street through which the water flows. We are all channels for divine love––so Padre JosÈ says.”

The priest sat before her like a huge pig, his little eyes blinking dully, and his great mouth still agape.

“We are never afraid of real things, Padre, you know; and so I couldn’t be afraid of the real ‘you,’ for that is a child of God. And the other ‘you’ isn’t real. We are only afraid of our wrong thoughts. But such thoughts are not really ours, you know, for they don’t come from God. But,” she laughed softly, “when I saw you coming up the steps after me this morning––well, lots of fear-thoughts came to me––why, they just seemed to come pelting down on me like the rain. But I wouldn’t listen to them. I turned right on them, just as I’ve seen Cucumbra turn on a puppy that was nagging him, and I said, ‘Here, now, I know what you are; I know you don’t come from God; and anything that doesn’t come from God isn’t really anything at all!’ And so they stopped pelting me. The good man Jesus knew, didn’t he? That’s why he said so often, ‘Be not afraid.’”

She paused again and beamed at him. Her big eyes sparkled, and her face glowed with celestial light. Diego raised a heavy 244 arm and, groping for the bottle, eagerly drained another glass of wine.

“You think that wine makes you happy, don’t you, Padre?” she observed, watching him gulp down the heavy liquor. “But it doesn’t. It just gives you what Padre JosÈ calls a false sense of happiness. And when that false sense passes away––for everything unreal has just got to pass away––why, then you are more unhappy than you were before. Isn’t it so?”

The astonished Diego now regained his voice. “Caramba, girl!” he ejaculated, “will you rein that runaway tongue!”

“No, Padre,” she replied evenly, “for it is God who is talking to you. Don’t you hear Him? You ought to, for you are a priest. You ought to know Him as well as the good man Jesus did. Padre, can you lay your hands on the sick babies and cure them?”

The man squirmed uncomfortably for a moment, and then broke into another brutal laugh. “Sick babies! Caramba! but we find it easier to raise new babies than to cure sick ones! But––little hada! Hombre! do hadas have such voluptuous bodies, such plump legs! Madre de Dios, girl, enough of your preaching! Come to me quick! I hunger for you! Come!”

“No, Padre,” she answered quietly, “I do not want to come to you. But I want to talk to you––”

“Dios y diablo! enough of your gab! Caramba! with a Venus before me do you think I yearn for a sermon? Hombre! delay it, delay it––”

“Padre,” she interrupted, “you do not see me. You are looking only at your bad thoughts of me.”

“Ha! my thoughts, eh?” His laugh resembled the snort of an animal.

“Yes, Padre––and they are very bad thoughts, too––they don’t come from God, and you are so foolish to let them use you the way you do. Why do you, Padre? for you don’t have to. And you know you see around you only the thoughts that you have been thinking. Why don’t you think good thoughts, and so see only good things?”

“Now Mary bless my soul!” he exclaimed in mock surprise. “Can it be that I don’t see a plump little witch before me, but only my bad thoughts, eh? Ha! ha! Caramba! that is good! Bien, then,” he coaxed, “come to your poor, deluded padre and let him learn that you are only a thing of thought, and not the most enchanting little piece of flesh that ever caused a Saint to fall!”

The girl sat silent before him. Her smile had fled, and in its place sadness and pity were written large upon her wistful face.

“Come, my little bundle of thought,” he coaxed, holding out his fat, hairy arms.

“No, Padre,” the girl answered firmly.

“Na, then, still afraid, eh?” he taunted, with rising anger.

“No, Padre; to be afraid would mean that I didn’t understand God.”

“Ha! Then come to me and prove that you do understand Him, eh?” he suggested eagerly. “Caramba! why do you sit there like a mummy? Are you invoking curses on the bald pate of your desolate father?”

“No, Padre; I am thanking God all the time that He is here, and that He will not let you hurt me.”

The man’s lust-inflamed eyes narrowed and the expression on his evil face became more sinister. “Maldita!” he growled, “will you come hither, or must I––”

“No.” She shook her head slowly, and her heavy curls glistened in the sunlight. “No, Padre, God will not let me come to you.”

Panting and cursing softly, the man got slowly to his feet. “Madre de Dios!” he muttered; “then we will see if your God will let me come to you!”

Carmen rose and stood hesitant. Her lips moved rapidly, though no sound came from them. They were forming the words of the psalmist, “In God have I put my trust: I will not be afraid what man can do unto me.” It was a verse JosÈ had taught her long since, when his own heart was bursting with apprehension.

Diego stumbled heavily toward the child. She turned quickly as if to flee. He thrust out his hand and clutched her dress. The flimsy calico, frayed and worn, tore its full length, and the gown fell to the floor. She stopped and turned to face the man. Her white body glistened in the clear sunlight like a marble statue.

“Por el amor de Dios!” ejaculated the priest, straightening up and regarding her with dull, blinking eyes. Then, like a tiger pouncing upon a fawn, he seized the unresisting girl in his arms and staggered back to his chair.

“Caramba! Caramba!” he exclaimed, holding her with one arm about her waist, and with his free hand clumsily pouring another glass of wine. “Only a thing of thought, eh? Madre de Dios! Bien, pretty thought, drink with me this thought of wine!” He laughed boisterously at his crude wit, and forced the glass between her lips.

“I––am not afraid––I am not afraid,” she whispered, drinking. “It cannot hurt me––nor can you. God is here!”

“Hurt you!” he panted, setting down the glass and mopping 246 his hot brow, as he settled back into the chair again. “Caramba! who hurts when he loves?”

“You––do––not––love––me, Padre!” she gasped under his tight clutch. “You have––only a wrong thought––of me––of love––of everything!”

“Bien––but you love me, pretty creature, is it not so?” he mocked, holding up her head and kissing her full on the mouth.

“I––I love the real ‘you’––for that is God’s image,” she murmured, struggling to hold her face away from his fetid breath. “But––I do not––love the way that image is––is translated––in your human mind!”

“Caramba!” he threw himself back and gave noisy vent to his risibility. “Chiquita mÍa! What grand language! Where did you learn it?”

For the moment the girl seemed to forget that she was in the fell clutches of a demon incarnate. Her thought strayed back to little SimitÍ, to Cucumbra, to Cantar-las-horas, to––ah, was he searching for her now? And would he come?––

“It was Padre JosÈ; he taught me,” she whispered sadly.

“Padre JosÈ! Maldito! The curse of God blast him, the monkey-faced mozo! Caramba! but he will teach you no more! You have a new master now to give you a few needed lessons, seÑorita mÍa, and––”

“Padre Diego!” her tense voice checked further expression of his low thought. “You have no power to curse anything! You have no power to harm me, or to teach me anything! God is here! He will protect me! He keeps all them that love Him!” She gasped again as his clutch tightened about her.

“Doubtless, my lily. Caramba! your skin is like the velvet!” He roughly drew the girl up on his knees. “To be sure He will protect you, my mariposa. And He is using me as the channel, you see––just as you said a few moments ago, eh?” His rude laugh again echoed through the room.

“He is not––using you––at all!” she panted. “Evil thoughts are––are using you. And all––they can do––is to kill themselves––and you!”

“Madre Maria! Is such a sad fate in store for me, my beautiful hada?” He chuckled and reached out again for the bottle. “Another little thought of wine, my love. It’s only a thought, you know. Ha! ha! I must remember to tell Don Antonio of this!––Maldita!”

His clumsy movement had upset the bottle. Struggling to save its contents, he relaxed his hold on Carmen. Like a flash she wormed her supple body out under his arm, slid to the floor, and gained the window.

“Dios y diablo! Maldita! Maldita!” shrilled Diego, aflame with wrath. “Cursed wench! when I lay these hands again on you––!”

Struggling to his feet, he made for the girl. But at the first step the light rug slid along the smooth tiles beneath his uncertain tread. He threw out an arm and sought to grasp the table. But as he did so, his foot turned under him. There was a sharp, snapping sound. With a groan the heavy man sank to the floor.

For a moment Carmen stood as if dazed. Diego lay very still. Then the girl picked up her torn dress and approached him carefully. “It was his bad thoughts,” she whispered; “he slipped on them; they threw him! I knew it––I just knew it!”

Passing to one side, she gained the door, threw back the bolt, and hurried out into the rotunda. Crouched on the floor, the stiletto clasped in her hand, sat Ana, her face drenched with tears, and her chest heaving. When she saw the girl she sprang to her feet.

“Carmen! Ah, Dios! your dress!––Madre Maria! I could not save you; I could not break through the heavy door; but I can punish him!” She burst into a flood of tears and started into the room.

“No, Anita!” cried the girl, throwing herself into the woman’s arms. “He is punished! He did not hurt me––God would not let him! Look! Anita, look!” pointing to the body on the floor.

The woman stopped abruptly. “Carmen!” she whispered in awed tones, “did God strike him dead?”

“I don’t know, Anita––but come! No!” clinging to the woman’s skirt; “Anita dear, do not go in there! Leave him! Come away with me!”

The woman’s eyes were wild, her hair loose and disheveled. “Caramba!” she cried, “but we will make sure that the beast is dead before we go! And if we leave this blade in his heart, it may be a warning to others of his kind!”

“No, Anita––no! God will not let you kill him! You must not! Your murder-thoughts will kill you if you do! Come! Listen––it is a steamboat whistle! Oh, Anita––if it is going up the river––we can take it––”

Ana hesitated. “But––leave him? He may––”

“Yes, Anita, yes; leave him with God!” pleaded the girl excitedly. “Come away, Anita––”

“But where, child?” asked the bewildered woman.

“To SimitÍ!”

“SimitÍ! Never! Why––why, my father would kill me!”

“No, Anita dear; he loves you; he prays for you; he wants 248 you! Oh, Anita, come! It is right––it is just what God has planned, I know! Pin my dress together, and then hurry!”

The woman moved as if in a cloud. Mechanically she descended the stairs and left the house, her hand tightly clasped by Carmen. Dully she suffered herself to be led hurriedly to the river. A boat, up-bound, was just docking. The captain stood leaning over the rail and shouting his commands. Ana recognized him. It was Captain Julio.

“Loado sea Dios!” murmured the weeping woman, hurrying up the gang plank with the child. She hastened past the astonished passengers to the captain and drew him to one side.

“The child––” she gasped, “Rosendo Ariza’s––of SimitÍ––leave her at Badillo––they will take her over––”

“Wait, seÑora,” interrupted the captain tenderly. “Is it not time for you to go home, too?” He laid a hand on her shoulder and looked down into her streaming eyes. “Come,” he said quietly. And, leading them down the deck, he opened the door of a vacant cabin and bade them enter. “You can tell me your story when we are under way,” he said, smiling as he closed the door. “Bien,” he muttered, his brow clouding as he strode off. “I have been looking for this for some time. But––the child––Ariza’s––ah, the priest Diego! I think I see––Caramba! But we will not tarry long here!”

A few minutes later the big boat, her two long funnels vomiting torrents of smoke and sparks, thrust her huge wheel into the thick waters and, swinging slowly out into mid-stream, turned her flat nose toward the distant falls of Tequendama. In one of her aft cabins a woman lay on a cot, weeping hysterically. Over her bent a girl, with a face such as the masters have sought in vain. The tenderly whispered words might have been the lingering echo of those voiced in the little moonlit death-chamber of Cartagena long agone.

“Anita dear, He is with us, right here. And His arms are wide open. And He says, ‘Anita, come!’”

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