“But, Padre dear, why are you so surprised that Padre Diego did not hurt me? I would have been much more surprised if he had. You are always so astonished when evil doesn’t happen––don’t you ever look for good? Why, I don’t ever look for anything else! How could I when I know that God is everywhere?”

JosÈ strained her closer to himself. “The sense of evil––it overwhelms me at times, carita––”

“But, Padre dear, why don’t you know right then that it is nothing? If you did, it would fade away, and only good would overwhelm you.” She nestled closer to the man and clasped her arms more tightly about his neck. “Why, Padre,” she resumed, “I was not a bit surprised when Captain Julio came and told us we were near Bodega Central, and that he could see you and Juan and LÁzaro sitting on the steps of the inn.”

“Yes, chiquita, we were resting for a moment. If a down-river boat came by we were going to take it. If not, we expected to go in the canoe.”

“Padre dear, what did you intend to do in Banco?”

The man hesitated. “Don’t speak of it, child––we––”

“Juan and LÁzaro have knives. I saw them. Padre––have you one, too?”

“I?––chiquita––”

“Padre dear, God never fights with knives. Anita had a knife; but God wouldn’t let her use it. He always has better ways than that. I don’t know what happened to Padre Diego, except that he fell over his wicked thoughts. You know, Padre dear, somewhere in the Bible you read to me that ‘With him is an arm of flesh; but with us is the Lord our God to help us, and to fight our battles.’ I thought of that when Padre Diego had his arm around me and held me so tight that I could hardly breathe. It was only an arm of flesh, after, all, and it couldn’t hold me.”

“Bien, Padre,” interrupted Juan, coming up from the boat, “if we are to reach SimitÍ to-night we must start at once.”

“Bueno, then let us set out,” returned JosÈ, rising. A muffled sob reached his ears. He turned to the woman huddled in the shadow of the door.

“Come, Ana,” he said cheerily; “to-night you will again be home.”

“No, Padre––I do not go with you. I––”

“Anita!” In an instant Carmen’s arms were around her. “When padre Rosendo sees us, you and me, why––”

“CarÍsima!” The woman’s tears flowed fast while she hugged the girl to her bosom. “No––no––he would drive me from his house! No––let me stay here. I will get work in the posada, perhaps. Or Captain Julio will take me to Honda on his next trip, and get me a place––”

“Then we must ask him to get a place for us both,” interrupted Carmen, sitting calmly down beside her. “And think, Anita, how sad padre Rosendo will be when he sees the men come back without us!”

“Carmen! I shall throw myself into the river!” cried the sorrowing woman, rising. “You don’t know what it is––”

“Yes, I do, Anita,” returned the girl quickly; “it is nothing––just zero––and you can’t drown it! If it would do any good we would both jump into the river––that is, if God told us to––wouldn’t we? But it doesn’t help any to die, you know, for then we would have it all to do over again.”

“Ana,” said JosÈ, laying a hand on the woman’s shoulder, “you do not understand her––neither do I, wholly. But if she tells you to go with us to SimitÍ, why, I think I would go. I would leave it all with her. You may trust her influence with Rosendo. Come.”

He took her hand and led her, weeping, but no longer resisting, down to the canoe. Carmen followed, dancing like an animated sunbeam. “What fun, oh, what fun!” she chirped, clapping her hands. “And just as soon as we get home we will go right up to the cÁrcel and let padre Rosendo out!”

“Na, chiquita,” said JosÈ, shaking his head mournfully; “we have no power to do that.”

“Well, then, God has,” returned the girl, nothing daunted.

Juan pushed the heavily laden canoe from its mooring, and set its direction toward SimitÍ. Silence drew over the little group, and the hours dragged while the boat crept slowly along the margin of the great river. The sun had passed its meridian when the little craft turned into the caÑo. To JosÈ the change brought a most grateful relief. For, though his long residence in SimitÍ had somewhat inured him to the intense heat of this low region, he had not yet learned to endure it with the careless indifference of the natives. Besides, his mind was filled with vivid memories of the horrors of his first river trip. And he knew that every future experience on the water would be tinged by them.

In the shaded caÑo the sunlight, sifting through the interlocking branches of ancient palms and caobas, mellowed and softened into a veil of yellow radiance that flecked the little stream with splashes of gold. Juan in the prow with the pole labored in silence. At times he stopped just long enough to roll a huge cigar, and to feast his bright eyes upon the fair girl whom he silently adored. LÁzaro, as patron, sat in the stern, saturnine and unimpassioned. The woman, exhausted by the recent mental strain, dozed throughout the journey. Carmen alone seemed alive to her environment. Every foot of advance unfolded to her new delights. She sang; she chirped; she mimicked the parrots; she chattered at the excited monkeys. It was with difficulty that JosÈ could restrain her when her sharp eyes caught the glint of brilliant Passion flowers and orchids of gorgeous hue clinging to the dripping trees.

“Padre!” she exclaimed, “they are in us, you know. They are not out there at all! We see our thoughts of them––and lots of people wouldn’t see anything beautiful about them at all, just because their thoughts are not beautiful. Padre, we see––what you said to me once––we see our interpretations of God’s ideas, don’t we? That is what I told Padre Diego. But––well, he will just have to see some day, won’t he, Padre dear? But now let us talk in English; you know, I haven’t spoken it for such a long time.”

JosÈ gazed at her in rapt silence. What a rare interpretation of the mind divine was this child! But he wondered why one so pure and beautiful should attract a mind so carnal as that of Diego. And yet––

“Ah!” he mused, “it is again that law. Good always stirs up its suppositional opposite. And the most abundant good and the greatest purity stir up the most carnal elements of the human mind. All history shows it. The greater the degree of good, the greater the seeming degree of evil aroused. The perfect Christ stirred the hatred of a world. Carmen arouses Diego simply because of her purity. Yet she knows that he can not harm her.”

His eyes met the girl’s, and she answered his unspoken thought in the tongue which she was fast adopting. “We have to love him, you know, Padre dear.”

“Love whom? Diego?”

“Why, yes, of course. We can’t help loving him. Oh, not the ‘him’ that the human mind looks at, but the real ‘him,’ you know––the ‘him’ that is God’s image. And you know there just isn’t any other ‘him,’ now is there?”

“God above!” murmured JosÈ, “if I could but keep my thought as straight as she does!”

“But, Padre dear, your thought is straight. You know, God’s thought is the only thought there really is. Any other thought has the minus sign, and so it is zero. If we will always think of the real Padre Diego, and love that, why, the unreal one will fade away from our thought.”

“Do you suppose, chiquita, that if we love him we will make him repent?”

The child pondered the question for a moment. Then:

“Padre, what did you tell me once about the word ‘repent’?”

“It comes from the Greek word ‘metanoia.’”

“Yes,” she reflected; “but what did you say that––”

“Oh, yes, I told you it meant a complete and radical change of thought.”

“Well!” she exclaimed, her eyes brightening.

JosÈ waited expectantly. It was heaven to have this girl 252 before him and to drink in the naÏve expressions of her active mind.

“Padre dear, when John the baptiser said, ‘Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand,’ did he mean to tell the people that they must have a complete change of thought?”

JosÈ laughed. And then he grew serious. “Chiquita,” he answered, “I have no doubt he meant just that. For you have taught me that there can be no salvation without such a complete and radical change.”

“No,” she said with quick emphasis; “for God is mind, you know. And His thought is the only real thought there is or can be. The thoughts of mortals are the opposites of His thoughts, and so they are illusions, and, like all lies, must pass away. If people want to be immortal, they must think as God thinks, for He is immortal. They must stop thinking that there is any power but God. They must stop letting in thoughts of sickness, of sin, of wickedness, and all those things that in English you call ‘discord.’ God says in the Bible, ‘As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my thoughts higher than your thoughts.’ Well, God is immortal and perfect. And if we want to be like Him we must think His thoughts. For our thoughts become––things. Don’t you see?”

JosÈ’s face clouded. “I see, chiquita––sometimes very clearly––and then again I don’t see,” he said slowly.

“You do see!” she insisted, getting up on her knees and facing him. “And you see as God sees! And if you hold this thought always, why, it will––it will be––”

“Externalized; is that what you are trying to say?” he suggested.

“Yes, just that. Jesus said, ‘As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he.’”

“But, Carmen––I–– What you say is doubtless true in essence––but I think you have not grasped it all––there are so many gaps that your simple little system of religion does not fill in––so many great questions that you do not answer. I see, in part––and then, again, I don’t see at all. And when you were stolen away from SimitÍ I saw nothing but the evil––and it nearly killed me!”

The girl studied him for a few moments. The man had always been an enigma to her. She could not understand a nature that soared into the spiritual empyrean one moment, and in the next fell floundering into the bottomless pit of materialism. The undulating curve which marked the development of the RincÓn mind was to her a thing incomprehensible.

“Padre dear,” she said at length, a little sadly. “When you 253 look at the first chapter in the Bible and read there how God made everything, and man in His image, in the image of Mind, you see, and are very happy. But when you go on to the second chapter and read how the Lord God––not God, but the Lord God––made a man of dirt, and how this dirt man listened to his false thoughts and fell, why, then you are unhappy. Don’t you see any difference between them? Can’t you see that one is a story of the real creation; and the other is the human mind’s interpretation of the creation––an interpretation made according to the way the human mind thinks the creating ought to have been in matter? You told me this yourself. And the second chapter shows how far the human mind can go––it shows how limited it is. The human mind couldn’t get any farther than that––couldn’t make a man out of anything but dirt. It couldn’t understand the spiritual creation. And so it made a creation of its own. It couldn’t understand God; and so it made a Lord God, just like itself. Can’t you see? Padre dear, can’t you? And if you see, can’t you stick to it and live it, until all the unreal passes away?”

JosÈ smiled into her earnest little face. “I will never cease to try, chiquita,” he said. “But we were talking about loving Diego, weren’t we? Yes, you are right, we must try to love him, for the good Jesus said we must love our enemies.”

“But, if we love everybody, then we haven’t any enemies. You can’t love a real enemy––and so there aren’t any real ones. We see in other people only what is in our own thought. If we see evil as real, why, then we will see bad men and women all around us, for we only look at our thoughts. But, if we look only at God’s thoughts––Padre dear, I didn’t see anything but God’s thought when Padre Diego had me in his arms. I knew it wasn’t real, but was just the human way of looking at things. And I knew that love was the great principle of everything, and that it just couldn’t fail, any more than the principle of algebra could fail to solve my problems. Well,” she concluded with a little sigh, “it didn’t.”

“Dear little girl, you must be patient, very patient, with your blundering old Padre JosÈ. He is groping for the light––”

In an instant, throwing the canoe into imminent danger of upsetting, the impulsive girl had hurled herself into his lap and clasped her arms about his neck. Juan and LÁzaro by a quick and skillful effort kept the craft upright.

“Oh, Padre dear!” she cried, “I didn’t mean to say a word that would make you unhappy––Padre dear, I love you so! Padre, look at your little girl, and tell her that you love her!”

He clasped her fiercely. “No––no!” he murmured, “I––I must not––and––yet––chiquita––I adore you!” He buried his face in her shoulder.

Juan made a wry mouth as he looked at the girl in the priest’s arms. Then he suggested that a separation would more evenly balance the boat. Carmen laughed up at him, but slipped down into the keel and sat with her head propped against JosÈ’s knees.

“Padre dear,” she said, looking up at him with twinkling eyes, “I heard LÁzaro say a little while before we started that he had lived many years in SimitÍ, and that it had always been very quiet until you came.”

“Ay de mÍ!” sighed JosÈ. “I can readily believe that the whole world was quiet until I entered it.”

“But, Padre, perhaps you had to come into it to shake it up.”

He laughed. “Chiquita,” he said, “if ever you go out into it, with your radical views regarding God and man; and if the stupid old world will give ear to you, there will be such a shaking up as it has never experienced since––”

“Padre dear,” she interrupted, “I am not going out into the world. I shall stay in SimitÍ––with you.”

He looked down at her, tenderly, wistfully. And then, while her words still echoed through his mind, a great sigh escaped him.

Dusk had closed in upon them when the canoe emerged into the quiet lake. Huge vampire bats, like demons incarnate, flouted their faces as they paddled swiftly toward the distant town. Soft evening calls drifted across the placid waters from the slumbering jungle. Carmen’s rich voice mingled with them; and Juan and LÁzaro, catching the inspiration, broke into a weird, uncanny boating song, such as is heard only among these simple folk. As they neared the town the song of the bogas changed into a series of loud, yodelling halloos; and when the canoe grated upon the shaly beach, DoÑa Maria and a score of others were there to welcome the returned travelers.

At the sight of Ana, a murmur ran through the crowd. DoÑa Maria turned to the woman.

“It is Anita, madre dear,” Carmen quickly announced, as she struggled out of DoÑa Maria’s arms and took the confused Ana by the hand.

The light of recognition came into DoÑa Maria’s eyes. Quietly, and without demonstration, she went to the shrinking woman and, taking the tear-stained face in her hands, impressed a kiss upon each cheek. “Bien,” she said in a low, tender voice, “we have waited long for you, daughter. And now let us go home.”

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The glow of dawn had scarce begun to creep timidly across 255 the arch of heaven when Fernando knocked at the portal of Rosendo’s house and demanded the custody of Carmen. JosÈ was already abroad.

“And now, Fernando,” demanded the priest, “what new outrage is this?”

The constable flushed with embarrassment. “Na, Padre, a thousand pardons––but it is the order of the Alcalde, and I only obey. But––you may knock me down,” he added eagerly, “and then I can return to him and say that I could not take the girl, even by force!” The honest fellow, ashamed of his mission, hung his head. JosÈ seized his hand.

“Fernando!” he cried, “what say the people of SimitÍ?”

“They are with you, Padre. They would demand Rosendo’s release, if there were proof that the girl––”

“Good, then! we have the proof,” broke in JosÈ. “Rosendo knows of our return?”

“Yes, the guard informed him this morning. The Alcalde, you know, permits no one to approach the prisoner.”

“And does he know that Ana is here?”

“The guard did not tell him, for fear of exciting the old man. Hombre! I think there is no one in town who would venture to tell Rosendo that.”

“Bien pues, Fernando, I think the time has come! Go quietly back and summon every one to a meeting in the town hall at once. Tell them––”

“Bien, Padre, I shall know what to tell them. But,” anxiously, “Don Mario has the power to––”

“And we have a greater power,” quickly replied the priest, his thought dwelling on Carmen.

An hour later the town hall was a babel of clacking tongues. Men, women and children hurried, chattering, to and fro, exchanging diverse views and speculating eagerly on the probable outcome of the meeting. JosÈ stood before them, with Carmen’s hand clasped tightly in his. Don Mario, purple and trembling with rage, was perched upon a chair, vainly trying to get the ear of the people.

In the midst of the hubbub a hush fell suddenly over the concourse. All heads turned, and all eyes fastened upon Ana, as she entered the room and moved timidly toward JosÈ. The people fell back to make a passage for her. Her shoulders were bent, and her face was covered with a black mantilla.

Don Mario, as his glance fell upon her, again attempted to address the multitude. A dozen voices bade him cease. A strong arm from behind pushed him from the chair. His craven heart began to quake, and he cast anxious glances toward the single exit.

Gently removing the mantilla from the face of the woman, JosÈ turned her toward the people. “Friends!” he said in a loud, penetrating voice, “behold the work of Diego!”

He paused for the effect which he knew would be made upon this impressionable people. Then, when the loud murmur had passed, he drew Carmen out before him and, pointing to her, said dramatically, “And shall we also throw this innocent child to the wolf?”

The assembly broke into a roar. Fists were shaken under the Alcalde’s nose, and imprecations were hurled at him from all sides. Don Mario drew his soiled handkerchief and mopped his steaming brow. Then his voice broke out in a shriek: “The soldiers––this day I shall summon them––it is a riot!”

“Caramba! He speaks truth!” cried a voice from the crowd. The babel commenced anew.

“The soldiers! Caramba! Let Diego have his child!”

“Maldita!”

“Who says it is not his?”

“I do!”

It was Ana. Clasping JosÈ’s arm to steady herself, she had turned to confront the excited assembly.

Silence descended upon them all. JosÈ held up his hand. A sob escaped the woman. Then:

“The priest Diego had a child––a girl. Her name––it was––Carmen. The child is––dead.”

“Caramba! girl, how know you that?” shrilled a woman’s excited voice.

“I know, because I––was––its––mother!”

Pandemonium burst upon the room at the woman’s words. Don Mario started for the door, but found his way blocked. “Diego had other children!” he shouted; “and this girl is one of them!”

“It is false!” cried Ana in a loud voice. “I have lived with him eight years! I know from his own lips that I speak the truth! See what he has done to me! Would I lie?”

“To the cÁrcel! Release Rosendo!”

“We will write to the President at BogotÁ! Don Mario must be removed!”

“Caramba! Such an Alcalde!”

“Let him send for the soldiers, if he wishes to die!”

“To the cÁrcel!”

As a unit the fickle people streamed from the room and started for the jail. Don Mario was borne along on the heaving tide. JosÈ and Carmen followed; but Ana fell back and returned to the house of Rosendo.

The guard at the jail, seeing the concourse approaching, 257 threw down his machete and fled. Rosendo’s eyes were big with speculation, though his heart beat apprehensively. The people jammed into the small hut until it swayed and threatened to collapse.

“The key to the lock––Caramba! the guard has it!”

“Catch him!”

“No! bring a barra!”

Juan quickly produced a long iron bar, and with a few lusty efforts sprung the stocks. A dozen hands lifted the cramped Rosendo out and stood him upon his feet. Carmen squirmed through the crowd and threw herself into his arms.

Then, with shouts and gesticulations, a triumphal procession quickly formed, and the bewildered and limping Rosendo was escorted down the main street of the town and across the plaza to his home. At the door of the house JosÈ turned and, holding up a hand, bade the people quietly disperse and leave the liberated man to enjoy undisturbed the sacred reunion with his family. With a parting shout, the people melted quickly away, and quiet soon reigned again over the ancient town.

“Bien, Padre,” said Rosendo, pausing before his door to clasp anew the priest’s hand, “you have not told me what has caused this. Was it the little Carmen––”

He stopped short. Glancing in at the door, his eyes had fallen upon Ana. To JosÈ, hours seemed suddenly compressed into that tense moment.

Slowly Rosendo entered the house and advanced to the shrinking woman. Terror spread over her face, and she clutched her throat as the big man stalked toward her. Then, like a flash, Carmen darted in front of her and faced Rosendo.

“It is Anita, padre dear,” she said, looking up into his set face, and clasping his hand in both of hers. “She has come home again. Aren’t we glad!”

Rosendo seemed not to see the child. His voice came cold and harsh. “Bien, outcast, is your lover with you, that I may strangle him, too?” He choked and swallowed hard.

“Padre!” cried Carmen, putting both her hands against him. “See! Those bad thoughts nearly strangled you! Don’t let them get in! Don’t!”

“Bien, girl!” snarled the angry man, still addressing the cowering woman. “Did you tire of him, that you now sneak home? Or––Caramba!” as Ana rose and stood before him, “you come here that your illegal brat may be born! Not under my roof! Santa Maria! Never! Take it back to him! Take it back, I say!” he shouted, raising his clenched fist as if to strike her.

Carmen turned swiftly and threw herself upon the woman. Looking over her shoulder, she addressed the raging man:

“Padre Rosendo! this is not your house! It is God’s! He only lets you have it, because He is good to you! Shame on you, for daring to drive Anita away––your own little girl!” Her voice rose shrill, and her words cut deep into the old man’s embittered heart.

“Shame on you, padre Rosendo!” quickly flowed the scorching words. “If God were like you He would drive you from the house, too! Are you so much better than the good Jesus that you can drive away a woman who sins? Shame on you, padre! Are you better than the good father who was so glad to see his prodigal son? If God were to punish you for your sins, would He even let you live? Did He not set you free this very morning? And do you now thank Him by driving your little girl from her own home? Do you know that it was Anita who made you free, and who brought me here? God used her to do that. And is this the way you thank Him? Then you will lose us both, for we will not stay with you!”

JosÈ stepped up and took Rosendo’s arm. Carmen turned about and continued her scoriation:

“Padre Rosendo, if the good, pure God was willing to use Anita to save me from Padre Diego and bring me back to you, are you so wicked and so ungrateful that you throw His love back in His face? Shame on you, padre! Shame! Shame!”

“Caramba!” cried Rosendo, tears bursting from his eyes. “She has fouled my name––it was a good name, though my parents were slaves––it was a good name––and she blackened it––she––”

“Padre Rosendo, there are only two names that have never been blackened! Your human name is nothing––it is zero––it counts for foolishness with God! You yourself are making your name blacker now than Anita ever did! She repents, and comes to her father; and he is so much more wicked than she that he drives her out!––”

“Enough, Carmen, child!” interrupted JosÈ. “Come, Rosendo; go into the parish house! Carmen, go with him!”

Carmen hesitated. Then a smile lighted up her face, and she reached up and took Rosendo’s hand. Together they passed silently out and into the priest’s house.

Ana sank to the floor, where she buried her face in her hands and wept violently.

“Wait, Ana,” said JosÈ, tenderly stroking the unhappy woman’s hair. “Wait. They will soon return. And you shall remain here, where you belong.”

A half hour passed. Then JosÈ, wondering, went quietly to the door of his house and looked in. Rosendo sat at the table, with Carmen on his knees.

“And, padre,” the child was saying, “the good Jesus told the woman not to sin any more; and she went away happy. Padre, God has told Anita not to sin any more––and she has come to us to be happy. We are going to make her so, aren’t we? Padre Diego couldn’t hurt me, you know, for God wouldn’t let him. And he hasn’t hurt Anita––God wouldn’t let him keep her––wouldn’t let her stay with him. Don’t you see, padre? And we have got to be like Him––we are like Him, really. But now we have got to show it, to prove it, you know.”

Rosendo’s head was bent over the girl. Neither of them saw JosÈ. The child went on with increased animation:

“And, padre dear, God sends us Anita’s little baby for us to love and protect. Oh, padre, if the little one is a boy, can’t we call it JosÈ?”

“Yes, chiquita,” JosÈ heard the old man murmur brokenly.

“And––padre, if it is a girl––what shall we call it?”

The man’s arm tightened about her. “We––we will call it––Carmencita,” he whispered.

The girl clapped her hands. “Can’t you see, padre, that God sends us Anita’s baby so that Padre Diego shall not have it? And now let’s go and tell her so, right away!” she cried, jumping down.

JosÈ slipped quickly back and stood beside the woman when Carmen and Rosendo entered the room. The old man went directly to his daughter, and, taking her in his brawny arms, raised her from the floor and strained her to his breast. Tears streamed down his swart cheeks, and the words he would utter choked and hung in his throat.

“Padre,” whispered the delighted child, “shall I tell her our names for the baby?”

JosÈ turned and stole softly from the room. Divine Love was there, and its dazzling effulgence blinded him. In the quiet of his own chamber he sought to understand the marvelous goodness of God to them that serve Him.

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