Dawn had scarcely reddened in the east when a number of men assembled at JosÈ’s door.

“You have turned the trick, amigo,” said Don Jorge, rousing up from his petate on the floor beside the priest’s bed. “You have won over a few of them, at least.”

JosÈ went out to meet the early callers.

“We come to say, Padre,” announced Andres Arellano, the dignified spokesman, “that we have confidence in your words of last night. We suspect Don Mario, even though he has letters from the Bishop. We are your men, and we would keep the war away from SimitÍ.”

There were five of them, strong of heart and brawny of arm. “And there will be more, Padre,” added Andres, reading the priest’s question in his appraising glance.

Thus was the town divided; and while many clung to the Alcalde, partly through fear of offending the higher ecclesiastical authority, and partly because of imagined benefits to be gained, others, and a goodly number, assembled at JosÈ’s side, and looked to him to lead them in the crisis which all felt to be at hand. As the days passed, the priest’s following grew more numerous, until, after the lapse of a week, the town stood fairly divided. Don Jorge announced his intention of remaining in SimitÍ for the present.

From the night of the meeting in the church excitement ran continuously higher. Business was at length suspended; the fishermen forgot their nets; and the limber tongues of the town gossips steadily increased their clatter. Don Mario’s store and patio assumed the functions of a departmental office. Daily he might be seen laboriously drafting letters of incredible length and wearisome prolixity to acting-Bishop Wenceslas; and nightly he was engaged in long colloquies and whispered conferences with Don Luis and others of his followers and hangers-on. The government arms had been brought up from Bodega Central and stored in an empty warehouse belonging to Don Felipe Alcozer to await further disposition.

But with the arrival of the arms, and of certain letters which Don Mario received from Cartagena, the old town lost its calm of centuries, not to recover it again for many a dreary day. By the time its peace was finally restored, it had received a blow from which it never recovered. And many a familiar face, too, had disappeared forever from its narrow streets.

Meanwhile, JosÈ and his followers anxiously awaited the turn of events. It came at length, and in a manner not wholly unexpected. The Alcalde in his voluminous correspondence with Wenceslas had not failed to bring against JosÈ every charge which his unduly stimulated brain could imagine. But in particular did he dwell upon the priest’s malign influence upon Carmen, whose physical beauty and powers of mind were the marvel of SimitÍ. He hammered upon this with an insistence that could not but at length again attract the thought of the acting-Bishop, who wrote finally to Don Mario, expressing the mildly couched opinion that, now that his attention had been called again to the matter, Carmen should have the benefits of the education and liberal training which a convent would afford.

Don Mario’s egotism soared to the sky. The great Bishop was actually being advised by him! Hombre! Where would it not end! He would yet remove to a larger town, perhaps Mompox, and, with the support of the great ecclesiastic, stand for election to Congress! He would show the Bishop what mettle he had in him. Hombre! And first he would show His Grace how a loyal servant could anticipate his master’s wishes. He summoned Fernando, and imperiously bade him bring the girl Carmen at once.

But Fernando returned, saying that Rosendo refused to give up the child. Don Mario then ordered Rosendo’s arrest. But Fernando found it impossible to execute the commission. JosÈ and Don Jorge stood with Rosendo, and threatened to deal harshly with the constable should he attempt to take Carmen 305 by force. Fernando then sought to impress upon the Alcalde the danger of arousing public opinion again over the girl.

Don Mario’s wrath burst forth like an exploding bomb. He seized his straw hat and his cane, the emblem of his office, and strode to the house of Rosendo. His face grew more deeply purple as he went. At the door of the house he encountered JosÈ and Don Jorge.

“Don Mario,” began JosÈ, before the Alcalde could get his words shaped, “it is useless. Carmen remains with us. We will defend her with our lives. Be advised, Don Mario, for the consequences of thoughtless action may be incalculable!”

“Caramba!” bellowed the irate official, “but, cow-face! do you know that His Grace supports me? That I but execute his orders? Dios arriba! if you do not at once deliver to me your paramour––”

He got no further. Rosendo, who had been standing just within the door, suddenly pushed JosÈ and Don Jorge aside and, stalking out, a tower of flesh, confronted the raging Alcalde. For a moment he gazed down into the pig-eyes of the man. Then, with a quick thrust of his thick arm, he projected his huge fist squarely into Don Mario’s bloated face. The Alcalde went down like a shot.

Neither JosÈ nor Don Jorge, as they rushed in between Rosendo and his fallen adversary, had any adequate idea of the consequences of the old man’s precipitate action. As they assisted the prostrate official to his unsteady feet they knew not that to Rosendo, simple, peace-loving, and great of heart, had fallen the lot to inaugurate hostilities in the terrible anticlerical war which now for four dismal years was to tear Colombia from end to end, and leave her prostrate and exhausted at last, her sons decimated, her farms and industries ruined, and her neck beneath the heavy heel of a military despot at BogotÁ, whose pliant hand would still be guided by the astute brain of Rome.

By the time the startled Alcalde had been set again upon his feet a considerable concourse had gathered at the scene. Many stood in wide-eyed horror at what had just occurred. Others broke into loud and wild talk. The crowd rapidly grew, and in a few minutes the plaza was full. Supporters of both sides declaimed and gesticulated vehemently. In the heat of the arguments a blow was struck. Then another. The Alcalde, when he found his tongue, shrilly demanded the arrest of Rosendo and his family, including the priest and Don Jorge. A dozen of his party rushed forward to execute the order. Rosendo had slipped between JosÈ and Don Jorge and into his 306 house. In a trice he emerged with a great machete. The people about him fell back. His eyes blazed like live coals, and his breath seemed to issue from his dilating nostrils like clouds of steam. To approach him meant instant death. Don Jorge crept behind him and, gaining the house, collected the terrified women and held them in readiness for flight. Juan, LÁzaro, and a number of others surrounded JosÈ and faced the angry multitude.

The strain was broken by the frenzied Alcalde, who rushed toward Rosendo. The old man swung his enormous machete with a swirl that, had it met the official, would have clean decapitated him. But, fortunately, one of the priest’s supporters threw out his foot, and the corpulent Alcalde fell heavily over it and bit the dust. JosÈ threw himself upon Rosendo. The old man staggered with the shock and gave way. The priest turned to the excited crowd. Holding up both hands high above his head, he sent out his voice clear and loud.

“Children! In the name of the Church! In the name of the Christ! The blessed Virgin––”

“What know you of the blessed Virgin, priest of Satan?” shouted a rough follower of the Alcalde.

“Aye!” yelled another. “Writer of foul books! Seducer of young girls!”

Julio Gomez stooped and took up a large piece of shale. He threw it with all his force, just as the priest again strove to make his voice heard above the din. It struck JosÈ full on the forehead. The jagged stone cut deeply, and the red blood spurted. JosÈ fell into the arms of LÁzaro and was dragged into the house.

Then Rosendo, with a mad yell, plunged wildly into the crowd. A dozen arms sought to hold him, but in vain. Julio saw the terrifying apparition hurtling down upon him. He turned and fled, but not before the great knife had caught him on its point as it swung down and ripped a deep gash the full length of his naked back.

Then the last vestige of reason fled from the mob, and chaos took the reins. Back and forth through the plaza, in front of the church where hung the image of the Prince of Peace, the maddened people surged, fighting like demons, raining blows with clubs, fists, and machetes, stabbing with their long, wicked knives, hurling sharp stones, gouging, ripping, yelling, shrieking, calling upon Saints and Virgin to curse their enemies and bless their blows. Over the heads of them all towered the mighty frame of Rosendo. Back before his murderous machete fell the terrified combatants. His course among them was that of a cannon ball. Dozens hung upon his arms, his shoulders, 307 or flung themselves about his great legs. His huge body, slippery and reeking, was galvanized into energy incarnate. Sparks seemed to flash from his eyes. His breath turned to livid flame. Behind him, following in the swath which he cut, his supporters crowded, fought and yelled. Don Mario’s forces gave way. They cursed, broke, and fled. Then Don Jorge, a man whose mortal strength was more than common, threw himself upon the steaming, frenzied Rosendo and stopped his mad progress.

“Rosendo––amigo! Caramba! Listen! They are fleeing to the bodega to get the rifles and ammunition! Come––Dios arriba! Come!”

Cut, bruised, and dripping blood from a dozen wounds, Rosendo stood for a moment blinking in confusion. A score lay on the ground about him. Whether dead or wounded, he knew not, nor cared. The sight of Don Mario’s supporters in full flight fascinated him. He broke into a chuckle. It sounded like the gloating of an imp of Satan. Then the force of Don Jorge’s words smote him.

“Caramba! They will return with the rifles!” he panted. “What shall we do?”

“Come! We must lose no time!” cried Don Jorge, pulling him toward the house. Those of the priest’s other followers who were still whole scattered wildly to their homes and barred their doors. There they searched for knives, machetes, razors, any tool or instrument that might be pressed into service as a weapon, and stood guard. One frenzied fellow, the sole possessor of an antiquated shotgun, projected the rusty arm from a hole in the wall of his mud hut and blazed away down the deserted street indiscriminately and without aim.

Within the house Juan and LÁzaro were supporting the dazed JosÈ, while DoÑa Maria bathed and bound his wound. Carmen stood gazing upon the scene in bewilderment. The precipitousness of the affair had taken her breath away and driven all thought in mad rout from her mind.

“Amigos!” panted Don Jorge, “the church––it is the only place now that is even fairly safe! DoÑa Maria, do you collect all the food in the house! We know not how long we may be prisoners––”

“But––Don Jorge,” interrupted JosÈ feebly, “they will attack us even there! Let us flee––”

“Where, amigo? To the GuamocÓ trail? Caramba! they would shoot us down in cold blood! Hombre! There is no place but the church! That will hold some of them back, at any rate! And none of them, if they get crazed with anisado! But it is the only place now! Come!”

“Hombre!” cried Rosendo, starting for the door, “but do you, Juan and LÁzaro, follow me with your machetes, and we will drive the cowards from the bodega and get the rifles ourselves!”

“No, amigo! Impossible! By this time they have broken open the boxes and loaded the guns. A shot––and it would be all over with you! But in the church––you have a chance there!”

Don Jorge seized his arm and dragged him out of the house and across the deserted plaza. Juan and LÁzaro helped DoÑa Maria gather what food and water remained in the house; and together they hurried out and over to the church. Swinging open the heavy wooden doors, they entered and made them fast again. Then they sank upon the benches and strove to realize their situation.

But Don Jorge suddenly sprang to his feet. “The windows!” he cried.

Juan and LÁzaro hurried to them and swung the wooden shutters.

“There is no way of holding them!” cried Juan in dismay.

“Caramba!” muttered Rosendo, seizing a bench and with one blow of his machete splitting it clean through, “these will make props to hold them!”

It was the work of but a few minutes to place benches across the thick shutters and secure them with others placed diagonally against them and let into the hard dirt floor. The same was done with the doors. Then the little group huddled together and waited. JosÈ heard a sob beside him, and a hand clutched his in the gloom. It was Carmen. In the excitement of the hour he had all but forgotten her. Through his present confusion of thought a great fact loomed: as the girl clung to him she was weeping!

A low rumble drifted to them; a confusion of voices, growing louder; and then a sharp report.

“They are coming, Padre,” muttered Rosendo. “And some one has tried his rifle!”

A moment later the ruck poured into the plaza and made for Rosendo’s house. Don Mario, holding his cane aloft like a sword, was at their head. Raging with disappointment at not finding the fugitives in the house, they threw the furniture and kitchen utensils madly about, punched great holes through the walls, and then rushed pellmell to the parish house next door. A groan escaped JosÈ as he watched them through a chink in the shutters. His books and papers! His notes and writings!

But as the howling mob streamed toward the parish house 309 a wrinkled old crone shrilled at them from across the way and pointed toward the church.

“In there, amigos!” she screamed. “I saw them enter! Shoot them––they have hurt my Pedro!”

Back like a huge wave the crowd flowed, and up against the church doors. Don Mario, at the head of his valiant followers, held up his hand for silence. Then, planting himself before the main doors of the church, he loudly voiced his authority.

“In the name of the Government at BogotÁ!” he cried pompously, tapping the doors with his light cane. Then he turned quickly. “Fernando,” he called, “run to my house and fetch the drum!”

Despite the seriousness of their situation, JosÈ smiled at the puppet-show being enacted without.

The Alcalde reiterated his demands with truculent vanity. “Open! In the name of the Government! I am the law!”

Don Jorge groaned aloud. “Caramba! if I but had him in here alone!”

Don Mario waited a few moments. Then, as no response came from within, his anger began to soar. “Caramba!” he cried, “but you defy the law?”

Angry mutterings rose from the crowd. Some one suggested burning the building. Another advised battering in the doors. A third intimated that shooting them full of holes were better. This idea, once voiced, spread like an infection. The childish people were eager to try the rifles.

“Shoot the doors down! Shoot them down, Don Mario!” yelled the mob.

The Alcalde threw himself heavily up against the doors. “Caramba!” he shrilled. “Fools! Demons! Open!––or it will be the worse for you!”

JosÈ decided that their silence should no longer exasperate the angry man. He put his mouth to the crevice between the doors.

“Don Mario,” he cried, “this is sacred ground! The Host is exposed on the altar. Take your mob away. Disperse, and we will come out. We may settle this trouble amicably, if you will but listen to reason.”

The Alcalde jumped up and down in his towering wrath. “Puppy-face!” he screamed, “but I am the law––I am the Government! A curse upon you, priest of Satan! Will you unbar these doors?”

“No!” replied JosÈ. “And if you attack us you attack the Church!”

“A curse on the Church! Amigos! Muchachos!” he bawled, turning to the mob, “we will batter down the doors!”

The crowd surged forward again. But the props held firm. Again and again the mob hurled itself upon the thick doors. They bent, they sagged, but they held. Don Mario became apoplectic. A torrent of anathemas streamed from his thick lips.

“The side door!” some one shouted, recovering a portion of his scant wit.

“Aye––and the door of the sacristÍa!”

“Try the windows!”

Round the building streamed the crazed mob, without head, without reason, lusting only for the lives of the frightened little band huddled together in the gloom within. JosÈ kept an arm about Carmen. Ana bent sobbing over her tiny babe. Don Jorge and Rosendo remained mute and grim. JosÈ knew that those two would cast a long reckoning before they died. Juan and LÁzaro went from door to window, steadying the props and making sure that they were holding. The tough, hard, tropical wood, though pierced in places by comjejen ants, was resisting.

The sun was already high, and the plaza had become a furnace. The patience of the mob quickly evaporated in the ardent heat. Don Mario’s wits had gone completely. Revenge, mingled with insensate zeal to manifest the authority which he believed his intercourse with Wenceslas had greatly augmented, had driven all rationality from his motives. Flaming anger had unseated his reason. Descending from the platform on which stood the church, he blindly drew up his armed followers and bade them fire upon the church doors.

If Wenceslas, acting-Bishop by the grace of political machination, could have witnessed the stirring drama then in progress in ancient SimitÍ, he would have laughed aloud at the complete fulfillment of his carefully wrought plans. The cunning of the shrewd, experienced politician had never been more clearly manifested than in the carrying out of the little program which he had set for the unwise Alcalde of this almost unknown little town, whereby the hand of Congress should be forced and the inevitable revolt inaugurated. Don Mario had seized the government arms, the deposition of which in SimitÍ in his care had constituted him more than ever the representative of federal authority. But, in his wild zeal, he had fallen into the trap which Wenceslas had carefully arranged for him, and now was engaged in a mad attack upon the Church itself, upon ecclesiastical authority as vested in the priest JosÈ. How could Wenceslas interpret this but as an anticlerical uprising? There remained but the final scene. And while the soft-headed dupes and maniacal supporters of Don Mario were 311 hurling bullets into the thick doors of the old church in SimitÍ, Wenceslas sat musing in his comfortable study in the cathedral of Cartagena, waiting with what patience he could command for further reports from Don Mario, whose last letter had informed him that the arrest of the priest JosÈ and his unfortunate victim, Carmen, was only a few hours off.

When the first shots rang out, and the bullets ploughed into the hard wood of the heavy doors, JosÈ’s heart sank, and he gave himself up as lost. LÁzaro and Juan cowered upon the floor. Carmen crept close to JosÈ, as he sat limply upon a bench, and put her arms about him.

“Padre dear,” she whispered, “it isn’t true––it isn’t true! They don’t really want to kill us! They don’t––really! Their thoughts have only the minus sign!”

The priest clasped her to his breast. The recriminating thought flashed over him that he alone was the cause of this. He had sacrificed them all––none but he was to blame. Ah, God above! if he could only offer himself to satiate the mob’s lust, and save these innocent ones! Lurid, condemnatory thoughts burned through his brain like molten iron. He rose hastily and rushed to the door. Rosendo and Don Jorge seized him as he was about to lift a prop.

“What do you mean, Padre?” they exclaimed.

“I am going out, friends––I shall give myself to them for you all. It is the only way. I am the one they seek. Let them have me, if they will spare you!”

But the firing had ceased, and Don Mario was approaching the door. JosÈ bent down and called to him. “Myself for the others, Don Mario!” he cried. “But promise to spare them––but give me your word––and I will yield myself to arrest!”

“Caramba, fool priest!” shouted the Alcalde in derision. “It is not you that the good Bishop wants, but the girl! I have his letters demanding that I send her to him! If you will come out, you shall not be hurt. Only, Rosendo must stand trial for the harm he did in the fight this morning; and the girl must go to Cartagena. As for the rest of you, you will be free. Are the terms not reasonable? Give me your answer in five minutes.”

JosÈ turned to the little band. There was awful determination in his voice. “Juan and LÁzaro,” he said, “we will open a window quickly in the rear of the church and let you out. It is not right that you should die with us. And Don Jorge, too––”

“Stop there, amigo!” interrupted the latter in a voice as cold as steel. “My life has not the value of a white heron. Can I do better than give it for a cause that I know to be right? Nay, man, I remain with you. Let the lads go, if they will––”

LÁzaro forced himself between Don Jorge and the priest. “Padre,” he said quietly, “to you I owe what I am. I remain here.”

JosÈ looked through the gloom at Juan. The boy’s eyes were fixed on Carmen. He turned and gazed for a moment at a window, as if hesitating between two decisions. Then he shook his head slowly. “Padre,” he said, though his voice trembled, “I, too, remain.”

The Alcalde received his answer with a burst of inarticulate rage. He rushed back to his followers with his arms waving wildly. “Shoot!” he screamed. “Shoot! Pierce the doors! Batter them down! Compadres, get the poles and burst in the shutters. Caramba! it is the Government they are defying!”

A volley from the rifles followed his words. The thick doors shook under the blast. A bullet pierced the wall and whizzed past Carmen. JosÈ seized the girl and drew her down under a bench. The startled bats among the roof beams fluttered wildly about through the heavy gloom. Frightened rats scurried around the altar. The rusty bell in the tower cried out as if in protest against the sacrilege. Juan burst into tears and crept beneath a bench.

“Padre,” said Rosendo, “it is only a question of time when the doors will fall. See––that bullet went clean through! Bien, let us place the women back of the altar, while we men stand here at one side of the doors, so that when they fall we may dash out and cut our way through the crowd. If we throw ourselves suddenly upon them, we may snatch away a rifle or two. Then Don Jorge and I, with the lads here, may drive them back––perhaps beat them! But my first blow shall be for Don Mario! I vow here that, if I escape this place, he shall not live another hour!”

“Better so, Rosendo, than that they should take us alive. But––Carmen? Do we leave her to fall into Don Mario’s hands?”

Rosendo’s voice, low and cold, froze the marrow in the priest’s bones. “Padre, she will not fall into the Alcalde’s hands.”

“God above! Rosendo, do you––”

A piercing cry checked him. “Santa Virgen! Padre––!” LÁzaro had collapsed upon the floor. Rosendo and JosÈ hurried to him.

“Padre!” The man’s breath came in gasps. “Padre––I confess––pray for me. It struck me––here!” He struggled to lay a hand upon his bleeding breast.

“To the altar, amigos!” cried Don Jorge, ducking his head as a bullet sang close to it.

Seizing the expiring LÁzaro, they hurriedly dragged him down the aisle and took refuge back of the brick altar. The bullets, now piercing the walls of the church with ease, whizzed about them. One struck the pendant figure of the Christ, and it fell crashing to the floor. Rosendo stood in horror, as if he expected a miracle to follow this act of sacrilege.

“Oh, God!” prayed JosÈ, “only Thy hand can save us!”

“He will save us, Padre––He will!” cried Carmen, creeping closer to him through the darkness. “God is everywhere, and right here!”

“Padre,” said Don Jorge hurriedly, “the Host––is it on the altar?”

“Yes––why?” replied the priest.

“Then, when the doors fall, do you stand in front of the altar, holding it aloft and calling on the people to stand back, lest the hand of God strike them!”

JosÈ hesitated not. “It is a chance––yes, a bare chance. They will stop before it––or they will kill me! But I will do it!”

“Padre! You shall not––Padre! Then I shall stand with you!” Carmen’s voice broke clear and piercing through the din. JosÈ struggled to free himself from her.

“Na, Padre,” interposed Rosendo, “it may be better so! Let her stand with you! But––Caramba! Make haste!”

The clamor without increased. Heavy poles and billets of wood had been fetched, and blow after blow now fell upon every shutter and door. The sharp spitting of the rifles tore the air, and bullets crashed through the walls and windows. In the heavy shadows back of the altar Rosendo and Don Jorge crouched over the sobbing women. LÁzaro lay very still. JosÈ knew as he stretched out a hand through the darkness and touched the cold face that the faithful spirit had fled. How soon his own would follow he knew not, nor cared. Keeping close to the floor, he crept out and around to the front of the altar. Reaching up, he grasped the Sacred Host, and then stood upright, holding it out before him. Carmen rose by his side and took his hand. Together in the gloom they waited.