“Padre! Padre! are you alive?”

Rosendo’s hoarse whisper drifted across the silence like a wraith. He crept out and along the floor, scarce daring to look up. Through the darkness his straining eyes caught the outlines of the two figures standing like statues before the altar.

“Loado sea Dios!” he cried, and his voice broke with a sob. “But, Padre, they have stopped––what has happened?”

“I know not, amigo. Be patient. We are in the hands of God––”

“Padre––listen!” Carmen darted from the altar and ran to the door. “Padre!” she called back. “Come! Some one is speaking English!”

JosÈ and Rosendo hurried to the door. All was quiet without, but for an animated conversation between Don Mario and some strangers who had evidently just arrived upon the scene. One of the latter was speaking with the Alcalde in excellent Spanish. Another, evidently unacquainted with the language, made frequent interruptions in the English tongue. JosÈ’s heart beat wildly.

“Say, Reed,” said the voice in English, “tell the parchment-faced old buzzard that we appreciate the little comedy he has staged for us. Tell him it is bully-bueno, but he must not overdo it. We are plum done up, and want a few days of rest.”

“What says the seÑor, amigo?” asked Don Mario, with his utmost suavity and unction of manner.

“He says,” returned the other in Spanish, “that he is delighted with the firmness which you display in the administration of your office, and that he trusts the bandits within the church may be speedily executed.”

“Bandits!” ejaculated Don Mario. “Just so, amigo! They are those who defy the Government as represented by myself!” He straightened up and threw out his chest with such an exhibition of importance that the strangers with difficulty kept their faces straight.

Carmen and JosÈ looked at each other in amazement during this colloquy.

“Padre!” exclaimed the girl. “Do all who speak English tell such lies?”

“Ah!” murmured the one addressed as Reed, directing himself to the Alcalde, “how dared they! But, seÑor, my friend and I have come to your beautiful city on business of the utmost 315 importance, in which you doubtless will share largely. I would suggest,” looking with amusement at the array of armed men about him, “that your prisoners are in no immediate likelihood of escaping, and you might leave them under close guard while we discuss our business. A––a––we hear reports, seÑor, that there is likely to be trouble in the country, and we are desirous of getting out as soon as possible.”

“Cierto! Cierto, seÑores!” exclaimed Don Mario, bowing low. “It shall be as you say.” Turning to the gaping people, he selected several to do guard duty, dismissed the others, and then bade the strangers follow him to his house, which, he declared vehemently, was theirs as long as they might honor him with their distinguished presence.

The sudden turn of events left the little group within the church in a maze of bewilderment. They drew together in the center of the room and talked in low whispers until the sun dropped behind the hills and night drifted through the quiet streets. Late that evening came a tapping at the rear door of the church, and a voice called softly to the priest. JosÈ roused out of his gloomy revery and hastened to answer it.

“It is Fernando, Padre. I am on guard; but no one must know that I talk with you. But––Padre, if you open the door and escape, I will not see you. I am sorry, Padre, but it could not be helped. Don Mario has us all frightened, for the Bishop––”

“True, amigo,” returned JosÈ; “but the strangers who arrived this afternoon––who are they, and whence?”

“Two Americanos, Padre, and miners.”

JosÈ studied a moment. “Fernando––you would aid me? Bien, get word to the stranger who speaks both English and Spanish. Bring him here, secretly, and stand guard yourself while I talk with him.”

“Gladly, Padre,” returned the penitent fellow, as he hastened quietly away.

An hour later JosÈ was again roused by Fernando tapping on the door.

“Open, Padre. Fear not; only the Americano will enter. Don Mario does not know.”

JosÈ lifted the prop and swung the door open. Rosendo stood with uplifted machete. A man entered from the blackness without. JosÈ quickly closed the door, and then addressed him in English.

“Great Scott!” exclaimed the stranger in a mellow voice. “I had no idea I should find any one in this God-forsaken town who could speak real United States!”

JosÈ drew him into the sacristÍa. Neither man could see the other in the dense blackness.

“Tell me, friend,” began JosÈ, “who you are, and where you come from.”

“Reed––Charles Reed––New York––mining engineer––down here to examine the so-called mines of the Molino Company, now gasping its last while awaiting our report. Arrived this afternoon from Badillo with my partner, fellow named Harris. But––great heavens, man! you certainly were in a stew when we appeared! And why don’t you escape now?”

“Escape, friend? Where? Even if we passed the guard, where would we go? There are two women, a girl, and a babe with us. We have little food and no money. Should we gain the Boque or GuamocÓ trail, we would be pursued and shot down. There is a chance here––none in flight!

“But now, Mr. Reed,” continued JosÈ earnestly, “will you get word from me to the Bishop in Cartagena that our church has been attacked––that its priest is besieged by the Alcalde, and his life in jeopardy?”

“Assuredly––but how?”

“You have money?” said JosÈ, speaking rapidly. “Good. Your bogas have not returned to Badillo?”

“No, they are staying here for the big show. Execution of the traitors, you know.”

“Then, friend, send them at dawn to Bodega Central. Let them take a message to be sent by the telegraph from that place. Tell the Bishop––”

“Sure!” interrupted the other. “Leave it to me. I’ll fix up a message that will bring him by return boat! I’ve been talking with the Honorable Alcalde and I’ve got his exact number. Say, he certainly is the biggest damn––beg pardon; I mean, the biggest numbskull I have ever run across––and that’s saying considerable for a mining man!”

“Go, friend!” said JosÈ, making no other reply to the man’s words. “Go quickly––and use what influence you have with the Alcalde to save us. We have women here––and a young girl!” He found the American’s hand and led him out into the night.

Wenceslas Ortiz stood before the Departmental Governor. His face was deeply serious, and his demeanor expressed the utmost gravity. In his hand he held a despatch. The Governor sat at his desk, nervously fumbling a pen.

“Bien, SeÑor,” said Wenceslas quietly, “do you act––or shall I take it to His Excellency, the President?”

The Governor moved uneasily in his chair. “Caramba!” he blurted out. “The report is too meager! And yet, I cannot see but that the Alcalde acted wholly within his rights!”

“Your Excellency, he seizes government arms––he attacks the church––he attempts to destroy the life of its priest. Nominally acting for the Government; at heart, anticlerical. Is it not evident? Will the Government clear itself now of the suspicion which this has aroused?”

“But the priest––did you not say only last week that he himself had published a book violently anticlerical in tone?”

“SeÑor, we will not discuss the matter further,” said Wenceslas, moving toward the door. “Your final decision––you will send troops to SimitÍ, or no?”

“Certainly not! The evidence warrants no interference from me!”

Wenceslas courteously bowed himself out. Once beyond the door, he breathed a great sigh of relief. “Santa Virgen!” he muttered, “but I took a chance! Had he yielded and sent troops, all would have been spoiled. Now for BogotÁ!”

He entered his carriage and was driven hurriedly to his sanctum. There he despatched a long message to the President of the Republic. At noon he had a reply. He mused over it for the space of an hour. Then he framed another despatch. “Your Excellency,” it read, “the Church supports the Administration.”

Late that evening a second message from BogotÁ was put into his hand. He tore it open and read, “The Hercules ordered to SimitÍ.”

“Ah,” he sighed, sinking into his chair. “At last! The President interferes! And now a wire to Ames. And––Caramba, yes! A message to the captain of the Hercules to bring me that girl!”

“Well, old man, I’ve done all I could to stave off the blundering idiot; but I guess you are in for it! The jig is up, I’m thinking!”

It was Reed talking. SimitÍ again slept, while the American and JosÈ in the sacristÍa talked long and earnestly. Fernando kept guard at the door. The other prisoners lay wrapped in slumber.

“Your message went down the river two days ago,” continued Reed. “And, believe me! since then I’ve racked my dusty brain for topics to keep the Alcalde occupied and forgetful of you. But I’m dryer than a desert now; and he vows that to-morrow you and your friends will be dragged out of this old shack by your necks, and then shot.”

The two days had been filled with exquisite torture for JosÈ. Only the presence of Carmen restrained him from rushing out and ending it all. Her faith had been his constant marvel. 318 Every hour, every moment, she knew only the immanence of her God; whereas he, obedient to the undulating RincÓn character-curve, expressed the mutability of his faith in hourly alternations of optimism and black despair. After periods of exalted hope, stimulated by the girl’s sublime confidence, there would come the inevitable backward rush of all the chilling fear, despondency, and false thought which he had just expelled in vain, and he would be left again floundering helplessly in the dismal labyrinth of terrifying doubts.

The quiet which enwrapped them during these days of imprisonment; the gloom-shrouded church; the awed hush that lay upon them in the presence of the dead LÁzaro, stimulated the feeble and sensitive spirit of the priest to an unwonted degree of introspection, and he sat for hours gazing blankly into the ghastly emptiness of his past.

He saw how at the first, when Carmen entered his life with the stimulus of her buoyant faith, there had seemed to follow an emptying of self, a quick clearing of his mentality, and a replacement of much of the morbid thought, which clung limpet-like to his mentality, by new and wonderfully illuminating ideas. For a while he had seemed to be on the road to salvation; he felt that he had touched the robe of the Christ, and heavenly virtue had entered into his being.

But then the shadows began to gather once more. He did not cling to the new truths and spiritual ideas tenaciously enough to work them out in demonstration. He had proved shallow soil, whereon the seed had fallen, only to be choked by the weeds which grew apace therein. The troubles which clustered thick about him after his first few months in SimitÍ had seemed to hamper his freer limbs, and check his upward progress. Constant conflict with Diego, with Don Mario, and Wenceslas; the pressure from his mother and his uncle, had kept him looking, now at evil, now at good, giving life and power to each in turn, and wrestling incessantly with the false concepts which his own mentality kept ever alive. Worrying himself free from one set of human beliefs, he fell again into the meshes of others. Though he thought he knew the truth––though he saw it lived and demonstrated by Carmen––he had yet been afraid to throw himself unreservedly upon his convictions. And so he daily paid the dire penalty which error failed not to exact.

But Carmen, the object of by far the greater part of all his anxious thought, had moved as if in response to a beckoning hand that remained invisible to him. Each day she had grown more beautiful. And each day, too, she had seemed to draw farther away from him, as she rose steadily out of the limited 319 encompassment in which they dwelt. Not by conscious design did she appear to separate from him, but inevitably, because of his own narrow capacity for true spiritual intercourse with such a soul as hers. He shared her ideals; he had sought in his way to attain them; he had striven, too, to comprehend her spirit, which in his heart he knew to be a bright reflection of the infinite Spirit which is God. But as the years passed he had found his efforts to be like her more and more clumsy and blundering, and his responses to her spiritual demands less and less vigorous. At times he seemed to catch glimpses of her soul that awed him. At others he would feel himself half inclined to share the people’s belief that she was possessed of powers occult. And then he would sink into despair of ever understanding the girl––for he knew that to do so he must be like her, even as to understand God we must become like Him.

After her fourteenth birthday JosÈ found himself rapidly ceasing to regard Carmen as a mere child. Not that she did not still often seem delightfully immature, when her spirits would flow wildly, and she would draw him into the frolics which had yielded her such extravagant joy in former days; but that the growth of knowledge and the rapid development of her thought had seemed to bring to her a deepening sense of responsibility, a growing impression of maturity, and an increasing regard for the meaning of life and her part in it. She had ceased to insist that she would never leave SimitÍ. And JosÈ often thought of late, as he watched her, that he detected signs of irksomeness at the limitations which her environment imposed upon her. But, if so, these were never openly expressed; nor did her manner ever change toward her foster-parents, or toward the simple and uncomprehending folk of her native town.

From the first, JosÈ had constituted himself her teacher, guide, and protector. And she had joyously accepted him. His soured and rebellious nature had been no barrier to her great love, which had twined about his heart like ivy around a crumbling tower. And his love for the child had swelled like a torrent, fed hourly by countless uncharted streams. He had watched over her like a father; he had rejoiced to see her bloom into a beauty as rich and luxuriant as the tropical foliage; he had gazed for hours into the unsearchable abyss of her black eyes and read there, in ecstasy, a wondrous response to his love; and when, but a few short days ago, she had again intimated a future union, a union upon which, even as a child, she had insisted, yet one which he knew––had always known––utterly, extravagantly impossible––he had, nevertheless, seized upon the thought with a joy that was passionate, desperate––and 320 had then flung it from him with a cry of agony. It was not the disparity of ages; it was not the girl’s present immaturity. In less than a year she would have attained the marriageable age of these Latin countries. But he could wait two, three, aye, ten years for such a divine gift! No; the shadow which lay upon his life was cast by the huge presence of the master whose chains he wore, the iron links of which, galling his soul, he knew to be unbreakable. And, as he sat in the gloom of the decayed old church where he was now a prisoner, the thought that his situation but symbolized an imprisonment in bonds eternal roused him to a half-frenzied resolve to destroy himself.

“Padre dear,” the girl had whispered to him that night, just before the American came again with his disquieting report, “Love will open the door––Love will set us free. We are not afraid. Remember, Paul thanked God for freedom even while he sat in chains. And I am just as thankful as he.”

JosÈ knew as he kissed her tenderly and bade her go to her place of rest on the bench beside DoÑa Maria that death stood between her and the stained hand of Wenceslas Ortiz.

As morning reddened in the eastern sky Don Mario, surrounded by an armed guard and preceded by his secretary, who beat lustily upon a small drum, marched pompously down the main street and across the plaza to the church. Holding his cane aloft he ascended the steps of the platform and again loudly demanded the surrender of the prisoners within.

“On what terms, Don Mario?” asked JosÈ.

“The same,” reiterated the Alcalde vigorously.

JosÈ sighed. “Then we will die, Don Mario,” he replied sadly, moving away from the door and leading his little band of harried followers to the rear of the altar.

The Alcalde quickly descended the steps and shouted numerous orders. Several of his men hurried off in various directions, while those remaining at once opened fire upon the church. In a few moments the firing was increased, and the entire attack was concentrated upon the front doors.

The din without became horrible. Shouts and curses filled the morning air. But it was evident to JosÈ that his besiegers were meeting with no opposition from his own supporters in the fight of two days before. The sight of the deadly rifles in the hands of Don Mario’s party had quickly quenched their loyalty to JosÈ, and led them basely to abandon him and his companions to their fate.

After a few minutes of vigorous assault the attack abruptly ceased, and JosÈ was called again to the door.

“It’s Reed,” came the American’s voice. He spoke in 321 English. “I’ve persuaded the old carrion to let me have a moment’s pow-wow with you. Say, give the old buzzard what he wants. Otherwise it’s sure death for you all. I’ve argued myself sick with him, but he’s as set as concrete. I’ll do what I can for you if you come out; but he’s going to have the girl, whether or no. Seems that the Bishop of Cartagena wants her; and the old crow here is playing politics with him.”

“Yes, old man,” chimed in another voice, which JosÈ knew to be that of Harris. “You know these fellows are hell on politics.”

“Shut up, Harris!” growled Reed. Then to JosÈ, “What’ll I tell the old duffer?”

“Lord Harry!” ejaculated Harris, “if I had a couple of Mausers I could put these ancient Springfields on the bum in a hurry!”

“Tell him, friend, that we are prepared to die,” replied JosÈ drearily, as he turned back into the gloom and took Carmen’s hand.

The final assault began, and JosÈ knew that it was only a question of minutes when the trembling doors would fall. He crouched with his companions behind the altar, awaiting the inevitable. Carmen held his hand tightly.

“Love will save us, Padre,” she whispered. “Love them! Love them, Padre! They don’t know what is using them––and it has no power! God is here––is everywhere! Love will save us!”

Rosendo bent over and whispered to Don Jorge, “When the doors fall and the men rush in, stand you here with me! When they reach the altar we will throw ourselves upon them, I first, you following, while Juan will bring Carmen and try to protect her. With our machetes we will cut our way out. If we find that it is hopeless––then give me Carmen!”

A moment later, as with a loud wail, the two front doors burst asunder and fell crashing to the floor. A flood of golden sunlight poured into the dark room. In its yellow wake rushed the mob, with exultant yells. Rosendo rose quickly and placed himself at the head of his little band.

But, ere the first of the frenzied besiegers had crossed the threshold of the church, a loud cry arose in the plaza.

“The soldiers! Dios arriba! The soldiers!”

Down the main thoroughfare came a volley of shots. Don Mario, half way through the church door, froze in his tracks. Those of his followers who had entered, turned quickly and made pellmell for the exit. Their startled gaze met a company of federal troops rushing down the street, firing as they came. Don Mario strained after his flying wits.

“Close the doors!” he yelled. But the doors were prone upon the floor, and could not be replaced. Then he and his men scrambled out and rushed around to one side of the building. As the soldiers came running up, the Alcalde’s followers fired point blank into their faces, then dropped their guns and fled precipitately.

It was all over in a trice. Within an hour staid old SimitÍ lay in the grip of martial law, with its once overweening Alcalde, now a meek and frightened prisoner, arraigned before Captain Morales, holding court in the shabby town hall.

But the court-martial was wholly perfunctory. Though none there but himself knew it, the captain had come with the disposal of the unfortunate Don Mario prearranged. A perfunctory hearing of witnesses, which but increased his approval of his orders, and he pronounced sentence upon the former Alcalde, and closed the case.

“Attack upon the church––Assassination of the man LÁzaro––Firing upon federal soldiers––To be shot at sunset, seÑor,” he concluded solemnly.

Don Mario sank to the floor in terror. “Caramba! caramba!” he howled. “But I had letters from the Bishop! I was ordered by him to do it!”

“Bien, seÑor,” replied the captain, whose heart was not wholly devoid of pity, “produce your letters.”

“Dios arriba! I burned them! He said I should! I obeyed him! Caramba! I am lost––lost!”

“SeÑor CapitÁn,” interposed JosÈ, “may I plead for the man? He is––”

“There, Padre,” returned the captain, holding up a hand, “it is useless. Doubtless this has been brought about by motives which you do not understand. It is unfortunate––but inevitable. You have a cÁrcel here? Bien,” addressing his lieutenant, “remove the prisoner to it, and at sunset let the sentence be carried out.”

Don Mario, screaming with fear, was dragged from the room.

“And now, seÑores,” continued the captain calmly, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, “I appoint Don Fernando, former secretary, as temporary Alcalde, until such time as the Governor may fill the office permanently. And,” he continued, looking about the room with a heavy scowl, while the timid people shrank against the wall, “as for those misguided ones who took part with Don Mario in this anticlerical uprising––his fate will serve, I think, as a warning!”

A hush of horror lay upon the stunned people as they filed slowly out of the room.

“Bien,” added the captain, addressing Fernando, “quarters for my men, and rations. We return to the Hercules at daybreak. And let all arms and ammunition be collected. Every house must be searched. And we shall want peones to carry it to the river.”

JosÈ turned away, sick with the horror of it all. A soldier approached him with a message from Don Mario. The condemned man was asking for the last rites. Faint and trembling, the priest accompanied the messenger to the jail.

“Padre! Dios arriba!” wailed the terrified and bewildered Don Mario. “It was a mistake! Don Wenceslas––”

“Yes, I understand, Don Mario,” interrupted JosÈ, tenderly taking the man’s hand. “He told you to do it.”

“Yes, Padre,” sobbed the unfortunate victim. “He said that I would be rich––that I would be elected to Congress––ah, the traitor! And, Padre––I burned his letters because it was his wish! Ah, Santa Virgen!” He put his head on the priest’s shoulder and wept violently.

JosÈ’s heart was wrung; but he was powerless to aid the man. And yet, as he dwelt momentarily on his own sorrows, he almost envied the fate which had overtaken the misguided Don Mario.

The lieutenant entered. “SeÑor Padre,” he said, “the sun is low. In a quarter of an hour––”

Don Mario sank to the ground and clasped the priest’s knees. JosÈ held up his hand, and the lieutenant, bowing courteously, withdrew. The priest knelt beside the cowering prisoner.

“Don Mario,” he said gently, holding the man’s hand, “confess all to me. It may be the means of saving other lives––and then you will have expiated your own crimes.”

“Padre,” moaned the stricken man, rocking back and forth, his head buried in his hands and tears streaming through his fingers, “Padre, you will forgive––?”

“Aye, Don Mario, everything. And the Christ forgives. Your sins are remitted. But remove now the last burden from your soul––the guilty knowledge of the part Don Wenceslas has had in the disaster which has come upon SimitÍ. Tell it all, friend, for you may save many precious lives thereby.”

The fallen Alcalde roused himself by a mighty effort. Forgetting for the moment his own dire predicament, he opened his heart. JosÈ sat before him in wide-mouthed astonishment. Don Mario’s confession brought a revelation that left him cold. The lieutenant entered again.

“One moment,” said JosÈ. Then, to Don Mario: “And Carmen?”

Don Mario leaned close to the priest and whispered low. 324 “No, she is not Diego’s child! And, Padre, take her away, at once! But out of the country! There is not an inch of ground in all Colombia now where she would be safe from Don Wenceslas!”

JosÈ’s head sank upon his breast. Then he again took Don Mario’s hand.

“Friend,” he said gravely, “rest assured, what you have told me saves at least one life, and removes the sin with which your own was stained. And now,” rising and turning to the waiting lieutenant, “we are ready.”

Ora pro nobis! Ora pro nobis! Santa Virgen, San Salvador, ora pro nobis!

A few minutes later a sharp report echoed through the SimitÍ valley and startled the herons that were seeking their night’s rest on the wooded isle. Then JosÈ de RincÓn, alone, and with a heart of lead, moved slowly down through the dreary village and crossed the deserted plaza to his lowly abode.