The low-hung moon, shrouded in heavy vapor, threw an eldritch shimmer upon the little group that silently bore the body of the martyred LÁzaro from the old church late that night to the dreary cemetery on the hill. JosÈ took but a reluctant part in the proceedings. He would even have avoided this last service to his faithful friend if he could. It seemed to him as he stumbled along the stony road behind the body which Rosendo and Don Jorge carried that his human endurance had been strained so far beyond the elastic limit that there could now be no rebound. Every thought that touched his sore mind made it bleed anew, for every thought that he accepted was acrid, rasping, oppressive. The sheer weight of foreboding, of wild apprehension, of paralyzing fear, crushed him, until his shoulders bent low as he walked. How, lest he perform a miracle, could he hope to extricate himself and his loved ones from the meshes of the net, far-cast, but with unerring aim, which had fallen upon them?

As he passed the town hall he saw through the open door the captain’s cot, and a guard standing motionless beside it. The captain had elected to remain there for the night, while his men found a prickly hospitality among the cowering townsfolk. JosÈ knew now that the hand which Don Mario had dealt himself in the game inaugurated by Wenceslas had been from a stacked deck. He knew that the President of the Republic 325 had ordered Morales to this inoffensive little town to quell an alleged anticlerical uprising, and that the execution of the misguided Alcalde had been determined long before the Hercules had got under way. He could see that it was necessary for the Government to sacrifice its agent in the person of the Alcalde, in order to prove its own loyalty to the Church. And in return therefor he knew it would expect, not without reason, the coÖperation of the Church in case the President’s interference in the province of BolÍvar should precipitate a general revolt.

But what had been determined upon as his own fate? He had not the semblance of an idea. From the confession of the ruined Alcalde he now knew that Don Mario had been poisoned against him from the beginning; that even the letters of introduction which Wenceslas had given him to the Alcalde contained the charge of his having accomplished the ruin of the girl Maria in Cartagena, and of his previous incarceration in the monastery of Palazzola. And Don Mario had confessed in his last moments that Wenceslas had sought to work through him and JosÈ in the hope that the location of the famous mine, La Libertad, might be revealed. Don Mario had been instructed to get what he could out of this scion of RincÓn; and only his own greed and cupidity had caused him to play fast and loose with both sides until, falling before the allurements which Wenceslas held out, he had rushed madly into his own destruction. JosÈ realized that so far he himself had proved extremely useful to Wenceslas––but had his usefulness ended? At these thoughts his soul momentarily suffused with the pride of the old and hectoring RincÓn stock and rose, instinct with revolt––but only to sink again in helpless resignation, while the shadow of despair rolled in and quenched his feeble determination.

Rosendo and Don Jorge placed the body in one of the vacant vaults and filled the entrance with some loose bricks. Then they stood back expectantly. It was now the priest’s turn. He had a part to perform, out there on the bleak hilltop in the ghostly light. But JosÈ remained motionless and silent, his head sunk upon his breast.

Then Rosendo, waxing troubled, spoke in gentle admonition. “He would expect it, you know, Padre.”

JosÈ turned away from the lonely vault. Bitter tears coursed down his cheeks, and his voice broke. He laid his head on Rosendo’s stalwart shoulder and wept aloud.

The sickly, greenish cast of the moonlight silhouetted the figures of the three men in grotesque shapes against the cemetery wall and the crumbling tombs. The morose call of a toucan floated weirdly upon the heavy air. The faint wail of 326 the frogs in the shallow waters below rose like the despairing sighs of lost souls.

Rosendo wound his long arm about the sorrowing priest. Don Jorge’s muscles knotted, and a muttered imprecation rose from his tight lips. Strangely had the shift and coil of the human mind thrown together these three men, so different in character, yet standing now in united protest against the misery which men heap upon their fellow-men in the name of Christ. JosÈ, the apostate agent of Holy Church, his hands bound, and his heart bursting with yearning toward his fellow-men; Rosendo, simple-minded and faithful, chained to the Church by heredity and association, yet ashamed of its abuses and lusts; Don Jorge, fierce in his denunciation of the political and religious sham and hypocrisy which he saw masking behind the cloak of imperial religion.

“I have nothing to say, friends,” moaned JosÈ, raising his head; “nothing that would not still further reveal my own miserable weakness and the despicable falsity of the Church. If the Church had followed the Christ, it would have taught me to do likewise; and I should now call to LÁzaro and bid him come forth, instead of shamefully confessing my impotency and utter lack of spirituality, even while I pose as an Alter Christus.”

“You––you will leave a blessing with him before we go, Padre?” queried the anxious Rosendo, clinging still to the frayed edge of his fathers’ faith.

“My blessing, Rosendo,” replied JosÈ sadly, “would do no good. He lies there because we have utterly forgotten what the Master came to teach. He lies there because of our false, undemonstrable, mortal beliefs. Oh, that the Church, instead of wasting time murmuring futile prayers over dead bodies, had striven to learn to do the deeds which the Christ said we should all do if we but kept his commandments!”

“But, Padre, you will say Masses for him?” pursued Rosendo.

“Masses? No, I can not––now. I would not take his or your money to give to the Church to get his soul out of an imagined purgatory which the Church long ago invented for the purpose of enriching herself materially––for, alas! after spiritual riches she has had little hankering.”

“To pay God to get His own children out of the flames, eh?” suggested Don Jorge. “It is what I have always said, the religion of the Church is a religion de dinero. If there ever was a God, either He is still laughing Himself sick at our follies––or else He has wept Himself to death over them! Jesus Christ taught no such stuff!”

“Friend,” said JosÈ solemnly, turning to Don Jorge, “I long 327 since learned what the whole world must learn some time, that the Church stands to-day, not as the bride of the Christ, but as the incarnation of the human mind, as error opposed to Truth. It is the embodiment of ‘Who shall be greatest?’ It is one of the various phenomena of the human mentality; and its adherents are the victims of authoritative falsehood. Its Mass and countless other ceremonies differ in no essential respect from ancient pagan worship. Of spirituality it has none. And so it can do none of the works of the Master. Its corrupting faith is foully materialistic. It has been weighed and found wanting. And as the human mind expands, the incoming light must drive out the black beliefs and deeds of Holy Church, else the oncoming centuries will have no place for it.”

“I believe you!” ejaculated Don Jorge. “But why do you still remain a priest? Hombre! I knew when I saw you on the river boat that you were none. But,” his voice dropping to a whisper, “there is a soldier in the road below. It would be well to leave. He might think we were here to plot.”

When the soldier had passed, they quietly left the gloomy cemetery and made their way quickly back through the straggling moonlight to Rosendo’s house. DoÑa Maria, with characteristic quietude, was preparing for the duties of the approaching day. Carmen lay asleep. JosÈ went to her bedside and bent over her, wondering. What were the events of the past few days in her sight? How did she interpret them? Was her faith still unshaken? What did LÁzaro’s death and the execution of Don Mario mean to her? Did she, as he had done, look upon them as real events in a real world, created and governed by a good God? Or did she still hold such things to be the unreal phenomena of the human mentality?––unreal, because opposed to God, and without the infinite principle. As for himself, how had the current of his life been diverted by this rare child! What had she not sought to teach him by her simple faith, her unshaken trust in the immanence of good! True, as a pure reflection of good she had seemed to be the means of stirring up tremendous evil. But had he not seen the evil eventually consume itself, leaving her unscathed? And yet, would this continue? He himself had always conceded to the forces of evil as great power as to those of good––nay, even greater. And even now as he stood looking at her, wrapped in peaceful slumber, his strained sight caught no gleam of hope, no light flashing through the heavy clouds of misfortune that lowered above her. He turned away with an anxious sigh.

“Padre,” said the gentle DoÑa Maria, “the two Americanos––”

“Ah, yes,” interrupted JosÈ, suddenly remembering that he 328 had sent word to them to use his house while they remained in the town. “They had escaped my thought. Bien, they are––?”

“They brought their baggage to your house an hour ago and set up their beds in your living room. They will be asleep by now.”

“Good,” he replied, a wistful sense of gratitude stealing over him at the reassuring thought of their presence. “Bien, we will not disturb them.”

Summoning Rosendo and Don Jorge, the three men sought the lake’s edge. There, seated on the loose shales, they wrestled with their problem until dawn spread her filmy veil over the shimmering stars.

Long before sun-up the soldiers and the peones, whom Captain Morales had impressed, were busy gathering the commandeered rifles and carrying them down to the gunboat Hercules, waiting at the mouth of the Boque river, some six or eight miles distant, and over a wild trail. The townsfolk, thoroughly frightened, hugged the shelter of their homes, and left the streets to the troops. Though they detested the soldiers, yet none would lightly risk a blow from the heavy hand of Morales, whose authority on a punitive expedition of this sort was unlimited. The summary execution of the Alcalde had stricken them with horror, and left an impression which never would be erased from their memories.

Immediately after the early desayuno the captain appeared at Rosendo’s door. He had come to say farewell to the priest. All of the soldiers had disappeared down the trail, with the exception of the two who formed the captain’s small personal escort.

“Conque, adios, SeÑor Padre” he called cheerily, as he approached. JosÈ was sitting at table with Rosendo’s family and Don Jorge. Instinctively he rose hastily, and seizing Carmen, thrust her into the adjoining bedroom and closed the door. Then he went out to face the captain.

“Much excitement for your little pueblo, no?” exclaimed the captain with a bluff laugh as he grasped JosÈ’s hand. “But a lesson like this will last a century. I rejoice that I found it unnecessary to burn the town.”

JosÈ trembled as he replied. “SeÑor CapitÁn, I, too, rejoice. But––the state of the country––what may we expect?”

The captain laughed again. “Caramba, Padre mÍo! who can say? There is much talk, many angry looks, much gesturing and waving of hands. Congress still sits. The President sees fit to send me here, without order from the Departmental 329 Governor. Hombre! what will follow? Quien sabe?” He shrugged his shoulders with that expressive Latin gesture which indicates complete irresponsibility for and indifference to results.

JosÈ’s heart began to beat more regularly. He again took the captain’s hand. He was eager to see him depart. “Bueno pues, SeÑor CapitÁn,” he said hurriedly. “I wish you every felicitation on your return trip. Ah––ah––your orders contained no reference to––to me?” he added hesitatingly.

“None whatever, SeÑor Padre,” replied the captain genially. He turned to go, and JosÈ stifled a great sigh of relief. But suddenly the captain stopped; then turned again.

“Caramba!” he ejaculated, “I nearly forgot! Hombre! what would His Grace have said?”

He fumbled in an inner pocket and drew forth a telegraphic document.

“And you will seize the person of one Rosendo Ariza’s daughter and immediately send her with proper conveyance to the Sister Superior of the convent of Our Lady in Cartagena,” he read aloud.

JosÈ froze to the spot. From within Rosendo’s house came a soft, scurrying sound. Then he heard a movement in his own. Morales returned the folded message to his pocket and started to enter the house. JosÈ could offer no resistance. He was rendered suddenly inert, although vividly conscious of a drama about to be enacted in which he and his loved ones would play leading rÔles. As in a dream he heard the captain address Rosendo and gruffly demand that he produce his daughter. He heard a deep curse from Rosendo; and his blood congealed more thickly as he dwelt momentarily on the old man’s possible conduct in the face of the federal demand. He heard Morales hunting impatiently through the shabby rooms. Then he saw him emerge in a towering rage––but empty-handed.

“Caramba, Padre!” cried the angry captain, “but what is this? Have they not had one good lesson, that I must inflict another? I demand to know, has this Rosendo Ariza a daughter?”

He stood waiting for the answer that JosÈ knew he must make. The priest’s hollow voice sounded like an echo from another world.

“Yes.”

“Bien, then I have discovered one honest man in yourself, Padre. You will now assist me in finding her.”

“I––I know not––where––where she is, SeÑor CapitÁn,” murmured JosÈ with feebly fluttering lips.

They were alone, this little party of actors, although many 330 an eye peered out timidly at them from behind closed shutters and barred doors around the plaza. Don Jorge and Rosendo came out of the house and stood behind JosÈ. The captain confronted them, bristling with wrath at the insolence that dared oppose his supreme authority. The heat had already begun to pour down in torrents. The morning air was light, but not a sound traversed it. The principals in this tense drama might have been painted against that vivid tropical background.

Then Harris, moved by his piquant Yankee curiosity, appeared at the door of the parish house, his great eyes protruding and his head craned forth like a monster heron. Morales saw him. “Ha!” he exclaimed. “Perhaps the Americano hides the daughter of Ariza!”

He started for the priest’s door. But ere he reached it Reed suddenly appeared from behind Harris. In his hand he grasped a large American flag. Holding this high above his head, he blocked the entrance.

“Hold! SeÑor CapitÁn!” he cried in his perfect Spanish. “We are American citizens, and this house is under the protection of the American Government!”

Morales fell back and stood with mouth agape in astonishment. The audacity of this foreign adventurer fairly robbed him of his breath. He glanced dubiously from him to the priest. Then, to save the situation, he broke into an embarrassed laugh.

“Bien, my good friend,” he finally said, addressing Reed in his courtliest manner, “all respect to your excellent Government. And, if you will accept it, I shall be pleased to secure you a commission in the Colombian army. But, my orders––you understand, do you not? The sun is already high, and I can not lose more time. Therefore, you will kindly stand aside and permit me to search that house.” He motioned to his men and moved forward.

Still holding aloft the flag, Reed drew a long revolver. Harris quickly produced one of equal size and wicked appearance. Morales stopped abruptly and looked at them in hesitation. He knew what he might expect. He had heard much of American bravery. His chief delight when not in the field was the perusal of a battered history of the American Civil War; and his exclamations of admiration for the hardihood of those who participated in it were always loud and frequent. But he, too, had a reputation to sustain. The Americans stood grimly silent before him. Harris’s finger twitched nervously along the trigger, and a smile played over his thin lips. The man was aching for a scrimmage.

Then, his face flaming with shame and chagrin, Morales turned to his escort and commanded them to advance.

Up went the two revolvers. A moment more, and––

A cry came from Rosendo’s house. Ana, her face swollen with weeping, clasping her sightless babe to her bosom, had emerged and faced the captain.

“SeÑor,” she said in a voice strained to a whisper, “I am the daughter of Rosendo Ariza.”

A half-suppressed exclamation burst from the lips of Rosendo. A desperate, suffocating joy surged over the riven soul of the priest. Don Jorge’s mouth opened, but no sound came forth. This precipitate dÉnoÛement held them rigid with astonishment.

A heavy silence descended upon them all. In the eyes of JosÈ Ana’s tense figure, standing grim and rigid before the captain, took on a dignity that was majestic, a worth that transcended all human computation. A Magdalen, yes, standing with her sin-conceived child clasped in her trembling arms. But this act––God above! this sacrificial act broke the alabaster box and spread the precious nard over the feet of the pitying Christ.

Morales turned questioningly to JosÈ. “Is this true, Padre?” he asked.

“It is,” murmured the dazed priest, scarce hearing his own words.

“But––I have no orders respecting a child––”

“They cannot be separated,” half whispered JosÈ, not daring to meet the vacant gaze of the babe.

The captain hesitated a moment longer. Then, with an upward glance at the sun, he gave a sharp command to his men. Placing the woman between them, the two soldiers faced about and moved quickly away. With a low bow and a final “Adios, SeÑores,” the captain hurriedly joined them. Ere the little group before Rosendo’s house had collected their wits, the soldiers and their frail charge had mounted the hill beyond the old church and disappeared into the matted trail that led from it to the distant river.

Rosendo was the first to break the mesmeric silence. “Dios arriba!” he cried. His knees gave way beneath him and he buried his face in his hands. “Anita––!”

Then he rose hastily, and made as if to pursue the soldiers. JosÈ and Don Jorge restrained him.

“Hombre!” cried Don Jorge, “but it is the hand of Providence! It is better so! Listen, friend Rosendo, it but gives us time to act! Perhaps many days! When the mistake is discovered they will return, and they will bring her back unharmed––though they may not learn until she reaches Cartagena! Bien, we can not waste time in mourning now! Courage, man! Think––think hard!”

Rosendo strove to unravel his tangled wits. JosÈ went to him and clasped his big hand.

“Rosendo––friend––would you have it different? I––I alone am to blame that they took Anita! But––it was to save––to save––Ah, God! if I did wrong, take the American’s revolver and shoot me!” He tore open his cassock and stood rigid before the dazed man. Anguish and soul-torture had warped his features.

“Caramba! Enough of such talk!” cried Don Jorge impatiently. “We shall find plenty of others more deserving of shooting, I think! The girl––where is she?”

Reed turned back into the parish house, and emerged a moment later with Carmen and DoÑa Maria, who knew not as yet of Ana’s departure. “I hid them in your bedroom, Padre,” Reed explained.

JosÈ threw him a look of gratitude. “DoÑa Maria,” he cried, “do you take Carmen into your house and await our decision! And you, men, go into my study! It is as Don Jorge says, we must act quickly! Leave your flag hanging, Mr. Reed! It may serve to protect us further against the angry people of SimitÍ!”

The five men quickly gathered in JosÈ’s living room in a strained, excited group. The priest was the first to speak. Rapidly he related in detail Don Mario’s last confession. When he had closed, Reed made reply.

“Old man,” he said, familiarly addressing JosÈ, “having seen the girl, I do not at all wonder that blood has been shed over her. But to keep her another hour in SimitÍ is to sacrifice her. Get her away––and at once! If not, the people will drive you out. I talked with Fernando last night. With the soldiers gone, the people will rise up against you all.”

“But, friend, where shall we go?” cried JosÈ in desperation. “There is no place in Colombia now where she would be safe!”

“Then leave the country,” suggested Reed.

“It can not be done,” interposed Don Jorge. “It would be impossible for him to escape down the river with the girl, even if he had funds to carry her away from Colombia, which he has not. At any port he would be seized. To take the trail would only postpone for a short time their certain capture. And then––well, we will not predict! To flee into the jungle––or to hide among the peones along the trails––that might be done––yes.”

“What’s the gibberish about now, pal?” put in Harris, whose knowledge of the Spanish tongue was nil.

Reed explained to him at some length.

“Well, that’s easy,” returned Harris. “Tell ’em you’ll take the girl out yourself. She’s white enough to pass as your daughter, you know.”

Rosendo, stunned by the sudden departure of Ana, had sat in a state of stupefaction during this conversation. But now he roused up and turned to Reed. “What says he, seÑor?” he inquired thickly.

The latter translated his friend’s suggestion, laughing as he commented on its gross absurdity.

Rosendo dropped his head again upon his chest and lapsed into silence. Then he rose unsteadily and passed a hand slowly across his brow. A strange light had come into his eyes. For a moment he stood looking fixedly at Reed. Finally he began to speak.

“SeÑores,” he said, rolling his syllables sonorously, “the time has come at last! For years I have waited, waited, knowing that some day the great gift which the good God put into my hands for the little Carmen would be needed. SeÑores, my parents were slaves. The cruel Spaniards drove them to and from their heavy labors with the lash; and when the great war ended, they sank exhausted into their graves. My parents––I have not told you this, Padre––were the slaves of Don Ignacio de RincÓn!”

An exclamation burst from the astonished priest’s lips. What, then, had this man been concealing all these years? Little wonder that he had hesitated when he learned that a RincÓn had come to the parish of SimitÍ!

The old man quickly resumed. As he continued, his recital became dramatic. As they listened, his auditors sat spellbound.

“Don Ignacio de RincÓn himself was kind of heart. But his overseers––ah, Dios arriba! they were cruel! cruel! Many a time the great lash wound itself about my poor father’s shrinking body, and hurled him shrieking to the ground––and why? Because his blistered hands could not hold the batea with which he washed gold for your grandfather, Padre, your grandfather!”

JosÈ’s head sank upon his breast. A groan escaped him, and tears trickled slowly down his sunken cheeks.

“I bear you no malice, Padre,” continued Rosendo. “It was hard those first days to accept you here. But when, during your fever, I learned from your own lips what you had suffered, I knew that you needed a friend, and I took you to my bosom. And now I am glad––ah, very glad, that I did so. But, though my confidence in you increased day by day, I could never bring myself to tell you my great secret––the secret that now I reveal for the sake of the little Carmen. Padre––seÑores––I––I am the owner of the great mine, La Libertad!”

Had the heavens collapsed the astonishment of Don Jorge and the priest could not have been greater. The coming of the 334 soldiers, the terrific strain of the past few days, culminating in the loss of Ana––all was for the moment obliterated.

JosÈ started up and tried to speak. But the words would not come. Rosendo paused a moment for the effect which he knew his revelation would produce, and then went on rapidly:

“Padre, the mine belonged to your grandfather. It produced untold wealth. The gold taken from it was brought down the GuamocÓ trail to SimitÍ, and from here shipped to Cartagena, where he lived in great elegance. I make no doubt the gold which you and the little Carmen discovered in the old church that day came from this same wonderful mine. But the ore was quartz, and arrastras were required to grind it, and much skill was needed, too. He had men from old Spain, deeply versed in such knowledge. Ah, the tales my poor father told of that mine!

“Bien, the war broke out. The GuamocÓ region became depopulated, and sank back into the jungle. The location of the mine had been recorded in Cartagena; but, as you know, when Don Ignacio fled from this country he destroyed the record. He did the same with the records in SimitÍ, on that last flying trip here, when he hid the gold in the altar of the old church. And then the jungle grew up around the mine during those thirteen long years of warfare––the people who knew of it died off––and the mine was lost, utterly lost!”

He stopped for breath. The little group sat enthralled before him. All but Harris, who was vainly beseeching Reed to translate to him the dramatic story.

“Padre,” continued Rosendo at length, “from what my father had told me I had a vague idea of the location of that mine. And many a weary day I spent hunting for it! Then––then I found it! Ah, Caramba! I wept aloud for joy! It was while I was on the TiguÍ, washing gold. I was working near what we used to call Pozo Cayman, opposite La Colorado, where the Frenchmen died. I camped on the lonely bank there, with only the birds and the wondering animals to keep me company. One dark night, as I lay on the ground, I had a dream. I believe in dreams, Padre. I dreamt that the Virgin, all in white, came to me where I lay––that she whispered to me and told me to rise quickly and drive away the devil.

“I awoke suddenly. It was still dark, but a pair of fiery eyes were gleaming at me from the bush. I seized my machete and started after them. It was a jaguar, Padre, and he fled up the hill from me. Why I followed, I know not, unless I thought, still half asleep as I was, that I was obeying the Virgin.

“At the top of the hill I lost the animal––and myself, as well. I am a good woodsman, seÑores, and not easily lost. But 335 this time my poor head went badly astray. I started to cut through the bush. At last I came to the edge of a steep ravine. I clambered down the sides into the gully below. I thought it looked like an old trail, and I followed it. So narrow was it at times that the walls almost touched. But I went on. Then it widened, and I knew that at last I was in a trail, long since abandoned––and how old, only the good God himself knew!

“But my story grows as long as the trail! On and on I went, crossing stream after stream, scaring snakes from my path, frightening the birds above, who doubtless have never seen men in that region, all the time thinking I was going toward the TiguÍ, until at last the old sunken trail led me up a tremendous hill. At the top, buried in a dense matting of brush, I fell over a circle of stones. They were the remains of an ancient arrastra. Further on I found another; and still another. Then, near them, the stone foundations of houses, long since gone to decay. From these the trail took me into a gully, where but little water flowed. It was lined with quartz bowlders. I struck off a piece from one of the largest. It showed specks of gold! My eyes danced! I forgot that I was lost! I went on up the stream, striking off piece after piece from the great rocks. Every one showed specks of free gold. Caramba! I reached the top of the hill. Hombre! how can I tell it! Tunnel after tunnel yawned at me from the hillside. Some of these were still open, where they had been driven through the hard rock. Others had caved. I had my wallet, in which I always carry matches and a bit of candle. I entered one of the open tunnels. Dios arriba! far within I crossed a quartz vein––I scraped it with my machete. Caramba! it could not have been less than six feet in width––and all speckled with gold! Above it, far into the blackness, where bats were scurrying madly, the ore had been taken out long, long ago. In the darkness below I stumbled over old, rusted tools. Every one bore the inscription, ‘I de R.’ Your grandfather, Padre, put his stamp on everything belonging to him. Then, as I sat trying to place myself, my father’s oft-told story of the location of the mine flashed into my brain. My memory is good, Padre. And I knew then where I was. I was at the headwaters of the Borrachera. And I had discovered La Libertad!”

Reed’s eager ears had drunk in every word of the old man’s dramatic story. His practical mind had revolved its possibilities. When Rosendo paused again, he quickly asked:

“The title, seÑor?”

Rosendo drew forth a paper from his bosom. It bore the government stamp. He handed it to Reed.

“You will recall, Padre,” he said, addressing the dully wondering 336 JosÈ, “that I once asked you to give me a name for a mine––a rare name? And you told me to call it the––the––what is it?”

“The Chicago mine, Rosendo?” replied JosÈ, recalling the incident.

“Yes,” exclaimed the old man excitedly, “that is it! Bien, I told no one of my discovery of years before. I had never had money enough to get the title to it. Besides, I was afraid. But when it seemed that I might soon have use for it I sold my finca for funds and had LÁzaro apply through Don Mario for title to a mine called––called––”

“The Chicago mine,” said JosÈ, again coming to the rescue.

“Just so! Bien, LÁzaro got the title, which I never could have done, for at that time Don Mario would not have put through any papers for me. I then had the unsuspecting LÁzaro transfer the title to me, and––Bien, I am the sole owner of La Libertad!”

Reed examined the paper at some length, and then handed it back to Rosendo. “Can we not talk business, seÑor?” he said, speaking with some agitation. “I am so situated that I can float an American company to operate this mine, and allow you a large percentage of the returns. Great heavens!” he exclaimed, unable longer to contain himself, “it is your fortune!”

“SeÑor,” replied Rosendo, slowly shaking his head, “I want no share in any of your American companies. But––your friend––he has suggested just what has been running through my mind ever since you came to SimitÍ.”

JosÈ’s heart suddenly stopped. The wild, terrifying idea tore through his fraught brain. He turned quickly to Reed and addressed him in English. “No––no––it is impossible! The old man wanders! You can not take the girl––!”

“Certainly not!” ejaculated Reed with some warmth. “Such a thing is quite out of the question!”

“Stuff!” exclaimed Harris. “Now look here, Mr. Priest, Reed’s wife is in Cartagena, waiting for him. Came down from New York that far for the trip. Kind of sickly, you know. What’s to prevent her from taking the girl to the States and placing her in a boarding school there until such time as you can either follow, or this stew down here has settled sufficiently to permit of her returning to you?”

Reed threw up a deprecatory hand. “Impossible!” he cried.

“But,” interposed Harris exasperatedly, “would you leave the ravishing little beauty here to fall into the hands of the cannibals who are trailing her? Lord Harry! if it weren’t for the looks of the thing I’d take her myself. But you’ve got a 337 wife, so it’d be easy.” He leaned over to Reed and concluded in a whisper, “The old man’s going to make a proposition––listen!”

“But,” remonstrated the latter, “the expense of keeping her in New York indefinitely! For, unless I mistake much, none of these people will ever see the States after she leaves. And then I have an adopted daughter on my hands! And, heaven knows! now that my ambitious wife is determined to break into New York society with her adorable sister, I have no money to waste on adopted children!”

Rosendo, who had been studying the Americans attentively during their conversation, now laid a hand on Reed’s. “SeÑor,” he said in a quiet tone, “if you will take the little Carmen with you, and keep her safe from harm until Padre JosÈ can come to you, or she can be returned to us here, I will transfer to you a half interest in this mine.”

JosÈ sprang to his feet. His face was blanched with fear. “Rosendo!” he cried wildly, “do not do that! Dios arriba, no! You do not know this man! Ah, seÑor,” turning to Reed, “I beg you will forgive––but Rosendo is mad to suggest such a thing! We cannot permit it––we––I––oh, God above!” He sank again into his chair and covered his face with his hands.

Don Jorge gave vent to a long, low whistle. Rosendo, his voice husky and his lips trembling, went on:

“I know, Padre––I know. But it must be done! I will give the mine to the American––and to Carmen. He has a powerful government back of him, and he is able to defend the title and save her interest as well as his own. As for me, I––Bien, I shall want nothing when Carmen goes––nothing.”

“For heaven’s sake!” burst in Harris, seizing Reed’s arm. “If you don’t tell me what all this is about now I shall shoot––and not straight up, either!”

“SeÑores,” said Reed in a controlled voice, “let me talk this matter over with my friend here. I will come to you in an hour.”

Rosendo and Don Jorge bowed and silently withdrew from the parish house. The former went at once to apprise the wondering DoÑa Maria of the events which had crowded the morning’s early hours and to answer her apprehensive questionings regarding Ana. Carmen was to know only that Ana––but what could he tell her? That the woman had sacrificed herself for the girl? No; but that they had seized this opportunity to send her, under the protection of Captain Morales, to the Sisters of the Convent of Our Lady. The old man knew that the girl would see only God’s hand in the event.

JosÈ as in a dream sought Carmen. It seemed to him that 338 once his arms closed about her no power under the skies could tear them asunder. He found her sitting in the doorway at the rear of Rosendo’s house, looking dreamily out over the placid lake. Cucumbra, now old and feeble, slept at her feet. As the man approached he heard her murmur repeatedly, “It is not true––it is not true––it is not true!”

“Carmen!” cried JosÈ, seizing her hand. “Come with me!”

She rose quickly. “Gladly, Padre––but where?”

“God only knows––to the end of the world!” cried the frenzied man.

“Well, Padre dear,” she softly replied, as she smiled up into his drawn face, “we will start out. But I think we had better rest when we reach the shales, don’t you?”

Then she put her hand in his.