“You are well now, aren’t you, Padre?”

It was not so much an interrogation as an affirmation, an assumption of fact.

“Now you must come and see my garden––and Cucumbra, too. And Cantar-las-horas; have you heard him? I scolded him lots; and I know he wants to mind; but he just thinks he can’t stop singing the Vespers––the old stupid!”

While the child prattled she drew a chair to the bedside and arranged the bowl of broth and the two wheat rolls she had brought.

“You are real hungry, and you are going to eat all of this and get strong again. Right away!” she added, emphatically expressing her confidence in the assumption.

JosÈ made no reply. He seemed again to be trying to sound the unfathomable depths of the child’s brown eyes. Mechanically he took the spoon she handed him.

“See!” she exclaimed, while her eyes danced. “A silver spoon! Madre Ariza borrowed it from DoÑa Maria Alcozer. They have lots of silver. Now eat.”

From his own great egoism, his years of heart-ache, sorrows, and shames, the priest’s heavy thought slowly lifted and centered upon the child’s beautiful face. The animated little figure before him radiated such abundant life that he himself caught the infection; and with it his sense of weakness passed like an illusion.

“And look, Padre! The broth––isn’t it good?”

JosÈ tasted, and declared it delicious.

“Well, you know”––the enthusiastic little maid clambered up on the bed––“yesterday it was MaÑuela––she was my hen. I told her a week ago that you would need her––”

“And you gave up your hen for me, little one?” he interrupted.

“Why––yes, Padre. It was all right. I told her how it was. And she clucked so hard, I knew she was glad to help the good Cura. And she was so happy about it! I told her she really wouldn’t die. You know, things never do––do they?”

The priest hesitated. To hide his confusion and gain time he began to eat rapidly.

“No, they don’t,” said the girl confidently, answering her own question. “Because,” she added, “God is everywhere––isn’t He?”

What manner of answer could he, of all men, make to such 15 terribly direct questions as these! And it was well that Carmen evidently expected none––that in her great innocence she assumed for him the same beautiful faith which she herself held.

“DoÑa Jacinta didn’t die last week. But they said she did; and so they took her to the cemetery and put her in a dark bÓveda. And the black buzzards sat on the wall and watched them. Padre Rosendo said she had gone to the angels––that God took her. But, Padre, God doesn’t make people sick, does He? They get sick because they don’t know who He is. Every day I told God I knew He would cure you. And He did, didn’t He?”

While the girl paused for breath, her eyes sparkled, and her face glowed with exaltation. Child-like, her active mind flew from one topic to another, with no thought of connecting links.

“This morning, Padre, two little green parrots flew across the lake and perched on our roof. And they sat there and watched Cucumbra eat his breakfast; and they tried to steal his fish; and they scolded so loud! Why did they want to steal from him, when there is so much to eat everywhere? But they didn’t know any better, did they? I don’t think parrots love each other very much, for they scold so hard. Padre, it is so dark in here; come out and see the sun and the lake and the mountains. And my garden––Padre, it is beautiful! Esteban said next time he went up the trail he would bring me a monkey for a pet; and I am going to name it Hombrecito. And Captain Julio is going to bring me a doll from down the river. But,” with a merry, musical trill, “Juan said the night you came that you were my doll! Isn’t he funny!” And throwing back her little head, the child laughed heartily.

“Padre, you must help padre Rosendo with his arithmetic. Every night he puts on his big spectacles and works so hard to understand it. He says he knows Satan made fractions. But, Padre, that isn’t so, is it? Not if God made everything. Padre, you know everything, don’t you? Padre Rosendo said you did. There are lots of things I want you to tell me––such lots of things that nobody here knows anything about. Padre,”––the child leaned toward the priest and whispered low––“the people here don’t know who God is; and you are going to teach them! There was a Cura here once, when I was a baby; but I guess he didn’t know God, either.”

She lapsed into silence, as if pondering this thought. Then, clapping her hands with unfeigned joy, she cried in a shrill little voice, “Oh, Padre, I am so glad you have come to SimitÍ! I just knew God would not forget us!”

JosÈ had no reply to make. His thought was busy with the phenomenon before him: a child of man, but one who, like Israel of old, saw God and heard His voice at every turn of her daily walk. Untutored in the ways of men, without trace of sophistication or cant, unblemished as she moved among the soiled vessels about her, shining with celestial radiance in this unknown, moldering town so far from the world’s beaten paths.

The door opened softly and Rosendo entered, preceded by a cheery greeting.

“Hombre!” he exclaimed, surveying the priest, “but you mend fast! You have eaten all the broth! But I told the good wife that the little Carmen would be better than medicine for you, and that you must have her just as soon as you should awake.”

JosÈ’s eyes dilated with astonishment. Absorbed in the child, he had consumed almost his entire breakfast.

“He is well, padre Rosendo, he is well!” cried the girl, bounding up and down and dancing about the tall form of her foster-father. Then, darting to JosÈ, she seized his hand and cried, “Now to see my garden! And Cucumbra! And––!”

“Quiet, child!” commanded Rosendo, taking her by the arm. “The good Cura is ill, and must rest for several days yet.”

“No, padre Rosendo, he is well––all well! Aren’t you, Padre?” appealing to JosÈ, and again urging him forth.

The rapidity of the conversation and the animation of the beautiful child caused complete forgetfulness of self, and, together with the restorative effect of the wholesome food, acted upon the priest like a magical tonic. Weak though he was, he clung to her hand and, struggling out of the bed, stood uncertainly upon the floor. Instantly Rosendo’s arm was about him.

“Don’t try it, Padre,” the latter urged anxiously. “The heat will be too much for you. Another day or two of rest will make you right.”

But the priest, heedless of the admonition, suffered himself to be led by the child; and together they passed slowly out into the living room, through the kitchen, and thence into the diminutive rose garden, the pride of the little Carmen.

DoÑa Maria, wife of Rosendo, was bending over the primitive fireplace, busy with her matutinal duties, having just dusted the ashes from a corn arepa which she had prepared for her consort’s simple luncheon. She was a woman well into the autumn of life; but her form possessed something of the elegance of the Spanish dames of the colonial period; her countenance bore an expression of benevolence, which emanated 17 from a gentle and affectionate heart; and her manner combined both dignity and suavity. She greeted the priest tenderly, and expressed mingled surprise and joy that he felt able to leave his bed so soon. But as her eyes caught Rosendo’s meaning glance, and then turned to the child, they seemed to indicate a full comprehension of the situation.

The rose garden consisted of a few square feet of black earth, bordered by bits of shale, and seemingly scarce able to furnish nourishment for the three or four little bushes. But, though small, these were blooming in profusion.

“Padre Rosendo did this!” exclaimed the delighted girl. “Every night he brings water from La Cienaga for them!”

Rosendo smiled patronizingly upon the child; but JosÈ saw in the glance of his argus eyes a tenderness and depth of affection for her which bespoke nothing short of adoration.

Carmen bent over the roses, fondling and kissing them, and addressing them endearing names.

“She calls them God’s kisses,” whispered Rosendo to the priest.

At that moment a low growl was heard. JosÈ turned quickly and confronted a gaunt dog, a wild breed, with eyes fixed upon the priest and white fangs showing menacingly beneath a curling lip.

“Oh, Cucumbra!” cried the child, rushing to the beast and throwing her arms about its shaggy neck. “Haven’t I told you to love everybody? And is that the way to show it? Now kiss the Cura’s hand, for he loves you.”

The brute sank at her feet. Then as she took the priest’s hand and held it to the dog’s mouth, he licked it with his rough tongue.

The priest’s brain was now awhirl. He stood gazing at the child as if fascinated. Through his jumbled thought there ran an insistent strain, “He that hath seen me hath seen the Father. The Father dwelleth in me and I in Him.” He did not associate these words with the Nazarene now, but with the barefoot girl before him. Again within the farthest depths of his soul he heard the soft note of a vibrating chord––that chord which all the years of his unhappy life had hung mute, until here, in this moldering town, in the wilderness of forgotten GuamocÓ, the hand of Love had swept it.

The sun stood at the zenith. The day was white-hot. DoÑa Maria summoned her little family to the midday repast. Rosendo brought a chair for JosÈ and placed it near the rose garden in the shade of the house, for, despite all protest, the priest had stubbornly refused to return to his bed. Left now to himself, his thought hovered about the child, and then drifted 18 out across the incandescent shales to the beautiful lake beyond. The water lay like shimmering glass. In the distance the wooded slopes of the San Lucas mountains rose like green billows. Brooding silence spread over the scene. It was Nature’s hour of siesta. In his own heart there was a great peace––and a strange expectancy. He seemed to be awaiting a revelation of things close at hand. In a way he felt that he had accomplished his purpose of coming to SimitÍ to die, and that he was now awaiting the resurrection.

The peaceful revery was interrupted by Rosendo. “Padre, if you will not return to your bed––” He regarded the priest dubiously.

“No, Rosendo. I grow stronger every minute. But––where is Carmen?”

“She must help her mother.”

A long pause ensued, while JosÈ impatiently waited for Rosendo to continue. The child was becoming his obsession. He was eager to talk of her, to learn her history, to see her, for her presence meant complete obliteration of self.

“Padre,” Rosendo at length emerged from his meditation. “I would like to speak of the little Carmen.”

“Yes,” responded JosÈ with animation. Life and strength seemed to return to him with a bound.

“But––what say you? Shall we visit the church, which is only across the road? There we can talk without interruption. No one will be in the streets during the heat. And I will carry you over.”

“Let us go to the church, yes; but I can walk. It is only a step.”

JosÈ leaned upon Rosendo, the latter supporting him with his great arm, and together they crossed the road and mounted the shale platform on which stood the ancient edifice. Rosendo produced a huge key of antique pattern; and the rusty lock, after much resistance, yielded with a groan, and the heavy door creaked open, emitting an odor of dampness and must. Doffing their hats, the men entered the long, barn-like room. Rosendo carefully closed and locked the door behind them, a precaution necessary in a drowsing town of this nature, where the simple folk who see day after day pass without concern or event to break the deadening monotony, assemble in eager, buzzing multitudes at the slightest prospect of extraordinary interest.

The room was dimly lighted, and was open to the peak of the roof. From the rough-hewn rafters above hung hundreds of hideous bats. At the far end stood the altar. It was adorned with decrepit images, and held a large wooden statue 19 of the Virgin. This latter object was veiled with two flimsy curtains, which were designed to be raised and lowered with great pomp and the ringing of a little bell during service. The image was attired in real clothes, covered with tawdry finery, gilt paper, and faded ribbons. The head bore a wig of hair; and the face was painted, although great sections of the paint had fallen, away, leaving the suggestion of pockmarks. Beneath this image was located the sagrario, the little cupboard in which the hostia, the sacred wafer, was wont to be kept exposed in the custodia, a cheap receptacle composed of two watch crystals. At either side of this stood half consumed wax tapers. A few rough benches were strewn about the floor; and dust and green mold lay thick over all.

At the far right-hand corner of the building a lean-to had been erected to serve as the sacristÍa, or vestry. In the worm-eaten wardrobe within hung a few vestments, adorned with cheap finery, and heavily laden with dust, over which scampered vermin of many varieties. An air of desolation and abandon hung over the whole church, and to JosÈ seemed to symbolize the decay of a sterile faith.

Rosendo carefully dusted off a bench near one of the windows and bade JosÈ be seated.

“Padre,” he began, after some moments of deep reflection, “the little Carmen is not an ordinary child.”

“I have seen that, Rosendo,” interposed JosÈ.

“We––we do not understand her,” Rosendo went on, carefully weighing his words; “and we sometimes think she is not––not altogether like us––that her coming was a miracle. But you do not believe in miracles,” he added quizzically.

“Why do you say that, Rosendo?” JosÈ returned in surprise.

Rosendo paused before replying.

“You were very sick, Padre; and in the fever you––” the impeccably honest fellow hesitated.

“Yes, I thought so,” said JosÈ with an air of weary resignation. “And what else did I say, Rosendo?”

The faultless courtesy of the artless Rosendo, a courtesy so genuine that JosÈ knew it came right from the heart, made conversation on this topic a matter of extreme difficulty to him.

“Do not be uneasy, Padre,” he said reassuringly. “I alone heard you. Whenever you began to talk I would not let others listen; and I stayed with you every day and night. But––it is just because of what you said in the calentura that I am speaking to you now of the little Carmen.”

Because of what he had said in his delirium! JosÈ’s astonishment grew apace.

“Padre, many bad priests have been sent to SimitÍ. It has been our curse. Priests who stirred up revolution elsewhere, who committed murder, and ruined the lives of fair women, have been put upon us. And when in Badillo I learned that you had been sent to our parish, I was filled with fear. I––I lost a daughter, Padre––”

The good man hesitated again. Then, as a look of stern resolution spread over his strong, dark face, he continued:

“It was Padre Diego! We drove him out of SimitÍ four years ago. But my daughter, my only child, went with him.” The great frame shook with emotion, while he hurried on disconnectedly.

“Padre, the priest Diego said that the little Carmen should become a Sister––a nun––that she must be sent to the convent in Mompox––that she belonged to the Church, and the Church would some day have her. But, by the Holy Virgin, the Church shall not have her! And I myself will slay her before this altar rather than let such as Padre Diego lay their slimy paws upon the angel child!”

Rosendo leaped to his feet and began to pace the floor with great strides. The marvelous frame of the man, in which beat a heart too big for the sordid passions of the flesh, trembled as he walked. JosÈ watched him in mute admiration, mingled with astonishment and a heightened sense of expectancy. Presently Rosendo returned and seated himself again beside the priest.

“Padre, I have lived in terror ever since Diego left SimitÍ. For myself I do not fear, for if ever I meet with the wretch I shall wring his neck with my naked hands! But––for the little Carmen––Dios! they might steal her at any time! There are men here who would do it for a few pesos! And how could I prevent it? I pray daily to the Virgin to protect her. She––she is the light of my life. I watch over her hourly. I neglect my hacienda, that I may guard her––and I am a poor man, and cannot afford not to work.”

The man buried his face in his huge hands and groaned aloud. JosÈ remained pityingly silent, knowing that Rosendo’s heaving heart must empty itself.

“Padre,” Rosendo at length raised his head. His features were drawn, but his eyes glowed fiercely. “Priests have committed dark deeds here, and this altar has dripped with blood. When a child, with my own eyes I saw a priest elevate the Host before this altar, as the people knelt in adoration. While their heads were bowed I saw him drive a knife into the neck of a man who was his enemy; and the blood spurted over the image of the Virgin and fell upon the Sacred Host itself! And what 21 did the wicked priest say in defense? Simply that he took this time to assassinate his man because then the victim could die adoring the Host and under the most favorable circumstances for salvation! Hombre! And did the priest pay the penalty for his crime? No! The Bishop of Cartagena transferred him to another parish, and told him to do better in future!”

JosÈ started in horror. But Rosendo did not stop.

“And I remember the story my father used to tell of the priest who poisoned a whole family in SimitÍ with the communion wafer. Their estates had been willed to the Church, and he was impatient to have the management of them. Again nothing was done about it.”

“But, Rosendo, if SimitÍ has been so afflicted by bad priests, why are you confiding in me?” JosÈ asked in wonder.

“Because, Padre,” Rosendo replied, “in the fever you said many things that made me think you were not a bad man. I did suspect you at first––but not after I heard you talk in your sleep. You, too, have suffered. And the Church has caused it. No, not God; but the men who say they know what He thinks and says. They make us all suffer. And after I heard you tell those things in your fever-sleep, I said to Maria that if you lived I knew you would help me protect the little Carmen. Then, too, you are a––” He lapsed abruptly into silence.

JosÈ pressed Rosendo’s hand. “Tell me about her. You have said she is not your daughter. I ask only because of sincere affection for you all, and because the child has aroused in me an unwonted interest.”

Rosendo looked steadily into the eyes of the priest for some moments. JosÈ as steadily returned the glance. From the eyes of the one there emanated a soul-searching scrutiny; from those of the other an answering bid for confidence. The bid was accepted.

“Padre,” began Rosendo, “I place trust in you. Something makes me believe that you are not like other priests I have known. And I have seen that you already love the little Carmen. No, she is not my child. One day, about eight years ago, a steamer on its way down the river touched at Badillo to put off a young woman, who was so sick that the captain feared she would die on board. He knew nothing of her, except that she had embarked at Honda and was bound for Barranquilla. He hoped that by leaving her in the care of the good people of Badillo something might be done. The boat went its way; and the next morning the woman died, shortly after her babe was born. They buried her back of the village, and Escolastico’s woman took the child. They tried to learn the history of the mother; but, though the captain of the boat made many inquiries, 22 he could only find that she had come from BogotÁ the day before the boat left Honda, and that she was then very sick. Some weeks afterward Escolastico happened to come to SimitÍ, and told me the story. He complained that his family was already large, and that his woman found the care of the babe a burden. I love children, Padre, and it seemed to me that I could find a place for the little one, and I told him I would fetch her. And so a few days later I brought her to SimitÍ. But before leaving Badillo I fixed a wooden cross over the mother’s grave and wrote on it in pencil the name ‘Dolores,’ for that was the name in the little gold locket which we found in her valise. There were some clothes, better than the average, and the locket. In the locket were two small pictures, one of a young man, with the name ‘Guillermo’ written beneath it, and one of the woman, with ‘Dolores’ under it. That was all. Captain Julio took the locket to Honda when he made inquiries there; but brought it back again, saying that nobody recognized the faces. I named the babe Carmen, and have brought her up as my own child. She––Padre, I adore her!”

JosÈ listened in breathless silence.

“But we sometimes think,” said Rosendo, resuming his dramatic narrative, “that it was all a miracle, perhaps a dream; that it was the angels who left the babe on the river bank, for she herself is not of the earth.”

“Tell me, Rosendo, just what you mean,” said JosÈ reverently, laying his hand gently upon the older man’s arm.

Rosendo shook his head slowly. “Talk with her, Padre, and you will see. I cannot explain. Only, she is not like us. She is like––”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“––she is like––God. And she knows Him better than she knows me.”

JosÈ’s head slowly sank upon his breast. The gloom within the musty church was thick; and the bats stirred restlessly among the dusty rafters overhead. Outside, the relentless heat poured down upon the deserted streets.

“Padre,” Rosendo resumed. “In the calentura you talked of wonderful things. You spoke of kings and popes and foreign lands, of beautiful cities and great marvels of which we know nothing. It was wonderful! And you recited beautiful poems––but often in other tongues than ours. Padre, you must be very learned. I listened, and was astonished, for we are so ignorant here in SimitÍ, oh, so ignorant! We have no schools, and our poor little children grow up to be only peones and fishermen. But––the little Carmen––ah, she has a mind! Padre––”

Again he lapsed into silence, as if fearful to ask the boon.

“Yes, Rosendo, yes,” JosÈ eagerly reassured him. “Go on.”

Rosendo turned full upon the priest and spoke rapidly. “Padre, will you teach the little Carmen what you know? Will you make her a strong, learned woman, and fit her to do big things in the world––and then––then––”

“Yes, Rosendo?”

“––then get her away from SimitÍ? She does not belong here, Padre. And––?” his voice sank to a hoarse whisper––“will you help me keep her from the Church?”

JosÈ sat staring at the man with dilating eyes.

“Padre, she has her own Church. It is her heart.”

He leaned over and laid a hand upon the priest’s knee. His dark eyes seemed to burn like glowing coals. His whispered words were fraught with a meaning which JosÈ would some day learn.

“Padre, that must be left alone!”

A long silence fell upon the two men, the one massive of frame and black of face, but with a mind as simple as a child’s and a heart as white as the snow that sprinkled his raven locks––the other a youth in years, but bowed with disappointment and suffering; yet now listening with hushed breath to the words that rolled with a mighty reverberation through the chambers of his soul:

“I am God, and there is none else! Behold, I come quickly! Arise, shine, for thy light is come!”

The sweet face of the child rose out of the gloom before the priest. The years rolled back like a curtain, and he saw himself at her tender age, a white, unformed soul, awaiting the sculptor’s hand. God forbid that the hand which shaped his career should form the plastic mind of this girl!

Of a sudden a great thought flashed out of the depths of eternity and into his brain, a thought which seemed to illumine his whole past life. In the clear light thereof he seemed instantly to read meanings in numberless events which to that hour had remained hidden. His complex, misshapen career––could it have been a preparation?––and for this? He had yearned to serve his fellow-men, but had miserably failed. For, while to will was always present with him, even as with Paul, yet how to perform that which was good he found not. But now––what an opportunity opened before him! What a beautiful offering of self was here made possible? God, what a privilege!

Rosendo sat stolid, buried in thought. JosÈ reached out through the dim light and grasped his black hand. His eyes were lucent, his heart burned with the fire of an unknown enthusiasm, and speech stumbled across his lips.

“Rosendo, I came to SimitÍ to die. And now I know that I shall die––to myself. But thereby shall I live. Yes, I shall live! And here before this altar, in the sight of that God whom she knows so well, I pledge my new-found life to Carmen. My mind, my thought, my strength, are henceforth hers. May her God direct me in their right use for His beautiful child!”

JosÈ and Rosendo rose from the bench with hands still clasped. In that hour the priest was born again.