"Very," she replied, profoundly serious.

The joke was excellent, and he roared with mirth. "Bueno, pues!" he commented, reaching over and uncorking with shaking hand the bottle that stood on the table. Then, filling a glass, "Suppose you thank Him for sending his little Diego this estimable wine and your own charming self, eh? Then tell me what He says." Whereat he guffawed loudly and slapped his bulging sides.

The girl had already bowed her head again in her hands. A long pause ensued. Diego's beady eyes devoured the beautiful creature before him. Then he waxed impatient. "Bien, little Passion flower," he interrupted, "if you have conveyed to Him my infinite gratitude, perhaps He will now let you come to me, eh?"

Carmen looked up. A faint smile hovered upon her lips. "I have thanked Him, Padre—for you and for me," she said; "for you, that you really are His child, even if you don't know it; and for me that I know He always hears me. That was what the good man Jesus said, you know, when he waked Lazarus out of the death-sleep. Don't you remember? And so I kept thanking Him all the way down the river."

Diego's eyes bulged as if they would pop from his head, and his mouth fell open wide, but no sound issued therefrom. The girl went on quietly:

"I was not afraid on the river, Padre. And I was not afraid to come in here with you. I knew, just as the good man Jesus did at the tomb of Lazarus, that God had heard me—He just couldn't be God if He hadn't, you know. And then I remembered what the good man said about not resisting evil; for, you know, if we resist evil we make it real—and we never, never can overcome anything real, can we? So I resisted evil with good, just as Jesus told us to do. I just knew that God was everywhere, and that evil was unreal, and had no power at all. And so the bogas didn't hurt me coming down the river. And you—you will not either, Padre."

She stopped and smiled sweetly at him. Then, very seriously:

"Padre, one reason why I was not afraid to come in here with you was that I thought God might want to talk to you through me, and I could help you. You need help, you know."

The man settled back in his chair and stared stupidly at her. His face expressed utter consternation, confusion, and total lack of comprehension. Once he muttered under his breath, "Caramba! she is surely an hada!" But Carmen did not hear him. Absorbed in her mission, she went on earnestly:

"You know, Padre, we are all channels through which God talks to people—just like the asequia out there in the street through which the water flows. We are all channels for divine love—so Padre Jose says."

The priest sat before her like a huge pig, his little eyes blinking dully, and his great mouth still agape.

"We are never afraid of real things, Padre, you know; and so I couldn't be afraid of the real 'you,' for that is a child of God. And the other 'you' isn't real. We are only afraid of our wrong thoughts. But such thoughts are not really ours, you know, for they don't come from God. But," she laughed softly, "when I saw you coming up the steps after me this morning—well, lots of fear-thoughts came to me—why, they just seemed to come pelting down on me like the rain. But I wouldn't listen to them. I turned right on them, just as I've seen Cucumbra turn on a puppy that was nagging him, and I said, 'Here, now, I know what you are; I know you don't come from God; and anything that doesn't come from God isn't really anything at all!' And so they stopped pelting me. The good man Jesus knew, didn't he? That's why he said so often, 'Be not afraid.'"

She paused again and beamed at him. Her big eyes sparkled, and her face glowed with celestial light. Diego raised a heavy arm and, groping for the bottle, eagerly drained another glass of wine.

"You think that wine makes you happy, don't you, Padre?" she observed, watching him gulp down the heavy liquor. "But it doesn't. It just gives you what Padre Jose calls a false sense of happiness. And when that false sense passes away—for everything unreal has just got to pass away—why, then you are more unhappy than you were before. Isn't it so?"

The astonished Diego now regained his voice. "Caramba, girl!" he ejaculated, "will you rein that runaway tongue!"

"No, Padre," she replied evenly, "for it is God who is talking to you. Don't you hear Him? You ought to, for you are a priest. You ought to know Him as well as the good man Jesus did. Padre, can you lay your hands on the sick babies and cure them?"

The man squirmed uncomfortably for a moment, and then broke into another brutal laugh. "Sick babies! Caramba! but we find it easier to raise new babies than to cure sick ones! But—little hada! Hombre! do hadas have such voluptuous bodies, such plump legs! Madre de Dios, girl, enough of your preaching! Come to me quick! I hunger for you! Come!"

"No, Padre," she answered quietly, "I do not want to come to you. But I want to talk to you—"

"Dios y diablo! enough of your gab! Caramba! with a Venus before me do you think I yearn for a sermon? Hombre! delay it, delay it—"

"Padre," she interrupted, "you do not see me. You are looking only at your bad thoughts of me."

"Ha! my thoughts, eh?" His laugh resembled the snort of an animal.

"Yes, Padre—and they are very bad thoughts, too—they don't come from God, and you are so foolish to let them use you the way you do. Why do you, Padre? for you don't have to. And you know you see around you only the thoughts that you have been thinking. Why don't you think good thoughts, and so see only good things?"

"Now Mary bless my soul!" he exclaimed in mock surprise. "Can it be that I don't see a plump little witch before me, but only my bad thoughts, eh? Ha! ha! Caramba! that is good! Bien, then," he coaxed, "come to your poor, deluded padre and let him learn that you are only a thing of thought, and not the most enchanting little piece of flesh that ever caused a Saint to fall!"

The girl sat silent before him. Her smile had fled, and in its place sadness and pity were written large upon her wistful face.

"Come, my little bundle of thought," he coaxed, holding out his fat, hairy arms.

"No, Padre," the girl answered firmly.

"Na, then, still afraid, eh?" he taunted, with rising anger.

"No, Padre; to be afraid would mean that I didn't understand God."

"Ha! Then come to me and prove that you do understand Him, eh?" he suggested eagerly. "Caramba! why do you sit there like a mummy? Are you invoking curses on the bald pate of your desolate father?"

"No, Padre; I am thanking God all the time that He is here, and that He will not let you hurt me."

The man's lust-inflamed eyes narrowed and the expression on his evil face became more sinister. "Maldita!" he growled, "will you come hither, or must I—"

"No." She shook her head slowly, and her heavy curls glistened in the sunlight. "No, Padre, God will not let me come to you."

Panting and cursing softly, the man got slowly to his feet. "Madre de Dios!" he muttered; "then we will see if your God will let me come to you!"

Carmen rose and stood hesitant. Her lips moved rapidly, though no sound came from them. They were forming the words of the psalmist, "In God have I put my trust: I will not be afraid what man can do unto me." It was a verse Jose had taught her long since, when his own heart was bursting with apprehension.

Diego stumbled heavily toward the child. She turned quickly as if to flee. He thrust out his hand and clutched her dress. The flimsy calico, frayed and worn, tore its full length, and the gown fell to the floor. She stopped and turned to face the man. Her white body glistened in the clear sunlight like a marble statue.

"Por el amor de Dios!" ejaculated the priest, straightening up and regarding her with dull, blinking eyes. Then, like a tiger pouncing upon a fawn, he seized the unresisting girl in his arms and staggered back to his chair.

"Caramba! Caramba!" he exclaimed, holding her with one arm about her waist, and with his free hand clumsily pouring another glass of wine. "Only a thing of thought, eh? Madre de Dios! Bien, pretty thought, drink with me this thought of wine!" He laughed boisterously at his crude wit, and forced the glass between her lips.

"I—am not afraid—I am not afraid," she whispered, drinking. "It cannot hurt me—nor can you. God is here!"

"Hurt you!" he panted, setting down the glass and mopping his hot brow, as he settled back into the chair again. "Caramba! who hurts when he loves?"

"You—do—not—love—me, Padre!" she gasped under his tight clutch. "You have—only a wrong thought—of me—of love—of everything!"

"Bien—but you love me, pretty creature, is it not so?" he mocked, holding up her head and kissing her full on the mouth.

"I—I love the real 'you'—for that is God's image," she murmured, struggling to hold her face away from his fetid breath. "But—I do not—love the way that image is—is translated—in your human mind!"

"Caramba!" he threw himself back and gave noisy vent to his risibility. "Chiquita mia! What grand language! Where did you learn it?"

For the moment the girl seemed to forget that she was in the fell clutches of a demon incarnate. Her thought strayed back to little Simiti, to Cucumbra, to Cantar-las-horas, to—ah, was he searching for her now? And would he come?—

"It was Padre Jose; he taught me," she whispered sadly.

"Padre Jose! Maldito! The curse of God blast him, the monkey-faced mozo! Caramba! but he will teach you no more! You have a new master now to give you a few needed lessons, senorita mia, and—"

"Padre Diego!" her tense voice checked further expression of his low thought. "You have no power to curse anything! You have no power to harm me, or to teach me anything! God is here! He will protect me! He keeps all them that love Him!" She gasped again as his clutch tightened about her.

"Doubtless, my lily. Caramba! your skin is like the velvet!" He roughly drew the girl up on his knees. "To be sure He will protect you, my mariposa. And He is using me as the channel, you see—just as you said a few moments ago, eh?" His rude laugh again echoed through the room.

"He is not—using you—at all!" she panted. "Evil thoughts are—are using you. And all—they can do—is to kill themselves—and you!"

"Madre Maria! Is such a sad fate in store for me, my beautiful hada?" He chuckled and reached out again for the bottle. "Another little thought of wine, my love. It's only a thought, you know. Ha! ha! I must remember to tell Don Antonio of this!—Maldita!"

His clumsy movement had upset the bottle. Struggling to save its contents, he relaxed his hold on Carmen. Like a flash she wormed her supple body out under his arm, slid to the floor, and gained the window.

"Dios y diablo! Maldita! Maldita!" shrilled Diego, aflame with wrath. "Cursed wench! when I lay these hands again on you—!"

Struggling to his feet, he made for the girl. But at the first step the light rug slid along the smooth tiles beneath his uncertain tread. He threw out an arm and sought to grasp the table. But as he did so, his foot turned under him. There was a sharp, snapping sound. With a groan the heavy man sank to the floor.

For a moment Carmen stood as if dazed. Diego lay very still. Then the girl picked up her torn dress and approached him carefully. "It was his bad thoughts," she whispered; "he slipped on them; they threw him! I knew it—I just knew it!"

Passing to one side, she gained the door, threw back the bolt, and hurried out into the rotunda. Crouched on the floor, the stiletto clasped in her hand, sat Ana, her face drenched with tears, and her chest heaving. When she saw the girl she sprang to her feet.

"Carmen! Ah, Dios! your dress!—Madre Maria! I could not save you; I could not break through the heavy door; but I can punish him!" She burst into a flood of tears and started into the room.

"No, Anita!" cried the girl, throwing herself into the woman's arms. "He is punished! He did not hurt me—God would not let him! Look! Anita, look!" pointing to the body on the floor.

The woman stopped abruptly. "Carmen!" she whispered in awed tones, "did God strike him dead?"

"I don't know, Anita—but come! No!" clinging to the woman's skirt; "Anita dear, do not go in there! Leave him! Come away with me!"

The woman's eyes were wild, her hair loose and disheveled. "Caramba!" she cried, "but we will make sure that the beast is dead before we go! And if we leave this blade in his heart, it may be a warning to others of his kind!"

"No, Anita—no! God will not let you kill him! You must not! Your murder-thoughts will kill you if you do! Come! Listen—it is a steamboat whistle! Oh, Anita—if it is going up the river—we can take it—"

Ana hesitated. "But—leave him? He may—"

"Yes, Anita, yes; leave him with God!" pleaded the girl excitedly. "Come away, Anita—"

"But where, child?" asked the bewildered woman.

"To Simiti!"

"Simiti! Never! Why—why, my father would kill me!"

"No, Anita dear; he loves you; he prays for you; he wants you! Oh, Anita, come! It is right—it is just what God has planned, I know! Pin my dress together, and then hurry!"

The woman moved as if in a cloud. Mechanically she descended the stairs and left the house, her hand tightly clasped by Carmen. Dully she suffered herself to be led hurriedly to the river. A boat, up-bound, was just docking. The captain stood leaning over the rail and shouting his commands. Ana recognized him. It was Captain Julio.

"Loado sea Dios!" murmured the weeping woman, hurrying up the gang plank with the child. She hastened past the astonished passengers to the captain and drew him to one side.

"The child—" she gasped, "Rosendo Ariza's—of Simiti—leave her at Badillo—they will take her over—"

"Wait, senora," interrupted the captain tenderly. "Is it not time for you to go home, too?" He laid a hand on her shoulder and looked down into her streaming eyes. "Come," he said quietly. And, leading them down the deck, he opened the door of a vacant cabin and bade them enter. "You can tell me your story when we are under way," he said, smiling as he closed the door. "Bien," he muttered, his brow clouding as he strode off. "I have been looking for this for some time. But—the child—Ariza's—ah, the priest Diego! I think I see—Caramba! But we will not tarry long here!"

A few minutes later the big boat, her two long funnels vomiting torrents of smoke and sparks, thrust her huge wheel into the thick waters and, swinging slowly out into mid-stream, turned her flat nose toward the distant falls of Tequendama. In one of her aft cabins a woman lay on a cot, weeping hysterically. Over her bent a girl, with a face such as the masters have sought in vain. The tenderly whispered words might have been the lingering echo of those voiced in the little moonlit death-chamber of Cartagena long agone.

"Anita dear, He is with us, right here. And His arms are wide open. And He says, 'Anita, come!'"



CHAPTER 26

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

Jose strained her closer to himself. "The sense of evil—it overwhelms me at times, carita—"

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

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

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

The man hesitated. "Don't speak of it, child—we—"

"Juan and Lazaro have knives. I saw them. Padre—have you one, too?"

"I?—chiquita—"

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

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

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

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

"No, Padre—I do not go with you. I—"

"Anita!" In an instant Carmen's arms were around her. "When padre Rosendo sees us, you and me, why—"

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

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

"Carmen! I shall throw myself into the river!" cried the sorrowing woman, rising. "You don't know what it is—"

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

"Ana," said Jose, laying a hand on the woman's shoulder, "you do not understand her—neither do I, wholly. But if she tells you to go with us to Simiti, why, I think I would go. I would leave it all with her. You may trust her influence with Rosendo. Come."

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

"Na, chiquita," said Jose, shaking his head mournfully; "we have no power to do that."

"Well, then, God has," returned the girl, nothing daunted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Love whom? Diego?"

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

"God above!" murmured Jose, "if I could but keep my thought as straight as she does!"

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

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

The child pondered the question for a moment. Then:

"Padre, what did you tell me once about the word 'repent'?"

"It comes from the Greek word 'metanoia.'"

"Yes," she reflected; "but what did you say that—"

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

"Well!" she exclaimed, her eyes brightening.

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

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

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

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

Jose's face clouded. "I see, chiquita—sometimes very clearly—and then again I don't see," he said slowly.

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

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

"Yes, just that. Jesus said, 'As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he.'"

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

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

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

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

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

"Dear little girl, you must be patient, very patient, with your blundering old Padre Jose. He is groping for the light—"

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

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

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

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

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

"Ay de mi!" sighed Jose. "I can readily believe that the whole world was quiet until I entered it."

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

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

"Padre dear," she interrupted, "I am not going out into the world. I shall stay in Simiti—with you."

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

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

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

"It is Anita, madre dear," Carmen quickly announced, as she struggled out of Dona Maria's arms and took the confused Ana by the hand.

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

"Fernando!" he cried, "what say the people of Simiti?"

"They are with you, Padre. They would demand Rosendo's release, if there were proof that the girl—"

"Good, then! we have the proof," broke in Jose. "Rosendo knows of our return?"

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

"And does he know that Ana is here?"

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

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

"Bien, Padre, I shall know what to tell them. But," anxiously, "Don Mario has the power to—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The soldiers! Caramba! Let Diego have his child!"

"Maldita!"

"Who says it is not his?"

"I do!"

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

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

"The priest Diego had a child—a girl. Her name—it was—Carmen. The child is—dead."

"Caramba! girl, how know you that?" shrilled a woman's excited voice.

"I know, because I—was—its—mother!"

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

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

"To the carcel! Release Rosendo!"

"We will write to the President at Bogota! Don Mario must be removed!"

"Caramba! Such an Alcalde!"

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

"To the carcel!"

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

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

"The key to the lock—Caramba! the guard has it!"

"Catch him!"

"No! bring a barra!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jose stepped up and took Rosendo's arm. Carmen turned about and continued her scoriation:

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

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

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

"Enough, Carmen, child!" interrupted Jose. "Come, Rosendo; go into the parish house! Carmen, go with him!"

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

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

"Wait, Ana," said Jose, tenderly stroking the unhappy woman's hair. "Wait. They will soon return. And you shall remain here, where you belong."

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

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

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

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

"Yes, chiquita," Jose heard the old man murmur brokenly.

"And—padre, if it is a girl—what shall we call it?"

The man's arm tightened about her. "We—we will call it—Carmencita," he whispered.

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER 27

The reversal of a life-current is not always effected suddenly, nor amid the din of stirring events, nor yet in an environment that we ourselves might choose as an appropriate setting. It comes in the fullness of time, and amid such scenes as the human mind which undergoes the transformation may see externalized within its own consciousness by the working of the as yet dimly perceived laws of thought.

Perhaps some one, skilled in the discernment of mental laws and their subtle, irresistible working, might have predicted the fate which overtook the man Jose, the fulsome details of which are herein being recounted. Perhaps such a one might say in retrospect that the culmination of years of wrong thinking, of false beliefs closely cherished, of attachment to fear, to doubt, and to wrong concepts of God, had been externalized at length in eddying the man upon this far verge of civilization, still clinging feebly to the tattered fragments of a blasted life. But it would have been a skilled prognostician, indeed, who could have foreseen the renewal of this wasted life in that of the young girl, to whom during the past four years Jose de Rincon had been transferring his own unrealized hopes and his vast learning, but without the dross of inherited or attached beliefs, and without taint of his native vacillation and indecision of mind.

For what he had been striving to fit her, he knew not. But in a vaguely outlined way he knew that he was being used as a tool to shape in some degree the mental development of this strange girl. Nor, indeed, as the years passed, did she continue to seem so strange to him. On the contrary, he now thought it more marvelous by far that the world, after nineteen centuries of Christianity, did not think and act more as did this girl, whose religious instruction he knew to have been garnered at the invisible hand of God. That she must some day leave him, despite her present earnest protestations, he felt to be inevitable. And the thought pierced his soul like a lance. But he could not be certain that with maturity she would wish to remain always in the primitive environment in which she had been nurtured. Nor could he, even if she were willing, immolate her upon the barb of his own selfishness.

As for himself, the years had but seemed to increase the conviction that he could never leave the Church, despite his anomalous position and despite his renewed life—unless, indeed, she herself cast him forth. Each tenderly hopeful letter from his proud, doting mother only added to this conviction by emphasizing the obstacles opposing such a course. Her declining years were now spent among the mental pictures which she hourly drew upon the canvas of her imagination, pictures in which her beloved son, chastened and purified, had at length come into the preferment which had always awaited loyal scions of the house of Rincon. Hourly she saw the day draw nearer when he should be restored to her yearning arms. Each dawn threw its first rays upon his portrait, which hung where her waking eyes might open upon it. Each night the shadow cast by the candle which always burned beneath it seemed to her eager sight to crown that fair head with a bishop's mitre—a cardinal's hat—aye, at times she even saw the triple crown of the Vicar of Christ resting upon those raven locks. Jose knew this. If her own pen did not always correctly delineate her towering hopes, his astute uncle did not fail to fill in whatever hiatus remained. And the pressure of filial devotion and pride of race at times completely smothered within him the voice of Truth which Carmen continually sounded, and made him resolve often that on the day when she should leave him he would bury his head in the lap of Mother Church and submit without further resistance to the sable veil of assumed authority which he knew she would draw across his mind. Convincing as were the proofs which had come to him of the existence of a great demonstrable principle which the Christ had sought to make a dull world recognize, nevertheless he had as yet failed to rise permanently above the mesmerism of human belief, which whispered into his straining ears that he must not strive to progress beyond his understanding, lest, in the attempt to gain too rapidly, he lose all. To sink into the arms of Mother Church and await the orderly revelation of Truth were less dangerous now than a precipitate severance of all ties and a launching forth into strange seas with an untried compass.

The arguments to which he listened were insidious. True, they reasoned, he had seemed to see the working of mental law in his own restoration to health when he had first come to Simiti. He had seemed to see Rosendo likewise restored. But these instances, after all, might have been casual. That Carmen had had aught to do with them, no one could positively affirm. True, he had seen her protected in certain unmistakable ways. But—others were likewise protected, even where there had been no thought of an immanent, sheltering God. True, the incident of the epidemic in Simiti two years before had impressed upon him the serious consequences of fear, and the blighting results of false belief. He had profited by that lesson. But he could not hope suddenly to empty his mentality of its content of human thought; nor did wisdom advise the attempt. He had at first tried to rise too rapidly. His frequent backsliding frightened and warned him.

Thus, while the days sped by, did the priest's thought ebb and flow. As morn broke, and the gallant sun drove the cowardly shadows of night across the hills, his own courage rose, and he saw in Carmen the pure reflection of the Mind which was in Christ Jesus. As night fell, and darkness slunk back again and held the field, so returned the legion of fears and doubts that battled for his soul. Back and forth in the arena of his consciousness strove the combatants, while he rushed irresolutely to and fro, now bearing the banner of the powers of light, now waving aloft, though with sinking heart, the black flag of the carnal host. For a while after his arrival in Simiti he had seemed to rise rapidly into the consciousness of good as all-in-all. But the strain which had been constantly upon him had prevented the full recognition of all that Carmen saw, and each rise was followed by a fall that left him for long periods immersed in despair.

Following the return of Carmen and the ripple of excitement which her abduction had spread over the wonted calm of Simiti, the old town settled back again into its accustomed lethargy, and Jose and the girl resumed their interrupted work. From Ana it was learned that Diego had not voiced the command of Wenceslas in demanding the girl; and when this became known the people rose in a body to her support. Don Mario, though he threatened loudly, knew in his heart he was beaten. He knew, likewise, that any further hostile move on his part would result in a demand by the people for his removal from office. He therefore retired sulking to the seclusion of his patio, where he sat down patiently to await the turn of events.

Rosendo, his great heart softened toward his erring daughter, again rejoiced in the reunion of his broken family circle. But his soul burned within him as, day after day, he saw Ana move silently about like a sorrow incarnate. At times, when perchance he would come upon her huddled in a corner and weeping quietly, he would turn away, cursing deeply and swearing fulsome vengeance upon the lecherous beast who had wrought her ruin.

"Padre," he one day said to Jose, "I shall kill him—I know it. The girl's suffering is breaking my heart. He is like an evil cloud hanging always over my family. I hate him! I hate him, as the devil hates the light! And I shall kill him. Be prepared." And Jose offered no remonstrance, for the case lay not in his hands.

Carmen again entered upon her interrupted studies with ardent enthusiasm. And her first demand was that she be allowed to plunge into a searching study of the Bible. "Padre," she exclaimed, "it is a wonderful book! Why—do the people in the world know what a book this is? For if they did, they would never be sick or unhappy again!"

He knew not how to answer her. And there was no need that he should.

"Padre!" Her eyes were aflame with holy light. "See! Here it is—the whole thing! 'Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts.' But—don't the people know what that means?"

"Well, chiquita, and what does it mean?" he asked indulgently.

"Why—the unrighteous man is the man who thinks wrong thoughts—thoughts of power opposed to God—thoughts of sin, of sickness, of accidents, and all sorts of evil things—beliefs that these things are real, and that God made or caused them!"

"Bien, and you think the Bible speaks truth?"

"Padre! how can you ask that? Why, it says right here that it is given by inspiration! That means that the men or women who wrote it thought God's thoughts!"

"That He wrote it, you mean?"

"No, but that those who wrote it were—well, were cleaner window-panes than other people—that they were so clean that the light shone through them better than it did through others."

"And what do you think now about Jesus?" he inquired.

"Why, as you once said, that he was the very cleanest window-pane of all!" she quickly replied.

From that hour the Bible was the girl's constant companion. Daily she pored over it, delighted, enraptured. Jose marveled at her immediate spiritual grasp. Instead of the world's manner of looking upon it as only a collection of beautiful promises and admonitions, she saw within it the statement of a principle that offered itself as a mighty tool with which to work out humanity's every-day problems here and now. From the first she began to make out little lists of collated scriptural verses, so arranging them that she could read in them a complete expression of an idea of God. These she would bring to Jose and, perching herself upon his lap, would expound them, to her own great delight and the wonder of the man who listened.

"See, Padre," she said, holding up one of these lists, "it says that 'in that day' whatever we ask of him will be given to us. Well, 'that day' means when we have washed our window-panes clean, and the light shines through so clear that we can ask in His name. It means when we have stopped saying that two and two are seven."

"Which means," Jose interpolated, "asking in his character."

"Yes," she replied, "for then we will be just like him. And then whatever we ask 'believing' will be given to us, for believing' will then be 'understanding,' will it not? When we know—really know—that we have things, why—why, we have them, that's all!"

She did not wait for his reply, but went on enthusiastically:

"You know, Padre, in order to be like him we have got to 'seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness'—His right-thinking. Well, Jesus said the kingdom of God was within us. Of course it is, for it is all a question of right-thinking. When we think right, then our right thoughts will be—what you said—"

"Externalized," he supplied.

"Yes. We will see them all around us, instead of seeing, as we do now, a lot of jumbled-up thoughts of good and evil which we call people and things. They will all be good then. And then will be the time when 'God shall wipe away all tears.' It is, as you say in English, 'up to us' to bring this about. It is not for God to do it at all. Don't you see that He has already done His part? He has made everything, and 'behold it was very good.' Well, He doesn't have to do it all over again, does He? No. But we have got to wash our windows clean and let in the light that comes from Him. That light comes from Him all the time, just as the beams come from the sun, without ever stopping. We never have to ask the sun to shine, do we? And neither do we have to ask God to be good to us, nor tell Him what we think He ought to do for us. We only have to know that He is good, to us and to everything, all the time."

"Yes, chiquita, we must be truly baptised."

"That is what it means to be baptised, Padre—just washing our window-panes so clean that the light will come in."

"And that light, little one, is truth. It certainly is a new way of looking at it, at least, chiquita."

"But, Padre, it is the only way," she persisted.

"Bien, I would not say that you were mistaken, Carmen."

"No, Padre, for we can prove it. And, look here," she continued, referring to her list. "If the kingdom of heaven is within us, then everything that comes to us in life comes from within, and not from without. And so, things never happen, do they? Don't you see?"

"I see," he replied seriously, "that from the mouths of babes and sucklings comes infinite wisdom."

"Well, Padre dear, wisdom is God's light, and it comes through any one who is clean. It doesn't make any difference how old or young that person is. Years mean nothing but—but zero."

"How can you say that, chiquita?"

"Why, Padre, is God old?"

"No. He is always the same."

"And we are really like Him?"

"The real 'we'—yes."

"Well, the unreal 'we' is already zero. Didn't you yourself say that the human, mortal man was a product of false thought, thought that was the opposite of God's thought, and so no thought at all? Didn't you say that such thought was illusion—the lie about God and what He has made? Then isn't the human 'we' zero?"

"Well—but—chiquita, it is often hard for me to see anything but this sort of 'we,'" returned the man dejectedly.

"Oh, Padre!" she entreated, "why will you not try to look at something else than the human man? Look at God's man, the image of infinite mind. You have got to do it, you know, some time. Jesus said so. He said that every man would have to overcome. That means turning away from the thoughts that are externalized as sin and sickness and evil, and looking only at God's thoughts—and, what is more, sticking to them!"

"Yes," dubiously, "I suppose we must some time overcome every belief in anything opposed to God."

"Well, but need that make you unhappy? It is just because you still cling to the belief that there is other power than God that you get so discouraged and mixed up. Can't you let go? Try it! Why, I would try it even if a whole mountain fell on me!"

And Jose could but clasp the earnest girl in his arms and vow that he would try again as never before.

* * * * *

Meantime, while Jose and his little student-teacher were delving into the inexhaustible treasury of the Word; while the peaceful days came into their lives and went out again almost unperceived, the priest Diego left the bed upon which he had been stretched for many weeks, and hobbled painfully about upon his scarcely mended ankle. While a prisoner upon his couch his days had been filled with torture. Try as he might, he could not beat down the vision which constantly rose before him, that of the beautiful girl who had been all but his. He cursed; he raved; he vowed the foulest vengeance. And then he cried piteously, as he lay chained to his bed—cried for something that seemed to take human shape in her. He protested that he loved her; that he adored her; that without her he was but a blasted cedar. His nurses fled his bedside. His physician stopped his ears. Only Don Antonio was found low enough in thought to withstand the flow of foul language which issued from the baffled Diego's thick lips while he moved about in attendance upon the unhappy priest's needs.

Then came from the acting-Bishop, Wenceslas, a mandate commissioning Diego upon a religio-political mission to the interior city of Medellin. The now recovered priest smiled grimly when he read it. Then he summoned Ricardo.

"Prepare yourself, amigo," he said, "for a work of the Lord. I go into the interior. You accompany me as far as Badillo, where we disembark for stinking Simiti. And, amigo, do you secure a trustworthy companion. The work may be heavy. Meantime, my blessing and absolution."

Then he sat down and despatched a long letter to Don Mario.



CHAPTER 28

"Rosendo," said Jose one morning shortly thereafter, as the old man entered the parish house for a little chat, "a Decree has been issued recently by the Sacred Congregation of the Holy Office whereby, instead of the cloth scapulary which you are wearing, a medal may be substituted. I have received several from Cartagena. Will you exchange yours?"

"Cierto, Padre—but," he hesitated, "is the new one just as—"

"To be sure, amigo. It carries the same indulgences. See," exhibiting the medal. "The Sacred Heart and the blessed Virgin. But I have arranged it to wear about the neck."

Rosendo knelt reverently and crossed himself while Jose hung the new scapulary over his head. The old man beamed his joy. "Caramba!" he exclaimed, rising, "but I believe this one will keep off more devils than that old cloth thing you made for me!"

"Why, Rosendo!" admonished Jose, repressing a smile, "did I not bless that one before the altar?"

"Cierto, Padre, and I beg a thousand pardons. It was the blessing, wasn't it? Not the cloth. But this one," regarding it reverently, "this one—"

"Oh, yes, this one," put in Jose, "carries the blessing of His Grace, acting-Bishop Wenceslas."

"And a Bishop is always very holy, is he not, Padre?" queried Rosendo. "It makes no difference who he is, for the office makes him holy, is it not so, Padre?"

"Oh, without doubt," returned Jose, his thought reverting to the little Maria and the babe which for four years he had been supporting in distant Cartagena.

"Na, Padre," remonstrated Rosendo, catching the insinuation, "we must not speak ill of the Bishop, lest he be a Saint to-morrow! But, Padre," he went on, changing the topic, "I came to tell you that Don Luis has given me a contract to cut wood for him on the island. A quantity, too. Hombre! I shall earn much money by its terms. I set out to-morrow morning before daybreak."

Jose reflected. The man's words aroused within him a faint suspicion. Don Luis and the Alcalde were boon companions. Jose wondered if in this commission he could see the gloved hand of Don Mario. But he gave no hint of his thought to Rosendo.

The next morning, long before sun-up, a mist lay thick over the valley, so thick that Rosendo, as he made his way down to the lake, scarce could distinguish the road ahead of him. The dry season had passed, and the rains were now setting in. As he hurried along, the old man mused dubiously on the contract which Don Luis had made with him. To cut wood in the rainy season!—but, after all, that was no concern of his. And yet—why had Padre Jose grown suddenly quiet when he learned of the contract yesterday? His bare feet fell softly upon the shales, and he proceeded more cautiously as he neared the water's edge.

"Hombre!" he muttered, striving to penetrate the mist; "only a loco ventures out on the lake in such weather!"

He reached the boat, and placed in it the rope and axe which he had brought. Then, still troubled in thought, he sat down on the edge of the canoe and dropped into a puzzled meditation.

Suddenly through the fog he heard a sound. Somebody was approaching. A fisherman, perhaps. But fishermen do not go out on the lake in dense fogs, he remembered. The tread sounded nearer. He waited, speculating. Then through the mist loomed the thick body of a man. Straining his eyes, Rosendo recognized Padre Diego.

With a bound the old man was upon his feet. His thick arm shot out like a catapult; and his great fist, meeting Diego squarely upon the temple, felled him like an ox.

For a moment Rosendo stood over the prostrate priest, like a lion above its prey. Then he reached into the canoe and drew out the axe. Holding it aloft, he stood an instant poised above the senseless man; then with a mighty swing he whirled about and hurled it far out into the lake. He seemed suddenly bereft of his senses. Incoherent muttering issued from his trembling lips. He looked about in bewilderment. A thought seemed to impress him. He took the rope from the boat and quickly bound Diego hand and foot. This done, he picked up the unconscious priest and tossed him into the canoe as if he had been a billet of wood. Jumping in after him, he hastily pushed off from the shore and paddled vigorously in the direction of the island. Why he was doing this he had not the faintest idea.

It was all the work of a few seconds; yet when his reason came again Rosendo found himself far out in the thick fog, and his prisoner moaning softly as consciousness slowly returned. The sense of direction which these sons of the jungle possess is almost infallible, and despite the watery cloud which enveloped him, the old man held his course undeviatingly toward the distant isle, into the low, muddy shore of which his boat at length forced its way under the impulse of his great arms.

The island, a low patch a few acres in extent, lay far out in the lake like a splotch of green paint on a plate of glass. Its densely wooded surface, rising soft and oozy only a few feet above the water, was destitute of human habitation, but afforded a paradise for swarms of crawling and flying creatures, which now scattered in alarm at the approach of these early visitors coming so unexpectedly out of the heavy fog.

When the canoe grounded, Rosendo sprang out and pulled it well up into the mud. Then he lifted the priest out and staggered into the thick brush, where he threw his burden heavily upon the ground. Leaving his prisoner for a moment, he seized his machete and began to cut back into the brush. A grunt of satisfaction came from his lips. Returning to the now conscious Diego, he grasped the rope which bound him and dragged him along the newly opened trail into a little clearing which lay beyond. There he propped him up against a huge cedar. As he did this, Diego's mouth opened wide and a piercing scream issued. "Ricardo—help!" he called.

The cry echoed dismally across the desolate island. In an instant Rosendo was upon him, with his knife clutched in his fist. "Repeat that, cayman," he cried furiously, "and this finds your wicked heart!"

The craven Diego shook with fear; but he fell silent before the threat of the desperate man into whose hands he had so unwittingly fallen.

Rosendo stepped back and stood before his captive, regarding him uncertainly. Diego's quick intuition did not fail to read the old man's perplexity; and his own hope revived accordingly. It was a pretty trick, this of Rosendo's—but, after all, he would not dare too much. Diego gradually became easier in mind. He even smiled unctuously at his captor.

"Bien, amigo," he said at length, "is this your customary reception to visitors in your village? Caramba! but what will the good Bishop say when he learns that you have thus mistreated his trusted agent?"

Rosendo stood before him like a statue. His thought was confused, and it moved slowly. In the cries of the disturbed birds he seemed now to hear the warning voice of Carmen. In the watery vapor that rolled over him he seemed to feel the touch of her soft, restraining hand.

"Bien, compadre," purred Diego, "would it not be well for you to loosen this bit of thread, that we may make our way back to the village? Caramba! but it cuts sore—and I am soft, my friend, for I have been ill."

Rosendo's wrath flared up anew. "What made you ill, cayman?" he shouted, drawing nearer to the shrinking Diego and shaking a great fist in his face. "What made you ill, buzzard? Caramba! I would that your illness had carried you off and saved me the task of sending you down to purgatory!"

Diego became thoroughly alarmed again. "But—Rosendo—caro amigo, let us reason together! Ah, compadre—loosen but a little this rope which cuts into my tender skin as your bitter words do into my soul!"

"Na, vulture, but you will drown more quickly thus!" retorted Rosendo, his huge frame trembling with agitation.

Diego's heart stopped. Then he sought to collect himself. He was in a desperate plight. But the man before him was an ignorant peon. It was not the first time that he had set his own wit against another's brute strength. The ever-present memory of the girl became more vivid. It glowed before him. What was it she had said? "You see only your thoughts of me—and they are very bad!" Was he seeing now only his own bad thoughts? But she had said they were unreal. And this episode—Hombre! he would not be afraid. His thought was vastly more powerful than that of a simple peon! He smiled again at his fear.

"But, amigo," he resumed gently, "if you had wished to drown me, why did you bring me here? But—ah, well, I have long been prepared to go. I have been sadly misunderstood—disbelieved—persecuted! Ah, friend Rosendo, if you could know what I do—but—Bien, it is of no consequence now. Come, then, good fellow, despatch me quickly! I have made my peace with God." Diego ceased talking and began to murmur prayers.

Rosendo stared at him in amazement. The wind was being taken from his sails. Diego noted the effect, and resumed his speech. His voice was low and soft, and at times great tears rolled down his cheeks.

"Rosendo, friend, I wish to go. I weary of life. There is no stain upon my soul. And yet, I grieve that you must tarnish yours with my blood. But," his eyes brightening and his tone becoming more animated, "Rosendo, I will pray the blessed Virgin for you. When I am with her in paradise I will ask her to beg the gentle Saviour to forgive you. Bien, good friend, we shall all be together in heaven some day." He started his orisons again, and soon was praying like a locomotive: "Ora pro nobis! Santa Maria, ora pro nobis!"

He stopped and sighed gently. Rosendo stood stupidly before him.

"Rosendo—I must say this before I die—I came to Simiti to see you. I was approaching the boat to hold converse with you. But, you struck me—there, que importa! And yet—it was about the gentle Ana, your beautiful daughter—But, wait, Rosendo—God above! hear me through—"

Rosendo had started again toward him.

"Good friend, hear me first, then kill me quickly, for I much desire to go to my home above!" Diego spoke rapidly. The impression must be made upon Rosendo at once, or all was lost. The wily priest knew the peon mind.

"Bien, good friend, you have misunderstood me. But I forgive you. I—Rosendo—I—you will keep my secret, will you not? Bien, I have left the Church. I am no longer a priest. It was for good reasons that God took me from the priesthood for other work in His field. Bien, the bonds of celibacy removed, behold! my first thought is for my beautiful Ana. I came to ask you for her hand. I would render legitimate her unborn child. I would return to her the peace which she lost when we became so deeply enamored of each other. Rosendo, I have come to Simiti to lay my life before you—to yield it to the mother of my child—to offer it in future service as a recompense for the unhappiness which, the Virgin knows, I did not willingly bring upon her, or you!"

Rosendo's head was now in a whirl. His eyes protruded, and his mouth was agape. "But—the little Carmen—" he muttered.

"Alas! friend," said Diego sadly, shaking his head, while he quickly grasped the cue, "I have ceased my endeavors to make you believe that she is my child. Caramba! I can only leave it to the blessed Virgin to restore her to me when we have both passed the portals of death."

"You still claim to be her father? You—!"

"Caro amigo," returned Diego gently, "in these last moments I see in her the beautiful image of her blessed mother, who was taken from me long before I met and loved your Ana. But I despair of enforcing my claim. I await now the reunion which death alone can effect. And so, friend, be quick! But do not make me suffer. Drown me not, I pray you, but rather open an artery and let me fall gently asleep here beneath this noble tree."

A light came into Rosendo's troubled eyes. A cunning smile lurked about his mouth.

"Bien pues, it shall be as you wish, vulture," he replied in a tone which again struck terror to Diego's heart. He drew his knife and approached the horrified priest.

"Caramba!" shrieked Diego, shrinking back against the tree. "Hombre! you do not intend—"

"Why not, vampire?" returned Rosendo, the sardonic smile spreading across his grim features. "Did you not ask it?"

"But—Hombre! Back!—Caramba! Back!—Rosendo—God above! But would you go down to hell with murder on your soul?"

"Cierto, carrion! I kill the body. But you go down with a load of murdered souls!"

"Rosendo—God!—it means hell for eternity to you!"

"To be sure, dog-meat," calmly replied Rosendo. "But hell will be heaven to me as I sit forever and hourly remind you of the suffering Ana and the beautiful Carmen, whom you tried to ruin! Is it not so?"

"Ah, God!" Diego saw that he had lost. Wild thoughts flashed through his mind with lightning speed. Desperation lent them wings. A last expedient came to him. He fixed his beady eyes upon Rosendo and muttered: "Coward! coward! you bind a sick man and stick him like a pig!"

Rosendo hesitated. Diego quickly followed up his slight advantage.

"We give a deer, a tapir, a jaguar, a chance for its life. We fear them not. But you—coward, you are afraid of a sick man! And a priest!"

Rosendo could bear the taunt no longer. "Caramba!" he cried, "what would you?" He leaped to the sitting man and at a stroke severed his bonds. Diego got slowly to his feet.

"Bien, spew of the vampire! you have now a chance!"

Diego extended his empty hands, palms up. He smiled significantly. Rosendo caught the insinuation.

"Caramba! take the knife! Hombre! but I will kill you with my bare hands!" He threw the long knife to Diego, who stooped and picked it up.

Stepping quickly back, holding the weapon firmly clenched before him, the priest slowly circled Rosendo, as if looking for an opening. An evil smile played constantly over his heavy face, and his little eyes glittered like diamonds. Rosendo stood like a rock, his long arms hanging at his side.

Then, with a shrill, taunting laugh, Diego turned suddenly and plunged into the newly-cut trail toward the lake. In an instant he was lost in the fog.

For a moment Rosendo stood dumb with amazement. Then he sprang after the priest. But it was too late. Diego had reached the canoe, leaped quickly in, and pushed off. Rosendo saw the mist swallow him. He was left a prisoner, without a boat, and with two miles of shrouded water stretching between him and the town!

A low moan burst from him. He had been tricked, outwitted; and the evil genius which for years had menaced his happiness was heading straight toward the town, where his accomplice, Ricardo, awaited. What would they do, now that he was out of the way? The thought seared his brain. Great beads of water, distilled from his agony, burst through his pores. The Juncal river lay off to the west, and at a much less distance than Simiti. He might swim to it and secure a canoe at the village. But—the lake was alive with crocodiles!

Chagrin and apprehension overwhelmed him, and he burst into a flood of bitter tears. He threw himself upon the ground, and tossed and moaned in despair. The fog thickened. A twilight darkness settled over the waters. Nature—God himself—seemed to conspire with Diego.

Rosendo suddenly rose to his feet. He drew the new medal scapulary around in front of him and kissed it, reverently crossing himself. "Santa Virgen," he prayed, "help me—it is for the child!" Then, taking between his teeth the knife which Diego had dropped, he rushed into the water and struck out for the distant village of Juncal.

* * * * *

Late that afternoon, while the tropical rain was descending in torrents, Rosendo staggered into the parish house, where Carmen and Jose were absorbed in their work. "Padre!" he gasped, "Loado sea Dios!" as his eyes fell upon the girl. Then he sank to the floor in utter exhaustion.

"Rosendo! what is it?" cried Jose, bending over him in apprehension, while Carmen stood lost in wonder.

"Padre Diego—!" cried Rosendo, raising himself up on his elbow. "Has he been here?"

"Padre Diego!" cried both Jose and the girl in astonishment. Instinctively Jose's arm went about the child. Rosendo dragged himself to a chair and sank limply into it.

"Then, Padre, he will come. He is in Simiti. He is no longer a priest!"

Slowly the story came out, bit by bit. Jose listened in horror. Carmen's face was deeply serious.

"Bien, Padre," said Rosendo, concluding his dramatic and disconnected recital, "I plowed through the water—Caramba! I knew not at what moment I should feel the jaws of a cayman seize upon me! But the Virgin had heard my prayer. I must offer a candle this night. But I did not land at Juncal. It was some half league farther west. Bien, I was then glad, for had I appeared in the village, all would have said that I had murdered Diego! And so I struck out along the trail that skirts the lake, and followed it around until I came here. Caramba! but see how my feet are cut! And the rain—Hombre! it beat me down—I fell again and again! And then, the fear that I was too late—Ah, Dios! But she is safe—Caramba! the Virgin be praised!"

"But, Rosendo," said Jose anxiously, "where can Diego—"

"He is here, Caramba! in Simiti! Hombre! but I shall set out at once and search every house! And he shall do well if he escape this time!"

But dusk was falling; and the old man, his strength sapped, listened not unwillingly to Jose's better counsel. With the coming of night the rain ceased, and the clouds rolled up and slipped down behind the mountains, leaving the moon riding in splendor across the infinite blue. Then Jose, leaving Carmen with Rosendo, walked to and fro through the streets of the old town, listening and watching. He wandered down to the lake. He climbed the hill where stood the second church. He thought he caught the gleam of a light within the old edifice. He crept nearer. There were men inside. Their voices sounded ghostly to his straining ears.

"But, friend Ricardo, he set out before dawn, and is not yet returned. I fear he has either abandoned us, or has walked into our good Rosendo's jaws."

"Hold your tongue, bleating calf!" cried the other petulantly. "It is more likely that he and Don Mario lie pickled in rum under the palms of the Alcalde's patio!"

Jose waited to hear no more. He hurried down through the main street and past the house of Don Mario. The door stood open, and he could see the portly figure of the official outlined against the back wall. It was evident that Diego was not there. He returned in perplexity to his house and sat far into the night, musing on the strange incident.

With the coming of the new day Rosendo appeared with fresh suggestions. "Bien, Padre," he said, "there is nothing to do now but take the girl and flee to the Boque river and to the hacienda of Don Nicolas."

Jose related his experience of the previous night. Rosendo whistled softly. "Caramba!" he muttered, "but this is a mystery! And—but here comes Juan."

The lad entered excitedly. "Your canoe, Don Rosendo—as I started out on the lake to fish I saw it, far in the distance. I brought it in. There was neither pole nor paddle in it. And it was half full of water. It must have drifted all night. Did it break away from its mooring, think you?"

Rosendo looked at Jose. The latter replied quickly: "That is the most reasonable supposition, Juan. But Rosendo is very grateful to you for securing it again."

When the lad had gone, Rosendo sat with bowed head, deeply perplexed.

"The pole and paddle, Padre, were left on the island. I took them out when we landed. Diego pushed off without them. He—the boat—it must have drifted long. But—did he land? Or—"

He stopped and scratched his head. "Padre," he said, looking up suddenly with an expression of awe upon his face, "do you suppose—do you think that the Virgin—that she—made him fall from the canoe into the lake—and that a cayman ate him? Ca-ram-ba!"

Jose did not vouchsafe a reply. But his heart leaped with a great hope. Rosendo, wrapped in profound meditation, wandered back to his house, his head bent, and his hands clasped tightly behind his back.



CHAPTER 29

The rainy season dragged its reeking length through the Simiti valley with fearful deliberation. Jose thought that he should never again see the sun. The lake steamed like a cauldron. Great clouds of heavy vapor rolled incessantly upward from the dripping jungle. The rain fell in cloud-bursts, and the narrow streets of the old town ran like streams in a freshet.

Then, one day, Rosendo abruptly announced, "Padre, the rains are breaking. The dry season is at hand. And the little Carmen is fourteen years old to-day."

It gave the priest a shock. He had been six years in Simiti! And Carmen was no longer a child. Youth ripens quickly into maturity in these tropic lands. The past year had sped like a meteor across an evening sky, leaving a train of mingled light and darkness. Of Diego's fate Jose had learned nothing. Ricardo and his companion had disappeared without causing even a ripple of comment in Simiti. Don Mario remained quiet for many weeks. But he often eyed Jose and Rosendo malignantly through the wooden grill at his window, and once he ordered Fernando to stop Rosendo and ply him with many and pointed questions. The old man was noncommittal, but he left a dark suspicion, which was transmitted to the receptive mind of the Alcalde. Acting-Bishop Wenceslas likewise was growing apprehensive as the weeks went by, and both Jose and Don Mario were the recipients of letters of inquiry from him regarding the whereabouts of the priest Diego. In the course of time came other letters from Cartagena, and at length an order for a most scrutinizing search to be made for the Bishop's confidential agent.

It was of no avail. Rosendo's oft-repeated testimony revealed nothing. The citizens of Simiti had not seen the man. The Alcalde had nothing but his suspicions to offer. And these might have fallen harmlessly upon the acting-Bishop's well occupied thought, had it not been for the complicating influence of certain other events. The first of these was the exhaustion of the gold which Jose and Carmen had discovered in the old church. The other was the outbreak of the religio-political revolution which Diego had predicted some six years before, and which, in these latter days, Don Jorge, on his infrequent journeys through Simiti had repeatedly announced as inevitable and imminent. Their combined effect was such as to wrest Carmen away from Jose, and to set in a new direction the currents of their lives.

For some time past Jose had patched with growing anxiety the shrinking of his gold supply, and had striven to lessen the monthly contributions to Cartagena, meanwhile trying to know that the need now looming daily larger before him would be met. He had not voiced his apprehension to Carmen. But he and Rosendo had discussed the situation long and earnestly, and had at length resolved that the latter should again return to Guamoco to wash the Tigui sands.

The old man sighed, but he uttered no protest. Yet each day Jose thought he grew quieter. And each day, too, he seemed to become more tender of his sad-faced daughter, Ana, and of the little grandson who had come into his humble home only a few weeks before. He delayed his preparations for specious reasons which Jose knew cost him much effort to invent. He clung to Carmen. He told his rosary often before the church altar, and with tears in his eyes. And at night he would come to Jose and beg him to read from the Bible and explain what he thought the Saviour had really meant to convey to the humble fishermen of Galilee.

Jose's heart was wrung. But at last the day arrived when he had nothing to send to Cartagena beyond the mere pittance which the poor members of his little parish contributed. But this he sent as usual. The next month he did the same. Then came a letter from Wenceslas, requesting an explanation. And then it was that Jose realized that in his excess of zeal he had fallen into his own trap. For, having established the custom of remitting a certain amount to the Bishop each month, he must not resent now the implication of dishonesty when the remittances fell off, or ceased altogether. He took the letter to Rosendo. "Bien, Padre," said the latter slowly, "the time has come. I set out for Guamoco at dawn."

In the days that followed, Jose could frame no satisfactory reply to Wenceslas, and so the latter wrote to the Alcalde. Don Mario eagerly seized the proffered opportunity to ingratiate himself into ecclesiastical favor. Rosendo was again in the hills, he wrote, and with supplies not purchased from him. Nor had he been given even a hint of Rosendo's mission, whether it be to search again for La Libertad, or not. There could be no doubt, he explained in great detail, of Jose's connivance with Rosendo, and of his unauthorized conduct in the matter of educating the girl, Carmen, who, he made no doubt, was the daughter of Padre Diego—now, alas! probably cold in death at the violent hands of the girl's foster-father, and with the priest Jose's full approbation. The letter cost the portly Don Mario many a day of arduous labor; but it brought its reward in another inquiry from Cartagena, and this time a request for specific details regarding Carmen.

Don Mario bestrode the clouds. He dropped his customary well-oiled manner, and carried his head with the air of a conqueror. His thick lips became regnant, imperious. He treated his compatriots with supercilious disdain. And to Jose he would scarce vouchsafe even a cold nod as they passed in the street. Again he penned a long missive to Cartagena, in which he dilated at wearisome length upon the extraordinary beauty of the girl, as well as her unusual mental qualities. He urged immediate action, and suggested that Carmen be sent to the convent in Mompox.

* * * * *

Wenceslas mused long over the Alcalde's letters. Many times he smiled as he read. Then he sent for a young clerical agent of the See, who was starting on a mission to Bogota, and requested that he stop off a day at Badillo and go to Simiti to report on conditions in that parish. Incidentally, also, to gather what data he might as to the family of one Rosendo Ariza.

In due course of time the agent made his report. The parish of Simiti stood in need of a new Cura, he said. And the girl—he found no words to describe or explain her. She must be seen. The Church had need of prompt action, however, to secure her. To that end, he advised her immediate removal to Cartagena.

Again Wenceslas deliberated. Aside from the girl, to whom he found his thought reverting oftener than he could wish in that particular hour of stress, his interest in Simiti did not extend beyond its possibilities as a further contributor to the funds he was so greatly needing for the furtherance of his complex political plans. As to the Alcalde—here was a possibility of another sort. That fellow might become useful. He should be cultivated. And at the same time warned against precipitate action, lest he scatter Rosendo's family into flight, and the graceful bird now dwelling in the rude nest escape the sharp talons awaiting her.

He called for his secretary. "Send a message to Francisco, our Legate, who is now in Bogota. Bid him on his return journey stop again at Simiti. We require a full report on the character of the Alcalde of that town."

* * * * *

Meantime, Jose did not permit his mental torture to interfere with Carmen's education. For six years now that had progressed steadily. And the results? Wonderful, he thought—and yet not wholly attributable to his peculiar mode of tutelage. For, after all, his work had been little more than the holding of her mind unwarped, that her instinctive sense of logic might reach those truthful conclusions which it was bound to attain if guided safely past the tortuous shifts of human speculation and undemonstrable theory. To his great joy, these six years had confirmed a belief which he had held ever since the troublous days of his youth, namely, that, as a recent writer has said, "adolescent understanding is along straight lines, and leaps where the adult can only laboriously creep." There had been no awful hold of early teaching to loosen and throw off; there were no old landmarks in her mind to remove; no tenacious, clinging effect of early associations to neutralize. And, perhaps most important of all, the child had seemed to enter the world utterly devoid of fear, and with a congenital faith, amounting to absolute knowledge, in the immanence of an omnipotent God of love. This, added to her eagerness and mental receptivity, had made his task one of constant rejoicing in the realization of his most extravagant dreams for her.

As a linguist, Carmen had become accomplished. She spoke English fluently. And it was only a matter of practice to give her a similar grasp of French, Italian, and German. As for other instruction, such knowledge of the outside world as he had deemed wise to give her in these six years had been seized upon with avidity and as quickly assimilated. But he often speculated curiously—sometimes dubiously—upon the great surprises in store for her should she ever leave her native village. And yet, as often as such thought recurred to him he would try to choke it back, to bar his mind against it, lest the pull at his heartstrings snap them asunder.

Often as he watched her expanding so rapidly into womanhood and exhibiting such graces of manner, such amiability of disposition, such selfless regard for others, combined with a physical beauty such as he thought he had never before gazed upon, a great yearning would clutch his soul, and a lump would rise in his throat. And when, as was so often the case, her arms flew impulsively about his neck and she whispered words of tender endearment in his ear, a fierce determination would seize him, and he would clutch her to himself with such vehemence as to make her gasp for breath. That she might marry he knew to be a possibility. But the idea pierced his soul as with a sword, and he thought that to see her in the arms of another, even the man of her choice, must excite him to murder. One day, shortly after her fourteenth birthday, she came to him and, perching herself as was her wont upon his knees, and twining her arms about his neck, said, with traces of embarrassment, "Padre dear, Juan—he asked me to-day to marry him."