Jose caught his breath. His ears rang. She—marry a peon of Simiti! To be sure, Juan had often reminded him of the request he had made for her hand long ago. But Jose had not considered the likelihood of the lad's taking his question directly to her. And the girl—

"And what did you reply?" he asked thickly.

"Padre dear—I told him that—" She stopped abruptly.

"Well, chiquita; you told him—what?" His voice trembled.

She flushed, still hesitating. He held her back from him and looked squarely into her wide eyes.

"You told him, chiquita—"

"That—well, Padre dear, I told him that—that I might never marry."

Jose sighed. "And do you think, little girl, that you will always hold to that resolution?"

"Yes, Padre, unless—"

"Well, chiquita, unless—"

"Unless you marry, too, Padre," she said, dropping her eyes.

"Unless I marry! I—a priest! But—what has that to do with it, girl?"

"Well—oh, Padre dear—can't you see? For then I would marry—" She buried her face in his shoulder.

"Yes, chiquita," he said, dully wondering.

Her arms tightened about his neck. "You," she murmured.

It was the first expression of the kind that had ever come from her lips. Jose's heart thumped violently. The Goddess of Fortune had suddenly thrown her most precious jewel into his lap. Joy welled up in flood tides from unknown depths within. His eyes swam. Then—he remembered. And thick night fell upon his soul.

Minutes passed, and the two sat very quiet. Then Carmen raised her head. "Padre," she whispered, "you don't say anything. I know you love me. And you will not always be a priest—not always," shaking her beautiful curls with suggestive emphasis.

Why did she say that? He wondered vaguely. The people called her an hada. He sometimes thought they had reason to. And then he knew that she never moved except in response to a beckoning hand that still, after all these years, remained invisible to him.

"Chiquita," he said in low response, "I fear—I fear that can never be. And even if—ah, chiquita, I am so much older than you, little girl—almost seventeen years!"

"You do not want to marry me, even if you could, Padre?" she queried, looking wistfully into his eyes, while her own grew moist.

He clutched her to him again. "Carmen!" he cried wildly, "you little know—you little know! But—child, we must not talk of these things! Wait—wait!"

"But, Padre dear," she pleaded, "just say that you do love me that way—just say it—your little girl wants to hear it."

God above! She, pleading that he would say he loved her! His head sank upon his breast. He silently prayed that his tortured soul might burst and let his wasted life ebb into oblivion while his pent-up misery poured out.

"Carmen!" he cried with the despair of the lost. "I love you—love you—love you! Nay, child, I adore you! God! That I might hold you thus forever!"

She reached up quickly and kissed him. "Some day, Padre dear," she murmured softly, "you will stop thinking that two and two are seven. Then everything good will come to you."

She sank back in his arms and nestled close to him, as if she longed to enter his empty heart and fill the great void with her measureless love.

"And, Padre dear," she whispered, "your little girl will wait for you—yes, she will wait."

* * * * *

It was some days later that Rosendo, after returning almost empty handed from the hills, came to Jose and said, "Padre, I have sold my hacienda to Don Luis. I need the money to purchase supplies and to get the papers through for some denouncements which I have made in Guamoco. I knew that Don Mario would put through no papers for me, and so I have asked Lazaro to make the transaction and to deliver the titles to me when the final papers arrive. I have a blank here to be filled out with the name and description of a mineral property. I—what would be a good name for a mine, Padre?"

"Why do you ask that, Rosendo?" queried Jose in surprise.

"Because, Padre, I want a foreign name—one not known, here. Give me an American one. Think hard."

Jose reflected. "There is a city, a great city, that I have often heard about, up in the States," he said finally.

He took up the little atlas which he had received long since with other books from abroad. "Look," he said, "it is called Chicago. Call your property the Chicago mine, Rosendo. It is a name unknown down here, and there can no confusion arise because of it."

"Caramba!" Rosendo muttered, trying to twist his tongue around the word, "it is certain that no one else will use that name in Guamoco! But that makes my title still more secure, no?"

"But, Rosendo," said Jose, when the full significance of the old man's announcement had finally penetrated, "you have sold your finca! And to acquire title to property that you can never sell or work! Why, man! do you realize what you have done? You are impoverished! What will you do now? And what about Carmen? for we have nothing. And the sword that hangs above us may fall any day!"

"Bien, Padre, it is for her sake that I have done it. Say no more. It will work out in some way. I go back to-morrow. But, if the titles should come from Cartagena during my absence—and, Padre, if anything should happen to me—for the love of the Virgin do not let them out of your hands! They are for her."

Yet Rosendo departed not on the morrow. He remained to mingle his tears with those of the sorrowing Ana. For the woman, whose heart had been lighter since the arrival of her babe, had come to the priest that day to have the child christened. And so, before the sun might fill the plaza with its ardent midday heat, Rosendo and his family repaired to the church. There before the altar Jose baptised the little one and gave it his own name, thus triumphantly ushering the pagan babe into the Christian Catholic world. The child cried at the touch of the baptismal water.

"Now," commented Rosendo, "the devil has gone out of him, driven out by the holy water."

But, as Jose leaned over the babe and looked into its dark eyes, his hand stopped, and his heart stood still. He raised his head and bent a look of inquiry upon the mother. She returned the look with one that mutely voiced a stifled fear and confirmed his own. "Padre!" she whispered hoarsely. "What is it? Quick!"

He took a candle from the altar and passed it before the child's eyes.

"Padre! He sees! Santa Virgen! Do not tell me—Dios mio!" The mother's voice rose to a wail, as she snatched her babe away.

A loud exclamation escaped Rosendo. Dona Maria stood mute; but Jose as he looked at her divined her thought and read therein a full knowledge of the awful fact that she had never voiced to the heart-broken mother.

"Padre!" cried the perplexed Rosendo. "Maria!" turning in appeal to his wife. "Speak, some one! Santa Virgen, speak! Ana, what ails the child?"

Jose turned his head aside. Carmen crowded close to the weeping Ana. Dona Maria took Rosendo's arm.

"The babe, Rosendo," she said quietly, "was born—blind."



CHAPTER 30

The "revolutionist" of Latin America is generally only the disgruntled politician. His revolution is seldom more than a violent squabble among greedy spoilsmen for control of the loose-jointed administration. But the great Mosquera Revolution which burst into flame in New Granada in 1861 was fed with fuel of a different nature. It demonstrated, if demonstration were necessary, that the Treaty of Westphalia did not write finis to the history of bloodshed in the name of Christ; that it had but banked the fires of religious animosity, until the furnace should be transferred from the Old World to the New, where the breath of liberty would again fan them into vigorous activity.

The Mosquera War tore asunder Church and State; but left unhappy Colombia prone and bleeding. It externalized a mighty protest of enlightenment against Rome's dictates in temporal affairs. And, as has before happened when that irresistible potentiality, the people, has been stirred into action, the Church was disestablished, its property confiscated, and its meddling, parasitical clergy disenfranchised.

But then, too, as almost invariably occurs when the masses find that they have parted with cherished prejudices and effete customs, and have adopted ideas so radical as to lift them a degree higher in the scale of progress, they wavered. The Church was being humiliated. Their religion was under contempt. The holy sacrament of marriage was debased to a civil ceremony. Education was endangered by taking it out of the hands of the pious clergy. Texts unauthorized by Holy Church were being adopted. Where would this radical modernism end? The alarm spread, fanned by the watchful agents of Rome. Revolt after revolt occurred. And twenty years of incessant internecine warfare followed.

Fear and prejudice triumphed. A new Constitution was framed. And when it was seen that Roman Catholicism was therein again declared to be the national religion of the Republic of Colombia; when it was noted that the clergy, obedient to a foreign master, were to be readmitted to participation in government affairs; when it was understood that a national press-censorship was to be established, dominated by Holy Church; and when, in view of this, the great religio-political opponent was seen laying down her weapons and extending her arms in dubious benediction over the exhausted people, the masses yielded—and there was great rejoicing on the banks of the Tiber over the prodigal's return.

When Wenceslas Ortiz was placed in temporary control of the See of Cartagena he shrewdly urged the Church party to make at least a pretense of disbanding as a political organization. The provinces of Cundinamarca and Panama were again in a state of ferment. Congress, sitting in Bogota, had before it for consideration a measure vesting in the President the power to interfere in certain states or provinces whenever, in his opinion, the conservation of public order necessitated such action. That this measure would be passed, Wenceslas could not be sure. But that, once adopted, it would precipitate the unhappy country again into a sanguinary war, he thought he knew to a certainty. He had faced this same question six years before, when a similar measure was before Congress. But then, with a strong Church party, and believing the passage of the law to be certain, he had yielded to the counsel of hot-headed leaders in Cartagena, and approved the inauguration of hostilities.

The result had been a fiasco. Congress dropped the measure like a hot plate. The demands of the "revolutionists" were quickly met by the federal government. The causae belli evaporated. And Wenceslas retired in chagrin to the solitude of his study, to bite his nails and wonder dubiously if his party were strong enough to insure his appointment to the See of Cartagena in the event of the then aged occupant's demise.

It was this hasty judgment of Wenceslas and his political associates which had delayed further consideration of the objectionable measure for six years. But the interim had seen his party enormously strengthened, himself in control of the See, and his preparations completed for turning the revolt, whenever it should come, to his own great advantage. He had succeeded in holding the Church party aloof from actual participation in politics during the present crisis. And he was now keeping it in constant readiness to throw its tremendous influence to whichever side should offer the greatest inducements.

Time passed. The measure dragged. Congress dallied; and then prepared to adjourn. Wenceslas received a code message from his agent in Bogota that the measure would be laid on the table. At the same time came a sharp prod from New York. The funds had been provided to finance the impending revolution. The concessions to be granted were satisfactory. Why the delay? Had the Church party exaggerated its influence upon Congress?

Wenceslas stormed aloud. "Santa Virgen!" he muttered, as he paced angrily back and forth in his study. "A curse upon Congress! A curse—"

He stopped still. In the midst of his imprecations an idea occurred to him. He went to his escritorio and drew out the Legate's recent report. "Ah," he mused, "that pig-headed Alcalde. And the good little Jose. They may serve. Bien, we shall see."

Then he summoned his secretary and dictated telegrams to Bogota and New York, and a long letter to the Alcalde of Simiti. These finished, he called a young acolyte in waiting.

"Take a message to the Governor," he commanded. "Say to His Excellency that I shall, call upon him at three this afternoon, to discuss matters of gravest import." Dismissing his secretary, he leaned back in his chair and dropped into a profound revery.

Shortly before the hour which he had set for conference with the Departmental Governor, Wenceslas rose and went to his escritorio, from which he took a paper-bound book.

"H'm," he commented aloud. "'Confessions of a Roman Catholic Priest.' Bien, I was correct in my surmise that I should some day have use for this little volume. Poor, misguided Rincon! But—Bien, I think it will do—I think it will do."

A smile played over his handsome, imperious face. Then he snapped the book shut and took up his hat. At the door he hesitated a moment, with his hand on the knob.

"If the Alcalde were not such a fool, it would be impossible," he mused. "But—the combination—the isolation of Simiti—the imbecility of Don Mario—the predicament of our little Jose—Hombre! it is a rare situation, and it will work. It must work—cielo! With the pig-headed Alcalde seizing government arms to suppress the Church party as represented by the foolish Jose, and with the President sending federal troops to quell the disturbance, the anticlericals will rise in a body throughout the country. Then Congress will hastily pass the measure to support the President, the Church party will swing into line with the Government—and the revolution will be on. Simiti provides the setting and the fuel; I, the torch. I will cable again to Ames when I leave the Governor." He swung the door open and went briskly out.

* * * * *

"Padre, I am crushed."

It was Rosendo who spoke. He and Jose were sitting out in the gathering dusk before the parish house on the evening of the day that Ana's babe had been christened. The old man's head was sunk upon his breast, and he rocked back and forth groaning aloud.

"We must be brave, Rosendo," returned Jose tenderly. "We have gone through much, you and I, since I came to Simiti. But—we have believed it to be in a good cause. Shall we surrender now?"

"But, Padre, after it all, to have her babe come into the world blind! God above! The poor child—the poor child! Padre, it is the last thing that I can endure. My ambition is gone. I cannot return now to Guamoco. Let come what may, I am done."

"Rosendo," said Jose, drawing his chair closer to the old man, and laying a hand on his, "we have fought long and hard. But, if I mistake not, the greatest struggle is yet to come. The greatest demand upon your strength and mine is still to be made."

Rosendo raised his head. "What mean you, Padre?"

Jose spoke low and earnestly. "This: Juan returned from Bodega Central this evening. He reports that several large boxes are there, consigned to Don Mario, and bearing the government stamp. He found one of them slightly broken, and he peered within. What think you it contained? Rifles!"

Rosendo stared at the priest dumbly. Jose went on:

"I did not intend to tell you this until morning. But it is right that you should hear it now, that your courage may rise in the face of danger. What think you? The federal government is sending arms to Simiti to establish a base here at the outlet of the Guamoco region, and well hidden from the Magdalena river. This town is to become a military depot, unless I mistake the signs. And danger no longer threatens, but is at our door."

"Ca-ram-ba!" Rosendo rose slowly and drew himself up to his full height. "War!" he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper.

"There is no question about it, Rosendo," replied Jose gravely. "And I have no reason to doubt the truth of Diego's prophecy, that this time it will be one to be reckoned with."

"Hombre! And Carmen?"

"Take her into the hills, Rosendo. Start to-morrow."

"But you?"

Jose's thought was dwelling on his last talk with the girl. Again he felt her soft arms about his neck, and her warm breath against his cheek. He felt her kiss, and heard again her words, the sweetest, he thought, that had ever echoed in mortal ears. And then he thought of his mother, of his office, of the thousand obstacles that loomed huge and insurmountable between him and Carmen. He passed a hand across his brow and sighed heavily.

"I remain here, Rosendo. I am weary, unutterably weary. I welcome, not only the opportunity for service which this war may bring, but likewise the hope of—death. If I could but know that she were safe—"

"Caramba! Think you she would leave you here, Padre? No!" Did Rosendo's words convey aught to the priest that he did not already know?

"But—Rosendo, I shall not go," he returned bitterly.

"Then neither do we, Padre," replied Rosendo, sitting again. "The child, Carmen—she—Padre, she loves you with a love that is not of the earth."

* * * * *

Morning found the old man's conviction still unshaken. Jose sought the quiet of his cottage to reflect. But his meditations were interrupted by Carmen.

"Padre," she began, sparkling like a mountain rill in the sunlight as she seated herself before him. "Pepito—Anita's babe—he is not blind, you know." Her head bobbed vigorously, as was her wont when she sought to give emphasis to her dramatic statements.

Jose smiled, and resigned himself to the inevitable. He had been expecting this.

"And, Padre, have you been thankful that he isn't?"

"Isn't what, child?"

"Blind. You know, Padre Diego thought he couldn't see the reality. He looked always at his bad thoughts. And so the not seeing, and the seeing of only bad things, were both—externalized, and the babe came to us without sight. That is, without what the human mind calls sight. And now," she went on excitedly, "you and I have just got to know that it isn't so! The babe sees. God's children all see. And I have thanked Him all morning that this is so, and that you and I see it. Don't we, Padre dear? Yes, we do."

"Well—I suppose so," replied Jose abstractedly, his thought still occupied with the danger that hung over the little town.

"Suppose so! You know so, Padre! There isn't any 'suppose' about it! Now look: what makes sight? The eye? No. The eye is made by the sight. The human mind just gets it twisted about. It thinks that sight depends upon the optic nerve, and upon the fleshly eye. But it isn't so. It is the sight that externalizes the 'meaty' eye. You see, the sight is within, not without. It is mental. God is all-seeing; and so, sight is eternal. Don't you see? Of course you do!"

Jose did not reply. Yes, he did see. But what he saw was the beautiful, animated girl before him. And the thought that he must some day be separated from her was eating his heart like a canker.

"Well, then," went on the girl, without waiting for his reply, "if a mortal's mental concept of sight is poor, why, he will manifest poor eyes. If the thought-concept were right, the manifestation would be right. Wouldn't it?"

Jose suddenly returned to the subject under discussion. "By that I suppose you mean, chiquita, that the babe's thought, or concept, of sight was all wrong, and so he came into the world blind."

"Not at all, Padre," she quickly replied. "The babe had nothing to do with it, except to seem to manifest the wrong thoughts of its father, or mother, or both. Or perhaps it manifests just simply bad thoughts, without the bad thoughts belonging to anybody. For, you know, we none of us really have such thoughts. And such thoughts don't really exist. They are just a part of the one big lie about God."

"Then the babe sees?"

"Surely; the real babe is a child of God, and sees."

"But the human babe doesn't see," he retorted.

"But," she replied, "what you call the human babe is only your mental concept of the babe. And you see that mental concept as a blind one. Now un-see it. Look at it in the right way. See only God's child, with perfect sight. And, Padre, after a while you will see that babe seeing things, just as we do!

"Don't you understand?" she exclaimed, as he sat looking fixedly at her. "Don't you see that if you have the right thought about the babe, and hold to it, and put out every thought that says it is blind, why, your right thought will be externalized in a mental concept of a babe that sees? Don't you know that that is exactly what Jesus did? He didn't affect the real man at all. But he did change the mental concepts which we call human beings. And we can do the same, if we only know it, and follow him, and spiritualize our thought, as he did, by putting out and keeping out every thought that we know does not come from God, and that is, therefore, only a part of the lie about Him. Here is a case where we have got to quit thinking that two and two are seven. And I have done it. It is God's business to make our concepts right. And He has done so—long since. And we will see these, right concepts if we will put out the wrong ones!"

"Well?" he queried lamely, wholly at a loss for any other answer.

"Well, Padre, I am not a bit afraid. I don't see a blind babe at all, because there just can't be any. And neither do you. The babe sees because God sees."

"In other words, you don't intend to allow yourself to be deceived by appearances?" he suggested.

"That is just it, Padre!" she exclaimed. "Blindness is only an appearance. But it doesn't appear to God, It appears only to the human mind—which isn't any mind at all! And the appearance can be made to disappear, if we know the truth and stick to it. For any appearance of a human body is a mental concept, that's all."

"A thing of thought, then?" he said.

"Yes, a thing of wrong thought. But all wrong thought is subject to God's right thought. We've proved that, haven't we, lots of times? Well, this wrong thought about a babe that is blind can be changed—made to disappear—just as any lie can be made to disappear when we know the truth. And so you and I are not going to be afraid, are we? I told Anita this morning not to worry, but to just know all the time that her babe did see, no matter what the appearance was. And she smiled at me, Padre, she smiled. And I know that she trusts, and is going to work with you and me."

Work with her! Heavens! had he done aught of late but work against her by his constant harboring of fears, of doubts, and his distrust of spiritual power?

"Padre," she resumed, "I want you to promise me that every day you will thank God that the babe really sees. And that you will turn right on every thought of blindness and know that it is a part of the lie about God, and put it right out of your mind. Will you?"

"But—child—if my mind tells me that the babe is blind, how can I—"

"I don't care what your mind tells you about the babe! You are to listen to what God tells you, not your human mind! Does God tell you that the babe is blind? Does He?" she repeated, as the man hesitated.

"Why, no, chiquita, He—"

"Listen, Padre," she interrupted again, drawing closer to him. "Is God good, or bad, or both?"

"He is good, chiquita, all good."

"Infinite good, then, no?"

"Yes."

"And we have long since proved by actual reasoning and demonstration that He is mind, and so infinite mind, no?"

"It must be conceded, Carmen."

"Well, an infinite mind has all power. And an infinite, all-powerful mind that is all good could not possibly create anything bad, or sick, or discordant—now could He?"

"Utterly impossible, little girl."

"The Bible says so. Our reasoning tells us so. But—the five physical senses tell us differently. Don't they?"

"Yes."

"And yet, we know that the five physical senses do not tell us truth! We know that when the human mind thinks it is receiving reports about things through the five physical senses it is doing nothing more than looking at its own thoughts. Now isn't that so?"

"It certainly seems so, little one."

"The thoughts of an infinite and good mind must be like that mind, all good, no? Well, then, thoughts of discord, disease, blindness, and death—do they come from the infinite, good mind? No!"

"Well, chiquita mia, that is just the sticking point. I can see all the rest. But the mighty question is, where do those thoughts come from? I am quite as ready as you to admit that discord, sin, evil, death, and all the whole list of human ills and woes come from these bad thoughts held in the human mind and so externalized. I believe that the human man really sees, feels, hears, smells, and tastes these thoughts—that the functioning of the physical senses is wholly mental—takes place in mind, in thought only. That is, that the human mind thinks it sees, feels, hears; but that the whole process is mental, and that it is but regarding its thoughts, instead of actually regarding and cognizing objects outside of itself. Do you follow me?"

"Of course," she replied with animation. "Isn't that just what I am trying to tell you?"

"But—and here is the great obstacle—we differentiate between good and bad thoughts. We agree that a fountain can not send forth sweet and bitter waters at the same time. And so, good and bad thoughts do not come from the infinite mind that we call God. But where do the others originate? Answer that, chiquita, and my problems will all be solved."

She looked at him in perplexity for some time. It seemed to her that she never would understand him. But, with a little sigh of resignation, she replied:

"Padre, you answered that question yourself, long ago. You worked it all out three or four years ago. But—you haven't stuck to it. You let the false testimony of the physical senses mesmerize you again. Instead of sticking to the thoughts that you knew to be good, and holding to them, in spite of the pelting you got from the others, you have looked first at the good, and then at the bad, and then believed them all to be real, and all to be powerful. And so you got miserably mixed up. And the result is that you don't know where you stand. Do you? Or, you think you don't; for that thought, too, is a bad one, and has no power at all, excepting the power that you seem willing—and glad—to give it."

He winced under the poignant rebuke. He knew in his heart that she was right. He had not clung to the good, despite the roars of Satan. He had not "resisted unto blood." Far from it; he had fallen, almost invariably, at the first shower of the adversary's darts. And now, was he not trying, desperately, to show her that Ana's babe was blind, hopelessly so? Was he not fighting on evil's side, and vigorously, though with shame suffusing his face, waving aloft the banner of error?

"The trouble with you, Padre," the girl resumed, after some moments of reflection, "is that you—you see everything—well, you see everything as a person, or a thing."

"You mean that I always associate thought with personality?" he suggested.

"That's it! But you have got to learn to deal with thoughts and ideas by themselves, apart from any person or thing. You have got to learn to deal with facts and their opposites entirely apart from places, or things, or people. Now if I say that Life is eternal, I have stated a mental thing. That is the fact. Its opposite, that is, the opposite of Life, is death. One opposes the other. But God is Life. Is God also death? He can't be. Life is the fact. Then death must be the illusion. That being so, Life is the reality, and death is the unreality. Very well, what makes death seem real? It is just because the false thought of death comes into the human mind, and is held there as a reality, as something that has got to happen. And that strong belief becomes externalized in what mortals call death. Don't you see? Is there a person in the whole world who doesn't think that some time he has got to die? No, not one! But now suppose every person held the belief that death was an illusion, a part of the big lie about God, just as Jesus said it was. Well, wouldn't we get rid of death in a hurry? I should think so! And is there a person in the whole world who wouldn't say that Anita's babe was blind? No, not one! They would look at the human thought of blindness, instead of God's real idea of sight, and so they would make and keep the babe blind. Don't you understand me, Padre dear? Don't you? I know you do, for you really see as God sees!"

She stopped for breath. Her eyes glistened, and her whole body seemed to radiate the light of knowledge divine. Then she went hurriedly on:

"Padre, everything is mental. You know that, for you told me so, long since. Well, that being so, we have got to face the truth that every mental fact seems to have an opposite, or a lot of opposites, also seemingly mental. The opposite of a fact is an illusion. The opposite of truth is a lie. Well, God is the great fact. Infinite mind is the infinite fact. The so-called opposite of this infinite fact is the human mind, the many so-called minds of mankind—a kind of man. But everything is still mental. Now, an illusion, or a lie, does not really exist. If I tell you that two and two are seven, that lie does not exist. Is it in what we call my mind, or yours? No. Even if you say you believe it, that doesn't make it real. Nor does it show that it has real existence in your mind. Not a bit of it! But—if you hold it, and cling to it—allow it to stay with you and influence you—why, Padre dear, everything in your whole life will be changed!

"Let me take your pencil—and a piece of paper. Look now," drawing a line down through the paper. "On one side, Padre, is the infinite mind, God, and all His thoughts and ideas, all good, perfect and eternal. On the other side is the lie about it all. That is still mental; but it is illusion, falsity. It includes all sin, all sickness, all murder, all evil, accidents, loss, failure, bad ambitions, and death. These are all parts of the big lie about God—His unreal opposite. These are the so-called thoughts that come to the human mind. Where do they come from? From nowhere. The human mind looks at them, tastes them, feels them, holds them; and then they become its beliefs. After a while the human mind looks at nothing but these beliefs. It believes them to be real. And, finally, it comes to believe that God made them and sent them to His children. Isn't it awful, Padre! And aren't you glad that you know about it? And aren't you going to learn how to keep the good on one side of that line and the illusion on the other?"

It seemed to Jose a thing incredible that these words were coming from a girl of fifteen. And yet he knew that at the same tender age he was as deeply serious as she—but with this difference: he was then tenaciously clinging to the thoughts that she was now utterly repudiating as unreal and non-existent.

"Padre dear," the girl resumed, "everything is mental. The whole universe is mental."

"Well," he replied reflectively, "at least our comprehension of it is wholly mental."

"Why—it is all inside—it is all in our thought! Padre, when Hernando plays on that old pipe of his, where is the music? Is it in the pipe? Or is it in our thoughts?"

"But, chiquita, we don't seem to have it in our thought until we seem to see him playing on the pipe, do we?"

"No, we don't," she replied. "And do you know why? It is just because the human mind believes that everything, even music, must come from matter—must have a—"

"Must have a material origin? Is that what you mean?"

"Yes. And men even believe that life itself has a material origin; and so they have wasted centuries trying to find it in the body. They don't seem to want to know that God is life."

"Then, chiquita, you do not believe that matter is real?"

"There is no matter outside of us, or around us, Padre," she said in reply. "The human mind looks at its thoughts and seems to see them out around it as things made of matter. But, after all, it only sees its thoughts."

"Then I suppose that the externalization of our thought in our consciousness constitutes what we call space, does it not?"

"It must, Padre," she answered.

He studied a moment. Then:

"Chiquita, how do you know me? What do you see that you call 'me'?"

"Why, Padre, I see you as God does—at least, I try always to see you that way?" she answered earnestly. "And that is the way Jesus always saw people."

"God sees me, of course. But, does He see me as I see myself?" he mused aloud.

"You do not see yourself, Padre," was her reply. "You see only the thoughts that you call yourself. Thoughts of mind and body and all those things that go to form a human being."

"Well—yes, I must agree with you there; for, though God certainly knows me, He cannot know me as I think I know myself, sinful and discordant."

"He knows the real 'you,' Padre dear. And that is just as He is. He knows that the unreal 'you,' the 'you' that you think you know, is illusion. If He knew the human, mortal 'you' as real, He would have to know evil. And that can not be."

"No, for the Bible says He is of eyes too pure to behold evil."

"Well, Padre, why don't you try to be like Him?"

But the girl needed not that he should answer her question. She knew why he had failed, for "without faith it is impossible to please him: for he that cometh to God must believe that he is, and that he is a rewarder of them that diligently seek him." She knew that Jose's struggle to overcome evil had been futile, because he had first made evil real. She knew that the difficulty he had experienced in keeping his thought straight was because he persisted in looking at both the good and the evil. Lot's wife, in the Bible allegory, had turned back to look at things material and had been transformed into a pillar of salt. Jose had turned again and again to his materialistic thoughts; and had been turned each time to salt tears. She knew that he gave up readily, that he yielded easily to evil's strongest tool, discouragement, and fell back into self-condemnation, whereby he only rendered still more real to himself the evil which he was striving to overcome. She knew that the only obstacle that he was wrestling with in his upward progress was the universal belief in a power other than God, good, which is so firmly fixed in the human consciousness. But she likewise knew that this hindrance was but a false conviction, and that it could and would be overcome.

"Padre," she reflected, looking up at him in great seriousness, "if a lie had an origin, it would be true, wouldn't it?"

He regarded her attentively, but without replying.

"But Jesus said that Satan was the father of lies. And Satan, since he is the father of lies, must himself be a lie. You see, Padre, we can go right back to the very first chapter in the Bible. First comes the account of the real creation. Then comes the account as the human mind looks at it. But that comes after the 'mist' had gone up from the ground, from dirt, from matter. Don't you see? That mist was error, the opposite of Good. It was evil, the opposite of God. It was the human mind and all human thought, the opposite of the infinite Mind, God, and His thought. The mist went up from matter. So every bit of evil that you can possibly think of comes from the material, physical senses. Evil is always a mist, hiding the good. Isn't it so? The physical universe, the universe of matter, is the way the human mind sees its thoughts of the spiritual universe that was created by God. The human mind is just a bundle of these false thoughts; and you yourself have said that the human consciousness was a 'thought-activity, concerned with the activity of false thought.' The human mind is the lie about the infinite mind. It is the mistake, the illusion. It is like a mistake in mathematics. It has no principle, and nothing to stand on. The minute you turn the truth upon it, why, it vanishes."

"Well, then, chiquita, why don't people turn the truth upon it everywhere?"

"Because they are mesmerized by the error, Padre. They sit looking at these false thoughts and believing them true. Padre, all disease, all evil, comes from the false thought in the human mind. It is that thought externalized in the human consciousness. And when the human mind turns from them, and puts them out, and lets the true thoughts in, why—why, then we will raise the dead!"

"But, chiquita, the human body—if it has died—"

"Padre," she interrupted, "the human body and human mind are one and the same. The body is in the mind. The body that you think you see is but your thought of a body, and is in your so-called human mind!"

"Do you really understand that, child?"

"I know it!" she exclaimed. "And so would you if you read your Bible in the right way. Why—I had never seen a Bible until you gave me yours. I didn't know what a book it was! And to think that it has been in the world for thousands of years, and yet people still kill one another, still get sick, and still die! I don't see how they can!"

"But, chiquita, people are too busy to devote time to demonstrating the truths of the Bible," he offered.

"Too busy!" she ejaculated. "Busy with what?"

"Why—busy making money—busy socially—busy having a good time—busy accumulating things that—that they must go away and leave to somebody else!"

"Yes," she said sadly. "They are like the people Jesus spoke of, too busy with things that are of no account to see the things that are—that are—"

"That are priceless, chiquita—that are the most vital of all things to sinful, suffering mankind," he supplied.

Rosendo looked in at the door. Jose motioned him away. These hours with Carmen had become doubly precious to him of late. Perhaps he felt a presentiment that the net about him and his loved ones was drawing rapidly tighter. Perhaps he saw the hour swiftly approaching, even at hand, when these moments of spiritual intercourse would be rudely terminated. And perhaps he saw the clouds lowering ever darker above them, and knew that in the blackness which was soon to fall the girl would leave him and be swept out into the great world of human thoughts and events, to meet, alone with her God, the fiercest elements, the subtlest wiles, of the carnal mind. As for himself—he was in the hands of that same God.

He turned again to the girl. "Chiquita," he said, "you do not find mistakes in the Bible? For, out in the big world where I came from, there are many, very many, who say that it is a book of inconsistencies, of gross inaccuracies, and that its statements are directly opposed to the so-called natural sciences. They say that it doesn't even relate historical events accurately. But, after all, the Bible is just the record of the unfoldment in the human consciousness of the concept of God. Why cavil at it when it contains, as we must see, a revelation of the full formula for salvation, which, as you say, is right-thinking."

"Yes, Padre. And it even tells us what to think about. Paul said, you know, that we should think about whatsoever things are true, honest, just, pure, lovely, and of good report. Well, he told us that there was no law—not even any human law—against those things. And don't you know, he wrote about bringing into captivity every thought to Christ? What did he mean by that?"

"Just what you have been telling me, I guess, chiquita: that every thought must be measured by the Christ-principle. And if it doesn't conform to that standard, it must be rejected."

"Yes. And then he said that he died daily. He did die daily to evil, to all evil thought—"

"And to the testimony of the physical senses, think you?"

"He must have! For, in proving God to be real, he had to prove the reports of the five physical senses to be only human beliefs."

"You are right, chiquita. He must have known that the corporeal senses were the only source from which evil came. He must have known that unless God testified in regard to things, any other testimony was but carnal belief. This must be so, for God, being infinite mind, is also infinite intelligence. He knows all things, and knows them aright—not as the human mind thinks it knows them, twisted and deformed, but right."

"Of course, Padre. You know now that you see it right. And can't you stick to it, and prove it?"

"Chiquita," he answered, shaking his head again, his words still voicing a lingering note of doubt, "it may be—the 'I' that I call myself may be entirely human, unreal, mortal. I make no doubt it is, for it seems filled to the brim with discordant thoughts. And it will pass away. And then—then what will be left?"

"Oh, Padre!" she cried, with a trace of exasperation. "Empty yourself of the wrong thoughts—shut the door against them—don't let them in any more! Then fill yourself with God's thoughts. Then when the mortal part fades away, why, the good will be left. And it will be the right 'you.'"

"But how shall I empty myself, and then fill myself again?"

"Padre!" cried the girl, springing from her chair and stamping her foot with each word to give it emphasis. "It is love, love, love, nothing but love! Forget yourself, and love everything and everybody, the real things and the real bodies! Love God, and good, and good thoughts! Turn from the bad and the unreal—forget it! Why—"

"Wait, chiquita," he interrupted. "A great war is threatening our country at this very minute. Shall I turn from it and let come what may?"

She hesitated not. "No! But you can know that war comes only from the human mind; that it is bad thought externalized; and that God is peace, and is infinitely greater than such bad thought; and He will take care of you—if you will let Him!"

"And how do I let Him? By sitting back and folding my hands and saying, Here am I, Lord, protect me—"

"Oh, Padre dear, you make me ashamed of your foolish thought—which isn't your thought at all, but just thought that seems to be calling itself 'you.' Jesus said, He that believeth on me, the works that I do shall he do likewise. But that did not mean sitting back with folded hands. It meant understanding him; and knowing that there is no power apart from the Christ-principle; and using that principle, using it every moment, hard; and with it overcoming every thought that doesn't come from God, every thought of the human mind, whether it is called war, or sickness, or death!"

"Then evil can be thought away, chiquita?" He knew not why he pursued her so relentlessly.

"No, Padre," she replied with a gentle patience that smote him. "No, Padre. But it can be destroyed in the human mind. And when you have overcome the habit of thinking the wrong way, evil will disappear. That is the whole thing. That is what Jesus tried to make the people see."

But Jose knew it. Yet he had not put it to the proof. He had gone through life, worrying himself loose from one human belief, only to become enslaved to another equally insidious. He knew that the cause of whatever came to him was within his own mentality. And yet he knew, likewise, that he would have to demonstrate this—that he would be called upon to "prove" God. His faith without the works following was dead. He felt that he did not really believe in power opposed to God; and yet he did constantly yield to such belief. And such yielding was the chief of sins. The unique Son of God had said so. He knew that when the Master had said, "Behold, I give you power over all the enemy," he meant that the Christ-principle would overcome every false claim of the human mentality, whether that claim be one of physical condition or action, or a claim of environment and event. He knew that all things were possible to God, and likewise to the one who understood and faithfully applied the Christ-principle. Carmen believed that good alone was real and present. She applied this knowledge to every-day affairs. And in so doing she denied reality to evil. He must let go. He must turn upon the claims of evil to life and intelligence. His false sense of righteousness must give place to the spiritual sense of God as immanent good. He knew that Carmen's great love was an impervious armor, which turned aside the darts of the evil one, the one lie. He knew that his reasoning from the premise of mixed good and evil was false, and the results chaotic. And knowing all this, he knew that he had touched the hem of the garment of the Christ-understanding. There remained, then, the test of fire. And it had come. Would he stand?

"Padre," said Carmen, going to him and putting her arms about his neck, "you say that you think a great war is coming. But you needn't be afraid. Don't you remember what it says in the book of Isaiah? 'No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper, and every tongue that shall rise against thee in judgment thou shalt condemn. This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord, and their righteousness is of me, saith the Lord.' No weapon of evil can touch you, if you understand God. Every tongue of the human mind that rises to judge you, to sentence you, shall be condemned. You will condemn it—you must! This is your heritage, given you by God. And your righteousness, your right-thinking, must come from God. Your thoughts must be His. Then—"

"Yes, yes, chiquita," he said, drawing her to him.

"And now, Padre, you will promise me that you will know every day that Anita's babe is not blind—that it sees, because God sees?"

"Yes, chiquita, I promise."

"Padre dear," she murmured, nestling close to him, "I love you so much, so much!"

He answered not, except in the tightening of the arm that was about her.



CHAPTER 31

In the weeks that followed there were days when the very air seemed pregnant with potential destruction, awaiting only the daring hand that would render it kinetic. Jose dwelt in a state of incessant, heart-shaking agitation. The sudden precipitation of the revolt six years before had caught him wholly unprepared, unaware even of the events which had led to it. In the intervening years, however, he had had some opportunity, even in his isolation, to study political conditions in that unhappy country, and to form some estimate of the mental forces at work in both Church and State which, he knew, must ultimately bring them again into conflict for supremacy. His knowledge of the workings of the human mind convinced him that Diego's dire prophecy had not been empty; that the Church, though ostensibly assuming only spiritual leadership, would nevertheless rest not until the question "Who shall be greatest?" even in the petty, sordid affairs of mortals, should be answered, and answered—though by force of arms—in her favor. And his estimate of the strength of the opposing parties had led him to believe that the impending struggle would drench the land in blood.

As to the role which Wenceslas would play, he could form no satisfactory estimate. He knew him to be astute, wary, and the shrewdest of politicians. He knew, likewise, that he was acting in conjunction with powerful financial interests in both North America and Europe. He knew him to be a man who would stop at no scruple, hesitate at no dictate of conscience, yield to no moral or ethical code; one who would play Rome against Wall Street, with his own unfortunate country as the stake; one who would hurl the fairest sons of Colombia at one another's throats to bulge his own coffers; and then wring from the wailing widows their poor substance for Masses to move their beloved dead through an imagined purgatory.

But he could not know that, in casting about impatiently for an immediate causus belli, Wenceslas had hit upon poor, isolated, little Simiti as the point of ignition, and the pitting of its struggling priest against Don Mario as the method of exciting the necessary spark. He could not know that Wenceslas had represented to the Departmental Governor in Cartagena that an obscure Cura in far-off Simiti, an exile from the Vatican, and the author of a violent diatribe against papal authority, was the nucleus about which anticlerical sentiment was crystallizing in the Department of Bolivar. He did not know that the Governor had been induced by the acting-Bishop's specious representations to send arms to Simiti, to be followed by federal troops only when the crafty Wenceslas saw that the time was ripe. He did not even suspect that Don Mario was to be the puppet whom Wenceslas would sacrifice on the altar of rapacity when he had finished with him, and that the simple-minded Alcalde in his blind zeal to protect the Church would thereby proclaim himself an enemy of both Church and State, and afford the smiling Wenceslas the most fortuitous of opportunities to reveal the Church's unexampled magnanimity by throwing her influence in with that of the Government against their common enemy.

His own intercourse with Wenceslas during the years of his exile in Simiti had been wholly formal, and not altogether disagreeable as long as the contributions of gold to the Bishop's leaking coffers continued. He had received almost monthly communications from Cartagena, relating to the Church at large, and, at infrequent intervals, to the parish of Simiti. But he knew that Cartagena's interest in Simiti was merely casual—nay, rather, financial—and he strove to maintain it so, lest the stimulation of a deeper interest thwart his own plans. His conflict with Diego in regard to Carmen had seemed for the moment to evoke the Bishop's interference; and the sudden and unaccountable disappearance of that priest had threatened to expose both Jose and Carmen to the full scrutiny of Wenceslas. But, fortunately, the insistence of those matters which were rapidly culminating in a political outbreak left Wenceslas little time for interference in affairs which did not pertain exclusively to the momentous questions with which he was now concerned, and Jose and Carmen were still left unmolested. It was only when, desperate lest Congress adjourn without passing the measure which he knew would precipitate the conflict, and when, well nigh panic-stricken lest his collusion with Ames and his powerful clique of Wall Street become known through the exasperation of the latter over the long delay, he had resolved to pit Don Mario against Jose in distant Simiti, and, in that unknown, isolated spot, where close investigation would never be made, apply the torch to the waiting combustibles, that Jose saw the danger which had always hung over him and the girl suddenly descending upon them and threatening anew the separation which he had ever regarded as inevitable, and yet which he had hoped against hope to avoid.

With the deposition of arms in Simiti, and the establishment of federal authority in Don Mario, that always pompous official rose in his own esteem and in the eyes of a few parasitical attaches to an eminence never before dreamed of by the humble denizens of this moss-encrusted town. From egotistical, Don Mario became insolent. From sluggishness and torpidity of thought and action, he rose suddenly into tremendous activity. He was more than once observed by Jose or Rosendo emerging hastily from his door and button-holing some one of the more influential citizens of the town and excitedly reading to him excerpts from letters which he had just received from Cartagena. He might be seen at any hour of the day in the little patio back of his store, busily engaged with certain of the men of the place in examining papers and documents, talking volubly and with much excited gesticulation and wild rolling of the eyes. A party seemed to be crystallizing about him. His hitherto uncertain prestige appeared to be soaring greatly. Men who before made slighting remarks about him, or opposed his administrative acts, were now often seen in earnest converse with him. His manner toward Jose and Rosendo became that of utter contempt. He often refused to notice the priest as they passed in the streets.

Jose's apprehension waxed great. It attained its climax when Rosendo came to him one day to discuss the Alcalde's conduct and the change of sentiment which seemed to be stealing rapidly over the hearts of the people of Simiti.

"Padre," said the old man in perplexity, "I cannot say what it is, but Don Mario has some scheme in hand, and—and I do not think it is for our good. I cannot get anything out of those with whom he talks so continually, but Lazaro tells me that—Bien, that he learns that Don Mario suspects you of—of not belonging to the Church party."

Jose smiled. Don Mario's suspicions about him had been many and varied, especially as La Libertad mine had not been discovered. He said as much to Rosendo in reply; and as he did so, he thought the old man's face took on a queer and unwonted expression.

"But, Padre," continued Rosendo at length, "they say that Don Mario has word from the Bishop that you once wrote a book against the Holy Father—"

"Good God!" The words burst from the priest's lips like the sudden issuance of pent steam. Rosendo stared at him in bewilderment.

"Rosendo!" gasped Jose. "How know you that?"

"Caramba, Padre! it is what Lazaro tells me," replied the old man, his own suspicion verging upon conviction.

Jose's dark face became almost white, and his breath sobbed out in gasps. A vague idea of the game Wenceslas was playing now stole through his throbbing brain. That book, his Nemesis, his pursuing Fate, had tracked him to this secluded corner of the earth, and in the hands of the most unscrupulous politician of South America was being used as a tool. But, precisely to what end, his wild thought did not as yet disclose. Still, above the welter of it all, he saw clearly that there must be no further delay on his part. Before he could speak, however, Rosendo had resumed the conversation.

"Padre," he said, "had it occurred to you that you were watched, day and night?"

"No—heavens!" Jose had not suspected such a thing.

"It is so, Padre. Don Mario's men keep you in sight during the day; and at night there is always some one hovering near your house. You could not escape now even if you would."

Jose sank back in his chair limp and cold. His frenzied brain held but one thought: he had delayed until too late—and the end was at hand!

"Padre," said Rosendo earnestly, "tell me about that book. You did write it? And against the Holy Father? But—you still say the Mass. You have not brought Carmen up in the Church. But it was I who told you not to—that her heart was her church, and it must not be disturbed. But—is it true, as the people say, that you really belong to the party that would destroy the Church?"

Then Jose collected himself. While his heart burned within his breast, he opened its portals and revealed to Rosendo all that lay within. Beginning with his boyhood, he drew his career out before the wondering eyes of the old man down to the day when the culmination of carnal ambition, false thought, perverted concepts of filial devotion and sacredness of oath, of family honor and pride of race, had washed him up against the dreary shores of Simiti. With no thought of concealment, he exposed his ambition in regard to Carmen—even the love for her that he knew must die of inanition—and ended by throwing himself without reserve upon Rosendo's judgment. When the tense recital was ended, Rosendo leaned over and clasped the priest's trembling hand.

"I understand, Padre," he said gently. "I am dull of wit, I know. And you have often laughed at my superstitions and old family beliefs, whether religious or otherwise. They are strange—I admit that. And I shall die in the Church, and take my chances on the future, for I have tried to live a good life. But—with a man like you—I understand. And now, Padre, we have no time to be sorrowful. We must be up and doing. We are like fish in a net. But—my life is yours. And both are Carmen's, is it not so? Thanks be to the good Virgin," he muttered, as he walked slowly away, "that Lazaro got those titles from Don Mario to-day!"

* * * * *

Nightfall brought an unexpected visitor in the person of Don Jorge, who had returned from the remoter parts of the Guamoco region.

"Bien, and what news?" he called cheerily, as he strode into the parish house, where Rosendo and Jose were in earnest conversation.

Jose embraced him as a brother, while a great sense of relief stole over him. Then he quickly made known to him the situation.

Don Jorge whistled softly. He ceased his task of scraping the caked mud from his bare limbs, and drew up a chair near Jose.

"So you wrote a book, no? And rapped the sacred priesthood? Hombre! That is good! I never did think you a real priest. But, amigo, lend me a copy, for I doubt not it is most excellent reading, and will serve to while away many a weary hour in the jungle." His eyes snapped merrily, and he slapped Jose roundly upon the back when he finished speaking.

"But," he continued more seriously, "things seem to be setting against you, friend. However, let me but canvass the town to-morrow, and by evening I can advise. Caramba! this old hole a military depot! Who would have thought it! And yet—and yet—I wonder why the Governor sends arms here. Bien, we shall see."

Don Jorge needed not a full day to correctly estimate the situation in Simiti. His bluff, hearty manner and genial good-nature constituted a passport to every house, and by midday he had talked with nearly every man in the pueblo. He called Jose and Rosendo for consultation during the siesta.

"Bien," he said, when they were seated in the parish house, "Don Mario without doubt descends from the very serpent that tempted our mother Eve! He has become a person of considerable importance since the Governor and Don Wenceslas strive with each other to rest their authority and confidence in him. And, unless I mistake much, they have him slated for important work. However that may be, the man already has a large following. Moreover, he has them well poisoned against you, amigo Jose. They know more details about your book and your life before coming to Simiti than do you. Bien, you must counteract the Alcalde's influence by a public statement. It must be to-night—in the church! You will have to act quickly, for the old fox has you picked for trouble! Diego's disappearance, you know; the girl, Carmen; your rather foolish course here—it is all laid up against you, friend, and you must meet it!"

Jose assented. Don Jorge went out and summoned the town to a meeting in the church that evening. Immediately Don Mario issued a mandate forbidding a public gathering at a time of such stress. The people began to assemble on the street corners and in front of their houses to discuss the situation. Their talk became loud and animated. Threats were heard. The people were becoming divided. Don Jorge was everywhere, and none could talk so volubly nor gesticulate and expectorate so vehemently as he.

At sundown the people moved toward the plaza. Then the concourse drifted slowly into the church. Don Jorge dragged Jose from the parish house and up to the altar. "You have got to divide them, Padre!" he whispered excitedly. "Your only hope now lies in the formation of your own party to oppose the Alcalde! Talk to them as you never talked before! Say all that you had stored up to say on Judgment Day!"

Again, as Jose faced his little flock and saw them, bare of feet, scantily clad in their simple cotton and calico, their faces set in deep seriousness, the ludicrous side of the whole situation flashed before him, and he almost laughed aloud at the spectacle which the ancient, decayed town at that moment presented. These primitive folk—they were but children, with all a child's simplicity of nature, its petulance, its immaturity of view, and its sudden and unreasoning acceptance of authority! He turned to the altar and took up a tall brass crucifix. He held it out before him for a moment. Then he called upon the Christ to witness to the truth of what he was about to say.

A hush fell over the assembly. Even Don Mario seemed to become calm after that dramatic spectacle. Then Jose spoke. He talked long and earnestly. He knew not that such eloquence abode within him. His declamation became more and more impassioned. He opened wide his heart and called upon all present to look fearlessly within. Yes, he had written the book in question. But its publication was unfortunate. Yes, it had expressed his views at that time. But now—ah, now!

He stopped and looked about the church. The shadows were gathering thick, and the smoking kerosene lamps battled vainly with the heavy blackness. In a far corner of the room he saw Carmen and Ana. Rosendo sat stolidly beside them. The sightless babe waved its tiny hands in mute helplessness, while Dona Maria held it closely to her bosom. Carmen's last admonition sang in his ears. He must know—really know—that the babe could see! He must know that God was omnipotent! His appeal to the people was not for himself. He cared not what became of him. But Carmen—and now Ana and the blind babe—and the calm, unimpassioned Dona Maria, the embodiment of all that was greatest in feminine character—and Rosendo, waiting to lay down his life for those he loved! And then, this people, soon, he felt, to be shattered by the shock of war—ah, God above! what could he say that might save them? If they could know, as Carmen did, if they could love and trust as she did, would the hideous spectre of war ever stalk among them? Could the world know, and love, and trust as did this fair child, would it waste itself in useless wars, sink with famine and pestilence, consume with the anguish of fear, and in the end bury its blasted hopes in the dank, reeking tomb? The thought gave wings to his voice, soul to his words. For hours the people sat spellbound.

Then he finished. He raised his hands in benediction. And, while the holy hush remained upon the people, he descended the altar steps, his frame still tremulous with the vehemence of his appeal, and went alone to his house.



CHAPTER 32

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

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

Jose went out to meet the early callers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Children! In the name of the Church! In the name of the Christ! The blessed Virgin—"

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

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

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

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

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

"Rosendo—amigo! Caramba! Listen! They are fleeing to the bodega to get the rifles and ammunition! Come—Dios arriba! Come!"

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

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

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

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

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

"But—Don Jorge," interrupted Jose feebly, "they will attack us even there! Let us flee—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"In there, amigos!" she screamed. "I saw them enter! Shoot them—they have hurt my Pedro!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No!" replied Jose. "And if you attack us you attack the Church!"

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

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

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

"Aye—and the door of the sacristia!"

"Try the windows!"

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

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

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

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

"Padre dear," she whispered, "it isn't true—it isn't true! They don't really want to kill us! They don't—really! Their thoughts have only the minus sign!"

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

"What do you mean, Padre?" they exclaimed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Better so, Rosendo, than that they should take us alive. But—Carmen? Do we leave her to fall into Don Mario's hands?"

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

"God above! Rosendo, do you—"

A piercing cry checked him. "Santa Virgen! Padre—!" Lazaro had collapsed upon the floor. Rosendo and Jose hurried to him.

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

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

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

"Oh, God!" prayed Jose, "only Thy hand can save us!"

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

"Padre," said Don Jorge hurriedly, "the Host—is it on the altar?"

"Yes—why?" replied the priest.

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

Jose hesitated not. "It is a chance—yes, a bare chance. They will stop before it—or they will kill me! But I will do it!"

"Padre! You shall not—Padre! Then I shall stand with you!" Carmen's voice broke clear and piercing through the din. Jose struggled to free himself from her.

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

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



CHAPTER 33

"Padre! Padre! are you alive?"

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

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

"I know not, amigo. Be patient. We are in the hands of God—"

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

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

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

"What says the senor, amigo?" asked Don Mario, with his utmost suavity and unction of manner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"True, amigo," returned Jose; "but the strangers who arrived this afternoon—who are they, and whence?"

"Two Americanos, Padre, and miners."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jose drew him into the sacristia. Neither man could see the other in the dense blackness.

"Tell me, friend," began Jose, "who you are, and where you come from."

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

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

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

"Assuredly—but how?"

"You have money?" said Jose, speaking rapidly. "Good. Your bogas have not returned to Badillo?"

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

"Bien, Senor," said Wenceslas quietly, "do you act—or shall I take it to His Excellency, the President?"

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

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

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

"Senor, we will not discuss the matter further," said Wenceslas, moving toward the door. "Your final decision—you will send troops to Simiti, or no?"

"Certainly not! The evidence warrants no interference from me!"

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

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

Late that evening a second message from Bogota was put into his hand. He tore it open and read, "The Hercules ordered to Simiti."

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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