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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"On what terms, Don Mario?" asked Jose.

"The same," reiterated the Alcalde vigorously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shut up, Harris!" growled Reed. Then to Jose, "What'll I tell the old duffer?"

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

"Tell him, friend, that we are prepared to die," replied Jose drearily, as he turned back into the gloom and took Carmen's hand.

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

"Love will save us, Padre," she whispered. "Love them! Love them, Padre! They don't know what is using them—and it has no power! God is here—is everywhere! Love will save us!"

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

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

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

"The soldiers! Dios arriba! The soldiers!"

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

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

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

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

"Attack upon the church—Assassination of the man Lazaro—Firing upon federal soldiers—To be shot at sunset, senor," he concluded solemnly.

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

"Bien, senor," replied the captain, whose heart was not wholly devoid of pity, "produce your letters."

"Dios arriba! I burned them! He said I should! I obeyed him! Caramba! I am lost—lost!"

"Senor Capitan," interposed Jose, "may I plead for the man? He is—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Padre! Dios arriba!" wailed the terrified and bewildered Don Mario. "It was a mistake! Don Wenceslas—"

"Yes, I understand, Don Mario," interrupted Jose, tenderly taking the man's hand. "He told you to do it."

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

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

The lieutenant entered. "Senor Padre," he said, "the sun is low. In a quarter of an hour—"

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

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

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

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

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

"One moment," said Jose. Then, to Don Mario: "And Carmen?"

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

Jose's head sank upon his breast. Then he again took Don Mario's hand.

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

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

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



CHAPTER 34

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Padre," said the gentle Dona Maria, "the two Americanos—"

"Ah, yes," interrupted Jose, suddenly remembering that he had sent word to them to use his house while they remained in the town. "They had escaped my thought. Bien, they are—?"

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

Jose trembled as he replied. "Senor Capitan, I, too, rejoice. But—the state of the country—what may we expect?"

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

Jose's heart began to beat more regularly. He again took the captain's hand. He was eager to see him depart. "Bueno pues, Senor Capitan," he said hurriedly. "I wish you every felicitation on your return trip. Ah—ah—your orders contained no reference to—to me?" he added hesitatingly.

"None whatever, Senor Padre," replied the captain genially. He turned to go, and Jose stifled a great sigh of relief. But suddenly the captain stopped; then turned again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

"I—I know not—where—where she is, Senor Capitan," murmured Jose with feebly fluttering lips.

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

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

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

"Hold! Senor Capitan!" he cried in his perfect Spanish. "We are American citizens, and this house is under the protection of the American Government!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Senor," she said in a voice strained to a whisper, "I am the daughter of Rosendo Ariza."

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

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

Morales turned questioningly to Jose. "Is this true, Padre?" he asked.

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

"But—I have no orders respecting a child—"

"They cannot be separated," half whispered Jose, not daring to meet the vacant gaze of the babe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then leave the country," suggested Reed.

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

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

Reed explained to him at some length.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The title, senor?"

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

"You will recall, Padre," he said, addressing the dully wondering Jose, "that I once asked you to give me a name for a mine—a rare name? And you told me to call it the—the—what is it?"

"The Chicago mine, Rosendo?" replied Jose, recalling the incident.

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

"The Chicago mine," said Jose, again coming to the rescue.

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

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

"Senor," replied Rosendo, slowly shaking his head, "I want no share in any of your American companies. But—your friend—he has suggested just what has been running through my mind ever since you came to Simiti."

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

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

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

Reed threw up a deprecatory hand. "Impossible!" he cried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Carmen!" cried Jose, seizing her hand. "Come with me!"

She rose quickly. "Gladly, Padre—but where?"

"God only knows—to the end of the world!" cried the frenzied man.

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

Then she put her hand in his.



CHAPTER 35

"No, Padre dear," with an energetic shake of her head, "no. Not even after all that has seemed to happen to us do I believe it true. No, I do not believe it real. Evil is not power. It does not exist, excepting in the human mind. And that, as you yourself know, can not be real, for it is all that God is not."

They were seated beneath the slowly withering algarroba tree out on the burning shales. Jose still held the girl's hand tightly in his. Again he was struggling with self, struggling to pass the borderline from, self-consciousness to God-consciousness; striving, under the spiritual influence of this girl, to break the mesmeric hold of his own mortal beliefs, and swing freely out into his true orbit about the central Sun, infinite Mind.

The young girl, burgeoning into a marvelous womanhood, sat before him like an embodied spirit. Her beauty of soul shone out in gorgeous luxuriance, and seemed to him to envelop her in a sheen of radiance. The brilliant sunshine glanced sparkling from her glossy hair into a nimbus of light about her head. Her rich complexion was but faintly suggestive to him of a Latin origin. Her oval face and regular features might have indicated any of the ruddier branches of the so-called Aryan stock. But his thought was not dwelling on these things now. It was brooding over the events of the past few weeks, and their probable consequences. And this he had just voiced to her.

"Padre dear," she had said, when his tremulous voice ceased, "how much longer will you believe that two and two are seven? And how much longer will you try to make me believe it? Oh, Padre, at first you did seem to see so clearly, and you talked so beautifully to me! And then, when things seemed to go wrong, you went right back to your old thoughts and opened the door and let them all in again. And so things couldn't help getting worse for you. You told me yourself, long ago, that you would have to empty your mind of its old beliefs. But I guess you didn't get them all out. If you had cleaned house and got your mind ready for the good thoughts, they would have come in. You know, you have to get ready for the good, before it can come. You have to be receptive. But you go right on getting ready for evil. If you loved God—really loved Him—why, you would not be worried and anxious to-day, and you would not be believing still that two and two are seven. You told me, oh, so long ago! that this human life was just a sense of life, a series of states of consciousness, and that consciousness was only mental activity, the activity of thought. Well, I remembered that, and put it into practice—but you didn't. A true consciousness is the activity of true thought, you said. A false consciousness is the activity of false thought. True thought comes from God, who is mind. False thought is the opposite of true thought, and doesn't come from any mind at all, but is just supposition. A supposition is never really created, because it is never real—never truth. True thought becomes externalized to us in good, in harmony, in happiness. False thought becomes externalized to us in unhappiness, sickness, loss, in wrong-doing, and in death. It is unreal, and yet awfully real to those who believe it to be real. Why don't you act your knowledge, as you at first said you were going to do? I have all along tried to do this. Whenever thoughts come to me I always look carefully at them to see whether they are based on any real principle, on God. If so, I let them in. If not, I drive them away. Sometimes it has been hard to tell just which were true and which false. And sometimes I got caught, and had to pay the penalty. But every day I do better; and the time will come at last when I shall be able to tell at once which thoughts are true and which untrue. When that time comes, nothing but good thoughts will enter, and nothing but good will be externalized to me in consciousness. I shall be in heaven—all the heaven there is. It is the heaven which Jesus talked so much about, and which he said was within us all. It is so simple, Padre dear, so simple!"

The man sat humbly before her like a rebuked child. He knew that she spoke truth. Indeed, these were the very things that he had taught her himself. Why, then, had he failed to demonstrate them? Only because he had attempted to mix error with truth—had clung to the reality and immanence of evil, even while striving to believe good omnipotent and infinite. He had worked out these theories, and they had appeared beautiful to him. But, while Carmen had eagerly grasped and assimilated them, even to the consistent shaping of her daily life to accord with them, he had gone on putting the stamp of genuineness and reality upon every sort of thought and upon every human event as it had been enacted in his conscious experience. His difficulty was that, having proclaimed the allness of spirit, God, he had proceeded to bow the knee to evil. Carmen had seemed to know that the mortal, material concepts of humanity would dissolve in the light of truth. He, on the other hand, had clung to them, even though they seared the mind that held them, and became externalized in utter wretchedness.

"When you let God's thoughts in, Padre, and drive out their opposites, then sickness and unhappiness will disappear, just as the mist disappears over the lake when the sun rises and the light goes through it. If you really expected to some day see the now 'unseen things' of God, you would get ready for them, and you would 'rejoice always,' even though you did seem to see the wickedness of Padre Diego, the coming of the soldiers, the death of Lazaro and Don Mario, and lots of unhappiness about yourself and me. Those men are not dead—except to your thought. You ought to know that all these things are the unreal thoughts externalized in your consciousness. And, knowing them for what they really are, the opposites of God's thoughts, you ought to know that they can have no more power over you than anything else that you know to be supposition. We can suppose that two and two are seven, but we can't make it true. The supposition does not have any effect upon us. We know that it isn't so. But as regards just thought—and you yourself said that everything reduces to thought—why, people seem to think it is different. But it isn't. Don't you understand what the good man Jesus meant when he told the Pharisees to first cleanse the cup and platter within, that the outside might also be clean? Why, that was a clear case of externalization, if there ever was one! Cleanse your thought, and everything outside of you will then become clean, for your clean thought will become externalized. You once said that you believed in the theory that 'like attracts like.' I do, too. I believe that good thoughts attract good ones, and evil thoughts attract thoughts like themselves. I have proved it. And you ought to know that your life shows it, too. You hold fear-thoughts and worry-thoughts, and then, just as soon as these become externalized to you as misfortune and unhappiness, you say that evil is real and powerful, and that God permits it to exist. Yes, God does permit all the existence there is to a supposition—which is none. You pity yourself and all the world for being unhappy, when all you need is to do as Jesus told you, and know God to be infinite Mind, and evil to be only the suppositional opposite, without reality, without life, without power—unless you give it these things in your own consciousness. You don't have to take thought for your life. You don't have to be covetous, or envious, or fearful, or anxious. You couldn't do anything if you were. These things don't help you. Jesus said that of himself he could do nothing. But—as soon as he recognized God as the infinite principle of all, and acted that knowledge—why, then he raised the dead! And at last, when his understanding was greater, he dissolved the mental concept which people called his human body. Don't you see it, Padre—don't you? I know you do!"

Yes, he saw it. He always did when she pleaded thus. And yet:

"But, Carmen, padre Rosendo would send you out of the country with these Americans!"

"Yes, so you have said. And you have said that you have always feared you would lose me. Is that fear being externalized now? I have not feared that I would lose you. But, Padre dear—"

The ghastly look on the man's face threw wide the flood-gates of her sympathy. "Padre—all things work together for good, you know. Good is always working. It never stops. Listen—" She clung more closely to him.

"Padre, it may be best, after all. You do not want me to stay always in Simiti. And if I go, you will go with me, or soon follow. Oh, Padre dear, you have told me that up in that great country above us the people do not know God as you and I are learning to know Him. Padre—I want to go and tell them about Him! I've wanted to for a long, long time."

The girl's eyes shone with a holy light. Her wistful face glowed with a love divine.

"Padre dear, you have so often said that I had a message for the world. Do not the people up north need that message? Would you keep me here then? The people of Simiti are too dull to hear the message now. But up there—Oh, Padre, it may be right that I should go! And, if it is right, nothing can prevent it, for the right will be externalized! Right will prevail!"

True, there was the girl's future. Such a spirit as hers could not long be confined within the narrow verges of Simiti. He must not oppose his egoism to her interests. And, besides, he might follow soon. Perhaps go with her! Who knew? it might be the opening of the way to the consummation of that heart-longing for—

Ah, the desperate joy that surged through his yearning soul at the thought! The girl was fifteen. A year, two, three, and he would still be a young man! She loved him—never had man had such proofs as he of an affection so divine! And he worshiped her! Why hesitate longer? Surely the way was unfolding!

"Carmen," he said tenderly, drawing her closer to him, "you may be right. Yes—we will both go with the Americans. Once out of this environment and free from ecclesiastical chains, I shall do better."

The girl looked up at him with brimming eyes. "Padre dear," she whispered, "I want to go—away from Simiti. Juan—he asks me almost every day to marry him. And he becomes angry when I refuse. Even in the church, when Don Mario was trying to get us, Juan said he would save me if I would promise to marry him. He said he would go to Cartagena and kill the Bishop. He follows me like a shadow. He—Padre, he is a good boy. I love him. But—I do not—want to marry him."

They sat silent for some moments. Jose knew how insistent Juan had become. The lad adored the girl. He tormented the priest about her.

"Padre, you—you are not always going to be a priest—are you? And—I—I—oh, Padre dear, I love you so!" She turned impulsively and threw both arms about his neck. "I want to see you work out your problem. I will help you. You can go with me—and I can always live with you—and some day—some day—" She buried her face in his shoulder. The artless girl had never seemed to think it unmaidenly to declare her love for him, to show him unmistakably that she hoped to become his wife.

The man's heart gave a mighty leap. The beautiful child in his arms was human! Young in years, and yet a woman by the conventions of these tropic lands. He bent his head and kissed her. Why, she had long insisted that she would wait for him! And why should he now oppose the externalization of that sweet thought?

"Ah, chiquita," he murmured, "I will indeed go with you now! I will send my resignation to the Bishop at once. No, I will wait and send it from the States. I will renounce my oath, abjure my promise—"

The girl sat suddenly upright and looked earnestly into his eyes. "What do you mean, Padre?" she queried dubiously. "What did you promise?"

"Ah, I have never told you. But—I promised my mother, dearest one, that I would always remain a priest—unless, indeed, the Church herself should eject me from the priesthood. But, it was foolish—"

"And your mother—she expects you to keep your word?"

"Yes, chiquita."

The girl sat in pensive silence for a moment. "But, Padre," she resumed, "honesty—it is the very first thing that God requires of us. We have to be—we must be honest, for He is Truth. He cannot see or recognize error, you know. And so He cannot see you and help you if you are dishonest."

"I know, child. And I tried to be honest, even when circumstances and my own poor resistive force combined to direct me into the priesthood. But—since that day I have lived a life of hypocrisy, not knowing how to shape my course. Then, at length, I met you. It was—too late!"

"But, Padre, the Church has not put you out? You are still a priest?"

"Yes," sadly; "and no."

"But, if you went to the States—with me—would you be put out of the Church?"

"Possibly, chiquita."

"And what would that mean, Padre?"

"The disgrace that always attaches to an apostate priest, child."

"And, Padre—your mother—what would she say?"

Jose hung his head. "It would kill her," he replied slowly.

Carmen reflected long, while Jose, with ebbing hope, waited. "Padre dear," she finally said, "then you have not yet worked out your problem—have you?"

No, he knew that. And he was now attempting to solve it by flight.

"I mean, Padre, you have not worked it out in God's way. For if you had, no one would be hurt, and there could not be any disgrace, or unhappiness—could there?"

"But, chiquita," he cried in despair, "nothing but excommunication can release me! And I long ago ceased to look for that. You do not understand—you are young! What can I do?" His tortured soul pleaded in agony.

"Why, Padre dear, you can work it out, all out, in God's way."

"But—must I remain here—can I let you go alone with the Americans—?"

"Yes, you can, if it is right," she answered gently.

"Carmen!" he cried, straining her in his arms. "If you go with the Americans, I shall, I must, go too!"

"Not unless it is right, Padre," she insisted. "If it is right, nothing can keep you from going. But, unless it is God's way—well, you can not solve your problem by running away from it."

"But—child—to remain here means—God above! you don't realize what it may mean to us both!"

The girl relapsed into silence. Jose began to feel that they were drifting hopelessly, abysmally apart. Desperation seized him.

"Carmen!" he cried miserably. "I have been cheated and thwarted all my wretched life! I can endure it no longer! I can not, would not, hold you here, if the way opens for you to go! But—I can not remain here without you—and live!"

"That is not true, Padre," replied the girl, slowly shaking her head. "No human being is necessary to any one's happiness. And progress always comes first. You are trying to 'acquire that mind which was in Christ.' If you are really progressing, why, you will surely be happy. But you must work it all out God's way."

"His way!" he retorted bitterly. "And that—"

"You must be honest, Padre, honest with Him and with everybody. If you can no longer be a priest—if you are not one, and never have been one—you must be honest with the Church and with yourself. You must see and reflect only Truth. Why do you not write to the Bishop and tell him all about it? You say you have been protecting me. But leave me to God. You must—Padre, you must—be honest! Write to your mother—write to the Bishop. Tell them both how you feel. Then leave it all with God. Do not run away. Throw yourself upon Him. But—oh, Padre dear, you must trust Him, and you must—you must—know that He is good, that He is infinite, and that there is no evil! Otherwise, the good can not be externalized. If you did that, your problem would be quickly solved."

She rose and took his hand. "Padre dear," she continued, "God is life—there is no death. God is eternal—there is no age. God is all good—there is no poverty, no lack, no loss. God is infinite, and He is mind—there is no inability to see the right and to do it. God is my mind, my spirit, my soul, my all. I have nothing to fear. Human mental concepts are not real. You, yourself, say so. I am not afraid of them. I look at God constantly, and strive always to see only Him. But He is just as much to you as He is to me. You can not outline how things will work out; but you can know that they can only work out in the right way. You must work as God directs. Only by so doing can you solve your problem. I try always to work that way. And I have always worked for you that way. I have always thought the time would come when you and I would live and work together—always. But I have not insisted on it. I have not said that it had to be. If it works out that way, I know I would be very happy. But, even if it does not, I shall know that I can not be deprived of any good, for the good God is everywhere, and He is love, and He has given me all happiness. And now we must leave everything to Him, while we work, work, work to see Him only everywhere."

She would talk no more. Suffering himself to be led by her, they crossed the shales to the dust-laden road and made their way silently through the burning heat into the village.

At the door of the parish house stood Rosendo. His face was grave, but his manner calm. "Padre," he announced, "it is arranged."

Jose's knees shook under him as he followed the old man into the house. Reed, Harris, and Don Jorge sat about the table, on which were strewn papers covered with figures and sketches. The priest sat down dumbly and drew Carmen to him. Harris fell to devouring the girl with his bulging eyes. Reed at once plunged into the topic under consideration.

"I have been saying," he began, addressing the priest, "that I can accept the proposal made by Don Rosendo, but with some amendments. Mr. Harris and I are under contract with the Molino Company to report upon their properties along the Boque river. I am informed by Don Rosendo that he is acquainted with these alleged mines, and knows them to be worthless. Be that as it may, I am obliged to examine them. But I will agree to take this girl to New York, under the protection of my wife, upon the consideration that when I reach my home city I be allowed to form a company to take over this mine, returning to the girl a fifty-one per cent interest in the stock, one half of which she agrees in writing to deliver to me immediately upon its issuance. Being under contract, I can not accept it now. The balance of the stock must be sold for development purposes. I further agree to place the girl in a boarding school of the first quality in the States, and to bear all expenses of her maintenance until such time as she is either self-supporting, or one or several of you may come to her, or effect her return to Colombia. Now, according to Ariza's sketches, we may proceed up the Boque river to its headwaters—how far did you say, friend?"

"Some hundred and fifty miles from Simiti, senor," replied Rosendo.

"And then," resumed Reed, "we can cut across country from the sources of the Boque, following what is known as Rosario creek, down to the river Tigui, striking the latter somewhere near the ancient point known as La Colorado."

"But, senor," interposed Rosendo, "remember that the headwaters of the Boque are practically unknown to-day. Many years ago, when I was a small lad, some liberated slaves worked along Rosario creek, which was then one day's journey on foot with packs from La Colorado. But that old trail has long since disappeared. Probably no one has been over it since."

"Very well," returned the practical Reed, "then we shall have to make our own trail across the divide to the Tigui. But once at La Colorado, you tell me there is an ancient trail that leads down to Llano, on the Nechi river?"

"Yes, to the mouth of the Amaceri. Llano was something of a town long ago. But river steamers that go up the Nechi as far as Zaragoza once a month, or less frequently, still touch there, I am told. And so you can get down the Cauca to Maganguey, where you can change to a Magdalena river boat for Calamar. Then by rail to Cartagena. The trail to Llano can not be more than fifty miles in length, and fairly open."

Harris, who had been studying the sketches, whistled softly. "Lord Harry!" he muttered, "nearly two hundred miles, and all by foot, over unspeakable jungle trails!"

Reed paid no attention to him. "Very well, then," he continued, "we had best set out as soon as possible. To you, friend Rosendo, I leave all arrangements regarding supplies and cargadores. I will furnish funds for the entire expedition, expecting to be reimbursed by La Libertad."

Carmen listened, with dilated eyes. As for Jose, his head swam. Starting hurriedly after Rosendo, who rose immediately to inaugurate preparations, he drew him into the latter's house. "Hombre!" he cried, his whole frame tremulous with agitation, "do you know what you are doing? Do you—"

"Na, Padre," replied Rosendo gently, as he held up a restraining hand, "it is best. I want the Americanos to take Carmen. She is not safe another day here. The soldiers left but yesterday. They may return any hour. At any moment an order might come for your arrest or mine. We must get her away at once. We can do no more for her here. The struggle has been long, and I weary of it." He sat down in exhaustion and mopped his damp brow. "I weary of life, Padre. I would be through with it. I am old. This world can hold little more for me. If I can but know that she is safe—Bien, that is all. From what we have learned, this country will soon be plunged again into war. I do not wish to live through another revolution. I have seen many. I seem to have fought all my life. And for what? What is La Libertad to me? Nothing—less than nothing. I have not the funds to work it. I doubt if I could even hold it, were it known here that I had the title to such a famous mine. But the Americano can hold it. And he is honest, Padre. He will save Carmen's interest, and deal fairly with her. Bien, let him place her in a school in the States. If you weather the oncoming revolution, then you may be able to send for her. Quien sabe?"

Jose controlled himself. "Rosendo," he said, "I will go with her."

The old man looked at him quizzically. "Do you mean, Padre, that you will leave the Church?"

Jose kept silent for some time. Then he spoke bitterly.

"Can I remain longer in Simiti, where the people have become divided—where they look upon me askance, as the cause of the trouble that has befallen them? Is not my usefulness here ended? War is at our door. What, think you, will it mean to Simiti? To us? And Wenceslas, what has he further in store for you and me? What he has for Carmen, we well know. And we seek by flight to save her. But the disappearance of Diego has not been explained. The trick which Anita played upon Morales to save Carmen must bring down increased wrath upon our heads, especially yours and mine. No, Rosendo, you and I must go, and go at once!"

"And Anita—?"

"We will pick her up in Cartagena. Don Jorge will accompany us. I have certain information to give him that will enlist his services—information which, I think, will serve to introduce him to His Grace, and somewhat abruptly. But, come, Rosendo, do you and Dona Maria prepare for flight!"

"Maria and I? The States! Na, Padre, it is impossible! I will go with the Americanos up the Boque and to La Libertad. Then I will return to Simiti—or to the hacienda of Don Nicolas, if Maria wishes to remain there while I am in the hills. But—do you go, Padre—go and look after the girl. There is nothing further for you here. Yes, Padre, go—go!"

"But—ah, Rosendo, you will reconsider? The Americans will take us all for that mine!"

"I? No, Padre," said the old man firmly, but in a voice heavy with sadness. "Maria and I remain in Simiti. My work is done when I have seen the girl safely out of this unhappy country. I could not live in the States. And my days are few now, anyway. Let me end them here. How, I care not."

Carmen came bounding in and flew into Rosendo's arms. "Padre Rosendo!" she cried, aglow with animation, "we are all going to the States up north! I am going to take them my message! And I am going to school there! Oh, padre, isn't it beautiful!"

"Ah, chiquita," said Rosendo cheerily, straining her to him, "I guess we have decided to send you on ahead—a little ahead of us. Your old padre has some business he must attend to here before he leaves." His eyes grew moist. Jose knew what his effort at cheerfulness was costing him.

"But, padre Rosendo, you will come—later? You promise? You must!" She looked into his eyes, pleading wistfully.

"Yes, little one, yes—of course. For where you are, there your old padre will always be—always—always!"

"And Padre Jose?" panted the girl under Rosendo's tight grasp as she turned her head toward the priest.

"He goes with us," assured Rosendo—"I think—at least as far as the coast. He will see Anita—and—" His voice broke, and he turned abruptly away.

"And she will go to the States with us! Oh, padre!" cried the girl, bounding up and down with joy.

Jose turned and went quickly into his own house. With grim determination he drew the battered haircloth trunk from beneath his bed and began to throw his few effects into it.

But he had scarce begun when Juan, now bearing the proud title of official courier between Simiti and Bodega Central, entered with a letter. Jose recognized the writing, and tore it open at once. It was from his mother.

"My beloved son, at last, after these many years of most rigid economy, even of privation, I have saved enough from my meager income, together with what little you have been able to send me from time to time, and a recent generous contribution from your dear uncle, to enable me to visit you. I shall sail for Colombia just as soon as you send me detailed instructions regarding the journey. And, oh, my son, to see you offering the Mass in your own church, and to realize that your long delayed preferment is even at hand, for so your good uncle informs me daily, will again warm the blood in a heart long chilled by poignant suffering. Till we meet, the Blessed Virgin shield you, my beloved son."

The letter slipped from the priest's fingers and drifted to the floor. With a moan he sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands.



CHAPTER 36

What had kept Jose de Rincon chained all these years to an institution to which in thought, feeling, and sympathy he was so utterly alien, we have repeatedly pointed out—a warped sense of filial devotion, a devotion that would not willingly bring sorrow upon his proud, sensitive mother, and yet the kind that so often accomplishes just that which it strives to avoid. But yet he had somehow failed to note the nice distinction which he was always making between the promises he had given to her and the oath which he had taken at his ordination. He had permitted himself to be held to the Church by his mother's fond desires, despite the fact that his nominal observance of these had wrecked his own life and all but brought her in sorrow to the grave. The abundance of his misery might be traced to forgetfulness of the sapient words of Jesus: "For whosoever shall do the will of my Father which is in heaven, the same is my brother, and sister, and mother."

Then had come Carmen. And he had sacrificed his new-found life to the child. He had exhausted every expedient to keep himself in Simiti, that he might transfer his own great learning to this girl, and at the same time yield himself to her beneficent influence. Yet, despite his vague hopes, he had always dimly seen the day when she would leave him; but he had likewise tried to feel that when it arrived his own status would be such that the ecclesiastical ties which bound him would be loosened, and he would be free to follow her. Alas! the lapse of years had brought little change in that respect.

But now he saw the girl entering upon that very hour of departure which all his life in Simiti had hung like a menacing cloud above him. And the shock had been such that he had thrown every other consideration to the winds, and, regardless of consequences, was madly preparing to accompany her. Then, like a voice from the tomb, had come his mother's letter.

He slept not that night. Indeed, for the past two nights sleep had avoided his haggard eyes. In the feeble glow of his candle he sat in his little bedroom by his rough, bare table, far into the hours of morning, struggling, resolving, hoping, despairing—and, at last, yielding. If he had been born anew that fateful day, seven years before, when Rosendo first told him the girl's story, he had this night again died. When the gray hours of dawn stole silently across the distant hills he rose. His eyes were bleared and dull. His cheeks sunken. He staggered as he passed out through the living room where lay the sleeping Americans. Rosendo met him in front of the house.

"Padre!" exclaimed the old man as he noted the priest's appearance.

Jose held up a warning hand. "Do not speak of it, Rosendo. I am not well. But not a word to Carmen!"

Rosendo nodded understandingly. "It has been hard on you, Padre. But you will soon be off now. And in the States with her—"

"For God's sake, friend, never speak of that again!" cried Jose sharply. "Listen! How long will it take to complete your preparations?"

"Bien," returned the amazed Rosendo when he recovered his breath, "we can get away to-morrow."

"Can you not go this evening?"

"No, Padre. There is much to do. But you—"

"Hear me, friend. Everything must be conducted in the greatest secrecy. It must be given out that the Americans go to explore the Boque; that you accompany them as guide; that Carmen goes as—as cook, why not?"

"Cierto, she cooks as well as Maria."

"Very well. Juan must be kept in complete ignorance of the real nature of your trip. He must not go with you. He is the courier—I will see that Fernando sends him again to Bodega Central to-morrow, and keeps him there for several days. You say it is some two hundred miles to Llano. How long will it take to go that distance?"

"Why—Quien sabe, Padre?" returned Rosendo thoughtfully. "With a fair trail, and allowing the Americanos some time to prospect on the Boque—where they will find nothing—and several days to look over La Libertad, we ought to reach Llano in six weeks."

"And Cartagena?"

"A week later, if you do not have to wait a month on the river bank for the boat."

"Then, all going well, within two months Carmen should be out of the country."

"Surely. You and she—"

"Enough, friend. I do not go with her."

"What? Caramba!"

"Go now and bid Carmen come to me immediately after the desayuno. Tell Dona Maria that I will eat nothing this morning. I am going up to the old church on the hill."

Rosendo stared stupidly at the priest. But Jose turned abruptly and started away, leaving the old man in a maze of bewilderment.

In the gloom of the old church Jose threw himself upon a bench near the door, and waited torpidly. A few moments later came a voice, and then the soft patter of bare feet in the thick dust without. Carmen was talking as she approached. Jose rose in curiosity; but the girl was alone. In her hand she held a scrubby flower that had drawn a desperate nourishment from the barren soil at the roadside. She glanced up at Jose and smiled.

"It is easy to understand their language, isn't it, Padre? They don't speak as we do, but they reflect. And that is better than speaking. They reflect God. They stand for His ideas in the human mind. And so do you. And I. Aren't they wonderful, these flowers! But you know, they are only the way we interpret certain of God's wonderful ideas. Only, because we mortals believe in death, we see these beautiful things at last reflecting our thought of death—don't we? We see only our thoughts, after all. Everything we see about us is reflected thought. First we see our thoughts of life and beauty and good. And then our thoughts of decay and death.

"But God—He never sees anything but the good," she went on. "He sees the real, not the supposition. And when we learn to see only as He does, why, then we will never again see death. We will see ourselves as we really are, immortal. God sees Himself that way. Jesus learned to see that way, didn't he? His thought was finally so pure that he saw nothing but good. And that gave him such power that he did those things that the poor, ignorant, wrong-thinking people called miracles. But they were only the things that you and I and everybody else ought to be doing to-day—and would be doing, if we thought as he did, instead of thinking of evil.

"But," she panted, as she sat down beside him, "I've talked a lot, haven't I? And you sent for me because you wanted to talk. But, remember," holding up an admonitory finger, "I shall not listen if you talk anything but good. Oh, Padre dear," looking up wistfully into his drawn face, "you are still thinking that two and two are seven! Will you never again think right? How can you ever expect to see good if you look only at evil? If I looked only at wilted flowers I would never know there were any others."

"Carmen," he said in a hollow voice, "I love you."

"Why, of course you do," returned the artless girl. "You can't help it. You have just got to love me and everything and everybody. That's reflecting God."

He had not meant to say that. But it had been floating like foam on his tossing mind. He took her hand.

"You are going away from me," he continued, almost in a whisper.

"Why, no, Padre," she replied quickly; "you are going too! Padre Rosendo said we could start to-morrow at sunrise."

"I do not go," he said in a quavering voice. "I remain, in Simiti."

She looked up at him wonderingly. What meant this change which had come over him so suddenly? She drew closer.

"Why, Padre?" she whispered.

His mother's face hovered before him in the dim light. Behind her a mitered head, symbolizing the Church, nodded and beckoned significantly. Back of them, as they stood between him and the girl, he saw the glorified vision of Carmen. It was his problem. He turned wearily from it to the gentle presence at his side.