The strumming of a tiple in the distance attracted him. Following it, he found a small settlement of bamboo huts hidden away in a beautiful grove of moriche palms, through which the moonbeams filtered in silvery stringers. Little gardens lay back of the dwellings, and the usual number of goats and pigs were dozing in the heavy shadows of the scarcely stirring trees. Reserved matrons and shy doncellas appeared in the doorways; and curious children, naked and chubby, hid in their mothers' scant skirts and peeped cautiously out at the newcomers. The tranquil night was sweet with delicate odors wafted from numberless plants and blossoms in the adjacent forest, and with the fragrance breathed from the roses, gardenias and dahlias with which these unpretentious dwellings were fairly embowered. A spirit of calm and peaceful contentment hovered over the spot, and the round, white moon smiled down in holy benediction upon the gentle folk who passed their simple lives in this bower of delight, free from the goad of human ambition, untrammeled by the false sense of wealth and its entailments, and unspoiled by the artificialities of civilization.

One of the passengers suggested a dance, while waiting for the boat to take on its fuel. The owner of the wood, apparently the chief authority of the little settlement, immediately procured a tom-tom, and gave orders for the baile. At his direction men, women and children gathered in the moonlit clearing on the river bank and, while the musician beat a monotonous tattoo on the crude drum, circled about in the stately and dignified movements of their native dance.

It was a picture that Jose would not forget. The balmy air, soft as velvet, and laden with delicious fragrance; the vast solitude, stretching in trackless wilderness to unknown reaches on either hand; the magic stillness of the tropic night; the figures of the dancers weirdly silhouetted in the gorgeous moonlight; with the low, unvaried beat of the tom-tom rising dully through the warm air—all merged into a scene of exquisite beauty and delight, which made an indelible impression upon the priest's receptive mind.

And when the sounds of simple happiness had again died into silence, and he lay in his hammock, listening to the spirit of the jungle sighing through the night-blown palms, as the boat glided gently through the lights and shadows of the quiet river, his soul voiced a nameless yearning, a vague, unformed longing for an approach to the life of simple content and child-like happiness of the kind and gentle folk with whom he had been privileged to make this brief sojourn.

* * * * *

The crimson flush of the dawn-sky heralded another day of implacable heat. The emerald coronals of palms and towering caobas burned in the early beams of the torrid sun. Light fogs rose reluctantly from the river's bosom and dispersed in delicate vapors of opal and violet. The tangled banks of dripping bush shone freshly green in the misty light. The wilderness, grim and trenchant, reigned in unchallenged despotism. Solitude, soul-oppressing, unbroken but for the calls of feathered life, brooded over the birth of Jose's last day on the Magdalena. About midday the steamer touched at the little village of Bodega Central; but the iron-covered warehouse and the whitewashed mud hovels glittered garishly in the fierce heat and stifled all desire to go ashore. The call was brief, and the boat soon resumed its course through the solitude and heat of the mighty river.

Immediately after leaving Bodega Central, Don Jorge approached Jose and beckoned him to an unoccupied corner of the boat.

"Amigo," he began, after assuring himself that his words would not carry to the other passengers, "the captain tells me the next stop is Badillo, where you leave us. If all goes well you will be in Simiti to-night. No doubt a report of our meeting with Padre Diego has already reached Don Wenceslas, who, you may be sure, has no thought of forgetting you. I have no reason to tell you this other than the fact that I think, as Padre Diego put it, you are being jobbed—not by the Church, but by Wenceslas. I want to warn you, that is all. I hate priests! They got me early—got my wife and girl, too! I hate the Church, and the whole ghastly farce which it puts over on the ignorant people of this country! But—," eying him sharply, "I would hardly class you as a real priest. There, never mind!" as Jose was about to interrupt. "I think I understand. You simply went wrong. You meant well, but something happened—as always does when one means well in this world. But now to the point."

Shifting his chair closer to Jose, the man resumed earnestly.

"Your grandfather, Don Ignacio, was a very rich man. The war stripped him. He got just what he deserved. His fincas and herds and mines melted away from him like grease from a holy candle. And nobody cared—any more than the Lord cares about candle grease. Most of his property fell into the hands of his former slaves—and he had hundreds of them hereabouts. But his most valuable possession, the great mine of La Libertad, disappeared as completely as if blotted from the face of the earth.

"That mine—no, not a mine, but a mountain of free gold—was located somewhere in the Guamoco district. After the war this whole country slipped back into the jungle, and had to be rediscovered. The Guamoco region is to-day as unknown as it was before the Spaniards came. Somewhere in the district, but covered deep beneath brush and forest growth, is that mine, the richest in Colombia.

"Now, as you know, Don Ignacio left this country in considerable of a hurry. But I think he always intended to come back again. Death killed that ambition. I don't know about his sons. But the fact remains that La Libertad has never been rediscovered since Don Ignacio's day. The old records in Cartagena show the existence of such a mine in Spanish times, and give a more or less accurate statement of its production. Diablo! I hesitate to say how much! The old fellow had arrastras, mills, and so on, in which slaves crushed the ore. The bullion was melted into bars and brought down the trail to Simiti, where he had agents and warehouses and a store or two. From there it was shipped down the river to Cartagena. But the war lasted thirteen years. And during that time everything was in a state of terrible confusion. The existence of mines was forgotten. The plantations were left unworked. The male population was all but killed off. And the country sank back into wilderness.

"Bueno; so much for history. Now to your friends on the coast—and elsewhere. Don Wenceslas is quietly searching for that mine—has been for years. He put his agent, Padre Diego, in Simiti to learn what he might there. But the fool priest was run out after he had ruined a woman or two. However, Padre Diego is still in close touch with the town, and is on the keen search for La Libertad. Wenceslas thinks there may be descendants of some of Don Ignacio's old slaves still living in Simiti, or near there, and that they know the location of the lost mine. And, if I mistake not, he figures that you will learn the secret from them in some way, and that the mine will again come to light. Now, if you get wind of that mine and attempt to locate it, or purchase it from the natives, you will be beaten out of it in a hurry. And you may be sure Don Wenceslas will be the one who will eventually have it, for there is no craftier, smoother, brighter rascal in Colombia than he. And so, take it from me, if you ever get wind of the location of that famous property—which by rights is yours, having belonged to your grandfather—keep the information strictly to yourself!

"I do not know Simiti. But I shall be working in the Guamoco district for many months to come, hunting Indian graves. I shall have my runners up and down the Simiti trail frequently, and may get in touch with you. It may be that you will need a friend. There! The boat is whistling for Badillo. A last word: Keep out of the way of both Wenceslas and Diego—cultivate the people of Simiti—and keep your mouth closed."

A few minutes later Jose stood on the river bank beside his little haircloth trunk and traveling bag, sadly watching the steamer draw away and resume her course up-stream. He watched it until it disappeared around a bend. And then he stood watching the smoke rise above the treetops, until that, too, faded in the distance. No one had waved him a farewell from the boat. No one met him with a greeting of welcome on the shore. He was a stranger among strangers.

He turned, with a heavy heart, to note his environment. It was a typical riverine point. A single street, if it might be so called; a half dozen bamboo dwellings, palm-thatched; and a score of natives, with their innumerable gaunt dogs and porcine companions—this was Badillo.

"Senor Padre." A tall, finely built native, clad in soiled white cotton shirt and trousers, approached and addressed him in a kindly tone. "Where do you go?"

"To Simiti," replied the priest, turning eagerly to the man. "But," in bewilderment, "where is it?"

"Over there," answered the native, pointing to the jungle on the far side of the river. "Many leagues."

The wearied priest sat down on his trunk and buried his face in his hands. Faintness and nausea seized him. It was the after-effect of his long and difficult river experience. Or, perhaps, the deadly malaria was beginning its insidious poisoning. The man approached and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Padre, why do you go to Simiti?"

Jose raised his head and looked more closely at his interlocutor. The native was a man of perhaps sixty years. His figure was that of an athlete. He stood well over six feet high, with massive shoulders, and a waist as slender as a woman's. His face was almost black in color, and mottled with patches of white, so common to the natives of the hot inlands. But there was that in its expression, a something that looked out through those kindly black eyes, that assured Jose and bespoke his confidence.

The man gravely repeated his question.

"I have been sent there by the Bishop of Cartagena. I am to have charge of the parish," Jose replied.

The man slowly shook his finely shaped head.

"We want no priest in Simiti," he said with quiet firmness. His manner of speaking was abrupt, yet not ungracious.

"But—do you live there?" inquired Jose anxiously.

"Yes, Padre."

"Then you must know a man—Rosendo, I think his name—"

"I am Rosendo Ariza."

Jose looked eagerly at the man. Then he wearily stretched out a hand.

"Rosendo—I am sick—I think. And—I have—no friends—"

Rosendo quickly grasped his hand and slipped an arm about his shoulders.

"I am your friend, Padre—" He stopped and appeared to reflect for a moment. Then he added quickly, "My canoe is ready; and we must hurry, or night will overtake us."

The priest essayed to rise, but stumbled. Then, as if he had been a child, the man Rosendo picked him up and carried him down the bank to a rude canoe, where he deposited him on a pile of empty bags in the keel.

"Escolastico!" he called back to a young man who seemed to be the chief character of the village. "Sell the panela and yuccas a buen precio; and remind Captain Julio not to forget on the next trip to bring the little Carmen a doll from Barranquilla. I will be over again next month. And Juan," addressing the sturdy youth who was preparing to accompany him, "set in the Padre's baggage; and do you take the paddle, and I will pole. Conque, adioscito!" waving his battered straw hat to the natives congregated on the bank, while Juan pushed the canoe from the shore and paddled vigorously out into the river.

"Adioscito! adioscito! Don Rosendo y Juan!" The hearty farewells of the natives followed the canoe far out into the broad stream.

Across the open river in the livid heat of the early afternoon the canoe slowly made its way. The sun from a cloudless sky viciously poured down its glowing rays like molten metal. The boat burned; the river steamed; the water was hot to his touch, when the priest feebly dipped his hands into it and bathed his throbbing brow. Badillo faded from view as they rounded a densely wooded island and entered a long lagoon. Here they lost the slight breeze which they had had on the main stream. In this narrow channel, hemmed in between lofty forest walls of closely woven vines and foliage, it seemed to Jose that they had entered a flaming inferno. The two boatmen sat silent and inscrutable, plying their paddles without speaking.

Down the long lagoon the canoe drifted, keeping within what scant shade the banks afforded, for the sun stood now directly overhead. The heat was everywhere, insistent, unpitying. It burned, scalded, warped. The foliage on either side of the channel merged into the hot waves that rose trembling about them. The thin, burning air enveloped the little craft with fire. Jose gasped for breath. His tongue swelled. His pulse throbbed violently. His skin cracked. The quivering appearance of the atmosphere robbed him of confidence in his own vision. A cloud of insects hung always before his sight. Dead silence lay upon the scene. Not a sound issued from the jungle. Not a bird or animal betrayed its presence. The canoe was edging the Colombian "hells," where even the denizens of the forest dare not venture forth on the low, open savannas in the killing heat of midday.

Jose sank down in the boat, wilting and semi-delirious. Through his dimmed eyes the boatman looked like glowing inhuman things set in flames. Rosendo came to him and placed his straw hat over his face. Hours, interminable and torturing, seemed to pass on leaden wings. Then Juan, deftly swerving his paddle, shot the canoe into a narrow arm, and the garish sunlight was suddenly lost in the densely intertwined branches overhanging the little stream.

"The outlet of La Cienaga, Padre," Rosendo offered, laying aside his paddle and taking his long boat pole. "Lake Simiti flows through this and into the Magdalena." For a few moments he held the canoe steady, while from his wallet he drew a few leaves of tobacco and deftly rolled a long, thick cigar.

The real work of the boga now began, and Rosendo with his long punter settled down to the several hours' strenuous grind which was necessary to force the heavy canoe up the little outlet and into the distant lake beyond. Back and forth he traveled through the half-length of the boat, setting the pole well forward in the soft bank, or out into the stream itself, and then, with its end against his shoulder, urging and teasing the craft a few feet at a time against the strong current. Jose imagined, as he dully watched him, that he could see death in the pestiferous effluvia which emanated from the black, slimy mud which every plunge of the long pole brought to the surface of the narrow stream.

The afternoon slowly waned, and the temperature lowered a few degrees. A warm, animal-like breath drifted languidly out from the moist jungle. The outlet, or cano, was heavily shaded throughout its length. Crocodiles lay along its muddy banks, and slid into the water at the approach of the canoe. Huge iguanas, the gorgeously colored lizards of tropical America, scurried noisily through the overarching branches. Here and there monkeys peeped curiously at the intruders and chattered excitedly as they swung among the lofty treetops. But for his exhaustion, Jose, as he lay propped up against his trunk, gazing vacantly upon the slowly unrolling panorama of marvelous plant and animal life on either hand, might have imagined himself in a realm of enchantment.

At length the vegetation abruptly ceased; the stream widened; and the canoe entered a broad lake, at the far end of which, three miles distant, its two whitewashed churches and its plastered houses reflecting the red glow of the setting sun, lay the ancient and decayed town of Simiti, the northern outlet of Spain's mediaeval treasure house, at the edge of the forgotten district of Guamoco.

Paddling gently across the unruffled surface of the tepid waters, Rosendo and Juan silently urged the canoe through the fast gathering dusk, and at length drew up on the shaly beach of the old town. As they did so, a little girl, bare of feet and with clustering brown curls, came running out of the darkness.

"Oh, padre Rosendo," she called, "what have you brought me?"

Then, as she saw Rosendo and Juan assisting the priest from the boat, she drew back abashed.

"Look, Carmencita," whispered Juan to the little maid; "we've brought you a big doll, haven't we?"

Night fell as the priest stepped upon the shore of his new home.



CARMEN ARIZA



BOOK 2

Ay, to save and redeem and restore, snatch Saul, the mistake, Saul, the failure, the ruin he seems now,—and bid him awake from the dream, the probation, the prelude, to find himself set clear and safe in new light and new life,—a new harmony yet to be run and continued and ended.

—Browning.



CARMEN ARIZA

CHAPTER 1

Jose de Rincon opened his eyes and turned painfully on his hard bed. The early sun streamed through the wooden grating before the unglazed window. A slight, tepid breeze stirred the mosquito netting over him. He was in the single sleeping room of the house. It contained another bed like his own, of rough macana palm strips, over which lay a straw mat and a thin red blanket. Bed springs were unknown in Simiti. On the rude door, cobwebbed and dusty, a scorpion clung torpidly. From the room beyond he heard subdued voices. His head and limbs ached dully; and frightful memories of the river trip and the awful journey from Badillo sickened him. With painful exertion he stood upon the moist dirt floor and drew on his damp clothes. He had only a vague recollection of the preceding night, but he knew that Rosendo had half led, half dragged him past rows of dimly lighted, ghostly white houses to his own abode, and there had put him to bed.

"Muy buenos dias, Senor Padre," Rosendo greeted him, as the priest dragged himself out into the living room. "You have slept long. But the senora will soon have your breakfast. Sit here—not in the sun!"

Rosendo placed one of the rough wooden chairs, with straight cowhide back and seat, near the table.

"Carmencita has gone to the boat for fresh water. But—here she comes. Pour the Senor Padre a cup, carita," addressing a little girl who at that moment entered the doorway, carrying a large earthen bottle on her shoulder. It was the child who had met the boat when the priest arrived the night, before.

"Fill the basin, too, chiquita, that the Padre may wash his hands," added Rosendo.

The child approached Jose, and with a dignified little courtesy and a frank smile offered him a cup of the lukewarm water. The priest accepted it languidly. But, glancing into her face, his eyes suddenly widened, and the hand that was carrying the tin cup to his lips stopped.

The barefoot girl, clad only in a short, sleeveless calico gown, stood before him like a portrait from an old master. Her skin was almost white, with but a tinge of olive. Her dark brown hair hung in curls to her shoulders and framed a face of rarest beauty. Innocence, purity, and love radiated from her fair features, from her beautifully rounded limbs, from her soft, dark eyes that looked so fearlessly into his own.

Jose felt himself strangely moved. Somewhere deep within his soul a chord had been suddenly struck by the little presence; and the sound was unfamiliar to him. Yet it awakened memories of distant scenes, of old dreams, and forgotten longings. It seemed to echo from realms of his soul that had never been penetrated. The tumult within died away. The raging thought sank into calm. The man forgot himself, forgot that he had come to Simiti to die. His sorrow vanished. His sufferings faded. He remained conscious only of something that he could not outline, something in the soul of the child, a thing that perhaps he once possessed, and that he knew he yet prized above all else on earth.

He heard Rosendo's voice through an immeasurable distance—

"Leave us now, chiquita; the Padre wishes to have his breakfast."

The child without speaking turned obediently; and the priest's eyes followed her until she disappeared into the kitchen.

"We call her 'the smile of God,'" said Rosendo, noting the priest's absorption, "because she is always happy."

Jose remained sunk in thought. Then—

"A beautiful child!" he murmured. "A wonderfully beautiful child! I had no idea—!"

"Yes, Padre, she is heaven's gift to us poor folk. I sometimes think the angels themselves left her on the river bank."

"On the river bank!" Jose was awake now. "Why—she was not born here?"

"Oh, no, Padre, but in Badillo."

"Ah, then you once lived in Badillo?"

"Na, Senor Padre, she is not my child—except that the good God has given her to me to protect."

"Not your child! Then whose is she?" The priest's voice was unwontedly eager and his manner animated.

But Rosendo fell suddenly quiet and embarrassed, as if he realized that already he had said too much to a stranger. A shade of suspicion seemed to cross his face, and he rose hurriedly and went out into the kitchen. A moment later he returned with the priest's breakfast—two fried eggs, a hot corn arepa, fried platanos, dried fish, and coffee sweetened with panela.

"When you have finished, Padre, we will visit the Alcalde," he said quietly. "I must go down to the lake now to speak with Juan before he goes out to fish."

Jose finished his meal alone. The interest which had been aroused by the child continued to increase without reaction. His torpid soul had been profoundly stirred. For the moment, though he knew not why, life seemed to hold a vague, unshaped interest for him. He began to notice his environment; he even thought he relished the coarse food set before him.

The house he was in was a typical native three-room dwelling, built of strips of macana palm, set upright and tied together with pieces of slender, tough bejuco vine. The interstices between the strips were filled with mud, and the whole whitewashed. The floors were dirt, trodden hard; the steep-pitched roof was thatched with palm. A few chairs like the one he occupied, the rude, uncovered table, some cheap prints and a battered crucifix on the wall, were the only furnishings of the living room.

While he was eating, the people of the town congregated quietly about the open door. Friendly curiosity to see the new Padre, and sincere desire to welcome him animated their simple minds. Naked babes crawled to the threshold and peeped timidly in. Coarsely clad women and young girls, many of the latter bedizened with bits of bright ribbon or cheap trinkets, smiled their gentle greetings. Black, dignified men, bare of feet, and wearing white cotton trousers and black ruanas—the cape affected by the poor males of the inlands—respectfully doffed their straw hats and bowed to him. Rosendo's wife appeared from the kitchen and extended her hand to him in unfeigned hospitality. Attired in a fresh calico gown, her black hair plastered back over her head and tied with a clean black ribbon, her bare feet encased in hemp sandals, she bore herself with that grace and matronly dignity so indicative of her Spanish forbears, and so particularly characteristic of the inhabitants of this "valley of the pleasant 'yes.'"

Breakfast finished, the priest stepped to the doorway and raised his hand in the invocation that was evidently expected from him.

"Dominus vobiscum," he repeated, not mechanically, not insincerely, but in a spirit of benevolence, of genuine well-wishing, which his contact with the child a few minutes before seemed to have aroused.

The people bent their heads piously and murmured, "Et cum spiritu tuo."

The open door looked out upon the central plaza, where stood a large church of typical colonial design and construction, and with a single lateral bell tower. The building was set well up on a platform of shale, with broad shale steps, much broken and worn, leading up to it on all sides. Jose stepped out and mingled with the crowd, first regarding the old church curiously, and then looking vainly for the little girl, and sighing his disappointment when he did not see her.

In the plaza he was joined by Rosendo; and together they went to the house of the Alcalde. On the way the priest gazed about him with growing curiosity. To the north of the town stretched the lake, known to the residents only by the name of La Cienaga. It was a body of water of fair size, in a setting of exquisite tropical beauty. In a temperate climate, and a region more densely populated, this lake would have been priceless. Here in forgotten Guamoco it lay like an undiscovered gem, known only to those few inert and passive folk, who enjoyed it with an inadequate sense of its rare beauty and immeasurable worth. Several small and densely wooded isles rose from its unrippled bosom; and tropical birds of brilliant color hovered over it in the morning sun. Near one of its margins Jose distinguished countless white garzas, the graceful herons whose plumes yield the coveted aigrette of northern climes. They fed undisturbed, for this region sleeps unmolested, far from the beaten paths of tourist or vandal huntsman. To the west and south lay the hills of Guamoco, and the lofty Cordilleras, purpling in the light mist. Over the entire scene spread a damp warmth, like the atmosphere of a hot-house. By midday Jose knew that the heat would be insufferable.

The Alcalde, Don Mario Arvila, conducted his visitors through his shabby little store and into the patio in the rear, exclaiming repeatedly, "Ah, Senor Padre, we welcome you! All Simiti welcomes you and kisses your hand!" In the shade of his arbor he sat down to examine Jose's letters from Cartagena.

Don Mario was a large, florid man, huge of girth, with brown skin, heavy jowls, puffed eyes, and bald head. As he read, his eyes snapped, and at times he paused and looked up curiously at the priest. Then, without comment, he folded the letters and put them into a pocket of his crash coat.

"Bien," he said politely, "we must have the Padre meet Don Felipe Alcozer as soon as he returns. Some repairs are needed on the church; a few of the roof tiles have slipped, and the rain enters. Perhaps, Senor Padre, you may say the Mass there next Sunday. We will see. A—a—you had illustrious ancestors, Padre," he added with hesitation.

"Do the letters mention my ancestry?" asked Jose with something of mingled surprise and pride.

"They speak of your family, which was, as we all know, quite renowned," replied the Alcalde courteously.

"Very," agreed Jose, wondering how much the Alcalde knew of his family.

"Don Ignacio was not unknown in this pueblo," affably continued the Alcalde.

At these words Rosendo started visibly and looked fixedly at the priest.

"The family name of Rincon," the Alcalde went on, "appears on the old records of Simiti in many places, and it is said that Don Ignacio himself came here more than once. Perhaps you know, Senor Padre, that the Rincon family erected the church which stands in the plaza? And so it is quite appropriate that their son should officiate in it after all these centuries, is it not?"

No, Jose had not known it. He could not have imagined such a thing. He knew little of his family's history. Of their former vast wealth he had a vague notion. But here in this land of romance and tragedy he seemed to be running upon their reliques everywhere.

The conversation drifted to parish matters; and soon Rosendo urged their departure, as the sun was mounting high.

Seated at the table for the midday lunch, Jose again became lost in contemplation of the child before him. Her fair face flushed under his searching gaze; but she returned a smile of confidence and sweet innocence that held him spellbound. Her great brown eyes were of infinite depth. They expressed a something that he had never seen before in human eyes. What manner of soul lay behind them? What was it that through them looked out into this world of evil? Childish innocence and purity, yes; but vastly more. Was it—God Himself? Jose started at his own thought. Through his meditations he heard Rosendo's voice.

"Simiti is very old, Padre. In the days of the Spaniards it was a large town, with many rich people. The Indians were all slaves then, and they worked in the mines up there," indicating the distant mountains. "Much gold was brought down here and shipped down the Magdalena, for the cano was wider in those days, and it was not so hard to reach the river. This is the end of the Guamoco trail, which was called in those days the Camino Real."

"You say the mines were very rich?" interrogated Jose; not that the question expressed a more than casual interest, but rather to keep Rosendo talking while he studied the child.

But at this question Rosendo suddenly became less loquacious. Jose then felt that he was suspected of prying into matters which Rosendo did not wish to discuss with him, and so he pressed the topic no further.

"How many people did Don Mario say the parish contained?" he asked by way of diverting the conversation.

"About two hundred, Padre."

"And it has been vacant long?"

"Four years."

"Four years since Padre Diego was here," commented Jose casually.

It was an unfortunate remark. At the mention of the former priest's name Dona Maria hurriedly left the table. Rosendo's black face grew even darker, and took on a look of ineffable contempt. He did not reply. And the meal ended in silence.

It was now plain to Jose that Rosendo distrusted him. But it mattered little to the priest, beyond the fact that he had no wish to offend any one. What interest had he in boorish Simiti, or Guamoco? The place was become his tomb—he had entered it to die. The child—the girl! Ah, yes, she had touched a strange chord within him; and for a time he had seemed to live again. But as the day waned, and pitiless heat and deadly silence brooded over the decayed town, his starving soul sank again into its former depression, and revived hope and interest died within him.

The implacable heat burned through the noon hour; the dusty streets were like the floor of a stone oven; the shale beds upon which the old town rested sent up fiery, quivering waves; the houses seethed; earth and sky were ablaze. How long could he endure it?

And the terrible ennui, the isolation, the utter lack of every trace of culture, of the varied interests that feed the educated, trained mind and minister to its comfort and growth—could he support it patiently while awaiting the end? Would he go mad before the final release came? He did not fear death; but he was horror-stricken at the thought of madness! Of losing that rational sense of the Ego which constituted his normal individuality!

Rosendo advised him to retire for the midday siesta. Through the seemingly interminable afternoon he lay upon his hard bed with his brain afire, while the events of his warped life moved before him in spectral review. The week which had passed since he left Cartagena seemed an age. When he might hope to receive word from the outside world, he could not imagine. His isolation was now complete. Even should letters succeed in reaching Simiti for him, they must first pass through the hands of the Alcalde.

And what did the Alcalde know of him? And then, again, what did it matter? He must not lose sight of the fact that his interest in the outside world—nay, his interest in all things had ceased. This was the end. He had yielded, after years of struggle, to pride, fear, doubt. He had bowed before his morbid sense of honor—a perverted sense, he now admitted, but still one which bound him in fetters of steel. His life had been one of grossest inconsistency. He was utterly out of tune with the universe. His incessant clash with the world of people and events had sounded nothing but agonizing discord. And his confusion of thought had become such that, were he asked why he was in Simiti, he could scarcely have told. At length he dropped into a feverish sleep.

The day drew to a close, and the flaming sun rested for a brief moment on the lofty tip of Tolima. Jose awoke, dripping with perspiration, his steaming blood rushing wildly through its throbbing channels. Blindly he rose from his rough bed and stumbled out of the stifling chamber. The living room was deserted. Who might be in the kitchen, he did not stop to see. Dazed by the garish light and fierce heat, he rushed from the house and over the burning shales toward the lake.

What he intended to do, he knew not. His weltering thought held but a single concept—water! The lake would cool his burning skin—he would wade out into it until it rose to his cracking lips—he would lie down in it, till it quenched the fire in his head—he would sleep in it—he would never leave it—it was cool—perhaps cold! What did the word mean? Was there aught in the world but fire—flames—fierce, withering, smothering, consuming heat? He thought the shales crackled as they melted beneath him! He thought his feet sank to the ankles in molten lava, and were so heavy he scarce could drag them! He thought the blazing sun shot out great tongues of flame, like the arms of a monster devilfish, which twined about him, transforming his blood to vapor and sucking it out through his gaping pores!

A blinding light flashed before him as he reached the margin of the lake. The universe burst into a ball of fire. He clasped his head in his hands—stumbled—and fell, face down, in the tepid waters.



CHAPTER 2

"It was the little Carmen, Padre, who saw you run to the lake. She was sitting at the kitchen door, studying her writing lesson."

The priest essayed to rise from his bed. Night had fallen, and the feeble light of the candle cast heavy shadows over the room, and made grotesque pictures of the black, anxious faces looking in at the grated window.

"But, Rosendo, it—was—a dream—a terrible dream!"

"Na, Padre, it was true, for I myself took you from the lake," replied Rosendo tenderly.

Jose struggled to a sitting posture, but would have fallen back again had not Rosendo's strong arm supported him. He passed his hand slowly across his forehead, as if to brush the mental cobwebs from his awakening brain. Then he inquired feebly:

"What does the doctor say?"

"Padre, there is no doctor in Simiti," Rosendo answered quietly.

"No doctor!"

Jose kept silence for a few moments. Then—

"But perhaps I do not need one. What time did it occur?"

"It did not happen to-day, Padre," said Rosendo with pitying compassion. "It was nearly a week ago."

"Nearly a week! And have I lain here so long?"

"Yes, Padre."

The priest stared at him uncomprehendingly. Then—

"The dreams were frightful! I must have talked—raved! Rosendo—you heard me—?" His voice betrayed anxiety.

"There, Padre, think no more about it. You were wild—I fought to keep you in bed—we thought you must die—all but Carmen—but you have your senses now—and you must forget the past."

Forget the past! Then his wild delirium had laid bare his soul! And the man who had so faithfully nursed him through the crisis now possessed the sordid details of this wretched life!

Jose struggled to orient his undirected mind. A hot wave of anger swept over him at the thought that he was still living, that his battered soul had not torn itself from earth during his delirium and taken flight. Was he fated to live forever, to drag out an endless existence, with his heart written upon his sleeve for the world to read and turn to its own advantage? Rosendo had stood between him and death—but to what end? Had he not yet paid the score in full—good measure, pressed down and running over? His thoughts ran rapidly from one topic to another. Again they reverted to the little girl. He had dreamed of her in that week of black night. He wondered if he had also talked of her. He had lain at death's door—Rosendo had said so—but he had had no physician. Perhaps these simple folk brewed their own homely remedies—he wondered what they had employed in his case. Above the welter of his thoughts this question pressed for answer.

"What medicine did you give me, Rosendo?" he feebly queried.

"None, Padre."

Jose's voice rose querulously in a little excess of excitement. "What! You left me here without medical aid, to live or die, as might be?"

The gentle Rosendo laid a soothing hand upon the priest's feverish brow. "Na, Padre,"—there was a hurt tone in the soft answer—"we did all we could for you. We have neither doctors nor medicines. But we cared for you—and we prayed daily for your recovery. The little Carmen said our prayers would be answered—and, you see, they were."

Again the child!

"And what had she to do with my recovery?" Jose demanded fretfully.

"Quien sabe? It is sometimes that way when the little Carmen says people shall not die. And then," he added sadly, "sometimes they do die just the same. It is strange; we do not understand it." The gentle soul sighed its perplexity.

Jose looked up at him keenly. "Did the child say I should not die?" he asked softly, almost in a whisper.

"Yes, Padre; she says God's children do not die," returned Rosendo.

The priest's blood stopped in its mad surge and slowly began to chill. God's children do not die! What uncanny influence had he met with here in this crumbling, forgotten town? He sought the index of his memory for the sensations he had felt when he looked into the girl's eyes on his first morning in Simiti. But memory reported back only impressions of goodness—beauty—love.

Then a dim light—only a feeble gleam—seemed to flash before him, but at a great distance. Something called him—not by name, but by again touching that unfamiliar chord which had vibrated in his soul when the child had first stood before him. He felt a strange psychic presentiment as of things soon to be revealed. A sentiment akin to awe stole over him, as if he were standing in the presence of a great mystery—a mystery so transcendental that the groveling minds of mortals have never apprehended it. He turned again to the man sitting beside his bed.

"Rosendo—where is she?"

"Asleep, Padre," pointing to the other bed. "But we must not wake her," he admonished quickly, as the priest again sought to rise; "we will talk of her to-morrow. I think—"

Rosendo stopped abruptly and looked at the priest as if he would fathom the inmost nature of the man. Then he continued uncertainly:

"I—I may have some things to say to you to-morrow—if you are well enough to hear them. But I will think about it to-night, and—if—Bien! I will think about it."

Rosendo rose slowly, as if weighted with heavy thoughts, and went out into the living room. Presently he returned with a rude, homemade broom and began to sweep a space on the dirt floor in the corner opposite Jose. This done, he spread out a light straw mat for his bed.

"The senora is preparing you a bowl of chicken broth and rice, Padre," he said. "The little Carmen saved a hen for you when you should awake. She has fed it all the week on rice and goat's milk. She said she knew you would wake up hungry."

Jose's eyes had closely followed Rosendo's movements, although he seemed not to hear his words. Suddenly he broke forth in protest.

"Rosendo," he cried, "have I your bed? And do you sleep there on the floor? I cannot permit this!"

"Say nothing, Padre," replied Rosendo, gently forcing Jose back again upon his bed. "My house is yours."

"But—the senora, your wife—where does she sleep?"

"She has her petate in the kitchen," was the quiet answer.

Only the two poor beds, which were occupied by the priest and the child! And Rosendo and his good wife had slept on the hard dirt floor for a week! Jose's eyes dimmed when he realized the extent of their unselfish hospitality. And would they continue to sleep thus on the ground, with nothing beneath them but a thin straw mat, as long as he might choose to remain with them? Aye, he knew that they would, uncomplainingly. For these are the children of the "valley of the pleasant 'yes.'"

Jose awoke the next morning with a song echoing in his ears. He had dreamed of singing; and as consciousness slowly returned, the dream-song became real. It floated in from the living room on a clear, sweet soprano. When a child he had heard such voices in the choir loft of the great Seville cathedral, and he had thought that angels were singing. As he lay now listening to it, memories of his childish dreams swept over him in great waves. The soft, sweet cadences rose and fell. His own heart swelled and pulsated with them, and his barren soul once more surged under the impulse of a deep, potential desire to manifest itself, its true self, unhampered at last by limitation and convention, unfettered by superstition, human creeds and false ambition. Then the inevitable reaction set in; a sickening sense of the futility of his longing settled over him, and he turned his face to the wall, while hot tears streamed over his sunken cheeks.

Again through his wearied brain echoed the familiar admonition, "Occupy till I come." Always the same invariable response to his strained yearnings. The sweet voice in the adjoining room floated in through the dusty palm door. It spread over his perturbed thought like oil on troubled waters. Perhaps it was the child singing. At this thought the sense of awe seemed to settle upon him again. A child—a babe—had said that he should live! If a doctor had said it he would have believed. But a child—absurd! It was a dream! But no; Rosendo had said it; and there was no reason to doubt him. But what had this child to do with it? Nothing! And yet—was that wholly true? Then whence his sensations when first he saw her? Whence that feeling of standing in the presence of a great mystery? "Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings—" Foolishness! To be sure, the child may have said he should not die; but if he were to live—which God forbid!—his own recuperative powers would restore him. Rosendo's lively imagination certainly had exaggerated the incident.

Exhausted by his mental efforts, and lulled by the low singing, the priest sank into fitful slumber. As he slept he dreamed. He was standing alone in a great desert. Darkness encompassed him, and a fearful loneliness froze his soul. About him lay bleaching bones. Neither trees nor vegetation broke the dull monotony of the cheerless scene. Nothing but waste, unutterably dreary waste, over which a chill wind tossed the tinkling sand in fitful gusts. In terror he cried aloud. The desert mocked his hollow cry. The darkness thickened. Again he called, his heart sinking with despair.

Then, over the desolate waste, through the heavy gloom, a voice seemed borne faint on the cold air, "Occupy till I come!" He sank to his knees. His straining eyes caught the feeble glint of a light, but at an immeasurable distance. Again he called; and again the same response, but nearer. A glow began to suffuse the blackness about him. Nearer, ever nearer drew the gleam. The darkness lifted. The rocks began to bud. Trees and vines sprang from the waste sand. As if in a tremendous explosion, a dazzling light burst full upon him, shattering the darkness, fusing the stones about him, and blinding his sight. A great presence stood before him. He struggled to his feet; and as he did so a loud voice cried, "Behold, I come quickly!"

"Senor Padre, you have been dreaming!"

The priest, sitting upright and clutching at the rough sides of his bed, stared with wooden obliviousness into the face of the little Carmen.



CHAPTER 3

"You are well now, aren't you, Padre?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And look, Padre! The broth—isn't it good?"

Jose tasted, and declared it delicious.

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

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

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

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

"No, they don't," said the girl confidently, answering her own question. "Because," she added, "God is everywhere—isn't He?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, padre Rosendo, he is well—all well! Aren't you, Padre?" appealing to Jose, and again urging him forth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She calls them God's kisses," whispered Rosendo to the priest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, Rosendo. I grow stronger every minute. But—where is Carmen?"

"She must help her mother."

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

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

"Yes," responded Jose with animation. Life and strength seemed to return to him with a bound.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I have seen that, Rosendo," interposed Jose.

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

"Why do you say that, Rosendo?" Jose returned in surprise.

Rosendo paused before replying.

"You were very sick, Padre; and in the fever you—" the impeccably honest fellow hesitated.

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

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

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

Because of what he had said in his delirium! Jose's astonishment grew apace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jose started in horror. But Rosendo did not stop.

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

"But, Rosendo, if Simiti has been so afflicted by bad priests, why are you confiding in me?" Jose asked in wonder.

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

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

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

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

Jose listened in breathless silence.

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

"Tell me, Rosendo, just what you mean," said Jose reverently, laying his hand gently upon the older man's arm.

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

His voice dropped to a whisper.

"—she is like—God. And she knows Him better than she knows me."

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

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

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

"Yes, Rosendo, yes," Jose eagerly reassured him. "Go on."

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

"Yes, Rosendo?"

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

Jose sat staring at the man with dilating eyes.

"Padre, she has her own Church. It is her heart."

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

"Padre, that must be left alone!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER 4

"He that loseth his life for my sake shall find it."

The reporters of the unique Man of Galilee, upon whose straining ears these words fell, noted them for future generations of footsore pilgrims on life's wandering highway—for the rich, satiated with their gorgeous gluttonies; for the proud Levite, with his feet enmeshed in the lifeless letter of the Law; for the loathsome and outcast beggar at the gates of Dives. And for Jose de Rincon, priest of the Holy Catholic Church and vicar of Christ, scion of aristocracy and worldly learning, now humbled and blinded, like Paul on the road to Damascus, begging that his spiritual sight might be opened to the glory of the One with whom he had not known how to walk.

Returning in silence from the church to Rosendo's humble cottage, Jose had asked leave to retire. He would be alone with the great Presence which had come to him across the desert of his life, and now stood before him in the brightness of the undimmed sun. He no longer felt ill nor exhausted. Indeed, quite the contrary; a quickened sense of life, an eagerness to embrace the opportunity opening before him, caused his chest to heave and his shrunken veins to throb.

On his bed in the darkened room he lay in a deep silence, broken only at intervals by the hurried scampering of lizards darting through the interstices of the dry walls. His uncomprehending eyes were fixed upon the dust-laden thatch of the roof overhead, where droning wasps toiled upon their frail abodes. He lay with the portals of his mind opened wide. Through them, in ceaseless flow, passed two streams which did not mingle. The one, outward bound, turbid with its burden of egoism, fear, perplexity, and hopelessness, which, like barnacles, had fastened to his soul on its chartless voyage; the other, a stream of hope and confidence and definite purpose, a stream which leaped and sang in the warm sunlight of Love as it poured into his receptive brain.

The fresh thought which flowed into his mental chambers rapidly formed into orderly plans, all centering upon the child, Carmen. What could he teach her? The relative truths and worldly knowledge—purified, as far as in him lay, from the dross of speculation and human opinion—which lay stored in the archives of his mind? Yes; but that was all. History, and its interpretation of human progress; the languages; mathematics, and the elements of the physical sciences; literature; and a knowledge of people and places. With these his retentive mind was replete. But beyond this he must learn of her. And her tutor, he now knew, was the Master Mind, omniscient God. And he knew, more, that she possessed secrets whose potency he might as yet scarcely imagine. For, in an environment which for dearth of mental stimulus and incentive could scarcely be matched; amid poverty but slightly raised above actual want; untouched by the temperamental hopelessness which lies just beneath the surface of these dull, simple folk, this child lived a life of such ecstasy as might well excite the envy of the world's potentates.

But meantime, what should be his attitude toward the parish? He fully realized that he and the Church were now as far apart as the poles. Yet this was become his parish, the first he had ever held; and these were his people. And he must face them and preach—what? If not the Catholic faith, then would he be speedily removed. And that meant complete disruption of his rapidly formulating plans. But might he not in that event flee with Carmen, renounce the Church, and—

Impossible! Excommunication alone could sever the oath by which the Church held him. And for that he could not say that he was ready. For excommunication meant disgrace to his mother—perhaps the snapping of a heart already sorely strained. To renounce his oath was dishonor. To preach the Catholic faith without sincerity was scarcely less. Yet amid present circumstances this seemed the only course open to him.

But what must he teach Carmen in regard to the Church? Could he maintain his position in it, yet not of it; and at the same time rear her without its pale, yet so as not to conflict with the people of Simiti, nor cause such comment as might reach the ears of the Bishop of Cartagena? God alone knew. It must be attempted, at any rate. There was no other way. And if it was God's plan, he might safely trust Him for the requisite strength and wisdom. For this course the isolation of Simiti and the childish simplicity of its people afforded a tremendous advantage. On the other hand, he knew that both he and Carmen had powerful enemies. Yet, one with God might rout a host. And Carmen walked with God.

Thus throughout the afternoon the priest weighed and pondered the thoughts that sought admission to his reawakened mind. He was not interrupted until sundown; and then Carmen entered the room with a bowl of chocolate and some small wheaten loaves. Behind her, with an amusing show of dignity, stalked a large heron, an elegant bird, with long, scarlet legs, gray plumage, and a gracefully curved neck. When the bird reached the threshold it stopped, and without warning gave vent to a prolonged series of shrill, unmusical sounds. The startled priest sat up in his bed and exclaimed in amazement.

"It is only Cantar-las-horas, Padre," laughed the little maid. "He follows me wherever I go, unless he is off fishing. Sometimes when I go out in the boat with padre Rosendo he flies clear across the lake to meet us. He is lots older than I, and years ago, when there were Curas here, he learned his song. Whenever the Angelas rang he would try to sing just like it; and now he has the habit and can't help it. But he is such a dear, wise old fellow," twining a chubby arm lovingly about the bird's slender neck; "and he always sings just at six o'clock, the time the Angelas used to ring."

The heron manifested the deepest affection for the child as she gently stroked its plumage and caressed its long, pointed bill.

"But how do you suppose he knows when it is just six o'clock, chiquita?" asked Jose, deeply interested in the strange phenomenon.

"God tells him, Padre," was the direct and simple reply.

Assuredly, he should have known that! But he was fast learning of this unusual child, whose every movement was a demonstration of Immanuel.

"Does God tell you what to do, Carmen?" he asked, seeking to draw out the girl's strange thought, that he might probe deeper into her religious convictions.

"Why, yes, Padre." Her tone expressed surprise. "Doesn't He tell you, too?" Her great eyes searched him. He was a Cura; he should be very close to God.

"Yes, chiquita—that is, He has told me to-day what to do."

There was a shade of disappointment in her voice when she replied: "I guess you mean you listened to Him to-day, don't you, Padre? I think sometimes you don't want to hear Him. But," she finished with a little sigh, "there are lots of people here who don't; and that is why they are sick and unhappy."

Jose was learning another lesson, that of guarding his speech to this ingenuous girl. He discreetly changed the subject.

"What have you been doing this afternoon, little one?"

Her eyes instantly brightened, and the dark shade that had crossed her face disappeared.

"Well, after the siesta I helped madre Maria clean the yuccas for supper; and then I did my writing lesson. Padre Rosendo told me to-day that I could write better than he. But, Padre, will you teach madre Maria to read and write? And there are just lots of poor people here who can't, too. There is a school teacher in Simiti, but he charges a whole peso oro a month for teaching; and the people haven't the money, and so they can't learn."

Always the child shifted his thought from herself to others. Again she showed him that the road to happiness wound among the needs of his fellow-men. The priest mentally recorded the instruction; and the girl continued:

"Padre Rosendo told madre Maria that you said you had come to Simiti to die. You were not thinking of us then, were you, Padre? People who think only of themselves always want to die. That was why Don Luis died last year. He had lots of gold, and he always wanted more, and he was cruel and selfish, and he couldn't talk about anything but himself and how rich he was—and so he died. He didn't really die; but he thought about himself until he thought he died. And so they buried him. That's what always happens to people who think about themselves all the time—they get buried."

Jose was glad of the silence that fell upon them. Wrapped so long in his own egoism, he had now no worldly wisdom with which to match this girl's sapient words. He waited. He felt that Carmen was but the channel through which a great Voice was speaking.

"Padre," the tones were tender and soft, "you don't always think of good things, do you?"

"I? Why, no, little girl. I guess I haven't done so. That is, not always. But—"

"Because if you had you wouldn't have been driven into the lake that day. And you wouldn't be here now in Simiti."

"But, child, even a Cura cannot always think of good things, when he sees so much wickedness in the world!"

"But, Padre, God is good, isn't He?"

"Yes, child." The necessity to answer could not be avoided.

"And He is everywhere?"

"Yes." He had to say it.

"Then where is the wickedness, Padre?"

"Why—but, chiquita, you don't understand; you are too young to reason about such things; and—"

In his heart Jose knew he spoke not the truth. He felt the great brown eyes of the girl penetrate his naked soul; and he knew that in the dark recesses of the inner man they fell upon the grinning skeleton of hypocrisy. Carmen might be, doubtless was, incapable of reasoning. Of logical processes she knew nothing. But by what crass assumption might he, admittedly woefully defeated in his combat with Fate, oppose his feeble shafts of worldly logic to this child's instinct, an instinct of whose inerrancy her daily walk was a living demonstration? In quick penitence and humility he stretched out his arm and drew her unresisting to him.

"Dear little child of God," he murmured, as he bent over her and touched his lips to her rich brown curls, "I have tried my life long to learn what you already know. And at last I have been led to you—to you, little one, who shall be a lamp unto my feet. Dearest child, I want to know your God as you know Him. I want you to lead me to Him, for you know where He is."

"He is everywhere, Padre dear," whispered the child, as she nestled close to the priest and stole her soft arms gently about his neck. "But we don't see Him nor hear Him if we have bad thoughts, and if we don't love everybody and everything, even Cucumbra, and Cantar-las-horas, and—"

"Yes, chiquita, I know now," interrupted Jose. "I don't wonder they all love you."

"But, Padre dear, I love them—and I love you."

The priest strained her to him. His famished heart yearned for love. Love! first of the tender graces which adorned this beautiful child. Verily, only those imbued with it become the real teachers of men. The beloved disciple's last instruction to his dear children was the tender admonition to love one another. But why, oh, why are we bidden to love the fallen, sordid outcasts of this wicked world—the wretched, sinning pariahs—the greedy, grasping, self-centered mass of humanity that surges about us in such woeful confusion of good and evil? Because the wise Master did. Because he said that God was Love. Because he taught that he who loves not, knows not God. And because, oh, wonderful spiritual alchemy! because Love is the magical potion which, dropping like heavenly dew upon sinful humanity, dissolves the vice, the sorrow, the carnal passions, and transmutes the brutish mortal into the image and likeness of the perfect God.

Far into the night, while the child slept peacefully in the bed near him, Jose lay thinking of her and of the sharp turn which she had given to the direction of his life. Through the warm night air the hoarse croaking of distant frogs and the mournful note of the toucan floated to his ears. In the street without he heard at intervals the pattering of bare feet in the hot, thick dust, as tardy fishermen returned from their labors. The hum of insects about his toldo lulled him with its low monotone. The call of a lonely jaguar drifted across the still lake from the brooding jungle beyond. A great peace lay over the ancient town; and when, in the early hours of morning, as the distorted moon hung low in the western sky, Jose awoke, the soft breathing of the child fell upon his ears like a benediction; and deep from his heart there welled a prayer—

"My God—her God—at last I thank Thee!"



CHAPTER 5

The day following was filled to the brim with bustling activity. Jose plunged into his new life with an enthusiasm he had never known before. His first care was to relieve Rosendo and his good wife of the burden of housing him. Rosendo, protesting against the intimation that the priest could in any way inconvenience him, at last suggested that the house adjoining his own, a small, three-room cottage, was vacant, and might be had at a nominal rental. Some repairs were needed; the mud had fallen from the walls in several places; but he would plaster it up again and put it into habitable condition at once.