The decimal system mastered, Carmen was inducted into the elements of algebra.

"How funny," she exclaimed, laughing, "to use letters for numbers!"

"They are only general symbols, little one," he explained. "Symbols are signs, or things that stand for other things."

Then came suddenly into his mind how the great Apostle Paul taught that the things we see, or think we see, are themselves but symbols, reflections as from a mirror, and how we must make them out as best we can for the present, knowing that, in due season, we shall see the realities for which these things stand to the human mind. He knew that back of the mathematical symbols stood the eternal, unvarying, indestructible principles which govern their use. And he had begun to see that back of the symbols, the phenomena, of human existence stands the great principle—infinite God—the eternal mind. In the realm of mathematics the principles are omnipotent for the solution of problems—omnipotent in the hands of the one who understands and uses them aright. And is not God the omnipotent principle to the one who understands and uses Him aright in the solving of life's intricate problems?

"They are so easy when you know how, Padre dear," said Carmen, referring to her tasks.

"But there will be harder ones, chiquita."

"Yes, Padre. But then I shall know more about the rules that you call principles."

She took up each problem with confidence. Jose watched her eagerly. "You do not know what the answer will be, chiquita," he ventured.

"No, Padre dear. But I don't care. If I use the rule in the right way I shall get the correct answer, shall I not? Look!" she cried joyfully, as she held up her paper with the completed solution of a problem.

"But how do you know that it is correct?" he queried.

"Why—well, we can prove it—can't we?" She looked up at him questioningly. Then she bent again over her task and worked assiduously for some moments in silence.

"There! I worked it back again to the starting point. And it is right."

"And in proving it, little one, you have proved the principle and established its correctness. Is it not so, chiquita?"

"Yes, Padre, it shows that the rule is right."

The child lapsed into silence, while Jose, as was becoming his wont, awaited the result of her meditation. Then:

"Padre dear, there are rules for arithmetic, and algebra, and—and for everything, are there not?"

"Yes, child, for music, for art, for everything. We can do nothing correctly without using principles."

"And, Padre, there are principles that tell us how to live?" she queried.

"What is your opinion on that point, queridita?"

"Just one principle, I guess, Padre dear," she finally ventured, after a pause.

"And that, little one?"

"Just God."

"And God is—?" Jose began, then hesitated. The Apostle John had dwelt with the Master. What had he urged so often upon the dull ears of his timid followers?

The child looked up at the priest with a smile whose tenderness dissolved the rising clouds of doubt.

"And God is—love," he finished softly.

"That's it, Padre!" The child clapped her little hands and laughed aloud.

Love! Jesus had said, "I and my Father are one." Having seen him, the world has seen the Father. But Jesus was the highest manifestation of love that tired humanity has ever known. "Love God!" he had cried in tones that have echoed through the centuries. "Love thy neighbor!" Aye, love everything, everybody! Apply the Principle of principles, Love, to every task, every problem, every situation, every condition! For what is the Christ-principle but Love? All things are possible to him who loves, for Love casteth out fear, the root of every discord. Men ask why God remains hidden from them, why their understanding of Him is dim. They forget that God is Love. They forget that to know Him they must first love their fellow-men. And so the world goes sorrowfully on, hating, cheating, grasping, abusing; still wondering dully why men droop and stumble, why they consume with disease, and, with the despairing conviction that God is unknowable, sinking at last into oblivion.

Jose, if he knew aught, knew that Carmen greatly loved—loved all things deeply and tenderly as reflections of her immanent God. She had loved the hideous monster that had crept toward her as she sat unguarded on the lake's rim. Unguarded? Not so, for the arms of Love were there about her. She had loved God—good—with unshaken fealty when Rosendo lay stricken. She had known that Love could not manifest in death when he himself had been dragged from the lake that burning afternoon a few weeks before.

"God is the rule, isn't He, Padre dear?" The child's unexampled eyes glowed like burning coals. "And we can prove Him, too," she continued confidently.

Prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing that there shall not be room enough to receive it.

Prove Him, O man, that He is Love, and that Love, casting out hate and fear, solves life's every problem! But first—Bring ye all the tithes into the storehouse, that there may be meat in mine house. Bring your whole confidence, your trust, your knowledge of the allness of good, and the nothingness of evil. Bring, too, your every earthly hope, every mad ambition, every corroding fear, and carnal belief; lay them down at the doorway of mine storehouse, and behold their nothingness!

As Carmen approached her simple algebraic problems Jose saw the working of a rule infinite in its adaptation. She knew not what the answers should be, yet she took up each problem with supreme confidence, knowing that she possessed and rightly understood the rule for correctly solving it. She knew that speculation regarding the probable results was an idle waste of time. And she likewise knew instinctively that fear of inability to solve them would paralyze her efforts and insure defeat at the outset.

Nor could she force solutions to correspond to what she might think they ought to be—as mankind attempt to force the solving of their life problems to correspond to human views. She was glad to work out her problems in the only way they could be solved. Love, humility, obedience, enabled her to understand and correctly apply the principle to her tasks. The results were invariable—harmony and exceeding joy.

Jose had learned another lesson. Again that little hand had softly swept his harp of life. And again he breathed in unison with its vibrating chords a deep "Thank God!"

"Padre dear." Carmen looked up from a brown study. "What does zero really mean?"

"It stands for nothing, child," the priest made reply, wondering what was to follow this introduction.

"And the minus sign in algebra is different from the one in arithmetic. What does it mean?"

"Less than nothing."

"But, Padre, if God is all, how can you say there is nothing, or less than nothing?"

The priest had his answer ready. "They are only human ways of thinking, chiquita. The plus sign always represents something positive; the minus, something negative. The one is the opposite of the other."

"Is there an opposite to everything, Padre?"

The priest hesitated. Then:

"No, chiquita—not a real opposite. But," he added hastily, "we may suppose an opposite to everything."

A moment's pause ensued. "That is what makes people sick and unhappy, isn't it, Padre?"

"What, child?" in unfeigned surprise.

"Supposing an opposite to God. Supposing that there can be nothing, when He is everywhere. Doesn't all trouble come from just supposing things that are not so?"

Whence came such questions to the mind of this child? And why did they invariably lead to astonishing deductions in his own? Why did he often give a great start as it dawned again upon him that he was not talking to one of mature age, but to a babe?

He tore a strip from the paper in his hand. Relatively the paper had lost in size and quantity, and there was a distinct separation. Absolutely, such a thing was an impossibility. The plus was always positive and real; the minus was always relative, and stood for unreality. And so it was throughout the entire realm of thought. Every real thing has its suppositional opposite. The difficulty is that the human mind, through long ages of usage, has come to regard the opposite as just as real as the thing itself. The opposite of love is hate; of health, disease; of good, evil; of the real, the counterfeit. God is positive—Truth. His opposite, the negative, is supposition. Oh, stupid, blundering, dull-eared humanity, not to have realized that this was just what Jesus said when he defined evil as the lie about God! No wonder the prophet proclaimed salvation to be righteousness, right thinking! But would gross humanity have understood the Master better if he had defined it this way? No, they would have stoned him on the spot!

Jose knew that when both he and Rosendo lay sick unto death Carmen's thought had been positive, while theirs had been of the opposite sign. Was her pure thought stronger than their disbelief? Evidently so. Was this the case with Jesus? And with the prophets before him, whom the world laughed to scorn? The inference from Scripture is plain. What, then, is the overcoming of evil but the driving out of entrenched human beliefs?

Again Jose came back to the thought of Principle. Confucius had said that heaven was principle. And heaven is harmony. But had evil any principle? Mankind are accustomed to speak lightly and knowingly of their "principles." But in their search for the Philosopher's Stone they have overlooked the Principle which the Master used to effect his mighty works—"that Mind which was in Christ Jesus." The Principle of Jesus was God. And, again, God is Love.

The word evil is a comprehensive term, including errors of every sort. And yet, in the world's huge category of evils is there a single one that stands upon a definite principle? Jose had to admit to himself that there was not. Errors in mathematics result from ignorance of principles, or from their misapplication. But are the errors real and permanent?

"Padre, when I make a mistake, and then go back and do the problem over and get it right, what becomes of the mistake?"

Jose burst out laughing at the tremendous question. Carmen joined in heartily.

"But, Padre," she pursued, "there are rules for solving problems; but there isn't any rule or principle for making mistakes, is there?"

"Surely not, child!" Jose replied.

"And if I always knew the truth about things, I couldn't make mistakes, could I?"

"No."

Jose waited for her further comments. They came after a brief meditation.

"Well, then, God doesn't know anything about mistakes—does He?"

"No, chiquita."

"And He knows everything."

"Yes."

"Then, Padre dear, nobody can know anything about mistakes. People just think they can—don't they?"

Jose thought hard for a few moments. "Chiquita, can you know that two and two are seven?"

"Why, Padre dear, how funny!"

"Yes—it does seem strange—now. And yet, I used to think I could know things just as absurd."

"Why, what was that, Padre?"

"I thought, chiquita, that I could know evil—something that God does not and can not know."

"But—could you, Padre?"

"No, child. It is absolutely impossible to know—to really know—error of any sort."

"If we knew it, Padre, it would have a rule; or as you say, a principle, no?"

"Exactly, child."

"And, since God is everywhere, He would have to be its principle."

"Just the point. Now take another of the problems, chiquita, and work on it while I think about these things," he said, assigning another of the simple tasks to the child.

For an idea was running through the man's thought, and he had traced it back to the explorer in Cartagena. Reason and logic supported the thought of God as mind; of the creation as the unfolding of this mind's ideas; and of man as the greatest idea of God. It also seemed to show that the physical senses afforded no testimony at all, and that human beings saw, heard and felt only in thought, in belief. On this basis everything reduced to a mental plane, and man became a mentality. But what sort of mentality was that which Jose saw all about him in sinful, sick and dying humanity? The human man is demonstrably mortal—and he is a sort of mind—ah, yes, that was it! The explorer had said that up in that great country north there were those who referred to this sort of mentality as "mortal mind." Jose thought it an excellent term. For, if the mortal man is a mind at all, he assuredly is a mortal mind.

And the mortal mind is the opposite of that mind which is the eternal God. But God can have no real opposite. Any so-called opposite to Him must be a supposition—or, as Jesus defined it, the lie about Him. This lie seems to counterfeit the eternal mind that is God. It seems to pose as a creative principle, and to simulate the powers and attributes of God himself. It assumes to create its universe of matter, the direct opposite of the spiritual universe. And, likewise, it assumes to create its man, its own idea of itself, and hence the direct opposite of the real man, the divine idea of God, made in His own image and likeness.

Jose rose and went to the doorway. "Surely," he murmured low, "the material personality, called man, which sins, suffers and dies, is not real man, but his counterfeit, a creation of God's opposite, the so-called mortal mind. It must be a part of the lie about God, the 'mist' that went up from the ground and watered the whole face of the earth, leaving the veil of supposition which obscures God from human sight. It is this sort of man and this sort of universe that I have always seen about me, and that the world refers to as human beings, or mortals, and the physical universe. And yet I have been looking only at my false thoughts of man."

At that moment he caught sight of Juan running toward him from the lake. The lad had just returned from Bodega Central.

"Padre," he exclaimed breathlessly, "there is war in the country again! The revolution has broken out, and they are fighting all along the river!"

Jose turned into the house and clasped Carmen in his arms.



CHAPTER 15

Juan's startling announcement linked Jose again with a fading past. Standing with his arm about Carmen, while the child looked up wonderingly at her grimly silent protector, the priest seemed to have fallen with dizzy precipitation from some spiritual height into a familiar material world of men and events. Into his chastened mentality there now rushed a rabble rout of suggestions, throwing into wild confusion the orderly forces of mind which he was striving to marshal to meet the situation. He recalled, for the first time in his new environment, the significant conversation of Don Jorge and the priest Diego, in Banco. He saw again the dark clouds that were lowering above the unhappy country when he left Cartagena. Had they at last broken? And would carnal lust and rapine again drench fair Colombia with the blood of her misguided sons? Were the disturbance only a local uprising, headed by a coterie of selfish politicians, it would produce but a passing ripple. Colombia had witnessed many such, and had, by a judicious redistribution of public offices, generally met the crises with little difficulty. On the other hand, if the disorder drew its stimulus from the deep-seated, swelling sentiment of protest against the continued affiliation of Church and State, then what might not ensue before reason would again lay her restraining hand upon the rent nation! For—strange anomaly—no strife is so venomous, no wars so bloody, no issues so steeped in deadliest hatred, as those which break forth in the name of the humble Christ.

A buzzing concourse was gathering in the plaza before the church. Leaving Carmen in charge of Dona Maria, Jose mingled with the excited people. Juan had brought no definite information, other than that already imparted to Jose, but his elastic Latin imagination had supplied all lacking essentials, and now, with much gesticulation and rolling of eyes, with frequent alternations of shrill chatter and dignified pomp of phrase, he was portraying in a melange of picturesque and poetic Spanish the supposed happenings along the great river.

Jose forced the lad gently aside and addressed the thoroughly excited people himself, assuring them that no reliable news was as yet at hand, and bidding them assemble in the church after the evening meal, where he would advise with them regarding their future course. He then sought the Alcalde, and drew him into his store, first closing the door against the excited multitude.

"Bien, Senor Padre, what are you going to do?" The Alcalde was atremble with insuppressible excitement.

"Don Mario, we must protect Simiti," replied the priest, with a show of calm which he did not possess.

"Caramba, but not a man will stay! They will run to the hills! The guerrillas will come, and Simiti will be burned to the ground!"

"Will you stay—with me?"

"Na, and be hacked by the machetes of the guerrillas, or lassoed by government soldiers and dragged off to the war?" The official mopped the damp from his purple brow.

"Caramba!" he went on. "But the Antioquanians will come down the Simiti trail from Remedios and butcher every one they meet! They hate us Simitanians, since we whipped them in the revolution of seventy-six! And—Diablo! if we stay here and beat them back, then the federal troops will come with their ropes and chains and force us away to fight on their side! Nombre de Dios! I am for the mountains—pronto!"

Jose's own fear mounted by leaps. And yet, in the welter of conflicting thought two objects stood out above the rest—Carmen and Rosendo. The latter was on the trail, somewhere. Would he fall afoul of the bandits who find in these revolutions their opportunities for plunder and bloodshed? As for Carmen—the priest's apprehensions were piling mountain-high. He had quickly forgotten his recent theories regarding the nature of God and man. He had been swept by the force of ill tidings clean off the lofty spiritual plane up to which he had struggled during the past weeks. Again he was befouled in the mire of material fears and corroding speculations as to the probable manifestations of evil, real and immanent. Don Mario was right. He must take the child and fly at once. He would go to Dona Maria immediately and bid her prepare for the journey.

"You had best go to Don Nicolas," replied Dona Maria, when the priest had voiced his fears to her. "He lives in Boque, and has a hacienda somewhere up that river. He will send you there in his canoe."

"And Boque is—?"

"Three hours from Simiti, across the shales. You must start with the dawn, or the heat will overtake you before you arrive."

"Then make yourself ready, Dona Maria," said Jose in relief, "and we will set out in the morning."

"Padre, I will stay here," the woman quietly replied.

"Stay here!" ejaculated the priest. "Impossible! But why?"

"There will be many women too old to leave the town, Padre. I will stay to help them if trouble comes. And I would not go without Rosendo."

Shame fell upon the priest like a blanket. He, the Cura, was deserting his charge! And this quiet, dignified woman had shown herself stronger than the man of God! He turned to the door. Carmen was just entering. He took the child by the hand and led her to his own cottage.

"Carmen," he said, as she stood expectantly before him, "we—there is trouble in the country—that is, men are fighting and killing down on the river—and they may come here. We must—I mean, I think it best for us to go away from Simiti for a while." The priest's eyes fell before the perplexed gaze of the girl.

"Go away?" she repeated slowly. "But, Padre—why?"

"The soldiers might come—wicked men might come and harm you, chiquita!"

The child seemed not to comprehend. "Is it that you think they will, Padre?" she at length spoke.

"I fear so, little one," he made reply.

"But—why should they?"

"Because they want to steal and kill," he returned sadly.

"They can't, Padre—they can't!" the girl said quickly. "You told me that people see only their thoughts, you know. They only think they want to steal—and they don't think right—"

"But," he interrupted bitterly, "that doesn't keep them from coming here just the same and—and—" He checked his words, as a faint memory of his recent talks with the girl glowed momentarily in his seething brain.

"But we can keep them from coming here, Padre—can't we?"

"How, child?"

"By thinking right ourselves, Padre—you said so, days ago—don't you remember?" The girl came to the frightened man and put her little arm about his neck. It was an action that had become habitual with her. "Padre dear, you read me something from your Bible just yesterday. It was about God, and He said, 'I am that which was, and is, and is to come.' Don't you remember? But, Padre dear, if He is that which is to come, how can anything bad come?"

O, ye of little faith! Could ye not watch one hour with me—the Christ-principle? Must ye ever flee when the ghost of evil stalks before you with his gross assumptions?

Yes, Jose remembered. But he had said those things to her and evolved those beautiful theories in a time of peace. Now his feeble faith was flying in panic before the demon of unbelief, which had been aroused by sudden fear.

The villagers were gathering before his door like frightened sheep. They sought counsel, protection, from him, the unfaithful shepherd. Could he not, for their sakes, tear himself loose from bondage to his own deeply rooted beliefs, and launch out into his true orbit about God? Was life, happiness, all, at the disposal of physical sense? Did he not love these people? And could not his love for them cast out his fear? If the test had come, would he meet it, calmly, even alone with his God, if need be?—or would he basely flee? He was not alone. Carmen stood by him. She had no part in his cowardice. But Carmen—she was only a child, immature, inexperienced in the ways of the world! True. Yet the great God himself had caused His prophets to see that "a little child shall lead them." And surely Carmen was now leading in fearlessness and calm trust, in the face of impending evil.

Jose rose from his chair and threw back his shoulders. He stepped quickly to the door. "My children," he said gently, holding out his arms over them. "Be not afraid. I shall not leave Simiti, but remain here to help and protect all who will stay with me. If the guerrillas or soldiers come we will meet them here, where we shall be protecting our loved ones and our homes. Come to the church to-night, and there we will discuss plans. Go now, and remember that your Cura has said that there shall no harm befall you."

Did he believe his own words? He wondered.

The people dispersed; Carmen was called by Dona Maria; and Jose dropped down upon his bed to strive again to clear his mind of the foul brood which had swept so suddenly into it, and to prepare for the evening meeting.

Late that night, as he crossed the road from the church to his little home, his pulse beat rapidly under the stimulus of real joy. He had conquered his own and the fears of the Alcalde, and that official had at length promised to stay and support him. The people's fears of impressment into military service had been calmly met and assuaged, though Jose had yielded to their wish to form a company of militia; and had even agreed to drill them, as he had seen the troops of Europe drilled and prepared for conflict. There were neither guns nor ammunition in the town, but they could drill with their machetes—for, he repeated to himself, this was but a concession, an expedient, to keep the men occupied and their minds stimulated by his own show of courage and preparedness. It was decided to send Lazaro Ortiz at once into the Guamoco district, to find and warn Rosendo; while Juan was to go to Bodega Central for whatever news he might gather, and to return with immediate warning, should danger threaten their town. Similar instruction was to be sent to Escolastico, at Badillo. Within a few days a runner should be despatched over the Guamoco trail, to spread the information as judiciously as possible that the people of Simiti were armed and on the alert to meet any incursion from guerrilla bands. The ripple of excitement quickly died away. The priest would now strive mightily to keep his own thought clear and his courage alive, to sustain his people in whatever experience might befall them.

Quiet reigned in the little village the next morning, and its people went about their familiar duties with but a passing thought of the events of the preceding day. The Alcalde called at the parish house early for further instructions in regard to the proposed company of militia. The priest decided to drill his men twice a day, at the rising and setting of the sun. Carmen's lessons were then resumed, and soon Jose was again laboring conscientiously to imbibe the spirit of calm trust which dwelt in this young girl.

The Master's keynote before every threatening evil was, "Be not afraid." Carmen's life-motif was, "God is everywhere." Jose strove to see that the Christ-principle was eternal, and as available to mankind now as when the great Exemplar propounded it to the dull ears of his followers. But men must learn how to use it. When they have done this, Christianity will be as scientific and demonstrable to mankind as is now the science of mathematics. A rule, though understood, is utterly ineffective if not applied. Yet, how to apply the Christ-principle? is the question convulsing a world to-day.

God, the infinite creative mind, is that principle. Jesus showed clearly—so clearly that the wonder is men could have missed the mark so completely—that the great principle becomes available only when men empty their minds of pride, selfishness, ignorance, and human will, and put in their place love, humility and truth. This step taken, there will flow into the human consciousness the qualities of God himself, giving powers that mortals believe utterly impossible to them. But hatred must go; self-love, too; carnal ambition must go; and fear—the cornerstone of every towering structure of mortal misery—must be utterly cast out by an understanding of the allness of the Mind that framed the spiritual universe.

Jose, looking at Carmen as she sat before him, tried to know that love was the salvation, the righteousness, right-thinking, by which alone the sons of men could be redeemed. The world would give such utterance the lie, he knew. To love an enemy is weakness! The sons of earth must be warriors, and valiantly fight! Alas! the tired old world has fought for ages untold, and gained—nothing. Did Jesus fight? Not as the world. He had a better way. He loved his enemies with a love that understood the allness of God, and the consequent nothingness of the human concept. Knowing the concept of man as mortal to be an illusion, Jesus then knew that he had no enemies.

The work-day closed, and Carmen was about to leave. A shadow fell across the open doorway. Jose looked up. A man, dressed in clerical garb, stood looking in, his eyes fixed upon Carmen. Jose's heart stopped, and he sat as one stunned. The man was Padre Diego Polo.

"Ah, brother in Christ!" the newcomer cried, advancing with outstretched hands. "Well met, indeed! I ached to think I might not find you here! But—Caramba! can this be my little Carmen, from whom I tore myself in tears four years ago and more? Diablo! but she has grown to be a charming senorita already." He bent over and kissed the child loudly upon each cheek.

Jose with difficulty restrained himself from pouncing upon the man as he watched him pass his fat hands over the girl's bare arms and feast his lecherous eyes upon her round figure and plump limbs. The child shrank under the withering touch. Freeing herself, she ran from the room, followed by a taunting laugh from Diego.

"Caramba!" he exclaimed, sinking into the chair vacated by the girl. "But I had the devil's own trouble getting here! And I find everything quiet as a funeral in this sink of a town, just as if hell were not spewing fire down on the river! Dios! But give me a bit of rum, amigo. My spirits droop like the torn wing of a heron."

Jose slowly found his voice. "I have no rum. I regret exceedingly, friend. But doubtless the Alcalde can supply you. Have you seen him?"

"Hombre! With what do you quench your thirst?" ejaculated the disappointed priest. "Lake water?" Then he added with a fatuous grin:

"No, I have not yet honored the Alcalde with a call. Anxious care drove me straight from the boat to you; for with you, a brother priest, I knew I would find hospitality and protection."

Jose sat speechless. After a few moments, during which he fanned himself vigorously with his black felt hat, Diego continued volubly:

"You are consumed to know what brings me here, eh? Bien, I will anticipate your questions. The country is on fire around Banco. And—you know they do not love priests down that way—well, I saw that it had come around to my move. I therefore got out—quickly. H'm!

"But," he continued, "luckily I had screwed plenty of Masses out of the Banco sheep this past year, and my treasure box was comfortably full. Bueno, I hired a canoe and a couple of strapping peones, who brought me by night, and by damnably slow degrees, up the river to Bodega Central. As luck would have it, I chanced to be there the day Juan arrived from Simiti. So I straightway caused inquiry to be made of him respecting the present whereabouts of our esteemed friend, Don Rosendo. Learning that my worthy brother was prospecting for La Libertad, it occurred to me that this decaying town might afford me the asylum I needed until I could make the necessary preparations to get up into the mountains. Caramba! but I shall not stay where a stray bullet or a badly directed machete may terminate my noble life-aspirations!"

Jose groaned inwardly. "But, how dared you come to Simiti?" he exclaimed. "You were once forced to leave this town—!"

"Assuredly, amigo," Diego replied with great coolness. "And I would not risk my tender skin again had I not believed that you were here to shield me. My only safety lies in making the mountains. Their most accessible point is by way of Simiti. From here I can go to the San Lucas country; eventually get back to the Guamoco trail; and ultimately land in Remedios, or some other town farther south, where the anticlerical sentiment is not so cursedly strong. I have money and two negro boys. The boat I shall have to leave here in your care. Bien, learning that Rosendo, my principal annoyance and obstruction, was absent, and that you, my friend, were here, I decided to brave the wrath of the simple denizens of this hole, and spend a day or two as guest of yourself and my good friend, the Alcalde, before journeying farther. Thus you have it all, in parvo. But, Dios y diablo! that trip up the river has nearly done for me! We traveled by night and hid in the brush by day, where millions of gnats and mosquitoes literally devoured me! Caramba! and you so inhospitable as to have no rum!"

The garrulous priest paused for breath. Then he resumed:

"A voluptuous little wench, that Carmen! Keeping her for yourself, eh? But you will have to give her up. Belongs to the Church, you know. But don't let our worthy Don Wenceslas hear of her good looks, for he'd pop her into a convent presto! And later he—Bien, you had better get rid of her before she makes you trouble. I'll take her off your hands myself, even though I shall be traveling for the next few months. But, say," changing the subject abruptly, "Don Wenceslas sprung his trap too soon, eh?"

"I don't follow you," said Jose, consuming with indignation over the priest's coarse talk.

"Diablo! he pulls a revolution before it is ripe. Is anything more absurd! It begins as he intended, anticlerical; and so it will run for a while. But after that—Bien, you will see it reverse itself and turn solely political, with the present Government on top at the last, and the end a matter of less than six weeks."

"Do you think so?" asked Jose, eagerly grasping at a new hope.

"I know it!" ejaculated Diego. "Hombre! But I have been too close to matters religious and political in this country all my life not to know that Don Wenceslas has this time committed the blunder of being a bit too eager. Had he waited a few months longer, and then pulled the string—Dios y diablo! there would have been such a fracas as to turn the Cordilleras bottom up! Now all that is set back for years—Quien sabe?"

"But," queried the puzzled Jose, "how could Wenceslas, a priest, profit by an anticlerical war?"

"Caramba, amigo! But the good Wenceslas is priest only in name! He is a politician, bred to the game. He lays his plans with the anticlericals, knowing full well that Church and State can not be separated in this land of mutton-headed peones. Bueno, the clever man precipitates a revolution that can have but one result, the closer union of Rome and the Colombian Government. And for this he receives the direction of the See of Cartagena and the disposition of the rich revenues from the mines and fincas of his diocese. Do you get me?"

"And, amigo, how long will this disturbance continue?" said Jose, speaking earnestly.

"I have told you, a few weeks at the most," replied Diego with a show of petulance. "But, just the same, as agent of your friend Wenceslas, I have been a mite too active along the river, especially in the town of Banco, to find safety anywhere within the pale of civilization until this little fracas blows over. This one being an abortion, the next revolution can come only after several years of most painstaking preparation. But, mark me, amigo, that one will not miscarry, nor will it be less than a scourge of the Lord!"

Despite the sordidness of the man, Jose was profoundly grateful to him for this information. And there could be no doubt of its authenticity, coming as it did from a tool of Wenceslas himself. Jose became cheerful, even animated.

"Good, then! Now when do you expect to set out for San Lucas?" he asked. "Rosendo may return any day."

"Diablo! Then I must be off at once!"

"To-morrow?" suggested Jose eagerly.

"Caramba, hermano! Why so desirous of my departure? To be sure, to-morrow, if possible. But I must have a chat with our good friend, the Alcalde. So do me the inexpressible favor to accompany me to his door, and there leave me. My peones are down at the boat, and I would rather not face the people of Simiti alone."

"Gladly," assented Jose.

The man rose to depart. At that moment Dona Maria appeared at the door bearing a tray with Jose's supper. She stopped short as she recognized Diego.

"Ah, Senora Dona Maria!" exclaimed Diego, bowing low. "I kiss your hand."

The woman looked inquiringly from Diego to Jose. Without a word she set the tray on the table and quickly departed.

"H'm, amigo, I think it well to visit the Alcalde at once," murmured Diego. "I regret that I bring the amiable senora no greeting from her charming daughter. Ay de mi!" he sighed, picking up his hat. "The conventions of this world are so narrow!"

Don Mario exclaimed loudly when he beheld the familiar figure of Padre Diego. Recovering from his astonishment he broke into a loud guffaw and clapped the grinning priest heartily upon the back.

"Caramba, man! But I admire you at last! I can forgive all your wickedness at sight of such nerve! Ramona!" calling to his daughter in the patio. "That last garrafon and some glasses! But enter, enter, senores! Why stand you there? My poor hovel is yours!" stepping aside and ceremoniously waving them in.

"Our friend finds that his supper awaits him," said Diego, laying a hand patronizingly upon Jose's arm. "But I will eat with you, my good Don Mario, and occupy a petate on your floor to-night. Conque, until later, Don Jose," waving a polite dismissal to the latter. "If not to-night, then in the morning temprano."

The audacity of the man nettled Jose. He would have liked to be present during the interview between the Alcalde and this cunning religio-political agent, for he knew that the weak-kneed Don Mario would be putty in his oily hands. However, Diego had shown him that he was not wanted. And there was nothing to do but nurse his temper and await events.

But, whatever deplorable results the visit of Diego might entail, he had at least brought present comfort to Jose in his report of the militant uprising now in progress, and the latter would sleep this night without the torment of dread apprehension.

The next morning Diego entered the parish house just as master and pupil were beginning their day's work.

"Ha!" he exclaimed, "our parochial school is quite discriminating! No? One pupil! Bien, are there not enough children in the town to warrant a larger school, and with a Sister in charge? I will report the matter to the good Bishop."

Jose's wrath leaped into flame. "There is a school here, as you know, amigo, with a competent master," he replied with what calmness he could muster.

It was perhaps a hasty and unfortunate remark, for Jose knew he had been jealously selfish with Carmen.

"Caramba, yes!" retorted Diego. "A private school, to which the stubborn beasts that live in this sink will not send their brats! There must be a parochial school in Simiti, supported by the people! Oh, don't worry; there is gold enough here, buried in patios and under these innocent-looking mud walls, to support the Pope for a decade—and that," he chuckled, "is no small sum!"

His eyes roved over Carmen and he began a mental appraisement of the girl. "Caramba!" muttering half to himself, after he had feasted his sight upon her for some moments, "but she is large for her age—and, Dios y diablo! a ravishing beauty!"

He stood for a while wrapped in thought. Then an idea seemed to filter through his cunning brain. His coarse, unmoral face brightened, and his thick lips parted in an evil smile.

"Come here, little one," he said patronizingly, extending his arms to the child. "Come, give your good Padre his morning kiss."

The girl shrank back in her chair and looked appealingly at Jose.

"No? Then I must come and steal it; and when you confess to good Padre Jose you may tell him it was all my fault."

He started toward her. A look of horror came into the child's face and she sprang from her seat. Jose swiftly rose. He seized Diego by the shoulder and whirled him quickly about. His face was menacing and his frame trembled.

"One moment, friend!" The voice was low, tense, and deliberate. "If you lay a hand on that child I will strike you dead at my feet!"

Diego recoiled. Cielo! was this the timid sheep that had stopped for a moment in Banco on its way to the slaughter? But there was no mistaking the spirit manifested now in that voice and attitude.

"Why, amigo!" he exclaimed, a foolish grin splitting his ugly features. "Your little joke startled me!"

Jose motioned Carmen to leave.

"Be seated, Don Diego. It would be well to understand each other more thoroughly."

Had Jose gone too far? He wondered. Heaven knew, he could not afford to make enemies, especially at this juncture! But he had not misread the thought coursing through the foul mind of Diego. And yet, violence now might ruin both the child and himself. He must be wiser.

"I—I was perhaps a little hasty, amigo," he began in gentler tones. "But, as you see, I have been quite wrought up of late—the news of the revolution, and—in these past months there have been many things to cause me worry. I—"

"Say no more, good friend," interrupted the oily Diego, his beady eyes twinkling. "But you will not wonder it struck me odd that a father should not be permitted to embrace his own daughter."

Dead silence, heavy and stifling, fell upon Jose. Slowly his throat filled, and his ears began to throb. Diego sat before him, smiling and twirling his fat thumbs. He looked like the images of Chinese gods Jose had seen in foreign lands.

Then the tortured man forced a laugh. Of course, the strain of yesterday had been too much for him! His overwrought mind had read into words and events meanings which they had not been meant to convey.

"True, amigo," he managed to say, striving to steady his voice. "But we spiritual Fathers should not forget—"

Diego laughed egregiously. "Caramba, man! Let us get to the meat in the nut. Why do you think I am in Simiti, braving the wrath of Rosendo and others? Why have I left my comfortable quarters in Banco, to undertake a journey, long and hazardous, to this godless hole?"

He paused, apparently enjoying the suffering he saw depicted upon Jose's countenance.

"I will tell you," he resumed. "But you will keep my confidence, no? We are brother priests, and must hold together. You protect me in this, and I return the favor in a like indiscretion. Bien, I explain: I am here partly because of the revolution, as I told you yesterday, and partly, as I did not tell you, to see my little girl, my daughter, Carmen—

"Caramba, man!" he cried, bounding to his feet, as he saw Jose slowly rise before him. "Listen! It is God's truth! Sit down! Sit down!"

Jose dropped back into his chair like a withered leaf in the lull of a winter's wind.

"Dios y diablo, but it rends me to make this confession, amigo! And yet, I look to you for support! The girl, Carmen—I am her father!"

Diego paced dramatically up and down before the scarce hearing Jose and unfolded his story in a quick, jerky voice, with many a gesture and much rolling of his bright eyes.

"Her mother was a Spanish woman of high degree. We met in Bogota. My vows prevented me from marrying her, else I should have done so. Caramba, but I loved her! Bien, I was called to Cartagena. She feared, in her delicate state, that I was deserting her. She tried to follow me, and at Badillo was put off the boat. There, poor child, she passed away in grief, leaving her babe. May she rest forever on the bosom of the blessed Virgin!" Diego bowed reverently and crossed himself.

"Then I lost all trace of her. My diligent inquiries revealed nothing. Two years later I was assigned to the parish of Simiti. Here I saw the little locket which I had given her, and knew that Carmen was my child. Ah, Dios! what a revelation to a breaking heart! But I could not openly acknowledge her, for I was already in disgrace, as you know. And, once down, it is easy to sink still further. I confess, I was indiscreet here. I was forced to fly. Rosendo's daughter followed me, despite my protests. I was assigned to Banco. Bien, time passed, and you came. I had hoped you would take the little Carmen under your protection. God, how I grieved for the child! At last I determined, come what might, to see her. The revolution drove me to the mountains; and love for my girl brought me by way of Simiti. And now, amigo, you have my confession—and you will not be hard on me? Caramba, I need a friend!" He sat down, and mopped his wet brow. His talk had shaken him visibly.

Again oppressive silence. Jose was staring with unseeing eyes out through the open doorway. A stream of sunlight poured over the dusty threshold, and myriad motes danced in the golden flood.

"Bien, amigo," Diego resumed, with more confidence. "I had not thought to reveal this, my secret, to you—nor to any one, for that matter—but just to get a peep at my little daughter, and assure my anxious heart of her welfare. But since coming here and seeing how mature she is my plans have taken more definite shape. I shall leave at daybreak to-morrow, if Don Mario can have my supplies ready on this short notice, and—will take Carmen with me."

Jose struggled wearily to his feet. The color had left his face, and ages seemed to bestride his bent shoulders. His voice quavered as he slowly spoke.

"Leave me now, Don Diego. It were better that we should not meet again until you depart."

"But, amigo—ah, I feel for you, believe me! You are attached to the child—who would not be? Caramba, what is this world but a cemetery of bleaching hopes! But—how can I ask it? Amigo, send the child to me at the house of the Alcalde. I would hold her in my arms and feel a father's joy. And bid the good Dona Maria make her ready for to-morrow's journey."

Jose turned to the man. An ominous calm now possessed him. "You said—the San Lucas district?"

"Quien sabe? good friend," Diego made hasty reply. "My plans seem quite altered since coming here. Bien, we must see. But I will leave you now. And you will send Carmen to me at once? And bid her bring her mother's locket. Conque, hasta luego, amigo."

He went to the door, and seeing his two negro peones loitering near, walked confidently and briskly to the house of Don Mario.

Jose, bewildered and benumbed, staggered into his sleeping room and sank upon the bed.

* * * * *

"Padre—Padre dear."

Carmen stood beside the stricken priest, and her little hand crept into his.

"I watched until I saw him go, and then I came in. He has bad thoughts, hasn't he? But—Padre dear, what is it? Did he make you think bad thoughts, too? He can't, you know, if you don't want to."

She bent over him and laid her cheek against his. Jose stared unseeing up at the thatch roof.

"Padre dear, everything has a rule, a principle, you told me. Don't you remember? But his thoughts haven't any principle, have they? Any more than the mistakes I make in algebra. Aren't we glad we know that!"

The child kissed the suffering man and wound her arms about his neck.

"Padre dear, he couldn't say anything that could make you unhappy—he just couldn't! God is everywhere, and you are His child—and I am, too—and—and there just isn't anything here but God, and we are in Him. Why, Padre, we are in Him, just like the little fish in the lake! Isn't it nice to know that—to really know it?"

Aye, if he had really known it he would not now be stretched upon a bed of torment. Yet, Carmen knew it. And his suffering was for her. Was he not really yielding to the mesmerism of human events? Why, oh, why could he not remain superior to them? Why continually rise and fall, tossed through his brief years like a dry weed in the blast?

It was because he would know evil, and yield to its mesmerism. His enemies were not without, but within. How could he hope to be free until he had passed from self-consciousness to the sole consciousness of infinite good?

"Padre dear, his bad thoughts have only the minus sign, haven't they?"

Yes, and Jose's now carried the same symbol of nothingness. Carmen was linked to the omnipresent mind that is God; and no power, be it Diego or his superior, Wenceslas, could effect a separation.

But if Carmen was Diego's child, she must go with him. Jose could no longer endure this torturing thought. He rose from the bed and sought Dona Maria.

"Senora," he pleaded, "tell me again what you know of Carmen's parents."

The good woman was surprised at the question, but could add nothing to what Rosendo had already told him. He asked to see again the locket. Alas! study it as he might, the portrait of the man was wholly indistinguishable. The sweet, sad face of the young mother looked out from its frame like a suffering. Magdalen. In it he thought he saw a resemblance to Carmen. As for Diego, the child certainly did not resemble him in the least. But years of dissipation and evil doubtless had wrought their changes in his features.

He looked around for Carmen. She had disappeared. He rose and searched through the house for her. Dona Maria, busy in the kitchen, had not seen her leave. His search futile, he returned with heavy heart to his own house and sat down to think. Mechanically he opened his Bible.

When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee. Not "if," but "when." The sharp experiences of human existence are not to be avoided. But in their very midst the Christ-principle is available to the faithful searcher and worker.

Dona Maria came with the midday meal. Carmen had not returned. Jose, alarmed beyond measure, prepared to set out in search of her. But at that moment one of Diego's peones appeared at the door with his master's request that the child be sent at once to him. At least, then, she was not in his hands; and Jose breathed more freely. It seemed to him that, should he see her in Diego's arms, he must certainly strangle him. He shuddered at the thought. Only a few minutes before he had threatened to kill him!

He left his food untasted. Unspeakably wearied with his incessant mental battle, he threw himself again upon his bed, and at length sank into a deep sleep.

The shadows were gathering when he awoke with a start. He heard a call from the street. Leaping from the bed, he hastened to the door, just as Rosendo, swaying beneath his pack, and accompanied by Lazaro Ortiz, rounded the corner and made toward him.

"Hola, amigo Cura!" Rosendo shouted, his face radiant. "Come and bid me welcome, and receive good news!"

At the same moment Carmen came flying toward them from the direction of the shales. Jose instantly divined the motive which had sent her out there. He turned his face to hide the tears which sprang to his eyes.

"Thank God!" he murmured in a choking voice. Then he hastened to his faithful ally and clasped him in his arms.



CHAPTER 16

Struggling vainly with his agitation, while the good tidings which he could no longer hold fairly bubbled from his lips, Rosendo dragged the priest into the parish house and made fast the doors. Swinging his chair to the floor, he hastily unstrapped his kit and extracted a canvas bag, which he handed to Jose.

"Padre," he exclaimed in a loud whisper, "we have found it!"

"Found what?" the bewildered Jose managed to ask.

"Gold, Padre—gold! Look, the bag is full! Hombre! not less than forty pesos oro—and more up there—quien sabe how much! Caramba!"

Rosendo fell into a chair, panting with excitement. Jose sat down with quickening pulse and waited for the full story. It was not long coming.

"Padre—I knew we would find it—but not this way! Hombre! It was back of Popales. I had been washing the sands there for two days after my return. There was a town at that place, years ago. The stone foundations of the houses can still be seen. The Tigui was rich at that point then; but it is washed out now. Bien, one morning I started out at daybreak to prospect Popales creek, the little stream cutting back into the hills behind the old settlement. There was a heavy mist over the whole valley, and I could not see ten feet before my face. Bien, I had gone up-stream a long distance, perhaps several miles, without finding more than a few colors, when suddenly the mist began to clear, and there before me, only a few feet away, stood a young deer, just as dumfounded as I was."

He paused a moment for breath, laughing meanwhile at the memory of his surprise. Then he resumed.

"Bueno, fresh venison looked good to me, Padre, living on salt bagre and beans. But I had no weapon, save my machete. So I let drive with that, and with all my strength. The big knife struck the deer on a leg. The animal turned and started swiftly up the mountain side, with myself in pursuit. Caramba, that was a climb! But with his belly chasing him, a hungry man will climb anything! Through palms and ferns and high weeds, falling over rocks and tripping on ground vines we went, clear to the top of the hill. Then the animal turned and plunged down a glen. On the descent it traveled faster, and in a few minutes had passed clean from my sight. Caramba, I was angry!"

He stopped to laugh again at the incident.

"The glen," he continued, "ran down for perhaps a hundred yards, and then widened into a clearing. I have been in the Popales country many times, Padre, but I had never been to the top of this mountain, nor had I ever seen this glen, which seemed to be an ancient trail. So I went on down toward the clearing. As I approached it I crossed what apparently was the bed of an ancient stream, dry now, but with many pools of water from the recent rains, which are very heavy in that region. Bien, I turned and followed this dry bed for a long distance, and at last came out into the open. I found myself in a circular space, surrounded by high hills, with no opening but the stream bed along which I had come. At the far end of the basin-shaped clearing the creek bed stopped abruptly; and I then knew that the water had formerly come over the cliff above in a high waterfall, but had flowed in a direction opposite to that of Popales creek, this mountain being the divide.

"Bueno; now for my discovery! I several times filled my batea with gravel from the dry bed and washed it in one of the pools. I got only a few scattered colors. But as I dug along the margin of the bed I noticed what seemed to be pieces of adobe bricks. I went on up one side of the bowl-shaped glen, and found many such pieces, and in some places stones that had served as foundations for houses at one time. So I knew that there had been a town there, long, long ago. But it must have been an Indian village, for had it been known to the Spaniards I surely would have learned of it from my parents. The ground higher up was strewn with the broken bricks. I picked up many of the pieces and examined them. Almost every one showed a color or two of gold; but not enough to pay washing the clay from which they had been made. But—and here is the end of my story—I have said that this open space was shaped like a bowl, with all sides dipping sharply to the center. It occurred to me that in the years—who knows how many?—that have passed since this town was abandoned, the heavy rains that had dissolved the mud bricks also must have washed the mud and the gold it carried down into the center of this basin, where, with great quantities of water sweeping over it every rainy season, the clay and sand would gradually wash out, leaving the gold concentrated in the center."

The old man stopped to light the thick cigar which he had rolled during his recital.

"Caramba! Padre, it was a lucky thought! I located the center of the big bowl as nearly as possible, and began to dig. I washed some of the dirt taken a foot or two below the surface. Hombre! it left a string of gold clear around the batea! I became so excited I could scarcely dig. Every batea, as I got deeper and deeper, yielded more and more gold! I hurried back to the Tigui for my supplies; and then camped up there and washed the sand and clay for two weeks, until I had to come back to Simiti for food. Forty pesos oro in fifteen days! Caramba! And there is more. And all concentrated from the mud bricks of that old, forgotten town in the mountains, miles back of Popales! May the Virgin bless that deer and mend its hurt leg!"

One hundred and sixty francs in shining gold flakes! And who knew how much more to be had for the digging!

"Ah, Padre," mused Rosendo, "it is wonderful how things turn out—that is, when, as the little Carmen says, you think right! I thought I'd find it—I knew it was right! And here it is! Caramba!"

At the mention of Carmen's name Jose again became troubled. Rosendo as yet did not know of Diego's presence in Simiti. Should he tell him? It might lead to murder. Rosendo would learn of it soon enough; and Jose dared not cast a blight upon the happiness of this rare moment. He would wait.

As they sat reunited at the supper table in Rosendo's house, a constant stream of townspeople passed and repassed the door, some stopping to greet the returned prospector, others lingering to witness Rosendo's conduct when he should learn of Diego's presence in the town, although no one would tell him of it. The atmosphere was tense with suppressed excitement, and Jose trembled with dread. Dona Maria moved quietly about, giving no hint of the secret she carried. Carmen laughed and chatted, but did not again mention the man from whose presence she had fled to the shales that morning. Who could doubt that in the midst of the prevalent mental confusion she had gone out there "to think"? And having performed that duty, she had, as usual, left her problem with her immanent God.

"I will go up and settle with Don Mario this very night," Rosendo abruptly announced, as they rose from the table.

"Not yet, friend!" cried Jose quickly. "Lazaro has told you of the revolution; and we have many plans to consider, now that we have found gold. Come with me to the shales. We will not be interrupted there. We can slip out through the rear door, and so avoid these curious people. I have much to discuss with you."

Rosendo chuckled. "My honest debts first, buen Cura," he said sturdily. And throwing back his shoulders he strutted about the room with the air of a plutocrat. With his bare feet, his soiled, flapping attire, and his swelling sense of self-importance he cut a comical figure.

"But, Rosendo—" Jose was at his wits' end. Then a happy thought struck him. "Why, man! I want to make you captain of the militia we are forming, and I must talk with you alone first!"

The childish egotism of the old man was instantly touched.

"Capitan! el capitan!" he cried in glee. He slapped his chest and strode proudly around the room. "Caramba! Capitan Don Rosendo Ariza, S! Ha! Shall I carry a sword and wear gold braid?—But these fellows are mighty curious," he muttered, looking out through the door at the loitering townsfolk. "The shales, then, Padre! Close the front door, Carmencita."

Jose scarcely breathed until, skirting the shore of the lake and making a detour of the town, he and Rosendo at length reached the shale beds unnoticed.

"Rosendo, the gold deposit that you have discovered—is it safe? Could others find it?" queried Jose at length.

"Never, Padre! No trail leads to it. And no one would think of looking there for gold. I discovered it by the merest chance, and I left no trace of my presence. Besides, there are no gold hunters in that country, and very few people in the entire district of Guamoco."

"And how long will it take you to wash out the deposit, do you think?"

"Quien sabe? Padre. A year—two years—perhaps longer."

"But you cannot return to Guamoco until the revolution is over."

"Bien, Padre, I will remain in Simiti a week or two. We may then know what to expect of the revolution."

"You are not afraid?"

"Of what? Caramba, no!"

Jose sighed. No one seemed to fear but himself.

"Rosendo, about the gold for Cartagena: how can we send it, even when peace is restored?"

"Juan might go down each month," Rosendo suggested.

"Impossible! The expense would be greater than the amount shipped. And it would not be safe. Besides, our work must be done with the utmost secrecy. No one but ourselves must know of your discovery. And no one else in Simiti must know where we are sending the gold. Rosendo, it is a great problem."

"Caramba, yes!"

The men lapsed into profound meditation. Then:

"Rosendo, the little Carmen makes great progress."

"Por supuesto! I knew she would. She has a mind!"

"Have you no idea, Rosendo, who her parents might have been?"

"None whatever, Padre."

"Has it ever occurred to you, Rosendo, that, because of her deeply religious nature, possibly her father was a priest?"

"Caramba, no!" ejaculated Rosendo, turning upon Jose. "What puts that into your head, amigo?"

"As I have said, Rosendo," Jose answered, "her religious instinct."

"Bien, Senor Padre, you forget that priests are not religious."

"But some are, Rosendo," persisted Jose in a tone of protest.

"Perhaps. But those who are do not have children," was Rosendo's simple manner of settling the argument.

Its force appealed to Jose, and he felt a shade of relief. But, if Diego were not the father of Carmen, what motive had he for wishing to take her with him, other than to train her eventually to become his concubine? The thought maddened him. He almost decided to tell Rosendo.

"But, Padre, we came out here to talk about the militia of which I am to be captain. Bien, we must begin work to-morrow. Hombre, but the senora's eyes will stand out when she sees me marching at the head of the company!" He laughed like a pleased child.

"And now that we have gold, Padre, I must send to Cartagena for a gun. What would one cost?"

"You probably could not obtain one, Rosendo. The Government is so afraid of revolutions that it prohibits the importation of arms. But even if you could, it would cost not less than fifty pesos oro."

"Fifty pesos! Caramba!" exclaimed the artless fellow. "Then I get no gun! But now let us name those who will form the company."

By dwelling on the pleasing theme, Jose managed to keep Rosendo engaged until fatigue at length drove the old man to seek his bed. The town was wrapped in darkness as they passed through its quiet streets, and the ancient Spanish lantern, hanging crazily from its moldering sconce on the corner of Don Felipe's house, threw the only light into the black mantle that lay upon the main thoroughfare.

* * * * *

At sunrise, Jose was awakened by Rosendo noisily entering his house. A glance at the old man showed that he was laboring under strong emotion.

"What sort of friendship is this," he demanded curtly, "that you keep me from learning of Diego's presence in Simiti? It was a trick you served me—and friends do not so to one another!" He stood looking darkly at the priest.

"Have you seen him, then? Good heavens, Rosendo! what have you done to him?" cried Jose, hastily leaving his bed.

"There, comfort yourself, Padre," replied Rosendo, a sneer curling his lips. "Your friend is safe—for the present. He and his negro rascals fled before sunrise."

"And which direction did they take?"

"Why do you ask? Would you go to them? Bueno, then across the lake, toward the Juncal. Don Mario stocked their boat last night, while you kept me out on the shales. Buen arreglo, no?"

"Yes, Rosendo," replied Jose gladly, "an excellent arrangement to keep you from dipping your hands in his foul blood. Why, man! is your vision so short? Have you no thought of Carmen and her future?"

"But—Dios! he has spread the report that he is her father! Caramba! For that I would tear him apart! He robbed me of one child; and now—Caramba! Why did you let him go?—why did you, Padre?"

Rosendo paced the floor like a caged lion, while great tears rolled down his black cheeks.

"But, Rosendo, if you had killed him—what then? Imprisonment for you, suffering for us all, and the complete wreck of our hopes. Is it worth it?"

"Na, Padre, but I would have escaped to Guamoco, to the gold I have discovered. There no one would have found me. And you would have kept me supplied; and I would have given you the gold I washed to care for her—"

The man sank into a chair and buried his head in his hands. "Caramba!" he moaned. "But he will return when I am gone—and the Church is back of him, and they will come and steal her away—"

How childish, and yet how great he was in his wonderful love, thought Jose. He pitied him from the bottom of his heart; he loved him immeasurably; yet he knew the old man's judgment was unsound in this case.

"Come, Rosendo," he said gently, laying a hand upon the bent head. "This is a time when expediency bids us suffer an evil to remain for a little while, that a much greater good may follow."

He hesitated. Then—"You do not think Diego is her father?"

"A thousand devils, no!" shouted Rosendo, springing up. "He the father of that angel-child? Cielo! His brats would be serpents! But I am losing time—" He turned to the door.

"Rosendo!" cried the priest in fresh alarm. "Where are you going? What are you—"

"I am going after Diego! Juan and Lazaro go with me! Before sundown that devil's carcass will be buzzard meat!"

Jose threw himself in front of Rosendo.

"Rosendo, think of Carmen! Would you kill her, too? If you kill Diego nothing can save her from Wenceslas! Rosendo, for God's sake, listen!"

But the old man, with his huge strength, tossed the frail priest lightly aside and rushed into the street. Blind with rage, he did not see Carmen standing a short distance from the door. The child had been sent to summon him to breakfast. Unable to check his momentum, the big man crashed full into her and bore her to the ground beneath him. As she fell her head struck the sharp edge of an ancient paving stone, and she lay quite still, while the warm blood slowly trickled through her long curls.

Uttering a frightened cry, Jose rushed to the dazed Rosendo and got him to his feet. Then he picked up the child, and, his heart numb with fear, bore her into the house.

Clasping Carmen fiercely in his arms, Jose tried to aid Dona Maria in staunching the freely flowing blood. Rosendo, crazed with grief, bent over them, giving vent to moans which, despite his own fears, wrung the priest's heart with pity for the suffering old man. At length the child opened her eyes.

"Praise God!" cried Rosendo, kneeling and showering kisses upon her hands. "Loado sea el buen Dios! Caramba! Caramba!"

"Padre Rosendo," the girl murmured, smiling down at him, "your thoughts were driving you, just like Benjamin drives his oxen. And they were bad, or you wouldn't have knocked me over."

"Bad!" Rosendo went to the doorway and squatted down upon the dirt floor in the sunlight. "Bad!" he repeated. "Caramba, but they were murder-thoughts!"

"And they tried to make you murder me, didn't they, padre dear?" She laughed. "But it didn't really happen, anyway," she added.

Rosendo buried his head in his hands and groaned aloud. Carmen slipped down from Jose's lap and went unsteadily to the old man.

"They were not yours, those thoughts, padre dear," putting her arms around his neck. "But they were whipping you hard, just as if you belonged to them. And see, it just shows that bad thoughts can't do anything. Look, I'm all right!" She stood off and smiled at him.

Rosendo reached out and clasped her in his long arms. "Chiquita," he cried, "if you were not, your old padre Rosendo would throw himself into the lake!"

"More bad thoughts, padre dear!" She laughed and held up a warning finger. "But I was to tell you the desayuno was ready; and see, we have forgotten all about it!" Her merry laugh rang through the room like a silver bell.

After breakfast Jose took Rosendo, still shaking, into the parish house. "I think," he said gravely, "that we have learned another lesson, have we not, amigo?"

Rosendo's head sank upon his great chest.

"And, if we are wise, we will profit by it—will we not, compadre?" He waited a moment, then continued:

"I have been seeing in a dim way, amigo, that our thought is always the vital thing to be reckoned with, more than we have even suspected before. I believe there is a mental law, though I cannot formulate it, that in some way the thoughts we hold use us, and become externalized in actions. You were wild with fear for Carmen, and your thoughts of Diego were murderous. Bien, they almost drove you to murder, and they reacted upon the very one you most love. Can you not see it, amigo?"

Rosendo looked up. His face was drawn. "Padre—I am almost afraid to think of anything—now."

"Ah, amigo," said Jose with deep compassion, "I, too, have had a deep lesson in thinking these past two days. I had evolved many beautiful theories, and worked out wonderful plans during these weeks of peace. Then suddenly came the news of the revolution, and, presto! they all flew to pieces! But Carmen—nothing disturbs her. Is it because she is too young to fear? I think not, amigo, I think not. I think, rather, that it is because she is too wise."

"But—she is not of the earth, Padre." The old man shook his head dubiously.

"Rosendo, she is! She is human, just as we are. But in some way she has learned a great truth, and that is that wrong thinking brings all the discord and woe that afflict the human race. We know this is true, you and I. In a way we have known it all our lives. But why, why do we not practice it? Why do I yield so readily to fear; and you to revenge? I rather think if we loved our enemies we would have none, for our only enemies are the thoughts that become externalized in wrong thought-concepts. And even this externalization is only in our own consciousness. It is there, and only there, that we see evil."

"Quien sabe? Padre," replied Rosendo, slowly shaking his head. "We know so little—so little!"

"But, Rosendo, we know enough to try to be like Carmen—"

"Caramba, yes! And I try to be like her. But whenever danger threatens her, the very devils seize me, and I am no longer myself."

"Yes, yes; I know. But will not her God protect her? Can not we trust her to Him?" Jose spoke with the conviction of right, however inconsistent his past conduct might have been.

"True, Padre—and I must try to love Diego—I know—though I hate him as the devil hates the cross! Carmen would say that he was used by bad thoughts, wouldn't she?"

"Just so. She would not see the man, but the impersonal thought that seems to use him. And I believe she knows how to meet that kind of thought."

"I know it, Padre. Bien, I must try to love him. I will try. And—Padre, whenever he comes into my mind I will try to think of him as God's child—though I know he isn't!"

Jose laughed loudly at this. "Hombre!" he exclaimed. "You must not think of the human Diego as God's child! You must always think of the real child of God for which this human concept, Diego, stands in your consciousness. Do you understand me?"

"No, Padre. But perhaps I can learn. I will try. But Diego shall live. And—Bien, now let us talk about the company of militia. But here comes the Alcalde. Caramba! what does he want?"

With much oily ceremony and show of affection, Don Mario greeted the pair.

"I bring a message from Padre Diego," he announced pompously, after the exchange of courtesies. "Bien, it is quite unfortunate that our friend Rosendo feels so hard toward him, especially as Don Diego has so long entrusted Carmen to Rosendo's care. But—his letter, Senor Padre," placing a folded paper in Jose's hand.

Silently, but with swelling indignation, Jose read:

"Dear Brother in Christ: It is, as you must know, because of our good Rosendo's foolish anger that I relieve him of the embarrassment of my presence in Simiti. Not that I fear bodily harm, but lest his thoughtlessness urge him to attempt injury upon me; in which case nothing but unhappiness could result, as my two negro servants would protect me with their own lives. I rather choose peace, and to that end quietly depart. But I leave behind my bleeding heart in the little Carmen; and I beg that you will at once hand her over to the excellent Don Mario, with whom I have made arrangements to have her sent to me in due season, whether in Banco or Remedios, I can not at present say. I am minded to make an excellent report of your parish to Don Wenceslas, and I am sure he will lend you support in your labors for the welfare of the good folk of Simiti. Do not forget to include the little locket with Carmen's effects when you deliver her to Don Mario. I assure you of my warm affection for you, and for Rosendo, who mistakes in his zeal to persecute me, as he will some day learn; and I commend you both to the protecting care of our blessed Mother Mary.

"I kiss your hand, as your servant in Christ, "DIEGO GUILLERMO POLO."

Jose looked long and fixedly at the Alcalde. "Don Mario," he finally said, "do you believe Diego to be the father of Carmen?"

"Cierto, Padre, I know it!" replied the official with fervor. "He has the proofs!"

"And what are they, may I ask?"

"I do not know, Padre; only that he has them. Surely the child is his, and must be sent to him when he commands. Meantime, you see, he gives the order to deliver her to me. He has kindly arranged to relieve you and Rosendo of further care of the girl."

"Don Mario," said Jose with terrible earnestness, "I will give you the benefit of the doubt, and say that Diego has basely deceived you. But as for him—he lies."

"Hombre! But I can not help if you disbelieve him. Still, you must comply with his request; otherwise, the Bishop may compel you to do so."

Jose realized the terrible possibility of truth in this statement. For an instant all his old despair rushed upon him. Then he braced himself. Rosendo was holding his wrath in splendid check.

"Bien, Don Mario," resumed Jose, after a long meditation. "Let us ask our good Rosendo to leave us for a little moment that we may with greater freedom discuss the necessary arrangements. Bien, amigo!" holding up a hand to check Rosendo, who was rising menacingly before the Alcalde. "You will leave it to me." He threw Rosendo a significant look; and the latter, after a momentary hesitation, bowed and passed out of the room.

"A proposito, amigo," resumed Jose, turning to the Alcalde and assuming utter indifference with regard to Carmen. "As you will recall, I stood security for Rosendo's debts. The thirty pesos which he owes you will be ready this evening."

The Alcalde smiled genially and rubbed his fat palms together. "Muy bien," he murmured.

Jose reflected. Then:

"But, Don Mario, with regard to Carmen, justice must be done, is it not so?"

"Cierto, Padre; and Padre Diego has the proofs—"

"Certainly; I accept your word for your conviction in the matter. But you will agree that there is something to be said for Rosendo. He has fed, clothed, and sheltered the girl for some eight years. Let us see, at the rate you charge your peones, say, fifty pesos a day, that would amount to—"

He took paper and pencil from the table and made a few figures.

"—to just fourteen hundred and sixty pesos oro," he concluded. "This, then, is the amount now due Rosendo for the care of Diego's child. You say he has made arrangements with you to care for her until he can send for her. Bien, we will deliver her to you for Diego, but only upon payment of the sum which I have just mentioned. Otherwise, how will Rosendo be reimbursed for the expense of her long maintenance?"

"Ca—ram—ba! Fourteen hundred and sixty pesos oro! Why—it is a fortune!" ejaculated the outwitted Alcalde, his eyes bulging over his puffy cheeks.

"And," continued Jose calmly, "if we deliver the girl to you to-day, I will retain the thirty pesos oro which Rosendo owes you, and you will stand surety for the balance of the debt, fourteen hundred and thirty, in that case."

"Diablo! but I will do nothing of the kind!" exploded the Alcalde. "Caramba! let Diego come and look after his own brat!"

"Then we shall consider the interview at an end, no?"

"But my thirty pesos oro?"

"To-night. And as much more for additional supplies. We are still working together, are we not, Don Mario?" he added suggestively.

Jose in Simiti with money discounted a million Diegos fleeing through the jungle. The Alcalde's heavy face melted in a foolish grin.

"Cierto, buen Padre! and—La Libertad?"

"I have strong hopes," replied Jose with bland assurance, while a significant look came into his face. Then he rose and bowed the Alcalde out. "And, Don Mario—"

He put a finger on his lips.

"—we remain very silent, no?"

"Cierto, Padre, cierto! I am the grave itself!"

As the bulky official waddled off to his little shop, Jose turned back into his house with a great sigh of relief. Another problem had been met—temporarily.

He summoned Carmen to the day's lessons.



CHAPTER 17

Within the month Juan brought from Bodega Central the glad news of the revolution's utter collapse. The anticlerical element, scenting treachery in their own ranks, and realizing almost from the outset that the end was a matter of only a few weeks, offered to capitulate on terms which they felt would be less distressing to their pride than those which their victors might dictate after inflicting a crushing defeat. The conservatives did not take advantage of the fiasco, but offered conciliation in the way of reapportioning certain minor public offices, and a show of somewhat lessened clerical influence. Peace followed rapidly. The fires of Jacobinism and popery were again banked, while priest and politician, statesman and orator set up the board and rearranged the pawns for the next play.

Nothing further had been heard of Padre Diego during the month, excepting that he had arrived at the settlement of Juncal in a state of extreme agitation, and had hurriedly set out that same day along the trail to the San Lucas district. Rosendo, meanwhile, assured that Diego would not return in the immediate future, yielded to Jose's persuasion and departed at once for Guamoco on the news of the revolution's close. Simiti had remained unmolested; and now, with the assurance of indefinite peace, the old town dropped quickly back into her wonted state of listless repose, and yielded to the drowsy, dreamy influences that hover always about this scene of mediaeval romance.

Jose had recovered his equipoise; and even when Juan, returning from his next trip down to the river, brought the priest another sharp letter from Wenceslas, written in the Bishop's name, he read it without a tremor. The letter complained of Jose's silence, and especially of his failure to assist the Catholic cause in this crisal hour by contributions of Peter's Pence. Nor had any report been received in Cartagena relative to the state of the parish of Simiti, its resources and communicants; and not a peso had been offered to the support of their so dear citadel at a time when its enemies threatened its gates. Jose smiled happily as he penned his reply, for he knew that with Rosendo's next return their contributions to Cartagena would begin. That meant the quieting of Wenceslas, regardless of whatever report Diego might make. And it was evident from this letter that neither Diego nor the Alcalde had as yet communicated anything of a startling nature to Wenceslas regarding those things to which the priest had consecrated himself in Simiti.

Jose's life was never before so full. And never so sweet. To his little flock he was now preaching the Word of God only as he could interpret it to meet their simple needs. Gradually, as he got closer to them, he sought to enlighten them and to draw them at least a little way out of the dense materialism of their present religious beliefs. He also strove to give them the best of his own worldly knowledge, and to this end was talking to them three nights a week in the church building, where the simple people hung upon his words like children enwrapped in fairy lore. He was holding regular Sunday services, and offering Masses during the week for those of his parishioners who requested them, and who would have been shocked, puzzled, and unhappy had he refused to do so, or attempted to prove their uselessness. He was likewise saying diurnal Masses for the little Maria, to whom, as she lay breathing her last in his arms in Cartagena, he had given the promise to offer them daily in her behalf for, a year.

Nor was this the extent of his loving sacrifice for the girl. He had already sent a small sum of money to Catalina by Captain Julio, who promised to arrange at Calamar for its transmission, and for the safe convoy of a similar small packet monthly to Cartagena and into the hands of the two women who were caring for the infant son of Wenceslas and the ill-fated Maria. He had promised her that night that he would care for her babe. And his life had long since shown what a promise meant to him. He knew he would be unable to learn of the child's progress directly from these women, for they were both illiterate. But Captain Julio brought an encouraging message from them, and assured Jose that he would always make inquiry for the babe on his trips down the river. Jose's long-distance dealings with the genial captain had been conducted through Juan, who had constituted himself the priest's faithful servant and the distant worshiper of the child Carmen.

"Padre Jose," Juan had said one day, striving vainly to hide his embarrassment, "the little Carmen grows very beautiful. She is like the Pascua-flower, that shines through the ferns in the cano. She is like the great blue butterfly, that floats on the sunbeams that sift through the forest trees."

"Yes, Juan, she is very beautiful."

"Padre, you love her much, is it not so?"

"Very much, indeed, Juan."

"And I, Padre, I, too, love her." He paused and dug the hard ground with his bare toes.

"Padre," he resumed, "the little Carmen will marry—some day, will she not?"

Jose started. The thought had never occurred to him! Carmen marry? After all, she was human, and— But, no, he could not, he would not, think of it!

"Why, Juan—I—cannot say—"

"But, Padre, she will." Juan was growing bolder. "And—and, Padre, I—I should like it if she would marry me. Ah, Senor Padre, already I adore her!"

Jose could not be angry. The faithful lad was deeply sincere. And the girl would reach the marriageable age of that country in all too short a time.

"But, Juan," he remonstrated, "you are too young! And Carmen—why, she is but a child!"

"True, Padre. But I am seventeen—and I will wait for her. Only say now that she shall be mine when the time comes. Padre, say it now!"

Jose was deeply touched by the boy's earnest pleading. He put his arm affectionately about the strong young shoulders.

"Wait, Juan, and see what develops. She is very, very young. We must all wait. And, meanwhile, do you serve her, faithfully, as you see Rosendo and me doing."

The boy's face brightened with hope. "Padre," he exclaimed, "I am her slave!"

Jose went back to his work with Carmen with his thought full of mingled conjecture and resolve. He had thus far outlined nothing for the girl's future. Nor had he the faintest idea what the years might bring forth. But he knew that, in a way, he was aiding in the preparation of the child for something different from the dull, animal existence with which she was at present surrounded, and that her path in life must eventually lead far, far away from the shabby, crumbling town which now constituted her material world. His task he felt to be tremendous in the responsibility which it laid upon him. What had he ever known of the manner of rearing children! He had previously given the question of child-education but scant consideration, although he had always held certain radical ideas regarding it; and some of these he was putting to the test. But had his present work been forecast while he lay sunken in despair on the river steamer, he would have repudiated the prediction as a figment of the imagination. Yet the gleam which flashed through his paralyzed brain that memorable day in the old church, when Rosendo opened his full heart to him, had roused him suddenly from his long and despondent lethargy, and worked a quick and marvelous renovation in his wasted life. Following the lead of this unusual child, he was now, though with many vicissitudes, slowly passing out of his prison of egoism, and into the full, clear sunlight of a world which he knew to be far less material than spiritual.

With the awakening had come the almost frenzied desire to realize in Carmen what he had failed to develop within himself; a vague hope that she might fill the void which a lifetime of longing had expressed. A tremendous opportunity now presented. Already the foundation had been well laid—but not by earthly hands. His task was to build upon it; and, as he did so, to learn himself. He had never before realized more than faintly the awful power for good or evil which a parent wields over a child. He had no more than the slightest conception of the mighty problem of child-education. And now Carmen herself had shown him that real education must be reared upon a foundation wholly spiritual. Yet this, he knew, was just what the world's educators did not do. He could see now how in the world the religious instinct of the child is early quenched, smothered into complete or partial extinction beneath the false tutelage of parents and teachers, to whom years and adult stature are synonymous with wisdom, and who themselves have learned to see the universe only through the opaque lenses of matter and chance.