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made this place! But they say you have all taken to dying! Have you
nothing else to do? Caramba, I do not wonder! Such a God-forsaken
spot! Well, what is it? Speak, man!”
Josè collected his scattered thoughts. “The cholera!” he said
hoarsely.
“Cholera! Caramba! so they told me down below, and I would not
believe them! But where did it come from?”
“One of our men brought it from Bodega Central.”
“Bodega Central!” ejaculated Don Jorge. “Impossible! I came from
there this morning myself. Have been there two days. There isn’t a
trace of cholera in the place, as far as I know! You have all gone
crazy––but small wonder!” looking out over the decrepit town.
The priest’s head was awhirl. He felt his senses leaving him. His ears
were reporting things basely false. “You say––” he began in
bewilderment.
“I say what I have said, amigo! There is no more cholera in Bodega
Central than there is in heaven! I arrived there day before yesterday,
and left before sunrise this morning. So I should know.”
Josè sank weakly down at the man’s side. “But––Don Jorge––Feliz
Gomez returned from there three nights ago, and reported that a
Turk, who had come up from the coast, had died of the plague!”
Don Jorge’s brows knit in perplexity. “I recall now,” he said slowly,
after some moments of study. “The innkeeper did say that a Turk
had died there––some sort of intestinal trouble, I believe. When I
told him I was bound for Simití, he laughed as if he would split, and
then began to talk about the great fright he had given a man from
here. Said he scared the fellow until his black face turned white. But
I was occupied with my own affairs, and paid him little attention. But
come, tell me all about it.”
With the truth slowly dawning upon his clouded thought, Josè
186

related the grewsome experiences of the past three days.

“Ca-ram-ba!” Don Jorge whistled softly. “Who would have thought it!
But, was Feliz Gomez sick before he went to Bodega Central?”
“I do not know,” replied Josè.
“Yes, señor,” interposed Rosendo. “He and Amado Sanchez both had
bowel trouble. Their women told my wife so, after you and I, Padre,
had come up here to the hill. But it was nothing. We have it here
often, as you know.”
“True,” assented Josè, “but we have never given it any serious
thought.”
Don Jorge leaned back and broke into a roar of laughter. “Por el
amor del cielo! You are all crazy, amigo––you die like rats of fear!
Did you ever put a mouse into a bottle and then scare it to death
with a loud noise? Hombre! That is what has happened to you!” The
hill reverberated with his loud shouts.
But Josè could not share in the merriment. The awful consequences
of the innkeeper’s coarse joke upon the childish minds of these poor,
impressionable people pressed heavily upon his heart. Bitter tears
welled to his eyes. He sprang to his feet.
“Come, Rosendo!” he cried. “We must go down and tell these people
the truth!”
Don Jorge joined them, and they all hastened down into the town.
Ramona Chaves met them in the plaza, her eyes streaming.
“Padre,” she wailed, “my man Pedro has the sickness! He is dying!”
“Nothing of the kind, Ramona!” loudly cried Josè; “there is no
cholera here!” He hastened to the bedside of the writhing Pedro.
“Up, man!” he shouted, seizing his hand. “Up! You are not sick!
There is no cholera in Simití! There is none in Bodega Central! Feliz
did not bring it! He and Amado had only a touch of the flux, and
they died of fear!”
The priest’s ringing words acted upon the man like magic. He roused
up from his lethargy and stared at the assemblage. Don Jorge
repeated the priest’s words, and added his own laughing and
boisterous comments. Pedro rose from his bed, and stood staring.
Together, their little band augmented at every corner by the startled
people, they hurried to the homes of all who lay upon beds of
sickness, spreading the glad tidings, until the little town was in a
state of uproar. Like black shadows before the light, the plague fled
187

into the realm of imagination from which it had come. By night, all
but Mateo Gil were up and about their usual affairs. But even Mateo
had revived wonderfully; and Josè was confident that the good news
would be the leaven of health that would work a complete
restoration within him in time. The exiles left the hilltop and the old
church, and returned again to their homes. Don Jorge took up his
abode with Josè.
“Bien,” he said, as they sat at the rear door of the priest’s house,
looking through the late afternoon haze out over the lake, “you have
had a strange experience––Caramba! most strange!––and yet one
from which you should gather an excellent lesson. You are dealing
with children here––children who have always been rocked in the
cradle of the Church. But––” looking archly at Josè, “do I offend?
For, as I told you on the boat a year ago, I do not think you are a
good priest.” He laughed softly. “Bien,” he added, “I will correct that.
You are good––but not a priest, is it not so?”
“I have some views, Don Jorge, which differ radically from those of
the faith,” Josè said cautiously.
“Caramba! I should hope so!” his friend ejaculated.
“But,” interposed Josè, anxious to direct the conversation into other
channels, “may I ask how and where you have occupied yourself
since I left the boat at Badillo?”
“Ah, Dios!” said Don Jorge, shaking his head, although his eyes
twinkled. “I have wandered ever since––and am poorer now than
when I started. I left our boat at Puerto Nacional, to go to Medellin;
and from there to Remedios and Guamocó. But while in the river
town I met another guaquero––grave hunter, you know––who was
preparing to go to Honda, to investigate the ‘castles’ at that place.
There is a strange legend––you may have heard it––hanging over
those rocks. It appears that a lone hermit lived in one of the many
caverns in the great limestone deposits rising abruptly from the river
near the town of Honda. How he came there, no one knew. Day
after day, year after year, he labored in his cave, extending it further
into the hillside. People laughed at him for tunneling in that barren
rock, for gold has never been found anywhere in it. But the fellow
paid them no attention; and gradually he was accepted as a
harmless fanatic, and was left unmolested to dig his way into the hill
as far as he would. Years passed. No one knew how the fellow lived,
for he held no human intercourse. Kind people often brought food
and left it at the mouth of his cavern, but he would have none of it.
They brought clothes, but they rotted where they were left. What he
ate, no one could discover. At last some good soul planted a fig tree188

near the cave, hoping that the fruit in time would prove acceptable
to him. One day they found the tree cut down. Bien, time passed,
and he was forgotten. One day some men, passing the cave, found
his body, pale and thin, with long, white hair, lying at the entrance.
But––Caramba! when they buried the body they found it was that of
a woman!”
He paused to draw some leaves of tobacco from his wallet and roll a
thick cigar. The sudden turn of his story drew an expression of
amazement from the priest.
“Bien,” he resumed, “where the woman came from, and who she
was, never was learned. Nor how she lived. But of course some one
must have supplied her with food and clothes all these years.
Perhaps she was some grand dame, with a dramatic past, who had
come there to escape the world and do penance for her sins. What
sorrow, what black tragedy that cave concealed, no one may ever
know! Nor am I at all interested in that. The point is, either she
found gold there, or had a quantity of it that she brought with her––
at least so I thought at the time. So, when the guaquero at Puerto
Nacional told me the story, nothing would do but I must go with him
to search the cave. Caramba! We wasted three full months prying
around there––and had our labor for our pains!”
He tilted his chair back and puffed savagely at his cigar.
“Well, then I got on the windy side of another legend, a wild tale of
buried treasure in the vicinity of Mompox. Of course I hurried after
it. Spent six months pawing the hot dirt around that old town. Fell in
with your estimable citizen, Don Felipe, who swindled me out of a
hundred good pesos oro on a fraudulent location and a forged map.
Then I cursed him and the place and went up to Banco.”
“Banco!” Josè’s heart began beating rapidly. Don Jorge went on:
“Your genial friend Diego is back there. Told me about his trip to
Simití to see his little daughter.”
“What did he say about her, amigo?” asked Josè in a controlled
voice.
“Not much––only that he expected to send for her soon. You know,
Rosendo’s daughter is living with him. Fine looking wench, too!”
“But, Don Jorge,” pursued Josè anxiously, “what think you, is the
little Carmen Diego’s child?”
“Hombre! How should I know? He no doubt has many.”
“She does not look like him,” asserted Josè, clinging to his note of
optimism.
“No. And fortunate she is in that! Caramba, but he looks like an imp
from sheol!”
Josè saw that little consolation was to be derived from Don Jorge189as
far as Carmen was concerned. So he allowed the subject to lapse.
“Bien,” continued Don Jorge, whose present volubility was in striking
contrast to his reticence on the boat the year before, “I had occasion
to come up to Bodega Central––another legend, if I must confess it.
And there Don Carlos Norosí directed me here.”
“What a life!” exclaimed Josè.
“Yes, no doubt it appears so to you, Señor Padre,” replied Don Jorge.
“And yet my business, that of treasure hunting, has in times past
proved very lucrative. The Indian graves of Colombia have yielded
enormous quantities of gold. The Spaniards opened many of them;
and in one, that of a famous chieftain, discovered down below us,
near Zaragoza, they found a solid gold pineapple, a marvelous piece
of workmanship, and of immense value. They sent it to the king of
Spain. Caramba! it never would have reached him if I had been
there!
“But,” he resumed, “we have no idea of the amount of treasure that
has been buried in various parts of Colombia. This country has been,
and still is, enormously rich in minerals––a veritable gold mine of
itself. And since the time of the Spanish conquest it has been in a
state of almost constant turmoil. Nothing and nobody has been safe.
And, up to very recent times, whenever the people collected a bit of
gold above their daily needs, they promptly banked it with good
Mother Earth. Then, like as not, they got themselves killed in the
wars, and the treasure was left for some curious and greedy hunter
like myself to dig up years after. The Royalists and Tories buried
huge sums all over the country during the War of Independence.
Why, it was only a year or so ago that two men came over from
Spain and went up the Magdalena river to Bucaramanga. They were
close-mouthed fellows, well-dressed, and evidently well-to-do. But
they had nothing to say to anybody. The innkeeper pried around
until he discovered that they spent much time in their room poring
over maps and papers. Then they set off alone, with an outfit of
mules and supplies to last several weeks. Bueno, they came back at
last with a box of good size, made of mahogany, and bound around
with iron bands. Caramba! They did not tarry long, you may be sure.
And I learned afterward that they sailed away safely from
Cartagena, box and all, for sunny Spain, where, I doubt not, they
are now living in idleness and gentlemanly ease on what they found
in the big coffer they dug up near that old Spanish city.”
Josè listened eagerly. To him, cooped up for a year and more in 190
the
narrow confines of Simití, the ready flow of this man’s conversation
was like a fountain of sparkling water to a thirsty traveler. He urged
him to go on, plying him with questions about his strange avocation.
“Caramba, but the old Indian chiefs were wise fellows!” Don Jorge
pursued. “They seemed to know that greedy vandals like myself
would some day poke around in their last resting places for the gold
that was always buried with them––possibly to pay their freight
across the dark river. And so they dug their graves in the form of an
L, in the extreme tip of which the royal carcasses were laid. In this
way they have deceived many a grave-hunter, who dug straight
down without finding the body, which was safely tucked away in the
toe of the L. I have gone back and reopened many a grave that I
had abandoned as empty, and found His Royal Highness five or six
feet to one side of the straight shaft I had previously sunk.”
“I suppose,” mused Josè, “that you now follow this work because of
its fascination––for you must have found and laid aside much
treasure in the years that you have pursued it.”
“Caramba!” ejaculated the guaquero. “I have been rich and poor, like
the rising and setting of the sun! What I find, I spend again hunting
more. It is the way of the world. The man who has enough money
never knows it. And his greed for more––more that he needs not,
and cannot possibly spend on himself––generally results, as in my
case, in the loss of what he already has. But there are reasons aside
from the excitement of the chase that keep me at it.”
He fell strangely silent, and Josè knew that there were aroused
within him memories that seared the tissues of the brain as they
entered.
“Amigo,” Don Jorge resumed. His voice was low, tense and cold.
“There are some things which I am trying to forget. This exciting
and dangerous business of mine keeps my thought occupied. I care
nothing now for the treasure I may discover. But I crave
forgetfulness. Do you understand?”
“Surely, good friend,” replied Josè quickly; “and I ask pardon for
recalling those things to you.”
“De nada, amigo!” said Don Jorge, with a gesture of deprecation.
Then: “I told you on the boat that I had lost a wife and girl. The
Church got them both. I tell you this because I know you, too, have
grievances against her. Caramba! Yet I will tell you only a part. I
lived in Maganguey, where my wife’s brother kept a store and did an
excellent commission business. I was mining and hunting graves in
the Cauca region, sometimes going up the Magdalena, too, and
working on both sides of the river. Maganguey was a convenient
place for me to live, as it stands at the junction of the two great
191

rivers. Besides, my wife wished to remain near her own people.

Bien, we had a daughter. She grew up fair and good. And then, one
day, the priest told my wife that the girl was destined to a great
future, and must enter a convent and consecrate herself to the
Church. Caramba! I am not a Catholic––was never one! My parents
were patriots, and both took part in the great war that gave liberty
to this country. But they were liberal in thought; and I was never
confirmed to the Church. Bien, the priest made my life a hell––my
wife became estranged from me––and one day, returning from the
Cauca, I found my house deserted. Wife and girl and the child’s
nurse had gone down the river!”
The man’s face darkened, and hard lines drew around his mouth.
“They had taken my money chest, some thousands of pesos. I
sought the priest. He laughed at me, and––Caramba! I struck him
such a blow between his pig eyes that he lay senseless for hours!”
Josè glanced at the broad shoulders and the great knots of muscle
on the man’s arms. He was of medium height, but with a frame of
iron.
“Bien, Señor Padre, I, too, fled wild and raving from Maganguey that
night, and plunged into the jungle. Months later I drifted down the
river, as far as Mompox. And there one day I chanced upon old
Marcelena, the child’s nurse. Like a cayman I seized her and dragged
her into an alley. She confessed that my wife and girl were living
there––the wife had become housekeeper for a young priest––the
girl was in the convent. Caramba! I hurled the woman to the ground
and turned my back upon the city!”
Josè’s interest in the all too common recital received a sudden
stimulus.
“Your daughter’s name, Don Jorge, was––”
“Maria, Señor Padre.”
“And––she would now be, how old, perhaps?”
“About twenty-two, I think.”
“Her appearance?”
“Fair––complexion light, like her mother’s. Maria was a beautiful
child––and good as she was beautiful.”
“But––the child’s nurse remained with her?”
“Marcelena? Yes. She was devoted to the little Maria. The woman
was old and ugly––but she loved the child.”
“Did you not inquire for them when you were in Mompox a few
months ago?” pursued Josè eagerly.
“I made slight inquiry through the clerk in the office of the Alcalde.
192
I
did not intend to––but I could not help it. Caramba! He made further
inquiry, but said only that he was told they had long since gone
down to Cartagena, and nothing had been heard from them.”
The gates of memory’s great reservoir opened at the touch of this
man’s story, and Josè again lived through that moonlit night in
Cartagena, when the little victim of Wenceslas breathed out her life
of sorrow and shame in his arms. He heard again the sobs of
Marcelena and the simple-minded Catalina. He saw again the figure
of the compassionate Christ in the smoke that drifted past the
window. And now the father of that wronged girl sat before him,
wrapped in the tatters of a shredded happiness! Should he tell him?
Should he say that he had cared for this man’s little grandson since
his advent into this sense of existence that mortals call life? For
there could be no doubt now that the little Maria was his daughter.
“Don Jorge,” he said, “you have suffered much. My heart bleeds for
you. And yet––”
“Na, Padre, there is nothing to do. Were I to find my family I could
only slay them and the priests who came between us!”
“But, Don Jorge,” cried Josè in horror, “you surely meditate no such
vengeance as that!”
The man smiled grimly. “Señor Padre,” he returned coldly, “I am
Spanish. The blood of the old cavaliers flows in my veins. I have
been betrayed, trapped, fooled, and my honored name has been
foully soiled. What will remove the stain, think you? Blood––nothing
else! Caramba! The priest of Maganguey who poured the first drop
of poison into my wife’s too willing ears––Bien, I have said enough!”
“Hombre! You don’t mean––”
“I mean, Señor Padre, that I drifted down the river, unseen, to
Maganguey one night. I entered that priest’s house. He did not
awake the next morning.”
“God!” exclaimed Josè, starting up.
“Na, Padre, not God, but Satan! He rules this world.”
Josè sank back in his chair. Don Jorge leaned forward and laid a
hand upon his knee. “My friend,” he said evenly, “you are young––
how old, may I ask?”
“Twenty-seven,” murmured Josè.
“Caramba! A child! Bien, you have much to learn. I took to you on
the boat because I knew you had made a mess of things, and it was
not entirely your fault. I have seen others like you. You are no more
in the Church than I am. Now why do you stay here? Do I offend in
asking?”
Josè hesitated. “I––I have––work here, señor,” he replied. 193

“True,” said Don Jorge, “a chance to do much for these poor

people––if the odds are not too strong against you. But––are you
working for them alone? Or––does Diego’s child figure in the case?
No offense, I assure you––I have reason to ask.”
Josè sought to read his eyes. The man looked squarely into his own,
and the priest found no deception in their black depths.
“I––señor, she cannot be Diego’s child––and I––I would save her!”
Don Jorge nodded his head. “Bien,” he said, “to-morrow I leave for
San Lucas. I will return this way.”
After the evening meal the guaquero spread his petate upon the
floor and disposed himself for the night. He stubbornly refused to
accept the priest’s bed. “Caramba!” he muttered, after he had lain
quiet for some time, “why does not the Church permit its clergy to
marry, like civilized beings! Do you know, Señor Padre, I once met a
woman in Bogotá and held some discussion with her on this topic.
She said, as between a priest who had children, and a married
minister, she would infinitely prefer the priest, because, as she put it,
no matter how dissolute the priest, the sacraments from his hands
would still retain their validity––but never from those of a married
minister! Caramba! what can you do against such bigotry and awful
narrowness, such dense ignorance! Cielo!”
The following morning, before sunrise, Don Jorge and his boatmen
were on the lake, leaving Josè to meditate on the vivid experiences
of the past few days, their strange mental origin, and the lesson
which they brought.
 CHAPTER 22

“Padre dear,” said Carmen, “you know the question that we put
under the altar of the old church? Well, God answered it, didn’t He?”
“I––why, I had forgotten it, child. What was it? You asked Him to tell
us why the people thought they had to die, did you not? Well––and
what was His answer?”
“Why, He told us that they were frightened to death, you know.”
“True, chiquita. Fear killed them––nothing else! They paid the
penalty of death for believing that Feliz Gomez had slept on a bed
where a man had died of the plague. They died because they––”
“Because they didn’t know that God was everywhere, Padre dear,”
194

interrupted Carmen.
“Just so, chiquita. And that is why all people die. And yet,” he added
sadly, “how are we going to make them know that He is
everywhere?”
“Why, Padre dear, by showing them in our talk and our actions that
we know it––by proving it, you know, just as we prove our problems
in algebra.”
“Yes, poor Feliz, and Amado, and Guillermo died because they
sinned,” he mused. “They broke the first Commandment by believing
that there was another power than God. And that sin brought its
inevitable wage, death. They ‘missed the mark,’ and sank into the
oblivion of their false beliefs. God above! that I could keep my own
mentality free from these same carnal beliefs, and so be a true
missionary to suffering humanity! But you, Carmen, you are going to
be such a missionary. And I believe,” he muttered through his set
teeth, “that I am appointed to shield the girl until God is ready to
send her forth! But what, oh, what will she do when she meets that
world which lies beyond her little Simití?”
Rosendo had returned to Guamocó. “The deposit will not last much
longer,” he said to Josè, shaking his head dubiously. “And then––”
“Why, then we will find another, Rosendo,” replied the priest
optimistically.
“Ojalá!” exclaimed the old man, starting for the trail.
The day after Don Jorge’s departure the Alcalde returned. He stole
shamefacedly through the streets and barricaded himself in his
house. There he gave vent to his monumental wrath. He cruelly
abused his long-suffering spouse, and ended by striking her across
the face. After which he sat down and laboriously penned a long
letter to Padre Diego, in which the names of Josè and Carmen
figured plentifully.
For Don Jorge had met the Alcalde in Juncal, and had roundly jeered
him for his cowardly flight. He cited Josè and Rosendo as examples
of valor, and pointed out that the Alcalde greatly resembled a
captain who fled at the smell of gunpowder. Don Mario swelled with
indignation and shame. His spleen worked particularly against
Rosendo and the priest. Come what might, it was time Diego and his
superiors in Cartagena knew what was going on in the parish of
Simití!
A few days later an unctuous letter came to Josè from Diego,
requesting that Carmen be sent to him at once, as he now desired to
place her in a convent and thus supplement the religious education
which he was sure Josè had so well begun in her. The priest had
scarcely read the letter when Don Mario appeared at the parish
house.
“Bien, Padre,” he began smoothly, but without concealing the malice
195

which lurked beneath his oily words, “Padre Diego sends for the little
Carmen, and bids me arrange to have her conveyed at once to
Banco. I think Juan will take her down, is it not so?”
Josè looked him squarely in the eyes. “No, señor,” he said in a voice
that trembled with agitation, “it is not so!”
“Hombre!” exclaimed Don Mario, swelling with suppressed rage.
“You refuse to give Diego his own child?”
“No, señor, but I refuse to give him a child that is not his.”
“Caramba! but she is––he has the proofs! And I shall send her to
him this day!”
The Alcalde shrilled forth his rage like a ruffled parrot. Josè seized
him by the shoulders and, turning him swiftly about, pushed him out
into the road. He then entered the rear door of Rosendo’s house and
bade Doña Maria keep the child close to her.
A few minutes later Fernando Perez appeared at Josè’s door. He was
municipal clerk, secretary, and constable of Simití, all in one. He
saluted the priest gravely, and demanded the body of the child
Carmen, to be returned to her proper father.
Josè groaned inwardly. What could he do against the established
authority?
“Bien, Padre,” said Fernando, after delivering his message, “the hour
is too late to send her down the river to-day. But deliver her to me,
and she shall go down at daybreak.”
“Listen,” Josè pleaded desperately, “Fernando, leave her here to-
night––this is sudden, you must acknowledge––she must have time
to take leave of Doña Maria––and––”
“Señor Padre, the Alcalde’s order is that she go with me now. I must
obey.”
Josè felt his control oozing fast. Scarce knowing what he did, he
quickly stepped back through the rear door, and going to Rosendo’s
house, seized a large machete, with which he returned to face the
constable.
“Look you, Fernando,” he cried, holding the weapon menacingly
aloft, “if you lay a hand on that girl, I will scatter your brains through
yonder plaza!”
“Caramba!” muttered the constable, falling back. “Bien,” he hastily
added, “I will make this report to the Alcalde!” With which he beat
an abrupt retreat.
Josè sank into a chair. But he hastily arose and went into Rosendo’s
house. “Doña Maria!” he cried excitedly, “leave Carmen with me, and
do you hurry through the town and see if Juan is here, and if Lázaro
Ortiz has returned from the hacienda. Bid them come to me at once,
196

and bring their machetes!”

The woman set out on her errand. Josè seized his machete firmly in
one hand, and with the other drew Carmen to him.
“What is it, Padre dear?” the child asked, her eyes big with wonder.
“Why do you tremble? I wish you wouldn’t always go around
thinking that two and two are seven!”
“Carmen, child––you do not understand––you are too young, and as
yet you have had no experience with––with the world! You must
trust me now!”
“I do not trust you, Padre,” she said sadly. “I can’t trust anybody
who always sees things that are not so.”
“Carmen––you are in danger––and you do not comprehend––” cried
the desperate man.
“I am not in danger––and I do understand––a great deal better than
you do, Padre. Now let me go––you are afraid! People who are
afraid die of the plague!” The irony of her words sank into his soul.
Juan looked in at the door. Josè rose hastily. “Did you meet Doña
Maria?” he asked.
“No, señor,” the lad replied.
“She is searching for you––have you your machete?”
“Yes, Padre, I have just come back from the island, where I was
cutting wood.”
“Good, then! Remain here with me. I need you––or may.”
He went to the door and looked eagerly down the street. “Ah!” he
exclaimed with relief, “here come Doña Maria and Lázaro! Now,
friends,” he began, when they were assembled before him, “grave
danger threatens––”
“Padre!” It was Doña Maria’s voice. “Where is Carmen?”
Josè turned. The child had disappeared.
“Lázaro!” he cried, “go at once to the Boque trail! Let no one pass
that way with Carmen, if your life be the penalty! Juan, hurry to the
lake! If either of you see her, call loudly, and I will come! Doña
Maria, start through the town! We must find her! God above, help
us!”

The afternoon dragged its interminable length across the valley. Josè
wearily entered his house and threw himself upon a chair. He had
not dared call at the Alcalde’s house, for fear he might do that
official violence. But he had seen Fernando in the street, and had
avoided him. Then, of a sudden, a thought came to him from out
the darkness. He sprang to his feet and hurried off toward the
shales. There, beneath the stunted algarroba tree, sat the child.
“Carmen!” He rushed to her and clasped her in his arms. “Why did
you do this––?”
“Padre,” she replied, when she could get her breath, “I had to come
197

out here and try to know for you the things you ought to know for
yourself.”
He said nothing; but, holding her hand tightly, he led her back to the
house.
That evening Josè sent for Don Mario, the constable, and Juan and
Lázaro. Assembling them before him in his living room, he talked
with them long and earnestly.
“Compadres,” he said, “this week we have passed through a sad
experience, and the dark angel has robbed us of three of our
beloved friends. Is it your wish that death again visit us?”
They looked at one another in wonder. The Alcalde scowled darkly at
the priest beneath his heavy brows. Josè continued:
“Bien, it is planned to seize the little Carmen by force, and send her
down the river to Padre Diego––”
“Dios y diablo!” Juan had sprung to his feet. “Who says that, Padre?”
he demanded savagely. The Alcalde shrank back in his chair.
“Be calm, Juan!” Josè replied. “Padre Diego sends for her by letter––
is it not so, Don Mario?”
The latter grunted. Juan wheeled about and stared menacingly at
the bulky official.
“Now, friends,” Josè pursued, “it has not been shown that Carmen
belongs to Diego––in fact, all things point to the conclusion that she
is not his child. My wish is to be just to all concerned. But shall we
let the child go to him, knowing what manner of man he is, until it is
proven beyond all doubt that he is her father?”
“Caramba! No!” exclaimed Juan and Lázaro in unison.
“And I am of the opinion that the majority of our citizens would
support us in the contention. What think you, friends?”
“Every man in Simití, Padre,” replied Lázaro earnestly.
“Don Mario,” said Josè, turning to the Alcalde, “until it is established
that Diego has a parent’s claim to the girl, Juan and Lázaro and I will
protect her with our lives. Is it not so, amigos?” addressing the two
men.
“Hombre! Let me see a hand laid upon her!” cried Juan rising.
Lázaro spoke more deliberately. “Padre,” he said. “I owe you much. I
know you to be q good man––not like Padre Diego. I know not what
claim he may have on the girl, but this I say: I will follow and
support you until it is shown me that you are in the wrong.”
Josè went over and clasped his hand. Then, to the town officials:
“Bien, amigos, we will let the matter rest thus, shall we not? We now 198

understand one another. If harm comes to the child, the death angel
will again stalk through this town, and––” he looked hard at Don
Mario, whilst that official visibly shrank in size––“Bien,” he concluded,
“a sharp watch will be kept over the child. We will submit to
proofs––but to nothing less. And violence will bring bloodshed and
death.”
“But––Caramba!” cried Don Mario, at last finding his voice. “If Diego
has the Bishop back of him, he will force us to deliver the girl––or
the Bishop will have the government soldiers sent here! I can ask for
them––and if necessary I will!”
Josè paled slightly. He knew the Alcalde spoke truth. Don Mario,
seeing that his words had taken effect, quickly followed up the
advantage. “Now you, Juan and Lázaro, do you think the little whelp
worth that?”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when Juan leaped across
the floor and fell upon him. Josè seized the lad and, with Fernando’s
help, tore him loose. Lázaro held his machete aloft, ready to strike.
Josè’s voice rang out sharply:
“Hold, men! Stop! Go you to your homes now! Juan, do you stay
here with me!”
The lad faced the Alcalde and shook his fist. “Bien,” he sputtered,
“send for the soldiers, fat dog that you are! But when I see them
crossing the lake, I will come first to your house and cut open that
big belly!”
“Arrest him, Fernando!” shrilled the Alcalde, shaking with rage.
“I will cut off the hand that is laid on Juan!” cried Lázaro, advancing.
“Men! Men! Don Mario and Fernando, go now! Enough of this! And
for God’s sake think twice before you make any further move!”
Don Mario and his constable departed in sullen silence. Josè let
Lázaro out through the rear door, while he bade Juan pass the night
in the parish house. A consultation was held with Doña Maria, and it
was arranged that Carmen should sleep in the room with Josè, with
Juan lying before the door, until Rosendo should return from the
mountains. Then Josè sat down and wrote to the Bishop.

No reply came from Cartagena until Rosendo returned at the end of

the month. Meanwhile, Josè had never for a moment permitted
Carmen to leave his side. The child chafed under the limitation; but
Josè and Doña Maria were firm. Juan lived with the priest; and
Lázaro lurked about the parish house like a shadow. The Alcalde and
his constable remained discreetly aloof.
But with Rosendo’s return came letters from both Wenceslas and199

Diego. The latter had laid aside his unction, and now made a curt
and peremptory demand upon Josè for the child. The letter from
Wenceslas was noncommittal, stating only that he was quite
uninformed of Diego’s claim, but that an investigation should be
made. Josè wondered if he had blundered in laying the case before
him.
“Hombre!” ejaculated Rosendo, when he heard Josè’s story. “It is as
I feared! And now the Bishop has the matter in hand! Caramba! We
shall lose her yet!
“And, Padre,” he added, “the deposit is played out. There is no more
gold there. And, now that we shall have none to send to the Bishop
each month, Carmen’s fate is settled––unless we go away. And
where shall we go? We could not get out of the country.” He hung
his head and sat in gloomy dejection.
For more than a year Rosendo had panned the isolated alluvial
deposit, and on his regular monthly returns to Simití he and the
priest had sent from thirty to ninety pesos gold to Wenceslas. To this
Josè sometimes added small amounts collected from the people of
Simití, which they had gratuitously given him for Masses and for the
support of the parish. Wenceslas, knowing the feeble strength of the
parish, was surprised, but discreet; and though he continually urged
Josè to greater efforts, and held out the allurements of “indulgences
and special dispensations,” he made no inquiries regarding the
source of the monthly contributions.
For many days following, Rosendo and the priest went about as in a
thick, black cloud. “Rosendo,” said Josè at length, “go back to the
mountains and search again. God was with us before. Have we any
reason to doubt Him now?”
“And leave Carmen here, exposed to the danger that always hangs
over her? Caramba, no! I would not go back now even if the deposit
were not worked out! No!” Josè knew it would be futile to urge him.
Carmen came to the priest that same day. “Padre, I heard you and
padre Rosendo talking this morning. Have you no money, no gold?”
“Why, child––there seems to be a need just at present,” he replied
lightly. “But we might––well, we might send another of your
questions to God. What say you?”
“Of course!” she cried delightedly, turning at once and hurrying away
for pencil and paper.
“Now,” she panted, seating herself at the table. “Let us see; we want
Him to give us pesos, don’t we?”
“Yes––many––a large sum. Make it big,” he said facetiously.
“Well, you know, Padre dear,” she replied seriously, “we can’t ask 200
for
too much––for we already have everything, haven’t we? After all, we
can only ask to see what we really already have.
“Say ‘yes,’ Padre dear,” she pleaded, looking up appealingly at him
staring silently at her. Oh, if she could only impart to him even a
little of her abundant faith! She had enough, and to spare!
“Well, here it is,” she said, holding out the paper.
He took it and read––“Dear, dear God: Padre Josè needs pesos––lots
of them. What shall he do?”
“And now,” she continued, “shall we put it under the altar of the old
church?”