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Juan made a wry mouth as he looked at the girl in the priest’s arms. Then he suggested that a separation would more evenly balance the boat. Carmen laughed up at him, but slipped down into the keel and sat with her head propped against Josè’s knees.
“Padre dear,” she said, looking up at him with twinkling eyes, “I heard Lázaro say a little while before we started that he had lived many years in Simití, and that it had always been very quiet until you came.”
“Ay de mí!” sighed Josè. “I can readily believe that the whole world was quiet until I entered it.”
“But, Padre, perhaps you had to come into it to shake it up.”
He laughed. “Chiquita,” he said, “if ever you go out into it, with your radical views regarding God and man; and if the stupid old world will give ear to you, there will be such a shaking up as it has never experienced since––”
“Padre dear,” she interrupted, “I am not going out into the world. I shall stay in Simití––with you.”
He looked down at her, tenderly, wistfully. And then, while her words still echoed through his mind, a great sigh escaped him.
Dusk had closed in upon them when the canoe emerged into the quiet lake. Huge vampire bats, like demons incarnate, flouted their faces as they paddled swiftly toward the distant town. Soft evening calls drifted across the placid waters from the slumbering jungle. Carmen’s rich voice mingled with them; and Juan and Lázaro, catching the inspiration, broke into a weird, uncanny boating song, such as is heard only among these simple folk. As they neared the town the song of thebogaschanged into a series of loud, yodelling halloos; and when the canoe grated upon the shaly beach, Doña Maria and a score of others were there to welcome the returned travelers.
At the sight of Ana, a murmur ran through the crowd. Doña Maria turned to the woman.
“It is Anita, madre dear,” Carmen quickly announced, as she struggled out of Doña Maria’s arms and took the confused Ana by the hand.
The light of recognition came into Doña Maria’s eyes. Quietly, and without demonstration, she went to the shrinking woman and, taking the tear-stained face in her hands, impressed a kiss upon each cheek. “Bien,” she said in a low, tender voice, “we have waited long for you, daughter. And now let us go home.”
The glow of dawn had scarce begun to creep timidly across255the arch of heaven when Fernando knocked at the portal of Rosendo’s house and demanded the custody of Carmen. Josè was already abroad.
“And now, Fernando,” demanded the priest, “what new outrage is this?”
The constable flushed with embarrassment. “Na, Padre, a thousand pardons––but it is the order of the Alcalde, and I only obey. But––you may knock me down,” he added eagerly, “and then I can return to him and say that I could not take the girl, even by force!” The honest fellow, ashamed of his mission, hung his head. Josè seized his hand.
“Fernando!” he cried, “what say the people of Simití?”
“They are with you, Padre. They would demand Rosendo’s release, if there were proof that the girl––”
“Good, then! we have the proof,” broke in Josè. “Rosendo knows of our return?”
“Yes, the guard informed him this morning. The Alcalde, you know, permits no one to approach the prisoner.”
“And does he know that Ana is here?”
“The guard did not tell him, for fear of exciting the old man.Hombre!I think there is no one in town who would venture to tell Rosendo that.”
“Bien pues, Fernando, I think the time has come! Go quietly back and summon every one to a meeting in the town hall at once. Tell them––”
“Bien, Padre, I shall know what to tell them. But,” anxiously, “Don Mario has the power to––”
“And we have a greater power,” quickly replied the priest, his thought dwelling on Carmen.
An hour later the town hall was a babel of clacking tongues. Men, women and children hurried, chattering, to and fro, exchanging diverse views and speculating eagerly on the probable outcome of the meeting. Josè stood before them, with Carmen’s hand clasped tightly in his. Don Mario, purple and trembling with rage, was perched upon a chair, vainly trying to get the ear of the people.
In the midst of the hubbub a hush fell suddenly over the concourse. All heads turned, and all eyes fastened upon Ana, as she entered the room and moved timidly toward Josè. The people fell back to make a passage for her. Her shoulders were bent, and her face was covered with a blackmantilla.
Don Mario, as his glance fell upon her, again attempted to address the multitude. A dozen voices bade him cease. A strong arm from behind pushed him from the chair. His craven heart began to quake, and he cast anxious glances toward the single exit.
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Gently removing themantillafrom the face of the woman, Josè turned her toward the people. “Friends!” he said in a loud, penetrating voice, “behold the work of Diego!”
He paused for the effect which he knew would be made upon this impressionable people. Then, when the loud murmur had passed, he drew Carmen out before him and, pointing to her, said dramatically, “And shall we also throw this innocent child to the wolf?”
The assembly broke into a roar. Fists were shaken under the Alcalde’s nose, and imprecations were hurled at him from all sides. Don Mario drew his soiled handkerchief and mopped his steaming brow. Then his voice broke out in a shriek: “The soldiers––this day I shall summon them––it is a riot!”
“Caramba!He speaks truth!” cried a voice from the crowd. The babel commenced anew.
“The soldiers!Caramba!Let Diego have his child!”
“Maldita!”
“Who says it is not his?”
“I do!”
It was Ana. Clasping Josè’s arm to steady herself, she had turned to confront the excited assembly.
Silence descended upon them all. Josè held up his hand. A sob escaped the woman. Then:
“The priest Diego had a child––a girl. Her name––it was––Carmen. The child is––dead.”
“Caramba!girl, how know you that?” shrilled a woman’s excited voice.
“I know, because I––was––its––mother!”
Pandemonium burst upon the room at the woman’s words. Don Mario started for the door, but found his way blocked. “Diego had other children!” he shouted; “and this girl is one of them!”
“It is false!” cried Ana in a loud voice. “I have lived with him eight years! I know from his own lips that I speak the truth! See what he has done to me! Would I lie?”
“To thecárcel! Release Rosendo!”
“We will write to the President at Bogotá! Don Mario must be removed!”
“Caramba!Such an Alcalde!”
“Let him send for the soldiers, if he wishes to die!”
“To thecárcel!”
As a unit the fickle people streamed from the room and started for the jail. Don Mario was borne along on the heaving tide. Josè and Carmen followed; but Ana fell back and returned to the house of Rosendo.
The guard at the jail, seeing the concourse approaching,257threw down hismacheteand fled. Rosendo’s eyes were big with speculation, though his heart beat apprehensively. The people jammed into the small hut until it swayed and threatened to collapse.
“The key to the lock––Caramba! the guard has it!”
“Catch him!”
“No! bring abarra!”
Juan quickly produced a long iron bar, and with a few lusty efforts sprung the stocks. A dozen hands lifted the cramped Rosendo out and stood him upon his feet. Carmen squirmed through the crowd and threw herself into his arms.
Then, with shouts and gesticulations, a triumphal procession quickly formed, and the bewildered and limping Rosendo was escorted down the main street of the town and across theplazato his home. At the door of the house Josè turned and, holding up a hand, bade the people quietly disperse and leave the liberated man to enjoy undisturbed the sacred reunion with his family. With a parting shout, the people melted quickly away, and quiet soon reigned again over the ancient town.
“Bien, Padre,” said Rosendo, pausing before his door to clasp anew the priest’s hand, “you have not told me what has caused this. Was it the little Carmen––”
He stopped short. Glancing in at the door, his eyes had fallen upon Ana. To Josè, hours seemed suddenly compressed into that tense moment.
Slowly Rosendo entered the house and advanced to the shrinking woman. Terror spread over her face, and she clutched her throat as the big man stalked toward her. Then, like a flash, Carmen darted in front of her and faced Rosendo.
“It is Anita, padre dear,” she said, looking up into his set face, and clasping his hand in both of hers. “She has come home again. Aren’t we glad!”
Rosendo seemed not to see the child. His voice came cold and harsh. “Bien, outcast, is your lover with you, that I may strangle him, too?” He choked and swallowed hard.
“Padre!” cried Carmen, putting both her hands against him. “See! Those bad thoughts nearly strangled you! Don’t let them get in! Don’t!”
“Bien, girl!” snarled the angry man, still addressing the cowering woman. “Did you tire of him, that you now sneak home? Or––Caramba!” as Ana rose and stood before him, “you come here that your illegal brat may be born! Not under my roof!Santa Maria!Never! Take it back to him! Take it back, I say!” he shouted, raising his clenched fist as if to strike her.
Carmen turned swiftly and threw herself upon the woman. Looking over her shoulder, she addressed the raging man:
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“Padre Rosendo! this is not your house! It is God’s! He only lets you have it, because He is good to you! Shame on you, for daring to drive Anita away––your own little girl!” Her voice rose shrill, and her words cut deep into the old man’s embittered heart.
“Shame on you, padre Rosendo!” quickly flowed the scorching words. “If God were like you He would drive you from the house, too! Are you so much better than the good Jesus that you can drive away a woman who sins? Shame on you, padre! Are you better than the good father who was so glad to see his prodigal son? If God were to punish you for your sins, would He even let you live? Did He not set you free this very morning? And do you now thank Him by driving your little girl from her own home? Do you know that it was Anita who made you free, and who brought me here? God used her to do that. And is this the way you thank Him? Then you will lose us both, for we will not stay with you!”
Josè stepped up and took Rosendo’s arm. Carmen turned about and continued her scoriation:
“Padre Rosendo, if the good, pure God was willing to use Anita to save me from Padre Diego and bring me back to you, are you so wicked and so ungrateful that you throw His love back in His face? Shame on you, padre! Shame! Shame!”
“Caramba!” cried Rosendo, tears bursting from his eyes. “She has fouled my name––it was a good name, though my parents were slaves––it was a good name––and she blackened it––she––”
“Padre Rosendo, there are only two names that have never been blackened! Your human name is nothing––it is zero––it counts for foolishness with God! You yourself are making your name blacker now than Anita ever did! She repents, and comes to her father; and he is so much more wicked than she that he drives her out!––”
“Enough, Carmen, child!” interrupted Josè. “Come, Rosendo; go into the parish house! Carmen, go with him!”
Carmen hesitated. Then a smile lighted up her face, and she reached up and took Rosendo’s hand. Together they passed silently out and into the priest’s house.
Ana sank to the floor, where she buried her face in her hands and wept violently.
“Wait, Ana,” said Josè, tenderly stroking the unhappy woman’s hair. “Wait. They will soon return. And you shall remain here, where you belong.”
A half hour passed. Then Josè, wondering, went quietly to the door of his house and looked in. Rosendo sat at the table, with Carmen on his knees.
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“And, padre,” the child was saying, “the good Jesus told the woman not to sin any more; and she went away happy. Padre, God has told Anita not to sin any more––and she has come to us to be happy. We are going to make her so, aren’t we? Padre Diego couldn’t hurt me, you know, for God wouldn’t let him. And he hasn’t hurt Anita––God wouldn’t let him keep her––wouldn’t let her stay with him. Don’t you see, padre? And we have got to be like Him––wearelike Him, really. But now we have got to show it, to prove it, you know.”
Rosendo’s head was bent over the girl. Neither of them saw Josè. The child went on with increased animation:
“And, padre dear, God sends us Anita’s little baby for us to love and protect. Oh, padre, if the little one is a boy, can’t we call it Josè?”
“Yes,chiquita,” Josè heard the old man murmur brokenly.
“And––padre, if it is a girl––what shall we call it?”
The man’s arm tightened about her. “We––we will call it––Carmencita,” he whispered.
The girl clapped her hands. “Can’t you see, padre, that God sends us Anita’s baby so that Padre Diego shall not have it? And now let’s go and tell her so, right away!” she cried, jumping down.
Josè slipped quickly back and stood beside the woman when Carmen and Rosendo entered the room. The old man went directly to his daughter, and, taking her in his brawny arms, raised her from the floor and strained her to his breast. Tears streamed down his swart cheeks, and the words he would utter choked and hung in his throat.
“Padre,” whispered the delighted child, “shall I tell her our names for the baby?”
Josè turned and stole softly from the room. Divine Love was there, and its dazzling effulgence blinded him. In the quiet of his own chamber he sought to understand the marvelous goodness of God to them that serve Him.
CHAPTER 27
The reversal of a life-current is not always effected suddenly, nor amid the din of stirring events, nor yet in an environment that we ourselves might choose as an appropriate setting. It comes in the fullness of time, and amid such scenes as the human mind which undergoes the transformation may see externalized within its own consciousness by the working of the as yet dimly perceived laws of thought.
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Perhaps some one, skilled in the discernment of mental laws and their subtle, irresistible working, might have predicted the fate which overtook the man Josè, the fulsome details of which are herein being recounted. Perhaps such a one might say in retrospect that the culmination of years of wrong thinking, of false beliefs closely cherished, of attachment to fear, to doubt, and to wrong concepts of God, had been externalized at length in eddying the man upon this far verge of civilization, still clinging feebly to the tattered fragments of a blasted life. But it would have been a skilled prognostician, indeed, who could have foreseen the renewal of this wasted life in that of the young girl, to whom during the past four years Josè de Rincón had been transferring his own unrealized hopes and his vast learning, but without the dross of inherited or attached beliefs, and without taint of his native vacillation and indecision of mind.
For what he had been striving to fit her, he knew not. But in a vaguely outlined way he knew that he was being used as a tool to shape in some degree the mental development of this strange girl. Nor, indeed, as the years passed, did she continue to seem so strange to him. On the contrary, he now thought it more marvelous by far that the world, after nineteen centuries of Christianity, did not think and act more as did this girl, whose religious instruction he knew to have been garnered at the invisible hand of God. That she must some day leave him, despite her present earnest protestations, he felt to be inevitable. And the thought pierced his soul like a lance. But he could not be certain that with maturity she would wish to remain always in the primitive environment in which she had been nurtured. Nor could he, even if she were willing, immolate her upon the barb of his own selfishness.
As for himself, the years had but seemed to increase the conviction that he could never leave the Church, despite his anomalous position and despite his renewed life––unless, indeed, she herself cast him forth. Each tenderly hopeful letter from his proud, doting mother only added to this conviction by emphasizing the obstacles opposing such a course. Her declining years were now spent among the mental pictures which she hourly drew upon the canvas of her imagination, pictures in which her beloved son, chastened and purified, had at length come into the preferment which had always awaited loyal scions of the house of Rincón. Hourly she saw the day draw nearer when he should be restored to her yearning arms. Each dawn threw its first rays upon his portrait, which hung where her waking eyes might open upon it. Each night the shadow cast by the candle which always burned beneath it261seemed to her eager sight to crown that fair head with a bishop’s mitre––a cardinal’s hat––aye, at times she even saw the triple crown of the Vicar of Christ resting upon those raven locks. Josè knew this. If her own pen did not always correctly delineate her towering hopes, his astute uncle did not fail to fill in whatever hiatus remained. And the pressure of filial devotion and pride of race at times completely smothered within him the voice of Truth which Carmen continually sounded, and made him resolve often that on the day when she should leave him he would bury his head in the lap of Mother Church and submit without further resistance to the sable veil of assumed authority which he knew she would draw across his mind. Convincing as were the proofs which had come to him of the existence of a great demonstrable principle which the Christ had sought to make a dull world recognize, nevertheless he had as yet failed to rise permanently above the mesmerism of human belief, which whispered into his straining ears that he must not strive to progress beyond his understanding, lest, in the attempt to gain too rapidly, he lose all. To sink into the arms of Mother Church and await the orderly revelation of Truth were less dangerous now than a precipitate severance of all ties and a launching forth into strange seas with an untried compass.
The arguments to which he listened were insidious. True, they reasoned, he had seemed to see the working of mental law in his own restoration to health when he had first come to Simití. He had seemed to see Rosendo likewise restored. But these instances, after all, might have been casual. That Carmen had had aught to do with them, no one could positively affirm. True, he had seen her protected in certain unmistakable ways. But––others were likewise protected, even where there had been no thought of an immanent, sheltering God. True, the incident of the epidemic in Simití two years before had impressed upon him the serious consequences of fear, and the blighting results of false belief. He had profited by that lesson. But he could not hope suddenly to empty his mentality of its content of human thought; nor did wisdom advise the attempt. He had at first tried to rise too rapidly. His frequent backsliding frightened and warned him.
Thus, while the days sped by, did the priest’s thought ebb and flow. As morn broke, and the gallant sun drove the cowardly shadows of night across the hills, his own courage rose, and he saw in Carmen the pure reflection of the Mind which was in Christ Jesus. As night fell, and darkness slunk back again and held the field, so returned the legion of fears and doubts that battled for his soul. Back and forth in the arena262of his consciousness strove the combatants, while he rushed irresolutely to and fro, now bearing the banner of the powers of light, now waving aloft, though with sinking heart, the black flag of the carnal host. For a while after his arrival in Simití he had seemed to rise rapidly into the consciousness of good as all-in-all. But the strain which had been constantly upon him had prevented the full recognition of all that Carmen saw, and each rise was followed by a fall that left him for long periods immersed in despair.
Following the return of Carmen and the ripple of excitement which her abduction had spread over the wonted calm of Simití, the old town settled back again into its accustomed lethargy, and Josè and the girl resumed their interrupted work. From Ana it was learned that Diego had not voiced the command of Wenceslas in demanding the girl; and when this became known the people rose in a body to her support. Don Mario, though he threatened loudly, knew in his heart he was beaten. He knew, likewise, that any further hostile move on his part would result in a demand by the people for his removal from office. He therefore retired sulking to the seclusion of hispatio, where he sat down patiently to await the turn of events.
Rosendo, his great heart softened toward his erring daughter, again rejoiced in the reunion of his broken family circle. But his soul burned within him as, day after day, he saw Ana move silently about like a sorrow incarnate. At times, when perchance he would come upon her huddled in a corner and weeping quietly, he would turn away, cursing deeply and swearing fulsome vengeance upon the lecherous beast who had wrought her ruin.
“Padre,” he one day said to Josè, “I shall kill him––I know it. The girl’s suffering is breaking my heart. He is like an evil cloud hanging always over my family. I hate him! I hate him, as the devil hates the light! And I shall kill him. Be prepared.” And Josè offered no remonstrance, for the case lay not in his hands.
Carmen again entered upon her interrupted studies with ardent enthusiasm. And her first demand was that she be allowed to plunge into a searching study of the Bible. “Padre,” she exclaimed, “it is a wonderful book! Why––do the people in the world know what a book this is? For if they did, they would never be sick or unhappy again!”
He knew not how to answer her. And there was no need that he should.
“Padre!” Her eyes were aflame with holy light. “See! Here it is––the whole thing! ‘Let the wicked forsake his way,263and the unrighteous man histhoughts.’ But––don’t the people know what that means?”
“Well,chiquita, and what does it mean?” he asked indulgently.
“Why––the unrighteous man is the man who thinks wrong thoughts––thoughts of power opposed to God––thoughts of sin, of sickness, of accidents, and all sorts of evil things––beliefs that these things are real, and that God made or caused them!”
“Bien, and you think the Bible speaks truth?”
“Padre! how can you ask that? Why, it says right here that it is given by inspiration! That means that the men or women who wrote it thought God’s thoughts!”
“That He wrote it, you mean?”
“No, but that those who wrote it were––well, were cleaner window-panes than other people––that they were so clean that the light shone through them better than it did through others.”
“And what do you think now about Jesus?” he inquired.
“Why, as you once said, that he was the very cleanest window-pane of all!” she quickly replied.
From that hour the Bible was the girl’s constant companion. Daily she pored over it, delighted, enraptured. Josè marveled at her immediate spiritual grasp. Instead of the world’s manner of looking upon it as only a collection of beautiful promises and admonitions, she saw within it the statement of a principle that offered itself as a mighty tool with which to work out humanity’s every-day problems here and now. From the first she began to make out little lists of collated scriptural verses, so arranging them that she could read in them a complete expression of an idea of God. These she would bring to Josè and, perching herself upon his lap, would expound them, to her own great delight and the wonder of the man who listened.
“See, Padre,” she said, holding up one of these lists, “it says that ‘in that day’ whatever we ask of him will be given to us. Well, ‘that day’ means when we have washed our window-panes clean, and the light shines through so clear that we can ask in His name. It means when we have stopped saying that two and two are seven.”
“Which means,” Josè interpolated, “asking in his character.”
“Yes,” she replied, “for then we will be just like him. And then whatever we ask ‘believing’ will be given to us, for believing’ will then be ‘understanding,’ will it not? When we know––reallyknow––that we have things, why––why, we have them, that’s all!”
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She did not wait for his reply, but went on enthusiastically:
“You know, Padre, in order to be like him we have got to ‘seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness’––His right-thinking. Well, Jesus said the kingdom of God was within us. Of course it is, for it is all a question of right-thinking. When we think right, then our right thoughts will be––what you said––”
“Externalized,” he supplied.
“Yes. We will see them all around us, instead of seeing, as we do now, a lot of jumbled-up thoughts of good and evil which we call people and things. They will all be good then. And then will be the time when ‘God shall wipe away all tears.’ It is, as you say in English, ‘up to us’ to bring this about. It is not for God to do it at all. Don’t you see that He has already done His part? He has made everything, and ‘behold it was very good.’ Well, He doesn’t have to do it all over again, does He? No. But we have got to wash our windows clean and let in the light that comes from Him. That light comes from Him all the time, just as the beams come from the sun, without ever stopping. We never have to ask the sun to shine, do we? And neither do we have to ask God to be good to us, nor tell Him what we think He ought to do for us. We only have toknowthat He is good, to us and to everything, all the time.”
“Yes,chiquita, we must be truly baptised.”
“That is what it means to be baptised, Padre––just washing our window-panes so clean that the light will come in.”
“And that light, little one, is truth. It certainly is a new way of looking at it, at least,chiquita.”
“But, Padre, it is theonlyway,” she persisted.
“Bien, I would not say that you were mistaken, Carmen.”
“No, Padre, for we can prove it. And, look here,” she continued, referring to her list. “If the kingdom of heaven is within us, then everything that comes to us in life comes from within, and not from without. And so, things never happen, do they? Don’t you see?”
“I see,” he replied seriously, “that from the mouths of babes and sucklings comes infinite wisdom.”
“Well, Padre dear, wisdom is God’s light, and it comes through any one who is clean. It doesn’t make any difference how old or young that person is. Years mean nothing but––but zero.”
“How can you say that,chiquita?”
“Why, Padre, is God old?”
“No. He is always the same.”
“And we are really like Him?”
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“The real ‘we’––yes.”
“Well, the unreal ‘we’ is already zero. Didn’t you yourself say that the human, mortal man was a product of false thought, thought that was the opposite of God’s thought, and so no thought at all? Didn’t you say that such thought was illusion––the lie about God and what He has made? Then isn’t the human ‘we’ zero?”
“Well––but––chiquita, it is often hard for me to see anything but this sort of ‘we,’” returned the man dejectedly.
“Oh, Padre!” she entreated, “why will you not try to look at something else than the human man? Look at God’s man, the image of infinite mind. You havegotto do it, you know, some time. Jesus said so. He said that every man would have to overcome. That means turning away from the thoughts that are externalized as sin and sickness and evil, and looking only at God’s thoughts––and, what is more,sticking to them!”
“Yes,” dubiously, “I suppose we must some time overcome every belief in anything opposed to God.”
“Well, but need that make you unhappy? It is just because you still cling to the belief that there is other power than God that you get so discouraged and mixed up. Can’t you let go? Try it! Why, I would try it even if a whole mountain fell on me!”
And Josè could but clasp the earnest girl in his arms and vow that he would try again as never before.
Meantime, while Josè and his little student-teacher were delving into the inexhaustible treasury of the Word; while the peaceful days came into their lives and went out again almost unperceived, the priest Diego left the bed upon which he had been stretched for many weeks, and hobbled painfully about upon his scarcely mended ankle. While a prisoner upon his couch his days had been filled with torture. Try as he might, he could not beat down the vision which constantly rose before him, that of the beautiful girl who had been all but his. He cursed; he raved; he vowed the foulest vengeance. And then he cried piteously, as he lay chained to his bed––cried for something that seemed to take human shape in her. He protested that he loved her; that he adored her; that without her he was but a blasted cedar. His nurses fled his bedside. His physician stopped his ears. Only Don Antonio was found low enough in thought to withstand the flow of foul language which issued from the baffled Diego’s thick lips while he moved about in attendance upon the unhappy priest’s needs.
Then came from the acting-Bishop, Wenceslas, a mandate commissioning Diego upon a religio-political mission to the266interior city of Medellin. The now recovered priest smiled grimly when he read it. Then he summoned Ricardo.
“Prepare yourself,amigo,” he said, “for a work of the Lord. I go into the interior. You accompany me as far as Badillo, where we disembark for stinking Simití. And,amigo, do you secure a trustworthy companion. The work may be heavy. Meantime, my blessing and absolution.”
Then he sat down and despatched a long letter to Don Mario.
CHAPTER 28
“Rosendo,” said Josè one morning shortly thereafter, as the old man entered the parish house for a little chat, “a Decree has been issued recently by the Sacred Congregation of the Holy Office whereby, instead of the cloth scapulary which you are wearing, a medal may be substituted. I have received several from Cartagena. Will you exchange yours?”
“Cierto, Padre––but,” he hesitated, “is the new one just as––”
“To be sure,amigo. It carries the same indulgences. See,” exhibiting the medal. “The Sacred Heart and the blessed Virgin. But I have arranged it to wear about the neck.”
Rosendo knelt reverently and crossed himself while Josè hung the new scapulary over his head. The old man beamed his joy. “Caramba!” he exclaimed, rising, “but I believe this one will keep off more devils than that old cloth thing you made for me!”
“Why, Rosendo!” admonished Josè, repressing a smile, “did I not bless that one before the altar?”
“Cierto, Padre, and I beg a thousand pardons. It was the blessing, wasn’t it? Not the cloth. But this one,” regarding it reverently, “this one––”
“Oh, yes, this one,” put in Josè, “carries the blessing of His Grace, acting-Bishop Wenceslas.”
“And a Bishop is always very holy, is he not, Padre?” queried Rosendo. “It makes no difference who he is, for the office makes him holy, is it not so, Padre?”
“Oh, without doubt,” returned Josè, his thought reverting to the little Maria and the babe which for four years he had been supporting in distant Cartagena.
“Na, Padre,” remonstrated Rosendo, catching the insinuation, “we must not speak ill of the Bishop, lest he be a Saint to-morrow! But, Padre,” he went on, changing the topic, “I267came to tell you that Don Luis has given me a contract to cut wood for him on the island. A quantity, too.Hombre!I shall earn much money by its terms. I set out to-morrow morning before daybreak.”
Josè reflected. The man’s words aroused within him a faint suspicion. Don Luis and the Alcalde were boon companions. Josè wondered if in this commission he could see the gloved hand of Don Mario. But he gave no hint of his thought to Rosendo.
The next morning, long before sun-up, a mist lay thick over the valley, so thick that Rosendo, as he made his way down to the lake, scarce could distinguish the road ahead of him. The dry season had passed, and the rains were now setting in. As he hurried along, the old man mused dubiously on the contract which Don Luis had made with him. To cut wood in the rainy season!––but, after all, that was no concern of his. And yet––why had Padre Josè grown suddenly quiet when he learned of the contract yesterday? His bare feet fell softly upon the shales, and he proceeded more cautiously as he neared the water’s edge.
“Hombre!” he muttered, striving to penetrate the mist; “only alocoventures out on the lake in such weather!”
He reached the boat, and placed in it the rope and axe which he had brought. Then, still troubled in thought, he sat down on the edge of the canoe and dropped into a puzzled meditation.
Suddenly through the fog he heard a sound. Somebody was approaching. A fisherman, perhaps. But fishermen do not go out on the lake in dense fogs, he remembered. The tread sounded nearer. He waited, speculating. Then through the mist loomed the thick body of a man. Straining his eyes, Rosendo recognized Padre Diego.
With a bound the old man was upon his feet. His thick arm shot out like a catapult; and his great fist, meeting Diego squarely upon the temple, felled him like an ox.
For a moment Rosendo stood over the prostrate priest, like a lion above its prey. Then he reached into the canoe and drew out the axe. Holding it aloft, he stood an instant poised above the senseless man; then with a mighty swing he whirled about and hurled it far out into the lake. He seemed suddenly bereft of his senses. Incoherent muttering issued from his trembling lips. He looked about in bewilderment. A thought seemed to impress him. He took the rope from the boat and quickly bound Diego hand and foot. This done, he picked up the unconscious priest and tossed him into the canoe as if he had been a billet of wood. Jumping in after him, he hastily pushed268off from the shore and paddled vigorously in the direction of the island. Why he was doing this he had not the faintest idea.
It was all the work of a few seconds; yet when his reason came again Rosendo found himself far out in the thick fog, and his prisoner moaning softly as consciousness slowly returned. The sense of direction which these sons of the jungle possess is almost infallible, and despite the watery cloud which enveloped him, the old man held his course undeviatingly toward the distant isle, into the low, muddy shore of which his boat at length forced its way under the impulse of his great arms.
The island, a low patch a few acres in extent, lay far out in the lake like a splotch of green paint on a plate of glass. Its densely wooded surface, rising soft and oozy only a few feet above the water, was destitute of human habitation, but afforded a paradise for swarms of crawling and flying creatures, which now scattered in alarm at the approach of these early visitors coming so unexpectedly out of the heavy fog.
When the canoe grounded, Rosendo sprang out and pulled it well up into the mud. Then he lifted the priest out and staggered into the thick brush, where he threw his burden heavily upon the ground. Leaving his prisoner for a moment, he seized hismacheteand began to cut back into the brush. A grunt of satisfaction came from his lips. Returning to the now conscious Diego, he grasped the rope which bound him and dragged him along the newly opened trail into a little clearing which lay beyond. There he propped him up against a huge cedar. As he did this, Diego’s mouth opened wide and a piercing scream issued. “Ricardo––help!” he called.
The cry echoed dismally across the desolate island. In an instant Rosendo was upon him, with his knife clutched in his fist. “Repeat that,cayman,” he cried furiously, “and this finds your wicked heart!”
The craven Diego shook with fear; but he fell silent before the threat of the desperate man into whose hands he had so unwittingly fallen.
Rosendo stepped back and stood before his captive, regarding him uncertainly. Diego’s quick intuition did not fail to read the old man’s perplexity; and his own hope revived accordingly. It was a pretty trick, this of Rosendo’s––but, after all, he would not dare too much. Diego gradually became easier in mind. He even smiled unctuously at his captor.
“Bien, amigo,” he said at length, “is this your customary reception to visitors in your village?Caramba!but what will the good Bishop say when he learns that you have thus mistreated his trusted agent?”
269
Rosendo stood before him like a statue. His thought was confused, and it moved slowly. In the cries of the disturbed birds he seemed now to hear the warning voice of Carmen. In the watery vapor that rolled over him he seemed to feel the touch of her soft, restraining hand.
“Bien, compadre,” purred Diego, “would it not be well for you to loosen this bit of thread, that we may make our way back to the village?Caramba!but it cuts sore––and I am soft, my friend, for I have been ill.”
Rosendo’s wrath flared up anew. “What made you ill,cayman?” he shouted, drawing nearer to the shrinking Diego and shaking a great fist in his face. “What made you ill, buzzard?Caramba!I would that your illness had carried you off and saved me the task of sending you down to purgatory!”
Diego became thoroughly alarmed again. “But––Rosendo––caro amigo, let us reason together! Ah,compadre––loosen but a little this rope which cuts into my tender skin as your bitter words do into my soul!”
“Na, vulture, but you will drown more quickly thus!” retorted Rosendo, his huge frame trembling with agitation.
Diego’s heart stopped. Then he sought to collect himself. He was in a desperate plight. But the man before him was an ignorantpeon. It was not the first time that he had set his own wit against another’s brute strength. The ever-present memory of the girl became more vivid. It glowed before him. What was it she had said? “You see only your thoughts of me––and they are very bad!” Was he seeing now only his own bad thoughts? But she had said they were unreal. And this episode––Hombre!he would not be afraid. His thought was vastly more powerful than that of a simplepeon! He smiled again at his fear.
“But,amigo,” he resumed gently, “if you had wished to drown me, why did you bring me here? But––ah, well, I have long been prepared to go. I have been sadly misunderstood––disbelieved––persecuted! Ah, friend Rosendo, if you could know what I do––but––Bien, it is of no consequence now. Come, then, good fellow, despatch me quickly! I have made my peace with God.” Diego ceased talking and began to murmur prayers.
Rosendo stared at him in amazement. The wind was being taken from his sails. Diego noted the effect, and resumed his speech. His voice was low and soft, and at times great tears rolled down his cheeks.
“Rosendo, friend, I wish to go. I weary of life. There is no stain upon my soul. And yet, I grieve that you must tarnish yours with my blood. But,” his eyes brightening and his270tone becoming more animated, “Rosendo, I will pray the blessed Virgin for you. When I am with her in paradise I will ask her to beg the gentle Saviour to forgive you.Bien, good friend, we shall all be together in heaven some day.” He started his orisons again, and soon was praying like a locomotive: “Ora pro nobis! Santa Maria, ora pro nobis!”
He stopped and sighed gently. Rosendo stood stupidly before him.
“Rosendo––I must say this before I die––I came to Simití to see you. I was approaching the boat to hold converse with you. But, you struck me––there,qué importa! And yet––it was about the gentle Ana, your beautiful daughter––But, wait, Rosendo––God above! hear me through––”
Rosendo had started again toward him.
“Good friend, hear me first, then kill me quickly, for I much desire to go to my home above!” Diego spoke rapidly. The impression must be made upon Rosendo at once, or all was lost. The wily priest knew thepeonmind.
“Bien, good friend, you have misunderstood me. But I forgive you. I––Rosendo––I––you will keep my secret, will you not? Bien, I have left the Church. I am no longer a priest. It was for good reasons that God took me from the priesthood for other work in His field.Bien, the bonds of celibacy removed, behold! my first thought is for my beautiful Ana. I came to ask you for her hand. I would render legitimate her unborn child. I would return to her the peace which she lost when we became so deeply enamored of each other. Rosendo, I have come to Simití to lay my life before you––to yield it to the mother of my child––to offer it in future service as a recompense for the unhappiness which, the Virgin knows, I did not willingly bring upon her, or you!”
Rosendo’s head was now in a whirl. His eyes protruded, and his mouth was agape. “But––the little Carmen––” he muttered.
“Alas! friend,” said Diego sadly, shaking his head, while he quickly grasped the cue, “I have ceased my endeavors to make you believe that she is my child.Caramba!I can only leave it to the blessed Virgin to restore her to me when we have both passed the portals of death.”
“You still claim to be her father? You––!”
“Caro amigo,” returned Diego gently, “in these last moments I see in her the beautiful image of her blessed mother, who was taken from me long before I met and loved your Ana. But I despair of enforcing my claim. I await now the reunion which death alone can effect. And so, friend, be quick! But do not make me suffer. Drown me not, I pray you, but rather open271an artery and let me fall gently asleep here beneath this noble tree.”
A light came into Rosendo’s troubled eyes. A cunning smile lurked about his mouth.
“Bien pues, it shall be as you wish, vulture,” he replied in a tone which again struck terror to Diego’s heart. He drew his knife and approached the horrified priest.
“Caramba!” shrieked Diego, shrinking back against the tree. “Hombre!you do not intend––”
“Why not, vampire?” returned Rosendo, the sardonic smile spreading across his grim features. “Did you not ask it?”
“But––Hombre! Back!––Caramba! Back!––Rosendo––God above! But would you go down to hell with murder on your soul?”
“Cierto, carrion! I kill the body. But you go down with a load of murdered souls!”
“Rosendo––God!––it means hell for eternity to you!”
“To be sure, dog-meat,” calmly replied Rosendo. “But hell will be heaven to me as I sit forever and hourly remind you of the suffering Ana and the beautiful Carmen, whom you tried to ruin! Is it not so?”
“Ah, God!” Diego saw that he had lost. Wild thoughts flashed through his mind with lightning speed. Desperation lent them wings. A last expedient came to him. He fixed his beady eyes upon Rosendo and muttered: “Coward! coward! you bind a sick man and stick him like a pig!”
Rosendo hesitated. Diego quickly followed up his slight advantage.
“We give a deer, a tapir, a jaguar, a chance for its life. We fear them not. But you––coward, you are afraid of a sick man! And a priest!”
Rosendo could bear the taunt no longer. “Caramba!” he cried, “what would you?” He leaped to the sitting man and at a stroke severed his bonds. Diego got slowly to his feet.
“Bien, spew of the vampire! you have now a chance!”
Diego extended his empty hands, palms up. He smiled significantly. Rosendo caught the insinuation.
“Caramba!take the knife!Hombre!but I will kill you with my bare hands!” He threw the long knife to Diego, who stooped and picked it up.
Stepping quickly back, holding the weapon firmly clenched before him, the priest slowly circled Rosendo, as if looking for an opening. An evil smile played constantly over his heavy face, and his little eyes glittered like diamonds. Rosendo stood like a rock, his long arms hanging at his side.
Then, with a shrill, taunting laugh, Diego turned suddenly272and plunged into the newly-cut trail toward the lake. In an instant he was lost in the fog.
For a moment Rosendo stood dumb with amazement. Then he sprang after the priest. But it was too late. Diego had reached the canoe, leaped quickly in, and pushed off. Rosendo saw the mist swallow him. He was left a prisoner, without a boat, and with two miles of shrouded water stretching between him and the town!
A low moan burst from him. He had been tricked, outwitted; and the evil genius which for years had menaced his happiness was heading straight toward the town, where his accomplice, Ricardo, awaited. What would they do, now that he was out of the way? The thought seared his brain. Great beads of water, distilled from his agony, burst through his pores. The Juncal river lay off to the west, and at a much less distance than Simití. He might swim to it and secure a canoe at the village. But––the lake was alive with crocodiles!
Chagrin and apprehension overwhelmed him, and he burst into a flood of bitter tears. He threw himself upon the ground, and tossed and moaned in despair. The fog thickened. A twilight darkness settled over the waters. Nature––God himself––seemed to conspire with Diego.
Rosendo suddenly rose to his feet. He drew the new medal scapulary around in front of him and kissed it, reverently crossing himself. “Santa Virgen,” he prayed, “help me––it is for the child!” Then, taking between his teeth the knife which Diego had dropped, he rushed into the water and struck out for the distant village of Juncal.
Late that afternoon, while the tropical rain was descending in torrents, Rosendo staggered into the parish house, where Carmen and Josè were absorbed in their work. “Padre!” he gasped, “Loado sea Dios!” as his eyes fell upon the girl. Then he sank to the floor in utter exhaustion.
“Rosendo! what is it?” cried Josè, bending over him in apprehension, while Carmen stood lost in wonder.
“Padre Diego––!” cried Rosendo, raising himself up on his elbow. “Has he been here?”
“Padre Diego!” cried both Josè and the girl in astonishment. Instinctively Josè’s arm went about the child. Rosendo dragged himself to a chair and sank limply into it.
“Then, Padre, he will come. He is in Simití. He is no longer a priest!”
Slowly the story came out, bit by bit. Josè listened in horror. Carmen’s face was deeply serious.
“Bien, Padre,” said Rosendo, concluding his dramatic and273disconnected recital, “I plowed through the water––Caramba!I knew not at what moment I should feel the jaws of a cayman seize upon me! But the Virgin had heard my prayer. I must offer a candle this night. But I did not land at Juncal. It was some half league farther west.Bien, I was then glad, for had I appeared in the village, all would have said that I had murdered Diego! And so I struck out along the trail that skirts the lake, and followed it around until I came here.Caramba! but see how my feet are cut! And the rain––Hombre! it beat me down––I fell again and again! And then, the fear that I was too late––Ah, Dios! But she is safe––Caramba! the Virgin be praised!”
“But, Rosendo,” said Josè anxiously, “where can Diego––”
“He is here,Caramba! in Simití!Hombre! but I shall set out at once and search every house! And he shall do well if he escape this time!”
But dusk was falling; and the old man, his strength sapped, listened not unwillingly to Josè’s better counsel. With the coming of night the rain ceased, and the clouds rolled up and slipped down behind the mountains, leaving the moon riding in splendor across the infinite blue. Then Josè, leaving Carmen with Rosendo, walked to and fro through the streets of the old town, listening and watching. He wandered down to the lake. He climbed the hill where stood the second church. He thought he caught the gleam of a light within the old edifice. He crept nearer. There were men inside. Their voices sounded ghostly to his straining ears.
“But, friend Ricardo, he set out before dawn, and is not yet returned. I fear he has either abandoned us, or has walked into our good Rosendo’s jaws.”
“Hold your tongue, bleating calf!” cried the other petulantly. “It is more likely that he and Don Mario lie pickled in rum under the palms of the Alcalde’spatio!”
Josè waited to hear no more. He hurried down through the main street and past the house of Don Mario. The door stood open, and he could see the portly figure of the official outlined against the back wall. It was evident that Diego was not there. He returned in perplexity to his house and sat far into the night, musing on the strange incident.
With the coming of the new day Rosendo appeared with fresh suggestions. “Bien, Padre,” he said, “there is nothing to do now but take the girl and flee to the Boque river and to thehaciendaof Don Nicolás.”
Josè related his experience of the previous night. Rosendo whistled softly. “Caramba!” he muttered, “but this is a mystery! And––but here comes Juan.”