{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_30312/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_30312","id":"gutenberg_30312","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/30312","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Novels","Religion -- Fiction"],"text":"[Illustration: In the name of the Church he would serve these humble\npeople.\n--Book 2, Page 77.]\n\n\n\n\nCARMEN ARIZA\n\nBY\n\nCHARLES FRANCIS STOCKING, E. M.\n\nAuthor of THE DIARY OF JEAN EVARTS, THE MAYOR OF FILBERT, Etc.\n\nCHICAGO\n\nTHE MAESTRO CO.\n\n1921\n\n\n\n\nCopyright 1915\n\nBY\n\nCHARLES FRANCIS STOCKING\n\nISSUED JANUARY 1916\n\nALL RIGHTS RESERVED\n\nTWENTY-FIFTH EDITION\n\nPRINTED IN U. S. A.\n\n\n\n\nCARMEN ARIZA\n\n\n\n\nBOOK 1\n\n\n  Doth this offend you?--the words that I speak unto you, they are\n  spirit, and they are life.\n\n                                                          --_Jesus._\n\n\n\n\nCARMEN ARIZA\n\nCHAPTER 1\n\n\nThe tropical sun mounted the rim of the golden Caribbean, quivered\nfor a moment like a fledgeling preening its wings for flight, then\nlaunched forth boldly into the vault of heaven, shattering the\nlowering vapors of night into a myriad fleecy clouds of every form\nand color, and driving them before it into the abysmal blue above.\nLeaping the sullen walls of old Cartagena, the morning beams began to\nglow in roseate hues on the red-tiled roofs of this ancient metropolis\nof New Granada, and glance in shafts of fire from her glittering\ndomes and towers. Swiftly they climbed the moss-grown sides of church\nand convent, and glided over the dull white walls of prison and\nmonastery alike. Pouring through half-turned shutters, they plashed\nupon floors in floods of gold. Tapping noiselessly on closed\nportals, they seemed to bid tardy sleepers arise, lest the hurrying\nmidday _siesta_ overtake them with tasks unfinished. The dormitory of\nthe ecclesiastical college, just within the east wall of the city,\nglowed brilliantly in the clear light which it was reflecting to\nthe mirror of waters without. Its huge bulk had caught the first rays\nof the rising sun, most of which had rebounded from its drab,\nincrusted walls and sped out again over the dancing sea. A few,\nhowever, escaped reflection by stealing through the slanting\nshutters of a window close under the roof of the building. Within,\nthey fell upon a man kneeling on the tiled floor beside a rude cot\nbed.\n\nIn appearance the man was not more than twenty-five years of age. His\nblack, close-curling hair, oval face, and skin of deep olive tint\nindicated a Latin origin. His clerical garb proclaimed him a son of\nthe Church. The room was a small, whitewashed cell of stone, musty\nwith the dampness which had swept in from the sea during the night. It\nwas furnished with Spartan simplicity. Neither image, crucifix, nor\npainting adorned its walls--the occupant's dress alone suggested his\ncalling. A hanging shelf held a few books, all evidently used as\ntexts in the adjoining college. A table, much littered; a wooden\ndressing stand, with a small mirror; and an old-fashioned, haircloth\ntrunk, bearing numerous foreign labels, eked out the paucity of\nfurnishings.\n\nIf the man prayed, there was only his reverent attitude to indicate\nit, for no words escaped his lips. But the frequent straining of his\ntense body, and the fierce clenching of his thin hands, as he threw\nhis arms out over the unopened bed, were abundant evidence of a soul\ntugging violently at its moorings. His was the attitude of one who has\nceased to inveigh against fate, who kneels dumbly before the cup of\nDestiny, knowing that it must be drained.\n\nWith the break of day the bells awoke in the church towers throughout\nthe old city, and began to peal forth their noisy reminder of the\nvirility of the Holy Catholic faith. Then the man raised his head,\nseemingly startled into awareness of his material environment. For a\nfew moments he listened confusedly to the insistent clatter--but he\nmade no sign of the cross, nor did his head bend with the weight of a\nhollow _Ave_ on his bloodless lips while the clamoring muezzins filled\nthe warm, tropical air with their jangling appeal. Rising with an air\nof weary indifference, he slowly crossed the room and threw wide the\nshutters of the solitary window, admitting a torrent of sunlight. As\nhe did this, the door of the cell softly opened, and a young novitiate\nentered.\n\n\"With your permission, Padre,\" said the boy, bowing low. \"His Grace\nsummons you to the Cathedral.\"\n\nThe man made a languid gesture of dismissal, and turned from the lad\nto the rare view which greeted him through the open window. The dusty\nroad below was beginning to manifest the city's awakening. Barefooted,\nbrown-skinned women, scantily clad in cheap calico gowns, were\nswinging along with shallow baskets under their arms to the _plaza_\nfor the day's marketing. Some carried naked babes astride their hips;\nsome smoked long, slender cigars of their own rolling. Half-clad\nchildren of all ages, mixtures of _mestizo_, Spaniard, and Jamaican\nnegro, trotted along beside them; and at intervals a blustering\n_cochero_ rattled around the corner in a rickety, obsolete type of\ntrap behind a brace of emaciated horses.\n\nThe lively gossip of the passing groups preluded the noisy chaffering\nto follow their arrival at the market place.\n\n\"_Caramba_, little pig!\" shrilled a buxom matron, snatching her naked\noffspring away from a passing vehicle. \"Think you I have money to\nwaste on Masses for your naughty soul?\"\n\n\"_Na, se\u00f1ora_,\" bantered another, \"it will cost less now than later to\nget him out of purgatory.\"\n\n\"But, _comadre_, do you stop at the Cathedral to say a _Pater-noster_?\"\n\n\"To be sure, _amiga_, and an _Ave_, too. And let us return by way of\nthe Hotel Espa\u00f1a, for, _quien sabe_? we may catch a glimpse of the\nfamous _matador_.\"\n\n\"Se\u00f1or Varilla?\"\n\n\"Yes. He arrived from Barranquilla last night--so my Pedro tells\nme--and will fight in the arena this Sunday. I have saved fifty\n_pesos_ to see him. _Madre de Dios!_ but I would sell my soul to see\nhim slay but a single bull. And do you go?\"\n\n\"God willing!\"\n\nThe soft air, tempered by the languid ocean breeze, bore aloft the\nlaughter and friendly bantering of the marketers, mingled with the\nawakening street sounds and the morning greetings which issued from\nopening doors and windows. The scent of roses and the heavier\nsweetness of orchids and tropical blooms drifted over the ancient city\nfrom its innumerable _patios_ and public gardens. The age-incrusted\nbuildings fused in the mounting sun into squares of dazzling white,\nover which the tiled roofs flowed in cinctures of crimson. Far off at\nsea the smoke of an approaching vessel wove fantastic designs against\nthe tinted sky. Behind the city the convent of Santa Candelaria,\ncrowning the hill of La Popa, glowed like a diamond; and stretching\nfar to the south, and merging at the foot of the _Cordilleras_ into\nthe gloom-shrouded, menacing jungle, the steaming llanos offered\nfleeting glimpses of their rich emerald color as the morning breeze\nstirred the heavy clouds of vapor which hung sullenly above them.\n\nTo all this the man, looking vacantly out across the city walls to\nwhere the sea birds dipped on the rippling waves, was apparently\noblivious. Nor did he manifest the slightest interest in the animated\nscene before him until a tall, heavy-set young priest emerged from the\nentrance of the dormitory below and stopped for a moment in the middle\nof the road to bask in the brilliant sunlight and fill his lungs with\nthe invigorating ocean breeze. Turning his eyes suddenly upward, the\nlatter caught sight of the man at the window.\n\n\"Ah, _amigo_ Jos\u00e8!\" he called in friendly greeting, his handsome face\naglow with a cordial smile. \"Our good Saint Claver has not lobbied for\nus in vain! We shall yet have a good day for the bulls, no?\"\n\n\"An excellent one, I think, Wenceslas,\" quickly replied the man\naddressed, who then turned abruptly away as if he wished to avoid\nfurther conversation. The priest below regarded the empty window for a\nmoment. Then, with a short, dry laugh and a cynical shrug of his broad\nshoulders, he passed on.\n\nAs the man above turned back into the room his face, wearing the look\nof one far gone in despair, was contorted with passion. Fear,\nconfusion, and undefined soul-longing seemed to move rapidly across\nit, each leaving its momentary impression, and all mingling at times\nin a surging flood that swelled the veins of his temples to the point\nof rupture. Mechanically he paced his narrow cell, throwing frequent\nfurtive glances at the closed door, as if he suspected himself\nwatched. Often he stopped abruptly, and with head bowed and brows\nfurrowed, seemed to surrender his soul to the forces with which it was\nwrestling. Often he clasped his head wildly in his hands and turned\nhis beseeching eyes upward, as if he would call upon an invisible\npower above to aid him, yet restrained by the deadening conviction of\nexperience that such appeal would meet with no response, and that he\nmust stand in his own strength, however feeble.\n\nHours passed thus. The sun gained the zenith and the streets were\nablaze. Belated marketers, with laden baskets atop their heads, were\nhurrying homeward, hugging the scanty shade of the glaring buildings.\nShopkeepers were drawing their shutters and closing their heavy doors,\nleaving the hot noon hour asleep on the scorching portals. The midday\n_Angelus_ called from the Cathedral tower. Then, as if shaken into\nremembrance of the message which the boy had brought him at daybreak,\nthe man hurriedly took his black felt hat from the table, and without\nfurther preparation left the room.\n\nThe stone pavements and narrow brick walks, above which the intense\nheat hung in tremulous waves, were almost deserted as he hastened\ntoward the Cathedral. The business of the morning was finished; trade\nwas suspended until the sun, now dropping its fiery shafts straight as\nplummets, should have sunk behind La Popa. As he turned into the Calle\nLozano an elderly woman, descending the winding brick stairway visible\nthrough the open door of one of the numerous old colonial houses in\nthe lower end of this thoroughfare, called timidly to him.\n\n\"Marcelena,\" the priest returned, stopping. \"The girl--is she--?\"\n\n\"She is dying,\" interrupted the woman in a voice broken with sobs.\n\n\"Dying! Then the child--?\"\n\n\"Yes, Padre, born an hour ago--a boy. It lives. Ah, _Santa Virgen_,\nsuch suffering! Pray for us, Mother of God!\" murmured the weeping\nwoman, bending her head and repeatedly making the sign of the cross.\n\n\"Who is with her now?\" the priest continued hurriedly.\n\n\"Only Catalina. The doctor said he would return. He is good to the\nblessed child. And Padre Lorenzo came--but he would not shrive her\nlittle white soul--\"\n\n\"And the father--?\"\n\n\"He does not know,\" the woman sobbed. \"Who would dare to tell him!\nThink you he would come? That he would own the babe? He would not give\none blessed candle to set beside the little mother's poor sweet body!\nAh, _Santa Maria_! who will buy Masses for her little soul? Who--?\"\n\n\"But he _shall_ know!\" cried the priest, his face livid. \"And he shall\nacknowledge his child and care for it! _Dios--!_ But wait, Marcelena.\nI can do nothing now. But I will return.\" Leaving the woman sobbing\nprayers to the Virgin Mother, the priest hurried on.\n\nWithin the Cathedral the cool atmosphere met him with a sweet calm,\nwhich flowed over his perturbed soul like a benediction. He drew a\nchair from a pile in a corner and sat down for a moment near one of\nthe little side chapels, to recover from the stifling heat without and\nprepare his thought for the impending interview with the Bishop. A dim\ntwilight enveloped the interior of the building, affording a grateful\nrelief from the blinding glare of the streets. It brought him a\ntransient sense of peace--the peace which his wearied soul had never\nfully known. Peace brooded over the great nave, and hovered in the\nsoft air that drifted slowly through the deserted aisle up to the High\nAltar, where lay the Sacred Host. A few votive candles were struggling\nto send their feeble glow through the darkness. The great images of\nthe suffering Christ, of the Saints and the Virgin Mother had merged\ntheir outlines into the heavy shadows which lay upon them.\n\nThe haunting memory of years of soul-struggle with doubt and fear, of\npassionate longing for the light of truth in the gloom of superstition\nand man-made creeds, for guidance among the devious paths of human\nconjecture which lead nowhither--or to madness--seemed to fade into\nthe darkness which wrapped him in that holy calm. After all, what had\nhe won in his lifelong warfare with human beliefs? What had he gained\nby his mad opposition to Holy Church? There she stood, calm, majestic,\nundisturbed. Had not the Christ himself declared that the gates of\nhell should not prevail against her? Was not the unfoldment of truth a\nmatter, not of years, but of ages? And were the minds of men to-day\nprepared for higher verities than those she offered? Did not the\nChurch plant the seed as rapidly as the barren soil of the human mind\nwas tilled and made fallow? True, her sons, whom he had so obstinately\nopposed, were blindly zealous. But were they wholly without wisdom?\nHad not his own zeal been as unreasoningly directed to the forcing of\nevents? And still, through it all, she had held her indulgent arms\nextended to him, as to all erring mankind. Why not now, like a tired\nchild, weary of futile resistance, yield to her motherly embrace and\nbe at last at peace? Again the temptation which he had stubbornly\nresisted for a lifetime urged upon him with all its mesmeric\ninsistence.\n\nHe looked up, and his glance fell upon a small, glass-covered case,\ndimly visible in the uncertain light at one side of the little altar.\nThe case was filled with tiny images of gold--_milagros_. Each had\nreceived priestly blessing, and each was believed to have worked a\nmiraculous cure. The relaxed lines of the priest's care-worn face\ninstantly drew into an expression of hard austerity. Like the ebb of\nthe ocean, his recalcitrant thought surged back again in a towering\nflood.\n\n\"What a spectacle!\" he murmured. \"Holy Church, assuming spiritual\nleadership of the world, sunken in idolatry, and publicly parading her\nfetishism in these lingering echoes of primitive demon-worship!\"\n\nAh, the Master taught the omnipotence of God, whose ways he declared\nas high above the blind grovelings of man as the dome of heaven swings\nabove earth. But how long, gentle Master, shall such as this be\ndeclared thy Father's ways? How long shall superstition and idolatry\nretain the power to fetter the souls of men? Is there no end to the\nblack curse of ignorance of Truth, which, after untold centuries,\nstill makes men sink with vain toil and consume with disease? And--are\nthose who sit about Peter's gorgeous tomb and approve these things\nunerring guides to a right knowledge of God, to know whom, the Christ\nhas said, is life eternal?\n\nA step behind him broke the flow of his dark revery.\n\n\"Our good Jos\u00e8 dreams below, while His Grace bites his nails above,\"\nsaid a soft, mellifluous voice. \"_Qu\u00e9 chiste!_ It is--\"\n\nThe priest sprang to his feet and faced the speaker. For a moment the\nmen regarded each other, the one uncertain as to the impending event,\nbut supremely confident of his ability to meet it; the other sick in\nsoul and torn with mental struggle, but for the moment fired anew with\nthe righteous wrath which his recent brief interview with the woman,\nMarcelena, had kindled.\n\n\"Wenceslas--\" The priest spoke in a strained, uncertain tone, striving\nto hold his emotions in leash. \"I have learned to-day--The girl,\nMaria--\"\n\n\"_Caro amigo_,\" interrupted Wenceslas smoothly, \"what you have learned\nto-day, or any other day, of the girl, Maria, is a lie.\"\n\n\"_Hombre!_\" The priest turned livid. Stepping closer to Wenceslas--\n\n\"Do you think, inhuman! that I have not long known of your relations\nwith this girl? Who has not! And, further, I know--and Cartagena shall\nknow--that to-day she lies dying beside your child!\"\n\nWenceslas recoiled. His face flushed, and the veins of his forehead\nswelled with a purple flood. Then a pallor spread over his features,\nand beads of perspiration started from his pores.\n\nIt was but momentary. Recovering himself, he laid a large hand on the\npriest's shoulder, and, his face assuming its wonted smile, said in\nhis usual low tone, \"_Amigo_, it seems that you have a penchant for\nspreading gossip. Think you I am ignorant of the fact that because of\nit Rome spewed you out for a meddlesome pest? Do you deceive yourself\nthat Cartagena will open her ears to your garbled reports? The hag,\nMarcelena, lies! She has long hoped to gain some advantage from me, I\nhave told you-- But go now above and learn from His Grace, whom you\nhave had the impudence to keep waiting all morning, how tongues that\nwag too freely can be silenced.\" He checked himself suddenly, as if he\nfeared he had said too much. Then, turning on his heel, he quickly\nleft the Cathedral.\n\nThe priest's head sank upon his breast, and he stood, infirm of\npurpose and choking with words which he could not voice. The whirl in\nwhich his confused brain had revolved for months--nay, years--had made\nthe determination of conduct with him a matter of hours, of days, of\nweeks. Spontaneity of action had long since ceased within his fettered\nmind, where doubt had laid its detaining hand upon his judgment.\nUncertainty of his steps, fear of their consequence, and dread lest he\nprecipitate the calamity which he felt hung always just above him, had\nsapped the courage and strength of will which his soul needed for a\ndetermined stand, and left him incapable of decisive action, even in\nthe face of grossest evil. The mordant reply of Wenceslas only\nstrengthened his conviction of the futility of massing his own feeble\nforces against those of one so thoroughly entrenched as this man, who\nhad the ear of the Bishop--nay, whose resourceful mind was now said to\nbe actually directing the policies of the feeble old ecclesiastic who\nheld the bishopric of Cartagena.\n\nAs if groping through the blackness of midnight, he moved slowly down\nthe deserted nave of the Cathedral and mounted the winding stairs to\nthe ambulatory above. Pausing at the door of the _sanctum_ for a\nmoment to gather up his remnant of moral strength, he entered and\nstood hesitant before the waiting Bishop.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 2\n\n\nThe long War of Independence which destroyed the last vestige of\nSpanish control over the Peruvian colonies of South America was\nvirtually brought to a close by the terrific battle of Ayacucho,\nfought on the plains between Pizarro's city of Lima and the ancient\nInca seat of Cuzco in the fall of 1824. The result of this battle had\nbeen eagerly awaited in the city of Cartagena, capital of the newly\nformed federation of Colombia. It was known there that the Royalist\narmy was concentrating for a final stand. It was known, too, that its\nveterans greatly outnumbered the nondescript band of patriots, many of\nwhom were provided only with the _arma blanca_, the indispensable\n_machete_ of tropical America. This fact lent a shred of encouragement\nto the few proud Tory families still remaining in the city and\nclinging forlornly to their broken fortunes, while vainly hoping for a\nre\u00ebstablishment of the imperial regimen, as they pinned their fate to\nthis last desperate conflict. Among these, none had been prouder, none\nmore loyal to the Spanish Sovereign, and none more liberal in\ndispensing its great wealth to bolster up a hopeless cause than the\nancient and aristocratic family at whose head stood Don Ignacio Jos\u00e8\nMarquez de Rinc\u00f3n, distinguished member of the _Cabildo_, and most\nloyal subject of his imperial majesty, King Ferdinand VII. of Spain.\n\nThe house of Rinc\u00f3n traced its lineage back to the ferocious\nadventurer, Juan de Rinc\u00f3n, favorite lieutenant of the renowned\n_Conquistador_, Pedro de Heredia. When the latter, in the year 1533,\nobtained from Charles V. the concession of New Andalusia, the whole\nterritory comprised between the mouths of the Magdalena and Atrato\nrivers in what is now the Republic of Colombia, and undertook the\nconquest of this enormously rich district, the fire-eating Juan, whom\nthe chroniclers of that romantic period quaintly described as \"causing\nthe same effects as lightning and quicksilver,\" was his most\ndependable support. Together they landed at the Indian village of\nCalamari, and, after putting the pacific inhabitants to the sword--a\nmanner of disposal most satisfactory to the practical Juan--laid the\nfoundations of the present city of Cartagena, later destined to become\nthe \"Queen of the Indies,\" the pride, as it was the despair, of the\nhaughty monarchs of Spain.\n\nFor his eminent services in this exploit Juan received a large tract\nof land in the most fertile part of the Magdalena valley--which he\nimmediately staked and lost at the gaming-table. As a measure of\nconsolation, and doubtless with the view of checking Juan's gambling\npropensities, Pedro de Heredia then bestowed upon him a strip of bleak\nand unexplored mountain country adjacent to the river Atrato. Stung by\nhis sense of loss, as well as by the taunts of his boisterous\ncompanions, and harassed by the practical conclusion that life's\nbrevity would not permit of wiping out their innumerable insults\nsingly by the sword, the raging Juan gathered together a few\nblood-drinking companions of that ilk and set out to find diversion of\nmind on his possessions.\n\nYears passed. One day Juan again appeared on the streets of Cartagena,\nand this time with gold enough to buy the city. The discovery of rich\nauriferous sands on his estates adjoining the Atrato, which were\nworked extensively for him by the natives whom he and his companions\nhad forced into subjection, had yielded him enormous wealth. He\nsettled in Cartagena, determined to make it his future home, and at\nonce set about buying great blocks of houses and erecting a palace for\nhimself. He began to acquire lands and mines in all directions. He\nerected a sumptuous summer residence in what is now the suburb of\nTurbaco. He built an _arena_, and bred bulls for it from famous stock\nwhich he imported from the mother-country. He gave _f\u00eates_ and public\nentertainments on the most lavish scale imaginable. In short, he\nquickly became Cartagena's most influential and distinguished citizen,\nas he was easily her richest.\n\nBut far more important to mention than all these dry details was the\nundoubted change of character which had come over the man himself.\nPerhaps it was the awful heat of the steaming Atrato valley that drew\nthe fire from his livid soul. Perhaps it was a dawning appreciation of\nthe opportunities made possible by his rapid acquisition of wealth\nthat had softened his character. Some said he had seen a vision of the\nVirgin Mary. Others laid it to a terrible fever, in which for days he\nhad lain delirious in the shadow of death. Be that as it may, the\nbloodthirsty _Conquistador_, who a few years before angrily shook the\ndust of Cartagena from his feet, had now returned a changed man.\n\nAt once Juan began to manifest in an ever increasing degree an\ninterest in matters religious. In this respect his former character\nsuffered a complete reversal. He assiduously cultivated the clergy,\nand gave large sums for the support of the Cathedral and the religious\norders of the city. The Bishop became a frequent guest at his\nsumptuous table; and as often he in turn sought the Bishop for\nconsultation anent his benefactions and, in particular, for\nconsolation when haunted by sad memories of his devilish exploits in\nearly life. When the great-hearted Padre Bartolom\u00e9 de las Casas,\ninfirm but still indefatigable in his work for the protection and\nuplift of the Indians, arrived one memorable day in his little canoe\nwhich his devoted native servants had paddled through the _dique_ from\nthe great river beyond, Juan was the first to greet him and insist\nthat he make his home with him while in the city. And on the night of\nthe Padre's arrival it is said that Juan, with tears streaming down\nhis scarred and wrinkled face, begged to be allowed to confess to him\nthe awful atrocities which he had committed upon the innocent and\nharmless aborigines when, as was his wont, his breath hot with the\nlust of blood, he had fallen upon them without provocation and hewed\nthem limb from limb.\n\nIn his old age the now gentle Juan, his former self almost obliterated,\nexpressed a desire to renounce the world, bestow his great wealth upon\nthe Church, and enter a monastery to pass his remaining years. Despite\nthe protestations of his numerous family, for whom his religious zeal\nwould permit him to leave but scanty provision, he was already\nformulating plans toward this end when death overtook him, and his vast\nestates descended intact to the family which he had founded.\n\nSo complete had been the transformation of Juan de Rinc\u00f3n during the\nmany years that he lived after his return to Cartagena that the\ncharacteristics which he transmitted to his posterity were, in\ngeneral, quite the reverse of those which he himself had manifested so\nabundantly in early life. Whereas, he had formerly been atrociously\ncruel, boastingly impious, and a scoffer at matters religious, his\nlater descendants were generally tender of heart, soft of manner, and\nof great piety. Whereas, in early manhood he had been fiery and\nimpulsive, quick of decision and immovable of opinion, his progeny\nwere increasingly inclined to be deliberate in judgment and\nvacillating of purpose. So many of his descendants entered the\npriesthood that the family was threatened with extinction, for in the\ncourse of time it had become a sacred custom in the Rinc\u00f3n family to\nconsecrate the first-born son to the Church. This custom at length\nbecame fixed, and was rigidly observed, even to the point of bigotry,\ndespite the obliteration of those branches where there was but a\nsingle son.\n\nThe family, so auspiciously launched, waxed increasingly rich and\ninfluential; and when the smoldering fires of revolution burst into\nflame among the oppressed South American colonies, late in the year\n1812, the house of Rinc\u00f3n, under royal and papal patronage, was found\noccupying the first position of eminence and prestige in the proud old\ncity of Cartagena. Its wealth had become proverbial. Its sons,\neducated by preceptors brought from Paris and Madrid, were prominent\nat home and abroad. Its honor was unimpeachable. Its fair name was one\nof the most resplendent jewels in the Spanish crown. And Don Ignacio\nepitomized loyalty to Sovereign and Pope.\n\nWith the inauguration of hostilities no fears were felt by the\nRinc\u00f3n family for the ultimate success of the royalist arms, and\nDon Ignacio immediately despatched word to his Sovereign in Madrid\nthat the wealth and services of his house were at the royal\ndisposal. Of this offer Ferdinand quickly availed himself. The Rinc\u00f3n\nfunds were drawn upon immediately and without stint to furnish men\nand muniments for the long and disastrous struggle. Of the family\nresources there was no lack while its members held their vast\npossessions of lands and mines. But when, after the first successes\nof the patriots, reprisals began to be visited upon the Tories of\nCartagena, and their possessions fell, one after another, into the\nhands of the successful revolutionists, or were seized by former\nslaves, Don Ignacio found it difficult to meet his royal master's\ndemands. The fickle King, already childish to the verge of imbecility,\ngave scant thanks in return for the Rinc\u00f3n loyalty, and when at last,\nstripped of his fortune, deserted by all but the few Tory families\nwho had the courage to remain in Cartagena until the close of the\nwar, Don Ignacio received with sinking heart the news of the battle\nof Ayacucho, he knew full well that any future appeal to Ferdinand for\nrecognition of his great sacrifices would fall upon unhearing ears.\n\nBut to remain in republican Cartagena after the final success of the\nrevolutionists was to the royalist Don Ignacio quite impossible. Even\nif permitted the attempt, he was so attached to the ancient order of\nthings that he could not adjust himself to the radically changed\nconditions. So, gathering about him the sorrowing remnant of his\nfamily, and converting into a pitifully small sum his few remaining\npossessions, he took passage on an English trader and sailed for the\nmother-country, to begin life anew among those whose speech and\ncustoms were most familiar to him.\n\nHe settled in Seville, where the elder of his two sons, Rafa\u00e9l de\nRinc\u00f3n, a lad of fifteen, was studying for the priesthood, under the\npatronage of the Archbishop. There he established himself in the wine\nbusiness, associating with him his second son, Carlos, only a year the\njunior of his brother. But, broken in spirit as well as in fortune, he\nmade little headway, and two years later died pitiably in poverty and\nobscurity.\n\nThrough the influence of the Archbishop, the business, which Carlos\nwas far too young and immature to conduct, was absorbed by larger\ninterests, and the young lad retained as an employe. As the years\npassed the boy developed sufficient commercial ability to enable him\nto retain his position and to extract from it enough to provide for\nthe needs of himself and his dependents. He married, late in life, a\nwoman whose family had fled from Cartagena with his own and settled in\nSeville. She was but a babe in arms at the time of the exodus, and\nmany years his junior. A year after the marriage a child was born to\nthem, a son. The babe's birth was premature, following a fright which\nthe mother received when attacked by a beggar. But the child lived.\nAnd, according to the honored family custom, which the father insisted\non observing as rigidly in Spain as it had been formerly in Cartagena,\nthis son, Jos\u00e8 Francisco Enrique de Rinc\u00f3n, was at birth consecrated\nto the service of God in the Holy Catholic Church.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 3\n\n\nIf, as Thoreau said, \"God is on the side of the most sensitive,\" then\nHe should have been very close to the timid, irresolute lad in\nSeville, in whom the softer traits of character, so unexpectedly\ndeveloped in the adventurous founder of the Rinc\u00f3n family, now stood\nforth so prominently. Somber, moody, and retiring; delicately\nsensitive and shrinking; acutely honest, even to the point of\nmorbidity; deeply religious and passionately studious, with a\nconsuming zeal for knowledge, and an unsatisfied yearning for truth,\nthe little Jos\u00e8 early in life presented a strange medley of\ncharacteristics, which bespoke a need of the utmost care and wisdom on\nthe part of those who should have the directing of his career. Forced\ninto the world before his time, and strongly marked by his mother's\nfear; afflicted with precarious health, and subjected to long and\ndesperate illnesses in childhood, his little soul early took on a\ngloom and asceticism wholly unnatural to youth. Fear was constantly\ninstilled into his acutely receptive mind by his solicitous, doting\nparents; and his life was thereby stunted, warped, and starved. He was\nreared under the constant reminder of the baleful effects of food, of\nair, of conduct, of this and that invisible force inimical to health;\nand terror and anxiety followed him like a ghost and turned about all\nhis boyish memories. Under these repressing influences his mind could\nnot but develop with a lack of stamina for self-support. Hesitancy and\nvacillation became pronounced. In time, the weight of any important\ndecision gave him acute, unendurable agony of mind. Called upon to\ndecide for himself a matter of import, his thought would become\nconfused, his brain torpid, and in tears and perplexity the tormented\nlad would throw himself into the arms of his anxious parents and beg\nto be told what course to pursue.\n\nThus his nature grew to depend upon something stronger than itself to\ntwine about. He sought it in his schoolmates; but they misread him.\nThe little acts which were due to his keen sensitiveness or to his\nexaggerated reticence of disposition were frequently interpreted by\nthem as affronts, and he was generally left out of their games, or\navoided entirely. His playmates consequently became fewer and more\ntransient as the years gained upon him, until at length, trodden upon,\nbut unable to turn, he withdrew his love from the world and bestowed\nit all upon his anxious mother. She became his only intimate, and from\nher alone he sought the affection for which he yearned with an\nintensity that he could not express. Shunning the boisterous,\nfrolicking children at the close of the school day, he would seek her,\nand, nestling at her side, her hand clasped in his, would beg her to\ntalk to him of the things with which his childish thought was\nstruggling. These were many, but they revolved about a common\ncenter--religion.\n\nThe salient characteristics already mentioned were associated with\nothers, equally prominent, and no less influential in the shaping of\nhis subsequent career. With the development of his deep, inward\nearnestness there had appeared indications of latent powers of mind\nthat were more than ordinary. These took the form of childish\nprecocity in his studies, clearness of spiritual vision, and\nmaturity in his conduct and mode of life. The stunting of his\nphysical nature threw into greater prominence his exaggerated\nsoul-qualities, his tenderness, his morbid conscientiousness, and a\nprofound emotionalism which, at the sight of a great painting, or\nthe roll of the Cathedral organ, would flood his eyes and fill his\nthroat with sobs. When the reckless founder of the family experienced\na reversal of his own dark traits of soul, nearly three centuries\nbefore, it was as if the pendulum had swung too far in the opposite\ndirection, and at the extreme point of its arc had left the little\nJos\u00e8, with the sterner qualities of the old _Conquistador_ wholly\nneutralized by self-condemnation, fear, infirmity of purpose, a high\ndegree of intellectuality, and a soul-permeating religious fervor.\n\nAt the mention of religion the timid lad at once became passionate,\nengrossed--nay, obsessed. In his boyhood years, before the pall of\nsomber reticence had settled over him, he had been impressed with the\nmajesty of the Church and the gorgeousness of her material fabric. The\nreligious ideals taught him by his good mother took deep root. But the\nday arrived when the expansion of his intellect reached such a point\nas to enable him to detect a flaw in her reasoning. It was but a\nlittle rift, yet the sharp edge of doubt slipped in. Alas! from that\nhour he ceased to drift with the current of popular theological\nbelief; his frail bark turned, and launched out upon the storm-tossed\nsea, where only the outstretched hand of the Master, treading the\nheaving billows through the thick gloom, saved it at length from\ndestruction.\n\nThe hungry lad began to question his parents incessantly regarding the\nthings of the spirit. His teachers in the parochial school he plied\nwith queries which they could not meet. Day after day, while other\nboys of his tender age romped in the street, he would steal into the\ngreat Cathedral and stand, pathetically solitary, before the statues\nof the Christ and the Virgin Mary, yearning over the problems with\nwhich his childish thought was struggling, and the questions to which\nno one could return satisfying replies.\n\nHere again the boy seemed to manifest in exaggerated form the reversed\ncharacteristics of the old _Conquistador_. But, unlike that of the\npious Juan, the mind of the little Jos\u00e8 was not so simple as to permit\nit to accept without remonstrance the tenets of his family's faith.\nBlind acceptance of any teaching, religious or secular, early became\nquite impossible to him. This entailed many an hour of suffering to\nthe lad, and brought down upon his little head severe punishments from\nhis preceptors and parents. But in vain they admonished and\nthreatened. The child demanded proofs; and if proofs were not at hand,\nhis acceptance of the mooted teaching was but tentative, generally\nonly an outward yielding to his beloved mother's inexorable\ninsistence. Many the test papers he returned to his teachers whereon\nhe had written in answer to the questions set, \"I am taught to reply\nthus; but in my heart I do not believe it.\" Vainly the teachers\nappealed to his parents. Futilely the latter pleaded and punished. The\nplacid receptiveness of the Rinc\u00f3n mind, which for more than three\nhundred years had normally performed its absorptive functions and\nimbibed the doctrines of its accepted and established human\nauthorities, without a trace of the heresy of suspecting their\ngenuineness, had at last experienced a reversal. True, the boy had\nbeen born in the early hours of nineteenth century doubt and religious\nskepticism. The so-called scientific spirit, buried for ages beneath\nthe _d\u00e9bris_ of human conjecture, was painfully emerging and preening\nits wings for flight. The \"higher criticism\" was nascent, and ancient\ntraditions were already beginning to totter on the foundations which\nthe Fathers had set. But Spain, close wrapped in mediaeval dreams, had\nsuffered no taint of \"modernism.\" The portals of her mind were well\nguarded against the entrance of radical thought, and her dreamers were\nyet lulled into lethargic adherence to outworn beliefs and musty\ncreeds by the mesmerism of priestly tradition. The peculiar cast of\nmind of the boy Jos\u00e8 was not the product of influences from without,\nbut was rather an exemplification of the human mind's reversion to\ntype, wherein the narrow and bigoted mentality of many generations had\nexpanded once more into the breadth of scope and untrammeled freedom\nof an ancient progenitor.\n\nAs the boy grew older his ability to absorb learning increased\nastonishingly. His power of analysis, his keen perception and\nretentive memory soon advanced him beyond the youths of his own age,\nand forced him to seek outside the pale of the schoolroom for the\nmeans to satisfy his hunger for knowledge. He early began to haunt the\nbookstalls of Seville, and day after day would stand for hours\nsearching the treasures which he found there, and mulling over books\nwhich all too frequently were _anathema_ to the orthodox. Often the\nowner of one of these shops, who knew the lad's parents, and whose\ninterest had been stirred by his passion for reading, would let him\ntake one or more of the coveted volumes home over night, for the\nslender family purse would not permit him to purchase what his heart\ncraved. Then came feasts for his famished little soul which often\nlasted until daybreak.\n\nIt happened one evening that, when he crept off to his little room to\npeer into one of these borrowed treasures, his father followed him.\nPushing the chamber door softly open the parent found the boy propped\nagainst his pillow in bed, absorbed in a much-thumbed volume which he\nwas reading by the pale light of the single candle.\n\n\"Is it thus that you deceive your poor parents?\" the fond father\nbegan, in a tone of mock severity.\n\nThe startled lad stifled a cry and hastily thrust the book beneath his\npillow. The father's interest now became genuine. Leaning over the\nterrified boy he drew forth the volume.\n\n\"Voltaire!\"\n\nThe doting father stood petrified. Voltaire, _Antichrist_, Archfiend\nof impiety--and in the hands of his beloved son!\n\nSleep fled the little household that night. In his father's arms,\nwhile the distressed mother hung over them, the boy sobbed out his\nconfession. He had not intended to deceive. He had picked up this book\nin the stall without knowing its nature. He had become so interested\nin what it said about the Virgin Mary that he forgot all else. The\nshopkeeper had found him reading it, and had laughed and winked at his\nclerk when he bade the boy take it home for the night. The book had\nfascinated him. He himself--did not his father know?--had so often\nasked how the Virgin could be the mother of God, and why men prayed to\nher. Yes, he knew it mocked their faith--and the sacred Scriptures. He\nknew, too, that his father would not approve of it. That was why he\nhad tried to hide it beneath his pillow. He had been wicked,\ndesperately wicked, to deceive his dear parents--But the book--It made\nhim forget--It said so many things that seemed to be true--And--and--\n\n\"Oh, _padre m\u00edo_, forgive me, forgive me! I want to know the truth\nabout God and the world!\" The delicate frame of the young lad shook in\nparoxysms of grief.\n\nAlas! it was but the anguished soul-cry which has echoed through the\nhalls of space since time began. What a mockery to meet it with empty\ncreed and human dogma! Alas! what a crime against innocence to stifle\nthe honest questionings of a budding mind with the musty cloak of\nundemonstrable beliefs.\n\n\"But, my son, have I not often told you? The Holy Church gives us the\ntruth,\" replied the father, frightened by the storm which raged within\nthe childish soul, yet more alarmed at the turn which the mind of his\ncherished son was apparently taking--his only son, dedicated to the\nservice of God from the cradle, and in whom the shattered hopes of\nthis once proud family were now centered.\n\n\"But this book laughs at us because we pray to a woman!\" sobbed the\nboy.\n\n\"True. But does not its author need the prayers of so pure a woman as\nthe Virgin? Do we not all need them? And is it not likely that one so\ngood as she would have great influence with God--much greater than we\nourselves, or even the best of men, could have?\"\n\n\"But how can she be the mother of God? The Bible does not teach\nthat!\"\n\n\"How do you know that the Bible does not teach it, my son?\"\n\n\"I--I--have read--the Bible,\" faltered the lad.\n\n\"You have read the Bible!\" cried the astonished father. \"And where\nhave you done that, you wicked boy?\"\n\n\"At the bookstore of Mariano,\" confessed the trembling child.\n\n\"_Madre de Dios!_\" burst from the father, as he started to his feet.\n\"Mariano is a wicked infidel! The Bishop shall hear of this! Ah, well\nmay the Holy Father in Rome grieve to see his innocent babes led\nastray by these servants of hell! But, my son,\" returning to the boy\nand clasping him again in his arms, \"it is not too late. The Virgin\nMother has protected you. You meant no harm. Satan covets your pure\nlittle soul--But he shall not have it!\" The father's tremulous voice\nmounted high, \"No, by the Saints in heaven, he shall not have it!\"\n\nThe boy's assurance slowly returned under the influence of his\nfather's tender solicitude, even though he remained dimly conscious of\nthe rift widening little by little between his parents' settled\nconvictions and his own groping thought. With the assuaging of his\ngrief came again those insistent questions which throughout his life\nhad tormented his peace and driven him even to the doors of infidels\nin search of truth.\n\n\"Father,\" he began timidly, \"why was I wicked to read the Bible?\"\n\n\"Because, my son, in doing so you yielded to the temptations of Satan.\nThe Bible is a great and mysterious book, written by God himself. He\nmeant it to be explained to us by the Holy Father, who is the head of\nthe Church which the good Saint Peter founded. We are not great enough\nnor good enough to understand it. The Holy Father, who cares for God's\nChurch on earth, he is good enough, and he alone can interpret it to\nus. Satan tries to do with all men just what he did with you, my\nchild. He seeks to make them read the Bible so that he can confuse\nthem and rob them of their faith. Then when he gets possession of\ntheir souls he drags them down with him to hell, where they are lost\nforever.\"\n\n\"And does the Holy Father really believe that Mary is the mother of\nGod?\" persisted the boy, raising his tear-stained face.\n\n\"Yes--is she not? The blessed Saviour said that he and God were one.\nAnd, as Mary is the mother of Christ, she is also the mother of\nGod--is she not? Let us read what the good Saint John Chrysostom\nsays.\" He rose and went into another room, returning in a few minutes\nwith a little volume. Taking the boy again on his knee, he continued,\n\"The blessed Saint tells us that the Virgin Mary was made the mother\nof God in order that she might obtain salvation for many who, on\naccount of their wicked lives, could not be saved, because they had so\noffended divine justice, but yet, by the help of her sweet mercy and\nmighty intercession, might be cleansed and rendered fit for heaven. My\nlittle son, you have always been taught that Mary is heaven's Queen.\nAnd so she is ours, and reigns in heaven for us. Jesus loves to have\nher close to him, and he can never refuse her requests. He always\ngrants what she asks. And that is the reason why we pray to her. She\nnever forgets us--never!\"\n\nA troubled look crossed the boy's face. Then he began anew. \"Father\ndear, God made everything, did He not? The Bible says that, anyway.\"\n\n\"Yes, child.\"\n\n\"Did He make Satan?\"\n\nThe father hesitated. The child hurried on under the lash of his holy\ninquisitiveness. \"Father, how did evil come into the world? Is God\nboth good and bad? And how can a good God punish us forever for sins\ncommitted here in only a few short years?\"\n\n\"Ah, _queridito_!\" cried the harassed father. \"Such questions should\nnot have entered your little head for years to come! Why can you not\nrun and play as do other children? Why are you not happy as they are?\nWhy must you spend your days thinking of things that are far too deep\nfor you? Can you not wait? Some day you shall know all. Some day, when\nyou have entered the service of God, perhaps you may even learn these\nthings from the Holy Father himself. Then you will understand how the\ngood God lets evil tempt us in order that our faith in Him may be\nexercised and grow strong--\"\n\n\"And He lets Satan harm us purposely?\" The boy's innocent dark eyes\nlooked up appealingly into his father's face.\n\n\"It is only for a short time, little son. And only those who are never\nfit for heaven go down with Satan. But you are not one of those,\" he\nhastily added, straining the boy to him. \"And the Masses which the\ngood priests say for us will lift us out of purgatory and into heaven,\nwhere the streets are pure gold and the gates are pearl. And there we\nwill all live together for--\"\n\n\"Father,\" interrupted the boy, \"I have thought of these things for a\nlong, long time. I do not believe them. And I do not wish to become a\npriest.\"\n\nThe father fell silent. It was one of those tense moments which every\nman experiences when he sees a withering frost slowly gathering over\nthe fondest hopes of a lifetime. The family of Rinc\u00f3n, aristocratic,\nintensely loyal to Church and State, had willingly laid itself upon\nthe sacrificial altar in deference to its honored traditions. Custom\nhad become law. Obedience of son to parent and parent to Sovereign,\nspiritual or temporal, had been the guiding star of the family's\ndestinies. To think was lawful; but to hold opinions at variance with\ntradition was unspeakable heresy. Spontaneity of action was\ncommendable; but conduct not prescribed by King or Pope was\nunpardonable crime. Loss of fortune, of worldly power and prestige,\nwere as nothing; deviation from the narrow path trodden by the\nillustrious scions of the great Juan was everything. That this lad, to\nwhom had descended the undying memories of a long line of glorious\ndefenders of kingly and papal power, should presume to shatter the\nsacred Rinc\u00f3n traditions, was unbelievable. It was none other than the\nwork of Satan. The boy had fallen an innocent victim to the devil's\nwiles.\n\nBut the house of Rinc\u00f3n had withstood the assaults of the son of\nperdition for more than three centuries. It would not yield now! The\nall-powerful Church of Rome stood behind it--and the gates of hell\ncould not prevail against her! The Church would save her own. Yes, the\nfather silently argued, through his brother's influence the case\nshould be laid before His Eminence, the Archbishop. And, if need be,\nthe Holy Father himself should be called upon to cast the devil out of\nthis tormented child. To argue with the boy now were futile, even\ndangerous. The lad had grown up with full knowledge of his parents'\nfond hopes for his future. He had never openly opposed them, although\nat times the worried mother would voice her fears to the father when\nher little son brought his perplexing questions to her and failed to\nfind satisfaction. But until this night the father had felt no alarm.\nIndeed, he had looked upon the child's inquisitiveness as but a\nlogical consequence of his precocity and unusual mental powers, in\nwhich he himself felt a father's swelling pride. To his thought it\naugured rapid promotion in the Church; it meant in time a Cardinal's\nhat. Ah, what glorious possibilities! How the prestige of the now\nsunken family would soar! Happily he had been aroused to an\nappreciation of the boy's really desperate state in time. The case\nshould go before the Archbishop to-morrow, and the Church should hear\nhis call to hasten to the rescue of this wandering lamb.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 4\n\n\nSeville is called the heart of Spain. In a deeper sense it is her\nsoul. Within it, extremes touch, but only to blend into a harmonious\nunit which manifests the Spanish temperament and character more truly\nthere than in any other part of the world. In its Andalusian\natmosphere the religious instinct of the Spaniard reaches its fullest\nembodiment. True, its bull-fights are gory spectacles; but they are\nalso gorgeous and solemn ceremonies. Its _ferias_ are tremendously\nworldly; but they are none the less stupendous religious _f\u00eates_. Its\npicturesque Easter processions, when colossal images of the Virgin are\ncarried among bareheaded and kneeling crowds, smack of paganism; but\nwe cannot question the genuineness of the religious fervor thus\ndisplayed. Its Cathedral touches the _arena_; and its Archbishop\nwashes the feet of its old men. Its religion is still the living force\nwhich unites and levels, exalts and debases. And its religion is\nRome.\n\nOn the fragrant spring morning following the discovery of the\nexecrated Voltaire, the little Jos\u00e8, tightly clutching his father's\nhand, threaded the narrow Sierpes and crossed the Prado de San\nSebastian, once the _Quemador_, where the Holy Inquisition was wont to\npurge heresy from human souls with fire. The father shuddered, and his\nstern face grew dark, as he thought of the revolting scenes once\nenacted in that place in the name of Christ; and he inwardly voiced a\nprayer of gratitude that the Holy Office had ceased to exist. Yet he\nknew that, had he lived in that day, he would have handed his beloved\nson over to that awful institution without demurral, rather than see\nhim develop those heretical views which were already rising from the\nsoil of his fertile, inquisitive mind.\n\nThe tinkling of a bell sounded down the street. Father and son quickly\ndoffed their hats and knelt on the pavement, while a priest, mounted\non a mule, rode swiftly past on his way to the bedside of a dying\ncommunicant, the flickering lights and jingling bell announcing the\nfact that he bore with him the Sacred Host.\n\n\"Please God, you will do the same some day, my son,\" murmured the\nfather. But the little Jos\u00e8 kept his eyes to the pavement, and would\nmake no reply.\n\nMeanwhile, at a splendidly carved table in the library of his palatial\nresidence, surrounded by every luxury that wealth and ecclesiastical\ninfluence could command, the Archbishop, pious shepherd of a restless\nflock, sat with clouded brow and heavy heart. The festive ceremonials\nof Easter were at hand, and the Church was again preparing to display\nher chief splendors. But on the preceding Easter disturbances had\ninterrupted the processions of the Virgin; and already rumors had\nreached the ears of the Archbishop of further trouble to be incited\nduring the approaching Holy Week by the growing body of skeptics and\nanticlericals. To what extent these liberals had assumed the\nproportions of a propaganda, and how active they would now show\nthemselves, were questions causing the holy man deep concern. Heavy\nsighs escaped him as he voiced his fears to his sympathetic secretary\nand associate, Rafa\u00e9l de Rinc\u00f3n, the gaunt, ascetic uncle of the\nlittle Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"Alas!\" he murmured gloomily. \"Since the day that our Isabella yielded\nto her heretic ministers and thrust aside the good Sister Patrocinio,\nSpain has been in a perilous state. After that unholy act the\ndethronement and exile of the Queen were inevitable.\"\n\n\"True, Your Eminence,\" replied the secretary. \"But is there no cause\nfor hope in the elevation of her son, Alfonso, to the throne?\"\n\n\"He is but seventeen--and absent from Spain six years. He lacks the\nforce of his talented mother. And there is no longer a Sister\nPatrocinio to command the royal ear.\"\n\n\"Unfortunate, I admit, Your Eminence. She bore the _stigmata_, the\nvery marks of our Saviour's wounds, imprinted on her flesh, and worked\nhis miracles. But, in Alfonso--\"\n\n\"No, no,\" interrupted the Archbishop impatiently; \"he has styled\nhimself the first Republican in Europe. He will make Catholicism the\nstate religion; but he will extend religious toleration to all. He is\nconsumptive in mind as well as in body. And the army--alas! what may\nwe look for from it when soldiers like this Polo Hernandez refuse to\nkneel during the Mass?\"\n\n\"The man has been arrested, Your Eminence,\" the secretary offered in\nconsolation.\n\n\"But the court-martial acquitted him!\"\n\n\"True. Yet he has now been summoned before the supreme court in\nMadrid.\"\n\nThe Archbishop's face brightened somewhat. \"And the result--what think\nyou?\"\n\nThe secretary shrugged his drooping shoulders. \"They will condemn\nhim.\"\n\nYes, doubtless he would be condemned, for mediaevalism dies hard in\nSpain. But the incident was portentous, and the Archbishop and his\nkeen secretary heard in it an ominous echo.\n\nA servant appeared at the heavy portieres, and at a sign from the\nsecretary ushered Jos\u00e8 and his father into the august presence\nawaiting them.\n\nAn hour later the pair emerged from the palace and started homeward.\nHis Eminence, rousing himself from the profound revery in which he had\nbeen sunk for some moments, turned to his expectant secretary.\n\n\"A Luther in embryo!\" he ejaculated.\n\n\"I feared as much, Your Eminence,\" returned the austere secretary.\n\n\"And yet, a remarkable intellect! Astonishing mental power! But all\ntainted with the damnable so-called scientific spirit!\"\n\n\"True, Your Eminence.\"\n\n\"But marked you not his deep reverence for God? And his sturdy\nhonesty? And how, despite his embarrassment, the religious zeal of his\nsoul shown forth?\"\n\n\"He is morbidly honest, Your Grace.\"\n\n\"A trait I wish we might employ to our own advantage,\" mused the\nchurchman. Then, continuing, \"He is learned far beyond his years.\nIndeed, his questions put me to some stress--but only for the\ndifficulty of framing replies intelligible to a mind so immature,\" he\nadded hastily. \"Either he feared my presence, or he is naturally\nshrinking.\"\n\n\"He is so by nature, Your Eminence.\"\n\nThe Archbishop reflected. \"Na\u00efve--pure--simple--mature, yet childish.\nHave we covered the ground?\"\n\n\"Not fully, Your Eminence. We omitted to mention his absorbing filial\ndevotion.\"\n\n\"True. And that, you tell me, is most pronounced.\"\n\n\"It is his strongest characteristic, Your Eminence. He has no will to\noppose it.\"\n\n\"Would that his devotion were for Holy Church!\" sighed the Archbishop.\n\n\"I think it may be so directed, Your Eminence,\" quickly returned the\nsecretary.\n\n\"But--would he ever consent to enter the priesthood? And once in,\nwould he not prove a most dangerous element?\"\n\nThe secretary made a deprecating gesture. \"If I may suggest, such a\nman as he promises to become is far more dangerous outside of the\nChurch than within, Your Eminence.\"\n\nThe Archbishop studied the man's face for a few moments. \"There is\ntruth in your words, my friend. Yet how, think you, may he be\nsecured?\"\n\n\"Your Eminence,\" replied the secretary warmly, \"pardon these\nsuggestions in matters where you are far better fitted to pass sound\njudgment than a humble servant of the Church like myself. But in this\ncase intimacy with my brother's family affords me data which may be\nserviceable in bringing this matter to a conclusion. If I may be\npermitted--\"\n\nThe Archbishop nodded an unctuous and patronizing appreciation of his\nelderly secretary's position, and the latter continued--\n\n\"Your Eminence, Holy Week is approaching, and we are beset with fears\nlest the spirit of heresy which, alas! is abroad in our fair city,\nshall manifest itself in such disturbances as may force us to abandon\nthese religious exercises in future. I need not point out the serious\nnature of these demonstrations. Nor need I suggest that their relative\nunimportance last year was due solely to lack of strong leadership.\nAlready our soldiers begin to refuse to kneel during the Mass. The\nHoly Church is not yet called upon to display her weapons. But who\nshall say to what measures she may not be forced when an able and\nfearless leader shall arise among the heretics? To-day there has stood\nbefore Your Eminence a lad possessing, in my opinion, the latent\nqualifications for such leadership. I say, latent. I use the term\nadvisedly, for I know that he appears to manifest the Rinc\u00f3n lack of\ndecision. But so did I at his age. And who can say when the unfolding\nof his other powers, now so markedly indicated, may not force the\ndevelopment of those certain traits of character in which he now seems\ndeficient, but which, developed, would make him a power in the world?\nShall the Church permit this promising lad to stray from her, possibly\nlater to join issue with her enemies and use his great gifts to\npropagate heresy and assault her foundations? Are we faithful to our\nbeloved Mother if we do not employ every means, foul or fair, to\ndestroy her enemies, even in the cradle? Remember, 'He who gains the\nyouth, possesses the future,' as the saying goes.\"\n\n\"Loyally spoken, faithful son,\" replied the Archbishop, shifting into\na more comfortable position. \"And you suggest--?\"\n\n\"This: that we wisely avail ourselves of his salient characteristics--his\nweaknesses, if you wish--and secure him now to the Church.\"\n\n\"And, more specifically--?\" with increasing animation.\n\n\"Your Eminence is already aware of the custom in our family of\nconsecrating the first-born son to the service of God. This boy has\nbeen so consecrated from birth. It is the dearest hope of his parents.\nAt present their wishes are still his law. Their judgments yet\nformulate his conduct. His sense of honor is acute. Your Eminence can\nsee that his word is sacred. His oath once taken would bind him\neternally. _It is for us to secure that oath!_\"\n\n\"And how?\" The Archbishop leaned forward eagerly.\n\n\"We, co\u00f6perating with his parents, will cater to his consuming passion\nfor learning, and offer him the education which the limited resources\nof his family cannot provide. We save him from the drudgery of\ncommercialism, and open to him the life of the scholar. We suggest to\nhim a career consecrated to study and holy service. The Church\neducates him--he serves his fellow-men through her. Once ordained, his\ncharacter is such, I believe, that he could never become an apostate.\nAnd, whatever his services to Holy Church may be thereafter, she at\nleast will have effectually disposed of a possible opponent. She has\nall to gain, and nothing to lose by such procedure. Unless I greatly\nmistake the Rinc\u00f3n character, the lad will yield to our inducements\nand his mother's prayers, the charm of the Church and the bias of her\ntutelage, and ultimately take the oath of ordination. After that--\"\n\n\"My faithful adviser,\" interrupted the Archbishop genially, as visions\nof the Cardinal's hat for eminent services hovered before him, \"write\nimmediately to Monsignor, Rector of the _Seminario_, in Rome. Say that\nhe must at once receive, at our expense and on our recommendation, a\nlad of twelve, who greatly desires to be trained for the priesthood.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 5\n\n\nThus did the Church open her arms to receive her wandering child. Thus\ndid her infallible wisdom, as expressed through her zealous agents in\nSeville, essay to solve the perplexing problems of this agitated\nlittle mind, and whisper to its confused throbbing, \"Peace, be still.\"\nThe final disposition came to the boy not without some measure of\nrelief, despite, his protest. The long days of argument and pleading,\nof assurance that within the Church he should find abundant and\nsatisfactory answers to his questions, and of explanations which he\nwas adjured to receive on faith until such time as he might be able to\nprove their soundness, had utterly exhausted his sensitive little\nsoul, and left him without the combative energy or will for further\nremonstrance.\n\nNor was the conflict solely a matching of his convictions against\nthe desires of his parents and the persuasions of the Archbishop and\nhis loyal secretary. The boy's hunger for learning alone might have\ncaused him to yield to the lure of a broad education. Moreover, his\nnature contained not one element of commercialism. The impossibility\nof entering the wine business with his father, or of spending his life\nin physical toil for a bare maintenance, was as patent to himself,\neven at that early age, as to his parents. His bent was wholly\nintellectual. But he knew that his father could not afford him an\neducation. Yet this the Church now offered freely. Again, his nature\nwas essentially religious. The Church now extended all her learning,\nall her vast resources, all her spiritual power, to develop and foster\nthis instinct. Nay, more, to protect and guide its development into\nright channels.\n\nThe fact, too, that the little Jos\u00e8 was a child of extreme emotions\nmust not be overlooked in an estimate of the influences which bore\nupon him during these trying days. His devotion to an object upon\nwhich he had set his affections amounted to obsession. He adored his\nparents--reverenced his father--worshiped his mother. The latter he\nwas wont to compare to the flowers, to the bright-plumed birds, to the\nbutterflies that hovered in the sunlight of their little _patio_. He\nindited childish poems to her, and likened her in purity and beauty to\nthe angels and the Virgin Mary. Her slightest wish was his inflexible\nlaw. Not that he was never guilty of childish faults of conduct, of\nlittle whims of stubbornness and petulance; but his character rested\non a foundation of honesty, sincerity, and filial love that was never\nshaken by the summer storms of naughtiness which at times made their\nlittle disturbances above.\n\nThe parents breathed a sigh of relief when the tired child at last\nbowed to their wishes and accepted the destiny thrust upon him. The\ncoming of a son to these loyal royalists and zealous Catholics had\nmeant the imposition of a sacred trust. That he was called to high\nservice in the Church of God was evidenced by Satan's early and\nmalicious attacks upon him. There was but one course for them to\npursue, and they did not for a moment question its soundness. To their\nthought, this precocious child lacked the wisdom and balance which\ncomes only with years. The infallible Church, their all-wise spiritual\nguide, supported their contentions. What they did was for her and for\nthe eternal welfare of the boy. Likewise, for the maintenance of\nfamily pride and honor in a generation tainted with liberalism and\ndistrust of the sacred traditions.\n\nThe Church, on the other hand, in the august person of the Archbishop,\nhad accomplished a triumph. She had recognized the child's unusual\ngifts of mind, and had been alert to the dangers they threatened. If\nsecured to herself, and their development carefully directed, they\nwould mold him into her future champion. If, despite her careful\nweeding and pruning, they expanded beyond the limits which she set,\n_they should be stifled_! The peculiar and complex nature of the child\noffered her a tremendous advantage. For, if reactionary, his own\nhighly developed sense of honor, together with his filial devotion and\nhis intense family pride, should of themselves be forced to choke all\nactivity in the direction of apostasy and liberalism. Heaven knew, the\nChurch could not afford to neglect any action which promised to secure\nfor her a loyal son; or, failing that, at least effectually check in\nits incipiency the development of a threatened opponent! Truly, as the\nastute secretary had said, this boy might prove troublesome within the\nfold; but he might also prove more dangerous without. Verily, it was\na triumph for the cause of righteousness! And after the final\ndisposition, the good Archbishop had sat far into the night in the\ncomfort of his _sanctum_, drowsing over his pleasant meditations on\nthe rewards which his unflagging devotion to the cause of Holy Church\nwas sure some day to bring.\n\nTime sped. The fragrant Sevillian spring melted into summer, and\nsummer merged with fall. The Rinc\u00f3n family was adjusting itself to the\nturn in the career of its heir, the guardian and depository of its\nrevived hopes. During the weeks which intervened between his first\ninterview with the Archbishop and his final departure for Rome, Jos\u00e8\nhad been carefully prepared by his uncle, who spared no effort to\nstimulate in the boy a proper appreciation of his high calling. He was\ntaught that as a priest of the Holy Catholic Church he would become a\nrepresentative of the blessed Christ among men. His mission would be\nto carry on the Saviour's work for the salvation of souls, and, with\nthe power of Christ and in His name, to instruct mankind in true\nbeliefs and righteous conduct. He would forgive sins, impose\npenalties, and offer sacrificial atonement in the body of the\nSaviour--in a word, he was to become _sacerdos alter Christus_,\nanother Christ. His training for this exalted work would cover a\nperiod of six or eight years, perhaps longer, and would fit him to\nbecome a power among men, a conserver of the sacred faith, and an\nensample of the highest morality.\n\n\"Ah, _sobrinito_,\" the sharp-visaged, gray-haired uncle had said,\n\"truly a fortunate boy are you to hear this grandest of opportunities\nknocking at your door! A priest--a God! Nay, even more than God, for\nas priest God gives you power over Himself!\"\n\nThe boy's wondering eyes widened, and a look of mingled confusion and\nastonishment came into his wan face. \"I do not see, _t\u00edo m\u00edo_--I do\nnot see,\" he murmured.\n\n\"But you shall, you shall! And you shall understand the awful\nresponsibility which God thus reposes upon you, when He gives you\npower to do greater things than He did when He created the world. You\nshall command the Christ, and He shall come down at your bidding. Ah,\n_chiquito_, a fortunate boy!\" But the lad turned wearily away, without\nsharing his uncle's enthusiasm.\n\nThe day before his departure Jos\u00e8 was again conducted before the\nArchbishop, and after listening to a lengthy r\u00e9sum\u00e9 of what the Church\nwas about to do for him, and what she expected in return, two solemn\nvows were exacted from him--\n\n\"First,\" announced the uncle, in low, deliberate tones, \"you will\nsolemnly promise your mother and your God that, daily praying to be\ndelivered from the baneful influences which now cause doubt and\nquestioning in your mind, and refraining from voicing them to your\nteachers or fellow-students, you will strive to accept all that is\ntaught you in Rome, deferring every endeavor to prove the teachings\nyou are to receive until the end of your long course, when, by\ntraining and discipline, you shall have so developed in goodness,\npurity, and power, that you shall be found worthy to receive spiritual\nconfirmation of the great tenets upon which the Holy Roman Catholic\nChurch has been founded and reared.\"\n\nHe paused for a moment to catch his breath and let his portentous\nwords sink into the quivering brain of the lad before him. Then he\nresumed--\n\n\"Second, keeping ever in mind your debt of gratitude to the Church,\nyou promise faithfully to finish your course, and at the end offer\nyourself to the service of God in the holy priesthood.\"\n\nThe solemn hush that lay over the room when he finished was broken\nonly by the muffled sobs of the mother.\n\nTender in years, plunged into grief at the impending separation from\nhome and all that he held dear, the boy knelt before the secretary and\ngave his trembling word to observe these obligations. Then, after he\nhad kissed the Bible and the Archbishop's extended hand, he threw\nhimself upon the floor in a torrent of tears.\n\nOn the following morning, a bright, sparkling November day, the little\nJos\u00e8, spent with emotion, tore himself from his mother's clinging\nembrace and set out for Rome, accompanied by his solicitous uncle.\n\n\"And, _queridito_,\" were the mother's last words, \"I have your promise\nthat never will you voluntarily leave the Church?\"\n\nThe appeal which his beseeching look carried back to her was not\ngranted. He slowly bowed his acquiescence, and turned away. A week\nlater he had entered upon the retreat with which the school year opens\nin the _Seminario_.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 6\n\n\nRome, like a fallen gladiator, spent and prostrate on the Alban\nhills, still awaits the issue of the conflict between the forces of\nlife and death within. Dead, where the blight of pagan and mediaeval\nsuperstition has eaten into the quivering tissues; it lives where\nthe pulsing current of modernism expands its shrunken arteries and\nbears the nourishing truth. Though eternal in tradition and\ncolossal in material achievement, the glory of the Imperial City\nnevertheless rests on a foundation of perishable human ambitions,\ncreeds, and beliefs, manifested outwardly for a time in brilliant\ndeeds, great edifices, and comprehensive codes, but always bearing\nwithin themselves the seeds of their own decay. No trophy brought to\nher gates in triumph by the Caesars ever approached in worth the\nsimple truth with which Paul of Tarsus, chained to his jailer,\nillumined his gloomy dungeon. Had the religious principles which he\nand his devoted associates labored so unselfishly to impart to a\nbenighted world for its own good been recognized by Rome as the\n\"pearl without price,\" she would have built upon them as foundation\nstones a truer glory, and one which would have drawn the nations of\nthe earth to worship within her walls. But Rome, in her master,\nConstantine, saw only the lure of a temporal advantage to be gained\nby fettering the totally misunderstood teachings of Jesus with the\nshackles of organized politics. From this unhallowed marriage of\nreligion and statecraft was born that institution unlike either\nparent, yet exhibiting modified characteristics of each, the Holy\nChurch. To this institution, now mighty in material riches and\npower, but still mediaeval in character, despite the assaults of\ncenturies of progress, a combination of political maneuver, bigotry,\nand weakness committed the young Jos\u00e8, tender, sensitive, receptive,\nand pure, to be trained as an agent to further its world-embracing\npolicies.\n\nThe retreat upon which the boy at once entered on his arrival at\nthe seminary extended over ten days. During this time there were\nperiods of solitary meditation--hours when his lonely heart cried out\nin anguish for his beloved mother--visits to the blessed sacrament,\nrecitations of the office, and consultations with his spiritual\nadvisers, at which times his promises to his parents and the\nArchbishop, coupled with his natural reticence and the embarrassment\noccasioned by his strange environment, sealed his lips and prevented\nthe voicing of his honest questions and doubts. It was sought\nthrough this retreat to so bring the lad under the influence of the\ngreat religious teachings as to most deeply impress his heart and\nmind with the importance of the seminary training upon which he had\nentered. His day began with the dreaded meditation at five in the\nmorning, followed by hearing the Mass and receiving Communion. It\nclosed, after study and class work, with another visit to the blessed\nsacrament, recital of the Rosary, spiritual reading, and prayer. On\nSundays he assisted at solemn High Mass in the church of the\n_Seminario Pio_. One day a week was a holiday; but only in the\nsense that it was devoted to visiting hospitals and charitable\ninstitutions, in order to acquire practical experience and a\nforetaste of his future work among the sick and needy. Clad in his\nlittle violet cassock, low-crowned, three-cornered hat, and\n_soprana_, he might be seen on these holidays trotting along with\nhis fellow-students in the wake of their superior, his brow\ngenerally contracted, and his childish face seldom lighted by a happy\nsmile.\n\nThe first year passed without special incident. The boy, filled with\nthat quenchless ambition to know, which characterizes the finest\nminds, entered eagerly upon his studies and faithfully observed his\npromises. If his tender soul warped and his fresh, receptive mind\nshriveled under the religious tutelage he received, no one but himself\nknew it, not even his fond mother, as she clasped him again in her\narms when he returned home for the first summer vacation. With the\nsecond year there began studies of absorbing interest to the boy, and\nthe youthful mind fed hungrily. This seemed to have the effect of\nexpanding somewhat his self-contained little soul. He appeared to grow\nout of himself to a certain extent, to become less timid, less\nreticent, even more sociable; and when he returned to Seville again at\nthe close of the year he had apparently lost much of the somberness of\ndisposition which had previously characterized him. The Archbishop\nexamined him closely; but the boy, speaking little, gave no hint of\nthe inner working of his thought; and if his soul seethed and\nfermented within, the Rinc\u00f3n pride and honor covered it with a placid\ndemeanor and a bearing of outward calm. When the interview ended and\nthe lad had departed, the Archbishop descended to the indignity of\nroundly slapping his ascetic secretary on his emaciated back, as an\nindication of triumphant joy. The boy certainly was being charmed into\ndeep devotion to the Church! He was fast being bound to her altars!\nAgain the glorious spectacle of the Church triumphant in molding a\nwavering youth into a devoted son!\n\nFour years passed thus, almost in silence on the boy's part. Yet his\ncharacter suffered little change. At home he strove to avoid all\nmention of the career upon which he was entering, although he gave\nslight indication of dissatisfaction with it. He was punctilious in\nhis attendance upon religious services; but to have been otherwise\nwould have brought sorrow to his proud, happy parents. His days were\nspent in complete absorption in his books, or in writing in his\njournal. The latter he had begun shortly before entering the seminary,\nand it was destined to exert a profound influence upon his life. Often\nhis parents would playfully urge him to read to them from it; but the\nboy, devotedly obedient and filial in every other respect steadfastly\nbegged permission to refuse these requests. In that little whim the\nfond parents humored him, and he was left largely alone to his books\nand his meditations.\n\nDuring Jos\u00e8's fourth summer vacation a heavy sorrow suddenly fell upon\nhim and plunged him into such an excess of grief that it was feared\nhis mind would give way. His revered father, advanced in years, and\nweakened by overwork and business worries, succumbed to the malaria so\nprevalent in Seville during the hot months and passed away, after a\nbrief illness. The blow descended with terrific force upon the\nmorbidly disposed lad. It was his first intimate experience with\ndeath. For days after the solemn events of the mourning and funeral he\nsat as one stunned, holding his mother's hand and staring dumbly into\nspace; or for hours paced to and fro in the little _patio_, his face\nrigidly set and his eyes fixed vacantly on the ground beneath. The\nwork of four years in opening his mind, in expanding his thought, in\ndrawing him out of his habitual reticence and developing within him\nthe sense of companionship and easy tolerance, was at one stroke\nrendered null. Brought face to face with the grim destroyer, all the\ndoubt and confusion of former years broke the bounds which had held\nthem in abeyance and returned upon him with increased insistence.\nNever before had he felt so keenly the impotence of mortal man and the\nfutility of worldly strivings. Never had he seen so clearly the fatal\ndefects in the accepted interpretation of Christ's mission on earth.\nHis earlier questionings returned in violent protests against the\nemptiness of the beliefs and formalities of the Church. In times past\nhe had voiced vague and dimly outlined perceptions of her spiritual\nneeds. But now to him these needs had suddenly taken definite form.\nJesus had healed the sick of all manner of disease. He himself was\nbeing trained to represent the Christ on earth. Would he, too, be\ntaught to heal the sick as the Master had done? The blessed Saviour\nsaid, \"The works that I do, ye shall do also.\" But the priests, his\nrepresentatives, clearly were not doing the works of the Master. And\nif he himself had been an ordained priest at the time of his father's\ndeath, could he have saved him? No, he well knew that he could not.\nAnd yet he would have been the Saviour's representative among men.\nAlas! how poor a one he well knew.\n\nIn his stress of mind he sought his uncle, and by him was again led\nbefore the Archbishop. His reticence and timidity dispersed by his\ngreat sorrow, the distraught boy faced the high ecclesiastic with\nquestions terribly blunt.\n\n\"Why, my Father, after four years in the _Seminario_, am I not being\ntaught to do the works which our blessed Saviour did?\"\n\nThe placid Archbishop stared at the boy in dumb astonishment. Again,\nafter years of peace that had promised quiescence on these mooted\npoints! Well, he must buckle on his armor--if indeed he had not\noutgrown it quite--and prepare to withstand anew the assaults of the\ndevil!\n\n\"H'm!--to be specific, my son--you mean--?\" The great man was\nsparring.\n\n\"Why do we not heal the sick as he did?\" the boy explained tersely.\n\n\"Ah!\" The peace-loving man of God breathed easier. How simple! The\ndevil was firing a cracked blunderbuss.\n\n\"My son,\" he advanced with paternal unction, \"you have been taught--or\nshould have been, ere this--that the healing miracles of our blessed\nSaviour belong to a dispensation long past. They were special signs\nfrom God, given at the time of establishing His Church on earth, to\nconvince an incredulous multitude. They are not needed now. We\nconvince by logic and reason and by historical witnesses to the deeds\nof the Saints and our blessed Saviour.\" As he pronounced this sacred\nname the holy man devoutly crossed himself. \"Men would believe no more\nreadily to-day,\" he added easily, \"even if they should see miracles of\nhealing, for they would attribute them to the human mentality, to\nsuggestion, hypnotism, hallucination, and the like. Even the mighty\ndeeds of Christ were attributed to Beelzebub.\" The complacent Father\nsettled back into his chair with an air of having disposed for all\ntime of the mooted subject of miracles.\n\n\"That begs the question, my Father!\" returned the boy quickly and\nexcitedly. \"And as I read church history it is thus that the question\nhas been begged ever since the first century!\"\n\n\"What!\" The Archbishop was waxing hot. \"Do you, a mere child of\nsixteen, dare to dispute the claims of Holy Church?\"\n\n\"My Father,\" the boy spoke slowly and with awful earnestness, \"I have\nbeen four years in the _Seminario_. I do not find the true Christ\nthere; nor do I think I shall find him within the Church.\"\n\n\"_Sanctissima Maria!_\" The Archbishop bounded to his feet \"Have you\nsold yourself to the devil?\" he exploded. \"Have you fed these years at\nthe warm breasts of the Holy Mother, only to turn now and rend her?\nHave you become a Protester? Apostate and forsworn!\"\n\n\"My Father,\" the boy returned calmly, \"did Jesus tell the truth--or\ndid he lie? If he spoke truth, then I think he is _not_ in the\nChurch to-day. She has wholly misunderstood him--or else she--she\ndeliberately falsifies.\"\n\nThe Archbishop sank gasping into his chair.\n\nJos\u00e8 went on. \"You call me apostate and forsworn. I am neither. One\ncannot become apostate when he has never believed. As to being\nforsworn--I am a Rinc\u00f3n!\"\n\nThe erect head and flashing eyes of the youth drew an involuntary\nexclamation of approval from the anxious secretary, who had stood\nstriving to evolve from his befuddled wits some course adequate to the\nstrained situation.\n\nBut the boy's proud bearing was only momentary. The wonted look of\ntroubled wistfulness again settled over his face, and his shoulders\nbent to their accustomed stoop, as if his frail body were slowly\ncrushing beneath a tremendous burden.\n\n\"My Father,\" he continued sadly, \"do not the Gospels show that Jesus\nproved the truth of all he taught by doing the works which we call\nmiracles? But does the Church to-day by any great works prove a single\none of her teachings? You say that Christianity no longer needs the\nhealing of the sick in order to prove its claims. I answer that, if\nso, it likewise no longer needs the preaching of the gospel, for I\ncannot find that Jesus made any distinction between the two. Always he\ncoupled one with the other. His command was ever, 'Preach the gospel,\nheal the sick!' His works of healing were simply signs which showed\nthat he understood what he taught. They were his proofs, and they\nfollowed naturally his great understanding of God. But what proofs do\nyou offer when you ask mankind to accept your preaching? Jesus said,\n'He that believeth on me, the works that I do shall he do also.' If\nyou do not do the works which he did, it shows plainly that you do not\nbelieve on him--that is, that you do not understand him. When I am an\nordained priest, and undertake to preach the gospel to the world, must\nI confess to my people that I cannot prove what I am teaching? Must I\nconfess that there is no proof within the Church? Is it not so, that\ntrue believers in Jesus Christ believe exactly in the proportion in\nwhich they obey him and do his works?\"\n\nThe boy paused for breath. The Archbishop and his secretary sat\nspellbound before him. Then he resumed--\n\n\"How the consecrated wafer through the words of a priest becomes the\nreal body of Christ, I am as yet unable to learn. I do not believe it\ndoes. How priests can grant absolution for sins when, to me, sins are\nforgiven only when they are forsaken, I have not been taught. I do not\nbelieve they can. The Church assumes to teach these things, but it\ncannot prove them. From the great works of Jesus and his apostles it\nhas descended to the blessing of _milagros_ and candles, to the\nworship of the Virgin and man-made Saints, to long processions, to\nshow and glitter--while without her doors the poor, the sick and the\ndying stretch out their thin, white hands and beseech her to save\nthem, not from hell or purgatory in a supposed life to come, but from\nmisery, want and ignorance right here in this world, as Jesus told his\nfollowers they should do. If you can show forth the omnipotence of God\nby healing the sick and raising the dead, I could accept that as proof\nof your understanding of the teachings of Jesus--and what you _really_\nunderstand you can demonstrate and teach to others. Theological\nquestions used to bother me, but they do so no longer. Holy oil, holy\nwater, blessed candles, incense, images and display do not interest me\nas they did when a child, nor do they any longer seem part of an\nintelligent worship of God. But\"--his voice rising in animation--\"to\ntouch the blind man's eyes and see them open; to bid the leper be\nclean, and see his skin flush with health--ah! that is to worship God\nin spirit and in truth--that is to prove that you understand what\nJesus taught and are obeying, not part, but _all_ of his commands. I\nam not apostate\"--he concluded sadly--\"I never did fully believe that\nthe religion of Jesus is the religion which the Church to-day preaches\nand pretends to practice. I do not believe in her heaven, her\npurgatory or her hell, nor do I believe that her Masses move God to\nrelease souls from torment. I do not believe in her powers to pardon\nand curse. I do not believe in her claims of infallibility. But--\"\n\nHe hesitated a moment, as if not quite sure of his ground. Then his\nface glowed with sudden eagerness, and he cried, \"My Father, the\nChurch needs the light--do you not see it?--do you not, my uncle?\"\nturning appealingly to the hard-faced secretary. \"Can we not work to\nhelp her, and through her reach the world? Should not the Church\nrightly be the greatest instrument for good? But how can she teach the\ntruth when she herself is so filled with error? How can she preach the\ngospel when she knows not what the gospel is? But Jesus said that if\nwe obeyed him we should know of the doctrine, should know the true\nmeaning of the gospel. But we must first obey. We must not only\npreach, but we must become spiritually minded enough to heal the\nsick--\"\n\n\"_Dios nos guarde!_\" interrupted the Archbishop, attempting to rise,\nbut prevented by his secretary, who laid a restraining hand on his\narm. The latter then turned to the overwrought boy.\n\n\"My dear Jos\u00e8,\" he said, smiling patronizingly upon the youth,\nalthough his cold eyes glittered like bits of polished steel, \"His\nEminence forgives your hasty words, for he recognizes your earnestness,\nand, moreover, is aware how deeply your heart is lacerated by your\nrecent bereavement. But, further--and I say this in confidence to\nyou--His Eminence and I have discussed these very matters to which you\nrefer, and have long seen the need of certain changes within the\nChurch which will redound to her glory and usefulness. And you must know\nthat the Holy Father in Rome also recognizes these needs, and sees,\ntoo, the time when they will be met. However, his great wisdom\nprevents him from acting hastily. You must remember that our blessed\nSaviour suffered many things to be so for the time, although he knew\nthey would be altered in due season. So it is with the Church. Her\nchildren are not all deep thinkers, like yourself, but are for the most\npart poor and ignorant people, who could not understand your high\nviews. They must be led in ways with which they are familiar until\nthey can be lifted gradually to higher planes of thought and conduct.\nIs it not so? You are one who will do much for them, my son--but you\nwill accomplish nothing by attempting suddenly to overthrow the\nestablished traditions which they reverence, nor by publicly prating\nabout the Church's defects. Your task will be to lead them gently,\nimperceptibly, up out of darkness into the light, which, despite your\naccusations, _does_ shine in the Church, and is visible to all who\nrightly seek it. You have yet four years in the _Seminario_. You gave\nus your promise--the Rinc\u00f3n word--that you would lay aside these\ndoubts and questionings until your course was completed. We do not\nhold you--_but you hold yourself to your word_! Our sincere advice\nis that you keep your counsel, and silently work with us for the Church\nand mankind. The Church will offer you unlimited opportunities for\nservice. She is educating you. Indeed, has she not generously given you\nthe very data wherewith you are enabled now to accuse her? You will\nfind her always the same just, tolerant, wise Mother, leading her\nchildren upward as fast as they are able to journey. Her work is\nuniversal, and she is impervious to the shafts of envy, malice, and\nhatred which her enemies launch at her. She has resources of which you\nas yet know nothing. In the end she will triumph. You are offered an\nopportunity to contribute toward that triumph and to share in it.\nHis Eminence knows that you will not permit Satan to make you reject\nthat offer now.\"\n\nThe secretary's sharp, beady eyes looked straight into those of the\nyouth, and held him. His small, round head, with its low brow and\ngrizzled locks, waved snake-like on the man's long neck. His tall\nform, in its black cassock, bent over the lad like a spectre. His\nslender arms, of uncanny length, waved constantly before him; and the\nlong, bony fingers seemed to reach into the boy's very soul and choke\nthe springs of life at their origin. His reasoning took the form of\nsuggestion, bearing the indisputable stamp of authority. Again, the\nboy, confused and uncertain, bowed before years and worldly\nexperience, and returned to his solitude and the companionship of his\nbooks and his writing.\n\n\"Occupy till I come,\" the patient Master had tenderly said. From\nearliest boyhood Jos\u00e8 had heard this clarion call within his soul. And\nstriving, delving, plodding, he had sought to obey--struggling toward\nthe distant gleam, toward the realization of something better and\nnearer the Master's thought than the childish creeds of his\nfellow-men--something warmer, more vital than the pulseless decrees of\necumenical councils--something to solve men's daily problems here on\nearth--something to heal their diseases of body and soul, and lift\nthem into that realm of spiritual thinking where material pleasures,\nsensations, and possessions no longer form the single aim and\nexistence of mankind, and life becomes what in reality it is, eternal\necstasy! The Christ had promised! And Jos\u00e8 would occupy and wait in\nfaith until, with joy inexpressible, he should behold the shining form\nof the Master at the door of his opened tomb.\n\n\"With Your Eminence's permission I will accompany the boy back to\nRome,\" the secretary said one day, shortly before Jos\u00e8's return to the\nseminary. \"I will consult with the Rector, and suggest that certain\nand special tutelage be given the lad. Let them bring their powers of\nreasoning and argument to bear upon him, to the end that his thinking\nmay be directed into proper channels before it is too late. _Hombre!_\"\nhe muttered, as with head bent and hands clasped behind his back he\nslowly paced before the Archbishop. \"To think that he is a Rinc\u00f3n! And\nyet, but sixteen--a babe--a mere babe!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 7\n\n\nIt must have been, necessarily, a very complex set of causes that\ncould lay hold on a boy so really gifted as Jos\u00e8 de Rinc\u00f3n and,\nagainst his instincts and, on the part of those responsible for the\ndeed, with the certain knowledge of his disinclination, urge him into\nthe priesthood of a religious institution with which congenitally he\nhad but little in common.\n\nTo begin with, the bigoted and selfish desires of his parents found in\nthe boy's filial devotion a ready and sufficient means of compelling\nhim to any sacrifice of self. Only a thorough understanding of the\nSpanish temperament will enable one to arrive at a just estimate of\nJos\u00e8's character, and the sacredness of the promises given his mother.\nThough the child might pine and droop like a cankered rosebud, yet he\nwould never cease to regard the sanctity of his oath as eternally\nbinding. And the mother would accept the sacrifice, for her love for\nher little son was clouded by her great ambitions in respect to his\nearthly career, and her genuine solicitude for his soul's eternal\nwelfare.\n\nFamily tradition, sacred and inviolable, played its by no means\nsmall part in this affair. Custom, now as inviolable as the Jewish\nlaw, decreed that the first-born son should sink his individuality\ninto that of the Mother Church. And to the Spaniard, _costumbre_\nis law. Again, the vacillating and hesitant nature of the boy\nhimself contributed largely to the result; for, though supremely\ngifted in receptivity and broadness of mind, in critical analysis\nand keenness of perception, he nevertheless lacked the energy of will\nnecessary to the shaping of a life-course along normal lines. The boy\nknew what he preferred, yet he said _Amen_ both to the prayers of\nhis parents and the suggestions of doubt which his own mind offered.\nHe was weakest where the greatest firmness was demanded. His love\nof study, his innate shrinking from responsibility, and his\nrepugnance toward discord and strife--in a word, his lack of\nfighting qualities--naturally caused him to seek the lines of least\nresistance, and thus afforded a ready advantage to those who sought\nto influence him.\n\nBut why, it may be asked, such zeal on the part of the Archbishop and\nhis secretary in forcing upon the boy a career to which they knew he\nwas disinclined? Why should loyal agents of the Church so tirelessly\nurge into the priesthood one who might prove a serpent in her bosom?\n\nThe Archbishop may be dismissed from this discussion. That his motives\nwere wholly above the bias of worldly ambition, we may not affirm. Yet\nwe know that he was actuated by zeal for the Church; that he had its\nadvancement, its growth in power and prestige always at heart. And we\nknow that he would have rejoiced some day to boast, \"We have saved to\nthe Church a brilliant son who threatened to become a redoubtable\nenemy.\" The forces operating for and against this desideratum seemed\nto him about equally matched. The boy was still very young. His mind\nwas as yet in the formative period, and would be for some years. If\nthe Church could secure her hold upon him during this period she would\ndoubtless retain it for all time; for, as the sagacious secretary so\noften quoted to his superior, \"Once a priest, always a priest,\"\nemphasizing the tenet that the character imprinted by ordination is\nineffaceable.\n\nAs for the secretary, he was a Rinc\u00f3n, proud and bigoted, and withal\nfanatically loyal to the Church as an institution, whatever its or\nhis own degree of genuine piety. It was deeply galling to his\necclesiastical pride to see the threatened development of heretical\ntendencies in a scion of his house. These were weeds which must\nand should be choked, cost what it might! To this end any means were\njustified, for \"What doth it profit a man to gain the whole world\nand lose his own soul?\" And the Rinc\u00f3n soul had been molded centuries\nago. The secretary hated the rapidly developing \"scientific\" spirit\nof the age and the \"higher criticism\" with a genuine and deadly\nhatred. His curse rested upon all modern culture. To him, the Jesuit\ncollege at Rome had established the level of intellectual freedom.\nHe worshiped the landmarks which the Fathers had set, and he would\nhave opposed their removal with his life. No, the Rinc\u00f3n traditions\nmust be preserved at whatever cost! The heretical buddings within Jos\u00e8\nshould be checked; he should enter the priesthood; his thinking\nshould be directed into proper channels; his mind should be bent into\nconformity with Holy Church! If not--but there was no alternative.\nThe all-powerful Church could and would accomplish it.\n\nIn the choice of Rafa\u00e9l de Rinc\u00f3n as secretary and assistant, the\nArchbishop had secured to himself a man of vast knowledge of\necclesiastical matters, of great acumen, and exceptional ability. The\nman was a Jesuit, and a positive, dynamic representative of all that\nthe order stands for. He was now in his sixty-eighth year, but as\nvigorous of mind and body as if he bore but half his burden of age.\nFor some years prior to his connection with the See of Seville he had\nserved in the royal household at Madrid. But, presumably at the\nrequest of Queen Isabella, he had been peremptorily summoned to Rome\nsome three years before her exile; and when he again left the Eternal\nCity it was with the tentative papal appointment to Seville.\n\nJust why Padre Rafa\u00e9l had been relieved of his duties in Madrid was\nnever divulged. But gossip supplied the paucity of fact with the usual\ndelectable speculations, the most persistent of which had to do with\nthe rumored birth of a royal child. The deplorable conduct of the\nQueen after her enforced marriage to Don Francisco D'Assis had thrown\nthe shadow of suspicion on the legitimacy of all her children; and\nwhen it began to be widely hinted that Padre Rafa\u00e9l, were he so\ndisposed, might point to a humble cottage in the sunlit hills of\nGranada where lay a tiny _Infanta_, greatly resembling the famous\nsinger and favorite of the Queen, Marfori, Marquis de Loja, Isabella's\nalarm was sufficient to arouse the Vatican to action. With the removal\nof Padre Rafa\u00e9l, and the bestowal of the \"_Golden Rose of Faith and\nVirtue_\" upon the Queen by His Holiness, Pio Nono, the rumor quickly\nsubsided, and was soon forgotten.\n\nWhether because of this supposed secret Padre Rafa\u00e9l was in favor at\nthe court of Pio Nono's successor, we may not say. The man's character\nwas quite enigmatical, and divulged nothing. But, if we may again\nappeal to rumor, he did appear to have influence in papal circles. And\nwe are not sure that he did not seek to augment that influence by\nsecuring his irresolute little nephew to the Church. And yet, the\nsincerity of his devotion to the papacy cannot be questioned, as\nwitness his services to Pius IX., \"the first Christian to achieve\ninfallibility,\" during the troublesome years of 1870-71, when the\nFrench _d\u00e9b\u00e2cle_ all but scuttled the papal ship of state. And if now\nhe sought to use his influence at the Vatican, we shall generously\nattribute it to his loyalty to Rinc\u00f3n traditions, and his genuine\nconcern for the welfare of the little Jos\u00e8, rather than to any desire\nto advance his own ecclesiastical status.\n\nBut, it may be asked, during the eight years of Jos\u00e8's course in the\nseminary, did his tutors not mark the forces at work in the boy's\nsoul? And if so, why did they not urge his dismissal as unfit for the\ncalling of the priesthood?\n\nBecause, true to his promises, and stubbornly hugging the fetish of\nfamily pride, the boy gave but little indication during the first four\nyears of his course of the heretical doubts and disbeliefs fermenting\nwithin his troubled mind. And when, after the death of his father and\nits consequent release of the flood of protest and mental disquiet so\nlong pent up within him, the uncle returned to Rome with the lad to\nadvise his instructors to bring extra pressure to bear upon him in\norder to convince him of the truths upon which the Church rested, Jos\u00e8\nsubsided again into his wonted attitude of placid endurance, even of\npartial acceptance of the religious tutelage, and seldom gave further\nsign of inner discord. Acting upon the suggestions of the uncle,\nJos\u00e8's instructors took special pains to parade before him the\nevidence and authorities supporting the claims of Holy Church and the\ngrand tenets upon which the faith reposed. In particular were the\narguments of Cardinal Newman cited to him, and the study of the\nlatter's Apology was made a requirement of his course. The writings of\nthe great Cardinal Manning also were laid before him, and he was told\nto find therein ample support for all assumptions of the Church.\n\nSilently and patiently the boy to outward appearance acquiesced; but\noften the light of his midnight candle might have revealed a wan face,\nfrowning and perplexed, while before him lay the Cardinal's argument\nfor belief in the miraculous resuscitation of the Virgin Mary--the\nargument being that the story is a beautiful one, and a comfort to\nthose pious souls who think it true!\n\nOften, too, there lay before him the words of the great Newman:\n\n  \"You may be taken away young; you may live to fourscore; you may\n  die in your bed, or in the open field--but if Mary intercedes for\n  you, that day will find you watching and ready. All things will be\n  fixed to secure your salvation, all dangers will be foreseen, all\n  obstacles removed, all aid provided.\"\n\nAnd as often he would close the book and drop his head in wonder that\na man so humanly great could believe in an infinite, omnipotent God\namenable to influence, even to that of the sanctified Mary.\n\n\"The Christ said, 'These signs shall follow them that believe,'\" he\nsometimes murmured, as he sat wrapped in study. \"But do the Master's\nsigns follow the Cardinals? Yet these men say they believe. What can\nthey do that other men can not? Alas, nothing! What boots their\nsterile faith?\"\n\nThe limitations with which the lad was hedged about in the _Seminario_\nquite circumscribed his existence there. All lay influences were\ncarefully excluded, and he learned only what was selected for him\nby his teachers. Added to this narrowing influence was his promise\nto his mother that he would read nothing proscribed by the Church. Of\nBible criticism, therefore, he might know nothing. For original\ninvestigation of authorities there was neither permission nor\nopportunity. He was taught to discount historical criticism, and to\nregard anarchy as the logical result of independence of thought.\nHe was likewise impressed with the fact that he must not question the\nofficial acts of Holy Church.\n\n\"But,\" he once remonstrated, \"it was by an ecumenical council--a group\nof frail human beings--that the Pope was declared infallible! And that\nonly a few years ago!\"\n\n\"The council but set its seal of affirmation to an already great and\nestablished fact,\" was the reply. \"As the supreme teacher and definer\nof the Church of God no Pope has ever erred, nor ever can err, in the\nexposition of revealed truth.\"\n\n\"But Tito Cennini said in class but yesterday that many of the Popes\nhad been wicked men!\"\n\n\"You must learn to distinguish, my son, between the man and the\noffice. No matter what the private life of a Pope may have been, the\nvalidity of his official acts is not thereby affected. Nor is the\ndoctrine of the Church.\"\n\n\"But,--\"\n\n\"Nay, my son; this is what the Church teaches; and to slight it is to\nemperil your soul.\"\n\nBut, despite his promises to his mother and the Archbishop, and in\ndespite, too, of his own conscientious endeavor to keep every\ncontaminating influence from entering his mind, he could not prevent\nthis same Tito from assiduously cultivating his friendship, and\nvoicing the most liberal and worldly opinions to him.\n\n\"_Perdio_, but you are an ignorant animal, Jos\u00e8!\" ejaculated the\nlittle rascal one day, entering Jos\u00e8's room and throwing himself upon\nthe bed. \"Why, didn't you know that the Popes used to raise money by\nselling their pardons and indulgences? That fellow Tetzel, back in\nLuther's time, rated sacrilege at nine ducats, murder at seven,\nwitchcraft at six, and so on. Ever since the time of Innocent VIII.\nimmunity from purgatory could be bought. It was his chamberlain who\nused to say, 'God willeth not the death of a sinner, but that he\nshould pay and live.' Ha! ha! Those were good old days, _amico m\u00edo_!\"\n\nBut the serious Jos\u00e8, to whom honor was a sacred thing, saw not his\ncompanion's cause for mirth. \"Tito,\" he hazarded, \"our instructor\ntells us that we must distinguish--\"\n\n\"Ho! ho!\" laughed the immodest Tito, \"if the Apostolic virtue has been\nhanded down from the great Peter through the long line of Bishops of\nRome and later Popes, what happened to it when there were two or three\nPopes, in the Middle Ages? And which branch retained the unbroken\nsuccession? Of a truth, _amico_, you are very credulous!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 looked at him horrified.\n\n\"And which branch now,\" continued the irrepressible Tito, \"holds a\nmonopoly of the Apostolic virtue, the Anglican Church, the Greek, or\nthe Roman Catholic? For each claims it, and each regards its rival\nclaimants as rank heretics.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 could not but dwell long and thoughtfully on this. Then, later,\nhe again sought the graceless Tito. \"_Amico_,\" he said eagerly, \"why\ndo not these claimants of the true Apostolic virtue seek to prove\ntheir claims, instead of, like pouting children, vainly spending\nthemselves in denouncing their rivals?\"\n\n\"_Prove them!_\" shouted Tito. \"And how, _amico m\u00edo_?\"\n\n\"Why,\" returned Jos\u00e8 earnestly, \"by doing the works the Apostles did;\nby healing the sick, and raising the dead, and--\"\n\nTito answered with a mocking laugh. \"_Perdio, amico!_ know you not\nthat if they submitted to such proof not one of the various\ncontestants could substantiate his claims?\"\n\n\"Then, oh, then how could the council declare the Pope to be\ninfallible?\"\n\nTito regarded his friend pityingly. \"My wonder is, _amico_,\" he\nreplied seriously, \"that they did not declare him _immortal_ as well.\nWhen you read the true history of those exciting days and learn\nsomething of the political intrigue with which the Church was then\nconnected, you will see certain excellent reasons why the Holy Father\nshould have been declared infallible. But let me ask you, _amico_, if\nyou have such doubts, why are you here, of all places? Surely it is\nnot your own life-purpose to become a priest!\"\n\n\"My life-purpose,\" answered Jos\u00e8 meditatively, \"is to find my soul--my\n_real_ self.\"\n\nTito went away shaking his head. He could not understand such a\ncharacter as that of Jos\u00e8. But, for that matter, no one ever\nfathoms a fellow-being. And so we who have attempted a sketch of\nthe boy's mentality will not complain if its complexity prevents\nus from adequately setting it forth. Rather shall we feel that we\nhave accomplished much if we have shown that the lad had no slight\njustification for the budding seeds of religious doubt within his\nmind, and for concluding that of the constitution of God men\nknow nothing, despite their fantastical theories and their bold\naffirmations, as if He were a man in their immediate neighborhood,\nwith whom they were on the most intimate terms.\n\nIn the course of time Jos\u00e8 found the companionship of Tito increasingly\nunendurable, and so he welcomed the formation of another friendship\namong his mates, even though it was with a lad much older than himself,\nBernardo Damiano, a candidate for ordination, and one thoroughly\nindoctrinated in the faith of Holy Church. With open and receptive\nheart our young Levite eagerly availed himself of his new friend's\nvoluntary discourses on the mooted topics about which his own thought\nincessantly revolved.\n\n\"Fear not, Jos\u00e8, to accept all that is taught you here,\" said Bernardo\nin kindly admonition; \"for if this be not the very doctrine of the\nChrist himself, where else will you find it? Among the Protesters?\nNay, they have, it is true, hundreds of churches; and they call\nthemselves Christians. But their religion is as diverse as their\nchurches are numerous, and it is not of God or Jesus Christ. They have\nimpiously borrowed from us. Their emasculated creeds are only\nassumptions of human belief. They recognize no law of consistency, and\nso they enjoy unbridled license. They believe what they please, and\neach interprets Holy Writ to suit his own fantastical whims.\"\n\n\"But, the Popes--\" began Jos\u00e8, returning again to his troublesome\ntopic.\n\n\"Yes, and what of them?\" replied his friend calmly. \"Can you not see\nbeyond the human man to the Holy Office? The Holy Father is the\nsuccessor of the great Apostle Peter, whom our blessed Saviour\nappointed his Vicar on earth, and constituted the supreme teacher and\njudge in matters of morals. Remember, _Jesus Christ founded the\nCatholic religion_! He established the Church, which he commanded all\nmen to support and obey. That Church is still, and always will be, the\ninfallible teacher of truth, for Jesus declared that it should never\nfall. Let not Satan lead you to the Protesters, Jos\u00e8, for their creeds\nare but snares and pitfalls.\"\n\n\"I know nothing of Protestant creeds, nor want to,\" answered Jos\u00e8. \"If\nJesus Christ established the Catholic religion, then I want to accept\nit, and shall conclude that my doubts and questionings are but the\nwhisperings of Satan. But--\"\n\n\"But what, my friend? The Popes again?\" Bernardo laughed, and put his\narm affectionately about the younger lad. \"The Pope, Jos\u00e8, is, always\nhas been, and always will be, supreme, crowned with the triple crown\nas king of earth, and heaven, and hell. We mortals have not made him\nso. Heaven alone did that. God himself made our Pontiff of the Holy\nCatholic Church superior even to the angels; and if it were possible\nfor them to believe contrary to the faith, he could judge them and lay\nthe ban of excommunication upon them.\"\n\nJos\u00e8's eyes widened while his friend talked. Was he losing his own\nsenses? Or was it true, as his lamented father had said, that he had\nbeen cast under the spell of the devil's wiles? Had he been\nforeordained to destruction by his own heretical thought? For, if what\nhe heard in Rome was truth, then was he damned, irrevocably!\n\n\"Come,\" said his friend, taking his arm; \"let us go to the library and\nread the _Credo_ of the Holy Father, Pius the Fourth, wherein is set\nforth in detail the doctrinal system of our beloved Church. And let me\nurge you, my dear young friend, to accept it, unreservedly, and be at\npeace, else will your life be a ceaseless torment.\"\n\nOh, that he could have done so! That he could have joined those\nthousands of faithful, loyal adherents to Holy Church, who find in its\ndoctrines naught that stimulates a doubt, nor urges against the divine\ninstitution of its gorgeous, material fabric!\n\nBut, vain desire! \"I cannot! I cannot!\" he wailed in the dark hours of\nnight upon his bed. \"I cannot love a God who has to be prayed to by\nSaints and Virgin, and persuaded by them not to damn His own children!\nI cannot believe that the Pope, a mere human being, can canonize\nSaints and make spiritual beings who grant the prayers of men and\nintercede with God for them! Yes, I know there are multitudes of good\npeople who believe and accept the doctrines of the Church. But, alas!\nI am not one of them, nor can be.\"\n\nFor, we repeat, the little Jos\u00e8 was morbidly honest. And this gave\nrise to fear, a corroding fear that he might not do right by his\nGod, his mother, and himself, the three variants in his complex\nlife-equation. His self-condemnation increased; yet his doubts\nkept pace with it. He more than ever distrusted his own powers after\nhis first four years in the seminary. He more than ever lacked\nself-confidence. He was more than ever vacillating, hesitant, and\ninfirm of purpose. He even at times, when under the pall of\nmelancholia, wondered if he had really loved his deceased father,\nand whether it was real grief which he felt at his parent's demise.\nOften, too, when fear and doubt pressed heavily, and his companions\navoided him because of the aura of gloom in which he dwelt, he\nwondered if he were becoming insane. He seemed to become obsessed\nwith the belief that his ability to think was slowly paralyzing. And\nwith it his will. And yet, proof that this was not the case was\nfound in his stubborn opposition to trite acquiescence, and in his\ninfrequent reversals of mood, when he would even feel an intense,\nif transient, sense of exaltation in the thought that he was doing\nthe best that in him lay.\n\nIt was during one of these lighter moods, and at the close of a school\nyear, that a great joy came to him in an event which left a lasting\nimpress upon his life. Following close upon a hurried visit which his\nuncle paid to Rome, the boy was informed that it had been arranged for\nhim to accompany the Papal Legate on a brief journey through Germany\nand England, returning through France, in order that he might gain a\nfirst-hand impression of the magnitude of the work which the Church\nwas doing in the field, and meet some of her great men. The\nbroadening, quieting, confidence-inspiring influence of such a journey\nwould be, in the opinion of Padre Rafa\u00e9l, incalculable. And so, with\neager, bubbling hope, the lad set out.\n\nWhatever it may have been intended that the boy should see on this\necclesiastical pilgrimage, he returned to Rome at the end of three\nmonths with his quick, impressionable mind stuffed with food for\nreflection. Though he had seen the glories of the Church, worshiped in\nher matchless temples, and sat at the feet of her great scholars, now\nin the quiet of his little room he found himself dwelling upon a\nsingle thought, into which all of his collected impressions were\ngathered: \"The Church--Catholic and Protestant--is--oh, God, the\nChurch is--not sick, not dying, but--_dead_! Aye, it has served both\nGod and Mammon, and paid the awful penalty! And what is left?\n_Caesarism_!\" The great German and British nations were not Catholic.\nBut worse, the Protestant people of the German Empire were sadly\nindifferent to religion. He had seen, in Berlin, men of family trying\nto resell the Bibles which their children had used in preparation for\nconfirmation. He had found family worship all but extinct. He had\nmarked the widespread indifference among Protestant parents in regard\nto the religious instruction of their young. He had been told there\nthat parents had but a slight conception of their duty as moral\nguides, and that children were growing up with only sensuous pleasures\nand material gain as their life-aims. Again and again he was shown\nwhere in whole districts it was utterly impossible to secure young men\nfor ordination to the Protestant ministry. And he was furnished with\nstatistics setting forth the ominous fact that within a few years,\nwere the present decline unchecked, there would be no students in the\nProtestant universities of the country.\n\n\"Do you not see in this, my son,\" said the Papal Legate, \"the blight\nof unbelief? Do you not mark the withering effects of the modern\nso-called scientific thought? What think you of a religion wherein the\nchief interest centers in trials for heresy; whose ultimate effect\nupon human character is a return to the raw, primitive, immature sense\nof life that once prevailed among this great people? What think you\nnow of Luther and his diabolical work?\"\n\nThe wondering boy hung his head without reply. Would Germany at length\ncome to the true fold? And was that fold the Holy Catholic Church?\n\nAnd England--ah! there was the Anglican church, Catholic, but not\nRoman, and therefore but a counterfeit of the Lord's true Church.\nWould it endure? \"No,\" the Legate had said; \"already defection has set\nin, and the prodigal's return to the loving parent in Rome is but a\nmatter of time.\"\n\nThen came his visit to the great abbey of Westminster, and the\nimpression which, to his last earthly day, he bore as one of his most\nsacred treasures. There in the famous Jerusalem Chamber he had sat,\nhis eyes suffused with tears and his throat choked with emotion. In\nthat room the first Lancastrian king long years before had closed his\nunhappy life. There the great Westminster Confession had been framed.\nThere William of Orange had held his weighty discussion of the\nPrayer-Book revision, which was hoped to bring Churchmen and\nDissenters again into harmony. And there, greatest of all, had\ngathered, day after day, and year after year, the patient, devoted\ngroup of men who gave to the world its Revised Edition of the Holy\nBible, only a few brief years ago. As the rapt Jos\u00e8 closed his eyes\nand listened to the whispered conversation of the scholarly men about\nhim, he seemed to see the consecrated Revisers, seated again at the\nlong table, deep in the holy search of the Scriptures for the profound\nsecrets of life which they hold. He saw with what sedulous care they\npursued their sacred work, without trace of prejudice or religious\nbias, and with only the selfless purpose always before them to render\nto mankind a priceless benefit in a more perfect rendition of the Word\nof God. Why could not men come together now in that same generous\nspirit of love? But no, Rome would never yield her assumptions. But\nwhen the lad rose and followed his guides from the room, it was with a\nnew-born conviction, and a revival of his erstwhile firm purpose to\ntranslate for himself, at the earliest opportunity, the Greek\nTestament, if, perchance, he might find thereby what his yearning soul\nso deeply craved, the truth.\n\nThat the boy was possessed of scholarly instincts, there could be no\ndoubt. His ability had immediately attracted his instructors on\nentering the seminary. And, but for his stubborn opposition to\ndogmatic acceptance without proofs, he might have taken and maintained\nthe position of leader in scholarship in the institution. Literature\nand the languages, particularly Greek, were his favorite studies, and\nin these he excelled. Even as a child, long before the eventful night\nwhen his surreptitious reading of Voltaire precipitated events, he had\ndetermined to master Greek, and some day to translate the New\nTestament from the original sources into his beloved Castilian tongue.\nBefore setting out for Rome he had so applied himself to the worn\nlittle grammar which the proprietor of the bookstall in Seville had\nloaned him, that he was able to make translations with comparative\nfluency. In the seminary he plunged into it with avidity; and when he\nreturned from his journey with the Papal Legate he began in earnest\nhis translation of the Testament. This, like so much of the boy's work\nand writing, was done secretly and in spare moments. And his zeal was\nsuch that often in the middle of the night it would compel him to rise\nand, after drawing the shades carefully and stopping the crack under\nthe door with his cassock, light his candle and dig away at his\nTestament until dawn.\n\nThis study of the New Testament in the Greek resulted in many\ntranslations differing essentially from the accepted version, as could\nnot but happen when a mind so original as that of the boy Jos\u00e8 was\nconcentrated upon it. His first stumbling block was met in the prayer\nof Jesus in an attempt to render the petition, \"Give us this day our\ndaily bread,\" into idiomatic modern thought. The word translated\n\"daily\" was not to be found elsewhere in the Greek language.\nEvidently the Aramaic word which Jesus employed, and of which this\nGreek word was a translation, must have been an unusual one--a coined\nexpression. And what did it mean? No one knows. Jos\u00e8 found means to\nput the question to his tutor. He was told that it doubtless meant\n\"super-supernal.\" But what could \"super-supernal\" convey to the\nworld's multitude of hungry suppliants for the bread of life! And so\nhe rendered the phrase \"Give us each day a better understanding of\nThee.\" Again, going carefully through his Testament the boy crossed\nout the words translated \"God,\" and in their places substituted\n\"divine influence.\" Many of the best known and most frequently\nquoted passages suffered similarly radical changes at his hands. For\nthe translation \"truth,\" the boy often preferred to substitute\n\"reality\"; and such passages as \"speaking the truth in love\" were\nrendered by him, \"lovingly speaking of those things which are real.\"\n\"Faith\" and \"belief\" were generally changed to \"understanding\" and\n\"real knowing,\" so that the passage, \"O ye of little faith,\"\nbecame in his translation, \"O ye of slight understanding.\" The word\n\"miracle\" he consistently changed to \"sign\" throughout. The command to\nask \"in the name of Jesus\" caused him hours of deep and perplexing\nthought, until he hit upon the, to him, happy rendering, \"in his\ncharacter.\" Why not? In the character of the Christ mankind might ask\nanything and it would be given them. But to acquire that character\nmen must repent. And the Greek word \"metanoia,\" so generally\nrendered \"repentance,\" would therefore have to be translated \"radical\nand complete change of thought.\" Again, why not? Was not a complete\nchange of thought requisite if one were to become like Jesus? Could\nmortals think continually of murder, warfare, disaster, failure,\ncrime, sickness and death, and of the acquisition of material\nriches and power, and still hope to acquire the character of the\nmeek but mighty Nazarene? Decidedly no! And so he went on delving\nand plodding, day after day, night after night, substituting and\nchanging, but always, even if unconsciously, giving to the Scripture\na more metaphysical and spiritual meaning, which displaced in its\ntranslation much of the material and earthy.\n\nBefore the end of his seminary training the translation was complete.\nWhat a new light it seemed to throw upon the mission of Jesus! How\nfully he realized now that creeds and confessions had never even begun\nto sound the profound depths of the Bible! What a changed message it\nseemed to carry for mankind! How he longed to show it to his\npreceptors and discuss it with them! But his courage failed when he\nfaced this thought. However, another expedient presented: he would\nwrite a treatise on the New Testament, embodying the salient facts of\nhis translation, and send it out into the world for publication in the\nhope that it might do much good. Again, night after night in holy zeal\nhe toiled on the work, and when completed, sent it, under his name, to\na prominent literary magazine published in Paris.\n\nIts appearance--for it was accepted eagerly by the editor, who was\nbitterly hostile to the Church--caused a stir in ecclesiastical\ncircles and plunged the unwise lad into a sea of trouble. The essay in\ngeneral might have been excusable on its distinct merits and the\nreally profound scholarship exhibited in its composition. But when the\nboy, a candidate for holy orders, and almost on the eve of his\nordination, seized upon the famous statement of Jesus in which he is\nreported to have told Peter that he was the rock upon which the Lord's\nchurch should be eternally founded, and showed that Jesus called Peter\na stone, \"_petros_,\" a loose stone, and one of many, whereas he then\nsaid that his church should be founded upon \"_petra_,\" the living,\nimmovable rock of truth, thus corroborating Saint Augustine, but\nconfuting other supposedly impregnable authority for the superiority\nand infallibility of the Church, it was going a bit too far.\n\nThe result was severe penance, coupled with soul-searing reprimand,\nand absolute prohibition of further original writing. His translation\nof the Testament was confiscated, and he was commanded to destroy\nall notes referring to it, and to refrain from making further\ntranslations. His little room was searched, and all references and\npapers which might be construed as unevangelical were seized and\nburned. He was then transferred to another room for the remainder of\nhis seminary course, and given a roommate, a cynical, sneering\nbully of Irish descent, steeped to the core in churchly doctrine,\nwho did not fail to embrace every opportunity to make the suffering\npenitent realize that he was in disgrace and under surveillance. The\neffect was to drive the sensitive boy still further into himself,\nand to augment the sullenness of disposition which had earlier\ncharacterized him and separated him from social intercourse with\nthe world in which he moved apart from his fellow-men.\n\nThus had Jos\u00e8 been shown very clearly that implicit obedience would at\nall times be exacted from him by the Church. He had been shown quite\nunmistakably that an inquisitive and determined spirit would not be\ntolerated if it led to deductions at variance with accepted tradition.\nHe might starve mentally, if his prescribed food did not satisfy his\nhunger; but he must understand, once for all, that truth had long\nsince been revealed, and that it was not within his province to\nattempt any further additions to the revelation.\n\nOnce more, for the sake of his mother, and that he might learn all\nthat the Church had to teach him, the boy conscientiously tried to\nobey. He was reminded again that, though taught to obey, he was being\ntrained to lead. This in a sense pleased him, as offering surcease\nfrom an erking sense of responsibility. Nevertheless, though he\nconstantly wavered in decision; though at times the Church won him,\nand he yielded temporarily to her abundant charms; the spirit of\nprotest did wax steadily stronger within him as the years passed. Back\nand forth he swung, like a pendulum, now drawn by the power and\ninfluence of the mighty Church; now, as he approached it, repelled by\nthe things which were revealed as he drew near. In the last two years\nof his course his soul-revolt often took the form of open protest to\nhis preceptors against indulgences and the sacramental graces, against\nthe arbitrary Index Expurgatorius, and the Church's stubborn\nopposition to modern progression. Like Faust, his studies were\nconvincing him more and more firmly of the emptiness of human\nhypotheses and undemonstrable philosophy. The growing conviction that\nthe Holy Church was more worldly than spiritual filled his shrinking\nsoul at times with horror. The limiting thought of Rome was often\nstifling to him. He had begun to realize that liberty of thought and\nconscience were his only as he received it already outlined from the\nChurch. Even his interpretation of the Bible must come from her. His\nvery ideas must first receive the ecclesiastical stamp before he might\nadvance them. His opinions must measure up--or down--to those of his\ntutors, ere he might even hold them. In terror he felt that the Church\nwas absorbing him, heart and mind. His individuality was seeping away.\nIn time he would become but a link in the great worldly system which\nhe was being trained to serve.\n\nThese convictions did not come to him all at once, nor were they as\nyet firmly fixed. They were rather suggestions which became\nincreasingly insistent as the years went on. He had entered the\nseminary at the tender age of twelve, his mind wholly unformed, but\nprotesting even then. All through his course he had sought what\nthere was in Christianity upon which he could lay firm hold. In\nthe Church he had found an ultra-conservative spirit and extreme\nreverence for authority. Tito had told him that it was the equivalent\nof ancestor-worship. But when he one day told his instructors that he\nwas not necessarily a disbeliever in the Scriptures because he did\nnot accept their interpretation of them, he could not but realize\nthat Tito had come dangerously near the truth. His translation of\nthe Greek Testament had forced him to the conclusion that much of the\nmaterial contained in the Gospels was not Jesus' own words, but the\ncommentaries of his reporters; not the Master's diction, but\ntheological lecturing by the writers of the Gospels. Moreover, in\nthe matter of prayer, especially, he was all at sea. As a child he had\nspent hours formulating humble, fervent petitions, which did not seem\nto draw replies. And so there began to form within his mind a\nconcept, faint and ill-defined, of a God very different from that\ncanonically accepted. He tried to believe that there was a Creator\nback of all things, but that He was inexorable Law. And the lad\nwas convinced that, somehow, he had failed to get into harmony with\nthat infinite Law. But, in that case, why pray to Law? And, most\nfoolish of all, why seek to influence it, whether through Virgin or\nSaint? And, if God is a good Father, why ask Him to _be_ good? Then,\nto his insistent question, \"_Unde Deus_?\" he tried to formulate\nthe answer that God is Spirit, and omnipresent. But, alas! that\nmade the good God include evil. No, there was a terrible human\nmisunderstanding of the divine nature, a woeful misinterpretation.\nHe must try to ask for light in the character of the Christ. But\nthen, how to assume that character? Like a garment? Impossible! \"Oh,\nGod above,\" he wailed aloud again and again, \"I don't know what to\nbelieve! I don't know what to think!\" Foolish lad! Why did he think\nat all, when there were those at hand to relieve him of that\nonerous task?\n\nAnd so, at last, Jos\u00e8 sought to resign himself to his fate, and,\nthrusting aside these mocking questions, accept the opportunities for\nservice which his tutors so wisely emphasized as the Church's special\noffering to him. He yielded to their encouragement to plunge heartily\ninto his studies, for in such absorption lay diversion from dangerous\nchannels of thought. Slowly, too, he yielded to their careful\ninsistence that he must suffer many things to be so for the nonce,\neven as Jesus did, lest a too radical resistance now should delay the\nfinal glorious consummation.\n\nWas the boy actuated too strongly by the determination that his\nwidowed mother's hopes should never be blasted by any assertion of\nhis own will? Was he passively permitting himself to be warped and\ntwisted into a minion of an institution alien to his soul in bigoted\nadherence to his morbid sense of integrity? Was he for the present\ncountenancing a lie, rather than permit the bursting of a bomb\nwhich would rend the family and bring his beloved mother in sorrow to\nthe grave? Or was he biding his time, an undeveloped David, who\nwould some day sally forth like the lion of the tribe of Juda, to\nmatch his moral courage against the blustering son of Anak? Time\nonly would tell. The formative period of his character was not yet\nended, and the data for prognostication were too complex and\nconflicting. We can only be sure that his consuming desire to know\nhad been carefully fostered in the seminary, but in such a manner as\nunwittingly to add to his confusion of thought and to increase his\nfear of throwing himself unreservedly upon his own convictions. That\nhe grew to perceive the childishness of churchly dogma, we know.\nThat he appreciated the Church's insane license of affirmation, its\nimpudent affirmations of God's thoughts and desires, its coarse\nassumptions of knowledge of the inner workings of the mind of\nOmnipotence, we likewise know. But, on the other hand, we know\nthat he feared to break with the accepted faith. The claims of\nProtestantism, though lacking the pomp and pageantry of Catholicism\nto give them attractiveness, offered him an interpretation of Christ's\nmission that was little better than the teachings he was receiving.\nAnd so his hesitant and vacillating nature, which hurled him into the\nlists to-day as the resolute foe of dogma and superstition, and\nto-morrow would leave him weak and doubting at the feet of the\nenemy, kept him wavering, silent and unhappy, on the thin edge of\nresolution throughout the greater part of his course. His lack of\nforce, or the holding of his force in check by his filial honesty and\nhis uncertainty of conviction, kept him in the seminary for eight\nyears, during which his being was slowly, imperceptibly descending\ninto him. At the age of twenty he was still unsettled, but further\nthan even he himself realized from Rome. Who shall say that he was\nnot at the same time nearer to God?\n\nOn the day that he was twenty, three things of the gravest import\nhappened to the young Jos\u00e8. His warm friend, Bernardo, died suddenly,\nalmost in his arms; his uncle, Rafa\u00e9l de Rinc\u00f3n, paid an unexpected\nvisit to the Vatican; and the lad received the startling announcement\nthat he would be ordained to the priesthood on the following day.\n\nThe sudden demise of the young Bernardo plunged Jos\u00e8 into an excess of\ngrief and again encompassed him with the fear and horror of death. He\nshut himself up in his room, and toward the close of the day took his\nwriting materials and penned a passionate appeal to his mother,\nbegging her to absolve him from his promises, and let him go out into\nthe world, a free man in search of truth. But scarcely had he finished\nhis letter when he was summoned into the Rector's office. There it was\nexplained to him that, in recognition of his high scholarship, of his\npenitence and loyal obedience since the Testament episode, and of the\nadvanced work which he was now doing in the seminary and the splendid\npromise he was giving, the Holy Father had been asked to grant a\nspecial indult, waiving the usual age requirement and permitting the\nboy to be ordained with the class which was to receive the holy order\nof the priesthood the following day. It was further announced that\nafter ordination he should spend a year in travel with the Papal\nLegate, and on his return might enter the office of the Papal\nSecretary of State, as an under-secretary, or office assistant. While\nthere, he would be called upon to teach in the seminary, and later\nmight be sent to the University to pursue higher studies leading to\nthe degree of Doctor.\n\nBefore the boy had awakened to his situation, the day of his\nordination arrived. The proud mother, learning from the secretary of\nthe precipitation of events, and doting on the boy whom she had never\nunderstood; in total ignorance of the complex elements of his soul,\nand little realizing that between her and her beloved son there was\nnow a gulf fixed which would never be bridged, saw only the happy\nfruition of a life ambition. Fortunately she had been kept in\nignorance of the dubious incident of the Testament translation and its\nresults upon the boy; and when the long anticipated day dawned her\neyes swam in tears of hallowed joy. The Archbishop and his grim\nsecretary each congratulated the other heartily, and the latter,\nbreaking into one of his rare smiles, murmured gratefully, \"At last!\nAnd our enemies have lost a champion!\"\n\nThe night before the ordination Jos\u00e8 had begged to occupy a room\nalone. The appeal which emanated from his sad face, his thin and\nstooping body, his whole drawn and tortured being, would have melted\nflint. His request was granted. Throughout the night the boy, on his\nknees beside the little bed, wrestled with the emotions which were\ntearing his soul. Despondency lay over him like a pall. A vague\npresentiment of impending disaster pressed upon him like a millstone.\nCeaselessly he weighed and reviewed the forces which had combined to\ndrive him into the inconsistent position which he now occupied.\nInconsistent, for his highest ideal had been truth. He was by nature\nconsecrated to it. He had sought it diligently in the Church, and now\nthat he was about to become her priest he could not make himself\nbelieve that he had found it. Now, when bound to her altars, he faced\na life of deception, of falsehood, as the champion of a faith which he\ncould not unreservedly embrace.\n\nBut he had accepted his education from the Church; and would he shrink\nfrom making payment therefor? Yet, on the other hand, must he\nsacrifice honor--yea, his whole future--to the payment of a debt\nforced upon him before he had reached the age of reason? The oath of\nordination, the priest's oath, echoed in his throbbing ears like a\nsoul-sentence to eternal doom; while spectral shades of moving priests\nand bishops, laying cold and unfeeling hands upon him, sealing him to\nendless servitude to superstition and deception, glided to and fro\nthrough the darkness before his straining eyes. Could he receive the\nordination to-morrow? He had promised--but the assumption of its\nobligations would brand his shrinking soul with torturing falsehood!\nIf he sank under doubt and fear, could he still retract? What then of\nhis mother and his promise to her? What of the Rinc\u00f3n honor and pride?\nLiving disgrace, or a living lie--which? Sacrifice of self--or mother?\nGod knew, he had never deliberately countenanced a falsehood--yet,\nthrough circumstances which he did not have the will to control, he\nwas a living one!\n\nFair visions of a life untrammeled by creed or religious convention\nhovered at times that night before his mental gaze. He saw a cottage,\nrose-bowered, glowing in the haze of the summer sun. He saw before its\ndoor a woman, fresh and fair--his wife--and children--his--shouting\ntheir joyous greetings as they trooped out to welcome him returning\nfrom his day's labors. How he clung to this picture when it faded and\nleft him, an oath-bound celibate, facing his lonely and cheerless\ndestiny! God! what has the Church to offer for such sacrifice as this!\nAn education? Yea, an induction into relative truths and mortal\nopinions, and the sad record of the devious wanderings of the human\nmind! An opportunity for service? God knows, the free, unhampered\nmind, open to truth and progress, loosed from mediaeval dogma and\nignorant convention, seeing its brothers' needs and meeting in them\nits own, has opportunities for rich service to-day outside the Church\nthe like of which have never before been offered!\n\nTo and fro his heaving thought ebbed and flowed. Back and forth the\narguments, pro and con, surged through the still hours of the\nnight. After all, had he definite proof that the tenets of Holy\nChurch were false? No, he could not honestly say that he had. The\nquestion still stood in abeyance. Even his conviction of their\nfalsity at times had sorely wavered. And if his heart cried out\nagainst their acceptance, it nevertheless had nothing tangibly\ndefinite to offer in substitution. But--the end had come so\nsuddenly! With his life free and untrammeled he might yet find the\ntruth. Oath-bound and limited to the strictures of the Church, what\nhope was there but the acceptance of prescribed canons of human\nbelief? Still, the falsities which he believed he had found within the\nChurch were not greater than those against which she herself fought in\nthe world. And if she accepted him, did it not indicate on her part\na tacit recognition of the need of just what he had to offer, a\nsearching spirit of inquiry and consecration to the unfoldment of\ntruth? Alas! the incident of the Greek translation threw its\nshadow of doubt upon that hope.\n\nBut if the Church accepted him, she _must_ accept his stand! He\n_would_ raise his voice in protest, and would continually point to the\ntruth as he discerned it! If he received the order of priesthood from\nher it was with the understanding that his acceptance of her tenets\nwas tentative! But--forlorn expedient! He knew something of\necclesiastical history. He thought he knew--young as he was--that the\nChurch stood not for progress, not for conformity to changing ideals,\nnot for alignment with the world's great reforms, but for _herself_,\nfirst, midst, and last!\n\nThus the conflict raged, while thoughts, momentous for even a mature\nthinker, tore through the mind of this lad of twenty. Prayers for\nlight--prayers which would have rent the heart of an Ivan--burst at\ntimes from the feverish lips of this child of circumstance. Infinite\nFather--Divine Influence--Spirit of Love--whatever Thou art--wilt Thou\nnot illumine the thought-processes of this distracted youth and thus\nprovide the way of escape from impending destruction? Can it be Thy\nwill that this fair mind shall be utterly crushed? Do the agonized\nwords of appeal which rise to Thee from his riven soul fall broken\nagainst ears of stone?\n\n\"Occupy till I come!\" Yea, beloved Master, he hears thy voice and\nstrives to obey--but the night is filled with terror--the clouds of\nerror lower about him--the storm bursts--and thou art not there!\n\nDay dawned. A classmate, sent to summon the lad, roused him from the\nfitful sleep into which he had sunk on the cold floor. His mind was no\nlonger active. Dumbly following his preceptors at the appointed hour,\nhe proceeded with the class to the chapel. Dimly conscious of his\nsurroundings, his thought befogged as if in a dream, his eyes\nhalf-blinded by the gray haze which seemed to hang before them, he\ncelebrated the Mass, like one under hypnosis, received the holy\norders, and assumed the obligations which constituted him a priest of\nHoly Church.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 8\n\n\nOn a sweltering midsummer afternoon, a year after the events just\nrelated, Rome lay panting for breath and counting the interminable\nhours which must elapse before the unpitying sun would grant her a\nshort night's respite from her discomfort. Her streets were deserted\nby all except those whose affairs necessitated their presence in\nthem. Her palaces and villas had been abandoned for weeks by their\nfortunate owners, who had betaken themselves to the seashore or to the\nmore distance resorts of the North. The few inexperienced tourists\nwhose lack of practical knowledge in the matter of globe-trotting had\nbrought them into the city so unseasonably were hastily and\nindignantly assembling their luggage and completing arrangements to\nflee from their over-warm reception.\n\nIn a richly appointed suite of the city's most modern and\nultra-fashionable hotel two maids, a butler, and the head porter were\npacking and removing a formidable array of trunks and suit cases,\nwhile a woman of considerably less than middle age, comely in person\nand tastefully attired in a loose dressing gown of flowered silk,\nalternated between giving sharp directions to the perspiring workers\nand venting her abundant wrath and disappointment upon the chief\nclerk, as with evident reluctance she filled one of a number of signed\nchecks to cover the hotel expenses of herself and servants for a\nperiod of three weeks, although they had arrived only the day before\nand, on account of the stifling heat, were leaving on the night\nexpress for Lucerne. The clerk regretted exceedingly, but on Madam\nAmes' order the suite had been held vacant for that length of time,\nduring which the management had daily looked for her arrival, and had\nreceived no word of her delay. Had Madam herself not just admitted\nthat she had altered her plans en route, without notifying the hotel,\nand had gone first to the Italian lakes, without cancelling her order\nfor the suite? And so her sense of justice must convince her that the\nmanagement was acting wholly within its rights in making this demand.\n\nWhile the preparations for departure were in progress the woman's\ntwo children played about the trunks and raced through the rooms\nand adjoining corridor with a child's indifference to climatal\nconditions.\n\n\"Let's ring for the elevator and then hide, Sidney!\" suggested the\ngirl, as she panted after her brother, who had run to the far end of\nthe long hall.\n\n\"No, Kathleen, it wouldn't be right,\" objected the boy.\n\n\"Right! Ho! ho! What's the harm, goody-goody? Go tell mother, if you\nwant to!\" she called after him, as he started back to their rooms.\nRefusing to accompany him, the girl leaned against the balustrade of a\nstairway which led to the floor below and watched her brother until he\ndisappeared around a turn of the corridor.\n\n\"Baby!\" burst from her pouting lips. \"'Fraid of everything! It's no\nfun playing with him!\" Then, casting a glance of inquiry about her,\n\"I'd just like to hide down these stairs. Mother and nurse never let\nme go where I want to.\"\n\nObeying the impulse stimulated by her freedom for the moment, the\nchild suddenly turned and darted down the stairway. On the floor\nbeneath she found herself at the head of a similar stairway, down\nwhich she likewise hurried, with no other thought than to annoy her\nbrother, who was sure to be sent in search of her when her mother\ndiscovered her absence. Opening the door below, the child unexpectedly\nfound herself in an alley back of the hotel.\n\nHer sense of freedom was exhilarating. The sunlit alley beckoned to a\ndelightful journey of discovery. With a happy laugh and a toss of her\nyellow curls she hurried along the narrow way and into the street\nwhich crossed it a short distance beyond. Here she paused and looked\nin each direction, uncertain which way to continue. In one direction,\nfar in the distance, she saw trees. They looked promising; she would\ngo that way. And trotting along the blazing, deserted street, she at\nlength reached the grateful shade and threw herself on the soft grass\nbeneath, tired and panting, but happy in the excitement of her little\nadventure.\n\nRecovering quickly, the child rose to explore her environment. She was\nin one of those numerous public parks lining the Tiber and forming the\ncity's playground for her less fortunate wards. Here and there were\nscattered a few people, mostly men, who had braved the heat of the\nstreets in the hope of obtaining a breath of cool air near the water.\nAt the river's edge a group of ragged urchins were romping noisily;\nand on a bench near them a young priest sat, writing in a notebook. As\nshe walked toward them a beggar roused himself from the grass and\nlooked covetously through his evil eyes at the child's rich clothes.\n\nThe gamins stopped their play as the girl approached, and stared at\nher in expectant curiosity. One of them, a girl of apparently her own\nage, spoke to her, but in a language which she did not understand.\nReceiving no reply, the urchins suddenly closed together, and holding\nhands, began to circle around her, shouting like little Indians.\n\nThe child stood for a moment perplexed. Then terror seized her.\nHurling herself through the circle, she fled blindly, with the gamins\nin pursuit. With no sense of direction, her only thought to escape\nfrom the dirty band at her heels, she rushed straight to the river and\nover the low bank into the sluggish, yellow water. A moment later the\npriest who had been sitting on the bench near the river, startled by\nthe frenzied cries of the now frightened children, rushed into the\nshallow water and brought the girl in safety to the bank.\n\nSpeaking to her in her own language, the priest sought to soothe the\nchild and learn her identity as he carried her to the edge of the park\nand out into the street. But his efforts were unavailing. She could\nonly sob hysterically and call piteously for her mother. A civil guard\nappeared at the street corner, and the priest summoned him. But\nscarcely had he reported the details of the accident when, suddenly\nuttering a cry, the priest thrust the girl into the arms of the\nastonished officer and fled back to the bench where he had been\nsitting. Another cry escaped him when he reached it. Throwing himself\nupon the grass, he searched beneath the bench and explored the ground\nabout it. Then, his face blanched with fear, he rose and traversed the\nentire park, questioning every occupant. The gamins who had caused the\naccident had fled. The beggar, too, had disappeared. The park was all\nbut deserted. Returning again to the bench, the priest sank upon it\nand buried his head in his hands, groaning aloud. A few minutes later\nhe abruptly rose and, glancing furtively around as if he feared to be\nseen, hastened out to the street. Then, darting into a narrow\ncrossroad, he disappeared in the direction of the Vatican.\n\nAt midnight, Padre Jos\u00e8 de Rinc\u00f3n was still pacing the floor of his\nroom, frantic with apprehension. At the same hour, the small girl who\nhad so unwittingly plunged him into the gravest danger was safely\nasleep in her mother's arms on the night express, which shrieked and\nthundered on its way to Lucerne.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 9\n\n\nAlways as a child Jos\u00e8 had been the tortured victim of a vague,\nunformed apprehension of impending disaster, a presentiment that some\nday a great evil would befall him. The danger before which he now grew\nwhite with fear seemed to realize that fatidic thought, and hang\nsuspended above him on a filament more tenuous than the hair which\nheld aloft the fabled sword of Damocles. That filament was the slender\nchance that the notebook with which he was occupied when the terrified\nchild precipitated herself into the river, and which he had hastily\ndropped on seeing her plight and rushing to the rescue, had been\npicked up by those who would consider its value _nil_ as an instrument\nof either good or evil. Before the accident occurred he had been\nabsorbed in his writing and was unaware of other occupants of the park\nthan himself and the children, whose boisterous romping in such close\nproximity had scarce interrupted his occupation. Then their frightened\ncries roused him to an absorbing sense of the girl's danger. Nor did\nhe think again of the notebook until he was relating the details of\nthe accident to the guard at the edge of the park, when, like a blow\nfrom above, the thought of it struck him.\n\nTrembling with dread anticipation, he had hurried back to the bench,\nonly to find his fears realized. The book had disappeared! His\nfrenzied search yielded no hint of its probable mode of removal.\nOvercome by a sickening sense of misfortune, he had sunk upon the\nbench in despair. But fear again roused him and drove him, slinking\nlike a hunted beast, from the park--fear that the possessor of the\nbook, appreciating its contents, but with no thought of returning it,\nmight be hovering near, with the view of seeing what manner of priest\nit could be who would thus carelessly leave such writings as these in\nthe public parks and within the very shadow of St. Peter's.\n\nBut to escape immediate identification as their author did not remove\nhis danger. Their character was such that, should they fall into\ncertain hands, his identity must surely be established. Even though\nhis name did not appear, they abounded in references which could\nhardly fail to point to him. But, far worse, they cited names of\npersonages high in political and ecclesiastical circles in references\nwhich, should they become public, must inevitably set in motion forces\nwhose far-reaching and disastrous effects he dared not even imagine.\n\nFor the notebook contained the soul-history of the man. It was\nthe _journal intime_ which he had begun as a youth, and continued\nand amplified through succeeding years. It was the repository of\nhis inmost thoughts, the receptacle of his secret convictions.\nIt held, crystallized in writing, his earliest protests against\nthe circumstances which were molding his life. It voiced the\nsubsequent agonized outpourings of his soul when the holy order of\npriesthood was conferred upon him. It recorded his views of life,\nof religion, of the cosmos. It held in burning words his thoughts\nanent the Holy Catholic faith--his sense of its virtues, its\nweaknesses, its assumptions, its fallacies. It set forth his\nconfession of helplessness before circumstances too strong for\nhis feeble will, and it cited therewith, as partial justification\nfor his conduct, his tender love for his mother and his firm\nintention of keeping forever inviolable his promises to her. It\nvoiced his passionate prayers for light, and his dim hopes for\nthe future, while portraying the wreck of a life whose elements\nhad been too complex for him to sift and classify and combine in\ntheir normal proportions.\n\nA year had passed since the unhappy lad had opened his mouth to\nreceive the iron bit which Destiny had pressed so mercilessly against\nit. During that time the Church had conscientiously carried out\nher program as announced to him just prior to his ordination.\nAssociated with the Papal Legate, he had traveled extensively through\nEurope, his impressionable mind avidly absorbing the customs,\nlanguages, and thought-processes of many lands. At Lourdes he had\nstood in deep meditation before the miraculous shrine, surrounded\nwith its piles of discarded canes and crutches, and wondered what\ncould be the principle, human or divine, that had effected such\ncures. In Naples he had witnessed the miraculous liquefaction of\nthe blood of St. Januarius. He had seen the priests pass through the\ngreat assemblage with the little vial in which the red clot slowly\ndissolved into liquid before their credulous eyes; and he had turned\naway that they might not mark his flush of shame. In the Cathedral at\nCologne he had gazed long at the supposed skulls of the three Magi who\nhad worshipped at the rude cradle of the Christ. Set in brilliant\njewels, in a resplendent gilded shrine, these whitened relics,\nwhich Bishop Reinald is believed to have discovered in the twelfth\ncentury, seemed to mock him in the very boldness of the pious fraud\nwhich they externalized. Was the mystery of the Christ involved in\nsuch deceit as this? And perpetrated by his Church? In unhappy Ireland\nhe had been forced to the conviction that misdirected religious zeal\nmust some day urge the sturdy Protesters of the North into armed\nconflict with their Catholic brothers of the South in another of\nthose deplorable religious--nay, rather, _theological_--conflicts\nwhich have stained the earth with human blood in the name of the\nPrince of Peace. It was all incomprehensible to him, incongruous,\nand damnably wicked. Why could not they come together to submit their\ncreeds, their religious beliefs and tenets, to the test of practical\ndemonstration, and then discard those which world-history has long\nsince shown inimical to progress and happiness? Paul urged this very\nthing when he wrote, \"_Prove_ all things; hold fast to that which is\ngood.\" But, alas! the human doctrine of infallibility now stood\nsquarely in the way.\n\nFrom his travels with the Legate, Jos\u00e8 returned to Rome, burning with\nthe holy desire to lend his influence to the institution of those\nreforms within the Church of which now he so clearly saw the need.\nSavonarola had burned with this same selfless desire to reform the\nChurch from within. And his life became the forfeit. But the present\nage was perforce more tolerant; and was likewise wanting in those\npeculiar political conditions which had combined with the religious\nissue to send the great reformer to a martyr's death.\n\nAs Jos\u00e8 entered Rome he found the city in a state of turmoil. The\noccasion was the march of the Catholic gymnastic associations from\nthe church where they had heard the Mass to St. Peter's, where they\nwere to be received by the Holy Father. Cries of \"Long live\nfree-thinking!\" were issuing from the rabble which followed hooting in\nthe wake of the procession. To these were retorted, \"Viva il Papa Re!\"\nJos\u00e8 had been caught in the _m\u00eal\u00e9e_, and, but for the interference of\nthe civil authorities, might have suffered bodily injury. With his\ncorporeal bruises he now bore away another ineffaceable mental\nimpression. Were the Italian patriots justified in their hostility\ntoward the Vatican? Had United Italy come into existence with the\nsupport of the Papacy, or in despite of it? Would the Church forever\nset herself against freedom of thought? Always seek to imprison the\nhuman mind? Was her unreasonably stubborn attitude directly\naccountable for the presence of atheism in the place, of all places,\nwhere her own influence ought to be most potent, the city of St.\nPeter?\n\nFor reasons which he could only surmise--perhaps because of his high\nscholarship--perhaps because of his remarkable memory, which\nconstituted him a living encyclopedia in respect of all that entered\nit--Jos\u00e8 was now installed in the office of the Papal Secretary of\nState as an office assistant. He had received the appointment with\nindifference, for he was wholly devoid of ecclesiastical ambition. And\nyet it was with a sense of relief that he now felt assured of a career\nin the service of the Administrative Congregation of the Church, and\nfor all time removed from the likelihood of being relegated to the\nperformance of merely priestly functions. He therefore prepared to\nbide his time, and patiently to await opportunities to lend his\nwilling support to the uplift of the Church and his fellow-men.\n\nThe limitations with which he had always been hedged about had not\npermitted the lad to know much, if anything, of the multitude of books\non religious and philosophical subjects annually published throughout\nthe world; and his oath of obedience would have prevented him from\nreading them if he had. But he saw no reason why, as part preparation\nfor his work of moral uplift, he should not continue to seek, at first\nhand, the answer to the world-stirring query, What does the Bible\nmean? If God gave it, if the theory of verbal inspiration is correct,\nand if it is infallible, why then was it necessary to revise it, as\nhad been done in the wonderful Jerusalem Chamber which he had once\nvisited? Were those of his associates justified who had scoffed at\nthat work, and, with a sneer on their lips, voiced the caustic query,\n\"Fools! Why don't they let the Bible alone?\" If the world is to be\ninstructed out of the old sensual theology, does the Bible contain the\ntruth with which to replace it? For to tear down an ideal without\nsubstituting for it a better one is nothing short of criminal. And so\nJos\u00e8 plunged deeply into the study of Scriptural sources.\n\nHe had thought the rich treasures of the Vatican library unrestrictedly\nopen to him, and he therefore brought his fine Latin and Greek\nscholarship to bear on its oldest uncial manuscripts. He began the study\nof Hebrew, that he might later read the Talmud and the ancient Jewish\nrabbinical lore. He pursued unflaggingly his studies of the English,\nFrench, and German languages, that he might search for the truth\ncrystallized in those tongues. As his work progressed, the flush of\nhealth came to his cheeks. His eyes reflected the consuming fire which\nglowed in his eager soul. As he labored, he wrote; and his discoveries\nand meditations all found lodgment in his sole confidant, his journal.\n\nIf the Church knew what Christianity was, then Jos\u00e8 was forced to\nadmit that he did not. He, weak, frail, fallible, _remit sins_?\nPreposterous! What was the true remission of sins but their utter\ndestruction? He change the wafer and wine into the flesh and blood\nof Jesus? Nay, he was no spiritual thaumaturgus! He could not do even\nthe least of the works of the Master, despite his priestly character!\nYet, it was not he, but the Christ, operating through him as a\nchannel, who performed the work. Then why did not the Christ\nthrough him heal the sick and raise the dead? \"Nay,\" he deplored,\nas he bent over his task, \"the Church may teach that the bones, the\nteeth, the hair, and other human relics of canonized Saints can heal\nthe sick--but even the Cardinals and the Holy Father when they fall\nill demand the services, not of these, but of earthly physicians.\nThey seek not the Christ-healing then; nor can they by their boasted\npowers heal themselves.\"\n\nIsrael's theme was: Righteousness is salvation. But Jos\u00e8 knew not how\nto define righteousness. Surely it did not mean adherence to human\ncreeds! It was vastly more than observance of forms! \"God is a\nspirit,\" he read; \"and they that worship Him must worship Him in\nspirit and in truth.\" Then, voicing his own comments, \"Why, then, this\ncrass materializing of worship? Are images of Saviour, Virgin, and\nSaint necessary to excite the people to devotion? Nay, would not the\nhealing of the sick, the restoration of sight to the blind, and the\nperformance of the works of the Master by us priests do more than\nwooden or marble images to lead men to worship? Proof! proof! proof!\n'Show us your works, and we will show you our faith,' cry the people.\n'Then will we no longer sacrifice our independence of thought to the\nmerciless tyranny of human tradition.'\" And he knew that this related\nto Catholic and Protestant, Jew and Mohammedan alike.\n\nOne day a Cardinal, passing through the library, saw the diligent\nstudent at work, and paused to inquire into his labors. \"And what do\nyou seek, my son?\" was the kindly query of the aged churchman.\n\n\"Scriptural justification for the fundamental tenets of our faith,\"\nJos\u00e8 replied quickly, carried away by his soul's animation.\n\n\"And you find it, without doubt?\"\n\n\"Nay, Father, except through what is, to me, unwarranted license and\nassumption.\"\n\nThe Cardinal silently continued his way. But permission to translate\nfurther from the Vatican manuscripts was that day withdrawn from\nJos\u00e8.\n\nAgain the youth lapsed into his former habit of moody revery. Shackled\nand restless, driven anew into himself, he increasingly poured his\nturbulent thought into his journal, not for other and profane eyes to\nread--hardly, either, for his own reference--but simply because he\n_must_ have some outlet for the expression of his heaving mind. He\nturned to it, as he had in other crises in his life, when his pent\nsoul cried out for some form of relief. He began to revise the record\nof the impressions received on his travels with the Papal Legate. He\nrecorded conversations and impressions of scenes and people which his\nabnormally developed reticence would not permit him to discuss\nverbally with his associates. He embodied his protests against the\nrestrictions of ecclesiastical authority. And he noted, too, many a\nprotest against the political, rather than religious, character of\nmuch of the business transacted in the office to which he was\nattached. In the discharge of his ordinary duties he necessarily\nbecame acquainted with much of the inner administrative polity of the\nVatican, and thus at times he learned of policies which stirred his\nalien soul to revolt. In his inferior position he could not hope to\nraise his voice in protest against these measures which excited his\nindignation; but in the loneliness of his room, or on his frequent\nlong walks after office hours, he was wont to brood over them until\nhis mind became surcharged and found relief only in emptying itself\ninto this journal. And often on summer days, when the intense heat\nrendered his little room in the dormitory uninhabitable, he would take\nhis books and papers to some one of the smaller parks lining the\nTiber, and there would lose himself in study and meditation and the\nrecording of the ceaseless voicing of his lonely soul.\n\nOn this particular afternoon, however, his mind had been occupied with\nmatters of more than ordinary import. It happened that a Bishop from\nthe United States had arrived in Rome the preceding day to pay his\ndecennial visit to the Vatican and report on the spiritual condition\nof his diocese. While awaiting the return of the Papal Secretary, he\nhad engaged in earnest conversation with a Cardinal-Bishop of the\nAdministrative Congregation, in a small room adjoining the one where\nJos\u00e8 was occupied with his clerical duties. The talk had been\nanimated, and the heavy tapestry at the door had not prevented much of\nit from reaching the ears of the young priest and becoming fixed in\nhis retentive memory.\n\n\"While I feel most keenly the persecution to which the Church must\nsubmit in the United States,\" the Bishop had said, \"nevertheless\nYour Eminence will admit that there is some ground for complaint in\nthe conduct of certain of her clergy. It is for the purpose of\nremoving such vantage ground from our critics that I again urge an\ninvestigation of American priests, with the view of improving their\nmoral status.\"\n\n\"You say, 'persecution to which the Church _must_ submit.' Is that\nquite true?\" returned the Cardinal-Bishop. \"That is, in the face of\nyour own gratifying reports? News from the American field is not only\nencouraging, but highly stimulating. The statistics which are just at\nhand from Monsignor, our Delegate in Washington, reveal the truly\nastonishing growth of our beloved cause for the restoration of all\nthings in Christ. Has not God shown even in our beloved America that\nour way of worshiping Him is the way He approves?\"\n\n\"But, Your Eminence, the constant defections! It was only last week\nthat a priest and his entire congregation went over to the Episcopal\nfaith. And--\"\n\n\"What of that? 'It must needs be that offenses come.' Where one drops\nout, ten take his place.\"\n\n\"True, while we recruit our depleted ranks from the Old World. But,\nwith restricted immigration--\"\n\n\"Which is not restricted, as yet,\" replied the Cardinal-Bishop with a\nsapient smile. \"Nor is there any restriction upon the inspiration,\npolitical as well as spiritual, which the American Government draws\nfrom Rome--an inspiration much more potent, I think, than our\nProtestant brethren would care to admit.\"\n\n\"Is that inspiration such, think you, as to draw the American\nGovernment more and more into the hands of the Church?\"\n\n\"Its effect in the past unquestionably has been such,\" said the\nCardinal-Bishop meditatively.\n\n\"And shall our dreams of an age be fulfilled--that the Holy Father\nwill throw off the shackles which now hold him a prisoner within the\nVatican, and that he will then personally direct the carrying out of\nthose policies of world expansion which shall gather all mankind into\nthe fold of Holy Church?\"\n\n\"There is a lessening doubt of it,\" was the tentative reply.\n\n\"And--\" the Bishop hesitated. \"And--shall we say that those\nall-embracing policies ultimately will be directed by the Holy Father\nfrom Washington itself?\"\n\nA long pause ensued, during which Jos\u00e8 was all ears.\n\n\"Why not?\" finally returned the Cardinal-Bishop slowly. \"Why not, if\nit should better suit our purposes? It may become advisable to remove\nthe Holy See from Rome.\"\n\n\"But--impossible!\"\n\n\"Not at all--quite possible, though I will not say probable. But let\nus see, can we not say that the time has arrived when no President of\nthe United States can be elected without the Catholic vote? Having our\nvote, we have his pledges to support our policies. These statistics\nbefore us show that already seventy-five per cent of all Government\nemployes in Washington are of our faith. We control Federal, State,\nCounty and City offices without number. I think--I think the time is\nnot distant when we shall be able to set up a candidate of our faith\nfor the Presidency, if we care to. And,\" he mused, \"we shall elect\nhim. But, all in good time, all in good time.\"\n\n\"And is that,\" the Bishop interrogated eagerly, \"what the Holy Father\nis now contemplating?\"\n\n\"I cannot say that it is,\" answered the noncommittal Cardinal-Bishop.\n\"But the Holy Father loves America. He rejoices in your report of\nprogress in your diocese. The successes attained by Catholic\ncandidates in the recent elections are most gratifying to him. This\nnot only testifies to the progress of Catholicism in America, but is\ntangible proof of the growth of tolerance and liberal-mindedness in\nthat great nation. The fact that the Catholic Mass is now being said\nin the American army affords further proof.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" meditated the Bishop. \"Our candidates who receive election are\nquite generally loyal to the Church.\"\n\n\"And should constitute a most potent factor in the holy work of making\nAmerica dominantly Catholic,\" added the older man.\n\n\"True, Your Eminence. And yet, this great desideratum can never come\nabout until the youth are brought into the true fold. And that means,\nas you well know, the abolishing of the public school system.\"\n\n\"What think you of that?\" asked the Cardinal-Bishop off-handedly.\n\nThe Bishop waxed suddenly animated. A subject had been broached which\nlay close to his heart. \"The public schools constitute a godless sink\nof pollution!\" he replied heatedly. \"They are nurseries of vice! They\nare part of an immoral and vicious system of education which is\nundermining the religion of American children! I have always contended\nthat we, the Holy Catholic Church, _must_ control education! I hold\nthat education outside of the Church is heresy of the most damnable\nkind! We have heretofore weakly protested against this pernicious\nsystem, but without success, excepting\"--and here he smiled\ncynically--\"that we have very generally succeeded in forcing the\ndiscontinuance of Bible reading in the public schools. And in certain\ntowns where our parochial schools do not instruct beyond the eighth\ngrade, it looks as if we might force the introduction of a form of the\nCatholic Mass to be read each morning in the High School.\"\n\n\"Excellent!\" exclaimed the Cardinal-Bishop. \"Your voice thrills me\nlike a trumpet call.\"\n\n\"I would it were such,\" cried the Bishop excitedly, \"summoning the\nfaithful to strike a blow which shall be felt! What right have the\nUnited States, or any nation, to educate the young? None whatever!\nEducation belongs to the Church! Our rights in this respect have been\nusurped! But they shall be restored--if need be, at the point of\nthe--\"\n\n\"You positively make my old heart leap to the fray,\" interrupted the\nsmiling, white-haired churchman. \"But I feel assured that we shall\naccomplish just that without violence or bloodshed, my son. You echo\nmy sentiments exactly on the pregnant question. And yet, by getting\nCatholics employed in the public schools as teachers, and by electing\nour candidates to public offices, we quietly accomplish our ends, do\nwe not?\"\n\n\"But when will the Holy Father recognize the time as propitious for a\nmore decisive step in that respect?\"\n\n\"Why, my son, I think you fail to see that we keep continually\nstepping. We are growing by leaps and bounds in America. At the close\nof the War of Independence the United States numbered some forty-five\nthousand adherents to the Catholic faith. Now the number has increased\nto twelve or fifteen millions. Of these, some four millions are\nvoters. A goodly number, is it not?\"\n\n\"Then,\" cried the Bishop, \"let the Holy Father boldly make the demand\nthat the States appropriate money for the support of our parochial\nschools!\"\n\nJos\u00e8's ears throbbed. Before his ordination he had heard the Liturgy\nfor the conversion of America recited in the chapel of the seminary.\nAnd as often he had sought to picture the condition of the New World\nunder the religio-political influence which has for centuries\ndominated the Old. But he had always dismissed the idea of such\ndomination as wholly improbable, if not quite impossible in America.\nYet, since coming into the Papal Secretary's office, his views were\nslowly undergoing revision. The Church was concentrating on America.\nOf that there could be no doubt. Indeed, he had come to believe its\nsuccess as a future world-power to be a function of the stand which it\ncould secure and maintain in the United States. Now, as he strained\nhis ears, he could hear the aged Cardinal-Bishop's low, tense words--\n\n\"There can be no real separation of Church and State. The Church is\n_not_ inferior to the civil power, nor is it in any way dependent\nupon it. And the Church can never be excluded from educating and\ntraining the young, from molding society, from making laws, and\ngoverning, temporally and spiritually. From this attitude we shall\n_never_ depart! Ours is the only true religion. England and Germany\nhave been spiritually dead. But, praise to the blessed Virgin who\nhas heard our prayers and made intercession for us, England, after\nlong centuries of struggle with man-made sects and indefinite dogma,\nits spiritually-starving people fast drifting into atheism and\ninfidelity because of nothing to hold to, has awakened, and in these\nfirst hours of her resurrection is fast returning to the Holy\nChurch of Rome. America, in these latter days, is rousing from the\nblight of Puritanism, Protestantism, and their inevitable result,\nfree-thinking and anarchy, and is becoming the brightest jewel in\nthe Papal crown.\"\n\nThe Bishop smiled dubiously. \"And yet, Your Eminence,\" he replied, \"we\nare heralded from one end of the land to the other as a menace to\nRepublican institutions.\"\n\n\"Ah, true. And you must agree that Romanism is a distinct menace to\nthe insane license of speech and press. It is a decided menace to the\ninsanity of Protestantism. But,\" he added archly, while his eyes\ntwinkled, \"I have no doubt that when Catholic education has advanced a\nlittle further many of your American preachers, editors, and\nChautauqua demagogues will find themselves behind the bars of\nmadhouses. Fortunately, that editor of the prominent American magazine\nof which you were speaking switched from his heretic Episcopal faith\nin time to avoid this unpleasant consequence.\"\n\nThe Bishop reflected for a moment. Then, deliberately, as if\nmeditating the great import of his words, \"Your Eminence, in view of\nour strength, and our impregnable position as God's chosen, cannot the\nHoly Father insist that the United States mails be barred against the\ninfamous publications that so basely vilify our Church?\"\n\n\"And thereby precipitate a revolution?\" It was the firm voice of the\nPapal Secretary himself, who at that moment entered the room.\n\n\"But, Monsignor,\" said the Bishop, as he rose and saluted the\nnewcomer, \"how much longer must we submit to the gross injustice and\nindignities practiced upon us by non-believers?\"\n\n\"As long as the infallible Holy Father directs,\" replied that eminent\npersonage. \"Obey him, as you would God himself,\" the Secretary\ncontinued. \"And teach your flock to do likewise. The ballot will do\nfor us in America what armed resistance never could. Listen, friend,\nmy finger is on the religious pulse of the world. Nowhere does this\npulse beat as strongly as in that part which we call the United\nStates. For years I have been watching the various contending forces\nin that country, diligently and earnestly studying the elements acting\nand reacting upon our Church there. I have come to the conclusion that\nthe success of Holy Church throughout the world depends upon its\nadvance in the United States during the next few years. I have become\nan American enthusiast! The glorious work of making America Catholic\nis so fraught with consequences of vastest import that my blood surges\nwith the enthusiasm of an old Crusader! But there is much still to be\ndone. America is a field white for the harvest, almost unobstructed.\"\n\n\"Then,\" queried the Bishop, \"you do not reckon Protestantism an\nobstruction?\"\n\n\"Protestantism!\" the Secretary rejoined with a cynical laugh. \"No, I\nreckon it as nothing. Protestantism in America is decadent. It has\nsplit, divided, and disintegrated, until it is scarcely recognizable.\nIts adherents are falling away in great numbers. Its weak tenets and\nsenile faith hold but comparatively few and lukewarm supporters. It\nhas degenerated into a sort of social organization, with musicals,\npink teas, and church suppers as attractions. No, America is _bound_\nto be classed as a Catholic nation--and I expect to live to see it\nthus. Our material and spiritual progress in the United States is\namazing, showing how nobly American Catholics have responded to the\nHoly Father's appeal. New dioceses are springing up everywhere.\nChurches are multiplying with astonishing rapidity. The discouraging\noutlook in Europe is more, far more, than counterbalanced by our\nwonderful progress in the United States. We might say that the\nVatican now rests upon American backs, for the United States send\nmore Peter's Pence to Rome than all other Catholic countries\ntogether. We practically control her polls and her press. America was\ndiscovered by Christopher Columbus, a Catholic in the service of a\nCatholic ruler. It is Catholic in essence, and it shall so be\nrecognized! The Holy Catholic Church always has been and always will\nbe the sole and _only_ Christian authority. The Catholic religion by\nrights ought to be, and ultimately shall be, the exclusively\ndominant religion of the world, and every other sort of worship shall\nbe banished--interdicted--destroyed!\"\n\nFor a while Jos\u00e8 heard no more. His ears burned and his brain\nthrobbed. He had become conscious of but one all-absorbing thought,\nthe fact of his vassalage to a world-embracing political system,\nworking in the name of the Christ. Not a new thought, by any\nmeans--indeed an old one, often held--but now driven home to him most\nemphatically. He forgot his clerical duties and sank into profound\nrevery on his inconsistent position in the office of the highest\nfunctionary of Holy Church aside from the Supreme Pontiff himself.\n\nHe was aroused at length from his meditations by the departure of the\nAmerican Bishop. \"It is true, as you report,\" the Papal Secretary was\nsaying earnestly. \"America seems rife with modernism. Free-masonry,\nsocialism, and countless other fads and religious superstitions are\nwidely prevalent there. Nor do I underestimate their strength and\ninfluence. And yet, I fear them not. There are also certain freak\nreligions, philosophical beliefs, wrung from the simple teachings of\nour blessed Saviour, the rapid spread of which at one time did give me\nsome concern. The Holy Father mentioned one or two of them to-day, in\nreference to his contemplated encyclical on modernism. But I now see\nthat they are cults based upon human personality; and with their\nleaders removed, the fabrics will of themselves crumble.\"\n\nHe took leave of the Bishop, and turned again to address the\nCardinal-Bishop within. \"A matter of the gravest import has arisen,\"\nhe began in a low voice; \"and one that may directly affect our\nnegotiations in regard to the support which the Holy Father will need\nin case he issues a _pronunciamento_ that France, Spain, and Austria\nshall no longer exercise the right of veto in papal elections. That\nrumor regarding Isabella's daughter is again afloat. I have summoned\nFather Rafa\u00e9l de Rinc\u00f3n to Rome to state what he knows. But--\" He rose\nand looked out through the door at Jos\u00e8, bending over his littered\ndesk. Then he went back, and resumed his conversation with the\nCardinal-Bishop, but in a tone so low that Jos\u00e8 could catch only\ndisconnected scraps.\n\n\"What, Colombia?\" he at length heard the Cardinal-Bishop exclaim.\n\n\"Yes,\" was the Secretary's reply. \"And presumably at the instigation\nof that busybody, Wenceslas Ortiz. Though what concern he might have\nin the _Infanta_ is to me incomprehensible--assuming, of course, that\nthere is such a royal daughter.\"\n\n\"But--Colombia elects a President soon, is it not so?\"\n\n\"On the eve of election now,\" replied the Secretary. \"And if the\ninfluence of Wenceslas with the Bishop of Cartagena is what I am\nalmost forced to admit that it is, then the election is in his hands.\nBut, the _Infanta_--\" The sound of his voice did not carry the rest of\nhis words to Jos\u00e8's itching ears.\n\nAn hour later the Secretary and the Cardinal-Bishop came out of the\nroom and left the office together. \"Yes,\" the Secretary was saying,\n\"in the case of Wenceslas it was 'pull and percuniam' that secured him\nhis place. The Church did not put him there.\"\n\nThe Cardinal-Bishop laughed genially. \"Then the Holy Ghost was not\nconsulted, I take it,\" he said.\n\n\"No,\" replied the Secretary grimly. \"And he has so complicated the\nalready delicate situation in Colombia that I fear Congress will table\nthe bill prohibiting Free-masonry. It is to be deplored. Among all the\nLatin Republics none has been more thoroughly Catholic than\nColombia.\"\n\n\"Is the Holy Father's unpublished order regarding the sale and\ndistribution of Bibles loyally observed there?\" queried the\nCardinal-Bishop.\n\nThe door closed upon them and Jos\u00e8 heard no more. His day's duties\nended, he went to his room to write and reflect. But the intense\nafternoon heat again drove him forth to seek what comfort he might\nnear the river. With his notebook in hand he went to the little park,\nas was his frequent wont. An hour or so later, while he was jotting\ndown his remembrance of the conversation just overheard, together with\nhis own caustic and protesting opinions, his absorption was broken by\nthe strange child's accident. A few minutes later the notebook had\ndisappeared.\n\nAnd now the thought of all this medley of personal material and secret\nmatters of Church polity falling into the hands of those who might\nmake capital of it, and thereby drag the Rinc\u00f3n honor through the\nmire, cast the man prostrate in the dust.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 10\n\n\nDays passed--days whose every dawn found the priest staring in\nsleepless, wide-eyed terror at the ceiling above--days crowded with\ntorturing apprehension and sickening suggestion--days when his knees\nquaked and his hands shook when his superiors addressed him in the\nperformance of his customary duties. No mental picture was too\nfrightful or abhorrent for him to entertain as portraying a possible\nconsequence of the loss of his journal. He cowered in agony before\nthese visions. He dared not seek the little park again. He feared to\nshow himself in the streets. He dreaded the short walk from his\ndormitory to the Vatican. His life became a sustained torture--a\nconsuming agony of uncertainty, interminable suspense, fearful\nforeboding. The cruelty of his position corroded him. His health\nsuffered, and his cassock hung like a bag about his emaciated form.\n\nThen the filament snapped and the sword fell. On a dismal, rainy\nmorning, some two months after the incident in the park, Jos\u00e8 was\nsummoned into the private office of the Papal Secretary of State. As\nthe priest entered the small room the Secretary, sitting alone at his\ndesk, turned and looked at him long and fixedly.\n\n\"So, my son,\" he said in a voice that froze the priest's blood, \"you\nare still alive?\" Then, taking up a paper-covered book of medium size\nwhich apparently he had been reading, he held it out without comment.\n\nJos\u00e8 took it mechanically. The book was crudely printed and showed\nevidence of having been hastily issued. It came from the press of a\nViennese publisher, and bore the startling title, \"Confessions of a\nRoman Catholic Priest.\" As in a dream Jos\u00e8 opened it. A cry escaped\nhim, and the book fell from his hands. _It was his journal!_\n\nThere are sometimes crises in human lives when the storm-spent mind,\ntossing on the waves of heaving emotion, tugs and strains at the ties\nwhich moor it to reason, until they snap, and it sweeps out into the\nunknown, where blackness and terror rage above the fathomless deep.\nSuch a crisis had entered the life of the unhappy priest, who now held\nin his shaking hand the garbled publication of his life's most sacred\nthoughts. Into whose hands his notes had fallen on that black day when\nhe had sacrificed everything for an unknown child, he knew not. How\nthey had made their way into Austria, and into the pressroom of the\nheretical modernist who had gleefully issued them, twisted,\nexaggerated, but unabridged, he might not even imagine. The terrible\nfact remained that there in his hands they stared up at him in hideous\nmockery, his soul-convictions, his heart's deepest and most inviolable\nthoughts, details of his own personal history, secrets of state--all\nruthlessly exposed to the world's vulgar curiosity and the rapacity of\nthose who would not fail to play them up to the certain advantages to\nwhich they lent themselves all too well.\n\nAnd there before him, too, were the Secretary's sharp eyes, burning\ninto his very soul. He essayed to speak, to rise to his own defense.\nBut his throat filled, and the words which he would utter died on his\ntrembling lips. The room whirled about him. Floods of memory began to\nsweep over him in huge billows. The conflicting forces which had\nculminated in placing him in the paradoxical position in which he now\nstood raced before him in confused review. Objects lost their definite\noutlines and melted into the haze which rose before his straining\neyes. All things at last merged into the terrible presence of the\nPapal Secretary, as he slowly rose, tall and gaunt, and with arm\nextended and long, bony finger pointing to the yellow river in the\ndistance, said in words whose cruel suggestion scorched the raw soul\nof the suffering priest:\n\n\"My son, be advised: the Tiber covers many sins.\"\n\nThen pitying oblivion opened wide her arms, and the tired priest sank\ngently into them.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 11\n\n\nRome again lay scorching beneath a merciless summer sun. But the\nenergetic uncle of Jos\u00e8 was not thereby restrained from making another\nhurried visit to the Vatican. What his mission was does not appear in\npapal records; but, like the one which he found occasion to make just\nprior to the ordination of his nephew, this visit was not extended to\ninclude Jos\u00e8, who throughout that enervating summer lay tossing in\ndelirium in the great hospital of the Santo Spirito. We may be sure,\nhowever, that its influence upon the disposition of the priest's case\nafter the recent _d\u00e9no\u00fbement_ was not inconsiderable, and that it was\nlargely responsible for his presence before the Holy Father himself\nwhen, after weeks of racking fever, wan and emaciated, and leaning\nupon the arm of the confidential valet of His Holiness, the young\npriest faced that august personage and heard the infallible judgment\nof the Holy See upon his unfortunate conduct.\n\nOn the throne of St. Peter, in the heavily tapestried private audience\nroom of the great Vatican prison-palace, and guarded from intrusion by\narmed soldiery and hosts of watchful ecclesiastics of all grades, sat\nthe Infallible Council, the Vicar-General of the humble Nazarene, the\naged leader at whose beck a hundred million faithful followers bent in\nlowly genuflection. Near him stood the Papal Secretary of State and\ntwo Cardinal-Bishops of the Administrative Congregation.\n\nJos\u00e8 dragged himself wearily before the Supreme Pontiff and bent low.\n\n\"_Benedicite_, my erring son.\" The soft voice of His Holiness floated\nnot unmusically through the tense silence of the room.\n\n\"Arise. The hand of the Lord already has been laid heavily upon you in\nwholesome chastening for your part in this deplorable affair. And the\nsame omnipotent hand has been stretched forth to prevent the baneful\neffects of your thoughtless conduct. We do not condemn you, my son. It\nwas the work of the Evil One, who has ever found through your\nweaknesses easy access to your soul.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 raised his blurred eyes and gazed at the Holy Father in perplexed\nastonishment. But the genial countenance of the patriarch seemed to\nconfirm his mild words. A smile, tender and patronizing, in which Jos\u00e8\nread forgiveness--and yet with it a certain undefined something which\naugured conditions upon which alone penalty for his culpability would\nbe remitted--lighted up the pale features of the Holy Father and\nwarmed the frozen life-currents of the shrinking priest.\n\n\"My son,\" the Pontiff continued tenderly, \"our love for our wandering\nchildren is but stimulated by their need of our protecting care. Fear\nnot; the guilty publisher of your notes has been awakened to his\nfault, and the book which he so thoughtlessly issued has been quite\nsuppressed.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 bent his head and patiently awaited the conclusion.\n\n\"You have lain for weeks at death's door, my son. The words which you\nuttered in your delirium corroborated our own thought of your\ninnocence of intentional wrong. And now that you have regained your\nreason, you will confess to us that your reports, and especially your\naccount of the recent conversation between the Cardinal-Secretary of\nState and the Cardinal-Bishop, were written under that depression of\nmind which has long afflicted you, producing a form of mental\nderangement, and giving rise to frequent hallucination. It is this\nwhich has caused us to extend to you our sympathy and protection. Long\nand intense study, family sorrow, and certain inherited traits of\ndisposition, whose rapid development have tended to lack of normal\nmental balance, account to us for those deeds of eccentricity on your\npart which have plunged us into extreme embarrassment and yourself\ninto the illness which threatened your young life. Is it not so, my\nson?\"\n\nThe priest stared up at the speaker in bewilderment. This unexpected\nturn of affairs had swept his defense from his mind.\n\n\"The Holy Father awaits your reply,\" the Papal Secretary spoke with\nseverity. His own thought had been greatly ruffled that morning, and\nhis patience severely taxed by a threatened mutiny among the Swiss\nguards, whose demands in regard to the quantity of wine allowed them\nand whose memorial recounting other alleged grievances he had just\nflatly rejected. The muffled cries of \"_Viva Garibaldi!_\" as the\npetitioners left his presence were still echoing in the Secretary's\nears, and his anger had scarce begun to cool.\n\n\"We are patient, my Cardinal-Nephew,\" the Pontiff resumed mildly. \"Our\nlove for this erring son enfolds him.\" Then, turning again to Jos\u00e8,\n\"We have correctly summarized the causes of your recent conduct, have\nwe not?\"\n\nThe priest made as if to reply, but hesitated, with the words\nfluttering on his lips.\n\n\"My dear son\"--the Holy Father bent toward the wondering priest in an\nattitude of loving solicitation--\"our blessed Saviour was ofttimes\nconfronted with those possessed of demons. Did he reject them? No;\nand, despite the accusations against us in your writings, for which we\nknow you were not morally responsible, we, Christ's representative on\nearth, are still touched with his love and pity for one so unfortunate\nas you. With your help we shall stop the mouths of calumny, and set\nyou right before the world. We shall use our great resources to save\nthe Rinc\u00f3n honor which, through the working of Satan within you, is\nnow unjustly besmirched. We shall labor to restore you to your right\nmind, and to the usefulness which your scholarly gifts make possible\nto you. We indeed rejoice that your piteous appeal has reached our\nears. We rejoice to correct those erroneous views which you, in the\ntemporary aberration of reason, were driven to commit to writing, and\nwhich so unfortunately fell into the hands of Satan's alert\nemissaries. Your ravings during these weeks of delirium shed much\nlight upon the obsessing thoughts which plunged you into mild\ninsanity. And they have stirred the immeasurable depths of pity within\nus.\"\n\nThe Holy Father paused after this unwontedly long speech. A dumb sense\nof stupefaction seemed to possess the priest, and he passed his\nshrunken hands before his eyes as if he would brush away a mist.\n\n\"That this unfortunate book is but the uttering of delirium, we have\nalready announced to the world,\" His Holiness gently continued. \"But\nout of our deep love for a family which has supplied so many\nillustrious sons to our beloved Church we have suppressed mention of\nyour name in connection therewith.\"\n\nThe priest started, as he vaguely sensed the impending issue. What was\nit that His Holiness was about to demand? That he denounce his\njournal, over his own signature, as the ravings of a man temporarily\ninsane? He was well aware that the Vatican's mere denial of the\nallegations therein contained, and its attributing of them to a mad\npriest, would scarcely carry conviction to the Courts of Spain and\nAustria, or to an astonished world. But, for him to declare them the\ngarbled and unauthentic utterances of an aberrant mind, and to make\npublic such statement in his own name, would save the situation,\npossibly the Rinc\u00f3n honor, even though it stultify his own.\n\nHis Holiness waited a few moments for the priest's reply; but\nreceiving none, he continued with deep significance:\n\n\"You will not make it necessary, we know, for us to announce that a\nmad priest, a son of the house of Rinc\u00f3n, now confined in an asylum,\nvoiced these heretical and treasonable utterances.\"\n\nThe voice of His Holiness flowed like cadences of softest music,\ncharming in its tenderness, winning in its appeal, but momentous in\nits certain implication.\n\n\"In our solicitude for your recovery we commanded our own physicians\nto attend you. To them you owe your life. To them, too, we owe our\ngratitude for that report on your case which reveals the true nature\nof the malady afflicting you.\"\n\nThe low voice vibrated in rhythmic waves through the dead silence of\nthe room.\n\n\"To them also you now owe this opportunity to abjure the writings\nwhich have caused us and yourself such great sorrow; to them you owe\nthis privilege of confessing before us, who will receive your\nrecantation, remit your unintentional sins, and restore you to honor\nand service in our beloved Church.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 suddenly came to himself. Recant! Confess! In God's name, what?\nAbjure his writings, the convictions of a lifetime!\n\n\"These writings, my son, are not your sane and rational convictions,\"\nthe Pontiff suggested.\n\nJos\u00e8 still stood mute before him.\n\n\"You renounce them now, in the clear light of restored reason; and you\nswear future lealty to us and to Holy Church,\" the aged Father\ncontinued.\n\n\"Make answer!\" commanded one of the Cardinal-Bishops, starting toward\nthe wavering priest. \"Down on your knees before the Holy Father, who\nwaits to forgive your venial sin!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 turned swiftly to the approaching Cardinal and held up a hand.\nThe man stopped short. The Pontiff and his associates bent forward in\neager anticipation. The valet fell back, and Jos\u00e8 stood alone. In that\ntense mental atmosphere the shrinking priest seemed to be transformed\ninto a Daniel.\n\n\"No, Holy Father, you mistake!\" His voice rang through the room like a\nclarion. \"I do not recant! My writings _do_ express my deepest and\nsanest convictions!\"\n\nThe Pontiff's pallid face went dark. The eyes of the other auditors\nbulged with astonishment. A dumb spell settled over the room.\n\n\"Father, my guilt lies not in having recorded my honest convictions,\nnor in the fact that these records fell into the hands of those who\neagerly grasp every opportunity to attack their common enemy, the\nChurch. It lies rather in my weak resistance to those influences which\nin early life combined to force upon me a career to which I was by\ntemperament and instinct utterly disinclined. It lies in my having\nsacrificed myself to the selfish love of my mother and my own\nexaggerated sense of family pride. It lies in my still remaining\noutwardly a priest of the Catholic faith, when every fiber of my soul\nrevolts against the hypocrisy!\"\n\n\"You are a subject of the Church!\" the Papal Secretary interrupted.\n\"You have sworn to her and to the Sovereign Pontiff as loyal and\nunquestioning obedience as to the will of God himself!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 turned upon him. \"Before my ordination,\" he cried, \"I was a\nvoluntary subject of the Sovereign of Spain. Did that ceremony render\nme an unwilling subject of the Holy Father? Does the ceremony of\nordination constitute the Romanizing of Spain? No, I am not a subject\nof Rome, but of my conscience!\"\n\nAnother dead pause followed, in which for some moments nothing\ndisturbed the oppressive silence. Jos\u00e8 looked eagerly into the\ndelicate features of the living Head of the Church. Then, with\ndecreased ardor, and in a voice tinged with pathos, he continued:\n\n\"Father, my mistakes have been only such as are natural to one of\nmy peculiar character. I came to know, but too late, that my\nlife-motives, though pure, found not in me the will for their\ndirection. I became a tool in the hands of those stronger than\nmyself. For what ultimate purpose, I know not. Of this only am I\ncertain, that my mother's ambitions, though selfish, were the only\npure motives among those which united to force the order of\npriesthood upon me.\"\n\n\"Force!\" burst in one of the Cardinal-Bishops. \"Do you assume to make\nthe Holy Father believe that the priesthood can be _forced_ upon a\nman? You assumed it willingly, gladly, as was your proper return for\nthe benefits which the Mother Church had bestowed upon you!\"\n\n\"In a state of utmost confusion, bordering a mental breakdown, I\nassumed it--outwardly,\" returned the priest sadly, \"but my heart never\nceased to reject it. Once ordained, however, I sought in my feeble way\nto study the needs of the Church, and prepare myself to assist in the\ninauguration of reforms which I felt she must some day undertake.\"\n\nThe Pontiff's features twitched with ill-concealed irritation at this\nconfession; but before he could speak Jos\u00e8 continued:\n\n\"Oh, Father, and Cardinal-Princes of the Church, does not the need of\nyour people for truth wring your hearts? Turn from your zealous dreams\nof world-conquest and see them, steeped in ignorance and superstition,\nwretched with poverty, war, and crime, extending their hands to you as\ntheir spiritual leaders--to you, Holy Father, who should be their\nMoses, to smite the rock of error, that the living, saving truth may\ngush out!\"\n\nHe paused, as if fearful of his own rushing thought. Then: \"Is not the\npast fraught with lessons of deepest import to us? Is not the Church\nbeing rejected by the nations of Europe because of our intolerance,\nour oppression, our stubborn clinging to broken idols and effete forms\nof faith? We are now turning from the wreckage which the Church has\nwrought in the Old World, and our eyes are upon America. But can we\ndeceive ourselves that free, liberty-loving America will bow her neck\nto the mediaeval yoke which the Church would impose upon her? Why, oh,\nwhy cannot we see the Church's tremendous opportunities for good in\nthis century, and yield to that inevitable mental and moral\nprogression which must sweep her from her foundations, unless she\nconform to its requirements and join in the movement toward universal\nemancipation! Our people are taught from childhood to be led; they are\nwilling followers--none more willing in the world! But why lead them\ninto the pit? Why muzzle them with fear, oppress them with threats,\nfetter them with outworn dogma and dead creed? Why continue to dazzle\nthem with pagan ceremonialism and oriental glamour, and then, our\nexactions wrung from them, leave them to consume with disease and\ndecay with moral contagion?\"\n\n\"The man is mad with heresy!\" muttered the Pontiff, turning to the\nCardinal-Bishops.\n\n\"No, it is not I who is mad with heresy, but the Holy Church, of which\nyou are the spiritual Head!\" cried the priest, his loud voice\ntrembling with indignation and his frail body swaying under his\nrapidly growing excitement. \"She is guilty of the damnable heresy\nof concealing knowledge, of hiding truth, of stifling honest\nquestionings! She is guilty of grossest intolerance, of deadliest\nhatred, of impurest motives--she, the self-constituted, self-endowed\nspiritual guide of mankind, arrogating to herself infallibility,\nsuperiority, supreme authority--yea, the very voice of God himself!\"\n\nThe priest had now lost all sense of environment, and his voice waxed\nlouder as he continued:\n\n\"The conduct of the Church throughout the centuries has made her\nthe laughing-stock of history, an object of ridicule to every man\nof education and sense! She is filled with superstition--do you not\nknow it? She is permeated with pagan idolatry, fetishism, and\ncarnal-mindedness! She is pitiably ignorant of the real teachings of\nthe Christ! Her dogmas have been formed by the subtle wits of Church\ntheologians. They are in this century as childish as her political\nand social schemes are mischievous! Why have we formulated our\ndoctrine of purgatory? Why so solicitous about souls in purgatorial\ntorment, and yet so careless of them while still on earth? Where is\nour justification for the doctrine of infallibility? Is liberty to\nthink the concession of God, or of the Holy Father? Where, oh,\nwhere is the divine Christ in our system of theology? Is he to be\nfound in materialism, intolerance, the burning of Bibles, in\nhatred of so-called heretics, and in worldly practices? Are we not\nkeeping the Christ in the sepulcher, refusing to permit him to\narise?\"\n\nHis speech soared into the impassioned energy of thundered denunciation.\n\n\"Yes, Holy Father, and Cardinal-Bishops, I _am_ justified in\ncriticizing the Holy Catholic Church! And I am likewise justified in\ncondemning the Protestant Church! All have fallen woefully short of\nthe glory of God, and none obeys the simple commands of the Christ.\nThe Church throughout the world has become secularized, and worship is\nbut hollow consistency in the strict performance of outward acts of\ndevotion. Our religion is but a hypocritical show of conformity. Our\nasylums, our hospitals, our institutions of charity? Alas! they but\nevidence our woeful shortcoming, and our persistent refusal to rise\ninto the strength of the healing, saving Christ, which would render\nthese obsolete institutions unnecessary in the world of to-day! The\nHoly Catholic Church is but a human institution. Its worldliness, its\nscheming, its political machinations, make me shudder--!\"\n\n\"Stop, madman!\" thundered one of the Cardinal-Bishops, rushing upon\nthe frail Jos\u00e8 with such force as to fell him to the floor. The\nPontiff had risen, and sunk again into his chair. The valet hurried to\nhis assistance. The Papal Secretary, his face contorted with rage, and\nhis throat choking with the press of words which he strove to utter,\nhastened to the door to summon help. \"Remove this man!\" he commanded,\npointing out the prostrate form of Jos\u00e8 to the two Swiss guards who\nhad responded to his call. \"Confine him! He is violent--a raging\nmaniac!\"\n\nA few days later, Padre Jos\u00e8 de Rinc\u00f3n, having been pronounced by the\nVatican physicians mentally deranged, as the result of acute cerebral\nanaemia, was quietly conveyed to a sequestered monastery at\nPalazzola.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nTwo summers came, and fled again before the chill winds which blew\nfrom the Alban hills. Then one day Jos\u00e8's uncle appeared at the\nmonastery door with a written order from His Holiness, effecting the\npriest's conditional release. Together they journeyed at once to\nSeville, the uncle alert and energetic as ever, showing but slight\ntrace of time's devastating hand; Jos\u00e8, the shadow of his former self\nphysically, and his mind clouded with the somber pall of melancholia.\n\nToward the close of a quiet summer, spent with his mother in his\nboyhood home, Jos\u00e8 received from his uncle's hand another letter,\nbearing the papal insignia. It was evident that it was not unexpected,\nfor it found the priest with his effects packed and ready for a\nconsiderable journey. A hurried farewell to his mother, and the\nlife-weary Jos\u00e8, combining innocence and misery in exaggerated\nproportions, and still a vassal of Rome, set out for the port of\nCadiz. There, in company with the Apostolic Delegate and Envoy\nExtraordinary to the Republic of Colombia, he embarked on the West\nIndian trader Sarnia, bound for Cartagena, in the New World.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 12\n\n\nThere is no region in the Western Hemisphere more invested with the\nspirit of romance and adventure than that strip of Caribbean coast\nstretching from the Cape of Yucatan to the delta of the Orinoco and\nknown as the Spanish Main. No more superb setting could have been\nchosen for the opening scenes of the New World drama. Skies of profoundest\nblue--the tropical sun flaming through massive clouds of vapor--a sea\nof exuberant color, foaming white over coral beaches--waving cocoa\npalms against a background of exotic verdure marking a tortuous shore\nline, which now rises sheer and precipitous from the water's edge to\ndizzy, snowcapped, cloud-hung heights, now stretches away into vast\nreaches of oozy mangrove bog and dank cinchona grove--here flecked with\nstagnant lagoons that teem with slimy, crawling life--there flattened\ninto interminable, forest-covered plains and untrodden, primeval\nwildernesses, impenetrable, defiant, alluring--and all perennially bathed\nin dazzling light, vivid color, and soft, fragrant winds--with\neverywhere redundant foliage--humming, chattering, screaming\nlife--profusion--extravagance--prodigality--riotous waste! Small wonder\nthat when this enticing shore was first revealed to the astonished\n_Conquistadores_, where every form of Nature was wholly different from\nanything their past experience afforded, they were childishly receptive to\nevery tale, however preposterous, of fountains of youth, of magical\nlakes, or enchanted cities with mountains of gold in the depths of the\nfrowning jungle. They had come with their thought attuned to enchantment;\ntheir minds were fallow to the incredible; they were fresh from their\nconquest of the vast _Mare Tenebrosum_, with its mysteries and terrors.\nAt a single stroke from the arm of the intrepid Genoese the mediaeval\nsuperstitions which peopled the unknown seas had fallen like fetters\nfrom these daring and adventurous souls. The slumbering spirit of\nknight-errantry awoke suddenly within their breasts; and when from their\nfrail galleons they beheld with ravished eyes this land of magic and\nalluring mystery which spread out before them in such gorgeous\npanorama, they plunged into the glittering waters with waving swords\nand pennants, with shouts of praise and joy upon their lips, and\ninaugurated that series of prodigious enterprise, extravagant deeds of\nhardihood, and tremendous feats of prowess which still remain\nunsurpassed in the annals of history for brilliancy, picturesqueness,\nand wealth of incident.\n\nWith almost incredible rapidity and thoroughness the Spanish arms\nspread over the New World, urged by the corroding lust of gold and the\nsharp stimulus afforded by the mythical quests which animated the\nsimple minds of these hardy searchers for the Golden Fleece. Neither\ntrackless forests, withering heat, miasmatic climate nor savage\nIndians could dampen their ardor or check their search for riches and\nglory. They penetrated everywhere, steel-clad and glittering, with\nlance and helmet and streaming banner. Every nook, every promontory of\na thousand miles of coast was minutely searched; every island was\nbounded; every towering mountain scaled. Even those vast regions of\nNew Granada which to-day are as unknown as the least explored parts of\ndarkest Africa became the scenes of stirring adventure and brilliant\nexploit of these daring crusaders of more than three centuries ago.\n\nThe real wonders yielded by this newly discovered land of enchantment\nfar exceeded the fabled Manoa or El Dorado of mythical lore; and the\nadventurous expeditions that were first incited by these chimeras soon\nchanged into practical colonizing and developing projects of real and\npermanent value. Amazing discoveries were made of empires which had\nalready developed a state of civilization, mechanical, military, and\nagricultural, which rivaled those of Europe. Natural resources were\nrevealed such as the Old World had not even guessed were possible.\nGreat rivers, vast fertile plains, huge veins of gold and copper ore,\ninexhaustible timber, a wealth of every material thing desired by man,\ncould be had almost without effort. Fortunate, indeed, was the Spanish\n_Conquistador_ in the possession of such immeasurable riches;\nfortunate, indeed, had he possessed the wisdom to meet the supreme\ntest of character which this sudden accession of wealth and power was\nto bring!\n\nWith the opening of the vast treasure house flanked by the Spanish\nMain came the Spaniard's supreme opportunity to master the world.\nSoon in undisputed possession of the greater part of the Western\nHemisphere; with immeasurable wealth flowing into his coffers;\nsustained by dauntless courage and an intrepid spirit of adventure;\nwith papal support, and the learning and genius of the centuries at\nhis command, he faced the opportunity to extend his sway over the\nentire world and unite all peoples into a universal empire, both\ntemporal and spiritual. That he failed to rise to this possibility\nwas not due to any lack of appreciation of his tremendous opportunity,\nnor to a dearth of leaders of real military genius, but to a\nmisapprehension of the great truth that the conquest of the world is\nnot to be wrought by feats of arms, but by the exercise of those\nmoral attributes and spiritual qualities of heart and soul which he\ndid not possess--or possessing, had prostituted to the carnal\ninfluences of lust of material riches and temporal power.\n\nIn the immediate wake of the Spanish _Conqueros_ surged the drift and\nflotsam of the Old World. Cities soon sprang up along the Spanish Main\nwhich reflected a curious blend of the old-time life of Seville and\nMadrid with the picturesque and turbulent elements of the adventurer\nand buccaneer. The spirit of the West has always been synonymous with\na larger sense of freedom, a shaking off of prejudice and tradition\nand the trammels of convention. The sixteenth century towns of the New\nWorld were no exception, and their streets and _plazas_ early\nexhibited a multicolored panorama, wherein freely mingled knight and\npredaceous priest, swashbuckler and staid _hidalgo_, timid Indian and\nveiled _doncella_--a potpourri of merchant, prelate, negro, thief, the\nbroken in fortune and the blackened in character--all poured into the\nmelting pot of the new West, and there steaming and straining,\nscheming and plotting, attuned to any pitch of venturesome project, so\nbe it that gold and fame were the promised emoluments thereof.\n\nAnd gold, and fame of a certain kind, were always to be had by those\nwhose ethical code permitted of a little straining. For the great\nships which carried the vast wealth of this new land of magic back to\nthe perennially empty coffers of Old Spain constituted a temptation\nfar more readily recognized than resisted. These huge, slow-moving\ngalleons, gilded and carved, crawling lazily over the surface of the\nbright tropical sea, and often so heavily freighted with treasure as\nto be unsafe in rough weather, came to be regarded as special\ndispensations of Providence by the cattle thieves and driers of beef\nwho dwelt in the pirates' paradise of Tortuga and Hispaniola, and\nlittle was required in way of soul-alchemy to transform the\n_boucanier_ into the lawless and sanguinary, though picturesque,\ncorsair of that romantic age. The buccaneer was but a natural\nevolution from the peculiar conditions then obtaining. Where human\nsociety in the process of formation has not yet arrived at the\nnecessity of law to restrain the lust and greed of its members; and\nwhere at the same time untold wealth is to be had at the slight cost\nof a few lives; and, too, where even the children are taught that\nwhosoever aids in the destruction of Spanish ships and Spanish lives\nrenders a service to the Almighty, the buccaneer must be regarded as\nthe logical result. He multiplied with astonishing rapidity in these\nwarm, southern waters, and not a ship that sailed the Caribbean was\nsafe from his sudden depredations. So extensive and thorough was his\nwork that the bed of the Spanish Main is dotted with traditional\ntreasure ships, and to this day remnants of doubloons or \"pieces of\neight\" and bits of bullion and jewelry are washed up on the shining\nbeaches of Panam\u00e1 and northern Colombia as grim memorials of his\nlawless activities.\n\nThe expenditure of energy necessary to transport the gold, silver and\nprecious stones from the New World to the bottomless treasury of Spain\nwas stupendous. Yet not less stupendous was the amount of treasure\ntransported. From the distant mines of Potosi, from the Pilcomayo,\nfrom the almost inaccessible fastnesses of what are now Bolivia and\nEcuador, a precious stream poured into the leaking treasure box of\nSpain that totalled a value of no less than ten billion dollars. Much\nof the wealth which came from Peru was shipped up to the isthmus of\nPanam\u00e1, and thence transferred to plate-fleets. But the buccaneers\nbecame so active along the Pacific coast that water shipment was\nfinally abandoned, and from that time transportation had to be made\noverland by way of the Andean plateau, sometimes a distance of two\nthousand miles, to the strongholds which were built to receive and\nprotect the treasure until the plate-fleets could be made up. Of these\nstrongholds there were two of the first importance, the old city of\nPanam\u00e1, on the isthmus, and the almost equally old city of Cartagena,\non the northern coast of what is now the Republic of Colombia.\n\nThe spirit of ancient Carthage must have breathed upon this \"Very\nRoyal and Loyal City\" which Pedro de Heredia in the sixteenth century\nfounded on the north coast of New Granada, and bequeathed to it a\nportion of its own romance and tragedy. Superbly placed upon a narrow,\ntongue-shaped islet, one of a group that shield an ample harbor from\nthe sharp tropical storms which burst unheralded over the sea without;\ngirdled by huge, battlemented walls, and guarded by frowning\nfortresses, Cartagena commanded the gateway to the exhaustless wealth\nof the _Cordilleras_, at whose feet she still nestles, bathed in\nperpetual sunshine, and kissed by cool ocean breezes which temper the\nwinds blowing hot from the steaming _llanos_ of the interior. By the\nmiddle of the sixteenth century she offered all that the adventurous\nseeker of fame and fortune could desire, and attracted to herself not\nonly the chivalry, but the beauty, wealth and learning which, mingled\nwith rougher elements, poured into the New World so freely in the\nopening scenes of the great drama inaugurated by the arrival of the\ntiny caravels of Columbus a half century before.\n\nThe city waxed quickly rich and powerful. Its natural advantages of\nlocation, together with its massive fortifications, and its wonderful\nharbor, so extensive that the combined fleets of Spain might readily\nhave found anchorage therein, early rendered it the choice of the\nSpanish monarch as his most dependable reservoir and shipping point\nfor the accumulated treasure of his new possessions. The island upon\nwhich the city arose was singularly well chosen for defense. Fortified\nbridges were built to connect it with the mainland, and subterranean\npassageways led from the great walls encircling it to the impregnable\nfortress of San Felipe de Barajas, on Mount San L\u00e1zaro, a few hundred\nyards back of the city and commanding the avenues and approaches of\nthe land side. To the east, and about a mile from the walls, the\nabrupt hill of La Popa rises, surmounted by the convent of Santa\nCandelaria, likewise connected by underground tunnels to the interior\nof the city, and commanding the harbor and its approaches from the\nsea. The harbor formerly connected with the open sea through two\nentrances, the Boca Grande, a wide, fortified pass between the island\nof Tierra Bomba and the tongue on which the city stands, and the Boca\nChica, some nine miles farther west, a narrow, tortuous pass, wide\nenough to permit entry to but a single vessel at a time, and commanded\nby forts San Fernando and San Jos\u00e8.\n\nBy the middle of the seventeenth century Cartagena, \"Queen of the\nIndies and Queen of the Seas,\" had expanded into a proud and beautiful\ncity, the most important mart of the New World. Under royal patronage\nits merchants enjoyed a monopoly of commerce with Spain. Under the\nspecial favor of Rome it became an episcopal See, and the seat of the\nHoly Inquisition. Its docks and warehouses, its great centers of\ncommerce, its sumptuous dwellings, its magnificent Cathedral, its\ncolleges and monasteries, and its proud aristocracy, all reflected the\nspirit of enterprise which animated its sons and found expression in a\ncity which could boast a pride, a culture, and a wealth almost\nunrivalled even in the Old World.\n\nBut, not unlike her ancient prototype, Cartagena succumbed to the very\ninfluences which had made her great. Her wealth excited the cupidity\nof freebooters, and her power aroused the jealousy of her formidable\nrivals. Her religion itself became an excuse for the plundering hands\nof Spain's enemies. Again and again the city was called upon to defend\nthe challenge which her riches and massive walls perpetually issued.\nAgain and again she was forced to yield to the heavy tributes and\ndisgraceful penalties of buccaneers and legalized pirates who, like\nDrake, came to plunder her under royal patent. Cartagena rose and\nfell, and rose again. But the human heart which throbs beneath the\nlash of lust or revenge knows no barriers. Her great forts availed\nnothing against the lawless hordes which swarmed over them. Neither\nwere her tremendous walls proof against starvation. Again and again,\nher streets filled with her gaunt dead, she stubbornly held her gates\nagainst the enemies of Spain who assaulted her in the name of\nreligion, only at last to weaken with terror and throw them open in\ndisgraceful welcome to the French de Pontis and his maudlin, rag-tag\nfollowers, who drained her of her last drop of life blood. As her\ngates swung wide and this nondescript band of marauders streamed in\nwith curses and shouts of exultation, the glory of this royal\nmediaeval city passed out forever.\n\nAlmost from its inception, Cartagena had been the point of attack of\nevery enterprise launched with the object of wresting from Spain her\nrich western possessions, so much coveted by her jealous and\nrevengeful rivals. It was Spain herself who fought for very existence\nwhile Cartagena was holding her gates against the enemies of Holy\nChurch. And these enemies knew that they had pierced the Spanish heart\nwhen the \"Queen of the Indies\" fell. And in no small measure did Spain\ndeserve the fate which overtook her. For, had it not been for the\nstupendous amount of treasure derived from these new possessions, the\ndramatic and dominant part which she played in the affairs of Europe\nduring the sixteenth century would have been impossible. This treasure\nshe wrested from her South American colonies at a cost in the\ndestruction of human life, in the outraging of human instincts, in\nthe debauching of ideals and the falsifying of hope, in hellish\noppression and ghastly torture, that can never be adequately\nestimated. Her benevolent instruments of colonization were cannon and\nsaintly relics. Her agents were swaggering soldiers and bigoted\nfriars. Her system involved the impression of her language and her\nundemonstrable religious beliefs upon the harmless aborigines. The\nfruits of this system, which still linger after three centuries, are\nsuperstition, black ignorance, and woeful mental retardation. To the\nterrified aborigines the boasted Spanish civilization meant little\nmore than \"gold, liquor, and sadness.\" Small wonder that the simple\nIndians, unable to comprehend the Christian's lust for gold, poured\nthe molten metal down the throats of their captives, crying, \"Eat,\nChristian, eat!\" They had borrowed their ideals from the Christian\nSpaniards, who by means of the stake and rack were convincing them\nthat God was not in this western land until they came, bringing their\ndebauched concept of Christianity.\n\nAnd so Cartagena fell, late in the seventeenth century, never to\nregain more than a shadow of her former grandeur and prestige. But\nagain she rose, in a semblance of her martial spirit, when her native\nsons, gathering fresh courage and inspiration from the waning powers\nof the mother-country in the early years of the century just closed,\norganized that federation which, after long years of almost hopeless\nstruggle, lifted the yoke of Spanish misrule from New Granada and\nproclaimed the Republic of Colombia. Cartagena was the first city of\nColombia to declare its independence from Spain. And in the great war\nwhich followed the \"Heroic City\" passed through terrible vicissitudes,\nemerging from it still further depleted and sunken, a shell of massive\nwalls and battered defenses, with desolated homes and empty streets\nechoing the tread of the mendicant _peon_.\n\nAs the nineteenth century, so rich in invention, discovery, and\nstirring activity in the great States to the north, drew to a close, a\nchance visitor to this battle-scarred, mediaeval city would have found\nher asleep amid the dreams of her former greatness. Approaching from\nthe harbor, especially if he arrived in the early hours of morning,\nhis eyes would have met a view of exquisite beauty. Seen thus, great\nmoss-grown structures rise from within the lofty encircling walls,\nwith many a tower and gilded dome glittering in the clear sunlight and\nstanding out in sharp relief against the green background of\nforest-plumed hills and towering mountains. The abysmal blue of the\nuntainted tropical sky overhead contrasts sharply with the red-tiled\nroofs and dazzling white exteriors of the buildings beneath; and the\nvivid tints, mingling with the iridescence of the scarcely rippling\nwaters of the harbor, blend into a color scheme of rarest loveliness\nin the clear atmosphere which seems to magnify all distant objects and\nintensify every hue.\n\nA closer approach to the citadel which lies within the landlocked\nharbor reveals in detail the features of the stupendous walls which\nguard this key to Spain's former treasure house. Their immensity and\ntheir marvelous construction bear witness to the genius of her famous\nmilitary engineers, and evoke the same admiration as do the great\ntemples and monuments of ancient Egypt. These grim walls, in places\nsixty feet through, and pierced by numerous gates, are frequently\nwidened into broad esplanades, and set here and there with bastions\nand watch towers to command strategic points. At the north end of the\ncity they expand into an elaborately fortified citadel, within which\nare enormous fresh water tanks, formerly supplied by the rains, and\nmade necessary by the absence of springs so near the coast. Within the\nwalls at various points one finds the now abandoned barracks,\nstorerooms, and echoing dungeons, the latter in the days of the\nstirring past too often pressed into service by the Holy Inquisition.\nUnderground tunnels, still intact, lead from the walls to the\nCathedral, the crumbling fortress of San Felipe de Barajas, and the\ndeserted convent on the summit of La Popa. Time-defying, grim,\ndramatic reliques of an age forever past, breathing poetry and romance\nfrom every crevice--still in fancy echoing from moldering tower and\nscarred bulwark the clank of sabre, the tread of armored steed, and\nthe shouts of exulting _Conquistadores_--aye, their ghostly echoes\nsinking in the fragrant air of night into soft whispers, which bear to\nthe tropical moon dark hints of ancient tragedies enacted within these\ndim keeps and gloom-shrouded tunnels!\n\nThe pass of Boca Grande--\"large mouth\"--through which Drake's band of\nmarauders sailed triumphantly in the latter part of the sixteenth\ncentury, was formerly the usual entrance to the city's magnificent\nharbor. But its wide, deep channel, only two miles from the city\nwalls, afforded too easy access to undesirable visitors in the heyday\nof freebooters; and the harassed Cartagenians, wearied of the\ninnumerable piratical attacks which this broad entrance constantly\ninvited, undertook to fill it up. This they accomplished after years\nof heroic effort and an enormous expenditure of money, leaving the\nharbor only the slender, tortuous entrance of Boca Chica--\"little\nmouth\"--dangerous to incoming vessels because of the almost torrential\nflow of the tide through it, but much more readily defended. The two\ncastles of San Fernando and San Jos\u00e8, frowning structures of stone\ndominating this entrance, have long since fallen into disuse, but are\nstill admirably preserved. Beneath the former, and extending far below\nthe surface of the water, is the old Bastile of the Inquisition,\noccasionally pressed into requisition now to house recalcitrant\npoliticians, and where no great effort of the imagination is required\nstill to hear the groans of the tortured and the sighs of the\ncondemned, awaiting in chains and _san benitos_ the approaching _auto\nda f\u00e9_.\n\nBut the greater distance from the present entrance of the harbor to\nthe city walls affords the visitor a longer period in which to enjoy\nthe charming panorama which seems to drift slowly out to meet him as\nhe stands entranced before it. The spell of romance and chivalry is\nupon him long ere he disembarks; and once through the great gateway of\nthe citadel itself, he yields easily to the ineluctable charm which\nseems to hover in the balmy air of this once proud city. Everywhere\nare evidences of ancient grandeur, mingling with memories of enormous\nwealth and violent scenes of strife. The narrow, winding streets,\ncharacteristic of oriental cities; the Moorish architecture displayed\nin the grandiose palaces and churches; the grated, unglazed windows,\nthrough which still peep timid _se\u00f1oritas_, as in the romantic days of\nyore; the gaily painted balconies, over which bepowdered _doncellas_\nlean to pass the day's gossip in the liquid tongue of Cervantes, all\ntransport one in thought to the chivalrous past, when this picturesque\nsurvival of Spain's power in America was indeed the very Queen of the\nwestern world and the proud boast of the haughty monarchs of Castile.\n\nNor was the city more dear to the Spanish King than to the spiritual\nSovereign who sat on Peter's throne. The Holy See strove to make\nCartagena the chief ecclesiastical center of the New World; and\nchurches, monasteries, colleges, and convents flourished there as\nluxuriantly as the tropical vegetation. The city was early elevated to\na bishopric. A magnificent Cathedral was soon erected, followed by\nother churches and buildings to house ecclesiastical orders, including\nthe Jesuit college, the University, the women's seminary, and the\nhomes for religious orders of both sexes. The same lavish expenditure\nof labor and wealth was bestowed upon the religious structures as on\nthe walls and fortifications. The Cathedral and the church of San Juan\nde Dios, the latter the most conspicuous structure in the city, with\nits double towers and its immense monastery adjoining, became the\nspecial recipients of the liberal outpourings of a community rich not\nonly in material wealth, but in culture and refinement as well. The\nlatter church in particular was the object of veneration of the\npatrons of America's only Saint, the beneficent Pedro Claver, whose\nwhitened bones now repose in a wonderful glass coffin bound with\nstrips of gold beneath its magnificent marble altar. In the central\n_plaza_ of the city still stands the building erected to house the\nHoly Inquisition, so well preserved that it yet serves as a dwelling.\nAdjacent to it, and lining the _plaza_, are spacious colonial\nedifices, once the homes of wealth and culture, each shaded by\ngraceful palms and each enclosing its inner garden, or patio, where\ntropical plants and aromatic shrubs riot in richest color and\nfragrance throughout the year.\n\nIn the halcyon days of Cartagena's greatness, when, under the\nprotection of the powerful mother-country, her commerce extended to\nthe confines of the known world, her streets and markets presented a\nscene of industry and activity wholly foreign to her in these latter\ndays of her decadence. From her port the rich traffic which once\ncentered in this thriving city moved, in constantly swelling volume,\nin every direction. In her marts were formulated those audacious plans\nwhich later took shape in ever-memorable expeditions up the Magdalena\nand Cauca rivers in search of gold, or to establish new colonies and\nextend the city's sphere of influence. From her gates were launched\nthose projects which had for their object the discovery of the\nmysterious regions where rivers were said to flow over sands of pure\ngold and silver, or the kingdom of El Dorado, where native potentates\nsprinkled their bodies with gold dust before bathing in the streams\nsacred to their deities. From this city the bold Quesada set out on\nthe exploits of discovery and conquest which opened to the world the\nrich plateau of Bogot\u00e1, and ranked him among the greatest of the\n_Conquistadores_. In those days a canal had been cut through the\nswamps and dense coast lowlands to the majestic Magdalena river, some\nsixty-five miles distant, where a riverine town was founded and given\nthe name of Calamar, the name Pedro de Heredia had first bestowed upon\nCartagena. Through this _dique_ the city's merchant vessels passed to\nthe great arterial stream beyond, and thence some thousand miles south\ninto the heart of the rich and little known regions of upper Colombia.\nTo-day, like the grass-grown streets of the ancient city, this canal,\nchoked with weeds and _d\u00e9bris_, is but a green and turbid pool, but\nyet a reminder of the faded glory of the famous old town which played\nsuch a dramatic _r\u00f4le_ in that age of desperate courage.\n\nIn the finished town of Cartagena Spain's dreams of imperial pomp and\nmagnificence were externalized. In her history the tragedy of the\nNew World drama has been preserved. To-day, sunk in decadence,\nsurrounded by the old mediaeval flavor, and steeped in the romance of\nan age of chivalry forever past, her muniments and donjons, her\ngray, crenelated walls and time-defying structures continue to express\nthat dogged tenacity of belief and stern defiance of unorthodox\nopinion which for two hundred years maintained the Inquisition\nwithin her gates and sacrificed her fair sons and daughters to an\nundemonstrable creed. The heavy air of ecclesiasticism still hangs\nover her. The priests and monks who accompanied every sanguinary\nexpedition of the _Conquistadores_, ready at all times to absolve\nany desperado who might slay a harmless Indian in the name of Christ,\nhave their successors to-day in the astute and untiring sons of\nRome, who conserve the interests of Holy Church within these\nbattered walls and guard their portals against the entrance of radical\nthought. Heredia had scarcely founded the city when King Philip sent\nit a Bishop. And less than a decade later the Cathedral, which to-day\nstands as the center of the episcopal See, was begun.\n\nThe Cathedral, though less imposing than the church of San Juan de\nDios, is a fine example of the ecclesiastical architecture of the\ncolonial era. Occupying a central position in the city, its\never-open doors invite rich and poor alike, citizen and stranger,\nto enter and linger in the refreshing atmosphere within, where the\nsubdued light and cool shadows of the great nave and chapels afford a\ngrateful respite from the glare and heat of the streets without.\nMassive in exterior appearance, and not beautiful within, the\nCathedral nevertheless exhibits a construction which is at once\nbroad, simple and harmonious. The nave is more than usually wide\nbetween its main piers, and its rounded arches are lofty and well\nproportioned. Excellent portraits of former Bishops adorn its white\nwalls, and narrow rectangular windows at frequent intervals admit\na dim, mellow light through their dark panes. Before one of these\nwindows--apparently with no thought of incongruity in the exhibition\nof such a gruesome object attached to a Christian church--there\nhas been affixed an iron grating, said to have served the Holy\nInquisition as a gridiron on which to roast its heretical victims.\nWithin, an ambulatory, supported on the first tier of arches,\naffords a walk along either side of the nave, and leads to the\nwinding stairway of the bell tower. At one end of this ambulatory,\nits entrance commanding a full view of the nave and the _capilla\nmayor_, with its exquisitely carved marble altar, is located the\nBishop's _sanctum_. It was here that the young Spanish priest, Jos\u00e8 de\nRinc\u00f3n, stood before the Bishop of Cartagena on the certain midday\nto which reference was made in the opening chapter of this recital,\nand received with dull ears the ecclesiastical order which removed\nhim still farther from the world and doomed him to a living burial\nin the crumbling town of Simit\u00ed, in the wilderness of forgotten\nGuamoc\u00f3.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 13\n\n\n\"At last, you come!\"\n\nThe querulous tones of the aged Bishop eddied the brooding silence\nwithin the Cathedral. Without waiting for a reply he turned again to\nhis table and took up a paper containing a list of names.\n\n\"You wait until midday,\" he continued testily; \"but you give me time\nto reflect and decide. The parish of Simit\u00ed has long been vacant. I\nhave assigned you to it. The Honda touches at Calamar to-morrow, going\nup-river. You will take it.\"\n\n\"Simit\u00ed! Father--!\"\n\n\"_Bien_; and would you dispute this too!\" quavered the ill-humored\nBishop.\n\n\"But--Simit\u00ed--you surely cannot mean--!\"\n\nThe Bishop turned sharply around. \"I mean that after what I learn from\nRome I will not keep you here to teach your heresies in our\nUniversity! I mean that after what I hear this morning of your evil\npractices I will not allow you to spend another day in Cartagena!\" The\nangry ecclesiastic brought his bony fist hard against the table to\nemphasize the remark.\n\n\"_Madre de Dios!_\" he resumed, after some moments of nursing his\ncholeric feelings. \"Would you debate further! The Holy Father for some\nunexplained reason inflicts a madman upon me! And I, innocent of what\nyou are, obey his instructions and place you in the University--with\nwhat result? You have the effrontery--the madness--to lecture to your\nclasses on the heresies of Rome!\"\n\n\"But--\"\n\n\"And as if that were not burden enough for these old shoulders, I must\nlearn that I have taken a serpent to my bosom--but that you are still\nsane enough to propagate heresies--to plot revolution with the\nRadicals--and--shame consume you!--to wantonly ruin the fair daughters\nof our diocese! But, do you see now why I send you where you can do\nless evil than here in Cartagena?\"\n\nThe priest slowly petrified under the tirade.\n\n\"The fault is not mine if I must act without instruction from\nRome,\" the Bishop went on petulantly. \"Twice have I warned you\nagainst your teachings--but I did not suspect then, for only\nyesterday did I learn that before coming to me you had been confined\nin a monastery--insane! But--_Hombre_! when you bring the blush of\nshame to my cheeks because of your godless practices--it is time\nto put you away without waiting for instruction!\"\n\nGodless practices! Was the Bishop or the priest going mad?\n\n\"Go now to your room,\" the Bishop added, turning again to his table.\n\"You have little enough time to prepare for your journey. Wenceslas\nwill give you letters to the Alcalde of Simit\u00ed.\"\n\nWenceslas! The priest's thought flew back over the events of the\nmorning. Marcelena--Maria--the encounter below with--! _Dios!_ Could\nit be that Wenceslas had fastened upon him the stigma of his own\ncrime? The priest found his tongue.\n\n\"Father!--it is untrue!--these charges are false as hell!\" he\nexclaimed excitedly. \"I demand to know who brings them against me!\"\n\nThe testy Bishop's wrath flared up anew. \"You demand! Am I to sit here\nand be catechised by _you_? It is enough that I know what occurs in my\ndiocese, and am well informed of your conduct!\"\n\nThe doorway darkened, and the priest turned to meet the object of his\nsuspecting thought.\n\nBestowing a smile of patronage upon Jos\u00e8, and bowing obsequiously\nbefore the Bishop, Wenceslas laid some papers upon the table,\nremarking as he did so, \"The letters, Your Grace, to introduce our\nJos\u00e8 to his new field. Also his instructions and expense money.\"\n\n\"Wenceslas!\" The priest confronted him fiercely. \"Do you accuse me\nbefore the Bishop?\"\n\n\"Accuse, _amigo_?\" Wenceslas queried in a tone of assumed surprise.\n\"Have I not said that your ready tongue and pen are your accusers?\nBut,\" with a conciliatory air, \"we must remember that our good Bishop\nmercifully views your conduct in the light of your recent mental\naffliction, traces of which, unfortunately, have lingered to cause him\nsorrow. And so he graciously prepares a place for you, _caro amigo_,\nwhere rest and relief from the strain of teaching will do you much\ngood, and where life among simple and affectionate people will restore\nyou, he hopes, to soundness of mind.\"\n\nThe priest turned again to the Bishop in a complexity of appeal. The\nsoft speech of Wenceslas, so full of a double _entendu_, so markedly\nin contrast with the Bishop's harsh but at least sincere tirade, left\nno doubt in his mind that he was now the victim of a plot, whose\nramifications extended back to the confused circumstances of his early\nlife, and the doubtful purposes of his uncle and his influence upon\nthe sacerdotal directors in Rome. And he saw himself a helpless and\nhopelessly entangled victim.\n\n\"Father!\" In piteous appeal Jos\u00e8 held out his hands to the Bishop, who\nhad turned his back upon him and was busy with the papers on his\ntable.\n\n\"_Amigo_, the interview is ended,\" said Wenceslas quietly, stepping\nbetween the priest and his superior.\n\nJos\u00e8 pushed wildly past the large form of Wenceslas and seized the\nBishop's hand.\n\n\"_Santa Maria!_\" cried the petulant churchman. \"Do you obey me, or no?\nIf not, then leave the Church--and spend your remaining days as a\nhounded ex-priest and unfrocked apostate,\" he finished significantly.\n\"Go, prepare for your journey!\"\n\nWenceslas slipped the letter and a few _pesos_ into the hand of the\nsmitten, bewildered Jos\u00e8, and turning him to the door, gently urged\nhim out and closed it after him.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nJust why the monastery gates had opened to him after two years'\ndeadening confinement, Jos\u00e8 had not been apprised. All he knew was\nthat his uncle had appeared with a papal appointment for him to the\nUniversity of Cartagena, and had urged his acceptance of it as the\nonly course likely to restore him both to health and position, and to\nmeet the deferred hopes of his sorrowing mother.\n\n\"Accept it, _sobrino m\u00edo_,\" the uncle had said. \"Else, pass your\nremaining days in confinement. There can be no refutation of the\ncharges against you. But, if these doors open again to you, think not\never to sever your connection with the Church of Rome. For, if the\nRinc\u00f3n honor should prove inadequate to hold you to your oath, be\nassured that Rinc\u00f3n justice will follow you until the grave wipes out\nthe stain upon our fair name.\"\n\n\"Then, _t\u00edo m\u00edo_, let the Church at once dismiss me, as unworthy to be\nher son!\" pleaded Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"What, excommunication?\" cried the horrified uncle. \"Never! Death\nfirst! Are you still mad?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 looked into the cold, emotionless eyes of the man and shuddered.\nThe ancient spirit of the Holy Inquisition lurked there, and he\ncowered before it. But at least the semblance of freedom had been\noffered him. His numbed heart already had taken hope. He were indeed\nmad not to acquiesce in his uncle's demands, and accept the proffered\nopportunity to leave forever the scenes of his suffering and disgrace.\nAnd so he bowed again before the inexorable.\n\nArriving in Cartagena some months before this narrative opens, he had\ngradually yielded himself to the restorative effects of changed\nenvironment and the hope which his uncle's warm assurances aroused,\nthat a career would open to him in the New World, unclouded by the\nclimacteric episode of the publishing of his journal and his\nsubsequent arrogant bearing before the Holy Father, which had provoked\nhis fate. Under the beneficent influences of the soft climate and the\nnew interests of this tropic land he began to feel a budding of\nsomething like confidence, and the suggestions of an unfamiliar\nambition to retrieve past failure and yet gratify, even if in small\nmeasure, the parental hope which had first directed him as a child\ninto the fold of the Church. The Bishop had assigned him at once to\npedagogical work in the University; and in the teaching of history,\nthe languages, and, especially, his beloved Greek, Jos\u00e8 had found an\nabsorption that was slowly dimming the memory of the dark days which\nhe had left behind in the Old World.\n\nBut the University had not afforded him the only interest in his new\nfield. He had not been many weeks on Colombian soil when his awakening\nperceptions sensed the people's oppression under the tyranny of\necclesiastical politicians. Nor did he fail to scent the approach of a\ntremendous conflict, in which the country would pass through violent\nthroes in the struggle to shake off the galling yoke of Rome.\nMaintaining an attitude of strict neutrality, he had striven quietly\nto gauge the anticlerical movement, and had been appalled to find it\nso widespread and menacing. Only a miracle could save unhappy Colombia\nfrom being rent by the fiercest of religious wars in the near future.\nOh, if he but had the will, as he had the intellectual ability, to\nthrow himself into the widening breach!\n\n\"There is but one remedy,\" he murmured aloud, as he sat one evening on\na bench in the _plaza_ of Sim\u00f3n Bol\u00edvar, watching the stream of gaily\ndressed promenaders parading slowly about on the tesselated walks, but\nhearing little of their animated conversation.\n\n\"And what is that, may I ask, friend?\"\n\nThe priest roused up with a start. He had no idea that his audible\nmeditations had been overheard. Besides, he had spoken in English. But\nthis question had been framed in the same tongue. He looked around. A\ntall, slender man, with thin, bronzed face and well-trimmed Van Dyke\nbeard, sat beside him. The man laughed pleasantly.\n\n\"Didn't know that I should find any one here to-night who could speak\nmy lingo,\" he said cordially. \"But, I repeat, what is the remedy?\"\n\n\"Christianity,\" returned the amazed Jos\u00e8, without knowing what he\nsaid.\n\n\"And the condition to be remedied?\" continued the stranger.\n\n\"This country's diseased--but to whom have I the honor of speaking?\"\ndrawing himself up a little stiffly, and glancing about to see who\nmight be observing them.\n\n\"Oh, my credentials?\" laughed the man, as he caught Jos\u00e8's wondering\nlook. \"I'm quite unknown in Cartagena, unfortunately. You must pardon\nmy Yankee inquisitiveness, but I've watched you out here for several\nevenings, and have wondered what weighty problems you were wrestling\nwith. A quite unpardonable offense, from the Spanish viewpoint, but\nwholly forgivable in an uncouth American, I'm sure. Besides, when I\nheard you speak my language it made me a bit homesick, and I wanted to\nhear more of the rugged tongue of the Gentiles.\"\n\nLaughing again good-naturedly, he reached into an inner pocket and\ndrew out a wallet. \"My name's Hitt,\" he said, handing Jos\u00e8 his card.\n\"But I didn't live up to it. That is, I failed to make a hit up north,\nand so I'm down here.\" He chuckled at his own facetiousness. \"Amos A.\nHitt,\" he went on affably. \"There used to be a 'Reverend' before it.\nThat was when I was exploring the Lord's throne. I've dropped it, now\nthat I'm humbly exploring His footstool instead.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 yielded to the man's friendly advances. This was not the first\nAmerican he had met; yet it seemed a new type, and one that drew him\nstrongly.\n\n\"So you think this country diseased, eh?\" the American continued.\n\nJos\u00e8 did not answer. While there was nothing in the stranger's\nappearance and frank, open countenance to arouse suspicion, yet he\nmust be careful. He was living down one frightful mistake. He could\nnot risk another. But the man did not wait for a reply.\n\n\"Well, I'm quite agreed with you. It has _priest-itis_.\" He stopped\nand looked curiously at Jos\u00e8, as if awaiting the effect of his bold\nwords. Then--\"I take it you are not really one of 'em?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 stared at the man in amazement. Hitt laughed again. Then he drew\nforth a cigar and held it out. \"Smoke?\" he said. The priest shook his\nhead. Hitt lighted the cigar himself, then settled back on the bench,\nhis hands jammed into his trousers pockets, and his long legs stuck\nstraight out in front, to the unconcealed annoyance of the passers-by.\nBut, despite his _brusquerie_ and his thoughtlessness, there was\nsomething about the American that was wonderfully attractive to the\nlonely priest.\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" Hitt went on abstractedly in corroboration of his former\nstatement, \"Colombia is absolutely stagnant, due to Jesuitical\npolitics, the bane of all good Catholic countries. If she could shake\noff priestcraft she'd have a chance--provided she didn't fall into\northodox Protestantism.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 gasped, though he strove to hide his wonder. \"You--\" he began\nhesitatingly, \"you were in the ministry--?\"\n\n\"Yes. Don't be afraid to come right out with it. I was a Presbyterian\ndivine some six years ago, in Cincinnati. Ever been there?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 assured him that he had never seen the States.\n\n\"H'm,\" mused the ex-preacher; \"great country--wonderful--none like it\nin the world! I've been all over, Europe, Asia, Africa--seen 'em all.\nAmerica's the original Eden, and our women are the only true\ndescendants of mother Eve. No question about it, that apple incident\ntook place up in the States somewhere--probably in Ohio.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 caught the man's infectious humor and laughed heartily. Surely,\nthis American was a tonic, and of the sort that he most needed. \"Then,\nyou are--still touring--?\"\n\n\"I'm exploring,\" Hitt replied. \"I'm here to study what ancient records\nI may find in your library; then I shall go on to Medellin and Bogot\u00e1.\nI'm on the track of a prehistoric Inca city, located somewhere in the\nAndes--and no doubt in the most inaccessible spot imaginable.\nTradition cites this lost city as the cradle of Inca civilization.\nTampu Tocco, it is called in their legends, the place from which the\nIncas went out to found that marvelous empire which eventually\nincluded the greater part of South America. The difficulty is,\" he\nadded, knotting his brows, \"that the city was evidently unknown to the\nSpaniards. I can find no mention of it in Spanish literature, and I've\nsearched all through the libraries of Spain. My only hope now is that\nI shall run across some document down here that will allude to it, or\nsome one who has heard likely Indian rumors.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 rubbed his eyes and looked hard at the man. \"Well!\" he\nejaculated, \"you are--if I may be permitted to say it--an original\ntype.\"\n\n\"I presume I am,\" admitted the American genially. \"I've been all sorts\nof things in my day, preacher, teacher, editor. My father used to be a\ncircuit rider in New England forty years ago or more. Pious--good\nLord! Why, he was one of the kind who believe the good book 'from\nkiver to kiver,' you know. Used to preach interminable sermons about\nthe mercy of the Lord in holding us all over the smoking pit and not\ndropping us in! Why, man! after listening to him expound the\nScriptures at night I used to go to bed with my hair on end and my\nskin all goose-flesh. No wonder I urged him to send me to the\nPresbyterian Seminary!\"\n\n\"And you were ordained?\" queried Jos\u00e8, dark memories rising in his own\nthought.\n\n\"Thoroughly so! And glad I was of it, too, for I had grown up as pious\nand orthodox as my good father. I considered the ordination a through\nticket to paradise.\"\n\n\"But--now--\"\n\n\"Oh, I found myself in time,\" continued the man, answering Jos\u00e8's\nunspoken thought. \"Then I stopped preaching beautiful legends, and\ntried to be genuinely helpful to my congregation. I had a fine church\nin Cincinnati at that time. But--well, I mixed a trifle too much\nheresy into my up-to-date sermons, I guess. Anyway, the Assembly\ndidn't approve my orthodoxy, and I had as little respect for its\nheterodoxy, and the upshot of it was that I quit--cold.\" He laughed\ngrimly as he finished the recital. \"But,\" he went on gravely, \"I now\nsee that it was due simply to my desire to progress beyond the\nacceptance of tradition and allegory as truth, and to find some better\nfoundation upon which to build than the undemonstrable articles of\nfaith embraced in the Westminster Confession. To me, that confession\nof faith had become a confession of ignorance.\" He turned his shrewd\neyes upon Jos\u00e8. \"I was in somewhat the same mental state that I think\nyou are in now,\" he added.\n\n\"And why, if I may ask, are you now exploring?\" asked Jos\u00e8,\ndisregarding the implication.\n\n\"Oh, as for that,\" replied the American easily, \"I used to teach\nhistory and became especially interested in ancient civilizations,\nlost cities, and the like, in the Western Hemisphere. Long before I\nleft the ministry oil was struck on our little Pennsylvania farm,\nand--well, I didn't have to work after that. So for some years I've\ndevoted myself strictly to my particular hobby of travel. And in my\nwork I find it necessary to discard ceremony, and scrape acquaintance\nwith all sorts and conditions. I especially cultivate clergymen. I've\nwanted to know you ever since I first saw you out here. But I couldn't\nwait for a formal introduction. And so I broke in unceremoniously upon\nyour meditations a few moments ago.\"\n\n\"I am grateful to you for doing so,\" said Jos\u00e8 frankly, holding out a\nhand. \"There is much that you can tell me--much that I want to know.\nBut--\" He again looked cautiously around.\n\n\"Ah, I understand,\" said Hitt, quickly sensing the priest's\nuneasiness. \"What say you, shall we meet somewhere down by the city\nwall? Say, at the old Inquisition cells?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 nodded his acquiescence, and they separated. A few minutes later\nthe two were seated in one of the cavernous archways of the long,\nechoing corridor which leads to the deserted barracks and the gloomy,\nbat-infested cells beneath. A vagrant breeze drifted now and then\nacross the grim wall above them, and the deserted road in front lay\ndrenched in the yellow light of the tropic moon. There was little\nlikelihood of detection here, where the dreamy plash of the sea\ndrowned the low sound of their voices; and Jos\u00e8 breathed more freely\nthan in the populous _plaza_ which they had just left.\n\n\"Good Lord!\" muttered the explorer, returning from a peep into the\nfoul blackness of a subterranean tunnel, \"imagine what took place here\nsome three centuries ago!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" returned Jos\u00e8 sadly; \"and in the reeking dungeons of San\nFernando, out there at the harbor entrance. And, what is worse, my own\nancestors were among the perpetrators of those black deeds committed\nin the name of Christ.\"\n\n\"Whew! You don't say! Tell me about it.\" The explorer drew closer.\nJos\u00e8 knew somehow that he could trust this stranger, and so he briefly\nsketched his ancestral story to his sympathetic listener. \"And no one\nknows,\" he concluded in a depressed tone, \"how many of the thousands\nof victims of the Inquisition in Cartagena were sent to their doom by\nthe house of Rinc\u00f3n. It may be,\" he sighed, \"that the sins of my\nfathers have been visited upon me--that I am now paying in part the\npenalty for their criminal zeal.\"\n\nThe explorer sat for some time in silent meditation. \"Perhaps,\" he\nsaid, \"your family fell under the spell of old Saint Dominic. You\nknow the legend? How God deliberated long whether to punish the\nwickedness of mankind by sending down war, plague, or famine, and was\nfinally prevailed upon by Saint Dominic to send, instead, the Holy\nInquisition. Another choice example of the convenient way the\nworld has always had of attributing the foulest deeds of men to the\nAlmighty. No wonder religion has so woefully declined!\"\n\n\"But is it so up in the great North?\" asked Jos\u00e8. \"Tell me, what is\nthe religious status there? My limitations have been such that I\nhave--I have not kept abreast of current theological thought.\"\n\n\"In the United States the conventional, passive submission to\northodox dogma is rapidly becoming a thing of the past,\" the explorer\nreplied. \"The people are beginning to think on these topics. All\nhuman opinion, philosophical, religious, or scientific, is in a\nstate of liquefaction--not yet solidified. Just what will crystallize\nout of the magma is uncertain. The country is experiencing a\nreligious crisis, and an irresistible determination to _know_ is\nabroad in the land. Everything is being turned upside-down, and one\nhardly dares longer say what he believes, for the dogma of to-day is\nthe fairy-tale of to-morrow. And, through it all, as some one has\ntersely said, 'orthodoxy is hanging onto the coat-tails of progress in\na vain attempt to stop her.' We are facing in the United States\nthe momentous question, Is Christianity a failure? Although no one\nknows what Christianity really is. But one thing is certain, the\nbrand of Christianity handed out by Protestant and Catholic alike is\nmighty close to the borderline of dismal failure.\"\n\n\"But is there in the North no distinct trend in religious belief?\"\nqueried Jos\u00e8.\n\nThe explorer hesitated. \"Yes,\" he said slowly, \"there is. The man who\nholds and promulgates any belief, religious or scientific, is being\nmore and more insistently forced to the point of demonstration. The\ncitation of patristic authority is becoming daily more thoroughly\nobsolete.\"\n\n\"And there is no one who demonstrates practical Christianity?\"\n\n\"No. Do you? Is there any one in your Church, or in the Protestant\nfaith, who does the works which Christ is reported to have done? Is\nthere any one who really tries to do them? Or thinks he could if he\ntried? The good church Fathers from the third century down could\nfigure out that the world was created on the night before the\ntwenty-third of October, four thousand and four B. C., and that Adam's\nfall occurred about noon of the day he was created. They could dilate\n_ad nauseam_ on transubstantiation, the divine essence, and the\nmystery of the Trinity; they could astonishingly allegorize the Bible\nlegends, and read into every word a deep, hidden, incomprehensible\nsense; they could prove to their own satisfaction that Adam composed\ncertain of the Psalms; that Moses wrote every word of the Pentateuch,\neven the story of his own death and burial; and that the entire Bible\nwas delivered by God to man, word for word, just as it stands,\nincluding the punctuation. And yet, not one of them followed the\nsimple commands of Jesus closely enough to enable him to cure a\ntoothache, to say nothing of generally healing the sick and raising\nthe dead! Am I not right?\"\n\n\"Yes--I am sorry to have to admit,\" murmured Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"Well,\" went on the explorer, \"that's what removed me from the\nPresbyterian ministry. It is not Christianity that is a dismal\nfailure, but men's interpretation of it. Of true Christianity, I\nconfess I know little. Oh, I'm a fine preacher! And yet I am\nrepresentative of thousands of others, like myself, all at sea. Only,\nthe others are either ashamed or afraid to make this confession. But,\nin my case, my daily bread did not depend upon my continuance in the\npulpit.\"\n\n\"But supposing that it had--\"\n\n\"The result doubtless would have been the same. The orthodox faith was\nutterly failing to supply me with a satisfying interpretation of\nlife, and it afforded me no means of escaping the discords of mundane\nexistence. It could only hold out an undemonstrable promise of a life\nafter death, provided I was elected, and provided I did not too\ngreatly offend the Creator during the few short years that I might\nspend on earth. If I did that, then, according to the glorious\nWestminster Confession, I was doomed--for we are not so fortunate as\nyou in having a purgatory from which we may escape through the\nsuffrages of the faithful,\" he concluded with a chuckle.\n\nJos\u00e8 knew, as he listened, that his own Church would hold this man a\nblasphemer. The man by his own confession was branded a Protestant\nheretic. And he, Jos\u00e8, was _anathema_ for listening to these sincere,\nbrutally frank confidences, and tendering them his warm sympathy. Yet\nhe sat spellbound.\n\n\"And so I retired from the ministry,\" continued the explorer. \"I had\nbecome ashamed of tearing down other men's religious beliefs. I was\nweary of having to apologize constantly for the organization to which\nI was attached. At home I had been taught a devout faith in revealed\nreligion; in the world I was thrown upon its inquiring doubts; I\nyearned for faith, yet demanded scientific proof. Why, I would have\nbeen satisfied with even the slight degree of proof which we are able\nto advance for our various physical sciences. But, no, it was not\nforthcoming. I must believe because the Fathers had believed. I\nstruggled between emotion and reason, until--well, until I had to\nthrow it all over to keep from going mad.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 bowed in silence before this recital of a soul-experience so\nclosely paralleling his own.\n\n\"But, come,\" said the explorer cheerily, \"I'm doing all the talking.\nNow--\"\n\n\"No! no!\" interrupted the eager Jos\u00e8. \"I do not wish to talk. I want\nto hear you. Go on, I beg of you! Your words are like rain to a\nparched field. You will yet offer me something upon which I can build\nwith new hope.\"\n\n\"Do not be so sanguine, my friend,\" returned the explorer in a kindly\ntone. \"I fear I shall be only the reaper, who cuts the weeds and\nstubble, and prepares the field for the sower. I have said that I am\nan explorer. But my field is not limited to this material world. I am\nan explorer of men's thoughts as well. I am in search of a religion. I\nmanifest this century's earnest quest for demonstrable truth. And so I\nstop and question every one I meet, if perchance he may point me in\nthe right direction. My incessant wandering about the globe is, if I\nmay put it that way, but the outward manifestation of my ceaseless\nsearch in the realm of the soul.\"\n\nHe paused. Then, reaching out and laying a hand upon the priest's\nknee, he said in a low, earnest voice, \"My friend, _something_\nhappened in that first year of our so-called Christian era. What it\nwas we do not know. But out of the smoke and dust, the haze and mist\nof that great cataclysm has proceeded the character Jesus--absolutely\nunique. It is a character which has had a terrific influence upon the\nworld ever since. Because of it empires have crumbled; a hundred\nmillion human lives have been destroyed; and the thought-processes of\na world have been overthrown or reversed. Just what he said, just what\nhe did, just how he came, and how he went, we may not know with any\nhigh degree of accuracy. But, beneath all the myth and legend, the\nlore and childish human speculation of the intervening centuries,\nthere _must_ be a foundation of eternal truth. And it must be\nbroad--very broad. I am digging for it--as I dug on the sites of\nancient Troy and Babylon--as I have dug over the buried civilizations\nof Mexico and Yucatan--as I shall dig for the hidden Inca towns on the\nwooded heights of the Andes. And while I dig materially I am also\ndigging spiritually.\"\n\n\"And what have you found?\" asked Jos\u00e8 hoarsely.\n\n\"I am still in the overburden of _d\u00e9bris_ which the sedulous, tireless\nFathers heaped mountain high upon the few recorded teachings of Jesus.\nBut already I see indications of things to come that would make the\nmembers of the Council of Trent and the cocksure framers of the\nWestminster Confession burst from their graves by sheer force of\nastonishment! There are even now foreshadowings of such revolutionary\nchanges in our concept of God, of the universe, of matter, and the\nhuman mind, of evil, and all the controverted points of theological\ndiscussion of this day, as to make me tremble when I contemplate them.\nIn my first hasty judgment, after dipping into the 'Higher Criticism,'\nI concluded that Jesus was but a charlatan, who had learned\nthaumaturgy in Egypt and practiced it in Judea. Thanks to a better\nappreciation of the same 'Higher Criticism' I am reconstructing my\nconcept of him now, and on a better basis. I once denounced God as the\ncreator of both good and evil, and of a man who He knew must\ninevitably fall, even before the clay of which he was made had become\nfairly dry. I changed that concept later to Matthew Arnold's 'that\nsomething not ourselves that makes for righteousness.' But mighty few\nto-day recognize such a God! Again, in Jesus' teaching that sin\nbrought death into the world, I began to see what is so dimly\nforeshadowed to-day, the _mental_ nature of all things. 'Sin' is the\nEnglish translation of the original '_hamartio_,' which means, 'to\nmiss the mark,' a term used in archery. Well, then, missing the mark\nis the mental result of nonconformity to law, is it not? And, going\nfurther, if death is the result of missing the mark, and that is\nitself due to mental cause, and, since death results from sickness,\nold age, or catastrophe, then these things must likewise be mental.\nSickness, therefore, becomes wholly mental, does it not? Death becomes\nmental. Sin is mental. Spirit, the Creator, is mental. Matter is\nmental. And we live and act in a mental realm, do we not? The sick\nman, then, becomes one who misses the mark, and therefore a sinner. I\nthink you will agree with me that the sick man is not at peace with\nGod, if God is 'that which makes for righteousness.' Surely the maker\nof that old Icelandic sixteenth-century Bible must have been inspired\nwhen, translating from Luther's Bible, he wrote in the first chapter\nof Genesis, 'And God created man after His own likeness, in the\nlikeness of _Mind_ shaped He him.' Cannot you see the foreshadowing to\nwhich I have referred?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 kept silence. The current of his thought seemed about to swerve\nfrom its wonted course.\n\n\"What is coming is this,\" continued the explorer earnestly, \"a\ntremendous broadening of our concept of God, a more exalted, a more\nworthy concept of Him as spirit--or, if you will, as mind. An\nabandonment of the puerile concept of Him as a sort of magnified man,\nsusceptible to the influence of preachers, or of Virgin and Saints,\nand yielding to their petitions, to their higher sense of justice, and\nto money-bought earthly ceremonies to lift an imaginary curse from His\nown creatures. And with it will come that wonderful consciousness of\nHim which I now begin to realize that Jesus must have had, a\nconsciousness of Him as omnipotent, omnipresent good. As I to-day read\nthe teachings of Jesus I am constrained to believe that he was\nconscious _only_ of God and God's spiritual manifestation. And in that\nremarkable consciousness the man Jesus realized his own life--indeed,\nthat consciousness _was_ his life--and it included no sense of evil.\nThe great lesson which I draw from it is that evil must, therefore, be\nutterly unreal and non-existent. And heaven is but the acquisition of\nthat mind or consciousness which was in Christ Jesus.\"\n\n\"But, Mr. Hitt, such ideas are revolutionary!\"\n\n\"True, if immediately and generally adopted. And so you see why the\nChurch strives to hold the people to its own archaic and innocuous\nreligious tenets; why your Church strives so zealously to hold its\nadherents fast to the rules laid down by pagan emperors and ignorant,\noften illiterate churchmen, in their councils and synods; and why the\nProtestant church is so quick to denounce as unevangelical everything\nthat does not measure to its devitalized concept of Christianity. They\ndo not practice what they preach; yet they would not have you\npractice anything else. The human mind that calls itself a Christian\nis a funny thing, isn't it?\"\n\nHe laughed lightly; then lapsed into silence. The sea breeze rose and\nsighed among the great, incrusted arches. The restless waves moaned in\ntheir eternal assault upon the defiant walls. The moon clouded, and a\nwarm rain began to fall. Jos\u00e8 rose. \"I must return to the dormitory,\"\nhe announced briefly. \"When you pass me in the _plaza_ to-morrow\nevening, come at once to this place. I will meet you here. You have--I\nmust--\"\n\nBut he did not finish. Pressing the explorer's hand, he turned\nabruptly and hurried up the dim, narrow street.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 14\n\n\nAll through the following day the priest mused over the conversation\nof the preceding night. The precipitation with which this new\nfriendship had been formed, and the subsequent abrupt exchange of\nconfidences, had scarcely impressed him as unusual. He was wholly\nabsorbed by the radical thought which the man had voiced. He mulled\nover it in his wakeful hours that night. He could not prevent it from\ncoloring the lecture which he delivered to his class in ancient\nhistory that day. And when the sun at length dropped behind La Popa,\nhe hurried eagerly to the _plaza_. A few minutes later he and the\nex-clergyman met in the appointed rendezvous.\n\n\"I dropped in to have a look at the remains of Pedro Claver to-day,\"\nhis new friend remarked. \"The old sexton scraped and bowed with huge\njoy as he led me behind the altar and lighted up the grewsome thing. I\nsuppose he believed that Pedro's soul was up in the clouds making\nintercession with the Lord for him, while he, poor devil, was toting\ntourists around to gaze at the Saint's ghastly bones in their glass\ncoffin. The thing would be funny were it not for its sad side, namely,\nthe dense and superstitious ignorance in which such as this poor\nsexton are held all their lives by your Church. It's a shame to feed\nthem with the bones of dead Saints, instead of with the bread of life!\nBut,\" he reflected, \"I was myself just as bigoted at one time. And my\nzeal to convert the world to Protestantism was just as hot as any that\never animated the missionaries of your faith.\"\n\nHe paused and looked quizzically at Jos\u00e8. He seemed to be studying the\nlength to which he could go in his criticism of the ancient faith of\nthe house of Rinc\u00f3n. But Jos\u00e8 remained in expectant silence.\n\n\"Speaking of missionaries,\" the man resumed, \"I shall never forget an\nexperience I had in China. My wealthy and ultra-aristocratic\ncongregation decided that I needed rest, and so sent me on a world\ntour. It was a member of that same congregation, by the way, a stuffy\nold dame whose wealth footed up to millions, who once remarked to me\nin all confidence that she had no doubt the aristocracy of heaven was\ncomposed of Presbyterians. Poor, old, empty-headed prig! What could I\ndo but assure her that I held the same comforting conviction! Well,\nthrough influential friends in Pekin I was introduced to the eminent\nChinese statesman, Wang Fo, of delightful memory. Our conversation\nturned on religion, and then I made the most inexcusable _faux pas_\nthat a blithering Yankee could make, that of expressing regret that he\nwas not of our faith. Good heavens! But he was the most gracious\ngentleman in the world, and his biting rebuke was couched in tones of\nsilken softness.\n\n\"'What is it that you offer me?' he said mildly. 'Blind opinion?\nUndemonstrated and undemonstrable theory? Why, may I ask, do you\ncome over here to convert us heathen, when your own Christian land\nis rife with evil, with sedition, with religious hatred of man for\nman, with bloodshed and greed? If your religious belief is true,\nthen you can demonstrate it--prove it beyond doubt. Do you say\nthat the wonderful material progress which your great country\nmanifests is due to Christianity? I answer you, no. It is due to\nthe unfettering of the human mind, to the laying off of much of\nthe mediaeval superstition which in the past ages has blighted\nmankind. It is due largely to the abandonment of much of what you\nare still pleased to call Christianity. The liberated human mind\nhas expanded to a degree never before seen in the world. We Chinese\nare still mentally fettered by our stubborn resistance to change,\nto progression. Your great inventors and your great men of finance\nare but little hampered by religious superstition. Hence the\nmental flights which they so boldly undertake, and the stupendous\nachievements they attain. Is it not so?'\n\n\"What could I say? He had me. But he hadn't finished me quite.\n\n\"'I once devoted much time to the study of Chemistry,' he went on\nblandly, 'and when I tell you that there is a law to the effect that\nthe volume of a gas is a function of its pressure I do so with the\nfull knowledge that I can furnish you indisputable proof therefor. But\nwhen you come to me with your religious theories, and I mildly request\nyour proofs, you wish to imprison or hang me for doubting the\nabsurdities which you cannot establish!'\n\n\"He laughed genially, then took me kindly by the arm. 'Proof, my\nzealous friend, proof,' he said. 'Give me proof this side of the grave\nfor what you believe, and then you will have converted the heathen.\nAnd can your Catholic friend--or, shall I say enemy?--prove his\nlaughable doctrine of purgatory? The dead in purgatory dependent upon\nthe living! Why, I tell him, that smacks of Shintoism, wherein the\nliving feed the dead! Then he points in holy indignation to the Bible.\nBah! Cannot I prove anything I may wish from your Bible? What will\nyou have? Polygamy? Incest? Murder? Graft? Hand me your Bible, and\nI will establish its divinity. No, my good friend. When you come to\nme with proofs that you really do the works of him whom you profess\nto follow, then will I gladly listen, for I, too, seek truth. But\nin the present deplorable absence of proofs I take much more comfort\nin the adoration of my amiable ancestors than I could in your\nlaughable and undemonstrable religious creeds.'\n\n\"I left his presence a saddened but chastened man, and went home to do\na little independent thinking. When I approached my Bible without the\nbias of the Westminster Confession I discovered that it did serve\nadmirably as a wardrobe in which to hang any sort of religious\nprejudice. Continued study made me see that religious faith is\ngenerally mere human credulity. I discovered that in my pitying\ncontempt for those of differing belief I much resembled the Yankee who\nridiculed a Chinaman for wearing a pig-tail. 'True,' the Celestial\nreplied, 'we still wear the badge of our former slavery. But you\nemancipated Americans, do you not wear the badge of a present and much\nworse form of slavery in your domination by Tammany Hall, by your\ncorrupt politicians, and your organizers and protectors of crime?'\n\n\"As time passed I gradually began to feel much more kindly toward Matthew\nArnold, who said, 'Orthodox theology is an immense misunderstanding of\nthe Bible.' And I began likewise to respect his statement that our Bible\nlanguage is 'fluid and passing'--that much of it is the purest poetry,\nbeautiful and inspiring, but symbolical.\"\n\n\"But,\" broke in Jos\u00e8, \"you must admit that there is something awfully\nwrong with the world, with--\"\n\n\"Well,\" interrupted Hitt, \"and what is it? As historical fact, that\nstory about Adam and Eve eating an apple and thereby bringing down\nGod's curse upon the whole innocent human race is but a figment of\nlittle minds, and an insult to divine intelligence. But, as\nsymbolizing the dire penalty we pay for a belief in the reality of\nboth good and evil--ah, that is a note just beginning to be sounded in\nthe world at large. And it may account for the presence of the world's\nevil.\"\n\n\"Yet, our experience certainly shows that evil is just as real and\njust as immanent as good! And, indeed, more powerful in this life.\"\n\n\"If so,\" replied the explorer gravely, \"then God created or instituted\nit. And in that case I must break with God.\"\n\n\"Then you think it is all a question of our own individual idea of\nGod?\"\n\n\"Entirely. And human concepts of Him have been many and varied. But\nthat worst of Old Testament interpreters of the first century, Philo,\ncame terribly close to the truth, I think, when, in a burst of\ninspiration, he one day wrote: 'Heaven is mind, and earth is\nsensation.' Matthew Arnold, I think, likewise came very close to the\ntruth when he said that the only God we can recognize is 'that\nsomething not ourselves that makes for righteousness.' And, as for\nevil, up in the United States there are some who are now lumping it\nall under the head of 'mortal mind,' considering it all but the 'one\nlie' which Jesus so often referred to, and regarding it as the\n'suppositional opposite' of the mind that is God, and so, powerless.\nNot a bad idea, I think. But whether the money-loving Yankee will ever\nleave his mad chase for gold long enough to live this premise and so\ndemonstrate it, is a question. I'm watching its development with\nintense interest. We in the States have wonderful, exceptional\nopportunities for study and research. We ought to uncover the truth,\nif any people should.\"\n\nHe fell into thoughtfulness again. Jos\u00e8 drew a long sigh. \"I wish--I\nwish,\" he murmured, \"that I might go there--that I might live and work\nand search up there.\"\n\nThe explorer roused up. \"And why not?\" he asked abruptly. \"Look here,\ncome with me and spend a year or so digging around for buried Inca\ntowns. Then we will go back to the States. Why, man! it would make you\nover. I'll take you as interpreter. And in the States I'll find a\nplace for you. Come. Will you?\"\n\nFor a moment the doors of imagination swung wide, and in the burst of\nlight from within Jos\u00e8 saw the dreams of a lifetime fulfilled.\nEmancipation lay that way. Freedom, soul-expansion, truth. It was his\nGod-given privilege. Who had the right to lay a detaining hand upon\nhim? Was not his soul his own, and his God's?\n\nThen a dark hand stole out from the surrounding shadows and closed the\ndoors. From the blackness there seemed to rise a hollow voice,\nuttering the single word, _Honor_. He thrust out an arm, as if to ward\noff the assaults of temptation. \"No, no,\" he said aloud, \"I am bound\nto the Church!\"\n\n\"But why remain longer in an institution with which you are quite out\nof sympathy?\" the explorer urged.\n\n\"First, to help the Church. Who will uplift her if we desert her? And,\nsecond, to help this, my ancestral country,\" replied Jos\u00e8 in deep\nearnestness.\n\n\"Worthy aims, both,\" assented Hitt. \"But, my friend, what will you\naccomplish here, unless you can educate these people to think? I have\nlearned much about conditions in this country. I find that the priest\nin Colombia is even more intolerant than in Ireland, for here he has a\nmonopoly, no competition. He is absolute. The Colombian is the logical\nproduct of the doctrines of Holy Church. It is so in Mexico. It is so\nwherever the curse of a fixed mentality is imposed upon a people. For\nthat engenders determined opposition to mobility. It quenches\nresponsiveness to new concepts and new ideas. It throttles a nation.\nThe bane of mental progress is the _Semper Idem_ of your Church.\"\n\n\"Christianity will remove the curse.\"\n\n\"I have no doubt whatever of that. It probably is the future cure for\nall social ills and evils of every sort. But if so, it must be the\nChristianity which Jesus taught and demonstrated--not the theological\nchaff now disseminated in his name. Do not forget that we no longer\nknow what Christianity is. It is a lost science.\"\n\n\"It can and will be recovered!\" cried Jos\u00e8 warmly.\n\n\"I have said that is foreshadowed. But we must have the whole garment\nof the Christ, without human _addenda_. He is reported as having said,\n'The works that I do bear witness of me.' Now the works of the\nChristian Church bear ample witness that she has not the true\nunderstanding of the Christ. Nor has that eminent Protestant divine,\nnow teaching in a theological seminary in the States, who recently\nsaid that, although Jesus ministered miraculously to the physical man,\nyet it was not his intention that his disciples should continue that\nsort of ministry; that the healing which Jesus did was wholly\nincidental, and was not an example to be permanently imitated. Good\nheavens! how these poor theologians hide their inability to do the\nworks of the Master by taking refuge in such ridiculously unwarranted\nassertions. To them the rule seems to be that, if you can't do a thing\nyou must deny the possibility of its being done. Great logic, isn't\nit?\n\n\"And yet,\" he went on, \"the Church has had nearly two thousand years\nin which to learn to do the works of the Master. Pretty dull pupil, I\nthink. And we've had nearly two thousand years of theology from this\nslow pupil. Would that she would from now on give us a little real\nChristianity! Heavens! the world needs it. And yet, do you know,\nsectarian feeling is still so bitter in the so-called Church of God\nthat if a Bishop of the Anglican Church should admit Presbyterians,\nMethodists, or members of other denominations to his communion table a\nscream of rage would go up all over England, and a mighty demand would\nbe raised to impeach the Bishop for heresy! Think of it! God above!\nthe puny human mind. Do you wonder that the dogma of the Church has\nlost force? That, despite its thunders, thinking men laugh? I freely\nadmit that our great need is to find an adequate substitute for the\nauthority which others would like to impose upon us. But where shall\nwe find such authority, if not in those who demonstrate their ability\nto do the works of the Master? Show me your works, and I'll show you\nmy faith. This is my perpetual challenge.\n\n\"But, now,\" he said, \"returning to the subject so near your heart: the\ncondition of this country is that of a large part of South America,\nwhere the population is unsettled, even turbulent, and where a\npriesthood, fanatical, intolerant, often unscrupulous, pursue their\ndevious means to extend and perpetuate unhindered the sway of your\nChurch. Colombia is struggling to remove the blight which Spain laid\nupon her, namely, mediaeval religion. It is this same blighting\nreligion, coupled with her remorseless greed, which has brought Spain\nto her present decrepit, empty state. And how she did strive to force\nthat religion upon the world! Whole nations, like the Incas, for\nexample, ruthlessly slaughtered by the papal-benisoned riffraff of\nSpain in her attempts to foist herself into world prestige and to\nbolster up the monstrous assumptions of Holy Church! The Incas were a\ngrand nation, with a splendid mental viewpoint. But it withered under\nthe touch of the mediaeval narrowness fastened upon it. Whole nations\nwasted in support of papal assumptions--and do you think that the end\nis yet? Far from it! War is coming here in Colombia. It may come in\nother parts of this Western Hemisphere, certainly in Mexico, certainly\nin Peru and Bolivia and Chili, rocked in the cradle of Holy Church for\nages, but now at last awaking to a sense of their backward condition\nand its cause. If ever the Church had a chance to show what she could\ndo when given a free hand, she has had it in these countries,\nparticularly in Mexico. In all the nearly four centuries of her\nunmolested control in that fair land, oppressed by sword and crucifix,\ndid she ever make an attempt worth the name to uplift and emancipate\nthe common man? Not one. She took his few, hard-earned _pesos_ to get\nhis weary soul out of an imagined purgatory--but she left him to rot\nin peonage while on earth! But, friend, I repeat, the struggle is\ncoming here in Colombia. And look you well to your own escape when it\narrives!\"\n\n\"And can I do nothing to help avert it?\" cried the distressed Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"Well,\" returned the explorer meditatively, \"such bondage is removable\neither through education or war. But in Colombia I fear the latter\nwill overtake the former by many decades.\"\n\n\"Then rest assured that I shall in the meantime do what in me lies to\ninstruct my fellow-countrymen, and to avoid such a catastrophe!\"\n\n\"Good luck to you, friend. And--by the way, here is a little book that\nmay help you in your work. I'm quite sure you've never read it. Under\nthe ban, you know. Renan's _Vie de J\u00e9sus_. It can do you no harm, and\nmay be useful.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 reached out and took the little volume. It was _anathema_, he\nknew, but he could not refuse to accept it.\n\n\"And there is another book that I strongly recommend to you. I'm sorry\nI haven't a copy here. It once created quite a sensation. It is\ncalled, 'Confessions of a Roman Catholic Priest.' Published\nanonymously, in Vienna, but unquestionably bearing the earmarks of\nauthenticity. It mentions this country--\"\n\nWithout speaking, Jos\u00e8 had slowly risen and started down the musty\ncorridor, his thought aflame with the single desire to get away. Down\npast the empty barracks and gaping cells he went, without stopping to\npeer into their tenebrous depths--on and on, skirting the grim walls\nthat typified the mediaevalism surrounding and fettering his restless\nthought--on to the long incline which led up to the broad esplanade on\nthe summit. Must he forever flee this pursuing Nemesis? Or should he\nhurl himself from the wall, once he gained the top? At the upper end\nof the incline he heard the low sound of voices. A priest and a young\ngirl who sat there on the parapet rose as he approached. He stopped\nabruptly in front of them. \"Wenceslas!\" he exclaimed. \"And Maria!\"\n\n\"Ah, _amigo_, a quiet stroll before retiring? It is a sultry night.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" slowly replied Jos\u00e8, looking at the girl, who drew back into\nthe shadow cast by the body of her companion. Then, bowing, he passed\non down the wall and disappeared in the darkness that shrouded the\ndistance.\n\nA few minutes later the long form of the explorer appeared above the\nincline. Wenceslas and the girl had departed. Seeing no one, the\nAmerican turned and descended to the ground, shaking his head in deep\nperplexity.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 15\n\n\nThe next day was one of the Church's innumerable feast-days, and Jos\u00e8\nwas free to utilize it as he might. He determined on a visit to the\nsuburb of Turbaco, some eight miles from Cartagena, and once the site\nof Don Ignacio's magnificent country home. Although he had been some\nmonths in Cartagena, he had never before felt any desire to pass\nbeyond its walls. Now it seemed to him that he must break the\nlimitation which those encircling walls typified, that his restless\nthought might expand ere it formulated into definite concepts and\nplans for future work. This morning he wanted to be alone. The old\ninjury done to his sensitive spirit by the publication of his journal\nhad been unwittingly opened anew. The old slowness had crept again\ninto his gait since the evening before. Over night his countenance had\nresumed its wonted heaviness; and his slender shoulders bent again\nbeneath their former burden.\n\nWhen Jos\u00e8 arrived in Cartagena he had found it a city of vivid\ncontrasts. There mediaevalism still strove with the spirit of modern\nprogress; and so it suited well as an environment for the dilation of\nhis shrunken soul-arteries. The lethal influence of the monastery long\nlay over him, beneath which he continued to manifest those eccentric\nhabits which his prolonged state of loneliness had engendered. He\nlooked askance at the amenities which his associates tentatively held\nout to him. He sank himself deep in study, and for weeks, even months,\nhe shunned the world of people and things. He found no stimulus to a\nsearch for his ancestral palace within the city, nor for a study of\nthe Rinc\u00f3n records which lay moldering in the ancient city's\narchives.\n\nBut, as the sunlit days drifted dreamily past with peaceful, unvarying\nmonotony, Jos\u00e8's faculties, which had always been alert until he had\nbeen declared insane, gradually awakened. His violently disturbed\nbalance began to right itself; his equilibrium became in a measure\nrestored. The deadening thought that he had accomplished nothing in\nhis vitiated life yielded to a hopeful determination to yet retrieve\npast failure. The pride and fear which had balked the thought of\nself-destruction now served to fan the flame of fresh resolve. He\ndared not do any writing, it was true. But he could delve and study.\nAnd a thousand avenues opened to him through which he could serve his\nfellow-men. The papal instructions which his traveling companion, the\nApostolic Delegate, had brought to the Bishop of Cartagena, evidently\nhad sufficed for his credentials; and the latter had made no occasion\nto refer to the priest's past. An order from the Vatican was law; and\nthe Bishop obeyed it with no other thought than its inerrancy and\ninexorability. And with the lapse of the several months which had\nslipped rapidly away while he sought to forget and to clear from his\nmind the dark clouds of melancholia which had settled over it, Jos\u00e8\nbecame convinced that the Bishop knew nothing of his career prior to\nhis arrival in Colombia.\n\nAnd it is possible that the young priest's secret would have died with\nhim--that he would have lived out his life amid the peaceful scenes of\nthis old, romantic town, and gone to his long rest at last with the\nconsciousness of having accomplished his mite in the service of his\nfellow-beings; it is possible that Rome would have forgotten him; and\nthat his uncle's ambitions, to which he knew that he had been regarded\nas in some way useful, would have flagged and perished over the watery\nwaste which separated the New World from the Old, but for the\nintervention of one man, who crossed Jos\u00e8's path early in his new\nlife, found him inimical to his own worldly projects, and removed him,\ntherefore, as sincerely in the name of Christ as the ancient\n_Conquistadores_, with priestly blessing, hewed from their paths of\nconquest the simple and harmless aborigines.\n\nThat man was Wenceslas Ortiz, trusted servant of Holy Church,\nwho had established himself in Cartagena to keep a watchful eye on\nanticlerical proceedings. That he was able to do this, and at the\nsame time turn them greatly to his own advantage, marks him as a man\nof more than usually keen and resourceful mentality. He was a\nnative son, born of prosperous parents in the riverine town of\nMompox, which, until the erratic Magdalena sought for itself a new\nchannel, was the chief port between Barranquilla and the distant\nHonda. There had been neither family custom nor parental hopes\nto consider among the motives which had directed him into the\nChurch. He was a born worldling, but with unmistakable talents for\nand keen appreciation of the art of politics. His love of money was\nsubordinate only to his love of power. To both, his talents made\naccess easy. In the contemplation of a career in his early years\nhe had hesitated long between the Church and the Army; but had\nfinally thrown his lot with the former, as offering not only\nequal possibilities of worldly preferment and riches, but far\ngreater stability in those periodic revolutions to which his\ncountry was so addicted. The Army was frequently overthrown; the\nChurch, never. The Government changed with every successful\npolitical revolution; the Church remained immovable. And so with\nthe art of a trained politician he cultivated his chosen field with\nsuch intensity that even the Holy See felt the glow of his ardor,\nand in recognition of his marked abilities, his pious fervor and\ngreat influence, was constrained to place him just where he wished\nto be, at the right hand of the Bishop of Cartagena, and probable\nsuccessor to that aged incumbent, who had grown to lean heavily\nand confidingly upon him.\n\nAs coadjutor, or suffragan to the Bishop of Cartagena, Wenceslas Ortiz\nhad at length gathered unto himself sufficient influence of divers\nnature as, in his opinion, to ensure him the See in case the bishopric\nshould, as was contemplated, be raised eventually to the status of a\nMetropolitan. It was he, rather than the Bishop, who distributed\nparishes to ambitious pastors and emoluments to greedy politicians.\nHis irons in ecclesiastical, political, social and commercial fires\nwere innumerable. The doctrine of the indivisibility of Church and\nState had in him an able champion--but only because he thereby found a\nsure means of increasing his prestige and augmenting his power and\nwealth. His methods of work manifested keenness, subtlety, shrewdness\nand skill. His rewards were lavish. His punishments, terrible. The\nlatter smacked of the Inquisition: he preferred torture to quick\ndespatch.\n\nIt had not taken Wenceslas long to estimate the character of the\nnewcomer, Jos\u00e8. Nor was he slow to perceive that this liberal pietist\nwas cast in an unusual mold. Polity necessitated the cultivation of\nJos\u00e8, as it required the friendship--or, in any event, the thorough\nappraisement--of every one with whom Wenceslas might be associated.\nBut the blandishments, artifice, diplomacy and hints of advancements\nwhich he poured out in profusion upon Jos\u00e8 he early saw would fail\nutterly to penetrate the armor of moral reserve with which the priest\nwas clad, or effect in the slightest degree the impression which they\nwere calculated to make.\n\nIn the course of time the priest became irritating; later, annoying;\nand finally, positively dangerous to the ambitions of Wenceslas. For,\nto illustrate, Jos\u00e8 had once discovered him, in the absence of the\nBishop, celebrating Mass in a state of inebriation. This irritated.\nWenceslas had only been careless. Again, Jos\u00e8 had several times shown\nhimself suspicious of his fast-and-loose methods with the rival\npolitical factions of Cartagena. This was annoying. Finally, he had\ncome upon Jos\u00e8 in the market place a few weeks prior, in earnest\nconference with Marcelena and the girl, Maria; and subsequent\nconversation with him developed the fact that the priest had other\ndark suspicions which were but too well founded. This was dangerous.\nIt was high time to prepare for possible contingencies.\n\nAnd so, in due time, carefully wording his hint that Padre Jos\u00e8 de\nRinc\u00f3n might be a Radical spy in the ecclesiastical camp, Wenceslas\nfound means to obtain from Rome a fairly comprehensive account of\nthe priest's past history. He mused over this until an idea suddenly\noccurred to him, namely, the similarity of this account with many of\nthe passages which he had found in a certain book, \"The Confessions\nof a Roman Catholic Priest\"--a book which had cast the shadow of\ndistrust upon Wenceslas himself in relation to certain matters of\necclesiastical politics in Colombia nearly three years before, and\nat a most unfortunate time. Indeed, this sudden, unheralded\nexposure had forced him to a hurried recasting of certain cherished\nplans, and drawn from him a burning, unquenchable desire to lay his\npious hands upon the writer.\n\nHis influence with Rome at length revealed the secret of the wretched\nbook's authorship. And from the moment that he learned it, Jos\u00e8's fate\nwas sealed. The crafty politician laughed aloud as he read the\npriest's history. Then he drew his plans and waited. But in the\ninterim he made further investigations; and these he extended far back\ninto the ancestral history of this unfortunate scion of the once\npowerful house of Rinc\u00f3n.\n\nMeantime, a few carefully chosen words to the Bishop aroused a dull\ninterest in that quarter. Jos\u00e8 had been seen mingling freely with men\nof very liberal political views. It would be well to warn him. Again,\nweeks later, Wenceslas was certain, from inquiries made among the\nstudents, that Jos\u00e8's work in the classroom bordered a trifle too\nclosely on radicalism. It were well to admonish him. And, still later,\nhappening to call at Jos\u00e8's quarters just above his own in the\necclesiastical dormitory, and not finding him in, he had been struck\nby the absence of crucifix or other religious symbol in the room. Was\nthe young priest becoming careless of his example?\n\nAnd now, on this important feast-day, where was Padre Jos\u00e8? On the\npreceding evening, as Wenceslas leaned over the parapet of the wall\nafter his surprise by Jos\u00e8, he had noted in the dim light the salient\nfeatures of a foreigner who, he had just learned, was registered at\nthe Hotel Mariano from the United States. Moreover, Wenceslas had just\ncome from Jos\u00e8's room, whither he had gone in search of him, and--may\nthe Saints pardon his excess of holy zeal which impelled him to\nexamine the absent priest's effects!--he had returned now to the\nBishop bearing a copy of Renan's _Vie de J\u00e9sus_, with the American's\nname on the flyleaf. It certainly were well to admonish Padre Jos\u00e8\nagain, and severely!\n\nThe Bishop, hardly to the surprise of his crafty coadjutor, flew into\na towering rage. He was a man of irascible temper, bitterly\nintolerant, and unreasoningly violent against all unbelievers,\nespecially Americans whose affairs brought them to Colombia. In this\nrespect he was the epitome of the ecclesiastical anti-foreign\nsentiment which obtained in that country. His intolerance of heretics\nwas such that he would gladly have bound his own kin to the stake had\nhe believed their opinions unorthodox. Yet he was thoroughly\nconscientious, a devout churchman, and saturated with the beliefs of\npapal infallibility and the divine origin of the Church. In the\nobservance of church rites and ceremonies he was unremitting. In the\nsoul-burning desire to witness the conversion of the world, and\nespecially to see the lost children of Europe either coaxed or beaten\nback into the embrace of Holy Church, his zeal amounted to fanaticism.\nIn the present case--\n\n\"Your Eminence,\" suggested the suave Wenceslas to his exasperated\nsuperior, \"may I propose that you defer action until I can discover\nthe exact status of this American?\"\n\nAnd the Bishop forthwith placed the whole matter in his trusted\nassistant's helpful hands.\n\nMeantime, Jos\u00e8 and the American explorer sat in the shade of a\nmagnificent palm on a high hill in beautiful Turbaco, looking out over\nthe shimmering sea beyond. For Hitt had wandered into the _Plaza de\nCoches_ just as Jos\u00e8 was taking a carriage, and the latter could not\nwell refuse his proffered companionship for the day. Yet Jos\u00e8 feared\nto be seen in broad daylight with this stranger, and he involuntarily\nmurmured a _Loado sea Dios_! when they reached Turbaco, as he\nbelieved, unobserved. He did not know that a sharp-eyed young\nnovitiate, whom Wenceslas had detailed to keep the priest under\nsurveillance, had hurried back to his superior with the report of\nJos\u00e8's departure with the _Americano_ on this innocent pleasure\njaunt.\n\n\"Say no more, my friend, in apology for your abrupt departure last\nevening,\" the explorer urged. \"But tell me, rather, about your\nillustrious grandfather who had his country seat in this delightful\nspot. Why, man! this is paradise. I've a notion to come here to live\nsome day.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 cast his apprehensions upon the soft ocean breeze, and gave\nhimself up to the inspiriting influence of his charming environment.\nHe dwelt at length upon the Rinc\u00f3n greatness of mediaeval days, and\nexpressed the resolve sometime to delve into the family records which\nhe knew must be hidden away in the moldering old city of Cartagena.\n\"But now,\" he concluded, after another reference to the Church, \"is\nColombia to witness again the horror of those days of carnage? And\nover the human mind's interpretation of the Christ? God forbid!\"\n\nThe American shook his head dubiously. \"There is but one\nremedy--education. Not sectarian, partisan, worldly education--not\ninstruction in relative truths and the chaff of materialistic\nspeculation--but that sort of education whereby the selfish human mind\nis lifted in a measure out of itself, out of its petty jealousies and\nenvyings, out of sneaking graft and touting for worldly emolument, and\ninto a sense of the eternal truth that real prosperity and soundness\nof states and institutions are to be realized only when the\nChrist-principle, 'Love thy neighbor as thyself,' is made the measure\nof conduct. There is a tremendous truth which has long since been\ndemonstrated, and yet which the world is most woefully slow to grasp,\nnamely, that the surest, quickest means of realizing one's own\nprosperity and happiness is in that of others--not in a world to come,\nbut right here and now.\"\n\n\"But that means the inauguration of the millennium,\" protested Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"Well, and why not so?\" returned the explorer calmly. \"Has not that\nbeen the ultimate aim of Christianity, and of all serious effort for\nreform for the past two thousand years? And, do you know, the\nmillennium could be ushered in to-morrow, if men only thought so?\nWithin an incredibly short time evil, even to death itself, could be\ncompletely wiped off the earth. But this wiping-off process must take\nplace in the minds and thoughts of men. Of that I am thoroughly\nconvinced. But, tell me, have you ever expressed to the Bishop your\nviews regarding the condition of this country?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 flushed. \"Yes,\" he replied in embarrassment. \"Only a week ago I\ntried again to convince him of the inevitable trend of events here\nunless drastic measures were interposed by the Church. I had even\nlectured on it in my classes.\"\n\n\"Well, what did he say?\"\n\n\"The Bishop is a man of very narrow vision,\" replied Jos\u00e8. \"He rebuked\nme severely and truculantly bade me confine my attention to the\nparticular work assigned me and let affairs of politics alone. Of\ncourse, that meant leaving them to his assistant, Wenceslas. Mr. Hitt,\nColombia needs a Luther!\"\n\n\"Just so,\" returned the explorer gravely. \"Priestcraft from the very\nearliest times has been one of the greatest curses of mankind. Its\nabuses date far back to Egyptian times, when even prostitution was\ncountenanced by the priests, and when they practiced all sorts of\nimpostures upon the ignorant masses. In the Middle Ages they turned\nChristianity, the richest of blessings, into a snare, a delusion, a\nrank farce. They arrogated to themselves all learning, all science. In\nPeru it was even illicit for any one not belonging to the nobility to\nattempt to acquire learning. That was the sole privilege of priests\nand kings. In all nations, from the remotest antiquity, and whether\ncivilized or not, learning has been claimed by the priests as the\nunique privilege of their caste--a privilege bestowed upon them by the\nspecial favor of the ruling deity. That's why they always sought to\nsurround their intellectual treasures with a veil of mystery. Roger\nBacon, the English monk, once said that it was necessary to keep the\ndiscoveries of the philosophers from those unworthy of knowing them.\nHow did he expect a realization of 'Thy kingdom come,' I wonder?\"\n\n\"They didn't expect it to come--on earth,\" said Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"No. They relegated that to the imagined realm which was to be entered\nthrough the gateway of death. It's mighty convenient to be able to\nrelegate your proofs to that mysterious realm beyond the grave. That\nhas always been a tremendous power in the hands of priests of all\ntimes and lands. By the way, did you know that the story of Abel's\nassassination was one of many handed down, in one form or another, by\nthe priests of India and Egypt?\"\n\n\"Do you mean it?\" inquired Jos\u00e8 eagerly.\n\n\"Certainly. The story doubtless comes from the ancient Egyptian tale\nwhich the priests of that time used to relate regarding the murder\nof Osiris by his brother, Set. It was a deed of jealousy. The story\nlater became incorporated into the sacred books of India and Egypt,\nand was afterward taken over by the Hebrews, when they were captives\nin Egypt. The Hebrews learned much of Egyptian theology, and their\nown religion was greatly tinctured by it subsequently. The legend of\nthe deluge, for example, is another tradition of those primitive\ndays, and credited by the nations of antiquity. But here there is the\nlikelihood of a connection with the great cataclysm of antiquity,\nthe disappearance of the island of Atlantis in consequence of a\nviolent earthquake and volcanic action. This alleged island,\nsupposed to be a portion of the strip at one time connecting South\nAmerica with Africa, is thought to have sunk beneath the waters of\nthe present Atlantic ocean some nine thousand years before Solon\nvisited Egypt, and hence, some eleven thousand years ago. Anyway,\nthe story of this awful catastrophe got into the Egyptian records\nin the earliest times, and was handed down to the Hebrews, who\nprobably based their story of the flood upon it. You see, there is a\nfoundation of some sort for all those legends in the book of Genesis.\nThe difficulty has been that humanity has for centuries childishly\naccepted them as historical fact. For example, the serpent story.\nNow in very primitive times the serpent was the special emblem of\nKneph, the creator of the world, and was regarded as a sort of\ngood genius. It is still so regarded by the Chinese, who make of it\none of their most beautiful symbols, the dragon. Later it became the\nemblem of Set, the slayer of Osiris; and after that it was looked\nupon with horror as the enemy of mankind, the destroyer, the evil\nprinciple. Hence, in Egypt, the Hebrew captives adopted the serpent\nas emblematical of evil, and later used it in their scriptural\nrecords as the evil genius that tempted Eve and brought about the\nfall of man. And so all people whose religious beliefs are founded\nupon the Hebrew Bible now look upon the serpent as the symbol of\nevil. Jews, Christians, and Mohammedans thus regard it.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 gazed at the man with rapt interest. \"Don't stop!\" he urged. \"Go\non! go on!\"\n\nHitt laughed. \"Well,\" he resumed, \"the tree and the serpent were\nworshiped all through eastern countries, from Scandinavia to the\nAsiatic peninsula and down into Egypt. And, do you know, we even find\nvestiges of such worship in America? Down in Adams county, Ohio, on\nthe banks of Brush creek, there is a great mound, called the serpent\nmound. It is seven hundred feet long, and greatly resembles the one in\nGlen Feechan, Argyleshire, Scotland. It also resembles the one I found\nin the ancient city of Tiahuanuco, whose ruins lie at an elevation of\nsome thirteen thousand feet above the Pacific ocean, on the shores of\nLake Titicaca, near the Bolivian frontier. This ancient city ages ago\nsent out colonists all over North and South America. These primitive\npeople believed that a serpent emitted an egg from its mouth, and that\nthe earth was born of that egg. Now the serpent mound in Ohio has an\negg in its mouth. What is the logical inference?\"\n\n\"You don't mean it!\" exclaimed Jos\u00e8, his eyes wide with astonishment.\n\nHitt laughed again in evident enjoyment of the priest's wonder. Then\nhe resumed: \"It has been established to my entire satisfaction that\nthe ancient Egyptians and the Mayas of Central and South America used\nalmost identical symbols. And from all antiquity, and by all nations,\nthe symbols of the tree and serpent and their worship have been so\nclosely identified as to render it certain that their origin is the\nsame. What, then, are the serpent and tree of knowledge in the Hebrew\nBible but an outgrowth of this? The tree of life, of civilization, of\nknowledge, was placed in the middle of the land, of the 'garden,' of\nthe primitive country of the race, Mayax. And the empire of the Mayas\nwas situated between the two great continents of North and South\nAmerica. These people spread out in all directions. They populated the\nthen existing island of Atlantis. And when the terrible earthquake\noccurred, whereby this island was sunk beneath the waves of the\nAtlantic ocean, why, to these people the world had been drowned! The\nstory got to Egypt, to Chaldea, and to India. Hence the deluge record\nof Genesis.\"\n\n\"But, these primitive people, how ancient are they?\" queried Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"No one can form any adequate estimate,\" said Hitt in reply. \"The\nwonderful city of Tiahuanuco was in ruins when Manco Capac laid the\nfoundations of the Inca empire, which was later devastated by the\nSpaniards. And the Indians told the Spaniards that it had been\nconstructed by giants before the sun shone in heaven.\"\n\n\"Astonishing!\" exclaimed Jos\u00e8. \"Such facts as these--if facts they\nbe--relegate much of the Scriptural authority to the realm of legend\nand myth!\"\n\n\"Quite so,\" returned the explorer. \"When the human mind of this\ncentury forces itself to approach a subject without prejudice or bias,\nand without the desire to erect or maintain a purely human institution\nat whatever cost to world-progress, then it finds that much of the\nhampering, fettering dogma of mediaevalism now laid upon it by the\nChurch becomes pure fiction, without justifiable warrant or basis.\nRemember, the Hebrew people gave us the Old Testament, in which they\nhad recorded for ages their tribal and national history, their poetry,\ntheir beliefs and hopes, as well as their legends, gathered from all\nsources. We have likewise the historical records of other nations. But\nthe Hebrew possessed one characteristic which differentiated him from\nall other people. He was a monotheist, and he saw his God in every\nthing, every event, every place. His concept of God was his\nlife-motif. This concept evolved slowly, painfully, throughout the\ncenturies. The ancient Hebrew patriarchs saw it as a variable God,\nchangeful, fickle, now violently angry, now humbly repentant, now\nmaking contracts with mankind, now petulantly destroying His own\nhandiwork. He was a God who could order the slaughter of innocent\nbabes, as in the book of Samuel; or He was a tender, merciful Father,\nas in the Psalms. He could harden hearts, wage bloody wars, walk with\nmen 'in the cool of the day,' create a universe with His fist, or\nspend long days designing and devising the material utensils and\nfurniture of sacrifice to be used in His own worship. In short, men\nsaw in Him just what they saw in themselves. They saw but their mental\nconcept. The Bible records humanity's changing, evolving concept of\nGod, of that 'something not ourselves which makes for righteousness.'\nAnd this concept gradually changed from the magnified God-man of the\nOld Testament, a creature of human whims and passions, down to that\nheld by the man of Nazareth, a new and beautiful concept of God as\nlove. This new concept Jesus joyously gave to a sin-weary world that\nhad utterly missed the mark. But it cost him his earthly life to do\nit. And the dark record of the so-called Christian Church, both\nProtestant and Catholic, contains the name of many a one who has paid\nthe same penalty for a similar service of love.\n\n\"The Chaldeans and Egyptians,\" he went on, after a moment's reflective\npause, \"gave the Hebrews their account of the creation of the\nuniverse, the fall of man, the flood, and many other bits of mythical\nlore. And into these stories the Hebrews read the activity of their\nGod, and drew from them deep moral lessons. Egypt gave the Hebrews at\nleast a part of the story of Joseph, as embodied in the hieroglyphics\nwhich may be read on the banks of the Nile to-day. They probably also\ngave the Hebrews the account of the creation found in the second\nchapter of Genesis, for to this day you can see in some of the oldest\nEgyptian temples pictures of the gods making men out of lumps of clay.\nThe discovery of the remains of the 'Neanderthal man' and the 'Ape-man\nof Java' now places the dawn of human reason at a period some three to\nfive hundred thousand years prior to our present century, and,\ncombined with the development of the science of geology, which shows\nthat the total age of the earth's stratified rocks alone cannot be\nmuch less than fifty-five millions of years, serves to cast additional\nridicule upon the Church's present attitude of stubborn adherence to\nthese prehistoric scriptural legends as literal, God-given fact. But,\nto make the right use of these legends--well, that is another thing.\"\n\n\"And that?\"\n\nThe explorer hesitated. \"I find it difficult to explain,\" he said at\nlength. \"But, remember what I have already said, there is, there\n_must_ be, a foundation beneath all these legends which admonish\nmankind to turn from evil to good. And, as I also said, that\nfoundation must be very broad. I have said that I was in search of a\nreligion. Why not, you may ask, accept the religious standard which\nJesus set? That was the new concept of God as love. Very good. I am\nquite convinced that love is _the_ religion, _the_ tie which binds all\nthings together and to a common source and cause. And I am equally\nconvinced that Jesus is the only person recorded in history who ever\nlived a life of pure reflection of the love which he called God. And\nso you see why I am chipping and hewing away at the theological\nconception of the Christ, and trying to get at the reality buried deep\nbeneath in the theological misconceptions of the centuries. I am quite\nconvinced that if men loved one another, as Jesus bade them do, all\nwar, strife, disease, poverty, and discord of every sort would vanish\nfrom human experience. But--and here is a serious question--did Jesus\nask the impossible? Did he command us to love the sinful, erring\nmortal whom we see in our daily walk--or did he--did he have a new\nthought, namely, that by loving the real man, for which, perhaps, this\nhuman concept stands in the human mind, _that this very act would\nchange that distorted concept and cause it to yield its place to the\nreal one_? I believe Jesus to have been the wisest man who ever trod\nthis earth. But I likewise believe that no man has ever been more\ndeplorably misunderstood, misquoted, and misinterpreted than he. And\nso I am delving down, down beneath the mass of human conjecture and\nridiculous hypothesis which the Church Fathers and our own theologians\nhave heaped up over this unique character, if perchance I may some day\ndiscover just what he was, just what he really said, and just what the\nmessage which he sought to convey to mankind.\"\n\nHe leaned over and laid a hand on Jos\u00e8's arm. \"My young friend,\" he\nsaid earnestly, \"I believe there are meanings in the life and words of\nJesus of which the Church in its astounding self-sufficiency has never\neven dreamed. Did he walk on the water? Did he feed the multitude with\na few loaves? Did he raise Lazarus? Did he himself issue from the\ntomb? No more momentous questions were ever asked than these. For, if\nso, _then the message of Jesus has a bearing on the material universe,\non the human mind, and the whole realm of thought that is utterly\nrevolutionary_! What was that message? Did the man's own apostles and\nimmediate followers understand it? Did Paul? Certain we are, however,\nthat the theology which Rome gave to her barbarian conquerors was\nwholly different from that taught by Jesus and his disciples. And we\nknow that the history of Europe from the fall of the Roman Empire down\nto the Franco-Prussian war is largely a recital of the development of\nthe religious beliefs which Rome handed down to her conquerors, and\ntheir influence upon the human mind. These beliefs constitute the\nworking hypothesis of that institution known to-day as the Holy Roman\nCatholic Church, and its separated offshoots, the Greek Catholic and\nthe Protestant Churches, including the numberless ramifications and\ndivisions of the latter. The question as to whether eternal salvation\nis a function of complete immersion of the human body, or only a\ngentle sprinkling, appears most lamentably puerile in the face of the\ntremendous revolutionary truths hinted by the deeds of Jesus, assuming\nthat he has been correctly reported in the Gospels. No; Renan, in his\n_Vie de J\u00e9sus_, which I gave you last night, missed it. Before him,\nVoltaire and countless other critics of man-made theology missed it.\nThe writings of these men do serve, however, to mow down the\ntheological stubble in the world's field of thought. What is it, this\ngigantic truth which Jesus brought? I do not know. But he himself is\nreported to have said, 'If ye keep my commands, ye shall know of the\ndoctrine.' And his chief command was, _that we love God and our\nfellow-men_. I have no doubt whatever that, when we follow this\ncommand, we shall know of the doctrine which he came to establish in\nthe hearts of men.\"\n\n\"But his message was the brotherhood of man,\" said Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"Nay,\" replied the explorer, \"it was the _fatherhood_ of God,\nrather. For that includes the brotherhood of man. But, while we agree\nthus far, who can say what the fatherhood of God implies? Who,\nrealizing that this was Jesus' message, knows how to make it\npractical, as he did? To him it meant--ah, what did it not mean! It\nmeant a consciousness that held _not one trace of evil_. It meant a\nconsciousness of God as omnipotent power, the irresistible power\nof good, which, in the form of spirit, or mind, as some will have it,\nis ever present. Is it not so? Well, then, who is there to-day,\nwithin the Church or without, who understands the divine message of\nthe fatherhood of God sufficiently to acquire such a consciousness,\nand to make the intensely practical application of the message to\nevery problem of mind, or body, or environment? Who to-day in your\nChurch or mine, for example, realizes that Jesus must have seen\nsomething in matter far different from the solid, indestructible thing\nthat we think we see, and that this was due to his understanding of\nthe immanence of his Father as spirit--an understanding which enabled\nhim to walk on the waves, and to treat material things as if they\nwere not? No, my friend, the Christ-message of the fatherhood of God\nis hardly apprehended in the world to-day in the slightest degree by\npriest or prelate, church or sect. And yet, the influence of Jesus is\ntremendous!\"\n\nJos\u00e8's brow knit in perplexity. \"I--I don't believe I follow you,\nquite,\" he said.\n\n\"I am not surprised,\" replied the explorer gently. \"I sometimes wonder\nif I understand myself just what it is that I am trying to express. My\nbelief is still in a state of transition. I am still searching. The\nfield has been cleared. And now--now I am waiting for the new seed. I\nhave abandoned forever the sterile, non-productive religious beliefs\nof current theology. I have abandoned such belittling views of God as\nthe Presbyterian sublapsarian view of election. I have turned wearily\nfrom the puerile dogma of your Church as unworthy of the Father of\nJesus. From delving into the mysteries of the Brahminism of India, of\nancestor-worship in Japan, of Confucianism in China, of Islamism in\nthe far East, I have come back to the wonderful man of Nazareth. And\nnow I am trying to see what Christianity would be if purged of its\nadulterations--purged of the Greek philosophy of the early Fathers; of\nthe forgeries of the Middle Ages; of the pagan ceremonialism and\npriestly rites and assumptions of power to save or damn in this\npresent century. And what do I find, after all this rubbish has been\nfiltered out? Love, friend--love; the unfathomable love of the Father\nof Jesus, who knows no evil, no sin, no sickness, no death, no hell,\nno material heaven, but whose kingdom is the harmonious realm of\nspirit, or mind, wherein the individual consciousness knows no discord\nof any name or nature.\"\n\nThe afternoon haze had been long gathering when Jos\u00e8 roused the sleeping\n_cochero_ and prepared to return to the stifling ecclesiastical\natmosphere from which for a brief day he had been so happily free. A\ncold chill swept over him when he took his seat in the carriage, and\nhe shuddered as if with an evil presentiment.\n\n\"And you still adhere to your determination to remain in the Church?\"\nhis friend asked, as they turned from the green hills and nodding\npalms of Turbaco, and set their course, toward the distant mediaeval\ncity.\n\n\"Yes,\" came the scarcely audible reply. But as Jos\u00e8 spoke, he knew\nthat his mind had that day been stripped of its last remaining vestige\nof the old theology, leaving it bare, exposed--and receptive.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nA week passed. The explorer had gone, as silently and unannounced as\nhe had come. The evening before his departure he and Jos\u00e8 had sat\nagain in the thick shadows of the old wall. The next morning he was on\nthe mighty river; and the priest was left with a great void in his\nheart.\n\nOne noon, as Jos\u00e8 was returning from his classes, he pondered deeply\nthe last words of the explorer, \"Remember, nothing that has been\ninvented by mankind or evolved by the human mind can stand, or remain.\nWe might just as well accept that great fact now as later, and adjust\nourselves to it. But the things of the spirit remain. And Paul has\ntold us what they are.\"\n\nAs he passed slowly along the winding little street toward the\ndormitory, a messenger approached him with a summons from the Bishop.\nHe turned and started wonderingly toward the Cathedral. He had been\nreprimanded once, twice, for the liberal views which he had expressed\nto his classes. Was he to receive another rebuke now? He had tried to\nbe more careful of late. Had he been seen with the explorer?\n\nAn hour later, his eyes set and unseeing, and his thin lips trembling,\nJos\u00e8 dragged himself up the stone steps to his little room and threw\nhimself upon the bed. The bonds which had been slowly, imperceptibly\ntightening during these few months of precious liberty had been drawn\nsuddenly taut. The Bishop, in the _r\u00f4le_ of _Inquisitor Natus_, had\njust revealed a full knowledge of his dismal past, and had summarily\ndismissed him from the University faculty. Jos\u00e8, bewildered and\nstunned, had tried vainly to defend himself. Then, realizing his\nimpotence before the uncompromising bigotry of this choleric\necclesiastic, he had burst suddenly into a torrent of frenzied\ndeclarations of his undeserved wrongs, of his resolve now to renounce\nhis oath, to leave the Church, to abandon honor, family, everything\nthat held or claimed him, and to flee into unknown and unknowing\nparts, where his harassed soul might find a few years of rest before\nits final flight! The Bishop became bitterly and implacably\ninfuriated, and remanded the excited priest to his room to reflect\nupon his wild words, and to await the final disposition of his\ncase--unless he should have determined already to try the devious\nroute of apostasy.\n\nRising the next morning at dawn from the chill floor where he had\nspent the torturing hours of an interminable night, and still clinging\nforlornly to his battered sense of honor and family pride, Jos\u00e8 again\nreceived the Bishop's summons; and, after the events of the morning\nalready related, faced the angry churchman's furious tirade, and with\nit, what he could not have imagined before, a charge of hideous\nimmorality. Then had been set before him a choice between apostasy and\nacceptance of the assignment to the parish of far-off Simit\u00ed.\n\n\"And now, unpitying Fate,\" he murmured, as the door of the Bishop's\n_sanctum_ closed behind him, and he wandered down through the gloom of\nthe quiet Cathedral, \"receive your victim. You have chosen well your\ncarnal instruments--pride--ecclesiasticism--lust! My crimes? Aye, the\nvery lowest; for I have loved liberty of thought and conscience; I\nhave loved virtue and honor; the pursuits of intellect; the fair; the\nnoble; yea, the better things of life. I have loved my fellow-men; and\nI have sought their emancipation from the thraldom of ignorance. I\nhave loved truth, and the Christ who revealed it to the dull minds of\nmortals. Enough! I stand convicted! And--I accept the sentence--I have\nno desire to resist it. For the end is now not distant!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 16\n\n\nThe tropical moon shone in her fullness from an unclouded sky. Through\nthe ethereal atmosphere which bathed the storied city her beams fell,\nplashing noiselessly upon the grim memorials of a stirring past. With\na mantle of peace they gently covered the former scenes of violence\nand strife. With magic, intangible substance they filled out the rents\nin the grassy walls and smoothed away the scars of battle. The pale\nluster, streaming through narrow barbican and mildewed arch, touched\nthe decaying ruin of San Felipe with the wand of enchantment, and\nrestored it to pristine freshness and strength. Through the stillness\nof night the watery vapor streamed upward from garden and _patio_, and\nmingled with the scent of flushing roses and tropical buds in a\nfragrant mist suffused with the moon's yellow glow.\n\nOn the low parapet bordering the eastern esplanade of the city wall\nthe solitary figure of the priest cast a narrow shadow in the pale\nmoonlight. The sounds which eddied the enveloping silence seemed to\necho in his ears the tread of mediaeval warriors. In the wraith-like\nshadows he saw the armored forms of _Conquistadores_ in mortal strife\nwith vulpine buccaneers. In the whirring of the bats which flouted his\nface he heard the singing of arrows and the hiss of hurled rocks. In\nthe moan of the ocean as it broke on the coral reef below sounded the\nboom of cannon, the curses of combatants, and the groans of the dying.\nHere and there moved tonsured monks, now absolving in the name of the\npeaceful Christ the frenzied defenders of the Heroic City, now turning\nto hurl curses at the swarming enemy and consign their blackened souls\nto deepest hell, while holding images of the crucified Saviour to the\nquivering lips of stricken warriors.\n\nIn the fancied combat raging in the moonlight before him he saw the\nsons of the house of Rinc\u00f3n manifesting their devotion to Sovereign\nand Pope, their unshaken faith in Holy Church, their hot zeal which\nmade them her valiant defenders, her support, her humble and devoted\nslaves for more than three centuries.\n\nWhat was the charm by which she had held them? And why had its potency\nfailed utterly when directed to him? But they were men of physical\naction, not thought--men of deeds which called only for brave hearts\nand stout bodies. It is true, there had been thinkers in those days,\nwhen the valiant sons of Rinc\u00f3n hurled the enemy from Cartagena's\nwalls--but they lay rotting in dungeons--they lay broken on the rack,\nor hung breathing out their souls to God amid the hot flames which His\nself-appointed vicars kindled about them. The Rinc\u00f3ns of that day had\nnot been thinkers. But the centuries had finally evolved from their\nnumber a man of thought. Alas! the evolution had developed intellect,\nit is true--but the process had refined away the rugged qualities of\nanimal strength which, without a deeper hold on Truth and the way to\ndemonstrate it than Jos\u00e8 possessed, must leave him the plaything of\nFate.\n\nYoung in years, but old in sorrow; held by oaths which his ever-accusing\nsense of honor would not let him break; trembling for his mother's\nsake, and for the sake of Rinc\u00f3n pride, lest the ban of excommunication\nfall upon him; yet little dreaming that Rome had no thought of this\nwhile his own peculiar elements of character bound him as they did\nto her; the man had at last yielded his life to the system which had\nwrecked it in the name of Christ, and was now awaiting the morrow, when\nthe boat should bear him to far-off Simit\u00ed. He went resignedly--even\nwith a dull sense of gladness--for he went to die. Life had yielded\nhim nothing--and constituted as he was, it could hold nothing for him\nin the future.\n\nThe glorious moon poured its full splendor upon the quiet city.\nThrough the haze the convent on La Popa sparkled like an enchanted\ncastle, with a pavement of soft moonbeams leading up to its doors. The\ntrill of a distant nightingale rippled the scented air; and from the\n_llanos_ were borne on the warm land breeze low feral sounds, broken\nnow and then by the plaintive piping of a lonely toucan. The cocoa\npalms throughout the city stirred dreamily in the tempered moonlight;\nand the banana trees, bending with their luscious burden, cast great,\nmysterious shadows, wherein insect life rustled and scampered in\nnocturnal activity.\n\n\"Padre Jos\u00e8!\"\n\nA woman's voice called from below. The priest leaned over the wall.\n\n\"It is Catalina. I have been hunting everywhere. Maria is calling for\nyou. She cannot live long. You will come?\"\n\nCome? Yes--ah, why did he let his own misery blind him to the sorrow\nof others even more unfortunate! Why had he forgotten the little\nMaria! Descending the broad incline to the road below, Jos\u00e8 hurried\nwith the woman to the bedside of the dying girl. On the way the\nwarm-hearted, garrulous Catalina relieved her troubled and angered\nsoul.\n\n\"Padre Lorenzo came this morning. He would not shrive her unless we\nwould pay him first. He said he would do it for ten _pesos_--then\nfive--and then three. And when we kept telling him that we had no\nmoney he told us to go out and borrow it, or he would leave the little\nMaria to die as she was. He said she was a vile sinner anyway--that\nshe had not made her Easter duty--that she could not have the\nSacrament--and her soul would go straight to hell--and there was no\nredemption! Then he came again this afternoon and said she must die;\nbut he would shrive her for two _pesos_. And when we told him we could\nnot borrow the money he was terribly angry, and cursed--and Marcelena\nwas frightened--and the little Maria almost died. But I told him to\ngo--that her little soul was whiter than his--and if he went to heaven\nI didn't want Maria to go there too--and--!\"\n\nThe woman's words burned through the priest's ears and into his\nsickened soul. Recovering her breath, Catalina went on:\n\n\"It is only a few days ago that the little Maria meets Sister Isabel\nin the _plaza_. 'Ah,' says Sister Isabel, 'you are going to be a\nmother.'\n\n\"'Yes, Sister,' answers the little Maria, much confused; and she tries\nto hide behind Marcelena.\n\n\"'It is very dangerous and you will suffer much unless you have a\nsacred cord of Saint Frances,' says the Sister. 'I will bring you\none.'\n\n\"And then she asks where the little Maria lives; and that very day she\nbrings a piece of rope, with knots in it, which she says the priest\nhas blessed, and it is a sacred cord of Saint Frances, and if the\nlittle Maria will wear it around her waist she will not suffer at the\nparturition; and the little Maria must pay a _peso oro_ for it--and\nthe scared little lamb paid it, for she had saved a little money which\nDon Carlos Ojeda gave her for washing--and she wore it when the babe\nwas born; but it didn't help her--\"\n\n\"_Dios!_\" ejaculated the priest.\n\n\"And Marcelena had paid a _peso y medio_,\" continued the excited\nwoman, \"for a candle that Sister Natalia told her had come from the\naltar of the Virgin of Santander and was very holy and would help one\nthrough confinement. But the candle went out; and it was only a round\nstick of wood with a little piece of candle on the end. And I--Padre,\nI could not help it, I would do anything for the poor child--I paid\ntwo _pesos oro_ for a new _escapulario_ for her. Sister Natalia said\nit was very holy--it had been blessed by His Grace, the Bishop, just\nfor women who were to be mothers, and it would carry them through--but\nif they died, it would take them right out of purgatory--and--!\"\n\n\"Catalina!\" interrupted the tortured priest. \"Say no more!\"\n\n\"But, Padre, the babe,\" the woman persisted. \"What will become of it?\nAnd--do you know?--Padre Lorenzo says _it is yours!_ He told Juanita\nso--she lives below us. But Maria says no. She has told only\nMarcelena--and Marcelena will never tell. Who is its father, Padre?\"\n\nThe priest, recognizing the inevitable, patiently resigned himself to\nthe woman's talk without further reply. Presently they turned into the\nCalle Lazano, and entering the house where Marcelena had greeted him\nthat morning, mounted to the chamber above where lay the little\nMaria.\n\nA single candle on a table near the head of the bed shed a flickering,\nuncertain light. But the window was open, and the moon's beams poured\ninto the room in golden profusion. Aside from the girl, there were no\nother occupants than Marcelena and the new-born child.\n\n\"Padre,\" murmured the passing girl, \"you will not let me die without\nthe Sacrament?\"\n\n\"No, child,\" replied the priest, bending over her, hot tears streaming\ndown his cheeks as she kissed his hand.\n\nThe girl had been beautiful, a type of that soft, southern beauty,\nwhose graces of form, full, regular features, and rich olive tint mark\nthem as truly Spanish, with but little admixture of inferior blood.\nHer features were drawn and set now; but her great, brown eyes which\nshe raised to the priest were luminous with a wistful eagerness that\nin this final hour became sacred.\n\n\"Marcelena,\" the priest hurriedly whispered to the woman. \"I have\nno--but it matters not now; she need not know that I come unprepared.\nShe must pass out of the world happy at last.\"\n\n\"There is a drop of wine that the doctor left; and I will fetch a bit\nof bread,\" replied the woman, catching the meaning of the priest's\nwords.\n\n\"Bring it; and I will let her confess now.\"\n\nBending over the sinking girl, the priest bade her reveal the burden\nresting on her conscience.\n\n\"_Carita_,\" he said tenderly, when the confession was ended, \"fear\nnot. The blessed Saviour died for you. He went to prepare a place for\nyou and for us all. He forgave the sinful woman--_carita_, he forgives\nyou--yes, freely, gladly. He loves you, little one. Fear not what\nPadre Lorenzo said. He is a sinful priest. Forget all now but the good\nSaviour, who stands with open arms--with a smile on his beautiful\nface--to welcome his dear child--his little girl--you, _carita_,\nyou.\"\n\n\"Padre--my babe?\"\n\n\"Yes, child, it shall be cared for.\"\n\n\"But not by the Sisters\"--excitedly--\"not in an asylum--Padre, promise\nme!\"\n\n\"There, _carita_, it shall be as you wish.\"\n\n\"And you will care for it?\"\n\n\"I, child?--ah, yes, I will care for it.\"\n\nThe girl sank back again with a smile of happiness. A deep silence\nfell upon the room. At the feet of the priest Catalina huddled and\nwept softly. Marcelena, in the shadow of the bed where she might not\nbe seen, rocked silently back and forth with breaking heart.\n\n\"Padre--you will--say Masses for me?\" The words were scarcely\naudible.\n\n\"Yes, _carita_.\"\n\n\"I--have no money--no money. He promised to give me--money--and\nclothes--\"\n\n\"There, _carita_, I will say Masses for you without money--every day,\nfor a year. And you shall have clothes--ah, carita, in heaven you\nshall have everything.\"\n\nThe candle sputtered, and went out. The moon flooded the room with\nethereal radiance.\n\n\"Padre--lift me up--it grows dark--oh, Padre, you are so good to\nme--so good.\"\n\n\"No, child, it is not I who am good to you, but the blessed Christ.\nSee him, _carita_--there--there in the moonlight he stands!\"\n\nThe smoke from a neighboring chimney drifted slowly past the window\nand shone white in the silvery beams. The girl, supported by the arm\nof the priest, gazed at it through dimming eyes in reverent awe.\n\n\"Padre,\" she whispered, \"it is the Saviour! Pray to him for me.\"\n\n\"Yes, child.\" And turning toward the window the priest extended his\nhand.\n\n\"Blessed Saviour,\" he prayed, \"this is one of thy stricken lambs,\nlured by the wolf from the fold. And we have brought her back. Dost\nthou bid her come?\"\n\nThe sobs of the weeping woman at his feet floated through the room.\n\n\"Ah, thou tender and pitying Master--best friend of the sinning, the\nsick, and the sorrowing--we offer to thee this bruised child. We find\nno sin, no guile, in her; for after the ignorant code of men she has\npaid the last farthing for satisfying the wolf's greed. Dost thou bid\nher come?\"\n\nIn the presence of death he felt his own terrible impotence. Of what\navail then was his Christianity? Or the Church's traditional words of\ncomfort? The priest's tears fell fast. But something within--perhaps\nthat \"something not ourselves\"--the voice of Israel's almost forgotten\nGod--whispered a hope that blossomed in this petition of tenderest\nlove and pity. He had long since ceased to pray for himself; but in\nthis, the only prayer that had welled from his chilled heart in\nmonths, his pitying desire to humor the wishes of a dying girl had\nunconsciously formulated his own soul's appeal.\n\n\"Blessed Saviour, take her to thine arms; shield her forever more\nfrom the carnal lust of the wolf; lift her above the deadening\nsuperstitions and hypocritical creeds of those who touch but to\nstain; take her, Saviour, for we find her pure, innocent, clean;\nsuffering and sorrow have purged away the sin. Dost thou bid her\ncome?\"\n\nThe scent of roses and orange blossoms from the garden below drifted\ninto the room on the warm breeze. A bird, awakened by the swaying of\nits nest, peeped a few sweet notes of contentment, and slept again.\n\n\"We would save her--we would cure her--but we, too, have strayed from\nthee and forgotten thy commands--and the precious gift of healing\nwhich thou didst leave with men has long been lost. But thou art\nhere--thy compassionate touch still heals and saves. Jesus, unique son\nof God, behold thy child. Wilt thou bid her come?\"\n\n\"What says he, Padre?\" murmured the sinking girl.\n\nThe priest bent close to her.\n\n\"He says come, _carita_--come!\"\n\nWith a fluttering sigh the tired child sank back into the priest's\narms and dropped softly into her long sleep.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 17\n\n\nThe twisted, turbid \"Danube of New Granada,\" under the gentle guidance\nof its patron, Saint Mary Magdalene, threads the greater part of its\nsinuous way through the heart of Colombia like an immense, slow-moving\nmorass. Born of the arduous tropic sun and chill snows, and imbued by\nthe river god with the nomadic instinct, it leaps from its pinnacled\ncradle and rushes, sparkling with youthful vigor, down precipice and\nperpendicular cliff; down rocky steeps and jagged ridges; whirling in\nmerry, momentary dance in shaded basins; singing in swirling eddies;\nroaring in boisterous cataracts, to its mad plunge over the lofty wall\nof Tequendama, whence it subsides into the dignity of broad maturity,\nand begins its long, wandering, adult life, which slowly draws to a\nsluggish old age and final oblivion in the infinite sea. Toward the\nclose of its meandering course, long after the follies and excesses of\nearly life, it takes unto itself a consort, the beautiful Cauca; and\ntogether they flow, broadening and deepening as life nears its end;\nmerging their destinies; sharing their burdens; until at last, with\nlabors ended, they sink their identities in the sunlit Caribbean.\n\nWhen the simple-minded _Conquistadores_ first pushed their frail\ncockleshells out into the gigantic embouchure of this tawny stream and\nlooked vainly for the opposite shore, veiled by the dewy mists of a\nglittering morn, they unconsciously crossed themselves and, forgetful\nfor the moment of greed and rapine and the lust of gold, stood in\nreverent awe before the handiwork of their Creator. Ere the Spaniard\nhad laid his fell curse upon this ancient kingdom of the Chibchas, the\nflowering banks of the Magdalena, to-day so mournfully characterized\nby their frightful solitudes, were an almost unbroken village from the\npresent coast city of Barranquilla to Honda, the limit of navigation,\nsome nine hundred miles to the south. The cupidity of the heartless,\nbigoted rabble from mediaeval slums which poured into this wonderland\nlate in the sixteenth century laid waste this luxuriant vale and\nexterminated its trustful inhabitants. Now the warm airs that sigh at\nnight along the great river's uncultivated borders seem still to echo\nthe gentle laments of the once happy dwellers in this primitive\nparadise.\n\nSitting in the rounded bow of the wretched riverine steamer Honda,\nPadre Jos\u00e8 de Rinc\u00f3n gazed with vacant eyes upon the scenery on either\nhand. The boat had arrived from Barranquilla that morning, and was now\nexperiencing the usual exasperating delay in embarking from Calamar.\nHe had just returned to it, after wandering for hours through the\nforlorn little town, tormented physically by the myriad mosquitoes,\nand mentally by a surprising eagerness to reach his destination. He\ncould account for the latter only on the ground of complete\nresignation--a feeling experienced by those unfortunate souls who have\nlost their way in life, and, after vain resistance to molding\ncircumstances, after the thwarting of ambitions, the quenching of\nideals, admit defeat, and await, with something of feverish\nanticipation, the end. He had left Cartagena early that morning on the\nramshackle little train which, after hours of jolting over an\nundulating roadbed, set him down in Calamar, exhausted with the heat\nand dust-begrimed. He had not seen the Bishop nor Wenceslas since the\ninterview of the preceding day. Before his departure, however, he had\nmade provision for the burial of the girl, Maria, and the disposal of\nher child. This he did at his own expense; and when the demands of\ndoctor and sexton had been met, and he had provided Marcelena with\nfunds for the care of herself and the child for at least a few weeks,\nhis purse was pitiably light.\n\nLate in the afternoon the straggling remnant of a sea breeze drifted\nup the river and tempered the scorching heat. Then the captain of the\nHonda drained his last glass of red rum in the _posada_, reiterated to\nhis political affiliates with spiritous bombast his condensed opinion\nanent the Government, and dramatically signaled the pilot to get under\nway.\n\nBeyond the fact that Simit\u00ed lay somewhere behind the liana-veiled\nbanks of the great river, perhaps three hundred miles from Cartagena,\nthe priest knew nothing of his destination. There were no passengers\nbound for the place, the captain had told him; nor had the captain\nhimself ever been there, although he knew that one must leave the boat\nat a point called Badillo, and thence go by canoe to the town in\nquestion.\n\nBut Jos\u00e8's interest in Simit\u00ed was only such as one might manifest in a\nprison to which he was being conveyed. And, as a prisoner of the\nChurch, he inwardly prayed that his remaining days might be few. The\nblows which had fallen, one after another, upon his keen, raw nerves\nhad left him benumbed. The cruel bruises which his faith in man had\nreceived in Rome and Cartagena had left him listless, and without\npain. He was accepting the Bishop's final judgment mutely, for he had\nalready borne all that human nature could endure. His severance from a\nlife of faith and love was complete.\n\nNor could Jos\u00e8 learn when he might hope to reach Badillo, though he\nmade listless inquiry.\n\n\"_Na, Se\u00f1or Padre_,\" the captain had said, \"we never know where to\nfind the water. It is on the right to-day; on the left to-morrow.\nThere is low tide to-night; the morning may see it ten feet higher.\nAnd Badillo--_quien sabe_? It might be washed away when we arrive.\"\nAnd he shrugged his shoulders in complete disclaimer of any\nresponsibility therefor.\n\nThe captain's words were not idle, for the channel of the mighty river\nchanges with the caprice of a maiden's heart. With irresistible\nmomentum the tawny flood rolls over the continent, now impatiently\nploughing its way across a great bend, destroying plantations and\nabruptly leaving towns and villages many miles inland; now savagely\nfilching away the soft loam banks beneath little settlements and\ngreedily adding broad acres to the burden of its surcharged waters.\nMighty giants of the forest, wrested from their footholds of\ncenturies, plunge with terrifying noise into the relentless stream;\ngreat masses of earth, still cohering, break from their moorings and\nglide into the whirling waters, where, like immense islands, they\njourney bobbing and tumbling toward the distant sea.\n\nAgainst the strong current, whose quartzose sediment tinkled\nmetallically about her iron prow, the clumsy Honda made slow headway.\nShe was a craft of some two hundred tons burden, with iron hull,\nstern paddle wheel, and corrugated metal passenger deck and roof.\nBelow the passenger deck, and well forward on the hull, stood the\nhuge, wood-burning boiler, whose incandescent stack pierced the open\nspace where the gasping travelers were forced to congregate to get\nwhat air they might. Midway on this deck she carried a few cabins at\neither side. These, bare of furnishings, might accommodate a dozen\npassengers, if the insufferable heat would permit them to be\noccupied. Each traveler was obliged to supply his own bedding, and\nlikewise hammock, unless not too discriminating to use the soiled\ncot provided. Many of those whose affairs necessitated river\ntravel--and there was no other mode of reaching the interior--were\ncontent at night to wrap a light blanket about them and lie down\nunder their mosquito nets on the straw mats--_petates_--with which\nevery _peon_ goes provided. Of service, there was none that might be\nso designated. A few dirty, half-dressed negro boys from the streets\nof Barranquilla performed the functions of steward, waiting on table\nwith unwashed hands, helping to sling hammocks, or assisting with the\ncarving of the freshly killed beef on the slippery deck below.\nAccustomed as he had been to the comforts of Rome, and to the less\nelaborate though still adequate accommodations which Cartagena\nafforded, Jos\u00e8 viewed his prison boat with sinking heart. Iron hull,\nand above it the glowing boiler; over this the metal passenger deck;\nand above that the iron roof, upon which the fierce tropical sun\npoured its flaming heat all day; clouds of steam and vapor from\nthe hot river enveloping the boat--had the Holy Inquisition itself\nsought to devise the most refined torture for a man of delicate\nsensibilities like Jos\u00e8 de Rinc\u00f3n, it could not have done better than\nsend him up the great river at this season and on that miserable\ncraft, in company with his own morbid and soul-corroding thoughts.\n\nThe day wore on; and late in the evening the Honda docked at the\npretentious town of Maganguey, the point of transfer for the river\nCauca. Like the other passengers, from whom he had held himself\nreservedly aloof, Jos\u00e8 gladly seized the opportunity to divert his\nthoughts for a few moments by going ashore. But the moments stretched\ninto hours; and when he finally learned that the boat would not leave\nuntil daybreak, he lapsed into a state of sullen desperation which,\nbut for the Rinc\u00f3n stubbornness, would have precipitated him into the\ndark stream. Aimlessly he wandered about the town, avoiding any\npossible _rencontre_ with priests, or with his fellow-passengers, many\nof whom, together with the bacchanalian captain, he saw in the various\n_cantinas_, making merry over rum and the native _anisado_.\n\nThe moon rose late, bathing the whitewashed town in a soft sheen and\ncovering with its yellow veil the filth and squalor which met the\npriest at every turn as he wandered through its ill-lighted streets.\nMaganguey in plan did not depart from the time-honored custom of the\nSpaniards, who erected their cities by first locating the church, and\nthen building the town around it. So long as the church had a good\nlocation, the rest of the town might shift for itself. Some of the\nbetter buildings dated from the old colonial period, and had tile\nroofs and red brick floors. Many bore scars received in the\ninternecine warfare which has raged in the unhappy country with but\nbrief intervals of peace since the days of Spanish occupation. But\nmost of the houses were of the typical mud-plastered, palm-thatched\nvariety, with dirt floors and scant furniture. Yet even in many of\nthese Jos\u00e8 noted pianos and sewing machines, generally of German make,\nat which the housewife was occupied, while naked babes and squealing\npigs--the latter of scarcely less value than the former--fought for\nplaces of preferment on the damp and grimy floors.\n\nWandering, blindly absorbed in thought, into a deserted road which\nbranched off from one of the narrow streets on the outskirts of the\ntown, Jos\u00e8 stumbled upon a figure crouching in the moonlight. Almost\nbefore he realized that it was a human being a hand had reached up and\ncaught his.\n\n\"_Buen Padre!_\" came a thick voice from the mass, \"for the love of the\ngood Virgin, a few _pesos_!\"\n\nA beggar--perhaps a bandit! Ah, well; Jos\u00e8's purse was light--and his\nlife of no value. So, recovering from his start, he sought in his\npockets for some _billetes_. But--yes, he remembered that after\npurchasing his river transportation in Calamar he had carefully put\nhis few remaining bills in his trunk.\n\n\"_Amigo_, I am sorry, but I have no money with me,\" he said\nregretfully. \"But if you will come to the boat I will gladly give you\nsomething there.\"\n\nAt this the figure emitted a scream of rage, and broke into a torrent\nof sulphurous oaths. \"_Na_, the Saints curse you beggarly priests! You\nhave no money, but you rob us poor devils with your lies, and then\nleave us to rot to death!\"\n\n\"But, _amigo_, did I not say--\" began Jos\u00e8 soothingly.\n\n\"_Maldito!_\" shrilled the figure; \"may Joseph and Mary and Jesus curse\nyou! A million curses on you, _maldito_!\" Pulling itself upward, the\nshapeless thing sank its teeth deep into the priest's hand.\n\nWith a cry of pain the startled Jos\u00e8 tore himself loose, his hand\ndripping with blood. At the same time the figure fell over into the\nroad and its enveloping rags slipped off, disclosing in the bright\nmoonlight a loathsome, distorted face and elephantine limbs, covered\nwith festering sores.\n\n\"Good God!\" cried Jos\u00e8, recoiling. \"A leper!\"\n\nTurning swiftly from the hideous object, his brain awhirl with the\nhorrible nightmare, the priest fled blindly from the scene. Nauseated,\nquivering with horror, with the obscene ravings of the leper still\nringing in his ears, he stumbled about the town until daybreak, when\nthe boat's shrieking whistle summoned him to embark.\n\nThe second day on the river seemed to Jos\u00e8 intolerable, as he shifted\nabout the creaking, straining tub to avoid the sun's piercing rays and\nthe heat which, drifting back from the hot stack forward, enveloped\nthe entire craft. There were but few passengers, some half dozen men\nand two slatternly attired women. Whither they were bound, he knew\nnot, nor cared; and, though they saluted him courteously, he\nstudiously avoided being drawn into their conversations. The emotional\nappeal of the great river and its forest-lined banks did not at first\naffect him. Yet he sought forgetfulness of self by concentrating his\nthought upon them.\n\nThe massed foliage constituted an impenetrable wall on either side.\nEverywhere his eyes met a maze of _lianas_, creeping plants, begonias,\nand bizarre vegetable forms, shapes and hues of which he had never\nbefore had any adequate conception. Often he caught the glint of\ngreat, rare butterflies hovering in the early sunlight which filtered\nthrough the interlaced fronds and branches. Often when the boat hugged\nthe bank he saw indescribable buds and blossoms, and multicolored\norchids clinging to the drooping _bejucos_ which festooned the\nenormous trees. As the afternoon waned and the sun hung low, the magic\nstillness of the solitude began to cast its spell about him, and he\ncould imagine that he was penetrating a fairy-land. The vast stream,\nwinding, broadening, ramifying round wooded islets, throwing out long,\ndusky lagoons and swampy arms, incessantly plying its numberless\nactivities, at length held him enraptured. As he brooded over it all,\nhis thought wandered back to the exploits of the intrepid Quesada and\nhis stalwart band who, centuries before, had forced their perilous way\nalong this same river, amid showers of poisoned arrows from hostile\nnatives, amid the assaults of tropical storms and malarial fevers, to\nthe plateau of Cundinamarca, the home of the primitive Muiscas; and\nthere gathering fresh strength and inspiration, had pushed on to the\nsite of Santa F\u00e9 de Bogot\u00e1.\n\nA cry suddenly rang through the boat. \"Man overboard!\"\n\nThe clang of the pilot's bell stopped the clumsy craft; but not before\nthe ragged little negro boy who had served at Jos\u00e8's table as steward\nhad been swept far away by the rapid current.\n\nThe utmost confusion immediately prevailed. Every one of the rabble\nrout of stokers, stewards, and stevedores lost his wits and set up a\nfrenzied yell. Some who remembered that there was such a thing, tore\nat the ropes which held the single lifeboat. But the boat had been put\non for appearance's sake, not for service, and successfully resisted\nall efforts at removal. No one dared risk his life in attempted\nrescue, for the river swarmed with crocodiles. There was vain racing,\ncounseling and gesticulating; but at length, the first wave of\nexcitement over, passengers and crew settled down to watch the outcome\nof the boy's struggle for life, while the pilot endeavored to turn the\nunwieldy steamer about.\n\n\"Now is the time to put up a prayer for the youngster, Padre,\" said a\nvoice behind Jos\u00e8.\n\nThe priest turned. The speaker was evidently a native Colombian. Jos\u00e8\nhad noticed him on the boat when he embarked at Calamar, and surmised\nthat he had probably come up from Barranquilla.\n\n\"An excellent opportunity to try the merits of a prayer to the Virgin,\nno? If she can fish us out of purgatory she ought to pull this boy out\nof the river, eh?\" continued the speaker with a cynical smile.\n\n\"I would rather trust to a canoe and a pair of stout arms than a\nprayer at present,\" returned Jos\u00e8 with candor.\n\n\"_Corriente!_\" replied the man; \"my way of thinking, exactly! But if I\nhad a good rifle now I'd put that little fellow out of his misery, for\nhe's going down, sure!\"\n\nIt was not unkindly said; and Jos\u00e8 appreciated the man's rude\nsentiment. Minutes passed in strained silence.\n\n\"_Hombre!_\" cried the man. \"He's going!\"\n\nThe lad was evidently weakening. The rapid, swirling current\ncontinually frustrated his efforts to reach the shore. Again the head\nwent under.\n\n\"_Dios!_\" Jos\u00e8 exclaimed. \"Is there no help?\"\n\nJesus had walked the waves. Yet here his earthly representative,\ntrained in all the learning and culture of Holy Church to be an _Alter\nChristus_, stood helplessly by and watched a child drown! God above!\nwhat avail religious creed and churchly dogma? How impotent the\nbeliefs of men in such an hour! Could the Holy Father himself, with\nall his assumptions, spiritual and temporal--with all his power to\nloose from sin and from the imaginary torments of purgatory--save this\ndrowning boy?\n\nJos\u00e8 turned away in bitterness of heart. As he did so a murmur of awe\narose from the spectators. The priest looked again down the river.\nImpelled from below, the body of the boy was hurled out of the water.\nThen, as it fell, it disappeared.\n\n\"_Cayman!_\" gasped the horrified crew.\n\nJos\u00e8 stood spellbound, as the ghastly truth dawned upon him. A\ncrocodile, gliding beneath the struggling lad, had tossed him upward,\nand caught him in its loathsome jaws when he fell. Then it had dragged\nhim beneath the yellow waters, where he was seen no more.\n\nLife is held cheaply by the Magdalena negro--excepting his own.\nShiftless and improvident child of the tropics, his animal wants\nare readily satisfied by the fruits and fish which nature provides\nfor him so bountifully. Spiritual wants he has none--until calamity\ntouches him and he thinks he is about to die. Then witchcraft, charm,\nincantation, the priest--anything that promises help is hurriedly\npressed into requisition to prolong his useless existence. If he\nrecovers, he forgets it all as hurriedly. The tragedy which had\njust been enacted before the Honda's crew produced a ripple of\nexcitement--a momentary stirring of emotion--and was then speedily\nforgotten, while the boat turned and drove its way up-stream against\nthe muddy waters.\n\nBut Jos\u00e8 could not forget. Nature had endowed him with a memory which\nrecorded as minutely and as lastingly as the phonographic cylinder.\nThe violent death of the boy haunted him, and mingled with the\nrecurrent memories of the sad passing of the little Maria, and his own\nbitter life experience. Oh, the mystery of it all! The tragedy of\nlife! The sudden blighting of hopes! The ruthless crushing of hearts!\nWhat did it mean? Did this infinite variety of good and evil which we\ncall life unite to manifest an infinite Creator? Nay, for then were\nGod more wicked than the lowest sinner! Was evil as real as good, and\nmore powerful? Yes. Did love and the soul's desire to be and do good\ncount for nothing in the end? No; for the end is death--always death!\nAnd after that--who knows?\n\n\"We are coming to Banco, Padre,\" said the man who had addressed Jos\u00e8\nbefore, rousing him from his doleful meditations and pointing to the\nlights of the distant town, now shimmering through the gathering\ndusk.\n\nAs the boat with shrilly shrieking whistle drew near the landing, a\ncrowd hurriedly gathered on the bank to receive it. Venders of guava\njelly, rude pottery, and straw mats hastily spread out their\nmerchandise on the muddy ground and began to dilate loudly on their\nmerits. A scantily clad man held aloft a rare leopard skin, which he\nvigorously offered for two _pesos_ gold. Slatternly women, peddling\nqueer delectables of uncertain composition, waved their thin, bare\narms and shrilly advertised their wares. Black, naked children bobbed\nexcitedly about; and gaunt dogs and shrieking pigs scampered\nrecklessly through the crowd and added to the general confusion. Here\nand there Jos\u00e8 could see dignified looking men, dressed in white\ncotton, and wearing straw--_jipijapa_--hats. These were merchants,\npatiently awaiting consignments which they had perhaps ordered months\nbefore. Crazy, ramshackle dwellings, perched unsteadily upon long,\nslender stilts, rose from the water's edge; but substantial brick\nbuildings of fair size, with red-tile roofs and whitewashed walls,\nmingled at intervals with the thatched mud huts and rude hovels\nfarther within the town. In a distant doorway he descried a woman\nnursing a babe at one breast and a suckling pig at the other.\nConvention is rigid in these Colombian river towns; but it is widely\ninclusive.\n\n\"Come ashore with me, Padre, and forget what is worrying you,\" said\nJos\u00e8's new acquaintance, taking him by the arm. \"I have friends\nhere--_Hola!_ Padre Diego Guillermo!\" he suddenly called, catching\nsight of a black-frocked priest standing in the crowd on the shore.\n\nThe priest addressed, a short, stout, coarse-featured man of perhaps\nforty, waved back a vigorous salutation.\n\n\"_Hombre!_\" the man ejaculated, holding Jos\u00e8's arm and starting down\nthe gangplank. \"What new deviltry is the rogue up to now!\"\n\nThe man and the priest addressed as Diego embraced warmly.\n\n\"Padre Diego Guillermo Polo, I have the extreme honor to present my\nfriend, the eminent Padre--\" ceremoniously waving a hand toward Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"Jos\u00e8 de Rinc\u00f3n,\" supplied the latter, bowing.\n\n\"Rinc\u00f3n!\" murmured the priest Diego. Then, abruptly, \"Of Cartagena?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" returned Jos\u00e8, with awakened interest.\n\n\"Not of Don Ignacio--?\"\n\n\"My grandfather,\" Jos\u00e8 replied promptly, and with a touch of pride.\n\n\"Ha! he owned much property--many _fincas_--about here; and farther\nwest, in the Guamoc\u00f3 country, many mines, eh, Don Jorge?\" exchanging a\nsignificant look with the latter.\n\n\"But,\" he added, glancing at the perspiring Honda, \"this old tub is\ngoing to hang up here for the night. So do me the honor, se\u00f1ores, to\nvisit my little cell, and we will fight the cursed mosquitoes over a\nsip of red rum. I have some of very excellent quality.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 and Don Jorge bowed their acquiescence and followed him up the\nmuddy road. The cell referred to consisted of a suite of several\nrooms, commodiously furnished, and looking out from the second story\nof one of the better colonial houses of the town upon a richly\nblooming interior _patio_. As the visitors entered, a comely young\nwoman who had just lighted an oil-burning \"student\" lamp and placed it\nupon the center table, disappeared into one of the more remote rooms.\n\n\"My niece,\" said the priest Diego, winking at Don Jorge as he set out\ncigars and a _garraf\u00f3n_ of Jamaica rum. \"I have ordered a case of\nAmerican beer,\" he continued, lighting a cigar. \"But that was two\nmonths ago, and it hasn't arrived yet. _Diablo!_ but the good _m\u00e9dico_\ntells me I drink too much rum for this very Christian climate.\"\n\nDon Jorge swept the place with an appraising glance. \"H'm,\" he\ncommented, as he poured himself a liberal libation from the\n_garraf\u00f3n_. \"The Lord surely provides for His faithful children.\"\n\n\"Yes, the Lord, that's right,\" laughed Padre Diego; \"still I am daily\nrendering no small thanks to His Grace, Don Wenceslas, future Bishop\nof Cartagena.\"\n\n\"And eminent services into the bargain, I'll venture,\" added Don\nJorge.\n\nPadre Diego's eyes twinkled merrily. Jos\u00e8 started. Then even in this\nremote town the artful Wenceslas maintained his agent!\n\n\"But our friend is neither drinking nor smoking,\" said Padre Diego,\nturning inquiringly to Jos\u00e8, who had left his glass untouched.\n\n\"With your permission,\" replied the latter; \"I do not use liquor or\ntobacco.\"\n\n\"Nor women either, eh?\" laughed Padre Diego. \"_Por Dios!_ what is it\nthe Dutchman says?\n\n               'Wer nicht liebt Wein, Weib und Gesang,\n               Der bleibt ein Narr sein Lebenlang.'\n\n\"_Caramba!_ but my German has all slipped from me.\"\n\n\"Don't worry,\" commented Don Jorge cynically; \"for I'll wager it took\nnothing good with it.\"\n\n\"_Hombre!_ but you are hard on a loyal servant of the Lord,\" exclaimed\nPadre Diego in a tone of mock injury, as he drained another glass of\nthe fiery liquor.\n\n\"Servant of the Lord!\" guffawed Don Jorge. \"Of the Lord Pope, Lord\nWenceslas, or the Lord God, may we ask?\"\n\n\"_Qu\u00e9 chiste!_ Why, stupid, all three. I do not put all my eggs into\none basket, however large. But tell me, now,\" he inquired, turning the\nconversation from himself, \"what is it brings you into this region\nforsaken of the gods?\"\n\n\"_Sepulcros_,\" Don Jorge briefly announced.\n\n\"Ha! Indian graves again! But have you abandoned your quest of _La\nTumba del Diablo_, in the Sinu valley?\"\n\n\"Naturally, since the records show that it was opened centuries ago.\nAnd I spent a good year's search on it, too! _Dios!_ They say it\nyielded above thirty thousand _pesos_ gold.\"\n\n\"_Diablo!_\"\n\n\"But I am on the track of others. I go now to Medellin; then to\nRemedios; and there outfit for a trip of grave hunting through the old\nGuamoc\u00f3 district.\"\n\n\"Guamoc\u00f3! Then you will naturally come down the Simit\u00ed trail, which\nbrings you out to the Magdalena.\"\n\n\"Simit\u00ed?\" interrupted Jos\u00e8 eagerly, turning to the speaker. \"Do you\nknow the place?\"\n\n\"Somewhat!\" replied Padre Diego, laughing. \"I had charge of that\nparish for a few months--\"\n\n\"But found it highly convenient to leave, no?\" finished the merciless\nDon Jorge.\n\n\"_Caramba!_ Would you have me die of _ennui_ in such a hell-hole?\"\ncried Diego with some aspersion.\n\n\"Hell-hole!\" echoed Jos\u00e8. \"Is it so bad as that?\"\n\n\"_Hombre!_ Yes--worse! They say that after the good Lord created\nheaven and earth He had a few handfuls of dirt left, and these He\nthrew away. But crafty Satan, always with an eye single to going the\nLord one better, slyly gathered this dirt together again and made\nSimit\u00ed.\" Diego quickly finished another glass of rum, as if he would\ndrown the memory of the town.\n\nJos\u00e8's heart slowly sank under the words.\n\n\"But why do you ask? You are not going there?\" Padre Diego inquired.\nJos\u00e8 nodded an affirmative.\n\n\"_Diablo!_ Assigned?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" in a voice scarcely audible.\n\nThe Padre whistled softly. \"Then in that case,\" he said, brightening,\n\"we are brother sinners. So let us exchange confidences. What was your\ncrime, if one may ask?\"\n\n\"Crime!\" exclaimed Jos\u00e8 in amazement.\n\n\"Aye; who was she? Rich? Beautiful? Native? Or foreign? Come, the\nstory. We have a long night before us.\" And the coarse fellow settled\nback expectantly in his chair.\n\nJos\u00e8 paled. \"What do you mean?\" he asked in a trembling voice.\n\n\"_Caramba!_\" returned the Padre impatiently. \"You surely know that no\nrespectable priest is ever sent to Simit\u00ed! That it is the good\nBishop's penal colony for fallen clergy--and, I may add, the refuge of\npolitical offenders of this and adjacent countries. Why, the present\nschoolmaster there is a political outcast from Salvador!\"\n\n\"No, I did not know it,\" replied Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"_Por Dios!_ Then you are being jobbed, _amigo_! Did Don Wenceslas\ngive you letters to the Alcalde?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And--by the way, has Wenceslas been misbehaving of late?--for when he\ndoes, somebody other than himself has to settle the score.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 remained silent.\n\n\"Ah,\" mused Diego, \"but Don Wenceslas is artful. And yet, I think I\nsee the direction of his trained hand in this.\" Then he burst into a\nrude laugh. \"Come, _amigo_,\" he said, noting Jos\u00e8's dejected mien;\n\"let us have your story. We may be able to advise. And we've had\nexperience--eh, Don Jorge?\"\n\nBut Jos\u00e8 slowly shook his head. What mattered it now? Simit\u00ed would\nserve as well to bury him as any other tomb. He knew he was sent as a\nlamb to the slaughter. But it was his affair--and his God's. Honor and\nconscience had presented the score; and he was paying in full. His was\nnot a story to be bandied about by lewd priests like Padre Diego.\n\n\"No,\" he replied to the Padre's insistent solicitations; \"with your\npermission, we will talk of it no more.\"\n\n\"But--_Hombre_!\" cried the Padre at last, in his coarse way stirred by\nJos\u00e8's evident truthfulness. \"Well--as you wish--I will not pry into\nyour secrets. But, take a bit of counsel from one who knows: when you\nreach Simit\u00ed, inquire for a man who hates me, one Rosendo Ariza--\"\n\nAt this juncture the Honda's diabolical whistle pierced the murky\nnight air.\n\n\"_Caramba!_\" cried Don Jorge, starting up. \"Are they going to try the\nriver to-night?\" And the men hurried back to the landing.\n\nThe moon was up, and the boat was getting under way. Padre Diego went\naboard to take leave of his friends.\n\n\"_Bien, amigo_,\" he said to Don Jorge; \"I am sorry your stay is so\nshort. I had much to tell you. Interesting developments are forward,\nand I hope you are well out of Guamoc\u00f3 when the trouble starts. For\nthe rivals of Antioquia and Simit\u00ed will pay off a few scores in the\nnext revolution--a few left over from the last; and it would be well\nnot to get caught between them when they come together.\"\n\n\"And so it is coming?\" said Don Jorge thoughtfully.\n\n\"Coming! _Hombre!_ It is all but here! The Hercules went up-river\nyesterday. You will pass her. She has gone to keep a look-out in the\nvicinity of Puerto Berrio. I am sorry for our friend,\" nodding toward\nJos\u00e8, who was leaning over the boat's rail at some distance; \"but\nthere is a job there. He doesn't belong in this country. And Simit\u00ed\nwill finish him.\"\n\n\"Bah! only another priest less--and a weak-kneed one at that,\" said\nDon Jorge with contempt; \"and we have too many of them now, Lord\nknows!\"\n\n\"You forget that I am a priest,\" chuckled Diego.\n\n\"You! Yes, so you are,\" laughed Don Jorge; \"but of the diocese of\nhell! Well, we're off. I'll send a runner down the trail when I reach\nthe Tigu\u00ed river; and if you will have a letter in Simit\u00ed informing me\nof the status of things political, he can bring it up. _Conque_,\n_adios_, my consummate villain.\"\n\nThe Honda, whistling prodigiously, swung out into mid-stream and set\nher course up-river, warily feeling through the velvety darkness for\nthe uncertain channel. Once she grated over a hidden bar and hung for\na few moments, while her stack vomited torrents of sparks and her\ngreat wheel angrily churned the water into creamy foam in the clear\nmoonlight. Once, rounding a sharp bend, she collided squarely with a\nhuge mahogany tree, rolling and plunging menacingly in the seaward\nrushing waters.\n\n\"_Diablo!_\" muttered Don Jorge, as he helped Jos\u00e8 swing his hammock\nand adjust the mosquito netting. \"I shall offer a candle a foot thick\nto the blessed Virgin if I reach Puerto Berrio safely! _Santo Dios!_\"\nas the boat grazed another sand bar. \"I've heard tell of steamers\nhanging up on bars in this river for six weeks! And look!\" pointing to\nthe projecting smoke-stack of a sunken steamer. \"_Caramba!_ That is\nwhat we just escaped!\"\n\nBut Jos\u00e8 manifested slight interest in the dangers of river\nnavigation. His thoughts were revolving about the incidents of the\npast few days, and, more especially, about Padre Diego and his\nsignificant words. Don Jorge had volunteered no further explanation of\nthe man or his conversation; and Jos\u00e8's reticence would not permit him\nto make other inquiry. But, after all, his thought-processes always\nevolved the same conclusion: What mattered it now? His interest in\nlife was at an end. He had not told Don Jorge of his experience with\nthe leper in Maganguey. He was trying to forget it. But his hand ached\ncruelly; and the pain was always associated with loathsome and\nrepellant thoughts of the event.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe eastern sky was blushing at the approach of the amorous sun when\nJos\u00e8 left his hammock and prepared to endure another day on the river.\nTo the south the deep blue vault of heaven was dotted with downy\nclouds. Behind the laboring steamer the river glittered through a\ndazzling white haze. Ahead, its course was traceable for miles by the\nthin vapor always rising from it. The jungle on either side was\nbrilliant with color and resonant with the songs of forest lyrists. In\nthe lofty fronds of venerable palms and cedars noisy macaws gossiped\nand squabbled, and excited monkeys discussed the passing boat and\ncommented volubly on its character. In the shallow water at the margin\nof the river blue herons and spindle-legged cranes were searching out\ntheir morning meal. Crocodiles lay dozing on the _playas_, with mouths\nopened invitingly to the stupid birds which were sure to yield to the\nmesmerism. Far in the distance up-stream a young deer was drinking at\nthe water's edge.\n\nThe charm of the rare scene held the priest spellbound. As he gazed\nupon it a king vulture--called by the natives the Vulture Papa, or\nPope Vulture--suddenly swooped down from the depths of heaven and,\nlighting upon the carcass of a monster crocodile floating down the\nriver, began to feast upon the choicest morsels, while the buzzards\nwhich had been circling about the carrion and feeding at will\nrespectfully withdrew until the royal appetite should be satiated.\n\n\"Holy graft, eh, Padre?\" commented Don Jorge, coming up. \"Those\nbrainless buzzards, if they only knew it and had sense enough to\nunite, could strip every feather off that swaggering vulture and send\nhim packing. Fools! And we poor Colombians, if we had the courage,\ncould as easily throw the Church into the sea, holy candles, holy\noils, holy incense and all! _Diablo!_ But we are fleeced like sheep!\"\n\nTo Jos\u00e8 it did not seem strange that this man should speak so frankly\nto him, a priest. He felt that Don Jorge was not so much lacking in\ncourtesy and delicate respect for the feelings and opinions of others\nas he was ruggedly honest and fearlessly sincere in his hatred of the\ndissimulation and graft practiced upon the ignorant and unsuspecting.\nFor the rest of the day Don Jorge was busy with his maps and papers,\nand Jos\u00e8 was left to himself.\n\nThe character of the landscape had altered with the narrowing of the\nstream, and the river-plain now lay in a great volcanic basin flanked\nby distant verdure-clad hills. Far to the southwest Jos\u00e8 could see the\nfaint outlines of the lofty _Cordilleras_. Somewhere in that direction\nlay Simit\u00ed. And back of it lay the ancient treasure house of Spain,\nwhere countless thousands of sweating slaves had worn out their\nstraining bodies under the goad and lash, that the monarchs of Castile\nmight carry on their foolish religious wars and attempt their vain\nprojects of self-aggrandizement.\n\nThe day wore on without interest, and darkness closed in quickly when\nthe sun dropped behind the _Sierras_. It was to be Jos\u00e8's last night\non the Magdalena, for the captain had told him that, barring disaster,\nthe next afternoon should find them at Badillo. After the evening meal\nthe priest took his chair to the bow of the steamer and gave himself\nover to the gentle influences of the rare and soothing environment.\nThe churning of the boat was softly echoed by the sleeping forest. The\nlate moon shimmered through clouds of murky vapor, and cast ghostly\nreflections along the broad river. The balmy air, trembling with the\nradiating heat, was impregnated with sweetest odors from the myriad\nbuds and balsamic plants of the dark jungle wilderness on either hand,\nwhere impervious walls rose in majestic, deterrant, awesome silence\nfrom the low shore line, and tangled shrubs and bushes, rioting in\nwild profusion, jealously hung to the water's edge that they might\nhide every trace of the muddy banks. What shapes and forms the black\ndepths of that untrodden bush hid from his eyes, Jos\u00e8 might only\nimagine. But he felt their presence--crawling, creeping things that\nlay in patient ambush for their unwitting prey--slimy lizards,\ngorgeously caparisoned--dank, twisting serpents--elephantine\ntapirs--dull-witted sloths--sleek, wary jaguars--fierce formicidae,\npoisonous and carnivorous. He might not see them, but he felt that he\nwas the cynosure of hundreds of keen eyes that followed him as the\nboat glided close to the shore and silently crept through the shadows\nwhich lay thick upon the river's edge. And the matted jungle, with its\ncolossal vegetation, he felt was peopled with other things--influences\nintangible, and perhaps still unreal, but mightily potent with the\nsymbolized presence of the great Unknown, which stands back of all\nphenomena and eagerly watches the movements of its children. These\ninfluences had already cast their spell upon him. He was yielding,\nslowly, to the \"lure of the tropics,\" which few who come under its\nattachment ever find the strength to dispel.\n\nNo habitations were visible on the dark shores. Only here and there in\nthe yellow glow of the boat's lanterns appeared the customary piles\nof wood which the natives sell to the passing steamers for boiler\nfuel, and which are found at frequent intervals along the river. At\none of these the Honda halted to replenish its supply. The usual\nbickering between the negro owner and the boat captain resulted in a\nbargain, and the half-naked stevedores began to transfer the wood to\nthe vessel, carrying it on their shoulders in the most primitive\nmanner, held in a strip of burlap. The rising moon had at last thrown\noff its veil of murky clouds, and was shining in undimmed splendor in\na starry sky. Jos\u00e8 went ashore with the passengers; for the boat might\nremain there for hours while her crew labored leisurely, with much\nbantering and singing, and no anxious thought for the morrow.\n\nThe strumming of a _tiple_ in the distance attracted him. Following\nit, he found a small settlement of bamboo huts hidden away in a\nbeautiful grove of moriche palms, through which the moonbeams filtered\nin silvery stringers. Little gardens lay back of the dwellings, and\nthe usual number of goats and pigs were dozing in the heavy shadows of\nthe scarcely stirring trees. Reserved matrons and shy _doncellas_\nappeared in the doorways; and curious children, naked and chubby, hid\nin their mothers' scant skirts and peeped cautiously out at the\nnewcomers. The tranquil night was sweet with delicate odors wafted\nfrom numberless plants and blossoms in the adjacent forest, and with\nthe fragrance breathed from the roses, gardenias and dahlias with\nwhich these unpretentious dwellings were fairly embowered. A spirit of\ncalm and peaceful contentment hovered over the spot, and the round,\nwhite moon smiled down in holy benediction upon the gentle folk who\npassed their simple lives in this bower of delight, free from the goad\nof human ambition, untrammeled by the false sense of wealth and its\nentailments, and unspoiled by the artificialities of civilization.\n\nOne of the passengers suggested a dance, while waiting for the boat to\ntake on its fuel. The owner of the wood, apparently the chief\nauthority of the little settlement, immediately procured a _tom-tom_,\nand gave orders for the _baile_. At his direction men, women and\nchildren gathered in the moonlit clearing on the river bank and, while\nthe musician beat a monotonous tattoo on the crude drum, circled about\nin the stately and dignified movements of their native dance.\n\nIt was a picture that Jos\u00e8 would not forget. The balmy air, soft as\nvelvet, and laden with delicious fragrance; the vast solitude,\nstretching in trackless wilderness to unknown reaches on either hand;\nthe magic stillness of the tropic night; the figures of the dancers\nweirdly silhouetted in the gorgeous moonlight; with the low, unvaried\nbeat of the _tom-tom_ rising dully through the warm air--all merged\ninto a scene of exquisite beauty and delight, which made an indelible\nimpression upon the priest's receptive mind.\n\nAnd when the sounds of simple happiness had again died into silence,\nand he lay in his hammock, listening to the spirit of the jungle\nsighing through the night-blown palms, as the boat glided gently\nthrough the lights and shadows of the quiet river, his soul voiced a\nnameless yearning, a vague, unformed longing for an approach to the\nlife of simple content and child-like happiness of the kind and gentle\nfolk with whom he had been privileged to make this brief sojourn.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe crimson flush of the dawn-sky heralded another day of implacable\nheat. The emerald coronals of palms and towering _caobas_ burned in\nthe early beams of the torrid sun. Light fogs rose reluctantly from\nthe river's bosom and dispersed in delicate vapors of opal and violet.\nThe tangled banks of dripping bush shone freshly green in the misty\nlight. The wilderness, grim and trenchant, reigned in unchallenged\ndespotism. Solitude, soul-oppressing, unbroken but for the calls of\nfeathered life, brooded over the birth of Jos\u00e8's last day on the\nMagdalena. About midday the steamer touched at the little village of\nBodega Central; but the iron-covered warehouse and the whitewashed mud\nhovels glittered garishly in the fierce heat and stifled all desire to\ngo ashore. The call was brief, and the boat soon resumed its course\nthrough the solitude and heat of the mighty river.\n\nImmediately after leaving Bodega Central, Don Jorge approached Jos\u00e8\nand beckoned him to an unoccupied corner of the boat.\n\n\"_Amigo_,\" he began, after assuring himself that his words would not\ncarry to the other passengers, \"the captain tells me the next stop is\nBadillo, where you leave us. If all goes well you will be in Simit\u00ed\nto-night. No doubt a report of our meeting with Padre Diego has\nalready reached Don Wenceslas, who, you may be sure, has no thought of\nforgetting you. I have no reason to tell you this other than the fact\nthat I think, as Padre Diego put it, you are being jobbed--not by the\nChurch, but by Wenceslas. I want to warn you, that is all. I hate\npriests! They got me early--got my wife and girl, too! I hate the\nChurch, and the whole ghastly farce which it puts over on the ignorant\npeople of this country! But--,\" eying him sharply, \"I would hardly\nclass you as a _real_ priest. There, never mind!\" as Jos\u00e8 was about to\ninterrupt. \"I think I understand. You simply went wrong. You meant\nwell, but something happened--as always does when one means well in\nthis world. But now to the point.\"\n\nShifting his chair closer to Jos\u00e8, the man resumed earnestly.\n\n\"Your grandfather, Don Ignacio, was a very rich man. The war stripped\nhim. He got just what he deserved. His _fincas_ and herds and mines\nmelted away from him like grease from a holy candle. And nobody\ncared--any more than the Lord cares about candle grease. Most of his\nproperty fell into the hands of his former slaves--and he had hundreds\nof them hereabouts. But his most valuable possession, the great mine\nof La Libertad, disappeared as completely as if blotted from the face\nof the earth.\n\n\"That mine--no, not a mine, but a mountain of free gold--was located\nsomewhere in the Guamoc\u00f3 district. After the war this whole country\nslipped back into the jungle, and had to be rediscovered. The Guamoc\u00f3\nregion is to-day as unknown as it was before the Spaniards came.\nSomewhere in the district, but covered deep beneath brush and forest\ngrowth, is that mine, the richest in Colombia.\n\n\"Now, as you know, Don Ignacio left this country in considerable of a\nhurry. But I think he always intended to come back again. Death killed\nthat ambition. I don't know about his sons. But the fact remains that\nLa Libertad has never been rediscovered since Don Ignacio's day. The\nold records in Cartagena show the existence of such a mine in Spanish\ntimes, and give a more or less accurate statement of its production.\n_Diablo_! I hesitate to say how much! The old fellow had _arrastras_,\nmills, and so on, in which slaves crushed the ore. The bullion was\nmelted into bars and brought down the trail to Simit\u00ed, where he had\nagents and warehouses and a store or two. From there it was shipped\ndown the river to Cartagena. But the war lasted thirteen years. And\nduring that time everything was in a state of terrible confusion. The\nexistence of mines was forgotten. The plantations were left unworked.\nThe male population was all but killed off. And the country sank back\ninto wilderness.\n\n\"_Bueno_; so much for history. Now to your friends on the coast--and\nelsewhere. Don Wenceslas is quietly searching for that mine--has been\nfor years. He put his agent, Padre Diego, in Simit\u00ed to learn what he\nmight there. But the fool priest was run out after he had ruined a\nwoman or two. However, Padre Diego is still in close touch with the\ntown, and is on the keen search for La Libertad. Wenceslas thinks\nthere may be descendants of some of Don Ignacio's old slaves still\nliving in Simit\u00ed, or near there, and that they know the location of\nthe lost mine. And, if I mistake not, he figures that you will learn\nthe secret from them in some way, and that the mine will again come to\nlight. Now, if you get wind of that mine and attempt to locate it, or\npurchase it from the natives, you will be beaten out of it in a hurry.\nAnd you may be sure Don Wenceslas will be the one who will eventually\nhave it, for there is no craftier, smoother, brighter rascal in\nColombia than he. And so, take it from me, if you ever get wind of the\nlocation of that famous property--which by rights is yours, having\nbelonged to your grandfather--_keep the information strictly to\nyourself_!\n\n\"I do not know Simit\u00ed. But I shall be working in the Guamoc\u00f3 district\nfor many months to come, hunting Indian graves. I shall have my\nrunners up and down the Simit\u00ed trail frequently, and may get in touch\nwith you. It may be that you will need a friend. There! The boat is\nwhistling for Badillo. A last word: Keep out of the way of both\nWenceslas and Diego--cultivate the people of Simit\u00ed--and keep your\nmouth closed.\"\n\nA few minutes later Jos\u00e8 stood on the river bank beside his little\nhaircloth trunk and traveling bag, sadly watching the steamer draw\naway and resume her course up-stream. He watched it until it\ndisappeared around a bend. And then he stood watching the smoke rise\nabove the treetops, until that, too, faded in the distance. No one had\nwaved him a farewell from the boat. No one met him with a greeting of\nwelcome on the shore. He was a stranger among strangers.\n\nHe turned, with a heavy heart, to note his environment. It was a\ntypical riverine point. A single street, if it might be so called; a\nhalf dozen bamboo dwellings, palm-thatched; and a score of natives,\nwith their innumerable gaunt dogs and porcine companions--this was\nBadillo.\n\n\"_Se\u00f1or Padre._\" A tall, finely built native, clad in soiled white\ncotton shirt and trousers, approached and addressed him in a kindly\ntone. \"Where do you go?\"\n\n\"To Simit\u00ed,\" replied the priest, turning eagerly to the man. \"But,\" in\nbewilderment, \"where is it?\"\n\n\"Over there,\" answered the native, pointing to the jungle on the far\nside of the river. \"Many leagues.\"\n\nThe wearied priest sat down on his trunk and buried his face in his\nhands. Faintness and nausea seized him. It was the after-effect of his\nlong and difficult river experience. Or, perhaps, the deadly malaria\nwas beginning its insidious poisoning. The man approached and laid a\nhand on his shoulder.\n\n\"Padre, why do you go to Simit\u00ed?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 raised his head and looked more closely at his interlocutor. The\nnative was a man of perhaps sixty years. His figure was that of an\nathlete. He stood well over six feet high, with massive shoulders, and\na waist as slender as a woman's. His face was almost black in color,\nand mottled with patches of white, so common to the natives of the hot\ninlands. But there was that in its expression, a something that\nlooked out through those kindly black eyes, that assured Jos\u00e8 and\nbespoke his confidence.\n\nThe man gravely repeated his question.\n\n\"I have been sent there by the Bishop of Cartagena. I am to have\ncharge of the parish,\" Jos\u00e8 replied.\n\nThe man slowly shook his finely shaped head.\n\n\"We want no priest in Simit\u00ed,\" he said with quiet firmness. His manner\nof speaking was abrupt, yet not ungracious.\n\n\"But--do you live there?\" inquired Jos\u00e8 anxiously.\n\n\"Yes, Padre.\"\n\n\"Then you must know a man--Rosendo, I think his name--\"\n\n\"I am Rosendo Ariza.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 looked eagerly at the man. Then he wearily stretched out a hand.\n\n\"Rosendo--I am sick--I think. And--I have--no friends--\"\n\nRosendo quickly grasped his hand and slipped an arm about his\nshoulders.\n\n\"I am your friend, Padre--\" He stopped and appeared to reflect for a\nmoment. Then he added quickly, \"My canoe is ready; and we must hurry,\nor night will overtake us.\"\n\nThe priest essayed to rise, but stumbled. Then, as if he had been a\nchild, the man Rosendo picked him up and carried him down the bank to\na rude canoe, where he deposited him on a pile of empty bags in the\nkeel.\n\n\"Escolastico!\" he called back to a young man who seemed to be the\nchief character of the village. \"Sell the _panela_ and yuccas _\u00e1 buen\nprecio_; and remind Captain Julio not to forget on the next trip to\nbring the little Carmen a doll from Barranquilla. I will be over again\nnext month. And Juan,\" addressing the sturdy youth who was preparing\nto accompany him, \"set in the Padre's baggage; and do you take the\npaddle, and I will pole. _Conque, adioscito!_\" waving his battered\nstraw hat to the natives congregated on the bank, while Juan pushed\nthe canoe from the shore and paddled vigorously out into the river.\n\n\"_Adioscito! adioscito! Don Rosendo y Juan!_\" The hearty farewells of\nthe natives followed the canoe far out into the broad stream.\n\nAcross the open river in the livid heat of the early afternoon the\ncanoe slowly made its way. The sun from a cloudless sky viciously\npoured down its glowing rays like molten metal. The boat burned; the\nriver steamed; the water was hot to his touch, when the priest feebly\ndipped his hands into it and bathed his throbbing brow. Badillo faded\nfrom view as they rounded a densely wooded island and entered a long\nlagoon. Here they lost the slight breeze which they had had on the\nmain stream. In this narrow channel, hemmed in between lofty forest\nwalls of closely woven vines and foliage, it seemed to Jos\u00e8 that they\nhad entered a flaming inferno. The two boatmen sat silent and\ninscrutable, plying their paddles without speaking.\n\nDown the long lagoon the canoe drifted, keeping within what scant\nshade the banks afforded, for the sun stood now directly overhead. The\nheat was everywhere, insistent, unpitying. It burned, scalded, warped.\nThe foliage on either side of the channel merged into the hot waves\nthat rose trembling about them. The thin, burning air enveloped the\nlittle craft with fire. Jos\u00e8 gasped for breath. His tongue swelled.\nHis pulse throbbed violently. His skin cracked. The quivering\nappearance of the atmosphere robbed him of confidence in his own\nvision. A cloud of insects hung always before his sight. Dead silence\nlay upon the scene. Not a sound issued from the jungle. Not a bird or\nanimal betrayed its presence. The canoe was edging the Colombian\n\"hells,\" where even the denizens of the forest dare not venture forth\non the low, open _savannas_ in the killing heat of midday.\n\nJos\u00e8 sank down in the boat, wilting and semi-delirious. Through his\ndimmed eyes the boatman looked like glowing inhuman things set in\nflames. Rosendo came to him and placed his straw hat over his face.\nHours, interminable and torturing, seemed to pass on leaden wings.\nThen Juan, deftly swerving his paddle, shot the canoe into a narrow\narm, and the garish sunlight was suddenly lost in the densely\nintertwined branches overhanging the little stream.\n\n\"The outlet of _La Cienaga_, Padre,\" Rosendo offered, laying aside his\npaddle and taking his long boat pole. \"Lake Simit\u00ed flows through this\nand into the Magdalena.\" For a few moments he held the canoe steady,\nwhile from his wallet he drew a few leaves of tobacco and deftly\nrolled a long, thick cigar.\n\nThe real work of the _boga_ now began, and Rosendo with his long\npunter settled down to the several hours' strenuous grind which was\nnecessary to force the heavy canoe up the little outlet and into the\ndistant lake beyond. Back and forth he traveled through the\nhalf-length of the boat, setting the pole well forward in the soft\nbank, or out into the stream itself, and then, with its end against\nhis shoulder, urging and teasing the craft a few feet at a time\nagainst the strong current. Jos\u00e8 imagined, as he dully watched him,\nthat he could see death in the pestiferous effluvia which emanated\nfrom the black, slimy mud which every plunge of the long pole brought\nto the surface of the narrow stream.\n\nThe afternoon slowly waned, and the temperature lowered a few degrees.\nA warm, animal-like breath drifted languidly out from the moist\njungle. The outlet, or _ca\u00f1o_, was heavily shaded throughout its\nlength. Crocodiles lay along its muddy banks, and slid into the water\nat the approach of the canoe. Huge _iguanas_, the gorgeously colored\nlizards of tropical America, scurried noisily through the overarching\nbranches. Here and there monkeys peeped curiously at the intruders and\nchattered excitedly as they swung among the lofty treetops. But for\nhis exhaustion, Jos\u00e8, as he lay propped up against his trunk, gazing\nvacantly upon the slowly unrolling panorama of marvelous plant and\nanimal life on either hand, might have imagined himself in a realm of\nenchantment.\n\nAt length the vegetation abruptly ceased; the stream widened; and the\ncanoe entered a broad lake, at the far end of which, three miles\ndistant, its two whitewashed churches and its plastered houses\nreflecting the red glow of the setting sun, lay the ancient and\ndecayed town of Simit\u00ed, the northern outlet of Spain's mediaeval\ntreasure house, at the edge of the forgotten district of Guamoc\u00f3.\n\nPaddling gently across the unruffled surface of the tepid waters,\nRosendo and Juan silently urged the canoe through the fast gathering\ndusk, and at length drew up on the shaly beach of the old town. As\nthey did so, a little girl, bare of feet and with clustering brown\ncurls, came running out of the darkness.\n\n\"Oh, padre Rosendo,\" she called, \"what have you brought me?\"\n\nThen, as she saw Rosendo and Juan assisting the priest from the boat,\nshe drew back abashed.\n\n\"Look, Carmencita,\" whispered Juan to the little maid; \"we've brought\nyou a _big_ doll, haven't we?\"\n\nNight fell as the priest stepped upon the shore of his new home.\n\n\n\n\nCARMEN ARIZA\n\n\n\n\nBOOK 2\n\n\n  Ay, to save and redeem and restore, snatch Saul, the mistake,\n  Saul, the failure, the ruin he seems now,--and bid him awake from\n  the dream, the probation, the prelude, to find himself set clear\n  and safe in new light and new life,--a new harmony yet to be run\n  and continued and ended.\n\n                                                       --_Browning._\n\n\n\n\nCARMEN ARIZA\n\nCHAPTER 1\n\n\nJos\u00e8 de Rinc\u00f3n opened his eyes and turned painfully on his hard bed.\nThe early sun streamed through the wooden grating before the unglazed\nwindow. A slight, tepid breeze stirred the mosquito netting over him.\nHe was in the single sleeping room of the house. It contained another\nbed like his own, of rough _macana_ palm strips, over which lay a\nstraw mat and a thin red blanket. Bed springs were unknown in Simit\u00ed.\nOn the rude door, cobwebbed and dusty, a scorpion clung torpidly. From\nthe room beyond he heard subdued voices. His head and limbs ached\ndully; and frightful memories of the river trip and the awful journey\nfrom Badillo sickened him. With painful exertion he stood upon the\nmoist dirt floor and drew on his damp clothes. He had only a vague\nrecollection of the preceding night, but he knew that Rosendo had half\nled, half dragged him past rows of dimly lighted, ghostly white houses\nto his own abode, and there had put him to bed.\n\n\"_Muy buenos dias, Se\u00f1or Padre_,\" Rosendo greeted him, as the priest\ndragged himself out into the living room. \"You have slept long. But\nthe se\u00f1ora will soon have your breakfast. Sit here--not in the sun!\"\n\nRosendo placed one of the rough wooden chairs, with straight cowhide\nback and seat, near the table.\n\n\"Carmencita has gone to the boat for fresh water. But--here she comes.\nPour the _Se\u00f1or Padre_ a cup, _carita_,\" addressing a little girl who\nat that moment entered the doorway, carrying a large earthen bottle on\nher shoulder. It was the child who had met the boat when the priest\narrived the night, before.\n\n\"Fill the basin, too, _chiquita_, that the Padre may wash his hands,\"\nadded Rosendo.\n\nThe child approached Jos\u00e8, and with a dignified little courtesy and a\nfrank smile offered him a cup of the lukewarm water. The priest\naccepted it languidly. But, glancing into her face, his eyes suddenly\nwidened, and the hand that was carrying the tin cup to his lips\nstopped.\n\nThe barefoot girl, clad only in a short, sleeveless calico gown, stood\nbefore him like a portrait from an old master. Her skin was almost\nwhite, with but a tinge of olive. Her dark brown hair hung in curls to\nher shoulders and framed a face of rarest beauty. Innocence, purity,\nand love radiated from her fair features, from her beautifully rounded\nlimbs, from her soft, dark eyes that looked so fearlessly into his\nown.\n\nJos\u00e8 felt himself strangely moved. Somewhere deep within his soul a\nchord had been suddenly struck by the little presence; and the sound\nwas unfamiliar to him. Yet it awakened memories of distant scenes, of\nold dreams, and forgotten longings. It seemed to echo from realms of\nhis soul that had never been penetrated. The tumult within died away.\nThe raging thought sank into calm. The man forgot himself, forgot that\nhe had come to Simit\u00ed to die. His sorrow vanished. His sufferings\nfaded. He remained conscious only of something that he could not\noutline, something in the soul of the child, a thing that perhaps he\nonce possessed, and that he knew he yet prized above all else on\nearth.\n\nHe heard Rosendo's voice through an immeasurable distance--\n\n\"Leave us now, _chiquita_; the Padre wishes to have his breakfast.\"\n\nThe child without speaking turned obediently; and the priest's eyes\nfollowed her until she disappeared into the kitchen.\n\n\"We call her 'the smile of God,'\" said Rosendo, noting the priest's\nabsorption, \"because she is always happy.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 remained sunk in thought. Then--\n\n\"A beautiful child!\" he murmured. \"A wonderfully beautiful child! I\nhad no idea--!\"\n\n\"Yes, Padre, she is heaven's gift to us poor folk. I sometimes think\nthe angels themselves left her on the river bank.\"\n\n\"On the river bank!\" Jos\u00e8 was awake now. \"Why--she was not born\nhere?\"\n\n\"Oh, no, Padre, but in Badillo.\"\n\n\"Ah, then you once lived in Badillo?\"\n\n\"_Na, Se\u00f1or Padre_, she is not my child--except that the good God has\ngiven her to me to protect.\"\n\n\"Not your child! Then whose is she?\" The priest's voice was unwontedly\neager and his manner animated.\n\nBut Rosendo fell suddenly quiet and embarrassed, as if he realized\nthat already he had said too much to a stranger. A shade of suspicion\nseemed to cross his face, and he rose hurriedly and went out into the\nkitchen. A moment later he returned with the priest's breakfast--two\nfried eggs, a hot corn _arepa_, fried _platanos_, dried fish, and\ncoffee sweetened with _panela_.\n\n\"When you have finished, Padre, we will visit the Alcalde,\" he said\nquietly. \"I must go down to the lake now to speak with Juan before he\ngoes out to fish.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 finished his meal alone. The interest which had been aroused by\nthe child continued to increase without reaction. His torpid soul had\nbeen profoundly stirred. For the moment, though he knew not why, life\nseemed to hold a vague, unshaped interest for him. He began to notice\nhis environment; he even thought he relished the coarse food set\nbefore him.\n\nThe house he was in was a typical native three-room dwelling, built of\nstrips of _macana_ palm, set upright and tied together with pieces of\nslender, tough _bejuco_ vine. The interstices between the strips were\nfilled with mud, and the whole whitewashed. The floors were dirt,\ntrodden hard; the steep-pitched roof was thatched with palm. A few\nchairs like the one he occupied, the rude, uncovered table, some cheap\nprints and a battered crucifix on the wall, were the only furnishings\nof the living room.\n\nWhile he was eating, the people of the town congregated quietly\nabout the open door. Friendly curiosity to see the new Padre, and\nsincere desire to welcome him animated their simple minds. Naked\nbabes crawled to the threshold and peeped timidly in. Coarsely\nclad women and young girls, many of the latter bedizened with bits\nof bright ribbon or cheap trinkets, smiled their gentle greetings.\nBlack, dignified men, bare of feet, and wearing white cotton trousers\nand black _ruanas_--the cape affected by the poor males of the\ninlands--respectfully doffed their straw hats and bowed to him.\nRosendo's wife appeared from the kitchen and extended her hand to\nhim in unfeigned hospitality. Attired in a fresh calico gown, her\nblack hair plastered back over her head and tied with a clean black\nribbon, her bare feet encased in hemp sandals, she bore herself\nwith that grace and matronly dignity so indicative of her Spanish\nforbears, and so particularly characteristic of the inhabitants of\nthis \"valley of the pleasant 'yes.'\"\n\nBreakfast finished, the priest stepped to the doorway and raised his\nhand in the invocation that was evidently expected from him.\n\n\"_Dominus vobiscum_,\" he repeated, not mechanically, not insincerely,\nbut in a spirit of benevolence, of genuine well-wishing, which his\ncontact with the child a few minutes before seemed to have aroused.\n\nThe people bent their heads piously and murmured, \"_Et cum spiritu\ntuo._\"\n\nThe open door looked out upon the central _plaza_, where stood a large\nchurch of typical colonial design and construction, and with a single\nlateral bell tower. The building was set well up on a platform of\nshale, with broad shale steps, much broken and worn, leading up to it\non all sides. Jos\u00e8 stepped out and mingled with the crowd, first\nregarding the old church curiously, and then looking vainly for the\nlittle girl, and sighing his disappointment when he did not see her.\n\nIn the _plaza_ he was joined by Rosendo; and together they went to\nthe house of the Alcalde. On the way the priest gazed about him with\ngrowing curiosity. To the north of the town stretched the lake, known\nto the residents only by the name of _La Cienaga_. It was a body of\nwater of fair size, in a setting of exquisite tropical beauty. In\na temperate climate, and a region more densely populated, this\nlake would have been priceless. Here in forgotten Guamoc\u00f3 it lay like\nan undiscovered gem, known only to those few inert and passive folk,\nwho enjoyed it with an inadequate sense of its rare beauty and\nimmeasurable worth. Several small and densely wooded isles rose\nfrom its unrippled bosom; and tropical birds of brilliant color\nhovered over it in the morning sun. Near one of its margins Jos\u00e8\ndistinguished countless white _garzas_, the graceful herons whose\nplumes yield the coveted aigrette of northern climes. They fed\nundisturbed, for this region sleeps unmolested, far from the beaten\npaths of tourist or vandal huntsman. To the west and south lay the\nhills of Guamoc\u00f3, and the lofty _Cordilleras_, purpling in the\nlight mist. Over the entire scene spread a damp warmth, like the\natmosphere of a hot-house. By midday Jos\u00e8 knew that the heat would\nbe insufferable.\n\nThe Alcalde, Don Mario Arvila, conducted his visitors through his\nshabby little store and into the _patio_ in the rear, exclaiming\nrepeatedly, \"Ah, _Se\u00f1or Padre_, we welcome you! All Simit\u00ed welcomes\nyou and kisses your hand!\" In the shade of his arbor he sat down to\nexamine Jos\u00e8's letters from Cartagena.\n\nDon Mario was a large, florid man, huge of girth, with brown skin,\nheavy jowls, puffed eyes, and bald head. As he read, his eyes snapped,\nand at times he paused and looked up curiously at the priest. Then,\nwithout comment, he folded the letters and put them into a pocket of\nhis crash coat.\n\n\"_Bien_,\" he said politely, \"we must have the Padre meet Don Felipe\nAlcozer as soon as he returns. Some repairs are needed on the\nchurch; a few of the roof tiles have slipped, and the rain enters.\nPerhaps, _Se\u00f1or Padre_, you may say the Mass there next Sunday. We\nwill see. A--a--you had illustrious ancestors, Padre,\" he added with\nhesitation.\n\n\"Do the letters mention my ancestry?\" asked Jos\u00e8 with something of\nmingled surprise and pride.\n\n\"They speak of your family, which was, as we all know, quite\nrenowned,\" replied the Alcalde courteously.\n\n\"Very,\" agreed Jos\u00e8, wondering how much the Alcalde knew of his\nfamily.\n\n\"Don Ignacio was not unknown in this _pueblo_,\" affably continued the\nAlcalde.\n\nAt these words Rosendo started visibly and looked fixedly at the\npriest.\n\n\"The family name of Rinc\u00f3n,\" the Alcalde went on, \"appears on the old\nrecords of Simit\u00ed in many places, and it is said that Don Ignacio\nhimself came here more than once. Perhaps you know, _Se\u00f1or Padre_,\nthat the Rinc\u00f3n family erected the church which stands in the _plaza_?\nAnd so it is quite appropriate that their son should officiate in it\nafter all these centuries, is it not?\"\n\nNo, Jos\u00e8 had not known it. He could not have imagined such a thing. He\nknew little of his family's history. Of their former vast wealth he\nhad a vague notion. But here in this land of romance and tragedy he\nseemed to be running upon their reliques everywhere.\n\nThe conversation drifted to parish matters; and soon Rosendo urged\ntheir departure, as the sun was mounting high.\n\nSeated at the table for the midday lunch, Jos\u00e8 again became lost in\ncontemplation of the child before him. Her fair face flushed under his\nsearching gaze; but she returned a smile of confidence and sweet\ninnocence that held him spellbound. Her great brown eyes were of\ninfinite depth. They expressed a something that he had never seen\nbefore in human eyes. What manner of soul lay behind them? What was it\nthat through them looked out into this world of evil? Childish\ninnocence and purity, yes; but vastly more. Was it--God Himself? Jos\u00e8\nstarted at his own thought. Through his meditations he heard Rosendo's\nvoice.\n\n\"Simit\u00ed is very old, Padre. In the days of the Spaniards it was a\nlarge town, with many rich people. The Indians were all slaves then,\nand they worked in the mines up there,\" indicating the distant\nmountains. \"Much gold was brought down here and shipped down the\nMagdalena, for the _ca\u00f1o_ was wider in those days, and it was not so\nhard to reach the river. This is the end of the Guamoc\u00f3 trail, which\nwas called in those days the _Camino Real_.\"\n\n\"You say the mines were very rich?\" interrogated Jos\u00e8; not that the\nquestion expressed a more than casual interest, but rather to keep\nRosendo talking while he studied the child.\n\nBut at this question Rosendo suddenly became less loquacious. Jos\u00e8\nthen felt that he was suspected of prying into matters which Rosendo\ndid not wish to discuss with him, and so he pressed the topic no\nfurther.\n\n\"How many people did Don Mario say the parish contained?\" he asked by\nway of diverting the conversation.\n\n\"About two hundred, Padre.\"\n\n\"And it has been vacant long?\"\n\n\"Four years.\"\n\n\"Four years since Padre Diego was here,\" commented Jos\u00e8 casually.\n\nIt was an unfortunate remark. At the mention of the former priest's\nname Do\u00f1a Maria hurriedly left the table. Rosendo's black face grew\neven darker, and took on a look of ineffable contempt. He did not\nreply. And the meal ended in silence.\n\nIt was now plain to Jos\u00e8 that Rosendo distrusted him. But it mattered\nlittle to the priest, beyond the fact that he had no wish to offend\nany one. What interest had he in boorish Simit\u00ed, or Guamoc\u00f3? The place\nwas become his tomb--he had entered it to die. The child--the girl!\nAh, yes, she had touched a strange chord within him; and for a time he\nhad seemed to live again. But as the day waned, and pitiless heat and\ndeadly silence brooded over the decayed town, his starving soul sank\nagain into its former depression, and revived hope and interest died\nwithin him.\n\nThe implacable heat burned through the noon hour; the dusty streets\nwere like the floor of a stone oven; the shale beds upon which the old\ntown rested sent up fiery, quivering waves; the houses seethed; earth\nand sky were ablaze. How long could he endure it?\n\nAnd the terrible _ennui_, the isolation, the utter lack of every trace\nof culture, of the varied interests that feed the educated, trained\nmind and minister to its comfort and growth--could he support it\npatiently while awaiting the end? Would he go mad before the final\nrelease came? He did not fear death; but he was horror-stricken at the\nthought of madness! Of losing that rational sense of the Ego which\nconstituted his normal individuality!\n\nRosendo advised him to retire for the midday _siesta_. Through the\nseemingly interminable afternoon he lay upon his hard bed with his\nbrain afire, while the events of his warped life moved before him in\nspectral review. The week which had passed since he left Cartagena\nseemed an age. When he might hope to receive word from the outside\nworld, he could not imagine. His isolation was now complete. Even\nshould letters succeed in reaching Simit\u00ed for him, they must first\npass through the hands of the Alcalde.\n\nAnd what did the Alcalde know of him? And then, again, what did it\nmatter? He must not lose sight of the fact that his interest in the\noutside world--nay, his interest in all things had ceased. This was\nthe end. He had yielded, after years of struggle, to pride, fear,\ndoubt. He had bowed before his morbid sense of honor--a perverted\nsense, he now admitted, but still one which bound him in fetters of\nsteel. His life had been one of grossest inconsistency. He was utterly\nout of tune with the universe. His incessant clash with the world of\npeople and events had sounded nothing but agonizing discord. And his\nconfusion of thought had become such that, were he asked why he was in\nSimit\u00ed, he could scarcely have told. At length he dropped into a\nfeverish sleep.\n\nThe day drew to a close, and the flaming sun rested for a brief moment\non the lofty tip of Tolima. Jos\u00e8 awoke, dripping with perspiration,\nhis steaming blood rushing wildly through its throbbing channels.\nBlindly he rose from his rough bed and stumbled out of the stifling\nchamber. The living room was deserted. Who might be in the kitchen, he\ndid not stop to see. Dazed by the garish light and fierce heat, he\nrushed from the house and over the burning shales toward the lake.\n\nWhat he intended to do, he knew not. His weltering thought held but a\nsingle concept--water! The lake would cool his burning skin--he would\nwade out into it until it rose to his cracking lips--he would lie down\nin it, till it quenched the fire in his head--he would sleep in it--he\nwould never leave it--it was cool--perhaps cold! What did the word\nmean? Was there aught in the world but fire--flames--fierce,\nwithering, smothering, consuming heat? He thought the shales crackled\nas they melted beneath him! He thought his feet sank to the ankles in\nmolten lava, and were so heavy he scarce could drag them! He thought\nthe blazing sun shot out great tongues of flame, like the arms of a\nmonster devilfish, which twined about him, transforming his blood to\nvapor and sucking it out through his gaping pores!\n\nA blinding light flashed before him as he reached the margin of the\nlake. The universe burst into a ball of fire. He clasped his head in\nhis hands--stumbled--and fell, face down, in the tepid waters.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 2\n\n\n\"It was the little Carmen, Padre, who saw you run to the lake. She was\nsitting at the kitchen door, studying her writing lesson.\"\n\nThe priest essayed to rise from his bed. Night had fallen, and the\nfeeble light of the candle cast heavy shadows over the room, and made\ngrotesque pictures of the black, anxious faces looking in at the\ngrated window.\n\n\"But, Rosendo, it--was--a dream--a terrible dream!\"\n\n\"_Na_, Padre, it was true, for I myself took you from the lake,\"\nreplied Rosendo tenderly.\n\nJos\u00e8 struggled to a sitting posture, but would have fallen back again\nhad not Rosendo's strong arm supported him. He passed his hand slowly\nacross his forehead, as if to brush the mental cobwebs from his\nawakening brain. Then he inquired feebly:\n\n\"What does the doctor say?\"\n\n\"Padre, there is no doctor in Simit\u00ed,\" Rosendo answered quietly.\n\n\"No doctor!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 kept silence for a few moments. Then--\n\n\"But perhaps I do not need one. What time did it occur?\"\n\n\"It did not happen to-day, Padre,\" said Rosendo with pitying\ncompassion. \"It was nearly a week ago.\"\n\n\"Nearly a week! And have I lain here so long?\"\n\n\"Yes, Padre.\"\n\nThe priest stared at him uncomprehendingly. Then--\n\n\"The dreams were frightful! I must have talked--raved! Rosendo--you\nheard me--?\" His voice betrayed anxiety.\n\n\"There, Padre, think no more about it. You were wild--I fought to keep\nyou in bed--we thought you must die--all but Carmen--but you have your\nsenses now--and you must forget the past.\"\n\nForget the past! Then his wild delirium had laid bare his soul! And\nthe man who had so faithfully nursed him through the crisis now\npossessed the sordid details of this wretched life!\n\nJos\u00e8 struggled to orient his undirected mind. A hot wave of anger\nswept over him at the thought that he was still living, that his\nbattered soul had not torn itself from earth during his delirium and\ntaken flight. Was he fated to live forever, to drag out an endless\nexistence, with his heart written upon his sleeve for the world to\nread and turn to its own advantage? Rosendo had stood between him and\ndeath--but to what end? Had he not yet paid the score in full--good\nmeasure, pressed down and running over? His thoughts ran rapidly from\none topic to another. Again they reverted to the little girl. He had\ndreamed of her in that week of black night. He wondered if he had also\ntalked of her. He had lain at death's door--Rosendo had said so--but\nhe had had no physician. Perhaps these simple folk brewed their own\nhomely remedies--he wondered what they had employed in his case. Above\nthe welter of his thoughts this question pressed for answer.\n\n\"What medicine did you give me, Rosendo?\" he feebly queried.\n\n\"None, Padre.\"\n\nJos\u00e8's voice rose querulously in a little excess of excitement. \"What!\nYou left me here without medical aid, to live or die, as might be?\"\n\nThe gentle Rosendo laid a soothing hand upon the priest's feverish\nbrow. \"_Na_, Padre,\"--there was a hurt tone in the soft answer--\"we\ndid all we could for you. We have neither doctors nor medicines. But\nwe cared for you--and we prayed daily for your recovery. The little\nCarmen said our prayers would be answered--and, you see, they were.\"\n\nAgain the child!\n\n\"And what had she to do with my recovery?\" Jos\u00e8 demanded fretfully.\n\n\"_Quien sabe?_ It is sometimes that way when the little Carmen says\npeople shall not die. And then,\" he added sadly, \"sometimes they do\ndie just the same. It is strange; we do not understand it.\" The gentle\nsoul sighed its perplexity.\n\nJos\u00e8 looked up at him keenly. \"Did the child say I should not die?\" he\nasked softly, almost in a whisper.\n\n\"Yes, Padre; she says God's children do not die,\" returned Rosendo.\n\nThe priest's blood stopped in its mad surge and slowly began to chill.\nGod's children do not die! What uncanny influence had he met with here\nin this crumbling, forgotten town? He sought the index of his memory\nfor the sensations he had felt when he looked into the girl's eyes on\nhis first morning in Simit\u00ed. But memory reported back only impressions\nof goodness--beauty--love.\n\nThen a dim light--only a feeble gleam--seemed to flash before him, but\nat a great distance. Something called him--not by name, but by again\ntouching that unfamiliar chord which had vibrated in his soul when the\nchild had first stood before him. He felt a strange psychic\npresentiment as of things soon to be revealed. A sentiment akin to awe\nstole over him, as if he were standing in the presence of a great\nmystery--a mystery so transcendental that the groveling minds of\nmortals have never apprehended it. He turned again to the man sitting\nbeside his bed.\n\n\"Rosendo--where is she?\"\n\n\"Asleep, Padre,\" pointing to the other bed. \"But we must not wake\nher,\" he admonished quickly, as the priest again sought to rise; \"we\nwill talk of her to-morrow. I think--\"\n\nRosendo stopped abruptly and looked at the priest as if he would\nfathom the inmost nature of the man. Then he continued uncertainly:\n\n\"I--I may have some things to say to you to-morrow--if you are\nwell enough to hear them. But I will think about it to-night,\nand--if--_Bien_! I will think about it.\"\n\nRosendo rose slowly, as if weighted with heavy thoughts, and went out\ninto the living room. Presently he returned with a rude, homemade\nbroom and began to sweep a space on the dirt floor in the corner\nopposite Jos\u00e8. This done, he spread out a light straw mat for his\nbed.\n\n\"The se\u00f1ora is preparing you a bowl of chicken broth and rice, Padre,\"\nhe said. \"The little Carmen saved a hen for you when you should awake.\nShe has fed it all the week on rice and goat's milk. She said she knew\nyou would wake up hungry.\"\n\nJos\u00e8's eyes had closely followed Rosendo's movements, although he\nseemed not to hear his words. Suddenly he broke forth in protest.\n\n\"Rosendo,\" he cried, \"have I your bed? And do you sleep there on the\nfloor? I cannot permit this!\"\n\n\"Say nothing, Padre,\" replied Rosendo, gently forcing Jos\u00e8 back again\nupon his bed. \"My house is yours.\"\n\n\"But--the se\u00f1ora, your wife--where does she sleep?\"\n\n\"She has her _petate_ in the kitchen,\" was the quiet answer.\n\nOnly the two poor beds, which were occupied by the priest and the\nchild! And Rosendo and his good wife had slept on the hard dirt floor\nfor a week! Jos\u00e8's eyes dimmed when he realized the extent of their\nunselfish hospitality. And would they continue to sleep thus on the\nground, with nothing beneath them but a thin straw mat, as long as he\nmight choose to remain with them? Aye, he knew that they would,\nuncomplainingly. For these are the children of the \"valley of the\npleasant 'yes.'\"\n\nJos\u00e8 awoke the next morning with a song echoing in his ears. He had\ndreamed of singing; and as consciousness slowly returned, the\ndream-song became real. It floated in from the living room on a clear,\nsweet soprano. When a child he had heard such voices in the choir loft\nof the great Seville cathedral, and he had thought that angels were\nsinging. As he lay now listening to it, memories of his childish\ndreams swept over him in great waves. The soft, sweet cadences rose\nand fell. His own heart swelled and pulsated with them, and his barren\nsoul once more surged under the impulse of a deep, potential desire to\nmanifest itself, its true self, unhampered at last by limitation and\nconvention, unfettered by superstition, human creeds and false\nambition. Then the inevitable reaction set in; a sickening sense of\nthe futility of his longing settled over him, and he turned his face\nto the wall, while hot tears streamed over his sunken cheeks.\n\nAgain through his wearied brain echoed the familiar admonition,\n\"Occupy till I come.\" Always the same invariable response to his\nstrained yearnings. The sweet voice in the adjoining room floated in\nthrough the dusty palm door. It spread over his perturbed thought like\noil on troubled waters. Perhaps it was the child singing. At this\nthought the sense of awe seemed to settle upon him again. A child--a\nbabe--had said that he should live! If a doctor had said it he would\nhave believed. But a child--absurd! It was a dream! But no; Rosendo\nhad said it; and there was no reason to doubt him. But what had this\nchild to do with it? Nothing! And yet--was that wholly true? Then\nwhence his sensations when first he saw her? Whence that feeling of\nstanding in the presence of a great mystery? \"Out of the mouths of\nbabes and sucklings--\" Foolishness! To be sure, the child may have\nsaid he should not die; but if he were to live--which God forbid!--his\nown recuperative powers would restore him. Rosendo's lively\nimagination certainly had exaggerated the incident.\n\nExhausted by his mental efforts, and lulled by the low singing, the\npriest sank into fitful slumber. As he slept he dreamed. He was\nstanding alone in a great desert. Darkness encompassed him, and a\nfearful loneliness froze his soul. About him lay bleaching bones.\nNeither trees nor vegetation broke the dull monotony of the cheerless\nscene. Nothing but waste, unutterably dreary waste, over which a chill\nwind tossed the tinkling sand in fitful gusts. In terror he cried\naloud. The desert mocked his hollow cry. The darkness thickened. Again\nhe called, his heart sinking with despair.\n\nThen, over the desolate waste, through the heavy gloom, a voice seemed\nborne faint on the cold air, \"Occupy till I come!\" He sank to his\nknees. His straining eyes caught the feeble glint of a light, but at\nan immeasurable distance. Again he called; and again the same\nresponse, but nearer. A glow began to suffuse the blackness about him.\nNearer, ever nearer drew the gleam. The darkness lifted. The rocks\nbegan to bud. Trees and vines sprang from the waste sand. As if in a\ntremendous explosion, a dazzling light burst full upon him, shattering\nthe darkness, fusing the stones about him, and blinding his sight. A\ngreat presence stood before him. He struggled to his feet; and as he\ndid so a loud voice cried, \"Behold, I come _quickly_!\"\n\n\"_Se\u00f1or Padre_, you have been dreaming!\"\n\nThe priest, sitting upright and clutching at the rough sides of his\nbed, stared with wooden obliviousness into the face of the little\nCarmen.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 3\n\n\n\"You are well now, aren't you, Padre?\"\n\nIt was not so much an interrogation as an affirmation, an assumption\nof fact.\n\n\"Now you must come and see my garden--and Cucumbra, too. And\nCantar-las-horas; have you heard him? I scolded him lots; and I know\nhe wants to mind; but he just thinks he can't stop singing the\nVespers--the old stupid!\"\n\nWhile the child prattled she drew a chair to the bedside and arranged\nthe bowl of broth and the two wheat rolls she had brought.\n\n\"You are real hungry, and you are going to eat all of this and get\nstrong again. Right away!\" she added, emphatically expressing her\nconfidence in the assumption.\n\nJos\u00e8 made no reply. He seemed again to be trying to sound the\nunfathomable depths of the child's brown eyes. Mechanically he took\nthe spoon she handed him.\n\n\"See!\" she exclaimed, while her eyes danced. \"A silver spoon! Madre\nAriza borrowed it from Do\u00f1a Maria Alcozer. They have lots of silver.\nNow eat.\"\n\nFrom his own great egoism, his years of heart-ache, sorrows, and\nshames, the priest's heavy thought slowly lifted and centered upon the\nchild's beautiful face. The animated little figure before him radiated\nsuch abundant life that he himself caught the infection; and with it\nhis sense of weakness passed like an illusion.\n\n\"And look, Padre! The broth--isn't it good?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 tasted, and declared it delicious.\n\n\"Well, you know\"--the enthusiastic little maid clambered up on the\nbed--\"yesterday it was Ma\u00f1uela--she was my hen. I told her a week ago\nthat you would need her--\"\n\n\"And you gave up your hen for me, little one?\" he interrupted.\n\n\"Why--yes, Padre. It was all right. I told her how it was. And she\nclucked so hard, I knew she was glad to help the good _Cura_. And she\nwas so happy about it! I told her she really wouldn't die. You know,\nthings never do--do they?\"\n\nThe priest hesitated. To hide his confusion and gain time he began to\neat rapidly.\n\n\"No, they don't,\" said the girl confidently, answering her own\nquestion. \"Because,\" she added, \"God is _everywhere_--isn't He?\"\n\nWhat manner of answer could he, of all men, make to such terribly\ndirect questions as these! And it was well that Carmen evidently\nexpected none--that in her great innocence she assumed for him the\nsame beautiful faith which she herself held.\n\n\"Do\u00f1a Jacinta didn't die last week. But they said she did; and so they\ntook her to the cemetery and put her in a dark _b\u00f3veda_. And the black\nbuzzards sat on the wall and watched them. Padre Rosendo said she had\ngone to the angels--that God took her. But, Padre, God doesn't make\npeople sick, does He? They get sick because they don't know who He is.\nEvery day I told God I knew He would cure you. And He did, didn't\nHe?\"\n\nWhile the girl paused for breath, her eyes sparkled, and her face\nglowed with exaltation. Child-like, her active mind flew from one\ntopic to another, with no thought of connecting links.\n\n\"This morning, Padre, two little green parrots flew across the lake\nand perched on our roof. And they sat there and watched Cucumbra eat\nhis breakfast; and they tried to steal his fish; and they scolded so\nloud! Why did they want to steal from him, when there is so much to\neat everywhere? But they didn't know any better, did they? I don't\nthink parrots love each other very much, for they scold so hard.\nPadre, it is so dark in here; come out and see the sun and the lake\nand the mountains. And my garden--Padre, it is beautiful! Esteban said\nnext time he went up the trail he would bring me a monkey for a pet;\nand I am going to name it Hombrecito. And Captain Julio is going to\nbring me a doll from down the river. But,\" with a merry, musical\ntrill, \"Juan said the night you came that _you_ were my doll! Isn't he\nfunny!\" And throwing back her little head, the child laughed\nheartily.\n\n\"Padre, you must help padre Rosendo with his arithmetic. Every night\nhe puts on his big spectacles and works so hard to understand it. He\nsays he knows Satan made fractions. But, Padre, that isn't so, is it?\nNot if God made everything. Padre, you know _everything_, don't you?\nPadre Rosendo said you did. There are lots of things I want you to\ntell me--such lots of things that nobody here knows anything about.\nPadre,\"--the child leaned toward the priest and whispered low--\"the\npeople here don't know who God is; and you are going to teach them!\nThere was a _Cura_ here once, when I was a baby; but I guess he didn't\nknow God, either.\"\n\nShe lapsed into silence, as if pondering this thought. Then, clapping\nher hands with unfeigned joy, she cried in a shrill little voice, \"Oh,\nPadre, I am _so_ glad you have come to Simit\u00ed! I just _knew_ God would\nnot forget us!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 had no reply to make. His thought was busy with the phenomenon\nbefore him: a child of man, but one who, like Israel of old, saw God\nand heard His voice at every turn of her daily walk. Untutored in the\nways of men, without trace of sophistication or cant, unblemished as\nshe moved among the soiled vessels about her, shining with celestial\nradiance in this unknown, moldering town so far from the world's\nbeaten paths.\n\nThe door opened softly and Rosendo entered, preceded by a cheery\ngreeting.\n\n_\"Hombre!_\" he exclaimed, surveying the priest, \"but you mend fast!\nYou have eaten all the broth! But I told the good wife that the little\nCarmen would be better than medicine for you, and that you must have\nher just as soon as you should awake.\"\n\nJos\u00e8's eyes dilated with astonishment. Absorbed in the child, he had\nconsumed almost his entire breakfast.\n\n\"He is well, padre Rosendo, he is well!\" cried the girl, bounding up\nand down and dancing about the tall form of her foster-father. Then,\ndarting to Jos\u00e8, she seized his hand and cried, \"Now to see my garden!\nAnd Cucumbra! And--!\"\n\n\"Quiet, child!\" commanded Rosendo, taking her by the arm. \"The good\n_Cura_ is ill, and must rest for several days yet.\"\n\n\"No, padre Rosendo, he is well--all well! Aren't you, Padre?\"\nappealing to Jos\u00e8, and again urging him forth.\n\nThe rapidity of the conversation and the animation of the beautiful\nchild caused complete forgetfulness of self, and, together with the\nrestorative effect of the wholesome food, acted upon the priest like a\nmagical tonic. Weak though he was, he clung to her hand and,\nstruggling out of the bed, stood uncertainly upon the floor. Instantly\nRosendo's arm was about him.\n\n\"Don't try it, Padre,\" the latter urged anxiously. \"The heat will be\ntoo much for you. Another day or two of rest will make you right.\"\n\nBut the priest, heedless of the admonition, suffered himself to be led\nby the child; and together they passed slowly out into the living\nroom, through the kitchen, and thence into the diminutive rose garden,\nthe pride of the little Carmen.\n\nDo\u00f1a Maria, wife of Rosendo, was bending over the primitive fireplace,\nbusy with her matutinal duties, having just dusted the ashes from a\ncorn _arepa_ which she had prepared for her consort's simple luncheon.\nShe was a woman well into the autumn of life; but her form possessed\nsomething of the elegance of the Spanish dames of the colonial period;\nher countenance bore an expression of benevolence, which emanated\nfrom a gentle and affectionate heart; and her manner combined both\ndignity and suavity. She greeted the priest tenderly, and expressed\nmingled surprise and joy that he felt able to leave his bed so soon.\nBut as her eyes caught Rosendo's meaning glance, and then turned to\nthe child, they seemed to indicate a full comprehension of the\nsituation.\n\nThe rose garden consisted of a few square feet of black earth,\nbordered by bits of shale, and seemingly scarce able to furnish\nnourishment for the three or four little bushes. But, though small,\nthese were blooming in profusion.\n\n\"Padre Rosendo did this!\" exclaimed the delighted girl. \"Every night\nhe brings water from _La Cienaga_ for them!\"\n\nRosendo smiled patronizingly upon the child; but Jos\u00e8 saw in the\nglance of his argus eyes a tenderness and depth of affection for her\nwhich bespoke nothing short of adoration.\n\nCarmen bent over the roses, fondling and kissing them, and addressing\nthem endearing names.\n\n\"She calls them God's kisses,\" whispered Rosendo to the priest.\n\nAt that moment a low growl was heard. Jos\u00e8 turned quickly and\nconfronted a gaunt dog, a wild breed, with eyes fixed upon the priest\nand white fangs showing menacingly beneath a curling lip.\n\n\"Oh, Cucumbra!\" cried the child, rushing to the beast and throwing her\narms about its shaggy neck. \"Haven't I told you to love everybody? And\nis that the way to show it? Now kiss the _Cura's_ hand, for he loves\nyou.\"\n\nThe brute sank at her feet. Then as she took the priest's hand and\nheld it to the dog's mouth, he licked it with his rough tongue.\n\nThe priest's brain was now awhirl. He stood gazing at the child as if\nfascinated. Through his jumbled thought there ran an insistent strain,\n\"He that hath seen me hath seen the Father. The Father dwelleth in me\nand I in Him.\" He did not associate these words with the Nazarene now,\nbut with the barefoot girl before him. Again within the farthest\ndepths of his soul he heard the soft note of a vibrating chord--that\nchord which all the years of his unhappy life had hung mute, until\nhere, in this moldering town, in the wilderness of forgotten Guamoc\u00f3,\nthe hand of Love had swept it.\n\nThe sun stood at the zenith. The day was white-hot. Do\u00f1a Maria\nsummoned her little family to the midday repast. Rosendo brought a\nchair for Jos\u00e8 and placed it near the rose garden in the shade of the\nhouse, for, despite all protest, the priest had stubbornly refused to\nreturn to his bed. Left now to himself, his thought hovered about the\nchild, and then drifted out across the incandescent shales to the\nbeautiful lake beyond. The water lay like shimmering glass. In the\ndistance the wooded slopes of the San Lucas mountains rose like green\nbillows. Brooding silence spread over the scene. It was Nature's hour\nof _siesta_. In his own heart there was a great peace--and a strange\nexpectancy. He seemed to be awaiting a revelation of things close at\nhand. In a way he felt that he had accomplished his purpose of coming\nto Simit\u00ed to die, and that he was now awaiting the resurrection.\n\nThe peaceful revery was interrupted by Rosendo. \"Padre, if you will\nnot return to your bed--\" He regarded the priest dubiously.\n\n\"No, Rosendo. I grow stronger every minute. But--where is Carmen?\"\n\n\"She must help her mother.\"\n\nA long pause ensued, while Jos\u00e8 impatiently waited for Rosendo to\ncontinue. The child was becoming his obsession. He was eager to talk\nof her, to learn her history, to see her, for her presence meant\ncomplete obliteration of self.\n\n\"Padre,\" Rosendo at length emerged from his meditation. \"I would like\nto speak of the little Carmen.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" responded Jos\u00e8 with animation. Life and strength seemed to\nreturn to him with a bound.\n\n\"But--what say you? Shall we visit the church, which is only across\nthe road? There we can talk without interruption. No one will be in\nthe streets during the heat. And I will carry you over.\"\n\n\"Let us go to the church, yes; but I can walk. It is only a step.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 leaned upon Rosendo, the latter supporting him with his great\narm, and together they crossed the road and mounted the shale platform\non which stood the ancient edifice. Rosendo produced a huge key of\nantique pattern; and the rusty lock, after much resistance, yielded\nwith a groan, and the heavy door creaked open, emitting an odor of\ndampness and must. Doffing their hats, the men entered the long,\nbarn-like room. Rosendo carefully closed and locked the door behind\nthem, a precaution necessary in a drowsing town of this nature, where\nthe simple folk who see day after day pass without concern or event to\nbreak the deadening monotony, assemble in eager, buzzing multitudes at\nthe slightest prospect of extraordinary interest.\n\nThe room was dimly lighted, and was open to the peak of the roof. From\nthe rough-hewn rafters above hung hundreds of hideous bats. At the far\nend stood the altar. It was adorned with decrepit images, and held a\nlarge wooden statue of the Virgin. This latter object was veiled with\ntwo flimsy curtains, which were designed to be raised and lowered with\ngreat pomp and the ringing of a little bell during service. The image\nwas attired in real clothes, covered with tawdry finery, gilt paper,\nand faded ribbons. The head bore a wig of hair; and the face was\npainted, although great sections of the paint had fallen, away,\nleaving the suggestion of pockmarks. Beneath this image was located\nthe _sagrario_, the little cupboard in which the _hostia_, the sacred\nwafer, was wont to be kept exposed in the _custodia_, a cheap\nreceptacle composed of two watch crystals. At either side of this\nstood half consumed wax tapers. A few rough benches were strewn about\nthe floor; and dust and green mold lay thick over all.\n\nAt the far right-hand corner of the building a lean-to had been\nerected to serve as the _sacrist\u00eda_, or vestry. In the worm-eaten\nwardrobe within hung a few vestments, adorned with cheap finery, and\nheavily laden with dust, over which scampered vermin of many\nvarieties. An air of desolation and abandon hung over the whole\nchurch, and to Jos\u00e8 seemed to symbolize the decay of a sterile faith.\n\nRosendo carefully dusted off a bench near one of the windows and bade\nJos\u00e8 be seated.\n\n\"_Padre_,\" he began, after some moments of deep reflection, \"the\nlittle Carmen is not an ordinary child.\"\n\n\"I have seen that, Rosendo,\" interposed Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"We--we do not understand her,\" Rosendo went on, carefully weighing\nhis words; \"and we sometimes think she is not--not altogether like\nus--that her coming was a miracle. But you do not believe in\nmiracles,\" he added quizzically.\n\n\"Why do you say that, Rosendo?\" Jos\u00e8 returned in surprise.\n\nRosendo paused before replying.\n\n\"You were very sick, Padre; and in the fever you--\" the impeccably\nhonest fellow hesitated.\n\n\"Yes, I thought so,\" said Jos\u00e8 with an air of weary resignation. \"And\nwhat else did I say, Rosendo?\"\n\nThe faultless courtesy of the artless Rosendo, a courtesy so genuine\nthat Jos\u00e8 knew it came right from the heart, made conversation on this\ntopic a matter of extreme difficulty to him.\n\n\"Do not be uneasy, Padre,\" he said reassuringly. \"I alone heard you.\nWhenever you began to talk I would not let others listen; and I stayed\nwith you every day and night. But--it is just because of what you said\nin the _calentura_ that I am speaking to you now of the little\nCarmen.\"\n\nBecause of what he had said in his delirium! Jos\u00e8's astonishment grew\napace.\n\n\"Padre, many bad priests have been sent to Simit\u00ed. It has been our\ncurse. Priests who stirred up revolution elsewhere, who committed\nmurder, and ruined the lives of fair women, have been put upon us. And\nwhen in Badillo I learned that you had been sent to our parish, I was\nfilled with fear. I--I lost a daughter, Padre--\"\n\nThe good man hesitated again. Then, as a look of stern resolution\nspread over his strong, dark face, he continued:\n\n\"It was Padre Diego! We drove him out of Simit\u00ed four years ago. But my\ndaughter, my only child, went with him.\" The great frame shook with\nemotion, while he hurried on disconnectedly.\n\n\"Padre, the priest Diego said that the little Carmen should become a\nSister--a nun--that she must be sent to the convent in Mompox--that\nshe belonged to the Church, and the Church would some day have her.\nBut, by the Holy Virgin, the Church shall _not_ have her! And I myself\nwill slay her before this altar rather than let such as Padre Diego\nlay their slimy paws upon the angel child!\"\n\nRosendo leaped to his feet and began to pace the floor with great\nstrides. The marvelous frame of the man, in which beat a heart too big\nfor the sordid passions of the flesh, trembled as he walked. Jos\u00e8\nwatched him in mute admiration, mingled with astonishment and a\nheightened sense of expectancy. Presently Rosendo returned and seated\nhimself again beside the priest.\n\n\"Padre, I have lived in terror ever since Diego left Simit\u00ed. For\nmyself I do not fear, for if ever I meet with the wretch I shall wring\nhis neck with my naked hands! But--for the little Carmen--_Dios!_ they\nmight steal her at any time! There are men here who would do it for a\nfew _pesos_! And how could I prevent it? I pray daily to the Virgin to\nprotect her. She--she is the light of my life. I watch over her\nhourly. I neglect my _hacienda_, that I may guard her--and I am a poor\nman, and cannot afford not to work.\"\n\nThe man buried his face in his huge hands and groaned aloud. Jos\u00e8\nremained pityingly silent, knowing that Rosendo's heaving heart must\nempty itself.\n\n\"Padre,\" Rosendo at length raised his head. His features were drawn,\nbut his eyes glowed fiercely. \"Priests have committed dark deeds here,\nand this altar has dripped with blood. When a child, with my own eyes\nI saw a priest elevate the Host before this altar, as the people knelt\nin adoration. While their heads were bowed I saw him drive a knife\ninto the neck of a man who was his enemy; and the blood spurted over\nthe image of the Virgin and fell upon the Sacred Host itself! And\nwhat did the wicked priest say in defense? Simply that he took this\ntime to assassinate his man because then the victim could die adoring\nthe Host and under the most favorable circumstances for salvation!\n_Hombre!_ And did the priest pay the penalty for his crime? No! The\nBishop of Cartagena transferred him to another parish, and told him to\ndo better in future!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 started in horror. But Rosendo did not stop.\n\n\"And I remember the story my father used to tell of the priest who\npoisoned a whole family in Simit\u00ed with the communion wafer. Their\nestates had been willed to the Church, and he was impatient to have\nthe management of them. Again nothing was done about it.\"\n\n\"But, Rosendo, if Simit\u00ed has been so afflicted by bad priests, why are\nyou confiding in me?\" Jos\u00e8 asked in wonder.\n\n\"Because, Padre,\" Rosendo replied, \"in the fever you said many things\nthat made me think you were not a bad man. I did suspect you at\nfirst--but not after I heard you talk in your sleep. You, too, have\nsuffered. And the Church has caused it. No, not God; but the men who\nsay they know what He thinks and says. They make us all suffer. And\nafter I heard you tell those things in your fever-sleep, I said to\nMaria that if you lived I knew you would help me protect the little\nCarmen. Then, too, you are a--\" He lapsed abruptly into silence.\n\nJos\u00e8 pressed Rosendo's hand. \"Tell me about her. You have said she is\nnot your daughter. I ask only because of sincere affection for you\nall, and because the child has aroused in me an unwonted interest.\"\n\nRosendo looked steadily into the eyes of the priest for some moments.\nJos\u00e8 as steadily returned the glance. From the eyes of the one there\nemanated a soul-searching scrutiny; from those of the other an\nanswering bid for confidence. The bid was accepted.\n\n\"Padre,\" began Rosendo, \"I place trust in you. Something makes me\nbelieve that you are not like other priests I have known. And I have\nseen that you already love the little Carmen. No, she is not my child.\nOne day, about eight years ago, a steamer on its way down the river\ntouched at Badillo to put off a young woman, who was so sick that the\ncaptain feared she would die on board. He knew nothing of her, except\nthat she had embarked at Honda and was bound for Barranquilla. He\nhoped that by leaving her in the care of the good people of Badillo\nsomething might be done. The boat went its way; and the next morning\nthe woman died, shortly after her babe was born. They buried her back\nof the village, and Escolastico's woman took the child. They tried to\nlearn the history of the mother; but, though the captain of the boat\nmade many inquiries, he could only find that she had come from Bogot\u00e1\nthe day before the boat left Honda, and that she was then very sick.\nSome weeks afterward Escolastico happened to come to Simit\u00ed, and told\nme the story. He complained that his family was already large, and\nthat his woman found the care of the babe a burden. I love children,\nPadre, and it seemed to me that I could find a place for the little\none, and I told him I would fetch her. And so a few days later I\nbrought her to Simit\u00ed. But before leaving Badillo I fixed a wooden\ncross over the mother's grave and wrote on it in pencil the name\n'_Dolores_,' for that was the name in the little gold locket which we\nfound in her valise. There were some clothes, better than the average,\nand the locket. In the locket were two small pictures, one of a young\nman, with the name '_Guillermo_' written beneath it, and one of the\nwoman, with '_Dolores_' under it. That was all. Captain Julio took the\nlocket to Honda when he made inquiries there; but brought it back\nagain, saying that nobody recognized the faces. I named the babe\nCarmen, and have brought her up as my own child. She--Padre, I adore\nher!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 listened in breathless silence.\n\n\"But we sometimes think,\" said Rosendo, resuming his dramatic\nnarrative, \"that it was all a miracle, perhaps a dream; that it was\nthe angels who left the babe on the river bank, for she herself is not\nof the earth.\"\n\n\"Tell me, Rosendo, just what you mean,\" said Jos\u00e8 reverently, laying\nhis hand gently upon the older man's arm.\n\nRosendo shook his head slowly. \"Talk with her, Padre, and you will\nsee. I cannot explain. Only, she is not like us. She is like--\"\n\nHis voice dropped to a whisper.\n\n\"--she is like--God. And she knows Him better than she knows me.\"\n\nJos\u00e8's head slowly sank upon his breast. The gloom within the musty\nchurch was thick; and the bats stirred restlessly among the dusty\nrafters overhead. Outside, the relentless heat poured down upon the\ndeserted streets.\n\n\"Padre,\" Rosendo resumed. \"In the _calentura_ you talked of wonderful\nthings. You spoke of kings and popes and foreign lands, of beautiful\ncities and great marvels of which we know nothing. It was wonderful!\nAnd you recited beautiful poems--but often in other tongues than ours.\nPadre, you must be very learned. I listened, and was astonished, for\nwe are so ignorant here in Simit\u00ed, oh, so ignorant! We have no\nschools, and our poor little children grow up to be only _peones_ and\nfishermen. But--the little Carmen--ah, she has a mind! Padre--\"\n\nAgain he lapsed into silence, as if fearful to ask the boon.\n\n\"Yes, Rosendo, yes,\" Jos\u00e8 eagerly reassured him. \"Go on.\"\n\nRosendo turned full upon the priest and spoke rapidly. \"Padre, will\nyou teach the little Carmen what you know? Will you make her a strong,\nlearned woman, and fit her to do big things in the world--and\nthen--then--\"\n\n\"Yes, Rosendo?\"\n\n\"--then get her away from Simit\u00ed? She does not belong here, Padre.\nAnd--?\" his voice sank to a hoarse whisper--\"will you help me keep her\nfrom the Church?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 sat staring at the man with dilating eyes.\n\n\"Padre, she has her own Church. It is her heart.\"\n\nHe leaned over and laid a hand upon the priest's knee. His dark eyes\nseemed to burn like glowing coals. His whispered words were fraught\nwith a meaning which Jos\u00e8 would some day learn.\n\n\"Padre, _that_ must be left alone!\"\n\nA long silence fell upon the two men, the one massive of frame and\nblack of face, but with a mind as simple as a child's and a heart as\nwhite as the snow that sprinkled his raven locks--the other a\nyouth in years, but bowed with disappointment and suffering; yet now\nlistening with hushed breath to the words that rolled with a mighty\nreverberation through the chambers of his soul:\n\n\"I am God, and there is none else! Behold, I come quickly! Arise,\nshine, for thy light is come!\"\n\nThe sweet face of the child rose out of the gloom before the priest.\nThe years rolled back like a curtain, and he saw himself at her tender\nage, a white, unformed soul, awaiting the sculptor's hand. God forbid\nthat the hand which shaped his career should form the plastic mind of\nthis girl!\n\nOf a sudden a great thought flashed out of the depths of eternity and\ninto his brain, a thought which seemed to illumine his whole past\nlife. In the clear light thereof he seemed instantly to read meanings\nin numberless events which to that hour had remained hidden. His\ncomplex, misshapen career--could it have been a preparation?--and for\nthis? He had yearned to serve his fellow-men, but had miserably\nfailed. For, while to will was always present with him, even as with\nPaul, yet how to perform that which was good he found not. But\nnow--what an opportunity opened before him! What a beautiful offering\nof self was here made possible? God, what a privilege!\n\nRosendo sat stolid, buried in thought. Jos\u00e8 reached out through the\ndim light and grasped his black hand. His eyes were lucent, his heart\nburned with the fire of an unknown enthusiasm, and speech stumbled\nacross his lips.\n\n\"Rosendo, I came to Simit\u00ed to die. And now I know that I _shall_\ndie--to myself. But thereby shall I live. Yes, I shall live! And here\nbefore this altar, in the sight of that God whom she knows so well, I\npledge my new-found life to Carmen. My mind, my thought, my strength,\nare henceforth hers. May her God direct me in their right use for His\nbeautiful child!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 and Rosendo rose from the bench with hands still clasped. In that\nhour the priest was born again.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 4\n\n\n\"He that loseth his life for my sake shall find it.\"\n\nThe reporters of the unique Man of Galilee, upon whose straining ears\nthese words fell, noted them for future generations of footsore\npilgrims on life's wandering highway--for the rich, satiated with\ntheir gorgeous gluttonies; for the proud Levite, with his feet\nenmeshed in the lifeless letter of the Law; for the loathsome and\noutcast beggar at the gates of Dives. And for Jos\u00e8 de Rinc\u00f3n, priest\nof the Holy Catholic Church and vicar of Christ, scion of aristocracy\nand worldly learning, now humbled and blinded, like Paul on the road\nto Damascus, begging that his spiritual sight might be opened to the\nglory of the One with whom he had not known how to walk.\n\nReturning in silence from the church to Rosendo's humble cottage, Jos\u00e8\nhad asked leave to retire. He would be alone with the great Presence\nwhich had come to him across the desert of his life, and now stood\nbefore him in the brightness of the undimmed sun. He no longer felt\nill nor exhausted. Indeed, quite the contrary; a quickened sense of\nlife, an eagerness to embrace the opportunity opening before him,\ncaused his chest to heave and his shrunken veins to throb.\n\nOn his bed in the darkened room he lay in a deep silence, broken only\nat intervals by the hurried scampering of lizards darting through the\ninterstices of the dry walls. His uncomprehending eyes were fixed upon\nthe dust-laden thatch of the roof overhead, where droning wasps toiled\nupon their frail abodes. He lay with the portals of his mind opened\nwide. Through them, in ceaseless flow, passed two streams which did\nnot mingle. The one, outward bound, turbid with its burden of egoism,\nfear, perplexity, and hopelessness, which, like barnacles, had\nfastened to his soul on its chartless voyage; the other, a stream of\nhope and confidence and definite purpose, a stream which leaped and\nsang in the warm sunlight of Love as it poured into his receptive\nbrain.\n\nThe fresh thought which flowed into his mental chambers rapidly formed\ninto orderly plans, all centering upon the child, Carmen. What could\nhe teach her? The relative truths and worldly knowledge--purified,\nas far as in him lay, from the dross of speculation and human\nopinion--which lay stored in the archives of his mind? Yes; but that\nwas all. History, and its interpretation of human progress; the\nlanguages; mathematics, and the elements of the physical sciences;\nliterature; and a knowledge of people and places. With these his\nretentive mind was replete. But beyond this he must learn of her.\nAnd her tutor, he now knew, was the Master Mind, omniscient God.\nAnd he knew, more, that she possessed secrets whose potency he might\nas yet scarcely imagine. For, in an environment which for dearth of\nmental stimulus and incentive could scarcely be matched; amid\npoverty but slightly raised above actual want; untouched by the\ntemperamental hopelessness which lies just beneath the surface of\nthese dull, simple folk, this child lived a life of such ecstasy as\nmight well excite the envy of the world's potentates.\n\nBut meantime, what should be his attitude toward the parish? He fully\nrealized that he and the Church were now as far apart as the poles.\nYet this was become his parish, the first he had ever held; and these\nwere his people. And he must face them and preach--what? If not the\nCatholic faith, then would he be speedily removed. And that meant\ncomplete disruption of his rapidly formulating plans. But might he not\nin that event flee with Carmen, renounce the Church, and--\n\nImpossible! Excommunication alone could sever the oath by which the\nChurch held him. And for that he could not say that he was ready. For\nexcommunication meant disgrace to his mother--perhaps the snapping of\na heart already sorely strained. To renounce his oath was dishonor. To\npreach the Catholic faith without sincerity was scarcely less. Yet\namid present circumstances this seemed the only course open to him.\n\nBut what must he teach Carmen in regard to the Church? Could he\nmaintain his position in it, yet not of it; and at the same time rear\nher without its pale, yet so as not to conflict with the people of\nSimit\u00ed, nor cause such comment as might reach the ears of the Bishop\nof Cartagena? God alone knew. It must be attempted, at any rate. There\nwas no other way. And if it was God's plan, he might safely trust Him\nfor the requisite strength and wisdom. For this course the isolation\nof Simit\u00ed and the childish simplicity of its people afforded a\ntremendous advantage. On the other hand, he knew that both he and\nCarmen had powerful enemies. Yet, one with God might rout a host. And\nCarmen walked with God.\n\nThus throughout the afternoon the priest weighed and pondered the\nthoughts that sought admission to his reawakened mind. He was not\ninterrupted until sundown; and then Carmen entered the room with a\nbowl of chocolate and some small wheaten loaves. Behind her, with an\namusing show of dignity, stalked a large heron, an elegant bird, with\nlong, scarlet legs, gray plumage, and a gracefully curved neck. When\nthe bird reached the threshold it stopped, and without warning gave\nvent to a prolonged series of shrill, unmusical sounds. The startled\npriest sat up in his bed and exclaimed in amazement.\n\n\"It is only Cantar-las-horas, Padre,\" laughed the little maid. \"He\nfollows me wherever I go, unless he is off fishing. Sometimes when I\ngo out in the boat with padre Rosendo he flies clear across the lake\nto meet us. He is lots older than I, and years ago, when there were\n_Curas_ here, he learned his song. Whenever the _Angelas_ rang he\nwould try to sing just like it; and now he has the habit and can't\nhelp it. But he is such a dear, wise old fellow,\" twining a chubby arm\nlovingly about the bird's slender neck; \"and he always sings just at\nsix o'clock, the time the _Angelas_ used to ring.\"\n\nThe heron manifested the deepest affection for the child as she gently\nstroked its plumage and caressed its long, pointed bill.\n\n\"But how do you suppose he knows when it is just six o'clock,\n_chiquita_?\" asked Jos\u00e8, deeply interested in the strange phenomenon.\n\n\"God tells him, Padre,\" was the direct and simple reply.\n\nAssuredly, he should have known that! But he was fast learning of this\nunusual child, whose every movement was a demonstration of Immanuel.\n\n\"Does God tell you what to do, Carmen?\" he asked, seeking to draw out\nthe girl's strange thought, that he might probe deeper into her\nreligious convictions.\n\n\"Why, yes, Padre.\" Her tone expressed surprise. \"Doesn't He tell you,\ntoo?\" Her great eyes searched him. He was a _Cura_; he should be very\nclose to God.\n\n\"Yes, _chiquita_--that is, He has told me to-day what to do.\"\n\nThere was a shade of disappointment in her voice when she replied: \"I\nguess you mean you listened to Him to-day, don't you, Padre? I think\nsometimes you don't want to hear Him. But,\" she finished with a little\nsigh, \"there are lots of people here who don't; and that is why they\nare sick and unhappy.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 was learning another lesson, that of guarding his speech to this\ningenuous girl. He discreetly changed the subject.\n\n\"What have you been doing this afternoon, little one?\"\n\nHer eyes instantly brightened, and the dark shade that had crossed her\nface disappeared.\n\n\"Well, after the _siesta_ I helped madre Maria clean the yuccas for\nsupper; and then I did my writing lesson. Padre Rosendo told me to-day\nthat I could write better than he. But, Padre, will you teach madre\nMaria to read and write? And there are just lots of poor people here\nwho can't, too. There is a school teacher in Simit\u00ed, but he charges a\nwhole _peso oro_ a month for teaching; and the people haven't the\nmoney, and so they can't learn.\"\n\nAlways the child shifted his thought from herself to others. Again she\nshowed him that the road to happiness wound among the needs of his\nfellow-men. The priest mentally recorded the instruction; and the girl\ncontinued:\n\n\"Padre Rosendo told madre Maria that you said you had come to Simit\u00ed\nto die. You were not thinking of us then, were you, Padre? People who\nthink only of themselves always want to die. That was why Don Luis\ndied last year. He had lots of gold, and he always wanted more, and he\nwas cruel and selfish, and he couldn't talk about anything but himself\nand how rich he was--and so he died. He didn't really die; but he\nthought about himself until he thought he died. And so they buried\nhim. That's what always happens to people who think about themselves\nall the time--they get buried.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 was glad of the silence that fell upon them. Wrapped so long in\nhis own egoism, he had now no worldly wisdom with which to match this\ngirl's sapient words. He waited. He felt that Carmen was but the\nchannel through which a great Voice was speaking.\n\n\"Padre,\" the tones were tender and soft, \"you don't always think of\ngood things, do you?\"\n\n\"I? Why, no, little girl. I guess I haven't done so. That is, not\nalways. But--\"\n\n\"Because if you had you wouldn't have been driven into the lake that\nday. And you wouldn't be here now in Simit\u00ed.\"\n\n\"But, child, even a _Cura_ cannot always think of good things, when he\nsees so much wickedness in the world!\"\n\n\"But, Padre, God is good, isn't He?\"\n\n\"Yes, child.\" The necessity to answer could not be avoided.\n\n\"And He is everywhere?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" He had to say it.\n\n\"Then where is the wickedness, Padre?\"\n\n\"Why--but, _chiquita_, you don't understand; you are too young to\nreason about such things; and--\"\n\nIn his heart Jos\u00e8 knew he spoke not the truth. He felt the great\nbrown eyes of the girl penetrate his naked soul; and he knew that in\nthe dark recesses of the inner man they fell upon the grinning\nskeleton of hypocrisy. Carmen might be, doubtless was, incapable of\nreasoning. Of logical processes she knew nothing. But by what crass\nassumption might he, admittedly woefully defeated in his combat with\nFate, oppose his feeble shafts of worldly logic to this child's\ninstinct, an instinct of whose inerrancy her daily walk was a living\ndemonstration? In quick penitence and humility he stretched out his\narm and drew her unresisting to him.\n\n\"Dear little child of God,\" he murmured, as he bent over her and\ntouched his lips to her rich brown curls, \"I have tried my life long\nto learn what you already know. And at last I have been led to you--to\nyou, little one, who shall be a lamp unto my feet. Dearest child, I\nwant to know your God as you know Him. I want you to lead me to Him,\nfor you know where He is.\"\n\n\"He is _everywhere_, Padre dear,\" whispered the child, as she\nnestled close to the priest and stole her soft arms gently about his\nneck. \"But we don't see Him nor hear Him if we have bad thoughts, and\nif we don't love everybody and everything, even Cucumbra, and\nCantar-las-horas, and--\"\n\n\"Yes, _chiquita_, I know now,\" interrupted Jos\u00e8. \"I don't wonder they\nall love you.\"\n\n\"But, Padre dear, I love them--and I love you.\"\n\nThe priest strained her to him. His famished heart yearned for love.\nLove! first of the tender graces which adorned this beautiful child.\nVerily, only those imbued with it become the real teachers of men. The\nbeloved disciple's last instruction to his dear children was the\ntender admonition to love one another. But why, oh, why are we bidden\nto love the fallen, sordid outcasts of this wicked world--the\nwretched, sinning pariahs--the greedy, grasping, self-centered mass of\nhumanity that surges about us in such woeful confusion of good and\nevil? Because the wise Master did. Because he said that God was Love.\nBecause he taught that he who loves not, knows not God. And because,\noh, wonderful spiritual alchemy! because Love is the magical potion\nwhich, dropping like heavenly dew upon sinful humanity, dissolves the\nvice, the sorrow, the carnal passions, and transmutes the brutish\nmortal into the image and likeness of the perfect God.\n\nFar into the night, while the child slept peacefully in the bed near\nhim, Jos\u00e8 lay thinking of her and of the sharp turn which she had\ngiven to the direction of his life. Through the warm night air the\nhoarse croaking of distant frogs and the mournful note of the toucan\nfloated to his ears. In the street without he heard at intervals the\npattering of bare feet in the hot, thick dust, as tardy fishermen\nreturned from their labors. The hum of insects about his _toldo_\nlulled him with its low monotone. The call of a lonely jaguar drifted\nacross the still lake from the brooding jungle beyond. A great peace\nlay over the ancient town; and when, in the early hours of morning, as\nthe distorted moon hung low in the western sky, Jos\u00e8 awoke, the soft\nbreathing of the child fell upon his ears like a benediction; and deep\nfrom his heart there welled a prayer--\n\n\"My God--_her_ God--at last I thank Thee!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 5\n\n\nThe day following was filled to the brim with bustling activity. Jos\u00e8\nplunged into his new life with an enthusiasm he had never known\nbefore. His first care was to relieve Rosendo and his good wife of the\nburden of housing him. Rosendo, protesting against the intimation that\nthe priest could in any way inconvenience him, at last suggested that\nthe house adjoining his own, a small, three-room cottage, was vacant,\nand might be had at a nominal rental. Some repairs were needed; the\nmud had fallen from the walls in several places; but he would plaster\nit up again and put it into habitable condition at once.\n\nDuring the discussion Don Mario, the Alcalde, called to pay his\nrespects to Jos\u00e8. He had just returned from a week's visit to Oca\u00f1a,\nwhither he had gone on matters of business with Simit\u00ed's most eminent\ncitizen, Don Felipe Alcozer, who was at present sojourning there for\nreasons of health. Learning of the priest's recent severe illness, Don\nMario had hastened at once to pay his _devoirs_. And now the Holy\nVirgin be praised that he beheld the _Cura_ again fully restored! Yes,\nthe dismal little house in question belonged to him, but would the\n_Cura_ graciously accept it, rent free, and with his most sincere\ncompliments? Jos\u00e8 glanced at Rosendo and, reading a meaning in the\nslight shake of his head, replied that, although overwhelmed by the\nAlcalde's kindness, he could take the cottage only on the condition\nthat it should become the parish house, which the Church must support.\nA shade of disappointment seemed to cross the heavy face of Don Mario,\nbut he graciously acquiesced in the priest's suggestion; and\narrangements were at once concluded whereby the house became the\ndwelling place of the new _Cura_.\n\nRosendo thereupon sent out a call for assistants, to which the entire\nunemployed male population of the town responded. Mud for the walls\nwas hastily brought from the lake, and mixed with manure and dried\ngrass. A half dozen young men started for the islands to cut fresh\nthatch for the roof. Others set about scraping the hard dirt floors;\nwhile Don Mario gave orders which secured a table, several rough\nchairs, together with iron stewpans and a variety of enameled metal\ndishes, all of which Rosendo insisted should be charged against the\nparish. The village carpenter, with his rusty tools and rough,\nundressed lumber, constructed a bed in one of the rooms; and Juan, the\nboatman, laboriously sought out stones of the proper shape and size to\nsupport the cooking utensils in the primitive dirt hearth.\n\nOften, as he watched the progress of these arrangements, Jos\u00e8's\nthoughts reverted longingly to his father's comfortable house in\nfar-off Seville; to his former simple quarters in Rome; and to the\nless pretentious, but still wholly sufficient _m\u00e9nage_ of Cartagena.\nCompared with this primitive dwelling and the simple husbandry which\nit would shelter, his former abodes and manner of life had been\nextravagantly luxurious. At times he felt a sudden sinking of heart as\nhe reflected that perhaps he should never again know anything better\nthan the lowly life of this dead town. But when his gaze rested upon\nthe little Carmen, flying hither and yon with an ardent, anticipatory\ninterest in every detail of the preparations, and when he realized\nthat, though her feet seemed to rest in the squalid setting afforded\nby this dreary place, yet her thought dwelt ever in heaven, his heart\nwelled again with a great thankfulness for the inestimable privilege\nof giving his new life, in whatever environment, to a soul so fair as\nhers.\n\nWhile his house was being set in order under the direction of Rosendo,\nJos\u00e8 visited the church with the Alcalde to formulate plans for its\nimmediate repair and renovation. As he surveyed the ancient pile and\nreflected that it stood as a monument to the inflexible religious\nconvictions of his own distant progenitors, the priest's sensibilities\nwere profoundly stirred. How little he knew of that long line of\nillustrious ancestry which preceded him! He had been thrust from under\nthe parental wing at the tender age of twelve; but he could not recall\nthat even before that event his father had ever made more than casual\nmention of the family. Indeed, in the few months since arriving on\nancestral soil Jos\u00e8 had gathered up more of the threads which bound\nhim to the ancient house of Rinc\u00f3n than in all the years which\npreceded. Had he himself only been capable of the unquestioning\nacceptance of religious dogma which those old _Conqueros_ and early\nforbears exhibited, to what position of eminence in Holy Church might\nhe not already have attained, with every avenue open to still greater\npreferment! How happy were his dear mother then! How glorious their\nhonored name!--\n\nWith a sigh the priest roused himself and strove to thrust these\ndisturbing thoughts from his mind by centering his attention upon the\nwork in hand. Do\u00f1a Maria came to him for permission to take the moldy\nvestments from the _sacrist\u00eda_ to her house to clean them. The\nAlcalde, bustling about, panting and perspiring, was distributing\ncountless orders among his willing assistants. Carmen, who throughout\nthe morning had been everywhere, bubbling with enthusiasm, now\nappeared at the church door. As she entered the musty, ill-smelling\nold building she hesitated on the threshold, her childish face screwed\ninto an expression of disgust.\n\n\"Come in, little one; I need your inspiration,\" called Jos\u00e8 cheerily.\n\nThe child approached, and slipped her hand into his. \"Padre Rosendo\nsays this is God's house,\" she commented, looking up at Jos\u00e8. \"He says\nyou are going to talk about God here--in this dirty, smelly old place!\nWhy don't you talk about Him out of doors?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 was becoming innured to the embarrassment which her direct\nquestions occasioned. And he was learning not to dissemble in his\nreplies.\n\n\"It is because the people want to come here, dear one; it is their\ncustom.\"\n\nWould the people believe that the wafer and wine could be changed into\nthe flesh and blood of Jesus elsewhere--even in Nature's temple?\n\n\"But _I_ don't want to come here!\" she asseverated.\n\n\"That was a naughty thing to say to the good _Cura_, child!\"\ninterposed Don Mario, who had overheard the girl's remark. \"You see,\nPadre, how we need a _Cura_ here to save these children; otherwise the\nChurch is going to lose them. They are running pretty wild, and\nespecially this one. She is already dedicated to the Church; but she\nwill have to learn to speak more reverently of holy things if she\nexpects to become a good Sister.\"\n\nThe child looked uncomprehendingly from, one to the other.\n\n\"Who dedicated her to the Church?\" demanded Jos\u00e8 sharply.\n\n\"Oh, Padre Diego, at her baptism, when she was a baby,\" replied Don\nMario in a matter of fact tone.\n\nJos\u00e8 shuddered at the thought of that unholy man's loathsome hands\nresting upon the innocent girl. But he made no immediate reply. Of\nall things, he knew that the guarding of his own tongue was now most\nimportant. But his thought was busy with Rosendo's burning words of\nthe preceding day, and with his own solemn vow. He reflected on his\npresent paradoxical, hazardous position; on the tremendous problem\nwhich here confronted him; and on his desperate need of wisdom--yea,\nsuperhuman wisdom--to ward off from this child the net which he knew\nthe subtlety and cruel cunning of shrewd, unscrupulous men would some\nday cause to be cast about her. A soul like hers, mirrored in a body\nso wondrous fair, must eventually draw the devil's most envenomed\nbarbs.\n\nTo Jos\u00e8's great relief Don Mario turned immediately from the present\ntopic to one relating to the work of renovation. Finding a pretext for\nsending Carmen back to the house, the priest gave his attention\nunreservedly to the Alcalde. But his mind ceased not to revolve the\nimplications in Don Mario's words relative to the girl; and when the\nmidday _siesta_ came upon him his brow was knotted and his eyes gazed\nvacantly at the manifestations of activity about him.\n\nHurrying across the road to escape the scalding heat, Jos\u00e8's ears\nagain caught the sound of singing, issuing evidently from Rosendo's\nhouse. It was very like the clear, sweet voice which had floated into\nhis room the morning after he awoke from his delirium. He approached\nthe door reverently and looked in. Carmen was arranging the few poor\ndishes upon the rough table, and as she worked, her soul flowed across\nher lips in song.\n\nThe man listened astonished. The words and the simple melody which\ncarried them were evidently an improvisation. But the voice--did that\nissue from a human throat? Yes, for in distant Spain and far-off Rome,\nin great cathedrals and concert halls, he had sometimes listened\nentranced to voices like this--stronger, and delicately trained, but\nreared upon even less of primitive talent.\n\nThe girl caught sight of him; and the song died on the warm air.\n\nThe priest strode toward her and clasped her in his arms. \"Carmen,\nchild! Who taught you to sing like that?\"\n\nThe girl smiled up in his face. \"God, Padre.\"\n\nOf course! He should have known. And in future he need never ask.\n\n\"And I suppose He tells you when to sing, too, as He does\nCantar-las-horas?\" said Jos\u00e8, smiling in amusement.\n\n\"No, Padre,\" was the unaffected answer. \"He just sings Himself in\nme.\"\n\nThe man felt rebuked for his light remark; and a lump rose in his\nthroat. He looked again into her fair face with a deep yearning.\n\nOh, ye of little faith! Did you but know--could you but realize--that\nthe kingdom of heaven is within you, would not celestial melody flow\nfrom your lips, too?\n\nThroughout the afternoon, while he labored with his willing helpers in\nthe church building and his homely cottage, the child's song lingered\nin his brain, like the memory of a sweet perfume. His eyes followed\nher lithe, graceful form as she flitted about, and his mind was busy\ndevising pretexts for keeping her near him. At times she would steal\nup close to him and put her little hand lovingly and confidingly into\nhis own. Then as he looked down into her upturned face, wreathed with\nsmiles of happiness, his breath would catch, and he would turn\nhurriedly away, that she might not see the tears which suffused his\neyes.\n\nWhen night crept down, unheralded, from the _Sierras_, the priest's\nhouse stood ready for its occupant. Cantar-las-horas had dedicated it\nby singing the _Angelus_ at the front door, for the hour of six had\novertaken him as he stood, with cocked head, peering curiously within.\nThe dwelling, though pitifully bare, was nevertheless as clean as\nthese humble folk with the primitive means at their command could\nrender it. Instead of the customary hard _macana_ palm strips for the\nbed, Rosendo had thoughtfully substituted a large piece of tough white\ncanvas, fastened to a rectangular frame, which rested on posts well\nabove the damp floor. On this lay a white sheet and a light blanket of\nred flannel. Rosendo had insisted that, for the present, Jos\u00e8 should\ntake his meals with him. The priest's domestic arrangements,\ntherefore, would be simple in the extreme; and Do\u00f1a Maria quietly\nannounced that these were in her charge. The church edifice would not\nbe in order for some days yet, perhaps a week. But of this Jos\u00e8 was\nsecretly glad, for he regarded with dread the necessity of discharging\nthe priestly functions. And yet, upon that hinged his stay in Simit\u00ed.\n\n\"Simit\u00ed has two churches, you know, Padre,\" remarked Rosendo during\nthe evening meal. \"There is another old one near the eastern edge of\ntown. If you wish, we can visit it while there is yet light.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 expressed his pleasure; and a few minutes later the two men, with\nCarmen dancing along happily beside them, were climbing the shaly\neminence upon the summit of which stood the second church. On the way\nthey passed the town cemetery.\n\n\"The Spanish cemetery never grows,\" commented Jos\u00e8, stopping at the\ncrumbling gateway and peering in. The place of sepulture was the\nepitome of utter desolation. A tumbled brick wall surrounded it, and\nthere were a few broken brick vaults, in some of which whitening bones\nwere visible. In a far corner was a heap of human bones and bits of\ndecayed coffins.\n\n\"Their rent fell due, Padre,\" said Rosendo with a little laugh,\nindicating the bones. \"The Church rents this ground to the people--it\nis consecrated, you know. And if the payments are not made, why, the\nbones come up and are thrown over there.\"\n\n\"Humph!\" grunted Jos\u00e8. \"Worse than heathenish!\"\n\n\"But you see, Padre, the Church is only concerned with souls. And it\nis better to pay the money to get souls out of purgatory than to rent\na bit of ground for the body, is it not?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 wisely vouchsafed no answer.\n\n\"Come, Padre,\" continued Rosendo. \"I would not want to have to spend\nthe night here. For, you know, if a man spends a night in a cemetery\nan evil spirit settles upon him--is it not so?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 still kept silence before the old man's inbred superstition. A\nfew minutes later they stood before the old church. It was in the\nSpanish mission style, but smaller than the one in the central\n_plaza_.\n\n\"This was built in the time of your great-grandfather, Padre, the\nfather of Don Ignacio,\" offered Rosendo. \"The Rinc\u00f3n family had many\npowerful enemies throughout the country, and those in Simit\u00ed even\ncarried their ill feeling so far as to refuse to hear Mass in the\nchurch which your family built. So they erected this one. No one ever\nenters it now. Strange noises are sometimes heard inside, and the\npeople are afraid to go in. You see there are no houses built near it.\nThey say an angel of the devil lives here and thrashes around at times\nin terrible anger. There is a story that many years ago, when I was\nbut a baby, the devil's angel came and entered this church one dark\nnight, when there was a terrible storm and the waves of the lake were\nso strong that they tossed the crocodiles far up on the shore. And\nwhen the bad angel saw the candles burning on the altar before the\nsacred wafer he roared in anger and blew them out. But there was a\nbeautiful painting of the Virgin on the wall, and when the lights went\nout she came down out of her picture and lighted the candles again.\nBut the devil's angel blew them out once more. And then, they say, the\nHoly Virgin left the church in darkness and went out and locked the\nwicked angel in, where he has been ever since. That was to show her\ndispleasure against the enemies of the great Rinc\u00f3ns for erecting this\nchurch. The _Cura_ died suddenly that night; and the church has never\nbeen used since The Virgin, you know, is the special guardian Saint of\nthe Rinc\u00f3n family.\"\n\n\"But you do not believe the story, Rosendo?\" Jos\u00e8 asked.\n\n\"_Quien sabe?_\" was the noncommittal reply.\n\n\"Do you really think the Virgin could or would do such a thing,\nRosendo?\"\n\n\"Why not, Padre? She has the same power as God, has she not? The frame\nwhich held her picture\"--reverting again to the story--\"was found out\nin front of the church the next morning; but the picture itself was\ngone.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 glanced down at Carmen, who had been listening with a tense, rapt\nexpression on her face. What impression did this strange story make\nupon her? She looked up at the priest with a little laugh.\n\n\"Let us go in, Padre,\" she said.\n\n\"No!\" commanded Rosendo, seizing her hand.\n\n\"Are you afraid, Rosendo?\" queried the amused Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"I--I would--rather not,\" the old man replied hesitatingly. \"The\nVirgin has sealed it.\" Physical danger was temperamental to this noble\nson of the jungle; yet the religious superstition which Spain had\nbequeathed to this oppressed land still shackled his limbs.\n\nAs they descended the hill Carmen seized an opportunity to speak to\nJos\u00e8 alone. \"Some day, Padre,\" she whispered, \"you and I will open the\ndoor and let the bad angel out, won't we?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 pressed her little hand. He knew that the door of his own mind\nhad swung wide at her bidding in these few days, and many a bad angel\nhad gone out forever.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 6\n\n\nThe dawn of a new day broke white and glistering upon the ancient\n_pueblo_. From their hard beds of palm, and their straw mats on the\ndirt floors, the provincial dwellers in this abandoned treasure house\nof Old Spain rose already dressed to resume the monotonous routine of\ntheir lowly life. The duties which confronted them were few, scarce\nextending beyond the procurement of their simple food. And for all,\nexcepting the two or three families which constituted the shabby\naristocracy of Simit\u00ed, this was limited in the extreme. Indian corn,\n_panela_, and coffee, with an occasional addition of _platanos_ or\nrice, and now and then bits of _bagre_, the coarse fish yielded by the\nadjacent lake, constituted the staple diet of the average citizen of\nthis decayed hamlet. A few might purchase a bit of lard at rare\nintervals; and this they hoarded like precious jewels. Some\noccasionally had wheat flour; but the long, difficult transportation,\nand its rapid deterioration in that hot, moist climate, where swarms\nof voracious insects burrow into everything not cased in tin or iron,\nmade its cost all but prohibitive. A few had goats and chickens. Some\npossessed pigs. And the latter even exceeded in value the black, naked\nbabes that played in the hot dust of the streets with them.\n\nJos\u00e8 was up at dawn. Standing in the warm, unadulterated sunlight in\nhis doorway he watched the village awaken. At a door across the\n_plaza_ a woman appeared, smoking a cigar, with the lighted end in her\nmouth. Jos\u00e8 viewed with astonishment this curious custom which\nprevails in the _Tierra Caliente_. He had observed that in Simit\u00ed\nnearly everybody of both sexes was addicted to the use of tobacco, and\nit was no uncommon sight to see children of tender age smoking heavy,\nblack cigars with keen enjoyment. From another door issued two\nfishermen, who, seeing the priest, approached and asked his blessing\non their day's work. Some moments later he heard a loud tattoo, and\nsoon the Alcalde of the village appeared, marching pompously through\nthe streets, preceded by his tall, black secretary, who was beating\nlustily upon a small drum. At each street intersection the little\nprocession halted, while the Alcalde with great impressiveness\nsonorously read a proclamation just received from the central\nGovernment at Bogot\u00e1 to the effect that thereafter no cattle might be\nkilled in the country without the payment of a tax as therein set\nforth. Groups of _peones_ gathered slowly about the few little stores\nin the main street, or entered and inspected for the thousandth time\nthe shabby stocks. Matrons with black, shining faces cheerily greeted\none another from their doorways. Everywhere prevailed a gentle decorum\nof speech and manners. For, however lowly the station, however pinched\nthe environment, the dwellers in this ancient town were ever gentle,\ncourteous and dignified. Their conversation dealt with the simple\naffairs of their quiet life. They knew nothing of the complex\nproblems, social, economic, or religious, which harassed their\nbrethren of the North. No dubious aspirations or ambitions stirred\ntheir breasts. Nothing of the frenzied greed and lust of material\naccumulation touched their child-like minds. They dwelt upon a plane\nfar, far removed, in whatever direction, from the mental state of\ntheir educated and civilized brothers of the great States, who from\ntime to time undertake to advise them how to live, while ruthlessly\nexploiting them for material gain. And thus they have been exploited\never since the heavy hand of the Spaniard was laid upon them, four\ncenturies ago. Thus they will continue to be, until that distant day\nwhen mankind shall have learned to find their own in another's good.\n\nAs his eyes swept his environment, the untutored folk, the old church,\nthe dismally decrepit mud houses, with an air of desolation and utter\nabandon brooding over all; and as he reflected that his own complex\nnature, rather than any special malice of fortune, had brought this to\nhim, Jos\u00e8's heart began to sink under the sting of a condemning\nconscience. He turned back into his house. Its pitiful emptiness smote\nhim sore. No books, no pictures, no furnishings, nothing that\nministers to the comfort of a civilized and educated man! And yet,\namid this barrenness he had resolved to live.\n\nA song drifted to him through the pulsing heat of the morning air. It\nsifted through the mud walls of his poor dwelling, and poured into the\nopen doorway, where it hovered, quivering, like the dust motes in the\nsunbeams. Instantly the man righted himself. It was Carmen, the child\nto whom his life now belonged. Resolutely he again set his wandering\nmind toward the great thing he would accomplish--the protection and\ntraining of this girl, even while, if might be, he found his life\nagain in hers. Nothing on earth should shake him from that purpose!\nDoubt and uncertainty were powerless to dull the edge of his efforts.\nHis bridges were burned behind him; and on the other side of the great\ngulf lay the dead self which he had abandoned forever.\n\nA harsh medley of loud, angry growls, interspersed with shrill yelps,\nsuddenly arose before his house, and Jos\u00e8 hastened to the door just in\ntime to see Carmen rush into the street and fearlessly throw herself\nupon two fighting dogs.\n\n\"Cucumbra! Stop it instantly!\" she exclaimed, dragging the angry brute\nfrom a thoroughly frightened puppy.\n\n\"Shame! shame! And after all I've talked to you about loving that\npuppy!\"\n\nThe gaunt animal slunk down, with its tail between its legs.\n\n\"Did you ever gain anything at all by fighting? You know you never\ndid! And right down in your heart you know you love that puppy. You've\n_got_ to love him; you can't help it! And you might as well begin\nright now.\"\n\nThe beast whimpered at her little bare feet.\n\n\"Cucumbra, you let bad thoughts use you, didn't you? Yes, you did; and\nyou're sorry for it now. Well, there's the puppy,\" pointing to the\nlittle dog, which stood hesitant some yards away. \"Now go and play\nwith him,\" she urged. \"Play with him!\" rousing the larger dog and\npointing toward the puppy. \"Play with him! You _know_ you love him!\"\n\nCucumbra hesitated, looking alternately at the small, resolute girl\nand the smaller dog. Her arm remained rigidly extended, and\ndetermination was written large in her set features. The puppy uttered\na sharp bark, as if in forgiveness, and began to scamper playfully\nabout. Cucumbra threw a final glance at the girl.\n\n\"Play with him!\" she again commanded.\n\nThe large dog bounded after the puppy, and together they disappeared\naround the street corner.\n\nThe child turned and saw Jos\u00e8, who had regarded the scene in mute\nastonishment.\n\n\"_Muy buenos dias, Se\u00f1or Padre_,\" dropping a little courtesy. \"But\nisn't Cucumbra foolish to have bad thoughts?\"\n\n\"Why, yes--he certainly is,\" replied Jos\u00e8 slowly, hard pressed by the\nunusual question.\n\n\"He has just _got_ to love that puppy, or else he will never be happy,\nwill he, Padre?\"\n\nWhy would this girl persist in ending her statements with an\ninterrogation! How could he know whether Cucumbra's happiness would be\nimperfect if he failed in love toward the puppy?\n\n\"Because, you know, Padre,\" the child continued, coming up to him and\nslipping her hand into his, \"padre Rosendo once told me that God was\nLove; and after that I knew we just had to love everything and\neverybody, or else He can't see us--can He, Padre?\"\n\nHe can't see us--if we don't love everything and everybody! Well! Jos\u00e8\nwondered what sort of interpretation the Vatican, with its fiery\nhatred of heretics, would put upon this remark.\n\n\"Can He, Padre?\" insisted the girl.\n\n\"Dear child, in these matters you are teaching me; not I you,\" replied\nthe noncommittal priest.\n\n\"But, Padre, you are going to teach the people in the church,\" the\ngirl ventured quizzically.\n\nAh, so he was! And he had wondered what. In his hour of need the\nanswer was vouchsafed him.\n\n\"Yes, dearest child--and I am going to teach them what I learn from\n_you_.\"\n\nCarmen regarded him for a moment uncertainly. \"But, padre Rosendo says\nyou are to teach _me_,\" she averred.\n\n\"And so I am, little one,\" the priest replied; \"but not one half as\nmuch as I shall learn from you.\"\n\nDo\u00f1a Maria's summons to breakfast interrupted the conversation.\nThroughout the repast Jos\u00e8 felt himself subjected to the closest\nscrutiny by Carmen. What was running through her thought, he could\nonly vaguely surmise. But he instinctively felt that he was being\nweighed and appraised by this strange child, and that she was finding\nhim wanting in her estimate of what manner of man a priest of God\nought to be. And yet he knew that she embraced him in her great love.\nOftentimes his quick glance at her would find her serious gaze bent\nupon him. But whenever their eyes met, her sweet face would instantly\nrelax and glow with a smile of tenderest love--a love which, he felt,\nwas somehow, in some way, destined to reconstruct his shattered life.\n\nJos\u00e8's plans for educating the girl had gradually evolved into\ncompletion during the past two days. He explained them at length to\nRosendo after the morning meal; and the latter, with dilating eyes,\nmanifested his great joy by clasping the priest in his brawny arms.\n\n\"But remember, Rosendo,\" Jos\u00e8 said, \"learning is not _knowing_. I can\nonly teach her book-knowledge. But even now, an untutored child, she\nknows more that is real than I do.\"\n\n\"Ah, Padre, have I not told you many times that she is not like us?\nAnd now you know it!\" exclaimed the emotional Rosendo, his eyes\nsuffused with tears of joy as he beheld his cherished ideals and his\nlonging of years at last at the point of realization. What he, too,\nhad instinctively seen in the child was now to be summoned forth; and\nthe vague, half-understood motive which had impelled him to take the\nabandoned babe from Badillo into the shelter of his own great heart\nwould at length be revealed. The man's joy was ecstatic. With a final\nclasp of the priest's hand, he rushed from the house to plunge into\nthe work in progress at the church.\n\nJos\u00e8 summoned Carmen into the quiet of his own dwelling. She came\njoyfully, bringing an ancient and obsolete arithmetic and a much\ntattered book, which Jos\u00e8 discovered to be a chronicle of the heroic\ndeeds of the early _Conquistadores_.\n\n\"I'm through decimals!\" she exclaimed with glistening eyes; \"and I've\nread some of this, but I don't like it,\" making a little _moue_ of\ndisgust and holding aloft the battered history.\n\n\"Padre Rosendo told me to show it to you,\" she continued. \"But it is\nall about murder, you know. And yet,\" with a little sigh, \"he has\nnothing else to read, excepting old newspapers which the steamers\nsometimes leave at Bodega Central. And they are all about murder, and\nstealing, and bad things, too. Padre, why don't people write about\ngood things?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 gazed at her reverently, as of old the sculptor Phidias might\nhave stood in awe before the vision which he saw in the unchiseled\nmarble.\n\n\"Padre Rosendo helped me with the fractions,\" went on the girl,\nflitting lightly to another topic; \"but I had to learn the decimals\nmyself. He couldn't understand them. And they are so easy, aren't\nthey? I just love arithmetic!\" hugging the old book to her little\nbosom.\n\nBoth volumes, printed in Madrid, were reliques of Spanish colonial\ndays.\n\n\"Read to me, Carmen,\" said Jos\u00e8, handing her the history.\n\nThe child took the book and began to read, with clear enunciation, the\nnarrative of Quesada's sanguinary expedition to Bogot\u00e1, undertaken in\nthe name of the gentle Christ. Jos\u00e8 wondered as he listened what\ninterpretation this fresh young mind would put upon the motives of\nthat renowned exploit. Suddenly she snapped the book shut.\n\n\"Tell me about Jesus,\" she demanded.\n\nThe precipitation with which the question had been propounded almost\ntook his breath away. He raised his eyes to hers, and looked long and\nwonderingly into their infinite depths. And then the vastness of the\nproblem enunciated by her demand loomed before him. What, after all,\ndid he know about Jesus? Had he not arrived in Simit\u00ed in a state of\nagnosticism regarding religion? Had he not come there enveloped in\nconfusion, baffled, beaten, hopeless? And then, after his wonderful\ntalk with Rosendo, had he not agreed with him that the child's thought\nmust be kept free and open--that her own instinctive religious ideas\nmust be allowed to develop normally, unhampered and unfettered by the\nexternal warp and bias of human speculation? It was part of his plan\nthat all reference to matters theological should be omitted from\nCarmen's educational scheme. Yet here was that name on her lips--the\nfirst time he had ever heard it voiced by her. And it smote him like a\nhammer. He made haste to divert further inquiry.\n\n\"Not now, little one,\" he said hastily. \"I want to hear you read more\nfrom your book.\"\n\n\"No,\" she replied firmly, laying the volume upon the table. \"I don't\nlike it; and I shouldn't think you would, either. Besides, it isn't\ntrue; it never really happened.\"\n\n\"Why, of course it is true, child! It is history, the story of how the\nbrave Spaniards came into this country long ago. We will read a great\ndeal more about them later.\"\n\n\"No,\" with a decisive shake of her brown head; \"not if it is like\nthis. It isn't true; I told padre Rosendo it wasn't.\"\n\n\"Well, what do you mean, child?\" asked the uncomprehending priest.\n\n\"It is only a lot of bad thoughts printed in a book,\" she replied\nslowly. \"And it isn't true, because God is _everywhere_.\"\n\nClearly the man was encountering difficulties at the outset; and a\npart, at least, of his well-ordered curriculum stood in grave danger\nof repudiation at the hands of this earnest little maid.\n\nThe girl stood looking at him wistfully. Then her sober little face\nmelted in smiles. With childish impulsiveness she clambered into his\nlap, and twining her arms about his neck, impressed a kiss upon his\ncheek.\n\n\"I love you, Padre,\" she murmured; \"and you love me, don't you?\"\n\nHe pressed her to him, startled though he was. \"God knows I do, little\none!\" he exclaimed.\n\n\"Of course He does,\" she eagerly agreed; \"and He knows you don't want\nto teach me anything that isn't true, doesn't He, Padre dear?\"\n\nYea, and more; for Jos\u00e8 was realizing now, what he had not seen\nbefore, that _it was beyond his power to teach her that which was not\ntrue_. The magnitude and sacredness of his task impressed him as never\nbefore. His puzzled brain grappled feebly with the enormous problem.\nShe had rebuked him for trying to teach her things which, if he\naccepted the immanence of God as fact, her logic had shown him were\nutterly false. Clearly the grooves in which this child's pure thought\nran were not his own. And if she would not think as he did, what\nrecourse was there left him but to accept the alternative and think\nwith her? For he would not, even if he could, force upon her his own\nthought-processes.\n\n\"Then, Carmen,\" he finally ventured, \"you do not wish to learn about\npeople and what they have done and are doing in the big world about\nyou?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, Padre; tell me all about the good things they did!\"\n\n\"But they did many wicked things too, _chiquita_. And the good and the\nbad are all mixed up together.\"\n\n\"No,\" she shook her head vigorously; \"there isn't any bad. There is\nonly good, for God is everywhere--isn't He?\"\n\nShe raised up and looked squarely into the priest's eyes. Dissimulation,\nhypocrisy, quibble, cant--nothing but fearless truth could meet that\ngaze.\n\nSuddenly a light broke in upon his clouded thought. This girl--this\ntender plant of God--why, she had shown it from the very beginning!\nAnd he, oh, blind that he was! he could not see nor accept it. The\nsecret of her power, of her ecstasy of life--what was it but\nthis?--_she knew no evil!_\n\nAnd the Lord God commanded the man, saying, \"Of every tree of the\ngarden thou mayest freely eat: but of the tree of the knowledge of\ngood and evil, thou shalt not eat of it: for in the day that thou\neatest thereof thou shalt surely die.\"\n\nOh, great God! It was the first--the very first--lesson which Thou\ndidst teach Thy child, Israel, as the curtain rose upon the drama of\nhuman life! And the awful warning has rung down through the corridors\nof time from the mouths of the prophets, whom we slew lest they wake\nus from our mesmeric sleep! Israel forgot Thy words; and the world has\nforgotten them, long, long since. Daily we mix our perfumed draft of\ngood and evil, and sink under its lethal influence! Hourly we eat of\nthe forbidden tree, till the pangs of death encompass us!\n\nAnd when at last the dark angel hovered over the sin-stricken earth\nand claimed it for his own, the great Master came to sound again the\nwarning--\"As a man thinketh in his heart, _so is he_!\" But they would\nhave none of him, and nailed him to a tree!\n\nOh, Jerusalem! Oh, ye incarnate human mind! Even the unique Son of God\nwept as he looked with yearning upon you! Why? Because of your\nstubborn clinging to false ways, false beliefs, false thoughts of God\nand man! Because ye would not be healed; ye would not be made whole!\nYe loved evil--ye gave it life and power, and ye rolled it like a\nsweet morsel beneath your tongue--and so ye died! So came death into\nthis fair world, through the heart, the brain, the mind of man, _who\nsought to know what God could not_!\n\n\"Padre dear, you are so quiet.\" The girl nestled closer to the awed\npriest. Aye! And so the multitude on Sinai had stood in awed quiet as\nthey listened to the voice of God.\n\nThis child knew no evil! The man could not grasp the infinite\nimport of the marvelous fact. And yet he had sought to teach her\nfalsities--to teach her that evil did exist, as real and as potent\nas good, and that it was to be accepted and honored by mankind! But\nshe had turned her back upon the temptation.\n\n\"Padre, are you going to tell me about Jesus?\"\n\nThe priest roused from his deep meditation.\n\n\"Yes, yes--I want to know nothing else! I will get my Bible, and we\nwill read about him!\"\n\n\"Bible? What is that, Padre dear?\"\n\n\"What! You don't know what the Bible is?\" cried the astonished\npriest.\n\n\"No, Padre.\"\n\n\"But have you never--has your padre Rosendo never told you that it is\nthe book that tells--?\"\n\n\"No,\" the girl shook her head. \"But,\" her face kindling, \"he told me\nthat Jesus was God's only son. But we are all His children, aren't\nwe?\"\n\n\"Yes--especially you, little one! But Jesus was the greatest--\"\n\n\"Did Jesus write the Bible, Padre?\" the girl asked earnestly.\n\n\"No--we don't know who did. People used to think God wrote it; but I\nguess He didn't.\"\n\n\"Then we will not read it, Padre.\"\n\nThe man bent reverently over the little brown head and prayed again\nfor guidance. What could he do with this child, who dwelt with\nJehovah--who saw His reflection in every flower and hill and fleecy\ncloud--who heard His voice in the sough of the wind, and the ripple of\nthe waters on the pebbly shore! And, oh, that some one had bent over\nhim and prayed for guidance when he was a tender lad and his heart\nburned with yearning for truth!\n\n\"God wrote the arithmetic--I mean, He told people how to write it,\ndidn't He, Padre?\"\n\nSurely the priest could acquiesce in this, for mathematics is purely\nmetaphysical, and without guile.\n\n\"Yes, _chiquita_. And we will go right through this little book. Then,\nif I can, I will send for others that will teach you wonderful things\nabout what we call mathematics.\"\n\nThe child smiled her approval. The priest had now found the only path\nwhich she would tread with him, and he continued with enthusiasm.\n\n\"And God taught people how to talk, little one; but they don't all\ntalk as we do. There is a great land up north of us, which we call the\nUnited States, and there the people would not understand us, for we\nspeak Spanish. I must teach you their language, _chiquita_, and I must\nteach you others, too, for you will not always live in Simit\u00ed.\"\n\n\"I want to stay here always, Padre. I love Simit\u00ed.\" \"No, Carmen; God\nhas work for you out in His big world. You have something to tell His\npeople some day, a message for them. But you and I have much work to\ndo here first. And so we will begin with the arithmetic and English.\nLater we will study other languages, and we will talk them to each\nother until you speak them as fluently as your own. And meanwhile, I\nwill tell you about the great countries of the world, and about the\npeople that live in them. And we will study about the stars, and the\nrocks, and the animals; and we will read and work and read and work\nall day long, every day!\" The priest's face was aglow with animation.\n\n\"But, Padre, when shall I have time to think?\"\n\n\"Why, you will be thinking all the time, child!\"\n\n\"No, you don't understand. I have to think about other things.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 looked at her with a puzzled expression. \"What other things do\nyou have to think about, _chiquita_?\"\n\n\"About all the people here who are sick and unhappy, and who quarrel\nand don't love one another.\"\n\n\"Do you think about people when they are sick?\" he asked with\nheightened curiosity.\n\n\"Yes, always!\" she replied vigorously \"When they are sick I go where\nnobody can find me and then just think that it isn't so.\"\n\n\"_Hombre!_\" the priest ejaculated, his astonishment soaring Then--\n\n\"But when people are sick it is really so, isn't it, _chiquita_?\"\n\n\"No!\" emphatically. \"It can't be--not if God is everywhere. Does He\nmake them sick?\" The child drove the heart-searching question straight\ninto him.\n\n\"Why--no, I can't say that He does. And yet they somehow get sick.\"\n\n\"Because they think bad things, Padre. Because they don't think about\nGod. They don't think He is here. And they don't care about Him--they\ndon't love Him. And so they get sick,\" she explained succinctly.\n\nJos\u00e8's mind reverted to what Rosendo had told him. When he lay tossing\nin delirium Carmen had said that he would not die. And yet that was\nperfectly logical, if she refused to admit the existence of evil.\n\n\"I thought lots about you last week, Padre.\"\n\nThe soft voice was close to his ear, and every breath swept over his\nheartstrings and made them vibrate.\n\n\"Every night when I went to sleep I told God I _knew_ He would cure\nyou.\"\n\nThe priest's head sank upon his breast.\n\nVerily, I have not seen such faith, no, not in Israel! And the faith\nof this child had glorified her vision until she saw \"the heavens open\nand the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man.\"\n\n\"Carmen\"--the priest spoke reverently--\"do the sick ones always get\nwell when you think about them?\"\n\nThere was not a shade of euphemism in the unhesitating reply--\n\n\"They are never really sick, Padre.\"\n\n\"But, by that you mean--\"\n\n\"They only have bad thoughts.\"\n\n\"Sick thoughts, then?\" he suggested by way of drawing out her full\nmeaning.\n\n\"Yes, Padre--for God, you know, really _is_ everywhere.\"\n\n\"Carmen!\" cried the man. \"What put such ideas into your little head?\nWho told you these things?\"\n\nHer brown eyes looked full into his own. \"God, Padre dear.\"\n\nGod! Yes, of a verity she spoke truth. For nothing but her constant\ncommunion with Him could have filled her pure thought with a deeper,\ntruer lore than man has ever quaffed at the world's great fountains of\nlearning. He himself, trained by Holy Church, deeply versed in\nletters, science, and theology, grounded in all human learning, sat in\nhumility at her feet, drinking in what his heart told him he had at\nlength found--Truth.\n\nHe had one more question to ask. \"Carmen, how do you know, how are you\nsure, that He told you?\"\n\n\"Because it is true, Padre.\"\n\n\"But just how do you know that it is true?\" he insisted.\n\n\"Why--it comes out that way; just like the answers to the problems in\narithmetic. I used to try to see if by thinking only good thoughts\nto-day I would be better and happier to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Yes, and--?\"\n\n\"Well, I always was, Padre. And so now I don't think anything but good\nthoughts.\"\n\n\"That is, you think only about God?\"\n\n\"I always think about Him _first_, Padre.\"\n\nHe had no further need to question her proofs, for he knew she was\ntaught by the Master himself.\n\n\"That will be all for this morning, Carmen,\" he said quietly, as he\nput her down. \"Leave me now. I, too, have some thinking to do.\"\n\nWhen Carmen left him, Jos\u00e8 lapsed into profound meditation. Musing\nover his life experiences, he at last summed them all up in the vain\nattempt to evolve an acceptable concept of God, an idea of Him that\nwould satisfy. He had felt that in Christianity he had hold of\nsomething beneficent, something real; but he had never been able to\nformulate it, nor lift it above the shadows into the clear light\nof full comprehension. And the result of his futile efforts to this\nend had been agnosticism. His inability conscientiously to accept\nthe mad reasoning of theologians and the impudent claims of Rome had\nbeen the stumbling block to his own and his family's dearest earthly\nhopes. He knew that popular Christianity was a disfigurement of truth.\nHe knew that the theological claptrap which the Church, with such\noracular assurance, such indubitable certainty and gross assumption\nof superhuman knowledge, handed out to a suffering world, was a\ntravesty of the divinely simple teachings of Jesus, and that it had\nestranged mankind from their only visible source of salvation, the\nBible. He saw more clearly than ever before that in the actual\nachievements of popular theology there had been ridiculously little\nthat a seriously-minded man could accept as supports to its claims\nto be a divinely revealed scheme of salvation. Yet there was no\nvital question on which certainty was so little demanded, and\nseemingly of so little consequence, as this, even though the\njoints of the theologians' armor flapped wide to the assaults of\nunprejudiced criticism.\n\nBut if the slate were swept clean--if current theological dogma were\noverthrown, and the stage set anew--what could be reared in their\nstead? Is it true that the Bible is based upon propositions which can\nbe verified by all? The explorer in Cartagena had given Jos\u00e8 a new\nthought in Arnold's concept of God as \"the Eternal, not ourselves,\nthat makes for righteousness.\" And it was not to be denied that, from\nfirst to last, the Bible is a call to righteousness.\n\nBut what is righteousness? Ethical conduct? Assuredly something vastly\nmore profound, for even that \"misses the mark.\" No, righteousness was\nright conduct until the marvelous Jesus appeared. But he swept it at\nonce from the material into the mental; from the outward into the\ninward; and defined it as _right-thinking_!\n\n\"Righteousness!\" murmured Jos\u00e8, sitting with head buried in his hands.\n\"Aye, the whole scheme of salvation is held in that one word! And the\nwreck of my life has been caused by my blind ignorance of its\ntremendous meaning! For righteousness is salvation. But Carmen, wise\nlittle soul, divined it instinctively; for, if there is one thing that\nis patent, it is that if a thing is evil it does not exist for her.\nRighteousness! Of course it means _thinking no evil_! Jesus lived his\nthorough understanding of it. And so does Carmen. And so would the\nworld, but for the withering influence of priestly authority!\"\n\nAt that moment Carmen reappeared to summon him to lunch.\n\n\"Come here, little girl,\" said Jos\u00e8, drawing her to him. \"You asked me\nto tell you about Jesus. He was the greatest and best man that ever\nlived. And it was because he never had a bad thought.\"\n\n\"Did he know that God was everywhere?\" The little face turned lovingly\nup to his.\n\n\"He did, sweet child. And so do I--now; for I have found Him even in\ndesolate Simit\u00ed.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 7\n\n\nCarmen's studies began in earnest that afternoon. In the quiet of his\nhumble cottage Jos\u00e8, now \"a prisoner of the Lord,\" opened the door of\nhis mental storehouse and carefully selected those first bits of\nknowledge for the foundation stones on which to rear for her, little\nby little, a broad education.\n\nHe found her a facile learner; her thorough ease in the rudiments\nof arithmetic and in the handling of her own language delighted him.\nHis plan of tutelage, although the result of long contemplation, and\ninvolving many radical ideas regarding the training of children,\nideas which had been slowly developing in his mind for years, he\nnevertheless felt in her case to be tentative. For he was dealing\nwith no ordinary child; and so the usual methods of instruction were\nhere wholly out of the question.\n\nBut on several points he was already firmly resolved. First, he would\nget well below the surface of this child's mind, and he would endeavor\nto train her to live in a depth of thought far, far beneath the froth\nand superficiality of the every-day thinking of mankind. Fortunately,\nshe had had no previous bad training to be counteracted now. Nature\nhad been her only tutor; and Rosendo's canny wisdom had kept out all\nhuman interference. Her associates in Simit\u00ed were few. Her unusual and\nmature thought had set up an intellectual barrier between herself and\nthe playmates she might have had. Fortunately, too, Jos\u00e8 had now to\ndeal with a child who all her life had thought vigorously--and, he was\nforced to conclude, correctly. Habits of accurate observation and\nquick and correct interpretation would not be difficult to form in\nsuch a mind. Moreover, to this end he would aim to maintain her\ninterest at the point of intensity in every subject undertaken; yet\nwithout forcing, and without sacrifice of the joys of childhood. He\nwould be, not teacher only, but fellow-student. He would strive to\nlearn with her to conceive the ideal without losing sight of the fact\nthat it was a human world in which they dwelt. When she wished to\nplay, he would play with her. But he would contrive and direct their\namusements so as to carry instruction, to elucidate and exemplify it,\nto point morals, and steadily to contribute to her store of knowledge.\nHis plan was ideal, he knew. But he could not know then that\nNature--if we may thus call it--had anticipated him, and that the\nchild, long since started upon the quest for truth, would quickly\noutstrip him in the matter of conceiving the ideal and living in this\nworld of relative fact with an eye single to the truth which shines so\ndimly through it.\n\nJos\u00e8 knew, as he studied Carmen and planned her training, that\nwhatever instruction he offered her must be without taint of evil, so\nfar as he might prevent. And yet, the thought of any attempt to\nwithhold from her a knowledge of evil brought a sardonic smile to his\nlips. She had as yet everything to learn of the world about her. Could\nsuch learning be imparted to her free from error or hypothesis, and\napart from the fiat of the speculative human mind? It must be; for he\nknew from experience that she would accept his teaching only as he\npresented every apparent fact, every object, every event, as a\nreflection in some degree of her immanent God, and subject to rigid\ndemonstration. Where historical events externalized only the evil\nmotives of the carnal mind, he must contrive to omit them entirely, or\nelse present them as unreality, the result of \"bad thoughts\" and\nforgetfulness of God. In other words, only as he assumed to be the\nchannel through which God spoke to her could he hope for success. To\nimpart to her a knowledge of both good and evil was, at least at\npresent, impossible. To force it upon her later would be criminal.\nMoreover, _why not try the audacious experiment of permitting and\naiding this child to grow up without a knowledge of evil_?--that is,\nin her present conviction that only good is real, potent and\npermanent, while evil is impotent illusion and to be met and overcome\non that basis. Would the resultant training make of her a tower of\nstrength--or would it render her incapable of resisting the onslaughts\nof evil when at length she faced the world? His own heart sanctioned\nthe plan; and--well, the final judgment should be left to Carmen\nherself.\n\nThe work proceeded joyously. At times Cucumbra interrupted by bounding\nin, as if impatient of the attention his little mistress was giving\nher tutor. Frequently the inquisitive Cantar-las-horas stalked through\nthe room, displaying a most dignified and laudable interest in the\nproceedings. Late in the afternoon, when the sun was low, Bosendo\nappeared at the door. As he stood listening to Jos\u00e8's narrative of men\nand places in the outside world, his eyes bulged. At length his\nuntutored mind became strained to its elastic limit.\n\n\"Is that true, Padre?\" he could not refrain from interrupting, when\nJos\u00e8 had spoken of the fast trains of England. \"Why, the Simit\u00ed trail\nto Tach\u00ed is one hundred and fifty miles long; and it always took me\nsix days to walk it. And do you say there are trains that travel that\ndistance in as many hours?\"\n\n\"There are trains, Rosendo, that traverse the distance in three\nhours.\"\n\n\"_Na_, Padre, it can't be done!\" cried the incredulous Rosendo,\nshaking his head.\n\n\"Leave us, unbeliever!\" laughed Jos\u00e8, motioning him away. \"I have more\npliable material here to handle than you.\"\n\nBut Rosendo remained; and it was evident to the priest that he had\ncome on an errand of importance. Moreover, the supper hour was at\nhand, and perhaps Do\u00f1a Maria needed Carmen's help. So, dismissing the\nchild, Jos\u00e8 turned to Rosendo.\n\n\"You were right,\" he began, as if taking up the thread of a broken\ndiscourse. \"Carmen _was_ left on the river bank by the angels.\"\n\n\"Then you do think it was a miracle!\" said Rosendo in a voice of awe,\nas he sank into a chair.\n\nThe priest smiled. \"Everything is a miracle, friend; for a miracle is\nsimply a sign of God's presence. And finding Carmen in this musty,\nforgotten place is one of the greatest. For where she is, He is.\"\n\n\"Yes, Padre, that is true,\" assented Rosendo gravely.\n\n\"I was led here,\" continued Jos\u00e8; \"I see it now. Rosendo, all my life\nI have regarded evil as just as real and powerful as good. And my life\nhas been one of bitterness and woe. Carmen sees only the good God\neverywhere. And she dwells in heaven. What is the logical inference?\nSimply that my mental attitude has been all wrong, my views erroneous,\nmy thinking bad. I have tried to know both good and evil, to eat of\nthe forbidden tree. And for so doing I was banished from paradise. Do\nyou understand me?\"\n\n\"Why--well, no, Padre--that is, I--\" The honest fellow was becoming\nconfused.\n\n\"Well, just this, then,\" explained the priest with animation. \"I\nhaven't gotten anywhere in life, and neither have you, because we have\nlimited ourselves and crippled our efforts by yielding to fear, pride,\nignorance, and the belief in evil as a real power opposed to good.\"\n\n\"I have often wondered myself, Padre, how there could be a devil if\nGod is almighty. For in that case He would have had to make the devil,\nwouldn't He?\"\n\n\"Just so!\" cried Jos\u00e8 enthusiastically. \"And as He did make\neverything, then either He made the devil, or else there isn't any.\"\n\n\"But that is pretty hard to see, Padre,\" replied the puzzled Rosendo.\n\"Something makes us do wicked things.\"\n\n\"Simply the belief that there is a power apart from God.\"\n\n\"But doesn't that belief come from the devil?\"\n\n\"Surely--the devil of imagination! Listen, Rosendo: Carmen is daily\nputting into practice her instinctive knowledge of a mighty fact. She\nwill reveal it all to us in due time. Let us patiently watch her, and\ntry to see and understand and believe as she does. But in the\nmeantime, let us guard our minds as we would a treasure house, and\nstrive never to let a thought of evil get inside! My past life should\nserve as a perpetual warning.\"\n\nRosendo did not reply at once, but sat staring vacantly at the ground.\nJos\u00e8 knew that his thoughts were with his wayward daughter. Then, as\nif suddenly remembering the object of his call, he took from his\nwallet two letters, which he handed to Jos\u00e8 with the comment: \"Juan\nbrought them up from Bodega Central this morning.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 took them with quickening pulse. One was from Spain, from his\nuncle. He devoured it eagerly. It was six weeks old when it arrived in\nSimit\u00ed, and had been written before the news of his removal from\nCartagena had reached Seville. His mother was well; and her hopes for\nher son's preferment were steadily reviving, after the cruel blow\nwhich his disgrace in Rome had given them. For his uncle's part, he\nhoped that Jos\u00e8 had now seen the futility of opposition to Holy\nChurch, and that, yielding humbly to her gentle chastisement for the\ngreat injury he had inflicted upon her, he would now make amends and\nmerit the favors which she was sure to bestow upon him in due season.\nTo this end the uncle would bring to bear his own influence and that\nof His Eminence, the Archbishop of Seville. The letter closed with an\ninvocation to the Saints and the ever-blessed Virgin.\n\nJos\u00e8 opened the second letter. It was nominally from the Bishop of\nCartagena, although written, he well knew, by Wenceslas. His Reverence\nregretted that Jos\u00e8 had not come to him again before leaving\nCartagena. He deplored exceedingly the necessity of assigning him to\nso lowly a parish; but it was discipline. His tenure of the parish\nwould be a matter of probation. Assuming a penitent desire on the part\nof the priest to make reparation for past indiscretions, His Grace\nextended assurances of his support and tender consideration. And,\nregarding him still as a faithful son, he was setting forth herewith\ncertain instructions which Jos\u00e8 would zealously carry out, to the\nglory of the sacred Mother Church and the blessed Virgin, and to his\nown edification, to wit: In the matter of the confessional he must be\nunremittingly zealous, not failing to put such questions to the people\nof Simit\u00ed as would draw out their most secret thoughts. In the present\ncrisis it was especially necessary to learn their political views.\nLikewise, he must not fail to impress upon them the sin of concealing\nwealth, and of withholding contributions to the support of the\nglorious Mother. He, as priest of the parish, would be held personally\nresponsible for the collection of an adequate \"Peter's Pence,\" which\nmust be sent to Cartagena at frequent intervals for subsequent\nshipment to Rome. For all contributions he was to allow liberal\nplenary indulgences. In the matter of inciting zeal for the salvation\nof those unfortunate souls lingering in the torments of purgatory,\nJos\u00e8 must be unflagging. Each family in the parish should be\nconstantly admonished and threatened, if necessary, to have Masses\nsaid for their deceased members; and he must forward the proceeds from\nsuch Masses at once to Cartagena. No less important, he must keep\nconstantly before him the great fact that the hope of the blessed\nMother lay in her young. To this end he must see that all children in\nhis parish were in due time confirmed, and every effort made to have\nthe females sent to the convent of Mompox. To encourage his\nparishioners, he might assure them of His Reverence's tender regard\nfor them as his beloved children, and that he had certain special\nfavors to grant to them in due time. Also, that a statue of the\nVirgin, which had arrived from Rome, and which carried the most potent\nblessing of the Holy Father, was to be bestowed upon that church in\nthe diocese which within the next twelve months should contribute the\nlargest amount of Peter's Pence in proportion to population. This plan\nshould be especially attractive to the people of Simit\u00ed, as the town\nlay on the confines of a district renowned in the ancient annals for\nits mineral wealth. Herein, too, lay a great opportunity for the\npriest; and His Reverence rejoiced in the certain knowledge that he\nwould embrace it. Invoking the Sacred Heart of Jesus and the\nEver-Blessed Virgin and Saint Joseph, His Grace awaited with interest\nthe priest's first report from the parish of Simit\u00ed.\n\nThe letter fell like a wet blanket upon Jos\u00e8, chilling him to the\nmarrow, for it revived with cruel poignancy the fact that he was still\na servant of Rome. In the past few happy days he had dwelt apart from\nthe world in the consciousness of a new heaven and a new earth,\nrevealed by Carmen. This sudden call to duty was like a summons from\nMephistopheles to the fulfillment of a forgotten pact.\n\nHe carefully read the letter again. Beneath the specious kindliness of\nWenceslas lay sinister motives, he knew. Among them, greed, of course.\nBut--a darker thought--did Wenceslas know of Carmen's existence? Could\nCartagena have received any intimation of his plans for her? Refusal\nto comply with these instructions meant--he dared not think what! On\nthe other hand, strict compliance with them certainly was out of the\nquestion.\n\nAs for Peter's Pence, what could the impoverished folk of this\ndecrepit town furnish! And yet, if a reasonable sum could only be\ncontributed at frequent intervals, would not the vampire Wenceslas\nrest content, at least for a while? Oh, for a fortune of his own, that\nhe might dump it all into the yawning maw of Holy Church, and thus\ngain a few years' respite for himself and Carmen!\n\n\"Bad news, Padre?\" Rosendo inquired, anxiously regarding the priest's\nstrained features.\n\nWhat could the man do or say, limited, hounded, and without resources?\nCould he force these simple people to buy Masses? Could he take their\nmoney on a pretext which he felt to be utterly false? Yet Cartagena\n_must_ be kept quiet at any hazard!\n\n\"Rosendo,\" he asked earnestly, \"when you had a priest in Simit\u00ed, did\nthe people have Masses offered for their dead?\"\n\n\"_Na_, Padre, we have little money for Masses,\" replied Rosendo\nsadly.\n\n\"But you have bought them?\"\n\n\"At times--long ago--for my first wife, when she died without a\npriest, up in the Tigu\u00ed country. But not when Padre Diego was here. I\ncouldn't see how Masses said by that drunken priest could please God,\nor make Him release souls from purgatory--and Padre Diego was drunk\nmost of the time.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 became desperate. \"Rosendo, we _must_ send money to the Bishop in\nCartagena. I _must_ stay here--I _must_! And I can stay only by\nsatisfying Wenceslas! If I can send him money he will think me too\nvaluable to remove. It is not the Church, Rosendo, but Wenceslas who\nis persecuting me. It is he who has placed me here. He is using the\nChurch for his own evil ends. It is he who must be placated. But I--I\ncan't make these poor people buy Masses! And--but here, read his\nletter,\" thrusting it into Rosendo's hand.\n\nRosendo shook his head thoughtfully, and a cloud had gathered over his\nstrong face when he returned the Bishop's letter to Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"Padre, we will be hard pressed to support the church and you, without\nbuying Masses. There are about two hundred people here, perhaps fifty\nfamilies. But they are very, very poor. Only a few can afford to pay\neven a _peso oro_ a month to the schoolmaster to have their children\ntaught. They may be able to give twenty _pesos_ a month to support you\nand the church. But hardly more.\"\n\nIt seemed to Jos\u00e8 that his soul must burst under its limitations.\n\n\"Rosendo, let us take Carmen and flee!\" he cried wildly.\n\n\"How far would we get, Padre? Have you money?\"\n\nNo, Jos\u00e8 had nothing. He lapsed into silence-shrouded despair.\n\nThe sun dropped below the wooded hills, and Cantar-las-horas had sung\nhis weird vesper song. Dusk was thickening into night, though upon the\ndistant _Sierras_ a mellow glow still illumined the frosted peaks.\nMoments crept slowly through the enveloping silence.\n\nThen the mental gloom parted, and through it arose the great soul of\nthe black-faced man sitting beside the despairing priest.\n\n\"Padre\"--Rosendo spoke slowly and with deep emotion. Tears trickled\ndown his swart cheeks--\"I am no longer young. More than sixty years of\nhardship and heavy toil rest upon me. My parents--I have not told you\nthis--were slaves. They worked in the mines of Guamoc\u00f3, under hard\nmasters. They lived in bamboo huts, and slept on the damp ground. At\nfour each morning, year after year, they were driven from their hard\nbeds and sent out to toil under the lash fourteen hours a day, washing\ngold from the streams. The gold went to the building of Cartagena's\nwalls, and to her Bishop, to buy idleness and luxury for him and his\nfat priests. When the war came it lasted thirteen years; but we drove\nthe Christian Spaniards into the sea! Then my father and mother went\nback to Guamoc\u00f3; and there I was born. When I was old enough to use a\n_batea_ I, too, washed gold in the Tigu\u00ed, and in the little streams so\nnumerous in that region. But they had been pretty well washed out\nunder the Spaniards; and so my father came down here and made a little\n_hacienda_ on the hills across the lake from Simit\u00ed. Then he and my\npoor mother lay down and died, worn out with their long years of toil\nfor their cruel masters.\"\n\nHe brushed the tears from his eyes; then resumed: \"The district of\nGuamoc\u00f3 gradually became deserted. Revolution after revolution broke\nout in this unhappy country, sometimes stirred up by the priests,\nsometimes by political agitators who tried to get control of the\nGovernment. The men and boys went to the wars, and were killed off.\nGuamoc\u00f3 was again swallowed up by the forest--\"\n\nHe stopped abruptly, and sat some moments silent.\n\n\"I have been back there many times since, and often I have washed gold\nagain along the beautiful Tigu\u00ed,\" he continued. \"But the awful\nloneliness of the jungle, and the memories of those gloomy days when I\ntoiled there as a boy, and the thoughts of my poor parents' sufferings\nunder the Spaniards, made me so sad that I could not stay. And then I\ngot too old for that kind of work, standing bent over in the cold\nmountain water all day long, swinging a _batea_ heavy with gravel.\"\n\nHe paused again, and seemed to lose himself in the memory of those\ndark days.\n\n\"But there is still gold in the Tigu\u00ed. I can find it. It means hard\nwork--but I can do it. Padre, I will go back there and wash out gold\nfor you to send to the Bishop of Cartagena, that you may stay here and\nprotect and teach the little Carmen. Perhaps in time I can wash enough\nto get you both out of the country; but it will take many months, it\nmay be, years.\"\n\nO, you, whose path in life winds among pleasant places, where roses\nnod in the scented breeze and fountains play, picture to yourself, if\nyou may, the self-immolation of this sweet-souled man, who, in the\nwinter of life, the shadows of eternity fast gathering about him,\nbends his black shoulders again to the burden which Love would lay\nupon them. Aye, Love, into which all else merged--Love for the unknown\nbabe, left helpless and alone on the great river's bank--Love for the\nradiant child, whose white soul the agents of carnal greed and lust\nwould prostitute to their iniquitous system.\n\nNight fell. By the light of their single candle the priest and Rosendo\nate their simple fare in silence. Carmen was asleep, and the angels\nwatched over her lowly bed.\n\nThe meal ended, Rosendo took up the candle, and Jos\u00e8 followed him into\nthe bedroom. Reverently the two men approached the sleeping child and\nlooked down upon her. The priest's hand again sought Rosendo's in a\ngrasp which sealed anew the pact between them.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 8\n\n\nLike the great Exemplar in the days of his preparation, Jos\u00e8 was\nearly driven by the spirit into the wilderness, where temptation\nsmote him sore. But his soul had been saved--\"yet so as by fire.\"\nSlowly old beliefs and faiths crumbled into dust, while the new\nremained still unrevealed. The drift toward atheism which had set in\nduring his long incarceration in the convent of Palazzola had not\nmade him yield to the temptation to raise the mask of hypocrisy and\nplunge into the pleasures of the world, nor accept the specious\nproffer of ecclesiastical preferment in exchange for his honest\nconvictions. Honor, however bigoted the sense, bound him to his\noath, or at least to a compromising observance of it harmless to the\nChurch. Pride contributed to hold him from the degradation of a\nrenegade and apostate priest. And both rested primarily on an\nunshaken basis of maternal affection, which fell little short of\nobsession, leaving him without the strength to say, \"Woman, what\nhave I to do with thee?\"\n\nBut, though atheism in belief leads almost inevitably to disintegration\nof morals, Jos\u00e8 had kept himself untainted. For his vital problems he\nhad now, after many days, found \"grace sufficient.\" In what he had\nregarded as the contemptible tricks of fate, he was beginning to\ndiscern the guiding hand of a wisdom greater than the world's. The\ndanger threatened by Cartagena was, temporarily, at least, averted\nby Rosendo's magnificent spirit. Under the spur of that sacrifice his\nown courage rose mightily to second it.\n\nRosendo spent the day in preparation for his journey into the Guamoc\u00f3\ncountry. He had discussed with Jos\u00e8, long and earnestly, its probable\neffect upon the people of Simit\u00ed, and especially upon Don Mario, the\nAlcalde; but it was decided that no further explanation should be made\nthan that he was again going to prospect in the mineral districts\nalready so familiar to him. As Rosendo had said, this venture,\ntogether with the unannounced and unsolicited presence of the priest\nin the town, could not but excite extreme curiosity and raise the most\nlively conjectures, which might, in time, reach Wenceslas. On the\nother hand, if success attended his efforts, it was more than probable\nthat Cartagena would remain quiet, as long as her itching palm was\nbrightened with the yellow metal which he hoped to wrest from the\nsands of Guamoc\u00f3. \"It is only a chance, Padre,\" Rosendo said\ndubiously. \"In the days of the Spaniards the river sands of Guamoc\u00f3\nproduced from two to ten _reales_ a day to each slave. But the rivers\nhave been almost washed out.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 made a quick mental calculation. A Spanish _real_ was equivalent\nto half a franc. Then ten _reales_ would amount to five francs, the\nvery best he could hope for as a day's yield.\n\n\"And my supplies and the support of the se\u00f1ora and Carmen must come\nout of that,\" Rosendo added. \"Besides, I must pay Juan for working the\n_hacienda_ across the lake for me while I am away.\"\n\nPossibly ten _pesos oro_, or forty francs, might remain at the end of\neach month for them to send to Cartagena. Jos\u00e8 sighed heavily as he\nbusied himself with the preparations.\n\n\"I got these supplies from Don Mario on credit, Padre,\" explained\nRosendo. \"I thought best to buy from him to prevent making him angry.\nI have coffee, _panela_, rice, beans, and tobacco for a month. He was\nvery willing to let me have them--but do you know why? He wants me to\ngo up there and fail. Then he will have me in his debt, and I become\nhis _peon_--and I would never be anything after that but his slave,\nfor never again would he let me get out of debt to him.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 shuddered at the thought of the awful system of peonage prevalent\nin these Latin countries, an inhuman custom only a degree removed from\nthe slavery of colonial times. This venture was, without doubt, a\ndesperate risk. But it was for Carmen--and its expediency could not be\nquestioned.\n\nJos\u00e8 penned a letter to the Bishop of Cartagena that morning, and\nsent it by Juan to Bodega Central to await the next down-river\nsteamer. He did not know that Juan carried another letter for the\nBishop, and addressed in the flowing hand of the Alcalde. Jos\u00e8\nbriefly acknowledged the Bishop's communication, and replied that he\nwould labor unflaggingly to uplift his people and further their\nspiritual development. As to the Bishop's instructions, he would\nendeavor to make Simit\u00ed's contribution to the support of Holy\nChurch, both material and spiritual, fully commensurate with the\npopulation. He did not touch on the other instructions, but closed\nwith fervent assurances of his intention to serve his little flock\nwith an undivided heart. Carmen received no lesson that day, and\nher rapidly flowing questions anent the unusual activity in the\nhousehold were met with the single explanation that her padre\nRosendo had found it necessary to go up to the Tigu\u00ed river, a\njourney which some day she might perhaps take with him.\n\nDuring the afternoon Jos\u00e8 wrote two more letters, one to his uncle,\nbriefly announcing his appointment to the parish of Simit\u00ed, and his\nalready lively interest in his new field; the other to his beloved\nmother, in which he only hinted at the new-found hope which served as\nhis pillow at night. He did not mention Carmen, for fear that his\nletter might be opened ere it left Cartagena. But in tenderest\nexpressions of affection, and regret that he had been the unwitting\ncause of his mother's sorrow, he begged her to believe that his life\nhad received a stimulus which could not but result in great happiness\nfor them both, for he was convinced that he had at last found his\n_m\u00e9tier_, even though among a lowly people and in a sequestered part\nof the world. He hoped again to be reunited to her--possibly she might\nsome day meet him in Cartagena. And until then he would always hold\nher in tenderest love and the brightest and purest thought.\n\nHe brushed aside the tears as he folded this letter; and, lest regret\nand self-condemnation seize him again, hurried forth in search of\nCarmen, whose radiance always dispelled his gloom as the rushing dawn\nshatters the night.\n\nShe was not in Rosendo's house, and Do\u00f1a Maria said she had seen the\nchild some time before going in the direction of the \"shales.\" These\nwere broad beds of rock to the south of town, much broken and deeply\nfissured, and so glaringly hot during most of the day as to be\nimpassable. Thither Jos\u00e8 bent his steps, and at length came upon the\ngirl sitting in the shade of a stunted _algarroba_ tree some distance\nfrom the usual trail.\n\n\"Well, what are you doing here, little one?\" he inquired in surprise.\n\nThe child looked up visibly embarrassed. \"I was thinking, Padre,\" she\nmade slow reply.\n\n\"But do you have to go away from home to think?\" he queried.\n\n\"I wanted to be alone; and there was so much going on in the house\nthat I came out here.\"\n\n\"And what have you been thinking about, Carmen?\" pursued Jos\u00e8,\nsuspecting that her presence in the hot shale beds held some deeper\nsignificance than she had as yet revealed.\n\n\"I--I was just thinking that God is everywhere,\" she faltered.\n\n\"Yes, _chiquita_. And--?\"\n\n\"That He is where padre Rosendo is going, and that He will take care\nof him up there, and bring him back to Simit\u00ed again.\"\n\n\"And were you asking Him to do it, little one?\"\n\n\"No, Padre; I was just _knowing_ that He would.\"\n\nThe little lip quivered, and the brown eyes were wet with tears. But\nJos\u00e8 could see that faith had conquered, whatever the struggle might\nhave been. The child evidently had sought solitude, that she might\nmost forcibly bring her trust in God to bear upon the little problem\nconfronting her--that she might make the certainty of His immanence\nand goodness destroy in her thought every dark suggestion of fear or\ndoubt.\n\n\"God will take care of him, won't He, Padre?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 had taken her hand and was leading her back to the house.\n\n\"You have said it, child; and I believe you are a law unto yourself,\"\nwas the priest's low, earnest reply. The child smiled up at him; and\nJos\u00e8 knew he had spoken truth.\n\nThat evening, the preparations for departure completed, Rosendo and\nJos\u00e8 took their chairs out before the house, where they sat late, each\nloath to separate lest some final word be left unsaid. The tepid\nevening melted into night, which died away in a deep silence that hung\nwraith-like over the old town. Myriad stars rained their shimmering\nlustre out of the unfathomable vault above.\n\n\"_Un canasto de flores_,\" mused Rosendo, looking off into the infinite\nblue.\n\n\"A basket of flowers, indeed,\" responded Jos\u00e8 reverently.\n\n\"Padre--\" Rosendo's brain seemed to struggle with a tremendous\nthought--\"I often try to think of what is beyond the stars; and I\ncannot. Where is the end?\"\n\n\"There is none, Rosendo.\"\n\n\"But, if we could get out to the last star--what then?\"\n\n\"Still no end, no limit,\" replied Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"And they are very far away--how far, Padre?\"\n\n\"You would not comprehend, even if I could tell you, Rosendo. But--how\nshall I say it? Some are millions of miles from us. Others so far that\ntheir light reaches us only after the lapse of centuries.\"\n\n\"Their light!\" returned Rosendo quizzically.\n\n\"Yes. Light from those stars above us travels nearly two hundred\nthousand miles a second--\"\n\n\"_Hombre!_\" ejaculated the uncomprehending Rosendo.\n\n\"And yet, even at that awful rate of speed, it is probable that there\nare many stars whose light has not yet reached the earth since it\nbecame inhabited by men.\"\n\n\"_Caramba!_\"\n\n\"You may well say so, friend.\"\n\n\"But, Padre--does the light never stop? When does it reach an end--a\nstopping-place?\"\n\n\"There is no stopping-place, Rosendo. There is no solid sky above us.\nGo whichever way you will, you can never reach an end.\"\n\nRosendo's brow knotted with puzzled wonder: Even Jos\u00e8's own mind\nstaggered anew at its concept of the immeasurable depths of space.\n\n\"But, Padre, if we could go far enough up we would get to heaven,\nwouldn't we?\" pursued Rosendo. \"And if we went far enough down we\nwould reach purgatory, and then hell, is it not so?\"\n\nRestraint fell upon the priest. He dared not answer lest he reveal his\nown paucity of ideas regarding these things. Happily the loquacious\nRosendo continued without waiting for reply.\n\n\"Padre Sim\u00f3n used to say when I was a child that the red we saw in the\nsky at sunset was the reflection of the flames of hell; so I have\nalways thought that hell was below us--perhaps in the center of the\nearth.\"\n\nFor a time his simple mind mused over this puerile idea. Then--\n\n\"What do you suppose God looks like, Padre?\"\n\nJos\u00e8's thought flew back to the galleries and chapels of Europe, where\nthe masters have so often portrayed their ideas of God in the shape of\nan old, gray-haired man, partly bald, and with long, flowing beard.\nAlas! how pitifully crude, how lamentably impotent such childish\nconcepts. For they saw in God only their own frailties infinitely\nmagnified. Small wonder that they lived and died in spiritual gloom!\n\n\"Padre,\" Rosendo went on, \"if there is no limit to the universe, then\nit is--\"\n\n\"Infinite in extent, Rosendo,\" finished Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"Then whoever made it is infinite, too,\" Rosendo added hypothetically.\n\n\"An infinite effect implies an infinite cause--yes, certainly,\" Jos\u00e8\nanswered.\n\n\"So, if God made the universe, He is infinite, is He not, Padre?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Then He can't be at all like us,\" was the logical conclusion.\n\nJos\u00e8 was thinking hard. The universe stands as something created. And\nscientists agree that it is infinite in extent. Its creator therefore\nmust be infinite in extent. And as the universe continues to exist,\nthat which called it into being, and still maintains it, must likewise\ncontinue to exist. Hence, God _is_.\n\n\"Padre, what holds the stars in place?\" Rosendo's questions were as\npersistent as a child's.\n\n\"They are held in place by laws, Rosendo,\" the priest replied\nevasively. But as he made answer he revolved in his own mind that the\nlaws by which an infinite universe is created and maintained must\nthemselves be infinite.\n\n\"And God made those laws?\"\n\n\"Yes, Rosendo.\"\n\nBut, the priest mused, a power great enough to frame infinite laws\nmust be itself all-powerful. And if it has ever been all-powerful, it\ncould never cease to be so, for there could be nothing to deprive it\nof its power. Omnipotence excludes everything else. Or, what is the\nsame thing, is all-inclusive.\n\nBut laws originate, even as among human beings, in mind, for a law is\na mental thing. So the infinite laws which bind the stars together,\nand by which the universe was designed and is still maintained, could\nhave originated only in a mind, and that one infinite.\n\n\"Then God surely must know everything,\" commented Rosendo, by way of\nsimple and satisfying conclusion.\n\nCertainly the creator of an infinite universe--a universe, moreover,\nwhich reveals intelligence and knowledge on the part of its cause--the\noriginator of infinite laws, which reveal omnipotence in their\nmaker--must have all knowledge, all wisdom, at his command. But, on\nthe other hand, intelligence, knowledge, wisdom, are ever mental\nthings. What could embrace these things, and by them create an\ninfinite universe, but an infinite _mind_?\n\nJos\u00e8's thought reverted to Cardinal Newman's reference to God as \"an\ninitial principle.\" Surely the history of the universe reveals the\npatent fact that, despite the mutations of time, despite growth,\nmaturity, and decay, despite \"the wreck of matter and the crash of\nworlds,\" _something_ endures. What is it--law? Yes, but more. Ideas?\nStill more. Mind? Yes, the mind which is the _anima mundi_, the\nprinciple, of all things.\n\n\"But if He is so great, Padre, and knows everything, I don't see why\nHe made the devil,\" continued Rosendo; \"for the devil fights against\nHim all the time.\"\n\nAh, simple-hearted child of nature! A mind so pure as yours should\ngive no heed to thoughts of Satan. And the man at your side is now too\ndeeply buried in the channels which run below the superficiality of\nthe world's thought to hear your childish question. Wait. The cause of\nan infinite effect must itself be infinite. The framer of infinite\nlaws must be an infinite mind. And an infinite mind must contain all\nknowledge, and have all power. But were it to contain any seeds or\ngerms of decay, or any elements of discord--in a word, any evil--it\nmust disintegrate. Then it would cease to be omnipotent. Verily, to be\neternal and perfect _it must be wholly good_! \"And so,\" the priest\nmused aloud, \"we call it God.\"\n\nBut, he continued to reflect, when we accept the conclusion that the\nuniverse is the product of an infinite mind, we are driven to certain\nother inevitable conclusions, if we would be logical. The minds of men\nmanifest themselves continually, and the manifestation is in mental\nprocesses and things. Mental activity results in the unfolding of\nideas. Does the activity of an infinite mind differ in this respect?\nAnd, if not, can the universe be other than a mental thing? For, if an\ninfinite mind created a universe, it must have done so _by the\nunfolding of its own ideas_! And, remaining infinite, filling all\nspace, this mind must ever continue to contain those ideas. And the\nuniverse--the creation--is mental.\n\nThe burden of thought oppressed the priest, and he got up from his\nchair and paced back and forth before the house. But still his\nsearching mind burrowed incessantly, as if it would unearth a living\nthing that had been buried since the beginning.\n\nIn order to fully express itself, an infinite mind would have to\nunfold an infinite number and variety of ideas. And this unfolding\nwould go on forever, since an infinite number is never reached. This\nis \"creation,\" and it could never terminate.\n\n\"Rosendo,\" said Jos\u00e8, returning to his chair, \"you have asked what\nGod looks like. I cannot say, for God must be mind, unlimited mind. He\nhas all knowledge and wisdom, as well as all power. He is necessarily\neternal--has always existed, and always will, for He is entirely\nperfect and harmonious, without the slightest trace or taint of\ndiscord or evil.\"\n\n\"Then you think He does not look like us?\" queried the simple\nRosendo.\n\n\"Mind does not look like a human body, Rosendo. And an infinite cause\ncan be infinite only by being mind, not body. Moreover, He is\nunchanging--for He could not change and remain eternal. Carmen insists\nthat He is everywhere. To be always present He must be what the Bible\nsays He is spirit. Or, what is the same thing, mind. Rosendo, He\nmanifests Himself everywhere and in everything--there is no other\nconclusion admissible. And to be eternal He has got to be _absolutely\ngood_!\"\n\n\"But, Padre,\" persisted Rosendo, \"who made the devil?\"\n\n\"There is no devil!\"\n\n\"But there is wickedness--\"\n\n\"No!\" interrupted Jos\u00e8 emphatically. \"God is infinite good, and there\ncan be no real evil.\"\n\n\"But how do you know that, Padre?\"\n\n\"I can't say how I know it--it reasons out that way logically. I think\nI begin to see the light. Can you not see that for some reason Carmen\ndoesn't admit the existence of evil? And you know, and I know, that\nshe is on the right track. I have followed the opposite path all my\nlife; and it led right into the slough of despond. Now I have turned,\nand am trying to follow her. And do you put the thought of Satan out\nof your mentality and do likewise.\"\n\n\"But, the Virgin Mary--she has power with God?\" Rosendo's primitive\nideas were in a hopeless tangle.\n\n\"Good friend, forget the Virgin Mary,\" said Jos\u00e8 gently, laying his\nhand on Rosendo's arm.\n\n\"Forget her! _Hombre!_ Why--she has all power--she works miracles\nevery hour--she directs the angels--gives commands to God himself!\nPadre Sim\u00f3n said she was the absolute mistress of heaven and earth,\nand that men and animals, the plants, the winds, all health, sickness,\nlife and death, depended upon her will! He said she did not die as we\nmust, but that she was taken up into heaven, and that her body was not\nallowed to decay and return to dust, as ours will. _Hombre!_ She is in\nheaven now, praying for us. What would become of us but for her?--for\nshe prays to God for us--she--!\"\n\n\"No, Rosendo, she does nothing of the kind. God is infinite,\nunchanging. He could not be moved or influenced by the Virgin Mary or\nany one else. He is unlimited _good_. He is not angry with us--He\ncouldn't be, for He could not know anger. Did not Jesus say that God\nwas Love? Love does not afflict--Love does not need to be importuned\nor prayed to. I see it now. I see something of what Carmen sees. We\nsuffer when we sin, because we 'miss the mark.' But the punishment\nlasts only as long as the sin continues. And we suffer only until we\nknow that God is infinite good, and that there is no evil. That is the\ntruth, I feel sure, which Jesus came to teach, and which he said would\nmake us free. Free from what? From the awful beliefs that use us, and\nto which we are now subject, until we learn the facts about God and\nHis creation. Don't you see that infinite good could never create\nevil, nor ever permit evil to be created, nor allow it to really\nexist?\"\n\n\"Well, then, what is evil? And where did it come from?\"\n\n\"That we must wait to learn, Rosendo, little by little. You know, the\nSpanish proverb says, 'Step by step goes a great way.' But meantime,\nlet us go forward, clinging to this great truth: God is infinite\ngood--He is love--we are His dear children--and evil was _not_ made by\nHim, and does not have His sanction. It therefore cannot be real. It\nmust be illusion. And, being such, it can be overcome, as Jesus said\nit could.\"\n\n\"_Na_, Padre--\"\n\n\"Wait, Rosendo!\" Jos\u00e8 held up his hand. \"Carmen is doing just what I\nam advising you to do--is she not?\"\n\n\"Yes, Padre.\"\n\n\"Do you think she is mistaken?\"\n\n\"Padre, she knows God better than she knows me,\" the man whispered.\n\n\"It was you who first told her that God was everywhere, was it not?\"\n\n\"Yes, Padre.\"\n\nAnd the mind of the child, keenly sensitive and receptive to truth,\nhad eagerly grasped this dictum and made it the motif of her life. She\nknew nothing of Jesus, nothing of current theology. Divine Wisdom had\nused Rosendo, credulous and superstitious though he himself was, to\nguard this girl's mind against the entrance of errors which were\ntaught him as a child, and which in manhood held him shackled in\nchains which he might not break.\n\n\"Rosendo,\" Jos\u00e8 spoke low and reverently, \"I believe now that you and\nI have both been guided by that great mind which I am calling God. I\nbelieve we are being used for some beneficent purpose, and that it has\nto do with Carmen. That purpose will be unfolded to us as we bow to\nHis will. Every way closed against me, excepting the one that led to\nSimit\u00ed. Here I found her. And now there seems to be but one way open\nto you--to go back to Guamoc\u00f3. And you go, forgetful of self, thinking\nonly that you serve her. Ah, friend, you are serving Him whom you\nreflect in love to His beautiful child.\"\n\n\"Yes, Padre.\"\n\n\"But, while we accept our tasks gratefully, I feel that we shall be\ntried--and we may not live to see the results of our labors. There are\ninfluences abroad which threaten danger to Carmen and to us. Perhaps\nwe shall not avert them. But we have given ourselves to her, and\nthrough her to the great purpose with which I feel she is concerned.\"\n\nRosendo slowly rose, and his great height and magnificent physique\ncast the shadow of a Brobdignan in the light as he stood in the\ndoorway.\n\n\"Padre,\" he replied, \"I am an old man, and I have but few years left.\nBut however many they be, they are hers. And had I a thousand, I would\ndrag them all through the fires of hell for the child! I cannot follow\nyou when you talk about God. My mind gets weary. But this I know, the\nOne who brought me here and then went away will some day call for\nme--and I am always ready.\"\n\nHe turned into the house and sought his hard bed. The great soul knew\nnot that he reflected the light of divine Love with a radiance unknown\nto many a boasting \"vicar of Christ.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 9\n\n\nAt the first faint flush of morn Rosendo departed for the hills. The\nemerald coronels of the giant _ceibas_ on the far lake verge burned\nsoftly with a ruddy glow. From the water's dimpling surface downy\nvapors rose languidly in delicate tints and drew slowly out in\nnebulous bands across the dawn sky. The smiling softness of the\nvelvety hills beckoned him, and the pungent odor of moist earth\ndilated his nostrils. He laughed aloud as the joyousness of youth\nsurged again through his veins. The village still slumbered, and no\none saw him as he smote his great chest and strode to the boat, where\nJuan had disposed his outfit and was waiting to pole him across. Only\nthe faithful Do\u00f1a Maria had softly called a final \"_adioscito_\" to him\nwhen he left his house. A half hour later, when the dugout poked its\nblunt nose into the ooze of the opposite shore, he leaped out and\nhurriedly divested himself of his clothing. Then he lifted his chair\nwith its supplies to his shoulders, and Juan strapped it securely to\nhis back, drawing the heavy band tightly across his forehead. With a\nfarewell wave of his hand to the lad, the man turned and plunged into\nthe Guamoc\u00f3 trail, and was quickly lost in the dense thicket. Six days\nlater, if no accident befell, he would reach his destination, the\nsinging waters of the crystal Tigu\u00ed.\n\nHis heart leaped as he strode, though none knew better than he what\nhardships those six days held for him--days of plunging through\nfever-laden bogs; staggering in withering heat across open savannas;\nnow scaling the slippery slopes of great mountains; now swimming the\nchill waters of rushing streams; making his bed where night overtook\nhim, among the softly pattering forest denizens and the swarming\ninsect life of the dripping woods. His black skin glistened with\nperspiration and the heavy dew wiped from the close-growing bush. With\none hand he leaned upon a young sapling cut for a staff. With the\nother he incessantly swung his _machete_ to clear the dim trail. His\neyes were held fixed to the ground, to escape tripping over low vines,\nand to avoid contact with crawling creatures of the jungle, whose\nsting, inflicted without provocation, might so easily prove fatal. His\nactive mind sported the while among the fresh thoughts stimulated by.\nhis journey, though back of all, as through a veil, the vision of\nCarmen rose like the pillar of cloud which guided the wandering\nIsrael. Toil and danger fled its presence; and from it radiated a warm\nglow which suffused his soul with light.\n\nWhen Jos\u00e8 arose that morning he was still puzzling over the logical\nconclusions drawn from his premise of the evening before, and trying\nto reconcile them with common sense and prevalent belief. In a way, he\nseemed to be an explorer, carving a path to hidden wonders. Do\u00f1a Maria\ngreeted him at the breakfast table with the simple announcement of\nRosendo's early departure. No sign of sorrow ruffled her quiet and\ndignified demeanor. Nor did Carmen, who bounded into his arms, fresh\nas a new-blown rose, manifest the slightest indication of anxiety\nregarding Rosendo's welfare. Jos\u00e8 might not divine the thoughts which\nthe woman's placid exterior concealed. But for the child, he well knew\nthat her problem had been met and solved, and that she had laid it\naside with a trust in immanent good which he did not believe all the\nworldly argument of pedant or philosopher could shake.\n\n\"Now to business once more!\" cried Jos\u00e8 joyously, the meal finished.\n\"Just a look-in at the church, to get the boys started; and then\nto devote the day to you, se\u00f1orita!\" The child laughed at the\nappellation.\n\nReturning from the church some moments later, Jos\u00e8 found Carmen\nbending over the fireplace, struggling to remove a heavy kettle from\nthe hot stones.\n\n\"Careful, child!\" he cried in apprehension, hurrying to her\nassistance. \"You will burn your fingers, or hurt yourself!\"\n\n\"Not unless you make me, Padre,\" Carmen quickly replied, rising and\nconfronting the priest with a demeanor whose every element spelled\nrebuke.\n\n\"Well, I certainly shall not _make_ you!\" the man exclaimed in\nsurprise.\n\n\"No, Padre. God will not let you. He does not burn or hurt people.\"\n\n\"Certainly not! But--\"\n\n\"And nothing else can, for He is everywhere--isn't He?\"\n\n\"Well--perhaps so,\" the priest retorted impatiently. \"But somehow\npeople get burnt and hurt just the same, and it is well to be\ncareful.\"\n\nThe child studied him for a moment. Then she said quietly--\n\n\"I guess people burn and hurt themselves because they are afraid--don't\nthey? And I am not afraid.\"\n\nShe tossed her brown curls as if in defiance of the thought of fear.\nYet Jos\u00e8 somehow felt that she never really defied evil, but rather\nmet its suggestions with a firm conviction of its impotence in the\npresence of immanent good. He checked the impulse to further\nconversation. Bidding the child come to him as soon as possible to\nbegin the day's work, he went back to his own abode to reflect.\n\nHe had previously said that this child should be brought up to know no\nevil. And yet, was he not suggesting evil to her at every turn? Did\nnot his insistence upon the likelihood of hurting or burning herself\nemphasize his own stalwart belief in evil as an immanent power and\ncontingency? Was he thus always to maintain a house divided against\nitself? But some day she _must_ know, whether by instruction or dire\nexperience, that evil is a fact to be reckoned with! And as her\nprotector, it was his duty to--But he had not the heart to shatter\nsuch beautiful confidence!\n\nThen he fell to wondering how long that pure faith could endure.\nCertainly not long if she were subjected to the sort of instruction\nwhich the children of this world receive. But was it not his duty with\nproper tutelage to make it last as long as possible? Was it not even\nnow so firmly grounded that it never could be shaken?\n\nHe dwelt on the fact that nearly all children at some period early in\nlife commune with their concept of God. He had, himself. As a very\nyoung child he had even felt himself on such terms of familiarity with\nGod that he could not sleep without first bidding Him good night. As a\nyoung child, too, he had known no evil. Nor do any children, until\ntheir perfect confidence in good is chilled by the false instruction\nof parents and teachers, who parade evil before them in all its\nhideous garb.\n\nAlas! for the baneful belief that years bring wisdom. How pitiable,\nand how cruelly detrimental to the child are an ignorant parent's\nassumptions of superiority! How tremendous the responsibility that now\nlay at his own door! Yet no greater than that which lies at the door\nof every parent throughout the world.\n\nIt is sadly true, he reflected, that children are educated almost\nentirely along material lines. Even in the imparting of religious\ninstruction, the spiritual is so tainted with materialism, and its\nconcomitants of fear and limitation, that the preponderance of faith\nis always on the material side. Jos\u00e8 had believed that as he had grown\nolder in years he had lost faith. Far from it! The quantity of his\nfaith remained fixed; but the quality had changed, through education,\nfrom faith in good to faith in evil. And though trained as a priest of\nGod, in reality he had been taught wholly to distrust spiritual\npower.\n\nBut how could a parent rely on spiritual power to save a child about\nto fall into the fire? Must not children be warned, and taught to\nprotect themselves from accident and disaster, as far as may be?\nTrue--yet, what causes accident and disaster? Has the parent's thought\naught to do with it? Has the world's thought? Can it be traced to the\nuniversal acceptance of evil as a power, real and operative? Does\nmankind's woeful lack of faith in good manifest itself in accident,\nsickness, and death?\n\nA cry roused Jos\u00e8 from his revery. It came from back of the house.\nHastening to the rear door he saw Do\u00f1a Maria standing petrified,\nlooking in wide-eyed horror toward the lake. Jos\u00e8 followed her gaze,\nand his blood froze. Carmen had been sent to meet the canoe that daily\nsupplied fresh water to the village from the Juncal river, which\nflowed into the lake at the far north end. It had not yet arrived, and\nshe had sat down beside her jar at the water's edge, and was lost in\ndreams as she looked out over the shimmering expanse. A huge crocodile\nwhich had been lying in the shadow of a shale ledge had marked the\nchild, and was steadily creeping up behind her. The reptile was but a\nfew feet from her when Do\u00f1a Maria, wondering at her delay, had gone to\nthe rear door and witnessed her peril.\n\nIn a flash Jos\u00e8 recalled the tale related to him but a few days before\nby Fidel Avila, who was working in the church.\n\n\"Padre,\" Fidel had said, \"as soon as the church is ready I shall\noffer a candle to good _Santa Catalina_ for protecting my sister.\"\n\n\"How was that, my son?\" inquired Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"She protected her from a crocodile a year ago, Padre. The girl had\ngone to the lake to get water to wash our clothes, and as she sat in\nthe stern of the boat dipping the water, a great crocodile rose and\nseized her arm. I heard her scream, and I was saying the rosary at the\ntime. And so I prayed to _Santa Catalina_ not to let the crocodile eat\nher, and she didn't.\"\n\n\"Then your sister was saved?\"\n\n\"The crocodile pulled her under the water, Padre, and she was drowned.\nBut he did not eat her; and we got her body and buried her here in the\ncemetery. We were very grateful.\"\n\n_Sancta simplicitas!_ That such childish credulity might be turned\ninto proper channels!\n\nBut there were times when fish were scarce in the lake. Then the\ncrocodiles became bold; and many babes had been seized and dragged off\nby them, never to return. The fishing this season had been very poor.\nAnd more than one fisherman had asked Jos\u00e8 to invoke the Virgin in his\nbehalf.\n\nNearer crept the monster toward the unsuspecting girl. Suddenly she\nturned and looked squarely at it. She might almost have touched it\nwith her hand. For Jos\u00e8 it was one of those crises that \"crowd\neternity into an hour.\" The child and the reptile might have been\npainted against that wondrous tropic background. The great brute stood\nbolt upright on its squat legs, its hideous jaws partly open. The girl\nmade no motion, but seemed to hold it with her steady gaze. Then--the\ncreature dropped; its jaws snapped shut; and it scampered into the\nwater.\n\n\"God above!\" cried Jos\u00e8, as he rushed to the girl and clasped her in\nhis arms. \"Forgive me if I ever doubted the miracles of Jesus!\"\n\nDo\u00f1a Maria turned and quietly resumed her work; but the man was\ncompletely unstrung.\n\n\"What is it, Padre?\" Carmen asked in unfeigned surprise. \"I am not\nafraid of crocodiles--are you? You couldn't be, if you knew that God\nis everywhere.\"\n\n\"But don't you know, child, that crocodiles have carried off--\"\n\nHe checked himself. No--he would not say it. He had had his lesson.\n\n\"What, Padre?\"\n\n\"Nothing--nothing--I forgot--that's all. A--a--come, let us begin our\nlessons now.\"\n\nBut his mind refused to be held to the work. Finally he had to ask--he\ncould not help it.\n\n\"Carmen, what did you do? Did you talk to the crocodile?\"\n\n\"Why, no, Padre--crocodiles don't talk!\" And throwing her little head\nback she laughed heartily at the absurd idea.\n\n\"But--you did something! What was it? Tell me.\"\n\n\"No, Padre, I did nothing,\" the child persisted.\n\nHe saw he must reach her thought in another way. \"Why did the\ncrocodile come up to you, Carmen?\" he asked.\n\n\"Why--I guess because it loved me--I don't know.\"\n\n\"And did you love it as you sat looking at it?\"\n\n\"Of course, Padre. We have just got to love _everything_. Don't you\nknow that?\"\n\n\"Y--yes--that is so, _chiquita_. I--I just thought I would ask you.\nNow let us begin the arithmetic lesson.\"\n\nThe child loved the hideous saurian! And \"perfect love casteth out\nfear.\" What turned the monster from the girl and drove it into the\nlake? Love, again, before which evil falls in sheer impotence? Had she\nworked a miracle? Certainly not! Had God interposed in her behalf?\nAgain, no. \"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High\nshall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.\" And would divine Love\nalways protect her? There could be no question about it, _as long as\nshe knew no evil_.\n\nThe morning hours sped past. From arithmetic, they turned to the\nEnglish lesson. Next to perfection in her own Castilian, Jos\u00e8 felt\nthat this language was most important for her. And she delighted in\nit, although her odd little pronunciations, and her vain attempts to\nmanipulate words to conform to her own ideas of enunciation brought\nmany a hearty laugh, in which she joined with enthusiasm. The\nafternoon, as was his plan for future work, was devoted to narratives\nof men and events, and to descriptions of places. It was a ceaseless\nwonder to Jos\u00e8 how her mind absorbed his instruction.\n\n\"How readily you see these things, Carmen,\" he said, as he concluded\nthe work for the day.\n\n\"See them, Padre? But not with my outside eyes.\"\n\nThe remark seemed to start a train of thought within her mentality.\n\"Padre,\" she at length asked, \"how do we see with our eyes?\"\n\n\"It is very simple, _chiquita_,\" Jos\u00e8 replied. \"Here, let me draw a\npicture of an eye.\"\n\nHe quickly sketched a rough outline of the human organ of sight.\n\"Now,\" he began, \"you know you cannot see in the dark, don't you?\"\n\n\"Yes, Padre?\"\n\n\"In order to see, we must have light.\"\n\n\"What is light, Padre dear?\"\n\n\"Well--light is--is vibrations. That is, rapid movement.\"\n\n\"What moves?\"\n\n\"A--a--a--well, nothing--that is, light is just vibrations. The\npendulum of the old clock in Don Mario's store vibrates, you\nknow--moves back and forth.\"\n\n\"And light does that?\"\n\n\"Yes; light _is_ that. Now that chair there, for example, reflects\nlight, just as a mirror does. It reflects vibrations. And these are\nall of just a certain length, for vibrations of just that length and\nmoving up and down just so fast make light. The light enters the eye,\nlike this,\" tracing the rays on his sketch. \"It makes a little picture\nof the chair on the back of the eye, where the optic nerve is\nfastened. Now the light makes the little ends of this nerve vibrate,\ntoo--move very rapidly. And that movement is carried along the nerve\nto some place in the brain--to what we call the center of sight. And\nthere we see the chair.\"\n\nThe child studied the sketch long and seriously.\n\n\"But, Padre, is the picture of the chair carried on the nerve to the\nbrain?\"\n\n\"Oh, no, _chiquita_, only vibrations. It is as if the nerve moved just\na little distance, but very, very fast, back and forth, or up and\ndown.\"\n\n\"And no picture is carried to the brain?\"\n\n\"No, there is just a vibration in the brain.\"\n\n\"And that vibration makes us see the chair?\"\n\n\"Yes, little one.\"\n\nA moment of silence. Then--\n\n\"Padre dear, I don't believe it.\"\n\n\"Why, _chiquita_!\"\n\n\"Well, Padre, what is it that sees the chair, anyway?\"\n\n\"The mind, dear.\"\n\n\"Is the mind up there in the brain?\"\n\n\"Well--no, we can't say that it is.\"\n\n\"Where is it, then?\"\n\n\"A--a--well, no place in particular--that is, it is right here all the\ntime.\"\n\n\"Well, then, when the mind wants to see the chair does it have to\nclimb up into the brain and watch that little nerve wiggle?\"\n\nThe man was at a loss for an answer. Carmen suddenly crumpled the\nsketch in her small hand and smiled up at him.\n\n\"Padre dear, I don't believe our outside eyes see anything. We just\nthink they do, don't we?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 looked out through the open door. Carmen's weird heron was\nstalking in immense dignity past the house.\n\n\"I think Cantar-las-horas is getting ready to sing the Vespers,\n_chiquita_. And so Do\u00f1a Maria probably needs you now. We will talk\nmore about the eye to-morrow.\"\n\nBy the light of his sputtering candle that night Jos\u00e8 sat with elbows\npropped on the table, his head clasped in his hands, and a sketch of\nthe human eye before him. In his confident attempt to explain to\nCarmen the process of cognition he had been completely baffled.\nCertainly, light coming from an object enters the eye and casts a\npicture upon the retina. He had often seen the photographic camera\nexhibit the same phenomenon. The law of the impenetrability of matter\nhad to be set aside, of course--or else light must be pure vibration,\nwithout a material vibrating concomitant. Then, too, it was plain that\nthe light in some way communicated its vibration to the little\nprojecting ends of the optic nerve, which lie spread out over the rear\ninner surface of the eye. And equally patent that this vibration is in\nsome way taken up by the optic nerve and transmitted to the center of\nsight in the brain. But after that--what? He laughed again at Carmen's\npertinent question about the mind climbing up into the brain to see\nthe vibrating nerve. But was it so silly a presumption, after all? Is\nthe mind within the brain, awaiting in Stygian darkness the advent of\nthe vibrations which shall give it pictures of the outside world? Or\nis the mind outside of the brain, but still slavishly forced to look\nat these vibrations of the optic nerve and then translate them into\nterms of things without? What could a vibrating nerve suggest to a\nwell-ordered mind, anyway? He might as logically wave a piece of meat\nand expect thereby to see a world! He laughed aloud at the thought.\nWhy does not the foolish mind leave the brain and look at the picture\non the retina? Or why does it not throw off its shackles and look\ndirectly at the object to be cognized, instead of submitting to\ndependence upon so frail a thing as fleshly eyes and nerves?\n\nAs he mused and sketched, unmindful of the voracious mosquitoes or the\nblundering moths that momentarily threatened his light, it dawned\nslowly upon him that the mind's awareness of material objects could\nnot possibly depend upon the vibrations of pieces of nerve tissue, so\nminute as to be almost invisible to the unaided sight. Still more\nabsurd did it appear to him that his own mind, of which he might\njustly boast tremendous powers, could be prostituted to such a degree\nthat its knowledge of things must be served to it on waving pieces of\nflesh.\n\nAnd how about the other senses--touch, hearing? Did the ear hear, or\nthe hand feel? He had always accepted the general belief that man is\ndependent absolutely upon the five physical senses for his knowledge\nof an outside world. And now a little thought showed that from these\nfive senses man could not possibly receive anything more than a series\nof disconnected vibrations! And, going a step further, anything that\nthe mind infers from these vibrations is unquestionably inferred\n_without a particle of outside authority_!\n\nHe rose and paced the floor. A tremendous idea seemed to be knocking\nat the portal of his mentality.\n\nWhat can the mind know? Assuredly nothing but the contents of itself.\nBut the contents of mind are thoughts, ideas, mental things. Do solid\nmaterial objects enter the mind? Certainly not! Then the mind knows\nnot things, but its _thoughts of things_. And instead of seeing,\nhearing, smelling, tasting, and feeling solid material objects, the\nmind sees, hears, smells, tastes, and feels--what? The contents of\nitself! Its own thoughts and ideas! And the outer world? Is only what\nthe mind _believes_ it to be. But surely his mind saw an outer world\nthrough the medium of his eye! No. His mind saw only its own concepts\nof an outer world--and these concepts, being mental, might take on\nwhatever hue and tinge his mind decreed. In other words, instead of\nseeing a world of matter, he was seeing only a mental picture of a\nworld. And that picture was in his own mind, _and formed by that\nmind_!\n\nThe man seized his hat and hurried out into the night. He walked\nrapidly the full length of the town. His mind was wrestling with\nstupendous thoughts.\n\nAn hour later he returned to his house, and seizing a pencil, wrote\nrapidly: Matter is mental. We do not see or feel matter, but we\n_think_ it. It is formed and held as a mental concept in every human\nmind. The material universe is but the human mind's concept of a\nuniverse, and can only be this mentality's translation to itself of\ninfinite Mind's purely mental Creation.\n\n\"And so,\" he commented aloud, sitting back and regarding his writing,\n\"all my miserable life I have been seeing only my own thoughts! And I\nhave let them use me and color my whole outlook!\"\n\nHe extinguished the candle and threw himself, fully dressed, upon his\nbed.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 10\n\n\nMomentous changes, of far-reaching effect, had come swiftly upon Jos\u00e8\nde Rinc\u00f3n during the last few days, changes which were destined after\nmuch vacillation and great mental struggle to leave a reversed\noutlook. But let no one think these changes fortuitous or casual, the\nchance result of a new throw of Fate's dice. Jos\u00e8, seeing them dimly\noutlined, did not so regard them, but rather looked upon them as the\nworking of great mental laws, still unknown, whose cumulative effect\nhad begun a transformation in his soul. How often in his seminary days\nhe had pondered the scripture, \"He left not Himself without witness.\"\nHow often he had tried to see the hopeless confusion of good and evil\nin the world about him as a witness to the One who is of purer eyes\nthan to behold evil. And he had at last abandoned his efforts in\ndespair. Yet that there must be something behind the complex phenomena\nwhich men call life, he knew. Call it what he would--law, force, mind,\nGod, or even X, the great unknown quantity for which life's intricate\nequations must be solved--yet _something_ there was in it all which\nendured in an eternal manifestation. But could that something endure\nin an expression both good and evil?\n\nHe had long since abandoned all study of the Bible. But in these last\ndays there had begun to dawn upon him the conviction that within that\nstrange book were locked mysteries which far transcended the wildest\nimaginings of the human mind. With it came also the certainty that\nJesus had been in complete possession of those sacred mysteries. There\ncould be no question now that his mission had been woefully\nmisunderstood, often deliberately misinterpreted, and too frequently\nmaliciously misused by mankind. His greatest sayings, teachings so\npregnant with truth that, had they been rightfully appropriated by\nmen, ere this would have dematerialized the universe and revealed the\nspiritual kingdom of God, had been warped by cunning minds into crude\nsystems of theology and righteous shams, behind which the world's\nmoney-changers and sellers of doves still drove their wicked traffic\nand offered insults to Truth in the temple of the Most High.\n\nOh, how he now lamented the narrowness and the intellectual\nlimitations with which his seminary training had been hedged about!\nThe world's thought had been a closed book to him. Because of his\nmorbid honesty, only such pages reached his eye as had passed the\nbigoted censorship of Holy Church. His religious instruction had been\nserved to him with the seal of infallible authority. Of other systems\nof theology he had been permitted only the Vatican's biased\ninterpretation, for the curse of Holy Church rested upon them. Of\ncurrent philosophical thought, of Bible criticism and the results of\nindependent scriptural research, he knew practically nothing--little\nbeyond what the explorer had told him in their memorable talks a few\nweeks before in Cartagena. But, had he known it, these had unbarred\nthe portals of his mind to the reception of the new ideas which, under\na most powerful stimulus, were now flowing so steadily through them.\nThat stimulus was Carmen.\n\nTo meet with a child of tender years who knows no evil is, after all,\na not uncommon thing. For, did we but realize it, the world abounds in\nthem. They are its glory, its radiance--until they are taught to heed\nthe hiss of the serpent. Their pure knowledge of immanent good would\nendure--ah, who may say how long?--did not we who measure our wisdom\nby years forbid them with the fear-born mandate: \"Thus far!\" What\nmanner of being was he who said, \"Suffer little children to come unto\nme, and forbid them not?\" Oh, ye parents, who forbid your little ones\nto come to the Christ by hourly heaping up before them the limitations\nof fear and doubt, of faith in the power and reality of sin and evil,\nof false instruction, and withering material beliefs! Would not the\nChrist pray for you to-day, \"Father, forgive them, for they know not\nwhat they do\"?\n\nWhen Jos\u00e8 met Carmen she was holding steadfastly to her vision--the\nimmanence and allness of God. Each day she created the morrow; and she\nknew to a certainty that it would be happy. Would he, clanking his\nfetters of worldly beliefs, be the one to shatter her illusion, if\nillusion it be? Nay, rather should he seek to learn of her, if; haply\nshe be in possession of that jewel for which he had searched a vain\nlifetime. Already from the stimulus which his intercourse with the\nchild had given his mental processes there had come a sudden\nliberation of thought. Into his freer mentality the Christ-idea now\nflowed.\n\nMankind complain that they cannot \"prove\" God. But Paul long since\ndeclared emphatically that to prove Him the human mind must be\ntransformed. In the light of the great ideas which had dawned upon him\nin the past few days--the nature of God as mind, unlimited, immanent,\neternal, and good; and the specious character of the five physical\nsenses, which from the beginning have deluded mankind into the false\nbelief that through them comes a true knowledge of the cosmos--Jos\u00e8's\nmentality was being formed anew.\n\nHegel, delving for truth in a world of illusion, summed up a lifetime\nof patient research in the pregnant statement, \"The true knowledge of\nGod begins when we know that things as they are have no truth in\nthem.\" The testimony of the five physical senses constitutes \"things\nas they are.\" But--if Jos\u00e8's reasoning be not illogical--the human\nmind receives no testimony from these senses, which, at most, can\noffer but insensate and meaningless vibrations in a pulpy mass called\nthe brain. The true knowledge of God, for which Jos\u00e8 had yearned and\nstriven, begins only when men turn from the mesmeric deception of the\nphysical senses, and learn that there is something, knowable and\nusable, behind them, and of whose existence they give not the\nslightest intimation.\n\nIt was Saturday. The church edifice was so far put in order that Jos\u00e8\nfound no reason for not holding service on the morrow. He therefore\nannounced the fact, and told Carmen that he must devote the day to\npreparation. Their lessons must go over to Monday. Seeking the\nsolitude of his house, Jos\u00e8 returned to his Bible.\n\nHe began with Genesis. \"In the beginning--God.\" Not, as in the codes\nof men, God last, and after every material expedient has been\nexhausted--but \"to begin with.\" Jos\u00e8 could not deny that for all that\nexists there is a cause. Nor can the human mind object to the\nimplication that the cause of an existing universe must itself\ncontinue to exist. Even less can it deny that the framer of the\nworlds, bound together in infinite space by the unbreakable cables of\ninfinite laws, must be omnipotent. And to retain its omnipotence, that\ncause must be perfect--absolutely good--every whit pure, sound, and\nharmonious; for evil is demonstrably self-destructive. And, lastly,\nwhat power could operate thus but an infinite intelligence, an\nall-inclusive mind?\n\nNow let the human mentality continue its own reasoning, if so be that\nit hold fast to fact and employ logical processes. If \"like\nproduces like\"--and from thistles figs do not grow--that which mind\ncreates must be mental. And a good cause can produce only a good\neffect. So the ancient writer, \"And God saw every thing that He had\nmade, and, behold, it was very good.\" The inspired scribe--inspired?\nYes, mused Jos\u00e8, for inspiration is but the flow of truth into one's\nmentality--stopped not until he had said, \"So God created man in\nHis own image\"--\n\nWait! He will drive that home.\n\n--\"in the image of God\"--not in the image of matter, not in the\nlikeness of evil--\"created He him.\" But what had now become of that\nman?\n\nSo Jesus, centuries later, \"God is spirit,\" and, \"That which is born\nof the Spirit is spirit.\" Or, man--true man--expresses mind, God, and\nis His eternal and spiritual likeness and reflection. But, to make\nthis still clearer to torpid minds, Paul wrote, \"For in Him we live,\nand move, and have our being.\" Then he added, \"To be spiritually\nminded is life.\" As if he would say, True life is the _consciousness_\nof spiritual things only.\n\nIs human life aught but a series of states of consciousness? And is\nconsciousness aught but mental activity?--for when the mind's activity\nceases, the man dies. But mental activity is the activity of thought.\n\n\"It is the activity of thought,\" said Jos\u00e8 aloud, \"that makes us\nbelieve that fleshly eyes see and ears hear. We see only our thoughts;\nand in some way they become externalized as our environment.\"\n\nHis reasoning faculty went busily on. Thought builds images, or mental\nconcepts, within the mind. These are the thought-objects which mankind\nbelieve they see as material things in an outer world. And so the\nworld is within, not without. Jesus must have known this when he said,\n\"The kingdom of heaven is within you.\" Did he not know the tremendous\neffects of thought when he said, \"For as a man thinketh, so is he\"? In\nother words, a man builds his own mental image of himself, and conveys\nit to the fellow-minds about him.\n\nJos\u00e8 again opened his Bible at random. His eye fell upon the\nwarning of Jeremiah, \"Hear, O earth, behold I will bring evil\nupon this people, _even the fruit of their thoughts_!\" Alas! he\nneeded no warning to show him now the dire results of his own past\nwrong thinking. Evil is but wrong thinking wrought out in life\nexperience. And so the chief of sins is the breaking of the very\nfirst Commandment, the belief in other powers than God, the\ninfinite mind that framed the spiritual universe.\n\n\"But we simply can't help breaking the Commandment,\" cried Jos\u00e8, \"when\nwe see nothing but evil about us! And yet--we are seeing only the\nthoughts in our own minds. True--but how came they there? And whence?\nFrom God?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 was quite ready to concede a mental basis for everything; to\nbelieve that even sin is but the thought of sin, false thought\nregarding God and His Creation. But, if God is all-inclusive mind, He\nmust be _the only thinker_. And so all thought must proceed from Him.\nAll thought, both good and evil? No, for then were God maintaining a\nhouse divided against itself. And that would mean His ultimate\ndissolution.\n\nInfinite, omnipotent mind is by very logic _compelled_ to be perfect.\nThen the thoughts issuing from that mind must be good. So it must\nfollow that evil thoughts come from another source. But if God is\ninfinite, there is no other source, no other cause. Then there is but\nthe single alternative left--_evil thoughts must be unreal_.\n\nWhat was it that the explorer had said to him in regard to Spencer's\ndefinition of reality? \"That which endures.\" But, for that matter,\nevil seems to be just as enduring as good, and to run its course as\nundeviatingly. After all, what is it that says there is evil? The five\nphysical senses. But that again reduces to the thought of evil, for\nmen see only their thoughts. These so-called senses say that the world\nis flat--that the sun circles the earth--that objects diminish in size\nwith distance. They testify not to truth. Jesus said that evil, or the\n\"devil,\" was \"a liar and the father of lies.\" Then the testimony of\nthe physical senses to evil--and there is no other testimony to its\nexistence and power--is a lie. A lie is--what? Nothing. Reason has had\nto correct sense-testimony in the field of astronomy and show that the\nearth is not flat. Where, indeed, has reason not had to correct\nsense-testimony? For Jos\u00e8 could now see that all such testimony was\nessentially false. \"Things as they are have no truth in them.\" In\nother words, sense-testimony is false belief. Again, a lie. And the\nhabitat of a lie is--nowhere. Did the world by clinging to evil and\ntrying to make something of it, to classify it and reduce it to\ndefinite rules and terms, thus tend to make it real? Assuredly so. And\nas long as the world held evil to be real, could evil be overcome?\nAgain, no. A reality endures forever.\n\nJos\u00e8 arose from his study. He believed he was close to the discovery\nof that solid basis of truth on which to stand while teaching Carmen.\nAt any rate, her faith, which he could no longer believe to be\nbaseless illusion, would not be shattered by him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 11\n\n\nTwo weeks after his arrival in Simit\u00ed Jos\u00e8 conducted his first\nservices in the ancient church. After four years of silence, the rusty\nbell sent out its raucous call from the old tower that still morning\nand announced the revival of public worship.\n\nAs the priest stepped from the sacristy and approached the altar his\nheart experienced a sudden sinking. Before him his little flock bowed\nreverently and expectantly. Looking out at them, a lump rose in his\nthroat. He was their pastor, and daily his love had grown for these\nkindly, simple folk. And now, what would he not have given could he\nhave stretched forth his hands, as did the Master, to heal them of\ntheir ills and lift them out of the shadows of ignorance! Ah, if he\ncould have thrown aside the mummery and pagan ceremonialism which he\nwas there to conduct, and have sat down among them, as Jesus was wont\nto do on those still mornings in Galilee! Instead, he stood before\nthem an apostate vassal of Rome, hypocritically using the Church to\nshield and maintain himself in Simit\u00ed while he reared away from her\nthe child Carmen.\n\nYet, what could he do? He had heard the call; and he had answered,\n\"Master, here am I.\" And now he was occupying, while waiting to be\nled, step by step, out of his cruelly anomalous position and into his\nrightful domain. A traitor to Holy Church? Nay, he thought he would\nhave been a traitor to all that was best and holiest within himself\nhad he done otherwise. In the name of the Church he would serve these\nhumble people. Serving them, he honored the Master. And honoring\nChrist, he could not dishonor the Church.\n\nJos\u00e8's conduct of the Mass was perfunctory. Vainly he strove to hold\nin thought the symbolism of the service, the offering of Christ as a\npropitiation for the world's sins. But gradually the folly of Milton's\nextravagant, wild dream, which the poet clothed in such imperishable\nbeauty, stole over him and blinded this vision. He saw the Holy\nTrinity sitting in solemn council in the courts of heaven. He heard\ntheir perplexed discussion of the ravages of Satan in the terrestrial\nparadise below. He heard the Father pronounce His awful curse upon\nmankind. And he beheld the Son rise and with celestial magnanimity\noffer himself as the sacrificial lamb, whose blood should wash away\nthe serpent-stain of sin. How inept the whole drama!\n\nAnd then he thought of Carmen. He had seen her, as he looked out over\nhis people, sitting with Do\u00f1a Maria, arrayed in a clean white frock,\nand swinging her plump bare legs beneath the bench, while wonder and\namazement peered out from her big brown eyes as she followed his every\nmove. What would such things mean to her, whose God was ever-present\ngood? What did they mean to the priest himself, who was beginning to\nsee Him as infinite, divine mind, knowing no evil--the One whose\nthoughts are not as ours?\n\nHe took up the holy water and sprinkled the assemblage. \"Purge me with\nhyssop, and I shall be clean: wash me, and I shall be whiter than\nsnow.\" But how is the human mind purged of error? By giving it truth.\nAnd does the infinite mind purge the thought of men in any other way?\nHis mind was full as he took up the Missal. \"_Kyrie Eleison_, _Christe\nEleison_.\"\n\nHe hesitated. With a tug he pulled his mind back to the work before\nhim. But why was he invoking clemency from One who knows no evil?\nHeretofore he had always thought that God knew evil, that He must\nrecognize it, and that He strove Himself to overcome it. But if God\nknew evil, then evil were real and eternal! Dreamily he began to\nintone the _Gloria in Excelsis Deo_. All hail, thou infinite mind,\nwhose measureless depths mortal man has not even begun to sound! His\nsoul could echo that strain forever.\n\nHe turned to the Lesson and read: \"But there went up a mist from the\nearth, and watered the whole face of the ground. And the Lord God\nformed man of the dust of the ground.\" He stopped a moment for\nthought. The _Lord_ God! The mist of error watered the false\nthought--the one lie about God--and out of it formed the man of flesh,\nthe false concept which is held in the minds of mortals. Aye, it was\nthe lie, posing as the Lord of creation, which had formed its false\nman out of the dust of the ground, and had forced it upon the\nacceptance of mankind! Jos\u00e8 turned back and read the whole of the\nfirst chapter of Genesis, where he felt that he stood upon truth.\n\nThe tapers on the altar flickered fitfully. The disturbed bats\nblundered among the rafters overhead. Outside, the dusty roads burned\nwith a white glare. Within, he and the people were worshiping God.\nWorship? This? \"God is a spirit, and they that worship Him must\nworship Him in spirit and in truth.\" In _Truth_!\n\nJos\u00e8 recited the Nicene creed, with the thought that its man-made\nfetters had bound the Christian world for dreary centuries. Then, the\nPreface and Canon concluded, he pronounced the solemn words of\nconsecration which turned the bread and wine before him into the flesh\nand blood of Christ Jesus. He looked at the wafer and the chalice long\nand earnestly. He--Jos\u00e8 de Rinc\u00f3n--mortal, human, a weakling among\nweaklings--could he command God by his \"_Hoc est enim corpus meum_\" to\ndescend from heaven to this altar? Could he so invoke the power of the\nChrist as to change bread and wine into actual flesh and blood? And\nyet, with all the priestly powers which Holy Church had conferred upon\nhim, he could not heal a single bodily ill, nor avert one human\nmisfortune!\n\nAh, pagan Rome! Well have you avenged yourself upon those who wrought\nyour fall, for in the death conflict you left the taint of your\npaganism upon them, and it endures in their sons even to this fair\nday!\n\nJos\u00e8 deferred his sermon until the close of the service. He wanted\ntime to think over again what he could say to these simple people.\nThey sat before him, dull, inert, yet impressionable--bare of feet, or\nwearing hempen sandals, and clad in cheap cottons and calicos, with\nhere and there a flash of bright ribbon among the women, and\noccasionally a parasol of brilliant hue, which the owner fondly\nclasped, while impatiently awaiting the close of the service that she\nmight proudly parade it. A few of the men wore starched linen shirts,\nbut without collars. The Alcalde, with his numerous family, and the\nfamily of Don Felipe Alcozer, sat well in front. The former regarded\nJos\u00e8 expectantly, as the priest turned to deliver his simple sermon.\n\n\"My children,\" Jos\u00e8 began, \"when the good man whom we call the Saviour\nsent his disciples out into the world he told them to preach the\ngospel and heal the sick. We have no record that he asked them to do\nmore, for that included his whole mission. I am here to do his work.\nAnd, as I believe myself to have been led to you, so I shall preach\nwhat I believe to be given me by the great Father of us all. I shall\nteach you the Christ as I comprehend him. I would I could heal the\nsick as well. But the gift of healing which Jesus bestowed has been\nlost to mankind.\" He paused and seemed to think deeply. Then he\ncontinued:\n\n\"I am your servant, and your friend. I want you to believe that\nwhatever I do in your midst and whatever I say to you follows only\nafter I have prayerfully considered your welfare. As time has passed I\nhave seemed to see things in a clearer light than before. What I may\nsee in the future I shall point out to you as you are able to\nunderstand me. To that end we must suffer many things to be as they\nare for the present, for I am learning with you. I shall give you a\nsingle thought to take with you to-day. Jesus once said, 'As a man\nthinketh, so is he.' I want you to remember that, if you would be well\nand happy and prosperous, you must think only about good things. Some\nday you will see why this is so. But go back now to your _fincas_ and\nyour fishing, to your little stores and your humble homes, firmly\nresolving never to think a bad thought, whether about yourself or your\nneighbor. And pray for yourselves and me--\"\n\nHe looked off into the gloom overhead. Again he seemed to hear the Man\nof Galilee: \"Ask and ye shall receive.\"\n\n\"And, my children--\"\n\nHe thought suddenly of Carmen and her visits to the shales. His face\nshone for a moment with a new light.\n\n\"--let your prayers be no mere requests that God will bless us, but\nrather let them be statements that He is infinite good, and that He\ncannot do otherwise than give us all we need. No, I ask not that you\nintercede for me; nor shall I do so for you. But I do ask that you\njoin with me in trying to realize that God is good; that He loves us\nas His dear children; and that He is daily, hourly pouring out His\ninexhaustible goodness upon us. We shall all see that goodness when we\nlearn to think no evil.\"\n\nHis eyes rested upon Carmen as he spoke these last words. Then with a\nsimple invocation he dismissed the congregation.\n\nThe Alcalde carried Jos\u00e8 off to dinner with him, much against the\ninclination of the priest, who preferred to be alone. But the Alcalde\nwas the chief influence in the town, and it was policy to cultivate\nhim.\n\n\"The blessed Virgin shows that she has not forgotten Simit\u00ed, Padre, by\nsending you here,\" said Don Mario, when they were seated in the shade\nof the ample _patio_.\n\nJos\u00e8 knew the Alcalde was sounding him. \"Yes, friend,\" with just a\ntrace of amusement in his voice. \"It was doubtless because of the\nVirgin that I was directed here,\" he replied, thinking of Carmen.\n\n\"Excellent advice that you gave the people, Padre; but it is not\nlikely they understood you, poor fools! Now if Padre Diego had been\npreaching he would have ranted like a windstorm; but he would have\nmade an impression. I am afraid soft words will not sink into their\nthick skulls.\"\n\nDinner was served in the open, during which the Alcalde chattered\nvolubly.\n\n\"Don Rosendo returns soon?\" he finally ventured. Jos\u00e8 knew that for\nsome time he had been edging toward the question.\n\n\"_Quien sabe, se\u00f1or!_\" replied the priest, with a careless shrug of\nhis shoulders.\n\n\"But--_Caramba_! he is old to prospect for gold--and alone, too!\" Don\nMario eyed Jos\u00e8 sharply.\n\n\"Ah, you priests!\" he burst out laughing. \"You are all alike when it\ncomes to money. Padre Diego was up to the same schemes; and before he\nleft he had a hat full of titles to mines.\"\n\n\"But I am not seeking to acquire mineral property!\" exclaimed Jos\u00e8\nwith some aspersion.\n\n\"No? Then you had nothing to do with Rosendo's trip?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 kept silence.\n\n\"_Na_, Padre, let us be confidential,\" said the Alcalde, hitching his\nchair closer to the priest. \"Look, I understand why Rosendo went into\nthe Guamoc\u00f3 country--but you can trust me to say nothing about it.\nOnly, Padre, if he should find the mine he will have trouble enough\nto hold it. But I can help you both. You know the denouncement\npapers must go through my hands, and I send them to Cartagena for\nregistration.\"\n\nHe sat back in his chair with a knowing look.\n\n\"There is only one man here to be afraid of,\" he resumed; \"and that is\nDon Felipe Alcozer; although he may never return to Simit\u00ed.\" He\nreflected a few moments. Then:\n\n\"Now, Padre, let us have some understanding about interests in the\nmine, should Rosendo find it. The mine will be useless to us unless we\nwork it, for there is no one to buy it from us. To work it, we must\nhave a stamp-mill, or _arrastras_. The Antioquanians are skilled in\nthe making of wooden stamp-mills; but one would cost perhaps two\nthousand _pesos oro_. Nobody here can furnish so much money but Don\nFelipe. I will arrange with him for a suitable interest. And I will\nfix all the papers so that the title will be held by us three. Rosendo\nis only a _peon_. You can pay him for his trouble, and he need not\nhave an interest.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 breathed easier while this recital was in progress. So Don Mario\nbelieved Rosendo to have gone in search of the lost mine, La Libertad!\nGood; for Cartagena would soon get the report, and his own tenure of\nthe parish would be rendered doubly sure thereby. The monthly greasing\nof Wenceslas' palm with what Rosendo might extract from the Guamoc\u00f3\nsands, coupled with the belief that Jos\u00e8 was maintaining a man in the\nfield in search of Don Ignacio's lost mine, rendered Cartagena's\ninterference a very remote contingency. He almost laughed as he\nreplied:\n\n\"Rosendo will doubtless prospect for some months, Don Mario, and I am\nsure we shall have plenty of time to discuss any arrangement of\ninterests later, should occasion arise. But this is the Sabbath day.\nSo let us not talk business any further.\"\n\nWhen the afternoon heat began to wane, Jos\u00e8 left the Alcalde and\nreturned to his cottage. Since the service of the morning he had been\nfighting a constantly deepening sense of depression. An awful\nloneliness now gripped his heart, and dank gloom was again sweeping\nthrough the corridors of his soul. God, what a sacrifice, to remain\nburied in that dismal town! His continuance in the priesthood of an\nabjured faith was violative of every principle of honesty! The time\nwould come when the mask of hypocrisy would have to be raised, and the\nresultant exposure would be worse then than open apostasy now!\n\nHe entered his dreary little abode and threw himself upon a chair.\nThere had been no reaction like this for days. He looked out into the\ndeserted street. Mud hovels; ragged, thatched roofs; lowly _peones_\ndrowsing away life's little hour within! There was scarcely a book in\nthe town. Few of its inhabitants could even read or write. Culture,\neducation, refinement--all wanting. Nothing but primal existence--the\nbarest necessities of real life. He could not stand it! He had been a\nfool all his years! He would throw everything to the winds and go out\ninto the world to live his life as it had been intended he should live\nit. He would send his resignation to the Bishop to-morrow. Then he\nwould hire Juan to take him to Bodega Central; and the few _pesos_ he\nhad left would get him to Barranquilla. There he would work until he\nhad earned enough for his passage to the great States up north, of\nwhich the explorer had told such wonderful tales. Once there, he could\nteach, or--\n\nHis thought turned to Rosendo. He saw him, bent with age, and wearied\nwith toil, alone in the awful solitude of the jungle, standing knee\ndeep in the cold mountain water, while from early dawn till sunset he\nincessantly swung the heavy _batea_ to concentrate the few flakes of\nprecious gold it might contain. And the old man was facing years of\njust such loneliness and heavy toil--facing them gladly.\n\nHe thought of Carmen. Was she worth such sacrifice as he and Rosendo\nwere making? God forgive him! Yes--a thousand times yes! If he\nbetrayed Rosendo's confidence and fled like a coward now, leaving her\nto fall into the sooty hands of men like Padre Diego, to be crushed,\nwarped, and squeezed into the molds of Holy Church, could he ever\nagain face his fellow-men?\n\nHe jumped to his feet. \"Get thee behind me, Satan!\" he cried in a\nvoice that echoed through the barren rooms. He smote his chest and\npaced the floor. Then he stopped still. He heard Carmen's voice again.\nIt was the same simple melody she had sung the day he awoke from his\nfever. He stood listening. His eyes filled. Then--\n\n  \"Love took up the harp of life, and smote on all the chords with\n        might,\n  Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, passed in music out of\n        sight.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 12\n\n\nIn the days that followed, while at times Jos\u00e8 still struggled\ndesperately against the depression of his primal environment, and\nagainst its insidious suggestions of license, Carmen moved before him\nlike the shechinah of Israel, symbolizing the divine presence. When\nthe dark hours came and his pronounced egoism bade fair to overwhelm\nhim; when his self-centered thought clung with the tenacity of a\nlimpet to his dreary surroundings and his unfilled longings; when\nself-condemnation and self-pity rived his soul, and despair of solving\nlife's intricate problems settled again like a pall upon him, he\nturned to her. Under the soft influence of her instinct for primitive\ngood, he was learning, even if slowly, to jettison his heavily laden\nsoul, and day by day to ride the tossing waves of his stormy thought\nwith a lighter cargo. Her simple faith in immanent good was working\nupon his mind like a spiritual catharsis, to purge it of its clogging\nbeliefs. Her unselfed love flowed over him like heavenly balm, salving\nthe bleeding wounds of the spiritual mayhem which he had suffered at\nthe violent hands of Holy Church's worldly agents.\n\nCarmen's days were filled to the brim with a measure of joy that\nconstantly overflowed upon all among whom she moved. Her slight\ndependence upon her impoverished material environment, her contempt\nof its _ennui_, were constant reminders to Jos\u00e8 that heaven is but\na state of mind. Even in desolate Simit\u00ed, life to her was an\nendless series of delightful experiences, of wonderful surprises\nin the discovery of God's presence everywhere. Her enthusiasms were\nalways ardent and inexhaustible. Sparkling animation and abounding\nvitality characterized her every movement. Her thought was free,\nunstrained, natural, and untrammeled by those inherited and educated\nbeliefs in evil in which Jos\u00e8 had early been so completely swamped.\nIn worldly knowledge she was the purest novice; and the engaging\n_na\u00efvet\u00e9_ with which she met the priest's explanations of historical\nevents and the motives from which they sprang charmed him beyond\nmeasure, and made his work with her a constant delight. Her sense of\nhumor was keen, and her merriment when his recitals touched her\nrisibility was extravagant. She laughed at danger, laughed at the\nweaknesses and foibles of men, when he told of the political and\nsocial ambitions which stirred mankind in the outside world. But he\nknew that her merriment proceeded not from an ephemeral sense of\nthe ludicrous, but from a righteous appraisal of the folly and\nlittleness of those things for which the world so sorely strives.\n\nAnd daily the little maid wrapped herself about his heart. Daily her\nwondrous love coiled its soft folds tighter around him, squeezing from\nhis atrabilious soul, drop by drop, its sad taciturnity and inherent\nmorbidness, that it might later fill his empty life with a spiritual\nrichness which he had never known before.\n\nOn the day following the opening of the church Carmen had asked\nmany questions. It was the first religious service she had ever\nvoluntarily attended. To her former queries regarding the function\nof the church edifice, Rosendo had vouchsafed but one reply: it was\nthe house of God, and in it the people used to gather to learn of Him.\nBut she protested that she had no need of the musty, ramshackle,\nbarn-like old building as a locus in which to center her thought upon\nGod. She walked with Him, and she much preferred the bright, sunlit\nout-of-doors in which to commune with Him. Jos\u00e8 explained the need\nof a central gathering place as a shelter from the hot sun. But the\nimages--the pictures of Saints and Virgin--and the Mass itself?\n\n\"They are what the people are accustomed to, dear child, to direct\ntheir thought toward God,\" he explained. \"And we will use them until\nwe can teach them something better.\" He had omitted from the church\nservice as far as possible the collects and all invocations addressed\nto the Virgin and the Saints, and had rendered it short and extremely\nsimple. Carmen seemed satisfied with his explanation, and with his\ninsistence that, for the sake of appearance, she attend the Sunday\nservices. He would trust her God to guide them both.\n\nThe days sped by silently and swiftly. Jos\u00e8 and the child dwelt\ntogether apart from the world, in a universe purely mental. As he\ntaught her, she hung upon his every word, and seized the proffered\ntutelage with avidity. Often, after the day's work, Jos\u00e8, in his\ncustomary strolls about the little town, would come across the girl in\nthe doorway of a neighboring house, with a group of wide-eyed\nyoungsters about her, relating again the wonder-tales which she had\ngathered from him. Marvelous tales they were, too, of knight and\n_hidalgo_, of court and camp, of fairies, pyxies, gnomes and sprites,\nof mossy legend and historic fact, bubbling from the girl's childish\nlips with an engaging _na\u00efvet\u00e9_ of interpretation that held the man\nenchanted. Even the schoolmaster, who had besought Jos\u00e8 in vain to\nturn Carmen over to him, was often a spellbound listener at these\nlittle gatherings.\n\nThe result was that in a short time a delegation, headed by the\nAlcalde himself, waited upon Jos\u00e8 and begged him to lecture to the\npeople of Simit\u00ed in the church building at least two or three evenings\na week upon places and people he had seen in the great world of which\nthey knew nothing. Jos\u00e8's eyes were moist as he looked at the great,\nbrawny men, stout of heart, but simple as children. He grieved to give\nup his evenings, for he had formed the habit of late of devoting them\nto the study of his Bible, and to meditation on those ideas which had\nso recently come to him. But the appeal from these innocent, untutored\npeople again quenched the thought of self, and he bade them be assured\nthat their request was granted.\n\nThe new ideas which had found entrance into Jos\u00e8's liberated mentality\nin the past few days had formed a basis on which he was not afraid to\nstand while teaching Carmen; and his entire instruction was\nthenceforth colored by them. He knew not why, in all the preceding\nyears, such ideas had not come to him before. But he was to learn,\nsome day, that his previous tenacious clinging to evil as a reality,\ntogether with his material beliefs and his worldly intellectuality,\nhad stood as barriers at the portals of his thought, and kept the\ntruth from entering. His mind had been already full--but its contents\nwere unbelief, fear, the conviction of evil as real and operative, and\nthe failure to know God as immanent, omnipotent and perfect mind, to\nwhom evil is forever unknown and unreal. Pride, egoism, and his morbid\nsense of honesty had added their portion to the already impassable\nobstruction at the gateway of his thought. And so the error had been\nkept within, the good without. The \"power of the Lord\" had not been\nabsent; but it had remained unapplied. Thus he had wandered through\nthe desolate wilderness; but yet sustained and kept alive, that he\nshould not go down to the pit.\n\nJos\u00e8's days were now so crowded that he was forced to borrow heavily\nfrom the night. The Alcalde continued his unctuous flattery, and the\npriest, in turn, cultivated him assiduously. To that official's query\nas to the restitution of the confessional in the church, the priest\nreplied that he could spare time to hear only such confessions from\nhis flock as might be necessary to elicit from him the advice or\nassistance requisite for their needs. He was there to help them solve\ntheir life problems, not to pry into their sacred secrets; and their\nconfessions must relate only to their necessities.\n\nThe Alcalde went away with a puzzled look. Of a truth a new sort of\npriest had now to be reckoned with in Simit\u00ed--a very different sort\nfrom Padre Diego.\n\nIn the first days of Jos\u00e8's incumbency he found many serious matters\nto adjust. He had learned from Rosendo that not half the residents of\nSimit\u00ed were married to the consorts with whom they lived, and that\nmany of the children who played in the streets did not know who their\nfathers were. So prevalent was this evil condition that the custom\namong the men of having their initials embroidered upon the bosoms of\ntheir shirts was extended to include the initial of the mother's\nfamily name. Jos\u00e8 had questioned Rosendo as to the meaning of the\nletters R. A. S. upon his shirt.\n\n\"The S, Padre, is the initial of my mother's family name. I am Rosendo\nAriza, son of the daughter of Saurez. My parents were married by a\npriest. But half the people of Simit\u00ed have never been really\nmarried.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 sought the cause of this dereliction. Fidel Avila was living with\na woman, by whom he had three children. The priest summoned him to the\nparish house.\n\n\"Fidel,\" he questioned sternly, \"Jacinta, the woman you live with, is\nyour wife?\"\n\n\"Yes, _Se\u00f1or Padre_.\"\n\n\"And you were married by the Church?\"\n\n\"No, Padre.\"\n\n\"But was there a priest here when you began to live with Jacinta?\"\n\n\"Yes, Padre. The _Cura_, Don Diego Polo, was here.\"\n\n\"Then why were you not married by him? Do you not know how wicked it\nis to live as you are doing? Think of your children!\"\n\n\"Yes, Padre, and I asked the _Cura_, Don Diego, to marry us. But he\ncharged twenty _pesos oro_ for doing it; and I could not afford it. I\nloved Jacinta. And so we decided to live together without the\nmarriage.\"\n\n\"But--!\" Jos\u00e8 stopped. He knew that the Church recognized no marriage\nunless it were performed by a priest. The civil magistrate had no\njurisdiction in such a case. And a former priest's rapacity had\nresulted in forcing illegitimacy upon half the children of this\nbenighted hamlet, because of their parents' inability to afford the\nluxury of a canonical marriage.\n\n\"Fidel, were your father and mother married?\" he asked in kinder\ntones.\n\n\"I do not know, Padre. Only a few people in Guamoc\u00f3 can afford to pay\nto be married. The men and women live together, perhaps for all time,\nperhaps for only a few months. If a man wishes to leave his woman and\nlive with another, he does so. If there are children, the woman always\nhas to keep and care for them.\"\n\n\"And could you leave Jacinta if you wished, and live with another\nwoman?\"\n\n\"Yes, Padre.\"\n\n\"And she would have to lake care of your children?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And all because you are not married?\"\n\n\"I think so, Padre.\"\n\n\"_Hombre!_ But that will do, Fidel.\"\n\nOh, the sordid greed of those who abuse their sacred commission! What\npunishment is mete for such as exploit these lowly folk in the name of\nreligion! Jos\u00e8 strode off to consult the Alcalde.\n\n\"Don Mario, the men in Simit\u00ed who are living with women have _got_ to\nbe married to them! It is shameful! I shall make a canvass of the town\nat once!\"\n\nThe Alcalde laughed. \"_Costumbre_, Padre. You can't change it.\"\n\n_Costumbre del pa\u00eds!_ It is a final answer all through South America.\nNo matter how unreasonable a thing may be, if it is the custom of the\ncountry it is a Medean law.\n\n\"But you know this is subversive of Church discipline!\" Jos\u00e8 retorted\nwarmly. \"Look you, Don Mario,\" he added suggestively, \"you and I are\nto work together, are we not?\"\n\nThe Alcalde blinked his pig eyes, but thought hard about La Libertad.\n_\"Cierto, Se\u00f1or Padre!\"_ he hastened to exclaim.\n\n\"Then I demand that you summon before me every man and woman who are\nliving together unmarried.\"\n\nWith a thought single to his own future advantage, the wary Alcalde\ncomplied. Within the week following this interview Jos\u00e8 married twenty\ncouples, and without charge. Some offered him a few _pesos_. These he\ntook and immediately turned over to Don Mario as treasurer of the\nparish. Those couples who refused to be married were forced by the\nAlcalde to separate. But of these there were few. Among them was one\nJulio Gomez. Packing his few household effects upon his back, and\nmuttering imprecations against the priest, Gomez set out for the\nhills, still followed by his woman, with a babe slung over her\nshoulders and two naked children toddling at her bare heels.\n\nVerily, the ancient town was being profoundly stirred by the man who\nhad sought to find his tomb there. Gradually the people lost their\nsuspicions and distrust, bred of former bitter experience with\npriests, and joined heartily with Jos\u00e8 to ameliorate the social status\nof the place. His sincere love for them, and his utter selflessness,\nsecured their confidence, and ere his first month among them closed,\nhe had won them, almost to a man.\n\nMeantime, six weeks had passed since Rosendo had departed to take up\nhis lonely task of self-renouncing love. Then one day he returned,\nworn and emaciated, his great frame shaking like a withered leaf in a\nchill blast.\n\n\"It is the _terciana_, Padre,\" he said, as he sank shuddering upon\nhis bed. \"It comes every third day. I went as far as Tach\u00ed--fifty\nleagues from Simit\u00ed--and there the fever overtook me. I have been\neight days coming back; and day before yesterday I ran out of\nfood. Last evening I found a wild melon at the side of the trail. A\ncoral snake struck at me when I reached for it, but he hit my\n_machete_ instead. _Caramba!_\"\n\nJos\u00e8 pressed his wet hand, while Do\u00f1a Maria laid damp cloths upon his\nburning forehead.\n\n\"The streams are washed out, Padre,\" Rosendo continued sadly. \"I\nworked at Colorado, Popales, and Tambora. But I got no more than five\n_pesos_ worth. And that will not pay for half of my supplies. It is\nthere in a little bag,\" pointing to his soaked and muddy kit.\n\nJos\u00e8's heart was wrung by the suffering and disappointment of the old\nman. Sadly he carried the little handful of gold flakes to Don Mario,\nand then returned to the exhausted Rosendo.\n\nAll through the night the sick man tossed and moaned. By morning he\nwas delirious. Then Jos\u00e8 and Do\u00f1a Maria became genuinely alarmed. The\ntoil and exposure had been too much for Rosendo at his advanced age.\nIn his delirium he talked brokenly of the swamps through which he had\nfloundered, for he had taken the trail in the wet season, and fully\nhalf of its one hundred and fifty miles of length was oozy and all but\nimpassable bog.\n\nBy afternoon the fever had greatly increased. Don Mario shook his head\nas he stood over him.\n\n\"I have seen many in that condition, Padre, and they didn't wake up!\nIf we had quinine, perhaps he might be saved. But there isn't a flake\nin the town.\"\n\n\"Then send Juan to Bodega Central at once for it!\" cried Jos\u00e8, wild\nwith apprehension.\n\n\"I doubt if he would find it there either, Padre. But we can try.\nHowever, Juan cannot make the trip in less than two days. And I fear\nRosendo will not last that long.\"\n\nDo\u00f1a Maria sat by the bedside, dumb with grief. Jos\u00e8 wrung his hands\nin despair. The day drew slowly to a close. The Alcalde had dispatched\nJuan down to the river to signal any steamer that he should meet, if\nperchance he might purchase a few grains of the only drug that could\nsave the sick man. Carmen had absented herself during the day; but\nshe returned in time to assist Do\u00f1a Maria with the evening meal,\nafter which she went at once to her bed.\n\nLate at night, when the sympathizing townsmen had sorrowfully departed\nand Jos\u00e8 had induced Do\u00f1a Maria to seek a few moments rest on her\n_petate_ in the living room, Carmen climbed quietly out of her bed and\ncame to where the priest sat alone with the unconscious Rosendo.\n\nJos\u00e8 was bending over the delirious man. \"Oh, if Jesus were only here\nnow!\" he murmured.\n\n\"Padre dear.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 looked down into the little face beside him.\n\n\"People don't die, you know. They don't really die.\" The little head\nshook as if to emphasize the words.\n\nJos\u00e8 was startled. But he put his arm about the child and drew her to\nhim. \"_Chiquita_, why do you say that?\" he asked sorrowfully.\n\n\"Because God doesn't die, you know,\" she quickly replied. \"And we are\nlike Him, Padre, aren't we?\"\n\n\"But He calls us to Him, _chiquita_. And--I guess--He is--is calling\nyour padre Rosendo now.\"\n\nDoes God kill mankind in order to give them life? Is that His way?\nDeath denies God, eternal Life. And--\n\n\"Why, no, Padre,\" returned the innocent child. \"He is always here; and\nwe are always with Him, you know. He can not call people away from\nwhere He is, can He?\"\n\n_Lo, I am with you alway, even to the end of the world._ The\nChrist-principle, the saving truth about God and man, is ever present\nin an uncomprehending world.\n\nJos\u00e8 knew that there was no material dependence now. Something told\nhim that Rosendo lay dying. There was no physician, no drug, in the\nisolated little town. There was none but God to save. And He--\n\nBut only sinners are taught by priests and preachers to look to God\nfor help. The sick are not so taught. How much more deplorable, then,\nis their condition than that of the wicked!\n\n\"I told God out on the shales this afternoon that I just knew padre\nRosendo wouldn't die!\" The soft, sweet voice hovered on the silence\nlike celestial melody.\n\n_If ye ask anything in my name_--in my character--_it shall be given\nyou_. Carmen asked in the character of the sinless Christ, for her\nasking was an assertion of what she instinctively knew to be truth,\ndespite the evidence of the physical senses. Her petitions were\naffirmations of Immanuel--God with us.\n\n\"Carmen,\" whispered the priest hoarsely, \"go back to your bed, and\nknow, just _know_ that God is here! Know that He did not make padre\nRosendo sick, and that He will not let him die! Know it for him--and\nfor me!\"\n\n\"Why, Padre, I know that now!\" The child looked up into the priest's\nface with her luminous eyes radiating unshaken trust--a trust that\nseemed born of understanding. Yea, she knew that all good was there,\nfor God is omnipotent. They had but to stretch forth their hands to\ntouch the robe of His Christ. The healing principle which cleansed the\nlepers and raised the dead was even with them there in that quiet\nroom. Jos\u00e8 had only to realize it, nothing doubting. Carmen had done\nher work, and her mind now was stayed on Him. Infinite Intelligence\ndid not know Rosendo as Jos\u00e8 was trying to know him, sick and dying.\nGod is Life--and there is no death!\n\nCarmen was again asleep. Jos\u00e8 sat alone, his open Bible before him and\nhis thought with his God.\n\nOh, for even a slight conception of Him who is Life! Moses worked \"as\nseeing Him who is invisible.\" Carmen lived with her eyes on Him,\ndespite her dreary mundane encompassment. And Jos\u00e8, as he sat there\nthroughout the watches of the night, facing the black terror, was\nstriving to pierce the mist which had gone up from the face of the\nground and was separating him from his God. Through the long, dark\nhours, with the quiet of death upon the desolate chamber, he sat mute\nbefore the veil that was \"still untaken away.\"\n\nWhat was it that kept telling him that Rosendo lay dying before him?\nDoes matter talk? Did the serpent talk to Eve? Do fleshly nerves and\nfrail bodily organs converse with men? Can the externalization of\nthought report back to the thought itself? Nay, the report came to him\nfrom the physical senses--naught else. And they reported--nothing! He\nwas seeing but his own thoughts of mixed good and evil. And they were\nfalse, because they testified against God.\n\nSurely God knew Rosendo. But not as the physical senses were trying to\nmake Jos\u00e8 know him, sick and dying. Surely the subjective determines\nthe objective; for as we think, so are we--the Christ said that. From\nhis human standpoint Jos\u00e8 was seeing his thoughts of a dying mortal.\nAnd now he was trying to know that those thoughts did not come from\nGod--that they had no authority back of them--that they were children\nof the \"one lie\" about God--that they were false, false as hell, and\ntherefore impotent and unreal.\n\nWhat, then, had he to fear? Nothing, for truth is beyond the reach of\npersonal sense. So God and His ideas, reflected by the real Rosendo,\nwere beyond the reach of evil.\n\nIf this were true, then he must clear his own mentality--even as he\nnow knew Carmen had done out on the shales that afternoon. He was no\nlonger dealing with a material Rosendo, but with false beliefs about a\nson of God. He was handling mental concepts. And to the serpent,\nerror, he was trying to say: \"What is your authority?\"\n\nIf man lives, he never dies. If man is, then he always has been. And\nhe was never born--and never passes into oblivion. A fact never\nchanges. If two and two make four to-day, they always have done so,\nand always will.\n\nCan good produce evil? Then evil can have no creator. Rosendo, when\nmoved by good, had gone into the wilds of Guamoc\u00f3 on a mission of\nlove. Did evil have power to smite him for his noble sacrifice?\n\nWhat is this human life of ours? Real existence? No, but a sense of\nexistence--and a false sense, for it postulates a god of evil opposed\nto the one supreme Creator of all that really is. Then the testimony\nthat said Rosendo must die was cruelly false. And, more, it was\npowerless--unless Jos\u00e8 himself gave it power.\n\nDid Carmen know that? Had she so reasoned? Assuredly no! But she knew\nGod as Jos\u00e8 had never known Him. And, despite the testimony of the\nfleshly eyes, she had turned from physical sense to Him.\n\n\"It is not practicable!\" the world cries in startled protest.\n\nBut, behold her life!\n\nJos\u00e8 had begun to see that discord was the result of unrighteousness,\nfalse thought. He began to understand why it was that Jesus always\nlinked disease with sin. His own paradoxical career had furnished\nample proof of that. Yet his numberless tribulations were not due\nsolely to his own wrong thinking, but likewise to the wrong thought of\nothers with respect to him, thought which he knew not how to\nneutralize. And the channels for this false, malicious, carnal thought\nhad been his beloved parents, his uncle, the Archbishop, his tutors,\nand, in fact, all with whom he had been associated until he came to\nSimit\u00ed. There he had found Carmen. And there the false thought had met\na check, a reversal. The evil had begun to destroy itself. And he was\nslowly awaking to find nothing but good.\n\nThe night hours flitted through the heavy gloom like spectral\nacolytes. Rosendo sank into a deep sleep. The steady roll of the frogs\nin the lake at length died away. A flush stole timidly across the\neastern sky.\n\n\"Padre dear, he will not die.\"\n\nIt was Carmen's voice that awoke the slumbering priest. The child\nstood at his side, and her little hand clasped his. Rosendo slept.\nHis chest rose and fell with the rhythmic breathing. Jos\u00e8 looked down\nupon him. A great lump came into his throat, and his voice trembled as\nhe spoke.\n\n\"You are right, _chiquita_. Go, call your madre Maria now, and I will\ngo home to rest.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 13\n\n\nThat day Rosendo left his bed. Two days later he again set out for\nGuamoc\u00f3.\n\n\"There _is_ gold there, and I must, I _will_ find it!\" he repeatedly\nexclaimed as he pushed his preparations.\n\nThe courage of the man was magnificent. On its rebound it carried him\nover the protest of Do\u00f1a Maria and the gloomy forebodings of his\nfellow-townsmen, and launched him again on the desolate trail.\n\nBut Jos\u00e8 had uttered no protest. He moved about wrapped in undefinable\nawe. For he believed he had seen Rosendo lifted from the bed of death.\nAnd no one might tell him that it was not by the same power that long\nago had raised the dead man of Nain. Carmen had not spoken of the\nincident again; and something laid a restraint upon Jos\u00e8's lips.\n\nThe eyes of the Alcalde bulged with astonishment when Rosendo entered\nhis store that morning in quest of further supplies.\n\n\"_Caramba!_ Go back to your bed, _compadre_!\" he exclaimed, bounding\nfrom his chair. \"You are walking in your delirium!\"\n\n\"_Na, amigo_,\" replied Rosendo with a smile, \"the fever has left me.\nAnd now I must have another month's supplies, for I go back to Guamoc\u00f3\nas soon as my legs tremble less.\"\n\n_\"Caramba! caramba!\"_\n\nThe Alcalde acted as if he were in the presence of a ghost. But at\nlength becoming convinced that Rosendo was there on matters of\nbusiness, and in his right mind, he checked further expression of\nwonder and, with a shrug of his fat shoulders, assumed his wonted air\nof a man of large affairs.\n\n\"I can allow you five _pesos oro_ on account of the gold which the\n_Cura_ brought me yesterday,\" he said severely. \"But that leaves you\nstill owing ten _pesos_ for your first supplies; and thirty if I give\nyou what you ask for now. If you cannot pay this amount when you\nreturn, you will have to work it out for me.\"\n\nHis little eyes grew steely and cold. Rosendo well knew what the\nthreat implied. But he did not falter.\n\n\"_Bien, compadre_,\" he quietly replied, \"it will be as you say.\"\n\nLate that afternoon Juan returned from Bodega Central with a half\nounce of quinine. He had made the trip with astonishing celerity, and\nhad arrived at the riverine town just as a large steamer was docking.\nThe purser supplied him with the drug, and he immediately started on\nhis return.\n\nThe Alcalde set out to deliver the drug to Rosendo; but not finding\nhim at home, looked in at the parish house. Jos\u00e8 and Carmen were deep\nin their studies.\n\n\"A thousand pardons, _Se\u00f1or Padre_, but I have the medicine you\nordered for Rosendo,\" placing the small package upon the table.\n\n\"You may set it down against me, Don Mario,\" said Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"No!\" exclaimed the Alcalde, \"this must not be charged to the\nparish!\"\n\n\"I said to me, _amigo_,\" replied the priest firmly.\n\n\"It is the same thing, Padre!\" blurted the petty merchant.\n\nThe priest's anger began to rise, but he restrained it. \"Padre Diego\nis no longer here, you must remember,\" he said quietly.\n\n\"But the parish pays your debts; and it would not pay the full value\nof this and Juan's trip,\" was the coarse retort.\n\n\"Very well, then, Don Mario,\" answered Jos\u00e8. \"You may charge it to\nRosendo. But tell me first how much you will place against him for\nit.\"\n\nThe Alcalde reflected a moment. \"The quinine will be five _pesos oro_,\nand Juan's trip three additional. Is it not worth it?\" he demanded,\nblustering before Jos\u00e8's steady gaze. \"If Rosendo had been really sick\nit would have saved his life!\"\n\n\"Then you do not believe he was dangerously ill?\" asked Jos\u00e8 with some\ncuriosity.\n\n\"He couldn't have been really sick and be around to-day--could he?\"\nthe Alcalde demanded.\n\nThe priest glanced at Carmen. She met the look with a smile.\n\n\"No,\" he said slowly, \"not _really_ sick.\" Then he quickly added:\n\n\"If you charge Rosendo eight _pesos_ for that bit of quinine, Don\nMario, you and I are no longer working together, for I do not take\nbase advantage of any man's necessities.\"\n\nThe Alcalde became confused. He was going too far. \"_Na, Se\u00f1or\nPadre_,\" he said hastily, with a sheepish grin. \"I will leave the\nquinine with you, and do you settle the account with Juan.\" With which\nhe beat a disordered retreat.\n\nJos\u00e8 was thankful that, for a few months, at least, he would have a\npowerful hold on this man through his rapacity. What would happen\nwhen the Alcalde at length learned that Rosendo was not searching for\nDon Ignacio's lost mine, he did not care to conjecture. That matter\nwas in other hands than his, and he was glad to leave it there. He\nasked now only to see each single step as he progressed.\n\n\"Did Don Mario say that stuff would cure padre Rosendo?\" asked Carmen,\npointing to the quinine.\n\n\"Yes, _chiquita_.\"\n\n\"Why did he say so, Padre?\"\n\n\"Because he really believed it, _carita_.\"\n\n\"But what is it, Padre--and how can it cure sick people?\"\n\n\"It is the bark of a certain tree, little one, that people take as\nmedicine. It is a sort of poison which people take to counteract\nanother poison. A great school of medicine is founded upon that\nprinciple, Carmen,\" he added. And then he fell to wondering if it\nreally was a principle, after all. If so, it was evil overcoming evil.\nBut would the world believe that both he and Rosendo had been cured\nby--what? Faith? True prayer? By the operation of a great, almost\nunknown principle? Or would it scoff at such an idea?\n\nBut what cared he for that? He saw himself and Rosendo restored, and\nthat was enough. He turned to the child. \"They think the quinine cures\nfever, little one,\" he resumed.\n\n\"And does it?\" The little face wore an anxious look as she put the\nquestion.\n\n\"They think it does, _chiquita_,\" replied the priest, wondering what\nhe should say.\n\n\"But it is just because they think so that they get well, isn't it?\"\nthe girl continued.\n\n\"I guess it is, child.\"\n\n\"And if they thought right they would be cured without this--is it not\nso, Padre dear?\"\n\n\"I am sure of it--now,\" replied the priest. \"In fact, if they always\nkept their thoughts right I am sure they would never be sick.\"\n\n\"You mean, if they always thought about God,\" the child amended.\n\n\"Yes--I mean just that. If they knew, _really knew_, that God is\neverywhere, that He is good, and that He never makes people sick, they\nwould always be well.\"\n\n\"Of course, Padre. It is only their bad thoughts that make them sick.\nAnd even then they are not really sick,\" the child concluded. \"They\nthink they are, and they think they die--and then they wake up and\nfind it isn't so at all.\"\n\nHad the child made this remark to him a few weeks before, he had\ncrushed it with the dull, lifeless, conventional formul\u00e6 of human\nbelief. To-day in penitent humility he was trying to walk hand in hand\nwith her the path she trod. For he was learning from her that\nrighteousness is salvation. A few weeks ago he had lain at death's\ndoor, yearning to pass the portal. Yesterday he believed he had again\nseen the dark angel, hovering over the stricken Rosendo. But in each\ncase _something_ had intervened. Perhaps that \"something not ourselves\nthat makes for righteousness,\" the unknown, almost unacknowledged\nforce that ceases not to combat evil in the human consciousness.\nClinging to his petty egoisms; hugging close his shabby convictions of\nan evil power opposed to God; stuffed with worldly learning and pride\nof race and intellect, in due season, as he sank under the burden of\nhis imaginings, the veil had been drawn aside for a fleeting\nmoment--and his soul had frozen with awe at what it beheld!\n\nFor, back of the density of the human concept, the fleeting,\ninexplicable medley of good and evil which constitutes the phenomenon\nof mortal existence, _he had seen God_! He had seen Him as all-inclusive\nmind, omnipotent, immanent, perfect, eternal. He had caught a moment's\nglimpse of the tremendous Presence which holds all wisdom, all\nknowledge, yet knows no evil. He had seen a blinding flash of that\n\"something\" toward which his life had strained and yearned. With it had\ncome a dim perception of the falsity of the testimony of physical\nsense, and the human life that is reared upon it. And though he\ncounted not himself to have apprehended as yet, he was struggling,\neven with thanksgiving, up out of his bondage, toward the gleam. The\nshafts of error hissed about him, and black doubt and chill despair\nstill felled him with their awful blows. But he walked with Carmen. With\nhis hand in hers, he knew he was journeying toward God.\n\nOn the afternoon before his departure Rosendo entered the parish house\nin apprehension. \"I have lost my _escapulario_, Padre!\" he exclaimed.\n\"The string caught in the brush, and the whole thing was torn from my\nneck. I--I don't like to go back without one,\" he added dubiously.\n\n\"Ah, then you have nothing left but Christ,\" replied Jos\u00e8 with fine\nirony. \"Well, it is of no consequence.\"\n\n\"But, Padre, it had been blessed by the Bishop!\"\n\n\"Well, don't worry. Why, the Holy Father himself once blessed this\nrepublic of ours, and now it is about the most unfortunate country in\nthe whole world! But you are a good Catholic, Rosendo, so you need not\nfear.\"\n\nRosendo was, indeed, a good Catholic. He accepted the faith of his\nfathers without reserve. He had never known any other. Simple,\nsuperstitious, and great of heart, he held with rigid credulity to\nall that had been taught him in the name of religion. But until Jos\u00e8's\nadvent he had feared and hated priests. Nevertheless, his faith in\nsigns and miracles and the healing power of blessed images was\nchild-like. Once when he saw in the store of Don Mario a colored\nchromo of Venus and Cupid, a cheap print that had come with goods\nimported from abroad, he had devoutly crossed himself, believing it to\nbe the Virgin Mary with the Christ-child.\n\n\"But I will fix you up, Rosendo,\" said Jos\u00e8, noting the man's genuine\nanxiety. \"Have Do\u00f1a Maria cut out a cloth heart and fasten it to a\nstout cord. I will take it to the church altar and bless it before the\nimage of the Virgin. You told me once that the Virgin was the Rinc\u00f3n\nfamily's patron, you know.\"\n\n\"_Bueno!_\" ejaculated the pleased Rosendo, as he hastened off to\nexecute the commission.\n\nSeveral times before Rosendo went back to Guamoc\u00f3 Jos\u00e8 had sought to\ndraw him into conversation about his illness, and to get his view of\nthe probable cause of his rapid recovery. But the old man seemed loath\nto dwell on the topic, and Jos\u00e8 could get little from him. At any\nmention of the episode a troubled look would come over his face, and\nhe would fall silent, or would find an excuse to leave the presence of\nthe priest.\n\n\"Rosendo,\" Jos\u00e8 abruptly remarked to him as he was busy with his pack\nlate the night before his departure, \"will you take with you the\nquinine that Juan brought?\"\n\nRosendo looked up quickly. \"I can not, Padre.\"\n\n\"And why?\"\n\n\"On account of Carmen.\"\n\n\"But what has she to do with it, _amigo_?\" Jos\u00e8 asked in surprise.\n\nRosendo looked embarrassed. \"I--_Bien_, Padre, I promised her I would\nnot.\"\n\n\"When?\"\n\n\"To-day, Padre.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 reflected on the child's unusual request. Then:\n\n\"But if you fell sick up in Guamoc\u00f3, Rosendo, what could you do?\"\n\n\"_Quien sabe_, Padre! Perhaps I could gather herbs and make a tea--I\ndon't know. She didn't say anything about that.\" He looked at Jos\u00e8 and\nlaughed. Then, in an anxious tone:\n\n\"Padre, what can I do? The little Carmen asks me not to take the\nquinine, and I can not refuse her. But I may get sick. I--I have\nalways taken medicine when I needed it and could get it. But the only\nmedicine we have in Simit\u00ed is the stuff that some of the women\nmake--teas and drinks brewed from roots and bark. I have never seen a\ndoctor here, nor any real medicines but quinine. And even that is hard\nto get, as you know. I used to make a salve out of the livers of\n_m\u00e1pina_ snakes--it was for the rheumatism--I suffered terribly when I\nworked in the cold waters in Guamoc\u00f3. I think the salve helped me. But\nif I should get the disease now, would Carmen let me make the salve\nagain?\"\n\nHe bent over his outfit for some moments. \"She says if I trust God I\nwill not get sick,\" he at length resumed. \"She says I must not think\nabout it. _Caramba!_ What has that to do with it? People get sick\nwhether they think about it or not. Do you believe, Padre, this new\n_escapulario_ will protect me?\"\n\nThe man's words reflected the strange mixture of mature and childish\nthought typical of these untutored jungle folk, in which longing for\nthe good is so heavily overshadowed by an educated belief in the power\nof evil.\n\n\"Rosendo,\" said Jos\u00e8, finding at last his opportunity, \"tell me, do\nyou think you were seriously ill day before yesterday?\"\n\n\"_Quien sabe_, Padre! Perhaps it was only the _terciana_, after all.\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" pursuing another tack, \"do you think I was very sick\nthat day when I rushed to the lake--?\"\n\n\"_Caramba_, Padre! But you were turning cold--you hardly breathed--we\nall thought you must die--all but Carmen!\"\n\n\"And what cured me, Rosendo?\" the priest asked in a low, steady\nvoice.\n\n\"Why--Padre, I can not say.\"\n\n\"Nor can I, positively, my friend. But I do know that the little\nCarmen said I should not die. And she said the same of you when, as I\nwould swear, you were in the fell clutches of the death angel\nhimself.\"\n\n\"Padre--\" Rosendo's eyes were large, and his voice trembled in awesome\nwhisper--\"is she--the little Carmen--is she--an _hada_?\"\n\n\"A witch? _Hombre!_ No!\" cried Jos\u00e8, bursting into a laugh at the\nperturbed features of the older man. \"No, _amigo_, she is not an\n_hada_! Let us say, rather, as you first expressed it to me, she is an\nangel--and let us appreciate her as such.\n\n\"But,\" he continued, \"I tell you in all seriousness, there are things\nthat such as you and I, with our limited outlook, have never dreamed\nof; and that child seems to have penetrated the veil that hides\nspiritual things from the material vision of men like us. Let us wait,\nand if we value that '_something_' which she seems to possess and know\nhow to use, let us cut off our right hands before we yield to the\ntemptation to place any obstacle in the way of her development along\nthe lines which she has chosen, or which some unseen Power has chosen\nfor her. It is for you and me, Rosendo, to stand aside and watch,\nwhile we protect her, if haply we may be privileged some day to learn\nher secret in full. You and I are the unlearned, while she is filled\nwith wisdom. The world would say otherwise, and would condemn us as\nfools. Thank God we are out of the world here in Simit\u00ed!\"\n\nHe choked back the inrush of memories and brushed away a tear.\n\n\"Rosendo,\" he concluded, \"be advised. If Carmen told you not to think\nof sickness while in Guamoc\u00f3, then follow her instructions. It is not\nthe child, but a mighty Power that is speaking through her. Of that I\nhave long been thoroughly convinced. And I am as thoroughly convinced\nthat that same Power has appointed you and me her protectors and her\nfollowers. You and I have a mighty compact--\"\n\n\"_Hombre!_\" interrupted Rosendo, clasping the priest's hand, \"my life\nis hers--you know it--she has only to speak, and I obey! Is it not\nso?\"\n\n\"Assuredly, Rosendo,\" returned Jos\u00e8. \"And now a final word. Let us\nkeep solely to ourselves what we have learned of her. Our plans are\nwell formulated. Let us adhere to them in strict silence. I know not\nwhither we are being led. But we are in the hands of that 'something'\nthat speaks and works through her--and we are satisfied. Are we not?\"\n\nThey clasped hands again. The next morning Rosendo set his face once\nmore toward the emerald hills of Guamoc\u00f3.\n\nAs the days passed, Jos\u00e8 became more silent and thoughtful. But it was\na silence bred of wonder and reverence, as he dwelt upon the things\nthat had been revealed to him. Who and what was this unusual child, so\nhuman, and yet so strangely removed from the world's plane of thought?\nA child who understood the language of the birds, and heard the grass\ngrow--a child whom Torquemada would have burnt as a witch, and yet\nwith whom he could not doubt the Christ dwelt.\n\nJos\u00e8 often studied her features while she bent over her work. He spent\nhours, too, poring over the little locket which had been found among\nher mother's few effects. The portrait of the man was dim and soiled.\nJos\u00e8 wondered if the poor woman's kisses and tears had blurred it. The\npeople of Badillo said she had died with it pressed to her lips. But\nits condition rendered futile all speculation in regard to its\noriginal. That of the mother, however, was still fresh and clear. Jos\u00e8\nconjectured that she must have been either wholly Spanish, or one of\nthe more refined and cultured women of Colombia. And she had\ndoubtless been very young and beautiful when the portrait was made.\nWith what dark tragedy was that little locket associated? Would it\never yield its secret?\n\nBut Carmen's brown curls and light skin--whence came they? Were they\nwholly Latin? Jos\u00e8 had grave doubts. And her keen mind, and deep\nreligious instinct? Who knew? He could only be sure that they had come\nfrom a source far, far above her present lowly environment. With that\nmuch he must for the present be content.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnother month unfolded its length in quiet days, and Rosendo again\nreturned. Not ill this time, nor even much exhausted. Nor did the\nlittle leathern pouch contain more than a few _pesos_ in gold dust.\nBut determination was written grim and trenchant upon his black face\nas he strode into the parish house and extended his great hand to the\npriest.\n\n\"I have only come for more supplies, Padre,\" he said. \"I have some\nthree _pesos_ worth of gold. Most of this I got around Culata, near\nDon Felipe's quartz vein, the Andandodias. _Caramba_, what veins in\nthose hills! If we had money to build a mill, and knew how to catch\nthe gold, we would not need to wash the river sands that have been\ngone over again and again for hundreds of years!\"\n\nBut Jos\u00e8's thoughts were of the Alcalde. He determined to send for him\nat once, while Rosendo was removing the soil of travel.\n\nDon Mario came and estimated the weight of the gold by his hand. Then\nhe coolly remarked: \"_Bien, Se\u00f1or Padre_, I will send Rosendo to my\n_hacienda_ to-morrow to cut cane and make _panela_.\"\n\n\"And how is that, Don Mario?\" inquired Jos\u00e8.\n\nThe Alcalde began to bluster. \"He owes me thirty _pesos oro_, less\nthis, if you wish me to keep it. I see no likelihood that he can ever\nrepay me. And so he must now work out his debt.\"\n\n\"How long will that take him, _amigo_?\"\n\n\"_Quien sabe?_ _Se\u00f1or Padre_,\" the Alcalde replied, his eyes\nnarrowing.\n\nThe priest braced himself, and his face assumed an expression that it\nhad not worn before he came to Simit\u00ed. \"Look you now, my friend,\" he\nbegan in tones pregnant with meaning. \"I have made some inquiries\nregarding your system of peonage. I find that you pay your _peones_\nfrom twenty to thirty cents a day for their hard labor, and at the\nsame time charge them as much a day for food. Or you force them to buy\nfrom you tobacco and rum at prices which keep them always in your\ndebt. Is it not so?\"\n\n\"_Na_, Padre, you have been misinformed,\" the Alcalde demurred, with a\ndeprecating gesture.\n\n\"I have not. L\u00e1zaro Ortiz is now working for you on that system. And\ndaily he becomes more deeply indebted to you, is it not so?\"\n\n\"But, Padre--\"\n\n\"It is useless for you to deny it, Don Mario, for I have facts. Now\nlisten to me. Let us understand each other clearly, nor attempt to\ndissimulate. That iniquitous system of peonage has got to cease in my\nparish!\"\n\n\"_Caramba_, but Padre Diego had _peones_!\" the Alcalde exploded.\n\n\"And he was a wicked man,\" added Jos\u00e8. Then he continued:\n\n\"I know not what information you may have from the Bishop regarding\nme, yet this I tell you: I shall report you to Bogot\u00e1, and I will band\nthe citizens of Simit\u00ed together to drive you out of town, if you do\nnot at once release L\u00e1zaro, and put an end to this wicked practice.\nThe people will follow if I lead!\"\n\nIt was a bold stroke, and the priest knew that he was standing upon\nshaky ground. But the man before him was superstitious, untutored and\nchild-like. A show of courage, backed by an assertion of authority,\nmight produce the desired effect. Moreover, Jos\u00e8 knew that he was in\nthe right. And right must prevail!\n\nDon Mario glared at him, while an ugly look spread over his coarse\nfeatures. The priest went on:\n\n\"L\u00e1zaro has long since worked out his debt, and you shall release him\nat once. As to Rosendo, he must have the supplies he needs to return\nto Guamoc\u00f3. You understand?\"\n\n\"_Caramba!_\" Don Mario's face was purple with rage. \"You think you can\ntell me what to do--me, the Alcalde!\" he volleyed. \"You think you can\nmake us change our customs! _Caramba!_ You are no better than the\npriest Diego, whom you try to make me believe so wicked! _Hombre_, you\nwere driven out of Cartagena yourself! A nice sort to be teaching a\nlittle girl--!\"\n\n\"Stop, man!\" thundered Jos\u00e8, striding toward him with upraised arm.\n\nDon Mario fell back in his chair and quailed before the mountainous\nwrath of the priest.\n\nA shadow fell across the open doorway. Glancing up, Jos\u00e8 saw Carmen.\nFor a moment the girl stood looking in wonder at the angry men. Then\nshe went quickly to the priest and slipped a hand into his. A feeling\nof shame swept over him, and he went back to his chair. Carmen leaned\nagainst him, but she appeared to be confused. Silence fell upon them\nall.\n\n\"Cucumbra doesn't fight any more, Padre,\" the girl at length began in\nhesitation. \"He and the puppy play together all the time now. He has\nlearned a lot, and now he loves the puppy.\"\n\nSo had the priest learned much. He recalled the lesson. \"_Bien_,\" he\nsaid in soft tones, \"I think we became a bit too earnest, Don Mario.\nWe are good friends, is it not so? And we are working together for the\ngood of Simit\u00ed. But to have good come to us, we must do good to\nothers.\"\n\nHe went to his trunk and took out a wallet. \"Here are twenty _pesos_,\nDon Mario.\" It was all he had in the world, but he did not tell the\nAlcalde so. \"Take them on Rosendo's account. Let him have the new\nsupplies he needs, and I will be his surety. And, friend, you are\ngoing to let me prove to you with time that the report you have from\nCartagena regarding me is false.\"\n\nDon Mario's features relaxed somewhat when his hand closed over the\ngrimy bills.\n\n\"Do not forget, _amigo_,\" added Jos\u00e8, assuming an air of mystery as he\npursued the advantage, \"that you and I are associated in various\nbusiness matters, is it not so?\"\n\nThe Alcalde's mouth twitched, but finally extended in an unctuous\ngrin. After all, the priest was a descendant of the famous Don\nIgnacio, and--who knew?--he might have resources of which the Alcalde\nlittle dreamed.\n\n\"_Cierto, Padre!_\" he cried, rising to depart. \"And we will yet\nuncover La Libertad! You guarantee Rosendo's debt? _Bien_, he shall\nhave the supplies. But I think he should take another man with him.\nL\u00e1zaro might do, no?\"\n\nIt was a gracious and unlooked for condescension.\n\n\"Send L\u00e1zaro to me, Don Mario,\" said Jos\u00e8. \"We will find use for him,\nI think.\"\n\nAnd thus Rosendo was enabled to depart a third time to the solitudes\nof Guamoc\u00f3.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 14\n\n\nWith Rosendo again on the trail, Jos\u00e8 and Carmen bent once more to\ntheir work. Within a few days the grateful L\u00e1zaro was sent to\nRosendo's _hacienda_, biding the time when the priest should have a\nlarger commission to bestow upon him. With the advent of the dry\nseason, peace settled over the sequestered town, while its artless\nfolk drowsed away the long, hot days and danced at night in the\nsilvery moonlight to the twang of the guitar and the drone of the\namorous canzonet. Jos\u00e8 was deeply grateful for these days of unbroken\nquiet, and for the opportunity they afforded him to probe the child's\nthought and develop his own. Day after day he taught her. Night after\nnight he visited the members of his little parish, getting better\nacquainted with them, administering to their simple needs, talking to\nthem in the church edifice on the marvels of the outside world, and\nthen returning to his little cottage to prepare by the feeble rays of\nhis flickering candle Carmen's lessons for the following day. He had\nno texts, save the battered little arithmetic; and even that was\nabandoned as soon as Carmen had mastered the decimal system.\nThereafter he wrote out each lesson for her, carefully wording it that\nit might contain nothing to shock her acute sense of the allness of\nGod, and omitting from the vocabulary every reference to evil, to\nfailure, disaster, sin and death. In mathematics he was sure of his\nground, for there he dealt wholly with the metaphysical. But history\ncaused him many an hour of perplexity in his efforts to purge it of\nthe dross of human thought. If Carmen were some day to go out into the\nworld she _must_ know the story of its past. And yet, as Jos\u00e8 faced\nher in the classroom and looked down into her unfathomable eyes, in\nwhose liquid depths there seemed to dwell a soul of unexampled purity,\nhe could not bring himself even to mention the sordid events in the\ndevelopment of the human race which manifested the darker elements of\nthe carnal mind. Perhaps, after all, she might never go out into the\nworld. He had not the faintest idea how such a thing could be\naccomplished. And so under his tutelage the child grew to know a world\nof naught but brightness and beauty, where love and happiness dwelt\never with men, and wicked thoughts were seen as powerless and\ntransient, harmless to the one who knew God to be \"everywhere.\" The\nman taught the child with the sad remembrance of his own seminary\ntraining always before him, and with a desire, amounting almost to\nfrenzy, to keep from her every limiting influence and benumbing belief\nof the carnal mind.\n\nThe decimal system mastered, Carmen was inducted into the elements of\nalgebra.\n\n\"How funny,\" she exclaimed, laughing, \"to use letters for numbers!\"\n\n\"They are only general symbols, little one,\" he explained. \"Symbols\nare signs, or things that stand for other things.\"\n\nThen came suddenly into his mind how the great Apostle Paul taught\nthat the things we see, or think we see, are themselves but symbols,\nreflections as from a mirror, and how we must make them out as best\nwe can for the present, knowing that, in due season, we shall see the\nrealities for which these things stand to the human mind. He knew that\nback of the mathematical symbols stood the eternal, unvarying,\nindestructible principles which govern their use. And he had begun to\nsee that back of the symbols, the phenomena, of human existence stands\nthe great principle--infinite God--the eternal mind. In the realm of\nmathematics the principles are omnipotent for the solution of\nproblems--omnipotent in the hands of the one who understands and uses\nthem aright. And is not God the omnipotent principle to the one who\nunderstands and uses Him aright in the solving of life's intricate\nproblems?\n\n\"They are so easy when you know how, Padre dear,\" said Carmen,\nreferring to her tasks.\n\n\"But there will be harder ones, _chiquita_.\"\n\n\"Yes, Padre. But then I shall know more about the rules that you call\nprinciples.\"\n\nShe took up each problem with confidence. Jos\u00e8 watched her eagerly.\n\"You do not know what the answer will be, _chiquita_,\" he ventured.\n\n\"No, Padre dear. But I don't care. If I use the rule in the right way\nI shall get the correct answer, shall I not? Look!\" she cried\njoyfully, as she held up her paper with the completed solution of a\nproblem.\n\n\"But how do you know that it is correct?\" he queried.\n\n\"Why--well, we can prove it--can't we?\" She looked up at him\nquestioningly. Then she bent again over her task and worked\nassiduously for some moments in silence.\n\n\"There! I worked it back again to the starting point. And it is\nright.\"\n\n\"And in proving it, little one, you have proved the principle and\nestablished its correctness. Is it not so, _chiquita_?\"\n\n\"Yes, Padre, it shows that the rule is right.\"\n\nThe child lapsed into silence, while Jos\u00e8, as was becoming his wont,\nawaited the result of her meditation. Then:\n\n\"Padre dear, there are rules for arithmetic, and algebra, and--and for\neverything, are there not?\"\n\n\"Yes, child, for music, for art, for everything. We can do nothing\ncorrectly without using principles.\"\n\n\"And, Padre, there are principles that tell us how to live?\" she\nqueried.\n\n\"What is your opinion on that point, _queridita_?\"\n\n\"Just _one_ principle, I guess, Padre dear,\" she finally ventured,\nafter a pause.\n\n\"And that, little one?\"\n\n\"Just God.\"\n\n\"And God is--?\" Jos\u00e8 began, then hesitated. The Apostle John had dwelt\nwith the Master. What had he urged so often upon the dull ears of his\ntimid followers?\n\nThe child looked up at the priest with a smile whose tenderness\ndissolved the rising clouds of doubt.\n\n\"And God is--love,\" he finished softly.\n\n\"That's it, Padre!\" The child clapped her little hands and laughed\naloud.\n\nLove! Jesus had said, \"I and my Father are one.\" Having seen him, the\nworld has seen the Father. But Jesus was the highest manifestation of\nlove that tired humanity has ever known. \"Love God!\" he had cried in\ntones that have echoed through the centuries. \"Love thy neighbor!\"\nAye, love everything, everybody! Apply the Principle of principles,\nLove, to every task, every problem, every situation, every condition!\nFor what is the Christ-principle but Love? All things are possible to\nhim who loves, for Love casteth out fear, the root of every discord.\nMen ask why God remains hidden from them, why their understanding of\nHim is dim. They forget that God is Love. They forget that to know Him\nthey must first love their fellow-men. And so the world goes\nsorrowfully on, hating, cheating, grasping, abusing; still wondering\ndully why men droop and stumble, why they consume with disease, and,\nwith the despairing conviction that God is unknowable, sinking at last\ninto oblivion.\n\nJos\u00e8, if he knew aught, knew that Carmen greatly loved--loved all\nthings deeply and tenderly as reflections of her immanent God. She had\nloved the hideous monster that had crept toward her as she sat\nunguarded on the lake's rim. Unguarded? Not so, for the arms of Love\nwere there about her. She had loved God--good--with unshaken fealty\nwhen Rosendo lay stricken. She had known that Love could not manifest\nin death when he himself had been dragged from the lake that burning\nafternoon a few weeks before.\n\n\"God is the rule, isn't He, Padre dear?\" The child's unexampled eyes\nglowed like burning coals. \"And we can prove Him, too,\" she continued\nconfidently.\n\n_Prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open\nyou the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing that there\nshall not be room enough to receive it._\n\nProve Him, O man, that He is Love, and that Love, casting out hate and\nfear, solves life's every problem! But first--_Bring ye all the tithes\ninto the storehouse, that there may be meat in mine house._ Bring your\nwhole confidence, your trust, your knowledge of the allness of good,\nand the nothingness of evil. Bring, too, your every earthly hope,\nevery mad ambition, every corroding fear, and carnal belief; lay them\ndown at the doorway of mine storehouse, and behold their nothingness!\n\nAs Carmen approached her simple algebraic problems Jos\u00e8 saw the\nworking of a rule infinite in its adaptation. She knew not what the\nanswers should be, yet she took up each problem with supreme\nconfidence, knowing that she possessed and rightly understood the rule\nfor correctly solving it. She knew that speculation regarding the\nprobable results was an idle waste of time. And she likewise knew\ninstinctively that fear of inability to solve them would paralyze her\nefforts and insure defeat at the outset.\n\nNor could she force solutions to correspond to what she might think\nthey ought to be--as mankind attempt to force the solving of their\nlife problems to correspond to human views. She was glad to work out\nher problems in the only way they could be solved. Love, humility,\nobedience, enabled her to understand and correctly apply the principle\nto her tasks. The results were invariable--harmony and exceeding joy.\n\nJos\u00e8 had learned another lesson. Again that little hand had softly\nswept his harp of life. And again he breathed in unison with its\nvibrating chords a deep \"Thank God!\"\n\n\"Padre dear.\" Carmen looked up from a brown study. \"What does zero\nreally mean?\"\n\n\"It stands for nothing, child,\" the priest made reply, wondering what\nwas to follow this introduction.\n\n\"And the minus sign in algebra is different from the one in\narithmetic. What does it mean?\"\n\n\"Less than nothing.\"\n\n\"But, Padre, if God is all, how can you say there is nothing, or less\nthan nothing?\"\n\nThe priest had his answer ready. \"They are only human ways of\nthinking, _chiquita_. The plus sign always represents something\npositive; the minus, something negative. The one is the opposite of\nthe other.\"\n\n\"Is there an opposite to everything, Padre?\"\n\nThe priest hesitated. Then:\n\n\"No, _chiquita_--not a _real_ opposite. But,\" he added hastily, \"we\nmay suppose an opposite to everything.\"\n\nA moment's pause ensued. \"That is what makes people sick and unhappy,\nisn't it, Padre?\"\n\n\"What, child?\" in unfeigned surprise.\n\n\"Supposing an opposite to God. Supposing that there can be nothing,\nwhen He is everywhere. Doesn't all trouble come from just supposing\nthings that are not so?\"\n\nWhence came such questions to the mind of this child? And why did they\ninvariably lead to astonishing deductions in his own? Why did he\noften give a great start as it dawned again upon him that he was not\ntalking to one of mature age, but to a babe?\n\nHe tore a strip from the paper in his hand. Relatively the paper had\nlost in size and quantity, and there was a distinct separation.\nAbsolutely, such a thing was an impossibility. The plus was always\npositive and real; the minus was always relative, and stood for\nunreality. And so it was throughout the entire realm of thought.\n_Every real thing has its suppositional opposite._ The difficulty is\nthat the human mind, through long ages of usage, has come to regard\nthe opposite as just as real as the thing itself. The opposite of love\nis hate; of health, disease; of good, evil; of the real, the\ncounterfeit. God is positive--Truth. His opposite, the negative, is\nsupposition. Oh, stupid, blundering, dull-eared humanity, not to have\nrealized that this was just what Jesus said when he defined evil as\nthe lie about God! No wonder the prophet proclaimed salvation to be\nrighteousness, right thinking! But would gross humanity have\nunderstood the Master better if he had defined it this way? No, they\nwould have stoned him on the spot!\n\nJos\u00e8 knew that when both he and Rosendo lay sick unto death Carmen's\nthought had been positive, while theirs had been of the opposite sign.\nWas her pure thought stronger than their disbelief? Evidently so. Was\nthis the case with Jesus? And with the prophets before him, whom the\nworld laughed to scorn? The inference from Scripture is plain. What,\nthen, is the overcoming of evil but the driving out of entrenched\nhuman beliefs?\n\nAgain Jos\u00e8 came back to the thought of Principle. Confucius had said\nthat heaven was principle. And heaven is harmony. But had evil any\nprinciple? Mankind are accustomed to speak lightly and knowingly of\ntheir \"principles.\" But in their search for the Philosopher's Stone\nthey have overlooked the Principle which the Master used to effect his\nmighty works--\"that Mind which was in Christ Jesus.\" The Principle of\nJesus was God. And, again, God is Love.\n\nThe word evil is a comprehensive term, including errors of every sort.\nAnd yet, in the world's huge category of evils is there a single one\nthat stands upon a definite principle? Jos\u00e8 had to admit to himself\nthat there was not. Errors in mathematics result from ignorance of\nprinciples, or from their misapplication. But are the errors real and\npermanent?\n\n\"Padre, when I make a mistake, and then go back and do the problem\nover and get it right, what becomes of the mistake?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 burst out laughing at the tremendous question. Carmen joined in\nheartily.\n\n\"But, Padre,\" she pursued, \"there are rules for solving problems; but\nthere isn't any rule or principle for making mistakes, is there?\"\n\n\"Surely not, child!\" Jos\u00e8 replied.\n\n\"And if I always knew the truth about things, I couldn't make\nmistakes, could I?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 waited for her further comments. They came after a brief\nmeditation.\n\n\"Well, then, God doesn't know anything about mistakes--does He?\"\n\n\"No, _chiquita_.\"\n\n\"And He knows everything.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Then, Padre dear, nobody can know anything about mistakes. People\njust think they can--don't they?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 thought hard for a few moments. \"_Chiquita_, can you know that\ntwo and two are seven?\"\n\n\"Why, Padre dear, how funny!\"\n\n\"Yes--it does seem strange--now. And yet, I used to think I could know\nthings just as absurd.\"\n\n\"Why, what was that, Padre?\"\n\n\"I thought, _chiquita_, that I could know evil--something that God\ndoes not and can not know.\"\n\n\"But--could you, Padre?\"\n\n\"No, child. It is absolutely impossible to know--to really _know_--error\nof any sort.\"\n\n\"If we knew it, Padre, it would have a rule; or as you say, a\nprinciple, no?\"\n\n\"Exactly, child.\"\n\n\"And, since God is everywhere, He would have to be its principle.\"\n\n\"Just the point. Now take another of the problems, _chiquita_, and\nwork on it while I think about these things,\" he said, assigning\nanother of the simple tasks to the child.\n\nFor an idea was running through the man's thought, and he had traced\nit back to the explorer in Cartagena. Reason and logic supported the\nthought of God as mind; of the creation as the unfolding of this\nmind's ideas; and of man as the greatest idea of God. It also seemed\nto show that the physical senses afforded no testimony at all, and\nthat human beings saw, heard and felt only in thought, in belief. On\nthis basis everything reduced to a mental plane, and man became a\nmentality. But what sort of mentality was that which Jos\u00e8 saw all\nabout him in sinful, sick and dying humanity? The human man is\ndemonstrably mortal--and he is a sort of mind--ah, yes, that was it!\nThe explorer had said that up in that great country north there were\nthose who referred to this sort of mentality as \"mortal mind.\" Jos\u00e8\nthought it an excellent term. For, if the mortal man is a mind at all,\nhe assuredly is a _mortal_ mind.\n\nAnd the mortal mind is the opposite of that mind which is the eternal\nGod. But God can have no real opposite. Any so-called opposite to Him\nmust be a supposition--or, as Jesus defined it, the lie about Him.\nThis lie seems to counterfeit the eternal mind that is God. It seems\nto pose as a creative principle, and to simulate the powers and\nattributes of God himself. It assumes to create its universe of\nmatter, the direct opposite of the spiritual universe. And, likewise,\nit assumes to create its man, its own idea of itself, and hence the\ndirect opposite of the real man, the divine idea of God, made in His\nown image and likeness.\n\nJos\u00e8 rose and went to the doorway. \"Surely,\" he murmured low, \"the\nmaterial personality, called man, which sins, suffers and dies, is not\nreal man, but his counterfeit, a creation of God's opposite, the\nso-called mortal mind. It must be a part of the lie about God, the\n'mist' that went up from the ground and watered the whole face of the\nearth, leaving the veil of supposition which obscures God from human\nsight. It is this sort of man and this sort of universe that I have\nalways seen about me, and that the world refers to as human beings, or\nmortals, and the physical universe. And yet I have been looking only\nat my false thoughts of man.\"\n\nAt that moment he caught sight of Juan running toward him from the\nlake. The lad had just returned from Bodega Central.\n\n\"Padre,\" he exclaimed breathlessly, \"there is war in the country\nagain! The revolution has broken out, and they are fighting all along\nthe river!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 turned into the house and clasped Carmen in his arms.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 15\n\n\nJuan's startling announcement linked Jos\u00e8 again with a fading past.\nStanding with his arm about Carmen, while the child looked up\nwonderingly at her grimly silent protector, the priest seemed to have\nfallen with dizzy precipitation from some spiritual height into a\nfamiliar material world of men and events. Into his chastened\nmentality there now rushed a rabble rout of suggestions, throwing into\nwild confusion the orderly forces of mind which he was striving to\nmarshal to meet the situation. He recalled, for the first time in his\nnew environment, the significant conversation of Don Jorge and the\npriest Diego, in Banco. He saw again the dark clouds that were\nlowering above the unhappy country when he left Cartagena. Had they at\nlast broken? And would carnal lust and rapine again drench fair\nColombia with the blood of her misguided sons? Were the disturbance\nonly a local uprising, headed by a coterie of selfish politicians, it\nwould produce but a passing ripple. Colombia had witnessed many such,\nand had, by a judicious redistribution of public offices, generally\nmet the crises with little difficulty. On the other hand, if the\ndisorder drew its stimulus from the deep-seated, swelling sentiment of\nprotest against the continued affiliation of Church and State, then\nwhat might not ensue before reason would again lay her restraining\nhand upon the rent nation! For--strange anomaly--no strife is so\nvenomous, no wars so bloody, no issues so steeped in deadliest hatred,\nas those which break forth in the name of the humble Christ.\n\nA buzzing concourse was gathering in the _plaza_ before the church.\nLeaving Carmen in charge of Do\u00f1a Maria, Jos\u00e8 mingled with the excited\npeople. Juan had brought no definite information, other than that\nalready imparted to Jos\u00e8, but his elastic Latin imagination had\nsupplied all lacking essentials, and now, with much gesticulation and\nrolling of eyes, with frequent alternations of shrill chatter and\ndignified pomp of phrase, he was portraying in a _m\u00e9lange_ of\npicturesque and poetic Spanish the supposed happenings along the great\nriver.\n\nJos\u00e8 forced the lad gently aside and addressed the thoroughly excited\npeople himself, assuring them that no reliable news was as yet at\nhand, and bidding them assemble in the church after the evening meal,\nwhere he would advise with them regarding their future course. He then\nsought the Alcalde, and drew him into his store, first closing the\ndoor against the excited multitude.\n\n\"_Bien, Se\u00f1or Padre_, what are you going to do?\" The Alcalde was\natremble with insuppressible excitement.\n\n\"Don Mario, we must protect Simit\u00ed,\" replied the priest, with a show\nof calm which he did not possess.\n\n\"_Caramba_, but not a man will stay! They will run to the hills! The\n_guerrillas_ will come, and Simit\u00ed will be burned to the ground!\"\n\n\"Will you stay--with me?\"\n\n\"_Na_, and be hacked by the _machetes_ of the _guerrillas_, or lassoed\nby government soldiers and dragged off to the war?\" The official\nmopped the damp from his purple brow.\n\n\"_Caramba!_\" he went on. \"But the Antioquanians will come down the\nSimit\u00ed trail from Remedios and butcher every one they meet! They\nhate us Simitanians, since we whipped them in the revolution of\nseventy-six! And--_Diablo_! if we stay here and beat them back,\nthen the federal troops will come with their ropes and chains and\nforce us away to fight on their side! _Nombre de Dios!_ I am for the\nmountains--_pronto_!\"\n\nJos\u00e8's own fear mounted by leaps. And yet, in the welter of\nconflicting thought two objects stood out above the rest--Carmen and\nRosendo. The latter was on the trail, somewhere. Would he fall afoul\nof the bandits who find in these revolutions their opportunities for\nplunder and bloodshed? As for Carmen--the priest's apprehensions were\npiling mountain-high. He had quickly forgotten his recent theories\nregarding the nature of God and man. He had been swept by the force of\nill tidings clean off the lofty spiritual plane up to which he had\nstruggled during the past weeks. Again he was befouled in the mire of\nmaterial fears and corroding speculations as to the probable\nmanifestations of evil, real and immanent. Don Mario was right. He\nmust take the child and fly at once. He would go to Do\u00f1a Maria\nimmediately and bid her prepare for the journey.\n\n\"You had best go to Don Nicol\u00e1s,\" replied Do\u00f1a Maria, when the priest\nhad voiced his fears to her. \"He lives in Boque, and has a _hacienda_\nsomewhere up that river. He will send you there in his canoe.\"\n\n\"And Boque is--?\"\n\n\"Three hours from Simit\u00ed, across the shales. You must start with the\ndawn, or the heat will overtake you before you arrive.\"\n\n\"Then make yourself ready, Do\u00f1a Maria,\" said Jos\u00e8 in relief, \"and we\nwill set out in the morning.\"\n\n\"Padre, I will stay here,\" the woman quietly replied.\n\n\"Stay here!\" ejaculated the priest. \"Impossible! But why?\"\n\n\"There will be many women too old to leave the town, Padre. I will\nstay to help them if trouble comes. And I would not go without\nRosendo.\"\n\nShame fell upon the priest like a blanket. He, the _Cura_, was\ndeserting his charge! And this quiet, dignified woman had shown\nherself stronger than the man of God! He turned to the door. Carmen\nwas just entering. He took the child by the hand and led her to his\nown cottage.\n\n\"Carmen,\" he said, as she stood expectantly before him, \"we--there is\ntrouble in the country--that is, men are fighting and killing down on\nthe river--and they may come here. We must--I mean, I think it best\nfor us to go away from Simit\u00ed for a while.\" The priest's eyes fell\nbefore the perplexed gaze of the girl.\n\n\"Go away?\" she repeated slowly. \"But, Padre--why?\"\n\n\"The soldiers might come--wicked men might come and harm you,\n_chiquita_!\"\n\nThe child seemed not to comprehend. \"Is it that you think they will,\nPadre?\" she at length spoke.\n\n\"I fear so, little one,\" he made reply.\n\n\"But--why should they?\"\n\n\"Because they want to steal and kill,\" he returned sadly.\n\n\"They can't, Padre--they can't!\" the girl said quickly. \"You told me\nthat people see only their thoughts, you know. They only think they\nwant to steal--and they don't think right--\"\n\n\"But,\" he interrupted bitterly, \"that doesn't keep them from coming\nhere just the same and--and--\" He checked his words, as a faint memory\nof his recent talks with the girl glowed momentarily in his seething\nbrain.\n\n\"But we can keep them from coming here, Padre--can't we?\"\n\n\"How, child?\"\n\n\"By thinking right ourselves, Padre--you said so, days ago--don't you\nremember?\" The girl came to the frightened man and put her little arm\nabout his neck. It was an action that had become habitual with her.\n\"Padre dear, you read me something from your Bible just yesterday. It\nwas about God, and He said, 'I am that which was, and is, and is to\ncome.' Don't you remember? But, Padre dear, if He is that which is to\ncome, how can anything bad come?\"\n\nO, ye of little faith! Could ye not watch one hour with me--the\nChrist-principle? Must ye ever flee when the ghost of evil stalks\nbefore you with his gross assumptions?\n\nYes, Jos\u00e8 remembered. But he had said those things to her and evolved\nthose beautiful theories in a time of peace. Now his feeble faith was\nflying in panic before the demon of unbelief, which had been aroused\nby sudden fear.\n\nThe villagers were gathering before his door like frightened sheep.\nThey sought counsel, protection, from him, the unfaithful shepherd.\nCould he not, for their sakes, tear himself loose from bondage to his\nown deeply rooted beliefs, and launch out into his true orbit about\nGod? Was life, happiness, all, at the disposal of physical sense? Did\nhe not love these people? And could not his love for them cast out his\nfear? If the test had come, would he meet it, calmly, even alone with\nhis God, if need be?--or would he basely flee? He was not alone.\nCarmen stood by him. She had no part in his cowardice. But Carmen--she\nwas only a child, immature, inexperienced in the ways of the world!\nTrue. Yet the great God himself had caused His prophets to see that \"a\nlittle child shall lead them.\" And surely Carmen was now leading in\nfearlessness and calm trust, in the face of impending evil.\n\nJos\u00e8 rose from his chair and threw back his shoulders. He stepped\nquickly to the door. \"My children,\" he said gently, holding out his\narms over them. \"Be not afraid. I shall not leave Simit\u00ed, but\nremain here to help and protect all who will stay with me. If the\n_guerrillas_ or soldiers come we will meet them here, where we shall\nbe protecting our loved ones and our homes. Come to the church\nto-night, and there we will discuss plans. Go now, and remember\nthat your _Cura_ has said that there shall no harm befall you.\"\n\nDid he believe his own words? He wondered.\n\nThe people dispersed; Carmen was called by Do\u00f1a Maria; and Jos\u00e8\ndropped down upon his bed to strive again to clear his mind of the\nfoul brood which had swept so suddenly into it, and to prepare for the\nevening meeting.\n\nLate that night, as he crossed the road from the church to his\nlittle home, his pulse beat rapidly under the stimulus of real joy. He\nhad conquered his own and the fears of the Alcalde, and that\nofficial had at length promised to stay and support him. The\npeople's fears of impressment into military service had been calmly\nmet and assuaged, though Jos\u00e8 had yielded to their wish to form a\ncompany of militia; and had even agreed to drill them, as he had\nseen the troops of Europe drilled and prepared for conflict. There\nwere neither guns nor ammunition in the town, but they could drill\nwith their _machetes_--for, he repeated to himself, this was but a\nconcession, an expedient, to keep the men occupied and their minds\nstimulated by his own show of courage and preparedness. It was\ndecided to send L\u00e1zaro Ortiz at once into the Guamoc\u00f3 district, to\nfind and warn Rosendo; while Juan was to go to Bodega Central for\nwhatever news he might gather, and to return with immediate warning,\nshould danger threaten their town. Similar instruction was to be\nsent to Escolastico, at Badillo. Within a few days a runner should be\ndespatched over the Guamoc\u00f3 trail, to spread the information as\njudiciously as possible that the people of Simit\u00ed were armed and\non the alert to meet any incursion from _guerrilla_ bands. The ripple\nof excitement quickly died away. The priest would now strive\nmightily to keep his own thought clear and his courage alive, to\nsustain his people in whatever experience might befall them.\n\nQuiet reigned in the little village the next morning, and its people\nwent about their familiar duties with but a passing thought of the\nevents of the preceding day. The Alcalde called at the parish house\nearly for further instructions in regard to the proposed company of\nmilitia. The priest decided to drill his men twice a day, at the\nrising and setting of the sun. Carmen's lessons were then resumed, and\nsoon Jos\u00e8 was again laboring conscientiously to imbibe the spirit of\ncalm trust which dwelt in this young girl.\n\nThe Master's keynote before every threatening evil was, \"Be not\nafraid.\" Carmen's life-motif was, \"_God is everywhere._\" Jos\u00e8 strove\nto see that the Christ-principle was eternal, and as available to\nmankind now as when the great Exemplar propounded it to the dull ears\nof his followers. But men must learn how to use it. When they have\ndone this, Christianity will be as scientific and demonstrable to\nmankind as is now the science of mathematics. A rule, though\nunderstood, is utterly ineffective if not applied. Yet, how to apply\nthe Christ-principle? is the question convulsing a world to-day.\n\nGod, the infinite creative mind, is that principle. Jesus showed\nclearly--so clearly that the wonder is men could have missed the mark\nso completely--that the great principle becomes available only when\nmen empty their minds of pride, selfishness, ignorance, and human\nwill, and put in their place love, humility and truth. This step\ntaken, there will flow into the human consciousness the qualities of\nGod himself, giving powers that mortals believe utterly impossible to\nthem. But hatred must go; self-love, too; carnal ambition must go; and\nfear--the cornerstone of every towering structure of mortal\nmisery--must be utterly cast out by an understanding of the allness of\nthe Mind that framed the spiritual universe.\n\nJos\u00e8, looking at Carmen as she sat before him, tried to know that love\nwas the salvation, the righteousness, right-thinking, by which alone\nthe sons of men could be redeemed. The world would give such utterance\nthe lie, he knew. To love an enemy is weakness! The sons of earth must\nbe warriors, and valiantly fight! Alas! the tired old world has fought\nfor ages untold, and gained--nothing. Did Jesus fight? Not as the\nworld. He had a better way. He loved his enemies with a love that\nunderstood the allness of God, and the consequent nothingness of the\nhuman concept. Knowing the concept of man as mortal to be an illusion,\nJesus then knew that he had no enemies.\n\nThe work-day closed, and Carmen was about to leave. A shadow fell\nacross the open doorway. Jos\u00e8 looked up. A man, dressed in clerical\ngarb, stood looking in, his eyes fixed upon Carmen. Jos\u00e8's heart\nstopped, and he sat as one stunned. The man was Padre Diego Polo.\n\n\"Ah, brother in Christ!\" the newcomer cried, advancing with\noutstretched hands. \"Well met, indeed! I ached to think I might not\nfind you here! But--_Caramba_! can this be my little Carmen, from\nwhom I tore myself in tears four years ago and more? _Diablo!_ but she\nhas grown to be a charming _se\u00f1orita_ already.\" He bent over and\nkissed the child loudly upon each cheek.\n\nJos\u00e8 with difficulty restrained himself from pouncing upon the man as\nhe watched him pass his fat hands over the girl's bare arms and feast\nhis lecherous eyes upon her round figure and plump limbs. The child\nshrank under the withering touch. Freeing herself, she ran from the\nroom, followed by a taunting laugh from Diego.\n\n\"_Caramba!_\" he exclaimed, sinking into the chair vacated by the girl.\n\"But I had the devil's own trouble getting here! And I find everything\nquiet as a funeral in this sink of a town, just as if hell were not\nspewing fire down on the river! _Dios!_ But give me a bit of rum,\n_amigo_. My spirits droop like the torn wing of a heron.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 slowly found his voice. \"I have no rum. I regret exceedingly,\nfriend. But doubtless the Alcalde can supply you. Have you seen him?\"\n\n\"_Hombre!_ With what do you quench your thirst?\" ejaculated the\ndisappointed priest. \"Lake water?\" Then he added with a fatuous grin:\n\n\"No, I have not yet honored the Alcalde with a call. Anxious care\ndrove me straight from the boat to you; for with you, a brother\npriest, I knew I would find hospitality and protection.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 sat speechless. After a few moments, during which he fanned\nhimself vigorously with his black felt hat, Diego continued volubly:\n\n\"You are consumed to know what brings me here, eh? _Bien_, I will\nanticipate your questions. The country is on fire around Banco.\nAnd--you know they do not love priests down that way--well, I saw that\nit had come around to my move. I therefore got out--quickly. H'm!\n\n\"But,\" he continued, \"luckily I had screwed plenty of Masses out of\nthe Banco sheep this past year, and my treasure box was comfortably\nfull. _Bueno_, I hired a canoe and a couple of strapping _peones_, who\nbrought me by night, and by damnably slow degrees, up the river to\nBodega Central. As luck would have it, I chanced to be there the day\nJuan arrived from Simit\u00ed. So I straightway caused inquiry to be made\nof him respecting the present whereabouts of our esteemed friend, Don\nRosendo. Learning that my worthy brother was prospecting for La\nLibertad, it occurred to me that this decaying town might afford me\nthe asylum I needed until I could make the necessary preparations to\nget up into the mountains. _Caramba!_ but I shall not stay where a\nstray bullet or a badly directed _machete_ may terminate my noble\nlife-aspirations!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 groaned inwardly. \"But, how dared you come to Simit\u00ed?\" he\nexclaimed. \"You were once forced to leave this town--!\"\n\n\"Assuredly, _amigo_,\" Diego replied with great coolness. \"And I would\nnot risk my tender skin again had I not believed that you were here to\nshield me. My only safety lies in making the mountains. Their most\naccessible point is by way of Simit\u00ed. From here I can go to the San\nLucas country; eventually get back to the Guamoc\u00f3 trail; and\nultimately land in Remedios, or some other town farther south, where\nthe anticlerical sentiment is not so cursedly strong. I have money and\ntwo negro boys. The boat I shall have to leave here in your care.\n_Bien_, learning that Rosendo, my principal annoyance and obstruction,\nwas absent, and that you, my friend, were here, I decided to brave the\nwrath of the simple denizens of this hole, and spend a day or two as\nguest of yourself and my good friend, the Alcalde, before journeying\nfarther. Thus you have it all, in _parvo_. But, _Dios y diablo_! that\ntrip up the river has nearly done for me! We traveled by night and hid\nin the brush by day, where millions of gnats and mosquitoes literally\ndevoured me! _Caramba!_ and you so inhospitable as to have no rum!\"\n\nThe garrulous priest paused for breath. Then he resumed:\n\n\"A voluptuous little wench, that Carmen! Keeping her for yourself, eh?\nBut you will have to give her up. Belongs to the Church, you know. But\ndon't let our worthy Don Wenceslas hear of her good looks, for he'd\npop her into a convent _presto_! And later he--_Bien_, you had better\nget rid of her before she makes you trouble. I'll take her off your\nhands myself, even though I shall be traveling for the next few\nmonths. But, say,\" changing the subject abruptly, \"Don Wenceslas\nsprung his trap too soon, eh?\"\n\n\"I don't follow you,\" said Jos\u00e8, consuming with indignation over the\npriest's coarse talk.\n\n\"_Diablo!_ he pulls a revolution before it is ripe. Is anything more\nabsurd! It begins as he intended, anticlerical; and so it will run for\na while. But after that--_Bien_, you will see it reverse itself and\nturn solely political, with the present Government on top at the last,\nand the end a matter of less than six weeks.\"\n\n\"Do you think so?\" asked Jos\u00e8, eagerly grasping at a new hope.\n\n\"I know it!\" ejaculated Diego. \"_Hombre!_ But I have been too close to\nmatters religious and political in this country all my life not to\nknow that Don Wenceslas has this time committed the blunder of being\na bit too eager. Had he waited a few months longer, and then pulled\nthe string--_Dios y diablo_! there would have been such a fracas as to\nturn the Cordilleras bottom up! Now all that is set back for\nyears--_Quien sabe_?\"\n\n\"But,\" queried the puzzled Jos\u00e8, \"how could Wenceslas, a priest,\nprofit by an anticlerical war?\"\n\n\"_Caramba, amigo!_ But the good Wenceslas is priest only in name! He\nis a politician, bred to the game. He lays his plans with the\nanticlericals, knowing full well that Church and State can not be\nseparated in this land of mutton-headed _peones_. _Bueno_, the clever\nman precipitates a revolution that can have but one result, the closer\nunion of Rome and the Colombian Government. And for this he receives\nthe direction of the See of Cartagena and the disposition of the rich\nrevenues from the mines and _fincas_ of his diocese. Do you get me?\"\n\n\"And, _amigo_, how long will this disturbance continue?\" said Jos\u00e8,\nspeaking earnestly.\n\n\"I have told you, a few weeks at the most,\" replied Diego with a show\nof petulance. \"But, just the same, as agent of your friend Wenceslas,\nI have been a mite too active along the river, especially in the town\nof Banco, to find safety anywhere within the pale of civilization\nuntil this little fracas blows over. This one being an abortion, the\nnext revolution can come only after several years of most painstaking\npreparation. But, mark me, _amigo_, that one will not miscarry, nor\nwill it be less than a scourge of the Lord!\"\n\nDespite the sordidness of the man, Jos\u00e8 was profoundly grateful to him\nfor this information. And there could be no doubt of its authenticity,\ncoming as it did from a tool of Wenceslas himself. Jos\u00e8 became\ncheerful, even animated.\n\n\"Good, then! Now when do you expect to set out for San Lucas?\" he\nasked. \"Rosendo may return any day.\"\n\n\"_Diablo!_ Then I must be off at once!\"\n\n\"To-morrow?\" suggested Jos\u00e8 eagerly.\n\n\"_Caramba, hermano!_ Why so desirous of my departure? To be sure,\nto-morrow, if possible. But I must have a chat with our good friend,\nthe Alcalde. So do me the inexpressible favor to accompany me to his\ndoor, and there leave me. My _peones_ are down at the boat, and I\nwould rather not face the people of Simit\u00ed alone.\"\n\n\"Gladly,\" assented Jos\u00e8.\n\nThe man rose to depart. At that moment Do\u00f1a Maria appeared at the door\nbearing a tray with Jos\u00e8's supper. She stopped short as she recognized\nDiego.\n\n\"Ah, _Se\u00f1ora Do\u00f1a Maria_!\" exclaimed Diego, bowing low. \"I kiss your\nhand.\"\n\nThe woman looked inquiringly from Diego to Jos\u00e8. Without a word she\nset the tray on the table and quickly departed.\n\n\"H'm, _amigo_, I think it well to visit the Alcalde at once,\" murmured\nDiego. \"I regret that I bring the amiable se\u00f1ora no greeting from her\ncharming daughter. _Ay de m\u00ed!_\" he sighed, picking up his hat. \"The\nconventions of this world are so narrow!\"\n\nDon Mario exclaimed loudly when he beheld the familiar figure of Padre\nDiego. Recovering from his astonishment he broke into a loud guffaw\nand clapped the grinning priest heartily upon the back.\n\n\"_Caramba_, man! But I admire you at last! I can forgive all your\nwickedness at sight of such nerve! Ramona!\" calling to his daughter in\nthe _patio_. \"That last _garraf\u00f3n_ and some glasses! But enter, enter,\nse\u00f1ores! Why stand you there? My poor hovel is yours!\" stepping aside\nand ceremoniously waving them in.\n\n\"Our friend finds that his supper awaits him,\" said Diego, laying a\nhand patronizingly upon Jos\u00e8's arm. \"But I will eat with you, my good\nDon Mario, and occupy a _petate_ on your floor to-night. _Conque_,\nuntil later, Don Jos\u00e8,\" waving a polite dismissal to the latter. \"If\nnot to-night, then in the morning _temprano_.\"\n\nThe audacity of the man nettled Jos\u00e8. He would have liked to be\npresent during the interview between the Alcalde and this cunning\nreligio-political agent, for he knew that the weak-kneed Don Mario\nwould be putty in his oily hands. However, Diego had shown him that he\nwas not wanted. And there was nothing to do but nurse his temper and\nawait events.\n\nBut, whatever deplorable results the visit of Diego might entail, he\nhad at least brought present comfort to Jos\u00e8 in his report of the\nmilitant uprising now in progress, and the latter would sleep this\nnight without the torment of dread apprehension.\n\nThe next morning Diego entered the parish house just as master and\npupil were beginning their day's work.\n\n\"Ha!\" he exclaimed, \"our parochial school is quite discriminating! No?\nOne pupil! _Bien_, are there not enough children in the town to\nwarrant a larger school, and with a Sister in charge? I will report\nthe matter to the good Bishop.\"\n\nJos\u00e8's wrath leaped into flame. \"There is a school here, as you know,\n_amigo_, with a competent master,\" he replied with what calmness he\ncould muster.\n\nIt was perhaps a hasty and unfortunate remark, for Jos\u00e8 knew he had\nbeen jealously selfish with Carmen.\n\n\"_Caramba_, yes!\" retorted Diego. \"A private school, to which the\nstubborn beasts that live in this sink will not send their brats!\nThere must be a parochial school in Simit\u00ed, supported by the people!\nOh, don't worry; there is gold enough here, buried in _patios_ and\nunder these innocent-looking mud walls, to support the Pope for a\ndecade--and that,\" he chuckled, \"is no small sum!\"\n\nHis eyes roved over Carmen and he began a mental appraisement of the\ngirl. \"_Caramba!_\" muttering half to himself, after he had feasted his\nsight upon her for some moments, \"but she is large for her age--and,\n_Dios y diablo!_ a ravishing beauty!\"\n\nHe stood for a while wrapped in thought. Then an idea seemed to filter\nthrough his cunning brain. His coarse, unmoral face brightened, and\nhis thick lips parted in an evil smile.\n\n\"Come here, little one,\" he said patronizingly, extending his arms to\nthe child. \"Come, give your good _Padre_ his morning kiss.\"\n\nThe girl shrank back in her chair and looked appealingly at Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"No? Then I must come and steal it; and when you confess to good Padre\nJos\u00e8 you may tell him it was all my fault.\"\n\nHe started toward her. A look of horror came into the child's face and\nshe sprang from her seat. Jos\u00e8 swiftly rose. He seized Diego by the\nshoulder and whirled him quickly about. His face was menacing and his\nframe trembled.\n\n\"One moment, friend!\" The voice was low, tense, and deliberate. \"If\nyou lay a hand on that child I will strike you dead at my feet!\"\n\nDiego recoiled. _Cielo!_ was this the timid sheep that had stopped for\na moment in Banco on its way to the slaughter? But there was no\nmistaking the spirit manifested now in that voice and attitude.\n\n\"Why, _amigo_!\" he exclaimed, a foolish grin splitting his ugly\nfeatures. \"Your little joke startled me!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 motioned Carmen to leave.\n\n\"Be seated, Don Diego. It would be well to understand each other more\nthoroughly.\"\n\nHad Jos\u00e8 gone too far? He wondered. Heaven knew, he could not afford\nto make enemies, especially at this juncture! But he had not misread\nthe thought coursing through the foul mind of Diego. And yet, violence\nnow might ruin both the child and himself. He must be wiser.\n\n\"I--I was perhaps a little hasty, _amigo_,\" he began in gentler tones.\n\"But, as you see, I have been quite wrought up of late--the news of\nthe revolution, and--in these past months there have been many things\nto cause me worry. I--\"\n\n\"Say no more, good friend,\" interrupted the oily Diego, his beady eyes\ntwinkling. \"But you will not wonder it struck me odd that a father\nshould not be permitted to embrace his own daughter.\"\n\nDead silence, heavy and stifling, fell upon Jos\u00e8. Slowly his throat\nfilled, and his ears began to throb. Diego sat before him, smiling and\ntwirling his fat thumbs. He looked like the images of Chinese gods\nJos\u00e8 had seen in foreign lands.\n\nThen the tortured man forced a laugh. Of course, the strain of\nyesterday had been too much for him! His overwrought mind had read\ninto words and events meanings which they had not been meant to\nconvey.\n\n\"True, _amigo_,\" he managed to say, striving to steady his voice. \"But\nwe spiritual Fathers should not forget--\"\n\nDiego laughed egregiously. \"_Caramba_, man! Let us get to the meat in\nthe nut. Why do you think I am in Simit\u00ed, braving the wrath of Rosendo\nand others? Why have I left my comfortable quarters in Banco, to\nundertake a journey, long and hazardous, to this godless hole?\"\n\nHe paused, apparently enjoying the suffering he saw depicted upon\nJos\u00e8's countenance.\n\n\"I will tell you,\" he resumed. \"But you will keep my confidence, no?\nWe are brother priests, and must hold together. You protect me in\nthis, and I return the favor in a like indiscretion. _Bien_, I\nexplain: I am here partly because of the revolution, as I told you\nyesterday, and partly, as I did not tell you, to see my little girl,\nmy daughter, Carmen--\n\n\"_Caramba_, man!\" he cried, bounding to his feet, as he saw Jos\u00e8\nslowly rise before him. \"Listen! It is God's truth! Sit down! Sit\ndown!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 dropped back into his chair like a withered leaf in the lull of a\nwinter's wind.\n\n\"_Dios y diablo_, but it rends me to make this confession, _amigo_!\nAnd yet, I look to you for support! The girl, Carmen--_I am her\nfather!_\"\n\nDiego paced dramatically up and down before the scarce hearing Jos\u00e8\nand unfolded his story in a quick, jerky voice, with many a gesture\nand much rolling of his bright eyes.\n\n\"Her mother was a Spanish woman of high degree. We met in Bogot\u00e1. My\nvows prevented me from marrying her, else I should have done so.\n_Caramba_, but I loved her! _Bien_, I was called to Cartagena. She\nfeared, in her delicate state, that I was deserting her. She tried to\nfollow me, and at Badillo was put off the boat. There, poor child, she\npassed away in grief, leaving her babe. May she rest forever on the\nbosom of the blessed Virgin!\" Diego bowed reverently and crossed\nhimself.\n\n\"Then I lost all trace of her. My diligent inquiries revealed nothing.\nTwo years later I was assigned to the parish of Simit\u00ed. Here I saw the\nlittle locket which I had given her, and knew that Carmen was my\nchild. Ah, _Dios!_ what a revelation to a breaking heart! But I could\nnot openly acknowledge her, for I was already in disgrace, as you\nknow. And, once down, it is easy to sink still further. I confess, I\nwas indiscreet here. I was forced to fly. Rosendo's daughter followed\nme, despite my protests. I was assigned to Banco. _Bien_, time passed,\nand you came. I had hoped you would take the little Carmen under your\nprotection. God, how I grieved for the child! At last I determined,\ncome what might, to see her. The revolution drove me to the mountains;\nand love for my girl brought me by way of Simit\u00ed. And now, _amigo_,\nyou have my confession--and you will not be hard on me? _Caramba_, I\nneed a friend!\" He sat down, and mopped his wet brow. His talk had\nshaken him visibly.\n\nAgain oppressive silence. Jos\u00e8 was staring with unseeing eyes out\nthrough the open doorway. A stream of sunlight poured over the dusty\nthreshold, and myriad motes danced in the golden flood.\n\n\"_Bien, amigo_,\" Diego resumed, with more confidence. \"I had not\nthought to reveal this, my secret, to you--nor to any one, for that\nmatter--but just to get a peep at my little daughter, and assure my\nanxious heart of her welfare. But since coming here and seeing how\nmature she is my plans have taken more definite shape. I shall leave\nat daybreak to-morrow, if Don Mario can have my supplies ready on this\nshort notice, and--will take Carmen with me.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 struggled wearily to his feet. The color had left his face, and\nages seemed to bestride his bent shoulders. His voice quavered as he\nslowly spoke.\n\n\"Leave me now, Don Diego. It were better that we should not meet again\nuntil you depart.\"\n\n\"But, _amigo_--ah, I feel for you, believe me! You are attached to the\nchild--who would not be? _Caramba_, what is this world but a cemetery\nof bleaching hopes! But--how can I ask it? _Amigo_, send the child to\nme at the house of the Alcalde. I would hold her in my arms and feel a\nfather's joy. And bid the good Do\u00f1a Maria make her ready for\nto-morrow's journey.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 turned to the man. An ominous calm now possessed him. \"You\nsaid--the San Lucas district?\"\n\n\"_Quien sabe?_ good friend,\" Diego made hasty reply. \"My plans seem\nquite altered since coming here. _Bien_, we must see. But I will leave\nyou now. And you will send Carmen to me at once? And bid her bring\nher mother's locket. _Conque, hasta luego, amigo._\"\n\nHe went to the door, and seeing his two negro _peones_ loitering near,\nwalked confidently and briskly to the house of Don Mario.\n\nJos\u00e8, bewildered and benumbed, staggered into his sleeping room and\nsank upon the bed.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Padre--Padre dear.\"\n\nCarmen stood beside the stricken priest, and her little hand crept\ninto his.\n\n\"I watched until I saw him go, and then I came in. He has bad\nthoughts, hasn't he? But--Padre dear, what is it? Did he make you\nthink bad thoughts, too? He can't, you know, if you don't want to.\"\n\nShe bent over him and laid her cheek against his. Jos\u00e8 stared unseeing\nup at the thatch roof.\n\n\"Padre dear, everything has a rule, a principle, you told me. Don't\nyou remember? But his thoughts haven't any principle, have they? Any\nmore than the mistakes I make in algebra. Aren't we glad we know\nthat!\"\n\nThe child kissed the suffering man and wound her arms about his neck.\n\n\"Padre dear, he couldn't say anything that could make you unhappy--he\njust couldn't! God is _everywhere_, and you are His child--and I am,\ntoo--and--and there just isn't anything here but God, and we are in\nHim. Why, Padre, we are in Him, just like the little fish in the lake!\nIsn't it nice to know that--to really _know_ it?\"\n\nAye, if he had really known it he would not now be stretched upon a\nbed of torment. Yet, Carmen knew it. And his suffering was for her.\nWas he not really yielding to the mesmerism of human events? Why, oh,\nwhy could he not remain superior to them? Why continually rise and\nfall, tossed through his brief years like a dry weed in the blast?\n\nIt was because he _would_ know evil, and yield to its mesmerism. His\nenemies were not without, but within. How could he hope to be free\nuntil he had passed from self-consciousness to the sole consciousness\nof infinite good?\n\n\"Padre dear, his bad thoughts have only the minus sign, haven't\nthey?\"\n\nYes, and Jos\u00e8's now carried the same symbol of nothingness. Carmen was\nlinked to the omnipresent mind that is God; and no power, be it Diego\nor his superior, Wenceslas, could effect a separation.\n\nBut if Carmen was Diego's child, she must go with him. Jos\u00e8 could no\nlonger endure this torturing thought. He rose from the bed and sought\nDo\u00f1a Maria.\n\n\"Se\u00f1ora,\" he pleaded, \"tell me again what you know of Carmen's\nparents.\"\n\nThe good woman was surprised at the question, but could add nothing to\nwhat Rosendo had already told him. He asked to see again the locket.\nAlas! study it as he might, the portrait of the man was wholly\nindistinguishable. The sweet, sad face of the young mother looked out\nfrom its frame like a suffering. Magdalen. In it he thought he saw a\nresemblance to Carmen. As for Diego, the child certainly did not\nresemble him in the least. But years of dissipation and evil doubtless\nhad wrought their changes in his features.\n\nHe looked around for Carmen. She had disappeared. He rose and searched\nthrough the house for her. Do\u00f1a Maria, busy in the kitchen, had not\nseen her leave. His search futile, he returned with heavy heart to his\nown house and sat down to think. Mechanically he opened his Bible.\n\n_When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee._ Not \"if,\"\nbut \"when.\" The sharp experiences of human existence are not to be\navoided. But in their very midst the Christ-principle is available to\nthe faithful searcher and worker.\n\nDo\u00f1a Maria came with the midday meal. Carmen had not returned. Jos\u00e8,\nalarmed beyond measure, prepared to set out in search of her. But at\nthat moment one of Diego's _peones_ appeared at the door with his\nmaster's request that the child be sent at once to him. At least,\nthen, she was not in his hands; and Jos\u00e8 breathed more freely. It\nseemed to him that, should he see her in Diego's arms, he must\ncertainly strangle him. He shuddered at the thought. Only a few\nminutes before he had threatened to kill him!\n\nHe left his food untasted. Unspeakably wearied with his incessant\nmental battle, he threw himself again upon his bed, and at length sank\ninto a deep sleep.\n\nThe shadows were gathering when he awoke with a start. He heard a call\nfrom the street. Leaping from the bed, he hastened to the door, just\nas Rosendo, swaying beneath his pack, and accompanied by L\u00e1zaro Ortiz,\nrounded the corner and made toward him.\n\n_\"Hola, amigo Cura!\"_ Rosendo shouted, his face radiant. \"Come and bid\nme welcome, and receive good news!\"\n\nAt the same moment Carmen came flying toward them from the direction\nof the shales. Jos\u00e8 instantly divined the motive which had sent her\nout there. He turned his face to hide the tears which sprang to his\neyes.\n\n\"Thank God!\" he murmured in a choking voice. Then he hastened to his\nfaithful ally and clasped him in his arms.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 16\n\n\nStruggling vainly with his agitation, while the good tidings which he\ncould no longer hold fairly bubbled from his lips, Rosendo dragged the\npriest into the parish house and made fast the doors. Swinging his\nchair to the floor, he hastily unstrapped his kit and extracted a\ncanvas bag, which he handed to Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"Padre,\" he exclaimed in a loud whisper, \"we have found it!\"\n\n\"Found what?\" the bewildered Jos\u00e8 managed to ask.\n\n\"Gold, Padre--gold! Look, the bag is full! _Hombre!_ not less\nthan forty _pesos oro_--and more up there--quien sabe how much!\n_Caramba!_\"\n\nRosendo fell into a chair, panting with excitement. Jos\u00e8 sat down with\nquickening pulse and waited for the full story. It was not long\ncoming.\n\n\"Padre--I knew we would find it--but not this way! _Hombre!_ It was\nback of Popales. I had been washing the sands there for two days after\nmy return. There was a town at that place, years ago. The stone\nfoundations of the houses can still be seen. The Tigu\u00ed was rich at\nthat point then; but it is washed out now. _Bien_, one morning I\nstarted out at daybreak to prospect Popales creek, the little stream\ncutting back into the hills behind the old settlement. There was a\nheavy mist over the whole valley, and I could not see ten feet before\nmy face. _Bien_, I had gone up-stream a long distance, perhaps several\nmiles, without finding more than a few colors, when suddenly the mist\nbegan to clear, and there before me, only a few feet away, stood a\nyoung deer, just as dumfounded as I was.\"\n\nHe paused a moment for breath, laughing meanwhile at the memory of his\nsurprise. Then he resumed.\n\n\"_Bueno_, fresh venison looked good to me, Padre, living on salt\n_bagre_ and beans. But I had no weapon, save my _machete_. So I let\ndrive with that, and with all my strength. The big knife struck the\ndeer on a leg. The animal turned and started swiftly up the mountain\nside, with myself in pursuit. _Caramba_, that was a climb! But with\nhis belly chasing him, a hungry man will climb anything! Through palms\nand ferns and high weeds, falling over rocks and tripping on ground\nvines we went, clear to the top of the hill. Then the animal turned\nand plunged down a glen. On the descent it traveled faster, and in a\nfew minutes had passed clean from my sight. _Caramba_, I was angry!\"\n\nHe stopped to laugh again at the incident.\n\n\"The glen,\" he continued, \"ran down for perhaps a hundred yards, and\nthen widened into a clearing. I have been in the Popales country many\ntimes, Padre, but I had never been to the top of this mountain, nor\nhad I ever seen this glen, which seemed to be an ancient trail. So I\nwent on down toward the clearing. As I approached it I crossed what\napparently was the bed of an ancient stream, dry now, but with many\npools of water from the recent rains, which are very heavy in that\nregion. _Bien_, I turned and followed this dry bed for a long\ndistance, and at last came out into the open. I found myself in a\ncircular space, surrounded by high hills, with no opening but the\nstream bed along which I had come. At the far end of the basin-shaped\nclearing the creek bed stopped abruptly; and I then knew that the\nwater had formerly come over the cliff above in a high waterfall, but\nhad flowed in a direction opposite to that of Popales creek, this\nmountain being the divide.\n\n\"_Bueno_; now for my discovery! I several times filled my _batea_ with\ngravel from the dry bed and washed it in one of the pools. I got only\na few scattered colors. But as I dug along the margin of the bed I\nnoticed what seemed to be pieces of adobe bricks. I went on up one\nside of the bowl-shaped glen, and found many such pieces, and in some\nplaces stones that had served as foundations for houses at one time.\nSo I knew that there had been a town there, long, long ago. But it\nmust have been an Indian village, for had it been known to the\nSpaniards I surely would have learned of it from my parents. The\nground higher up was strewn with the broken bricks. I picked up many\nof the pieces and examined them. Almost every one showed a color or\ntwo of gold; but not enough to pay washing the clay from which they\nhad been made. But--and here is the end of my story--I have said that\nthis open space was shaped like a bowl, with all sides dipping sharply\nto the center. It occurred to me that in the years--who knows how\nmany?--that have passed since this town was abandoned, the heavy rains\nthat had dissolved the mud bricks also must have washed the mud and\nthe gold it carried down into the center of this basin, where, with\ngreat quantities of water sweeping over it every rainy season, the\nclay and sand would gradually wash out, leaving the gold concentrated\nin the center.\"\n\nThe old man stopped to light the thick cigar which he had rolled\nduring his recital.\n\n\"_Caramba!_ Padre, it was a lucky thought! I located the center of the\nbig bowl as nearly as possible, and began to dig. I washed some of the\ndirt taken a foot or two below the surface. Hombre! it left a string\nof gold clear around the _batea_! I became so excited I could scarcely\ndig. Every batea, as I got deeper and deeper, yielded more and more\ngold! I hurried back to the Tigu\u00ed for my supplies; and then camped up\nthere and washed the sand and clay for two weeks, until I had to come\nback to Simit\u00ed for food. Forty _pesos oro_ in fifteen days! _Caramba!_\nAnd there is more. And all concentrated from the mud bricks of that\nold, forgotten town in the mountains, miles back of Popales! May the\nVirgin bless that deer and mend its hurt leg!\"\n\nOne hundred and sixty francs in shining gold flakes! And who knew how\nmuch more to be had for the digging!\n\n\"Ah, Padre,\" mused Rosendo, \"it is wonderful how things turn out--that\nis, when, as the little Carmen says, you think right! I thought I'd\nfind it--I knew it was right! And here it is! _Caramba!_\"\n\nAt the mention of Carmen's name Jos\u00e8 again became troubled. Rosendo as\nyet did not know of Diego's presence in Simit\u00ed. Should he tell him? It\nmight lead to murder. Rosendo would learn of it soon enough; and Jos\u00e8\ndared not cast a blight upon the happiness of this rare moment. He\nwould wait.\n\nAs they sat reunited at the supper table in Rosendo's house, a\nconstant stream of townspeople passed and repassed the door, some\nstopping to greet the returned prospector, others lingering to witness\nRosendo's conduct when he should learn of Diego's presence in the\ntown, although no one would tell him of it. The atmosphere was tense\nwith suppressed excitement, and Jos\u00e8 trembled with dread. Do\u00f1a Maria\nmoved quietly about, giving no hint of the secret she carried. Carmen\nlaughed and chatted, but did not again mention the man from whose\npresence she had fled to the shales that morning. Who could doubt that\nin the midst of the prevalent mental confusion she had gone out there\n\"_to think_\"? And having performed that duty, she had, as usual, left\nher problem with her immanent God.\n\n\"I will go up and settle with Don Mario this very night,\" Rosendo\nabruptly announced, as they rose from the table.\n\n\"Not yet, friend!\" cried Jos\u00e8 quickly. \"L\u00e1zaro has told you of the\nrevolution; and we have many plans to consider, now that we have found\ngold. Come with me to the shales. We will not be interrupted there. We\ncan slip out through the rear door, and so avoid these curious people.\nI have much to discuss with you.\"\n\nRosendo chuckled. \"My honest debts first, _buen Cura_,\" he said\nsturdily. And throwing back his shoulders he strutted about the room\nwith the air of a plutocrat. With his bare feet, his soiled, flapping\nattire, and his swelling sense of self-importance he cut a comical\nfigure.\n\n\"But, Rosendo--\" Jos\u00e8 was at his wits' end. Then a happy thought\nstruck him. \"Why, man! I want to make you captain of the militia we\nare forming, and I must talk with you alone first!\"\n\nThe childish egotism of the old man was instantly touched.\n\n_\"Capit\u00e1n! el capit\u00e1n!\"_ he cried in glee. He slapped his chest and\nstrode proudly around the room. \"_Caramba! Capit\u00e1n Don Rosendo Ariza,\nS!_ Ha! Shall I carry a sword and wear gold braid?--But these fellows\nare mighty curious,\" he muttered, looking out through the door at the\nloitering townsfolk. \"The shales, then, Padre! Close the front door,\nCarmencita.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 scarcely breathed until, skirting the shore of the lake and\nmaking a detour of the town, he and Rosendo at length reached the\nshale beds unnoticed.\n\n\"Rosendo, the gold deposit that you have discovered--is it safe? Could\nothers find it?\" queried Jos\u00e8 at length.\n\n\"Never, Padre! No trail leads to it. And no one would think of looking\nthere for gold. I discovered it by the merest chance, and I left no\ntrace of my presence. Besides, there are no gold hunters in that\ncountry, and very few people in the entire district of Guamoc\u00f3.\"\n\n\"And how long will it take you to wash out the deposit, do you\nthink?\"\n\n\"_Quien sabe?_ Padre. A year--two years--perhaps longer.\"\n\n\"But you cannot return to Guamoc\u00f3 until the revolution is over.\"\n\n\"_Bien_, Padre, I will remain in Simit\u00ed a week or two. We may then\nknow what to expect of the revolution.\"\n\n\"You are not afraid?\"\n\n\"Of what? _Caramba_, no!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 sighed. No one seemed to fear but himself.\n\n\"Rosendo, about the gold for Cartagena: how can we send it, even when\npeace is restored?\"\n\n\"Juan might go down each month,\" Rosendo suggested.\n\n\"Impossible! The expense would be greater than the amount shipped. And\nit would not be safe. Besides, our work must be done with the utmost\nsecrecy. No one but ourselves must know of your discovery. And no one\nelse in Simit\u00ed must know where we are sending the gold. Rosendo, it is\na great problem.\"\n\n\"_Caramba_, yes!\"\n\nThe men lapsed into profound meditation. Then:\n\n\"Rosendo, the little Carmen makes great progress.\"\n\n\"_Por supuesto!_ I knew she would. She has a mind!\"\n\n\"Have you no idea, Rosendo, who her parents might have been?\"\n\n\"None whatever, Padre.\"\n\n\"Has it ever occurred to you, Rosendo, that, because of her deeply\nreligious nature, possibly her father was a priest?\"\n\n\"_Caramba, no!_\" ejaculated Rosendo, turning upon Jos\u00e8. \"What puts\nthat into your head, _amigo_?\"\n\n\"As I have said, Rosendo,\" Jos\u00e8 answered, \"her religious instinct.\"\n\n\"_Bien, Se\u00f1or Padre_, you forget that priests are not religious.\"\n\n\"But some are, Rosendo,\" persisted Jos\u00e8 in a tone of protest.\n\n\"Perhaps. But those who are do not have children,\" was Rosendo's\nsimple manner of settling the argument.\n\nIts force appealed to Jos\u00e8, and he felt a shade of relief. But, if\nDiego were not the father of Carmen, what motive had he for wishing to\ntake her with him, other than to train her eventually to become his\nconcubine? The thought maddened him. He almost decided to tell\nRosendo.\n\n\"But, Padre, we came out here to talk about the militia of which I am\nto be captain. _Bien_, we must begin work to-morrow. _Hombre_, but the\nse\u00f1ora's eyes will stand out when she sees me marching at the head of\nthe company!\" He laughed like a pleased child.\n\n\"And now that we have gold, Padre, I must send to Cartagena for a gun.\nWhat would one cost?\"\n\n\"You probably could not obtain one, Rosendo. The Government is so\nafraid of revolutions that it prohibits the importation of arms. But\neven if you could, it would cost not less than fifty _pesos oro_.\"\n\n\"Fifty _pesos_! _Caramba!_\" exclaimed the artless fellow. \"Then I get\nno gun! But now let us name those who will form the company.\"\n\nBy dwelling on the pleasing theme, Jos\u00e8 managed to keep Rosendo\nengaged until fatigue at length drove the old man to seek his bed. The\ntown was wrapped in darkness as they passed through its quiet streets,\nand the ancient Spanish lantern, hanging crazily from its moldering\nsconce on the corner of Don Felipe's house, threw the only light into\nthe black mantle that lay upon the main thoroughfare.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nAt sunrise, Jos\u00e8 was awakened by Rosendo noisily entering his house.\nA glance at the old man showed that he was laboring under strong\nemotion.\n\n\"What sort of friendship is this,\" he demanded curtly, \"that you keep\nme from learning of Diego's presence in Simit\u00ed? It was a trick you\nserved me--and friends do not so to one another!\" He stood looking\ndarkly at the priest.\n\n\"Have you seen him, then? Good heavens, Rosendo! what have you done to\nhim?\" cried Jos\u00e8, hastily leaving his bed.\n\n\"There, comfort yourself, Padre,\" replied Rosendo, a sneer curling his\nlips. \"Your friend is safe--for the present. He and his negro rascals\nfled before sunrise.\"\n\n\"And which direction did they take?\"\n\n\"Why do you ask? Would you go to them? _Bueno_, then across the lake,\ntoward the Juncal. Don Mario stocked their boat last night, while you\nkept me out on the shales. _Buen arreglo, no?_\"\n\n\"Yes, Rosendo,\" replied Jos\u00e8 gladly, \"an excellent arrangement to keep\nyou from dipping your hands in his foul blood. Why, man! is your\nvision so short? Have you no thought of Carmen and her future?\"\n\n\"But--_Dios_! he has spread the report that he is her father!\n_Caramba!_ For that I would tear him apart! He robbed me of one child;\nand now--_Caramba_! Why did you let him go?--why did you, Padre?\"\n\nRosendo paced the floor like a caged lion, while great tears rolled\ndown his black cheeks.\n\n\"But, Rosendo, if you had killed him--what then? Imprisonment for you,\nsuffering for us all, and the complete wreck of our hopes. Is it worth\nit?\"\n\n\"_Na_, Padre, but I would have escaped to Guamoc\u00f3, to the gold I have\ndiscovered. There no one would have found me. And you would have kept\nme supplied; and I would have given you the gold I washed to care for\nher--\"\n\nThe man sank into a chair and buried his head in his hands.\n\"_Caramba!_\" he moaned. \"But he will return when I am gone--and the\nChurch is back of him, and they will come and steal her away--\"\n\nHow childish, and yet how great he was in his wonderful love, thought\nJos\u00e8. He pitied him from the bottom of his heart; he loved him\nimmeasurably; yet he knew the old man's judgment was unsound in this\ncase.\n\n\"Come, Rosendo,\" he said gently, laying a hand upon the bent head.\n\"This is a time when expediency bids us suffer an evil to remain for a\nlittle while, that a much greater good may follow.\"\n\nHe hesitated. Then--\"You do not think Diego is her father?\"\n\n\"A thousand devils, no!\" shouted Rosendo, springing up. \"He the father\nof that angel-child? _Cielo!_ His brats would be serpents! But I am\nlosing time--\" He turned to the door.\n\n\"Rosendo!\" cried the priest in fresh alarm. \"Where are you going? What\nare you--\"\n\n\"I am going after Diego! Juan and L\u00e1zaro go with me! Before sundown\nthat devil's carcass will be buzzard meat!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 threw himself in front of Rosendo.\n\n\"Rosendo, think of Carmen! Would you kill her, too? If you kill Diego\nnothing can save her from Wenceslas! Rosendo, for God's sake,\nlisten!\"\n\nBut the old man, with his huge strength, tossed the frail priest\nlightly aside and rushed into the street. Blind with rage, he did not\nsee Carmen standing a short distance from the door. The child had been\nsent to summon him to breakfast. Unable to check his momentum, the big\nman crashed full into her and bore her to the ground beneath him. As\nshe fell her head struck the sharp edge of an ancient paving stone,\nand she lay quite still, while the warm blood slowly trickled through\nher long curls.\n\nUttering a frightened cry, Jos\u00e8 rushed to the dazed Rosendo and got\nhim to his feet. Then he picked up the child, and, his heart numb with\nfear, bore her into the house.\n\nClasping Carmen fiercely in his arms, Jos\u00e8 tried to aid Do\u00f1a Maria in\nstaunching the freely flowing blood. Rosendo, crazed with grief, bent\nover them, giving vent to moans which, despite his own fears, wrung\nthe priest's heart with pity for the suffering old man. At length the\nchild opened her eyes.\n\n\"Praise God!\" cried Rosendo, kneeling and showering kisses upon her\nhands. _\"Loado sea el buen Dios! Caramba! Caramba!\"_\n\n\"Padre Rosendo,\" the girl murmured, smiling down at him, \"your\nthoughts were driving you, just like Benjam\u00edn drives his oxen. And\nthey were bad, or you wouldn't have knocked me over.\"\n\n\"Bad!\" Rosendo went to the doorway and squatted down upon the dirt\nfloor in the sunlight. \"Bad!\" he repeated. \"_Caramba_, but they were\nmurder-thoughts!\"\n\n\"And they tried to make you murder me, didn't they, padre dear?\" She\nlaughed. \"But it didn't really happen, anyway,\" she added.\n\nRosendo buried his head in his hands and groaned aloud. Carmen slipped\ndown from Jos\u00e8's lap and went unsteadily to the old man.\n\n\"They were not yours, those thoughts, padre dear,\" putting her arms\naround his neck. \"But they were whipping you hard, just as if you\nbelonged to them. And see, it just shows that bad thoughts can't do\nanything. Look, I'm all right!\" She stood off and smiled at him.\n\nRosendo reached out and clasped her in his long arms. \"_Chiquita_,\" he\ncried, \"if you were not, your old padre Rosendo would throw himself\ninto the lake!\"\n\n\"More bad thoughts, padre dear!\" She laughed and held up a warning\nfinger. \"But I was to tell you the _desayuno_ was ready; and see, we\nhave forgotten all about it!\" Her merry laugh rang through the room\nlike a silver bell.\n\nAfter breakfast Jos\u00e8 took Rosendo, still shaking, into the parish\nhouse. \"I think,\" he said gravely, \"that we have learned another\nlesson, have we not, _amigo_?\"\n\nRosendo's head sank upon his great chest.\n\n\"And, if we are wise, we will profit by it--will we not, _compadre_?\"\nHe waited a moment, then continued:\n\n\"I have been seeing in a dim way, _amigo_, that our thought is always\nthe vital thing to be reckoned with, more than we have even suspected\nbefore. I believe there is a mental law, though I cannot formulate it,\nthat in some way the thoughts we hold use us, and become externalized\nin actions. You were wild with fear for Carmen, and your thoughts of\nDiego were murderous. Bien, they almost drove you to murder, and they\nreacted upon the very one you most love. Can you not see it,\n_amigo_?\"\n\nRosendo looked up. His face was drawn. \"Padre--I am almost afraid to\nthink of anything--now.\"\n\n\"Ah, _amigo_,\" said Jos\u00e8 with deep compassion, \"I, too, have had a\ndeep lesson in thinking these past two days. I had evolved many\nbeautiful theories, and worked out wonderful plans during these weeks\nof peace. Then suddenly came the news of the revolution, and, presto!\nthey all flew to pieces! But Carmen--nothing disturbs her. Is it\nbecause she is too young to fear? I think not, _amigo_, I think not. I\nthink, rather, that it is because she is too wise.\"\n\n\"But--she is not of the earth, Padre.\" The old man shook his head\ndubiously.\n\n\"Rosendo, she is! She is human, just as we are. But in some way she\nhas learned a great truth, and that is that wrong thinking brings all\nthe discord and woe that afflict the human race. We know this is true,\nyou and I. In a way we have known it all our lives. But why, _why_ do\nwe not practice it? Why do I yield so readily to fear; and you to\nrevenge? I rather think if we loved our enemies we would have none,\nfor our only enemies are the thoughts that become externalized in\nwrong thought-concepts. And even this externalization is only in our\nown consciousness. It is there, and only there, that we see evil.\"\n\n\"_Quien sabe?_ Padre,\" replied Rosendo, slowly shaking his head. \"We\nknow so little--so little!\"\n\n\"But, Rosendo, we know enough to try to be like Carmen--\"\n\n\"_Caramba_, yes! And I try to be like her. But whenever danger\nthreatens her, the very devils seize me, and I am no longer myself.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes; I know. But will not her God protect her? Can not we trust\nher to Him?\" Jos\u00e8 spoke with the conviction of right, however\ninconsistent his past conduct might have been.\n\n\"True, Padre--and I must try to love Diego--I know--though I hate him\nas the devil hates the cross! Carmen would say that he was used by bad\nthoughts, wouldn't she?\"\n\n\"Just so. She would not see the man, but the impersonal thought that\nseems to use him. And I believe she knows how to meet that kind of\nthought.\"\n\n\"I know it, Padre. _Bien_, I must try to love him. I _will_ try.\nAnd--Padre, whenever he comes into my mind I will try to think of him\nas God's child--though I know he isn't!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 laughed loudly at this. \"_Hombre!_\" he exclaimed. \"You must not\nthink of the human Diego as God's child! You must always think of the\n_real_ child of God for which this human concept, Diego, stands in\nyour consciousness. Do you understand me?\"\n\n\"No, Padre. But perhaps I can learn. I will try. But Diego shall live.\nAnd--_Bien_, now let us talk about the company of militia. But here\ncomes the Alcalde. _Caramba!_ what does he want?\"\n\nWith much oily ceremony and show of affection, Don Mario greeted the\npair.\n\n\"I bring a message from Padre Diego,\" he announced pompously, after\nthe exchange of courtesies. \"Bien, it is quite unfortunate that our\nfriend Rosendo feels so hard toward him, especially as Don Diego has\nso long entrusted Carmen to Rosendo's care. But--his letter, _Se\u00f1or\nPadre_,\" placing a folded paper in Jos\u00e8's hand.\n\nSilently, but with swelling indignation, Jos\u00e8 read:\n\n  \"Dear Brother in Christ: It is, as you must know, because of\n  our good Rosendo's foolish anger that I relieve him of the\n  embarrassment of my presence in Simit\u00ed. Not that I fear bodily\n  harm, but lest his thoughtlessness urge him to attempt injury\n  upon me; in which case nothing but unhappiness could result, as my\n  two negro servants would protect me with their own lives. I\n  rather choose peace, and to that end quietly depart. But I\n  leave behind my bleeding heart in the little Carmen; and I beg\n  that you will at once hand her over to the excellent Don Mario,\n  with whom I have made arrangements to have her sent to me in\n  due season, whether in Banco or Remedios, I can not at present\n  say. I am minded to make an excellent report of your parish to\n  Don Wenceslas, and I am sure he will lend you support in your\n  labors for the welfare of the good folk of Simit\u00ed. Do not forget\n  to include the little locket with Carmen's effects when you\n  deliver her to Don Mario. I assure you of my warm affection for\n  you, and for Rosendo, who mistakes in his zeal to persecute\n  me, as he will some day learn; and I commend you both to the\n  protecting care of our blessed Mother Mary.\n\n               \"I kiss your hand, as your servant in Christ,\n                                           \"DIEGO GUILLERMO POLO.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 looked long and fixedly at the Alcalde. \"Don Mario,\" he finally\nsaid, \"do you believe Diego to be the father of Carmen?\"\n\n\"_Cierto_, Padre, I know it!\" replied the official with fervor. \"He\nhas the proofs!\"\n\n\"And what are they, may I ask?\"\n\n\"I do not know, Padre; only that he has them. Surely the child is his,\nand must be sent to him when he commands. Meantime, you see, he gives\nthe order to deliver her to me. He has kindly arranged to relieve you\nand Rosendo of further care of the girl.\"\n\n\"Don Mario,\" said Jos\u00e8 with terrible earnestness, \"I will give you the\nbenefit of the doubt, and say that Diego has basely deceived you. But\nas for him--he lies.\"\n\n\"_Hombre!_ But I can not help if you disbelieve him. Still, you must\ncomply with his request; otherwise, the Bishop may compel you to do\nso.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 realized the terrible possibility of truth in this statement. For\nan instant all his old despair rushed upon him. Then he braced\nhimself. Rosendo was holding his wrath in splendid check.\n\n\"_Bien_, Don Mario,\" resumed Jos\u00e8, after a long meditation. \"Let us\nask our good Rosendo to leave us for a little moment that we may with\ngreater freedom discuss the necessary arrangements. _Bien, amigo!_\"\nholding up a hand to check Rosendo, who was rising menacingly before\nthe Alcalde. \"You will leave it to me.\" He threw Rosendo a significant\nlook; and the latter, after a momentary hesitation, bowed and passed\nout of the room.\n\n\"_A prop\u00f3sito, amigo_,\" resumed Jos\u00e8, turning to the Alcalde and\nassuming utter indifference with regard to Carmen. \"As you will\nrecall, I stood security for Rosendo's debts. The thirty _pesos_ which\nhe owes you will be ready this evening.\"\n\nThe Alcalde smiled genially and rubbed his fat palms together. \"_Muy\nbien_,\" he murmured.\n\nJos\u00e8 reflected. Then:\n\n\"But, Don Mario, with regard to Carmen, justice must be done, is it\nnot so?\"\n\n\"_Cierto_, Padre; and Padre Diego has the proofs--\"\n\n\"Certainly; I accept your word for your conviction in the matter. But\nyou will agree that there is something to be said for Rosendo. He has\nfed, clothed, and sheltered the girl for some eight years. Let us see,\nat the rate you charge your _peones_, say, fifty pesos a day, that\nwould amount to--\"\n\nHe took paper and pencil from the table and made a few figures.\n\n\"--to just fourteen hundred and sixty _pesos oro_,\" he concluded.\n\"This, then, is the amount now due Rosendo for the care of Diego's\nchild. You say he has made arrangements with you to care for her until\nhe can send for her. _Bien_, we will deliver her to you for Diego,\nbut only upon payment of the sum which I have just mentioned.\nOtherwise, how will Rosendo be reimbursed for the expense of her\nlong maintenance?\"\n\n\"_Ca--ram--ba!_ Fourteen hundred and sixty _pesos oro_! Why--it is a\nfortune!\" ejaculated the outwitted Alcalde, his eyes bulging over his\npuffy cheeks.\n\n\"And,\" continued Jos\u00e8 calmly, \"if we deliver the girl to you to-day, I\nwill retain the thirty _pesos oro_ which Rosendo owes you, and you\nwill stand surety for the balance of the debt, fourteen hundred and\nthirty, in that case.\"\n\n\"_Diablo!_ but I will do nothing of the kind!\" exploded the Alcalde.\n\"_Caramba!_ let Diego come and look after his own brat!\"\n\n\"Then we shall consider the interview at an end, no?\"\n\n\"But my thirty _pesos oro_?\"\n\n\"To-night. And as much more for additional supplies. We are still\nworking together, are we not, Don Mario?\" he added suggestively.\n\nJos\u00e8 in Simit\u00ed with money discounted a million Diegos fleeing through\nthe jungle. The Alcalde's heavy face melted in a foolish grin.\n\n\"_Cierto, buen Padre!_ and--La Libertad?\"\n\n\"I have strong hopes,\" replied Jos\u00e8 with bland assurance, while a\nsignificant look came into his face. Then he rose and bowed the\nAlcalde out. \"And, Don Mario--\"\n\nHe put a finger on his lips.\n\n\"--we remain very silent, no?\"\n\n\"_Cierto, Padre, cierto!_ I am the grave itself!\"\n\nAs the bulky official waddled off to his little shop, Jos\u00e8 turned back\ninto his house with a great sigh of relief. Another problem had been\nmet--temporarily.\n\nHe summoned Carmen to the day's lessons.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 17\n\n\nWithin the month Juan brought from Bodega Central the glad news of the\nrevolution's utter collapse. The anticlerical element, scenting\ntreachery in their own ranks, and realizing almost from the outset\nthat the end was a matter of only a few weeks, offered to capitulate\non terms which they felt would be less distressing to their pride than\nthose which their victors might dictate after inflicting a crushing\ndefeat. The conservatives did not take advantage of the _fiasco_, but\noffered conciliation in the way of reapportioning certain minor public\noffices, and a show of somewhat lessened clerical influence. Peace\nfollowed rapidly. The fires of Jacobinism and popery were again\nbanked, while priest and politician, statesman and orator set up the\nboard and rearranged the pawns for the next play.\n\nNothing further had been heard of Padre Diego during the month,\nexcepting that he had arrived at the settlement of Juncal in a state\nof extreme agitation, and had hurriedly set out that same day along\nthe trail to the San Lucas district. Rosendo, meanwhile, assured that\nDiego would not return in the immediate future, yielded to Jos\u00e8's\npersuasion and departed at once for Guamoc\u00f3 on the news of the\nrevolution's close. Simit\u00ed had remained unmolested; and now, with the\nassurance of indefinite peace, the old town dropped quickly back into\nher wonted state of listless repose, and yielded to the drowsy, dreamy\ninfluences that hover always about this scene of mediaeval romance.\n\nJos\u00e8 had recovered his equipoise; and even when Juan, returning from\nhis next trip down to the river, brought the priest another sharp\nletter from Wenceslas, written in the Bishop's name, he read it\nwithout a tremor. The letter complained of Jos\u00e8's silence, and\nespecially of his failure to assist the Catholic cause in this crisal\nhour by contributions of Peter's Pence. Nor had any report been\nreceived in Cartagena relative to the state of the parish of Simit\u00ed,\nits resources and communicants; and not a _peso_ had been offered to\nthe support of their so dear citadel at a time when its enemies\nthreatened its gates. Jos\u00e8 smiled happily as he penned his reply, for\nhe knew that with Rosendo's next return their contributions to\nCartagena would begin. That meant the quieting of Wenceslas,\nregardless of whatever report Diego might make. And it was evident\nfrom this letter that neither Diego nor the Alcalde had as yet\ncommunicated anything of a startling nature to Wenceslas regarding\nthose things to which the priest had consecrated himself in Simit\u00ed.\n\nJos\u00e8's life was never before so full. And never so sweet. To his\nlittle flock he was now preaching the Word of God only as he could\ninterpret it to meet their simple needs. Gradually, as he got closer\nto them, he sought to enlighten them and to draw them at least a\nlittle way out of the dense materialism of their present religious\nbeliefs. He also strove to give them the best of his own worldly\nknowledge, and to this end was talking to them three nights a week in\nthe church building, where the simple people hung upon his words like\nchildren enwrapped in fairy lore. He was holding regular Sunday\nservices, and offering Masses during the week for those of his\nparishioners who requested them, and who would have been shocked,\npuzzled, and unhappy had he refused to do so, or attempted to prove\ntheir uselessness. He was likewise saying diurnal Masses for the\nlittle Maria, to whom, as she lay breathing her last in his arms in\nCartagena, he had given the promise to offer them daily in her behalf\nfor, a year.\n\nNor was this the extent of his loving sacrifice for the girl. He had\nalready sent a small sum of money to Catalina by Captain Julio, who\npromised to arrange at Calamar for its transmission, and for the safe\nconvoy of a similar small packet monthly to Cartagena and into the\nhands of the two women who were caring for the infant son of Wenceslas\nand the ill-fated Maria. He had promised her that night that he would\ncare for her babe. And his life had long since shown what a promise\nmeant to him. He knew he would be unable to learn of the child's\nprogress directly from these women, for they were both illiterate. But\nCaptain Julio brought an encouraging message from them, and assured\nJos\u00e8 that he would always make inquiry for the babe on his trips down\nthe river. Jos\u00e8's long-distance dealings with the genial captain had\nbeen conducted through Juan, who had constituted himself the priest's\nfaithful servant and the distant worshiper of the child Carmen.\n\n\"Padre Jos\u00e8,\" Juan had said one day, striving vainly to hide his\nembarrassment, \"the little Carmen grows very beautiful. She is like\nthe Pascua-flower, that shines through the ferns in the _ca\u00f1o_. She is\nlike the great blue butterfly, that floats on the sunbeams that sift\nthrough the forest trees.\"\n\n\"Yes, Juan, she is very beautiful.\"\n\n\"Padre, you love her much, is it not so?\"\n\n\"Very much, indeed, Juan.\"\n\n\"And I, Padre, I, too, love her.\" He paused and dug the hard ground\nwith his bare toes.\n\n\"Padre,\" he resumed, \"the little Carmen will marry--some day, will she\nnot?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 started. The thought had never occurred to him! Carmen marry?\nAfter all, she was human, and-- But, no, he could not, he would not,\nthink of it!\n\n\"Why, Juan--I--cannot say--\"\n\n\"But, Padre, she will.\" Juan was growing bolder. \"And--and, Padre,\nI--I should like it if she would marry me. Ah, _Se\u00f1or Padre_, already\nI adore her!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 could not be angry. The faithful lad was deeply sincere. And the\ngirl would reach the marriageable age of that country in all too short\na time.\n\n\"But, Juan,\" he remonstrated, \"you are too young! And Carmen--why, she\nis but a child!\"\n\n\"True, Padre. But I am seventeen--and I will wait for her. Only say\nnow that she shall be mine when the time comes. Padre, say it now!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 was deeply touched by the boy's earnest pleading. He put his arm\naffectionately about the strong young shoulders.\n\n\"Wait, Juan, and see what develops. She is very, very young. We must\nall wait. And, meanwhile, do you serve her, faithfully, as you see\nRosendo and me doing.\"\n\nThe boy's face brightened with hope. \"Padre,\" he exclaimed, \"I am her\nslave!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 went back to his work with Carmen with his thought full of\nmingled conjecture and resolve. He had thus far outlined nothing for\nthe girl's future. Nor had he the faintest idea what the years might\nbring forth. But he knew that, in a way, he was aiding in the\npreparation of the child for something different from the dull, animal\nexistence with which she was at present surrounded, and that her path\nin life must eventually lead far, far away from the shabby, crumbling\ntown which now constituted her material world. His task he felt to be\ntremendous in the responsibility which it laid upon him. What had he\never known of the manner of rearing children! He had previously given\nthe question of child-education but scant consideration, although he\nhad always held certain radical ideas regarding it; and some of these\nhe was putting to the test. But had his present work been forecast\nwhile he lay sunken in despair on the river steamer, he would have\nrepudiated the prediction as a figment of the imagination. Yet the\ngleam which flashed through his paralyzed brain that memorable day in\nthe old church, when Rosendo opened his full heart to him, had roused\nhim suddenly from his long and despondent lethargy, and worked a quick\nand marvelous renovation in his wasted life. Following the lead of\nthis unusual child, he was now, though with many vicissitudes, slowly\npassing out of his prison of egoism, and into the full, clear sunlight\nof a world which he knew to be far less material than spiritual.\n\nWith the awakening had come the almost frenzied desire to realize in\nCarmen what he had failed to develop within himself; a vague hope that\nshe might fill the void which a lifetime of longing had expressed. A\ntremendous opportunity now presented. Already the foundation had been\nwell laid--but not by earthly hands. His task was to build upon it;\nand, as he did so, to learn himself. He had never before realized more\nthan faintly the awful power for good or evil which a parent wields\nover a child. He had no more than the slightest conception of the\nmighty problem of child-education. And now Carmen herself had shown\nhim that real education must be reared upon a foundation _wholly\nspiritual_. Yet this, he knew, was just what the world's educators did\nnot do. He could see now how in the world the religious instinct of\nthe child is early quenched, smothered into complete or partial\nextinction beneath the false tutelage of parents and teachers, to whom\nyears and adult stature are synonymous with wisdom, and who themselves\nhave learned to see the universe only through the opaque lenses of\nmatter and chance.\n\n\"If children were not falsely educated to know all manner of evil,\" he\nmused, \"what spiritual powers might they not develop in adult life,\npowers that are as yet not even imagined! But their primitive\nreligious instinct is regarded by the worldly-wise parent as but a\npart of the infant existence, which must soon give place to the more\nsolid and real beliefs and opinions which the world in general regards\nas established and conventional, even though their end is death. And\nso they teach their children to make evil real, even while admonishing\nthem to protect themselves against it and eventually so to rise as to\novercome it, little realizing that the carnal belief of the reality of\nevil which a child is taught to accept permeates its pure thought like\nan insidious poison, and becomes externalized in the conventional\nroutine existence of mind in matter, soul in body, a few brief years\nof mingled good and evil, and then darkness--the end here certain; the\nfuture life a vague, impossible conjecture.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 determined that Carmen's education should be spiritual, largely\nbecause he knew, constituted as she was, it could not well be\notherwise. And he resolved that from his teachings she should glean\nnothing but happiness, naught but good. With his own past as a\ncontinual warning, he vowed first that never should the mental germ of\nfear be planted within this child's mind. He himself had cringed like\na coward before it all his desolate life. And so his conduct had been\nconsistently slavish, specious, and his thought stamped with the brand\nof the counterfeit. He knew not how much longer he must struggle with\nit. But he knew that, if he would progress, the warfare must go on,\nuntil at length he should put it under his feet. His mind still bore\nthe almost ineradicable mold of the fear deeply graven into it by the\nignorant opinions, the worldly, material, unspiritual beliefs of his\ndear but unwise parents. His life had been hedged with baleful shadows\nbecause of it; and over every bright picture there hung its black\ndraping. As he looked back over the path along which he had come, he\ncould see every untoward event, every unhappiness and bitter\ndisappointment, as the externalization of fear in some form, the germ\nof which had been early planted in the fertile soil of his plastic\nbrain. Without it he might have risen to towering heights. Under its\ndomination he had sunk until the swirling stream of life had eddied\nhim upon the desolate shores of Simit\u00ed. In the hands of the less\nfearful he had been a puppet. In his own eyes he was a fear-shaped\nmanikin, the shadow of God's real man. The fear germ had multiplied\nwithin him a billionfold, and in the abundant crop had yielded a\nmental depression and deep-seated melancholy that had utterly stifled\nhis spirit and dried the marrow of his bones.\n\nThey were not pleasant, these thoughts. But now Jos\u00e8 could draw from\nthem something salutary, something definite to shape and guide his\nwork with Carmen. She, at least, should not grow up the slave of\nfearsome opinions and beliefs born of dense ignorance. Nor should the\nbaseless figments of puerile religious systems find lodgment within\nher clear thought. The fear element, upon which so much of so-called\nChristian belief has been reared, and the damnable suggestions of hell\nand purgatory, of unpardonable sin and endless suffering, the\nstock-in-trade of poet, priest and prelate up to and overlapping our\npresent brighter day, should remain forever a closed volume to this\nchild, a book as wildly imaginative and as unacceptable as the fabled\ntravels of Maundeville.\n\n\"I believe,\" he would murmur to himself, as he strolled alone in the\ndusk beside the limpid lake, \"that if I could plant myself firmly on\nthe Scriptural statement that God is love, that He is good; and if I\ncould regard Him as infinite mind, while at the same time striving to\nrecognize no reality, no intelligence or life in things material, I\ncould eventually triumph over the whole false concept, and rise out of\nbeliefs of sickness, discord, and death, into an unalterable\nconsciousness of good only.\"\n\nHe had made a beginning when he strove to realize that man is not\nseparated from God; that God is not a far-off abstraction; and that\ninfinite mind is, as Carmen insisted, \"everywhere.\"\n\n\"It is only the five physical senses that tell us evil is real,\" he\nreflected. \"Indeed, without their testimony we would be utterly\nunconscious of evil! And I am convinced that their testimony is\nspecious, and that we see, hear, and feel only in thought, or in\nbelief. We think the sensations of seeing, hearing, and feeling come\nto us through the medium of these senses as outward, fleshly\ncontrivances, which in some way communicate with the mind and bridge\nthe gulf between the material and the mental. In reality, we do but\nsee, hear and feel _our own thoughts_! The philosophers, many of them,\nsaid as much centuries ago. So did Jesus. But--the human mind has been\nmesmerized, simply mesmerized!\"\n\nThese things he pondered day by day, and watched to see them wrought\nout in the life of Carmen. \"Ah, yes,\" he would sometimes say, as\nspiritual ideas unfolded to him, \"you evolve beautiful theories, my\ngood Jos\u00e8, and you say many brave things. But, when the day of\njudgment comes, as it did when Juan brought you the news of the\nrevolution, then, alas! your theories fly to pieces, and you find\nyourself very human, very material, and your God hidden behind the\ndistant clouds. When the test comes, you find you cannot prove your\nbeliefs.\"\n\nYet the man did not often indulge in self-condemnation, for somehow he\nknew his ideas were right. When he realized the character and specious\nnature of evil, and realized, too, that \"by thy words thou shalt be\njustified, and by thy words thou shalt be condemned,\" he knew that the\nstirring up of evil by good, and the shaking of the ancient\nfoundations of carnal belief within his mentality, might mean fiery\ntrials, still awaiting him. And yet, the crown was for him who should\novercome. Overcome what? The false opinions of mankind, the ignorant\nbeliefs in matter and evil. For what, after all, is responsible for\nall the evil in this world of ours? What but a false concept of God?\n\"And if I keep my nose buried forever in matter, how can I hope to see\nGod, who is Spirit? And how can I follow the Christ unless I think as\nhe thought?\" he said.\n\nBut it was in the classroom with Carmen that he always received his\ngreatest stimulus.\n\n\"See, Padre dear,\" she said one day, \"if I erase a wrong figure and\nthen set down the right one instead, I get the right answer. And it is\njust like that when we think. If we always put good thoughts in the\nplace of the bad ones, why, everything comes out right, doesn't it?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 smiled at the apt comparison. \"Of course, _chiquita_,\" he\nreplied. \"Only in your algebra you know which are the right figures to\nput down. But how do you know which thoughts are right?\"\n\n\"I always know, Padre. I can't make even the least mistake about the\nthoughts. Why, it is easier to mistake with figures than it is with\nthoughts.\"\n\n\"How is that, little one?\"\n\n\"Because, if you always think God _first_, you can never think wrong.\nNow can you? And if you think of other things first you are almost\nsure to think of the wrong thing, is it not so, Padre?\"\n\nThe priest had to admit the force of her statement.\n\n\"And, you know, Padre dear,\" the girl went on, \"when I understand the\nright rule in algebra, the answer just comes of itself. Well, it is so\nwith everything when we understand that God is the right rule--you\ncall Him principle, don't you?--well, when we know that He is the only\nrule for everything, then the answers to all our problems just come of\nthemselves.\"\n\nAye, thought Jos\u00e8, the healing works of the great Master were only the\n\"signs following,\" the \"answers\" to the people's problems, the sure\nevidence that Jesus understood the Christ-principle.\n\n\"And when you say that God is the right rule for everything, just what\ndo you mean, _chiquita_?\"\n\n\"That He is everywhere,\" the girl replied.\n\n\"That He is infinite and omnipresent good, then?\" the priest\namplified.\n\n\"He is good--and everywhere,\" the child repeated firmly.\n\n\"And the necessary corollary of that is, that there is no evil,\" Jos\u00e8\nadded.\n\n\"I don't know what you mean by corollary, Padre dear. It's a big word,\nisn't it?\"\n\n\"I mean--I think I know how you would put it, little one--if God is\neverywhere, then there is nothing bad. Is that right?\"\n\n\"Yes, Padre. Don't you see?\"\n\nAssuredly he saw. He saw that a fact can have no real opposite; that\nany predicated opposite must be supposition. And evil is the\nsupposition; whereas good is the fact. The latter is \"plus,\" and the\nformer \"minus.\" No wonder the origin of evil has never been found,\nalthough humanity has struggled with the problem for untold ages!\nJesus diagnosed evil as a lie. He gave it the minus sign, the sign of\nnothingness. The world has tried to make it positive, something. From\nthe false sense of evil as a reality has come the equally false sense\nof man's estrangement from God, through some fictitious \"fall\"--a\ncurse, truly, upon the human intellect, but not of God's infliction.\nFor false belief always curses with a reign of discord, which endures\nuntil the belief becomes corrected by truth. From the beginning, the\nhuman race has vainly sought to postulate an equal and opposite to\neverything in the realm of both the spiritual and material. It has\nbeen hypnotized, obsessed, blinded, by this false zeal. The resultant\nbelief in \"dualism\" has rendered hate the equal and opposite of Love,\nevil the equal and opposite of Good, and discord the eternal opponent\nof Harmony. To cope with evil as a reality is to render it immortal in\nour consciousness. To know its unreality is to master it.\n\n\"Throughout life,\" Jos\u00e8 mused, \"every positive has its negative, every\naffirmation its denial. But the opposites never mingle. And, moreover,\nthe positive always dispels the negative, thus proving the specious\nnature of the latter. Darkness flees before the light, and ignorance\ndissolves in the morning rays of knowledge. Both cannot be real. The\npositive alone bears the stamp of immortality. Carmen has but one\nfundamental rule: _God is everywhere_. This gives her a sense of\nimmanent power, with which all things are possible.\"\n\nThus with study and meditation the days flowed past, with scarcely a\nripple to break their quiet monotony. Rosendo came, and went again. He\nbrought back at the end of his first month's labors on the newly\ndiscovered deposit some ninety _pesos_ in gold. He had reached the\nbedrock, and the deposit was yielding its maximum; but the yield would\ncontinue for many months, he said. His exultation overleaped all\nbounds, and it was with difficulty that Jos\u00e8 could bring him to a\nconsideration of the problems still confronting them.\n\n\"I think, Rosendo,\" said the priest, \"that we will send, say, thirty\n_pesos_ this month to Cartagena; the same next month; and then\nincrease the amount slightly. This method is sure to have a beneficial\neffect upon the ecclesiastical authorities there.\"\n\n\"Fine!\" ejaculated Rosendo. \"And how will you send it, Padre?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 pondered the situation. \"We cannot send the gold direct to the\nBishop, for that would excite suspicion. Masses, you know, are not\npaid for in gold dust and nuggets. And we have no money. Nor could we\nget the gold exchanged for bills here in Simit\u00ed, even if we dared run\nthe risk of our discovery becoming known.\"\n\nFor the Alcalde was already nosing about in an effort to ascertain the\nsource of the gold with which Rosendo had just cancelled his debt and\npurchased further supplies. Jos\u00e8 now saw that, under existing\nconditions, it would be utterly impossible for Rosendo to obtain\ntitles to mineral properties through Don Mario. He spent hours seeking\na solution of the involved problem. Then, just before Rosendo departed\nagain for the mountains, Jos\u00e8 called him into the parish house.\n\n\"Rosendo, I think I see a way. Bring me one of the paper boxes of\ncandles which you have just purchased from Don Mario.\"\n\n\"Carumba! Padre,\" queried the surprised Rosendo, as he returned with\nthe box, \"and what is this for?\"\n\n\"I merely want to get the name of the firm which sold the candles. The\nEmpresa Alemania, Barranquilla. Good! Now listen. I have a method that\nis roundabout, but certainly promises much. I will write to the firm,\nappointing them my agents while I pose as Jos\u00e8 Rinc\u00f3n, miner. The\nagency established, I will send them our gold each month, asking them\nto return to me its equivalent in bills, deducting, of course, their\ncommission. Then I will send these bills, or such part as we deem\nwise, to Wenceslas. Each month Juan, who will be sworn to secrecy,\nwill convey the gold to Bodega Central in time to meet Captain Julio's\nboat. The captain will both deliver the gold to the Empresa Alemania,\nand bring back the bills in exchange. Then, from Simit\u00ed, and in the\nregular manner, I will send the small packet of bills to Wenceslas as\ncontributions from the parish. We thus throw Don Mario off the scent,\nand arouse no suspicion in any quarter. As I receive mail matter at\nvarious times, the Alcalde will not know but what I also receive\nconsignments of money from my own sources. I think the plan will work\nout. Juan already belongs to us. What, then, is there to fear?\"\n\nAnd so, as it was arranged, it worked out. Juan reveled in the honor\nof such intimate relations with the priest and Rosendo, and especially\nin the thought that he was working in secret for the girl he adored.\nBy the time Rosendo returned again from Guamoc\u00f3, Jos\u00e8 had sent his\nfirst consignment of money to the Bishop, carefully directing it to\nWenceslas, personally, and had received an acknowledgment in a letter\nwhich caused him deep thought.\n\n  \"To further stimulate the piety of your communicants,\" it read,\n  \"and arouse them to more generous contributions to our glorious\n  cause, you will inform them that, if their monetary contributions\n  do not diminish in amount for the coming year, they will be made\n  participants in the four solemn Novenas which will be offered\n  by His Grace, the Bishop of Cartagena. Moreover, if their\n  contributions increase, the names of the various contributors will\n  be included in the one hundred Masses which are to be offered\n  in December at the Shrine of Our Lady of Chiquinqu\u00eda for their\n  spiritual and temporal welfare. Contributors will also have a High\n  Mass after death, offered by one of His Grace's assistants, as\n  soon as the notification of death is received here. In addition\n  to these, His Grace, always mindful of the former importance of\n  the parish of Simit\u00ed, and acknowledging as its special patron\n  the ever blessed Virgin, has arranged to bestow the episcopal\n  blessing upon an image of the Sacred Heart, which will be shipped\n  to his faithful children in Simit\u00ed when the amount of their\n  contributions shall have met the expense thereof. Let us keep ever\n  in mind the pious words of the Bl. Margaret Mary, who has\n  conveyed to us the assurance which she received directly from Our\n  Blessed Lord that He finds great joy in beholding His Sacred\n  Heart visibly represented, that it may touch the hard hearts\n  of mankind. Our blessed Saviour promised the gracious Margaret\n  Mary that He would pour out abundantly of His rich treasure upon\n  all who honor this image, and that it shall draw down from heaven\n  every blessing upon those who adore and reverence it. Inform your\n  parishioners that the recital of the offering, 'O, Sacred Heart\n  of Jesus, may it be everywhere adored!' carries a hundred days'\n  indulgence each time.\n\n  \"You will bear in mind that the General Intention for this month\n  is The Conversion of America. Though our Church is founded on the\n  Rock, and is to last forever, so that the gates of hell shall\n  never prevail against her, nevertheless she has been called upon\n  to withstand many assaults from her enemies, the advocates of\n  _modernism_, in the land of liberal thought to our north. These\n  assaults, though painful to her, can never be fatal to her\n  spiritual life, although they unfortunately are so to many of her\n  dear children, who yield to the insidious persuasions of the\n  heretics who do the work of Satan among the Lord's sheep. New and\n  fantastic religions are springing up like noxious weeds in America\n  of the north, and increasing infidelity is apparent on every hand.\n  The Christ prayed that there might be one fold and one shepherd.\n  It is for us this month to pray for the great day when they will\n  be accomplished. But we must be united over the interests of the\n  Sacred Heart. Therefore, liberal plenary indulgences will be\n  granted to those of the faithful who contribute to this glorious\n  cause, so dear to the heart of the blessed Saviour. We enclose\n  leaflets indicating the three degrees, consisting of the Morning\n  Offering, Our Father and ten Hail Marys daily, for the Pope and\n  his interests, and the degree of reparation, by which a plenary\n  indulgence may be gained.\n\n  \"Stimulate your parishioners to compete joyfully for the statue of\n  the Blessed Virgin, which we mentioned to you in our former\n  communication. Teach them, especially, their entire dependence on\n  Mary, on her prayers to God for their deliverance and welfare.\n  Reveal to them her singularly powerful influence in the shaping of\n  all great historical events of the world; how never has she\n  refused our prayers to exert her mighty influence with her\n  all-potent Son, when she has been appealed to in sincerity, for it\n  rejoices the Sacred Heart of Jesus to yield to the requests of His\n  Blessed Mother. Mary is omnipotent, for she can ask no favor of\n  her Son that He will not grant. Competition for possession of this\n  sacred image, which carries the potent blessing of His Holiness,\n  should be regarded a privilege, and you will so impress it upon\n  the minds of your parishioners.\n\n  \"Finally, His Grace requests that you will immediately procure\n  whatever information you may regarding the mineral resources of\n  the district of Guamoc\u00f3, and indicate upon a sketch the location\n  of its various mines, old or new, as known to its inhabitants.\n  Diligent and careful inquiry made by yourself among the people of\n  the district will reveal many hidden facts regarding its\n  resources, which should be made known to His Grace at the earliest\n  possible moment, in view of the active preparations now in\n  progress to forestall the precipitation of another political\n  uprising with its consequent strain upon our Holy Church.\"\n\n\"Money! money! money!\" cried Jos\u00e8. \"One would think the Christ had\nestablished his Church solely for gold!\"\n\nHe folded the letter and looked out through the rear door to where\nCarmen sat, teaching Cucumbra a new trick. He realized then that never\nbefore had he been so far from the Holy Catholic faith as at that\nmoment. And Carmen--\n\n\"Good God!\" he muttered, as his eyes rested upon the child. \"If the\nChurch should get possession of Carmen, what would it do with her?\nWould it not set its forces to work to teach her that evil is a\nreality--that it is as powerful as good--that God formed man and the\nuniverse out of dust--that Jesus came down from a starry heaven that\nhe might die to appease the wrath of a man-like Father--that Mary\npleads with the Lord and Jesus, and by her powerful logic induces them\nto spare mankind and grant their foolish desires--all the dribble and\nrubbish of outlandish theology that has accumulated around the nucleus\nof pure Christianity like a gathering snowball throughout the ages! To\nmake the great States up north dominantly Catholic, Rome must--simply\n_must_--have the children to educate, that she may saturate their\nabsorbent minds with these puerile, undemonstrable, pagan beliefs\nbefore the child has developed its own independent thought. How wise\nis she--God, how worldly wise and cunning! And I still her priest--\"\n\nCarmen came bounding in, followed pellmell by Cucumbra. Cantar-las-horas\nstalked dignifiedly after her, and stopped at the threshold, where he\nstood with cocked head and blinking eyes, wondering what move his\nanimated young mistress would make next.\n\n\"Padre!\" she exclaimed, \"the sun is down, and it is time for our\nwalk!\"\n\nShe seized his hand and drew him out into the road. The play of her\nexpression as she looked up and laughed into his face was like the\ndance of sunbeams on moving water. They turned down the narrow street\nwhich led to the lake. As was her wont, in every object about her, in\nevery trifling event, the child discovered rich treasures of\nhappiness. The pebbles which she tossed with her bare toes were mines\nof delight. The pigs, which turned up their snouts expectantly as she\nstooped to scratch their dusty backs--the matronly hens that followed\nclucking after her--the black babies that toddled out to greet the\n_Cura_--all yielded a wealth of delight and interest. She seemed to\nJos\u00e8 to uncover joy by a means not unlike the divining rod, which\npoints to hidden gold where to the eye there is naught but barren\nground.\n\nNear the margin of the lake they stopped at the door of a cottage,\nwhere they were awaited by the matron who displayed a finger wrapped\nin a bit of cloth. She greeted the priest courteously.\n\n\"_Se\u00f1or Padre_,\" she said, \"this morning I had the misfortune to cut\nmy finger while peeling yuccas, and I am not sure whether a piece of\nthe skin went into the pot or not. _Bueno_, the yuccas are all cooked;\nand now my man says he will not eat them, for this is Friday, and\nthere may be meat with the yuccas. What shall I do? Was it wicked to\ncook the yuccas, not knowing if a bit of the skin from my finger had\nfallen into the pot?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 stood dumfounded before such ignorant credulity. Then he shook\nhis head and replied sadly, \"No, se\u00f1ora, it was not wicked. Tell your\nman he may eat the yuccas.\"\n\nThe woman's face brightened, and she hastened into the house to\napprise her spouse of the _Cura's_ decision.\n\n\"God help us!\" muttered Jos\u00e8 under his breath. \"Two thousand years of\nChristianity, and still the world knows not what Jesus taught!\"\n\n\"But you told me he had good thoughts, Padre dear,\" said the little\nvoice at his side, as he walked slowly away with bended head. \"And\nthat is enough to know.\"\n\n\"Why do you say that, Carmen?\" asked Jos\u00e8, somewhat petulantly.\n\n\"Because, Padre, if he had good thoughts, he thought about God--didn't\nhe? And if he thought about God, he always thought of something good.\nAnd if we always think about good--well, isn't that enough?\"\n\nJos\u00e8's eyes struggled with hers. She almost invariably framed her\nreplies with an interrogation, and, whether he would or not, he must\nperforce give answers which he knew in his heart were right, and yet\nwhich the sight of his eyes all too frequently denied.\n\n\"Padre, you are not thinking about God now--are you?\"\n\n\"I am, indeed, child!\" he answered abruptly.\n\n\"Well--perhaps you are thinking _about_ Him; but you are not thinking\n_with_ Him--are you?--the way He thinks. You know, He sends us His\nthoughts, and we have to pick them out from all the others that aren't\nHis, and then think them. If the se\u00f1ora and her man had been thinking\nGod's thoughts, they wouldn't have been afraid to eat a piece of meat\non Friday--would they?\"\n\nCucumbra, forgetting his many months of instruction, suddenly yielded\nto the goad of animal instinct and started along the beach in mad\npursuit of a squealing pig. Carmen dashed after him. As Jos\u00e8 watched\nher lithe, active little body bobbing over the shales behind the\nflying animals, she seemed to him like an animated sunbeam sporting\namong the shadows.\n\n\"Why should life,\" he murmured aloud, \"beginning in radiance, proceed\nin ever deepening gloom, and end at last in black night? Why, but for\nthe false education in evil which is inflicted upon us! The joys, the\nunbounded bliss of childhood, do indeed gush from its innocence--its\ninnocence of the blighting belief in mixed good and evil--innocence of\nthe false beliefs, the undemonstrable opinions, the mad worldly\nambitions, the carnal lust, bloated pride, and black ignorance of men!\nIt all comes from not knowing God, to know whom is life eternal! The\nstruggle and mad strife of man--what does it all amount to, when 'in\nthe end he shall be a fool'? Do we in this latest of the centuries,\nwith all our boasted progress in knowledge, really know so much, after\nall? Alas! we know nothing--nothing!\"\n\n\"Come, Padre,\" cried Carmen, returning to him, \"we are going to just\ntry now to have all the nice thoughts we can. Let's just look all\naround us and see if we can't think good thoughts about everything.\nAnd, do you know, Padre dear, I've tried it, and when I look at things\nand something tries to make me see if there could possibly be anything\nbad about them--why, I find there can't! Try it, and see for\nyourself.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 knew it. He knew that the minds of men are so profaned by\nconstantly looking at evil that their thoughts are tinged with it. He\nwas striving to look up. But in doing so he was combating a habit\ngrown mighty by years of indulgence.\n\n\"When you always think good about a thing,\" the girl went on, \"you\nnever can tell what it will do. But good _always_ comes from it. I\nknow. I do it all the time. If things look bad, I just say, 'Why look,\nhere's something trying to tell me that two and two are seven!' And\nthen it goes away.\"\n\n\"Your purity and goodness resist evil involuntarily, little one,\" said\nJos\u00e8, more to himself than to the child.\n\n\"Why, Padre, what big words!\"\n\n\"No, little one, it is just the meaning of the words that is big,\" he\nreplied.\n\nThe girl was silent for some moments. Then:\n\n\"Padre dear, I never thought of it before--but it is true: we don't\nsee the meaning of words with the same eyes that we see trees and\nstones and people, do we?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 studied the question. \"I don't quite understand what you mean,\n_chiquita_,\" he was finally forced to answer.\n\n\"Well,\" she resumed, \"the meaning of a word isn't something that we\ncan pick up, like a stone; or see, as we see the lake out there.\"\n\n\"No, Carmen, the meaning is spiritual--mental; it is not physically\ntangible. It is not seen with the fleshly eyes.\"\n\n\"The meaning of a word is the inside of it, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Yes, it is the inside, the soul, of the word.\"\n\n\"And we don't see the word, either, do we?\" She shook her brown curls\nin vigorous negation.\n\n\"No, little one, we see only written or printed symbols; or hear only\nsounds that convey to us the words. But the words themselves are\nmental. We do not see them.\"\n\n\"No, we think them.\" She meditated a while. \"But, Padre dear,\" she\ncontinued, \"the inside, or soul, of everything is mental. We never see\nit. We have to think it.\"\n\n\"Yes, you are right. The things we think we see are only symbols. They\nstand for the real things.\"\n\n\"Padre, they don't stand for anything!\" she replied abruptly.\n\nJos\u00e8 looked down at her in surprise. He waited.\n\n\"Padre, the real things are the things we don't see. And the things we\nthink we see are not real at all!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 had ere this learned not to deny her rugged statements, but to\nstudy them for their inner meaning, which the child often found too\ndeep for her limited vocabulary to express.\n\n\"The things we think we see,\" he said, though he was addressing his\nown thought, \"are called the physical. The things we do not see or\ncognize with the physical senses are called mental, or spiritual.\nWell?\" he queried, looking down again into the serious little face.\n\n\"Padre, the very greatest things are those that we don't see at all!\"\n\n\"True, _chiquita_. Love, life, joy, knowledge, wisdom, health,\nharmony--all these are spiritual ideas. The physical sometimes\nmanifests them--and sometimes does not. And in the end, called death,\nit ceases altogether to manifest them.\"\n\n\"But--these things--the very greatest things there are--are the souls\nof everything--is it not so, Padre dear?\"\n\n\"It must be, _chiquita_.\"\n\n\"And all these things came from God, and He is everywhere, and so He\nis the soul of everything, no?\"\n\nHe made the same affirmative reply.\n\n\"Padre--don't you see it?--we are not seeing things all around us! We\ndon't see real things that we call trees and stones and people! We see\nonly what we _think_ we see. We see things that are not there at all!\nWe see--\"\n\n\"Yes, we see only our thoughts. And we think we see them as objects\nall about us, as trees, and houses, and people. But in the final\nanalysis we see only thoughts,\" he finished.\n\n\"But these thoughts do not come from God,\" she insisted.\n\n\"No,\" he replied slowly, \"because they often manifest discord and\nerror. I think I grasp what is struggling in your mind _chiquita_. God\nis--\"\n\n\"Everywhere,\" she interrupted.\n\n\"He is everywhere, and therefore He is the soul--the inside--the heart\nand core--of everything. He is mind, and His thoughts are real, and\nare the only real thoughts there are. He is truth. The opposite of\ntruth is a lie. But, in reality, truth cannot have an opposite.\nTherefore, a lie is a supposition. And so the thought that we seem to\nsee externalized all about us, and that we call physical objects, is\nsupposition only. And, a supposition being unreal, the whole physical\nuniverse, including material man, is unreal--is a supposition, a\nsupposition of mixed good and evil, for it manifests both. It is the\nlie about God. And, since a lie has no real existence, this human\nconcept of a universe and mankind composed of matter is utterly\nunreal, an image of thought, an illusion, existing in false thought\nonly--a belief--a supposition pure and simple!\"\n\nAs he talked he grew more and more animated. He seemed to forget the\npresence of the child, and appeared to be addressing only his own\ninsistent questionings.\n\nThey walked along together in silence for some moments. Then the girl\nagain took up the conversation.\n\n\"Padre,\" she said, \"you know, you taught me to prove my problems in\narithmetic and algebra. Well, I have proved something about thinking,\ntoo. If I think a thing, and just keep thinking it, pretty soon I see\nit--in some way--outside of me.\"\n\nA light seemed to flash through Jos\u00e8's mental chambers, and he\nrecalled the words of the explorer in Cartagena. Yes, that was exactly\nwhat he had said--\"every thought that comes into the mind tends to\nbecome _externalized_, either upon the body as a physical condition,\nor in the environment, or as an event, good or bad.\" It was a law,\ndimly perceived, but nevertheless sufficiently understood in its\nworkings to indicate a tremendous field as yet all but unknown. The\nexplorer had called it the law of the externalization of thought. \"As\na man thinketh in his heart, so is he,\" said the Master, twenty\ncenturies before. Did he recognize the law?\n\nJos\u00e8's thought swept over his past. Had his own wrong thinking, or the\nwrong thought of others, been the cause of his unhappiness and acute\nmental suffering? But why personalize it? What difference whether it\nbe called his, or the Archbishop's, or whose? Let it suffice that it\nwas false thought, undirected by the Christ-principle, God, that had\nbeen externalized in the wreckage which he now called his past life.\n\nHe again stood face to face with the most momentous question ever\npropounded by a waiting world: the question of causation. And he knew\nnow that causation was wholly spiritual.\n\n\"Padre dear, you said just now that God was mind. But, if that is\ntrue, there is only one mind, for God is everywhere.\"\n\n\"It must be so, _chiquita_,\" dreamily responded the priest.\n\n\"Then He is your mind and my mind, is it not so?\"\n\n\"Yes--\"\n\n\"Then, if He is my mind, there just isn't anything good that I can't\ndo.\"\n\nTwilight does not linger in the tropics, and already the shadows that\nstole down through the valley had wrapped the man and child in their\nmystic folds. Hand in hand they turned homeward.\n\n\"Padre, if God is my mind, He will do my thinking for me. And all I\nhave to do is to keep the door open and let His thoughts come in.\"\n\nHer sweet voice lingered on the still night air. There was a pensive\ngladness in the man's heart as he tightly held her little hand and led\nher to Rosendo's door.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 18\n\n\nThe next morning Jos\u00e8 read to Rosendo portions of the communication\nfrom Wenceslas.\n\n\"Chiquinqu\u00eda,\" commented the latter. \"I remember that Padre Diego\ncollected much money from our people for Masses to be said at that\nshrine.\"\n\n\"But where is it, Rosendo?\" asked Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"You do not know the story?\" queried Rosendo in surprise. \"Why, there\nis not a shrine in the whole of Colombia that works so many cures as\nthis one. Your grandfather, Don Ignacio, knew the place. And it was\nfrom him that my--that is, I learned the legend when I was only a boy.\nIt is said that a poor, sick young girl in the little Indian village\nof Chiquinqu\u00eda, north of Bogot\u00e1, stood praying in her shabby little\ncottage before an old, torn picture of the blessed Virgin.\" He stopped\nand crossed himself devoutly. Then he resumed:\n\n\"_Bueno_, while the girl prayed, the picture suddenly rose up in the\nair; the torn places all closed; the faded colors came again as fresh\nas ever; and the girl was cured of her affliction. The people of the\nvillage immediately built a shrine, over which they hung the picture;\nand ever since then the most wonderful miracles have been performed by\nit there.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 laughed. \"You don't believe that, do you, Rosendo?\" he asked in\nbanter.\n\n\"_Hombre_, yes!\" exclaimed the latter a bit testily. \"I know it! Did\nnot Don Felipe go there when the doctor in Mompox told him the little\nwhite spot on his hand was leprosy? And he came back cured.\"\n\nLeprosy! Jos\u00e8 started as if he had received a blow. He looked\nfurtively at the scar on his own hand, the hand which the leper in\nMaganguey had lacerated that dreadful night, and which often burned\nand ached as if seared by a hot iron. He had never dared to voice the\ncarking fear that tightened about his heart at times. But often in the\ndepths of night, when dread anticipation sat like a spectre upon his\nbed, he had risen and gone out into the darkness to wrestle with his\nblack thoughts. Leprosy! All the gladness and joy left his heart, and\na pall of darkness settled over his thought. He turned back into his\ncottage and tried to find forgetfulness in the simple duties that lay\nat hand.\n\n\"Why is it,\" he asked himself, as he sat wearily down at his little\ntable, \"that I always think of evil first; while Carmen's first\nthought is invariably of God?\"\n\nHe looked at the ugly scar on his hand. What thought was externalized\nin the loathsome experience which produced that? he wondered. Was it\nthe summation of all the fear, the weakness, the wrong belief, that\nhad filled his previous years? And now why was he finding it so\ndifficult to practice what Carmen lived, even though he knew it was\ntruth?\n\n\"Alas!\" he murmured aloud, \"it was the seminary that did it. For there\nmy thought was educated away from the simple teachings of Jesus. To\nCarmen there is no mystery in godliness. Though she knows utterly\nnothing about Jesus, yet she hourly uses the Christ-principle. It is\nthe children who grasp the simple truths of God; while the lack of\nspirituality which results from increasing years shrinks maturer minds\nuntil they no longer afford entrance to it. For godliness is broad;\nand the mind that receives it must be opened wide.\"\n\nAs he sat with his bowed head clasped in his hands, a sweet, airy\nvoice greeted him.\n\n\"Why, Padre dear--ah, I caught you that time!--you were thinking that\ntwo and two are seven, weren't you?\" She shook a rebuking finger at\nhim.\n\nFramed in the doorway like an old masterpiece, the sunlight bronzing\nher heavy brown curls, the olive-tinted skin of her bare arms and legs\nflushing with health, and her cheap calico gown held tightly about\nher, showing the contour of her full and shapely figure, the girl\nappeared to Jos\u00e8 like a vision from the realm of enchantment. And he\nknew that she did dwell in the land of spiritual enchantment, where\nhappiness is not at the mercy of physical sense.\n\n\"He hath shewed thee, O man, what is good; and what doth the Lord\nrequire of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk\nhumbly with thy God?\"\n\n\"The Lord our God is a right-thinking God, and right-thinking is what\nHe desires in His people.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 thought of this as he looked at Carmen. This barefoot girl, who\nwalked humbly, trustingly, with her God, had she not supplied him with\na working formula for his every problem, even to the casting out of\nthe corroding fear planted in his heart by that awful experience in\nMaganguey? Though he had suffered much, yet much had been done for\nhim. The brusque logic of the explorer had swept his mind clear of its\nlast vestige of theological superstition, and prepared it for the\ntruth which, under the benign stimulus of this clear-minded child,\nwould remake his life, if he could now yield himself utterly to it. He\nmust--he would--ceaselessly strive, even though he fell daily, to make\nhis life a pattern of hers, wherein there was no knowledge of evil!\n\nThe girl came to the priest and leaned fondly against him. Then a\nlittle sigh escaped her lips, as she looked down into his face with\npitying affection.\n\n\"Padre dear,\" she said, in a tone that echoed a strain of sadness,\n\"I--I don't believe--you love God very much.\"\n\nThe man was startled, and resentment began to well in his heart. \"What\na thing to say, Carmen!\" he answered reprovingly.\n\nThe girl looked up at him with great, wondering eyes. \"But, Padre,\"\nshe protested, \"were you not thinking of things that are not true when\nI came in?\"\n\n\"No--I was--I was thinking of the future--of--well, _chiquita_, I was\nthinking of something that might happen some day, that is all.\" He\nstumbled through it with difficulty, for he knew he must not lie to\nthe child. Would she ever trust him again if he did?\n\n\"And, Padre, were you afraid?\"\n\n\"Afraid? Yes, _chiquita_, I was.\" He hung his head.\n\nCarmen looked at him reproachfully. \"Then, Padre, I was right--for, if\nyou loved God, you would trust Him--and then you couldn't be afraid of\nanything--could you? People who love Him are not afraid.\"\n\nHe turned his head away. \"Ah, child,\" he murmured, \"you will find that\nout in the world people don't love God in this day and generation. At\nleast they don't love Him that way.\"\n\n\"They don't love Him enough to trust him?\" she asked wistfully.\n\n\"No.\" He shook his head sadly. \"Nobody trusts Him, not even the\npreachers themselves. When things happen, they rush for a doctor, or\nsome other human being to help them out of their difficulty. They\ndon't turn to Him any more. They seldom speak His name.\"\n\n\"Have--they--forgotten Him?\" she asked slowly, her voice sinking to a\nwhisper.\n\n\"Absolutely!\" He again buried his head in his hands.\n\nThe child stood in silence for some moments. Then:\n\n\"What made them forget Him, Padre?\"\n\n\"I guess, _chiquita_, they turned from Him because He didn't answer\ntheir prayers. I used to pray to Him, too. I prayed hours at a time.\nBut nothing seemed to come of it. And so I stopped.\" He spoke\nbitterly.\n\n\"You prayed! You mean--\"\n\n\"I asked Him for things--to help me out of trouble--I asked Him to\ngive me--\"\n\n\"Why, Padre! Why--that's the very reason!\"\n\nHe looked up at her blankly. \"What is the very reason? What are you\ntrying to tell me, child?\"\n\n\"Why, He is everywhere, and He is right here all the time. And so\nthere couldn't be any real trouble for Him to help you out of; and He\ncouldn't give you anything, for He has already done that, long ago. We\nare in Him, don't you know? Just like the little fishes in the lake.\nAnd so when you asked Him for things it showed that you didn't believe\nHe had already given them to you. And--you know what you said last\nnight about thinking, and that when we think things, we see them?\nWell, He has given you everything; but you thought He hadn't, and so\nyou saw it that way--isn't it so?\"\n\nShe paused for breath. She had talked rapidly and with animation. But\nbefore he could reply she resumed:\n\n\"Padre dear, you know you told me that Jesus was the best man that\never lived, and that it was because he never had a bad thought--isn't\nthat so?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he murmured.\n\n\"Well, did he pray--did he ask God for things?\"\n\n\"Of course he did, child!\" the priest exclaimed. \"He always asked Him\nfor things. Why, he was always praying--the New Testament is full of\nit!\"\n\nActing on a sudden impulse, he rose and went into the sleeping room\nto get his Bible. The child's face took on an expression of\ndisappointment as she heard his words. Her brow knotted, and a\ntroubled look came into her brown eyes.\n\nJos\u00e8 returned with his Bible and seated himself again at the table.\nOpening the book, his eyes fell upon a verse of Mark's Gospel. He\nstopped to read it; and then read it again. Suddenly he looked up at\nthe waiting girl.\n\n\"What is it, Padre? What does it say?\"\n\nHe hesitated. He read the verse again; then he scanned the child\nclosely, as if he would read a mystery hidden within her bodily\npresence. Abruptly he turned to the book and read aloud:\n\n\"'Therefore I say unto you, What things soever ye desire, when ye\npray, believe that ye receive them, and ye shall have them.'\"\n\nThe girl drew a long breath, almost a sigh, as if a weight had been\nremoved from her mind. \"Did Jesus say that?\" she asked in glad, eager\ntones.\n\n\"Yes--at least it is so reported here,\" he answered absently.\n\n\"Well--_he_ knew, didn't he?\"\n\n\"Knew what, child?\"\n\n\"Why, Padre, he told the people to know--just _know_--that they\nalready had everything--that God had given them everything good--and\nthat if they would _know_ it, they would see it.\"\n\nExternalization of thought? Yes; or rather, the externalization of\ntruth. Jos\u00e8 fell into abstraction, his eyes glued to the page. There\nit stood--the words almost shouted it at him! And there it had stood\nfor nearly two thousand years, while priest and prelate, scribe and\ncommentator had gone over it again and again through the ages, without\neven guessing its true meaning--without even the remotest idea of the\ninfinite riches it held for mankind!\n\nHe turned reflectively to Matthew; and then to John. He remembered the\npassages well--in the past he had spent hours of mortal agony poring\nover them and wondering bitterly why God had failed to keep the\npromises they contain.\n\n\"And all things, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye\nshall receive.\"\n\nAll things--when ye ask _believing_! But that Greek word surely held\nvastly more than the translators have drawn from it. Nay, not\nbelieving only, but _understanding_ the allness of God as good, and\nthe consequent nothingness of evil, all that seems to oppose Him! How\ncould the translators have so completely missed the mark! And\nCarmen--had never seen a Bible until he came into her life; yet she\nknew, knew instinctively, that a good God who was \"everywhere\" could\nnot possibly withhold anything good from His children. It was the\nsimplest kind of logic.\n\nBut, thought Jos\u00e8 again, if the promises are kept, why have we fallen\nso woefully short of their realization? Then he read again, \"If ye\nabide in me, and my words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will, and\nit shall be done unto you.\" The promise carries a condition--abiding\nin his words--obeying his commands--keeping the very _first_\nCommandment, which is that \"Ye shall have no other gods before me\"--no\ngods of evil, sickness, chance, or death. The promises are fulfilled\nonly on the condition of righteousness--right-thinking about God and\nHis infinite, spiritual manifestation.\n\nHe turned to Carmen. \"_Chiquita_,\" he said tenderly, \"you never ask\nGod to give you things, do you?\"\n\n\"Why, no, Padre; why should I? He gives me everything I need, doesn't\nHe?\"\n\n\"Yes--when you go out to the shales, you--\"\n\n\"I don't ask Him for things, Padre dear. I just tell Him I _know_ He\nis everywhere.\"\n\n\"I see--yes, you told me that long ago--I understand, _chiquita_.\"\nHis spirit bowed in humble reverence before such divine faith. This\nuntutored, unlearned girl, isolated upon these burning shales, far,\nfar from the haunts of men of pride and power and worldly lore--this\nbarefoot child whose coffers held of material riches scarce more than\nthe little calico dress upon her back--this lowly being knew that\nwhich all the fabled wealth of Ind could never buy! Her prayers were\nnot the selfish pleadings that spring from narrow souls, the souls\nthat \"ask amiss\"--not the frenzied yearnings wrung from suffering,\nignorant hearts--nor were they the inflated instructions addressed\nto the Almighty by a smug, complacent clergy, the self-constituted\npress-bureau of infinite Wisdom. Her prayers, which so often drifted\nlike sweetest incense about those steaming shales, were not\npetitions, but _affirmations_. They did not limit God. She did not\nplead with Him. She simply _knew_ that He had already met her needs.\nAnd that righteousness--right-thinking--became externalized in her\nconsciousness in the good she sought. Jesus did the same thing, over\nand over again; but the poor, stupid minds of the people were so\nfull of wrong beliefs about his infinite Father that they could not\nunderstand, no, not even when he called Lazarus from the tomb.\n\n\"Ask in my name,\" urged the patient Jesus. But the poor fishermen\nthought he meant his human name to be a talisman, a sort of \"Open\nSesame,\" when he was striving all the time, by precept and deed, to\nshow them that they must ask in his _character_, must be like him, to\nwhom, though of himself he could do nothing, yet all things were\npossible.\n\nJos\u00e8's heart began to echo the Master's words: \"Father, I thank Thee\nthat Thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast\nrevealed them unto babes.\" He put his arm about Carmen and drew her to\nhim.\n\n\"Little one,\" he murmured, \"how much has happened in these past few\nweeks!\"\n\nCarmen looked up at him with an enigmatical glance and laughed. \"Well,\nPadre dear, I don't think anything ever really _happens_, do you?\"\n\n\"Why not?\" he asked.\n\n\"Mistakes happen, as in solving my algebra problems. But good things\nnever happen, any more than the answers to my problems happen. You\nknow, there are rules for getting the answers; but there are no rules\nfor making mistakes--are there? But when anything comes out according\nto the rule, it doesn't happen. And the mistakes, which have no rules,\nare not real--the answers are real, but the mistakes are not--and so\nnothing ever really happens. Don't you see, Padre dear?\"\n\n\"Surely, I see,\" he acquiesced. Then, while he held the girl close to\nhim, he reflected: Good is never fortuitous. It results from the\napplication of the Principle of all things. The answer to a\nmathematical problem is a form of good, and it results from the\napplication of the principle of mathematics. Mistakes, and the various\nthings which \"happen\" when we solve mathematical problems, do not have\nrules, or principles. They result from ignorance of them, or their\nmisapplication. And so in life; for chance, fate, luck, accident and\nthe merely casual, come, not from the application of principles, but\nfrom not applying them, or from ignorance of their use. The human mind\nor consciousness, which is a mental activity, an activity of thought,\nis concerned with mixed thoughts of good and evil. But _it operates\nwithout any principle whatsoever_. For, if God is infinite good, then\nthe beliefs of evil which the human mind holds must be false beliefs,\nillusions, suppositions. A supposition has no principle, no rule. And\nso, it is only the unreal that happens. And even that sort of\n\"happening\" can be prevented by knowing and using the principle of all\ngood, God. A knowledge of evil is not knowledge at all. Evil has no\nrules. Has an accident a principle? He laughed aloud at the idea.\n\n\"What is it, Padre?\" asked Carmen.\n\n\"Nothing, child--and everything! But we are neglecting our work,\" he\nhastily added, as he roused himself. \"What are the lessons for to-day?\nCome! come! We have much to do!\" And arranging his papers, and bidding\nCarmen draw up to the table, he began the morning session of his very\nselect little school.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nMore than six months had elapsed since Jos\u00e8 first set foot upon the\nhot shales of Simit\u00ed. In that time his mentality had been turned over\nlike a fallow field beneath the plowshare. After peace had been\nestablished in the country he had often thought to consecrate himself\nto the task of collecting the fragmentary ideas which had been evolved\nin his mind during these past weeks of strange and almost weird\nexperience, and trying to formulate them into definite statements of\ntruth. Then he would enter upon the task of establishing them by\nactual demonstration, regardless of the years that might be required\nto do so. He realized now that the explorer had done a great work in\nclearing his mind of many of its darker shadows. But it was to\nCarmen's purer, more spiritual influence that he knew his debt was\nheaviest.\n\nLet it not seem strange that mature manhood and extensive travel had\nnever before brought to this man's mind the truths, many of which have\nbeen current almost since the curtain first arose on the melodrama\nof mundane existence. Well nigh impassable limitations had been\nset to them by his own natal characteristics; by his acutely morbid\nsense of filial love which bound him, at whatever cost, to observe\nthe bigoted, selfish wishes of his parents; and by the strictness\nwith which his mind had been hedged about both in the seminary and\nin the ecclesiastical office where he subsequently labored. The\nfirst rays of mental freedom did not dawn upon his darkened thought\nuntil he was sent as an outcast to the New World. Then, when his\ngreater latitude in Cartagena, and his still more expanded sense of\nfreedom in Simit\u00ed, had lowered the bars, there had rushed into his\nmentality such a flood of ideas that he was all but swept away in the\nswirling current.\n\nIt is not strange that he rose and fell, to-day strong in the\nconviction of the immanence of infinite good, to-morrow sunken in\nmortal despair of ever demonstrating the truth of the ideas which were\nswelling his shrunken mind. His line of progress in truth was an\nundulating curve, slowly advancing toward the distant goal to which\nCarmen seemed to move in a straight, undeviating line. What though\nEmerson had said that Mind was \"the only reality of which men and all\nother natures are better or worse reflectors\"? Jos\u00e8 was unaware of the\nsage's mighty deduction. What though Plato had said that we move as\nshadows in a world of ideas? Even if Jos\u00e8 had known of it, it had\nmeant nothing to him. What though the Transcendentalists called the\nuniverse \"a metaphore of the human mind\"? Jos\u00e8's thought was too\nfirmly clutched by his self-centered, material beliefs to grasp it.\nDoubt of the reality of things material succumbed to the evidence of\nthe physical senses and the ridicule of his seminary preceptors. True,\nhe believed with Paul, that the \"things that are seen are temporal;\nthe things that are unseen, are eternal.\" But this pregnant utterance\nconveyed nothing more to him than a belief of a material heaven to\nfollow his exit from a world of matter. It had never occurred to him\nthat the world of matter might be the product of those same delusive\nphysical senses, through which he believed he gained his knowledge of\nit. It is true that while in the seminary, and before, he had insisted\nupon a more spiritual interpretation of the mission of Jesus--had\ninsisted that Christian priests should obey the Master's injunction,\nand heal the sick as well as preach the gospel. But with the advent of\nthe troubles which filled the intervening years, these things had\ngradually faded; and the mounting sun that dawned upon him six months\nbefore, as he lay on the damp floor of his little cell in the\necclesiastical dormitory in Cartagena, awaiting the Bishop's summons,\nillumined only a shell, in which agnosticism sat enthroned upon a\nstool of black despair.\n\nThen Carmen entered his life. And her beautiful love, which enfolded\nhim like a garment, and her sublime faith, which moved before him like\nthe Bethlehem star to where the Christ-principle lay, were, little by\nlittle, dissolving the mist and revealing the majesty of the great\nGod.\n\nIn assuming to teach the child, Jos\u00e8 early found that the outer world\nmeant nothing to her until he had purged it of its carnal elements.\nOften in days past, when he had launched out upon the dramatic recital\nof some important historical event, wherein crime and bloodshed had\nshaped the incident, the girl would start hastily from her chair and\nput her little hand over his mouth.\n\n\"Don't, Padre dear! It is not true!\" she would exclaim. \"God didn't do\nit, and it isn't so!\"\n\nAnd thereby he learned to differentiate more closely between those\nhistorical events which sprang from good motives, and those which\nmanifested only human passion, selfish ambition, and the primitive\nquestion, \"Who shall be greatest?\" Moreover, he had found it best in\nhis frequent talks to the people in the church during the week to omit\nall reference to the evil methods of mankind in their dealings one\nwith another, and to pass over in silence the criminal aims and low\nmotives, and their externalization, which have marked the unfolding of\nthe human mind, and which the world preserves in its annals as\nhistorical fact. The child seemed to divine the great truth that\nhistory is but the record of human conduct, conduct manifesting the\nmortal mind of man, a mind utterly opposed to the mind that is God,\nand therefore unreal, supposititious, and bearing the \"minus\" sign.\nCarmen would have none of it that did not reflect good. She refused\nutterly to turn her mental gaze toward recorded evil.\n\n\"Padre,\" she once protested, \"when I want to see the sun rise, I don't\nlook toward the west. And if you want to see the good come up, why do\nyou look at these stories of bad men and their bad thoughts?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 admitted that they were records of the mortal mind--and the mind\nthat is mortal is _no_ mind.\n\n\"I am learning,\" he frequently said to himself, after Carmen had left\nat the close of their day's work. \"But my real education did not\ncommence until I began to see, even though faintly, that the Creator\nis mind and infinite good, and that there is nothing real to the\nbelief in evil; that the five physical senses give us _no_ testimony\nof any nature whatsoever; and that real man never could, never did,\nfall.\"\n\nThus the days glided swiftly past, and Jos\u00e8 completed his first year\namid the drowsy influences of this little town, slumbering peacefully\nin its sequestered nook at the feet of the green _Cordilleras_. No\nfurther event ruffled its archaic civilization; and only with rare\nfrequency did fugitive bits of news steal in from the outer world,\nwhich, to the untraveled thought of this primitive folk, remained\nalways a realm vague and mysterious. Quietly the people followed the\nroutine of their colorless existence. Each morn broke softly over the\nlimpid lake; each evening left the blush of its roseate sunset on the\nglassy waters; each night wound its velvety arms gently about the\nnodding town, while the stars beamed like jewels through the clear,\nsoft atmosphere above, or the yellow moonbeams stole noiselessly down\nthe old, sunken trail to dream on the lake's invisible waves.\n\nEach month, with unvarying regularity, Rosendo came and went. At times\nJos\u00e8 thought he detected traces of weariness, insidious and\npersistently lurking, in the old man's demeanor. At times his limbs\ntrembled, and his step seemed heavy. Once Jos\u00e8 had found him, seated\nback of his cottage, rubbing the knotted muscles of his legs, and\ngroaning aloud. But when he became aware of Jos\u00e8 presence, the groans\nceased, and the old man sprang to his feet with a look of such grim\ndetermination written across his face that the priest smothered his\napprehensions and forbore to speak. Rosendo was immolating himself\nupon his love for the child. Jos\u00e8 knew it; but he would not, if he\ncould, prevent the sacrifice.\n\nEach month their contributions were sent to Cartagena; and as\nregularly came a message from Wenceslas, admonishing them to greater\nefforts. With the money that was sent to the Bishop went also a\nsmaller packet to the two women who were caring for the unfortunate\nMaria's little babe. The sources of Jos\u00e8's remittances to Cartagena\nwere never questioned by Wenceslas. But Simit\u00ed slowly awakened to the\nmysterious monthly trips of Rosendo; and Don Mario's suspicion became\nconviction. He bribed men to follow Rosendo secretly. They came back,\nfootsore and angry. Rosendo had thrown them completely off the scent.\nThen Don Mario outfitted and sent his paid emissary after the old man.\nHe wasted two full months in vain search along the Guamoc\u00f3 trail. But\nthe fever came upon him, and he refused to continue the hunt. The\nAlcalde counted the cost, then loudly cursed himself and Rosendo for\nthe many good _pesos_ so ruthlessly squandered. Then he began to ply\nJos\u00e8 and Rosendo with skillfully framed questions. He worried the\ncitizens of the village with his suggestions. Finally he bethought\nhimself to apprise the Bishop of his suspicions. But second\nconsideration disclosed that plan as likely to yield him nothing but\nloss. He knew Rosendo was getting gold from some source. But, too, he\nwas driving a good trade with the old man on supplies. He settled back\nupon his fat haunches at last, determined to keep his own counsel and\nlet well-enough alone for the present, while he awaited events.\n\nRosendo's vivid interest in Carmen's progress was almost pathetic.\nWhen in Simit\u00ed he hung over the child in rapt absorption as she worked\nout her problems, or recited her lessons to Jos\u00e8. Often he shook his\nhead in witness of his utter lack of comprehension. But Carmen\nunderstood, and that sufficed. His admiration for the priest's\nlearning was deep and reverential. He was a silent worshiper, this\ngreat-hearted man, at the shrine of intellect; but, alas! he himself\nknew only the rudiments, which he had acquired by years of patient,\nstruggling effort, through long days and nights filled with toil. His\nparticular passion was his Castilian mother-tongue; and the precision\nwith which he at times used it, his careful selection of words, and\nhis wide vocabulary, occasioned Jos\u00e8 no little astonishment. One day,\nafter returning from the hills, he approached Jos\u00e8 as the latter was\nhearing Carmen's lessons, and, with considerable embarrassment,\noffered him a bit of paper on which were written in his ample hand\nseveral verses. Jos\u00e8 read them, and then looked up wonderingly at the\nold man.\n\n\"Why, Rosendo, these are beautiful! Where did you get them?\"\n\n\"I--they are mine, Padre,\" replied Rosendo, his face glowing with\npleasure.\n\n\"Yours! Do you mean that you wrote them?\" Jos\u00e8 queried in astonishment.\n\n\"Yes, Padre. Nights, up in Guamoc\u00f3, when I had finished my work, and\nwhen I was so lonely, I would sometimes light my candle and try to\nwrite out the thoughts that came to me.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 could not keep back the tears. He turned his head, that Rosendo\nmight not see them. Of the three little poems, two were indited to the\nVirgin Mary, and one to Carmen. He lingered over one of the verses of\nthe latter, for it awoke responsive echoes in his own soul:\n\n       \"Without you, the world--a desert of sadness;\n           But with you, sweet child--a vale of delight;\n       You laugh, like the sunbeam--my gloom becomes gladness;\n           You sing--from my heart flee the shadows of night.\"\n\n\"I--I have written a good deal of poetry during my life, Padre. I will\nshow you some of it, if you wish,\" Rosendo advanced, encouraged by\nJos\u00e8's approbation.\n\n\"Decidedly, I would!\" returned Jos\u00e8 with animation. \"And to think,\nwithout instruction, without training! What a lesson!\"\n\n\"Yes, Padre, when I think of the blessed Virgin or the little Carmen,\nmy thoughts seem to come in poetry.\" He stooped over the girl and\nkissed her. The child reached up and clasped her arms about his black\nneck.\n\n\"Padre Rosendo,\" she said sweetly, \"you are a poem, a big one, a\nbeautiful one.\"\n\n\"Aye,\" seconded Jos\u00e8, and there was a hitch in his voice, \"you are an\nepic--and the world is the poorer that it cannot read you!\"\n\nBut, though showing such laudable curiosity regarding the elements\nwhich entered into their simple life in Simit\u00ed, Rosendo seldom spoke\nof matters pertaining to religion. Yet Jos\u00e8 knew that the old faith\nheld him, and that he would never, on this plane of existence, break\naway from it. He clung to his _escapulario_; he prostrated himself\nbefore the statue of the Virgin; he invoked the aid of Virgin and\nSaints when in distress; and, unlike most of the male inhabitants of\nthe town, he scrupulously prayed his rosary every night, whether at\nhome, or on the lonely margins of the Tigu\u00ed. He had once said to Jos\u00e8\nthat he was glad Padre Diego had baptised the little Carmen--he felt\nsafer to have it so. And yet he would not have her brought up in the\nHoly Catholic faith. Let her choose or formulate her own religious\nbeliefs, they should not be influenced by him or others.\n\n\"You can never make me believe, Padre,\" he would sometimes say to the\npriest, \"that the little Carmen was not left by the angels on the\nriver bank.\"\n\n\"But, Rosendo, how foolish!\" remonstrated Jos\u00e8. \"You have Escolastico's\naccount, and the boat captain's.\"\n\n\"Well, and what then? Even the blessed Saviour was born of a woman;\nand yet he came from heaven. The angels brought him, guarded him as he\nlay in the manger, protected him all his life, and then took him back\nto heaven again. And I tell you, Padre, the angels brought Carmen, and\nthey are always with her!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 ceased to dispute the old man's contentions. For, had he been\npressed, he would have been forced to admit that there was in the\nchild's pure presence a haunting spell of mystery--perhaps the mystery\nof godliness--but yet an undefinable _something_ that always made him\napproach her with a feeling akin to awe.\n\nAnd in the calm, untroubled seclusion of Simit\u00ed, in its mediaeval\natmosphere of romance, and amid its ceaseless dreams of a stirring\npast, the child unfolded a nature that bore the stamp of divinity, a\nnature that communed incessantly with her God, and that read His name\nin every trivial incident, in every stone and flower, in the sunbeams,\nthe stars, and the whispering breeze. In that ancient town, crumbling\ninto the final stages of decrepitude, she dwelt in heaven. To her, the\nrude adobe huts were marble castles; the shabby rawhide chairs and\nhard wooden beds were softest down; the coarse food was richer than a\nking's spiced viands; and over it all she cast a mantle of love that\nwas rich enough, great enough, to transform with the grace of fresh\nand heavenly beauty the ruins and squalor of her earthly environment.\n\n\"Can a child like Carmen live a sinless life, and still be human?\"\nJos\u00e8 often mused, as he watched her flitting through the sunlit hours.\n\"It is recorded that Jesus did. Ah, yes; but he was born of a virgin,\nspotless herself. And Carmen? Is she any less a child of God?\" Jos\u00e8\noften wondered, wondered deeply, as he gazed at her absorbed in her\ntasks. And yet--how was she born? Might he not, in the absence of\ndefinite knowledge, accept Rosendo's belief--accept it because of its\nbeautiful, haunting mystery--that she, too, was miraculously born of a\nvirgin, and \"left by the angels on the river bank\"? For, as far as he\nmight judge, her life was sinless. It was true, she did at rare\nintervals display little outbursts of childish temper; she sometimes\nforgot and spoke sharply to her few playmates, and even to Do\u00f1a Maria;\nand he had seen her cry for sheer vexation. And yet, these were but\ntiny shadows that were cast at rarest intervals, melting quickly when\nthey came into the glorious sunlight of her radiant nature.\n\nBut the mystery shrouding the child's parentage, however he might regard\nit, often roused within his mind thoughts dark and apprehensive.\nOnly one communication had come from Padre Diego, and that some four\nmonths after his precipitous flight. He had gained the Guamoc\u00f3 trail,\nit said, and finally arrived at Remedios. He purposed returning to\nBanco ultimately; and, until then, must leave the little Carmen in the\ncare of those in whom he had immovable confidence, and to whom he\nwould some day try, however feebly, to repay in an appropriate manner\nhis infinite debt of gratitude.\n\n\"_Caramba!_\" muttered Rosendo, on reading the note. \"Does the villain\nthink we are fools?\"\n\nBut none the less could the old man quiet the fear that haunted him,\nnor still the apprehension that some day Diego would make capital of\nhis claim. What that claim might accomplish if laid before Wenceslas,\nhe shuddered to think. And so he kept the girl at his side when in\nSimit\u00ed, and bound Jos\u00e8 and the faithful Juan to redoubled vigilance\nwhen he was again obliged to return to the mountains.\n\nTime passed. The care-free children of this tropic realm drowsed\nthrough the long, hot days and gossiped and danced in the soft airs of\nnight. Rosendo held his unremitting, lonely vigil of toil in the\nghastly solitudes of Guamoc\u00f3. Jos\u00e8, exiled and outcast, clung\ndesperately to the child's hand, and strove to rise into the spiritual\nconsciousness in which she dwelt. And thus the year fell softly into\nthe yawning arms of the past and became a memory.\n\nThen one day Simit\u00ed awoke from its lethargy in terror, with the\nspectre of pestilence stalking through her narrow streets.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 19\n\n\nFeliz Gomez, who had been sent to Bodega Central for merchandise which\nDon Mario was awaiting from the coast, had collapsed as he stepped\nfrom his boat on his return to Simit\u00ed. When he regained consciousness\nhe called wildly for the priest.\n\n\"Padre!\" he cried, when Jos\u00e8 arrived, \"it is _la plaga_! Ah,\n_Sant\u00edsima Virgen_--I am dying!--dying!\" He writhed in agony on the\nground.\n\nThe priest bent over him, his heart throbbing with apprehension.\n\n\"Padre--\" The lad strove to raise his head. \"The innkeeper at Bodega\nCentral--he told me I might sleep in an empty house back of the\ninn. _Dios m\u00edo!_ There was an old cot there--I slept on it two\nnights--_Caramba!_ Padre, they told me then--Ah, _Bendita Virgen_!\nDon't let me die, Padre! _Car\u00edsima Virgen_, don't let me die! _Ah,\nDios--!_\"\n\nHis body twisted in convulsions. Jos\u00e8 lifted him and dragged him to\nthe nearby shed where the lad had been living alone. A terror-stricken\nconcourse gathered quickly about the doorway and peered in wide-eyed\nhorror through the narrow window.\n\n\"Feliz, what did they tell you?\" cried Jos\u00e8, laying the sufferer upon\nthe bed and chafing his cold hands. The boy rallied.\n\n\"They told me--a Turk, bound for Zaragoza on the Nech\u00ed river--had\ntaken the wrong boat--in Maganguey. He had been sick--terribly sick\nthere. _Ah, Dios!_ It is coming again, Padre--the pain! _Caramba!_\n_Dios m\u00edo!_ Save me, Padre, save me!\"\n\n\"Jacinta! Rosa! I must have help!\" cried Jos\u00e8, turning to the stunned\npeople. \"Bring cloths--hot water--and send for Don Mario. Do\u00f1a Lucia,\nprepare an _olla_ of your herb tea at once!\"\n\n\"Padre\"--the boy had become quieter--\"when the Turk learned that he\nwas on the wrong boat--he asked to be put off at the next town--which\nwas Bodega Central. The innkeeper put him in the empty house--and\nhe--_Dios_! he died--on that bed where I slept!\"\n\n\"Well?\" said Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"Padre, he died--the day before I arrived there--and--ah_, Sant\u00edsima\nVirgen_! they said--he died--of--of--_la c\u00f3lera_!\"\n\n\"Cholera!\" cried the priest, starting up. At the mention of the\ndisease a loud murmur arose from the people, and they fell back from\nthe shed.\n\n\"Padre!--_ah, Dios_, how I suffer! Give me the sacrament--I cannot\nlive--! Padre--let me confess--now. Ah, Padre, shall I go--to heaven?\nTell me--!\"\n\nJos\u00e8's blood froze. He stood with eyes riveted in horror upon the\ntormented lad.\n\n\"Padre\"--the boy's voice grew weaker--\"I fell sick that day--I started\nfor Simit\u00ed--I died a thousand times in the _ca\u00f1o_--_ah, caramba_! But,\nPadre--promise to get me out of purgatory--I have no money for Masses.\n_Caramba!_ I cannot stand it! Oh, _Dios_! Padre--quick--I have not\nbeen very wicked--but I stole--_Dios_, how I suffer!--I stole two\npesos from the innkeeper at Bodega Central--he thought he lost\nthem--but I took them out of the drawer--Padre, pay him for me--then I\nwill not go to hell! _Dios!_\"\n\nRosendo at that moment entered the house.\n\n\"Don't come in here!\" cried Jos\u00e8, turning upon him in wild apprehension.\n\"Keep away, for God's sake, keep away!\"\n\nIn sullen silence Rosendo disregarded the priest's frenzied appeal.\nHis eyes widened when he saw the boy torn with convulsions, but he did\nnot flinch. Only when he saw Carmen approaching, attracted by the\ngreat crowd, he hastily bade one of the women turn her back home.\n\nHour after hour the poor sufferer tossed and writhed. Again and again\nhe lapsed into unconsciousness, from which he would emerge to\npiteously beg the priest to save him. _\"Ah! Dios, Padre!\"_ he pleaded,\nextending his trembling arms to Jos\u00e8, \"can you do nothing? Can you not\nhelp me? _Sant\u00edsima Virgen_, how I suffer!\"\n\nThen, when the evening shadows were gathering, the final convulsions\nseized him and wrenched his poor soul loose. Jos\u00e8 and Rosendo were\nalone with him when the end came. The people had early fled from the\nstricken lad, and were gathering in little groups before their homes\nand on the corners, discussing in low, strained tones the advent of\nthe scourge. Those who had been close to the sick boy were now cold\nwith fear. Women wept, and children clung whimpering to their skirts.\nThe men talked excitedly in hoarse whispers, or lapsed into a state of\nterrified dullness.\n\nJos\u00e8 went from the death-bed to the Alcalde. Don Mario saw him coming,\nand fled into the house, securing the door after him. \"Go away,\nPadre!\" he shouted through the shutters. \"For the love of the Virgin\ndo not come here! _Caramba!_\"\n\n\"But, Don Mario, the lad is dead!\" cried Jos\u00e8 in desperation. \"And\nwhat shall we do? We must face the situation. Come, you are the\nAlcalde. Let us talk about--\"\n\n\"_Caramba!_ Do what you want to! I shall get out! _Nombre de Dios!_ If\nI live through the night I shall go to the mountains to-morrow!\"\n\n\"But we must have a coffin to bury the lad! You must let us have\none!\"\n\n\"No! You cannot enter here, Padre!\" shrilled Don Mario, jumping up and\ndown in his excitement. \"Bury him in a blanket--anything--but keep\naway from my house!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 turned sadly away and passed through the deserted streets back to\nthe lonely shed. Rosendo met him at the door. \"_Bien, Padre_,\" he said\nquietly, \"we are exiled.\"\n\n\"Have you been home yet?\" asked Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"_Hombre_, no! I cannot go home now. I might carry the disease to the\nse\u00f1ora and the little Carmen. I must stay here. And,\" he added, \"you\ntoo, Padre.\"\n\nJos\u00e8's heart turned to lead. \"But, the boy?\" he exclaimed, pointing\ntoward the bed.\n\n\"When it is dark, Padre,\" replied Rosendo, \"we will take him out\nthrough the back door and bury him beyond the shales. _Hombre!_ I must\nsee now if I can find a shovel.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 sank down upon the threshold, a prey to corroding despair, while\nRosendo went out in search of the implement. The streets were dead,\nand few lights shone from the latticed windows. The pall of fear had\nsettled thick upon the stricken town. Those who were standing before\ntheir houses as Rosendo approached hastily turned in and closed their\ndoors. Jos\u00e8, in the presence of death in a terrible form, sat mute. In\nan hour Rosendo returned.\n\n\"No shovel, Padre,\" he announced. \"But I crept up back of my house and\ngot this bar which I had left standing there when I came back from the\nmountains. I can scrape up the loose earth with my hands. Come now.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 wearily rose. He was but a tool in the hands of a man to whom\nphysical danger was but a matter of temperament. He absently helped\nRosendo wrap the black, distorted corpse in the frayed blanket; and\nthen together they passed out into the night with their grewsome\nburden.\n\n\"Why not to the cemetery, Rosendo?\" asked Jos\u00e8, as the old man took an\nopposite course.\n\n\"_Hombre_, no!\" cried Rosendo. \"The cemetery is on shale, and I could\nnot dig through it in time. We must get the body under ground at once.\n_Caramba!_ If we put it in one of the _b\u00f3vedas_ in the cemetery the\nbuzzards will eat it and scatter the plague all over the town. The\n_b\u00f3vedas_ are broken, and have no longer any doors, you remember.\"\n\nSo beyond the shales they went, stumbling through the darkness, their\nminds freighted with a burden of apprehension more terrible than the\nthing they bore in their arms. The shales crossed, Rosendo left the\ntrail, cutting a way through the bush with his _machete_ a distance of\nseveral hundred feet. Then, by the weird yellow light of a single\ncandle, he opened the moist earth and laid the hideous, twisted thing\nwithin. Jos\u00e8 watched the procedure in dull apathy.\n\n\"And now, Padre,\" said Rosendo, at length breaking the awful silence,\n\"where will you sleep to-night? I cannot let you go back to your\nhouse. It is too near the se\u00f1ora and Carmen. No man in town will let\nyou stay in his house, since you have handled the plague. Will you\nsleep in the shed where the lad died? Or out on the shales with me? I\ncalled to the se\u00f1ora when I went after the bar, and she will lay two\nblankets out in the _plaza_ for us. And in the morning she will put\nfood where we can get it. What say you?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 stood dazed. His mind had congealed with the horror of the\nsituation. Rosendo took him by the arm. \"Come, Padre,\" he said gently.\n\"The hill up back of the second church is high, and no one lives near.\nI will get the blankets and we will pass the night out there.\"\n\n\"But, Rosendo!\" Jos\u00e8 found his voice. \"What is it? Is it--_la\nc\u00f3lera_?\"\n\n\"_Quien sabe?_ Padre,\" returned Rosendo. \"There has been plague\nhere--these people, some of them, still remember it--but it was long\nago. There have been cases along the river--and brought, I doubt not,\nby Turks, like this one.\"\n\n\"And do you think that it is now all along the river? That Bodega\nCentral is being ravaged by the scourge? That it will sweep through\nthe country?\"\n\n\"_Quien sabe?_ Padre. All I do know is that the people of Simit\u00ed are\nterribly frightened, and the pestilence may wipe away the town before\nit leaves.\"\n\n\"But--good God! what can we do, Rosendo?\"\n\n\"Nothing, Padre--but stay and meet it,\" the man replied quietly.\n\nThey reached the hill in silence. Then Rosendo wrapped himself in one\nof the blankets which he had picked up as he passed through the\n_plaza_, and lay down upon the shale.\n\nBut Jos\u00e8 slept not that night. The warm, sluggish air lay about him,\nmephitic in its touch. The great vampire bats that soughed through it\nsymbolized the \"pestilence that walketh in darkness.\" Lonely calls\ndrifted across the warm lake waters from the dripping jungle like the\nhollow echoes of lost souls. Rosendo tossed fitfully, and now and then\nuttered deep groans. The atmosphere was prescient with horror. He\nstruggled to his feet and paced gloomily back and forth along the brow\nof the hill. The second church stood near, deserted, gloomy, no longer\na temple of God, but a charnel house of fear and black superstition.\nIn the distance the ghostly white walls of the Rinc\u00f3n church glowed\nfaintly in the feeble light that dripped from the yellow stars. There\nwas now no thought of God--no thought of divine aid. Jos\u00e8 was riding\nagain the mountainous billows of fear and unbelief; nor did he look\nfor the Master to come to him through the thick night across the\nheaving waters.\n\nThe tardy dawn brought Do\u00f1a Maria to the foot of the hill, where she\ndeposited food, and held distant converse with the exiles. Don Mario\nhad just departed, taking the direction across the lake toward San\nLucas. He had compelled his wife to remain in Simit\u00ed to watch over the\nlittle store, while he fled with two boatmen and abundant supplies.\nOthers likewise were preparing to flee, some to the Boque river, some\nup the Guamoc\u00f3 trail. Do\u00f1a Maria was keeping Carmen closely, nor would\nshe permit her to as much as venture from the house.\n\n\"Why should not the se\u00f1ora take Carmen and go to Boque, Rosendo?\"\nasked Jos\u00e8. \"Then you and I could occupy our own houses until we knew\nwhat the future had in store for us.\"\n\nRosendo agreed at once. Carmen would be safe in the protecting care of\nDon Nicol\u00e1s. Do\u00f1a Maria yielded only after much persuasion. From the\nhilltop Jos\u00e8 could descry the Alcalde's boat slowly wending its way\nacross the lake toward the Juncal. Rosendo, having finished his\nmorning meal, prepared to meet the day.\n\n\"_Bien_, Padre,\" he said, \"when the sun gets high we cannot stay here.\nWe must seek shade--but where?\" He looked about dubiously.\n\n\"Why not in the old church, Rosendo?\"\n\n\"_Caramba_, never!\" cried Rosendo. \"_Hombre!_ that old church is\nhaunted!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 could never understand the nature of this man, so brave in the\nface of physical danger, yet so permeated with superstitious dread of\nthose imaginary inhabitants of the invisible realm.\n\n\"Padre,\" suggested Rosendo at length. \"We will go down there, nearer\nthe lake, to the old shack where the blacksmith had his forge. He died\ntwo years ago, and the place has since been empty.\"\n\n\"Go then, Rosendo, and I will follow later,\" assented Jos\u00e8, who now\ncraved solitude for the struggle for self-mastery which he saw\nimpending.\n\nWhile Rosendo moved off toward the deserted shack, the priest\ncontinued his restless pacing along the crest of the hill. The morning\nwas glorious--but for the blighting thoughts of men. The vivid green\nof the dewy hills shone like new-laid color. The lake lay like a\ndiamond set in emeralds. The dead town glowed brilliantly white in the\nmounting sun. Jos\u00e8 knew that the heat would soon drive him from the\nhill. He glanced questioningly at the old church. He walked toward it;\nthen mounted the broken steps. The hinges, rusted and broken, had let\nthe heavy door, now bored through and through by _comej\u00e9n_ ants, slip\nto one side. Through the opening thus afforded, Jos\u00e8 could peer into\nthe cavernous blackness within. The sun shot its terrific heat at him,\nand the stone steps burned his sandaled feet. He pushed against the\ndoor. It yielded. Then through the opening he entered the dusty,\nill-smelling old edifice.\n\nWhen his eyes had become accustomed to the dimness within, he saw that\nthe interior was like that of the other church, only in a more\ndilapidated state. There were but few benches; and the brick altar,\npoorer in construction, had crumbled away at one side. Dust, mold, and\ncobwebs covered everything; but the air was gratefully cool. Jos\u00e8\nbrushed the thick dust from one of the benches. Then he lay down upon\nit, and was soon sunk in heavy sleep.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe sun had just crossed the meridian. Jos\u00e8 awoke, conscious that he\nwas not alone. The weird legend that hung about the old church\nfiltered slowly through his dazed brain. Rosendo had said that an\nangel of some kind dwelt in the place. And surely a presence sat on\nthe bench in the twilight before him! He roused up, rubbed his sleepy\neyes, and peered at it. A soft laugh echoed through the stillness.\n\n\"I looked all around for the bad angel that padre Rosendo said lived\nhere, and I didn't find anything but you.\"\n\n\"Carmen, child! What are you doing here? Don't come near me!\" cried\nJos\u00e8, drawing away.\n\n\"Why, Padre--what is it? Why must I keep away from you? First, madre\nMaria tells me I must go to Boque with her. And now you will not let\nme come near you. And I love you so--\" Tears choked her voice, and she\nsat looking in mute appeal at the priest.\n\nJos\u00e8's wit seemed hopelessly scattered. He passed his hand dully\nacross his brow as if to brush the mist from his befogged brain.\n\n\"Padre dear.\" The pathetic little voice wrung his heart. \"Padre dear,\nwhen madre Maria told me I had to go to Boque, I went to your house to\nask you, and--and you weren't there. And I couldn't find padre Rosendo\neither--and there wasn't anybody in the streets at all--and I came up\nhere. Then I saw the blanket out on the hill, and I kept hunting for\nyou--I wanted to see you _so_ much. And when I saw the door of the\nchurch broken, I thought you might be in here--and so I came in--and,\noh, Padre dear, I was _so_ glad to find you--but I wouldn't wake you\nup--and while you were sleeping I just _knew_ that God was taking care\nof you all the time--\"\n\nJos\u00e8 had sunk again upon the bench.\n\n\"Padre dear!\" Carmen came flying to him across the darkness and threw\nher arms about his neck. \"Padre dear! I just couldn't stand it to\nleave you!\" The flood-gates opened wide, and the girl sobbed upon his\nshoulder.\n\n\"Carmen--child!\" But his own tears were mingling freely with hers. The\nstrain of the preceding night had left him weak. He strove feebly to\nloosen the tightly clasped arms of the weeping girl. Then he buried\nhis drawn face in her thick curls and strained her to his heaving\nbreast. What this might mean to Carmen he knew full well. But--why not\nhave it so? If she preceded him into the dark vale, it would be for\nonly a little while. He would not live without her.\n\nThe sobs died away, and the girl looked up at the suffering man.\n\n\"Padre dear, you will not send me away--will you?\" she pleaded.\n\n\"No! no!\" he cried fiercely, \"not now!\"\n\nA happy little sigh escaped her lips. Then she drew herself closer to\nhim and whispered softly, \"Padre dear--I love you.\"\n\nA groan burst from the man. \"God above!\" he cried, \"have you the heart\nto let evil attack such a one as this!\"\n\nThe girl looked up at him in wonder. \"Why, Padre dear--what is it?\nTell me.\"\n\n\"Nothing, child--nothing! Did--er--did your madre Maria say why you\nmust go to Boque?\" he asked hesitatingly.\n\n\"She said Feliz Gomez died last night of the plague, and that the\npeople were afraid they would all get sick and die too. And she\nsaid--Padre dear, she said you were afraid I would get sick, and so\nyou told her to take me away. You didn't mean that, did you? She\ndidn't understand you, did she? You are not afraid, are you? You can't\nbe, you know, can you? You and I are not afraid of anything. We\n_know_--don't we, Padre dear?\"\n\n\"What do we know, child?\" he asked sadly.\n\n\"Why--why, we know that God is _everywhere_!\" She looked at him\nwonderingly. What could she understand of a nature so wavering?--firm\nwhen the sun shone bright above--tottering when the blasts of\nadversity whirled about it? He had said such beautiful things to her,\nsuch wonderful things about God and His children only yesterday. And\nnow--why this awful change? Why again this sudden lowering of\nstandards?\n\nHe had sunk deep into his dark thoughts. \"Death is inevitable!\" he\nmuttered grimly, forgetful of the child's presence.\n\n\"Oh, Padre dear!\" she pleaded, passing her little hand tenderly over\nhis cheek. Then her face brightened. \"I know what it is!\" she\nexclaimed. \"You are just trying to think that two and two are\nseven--and you can't prove it--and so you'd better stop trying!\" She\nbroke into a little forced laugh.\n\nJos\u00e8 sat wrapped in black silence.\n\n\"Padre dear.\" Her voice was full of plaintive tenderness. \"You have\ntalked so much about that good man Jesus. What would he say if he saw\nyou trying to make two and two equal seven? And if he had been here\nlast night--would he have let Feliz die?\"\n\nThe priest made no answer. None was required when Carmen put her\nquestions.\n\n\"Padre dear,\" she continued softly. \"Why didn't _you_ cure Feliz?\"\n\nHis soul withered under the shock.\n\n\"You have told me, often, that Jesus cured sick people. And you said\nhe even made the dead ones live again--didn't you, Padre dear?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he murmured; \"they say he did.\"\n\n\"And you read to me once from your Bible where he told the people that\nhe gave them power over everything. And you said he was the great\nrule--you called him the Christ-principle--and you said he never went\naway from us. Well, Padre dear,\" she concluded with quick emphasis,\n\"why don't you use him now?\"\n\nShe waited a moment. Then, when no reply came--\n\n\"Feliz didn't die, Padre.\"\n\n\"_Hombre!_ It's all the same--he's gone!\" he cried in a tone of sullen\nbitterness.\n\n\"You think he is gone, Padre dear. And Feliz thought he had to go. And\nso now you both see it that way--that's all. If you would see things\nthe way that good man Jesus told you to--well, wouldn't they be\ndifferent--wouldn't they, Padre dear?\"\n\n\"No doubt they would, child, no doubt. But--\"\n\nShe waited a moment for him to express the limitation which the\nconjunctive implied. Then:\n\n\"Padre dear, how do you think he did it? How did he cure sick people,\nand make the dead ones live again?\"\n\n\"I--I don't know, child--I am not sure. That knowledge has been lost,\nlong since.\"\n\n\"You _do_ know, Padre,\" she insisted; \"you _do_! Did he know that God\nwas everywhere?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And what did he say sickness was?\"\n\n\"He classed it with all evil under the one heading--a lie--a lie about\nGod.\"\n\n\"But when a person tells a lie, he doesn't speak the truth, does he?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"And a lie has no rule, no principle?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"And so it isn't anything--doesn't come from anything true--hasn't any\nreal life, has it?\"\n\n\"No, a lie is utterly unreal, not founded on anything but supposition,\neither ignorant or malicious.\"\n\n\"Then Jesus said sickness was a supposition, didn't he?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And God, who made everything real, didn't make suppositions. He made\nonly real things.\"\n\n\"True, child.\"\n\n\"Well, Padre dear, if you _know_ all that, why don't you act as if you\ndid?\"\n\nAct? Yes, act your knowledge! Acknowledge Him in all your ways! Then\nHe shall bring it to pass! What? That which is real--life, not\ndeath--immortality, not oblivion--love, not hate--good, not evil!\n\n\"_Chiquita_--\" His voice was thick. \"You--you believe all that, don't\nyou?\"\n\n\"No, Padre dear\"--she smiled up at him through the darkness--\"I don't\nbelieve it, I _know_ it.\"\n\n\"But--how--how do you know it?\"\n\n\"God tells me, Padre. I hear Him, always. And I prove it every day.\nThe trouble is, you believe it, but I don't think you ever try to\n_prove_ it. If you believed my problems in algebra could be solved,\nbut never tried to prove it--well, you wouldn't do very much in\nalgebra, would you?\" She laughed at the apt comparison.\n\nJos\u00e8's straining eyes were peering straight ahead. Through the thick\ngloom he saw the mutilated figure of the Christ hanging on its cross\nbeside the crumbling altar. It reflected the broken image of the\nChrist-principle in the hearts of men. And was he not again crucifying\nthe gentle Christ? Did not the world daily crucify him and nail him\nwith their false beliefs to the cross of carnal error which they set\nup in the Golgotha of their own souls? And were they not daily paying\nthe awful penalty therefor? Aye, paying it in agony, in torturing\nagony of soul and body, in blasted hopes, crumbling ambitions, and\ninevitable death!\n\n\"Padre dear, what did the good man say sickness came from?\" Carmen's\nsoft voice brought him back from his reflections.\n\n\"Sickness? Why, he always coupled disease with sin.\"\n\n\"And sin?\"\n\n\"Sin is--is unrighteousness.\"\n\n\"And that is--?\" she pursued relentlessly.\n\n\"Wrong conduct, based on wrong thinking. And wrong thinking is based\non wrong beliefs, false thought.\"\n\n\"But to believe that there is anything but God, and the things He\nmade, is sin, isn't it, Padre dear?\"\n\n\"Sin is--yes, to believe in other powers than God is to break the very\nfirst Commandment--and that is the chief of sins!\"\n\n\"Well, Padre dear, can't you make yourself think right? Do you know\nwhat you really think about God, anyway?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 rose and paced up and down through the dark aisle.\n\n\"I try to think,\" he answered, \"that He is mind; that He is infinite,\neverywhere; that He is all-powerful; that He knows all things; and\nthat He is perfect and good. I try not to think that He made evil, or\nanything that is or could be bad, or that could become sick, or decay,\nor die. Whatever He made must be real, and real things last forever,\nare immortal, eternal. I strive to think He did make man in His image\nand likeness--and that man has never been anything else--that man\nnever 'fell.'\"\n\n\"What is that, Padre?\"\n\n\"Only an old, outworn theological belief. But, to resume: I believe\nthat, since God is mind, man must be an idea of His. Since God is\ninfinite, man must exist in Him. I know that any number of lies can be\nmade up about true things. And any number of falsities can be assumed\nabout God and what He has made. I am sure that the material universe\nand man are a part of the lie about God and the way He manifests and\nexpresses Himself in and through His ideas. Everything is mental. We\n_must_ hold to that! The mental realm includes all truth, all fact.\nBut there may be all sorts of supposition about this fact. And yet,\nwhile fact is based upon absolute and undeviating principle--and I\nbelieve that principle to be God--supposition is utterly without any\nrule or principle whatsoever. It is wholly subject to truth, to\nPrinciple, to God. Hence, bad or wrong thought is absolutely subject\nto good or real thought, and must go down before it. The mortal man is\na product of wrong thought. He is a supposition; and so is the\nuniverse of matter in which he is supposed to live. We have already\nlearned that the things he thinks he hears, feels, tastes, smells, and\nsees are only his own thoughts. And these turn out to be suppositions.\nHence, they are nothing real.\"\n\n\"Well, Padre! How fast you talk! And--such big words! I--I don't think\nI understand all you say. But, anyway, I guess it is right.\" She\nlaughed again.\n\n\"I _know_ it is right!\" he exclaimed, forgetting that he was talking\nto a child. \"Evil, which includes sickness and death, is only a false\nidea of good. It is a misinterpretation, made in the thought-activity\nwhich constitutes what we call the human consciousness. And that is\nthe opposite--the suppositional opposite--of the mind that is God.\nEvil, then, becomes a supposition and a lie. Just what Jesus said it\nwas!\"\n\n\"But, Padre--I don't see why you don't act as if you really believed\nall that!\"\n\n\"Fear--only fear! It has not yet been eradicated from my thought,\" he\nanswered slowly.\n\n\"But, Padre, what will drive it out?\"\n\n\"Love, child--love only, for 'perfect love casteth out fear.'\"\n\n\"Oh, then, Padre dear, I will just love it all out of you, every bit!\"\nshe exclaimed, clasping her arms about him again and burying her face\nin his shoulder.\n\n\"Ah, little one,\" he said sadly, \"I must love more. I must love my\nfellow-men and good more than myself and evil. If I didn't love myself\nso much, I would have no fear. If I loved God as you do, dearest\nchild, I would never come under fear's heavy shadow.\"\n\n\"You _do_ love everybody--you have got to, for you are God's child.\nAnd now,\" she added, getting down and drawing him toward the door,\n\"let us go out of this smelly old church. I want you to come home.\nWe've got to have our lessons, you know.\"\n\n\"But--child, the people will not let me come near them--nor you\neither, now,\" he said, holding back. \"They think we may give them the\ndisease.\"\n\nShe looked up at him with a tender, wistful smile. Then she shook her\nhead. \"Padre dear, I love you,\" she said, \"but you make me lots of\ntrouble. But--we are going to love all the fear away, and--\" stamping\nher little bare foot--\"we are going to get the right answer to your\nproblem, too!\"\n\nThe priest took her hand, and together they passed out into the\ndazzling sunlight.\n\nOn the brow of the hill stood Rosendo, talking excitedly, and with\nmuch vehement gesticulation, to Do\u00f1a Maria, who remained a safe\ndistance from him. The latter and her good consort exclaimed in horror\nwhen they saw Carmen with the priest.\n\n_\"Caramba!\"_ cried Rosendo, darting toward them. \"I could kill you for\nthis, Padre! _Hombre!_ How came the child here, and with you? _Dios\nm\u00edo!_ Have you no heart, but that, when you know you may die, you\nwould take her with you?\" He swung his long arms menacingly before the\npriest, and his face worked with passion.\n\nThe girl ran between the two men. \"Padre Rosendo!\" she cried, seizing\none of his hands in both of her own. \"I came of myself. He did not\ncall me. I found him asleep. And he isn't going to die--nor I,\neither!\"\n\nDo\u00f1a Maria approached and quietly joined the little group.\n\n_\"Caramba! Go back!\"_ cried the distressed Rosendo, turning upon her.\n\"_Hombre! Dios y diablo!_ will you all die?\" He stamped the ground and\ntore his hair in his impotent protest.\n\n\"_Na_, Rosendo,\" said the woman placidly, \"if you are in danger, I\nwill be too. If you must die, so will I. I will not be left alone.\"\n\nA thrill of admiration swept over the priest. Then he smiled wanly.\n\"_Bien_,\" he said, \"we have all been exposed to the plague now, and we\nwill stand together. Shall we return home?\"\n\nRosendo's anger soon evaporated, but his face retained traces of deep\nanxiety. \"Maria tells me, Padre,\" he said, \"that Amado Sanchez fell\nsick last night with the flux, and nobody will stay with him,\nexcepting his woman.\"\n\n\"Let us go to him, then,\" replied the priest. \"Do\u00f1a Maria, do you and\nCarmen return to your house, whilst Rosendo and I seek to be of\nservice to those who may need us.\"\n\nTogether they started down the main street of the town. Dead silence\nreigned everywhere. Many of the inhabitants had fled to the hills. But\nthere were still many whose circumstances would not permit of flight.\nAs they neared Rosendo's house the little party were hailed from a\ndistance by Juan Mendoza and Pedro C\u00e1rdenas, neighbors living on\neither side of Rosendo and the priest.\n\n\"_Hola_, Padre and Don Rosendo!\" they called; \"you cannot return to\nyour homes, for you would expose us to the plague! Go back! Go back!\nWe will burn the houses over your heads if you return!\"\n\n\"But, _amigos_--\" Jos\u00e8 began.\n\n\"_Na_, Padre,\" they cried in tense excitement, \"it is for the best! Go\nback to the hill! We will supply you with food and blankets--but you\nmust not come here! Amado Sanchez is sick; Guillermo Hernandez is\nsick. Go back! You must not expose us!\" The attitude of the\nfrightened, desperate men was threatening. Jos\u00e8 saw that it would be\nunwise to resist them.\n\n\"_Bien, compadres_, we will go,\" he said, his heart breaking with\nsorrow for these children of fear. Then, assembling his little family,\nhe turned and retraced his steps sadly through the street that burned\nin lonely silence in the torrid heat.\n\nCarmen's eyes were big with wonder; but a happy idea soon drove all\napprehension from her thought. \"Padre!\" she exclaimed, \"we will live\nin the old church, and we will play house there!\" She clapped her\nhands in merriment.\n\n\"Never!\" muttered Rosendo. \"I will not enter that place! It would\nbring the plague upon me! _Na! na!_\" he insisted, when they reached\nthe steps, \"do you go in if you wish; but I will stay outside in the\nshadow of the building.\" Nor would the combined entreaties of Carmen\nand Jos\u00e8 induce him to yield. Do\u00f1a Maria calmly and silently prepared\nto remain with him.\n\n\"Pull off the old door, Padre!\" cried Carmen excitedly. \"And open all\nthe shutters. Look! Look, Padre! There goes the bad angel that padre\nRosendo was afraid of!\" A number of bats, startled at the noise and\nthe sudden influx of light, were scurrying out through the open door.\n\n\"Like the legion of demons which Jesus sent into the swine,\" said\nJos\u00e8. \"I will tell you the story some day, _chiquita_,\" he said, in\nanswer to her look of inquiry.\n\nThe day passed quickly for the child, nor did she seem to cast another\nthought in the direction of the cloud which hung over the sorrowing\ntown. At dusk, Mendoza and C\u00e1rdenas came to the foot of the hill with\nfood and blankets.\n\n\"Amado Sanchez has just died,\" they reported.\n\n\"What!\" cried Jos\u00e8. \"So soon? Why--he fell sick only yesterday!\"\n\n\"No, Padre, he had been ailing for many days--but it may have been the\nplague just the same. Perhaps it was with us before Feliz brought it.\nBut we have not exposed ourselves to the disease and--Padre--there is\nnot a man in Simit\u00ed who will bury Amado. What shall we do?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 divined the man's thought. \"_Bien, amigo_,\" he replied. \"Go you\nback to your homes. To-night Rosendo and I will come and bury him.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 had sent Carmen and Do\u00f1a Maria beyond the church, that they might\nnot hear the grewsome tidings. When the men had returned to their\nhomes, the little band on the hilltop ate their evening meal in\nsilence. Then a bench was swept clean for Carmen's bed, for she\ninsisted on sleeping in the old church with Jos\u00e8 when she learned that\nhe intended to pass the night there.\n\nAgain, as the heavy shadows were gathering, Jos\u00e8 and Rosendo descended\ninto the town and bore out the body of Amado Sanchez to a resting\nplace beside the poor lad who had died the day before. To a man of\nsuch delicate sensibilities as Jos\u00e8, whose nerves were raw from\ncontinual friction with a world with which he was ever at variance,\nthis task was one of almost unendurable horror. He returned to the old\nchurch in a state bordering on collapse.\n\n\"Rosendo,\" he murmured, as they seated themselves on the hillside in\nthe still night, \"I think we shall all die of the plague. And it were\nwell so. I am tired, utterly tired of striving to live against such\nodds. _Bien_, let it come!\"\n\n\"Courage, _compadre_!\" urged Rosendo, putting his great arm about the\npriest's shoulders. \"We must all go some time, and perhaps now; but\nwhile we live let us live like men!\"\n\n\"You do not fear death?\"\n\n\"No--what is it that the old history of mine says? 'Death is not\ndeparting, but arriving.' I am not afraid. But the little Carmen--I\nwish that she might live. She--ah, Padre, she could do much good in\nthe world. _Bien_, we are all in the hands of the One who brought us\nhere--and He will take us in the way and at the time that He\nappoints--is it not so, Padre?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 lapsed again into meditation. No, he could not say that it was\nso. The thoughts which he had expressed to Carmen that morning still\nflitted through his mind. The child was right--Rosendo's philosophy\nwas that of resignation born of ignorance. It was the despair of\ndoubt. And he did not really think that Carmen would be smitten of the\nplague. Something seemed to tell him that it was impossible. But, on\nthe other hand, he would himself observe every precaution in regard to\nher. No, he would not sleep in the church that night. He had handled\nthe body of the plague's second victim, and he could not rest near the\nchild. Perhaps exposure to the night air and the heavy dews would\nserve to cleanse him. And so he wrapped himself in the blanket which\nDo\u00f1a Maria brought from within the church, and lay down beside the\nfaithful pair.\n\nIn the long hours of that lonely night Jos\u00e8 lay beneath the shimmering\nstars pondering, wondering. Down below in the smitten town the poor\nchildren of his flock were eating their hearts out in anxious dread\nand bitter sorrow. Was it through any fault of theirs that this thing\nhad come upon them, like a bolt from a cloudless sky? No--except that\nthey were human, mortal. And if the thing were real, it came from the\nmind that is God; if unreal--but it seemed real to these simple folk,\nterribly so!\n\nHis heart yearned toward them as his thought penetrated the still\nreaches of the night and hovered about their lonely vigil. Yet, what\nhad he to offer? What balm could he extend to those wearing out weary\nhours on beds of agony below? Religion? True religion, if they could\nbut understand it; but not again the empty husks of the faith that had\nbeen taught them in the name of Christ! Where did scholastic theology\nstand in such an hour as this? Did it offer easement from their\ntorture of mind and body? No. Strength to bear in patience their heavy\nburden? No. Hope? Not of this life--nay, naught but the thread-worn,\nundemonstrable promise of a life to come, if, indeed, they might\nhappily avoid the pangs of purgatory and the horrors of the quenchless\nflames of hell! God, what had not the Church to answer for!\n\nAnd yet, these ignorant children were but succumbing to the\nevidence of their material senses--though small good it would do to\ntell them so! Could they but know--as did Carmen--that rejection of\nerror and reception of truth meant life--ah, could they but know!\nCould he himself but know--really _know_--that God is neither the\nproducer of evil, nor the powerless witness of its ravages--could\nhe but understand and prove that evil is not a self-existing\nentity, warring eternally with God, what might he not accomplish!\nFor Jesus had said: \"These signs\"--the cure of disease, the rout of\ndeath--\"shall follow them that believe,\" that understand, that\nknow. Why could he not go down to those beds of torture and say\nwith the Christ: \"Arise, for God hath made thee whole\"? He knew\nwhy--\"without faith it is impossible to please Him: for he that\ncometh of God must believe\"--must _know_--\"that He is a rewarder of\nthem that diligently seek Him.\" The suffering victims in the town\nbelow were asleep in a state of religious dullness. The task of\nindependent thinking was onerous to such as they. Gladly did they\nleave it to the Church to do their thinking for them. And thus did\nthey suffer for the trust betrayed!\n\nBut truth is omnipotent, and \"one with God is a majority.\" Jesus gave\nfew rules, but none more fundamental than that \"with God all things\nare possible.\" Was he, Jos\u00e8, walking with God? If so, he might arise\nand go down into the stricken town and bid its frightened children be\nwhole. If he fully recognized \"the Father\" as all-powerful,\nall-good, and if he could clearly see and retain his grasp on the\ntruth that evil, the supposititious opposite of good, had neither\nplace nor power, except in the minds of mortals receptive to it--ah,\nthen--then----\n\nA soft patter of little feet on the shales broke in upon his thought.\nHe turned and beheld Carmen coming through the night.\n\n\"Padre dear,\" she whispered, \"why didn't you come and sleep in the\nchurch with me?\" She crept close to him. He had not the heart nor the\ncourage to send her away. He put out his arm and drew her to him.\n\n\"Padre dear,\" the child murmured, \"it is nice out here under the\nstars--and I want to be with you--I love you--love you--\" The whisper\ndied away, and the child slept on his arm.\n\n\"Perfect love casteth out fear.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 20\n\n\nDawn brought Juan Mendoza and Pedro C\u00e1rdenas again to the hill, and\nwith them came others. \"Mateo Gil, Pablo Polo, and Juanita Gomez are\nsick, Padre,\" announced Mendoza, the spokesman. \"They ask for the last\nsacrament. You could come down and give it to them, and then return to\nthe hill, is it not so?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" assented Jos\u00e8, \"I will come.\"\n\n\"And, Padre,\" continued Mendoza, \"we talked it over last night, after\nAmado Sanchez died, and we think it would help if you said a Mass for\nus in the church to-day.\"\n\n\"I will do so this afternoon, after I have visited the sick,\" he\nreplied pityingly.\n\nMendoza hesitated. Then--\n\n\"We think, too, Padre, that if we held a procession--in honor of Santa\nBarbara--perhaps she would pray for us, and might stop the sickness.\nWe could march through the town this evening, while you stood here and\nprayed as we passed around the hill. What say you, Padre?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 was about to express a vehement protest. But the anxious faces\ndirected toward him melted his heart.\n\n\"Yes, children,\" he replied gently, \"do as you wish. Keep your houses\nthis afternoon while I visit the sick and offer the Mass. I will leave\nthe _hostia_ on the altar. You need not fear to touch it. Carry it\nwith you in your rogation to Santa Barbara this evening, and I will\nstand here and pray for you.\"\n\nThe people departed, sorrowing, but grateful. Hope revived in the\nbreasts of some. But most of them awaited in trembling the icy touch\nof the plague.\n\n\"Padre,\" said Rosendo, when the people had gone. \"I have been thinking\nabout the sickness, and I remember what my father told me he learned\nfrom a Jesuit missionary. It was that the fat from a human body would\ncure rheumatism. And then the missionary laughed and said that the fat\nfrom a plump woman would cure all diseases of mind and body. If that\nis so, Padre, and Juanita Gomez dies--she is very plump, Padre--could\nwe not take some of the fat from her body and rub it on the sick--\"\n\n\"God above, Rosendo! what are you saying!\" cried Jos\u00e8 recoiling in\nhorror.\n\n_\"Caramba!\"_ retorted the honest man. \"Would you not try everything\nthat might possibly save these people? What the missionary said may be\ntrue.\"\n\n\"No, my faithful ally,\" replied Jos\u00e8. \"You did not get the sense in\nwhich he said it. Neither human fat nor medicine of any kind will help\nthese people. Nothing will be accomplished for them until their fear\nhas been removed. For, I--well, the symptoms manifested by poor Feliz\nmay have been those of Asiatic cholera. But--I begin to doubt. And as\nfor Sanchez--_Bien_, we do not know--not for certain.\" He stopped and\npondered the question.\n\n\"Padre,\" pursued Rosendo, \"I have used the liver of a lizard for\ntoothache, and it was very good.\"\n\n\"I have no doubt of it, Rosendo,\" replied Jos\u00e8, with a smile. \"And in\ndays past stranger remedies than that were used by supposedly wise\npeople. When the eyesight was poor, they rubbed wax from the human ear\nupon the eyes, and I doubt not marvelous restorations of sight were\nmade. So also dogs' teeth were ground into powder and taken to\nalleviate certain bodily pains. Almost everything that could be\nswallowed has been taken by mankind to cure their aches and torments.\nBut they still ache to-day; and will continue to do so, I believe,\nuntil their present state of mind greatly changes.\"\n\nWhen the simple midday meal of corn _arepa_ and black coffee was\nfinished, Jos\u00e8 descended into the quiet town. \"It is absurd that we\nshould be kept on the hill,\" he had said to Rosendo, \"but these dull,\nsimple minds believe that, having handled those dead of the plague, we\nhave become agents of infection. They forget that they themselves are\nliving either in the same house with it, or closely adjacent. But it\nhumors them, poor children, and we will stay here for their sakes.\"\n\n\"_Caramba!_ and they have made us their sextons!\" muttered Rosendo.\n\nJos\u00e8 shuddered. The clammy hand of fear again reached for his heart.\nHe turned to Carmen, who was busily occupied in the shade of the old\nchurch.\n\n\"Your lessons, _chiquita_?\" he queried, going to her for a moment's\nabstraction.\n\n\"No, Padre dear,\" she replied, smiling up at him, while she quickly\nconcealed the bit of paper on which she had been writing.\n\n\"Then what are you doing, little one?\" he insisted.\n\n\"Padre dear--don't--don't always make me tell you everything,\" she\npleaded, but only half in earnest, as she cast an enigmatical glance\nat him.\n\n\"But this time I insist on knowing; so you might as well tell me.\"\n\n\"Well then, if you must know,\" she replied, her face beaming with a\nhappiness which seemed to Jos\u00e8 strangely out of place in that tense\natmosphere, \"I have been writing a question to God.\" She held out the\npaper.\n\n\"Writing a question to God! Well--!\"\n\n\"Why, yes, Padre dear. I have done that for a long, long time. When I\nwant to know what to do, and think I don't see just what is best, I\nwrite my question to God on a piece of paper. Then I read it to Him,\nand tell Him I know He knows the answer and that He will tell me. And\nthen I put the paper under a stone some place, and--well, that's all,\nPadre. Isn't it a good way?\" She beamed at him like a glorious noonday\nsun.\n\nThe priest stood before her in wonder and admiration. \"And does He\ntell you the answers to your questions, _chiquita_?\" he asked\ntenderly.\n\n\"Always, Padre dear. Not always right away--but He never fails--never!\"\n\n\"Will you tell me what you are asking Him now?\" he said.\n\nShe handed him the paper. His eyes dimmed as he read:\n\n  \"Dear, dear Father, please tell your little girl and her dear\n  Padre Jos\u00e8 what it is that makes the people think they have to die\n  down in the town.\"\n\n\"And where will you put the paper, little girl?\" he asked, striving to\ncontrol his voice.\n\n\"Why, I don't know, Padre. Oh, why not put it under the altar in this\nold church?\" she exclaimed, pleased with the thought of such a novel\nhiding place.\n\n\"Excellent!\" assented Jos\u00e8; and together they entered the building.\nAfter much stumbling over rubbish, much soiling of hands and\ndisturbing of bats and lizards, while Carmen's happy laugh rang\nmerrily through the gloomy old pile, they laid the paper carefully\naway behind the altar in a little pocket, and covered it with an adobe\nbrick.\n\n\"There!\" panted the girl, the task finished. \"Now we will wait for the\nanswer.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 went down into the ominous silence of the town with a lighter\nheart. The sublime faith of the child moved before him like a beacon.\nTo the sick he spoke words of comfort, with the vision of Carmen\nalways before him. At the altar in the empty church, where he offered\nthe Mass in fulfillment of his promise to the people, her fair form\nglowed with heavenly radiance from the pedestal where before had stood\nthe dilapidated image of the Virgin. He prepared the sacred wafer and\nleft a part of it on the altar for the people to carry in their\nprocession to Santa Barbara. The other portion he took to the sick\nones who had asked for the sacrament.\n\nTwo more had fallen ill that afternoon. Mateo Gil, he thought, could\nnot live the night through. He knelt at the loathsome bedside of the\nsuffering man and prayed long and earnestly for light. He tried not to\nask, but to know. While there, he heard a call from the street,\nannouncing the passing of Guillermo Hernandez. Another one! His heart\nsank again. The plague was upon them in all its cruel virulence.\n\nSadly he returned to the hill, just as the sun tipped the highest\npeaks of the _Cordilleras_. Standing on the crest, he waited with\nheavy heart, while the mournful little procession wended its sad way\nthrough the streets below. An old, battered wooden image of one of the\nSaints, rescued from the oblivion of the _sacrist\u00eda_, had been dressed\nto represent Santa Barbara. This, bedecked with bits of bright colored\nribbon, was carried at the head of the procession by the faithful\nJuan. Following him, Pedro Gonzales, old and tottering, bore a dinner\nplate, on which rested the _hostia_, while over the wafer a tall young\nlad held a soiled umbrella, for there was no canopy.\n\nA slow chant rose from the lips of the people like a dirge. It struck\nthe heart of the priest like a chill wind. _\"Ora pro nobis! Ora pro\nnobis!\"_ Tears streamed from his eyes while he gazed upon his stricken\npeople. Slowly, wearily, they wound around the base of the hill, some\nsullen with despair, others with eyes turned beseechingly upward to\nwhere the priest of God stood with outstretched hands, his full heart\npouring forth a passionate appeal to Him to turn His light upon these\nsimple-minded children. When they had gone back down the road, their\nbare feet raising a cloud of thick dust which hid them from his view,\nJos\u00e8 sank down upon the rock and buried his face in his hands.\n\n\"I know--I think I know, oh, God,\" he murmured; \"but as yet I have not\nproved--not yet. But grant that I may soon--for their sakes.\"\n\nRosendo touched his shoulder. \"There is another body to bury to-night,\nPadre. Eat now, and we will go down.\"\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nStanding over the new grave, in the solemn hush of night, the priest\nmurmured: \"I am the resurrection and the life.\" But the mound upon\nwhich Rosendo was stolidly heaping the loose earth marked only another\nvictory of the mortal law of death over a human sense of life. And\nthere was no one there to call forth the sleeping man.\n\n\"Behold, I give you power over all things,\" said the marvelous Jesus.\nThe wondrous, irresistible power which he exerted in behalf of\nsuffering humanity, he left with the world when he went away. But\nwhere is it now?\n\n\"Still here,\" sighed the sorrowing priest, \"still here--lo, always\nhere--but we know it not. Sunken in materiality, and enslaved to the\nfalse testimony of the physical senses, we lack the spirituality that\nalone would enable us to grasp and use that Christ-power, which is the\nresurrection and the life.\"\n\n\"Padre,\" said Rosendo, when they turned back toward the hill,\n\"Hernandez is now with the angels. You gave him the sacrament, did you\nnot?\"\n\n\"Yes, Rosendo.\"\n\n\"_Bien_, then you remitted his sins, and he is doubtless in paradise.\nBut,\" he mused, \"it may be that he had first to pass through\npurgatory. _Caramba!_ I like not the thought of those hot fires!\"\n\n\"Rosendo!\" exclaimed Jos\u00e8 in impatience. \"Your mental wanderings at\ntimes are puerile! You talk like the veriest child! Do not be\ndeceived, Hernandez is still the same man, even though he has left his\nearthly body behind. Do not think he has been lifted at once into\neternal bliss. The Church has taught such rubbish for ages, and has\nbased its pernicious teachings upon the grossly misunderstood words of\nJesus. The Church is a failure--a dead, dead failure, in every sense\nof the word! And that man lying there in his grave is a ghastly proof\nof it!\"\n\nRosendo looked wonderingly at the excited priest, whose bitter words\nrang out so harshly on the still night air.\n\n\"The Church has failed utterly to preserve the simple gospel of the\nChrist! It has basely, wantonly betrayed its traditional trust! It has\nfought and slain and burned for centuries over trivial, vulnerable\nnon-essentials, and thrown its greatest pearls to the swine! It no\nlonger prophesies; it carps and reviles! It no longer heals the sick;\nbut it conducts a purgatorial lottery at so much a head! It has become\na jumble of idle words, a mumbling of silly formul\u00e6, a category of\nstupid, insensate ceremonies! Its children are taught to derive their\nfaith from such legends as that of the holy Saint Francis, who, to\nconvince a heretic, showed the _hostia_ to an ass, which on beholding\nthe sacred dough immediately kneeled! Good God!\"\n\n\"_Ca-ram-ba!_ But you speak hard words, Padre!\" muttered Rosendo,\nvague speculations flitting through his brain as to the priest's\nmental state.\n\n\"God!\" continued Jos\u00e8 heatedly, \"the Church has fought truth\ndesperately ever since the Master's day! It has fawned at the feet of\nemperor and plutocrat, and licked the bloody hand of the usurer who\ntossed her a pittance of his foul gains! In the great world-battles\nfor reform, for the rights of man, for freedom from the slavery of man\nto man or to drink and drugs, she has come up only as the smoke has\ncleared away, but always in time to demand the spoils! She has filched\nfrom the systems of philosophy of every land and age, and after\nbedaubing them with her own gaudy colors, has foisted them upon\nunthinking mankind as divine decrees and mandates! She has foully\ninsulted God and man!--\"\n\n\"_Caramba_, Padre! You are not well! _Hombre_, we must get back to the\nhill! You are falling sick!\"\n\n\"I am not, Rosendo! You voice the Church's stock complaint of every\nman who exposes her shams: 'He hath a devil!'\"\n\nRosendo whistled softly. Jos\u00e8 went on more excitedly:\n\n\"You ask if Hernandez is in paradise or purgatory. He is in a state no\nbetter nor worse than our own, for both are wholly mental. We are now\nin the fires of as great a purgatory as any man can ever experience!\nYes, there is a purgatory--right here on earth--and it follows us\nafter death, and after every death that we shall die, until we learn\nto know God and see Him as infinite good, without taint or trace of\nevil! The flames of hell are eternal to us as long as we eat of 'the\ntree of the knowledge of good and evil'--as long as we believe in\nother powers than God--as long as we believe sin and disease and evil\nto be as real and as potent as good! When we know these things as\nawful human illusions, and when we recognize God as the infinite mind\nthat did not create evil, and does not know or behold it, then, and\nthen only, will the flames of purgatory and hell in this state of\nconsciousness which we mistakenly call life, and in the states of\nconsciousness still to come, begin to diminish in intensity, and\nfinally die out!\"\n\nHe walked along in silence for some moments. Then he turned to Rosendo\nand put his hand affectionately upon the old man's shoulder. \"My good\nfriend,\" he said more calmly, \"I speak with intense feeling, for I\nhave suffered much through the intolerance, the unspirituality, and\nthe worldly ambition of the agents of Holy Church. I suffer, because I\nsee what she is, and how widely she has missed the mark. But, worse, I\nsee how blindly, how cruelly, she leads and betrays her trusting\nchildren--and it is the thought of that which at times almost drives\nme mad! But never mind me, Rosendo. Let me rave. My full heart must\nempty itself. Do you but look to Carmen for your faith. She is not of\nthe Church. She knows God, and she will lead you straight to Him. And\nas you follow her, your foolish ideas of purgatory, hell, and\nparadise, of wafers and virgins--all the tawdry beliefs which the\nChurch has laid upon you, will drop off, one by one, and melt away as\ndo the mists on the lake when the sun mounts high.\"\n\nCarmen and Do\u00f1a Maria sat against the wall of the old church, waiting\nfor them. The child ran through the darkness and grasped Jos\u00e8's hand.\n\n\"I wouldn't go to sleep until you came, Padre!\" she cried happily. \"I\nwanted to be sure you wouldn't sleep anywhere else than right next to\nme.\"\n\n\"Padre,\" admonished Rosendo anxiously, \"do you think you ought to let\nher come close to you now? The plague--\"\n\nJos\u00e8 turned to him and spoke low. \"There is no power or influence that\nwe can exert upon her, Rosendo, either for good or evil. She is\nobeying a spiritual law of which we know but little.\"\n\n\"And that, Padre?\"\n\n\"Just this, Rosendo: _'Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind\nis stayed on thee.'_\"\n\nThe late moon peeped timidly above the drowsing treetops. Its yellow\nbeams stole silently across the still lake and up the hillside to the\ncrumbling church. When they reached the four quiet figures, huddled\nclose against the ghostly wall, they filtered like streams of liquid\ngold through the brown curls of the little head lying on the priest's\nshoulder. And there they dwelt as symbols of Love's protecting care\nover the trusting children of this world, until the full dawn of the\nglorious sun of Truth.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 21\n\n\nJos\u00e8 rose from his hard bed stiff and weary. Depression sat heavily\nupon his soul, and he felt miserably unable to meet the day. Do\u00f1a\nMaria was preparing the coffee over a little fire back of the church.\nThe odor of the steaming liquid drifted to him on the warm morning air\nand gave him a feeling of nausea. A sharp pain shot through his body.\nHis heart stopped. Was the plague's cold hand settling upon him?\nGiddiness seized him, and he sat down again upon the rocks.\n\nIn the road below a cloud of dust was rising, and across the distance\na murmur of voices floated up to his ears. Men were approaching. He\nwondered dully what additional trouble it portended. Rosendo came to\nhim at that moment.\n\n\"_Muy buenos dias, Padre._ I saw a boat come across the lake some\nminutes ago. I wonder if Don Mario has returned.\"\n\nThe men below were ascending the hill. Jos\u00e8 struggled to his feet and\nwent forth to meet them. A familiar voice greeted him cheerily.\n\n\"_Hola, Se\u00f1or Padre Jos\u00e8!_ _Dios m\u00edo_, but your hill is steep!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 strained his eyes at the newcomer. The man quickly gained the\nsummit, and hurried to grasp the bewildered priest's hand.\n\n\"Love of the Virgin! don't you know me, _Se\u00f1or Padre_?\" he cried,\nslapping Jos\u00e8 roundly upon the back.\n\nThe light of recognition slowly came into the priest's eyes. The man\nwas Don Jorge, his erstwhile traveling companion on the Magdalena\nriver.\n\n\"And now a cup of that coffee, if you will do me the favor, my good\n_Cura_. And then tell me what ails you here,\" he added, seating\nhimself. \"_Caramba_, what a town! Diego was right--the devil himself\nmade this place! But they say you have all taken to dying! Have you\nnothing else to do? _Caramba_, I do not wonder! Such a God-forsaken\nspot! Well, what is it? Speak, man!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 collected his scattered thoughts. \"The cholera!\" he said\nhoarsely.\n\n\"Cholera! _Caramba!_ so they told me down below, and I would not\nbelieve them! But where did it come from?\"\n\n\"One of our men brought it from Bodega Central.\"\n\n\"Bodega Central!\" ejaculated Don Jorge. \"Impossible! I came from there\nthis morning myself. Have been there two days. There isn't a trace of\ncholera in the place, as far as I know! You have all gone crazy--but\nsmall wonder!\" looking out over the decrepit town.\n\nThe priest's head was awhirl. He felt his senses leaving him. His ears\nwere reporting things basely false. \"You say--\" he began in\nbewilderment.\n\n\"I say what I have said, _amigo_! There is no more cholera in Bodega\nCentral than there is in heaven! I arrived there day before yesterday,\nand left before sunrise this morning. So I should know.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 sank weakly down at the man's side. \"But--Don Jorge--Feliz Gomez\nreturned from there three nights ago, and reported that a Turk, who\nhad come up from the coast, had died of the plague!\"\n\nDon Jorge's brows knit in perplexity. \"I recall now,\" he said slowly,\nafter some moments of study. \"The innkeeper did say that a Turk had\ndied there--some sort of intestinal trouble, I believe. When I told\nhim I was bound for Simit\u00ed, he laughed as if he would split, and then\nbegan to talk about the great fright he had given a man from here.\nSaid he scared the fellow until his black face turned white. But I was\noccupied with my own affairs, and paid him little attention. But come,\ntell me all about it.\"\n\nWith the truth slowly dawning upon his clouded thought, Jos\u00e8 related\nthe grewsome experiences of the past three days.\n\n_\"Ca-ram-ba!\"_ Don Jorge whistled softly. \"Who would have thought it!\nBut, was Feliz Gomez sick before he went to Bodega Central?\"\n\n\"I do not know,\" replied Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"Yes, se\u00f1or,\" interposed Rosendo. \"He and Amado Sanchez both had bowel\ntrouble. Their women told my wife so, after you and I, Padre, had come\nup here to the hill. But it was nothing. We have it here often, as you\nknow.\"\n\n\"True,\" assented Jos\u00e8, \"but we have never given it any serious\nthought.\"\n\nDon Jorge leaned back and broke into a roar of laughter. \"_Por el amor\ndel cielo!_ You are all crazy, _amigo_--you die like rats of fear! Did\nyou ever put a mouse into a bottle and then scare it to death with a\nloud noise? _Hombre!_ That is what has happened to you!\" The hill\nreverberated with his loud shouts.\n\nBut Jos\u00e8 could not share in the merriment. The awful consequences of\nthe innkeeper's coarse joke upon the childish minds of these poor,\nimpressionable people pressed heavily upon his heart. Bitter tears\nwelled to his eyes. He sprang to his feet.\n\n\"Come, Rosendo!\" he cried. \"We must go down and tell these people the\ntruth!\"\n\nDon Jorge joined them, and they all hastened down into the town.\nRamona Chaves met them in the _plaza_, her eyes streaming.\n\n\"Padre,\" she wailed, \"my man Pedro has the sickness! He is dying!\"\n\n\"Nothing of the kind, Ramona!\" loudly cried Jos\u00e8; \"there is no cholera\nhere!\" He hastened to the bedside of the writhing Pedro.\n\n\"Up, man!\" he shouted, seizing his hand. \"Up! You are not sick! There\nis no cholera in Simit\u00ed! There is none in Bodega Central! Feliz did\nnot bring it! He and Amado had only a touch of the flux, and they died\nof fear!\"\n\nThe priest's ringing words acted upon the man like magic. He roused up\nfrom his lethargy and stared at the assemblage. Don Jorge repeated the\npriest's words, and added his own laughing and boisterous comments.\nPedro rose from his bed, and stood staring.\n\nTogether, their little band augmented at every corner by the startled\npeople, they hurried to the homes of all who lay upon beds of\nsickness, spreading the glad tidings, until the little town was in a\nstate of uproar. Like black shadows before the light, the plague fled\ninto the realm of imagination from which it had come. By night, all\nbut Mateo Gil were up and about their usual affairs. But even Mateo\nhad revived wonderfully; and Jos\u00e8 was confident that the good news\nwould be the leaven of health that would work a complete restoration\nwithin him in time. The exiles left the hilltop and the old church,\nand returned again to their homes. Don Jorge took up his abode with\nJos\u00e8.\n\n\"_Bien_,\" he said, as they sat at the rear door of the priest's house,\nlooking through the late afternoon haze out over the lake, \"you have\nhad a strange experience--_Caramba_! most strange!--and yet one from\nwhich you should gather an excellent lesson. You are dealing with\nchildren here--children who have always been rocked in the cradle of\nthe Church. But--\" looking archly at Jos\u00e8, \"do I offend? For, as I\ntold you on the boat a year ago, I do not think you are a good\npriest.\" He laughed softly. \"_Bien_,\" he added, \"I will correct that.\nYou are good--but not a priest, is it not so?\"\n\n\"I have some views, Don Jorge, which differ radically from those of\nthe faith,\" Jos\u00e8 said cautiously.\n\n\"_Caramba!_ I should hope so!\" his friend ejaculated.\n\n\"But,\" interposed Jos\u00e8, anxious to direct the conversation into other\nchannels, \"may I ask how and where you have occupied yourself since I\nleft the boat at Badillo?\"\n\n\"Ah, _Dios_!\" said Don Jorge, shaking his head, although his eyes\ntwinkled. \"I have wandered ever since--and am poorer now than when I\nstarted. I left our boat at Puerto Nacional, to go to Medellin; and\nfrom there to Remedios and Guamoc\u00f3. But while in the river town I met\nanother _guaquero_--grave hunter, you know--who was preparing to go to\nHonda, to investigate the 'castles' at that place. There is a strange\nlegend--you may have heard it--hanging over those rocks. It appears\nthat a lone hermit lived in one of the many caverns in the great\nlimestone deposits rising abruptly from the river near the town of\nHonda. How he came there, no one knew. Day after day, year after year,\nhe labored in his cave, extending it further into the hillside. People\nlaughed at him for tunneling in that barren rock, for gold has never\nbeen found anywhere in it. But the fellow paid them no attention; and\ngradually he was accepted as a harmless fanatic, and was left\nunmolested to dig his way into the hill as far as he would. Years\npassed. No one knew how the fellow lived, for he held no human\nintercourse. Kind people often brought food and left it at the mouth\nof his cavern, but he would have none of it. They brought clothes, but\nthey rotted where they were left. What he ate, no one could discover.\nAt last some good soul planted a fig tree near the cave, hoping that\nthe fruit in time would prove acceptable to him. One day they found\nthe tree cut down. _Bien_, time passed, and he was forgotten. One day\nsome men, passing the cave, found his body, pale and thin, with long,\nwhite hair, lying at the entrance. But--_Caramba_! when they buried\nthe body they found it was that of a woman!\"\n\nHe paused to draw some leaves of tobacco from his wallet and roll a\nthick cigar. The sudden turn of his story drew an expression of\namazement from the priest.\n\n\"_Bien_,\" he resumed, \"where the woman came from, and who she was,\nnever was learned. Nor how she lived. But of course some one must have\nsupplied her with food and clothes all these years. Perhaps she was\nsome grand dame, with a dramatic past, who had come there to escape\nthe world and do penance for her sins. What sorrow, what black tragedy\nthat cave concealed, no one may ever know! Nor am I at all interested\nin that. The point is, either she found gold there, or had a quantity\nof it that she brought with her--at least so I thought at the time.\nSo, when the _guaquero_ at Puerto Nacional told me the story, nothing\nwould do but I must go with him to search the cave. _Caramba!_ We\nwasted three full months prying around there--and had our labor for\nour pains!\"\n\nHe tilted his chair back and puffed savagely at his cigar.\n\n\"Well, then I got on the windy side of another legend, a wild tale of\nburied treasure in the vicinity of Mompox. Of course I hurried after\nit. Spent six months pawing the hot dirt around that old town. Fell in\nwith your estimable citizen, Don Felipe, who swindled me out of a\nhundred good _pesos oro_ on a fraudulent location and a forged map.\nThen I cursed him and the place and went up to Banco.\"\n\n\"Banco!\" Jos\u00e8's heart began beating rapidly. Don Jorge went on:\n\n\"Your genial friend Diego is back there. Told me about his trip to\nSimit\u00ed to see his little daughter.\"\n\n\"What did he say about her, _amigo_?\" asked Jos\u00e8 in a controlled\nvoice.\n\n\"Not much--only that he expected to send for her soon. You know,\nRosendo's daughter is living with him. Fine looking wench, too!\"\n\n\"But, Don Jorge,\" pursued Jos\u00e8 anxiously, \"what think you, is the\nlittle Carmen Diego's child?\"\n\n\"_Hombre!_ How should I know? He no doubt has many.\"\n\n\"She does not look like him,\" asserted Jos\u00e8, clinging to his note of\noptimism.\n\n\"No. And fortunate she is in that! _Caramba_, but he looks like an imp\nfrom sheol!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 saw that little consolation was to be derived from Don Jorge as\nfar as Carmen was concerned. So he allowed the subject to lapse.\n\n\"_Bien_,\" continued Don Jorge, whose present volubility was in\nstriking contrast to his reticence on the boat the year before, \"I had\noccasion to come up to Bodega Central--another legend, if I must\nconfess it. And there Don Carlos Noros\u00ed directed me here.\"\n\n\"What a life!\" exclaimed Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"Yes, no doubt it appears so to you, _Se\u00f1or Padre_,\" replied Don\nJorge. \"And yet my business, that of treasure hunting, has in times\npast proved very lucrative. The Indian graves of Colombia have yielded\nenormous quantities of gold. The Spaniards opened many of them; and in\none, that of a famous chieftain, discovered down below us, near\nZaragoza, they found a solid gold pineapple, a marvelous piece of\nworkmanship, and of immense value. They sent it to the king of Spain.\n_Caramba_! it never would have reached him if I had been there!\n\n\"But,\" he resumed, \"we have no idea of the amount of treasure that has\nbeen buried in various parts of Colombia. This country has been, and\nstill is, enormously rich in minerals--a veritable gold mine of\nitself. And since the time of the Spanish conquest it has been in a\nstate of almost constant turmoil. Nothing and nobody has been safe.\nAnd, up to very recent times, whenever the people collected a bit of\ngold above their daily needs, they promptly banked it with good Mother\nEarth. Then, like as not, they got themselves killed in the wars, and\nthe treasure was left for some curious and greedy hunter like myself\nto dig up years after. The Royalists and Tories buried huge sums all\nover the country during the War of Independence. Why, it was only a\nyear or so ago that two men came over from Spain and went up the\nMagdalena river to Bucaramanga. They were close-mouthed fellows,\nwell-dressed, and evidently well-to-do. But they had nothing to say to\nanybody. The innkeeper pried around until he discovered that they\nspent much time in their room poring over maps and papers. Then they\nset off alone, with an outfit of mules and supplies to last several\nweeks. _Bueno_, they came back at last with a box of good size, made\nof mahogany, and bound around with iron bands. _Caramba!_ They did not\ntarry long, you may be sure. And I learned afterward that they sailed\naway safely from Cartagena, box and all, for sunny Spain, where, I\ndoubt not, they are now living in idleness and gentlemanly ease on\nwhat they found in the big coffer they dug up near that old Spanish\ncity.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 listened eagerly. To him, cooped up for a year and more in the\nnarrow confines of Simit\u00ed, the ready flow of this man's conversation\nwas like a fountain of sparkling water to a thirsty traveler. He urged\nhim to go on, plying him with questions about his strange avocation.\n\n\"_Caramba_, but the old Indian chiefs were wise fellows!\" Don Jorge\npursued. \"They seemed to know that greedy vandals like myself would\nsome day poke around in their last resting places for the gold that\nwas always buried with them--possibly to pay their freight across the\ndark river. And so they dug their graves in the form of an L, in the\nextreme tip of which the royal carcasses were laid. In this way they\nhave deceived many a grave-hunter, who dug straight down without\nfinding the body, which was safely tucked away in the toe of the L. I\nhave gone back and reopened many a grave that I had abandoned as\nempty, and found His Royal Highness five or six feet to one side of\nthe straight shaft I had previously sunk.\"\n\n\"I suppose,\" mused Jos\u00e8, \"that you now follow this work because of its\nfascination--for you must have found and laid aside much treasure in\nthe years that you have pursued it.\"\n\n_\"Caramba!\"_ ejaculated the _guaquero_. \"I have been rich and poor,\nlike the rising and setting of the sun! What I find, I spend again\nhunting more. It is the way of the world. The man who has enough money\nnever knows it. And his greed for more--more that he needs not, and\ncannot possibly spend on himself--generally results, as in my case, in\nthe loss of what he already has. But there are reasons aside from the\nexcitement of the chase that keep me at it.\"\n\nHe fell strangely silent, and Jos\u00e8 knew that there were aroused within\nhim memories that seared the tissues of the brain as they entered.\n\n\"_Amigo_,\" Don Jorge resumed. His voice was low, tense and cold.\n\"There are some things which I am trying to forget. This exciting and\ndangerous business of mine keeps my thought occupied. I care nothing\nnow for the treasure I may discover. But I crave forgetfulness. Do you\nunderstand?\"\n\n\"Surely, good friend,\" replied Jos\u00e8 quickly; \"and I ask pardon for\nrecalling those things to you.\"\n\n_\"De nada, amigo!\"_ said Don Jorge, with a gesture of deprecation.\nThen: \"I told you on the boat that I had lost a wife and girl. The\nChurch got them both. I tell you this because I know you, too, have\ngrievances against her. _Caramba!_ Yet I will tell you only a part. I\nlived in Maganguey, where my wife's brother kept a store and did an\nexcellent commission business. I was mining and hunting graves in the\nCauca region, sometimes going up the Magdalena, too, and working on\nboth sides of the river. Maganguey was a convenient place for me to\nlive, as it stands at the junction of the two great rivers. Besides,\nmy wife wished to remain near her own people. _Bien_, we had a\ndaughter. She grew up fair and good. And then, one day, the priest\ntold my wife that the girl was destined to a great future, and must\nenter a convent and consecrate herself to the Church. _Caramba!_ I am\nnot a Catholic--was never one! My parents were patriots, and both took\npart in the great war that gave liberty to this country. But they were\nliberal in thought; and I was never confirmed to the Church. _Bien_,\nthe priest made my life a hell--my wife became estranged from me--and\none day, returning from the Cauca, I found my house deserted. Wife and\ngirl and the child's nurse had gone down the river!\"\n\nThe man's face darkened, and hard lines drew around his mouth.\n\n\"They had taken my money chest, some thousands of pesos. I sought the\npriest. He laughed at me, and--_Caramba_! I struck him such a blow\nbetween his pig eyes that he lay senseless for hours!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 glanced at the broad shoulders and the great knots of muscle on\nthe man's arms. He was of medium height, but with a frame of iron.\n\n\"_Bien, Se\u00f1or Padre_, I, too, fled wild and raving from Maganguey that\nnight, and plunged into the jungle. Months later I drifted down the\nriver, as far as Mompox. And there one day I chanced upon old\nMarcelena, the child's nurse. Like a _cayman_ I seized her and dragged\nher into an alley. She confessed that my wife and girl were living\nthere--the wife had become housekeeper for a young priest--the girl\nwas in the convent. _Caramba!_ I hurled the woman to the ground and\nturned my back upon the city!\"\n\nJos\u00e8's interest in the all too common recital received a sudden\nstimulus.\n\n\"Your daughter's name, Don Jorge, was--\"\n\n\"Maria, _Se\u00f1or Padre_.\"\n\n\"And--she would now be, how old, perhaps?\"\n\n\"About twenty-two, I think.\"\n\n\"Her appearance?\"\n\n\"Fair--complexion light, like her mother's. Maria was a beautiful\nchild--and good as she was beautiful.\"\n\n\"But--the child's nurse remained with her?\"\n\n\"Marcelena? Yes. She was devoted to the little Maria. The woman was\nold and ugly--but she loved the child.\"\n\n\"Did you not inquire for them when you were in Mompox a few months\nago?\" pursued Jos\u00e8 eagerly.\n\n\"I made slight inquiry through the clerk in the office of the\nAlcalde. I did not intend to--but I could not help it. _Caramba!_ He\nmade further inquiry, but said only that he was told they had long\nsince gone down to Cartagena, and nothing had been heard from them.\"\n\nThe gates of memory's great reservoir opened at the touch of this\nman's story, and Jos\u00e8 again lived through that moonlit night in\nCartagena, when the little victim of Wenceslas breathed out her life\nof sorrow and shame in his arms. He heard again the sobs of Marcelena\nand the simple-minded Catalina. He saw again the figure of the\ncompassionate Christ in the smoke that drifted past the window. And\nnow the father of that wronged girl sat before him, wrapped in the\ntatters of a shredded happiness! Should he tell him? Should he say\nthat he had cared for this man's little grandson since his advent into\nthis sense of existence that mortals call life? For there could be no\ndoubt now that the little Maria was his daughter.\n\n\"Don Jorge,\" he said, \"you have suffered much. My heart bleeds for\nyou. And yet--\"\n\n\"_Na_, Padre, there is nothing to do. Were I to find my family I could\nonly slay them and the priests who came between us!\"\n\n\"But, Don Jorge,\" cried Jos\u00e8 in horror, \"you surely meditate no such\nvengeance as that!\"\n\nThe man smiled grimly. \"_Se\u00f1or Padre_,\" he returned coldly, \"I am\nSpanish. The blood of the old cavaliers flows in my veins. I have been\nbetrayed, trapped, fooled, and my honored name has been foully soiled.\nWhat will remove the stain, think you? Blood--nothing else! _Caramba!_\nThe priest of Maganguey who poured the first drop of poison into my\nwife's too willing ears--_Bien_, I have said enough!\"\n\n\"_Hombre!_ You don't mean--\"\n\n\"I mean, _Se\u00f1or Padre_, that I drifted down the river, unseen, to\nMaganguey one night. I entered that priest's house. He did not awake\nthe next morning.\"\n\n\"God!\" exclaimed Jos\u00e8, starting up.\n\n\"_Na_, Padre, not God, but Satan! He rules this world.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 sank back in his chair. Don Jorge leaned forward and laid a hand\nupon his knee. \"My friend,\" he said evenly, \"you are young--how old,\nmay I ask?\"\n\n\"Twenty-seven,\" murmured Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"_Caramba!_ A child! _Bien_, you have much to learn. I took to you on\nthe boat because I knew you had made a mess of things, and it was not\nentirely your fault. I have seen others like you. You are no more in\nthe Church than I am. Now why do you stay here? Do I offend in\nasking?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 hesitated. \"I--I have--work here, se\u00f1or,\" he replied.\n\n\"True,\" said Don Jorge, \"a chance to do much for these poor people--if\nthe odds are not too strong against you. But--are you working for them\nalone? Or--does Diego's child figure in the case? No offense, I assure\nyou--I have reason to ask.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 sought to read his eyes. The man looked squarely into his own,\nand the priest found no deception in their black depths.\n\n\"I--se\u00f1or, she cannot be Diego's child--and I--I would save her!\"\n\nDon Jorge nodded his head. \"_Bien_,\" he said, \"to-morrow I leave for\nSan Lucas. I will return this way.\"\n\nAfter the evening meal the _guaquero_ spread his _petate_ upon the\nfloor and disposed himself for the night. He stubbornly refused to\naccept the priest's bed. _\"Caramba!\"_ he muttered, after he had lain\nquiet for some time, \"why does not the Church permit its clergy to\nmarry, like civilized beings! Do you know, _Se\u00f1or Padre_, I once met a\nwoman in Bogot\u00e1 and held some discussion with her on this topic. She\nsaid, as between a priest who had children, and a married minister,\nshe would infinitely prefer the priest, because, as she put it, no\nmatter how dissolute the priest, the sacraments from his hands would\nstill retain their validity--but never from those of a married\nminister! _Caramba!_ what can you do against such bigotry and awful\nnarrowness, such dense ignorance! Cielo!\"\n\nThe following morning, before sunrise, Don Jorge and his boatmen were\non the lake, leaving Jos\u00e8 to meditate on the vivid experiences of the\npast few days, their strange mental origin, and the lesson which they\nbrought.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 22\n\n\n\"Padre dear,\" said Carmen, \"you know the question that we put under\nthe altar of the old church? Well, God answered it, didn't He?\"\n\n\"I--why, I had forgotten it, child. What was it? You asked Him to tell\nus why the people thought they had to die, did you not? Well--and what\nwas His answer?\"\n\n\"Why, He told us that they were frightened to death, you know.\"\n\n\"True, _chiquita_. Fear killed them--nothing else! They paid the\npenalty of death for believing that Feliz Gomez had slept on a bed\nwhere a man had died of the plague. They died because they--\"\n\n\"Because they didn't know that God was everywhere, Padre dear,\"\ninterrupted Carmen.\n\n\"Just so, _chiquita_. And that is why all people die. And yet,\" he\nadded sadly, \"how are we going to make them know that He is\neverywhere?\"\n\n\"Why, Padre dear, by showing them in our talk and our actions that we\nknow it--by proving it, you know, just as we prove our problems in\nalgebra.\"\n\n\"Yes, poor Feliz, and Amado, and Guillermo died because they sinned,\"\nhe mused. \"They broke the first Commandment by believing that there\nwas another power than God. And that sin brought its inevitable wage,\ndeath. They 'missed the mark,' and sank into the oblivion of their\nfalse beliefs. God above! that I could keep my own mentality free from\nthese same carnal beliefs, and so be a true missionary to suffering\nhumanity! But you, Carmen, you are going to be such a missionary. And\nI believe,\" he muttered through his set teeth, \"that I am appointed to\nshield the girl until God is ready to send her forth! But what, oh,\nwhat will she do when she meets that world which lies beyond her\nlittle Simit\u00ed?\"\n\nRosendo had returned to Guamoc\u00f3. \"The deposit will not last much\nlonger,\" he said to Jos\u00e8, shaking his head dubiously. \"And then--\"\n\n\"Why, then we will find another, Rosendo,\" replied the priest\noptimistically.\n\n_\"Ojal\u00e1!\"_ exclaimed the old man, starting for the trail.\n\nThe day after Don Jorge's departure the Alcalde returned. He stole\nshamefacedly through the streets and barricaded himself in his house.\nThere he gave vent to his monumental wrath. He cruelly abused his\nlong-suffering spouse, and ended by striking her across the face.\nAfter which he sat down and laboriously penned a long letter to Padre\nDiego, in which the names of Jos\u00e8 and Carmen figured plentifully.\n\nFor Don Jorge had met the Alcalde in Juncal, and had roundly jeered\nhim for his cowardly flight. He cited Jos\u00e8 and Rosendo as examples of\nvalor, and pointed out that the Alcalde greatly resembled a captain\nwho fled at the smell of gunpowder. Don Mario swelled with indignation\nand shame. His spleen worked particularly against Rosendo and the\npriest. Come what might, it was time Diego and his superiors in\nCartagena knew what was going on in the parish of Simit\u00ed!\n\nA few days later an unctuous letter came to Jos\u00e8 from Diego,\nrequesting that Carmen be sent to him at once, as he now desired to\nplace her in a convent and thus supplement the religious education\nwhich he was sure Jos\u00e8 had so well begun in her. The priest had\nscarcely read the letter when Don Mario appeared at the parish house.\n\n\"_Bien, Padre_,\" he began smoothly, but without concealing the malice\nwhich lurked beneath his oily words, \"Padre Diego sends for the little\nCarmen, and bids me arrange to have her conveyed at once to Banco. I\nthink Juan will take her down, is it not so?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 looked him squarely in the eyes. \"No, se\u00f1or,\" he said in a voice\nthat trembled with agitation, \"it is not so!\"\n\n_\"Hombre!\"_ exclaimed Don Mario, swelling with suppressed rage. \"You\nrefuse to give Diego his own child?\"\n\n\"No, _se\u00f1or_, but I refuse to give him a child that is not his.\"\n\n\"_Caramba!_ but she is--he has the proofs! And I shall send her to him\nthis day!\"\n\nThe Alcalde shrilled forth his rage like a ruffled parrot. Jos\u00e8 seized\nhim by the shoulders and, turning him swiftly about, pushed him out\ninto the road. He then entered the rear door of Rosendo's house and\nbade Do\u00f1a Maria keep the child close to her.\n\nA few minutes later Fernando Perez appeared at Jos\u00e8's door. He was\nmunicipal clerk, secretary, and constable of Simit\u00ed, all in one. He\nsaluted the priest gravely, and demanded the body of the child Carmen,\nto be returned to her proper father.\n\nJos\u00e8 groaned inwardly. What could he do against the established\nauthority?\n\n\"_Bien, Padre_,\" said Fernando, after delivering his message, \"the\nhour is too late to send her down the river to-day. But deliver her to\nme, and she shall go down at daybreak.\"\n\n\"Listen,\" Jos\u00e8 pleaded desperately, \"Fernando, leave her here\nto-night--this is sudden, you must acknowledge--she must have time to\ntake leave of Do\u00f1a Maria--and--\"\n\n\"_Se\u00f1or Padre_, the Alcalde's order is that she go with me now. I must\nobey.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 felt his control oozing fast. Scarce knowing what he did, he\nquickly stepped back through the rear door, and going to Rosendo's\nhouse, seized a large _machete_, with which he returned to face the\nconstable.\n\n\"Look you, Fernando,\" he cried, holding the weapon menacingly aloft,\n\"if you lay a hand on that girl, I will scatter your brains through\nyonder _plaza_!\"\n\n_\"Caramba!\"_ muttered the constable, falling back. \"_Bien_,\" he\nhastily added, \"I will make this report to the Alcalde!\" With which he\nbeat an abrupt retreat.\n\nJos\u00e8 sank into a chair. But he hastily arose and went into Rosendo's\nhouse. \"Do\u00f1a Maria!\" he cried excitedly, \"leave Carmen with me, and do\nyou hurry through the town and see if Juan is here, and if L\u00e1zaro\nOrtiz has returned from the _hacienda_. Bid them come to me at once,\nand bring their _machetes_!\"\n\nThe woman set out on her errand. Jos\u00e8 seized his _machete_ firmly in\none hand, and with the other drew Carmen to him.\n\n\"What is it, Padre dear?\" the child asked, her eyes big with wonder.\n\"Why do you tremble? I wish you wouldn't always go around thinking\nthat two and two are seven!\"\n\n\"Carmen, child--you do not understand--you are too young, and as yet\nyou have had no experience with--with the world! You must trust me\nnow!\"\n\n\"I do _not_ trust you, Padre,\" she said sadly. \"I can't trust anybody\nwho always sees things that are not so.\"\n\n\"Carmen--you are in danger--and you do not comprehend--\" cried the\ndesperate man.\n\n\"I am _not_ in danger--and I _do_ understand--a great deal better than\nyou do, Padre. Now let me go--you are afraid! People who are afraid\ndie of the plague!\" The irony of her words sank into his soul.\n\nJuan looked in at the door. Jos\u00e8 rose hastily. \"Did you meet Do\u00f1a\nMaria?\" he asked.\n\n\"No, se\u00f1or,\" the lad replied.\n\n\"She is searching for you--have you your _machete_?\"\n\n\"Yes, Padre, I have just come back from the island, where I was\ncutting wood.\"\n\n\"Good, then! Remain here with me. I need you--or may.\"\n\nHe went to the door and looked eagerly down the street. \"Ah!\" he\nexclaimed with relief, \"here come Do\u00f1a Maria and L\u00e1zaro! Now,\nfriends,\" he began, when they were assembled before him, \"grave danger\nthreatens--\"\n\n\"Padre!\" It was Do\u00f1a Maria's voice. \"Where is Carmen?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 turned. The child had disappeared.\n\n\"L\u00e1zaro!\" he cried, \"go at once to the Boque trail! Let no one pass\nthat way with Carmen, if your life be the penalty! Juan, hurry to the\nlake! If either of you see her, call loudly, and I will come! Do\u00f1a\nMaria, start through the town! We must find her! God above, help us!\"\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe afternoon dragged its interminable length across the valley. Jos\u00e8\nwearily entered his house and threw himself upon a chair. He had not\ndared call at the Alcalde's house, for fear he might do that official\nviolence. But he had seen Fernando in the street, and had avoided him.\nThen, of a sudden, a thought came to him from out the darkness. He\nsprang to his feet and hurried off toward the shales. There, beneath\nthe stunted _algarroba_ tree, sat the child.\n\n\"Carmen!\" He rushed to her and clasped her in his arms. \"Why did you\ndo this--?\"\n\n\"Padre,\" she replied, when she could get her breath, \"I had to come\nout here and try to know for you the things you ought to know for\nyourself.\"\n\nHe said nothing; but, holding her hand tightly, he led her back to the\nhouse.\n\nThat evening Jos\u00e8 sent for Don Mario, the constable, and Juan and\nL\u00e1zaro. Assembling them before him in his living room, he talked with\nthem long and earnestly.\n\n\"_Compadres_,\" he said, \"this week we have passed through a sad\nexperience, and the dark angel has robbed us of three of our beloved\nfriends. Is it your wish that death again visit us?\"\n\nThey looked at one another in wonder. The Alcalde scowled darkly at\nthe priest beneath his heavy brows. Jos\u00e8 continued:\n\n\"_Bien_, it is planned to seize the little Carmen by force, and send\nher down the river to Padre Diego--\"\n\n_\"Dios y diablo!\"_ Juan had sprung to his feet. \"Who says that,\nPadre?\" he demanded savagely. The Alcalde shrank back in his chair.\n\n\"Be calm, Juan!\" Jos\u00e8 replied. \"Padre Diego sends for her by\nletter--is it not so, Don Mario?\"\n\nThe latter grunted. Juan wheeled about and stared menacingly at the\nbulky official.\n\n\"Now, friends,\" Jos\u00e8 pursued, \"it has not been shown that Carmen\nbelongs to Diego--in fact, all things point to the conclusion that she\nis not his child. My wish is to be just to all concerned. But shall we\nlet the child go to him, knowing what manner of man he is, until it is\nproven beyond all doubt that he is her father?\"\n\n\"_Caramba!_ No!\" exclaimed Juan and L\u00e1zaro in unison.\n\n\"And I am of the opinion that the majority of our citizens would\nsupport us in the contention. What think you, friends?\"\n\n\"Every man in Simit\u00ed, Padre,\" replied L\u00e1zaro earnestly.\n\n\"Don Mario,\" said Jos\u00e8, turning to the Alcalde, \"until it is\nestablished that Diego has a parent's claim to the girl, Juan and\nL\u00e1zaro and I will protect her with our lives. Is it not so, _amigos_?\"\naddressing the two men.\n\n\"_Hombre!_ Let me see a hand laid upon her!\" cried Juan rising.\n\nL\u00e1zaro spoke more deliberately. \"Padre,\" he said. \"I owe you much. I\nknow you to be q good man--not like Padre Diego. I know not what claim\nhe may have on the girl, but this I say: I will follow and support you\nuntil it is shown me that you are in the wrong.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 went over and clasped his hand. Then, to the town officials:\n\n\"_Bien, amigos_, we will let the matter rest thus, shall we not? We\nnow understand one another. If harm comes to the child, the death\nangel will again stalk through this town, and--\" he looked hard at Don\nMario, whilst that official visibly shrank in size--\"_Bien_,\" he\nconcluded, \"a sharp watch will be kept over the child. We will submit\nto proofs--but to nothing less. And violence will bring bloodshed and\ndeath.\"\n\n\"But--_Caramba_!\" cried Don Mario, at last finding his voice. \"If\nDiego has the Bishop back of him, he will force us to deliver the\ngirl--or the Bishop will have the government soldiers sent here! I can\nask for them--and if necessary I will!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 paled slightly. He knew the Alcalde spoke truth. Don Mario,\nseeing that his words had taken effect, quickly followed up the\nadvantage. \"Now you, Juan and L\u00e1zaro, do you think the little whelp\nworth that?\"\n\nThe words were scarcely out of his mouth when Juan leaped across the\nfloor and fell upon him. Jos\u00e8 seized the lad and, with Fernando's\nhelp, tore him loose. L\u00e1zaro held his _machete_ aloft, ready to\nstrike. Jos\u00e8's voice rang out sharply:\n\n\"Hold, men! Stop! Go you to your homes now! Juan, do you stay here\nwith me!\"\n\nThe lad faced the Alcalde and shook his fist. \"_Bien_,\" he sputtered,\n\"send for the soldiers, fat dog that you are! But when I see them\ncrossing the lake, I will come first to your house and cut open that\nbig belly!\"\n\n\"Arrest him, Fernando!\" shrilled the Alcalde, shaking with rage.\n\n\"I will cut off the hand that is laid on Juan!\" cried L\u00e1zaro,\nadvancing.\n\n\"Men! Men! Don Mario and Fernando, go now! Enough of this! And for\nGod's sake think twice before you make any further move!\"\n\nDon Mario and his constable departed in sullen silence. Jos\u00e8 let\nL\u00e1zaro out through the rear door, while he bade Juan pass the night in\nthe parish house. A consultation was held with Do\u00f1a Maria, and it was\narranged that Carmen should sleep in the room with Jos\u00e8, with Juan\nlying before the door, until Rosendo should return from the mountains.\nThen Jos\u00e8 sat down and wrote to the Bishop.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nNo reply came from Cartagena until Rosendo returned at the end of the\nmonth. Meanwhile, Jos\u00e8 had never for a moment permitted Carmen to\nleave his side. The child chafed under the limitation; but Jos\u00e8 and\nDo\u00f1a Maria were firm. Juan lived with the priest; and L\u00e1zaro lurked\nabout the parish house like a shadow. The Alcalde and his constable\nremained discreetly aloof.\n\nBut with Rosendo's return came letters from both Wenceslas and Diego.\nThe latter had laid aside his unction, and now made a curt and\nperemptory demand upon Jos\u00e8 for the child. The letter from Wenceslas\nwas noncommittal, stating only that he was quite uninformed of Diego's\nclaim, but that an investigation should be made. Jos\u00e8 wondered if he\nhad blundered in laying the case before him.\n\n_\"Hombre!\"_ ejaculated Rosendo, when he heard Jos\u00e8's story. \"It is as\nI feared! And now the Bishop has the matter in hand! _Caramba!_ We\nshall lose her yet!\n\n\"And, Padre,\" he added, \"the deposit is played out. There is no more\ngold there. And, now that we shall have none to send to the Bishop\neach month, Carmen's fate is settled--unless we go away. And where\nshall we go? We could not get out of the country.\" He hung his head\nand sat in gloomy dejection.\n\nFor more than a year Rosendo had panned the isolated alluvial deposit,\nand on his regular monthly returns to Simit\u00ed he and the priest had\nsent from thirty to ninety _pesos_ gold to Wenceslas. To this Jos\u00e8\nsometimes added small amounts collected from the people of Simit\u00ed,\nwhich they had gratuitously given him for Masses and for the support\nof the parish. Wenceslas, knowing the feeble strength of the parish,\nwas surprised, but discreet; and though he continually urged Jos\u00e8 to\ngreater efforts, and held out the allurements of \"indulgences and\nspecial dispensations,\" he made no inquiries regarding the source of\nthe monthly contributions.\n\nFor many days following, Rosendo and the priest went about as in a\nthick, black cloud. \"Rosendo,\" said Jos\u00e8 at length, \"go back to the\nmountains and search again. God was with us before. Have we any reason\nto doubt Him now?\"\n\n\"And leave Carmen here, exposed to the danger that always hangs over\nher? _Caramba_, no! I would not go back now even if the deposit were\nnot worked out! No!\" Jos\u00e8 knew it would be futile to urge him.\n\nCarmen came to the priest that same day. \"Padre, I heard you and padre\nRosendo talking this morning. Have you no money, no gold?\"\n\n\"Why, child--there seems to be a need just at present,\" he replied\nlightly. \"But we might--well, we might send another of your questions\nto God. What say you?\"\n\n\"Of course!\" she cried delightedly, turning at once and hurrying away\nfor pencil and paper.\n\n\"Now,\" she panted, seating herself at the table. \"Let us see; we want\nHim to give us _pesos_, don't we?\"\n\n\"Yes--many--a large sum. Make it big,\" he said facetiously.\n\n\"Well, you know, Padre dear,\" she replied seriously, \"we can't ask for\ntoo much--for we already have everything, haven't we? After all, we\ncan only ask to see what we really already have.\n\n\"Say 'yes,' Padre dear,\" she pleaded, looking up appealingly at him\nstaring silently at her. Oh, if she could only impart to him even a\nlittle of her abundant faith! She had enough, and to spare!\n\n\"Well, here it is,\" she said, holding out the paper.\n\nHe took it and read--\"Dear, dear God: Padre Jos\u00e8 needs _pesos_--lots\nof them. What shall he do?\"\n\n\"And now,\" she continued, \"shall we put it under the altar of the old\nchurch?\"\n\nHe smiled; but immediately assumed an expression of great seriousness.\n\"Why not in the church here, the one we are using? The other is so far\naway?\" he suggested. \"And it is getting dark now.\"\n\n\"But--no, we will go where we went before,\" she concluded firmly.\n\nAgain he yielded. Taking matches and a piece of candle, he set off\nwith the girl in a circuitous route for the hill, which they gained\nunobserved. Within the musty old church he struck a light, and they\nclimbed over the _d\u00e9bris_ and to the rear of the crumbling altar.\n\n\"See!\" she cried joyously. \"Here is my other question that He\nanswered! Doesn't He answer them quick though! Why, it took only a\nday!\"\n\nShe drew the old paper from beneath the adobe brick. Then she\nhesitated. \"Let us put this question in a new place,\" she said. \"Look,\nup there, where the bricks have fallen out,\" pointing to the part of\nthe altar that had crumbled away.\n\nJos\u00e8 rose obediently to execute the commission. His thought was far\noff, even in Cartagena, where sat the powers that must be held quiet\nif his cherished plans were not to fail. He reached out and grasped\none of the projecting bricks to steady himself. As he did so, the\nbrick, which was loose, gave way with him, and he fell, almost across\nCarmen, followed by a shower of rubbish, as another portion of the old\naltar fell out.\n\n_\"Hombre!\"_ he ejaculated, picking himself up. \"What good luck that\nthe candle was not extinguished! And now, se\u00f1orita, are you willing\nthat we should bury this important question here on the floor; or must\nI again try to put it in the altar itself?\"\n\n\"Up there,\" insisted the child, laughing and still pointing above.\n\nHe rose and looked about, searching for a convenient place to deposit\nthe paper. Then something attracted his attention, something buried in\nthe altar, but now exposed by the falling out of the fresh portion. It\nwas metal, and it glittered in the feeble candle light. He reached in\nand hastily scraped away more of the hard mud. Then, trembling with\nsuppressed excitement, he pulled out another brick. Clearly, it was a\nbox that had been buried in there--who knows when? He gave the candle\nto Carmen and bade her stand up close. Then with both hands he\ncarefully removed the adjacent bricks until the entire box was in\nview.\n\n_\"Hombre!\"_ he muttered. \"What do you suppose this is? A box--\"\n\n\"Oh!\" exclaimed the girl in delight. \"A box to put our question in,\nPadre!\"\n\n\"More likely the answer itself, child!\" muttered the excited priest,\nstraining and tugging away at it. \"Carmen! Stand aside!\" he suddenly\ncommanded. \"Now--\" He gave a final pull. A crash of falling bricks\nfollowed; the candle was extinguished; and both he and the child were\nprecipitated to the floor.\n\n\"Carmen!\" called the priest, choking with dust, \"are you hurt?\"\n\n\"No, Padre dear,\" came the laughing answer through the darkness. \"But\nI'm pretty full of dust. And the candle is buried.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 groped about for the box. It lay near, a small, wooden coffer,\nbound about with two narrow bands of steel. He dragged it out and bore\nit down the aisle to the door, followed by Carmen.\n\n\"Padre!\" she exclaimed eagerly. \"What is it?\"\n\nHe dusted it off and examined it carefully in the fast fading light.\nIt was some twelve inches square by three deep, well made of mahogany,\nand secured by a small, iron padlock. On the top there was a crest of\narms and the letters, \"I de R,\" burned into the wood.\n\nNight had closed in, and the priest and girl made their way hurriedly\nback home by way of the lake, to avoid being seen. Under his cassock\nJos\u00e8 carried the box, so heavy that it chafed the skin from his hip as\nthey stumbled along.\n\n\"Carmen, say nothing--but tell your padre Rosendo to come to me at\nonce!\"\n\nWith the doors secured, and Carmen and Do\u00f1a Maria standing guard\noutside to apprise them of danger, Jos\u00e8 and Rosendo covertly examined\nthe discovery.\n\n\"I de R!\" pondered Rosendo, studying the box. Then--\"_Caramba!_\nPadre--_Caramba!_ It is _Ignacio de Rinc\u00f3n!_ _Hombre!_ And the\ncrest--it is his! I have seen it before--years and years ago!\n_Caramba!_ _Caramba!_\" The old man danced about like a child.\n\n\"Ignacio de Rinc\u00f3n! Your grandfather!\" he kept exclaiming, his eyes\nbig as saucers. Then, hastening out to get his iron bar, he returned\nand with a blow broke the rusty padlock. Tearing open the hinged\ncover, he fell back with a loud cry.\n\nBefore their strained gaze, packed carefully in sawdust, lay several\nbars of yellow metal. Rosendo took them out with trembling hands and\nlaid them upon the floor. \"Gold, Padre, gold!\" he muttered hoarsely.\n\"Gold, buried by your grandfather! _Caramba!--_\n\n\"Hold these, Padre!\" hurrying out and returning with a pair of\nhomemade wooden balances. Again and again he carefully weighed the\nbars. Then he began to calculate. It seemed to Jos\u00e8 that the old man\nwasted hours arriving at a satisfactory result.\n\n\"Padre,\" he finally announced in tones which he strove vainly to\ncontrol, \"there cannot be less than six thousand _pesos oro_ here!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 drew a long breath. \"Six thousand _pesos_--twenty-four thousand\nfrancs! It is a fortune! Rosendo, we are rich!\"\n\nThe trembling old man replaced the bars and carried them to Jos\u00e8's\nbed. The priest opened the door and called to Carmen.\n\n\"What was in the old box, Padre?\" she asked happily, bounding into the\nroom.\n\nHe stooped and picked her up, almost crushing her in his arms. \"The\nanswer to your question, _chiquita_. 'Before they call I will answer:\nand while they are yet speaking, I will hear.'\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 23\n\n\nWhen Jos\u00e8 awoke the next morning he quickly put his hand under his\npillow. Yes, the little coffer was there! It had not been a dream. He\ndrew it forth and raised the cover. The yellow bars glittered in the\nmorning rays sifting through the overhanging thatch at the window. He\npassed his hand gently across them. What a fortunate discovery! And\nhow strangely brought about. They were rich! Now he could take Carmen\nand flee! His heart leaped within him as he hastily threw on his scant\nattire and went out into the balsamic air of the tropical morning.\nRosendo had gone to the village of Boque, starting before sun-up, so\nDo\u00f1a Maria announced. Some sudden impulse had seized him, and he had\nset out forthwith, not stopping to discuss the motive with his\nfaithful consort. Jos\u00e8 concluded his _desayuno_, and then summoned\nCarmen to the parish house for the day's lessons. She came with a song\non her lips.\n\n\"Don't stop, _chiquita_! Sing it again--it is beautiful; and my soul\ndrinks it in like heavenly dew!\" he cried, as the child danced up to\nhim and threw her plump arms about his neck.\n\nShe turned about and sat down on the dusty threshold and repeated the\nlittle song. The glittering sunlight streamed through her rich curls\nlike stringers of wire gold. Cucumbra came fawning to her and nestled\nat her little bare feet, caressing them at frequent intervals with his\nrough tongue. Cantar-las-horas approached with dignified tread, and,\nstopping before his adored little mistress, cocked his head to one\nside and listened attentively, his beady eyes blinking in the dazzling\nlight.\n\nJos\u00e8 marveled anew as he listened. Where had that voice come from? Had\neither of her parents been so gifted? he wondered. And yet, it was\nonly the voicing of a soul of stainless purity--a conscience clear as\nthe light that gilded her curls--a trust, a faith, a knowledge of\nimmanent good, that manifested daily, hourly, in a tide of happiness\nwhose far verge melted into the shore of eternity. As he sat with\nclosed eyes the adobe hut, with its dirt floor and shabby furnishings,\nexpanded into a castle, hung with richest tapestries, rarest pictures,\nand glittering with plate of gold. The familiar odors of garlic and\nsaffron, which penetrated from the primitive kitchen of Do\u00f1a Maria,\nwere transmuted into delicate perfumes. The sun drew nearer, and\nsuffused him with its glittering flood. The girl became a white-robed\nvision, and her song a benediction, voicing \"Glory to God in the\nhighest, and on earth peace among men of good will.\"\n\nThe song ended, and left the thought with him: \"To men of good will?\"\nYes, to men of God's will--the will that is good--to men of sound\nmind--that mind which was in Christ Jesus--the mind that knows no\nevil! To such is eternal peace.\n\n\"_Chiquita_,\" the priest said gently, when the girl returned to him.\n\"Your question was quickly answered yesterday, was it not?\"\n\nShe laughed up into his face. \"It was answered, Padre, before we asked\nit. God has the answers to all questions that could ever be asked. We\nwould always know the answers if we thought the way He does.\"\n\n\"But--tell me, _chiquita_, do you think He put that little box up\nthere in the altar purposely for us?\"\n\n\"No, Padre--I guess it was hidden there by some man, long ago, who was\nafraid he would lose it. And since he was afraid he would lose it,\nwhy--he did, for now we have it.\"\n\n\"Yes, the thing that he greatly feared came upon him. But what is your\nidea regarding the way we happened to find it? Did God lead us to\nit?\"\n\n\"God leads to everything good, Padre dear,\" was the simple response.\n\n\"Of course. But, in this particular case--would we have been led to\nthe little box if you had not asked your question of God?\"\n\n\"Why not, Padre? People are always led right when they think right.\"\n\n\"And so thinking right was the cause of this discovery, was it?\" he\npursued, relentlessly probing her thought to its depths.\n\n\"Why--yes, Padre--of course. We had to have money--you said so, you\nknow. And you told me to ask for lots of _pesos_. Well, we both knew\nthat God had already given us more _pesos_ than we could ever know\nwhat to do with--He always does. He just can't help giving Himself to\neverybody. And He gave Himself to us--why, we have always had Him! We\nare _in_ Him, you know. And when anybody just knows that--why, he sees\nnothing but good everywhere, and he always has all that he needs.\"\n\n\"All that he wants, you mean, _chiquita_?\"\n\n\"No, Padre, not all that he wants. Just all that he needs. You might\nwant all the gold in the world--but you wouldn't need it.\"\n\n\"No, that would be only a selfish, human want. It would be covetousness.\nBut--you still think we were led right to the little box, do you?\"\n\n\"I know it, Padre dear,\" she replied emphatically. \"When we think\ngood, we see good. It always comes out that way. It is just as sure as\ngetting the right answers to my problems in algebra when I think right\nabout them.\"\n\n\"And thinking right about them means using the right rule, does it\nnot?\"\n\n\"Yes--of course. If I didn't use the right rule--why, what sort of\nanswers would I get? All jumbled up!\"\n\n\"Surely--perfect chaos. But still,\" vigorously pursuing the subject,\n\"you don't think we happened upon the little box just by good luck?\"\n\n\"Padre,\" she shook her curls insistently, \"things never happen,\n_never_! We see only what we think--always!\"\n\n\"Yes, there surely does seem to be a definite law of cause and effect.\nBut you did not think gold yesterday, _chiquita_.\"\n\n\"Oh, Padre dear, what a bother you are! No, I didn't think gold\nyesterday. I never think gold. But I always think _good_. And that is\ngold and everything else that we need. Can't you see? And it wasn't\njust because I thought good yesterday, but because I think good every\nday, that I saw the gold. It was because we needed it, and God had\nalready given us all that we needed. And I knew that it just _had_ to\ncome. And so did you. Then, because we really needed it, and knew that\nit was right and that it must come--well, it did. Can't you see?\" Her\nlittle face was very serious as she looked up appealingly into his.\n\n\"Yes, _chiquita_, yes, I see. I just wanted to know how you would\nexplain it. It becomes clearer to me every day that there are no such\nthings as miracles--never were! Christ Jesus _never_ performed\nmiracles, if by that we mean that he set aside God's laws for the\nbenefit of mankind. But he acted in perfect accord with those\nlaws--and no wonder the results seemed miraculous to dull-witted human\nminds, who had always seen only their coarse, material thought\nexternalized in material laws and objects, in chance, mixed good and\nevil, and a God of human characteristics!\"\n\n\"Yes--I--guess so, Padre dear--only, I don't understand your big\nwords.\"\n\n\"Ah, _chiquita_, you understand far, far better than I do! Why, I am\nlearning it all from you! But come, now for the lessons.\"\n\nAnd Jos\u00e8 had learned by this time, too, that between merely\nrecognizing righteousness as right-thinking, and actually practicing\nit--putting it to the test so as to \"prove\" God--there is a vast\ndifference. Things cannot be \"thought\" into existence, nor evils\n\"thought\" away--the stumbling block of the mere tyro in the study of\nmental cause and effect. A vast development in spirituality must\nprecede those \"signs following\" before mankind shall again do the\nworks of the Master. Jos\u00e8 knew this; and he bowed in humble\nsubmission, praying for daily light.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nAt dusk Rosendo returned. \"_Bien_, Padre, I have it now, I think!\" he\ncried excitedly, pacing back and forth in the little room.\n\n\"What, Rosendo?\" asked the wondering priest.\n\n\"The secret of the little box! Come, while we eat I will tell you!\"\n\nThe little group gathered about the table, while Rosendo unfolded his\ntheory.\n\n\"I went to Boque this morning to talk with Do\u00f1a Lucia. She is very\naged, the oldest inhabitant in these parts. _Bien_, I knew that she\nhad known Don Ignacio, although she was not his slave. Her story\nbrought back to me also the things my father had often told me about\nDon Ignacio's last trip to Simit\u00ed. Putting all these things together,\nI think I now know how the little box came to be hidden in the altar\nof the old church.\"\n\nThe old man's eyes sparkled with happiness, while his auditors drew\ncloser about him to drink in his dramatic recital. For Rosendo, like a\ntrue Latin, reveled in a wonder-tale. And his recitals were always\naccompanied by profuse gesticulation and wonderful facial expressions\nand much rolling of the eyes.\n\n\"_Bien_,\" he continued, \"it was this way. Don Ignacio's possessions in\nGuamoc\u00f3 were enormous, and in the then prosperous city of Simit\u00ed he\nhad stores and warehouses and much property. When the War of\nIndependence neared its end, and he saw that the Royalist cause was\nlost, he made a last and flying trip to Simit\u00ed, going up the Magdalena\nriver from Cartagena in his own _champ\u00e1n_, propelled by some of his\nstill faithful slaves.\n\n\"_Bien_, he found that one of his foremen had just returned from the\nmountains with the final clean-up from La Libertad _arrastras_. These\nhad been abandoned, for most of the slaves had deserted, or gone to\nfight the Spaniards. But the foreman, who was not a slave, but a\nfaithful employe, had cleaned up the _arrastras_ and hidden the\namalgam until he could find a favorable opportunity to come down to\nSimit\u00ed with it.\n\n\"Now, when Don Ignacio arrived here, he found the town practically\ndeserted. So he and the foreman retorted the amalgam and melted the\ngold into bars. But, just as they had completed their task, a\nmessenger came flying to town and reported that a body of Royalist\nsoldiers were at Badillo, and that they had learned that Simit\u00ed was\nthe _bodega_ of the rich Guamoc\u00f3 district, and were preparing to come\nover and sack the town. They were fleeing down the river to the coast,\nto get away to Spain as soon as possible, but had put off at Badillo\nto come over here. Fortunately, they had become very intoxicated, and\ntheir expedition was for that reason delayed.\n\n\"_Bueno_, at the news the foreman dropped everything and fled for his\nlife. A few people gathered with the priest in the Rinc\u00f3n church, the\none you are using now, Padre. The priest of the other old church on\nthe hill fled. _Caramba_, but he was a coward--and he got well paid\nfor it, too! But of that later.\n\n\"Don Ignacio's _champ\u00e1n_ was at Badillo, and he had come across to\nSimit\u00ed by canoe. _Bien_, he dared not take this gold back with him;\nand so he thought of hiding it in one of the churches, for that is\nalways a sacred place. There were people in his own church, and so he\nhurried to the one on the hill. Evidently, as he looked about in the\ndeserted building for a place to hide the bars, he saw that some of\nthe bricks could easily be removed from the rear of the altar. A\ncouple of hours sufficed to do the work of secreting the box. Then he\nfled across the shales to the town of Boque, where he got a canoe to\ntake him down to the Magdalena; and there he waited until he saw the\nsoldiers come across and enter the _ca\u00f1o_. Then he fled to Badillo.\nDon Nicol\u00e1s, son of Do\u00f1a Lucia, was his boatman, and he says that he\nremained with your grandfather at that place over night, and that\nthere they received the report that the Royalists had been terribly\nwhipped in the battle--the battle of--_Caramba_! I forget--\"\n\n\"Of Ayacucho,\" suggested Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"Just so,\" resumed Rosendo. \"_Bien_, there was nothing for the poor\nman to do but hasten down the river to Cartagena as fast as possible,\nfor he knew not what might have befallen his family. He did not dare\ngo back to Simit\u00ed then for the box. And so the gold was left in the\naltar.\"\n\n_\"Hombre!\"_ exclaimed Jos\u00e8. \"Now I understand what he meant by that\nnote in his old diary, which we had in my father's house, in Spain! Of\ncourse! Arriving in Cartagena he went at once to the Department of\nMines and tore out all the pages of the register that contained\ndescriptions of his mineral properties. He intended some day to return\nto Guamoc\u00f3 and again locate them. And meantime, he protected himself\nby destroying all the registered locations. It was easy for him to do\nthis, influential as he was in Cartagena. And doubtless at that stormy\ntime the office of the Department of Mines was deserted. This note,\nRosendo, I have read in his old diary, many times, but never knew to\nwhat it referred.\"\n\n_\"Hombre!\"_ ejaculated Rosendo. \"_Bueno_, the soldiers sacked Simit\u00ed\nand slaughtered all the people they could find. Then they set fire to\nthe town, and left. My parents had fled to Guamoc\u00f3.\n\n\"But now for the old church and the picture of the Virgin that was\nlost during the terrible storm when the priest fell dead. We will have\nto guess that later, when peace had been restored, the priest of the\nold church in prying around the altar discovered the loose bricks and\nthe box behind them. _Bueno_, the night of the awful storm he had gone\nsecretly to the church to remove the box. I remember that my father\nsaid the priest had arranged for my father to take him down to Bodega\nCentral the very next day. You see, he was going to flee with the\ngold, the rogue! _Bien_, while he was in the church taking out the\nloose bricks, that storm broke--and, from what I remember, it was\nterrible! The heavens were ablaze with lightning; the thunder roared\nlike cannon; and the lake rose right out of its bed! _Caramba!_ The\ndoor of the church crashed open, and the wind whistled in and blew out\nthe candles on the altar. The wind also tore loose a beautiful picture\nof the Virgin that was hanging near the altar. The picture was blown\nout of its frame and swept off to the hills, or into the lake. It was\nnever seen again, although the frame was found just outside the door.\nPerhaps it was the extinguishing of the candles and the falling of the\npicture that frightened the old priest so terribly. At any rate he ran\nfrom the church to his house, and when he reached his door he fell\ndead of apoplexy.\n\n\"_Bueno_, after that you could never get any of the Simit\u00ed people to\nenter the church again. They closed the doors and left it, just as it\nwas, for they thought the curse of God had fallen upon it because it\nhad been erected by the enemies of the Rinc\u00f3n family, whose patron\nsaint was the blessed Virgin herself. Well, the old altar began to\ncrumble, and parts of it fell away from time to time. And when the\npeople heard the bricks falling they said it was the bad angel that\nthe Virgin had locked in there--the angel of Satan that had\nextinguished the candles on the altar that night of the storm.\n_Caramba!_ And I believed it, too! I am a fool, Padre, a fool!\"\n\n\"We are all fools, Rosendo, when we yield ourselves to superstition\nand false belief,\" said Jos\u00e8 solemnly. \"But you have worked out a very\ningenious story, and I doubt not you have come very near to accounting\nin the right way for the presence of the little box in the altar. But\nnow, _amigo_, come with me to my house. I would discuss a plan with\nyou.\n\n\"It is this, Rosendo,\" he said, when they were alone. \"We now have\ngold, and the way has been providentially opened. Carmen is in great\ndanger here. What say you, shall we take her and leave Simit\u00ed?\"\n\nRosendo's face became grave. He did not reply for some moments.\n\n\"Padre,\" he said at length, \"you are right. It would be best for her\nif we could get her away. But--you would have to leave the country. I\nsee now that neither she nor you would be safe anywhere in Colombia if\nyou left Simit\u00ed.\"\n\n\"True, Rosendo,\" replied Jos\u00e8. \"And I am sure that no country\noffers the asylum that America does--the America of the north. I\nhave never been there, _amigo_; but of all countries I learn that it\nis the most tolerant in matters religious. And it offers the\ngreatest opportunities to one, like Carmen, just entering upon life.\nWe will go there. And, Rosendo, prepare yourself and Do\u00f1a Maria at\nonce, for we had best start without delay.\"\n\nBut Rosendo shook his head. \"No, Padre,\" he said slowly. \"No. I could\nnot go to the North with you; nor could Maria.\"\n\n\"But, Rosendo!\" exclaimed the priest impatiently, \"why?\"\n\n\"_Bien_, Padre, we are old. And we know not the language of those up\nthere. Nor the customs. We could not adapt ourselves to their ways of\nlife--no, not at our age. Nor could we endure the change of climate.\nYou tell me they have cold, ice, snow, up there. What could we do? We\nwould die. No, we must remain here. But--\" his voice choked.\n\n\"_Bien_, Padre, do you go, and take the girl. Bring her up to be a\npower for good in that great land. We--Maria and I--will remain in\nSimit\u00ed. It is not permitted that we should ever leave. This has always\nbeen our home, and here we will die.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 exclaimed again in impatience. But the old man was immovable.\n\n\"No, Padre, we could not make so great a change. Anywhere in Colombia\nwould be but little different from Simit\u00ed. But up north--in that great\ncountry where they do those wonderful things you have told me\nabout--no, Padre, Maria and I could not make so great a change.\n\n\"But, Padre,\" he continued, \"what will you do--leave the Church? Or\nwill you still be a priest up there?\"\n\nThe question startled Jos\u00e8 rudely. In the great joy which the\ndiscovery of the gold had stimulated, and in the thought of the\npossibilities opened by it, he had given no heed to his status\nrespecting the Church. Yet, if he remained in the Church, he could not\nmake this transfer without the approval of the Vatican. And that, he\nwell knew, could not be obtained. No, if he went, he must leave behind\nall ecclesiastical ties. And with them, doubtless, the ties which\nstill bound him to his distant mother and the family whose honored\nname he bore. It was not so easy a matter to take the girl and leave\nSimit\u00ed, now that he gave the project further consideration.\n\nAnd yet he could not abandon the idea, however great his present sense\nof disappointment. He would cling to it as an ideal, some day to be\nrealized, and to be worked up to as rapidly as might be, without\nexciting suspicion, and without abruptly severing the ties which, on\nserious reflection, he found he was not morally strong enough as yet\nto break.\n\n\"_Bien_, Rosendo,\" he concluded in chastened tones. \"We will think it\nover, and try to devise ways to accomplish the greatest good for the\nchild. I shall remain here for the present.\"\n\nRosendo's face beamed with joy. \"The way will be shown us some time,\nPadre!\" he exclaimed. \"And while we wait, we will keep our eyes open,\nno?\"\n\nYes, Jos\u00e8 would keep his eyes open and his heart receptive. After\nall, as he meditated the situation in the quiet of his little cottage\nthat evening, he was not sorry that circumstances kept him longer in\nSimit\u00ed. For he had long been meditating a plan, and the distraction\nincident upon a complete change of environment certainly would delay,\nif not entirely defeat, its consummation. He had planned to\ntranslate his Testament anew, in the light of various works on\nBible criticism which the explorer had mentioned, and which the\npossession of the newly discovered gold now made attainable. He had\nwith him his Greek lexicon. He would now, in the freedom from\ninterruption which Simit\u00ed could and probably would afford for the\nensuing few months, give himself up to his consecrated desire to\nextract from the sacred writings the spiritual meaning crystallized\nwithin them. The vivid experiences which had fallen to him in\nSimit\u00ed had resulted in the evolution of ideas--radically at variance\nwith the world's materialistic thought, it is true--which he was\nlearning to look upon as demonstrable truths. The Bible had slowly\ntaken on a new meaning to him, a meaning far different from that\nset forth in the clumsy, awkward phrases and expressions into which\nthe translators so frequently poured the wine of the spirit, and\nwhich, literally interpreted, have resulted in such violent\ncontroversies, such puerile ideas of God and His thought toward man,\nand such religious hatred and bigotry, bloodshed, suffering, and\nmaterial stagnation throughout the so-called Christian era. He would\napproach the Gospels, not as books of almost undecipherable\nmystery, not as the biography of the blessed Virgin, but as\ncontaining the highest human interpretation of truth and its relation\nto mankind.\n\n\"I seek knowledge,\" he repeated aloud, as he paced back and forth\nthrough his little living room at night; \"but it is not a knowledge\nof Goethe, of Kant, or Shakespeare; it is not a knowledge of the\npoets, the scientists, the philosophers, all whom the world holds\ngreatest in the realm of thought; it is a knowledge of Thee, my\nGod, to know whom is life eternal! Men think they can know Homer,\nPlato, Confucius--and so they can. But they think they can _not_\nknow Thee! And yet Thou art nearer to us than the air we breathe, for\nThou art Life! What is there out in the world among the multifold\ninterests of mankind that can equal in importance a demonstrable\nknowledge of Thee? Not the unproven theories and opinions, the\nso-called 'authority' of the ancient Fathers, good men though they\nmay have been; not modern pseudo-science, half-truths and relative\nfacts, saturated with materialism and founded on speculation and\nhypothesis; but real knowledge, a knowledge of Thee that is as\ndemonstrable as the simplest rule in mathematics! Alas! that men\nshould be so mesmerized by their own beliefs as to say Thou canst\nnot be known. Alas! for the burden which such thinkers as Spencer\nhave laid upon the shoulders of stumbling mankind. For God _can_ be\nknown, and proven--else is Jesus responsible for the most cruel lie\never perpetrated upon the ignorant, suffering world!\"\n\nAnd so, putting aside a portion of his gold--his by right of\ninheritance as well as discovery--for the future purchase of such\nbooks and aids as he might require, Jos\u00e8 set his house in order and\nthen plunged into such a search of the Scriptures as rendered him\noblivious to all but the immediate interests of Carmen and her\nfoster-parents. The great world again narrowed into the rock-bound\nconfines of little Simit\u00ed. Each rushing morn that shot its fiery glow\nthrough the lofty treetops sank quickly into the hush of noon, while\nthe dust lay thick, white, and hot on the slumbering streets of the\nancient town; each setting sun burned with dreamy radiance through the\nafternoon haze that drew its filmy veil across the seething valley;\neach night died into a stillness, lonely and awful. Nature changed her\ngarb with monotonous regularity; the drowsing children of this tropic\nregion passed their days in dull torpidity; Jos\u00e8 saw nothing of it\nall. At times a villager would bring a tale of grievance to pour into\nhis ears--perhaps a jaguar had pounced upon his dog on his little\n_finca_ across the lake, or a huge snake had lured a suckling pig into\nits cavernous maw. At times a credulous woman would stop before his\nopen door to dilate upon the thick worms that hung upon the leaves of\nthe _algarrobas_ and dropped their wool-like fibers upon the natives\nas they passed below, causing intermittent fevers. Perhaps an anxious\nmother would seek him for advice regarding her little son, who had\neaten too much dirt, and was suffering from the common \"_jipitera_,\"\nthat made his poor little abdomen protrude so uncomfortably. Again,\nRosendo might steal in for a few moments' mysterious, whispered talk\nabout buried treasure, or the fables of El Dorado and Parim\u00e9. Jos\u00e8 had\ntime for them all, though as he listened his thought hovered ever\nabout the green verge of Galilee.\n\nBy his side worked Carmen, delving assiduously into the mysteries\nof mathematics and the modern languages. When the day's work closed\nfor them both, he often asked her to sing to him. And then, leaning\nback with closed eyes, he would yield himself to the soft dreams\nwhich her sweet voice called up from his soul's unfathomed depths.\nOften they walked together by the lake on a clear night; and on\nthese little excursions, during which they were never beyond\nRosendo's watchful eye, Jos\u00e8 reveled in the girl's airy gaiety and\nthe spontaneous flow of her sparkling thought. He called her his\ndomestic sunbeam; but in his serious moments--and they were\nmany--he studied her with a wistful earnestness, while he sought to\nimbibe her great trust, her fearlessness, her unswerving loyalty to\nthe Christ-principle of immanent Good. He would never permit\nrestraint to be imposed upon her, even by Rosendo or his good wife.\nShe knew not what it was to be checked in the freest manifestation\nof her natural character. But there was little occasion for\nrestraint, for Carmen dwelt ever in the consciousness of a spiritual\nuniverse, and to it paid faithful tribute. She saw and knew only\nfrom a spiritual basis; and she reaped the rewards incident thereto.\nHis life and hers were such as fools might label madness, a\ncolorless, vegetative existence, devoid of even the elemental\nthings that make mundane existence worth the while. But the\nappraisal of fools is their own folly. Jos\u00e8 knew that the torrid\ndays which drew their monotonous length over the little town were\nwitnessing a development in both himself and the child that some day\nwould bear richest fruit. So far from being educated to distrust\nspiritual power, as are the children of this world, Carmen was\ngrowing up to know no other. Instead of the preponderance of her\nbelief and confidence being directed to the material, she was\ndeveloping the consciousness that the so-called evidence of the\nphysical senses is but mortal thought, the suppositional opposite of\nthe thought of the infinite God who says to mankind: \"For I know the\nthoughts that I think toward you, thoughts of peace and not of\nevil, to give you an expected end.\" Jos\u00e8 knew that his method of\neducation was revolutionary. But he also knew that it was not\nwholly his; that the child had really taken this course herself,\nas if led thereto by a power beyond them both.\n\nAnd so he watched her, and sought to learn from her as from Christ's\nown loving and obedient disciple. It was because of his obedience to\nGod that Jesus was able to \"prove\" Him in the mighty works which we\ncall miracles. He said, \"If any man will do His will, he shall know of\nthe doctrine, whether it be of God.\" Plain enough, indeed! And Carmen\ndid do His will; she kept the very first Commandment; she walked by\nfaith, and not by the sight of the human senses. She had been called\nan \"_hada_,\" a witch, by the dull-witted folk of Simit\u00ed; and some day\nit would be told that she had a devil. But the Master had borne the\nsame ignominy. And so has every pioneer in Truth, who has dared to lay\nthe axe at the roots of undemonstrable orthodox belief and entrenched\nhuman error.\n\nJos\u00e8 often trembled for the child when he thought of the probable\nreception that awaited her in the world without, in case she ever\nleft Simit\u00ed. Would her supreme confidence in good ever be weakened by\nan opposite belief in evil? Would her glorious faith ever be\nneutralized or counterbalanced by faith in a power opposed to God? He\nwondered. And sometimes in the fits of abstraction resulting from\nthese thoughts, the girl would steal up to him and softly whisper,\n\"Why, Padre, are you trying to make two and two equal seven?\" Then he\nwould laugh with her, and remember how from her algebraic work she had\nlooked up one day and exclaimed, \"Padre--why, all evil can be reduced\nto a common denominator, too--_and it is zero_!\"\n\nAs recreation from the task of retranslating his Greek Testament, Jos\u00e8\noften read to Carmen portions from the various books of the Bible, or\ntold her the old sacred stories that children so love to hear. But\nCarmen's incisive thought cut deep into them, and Jos\u00e8 generally found\nhimself hanging upon the na\u00efve interpretations of this young girl.\nWhen, after reading aloud the two opposing accounts of the Creation,\nas given in the first and second chapters of Genesis, she asked, \"But,\nPadre, why did God change His mind after He made people and gave them\ndominion over everything?\" Jos\u00e8 was obliged to say that God had not\nmade a mistake, and then gone back afterward to rectify it; that the\naccount of the Creation, as given in Genesis, was not His, but was a\nrecord of the dawning upon the human thought of the idea of the\nspiritual Creation; that the \"mist\" which went up from the earth was\nsuppositional error; and that the record of the Creation which follows\nafter this was only the human mind's interpretation of the real,\nspiritual Creation, that Creation which is the ever unfolding of\ninfinite Mind's numberless, perfect ideas. The book of Genesis has\nbeen a fetish to human minds; and not until the limitations imposed by\nits literal interpretation were in a measure removed did the human\nmentality begin to rise and expand. And when, reading from Isaiah, the\ngrandest of the ancient prophets, the ringing words, \"Cease ye from\nman, whose breath is in his nostrils: for wherein is he to be\naccounted of?\" the child asked him if that did not refer to the very\nkind of people with whom they had daily intercourse, he had been\nobliged to say that it did, and that that sort of man was far, very\nfar, from being the man of God's own creating.\n\n\"The mist, child, which is mentioned in the second chapter of Genesis,\nis said to have gone up from the ground. That is, it went up from\nmatter. And so it is typical of materialism, from which all evil\ncomes. The material is the direct opposite of the spiritual. Every bit\nof evil that men think they can see, or know, or do, comes as\ntestimony of the five material senses. These might well be called the\n'ground' senses. In the book of Genesis, you will notice that the\naccount of the real comes first; then follows the account of its\nopposite, the unreal man of dust.\"\n\n\"Surely, Padre!\" she exclaimed. \"The plus sign is followed by a minus\nsign, isn't it? And the man made of dust is the real man with a minus\nsign before him.\"\n\n\"The man of dust is the human mind's interpretation of the spiritual\nman, dear child,\" returned Jos\u00e8. \"All human beings are interpretations\nby the mortal, or human, mind of infinite Mind, God, and His spiritual\nCreation. The interpretation is made in the human mind, and remains\nthere. The human mind does not see these interpretations outside of\nitself--it does not see real men, and houses, and trees, outside of\nitself--but it sees its mental interpretations of God, which it calls\nmen, and houses, and trees, and so on. These things are what we might\ncall _mental concepts_. They are the man and the creation spoken of in\nthe second chapter of Genesis after the mist went up from matter, from\nthe ground, from materialism, resulting in the testimony of the\nphysical senses.\"\n\n\"But, Padre, they are not real--these mental concepts?\"\n\n\"No. They are illusions. They are formed in mentalities that are\nthemselves wrong interpretations of the infinite Mentality, called\nGod. They are formed without any rule or principle. They are made up\nof false thoughts, false opinions, beliefs of power opposed to God,\nbeliefs in evil, in sickness, disaster, loss, and death. They are the\nresults of educated and inherited and attached beliefs. They are\nlargely made up of fear-beliefs. The human mentalities see these\nvarious beliefs combined in what it calls men and women, houses,\nanimals, trees, and so on, all through the material so-called\ncreation. It is this wrong interpretation that has caused all the\nsuffering and sorrow in the world. And it is this false stuff that the\ngood man Jesus finally said he had overcome.\"\n\n\"How did he do it, Padre?\"\n\n\"By knowing its nothingness, and by knowing the Allness of his Father,\ninfinite Mind. He called this false stuff a lie about God. And he\novercame that lie by knowing the truth--just as you overcome the\nthought that you cannot solve your algebraic problems by knowing the\ntruth that will and does solve them.\"\n\n\"But, Padre, you said once that Jesus was the best man that ever\nlived. Was he just a man?\"\n\n\"Yes, _chiquita_. That is, the human minds all about him saw their\nmental concepts of him as a man. But he was a human concept that most\nclearly represented God's idea of Himself. Mortal, human minds are\nlike window-panes, _chiquita_. When a window-pane is very dirty, very\nmuch covered with matter, only a little light can get through it. Some\nhuman minds are cleaner, less material, than others, and they let more\nlight through. Jesus was the cleanest mind that was ever with us. He\nkept letting more and more light--Truth--through himself, until at\nlast all the matter, even the matter composing the material concept\nthat people called his earthly body, dissolved in the strong light,\nand the people saw him no more. That is called the Ascension.\"\n\n\"And--Padre, don't we have to do that way, too?\" she asked earnestly.\n\n\"Just so, _chiquita_. We must, every one of us, do exactly as Jesus\ndid. We must wash ourselves clean--wash off the dirty beliefs of power\napart from God; we must wash off the beliefs of evil as a power,\ncreated in opposition to Him, or permitted by Him to exist and to use\nHis children; we must wash off beliefs of matter as real and created\nby Him. We must know that matter and all evil, all that decays and\npasses away, all discord and disease, everything that comes as\ntestimony of the five physical senses, is but a part of the lie about\nHim, the stuff that has the minus sign before it, making it less than\nnothing. We must know that it is the suppositional opposite of the\nreal--it is an illusion, seeming to exist, yet evaporating when we try\nto define it or put a finger on it, for it has no rule or principle by\nwhich it was created and by which it continues to exist. Its existence\nis only in human thought.\"\n\nNo, Jos\u00e8 assured himself, the Gospels are not \"loose, exaggerated,\ninaccurate, credulous narratives.\" They are the story of the clearest\ntransparency to truth that was ever known to mortals as a human being.\nThey preserve the life-giving words of him whose mission it was to\nshow mankind the way out of error by giving them truth. They contain\nthe rule given by the great Mathematician, who taught mankind how to\nsolve their life-problems. They tell the world plainly that there\nseems to exist a lie about God; that every real idea of the infinite\nMind seems to have its suppositional opposite in a material illusion.\nThey tell us plainly that resisting these illusions with truth renders\nthem nugatory. They tell us clearly that the man Jesus was so filled\nwith truth that he proved the nothingness of the lie about God by\ndoing those deeds that seemed marvelous in the eyes of men, and yet\nwhich he said we could and should do ourselves. And we must do them,\nif we would throw off the mesmerism of the lie. The human concept of\nman and the universe must dissolve in the light of the truth that\ncomes through us as transparencies. And it were well if we set about\nwashing away the dirt of materialism, that the light may shine through\nmore abundantly.\n\nJesus did not say that his great deeds were accomplished contrary to\nlaw, but that they fulfilled the law of God. The law is spiritual,\nnever material. Material law is but human limitation. Ignorance of\nspiritual law permits the belief in its opposite, material law, or\nlaws of matter. False, human beliefs, opinions, and theories, material\nspeculations and superstitions, parade before the human mind as laws.\nJesus swept them all aside by knowing that their supposed power lay\nonly in human acceptance. The human mind is mesmerized by its own\nfalse thought. Even Paul at times felt its mesmerism and exclaimed:\n\"I find then a law, that, when I would do good, evil is present with\nme.\" The very idea of good stirs up its opposite in the human\nconsciousness. But Paul rose above it and saw its nothingness. Then\nhe cried: \"The law of the Spirit of life in Christ Jesus hath made\nme free from the law of sin and death.\" He recognized the spiritual\nlaw that Jesus employed; and with it he overcame the mesmerism of\nthe lie.\n\n\"To be a Christian, then,\" said Jos\u00e8, \"means not merely taking the\nname of Christ, and, while morally opposing sin, succumbing to every\nform of mesmerism that the lie about God exerts. No, it is infinitely\nmore! It means recognizing the nature of God and His Creation,\nincluding Man, to be wholly spiritual--and the nature of the material\ncreation and mankind as their opposite, as mental concepts, existing\nas false interpretations of the spiritual Universe and Man, and as\nhaving their place only in the false human consciousness, which itself\nis a mental activity concerned only with false thought, the\nsuppositional opposite of God's thought. It means taking this Truth,\nthis spiritual law, as we would take a mathematical rule or principle,\nand with it overcoming sin, sickness, discord of every name and\nnature, even to death itself. What, oh, what have so-called Christians\nbeen doing these nearly two thousand years, that they have not ere\nthis worked out their salvation as Jesus directed them to do? Alas!\nthey have been mesmerized--simply mesmerized by the lie. The\nmillennium should have come long, long ago. It would come to-day if\nthe world would obey Jesus. But it will not come until it does obey\nhim.\"\n\nDay after day, week after week, month after month, Jos\u00e8 delved and\ntoiled, studied and pondered. The books which he ordered through the\nEmpresa Alemania, and for which for some two months he waited in\ntrembling anticipation and fear lest they be lost in transit, finally\narrived. When Juan brought them up from Bodega Central, Jos\u00e8 could\nhave wept for joy. Except for the very few letters he had received at\nrare intervals, these were the only messages that had penetrated the\nisolation of Simit\u00ed from the outside world in the two long years of\nhis exile. His starving mind ravenously devoured them. They afforded\nhis first introduction to that fearlessly critical thought regarding\nthings religious which has swept across the world like a tidal wave,\nand washed away so many of the bulwarks of superstition and ignorance\nbred of fear of the unknown and supposedly unknowable.\n\nAnd yet they were not really his first introduction to that\nthought, for, as he pored over these books, his heart expanded\nwith gratitude to the brusque explorer whom he had met in Cartagena,\nthat genial, odd medley of blunt honesty, unquibbling candor, and\nhatred of dissimulation, whose ridicule of the religious fetishism\nof the human mentality tore up the last root of educated orthodox\nbelief that remained struggling for life in the altered soil of his\nmind.\n\nBut, though they tore down with ruthless hand, _these books did not\nreconstruct_. Jos\u00e8 turned from them with something of disappointment.\nHe could understand why the trembling heart, searching wearily for\ntruth, turned always from such as they with sinking hope. They were\nviolently iconoclastic--they up-rooted--they overthrew--they swept\naside with unsparing hand--but they robbed the starving mortal of his\nonce cherished beliefs--they snatched the stale and feebly nourishing\nbread from his mouth, and gave nothing in return. They emptied his\nheart, and left it starving. What did it boot to tell a man that the\northodox dream of eternal bliss beyond the gates of death was but a\nhoax, if no substitute be offered? Why point out the fallacies, the\npuerile conceptions, the worse than childish thought expressed in the\nreligious creeds of men, if they were not to be replaced by\nlife-sustaining truth? If the demolition of cherished beliefs be not\nfollowed by reconstruction upon a sure foundation of demonstrable\ntruth, then is the resulting state of mind worse than before, for the\ntrusting, though deceived, soul has no recourse but to fall into the\nagnosticism of despair, or the black atheism of positive negation.\n\n\"Happily for me,\" he sighed, as he closed his books at length, \"that\nCarmen entered my empty life in time with the truth that she hourly\ndemonstrates!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 24\n\n\nDays melted into weeks, and these in turn into months. Simit\u00ed, drab\nand shabby, a crumbling and abandoned relique of ancient Spanish pride\nand arrogance, drowsed undisturbed in the ardent embrace of the\ntropical sun. Don Jorge returned, unsuccessful, from his long quest in\nthe San Lucas mountains, and departed again down the Magdalena river.\n\n\"It is a marvelous country up there,\" he told Jos\u00e8. \"I do not wonder\nthat it has given rise to legends. I felt myself in a land of\nenchantment while I was roaming those quiet mountains. When, after\ndays of steady traveling, I would chance upon a little group of\nnatives hidden away in some dense thicket, it seemed to me that they\nmust be fairies, not real. I came upon the old trail, Padre, the\n_Camino Real_, now sunken and overgrown, which the Spaniards used.\nThey called it the Panam\u00e1 trail. It used to lead down to Cartagena.\n_Hombre_! in places it is now twenty feet deep!\"\n\n\"But, gold, Don Jorge?\"\n\n\"Ah, Padre, what quartz veins I saw in that country! _Hombre_! Gold\nwill be discovered there without measure some day! But--_Caramba_!\nThis map which Don Carlos gave me is much in error. I must consult\nagain with him. Then I shall return to Simit\u00ed.\" Jos\u00e8 regretfully saw\nhim depart, for he had grown to love this ruggedly honest soul.\n\nMeantime, Don Mario sulked in his house; nor during the intervening\nyear would he hold anything more than the most formal intercourse with\nthe priest. Jos\u00e8 ignored him as far as possible. Events move with\nterrible deliberation in these tropic lands, and men's minds are heavy\nand lethargic. Jos\u00e8 assumed that Don Mario had failed in the support\nupon which he had counted; or else Diego's interest in Carmen was\ndormant, perhaps utterly passed. Each succeeding day of quiet\nincreased his confidence, while he rounded out month after month in\nthis sequestered vale on the far confines of civilization, and the\ngirl attained her twelfth year. Moreover, as he noted with marveling,\noften incredulous, mental gaze her swift, unhindered progress, the\nrapid unfolding of her rich nature, and the increasing development of\na spirituality which seemed to raise her daily farther above the plane\non which he dwelt, he began to regard the uninterrupted culmination of\nhis plans for her as reasonably assured, if not altogether certain.\n\nJuan continued his frequent trips down to Bodega Central as general\nmessenger and transportation agent for his fellow-townsmen, meanwhile\nadoring Carmen from a distance of respectful decorum. Rosendo and\nL\u00e1zaro, relaxing somewhat their vigilance over the girl, labored\ndaily on the little _hacienda_ across the lake. The dull-witted\nfolk, keeping to their dismally pretentious mud houses during the\npulsing heat of day, and singing their weird, moaning laments in the\nquiet which reigned over this maculate hollow at night, followed\nundeviatingly the monotonous routine of an existence which had no\nother aim than the indulgence of the most primitive material wants.\n\n\"Ah, Padre,\" Rosendo would say of them, \"they are so easy! They love\nidleness; they like not labor. They fish, they play the guitar, they\ngather fruits. They sing and dance--and then die. Padre, it is sad, is\nit not?\"\n\nAye, thought the priest, doubly sad in its mute answer to the\nheartlessly selfish query of Cain. No one, not even the Church, was\nthe keeper of these benighted brothers. He alone had constituted\nhimself their shepherd. And as they learned to love him, to confide\ntheir simple wants and childish hopes to him, he came to realize the\nimmense ascendency which the priests of Colombia possess over the\nsimple understanding of the people. An ascendency hereditary and\ndominant, capable of utmost good, but expressed in the fettering of\ninitiative and action, in the suppression of ambition, and the\nquenching of every impulse toward independence of thought. How he\nlonged to lift them up from the drag of their mental encompassment!\nYet how helpless he was to afford them the needed lustration of soul\nwhich alone could accomplish it!\n\n\"I can do little more than try to set them a standard of thought,\"\nhe would muse, as he looked out from the altar over the camellia-like\nfaces of his adult children when he conducted his simple Sunday\nservices. \"I can only strive to point out the better things of\nthis life--to tell them of the wonders of invention, of art, of\ncivilization--I can only relate to them tales of romance and\nachievement, and beautiful stories--and try to omit in the recital all\nreference to the evil methods, aims, and motives which have manifested\nin those dark crimes staining the records of history. The world\ncalls them historical incident and fact. I must call them 'the mist\nthat went up from the ground and watered the face of the earth.'\"\n\nBut Jos\u00e8 had progressed during his years in Simit\u00ed. It had been\nhard--only he could know how hard!--to adapt himself to the narrow\nenvironment in which he dwelt. It had been hard to conform to these\nodd ways and strange usages. But he now knew that the people's\nreserve and shyness at first was due to their natural suspicion of\nhim. For days, even weeks, he had known that he was being weighed and\nwatched. And then love triumphed.\n\nIt is true, the dull staring of the natives of this unkempt town had\nlong continued to throw him into fits of prolonged nervousness. They\nhad not meant to offend, of course. Their curiosity was far from\nmalicious. But at hardly any hour of the day or night could he look up\nfrom his work without seeing dark, inquisitive faces peering in\nthrough the latticed window or the open door at him, watchful of the\nminutest detail of his activity. He had now grown used to that. And he\nhad grown used to their thoughtless intrusion upon him at any hour. He\nhad learned, too, not to pale with nausea when, as was their wont of\nmany centuries, the dwellers in this uncouth town relentlessly pursued\ntheir custom of expectorating upon his floor immediately they entered\nand stood before him. He had accustomed himself to the hourly\nintrusion of the scavenger pigs and starving dogs in his house. And he\ncould now endure without aching nerves the awful singing, the maudlin\nwails, the thin, piercing, falsetto howls which rose almost nightly\nabout him in the sacred name of music. For these were children with\nwhom he dwelt. And he was trying to show them that they were children\nof God.\n\nThe girl's education was progressing marvelously. Already Jos\u00e8 had\nbeen obliged to supplement his oral instruction with texts purchased\nfor her from abroad. Her grasp of the English language was his daily\nwonder. After two years of study she spoke it readily. She loved it,\nand insisted that her conversations with him should be conducted\nwholly in it. French and German likewise had been taken up; and her\nknowledge of her own Castilian tongue had been enriched by the few\nbooks which he had been able to secure for her from Spain.\n\nJos\u00e8's anomalous position in Simit\u00ed had ceased to cause him worry.\nWhat mattered it, now that he had endeared himself to its people, and\nwas progressing undisturbed in the training of Carmen? He performed\nhis religious duties faithfully. His people wanted them. And he, in\nturn, knew that upon his observance of them depended his tenure of the\nparish.\n\nAnd he wanted to remain among them, to lead them, if possible, at\nleast a little way along what he was daily seeing to be the only path\nout of the corroding beliefs of the human mind. He knew that his\npeople's growth would be slow--how slow might not his own be, too! Who\ncould say how unutterably slow would be their united march heavenward!\nAnd yet, the human mind was expanding with wonderful rapidity in\nthese last days. What acceleration had it not acquired since that\ndistant era of the Old Stone Man, when through a hundred thousand\nyears of darkness the only observable progress was a little greater\nskill in the shaping of his crude flint weapons!\n\nTo Padre Diego's one or two subsequent curt demands that Carmen be\nsent to him, Jos\u00e8 had given no heed. And perhaps Diego, absorbed in\nhis political activities as the confidential agent of Wenceslas, would\nhave been content to let his claim upon the child lapse, after many\nmonths of quiet, had not Don Jorge inadvertently set the current of\nthe man's thought again in her direction.\n\nFor Don Jorge was making frequent trips along the Magdalena river. It\nwas essential to his business to visit the various riverine towns and\nto mingle freely with all grades of people, that he might run down\nrumors or draw from the inhabitants information which might result in\nvaluable clues anent buried treasure. Returning one day to Simit\u00ed from\nsuch a trip, he regaled Jos\u00e8 with the spirited recital of his\nexperience on a steamboat which had become stranded on a river bar.\n\n\"_Bien_,\" he concluded, \"the old tub at last broke loose. Then we saw\nthat its engines were out of commission; and so the captain let her\ndrift down to Banco, where we docked. I was forced, not altogether\nagainst my will, to put up with Padre Diego. _Caramba_! The old fox!\nBut I had much amusement at his expense when I twitted him about his\ndaughter Carmen, and his silly efforts to get possession of her!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 shook with indignation. \"Good heaven, friend!\" he cried, \"why can\nyou not let sleeping dogs alone? Diego is not the man to be bearded\nlike that! Would that you had kept away from the subject! And what did\nyou say to him about the girl?\"\n\n\"_Caramba_, man! I only told him how beautiful she was, and how large\nfor her few years. _Bien_, I think I said she was the most beautiful\nand well-formed girl I had ever seen. But was there anything wrong in\ntelling the truth, _amigo_?\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Jos\u00e8 bitterly, as he turned away; \"you meant no harm.\nBut, knowing the man's brutal nature, and his assumed claim on the\ngirl, why could you not have foreseen possible misfortune to her in\ndwelling thus on her physical beauty? _Hombre_, it is too bad!\"\n\n\"_Na_, _amigo_,\" said Don Jorge soothingly, \"nothing can come of it.\nBien, you take things so hard!\" But when Don Jorge again set out for\nthe mountains he left the priest's heart filled with apprehension.\n\nA few weeks later came what Jos\u00e8 had been awaiting, another demand\nupon him for the girl. Failure to comply with it, said Diego's letter,\nmeant the placing of the case in the hands of the civil and\necclesiastical authorities for action.\n\nRosendo's face grew hard when he read the note. \"There is a way,\nPadre. Let my woman take the girl and go up the Boque river to Rosa\nMaria, the clearing of Don Nicol\u00e1s. It is a wild region, where tapirs\nand deer roam, and where hardly a man has set foot for centuries. The\npeople of Boque will keep our secret, and she can remain hidden there\nuntil--\"\n\n\"No, Rosendo, that will not do,\" replied Jos\u00e8, shaking his head in\nperplexity. \"The girl is developing rapidly, and such a course would\nresult in a mental check that might spell infinite harm. She and Do\u00f1a\nMaria would die to live by themselves up there in that lonely region.\nWhat about her studies? And--what would I do?\"\n\n\"Then do you go too, Padre,\" suggested Rosendo.\n\n\"No, _amigo_, for that would cause search to be instituted by the\nBishop, and we certainly would be discovered. But, to take her\nand flee the country--and the Church--how can I yet? No, it is\nimpossible!\" He shook his head dolefully, while his thoughts flew\nback to Seville and the proud mother there.\n\n\"_Bien_, Padre, let us increase our contributions to Don Wenceslas.\nLet us send him from now on not less than one hundred _pesos oro_ each\nmonth. Will not that keep him quiet, no matter what Diego says?\"\n\n\"Possibly,\" assented Jos\u00e8. \"At any rate, we will try it.\" They still\nhad some three thousand _pesos_ gold left.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Padre,\" said Rosendo, some days later, as they sat together in the\nparish house, \"what do you think Diego wants of the girl?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 hesitated. \"I think, Rosendo--\" he began. But could even a human\nmind touch such depths of depravity? And yet--\"I think,\" he continued\nslowly, \"that Diego, having seen her, and now speculating on her\nfuture beauty of face and form--I think he means to place her in a\nconvent, with the view of holding her as a ready substitute for the\nwoman who now lives with him--\"\n\n\"_Dios_! And that is my own daughter!\" cried Rosendo, springing up.\n\n\"Yes--true, Rosendo. And, if I mistake not, Diego also would like to\nrepay the score he has against you, for driving him from Simit\u00ed and\nholding the threat of death over him these many years. He can most\nreadily do this by getting Carmen away from you--as he did the other\ndaughter, is it not so?\"\n\nRosendo came and stood before the priest. His face was strained with\nfearful anxiety. \"Padre,\" he said in a low voice, \"I shall end this\nmatter at once. I go to Banco to-morrow to kill Diego.\"\n\n\"You shall do nothing of the kind!\" cried Jos\u00e8, seizing his\nhand. \"Why--Rosendo, it would mean your own death, or lifelong\nimprisonment!\"\n\n\"And what of that, Padre?\" said the old man with awful calmness. \"I\nhave nothing that is not hers, even to my life. Gladly would I give it\nfor her. Let me die, or spend my remaining days in the prison, if that\nwill save her. Such a price for her safety would be low.\"\n\nWhile he was speaking, Fernando, the town constable, entered. He\nsaluted the men gravely, and drew from his pocket a document to which\nwas attached the Alcalde's official seal.\n\n\"Se\u00f1ores,\" he said with much dignity, as if the majesty of his little\noffice weighed upon him, \"I am commanded by Se\u00f1or, the Alcalde, to\nexercise the authority reposing in him and place Don Rosendo Ariza\nunder arrest. You will at once accompany me to the _c\u00e1rcel_,\" he\nadded, going up to the astonished Rosendo and laying a hand upon his\nshoulder.\n\n\"Arrest! Me! _Hombre_! what have I done?\" cried the old man, stepping\nback.\n\n\"_Bien_, _amigo_, I do not find it my duty to tell you. The Se\u00f1or\nAlcalde hands me the document and commands me to execute it. As for\nthe cause--_Bien_, you must ask him.\"\n\n\"Come,\" said Jos\u00e8, the first to recover from his astonishment, \"let us\ngo to him at once.\" He at any rate had now an opportunity to confront\nDon Mario and learn what plans the man had been devising these many\nmonths.\n\nThe Alcalde received the men in his little _patio_, scowling and\nmenacing. He offered them no greeting when they confronted him.\n\n\"Don Mario,\" asked Jos\u00e8 in a trembling voice, \"why have you put this\nindignity upon our friend, Rosendo? Who orders his arrest?\"\n\n\"Ask, rather, _Se\u00f1or Padre_,\" replied the Alcalde, full of wrath,\n\"what alone saves you from the same indignity. Only that you are a\npriest, _Se\u00f1or Padre_, _nada m\u00e1s_! His arrest is ordered by Padre\nDiego.\"\n\n\"And why, if I may beg the favor?\" pursued Jos\u00e8, though he well knew\nthe sordid motive.\n\n\"Why? _Caramba_! Why lay the hands of the law upon those who deprive a\nsuffering father of his child! _Bien_, _Fernando_,\" turning to the\nconstable, \"you have done well. Take your prisoner to the _c\u00e1rcel_.\"\n\n\"No!\" cried Rosendo, drawing back. \"No, Don Mario, I will not go to\nthe jail! I will--\"\n\n\"_Caramba!_\" shouted the Alcalde, his face purple. \"I set your trial\nfor to-morrow, in the early morning. But this night you will spend in\nthe jail! _Hombre!_ I will see if I am not Alcalde here! And look you,\n_Se\u00f1or Padre_, if there is any disturbance, I will send for the\ngovernment soldiers! Then they will take Rosendo to the prison in\nCartagena! And that finishes him!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 knew that, if Diego had the support of the Bishop, this was no\nidle threat. Rosendo turned to him in helpless appeal. \"What shall I\ndo, Padre?\" he asked.\n\n\"It is best that you go to the jail to-night, Rosendo,\" said Jos\u00e8 with\nsinking heart. \"But, Don Mario,\" turning menacingly to the Alcalde,\n\"mark you, his trial takes place in the morning, and he shall be\njudged, not by you alone, but by his fellow-townsmen!\"\n\n\"Have I not said so, se\u00f1or?\" returned Don Mario curtly, with a note of\ndeep contempt in his voice.\n\nAs in most small Spanish towns, the jail was a rude adobe hut, with no\nfurnishings, save the wooden stocks into which the feet of the hapless\nprisoners were secured. Thus confined, the luckless wight who chanced\nto feel the law's heavy hand might sit in a torturing position for\ndays, cruelly tormented at night by ravenous mosquitoes, and wholly\ndependent upon the charity of the townsfolk for his daily rations,\nunless he have friends or family to supply his needs. In the present\ninstance Don Mario took the extra precaution of setting a guard over\nhis important prisoner.\n\nJos\u00e8, benumbed by the shock and bewildered by the sudden precipitation\nof events, accompanied Rosendo to the jail and mutely watched the\nprocedure as Fernando secured the old man's bare feet in the rude\nstocks. And yet, despite the situation, he could not repress a sense\nof the ridiculous, as his thought dwelt momentarily on the little\n_op\u00e9ra bouffe_ which these child-like people were so continually\nenacting in their attempts at self-government. But it was a play that\nat times approached dangerously near to the tragic. The passions of\nthis Latin offshoot were strong, if their minds were dull and\nlethargic, and when aroused were capable of the most despicable, as\nwell as the most grandly heroic deeds. And in the present instance,\nwhen the fleeting sense of the absurd passed, Jos\u00e8 knew that he was\nfacing a crisis. Something told him that resistance now would be\nuseless. True, Rosendo might have opposed arrest with violence, and\nperhaps have escaped. But that would have accomplished nothing for\nCarmen, the pivot upon which events were turning. Jos\u00e8 had reasoned\nthat it were better to let the Alcalde play his hand first, in the\nsmall hope that as the cards fell he might more than match his\nopponent's strength with his own.\n\n\"_Na_, Padre, do not worry,\" said Rosendo reassuringly. \"It is for her\nsake; and we shall have to know, as she does, that everything will\ncome out right. My friends will set me free to-morrow, when the trial\ntakes place. And then\"--he drew the priest down to him and whispered\nlow--\"we will leave Simit\u00ed and take to the mountains.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 bent his heavy steps homeward. Arriving at Rosendo's house, he\nsaw the little living room crowded with sympathetic friends who had\ncome to condole with Do\u00f1a Maria. That placid woman, however, had not\nlost in any degree her wonted calm, even though her companions held\nforth with much impassioned declamation against the indignity which\nhad been heaped upon her worthy consort. He looked about for Carmen.\nShe was not with her foster-mother, nor did his inquiry reveal her\nwhereabouts. He smiled sadly, as he thought of her out on the shales,\nher customary refuge when storms broke. He started in search of her;\nbut as he passed through the _plaza_ Ma\u00f1uela Cortez met him. \"Padre,\"\nshe exclaimed, \"is the little Carmen to go to jail, too?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 stopped short. \"Ma\u00f1uela--why do you say that?\" he asked\nhurriedly, his heart starting to beat like a trip-hammer.\n\n\"Because, Padre, I saw the constable, Fernando, take her into Don\nMario's house some time ago.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 uttered an exclamation and started for the house of the Alcalde.\nDon Mario stood at the door, his huge bulk denying the priest\nadmission.\n\n\"Don Mario!\" panted Jos\u00e8. \"Carmen--you have her here?\"\n\nFernando, who had been sitting just within the door, rose and came to\nhis chief's side. Jos\u00e8 felt his brain whirling. Fernando stepped\noutside and took his arm. The Alcalde's unlovely face expanded in a\nsinister leer. \"It is permissible to place even a priest in the\nstocks, if he becomes _loco_,\" he said significantly.\n\nJos\u00e8 tightened his grip upon himself. Fernando spoke quickly:\n\n\"It was necessary to take the girl in custody, too, Padre. But do not\nworry; she is safe.\"\n\n\"But--you have no right to take her--\"\n\n\"There, _Se\u00f1or Padre_, calm yourself. What right had you to separate\nher from her father?\"\n\n\"Diego is not her father! He lies! And, Don Mario, you have no\nauthority but his--\"\n\n\"You mistake, _Se\u00f1or Padre_,\" calmly interrupted the Alcalde. \"I have\na much higher authority.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 stared dully at him. \"Whose, then?\" he muttered, scarce hearing\nhis own words.\n\n\"The Bishop's, _Se\u00f1or Padre_,\" answered Don Mario, with a cruel grin.\n\n\"The Bishop! But--the old man--\"\n\n\"_Na_, _Se\u00f1or Padre_, but the Bishop is fairly young, you know. That\nis, the new one--\"\n\n\"The new one!\" cried the uncomprehending Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"To be sure, _Se\u00f1or Padre_, the new Bishop--formerly Se\u00f1or Don\nWenceslas Ortiz.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 beat the air feebly as his hand sought his damp brow. His\nconfused brain became suddenly stagnant.\n\n\"_Bien_, _Se\u00f1or Padre_,\" put in Fernando gently, pitying the priest's\nagony. \"You had not heard the news. Don Mario received letters to-day.\nThe old Bishop of Cartagena died suddenly some days ago, and Don\nWenceslas at once received the temporary appointment, until the\nvacancy can be permanently filled. There is talk of making Cartagena\nan archbishopric, and so a new bishop will not be appointed until that\nquestion is settled. Meanwhile, Don Wenceslas administers the affairs\nof the Church there.\"\n\n\"And he--he--\" stammered the stunned priest.\n\n\"To be sure, _Se\u00f1or Padre_,\" interrupted Don Mario, laughing aloud;\n\"the good Don Wenceslas no doubt has learned of the beautiful Carmen,\nand he cannot permit her to waste her loveliness in so dreary a place\nas Simit\u00ed. And so he summons her to Cartagena, in care of his agent,\nPadre Diego, who awaits the girl now in Banco to conduct her safely\ndown the river. At least, this is what Padre Diego writes me. _Bien_,\nit is the making of the girl, to be so favored by His Grace!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 staggered and would have fallen, had not Fernando supported him.\nDon Mario turned into his house. But as he went he spitefully hurled\nback:\n\n\"_Bien_, _Se\u00f1or Padre_, whom have you to blame but yourself? You keep\na child from her suffering father--you give all your time to her,\nneglecting the other poor children of your parish--you send Rosendo\ninto the mountains to search for La Libertad--you break your\nagreement with me, for you long ago said that we should work\ntogether--is it not so? You find gold in the mountains, but you do\nnot tell me. _Na_, you work against me--you oppose my authority as\nAlcalde--_Bien_, you opposed even the authority of the good\nBishop--may he rest with the Saints! You have not made a good priest\nfor Simit\u00ed, _Se\u00f1or Padre_--_na_, you have made a very bad one! And\nnow you wonder that the good Don Wenceslas takes the girl from you,\nto bring her up in the right way. _Caramba_! if it is not already too\nlate to save her from your bad teachings!\" His voice steadily rose\nwhile he talked, and ended in a shrill pipe.\n\nJos\u00e8 made as if to reach him; but Fernando held him back. The Alcalde\ngot quickly within the house and secured the door. \"Go now to your\nhome, Padre,\" urged Fernando; \"else I shall call help and put you in\nthe stocks, too!\"\n\n\"But I will enter that house! I will take the child from him!\" shouted\nJos\u00e8 desperately, struggling to gain the Alcalde's door.\n\n\"Listen to me, Padre!\" cried Fernando, holding to the frenzied man.\n\"The little Carmen--she is not in there!\"\n\n\"Not--in--there! Then where is she, Fernando?--for God's sake tell\nme!\" appealed the stricken priest. Great beads of perspiration stood\nupon his face, and tears rolled down his drawn cheeks.\n\nFernando could not but pity him. \"_Bien_, Padre,\" he said gently;\n\"come away. I give you my word that the girl is not in the house of\nthe Alcalde. But I am not permitted to say where she is.\"\n\n\"Then I will search every house in Simit\u00ed!\" cried the priest wildly.\n\n\"_Na_, Padre, you would not find her. Come, I will go home with you.\"\nHe took Jos\u00e8's arm again and led him, blindly stumbling, to the parish\nhouse.\n\nBy this time the little town was agog with excitement. People ran from\nhouse to house, or gathered on the street corners, discussing the\nevent.\n\n\"_Caramba!_\" shrilled one wrinkled beldame, \"but Simit\u00ed was very quiet\nuntil the _Cura_ came!\"\n\n\"_Na_, se\u00f1ora,\" cried another, \"say, rather, until that wicked little\nhada was brought here by Rosendo!\"\n\n\"_Cierto_, she is an _hada_!\" put in a third; \"she cured Juanita of\ngoitre by her charms! I saw it!\"\n\n\"_Caramba_! she works with the evil one. I myself saw her come from\nthe old church on the hill one day! _Bien_, what was she doing? I say,\nshe was talking with the bad angel which the blessed Virgin has locked\nin there!\"\n\n\"Yes, and I have seen her coming from the cemetery. She talks with the\nbuzzards that roost on the old wall, and they are full of evil\nspirits!\"\n\n\"And she brought the plague two years ago--who knows?\" piped another\nexcitedly.\n\n\"_Quien sabe_? But it was not the real plague, anyway.\"\n\n\"_Bueno_, and that proves that she caused it, no?\"\n\n\"_Cierto_, _se\u00f1ora_, she cast a spell on the town!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 sat in his little house like one in a dream. Fernando remained\nwith him. Do\u00f1a Maria had gone to the jail to see Rosendo. Juan had\nreturned that morning to Bodega Central, and L\u00e1zaro was at work on the\nplantation across the lake. Jos\u00e8 thought bitterly that the time had\nbeen singularly well chosen for the _coup_. Don Mario's last words\nburned through his tired brain like live coals. In a sense the Alcalde\nwas right. He had been selfishly absorbed in the girl. But he alone,\nexcepting Rosendo, had any adequate appreciation of the girl's real\nnature. To the stagnant wits of Simit\u00ed she was one of them, but with\nsingular characteristics which caused the more superstitious and less\nintelligent to look upon her as an uncanny creature, possessed of\noccult powers.\n\nMoreover, Jos\u00e8 had duped Don Mario with assurances of co\u00f6peration. He\nhad allowed him to believe that Rosendo was searching for La Libertad,\nand that he should participate in the discovery, if made. Had his\ncourse been wholly wise, after all? He could not say that it had.\n\nBut--God above! it was all to save an innocent child from the blackest\nof fates! If he had been stronger himself, this never could have\nhappened. Or, perhaps, if he had not allowed himself to be lulled to\nsleep by a fancied security bred of those long months of quiet, he\nmight have been awake and alert to meet the enemy when he returned to\nthe attack. Alas! the devil had left him for a season, and Jos\u00e8 had\nlaid down \"the shield of faith,\" while he lost himself in the\nintellectual content which the study of the new books purchased with\nhis ancestral gold had afforded. But evil sleeps not; and with a\npersistency that were admirable in a better cause, it returned with\nunbated vigor at the moment the priest was off his guard.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nDawn broke upon a sleepless night for Jos\u00e8. The Alcalde had sent word\nthat Fernando must remain with the priest, and that no visits would be\npermitted to Rosendo in the jail. Jos\u00e8 had heard nothing from Carmen,\nand, though often during the long night he sought to know, as she\nwould, that God's protection rested upon her; and though he sought\nfeebly to prove the immanence of good by knowing no evil, the morning\nfound him drawn and haggard, with corroding fear gnawing his desolate\nheart. Fernando remained mute; and Do\u00f1a Maria could only learn that\nthe constable had been seen leading the girl into Don Mario's house\nshortly after Rosendo's arrest.\n\nAt an early hour the people, buzzing with excitement, assembled for\nthe trial, which was held in the town hall, a long, empty adobe house\nof but a single room, with dirt floor, and a few rough benches. The\nAlcalde occupied a broken chair at one end of the room. The trial\nitself was of the simplest order: any person might voice his opinion;\nand the final verdict was left to the people.\n\nIn a shaking voice, his frame tremulous with nervous agitation,\nRosendo recounted the birth of the child at Badillo, and the manner of\nher coming into his family. He told of Diego's appointment to Simit\u00ed,\nand of the loss of his own daughter. Waxing more and more energetic as\nhis recital drew out, he denounced Diego as the prince of liars, and\nas worthy of the violent end which he was certain to meet if ever that\nrenegade priest should venture near enough for him to lay his hands\nupon him. The little locket was produced, and all present commented on\nthe probable identity of the girl's parents. Many affected to detect a\nresemblance to Diego in the blurred photograph of the man. Others\nscouted the idea. Don Mario swore loudly that it could be no other.\nDiego had often talked to him, sorrowfully, and in terms of deepest\naffection, about the beautiful woman whose love he had won, but whom\nhis vows of celibacy prevented from making his lawful wife. The\nAlcalde's recital was dramatic to a degree, and at its close several\nexcitedly attempted to address the multitude at the same time.\n\nOratory flowed on an ever rising tide, accompanied by much violent\ngesticulation and expectoration by way of emphasis. At length it was\nagreed that Diego had been, in times past, a bad man, but that the\nverbal proofs which he had given the Alcalde were undoubtedly valid,\ninasmuch as the Bishop stood behind them--and Don Mario assured the\npeople that they were most certainly vouched for by His Grace. The day\nwas almost carried when the eloquent Alcalde, in glowing rhetoric,\npainted the splendid future awaiting the girl, under the patronage of\nthe Bishop. How cruel to retain her in dreary little Simit\u00ed, even\nthough Diego's claim still remained somewhat obscure, when His Grace,\nlearning of her talents, had summoned her to Cartagena to be educated\nin the convent for a glorious future of service to God! Ah, that a\nlike beautiful career awaited all the children of Simit\u00ed!\n\nJos\u00e8 at length forced himself before the people and begged them to\nlisten to him. But, when he opened his mouth, the words stumbled and\nhalted. For what had he to say? To tell these people that he was\nstriving to educate the girl away from them was impossible. To say\nthat he was trying to save her from the Church would be fatal. And to\nreiterate that Diego's claim was a fabrication, added nothing of value\nto the evidence, for what did he know of the child's parentage? He\nfeebly begged them to wait until Diego's claim had been either\ncorroborated or annulled. But no; they had the Bishop's corroboration,\nand that sufficed. \"And, _Caramba_!\" cried Don Mario, interrupting the\npriest in a loud voice, \"if we oppose the Bishop, then will he send\nthe government soldiers to us--and you know what--\"\n\n\"_Cielo_, yes!\" came from the multitude in one voice.\n\nJos\u00e8 sank down thoroughly beaten. His hands were tied. The case now\nrested with her God.\n\nThe people drew apart in little groups to discuss the matter. Don\nMario's beady eyes searched them, until he was certain of the way the\ntide was flowing. Then he rose and called for order.\n\n\"_Bueno_, _amigos y amigas_,\" he began with immense dignity; \"what say\nyou if we sum up the case as follows: The proofs have the support of\nthe Bishop, and show that the girl is the daughter of Padre Diego.\nRosendo is guilty of having kept her from her own father, and for that\nhe should be severely punished. Let him be confined in the jail for\nsix months, and be forced to pay to us a fine of one thousand _pesos\noro_--\"\n\n\"_Caramba_! but he has no such sum,\" cried the people with mouths\nagape.\n\n\"_Bien_, I say he can get it!\" retorted the Alcalde, looking meaningly\nat Jos\u00e8. \"And he should pay it for depriving the child of a father's\nlove and the religious instruction which he would have given her!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 jumped to his feet. \"Friends!\" he cried, playing his last card.\n\"Will you not remember that more than that amount is due Rosendo for\nthe care of the child? Who will repay him?\"\n\nThe whimsical, fickle people broke into excited exclamations.\n\n\"_Cierto!_\"\n\n\"The _Cura_ is right!\"\n\n\"Let Rosendo pay no fine--he has no gold, anyway!\"\n\n\"Cut down the sentence, Don Mario. We do not like this!\"\n\nThe Alcalde saw that he had gone a bit too far. \"_Bueno_, then,\" he\namended. \"We will cancel both the fine and Padre Diego's debt to\nRosendo, and the sentence shall be reduced to--what say you all?\"\n\n\"A month in the jail, Don Mario, no more,\" suggested one.\n\nAn exclamation of approval from the crowd drowned the protest which\nJos\u00e8 sought vainly to voice. Rosendo rose quickly; but Fernando and\nothers seized him.\n\n\"_Bien_, it is approved,\" bawled the Alcalde, waving his thick arms.\n\"Take the prisoner to the _c\u00e1rcel_, _Se\u00f1or Polic\u00eda_,\" turning to the\nconstable.\n\n\"And the girl, Se\u00f1or the Alcalde--when will you send her to her\nfather?\" called some one.\n\n\"Yes, Don Mario, she must be taken to Padre Diego at once,\" piped a\nwoman's shrill voice.\n\n\"_Bien_,\" shouted the Alcalde, following his words with a long, coarse\nlaugh, \"I was wise enough to know what you would decide, and sent the\ngirl down the river last night!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 25\n\n\nThe candles and smoky oil lamps of Banco threw a fitful shimmer out\nupon the great river, casting huge, spectral shadows across its muddy,\nswirling waters, and seeming rather to intensify the blackness that\nlay thick and menacing upon its restless bosom. Rivermen who follow\ntheir hazardous calling along the Magdalena do not lightly risk the\ndangers of travel by night in their native canoes, when at any moment\na false stroke, a sudden crash against a tossing forest tree, and a\ncry through the inky blackness, might sound to the straining ears of\nhushed listeners on the distant banks the elements of another of the\nmighty river's grim nocturnal tragedies.\n\nBut on the night following the trial of Rosendo in distant Simit\u00ed a\ncanoe stole like a thing ashamed through the heavy shadows along the\nriver's margin, and poked its blunt nose into the ooze at the upper\nedge of the town. Its two scantily clad _bogas_, steaming with\nperspiration and flecked with mud from the charged waters, sprang\nlightly from the frail craft and quickly made it fast to one of the\nlong stilts upon which a ramshackle frame house rested. Then they\nassisted the third occupant of the canoe, a girl, to alight; and\ntogether they wended their way up the slippery bank and toward the\ntown above.\n\n\"_Caramba_, _compadre_!\" ejaculated one of the men, stumbling into a\ndeep rut, \"it is well you know where we go. _Hombre_! but I travel no\nmore on the river by night. And, _compadre_, we had best ask Padre\nDiego to offer a candle to the Virgin for our safe arrival, no?\"\n\nThe other man chuckled. \"To be sure, friend Julio. Don Diego has much\ninfluence with virgins.\"\n\n\"_Hombre_! I like not his dirty work.\"\n\n\"_Bien, amigo_, what would you? You are well paid; and besides, you\nscore against that baby-faced priest, Jos\u00e8, who drove you out of\nSimit\u00ed because you were not married to your woman. You cannot\ncomplain, _compadre_.\"\n\n\"_Caramba!_ I have yet to see the color of the _pesos_. I do not much\ntrust your Padre Diego.\"\n\n\"_Na, amigo_, a bit of rum will put new life into your soaked gizzard.\n_Cierto_, this trip down the river was a taste of purgatory; but you\nknow we may as well get used to it here, for when we _pobres_ are dead\nwho will buy Masses to get us out?\"\n\n\"_Caramba!_\" muttered the other sullenly, as he stumbled on through\nthe darkness, \"but if we have no money the priests will let us burn\nforever!\"\n\nThe girl went along with the men silently and without complaint, even\nwhen her bare feet slipped into the deep ruts in the trail, or were\npainfully bruised and cut by the sharp stones and bits of wood that\nlay in the narrow path. Once she fell. The man addressed as Julio\nassisted her to her feet. The other broke into a torrent of profane\nabuse.\n\n\"_Na, Ricardo,_\" interrupted Julio, \"hold your foolish tongue and let\nthe girl alone! You and I have cursed all the way from Simit\u00ed, but she\nhas made no complaint. She shames me. _Caramba_, I wish I were well\nout of this business!\"\n\nA few minutes later they struck one of the main thoroughfares. Then\nthe men stopped to draw on their cotton shirts and trousers before\nentering the town. The road was better here, and they made rapid\nprogress. The night was far spent, and the streets were deserted. In\nthe main portion of the town ancient Spanish lamps, hanging\nuncertainly in their sconces against old colonial houses, threw a\nfeeble light into the darkness. Before one of the better of these\nhouses Julio and the girl were halted by their companion.\n\n\"_Bien_,\" he said, \"it is here that the holy servant of God lives.\n_Caramba_, but may his _garraf\u00f3n_ be full!\"\n\nThey entered the open door and mounted the stone steps. On the floor\nabove they paused in the rotunda, and Ricardo called loudly. A side\ndoor opened and a young woman appeared, holding a lighted candle\naloft. Ricardo greeted her courteously. \"_El Se\u00f1or Padre, se\u00f1orita\nAna?_\" he said, bowing low. \"You will do us the favor to announce our\narrival, no?\"\n\nThe woman stared uncomprehendingly at the odd trio. \"The Padre is not\nhere,\" she finally said.\n\n\"_Dios y diablo!_\" cried Ricardo, forgetting his courtesy. \"But we\nhave risked our skins to bring him the brat, and he not here to\nreceive and reward us! _Caramba!_\"\n\n\"But--Ricardo, he is out with friends to-night--he may return at any\nmoment. Who is the girl? And why do you bring her here?\" She stepped\nforward, holding the candle so that its light fell full upon her face.\nAs she did this the girl darted toward her and threw herself into the\nwoman's arms.\n\n\"Anita!\" she cried, her voice breaking with emotion, \"Anita--I am\nCarmen! Do you not know me?\"\n\nThe woman fell back in astonishment. \"Carmen! What! The little Carmen,\nmy father's--\"\n\n\"Yes, Anita, I am padre Rosendo's Carmen--and yours!\"\n\nAna clasped the girl in her arms. \"_Santa Maria_, child! What brings\nyou here, of all places?\"\n\nRicardo stepped forward to explain. \"As you may see, se\u00f1orita, it is\nwe who have brought her here, at the command of her father, Padre\nDiego.\"\n\n\"Her father!\"\n\n\"Yes, se\u00f1orita. And, since you say he is not in, we must wait until he\nreturns.\"\n\nThe woman stood speechless with amazement. Carmen clung to her, while\nRicardo stood looking at them, with a foolish leer on his face. Julio\ndrew back into the shadow of the wall.\n\n\"_Bien, se\u00f1orita_,\" said Ricardo, stepping up to the child and\nattempting to take her arm, \"we will be held to account for the girl,\nand we must not lose her. _Caramba!_ For then would the good Padre\ndamn us forever!\"\n\nCarmen shrank away from him. Julio emerged swiftly from the shadow and\nlaid a restraining hand on Ricardo. The woman tore Carmen from his\ngrasp and thrust the girl behind herself. \"_Cierto_, friend Ricardo,\nwe are all responsible for her,\" she said quickly. \"But you are tired\nand hungry--is it not so? Let me take you to the _cocina_, where you\nwill find roast pig and a bit of red rum.\"\n\n\"Rum!\" The man's eyes dilated. \"_Caramba!_ my throat is like the ashes\nof purgatory!\"\n\n\"Come, then,\" said the woman, holding Carmen tightly by the hand and\nleading the way down the steps to the kitchen below. Arriving there,\nshe lighted an oil lamp and hurriedly set out food and a large\n_garraf\u00f3n_ of Jamaica rum.\n\n\"There, _compadre_, is a part of your reward. And we will now wait\nuntil Padre Diego arrives, is it not so?\"\n\nWhile the men ate and drank voraciously, interpolating their actions\nat frequent intervals with bits of vivid comment on their river trip,\nthe woman cast many anxious glances toward the steps leading to the\nfloor above. From time to time she replenished Ricardo's glass, and\nurged him to drink. The man needed no invitation. Physical exhaustion\nand short rations while on the river had prepared him for just what\nthe woman most desired to accomplish, and as glass after glass of the\nfiery liquor burned its way down his throat, she saw his scant wit\nfading, until at last it deserted him completely, and he sank into a\ndrunken torpor. Then, motioning to Julio, who had consumed less of the\nrum, she seized the senseless Ricardo by the feet, and together they\ndragged him out into the _patio_ and threw him under a _platano_\ntree.\n\n\"But, se\u00f1orita--\" began Julio in remonstrance, as thoughts of Diego's\nwrath filtered through his befuddled brain.\n\n\"Not a word, _hombre_!\" she commanded, turning upon him. \"If you lay a\nhand upon this child my knife shall find your heart!\"\n\n\"But--my pay?\"\n\n\"How much did Padre Diego say he would give you?\" she demanded.\n\n\"Three _pesos oro_--and rations,\" replied the man thickly.\n\n\"Wait here, then, and I will bring you the money.\"\n\nStill retaining Carmen's hand, she mounted the steps, listening\ncautiously for the tread of her master. Reaching the rotunda above,\nshe drew Carmen into the room from which she had emerged before, and,\nbidding her conceal herself if Diego should arrive, took her wallet\nand hastily descended to where the weaving Julio waited.\n\n\"There, _amigo_,\" she said hurriedly, handing him the money. \"Now do\nyou go--at once! And do not remain in Banco, or Padre Diego will\nsurely make you trouble. Your life is not safe here now. Go!\" She\npointed to the door; and Julio, impressed with a sense of his danger,\nlost no time in making his exit.\n\nReturning to Carmen, the woman seated herself and drew the girl to\nher. \"Carmen, child!\" she cried, trembling, as her eyes searched the\ngirl. \"Tell me why you are here!\"\n\n\"I do not know, Anita dear,\" murmured the girl, nestling close to the\nwoman and twining an arm about her neck; \"except that day before\nyesterday the Alcalde put padre Rosendo into the jail--\"\n\n\"Into the jail!\"\n\n\"Yes, Anita dear. And then, when I was going to see him, Fernando ran\nout of Don Mario's house and told me I must go in and see the Alcalde.\nJulio Gomez and this man Ricardo were there talking with Don Mario in\nthe _patio_. Then they threw a _ruana_ over me and carried me out\nthrough the _patio_ and around by the old church to the Boque trail.\nWhen we got to the trail they made me walk with them to the Inanea\nriver, where they put me into a canoe. They paddled fast, down to the\nBoque river; then to the Magdalena; and down here to Banco. They did\nnot stop at all, except when steamboats went by--oh, Anita, I never\nsaw a steamboat before! What big, noisy things they are! But Padre\nJos\u00e8 had often told me about them. And when the big boats passed us\nthey made me lie down in the canoe, and they put the _ruana_ over me\nand told me if I made any noise they would throw me into the river.\nBut I knew if I just kept still and knew--really _knew_--that God\nwould take care of me, why, He would. And, you see, He did, for He\nbrought me to you.\" A tired sigh escaped her lips as she laid her head\non the woman's shoulder.\n\n\"But--oh, _Santa Maria_!\" moaned the woman, \"you are not safe here!\nWhat can I do?--what can I do?\"\n\n\"Well, Anita dear, you can know that God is here, can't you? I knew\nthat all the way down the river. And, oh, I am so glad to see you!\nWhy, just think, it is eight years since you used to play with me! And\nnow we will go back to Simit\u00ed, will we not, Anita?\"\n\n\"Pray to the Virgin to help us, child! You may have influence with\nher--I have none, for my soul is lost!\"\n\n\"Why, Anita dear, that is not true! You and I are both God's children,\nand He is right here with us. All we have to do is to know it--just\nreally _know_ it.\"\n\n\"But, tell me, quick--Diego may be here any moment--why did he send\nRicardo for you?\"\n\nThe girl became very serious. \"Anita dear, Padre Diego says I am his\nchild.\"\n\n\"What!\"\n\n\"Yes--his daughter--that he is my father. But--is it really so,\nAnita?\"\n\n\"_Madre de Dios!_\" cried the woman. \"What a beast!--what a beast! He\nsaw you in Simit\u00ed when he was last there--and you are now a\nbeautiful--No, child, you are not his daughter! The wretch lies--he is\na sink of lies! He is rotten with sin! Oh, _Dios_!\"\n\n\"Why, no, Anita dear, he is not a beast--we must love him, for he is\nGod's child, too,\" said Carmen, patting the woman's wet cheek with her\nsoft hand.\n\n\"He!--God's child!\" She broke into a shrill of laughter. \"_Carita_, he\nis Satan himself! You do not know him!\"\n\n\"I don't mean that what you think you see is God's child, Anita dear;\nbut that what you think you see stands for God's child, and isn't\nreal. And if we know that, why, we will see the real child of God--the\nreal man--and not what you call a beast.\"\n\nAna apparently did not hear. Her thought was with the future. Carmen\nlooked about the room. \"Oh, Anita,\" she exclaimed, \"what a beautiful\nplace, and what beautiful things you have!\" She rubbed the tile floor\nwith her bare foot. \"Why, Anita dear, it is just like the palaces\nPadre Jos\u00e8 has told me about!\" She walked around the room, touching\nthe various toilet articles on the dresser, passing her hands\ncarefully over the upholstered chairs, and uttering exclamations of\nwonder and delight. \"Anita--Anita dear! Why, it is a palace! Oh! oh!\noh!\"\n\nThe woman looked up with a wan smile. \"_Chiquita_, they are nothing.\nThey are all cheap trinkets--nothing compared with what there is in\nthe big world beyond us. You poor dear, you have lived all your life\nin miserable little Simit\u00ed, and you haven't the slightest idea of what\nthere is in the world!\"\n\n\"But, Anita dear, Simit\u00ed is beautiful,\" the girl protested.\n\n\"Beautiful!\" The woman laughed aloud. \"My dear, simple little girl!\nYou have seen only this poor room, and you think it wonderful. I have\nbeen to Barranquilla and Cartagena with Padre Diego, and have seen\nhouses a thousand times more beautiful than this. And yet, even those\nare nothing to what there is in the world outside.\"\n\nCarmen went to the bed and passed her hand over the white counterpane.\n\"Anita--why, is this--is this your--\"\n\n\"Yes, _chiquita_, it is my bed. You have never seen a real bed, poor\nlittle thing.\"\n\n\"But--\" the child's eyes were wide with wonder--\"it is so soft--you\nsink way into it--oh, so soft--like the heron's feathers! I didn't\nsleep at all in the canoe--and I am so tired.\"\n\n\"You blessed lamb!\" cried the woman, springing up and clasping the\ngirl in her arms. \"But--what can I do? When he returns, he may come\nright up here! _Santa Maria_, help me!--what shall I do?\"\n\n\"Anita--let me sleep in your bed--it is so soft--but--\" looking down\ndubiously at her muddy feet.\n\n\"Never mind them, child.\" The woman's face had set in grim determination.\nShe went to the dresser and took out a small stiletto, which she\nquickly concealed in the bosom of her dress. \"Get right in, just as you\nare! I will take care of Diego, if he comes! _Santa Maria_, I will--\"\n\n\"Anita dear,\" murmured the girl, sinking down between the white\nsheets, \"you and I will just _know_ that God is everywhere, and\nthat He will take care of us, and of Padre Diego too.\" With a sigh\nof contentment the child closed her eyes. \"Anita dear,\" she\nwhispered softly, \"wasn't He good to bring me right to you? And\nto-morrow we will go back to Simit\u00ed--and to padre Rosendo--and Padre\nJos\u00e8--and--and Cantar-las-horas--you haven't seen him for such a long\ntime--such a long--long--Anita dear, I--love--you--\"\n\nThe child dropped asleep, just as a heavy step fell outside the door.\nAna sprang up and extinguished the lamp, then went quickly out into\nthe rotunda. Padre Diego was standing on the top step, puffing and\nweaving unsteadily. The woman hurried to him and passed an arm about\nhis waist.\n\n\"Oh!\" she exclaimed in a tone of feigned solicitation. \"I feared you\nhad met with an accident! My heart beats like the patter of rain! Why\ndo you stay out so late and cause me worry?\"\n\nThe bloated face of the man leered like a Jack-o'-lantern. \"Spiritual\nretreat, my love--spiritual retreat,\" he muttered thickly. \"Imbibing\nthe spirits, you know.\" He laughed heavily at his coarse joke.\n\nThe woman gave him a look of inexpressible disgust. \"But you are home\nsafe, at any rate,\" she said in a fawning voice; \"and my fear is\nquieted. Come now, and I will help you into bed. Not in there!\" she\ncried, as he lurched toward the door of the room where Carmen lay; \"in\nyour own room to-night!\"\n\nHe swayed to and fro before her, as she stood with her back against\nthe door.\n\n\"_Nombre de Dios_!\" he muttered, \"but you grow daily more unkind to\nyour good Padre! _Bien_, it is well that I have a fresh little\nhousekeeper coming!\" He made again as if to enter the room. The woman\nthrew her arms about his neck.\n\n\"Padre dear,\" she appealed, \"have you ceased to love your Anita? She\nwould spend this night alone; and can you not favor her this once?\"\n\n\"_Caramba_!\" he croaked in peevish suspicion, \"but I think you have a\nparamour in there. _Bien_, I will go in and shrive his wicked soul!\"\n\n\"Oh, I forgot to tell you!\" cried the desperate woman, her hand\nstealing to the weapon concealed in her dress. \"Pepito came this\nevening with the case of _Oporto_ which you ordered long ago from\nSpain. I put it in your study, for I knew you would want to sample it\nthe moment you returned.\"\n\n\"_Caramba_!\" he cried, turning upon her, \"why do you not tell me\nimportant things as soon as I arrive? I marvel that you did not wait\nuntil morning to break this piece of heavenly news! _Bien_, come to\nthe study, and you shall open a bottle for me. _Dios_! but my throat\nis seared with Don Antonio's vile rum! My parched soul panteth for the\nwine of the gods that flows from sunny Spain! _Caramba_, woman, give\nyourself haste!\"\n\nSuffering himself to be led by her, he staggered across the rotunda\nand into the room where long before he had entertained for a brief\nhour Don Jorge and the priest Jos\u00e8. Ana quickly broke the neck of a\nbottle of the newly arrived wine and gave him a generous measure.\n\n\"Ah, God in heaven!\" murmured the besotted priest, sinking into a\nchair and sipping the beverage; \"it is the nectar of Olympus--triple\ndistilled through tubes of sunlight and perfumed with sweet airs and\nthe smiles of voluptuous _houris_! Ah, Lord above, you are good to\nyour little Diego! Another sip, my lovely Ana--and bring me the\ncigarettes. And come, fat lass, do you sit beside me and twine your\ngraceful arms about my neck, while your soft breath kisses my old\ncheek! Ah, _Dios_, who would not be human! _Caramba_! the good God may\nkeep His heaven, if He will but give me the earth!\"\n\nAna drew his head against her bosom and murmured hypocritical words of\nendearment in his ear, while she kept his glass full. Diego babbled\nlike a child. He nodded; struggled to keep awake; and at length fell\nasleep with his head on her shoulder. Then she arose, and, assured\nthat he would be long in his stupor, extinguished the light and\nhurried to her own room.\n\nCarmen was sleeping peacefully. The woman bent over her with the\nlighted candle and looked long and wistfully. \"Ah, _Santa Maria_!\" she\nprayed, \"if you will but save her, you may do what you will with me!\"\n\nTears flowed freely down her cheeks as she turned to the door and\nthrew the bolt. Coming back to the bed, she again bent over the\nsleeping girl. \"_Santa Virgen_!\" she murmured, \"how beautiful! Like an\nangel! _Dios m\u00edo_--and that beast, he has seen her, and he would--ah,\n_Dios_!\"\n\nGoing again to the dresser, she took from a drawer a sandalwood\nrosary. Then she returned to the bed and knelt beside the child.\n\"Blessed Virgin,\" she prayed, while her hot tears fell upon the beads,\n\"I am lost--lost! Ah, I have not told my beads for many years--I\ncannot say them now! _Santa Virgen_, pray for me--pray for me--and if\nI kill him to-morrow, tell the blessed Saviour that I did it for the\nchild! Ah, _Santa Virgen_, how beautiful she is--how pure--what\nhair--she is from heaven--_Santa Virgen_, you will protect her?\" She\nkissed the cross repeatedly. \"_Madre de Dios_--she is so beautiful, so\npure--\"\n\nCarmen moved slightly, and the woman rose hastily from her knees.\n\"Anita dear,\" murmured the child, \"Jesus waked Lazarus--out of\nhis--sleep. Anita, why do you not come? I am waiting for you.\"\n\n\"Yes, child, yes! But--_Dios m\u00edo_!\" she murmured when Carmen again\nslept, \"I am too wicked to sleep with so pure an angel!--no, I can\nnot! I must not!\"\n\nShe spread a light shawl upon the tile floor near the window and lay\ndown upon it, drawing a lace _mantilla_ over her face to protect it\nfrom the mosquitoes. \"_Santa Virgen_\", she murmured repeatedly, \"pray\nthe blessed Saviour to protect her to-morrow--pray for her, _Madre de\nDios_--pray for her!\"\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe piercing shriek of a steamboat whistle roused the woman just as\nthe first harbingers of dawn spread over the river a crimson flush\nthat turned it into a stream of blood. The child was asleep. Ana bent\nover her and left a kiss on her forehead. Then she stole out of the\nroom and into the study. Padre Diego lay sunk in his chair like a\nmonster toad. The woman threw him a look of utter loathing, and then\nhastily descended into the _patio_. Ricardo lay under the _platano_\ntree, sleeping heavily. She roused him with a kick.\n\n\"Up, man!\" she cried, shaking him by the shoulder. \"Padre Diego sends\nyou this money, and bids you go. He is well satisfied with your work.\"\nShe held out a roll of _pesos_.\n\nThe man, after much vigorous persuasion, got heavily to his feet.\n\"_Caramba, se\u00f1orita_!\" he muttered in a dazed voice. \"That last\n_tragito_--it was a bit too much, no? But--_Bien_, I would see the\ngood Padre. _Caramba_, my poor head! What rum! But, se\u00f1orita, do me\nthe great favor to ask the good Padre to see me one little moment. I\nmust deliver this letter to him.\" He fumbled in his wallet and drew\nout an envelope.\n\n\"He will not see you, Ricardo. He--\"\n\n\"_Caramba_!\" ejaculated the man loudly, as his senses returned. \"But I\nbelieve there is something wrong here! _Bien_, now I shall see the\nPadre! I am responsible to him!\" He pushed the woman aside and entered\nthe house.\n\nAna started after him, and seized his arm. A scuffle ensued, and\nRicardo's voice was loud and shrill as they reached the stairs. The\nwoman clung to him desperately. \"Ricardo--anything you ask--double the\namount, if you will go! Leave the house--I will tell the Padre--I will\ngive him the letter--\"\n\n\"_Caramba_, but I will see him myself!\" shouted the lightheaded\nRicardo.\n\n\"_Dios y diablo_!\" A heavy voice rolled down from above. \"_Bien,\nenamorada_, is this the paramour whom you hid in your room last night?\n_Caramba_, you might have chosen a handsomer one!\"\n\nAna sank down with a moan and buried her face in her hands. Diego\nheavily descended the stairs. \"Ha, Ricardo!\" he exclaimed,\nrecognizing the man. \"_Bien_, so it is you! And the girl?\"\n\n\"I do not know, Padre,\" cried the man excitedly. \"Se\u00f1orita Ana, she\nmade me drunk last night. I brought the girl--I waited for you, but\nthe se\u00f1orita--\"\n\n\"_Caramba_, I understand!\" replied Diego, turning to the woman.\n\nAna had risen and was making for the stairs. Diego sprang to her and\nseized her by the wrist. With her free hand she drew the stiletto from\nher bosom and raised it to strike. Ricardo saw the movement, and threw\nhimself upon her.\n\n\"_Dios_!\" cried Diego, as Ricardo felled the woman and wrenched the\nweapon from her grasp. \"My pretty angel, you have the venom of a\nserpent! Sly wench! did you think to deceive your doting Padre?\nBut--_Dios nos guarde_!\"\n\nCarmen, awakened by the noise, had left her bed, and now stood at the\nhead of the stairs, looking with dilated eyes at the strange scene\nbeing enacted below.\n\nSilence fell upon the group. Ana lay on the ground, her eyes strained\ntoward the girl. Ricardo bent over her, awaiting his master's command.\nHe knew now that she had forever lost her power over the priest. Diego\nstood like a statue, his eyes riveted upon Carmen. The girl looked\ndown upon them from the floor above with an expression of wonder, yet\nwithout fear.\n\nDiego was the first to find his voice. \"Ah, my pretty one!\" he\nwheedled. \"My lovely daughter! At last you come to your lonely padre!\nWait for me, _hermosissima_!\" He puffed painfully up the steps.\n\n\"Carmen!--run!--run! Don't let him come near you--!\" screamed Ana in a\nvoice of horror. Ricardo clapped his hand heavily over her mouth.\n\nBut the child did not move. Diego reached her and seized her hand.\n\n\"_Carissima_!\" he panted, feasting his eyes upon her, while a thrill\npassed through his coarse frame. \"_Madre de Dios_, but you have grown\nbeautiful! Don Mario was right--you are surely the most voluptuous\nobject in human form that has ever crossed my path. _Bien_, the\nblessed God is still good to his little Diego!\"\n\nHe started away with her, but was detained by the loud voice of\nRicardo.\n\n\"_Bien_, Padre, my pay!\"\n\n\"_Cierto, hombre_!\" exclaimed Diego. \"I was about to forget. But--a\nfather's joy--ah! _Bien_, come to me to-morrow--\"\n\n\"_Na, Se\u00f1or Padre_, but to-day--now! I have risked my life--and I have\na wife and babes! You will pay me this minute!\"\n\n\"_Caramba_, ugly beast, but I will consign you to hell! _Maldito_! get\nyou gone! There are more convenient seasons than this for your\nbusiness!\" And, still holding tightly to the girl's hand, he led her\ninto the study.\n\nThe woman turned upon Ricardo with the fury of a tiger. \"See now what\nyou have done!\" she screamed. \"This will cost your life, for you have\nput into his dirty hands the soul of an angel, and he will damn it!\n_Santa Virgen_! If you had only taken the money I brought you--\"\n\n\"Demon-tongue, I will take it now!\" He snatched the roll of bills from\nher hand and bolted through the door. With a low moan the woman sank\nto the ground, while oblivion drew its sable veil across her mind.\n\nReaching the study, Diego pushed Carmen into the room and then\nfollowed, closing the door after him and throwing the iron bolt.\nTurning about, he stood with arms akimbo upon his bulging hips and\ngazed long and admiringly at the girl as she waited in expectant\nwonder before him. A smile of satisfaction and triumph slowly spread\nover his coarse features. Then it faded, and his heavy jowls and deep\nfurrows formed into an expression, sinister and ominous, through which\nlewdness, debauchery, and utter corruption looked out brazenly,\ndefiantly, into the fair, open countenance of the young girl before\nhim. A sense of weariness and dull pain then seemed to follow. He\nshook his heavy head and passed a hand across his brow, as if to brush\naside the confusion left by the previous night's potations.\n\n\"_Madre de Dios_!\" he muttered, falling heavily into a chair, \"but had\nI known you were here, little rosebud, I should have tried to keep\nsober.\" He reached out to grasp her; but she eluded him and went\nquickly to the open window, where she stood looking down into the\nstreet below. The morning sunlight, streaming into the room, engulfed\nher in its golden flood and transmuted the child of earth into a\ncreature divinely radiant, despite the torn gown and stains of river\ntravel.\n\n\"_Bien, car\u00eds\u00edma_,\" the man wheedled in a small, caressing voice,\n\"where is your greeting to your glad padre? _Dios m\u00edo_!\" he muttered,\nhis eyes roving over her full figure, \"but the Virgin herself was\nnever more lovely! Come, daughter,\" he purred, extending his arms;\n\"come to a father's heart that now, praise the Saints! shall ache no\nmore for its lost darling.\"\n\nThe girl faced about and looked at him for a few moments. What her\nglance conveyed, the man was utterly incapable of understanding. Then\nshe drew up a chair that stood near the window, and sinking into it,\nburied her face in her hands.\n\n\"_Caramba_, my smile of heaven! but why weep?\" chirped Diego,\naffecting surprise. \"Is it thus you celebrate your homecoming? Or are\nthese, perchance, fitting tears of joy? _Bien_, your padre's doting\nheart itself weeps that its years of loneliness are at last ended.\" He\nheld the sleeve of his gown to his eyes and sniffed affectedly.\n\nThe girl looked up quickly. \"I am not weeping,\" she said.\n\n\"_Bien_, and what then?\" he pursued.\n\n\"I was just knowing,\" she answered slowly, \"that I was not afraid--that\nGod was everywhere, even right here--and that He would not let any\nharm come to me.\"\n\nDiego's eyes widened. Then he burst into a coarse laugh. \"_Hombre_!\nand you ask Him to protect you from your adoring father! Come here,\nlittle wench. You are in your own home. Why be afraid?\" He again held\nout his arms to her.\n\n\"I am not afraid--now,\" she answered softly. \"But--I do not think God\nwill let me come to you. If you were really my father, He would.\"\n\nThe man's mouth gaped in astonishment. A fleeting sense of shame\nswept through his festering mind. Then the lustful meanness of his\ncorrupted soul welled up anew, and he laughed brutally. The idea\nwas delightfully novel; the girl beautifully audacious; the situation\npiquantly amusing. He would draw her out to his further enjoyment.\n\"So,\" he observed parenthetically, \"I judge you are on quite familiar\nterms with God, eh?\"\n\n\"Very,\" she replied, profoundly serious.\n\nThe joke was excellent, and he roared with mirth. \"_Bueno, pues_!\" he\ncommented, reaching over and uncorking with shaking hand the bottle\nthat stood on the table. Then, filling a glass, \"Suppose you thank Him\nfor sending his little Diego this estimable wine and your own charming\nself, eh? Then tell me what He says.\" Whereat he guffawed loudly and\nslapped his bulging sides.\n\nThe girl had already bowed her head again in her hands. A long pause\nensued. Diego's beady eyes devoured the beautiful creature before him.\nThen he waxed impatient. \"_Bien_, little Passion flower,\" he\ninterrupted, \"if you have conveyed to Him my infinite gratitude,\nperhaps He will now let you come to me, eh?\"\n\nCarmen looked up. A faint smile hovered upon her lips. \"I have thanked\nHim, Padre--for you and for me,\" she said; \"for you, that you really\nare His child, even if you don't know it; and for me that I know He\nalways hears me. That was what the good man Jesus said, you know, when\nhe waked Lazarus out of the death-sleep. Don't you remember? And so I\nkept thanking Him all the way down the river.\"\n\nDiego's eyes bulged as if they would pop from his head, and his mouth\nfell open wide, but no sound issued therefrom. The girl went on\nquietly:\n\n\"I was not afraid on the river, Padre. And I was not afraid to come in\nhere with you. I knew, just as the good man Jesus did at the tomb of\nLazarus, that God had heard me--He just couldn't be God if He hadn't,\nyou know. And then I remembered what the good man said about not\nresisting evil; for, you know, if we resist evil we make it real--and\nwe never, _never_ can overcome anything real, can we? So I resisted\nevil with good, just as Jesus told us to do. I just _knew_ that God\nwas everywhere, and that evil was unreal, and had no power at all. And\nso the _bogas_ didn't hurt me coming down the river. And you--you will\nnot either, Padre.\"\n\nShe stopped and smiled sweetly at him. Then, very seriously:\n\n\"Padre, one reason why I was not afraid to come in here with you was\nthat I thought God might want to talk to you through me, and I could\nhelp you. You need help, you know.\"\n\nThe man settled back in his chair and stared stupidly at her. His face\nexpressed utter consternation, confusion, and total lack of\ncomprehension. Once he muttered under his breath, \"_Caramba_! she is\nsurely an _hada_!\" But Carmen did not hear him. Absorbed in her\nmission, she went on earnestly:\n\n\"You know, Padre, we are all channels through which God talks to\npeople--just like the _asequia_ out there in the street through which\nthe water flows. We are all channels for divine love--so Padre Jos\u00e8\nsays.\"\n\nThe priest sat before her like a huge pig, his little eyes blinking\ndully, and his great mouth still agape.\n\n\"We are never afraid of real things, Padre, you know; and so I\ncouldn't be afraid of the real 'you,' for that is a child of God. And\nthe other 'you' isn't real. We are only afraid of our wrong thoughts.\nBut such thoughts are not really ours, you know, for they don't come\nfrom God. But,\" she laughed softly, \"when I saw you coming up the\nsteps after me this morning--well, lots of fear-thoughts came to\nme--why, they just seemed to come pelting down on me like the rain.\nBut I wouldn't listen to them. I turned right on them, just as I've\nseen Cucumbra turn on a puppy that was nagging him, and I said, 'Here,\nnow, I know what you are; I know you don't come from God; and anything\nthat doesn't come from God isn't really anything at all!' And so they\nstopped pelting me. The good man Jesus knew, didn't he? That's why he\nsaid so often, 'Be not afraid.'\"\n\nShe paused again and beamed at him. Her big eyes sparkled, and her\nface glowed with celestial light. Diego raised a heavy arm and,\ngroping for the bottle, eagerly drained another glass of wine.\n\n\"You think that wine makes you happy, don't you, Padre?\" she observed,\nwatching him gulp down the heavy liquor. \"But it doesn't. It just\ngives you what Padre Jos\u00e8 calls a false sense of happiness. And when\nthat false sense passes away--for everything unreal has just _got_ to\npass away--why, then you are more unhappy than you were before. Isn't\nit so?\"\n\nThe astonished Diego now regained his voice. \"_Caramba_, girl!\" he\nejaculated, \"will you rein that runaway tongue!\"\n\n\"No, Padre,\" she replied evenly, \"for it is God who is talking to you.\nDon't you hear Him? You ought to, for you are a priest. You ought to\nknow Him as well as the good man Jesus did. Padre, can you lay your\nhands on the sick babies and cure them?\"\n\nThe man squirmed uncomfortably for a moment, and then broke into\nanother brutal laugh. \"Sick babies! _Caramba_! but we find it easier\nto raise new babies than to cure sick ones! But--little _hada_!\n_Hombre_! do _hadas_ have such voluptuous bodies, such plump legs!\n_Madre de Dios_, girl, enough of your preaching! Come to me quick! I\nhunger for you! Come!\"\n\n\"No, Padre,\" she answered quietly, \"I do not want to come to you. But\nI want to talk to you--\"\n\n\"_Dios y diablo_! enough of your gab! _Caramba_! with a Venus before\nme do you think I yearn for a sermon? _Hombre_! delay it, delay it--\"\n\n\"Padre,\" she interrupted, \"you do not see _me._ You are looking only\nat your bad thoughts of me.\"\n\n\"Ha! my thoughts, eh?\" His laugh resembled the snort of an animal.\n\n\"Yes, Padre--and they are _very_ bad thoughts, too--they don't come\nfrom God, and you are _so_ foolish to let them use you the way you do.\nWhy do you, Padre? for you don't have to. And you know you see around\nyou only the thoughts that you have been thinking. Why don't you think\ngood thoughts, and so see only good things?\"\n\n\"Now Mary bless my soul!\" he exclaimed in mock surprise. \"Can it be\nthat I don't see a plump little witch before me, but only my bad\nthoughts, eh? Ha! ha! _Caramba_! that is good! _Bien_, then,\" he\ncoaxed, \"come to your poor, deluded padre and let him learn that you\nare only a thing of thought, and not the most enchanting little piece\nof flesh that ever caused a Saint to fall!\"\n\nThe girl sat silent before him. Her smile had fled, and in its place\nsadness and pity were written large upon her wistful face.\n\n\"Come, my little bundle of thought,\" he coaxed, holding out his fat,\nhairy arms.\n\n\"No, Padre,\" the girl answered firmly.\n\n\"_Na_, then, still afraid, eh?\" he taunted, with rising anger.\n\n\"No, Padre; to be afraid would mean that I didn't understand God.\"\n\n\"Ha! Then come to me and prove that you do understand Him, eh?\" he\nsuggested eagerly. \"_Caramba_! why do you sit there like a mummy? Are\nyou invoking curses on the bald pate of your desolate father?\"\n\n\"No, Padre; I am thanking God all the time that He is here, and that\nHe will not let you hurt me.\"\n\nThe man's lust-inflamed eyes narrowed and the expression on his evil\nface became more sinister. \"_Maldita_!\" he growled, \"will you come\nhither, or must I--\"\n\n\"No.\" She shook her head slowly, and her heavy curls glistened in the\nsunlight. \"No, Padre, God will not let me come to you.\"\n\nPanting and cursing softly, the man got slowly to his feet. \"_Madre de\nDios_!\" he muttered; \"then we will see if your God will let me come to\nyou!\"\n\nCarmen rose and stood hesitant. Her lips moved rapidly, though no\nsound came from them. They were forming the words of the psalmist, \"In\nGod have I put my trust: I will not be afraid what man can do unto\nme.\" It was a verse Jos\u00e8 had taught her long since, when his own heart\nwas bursting with apprehension.\n\nDiego stumbled heavily toward the child. She turned quickly as if to\nflee. He thrust out his hand and clutched her dress. The flimsy\ncalico, frayed and worn, tore its full length, and the gown fell to\nthe floor. She stopped and turned to face the man. Her white body\nglistened in the clear sunlight like a marble statue.\n\n_\"Por el amor de Dios_!\" ejaculated the priest, straightening up and\nregarding her with dull, blinking eyes. Then, like a tiger pouncing\nupon a fawn, he seized the unresisting girl in his arms and staggered\nback to his chair.\n\n\"_Caramba! Caramba_!\" he exclaimed, holding her with one arm about her\nwaist, and with his free hand clumsily pouring another glass of wine.\n\"Only a thing of thought, eh? _Madre de Dios! Bien_, pretty thought,\ndrink with me this thought of wine!\" He laughed boisterously at his\ncrude wit, and forced the glass between her lips.\n\n\"I--am not afraid--I am not afraid,\" she whispered, drinking. \"It\ncannot hurt me--nor can you. God _is_ here!\"\n\n\"Hurt you!\" he panted, setting down the glass and mopping his hot\nbrow, as he settled back into the chair again. \"_Caramba_! who hurts\nwhen he loves?\"\n\n\"You--do--not--love--me, Padre!\" she gasped under his tight clutch.\n\"You have--only a wrong thought--of me--of love--of everything!\"\n\n\"_Bien_--but you love me, pretty creature, is it not so?\" he mocked,\nholding up her head and kissing her full on the mouth.\n\n\"I--I love the _real_ 'you'--for that is God's image,\" she murmured,\nstruggling to hold her face away from his fetid breath. \"But--I do\nnot--love the way that image is--is translated--in your human mind!\"\n\n\"_Caramba_!\" he threw himself back and gave noisy vent to his\nrisibility. \"_Chiquita m\u00eda_! What grand language! Where did you learn\nit?\"\n\nFor the moment the girl seemed to forget that she was in the fell\nclutches of a demon incarnate. Her thought strayed back to little\nSimit\u00ed, to Cucumbra, to Cantar-las-horas, to--ah, was _he_ searching\nfor her now? And would he come?--\n\n\"It was Padre Jos\u00e8; he taught me,\" she whispered sadly.\n\n\"Padre Jos\u00e8! _Maldito_! The curse of God blast him, the monkey-faced\n_mozo! Caramba_! but he will teach you no more! You have a new master\nnow to give you a few needed lessons, _se\u00f1orita m\u00eda_, and--\"\n\n\"Padre Diego!\" her tense voice checked further expression of his low\nthought. \"You have no power to curse anything! You have no power to\nharm me, or to teach me anything! God _is_ here! He _will_ protect me!\nHe keeps all them that love Him!\" She gasped again as his clutch\ntightened about her.\n\n\"Doubtless, my lily. _Caramba_! your skin is like the velvet!\" He\nroughly drew the girl up on his knees. \"To be sure He will protect\nyou, my _mariposa._ And He is using me as the channel, you see--just\nas you said a few moments ago, eh?\" His rude laugh again echoed\nthrough the room.\n\n\"He is not--using you--at all!\" she panted. \"Evil thoughts are--are\nusing you. And all--they can do--is to kill themselves--and you!\"\n\n\"_Madre Maria_! Is such a sad fate in store for me, my beautiful\n_hada_?\" He chuckled and reached out again for the bottle. \"Another\nlittle thought of wine, my love. It's only a thought, you know. Ha!\nha! I must remember to tell Don Antonio of this!--_Maldita_!\"\n\nHis clumsy movement had upset the bottle. Struggling to save its\ncontents, he relaxed his hold on Carmen. Like a flash she wormed her\nsupple body out under his arm, slid to the floor, and gained the\nwindow.\n\n\"_Dios y diablo! Maldita! Maldita_!\" shrilled Diego, aflame with\nwrath. \"Cursed wench! when I lay these hands again on you--!\"\n\nStruggling to his feet, he made for the girl. But at the first step\nthe light rug slid along the smooth tiles beneath his uncertain tread.\nHe threw out an arm and sought to grasp the table. But as he did so,\nhis foot turned under him. There was a sharp, snapping sound. With a\ngroan the heavy man sank to the floor.\n\nFor a moment Carmen stood as if dazed. Diego lay very still. Then the\ngirl picked up her torn dress and approached him carefully. \"It was\nhis bad thoughts,\" she whispered; \"he slipped on them; they threw him!\nI knew it--I just _knew_ it!\"\n\nPassing to one side, she gained the door, threw back the bolt, and\nhurried out into the rotunda. Crouched on the floor, the stiletto\nclasped in her hand, sat Ana, her face drenched with tears, and her\nchest heaving. When she saw the girl she sprang to her feet.\n\n\"Carmen! Ah, _Dios_! your dress!--_Madre Maria_! I could not save you;\nI could not break through the heavy door; but I can punish him!\" She\nburst into a flood of tears and started into the room.\n\n\"No, Anita!\" cried the girl, throwing herself into the woman's arms.\n\"He is punished! He did not hurt me--God would not let him! Look!\nAnita, look!\" pointing to the body on the floor.\n\nThe woman stopped abruptly. \"Carmen!\" she whispered in awed tones,\n\"did God strike him dead?\"\n\n\"I don't know, Anita--but come! No!\" clinging to the woman's skirt;\n\"Anita dear, do not go in there! Leave him! Come away with me!\"\n\nThe woman's eyes were wild, her hair loose and disheveled. \"_Caramba_!\"\nshe cried, \"but we will make sure that the beast is dead before we\ngo! And if we leave this blade in his heart, it may be a warning to\nothers of his kind!\"\n\n\"No, Anita--no! God will not let you kill him! You must not! Your\nmurder-thoughts will kill you if you do! Come! Listen--it is a\nsteamboat whistle! Oh, Anita--if it is going up the river--we can take\nit--\"\n\nAna hesitated. \"But--leave him? He may--\"\n\n\"Yes, Anita, yes; leave him with God!\" pleaded the girl excitedly.\n\"Come away, Anita--\"\n\n\"But where, child?\" asked the bewildered woman.\n\n\"To Simit\u00ed!\"\n\n\"Simit\u00ed! Never! Why--why, my father would kill me!\"\n\n\"No, Anita dear; he loves you; he prays for you; he wants you! Oh,\nAnita, come! It is right--it is just what God has planned, I know! Pin\nmy dress together, and then hurry!\"\n\nThe woman moved as if in a cloud. Mechanically she descended the\nstairs and left the house, her hand tightly clasped by Carmen. Dully\nshe suffered herself to be led hurriedly to the river. A boat,\nup-bound, was just docking. The captain stood leaning over the rail\nand shouting his commands. Ana recognized him. It was Captain Julio.\n\n\"_Loado sea Dios_!\" murmured the weeping woman, hurrying up the gang\nplank with the child. She hastened past the astonished passengers to\nthe captain and drew him to one side.\n\n\"The child--\" she gasped, \"Rosendo Ariza's--of Simit\u00ed--leave her at\nBadillo--they will take her over--\"\n\n\"Wait, se\u00f1ora,\" interrupted the captain tenderly. \"Is it not time for\nyou to go home, too?\" He laid a hand on her shoulder and looked down\ninto her streaming eyes. \"Come,\" he said quietly. And, leading them\ndown the deck, he opened the door of a vacant cabin and bade them\nenter. \"You can tell me your story when we are under way,\" he said,\nsmiling as he closed the door. \"_Bien_,\" he muttered, his brow\nclouding as he strode off. \"I have been looking for this for some\ntime. But--the child--Ariza's--ah, the priest Diego! I think I\nsee--_Caramba_! But we will not tarry long here!\"\n\nA few minutes later the big boat, her two long funnels vomiting\ntorrents of smoke and sparks, thrust her huge wheel into the thick\nwaters and, swinging slowly out into mid-stream, turned her flat nose\ntoward the distant falls of Tequendama. In one of her aft cabins a\nwoman lay on a cot, weeping hysterically. Over her bent a girl, with a\nface such as the masters have sought in vain. The tenderly whispered\nwords might have been the lingering echo of those voiced in the little\nmoonlit death-chamber of Cartagena long agone.\n\n\"Anita dear, He is with us, right here. And His arms are wide open.\nAnd He says, 'Anita, come!'\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 26\n\n\n\"But, Padre dear, why are you so surprised that Padre Diego did not\nhurt me? I would have been much more surprised if he had. You are\nalways so astonished when evil doesn't happen--don't you ever look for\ngood? Why, I don't ever look for anything else! How could I when I\nknow that God is everywhere?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 strained her closer to himself. \"The sense of evil--it overwhelms\nme at times, _carita_--\"\n\n\"But, Padre dear, why don't you know right then that it is nothing? If\nyou did, it would fade away, and only good would overwhelm you.\" She\nnestled closer to the man and clasped her arms more tightly about his\nneck. \"Why, Padre,\" she resumed, \"I was not a bit surprised when\nCaptain Julio came and told us we were near Bodega Central, and that\nhe could see you and Juan and L\u00e1zaro sitting on the steps of the\ninn.\"\n\n\"Yes, _chiquita_, we were resting for a moment. If a down-river boat\ncame by we were going to take it. If not, we expected to go in the\ncanoe.\"\n\n\"Padre dear, what did you intend to do in Banco?\"\n\nThe man hesitated. \"Don't speak of it, child--we--\"\n\n\"Juan and L\u00e1zaro have knives. I saw them. Padre--have you one, too?\"\n\n\"I?--_chiquita_--\"\n\n\"Padre dear, God never fights with knives. Anita had a knife; but God\nwouldn't let her use it. He always has better ways than that. I don't\nknow what happened to Padre Diego, except that he fell over his wicked\nthoughts. You know, Padre dear, somewhere in the Bible you read to me\nthat 'With him is an arm of flesh; but with us is the Lord our God to\nhelp us, and to fight our battles.' I thought of that when Padre Diego\nhad his arm around me and held me so tight that I could hardly\nbreathe. It was only an arm of flesh, after, all, and it couldn't hold\nme.\"\n\n\"_Bien_, Padre,\" interrupted Juan, coming up from the boat, \"if we are\nto reach Simit\u00ed to-night we must start at once.\"\n\n\"_Bueno_, then let us set out,\" returned Jos\u00e8, rising. A muffled sob\nreached his ears. He turned to the woman huddled in the shadow of the\ndoor.\n\n\"Come, Ana,\" he said cheerily; \"to-night you will again be home.\"\n\n\"No, Padre--I do not go with you. I--\"\n\n\"Anita!\" In an instant Carmen's arms were around her. \"When padre\nRosendo sees us, you and me, why--\"\n\n\"_Car\u00edsima_!\" The woman's tears flowed fast while she hugged the girl\nto her bosom. \"No--no--he would drive me from his house! No--let me\nstay here. I will get work in the _posada_, perhaps. Or Captain Julio\nwill take me to Honda on his next trip, and get me a place--\"\n\n\"Then we must ask him to get a place for us both,\" interrupted Carmen,\nsitting calmly down beside her. \"And think, Anita, how sad padre\nRosendo will be when he sees the men come back without us!\"\n\n\"Carmen! I shall throw myself into the river!\" cried the sorrowing\nwoman, rising. \"You don't know what it is--\"\n\n\"Yes, I do, Anita,\" returned the girl quickly; \"it is nothing--just\nzero--and you can't drown it! If it would do any good we would both\njump into the river--that is, if God told us to--wouldn't we? But it\ndoesn't help any to die, you know, for then we would have it all to do\nover again.\"\n\n\"Ana,\" said Jos\u00e8, laying a hand on the woman's shoulder, \"you do not\nunderstand her--neither do I, wholly. But if she tells you to go with\nus to Simit\u00ed, why, I think I would go. I would leave it all with her.\nYou may trust her influence with Rosendo. Come.\"\n\nHe took her hand and led her, weeping, but no longer resisting, down\nto the canoe. Carmen followed, dancing like an animated sunbeam. \"What\nfun, oh, what fun!\" she chirped, clapping her hands. \"And just as soon\nas we get home we will go right up to the _c\u00e1rcel_ and let padre\nRosendo out!\"\n\n\"_Na, chiquita_,\" said Jos\u00e8, shaking his head mournfully; \"we have no\npower to do that.\"\n\n\"Well, then, God has,\" returned the girl, nothing daunted.\n\nJuan pushed the heavily laden canoe from its mooring, and set its\ndirection toward Simit\u00ed. Silence drew over the little group, and the\nhours dragged while the boat crept slowly along the margin of the\ngreat river. The sun had passed its meridian when the little craft\nturned into the _ca\u00f1o._ To Jos\u00e8 the change brought a most grateful\nrelief. For, though his long residence in Simit\u00ed had somewhat inured\nhim to the intense heat of this low region, he had not yet learned to\nendure it with the careless indifference of the natives. Besides, his\nmind was filled with vivid memories of the horrors of his first river\ntrip. And he knew that every future experience on the water would be\ntinged by them.\n\nIn the shaded _ca\u00f1o_ the sunlight, sifting through the interlocking\nbranches of ancient palms and _caobas_, mellowed and softened into a\nveil of yellow radiance that flecked the little stream with splashes\nof gold. Juan in the prow with the pole labored in silence. At times\nhe stopped just long enough to roll a huge cigar, and to feast his\nbright eyes upon the fair girl whom he silently adored. L\u00e1zaro, as\n_patron_, sat in the stern, saturnine and unimpassioned. The woman,\nexhausted by the recent mental strain, dozed throughout the journey.\nCarmen alone seemed alive to her environment. Every foot of advance\nunfolded to her new delights. She sang; she chirped; she mimicked the\nparrots; she chattered at the excited monkeys. It was with difficulty\nthat Jos\u00e8 could restrain her when her sharp eyes caught the glint of\nbrilliant Passion flowers and orchids of gorgeous hue clinging to the\ndripping trees.\n\n\"Padre!\" she exclaimed, \"they are in us, you know. They are not out\nthere at all! We see our thoughts of them--and lots of people wouldn't\nsee anything beautiful about them at all, just because their thoughts\nare not beautiful. Padre, we see--what you said to me once--we see our\ninterpretations of God's ideas, don't we? That is what I told Padre\nDiego. But--well, he will just _have_ to see some day, won't he, Padre\ndear? But now let us talk in English; you know, I haven't spoken it\nfor such a long time.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 gazed at her in rapt silence. What a rare interpretation of the\nmind divine was this child! But he wondered why one so pure and\nbeautiful should attract a mind so carnal as that of Diego. And yet--\n\n\"Ah!\" he mused, \"it is again that law. Good always stirs up its\nsuppositional opposite. And the most abundant good and the greatest\npurity stir up the most carnal elements of the human mind. All history\nshows it. The greater the degree of good, the greater the seeming\ndegree of evil aroused. The perfect Christ stirred the hatred of a\nworld. Carmen arouses Diego simply because of her purity. Yet she\nknows that he can not harm her.\"\n\nHis eyes met the girl's, and she answered his unspoken thought in the\ntongue which she was fast adopting. \"We _have_ to love him, you know,\nPadre dear.\"\n\n\"Love whom? Diego?\"\n\n\"Why, yes, of course. We can't help loving him. Oh, not the 'him' that\nthe human mind looks at, but the real 'him,' you know--the 'him' that\nis God's image. And you know there just isn't any other 'him,' now is\nthere?\"\n\n\"God above!\" murmured Jos\u00e8, \"if I could but keep my thought as\nstraight as she does!\"\n\n\"But, Padre dear, your thought _is_ straight. You know, God's thought\nis the only thought there really is. Any other thought has the minus\nsign, and so it is zero. If we will always think of the real Padre\nDiego, and love that, why, the unreal one will fade away from our\nthought.\"\n\n\"Do you suppose, _chiquita_, that if we love him we will make him\nrepent?\"\n\nThe child pondered the question for a moment. Then:\n\n\"Padre, what did you tell me once about the word 'repent'?\"\n\n\"It comes from the Greek word '_metanoia_.'\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she reflected; \"but what did you say that--\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I told you it meant a complete and radical change of\nthought.\"\n\n\"Well!\" she exclaimed, her eyes brightening.\n\nJos\u00e8 waited expectantly. It was heaven to have this girl before him\nand to drink in the na\u00efve expressions of her active mind.\n\n\"Padre dear, when John the baptiser said, 'Repent, for the kingdom of\nheaven is at hand,' did he mean to tell the people that they must have\na complete change of thought?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 laughed. And then he grew serious. \"_Chiquita_,\" he answered, \"I\nhave no doubt he meant just that. For you have taught me that there\ncan be no salvation without such a complete and radical change.\"\n\n\"No,\" she said with quick emphasis; \"for God is mind, you know. And\nHis thought is the only real thought there is or can be. The thoughts\nof mortals are the opposites of His thoughts, and so they are\nillusions, and, like all lies, must pass away. If people want to be\nimmortal, they must think as God thinks, for He is immortal. They must\nstop thinking that there is any power but God. They must stop letting\nin thoughts of sickness, of sin, of wickedness, and all those things\nthat in English you call 'discord.' God says in the Bible, 'As the\nheavens are higher than the earth, so are my thoughts higher than your\nthoughts.' Well, God is immortal and perfect. And if we want to be\nlike Him we must think His thoughts. For our thoughts become--things.\nDon't you see?\"\n\nJos\u00e8's face clouded. \"I see, _chiquita_--sometimes very clearly--and\nthen again I don't see,\" he said slowly.\n\n\"You _do_ see!\" she insisted, getting up on her knees and facing him.\n\"And you see as God sees! And if you hold this thought always, why, it\nwill--it will be--\"\n\n\"Externalized; is that what you are trying to say?\" he suggested.\n\n\"Yes, just that. Jesus said, 'As a man thinketh in his heart, so is\nhe.'\"\n\n\"But, Carmen--I-- What you say is doubtless true in essence--but I\nthink you have not grasped it all--there are so many gaps that your\nsimple little system of religion does not fill in--so many great\nquestions that you do not answer. I see, in part--and then, again, I\ndon't see at all. And when you were stolen away from Simit\u00ed I saw\nnothing but the evil--and it nearly killed me!\"\n\nThe girl studied him for a few moments. The man had always been an\nenigma to her. She could not understand a nature that soared into the\nspiritual empyrean one moment, and in the next fell floundering into\nthe bottomless pit of materialism. The undulating curve which\nmarked the development of the Rinc\u00f3n mind was to her a thing\nincomprehensible.\n\n\"Padre dear,\" she said at length, a little sadly. \"When you look at\nthe first chapter in the Bible and read there how God made everything,\nand man in His image, in the image of Mind, you see, and are very\nhappy. But when you go on to the second chapter and read how the Lord\nGod--not God, but the _Lord_ God--made a man of dirt, and how this\ndirt man listened to his false thoughts and fell, why, then you are\nunhappy. Don't you see any difference between them? Can't you see that\none is a story of the real creation; and the other is the human mind's\ninterpretation of the creation--an interpretation made according to\nthe way the human mind thinks the creating _ought_ to have been in\nmatter? You told me this yourself. And the second chapter shows how\nfar the human mind can go--it shows how limited it is. The human mind\ncouldn't get any farther than that--couldn't make a man out of\nanything but dirt. It couldn't understand the spiritual creation. And\nso it made a creation of its own. It couldn't understand God; and so\nit made a Lord God, just like itself. Can't you see? Padre dear, can't\nyou? And if you see, can't you _stick_ to it and _live_ it, until all\nthe unreal passes away?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 smiled into her earnest little face. \"I will never cease to try,\n_chiquita_,\" he said. \"But we were talking about loving Diego, weren't\nwe? Yes, you are right, we must try to love him, for the good Jesus\nsaid we must love our enemies.\"\n\n\"But, if we love everybody, then we haven't any enemies. You can't\nlove a real enemy--and so there aren't any real ones. We see in other\npeople only what is in our own thought. If we see evil as real, why,\nthen we will see bad men and women all around us, for we only look at\nour thoughts. But, if we look only at God's thoughts--Padre dear, I\ndidn't see anything but God's thought when Padre Diego had me in his\narms. I knew it wasn't real, but was just the human way of looking at\nthings. And I knew that love was the great principle of everything,\nand that it just couldn't fail, any more than the principle of algebra\ncould fail to solve my problems. Well,\" she concluded with a little\nsigh, \"it didn't.\"\n\n\"Dear little girl, you must be patient, very patient, with your\nblundering old Padre Jos\u00e8. He is groping for the light--\"\n\nIn an instant, throwing the canoe into imminent danger of upsetting,\nthe impulsive girl had hurled herself into his lap and clasped her\narms about his neck. Juan and L\u00e1zaro by a quick and skillful effort\nkept the craft upright.\n\n\"Oh, Padre dear!\" she cried, \"I didn't mean to say a word that would\nmake you unhappy--Padre dear, I love you so! Padre, look at your\nlittle girl, and tell her that you love her!\"\n\nHe clasped her fiercely. \"No--no!\" he murmured, \"I--I must\nnot--and--yet--_chiquita_--I adore you!\" He buried his face in her\nshoulder.\n\nJuan made a wry mouth as he looked at the girl in the priest's arms.\nThen he suggested that a separation would more evenly balance the\nboat. Carmen laughed up at him, but slipped down into the keel and sat\nwith her head propped against Jos\u00e8's knees.\n\n\"Padre dear,\" she said, looking up at him with twinkling eyes, \"I\nheard L\u00e1zaro say a little while before we started that he had lived\nmany years in Simit\u00ed, and that it had always been very quiet until you\ncame.\"\n\n\"_Ay de m\u00ed!_\" sighed Jos\u00e8. \"I can readily believe that the whole world\nwas quiet until I entered it.\"\n\n\"But, Padre, perhaps you had to come into it to shake it up.\"\n\nHe laughed. \"_Chiquita_,\" he said, \"if ever you go out into it, with\nyour radical views regarding God and man; and if the stupid old world\nwill give ear to you, there will be such a shaking up as it has never\nexperienced since--\"\n\n\"Padre dear,\" she interrupted, \"I am not going out into the world. I\nshall stay in Simit\u00ed--with you.\"\n\nHe looked down at her, tenderly, wistfully. And then, while her words\nstill echoed through his mind, a great sigh escaped him.\n\nDusk had closed in upon them when the canoe emerged into the quiet\nlake. Huge vampire bats, like demons incarnate, flouted their faces as\nthey paddled swiftly toward the distant town. Soft evening calls\ndrifted across the placid waters from the slumbering jungle. Carmen's\nrich voice mingled with them; and Juan and L\u00e1zaro, catching the\ninspiration, broke into a weird, uncanny boating song, such as is\nheard only among these simple folk. As they neared the town the song\nof the _bogas_ changed into a series of loud, yodelling halloos; and\nwhen the canoe grated upon the shaly beach, Do\u00f1a Maria and a score of\nothers were there to welcome the returned travelers.\n\nAt the sight of Ana, a murmur ran through the crowd. Do\u00f1a Maria turned\nto the woman.\n\n\"It is Anita, madre dear,\" Carmen quickly announced, as she struggled\nout of Do\u00f1a Maria's arms and took the confused Ana by the hand.\n\nThe light of recognition came into Do\u00f1a Maria's eyes. Quietly, and\nwithout demonstration, she went to the shrinking woman and, taking the\ntear-stained face in her hands, impressed a kiss upon each cheek.\n\"_Bien_,\" she said in a low, tender voice, \"we have waited long for\nyou, daughter. And now let us go home.\"\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe glow of dawn had scarce begun to creep timidly across the arch of\nheaven when Fernando knocked at the portal of Rosendo's house and\ndemanded the custody of Carmen. Jos\u00e8 was already abroad.\n\n\"And now, Fernando,\" demanded the priest, \"what new outrage is this?\"\n\nThe constable flushed with embarrassment. \"_Na_, Padre, a thousand\npardons--but it is the order of the Alcalde, and I only obey. But--you\nmay knock me down,\" he added eagerly, \"and then I can return to him\nand say that I could not take the girl, even by force!\" The honest\nfellow, ashamed of his mission, hung his head. Jos\u00e8 seized his hand.\n\n\"Fernando!\" he cried, \"what say the people of Simit\u00ed?\"\n\n\"They are with you, Padre. They would demand Rosendo's release, if\nthere were proof that the girl--\"\n\n\"Good, then! we have the proof,\" broke in Jos\u00e8. \"Rosendo knows of our\nreturn?\"\n\n\"Yes, the guard informed him this morning. The Alcalde, you know,\npermits no one to approach the prisoner.\"\n\n\"And does he know that Ana is here?\"\n\n\"The guard did not tell him, for fear of exciting the old man.\n_Hombre!_ I think there is no one in town who would venture to tell\nRosendo that.\"\n\n\"_Bien pues_, Fernando, I think the time has come! Go quietly back and\nsummon every one to a meeting in the town hall at once. Tell them--\"\n\n\"_Bien_, Padre, I shall know what to tell them. But,\" anxiously, \"Don\nMario has the power to--\"\n\n\"And we have a greater power,\" quickly replied the priest, his thought\ndwelling on Carmen.\n\nAn hour later the town hall was a babel of clacking tongues. Men,\nwomen and children hurried, chattering, to and fro, exchanging diverse\nviews and speculating eagerly on the probable outcome of the meeting.\nJos\u00e8 stood before them, with Carmen's hand clasped tightly in his. Don\nMario, purple and trembling with rage, was perched upon a chair,\nvainly trying to get the ear of the people.\n\nIn the midst of the hubbub a hush fell suddenly over the concourse.\nAll heads turned, and all eyes fastened upon Ana, as she entered the\nroom and moved timidly toward Jos\u00e8. The people fell back to make a\npassage for her. Her shoulders were bent, and her face was covered\nwith a black _mantilla_.\n\nDon Mario, as his glance fell upon her, again attempted to address the\nmultitude. A dozen voices bade him cease. A strong arm from behind\npushed him from the chair. His craven heart began to quake, and he\ncast anxious glances toward the single exit.\n\nGently removing the _mantilla_ from the face of the woman, Jos\u00e8 turned\nher toward the people. \"Friends!\" he said in a loud, penetrating\nvoice, \"behold the work of Diego!\"\n\nHe paused for the effect which he knew would be made upon this\nimpressionable people. Then, when the loud murmur had passed, he drew\nCarmen out before him and, pointing to her, said dramatically, \"And\nshall we also throw this innocent child to the wolf?\"\n\nThe assembly broke into a roar. Fists were shaken under the Alcalde's\nnose, and imprecations were hurled at him from all sides. Don Mario\ndrew his soiled handkerchief and mopped his steaming brow. Then his\nvoice broke out in a shriek: \"The soldiers--this day I shall summon\nthem--it is a riot!\"\n\n\"_Caramba!_ He speaks truth!\" cried a voice from the crowd. The babel\ncommenced anew.\n\n\"The soldiers! _Caramba!_ Let Diego have his child!\"\n\n_\"Maldita!\"_\n\n\"Who says it is not his?\"\n\n\"I do!\"\n\nIt was Ana. Clasping Jos\u00e8's arm to steady herself, she had turned to\nconfront the excited assembly.\n\nSilence descended upon them all. Jos\u00e8 held up his hand. A sob escaped\nthe woman. Then:\n\n\"The priest Diego had a child--a girl. Her name--it was--Carmen. The\nchild is--dead.\"\n\n\"_Caramba!_ girl, how know you that?\" shrilled a woman's excited\nvoice.\n\n\"I know, because I--was--its--mother!\"\n\nPandemonium burst upon the room at the woman's words. Don Mario\nstarted for the door, but found his way blocked. \"Diego had other\nchildren!\" he shouted; \"and this girl is one of them!\"\n\n\"It is false!\" cried Ana in a loud voice. \"I have lived with him eight\nyears! I know from his own lips that I speak the truth! See what he\nhas done to me! Would I lie?\"\n\n\"To the _c\u00e1rcel_! Release Rosendo!\"\n\n\"We will write to the President at Bogot\u00e1! Don Mario must be\nremoved!\"\n\n\"_Caramba!_ Such an Alcalde!\"\n\n\"Let him send for the soldiers, if he wishes to die!\"\n\n\"To the _c\u00e1rcel_!\"\n\nAs a unit the fickle people streamed from the room and started for the\njail. Don Mario was borne along on the heaving tide. Jos\u00e8 and Carmen\nfollowed; but Ana fell back and returned to the house of Rosendo.\n\nThe guard at the jail, seeing the concourse approaching, threw down\nhis _machete_ and fled. Rosendo's eyes were big with speculation,\nthough his heart beat apprehensively. The people jammed into the small\nhut until it swayed and threatened to collapse.\n\n\"The key to the lock--_Caramba_! the guard has it!\"\n\n\"Catch him!\"\n\n\"No! bring a _barra_!\"\n\nJuan quickly produced a long iron bar, and with a few lusty efforts\nsprung the stocks. A dozen hands lifted the cramped Rosendo out and\nstood him upon his feet. Carmen squirmed through the crowd and threw\nherself into his arms.\n\nThen, with shouts and gesticulations, a triumphal procession quickly\nformed, and the bewildered and limping Rosendo was escorted down the\nmain street of the town and across the _plaza_ to his home. At the\ndoor of the house Jos\u00e8 turned and, holding up a hand, bade the people\nquietly disperse and leave the liberated man to enjoy undisturbed the\nsacred reunion with his family. With a parting shout, the people\nmelted quickly away, and quiet soon reigned again over the ancient\ntown.\n\n\"_Bien_, Padre,\" said Rosendo, pausing before his door to clasp anew\nthe priest's hand, \"you have not told me what has caused this. Was it\nthe little Carmen--\"\n\nHe stopped short. Glancing in at the door, his eyes had fallen upon\nAna. To Jos\u00e8, hours seemed suddenly compressed into that tense\nmoment.\n\nSlowly Rosendo entered the house and advanced to the shrinking woman.\nTerror spread over her face, and she clutched her throat as the big\nman stalked toward her. Then, like a flash, Carmen darted in front of\nher and faced Rosendo.\n\n\"It is Anita, padre dear,\" she said, looking up into his set face, and\nclasping his hand in both of hers. \"She has come home again. Aren't we\nglad!\"\n\nRosendo seemed not to see the child. His voice came cold and harsh.\n\"_Bien_, outcast, is your lover with you, that I may strangle him,\ntoo?\" He choked and swallowed hard.\n\n\"Padre!\" cried Carmen, putting both her hands against him. \"See! Those\nbad thoughts nearly strangled you! Don't let them get in! Don't!\"\n\n\"_Bien_, girl!\" snarled the angry man, still addressing the cowering\nwoman. \"Did you tire of him, that you now sneak home? Or--_Caramba_!\"\nas Ana rose and stood before him, \"you come here that your illegal\nbrat may be born! Not under my roof! _Santa Maria!_ Never! Take it\nback to him! Take it back, I say!\" he shouted, raising his clenched\nfist as if to strike her.\n\nCarmen turned swiftly and threw herself upon the woman. Looking over\nher shoulder, she addressed the raging man:\n\n\"Padre Rosendo! this is not your house! It is God's! He only lets you\nhave it, because He is good to you! Shame on you, for daring to drive\nAnita away--your own little girl!\" Her voice rose shrill, and her\nwords cut deep into the old man's embittered heart.\n\n\"Shame on you, padre Rosendo!\" quickly flowed the scorching words. \"If\nGod were like you He would drive you from the house, too! Are you so\nmuch better than the good Jesus that you can drive away a woman who\nsins? Shame on you, padre! Are you better than the good father who was\nso glad to see his prodigal son? If God were to punish you for your\nsins, would He even let you live? Did He not set you free this very\nmorning? And do you now thank Him by driving your little girl from her\nown home? Do you know that it was Anita who made you free, and who\nbrought me here? God used her to do that. And is this the way you\nthank Him? Then you will lose us both, for we will not stay with\nyou!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 stepped up and took Rosendo's arm. Carmen turned about and\ncontinued her scoriation:\n\n\"Padre Rosendo, if the good, pure God was willing to use Anita to save\nme from Padre Diego and bring me back to you, are you so wicked and so\nungrateful that you throw His love back in His face? Shame on you,\npadre! Shame! Shame!\"\n\n\"_Caramba!_\" cried Rosendo, tears bursting from his eyes. \"She has\nfouled my name--it was a good name, though my parents were slaves--it\nwas a good name--and she blackened it--she--\"\n\n\"Padre Rosendo, there are only two names that have never been\nblackened! Your human name is nothing--it is zero--it counts for\nfoolishness with God! You yourself are making your name blacker now\nthan Anita ever did! She repents, and comes to her father; and he is\nso much more wicked than she that he drives her out!--\"\n\n\"Enough, Carmen, child!\" interrupted Jos\u00e8. \"Come, Rosendo; go into the\nparish house! Carmen, go with him!\"\n\nCarmen hesitated. Then a smile lighted up her face, and she reached up\nand took Rosendo's hand. Together they passed silently out and into\nthe priest's house.\n\nAna sank to the floor, where she buried her face in her hands and wept\nviolently.\n\n\"Wait, Ana,\" said Jos\u00e8, tenderly stroking the unhappy woman's hair.\n\"Wait. They will soon return. And you shall remain here, where you\nbelong.\"\n\nA half hour passed. Then Jos\u00e8, wondering, went quietly to the door of\nhis house and looked in. Rosendo sat at the table, with Carmen on his\nknees.\n\n\"And, padre,\" the child was saying, \"the good Jesus told the woman not\nto sin any more; and she went away happy. Padre, God has told Anita\nnot to sin any more--and she has come to us to be happy. We are going\nto make her so, aren't we? Padre Diego couldn't hurt me, you know, for\nGod wouldn't let him. And he hasn't hurt Anita--God wouldn't let him\nkeep her--wouldn't let her stay with him. Don't you see, padre? And we\nhave got to be like Him--we _are_ like Him, really. But now we have\ngot to show it, to prove it, you know.\"\n\nRosendo's head was bent over the girl. Neither of them saw Jos\u00e8. The\nchild went on with increased animation:\n\n\"And, padre dear, God sends us Anita's little baby for us to love and\nprotect. Oh, padre, if the little one is a boy, can't we call it\nJos\u00e8?\"\n\n\"Yes, _chiquita_,\" Jos\u00e8 heard the old man murmur brokenly.\n\n\"And--padre, if it is a girl--what shall we call it?\"\n\nThe man's arm tightened about her. \"We--we will call it--Carmencita,\"\nhe whispered.\n\nThe girl clapped her hands. \"Can't you see, padre, that God sends us\nAnita's baby so that Padre Diego shall not have it? And now let's go\nand tell her so, right away!\" she cried, jumping down.\n\nJos\u00e8 slipped quickly back and stood beside the woman when Carmen and\nRosendo entered the room. The old man went directly to his daughter,\nand, taking her in his brawny arms, raised her from the floor and\nstrained her to his breast. Tears streamed down his swart cheeks, and\nthe words he would utter choked and hung in his throat.\n\n\"Padre,\" whispered the delighted child, \"shall I tell her our names\nfor the baby?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 turned and stole softly from the room. Divine Love was there, and\nits dazzling effulgence blinded him. In the quiet of his own chamber\nhe sought to understand the marvelous goodness of God to them that\nserve Him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 27\n\n\nThe reversal of a life-current is not always effected suddenly, nor\namid the din of stirring events, nor yet in an environment that we\nourselves might choose as an appropriate setting. It comes in the\nfullness of time, and amid such scenes as the human mind which\nundergoes the transformation may see externalized within its own\nconsciousness by the working of the as yet dimly perceived laws of\nthought.\n\nPerhaps some one, skilled in the discernment of mental laws and their\nsubtle, irresistible working, might have predicted the fate which\novertook the man Jos\u00e8, the fulsome details of which are herein being\nrecounted. Perhaps such a one might say in retrospect that the\nculmination of years of wrong thinking, of false beliefs closely\ncherished, of attachment to fear, to doubt, and to wrong concepts of\nGod, had been externalized at length in eddying the man upon this far\nverge of civilization, still clinging feebly to the tattered fragments\nof a blasted life. But it would have been a skilled prognostician,\nindeed, who could have foreseen the renewal of this wasted life in\nthat of the young girl, to whom during the past four years Jos\u00e8 de\nRinc\u00f3n had been transferring his own unrealized hopes and his vast\nlearning, but without the dross of inherited or attached beliefs, and\nwithout taint of his native vacillation and indecision of mind.\n\nFor what he had been striving to fit her, he knew not. But in a\nvaguely outlined way he knew that he was being used as a tool to shape\nin some degree the mental development of this strange girl. Nor,\nindeed, as the years passed, did she continue to seem so strange to\nhim. On the contrary, he now thought it more marvelous by far that the\nworld, after nineteen centuries of Christianity, did not think and act\nmore as did this girl, whose religious instruction he knew to have\nbeen garnered at the invisible hand of God. That she must some day\nleave him, despite her present earnest protestations, he felt to be\ninevitable. And the thought pierced his soul like a lance. But he\ncould not be certain that with maturity she would wish to remain\nalways in the primitive environment in which she had been nurtured.\nNor could he, even if she were willing, immolate her upon the barb of\nhis own selfishness.\n\nAs for himself, the years had but seemed to increase the conviction\nthat he could never leave the Church, despite his anomalous position\nand despite his renewed life--unless, indeed, she herself cast him\nforth. Each tenderly hopeful letter from his proud, doting mother only\nadded to this conviction by emphasizing the obstacles opposing such a\ncourse. Her declining years were now spent among the mental pictures\nwhich she hourly drew upon the canvas of her imagination, pictures in\nwhich her beloved son, chastened and purified, had at length come into\nthe preferment which had always awaited loyal scions of the house of\nRinc\u00f3n. Hourly she saw the day draw nearer when he should be restored\nto her yearning arms. Each dawn threw its first rays upon his\nportrait, which hung where her waking eyes might open upon it. Each\nnight the shadow cast by the candle which always burned beneath it\nseemed to her eager sight to crown that fair head with a bishop's\nmitre--a cardinal's hat--aye, at times she even saw the triple crown\nof the Vicar of Christ resting upon those raven locks. Jos\u00e8 knew this.\nIf her own pen did not always correctly delineate her towering hopes,\nhis astute uncle did not fail to fill in whatever hiatus remained. And\nthe pressure of filial devotion and pride of race at times completely\nsmothered within him the voice of Truth which Carmen continually\nsounded, and made him resolve often that on the day when she should\nleave him he would bury his head in the lap of Mother Church and\nsubmit without further resistance to the sable veil of assumed\nauthority which he knew she would draw across his mind. Convincing as\nwere the proofs which had come to him of the existence of a great\ndemonstrable principle which the Christ had sought to make a dull\nworld recognize, nevertheless he had as yet failed to rise permanently\nabove the mesmerism of human belief, which whispered into his\nstraining ears that he must not strive to progress beyond his\nunderstanding, lest, in the attempt to gain too rapidly, he lose all.\nTo sink into the arms of Mother Church and await the orderly\nrevelation of Truth were less dangerous now than a precipitate\nseverance of all ties and a launching forth into strange seas with an\nuntried compass.\n\nThe arguments to which he listened were insidious. True, they\nreasoned, he had seemed to see the working of mental law in his own\nrestoration to health when he had first come to Simit\u00ed. He had seemed\nto see Rosendo likewise restored. But these instances, after all,\nmight have been casual. That Carmen had had aught to do with them, no\none could positively affirm. True, he had seen her protected in\ncertain unmistakable ways. But--others were likewise protected, even\nwhere there had been no thought of an immanent, sheltering God. True,\nthe incident of the epidemic in Simit\u00ed two years before had impressed\nupon him the serious consequences of fear, and the blighting results\nof false belief. He had profited by that lesson. But he could not hope\nsuddenly to empty his mentality of its content of human thought; nor\ndid wisdom advise the attempt. He had at first tried to rise too\nrapidly. His frequent backsliding frightened and warned him.\n\nThus, while the days sped by, did the priest's thought ebb and flow.\nAs morn broke, and the gallant sun drove the cowardly shadows of night\nacross the hills, his own courage rose, and he saw in Carmen the pure\nreflection of the Mind which was in Christ Jesus. As night fell, and\ndarkness slunk back again and held the field, so returned the legion\nof fears and doubts that battled for his soul. Back and forth in the\narena of his consciousness strove the combatants, while he rushed\nirresolutely to and fro, now bearing the banner of the powers of\nlight, now waving aloft, though with sinking heart, the black flag of\nthe carnal host. For a while after his arrival in Simit\u00ed he had seemed\nto rise rapidly into the consciousness of good as all-in-all. But the\nstrain which had been constantly upon him had prevented the full\nrecognition of all that Carmen saw, and each rise was followed by a\nfall that left him for long periods immersed in despair.\n\nFollowing the return of Carmen and the ripple of excitement which her\nabduction had spread over the wonted calm of Simit\u00ed, the old town\nsettled back again into its accustomed lethargy, and Jos\u00e8 and the girl\nresumed their interrupted work. From Ana it was learned that Diego had\nnot voiced the command of Wenceslas in demanding the girl; and when\nthis became known the people rose in a body to her support. Don Mario,\nthough he threatened loudly, knew in his heart he was beaten. He knew,\nlikewise, that any further hostile move on his part would result in a\ndemand by the people for his removal from office. He therefore retired\nsulking to the seclusion of his _patio_, where he sat down patiently\nto await the turn of events.\n\nRosendo, his great heart softened toward his erring daughter, again\nrejoiced in the reunion of his broken family circle. But his soul\nburned within him as, day after day, he saw Ana move silently about\nlike a sorrow incarnate. At times, when perchance he would come upon\nher huddled in a corner and weeping quietly, he would turn away,\ncursing deeply and swearing fulsome vengeance upon the lecherous beast\nwho had wrought her ruin.\n\n\"Padre,\" he one day said to Jos\u00e8, \"I shall kill him--I know it. The\ngirl's suffering is breaking my heart. He is like an evil cloud\nhanging always over my family. I hate him! I hate him, as the devil\nhates the light! And I shall kill him. Be prepared.\" And Jos\u00e8 offered\nno remonstrance, for the case lay not in his hands.\n\nCarmen again entered upon her interrupted studies with ardent\nenthusiasm. And her first demand was that she be allowed to plunge\ninto a searching study of the Bible. \"Padre,\" she exclaimed, \"it is a\nwonderful book! Why--do the people in the world know what a book this\nis? For if they did, they would never be sick or unhappy again!\"\n\nHe knew not how to answer her. And there was no need that he should.\n\n\"Padre!\" Her eyes were aflame with holy light. \"See! Here it is--the\nwhole thing! 'Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man\nhis _thoughts_.' But--don't the people know what that means?\"\n\n\"Well, _chiquita_, and what does it mean?\" he asked indulgently.\n\n\"Why--the unrighteous man is the man who thinks wrong thoughts--thoughts\nof power opposed to God--thoughts of sin, of sickness, of accidents,\nand all sorts of evil things--beliefs that these things are real, and\nthat God made or caused them!\"\n\n\"_Bien_, and you think the Bible speaks truth?\"\n\n\"Padre! how can you ask that? Why, it says right here that it is given\nby inspiration! That means that the men or women who wrote it thought\nGod's thoughts!\"\n\n\"That He wrote it, you mean?\"\n\n\"No, but that those who wrote it were--well, were cleaner window-panes\nthan other people--that they were so clean that the light shone\nthrough them better than it did through others.\"\n\n\"And what do you think now about Jesus?\" he inquired.\n\n\"Why, as you once said, that he was the very cleanest window-pane of\nall!\" she quickly replied.\n\nFrom that hour the Bible was the girl's constant companion. Daily she\npored over it, delighted, enraptured. Jos\u00e8 marveled at her immediate\nspiritual grasp. Instead of the world's manner of looking upon it as\nonly a collection of beautiful promises and admonitions, she saw\nwithin it the statement of a principle that offered itself as a mighty\ntool with which to work out humanity's every-day problems here and\nnow. From the first she began to make out little lists of collated\nscriptural verses, so arranging them that she could read in them a\ncomplete expression of an idea of God. These she would bring to Jos\u00e8\nand, perching herself upon his lap, would expound them, to her own\ngreat delight and the wonder of the man who listened.\n\n\"See, Padre,\" she said, holding up one of these lists, \"it says that\n'in that day' whatever we ask of him will be given to us. Well, 'that\nday' means when we have washed our window-panes clean, and the light\nshines through so clear that we can ask in His name. It means when we\nhave stopped saying that two and two are seven.\"\n\n\"Which means,\" Jos\u00e8 interpolated, \"asking in his character.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she replied, \"for then we will be just like him. And then\nwhatever we ask 'believing' will be given to us, for believing'\nwill then be 'understanding,' will it not? When we know--really\n_know_--that we have things, why--why, we have them, that's all!\"\n\nShe did not wait for his reply, but went on enthusiastically:\n\n\"You know, Padre, in order to be like him we have got to 'seek first\nthe kingdom of God and His righteousness'--His right-thinking. Well,\nJesus said the kingdom of God was within us. Of course it is, for it\nis all a question of right-thinking. When we think right, then our\nright thoughts will be--what you said--\"\n\n\"Externalized,\" he supplied.\n\n\"Yes. We will see them all around us, instead of seeing, as we do now,\na lot of jumbled-up thoughts of good and evil which we call people and\nthings. They will all be good then. And then will be the time when\n'God shall wipe away all tears.' It is, as you say in English, 'up to\nus' to bring this about. It is not for God to do it at all. Don't you\nsee that He has already done His part? He has made everything, and\n'behold it was very good.' Well, He doesn't have to do it all over\nagain, does He? No. But we have got to wash our windows clean and let\nin the light that comes from Him. That light comes from Him all the\ntime, just as the beams come from the sun, without ever stopping. We\nnever have to ask the sun to shine, do we? And neither do we have to\nask God to be good to us, nor tell Him what we think He ought to do\nfor us. We only have to _know_ that He is good, to us and to\neverything, all the time.\"\n\n\"Yes, _chiquita_, we must be truly baptised.\"\n\n\"That is what it means to be baptised, Padre--just washing our\nwindow-panes so clean that the light will come in.\"\n\n\"And that light, little one, is truth. It certainly is a new way of\nlooking at it, at least, _chiquita_.\"\n\n\"But, Padre, it is the _only_ way,\" she persisted.\n\n\"_Bien_, I would not say that you were mistaken, Carmen.\"\n\n\"No, Padre, for we can prove it. And, look here,\" she continued,\nreferring to her list. \"If the kingdom of heaven is within us, then\neverything that comes to us in life comes from within, and not from\nwithout. And so, things never happen, do they? Don't you see?\"\n\n\"I see,\" he replied seriously, \"that from the mouths of babes and\nsucklings comes infinite wisdom.\"\n\n\"Well, Padre dear, wisdom is God's light, and it comes through any one\nwho is clean. It doesn't make any difference how old or young that\nperson is. Years mean nothing but--but zero.\"\n\n\"How can you say that, _chiquita_?\"\n\n\"Why, Padre, is God old?\"\n\n\"No. He is always the same.\"\n\n\"And we are really like Him?\"\n\n\"The real 'we'--yes.\"\n\n\"Well, the unreal 'we' is already zero. Didn't you yourself say that\nthe human, mortal man was a product of false thought, thought that was\nthe opposite of God's thought, and so no thought at all? Didn't you\nsay that such thought was illusion--the lie about God and what He has\nmade? Then isn't the human 'we' zero?\"\n\n\"Well--but--_chiquita_, it is often hard for me to see anything but\nthis sort of 'we,'\" returned the man dejectedly.\n\n\"Oh, Padre!\" she entreated, \"why will you not try to look at something\nelse than the human man? Look at God's man, the image of infinite\nmind. You have _got_ to do it, you know, some time. Jesus said so. He\nsaid that every man would have to overcome. That means turning away\nfrom the thoughts that are externalized as sin and sickness and evil,\nand looking only at God's thoughts--and, what is more, _sticking to\nthem_!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" dubiously, \"I suppose we must some time overcome every belief\nin anything opposed to God.\"\n\n\"Well, but need that make you unhappy? It is just because you still\ncling to the belief that there is other power than God that you get so\ndiscouraged and mixed up. Can't you let go? Try it! Why, I would try\nit even if a whole mountain fell on me!\"\n\nAnd Jos\u00e8 could but clasp the earnest girl in his arms and vow that he\nwould try again as never before.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nMeantime, while Jos\u00e8 and his little student-teacher were delving into\nthe inexhaustible treasury of the Word; while the peaceful days came\ninto their lives and went out again almost unperceived, the priest\nDiego left the bed upon which he had been stretched for many weeks,\nand hobbled painfully about upon his scarcely mended ankle. While a\nprisoner upon his couch his days had been filled with torture. Try as\nhe might, he could not beat down the vision which constantly rose\nbefore him, that of the beautiful girl who had been all but his. He\ncursed; he raved; he vowed the foulest vengeance. And then he cried\npiteously, as he lay chained to his bed--cried for something that\nseemed to take human shape in her. He protested that he loved her;\nthat he adored her; that without her he was but a blasted cedar. His\nnurses fled his bedside. His physician stopped his ears. Only Don\nAntonio was found low enough in thought to withstand the flow of foul\nlanguage which issued from the baffled Diego's thick lips while he\nmoved about in attendance upon the unhappy priest's needs.\n\nThen came from the acting-Bishop, Wenceslas, a mandate commissioning\nDiego upon a religio-political mission to the interior city of\nMedellin. The now recovered priest smiled grimly when he read it. Then\nhe summoned Ricardo.\n\n\"Prepare yourself, _amigo_,\" he said, \"for a work of the Lord. I go\ninto the interior. You accompany me as far as Badillo, where we\ndisembark for stinking Simit\u00ed. And, _amigo_, do you secure a\ntrustworthy companion. The work may be heavy. Meantime, my blessing\nand absolution.\"\n\nThen he sat down and despatched a long letter to Don Mario.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 28\n\n\n\"Rosendo,\" said Jos\u00e8 one morning shortly thereafter, as the old man\nentered the parish house for a little chat, \"a Decree has been issued\nrecently by the Sacred Congregation of the Holy Office whereby,\ninstead of the cloth scapulary which you are wearing, a medal may be\nsubstituted. I have received several from Cartagena. Will you exchange\nyours?\"\n\n\"_Cierto_, Padre--but,\" he hesitated, \"is the new one just as--\"\n\n\"To be sure, _amigo_. It carries the same indulgences. See,\"\nexhibiting the medal. \"The Sacred Heart and the blessed Virgin. But I\nhave arranged it to wear about the neck.\"\n\nRosendo knelt reverently and crossed himself while Jos\u00e8 hung the new\nscapulary over his head. The old man beamed his joy. \"_Caramba!_\" he\nexclaimed, rising, \"but I believe this one will keep off more devils\nthan that old cloth thing you made for me!\"\n\n\"Why, Rosendo!\" admonished Jos\u00e8, repressing a smile, \"did I not bless\nthat one before the altar?\"\n\n\"_Cierto_, Padre, and I beg a thousand pardons. It was the blessing,\nwasn't it? Not the cloth. But this one,\" regarding it reverently,\n\"this one--\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, this one,\" put in Jos\u00e8, \"carries the blessing of His Grace,\nacting-Bishop Wenceslas.\"\n\n\"And a Bishop is always very holy, is he not, Padre?\" queried Rosendo.\n\"It makes no difference who he is, for the office makes him holy, is\nit not so, Padre?\"\n\n\"Oh, without doubt,\" returned Jos\u00e8, his thought reverting to the\nlittle Maria and the babe which for four years he had been supporting\nin distant Cartagena.\n\n\"_Na_, Padre,\" remonstrated Rosendo, catching the insinuation, \"we\nmust not speak ill of the Bishop, lest he be a Saint to-morrow! But,\nPadre,\" he went on, changing the topic, \"I came to tell you that Don\nLuis has given me a contract to cut wood for him on the island. A\nquantity, too. _Hombre!_ I shall earn much money by its terms. I set\nout to-morrow morning before daybreak.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 reflected. The man's words aroused within him a faint suspicion.\nDon Luis and the Alcalde were boon companions. Jos\u00e8 wondered if in\nthis commission he could see the gloved hand of Don Mario. But he gave\nno hint of his thought to Rosendo.\n\nThe next morning, long before sun-up, a mist lay thick over the\nvalley, so thick that Rosendo, as he made his way down to the lake,\nscarce could distinguish the road ahead of him. The dry season had\npassed, and the rains were now setting in. As he hurried along, the\nold man mused dubiously on the contract which Don Luis had made with\nhim. To cut wood in the rainy season!--but, after all, that was no\nconcern of his. And yet--why had Padre Jos\u00e8 grown suddenly quiet when\nhe learned of the contract yesterday? His bare feet fell softly upon\nthe shales, and he proceeded more cautiously as he neared the water's\nedge.\n\n\"_Hombre!_\" he muttered, striving to penetrate the mist; \"only a\n_loco_ ventures out on the lake in such weather!\"\n\nHe reached the boat, and placed in it the rope and axe which he had\nbrought. Then, still troubled in thought, he sat down on the edge of\nthe canoe and dropped into a puzzled meditation.\n\nSuddenly through the fog he heard a sound. Somebody was approaching. A\nfisherman, perhaps. But fishermen do not go out on the lake in dense\nfogs, he remembered. The tread sounded nearer. He waited, speculating.\nThen through the mist loomed the thick body of a man. Straining his\neyes, Rosendo recognized Padre Diego.\n\nWith a bound the old man was upon his feet. His thick arm shot out\nlike a catapult; and his great fist, meeting Diego squarely upon the\ntemple, felled him like an ox.\n\nFor a moment Rosendo stood over the prostrate priest, like a lion\nabove its prey. Then he reached into the canoe and drew out the axe.\nHolding it aloft, he stood an instant poised above the senseless man;\nthen with a mighty swing he whirled about and hurled it far out into\nthe lake. He seemed suddenly bereft of his senses. Incoherent\nmuttering issued from his trembling lips. He looked about in\nbewilderment. A thought seemed to impress him. He took the rope from\nthe boat and quickly bound Diego hand and foot. This done, he picked\nup the unconscious priest and tossed him into the canoe as if he had\nbeen a billet of wood. Jumping in after him, he hastily pushed off\nfrom the shore and paddled vigorously in the direction of the island.\nWhy he was doing this he had not the faintest idea.\n\nIt was all the work of a few seconds; yet when his reason came again\nRosendo found himself far out in the thick fog, and his prisoner\nmoaning softly as consciousness slowly returned. The sense of\ndirection which these sons of the jungle possess is almost infallible,\nand despite the watery cloud which enveloped him, the old man held his\ncourse undeviatingly toward the distant isle, into the low, muddy\nshore of which his boat at length forced its way under the impulse of\nhis great arms.\n\nThe island, a low patch a few acres in extent, lay far out in the lake\nlike a splotch of green paint on a plate of glass. Its densely wooded\nsurface, rising soft and oozy only a few feet above the water, was\ndestitute of human habitation, but afforded a paradise for swarms of\ncrawling and flying creatures, which now scattered in alarm at the\napproach of these early visitors coming so unexpectedly out of the\nheavy fog.\n\nWhen the canoe grounded, Rosendo sprang out and pulled it well up into\nthe mud. Then he lifted the priest out and staggered into the thick\nbrush, where he threw his burden heavily upon the ground. Leaving his\nprisoner for a moment, he seized his _machete_ and began to cut back\ninto the brush. A grunt of satisfaction came from his lips. Returning\nto the now conscious Diego, he grasped the rope which bound him and\ndragged him along the newly opened trail into a little clearing which\nlay beyond. There he propped him up against a huge cedar. As he did\nthis, Diego's mouth opened wide and a piercing scream issued.\n\"Ricardo--help!\" he called.\n\nThe cry echoed dismally across the desolate island. In an instant\nRosendo was upon him, with his knife clutched in his fist. \"Repeat\nthat, _cayman_,\" he cried furiously, \"and this finds your wicked\nheart!\"\n\nThe craven Diego shook with fear; but he fell silent before the threat\nof the desperate man into whose hands he had so unwittingly fallen.\n\nRosendo stepped back and stood before his captive, regarding him\nuncertainly. Diego's quick intuition did not fail to read the old\nman's perplexity; and his own hope revived accordingly. It was a\npretty trick, this of Rosendo's--but, after all, he would not dare too\nmuch. Diego gradually became easier in mind. He even smiled unctuously\nat his captor.\n\n\"_Bien, amigo_,\" he said at length, \"is this your customary reception\nto visitors in your village? _Caramba!_ but what will the good Bishop\nsay when he learns that you have thus mistreated his trusted agent?\"\n\nRosendo stood before him like a statue. His thought was confused, and\nit moved slowly. In the cries of the disturbed birds he seemed now to\nhear the warning voice of Carmen. In the watery vapor that rolled over\nhim he seemed to feel the touch of her soft, restraining hand.\n\n\"_Bien, compadre_,\" purred Diego, \"would it not be well for you to\nloosen this bit of thread, that we may make our way back to the\nvillage? _Caramba!_ but it cuts sore--and I am soft, my friend, for I\nhave been ill.\"\n\nRosendo's wrath flared up anew. \"What made you ill, _cayman_?\" he\nshouted, drawing nearer to the shrinking Diego and shaking a great\nfist in his face. \"What made you ill, buzzard? _Caramba!_ I would that\nyour illness had carried you off and saved me the task of sending you\ndown to purgatory!\"\n\nDiego became thoroughly alarmed again. \"But--Rosendo--_caro amigo_,\nlet us reason together! Ah, _compadre_--loosen but a little this rope\nwhich cuts into my tender skin as your bitter words do into my soul!\"\n\n\"_Na_, vulture, but you will drown more quickly thus!\" retorted\nRosendo, his huge frame trembling with agitation.\n\nDiego's heart stopped. Then he sought to collect himself. He was\nin a desperate plight. But the man before him was an ignorant _peon_.\nIt was not the first time that he had set his own wit against\nanother's brute strength. The ever-present memory of the girl\nbecame more vivid. It glowed before him. What was it she had said?\n\"You see only your thoughts of me--and they are very bad!\" Was he\nseeing now only his own bad thoughts? But she had said they were\nunreal. And this episode--_Hombre!_ he would not be afraid. His\nthought was vastly more powerful than that of a simple _peon_! He\nsmiled again at his fear.\n\n\"But, _amigo_,\" he resumed gently, \"if you had wished to drown me, why\ndid you bring me here? But--ah, well, I have long been prepared to go.\nI have been sadly misunderstood--disbelieved--persecuted! Ah, friend\nRosendo, if you could know what I do--but--_Bien_, it is of no\nconsequence now. Come, then, good fellow, despatch me quickly! I have\nmade my peace with God.\" Diego ceased talking and began to murmur\nprayers.\n\nRosendo stared at him in amazement. The wind was being taken from his\nsails. Diego noted the effect, and resumed his speech. His voice was\nlow and soft, and at times great tears rolled down his cheeks.\n\n\"Rosendo, friend, I wish to go. I weary of life. There is no stain\nupon my soul. And yet, I grieve that you must tarnish yours with my\nblood. But,\" his eyes brightening and his tone becoming more\nanimated, \"Rosendo, I will pray the blessed Virgin for you. When I am\nwith her in paradise I will ask her to beg the gentle Saviour to\nforgive you. _Bien_, good friend, we shall all be together in heaven\nsome day.\" He started his orisons again, and soon was praying like a\nlocomotive: \"_Ora pro nobis! Santa Maria, ora pro nobis!_\"\n\nHe stopped and sighed gently. Rosendo stood stupidly before him.\n\n\"Rosendo--I must say this before I die--I came to Simit\u00ed to see you. I\nwas approaching the boat to hold converse with you. But, you struck\nme--there, _qu\u00e9 importa_! And yet--it was about the gentle Ana, your\nbeautiful daughter--But, wait, Rosendo--God above! hear me through--\"\n\nRosendo had started again toward him.\n\n\"Good friend, hear me first, then kill me quickly, for I much desire\nto go to my home above!\" Diego spoke rapidly. The impression must be\nmade upon Rosendo at once, or all was lost. The wily priest knew the\n_peon_ mind.\n\n\"_Bien_, good friend, you have misunderstood me. But I forgive you.\nI--Rosendo--I--you will keep my secret, will you not? Bien, I have\nleft the Church. I am no longer a priest. It was for good reasons that\nGod took me from the priesthood for other work in His field. _Bien_,\nthe bonds of celibacy removed, behold! my first thought is for my\nbeautiful Ana. I came to ask you for her hand. I would render\nlegitimate her unborn child. I would return to her the peace which she\nlost when we became so deeply enamored of each other. Rosendo, I have\ncome to Simit\u00ed to lay my life before you--to yield it to the mother of\nmy child--to offer it in future service as a recompense for the\nunhappiness which, the Virgin knows, I did not willingly bring upon\nher, or you!\"\n\nRosendo's head was now in a whirl. His eyes protruded, and his mouth\nwas agape. \"But--the little Carmen--\" he muttered.\n\n\"Alas! friend,\" said Diego sadly, shaking his head, while he quickly\ngrasped the cue, \"I have ceased my endeavors to make you believe that\nshe is my child. _Caramba!_ I can only leave it to the blessed Virgin\nto restore her to me when we have both passed the portals of death.\"\n\n\"You still claim to be her father? You--!\"\n\n\"_Caro amigo_,\" returned Diego gently, \"in these last moments I see in\nher the beautiful image of her blessed mother, who was taken from me\nlong before I met and loved your Ana. But I despair of enforcing my\nclaim. I await now the reunion which death alone can effect. And so,\nfriend, be quick! But do not make me suffer. Drown me not, I pray you,\nbut rather open an artery and let me fall gently asleep here beneath\nthis noble tree.\"\n\nA light came into Rosendo's troubled eyes. A cunning smile lurked\nabout his mouth.\n\n\"_Bien pues_, it shall be as you wish, vulture,\" he replied in a tone\nwhich again struck terror to Diego's heart. He drew his knife and\napproached the horrified priest.\n\n\"_Caramba!_\" shrieked Diego, shrinking back against the tree.\n\"_Hombre!_ you do not intend--\"\n\n\"Why not, vampire?\" returned Rosendo, the sardonic smile spreading\nacross his grim features. \"Did you not ask it?\"\n\n\"But--_Hombre_! Back!--_Caramba_! Back!--Rosendo--God above! But would\nyou go down to hell with murder on your soul?\"\n\n\"_Cierto_, carrion! I kill the body. But you go down with a load of\nmurdered souls!\"\n\n\"Rosendo--God!--it means hell for eternity to you!\"\n\n\"To be sure, dog-meat,\" calmly replied Rosendo. \"But hell will be\nheaven to me as I sit forever and hourly remind you of the suffering\nAna and the beautiful Carmen, whom you tried to ruin! Is it not so?\"\n\n\"Ah, God!\" Diego saw that he had lost. Wild thoughts flashed through\nhis mind with lightning speed. Desperation lent them wings. A last\nexpedient came to him. He fixed his beady eyes upon Rosendo and\nmuttered: \"Coward! coward! you bind a sick man and stick him like a\npig!\"\n\nRosendo hesitated. Diego quickly followed up his slight advantage.\n\n\"We give a deer, a tapir, a jaguar, a chance for its life. We fear\nthem not. But you--coward, you are afraid of a sick man! And a\npriest!\"\n\nRosendo could bear the taunt no longer. \"_Caramba!_\" he cried, \"what\nwould you?\" He leaped to the sitting man and at a stroke severed his\nbonds. Diego got slowly to his feet.\n\n\"_Bien_, spew of the vampire! you have now a chance!\"\n\nDiego extended his empty hands, palms up. He smiled significantly.\nRosendo caught the insinuation.\n\n\"_Caramba!_ take the knife! _Hombre!_ but I will kill you with my bare\nhands!\" He threw the long knife to Diego, who stooped and picked it\nup.\n\nStepping quickly back, holding the weapon firmly clenched before him,\nthe priest slowly circled Rosendo, as if looking for an opening. An\nevil smile played constantly over his heavy face, and his little eyes\nglittered like diamonds. Rosendo stood like a rock, his long arms\nhanging at his side.\n\nThen, with a shrill, taunting laugh, Diego turned suddenly and\nplunged into the newly-cut trail toward the lake. In an instant he was\nlost in the fog.\n\nFor a moment Rosendo stood dumb with amazement. Then he sprang after\nthe priest. But it was too late. Diego had reached the canoe, leaped\nquickly in, and pushed off. Rosendo saw the mist swallow him. He was\nleft a prisoner, without a boat, and with two miles of shrouded water\nstretching between him and the town!\n\nA low moan burst from him. He had been tricked, outwitted; and the\nevil genius which for years had menaced his happiness was heading\nstraight toward the town, where his accomplice, Ricardo, awaited. What\nwould they do, now that he was out of the way? The thought seared his\nbrain. Great beads of water, distilled from his agony, burst through\nhis pores. The Juncal river lay off to the west, and at a much less\ndistance than Simit\u00ed. He might swim to it and secure a canoe at the\nvillage. But--the lake was alive with crocodiles!\n\nChagrin and apprehension overwhelmed him, and he burst into a flood of\nbitter tears. He threw himself upon the ground, and tossed and moaned\nin despair. The fog thickened. A twilight darkness settled over the\nwaters. Nature--God himself--seemed to conspire with Diego.\n\nRosendo suddenly rose to his feet. He drew the new medal scapulary\naround in front of him and kissed it, reverently crossing himself.\n\"_Santa Virgen_,\" he prayed, \"help me--it is for the child!\" Then,\ntaking between his teeth the knife which Diego had dropped, he rushed\ninto the water and struck out for the distant village of Juncal.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nLate that afternoon, while the tropical rain was descending in\ntorrents, Rosendo staggered into the parish house, where Carmen and\nJos\u00e8 were absorbed in their work. \"Padre!\" he gasped, \"_Loado sea\nDios!_\" as his eyes fell upon the girl. Then he sank to the floor in\nutter exhaustion.\n\n\"Rosendo! what is it?\" cried Jos\u00e8, bending over him in apprehension,\nwhile Carmen stood lost in wonder.\n\n\"Padre Diego--!\" cried Rosendo, raising himself up on his elbow. \"Has\nhe been here?\"\n\n\"Padre Diego!\" cried both Jos\u00e8 and the girl in astonishment.\nInstinctively Jos\u00e8's arm went about the child. Rosendo dragged himself\nto a chair and sank limply into it.\n\n\"Then, Padre, he will come. He is in Simit\u00ed. He is no longer a\npriest!\"\n\nSlowly the story came out, bit by bit. Jos\u00e8 listened in horror.\nCarmen's face was deeply serious.\n\n\"_Bien_, Padre,\" said Rosendo, concluding his dramatic and\ndisconnected recital, \"I plowed through the water--_Caramba!_ I knew\nnot at what moment I should feel the jaws of a cayman seize upon me!\nBut the Virgin had heard my prayer. I must offer a candle this night.\nBut I did not land at Juncal. It was some half league farther west.\n_Bien_, I was then glad, for had I appeared in the village, all would\nhave said that I had murdered Diego! And so I struck out along the\ntrail that skirts the lake, and followed it around until I came here.\n_Caramba_! but see how my feet are cut! And the rain--H_ombre_! it\nbeat me down--I fell again and again! And then, the fear that I was\ntoo late--_Ah, Dios_! But she is safe--_Caramba_! the Virgin be\npraised!\"\n\n\"But, Rosendo,\" said Jos\u00e8 anxiously, \"where can Diego--\"\n\n\"He is here, _Caramba_! in Simit\u00ed! _Hombre_! but I shall set out at\nonce and search every house! And he shall do well if he escape this\ntime!\"\n\nBut dusk was falling; and the old man, his strength sapped, listened\nnot unwillingly to Jos\u00e8's better counsel. With the coming of night the\nrain ceased, and the clouds rolled up and slipped down behind the\nmountains, leaving the moon riding in splendor across the infinite\nblue. Then Jos\u00e8, leaving Carmen with Rosendo, walked to and fro\nthrough the streets of the old town, listening and watching. He\nwandered down to the lake. He climbed the hill where stood the second\nchurch. He thought he caught the gleam of a light within the old\nedifice. He crept nearer. There were men inside. Their voices sounded\nghostly to his straining ears.\n\n\"But, friend Ricardo, he set out before dawn, and is not yet returned.\nI fear he has either abandoned us, or has walked into our good\nRosendo's jaws.\"\n\n\"Hold your tongue, bleating calf!\" cried the other petulantly. \"It is\nmore likely that he and Don Mario lie pickled in rum under the palms\nof the Alcalde's _patio_!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 waited to hear no more. He hurried down through the main street\nand past the house of Don Mario. The door stood open, and he could see\nthe portly figure of the official outlined against the back wall. It\nwas evident that Diego was not there. He returned in perplexity to his\nhouse and sat far into the night, musing on the strange incident.\n\nWith the coming of the new day Rosendo appeared with fresh suggestions.\n\"_Bien_, Padre,\" he said, \"there is nothing to do now but take the girl\nand flee to the Boque river and to the _hacienda_ of Don Nicol\u00e1s.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 related his experience of the previous night. Rosendo whistled\nsoftly. \"_Caramba!_\" he muttered, \"but this is a mystery! And--but\nhere comes Juan.\"\n\nThe lad entered excitedly. \"Your canoe, Don Rosendo--as I started out\non the lake to fish I saw it, far in the distance. I brought it in.\nThere was neither pole nor paddle in it. And it was half full of\nwater. It must have drifted all night. Did it break away from its\nmooring, think you?\"\n\nRosendo looked at Jos\u00e8. The latter replied quickly: \"That is the most\nreasonable supposition, Juan. But Rosendo is very grateful to you for\nsecuring it again.\"\n\nWhen the lad had gone, Rosendo sat with bowed head, deeply perplexed.\n\n\"The pole and paddle, Padre, were left on the island. I took them out\nwhen we landed. Diego pushed off without them. He--the boat--it must\nhave drifted long. But--did he land? Or--\"\n\nHe stopped and scratched his head. \"Padre,\" he said, looking up\nsuddenly with an expression of awe upon his face, \"do you suppose--do\nyou think that the Virgin--that she--made him fall from the canoe into\nthe lake--and that a _cayman_ ate him? _Ca-ram-ba!_\"\n\nJos\u00e8 did not vouchsafe a reply. But his heart leaped with a great\nhope. Rosendo, wrapped in profound meditation, wandered back to his\nhouse, his head bent, and his hands clasped tightly behind his back.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 29\n\n\nThe rainy season dragged its reeking length through the Simit\u00ed valley\nwith fearful deliberation. Jos\u00e8 thought that he should never again see\nthe sun. The lake steamed like a cauldron. Great clouds of heavy vapor\nrolled incessantly upward from the dripping jungle. The rain fell in\ncloud-bursts, and the narrow streets of the old town ran like streams\nin a freshet.\n\nThen, one day, Rosendo abruptly announced, \"Padre, the rains are\nbreaking. The dry season is at hand. And the little Carmen is fourteen\nyears old to-day.\"\n\nIt gave the priest a shock. He had been six years in Simit\u00ed! And\nCarmen was no longer a child. Youth ripens quickly into maturity in\nthese tropic lands. The past year had sped like a meteor across an\nevening sky, leaving a train of mingled light and darkness. Of Diego's\nfate Jos\u00e8 had learned nothing. Ricardo and his companion had\ndisappeared without causing even a ripple of comment in Simit\u00ed. Don\nMario remained quiet for many weeks. But he often eyed Jos\u00e8 and\nRosendo malignantly through the wooden grill at his window, and once\nhe ordered Fernando to stop Rosendo and ply him with many and pointed\nquestions. The old man was noncommittal, but he left a dark suspicion,\nwhich was transmitted to the receptive mind of the Alcalde.\nActing-Bishop Wenceslas likewise was growing apprehensive as the weeks\nwent by, and both Jos\u00e8 and Don Mario were the recipients of letters of\ninquiry from him regarding the whereabouts of the priest Diego. In the\ncourse of time came other letters from Cartagena, and at length an\norder for a most scrutinizing search to be made for the Bishop's\nconfidential agent.\n\nIt was of no avail. Rosendo's oft-repeated testimony revealed nothing.\nThe citizens of Simit\u00ed had not seen the man. The Alcalde had nothing\nbut his suspicions to offer. And these might have fallen harmlessly\nupon the acting-Bishop's well occupied thought, had it not been for\nthe complicating influence of certain other events. The first of these\nwas the exhaustion of the gold which Jos\u00e8 and Carmen had discovered in\nthe old church. The other was the outbreak of the religio-political\nrevolution which Diego had predicted some six years before, and which,\nin these latter days, Don Jorge, on his infrequent journeys through\nSimit\u00ed had repeatedly announced as inevitable and imminent. Their\ncombined effect was such as to wrest Carmen away from Jos\u00e8, and to set\nin a new direction the currents of their lives.\n\nFor some time past Jos\u00e8 had patched with growing anxiety the\nshrinking of his gold supply, and had striven to lessen the monthly\ncontributions to Cartagena, meanwhile trying to know that the need\nnow looming daily larger before him would be met. He had not voiced\nhis apprehension to Carmen. But he and Rosendo had discussed the\nsituation long and earnestly, and had at length resolved that the\nlatter should again return to Guamoc\u00f3 to wash the Tigu\u00ed sands.\n\nThe old man sighed, but he uttered no protest. Yet each day Jos\u00e8\nthought he grew quieter. And each day, too, he seemed to become more\ntender of his sad-faced daughter, Ana, and of the little grandson who\nhad come into his humble home only a few weeks before. He delayed his\npreparations for specious reasons which Jos\u00e8 knew cost him much effort\nto invent. He clung to Carmen. He told his rosary often before the\nchurch altar, and with tears in his eyes. And at night he would come\nto Jos\u00e8 and beg him to read from the Bible and explain what he thought\nthe Saviour had really meant to convey to the humble fishermen of\nGalilee.\n\nJos\u00e8's heart was wrung. But at last the day arrived when he had\nnothing to send to Cartagena beyond the mere pittance which the poor\nmembers of his little parish contributed. But this he sent as usual.\nThe next month he did the same. Then came a letter from Wenceslas,\nrequesting an explanation. And then it was that Jos\u00e8 realized that in\nhis excess of zeal he had fallen into his own trap. For, having\nestablished the custom of remitting a certain amount to the Bishop\neach month, he must not resent now the implication of dishonesty when\nthe remittances fell off, or ceased altogether. He took the letter to\nRosendo. \"_Bien_, Padre,\" said the latter slowly, \"the time has come.\nI set out for Guamoc\u00f3 at dawn.\"\n\nIn the days that followed, Jos\u00e8 could frame no satisfactory reply to\nWenceslas, and so the latter wrote to the Alcalde. Don Mario eagerly\nseized the proffered opportunity to ingratiate himself into\necclesiastical favor. Rosendo was again in the hills, he wrote, and\nwith supplies not purchased from him. Nor had he been given even a\nhint of Rosendo's mission, whether it be to search again for La\nLibertad, or not. There could be no doubt, he explained in great\ndetail, of Jos\u00e8's connivance with Rosendo, and of his unauthorized\nconduct in the matter of educating the girl, Carmen, who, he made no\ndoubt, was the daughter of Padre Diego--now, alas! probably cold in\ndeath at the violent hands of the girl's foster-father, and with the\npriest Jos\u00e8's full approbation. The letter cost the portly Don Mario\nmany a day of arduous labor; but it brought its reward in another\ninquiry from Cartagena, and this time a request for specific details\nregarding Carmen.\n\nDon Mario bestrode the clouds. He dropped his customary well-oiled\nmanner, and carried his head with the air of a conqueror. His thick\nlips became regnant, imperious. He treated his compatriots with\nsupercilious disdain. And to Jos\u00e8 he would scarce vouchsafe even a\ncold nod as they passed in the street. Again he penned a long missive\nto Cartagena, in which he dilated at wearisome length upon the\nextraordinary beauty of the girl, as well as her unusual mental\nqualities. He urged immediate action, and suggested that Carmen be\nsent to the convent in Mompox.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nWenceslas mused long over the Alcalde's letters. Many times he smiled\nas he read. Then he sent for a young clerical agent of the See, who\nwas starting on a mission to Bogot\u00e1, and requested that he stop off a\nday at Badillo and go to Simit\u00ed to report on conditions in that\nparish. Incidentally, also, to gather what data he might as to the\nfamily of one Rosendo Ariza.\n\nIn due course of time the agent made his report. The parish of Simit\u00ed\nstood in need of a new _Cura_, he said. And the girl--he found no\nwords to describe or explain her. She must be seen. The Church had\nneed of prompt action, however, to secure her. To that end, he advised\nher immediate removal to Cartagena.\n\nAgain Wenceslas deliberated. Aside from the girl, to whom he found his\nthought reverting oftener than he could wish in that particular hour\nof stress, his interest in Simit\u00ed did not extend beyond its\npossibilities as a further contributor to the funds he was so greatly\nneeding for the furtherance of his complex political plans. As to the\nAlcalde--here was a possibility of another sort. That fellow might\nbecome useful. He should be cultivated. And at the same time warned\nagainst precipitate action, lest he scatter Rosendo's family into\nflight, and the graceful bird now dwelling in the rude nest escape the\nsharp talons awaiting her.\n\nHe called for his secretary. \"Send a message to Francisco, our Legate,\nwho is now in Bogot\u00e1. Bid him on his return journey stop again at\nSimit\u00ed. We require a full report on the character of the Alcalde of\nthat town.\"\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nMeantime, Jos\u00e8 did not permit his mental torture to interfere\nwith Carmen's education. For six years now that had progressed\nsteadily. And the results? Wonderful, he thought--and yet not\nwholly attributable to his peculiar mode of tutelage. For, after\nall, his work had been little more than the holding of her mind\nunwarped, that her instinctive sense of logic might reach those\ntruthful conclusions which it was bound to attain if guided safely\npast the tortuous shifts of human speculation and undemonstrable\ntheory. To his great joy, these six years had confirmed a belief\nwhich he had held ever since the troublous days of his youth,\nnamely, that, as a recent writer has said, \"adolescent understanding\nis along straight lines, and leaps where the adult can only\nlaboriously creep.\" There had been no awful hold of early teaching\nto loosen and throw off; there were no old landmarks in her mind\nto remove; no tenacious, clinging effect of early associations to\nneutralize. And, perhaps most important of all, the child had seemed\nto enter the world utterly devoid of fear, and with a congenital\nfaith, amounting to absolute knowledge, in the immanence of an\nomnipotent God of love. This, added to her eagerness and mental\nreceptivity, had made his task one of constant rejoicing in the\nrealization of his most extravagant dreams for her.\n\nAs a linguist, Carmen had become accomplished. She spoke English\nfluently. And it was only a matter of practice to give her a similar\ngrasp of French, Italian, and German. As for other instruction,\nsuch knowledge of the outside world as he had deemed wise to give her\nin these six years had been seized upon with avidity and as\nquickly assimilated. But he often speculated curiously--sometimes\ndubiously--upon the great surprises in store for her should she ever\nleave her native village. And yet, as often as such thought recurred\nto him he would try to choke it back, to bar his mind against it, lest\nthe pull at his heartstrings snap them asunder.\n\nOften as he watched her expanding so rapidly into womanhood and\nexhibiting such graces of manner, such amiability of disposition,\nsuch selfless regard for others, combined with a physical beauty\nsuch as he thought he had never before gazed upon, a great yearning\nwould clutch his soul, and a lump would rise in his throat. And\nwhen, as was so often the case, her arms flew impulsively about his\nneck and she whispered words of tender endearment in his ear, a\nfierce determination would seize him, and he would clutch her to\nhimself with such vehemence as to make her gasp for breath. That she\nmight marry he knew to be a possibility. But the idea pierced his\nsoul as with a sword, and he thought that to see her in the arms of\nanother, even the man of her choice, must excite him to murder. One\nday, shortly after her fourteenth birthday, she came to him and,\nperching herself as was her wont upon his knees, and twining her arms\nabout his neck, said, with traces of embarrassment, \"Padre dear,\nJuan--he asked me to-day to marry him.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 caught his breath. His ears rang. She--marry a peon of Simit\u00ed! To\nbe sure, Juan had often reminded him of the request he had made for\nher hand long ago. But Jos\u00e8 had not considered the likelihood of the\nlad's taking his question directly to her. And the girl--\n\n\"And what did you reply?\" he asked thickly.\n\n\"Padre dear--I told him that--\" She stopped abruptly.\n\n\"Well, _chiquita_; you told him--what?\" His voice trembled.\n\nShe flushed, still hesitating. He held her back from him and looked\nsquarely into her wide eyes.\n\n\"You told him, _chiquita_--\"\n\n\"That--well, Padre dear, I told him that--that I might never marry.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 sighed. \"And do you think, little girl, that you will always hold\nto that resolution?\"\n\n\"Yes, Padre, unless--\"\n\n\"Well, _chiquita_, unless--\"\n\n\"Unless you marry, too, Padre,\" she said, dropping her eyes.\n\n\"Unless I marry! I--a priest! But--what has that to do with it,\ngirl?\"\n\n\"Well--oh, Padre dear--can't you see? For then I would marry--\" She\nburied her face in his shoulder.\n\n\"Yes, _chiquita_,\" he said, dully wondering.\n\nHer arms tightened about his neck. \"You,\" she murmured.\n\nIt was the first expression of the kind that had ever come from her\nlips. Jos\u00e8's heart thumped violently. The Goddess of Fortune had\nsuddenly thrown her most precious jewel into his lap. Joy welled up in\nflood tides from unknown depths within. His eyes swam. Then--he\nremembered. And thick night fell upon his soul.\n\nMinutes passed, and the two sat very quiet. Then Carmen raised her\nhead. \"Padre,\" she whispered, \"you don't say anything. I know you love\nme. And you will not always be a priest--not always,\" shaking her\nbeautiful curls with suggestive emphasis.\n\nWhy did she say that? He wondered vaguely. The people called her an\n_hada_. He sometimes thought they had reason to. And then he knew that\nshe never moved except in response to a beckoning hand that still,\nafter all these years, remained invisible to him.\n\n\"_Chiquita_,\" he said in low response, \"I fear--I fear that can never\nbe. And even if--ah, _chiquita_, I am so much older than you, little\ngirl--almost seventeen years!\"\n\n\"You do not want to marry me, even if you could, Padre?\" she queried,\nlooking wistfully into his eyes, while her own grew moist.\n\nHe clutched her to him again. \"Carmen!\" he cried wildly, \"you little\nknow--you little know! But--child, we must not talk of these things!\nWait--wait!\"\n\n\"But, Padre dear,\" she pleaded, \"just say that you _do_ love me that\nway--just say it--your little girl wants to hear it.\"\n\nGod above! She, pleading that he would say he loved her! His head sank\nupon his breast. He silently prayed that his tortured soul might burst\nand let his wasted life ebb into oblivion while his pent-up misery\npoured out.\n\n\"Carmen!\" he cried with the despair of the lost. \"I love you--love\nyou--love you! Nay, child, I adore you! God! That I might hold you\nthus forever!\"\n\nShe reached up quickly and kissed him. \"Some day, Padre dear,\" she\nmurmured softly, \"you will stop thinking that two and two are seven.\nThen everything good will come to you.\"\n\nShe sank back in his arms and nestled close to him, as if she longed\nto enter his empty heart and fill the great void with her measureless\nlove.\n\n\"And, Padre dear,\" she whispered, \"your little girl will wait for\nyou--yes, she will wait.\"\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was some days later that Rosendo, after returning almost empty\nhanded from the hills, came to Jos\u00e8 and said, \"Padre, I have sold my\n_hacienda_ to Don Luis. I need the money to purchase supplies and to\nget the papers through for some denouncements which I have made in\nGuamoc\u00f3. I knew that Don Mario would put through no papers for me, and\nso I have asked L\u00e1zaro to make the transaction and to deliver the\ntitles to me when the final papers arrive. I have a blank here to be\nfilled out with the name and description of a mineral property.\nI--what would be a good name for a mine, Padre?\"\n\n\"Why do you ask that, Rosendo?\" queried Jos\u00e8 in surprise.\n\n\"Because, Padre, I want a foreign name--one not known, here. Give me\nan American one. Think hard.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 reflected. \"There is a city, a great city, that I have often\nheard about, up in the States,\" he said finally.\n\nHe took up the little atlas which he had received long since with\nother books from abroad. \"Look,\" he said, \"it is called Chicago. Call\nyour property the Chicago mine, Rosendo. It is a name unknown down\nhere, and there can no confusion arise because of it.\"\n\n\"_Caramba!_\" Rosendo muttered, trying to twist his tongue around the\nword, \"it is certain that no one else will use that name in Guamoc\u00f3!\nBut that makes my title still more secure, no?\"\n\n\"But, Rosendo,\" said Jos\u00e8, when the full significance of the old man's\nannouncement had finally penetrated, \"you have sold your _finca_! And\nto acquire title to property that you can never sell or work! Why,\nman! do you realize what you have done? You are impoverished! What\nwill you do now? And what about Carmen? for we have nothing. And the\nsword that hangs above us may fall any day!\"\n\n\"_Bien_, Padre, it is for her sake that I have done it. Say no more.\nIt will work out in some way. I go back to-morrow. But, if the titles\nshould come from Cartagena during my absence--and, Padre, if anything\nshould happen to me--for the love of the Virgin do not let them out of\nyour hands! They are for her.\"\n\nYet Rosendo departed not on the morrow. He remained to mingle his\ntears with those of the sorrowing Ana. For the woman, whose heart had\nbeen lighter since the arrival of her babe, had come to the priest\nthat day to have the child christened. And so, before the sun might\nfill the _plaza_ with its ardent midday heat, Rosendo and his family\nrepaired to the church. There before the altar Jos\u00e8 baptised the\nlittle one and gave it his own name, thus triumphantly ushering the\npagan babe into the Christian Catholic world. The child cried at the\ntouch of the baptismal water.\n\n\"Now,\" commented Rosendo, \"the devil has gone out of him, driven out\nby the holy water.\"\n\nBut, as Jos\u00e8 leaned over the babe and looked into its dark eyes, his\nhand stopped, and his heart stood still. He raised his head and bent a\nlook of inquiry upon the mother. She returned the look with one that\nmutely voiced a stifled fear and confirmed his own. \"Padre!\" she\nwhispered hoarsely. \"What is it? Quick!\"\n\nHe took a candle from the altar and passed it before the child's\neyes.\n\n\"Padre! He sees! _Santa Virgen!_ Do not tell me--_Dios m\u00edo_!\" The\nmother's voice rose to a wail, as she snatched her babe away.\n\nA loud exclamation escaped Rosendo. Do\u00f1a Maria stood mute; but Jos\u00e8 as\nhe looked at her divined her thought and read therein a full knowledge\nof the awful fact that she had never voiced to the heart-broken\nmother.\n\n\"Padre!\" cried the perplexed Rosendo. \"Maria!\" turning in appeal to\nhis wife. \"Speak, some one! _Santa Virgen_, speak! Ana, what ails the\nchild?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 turned his head aside. Carmen crowded close to the weeping Ana.\nDo\u00f1a Maria took Rosendo's arm.\n\n\"The babe, Rosendo,\" she said quietly, \"was born--blind.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 30\n\n\nThe \"revolutionist\" of Latin America is generally only the disgruntled\npolitician. His revolution is seldom more than a violent squabble\namong greedy spoilsmen for control of the loose-jointed administration.\nBut the great Mosquera Revolution which burst into flame in New\nGranada in 1861 was fed with fuel of a different nature. It\ndemonstrated, if demonstration were necessary, that the Treaty of\nWestphalia did not write _finis_ to the history of bloodshed in the\nname of Christ; that it had but banked the fires of religious\nanimosity, until the furnace should be transferred from the Old World to\nthe New, where the breath of liberty would again fan them into\nvigorous activity.\n\nThe Mosquera War tore asunder Church and State; but left unhappy\nColombia prone and bleeding. It externalized a mighty protest of\nenlightenment against Rome's dictates in temporal affairs. And, as has\nbefore happened when that irresistible potentiality, the people, has\nbeen stirred into action, the Church was disestablished, its property\nconfiscated, and its meddling, parasitical clergy disenfranchised.\n\nBut then, too, as almost invariably occurs when the masses find that\nthey have parted with cherished prejudices and effete customs, and\nhave adopted ideas so radical as to lift them a degree higher in the\nscale of progress, they wavered. The Church was being humiliated.\nTheir religion was under contempt. The holy sacrament of marriage was\ndebased to a civil ceremony. Education was endangered by taking it out\nof the hands of the pious clergy. Texts unauthorized by Holy Church\nwere being adopted. Where would this radical modernism end? The alarm\nspread, fanned by the watchful agents of Rome. Revolt after revolt\noccurred. And twenty years of incessant internecine warfare followed.\n\nFear and prejudice triumphed. A new Constitution was framed. And when\nit was seen that Roman Catholicism was therein again declared to be\nthe national religion of the Republic of Colombia; when it was noted\nthat the clergy, obedient to a foreign master, were to be readmitted\nto participation in government affairs; when it was understood that a\nnational press-censorship was to be established, dominated by Holy\nChurch; and when, in view of this, the great religio-political\nopponent was seen laying down her weapons and extending her arms in\ndubious benediction over the exhausted people, the masses yielded--and\nthere was great rejoicing on the banks of the Tiber over the\nprodigal's return.\n\nWhen Wenceslas Ortiz was placed in temporary control of the See of\nCartagena he shrewdly urged the Church party to make at least a\npretense of disbanding as a political organization. The provinces\nof Cundinamarca and Panam\u00e1 were again in a state of ferment.\nCongress, sitting in Bogot\u00e1, had before it for consideration a\nmeasure vesting in the President the power to interfere in certain\nstates or provinces whenever, in his opinion, the conservation of\npublic order necessitated such action. That this measure would be\npassed, Wenceslas could not be sure. But that, once adopted, it would\nprecipitate the unhappy country again into a sanguinary war, he\nthought he knew to a certainty. He had faced this same question six\nyears before, when a similar measure was before Congress. But then,\nwith a strong Church party, and believing the passage of the law to be\ncertain, he had yielded to the counsel of hot-headed leaders in\nCartagena, and approved the inauguration of hostilities.\n\nThe result had been a _fiasco_. Congress dropped the measure like a\nhot plate. The demands of the \"revolutionists\" were quickly met by the\nfederal government. The _causae belli_ evaporated. And Wenceslas\nretired in chagrin to the solitude of his study, to bite his nails and\nwonder dubiously if his party were strong enough to insure his\nappointment to the See of Cartagena in the event of the then aged\noccupant's demise.\n\nIt was this hasty judgment of Wenceslas and his political associates\nwhich had delayed further consideration of the objectionable measure\nfor six years. But the interim had seen his party enormously\nstrengthened, himself in control of the See, and his preparations\ncompleted for turning the revolt, whenever it should come, to his own\ngreat advantage. He had succeeded in holding the Church party aloof\nfrom actual participation in politics during the present crisis. And\nhe was now keeping it in constant readiness to throw its tremendous\ninfluence to whichever side should offer the greatest inducements.\n\nTime passed. The measure dragged. Congress dallied; and then prepared\nto adjourn. Wenceslas received a code message from his agent in Bogot\u00e1\nthat the measure would be laid on the table. At the same time came a\nsharp prod from New York. The funds had been provided to finance the\nimpending revolution. The concessions to be granted were satisfactory.\nWhy the delay? Had the Church party exaggerated its influence upon\nCongress?\n\nWenceslas stormed aloud. \"_Santa Virgen!_\" he muttered, as he paced\nangrily back and forth in his study. \"A curse upon Congress! A\ncurse--\"\n\nHe stopped still. In the midst of his imprecations an idea occurred to\nhim. He went to his _escritorio_ and drew out the Legate's recent\nreport. \"Ah,\" he mused, \"that pig-headed Alcalde. And the good little\nJos\u00e8. They may serve. _Bien_, we shall see.\"\n\nThen he summoned his secretary and dictated telegrams to Bogot\u00e1 and\nNew York, and a long letter to the Alcalde of Simit\u00ed. These finished,\nhe called a young acolyte in waiting.\n\n\"Take a message to the Governor,\" he commanded. \"Say to His Excellency\nthat I shall, call upon him at three this afternoon, to discuss\nmatters of gravest import.\" Dismissing his secretary, he leaned back\nin his chair and dropped into a profound revery.\n\nShortly before the hour which he had set for conference with the\nDepartmental Governor, Wenceslas rose and went to his _escritorio_,\nfrom which he took a paper-bound book.\n\n\"H'm,\" he commented aloud. \"'Confessions of a Roman Catholic Priest.'\n_Bien_, I was correct in my surmise that I should some day have use\nfor this little volume. Poor, misguided Rinc\u00f3n! But--_Bien_, I think\nit will do--I think it will do.\"\n\nA smile played over his handsome, imperious face. Then he snapped the\nbook shut and took up his hat. At the door he hesitated a moment, with\nhis hand on the knob.\n\n\"If the Alcalde were not such a fool, it would be impossible,\" he\nmused. \"But--the combination--the isolation of Simit\u00ed--the imbecility\nof Don Mario--the predicament of our little Jos\u00e8--_Hombre_! it is a\nrare situation, and it will work. It _must_ work--_cielo_! With the\npig-headed Alcalde seizing government arms to suppress the Church\nparty as represented by the foolish Jos\u00e8, and with the President\nsending federal troops to quell the disturbance, the anticlericals\nwill rise in a body throughout the country. Then Congress will hastily\npass the measure to support the President, the Church party will swing\ninto line with the Government--and the revolution will be on. Simit\u00ed\nprovides the setting and the fuel; I, the torch. I will cable again to\nAmes when I leave the Governor.\" He swung the door open and went\nbriskly out.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Padre, I am crushed.\"\n\nIt was Rosendo who spoke. He and Jos\u00e8 were sitting out in the\ngathering dusk before the parish house on the evening of the day that\nAna's babe had been christened. The old man's head was sunk upon his\nbreast, and he rocked back and forth groaning aloud.\n\n\"We must be brave, Rosendo,\" returned Jos\u00e8 tenderly. \"We have gone\nthrough much, you and I, since I came to Simit\u00ed. But--we have believed\nit to be in a good cause. Shall we surrender now?\"\n\n\"But, Padre, after it all, to have her babe come into the world blind!\nGod above! The poor child--the poor child! Padre, it is the last thing\nthat I can endure. My ambition is gone. I cannot return now to\nGuamoc\u00f3. Let come what may, I am done.\"\n\n\"Rosendo,\" said Jos\u00e8, drawing his chair closer to the old man, and\nlaying a hand on his, \"we have fought long and hard. But, if I mistake\nnot, the greatest struggle is yet to come. The greatest demand upon\nyour strength and mine is still to be made.\"\n\nRosendo raised his head. \"What mean you, Padre?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 spoke low and earnestly. \"This: Juan returned from Bodega Central\nthis evening. He reports that several large boxes are there, consigned\nto Don Mario, and bearing the government stamp. He found one of them\nslightly broken, and he peered within. What think you it contained?\nRifles!\"\n\nRosendo stared at the priest dumbly. Jos\u00e8 went on:\n\n\"I did not intend to tell you this until morning. But it is right that\nyou should hear it now, that your courage may rise in the face of\ndanger. What think you? The federal government is sending arms to\nSimit\u00ed to establish a base here at the outlet of the Guamoc\u00f3 region,\nand well hidden from the Magdalena river. This town is to become a\nmilitary depot, unless I mistake the signs. And danger no longer\nthreatens, but is at our door.\"\n\n\"_Ca-ram-ba_!\" Rosendo rose slowly and drew himself up to his full\nheight. \"War!\" he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper.\n\n\"There is no question about it, Rosendo,\" replied Jos\u00e8 gravely. \"And I\nhave no reason to doubt the truth of Diego's prophecy, that this time\nit will be one to be reckoned with.\"\n\n\"_Hombre_! And Carmen?\"\n\n\"Take her into the hills, Rosendo. Start to-morrow.\"\n\n\"But you?\"\n\nJos\u00e8's thought was dwelling on his last talk with the girl. Again he\nfelt her soft arms about his neck, and her warm breath against his\ncheek. He felt her kiss, and heard again her words, the sweetest, he\nthought, that had ever echoed in mortal ears. And then he thought of\nhis mother, of his office, of the thousand obstacles that loomed huge\nand insurmountable between him and Carmen. He passed a hand across his\nbrow and sighed heavily.\n\n\"I remain here, Rosendo. I am weary, unutterably weary. I welcome, not\nonly the opportunity for service which this war may bring, but\nlikewise the hope of--death. If I could but know that she were\nsafe--\"\n\n\"_Caramba_! Think you she would leave you here, Padre? No!\" Did\nRosendo's words convey aught to the priest that he did not already\nknow?\n\n\"But--Rosendo, I shall not go,\" he returned bitterly.\n\n\"Then neither do we, Padre,\" replied Rosendo, sitting again. \"The\nchild, Carmen--she--Padre, she loves you with a love that is not of\nthe earth.\"\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nMorning found the old man's conviction still unshaken. Jos\u00e8 sought the\nquiet of his cottage to reflect. But his meditations were interrupted\nby Carmen.\n\n\"Padre,\" she began, sparkling like a mountain rill in the sunlight as\nshe seated herself before him. \"Pepito--Anita's babe--he is not blind,\nyou know.\" Her head bobbed vigorously, as was her wont when she sought\nto give emphasis to her dramatic statements.\n\nJos\u00e8 smiled, and resigned himself to the inevitable. He had been\nexpecting this.\n\n\"And, Padre, have you been thankful that he isn't?\"\n\n\"Isn't what, child?\"\n\n\"Blind. You know, Padre Diego thought he couldn't see the reality. He\nlooked always at his bad thoughts. And so the not seeing, and the\nseeing of only bad things, were both--externalized, and the babe came\nto us without sight. That is, without what the human mind calls sight.\nAnd now,\" she went on excitedly, \"you and I have just _got_ to know\nthat it isn't so! The babe sees. God's children all see. And I have\nthanked Him all morning that this is so, and that you and I see it.\nDon't we, Padre dear? Yes, we do.\"\n\n\"Well--I suppose so,\" replied Jos\u00e8 abstractedly, his thought still\noccupied with the danger that hung over the little town.\n\n\"Suppose so! You _know_ so, Padre! There isn't any 'suppose' about it!\nNow look: what makes sight? The eye? No. The eye is made _by_ the\nsight. The human mind just gets it twisted about. It thinks that sight\ndepends upon the optic nerve, and upon the fleshly eye. But it isn't\nso. It is the sight that externalizes the 'meaty' eye. You see, the\nsight is within, not without. It is mental. God is all-seeing; and so,\nsight is eternal. Don't you see? Of course you do!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 did not reply. Yes, he did see. But what he saw was the\nbeautiful, animated girl before him. And the thought that he must some\nday be separated from her was eating his heart like a canker.\n\n\"Well, then,\" went on the girl, without waiting for his reply, \"if a\nmortal's mental concept of sight is poor, why, he will manifest poor\neyes. If the thought-concept were right, the manifestation would be\nright. Wouldn't it?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 suddenly returned to the subject under discussion. \"By that I\nsuppose you mean, _chiquita_, that the babe's thought, or concept, of\nsight was all wrong, and so he came into the world blind.\"\n\n\"Not at all, Padre,\" she quickly replied. \"The babe had nothing to do\nwith it, except to seem to manifest the wrong thoughts of its father,\nor mother, or both. Or perhaps it manifests just simply bad thoughts,\nwithout the bad thoughts belonging to anybody. For, you know, we none\nof us really _have_ such thoughts. And such thoughts don't really\nexist. They are just a part of the one big lie about God.\"\n\n\"Then the babe sees?\"\n\n\"Surely; the real babe is a child of God, and sees.\"\n\n\"But the human babe doesn't see,\" he retorted.\n\n\"But,\" she replied, \"what you call the human babe is only your mental\nconcept of the babe. And you see that mental concept as a blind one.\nNow _un-see_ it. Look at it in the right way. See only God's child,\nwith perfect sight. And, Padre, after a while _you will see that babe\nseeing things, just as we do_!\n\n\"Don't you understand?\" she exclaimed, as he sat looking fixedly at\nher. \"Don't you see that if you have the right thought about the babe,\nand hold to it, and put out every thought that says it is blind, why,\nyour right thought will be externalized in a mental concept of a babe\nthat sees? Don't you know that that is exactly what Jesus did? He\ndidn't affect the real man at all. But he did change the mental\nconcepts which we call human beings. And we can do the same, if we\nonly know it, and follow him, and spiritualize our thought, as he did,\nby putting out and keeping out every thought that we know does not\ncome from God, and that is, therefore, only a part of the lie about\nHim. Here is a case where we have got to quit thinking that two and\ntwo are seven. And I have done it. It is God's business to make our\nconcepts right. And He has done so--long since. And we will see these,\nright concepts if we will put out the wrong ones!\"\n\n\"Well?\" he queried lamely, wholly at a loss for any other answer.\n\n\"Well, Padre, I am not a bit afraid. I don't see a blind babe at all,\nbecause there just can't be any. And neither do you. The babe sees\nbecause God sees.\"\n\n\"In other words, you don't intend to allow yourself to be deceived by\nappearances?\" he suggested.\n\n\"That is just it, Padre!\" she exclaimed. \"Blindness is only an\nappearance. But it doesn't appear to God, It appears only to the human\nmind--which isn't any mind at all! And the appearance can be made to\ndisappear, if we know the truth and stick to it. For any appearance of\na human body is a mental concept, that's all.\"\n\n\"A thing of thought, then?\" he said.\n\n\"Yes, a thing of _wrong_ thought. But all wrong thought is subject\nto God's right thought. We've proved that, haven't we, lots of\ntimes? Well, this wrong thought about a babe that is blind can be\nchanged--made to disappear--just as any lie can be made to disappear\nwhen we know the truth. And so you and I are not going to be afraid,\nare we? I told Anita this morning not to worry, but to just _know_\nall the time that her babe did see, no matter what the appearance\nwas. And she smiled at me, Padre, she smiled. And I know that she\ntrusts, and is going to work with you and me.\"\n\nWork with her! Heavens! had he done aught of late but work against her\nby his constant harboring of fears, of doubts, and his distrust of\nspiritual power?\n\n\"Padre,\" she resumed, \"I want you to promise me that every day you\nwill thank God that the babe really sees. And that you will turn right\non every thought of blindness and know that it is a part of the lie\nabout God, and put it right out of your mind. Will you?\"\n\n\"But--child--if my mind tells me that the babe is blind, how can I--\"\n\n\"I don't care what your mind tells you about the babe! You are to\nlisten to what God tells you, not your human mind! Does God tell you\nthat the babe is blind? Does He?\" she repeated, as the man hesitated.\n\n\"Why, no, _chiquita_, He--\"\n\n\"Listen, Padre,\" she interrupted again, drawing closer to him. \"Is God\ngood, or bad, or both?\"\n\n\"He is good, _chiquita_, all good.\"\n\n\"Infinite good, then, no?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And we have long since proved by actual reasoning and demonstration\nthat He is mind, and so infinite mind, no?\"\n\n\"It must be conceded, Carmen.\"\n\n\"Well, an infinite mind has all power. And an infinite, all-powerful\nmind that is all good could not possibly create anything bad, or sick,\nor discordant--now could He?\"\n\n\"Utterly impossible, little girl.\"\n\n\"The Bible says so. Our reasoning tells us so. But--the five physical\nsenses tell us differently. Don't they?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And yet, we know that the five physical senses _do not tell us\ntruth_! We know that when the human mind thinks it is receiving\nreports about things through the five physical senses it is doing\nnothing more than looking at its own thoughts. Now isn't that so?\"\n\n\"It certainly seems so, little one.\"\n\n\"The thoughts of an infinite and good mind must be like that mind, all\ngood, no? Well, then, thoughts of discord, disease, blindness, and\ndeath--do they come from the infinite, good mind? No!\"\n\n\"Well, _chiquita m\u00eda_, that is just the sticking point. I can see all\nthe rest. But the mighty question is, where _do_ those thoughts come\nfrom? I am quite as ready as you to admit that discord, sin, evil,\ndeath, and all the whole list of human ills and woes come from these\nbad thoughts held in the human mind and so externalized. I believe\nthat the human man really sees, feels, hears, smells, and tastes these\nthoughts--that the functioning of the physical senses is wholly\nmental--takes place in mind, in thought only. That is, that the human\nmind thinks it sees, feels, hears; but that the whole process is\nmental, and that it is but regarding its thoughts, instead of actually\nregarding and cognizing objects outside of itself. Do you follow me?\"\n\n\"Of course,\" she replied with animation. \"Isn't that just what I am\ntrying to tell you?\"\n\n\"But--and here is the great obstacle--we differentiate between good\nand bad thoughts. We agree that a fountain can not send forth sweet\nand bitter waters at the same time. And so, good and bad thoughts do\nnot come from the infinite mind that we call God. But where do the\nothers originate? Answer that, _chiquita_, and my problems will all be\nsolved.\"\n\nShe looked at him in perplexity for some time. It seemed to her\nthat she never would understand him. But, with a little sigh of\nresignation, she replied:\n\n\"Padre, you answered that question yourself, long ago. You worked it\nall out three or four years ago. But--you haven't stuck to it. You let\nthe false testimony of the physical senses mesmerize you again.\nInstead of sticking to the thoughts that you knew to be good, and\nholding to them, in spite of the pelting you got from the others, you\nhave looked first at the good, and then at the bad, and then believed\nthem all to be real, and all to be powerful. And so you got miserably\nmixed up. And the result is that you don't know where you stand. Do\nyou? Or, you think you don't; for that thought, too, is a bad one, and\nhas no power at all, excepting the power that you seem willing--and\nglad--to give it.\"\n\nHe winced under the poignant rebuke. He knew in his heart that she was\nright. He had not clung to the good, despite the roars of Satan. He\nhad not \"resisted unto blood.\" Far from it; he had fallen, almost\ninvariably, at the first shower of the adversary's darts. And now, was\nhe not trying, desperately, to show her that Ana's babe was blind,\nhopelessly so? Was he not fighting on evil's side, and vigorously,\nthough with shame suffusing his face, waving aloft the banner of\nerror?\n\n\"The trouble with you, Padre,\" the girl resumed, after some moments of\nreflection, \"is that you--you see everything--well, you see everything\nas a person, or a thing.\"\n\n\"You mean that I always associate thought with personality?\" he\nsuggested.\n\n\"That's it! But you have got to learn to deal with thoughts and ideas\nby themselves, apart from any person or thing. You have got to learn\nto deal with facts and their opposites entirely apart from places, or\nthings, or people. Now if I say that Life is eternal, I have stated a\nmental thing. That is the fact. Its opposite, that is, the opposite of\nLife, is death. One opposes the other. But God is Life. Is God also\ndeath? He can't be. Life is the fact. Then death must be the illusion.\nThat being so, Life is the reality, and death is the unreality. Very\nwell, what makes death seem real? It is just because the false thought\nof death comes into the human mind, and is held there as a reality, as\nsomething that has _got_ to happen. And that strong belief becomes\nexternalized in what mortals call death. Don't you see? Is there a\nperson in the whole world who doesn't think that some time he has got\nto die? No, not one! But now suppose every person held the belief that\ndeath was an illusion, a part of the big lie about God, just as Jesus\nsaid it was. Well, wouldn't we get rid of death in a hurry? I should\nthink so! And is there a person in the whole world who wouldn't say\nthat Anita's babe was blind? No, not one! They would look at the human\nthought of blindness, instead of God's real idea of sight, and so they\nwould make and keep the babe blind. Don't you understand me, Padre\ndear? Don't you? I know you do, for you really see as God sees!\"\n\nShe stopped for breath. Her eyes glistened, and her whole body seemed\nto radiate the light of knowledge divine. Then she went hurriedly on:\n\n\"Padre, everything is mental. You know that, for you told me so, long\nsince. Well, that being so, we have got to face the truth that every\nmental fact seems to have an opposite, or a lot of opposites, also\nseemingly mental. The opposite of a fact is an illusion. The opposite\nof truth is a lie. Well, God is the great fact. Infinite mind is the\ninfinite fact. The so-called opposite of this infinite fact is the\nhuman mind, the many so-called minds of mankind--_a kind of man._ But\neverything is still mental. Now, an illusion, or a lie, does not\n_really_ exist. If I tell you that two and two are seven, that lie\ndoes not exist. Is it in what we call my mind, or yours? No. Even if\nyou say you believe it, that doesn't make it real. Nor does it show\nthat it has real existence in your mind. Not a bit of it! But--if you\nhold it, and cling to it--allow it to stay with you and influence\nyou--why, Padre dear, everything in your whole life will be changed!\n\n\"Let me take your pencil--and a piece of paper. Look now,\" drawing a\nline down through the paper. \"On one side, Padre, is the infinite\nmind, God, and all His thoughts and ideas, all good, perfect and\neternal. On the other side is the lie about it all. That is still\nmental; but it is illusion, falsity. It includes all sin, all\nsickness, all murder, all evil, accidents, loss, failure, bad\nambitions, and death. These are all parts of the big lie about\nGod--His unreal opposite. These are the so-called thoughts that come\nto the human mind. Where do they come from? From nowhere. The human\nmind looks at them, tastes them, feels them, holds them; and then they\nbecome its beliefs. After a while the human mind looks at nothing but\nthese beliefs. It believes them to be real. And, finally, it comes to\nbelieve that God made them and sent them to His children. Isn't it\nawful, Padre! And aren't you glad that you know about it? And aren't\nyou going to learn how to keep the good on one side of that line and\nthe illusion on the other?\"\n\nIt seemed to Jos\u00e8 a thing incredible that these words were coming from\na girl of fifteen. And yet he knew that at the same tender age he was\nas deeply serious as she--but with this difference: he was then\ntenaciously clinging to the thoughts that she was now utterly\nrepudiating as unreal and non-existent.\n\n\"Padre dear,\" the girl resumed, \"everything is mental. The whole\nuniverse is mental.\"\n\n\"Well,\" he replied reflectively, \"at least our comprehension of it is\nwholly mental.\"\n\n\"Why--it is all inside--it is all in our thought! Padre, when Hernando\nplays on that old pipe of his, where is the music? Is it in the pipe?\nOr is it in our thoughts?\"\n\n\"But, _chiquita_, we don't seem to have it in our thought until we\nseem to see him playing on the pipe, do we?\"\n\n\"No, we don't,\" she replied. \"And do you know why? It is just because\nthe human mind believes that everything, even music, must come from\nmatter--must have a--\"\n\n\"Must have a material origin? Is that what you mean?\"\n\n\"Yes. And men even believe that life itself has a material origin; and\nso they have wasted centuries trying to find it in the body. They\ndon't seem to want to know that God is life.\"\n\n\"Then, _chiquita_, you do not believe that matter is real?\"\n\n\"There is no matter outside of us, or around us, Padre,\" she said in\nreply. \"The human mind looks at its thoughts and seems to see them out\naround it as things made of matter. But, after all, it only sees its\nthoughts.\"\n\n\"Then I suppose that the externalization of our thought in our\nconsciousness constitutes what we call space, does it not?\"\n\n\"It must, Padre,\" she answered.\n\nHe studied a moment. Then:\n\n\"_Chiquita_, how do you know me? What do you see that you call 'me'?\"\n\n\"Why, Padre, I see you as God does--at least, I try always to see you\nthat way?\" she answered earnestly. \"And that is the way Jesus always\nsaw people.\"\n\n\"God sees me, of course. But, does He see me as I see myself?\" he\nmused aloud.\n\n\"You do not see yourself, Padre,\" was her reply. \"You see only the\nthoughts that you call yourself. Thoughts of mind and body and all\nthose things that go to form a human being.\"\n\n\"Well--yes, I must agree with you there; for, though God certainly\nknows me, He cannot know me as I think I know myself, sinful and\ndiscordant.\"\n\n\"He knows the real 'you,' Padre dear. And that is just as He is. He\nknows that the unreal 'you,' the 'you' that you think you know, is\nillusion. If He knew the human, mortal 'you' as real, He would have to\nknow evil. And that can not be.\"\n\n\"No, for the Bible says He is of eyes too pure to behold evil.\"\n\n\"Well, Padre, why don't you try to be like Him?\"\n\nBut the girl needed not that he should answer her question. She knew\nwhy he had failed, for \"without faith it is impossible to please him:\nfor he that cometh to God must believe that he is, and that he is a\nrewarder of them that diligently seek him.\" She knew that Jos\u00e8's\nstruggle to overcome evil had been futile, because he had first\nmade evil real. She knew that the difficulty he had experienced in\nkeeping his thought straight was because he persisted in looking at\nboth the good and the evil. Lot's wife, in the Bible allegory, had\nturned back to look at things material and had been transformed into\na pillar of salt. Jos\u00e8 had turned again and again to his materialistic\nthoughts; and had been turned each time to salt tears. She knew that\nhe gave up readily, that he yielded easily to evil's strongest\ntool, discouragement, and fell back into self-condemnation, whereby he\nonly rendered still more real to himself the evil which he was\nstriving to overcome. She knew that the only obstacle that he was\nwrestling with in his upward progress was the universal belief in a\npower other than God, good, which is so firmly fixed in the human\nconsciousness. But she likewise knew that this hindrance was but a\nfalse conviction, and that it could and would be overcome.\n\n\"Padre,\" she reflected, looking up at him in great seriousness, \"if a\nlie had an origin, it would be true, wouldn't it?\"\n\nHe regarded her attentively, but without replying.\n\n\"But Jesus said that Satan was the father of lies. And Satan, since he\nis the father of lies, must himself be a lie. You see, Padre, we can\ngo right back to the very first chapter in the Bible. First comes the\naccount of the real creation. Then comes the account as the human\nmind looks at it. But that comes after the 'mist' had gone up from\nthe ground, from dirt, from matter. Don't you see? That mist was\nerror, the opposite of Good. It was evil, the opposite of God. It was\nthe human mind and all human thought, the opposite of the infinite\nMind, God, and His thought. The mist went up from matter. So every bit\nof evil that you can possibly think of comes from the material,\nphysical senses. Evil is always a mist, hiding the good. Isn't it\nso? The physical universe, the universe of matter, is the way the\nhuman mind sees its thoughts of the spiritual universe that was\ncreated by God. The human mind is just a bundle of these false\nthoughts; and you yourself have said that the human consciousness\nwas a 'thought-activity, concerned with the activity of false\nthought.' The human mind is the lie about the infinite mind. It is\nthe mistake, the illusion. It is like a mistake in mathematics. It\nhas no principle, and nothing to stand on. The minute you turn the\ntruth upon it, why, it vanishes.\"\n\n\"Well, then, _chiquita_, why don't people turn the truth upon it\neverywhere?\"\n\n\"Because they are mesmerized by the error, Padre. They sit looking at\nthese false thoughts and believing them true. Padre, all disease, all\nevil, comes from the false thought in the human mind. It is that\nthought externalized in the human consciousness. And when the human\nmind turns from them, and puts them out, and lets the true thoughts\nin, why--why, _then we will raise the dead_!\"\n\n\"But, _chiquita_, the human body--if it has died--\"\n\n\"Padre,\" she interrupted, \"the human body and human mind are one and\nthe same. The body is in the mind. The body that you think you see is\nbut your thought of a body, and _is in your so-called human mind_!\"\n\n\"Do you really understand that, child?\"\n\n\"I _know_ it!\" she exclaimed. \"And so would you if you read your Bible\nin the right way. Why--I had never seen a Bible until you gave me\nyours. I didn't know what a book it was! And to think that it has been\nin the world for thousands of years, and yet people still kill one\nanother, still get sick, and still die! I don't see how they can!\"\n\n\"But, _chiquita_, people are too busy to devote time to demonstrating\nthe truths of the Bible,\" he offered.\n\n\"Too busy!\" she ejaculated. \"Busy with what?\"\n\n\"Why--busy making money--busy socially--busy having a good time--busy\naccumulating things that--that they must go away and leave to somebody\nelse!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said sadly. \"They are like the people Jesus spoke of, too\nbusy with things that are of no account to see the things that\nare--that are--\"\n\n\"That are priceless, _chiquita_--that are the most vital of all things\nto sinful, suffering mankind,\" he supplied.\n\nRosendo looked in at the door. Jos\u00e8 motioned him away. These hours\nwith Carmen had become doubly precious to him of late. Perhaps he felt\na presentiment that the net about him and his loved ones was drawing\nrapidly tighter. Perhaps he saw the hour swiftly approaching, even at\nhand, when these moments of spiritual intercourse would be rudely\nterminated. And perhaps he saw the clouds lowering ever darker above\nthem, and knew that in the blackness which was soon to fall the girl\nwould leave him and be swept out into the great world of human\nthoughts and events, to meet, alone with her God, the fiercest\nelements, the subtlest wiles, of the carnal mind. As for himself--he\nwas in the hands of that same God.\n\nHe turned again to the girl. \"_Chiquita_,\" he said, \"you do not\nfind mistakes in the Bible? For, out in the big world where I came\nfrom, there are many, very many, who say that it is a book of\ninconsistencies, of gross inaccuracies, and that its statements are\ndirectly opposed to the so-called natural sciences. They say that it\ndoesn't even relate historical events accurately. But, after all,\nthe Bible is just the record of the unfoldment in the human\nconsciousness of the concept of God. Why cavil at it when it\ncontains, as we must see, a revelation of the full formula for\nsalvation, which, as you say, is right-thinking.\"\n\n\"Yes, Padre. And it even tells us what to think about. Paul said, you\nknow, that we should think about whatsoever things are true, honest,\njust, pure, lovely, and of good report. Well, he told us that there\nwas no law--not even any human law--against those things. And don't\nyou know, he wrote about bringing into captivity every thought to\nChrist? What did he mean by that?\"\n\n\"Just what you have been telling me, I guess, _chiquita_: that every\nthought must be measured by the Christ-principle. And if it doesn't\nconform to that standard, it must be rejected.\"\n\n\"Yes. And then he said that he died daily. He did die daily to evil,\nto all evil thought--\"\n\n\"And to the testimony of the physical senses, think you?\"\n\n\"He must have! For, in proving God to be real, he had to prove the\nreports of the five physical senses to be only human beliefs.\"\n\n\"You are right, _chiquita_. He must have known that the corporeal\nsenses were the only source from which evil came. He must have known\nthat unless God testified in regard to things, any other testimony was\nbut carnal belief. This must be so, for God, being infinite mind, is\nalso infinite intelligence. He knows all things, and knows them\naright--not as the human mind thinks it knows them, twisted and\ndeformed, but right.\"\n\n\"Of course, Padre. You know now that you see it right. And can't you\n_stick_ to it, and prove it?\"\n\n\"_Chiquita_,\" he answered, shaking his head again, his words still\nvoicing a lingering note of doubt, \"it may be--the 'I' that I call\nmyself may be entirely human, unreal, mortal. I make no doubt it is,\nfor it seems filled to the brim with discordant thoughts. And it will\npass away. And then--then what will be left?\"\n\n\"Oh, Padre!\" she cried, with a trace of exasperation. \"Empty yourself\nof the wrong thoughts--shut the door against them--don't let them in\nany more! Then fill yourself with God's thoughts. Then when the\nmortal part fades away, why, the good will be left. And it will be the\nright 'you.'\"\n\n\"But how shall I empty myself, and then fill myself again?\"\n\n\"Padre!\" cried the girl, springing from her chair and stamping her\nfoot with each word to give it emphasis. \"It is love, love, love,\nnothing but love! Forget yourself, and love everything and everybody,\nthe real things and the real bodies! Love God, and good, and good\nthoughts! Turn from the bad and the unreal--forget it! Why--\"\n\n\"Wait, _chiquita_,\" he interrupted. \"A great war is threatening our\ncountry at this very minute. Shall I turn from it and let come what\nmay?\"\n\nShe hesitated not. \"No! But you can know that war comes only from the\nhuman mind; that it is bad thought externalized; and that God is\npeace, and is infinitely greater than such bad thought; and He will\ntake care of you--if you will let Him!\"\n\n\"And how do I let Him? By sitting back and folding my hands and\nsaying, Here am I, Lord, protect me--\"\n\n\"Oh, Padre dear, you make me ashamed of your foolish thought--which\nisn't your thought at all, but just thought that seems to be calling\nitself 'you.' Jesus said, He that believeth on me, the works that I do\nshall he do likewise. But that did not mean sitting back with folded\nhands. It meant _understanding_ him; and knowing that there is no\npower apart from the Christ-principle; and using that principle, using\nit every moment, _hard_; and with it overcoming every thought that\ndoesn't come from God, every thought of the human mind, whether it is\ncalled war, or sickness, or death!\"\n\n\"Then evil can be thought away, _chiquita_?\" He knew not why he\npursued her so relentlessly.\n\n\"No, Padre,\" she replied with a gentle patience that smote him. \"No,\nPadre. But it can be destroyed in the human mind. And when you have\novercome the habit of thinking the wrong way, evil will disappear.\nThat is the whole thing. That is what Jesus tried to make the people\nsee.\"\n\nBut Jos\u00e8 knew it. Yet he had not put it to the proof. He had gone\nthrough life, worrying himself loose from one human belief, only to\nbecome enslaved to another equally insidious. He knew that the cause\nof whatever came to him was within his own mentality. And yet he knew,\nlikewise, that he would have to demonstrate this--that he would be\ncalled upon to \"prove\" God. His faith without the works following was\ndead. He felt that he did not really believe in power opposed to God;\nand yet he did constantly yield to such belief. And such yielding was\nthe chief of sins. The unique Son of God had said so. He knew that\nwhen the Master had said, \"Behold, I give you power over all the\nenemy,\" he meant that the Christ-principle would overcome every false\nclaim of the human mentality, whether that claim be one of physical\ncondition or action, or a claim of environment and event. He knew that\nall things were possible to God, and likewise to the one who\nunderstood and faithfully applied the Christ-principle. Carmen\nbelieved that good alone was real and present. She applied this\nknowledge to every-day affairs. And in so doing she denied reality to\nevil. He must let go. He must turn upon the claims of evil to life and\nintelligence. His false sense of righteousness _must_ give place to\nthe spiritual sense of God as immanent good. He knew that Carmen's\ngreat love was an impervious armor, which turned aside the darts of\nthe evil one, the one lie. He knew that his reasoning from the premise\nof mixed good and evil was false, and the results chaotic. And knowing\nall this, he knew that he had touched the hem of the garment of the\nChrist-understanding. There remained, then, the test of fire. And it\nhad come. Would he stand?\n\n\"Padre,\" said Carmen, going to him and putting her arms about his\nneck, \"you say that you think a great war is coming. But you\nneedn't be afraid. Don't you remember what it says in the book of\nIsaiah? 'No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper, and\nevery tongue that shall rise against thee in judgment thou shalt\ncondemn. This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord, and their\nrighteousness is of me, saith the Lord.' No weapon of evil can\ntouch you, if you understand God. Every tongue of the human mind that\nrises to judge you, to sentence you, shall be condemned. You will\ncondemn it--you _must_! This is your heritage, given you by God. And\nyour righteousness, your right-thinking, must come from God. Your\nthoughts must be His. Then--\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, _chiquita_,\" he said, drawing her to him.\n\n\"And now, Padre, you will promise me that you will know every day that\nAnita's babe is not blind--that it sees, because God sees?\"\n\n\"Yes, _chiquita_, I promise.\"\n\n\"Padre dear,\" she murmured, nestling close to him, \"I love you so\nmuch, so much!\"\n\nHe answered not, except in the tightening of the arm that was about\nher.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 31\n\n\nIn the weeks that followed there were days when the very air seemed\npregnant with potential destruction, awaiting only the daring hand\nthat would render it kinetic. Jos\u00e8 dwelt in a state of incessant,\nheart-shaking agitation. The sudden precipitation of the revolt six\nyears before had caught him wholly unprepared, unaware even of the\nevents which had led to it. In the intervening years, however, he had\nhad some opportunity, even in his isolation, to study political\nconditions in that unhappy country, and to form some estimate of the\nmental forces at work in both Church and State which, he knew, must\nultimately bring them again into conflict for supremacy. His knowledge\nof the workings of the human mind convinced him that Diego's dire\nprophecy had not been empty; that the Church, though ostensibly\nassuming only spiritual leadership, would nevertheless rest not until\nthe question \"Who shall be greatest?\" even in the petty, sordid\naffairs of mortals, should be answered, and answered--though by force\nof arms--in her favor. And his estimate of the strength of the\nopposing parties had led him to believe that the impending struggle\nwould drench the land in blood.\n\nAs to the _r\u00f4le_ which Wenceslas would play, he could form no\nsatisfactory estimate. He knew him to be astute, wary, and the\nshrewdest of politicians. He knew, likewise, that he was acting in\nconjunction with powerful financial interests in both North America\nand Europe. He knew him to be a man who would stop at no scruple,\nhesitate at no dictate of conscience, yield to no moral or ethical\ncode; one who would play Rome against Wall Street, with his own\nunfortunate country as the stake; one who would hurl the fairest sons\nof Colombia at one another's throats to bulge his own coffers; and\nthen wring from the wailing widows their poor substance for Masses to\nmove their beloved dead through an imagined purgatory.\n\nBut he could not know that, in casting about impatiently for an\nimmediate _causus belli_, Wenceslas had hit upon poor, isolated,\nlittle Simit\u00ed as the point of ignition, and the pitting of its\nstruggling priest against Don Mario as the method of exciting the\nnecessary spark. He could not know that Wenceslas had represented\nto the Departmental Governor in Cartagena that an obscure _Cura_ in\nfar-off Simit\u00ed, an exile from the Vatican, and the author of a\nviolent diatribe against papal authority, was the nucleus about\nwhich anticlerical sentiment was crystallizing in the Department\nof Bol\u00edvar. He did not know that the Governor had been induced by the\nacting-Bishop's specious representations to send arms to Simit\u00ed, to\nbe followed by federal troops only when the crafty Wenceslas saw\nthat the time was ripe. He did not even suspect that Don Mario was\nto be the puppet whom Wenceslas would sacrifice on the altar of\nrapacity when he had finished with him, and that the simple-minded\nAlcalde in his blind zeal to protect the Church would thereby\nproclaim himself an enemy of both Church and State, and afford the\nsmiling Wenceslas the most fortuitous of opportunities to reveal the\nChurch's unexampled magnanimity by throwing her influence in with\nthat of the Government against their common enemy.\n\nHis own intercourse with Wenceslas during the years of his exile in\nSimit\u00ed had been wholly formal, and not altogether disagreeable as long\nas the contributions of gold to the Bishop's leaking coffers\ncontinued. He had received almost monthly communications from\nCartagena, relating to the Church at large, and, at infrequent\nintervals, to the parish of Simit\u00ed. But he knew that Cartagena's\ninterest in Simit\u00ed was merely casual--nay, rather, financial--and he\nstrove to maintain it so, lest the stimulation of a deeper interest\nthwart his own plans. His conflict with Diego in regard to Carmen had\nseemed for the moment to evoke the Bishop's interference; and the\nsudden and unaccountable disappearance of that priest had threatened\nto expose both Jos\u00e8 and Carmen to the full scrutiny of Wenceslas. But,\nfortunately, the insistence of those matters which were rapidly\nculminating in a political outbreak left Wenceslas little time for\ninterference in affairs which did not pertain exclusively to the\nmomentous questions with which he was now concerned, and Jos\u00e8 and\nCarmen were still left unmolested. It was only when, desperate lest\nCongress adjourn without passing the measure which he knew would\nprecipitate the conflict, and when, well nigh panic-stricken lest his\ncollusion with Ames and his powerful clique of Wall Street become\nknown through the exasperation of the latter over the long delay, he\nhad resolved to pit Don Mario against Jos\u00e8 in distant Simit\u00ed, and, in\nthat unknown, isolated spot, where close investigation would never be\nmade, apply the torch to the waiting combustibles, that Jos\u00e8 saw the\ndanger which had always hung over him and the girl suddenly descending\nupon them and threatening anew the separation which he had ever\nregarded as inevitable, and yet which he had hoped against hope to\navoid.\n\nWith the deposition of arms in Simit\u00ed, and the establishment of\nfederal authority in Don Mario, that always pompous official rose in\nhis own esteem and in the eyes of a few parasitical attach\u00e9s to an\neminence never before dreamed of by the humble denizens of this\nmoss-encrusted town. From egotistical, Don Mario became insolent. From\nsluggishness and torpidity of thought and action, he rose suddenly\ninto tremendous activity. He was more than once observed by Jos\u00e8 or\nRosendo emerging hastily from his door and button-holing some one of\nthe more influential citizens of the town and excitedly reading to him\nexcerpts from letters which he had just received from Cartagena. He\nmight be seen at any hour of the day in the little _patio_ back of his\nstore, busily engaged with certain of the men of the place in\nexamining papers and documents, talking volubly and with much excited\ngesticulation and wild rolling of the eyes. A party seemed to be\ncrystallizing about him. His hitherto uncertain prestige appeared to\nbe soaring greatly. Men who before made slighting remarks about him,\nor opposed his administrative acts, were now often seen in earnest\nconverse with him. His manner toward Jos\u00e8 and Rosendo became that of\nutter contempt. He often refused to notice the priest as they passed\nin the streets.\n\nJos\u00e8's apprehension waxed great. It attained its climax when Rosendo\ncame to him one day to discuss the Alcalde's conduct and the change of\nsentiment which seemed to be stealing rapidly over the hearts of the\npeople of Simit\u00ed.\n\n\"Padre,\" said the old man in perplexity, \"I cannot say what it is, but\nDon Mario has some scheme in hand, and--and I do not think it is for\nour good. I cannot get anything out of those with whom he talks so\ncontinually, but L\u00e1zaro tells me that--_Bien_, that he learns that Don\nMario suspects you of--of not belonging to the Church party.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 smiled. Don Mario's suspicions about him had been many and\nvaried, especially as La Libertad mine had not been discovered. He\nsaid as much to Rosendo in reply; and as he did so, he thought the old\nman's face took on a queer and unwonted expression.\n\n\"But, Padre,\" continued Rosendo at length, \"they say that Don Mario\nhas word from the Bishop that you once wrote a book against the Holy\nFather--\"\n\n\"Good God!\" The words burst from the priest's lips like the sudden\nissuance of pent steam. Rosendo stared at him in bewilderment.\n\n\"Rosendo!\" gasped Jos\u00e8. \"How know you that?\"\n\n\"_Caramba_, Padre! it is what L\u00e1zaro tells me,\" replied the old man,\nhis own suspicion verging upon conviction.\n\nJos\u00e8's dark face became almost white, and his breath sobbed out in\ngasps. A vague idea of the game Wenceslas was playing now stole\nthrough his throbbing brain. That book, his Nemesis, his pursuing\nFate, had tracked him to this secluded corner of the earth, and in the\nhands of the most unscrupulous politician of South America was being\nused as a tool. But, precisely to what end, his wild thought did not\nas yet disclose. Still, above the welter of it all, he saw clearly\nthat there must be no further delay on his part. Before he could\nspeak, however, Rosendo had resumed the conversation.\n\n\"Padre,\" he said, \"had it occurred to you that you were watched, day\nand night?\"\n\n\"No--heavens!\" Jos\u00e8 had not suspected such a thing.\n\n\"It is so, Padre. Don Mario's men keep you in sight during the day;\nand at night there is always some one hovering near your house. You\ncould not escape now even if you would.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 sank back in his chair limp and cold. His frenzied brain held but\none thought: he had delayed until too late--and the end was at hand!\n\n\"Padre,\" said Rosendo earnestly, \"tell me about that book. You did\nwrite it? And against the Holy Father? But--you still say the Mass.\nYou have not brought Carmen up in the Church. But it was I who told\nyou not to--that her heart was her church, and it must not be\ndisturbed. But--is it true, as the people say, that you really belong\nto the party that would destroy the Church?\"\n\nThen Jos\u00e8 collected himself. While his heart burned within his breast,\nhe opened its portals and revealed to Rosendo all that lay within.\nBeginning with his boyhood, he drew his career out before the\nwondering eyes of the old man down to the day when the culmination of\ncarnal ambition, false thought, perverted concepts of filial devotion\nand sacredness of oath, of family honor and pride of race, had washed\nhim up against the dreary shores of Simit\u00ed. With no thought of\nconcealment, he exposed his ambition in regard to Carmen--even the\nlove for her that he knew must die of inanition--and ended by throwing\nhimself without reserve upon Rosendo's judgment. When the tense\nrecital was ended, Rosendo leaned over and clasped the priest's\ntrembling hand.\n\n\"I understand, Padre,\" he said gently. \"I am dull of wit, I know. And\nyou have often laughed at my superstitions and old family beliefs,\nwhether religious or otherwise. They are strange--I admit that. And I\nshall die in the Church, and take my chances on the future, for I have\ntried to live a good life. But--with a man like you--I understand. And\nnow, Padre, we have no time to be sorrowful. We must be up and doing.\nWe are like fish in a net. But--my life is yours. And both are\nCarmen's, is it not so? Thanks be to the good Virgin,\" he muttered,\nas he walked slowly away, \"that L\u00e1zaro got those titles from Don Mario\nto-day!\"\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nNightfall brought an unexpected visitor in the person of Don Jorge,\nwho had returned from the remoter parts of the Guamoc\u00f3 region.\n\n\"_Bien_, and what news?\" he called cheerily, as he strode into the\nparish house, where Rosendo and Jos\u00e8 were in earnest conversation.\n\nJos\u00e8 embraced him as a brother, while a great sense of relief stole\nover him. Then he quickly made known to him the situation.\n\nDon Jorge whistled softly. He ceased his task of scraping the caked\nmud from his bare limbs, and drew up a chair near Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"So you wrote a book, no? And rapped the sacred priesthood? _Hombre_!\nThat is good! I never did think you a real priest. But, _amigo_, lend\nme a copy, for I doubt not it is most excellent reading, and will\nserve to while away many a weary hour in the jungle.\" His eyes snapped\nmerrily, and he slapped Jos\u00e8 roundly upon the back when he finished\nspeaking.\n\n\"But,\" he continued more seriously, \"things seem to be setting against\nyou, friend. However, let me but canvass the town to-morrow, and by\nevening I can advise. _Caramba_! this old hole a military depot! Who\nwould have thought it! And yet--and yet--I wonder why the Governor\nsends arms here. _Bien_, we shall see.\"\n\nDon Jorge needed not a full day to correctly estimate the situation in\nSimit\u00ed. His bluff, hearty manner and genial good-nature constituted a\npassport to every house, and by midday he had talked with nearly every\nman in the _pueblo_. He called Jos\u00e8 and Rosendo for consultation\nduring the _siesta_.\n\n\"_Bien_,\" he said, when they were seated in the parish house, \"Don\nMario without doubt descends from the very serpent that tempted our\nmother Eve! He has become a person of considerable importance since\nthe Governor and Don Wenceslas strive with each other to rest their\nauthority and confidence in him. And, unless I mistake much, they have\nhim slated for important work. However that may be, the man already\nhas a large following. Moreover, he has them well poisoned against\nyou, _amigo_ Jos\u00e8. They know more details about your book and your\nlife before coming to Simit\u00ed than do you. _Bien_, you must counteract\nthe Alcalde's influence by a public statement. It must be to-night--in\nthe church! You will have to act quickly, for the old fox has you\npicked for trouble! Diego's disappearance, you know; the girl, Carmen;\nyour rather foolish course here--it is all laid up against you,\nfriend, and you must meet it!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 assented. Don Jorge went out and summoned the town to a meeting\nin the church that evening. Immediately Don Mario issued a mandate\nforbidding a public gathering at a time of such stress. The people\nbegan to assemble on the street corners and in front of their houses\nto discuss the situation. Their talk became loud and animated. Threats\nwere heard. The people were becoming divided. Don Jorge was\neverywhere, and none could talk so volubly nor gesticulate and\nexpectorate so vehemently as he.\n\nAt sundown the people moved toward the _plaza_. Then the concourse\ndrifted slowly into the church. Don Jorge dragged Jos\u00e8 from the parish\nhouse and up to the altar. \"You have got to divide them, Padre!\" he\nwhispered excitedly. \"Your only hope now lies in the formation of your\nown party to oppose the Alcalde! Talk to them as you never talked\nbefore! Say all that you had stored up to say on Judgment Day!\"\n\nAgain, as Jos\u00e8 faced his little flock and saw them, bare of feet,\nscantily clad in their simple cotton and calico, their faces set in\ndeep seriousness, the ludicrous side of the whole situation flashed\nbefore him, and he almost laughed aloud at the spectacle which the\nancient, decayed town at that moment presented. These primitive\nfolk--they were but children, with all a child's simplicity of nature,\nits petulance, its immaturity of view, and its sudden and unreasoning\nacceptance of authority! He turned to the altar and took up a tall\nbrass crucifix. He held it out before him for a moment. Then he called\nupon the Christ to witness to the truth of what he was about to say.\n\nA hush fell over the assembly. Even Don Mario seemed to become calm\nafter that dramatic spectacle. Then Jos\u00e8 spoke. He talked long and\nearnestly. He knew not that such eloquence abode within him. His\ndeclamation became more and more impassioned. He opened wide his heart\nand called upon all present to look fearlessly within. Yes, he had\nwritten the book in question. But its publication was unfortunate.\nYes, it had expressed his views at that time. But now--ah, now!\n\nHe stopped and looked about the church. The shadows were gathering\nthick, and the smoking kerosene lamps battled vainly with the heavy\nblackness. In a far corner of the room he saw Carmen and Ana. Rosendo\nsat stolidly beside them. The sightless babe waved its tiny hands in\nmute helplessness, while Do\u00f1a Maria held it closely to her bosom.\nCarmen's last admonition sang in his ears. He must know--really\n_know_--that the babe could see! He must know that God was omnipotent!\nHis appeal to the people was not for himself. He cared not what\nbecame of him. But Carmen--and now Ana and the blind babe--and the\ncalm, unimpassioned Do\u00f1a Maria, the embodiment of all that was\ngreatest in feminine character--and Rosendo, waiting to lay down his\nlife for those he loved! And then, this people, soon, he felt, to be\nshattered by the shock of war--ah, God above! what could he say that\nmight save them? If they could know, as Carmen did, if they could love\nand trust as she did, would the hideous spectre of war ever stalk\namong them? Could the world know, and love, and trust as did this fair\nchild, would it waste itself in useless wars, sink with famine and\npestilence, consume with the anguish of fear, and in the end bury its\nblasted hopes in the dank, reeking tomb? The thought gave wings to his\nvoice, soul to his words. For hours the people sat spellbound.\n\nThen he finished. He raised his hands in benediction. And, while the\nholy hush remained upon the people, he descended the altar steps, his\nframe still tremulous with the vehemence of his appeal, and went alone\nto his house.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 32\n\n\nDawn had scarcely reddened in the east when a number of men assembled\nat Jos\u00e8's door.\n\n\"You have turned the trick, _amigo_,\" said Don Jorge, rousing up from\nhis _petate_ on the floor beside the priest's bed. \"You have won over\na few of them, at least.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 went out to meet the early callers.\n\n\"We come to say, Padre,\" announced Andres Arellano, the dignified\nspokesman, \"that we have confidence in your words of last night. We\nsuspect Don Mario, even though he has letters from the Bishop. We are\nyour men, and we would keep the war away from Simit\u00ed.\"\n\nThere were five of them, strong of heart and brawny of arm. \"And there\nwill be more, Padre,\" added Andres, reading the priest's question in\nhis appraising glance.\n\nThus was the town divided; and while many clung to the Alcalde, partly\nthrough fear of offending the higher ecclesiastical authority, and\npartly because of imagined benefits to be gained, others, and a goodly\nnumber, assembled at Jos\u00e8's side, and looked to him to lead them in\nthe crisis which all felt to be at hand. As the days passed, the\npriest's following grew more numerous, until, after the lapse of a\nweek, the town stood fairly divided. Don Jorge announced his intention\nof remaining in Simit\u00ed for the present.\n\nFrom the night of the meeting in the church excitement ran continuously\nhigher. Business was at length suspended; the fishermen forgot their\nnets; and the limber tongues of the town gossips steadily increased\ntheir clatter. Don Mario's store and _patio_ assumed the functions of\na departmental office. Daily he might be seen laboriously drafting\nletters of incredible length and wearisome prolixity to acting-Bishop\nWenceslas; and nightly he was engaged in long colloquies and whispered\nconferences with Don Luis and others of his followers and hangers-on.\nThe government arms had been brought up from Bodega Central and stored\nin an empty warehouse belonging to Don Felipe Alcozer to await further\ndisposition.\n\nBut with the arrival of the arms, and of certain letters which Don\nMario received from Cartagena, the old town lost its calm of\ncenturies, not to recover it again for many a dreary day. By the time\nits peace was finally restored, it had received a blow from which it\nnever recovered. And many a familiar face, too, had disappeared\nforever from its narrow streets.\n\nMeanwhile, Jos\u00e8 and his followers anxiously awaited the turn of\nevents. It came at length, and in a manner not wholly unexpected. The\nAlcalde in his voluminous correspondence with Wenceslas had not\nfailed to bring against Jos\u00e8 every charge which his unduly stimulated\nbrain could imagine. But in particular did he dwell upon the\npriest's malign influence upon Carmen, whose physical beauty and\npowers of mind were the marvel of Simit\u00ed. He hammered upon this\nwith an insistence that could not but at length again attract the\nthought of the acting-Bishop, who wrote finally to Don Mario,\nexpressing the mildly couched opinion that, now that his attention\nhad been called again to the matter, Carmen should have the benefits\nof the education and liberal training which a convent would afford.\n\nDon Mario's egotism soared to the sky. The great Bishop was actually\nbeing advised by him! _Hombre_! Where would it not end! He would yet\nremove to a larger town, perhaps Mompox, and, with the support of the\ngreat ecclesiastic, stand for election to Congress! He would show the\nBishop what mettle he had in him. _Hombre_! And first he would show\nHis Grace how a loyal servant could anticipate his master's wishes. He\nsummoned Fernando, and imperiously bade him bring the girl Carmen at\nonce.\n\nBut Fernando returned, saying that Rosendo refused to give up the\nchild. Don Mario then ordered Rosendo's arrest. But Fernando found it\nimpossible to execute the commission. Jos\u00e8 and Don Jorge stood with\nRosendo, and threatened to deal harshly with the constable should he\nattempt to take Carmen by force. Fernando then sought to impress upon\nthe Alcalde the danger of arousing public opinion again over the\ngirl.\n\nDon Mario's wrath burst forth like an exploding bomb. He seized his\nstraw hat and his cane, the emblem of his office, and strode to the\nhouse of Rosendo. His face grew more deeply purple as he went. At the\ndoor of the house he encountered Jos\u00e8 and Don Jorge.\n\n\"Don Mario,\" began Jos\u00e8, before the Alcalde could get his words\nshaped, \"it is useless. Carmen remains with us. We will defend her\nwith our lives. Be advised, Don Mario, for the consequences of\nthoughtless action may be incalculable!\"\n\n\"_Caramba_!\" bellowed the irate official, \"but, cow-face! do you know\nthat His Grace supports me? That I but execute his orders? _Dios\narriba_! if you do not at once deliver to me your paramour--\"\n\nHe got no further. Rosendo, who had been standing just within the\ndoor, suddenly pushed Jos\u00e8 and Don Jorge aside and, stalking out, a\ntower of flesh, confronted the raging Alcalde. For a moment he gazed\ndown into the pig-eyes of the man. Then, with a quick thrust of his\nthick arm, he projected his huge fist squarely into Don Mario's\nbloated face. The Alcalde went down like a shot.\n\nNeither Jos\u00e8 nor Don Jorge, as they rushed in between Rosendo and his\nfallen adversary, had any adequate idea of the consequences of the old\nman's precipitate action. As they assisted the prostrate official to\nhis unsteady feet they knew not that to Rosendo, simple, peace-loving,\nand great of heart, had fallen the lot to inaugurate hostilities in\nthe terrible anticlerical war which now for four dismal years was to\ntear Colombia from end to end, and leave her prostrate and exhausted\nat last, her sons decimated, her farms and industries ruined, and her\nneck beneath the heavy heel of a military despot at Bogot\u00e1, whose\npliant hand would still be guided by the astute brain of Rome.\n\nBy the time the startled Alcalde had been set again upon his feet a\nconsiderable concourse had gathered at the scene. Many stood in\nwide-eyed horror at what had just occurred. Others broke into loud and\nwild talk. The crowd rapidly grew, and in a few minutes the _plaza_\nwas full. Supporters of both sides declaimed and gesticulated\nvehemently. In the heat of the arguments a blow was struck. Then\nanother. The Alcalde, when he found his tongue, shrilly demanded the\narrest of Rosendo and his family, including the priest and Don Jorge.\nA dozen of his party rushed forward to execute the order. Rosendo had\nslipped between Jos\u00e8 and Don Jorge and into his house. In a trice he\nemerged with a great _machete_. The people about him fell back. His\neyes blazed like live coals, and his breath seemed to issue from his\ndilating nostrils like clouds of steam. To approach him meant instant\ndeath. Don Jorge crept behind him and, gaining the house, collected\nthe terrified women and held them in readiness for flight. Juan,\nL\u00e1zaro, and a number of others surrounded Jos\u00e8 and faced the angry\nmultitude.\n\nThe strain was broken by the frenzied Alcalde, who rushed toward\nRosendo. The old man swung his enormous _machete_ with a swirl that,\nhad it met the official, would have clean decapitated him. But,\nfortunately, one of the priest's supporters threw out his foot, and\nthe corpulent Alcalde fell heavily over it and bit the dust. Jos\u00e8\nthrew himself upon Rosendo. The old man staggered with the shock and\ngave way. The priest turned to the excited crowd. Holding up both\nhands high above his head, he sent out his voice clear and loud.\n\n\"Children! In the name of the Church! In the name of the Christ! The\nblessed Virgin--\"\n\n\"What know you of the blessed Virgin, priest of Satan?\" shouted a\nrough follower of the Alcalde.\n\n\"Aye!\" yelled another. \"Writer of foul books! Seducer of young\ngirls!\"\n\nJulio Gomez stooped and took up a large piece of shale. He threw it\nwith all his force, just as the priest again strove to make his voice\nheard above the din. It struck Jos\u00e8 full on the forehead. The jagged\nstone cut deeply, and the red blood spurted. Jos\u00e8 fell into the arms\nof L\u00e1zaro and was dragged into the house.\n\nThen Rosendo, with a mad yell, plunged wildly into the crowd. A dozen\narms sought to hold him, but in vain. Julio saw the terrifying\napparition hurtling down upon him. He turned and fled, but not before\nthe great knife had caught him on its point as it swung down and\nripped a deep gash the full length of his naked back.\n\nThen the last vestige of reason fled from the mob, and chaos took the\nreins. Back and forth through the _plaza_, in front of the church\nwhere hung the image of the Prince of Peace, the maddened people\nsurged, fighting like demons, raining blows with clubs, fists, and\n_machetes_, stabbing with their long, wicked knives, hurling sharp\nstones, gouging, ripping, yelling, shrieking, calling upon Saints and\nVirgin to curse their enemies and bless their blows. Over the heads of\nthem all towered the mighty frame of Rosendo. Back before his\nmurderous _machete_ fell the terrified combatants. His course among\nthem was that of a cannon ball. Dozens hung upon his arms, his\nshoulders, or flung themselves about his great legs. His huge body,\nslippery and reeking, was galvanized into energy incarnate. Sparks\nseemed to flash from his eyes. His breath turned to livid flame.\nBehind him, following in the swath which he cut, his supporters\ncrowded, fought and yelled. Don Mario's forces gave way. They cursed,\nbroke, and fled. Then Don Jorge, a man whose mortal strength was more\nthan common, threw himself upon the steaming, frenzied Rosendo and\nstopped his mad progress.\n\n\"Rosendo--_amigo! Caramba!_ Listen! They are fleeing to the _bodega_\nto get the rifles and ammunition! Come--_Dios arriba_! Come!\"\n\nCut, bruised, and dripping blood from a dozen wounds, Rosendo stood\nfor a moment blinking in confusion. A score lay on the ground about\nhim. Whether dead or wounded, he knew not, nor cared. The sight of Don\nMario's supporters in full flight fascinated him. He broke into a\nchuckle. It sounded like the gloating of an imp of Satan. Then the\nforce of Don Jorge's words smote him.\n\n\"_Caramba_! They will return with the rifles!\" he panted. \"What shall\nwe do?\"\n\n\"Come! We must lose no time!\" cried Don Jorge, pulling him toward the\nhouse. Those of the priest's other followers who were still whole\nscattered wildly to their homes and barred their doors. There they\nsearched for knives, _machetes_, razors, any tool or instrument that\nmight be pressed into service as a weapon, and stood guard. One\nfrenzied fellow, the sole possessor of an antiquated shotgun,\nprojected the rusty arm from a hole in the wall of his mud hut and\nblazed away down the deserted street indiscriminately and without\naim.\n\nWithin the house Juan and L\u00e1zaro were supporting the dazed Jos\u00e8, while\nDo\u00f1a Maria bathed and bound his wound. Carmen stood gazing upon the\nscene in bewilderment. The precipitousness of the affair had taken her\nbreath away and driven all thought in mad rout from her mind.\n\n\"_Amigos_!\" panted Don Jorge, \"the church--it is the only place now\nthat is even fairly safe! Do\u00f1a Maria, do you collect all the food in\nthe house! We know not how long we may be prisoners--\"\n\n\"But--Don Jorge,\" interrupted Jos\u00e8 feebly, \"they will attack us even\nthere! Let us flee--\"\n\n\"Where, _amigo_? To the Guamoc\u00f3 trail? Caramba! they would shoot us\ndown in cold blood! _Hombre_! There is no place but the church! That\nwill hold some of them back, at any rate! And none of them, if they\nget crazed with _anisado_! But it is the only place now! Come!\"\n\n\"_Hombre_!\" cried Rosendo, starting for the door, \"but do you, Juan\nand L\u00e1zaro, follow me with your _machetes_, and we will drive the\ncowards from the _bodega_ and get the rifles ourselves!\"\n\n\"No, _amigo_! Impossible! By this time they have broken open the boxes\nand loaded the guns. A shot--and it would be all over with you! But in\nthe church--you have a chance there!\"\n\nDon Jorge seized his arm and dragged him out of the house and across\nthe deserted _plaza_. Juan and L\u00e1zaro helped Do\u00f1a Maria gather what\nfood and water remained in the house; and together they hurried out\nand over to the church. Swinging open the heavy wooden doors, they\nentered and made them fast again. Then they sank upon the benches and\nstrove to realize their situation.\n\nBut Don Jorge suddenly sprang to his feet. \"The windows!\" he cried.\n\nJuan and L\u00e1zaro hurried to them and swung the wooden shutters.\n\n\"There is no way of holding them!\" cried Juan in dismay.\n\n\"_Caramba_!\" muttered Rosendo, seizing a bench and with one blow of\nhis _machete_ splitting it clean through, \"these will make props to\nhold them!\"\n\nIt was the work of but a few minutes to place benches across the thick\nshutters and secure them with others placed diagonally against them\nand let into the hard dirt floor. The same was done with the doors.\nThen the little group huddled together and waited. Jos\u00e8 heard a sob\nbeside him, and a hand clutched his in the gloom. It was Carmen. In\nthe excitement of the hour he had all but forgotten her. Through his\npresent confusion of thought a great fact loomed: as the girl clung to\nhim she was weeping!\n\nA low rumble drifted to them; a confusion of voices, growing louder;\nand then a sharp report.\n\n\"They are coming, Padre,\" muttered Rosendo. \"And some one has tried\nhis rifle!\"\n\nA moment later the ruck poured into the _plaza_ and made for Rosendo's\nhouse. Don Mario, holding his cane aloft like a sword, was at their\nhead. Raging with disappointment at not finding the fugitives in the\nhouse, they threw the furniture and kitchen utensils madly about,\npunched great holes through the walls, and then rushed pellmell to the\nparish house next door. A groan escaped Jos\u00e8 as he watched them\nthrough a chink in the shutters. His books and papers! His notes and\nwritings!\n\nBut as the howling mob streamed toward the parish house a wrinkled\nold crone shrilled at them from across the way and pointed toward the\nchurch.\n\n\"In there, _amigos_!\" she screamed. \"I saw them enter! Shoot\nthem--they have hurt my Pedro!\"\n\nBack like a huge wave the crowd flowed, and up against the church\ndoors. Don Mario, at the head of his valiant followers, held up his\nhand for silence. Then, planting himself before the main doors of the\nchurch, he loudly voiced his authority.\n\n\"In the name of the Government at Bogot\u00e1!\" he cried pompously, tapping\nthe doors with his light cane. Then he turned quickly. \"Fernando,\" he\ncalled, \"run to my house and fetch the drum!\"\n\nDespite the seriousness of their situation, Jos\u00e8 smiled at the\npuppet-show being enacted without.\n\nThe Alcalde reiterated his demands with truculent vanity. \"Open! In\nthe name of the Government! I am the law!\"\n\nDon Jorge groaned aloud. \"_Caramba!_ if I but had him in here alone!\"\n\nDon Mario waited a few moments. Then, as no response came from within,\nhis anger began to soar. \"_Caramba!_\" he cried, \"but you defy the\nlaw?\"\n\nAngry mutterings rose from the crowd. Some one suggested burning the\nbuilding. Another advised battering in the doors. A third intimated\nthat shooting them full of holes were better. This idea, once voiced,\nspread like an infection. The childish people were eager to try the\nrifles.\n\n\"Shoot the doors down! Shoot them down, Don Mario!\" yelled the mob.\n\nThe Alcalde threw himself heavily up against the doors. \"_Caramba!_\"\nhe shrilled. \"Fools! Demons! Open!--or it will be the worse for you!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 decided that their silence should no longer exasperate the angry\nman. He put his mouth to the crevice between the doors.\n\n\"Don Mario,\" he cried, \"this is sacred ground! The Host is exposed on\nthe altar. Take your mob away. Disperse, and we will come out. We may\nsettle this trouble amicably, if you will but listen to reason.\"\n\nThe Alcalde jumped up and down in his towering wrath. \"Puppy-face!\" he\nscreamed, \"but I am the law--I am the Government! A curse upon you,\npriest of Satan! Will you unbar these doors?\"\n\n\"No!\" replied Jos\u00e8. \"And if you attack us you attack the Church!\"\n\n\"A curse on the Church! _Amigos!_ _Muchachos!_\" he bawled, turning to\nthe mob, \"we will batter down the doors!\"\n\nThe crowd surged forward again. But the props held firm. Again and\nagain the mob hurled itself upon the thick doors. They bent, they\nsagged, but they held. Don Mario became apoplectic. A torrent of\nanathemas streamed from his thick lips.\n\n\"The side door!\" some one shouted, recovering a portion of his scant\nwit.\n\n\"Aye--and the door of the _sacrist\u00eda_!\"\n\n\"Try the windows!\"\n\nRound the building streamed the crazed mob, without head, without\nreason, lusting only for the lives of the frightened little band\nhuddled together in the gloom within. Jos\u00e8 kept an arm about Carmen.\nAna bent sobbing over her tiny babe. Don Jorge and Rosendo remained\nmute and grim. Jos\u00e8 knew that those two would cast a long reckoning\nbefore they died. Juan and L\u00e1zaro went from door to window, steadying\nthe props and making sure that they were holding. The tough, hard,\ntropical wood, though pierced in places by _comjejen_ ants, was\nresisting.\n\nThe sun was already high, and the _plaza_ had become a furnace. The\npatience of the mob quickly evaporated in the ardent heat. Don Mario's\nwits had gone completely. Revenge, mingled with insensate zeal to\nmanifest the authority which he believed his intercourse with\nWenceslas had greatly augmented, had driven all rationality from his\nmotives. Flaming anger had unseated his reason. Descending from the\nplatform on which stood the church, he blindly drew up his armed\nfollowers and bade them fire upon the church doors.\n\nIf Wenceslas, acting-Bishop by the grace of political machination,\ncould have witnessed the stirring drama then in progress in ancient\nSimit\u00ed, he would have laughed aloud at the complete fulfillment of his\ncarefully wrought plans. The cunning of the shrewd, experienced\npolitician had never been more clearly manifested than in the carrying\nout of the little program which he had set for the unwise Alcalde of\nthis almost unknown little town, whereby the hand of Congress should\nbe forced and the inevitable revolt inaugurated. Don Mario had seized\nthe government arms, the deposition of which in Simit\u00ed in his care had\nconstituted him more than ever the representative of federal\nauthority. But, in his wild zeal, he had fallen into the trap which\nWenceslas had carefully arranged for him, and now was engaged in a mad\nattack upon the Church itself, upon ecclesiastical authority as vested\nin the priest Jos\u00e8. How could Wenceslas interpret this but as an\nanticlerical uprising? There remained but the final scene. And while\nthe soft-headed dupes and maniacal supporters of Don Mario were\nhurling bullets into the thick doors of the old church in Simit\u00ed,\nWenceslas sat musing in his comfortable study in the cathedral of\nCartagena, waiting with what patience he could command for further\nreports from Don Mario, whose last letter had informed him that the\narrest of the priest Jos\u00e8 and his unfortunate victim, Carmen, was only\na few hours off.\n\nWhen the first shots rang out, and the bullets ploughed into the hard\nwood of the heavy doors, Jos\u00e8's heart sank, and he gave himself up as\nlost. L\u00e1zaro and Juan cowered upon the floor. Carmen crept close to\nJos\u00e8, as he sat limply upon a bench, and put her arms about him.\n\n\"Padre dear,\" she whispered, \"it isn't true--it isn't true! They don't\nreally want to kill us! They don't--really! Their thoughts have only\nthe minus sign!\"\n\nThe priest clasped her to his breast. The recriminating thought\nflashed over him that he alone was the cause of this. He had\nsacrificed them all--none but he was to blame. Ah, God above! if he\ncould only offer himself to satiate the mob's lust, and save these\ninnocent ones! Lurid, condemnatory thoughts burned through his brain\nlike molten iron. He rose hastily and rushed to the door. Rosendo and\nDon Jorge seized him as he was about to lift a prop.\n\n\"What do you mean, Padre?\" they exclaimed.\n\n\"I am going out, friends--I shall give myself to them for you all. It\nis the only way. I am the one they seek. Let them have me, if they\nwill spare you!\"\n\nBut the firing had ceased, and Don Mario was approaching the door.\nJos\u00e8 bent down and called to him. \"Myself for the others, Don Mario!\"\nhe cried. \"But promise to spare them--but give me your word--and I\nwill yield myself to arrest!\"\n\n\"_Caramba_, fool priest!\" shouted the Alcalde in derision. \"It is not\nyou that the good Bishop wants, but the girl! I have his letters\ndemanding that I send her to him! If you will come out, you shall not\nbe hurt. Only, Rosendo must stand trial for the harm he did in the\nfight this morning; and the girl must go to Cartagena. As for the rest\nof you, you will be free. Are the terms not reasonable? Give me your\nanswer in five minutes.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 turned to the little band. There was awful determination in his\nvoice. \"Juan and L\u00e1zaro,\" he said, \"we will open a window quickly in\nthe rear of the church and let you out. It is not right that you\nshould die with us. And Don Jorge, too--\"\n\n\"Stop there, _amigo!_\" interrupted the latter in a voice as cold as\nsteel. \"My life has not the value of a white heron. Can I do better\nthan give it for a cause that I know to be right? Nay, man, I remain\nwith you. Let the lads go, if they will--\"\n\nL\u00e1zaro forced himself between Don Jorge and the priest. \"Padre,\" he\nsaid quietly, \"to you I owe what I am. I remain here.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 looked through the gloom at Juan. The boy's eyes were fixed on\nCarmen. He turned and gazed for a moment at a window, as if hesitating\nbetween two decisions. Then he shook his head slowly. \"Padre,\" he\nsaid, though his voice trembled, \"I, too, remain.\"\n\nThe Alcalde received his answer with a burst of inarticulate rage. He\nrushed back to his followers with his arms waving wildly. \"Shoot!\" he\nscreamed. \"Shoot! Pierce the doors! Batter them down! _Compadres_, get\nthe poles and burst in the shutters. _Caramba!_ it is the Government\nthey are defying!\"\n\nA volley from the rifles followed his words. The thick doors shook\nunder the blast. A bullet pierced the wall and whizzed past Carmen.\nJos\u00e8 seized the girl and drew her down under a bench. The startled\nbats among the roof beams fluttered wildly about through the heavy\ngloom. Frightened rats scurried around the altar. The rusty bell in\nthe tower cried out as if in protest against the sacrilege. Juan burst\ninto tears and crept beneath a bench.\n\n\"Padre,\" said Rosendo, \"it is only a question of time when the doors\nwill fall. See--that bullet went clean through! _Bien_, let us place\nthe women back of the altar, while we men stand here at one side of\nthe doors, so that when they fall we may dash out and cut our way\nthrough the crowd. If we throw ourselves suddenly upon them, we may\nsnatch away a rifle or two. Then Don Jorge and I, with the lads here,\nmay drive them back--perhaps beat them! But my first blow shall be for\nDon Mario! I vow here that, if I escape this place, he shall not live\nanother hour!\"\n\n\"Better so, Rosendo, than that they should take us alive. But--Carmen?\nDo we leave her to fall into Don Mario's hands?\"\n\nRosendo's voice, low and cold, froze the marrow in the priest's bones.\n\"Padre, she will not fall into the Alcalde's hands.\"\n\n\"God above! Rosendo, do you--\"\n\nA piercing cry checked him. \"_Santa Virgen! Padre--!_\" L\u00e1zaro had\ncollapsed upon the floor. Rosendo and Jos\u00e8 hurried to him.\n\n\"Padre!\" The man's breath came in gasps. \"Padre--I confess--pray for\nme. It struck me--here!\" He struggled to lay a hand upon his bleeding\nbreast.\n\n\"To the altar, _amigos_!\" cried Don Jorge, ducking his head as a\nbullet sang close to it.\n\nSeizing the expiring L\u00e1zaro, they hurriedly dragged him down the aisle\nand took refuge back of the brick altar. The bullets, now piercing the\nwalls of the church with ease, whizzed about them. One struck the\npendant figure of the Christ, and it fell crashing to the floor.\nRosendo stood in horror, as if he expected a miracle to follow this\nact of sacrilege.\n\n\"Oh, God!\" prayed Jos\u00e8, \"only Thy hand can save us!\"\n\n\"He will save us, Padre--He will!\" cried Carmen, creeping closer to\nhim through the darkness. \"God is everywhere, and right here!\"\n\n\"Padre,\" said Don Jorge hurriedly, \"the Host--is it on the altar?\"\n\n\"Yes--why?\" replied the priest.\n\n\"Then, when the doors fall, do you stand in front of the altar,\nholding it aloft and calling on the people to stand back, lest the\nhand of God strike them!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 hesitated not. \"It is a chance--yes, a bare chance. They will\nstop before it--or they will kill me! But I will do it!\"\n\n\"Padre! You shall not--Padre! Then I shall stand with you!\" Carmen's\nvoice broke clear and piercing through the din. Jos\u00e8 struggled to free\nhimself from her.\n\n\"_Na_, Padre,\" interposed Rosendo, \"it may be better so! Let her stand\nwith you! But--_Caramba_! Make haste!\"\n\nThe clamor without increased. Heavy poles and billets of wood had been\nfetched, and blow after blow now fell upon every shutter and door. The\nsharp spitting of the rifles tore the air, and bullets crashed through\nthe walls and windows. In the heavy shadows back of the altar Rosendo\nand Don Jorge crouched over the sobbing women. L\u00e1zaro lay very still.\nJos\u00e8 knew as he stretched out a hand through the darkness and touched\nthe cold face that the faithful spirit had fled. How soon his own\nwould follow he knew not, nor cared. Keeping close to the floor, he\ncrept out and around to the front of the altar. Reaching up, he\ngrasped the Sacred Host, and then stood upright, holding it out before\nhim. Carmen rose by his side and took his hand. Together in the gloom\nthey waited.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 33\n\n\n\"Padre! Padre! are you alive?\"\n\nRosendo's hoarse whisper drifted across the silence like a wraith. He\ncrept out and along the floor, scarce daring to look up. Through the\ndarkness his straining eyes caught the outlines of the two figures\nstanding like statues before the altar.\n\n\"_Loado sea Dios!_\" he cried, and his voice broke with a sob. \"But,\nPadre, they have stopped--what has happened?\"\n\n\"I know not, _amigo_. Be patient. We are in the hands of God--\"\n\n\"Padre--listen!\" Carmen darted from the altar and ran to the door.\n\"Padre!\" she called back. \"Come! Some one is speaking English!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 and Rosendo hurried to the door. All was quiet without, but for\nan animated conversation between Don Mario and some strangers who had\nevidently just arrived upon the scene. One of the latter was speaking\nwith the Alcalde in excellent Spanish. Another, evidently unacquainted\nwith the language, made frequent interruptions in the English tongue.\nJos\u00e8's heart beat wildly.\n\n\"Say, Reed,\" said the voice in English, \"tell the parchment-faced old\nbuzzard that we appreciate the little comedy he has staged for us.\nTell him it is bully-bueno, but he must not overdo it. We are plum\ndone up, and want a few days of rest.\"\n\n\"What says the se\u00f1or, _amigo_?\" asked Don Mario, with his utmost\nsuavity and unction of manner.\n\n\"He says,\" returned the other in Spanish, \"that he is delighted with\nthe firmness which you display in the administration of your office,\nand that he trusts the bandits within the church may be speedily\nexecuted.\"\n\n\"Bandits!\" ejaculated Don Mario. \"Just so, _amigo_! They are those who\ndefy the Government as represented by myself!\" He straightened up and\nthrew out his chest with such an exhibition of importance that the\nstrangers with difficulty kept their faces straight.\n\nCarmen and Jos\u00e8 looked at each other in amazement during this\ncolloquy.\n\n\"Padre!\" exclaimed the girl. \"Do all who speak English tell such\nlies?\"\n\n\"Ah!\" murmured the one addressed as Reed, directing himself to the\nAlcalde, \"how dared they! But, se\u00f1or, my friend and I have come to\nyour beautiful city on business of the utmost importance, in which\nyou doubtless will share largely. I would suggest,\" looking with\namusement at the array of armed men about him, \"that your prisoners\nare in no immediate likelihood of escaping, and you might leave them\nunder close guard while we discuss our business. A--a--we hear\nreports, se\u00f1or, that there is likely to be trouble in the country, and\nwe are desirous of getting out as soon as possible.\"\n\n\"_Cierto! Cierto, se\u00f1ores!_\" exclaimed Don Mario, bowing low. \"It\nshall be as you say.\" Turning to the gaping people, he selected\nseveral to do guard duty, dismissed the others, and then bade the\nstrangers follow him to his house, which, he declared vehemently, was\ntheirs as long as they might honor him with their distinguished\npresence.\n\nThe sudden turn of events left the little group within the church in a\nmaze of bewilderment. They drew together in the center of the room and\ntalked in low whispers until the sun dropped behind the hills and\nnight drifted through the quiet streets. Late that evening came a\ntapping at the rear door of the church, and a voice called softly to\nthe priest. Jos\u00e8 roused out of his gloomy revery and hastened to\nanswer it.\n\n\"It is Fernando, Padre. I am on guard; but no one must know that I\ntalk with you. But--Padre, if you open the door and escape, I will not\nsee you. I am sorry, Padre, but it could not be helped. Don Mario has\nus all frightened, for the Bishop--\"\n\n\"True, _amigo_,\" returned Jos\u00e8; \"but the strangers who arrived this\nafternoon--who are they, and whence?\"\n\n\"Two _Americanos_, Padre, and miners.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 studied a moment. \"Fernando--you would aid me? _Bien_, get word\nto the stranger who speaks both English and Spanish. Bring him here,\nsecretly, and stand guard yourself while I talk with him.\"\n\n\"Gladly, Padre,\" returned the penitent fellow, as he hastened quietly\naway.\n\nAn hour later Jos\u00e8 was again roused by Fernando tapping on the door.\n\n\"Open, Padre. Fear not; only the _Americano_ will enter. Don Mario\ndoes not know.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 lifted the prop and swung the door open. Rosendo stood with\nuplifted _machete_. A man entered from the blackness without. Jos\u00e8\nquickly closed the door, and then addressed him in English.\n\n\"Great Scott!\" exclaimed the stranger in a mellow voice. \"I had no\nidea I should find any one in this God-forsaken town who could speak\nreal United States!\"\n\nJos\u00e8 drew him into the _sacrist\u00eda_. Neither man could see the other in\nthe dense blackness.\n\n\"Tell me, friend,\" began Jos\u00e8, \"who you are, and where you come\nfrom.\"\n\n\"Reed--Charles Reed--New York--mining engineer--down here to examine\nthe so-called mines of the Molino Company, now gasping its last while\nawaiting our report. Arrived this afternoon from Badillo with my\npartner, fellow named Harris. But--great heavens, man! you certainly\nwere in a stew when we appeared! And why don't you escape now?\"\n\n\"Escape, friend? Where? Even if we passed the guard, where would we\ngo? There are two women, a girl, and a babe with us. We have little\nfood and no money. Should we gain the Boque or Guamoc\u00f3 trail, we would\nbe pursued and shot down. There is a chance here--none in flight!\n\n\"But now, Mr. Reed,\" continued Jos\u00e8 earnestly, \"will you get word from\nme to the Bishop in Cartagena that our church has been attacked--that\nits priest is besieged by the Alcalde, and his life in jeopardy?\"\n\n\"Assuredly--but how?\"\n\n\"You have money?\" said Jos\u00e8, speaking rapidly. \"Good. Your _bogas_\nhave not returned to Badillo?\"\n\n\"No, they are staying here for the big show. Execution of the\ntraitors, you know.\"\n\n\"Then, friend, send them at dawn to Bodega Central. Let them take a\nmessage to be sent by the telegraph from that place. Tell the\nBishop--\"\n\n\"Sure!\" interrupted the other. \"Leave it to me. I'll fix up a message\nthat will bring him by return boat! I've been talking with the\nHonorable Alcalde and I've got his exact number. Say, he certainly is\nthe biggest damn--beg pardon; I mean, the biggest numbskull I have\never run across--and that's saying considerable for a mining man!\"\n\n\"Go, friend!\" said Jos\u00e8, making no other reply to the man's words. \"Go\nquickly--and use what influence you have with the Alcalde to save us.\nWe have women here--and a young girl!\" He found the American's hand\nand led him out into the night.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nWenceslas Ortiz stood before the Departmental Governor. His face was\ndeeply serious, and his demeanor expressed the utmost gravity. In his\nhand he held a despatch. The Governor sat at his desk, nervously\nfumbling a pen.\n\n\"_Bien, Se\u00f1or_,\" said Wenceslas quietly, \"do you act--or shall I take\nit to His Excellency, the President?\"\n\nThe Governor moved uneasily in his chair. \"_Caramba!_\" he blurted out.\n\"The report is too meager! And yet, I cannot see but that the Alcalde\nacted wholly within his rights!\"\n\n\"Your Excellency, he seizes government arms--he attacks the church--he\nattempts to destroy the life of its priest. Nominally acting for the\nGovernment; at heart, anticlerical. Is it not evident? Will the\nGovernment clear itself now of the suspicion which this has aroused?\"\n\n\"But the priest--did you not say only last week that he himself had\npublished a book violently anticlerical in tone?\"\n\n\"Se\u00f1or, we will not discuss the matter further,\" said Wenceslas,\nmoving toward the door. \"Your final decision--you will send troops to\nSimit\u00ed, or no?\"\n\n\"Certainly not! The evidence warrants no interference from me!\"\n\nWenceslas courteously bowed himself out. Once beyond the door, he\nbreathed a great sigh of relief. \"_Santa Virgen!_\" he muttered, \"but I\ntook a chance! Had he yielded and sent troops, all would have been\nspoiled. Now for Bogot\u00e1!\"\n\nHe entered his carriage and was driven hurriedly to his _sanctum_.\nThere he despatched a long message to the President of the Republic.\nAt noon he had a reply. He mused over it for the space of an hour.\nThen he framed another despatch. \"Your Excellency,\" it read, \"the\nChurch supports the Administration.\"\n\nLate that evening a second message from Bogot\u00e1 was put into his hand.\nHe tore it open and read, \"The Hercules ordered to Simit\u00ed.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" he sighed, sinking into his chair. \"At last! The President\ninterferes! And now a wire to Ames. And--_Caramba_, yes! A message to\nthe captain of the Hercules to bring me that girl!\"\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Well, old man, I've done all I could to stave off the blundering\nidiot; but I guess you are in for it! The jig is up, I'm thinking!\"\n\nIt was Reed talking. Simit\u00ed again slept, while the American and Jos\u00e8\nin the _sacrist\u00eda_ talked long and earnestly. Fernando kept guard at\nthe door. The other prisoners lay wrapped in slumber.\n\n\"Your message went down the river two days ago,\" continued Reed. \"And,\nbelieve me! since then I've racked my dusty brain for topics to keep\nthe Alcalde occupied and forgetful of you. But I'm dryer than a desert\nnow; and he vows that to-morrow you and your friends will be dragged\nout of this old shack by your necks, and then shot.\"\n\nThe two days had been filled with exquisite torture for Jos\u00e8. Only the\npresence of Carmen restrained him from rushing out and ending it all.\nHer faith had been his constant marvel. Every hour, every moment, she\nknew only the immanence of her God; whereas he, obedient to the\nundulating Rinc\u00f3n character-curve, expressed the mutability of his\nfaith in hourly alternations of optimism and black despair. After\nperiods of exalted hope, stimulated by the girl's sublime confidence,\nthere would come the inevitable backward rush of all the chilling\nfear, despondency, and false thought which he had just expelled in\nvain, and he would be left again floundering helplessly in the dismal\nlabyrinth of terrifying doubts.\n\nThe quiet which enwrapped them during these days of imprisonment; the\ngloom-shrouded church; the awed hush that lay upon them in the\npresence of the dead L\u00e1zaro, stimulated the feeble and sensitive\nspirit of the priest to an unwonted degree of introspection, and he\nsat for hours gazing blankly into the ghastly emptiness of his past.\n\nHe saw how at the first, when Carmen entered his life with the\nstimulus of her buoyant faith, there had seemed to follow an emptying\nof self, a quick clearing of his mentality, and a replacement of much\nof the morbid thought, which clung limpet-like to his mentality, by\nnew and wonderfully illuminating ideas. For a while he had seemed to\nbe on the road to salvation; he felt that he had touched the robe of\nthe Christ, and heavenly virtue had entered into his being.\n\nBut then the shadows began to gather once more. He did not cling to\nthe new truths and spiritual ideas tenaciously enough to work them out\nin demonstration. He had proved shallow soil, whereon the seed had\nfallen, only to be choked by the weeds which grew apace therein. The\ntroubles which clustered thick about him after his first few months in\nSimit\u00ed had seemed to hamper his freer limbs, and check his upward\nprogress. Constant conflict with Diego, with Don Mario, and Wenceslas;\nthe pressure from his mother and his uncle, had kept him looking, now\nat evil, now at good, giving life and power to each in turn, and\nwrestling incessantly with the false concepts which his own mentality\nkept ever alive. Worrying himself free from one set of human beliefs,\nhe fell again into the meshes of others. Though he thought he knew the\ntruth--though he saw it lived and demonstrated by Carmen--he had yet\nbeen afraid to throw himself unreservedly upon his convictions. And so\nhe daily paid the dire penalty which error failed not to exact.\n\nBut Carmen, the object of by far the greater part of all his anxious\nthought, had moved as if in response to a beckoning hand that remained\ninvisible to him. Each day she had grown more beautiful. And each\nday, too, she had seemed to draw farther away from him, as she\nrose steadily out of the limited encompassment in which they\ndwelt. Not by conscious design did she appear to separate from him,\nbut inevitably, because of his own narrow capacity for true\nspiritual intercourse with such a soul as hers. He shared her\nideals; he had sought in his way to attain them; he had striven,\ntoo, to comprehend her spirit, which in his heart he knew to be a\nbright reflection of the infinite Spirit which is God. But as the\nyears passed he had found his efforts to be like her more and more\nclumsy and blundering, and his responses to her spiritual demands less\nand less vigorous. At times he seemed to catch glimpses of her\nsoul that awed him. At others he would feel himself half inclined\nto share the people's belief that she was possessed of powers\noccult. And then he would sink into despair of ever understanding the\ngirl--for he knew that to do so he must be like her, even as to\nunderstand God we must become like Him.\n\nAfter her fourteenth birthday Jos\u00e8 found himself rapidly ceasing to\nregard Carmen as a mere child. Not that she did not still often\nseem delightfully immature, when her spirits would flow wildly, and\nshe would draw him into the frolics which had yielded her such\nextravagant joy in former days; but that the growth of knowledge and\nthe rapid development of her thought had seemed to bring to her a\ndeepening sense of responsibility, a growing impression of maturity,\nand an increasing regard for the meaning of life and her part in\nit. She had ceased to insist that she would never leave Simit\u00ed. And\nJos\u00e8 often thought of late, as he watched her, that he detected\nsigns of irksomeness at the limitations which her environment\nimposed upon her. But, if so, these were never openly expressed; nor\ndid her manner ever change toward her foster-parents, or toward the\nsimple and uncomprehending folk of her native town.\n\nFrom the first, Jos\u00e8 had constituted himself her teacher, guide, and\nprotector. And she had joyously accepted him. His soured and\nrebellious nature had been no barrier to her great love, which had\ntwined about his heart like ivy around a crumbling tower. And his love\nfor the child had swelled like a torrent, fed hourly by countless\nuncharted streams. He had watched over her like a father; he had\nrejoiced to see her bloom into a beauty as rich and luxuriant as the\ntropical foliage; he had gazed for hours into the unsearchable abyss\nof her black eyes and read there, in ecstasy, a wondrous response to\nhis love; and when, but a few short days ago, she had again intimated\na future union, a union upon which, even as a child, she had insisted,\nyet one which he knew--had always known--utterly, extravagantly\nimpossible--he had, nevertheless, seized upon the thought with a joy\nthat was passionate, desperate--and had then flung it from him with a\ncry of agony. It was not the disparity of ages; it was not the girl's\npresent immaturity. In less than a year she would have attained the\nmarriageable age of these Latin countries. But he could wait two,\nthree, aye, ten years for such a divine gift! No; the shadow which lay\nupon his life was cast by the huge presence of the master whose chains\nhe wore, the iron links of which, galling his soul, he knew to be\nunbreakable. And, as he sat in the gloom of the decayed old church\nwhere he was now a prisoner, the thought that his situation but\nsymbolized an imprisonment in bonds eternal roused him to a\nhalf-frenzied resolve to destroy himself.\n\n\"Padre dear,\" the girl had whispered to him that night, just before\nthe American came again with his disquieting report, \"Love will open\nthe door--Love will set us free. We are not afraid. Remember, Paul\nthanked God for freedom even while he sat in chains. And I am just as\nthankful as he.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 knew as he kissed her tenderly and bade her go to her place of\nrest on the bench beside Do\u00f1a Maria that death stood between her and\nthe stained hand of Wenceslas Ortiz.\n\nAs morning reddened in the eastern sky Don Mario, surrounded by an\narmed guard and preceded by his secretary, who beat lustily upon a\nsmall drum, marched pompously down the main street and across the\n_plaza_ to the church. Holding his cane aloft he ascended the steps of\nthe platform and again loudly demanded the surrender of the prisoners\nwithin.\n\n\"On what terms, Don Mario?\" asked Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"The same,\" reiterated the Alcalde vigorously.\n\nJos\u00e8 sighed. \"Then we will die, Don Mario,\" he replied sadly, moving\naway from the door and leading his little band of harried followers to\nthe rear of the altar.\n\nThe Alcalde quickly descended the steps and shouted numerous orders.\nSeveral of his men hurried off in various directions, while those\nremaining at once opened fire upon the church. In a few moments the\nfiring was increased, and the entire attack was concentrated upon the\nfront doors.\n\nThe din without became horrible. Shouts and curses filled the morning\nair. But it was evident to Jos\u00e8 that his besiegers were meeting with\nno opposition from his own supporters in the fight of two days before.\nThe sight of the deadly rifles in the hands of Don Mario's party had\nquickly quenched their loyalty to Jos\u00e8, and led them basely to abandon\nhim and his companions to their fate.\n\nAfter a few minutes of vigorous assault the attack abruptly ceased,\nand Jos\u00e8 was called again to the door.\n\n\"It's Reed,\" came the American's voice. He spoke in English. \"I've\npersuaded the old carrion to let me have a moment's pow-wow with you.\nSay, give the old buzzard what he wants. Otherwise it's sure death for\nyou all. I've argued myself sick with him, but he's as set as\nconcrete. I'll do what I can for you if you come out; but he's going\nto have the girl, whether or no. Seems that the Bishop of Cartagena\nwants her; and the old crow here is playing politics with him.\"\n\n\"Yes, old man,\" chimed in another voice, which Jos\u00e8 knew to be that of\nHarris. \"You know these fellows are hell on politics.\"\n\n\"Shut up, Harris!\" growled Reed. Then to Jos\u00e8, \"What'll I tell the old\nduffer?\"\n\n\"Lord Harry!\" ejaculated Harris, \"if I had a couple of Mausers I could\nput these ancient Springfields on the bum in a hurry!\"\n\n\"Tell him, friend, that we are prepared to die,\" replied Jos\u00e8\ndrearily, as he turned back into the gloom and took Carmen's hand.\n\nThe final assault began, and Jos\u00e8 knew that it was only a question of\nminutes when the trembling doors would fall. He crouched with his\ncompanions behind the altar, awaiting the inevitable. Carmen held his\nhand tightly.\n\n\"Love will save us, Padre,\" she whispered. \"Love them! Love them,\nPadre! They don't know what is using them--and it has no power! God is\nhere--is everywhere! Love will save us!\"\n\nRosendo bent over and whispered to Don Jorge, \"When the doors fall and\nthe men rush in, stand you here with me! When they reach the altar we\nwill throw ourselves upon them, I first, you following, while Juan\nwill bring Carmen and try to protect her. With our _machetes_ we will\ncut our way out. If we find that it is hopeless--then give me\nCarmen!\"\n\nA moment later, as with a loud wail, the two front doors burst asunder\nand fell crashing to the floor. A flood of golden sunlight poured into\nthe dark room. In its yellow wake rushed the mob, with exultant yells.\nRosendo rose quickly and placed himself at the head of his little\nband.\n\nBut, ere the first of the frenzied besiegers had crossed the threshold\nof the church, a loud cry arose in the _plaza_.\n\n\"The soldiers! _Dios arriba_! The soldiers!\"\n\nDown the main thoroughfare came a volley of shots. Don Mario, half way\nthrough the church door, froze in his tracks. Those of his followers\nwho had entered, turned quickly and made pellmell for the exit. Their\nstartled gaze met a company of federal troops rushing down the street,\nfiring as they came. Don Mario strained after his flying wits.\n\n\"Close the doors!\" he yelled. But the doors were prone upon the floor,\nand could not be replaced. Then he and his men scrambled out and\nrushed around to one side of the building. As the soldiers came\nrunning up, the Alcalde's followers fired point blank into their\nfaces, then dropped their guns and fled precipitately.\n\nIt was all over in a trice. Within an hour staid old Simit\u00ed lay in the\ngrip of martial law, with its once overweening Alcalde, now a meek and\nfrightened prisoner, arraigned before Captain Morales, holding court\nin the shabby town hall.\n\nBut the court-martial was wholly perfunctory. Though none there but\nhimself knew it, the captain had come with the disposal of the\nunfortunate Don Mario prearranged. A perfunctory hearing of witnesses,\nwhich but increased his approval of his orders, and he pronounced\nsentence upon the former Alcalde, and closed the case.\n\n\"Attack upon the church--Assassination of the man L\u00e1zaro--Firing upon\nfederal soldiers--To be shot at sunset, se\u00f1or,\" he concluded\nsolemnly.\n\nDon Mario sank to the floor in terror. \"_Caramba! caramba_!\" he\nhowled. \"But I had letters from the Bishop! I was ordered by him to do\nit!\"\n\n\"_Bien_, se\u00f1or,\" replied the captain, whose heart was not wholly\ndevoid of pity, \"produce your letters.\"\n\n\"_Dios arriba_! I burned them! He said I should! I obeyed him!\n_Caramba_! I am lost--lost!\"\n\n\"_Se\u00f1or Capit\u00e1n_,\" interposed Jos\u00e8, \"may I plead for the man? He\nis--\"\n\n\"There, Padre,\" returned the captain, holding up a hand, \"it is\nuseless. Doubtless this has been brought about by motives which you do\nnot understand. It is unfortunate--but inevitable. You have a _c\u00e1rcel_\nhere? _Bien_,\" addressing his lieutenant, \"remove the prisoner to it,\nand at sunset let the sentence be carried out.\"\n\nDon Mario, screaming with fear, was dragged from the room.\n\n\"And now, se\u00f1ores,\" continued the captain calmly, as if nothing out of\nthe ordinary had occurred, \"I appoint Don Fernando, former secretary,\nas temporary Alcalde, until such time as the Governor may fill the\noffice permanently. And,\" he continued, looking about the room with a\nheavy scowl, while the timid people shrank against the wall, \"as for\nthose misguided ones who took part with Don Mario in this anticlerical\nuprising--his fate will serve, I think, as a warning!\"\n\nA hush of horror lay upon the stunned people as they filed slowly out\nof the room.\n\n\"_Bien_,\" added the captain, addressing Fernando, \"quarters for my\nmen, and rations. We return to the Hercules at daybreak. And let all\narms and ammunition be collected. Every house must be searched. And we\nshall want _peones_ to carry it to the river.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 turned away, sick with the horror of it all. A soldier approached\nhim with a message from Don Mario. The condemned man was asking for\nthe last rites. Faint and trembling, the priest accompanied the\nmessenger to the jail.\n\n\"Padre! _Dios arriba_!\" wailed the terrified and bewildered Don Mario.\n\"It was a mistake! Don Wenceslas--\"\n\n\"Yes, I understand, Don Mario,\" interrupted Jos\u00e8, tenderly taking the\nman's hand. \"He told you to do it.\"\n\n\"Yes, Padre,\" sobbed the unfortunate victim. \"He said that I would be\nrich--that I would be elected to Congress--ah, the traitor! And,\nPadre--I burned his letters because it was his wish! Ah, _Santa\nVirgen_!\" He put his head on the priest's shoulder and wept\nviolently.\n\nJos\u00e8's heart was wrung; but he was powerless to aid the man. And yet,\nas he dwelt momentarily on his own sorrows, he almost envied the fate\nwhich had overtaken the misguided Don Mario.\n\nThe lieutenant entered. \"_Se\u00f1or Padre_,\" he said, \"the sun is low. In\na quarter of an hour--\"\n\nDon Mario sank to the ground and clasped the priest's knees. Jos\u00e8 held\nup his hand, and the lieutenant, bowing courteously, withdrew. The\npriest knelt beside the cowering prisoner.\n\n\"Don Mario,\" he said gently, holding the man's hand, \"confess all to\nme. It may be the means of saving other lives--and then you will have\nexpiated your own crimes.\"\n\n\"Padre,\" moaned the stricken man, rocking back and forth, his head\nburied in his hands and tears streaming through his fingers, \"Padre,\nyou will forgive--?\"\n\n\"Aye, Don Mario, everything. And the Christ forgives. Your sins are\nremitted. But remove now the last burden from your soul--the guilty\nknowledge of the part Don Wenceslas has had in the disaster which has\ncome upon Simit\u00ed. Tell it all, friend, for you may save many precious\nlives thereby.\"\n\nThe fallen Alcalde roused himself by a mighty effort. Forgetting for\nthe moment his own dire predicament, he opened his heart. Jos\u00e8 sat\nbefore him in wide-mouthed astonishment. Don Mario's confession\nbrought a revelation that left him cold. The lieutenant entered\nagain.\n\n\"One moment,\" said Jos\u00e8. Then, to Don Mario: \"And Carmen?\"\n\nDon Mario leaned close to the priest and whispered low. \"No, she is\nnot Diego's child! And, Padre, take her away, at once! But out of the\ncountry! There is not an inch of ground in all Colombia now where she\nwould be safe from Don Wenceslas!\"\n\nJos\u00e8's head sank upon his breast. Then he again took Don Mario's\nhand.\n\n\"Friend,\" he said gravely, \"rest assured, what you have told me saves\nat least one life, and removes the sin with which your own was\nstained. And now,\" rising and turning to the waiting lieutenant, \"we\nare ready.\"\n\n_Ora pro nobis! Ora pro nobis! Santa Virgen, San Salvador, ora pro\nnobis!_\n\nA few minutes later a sharp report echoed through the Simit\u00ed valley\nand startled the herons that were seeking their night's rest on the\nwooded isle. Then Jos\u00e8 de Rinc\u00f3n, alone, and with a heart of lead,\nmoved slowly down through the dreary village and crossed the deserted\n_plaza_ to his lowly abode.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 34\n\n\nThe low-hung moon, shrouded in heavy vapor, threw an eldritch shimmer\nupon the little group that silently bore the body of the martyred\nL\u00e1zaro from the old church late that night to the dreary cemetery on\nthe hill. Jos\u00e8 took but a reluctant part in the proceedings. He would\neven have avoided this last service to his faithful friend if he\ncould. It seemed to him as he stumbled along the stony road behind the\nbody which Rosendo and Don Jorge carried that his human endurance had\nbeen strained so far beyond the elastic limit that there could now be\nno rebound. Every thought that touched his sore mind made it bleed\nanew, for every thought that he accepted was acrid, rasping,\noppressive. The sheer weight of foreboding, of wild apprehension, of\nparalyzing fear, crushed him, until his shoulders bent low as he\nwalked. How, lest he perform a miracle, could he hope to extricate\nhimself and his loved ones from the meshes of the net, far-cast, but\nwith unerring aim, which had fallen upon them?\n\nAs he passed the town hall he saw through the open door the captain's\ncot, and a guard standing motionless beside it. The captain had\nelected to remain there for the night, while his men found a prickly\nhospitality among the cowering townsfolk. Jos\u00e8 knew now that the hand\nwhich Don Mario had dealt himself in the game inaugurated by Wenceslas\nhad been from a stacked deck. He knew that the President of the\nRepublic had ordered Morales to this inoffensive little town to quell\nan alleged anticlerical uprising, and that the execution of the\nmisguided Alcalde had been determined long before the Hercules had got\nunder way. He could see that it was necessary for the Government to\nsacrifice its agent in the person of the Alcalde, in order to prove\nits own loyalty to the Church. And in return therefor he knew it would\nexpect, not without reason, the co\u00f6peration of the Church in case the\nPresident's interference in the province of Bol\u00edvar should precipitate\na general revolt.\n\nBut what had been determined upon as his own fate? He had not the\nsemblance of an idea. From the confession of the ruined Alcalde he now\nknew that Don Mario had been poisoned against him from the beginning;\nthat even the letters of introduction which Wenceslas had given him to\nthe Alcalde contained the charge of his having accomplished the ruin\nof the girl Maria in Cartagena, and of his previous incarceration in\nthe monastery of Palazzola. And Don Mario had confessed in his last\nmoments that Wenceslas had sought to work through him and Jos\u00e8 in the\nhope that the location of the famous mine, La Libertad, might be\nrevealed. Don Mario had been instructed to get what he could out of\nthis scion of Rinc\u00f3n; and only his own greed and cupidity had caused\nhim to play fast and loose with both sides until, falling before the\nallurements which Wenceslas held out, he had rushed madly into his own\ndestruction. Jos\u00e8 realized that so far he himself had proved extremely\nuseful to Wenceslas--but had his usefulness ended? At these thoughts\nhis soul momentarily suffused with the pride of the old and hectoring\nRinc\u00f3n stock and rose, instinct with revolt--but only to sink again in\nhelpless resignation, while the shadow of despair rolled in and\nquenched his feeble determination.\n\nRosendo and Don Jorge placed the body in one of the vacant vaults and\nfilled the entrance with some loose bricks. Then they stood back\nexpectantly. It was now the priest's turn. He had a part to perform,\nout there on the bleak hilltop in the ghostly light. But Jos\u00e8 remained\nmotionless and silent, his head sunk upon his breast.\n\nThen Rosendo, waxing troubled, spoke in gentle admonition. \"He would\nexpect it, you know, Padre.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 turned away from the lonely vault. Bitter tears coursed down his\ncheeks, and his voice broke. He laid his head on Rosendo's stalwart\nshoulder and wept aloud.\n\nThe sickly, greenish cast of the moonlight silhouetted the figures of\nthe three men in grotesque shapes against the cemetery wall and the\ncrumbling tombs. The morose call of a toucan floated weirdly upon the\nheavy air. The faint wail of the frogs in the shallow waters below\nrose like the despairing sighs of lost souls.\n\nRosendo wound his long arm about the sorrowing priest. Don Jorge's\nmuscles knotted, and a muttered imprecation rose from his tight lips.\nStrangely had the shift and coil of the human mind thrown together\nthese three men, so different in character, yet standing now in united\nprotest against the misery which men heap upon their fellow-men in the\nname of Christ. Jos\u00e8, the apostate agent of Holy Church, his hands\nbound, and his heart bursting with yearning toward his fellow-men;\nRosendo, simple-minded and faithful, chained to the Church by heredity\nand association, yet ashamed of its abuses and lusts; Don Jorge,\nfierce in his denunciation of the political and religious sham and\nhypocrisy which he saw masking behind the cloak of imperial religion.\n\n\"I have nothing to say, friends,\" moaned Jos\u00e8, raising his head;\n\"nothing that would not still further reveal my own miserable weakness\nand the despicable falsity of the Church. If the Church had followed\nthe Christ, it would have taught me to do likewise; and I should now\ncall to L\u00e1zaro and bid him come forth, instead of shamefully\nconfessing my impotency and utter lack of spirituality, even while I\npose as an _Alter Christus_.\"\n\n\"You--you will leave a blessing with him before we go, Padre?\" queried\nthe anxious Rosendo, clinging still to the frayed edge of his fathers'\nfaith.\n\n\"My blessing, Rosendo,\" replied Jos\u00e8 sadly, \"would do no good. He lies\nthere because we have utterly forgotten what the Master came to teach.\nHe lies there because of our false, undemonstrable, mortal beliefs.\nOh, that the Church, instead of wasting time murmuring futile prayers\nover dead bodies, had striven to learn to do the deeds which the\nChrist said we should all do if we but kept his commandments!\"\n\n\"But, Padre, you will say Masses for him?\" pursued Rosendo.\n\n\"Masses? No, I can not--now. I would not take his or your money to\ngive to the Church to get his soul out of an imagined purgatory which\nthe Church long ago invented for the purpose of enriching herself\nmaterially--for, alas! after spiritual riches she has had little\nhankering.\"\n\n\"To pay God to get His own children out of the flames, eh?\" suggested\nDon Jorge. \"It is what I have always said, the religion of the Church\nis a _religion de dinero_. If there ever was a God, either He is still\nlaughing Himself sick at our follies--or else He has wept Himself to\ndeath over them! Jesus Christ taught no such stuff!\"\n\n\"Friend,\" said Jos\u00e8 solemnly, turning to Don Jorge, \"I long since\nlearned what the whole world must learn some time, that the Church\nstands to-day, not as the bride of the Christ, but as the incarnation\nof the human mind, as error opposed to Truth. It is the embodiment of\n'Who shall be greatest?' It is one of the various phenomena of the\nhuman mentality; and its adherents are the victims of authoritative\nfalsehood. Its Mass and countless other ceremonies differ in no\nessential respect from ancient pagan worship. Of spirituality it has\nnone. And so it can do none of the works of the Master. Its corrupting\nfaith is foully materialistic. It has been weighed and found wanting.\nAnd as the human mind expands, the incoming light must drive out the\nblack beliefs and deeds of Holy Church, else the oncoming centuries\nwill have no place for it.\"\n\n\"I believe you!\" ejaculated Don Jorge. \"But why do you still remain a\npriest? _Hombre_! I knew when I saw you on the river boat that you\nwere none. But,\" his voice dropping to a whisper, \"there is a soldier\nin the road below. It would be well to leave. He might think we were\nhere to plot.\"\n\nWhen the soldier had passed, they quietly left the gloomy cemetery and\nmade their way quickly back through the straggling moonlight to\nRosendo's house. Do\u00f1a Maria, with characteristic quietude, was\npreparing for the duties of the approaching day. Carmen lay asleep.\nJos\u00e8 went to her bedside and bent over her, wondering. What were the\nevents of the past few days in her sight? How did she interpret them?\nWas her faith still unshaken? What did L\u00e1zaro's death and the\nexecution of Don Mario mean to her? Did she, as he had done, look upon\nthem as real events in a real world, created and governed by a good\nGod? Or did she still hold such things to be the unreal phenomena of\nthe human mentality?--unreal, because opposed to God, and without the\ninfinite principle. As for himself, how had the current of his life\nbeen diverted by this rare child! What had she not sought to teach him\nby her simple faith, her unshaken trust in the immanence of good!\nTrue, as a pure reflection of good she had seemed to be the means of\nstirring up tremendous evil. But had he not seen the evil eventually\nconsume itself, leaving her unscathed? And yet, would this continue?\nHe himself had always conceded to the forces of evil as great power as\nto those of good--nay, even greater. And even now as he stood looking\nat her, wrapped in peaceful slumber, his strained sight caught no\ngleam of hope, no light flashing through the heavy clouds of\nmisfortune that lowered above her. He turned away with an anxious\nsigh.\n\n\"Padre,\" said the gentle Do\u00f1a Maria, \"the two _Americanos_--\"\n\n\"Ah, yes,\" interrupted Jos\u00e8, suddenly remembering that he had sent\nword to them to use his house while they remained in the town. \"They\nhad escaped my thought. _Bien_, they are--?\"\n\n\"They brought their baggage to your house an hour ago and set up their\nbeds in your living room. They will be asleep by now.\"\n\n\"Good,\" he replied, a wistful sense of gratitude stealing over him at\nthe reassuring thought of their presence. \"_Bien_, we will not disturb\nthem.\"\n\nSummoning Rosendo and Don Jorge, the three men sought the lake's edge.\nThere, seated on the loose shales, they wrestled with their problem\nuntil dawn spread her filmy veil over the shimmering stars.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nLong before sun-up the soldiers and the _peones_, whom Captain Morales\nhad impressed, were busy gathering the commandeered rifles and\ncarrying them down to the gunboat Hercules, waiting at the mouth of\nthe Boque river, some six or eight miles distant, and over a wild\ntrail. The townsfolk, thoroughly frightened, hugged the shelter of\ntheir homes, and left the streets to the troops. Though they detested\nthe soldiers, yet none would lightly risk a blow from the heavy hand\nof Morales, whose authority on a punitive expedition of this sort was\nunlimited. The summary execution of the Alcalde had stricken them with\nhorror, and left an impression which never would be erased from their\nmemories.\n\nImmediately after the early _desayuno_ the captain appeared at\nRosendo's door. He had come to say farewell to the priest. All of the\nsoldiers had disappeared down the trail, with the exception of the two\nwho formed the captain's small personal escort.\n\n\"_Conque, adios, Se\u00f1or Padre_\" he called cheerily, as he approached.\nJos\u00e8 was sitting at table with Rosendo's family and Don Jorge.\nInstinctively he rose hastily, and seizing Carmen, thrust her into the\nadjoining bedroom and closed the door. Then he went out to face the\ncaptain.\n\n\"Much excitement for your little _pueblo_, no?\" exclaimed the captain\nwith a bluff laugh as he grasped Jos\u00e8's hand. \"But a lesson like this\nwill last a century. I rejoice that I found it unnecessary to burn the\ntown.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 trembled as he replied. \"_Se\u00f1or Capit\u00e1n_, I, too, rejoice.\nBut--the state of the country--what may we expect?\"\n\nThe captain laughed again. \"_Caramba, Padre m\u00edo_! who can say? There\nis much talk, many angry looks, much gesturing and waving of hands.\nCongress still sits. The President sees fit to send me here, without\norder from the Departmental Governor. _Hombre_! what will follow?\n_Quien sabe_?\" He shrugged his shoulders with that expressive Latin\ngesture which indicates complete irresponsibility for and indifference\nto results.\n\nJos\u00e8's heart began to beat more regularly. He again took the captain's\nhand. He was eager to see him depart. \"_Bueno pues, Se\u00f1or Capit\u00e1n_,\"\nhe said hurriedly. \"I wish you every felicitation on your return trip.\nAh--ah--your orders contained no reference to--to me?\" he added\nhesitatingly.\n\n\"None whatever, _Se\u00f1or Padre_,\" replied the captain genially. He\nturned to go, and Jos\u00e8 stifled a great sigh of relief. But suddenly\nthe captain stopped; then turned again.\n\n\"_Caramba_!\" he ejaculated, \"I nearly forgot! _Hombre_! what would His\nGrace have said?\"\n\nHe fumbled in an inner pocket and drew forth a telegraphic document.\n\n\"_And you will seize the person of one Rosendo Ariza's daughter and\nimmediately send her with proper conveyance to the Sister Superior of\nthe convent of Our Lady in Cartagena_,\" he read aloud.\n\nJos\u00e8 froze to the spot. From within Rosendo's house came a soft,\nscurrying sound. Then he heard a movement in his own. Morales returned\nthe folded message to his pocket and started to enter the house. Jos\u00e8\ncould offer no resistance. He was rendered suddenly inert, although\nvividly conscious of a drama about to be enacted in which he and his\nloved ones would play leading _r\u00f4les_. As in a dream he heard the\ncaptain address Rosendo and gruffly demand that he produce his\ndaughter. He heard a deep curse from Rosendo; and his blood congealed\nmore thickly as he dwelt momentarily on the old man's possible conduct\nin the face of the federal demand. He heard Morales hunting\nimpatiently through the shabby rooms. Then he saw him emerge in a\ntowering rage--but empty-handed.\n\n\"_Caramba_, Padre!\" cried the angry captain, \"but what is this? Have\nthey not had one good lesson, that I must inflict another? I demand to\nknow, has this Rosendo Ariza a daughter?\"\n\nHe stood waiting for the answer that Jos\u00e8 knew he must make. The\npriest's hollow voice sounded like an echo from another world.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"_Bien_, then I have discovered one honest man in yourself, Padre. You\nwill now assist me in finding her.\"\n\n\"I--I know not--where--where she is, _Se\u00f1or Capit\u00e1n_,\" murmured Jos\u00e8\nwith feebly fluttering lips.\n\nThey were alone, this little party of actors, although many an eye\npeered out timidly at them from behind closed shutters and barred\ndoors around the _plaza_. Don Jorge and Rosendo came out of the house\nand stood behind Jos\u00e8. The captain confronted them, bristling with\nwrath at the insolence that dared oppose his supreme authority. The\nheat had already begun to pour down in torrents. The morning air was\nlight, but not a sound traversed it. The principals in this tense\ndrama might have been painted against that vivid tropical background.\n\nThen Harris, moved by his piquant Yankee curiosity, appeared at the\ndoor of the parish house, his great eyes protruding and his head\ncraned forth like a monster heron. Morales saw him. \"Ha!\" he\nexclaimed. \"Perhaps the _Americano_ hides the daughter of Ariza!\"\n\nHe started for the priest's door. But ere he reached it Reed suddenly\nappeared from behind Harris. In his hand he grasped a large American\nflag. Holding this high above his head, he blocked the entrance.\n\n\"Hold! _Se\u00f1or Capit\u00e1n_!\" he cried in his perfect Spanish. \"We are\nAmerican citizens, and this house is under the protection of the\nAmerican Government!\"\n\nMorales fell back and stood with mouth agape in astonishment. The\naudacity of this foreign adventurer fairly robbed him of his breath.\nHe glanced dubiously from him to the priest. Then, to save the\nsituation, he broke into an embarrassed laugh.\n\n\"_Bien_, my good friend,\" he finally said, addressing Reed in his\ncourtliest manner, \"all respect to your excellent Government. And, if\nyou will accept it, I shall be pleased to secure you a commission in\nthe Colombian army. But, my orders--you understand, do you not? The\nsun is already high, and I can not lose more time. Therefore, you will\nkindly stand aside and permit me to search that house.\" He motioned to\nhis men and moved forward.\n\nStill holding aloft the flag, Reed drew a long revolver. Harris\nquickly produced one of equal size and wicked appearance. Morales\nstopped abruptly and looked at them in hesitation. He knew what he\nmight expect. He had heard much of American bravery. His chief delight\nwhen not in the field was the perusal of a battered history of the\nAmerican Civil War; and his exclamations of admiration for the\nhardihood of those who participated in it were always loud and\nfrequent. But he, too, had a reputation to sustain. The Americans\nstood grimly silent before him. Harris's finger twitched nervously\nalong the trigger, and a smile played over his thin lips. The man was\naching for a scrimmage.\n\nThen, his face flaming with shame and chagrin, Morales turned to his\nescort and commanded them to advance.\n\nUp went the two revolvers. A moment more, and--\n\nA cry came from Rosendo's house. Ana, her face swollen with weeping,\nclasping her sightless babe to her bosom, had emerged and faced the\ncaptain.\n\n\"Se\u00f1or,\" she said in a voice strained to a whisper, \"I am the daughter\nof Rosendo Ariza.\"\n\nA half-suppressed exclamation burst from the lips of Rosendo. A\ndesperate, suffocating joy surged over the riven soul of the priest.\nDon Jorge's mouth opened, but no sound came forth. This precipitate\n_d\u00e9no\u00fbement_ held them rigid with astonishment.\n\nA heavy silence descended upon them all. In the eyes of Jos\u00e8 Ana's\ntense figure, standing grim and rigid before the captain, took on a\ndignity that was majestic, a worth that transcended all human\ncomputation. A Magdalen, yes, standing with her sin-conceived child\nclasped in her trembling arms. But this act--God above! this\nsacrificial act broke the alabaster box and spread the precious nard\nover the feet of the pitying Christ.\n\nMorales turned questioningly to Jos\u00e8. \"Is this true, Padre?\" he\nasked.\n\n\"It is,\" murmured the dazed priest, scarce hearing his own words.\n\n\"But--I have no orders respecting a child--\"\n\n\"They cannot be separated,\" half whispered Jos\u00e8, not daring to meet\nthe vacant gaze of the babe.\n\nThe captain hesitated a moment longer. Then, with an upward glance at\nthe sun, he gave a sharp command to his men. Placing the woman between\nthem, the two soldiers faced about and moved quickly away. With a low\nbow and a final \"_Adios, Se\u00f1ores_,\" the captain hurriedly joined them.\nEre the little group before Rosendo's house had collected their wits,\nthe soldiers and their frail charge had mounted the hill beyond the\nold church and disappeared into the matted trail that led from it to\nthe distant river.\n\nRosendo was the first to break the mesmeric silence. \"_Dios arriba_!\"\nhe cried. His knees gave way beneath him and he buried his face in his\nhands. \"Anita--!\"\n\nThen he rose hastily, and made as if to pursue the soldiers. Jos\u00e8 and\nDon Jorge restrained him.\n\n\"_Hombre_!\" cried Don Jorge, \"but it is the hand of Providence! It is\nbetter so! Listen, friend Rosendo, it but gives us time to act!\nPerhaps many days! When the mistake is discovered they will return,\nand they will bring her back unharmed--though they may not learn until\nshe reaches Cartagena! _Bien_, we can not waste time in mourning now!\nCourage, man! Think--think hard!\"\n\nRosendo strove to unravel his tangled wits. Jos\u00e8 went to him and\nclasped his big hand.\n\n\"Rosendo--friend--would you have it different? I--I alone am to blame\nthat they took Anita! But--it was to save--to save--Ah, God! if I did\nwrong, take the American's revolver and shoot me!\" He tore open his\ncassock and stood rigid before the dazed man. Anguish and soul-torture\nhad warped his features.\n\n\"_Caramba_! Enough of such talk!\" cried Don Jorge impatiently. \"We\nshall find plenty of others more deserving of shooting, I think! The\ngirl--where is she?\"\n\nReed turned back into the parish house, and emerged a moment later\nwith Carmen and Do\u00f1a Maria, who knew not as yet of Ana's departure. \"I\nhid them in your bedroom, Padre,\" Reed explained.\n\nJos\u00e8 threw him a look of gratitude. \"Do\u00f1a Maria,\" he cried, \"do you\ntake Carmen into your house and await our decision! And you, men, go\ninto my study! It is as Don Jorge says, we must act quickly! Leave\nyour flag hanging, Mr. Reed! It may serve to protect us further\nagainst the angry people of Simit\u00ed!\"\n\nThe five men quickly gathered in Jos\u00e8's living room in a strained,\nexcited group. The priest was the first to speak. Rapidly he related\nin detail Don Mario's last confession. When he had closed, Reed made\nreply.\n\n\"Old man,\" he said, familiarly addressing Jos\u00e8, \"having seen the girl,\nI do not at all wonder that blood has been shed over her. But to keep\nher another hour in Simit\u00ed is to sacrifice her. Get her away--and at\nonce! If not, the people will drive you out. I talked with Fernando\nlast night. With the soldiers gone, the people will rise up against\nyou all.\"\n\n\"But, friend, where shall we go?\" cried Jos\u00e8 in desperation. \"There is\nno place in Colombia now where she would be safe!\"\n\n\"Then leave the country,\" suggested Reed.\n\n\"It can not be done,\" interposed Don Jorge. \"It would be impossible\nfor him to escape down the river with the girl, even if he had funds\nto carry her away from Colombia, which he has not. At any port he\nwould be seized. To take the trail would only postpone for a short\ntime their certain capture. And then--well, we will not predict! To\nflee into the jungle--or to hide among the _peones_ along the\ntrails--that might be done--yes.\"\n\n\"What's the gibberish about now, pal?\" put in Harris, whose knowledge\nof the Spanish tongue was _nil_.\n\nReed explained to him at some length.\n\n\"Well, that's easy,\" returned Harris. \"Tell 'em you'll take the girl\nout yourself. She's white enough to pass as your daughter, you know.\"\n\nRosendo, stunned by the sudden departure of Ana, had sat in a state of\nstupefaction during this conversation. But now he roused up and turned\nto Reed. \"What says he, se\u00f1or?\" he inquired thickly.\n\nThe latter translated his friend's suggestion, laughing as he\ncommented on its gross absurdity.\n\nRosendo dropped his head again upon his chest and lapsed into silence.\nThen he rose unsteadily and passed a hand slowly across his brow. A\nstrange light had come into his eyes. For a moment he stood looking\nfixedly at Reed. Finally he began to speak.\n\n\"Se\u00f1ores,\" he said, rolling his syllables sonorously, \"the time has\ncome at last! For years I have waited, waited, knowing that some day\nthe great gift which the good God put into my hands for the little\nCarmen would be needed. Se\u00f1ores, my parents were slaves. The cruel\nSpaniards drove them to and from their heavy labors with the lash; and\nwhen the great war ended, they sank exhausted into their graves. My\nparents--I have not told you this, Padre--were the slaves of Don\nIgnacio de Rinc\u00f3n!\"\n\nAn exclamation burst from the astonished priest's lips. What, then,\nhad this man been concealing all these years? Little wonder that he\nhad hesitated when he learned that a Rinc\u00f3n had come to the parish of\nSimit\u00ed!\n\nThe old man quickly resumed. As he continued, his recital became\ndramatic. As they listened, his auditors sat spellbound.\n\n\"Don Ignacio de Rinc\u00f3n himself was kind of heart. But his overseers--ah,\n_Dios arriba_! they were cruel! cruel! Many a time the great lash wound\nitself about my poor father's shrinking body, and hurled him shrieking to\nthe ground--and why? Because his blistered hands could not hold the\n_batea_ with which he washed gold for your grandfather, Padre, your\ngrandfather!\"\n\nJos\u00e8's head sank upon his breast. A groan escaped him, and tears\ntrickled slowly down his sunken cheeks.\n\n\"I bear you no malice, Padre,\" continued Rosendo. \"It was hard those\nfirst days to accept you here. But when, during your fever, I\nlearned from your own lips what you had suffered, I knew that you\nneeded a friend, and I took you to my bosom. And now I am glad--ah,\nvery glad, that I did so. But, though my confidence in you increased\nday by day, I could never bring myself to tell you my great\nsecret--the secret that now I reveal for the sake of the little\nCarmen. Padre--se\u00f1ores--I--_I am the owner of the great mine, La\nLibertad_!\"\n\nHad the heavens collapsed the astonishment of Don Jorge and the priest\ncould not have been greater. The coming of the soldiers, the terrific\nstrain of the past few days, culminating in the loss of Ana--all was\nfor the moment obliterated.\n\nJos\u00e8 started up and tried to speak. But the words would not come.\nRosendo paused a moment for the effect which he knew his revelation\nwould produce, and then went on rapidly:\n\n\"Padre, the mine belonged to your grandfather. It produced untold\nwealth. The gold taken from it was brought down the Guamoc\u00f3 trail to\nSimit\u00ed, and from here shipped to Cartagena, where he lived in great\nelegance. I make no doubt the gold which you and the little Carmen\ndiscovered in the old church that day came from this same wonderful\nmine. But the ore was quartz, and _arrastras_ were required to grind\nit, and much skill was needed, too. He had men from old Spain, deeply\nversed in such knowledge. Ah, the tales my poor father told of that\nmine!\n\n\"_Bien_, the war broke out. The Guamoc\u00f3 region became depopulated, and\nsank back into the jungle. The location of the mine had been recorded\nin Cartagena; but, as you know, when Don Ignacio fled from this\ncountry he destroyed the record. He did the same with the records in\nSimit\u00ed, on that last flying trip here, when he hid the gold in the\naltar of the old church. And then the jungle grew up around the mine\nduring those thirteen long years of warfare--the people who knew of it\ndied off--and the mine was lost, utterly lost!\"\n\nHe stopped for breath. The little group sat enthralled before him. All\nbut Harris, who was vainly beseeching Reed to translate to him the\ndramatic story.\n\n\"Padre,\" continued Rosendo at length, \"from what my father had told me\nI had a vague idea of the location of that mine. And many a weary day\nI spent hunting for it! Then--then I found it! Ah, _Caramba_! I wept\naloud for joy! It was while I was on the Tigu\u00ed, washing gold. I was\nworking near what we used to call _Pozo Cayman_, opposite La Colorado,\nwhere the Frenchmen died. I camped on the lonely bank there, with only\nthe birds and the wondering animals to keep me company. One dark\nnight, as I lay on the ground, I had a dream. I believe in dreams,\nPadre. I dreamt that the Virgin, all in white, came to me where I\nlay--that she whispered to me and told me to rise quickly and drive\naway the devil.\n\n\"I awoke suddenly. It was still dark, but a pair of fiery eyes were\ngleaming at me from the bush. I seized my _machete_ and started after\nthem. It was a jaguar, Padre, and he fled up the hill from me. Why I\nfollowed, I know not, unless I thought, still half asleep as I was,\nthat I was obeying the Virgin.\n\n\"At the top of the hill I lost the animal--and myself, as well. I am a\ngood woodsman, se\u00f1ores, and not easily lost. But this time my poor\nhead went badly astray. I started to cut through the bush. At last I\ncame to the edge of a steep ravine. I clambered down the sides into\nthe gully below. I thought it looked like an old trail, and I followed\nit. So narrow was it at times that the walls almost touched. But I\nwent on. Then it widened, and I knew that at last I was in a trail,\nlong since abandoned--and how old, only the good God himself knew!\n\n\"But my story grows as long as the trail! On and on I went, crossing\nstream after stream, scaring snakes from my path, frightening the\nbirds above, who doubtless have never seen men in that region, all the\ntime thinking I was going toward the Tigu\u00ed, until at last the old\nsunken trail led me up a tremendous hill. At the top, buried in a\ndense matting of brush, I fell over a circle of stones. They were the\nremains of an ancient _arrastra_. Further on I found another; and\nstill another. Then, near them, the stone foundations of houses, long\nsince gone to decay. From these the trail took me into a gully, where\nbut little water flowed. It was lined with quartz bowlders. I struck\noff a piece from one of the largest. It showed specks of gold! My eyes\ndanced! I forgot that I was lost! I went on up the stream, striking\noff piece after piece from the great rocks. Every one showed specks of\nfree gold. _Caramba_! I reached the top of the hill. _Hombre_! how can\nI tell it! Tunnel after tunnel yawned at me from the hillside. Some of\nthese were still open, where they had been driven through the hard\nrock. Others had caved. I had my wallet, in which I always carry\nmatches and a bit of candle. I entered one of the open tunnels. _Dios\narriba_! far within I crossed a quartz vein--I scraped it with my\n_machete_. _Caramba_! it could not have been less than six feet in\nwidth--and all speckled with gold! Above it, far into the blackness,\nwhere bats were scurrying madly, the ore had been taken out long, long\nago. In the darkness below I stumbled over old, rusted tools. Every\none bore the inscription, 'I de R.' Your grandfather, Padre, put his\nstamp on everything belonging to him. Then, as I sat trying to place\nmyself, my father's oft-told story of the location of the mine flashed\ninto my brain. My memory is good, Padre. And I knew then where I was.\nI was at the headwaters of the Borrachera. _And I had discovered La\nLibertad_!\"\n\nReed's eager ears had drunk in every word of the old man's dramatic\nstory. His practical mind had revolved its possibilities. When Rosendo\npaused again, he quickly asked:\n\n\"The title, se\u00f1or?\"\n\nRosendo drew forth a paper from his bosom. It bore the government\nstamp. He handed it to Reed.\n\n\"You will recall, Padre,\" he said, addressing the dully wondering\nJos\u00e8, \"that I once asked you to give me a name for a mine--a rare\nname? And you told me to call it the--the--what is it?\"\n\n\"The Chicago mine, Rosendo?\" replied Jos\u00e8, recalling the incident.\n\n\"Yes,\" exclaimed the old man excitedly, \"that is it! _Bien_, I told no\none of my discovery of years before. I had never had money enough to\nget the title to it. Besides, I was afraid. But when it seemed that I\nmight soon have use for it I sold my _finca_ for funds and had L\u00e1zaro\napply through Don Mario for title to a mine called--called--\"\n\n\"The Chicago mine,\" said Jos\u00e8, again coming to the rescue.\n\n\"Just so! _Bien_, L\u00e1zaro got the title, which I never could have done,\nfor at that time Don Mario would not have put through any papers for\nme. I then had the unsuspecting L\u00e1zaro transfer the title to me,\nand--_Bien_, I am the sole owner of La Libertad!\"\n\nReed examined the paper at some length, and then handed it back to\nRosendo. \"Can we not talk business, se\u00f1or?\" he said, speaking with\nsome agitation. \"I am so situated that I can float an American company\nto operate this mine, and allow you a large percentage of the returns.\nGreat heavens!\" he exclaimed, unable longer to contain himself, \"it is\nyour fortune!\"\n\n\"Se\u00f1or,\" replied Rosendo, slowly shaking his head, \"I want no share in\nany of your American companies. But--your friend--he has suggested\njust what has been running through my mind ever since you came to\nSimit\u00ed.\"\n\nJos\u00e8's heart suddenly stopped. The wild, terrifying idea tore through\nhis fraught brain. He turned quickly to Reed and addressed him in\nEnglish. \"No--no--it is impossible! The old man wanders! You can not\ntake the girl--!\"\n\n\"Certainly not!\" ejaculated Reed with some warmth. \"Such a thing is\nquite out of the question!\"\n\n\"Stuff!\" exclaimed Harris. \"Now look here, Mr. Priest, Reed's wife is\nin Cartagena, waiting for him. Came down from New York that far for\nthe trip. Kind of sickly, you know. What's to prevent her from taking\nthe girl to the States and placing her in a boarding school there\nuntil such time as you can either follow, or this stew down here has\nsettled sufficiently to permit of her returning to you?\"\n\nReed threw up a deprecatory hand. \"Impossible!\" he cried.\n\n\"But,\" interposed Harris exasperatedly, \"would you leave the ravishing\nlittle beauty here to fall into the hands of the cannibals who are\ntrailing her? Lord Harry! if it weren't for the looks of the thing I'd\ntake her myself. But you've got a wife, so it'd be easy.\" He leaned\nover to Reed and concluded in a whisper, \"The old man's going to make\na proposition--listen!\"\n\n\"But,\" remonstrated the latter, \"the expense of keeping her in New\nYork indefinitely! For, unless I mistake much, none of these people\nwill ever see the States after she leaves. And then I have an adopted\ndaughter on my hands! And, heaven knows! now that my ambitious wife is\ndetermined to break into New York society with her adorable sister, I\nhave no money to waste on adopted children!\"\n\nRosendo, who had been studying the Americans attentively during their\nconversation, now laid a hand on Reed's. \"Se\u00f1or,\" he said in a quiet\ntone, \"if you will take the little Carmen with you, and keep her safe\nfrom harm until Padre Jos\u00e8 can come to you, or she can be returned to\nus here, I will transfer to you a half interest in this mine.\"\n\nJos\u00e8 sprang to his feet. His face was blanched with fear. \"Rosendo!\"\nhe cried wildly, \"do not do that! _Dios arriba_, no! You do not\nknow this man! Ah, se\u00f1or,\" turning to Reed, \"I beg you will\nforgive--but Rosendo is mad to suggest such a thing! We cannot permit\nit--we--I--oh, God above!\" He sank again into his chair and covered\nhis face with his hands.\n\nDon Jorge gave vent to a long, low whistle. Rosendo, his voice husky\nand his lips trembling, went on:\n\n\"I know, Padre--I know. But it must be done! I will give the mine to\nthe American--and to Carmen. He has a powerful government back of him,\nand he is able to defend the title and save her interest as well as\nhis own. As for me, I--_Bien_, I shall want nothing when Carmen\ngoes--nothing.\"\n\n\"For heaven's sake!\" burst in Harris, seizing Reed's arm. \"If you\ndon't tell me what all this is about now I shall shoot--and not\nstraight up, either!\"\n\n\"Se\u00f1ores,\" said Reed in a controlled voice, \"let me talk this matter\nover with my friend here. I will come to you in an hour.\"\n\nRosendo and Don Jorge bowed and silently withdrew from the parish\nhouse. The former went at once to apprise the wondering Do\u00f1a Maria of\nthe events which had crowded the morning's early hours and to answer\nher apprehensive questionings regarding Ana. Carmen was to know only\nthat Ana--but what could he tell her? That the woman had sacrificed\nherself for the girl? No; but that they had seized this opportunity to\nsend her, under the protection of Captain Morales, to the Sisters of\nthe Convent of Our Lady. The old man knew that the girl would see only\nGod's hand in the event.\n\nJos\u00e8 as in a dream sought Carmen. It seemed to him that once his arms\nclosed about her no power under the skies could tear them asunder. He\nfound her sitting in the doorway at the rear of Rosendo's house,\nlooking dreamily out over the placid lake. Cucumbra, now old and\nfeeble, slept at her feet. As the man approached he heard her murmur\nrepeatedly, \"It is not true--it is not true--it is not true!\"\n\n\"Carmen!\" cried Jos\u00e8, seizing her hand. \"Come with me!\"\n\nShe rose quickly. \"Gladly, Padre--but where?\"\n\n\"God only knows--to the end of the world!\" cried the frenzied man.\n\n\"Well, Padre dear,\" she softly replied, as she smiled up into his\ndrawn face, \"we will start out. But I think we had better rest when we\nreach the shales, don't you?\"\n\nThen she put her hand in his.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 35\n\n\n\"No, Padre dear,\" with an energetic shake of her head, \"no. Not even\nafter all that has seemed to happen to us do I believe it true. No, I\ndo not believe it real. Evil is not power. It does not exist,\nexcepting in the human mind. And that, as you yourself know, can not\nbe real, for it is all that God is not.\"\n\nThey were seated beneath the slowly withering _algarroba_ tree out on\nthe burning shales. Jos\u00e8 still held the girl's hand tightly in his.\nAgain he was struggling with self, struggling to pass the borderline\nfrom, self-consciousness to God-consciousness; striving, under the\nspiritual influence of this girl, to break the mesmeric hold of his\nown mortal beliefs, and swing freely out into his true orbit about the\ncentral Sun, infinite Mind.\n\nThe young girl, burgeoning into a marvelous womanhood, sat before him\nlike an embodied spirit. Her beauty of soul shone out in gorgeous\nluxuriance, and seemed to him to envelop her in a sheen of radiance.\nThe brilliant sunshine glanced sparkling from her glossy hair into a\nnimbus of light about her head. Her rich complexion was but faintly\nsuggestive to him of a Latin origin. Her oval face and regular\nfeatures might have indicated any of the ruddier branches of the\nso-called Aryan stock. But his thought was not dwelling on these\nthings now. It was brooding over the events of the past few weeks, and\ntheir probable consequences. And this he had just voiced to her.\n\n\"Padre dear,\" she had said, when his tremulous voice ceased, \"how\nmuch longer will you believe that two and two are seven? And how much\nlonger will you try to make me believe it? Oh, Padre, at first you did\nseem to see so clearly, and you talked so beautifully to me! And then,\nwhen things seemed to go wrong, you went right back to your old\nthoughts and opened the door and let them all in again. And so things\ncouldn't help getting worse for you. You told me yourself, long ago,\nthat you would have to empty your mind of its old beliefs. But I guess\nyou didn't get them all out. If you had cleaned house and got your\nmind ready for the good thoughts, they would have come in. You know,\nyou have to get ready for the good, before it can come. You have to be\nreceptive. But you go right on getting ready for evil. If you loved\nGod--really _loved_ Him--why, you would not be worried and anxious\nto-day, and you would not be believing still that two and two are\nseven. You told me, oh, so long ago! that this human life was just a\n_sense_ of life, a series of states of consciousness, and that\nconsciousness was only mental activity, the activity of thought. Well,\nI remembered that, and put it into practice--but you didn't. A true\nconsciousness is the activity of true thought, you said. A false\nconsciousness is the activity of false thought. True thought comes\nfrom God, who is mind. False thought is the opposite of true thought,\nand doesn't come from any mind at all, but is just supposition. A\nsupposition is never really created, because it is never real--never\ntruth. True thought becomes externalized to us in good, in harmony, in\nhappiness. False thought becomes externalized to us in unhappiness,\nsickness, loss, in wrong-doing, and in death. It is unreal, and yet\nawfully real to those who believe it to be real. Why don't you act\nyour knowledge, as you at first said you were going to do? I have all\nalong tried to do this. Whenever thoughts come to me I always look\ncarefully at them to see whether they are based on any real principle,\non God. If so, I let them in. If not, I drive them away. Sometimes it\nhas been hard to tell just which were true and which false. And\nsometimes I got caught, and had to pay the penalty. But every day I do\nbetter; and the time will come at last when I shall be able to tell at\nonce which thoughts are true and which untrue. When that time comes,\nnothing but good thoughts will enter, and nothing but good will be\nexternalized to me in consciousness. I shall be in heaven--all the\nheaven there is. It is the heaven which Jesus talked so much about,\nand which he said was within us all. It is so simple, Padre dear, so\nsimple!\"\n\nThe man sat humbly before her like a rebuked child. He knew that she\nspoke truth. Indeed, these were the very things that he had taught her\nhimself. Why, then, had he failed to demonstrate them? Only because\nhe had attempted to mix error with truth--had clung to the reality and\nimmanence of evil, even while striving to believe good omnipotent and\ninfinite. He had worked out these theories, and they had appeared\nbeautiful to him. But, while Carmen had eagerly grasped and\nassimilated them, even to the consistent shaping of her daily life to\naccord with them, he had gone on putting the stamp of genuineness and\nreality upon every sort of thought and upon every human event as it\nhad been enacted in his conscious experience. His difficulty was that,\nhaving proclaimed the allness of spirit, God, he had proceeded to bow\nthe knee to evil. Carmen had seemed to know that the mortal, material\nconcepts of humanity would dissolve in the light of truth. He, on the\nother hand, had clung to them, even though they seared the mind that\nheld them, and became externalized in utter wretchedness.\n\n\"When you let God's thoughts in, Padre, and drive out their\nopposites, then sickness and unhappiness will disappear, just as\nthe mist disappears over the lake when the sun rises and the light\ngoes through it. If you really expected to some day see the now\n'unseen things' of God, you would get ready for them, and you would\n'rejoice always,' even though you did seem to see the wickedness of\nPadre Diego, the coming of the soldiers, the death of L\u00e1zaro and Don\nMario, and lots of unhappiness about yourself and me. Those men are\nnot dead--except to your thought. You ought to know that all these\nthings are the unreal thoughts externalized in your consciousness.\nAnd, knowing them for what they really are, the opposites of God's\nthoughts, you ought to know that they can have no more power over\nyou than anything else that you know to be supposition. We can\nsuppose that two and two are seven, but we can't make it true. The\nsupposition does not have any effect upon us. We know that it isn't\nso. But as regards just thought--and you yourself said that everything\nreduces to thought--why, people seem to think it is different. But\nit isn't. Don't you understand what the good man Jesus meant when he\ntold the Pharisees to first cleanse the cup and platter within,\nthat the outside might also be clean? Why, that was a clear case of\nexternalization, if there ever was one! Cleanse your thought, and\neverything outside of you will then become clean, for your clean\nthought will become externalized. You once said that you believed\nin the theory that 'like attracts like.' I do, too. I believe that\ngood thoughts attract good ones, and evil thoughts attract thoughts\nlike themselves. I have proved it. And you ought to know that your\nlife shows it, too. You hold fear-thoughts and worry-thoughts, and\nthen, just as soon as these become externalized to you as misfortune\nand unhappiness, you say that evil is real and powerful, and that\nGod permits it to exist. Yes, God does permit all the existence\nthere is to a supposition--which is none. You pity yourself and all\nthe world for being unhappy, when all you need is to do as Jesus told\nyou, and know God to be infinite Mind, and evil to be only the\nsuppositional opposite, without reality, without life, without\npower--unless you give it these things in your own consciousness. You\ndon't have to take thought for your life. You don't have to be\ncovetous, or envious, or fearful, or anxious. You couldn't do\nanything if you were. These things don't help you. Jesus said that\nof himself he could do nothing. But--as soon as he recognized God as\nthe infinite principle of all, and acted that knowledge--why, then\nhe raised the dead! And at last, when his understanding was greater,\nhe dissolved the mental concept which people called his human body.\nDon't you see it, Padre--don't you? I _know_ you do!\"\n\nYes, he saw it. He always did when she pleaded thus. And yet:\n\n\"But, Carmen, padre Rosendo would send you out of the country with\nthese Americans!\"\n\n\"Yes, so you have said. And you have said that you have always feared\nyou would lose me. Is that fear being externalized now? I have not\nfeared that I would lose you. But, Padre dear--\"\n\nThe ghastly look on the man's face threw wide the flood-gates of her\nsympathy. \"Padre--all things work together for good, you know. Good is\n_always_ working. It never stops. Listen--\" She clung more closely to\nhim.\n\n\"Padre, it may be best, after all. You do not want me to stay always\nin Simit\u00ed. And if I go, you will go with me, or soon follow. Oh, Padre\ndear, you have told me that up in that great country above us the\npeople do not know God as you and I are learning to know Him. Padre--I\nwant to go and tell them about Him! I've wanted to for a long, long\ntime.\"\n\nThe girl's eyes shone with a holy light. Her wistful face glowed with\na love divine.\n\n\"Padre dear, you have so often said that I had a message for the\nworld. Do not the people up north need that message? Would you keep\nme here then? The people of Simit\u00ed are too dull to hear the message\nnow. But up there--Oh, Padre, it may be right that I should go!\nAnd, if it is right, nothing can prevent it, for the right _will_ be\nexternalized! Right _will_ prevail!\"\n\nTrue, there was the girl's future. Such a spirit as hers could not\nlong be confined within the narrow verges of Simit\u00ed. He must not\noppose his egoism to her interests. And, besides, he might follow\nsoon. Perhaps go with her! Who knew? it might be the opening of the\nway to the consummation of that heart-longing for--\n\nAh, the desperate joy that surged through his yearning soul at the\nthought! The girl was fifteen. A year, two, three, and he would still\nbe a young man! She loved him--never had man had such proofs as he of\nan affection so divine! And he worshiped her! Why hesitate longer?\nSurely the way was unfolding!\n\n\"Carmen,\" he said tenderly, drawing her closer to him, \"you may be\nright. Yes--we will both go with the Americans. Once out of this\nenvironment and free from ecclesiastical chains, I shall do better.\"\n\nThe girl looked up at him with brimming eyes. \"Padre dear,\" she\nwhispered, \"I want to go--away from Simit\u00ed. Juan--he asks me almost\nevery day to marry him. And he becomes angry when I refuse. Even in\nthe church, when Don Mario was trying to get us, Juan said he would\nsave me if I would promise to marry him. He said he would go to\nCartagena and kill the Bishop. He follows me like a shadow. He--Padre,\nhe is a good boy. I love him. But--I do not--want to marry him.\"\n\nThey sat silent for some moments. Jos\u00e8 knew how insistent Juan had\nbecome. The lad adored the girl. He tormented the priest about her.\n\n\"Padre, you--you are not always going to be a priest--are you?\nAnd--I--I--oh, Padre dear, I love you so!\" She turned impulsively and\nthrew both arms about his neck. \"I want to see you work out your\nproblem. I will help you. You can go with me--and I can always live\nwith you--and some day--some day--\" She buried her face in his\nshoulder. The artless girl had never seemed to think it unmaidenly to\ndeclare her love for him, to show him unmistakably that she hoped to\nbecome his wife.\n\nThe man's heart gave a mighty leap. The beautiful child in his arms\nwas human! Young in years, and yet a woman by the conventions of these\ntropic lands. He bent his head and kissed her. Why, she had long\ninsisted that she would wait for him! And why should he now oppose the\nexternalization of that sweet thought?\n\n\"Ah, _chiquita_,\" he murmured, \"I will indeed go with you now! I will\nsend my resignation to the Bishop at once. No, I will wait and send it\nfrom the States. I will renounce my oath, abjure my promise--\"\n\nThe girl sat suddenly upright and looked earnestly into his eyes.\n\"What do you mean, Padre?\" she queried dubiously. \"What did you\npromise?\"\n\n\"Ah, I have never told you. But--I promised my mother, dearest one,\nthat I would always remain a priest--unless, indeed, the Church\nherself should eject me from the priesthood. But, it was foolish--\"\n\n\"And your mother--she expects you to keep your word?\"\n\n\"Yes, _chiquita_.\"\n\nThe girl sat in pensive silence for a moment. \"But, Padre,\" she\nresumed, \"honesty--it is the very first thing that God requires of us.\nWe have to be--we _must_ be honest, for He is Truth. He cannot see or\nrecognize error, you know. And so He cannot see you and help you if\nyou are dishonest.\"\n\n\"I know, child. And I tried to be honest, even when circumstances and\nmy own poor resistive force combined to direct me into the priesthood.\nBut--since that day I have lived a life of hypocrisy, not knowing how\nto shape my course. Then, at length, I met you. It was--too late!\"\n\n\"But, Padre, the Church has not put you out? You are still a priest?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" sadly; \"and no.\"\n\n\"But, if you went to the States--with me--would you be put out of the\nChurch?\"\n\n\"Possibly, _chiquita_.\"\n\n\"And what would that mean, Padre?\"\n\n\"The disgrace that always attaches to an apostate priest, child.\"\n\n\"And, Padre--your mother--what would she say?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 hung his head. \"It would kill her,\" he replied slowly.\n\nCarmen reflected long, while Jos\u00e8, with ebbing hope, waited. \"Padre\ndear,\" she finally said, \"then you have not yet worked out your\nproblem--have you?\"\n\nNo, he knew that. And he was now attempting to solve it by flight.\n\n\"I mean, Padre, you have not worked it out in God's way. For if you\nhad, no one would be hurt, and there could not be any disgrace, or\nunhappiness--could there?\"\n\n\"But, _chiquita_,\" he cried in despair, \"nothing but excommunication\ncan release me! And I long ago ceased to look for that. You do not\nunderstand--you are young! What can I do?\" His tortured soul pleaded\nin agony.\n\n\"Why, Padre dear, you can work it out, all out, in God's way.\"\n\n\"But--must I remain here--can I let you go alone with the Americans--?\"\n\n\"Yes, you can, if it is right,\" she answered gently.\n\n\"Carmen!\" he cried, straining her in his arms. \"If you go with the\nAmericans, I shall, I must, go too!\"\n\n\"Not unless it is right, Padre,\" she insisted. \"If it is right,\nnothing can keep you from going. But, unless it is God's way--well,\nyou can not solve your problem by running away from it.\"\n\n\"But--child--to remain here means--God above! you don't realize what\nit may mean to us both!\"\n\nThe girl relapsed into silence. Jos\u00e8 began to feel that they were\ndrifting hopelessly, abysmally apart. Desperation seized him.\n\n\"Carmen!\" he cried miserably. \"I have been cheated and thwarted all my\nwretched life! I can endure it no longer! I can not, would not, hold\nyou here, if the way opens for you to go! But--I can not remain here\nwithout you--and live!\"\n\n\"That is not true, Padre,\" replied the girl, slowly shaking her head.\n\"No human being is necessary to any one's happiness. And progress\nalways comes first. You are trying to 'acquire that mind which was in\nChrist.' If you are really progressing, why, you will surely be happy.\nBut you must work it all out God's way.\"\n\n\"His way!\" he retorted bitterly. \"And that--\"\n\n\"You must be honest, Padre, honest with Him and with everybody. If you\ncan no longer be a priest--if you are not one, and never have been\none--you must be honest with the Church and with yourself. You must\nsee and reflect only Truth. Why do you not write to the Bishop and\ntell him all about it? You say you have been protecting me. But leave\nme to God. You must--Padre, you _must_--be honest! Write to your\nmother--write to the Bishop. Tell them both how you feel. Then leave\nit all with God. Do not run away. Throw yourself upon Him. But--oh,\nPadre dear, you must trust Him, and you must--you _must_--know that He\nis good, that He is infinite, and that there is no evil! Otherwise,\nthe good can not be externalized. If you did that, your problem would\nbe quickly solved.\"\n\nShe rose and took his hand. \"Padre dear,\" she continued, \"God is\nlife--there is no death. God is eternal--there is no age. God is all\ngood--there is no poverty, no lack, no loss. God is infinite, and He\nis mind--there is no inability to see the right and to do it. God is\nmy mind, my spirit, my soul, my all. I have nothing to fear. Human\nmental concepts are not real. You, yourself, say so. I am not afraid\nof them. I look at God constantly, and strive always to see only Him.\nBut He is just as much to you as He is to me. You can not outline how\nthings will work out; but you can know that they can only work out in\nthe right way. You _must_ work as God directs. Only by so doing can\nyou solve your problem. I try always to work that way. And I have\nalways worked for you that way. I have always thought the time would\ncome when you and I would live and work together--always. But I have\nnot insisted on it. I have not said that it _had_ to be. If it works\nout that way, I know I would be very happy. But, even if it does not,\nI shall know that I can not be deprived of any good, for the good God\nis everywhere, and He is love, and He has given me all happiness. And\nnow we must leave everything to Him, while we work, work, work to see\nHim only everywhere.\"\n\nShe would talk no more. Suffering himself to be led by her, they\ncrossed the shales to the dust-laden road and made their way silently\nthrough the burning heat into the village.\n\nAt the door of the parish house stood Rosendo. His face was grave, but\nhis manner calm. \"Padre,\" he announced, \"it is arranged.\"\n\nJos\u00e8's knees shook under him as he followed the old man into the\nhouse. Reed, Harris, and Don Jorge sat about the table, on which were\nstrewn papers covered with figures and sketches. The priest sat down\ndumbly and drew Carmen to him. Harris fell to devouring the girl with\nhis bulging eyes. Reed at once plunged into the topic under\nconsideration.\n\n\"I have been saying,\" he began, addressing the priest, \"that I can\naccept the proposal made by Don Rosendo, but with some amendments. Mr.\nHarris and I are under contract with the Molino Company to report upon\ntheir properties along the Boque river. I am informed by Don Rosendo\nthat he is acquainted with these alleged mines, and knows them to be\nworthless. Be that as it may, I am obliged to examine them. But I will\nagree to take this girl to New York, under the protection of my wife,\nupon the consideration that when I reach my home city I be allowed to\nform a company to take over this mine, returning to the girl a\nfifty-one per cent interest in the stock, one half of which she agrees\nin writing to deliver to me immediately upon its issuance. Being under\ncontract, I can not accept it now. The balance of the stock must be\nsold for development purposes. I further agree to place the girl in a\nboarding school of the first quality in the States, and to bear all\nexpenses of her maintenance until such time as she is either\nself-supporting, or one or several of you may come to her, or effect\nher return to Colombia. Now, according to Ariza's sketches, we may\nproceed up the Boque river to its headwaters--how far did you say,\nfriend?\"\n\n\"Some hundred and fifty miles from Simit\u00ed, se\u00f1or,\" replied Rosendo.\n\n\"And then,\" resumed Reed, \"we can cut across country from the sources\nof the Boque, following what is known as Rosario creek, down to the\nriver Tigu\u00ed, striking the latter somewhere near the ancient point\nknown as La Colorado.\"\n\n\"But, se\u00f1or,\" interposed Rosendo, \"remember that the headwaters of the\nBoque are practically unknown to-day. Many years ago, when I was a\nsmall lad, some liberated slaves worked along Rosario creek, which was\nthen one day's journey on foot with packs from La Colorado. But that\nold trail has long since disappeared. Probably no one has been over it\nsince.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" returned the practical Reed, \"then we shall have to make\nour own trail across the divide to the Tigu\u00ed. But once at La Colorado,\nyou tell me there is an ancient trail that leads down to Llano, on the\nNech\u00ed river?\"\n\n\"Yes, to the mouth of the Amacer\u00ed. Llano was something of a town long\nago. But river steamers that go up the Nech\u00ed as far as Zaragoza once a\nmonth, or less frequently, still touch there, I am told. And so you\ncan get down the Cauca to Maganguey, where you can change to a\nMagdalena river boat for Calamar. Then by rail to Cartagena. The trail\nto Llano can not be more than fifty miles in length, and fairly\nopen.\"\n\nHarris, who had been studying the sketches, whistled softly. \"Lord\nHarry!\" he muttered, \"nearly two hundred miles, and all by foot, over\nunspeakable jungle trails!\"\n\nReed paid no attention to him. \"Very well, then,\" he continued, \"we\nhad best set out as soon as possible. To you, friend Rosendo, I leave\nall arrangements regarding supplies and _cargadores_. I will furnish\nfunds for the entire expedition, expecting to be reimbursed by La\nLibertad.\"\n\nCarmen listened, with dilated eyes. As for Jos\u00e8, his head swam.\nStarting hurriedly after Rosendo, who rose immediately to inaugurate\npreparations, he drew him into the latter's house. \"_Hombre_!\" he\ncried, his whole frame tremulous with agitation, \"do you know what you\nare doing? Do you--\"\n\n\"_Na_, Padre,\" replied Rosendo gently, as he held up a restraining\nhand, \"it is best. I want the _Americanos_ to take Carmen. She is not\nsafe another day here. The soldiers left but yesterday. They may\nreturn any hour. At any moment an order might come for your arrest or\nmine. We must get her away at once. We can do no more for her here.\nThe struggle has been long, and I weary of it.\" He sat down in\nexhaustion and mopped his damp brow. \"I weary of life, Padre. I would\nbe through with it. I am old. This world can hold little more for me.\nIf I can but know that she is safe--_Bien_, that is all. From what we\nhave learned, this country will soon be plunged again into war. I do\nnot wish to live through another revolution. I have seen many. I seem\nto have fought all my life. And for what? What is La Libertad to me?\nNothing--less than nothing. I have not the funds to work it. I doubt\nif I could even hold it, were it known here that I had the title to\nsuch a famous mine. But the _Americano_ can hold it. And he is honest,\nPadre. He will save Carmen's interest, and deal fairly with her.\n_Bien_, let him place her in a school in the States. If you weather\nthe oncoming revolution, then you may be able to send for her. _Quien\nsabe_?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 controlled himself. \"Rosendo,\" he said, \"I will go with her.\"\n\nThe old man looked at him quizzically. \"Do you mean, Padre, that you\nwill leave the Church?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 kept silent for some time. Then he spoke bitterly.\n\n\"Can I remain longer in Simit\u00ed, where the people have become\ndivided--where they look upon me askance, as the cause of the trouble\nthat has befallen them? Is not my usefulness here ended? War is at our\ndoor. What, think you, will it mean to Simit\u00ed? To us? And Wenceslas,\nwhat has he further in store for you and me? What he has for Carmen,\nwe well know. And we seek by flight to save her. But the disappearance\nof Diego has not been explained. The trick which Anita played upon\nMorales to save Carmen must bring down increased wrath upon our heads,\nespecially yours and mine. No, Rosendo, you and I must go, and go at\nonce!\"\n\n\"And Anita--?\"\n\n\"We will pick her up in Cartagena. Don Jorge will accompany us.\nI have certain information to give him that will enlist his\nservices--information which, I think, will serve to introduce him\nto His Grace, and somewhat abruptly. But, come, Rosendo, do you and\nDo\u00f1a Maria prepare for flight!\"\n\n\"Maria and I? The States! Na, Padre, it is impossible! I will go with\nthe _Americanos_ up the Boque and to La Libertad. Then I will return\nto Simit\u00ed--or to the _hacienda_ of Don Nicol\u00e1s, if Maria wishes to\nremain there while I am in the hills. But--do you go, Padre--go and\nlook after the girl. There is nothing further for you here. Yes,\nPadre, go--go!\"\n\n\"But--ah, Rosendo, you will reconsider? The Americans will take us all\nfor that mine!\"\n\n\"I? No, Padre,\" said the old man firmly, but in a voice heavy with\nsadness. \"Maria and I remain in Simit\u00ed. My work is done when I have\nseen the girl safely out of this unhappy country. I could not live in\nthe States. And my days are few now, anyway. Let me end them here.\nHow, I care not.\"\n\nCarmen came bounding in and flew into Rosendo's arms. \"Padre Rosendo!\"\nshe cried, aglow with animation, \"we are all going to the States up\nnorth! I am going to take them my message! And I am going to school\nthere! Oh, padre, isn't it beautiful!\"\n\n\"Ah, _chiquita_,\" said Rosendo cheerily, straining her to him, \"I\nguess we have decided to send you on ahead--a little ahead of us. Your\nold padre has some business he must attend to here before he leaves.\"\nHis eyes grew moist. Jos\u00e8 knew what his effort at cheerfulness was\ncosting him.\n\n\"But, padre Rosendo, you will come--later? You promise? You must!\" She\nlooked into his eyes, pleading wistfully.\n\n\"Yes, little one, yes--of course. For where you are, there your old\npadre will always be--always--always!\"\n\n\"And Padre Jos\u00e8?\" panted the girl under Rosendo's tight grasp as she\nturned her head toward the priest.\n\n\"He goes with us,\" assured Rosendo--\"I think--at least as far as the\ncoast. He will see Anita--and--\" His voice broke, and he turned\nabruptly away.\n\n\"And she will go to the States with us! Oh, padre!\" cried the girl,\nbounding up and down with joy.\n\nJos\u00e8 turned and went quickly into his own house. With grim determination\nhe drew the battered haircloth trunk from beneath his bed and began\nto throw his few effects into it.\n\nBut he had scarce begun when Juan, now bearing the proud title of\nofficial courier between Simit\u00ed and Bodega Central, entered with a\nletter. Jos\u00e8 recognized the writing, and tore it open at once. It was\nfrom his mother.\n\n\"My beloved son, at last, after these many years of most rigid\neconomy, even of privation, I have saved enough from my meager income,\ntogether with what little you have been able to send me from time to\ntime, and a recent generous contribution from your dear uncle, to\nenable me to visit you. I shall sail for Colombia just as soon as you\nsend me detailed instructions regarding the journey. And, oh, my son,\nto see you offering the Mass in your own church, and to realize that\nyour long delayed preferment is even at hand, for so your good uncle\ninforms me daily, will again warm the blood in a heart long chilled by\npoignant suffering. Till we meet, the Blessed Virgin shield you, my\nbeloved son.\"\n\nThe letter slipped from the priest's fingers and drifted to the floor.\nWith a moan he sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 36\n\n\nWhat had kept Jos\u00e8 de Rinc\u00f3n chained all these years to an institution\nto which in thought, feeling, and sympathy he was so utterly alien, we\nhave repeatedly pointed out--a warped sense of filial devotion, a\ndevotion that would not willingly bring sorrow upon his proud,\nsensitive mother, and yet the kind that so often accomplishes just\nthat which it strives to avoid. But yet he had somehow failed to note\nthe nice distinction which he was always making between the promises\nhe had given to her and the oath which he had taken at his ordination.\nHe had permitted himself to be held to the Church by his mother's fond\ndesires, despite the fact that his nominal observance of these had\nwrecked his own life and all but brought her in sorrow to the grave.\nThe abundance of his misery might be traced to forgetfulness of the\nsapient words of Jesus: \"For whosoever shall do the will of my Father\nwhich is in heaven, the same is my brother, and sister, and mother.\"\n\nThen had come Carmen. And he had sacrificed his new-found life to the\nchild. He had exhausted every expedient to keep himself in Simit\u00ed,\nthat he might transfer his own great learning to this girl, and at the\nsame time yield himself to her beneficent influence. Yet, despite his\nvague hopes, he had always dimly seen the day when she would leave\nhim; but he had likewise tried to feel that when it arrived his own\nstatus would be such that the ecclesiastical ties which bound him\nwould be loosened, and he would be free to follow her. Alas! the lapse\nof years had brought little change in that respect.\n\nBut now he saw the girl entering upon that very hour of departure\nwhich all his life in Simit\u00ed had hung like a menacing cloud above\nhim. And the shock had been such that he had thrown every other\nconsideration to the winds, and, regardless of consequences, was madly\npreparing to accompany her. Then, like a voice from the tomb, had come\nhis mother's letter.\n\nHe slept not that night. Indeed, for the past two nights sleep had\navoided his haggard eyes. In the feeble glow of his candle he sat in\nhis little bedroom by his rough, bare table, far into the hours of\nmorning, struggling, resolving, hoping, despairing--and, at last,\nyielding. If he had been born anew that fateful day, seven years\nbefore, when Rosendo first told him the girl's story, he had this\nnight again died. When the gray hours of dawn stole silently across\nthe distant hills he rose. His eyes were bleared and dull. His cheeks\nsunken. He staggered as he passed out through the living room where\nlay the sleeping Americans. Rosendo met him in front of the house.\n\n\"Padre!\" exclaimed the old man as he noted the priest's appearance.\n\nJos\u00e8 held up a warning hand. \"Do not speak of it, Rosendo. I am not\nwell. But not a word to Carmen!\"\n\nRosendo nodded understandingly. \"It has been hard on you, Padre. But\nyou will soon be off now. And in the States with her--\"\n\n\"For God's sake, friend, never speak of that again!\" cried Jos\u00e8\nsharply. \"Listen! How long will it take to complete your preparations?\"\n\n\"_Bien_,\" returned the amazed Rosendo when he recovered his breath,\n\"we can get away to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Can you not go this evening?\"\n\n\"No, Padre. There is much to do. But you--\"\n\n\"Hear me, friend. Everything must be conducted in the greatest\nsecrecy. It must be given out that the Americans go to explore the\nBoque; that you accompany them as guide; that Carmen goes as--as cook,\nwhy not?\"\n\n\"_Cierto_, she cooks as well as Maria.\"\n\n\"Very well. Juan must be kept in complete ignorance of the real nature\nof your trip. He must not go with you. He is the courier--I will see\nthat Fernando sends him again to Bodega Central to-morrow, and keeps\nhim there for several days. You say it is some two hundred miles to\nLlano. How long will it take to go that distance?\"\n\n\"Why--_Quien sabe_, Padre?\" returned Rosendo thoughtfully. \"With a\nfair trail, and allowing the _Americanos_ some time to prospect on the\nBoque--where they will find nothing--and several days to look over La\nLibertad, we ought to reach Llano in six weeks.\"\n\n\"And Cartagena?\"\n\n\"A week later, if you do not have to wait a month on the river bank\nfor the boat.\"\n\n\"Then, all going well, within two months Carmen should be out of the\ncountry.\"\n\n\"Surely. You and she--\"\n\n\"Enough, friend. I do not go with her.\"\n\n\"What? _Caramba_!\"\n\n\"Go now and bid Carmen come to me immediately after the _desayuno_.\nTell Do\u00f1a Maria that I will eat nothing this morning. I am going up to\nthe old church on the hill.\"\n\nRosendo stared stupidly at the priest. But Jos\u00e8 turned abruptly and\nstarted away, leaving the old man in a maze of bewilderment.\n\nIn the gloom of the old church Jos\u00e8 threw himself upon a bench near\nthe door, and waited torpidly. A few moments later came a voice, and\nthen the soft patter of bare feet in the thick dust without. Carmen\nwas talking as she approached. Jos\u00e8 rose in curiosity; but the girl\nwas alone. In her hand she held a scrubby flower that had drawn a\ndesperate nourishment from the barren soil at the roadside. She\nglanced up at Jos\u00e8 and smiled.\n\n\"It is easy to understand their language, isn't it, Padre? They don't\nspeak as we do, but they reflect. And that is better than speaking.\nThey reflect God. They stand for His ideas in the human mind. And so\ndo you. And I. Aren't they wonderful, these flowers! But you know,\nthey are only the way we interpret certain of God's wonderful ideas.\nOnly, because we mortals believe in death, we see these beautiful\nthings at last reflecting our thought of death--don't we? We see only\nour thoughts, after all. Everything we see about us is reflected\nthought. First we see our thoughts of life and beauty and good. And\nthen our thoughts of decay and death.\n\n\"But God--He never sees anything but the good,\" she went on. \"He sees\nthe real, not the supposition. And when we learn to see only as He\ndoes, why, then we will never again see death. We will see ourselves\nas we really are, immortal. God sees Himself that way. Jesus learned\nto see that way, didn't he? His thought was finally so pure that he\nsaw nothing but good. And that gave him such power that he did those\nthings that the poor, ignorant, wrong-thinking people called miracles.\nBut they were only the things that you and I and everybody else ought\nto be doing to-day--and would be doing, if we thought as he did,\ninstead of thinking of evil.\n\n\"But,\" she panted, as she sat down beside him, \"I've talked a lot,\nhaven't I? And you sent for me because you wanted to talk. But,\nremember,\" holding up an admonitory finger, \"I shall not listen if you\ntalk anything but good. Oh, Padre dear,\" looking up wistfully into his\ndrawn face, \"you are still thinking that two and two are seven! Will\nyou never again think right? How can you ever expect to see good if\nyou look only at evil? If I looked only at wilted flowers I would\nnever know there were any others.\"\n\n\"Carmen,\" he said in a hollow voice, \"I love you.\"\n\n\"Why, of course you do,\" returned the artless girl. \"You can't help\nit. You have just _got_ to love me and everything and everybody.\nThat's reflecting God.\"\n\nHe had not meant to say that. But it had been floating like foam on\nhis tossing mind. He took her hand.\n\n\"You are going away from me,\" he continued, almost in a whisper.\n\n\"Why, no, Padre,\" she replied quickly; \"you are going too! Padre\nRosendo said we could start to-morrow at sunrise.\"\n\n\"I do not go,\" he said in a quavering voice. \"I remain, in Simit\u00ed.\"\n\nShe looked up at him wonderingly. What meant this change which had\ncome over him so suddenly? She drew closer.\n\n\"Why, Padre?\" she whispered.\n\nHis mother's face hovered before him in the dim light. Behind her\na mitered head, symbolizing the Church, nodded and beckoned\nsignificantly. Back of them, as they stood between him and the\ngirl, he saw the glorified vision of Carmen. It was his problem. He\nturned wearily from it to the gentle presence at his side.\n\n\"Why, Padre dear?\" came again the soft question.\n\n\"I stay--to work out--my problem,\" was his scarcely audible reply.\n\nThe girl did not speak. But her breath came more quickly, and her hand\nclosed more tightly about his.\n\n\"Dearest one,\" he murmured, bending over the brown curls, \"it is God's\nway, I guess. Perhaps in the years which I have spent here with you I\nhave had the time and the opportunity to work out my salvation. I am\nsure that I have. But, though I strove in my way, I could not quickly\nacquire your spirituality. I could not at once shake loose those\npoisonous thoughts of a lifetime, which have at last become\nexternalized in separation from all that I hold dearest in this life,\nyou, my beloved girl, you.\" He buried his face in her luxuriant hair\nand strove to hold back the rush of scalding tears.\n\n\"It but shows how poisonous thoughts separate us from all that is\ngood--even from God,\" he continued in a choked voice. \"Oh, my sweet\ngirl, I love you as it seems to me no human being could love another!\nIt has been so from that first day when, a mere babe, your wonderful\neyes held me until I could read in them a depth of love for mankind\nthat was divine.\" It did not seem to him that a mature man was\nspeaking to a mere girl. She seemed, as always, ages beyond him in\nwisdom and experience.\n\nCarmen reached up and wound her arms about his neck. He bent low and\nkissed her brow. Then he drew himself up quickly and resumed his\nbroken talk.\n\n\"I believed at first that my salvation lay in you. And so it did, for\nfrom your clear thought I gleaned my first satisfying knowledge of the\ngreat principle, God. But alas! I could not seem to realize that\nbetween recognizing righteousness as 'right-thinking' and daily\npracticing it so as to 'prove' God there was a great difference. And\nso I rested easy in my first gleams of truth, expecting that they\nwould so warm my soul that it would expand of itself out of all\nerror.\"\n\nShe made as if to reply, but he checked her.\n\n\"I learned enough, I repeat, those first few months here to have\nenabled me to work out my salvation, even though with fear and\ntrembling. But I procrastinated; I vacillated; I still clung to\neffete beliefs and forms of thought which I knew were bound to\nmanifest in unhappiness later. I was afraid to boldly throw myself\nupon my thought. I was mesmerized. Yes, the great Paul was at times\nunder the same mesmeric spell of human belief, even after he had seen\nthe vision of the Christ. But he worked his way steadily out. And now\nI see that I must do likewise, for salvation is an individual\nexperience. No vicarious effort, even of the Christ himself, can save\na man. The principle is already given us. We must apply it to our\nproblems ourselves. My unfinished task--scarcely even begun!--lies\nstill before me. My environment is what I have made it by my own\nthought. I believe you, that I can enter another only as I externalize\nit through righteousness, right-thinking, and 'proving' God.\"\n\nHe paused and bent over the silent little figure nestling so quietly\nat his side. His throat filled. But he caught his breath and went on.\n\n\"You, Carmen, though but a child in years, have risen beyond me, and\nbeyond this lowly encompassment. Why, when you were a mere babe, you\nshould have grasped your padre Rosendo's casual statement that 'God is\neverywhere,' and shaped your life to accord with it, I do not know.\nNor do you. That must remain one of the hidden mysteries of God. But\nthe fact stands that you did grasp it, and that with it as a light\nunto your feet you groped your way out of this environment, avoiding\nall pitfalls and evil snares, until to-day you stand at the threshold\nof another and higher one. So progress must ever be, I now realize. Up\nwe must rise from one plane of human mentality to another, sifting and\nsorting the thoughts that come to us, clinging to these, discarding\nthose, until, even as you have said, we learn at last instantly to\naccept those that mirror forth God, infinite, divine mind, and to\nreject those that bear the stamp of supposition.\"\n\n\"Padre,\" the girl said, lifting her beautiful face to his, \"I have\ntold you so often--when a thought comes to me that I think is not from\nGod, or does not reflect Him, I turn right on it and kill it. You\ncould do the same, if you would.\"\n\n\"Assuredly, child--if I would!\" he replied in bitterness of heart. \"So\ncould all mankind. And then the millennium would be with us, and the\nkingdom of heaven revealed. The mesmeric belief in evil as an entity\nand a power opposed to good alone prevents that. Destroy this belief,\nand the curtain will instantly rise on eternity.\"\n\nHis eyes struggled with hers, as he gazed long and wistfully into\nthem. Lost in his impassioned speech, he had for the moment seemed to\nbe translated. Then a surge of fear-thoughts swept him, and left him\ndwelling on the hazardous journey that awaited her. He wildly clutched\nher again to his side.\n\n\"Carmen--child--how can I let you go! So young, so tender! And that\nawful journey--two hundred miles of unknown jungle, to the far-off\nNech\u00ed! And then the burning river, to Cartagena, where--where _he_ is!\nAnd the States--God, what awaits you there!\"\n\n\"Padre,\" she answered softly, \"I shall not go unless it is right. If\nit is right, then God will take care of me--and of you.\"\n\nAgain she saw only the \"right-best\" thought, while he sat trembling\nbefore its opposite. And the opposite was as yet a supposition!\n\n\"Padre dear, there is no separation, you know. God is everywhere, and\nso there is no separation from good--is there?\"\n\n\"Not in your thought, dearest child,\" he murmured huskily.\n\n\"Well, Padre dear, I am still with you, am I not? Can't you live one\nday at a time? That is what Jesus taught us. You are borrowing from\nto-morrow, and you have no right to do it. That's stealing. God says,\n'Thou shalt not steal,' even from to-morrow.\"\n\nYes, she was still at his side. Perhaps she would not go, after all.\nHe was borrowing, and borrowing supposition. The thought seemed to\nlighten his load momentarily.\n\n\"Padre dear.\"\n\n\"Yes, _chiquita_.\"\n\n\"You have been thinking so many bad thoughts of late--I don't suppose\nyou have had any good thoughts at all about Anita's little babe?\"\n\n\"The babe?\" in a tone of astonishment.\n\n\"Yes. You know, it is not blind. You promised me that every day you\nwould just _know_ that.\"\n\nThe rebuke smote him sore. Aye, his crowning sin was revealed again in\nall its ugly nakedness. Egoism! His thought was always of his own\ntroubles, his own longings, his own fears. Self-centeredness had left\nno room for thoughts of Ana's blind babe. And why was he now straining\nthis beautiful girl to himself? Was it fear for her, or for himself?\nYet she gave but little heed to her own needs. Always her concern was\nfor others, others who stumbled and drooped because of the human\nmind's false, unreal, undemonstrable beliefs and ignorance of the\nallness of God.\n\n\"Ah, child,\" he exclaimed penitently, \"such love! How could I dare to\nhope ever to claim it! How can you say that you love me?\"\n\n\"Why, Padre, I love the real 'you,' the 'you' that is going to be\nbrought out, and that will become more and more clear, until at last\nit stands as the perfect reflection of God. Haven't I told you that,\ntime and time again?\"\n\n\"Yes, child. You love the ideal. But--to live with me--to be my--\"\n\n\"Well, Padre, if we were not still human we would not be thinking that\nwe were on earth. We have got to work out of this human way of\nthinking and living. And it has seemed to me that you and I could work\nout of it so much better together, you helping me, manifesting God's\nprotection and care, and I helping you, as you say I can and do. And\nhow can we live together and work together unless we marry? Ages make\nno difference! And time is only a human concept.\"\n\nHe would not try to explain her reasoning, her contempt for\nconvention. It would be gratuitous. As for him, women had never\nconstituted a temptation. He knew that he loved this simple, ingenuous\ngirl with a tenderness of passion that was wholly free from the dross\nof mesmerism. With that he remained content.\n\n\"Padre, if you think you must stay here for a little while, to work\nout your problem, why, I shall just _know_ that evil can not separate\nus. I don't like to even seem to go away without you. But--it will be\nonly seeming, after all, won't it? God's children can not really be\nseparated--never!\"\n\nShe was still paying faithful tribute to her vision of the spiritual\nuniverse. And how her words comforted him! How like a benison they\nflowed over his drooping spirits!\n\n\"And now, Padre dear,\" she said, rising from the bench,--\"we have done\nall we could--left everything with God--haven't we? I must go now, for\nmadre Maria told me to come back soon. She needs me.\"\n\n\"Don't--no, not yet! Wait--Carmen! Sing for me--just once more! Sing\nagain the sweet melody that I heard when I awoke from the fever that\nday long ago!\"\n\nHe drew her unresisting to his side. Nestling close against him, her\nhead resting on his shoulder and her hand in his, she sang again the\nsong that had seemed to lift him that distant day far, far above the\npitiful longings and strivings of poor humanity, even unto the gates\nof the city of eternal harmony.\n\nShe finished, and the last clear, sweet note echoed through the musty\nroom and died among the black rafters overhead. A holy silence fell\nupon them as they sat, hand in hand, facing the future. Hot tears were\nstreaming down the man's cheeks. They fell sparkling like drops of\ndew upon her brown curls. But he made no complaint. The girl, obedient\nto the vision, was reaping her reward. He, timid, wavering, doubting,\nwas left, still pecking at the shell of his dreary environment. It was\nbut the working of the infinite law of cause and effect. But did he\nimagine that out in the world she would not still find tribulation,\neven as the Saviour had said? Aye, she would, in abundance! But she\nleaned on her sustaining God. Her Christ had overcome the world. And\nso should she. She had already passed through such fiery trials that\nhe knew no contrary belief in evil now could weaken or counterbalance\nher supreme confidence in immanent good.\n\n\"Padre dear.\"\n\n\"_Chiquita_.\"\n\n\"If I have to go and leave you, will you promise me that you will act\nyour knowledge of the Christ-principle and work out your problem, so\nthat you may come to me soon?\"\n\nThe tug at his heartstrings brought a moan to his lips. He smothered\nit. \"Yes, _chiquita_.\"\n\n\"And--you will keep your promise about Anita's babe?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nShe rose and, still holding his hand, led him down the hill and to\nRosendo's house.\n\nThroughout the remainder of that feverishly busy day the priest clung\nto the girl like a shadow. They talked together but little, for she\nwas in constant demand to help her foster-mother in the preparations\nfor the long journey. But Jos\u00e8 was ever at her side. Again and again\nhe would seize her hand and press it to his burning lips. Again and\nagain he would stroke her soft hair, or stretch out his hand to touch\nher dress as she passed him. Always when she glanced up at him the\nsame sweet, compassionate smile glowed on her face. When she left the\nhouse, he followed. When she bent over the ash-strewn fireplace, or\nwashed the few plain dishes, he sought to share her employment; and,\nwhen gently, lovingly repulsed, sat dully, with his yearning eyes\nriveted upon her. Rosendo saw him, and forgot his own sorrow in pity\nfor the suffering priest.\n\nThe preparations carried the toilers far into the night. But at length\nthe last bundle was strapped to its _siete_, the last plan discussed\nand agreed upon, and the two Americans had thrown themselves upon\ntheir cots for a brief rest before dawn. Rosendo took Jos\u00e8 aside,\nwhile Do\u00f1a Maria and Carmen sought their beds.\n\n\"Fernando sends Juan to Bodega Central at daybreak,\" the old man said.\n\"All has been kept secret. No one suspects our plans. Maria remains\nhere with you until I return. Then we may go to the _hacienda_ of Don\nNicol\u00e1s, on the Boque. I shall tell him to have it in readiness on my\nreturn. I shall probably not get back to Simit\u00ed for two months. If, as\nyou say, you still think best not to go with the Americans and the\ngirl, what will you do here? The people are much divided. Some say\nthey intend to ask the Bishop to remove you. _Bien_, will you not\ndecide to go?\"\n\nJos\u00e8 could not make audible reply. He shook his head, and waved\nRosendo away. Then, taking a chair, he went into the sleeping room and\nsat down at the bedside of the slumbering girl. Reaching over, he took\nher hand.\n\nWhat was it that she had said to him that day, long gone, when Diego\nclaimed her as his child? Ah, yes:\n\n\"Don't feel badly, Padre dear. His thoughts have only the minus\nsign--and that means nothing, you know.\"\n\nAnd later, many weeks later:\n\n\"Padre, you can not think wrong and right thoughts together, you know.\nYou can not be happy and unhappy at the same time. You can not be sick\nand well together.\" In other words, the wise little maid was trying to\nshow him that Paul spoke directly to such as he when he wrote: Know ye\nnot, that to whom ye yield yourselves servants to obey, his servants\nye are--?\n\n\"You can not have both good and evil, Padre,\" she had so often\ninsisted. \"You must want good--want it more than anything else. And\nthen you must prepare for it by thinking right thoughts and unthinking\nwrong ones. And as you prepare for good, you must _know_ that it is\ncoming. But you must not say how it shall come, nor what it shall look\nlike. You must not say that it shall be just as you may think you\nwould like to have it. Leave the--the externalization to God. Then it\nwill meet all your needs.\n\n\"You see, Padre dear\"--oh, how the memory of her words smote him\nnow!--\"you see, the good Jesus told the people to clean their\nwindow-panes and let in the light--good thoughts--for then these would\nbe externalized in health, happiness, and all good, instead of the\nold, bad thoughts being externalized longer in sickness and evil.\nDon't you see?\"\n\nAye, he saw. He saw that the Christ-idea found expression and\nreflection in the pure mentality of this girl. He saw that that\nmentality was unsullied, uneducated in the lore of human belief, and\nuntrained to fear. He saw that the resurrection of the Christ, for\nwhich a yearning world waits, was but the rising of the Christ-idea\nin the human mentality. And he saw, too, that ere the radiant\nresurrection morn can arrive there must be the crucifixion, a\nworld-wide crucifixion of human, carnal thought. Follow Christ! Aye,\nfollow him! But will ye not learn that following him means _thinking_\nas he did? And his thoughts were God's.\n\nBut Jos\u00e8 had tried to think aright during those years in Simit\u00ed. True,\nbut the efforts had been spasmodic. From childhood he had passed\nthrough doubt, fear, scepticism, and final agnosticism. Then he had\nstarted anew and aright. And then had come the \"day of judgment,\" the\nrecurrent hours of sore trial--and he had not stood. Called upon to\nprove God, to prove the validity of his splendid deductions, he had\nvacillated between the opposing claims of good and evil, and had\nfloundered helplessly. And now he stood confronting his still unsolved\nproblem, realizing as never before that in the solving of it he must\nunlearn the intellectual habits of a lifetime.\n\nThere were other problems which lay still unsolved before him as he\nsat there that night. The sable veil of mystery which hung about\nCarmen's birth had never been penetrated, even slightly. What woman's\nface was that which looked out so sadly from the little locket?\n\"Dolores\"--sorrowful, indeed! What tragedy had those great, mournful\neyes witnessed? No, Carmen did not greatly resemble her. He used to\nthink so, but not of late. Did she, he wondered, resemble the man? And\nhad the mother's kisses and hot tears blurred the portrait beneath\nwhich he had so often read the single inscription, \"Guillermo\"? If so,\ncould not the portrait be cleaned? But Jos\u00e8 himself had not dared\nattempt it. Perhaps some day that could be done by one skilled in such\nart.\n\nAnd did Carmen inherit any of her unique traits from either of her\nparents? Her voice, her religious instinct, her keen mentality--whence\ncame they? \"From God,\" the girl would always answer whenever he voiced\nthe query in her presence. And he could not gainsay it.\n\nSeven years had passed. And Jos\u00e8 found himself sitting beside the\nsleeping girl and dumbly yielding to the separation which now had\ncome. Was his work finished? His course run? And, if he must live and\nsolve his problem, could he stand after she had left? He bent closer\nto her, and listened to the gentle breathing. He seemed again to see\nher, as he was wont in the years past, flitting about her diminutive\nrose garden and calling to him to come and share her boundless joy.\n\"Come!\" he heard her call. \"Come, Padre dear, and see my beautiful\nthoughts!\" And then, so often, \"Oh, Padre!\" bounding into his arms,\n\"here is a beautiful thought that came to me to-day, and I caught it\nand wouldn't let it go!\" Lonely, isolated child, having nothing in\ncommon with the children of her native heath, yet dwelling ever in a\nworld peopled with immaculate concepts!\n\nJos\u00e8 shook his head slowly. He thought of the day when he had\napproached Rosendo with his great question. \"Rosendo,\" he had said in\ndeep earnestness, \"where, oh, where did Carmen get these ideas? Did\nyou teach them to her?\"\n\n\"No, Padre,\" Rosendo had replied gravely. \"When she was a little\nthing, just learning to talk, she often asked about God. And one day I\ntold her that God was everywhere--what else could I say? _Bien_, a\nstrange light came into her eyes. And after that, Padre, she talked\ncontinually about Him, and to Him. And she seemed to know Him well--so\nwell that she saw Him in every thing and every place. Padre, it is\nvery strange--very strange!\"\n\nNo, it was not strange, Jos\u00e8 had thought, but beautifully natural. And\nlater, when he came to teach her, his constant endeavor had been to\nimpart his secular knowledge to the girl without endangering her\nmarvelous faith in her immanent God. In that he had succeeded, for in\nthat there had been no obstructing thoughts of self to overcome.\n\nAnd now--\n\n\"For a small moment have I forsaken thee; but with great mercies will\nI gather thee--\"\n\nThe night shadows fled. Day dawned. Jos\u00e8 still sat at the girl's\nbedside, dumb and motionless. Carmen awoke, and threw her arms about\nhim. But Rosendo appeared and hurried her out to the light morning\nrepast, for they must lose no time in starting. Every moment now was\nprecious. By ten o'clock the savannas would be too hot to cross, and\nthey lay some distance from Simit\u00ed. Reed and Harris were bustling\nabout, assembling the packers and cracking jokes as they strapped the\nchairs to the men's backs. Do\u00f1a Maria's eyes were red with weeping,\nbut she kept silence. Jos\u00e8 wandered about like a wraith. Don Jorge\ngrimly packed his own kit and prepared to set out for the Magdalena,\nfor he had suddenly announced his determination not to accompany\nRosendo and his party, but to go back and consult with Don Carlos\nNoros\u00ed in regard to the future. An hour later he left Simit\u00ed.\n\nAt last Rosendo's voice rang out in a great shout:\n\n\"_Ya est\u00e1! V\u00e1monos!\"_\n\n\"Bully-bueno!\" responded Harris, waving his long arms.\n\nThe _cargadores_ moved forward in the direction of the Boque trail.\nThe Americans, with a final _adios_ to Do\u00f1a Maria and the priest,\nswung into line behind them. Rosendo again tenderly embraced his\nweeping spouse, and then, turned to Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"The Virgin watch over you and Maria, Padre! I leave her in your care.\nIf the war comes, flee with her to the Boque.\"\n\nHe threw an arm about the priest and kissed him on both cheeks. Then,\ncalling to Carmen, he turned and started after the others.\n\nThe girl rushed into Jos\u00e8's arms. Her tears flowed freely.\n\n\"Padre,\" she murmured, clinging to him and showering him with kisses,\n\"I love you, love you, love you! I will wait for you up there. You\nwill come--or I will come back to you. And I will work for you every\nday. I will know that you are God's child, and that you will solve\nyour problem!\"\n\nRosendo, half way down the road, turned and called sharply to her. The\ngirl hurried after him. But again she stopped, turned around, and flew\nback to Jos\u00e8, as he knelt in the dust and, with tongue cleaving to his\nmouth, held out his trembling arms.\n\n\"Padre, dearest, dearest Padre,\" she sobbed, \"I love you, I love you!\nAnd--I had forgotten--this--it is for you to read every day--every\nday!\" She thrust a folded paper into his hand. Again she tore herself\naway and ran after the impatient Rosendo. In a moment they were out of\nsight.\n\nA groan of anguish escaped the stricken priest. He rose from his knees\nand followed stumbling after the girl. As he reached the shales he saw\nher far in the distance at the mouth of the trail. She turned, and\nwaved her hand to him. Then the dark trail swallowed her, and he saw\nher no more.\n\nFor a moment he stood like a statue, striving with futile gaze to\npenetrate that black opening in the dense bush that had engulfed his\nvery soul. His bloodshot eyes were wild. His lips fluttered. His hand\nclosed convulsively over the paper which the girl had left with him.\nMechanically he opened it and read:\n\n  \"Dearest, dearest Padre, these four little Bible verses I leave\n  with you; and you will promise your little girl that you will\n  always live by them. Then your problem will be solved.\n\n  \"1. Thou shall have no other gods before me.\n\n  \"2. Love thy neighbor as thyself.\n\n  \"3. Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in\n  heaven is perfect.\n\n  \"4. Whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.\n\n  \"And, Padre, my dearest, dearest Padre, _God is everywhere_.\"\n\nHis hand fell. His brain reeled, and he swayed like a drunken man. He\nturned about, muttering incoherently. Do\u00f1a Maria stood behind him.\nTenderly taking his arm, she led him back to the forlorn little house.\nIts ghastly emptiness smote him until his reason tottered. He sank\ninto a chair and gazed with dull, stony eyes out over the placid\nlake, where the white beams of the rising sun were breaking into\nmyriad colors against the brume.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 37\n\n\nThe two hundred miles which lay before Rosendo and his little band\nstretched their rugged, forbidding length through ragged ca\u00f1ons,\nrushing waters, and dank, virginal forest. Only the old man, as he\ntrudged along the worn trail between Simit\u00ed and the Inanea river,\nwhere canoes waited to transport the travelers to the little village\nof Boque, had any adequate conception of what the journey meant. Even\nthe _cargadores_ were unfamiliar with the region which they were to\npenetrate. Some of them had been over the Guamoc\u00f3 trail as far as\nCulata; a few had ascended the Boque river to its farthest navigable\npoint. But none had penetrated the inmost reaches of the great ca\u00f1on\nthrough which the headwaters tumbled and roared, and none had ever\ndreamed of making the passage over the great divide, the _Barra\nPrincipal_, to the Tigu\u00ed beyond.\n\nTo the Americans, fresh from the luxury and convention of city life,\nand imbued with the indomitable Yankee spirit of adventure, the\nprospect was absorbing in its allurements. Especially to the\nexcitable, high-strung Harris, whose great eyes almost popped from his\nhead at the continuous display of tropical marvels, and whose\nexclamations of astonishment and surprise, enriched from his\ninexhaustible store of American slang and miner's parlance, burst from\nhis gaping mouth at every turn of the sinuous trail. From the outset,\nhe had constituted himself Carmen's special protector, although\nmuch to Rosendo's consternation, for the lank, awkward fellow, whose\nlean shoulders bent under the weight of some six-feet-two of\nheight, went stumbling and tripping along the way, swaying against\nevery tree and bush that edged the path, and constantly giving noisy\nvent to his opinions regarding trails in general, and those of the\ntropics in particular. His only accouterment was a Winchester\nrifle of tremendous bore, which he insisted on carrying in constant\nreadiness to meet either beasts of prey or savage Indians, but\nwhich, in his absent-mindedness and dreamy preoccupation, he\neither dragged, muzzle up, or carried at such dangerous angles that\nthe natives were finally obliged, in self-protection, to insist\nthat he hand the weapon over to Rosendo. To Carmen, as the days\npassed and she gradually recognized his sterling qualities, he\nbecame a source of delight. Hour after hour she trotted along after\nhim, chatting merrily in her beloved English tongue, poking fun at\nhis awkwardness, and laughing boisterously over his quaint slang and\nna\u00efve Yankee expressions. She had never heard such things from Jos\u00e8;\nnor had the priest, despite his profound knowledge, ever told her\nsuch exciting tales as did Harris, when he drew from his store of\nfrontier memories and colored his narratives with the rich tints\nfurnished by his easy imagination.\n\nThe first day out had been one of mental struggle for the girl. She\nhad turned into the trail, after waving a last farewell to Jos\u00e8, with\na feeling that she had never experienced before. For hours she trudged\nalong, oblivious of her environment, murmuring, \"It isn't true--it\nisn't true!\" until Harris, his curiosity aroused by the constant\nrepetition which floated now and then to his ears, demanded to know\nwhat it was that was so radically false.\n\n\"It isn't true that we can be separated,\" she answered, looking at him\nwith moist eyes.\n\n\"We?\" he exclaimed.\n\n\"Yes, God's children--people--people--who--love each other,\" she\nreplied. Then she dropped her eyes in evident embarrassment, and\nrefused to discuss the topic further.\n\n\"Lord Harry!\" ejaculated Harris, pondering the cryptical remark, \"you\nsurely are a queer little dud!\"\n\nBut the girl turned from him to Rosendo. He understood her. Nor would\nshe permit the old man to leave her until, late that night, exhausted\nby the excitement of the day, she dropped asleep in the house of Don\nNicol\u00e1s, on the muddy margin of the river Boque, still clinging to\nRosendo's hand.\n\nDespite the protestations of Don Nicol\u00e1s and the pleading of the\n_cargadores_, Rosendo stolidly refused to spend a day at Boque.\nApprehension lashed him furiously on. They were still within reach of\nthe federal authorities. He dared not rest until the jungle had\nswallowed them.\n\n\"Ah, _compadre_,\" said Don Nicol\u00e1s, in disappointment, \"I would like\nmuch for you to enjoy my house while it is still clean. For the ants\nhave visited me. _Hombre_! they swarmed down upon us but a day ago.\nThey came out of the bush in millions, straight for the house. We\nfled. _Caramba_! had we remained, we should have been eaten alive. But\nthey swept the house--_Hombre_! no human hands could have done so\nwell. Every spider, every rat, beetle, flea, every plague, was\ninstantly eaten, and within a half hour they had disappeared again,\nand we moved back into a thoroughly cleaned house!\"\n\nHarris stood with mouth agape in mute astonishment when Carmen, whom\nhe had constituted his interpreter, translated to him the story.\n\nThat evening, after they had eaten out in the open before the house,\nand the Americans had tickled the palates of the villagers with some\ntinned beef of uncertain quality, Don Nicol\u00e1s approached Reed.\n\"Se\u00f1or,\" he said, \"my mother, now very aged, is sick, and we think she\ncan not recover. But you Americanos are wonderfully skilled, and your\nmedicines powerful. Have you not some remedy in your pack that will\nalleviate the good woman's sufferings? They are severe, se\u00f1or.\"\n\nReed knew how great was the faith of these simple people in the wisdom\nof the American, and he had reason to wish to preserve it. But he had\ncome into that country illy prepared to cope with disease, and his\nmedical equipment contained nothing but quinine. He reflected a\nmoment, then turned to Harris.\n\n\"Did you smuggle any of your beloved root-beer extract into the\nequipment?\" he inquired, his eyes twinkling.\n\nHarris looked sheepish, but returned a sullen affirmative.\n\n\"Well,\" continued Reed, \"dig out a bottle and we'll fix up a dose of\npain-killer for our worthy host's mother.\"\n\nThen he turned to Don Nicol\u00e1s. \"Cierto, se\u00f1or,\" he said with an air of\nconfidence. \"I have a remedy which I know to be unfailing for any\ndisease.\"\n\nHe disappeared into the house, from which he emerged again in a few\nmoments with an empty cola bottle. Washing this clean in the river, he\npartly filled it with water. Then he poured in the small bottle of\nroot-beer extract which Harris handed him, and added a few grains of\nquinine. Shaking the mixture thoroughly, he carried it to Don\nNicol\u00e1s.\n\n\"Be very careful, se\u00f1or,\" he admonished, giving him the bottle. \"It is\na medicine extremely powerful and immediate in its action. Give the\nse\u00f1ora a small teaspoonful every hour. By morning you will notice a\nmarked change.\"\n\nDon Nicol\u00e1s's eyes lighted with joy, and his gratitude poured forth in\nextravagant expressions.\n\nWith the first indications of approaching day Rosendo was abroad,\nrounding up his cargadores, who were already bickering as to their\nrespective duties, and arranging the luggage in the canoes for the\nriver trip. Additional boats and men had been secured; and Don Nicol\u00e1s\nhimself expressed his intention of accompanying them as far as his\nhacienda, Maria Rosa, a day's journey up-stream.\n\n\"It was there that I hid during the last revolution,\" he said, \"when\nthe soldiers burned the village and cut off the ears and fingers of\nour women for their rings. Ah, se\u00f1ores, you can not know how we\nsuffered! All my goods stolen or burned--my family scattered--my\n_finca_ destroyed! We lived two years at Maria Rosa, not daring to\ncome down the river again. We wore the skins of animals for clothing.\n_Caramba_!\" His eyes burned fiercely as he spoke, and his hands opened\nand closed convulsively. He was a representative of that large class\nof _rurales_ upon whom the heaviest burdens, the greatest suffering,\nand the most poignant sorrow attending a political revolution always\nfall.\n\n\"But, se\u00f1or!\" he exclaimed, suddenly turning to Reed, \"I had all but\nforgotten! My mother, she sends for you. She would see the kind\nAmerican whose remedies are so wonderful. For, se\u00f1or, she rose from\nher bed this morning restored! And you must leave us another bottle of\nthe remedy--at whatever price, se\u00f1or!\"\n\nReed gazed at the man uncomprehendingly, until at length the truth\ndawned upon him. His root-beer remedy had done its work! Then a broad\ngrin mantled his face; but he quickly suppressed it and went with Don\nNicol\u00e1s to receive in person his patient's effusive thanks. When he\nreturned and took his place in the waiting boat, he shook his head.\n\"It's past all understanding,\" he muttered to Harris, \"what faith will\ndo! I can believe now that it will remove mountains.\"\n\nThroughout the long, interminably long, hot day the perspiring men\npoled and paddled, urged and teased, waded and pushed against the\nincreasing current, until, as the shadows began to close around them,\nthey sighted the scarcely visible opening in the bush which marked the\ntrail to the _hacienda_ of Maria Rosa. It was a desperately lonely\nclearing on the verge of the jungle; but there were two thatch-covered\nsheds, and to the exhausted travelers it gave assurance of rest and\nprotection. Before they made the landing Rosendo's sharp eyes had\nspied a large ant-eater and her cub, moving sluggishly through the\nbush; and Reed's quick shots had brought them both down. The men's\neyes dilated when the animals were dragged into the canoes. It meant\nfresh meat instead of salt _bagre_ for at least two days.\n\nEarly next morning the travelers bade farewell to Don Nicol\u00e1s and set\ntheir course again up-stream. They would now see no human being other\nthan the members of their own little party until they reached Llano,\non the distant Nech\u00ed.\n\n\"Remember,\" called Don Nicol\u00e1s, as the canoes drifted out into the\nstream, \"the _quebrada_ of Caracol\u00ed is the third on the right. An old\ntrail used to lead from there across to the Tiguicito--but I doubt if\nyou find even a trace of it now. There is no water between that point\nand the Tiguicito. _Conque, adios, se\u00f1ores, adios_!\"\n\nThe hallooing of farewells echoed along the river and died away in the\ndark forest on either hand. Harris and Reed settled back in their\ncanoe and yielded to the fascination of the slowly shifting scene.\nCarmen chose to occupy the same canoe with them, and perforce Rosendo\nacted as _patron_. They therefore took the lead. Between his knees\nReed held the rifle upright, in readiness for any animal whose\ncuriosity might bring it to the water's edge to view the rare pageant\npassing through that unbroken solitude.\n\nThe river was now narrowing, and there were often rapids whose ascent\nnecessitated disembarking from the canoes, while the _bogas_ strained\nand teased the lumbering dugouts up over them. In places the stream\nwas choked by fallen trees and tangled driftwood, until only a narrow,\ntortuous opening was left, through which the waters raced like a\nmill-course, making a heavy draft on the intuitive skill of the\n_bogas_. Often slender islets rose from the river; and then heated,\nchattering, often acrimonious discussions ensued among the men as to\nthe proper channel to take. Always on either side rose the matted,\ntangled, impenetrable forest wall of dense bush and giant trees, from\nwhich innumerable trailers and _bejuco_ vines dropped into the waters\nbeneath. From the surface of the river to the tops of the great trees,\noften two hundred feet above, hung a drapery of creeping plants, of\nparasitical growths, and diversified foliage, of the most vivid shades\nof green, inextricably laced and interwoven, and dotted here and there\nwith orchideous flowers and strange blossoms, while in the tempered\nsunlight which sifted through it sported gorgeous insects and\nbutterflies of enormous size and exquisite shades, striped and spotted\nin orange, blue, and vivid red. Scarcely a hand's breadth of the\njungle wall but contained some strange, eerie animal or vegetable form\nthat brought expressions of wonder and astonishment from the\nenraptured Americans. At times, too, there were grim tragedies being\nenacted before them. In one spot a huge, hairy spider, whose delicate,\nlace-like web hung to the water's edge, was viciously wrapping its\nsilken thread about a tiny bird that had become entangled. Again, a\nshriek from beyond the river's margin told of some careless monkey or\nsmall animal that had fallen prey to a hungry jaguar. Above the\ntravelers all the day swung the ubiquitous buzzards, with their\nwatchful, speculative eyes ever on the slowly moving cavalcade.\n\nCarmen sat enthralled. If her thought reverted at all to the priest,\nshe gave no hint of it. But once, leaning back and gazing off into\nthe opalescent sky overhead, she murmured: \"And to think, it is only\nthe way the human mind translates God's ideas! How wonderful must they\nbe! And some day I shall see those ideas, instead of the mortal mind's\ninterpretations of them!\"\n\nHarris heard her, and asked her to repeat her comments in English. But\nshe refused. \"You would not understand,\" she said simply. And no\nbadinage on his part could further influence her.\n\nRosendo, inscrutable and silent, showed plainly the weight of\nresponsibility which he felt. Only twice that day did he emerge from\nthe deep reserve into which he had retired; once when, in the far\ndistance, his keen eye espied a small deer, drinking at the water's\nedge, but which, scenting the travelers, fled into cover ere Reed\ncould bring the rifle to his shoulders; and again, when they were upon\na jaguar almost before either they or the astonished animal realized\nit.\n\nIn the tempered rays of the late afternoon sun the flower-bespangled\nwalls of the forest became alive with gaily painted birds and insects.\nTroops of chattering monkeys awoke from their midday _siesta_ and\nscampered noisily through the treetops over the aerial highways\nformed by the liana vines, whose great bush-ropes, often a foot and\nmore in thickness, stretched their winding length long distances\nthrough the forest, and bound the vegetation together in an\nintricate, impenetrable network. Yellow and purple blossoms, in a\nriot of ineffable splendor, bedecked the lofty trees and tangled\nparasitical creepers that wrapped around them, constituting\nveritable hanging gardens. Great palms, fattened by the almost\nincessant rains in this hot-house of Nature, rose in the spaces\nunoccupied by the buttressed roots of the forest giants. Splendidly\ntailored kingfishers swooped over the water, scarce a foot above its\nsurface. Quarreling parrots and nagging macaws screamed their\ninarticulate message to the travelers. Tiny forest gems, the\ninfinitely variegated _colibr\u00ed_, whirred across the stream and\nfollowed its margins until attracted by the gorgeous pendent flowers.\nOn the _playas_ in the hazy distance ahead the travelers could often\ndistinguish tall, solemn cranes, dancing their grotesque measures, or\nstanding on one leg and dreaming away their little hour of life in\nthis terrestrial fairy-land.\n\nDarkness fell, almost with the swiftness of a snuffed candle. For an\nhour Rosendo had been straining his eyes toward the right bank of the\nriver, and as he gazed his apprehension increased. But, as night\nclosed in, a soft murmur floated down to the cramped, toil-worn\ntravelers, and the old man, with a glad light in his eyes, announced\nthat they were approaching the _quebrada_ of Caracol\u00ed. A half hour\nlater, by the weird, flickering light of the candles which Reed and\nHarris held out on either side, Rosendo turned the canoe into a\nbrawling stream, and ran its nose into the deep alluvial soil.\nPlunging fearlessly through the fringe of delicate ferns which lined\nthe margin of the creek, he cut a wide swath with his great _machete_\nand uncovered a dim trail, which led to a ramshackle, thatch-covered\nhut a few yards beyond. It was the tumbled vestige of a shelter which\nDon Nicol\u00e1s had erected years before while hunting wild pigs through\nthis trackless region. An hour later the little group lay asleep on\nthe damp ground, wrapped in the solitude of the great forest.\n\nThe silvery haze of dawn was dimming the stars and deepening into\nruddier hues that tinged the fronds of the mighty trees as with\nstreaks of blood when Rosendo, like an implacable Nemesis, prodded his\nlittle party into activity. Their first day's march through the\nwilderness was to begin, and the old man moved with the nervous,\nrestless energy of a hunted jaguar. The light breakfast of coffee and\ncold _arepa_ over, he dismissed the _bogas_, who were to return to\nBoque with the canoes, and set about arranging the cargo in suitable\npacks for the _cargadores_ who were to accompany him over the long\nreaches of jungle that stretched between them and Llano. Two\n_macheteros_ were sent on ahead of the main party to locate and open a\ntrail. The rest followed an hour later. Before the shimmering,\nopalescent rays which overspread the eastern sky had begun to turn\ndownward, the little cavalcade, led by Rosendo, had taken the narrow,\nnewly-cut trail and plunged into the shadows of the forest--\n\n  \"the great, dim, mysterious forest, where uncertainty wavers to an\n  interrogation point.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 38\n\n\nThe emotion of the jungle is a direct function of human temperament.\nWhere one sees in it naught but a \"grim, green sepulcher,\" teeming with\nmalignant, destructive forces, inimical to health, to tranquillity, to\nlife, another--perhaps a member of the same party--will find in the\nwanton extravagance of Nature, her prodigious luxury, her infinite\nvariety of form, of color, and sound, such stimuli to the imagination,\nand such invitation to further discovery and development, as to\nconstitute a lure as insidious and unescapable as the habit which too\noften follows the first draft of the opium's fumes. There are those\nwho profess to have journeyed through vast stretches of South\nAmerican _selva_ without encountering a wild animal. Others, with sight\nand hearing keener, and with a sense of observation not dulled by\nfutile lamentations over the absence of the luxuries of civilized\ntravel, will uncover a wealth of experiences which feed the memory\nthroughout their remaining years, and mold an irresistible desire to\npenetrate again those vast, teeming, baffling solitudes.\n\nIt is true, the sterner aspect of the South American jungle\naffords little invitation to repose or restful contemplation. And\nthe charm which its riotous prodigality exerts is in no sense\nidyllic. For the jungle falls upon one with the force of a blow. It\ngrips by its massiveness, its awful grandeur. It does not entice\nadmiration, but exacts obeisance by brute force. Its silence is a\ndull roar. Its rest is continuous motion, incessant activity. The\ngarniture of its trackless wastes is that of great daubs of vivid\ncolor, laid thick upon the canvas with the knife--never modulated,\nnever worked into delicate shading with the brush, but attracting\nby its riot, its audacity, its immensity, its disdain of convention,\nits utter disregard of the canons cherished by the puny mind that\ncontemplates it. The forest's appeal is a reflex of its own infinite\ncomplexity. The sensations which it arouses within the one who steps\nfrom civilization into its very heart are myriad, and often\nterrible. The instinct of self-preservation is by it suddenly,\nrudely aroused and kept keenly alive. Its inhospitality is menacing.\nThe roar of its howling monkeys strikes terror to the timid heart.\nThe plaintive calls of its persecuted feathered denizens echo through\nthe mysterious vastnesses like despairing voices from a spirit\nworld. The crashing noises, the strange, weird, unaccountable\nsounds that hurtle through its dimly lighted corridors blanch the\nface and cause the hand to steal furtively toward the loosely\nsheathed weapon. The piercing, frenzied screams which arise with\nblood-curdling effect through the awful stillness of noonday or the\ndead of night, turn the startled thought with sickening yearning\ntoward the soft charms of civilization, in which the sense of\nprotection is greater, even if actual security is frequently less.\n\nBecause of Nature's utter disregard of the individual, life is\neverywhere. And that life is sharply armed and on the defensive.\nThe rising heat-waves hum with insects. The bush swarms with them.\nTheir droning murmur crowds the air. The trunks of trees, the\ngreat, pendent leaves of plants, the trailing vines, slimy with dank\nvegetation, afford footing and housing to countless myriads of\nthem, keenly alert, ferociously resistive. The decaying logs fester\nwith scorpions. The ground is cavernous with the burrows of\nlizards and crawling forms, with centipedes and fierce formicidae.\nDeath and terror stalk hand in hand. But life trails them. Where\none falls, countless others spring up to fill the gap. The rivers\nand _pantanos_ yield their quota of variegated forms. The flat\n_perania_, the dreaded electric eel, infests the warm streams, and\ninflicts its torture without discrimination upon all who dare invade\nits domain. Snakes lurk in the fetid swamps and lagoons, the\nbrilliant coral and the deadly _m\u00e1pina_. Beneath the forest leaves\ncoils the brown adder, whose sting proves fatal within three days.\n\nTo those who see only these aspects of the jungle, a journey such as\nthat undertaken by Rosendo and his intrepid little band would prove a\nterrifying experience, a constant repetition of nerve-shocks, under\nwhich the \"centers\" must ultimately give way. But to the two\nAmericans, fresh from the mining camps of the West, and attuned to any\npitch that Nature might strike in her marvelous symphony, the\nexperience was one to be taken in the same spirit as all else that\npertained to their romantic calling. Rosendo and his men accepted the\nday's stint of toil and danger with dull stolidity. Carmen threw\nherself upon her thought, and saw in her shifting environment only the\nhuman mind's interpretation of its mixed concept of good and evil. The\ninsects swarmed around her as around the others. The tantalizing\n_jejenes_ urged their insidious attacks upon her, as upon the rest.\nHer hands were dotted with tiny blood-blisters where the ravenous\ngnats had fed. But she uttered no complaint; nor would she discuss the\nmatter when Harris proffered his sympathy, and showed his own red\nhands.\n\n\"It isn't true,\" she would say. \"But you have no religion, and you\ndon't understand--as yet.\"\n\n\"Don't understand? And it isn't true, eh? Well, you have mighty\nstrange beliefs, young lady!\"\n\n\"But not as strange and illogical as those you hold,\" she replied.\n\n\"Oh, I don't believe anything,\" he answered, with a shrug of his\nshoulders. \"I'm an agnostic, you know.\"\n\n\"There is just where you mistake, Mr. Harris,\" she returned gravely.\n\"For, instead of not believing anything, you firmly believe in the\npresence and power of evil. It is just those very people who boast\nthat they do not believe in anything who believe most thoroughly in\nevil and its omnipotence and omnipresence.\"\n\nYes, even the animals which she saw about her were but the human\nmind's concepts of God's ideas--not real. Adam had named them. In the\nBible allegory, or dream, the human, mortal mind names all its own\nmaterial concepts.\n\nThe days wore on with dull regularity. From the rippling Tiguicito,\nwhich they reached choking with thirst and utterly exhausted, they\ndropped down again to the Boque, where they established camps and\nbegan to prospect the Molino company's \"near-mines,\" as Harris called\nthem after the first few unsuccessful attempts to get \"colors\" out of\nthe barren soil. At certain points, where there seemed a more likely\nprospect, they remained for days, until the men, under Rosendo's\nguidance, could sink pits to the underlying bedrock. Such work was\ndone with the crudest of tools--an iron bar, wooden scrapers in lieu\nof shovels, and wooden _bateas_ in which the men handed the loosened\ndirt up from one stage to another and out to the surface. It was slow,\ntorturing work. The men grew restive. The food ran low, and they\ncomplained.\n\nThen Harris one evening stumbled upon a tapir, just as the great\nanimal had forded the river and was shambling into the bush\nopposite. He emptied his rifle magazine into the beast. It fell\nwith a broken hip, and the men finished it with their _machetes_.\nIts hide was nearly a half inch in thickness, and covered with\n_garrapatas_--fierce, burrowing vermin, with hooked claws, which\ncame upon the travelers and caused them intense annoyance throughout\nthe remainder of the journey.\n\nThen Reed shot a deer, a delicate, big-eyed creature that had never\nseen a human being and was too surprised to flee. Later, Fidel Avila\nfelled another with a large stone. And, finally, monkeys became so\nplentiful that the men all but refused to eat them any longer.\n\nTwo weeks were spent around the mouth of the Tiguicito and the Boque\nca\u00f1on. Then Reed gave the order to advance. The little party\nshouldered their packs and began the ascent of the ragged gorge. For\ndays they clambered up and down the jagged walls of the cut, or\nskirted its densely covered margin. Twice Harris fell into the\nbrawling stream below, and was fished out by Rosendo, his eyes\npopping, and his mouth choked with uncomplimentary opinion regarding\nmountain travel in the tropics. Once, seizing a slender vine to aid\nhim in climbing, he gave a sudden lurch and swung out unexpectedly\nover the gorge, hundreds of feet deep. Again Rosendo, who by this time\nhad learned to keep one eye on the ground and the other on the\nirresponsible Harris, rescued him from his perilous position.\n\n\"Why don't you watch where you are going?\" queried the laughing\nCarmen.\n\n\"I might,\" sputtered Harris, \"if I could keep my eyes off of you.\"\nWhereat Carmen pursed her lips and told him to reserve his compliments\nfor those who knew how to appraise them rightly.\n\nThey camped where night overtook them, out in the open, often falling\nasleep without waiting to build a fire, but eating soggy corn _arepa_\nand tinned food, and drinking cold coffee left from the early morning\nrepast. But sometimes, when the fatigue of day was less, they would\ngather about their little fire, chilled and dripping, and beg Carmen\nto sing to them while they prepared supper. Then her clear voice would\nring out over the great ca\u00f1on and into the vast solitudes on either\nhand in strange, vivid contrast to the cries and weird sounds of the\njungle; and the two Americans would sit and look at her as if they\nhalf believed her a creature from another world. Sometimes Harris\nwould draw her into conversation on topics pertaining to philosophy\nand religion, for he had early seen her bent and, agnostic that he\nwas, delighted to hear her express her views, which to him were so\nchildishly impossible. But as often he would voluntarily retire from\nthe conflict, sometimes shaking his head dubiously, sometimes\nmuttering his impatience with a mere child whose logic he, despite his\ncollegiate training, could not refute. He was as full of philosophical\ntheories as a nut with meat; but when she asked for proofs, for less\nhuman belief and more demonstration, he hoisted the white flag and\nretired from the field. But his admiration for the child became\nsincere. His respect for her waxed daily stronger. And by the time\nthey had reached the great divide through which the Rosario fell, he\nwas dimly aware of a feeling toward the beautiful creature who walked\nat his side day after day, sharing without complaint hardship and\nfatigue that sorely taxed his own endurance, that was something more\nthan mere regard, and he had begun to speculate vaguely on a possible\nfuture in which she became the central figure.\n\nAt Rosario creek they left the great ca\u00f1on and turned into the rugged\ndefile which wound its tortuous course upward into the heights of the\n_Barra Principal_. They were now in a region where, in Rosendo's\nbelief, there was not one human being in an area of a hundred square\nmiles. He himself was in sore doubt as to the identity of the\n_quebrada_ which they were following. But it tallied with the brief\ndescription given him by Don Nicol\u00e1s. And, moreover, which was even\nmore important, as they began its ascent there came to him that sense\nof conviction which every true son of the jungle feels when he is\nfollowing the right course. He might not say how he knew he was right;\nbut he followed the leading without further question.\n\nUp over the steep talus at the base of the ca\u00f1on wall they clambered,\nup into the narrowing _arroyo_, cutting every foot of the way, for the\n_macheteros_ were now no longer keeping ahead of them--the common\ndanger held the band united. Often they believed they discovered\ntraces of ancient trails. But the jealous forest had all but\nobliterated them, and they could not be certain. In the higher and\ndrier parts of the forest, where they left the creek and followed\nthe beds of dead streams, slender ditches through which the water\nraced in torrents during the wet season, they were set upon by\ncountless swarms of bees, a strange, stingless variety that covered\nthem in a buzzing, crawling mass, struggling and fighting for the\nsalt in the perspiration which exuded from the human bodies. Harris\nswore he would cease to eat, for he could not take even a mouthful\nof food without at the same time taking in a multitude of bees.\nOften, too, their _machetes_ cut into great hornet nests. Then, with\nthe shrill cry, \"_Avispas_!\" Rosendo would tear recklessly through\nthe matted jungle, followed by his slapping, stumbling companions,\nuntil the maddened insects gave up the chase. Frequently they\nwalked into huge ant nests before they realized it, sometimes the\ngreat _tucanderas_, so ferociously poisonous. \"Ah, se\u00f1ores,\"\ncommented Rosendo, as he once stopped to point out the marvelous\nroadway cut by these insects for miles straight through the jungle,\n\"in the days of the Spaniards the cruel taskmasters would often tie\nthe weak and sick slaves to trees in the depths of the forest and\nlet these great ants devour them alive! Se\u00f1ores, you can never know\nthe terrible crimes committed by the Spaniards!\"\n\n\"And they were Christians!\" murmured Harris, eying Carmen furtively.\n\nBut she knew, though she voiced it not, that the Spaniard had never\nknown the Christ.\n\nNight was spent on the summit of the divide. Then, without further\nrespite, Rosendo urged the descent. Down through ravines and gullies;\nover monster bowlders; waist deep through streams; down the sheer\nsides of gorges on natural ladders formed by the hanging _mora_\nvines; skirting cliffs by the aid of tangled and interlaced roots\nof rank, wet vegetation; and then down again into river bottoms,\nwhere the tenacious mud challenged their every step, and the streams\nbecame an interminable morass, through which passage was possible\nonly by jumping from root to root, where the gnarled feeders of the\ngreat trees projected above the bottomless ooze. The persecution\nof the _jejenes_ became diabolical. At dawn and sunset the raucous\nbellow of the red-roarer monkeys made the air hideous. The\nflickering lights of the forest became dismally depressing. The men\ngrew morose and sullen. Reed and Harris quarreled with each other on\nthe slightest provocation.\n\nThen, to increase their misery, came the rain. It fell upon them in\nthe river bottoms in fierce, driving gusts; then in sheets that\nblotted out the forest and wet their very souls. The heavens split\nwith the lightning. The mountains roared and trembled with the hideous\ncannonade of thunder. The jungle-matted hills ran with the flood. An\nunvaried pall of vapor hung over the steaming ground, through which\nuncanny, phantasmagoric shapes peered at the struggling little band.\n\nAgain the sun burst forth, and a fiery vapor seethed above the moist\nearth. The reek of their damp clothing and the acrid odor of the wet\nsoil increased the enervation of their hard travel. Again and again\nthe peevish Harris accused Rosendo of having lost the way. The old man\npatiently bore the abuse. Reed chided Harris, and at length quarreled\nviolently with him, although his own apprehension waxed continually\ngreater. Carmen said little. Hour after hour she toiled along,\nfloundering through the bogs, fording the deeper streams on Rosendo's\nbroad back, whispering softly to him at times, often seizing and\npressing his great horny hand, but holding her peace. In vain at\nevening, when gathered about the damp, smudging firewood, Harris would\nbring up to her the causes of her flight. In vain he would accuse the\nunfortunate Alcalde, the Bishop, the soldiers. Carmen refused to lend\near to it, or to see in it anything more than a varied expression of\nthe human mind. Personality was never for a moment considered. She\nsaw, not persons, not things, but expressions of thought in the\nphenomena which had combined to urge her out of her former environment\nand cast her into the trackless jungle.\n\nAt length, one day, when it seemed to the exhausted travelers that\nhuman endurance could stand no more, Rosendo, who had long been\nstraining his ears in the direction straight ahead, announced that the\nsinging noise which floated to them as they descended a low hill and\nplunged into a thicket of tall lush grass, undoubtedly came from the\nriver Tigu\u00ed. Another hour of straining and plunging through the dense\ngrowth followed; and then, with a final effort, which manifested in a\nsort of frenzied rush, the little band emerged suddenly upon the east\nbank of the crystal stream, glittering and shimmering in the bright\nmorning sun as it sang and rippled on its solitary way through the\ngreat jungle.\n\nThe men threw off their packs and sprawled full length upon the\nground. Rosendo pointed across the river.\n\n\"La Colorado,\" he said, indicating what the Americans at length made\nout to be a frame house, looming above the high grass. \"And there,\"\npointing to the north, \"is _Pozo Cayman_, where the trail begins that\nleads to La Libertad.\"\n\nThat night, as they lay on the rough board floor of the house at La\nColorado, Rosendo told them the story of the misguided Frenchmen who,\nyears before, had penetrated this wild region, located a barren quartz\nvein, then floated a company and begun developments. A considerable\ncolony settled here. The soil was fertile; the undeveloped country\nceaselessly rich in every resource, the water pure and sparkling, and\nabounding in fish. The climate, too, was moderate and agreeable. It\nseemed to the foreigners a terrestrial paradise. But then came the\ninsidious fever. It crept out of the jungle like a thief in the night.\nOne by one the Frenchmen fell sick and died. Panic seized upon them.\nThose unafflicted fled--all but one. He remained to protect the\ncompany's property. But he, too, fell a victim to the plague. One day,\nas he lay burning upon his bed, he called feebly to his one remaining\nservant, the native cook, to bring him the little package of quinine.\nShe hastened to comply; but, alas! she brought the packet of\nstrychnine instead, and soon he, too, had joined his companions in\nthat unknown country which awaits us all. The old woman fled in\nterror; and the evil spirits descended upon the place. They haunt it\nyet, and no man approaches it but with trembling.\n\nReed and Harris listened to the weird story with strange sensations.\nThe clouds above had broken, and the late moon streamed through the\nnight vapor, and poured through the bamboo walls of the house. The\ngiant frogs in the nearby creek awoke, and through the long night\ncroaked their mournful plaint in a weird minor cadence that seemed to\nthe awed Americans to voice to the shimmering moon the countless\nwrongs of the primitive Indians, who, centuries before, had roamed\nthis marvelous land in happy freedom, until the Spaniard descended\nlike a dark cloud and, with rack and stake, fastened his blighting\nreligion upon them.\n\nA day's rest at La Colorado sufficed to revive the spirits of the\nparty and prepare them for the additional eight or ten hour journey\nover boggy morass and steep hill to La Libertad. For this trip Rosendo\nwould take only the Americans and Carmen. The _cargadores_ were not to\nknow the nature of this expedition, which, Rosendo announced, was\nundertaken that the Americans might explore for two days the region\naround the upper Tigu\u00ed. The men received this explanation with grunts\nof satisfaction.\n\nTrembling with suppressed excitement, oblivious now of fatigue,\nhunger, or hardship, Reed and Harris followed the old man that day\nover the ancient, obliterated trail to the forgotten mine of Don\nIgnacio de Rinc\u00f3n. They experienced all the sensations of those who\nfind themselves at last on the course that leads to buried treasure.\nTo Harris, the romance attaching to the expedition obliterated all\nother considerations. But Reed was busy with the practical end of it,\nwith costs, with the problems of supplies, of transportation, and\ntrail. Carmen saw but one vision, the man in far-off Simit\u00ed, whose\nancestor once owned the great mine which lay just ahead of them.\n\nWhen night fell, the four stood, silent and wondering, at the mouth of\nthe crumbling tunnel, where lay a rusted shovel bearing the scarce\ndistinguishable inscription, \"I de R.\"\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nTwo weeks later a group of natives, sitting at a feast of baked\nalligator tail, at the mouth of the Amacer\u00ed, near the dirty,\nstraggling riverine town of Llano, rose in astonishment as they saw\nissuing from the clayey, wallowing Guamoc\u00f3 trail a staggering band of\ntravelers, among them two foreigners, whose clothes were in shreds and\nwhose beards and unkempt hair were caked with yellow mud. With them\ncame a young girl, lightly clad and wearing torn rope _alpargates_ on\nher bare feet. The heat was descending in torrents. From the\nneighboring town floated a brawling bedlam of human voices. It was\nSunday, and the villagers were celebrating a religious _fiesta_.\n\n\"_Compadres_,\" said Rosendo, approaching the half-intoxicated group.\n\"The boat--which way?\"\n\nOne of the group, his mouth too full to speak, pointed in expressive\npantomime up-stream. Rosendo murmured a fervent \"_Loado sea Dios_,\"\nand sank upon the ground.\n\n\"It will be down to-morrow--to-day, perhaps,\" gurgled another of the\nrapidly recovering feasters, his eyes roving from one member to\nanother of the weird-looking little band.\n\n\"Lord Harry!\" exclaimed Harris, as he squatted upon the damp ground\nand mopped his muddy brow. \"I'm a salamander for heat, that's\ncertain!\"\n\n\"Se\u00f1or,\" said Rosendo, addressing Reed, \"it would be well to pay the\nmen at once, for the boat may appear at any time, and it will not wait\nlong.\"\n\nWhile the curious group from the village crowded about and eagerly\nwatched the proceedings, Reed unstrapped his pack and drew out a bundle\nof Colombian bills, with which he began to pay the _cargadores_,\naccording to the reckoning which Rosendo had kept. As the last man,\nwith a grunt of satisfaction, received his money, Harris exclaimed:\n\"And to think, one good American dollar is worth a bushel of that paper\nstuff!\"\n\nThe words were scarcely out of his mouth when a shrill whistle came\nechoing down the river. A cloud of smoke above the distant treetops\nheralded the approach of the steamer. The little party had escaped a\nwait of a month in the drenching heat of Llano by the narrow margin of\nan hour.\n\nRosendo hastened to Reed and drew him aside. He tried to speak, but\nwords failed him. Reed took his hand. \"I understand, my friend,\" he\nsaid gently. \"Have no fear. The mine is all I had anticipated. My wife\nand I will care for the girl until we hear from you. And we will keep\nin touch with you, although it will take two months for a letter to\nreach us and our reply to get back again to Simit\u00ed. The development\ncompany will be formed at once. Within six months you may expect to\nsee the work started. It is your fortune--and the girl's.\"\n\nCarmen drew close to Rosendo. \"Padre, I am coming back to you--yes?\"\n\n\"_Cierto, chiquita_!\" The old man would not permit himself to say\nmore. The girl had known for some time that he was not to accompany\nher to the States, and that she should not see Ana in Cartagena. To\nthis she had at length accustomed herself.\n\nIn a few minutes the lumbering boat had swung around and thrown out\nits gang plank. A hurried embrace; a struggle with rushing tears;\nanother shriek from the boat whistle; and the Americans, with Carmen\nstanding mute and motionless between them, looked back at the fading\ngroup on shore, where Rosendo's tall figure stood silhouetted\nagainst the green background of the forest. For a moment he held his\narm extended toward them. Carmen knew, as she looked at the\ngreat-hearted man for the last time, that his benediction was\nfollowing her--following her into that new world into which he might\nnot enter.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nReed lifted the silent, wondering, big-eyed girl from the dinkey\ntrain which pulled into Cartagena from Calamar ten days later, and\ntook her to the Hotel Mariana, where his anxious, fretting wife\nawaited. Their boat had hung on a hidden bar in the Cauca river\nfor four interminable, torturing days.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 39\n\n\nOn the day that Carmen arrived in Cartagena, Rosendo staggered down\nthe Guamoc\u00f3 trail into Simit\u00ed. On that same momentous day the flames\nof war again flared up throughout the country. The Simit\u00ed episode, in\nwhich the President had interfered, brought Congress to the necessity\nof action. A few days of fiery debate followed; then the noxious\nmeasure was taken from the table and hastily enacted into a law.\n\nBut news travels slowly in Latin America, and some time was required\nfor this act of Congress to become generally known. The delay saw\nCarmen through the jungle and down to the coast. There Reed lost no\ntime in transacting what business still remained for him in Cartagena,\nand securing transportation for his party to New York.\n\nJos\u00e8, the shadow of his former self, clung pitiably to Rosendo's hand,\nimploring the constant repetition of the old man's narrative. Then\ncame Juan, flying to the door. He had seen and talked with the\nreturned _cargadores_. The girl had not come back with them. He\ndemanded to know why. He became wild. Neither Jos\u00e8 nor Rosendo could\ncalm him. At length it seemed wise to them both to tell him that she\nhad gone to the States with the Americans, and would return to Simit\u00ed\nno more.\n\nThe blow almost crushed the lad. He rushed about the town half dazed.\nHe gathered groups of companions about him and talked to them\nexcitedly. He threatened Rosendo and Jos\u00e8. Then, evidently acting on\nthe advice of some cooler head, he rushed to his canoe and put off\nacross the lake toward the _ca\u00f1o_. He did not return for several days.\nBut when he did, the town knew that he had been to Bodega Central, and\nthat the country was aflame with war.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nReed's wife had not received Carmen in an amiable frame of mind. \"For\nheaven's sake, Charles,\" she had cried, turning from his embrace to\nlook at the wondering girl who stood behind him, \"what have you\nhere?\"\n\n\"Oh, that,\" he laughingly replied, \"is only a little Indian I lassoed\nback in the jungle.\" And, leaving the girl to the not very tender\ngraces of his wife, he hurried out to arrange for the return voyage.\n\nAt noon, when Harris appeared at Reed's room, Carmen rushed to him and\nbegged to be taken for a stroll through the town. Yielding to her\nhusband's insistence, Mrs. Reed had outfitted the girl, so that she\npresented a more civilized appearance. At first Carmen had been\ndelighted with her new clothes. They were such, cheap as they were, as\nshe had never seen in Simit\u00ed. But the shoes--\"Ah, se\u00f1ora,\" she\npleaded, \"do not make me wear them, they are so tight! I have never\nworn shoes before.\" She was beginning her education in the conventions\nand trammels of civilization.\n\nAs Carmen and Harris stood that afternoon in the public square, while\nthe girl gazed enraptured at an equestrian statue of Sim\u00f3n Bol\u00edvar, a\nragged little urchin approached and begged them to buy an afternoon\npaper. Harris humored him and bade Carmen ask him his name.\n\n\"Rinc\u00f3n,\" the lad answered, drawing himself up proudly.\n\nThe girl started. \"Rinc\u00f3n!\" she repeated. \"Why--where do you live?\"\n\n\"In the Calle Lozano,\" he replied, wondering why these people seemed\ninterested in him.\n\nCarmen translated the conversation to Harris. \"Ask him who his father\nis,\" suggested the latter.\n\n\"I do not know,\" replied the little fellow, shaking his head. \"I never\nsaw him. He lives far away, up the great river, so Tia Catalina says.\nAnd she says he is a priest.\"\n\nThe color suddenly left Carmen's cheeks. \"Come with me to your home,\"\nshe said, taking his hand.\n\nThe boy led them willingly through the winding streets to the little\nupper room where, years before, he had first seen the light.\n\n\"Tia Catalina,\" he cried to the shabby woman who rose in amazement as\nthe visitors entered, \"see, some strangers!\"\n\nCarmen lost no time, but went at once to the heart of her question.\n\n\"The little fellow's father--he is a Rinc\u00f3n? And--he lives up the\ngreat river?\"\n\nThe woman eyed her suspiciously for some moments without replying. But\nthe boy answered for her. \"Yes, se\u00f1orita,\" he said eagerly, \"in\nSimit\u00ed. And his name--I am named for him--it is Jos\u00e8. And I am going\nto visit him some day. Tia Catalina said I should, no, Tia?\"\n\nHarris fumbled in his pocket and drew out some money, which he handed\nto the woman. Her eyes lighted, and a cavernous smile spread over her\nwrinkled face.\n\n\"_Ah, gracias, se\u00f1or_,\" she murmured, bending over his hand; \"we need\nit. The boy's father has sent us but little of late.\"\n\nCarmen's heart was fluttering wildly. \"Tell me,\" she said in a cold\nvoice, \"the boy's father is Padre Jos\u00e8 de Rinc\u00f3n, of Simit\u00ed? You need\nnot fear to speak. We have just come from Simit\u00ed, and have seen him.\nWe are leaving to-morrow for the States.\"\n\n\"Yes, se\u00f1orita,\" replied the woman in a thin, cracking voice, now\ncompletely disarmed of her suspicion. \"The little fellow was born here\nsome seven years ago. Ah, well I remember the day! And his mother,\npoor little lamb! She died the same night. But the good Padre has sent\nus money ever since to care for him, until of late. Se\u00f1orita, why is\nit, think you, that he sends us so little now?\"\n\n\"I--do--not--know,\" murmured Carmen abstractedly, scarce hearing the\nwoman. Then she turned to the boy. She bent over him and looked long\nand wistfully into his eyes. He was a bright, handsome little fellow;\nand though her heart was crushed, she took him into it. Swallowing the\nlump which had come into her throat, she drew him to the window and\nsat down, holding him before her.\n\n\"Your father--I know him--well. He is a--a good man. But--I did not\nknow--I never knew that he had a son.\" She stopped, choking.\n\n\"Tia Catalina says he is a fine man,\" proudly answered the boy.\n\"And she wants me to be a priest, too. But I am going to be a\nbull-fighter.\"\n\n\"It is true, se\u00f1orita,\" interposed the woman. \"We cannot keep him\nfrom the _arena_ now. He hangs about it all day, and about the\nslaughter-house. We can hardly drag him back to his meals. What\ncan we do, se\u00f1orita? But,\" with a touch of pride as she looked at him,\n\"if he becomes a bull-fighter, he will be the best of them all!\"\n\nCarmen turned again to the woman. Her question carried an appeal which\ncame from the depths of her soul. \"Se\u00f1ora, is there no doubt--no doubt\nthat Padre Rinc\u00f3n is the father of the boy?\"\n\n\"We think not, se\u00f1orita. The lad's mother died in the good Padre's\narms. She would not say positively who was the boy's father. We\nthought at first--it was some one else. Marcelena insisted on it to\nher dying day. But now--now we know that it was Padre Jos\u00e8. And he was\nsent to Simit\u00ed for it. But--ah, se\u00f1orita, the little mother was so\nbeautiful, and so good! She--but, se\u00f1orita, you are not leaving so\nsoon?\"\n\nCarmen had risen. \"Yes, my good se\u00f1ora,\" she said wearily. \"We must\nnow return to the hotel. But--here is more money for the boy. And,\nse\u00f1ora, when I reach the States I will send you money every month for\nhim.\"\n\nShe took Harris's hand. \"Come,\" she said simply, \"I have seen enough\nof the city.\"\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nAt noon the next day a message from Bodega Central was put into the\nhand of the acting-Bishop of Cartagena, as he sat in his study,\nwrapped in the contemplation of certain papers before him. Hostilities\nhad begun along the Magdalena river the day before. The gates of\nCartagena were to be barricaded that day, for a boatload of rebels was\nabout to leave Barranquilla to storm the city and seize, if possible,\nthe customs. When he had read the message he uttered an exclamation.\nHad not the Sister Superior of the Convent of Our Lady reported the\narrival of the daughter of Rosendo Ariza some days before? He seized\nhis hat and left the room.\n\nHastening to the Department of Police, he had a short interview with\nthe chief. Then that official despatched policemen to the office of\nthe steamship company, and to the dock. Their orders were to arrest\ntwo Americans who were abducting a young girl. They returned a half\nhour later with sheepish faces. \"Your Excellency,\" they announced to\ntheir chief, \"the vessel sailed from the port an hour ago, with the\nAmericans and the girl aboard.\"\n\nThe announcement aroused in Wenceslas the fury of a tiger. Exacerbation\nsucceeded surprise; and that in turn gave way to a maddening thirst for\nsanguinary vengeance. He hastened out and despatched a telegraphic\nmessage to Bogot\u00e1. Then he returned to his study to await its effect.\n\nTwo days later a river steamer, impressed by the federal authorities,\nstopped at the mouth of the Boque, and a squad of soldiers marched\nover the unfrequented trail to Simit\u00ed, where they arrived as night\nfell. Their orders were to take into custody the priest, Jos\u00e8 de\nRinc\u00f3n, who was accused of complicity in the recent plot to overthrow\nthe existing government.\n\nAt the same time, on a vessel plowing its way into the North, a young\ngirl, awkwardly wearing her ill-fitting garments, hung over the rail\nand gazed wistfully back at the Southern Cross. The tourists who saw\nher heterogeneous attire laughed. But when they looked into her\nbeautiful, sad face their mirth died, and a tender pity stirred their\nhearts.\n\n\n\n\nCARMEN ARIZA\n\n\n\n\nBOOK 3\n\n\n           And while within myself I trace\n           The greatness of some future race,\n           Aloof with hermit-eye I scan\n           The present works of present man,--\n           A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile,\n           Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile!\n\n                                                      --_Coleridge._\n\n\n\n\nCARMEN ARIZA\n\nCHAPTER 1\n\n\nThe blanket of wet fog which had hung over the harbor with such\nexasperating tenacity lifted suddenly, late in the raw fall afternoon,\nand revealed to the wondering eyes of the girl who stood alone at the\nrail of the _Joachim_ a confusion of mountainous shadows, studded with\nmyriad points of light which glittered and shimmered beneath the gray\npall. Across the heaving waters came the dull, ominous breathing of\nthe metropolis. Clouds of heavy, black smoke wreathed about the bay.\nThrough it shrieking water craft darted and wriggled in endless\nconfusion. For two days the port of New York had been a bedlam of raw\nsound, as the great sirens of the motionless vessels roared their\nraucous warnings through the impenetrable veil which enveloped them.\nTheir noise had become acute torture to the impatient tourists, and\nadded bewilderment to the girl.\n\nThe transition from the primitive simplicity of her tropical home had\nnot been one of easy gradation, but a precipitate plunge. The\nconvulsion which ensued from the culmination of events long gathering\nabout little Simit\u00ed had hurled her through the forest, down the\nscalding river, and out upon the tossing ocean with such swiftness\nthat, as she now stood at the portal of a new world, she seemed to be\nwandering through the mazes of an intricate dream. During the ocean\nvoyage she had kept aloof from the other passengers, partly because of\nembarrassment, partly because of the dull pain at her heart as she\ngazed, day after day, at the two visions which floated always before\nher: one, the haggard face of the priest, when she tore herself from\nhis arms in far-off Simit\u00ed; the other, that of the dark-faced,\nwhite-haired old man who stood on the clayey river bank at wretched\nLlano and watched her, with eager, straining eyes, until the winding\nstream hid her from his earthly sight--forever. She wondered dully now\nwhy she had left them, why she had so easily yielded to the influences\nwhich had caused the separation. They might have fled to the jungle\nand lived there in safety and seclusion. The malign influences which\nbeset them all in Simit\u00ed never could have reached them in the\ntrackless forest. And yet, she knew that had not Rosendo and Jos\u00e8 held\nout to her, almost to the last moment, assurances of a speedy reunion,\nshe would not have yielded to the pressure which they had exerted, and\nto the allurements of life in the wonderful country to which they had\nsent her. Her embarrassment on the boat was due largely to a sense of\nawkwardness in the presence of women who, to her provincial sight,\nseemed visions of beauty. To be sure, the priest had often shown her\npictures of the women of the outside world, and she had some idea of\ntheir dress. But that such a vast difference existed between the\nillustrations and the actualities, she had never for a moment\nimagined. Their gowns, their jewels, their coiffures held her in\nopen-mouthed marvel, until Mrs. Reed, herself annoyed and embarrassed,\nremanded her to her cabin and bade her learn the impropriety of such\nmanners.\n\nNor had the conduct of this lady throughout the voyage conduced to\nCarmen's happiness. Mrs. Reed showed plainly that the girl was an\nawkward embarrassment to her; that she was tolerated because of\nreasons which pertained solely to her husband's business; and she took\npains to impress upon her fellow-travelers that, in view of the\nperplexing servant problem, this unmannered creature was being taken\nto the States to be trained as a maid, though, heaven knew! the\ntraining would be arduous, and the result uncertain.\n\nReed, though measurably kind, gave Carmen scant attention. Harris\nalone saved the girl from almost complete neglect. He walked the deck\nwith her, regardless of the smiles of the other passengers. He taught\nher to play shuffle-board, checkers, and simple card games. He\nconducted her over the boat and explained the intricate machinery and\nthe numberless wonders of the great craft. He sat with her out on the\ndeck at night and told her marvelous stories of his experiences in\nfrontier camps. And at the table he insisted that she occupy the seat\nnext to him, despite the protestations of the chief steward, who would\nhave placed her apart with the servants.\n\nCarmen said little, but she clung to the man with an appeal which,\nthough mute, he nevertheless understood. At Kingston he took her on a\ndrive through the town, and bought post cards for her to send back to\nJos\u00e8 and Rosendo. It consoled her immeasurably when he glowingly\nrecounted the pleasure her loved ones would experience on receiving\nthese cards; and thereafter the girl daily devoted hours to the\npreparation of additional ones to be posted in New York.\n\nThe lifting of the fog was the signal for a race among the stalled\ncraft to gain the harbor entrance. The enforced retention of the\nvessels in the bay had resulted in much confusion in docking, and the\n_Joachim_ was assigned to a pier not her own. The captain grumbled,\nbut had no choice. At the pier opposite there docked a huge liner from\nHavre; and the two boats poured their swarming human freight into the\nsame shed. When the gang plank dropped, Harris took charge of Carmen,\nwhile Reed and his wife preceded them ashore, the latter giving a\nlittle scream of delight as she spied her sister and some friends with\na profusion of flowers awaiting her on the pier. She rushed joyfully\ninto their arms, while Reed hastened to his equipage with a customs\nofficer.\n\nBut as Harris and the bewildered Carmen pushed into the great crowd in\nthe shed, the absent-minded man suddenly remembered that he had left a\nbundle of Panam\u00e1 hats underneath his bunk. Dropping the girl's hand,\nthe impetuous fellow tore back up the gang plank and dived into the\nboat.\n\nFor a moment Carmen, stood in confusion, bracing herself against\nthe swarming multitude, and clinging tenaciously to the small,\npaper-wrapped bundle which she carried. Her first impulse was to\nfollow Harris. But the eager, belated crowd almost swept her off her\nfeet, and she turned again, drifting slowly with it toward the\ndistant exit. As she moved uncertainly, struggling the while to\nprevent being crushed against the wall, she felt some one grasp her\nhand.\n\n\"Oh, here you are!\" sounded a gentle voice close to her ear. \"Well,\nhow fortunate! We thought we had lost you! Come, they are waiting for\nus up ahead.\"\n\nCarmen looked up at the speaker. It was a woman, comely of feature,\nand strikingly well dressed. The girl thought her beautiful. The\nanxious fears of a moment before vanished. \"Is he up there--Mr. Reed?\"\nshe asked quickly.\n\n\"He? Oh, yes--Mr. Reed and the others are waiting for us. They sent me\nback to find you. The automobiles came for you all; but I presume the\nothers have gone by this time. However, you and I will follow in mine.\nI am Auntie.\"\n\n\"His aunt?\" the girl asked eagerly, as the woman forced a way for them\nthrough the mass of humanity.\n\n\"Yes, dear. And I am so glad to see you. I have heard all about you.\"\n\n\"Did he write to you--from Simit\u00ed?\"\n\n\"Yes, long letters. And he told all about his little girl. He said\nyour name was--\"\n\n\"Carmen,\" interrupted the girl, with a great surge of gladness, for\nhere was one woman who did not avoid her.\n\n\"Yes, Carmen. It is a sweet name.\"\n\n\"But--Mr. Harris!\" cried Carmen, suddenly stopping as she remembered.\n\n\"Oh, did he wait? Well, he will come. He knows where to find the\nautomobiles. I will leave word with the pier-master to tell him.\"\n\nBy this time they had wormed their way clear of the crowd and gained\nthe street. The woman, still retaining Carmen's hand, went directly to\na waiting automobile and pushed the unresisting girl through the open\ndoor. Carmen had never seen a conveyance like this, and her thought\nwas instantly absorbed. She looked wonderingly for the horses. And\nthen, sinking into the luxurious cushions, she fell to speculating as\nto how the thing was moved.\n\nAs the chauffeur reached back to close the door a policeman, who had\nbeen eying the party since they came out of the shed, stepped up and\nlaid a hand on the car.\n\n\"Er--little girl,\" he said, looking in and addressing Carmen,\n\"_you--you know this lady, do you_?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Carmen, looking up confidently into the woman's smiling\nface. \"She is Auntie, Mr. Reed's aunt.\" She thought his blue uniform\nand shining buttons and star gorgeously beautiful.\n\nThe officer stood hesitant a moment. Suspicion lurked in his eyes as\nhe looked at the woman and then back again at the girl.\n\n\"She is a little girl who came up from the South with my nephew, Mr.\nReed,\" the woman explained easily. \"But I don't wonder you asked. I\nwill give you my card, if you wish.\"\n\nHer air was supremely confident. The chauffeur, too, as he got out and\nleisurely examined his engine, served further to disarm suspicion. The\nofficer raised up and removed his hand from the machine. The chauffeur\nslowly mounted the box and threw on his lever. As the car moved gently\ninto the night the officer glanced at its number. \"Hell!\" he muttered,\nturning away. \"What's the use? The number would be changed anyway.\nWhat's a fellow going to do in a case like this, I'd like to know--go\nwith 'em?\"\n\nSome minutes later, Harris, wild and disheveled, followed by Reed and\nhis party, emerged hurriedly into the street.\n\n\"What you looking for?\" asked the officer, planting himself in front\nof Harris, and becoming vaguely apprehensive.\n\n\"Girl!\" sputtered Harris, his eyes protruding and his long arms pawing\nthe air. \"Girl--so high--funny dress--big straw hat! Seen her?\"\n\nThe officer gasped. \"She's gone! Aunt took her just now in an auto!\"\n\n\"Aunt!\" yelled Harris. \"She's got no aunt! She's from the jungle!\"\n\nFor a moment they all stood silent, big-eyed and gaping.\n\n\"Look here, Mr. Officer,\" said Reed, interposing. \"My name's Reed. The\ngirl came up from South America with me. Describe the woman--\"\n\n\"Reed!\" cried the policeman excitedly, his eyes lighting. \"That's it!\nSaid she was your aunt!\"\n\n\"Lord Harry! You great, blundering boob!\" cried the distracted Harris,\nmenacing the confused officer. \"And you let her nab the kid?\"\n\nNight had fallen, and a curious crowd was gathering around the\nexcited, noisy group. Reed quickly signaled a taxicab and hustled the\nbewildered officer into it. \"You, Harris, get the women folks home,\nand wait for me! I'll go to central with this officer and report the\ncase!\"\n\n\"Not I!\" exclaimed Harris wildly. \"I'm going to visit every dance hall\nand dive in this bloomin' town before I go home! I'm going to find\nthat girl! And you, you blithering idiot,\" shaking a fist at the\nofficer, \"you're going to lose your star for this!\"\n\nMeantime, the car, in which Carmen lay deep in the soft cushions, sped\nthrough the dusk like a fell spirit. A confused jumble of shadows flew\npast, and strange, unfamiliar noises rose from the animated streets.\nThe lights shimmered on the moist glass. It was confusing. The girl\nceased trying to read any meaning in it. It all fused into a blur; and\nshe closed her eyes and gave herself up to the novel sensations\nstimulated by her first ride in a carriage propelled--she knew not\nhow.\n\nAt length came a creaking, a soft, skidding motion, and the big car\nrolled up against a curb and stopped.\n\n\"We are home now,\" said the woman softly, as she descended and again\ntook Carmen's hand. They hurriedly mounted the white stone steps of a\ntall, gloomy building and entered a door that seemed to open\nnoiselessly at their approach. A glare of light burst upon the\nblinking eyes of the girl. A negro woman softly closed the door after\nthem. With a wondering glance, Carmen looked about her. In the room at\nher right she caught a glimpse of women--beautiful, they seemed to\nher--clad in loose, low-cut, gaily colored gowns. There were men\nthere, too; and some one sat at a piano playing sprightly music. She\nhad seen pianos like that in Cartagena, and on the boat, and they had\nseemed to her things bewitched. In the room at the end of the hall men\nand women were dancing on a floor that seemed of polished glass. Loud\ntalk, laughter, and singing floated through the rooms, and the air\nwas warm and stuffy, heavy with perfume. The odor reminded her of the\nroses in her own little garden in Simit\u00ed. It was all beautiful,\nwonderful, fairy-like.\n\nBut she had only a moment for this appraisal. Seizing her hand again,\nthe woman whisked her up the flight of stairs before them and into a\nwarm, light room. Then, without speaking, she went out and closed the\ndoor, leaving the girl alone.\n\nCarmen sank into a great, upholstered rocking chair and tried to grasp\nit all as she swayed dreamily back and forth. So this was his home,\nMr. Reed's. It was a palace! Like those Jos\u00e8 had described. She\nwondered if Harris dwelt in a place of such heavenly beauty; for he\nhad said that he did not live with Reed. What would the stupid people\nof Simit\u00ed think could they see her now! She had never dreamed that\nsuch marvels existed in the big world beyond her dreary, dusty, little\nhome town! Jos\u00e8 had told her much, ah, wonderful things! And so had\nHarris. But how pitifully inadequate now seemed all their stories! She\nstill wondered what had made that carriage go in which she had come up\nfrom the boat. And what would one like it cost? Would her interest in\nLa Libertad suffice to buy one? She speculated vaguely.\n\nThen she rose and wandered about the room. She passed her hand over\nthe clean, white counterpane of the bed. \"Oh,\" she murmured, \"how\nbeautiful!\" She went dreamily to the bureau and took up, one by one,\nthe toilet articles that lay there in neat array. \"Oh, oh, oh!\" she\nmurmured, again and again. She glanced into the clear mirror. The\nlittle figure reflected there contrasted so oddly with the gorgeously\nbeautiful ones she had glimpsed below that she laughed aloud. Then she\nwent to the window and felt of the soft curtains. \"It is heaven,\" she\nmurmured, facing about and sweeping the room, \"just heaven! Oh, how\nbeautiful even the human mind can be! I never thought it, I never\nthought it!\"\n\nAgain she sat down in the big rocker and gave herself up to the charm\nof her surroundings. Her glance fell upon a vase of flowers that stood\non a table near another window. She rose and went to them, bending\nover to inhale their fragrance. \"How strange!\" she exclaimed, as she\nfelt them crackle in her fingers. Poor child, they were artificial!\nBut she would learn, ere long, that they fittingly symbolized the life\nof the great city in which she was now adrift.\n\nTime passed. She began to wonder why the woman did not return. Were\nnot the Reeds anxious to know of her safe arrival? But perhaps they\nhad visitors. Surely that was the case. It was a ball--but so\ndifferent from the simple, artless _baile_ of her native town. Stray\nsnatches of music drifted into the room from the piano below. It\nstimulated a hunger for more. She went to the door, thinking to open\nit a little and listen. The door was locked!\n\nFor a moment she stood reflecting. Then apprehension began to steal\nover her. She went hastily, instinctively, to a window and raised the\ncurtain. There were iron bars in front of it! She remembered suddenly\nthat prison windows were like that. She hurried to the other. It was\nlikewise barred. Terror's clammy hand gripped at her heart. Then she\ncaught herself--and laughed. \"How silly!\" she exclaimed, sinking again\ninto the rocker. \"God is everywhere--right here!\"\n\nAt that moment the door opened noiselessly and a woman entered. She\nwas younger than the one who had met the boat. When she saw the girl\nshe uttered an exclamation. \"Lord! where did you get those clothes?\"\n\nCarmen glanced down at her odd attire and then smiled up at the woman.\n\"Cartagena,\" she said simply. \"Mrs. Reed bought them for me. But are\nyou her sister? You don't look like her.\"\n\nThe woman laughed, a sharp, unmusical laugh. The dry cosmetic\nplastered thick upon her cheeks cracked. She was not beautiful like\nthe others, thought Carmen. Her cheeks were sunken, and her low-cut\ngown revealed great, protruding collarbones. \"Come,\" she said\nabruptly, \"get out of those rags and into something modern.\" She\nopened a closet door and selected a gown from a number hanging there.\nIt was white, and there was a gay ribbon at the waist.\n\n\"It'll have to be pinned up,\" she commented to herself, holding it out\nbefore her and regarding Carmen critically.\n\nThe girl's eyes danced. \"Oh!\" she exclaimed, \"am I to wear that? How\nbeautiful! Did Mrs. Reed give it to me? And is there a party down\nstairs?\"\n\nThe woman returned no answer, but opened a bureau drawer and took from\nit several other garments, which she threw upon a chair, together with\nthe dress.\n\n\"Into the whole lot of 'em,\" she said sharply, indicating the\ngarments. \"And move lively, for supper's waitin' and there'll be\ncallers soon--gentlemen callers,\" she added, smiling grimly.\n\nShe turned and faced Carmen. Their eyes met. The woman stopped\nabruptly and stood with arms akimbo, regarding the girl. Carmen gazed\nup at her with a smile of happy, trustful assurance.\n\nThe woman was the first to speak. \"Where did you come from?\" she\ndemanded hoarsely.\n\nCarmen told her. She mentioned Simit\u00ed, Padre Jos\u00e8, and Rosendo. Her\nvoice quavered a little; but she brightened up and concluded: \"And Mr.\nReed's Auntie, she met us--that is, me. Oh, isn't she a beautiful\nlady!\"\n\nThe woman seemed to be fascinated by the child's gaze. Then, suddenly,\nas if something had given way under great strain, she cried: \"For\nGod's sake, don't look at me that way! Who are you?\" She dropped into\na chair and continued to stare at the girl.\n\n\"Well, I've told you,\" replied Carmen. \"But,\" she continued, going\nquickly to the woman and taking her hand, \"you haven't told me your\nname yet. And we are going to be such good friends, aren't we? Yes, we\nare. And you are going to tell me all about this beautiful house, and\nthat wonderful carriage I came here in. What did make it go, anyway?\nDo you ride often? Oh, I hope Mrs. Reed will take me out in it every\nday!\"\n\nThe woman's hand tightened over Carmen's. She seemed to struggle with\nherself. Then, in a low voice:\n\n\"Your mother--is she living?\"\n\n\"Madre Maria is,\" returned Carmen. \"But my mother, my own real mother,\nshe died, long, long ago, on the banks of the great river. My father\nleft her, and she was trying to follow him. Then I was born--\"\n\n\"The same old story!\" muttered the woman fiercely. \"I've been there,\ngirl, and know all about it. I followed the man--but it was my kid\nthat died! God, if I could have laid my hands on him! And now you have\ncome here--\"\n\nShe stopped abruptly and swallowed hard. Carmen gently stole an arm\nabout her neck. \"It isn't true,\" she murmured, laying her soft cheek\nagainst the woman's painted one. \"No one can desert us or harm us, for\n_God is everywhere_. And no one really dies. We have got to know that.\nPadre Jos\u00e8 said I had a message for the people up here; and now you\nare the first one I've told it to. But that's it: God is everywhere.\nAnd if we know that, why, nothing bad can ever happen to us. But you\ndidn't know it when your husband left you, did you?\"\n\n\"Husband!\" ejaculated the woman. Then she looked up into the girl's\ndeep, wondering eyes and checked herself. \"Come,\" she said abruptly,\nrising and still holding her hand. \"Never mind the clothes.\" A grim\nlook settled over her features. \"We'll go down to supper now as you\nare.\"\n\nCarmen's companion led her down the stairs and through the hall to a\nbrightly lighted room at the rear, where about a long table sat a half\ndozen women. There were places for as many more, but they were\nunoccupied. The cloth was white, the glass shone, the silver\nsparkled. And the women, who glanced up at the girl, were clad in\ngowns of such gorgeous hues as to make the child gasp in amazement.\nOver all hung the warm, perfumed air that she had thought so delicious\nwhen she had first entered the house.\n\nThe noisy chatter at once ceased. The woman led her to a chair next to\nthe one she herself took. Carmen looked around for the lady who had\nmet her at the boat. She was not there. The silence and the steady\nscrutiny of the others began to embarrass her. \"Where--where is\nAuntie?\" she asked timidly, looking up at her faded attendant.\n\nA titter ran around the table. One of the women, who swayed slightly\nin her chair, looked up stupidly. \"Who's Auntie?\" she muttered\nthickly. A burst of laughter followed this remark, and Carmen sat down\nin confusion.\n\n\"Where's the Madam, Jude?\" asked one of the younger women of Carmen's\nattendant.\n\n\"Dining alone in her room. Headache,\" was the laconic reply.\n\n\"She landed a queen this time, didn't she?\" looking admiringly at\nCarmen. \"Gets me, how the old girl does it! What's your name, kiddo?\"\n\n\"Carmen,\" replied the girl timidly, looking questioningly about the\nroom.\n\n\"That's a good handle. But what's the rest?\" put in another.\n\n\"Carmen Ariza,\" the child amended, as her big, wondering eyes swept\nthe group.\n\n\"Wow! That's a moniker for you!\" laughed one. \"Where do you hail from,\nangel-face?\"\n\nThe girl looked uncomprehendingly at her interlocutor.\n\n\"Your home, you know. I see your finish, all right. But where'd you\nbegin?\"\n\n\"Tell them where you lived, child,\" said the woman called Jude in a\nlow voice.\n\n\"Simit\u00ed,\" replied Carmen, tears choking her words.\n\n\"Simit\u00ed!\" echoed around the table. \"New York? Ohio? Or Kansas?\" A\nburst of mirth punctuated the question.\n\n\"Do the women vote there?\"\n\n\"Long way from Paris, judging by the fashions.\"\n\n\"Where is Simit\u00ed, kidlet?\"\n\nCarmen answered in a scarcely audible voice, \"South America.\"\n\nLow exclamations of astonishment encircled the table, while the women\nsat regarding the girl curiously.\n\n\"But,\" continued Carmen in a trembling voice, \"where is Mrs. Reed?\nAnd isn't Mr. Harris here? Why don't they come? Don't they know I am\nhere?\"\n\nShe looked appealingly from one to another. Her beautiful face wore\nsuch an expression of mingled fear, uncertainty, and helplessness as\nto throw a hush upon the room. One of the women rose. \"God!\" she\nmuttered, \"it's a shame!\" She looked for a moment uncertainly into the\nbig, deep eyes of the girl, and then turned and hastily left the\nroom.\n\nThe silence which followed was broken by a pallid, painted creature at\nthe end of the table.\n\n\"What an old devil the Madam is! My God! One look into those eyes\nwould have been enough for me!\"\n\n\"What's the idea, Jude?\" asked another, nodding toward the girl. \"Does\nshe stay here?\"\n\nThe woman addressed as Jude shook her head. \"This is only a recruiting\nstation for the regular army. She'll go over to French Lucy's; and the\nMadam will get a round price for the job.\"\n\n\"Old Lucy'll get rich off of her! But she needs the money. Ames owns\nher house, too, doesn't he?\"\n\n\"Sure thing!\" replied Jude, brightening under the stimulus of her\nwine. \"He owns every house in this block, they say. Got long leases\nfor 'em all. And the rents--suffering Moses! The Madam rolls on the\nfloor and cusses for a week straight every time she pays hers. But\njust the same, if you've ever noticed, the houses that Ames owns are\nnever raided by the coppers. Ames whacks up with the mayor and the\ncity hall gang and the chief of police. That means protection, and we\npay for it in high rents. But it's a lot better'n being swooped down\non by the cops every few weeks, ain't it? We know what we're expected\nto pay, that way. And we never do when we keep handin' it out to the\ncops.\"\n\n\"That's right,\" approved some one.\n\n\"It sure is. That's what the collector says. And he's got a new\ncollector, fellow from the Ketchim Realty Company. They're the old\nman's agents now for his dive-houses. He can't get anybody else to\nhandle 'em, so the collector tells me.\"\n\n\"Belle Carey's place was pulled last night, I hear,\" said one of the\nwomen, pushing back her plate and lighting a cigarette.\n\n\"Yes,\" returned Jude, \"and why? Cause the house is owned by\nGannette--swell guy livin' up on Riverside Drive--and he don't divvy\nwith the city hall. Belle don't pay no such rent as the Madam does--at\nleast so old Lucy tells me.\"\n\nThe half-intoxicated woman down the table, who had stirred their\nlaughter a few minutes before, now roused up heavily. \"Ol' Lucy--huh!\nUsed to work for her m'self. Caught a pippin for her once--right off\nthe train--jus' like this li'l hussy. Went to th' depot in a hack. Saw\nth' li'l kid comin' an' pretended to faint. Li'l kid run to me an'\nasked could she help. Got her to see me safe home--tee! hee! She's\nworkin' f'r ol' Lucy yet, sound's a dollar.\"\n\nShe fixed her bleared eyes upon Carmen and lapsed back into her former\nstate of sodden stupidity.\n\nThe girl rose hastily from her chair. The policeman's words at the\npier were floating confusedly through her thought. The strange talk of\nthese women increased the confusion. Perhaps a mistake had been made.\nShe turned beseechingly to Jude. \"Isn't this--Mr. Reed's house?\" she\nasked.\n\nAnother of the women got up hurriedly and left the table. \"I haven't\nthe nerve for another sob-scene,\" she commented as she went out.\n\n\"Where am I? Where am I?\" pleaded Carmen, turning from one to\nanother.\n\nJude reached out and seized her hand tightly. \"Pleasant job for me!\"\nshe commented ironically, looking at the others. Then, to Carmen:\n\n\"You are in a--a hotel,\" she said abruptly.\n\n\"Oh--then--then it was a mistake?\" The girl turned her great, yearning\neyes upon the woman. Jude shrank under them. \"Sit down, and finish\nyour supper,\" she said harshly, pulling the girl toward the chair.\n\n\"No!\" replied Carmen loudly. \"You must take me to Mr. Reed!\"\n\nThe maudlin woman down the table chuckled thickly. The negro waitress\nwent quickly out and closed the door. Jude rose, still holding the\ngirl's hand. \"Come up stairs with me,\" she said, leading her away.\n\n\"Poor old Jude!\" commented one of the women, when the two had left the\nroom. \"She's about all in. This sort of business is getting her nerve.\nBut she's housekeeper, and that's part of her job. And--the poor\nlittle kid! But ain't she a beauty!\"\n\nJude took the girl into her own room and locked the door. Then she\nsank wearily into a chair. \"God!\" she cried, \"I'm sick of this--sick\nof the whole thing!\"\n\nCarmen went quickly to her. \"Don't!\" she said. \"Don't! It was all a\nmistake, and we can go.\"\n\n\"Go!\" echoed the woman bitterly. \"Where--and how?\"\n\n\"Why, you said this was a hotel--\"\n\n\"Hotel! God, it's hell! And you are in forever!\"\n\nCarmen gazed at the excited woman with a puzzled expression on her\nface.\n\n\"Now listen,\" said Jude, bracing herself, \"I've got something to tell\nyou. You have been--good God! I can't--I can't! For God's sake, child,\ndon't look at me that way! Who are you? Where do you come from?\"\n\n\"I told you,\" replied Carmen quietly.\n\n\"Your face looks as if you had come down from the sky. But if you did,\nand if you believe in a God, you had better pray to Him now!\"\n\n\"Why--I am not afraid. God is everywhere--right here. I was afraid--a\nlittle--at first. But not now. When we stop and just know that we love\neverybody, and that everybody really loves us, why, we can't be afraid\nany more, can we?\"\n\nThe woman looked up at the child in blank amazement. Love! That\nwarped, twisted word conveyed no meaning to her. And God--it was only\na convenient execrative. But--what was it that looked out from that\nstrange girl's eyes? What was it that held her fascinated there? What\nwas emerging from those unfathomable depths, twining itself about her\nwithered heart and expanding her black, shrunken soul? Whence came\nthat beautiful, white life that she was going to blast? And could she,\nafter all? Then what stayed her now?\n\n\"Look here,\" she cried sharply, \"tell me again all about yourself, and\nabout your friends and family down south, and what it was that the\nMadam said to you! And be quick!\"\n\nCarmen sat down at her feet, and taking her hand, went again over the\nstory. As the child talked, the woman's hard eyes widened, and now and\nthen a big tear rolled down the painted cheek. Her thought began to\nstray back, far back, along the wreck-strewn path over which she\nherself had come. At last in the dim haze she saw again the little New\nEngland farm, and her father, stern, but honest and respected,\ntrudging behind the plow. In the cottage she saw her white-haired\nmother, every lineament bespeaking her Puritan origin, hovering over\nher little household like a benediction. Then night fell, swiftly as\nthe eagle swoops down upon its prey, and she awoke from a terrible\ndream, stained, abandoned, lost--and seared with a foul oath to drag\ndown to her own level every innocent girl upon whom her hands might\nthereafter fall!\n\n\"And I have just had to know,\" Carmen concluded, \"every minute since I\nleft Simit\u00ed, that God was everywhere, and that He would not let any\nharm come to me. But when we really know that, why, the way _always_\nopens. For that's prayer, right prayer; the kind that Jesus taught.\"\n\nThe woman sat staring at the girl, an expression of utter blankness\nupon her pallid face. Prayer! Oh, yes, she had been taught to pray.\nWell she remembered, though the memory now cut like a knife, how she\nknelt at her beautiful mother's knee and asked the good Father to\nbless and protect them all, even to the beloved doll that she hugged\nto her little bosom. But God had never heard her petitions, innocent\nthough she was. And He had let her fall, even with a prayer on her\nlips, into the black pit!\n\nA loud sound of male voices and a stamping of feet rose from below.\nThe woman sprang to the door and stood listening. \"It's the boys from\nthe college!\" she cried in a hoarse whisper.\n\nShe turned and stood hesitant for a moment, as if striving to\nformulate a plan. A look of fierce determination came into her face.\nShe went to the bureau and took from the drawers several articles,\nwhich she hastily thrust into the pocket of her dress.\n\n\"Now,\" she said, turning to Carmen and speaking in a low, strained\nvoice, \"you do just as I say. Bring your bundle. And for God's sake\ndon't speak!\"\n\nLeaving the light burning, she stepped quickly out with Carmen and\nlocked the door after her. Then, bidding the girl wait, she slipped\nsoftly down the hall and locked the door of the room to which the girl\nhad first been taken. Both keys she dropped into her pocket. \"Now\nfollow me,\" she said.\n\nLaughter and music floated up from below, mingled with the clink of\nglasses. The air was heavy with perfume and tobacco smoke. A door near\nthem opened, and a sound of voices issued. The woman pulled Carmen\ninto a closet until the hall was again quiet. Then she hurried on to\nanother door which she entered, dragging the girl with her. Again she\nlocked the door after her. Groping through the darkness, she reached a\nwindow, across which stood a hinged iron grating, secured with a\npadlock. The woman fumbled among her keys and unfastened this.\nSwinging it wide, and opening the window beyond, she bade the girl\nprecede her cautiously.\n\n\"It's a fire-escape,\" she explained briefly. She reached through the\nwindow grating and fastened the padlock; then closed the window; and\nquickly descended with the girl to the ground below.\n\nPausing a moment to get her breath, she seized Carmen's hand and crept\nswiftly around the big house and into a dark alley. There she stopped\nto throw over her shoulders a light shawl which she had taken from the\nbureau. Then she hurried on.\n\nTheir course lay through the muddy alley for several blocks. When they\nemerged they were in a dimly lighted cross street. The air was chill,\nand the thinly clad woman shivered. Carmen, fresh from the tropics,\nfelt the contrast keenly. A few moments' rapid walking down the street\nbrought them to a large building of yellow brick, surrounded by a high\nboard fence. The woman unfastened the gate and hurried up to the door,\nover which, by the feeble light of the street lamp, Carmen read, \"The\nLittle Sisters of the Poor.\"\n\nA black-robed woman admitted them and went to summon the Sister\nSuperior. Carmen marveled at her strange attire. A moment later they\nwere silently ushered into an adjoining room, where a tall woman,\nsimilarly dressed, awaited them.\n\n\"Sister,\" said Jude excitedly, \"here's a little kid--you got to care\nfor her until she finds her friends!\"\n\nThe Sister Superior instantly divined the status of the woman. \"Let\nthe child wait here a moment,\" she said, \"and you come with me and\ntell your story. It would be better that she should not hear.\"\n\nIn a little while they appeared again. Carmen was drowsing in her\nchair.\n\n\"She's chock full of religion,\" the woman was saying.\n\n\"But you,\" the Sister replied, \"what will you do? Go back?\"\n\n\"God, no!\" cried the woman. \"They would murder me!\"\n\n\"Then you will stay here until--\"\n\n\"No, no! I have friends--others like myself--I will go to them. I--I\ncouldn't stay here--with her,\" nodding toward the girl. \"But--you will\ntake care of her?\"\n\n\"Surely,\" returned the Sister in a calm voice.\n\nJude looked at Carmen for a moment. She made as if she would speak.\nThen she turned abruptly and went swiftly out into the chill night.\n\n\"Come,\" said the Sister to Carmen, extending a hand. \"Poor little\nthing!\" she murmured as they mounted the stairs. \"Poor little thing!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 2\n\n\nCarmen was astir next morning long before the rising-bell sounded its\nshrill summons through the long corridors. When she opened her eyes\nshe gazed at the ceiling above in perplexity. She still seemed to feel\nthe tossing motion of the boat, and half believed the bell to be the\ncall to the table, where she should again hear the cheery voice of\nHarris and meet the tolerant smile of Mrs. Reed. Then a rush of\nmemories swept her, and her heart went down in the flood. She was\nalone in a great foreign city! She turned her face to the pillow, and\nfor a moment a sob shook her. Then she reached under the pillow and\ndrew out the little Bible, which she had taken from her bundle and\nplaced there when the Sister left her the night before. The book fell\nopen to Isaiah, and she read aloud:\n\n  \"I the Lord have called thee in righteousness, and will hold thine\n  hand, and will keep thee, and give thee for a covenant of the\n  people, for a light of the Gentiles.\"\n\nShe snapped the book shut and quickly rose. \"That means me,\" she said\nfirmly. \"Padre Jos\u00e8 said I had a message for the world; and now I\nam to tell it to these people up here. God has called me in\nrighteousness. That means, He has called me to do _right thinking_.\nAnd I am to tell these people how to think right. They don't know\nas yet.\"\n\nSuddenly her thought reverted to Cartagena, and to the sturdy little\nlad who had so proudly claimed the name of Rinc\u00f3n. For a moment she\nstood still. Then she burst into tears and threw herself back upon the\nbed.\n\nBut she did not lie there long. \"I must think only God's thoughts,\"\nshe said, struggling to her feet and checking her grief. \"If it is\nright for the little boy to be his son, then I must want it to be so.\nI _must_ want only the right--I have _got_ to want it! And if it is\nnot right now, then God will make it so. It is all in His hands, and I\nmust not think of it any more, unless I think right thoughts.\"\n\nShe dressed herself quickly, but did not put on the shoes. \"I simply\ncan not wear these things,\" she mourned, looking at them dubiously;\n\"and I do not believe the woman will make me. I wonder why the other\nwoman called her Sister. Why did she wear that ugly black bonnet? And\nwhy was I hurried away from that hotel? It was so much pleasanter\nthere, so bright and warm; and here it is so cold.\" She shivered as\nshe buttoned her thin dress. \"But,\" she continued, \"I have got to go\nout now and find Mr. Reed and Mr. Harris--I have just _got_ to find\nthem--and to-day! But, oh, this city is so much larger than Simit\u00ed!\"\n\nShe shook her head in perplexity as she put the Bible back again in\nthe bundle, where lay the title papers to La Libertad and her mother's\nlittle locket, which Rosendo had given her that last morning in\nSimit\u00ed. The latter she drew out and regarded wistfully for some\nmoments. \"I haven't any father or mother but God,\" she murmured. \"But\nHe is both father and mother to me now.\" With a little sigh she tied\nup the bundle again. Holding it in one hand and carrying the much\ndespised shoes in the other, she left the cheerless room and started\ndown the long, cold hall.\n\nWhen she reached the stairway leading to the floor below she stopped\nabruptly. \"Anita's babe!\" she exclaimed half-aloud. \"I have been\nthinking only of myself. It is _not_ blind! It sees! It sees as God\nsees! What is it that the Bible says?--'And I will bring them by a way\nthat they knew not; I will lead them in paths that they have not\nknown: I will make darkness light before them, and crooked things\nstraight.' I must know that--always! And Padre Jos\u00e8 said he would\nremember it, too.\"\n\nAgain she choked back the tears which surged up at the remembrance of\nthe priest, and, bracing herself, hastily descended the stairs,\nmurmuring at every step, \"God is everywhere--right here!\"\n\nAt the far end of the lower hall she saw, through an open door, a\nnumber of elderly people sitting at long tables. Toward them she\nmade her way. When she reached the door, she stopped and peered\ncuriously within. A murmur of astonishment rose from the inmates\nwhen they caught sight of the quaint object in the doorway, standing\nuncertainly, with her shoes in one hand, the awkwardly tied bundle in\nthe other, and garbed in the chaotic attire so hastily procured for\nher in Cartagena.\n\nA Sister came quickly forward and, taking the girl's hand, led her\ninto a smaller adjoining room, where sat the Sister Superior at\nbreakfast. The latter greeted the child gently and bade her be seated\nat the table. Carmen dropped into a chair and sat staring in na\u00efve\nwonder.\n\n\"Well,\" began the Sister at length, \"eat your breakfast quickly. This\nis Sunday, you know, and Mass will be said in the chapel in half an\nhour. You look frightened. I don't wonder. But you are with friends\nhere, little girl. What is your name?\"\n\nCarmen quickly recovered her spirits, and her nimble tongue its wonted\nflexibility. Without further invitation or preface she entered at once\nupon a lively description of her wonderful journey through the jungle,\nthe subsequent ocean voyage, and the mishap at the pier, and concluded\nwith the cryptical remark: \"And, you know, Se\u00f1ora, it is all just as\nPadre Jos\u00e8 said, only a series of states of consciousness, after\nall!\"\n\nThe Sister stared blankly at the beaming child. What manner of being\nwas this that had been so strangely wafted into these sacred precincts\non the night breeze! The abandoned woman who had brought her there,\nthe Sister remembered, had dropped an equally cryptical remark--\"She's\nchock full of religion.\"\n\nBut gratitude quickly mastered her wonder, and the woman, pondering\nthe child's dramatic recital, murmured a sincere, \"The Virgin be\npraised!\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Carmen, looking up quickly as she caught the words, \"you\npeople up here talk just like those in Simit\u00ed. But Padre Jos\u00e8 said you\ndidn't know, either. You ought to, though, for you have had so many\nmore ad--advantages than we have. Se\u00f1ora, there are many big, clumsy\nwords in the English language, aren't there? But I love it just the\nsame. So did Padre Jos\u00e8. We used to speak it all the time during the\nlast years we were together. He said it seemed easier to talk about\nGod in that language than in any other. Do you find it so, Se\u00f1ora?\"\n\n\"What do you mean, child?\" asked the puzzled Sister. \"And who is this\nJos\u00e8 that you talk so much about?\"\n\n\"He--taught me--in Simit\u00ed. He is the priest there.\"\n\n\"Well,\" replied the Sister warmly, \"he seems to have taught you queer\nthings!\"\n\n\"Oh, no!\" returned Carmen quickly, \"he just taught me the truth. He\ndidn't tell me about the queer things in the world, for he said they\nwere not real.\"\n\nAgain the Sister stared at the girl in dumb amazement. But the child's\nthought had strayed to other topics. \"Isn't it cold up here!\" she\nexclaimed, shivering and drawing her dress about her. \"I guess I'll\nhave to put on these shoes to keep my feet warm.\"\n\n\"Certainly, child, put them on!\" exclaimed the Sister. \"Didn't you\nwear shoes in your country?\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Carmen, tugging and straining at the shoes; \"I didn't\nwear much of anything, it was so warm. Oh, it is beautiful down there,\nSe\u00f1ora, so beautiful and warm in Simit\u00ed!\" She sighed, and her eyes\nfilled with tears. But she brushed them away and smiled bravely up at\nthe Sister. \"I've come here because it is right,\" she said with a firm\nnod of her head. \"Padre Jos\u00e8 said I had a message for you. He said you\ndidn't know much about God up here. Why, I don't know much of anything\nelse!\" She laughed a happy little laugh as she said this. Then she\nwent on briskly:\n\n\"You know, Se\u00f1ora, Padre Jos\u00e8 isn't really a priest. But he said he\nhad to stay in the Church in order to teach me. I never could\nunderstand why. I am sure he just thought wrong about it. But, anyway,\nhe will not have to be a priest any more, now that I have gone, will\nhe? You know, Don Jorge said priests were a bad lot; but that isn't\nso, for there are many good priests, aren't there? Yes, there are.\nOnly, they don't understand, either. Why, Se\u00f1ora,\" she exclaimed,\nsuddenly remembering the Sister's previous injunction, \"is this a\nchurch? You said there would be Mass in the chapel--\"\n\n\"No,\" replied the Sister, still studying the girl attentively, while\nher manner became more severe; \"this is a home for old people, a\ncharitable institution.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" replied Carmen, with a very vague idea of what that meant.\n\"Well,\" her face alight and her eyes dancing, \"I don't belong here\nthen, do I? I am never going to be old,\" she meditated. \"Why, God\nnever grows old! And we are His children, you know. The Bible says we\nare made in His image and likeness. Well, if that is so, how can we\never grow old? Just think of God hobbling around in heaven with a cane\nand saying: 'Well, I'm getting old now! I'll soon be dying!' Isn't\nthat awful! We wouldn't grow old and die if it wasn't for our wrong\nway of thinking, would we? When we think His thoughts, why, we will be\nlike Him. But not until then. Padre Jos\u00e8 says this, and he knows it is\ntrue--only, he seems to have a hard time proving it. But, Se\u00f1ora, we\nhave all got to prove it, some time, every one of us. And then there\nwill not be any places like this for old people--people who still\nbelieve that two and two are seven, you know. And that's my message.\"\n\nThe woman looked at her blankly; but the girl rambled on. \"Padre Jos\u00e8\nsometimes talked of the charitable institutions out in the world, and\nhe always said that charity was a crime against the people. And he was\nright, for that is just the way Jesus looked at it, isn't it? Jesus\ndid not give money to beggars, but he did better, he healed them of\nthe bad state of mind that was making them poor and sick. Why don't\nthe priests do that? Can you heal the sick? Jesus, when he taught,\nfirst said a thing, and then he turned right around and proved it. Now\ndo you do that? I try to. I've tried it all my life. And, why, Se\u00f1ora,\nI've had thousands of proofs!\"\n\nThe Sister did not reply; and Carmen, stealing a covert glance at her,\ncontinued:\n\n\"You know, Se\u00f1ora, it is just as wicked to be sick and poor as it is\nto tell a lie, because being sick and poor is just the ex--the\nex-ter-nal-i-zation of our thought; and such thought is not from God;\nand so to hold such thoughts and to believe them real is to believe in\npower apart from God. It is having other gods than the one God; and\nthat is breaking the very first Commandment, isn't it? Yes, it is; and\nyou can prove it, just as you can prove the principles in mathematics.\nSe\u00f1ora, do you know anything about mathematics?\"\n\nThe astonished woman made an involuntary sign of negation.\n\n\"Oh, Se\u00f1ora,\" cried the enthusiastic girl, \"the things that Jesus\ntaught can be proved just as easily as we prove the rules in\nmathematics! Why not? for they are truth, and all truth can be\ndemonstrated, you know. You know, Se\u00f1ora, God is everywhere--not only\nin heaven, but right here where we are. Heaven, Padre Jos\u00e8 used to say\nso often, is only a perfect state of mind; and so it is, isn't it?\nGod, you know, is mind. And when we reflect Him perfectly, why, we\nwill be in heaven. Isn't it simple? But,\" she went on after catching\nher breath, \"we can't reflect Him as long as we believe evil to be\nreal and powerful. Evil isn't anything. It is just zero, nothing--\"\n\n\"I've heard that before,\" interrupted the woman, recovering somewhat\nfrom her surprise. \"But I think that before you get out of New York\nyou will reverse that idea. There's a pretty fair amount of evil here,\nand it is quite real, we find.\"\n\n\"But it isn't!\" cried Carmen. \"If it is real, then God made it. It\nseems real to you--but that is only because you give it reality in\nyour consciousness. You believe it real, and so it becomes to you.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the woman dryly, \"on that basis I think the same may be\nsaid of good, too.\"\n\n\"No,\" answered Carmen eagerly, \"good is--\"\n\n\"There,\" interrupted the Sister coldly, holding up an admonitory hand,\n\"we are not going to discuss the foolish theological notions which\nthat fallen priest put into your poor little head. Finish your\nbreakfast.\"\n\nThe child looked at the woman in mute protest. Jos\u00e8 a fallen priest!\nWould these people up here so regard him? It was a new thought, and\none that she would not accept.\n\n\"Se\u00f1ora,\" she began again, after a brief interval, \"Padre Jos\u00e8 is a\ngood man, even the human Padre Jos\u00e8. And he is trying to solve his\nproblem and know God. And he is trying to know himself, not as other\npeople think they know him, but as God knows him, and as I have always\ntried to know him. You have no right to judge him--and, anyway, you\nare not judging him, but only your wrong idea of him. And that,\" she\nsaid softly, \"is nothing.\"\n\nThe Sister did not answer. She was beginning to feel the spell of\nthose great brown eyes, that soft, rich voice, and the sparkling\nexpression of innocence, purity, and calm assurance that bubbled from\nthose red lips. And she was losing herself in contemplation of the\ngirl's luxuriant beauty, whose rich profusion her strange, foreign\nattire could not disguise.\n\n\"Se\u00f1ora,\" said Carmen suddenly, \"the people on the boat laughed at my\nclothes. But I don't think them half as funny as that great black\nbonnet you are wearing. Why do you wear it? I never saw one until I\nwas brought here.\"\n\nIt was said innocently, and with no thought of offense. But the woman\ninstantly roused from her meditation and assumed an attitude of\nsevere dignity. \"Finish your breakfast,\" she commanded sharply. \"And\nremember after this that children's manners here are not those of your\ncountry.\"\n\nThe girl fell quiet under the rebuke, and the meal ended in silence.\nAs they were rising from the table a cheery voice came from the outer\nroom, and presently a priest looked in.\n\n\"Good morning, Sister,\" he cried heartily. \"Well, who's this?\" as his\neyes fell upon Carmen. He was a young man, apparently still in the\ntwenties, of athletic build, inclined rather to stoutness, and with a\nround, shining face that radiated health and good nature.\n\nThe Sister quietly returned his cordial greeting. \"It is a little\nwaif,\" she said in answer to his query, \"who strayed in here last\nnight.\"\n\n\"Aha,\" said the priest, \"another derelict! And will you send her to\nthe orphanage?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid if I do the little heretic will corrupt all the other\nchildren,\" replied the Sister. \"Father,\" she continued seriously, \"I\nwant you to examine this child, and then tell me what you think should\nbe done with her.\"\n\n\"What is it--health?\" asked the priest, studying the girl.\n\n\"No,\" replied the Sister; \"but another priest has gone wrong, and\nthis,\" pointing to Carmen, \"is the result of his pernicious\nteachings.\"\n\nThe priest did not reply for some moments. Then he sighed wearily.\n\"Very well, Sister,\" he said in a low voice. \"I will talk with her\nafter the service.\" He seemed suddenly to have lost his cheerfulness,\nas he continued to converse with the woman on matters pertaining to\nthe institution.\n\nCarmen, wondering and receptive, took the place assigned to her in the\nchapel and sat quietly through the service. She had often seen Jos\u00e8\ncelebrate Mass in the rude little church in Simit\u00ed, but with no such\nelaboration as she witnessed here. Once or twice she joined in the\nresponses, not with any thought of worship, but rather to give vent,\neven if slight, to the impelling desire to hear her own musical voice.\nShe thought as she did so that the priest looked in her direction. She\nthought others looked at her attentively at the same time. But they\nhad all stared at her, for that matter, and she had felt confused and\nembarrassed under their searching scrutiny. Yet the old people\nattracted her peculiarly. Never had she seen so many at one time. And\nnever, she thought, had she seen such physical decrepitude and\nhelplessness. And then she fell to wondering what they were all there\nfor, and what they got out of the service. Did the Mass mean anything\nto them? Did they believe that thereby their sins were atoned? Did\nthey believe that that priest was really changing the wafer and wine\ninto flesh and blood? She recalled much that Jos\u00e8 had told her about\nthe people up in the States. They were not so different, mentally,\nfrom her own, after all.\n\nThe Host had been elevated. The people, still gossiping cheerfully,\nhad prostrated themselves before it. The sermon had been short, for\nthe old people waxed impatient at long discourses. Then the priest\ndescended from the pulpit and came to Carmen. \"Now, little girl,\" he\nsaid, seating himself beside her, \"tell me all about yourself, who you\nare, where you come from, and what you have been taught. And do not be\nafraid. I am your friend.\" Carmen smiled up at him; then plunged into\nher narrative.\n\nIt was two hours later when the Sister Superior looked in and saw the\npriest and girl still sitting in earnest conversation. She stood\nlistening. \"But,\" she heard the priest say, \"you tell me that this\nFather Jos\u00e8 taught you these things?\"\n\n\"He taught me English, and French, and German. He taught me\nmathematics. And he taught me all I know of history, and of the\nworld,\" the girl replied.\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" the priest went on hurriedly; \"but these other things,\nthese religious and philosophical notions, who taught you these?\"\n\nThe Sister drew closer and strained her ears to hear.\n\nThe girl looked down as she answered softly, \"God.\"\n\nThe priest's head sank upon his breast. He reached out and laid a hand\non hers. \"I believe you,\" he said, in a voice scarcely audible. \"I\nbelieve you--for we do not teach such things.\"\n\nThe girl looked up with luminous eyes. \"Then,\" she said quizzically,\n\"you are not really a priest.\"\n\n\"Father Waite!\" The Sister's voice rang sternly through the quiet\nchapel. The priest started to his feet in confusion. \"The dinner-bell\nwill ring in a few minutes,\" continued the Sister, regarding the man\nseverely.\n\n\"Ah, true,\" he murmured, hastily glancing at the clock. \"The time\npassed so rapidly--a--a--this girl--\"\n\n\"Leave the girl to me,\" replied the Sister coldly. \"Unless,\" she\nadded, \"you consider her deranged. Coming from that hot country\nsuddenly into this cold climate might--\"\n\n\"No, no,\" interrupted the priest hastily; \"she seems uncommonly strong\nmentally. She has some notions that are a--somewhat different from\nours--that is--but I will come and have a further talk with her.\"\n\nHe raised his hand in silent benediction, while the Sister bowed her\nhead stiffly. Then, as if loath to take his eyes from the girl, he\nturned and went slowly out.\n\n\"Come,\" said the woman sharply. Carmen followed her out into the hall\nand down a flight of steps to the kitchen below.\n\n\"Katherine,\" said the Sister Superior, addressing an elderly,\nwhite-haired Sister who seemed to be in charge of the culinary\ndepartment, \"put this girl to work. Let her eat with you and sleep in\nyour room. And see if you can't work some of the foolish notions out\nof her head.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 3\n\n\n\"Get some o' th' foolish notions out of your head, is it? Och, puir\nbairn, wid yer swate face an' that hivenly hair, it's welcome ye air\nto yer notions! But, hist! Ye have talked too brash to the Sister\nSuperior. Ye air that innocent, puir thing! But, mind your tongue,\nhoney. Tell your funny notions to old Katie, an' they'll be safe as\nthe soul of Saint Patrick; but keep mum before the others, honey.\"\n\n\"But, Se\u00f1ora, don't they want to know the truth up here?\" There was a\nnote of appeal in the quavering voice.\n\n\"Now listen, honey; don't call me sich heathen names. Call me Sister.\nI'm no Se\u00f1ora, whativer that may be. And as for wantin' to know the\ntruth, God bless ye, honey! th' good Fathers know it all now.\"\n\n\"They don't, Se\u00f1--Sister!\"\n\n\"Well, thin, they don't--an' mebby I'm not so far from agreein' wid\nye. But, och, it's dead beat I am, after the Sunday's work! But ye air\na right smart little helper, honey--only, ye don't belong in th'\nkitchen.\"\n\n\"Se\u00f1--I mean, Sister--\"\n\n\"That's better, honey; ye'll get it in time.\"\n\n\"Sister, I've just _got_ to find Mr. Reed! Do you know him?\"\n\n\"No, honey, it's few I know outside these walls. But ye can put up a\nbit of a prayer when ye turn in to-night. An' we'd best be makin' for\nth' bed, too, darlin', for we've a hard day's work to-morrow.\"\n\nIt was Carmen's second night in New York, and as the girl silently\nfollowed the puffing old woman up the several long, dark flights of\nstairs to the little, cheerless room under the eaves, it seemed to her\nthat her brain must fly apart with the pressure of its mental\naccumulation. The great building in which she was now sheltered, the\nkitchen, with its marvels of equipment, gas stoves, electric lights,\nannunciators, and a thousand other equally wonderful appliances which\nthe human mind has developed for its service and comfort, held her\nfascinated, despite her situation, while she swelled with questions\nshe dared not ask. Notwithstanding the anxiety which she had not\nwholly suppressed, her curiosity, na\u00efve, eager, and insatiable, rose\nmountain high. Sister Katherine had been kind to her, had received her\nwith open arms, and given her light tasks to perform. And many times\nduring the long afternoon the old woman had relaxed entirely from her\nassumed brusqueness and stooped to lay a large, red hand gently upon\nthe brown curls, or to imprint a resounding kiss upon the flushed\ncheek. Now, as night was settling down over the great, roaring city,\nthe woman took the homeless waif into her big heart and wrapped her in\na love that, roughly expressed, was yet none the less tender and\nsincere.\n\n\"Ye can ask the Virgin, honey, to send ye to yer frinds,\" said the\nwoman, as they sat in the gloaming before the window and looked out\nover the kindling lights of the city.\n\n\"What good would that do, Sister?\"\n\n\"Not much, I guess, honey,\" answered the woman frankly. \"Troth, an'\nI've asked her fer iverything in my time, from diamonds to a husband,\nan' she landed me in a convint! But I ain't complainin'.\"\n\n\"You didn't ask in the right way, Sister--\"\n\n\"Faith, I asked in ivery way I knew how! An' whin I had th' carbuncle\non me neck I yelled at her! Sure she may have answered me prayer, fer\nth' whoop I gave busted the carbuncle, an' I got well. Ye nivir kin\ntell, honey. An' so I ain't complainin'.\"\n\n\"But, Sis--I can't call you Sister!\" pleaded the girl, going to the\nwoman and twining her arms about her neck.\n\n\"Och, honey darlin'\"--tears started from the old woman's eyes and\nrolled down her wrinkled cheeks--\"honey darlin', call me Katie, just\nold Katie. Och, Holy Virgin, if I could have had a home, an' a\nbeautiful daughter like you--!\" She clasped the girl in her great arms\nand held her tightly.\n\n\"Katie, when you pray you must pray knowing that God has already given\nyou what you need, and that there is nothing that can keep you from\nseeing it.\"\n\nThe woman wiped her eyes on her sleeve. \"An' so, darlin', if I want\ndiamonds I must know that I have 'em, is it that, honey?\"\n\n\"You dear thing!\" murmured Carmen, drawing closer, and laying her soft\ncheek against the leathery visage of the old woman.\n\n\"Say that again, honey--och, say it again! It's words, darlin', that's\nnivir been said to old Katie!\"\n\n\"Why, hasn't any one ever been kind to you?\"\n\n\"Kind! Och, ivirybody's kind to me, honey! But nobody has ivir loved\nme--that way. The good Lord made me a fright, honey--ain't ye noticed?\nI've a face like an owl. An' they told me from th' cradle up I'd nivir\nland a man. An' I didn't, honey; they all ran from me--an' so I become\na bride o' th' Church. But I ain't complainin'.\"\n\n\"But, Katie, the face is nothing. Why, your heart is as big--as big as\nthe whole world! I hadn't been with you an hour before I knew that.\nAnd, Katie dear, I love you.\"\n\n\"Och, darlin',\" murmured the woman, \"sure th' Virgin be praised fer\nsendin' ye to me, a lonely old woman!\"\n\n\"It was not the Virgin, Katie, but God who brought me here,\" said the\ngirl gently, as she caressed the old Sister's cheek.\n\n\"It's all one, honey; the Virgin's th' Mother o' God.\"\n\n\"Why, Katie! You don't know what you are saying!\"\n\n\"Troth, child, she has th' same power as God! Don't we pray to her,\nan' she prays to th' good God to save us? Don't she have influence\nwith Him?\"\n\n\"No, Katie, no. There is no person or thing that persuades God to be\ngood to His children. There is nothing that influences Him. He is\ninfinite--infinite mind, Katie, and infinite good. Oh, Katie, what\nawful things are taught in this world as truth! How little we know of\nthe great God! And yet how much people pretend they know about Him!\nBut if they only knew--really _knew_, as Jesus did--why, Katie, there\nwouldn't be an old person, or a sick or unhappy one in the whole\nworld! Katie,\" after a little pause, \"I know. And I'm going to tell\nthem.\"\n\nThe old Sister drew the child closer. \"Air these more o' yer funny\nnotions, darlin'?\"\n\n\"I suppose they are what the world thinks funny, Katie,\" answered the\ngirl.\n\n\"An' I don't wonder! We are not taught such things, honey. But then,\nth' world moves, girlie--even old Katie sees that. Only, the Church\ndon't move with it. An' old Katie can see that, too. An' so, I'm\nthinkin', does Father Waite.\"\n\n\"I know he does, Katie.\"\n\n\"Faith, an' how do ye know it, child?\"\n\n\"He talked with me--a long time, this morning. He said God had taught\nme what I know.\"\n\n\"Aye, is it so? Thin me own suspicions air right; he's out o' tune!\nDid ye say, girlie dear, that he didn't scold ye fer yer funny\nnotions?\"\n\n\"No, Katie, he said they were right.\"\n\n\"Did he so! Thin, lassie dear, things is goin' to happen. An' he's a\ngood man--troth, they make no better in this world!\"\n\nThe old Sister lapsed into thought. Carmen looked out wonderingly over\nthe city. She yearned to know what it held for her.\n\n\"Katie,\" she said at length, bending again over the woman, \"will you\nhelp me find Mr. Reed?\"\n\n\"Och, lassie--what's your name again?\"\n\n\"Carmen,\" replied the girl, \"Carmen Ariza.\"\n\n\"Cair-men Aree--now ain't that a name fer ye! An' yer nationality,\ngirl?\"\n\n\"I'm a Colombian, Katie.\"\n\n\"Whist! Where is it? In Afrikay?\"\n\n\"South America,\" with a little sigh.\n\n\"Now think o' that! An' I'm Scotch-Irish, honey; an' we're both a long\nway from th' ol' sod! Lassie dear, tell me about last night. But, no;\nbegin 'way back. Give us th' whole tale. Old Katie's weak in th' head,\ngirlie, but she may see a way out fer ye. Th' Virgin help ye, puir\nbairn!\"\n\nMidnight boomed from the bell in a neighboring tower when Carmen\nfinished her story.\n\n\"Be the Saints above!\" exclaimed the old Sister, staring at the girl\nin amazement. \"Now do ye let me feel of ye to see that ye air human;\nfer only a Saint could go through all that an' live to tell it! An'\nthe place ye were in last night! Now be Saint Patrick, if I was rich\nI'd have Masses said every day fer that Jude who brung ye here! Don't\ntell me th' good Lord won't forgive her! Och, God! she's a Saint\nalready.\"\n\n\"She's a good woman, Katie; and, somehow, I felt sorry for her, but I\ndon't know why. She has a beautiful home in that hotel--\"\n\n\"Hotel, is it! Hivins above! But--och, sure, it was a hotel, honey.\nOnly, ye air better off here wi' old Katie.\"\n\n\"And now you will help me?\"\n\n\"Help you, lassie! God bless ye, yes! But--unless it's wi' Father\nWaite, I don't know what I can do. Ye air in bad with th' Sister\nSuperior fer yer talk at th' breakfast table. Ye're a fresh little\nheathen, honey. An' she's suspicious of Father Waite, too. We all air.\nAn' he th' best man on airth! But his doctrine ain't just sound,\nsweatheart. Hivins, doctrine! It means more'n a good heart! There,\nhoney, lave it to me. But it's got to be done quick, or th' Sister\nSuperior'll have ye in an orphan asylum, where ye'll stay till ye air\nsoused in th' doctrine! I can manage to get word to Father Waite\nto-morrow, airly. Jinny will run over fer me. A bit of a word wi'\nhim'll fix it, lassie dear. An' now, honey swate, off with them funny\nclothes and plump into bed. Saints above! it's all but marnin' now!\"\n\nA few minutes later the woman turned to the girl who lay so quiet at\nher side.\n\n\"Honey,\" she whispered, \"was ye tellin' me awhile back that ye knew\nthe right way to pray?\"\n\n\"Yes, Katie dear,\" the child murmured.\n\n\"Thin do you pray, lass, an' I'll not trouble the Virgin this night.\"\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Well, Father, what do you think now?\" The Sister Superior looked up\naggressively, as Father Waite slowly entered the room. His head was\nbowed, and there was a look of deep earnestness upon his face.\n\n\"I have talked with her again--an hour, or more,\" he said reflectively.\n\"She is a--a remarkable girl, in many ways.\" He stopped, uncertain\nhow to proceed.\n\nThe Sister eyed him keenly. \"She attracts and repels me, both,\" she\nsaid. \"At times she seems positively uncanny. And she appears to be\nsuffering from religious dementia. Do you not think so?\"\n\nIt was a compromising question, and the priest weighed his words\ncarefully before replying. \"She does--seem to--to have rather--a--rather\nunusual--religious views,\" said he slowly.\n\n\"Would it not be well to have Dr. Sullivan examine her?\"\n\n\"To what end?\"\n\n\"That we may know what to do with her. If she is mentally unsound she\nmust not be sent to the orphanage.\"\n\n\"She should be taken--a--I mean, we should try to locate her friends.\nI have already searched the city directory; but, though there are many\nReeds, there are none listed with the initials she gave me as his. I\nhad thought,\" he continued hesitatingly, \"I had thought of putting her\nin charge of the Young Women's Christian Association--\"\n\n\"Father Waite!\" The Sister Superior rose and drew herself up to her\nfull height. \"Do you mean to say that you have contemplated delivering\nher into the hands of heretics?\" she demanded coldly, her tall figure\ninstinct with the mortal pride of religious superiority.\n\n\"Why, Sister,\" returned the priest with embarrassment, \"would it not\nbe wise to place her among those whose views harmonize more closely\nwith hers than ours do?\"\n\n\"Father! I am surprised--!\"\n\n\"But--she is not a Catholic!\" urged the man, with a gesture of\nimpatience. \"And she will never be one. The combined weight of all the\ncenturies of church authority could not make her one--never! I must\ntake her to those with whom she rightfully belongs.\"\n\nThe Sister Superior's eyes narrowed and glittered, and her face grew\ndark. \"Never!\" she said in a low tone. \"I would rather see her dead!\nFather Waite, you exceed your authority! I am in charge here, and I\nshall report this case to the Bishop!\"\n\nThe priest stood hesitant for a moment. The futility of his case\nseemed to impress him. Taking up his hat, he bowed without speaking\nand went out. The Sister Superior stepped to the telephone. Outside\nthe door the man listened until he caught the number she called. His\nface grew dark and angry, and his hands clenched a she strode down the\nhall.\n\nOn the stairs that led up from the kitchen stood Sister Katherine.\n\n\"Hist! Father!\"\n\nHe stopped and turned to the woman. Her finger went up to her lips.\n\n\"Wait on th' corner--behind the church! The lassie will meet you\nthere!\"\n\nBefore he could reply the woman had plunged again into the dark\nstairway. Stopping at a small closet below, she took out a bundle.\nThen she hurried to the kitchen and summoned Carmen, who was sitting\nat a table peeling potatoes.\n\n\"Troth, lazy lass,\" she commanded sharply, \"do you take the bucket and\nmop and begin on the front steps. And mind that ye don't bring me\nheavy hand down on ye! Och, lassie darlin',\" she added, when she had\ndrawn the startled girl out of hearing of the others, \"give yer old\nKatie a kiss, and then be off! Troth, it breaks me heart to see ye\ngo--but 'twould break yours to stay! Go, lassie darlin', an' don't\nfergit old Katie! Here,\" thrusting the girl's bundle and a dollar bill\ninto her hands, \"an' God bless ye, lass! Ye've won me, heart an' soul!\nYe'll find a frind at th' nixt corner!\" pointing up the street. She\nstrained the girl again to her breast, then opened the door and\nhastily thrust her out into the street.\n\nFor a moment Carmen stood dazed by the suddenness of it all. She\nlooked up confusedly at the great, yellow building from which she had\nbeen ejected. There was no visible sign of life. Then, grasping her\nbundle and the dollar bill, she hurried out through the gate and\nstarted up the street.\n\nAround the corner stood Father Waite. The man's face was furrowed, and\nhis body trembled. The girl went up to him with a glad smile. The\npriest looked up, and muttered something incoherent under his breath a\nshe took her hand.\n\n\"Where are we going, Padre?\" she asked.\n\nHe drew some loose change from his pocket, and hailed an approaching\nstreet car.\n\n\"To police headquarters,\" he replied, \"to ask them to help us find\nyour friends.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 4\n\n\nFrom the mysterious wastes which lie far out on the ocean, the fog was\nagain creeping stealthily across the bay and into the throbbing\narteries of the great city. Through half-opened doors and windows it\nrolled like smoke, and piled like drifted snow against the mountains\nof brick and stone. Caught for a moment on a transient breeze, it\nswirled around a towering pile on lower Broadway, and eddied up to the\nwindows of the Ketchim Realty Company, where it sifted through the\nchinks in the loose frames and settled like a pall over the dingy\nrooms within.\n\nTo Philip O. Ketchim, junior member of the firm, it seemed a fitting\nexternal expression of the heavy gloom within his soul. Crumpled into\nthe chair at the broad table in his private office, with his long,\nthin legs stretched out before him, his hands crammed into the pockets\nof his trousers, and his bullet-shaped head sunk on his flat chest,\nuntil it seemed as if the hooked nose which graced his hawk-like\nvisage must be penetrating his breast-bone, the man was the embodiment\nof utter dejection. On the littered table, where he had just tossed\nit, lay the report of Reed and Harris on the pseudo-mineral properties\nof the Molino Company--the \"near-mines\" in the rocky ca\u00f1on of the\nfar-off Boque. Near it lay the current number of a Presbyterian\nreview, wherein the merits of this now moribund project were\nadvertised in terms whose glitter had attracted swarms of eager,\ntrusting investors.\n\nThe firm name of Ketchim Realty Company was something of a misnomer.\nThe company itself was an experiment, whose end had not justified its\ninception. It had been launched a few years previously by Douglass\nKetchim to provide business careers for his two sons, James and\nPhilip. The old gentleman, still hale and vigorous, was one of those\nsturdy Englishmen who had caught the infection of '49 and abruptly\nsevered the ties which bound them to their Kentish homes for the\nallurements of the newly discovered El Dorado of western America.\nAcross the death-haunted Isthmus of Panam\u00e1 and up the inhospitable\nPacific coast the indomitable spirit of the young adventurer drove\nhim, until he reached the golden sands of California. There he toiled\nfor many years, until Fortune at length smiled upon his quenchless\nefforts. Then he tossed aside his rough tools and set out for the less\nconstricted fields of the East.\n\nHe invested his money wisely, and in the course of years turned it\nseveral times. He became a banker. He aspired to the hand of a\nsister of a railway president, and won it. He educated his sons in the\nbest colleges of the East, and then sent them to Europe on their\nhoneymoons. And finally, when the burden of years began to press\nnoticeably, and the game became less attractive, he retired from\nthe field of business, cleared off his indebtedness, organized the\nKetchim Realty Company, put its affairs on the best possible basis,\nand then committed the unpardonable folly of turning it over to the\nunrestricted management of his two sons.\n\nThe result was chaos. At the expiration of a year the old gentleman\nhurried back into the harness to save the remnant of his fortune, only\nto find it inextricably tied up in lands of dubious value and\nquestionable promotional schemes. The untangling of the real estate he\nimmediately took into his own hands. The schemes he left to his sons.\n\nA word in passing regarding these sons, for they typify a form of\nparasitical growth, of the fungus variety, which in these days has\nbattened and waxed noxious on the great stalk of legitimate commercial\nenterprise. They were as dissimilar, and each as unlike his father, as\nis possible among members of the same family. Both sought, with\ndiligent consecration, the same goal, money; but employed wholly\ndifferent means to gain that end. James, the elder, was a man of ready\nwit, a nimble tongue, and a manner which, on occasions when he could\nthink of any one but himself, was affable and gracious. He was a\nscoffer of religion, an open foe of business scruple, and the avowed\nchampion of every sort of artifice and device employed in ancient,\nmediaeval, or modern finance to further his own selfish desires, in\nthe minimum of time, and at whatever cost to his fellow-man. In his\ncups he was a witty, though arrogant, braggart. In his home he was\npetulant and childish. Of real business acumen and constructive\nwisdom, he had none. He would hew his way to wealth, if need be,\nopenly defiant of God, man, or the devil. Or he would work in subtler\nways, through deceit, jugglery, or veiled bribe. But he generally wore\nhis heart on his sleeve; and those who perforce had business relations\nwith him soon discovered that, though utterly unscrupulous, his\ncharacter was continuously revealed through his small conceit, which\ncaused him so to work as to be seen of men and gain their cheap\nplaudits for his sharp, mendacious practices.\n\nPhilip retained a degree of his father's confidence--which James\nwholly lacked--and he spared himself no pains to cultivate it. Though\nfar less ready of wit than his stubby, bombastic brother, he was a\ntenacious plodder, and was for this reason much more likely ultimately\nto achieve his sordid purposes. His energy was tireless, and he never\nadmitted defeat. He never worked openly; he never appeared to have a\ndecided line of conduct; and no one could ever say what particular\ncourse he intended to pursue. Apparently, he was a man of exemplary\nhabits; and his mild boast that he knew not the taste of tobacco or\nliquor could not be refuted. He was an elder in the Presbyterian\nchurch in the little suburb where he lived, and superintendent of its\nSunday school. His prayers were beautiful expressions of reverent\npiety; and his conversation, at all times chaste and modest, announced\nhim a man of more than ordinary purity of thought and motive. While it\nis true that no one could recall any pious deed, any charitable act,\nor any conduct based on motives of self-abnegation and brotherly love\nperformed by him, yet no one could ever point to a single coarse or\nmean action emanating from the man. If there was discord in company\naffairs, the wanton James always bore the onus. And because of this,\nrelations between the brothers gradually assumed a condition of\nstrain, until at length James openly and angrily denounced Philip as a\nhypocrite, and refused longer to work with him. Thereupon the milder\nPhilip offered the other cheek and installed a mediator, in the person\nof one Rawlins, a sickly, emaciated, bearded, but loyal Hermes, who\nthenceforth performed the multifold functions of pacificator,\ngo-between, human telephone, and bearer of messages, documents, and\nwhat-not from one to the other for a nominal wage and the crumbs that\ndropped from the promoter's table.\n\nThe fog and the gloom thickened, and Ketchim sat deeply immersed in\nboth. He was still shaking from the fright which he had received that\nmorning. On opening the door as he was about to leave his house to\ntake the train to the city, he had confronted two bulky policemen.\nWith a muffled shriek he had slammed the door in their astonished\nfaces and darted back into the house, his heart in his throat and\nhammering madly. How could he know that they were only selling tickets\nto a Policemen's Ball? Then he had crept to the window and, concealed\nin the folds of the curtain, had watched them go down the street,\nlaughing and turning often to glance back at the house that held such\na queer-mannered inmate.\n\nRousing himself from the gloomy revery into which he had lapsed,\nKetchim switched on the light and took up again the report of Reed\nand Harris. Sullenly he turned its pages, while the sallow skin on his\nlow forehead wrinkled, and his bird-like face drew into ugly\ncontortions.\n\n\"Fools!\" he muttered. \"Didn't they see that clause in their contract,\nproviding an additional fifty thousand in stock for them in case they\nmade a favorable report?\"\n\nA light tap at the door, and a low cough, preceded the noiseless\nentrance of the meek-souled Rawlins.\n\n\"A--a--this is the list which Reverend Jurges sent us--names and\naddresses of his congregation. I've mailed them all descriptive\nmatter; and I wrote Mr. Jurges that the price of his stock would be\nfive dollars, but that we couldn't sell to his congregation for less\nthan seven. That's right, isn't it? I told him Molino stock would go\nup to par next month. That's what you said, I believe.\"\n\n\"How much stock did Jurges say he'd take?\" demanded Ketchim, without\nlooking up.\n\n\"Why, he said he could only get together two thousand dollars at\npresent, but that later he would have some endowment insurance falling\ndue--\"\n\n\"How soon?\"\n\n\"About a year, I think he said.\"\n\n\"Well, he ought to be able to borrow on that. Did you write him so?\"\n\n\"No--but I can.\"\n\n\"Do so--but only hint at it. And tell him to send his check at once\nfor the stock he has agreed to take.\"\n\n\"Why, he sent that some days ago. I thought you--\"\n\n\"He did?\" cried Ketchim, his interest now fully aroused. \"Well, where\nis it?\"\n\n\"Er--your brother James received the letter, and I believe he put the\ncheck in his pocket.\"\n\nKetchim gave vent to a snort of rage. \"You tell James,\" he cried,\npounding the desk with his fist, \"that as president and treasurer of\nthe Molino Company I demand that check!\"\n\n\"Yes, sir--and--\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"Mr. Cass 'phoned before you got down this morning. He said the bank\nrefused to extend the time on your note.\"\n\nKetchim sank back limply into his chair, and his face became ashen.\n\n\"And here is the mail,\" pursued the gentle Hermes, handing him a\nbundle of letters.\n\nKetchim roused himself with an effort. His eyes flashed angrily. \"Do\nyou know whether James has been selling any of his own Molino stock?\"\nhe asked.\n\n\"I--I believe he has, sir--a little.\"\n\n\"Humph! And how much?\"\n\n\"He sold some two hundred shares yesterday--I believe; to a Miss\nLeveridge.\"\n\n\"Leveridge? Who's she? What did he get for it?\"\n\n\"Why, the Leveridge children--grown men and women now--have just sold\ntheir farm down state; and Mr. James saw the sale announced in the\npapers. So he got in touch with Miss Alvina Leveridge. I believe he\nsent Houghton down there; and he closed a deal. Mr. James got eight\ndollars a share, I believe.\"\n\n\"You believe! You _know_, don't you?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" meekly.\n\nKetchim gulped down his wrath, and continued:\n\n\"How much did the Leveridges get for their farm? And why didn't you\ninform me of the sale?\" he demanded, fixing the humble Rawlins with a\ncold eye.\n\n\"A--a--twenty-five thousand dollars, sir, I believe. And I didn't see\nthe notice until--\"\n\n\"As usual, James saw it first! An excellent scout you are! Twenty-five\nthousand dollars! How many acres?\"\n\n\"A hundred and eighty, I believe.\"\n\nKetchim reflected. \"James is still dickering with Miss Leveridge, I\nsuppose?\"\n\n\"I believe so, sir.\"\n\n\"Nezlett got back last night, didn't he? Very well, call him up and\ntell him to get ready to go at once to--wherever the Leveridges live.\nAnd--I want to see him right away!\"\n\nHe abruptly dismissed the factotum and turned to his mail. As his\nglance fell upon the pile he gasped. Then he quickly drew out a letter\nand tore it open. His thin lips moved rapidly as his eyes roved over\nthe paper. He laid the letter down and looked wildly about. Then he\ntook it up again and read aloud the closing words:\n\n  \"--and, having bought somewhat heavily of Molino stock, and\n  believing that your representations were made with intent to\n  deceive, I shall, unless immediate reparation or satisfactory\n  explanation is made, take such steps as my counsel may advise.\n\n                                               \"Yours, etc.,\n                                                 \"J. WILTON AMES.\"\n\nCongealing with fear, Ketchim took his stock memorandum from a drawer\nand consulted it. \"He put in ten thousand, cash,\" he murmured, closing\nthe book and replacing it. \"And I always wondered why, for he doesn't\ngo into things that he can't control. There's where I was a fool! He\nshouldn't have been sold a dollar's worth! He knows we can't return\nthe money; and now he's tightening the screws! He has something up his\nsleeve; and we've fallen for it!\"\n\nHe settled back in his chair and groaned aloud. \"Why did he buy? Did\nhe think he'd reach Uncle Ted through us? By Jove! that's it! For a\nyear or more he's wanted to oust Uncle from the C. & R., and now he\nthinks by threatening the family with disgrace, and us fellows with\nthe pen, he can do it! What fools we've been! Oh, if I ever get out of\nthis I'll steer clear of these deals in the future!\" It was his stock\nresolution, which had never borne fruit.\n\nThe door opened slightly, and the noiseless Rawlins timidly announced\nthe arrival of Reed and Harris.\n\n\"Show them in at once!\" cried Ketchim, jumping up and hastily passing\nhis hands over his hair and face. Then, advancing with a wan smile, he\ncourteously greeted the callers.\n\n\"Well, fellows,\" he began, waving them to seats, \"it looks a\nlittle bad for Molino, doesn't it? I've just been reading your\nreport--although of course you told me over the 'phone yesterday\nthat there was no hope. But,\" he continued gravely, and his face\ngrew serious, \"I'm glad, very glad, of one thing, and that is that\nthere are men in the world to-day who are above temptation.\"\n\n\"Which means--?\" queried Harris.\n\n\"Why,\" continued Ketchim, smiling pallidly, \"the little joker that\nJames inserted in the contract, about your getting fifty thousand in\nthe event of a favorable report. I told him it didn't look well--but\nhe said it would test you. He would be funny, though, no matter how\nserious the business. But you showed that you were men.\"\n\nHarris snickered; but Reed turned the conversation at once. \"We have\nbeen studying how we could help you pull the thing out of the fire.\nSuppose you give us,\" he suggested, \"a little of Molino's history.\nThen perhaps something may occur to us.\"\n\n\"There isn't much to tell,\" replied Ketchim gloomily. \"The mines were\nlocated by a man named Lakes, at one time acting-Consul at Cartagena.\nHe is half Colombian, I believe. He came up to New York and interested\nBryan, Westler, and some others, and they asked us to act as fiscal\nagents.\"\n\n\"But you never had title to the property,\" said Reed.\n\n\"Certainly we have the title! Why do you say that?\"\n\n\"Because, on our way down the Magdalena river we made the acquaintance\nof a certain Captain Pinal, of the Colombian army. When he learned\nthat we were mining men he told us he had a string of rich properties\nthat he would like to sell. I inquired their location, and he said\nthey lay along the Boque river. And I learned that he had clear title\nto the property, too--Molino's mines. Now you have sold some three or\nfour hundred thousand dollars' worth of stock on alleged mines to\nwhich you never had even the shadow of a claim!\"\n\n\"But--\" murmured Ketchim weakly, \"we thought we had. We acted in good\nfaith--we took Mr. Lakes's word--and we showed our confidence and\nsincerity by purchasing machinery to operate--\"\n\n\"Oh, the machinery went down there, all right!\" ejaculated Harris with\na laugh. \"I judge it was designed to manufacture barrel staves, rather\nthan to extract gold! Lakes had it shipped to Cartagena; rented part\nof an old woman's house; dumped the machinery in there; and now she's\nwild. Can't get her pay from you for storing the machinery; and can't\nsell the stuff, nor move it. So there she sits, under some six or\neight tons of iron junk, waiting for the Lord to perform a miracle!\"\n\nKetchim smiled feebly. \"It's too bad!\" he murmured. \"But Molino has no\nfunds--\"\n\n\"You are still selling stock, aren't you?\" demanded Reed.\n\n\"Oh, no!\" quickly returned Ketchim. \"We would not sell any more stock\nuntil we received your report--and not then, unless the report were\nfavorable. That would not have been right!\"\n\nReed eyed him narrowly. But the image of truth sat enthroned upon\nKetchim's sharp features.\n\n\"It is unfortunate, boys,\" the promoter continued dejectedly. \"But I\ncare nothing for my own losses; it's the poor stockholders I am\nthinking about. I would do anything to relieve them. I've prayed to be\nled to do right. What would you suggest?\"\n\n\"I suggest,\" blurted out Harris, \"that, having already relieved them\nconsiderably, you'll soon be wearing a striped suit!\"\n\nThe last trace of color faded from Ketchim's face, but the sickly\nsmile remained. \"I'd wear it, willingly, if by so doing I could help\nthese poor people,\" he mournfully replied.\n\n\"Well,\" pursued Harris, \"it'll help some when they learn that you're\nin one.\"\n\n\"Boys,\" said Ketchim suddenly, quite disregarding the insinuation,\n\"to-morrow is Sunday, and I want you both out to dinner with me, and\nwe will talk this all over. Then in the afternoon I want you to come\nover and see my little Sunday school. Fellows,\" he continued gravely,\n\"I've prayed for you and for your success every day since you left.\nAnd my faith in my Saviour is too great to be shattered now by your\nadverse report. He certainly will show us a way out; and I can trust\nhim and wait.\"\n\nReed and Harris looked at him and then at each other with puzzled\nexpressions on their faces. The man continued earnestly:\n\n\"Colombia is a rich and undeveloped country, you have said. There must\nbe other mineral properties available there. Did you see none on your\ntravels? Or could we not organize an exploration party to search for\nmines?\"\n\n\"Who'd furnish the wherewithal?\" asked Harris bluntly.\n\n\"Oh, that could be arranged.\"\n\n\"Will your sheep stand for further shearing?\" queried the grinning\nHarris.\n\n\"Fellows,\" said Ketchim, brightening and drawing his chair closer,\n\"you've got something--I know it! You've got something to suggest that\nwill save the Molino stockholders!\"\n\n\"But not yourself, eh?\" taunted Harris.\n\n\"I shall sacrifice myself,\" answered Ketchim deprecatingly. His manner\nhad now become animated, and he leaned expectantly toward them.\n\nReed and Harris again looked questioningly at each other. \"I guess we\nmight as well,\" said Reed in a low voice. \"It is bound to come out,\nanyway.\"\n\n\"Sure,\" returned Harris; \"drive ahead.\"\n\n\"Mr. Ketchim,\" began Reed, turning to the eager, fidgeting man, \"when\nI came to New York a year ago, looking for a business opening, my\nfriend and former classmate in the University, Mr. Cass, put me in\ntouch with you. At that time you were booming the Molino company hard,\nand, I have no doubt, thought you really had something down in\nColombia. But when you offered to lease me a portion of your\nproperties there, I laughed at you. And, in the course of time, I\nsucceeded in convincing you that you knew nothing whatsoever about the\nproperties on which you were selling so much stock. Then, after months\nof parley, from an offer to permit me to go down to Colombia at my own\nexpense to examine Molino's mines, to ascertain whether or not I\nwished to operate a part of them on a royalty basis, you adopted my\nown view, namely, that the time had come for you to know whether the\ncompany possessed anything of value or not. And so you sent my\nassociate, Mr. Harris, and myself down there to examine and report on\nMolino's so-called mines. And you gave us each a block of stock as\npart compensation. We found the mines barren. And now you have got to\nface a body of stockholders from whom you have lured thousands of\ndollars by your misrepresentations. From talks with your salesmen, I\nam convinced that this body of stockholders is made up chiefly of\nwidows and indigent clergymen.\"\n\n\"Which of my salesmen told you that?\" interrupted Ketchim heatedly.\n\n\"Let us waive that,\" replied Reed calmly. \"The fact is, you are in a\nhard way just at present, is it not so?\"\n\n\"Fellows,\" said Ketchim, with an air of penitent humility, \"the\nofficers and stockholders of the Molino Company have been grossly\ndeceived and unfortunately--\"\n\n\"All right,\" interrupted Reed, \"we'll pass that. But Harris and I have\nplayed square with you. And we are going to continue to do so, and to\noffer you a possible opportunity to do something for your poor\nstockholders, and incidentally for yourself and us. The fact is, we do\nknow of another property down there, but we haven't the title--\"\n\n\"That makes no difference!\" interrupted Ketchim. \"I mean, it can be\nacquired--\" striving to restrain his eagerness.\n\n\"That's just the question,\" replied Reed. \"The title is at present\nvested in a young Colombian girl, who, unfortunately, is lost. This\ngirl came up to the States with us--\"\n\n\"Ha!\" exclaimed Ketchim, unable longer to hold himself. \"Then you\nbroke your contract, for that stipulated that whatever you might\nacquire there should belong to me! I engaged your services,\nremember!\"\n\n\"I believe,\" put in Harris dryly, \"we were employed by the Molino\ncompany.\"\n\n\"But my mother advanced the funds to send you down there!\" cried\nKetchim.\n\n\"How about the poor stockholders?\" queried Harris, with an insinuating\ngrin.\n\n\"I'm speaking for the stockholders, of course,\" said Ketchim,\nsubsiding. \"But, proceed, please.\"\n\n\"There is no likelihood that this poor girl will ever be heard of\nagain,\" continued Reed. \"Nor is it likely that the title papers, which\nshe has with her, will be of any use to those into whose hands she has\nfallen. Her old foster-father held the title to this mine, but\ntransferred it to the girl, stipulating that she and I should divide a\nlarge interest in the stock of a company formed to develop and operate\nit. For my share, I agreed to bring the young girl to the States and\nplace her in a school, at my own expense.\" He went on to relate the\nmanner in which Carmen had been lost, and then continued: \"Of course,\nthe title to this mine is registered in Cartagena, and in the girl's\nname, as the old man gave me power to have that change made. But, now\nthat she is gone, the property naturally reverts to him.\"\n\n\"We will relocate it!\" declared Ketchim impatiently.\n\n\"No, that wouldn't be right to the old man,\" returned Reed. \"But, it\nmight be that the property could now be secured from him. He is old\nand penniless, and without any further interest in life. It is a bare\nchance, but we might prevail upon him to join us in the formation of a\ncompany to take over his mine, La Libertad.\"\n\n\"Is that the name of it?\" asked Ketchim, reaching for a writing pad.\n\"Spell it for me, please. And the name of the old man.\"\n\nReed complied, and then continued: \"Now, Mr. Ketchim, we are living\nstrictly up to the letter of our contract by giving you this\ninformation. It would require not less than one hundred thousand\ndollars, cash in hand, to acquire that mine, develop it, make trails,\nand erect a stamp-mill. Mr. Harris and I are in no condition\nfinancially to advance or secure such an amount.\"\n\n\"It is barely possible,\" mused Harris, \"that my father and Uncle John\ncould do something.\"\n\n\"We don't have to call upon them!\" cried Ketchim. \"Your interest, Mr.\nReed, in this mine already belongs to Molino, as you were acting under\ncontract with us--\"\n\n\"I have covered that point, Mr. Ketchim,\" replied Reed evenly. \"But\nthe time has come for us all to put our shoulders to the wheel, act\nfairly with one another, help the Molino stockholders, and at the same\ntime make good ourselves. Mr. Harris and I have barely entered upon\nour business careers, and we have come to New York to establish\nourselves. This may afford the opportunity. We know where this mine\nis--we know the old man, and may be able to influence him. To\nforestall possible complications, we should begin negotiations with\nhim at once. But--remember--everything must be done in the name of the\ncompany, not in your own name. And Mr. Harris and I must personally\nnegotiate with the old man, and receive a very liberal compensation\nfor our work.\"\n\n\"Certainly!\" cried the excited Ketchim. \"Goodness, fellows! why didn't\nyou tell me this yesterday over the 'phone, and save me a night of\ntorment? But I forgive you. Gracious! Rawlins,\" he said, addressing\nthat individual, who had entered in response to the buzzer, \"'phone\nCass to come right over. And tell Miss Honeywell to give you ten\ndollars for our lunch, and charge it to Molino. It's company business.\nBy Jove, fellows! this is a happy day for me. Since the old man gave\nyou a share in the mine, Molino has property, after all!\"\n\n\"Has it to get,\" amended Harris dubiously.\n\n\"Oh, we'll get it!\" cried Ketchim, rubbing his hands gleefully. \"But\nnow while waiting for Cass, tell me more about your trip. It is\nwonderful! And so romantic!\"\n\nIn the midst of the ensuing recital, Cass was announced; and Ketchim,\nafter detailing to him the previous conversation, launched into the\nproject which had been developing in his own mind while Reed had been\ndescribing his experiences in the South.\n\n\"What we want is another organization, fellows,\" he said in\nconclusion, \"to take over the tottering Molino; purchase its assets\nwith stock; give Molino stockholders an opportunity to get in on the\nground floor, and so on. We'll let Molino die in the arms of a new\ncompany, eh?\"\n\n\"But one with a somewhat wider scope,\" suggested Cass, with an air of\nimportance. \"A sort of general development company, to secure La\nLibertad, if possible; prospect for other mineral properties; and\ndevelop the resources of the country.\"\n\n\"Just so,\" assented Ketchim, with increasing enthusiasm. \"A company to\ngo in for coffee, cotton--you say you saw wild cotton, didn't you,\nfellows? Great! And cocoanuts, timber, cattle--in fact, we'll get\nconcessions from the Colombian Government, and we'll--\"\n\n\"Just rip things wide open, eh?\" finished Harris.\n\n\"That's it!\" cried Ketchim radiantly. \"Uncle Ted has influence at\nWashington, with the Pan American Union, and so on--why, we can get\nanything we want! Ames and the bank will both cool down--by Jove, this\nis great!\"\n\n\"But where's the cold and vulgar cash coming from to oil the wheels?\"\nput in the practical Harris.\n\n\"Oh, I can sell the stock,\" replied Ketchim. \"Then, too, there's the\nMolino stockholders; why, I'll bet there's hardly one that wouldn't be\nable to scrape up a few dollars more for the new company! By the way,\nwhat'll we call it? Give us a name, somebody.\"\n\n\"I'd call it the Salvation Company,\" drawled Harris, \"as it is likely\nto delay your trip to Sing Sing.\"\n\nA general laugh, in which Ketchim joined heartily, followed the\nremark.\n\n\"I suggest we call it the Simit\u00ed Development Company,\" said Cass,\nafter a moment's dignified reflection.\n\n\"Great!\" cried Ketchim. \"It has a prosperous ring! And now its\ncapitalization? We must make it big!\"\n\n\"Hem!\" returned Cass. \"If these gentlemen can acquire that mine, I\nthink I would capitalize for, say, about three millions.\" He went to\nthe desk and made some calculations. \"I assume,\" he continued somewhat\npompously after a few moments' figuring, \"that you wish to retain me,\nand that I am to take my compensation in stock?\"\n\nKetchim quickly assented. He knew that Cass had correctly concluded\nthat in no other way was he likely to be reimbursed. And, at best, it\nwas only a hazard, a wild gamble. In fact, it was a last desperate\nchance. Moreover, stock was always available; while cash was a rare\ncommodity.\n\n\"Suppose, then,\" continued the sapient young lawyer, \"that we\ncapitalize for three millions; set aside one million, five hundred and\none thousand as treasury stock, to be sold to raise money for\ndevelopment purposes; transfer to the Ketchim Realty Company one\nmillion, as compensation for acting as fiscal agents of the new\ncompany; transfer to these two gentlemen, as part compensation for\npast and future services, the sum of four hundred thousand in stock;\ngive to the stockholders of the Molino Company the sum of fifty-nine\nthousand in stock for all the assets, machinery, good will, _et\ncetera_, of that company; and to me, for services to be rendered,\nforty thousand dollars' worth of the stock. All of us shall agree not\nto sell any of our personal holdings of stock until the company shall\nbe placed upon a dividend-paying basis. And Mr. Reed, or Mr. Harris,\nor both, will return to Colombia immediately to relocate the mine, and\nprepare for its development, while the Ketchim Realty Company at once\nendeavor to sell the treasury stock.\"\n\nHaving delivered himself of this comprehensive plan, Cass settled back\nin his chair and awaited remarks.\n\n\"Well,\" observed Ketchim at length, \"that's all right--only, I think\nwe should be allowed to sell our personal stock if we wish. Of\ncourse,\" with a deprecating wave of his hand, \"there isn't the\nslightest likelihood of our ever wanting to do that--with a mine such\nas you have described, fellows. But--why hedge us about?\"\n\n\"Not one dollar's worth of your stock shall you be permitted to sell!\"\ncried Harris, bringing his fist down upon the desk.\n\n\"I suggest that we leave that for the Directors to decide later,\"\noffered Cass, anxious to avoid discord. He was young, scarcely out of\nthe twenties, just married, just admitted to the bar, and eager to get\na toe-hold in the world of business. \"And now,\" he concluded, \"if\nagreeable to you, I will put this through at once, organize the\ncompany, and get the charter. You gentlemen will return to Colombia as\nsoon as Mr. Ketchim can provide the necessary funds.\"\n\n\"Mr. Harris and I have formed an engineering partnership,\" said Reed.\n\"As such, we will handle the affairs of the new company in Colombia.\nMr. Harris will proceed to that country, while I go to California to\nopen a copper mine which we have taken over there. In time I will\nrelieve Mr. Harris in the South. Now, Mr. Ketchim, what can you do?\"\n\n\"I'll send Houghton and Nezlett out on the road to-morrow. Rawlins\nhas just told me of one prospect, a bully one! We don't need to\nwait for the papers from Albany before going ahead. But we find it\ncosts about forty-eight cents to sell a dollar's worth of stock, and\nso some time will be needed to raise enough to send Mr. Harris back\nto Colombia--unless,\" he added, eying Harris furtively, \"he will\nadvance us the amount of his own expenses--\"\n\n\"Which he will not!\" retorted Harris warmly. \"I haven't it, anyway.\nNor has Reed. We're both broke.\"\n\n\"There's a revolution on down there now,\" said Reed, \"and we'd better\ngo easy for a while. Besides, Harris needs time to study the language.\nBut, are we all agreed on the terms? Salary for Harris while in\nColombia to be settled later, of course.\"\n\n\"It's all satisfactory, I think,\" said Ketchim, smiling happily. \"The\ndetails can be worked out anon--Molino stockholders' meeting, and so\non.\"\n\n\"Then,\" said Reed, rising, \"we will consider the new company launched,\nto take over the defunct Molino and to operate on a comprehensive\nscale in Colombia, beginning with the development of La Libertad, if\nwe can secure it.\"\n\nAt that moment Rawlins opened the door and peered in. \"A gentleman to\nsee Mr. Reed,\" he announced softly; \"a priest, I believe.\"\n\nHarris sprang to his feet. The door swung open, and Father Waite\nentered with Carmen.\n\nWith a glad cry the girl dropped her bundle and bounded into the arms\nof the astonished Harris. Reed grasped the priest's hand, and begged\nhim to speak. Ketchim and the young lawyer looked on in perplexity.\n\n\"I was unable to find your name in the city directory, Mr. Reed,\"\nexplained the priest, his face beaming with happiness. \"But at police\nheadquarters I found that you had made inquiries, and that detectives\nwere searching for the girl. I learned that you were living with your\nwife's sister, and that you had no business address, having just come\nup from South America. So I telephoned to your sister-in-law, and your\nwife informed me that you had an appointment this morning at this\noffice. I therefore came directly here with the girl, who, as you see,\nis safe and sound, but with an additional interesting experience or\ntwo to add to the large fund she already possessed.\" He looked down at\nCarmen and smiled. \"And now,\" he concluded, laughing, as he prepared\nto depart, \"I will not ask for a receipt for the child, as I see I\nhave several witnesses to the fact that I have delivered her to the\nproper custodian.\" He bowed and went to the door.\n\n\"Wait!\" cried Reed, seizing him by the hand. \"We want to thank you! We\nwant to know you--\"\n\n\"I will give you my card,\" replied the priest. \"And I would be very\nhappy, indeed, if some time again I might be permitted to see and talk\nwith the little girl.\" He handed his card to Reed; then nodded and\nsmiled at Carmen and went out.\n\n\"By Jove!\" sputtered Harris, pushing the girl aside and making after\nhim. But he was too late. The priest had already caught a descending\nelevator, and disappeared. Harris returned to the bewildered group. \"I\nguess that knocks the Simit\u00ed Company sky-high,\" he exclaimed, \"for\nhere is the sole owner of La Libertad!\"\n\nKetchim collapsed into a chair, while Reed, saying that he would keep\nhis dinner engagement with Ketchim on the following day, picked up\nCarmen's precious bundle and, taking her hand, left the room. \"I am\ngoing home,\" he called back to Harris; \"and you be sure to come up to\nthe house to-night. We'll have to readjust our plans now.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 5\n\n\n\"Reed,\" said Harris the following day, as they sat in the dusty,\ncreaking car that was conveying them to their dinner appointment with\nKetchim, \"who is this Ames that Ketchim referred to yesterday?\"\n\nThe men were not alone, for Carmen accompanied them. Reed was\nreluctantly bringing her at the urgent request received from Ketchim\nover the telephone the previous evening. But the girl, subdued by the\nrush of events since her precipitation into the seething American\nworld of materialism, sat apart from them, gazing with rapt attention\nthrough the begrimed window at the flying scenery, and trying to\ninterpret it in the light of her own tenacious views of life and the\nuniverse. If the marvels of this new world into which she had been\nthrown had failed to realize her expectations--if she saw in them, and\nin the sense of life which they express, something less real, less\nsubstantial, than do those who laud its grandeur and power to\ncharm--she gave no hint. She was still absorbing, sifting and\ndigesting the welter of impressions. She had been overpowered,\nsmothered by the innovation; and she now found her thoughts a tangled\njumble, which she strove incessantly to unravel and classify according\nto their content of reality, as judged by her own standards.\n\n\"Why, Ames,\" replied Reed, turning a watchful eye upon Carmen, \"is a\nmultimillionaire financier of New York--surely you have heard of him!\nHe and his clique practically own the United States, and a large\nslice of Europe. For some reason Ames bought a block of Molino stock.\nAnd now, I judge, Ketchim would give his chances on eternal life if he\nhadn't sold it to him. And that's what's worrying me, too. For, since\nAmes is heavily interested in Molino, what will he do to the new\ncompany that absorbs it?\"\n\n\"There isn't going to be any new company,\" asserted Harris doggedly.\n\n\"There's got to be!\" cried Reed. \"Ketchim holds us strictly to our\ncontract. Our negotiations with old Rosendo were made while in the\nemploy of Molino. It wouldn't be so bad if we had only Ketchim to deal\nwith. We've got the goods on him and could beat him. But here enters\nAmes, a man of unlimited wealth and influence. If he wants La\nLibertad, he's going to get it, you mark me! Where we fell down was in\never mentioning it to Ketchim. For if we don't come over now he will\nlay the whole affair before Ames. He told me over the 'phone last\nnight that he was badly in debt--that Ames was pressing him--that many\nof the Molino stockholders were making pertinent inquiries. Oh, he\nquite opened his heart! And yesterday I saw on his desk a letter from\nAmes. I can imagine what it contained. Ketchim would sacrifice us and\neverything else to keep himself out of Ames's grip. We're in for it, I\ntell you! And all because we were a bit too previous in believing that\nthe girl had disappeared for good.\"\n\n\"By Jove!\" exclaimed Harris, \"but doesn't it sound like a fairy-tale,\nthe way Carmen got back to us?\"\n\n\"And here I am,\" continued Reed, with a gesture of vexation, \"left\nwith the girl on my hands, and with a very healthy prospect of losing\nout all around. My wife said emphatically last night that she wouldn't\nbe bothered with Carmen.\"\n\n\"Well, she won't bother you. Send her away to school.\"\n\n\"Fine! Good idea!\" replied Reed sarcastically. \"But do you realize\nthat that involves expense? I'm a comparatively poor man, just getting\na start in my profession, and with a young and socially ambitious\nwife!\"\n\n\"But--your wife--er, she's going to--to have money some day, isn't\nshe?\"\n\n\"Very true. But the grim reaper has a little work to do first. And on\noccasions like this he's always deucedly deliberate, you know.\nMeantime, we're skating close to the edge--for New Yorkers.\"\n\n\"Well, we may be able to beat Ketchim. Now, my father and Uncle\nJohn--\"\n\n\"Oh, shoot your father and Uncle John!\" snapped Reed impatiently.\n\nThe conductor opened the door and bawled a cryptical announcement.\n\n\"This is the place,\" said Reed, starting up and making for the door.\n\"And now you rake your thought for some way to deal with Ketchim. And\nleave your father and Uncle John entirely out of the conversation!\"\n\nKetchim was just bowing out a caller as the young engineers mounted\nthe steps. \"See that fellow!\" he exclaimed, after giving them a hearty\nwelcome. \"I just sold him a hundred shares of Simit\u00ed stock, at five\ndollars a share--just half of par. Beginning right on the jump, eh?\"\n\n\"But--\" protested Harris, as they entered the spacious parlor, \"the\ncompany isn't even in existence yet--and hasn't an asset!\"\n\n\"Oh, that's all right,\" replied Ketchim easily. \"It's coming into\nexistence, and will have the grandest mine in South America! Boys,\" he\nwent on earnestly, \"I've been talking over the 'phone with Mr. Ames,\nour most influential stockholder, and a very warm friend of mine. I\ntold him about our conversation of yesterday. He says, go right ahead\nwith the new company--that it's a great idea. He's satisfied with his\npresent holding, and will not increase it. Says he wants Molino\nstockholders to have the opportunity to purchase all the treasury\nstock, if they want to.\"\n\n\"Decidedly magnanimous,\" returned Reed. \"But--what about the basis of\norganization of the new company?\"\n\n\"Leave it as we planned it, he says. He thinks the arrangement and\ndivision of stock fine!\"\n\nReed and Harris looked at each other questioningly. It did not seem\npossible.\n\n\"But,\" went on Ketchim, \"have you seen the morning papers? They are\nfull of the revolution in Colombia. The country is torn wide open,\nand reports say nothing can be done down there until peace is\nrestored--and that may take a year or two. But, meantime, we will go\nahead and organize the new company and take over Molino and prepare\nto begin work just as soon as you fellows can get into that country.\nEverybody has simply got to wait until then. And so this,\" going to\nCarmen and taking her hand, \"is the wonderful little girl! Well!\nwell!\"\n\nThe entrance of Mrs. Ketchim and her troop of children at this\njuncture interrupted the conversation. \"All enthusiastic Simit\u00ed\nstockholders,\" said Ketchim, waving his hand toward them, after the\nintroductions. \"And all going to get rich out of it, too--as well as\nyourselves, boys. It simply shows how Providence works--one with God\nis a majority, always.\"\n\nCarmen glanced up at him wonderingly.\n\nDinner over, the men were left alone. Carmen had been taken upstairs\nby the children to the nursery.\n\n\"I've got myself slated for the presidency of the new company,\" said\nKetchim, plunging again into the subject nearest his heart; \"and I\nthink we'd better put brother James in as vice-president. Perfectly\nsafe,\" looking at Harris and winking. \"He's got to be recognized, you\nknow, since the Ketchim Realty Company act as fiscal agents. Now for\ndirectors I've put down Judge Harris, your father--that's to assure\nyou boys that there'll be some one to look after your interests. Then\nwe'll say Reverend Jurges for another. He's got a big congregation and\nwill be able to place a lot of stock. You just ought to see the letter\nhe wrote me about selling stock to his people! You'd never believe he\nwas a good, spiritually-minded clergyman, with an eye single to\nheavenly riches! Then one of you fellows, say Reed, had better go on\nthe directorate, since Harris will be in Colombia in charge of\noperations. And--well, Cass, too. He's young and immature, but\nabsolutely square. He'll do all the legal work for his stock interest.\nWe save money that way, see?\"\n\n\"But what do I do while we are waiting?\" asked Harris in some\nperplexity. \"Reed goes to California right away, you know.\"\n\n\"That's all right, old man,\" Ketchim genially assured him. \"The new\ncompany will be organized at once--this week, if possible. You go on\nsalary from the moment of its incorporation, and you open your office\nright here in this building. I'll see that the rent is paid until you\ngo back to Colombia. Everything's arranged, and you turn right in and\nhelp Cass with the new company. There'll be plenty to do. You've got\nto prepare circulars; write boosting letters to stockholders and\nprospects; follow up leads; and--oh, you'll be busy! But here comes\nReverend Coles,\" looking out of the window as a man came up the steps.\n\"He's interested in some projects I've been exploiting. Just excuse me\nfor a few moments.\"\n\nHe hastened out to greet the visitor and conducted him into a back\nroom. Reed and Harris were left to the contemplation of their own\nmixed thoughts. Presently Harris, whose eyes had been dilating\nfor some moments, broke out in a hoarse whisper: \"Listen! God\na'mighty!--he's praying!\"\n\nHe got up softly and approached the door of the room into which\nKetchim had taken his caller. In a few minutes he returned to his\nchair. \"By Jove!\" he exclaimed. \"I could see Ketchim through the\nkeyhole, on his knees by the bed, praying with that fellow! Now what\nthe d--!\"\n\nReed held up a warning finger. Through the silence that fell upon\nthem snatches of the prayer being offered in the adjoining room\nfloated to their ears--\"O, blessed Saviour, vouchsafe prosperity to\nour venture, we beseech thee! The earth is the Lord's, and the\nfullness thereof--we ask thy blessing on these efforts of ours to\nwrest from the ground the wealth which the Father of lights has\ndeposited there for the benefit of His children--\"\n\nHarris snickered aloud. \"What's the game?\" he whispered.\n\nReed shook his head in warning. \"It may not be a game,\" he replied.\n\"But if it is, it's an old one, hiding behind the mask of religion.\nBut I'm inclined to believe the man sincere.\"\n\n\"And I'm not!\" retorted Harris. \"I'd rather deal with his brother. I\nknow James to be an out-and-out rascal--he openly flies the black\nflag. But this pious fellow--well, he's got me guessing!\"\n\nThe caller soon departed, and Ketchim again joined the young men.\n\"He's our assistant pastor,\" he said musingly, as he watched the man\ngo down the walk. \"Nice young fellow, waiting for a church. He and\nsome of his friends are interested in a zinc mine we've been floating,\ndown in the Joplin district.\"\n\n\"Got titles?\" queried the cynical Harris, with a twinkle in his eyes.\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" Ketchim smiled affably.\n\n\"Mine producing?\"\n\n\"Well, no--not yet. Lots of development work to be done, you know.\nAlways is. And there's a lot of water in this mine.\"\n\n\"And in the stock, too, eh?\" pursued the cruel Harris. \"Got any ore?\"\n\n\"We haven't struck the deposit yet, although we expect to soon. But,\"\nglancing up at the clock on the mantel, \"we'll have to be going over\nto Sunday school now. And I want that little girl to go with Marjorie.\nFellows,\" the man's face became deeply serious, \"I have no doubt you\nare both church members?\"\n\nReed fidgeted uneasily under Ketchim's searching glance; but Harris\nfrankly met the question. \"Nope,\" he asserted, \"we're both rank\nheathen. And I'm a dyed-in-the-wool atheist.\"\n\n\"Gracious!\" cried Ketchim, \"how can you say that, when you see the\ngoodness of the Lord on every hand?\"\n\n\"Reed, I believe,\" continued the imperturbable Harris, waving a hand\ntoward his friend, \"has philosophical leanings--New Thought,\nSubliminal Consciousness, Power in Silence, and all that. But I've got\nto be shown.\"\n\n\"But surely you believe in the divinity of the Christ?\"\n\n\"Well, as a matter of fact, I never gave it much thought,\" said\nHarris. \"Been pretty busy, you know. Lots of time for that later.\"\n\n\"Ah, that's what so many say,\" replied Ketchim sadly; \"and then comes\nthe awful voice of the Lord, 'This night thy soul shall be required of\nthee!' Fellows, I want to pray for you; and I want you both to promise\nme that you will take up seriously the consideration of your souls'\nwelfare. It's too grave a subject for jest,\" addressing himself\nsolemnly to the grinning Harris.\n\n\"All right, old man,\" laughed Harris. \"But don't dig up any\nPresbyterian tracts for me. I've got a living witness to--well, to\nsomething out of the ordinary, in that girl, Carmen, and I'm inclined\nto believe she's dug nearer to bottom facts than any of you. So when\nI'm ready to discuss my soul's welfare I'll just consult her, see?\"\n\n\"That reminds me,\" said Ketchim, turning abruptly to Reed, \"what do\nyou intend to do with the girl?\"\n\n\"_Quien sabe?_\" Reed answered abstractedly. \"Send her to a boarding\nschool, I guess. At least, that's what I told the old man I'd do.\"\n\n\"So you said before,\" Ketchim returned. \"But where?\"\n\n\"Don't know yet.\"\n\n\"Well, let me make a suggestion. My daughter Marjorie leaves Tuesday\nfor Conway-on-the-Hudson, where she has been attending Madam Elwin's\nSelect School for Girls. Suppose you go with her--I'm too busy,\nmyself--and take Carmen. It's only a few hours' ride by boat down the\nriver. And the school is without equal. This is Marjorie's third year\nthere, and she's simply in love with it.\"\n\nReed began to show signs of interest; and Ketchim, noting the effect\nof his words, went on briskly:\n\n\"Now look here, Molino owes its salvation, and the new company its\nexistence, to that girl. Why shouldn't they do something to show their\ngratitude? I say, it is no more than right that the new company should\nsupport her while she is in school.\"\n\n\"By Jove! not a half-bad idea,\" commented Harris.\n\n\"Certainly not,\" continued Ketchim earnestly. \"Now fix up everything\nwith her as regards the transfer of the mine to the new company, and\nthen let her go with Marjorie to the Elwin school. We can, if you\nlike, make some agreement with her to the effect that when the company\nis on its feet and she is receiving dividends, she shall return what\nit may advance for her schooling, eh?\"\n\n\"You'd better accept the suggestion, Reed,\" put in Harris. \"I'll be\nhere, you know, to keep an eye on the girl; and I'll take her and\nMarjorie down to Conway myself, and attend to getting her located\nright.\"\n\nReed continued to reflect. He was hardly in a position to refuse such\nan offer. Besides, he was really leaving her in charge of Harris.\n\"Well,\" he said at length, \"in that case I could leave for California\nto-morrow night. That matter is pressing hard--all right, I accept the\ncompany's offer. It's no more than is due the girl, anyway.\"\n\n\"Good!\" replied Ketchim. \"I'll make the necessary arrangements at\nonce. And now let's go over to church.\"\n\nThus it was that two days later Carmen, still wondering if she was\ndreaming, was enrolled in the Elwin Select School for Girls, with\nMarjorie Ketchim for roommate; while Reed, on the Overland Limited,\nhurrying to the far West, was musing dubiously at frequent intervals\non Ketchim's rather conflicting statements, which, until left to this\nenforced leisure, he had not had time to try to reconcile. At the same\ntime, while Harris was loudly declaiming to the gracious Madam Elwin\non the astonishing mental prowess of the girl, Ketchim and Cass sat\ndeeply immersed in the tentative plans for the newly-projected Simit\u00ed\nDevelopment Company.\n\n\"Now listen,\" said Ketchim, who for some minutes had been quietly\nscanning his youthful lawyer, \"Ames knows nothing about the formation\nof this company, but Harris and Reed are not to know that; and we're\ngoing to keep Ames in ignorance of all our plans. With the first sales\nof stock--and they've already begun--we'll return him his Molino\ninvestment. Nezlett wired me this morning that he's sure to sell a big\nblock to the Leveridges, that they're mightily interested, and want to\nmeet Carmen. We'll use the girl for just such purposes. That's one\nreason why I wanted her handy, so's we could reach her at any time.\nShe makes a star impression; and with her as an advertisement we'll\nsell a million dollars' worth of stock, and no trouble at all! She's\ngot that honest look that's convincing. And she can tell a story that\nbeats the Arabian Nights! Ames has given me a week to explain, or make\ngood his investment. By that time we'll have the Leveridges sold for\ntwice his investment, and we'll just pay him off and remove him.\nMeantime, you go over to the bank in the morning and put up the best\nline of talk you're capable of. I've got sixteen hundred dollars to\ngive 'em on that note; and that'll secure more time, until the sales\nof stock are enough to pay it all up. Perhaps Uncle Ted will advance\nme enough to take up the note when he hears about La Libertad. And,\nsay, you see brother James, and shake the club over him until he\ndisgorges that check he got from Miss Leveridge. You can hand him a\nscare that he won't get over. By George, old man! things have taken a\ngreat turn, eh? Why, I can just see Simit\u00ed stock sales humping these\nnext few months. Oh, Miss Honeywell,\" calling to his cashier, \"bring\nme five dollars, please, and charge it to Molino--I mean, to Simit\u00ed.\nMake a new account for that now.\" Then, again addressing Cass: \"Come\nwith me to the football game this afternoon. We can discuss plans\nthere as well as here. Gee whiz, but I feel great!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 6\n\n\nCarmen's rapid transition from the eternal solitudes of Guamoc\u00f3 to the\nwhirring activities of New York was like a plunge into the maelstrom,\nand left her groping blindly in the effort to adapt herself to the\nchanged order. There was little in her former mode of existence that\ncould be transferred to her new environment, and she felt that she was\nstarting life like a new-born babe. For days, even weeks, she moved\nabout dreamily, absorbed, ceaselessly striving to orient herself and\nto accept easily and naturally the marvels, the sudden accession of\nmaterial aids, and the wonders of this modern, complex civilization,\nso common to her associates, but scarcely even dreamed of by her in\nher former home, despite the preparation which Jos\u00e8 had tried to give\nher. The Elwin school was small, its student-body seldom numbering\nmore than fifty, and in it Carmen found herself hedged about by\nrestrictions which in a way were beneficial, in that they narrowed her\nenvironment and afforded her time for her slow adjustment to it.\n\nBut if these restrictions aided her, they also rendered the length of\nher stay in the school almost calculable. Little by little the girl\nsaw the forces developing which she knew must effect her dismissal;\nlittle by little, as Madam Elwin's manner toward her became less\ngracious, and her schoolmates made fewer efforts to conceal from her\nthe fact that she was not one of them, Carmen prepared for the\ninevitable. Six months after the girl's enrollment, Madam Elwin\nterminated her series of disparaging reports to Ketchim by a request\nthat he come at once and remove his charge from the school.\n\n\"As I have repeatedly said, Mr. Ketchim, the girl is a paradox. And\nafter these months of disappointing effort to instruct her, I am\nforced to throw up my hands in despair and send for you.\" Madam Elwin\ntapped nervously with a dainty finger upon the desk before her.\n\n\"But, if I may be permitted the question, what specific reasons have\nyou, Madam, for--ah, for requesting her removal?\" asked the very\nReverend Dr. William Jurges, who, having come up to the city to\nattend a meeting of the directors of the Simit\u00ed company, had accepted\nKetchim's invitation to first accompany him on his flying trip to\nConway-on-the-Hudson, in response to Madam Elwin's peremptory\nsummons.\n\n\"Because,\" replied that worthy personage with a show of exasperation, \"I\nconsider her influence upon the young ladies here quite detrimental.\nOur school, while non-sectarian, is at least Christian. Miss Carmen\nis not. Where she got her views, I can not imagine. At first she made\nfrequent mention of a Catholic priest, who taught her in her home town,\nin South America. But of late she has grown very reserved--I might say,\nsullen, and talks but little. Her views, however, are certainly not\nCatholic. In her class work she has become impossible. She refuses to\naccept a large part of our instruction. Her answers to examination\nquestions are wholly in accord with her peculiar views, and hence quite\napart from the texts. For that reason she fails to make any grades,\nexcepting in mathematics and the languages. She utterly refuses to\naccept any religious instruction whatsoever. She would not be called\natheistic, for she talks--or used to at first--continually about God.\nBut her God is not the God of the Scriptures, Dr. Jurges. She is a\nfree-thinker, in the strictest sense. And as such, we can not\nconsent to her remaining longer with us.\"\n\n\"Ah--quite so, Madam, quite so,\" returned the clergyman, in his\nunconsciously pompous manner. \"Doubtless the child's thought\nbecame--ah--contaminated ere she was placed in your care. But--ah--I\nhave heard so much from our good friend, Mr. Ketchim, regarding this\nyoung girl, that--ah--I should like exceedingly to see and talk with\nher--if it might be--ah--\"\n\n\"Madam Elwin will arrange that, I am sure,\" interposed Ketchim.\n\"Suppose,\" he suggested, addressing the lady, \"we let him talk with\nher, while I discuss with you our recently acquired mine in South\nAmerica, and the advisability of an investment with us.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" acquiesced Madam Elwin, rising and pressing one of the\nseveral buttons in the desk. \"Bring Miss Carmen,\" she directed, to the\nmaid who answered the summons.\n\n\"Pardon me,\" interrupted Dr. Jurges; \"but may I go to her? Ah--it\nwould doubtless be less embarrassing for the child.\"\n\n\"Miss Carmen was in the chapel a few moments ago,\" volunteered the\nmaid.\n\n\"Then take the doctor there,\" returned Madam Elwin, with a gesture of\ndismissal.\n\nAt the head of the stairway the mingled sounds of a human voice and\nthe soft, trembling notes of an organ drifted through the long hall\nand fell upon the ears of the clergyman.\n\n\"Miss Carmen,\" said the maid, answering his unspoken thought. \"She\noften comes up to the chapel and sings for hours at a time--alone. The\nchapel is down there,\" pointing to the end of the hall.\n\n\"Then--ah--leave me,\" said the doctor. \"I will proceed alone.\"\n\nThe maid turned willingly and went below, while the man tiptoed to\nthe chapel door. There he stopped and stood listening. The girl was\nsinging in Spanish, and he could not understand the words. But they\nwould have meant nothing to him then. It was the voice upon which\nthey were borne that held him. The song was a weird lament that had\ncome down to the children of Simit\u00ed from the hard days of the\n_Conquistadores_. It voiced the untold wrongs of the Indian slaves;\nits sad, unvarying minor echoed their smothered moans under the\ncruel goad; on the plaintive melody of the repeated chorus their\npiteous cries were carried to heaven's deaf ears; their dull despair\nfloated up on the wailing tones of the little organ, and then died\naway, as died the hope of the innocent victims of Spanish lust.\n\nThe reverend doctor had never heard a song of that kind before. Nor\ncould he readily associate the voice, which again and again he could\nnot distinguish from the flute-like tones of the organ, with the\nsordidness and grime of material, fleshly existence. He entered softly\nand took a seat in the shadow of a pillar. The clear, sweet voice of\nthe young girl flowed over him like celestial balm. Song after song\nshe sang. Some were dreamy bits and snatches in Spanish and English;\nothers were sacred in character. He wondered deeply, as the girl mused\nover these; yet he knew not that they were her own compositions.\nCuriosity and uncertainty mastered him at length, and he got softly to\nhis feet and moved away from the pillar, that he might see from what\nmanner of being issued such unbroken harmony. But in his eagerness his\nfoot struck a chair, and the sound echoed loudly through the room.\n\nThe music abruptly ceased, and the girl rose and looked over the organ\nat the intruder.\n\n\"I--I beg your pardon,\" said the clergyman, advancing in some\nembarrassment. \"I was listening to your singing--uninvited, but none\nthe less appreciative. I--\"\n\n\"Wait, please!\" cried the girl, hastily stooping over and fumbling\nwith her shoes. The doctor laughed genially, as he grasped the\nsituation.\n\n\"I took them off,\" she explained hurriedly. \"I am not yet accustomed\nto them. I never wore shoes until I left Simit\u00ed.\" Her face was\nscarlet, and she tried to cover her confusion with a little laugh.\n\nThe doctor stood staring at her, lost in admiration of the shapely\nfigure, the heavy, curling hair, and the wonderfully expressive face.\nThe girl quickly recovered her poise and returned him a frank smile.\n\n\"You wish to see me?\" she said, after waiting in vain for him to\nbegin.\n\n\"Ah--a--yes, certainly--that is, I beg your pardon,\" stammered the\ndoctor. \"I did request permission of Madam Elwin to make your\nacquaintance. We have heard so much about you. I am Doctor Jurges, an\nEpiscopal clergyman.\" His sentences issued like blasts from an engine\nexhaust.\n\n\"I am Carmen Ariza,\" said the girl, extending her hand.\n\n\"Ah--quite so, quite so,\" blustered the doctor, clearing his throat\nnoisily. \"Let us be seated. Ah--ah--you have a remarkable voice. It\ngives evidence of careful cultivation.\"\n\n\"No,\" returned the girl simply. \"It has never had any cultivation. It\nis natural for me to sing. And my poor organ-playing is what I have\npicked up myself these six months.\"\n\nThe man regarded her with amazement. \"Remarkable!\" he murmured.\n\nThe girl looked up into his face searchingly. \"Why,\" she asked,\n\"should every one up here think it remarkable when a human mind is\nclear enough to be a transparency for God?\"\n\nHad the roof fallen, the excellent doctor could have been no more\nstartled. He cleared his throat violently again; then fumbled\nnervously in his pocket and drew out his glasses. These he poised upon\nthe ample arch of his ecclesiastical nose, and through them turned a\npenetrating glance upon the girl.\n\n\"H'm! yes,\" said he at length; \"quite so, quite so! And--ah--Miss\nCarmen, that brings us to the matter in question--your religious\ninstruction--ah--may I ask from whom you received it?\"\n\n\"From God,\" was the immediate and frank reply.\n\nThe clergyman started, but quickly recovered his equipoise.\n\n\"H'm! yes, quite so, quite so! All real instruction descendeth\nfrom above. But--your religious views--I believe they are not\nconsidered--ah--quite evangelical, are they? By your present\nassociates, that is.\"\n\n\"No,\" she replied, with a trace of sadness in her tone. \"But,\" looking\nup with a queer little smile, \"I am not persecuting them for that.\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" with a jerky little laugh. \"Assuredly not! H'm! I judge the\npersecution has come from the other side, has it not?\"\n\n\"We will not speak of that,\" she said quickly. \"They do not\nunderstand--that is all.\"\n\n\"H'm! no, quite so--that is--ah--may I ask why you think they do not\nunderstand? May not you be in error, instead?\"\n\n\"If that which I believe is not true,\" the girl replied evenly, \"it\nwill fail under the test of demonstration. Their beliefs have long\nsince failed under such test--and yet they still cling jealously to\nthem, and try to force them upon all who disagree with them. I am a\nheretic, Doctor.\"\n\n\"H'm--ah--yes, I see. But--it is a quite unfortunate characteristic\nof mankind to attribute one's views indiscriminately to the\nAlmighty--and--ah--I regret to note that you are not wholly free from\nthis error.\"\n\n\"You do not understand, I think,\" she quickly returned. \"I put every\nview, every thought, every idea to the test. If good is the result, I\nknow that the thought or idea comes from the source of all good, God.\nThe views I hold are those which I have time and again tested--and\nsome of them have withstood trials which I think you would regard as\nunusually severe.\" Her thought had rested momentarily upon her vivid\nexperience in Banco, the dangers which had menaced her in distant\nSimit\u00ed, and the fire through which she had passed in her first hours\nin Christian America, the land of churches, sects, and creeds.\n\n\"H'm!\" the worthy doctor mused, regarding the girl first through his\nspectacles, and then over the tops of them, while his bushy eyebrows\nmoved up and down with such comicality that Carmen could scarcely\nrefrain from laughing. \"H'm! quite so. Ah--suppose you relate to me\nsome of the tests to which your views have been subjected.\"\n\n\"No,\" she returned firmly; \"those experiences were only states of\nconsciousness, which are now past and gone forever. Why rehearse them?\nThey were human, and so, unreal. Why go back now and give them the\nappearance of reality?\"\n\n\"Unreal! H'm--then you do not regard untoward experience as given us\nby God for the testing of our faith, I take it.\"\n\nCarmen turned her head away with a little sigh of weariness. \"I\nthink,\" she said slowly, \"I think we had better not talk about these\nthings, Doctor. You are a preacher. Your views are not mine.\"\n\n\"Why--ah,\" blustered the clergyman, assuming a more paternal air,\n\"we--ah--would not for a moment cause you embarrassment, Miss Carmen!\nBut--in fact, Madam Elwin has--ah--expressed her disapproval of your\nviews--your religious ideals, if I may put it so baldly, and she--that\nis--the good lady regrets--\"\n\n\"She wishes to be rid of me, you mean, Doctor?\" said the girl,\nturning and stretching a mental hand to the sinking divine.\n\n\"H'm! well, hardly so--ah--so--\"\n\n\"Doctor,\" said the girl calmly, \"I know it, and I wish to go. I have\nbeen waiting only to see the way open. I do not wish to remain longer\nin an atmosphere where ignorance and false belief stifle all real\nprogress.\"\n\nThe doctor turned another look of astonishment upon her. He had\nforgotten that he had not been talking with one of his own age. The\nfact suddenly pressed upon him. \"How old are you?\" he blurted.\n\nCarmen could not help laughing. But if her clear mental gaze\npenetrated the ecclesiastical mask and surmounted the theological\nassumptions of her interlocutor, enabling her to get close to the\nheart of the man, she did not indicate it further. \"I am nearly\nsixteen,\" was her only reply.\n\n\"Ah,\" he reflected, \"just a child! My dear girl,\" he continued, laying\na hand indulgently upon hers, \"I will advise with Madam Elwin, and\nwill endeavor to convince her that--ah--that your spiritual welfare,\nif I may so put it, requires that you be not turned adrift at this\ncritical, transitorial period of your life. We must all be patient,\nwhile we strive to counteract the--ah--the pernicious teaching to\nwhich you were exposed before--ah--before becoming enrolled in this\nexcellent school.\"\n\nCarmen looked at him steadily for a moment before replying. There was\nsomething of pity in the expression of her beautiful face, of tender\nsympathy for those who seek the light, and who must some day find it,\nbut whose progress is as yet hampered by the human mind's unreasoning\nadherence to the stepping-stones over which it has been passing\nthrough the dark waters of ignorance. \"Then, Doctor,\" she said calmly,\n\"you know what I have been taught?\"\n\n\"Why--ah--yes--that is, vaguely. But--suppose you inform me briefly.\"\nHe was beginning to be sensible of having passed judgment upon the\ngirl without first according her a hearing.\n\n\"Well,\" she smiled up at him, \"I have been taught the very hardest\nthing in the whole world.\"\n\n\"H'm, indeed! Ah, quite so--and that?\"\n\n\"To think.\"\n\n\"To--ah--to think!\" He again clutched at his mental poise. \"Well, yes,\nquite so! But--ah--is it not the function of all our schools to teach\nus to think?\"\n\n\"No,\" answered the girl decidedly; \"not to teach us to think, but to\ncause us blindly to accept what is ignorantly called 'authority'! I\nfind we are not to reason, and particularly about religious matters,\nbut to accept, to let those 'in authority' think for us. Is it not so?\nAre you not even now seeking to make me accept your religious views?\nAnd why? Because they are true? Oh, no; but because you believe them\ntrue--whether they are or not. Have you demonstrated their truth? Do\nyou come to me with proofs? Do your religious views rest upon anything\nbut the human mind's undemonstrated interpretation of the Bible? And\nyet you can not prove that interpretation true, even though you would\nforce it upon such as I, who may differ from you.\"\n\n\"I--ah--\" began the doctor nervously. But Carmen continued without\nheeding the interruption:\n\n\"Only yesterday Professor Bales, of the University, lectured here on\n'The Prime Function of Education.' He said it was the development of\nthe individual, and that the chief end of educational work was the\npromotion of originality. And yet, when I think along original\nlines--when I depart from stereotyped formul\u00e6, and state boldly that I\nwill not accept any religion, be it Presbyterian, Methodist, or Roman\nCatholic, that makes a God of spirit the creator of a man of flesh, or\nthat makes evil as real as good, and therefore necessarily created and\nrecognized by a God who by very necessity can not know evil--then I am\naccused of being a heretic, a free-thinker; and the authorities take\nsteps to remove me, lest my influence contaminate the rest of the\npupils!\"\n\n\"H'm--ah--yes, quite so--that is--I think--\"\n\n\"Do you, a preacher, think?\" the girl went on hurriedly. \"Or do you\nonly _think_ that you think? Do you still believe with the world that\nthe passing of a stream of human thought, or a series of mental\npictures, through your mentality constitutes _real_ thinking? Do you\nbelieve that jumping from one human mental concept to another\ntwenty-four hours a day constitutes thinking? Have you yet learned to\ndistinguish between God's thoughts and their opposites, human\nthoughts? Do you know what Jesus taught? Have you a real, working,\ndemonstrable knowledge of Christianity? Do you heal the sick, raise\nthe dead, and preach the truth that sets men free from the mesmerism\nof evil? If so, then you are unevangelical, too, and you and I are\nboth heretics, and we'd better--we'd better leave this building at\nonce, for I find that the Inquisition is still alive, even in\nAmerica!\"\n\nShe stopped, and caught her breath. Her face was flushed, and her\nwhole body quivered with emotion.\n\n\"The Inquisition! Why, my dear young lady, this is a Christian\nnation!\"\n\n\"Then,\" said the girl, \"you have still much to learn from the pagan\nnations that have gone before.\"\n\n\"Bless my soul!\" exclaimed the doctor, again adjusting his glasses\nthat he might see her more clearly. \"My dear child, you have been\nthinking too much, and too seriously.\"\n\n\"No, Doctor,\" she replied; \"but you preachers have not been thinking\nenough, nor even half seriously. Oh,\" she went on, while her eyes grew\nmoist, and ever and again her throat filled, \"I had expected so much\nin this great country! And I have found so little--so little that is\nnot wholly material, mechanical, and unreal! I had imagined that, with\nall your learning and progress, which Padre Jos\u00e8 told me about, you\nwould know God much better than we in the darkened South. But your god\nis matter, machinery, business, gold, and the unreal things that can\nbe bought with money. Some one wrote, in a recent newspaper, that\nAmerica's god was 'mud and mammon!' What do I find the girls here in\nthis school talking about but dress, and society, and the unreal,\npassing pleasures of the physical senses! Do they know God? No--nor\nwant to! Nor do the preachers! There are religious services here every\nSunday, and sermons by preachers who come down from the city.\nSometimes a Baptist; sometimes a Presbyterian; and sometimes an\nEpiscopalian, or a Methodist. What is the result? Confusion--religious\nconfusion. Each has a different concept of God; yet they all believe\nHim the creator of a man of flesh and bones, a man who was originally\nmade perfect, but who fell, and was then cursed by the good and\nperfect God who made him. Oh, what childish views for men to hold and\npreach! How could a good God create anything that could fall? And if\nHe could, and did, then He knew in advance that the man would fall,\nand so God becomes responsible, not man. Oh, Doctor, is it possible\nthat you believe such stuff? How can you! how can you! Is it any\nwonder that, holding such awful views, you preachers have no longer\nthe power to heal the sick? Do you not know that, in order to heal the\nsick, one must become spiritually-minded? But no one who holds to the\npuerile material beliefs embraced in your orthodox theology can\npossibly be spiritual enough to do the works Jesus said we should all\ndo if we followed him--really understood him.\"\n\n\"My dear child--you really are quite inconsistent--you--\"\n\n\"Inconsistent! What a charge for an orthodox preacher to bring! Let us\nsee: You say that the Scriptures teach that God made man in His image\nand likeness--the image and likeness of spirit. Very well. Spirit,\nGod, is eternal, immortal. Then while He exists can His image fade\naway, or die? Can or would God cause it to do so? Can or would He\ndestroy His own reflection? And could that image, always being like\nHim, ever change, or manifest sin, or disease, or evil, unless God\nfirst manifested these things? And if God did manifest them, then,\nperforce, the image would _have_ to do likewise. But, in that case,\ncould God justly punish His image for faithfully reflecting its\noriginal? Consistent! Oh, it is you preachers, lacking sufficient\nspirituality to correctly interpret the Scriptures, who are wildly,\nchildishly, ignorantly inconsistent!\"\n\nCarmen rose and faced the clergyman. \"I did not mean to condemn\nyou, Doctor,\" she said earnestly. \"I wage no warfare with persons\nor things. My opposition is directed only against the entrenched human\nthought that makes men spiritually blind and holds them in the\nmesmeric chains of evil. I am young, as you reckon years, but I\nhave had much experience in the realm of thought--and it is there\nthat all experience is wrought out before it becomes externalized.\nI have told you, my teacher was God. He used as a channel a priest,\nwho came years ago to my little home town of Simit\u00ed, in far-off\nColombia. His life had been wrecked by holding to the belief of\nevil as a power, real and intelligent. He began to see the light; but\nhe did not overcome fear sufficiently to make his demonstration and\nbreak the imaginary bonds which held him. He saw, but he did not\nprove. He will, some day. And, Doctor, you and everybody else will\nhave to do the same. For, unless Jesus uttered the most malicious\nfalsehoods ever voiced, every human being will have to take every\nstep that he took, make every demonstration that he made, and prove\nall that he proved, before mortals will cease to consume with\ndisease, perish miserably in accidents, and sink with broken lives\ninto graves that do _not_ afford a gateway to immortal life! My God is\ninfinite, eternal, unchanging mind. The god of the preachers,\njudging from their sermons preached here, is a human, mental\nconcept, embodying spirit and matter, knowing good and evil, and\nchanging with every caprice of their own unstable mentalities. My\nreligion is the Christianity of the Master, love. Oh, how this poor\nworld needs it, yearns for it! The love that demonstrates the\nnothingness of evil, and drives it out of human experience! The love\nthat heals the sick, raises the dead, binds up broken hearts! The\nlove that will not quench the religious instincts of children, and\nfalsely educate them to know all manner of evil; but that teaches\nthem to recognize it for what it is, the lie about God, and then\nshows them how to overcome it, even as Jesus did. My God is truth.\nIs truth real? Ah, yes, you say. But error is the opposite of truth.\nThen can error, evil, be real? No, not if you will be consistent.\nAgain, God is infinite. But God is spirit. Then all is spirit and\nspirit's manifestation--is it not true? What, then, becomes of the\nevil that men hug to their bosoms, even while it gnaws into their\nhearts? It is the opposite of good, of mind, of truth, God. And\nthe opposite of truth is supposition. Is it not so? And the\nsupposition is--where? In your mentality. And you can put it out\nwhenever you are willing to drop your ceremonials and your theories,\nand will open your mentality to truth, which will make you free,\neven as the Master said. That is my religion, Doctor. Those are\nthe religious views which you have been sent by Madam Elwin to\ninvestigate. Am I a heretic? Or unevangelical?\"\n\nShe waited a few moments for the doctor to reply. Then, as he remained\nsilent, she went up to him and held out her hand.\n\n\"You do not care to talk with me longer, I think,\" she said. \"Perhaps\nwe may meet again. But, as regards Madam Elwin's wishes, you may tell\nher that I shall leave the school.\"\n\n\"Have you--have you been fitting yourself for any--ah--particular\nwork--ah--for your support, that is?\" inquired the doctor gravely, as\nhe took the proffered hand. He had been swept off his feet by the\ngirl's conversation, and he had not the temerity to combat her views.\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Carmen. \"I have been working daily to gain a better\nunderstanding of the teachings of Jesus, and through them, of God. My\nsingle aim has been to acquire 'that mind which was in Christ Jesus.'\nAnd I have no other business than to reflect it to my fellow-men in a\nlife of service. That is my Father's business, and I am working with\nHim. My mission in this world is to manifest God. I am going out now\nto do that, and _to show what love will do_. God will use me, and He\nwill supply my every need. And now, good-bye.\"\n\nShe turned abruptly from him and went to the organ. Soon the same song\nwhich he had heard as he entered the room rose again through the\nstillness. A strong emotion seemed to possess him. He started toward\nthe girl; checked himself; and stood hesitating. Then his lips set,\nand he turned and walked slowly from the room.\n\nIn the hall two women were approaching, and as they drew near he\nrecognized one of them.\n\n\"Why,\" he exclaimed with enthusiasm, holding out both hands, \"my dear\nMrs. Hawley-Crowles! It is not so long since we met at the Weston's.\nBut what, may I ask, brings you here?\"\n\n\"This is my sister, Mrs. Charles Reed, Doctor Jurges. We have come to,\nmake a duty call on Mr. Reed's prot\u00e9g\u00e9e, the little South American\nsavage, you know. Madam Elwin said she was up here with you?\"\n\n\"Ah, yes, quite so--er, in the chapel, I believe,\" said the clergyman,\nhis face becoming suddenly grave. \"I would return with you, but my\ntime is--ah--so limited.\" He bowed low, with his hand in the breast of\nhis long frock coat, and passed on down the hall.\n\nAs the women approached the door of the chapel through which came\nCarmen's low singing they turned and looked at each other inquiringly.\nThen they quietly entered the doorway and stood listening. Carmen,\nconcealed behind the organ, did not see them.\n\nThe song stopped, and Mrs. Hawley-Crowles went quickly to the organ.\nBending over it, she gazed down into the face of the startled girl.\n\"My goodness!\" she exclaimed. \"Get up and let me see what sort of a\nlooking creature you are.\"\n\nCarmen rose, and Mrs. Reed came forward and gave her a tempered\ngreeting. Then Mrs. Hawley-Crowles fell back and stared at the girl\nfrom head to foot. \"You know,\" she said to her sister, \"this is the\nfirst glimpse I've had of your husband's discovery. I was out of the\ncity when he brought her to my house, you remember. But,\" turning\nagain to Carmen, \"sing that song over, dear, please--the one you were\nsinging just now.\"\n\nCarmen seated herself again at the organ, and Mrs. Hawley-Crowles drew\nher sister to the rear of the room. \"It will sound better back here,\"\nshe explained.\n\nAfter the lapse of a few minutes she turned to Mrs. Reed. \"Belle,\" she\nsaid, nodding her head sententiously, \"you had a pearl, and you threw\nit away. That girl there is our social fortune! Her voice, and her\nface--why, with our ward--this beautiful, gifted, South American owner\nof a famous mine--as a lever, we can force the Beaubien to bring the\nAmes to our terms! She goes back with us to-night! You've been\nblind!\"\n\nMeantime, the dainty Madam Elwin and the amiable Doctor Jurges in the\noffice below had reached a conclusion. \"A young lady of--ah--invincible\nwill,\" the doctor had observed; \"and already--ah--decidedly mature,\ndespite her tender years. Should she--ah--assume leadership over the\npupils of your school, my dear Madam Elwin, the result might be\ndisquieting. There can be no question as to her religious views, as I\nhave said. But, what astonishes me is--ah--that this strange cult\nshould have its devotees even in the wilds of tropical America!\nAstonishing--and so unfortunate! The girl is utterly--ah--unevangelical,\nMadam; and the advisability of removing her from the school can not be\nquestioned. Do you not agree with me, Mr. Ketchim?\"\n\n\"By all means,\" asserted the latter gentleman with great seriousness,\nwhile his eyes dwelt tenderly upon Madam Elwin's written order for a\nhundred shares of Simit\u00ed stock which he held in his hand.\n\n\"Very well, then,\" said the lady with a determined nod of her head; \"I\nshall request Mrs. Reed to take her to-day.\" Then, with a proper sense\nof what it meant to have the moral support of such an eminent divine\nas Doctor Jurges, she rang for her maid and bade her summon Mrs. Reed\nand the girl.\n\nThus it was that Carmen was again shifted a space on the checkerboard\nof life, and slept that night once more under the spacious roof of the\nwealthy relict of the late James Hawley-Crowles, on Riverside Drive.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 7\n\n\nAs has been said, Carmen's six months in the Elwin school had been a\nperiod of slow adjustment to the changed order. She had brought into\nthis new world a charm of unsophistication, an ingenuous _na\u00efvet\u00e9_,\nsuch as only an untrammeled spirit nourished in an elemental\ncivilization like that of primitive Simit\u00ed could develop. Added to\nthis was the zest and eagerness stimulated by the thought that she had\ncome as a message-bearer to a people with a great need. Her first\nemotion had been that of astonishment that the dwellers in the great\nStates were not so different, after all, from those of her own\nunprogressive country. Her next was one of sad disillusionment, as the\nfact slowly dawned upon her trusting thought that the busy denizens of\nher new environment took no interest whatsoever in her message. And\nthen her joy and brilliant hopefulness had chilled, and she awoke to\nfind her strange views a barrier between herself and her associates.\nShe had brought to the America of the North a spirit so deeply\nreligious as to know naught else than her God and His ceaseless\nmanifestation. She had come utterly free of dogma or creed, and\nhappily ignorant of decaying formularies and religious caste. Her\nChristianity was her demonstrable interpretation of the Master's\nwords; and her fresh, ebulliant spirit soared unhampered in the warm\natmosphere of love for mankind. Her concept of the Christ stirred no\nthought within her of intolerance toward those who might hold\ndiffering views; nor did it raise interposing barriers within her own\nmind, nor evoke those baser sentiments which have so sadly warped the\nsouls of men into instruments of deadly hatred and crushing tyranny.\nHer spiritual vision, undimmed and world-embracing, saw the advent of\nthat day when all mankind would obey the commands of Jesus, and do the\nworks which he did, even to the complete spiritualization and\ndematerializing of all human thought. And her burning desire was to\nhasten the coming of that glad hour.\n\nThe conviction that, despite its tremendous needs, humanity was\nsteadily rejecting, even in this great land of opportunity and\nprogress, the remedy for its consuming ills, came to her slowly. And\nwith it a damping of her ardor, and a dulling of the fine edge of her\nenthusiasm. She grew quiet as the days passed, and drew away from her\ncompanions into her thought. With her increasing sense of isolation\ncame at length a great longing to leave these inhospitable shores, and\nreturn to her native environment and the sympathy and tender\nsolicitude of her beloved Rosendo and Padre Jos\u00e8. But, alas! that was\nat present impossible. Indeed, she could not be certain now of their\nwhereabouts. A great war was raging in Colombia, and she knew not what\nfate had befallen her loved ones. To her many letters directed to\nSimit\u00ed there had come back no reply. Even Harris, who had written\nagain and again to both Rosendo and Jos\u00e8, had received no word from\nthem in return. Corroding fear began to assail the girl; soul-longing\nand heart-sickness seized upon her; her happy smile faded; and her\nbright, bubbling conversation ceased.\n\nThen one day, standing alone in her room, she turned squarely upon the\nfoul brood of evil suggestions crowding upon her and, as if they were\nfell spirits from the nether world, bade them begone. \"Listen!\" she\ncried aloud. \"I know you for what you are--_nothing_! You seemed to\nuse Padre Jos\u00e8, but you can't use me! God is everywhere--right here!\nHe is my life; and you, evil thoughts, can't make me think He isn't! I\nam His image and likeness; I am His witness; and I will _not_ witness\nto His opposite, evil! My life is filled with harmony; and you, evil\nthoughts, can't reverse that fact! God has brought me here, else I\nwould not have come, for He is the cause of all that is. It is for me\nto stand and see His glory. No! no!\" as she paced about the room and\nseemed to ward off the assaults of an invisible enemy, \"there is no\npower apart from Him! On that I stand!\"\n\nThen, in the lull of battle, \"Father divine, I thank Thee that Thou\nhast heard me. And now I lay my all upon the altar of love, and throw\nmyself upon Thy thought.\"\n\nFrom that day, despite continued attacks from error--despite, too, the\nveiled slights and covert insinuations of her schoolmates, to whom the\ngirl's odd views and utter refusal to share their accustomed\nconversation, their interest in mundane affairs, their social\naspirations and worldly ambitions, at length made her quite\nunwelcome--Carmen steadily, and without heed of diverting gesture,\nbrought into captivity every thought to the obedience of her\nChrist-principle, and threw off for all time the dark cloud of\npessimism which human belief and the mesmerism of events had drawn\nover her joyous spirit.\n\nMrs. Reed had not been near her since her enrollment in the school;\nbut Ketchim had visited her often--not, however, alone, but always\nwith one or more prospective purchasers of Simit\u00ed stock in tow whom\nhe sought to influence favorably through Carmen's interesting\nconversation about her native land. Harris came every Sunday, and\nthe girl welcomed the great, blundering fellow as the coming of the\nday. At times he would obtain Madam Elwin's permission to take the\ngirl up to the city on a little sight-seeing expedition, and then he\nwould abandon himself completely to the enjoyment of her na\u00efve wonder\nand the numberless and often piquant questions stimulated by it. He\nwas the only one now with whom she felt any degree of freedom, and\nin his presence her restraint vanished and her airy gaiety again\nwelled forth with all its wonted fervor. Once, shortly after Carmen\nhad been enrolled, Harris took her to a concert by the New York\nSymphony Orchestra. But in the midst of the program, after sitting\nin silent rapture, the girl suddenly burst into tears and begged to be\ntaken out. \"I couldn't stand it!\" she sobbed as, outside the door,\nshe hid her tear-stained face in his coat; \"I just couldn't! It\nwas heavenly! Oh, it was God that we heard--it was God!\" And the\nastonished fellow respected this sudden outburst of pent-up emotion\nas he led her, silent and absorbed, back to the school.\n\nWith the throwing of the girl upon her own thought came a rapid\nexpansion of both mind and body into maturity, and the young lady who\nleft the Elwin school that bright spring afternoon under the\nprotection of the self-sufficient Mrs. Hawley-Crowles was very far\nfrom being the inquisitive, unabashed little girl who had so\ngreatly shocked the good Sister Superior by her heretical views\nsome six months before. The sophistication engendered by her\nintercourse with the pupils and instructors in the school had\ntransformed the eager, trusting little maid, who could see only good\ninto a mature woman, who, though her trust remained unshaken,\nnevertheless had a better understanding of the seeming power \"that\nlusteth against the spirit,\" and whose idea of her mission had been\ndeepened into a grave sense of responsibility. She saw now, as never\nbefore, the awful unreality of the human sense of life; but she\nlikewise understood, as never previously, its seeming reality in\nthe human consciousness, and its terrible mesmeric power over\nthose materialistic minds into which the light of spirituality had as\nyet scarcely penetrated. Her thought had begun to shape a definite\npurpose; she was still to be a message-bearer, but the message must be\nset forth in her life conduct. The futility of promiscuous verbal\ndelivery of the message to whomsoever might cross her path had\nbeen made patent. Jesus taught--and then proved. She must do\nlikewise, and let her deeds attest the truth of her words. And from\nthe day that she bade the suggestions of fear and evil leave her,\nshe had consecrated herself anew to a searching study of the\nMaster's life and words, if happily she might acquire \"that mind\"\nwhich he so wondrously expressed.\n\nBut the assumption of an attitude of quiet demonstration was by no\nmeans sudden. There were times when she could not restrain the impulse\nto challenge the beliefs so authoritatively set forth by the preachers\nand lecturers whom Madam Elwin invited to address her pupils, and who,\nunlike Jesus, first taught, and then relegated their proofs to a life\nbeyond the grave. Once, shortly after entering the school, forgetful\nof all but the error being preached, she had risen in the midst of an\neloquent sermon by the eminent Darius Borwell, a Presbyterian divine\nof considerable repute, and asked him why it was that, as he seemed to\nset forth, God had changed His mind after creating spiritual man, and\nhad created a man of dust. She had later repented her scandalous\nconduct in sackcloth and ashes; but it did not prevent her from\nabruptly leaving the chapel on a subsequent Sunday when another\ndivine, this time a complaisant Methodist, quite satisfied with his\ntheories of endless future rewards and fiery punishments, dwelt at\nlength upon the traditional idea that the sorrows of the world are\nGod-sent for mankind's chastisement and discipline.\n\nThen she gradually learned to be less defiant of the conventions and\nbeliefs of the day, and determined quietly to rise superior to them.\nBut her experience with the preachers wrought within her a strong\ndetermination henceforth to listen to no religious propaganda\nwhatsoever, to give no further heed to current theological beliefs,\nand to enter no church edifice, regardless of the tenets of the sect\nworshiping within its precincts. The wisdom of this decision she left\nfor the future to determine.\n\n\"Oh,\" she cried, \"my only mission is to manifest the divine, not to\nwaste time listening to the theories of ignorant preachers, who fail\nutterly to prove the truth of their teachings! Oh, how the world needs\nlove--just love! And I am going to love it with the selfless love that\ncomes from God, and destroys error and the false beliefs that become\nexternalized in the human consciousness as sickness, failure, old\nage, and death! Love, love, love--it is mankind's greatest need! Why,\nif the preachers only knew, the very heart and soul of Christianity is\nlove! It is love that casts out fear; and fear is at the bottom of all\nsickness, for fear leads to belief in other gods than the one Father\nof Christ Jesus! Christianity is aflame with love! Oh, God--take me\nout into the world, and let me show it what love can do!\"\n\nAnd the divine ear heard the call of this beautiful disciple of the\nChrist--aye, had heard it long before the solicitous, fluttering\nlittle Madam Elwin decided that the strange girl's unevangelical views\nwere inimical to the best interests of her very select school. The\nsocial ambitions of the wealthy Mrs. Hawley-Crowles threw wide the\nportals of the world to Carmen, and she entered, wide-eyed and\nwondering. Nor did she return until the deepest recesses of the human\nmind had revealed to her their abysmal hideousness, their ghastly\nemptiness of reality, and their woeful mesmeric deception.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 8\n\n\nMrs. James Hawley-Crowles, more keenly perceptive than her sister, had\nseized upon Carmen with avidity bred of hope long deferred. The\nscourge of years of fruitless social striving had rendered her\ndesperate, and she would have staged a ballet on her dining table,\nwith her own ample self as _premi\u00e8re danseuse_, did the attraction but\npromise recognition from the blas\u00e9 members of fashionable New York's\nultra-conservative set. From childhood she had looked eagerly forward\nthrough the years with an eye single to such recognition as life's\ndesideratum. To this end she had bartered both youth and beauty with\ncalculated precision for the Hawley-Crowles money bags; only to weep\nfloods of angry tears when the bargain left her social status\nunchanged, and herself tied to a decrepit old rounder, whose tarnished\nname wholly neutralized the purchasing power of his ill-gotten gold.\nFortunately for the reputations of them both, her husband had the good\nsense to depart this life ere the divorce proceedings which she had\nlong had in contemplation were instituted; whereupon the stricken\nwidow had him carefully incinerated and his ashes tenderly deposited\nin a chaste urn in a mausoleum which her architect had taken oath cost\nmore than the showy Ames vault by many thousands. The period of\ndecorous mourning past, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles blithely doffed her weeds\nand threw herself again into the terrific competition for social\nstanding, determined this time that it should be a warfare to the\ndeath.\n\nAnd so it bade fair to prove to her, when the eminent nerve\nspecialist, Dr. Bascom Ross, giving a scant half hour to the\nconsideration of her case, at the modest charge of one hundred\ndollars, warned her to declare a truce and flee to the Alps for\nunalloyed rest. She complied, and had returned with restored health\nand determination just as her sister came up from South America,\nbringing the odd little \"savage\" whom Reed had discovered in the wilds\nof Guamoc\u00f3. A prolonged week-end at Newport, the last of the summer\nseason, accounted for her absence from the city when Reed brought\nCarmen to her house, where he and his wife were making their temporary\nabode. Six months later, in her swift appraisal of the girl in the\nElwin school, to whom she had never before given a thought, she seemed\nto see a light.\n\n\"It does look like a desperate chance, I admit,\" she said, when\nrecounting her plans to her sister a day or so later. \"But I've played\nevery other card in my hand; and now this girl is going to be either a\ntrump or a joker. All we need is a word from the Beaubien, and the\nfollowing week will see an invitation at our door from Mrs. J. Wilton\nAmes. The trick is to reach the Beaubien. That I calculate to do\nthrough Carmen. And I'm going to introduce the girl as an Inca\nprincess. Why not? It will make a tremendous hit.\"\n\nMrs. Reed was not less ambitious than her sister, but hitherto she had\nlacked the one essential to social success, money. In addition, she\nhad committed the egregious blunder of marrying for love. And now that\nthe honeymoon had become a memory, and she faced again her growing\nambition, with a struggling husband who had neither name nor wealth to\naid her, she had found her own modest income of ten thousand a year,\nwhich she had inherited from her mother, only an aggravation. True, in\ntime her wandering father would pass away; and there was no doubt that\nhis vast property would fall to his daughters, his only living kin.\nBut at present, in view of his aggressively good health and disregard\nfor his relatives, her only recourse was to attach herself to her\nwealthy, sharp-witted sister, and hope to be towed safely into the\nsocial swim, should that scheming lady ultimately achieve her high\nambition.\n\nJust why Mrs. Hawley-Crowles should have seen in Carmen a means of\nreaching a woman of the stamp of the Beaubien, and through her the\nleader of the most exclusive social set in the metropolis, is\ndifficult to say. But thus does the human mind often seek to further\nits own dubious aims through guileless innocence and trust. Perhaps\nMrs. Hawley-Crowles had likewise a slight trace of that clairvoyance\nof wisdom which so characterized the girl. But with this difference,\nthat she knew not why she was led to adopt certain means; while\nCarmen, penetrating externals, consciously sought to turn those who\nwould employ her into channels for the expression of her own dominant\nthought. Be that as it may, the Beaubien was now the stone before the\ndoor of their hope, and Carmen the lever by which these calculating\nwomen intended it should be moved.\n\n\"The Beaubien, my dear,\" explained Mrs. Hawley-Crowles to her\ninquisitive sister, whose life had been lived almost entirely away\nfrom New York, \"is J. Wilton Ames's very particular friend, of long\nstanding. As I told you, I have recently been going through my late\nunpleasant husband's effects, and have unearthed letters and memoranda\nwhich throw floods of light upon Jim's early indiscretions and his\nassociation with both the Beaubien and Ames. Jim once told me, in a\nburst of alcoholic confidence, that she had saved him from J. Wilton's\nclutches in the dim past, and for that he owed her endless gratitude,\nas well as for never permitting him to darken her door again. Now I\nhave never met the Beaubien. Few women have. But I dare say she knows\nall about us. However, the point that concerns us now is this: she has\na hold on Ames, and, unless rumor is wide of the truth, when she hints\nto him that his wife's dinner list or yachting party seems incomplete\nwithout such or such a name, why, the list is immediately revised.\"\n\nThe position which the Beaubien held was, if Madam On-dit was not to\nbe wholly discredited, to say the least, unique. It was not as social\ndictator that she posed, for in a great cosmopolitan city where polite\nsociety is infinitely complex in its make-up such a position can\nscarcely be said to exist. It was rather as an influence that she was\nfelt, an influence never seen, but powerful, subtle, and wholly\ninexplicable, working now through this channel, now through that, and\neffecting changes in the social complexion of conservative New York\nthat were utterly in defiance of the most rigid convention.\nParticularly was her power felt in the narrow circle over which Mrs.\nJ. Wilton Ames presided, by reason of her own and her husband's\naristocratic descent, and the latter's bursting coffers and supremacy\nin the realm of finance.\n\nOnly for her sagacity, the great influence of the woman would have\nbeen short-lived. But, whatever else might be said of her, the\nBeaubien was wise, with a discretion that was positively uncanny.\nTall, voluptuous, yet graceful as a fawn; black, wavy, abundant hair;\neyes whose dark, liquid depths held unfathomable mysteries; gracious,\naffable, yet keen as a razor blade; tender, even sentimental on\noccasions, with an infinite capacity for either love or hate, this\nmany-sided woman, whose brilliant flashes of wit kept the savant or\nrou\u00e9 at her table in an uproar, could, if occasion required, found an\norphanage or drop a bichloride tablet in the glass of her rival with\nthe same measure of calculating precision and disdain of the future.\nIt was said of her that she might have laid down her life for the man\nshe loved. It is probable that she never met with one worth the\nsacrifice.\n\nWhile yet in short dresses she had fled from her boarding school, near\na fashionable resort in the New Hampshire hills, with a French\nColonel, Gaspard de Beaubien, a man twice her age. With him she had\nspent eight increasingly miserable years in Paris. Then, her withered\nromance carefully entombed in the secret places of her heart, she\nsecured a divorce from the roistering colonel, together with a small\nsettlement, and set sail for New York to hunt for larger and more\nvaluable game.\n\nWith abundant charms and sang-froid for her capital, she rented an\nexpensive apartment in a fashionable quarter of the city, and then\nsettled down to business. Whether she would have fallen upon bad days\nor not will never be known, for the first haul of her widespread net\nlanded a fish of supreme quality, J. Wilton Ames. On the plea of\nfinancial necessity, she had gone boldly to his office with the deed\nto a parcel of worthless land out on the moist sands of the New Jersey\nshore, which the unscrupulous Gaspard de Beaubien had settled upon her\nwhen she severed the tie which bound them, and which, after weeks of\ncareful research, she discovered adjoined a tract owned by Ames.\nPushing aside office boy, clerk, and guard, she reached the inner\n_sanctum_ of the astonished financier himself and offered to sell at a\nruinous figure. A few well-timed tears, an expression of angelic\ninnocence on her beautiful face, a despairing gesture or two with her\nlovely arms, coupled with the audacity which she had shown in forcing\nan entrance into his office, effected the man's capitulation. She was\nthen in her twenty-fourth year.\n\nThe result was that she cast her net no more, but devoted herself\nthenceforth with tender consecration to her important catch. In time\nAmes brought a friend, the rollicking James Hawley-Crowles, to call\nupon the charming Beaubien. In time, too, as was perfectly natural, a\nrivalry sprang up between the men, which the beautiful creature\nwatered so tenderly that the investments which she was enabled to make\nunder the direction of these powerful rivals flourished like Jack's\nbeanstalk, and she was soon able to leave her small apartment and take\na suite but a few blocks from the Ames mansion.\n\nAt length the strain between Ames and Hawley-Crowles reached the\nbreaking point; and then the former decided that the woman's\nbewitching smiles should thenceforth be his alone. He forthwith drew\nthe seldom sober Hawley-Crowles into certain business deals, with the\ngentle connivance of the suave Beaubien herself, and at length sold\nthe man out short and presented a claim on every dollar he possessed.\nHawley-Crowles awoke from his blissful dream sober and trimmed. But\nthen the Beaubien experienced one of her rare and inexplicable\nrevulsions of the ethical sense, and a compromise had to be effected,\nwhereby the Hawley-Crowles fortune was saved, though the man should\nsee the Beaubien no more.\n\nBy this time her beauty was blooming in its utmost profusion, and her\nprowess had been fairly tried. She took a large house, furnished it\nlike unto a palace, and proceeded to throw her gauntlet in the face of\nthe impregnable social caste. There she drew about her a circle of\nbon-vivants, artists, litt\u00e9rateurs, politicians, and men of\nfinance--with never a woman in the group. Yet in her new home she\nestablished a social code as rigid as the Median law, and woe to him\nwithin her gates who thereafter, with or without intent, passed the\nbounds of respectful decorum. His name was heard no more on her rosy\nlips.\n\nHer dinners were Lucullan in their magnificence; and over the rare\nwines and imperial cigars which she furnished, her guests passed many\na tip and prognostication anent the market, which she in turn quietly\ntransmitted to her brokers. She came to understand the game\nthoroughly, and, while it was her heyday of glorious splendor, she\nplayed hard. She had bartered every priceless gift of nature for\ngold--and she made sure that the measure she received in return was\nfull. Her gaze was ever upon the approaching day when those charms\nwould be but bitter memories; and it was her grim intention that when\nit came silken ease should compensate for their loss.\n\nTen years passed, and the Beaubien's reign continued with undimmed\nsplendor. In the meantime, the wife of J. Wilton Ames had reached the\nzenith of her ambitions and was the acknowledged leader in New York's\nmost fashionable social circle. These two women never met. But, though\nthe Beaubien had never sought the entr\u00e9e to formal society, preferring\nto hold her own court, at which no women attended, she exercised a\ncertain control over it through her influence upon the man Ames. What\nMrs. Ames knew of the long-continued relations between her husband and\nthis woman was never divulged. And doubtless she was wholly satisfied\nthat his wealth and power afforded her the position which her heart\nhad craved; and, that secure, she was willing to leave him to his own\nmethods of obtaining diversion. But rumor was persistent, maliciously\nso; and rumor declared that the list of this envied society dame was\nnot drawn up without the approval of her husband and the woman with\nwhom his leisure hours were invariably spent. Hence the hope of Mrs.\nHawley-Crowles, whose doting mate had once fawned in the perfumed wake\nof the luxurious Beaubien.\n\nCarmen, whose wishes had not been consulted, had voiced no objection\nwhatever to returning to the Hawley-Crowles home. Indeed, she secretly\nrejoiced that an opportunity had been so easily afforded for escape\nfrom the stifling atmosphere of the Elwin school, and for entrance\ninto the great world of people and affairs, where she believed the\nsoil prepared for the seed she would plant. That dire surprises\nawaited her, of which she could not even dream, did not enter her\ncalculations. Secure in her quenchless faith, she gladly accepted the\nproffered shelter of the Hawley-Crowles mansion, and the protection of\nits worldly, scheming inmates.\n\nIn silent, wide-eyed wonder, in the days that followed, the girl\nstrove to accustom herself to the luxury of her surroundings, and to\nthe undreamed of marvels which made for physical comfort and\nwell-being. Each installment of the ample allowance which Mrs.\nHawley-Crowles settled upon her seemed a fortune--enough, she thought,\nto buy the whole town of Simit\u00ed! Her gowns seemed woven on fairy\nlooms, and often she would sit for hours, holding them in her lap and\nreveling in their richness. Then, when at length she could bring\nherself to don the robes and peep timidly into the great pier glasses,\nshe would burst into startled exclamations and hide her face in her\nhands, lest the gorgeous splendor of the beautiful reflection\noverpower her.\n\n\"Oh,\" she would exclaim, \"it can't be that the girl reflected there\never lived and dressed as I did in Simit\u00ed! I wonder, oh, I wonder if\nPadre Jos\u00e8 knew that these things were in the world!\"\n\nAnd then, as she leaned back in her chair and gave herself into the\nhands of the admiring French maid, she would close her eyes and dream\nthat the fairy-stories which the patient Jos\u00e8 had told her again and\nagain in her distant home town had come true, and that she had been\ntransformed into a beautiful princess, who would some day go in search\nof the sleeping priest and wake him from his mesmeric dream.\n\nThen would come the inevitable thought of the little newsboy of\nCartagena, to whom she had long since begun to send monetary\ncontributions--and of her unanswered letters--of the war devastating\nher native land--of rudely severed ties, and unimaginable changes--and\nshe would start from her musing and brush away the gathering tears,\nand try to realize that her present situation and environment were but\nmeans to an end, opportunities which her God had given her to do His\nwork, with no thought of herself.\n\nA few days after Carmen had been installed in her new home, during\nwhich she had left the house only for her diurnal ride in the big\nlimousine, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles announced her readiness to fire the\nfirst gun in the attack upon the Beaubien. \"My dear,\" she said to her\nsister, as they sat alone in the luxurious sun-parlor, \"my washerwoman\ndropped a remark the other day which gave me something to build on.\nHer two babies are in the General Orphan Asylum, up on Twenty-third\nstreet. Well, it happens that this institution is the Beaubien's sole\ncharity--in fact, it is her particular hobby. I presume that she feels\nshe is now a middle-aged woman, and that the time is not far distant\nwhen she will have to close up her earthly accounts and hand them over\nto the heavenly auditor. Anyway, this last year or two she has\nsuddenly become philanthropic, and when the General Orphan Asylum was\nbuilding she gave some fifty thousand dollars for a cottage in her\nname. What's more, the trustees of the Asylum accepted it without the\nwink of an eyelash. Funny, isn't it?\n\n\"But here's the point: some rich old fellow has willed the institution\na fund whose income every year is used to buy clothing for the\nkiddies; and they have a sort of celebration on the day the duds are\ngiven out, and the public is invited to inspect the place and the\ninmates, and eat a bit, and look around generally. Well, my\nwasherwoman tells me that the Beaubien always attends these annual\ncelebrations. The next one, I learn, comes in about a month. I propose\nthat we attend; take Carmen; ask permission for her to sing to the\nchildren, and thereby attract the attention of the gorgeous Beaubien,\nwho will be sure to speak to the girl, who is herself an orphan, and,\nten to one, want to see more of her. The rest is easy. I'll have a\nword to say regarding our immense debt of gratitude to her for saving\nJim's fortune years ago when he was entangled in her net--and, well,\nif that scheme doesn't work, I have other strings to my bow.\"\n\nBut it did work, and with an ease that exceeded the most sanguine\nhopes of its projector. On the day that the General Orphan Asylum\nthrew wide its doors to the public, the Hawley-Crowles limousine\nrubbed noses with the big French car of the Beaubien in the street\nwithout; while within the building the Beaubien held the hand of the\nbeautiful girl whose voluntary singing had spread a veil of silence\nover the awed spectators in the great assembly room, and, looking\nearnestly down into the big, trusting, brown eyes, said: \"My dear\nchild, I want to know you.\" Then, turning to the eager, itching Mrs.\nHawley-Crowles, \"I shall send my car for her to-morrow afternoon, with\nyour permission.\"\n\nWith her permission! Heavens! Mrs. Hawley-Crowles wildly hugged her\nsister and the girl all the way home--then went to bed that night with\ntears of apprehension in her washed-out eyes, lest she had shown\nherself too eager in granting the Beaubien's request. But her fears\nwere turned to exultation when the Beaubien car drew up at her door\nthe following day at three, and the courteous French chauffeur\nannounced his errand. A few moments later, while the car glided\npurring over the smooth asphalt, Carmen, robed like a princess, lay\nback in the cushions and dreamed of the poor priest in the dead little\ntown so far away.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 9\n\n\n\"Sing it again, dear. I know you are tired, but I want to hear that\nsong just once more. Somehow it seems to bring up thoughts of--of\nthings that might have been.\" The Beaubien's voice sank to a whisper\nas she finished.\n\nCarmen laughed happily and prepared to repeat the weird lament which\nhad so fascinated the Reverend Doctor Jurges a few days before.\n\n\"I--I don't know why that song affects me so,\" mused the Beaubien,\nwhen the girl had finished and returned to the seat beside her. Then,\nabruptly: \"I wish you could play the pipe-organ out in the hall. I put\ntwelve thousand dollars into it, and I can't even play five-finger\nexercises on it.\"\n\n\"Twelve thousand dollars!\" exclaimed Carmen, drawing a long breath,\nwhile her eyes dilated.\n\nThe woman laughed. \"Would that buy your beloved Simit\u00ed?\" she asked.\n\"Well, you poor, unsophisticated girl, suppose we just go down there\nand buy the whole town. It would at least give me an interest in life.\nDo you think I could stand the heat there? But tell me more about it.\nHow did you live, and what did you do? And who is this Jos\u00e8? And are\nyou really descended from the old Incas?\"\n\nThey were alone in the darkened music room, and the soft-stepping,\nliveried butler had just set the tea table before them, At one end of\nthe long room a cheery fire snapped and crackled in the huge\nfireplace, tempering the sharpness of the early spring day and casting\na ruddy glow upon the tapestried walls and polished floor in front,\nwhere dozed the Beaubien's two \"babies,\" Japanese and Pekingese\nspaniels of registered pedigree and fabulous value. Among the heavy\nbeams of the lofty ceiling grotesque shadows danced and flickered,\nwhile over the costly rugs and rare skins on the floor below subdued\nlights played in animated pantomime. Behind the magnificent grand\npiano a beautifully wrought harp reflected a golden radiance into the\nroom. Everything in the woman's environment was softened into the same\ndegree of voluptuousness which characterized her and the life of\nsybaritic ease which she affected.\n\nFrom the moment Carmen entered the house she had been charmed,\nfascinated, overpowered by the display of exhaustless wealth and\nthe rich taste exhibited in its harmonious manifestation. The\nHawley-Crowles home had seemed to her the epitome of material\nelegance and comfort, far exceeding the most fantastic concepts of her\nchildish imagination, when she had listened enraptured to Padre\nJos\u00e8's compelling stories of the great world beyond Simit\u00ed. But the\ngorgeous web of this social spider made even the Hawley-Crowles\nmansion suffer in comparison.\n\n\"And yet,\" said the amused Beaubien, when Carmen could no longer\nrestrain her wonder and admiration, \"this is but a shed beside the new\nAmes house, going up on Fifth Avenue. I presume he will put not less\nthan ten millions into it before it is finished.\"\n\n\"Ten millions! In just a house!\" Carmen dared not attempt to grasp the\ncomplex significance of such an expenditure.\n\n\"Why, is that such a huge amount, child?\" asked the Beaubien, as\naccustomed to think in eight figures as in two. \"But, I forget that\nyou are from the jungle. Yet, who would imagine it?\" she mused, gazing\nwith undisguised admiration at the beautiful, animated girl before\nher.\n\nSilence then fell upon them both. Carmen was struggling with the\ndeluge of new impressions; and the woman fastened her eyes upon her as\nif she would have them bore deep into the soul of whose rarity she was\nbecoming slowly aware. What thoughts coursed through the mind of the\nBeaubien as she sat studying the girl through the tempered light, we\nmay not know. What she saw in Carmen that attracted her, she herself\nmight not have told. Had she, too, this ultra-mondaine, this creature\nof gold and tinsel, felt the spell of the girl's great innocence and\npurity of thought, her righteousness? Or did she see in her something\nthat she herself might once have been--something that all her gold,\nand all the wealth of Ormus or of Ind could never buy?\n\n\"What have you got,\" she suddenly, almost rudely, exclaimed, \"that I\nhaven't?\" And then the banality of the question struck her, and she\nlaughed harshly.\n\n\"Why,\" said Carmen, looking up quickly and beaming upon the woman,\n\"you have everything! Oh, what more could you wish?\"\n\n\"You,\" returned the woman quickly, though she knew not why she said\nit. And yet, memory was busy uncovering those bitter days when, in the\nfirst agony of marital disappointment, she had, with hot, streaming\ntears, implored heaven to give her a child. But the gift had been\ndenied; and her heart had shrunk and grown heavily calloused.\n\nThen she spoke more gently, and there was that in her voice which\nstirred the girl's quick sympathy. \"Yes, you have youth, and beauty.\nThey are mine no longer. But I could part with them, gladly, if only\nthere were anything left.\"\n\nCarmen instantly rose and went swiftly to her. Forgetful of caste,\ndecorum, convention, everything but the boundless love which she felt\nfor all mankind, she put her arms about the worldly woman's neck and\nkissed her.\n\nFor a moment the Beaubien sat in speechless surprise. It was the only\nmanifestation of selfless love that had ever come into her sordid\nexperience. Was it possible that this was spontaneous? that it was an\nact of real sympathy, and not a clever ruse to win her from behind the\nmask of affection? Her own kisses, she knew, were bestowed only for\nfavors. Alas! they drew not many now, although time was when a single\none might win a brooch or a string of pearls.\n\nThe girl herself quickly met the woman's groping thought. \"I'm in the\nworld to show what love will do,\" she murmured; \"and I love you.\" Had\nshe not thus solved every problem from earliest childhood?\n\nThe Beaubien melted. Not even a heart of stone could withstand the\nsolvent power of such love. Her head dropped upon her breast, and she\nwept.\n\n\"Don't cry,\" said Carmen, tenderly caressing the bepowdered cheek.\n\"Why, we are all God's children; we all have one another; you have me,\nand I have you; and God means us all to be happy.\"\n\nThe Beaubien looked up, wondering. Her variegated life included no\nsuch tender experience as this. She had long since ceased to shed\naught but tears of anger. But now--\n\nShe clutched the girl to her and kissed her eagerly; then gently\nmotioned her back to her chair. \"Don't mind it,\" she smiled, with\nswimming eyes, and a shade of embarrassment. \"I don't know of anything\nthat would help me as much as a good cry. If I could have had a\ndaughter like you, I should--but never mind now.\" She tried to laugh,\nas she wiped her eyes.\n\nThen an idea seemed to flash through her jaded brain, and she became\nsuddenly animated. \"Why--listen,\" she said; \"don't you want to learn\nthe pipe-organ? Will you come here and take lessons? I will pay for\nthem; I will engage the best teacher in New York; and you shall take\ntwo or three a week, and use the big organ out in the hall. Will\nyou?\"\n\nCarmen's heart gave a great leap. \"Oh!\" she exclaimed, her eyes\ndancing. \"But I must ask Mrs. Reed, you know.\"\n\n\"I'll do it myself,\" returned the woman with growing enthusiasm.\n\"William,\" she directed, when the butler responded to her summons,\n\"get Mrs. Hawley-Crowles on the wire at once. But who is coming, I\nwonder?\" glancing through the window at an automobile that had drawn\nup at her door. \"Humph!\" a look of vexation mantling her face, \"the\nRight Reverend Monsignor Lafelle. Well,\" turning to Carmen, \"I suppose\nI'll have to send you home now, dear. But tell Mrs. Hawley-Crowles\nthat I shall call for you to-morrow afternoon, and that I shall speak\nto her at that time about your music lessons. William, take Monsignor\ninto the morning room, and then tell Henri to bring the car to the\nporte-coch\u00e8re for Miss Carmen. Good-bye, dear,\" kissing the bright,\nupturned face of the waiting girl. \"I wish I could--but, well, don't\nforget that I'm coming for you to-morrow.\"\n\nThat afternoon Mrs. Hawley-Crowles directed her French tailor to cable\nto Paris for advance styles. Twenty-four hours later she hastened with\noutstretched arms to greet the Beaubien, waiting in the reception\nroom. Oh, yes, they had heard often of each other; and now were so\npleased to meet! New York was such a whirlpool, and it was so\ndifficult to form desirable friendships. Yes, the Beaubien had known\nthe late-lamented Hawley-Crowles; but, dear! dear! that was years and\nyears ago, before he had married, and when they were both young and\nfoolish. And--\n\n\"My dear Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, chance enabled him and me to be mutually\nhelpful at a time when I was in sore need of a friend; and the debt of\ngratitude is not yours to me, but mine to your kind husband.\"\n\nMrs. Hawley-Crowles could have hugged her on the spot. What cared she\nthat her husband's always unsavory name had been linked with this\nwoman's? She had married the roistering blade for his bank account\nonly. Any other male whose wealth ran into seven figures would have\ndone as well, or better.\n\nAnd Carmen? Bless you, no! To be sure, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles gratefully\naccepted the use of the organ and the Beaubien mansion for the girl;\nbut she herself insisted upon bearing the expense of the lessons.\nCarmen had wonderful musical talent. Together, she and the Beaubien,\nthey would foster and develop it. Moreover, though of course this must\nfollow later, she intended to give the girl every social advantage\nbefitting her beauty, her talents, and her station.\n\nAnd then, when the Beaubien, who knew to a second just how long to\nstay, had departed, taking Carmen with her, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles turned\nto her sister with her face flushed with anger. \"Did you see that?\"\nshe exclaimed, while hot tears suffused her eyes. \"The hussy went away\nactually laughing at me! What do you suppose she's got up her sleeve?\nBut, let me tell you, she'll not fool me! I'll slap that arrogant Ames\nwoman yet; and then, when I've done that, I'll give the Beaubien\nsomething to think about besides the way she did up poor old Jim!\"\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere was now but one cloud that cast its dark shadow across the full\nsplendor of Carmen's happiness, the silence that shrouded Simit\u00ed. But\nHarris was preparing to return to Colombia, and his trip promised a\nsolution of the mystery of her unanswered letters. For weeks Carmen\nhad struggled to teach him Spanish, with but small measure of success.\nThe gift of tongues was not his. \"You'll have to go back with me and\nact as interpreter,\" he said one day, when they were alone in the\nHawley-Crowles parlor. Then a curious light came into his eyes, and he\nblurted, \"Will you?\"\n\nBut the girl turned the question aside with a laugh, though she knew\nnot from what depths it had sprung. Harris shrugged his broad\nshoulders and sighed. He had not a hundred dollars to his name.\n\nYet he had prospects, not the least of which was the interest he\nshared with Reed in La Libertad. For, despite the disturbed state of\naffairs in Colombia, Simit\u00ed stock had sold rapidly, under the sedulous\ncare of Ketchim and his loyal aids, and a sufficient fund had been\naccumulated to warrant the inauguration of development work on the\nmine. A few years hence Harris should be rich from that source alone.\n\nReed was still in California, although the alluring literature which\nKetchim was scattering broadcast bore his name as consulting engineer\nto the Simit\u00ed Development Company. His wife had continued her\ntemporary abode in the Hawley-Crowles mansion, while awaiting with\nwhat fortitude she could command the passing of her still vigorous\nfather, and the results of her defiant sister's assaults upon the Ames\nset.\n\nCarmen's days were crowded full. The wonderful organ in the Beaubien\nmansion had cast a spell of enchantment over her soul, and daily she\nsat before it, uncovering new marvels and losing herself deeper and\ndeeper in its infinite mysteries. Her progress was commensurate with\nher consecration, and brought exclamations of astonishment to the lips\nof her now devoted Beaubien. Hour after hour the latter would sit in\nthe twilight of the great hall, with her eyes fastened upon the\nabsorbed girl, and her leaden soul slowly, painfully struggling to\nlift itself above the murk and dross in which it had lain buried for\nlong, meaningless years. They now talked but little, this strange\nwoman and the equally strange girl. Their communion was no longer of\nthe lips. It was the silent yearning of a dry, desolate heart,\nstriving to open itself to the love which the girl was sending far and\nwide in the quenchless hope that it might meet just such a need. For\nCarmen dwelt in the spirit, and she instinctively accepted her\nsplendid material environment as the gift, not of man, but of the\ngreat divine Mind, which had led her into this new world that she\nmight be a channel for the expression of its love to the erring\nchildren of mortals.\n\nShe came and went quietly, and yet with as much confidence as if the\nhouse belonged to her. At first the Beaubien smiled indulgently. And\nthen her smile became a laugh of eager joy as she daily greeted her\nradiant visitor, whose entrance into the great, dark house was always\nfollowed by a flood of sunshine, and whose departure marked the\nsetting in of night to the heart-hungry woman. In the first days of\ntheir association the Beaubien could turn easily from the beautiful\ngirl to the group of cold, scheming men of the world who filled her\nevenings and sat about her board. But as days melted into weeks, she\nbecame dimly conscious of an effort attaching to the transition; and\nthe hour at length arrived when she fully realized that she was facing\nthe most momentous decision that had ever been evolved by her worldly\nmode of living. But that was a matter of slow development through many\nmonths.\n\nMeantime, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles trod the clouds. A week after Carmen\nbegan the study of the organ she boldly ventured to accompany her one\nday to the Beaubien citadel. She was graciously received, and departed\nwith the Beaubien's promise to return the call. Thereupon she set\nabout revising her own social list, and dropped several names which\nshe now felt could serve her no longer. Her week-end at Newport, just\nprior to her visit to the Elwin school, had marked the close of the\ngay season in the city, and New York had entered fully upon its summer\n_siesta_. Even the theaters and concert halls were closed, and the\nmetropolis was nodding its weary head dully and sinking into\nsomnolence. It was exactly what Mrs. Hawley-Crowles desired. The\nsummer interim would give her time to further her plans and prepare\nthe girl for her social _d\u00e9but_ in the early winter. \"And Milady Ames\nwill be mentioned in the papers next day as assisting at the\nfunction--the cat!\" she muttered savagely, as she laid aside her\nrevised list of social desirables.\n\nBut in preparing Carmen that summer for her subsequent entry into\npolite society Mrs. Hawley-Crowles soon realized that she had\nassumed a task of generous proportions. In the first place,\ndespite all efforts, the girl could not be brought to a proper\nsense of money values. Her eyes were ever gaping in astonishment at\nwhat Mrs. Hawley-Crowles and her sister regarded as the most moderate\nof expenditures, and it was only when the Beaubien herself mildly\nhinted to them that ingenuousness was one of the girl's greatest\nsocial assets, that they learned to smile indulgently at her wonder,\neven while inwardly pitying her dense ignorance and lack of\nsophistication.\n\nA second source of trial to her guardians was her delicate sense of\nhonor; and it was this that one day nearly sufficed to wreck their\nstanding with the fashionable Mrs. Gannette of Riverside Drive, a\npompous, bepowdered, curled and scented dame, anaemic of mind, but\ntremendously aristocratic, and of scarcely inferior social dignity to\nthat of the envied Mrs. Ames. For, when Mrs. Gannette moved into the\nneighborhood where dwelt the ambitious Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, the latter\nwas taken by a mutual acquaintance to call upon her, and was\nimmediately received into the worldly old lady's good graces. And it\nso happened that, after the gay season had closed that summer, Mrs.\nGannette invited Mrs. Hawley-Crowles and her sister to an informal\nafternoon of bridge, and especially requested that they bring their\nyoung ward, whose beauty and wonderful story were, through the\ndiscreet maneuvers of her guardians, beginning to be talked about. For\nsome weeks previously Mrs. Hawley-Crowles had been inducting Carmen\ninto the mysteries of the game; but with indifferent success, for the\ngirl's thoughts invariably were elsewhere engaged. On this particular\nafternoon Carmen was lost in contemplation of the gorgeous dress, the\nlavish display of jewelry, and the general inanity of conversation;\nand her score was pitiably low. The following morning, to her great\nastonishment, she received a bill from the practical Mrs. Gannette for\nten dollars to cover her losses at the game. For a long time the\nbewildered girl mused over it. Then she called the chauffeur and\ndespatched him to the Gannette mansion with the money necessary to\nmeet the gambling debt, and three dollars additional to pay for the\nrefreshments she had eaten, accompanying it with a polite little note\nof explanation.\n\nThe result was an explosion that nearly lifted the asphalt from the\nDrive; and Carmen, covered with tears and confusion, was given to\nunderstand by the irate Mrs. Hawley-Crowles that her conduct was as\nreprehensible as if she had attacked the eminent Mrs. Gannette with an\naxe. Whereupon the sorrowing Carmen packed her effects and prepared to\ndepart from the presence of Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, to the terrified\nconsternation of the latter, who alternately prostrated herself before\nthe girl and the offended Mrs. Gannette, and at length, after many\ndays of perspiring effort and voluminous explanation, succeeded in\nrestoring peace.\n\nWhen the Beaubien, who had become the girl's confidante, learned the\nstory, she laughed till her sides ached. And then her lips set, and\nher face grew terribly hard, and she muttered, \"Fools!\" But she smiled\nagain as she gathered the penitent girl in her arms, and kissed her.\n\n\"You will learn many things, dearie, before you are through with New\nYork. And,\" she added, her brow again clouding, \"you _will_ be through\nwith it--some day!\"\n\nThat evening she repeated the story at her table, and Gannette, who\nhappened to be present, swore between roars of laughter that he would\nuse it as a club over his wife, should she ever again trap him in any\nof his numerous indiscretions.\n\nAgain, the girl's odd views of life and its meaning which, despite her\nefforts, she could not refrain from voicing now and then, caused the\nworldly Mrs. Hawley-Crowles much consternation. Carmen tried\ndesperately to be discreet. Even Harris advised her to listen much,\nbut say little; and she strove hard to obey. But she would forget and\nhurl the newspapers from her with exclamations of horror over their\nred-inked depictions of mortal frailty--she would flatly refuse to\ndiscuss crime or disease--and she would comment disparagingly at too\nfrequent intervals on the littleness of human aims and the emptiness\nof the peacock-life which she saw manifested about her. \"I don't\nunderstand--I can't,\" she would say, when she was alone with the\nBeaubien. \"Why, with the wonderful opportunities which you rich people\nhave, how can you--oh, how can you toss them aside for the frivolities\nand littleness that you all seem to be striving for! It seems to me\nyou must be mad--_loco_! And I know you are, for you are simply\nmesmerized!\"\n\nThen the Beaubien would smile knowingly and take her in her arms. \"We\nshall see,\" she would often say, \"we shall see.\" But she would offer\nno further comment.\n\nThus the summer months sped swiftly past, with Carmen ever looking and\nlistening, receiving, sifting, in, but not of, the new world into\nwhich she had been cast. In a sense her existence was as narrowly\nroutined as ever it had been in Simit\u00ed, for her days were spent at the\ngreat organ, with frequent rides in the automobile through the parks\nand boulevards for variation; and her evenings were jealously guarded\nby Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, whose policy was to keep the girl in seclusion\nuntil the advent of her formal introduction to the world of\nfashionable society, when her associates would be selected only from\nthe narrow circle of moneyed or titled people with whom alone she\nmight mingle. To permit her to form promiscuous acquaintances now\nmight prove fatal to the scheming woman's cherished plans, and was a\nrisk that could not be entertained. And Carmen, suppressing her\nwonder, and striving incessantly to curb her ready tongue, accepted\nher environment as the unreal expression of the human mind, and\nsubmitted--and waited.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 10\n\nThe chill blasts had begun to swoop down from the frozen North, and\nsummer had gathered her dainty robes about her and fled shivering\nbefore them. Mrs. Hawley-Crowles stood at a window and gazed with\nunseeing eyes at the withered leaves tossing in the wind.\n\nCarmen's sixteenth birthday was past by some months; the gay season\nwas at hand; and the day was speeding toward her which she had set for\nthe girl's formal _d\u00e9but_. Already, through informal calls and\ngatherings, she had made her charming and submissive ward known to\nmost of her own city acquaintances and the members of her particular\nset. The fresh, beautiful girl's winning personality; her frank,\ningenuous manner; her evident sincerity and her na\u00efve remarks, which\nnow only gave hints of her radical views, had opened every heart wide\nto her, and before the advent of the social season her wonderful story\nwas on everybody's tongue. There remained now only the part which the\nwoman had planned for the Beaubien, but which, thus far, she had found\nneither the courage nor the opportunity to suggest to that influential\nwoman. Gazing out into the deserted street, she stamped her ample foot\nin sheer vexation. The Beaubien had absorbed Carmen; had been\npolitely affable to her and her sister; had called twice during the\nsummer; and had said nothing. But what was there for her to say? The\nhint must come from the other side; and Mrs. Hawley-Crowles could have\nwept with chagrin as she reflected gloomily on her own timorous\nspirit.\n\nBut as she stood in dejection before the window a vague idea flitted\ninto her brain, and she clutched at it desperately. Carmen had spoken\nof the frequent calls of a certain Monsignor Lafelle at the Beaubien\nmansion, although the girl had never met him. Now why did he go there?\n\"Humph!\" muttered Mrs. Hawley-Crowles. \"Old Gaspard de Beaubien was a\nFrench Catholic.\"\n\nBut what had that to do with Carmen? Nothing--except--why, to be sure,\nthe girl came from a Catholic country, and therefore was a Catholic!\nMrs. Hawley-Crowles chuckled. That was worth developing a little\nfurther. \"Let us see,\" she reflected, \"Kathleen Ames is coming out\nthis winter, too. Just about Carmen's age. Candidate for her mother's\nsocial position, of course. Now the Ames family are all Presbyterians.\nThe Reverend Darius Borwell, D.D., L.L.D., and any other D. that will\nkeep him glued to his ten-thousand-dollar salary, hooked them early in\nthe game. Now suppose--suppose Lafelle should tell the Beaubien\nthat--that there's--no, that won't do! But suppose I tell him that\nhere's a chance for him to back a Catholic against a Protestant for\nthe highest social honors in New York--Carmen versus Kathleen--what\nwould he say? Humph! I'm just as good a Catholic as Protestant. Jim\nwas Irish--clear through. And Catholic, Methodist, or Hard-shell\nBaptist, as suited his needs. He played 'em all. Suppose I should tip\nit off to Lafelle that I'm smitten with the pious intention of\ndonating an altar to Holy Saints Cathedral in memory of my late,\nunlamented consort--what then? It's worth considering, anyway. Yes,\nit's not a bad idea at all.\"\n\nAnd thus it was that a few days later Mrs. Hawley-Crowles timed it so\ncarefully that she chanced to call on the Beaubien with Carmen shortly\nafter Monsignor Lafelle's car had pulled up at the same door. It was\nthe merest accident, too, that Carmen led her puffing guardian\ndirectly into the morning room, where sat the Beaubien and Monsignor\nin earnest conversation. Mrs. Hawley-Crowles would have retired at\nonce, stammering apologies, and reprimanding Carmen for her assumption\nof liberties in another's house; but the Beaubien was grace and\ncordiality itself, and she insisted on retaining her three callers and\nmaking them mutually acquainted.\n\nWith the ice thus broken, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles found it easy to take\nthe contemplated plunge. Therefore she smiled triumphantly when, a\nweek later, Monsignor Lafelle alighted at her own door, in response to\na summons on matters pertaining to the Church.\n\n\"But, Madam,\" replied the holy man, after carefully listening to her\nannouncement, \"I can only refer the matter to the Bishop. I am not\nconnected with this diocese. I am traveling almost constantly. But I\nshall be most pleased to lay it before him, with my endorsement.\"\n\n\"As you say, Monsignor,\" sweetly responded the gracious Mrs.\nHawley-Crowles. \"I sought your advice because I had met you through my\ndear friend, Madam Beaubien.\"\n\n\"It has been a great pleasure to know you and to be of service to you,\nMadam,\" said Monsignor, rising to depart. \"But,\" he added with a\ntender smile, \"a pleasure that would be enhanced were you to become\none of us.\"\n\nMrs. Hawley-Crowles knew that at last the time had come. \"A moment,\nplease, Monsignor,\" she said, her heart beating quickly. \"There is\nanother matter. Please be seated. It concerns my ward, the young girl\nwhom you met at Madam Beaubien's.\"\n\n\"Ah, indeed!\" said the man, resuming his seat. \"A beautiful girl.\"\n\n\"Yes!\" returned Mrs. Hawley-Crowles enthusiastically. \"And just\nbudding into still more beautiful womanhood.\" She stopped and\nreflected a moment. Then she threw herself precipitately into her\ntopic, as if she feared further delay would result in the evaporation\nof her boldness. \"Monsignor, it is, as you say, unfortunate that I\nprofess no religious convictions; and yet, as I have told you, I find\nthat as the years pass I lean ever more strongly toward your Church.\nNow you will pardon me when I say that I am sure it is the avowed\nintention to make America dominantly Catholic that brings you to this\ncountry to work toward that end--is it not so?\"\n\nThe man's handsome face lighted up pleasantly, but he did not reply.\nThe woman went on without waiting.\n\n\"Now, Monsignor, I am going to be terribly frank; and if you\ndisapprove of what I suggest, we will both forget that the matter was\never under discussion. To begin with, I heartily endorse your\nmissionary efforts in this godless country of ours. Nothing but the\nstrong arm of the Catholic Church, it seems to me, can check our\nheadlong plunge into ruin. But, Monsignor, you do not always work\nwhere your labors are most needed. You may control political--\"\n\n\"My dear lady,\" interrupted the man, holding up a hand and shaking his\nhead in gentle demurral, \"the Catholic Church is not in politics.\"\n\n\"But it is in society--or should be!\" said the woman earnestly. \"And\nif the Catholic Church is to be supreme in America it must work from\nthe top down, as well as from the lower levels upward. At present our\nwealthiest, most influential social set is absolutely domineered by a\nProtestant--and under the influence of a Presbyterian minister at\nthat! Why do you permit it?\"\n\nMonsignor Lafelle's eyes twinkled, as he listened politely. But he\nonly stroked the white hair that crowned his shapely head, and\nwaited.\n\n\"Monsignor,\" continued the now thoroughly heated Mrs. Hawley-Crowles,\n\"why do not the women of your Church constitute our society leaders?\nWhy do you not recognize the desirability of forcing your people into\nevery avenue of human activity? And would you resent a suggestion from\nme as to how in one instance this might be accomplished?\"\n\n\"Certainly not, Madam,\" replied Monsignor, with an expression of\nwonder on his face. \"Pray proceed.\"\n\n\"You are laughing at me, I do believe!\" she exclaimed, catching the\nglint in his gray eyes.\n\n\"Pardon me, dear lady, I really am deeply interested. Please go on.\"\n\n\"Well, at any rate I have your promise to forget this conversation if\nyou do not approve of it,\" she said quizzically.\n\nHe nodded his head to inspire her confidence; and she continued:\n\n\"Very well, now to the point. My ward, the little Inca princess, is\ncoming out shortly. I want her to have the _entr\u00e9e_ into the very best\nsociety, into the most fashionable and exclusive set, as befitting her\nrank.\" She stopped and awaited the effect of her words.\n\nMonsignor studied her for a moment, and then broke into a genial\nlaugh. \"There is nothing reprehensible in your wish, Madam,\" he said.\n\"Our social system, however imperfect, nevertheless exists,\nand--dominant Catholic influence might improve it. I am quite sure it\nwould.\"\n\n\"Good!\" exclaimed Mrs. Hawley-Crowles. \"Then will you help me?\"\n\n\"Why, I really see nothing that I can do,\" he replied slowly.\n\nMrs. Hawley-Crowles was becoming exasperated with his apparent\ndullness. \"You can do much,\" she retorted in a tone tinctured with\nimpatience. \"Since I have made you my Father Confessor to-day, I am\ngoing to tell you that I intend to start a social war that will rip\nthis city wide open. It is going to be war in which Catholic is pitted\nagainst Protestant. Now, which side is your Church on?\"\n\nFor a moment her blunt question startled him, and he stared at her\nuncomprehendingly; but he quickly recovered his poise and replied\ncalmly, \"Neither, Madam; it remains quite neutral.\"\n\n\"What!\" she exclaimed. \"Aren't you interested?\"\n\n\"Pardon me if I say it; not at all.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" she murmured, her eagerness subsiding. \"Then I've made an awful\nmistake!\"\n\n\"No,\" he amended gently, \"you have made a good friend. And, as such, I\nagain urge you first to respect the leaning which you mentioned a\nmoment ago and become actively affiliated with our Church here in New\nYork. Both you and the young lady. Will you not consider it?\"\n\n\"Certainly I will consider it,\" she responded, brightening with hope.\n\"And I will go so far as to say that I have long had it in mind.\"\n\n\"Then, Madam, when that is accomplished, we may discuss the less\nimportant matter of your ward's entrance into society--is it not so?\"\n\nMrs. Hawley-Crowles rose, completely discomfited. \"But the girl,\nMonsignor, is already a Catholic--comes from a Catholic country. It is\nshe whom I am pitting against the Protestant.\"\n\n\"And you will efface yourself?\" he queried with a peculiar smile.\n\n\"You are cruel,\" she retorted, affecting an air of injured innocence\nas she stood before him with downcast eyes. \"But--if you--\"\n\n\"Madam,\" said Monsignor, \"plainly, what is it that you wish me to\ndo?\"\n\nThe sudden propounding of the question drew an equally sudden but less\nthoughtful response.\n\n\"Tell the Beau--Madam Beaubien that you wish my ward to be received\ninto the best society, and for the reasons I have given you. That's\nall.\"\n\n\"And is my influence with Madam Beaubien, and hers with the members of\nfashionable society, sufficient to effect that?\" he asked, an odd look\ncoming into his eyes.\n\n\"She has but to say the word to J. Wilton Ames, and his wife will\nreceive us both,\" said the woman, carried away by her eagerness. \"And\nthat means strong Catholic influence in New York's most aristocratic\nset!\"\n\n\"Ah!\"\n\n\"Monsignor,\" continued the woman eagerly, \"will your Church receive an\naltar from me in memory of my late husband?\"\n\nHe reflected a moment. Then, slowly, and in a low, earnest tone, \"It\nwould receive such a gift from one of the faith. When may we expect\nyou to become a communicant?\"\n\nThe woman paled, and her heart suddenly chilled. She had wondered how\nfar she might go with this clever churchman, and now she knew that she\nhad gone too far. But to retract--to have him relate this conversation\nand her retraction to the Beaubien--were fatal! She had set her\ntrap--and walked into it. She groped blindly for an answer. Then,\nraising her eyes and meeting his searching glance, she murmured\nfeebly, \"Whenever you say, Monsignor.\"\n\nWhen the man had departed, which he did immediately, the plotting\nwoman threw herself upon the davenport and wept with rage. \"Belle,\"\nshe wailed, as her wondering sister entered the room, \"I'm going to\njoin the Catholic Church! But I'd go through Sheol to beat that Ames\noutfit!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 11\n\n\nMONSIGNOR LAFELLE made another afternoon call on the Beaubien a few\ndays later. That lady, fresh from her bath, scented, powdered, and\ncharming in a loose, flowing Mandarin robe, received him graciously.\n\n\"But I can give you only a moment, Monsignor,\" she said, waving him to\na chair, while she stooped and tenderly took up the two spaniels. \"I\nhave a dinner to-night, and so shall not listen unless you have\nsomething fresh and really worth while to offer.\"\n\n\"My dear Madam,\" said he, bowing low before he sank into the great\nleather armchair, \"you are charming, and the Church is justly proud of\nyou.\"\n\n\"Tut, tut, my friend,\" she returned, knitting her brows. \"That may be\nfresh, I admit, but not worth listening to. And if you persist in that\nvein I shall be obliged to have William set you into the street.\"\n\n\"I can not apologize for voicing the truth, dear Madam,\" he replied,\nas his eyes roved admiringly over her comely figure. \"The Church has\nnever ceased to claim you, however far you may have wandered from her.\nBut I will be brief. I am leaving for Canada shortly on a mission of\nsome importance. May I not take with me the consoling assurance that\nyou have at last heard and yielded to the call of the tender Mother,\nwho has never ceased to yearn for her beautiful, wayward daughter?\"\n\nThe Beaubien smiled indulgently. \"There,\" she said gently, \"I thought\nthat was it. No, Monsignor, no,\" shaking her head. \"When only a wild,\nthoughtless girl I became a Catholic in order that I might marry\nGaspard de Beaubien. The priest urged; and I--poof! what cared I? But\nthe past eighteen years have confirmed me in some views; and one is\nthat I shall gain nothing, either here or hereafter, by renewing my\nallegiance to the Church of Rome.\"\n\nMonsignor sighed, and stroked his abundant white hair. Yet his sigh\nbore a hope. \"I learned this morning,\" he said musingly, \"that my\nrecent labors with the Dowager Duchess of Altern in England have not\nbeen vain. She has become a communicant of Holy Church.\"\n\n\"What!\" exclaimed the Beaubien. \"The Duchess of Altern--sister of Mrs.\nJ. Wilton Ames? Why, she was a high Anglican--\"\n\n\"Only a degree below the true Church, Madam. Her action is but\nanticipatory of a sweeping return of the entire Anglican Church to the\ntrue fold. And I learn further,\" he went on, \"that the Duchess will\nspend the winter in New York with her sister. Which means, of course,\nan unusually gay season here, does it not?\"\n\nThe Beaubien quickly recovered from her astonishment. \"Well,\nMonsignor,\" she laughed, \"for once you really are interesting. What\nelse have you to divulge? That Mrs. Ames herself will be the next\nconvert? Or perhaps J. Wilton?\"\n\n\"No--at least, not yet. But one of your most intimate friends will\nbecome a communicant of Holy Saints next Sunday.\"\n\n\"One of my most intimate friends!\" The Beaubien set the spaniels down\non the floor. \"Now, my dear Monsignor, you are positively refreshing.\nWho is he?\"\n\nThe man laughed softly. \"Am I not right when I insist that you have\nwandered far, dear Madam? It is not 'he,' but 'she,' your dear friend,\nMrs. Hawley-Crowles.\"\n\nThe Beaubien's mouth opened wide and she sat suddenly upright and\ngazed blankly at her raconteur. The man went on, apparently oblivious\nof the effect his information had produced. \"Her beautiful ward, who\nis to make her bow to society this winter, is one of us by birth.\"\n\n\"Then you have been at work on Mrs. Hawley-Crowles and her ward, have\nyou?\" said the Beaubien severely, and there was a threatening note in\nher voice.\n\n\"Why,\" returned Monsignor easily, \"the lady sent for me to express her\ndesire to become affiliated with the Church. We do not seek her. And I\nhave had no conversation with the girl, I assure you.\"\n\nThe Beaubien reflected. Then:\n\n\"Will you tell me why, Monsignor, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles takes this\nunusual step?\"\n\n\"Unusual! Is it unusual, Madam, for a woman who has seen much of the\nworld to turn from it to the solace and promise of the Church?\"\n\nThe Beaubien laughed sharply. \"For women like Mrs. Hawley-Crowles it\nis, decidedly. What was her price, Monsignor?\"\n\n\"Madam! You astonish me!\"\n\n\"Monsignor, I do not. I know Mrs. Hawley-Crowles. And by this time you\ndo, too. She is the last woman in the world to turn from it.\"\n\n\"But the question you have just propounded reflects seriously upon\nboth the Church and me--\"\n\n\"Bah!\" interjected the Beaubien, her eyes flashing. \"Wait,\" she\ncommanded imperiously, as he rose. \"I have a few things to say to you,\nsince this is to be your last call.\"\n\n\"Madam, not the last, I hope. For I shall not cease to plead the cause\nof the Church to you--\"\n\n\"Surely, Monsignor, that is your business. You are welcome in my\nhouse at any time, and particularly when you have such delightful\nscraps of gossip as these which you have brought to-day. But, a word\nbefore you go, lest you become indiscreet on your return. Play\nMrs. Hawley-Crowles to any extent you wish, but let her ward\nalone--_absolutely_! She is not for you.\"\n\nThe cold, even tone in which the woman said this left no doubt in the\nman's mind of her meaning. She was not trifling with him now, he knew.\nIn her low-voiced words he found no trace of banter, of sophistry, nor\nof aught that he might in any wise misinterpret.\n\n\"Now, Monsignor, I have some influence in New York, as you may\npossibly know. Will you admit that I can do much for or against you?\nDrop your mask, therefore, and tell me frankly just what has induced\nMrs. Hawley-Crowles to unite with your Church.\"\n\nThe man knew he was pitting his own against a master mind. He\nhesitated and weighed well his words before replying. \"Madam,\" said he\nat length, with a note of reproach, \"you misjudge the lady, the\nChurch, and me, its humble servant. The latter require no defense. As\nfor Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, I speak truly when I say that doubtless she\nhas been greatly influenced by love for her late husband.\"\n\n\"What!\" The Beaubien half rose from her chair. \"Jim Crowles--that raw,\nIrish boob, who was holding down a job on the police force until Ames\nfound he could make a convenient tool of him! The man who was\nGannette's cat's-paw in the Fall River franchise steal! Now,\nMonsignor, would you have me believe you devoid of all sense?\"\n\n\"But,\" ejaculated the man, now becoming exasperated, and for the\nmoment so losing his self-control as to make wretched use of his\nfacts, \"she is erecting an altar in Holy Saints as a memorial to\nhim!\"\n\n\"Heavens above!\" The Beaubien sank back limp.\n\nMonsignor Lafelle again made as if to rise. He felt that he was guilty\nof a miserable _faux pas_. \"Madam, I regret that I must be leaving.\nBut the hour--\"\n\n\"Stay, Monsignor!\" The Beaubien roused up and laid a detaining hand\nupon his arm. \"Our versatile friend, what other projects has she in\nhand? What is she planning for her young ward?\"\n\n\"Why, really, I can not say--beyond the fact that the girl is to be\nintroduced to society this winter.\"\n\n\"Humph! Going to make a try for the Ames set?\"\n\n\"That, I believe, Madam, would be useless without your aid.\"\n\n\"Did Mrs. Hawley-Crowles say so, Monsignor?\" demanded the woman,\nleaning forward eagerly.\n\n\"Why, I believe I am not abusing her confidence when I say that she\nintimated as much,\" he said, watching her closely and sparring now\nwith better judgment. \"She mentioned Mrs. Ames as New York's\nfashionable society leader--\"\n\n\"There is no such position as leader in New York society, Monsignor,\"\ninterrupted the Beaubien coldly. \"There are sets and cliques, and\nMrs. Ames happens to be prominent in the one which at present\nfoolishly imagines it constitutes the upper stratum. Rot! And Mrs.\nHawley-Crowles, with nothing but a tarnished name and a large bank\naccount to recommend her, now wishes to break into that clique and\nattain social leadership, does she? How decidedly interesting!\"\n\nThen the woman's eyes narrowed and grew hard. Leaning closer to\nthe churchman, she rested the tip of her finger on his knee.\n\"So, Monsignor,\" she said, with cold precision, \"this is Mrs.\nHawley-Crowles's method of renouncing the world, is it? Sublime!\nAnd she would use both you and me, eh? And you are her ambassador\nat the court of the Beaubien? Very well, then, she shall use us.\nBut you and I will first make this compact, my dear Monsignor:\nMrs. Hawley-Crowles shall be taken into the so-called 'Ames set,'\nand you shall cease importuning me to return to your Church, and\nwhat is more, shall promise to have no conversation on church\nmatters with her ward, the young girl. If you do not agree to\nthis, Monsignor, I shall set in motion forces that will make your\nreturn to New York quite undesirable.\" When she concluded, she\nlooked long and steadily into his eyes.\n\nMonsignor got slowly to his feet. \"Madam!\" he exclaimed in a hoarse\nwhisper, \"my astonishment--\"\n\n\"There,\" she said calmly, as she rose and took his hand, \"please omit\nthe dramatics, Monsignor. And now you must go, for to-night I\nentertain, and I have already given you more time than I intended.\nBut, Monsignor, do you in future work with or against me? Are we to be\nfriends or enemies?\"\n\n\"Why, Madam,\" he replied quickly, \"we could never be the latter!\"\n\n\"And you always respect the wishes of a friend, especially if she is a\nlady, do you not?\"\n\n\"Always, Madam,\" he returned after a moment's hesitation, as he bowed\nlow over her hand.\n\n\"Then, good-bye. And, Monsignor,\" she added, when he reached the door,\n\"I shall be pleased to attend the dedication of the Hawley-Crowles\naltar.\"\n\nWhen Monsignor's car glided away from her door the Beaubien's face\ngrew dark, and her eyes drew to narrow slits. \"So,\" she reflected, as\nshe entered the elevator to mount to her dressing room, \"that is her\ngame, is it? The poor, fat simpleton has no interest in either the\ngirl or myself, other than to use us as stepping-stones. She forgets\nthat a stone sometimes turns under the foot. Fool!\"\n\nShe entered her room and rang for her maid. Turning to the pier glass,\nshe threw on the electric light and scrutinized her features narrowly.\n\"It's going,\" she murmured, \"fast! God, how I hate those gray hairs!\nOh, what a farce life is--what a howling, mocking farce! I hate it! I\nhate everything--everybody! No--that little girl--if it is possible\nfor me to love, I love her.\"\n\nShe sank into an easy chair. \"I wonder what it is she does to me. I'm\nhypnotized, I guess. Anyhow, I'm different when I'm with her. And to\nthink that Hawley-Crowles would sacrifice the child--humph! But, if\nthe girl is made of the right stuff--and I know she is--she will stand\nup under it and be stronger for the experience. She has got something\nthat will make her stand! I once asked her what she had that I didn't,\nand now I know--it is her religion, the religion that Borwell and\nLafelle and the whole kit of preachers and priests would corrupt if\nthey had half a chance! Very well, we'll see what it does under the\ntest. If it saves her, then I want it myself. But, as for that little\npin-headed Hawley-Crowles, she's already signed her own death-warrant.\nShe shall get into the Ames set, yes. And I will use her, oh,\nbeautifully! to pay off certain old scores against Madam Ames--and\nthen I'll crush her like a dried leaf, the fat fool!\"\n\nThe Beaubien's position was, to say the least, peculiar, and one which\nrequired infinite tact on her part to protect. It was for that reason\nthat the decorum which prevailed at her dinners was so rigidly\nobserved, and that, whatever the moral status of the man who sat at\nher board, his conduct was required to be above reproach, on penalty\nof immediate ejection from the circle of financial pirates, captains\nof commercial jugglery, and political intriguers who made these feasts\nopportunities for outlining their predatory campaigns against that\nmost anomalous of creatures, the common citizen.\n\nIt was about this table, at whose head always sat the richly gowned\nBeaubien, that the inner circle of financial kings had gathered almost\nnightly for years to rig the market, determine the price of wheat or\ncotton, and develop mendacious schemes of stock-jobbery whose golden\nharvests they could calculate almost to a dollar before launching. As\nthe wealth of this clique of financial manipulators swelled beyond all\nbounds, so increased their power, until at last it could be justly\nsaid that, when Ames began to dominate the Stock Exchange, the\nBeaubien practically controlled Wall Street--and, therefore, in a\nsense, Washington itself. But always with a tenure of control\ndubiously dependent upon the caprices of the men who continued to pay\nhomage to her personal charm and keen, powerful intellect.\n\nAt the time of which we speak her power was at its zenith, and she\ncould with equal impunity decapitate the wealthiest, most aristocratic\nsociety dame, or force the door of the most exclusive set for any\nprot\u00e9g\u00e9e who might have been kept long years knocking in vain, or\nwhose family name, perchance, headed a list of indictments for gross\npeculations. At these unicameral meetings, held in the great, dark,\nmahogany-wainscoted dining room of the Beaubien mansion, where a\nsingle lamp of priceless workmanship threw a flood of light upon the\nsumptuous table beneath and left the rest of the closely guarded room\nshrouded in Stygian darkness, plans were laid and decrees adopted\nwhich seated judges, silenced clergymen, elected senators, and\ninfluenced presidents. There a muck-raking, hostile press was muffled.\nThere business opposition was crushed and competition throttled. There\ntax rates were determined and tariff schedules formulated. There\npublic opinion was disrupted, character assassinated, and the\ndeath-warrant of every threatening reformer drawn and signed. In a\nword, there Mammon, in the _r\u00f4le_ of business, organized and\nunorganized, legitimate and piratical, sat enthroned, with wires\nleading into every mart of the world, and into every avenue of human\nendeavor, be it social, political, commercial, or religious. These\nwires were gathered together into the hands of one man, the directing\ngenius of the group, J. Wilton Ames. Over him lay the shadow of the\nBeaubien.\n\nAn hour after the departure of Monsignor Lafelle the Beaubien, like a\nradiant sun, descended to the library to greet her assembled guests.\nSome moments later the heavy doors of the great dining room swung\nnoiselessly open, and the lady proceeded unescorted to her position at\nthe head of the table. At her signal the half dozen men sat down, and\nthe butler immediately entered, followed by two serving men with the\ncocktails and the first course. The chair at the far end of the table,\nopposite the Beaubien, remained unoccupied.\n\n\"Ames is late to-night,\" observed the girthy Gannette, glancing toward\nthe vacant seat, and clumsily attempting to tuck his napkin into his\ncollar.\n\nThe Beaubien looked sharply at him. \"Were you at the club this\nafternoon, Mr. Gannette?\" she inquired coldly.\n\nGannette straightened up and became rigid. Pulling the napkin down\nhastily, he replied in a thick voice, \"Just a little game of\nbridge--some old friends--back from Europe--\"\n\nThe Beaubien turned to the butler. \"William, Mr. Gannette is not\ndrinking wine this evening.\" The butler bowed and removed the glasses\nfrom that gentleman's place.\n\nGannette turned to expostulate. \"Now, Lucile--\" he began peevishly.\nThe Beaubien held up a hand. Gannette glowered and sank down in his\nchair like a swollen toad.\n\n\"May be Ames is trying to break into the C. and R. directors'\nmeeting,\" suggested Weston, himself a director in a dozen companies,\nand a bank president besides. A general laugh followed the remark.\n\n\"They tell me,\" said Fitch, \"that for once Ames has been outwitted,\nand that by a little bucket-shop broker named Ketchim.\"\n\n\"How's that?\" queried Kane, Board of Trade plunger, and the most\nmettlesome speculator of the group.\n\n\"Why,\" explained Weston, \"some months ago Ames tried to reach Ed.\nStolz through Ketchim, the old man's nephew, and get control of C. and\nR. But friend nephew dropped the portcullis just as Ames was dashing\nacross the drawbridge, and J. Wilton found himself outside, looking\nthrough the bars. First time I've ever known that to happen. Now the\nboys have got hold of it on 'Change, and Ames has been getting it from\nevery quarter.\"\n\n\"Long time leaking out, seems to me,\" remarked Kane. \"But what's Ames\ngoing to do about it?\"\n\n\"Nothing, I guess,\" returned Weston. \"He seems to have dropped the\nmatter.\"\n\n\"I think you will find yourself mistaken,\" put in the Beaubien\nevenly.\n\n\"Why?\" queried Fitch, as all eyes turned upon the woman. \"Have you\ninside information?\"\n\n\"None whatever,\" she replied. \"But Mr. Ames always gets what he goes\nafter, and he will secure control of C. and R. eventually.\"\n\n\"I don't believe it!\" vigorously asserted Murdock, who had been an\ninterested listener. \"He will never oust Stolz.\"\n\n\"I have one thousand dollars that says he will,\" said the Beaubien,\ncalmly regarding the speaker. \"William, my checkbook, please.\"\n\nMurdock seemed taken back for the moment; but lost no time recovering\nhis poise. Drawing out his own book he wrote a check in the Beaubien's\nname for the amount and sent it down the table to her.\n\n\"Mr. Fitch will hold the stakes,\" said the woman, handing him the two\nslips of paper. \"And we will set a time limit of eighteen months.\"\n\n\"By the way,\" remarked Peele, the only one of the group who had taken\nno part in the preceding conversation, \"I see by the evening paper\nthat there's been another accident in the Avon mills. Fellow named\nMarcus caught in a machine and crushed all out of shape. That's the\nthird one down there this month. They'll force Ames to equip his mills\nwith safety devices if this keeps up.\"\n\n\"Not while the yellow metal has any influence upon the Legislature,\"\nreturned the Beaubien with a knowing smile. \"But,\" she added more\nseriously, \"that is not where the danger lies. The real source of\napprehension is in the possibility of a strike. And if war breaks out\namong those Hungarians down there it will cost him more than to equip\nall his mills now with safety devices.\"\n\nGannette, who had been sulking in his chair, roused up. \"Speaking\nof war,\" he growled, \"has Ames, or any of you fellows, got a\nfinger in the muddle in South America? I've got interests down\nthere--concessions and the like--and by--!\" He wandered off into\nincoherent mutterings.\n\nThe Beaubien gave a sharp command to the butler. \"William, Mr.\nGannette is leaving now. You will escort him to the door.\"\n\n\"Now look here, Lucile!\" cried Gannette, his apoplectic face becoming\nmore deeply purple, and his blear eyes leering angrily upon the calm\nwoman. \"I ain't a-goin' to stand this! What have I done? I'm as sober\nas any one here, an'--\" William took the heavy man gently by the arm\nand persuaded him to his feet. The other guests suppressed their\nsmiles and remained discreetly quiet.\n\n\"But--my car--!\" sputtered Gannette.\n\n\"Have Henri take him to his club, William,\" said the Beaubien, rising.\n\"Good night, Mr. Gannette. We will expect you Wednesday evening, and\nwe trust that we will not have to accept your excuses again.\"\n\nGannette was led soddenly out. The Beaubien quietly resumed her seat.\nIt was the second time the man had been dismissed from her table, and\nthe guests marveled that it did not mean the final loss of her favor.\nBut she remained inscrutable; and the conversation quickly drifted\ninto new channels. A few moments later William returned and made a\nquiet announcement:\n\n\"Mr. Ames.\"\n\nA huge presence emerged from the darkness into the light. The Beaubien\nimmediately rose and advanced to greet the newcomer. \"What is it?\" she\nwhispered, taking his hand.\n\nThe man smiled down into her upturned, anxious face. His only reply\nwas a reassuring pressure of her hand. But she comprehended, and her\nface brightened.\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" remarked Ames, taking the vacant chair, \"the President's\nmessage is out. I have been going over it with Hood--which accounts\nfor my tardiness,\" he added, nodding pleasantly to the Beaubien.\n\"Quoting from our chief executive's long list of innocent platitudes,\nI may say that 'private monopoly is criminally unjust, wholly\nindefensible, and not to be tolerated in a Republic founded upon the\npremise of equal rights to all mankind.'\"\n\n\"Certainly not!\" concurred Weston, holding up his glass and gazing\nadmiringly at the rich color of the wine.\n\nThe others laughed. \"Quite my sentiments, too,\" murmured Fitch,\nrolling his eyes upward and attempting with poor success to assume a\nbeatific expression.\n\n\"Furthermore,\" continued Ames, with mock gravity, \"the interlocking of\ncorporation directorates must be prohibited by law; power must be\nconferred upon the Interstate Commerce Commission to superintend the\nfinancial management of railroads; holding-companies must cease to\nexist; and corrective policies must be shaped, whereby so-called\n'trusts' will be regulated and rendered innocuous. Are we agreed?\"\n\n\"We are,\" said they all, in one voice.\n\n\"Carried,\" concluded Ames in a solemn tone. Then a burst of laughter\nrose from the table; and even the inscrutable William smiled behind\nhis hand.\n\n\"But, seriously,\" said Weston, when the laughter had ceased, \"I\nbelieve we've got a President now who's going to do something, don't\nyou?\"\n\n\"I do not,\" replied Ames emphatically. \"As long as the human mind\nremains as it is there is nothing to fear, though Congress legislate\nitself blue in the face. Reform is not to be made like a garment and\nforced upon the people from the outside. It is a growth from within.\nRestrictive measures have not as yet, in all the history of\ncivilization, reformed a single criminal.\"\n\n\"What does Hood say?\" asked Murdock.\n\n\"That we are puncture-proof,\" replied Ames with a light laugh.\n\n\"But what about your indictment in that cotton deal? Is Hood going to\nfind you law-proof there?\"\n\n\"The case is settled,\" said Ames easily. \"I went into court this\nmorning and plead guilty to the indictment for conspiring to corner\nthe cotton market two years ago. I admitted that I violated the\nSherman law. The judge promptly fined me three thousand dollars, for\nwhich I immediately wrote a check, leaving me still the winner by some\ntwo million seven hundred thousand dollars on the deal, to say nothing\nof compound interest on the three thousand for the past two years. You\nsee the beneficent effect of legislation, do you not?\"\n\n\"By George, Ames, you certainly were stingy not to let us in on that!\"\nexclaimed Kane.\n\n\"Cotton belongs to me, gentlemen,\" replied Ames simply. \"You will have\nto keep out.\"\n\n\"Well,\" remarked Fitch, glancing about the table, \"suppose we get down\nto the business of the evening--if agreeable to our hostess,\" bowing\nin the direction of the Beaubien.\n\nThe latter nodded her approval of the suggestion. \"Has any one\nanything new to offer?\" she said.\n\nSome moments of silence followed. Then Ames spoke. \"There is a little\nmatter,\" he began, \"that I have been revolving for some days. Perhaps\nit may interest you. It concerns the Albany post road. It occurred to\nme some time ago that a franchise for a trolley line on that road\ncould be secured and ultimately sold for a round figure to the wealthy\nresidents whose estates lie along it, and who would give a million\ndollars rather than have a line built there. After some preliminary\nexamination I got Hood to draft a bill providing for the building of\nthe road, and submitted it to Jacobson, Commissioner of Highways. He\nreported that it would be the means of destroying the post road. I\nconvinced him, on the other hand, that it would be the means of lining\nhis purse with fifty thousand dollars. So he very naturally gave it\nhis endorsement. I then got in consultation with Senator Gossitch, and\nhad him arrange a meeting with the Governor, in Albany. I think,\" he\nconcluded, \"that about five hundred thousand dollars will grease the\nwheels all 'round. I've got the Governor on the hip in that Southern\nMexican deal, and he is at present eating out of my hand. I'll lay\nthis project on the table now, and you can take it up if you so\ndesire.\"\n\n\"The scheme seems all right,\" commented Weston, after a short\nmeditation. \"But the profits are not especially large. What else have\nyou?\"\n\n\"Well, a net profit of half a million to split up among us would at\nleast provide for a yachting party next summer,\" remarked Ames\nsententiously. \"And no work connected with it--in fact, the work has\nbeen done. I shall want an additional five per cent for handling it.\"\n\nAn animated discussion followed; and then Fitch offered a motion that\nthe group definitely take up the project. The Beaubien put the vote,\nand it was carried without dissent.\n\n\"What about that potato scheme you were figuring on, Ames?\" asked\nFitch at this juncture. \"Anything ever come of it?\"\n\nAmes's eyes twinkled. \"I didn't get much encouragement from my\nfriends,\" he replied. \"A perfectly feasible scheme, too.\"\n\n\"I don't believe it,\" put in Weston emphatically. \"It never could be\nput through.\"\n\n\"I have one million dollars that says it could,\" returned Ames calmly.\n\"Will you cover it?\"\n\nWeston threw up his hands in token of surrender. \"Not I!\" he\nexclaimed, scurrying for cover.\n\nAmes laughed. \"Well,\" he said, \"suppose we look into the scheme and\nsee if we don't want to handle it. It simply calls for a little\nthought and work. The profits would be tremendous. Shall I explain?\"\nHe stopped and glanced at the Beaubien for approval. She nodded, and\nhe went on:\n\n\"I have lately been investigating the subject of various food supplies\nother than wheat and corn as possible bases for speculation, and my\nattention has been drawn strongly to a very humble one, potatoes.\"\n\nA general laugh followed this announcement. But Ames continued\nunperturbed:\n\n\"I find that in some sections of the West potatoes are so plentiful at\ntimes that they bring but twenty cents a bushel. My investigations\nhave covered a period of several months, and now I have in my\npossession a large map of the United States with the potato sections,\nprices, freight rates and all other necessary data indicated. The\nresults are interesting. My idea is to send agents into all these\nsections next summer before the potatoes are turned up, and contract\nfor the entire crop at twenty-five cents a bushel. The agents will pay\nthe farmers cash, and agree to assume all expenses of digging,\npacking, shipping, and so forth, allowing the farmer to take what he\nneeds for his own consumption. Needless to say, the potatoes will not\nbe removed from the fields, but will be allowed to rot in the ground.\nThose that do reach the market will sell for a dollar and a half in\nNew York and Chicago.\"\n\n\"In other words,\" added Fitch, \"you are simply figuring to corner the\nmarket for the humble tuber, eh?\"\n\n\"Precisely,\" said Ames.\n\n\"But--you say you have all the necessary data now?\"\n\n\"All, even to the selection of a few of my agents. I can control\nfreight rates for what we may wish to ship. The rest of the crop will\nbe left to rot. The farmers will jump at such a bargain. And the\nconsumers will pay our price for what they must have.\"\n\n\"Very pretty,\" mused Murdock. \"And how much do you figure we shall\nneed to round the corner?\"\n\n\"A million, cash in hand,\" replied Ames.\n\n\"Is this anything that the women can mix into?\" asked Fitch suddenly.\n\"You know they forced us to dump tons of our cold-storage stuff onto\nthe market two years ago.\"\n\n\"That was when I controlled wheat,\" said Ames, \"and was all tied up.\nBut this is a wholly different proposition. It will be done so quietly\nand thoroughly that it will all be over and the profits pocketed\nbefore the women wake up to what we're doing. In this case there will\nbe nothing to store. And potatoes exposed in the field rot quickly,\nyou know.\"\n\nThe rest of the group seemed to study the idea for some moments. Then\nthe practical Murdock inquired of Ames if he would agree to handle the\nproject, provided they took it up.\n\n\"Yes,\" assented Ames, \"on a five per cent basis. And I am ready to put\nagents in the field to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Then, Madam Beaubien,\" said Fitch, \"I move that we adopt the plan as\nset forth by Mr. Ames, and commission him to handle it, calling upon\nus equally for whatever funds he may need.\"\n\nA further brief discussion ensued; and then the resolution was\nunanimously adopted.\n\n\"Say, Ames,\" queried Weston, with a glint of mischief in his eyes,\n\"will any of these potatoes be shipped over the C. and R.?\" A laugh\nwent up around the table, in which Ames himself joined. \"Yes,\" he\nsaid, \"potatoes and cotton will both go over that road next summer,\nand I shall fix the rebates.\"\n\n\"How about your friend Ketchim?\" suggested Fitch, with a wink at\nMurdock.\n\nAmes's mouth set grimly, and the smile left his face. \"Ketchim is\ngoing to Sing Sing for that little deal,\" he returned in a low, cold\ntone, so cold that even the Beaubien could not repress a little\nshudder. \"I had him on Molino, but he trumped up a new company which\nabsorbed Molino and satisfied everybody, so I am blocked for the\npresent. But, mark me, I shall strip him of every dollar, and then put\nhim behind the bars before I've finished!\"\n\nAnd no one sought to refute the man, for they knew he spoke truth.\n\nAt midnight, while the cathedral chimes in the great hall clock were\nsending their trembling message through the dark house, the Beaubien\nrose, and the dinner was concluded. A few moments later the guests\nwere spinning in their cars to their various homes or clubs--all but\nAmes. As he was preparing to leave, the Beaubien laid a hand on his\narm. \"Wait a moment, Wilton,\" she said. \"I have something important to\ndiscuss with you.\" She led him into the morning room, where a fire was\nblazing cheerily in the grate, and drew up a chair before it for him,\nthen nestled on the floor at his feet.\n\n\"I sent Gannette home this evening,\" she began, by way of introduction.\n\"He was drunk. I would drop him entirely, only you said--\"\n\n\"We need him,\" interrupted Ames. \"Hold him a while longer.\"\n\n\"I'll soil my hands by doing it; but it is for you. Now tell me,\" she\nwent on eagerly, \"what about Colombia? Have you any further news from\nWenceslas?\"\n\n\"A cable to-day. Everything's all right. Don't worry. The Church is\nwith the Government, and they will win--although your money may be\ntied up for a few years. Still, you can't lose in the end.\"\n\nThe woman sat for some moments gazing into the fire. Then:\n\n\"Lafelle was here again to-day.\"\n\n\"Hold him, too,\" said Ames quickly. \"Looks as if I had made you a sort\nof holding company, doesn't it?\" he added, with a chuckle. \"But we\nshall have good use for these fellows.\"\n\n\"He gave me some very interesting news,\" she said; and then went on to\nrelate the conversation in detail. Ames laughed loudly as he\nlistened. \"And now, Wilton,\" said the Beaubien, a determined look\ncoming into her face, \"you have always said that you never forgave me\nfor making you let Jim Crowles off, when you had him by the throat.\nWell, I'm going to give you a chance to get more than even. Jim's fat\nwidow is after your wife's scalp. I intend that she shall lose her own\nin the chase. I've got my plans all laid, and I want your wife to meet\nthe lovely Mrs. Hawley-Crowles at the Fitch's next Thursday afternoon.\nIt will be just a formal call--mutual introductions--and, later, an\ninvitation from Mrs. Ames to Mrs. Hawley-Crowles. Meantime, I want you\nto get Mrs. Hawley-Crowles involved in a financial way, and shear her\nof every penny! Do you understand?\"\n\nAmes looked at her quizzically. Then he broke into another sharp\nlaugh. \"My dear,\" said he, taking her hand, \"you are charming this\nevening. Added years only make you more beautiful.\"\n\n\"Nonsense, Will!\" she deprecated, although the smile she gave him\nattested her pleasure in the compliment. \"Well,\" she continued\nbriskly, \"if I'm so beautiful, you can't help loving me; and if you\nlove me, you will do what I ask.\"\n\nHe playfully pinched her cheek. \"Why, poor old Jim Crowles! Really,\nI've long since forgotten him. Do you realize that that was more than\nten years ago?\"\n\n\"Please don't mention years, dear,\" she murmured, shuddering a little.\n\"Tell me, what can we do to teach this fat hussy a lesson?\"\n\n\"Well,\" he suggested, laughing, \"we might get Ketchim after her, to\nsell her a wad of his worthless stocks; then when he goes down, as he\nis going one of these days, we will hope that it will leave her on the\nrocks of financial ruin, eh?\"\n\n\"What's Ketchim promoting?\" she asked. \"I know nothing about him.\"\n\n\"Why, among other innocent novelties, a scheme bearing the sonorous\ntitle of Simit\u00ed Development Company, I am told by my brokers.\"\n\n\"Simit\u00ed! Why--I've heard Carmen mention that name. I wonder--\"\n\n\"Well, and who is Carmen?\" he asked with a show of real interest.\n\n\"My little friend--the one and only honest person I've ever dealt\nwith, excepting, of course, present company.\"\n\n\"The amendment is accepted. And now where does this Carmen enter the\ngame?\"\n\n\"Why, she's--surely you know about her!\"\n\n\"If I did I should not ask.\" \"Well, she is a little Colombian--\"\n\n\"Colombian!\"\n\n\"Yes. They say she's an Inca princess. Came up with the engineers who\nwent down there for Ketchim to examine the Molino properties. She\nlived all her life in a town called Simit\u00ed until she came up here.\"\n\nAmes leaned over and looked steadily into the fire. \"Never heard of\nthe place,\" he murmured dreamily.\n\n\"Well,\" said the Beaubien eagerly, \"she's a--a wonderful child! I'm\ndifferent when I'm with her.\"\n\nHe roused from his meditations and smiled down at the woman. \"Then I'd\nadvise you not to be with her much, for I prefer you as you are.\"\n\nThey sat some minutes in silence. Then the woman looked up at her\ncompanion. \"What are you thinking about so seriously?\" she asked.\n\nThe man started; then drew himself up and gave a little nervous laugh.\n\"Of you,\" he replied evasively, \"always.\"\n\nShe reached up and slapped his cheek tenderly. \"You were dreaming of\nyour awful business deals,\" she said. \"What have you in hand\nnow?--besides the revolution in Colombia, your mines, your mills, your\nbanks, your railroads and trolley lines, your wheat and potato\ncorners, your land concessions and cattle schemes, and--well, that's a\nstart, at least,\" she finished, pausing for breath.\n\n\"Another big deal,\" he said abruptly.\n\n\"Wheat, again?\"\n\n\"No, cotton. I'm buying every bale I can find, in Europe, Asia, and\nthe States.\"\n\n\"But, Will, you've been caught in cotton before, you know. And I don't\nbelieve you can get away with it again. Unless--\"\n\n\"That's it--unless,\" he interrupted. \"And that's just the part I have\ntaken care of. It's a matter of tariff. The cotton schedule will go\nthrough as I have it outlined. I practically own the Commission. They\ndon't dare refuse to pass the measure. Cotton is low now. In a few\nmonths the tariff on cotton products will be up. The new tariff-wall\nsends the price of raw stuff soaring. I profit, coming and going. I\nwas beaten on the last deal simply because of faulty weather\nprognostications. I made a bad guess. This time the weather doesn't\nfigure. I'll let you in, if you wish. But these other fellows have got\nto stay out.\"\n\n\"I haven't a penny to invest, Will,\" she replied mournfully. \"You got\nme so terribly involved in this Colombian revolution.\"\n\n\"Oh, well,\" he returned easily, \"I'll lend you what you need, any\namount. And you can give me your advice and suggestions from time to\ntime. As for your Colombian investments, haven't I guaranteed them,\npractically?\"\n\n\"Not in writing,\" she said, looking up at him with a twinkle in her\neyes.\n\n\"Bah! Well, do you want that?\"\n\n\"No, certainly not,\" she returned, giving him a glance of admiration.\n\"But, to return, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles is going to be received into your\nwife's set, and you are going to give her a good financial whipping?\"\n\n\"Certainly, if you wish it. I'm yours to command. Mrs. Hawley-Crowles\nshall go to the poor-house, if you say the word. But now, my dear,\nhave William order my car. And, let me see, Mrs. Ames is to meet Mrs.\nHawley-Crowles at Fitch's? Just a chance call, I take it.\"\n\n\"Yes, dear,\" murmured the Beaubien, reaching up and kissing him; \"next\nThursday at three. Good night. Call me on the 'phone to-morrow.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 12\n\n\nThe Ames building, a block from the Stock Exchange, was originally\nonly five stories in height. But as the Ames interests grew, floor\nafter floor was added, until, on the day that Mrs. Hawley-Crowles\npointed it out to Carmen from the window of her limousine, it had\nreached, tower and all, a height of twenty-five stories, and was\nincreasing at an average rate of two additional a year. It was not its\nsize that aroused interest, overtopped as it was by many others, but\nits uniqueness; for, though a hive of humming industry, it did not\nhouse a single business that was not either owned outright or\ncontrolled by J. Wilton Ames, from the lowly cigar stands in the\nmarble corridors to the great banking house of Ames and Company on the\nsecond floor. The haberdashers, the shoe-shining booths, the soda\nfountains, and the great commercial enterprises that dwelt about them,\neach and all acknowledged fealty and paid homage to the man who\nbrooded over them in his magnificent offices on the twenty-fifth floor\nin the tower above.\n\nIt was not by any consensus of opinion among the financiers of New\nYork that Ames had assumed leadership, but by sheer force of what\nwas doubtless the most dominant character developed in recent\nyears by those peculiar forces which have produced the American\nmultimillionaire. \"Mental dynamite!\" was Weston's characterization\nof the man. \"And,\" he once added, when, despite his anger, he could\nnot but admire Ames's tactical blocking of his piratical move, which\nthe former's keen foresight had perceived threatened danger at\nWashington, \"it is not by any tacit agreement that we accept him,\nbut because he knows ten tricks to our one, that's all.\"\n\nTo look at the man, now in his forty-fifth year, meant, generally, an\nexpression of admiration for his unusual physique, and a wholly\nerroneous appraisal of his character. His build was that of a\ngladiator. He stood six-feet-four in height, with Herculean shoulders\nand arms, and a pair of legs that suggested nothing so much as the\ngreat pillars which supported the facade of the Ames building. Those\narms and legs, and those great back-muscles, had sent his college\nshell to victory every year that he had sat in the boat. They had won\nevery game on the gridiron in which he had participated as the\ngreatest \"center\" the college ever developed. For baseball he was a\nbit too massive, much to his own disappointment, but the honors he\nfailed to secure there he won in the field events, and in the\nsurreptitiously staged boxing and wrestling bouts when, hidden away in\nthe cellar of some secret society hall, he would crush his opponents\nwith an ease and a peculiar glint of satisfaction in his gray eyes\nthat was grimly prophetic of days to come. His mental attitude toward\ncontests for superiority of whatever nature did not differ essentially\nfrom that of the Roman gladiators: he entered them to win. If he fell,\nwell and good; he expected \"thumbs down.\" If he won, his opponent need\nlook for no exhibition of generosity on his part. When his man lay\nprone before him, he stooped and cut his throat. And he would have\nloathed the one who forbore to do likewise with himself.\n\nIn scholarship he might have won a place, had not the physical side of\nhis nature been so predominant, and his remarkable muscular strength\nso great a prize to the various athletic coaches and directors. Ames\nwas first an animal; there was no stimulus as yet sufficiently strong\nto arouse his latent spirituality. And yet his intellect was keen; and\nto those studies to which he was by nature or inheritance especially\nattracted, economics, banking, and all branches of finance, he brought\na power of concentration that was as stupendous as his physical\nstrength. His mental make-up was peculiar, in that it was the epitome\nof energy--manifested at first only in brute force--and in that it was\nwholly deficient in the sense of fear. Because of this his daring was\nphenomenal.\n\nImmediately upon leaving college Ames became associated with his\nfather in the already great banking house of Ames and Company. But the\nanimality of his nature soon found the confinement irksome; his\nfather's greater conservatism hampered his now rapidly expanding\nspirit of commercialism; and after a few years in the banking house he\nwithdrew and set up for himself. The father, while lacking the boy's\nfearlessness, had long since recognized dominant qualities in him\nwhich he himself did not possess, and he therefore confidently\nacquiesced in his son's desire, and, in addition, gave him _carte\nblanche_ in the matter of funds for his speculative enterprises.\n\nFour years later J. Wilton Ames, rich in his own name, already\nbecoming recognized as a power in the world of finance, with\ndiversified enterprises which reached into almost every country of the\nglobe, hastened home from a foreign land in response to a message\nannouncing the sudden death of his father. The devolving of his\nparent's vast fortune upon himself--he was the sole heir--then\nnecessitated his permanent location in New York. And so, reluctantly\ngiving up his travels, he gathered his agents and lieutenants about\nhim, concentrating his interests as much as possible in the Ames\nbuilding, and settled down to the enjoyment of expanding his huge\nfortune. A few months later he married, and the union amalgamated the\nproud old Essex stock of Ames, whose forbears fought under the\nConqueror and were written in the Doomsday Book, to the wealthy and\naristocratic Van Heyse branch of old Amsterdam. To this union were\nborn a son and a daughter, twins.\n\nThe interval between his graduation from college and the death of his\nfather was all but unknown to the cronies of his subsequent years in\nNew York. Though he had spent much of it in the metropolis, he had\nbeen self-centered and absorbed, even lonely, while laying his plans\nand developing the schemes which resulted in financial pre\u00ebminence.\nWith unlimited money at his disposal, he was unhampered in the choice\nof his business clientele, and he formed it from every quarter of the\nglobe. Much of his time had been spent abroad, and he had become as\nwell known on the Paris bourse and the exchanges of Europe as in his\nnative land. Confident and successful from the outset; without any\ntrace of pride or touch of hauteur in his nature; as wholly lacking in\nethical development and in generosity as he was in fear; gradually\nbecoming more sociable and companionable, although still reticent of\ncertain periods of his past; his cunning and brutality increasing with\nyears; and his business sagacity and keen strategy becoming the talk\nof the Street; with no need to raise his eyes beyond the low plane of\nhis material endeavors; he pursued his business partly for the\npleasure the game afforded him, partly for the power which his\naccumulations bestowed upon him, and mostly because it served as an\nadequate outlet for his tremendous, almost superhuman, driving energy.\nIf he betrayed and debauched ideals, it was because he was utterly\nincapable of rising to them, nor felt the stimulus to make the\nattempt. If he achieved no noble purpose, it was because when he\nglanced at the mass of humanity about him he looked through the lenses\nof self. His glance fell always first upon J. Wilton Ames--and he\nnever looked beyond. The world had been created for him; the cosmos\nbut expressed his Ego.\n\nOn the morning after his conversation with the Beaubien regarding the\nsocial aspirations of Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, the financier sat at his\nrich mahogany desk on the top floor of the Ames building in earnest\ndiscussion with his lawyer, Alonzo Hood. The top floor of the tower\nwas divided into eight rooms. Two of these constituted Ames's inner\n_sanctum_; one was Hood's private office; and the rest were devoted\nto clerks and stenographers. A telegrapher occupied an alcove\nadjoining Hood's room, and handled confidential messages over\nprivate wires to the principal cities in the country. A private\ntelephone connected Ames's desk with the Beaubien mansion. Private\nlines ran to the Stock Exchange and to various other points\nthroughout the city. The telegraph and telephone companies gave his\nmessages preference over all others. At a word he would be placed in\nalmost instant communication with New Orleans, San Francisco, London,\nBerlin, or Cairo. Private lines and speaking tubes ran to every room\nor floor of the building where a company, firm, or individual was\ndoing business. At the office of the Telegraph Service up-town he\nmaintained messengers who carried none but his own despatches. In\nthe railroad yards his private car stood always in readiness; and in\nthe harbor his yacht was kept constantly under steam. A motor car\nstood ever in waiting in the street below, close to the shaft of a\nprivate automatic elevator, which ran through the building for his\nuse alone. This elevator also penetrated the restaurant in the\nbasement of the building, where a private room and a special waiter\nwere always at the man's disposal. A private room and special\nattendant were maintained in the Turkish baths adjoining, and he\nhad his own personal suite and valet at his favorite club up-town.\n\nThis morning he was at his desk, as usual, at eight o'clock. Before\nhim lay the various daily reports from his mines, his mills, his\nrailroads, and his bank. These disposed of, there followed a quick\nsurvey of the day's appointments, arranged for him by his chief\nsecretary. Then he summoned Hood. As the latter entered, Ames was\nabsorbed in the legend of the stock ticker.\n\n\"C. and R. closed yesterday at twenty-six,\" he commented. Then,\nswinging back in his chair, \"What's Stolz doing?\"\n\n\"For one thing, he has made Miss Fagin his private stenographer,\"\nreplied Hood.\n\nAmes chuckled. \"Now we will begin to get real information,\" he\nremarked. \"Tell Miss Fagin you will give her fifty dollars a week from\nnow on; but she is to deliver to you a carbon copy of every letter she\nwrites for Stolz. And I want those copies on my desk every morning\nwhen I come down. Hood,\" he continued, abruptly turning the\nconversation, \"what have you dug up about Ketchim's new company?\"\n\n\"Very little, sir,\" replied Hood with a trace of embarrassment. \"His\nlawyer is a fledgeling named Cass, young, but wise enough not to talk.\nI called on him yesterday afternoon to have a little chat about the\nold Molino company, representing that I was speaking for certain\nstockholders. But he told me to bring the stockholders in and he would\ntalk with them personally.\"\n\nAmes laughed, while the lawyer grinned sheepishly. \"Is that the sort\nof service you are rendering for a hundred-thousand-dollar salary?\" he\nbantered. \"Hood, I'm ashamed of you!\"\n\n\"I can't blame you; I am ashamed of myself,\" replied the lawyer.\n\n\"Well,\" continued Ames good-naturedly, \"leave Ketchim to me. I've got\nthree men now buying small amounts of stock in his various companies.\nI'll call for receiverships pretty soon, and we will see this time\nthat he doesn't refund the money. Now about other matters: the Albany\npost trolley deal is to go through. Also the potato scheme. Work up\nthe details and let me have them at once. Have you got the senate bill\ndrawn for Gossitch?\"\n\n\"It will be ready this afternoon. As it stands now, the repealing\nsection gives any city the right to grant saloon licenses of\nindefinite length, instead of for one year.\"\n\n\"That's the idea. We want the bill so drawn that it will become\npractically impossible to revoke a license.\"\n\n\"As it now reads,\" said Hood, \"it makes a saloon license assignable.\nThat creates a property right that can hardly be revoked.\"\n\n\"Just so,\" returned Ames. \"As I figure, it will create a value of some\ntwenty millions for those who own saloons in New York. A tidy sum!\"\n\n\"That means for the brewers.\"\n\n\"And distillers, yes. And if the United States ever reaches the point\nwhere it will have to buy the saloons in order to wipe them out, it\nwill face a very handsome little expenditure.\"\n\n\"But, Mr. Ames, a very large part of the stock of American brewing\ncompanies is owned in Europe. How are you--\"\n\n\"Nominally, it is. But for two years, and more, I have been quietly\ngathering in brewing stock from abroad, and to-day I have some ten\nmillions in my own control, from actual purchases, options, and so\nforth. I'm going to organize a holding company, when the time arrives,\nand I figure that within the next year or so we will practically\ncontrol the production of beer and spirituous liquors in the United\nStates and Europe. The formation of that company will be a task worthy\nof your genius, Hood.\"\n\n\"It will be a pleasure to undertake it,\" replied Hood with animation.\n\"By the way, Mr. Ames, I got in touch with Senator Mall last evening\nat the club, and he assures me that the senate committee have so\nchanged the phraseology of the tariff bill on cotton products that the\nclause you wish retained will be continued with its meaning unaltered.\nIn fact, the discrimination which the hosiery interests desire will be\nfully observed. Your suggestion as to an ad valorem duty of fifty per\ncent on hose valued at less than sixty-five cents a dozen pairs is\nexceptionally clever, in view of the fact that there are none of less\nthan that value.\"\n\nAmes laughed again. \"Triumphant Republicanism,\" he commented. \"And\nright in the face of the President's message. Wire Mall that I will be\nin Washington Thursday evening to advise with him further about it.\nAnd you will go with me. Hood, we've got a fight on in regard to\nthe President's idea of granting permission in private suits to use\njudgments and facts brought out and entered in government suits\nagainst combinations. That idea has got to be killed! And the\nregulation of security issues of railroads--preposterous! Why, the\nPresident's crazy! If Mall and Gossitch and Wells don't oppose\nthat in the Senate, I'll see that they are up before the lunacy\ncommission--and I have some influence with that body!\"\n\n\"There is nothing to fear, I think,\" replied Hood reassuringly. \"An\nimportant piece of business legislation like that will hardly go\nthrough this session. And then we will have time to prepare to\nfrustrate it. The suggestion to place the New York Stock Exchange\nunder government supervision is a much more serious matter, I think.\"\n\n\"See here, Hood,\" said Ames, leaning forward and laying a hand upon\nthat gentleman's knee, \"when that happens, we'll have either a\nSocialist president or a Catholic in the White House, with Rome\ntwitching the string. Then I shall move to my Venezuelan estates, take\nthe vow of poverty, and turn monk.\"\n\n\"Which reminds me again that by your continued relations with Rome you\nare doing much to promote just that state of affairs,\" returned the\nlawyer sententiously.\n\n\"Undoubtedly,\" said Ames. \"But I find the Catholic Church\nconvenient--indeed, necessary--for the promotion of certain plans. And\nso I use it. The Colombian revolution, for example. But I shall\nabruptly sever my relations with that institution some day--when I am\nthrough with it. At present I am milking the Church to the extent of a\nbrimming pail every year; and as long as the udder is full and\naccessible I shall continue to tap it. I tapped the Presbyterian\nChurch, through Borwell, last year, if you remember.\"\n\nWillett, chief secretary to Ames, entered at that moment with the\nmorning mail, opened and sorted, and replies written to letters of\nsuch nature as he could attend to without suggestions from his chief.\n\n\"By the way,\" remarked Hood when he saw the letters, \"I had word from\nCollins this morning that he had secured a signed statement from that\nfellow Marcus, who was crushed in the Avon mills yesterday. Marcus\naccepted the medical services of our physicians, and died in our\nhospital. Just before he went off, his wife accepted a settlement of\none hundred dollars. Looked big to her, I guess, and was a bird in the\nhand. So that matter's settled.\"\n\n\"That reminds me,\" said Ames, looking up from his mail; \"we are going\nto close the mills earlier this year on account of the cotton\nshortage.\"\n\nHood gave a low whistle. \"That spells trouble, in capital letters!\" he\ncommented. \"Four thousand hands idle for three months, I suppose. By\nGeorge! we just escaped disaster last year, you remember.\"\n\n\"It will be more than three months this time,\" commented Ames with a\nknowing look. Then--\"Hood, I verily believe you are a coward.\"\n\n\"Well, Mr. Ames,\" replied the latter slowly, \"I certainly would\nhesitate to do some of the things you do. Yet you seem to get away\nwith them.\"\n\n\"Perk up, Hood,\" laughed Ames. \"I've got real work for you as soon as\nI get control of C. and R. I'm going to put you in as president, at a\nsalary of one hundred thousand per annum. Then you are going to buy\nthe road for me for about two million dollars, and I'll reorganize and\nsell to the stockholders for five millions, still retaining control.\nThe road is only a scrap heap, but its control is the first step\ntoward the amalgamation of the trolley interests of New England. Laws\nare going to be violated, Hood, both in actual letter and in spirit.\nBut that's your end of the business. It's up to you to get around the\nInterstate Commerce Commission in any way you can, and buttress this\nlittle monopoly against competition and reform-infected legislatures.\nI don't care what it costs.\"\n\n\"What about Crabbe?\" asked Hood dubiously.\n\n\"We'll send Crabbe to the Senate,\" Ames coolly replied.\n\n\"You seem to forget that senators are now elected by the people, Mr.\nAmes.\"\n\n\"I forget nothing, sir. The people are New York City, Buffalo, and\nAlbany. Tammany is New York. And Tammany at present is in my pocket.\nBuffalo and Albany can be swept by the Catholic vote. And I have that\nin the upper right hand drawer of my private file. The 'people' will\ntherefore elect to the Senate the man I choose. In fact, I prefer\ndirect election of senators over the former method, for the people are\ngreater fools _en masse_ than any State Legislature that ever\nassembled.\"\n\nHe took up another letter from the pile on his desk and glanced\nthrough it. \"From Borwell,\" he commented. \"Protests against the way\nyou nullified the Glaze-Bassett red-light injunction bill. Pretty\nclever, that, Hood. I really didn't think it was in you.\"\n\n\"Invoking the referendum, you mean?\" said Hood, puffing a little with\npride.\n\n\"Yes. But for that, the passage of the bill would have wiped out the\nwhole red-light district, and quartered the rents I now get from my\nshacks down there. Now next year we will be better prepared to fight\nthe bill. The press will be with us then--a little cheaper and a\ntrifle more degraded than it is to-day.\"\n\nA private messenger entered with a cablegram. Ames read it and handed\nit to his lawyer. \"The _Proteus_ has reached the African Gold Coast at\nlast,\" he said. Then he threw back his head and laughed heartily. \"Do\nyou know, Hood, the _Proteus_ carried two missionaries, sent to the\nfrizzle-topped Zulus by Borwell and his outfit. Deutsch and Company\ncable that they have arrived.\"\n\n\"But,\" said Hood in some perplexity, \"the cargo of the _Proteus_ was\nrum!\"\n\n\"Just so,\" roared Ames; \"that's where the joke comes in. I make it a\npoint that every ship of mine that carries a missionary to a foreign\nfield shall also carry a cargo of rum. The combination is one that the\nZulu finds simply irresistible!\"\n\n\"So,\" commented Hood, \"the Church goes down to Egypt for help!\"\n\n\"Why not?\" returned Ames. \"I carry the missionaries free on my rum\nboats. Great saving to the Board of Foreign Missions, you know.\"\n\nHood looked at the man before him in undisguised admiration of his\ncunning. \"And did you likewise send missionaries to China with your\nopium cargoes?\" he asked.\n\nAmes chuckled. \"I once sent Borwell himself to Hongkong on a boat\nloaded to the rails with opium. We had insisted on his taking a needed\nvacation, and so packed him off to Europe. In Bombay I cabled him to\ntake the _Crotus_ to Hongkong, transportation free. That was my last\nconsignment of opium to China, for restrictions had already fallen\nupon our very Christian England, and the opium traffic was killed. I\nhad plans laid to corner the entire opium business in India, and I'd\nhave cleaned up a hundred million out of it, but for the pressure of\npublic sentiment. However, we're going to educate John Chinaman to\nsubstitute whiskey for opium. But now,\" glancing at the great electric\nwall clock, \"I've wasted enough time with you. By the way, do you know\nwhy this Government withheld recognition of the Chinese Republic?\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Hood, standing in anticipation.\n\n\"Thirty thousand chests of opium,\" returned Ames laconically. \"Value,\nfifty million dollars.\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"Ames and Company had advanced to the English banks of Shanghai and\nHongkong half this amount, loaned on the opium. That necessitated a\nfew plain words from me to the President, and a quick trip from\nWashington to London afterwards to interview his most Christian\nBritish Majesty. A very pleasant and profitable trip, Hood, very! Now\ntell Willett I want him.\"\n\nHood threw his chief another look of intense admiration, and left the\nroom. Willett's entrance followed immediately.\n\n\"Get Lafelle here some time to-day when I have a vacant hour,\"\ncommanded Ames. \"Cable to acting-Bishop Wenceslas, of Cartagena, and\nask him if an American mining company is registered there under the\nname of Simit\u00ed Development Company, and what properties they have and\nwhere located. Tell him to cable reply, and follow with detailed\nletter.\"\n\nHe leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. \"The Congregation of\nthe Sacred Index has laid the ban on--what's the name of the book?\" He\ndrew out a card-index drawer and selected a card, which he tossed to\nthe secretary. \"There it is. Get me the book at once.\" He seemed to\nmuse a while, then went on slowly. \"Carlos Madero, of Mexico, is in\nNew York. Learn where he is staying, and arrange an interview for me.\nWire Senator Wells, Washington, that the bill for a Children's Bureau\nmust not be taken from the table. That's final. Wire the Sequana Coal\nCompany that I want their report to-morrow, without fail. Wire\nCollins, at Avon, to tell the Spinners' Union I have nothing to\ndiscuss with them. Now send Hodson in.\"\n\nAs Hood was chief of the Ames legal department, and Willett the chief\nof his army of secretaries, so Hodson was the captain of his force of\nbrokers, a keen, sagacious trader, whose knowledge of the market and\nwhose ability in the matter of stock trading was almost uncanny.\n\n\"What's your selection for to-day, Hodson?\" asked Ames, as the man\nentered.\n\nHodson laid on his desk three lists of suggested deals on the\nexchanges of New York, London, and Paris. Ames glanced over them\nhurriedly, drawing his pencil through certain that did not meet his\napproval, and substituting others in which for particular reasons he\nwished to trade that morning. \"What's your reason for thinking I ought\nto buy Public Utilities?\" he asked, looking up at his broker.\n\n\"They have the letting of the Hudson river tunnel contract,\" replied\nHodson.\n\nAmes studied the broker's face a moment. Then his own brightened, as\nhe began to divine the man's reason. \"By George!\" he ejaculated, \"you\nthink there's quicksand along the proposed route?\"\n\n\"I know it,\" said Hodson calmly.\n\n\"Pick up ten thousand shares, if you can get them,\" returned Ames\nquickly. Then--\"I'm going to attend a meeting of the Council of\nAmerican Grain Exchanges at two to-day. I want you to be just outside\nthe door.\"\n\nHodson nodded understandingly. Ames concluded, \"I guess that's all.\nI'm at the bank at ten; at the Board of Trade at ten-thirty; Stock\nExchange at eleven; and lunch at Rector's at twelve sharp, returning\nhere immediately afterward.\"\n\nHodson again bowed, and left the office to undertake his various\ncommissions.\n\nFor the next half hour Ames pored over the morning's quota of letters\nand messages, making frequent notes, and often turning to the\ntelephone at his hand. Then he summoned a stenographer and rapidly\ndictated a number of replies. Finally he again called Willett.\n\n\"In my next vacant hour, following the one devoted to Lafelle, I want\nto see Reverend Darius Borwell,\" he directed. \"Also,\" he continued,\n\"wire Strunz that I want a meeting of the Brewers' Union called at the\nearliest possible date. By the way, ask Lafelle if he can spend the\nnight with me on board the _Cossack_, and if so, notify Captain\nMcCall. That will save an hour in the day. Here is a bundle of\nrequests for charity, for contributions to hospitals, orphan asylums,\nand various homes. Turn them all down, regretfully. H'm! 'Phone to the\nCity Assessor to come over whenever you can arrange an hour and go\nover my schedule with me. By the way, tell Hood to take steps at once\nto foreclose on the Bradley estate. Did you find out where Ketchim\ndoes his banking?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" replied the secretary, \"the Commercial State.\"\n\n\"Very well, get the president, Mr. Colson, on the wire.\"\n\nA few moments later Ames had purchased from the Commercial State bank\nits note against the Ketchim Realty Company for ten thousand dollars.\n\"I thought Ketchim would be borrowing again,\" he chuckled, when he had\ncompleted the transaction. \"His brains are composed of a disastrous\nmixture of hypocrisy and greed. I've thrown another hook into him\nnow.\"\n\nAt nine forty-five Ames left his private office and descended in his\nelevator to the banking house on the second floor. He entered the\ndirectors' room with a determined carriage, nodding pleasantly to his\nassociates. Taking his seat as chairman, he promptly called the\nmeeting to order.\n\nSome preliminary business occupied the first few minutes, and then\nAmes announced:\n\n\"Gentlemen, when the State of New York offered the public sixty\nmillions of four per cent bonds last week, and I advised you to take\nthem at a premium of six per cent, you objected. I overruled you, and\nthe bank bought the bonds. Within forty-eight hours they were resold\nat a premium of seven per cent, and the bank cleared six hundred\nthousand. A fair two days' business. Now let me suggest that the\npsychology of this transaction is worth your study. A commodity is a\ndrug on the market at one dollar, until somebody is willing to pay a\ndollar and a half for it. Then a lot of people will want it, until\nsomebody else offers a bid of two. Then the price will soar, and the\nnumber of those who covet the article and scramble for it will\nincrease proportionably. Take this thought home with you.\"\n\nA murmur of admiration rose from the directors. \"I think,\" said one,\n\"that we had better send Mr. Ames to Washington to confer with the\nPresident in regard to the proposed currency legislation.\"\n\n\"That is already arranged,\" put in Ames. \"I meet the President next\nThursday for a conference on this matter.\"\n\n\"And if he proves intractable?\" queried another.\n\n\"Why, in that case,\" returned Ames with a knowing smile, \"I think we\nhad better give him a little lesson to take out of office with\nhim--one that will ruin his second-term hopes--and then close our\nbank.\"\n\nFrom the bank, the Board of Trade, the Stock Exchange, and his\nluncheon with Senator Gossitch, Ames returned to his office for the\nprivate interviews which his chief secretary had arranged. Then\nfollowed further consultations with Hood over the daily, weekly, and\nmonthly reports which Ames required from all the various commercial,\nfinancial, and mining enterprises in which he was interested; further\ndiscussions of plans and schemes; further receipt and transmission of\ncable, telegraphic, and telephone messages; and meetings with his\nheads of departments, his captains, lieutenants, and minor officers,\nto listen to their reports and suggestions, and to deliver his quick,\ndecisive commands, admonitions, and advice. From eight in the morning\nuntil, as was his wont, Ames closed his desk and entered his private\nelevator at five-thirty in the evening, his office flashed with the\nsuperenergy of the man, with his intense activity, his decisive words,\nand his stupendous endeavors, materialistic, absorptive, ruthless\nendeavors. If one should ask what his day really amounted to, we can\nbut point to these incessant endeavors and their results in augmenting\nhis already vast material interests and his colossal fortune, a\nfortune which Hood believed ran well over a hundred millions, and\nwhich Ames himself knew multiplied that figure by five or ten. And the\nfortune was increasing at a frightful pace, for he gave nothing, but\ncontinually drew to himself, always and ever drawing, accumulating,\namassing, and absorbing, and for himself alone.\n\nSnapping his desk shut, he held a brief conversation over the wire\nwith the Beaubien, then descended to his waiting car and was driven\nhastily to his yacht, the _Cossack_, where Monsignor Lafelle awaited\nas his guest. It was one of the few pleasures which Ames allowed\nhimself during the warm months, to drop his multifarious interests and\nspend the night aboard the _Cossack_, generally alone, rocking gently\non the restless billows, so typical of his own heaving spirit, as the\nbeautiful craft steamed noiselessly to and fro along the coast, well\nbeyond the roar of the huge _arena_ where human beings, formed of\ndust, yet fatuously believing themselves made in the image of infinite\nSpirit, strive and sweat, curse and slay, in the struggle to prove\ntheir doubtful right to live.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 13\n\n\nThe _Cossack_, with its great turbines purring like a sleeping kitten,\nand its twin screws turning lazily, almost imperceptibly in the dark\nwaters, moved through the frosty night like a cloud brooding over the\ndeep. Yet it was a cloud of tremendous potentiality, enwrapping a\nspirit of energy incarnate. From far aloft its burning eye pierced a\nchannel of light through the murky darkness ahead. In its wake it drew\na swell of sparkling phosphorescence, which it carelessly tossed off\non either side as a Calif might throw handfuls of glittering coins to\nhis fawning beggars. From somewhere in the structure above, the\ncrackling, hissing wireless mechanism was thrusting its invisible\nhands out into the night and catching the fleeting messages that were\nborne on the intangible pulsations of the mysterious ether. From time\nto time these messages were given form and body, and despatched to the\nluxurious suite below, where, in the dazzling sheen of silver and cut\nglass, spread out over richest napery, and glowing beneath a torrent\nof white light, sat the gigantic being whose will directed the\nmovements of this floating palace.\n\n\"You see, Lafelle, I look upon religion with the eye of the\ncold-blooded business man, without the slightest trace of sentimentalism.\nFrom the business standpoint, the Protestant Church is a dead failure.\nIt doesn't get results that are in any way commensurate with its\ninvestment. But your Church is a success--from the point of dollars and\ncents. In fact, in the matter of forming and maintaining a monopoly, I\ntake off my hat to the Vatican. You fellows have got us all beaten.\nEvery day I learn something of value by studying your methods of\noperating upon the public. And so you see why I take such pleasure in\ntalking with really astute churchmen like yourself.\"\n\nMonsignor Lafelle studied the man without replying, uncertain just\nwhat interpretation to put upon the remark. The Japanese servant was\nclearing away the remnants of the meal, having first lighted the\ncigars of the master and guest.\n\n\"Now,\" continued Ames, leaning back in his luxurious chair and musing\nover his cigar, \"the purgatory idea is one of the cleverest schemes\never foisted upon the unthinking masses, and it has proved a veritable\nKlondike. Gad! if I could think up and put over a thing like that I'd\nconsider myself really possessed of brains.\"\n\nLafelle's eyes twinkled. \"I fear, Mr. Ames,\" he replied adroitly, \"you\ndo not know your Bible.\"\n\n\"No, that's true. I don't suppose I ever in my life read a whole\nchapter in the book. I can't swallow such stuff, Lafelle--utterly\nunreasonable, wholly inconsistent with facts and natural laws, as we\nknow and are able to observe them. Even as a child I never had any\nuse for fairy-tales, or wonder-stories. I always wanted facts,\ntangible, concrete, irrefutable facts, not hypotheses. The Protestant\nchurches hand out a mess of incoherent guesswork, based on as many\ninterpretations of the Bible as there are human minds sufficiently\ninterested to interpret it, and then wax hot and angry when\nhard-headed business men like myself refuse to subscribe to it.\nIt's preposterous, Lafelle! If they had anything tangible to\noffer, it would be different. But I go to church for the looks of\nthe thing, and for business reasons; and then stick pins into myself\nto keep awake while I listen to pedagogical Borwell tell what he\ndoesn't know about God and man. Then at the close of the service I\ndrop a five-dollar bill into the plate for the entertainment, and\ngo away with the feeling that I didn't get my money's worth. From a\nbusiness point of view, a Protestant church service is worth about\ntwenty-five cents for the music, and five cents for the privilege of\nsleeping on a soft cushion. So you see I lose four dollars and\nseventy cents every time I attend. You Catholic fellows, with your\nceremonial and legerdemain, give a much better entertainment.\nBesides, I like to hear your priests soak it to their cowering\nflocks.\"\n\nLafelle sighed. \"I shall have to class you with the incorrigibles,\" he\nsaid with a rueful air. \"I am sorry you take such a harsh attitude\ntoward us. We are really more spiritual--\"\n\nAmes interrupted with a roar of laughter. \"Don't! don't!\" he pleaded,\nholding up a hand. \"Why, Lafelle, you old fraud, I look upon your\nChurch as a huge business institution, a gigantic trust, as mercenary\nand merciless as Steel, Oil, or Tobacco! Why, you and I are in the\nsame business, that of making money! And I'd like to borrow some of\nyour methods. You catch 'em through religion. I have to use other\nmethods. But the end is the same. Only, you've got it over me, for you\nhurl the weight of centuries of authority upon the poor, trembling\npublic; and I have to beat them down with clubs of my own making.\nMoreover, the law protects you in all your pious methods; while I have\nto hire expensive legal talent to get around it.\"\n\n\"You seem to be fairly successful, even at that,\" retorted Lafelle.\nThen, too politic to draw his host into an acrimonious argument that\nmight end in straining their now cordial and mutually helpful\nfriendship, he observed, looking at his cigar: \"May I ask what you pay\nfor these?--for only an inexhaustible bank reserve can warrant their\nlike.\"\n\nHe had struck the right chord, and Ames softened at once. \"These,\" he\nsaid, tenderly regarding the thick, black weed in his fingers, \"are\ngrown exclusively for me on my own plantation in Colombia. They cost\nme about one dollar and sixty-eight cents each, laid down at my door\nin New York. I searched the world over before I found the only spot\nwhere such tobacco could be grown.\"\n\n\"And this wine?\" continued Lafelle, lifting his glass of sparkling\nchampagne.\n\n\"On a little hillside, scarcely an acre in extent, in Granada, Spain,\"\nreplied Ames. \"I have my own wine press and bottling plant there.\"\n\nLafelle could not conceal his admiration for this man of luxury. \"And\ndoes your exclusiveness extend also to your tea and coffee?\" he\nventured, smiling.\n\n\"It does,\" said Ames. \"I grow tea for my table in both China and\nCeylon. And I have exclusive coffee plantations in Java and Brazil.\nBut I'm now negotiating for one in Colombia, for I think that, without\ndoubt, the finest coffee in the world is grown there, although it\nnever gets beyond the coast line.\"\n\n\"_Fortuna non deo_,\" murmured the churchman; \"you man of chance and\ndestiny!\"\n\nAmes laughed genially. \"My friend,\" said he, \"I have always insisted\nthat I possessed but a modicum of brains; but I am a gambler. My god\nis chance. With ordinary judgment and horse-sense, I take risks that\nno so-called sane man would consider. The curse of the world is\nfear--the chief instrument that you employ to hold the masses to your\nchurchly system. I was born without it. I know that as long as a\nbusiness opponent has fear to contend with, I am his master. Fear is\nat the root of every ailment of mind, body, or environment. I repeat,\nI know not the meaning of the word. Hence my position in the business\nworld. Hence, also, my freedom from the limitations of superstition,\nreligious or otherwise. Do you get me?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Lafelle, drawing a long sigh, \"in a sense I do. But you\ngreatly err, my friend, in deprecating your own powerful intellect. I\nknow of no brain but yours that could have put South Ohio Oil from one\nhundred and fifty dollars up to over two thousand a share. I had a few\nshares of that stock myself. But I held until it broke.\"\n\nAmes smiled knowingly. \"Sorry I didn't know about it,\" he said. \"I\ncould have saved you. I didn't own a dollar's worth of South Ohio. Oh,\nyes,\" he added, as he saw Lafelle's eyes widening in surprise, \"I\npushed the market up until a certain lady, whom you and I both know,\nthought it unwise to go further, and then I sprung the sudden\ndiscovery of Colombian oil fields on them; and the market crashed\nlike a burst balloon. The lady cleared some two millions on the rig.\nNo, I didn't have a drop of Colombian oil to grease the chute. It was\nAmerican nerve, that's all.\"\n\n\"Well!\" ejaculated Lafelle. \"If you had lived in the Middle Ages you'd\nhave been burnt for possessing a devil!\"\n\n\"On the contrary,\" quickly amended Ames, his eyes twinkling, \"I'd have\nbeen made a Cardinal.\"\n\nBoth men laughed over the retort; and then Ames summoned the valet to\nset in motion the great electrical pipe-organ, and to bring the\nwhiskey and soda.\n\nFor the next hour the two men gave themselves up to the supreme luxury\nof their magnificent environment, the stimulation of their beverage\nand cigars, and the soothing effect of the soft music, combined with\nthe gentle movement of the boat. Then Ames took his guest into the\nsmoking room proper, and drew up chairs before a small table, on which\nwere various papers and writing materials.\n\n\"Now,\" he began, \"referring to your telephone message of this morning,\nwhat is it that you want me to do for you? Is it the old question of\nestablishing a nunciature at Washington?\"\n\nLafelle had been impatiently awaiting this moment. He therefore\nplunged eagerly into his subject. \"Mr. Ames,\" said he, \"I know you to\nhave great influence at the Capital. In the interests of humanity, I\nask you to use that influence to prevent the passage of the\nimmigration bill which provides for a literacy test.\"\n\nAmes smiled inwardly. There was no need of this request; for, in the\ninterests, not of humanity, but of his own steamship companies, he\nintended that there should be no restriction imposed upon immigration.\nBut the Church was again playing into his hands, coming to him for\nfavors. And the Church always paid heavily for his support. \"Well!\nwell!\" he exclaimed with an assumption of interest, \"so you ask me to\nimpugn my own patriotism!\"\n\nLafelle looked perplexed. \"I don't quite understand,\" he said.\n\n\"Why,\" Ames explained, \"how long do you figure it will take, with\nunrestricted immigration, for the Catholics to so outnumber the\nProtestants in the United States as to establish their religion by law\nand force it into the schools?\"\n\nLafelle flushed. \"But your Constitution provides toleration for all\nreligions!\"\n\n\"And the Constitution is quite flexible, and wholly subject to\namendment, is it not?\"\n\nLafelle flared out in unrestrained anger. \"What a bugaboo you\nProtestants make of Roman Catholicism!\" he cried. \"Great heavens! Why,\none would think that we Catholics were all anarchists! Are we such a\nmenace, such a curse to your Republican institutions? Do you ever stop\nto realize what the Church has done for civilization, and for your\nown country? And where, think you, would art and learning be now but\nfor her? Have you any adequate idea what the Church is doing\nto-day for the poor, for the oppressed? Good God! You Protestants,\na thousand times more intolerant than we, treat us as if we were\nHindoo pariahs! This whole country is suffering from the delirium of\nRoman Catholic-phobia! Will you drive us to armed defense?\"\n\n\"There, my friend, calm yourself,\" soothed Ames, laying a hand on the\nirate churchman's arm. \"And please do not class me with the\nProtestants, for I am not one of them. You Catholic fellows have made\nadmirable gains in the past few years, and your steady encroachments\nhave netted you about ninety per cent of all the political offices in\nand about Washington, so you have no complaint, even if the Church\nisn't in politics. H'm! So you want my help, eh?\"\n\nHe stopped and drummed on the table. Meantime, his brain was working\nrapidly. \"By the way, Lafelle,\" he said, abruptly resuming the\nconversation, \"you know all about church laws and customs, running way\nback to mediaeval times. Can't you dig up some old provision whereby I\ncan block a fellow who claims to own a gold mine down in Colombia? If\nyou can, I'll see that the President vetoes every obnoxious\nimmigration bill that's introduced this term.\"\n\nLafelle roused from his sulk and gulped down his wrath. Ames went on\nto express his desire for vengeance upon one obscure Philip O. Ketchim,\nbroker, promoter, church elder, and Sunday school superintendent.\nLafelle became interested. The conversation grew more and more animated.\nHours passed.\n\nThen at length Ames rose and rang for his valet. \"My God, Lafelle, the\nidea's a corker!\" he cried, his eyes ablaze. \"Where'd you get it?\"\n\nLafelle laughed softly. \"From a book entitled 'Confessions of a Roman\nCatholic Priest,' written anonymously, but, they say, by a young\nattach\u00e9 of the Vatican who was insane at the time. I never learned his\nname. However, he was apparently well informed on matters Colombian.\"\n\n\"And what do you call the law?\"\n\n\"The law of _'en manos muertas'_,\" replied Lafelle.\n\n\"Well,\" exclaimed Ames, \"again I take off my hat to your churchly\nsystem! And now,\" he continued eagerly, \"cable the Pope at once. I'll\nhave the operator send your code ashore by wireless, and the message\nwill go to Rome to-night. Tell the old man you've got influence at\nwork in Washington that is--well, more than strong, and that the\nprospects for defeating the immigration bill are excellent.\"\n\nLafelle arose and stood for a moment looking about the room. \"Before I\nretire, my friend,\" he said, \"I would like to express again the\nadmiration which the tasteful luxury of this smoking room has aroused\nin me, and to ask, if I may, whether those stained-glass windows up\nthere are merely fanciful portraits?\"\n\nAmes quickly glanced up at the faces of the beautiful women portrayed\nin the rectangular glass windows which lined the room just below the\nceiling. They were exquisitely painted, in vivid colors, and so set as\nto be illuminated during the day by sunlight, and at night by strong\nelectric lamps behind them. \"Why do you ask?\" he inquired in wonder.\n\n\"Because,\" returned Lafelle, \"if I mistake not, I have seen a portrait\nsimilar to that one,\" pointing up at one of the windows, where a sad,\nwistful face of rare loveliness looked down upon them.\n\nAmes started slightly. \"Where, may I ask?\" he said in a controlled\nvoice.\n\nLafelle reflected. In his complete absorption he had not noticed the\neffect of his query upon Ames. \"I do not know,\" he replied slowly.\n\"London--Paris--Berlin--no, not there. And yet, it was in Europe, I am\nsure. Ah, I have it! In the Royal Gallery, at Madrid.\"\n\nAmes stared at him dully. \"In the--Royal Gallery--at Madrid!\" he\nechoed in a low tone.\n\n\"Yes,\" continued Lafelle confidently, still studying the portrait, \"I\nam certain of it. But,\" turning abruptly upon Ames, \"you may have\nknown the original?\"\n\nAmes had recovered his composure. \"I assure you I never had that\npleasure,\" he said lightly. \"These art windows were set in by the\ndesigner of the yacht. Clever idea, I thought. Adds much to the\ngeneral effect, don't you think? By the way, if a portrait similar to\nthat one hangs in the Royal Gallery at Madrid, you might try to learn\nthe identity of the original for me. It's quite interesting to feel\nthat one may have the picture of some bewitching member of royalty\nhanging in his own apartments. By all means try to learn who the lady\nis--unless you know.\" He stopped and searched the churchman's face.\n\nBut Lafelle shook his head. \"No, I do not know her. But--that picture\nhas haunted me from the day I first saw it in the Royal Gallery. Who\ndesigned your yacht?\"\n\n\"Crafts, of 'Storrs and Crafts,'\" replied Ames. \"But he died a year\nago. Storrs is gone, too. No help from that quarter.\"\n\nLafelle moved thoughtfully toward the door. The valet appeared at that\nmoment.\n\n\"Show Monsignor to his stateroom,\" commanded Ames. \"Good night,\nMonsignor, good night. Remember, we dock at seven-thirty, sharp.\"\n\nReturning to the table, Ames sat down and rapidly composed a message\nfor his wireless operator to send across the dark waters to the city,\nand thence to acting-Bishop Wenceslas, in Cartagena. This done, he\nextinguished all the lights in the room excepting those which\nilluminated the stained-glass windows above. Drawing his chair up in\nfront of the one which had stirred Lafelle's query, he sat before it\nfar into the morning, in absorbed contemplation, searching the sad\nfeatures of the beautiful face, pondering, revolving, sometimes\nmurmuring aloud, sometimes passing a hand across his brow, as if he\nwould erase from a relentless memory an impression made long since and\nworn ever deeper by the recurrent thought of many years.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 14\n\n\nAlmost within the brief period of a year, the barefoot, calico-clad\nCarmen had been ejected from unknown Simit\u00ed and dropped into the midst\nof the pyrotechnical society life of the great New World metropolis.\nOnly an unusual interplay of mental forces could have brought about\nsuch an odd result. But that it was a very logical outcome of the\nreaction upon one another of human ambitions, fears, lust, and greed,\noperating through the types of mind among which her life had been\ncast, those who have followed our story thus far can have no doubt.\nThe cusp of the upward-sweeping curve had been reached through the\ninsane eagerness of Mrs. Hawley-Crowles to outdo her wealthy society\nrivals in an arrogant display of dress, living, and vain, luxurious\nentertaining, and the acquisition of the empty honor attaching to\nsocial leadership. The coveted prize was now all but within the\nshallow woman's grasp. Alas! she knew not that when her itching\nfingers closed about it the golden bauble would crumble to ashes.\n\nThe program as outlined by the Beaubien had been faithfully followed.\nMrs. J. Wilton Ames had met Mrs. Hawley-Crowles--whom, of course, she\nhad long desired to know more intimately--and an interchange of calls\nhad ensued, succeeded by a grand reception at the Ames mansion, the\nfirst of the social season. To this Mrs. Hawley-Crowles floated, as\nupon a cloud, attired in a French gown which cost fifteen hundred\ndollars, and shoes on her disproportioned feet for which she had\nrejoiced to pay thirty dollars each, made as they had been from\nspecially selected imported leather, dyed to match her rich robe. It\nwas true, her pleasure had not been wholly unalloyed, for she had been\nconscious of a trace of superciliousness on the part of some of the\ngorgeous birds of paradise, twittering and hopping in their hampering\nskirts about the Ames parlors, and pecking, with milk-fed content, at\nthe rare cakes and ices. But she only held her empty head the higher,\nand fluttered about the more ostentatiously and clumsily, while\nanticipating the effect which her charming and talented ward would\nproduce when she should make her bow to these same vain, haughty\ndevotees of the cult of gold. And she had wisely planned that Carmen's\n_d\u00e9but_ should follow that of Kathleen Ames, that it might eclipse her\nrival's in its wanton display of magnificence.\n\nOn the heels of the Ames reception surged the full flood of the\nwinter's social orgy. Early in November Kathleen Ames was duly\npresented. The occasion was made one of such stupendous display that\nMrs. Hawley-Crowles first gasped, then shivered with apprehension,\nlest she be unable to outdo it. She went home from it in a somewhat\nchastened frame of mind, and sat down at her _escritoire_ to make\ncalculations. Could she on her meager annual income of one hundred and\nfifty thousand hope to meet the Ames millions? She had already allowed\nthat her wardrobe would cost not less than twenty-five thousand\ndollars a year, to say nothing of the additional expense of properly\ndressing Carmen. But she now saw that this amount was hopelessly\ninadequate. She therefore increased the figure to seventy-five\nthousand. But that took half of her income. Could she maintain her\ncity home, entertain in the style now demanded by her social position,\nand spend her summers at Newport, as she had planned? Clearly, not on\nthat amount. No, her income would not suffice; she would be obliged to\ndraw on the principal until Carmen could be married off to some\nmillionaire, or until her own father died. Oh? if he would only\nterminate his useless existence soon!\n\nBut, in lieu of that delayed desideratum, some expedient must be\ndevised at once. She thought of the Beaubien. That obscure, retiring\nwoman was annually making her millions. A tip now and then from her, a\nword of advice regarding the market, and her own limited income would\nexpand accordingly. She had not seen the Beaubien since becoming a\nmember of Holy Saints. But on that day, and again, two months later,\nwhen the splendid altar to the late lamented and patriotic citizen,\nthe Honorable James Hawley-Crowles, was dedicated, she had marked the\nwoman, heavily veiled, sitting alone in the rear of the great church.\nWhat had brought her there? she wondered. She had shuddered as she\nthought the tall, black-robed figure typified an ominous shadow\nfalling athwart her own foolish existence.\n\nBut there was no doubt of Carmen's hold on the strange, tarnished\nwoman. And so, smothering her doubts and pocketing her pride, she\nagain sought the Beaubien, ostensibly in regard to Carmen's\nforthcoming _d\u00e9but_; and then, very adroitly and off-handedly, she\nbrought up the subject of investments, alleging that the added burden\nof the young girl now rendered it necessary to increase the rate of\ninterest which her securities were yielding.\n\nThe Beaubien proved herself the soul of candor and generosity. Not\nonly did she point out to Mrs. Hawley-Crowles how her modest income\nmight be quadrupled, but she even offered, in such a way as to make it\nutterly impossible for that lady to take offense, to lend her whatever\namount she might need, at any time, to further Carmen's social\nconquest. And during the conversation she announced that she herself\nwas acting on a suggestion dropped by the great financier, Ames, and\nwas buying certain stocks now being offered by a coming power in world\nfinance, Mr. Philip O. Ketchim.\n\nWhy, to be sure, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles had heard of this man! Was he not\npromoting a company in which her sister's husband, and the girl\nherself, were interested? And if such investments were good enough for\na magnate of Ames's standing, they certainly were good enough for her.\nShe would see Mr. Ketchim at once. Indeed, why had she not thought of\nthis before! She would get Carmen to hypothecate her own interest in\nthis new company, if necessary. That interest of itself was worth a\nfortune.\n\nQuite true. And if Mrs. Hawley-Crowles and Carmen so desired, the\nBeaubien would advance them whatever they might need on that\nsecurity alone. Or, she would take the personal notes of Mrs.\nHawley-Crowles--\"For, you know, my dear,\" she said sweetly, \"when\nyour father passes away you are going to be very well off, indeed, and\nI can afford to discount that inevitable event somewhat, can I\nnot?\" And she not only could, but did.\n\nThen Mrs. Hawley-Crowles soared into the empyrean, and this\nself-absorbed woman, who never in her life had earned the equivalent\nof a single day's food, launched the sweet, white-souled girl of\nthe tropics upon the oozy waters of New York society with such\n_\u00e9clat_ that the Sunday newspapers devoted a whole page, profusely\nillustrated, to the gorgeous event and dilated with much extravagance\nof expression upon the charms of the little Inca princess, and\nupon the very important and gratifying fact that the three hundred\nfashionable guests present displayed jewels to the value of not less\nthan ten million dollars.\n\nThe function took the form of a musicale, in which Carmen's rich\nvoice was first made known to the _beau monde_. The girl instantly\nswept her auditors from their feet. The splendid pipe-organ, which\nMrs. Hawley-Crowles had hurriedly installed for the occasion,\nbecame a thing inspired under her deft touch. It seemed in that\ngarish display of worldliness to voice her soul's purity, its\nwonder, its astonishment, its lament over the vacuities of this\nhighest type of human society, its ominous threats of thundered\ndenunciation on the day when her tongue should be loosed and the\npresent mesmeric spell broken--for she was under a spell, even\nthat of this new world of tinsel and material veneer.\n\nThe decrepit old Mrs. Gannette wept on Carmen's shoulder, and went\nhome vowing that she would be a better woman and cut out her night-cap\nof Scotch-and-soda. Others crowded about the girl and showered their\nfulsome praise upon her. But not so Mrs. Ames and her daughter\nKathleen. They stared at the lovely _d\u00e9butante_ with wonder and\nchagrin written legibly upon their bepowdered visages. And before the\nclose of the function Kathleen had become so angrily jealous that she\nwas grossly rude to Carmen when she bade her good night. For her own\nfeeble light had been drowned in the powerful radiance of the girl\nfrom Simit\u00ed. And from that moment the assassination of the character\nof the little Inca princess was decreed.\n\nBut, what with incessant striving to adapt herself to her environment,\nthat she might search its farthest nook and angle; what with ceaseless\nefforts to check her almost momentary impulse to cry out against the\nvulgar display of modernity and the vicious inequity of privilege\nwhich she saw on every hand; what with her purity of thought; her rare\nideals and selfless motives; her boundless love for humanity; and her\npassionate desire to so live her \"message\" that all the world might\nsee and light their lamps at the torch of her burning love for God and\nher fellow-men, Carmen found her days a paradox, in that they were\nliterally full of emptiness. After her _d\u00e9but_, event followed event\nin the social life of the now thoroughly gay metropolis, and the poor\nchild found herself hustled home from one function, only to change her\nattire and hurry again, weary of spirit, into the waiting car, to be\nwhisked off to another equally vapid. It seemed to the bewildered girl\nthat she would never learn what was _de rigueur_; what conventions\nmust be observed at one social event, but amended at another. Her\ntight gowns and limb-hampering skirts typified the soul-limitation of\nher tinsel, environment; her high-heeled shoes were exquisite torture;\nand her corsets, which her French maid drew until the poor girl gasped\nfor air, seemed to her the cruellest device ever fashioned by the\nvacuous, enslaved human mind. Frequently she changed her clothing\ncompletely three and four times a day to meet her social demands.\nNight became day; and she had to learn to sleep until noon. She found\nno time for study; none even for reading. And conversation, such as\nwas indulged under the Hawley-Crowles roof, was confined to insipid\nsociety happenings, with frequent sprinklings of racy items anent\ndivorce, scandal, murder, or the debauch of manhood. From this she\ndrew more and more aloof and became daily quieter.\n\nIt was seldom, too, that she could escape from the jaded circle of\nsociety revelers long enough to spend a quiet hour with the Beaubien.\nBut when she could, she would open the reservoirs of her soul and give\nfull vent to her pent-up emotions. \"Oh,\" she would often exclaim, as\nshe sat at the feet of the Beaubien in the quiet of the darkened music\nroom, and gazed into the crackling fire, \"how can they--how can\nthey!\"\n\nThen the Beaubien would pat her soft, glowing cheek and murmur, \"Wait,\ndearie, wait.\" And the tired girl would sigh and close her eyes and\ndream of the quiet of little Simit\u00ed and of the dear ones there from\nwhom she now heard no word, and yet whom she might not seek, because\nof the war which raged about her lowly birthplace.\n\nThe gay season was hardly a month advanced when Mrs. Ames angrily\nadmitted to herself that her own crown was in gravest danger. The\nSouth American girl--and because of her, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles and her\nblas\u00e9 sister--had completely captured New York's conspicuous circle.\nMrs. Hawley-Crowles apparently did not lack for funds, but entertained\nwith a display of reckless disregard for expense, and a carelessness\nof critical comment, that stirred the city to its depths and aroused\nexpressions of wonder and admiration on every hand. The newspapers\nwere full of her and her charming ward. Surely, if the girl's social\nprestige continued to soar, the Ames family soon would be relegated to\nthe social \"has-beens.\" And Mrs. Ames and her haughty daughter held\nmany a serious conference over their dubious prospects.\n\nAmes himself chuckled. Night after night, when the Beaubien's dinner\nguests had dispersed, he would linger to discuss the social war now in\nfull progress, and to exchange with her witty comments on the\nsuccesses of the combatants. One night he announced, \"Lafelle is in\nEngland; and when he returns he is coming by way of the West Indies. I\nshall cable him to stop for a week at Cartagena, to see Wenceslas on a\nlittle matter of business for me.\"\n\nThe Beaubien smiled her comprehension. \"Mrs. Hawley-Crowles has become\nnicely enmeshed in his net,\" she returned. \"The altar to friend Jim is\na beauty. Also, I hear that she is going to finance Ketchim's mining\ncompany in Colombia.\"\n\n\"Fine!\" said Ames. \"I learned to-day that Ketchim's engineer, Harris,\nhas returned to the States. Couldn't get up the Magdalena river, on\naccount of the fighting. There will be nothing doing there for a year\nyet.\"\n\n\"Just as well,\" commented the Beaubien. Then abruptly--\"By the way, I\nnow hold Mrs. Hawley-Crowles's notes to the amount of two hundred and\nfifty thousand dollars. I want you to buy them from me and be ready to\nturn the screws when I tell you.\"\n\nAmes roared with laughter. \"Shrewd girl!\" he exclaimed, pinching her\ncheek. \"All right. I'll take them off your hands to-morrow. And by the\nway, I must meet this Carmen.\"\n\n\"You let her alone,\" said the Beaubien quickly in a low voice.\n\nAmes wondered vaguely what she meant.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe inauguration of the Grand Opera season opened to Mrs. Hawley-Crowles\nanother avenue for her astonishing social activities. With rare\nshrewdness she had contrived to outwit Mrs. Ames and secure the center\nbox in the \"golden horseshoe\" at the Metropolitan. There, like a gaudy\ngarden spider in its glittering web, she sat on the opening night,\nwith her rapt _prot\u00e9g\u00e9e_ at her side, and sent her insolent challenge\nbroadcast. Multimillionaires and their haughty, full-toileted dames were\nranged on either side of her, brewers and packers, distillers and\npatent medicine concoctors, railroad magnates and Board of Trade\nplungers, some under indictment, others under the shadow of death,\nall under the mesmeric charm of gold. In the box at her left sat the\nAmes family, with their newly arrived guests, the Dowager Duchess of\nAltern and her son. Though inwardly boiling, Mrs. Ames was smiling\nand affable when she exchanged calls with the gorgeous occupants of\nthe Hawley-Crowles box.\n\n\"So chawmed to meet you,\" murmured the heir of Altern, a callow youth\nof twenty-three, bowing over the dainty, gloved hand of Carmen. Then,\nas he adjusted his monocle and fixed his jaded eyes upon the fresh\nyoung girl, \"Bah Jove!\"\n\nThe gigantic form of Ames wedged in between the young man and Carmen.\n\"I've heard a lot about you,\" he said genially, in a heavy voice that\nharmonized well with his huge frame; \"but we haven't had an\nopportunity to get acquainted until to-night.\"\n\nFor some moments he stood holding her hand and looking steadily at\nher. The girl gazed up at him with her trustful brown eyes alight, and\na smile playing about her mouth. \"My, but you are big!\" she na\u00efvely\nexclaimed.\n\nWhile she chatted brightly Ames held her hand and laughed at her\nfrank, often witty, remarks. But then a curious, eager look came into\nhis face, and he became quiet and reflective. He seemed unable to take\nhis eyes from her. And when the girl gently drew her hand from his he\nlaughed again, nervously.\n\n\"I--I know something about Colombia,\" he said, \"and speak the language\na bit. We'll have to get together often, so's I can brush up.\"\n\nThen, apparently noticing Mrs. Hawley-Crowles and her sister for the\nfirst time--\"Oh, so glad to see you both! Camorso's in fine voice\nto-night, eh?\"\n\nHe wheeled about and stood again looking at Carmen, until she blushed\nunder his close gaze and turned her head away. Then he went back to\nhis box. But throughout the evening, whenever the girl looked in the\ndirection of the Ames family, she met the steady, piercing gaze of the\nman's keen gray eyes. And they seemed to her like sharp steel points,\ncutting into the portals of her soul.\n\nNight after night during the long season Carmen sat in the box and\nstudied the operas that were produced on the boards before her\nwondering gaze. Always Mrs. Hawley-Crowles was with her. And\ngenerally, too, the young heir of Altern was there, occupying the\nchair next to the girl--which was quite as the solicitous Mrs.\nHawley-Crowles had planned.\n\n\"Aw--deucedly fine show to-night, Miss Carmen,\" the youth ventured one\nevening, as he took his accustomed place close to her.\n\n\"The music is always beautiful,\" the girl responded. \"But the play,\nlike most of Grand Opera, is drawn from the darkest side of human\nlife. It is a sordid picture of licentiousness and cruelty. Only for\nits setting in wonderful music, Grand Opera is generally such a\ndepiction of sex-passion, of lust and murder, that it would not be\npermitted on the stage. A few years from now people will be horrified\nto remember that the preceding generation reveled in such blood\nscenes--just as we now speak with horror of the gladiatorial contests\nin ancient Rome.\"\n\nThe young man regarded her uncertainly. \"But--aw--Miss Carmen,\" he\nhazarded, \"we must be true to life, you know!\" Having delivered\nhimself of this oracular statement, the youth adjusted his monocle and\nsettled back as if he had given finality to a weighty argument.\n\nThe girl looked at him pityingly. \"You voice the cant of the modern\nwriter, 'true lo life.' True to the horrible, human sense of life,\nthat looks no higher than the lust of blood, and is satisfied with it,\nI admit. True to the unreal, temporal sense of existence, that is here\nto-day, and to-morrow has gone out in the agony of self-imposed\nsuffering and death. True to that awful, false sense of life which we\nmust put off if we would ever rise into the consciousness of _real_\nlife, I grant you. But the production of these horrors on the stage,\neven in a framework of marvelous music, serves only to hold before us\nthe awful models from which we must turn if we would hew out a better\nexistence. Are you the better for seeing an exhibition of wanton\nmurder on the stage, even though the participants wondrously sing\ntheir words of vengeance and passion?\"\n\n\"But--aw--they serve as warnings; they show us the things we ought not\nto do, don't you know.\"\n\nShe smiled. \"The sculptor who would chisel a beautiful form, does he\nset before him the misshapen body of a hunchback, in order that he may\nsee what not to carve?\" she asked. \"And we who would transform the\nhuman sense of life into one of freedom from evil, can we build a\nperfect structure with such grewsome models as this before us? You\ndon't see it now,\" she sighed; \"you are in the world, and of it; and\nthe world is deeply under the mesmeric belief of evil as a stern\nreality. But the day is coming when our musicians and authors will\nturn from such base material as this to nobler themes--themes which\nwill excite our wonder and admiration, and stimulate the desire for\npurity of thought and deed--themes that will be beacon lights, and\ntrue guides. You don't understand. But you will, some day.\"\n\nMrs. Hawley-Crowles frowned heavily as she listened to this\nconversation, and she drew a sigh of relief when Carmen, sensing the\nfutility of any attempt to impress her thought upon the young man,\nturned to topics which he could discuss with some degree of\nintelligence.\n\nLate in the evening Ames dropped in and came directly to the\nHawley-Crowles box. He brought a huge box of imported candy and a\ngorgeous bouquet of orchids, which he presented to Carmen. Mrs.\nHawley-Crowles beamed upon him like the effulgent midday sun.\n\n\"Kathleen wants you, Reggy,\" Ames abruptly announced to the young man,\nwhose lips were molding into a pout. \"Little gathering up at the\nhouse. Take my car.\" His huge bulk loomed over the younger man like a\nmountain as he took him by the shoulders and turned him toward the\nexit.\n\n\"But I wish to see the opera!\" protested the youth, with a vain show\nof resistance.\n\nAmes said nothing; but his domineering personality forced the boy out\nof the box and into the corridor.\n\n\"But--Uncle Wilton--!\"\n\nAmes laughed curtly. Then he took the seat which his evicted nephew\nhad vacated, and bent over Carmen. With a final hopeless survey of the\nsituation, Reginald turned and descended to the cloak room, muttering\ndire but futile threats against his irresistible relative.\n\n\"Now, little girl!\" Ames's manner unconsciously assumed an air of\npatronage. \"This is the first real opportunity I've had to talk with\nyou. Tell me, what do you think of New York?\"\n\nCarmen smiled up at him. \"Well,\" she began uncertainly, \"since I have\nthawed out, or perhaps have become more accustomed to the cold, I have\nbegun to make mental notes. Already I have thousands of them. But they\nare not yet classified, and so I can hardly answer your question, Mr.\nAmes. But I am sure of one thing, and that is that for the first few\nmonths I was here I was too cold to even think!\"\n\nAmes laughed. \"Yes,\" he agreed, \"the change from the tropics was\nsomewhat abrupt. But, aside from the climate?\"\n\n\"It is like awaking from a deep sleep,\" answered Carmen meditatively.\n\"In Simit\u00ed we dream our lives away. In New York all is action; loud\nwords; harsh commands; hurry; rush; endeavor, terrible, materialistic\nendeavor! Every person I see seems to be going somewhere. He may not\nknow where he is going--but he is on the way. He may not know why he\nis going--but he must not be stopped. He has so few years to live; and\nhe must pile up money before he goes. He must own an automobile; he\nmust do certain things which his more fortunate neighbor does, before\nhis little flame of life goes out and darkness falls upon him. I\nsometimes think that people here are trying to get away from\nthemselves, but they don't know it. I think they come to the opera\nbecause they crave any sort of diversion that will make them forget\nthemselves for a few moments, don't you?\"\n\n\"H'm! well, I can't say,\" was Ames's meaningless reply, as he sat\nregarding the girl curiously.\n\n\"And,\" she continued, as if pleased to have an auditor who at least\npretended to understand her, \"the thing that now strikes me most\nforcibly is the great confusion that prevails here in everything, in\nyour government, in your laws, in your business, in your society, and,\nin particular, in your religion. Why, in that you have hundreds of\nsects claiming a monopoly of truth; you have hundreds of churches,\nhundreds of religious or theological beliefs, hundreds of differing\nconcepts of God--but you get nowhere! Why, it has come to such a pass\nthat, if Jesus were to appear physically on earth to-day, I am sure he\nwould be evicted from his own Church!\"\n\n\"Well, yes, I guess that's so,\" commented Ames, quite at sea in such\nconversation. \"But we solid business men have found that religious\nemotion never gets a man anywhere. It's weakening. Makes a man\neffeminate, and utterly unfits him for business. I wouldn't have a man\nin my employ who was a religious enthusiast.\"\n\n\"But Jesus was a religious enthusiast,\" she protested.\n\n\"I doubt if there ever was such a person,\" he answered dryly.\n\n\"Why, the Bible--\"\n\n\"Is the most unfortunate and most misunderstood piece of literature\never written,\" he interrupted. \"And the Church, well, I regard it as\nthe greatest fraud ever perpetrated upon the human race.\"\n\n\"You mean that to apply to every church?\"\n\n\"It fits them all.\"\n\nShe studied his face for a few moments. He returned her glance as\nsteadily. But their thoughts were running in widely divergent\nchannels. The conversational topic of the moment had no interest\nwhatsoever for the man. But this brilliant, sparkling girl--there was\nsomething in those dark eyes, that soft voice, that brown hair--by\nwhat anomaly did this beautiful creature come out of desolate,\nmediaeval Simit\u00ed?\n\n\"Mr. Ames, you do not know what religion is.\"\n\n\"No? Well, and what is it?\"\n\n\"It is that which binds us to God.\"\n\n\"And that?\"\n\n\"Love.\"\n\nNo, he knew not the meaning of the word. Or--wait--did he? His thought\nbroke restraint and flew wildly back--but he caught it, and rudely\nforced it into its wonted channel. But, did he love his fellow-men?\nCertainly not! What would that profit him in dollars and cents? Did he\nlove his wife? his children? The thought brought a cynical laugh to\nhis lips. Carmen looked up at him wonderingly. \"You will have to, you\nknow,\" she said quixotically.\n\nThen she reached out a hand and laid it on his. He looked down at it,\nso soft, so white, so small, and he contrasted it with the huge, hairy\nbulk of his own. This little girl was drawing him. He felt it, felt\nhimself yielding. He was beginning to look beyond the beautiful\nfeatures, the rare grace and charm of physical personality, which had\nat first attracted only the baser qualities of his nature, and was\nseeing glimpses of a spiritual something which lay back of all\nthat--infinitely more beautiful, unspeakably richer, divine, sacred,\nuntouchable.\n\n\"Of course you will attend the Charity Ball, Mr. Ames?\" The thin voice\nof Mrs. Hawley-Crowles jarred upon his ear like a shrill discord. Ames\nturned savagely upon her. Then he quickly found himself again.\n\n\"No,\" he laughed harshly. \"But I shall be represented by my family.\nAnd you?\" He looked at Carmen.\n\n\"Most assuredly,\" returned Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, taking the query to\nherself. \"That is, if my French dressmaker does not fail me. She is\ndreadfully exasperating! What will Mrs. Ames wear, do you think?\" She\narched her brows at him as she propounded this innocent question.\n\nAmes chuckled. \"I'll tell you what it is this year,\" he sagely\nreplied. \"It's diamonds in the heels!\" He gave a sententious nod of\nhis head. \"I overheard Kathleen and her mother discussing plans.\nAnd--do you want to know next season's innovation? By George! I'm a\nregular spy.\" He stopped and laughed heartily at his own treasonable\ndeceit.\n\n\"Yes! yes!\" whispered Mrs. Hawley-Crowles eagerly, as she drew her\nchair closer. \"What is it?\"\n\n\"One condition,\" replied Ames, holding up a thick finger.\n\n\"Of course! Anything!\" returned the grasping woman.\n\n\"Well, I want to get better acquainted with your charming ward,\" he\nwhispered.\n\n\"Of course; and I want you to know her better. That can be arranged\nvery easily. Now what's the innovation?\"\n\n\"Colored wigs,\" said Ames, with a knowing look.\n\nMrs. Hawley-Crowles settled back with a smile of supreme satisfaction.\nShe would boldly anticipate next season at the coming Charity Ball.\nThen, leaning over toward Ames, she laid her fan upon his arm. \"Can't\nyou manage to come and see us some time, my sister and Carmen? Any\ntime,\" she added. \"Just call me up a little in advance.\"\n\nThe blare of trumpets and the crash of drums drew their attention\nagain to the stage. Ames rose and bowed his departure. A business\nassociate in a distant box had beckoned him. Mrs. Hawley-Crowles\ndismissed him reluctantly; then turned her wandering attention to the\nplay.\n\nBut Carmen sat shrouded in thoughts that were not stimulated by the\npuppet-show before her. The tenor shrieked out his tender passion, and\nthe tubby soprano sank into his inadequate arms with languishing\nsighs. Carmen heeded not their stage amours. She saw in the glare\nbefore her the care-lined face of the priest of Simit\u00ed; she saw the\ngrim features and set jaw of her beloved, black-faced Rosendo, as he\nled her through the dripping jungle; she saw Anita's blind, helpless\nbabe; she saw the little newsboy of Cartagena; and her heart welled\nwith a great love for them all; and she buried her face in her hands\nand wept softly.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 15\n\n\"Wait, my little princess, wait,\" the Beaubien had said, when Carmen,\nher eyes flowing and her lips quivering, had again thrown herself into\nthat strange woman's arms and poured out her heart's surcease. \"It\nwill not be long now. I think I see the clouds forming.\"\n\n\"I want to go back to Simit\u00ed, to Padre Jos\u00e8, to my home,\" wailed the\ngirl. \"I don't understand the ways and the thoughts of these people.\nThey don't know God--they don't know what love is--they don't know\nanything but money, and clothes, and sin, and death. When I am with\nthem I gasp, I choke--\"\n\n\"Yes, dearest, I understand,\" murmured the woman softly, as she\nstroked the brown head nestling upon her shoulder. \"It is social\nasphyxia. And many even of the 'four hundred' are suffering from the\nsame disease; but they would die rather than admit it. Poor, blind\nfools!\"\n\nTo no one could the attraction which had drawn Carmen and the Beaubien\ntogether seem stranger, more inexplicable, than to that lone woman\nherself. Yet it existed, irresistible. And both acknowledged it, nor\nwould have had it otherwise. To Carmen, the Beaubien was a sympathetic\nconfidante and a wise counselor. The girl knew nothing of the woman's\npast or present life. She tried to see in her only the reality which\nshe sought in every individual--the reality which she felt that Jesus\nmust have seen clearly back of every frail mortal concept of humanity.\nAnd in doing this, who knows?--she may have transformed the sordid,\nsoiled woman of the world into something more than a broken semblance\nof the image of God. To the Beaubien, this rare child, the symbol of\nlove, of purity, had become a divine talisman, touching a dead soul\ninto a sense of life before unknown. If Carmen leaned upon her, she,\non the other hand, bent daily closer to the beautiful girl; opened her\nslowly warming heart daily wider to her; twined her lonely arms daily\ncloser about the radiant creature who had come so unexpectedly into\nher empty, sinful life.\n\n\"But, mother dear\"--the Beaubien had long since begged Carmen always\nto address her thus when they were sharing alone these hours of\nconfidence--\"they will not listen to my message! They laugh and jest\nabout real things!\"\n\n\"True, dearie. And yet you tell me that the Bible says wise men\nlaughed at the great teacher, Jesus.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes! And his message--oh, mother dearest, his message would have\nhelped them so, if they had only accepted it! It would have changed\ntheir lives, healed their diseases, and saved them from death. And my\nmessage\"--her lip quivered--\"my message is only his--it is the message\nof love. But they won't let me tell it.\"\n\n\"Then, sweet, live it. They can not prevent that, can they?\"\n\n\"I do live it. But--I am so out of place among them. They scoff at\nreal things. They mock all that is noble. Their talk is so coarse, so\nlow and degraded. They have no culture. They worship money. They don't\nknow what miserable failures they all are. And Mrs. Hawley-Crowles--\"\n\nThe Beaubien's jaw set. \"The social cormorant!\" she muttered.\n\n\"--she will not let me speak of God in her house. She told me to keep\nmy views to myself and never voice them to her friends. And she says I\nmust marry either a millionaire or a foreign noble.\"\n\n\"Humph! And become a snobbish expatriate! Marry a decadent count, and\nthen shake the dust of this democratic country from your feet forever!\nGo to London or Paris or Vienna, and wear tiaras and coronets, and\nspeak of disgraceful, boorish America in hushed whispers! The\nempty-headed fool! She forgets that the tarnished name she bears was\ndragged up out of the ruck of the impecunious by me when I received\nJim Crowles into my house! And that I gave him what little gloss he\nwas able to take on!\"\n\n\"Mother dear--I would leave them--only, they need love, oh, so much!\"\n\nThe Beaubien strained her to her bosom. \"They need you, dearie; they\nlittle realize how they need you! I, myself, did not know until you\ncame to me. There, I didn't mean to let those tears get away from\nme.\" She laughed softly as Carmen looked up anxiously into her face.\n\"Now come,\" she went on brightly, \"we must plan for the Charity\nBall.\"\n\nA look of pain swept over the girl's face. The Beaubien bent and\nkissed her. \"Wait, dearie,\" she repeated. \"You will not leave society\nvoluntarily. Keep your light burning. They can not extinguish it. They\nwill light their own lamps at yours--or they will thrust you from\ntheir doors. And then,\" she muttered, as her teeth snapped together,\n\"you will come to me.\"\n\nClose on the heels of the opera season followed the Charity Ball, the\nHorse Show, and the Fashion Show in rapid succession, with numberless\nreceptions, formal parties, and nondescript social junketings\ninterspersed. During these fleeting hours of splash and glitter Mrs.\nHawley-Crowles trod the air with the sang-froid and exhilaration of an\nexpert aviator. Backed by the Beaubien millions, and with the\nwonderful South American girl always at her right hand, the\nworldly ambitious woman swept everything before her, cut a social\nswath far wider than the glowering Mrs. Ames had ever attempted, and\nmarched straight to the goal of social leadership, almost without\ninterference. She had apparently achieved other successes, too, of\nthe first importance. She had secured the assistance of Ames himself\nin matters pertaining to her finances; and the Beaubien was\nactively co\u00f6perating with her in the social advancement of Carmen.\nIt is true, she gasped whenever her thought wandered to her notes\nwhich the Beaubien held, notes which demanded every penny of her\nprincipal as collateral. And she often meditated very soberly over\nthe large sums which she had put into the purchase of Simit\u00ed stock,\nat the whispered suggestions of Ames, and under the irresistibly\npious and persuasive eloquence of Philip O. Ketchim, now president\nof that flourishing but as yet non-productive company. But then, one\nday, an idea occurred to her, and she forthwith summoned Carmen into\nthe library.\n\n\"You see, my dear,\" she said, after expounding to the girl certain of\nher thoughts anent the famous mine, \"I do not want Mr. Ketchim to have\nany claim upon you for the expense which he incurred on account of\nyour six months in the Elwin school. That thought, as well as others\nrelating to your complete protection, makes it seem advisable that you\ntransfer to me your share in the mine, or in the Simit\u00ed company. See,\nI give you a receipt for the same, showing that you have done this as\npart payment for the great expense to which I have been put in\nintroducing you to society and in providing for your wants here. It is\nmerely formal, of course. And it keeps your share still in our\nfamily, of which you are and always will be a member; but yet removes\nall liability from you. Of course, you know nothing about business\nmatters, and so you must trust me implicitly. Which I am sure you do,\nin view of what I have done for you, don't you, dear?\"\n\nOf course Carmen did; and of course she unhesitatingly transferred her\nclaim on La Libertad to the worthy Mrs. Hawley-Crowles. Whereupon the\ngood woman tenderly kissed the innocent child, and clasped a string of\nrich pearls about the slender, white neck. And Carmen later told the\nBeaubien, who said nothing, but frowned darkly as she repeated the\ntidings over her private wire to J. Wilton Ames. But that priest of\nfinance only chuckled and exclaimed: \"Excellent, my dear! Couldn't be\nbetter! By the way, I had a cable from Lafelle this morning, from\nCartagena. Oh, yes, everything's all right. Good-bye.\" But the\nBeaubien hung up the receiver with a presentiment that everything was\nfar from right, despite his bland assurance. And she regretted\nbitterly now that she had not warned Carmen against this very thing.\n\nThe Charity Ball that season was doubtless the most brilliant function\nof its kind ever held among a people who deny the impossible. The\nnewspapers had long vied with one another in their advertisements and\npredictions; they afterward strove mightily to outdo themselves in\ntheir vivid descriptions of the gorgeous _f\u00eate_. The decorative\neffects far excelled anything ever attempted in the name of\n\"practical\" charity. The display of gowns had never before been even\nclosely approximated. The scintillations from jewels whose value\nmounted into millions was like the continuous flash of the electric\nspark. And the huge assemblage embraced the very cream of the\nnobility, the aristocracy, the rich and exclusive caste of a great\npeople whose Constitution is founded on the equality of men, and who\nare wont to gather thus annually for a few hours to parade their\nmaterial vestments and divert their dispirited mentalities under the\nguise of benefaction to a class for whom they rarely hold a loving\nthought.\n\nAgain the subtle Mrs. Hawley-Crowles had planned and executed a _coup_.\nMrs. Ames had subscribed the munificent sum of twenty-five thousand\ndollars to charity a week before the ball. Mrs. Hawley-Crowles had\nwaited for this. Then she gloated as she telephoned to the various\nnewspaper offices that her subscription would be fifty thousand. Did\nshe give a new note to the Beaubien for this amount? That she\ndid--and she obtained the money on the condition that the little Inca\nprincess should lead the grand march. Of course, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles\nknew that she must gracefully yield first place to the South American\ngirl; and yet she contrived to score a triumph in apparent defeat.\nFor, stung beyond endurance, Mrs. Ames and her daughter Kathleen at the\nlast moment refused to attend the function, alleging fatigue from a\nseason unusually exacting. The wily Mrs. Hawley-Crowles had\npreviously secured the languid young Duke of Altern as a partner for\nCarmen--and then was most agreeably thwarted by Ames himself, who,\nlearning that his wife and daughter would not attend, abruptly\nannounced that he himself would lead the march with Carmen.\n\nWhy not? Was it not quite proper that the city's leading man of\nfinance should, in the absence of his wife and daughter, and with\ntheir full and gratuitous permission--nay, at their urgent request, so\nit was told--lead with this fair young damsel, this tropical flower,\nwho, as rumor had it, was doubtless a descendant of the royal dwellers\nin ancient Cuzco?\n\n\"Quite proper, _O tempora, O mores_!\" murmured one Amos A. Hitt,\nerstwhile Presbyterian divine, explorer, and gentleman of leisure, as\nhe settled back in his armchair in the fashionable Weltmore apartments\nand exhaled a long stream of tobacco smoke through his wide nostrils.\n\"And, if I can procure a ticket, I shall give myself the pleasure of\nwitnessing this sacred spectacle, produced under the deceptive mask of\ncharity,\" he added.\n\nIn vain the Beaubien labored with Ames when she learned of his\nintention--though she said nothing to Carmen. Ames had yielded to her\npreviously expressed wish that he refrain from calling at the\nHawley-Crowles mansion, or attempting to force his attentions upon the\nyoung girl. But in this matter he remained characteristically\nobdurate. And thereby a little rift was started. For the angry\nBeaubien, striving to shield the innocent girl, had vented her\nabundant wrath upon the affable Ames, and had concluded her\ndenunciation with a hint of possible exposure of certain dark facts of\nwhich she was sole custodian. Ames smiled, bowed, and courteously\nkissed her hand, as he left her stormy presence; but he did not yield.\nAnd Carmen went to the Ball.\n\nThrough the perfumed air and the garish light tore the crashing notes\nof the great band. The loud hum of voices ceased, and all eyes turned\nto the leaders of the grand march, as they stepped forth at one end of\nthe great auditorium. Then an involuntary murmur arose from the\nmultitude--a murmur of admiration, of astonishment, of envy. The\ngigantic form of Ames stood like a towering pillar, the embodiment of\npotential force, the epitome of human power, physical and mental. His\nmassive shoulders were thrown back as if in haughty defiance of\ncomment, critical or commendatory. The smile which flitted about his\nstrong, clean-shaven face bespoke the same caution as the gentle\nuplifting of a tiger's paw--behind it lay all that was humanly\nterrible, cunning, heartless, and yet, in a sense, fascinating. His\nthick, brown hair, scarcely touched with gray, lay about his great\nhead like a lion's mane. He raised a hand and gently pushed it back\nover the lofty brow. Then he bent and offered an arm to the slender\nwisp of a girl at his side.\n\n\"Good God!\" murmured a tall, angular man in the crowd. \"Who is she?\"\n\n\"I don't know, Hitt,\" replied the friend addressed. \"But they say she\nbelongs to the Inca race.\"\n\nThe graceful girl moving by the side of her giant escort seemed like a\nslender ray of light, a radiant, elfish form, transparent, intangible,\ngliding softly along with a huge, black shadow. She was simply clad,\nall in white. About her neck hung a string of pearls, and at her waist\nshe wore the rare orchids which Ames had sent her that afternoon. But\nno one saw her dress. No one marked the pure simplicity of her attire.\nThe absence of sparkling jewels and resplendent raiment evoked no\ncomment. The multitude saw but her wonderful face; her big eyes,\nuplifted in trustful innocence to the massive form at her side; her\nrich brown hair, which glittered like string-gold in the strong light\nthat fell in torrents upon it.\n\n\"Hitt, she isn't human! There's a nimbus about her head!\"\n\n\"I could almost believe it,\" whispered that gentleman, straining his\nlong neck as she passed before him. \"God! has she fallen into Ames's\nnet?\"\n\nImmediately behind Carmen and Ames strode the enraptured Mrs.\nHawley-Crowles, who saw not, neither heard, and who longed for no\nfurther taste of heaven than this stupendous triumph which she had won\nfor herself and the girl. Her heavy, unshapely form was squeezed into\na marvelous costume of gold brocade. A double ballet ruffle of stiff\nwhite tulle encircled it about the hips as a drapery. The bodice was\nof heavy gold net. A pleated band of pale moire, in a delicate shade\nof pink, crossed the left shoulder and was caught at the waist in a\nlarge rose bow, ambassadorial style. A double necklace of diamonds,\none bearing a great pendant of emeralds, and the other an alternation\nof emeralds and diamonds, encircled her short, thick neck. A diamond\ncoronet fitted well around her wonderful amber-colored wig--for, true\nto her determination, she had anticipated the now _pass\u00e9e_ Mrs. Ames\nand had boldly launched the innovation of colored wigs among the smart\nset. An ivory, hand-painted fan, of great value, dangled from her\nthick wrist. And, as she lifted her skirts to an unnecessary height,\nthe gaping people caught the glitter of a row of diamonds in each\nhigh, gilded heel.\n\nAt her side the young Duke of Altern shuffled, his long, thin body\ncurved like a kangaroo, and his monocle bent superciliously upon the\nmass of common clay about him. \"Aw, beastly crush, ye know,\" he\nmurmured from time to time to the unhearing dame at his right. And\nthen, as she replied not, he fell to wondering if she fully realized\nwho he was.\n\nAround and across the great hall the gorgeous pageant swept. The\nbig-mouthed horns bellowed forth their noisy harmony. In the distant\ncorridors great illuminated fountains softly plashed. At the tables\nbeyond, sedulous, touting waiters were hurriedly extracting corks from\nfrosted bottle necks. The rare porcelain and cut glass shone and\nglittered in rainbow tints. The revelers waxed increasingly merry and\ncare-free as they lightly discussed poverty over rich viands and\nsparkling Burgundy. Still further beyond, the massive oak doors, with\ntheir leaded-glass panes, shut out the dark night and the bitter\nblasts of winter. And they shut out, too, another, but none the less\nunreal, externalization of the mortal thought which has found\nexpression in a social system \"too wicked for a smile.\"\n\n\"God, no--I'd get arrested! I can't!\"\n\nThe frail, hungry woman who stood before the great doors clutched her\nwretched shawl closer about her thin shoulders. Her teeth chattered as\nshe stood shivering in the chill wind. Then she hurried away.\n\nAt the corner of the building the cold blast almost swept her off her\nfeet. A man, dirty and unkempt, who had been waiting in an alley, ran\nout and seized her.\n\n\"I say, Jude, ain't ye goin' in? Git arrested--ye'd spend the night in\na warm cell, an' that's better'n our bunk, ain't it?\"\n\n\"I'm goin' to French Lucy's,\" the woman whispered hoarsely. \"I'm dead\nbeat!\"\n\n\"Huh! Ye've lost yer looks, Jude, an' ol' Lucy ain't a-goin' to take\nye in. We gotta snipe somepin quick--or starve! Look, we'll go down to\nMike's place, an' then come back here when it's out, and ye kin pinch\na string, or somepin, eh? Gawd, it's cold!\"\n\nThe woman glanced back at the lights. For a moment she stood listening\nto the music from within. A sob shook her, and she began to cough\nviolently. The man took her arm, not unkindly; and together they moved\naway into the night.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Well, little girl, at last we are alone. Now we can exchange\nconfidences.\" It was Ames talking. He had, late in the evening,\nsecured seats well hidden behind a mass of palms, and thither had led\nCarmen. \"What do you think of it all? Quite a show, eh? Ever see\nanything like this in Simit\u00ed?\"\n\nCarmen looked up at him. She thought him wonderfully handsome. She was\nglad to get away for a moment from the crowd, from the confusion, and\nfrom the unwelcome attentions of the now thoroughly smitten young Duke\nof Altern.\n\n\"No,\" she finally made answer, \"I didn't know there were such things\nin the world.\"\n\nAmes laughed pleasantly. How refreshing was this ingenuous girl! And\nwhat a discovery for him! A new toy--one that would last a long time.\nBut he must be careful of her.\n\n\"Yes,\" he went on genially, \"I'll wager there's millions of dollars'\nworth of jewelry here to-night.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" gasped Carmen. \"And are the people going to sell it and give the\nmoney to the poor?\"\n\n\"Sell it! Ha! ha! Well, I should say not!\"\n\n\"But--this is a--a charity--\"\n\n\"Oh, I see. Quite so. No, it's the money derived from the sale of\ntickets that goes to the poor.\"\n\n\"And how much is that?\"\n\n\"I haven't the slightest idea.\"\n\n\"But--aren't you interested in the poor?\"\n\n\"Of course, of course,\" he hastened to assure her, in his easy casual\ntone.\n\nFor a long time the girl sat reflecting, while he studied her,\nspeculating eagerly on her next remark. Then it came abruptly:\n\n\"Mr. Ames, I have thought a great deal about it, and I think you\npeople by your charity, such as this, only make more charity\nnecessary. Why don't you do away with poverty altogether?\"\n\n\"Do away with it? Well, that's quite impossible, you know. 'The poor\nye have always with you', eh? You see, I know my Bible.\"\n\nShe threw him a glance of astonishment. He was mocking her! She was\ndeeply serious, for charity to her meant love, and love was all in\nall.\n\n\"No,\" she finally replied, shaking her head, \"you do _not_ know your\nBible. It is the poor thought that you have always with you, the\nthought of separation from good. And that thought becomes manifested\noutwardly in what is called poverty.\"\n\nHe regarded her quizzically, while a smile played about his mouth.\n\n\"Why don't you get at the very root of the trouble, and destroy the\npoverty-thought, the thought that there can be any separation from\nGod, who is infinite good?\" she continued earnestly.\n\n\"Well, my dear girl, as for me, I don't know anything about God. As\nfor you, well, you are very innocent in worldly matters. Poverty, like\ndeath, is inevitable, you know.\"\n\n\"You are mistaken,\" she said simply. \"Neither is inevitable.\"\n\n\"Well, well,\" he returned brightly, \"that's good news! Then there is\nno such thing as 'the survival of the fittest,' and the weak needn't\nnecessarily sink, eh?\"\n\nShe looked him squarely in the eyes. \"Do you consider, Mr. Ames, that\nyou have survived as one of the fittest?\"\n\n\"H'm! Well, now--what would you say about that?\"\n\n\"I should say decidedly no,\" was the blunt reply.\n\nA dark shade crossed his face, and he bit his lip. People did not\ngenerally talk thus to him. And yet--this wisp of a girl! Pshaw! She\nwas very amusing. And, heavens above! how beautiful, as she sat there\nbeside him, her head erect, and her face delicately flushed. He\nreached over and took her hand. Instantly she drew it away.\n\n\"You are the kind,\" she went on, \"who give money to the poor, and then\ntake it away from them again. All the money which these rich people\nhere to-night are giving to charity has been wrested from the poor.\nAnd you give only a part of it back to them, at that. This Ball is\njust a show, a show of dress and jewels. Why, it only sets an example\nwhich makes others unhappy, envious, and discontented. Don't you see\nthat? You ought to.\"\n\n\"My dear little girl,\" he said in a patronizing tone, \"don't you think\nyou are assuming a great deal? I'm sure I'm not half so bad as you\npaint me.\"\n\nCarmen smiled. \"Well, the money you give away has got to come from\nsome source, hasn't it? And you manipulate the stock market and put\nthrough wheat corners and all that, and catch the poor people and take\ntheir money from them! Charity is love. But your idea of charity makes\nme pity you. Up here I find a man can pile up hundreds of millions by\nstifling competition, by debauching legislatures, by piracy and\nlegalized theft, and then give a tenth of it to found a university,\nand so atone for his crimes. That is called charity. Oh, I know a lot\nabout such things! I've been studying and thinking a great deal since\nI came to the United States.\"\n\n\"Have you come with a mission?\" he bantered. And there was a touch of\naspersion in his voice.\n\n\"I've come with a message,\" she replied eagerly.\n\n\"Well,\" he said sharply, \"let me warn and advise you: don't join the\nranks of the muck-rakers, as most ambitious reformers with messages\ndo. We've plenty of 'em now. I can tear down as easily as you or\nanybody else. But to build something better is entirely another\nmatter.\"\n\n\"But, Mr. Ames, I've got something better!\"\n\n\"Yes?\" His tone spoke incredulous irony. \"Well, what is it, if I may\nask?\"\n\n\"Love.\"\n\n\"Love, eh? Well, perhaps that's so,\" he said, bending toward her and\nagain attempting to take her hand.\n\n\"I guess,\" she said, drawing back quickly, \"you don't know what love\nis, do you?\"\n\n\"No,\" he whispered softly. \"I don't really believe I do. Will you\nteach me?\"\n\n\"Of course I will,\" she said brightly. \"But you'll have to live it.\nAnd you'll have to do just as I tell you,\" holding up an admonitory\nfinger.\n\n\"I'm yours to command, little woman,\" he returned in mock seriousness.\n\n\"Well,\" she began very softly, \"you must first learn that love is just\nas much a principle as the Binomial Theorem in algebra. Do you know\nwhat that is? And you must apply it just as you would apply any\nprinciple, to everything. And, oh, it is important!\"\n\n\"You sweet little thing,\" he murmured absently, gazing down into her\nglowing face. \"Who taught you such stuff? Where did you learn it? I\nwonder--I wonder if you really are a daughter of the Incas.\"\n\nShe leaned back and laughed heartily. \"Yes,\" she said, \"I am a\nprincess. Of course! Don't I look like one?\"\n\n\"You look like--I wonder--pshaw!\" he passed his hand across his eyes.\n\"Yes, you certainly are a princess. And--do you know?--I wish I might\nbe your prince.\"\n\n\"Oh, you couldn't! Padre Jos\u00e8 has that honor.\" But then her bright\nsmile faded, and she looked off wistfully down the long corridor.\n\n\"Who is he?\" demanded Ames savagely. \"I'll send him a challenge\nto-night!\"\n\n\"No,\" she murmured gently, \"you can't. He's way down in Simit\u00ed. And,\noh, he was so good to me! He made me leave that country on account of\nthe war.\"\n\nThe man started slightly. This innocent girl little knew that one of\nthe instigators of that bloody revolution sat there beside her. Then a\nnew thought flashed into his brain. \"What is the full name of this\npriest?\" he suddenly asked.\n\n\"Jos\u00e8--Jos\u00e8 de Rinc\u00f3n,\" she whispered reverently.\n\nJos\u00e8 de Rinc\u00f3n--of Simit\u00ed--whom Wenceslas had made the scapegoat of\nthe revolution! Why, yes, that was the man! And who, according to a\nrecent report from Wenceslas, had been arrested and--\n\n\"A--a--where did you say this--this Jos\u00e8 was, little girl?\" he asked\ngently.\n\n\"In Simit\u00ed,\" she replied. \"He is working out his problem.\"\n\nHis eyes shifted quickly from hers. But he could not hold them away.\n\n\"His problem?\"\n\n\"Yes. You know, he never was a priest at heart. But, though he saw the\ntruth, in part, he was not able to prove it enough to set himself\nfree; and so when I came away he stayed behind to work out his\nproblem. And he will work it all out,\" she mused abstractedly, looking\noff into the distance; \"he will work it all out and come--to me. I\nam--I am working with him, now--and for him. And--\" her voice dropped\nto a whisper, \"I love him, oh, so much!\"\n\nAmes's steely eyes narrowed. His mouth opened; then shut again with a\nsharp snap. That beautiful creature now belonged to him, and to none\nother! Were there other claimants, he would crush them without mercy!\nAs for this apostate priest, Jos\u00e8--humph! if he still lived he should\nrot the rest of his days in the reeking dungeons of San Fernando!\n\nCarmen looked up. \"When he comes to me,\" she said softly, \"we are\ngoing to give ourselves to the whole world.\"\n\nAmes appeared not to hear.\n\n\"And--perhaps--perhaps, by that time, you will be--be--\"\n\n\"Well?\" snapped the man, irritated by the return of her thought to\nhimself.\n\n\"Different,\" finished the girl gently.\n\n\"Humph! Different, eh?\"\n\n\"Yes. Perhaps by that time you will--you will love everybody,\" she\nmurmured. \"Perhaps you won't go on piling up big mountains of money\nthat you can't use, and that you won't let anybody else use.\"\n\nAmes frowned upon her. \"Yes?\" he said ironically.\n\n\"You will know then that Jesus founded his great empire on love. Your\nempire, you know, is human business. But you will find that such\nempires crumble and fall. And yours will, like all the rest.\"\n\n\"Say,\" he exclaimed, turning full upon her and seeming to bear her\ndown by his tremendous personality, \"you young and inexperienced\nreformers might learn a few things, too, if your prejudices could be\nsurmounted. Has it ever occurred to you that we men of business think\nnot so much about accumulating money as about achieving success? Do\nyou suppose you could understand that money-making is but a side issue\nwith us?\"\n\n\"Achieving success!\" she echoed, looking wonderingly at him.\n\"Well--are you--a success?\"\n\nHe started to reply. Then he checked himself. A flush stole across his\nface. Then his eyes narrowed.\n\n\"Yes,\" the girl went on, as if in quiet soliloquy, \"I suppose you\nare--a tremendous worldly success. And this Ball--it is a splendid\nsuccess, too. Thousands of dollars will be raised for the poor. And\nthen, next year, the same thing will have to be done again. Your\ncharities cost you hundreds of millions every year up here. And,\nmeantime, you rich men will go right on making more money at the\nexpense of your fellow-men--and you will give a little of it to the\npoor when the next Charity Ball comes around. It's like a circle,\nisn't it?\" she said, smiling queerly up at him. \"It has no end, you\nknow.\"\n\nAmes had now decided to swallow his annoyance and meet the girl with\nthe lance of frivolity. \"Yes, I guess that's so,\" he began. \"But of\ncourse you will admit that the world is slowly getting better, and\nthat world-progress must of necessity be gradual. We can't reform all\nin a minute, can we?\"\n\nShe shook her head. \"I don't know how fast you might reform if you\nreally, sincerely tried. But I think it would be very fast. And if\nyou, a great, big, powerful man, with the most wonderful opportunities\nin the world, should really try to be a success, why--well, I'm sure\nyou'd make very rapid progress, and help others like you by setting\nsuch a great example. For you are a wonderful man--you really are.\"\n\nAmes looked at her long and quizzically. What did the girl mean? Then\nhe took her hand, this time without resistance.\n\n\"Tell me, little girl--although I know there can be no doubt of\nit--are you a success?\"\n\nShe raised her luminous eyes to his. \"Yes,\" she replied simply.\n\nHe let fall her hand in astonishment. \"Well!\" he ejaculated, \"would\nyou mind telling me just why?\"\n\nShe smiled up at him, and her sweet trustfulness drew his sagging\nheartstrings suddenly taut.\n\n\"Because,\" she said simply, \"I strive every moment to 'acquire that\nmind which was in Christ Jesus.'\"\n\nSilence fell upon them. From amusement to wonder, to irritation, to\nanger, then to astonishment, and a final approximation to something\nakin to reverent awe had been the swift course of the man's emotions\nas he sat in this secluded nook beside this strange girl. The\npoisoned arrows of his worldly thought had broken one by one against\nthe shield of her protecting faith. His badinage had returned to\nconfound himself. The desire to possess had utterly fled before the\nconviction that such thought was as wildly impossible as iniquitous.\n\nThen he suddenly became conscious that the little body beside him had\ndrawn closer--that it was pressing against him--that a little hand had\nstolen gently into his--and that a soft voice, soft as the summer\nwinds that sigh among the roses, was floating to his ears.\n\n\"To be really great is to be like that wonderful man, Jesus. It is to\nknow that through him the great Christ-principle worked and did those\nthings which the world will not accept, because it thinks them\nmiracles. It is to know that God is love, and to act that knowledge.\nIt is to know that love is the Christ-principle, and that it will\ndestroy every error, every discord, everything that is unlike itself.\nIt is to yield your present false sense of happiness and good to the\ntrue sense of God as infinite good. It is to bring every thought into\ncaptivity to this Christ-principle, love. It is to stop looking at\nevil as a reality. It is to let go your hold on it, and let it fade\naway before the wonderful truth that God is everywhere, and that there\nisn't anything apart from Him. Won't you try it? You will have to,\nsome day. I have tried it. I know it's true. I've proved it.\"\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nHow long they sat in the quiet that followed, neither knew. Then the\nman suffered himself to be led silently back to the ball room again.\nAnd when he had recovered and restored his worldly self, the bright\nlittle image was no longer at his side.\n\n\"Stand here, Jude, an' when they begins to come out to their gasoline\ncarts grab anything ye can, an' git. I'll work over by the door.\"\n\nThe shivering woman crept closer to the curb, and the man slouched\nback against the wall close to the exit from which the revelers would\nsoon emerge. A distant clock over a jeweler's window chimed the hour\nof four. A moment later the door opened, and a lackey came out and\nloudly called the number of the Hawley-Crowles car. That ecstatically\nhappy woman, with Carmen and the obsequious young Duke of Altern,\nappeared behind him in the flood of light.\n\nAs the big car drew softly up, the wretched creature whom the man had\ncalled Jude darted from behind it and plunged full at Carmen. But the\ngirl had seen her coming, and she met her with outstretched arm. The\nglare from the open door fell full upon them.\n\n\"Jude!\"\n\n\"God!\" cried the woman. \"It's the little kid!\"\n\nShe turned to flee. Carmen held her. With a quick movement the girl\ntore the string of pearls from her neck and thrust it into Jude's\nhand. The latter turned swiftly and darted into the blackness of the\nstreet. Then Carmen hurriedly entered the car, followed by her\nstupefied companions. It had all been done in a moment of time.\n\n\"Good heavens!\" cried Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, when she had recovered her\ncomposure sufficiently to speak. \"What does this mean? What did you\ndo?\"\n\nBut Carmen replied not. And the Duke of Altern rubbed his weak eyes\nand tried hard to think.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 16\n\n\nBefore Mrs. Hawley-Crowles sought her bed that morning the east was\nred with the winter sun. \"The loss of the pearls is bad enough,\" she\nexclaimed in conclusion, glowering over the young girl who sat before\nher, \"for I paid a good three thousand for the string! But, in\naddition, to scandalize me before the world--oh, how could you? And\nthis unspeakable Jude--and that awful house--heavens, girl! Who would\nbelieve your story if it should get out?\" The worried woman's face was\nbathed in cold perspiration.\n\n\"But--she saved me from--from that place,\" protested the harassed\nCarmen. \"She was poor and cold--I could see that. Why should I have\nthings that I don't need when others are starving?\"\n\nMrs. Hawley-Crowles shook her weary head in despair. Her sister, Mrs.\nReed, who had sat fixing the girl with her cold eyes throughout the\nstormy interview following their return from the ball, now offered a\nsuggestion. \"The thing to do is to telephone immediately to all the\nnewspapers, and say that her beads were stolen last night.\"\n\n\"But they weren't stolen,\" asserted the girl. \"I gave them to her--\"\n\n\"Go to your room!\" commanded Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, at the limit of her\nendurance. \"And never, under any circumstances, speak of this affair\nto any one--never!\"\n\nThe social crown, which had rested none too securely upon the gilded\nwig of the dynamic Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, had been given a jolt that set\nit tottering.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was very clear to Mrs. J. Wilton Ames after the Charity Ball that\nshe was engaged in a warfare to the death, and with the most\nrelentless of enemies. Nothing short of the miraculous could now\ndethrone the detested Mrs. Hawley-Crowles and her beautiful,\nmysterious ward. She dolefully acknowledged to herself and to the\nsulking Kathleen that she had been asleep, that she had let her foot\nslip, and that her own husband's conduct in leading the grand march\nwith Carmen bade fair to give the _coup de gr\u00e2ce_ to a social prestige\nwhich for many weeks had been decidedly on the wane.\n\n\"Mamma, we'll have to think up some new stunts,\" said the dejected\nKathleen over the teacups the noon following the ball. \"Why, they've\neven broken into the front page of the newspapers with a fake jewelry\ntheft! Look, they pretend that the little minx was robbed of her\nstring of pearls last night on leaving the hall. I call that pretty\ncheap notoriety!\"\n\nMrs. Ames's lip curled in disdain as she read the news item. \"An Inca\nprincess, indeed! Nobody knows who she is, nor what! Why doesn't\nsomebody take the trouble to investigate her? They'd probably find her\nan outcast.\"\n\n\"Couldn't papa look her up?\" suggested Kathleen.\n\nMrs. Ames did not reply. She had no wish to discuss her husband, after\nthe affair of the previous evening. And, even in disregard of that,\nshe would not have gone to him with the matter. For she and her\nconsort, though living under the same roof, nevertheless saw each\nother but seldom. At times they met in the household elevator; and for\nthe sake of appearances they managed to dine together with Kathleen in\na strained, unnatural way two or three times a week, at which times no\nmention was ever made of the son who had been driven from the parental\nroof. There were no exchanges of confidences or affection, and Mrs.\nAmes knew but little of the working of his mentality. She was wholly\nunder the dominance of her masterful husband, merely an accessory to\nhis mode of existence. He used her, as he did countless others, to\nbuttress a certain side of his very complex life. As for assistance in\ndetermining Carmen's status, there was none to be obtained from him,\nstrongly attracted by the young girl as he had already shown himself\nto be. Indeed, she might be grateful if the attachment did not lead to\nfar unhappier consequences!\n\n\"Larry Beers said yesterday that he had something new,\" she replied\nirrelevantly to Kathleen's question. \"He has in tow a Persian dervish,\nwho sticks knives through his mouth, and drinks melted lead, and bites\nred-hot pokers, and a lot of such things. Larry says he's the most\nwonderful he's ever seen, and I'm going to have him and a real Hindu\n_swami_ for next Wednesday evening.\"\n\nNew York's conspicuous set indeed would have languished often but for\nthe social buffoonery of the clever Larry Beers, who devised new\ndiversions and stimulating mental condiments for the jaded brains of\nthat gilded cult. His table ballets, his bizarre parlor circuses, his\ncunningly devised fads in which he set forth his own inimitable\nantics, won him the motley and the cap and bells of this tinseled\ncourt, and forced him well out into the glare of publicity, which was\nwhat he so much desired.\n\nAnd by that much it made him as dangerous as any stupid anarchist who\ntoils by candle-light over his crude bombs. For by it he taught the\ngreat mass of citizenship who still retained their simple ideals of\nreason and respect that there existed a social caste, worshipers of\nthe golden calf, to whom the simple, humdrum virtues were quite\nunendurable, and who, utterly devoid of conscience, would quaff\nchampagne and dance on the raw, quivering hearts of their fellow-men\nwith glee, if thereby their jaded appetites for novelty and\nentertainment might be for the moment appeased.\n\nAnd so Larry Beers brought his _swami_ and dervish to the Ames\nmansion, and caused his hostess to be well advertised in the\nnewspapers the following day. And he caused the eyes of Carmen to\nbulge, and her thought to swell with wonder, as she gazed. And he\ncaused the bepowdered nose of Mrs. Hawley-Crowles to stand a bit\ncloser to the perpendicular, while she sat devising schemes to cast a\nshade over this clumsy entertainment.\n\nThe chief result was that, a week later, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, still\nrunning true to form, retorted with a superb imitation of the French\n_Bal de l'Op\u00e9ra_, once so notable under the Empire. The Beaubien had\nfurnished the inspiring idea--and the hard cash.\n\n\"I wonder why I do it?\" that woman had meditated. \"Why do I continue\nto lend her money and take her notes? I wanted to ruin her, at first.\nI don't--I don't seem to feel that way now. Is it because of Carmen?\nOr is it because I hate that Ames woman so? I wonder if I do still\nhate her? At any rate I'm glad to see Carmen oust the proud hussy from\nher place. It's worth all I've spent, even if I burn the notes I hold\nagainst Jim Crowles's widow.\"\n\nAnd often after that, when at night the Beaubien had sought her bed,\nshe would lie for hours in the dim light meditating, wondering. \"It's\nCarmen!\" she would always conclude. \"It's Carmen. She's making me over\nagain. I'm not the same woman I was when she came into my life. Oh,\nGod bless her--if there is a God!\"\n\nThe mock _Bal de l'Op\u00e9ra_ was a magnificent _f\u00eate_. All the members of\nthe smart set were present, and many appeared in costumes representing\nflowers, birds, and vegetables. Carmen went as a white rose; and her\ngreat natural beauty, set off by an exquisite costume, made her the\nfairest flower of the whole garden. The Duke of Altern, costumed as a\nlong carrot, fawned in her wake throughout the evening. The tubbily\ngirthy Gannette, dressed to represent a cabbage, opposed her every\nstep as he bobbed before her, showering his viscous compliments upon\nthe graceful creature. Kathleen Ames appeared as a bluebird; and she\nwould have picked the fair white rose to pieces if she could, so\nwildly jealous did she become at the sight of Carmen's further\ntriumph.\n\nAbout midnight, when the revelry was at its height, a door at the end\nof the hall swung open, and a strong searchlight was turned full upon\nit. The orchestra burst into the wailing dead march from _Saul_, and\nout through the glare of light stalked the giant form of J. Wilton\nAmes, gowned in dead black to represent a King Vulture, and with a\nblood-red fez surmounting his cruel mask. As he stepped out upon the\nplatform which had been constructed to represent the famous bridge in\n\"_Sumurun_,\" and strode toward the main floor, a murmur involuntarily\nrose from the assemblage. It was a murmur of awe, of horror, of fear.\nThe \"_monstrum horrendum_\" of Poe was descending upon them in the garb\nwhich alone could fully typify the character of the man! When he\nreached the end of the bridge the huge creature stopped and distended\nhis enormous sable wings.\n\n\"Good God!\" cried Gannette, as he thought of his tremendous financial\nobligations to Ames.\n\nCarmen shuddered and turned away from the awful spectacle. \"I want to\ngo,\" she said to the petrified Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, who had known\nnothing of this feature of the program.\n\nStraight to the trembling, white-clad girl the great, black vulture\nstalked. The revelers fell away from him on either side as he\napproached. Carmen turned again and watched him come. Her face was\nashen. \"God is everywhere,\" she murmured.\n\nThen her anxious look faded. A light came into her eyes, and a smile\nwreathed her mouth. And when Ames reached her and extended his huge,\nblack wings again, she walked straight into them with a look of joy\nupon her beautiful face. Then the wings closed and completely hid the\nfair, white form from the gaping crowd.\n\nFor a few moments dead silence reigned throughout the hall. Then the\norchestra crashed, the vulture's wings slowly opened, and the girl,\nwho would have gone to the stake with the same incomprehensible smile,\nstepped out. The black monster turned and strode silently, ominously,\nback to the end of the hall, crossed the bridge, and disappeared\nthrough the door which opened at his approach.\n\n\"I'm going home!\" said the shaken Gannette to his perspiring wife.\n\"That looks bad to me! That girl's done for; and Ames has taken this\nway to publicly announce the fact! My God!\"\n\nThere was another astonished watcher in the audience that evening. It\nwas the eminent Monsignor Lafelle, recently back from Europe by way of\nthe West Indies. And after the episode just related, he approached\nCarmen and Mrs. Hawley-Crowles.\n\n\"A very clever, if startling, performance,\" he commented; \"and with\ntwo superb actors, Mr. Ames and our little friend here,\" bowing over\nCarmen's hand.\n\n\"I am _so_ glad you could accept our invitation, Monsignor. But,\ndear me! I haven't got my breath yet,\" panted the steaming Mrs.\nHawley-Crowles. \"Do take us, Monsignor, to the refectory. I feel\nfaint.\"\n\nA few moments later, over their iced drinks, Lafelle was relating\nvivid incidents of his recent travels, and odd bits of news from\nCartagena. \"No, Miss Carmen,\" he said, in reply to her anxious\ninquiries, \"I did not meet the persons you have mentioned. And as for\ngetting up the Magdalena river, it would have been quite impossible.\nDismiss from your mind all thought of going down there now. Cartagena\nis tense with apprehension. The inland country is seething. And the\nlittle town of Simit\u00ed which you mention, I doubt not it is quite shut\noff from the world by the war.\"\n\nCarmen turned aside that he might not see the tears which welled into\nher eyes.\n\n\"Your entertainment, Madam,\" continued Lafelle, addressing the now\nrecovered Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, \"is superb, as have been all of your\nsocial projects this winter, I learn. The thought which you expressed\nto me some months ago regarding Catholic activity in social matters\ncertainly was well founded. I perceive that our Protestant rivals have\nall but retired from the field.\"\n\nMrs. Hawley-Crowles swelled with pride. Carmen regarded the churchman\nwith wonder.\n\n\"And have you not found a sense of peace, of satisfaction and comfort,\nsince you united with the true Church?\" Lafelle went on. \"Are you not\nat last at rest?\"\n\n\"Quite so,\" sighed the lady, though the sigh was scarcely one of\nunalloyed relief.\n\nLafelle turned to Carmen. \"And our little friend here--can she still\nremain an alien, now that she has some knowledge of her indebtedness\nto the Church?\"\n\nCarmen looked blank. \"My indebtedness to the Church!\" she repeated.\n\"Why--\"\n\nIt was now Lafelle's turn to sigh, as he directed himself again to\nMrs. Hawley-Crowles. \"She does not see, Madam, that it was by the\nladder of Holy Church that she mounted to her present enviable social\nheight.\"\n\n\"But--what--what do you mean?\" stammered the bewildered girl.\n\n\"May I not come and explain it to her?\" said Lafelle. Then he suddenly\nthought of his last conversation with the Beaubien. But he shrugged\nhis shoulders, and a defiant look sat upon his features.\n\nMrs. Hawley-Crowles dared not refuse the request. She knew she was now\ntoo deeply enmeshed for resistance, and that Lafelle's control over\nher was complete--unless she dared to face social and financial ruin.\nAnd under that thought she paled and grew faint, for it raised the\ncurtain upon chaos and black night.\n\n\"Would it be convenient for me to call to-morrow afternoon?\" continued\nthe churchman.\n\n\"Certainly,\" murmured Mrs. Hawley-Crowles in a scarcely audible\nvoice.\n\n\"By the way,\" Lafelle said, suddenly turning the conversation, \"how,\nmay I ask, is our friend, Madam Beaubien?\"\n\nMrs. Hawley-Crowles again trembled slightly. \"I--I have not seen her\nmuch of late, Monsignor,\" she said feebly.\n\n\"A strong and very liberal-minded woman,\" returned Lafelle with\nemphasis. \"I trust, as your spiritual adviser, Madam, I may express\nthe hope that you are in no way influenced by her.\"\n\n\"Sir!\" cried Carmen, who had bounded to her feet, her eyes ablaze,\n\"Madam Beaubien is a noble woman!\"\n\n\"My dear child!\" Lafelle grasped her hand and drew her back into her\nchair. \"You misunderstand me, quite. Madam Beaubien is a very dear\nfriend of ours, and we greatly admire her strength of character. She\ncertainly does not require your defense! Dear! dear! you quite\nstartled me.\"\n\nA few moments later he rose and offered his arms to his companions to\nlead them back to the hall. Delivering Carmen into the charge of the\neagerly waiting Duke of Altern, Lafelle remarked, as he took leave of\nMrs. Hawley-Crowles, \"I trust you will permit me to talk with your\nbeautiful ward to-morrow afternoon--alone.\" And when the lady\ninterpreted the significance of his look, her heart beat rapidly, as\nshe bowed her acknowledgment of abject submission.\n\n\"Bah Jove!\" ejaculated the young Duke, clutching Carmen. \"Ye know, I\nwas deucedly afraid you had gone home, or that Uncle Wilton had you.\nYe know, I think I'm jealous of him!\"\n\nCarmen laughed merrily at the fellow. His grotesque costume made him\nappear still more ridiculous.\n\n\"It's nothing to laugh at, Miss Carmen! It's a bally bore to have a\nregular mountain like him always getting in the way; and to-night I\njust made up my mind I wouldn't stand it any longer, bah Jove! I say,\ncome on!\"\n\nHe fixed his monocle savagely in his eye and strode rapidly toward\nthe refreshment hall. Carmen went in silence. She heard his murmur of\ngratification when his gaze lighted upon the chairs and table which\nhe had evidently arranged previously in anticipation of this\n_t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate_.\n\n\"Ye know,\" he finally began, after they were seated and he had sat\nsome minutes staring at the girl, \"ye know, you're deucedly clevah,\nMiss Carmen! I told mother so to-day, and this time she had to agree.\nAnd that about your being an Inca princess--ye know, I could see that\nfrom the very first day I met you. Mighty romantic, and all that,\ndon't ye know!\"\n\n\"Indeed, yes!\" replied the girl, her thought drifting back to distant\nSimit\u00ed.\n\n\"And all about that mine you own in South America--and Mrs.\nHawley-Crowles making you her heiress--and all that--bah Jove!\nIt's--it's romantic, I tell you!\" His head continued to nod emphasis\nto his thought long after he finished speaking.\n\n\"Ye know,\" he finally resumed, drawing a gold-crested case from a\npocket and lighting a monogrammed cigarette, \"a fellow can always tell\nanother who is--well, who belongs to the aristocracy. Mrs. Ames, ye\nknow, said she had some suspicions about you. But I could see right\noff that it was because she was jealous. Mother and I knew what you\nwere the minute we clapped eyes on you. That's because we belong to\nthe nobility, ye know.\"\n\nHe smoked in silence for some moments. Carmen was far, far away.\n\n\"Bah Jove, Miss Carmen, I'm going to say it!\" he suddenly blurted.\n\"Mother wanted me to marry Lord Cragmont's filly; but, bah Jove, I\nsay, I'm going to marry you!\"\n\nCarmen now heard, and she quickly sat up, her eyes wide and staring.\n\"Marry me!\" she exclaimed.\n\n\"Yes,\" he went on. \"Oh, it's all right. You're a princess, ye know,\nand so you're in our class. I'm not one of the kind that hands out a\ntitle to the red-nosed daughter of any American pork packer just to\nget her money. Not me! The girl I marry has got to be my equal.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" murmured the astonished Carmen.\n\n\"It's all right for you to have money, of course. I won't marry a\npauper, even if she's a duchess. But you and I, Miss Carmen, are just\nsuited to each other--wealth and nobility on each side. I've got\nthirty thousand good British acres in my own right, bah Jove!\"\n\nBy now Carmen had fully recovered from her surprise. She reflected a\nmoment, then determined to meet the absurd youth with the spirit of\nlevity which his audacity merited. \"But, Reginald,\" she said in mock\nseriousness, \"though your father was a duke, how about your mother?\nWas she not just an ordinary American girl, a sister of plain Mrs. J.\nWilton Ames? Where's the aristocracy there? Now on my side--\"\n\n\"Now, Miss Carmen,\" cried the boy petulantly, \"can't you see that, by\nmarrying my father, my mother became ennobled? Bah Jove, you don't\nunderstand! Were your parents both noble?\"\n\n\"Indeed they were!\" said Carmen. \"They were both children of a king.\"\n\n\"You don't say!\" he whispered, leaning far over the table toward her.\n\"Then we've simply _got_ to marry!\"\n\n\"But,\" protested the girl, \"in my country people love those whom they\nmarry. I haven't heard a word of that from you.\"\n\n\"Now, I say!\" he exclaimed. \"I was just getting round to that. It was\nlove that made me offer you my name and title!\"\n\n\"Yes? Love of what?\"\n\n\"Why--you--of course!\"\n\nShe laughed musically. \"My dear Reginald, you don't love me. It is\nyourself that you love. You are madly in love, it is true; but it is\nwith the young Duke of Altern.\"\n\n\"See here, you can't talk to me that way, ye know!\" he flared out.\n\"Bah Jove, I'm offering to make you a duchess--and I love you, too,\nthough you may not think it!\"\n\n\"Of course you love me, Reginald,\" said Carmen in gentle reply, now\nrelinquishing her spirit of badinage; \"and I love you. But I do not\nwish to marry you.\"\n\nThe young man started under the shock and stared at her in utter lack\nof comprehension. Was it possible that this unknown girl was refusing\nhim, a duke? She must be mad!\n\n\"A--a--I don't get you, Miss Carmen,\" he stammered.\n\n\"Come,\" she said, rising and holding out a hand. \"Let's not talk about\nthis any more. We must go back to the hall. I do love you, Reginald,\nbut not in the way that perhaps you would like. I love the real _you_;\nnot the vain, foolish, self-adoring human concept, called the Duke of\nAltern. And the love I feel for you will help you, oh, far more than\nif I married you! Come.\"\n\n\"But--Miss Carmen!\" He stood before her with mouth open.\n\n\"Yes, Reginald.\"\n\n\"I--I expected we'd be engaged--I told mother--\"\n\n\"Very well, Reginald, we are engaged. Engaged in handling this little\nproblem that has presented itself to you. Do you see? And I will help\nyou to solve it in the right way. For you need help. Reginald dear, I\ndidn't mean to treat your proposal so lightly. I am sorry. There, give\nme your hand. We're just awfully good friends, aren't we? And I do\nlove you, more than you think.\"\n\nLeaving the bewildered youth in the hall, Carmen fell afoul of the\nvery conservative Mrs. Gannette, whose husband, suffering from a sense\nof nausea since the appearance of Ames as a King Vulture, had some\nmoments before summoned his car and driven to his favorite club to\nflood his apprehensions with Scotch high-balls.\n\n\"Ah, little sly-boots!\" piped Mrs. Gannette, shaking a finger at\nCarmen. \"I saw you with Reginald just now. I'm awfully wise about such\nthings. Tell me, dear, when shall we be able to call you the Duchess\nof Altern? You lucky girl!\"\n\nCarmen's spirits sank, as, without reply, she submitted to the banal\nboredom of this blustering dame's society gabble. Mrs. Gannette hooked\nher arm into the girl's and led her to a divan. \"It's a great affair,\nisn't it?\" she panted, settling her round, unshapely form out over the\nseat. \"Dear me! I did intend to come in costume. Was coming as a\ntomato. Ha! ha! Thought that was better adapted to my shape. But when\nI got the cloth form around me, do you know, I couldn't get through\nthe door! And my unlovely pig of a husband said if I came looking like\nthat he'd get a divorce.\" The corpulent dame shook and wheezed with\nthe expression of her abundant merriment.\n\n\"Well,\" she continued, \"it wasn't his threat that hindered me,\ngoodness knows! A divorce would be a relief, after living forty years\nwith him! Say, there goes young Doctor Worley. Speaking of divorce,\nhe's just got one. It all came round through a joke. Billy Patterson\ndared him to exchange wives with him one evening when they were having\na little too much gaiety at the Worley home, and the doctor took the\ndare. Ha! ha! The men swapped wives for two days. What do you think of\nthat! And this divorce was the result. But Billy took his wife back.\nHe thought it was just a good joke. Kate Worley gets an alimony of\nfifty thousand per. But the doctor can stand it. Why, he has a\npractice of not less than two hundred and fifty thousand a year!\"\n\n\"I supposed,\" murmured Carmen, \"that amount of money is a measure of\nhis ability, a proof of his great usefulness.\"\n\n\"Nothing of the kind,\" replied Mrs. Gannette. \"He's simply in with the\nwealthy, that's all. Dear! dear! Do look at that fright over there!\nIt's Lizzie Wall. Now isn't she simply hideous! Those diamonds are\nnothing but paste! The hussy!\"\n\nCarmen glanced at the pale, slender woman across the hall, seated\nalone, and wearing a look of utter weariness.\n\n\"I'd like to meet her,\" she said, suddenly drawn by the woman's mute\nappeal for sympathy.\n\n\"Don't do it!\" hastily interposed Mrs. Gannette. \"She's going to be\ndropped. Name's already on the black list. I don't know what Mrs.\nHawley-Crowles was thinking of to invite her to-night! Her estate is\nbeing handled by Ames and Company, and J. Wilton says there won't be\nmuch left when it's settled--\n\n\"My goodness!\" she exclaimed, abruptly flitting to another topic.\n\"There goes Miss Tottle. Look at her skirt--flounced at the knees, and\nfull in the back so's to give a bustle effect. My! I wish I could wear\ntogs cut that way--\n\n\"They say, my dear,\" the garrulous old worldling prattled on, \"that\nnext season's styles will be very ultra. Butterfly idea, I hear. Hats\nsmall and round, like the heads of butterflies. Waists and jackets\nvery full and quite loose in the back and shoulders, so's to give the\nappearance of wings. Belts, but no drawing in at the waist. Skirts\nplaited, plaits opening wide at the knees and coming close together\nagain at the ankle, so's to look like the body of a butterfly. Then\nbutterfly bows sprinkled all over.\"\n\nShe paused for breath. Then she drew a long sigh. \"Oh dear,\" she\nlamented, \"I'd give anything if I had a decent shape! I'd like to wear\nthose shimmering, flowing, transparent summer things over silk tights.\nBut, mercy me! I'd look like a potato busted wide open. Now you can\nwear those X-ray dresses all right--\n\n\"Say, Kathleen Ames has a new French gown to wear to the Dog Show.\nSkirt slit clear to the knee, with diamond garter around the leg just\nbelow. How I'd look! I have a leg like a ham!\"\n\nCarmen heard little of this vapid talk, as she sat studying the pale\nwoman across the hall. She had resolved to meet her just as soon as\nthe loquacious Mrs. Gannette should seek another victim. But that\ngenial old gossip gave no present evidence of a desire to change.\n\n\"I'm _so_ glad you're going to marry young Altern,\" she said, again\nswerving the course of her conversation. \"He's got a fine old ruined\ncastle somewhere in England, and seems to have wads of money, though I\nhear that everything is mortgaged to Ames. I wouldn't be surprised.\nStill, his bare title is worth something to an American girl. Besides,\nyou've got money. And you'll do a lot for his family. You know--but\ndon't breathe a word of this!--his mother never was recognized\nsocially in England, and she finally had to give up the fight. For a\nwhile Ames backed her, but it wouldn't do. His millions couldn't buy\nher the court entr\u00e9e, and she just had to quit. That's why she's over\nhere now. The old Duke--he was lots older than she--died a couple of\nyears ago. Ran through everything and drank himself to death. Before\nand since that happy event the Duchess did everything under the\nheavens to get a bid to court. She gave millions to charity and to\nentertainments. She sacrificed everything. But, no sir! It wouldn't\ndo. She had no royal blood. But with you it will be different. You're\na princess, royal Inca, and such like. You qualify right from the\njump. So you see what you're expected to do for the Altern crowd--\n\n\"Dear! dear!\" catching her breath and switching quickly to another\ntheme, \"have you heard about the Hairton scandal? It's simply rich!\nYou see, young Sidney Ames--\"\n\nCarmen's patience had touched its limit. \"Don't, please don't!\" she\nbegged, holding out a hand. \"I do not wish to hear it!\"\n\nMrs. Gannette raised her lorgnette and looked at the girl. \"Why, my\ndear! what's the matter? The scandal's about Ames's son, you know. The\nreason he doesn't go in society. Just come to light. You see--\"\n\n\"My dear Mrs. Gannette,\" Carmen looked up at her with a beseeching\nsmile. \"You wouldn't deliberately give me poison to drink, would\nyou?\"\n\n\"Why, certainly not!\" blustered that garrulous lady in astonishment.\n\n\"Then why do you poison my mind with such conversation?\"\n\n\"What!\"\n\n\"You sit there pouring into my mentality thought after thought that is\ndeadly poisonous, don't you know it?\"\n\n\"Why--!\"\n\n\"You don't mean to harm me, I know,\" pleaded the girl. \"But if you\nonly understood mental laws you would know that every thought entering\none's mind tends to become manifested in some way. Thoughts of\ndisease, disaster, death, scandal--all tend to become externalized in\ndiscordant ways, either on the body, or in the environment. You don't\nwant any such things manifested to me, do you? But you might just as\nwell hand me poison to drink as to sit there and pour such deadly\nconversation into me.\"\n\nMrs. Gannette slowly drew herself up with the hauteur of a grandee.\nCarmen seized her hand. \"I do not want to listen to these unreal\nthings which concern only the human mind,\" she said earnestly. \"Nor\nshould you, if you are truly aristocratic, for aristocracy is of the\nthought. I am not going to marry Reginald. A human title means nothing\nto me. But one's thought--that alone is one's claim to _real_\naristocracy. I know I have offended you, but only because I refuse to\nlet you poison me. Now I will go.\"\n\nShe left the divan and the petrified dame, and hurriedly mingled with\nthe crowd on the floor.\n\n\"The little cat!\" exploded Mrs. Gannette, when she again found\nherself. \"She has mortally insulted me!\"\n\nCarmen went directly to the pale woman, still sitting alone, who had\nbeen one of the objects of Mrs. Gannette's slighting remarks. The\nwoman glanced up as she saw the girl approaching, and a look of wonder\ncame into her eyes. Carmen held out a hand.\n\n\"I am Carmen Ariza,\" she said simply. \"You are Miss Wall. I want you\nto be my friend.\"\n\nThe woman roused up and tried to appear composed.\n\n\"Will you ride with me to-morrow?\" continued Carmen. \"Then we can talk\nall we want to, with nobody to overhear. Aren't you happy?\" she\nabruptly added, unable longer to withstand the appeal which issued\nmutely from the lusterless eyes before her.\n\nThe woman smiled wanly. \"Not so very,\" she replied slowly.\n\n\"Well!\" exclaimed Carmen; \"what's wrong?\"\n\n\"I am poverty-stricken,\" returned the woman sadly.\n\n\"But I will give you money,\" Carmen quickly replied.\n\n\"My dear child,\" said the woman, \"I haven't anything but money. That\nis why I am poverty-stricken.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" the girl exclaimed, sinking into a chair at her side. \"Well,\"\nshe added, brightening, \"now you have me! And will you call me up,\nfirst thing in the morning, and arrange to ride with me? I want you\nto, so much!\"\n\nThe woman's eyes grew moist. \"Yes,\" she murmured, \"I will--gladly.\"\n\nIn the small hours of the morning there were several heads tossing in\nstubborn wakefulness on their pillows in various New York mansions.\nBut Carmen's was not one of them.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 17\n\n\nOn the morning following Mrs. Hawley-Crowles's very successful\nimitation of the _Bal de l'Op\u00e9ra_, Monsignor Lafelle paid an early\ncall to the Ames _sanctum_. And the latter gentleman deemed the visit\nof sufficient importance to devote a full hour to his caller. When the\nchurchman rose to take his leave he reiterated:\n\n\"Our friend Wenceslas will undertake the matter for you, Mr. Ames, but\non the conditions which I have named. But Rome must be communicated\nwith, and the substance of her replies must be sent from Cartagena to\nyou, and your letters forwarded to her. That might take us into early\nsummer. But there is no likelihood that Mr. Ketchim's engineers will\nmake any further attempt before that time to enter Colombia. Mr. Reed\nin still in California. Mr. Harris is in Denver, at his old home, you\ntell me. So we need look for no immediate move from them.\"\n\n\"Quite satisfactory, Lafelle,\" returned Ames genially. \"In future, if\nI can be of service to you, I am yours to command. Mr. Willett will\nhand you a check covering your traveling expenses on my behalf.\"\n\nWhen the door closed after Lafelle, Ames leaned back in his chair and\ngave himself up to a moment's reflection. \"I wonder,\" he mused, \"I\nwonder if the fellow has something up his sleeve that he didn't show\nme? He acted suspiciously. Perhaps he's getting a bit dangerous. He\nmay know too much already. I'm going to drop him after this trap is\nsprung. He's got Jim Crowles's widow all tied up, too. I wonder if\nhe--by heaven! if he begins work on that girl I'll--\"\n\nHe was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone bell. It was\nGannette. \"What?\" shouted Ames, \"you say the girl insulted your\nwife last evening? I don't believe she could--Yes, yes, I mean, I\ndon't think she meant to--certainly not, no aspersion whatever\nintended--What? the girl will have to apologize?--Well! well--No,\nnot in a thousand years!--Yes, I'll back her! And if your society\nisn't good enough for her--and I don't think it is--why, I'll form\na little coterie all by myself!\"\n\nHe hung up the receiver with a slam. Then he angrily summoned Hodson.\n\"I want a dozen brokers watching Gannette now until I call them off,\"\nhe commanded. \"I want you to take personal charge of them. Dog his\nevery move. I'll give you some suggestions later.\"\n\nHodson bowed and went out. Ames continued his meditations. \"Lucile\nalready has Gannette pretty well wound up in his Venezuelan\nspeculations--and they are going to smash--Lafelle has fixed that. And\nI've bought her notes against Mrs. Hawley-Crowles for about a\nmillion--which I have reinvested for her in Colombia. Humph! She'll\nfeed out of my hand now! La Libertad is mine when the trap falls. So\nis C. and R. And that little upstart, Ketchim, goes to Sing Sing!\"\n\nHe turned to the morning paper that lay upon his desk. \"I don't like\nthe way the Colombian revolution drags,\" he mused. \"But certainly it\ncan't last much longer. And then--then--\"\n\nHis thoughts wandered off into devious channels. \"So Jos\u00e8 de Rinc\u00f3n\nis--well! well! Things have taken an odd turn. But--where on earth did\nthat girl come from? Lord! she was beautiful last night. All religion,\neh? Ha! ha! Well, she's young. There's a lot of experience coming to\nher. And then she'll drop a few of her pious notions. Lucile says--but\nLucile is getting on my nerves!\"\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nMonsignor Lafelle found Mrs. Hawley-Crowles and her ward awaiting him\nwhen his car drove up at two that afternoon. Carmen had not left the\nhouse during the morning, for Elizabeth Wall had telephoned early that\na slight indisposition would necessitate postponement of the\ncontemplated ride.\n\n\"Well,\" reflected Carmen, as she turned from the 'phone, \"one who\nknows that God is everywhere can never be disappointed, for all good\nis ever present.\" And then she set about preparing for the expected\ncall of Monsignor Lafelle.\n\nWhen that dignitary entered the parlor Mrs. Hawley-Crowles graciously\nwelcomed him, and then excused herself. \"I will leave her with you,\nMonsignor,\" she said, indicating Carmen, and secretly glad to escape a\npresence which she greatly feared. Lafelle bowed, and then waved\nCarmen to a seat.\n\n\"I have come to-day, Miss Carmen,\" he began easily, \"on a mission of\nvastest importance as concerning your welfare. I have been in\nCartagena. I have talked with the acting-Bishop there, who, it seems,\nis not wholly unacquainted with you.\"\n\n\"Then,\" cried Carmen eagerly, \"you know where Padre Jos\u00e8 is? And the\nothers--\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Lafelle. \"I regret to say I know nothing of their\npresent whereabouts. Leave them with God.\"\n\n\"I have long since done that,\" said Carmen softly.\n\n\"It is of yourself that I wish to speak,\" continued Lafelle. \"I have\ncome to offer you the consolation, the joy, and the protection of the\nChurch. Your great benefactress, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, has found peace\nwith us. Will you longer delay taking a step toward which you are by\nrace, by national custom, and by your Saviour admonished? I have come\nto invite you to publicly confess your allegiance to the Church of\nRome. You belong to us. A Catholic country gave you birth. Your\nparents were Catholic. Your best friend, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, is one\nof us. Come,\" he said, extending his hands. \"We need you. And you, my\ndaughter, now need the Church,\" he added with suggestive emphasis.\n\nCarmen was not surprised. Mrs. Hawley-Crowles had hinted the probable\nmission of the churchman, and the girl was prepared.\n\n\"I thank you, Monsignor,\" she replied simply. \"But it is impossible.\"\n\n\"Impossible?\" He arched his fine brows. \"My child, it is quite\nnecessary!\"\n\n\"Why, Monsignor?\"\n\n\"For your eternal salvation,\" he replied.\n\n\"But I have my salvation, ever present. It is the Christ-principle.\"\n\n\"My dear child, do not lean upon your pretty theories in the hope that\nthey will open the door of heaven for you. There is no salvation\noutside of the Church.\"\n\n\"Monsignor,\" said Carmen gently, \"such talk is very foolish. Can you\nprove to me that your Church ever sent any one to heaven? Have you any\nbut a very mediaeval and material concept of heaven? To me, heaven is\nright here. It is the consciousness of good only, without a trace of\nmateriality or evil. And I enter into that consciousness by means of\nthe Christ-principle, which Jesus gave to the world. It is very\nsimple, is it not? And it makes all your pomp and ceremony, and your\npenance and rites quite unnecessary.\"\n\nLafelle eyed her narrowly. He had certain suspicions, but he was not\nready to voice them. Carmen went on:\n\n\"Monsignor, I love my fellow-men, oh, _so_ much! I want to see every\none work out his salvation, as Jesus bade us all do, and without any\nhindrance from others. And I ask but that same privilege from every\none, yourself included. Let me work out my salvation as my Father has\ndirected.\"\n\nLafelle smiled paternally. \"I have no wish to hinder you, child. On\nthe contrary, I offer you the assistance and infallible guidance of\nthe Church. You are very young. We are very old. Beginning nineteen\ncenturies ago, when we were divinely appointed custodian of the\nworld's morals, our history has been a glorious one. We have in that\ntime changed a pagan world into one that fears God and follows His\nChrist.\"\n\n\"But for nineteen hundred years, Monsignor, the various so-called\nChristian sects of the world have been persecuting and slaying one\nanother over their foolish beliefs, basing their religious theories\nupon their interpretations of the Bible. Surely that is not a glorious\nhistory!\"\n\n\"Ah! You unwittingly argue directly for our cause, my child. The\nresult which you have just cited proves conclusively that the\nScriptures can not be correctly interpreted by every one. That is\nperfectly patent to you, I see. Thus you acknowledge the necessity of\nan infallible guide. That is to be found only in the spiritual\nFathers, and in the Pope, the holy Head of the Church of Rome, the\npresent Vicegerent of Christ on earth.\"\n\n\"Then your interpretation of the Bible is the only correct one?\"\n\n\"Absolutely!\"\n\n\"And you Catholics are the only true followers of Christ? The only\n_real_ Christians?\"\n\n\"We are.\"\n\nShe rose. \"Come, Monsignor, I will get my coat and hat. We will take\nyour car.\"\n\n\"Why--where are you going?\" he asked in amazement, as he slowly got to\nhis feet.\n\nShe stopped and faced him squarely. \"Jesus said: 'He that believeth on\nme, the works that I do shall he do also.' I am going to take you over\nto the home of old Maggie, our cook's mother. She is sick. You will\nheal her, for you are a true follower of Christ.\"\n\n\"Well--but, hasn't she a doctor?\"\n\n\"Yes, but he can't help her. Doctors are not infallible. But you\nrepresent the Christ on earth. You should be able to do the works\nwhich he did. You can change the wafer and wine into the flesh and\nblood of Jesus. How much easier, then, and vastly more practical, to\ncure a sick woman! Wait, I will be back in a minute.\"\n\n\"But, you impetuous child, I shall go on no such foolish errand as\nthat!\"\n\nShe stopped again. \"If the woman were dying or dead, and you were\nsummoned, you would go, would you not? For she is a Catholic.\"\n\n\"Why--yes, of course.\"\n\n\"And if she were dying you would put holy oil on her, and pray--but it\nwouldn't make her well. And if she were dead, you would say Masses for\nthe repose of her soul. Monsignor, did it never occur to you that the\ngreat works which you claim to do are all done behind the veil of\ndeath? You can do but little for mankind here; but you pretend to do\nmuch after they have passed beyond the grave. Is it quite fair to the\npoor and ignorant, I ask, to work that way? Did it never strike you as\nremarkable and very consistent that Jesus, whenever he launched a\ngreat truth, immediately ratified it by some great sign, some sign\nwhich the world now calls a miracle? The Gospels are full of such\ninstances, where he first taught, then came down and immediately\nhealed some one, thus at once putting his teaching to the proof. Do\nyou prove anything? Your Church has taught and thundered and denounced\nfor ages, but what has it proved? Jesus taught practical Christianity.\nYou teach the so-called practical Christianity which makes a reality\nof evil and an eternal necessity of hospitals and orphan asylums. If\nyou did his works the people would be so uplifted that these things\nwould be wiped out. Your Church has had nineteen hundred years in\nwhich to learn to do the works which he did. Now come over to Maggie's\nwith me and prove that you are a true follower and believer, and that\nthe Church has given you the right sort of practical instruction!\"\n\nGradually the girl's voice waxed stronger while she delivered this\npolemic. Slowly the churchman's face darkened, as he moved backward\nand sank into his chair.\n\n\"Now, Monsignor, having scolded you well,\" the girl continued, smiling\nas she sat down again, \"I will apologize. But you needed the\nscolding--you know you did! And nearly all who profess the name of\nChrist need the same. Monsignor, I love you all, and every one,\nwhether Catholic or Protestant, or whatever his creed. But that does\nnot blind my eyes to your great need, and to your obstinate refusal to\nmake any effort to meet that need.\"\n\nA cynical look came into the man's face. \"May I ask, Miss Carmen, if\nyou consider yourself a true follower and believer?\" he said coolly.\n\n\"Monsignor,\" she quickly replied, rising and facing him, \"you hope by\nthat adroit question to confound me. You mean, do I heal the sick?\nListen: when I was a child my purity of thought was such that I knew\nno evil. I could not see it anywhere. I could not see sickness or\ndeath as anything more than unreal shadows. And that wonderful\nclearness of vision and purity of thought made me a channel for the\noperation of the Christ-principle, God himself. And thereby the sick\nwere healed in my little home town. Then, little by little, after my\nbeloved teacher, Jos\u00e8, came to me, I lost ground in my struggle to\nkeep the vision clear. They did not mean to, but he and my dearest\npadre Rosendo and others held their beliefs of evil as a reality so\nconstantly before me that the vision became obscured, and the\nspirituality alloyed. The unreal forces of evil seemed to concentrate\nupon me. I know why now, for the greatest good always stirs up the\ngreatest amount of evil--the highest truth always has the lowest lie\nas its opposite and opponent. I see now, as never before, the\nunreality of evil. I see now, as never before, the marvelous truth\nwhich Jesus tried, oh, _so_ hard, to impress upon the dull minds of\nhis people, the truth which you refuse to see. And ceaselessly I am\nnow striving to acquire 'that mind,' that spiritual consciousness,\nwhich was in him. My vision is becoming daily clearer. I have been\nwonderfully shielded, led, and cared for. And I shall heal, some day,\nas he did. I shall regain my former spirituality, for it has never\nreally been lost. But, Monsignor, do not ask me to come into your\nChurch and allow my brightening vision to become blurred by your very\ninadequate concept of God--a God who is moved by the petitions of\nSaints and Virgin and mortal men. No! no! Unless,\" she added,\nbrightening, \"you will let me teach your Church what I know. Will you\nagree to that?\"\n\nLafelle did not answer. Then Carmen shook her head. \"You see,\" she\nsaid, \"your Church requires absolute submission to its age-worn\nauthority. According to you, I have nothing to give. Very well, if\nyour Church can receive nothing from me, and yet can give me nothing\nmore than its impossible beliefs, undemonstrable this side of the\ngrave, at least--then we must consider that a gulf is fixed between\nus.\n\n\"Oh, Monsignor,\" she pleaded, after a moment's silence, \"you see, do\nyou not? When Jesus said that he gave his disciples power over all\nevil, did he not mean likewise over all physical action, and over\nevery physical condition? But did he mean that they alone should have\nsuch power? What a limiting of infinite Love! No, he meant that every\none who followed him and strove ceaselessly for spirituality of\nthought should acquire that spirituality, and thereby cleanse himself\nof false beliefs, and make room for the Christ-principle to operate,\neven to the healing of the sick, to the raising of those mesmerized by\nthe belief of death as a power and reality, and to the dematerializing\nof the whole material concept of the heavens and earth. Can't you, a\nchurchman, see it? And can't you see how shallow your views are? Don't\nyou know that even the physical body is but a part of the human,\nmaterial concept, and therefore a part of the 'one lie' about God, who\nis Spirit?\"\n\nLafelle had listened patiently. But now his time had come to speak in\nrebuttal. And yet, he would make no attempt to assail her convictions.\nHe knew well that she would not yield--at least, to-day. He therefore\nplayed another card.\n\n\"Miss Carmen,\" he said gently, \"the Church is ever doing beneficent\ndeeds which do not come to light, and for which she receives no praise\nfrom men. Your own and Mrs. Hawley-Crowles's elevation to social\nleadership came through her. There is also a rumor that the Church\nafforded you an asylum on your first night in this city, when, if\never, you needed aid. The Church shielded and cared for you even in\nSimit\u00ed. Indeed, what has she not done for you? And do you now, alas!\nturn and rend her?\"\n\n\"Monsignor,\" replied Carmen, \"I am not unmindful of the care always\nbestowed upon me. And I am not ungrateful. But my gratitude is to my\nGod, who has worked through many channels to bless me. My account is\nwith Him. Leave it there, and fear not that I shall prove ungrateful\nto Him, to whom my every thought is consecrated.\"\n\nLafelle bit his lip. Then he spoke low and earnestly, while he held\nhis gaze fixed upon the girl's bright eyes. \"Miss Carmen, if you knew\nthat the Church now afforded you the only refuge from the dangers that\nthreaten, you would turn to her as a frightened child to its mother.\"\n\n\"I fear nothing, Monsignor,\" replied the girl, her face alight with a\nsmile of complete confidence. \"I am not the kind who may be driven by\nfear into acceptance of undemonstrable, unfounded theological beliefs.\nFear has always been a terrible weapon in the hands of those who have\nsought to force their opinions upon their fellow-men. But it is\npowerless to influence me. Fear, Monsignor, is sin. It causes men to\nmiss the mark. And it is time-honored. Indeed, according to the Bible\nallegory, it began in the very garden of Eden, when poor, deceived\nAdam confessed to God that he was afraid. If God was infinite then, as\nyou admit you believe Him to be now, who or what made Adam afraid?\nWhence came the imaginary power of fear? For, 'God hath not given us\nthe spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.'\nGod is love. And there is no fear in love.\"\n\n\"But, surely, Miss Carmen, you will not stubbornly close your eyes to\nthreatening evil?\"\n\n\"Monsignor, I close my eyes to all that is unlike God. He is everything\nto me. I know nothing but Him and His perfect manifestation.\"\n\nLafelle sat some moments in silence. The picture which he and the\nyoung girl formed was one of rare beauty and interest: he, weighted\nwith years, white of hair, but rugged of form, with strikingly\nhandsome features and kindly eyes--she, a child, delicate, almost\nwraith-like, glowing with a beauty that was not of earth, and, though\nuntutored in the wiles of men, still holding at bay the sagacious\nrepresentative of a crushing weight of authority which reached far\nback through the centuries, even to the Greek and Latin Fathers who\nput their still unbroken seal upon the strange elaborations which they\nwove out of the simple words of the Nazarene.\n\nWhen the churchman again looked up and felt himself engulfed in the\nboundless love which emanated from that radiant, smiling girl, there\nsurged up within him a mighty impulse to go to her, to clasp her in\nhis arms, to fall at her feet and pray for even a mite of her own rare\nspirituality. The purpose which he had that morning formulated died\nwithin him; the final card which he would have thrown lay crushed in\nhis hand. He rose and came and stood before her.\n\n\"The people believe you a child of the ancient Incas,\" he said slowly,\ntaking her hand. \"What if I should say that I know better?\"\n\n\"I would say that you were right, Monsignor,\" she replied gently,\nlooking up into his face with a sweet smile.\n\n\"Then you admit the identity of your father?\"\n\n\"Yes, Monsignor.\"\n\n\"Ah! And that is--?\"\n\n\"God.\"\n\nThe man bent for a moment over the little white hand, and then\nimmediately left the house.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 18\n\nMonsignor Lafelle in his interview with Carmen had thrown out a hint\nof certain rumors regarding her; but the days passed, and the girl\nawoke not to their significance. Then, one morning, her attention was\nattracted by a newspaper report of the farewell address of a young\npriest about to leave his flock. When she opened the paper and caught\nsight of the news item she gave a little cry, and immediately forgot\nall else in her absorption in the closing words:\n\n  \"--and I have known no other ambition since the day that little\n  waif from a distant land strayed into my life, lighting the dead\n  lamp of my faith with the torch of her own flaming spirituality.\n  She said she had a message for the people up here. Would to God\n  she might know that her message had borne fruit!\"\n\nThe newspaper slipped from the girl's hands to the floor. Her eyes,\nbig and shining, stared straight before her. \"And I will lead the\nblind by a way that they know not--\" she murmured.\n\nThe telephone rang. It was Miss Wall, ready now for the postponed\nride. Carmen clapped her hands and sang for joy as she summoned the\ncar and made her preparations. \"We'll go over to his church,\" she said\naloud. \"We'll find him!\" She hurried back to the newspaper to get the\naddress of the church from which he had spoken the preceding day.\n\"They will know where he is,\" she said happily. \"Oh, isn't it just\nwonderful!\"\n\nA few minutes later, with Miss Wall at her side, she was speeding to\nthe distant suburb where the little church was located.\n\n\"We are going to find a priest,\" she said simply. \"Oh, you mustn't ask\nme any questions! Mrs. Hawley-Crowles doesn't like to have me talk\nabout certain things, and so I can't tell you.\"\n\nMiss Wall glanced at her in wonder. But the happy, smiling countenance\ndisarmed suspicion.\n\n\"Now tell me,\" Carmen went on, \"tell me about yourself. I'm a\nmissionary, you know,\" she added, thinking of Father Waite.\n\n\"A missionary! Well, are you trying to convert the society world?\"\n\n\"Yes, by Christianity--not by what the missionaries are now teaching\nin the name of Christianity. I'll tell you all about it some day. Now\ntell me, why are you unhappy? Why is your life pitched in such a minor\nkey? Perhaps, together, we can change it to a major.\"\n\nMiss Wall could not help joining in the merry laugh. Then her face\ngrew serious. \"I am unhappy,\" she said, \"because I have arrived\nnowhere.\"\n\nCarmen looked at her inquiringly. \"Well,\" she said, \"that shows you\nare on the wrong track, doesn't it?\"\n\n\"I'm tired of life--tired of everything, everybody!\" Miss Wall sank\nback into the cushions with her lips pursed and her brow wrinkled.\n\n\"No, you are not tired of life,\" said Carmen quietly; \"for you do not\nknow what life is.\"\n\n\"No, I suppose not,\" replied the weary woman. \"Do you?\" she asked\nabruptly.\n\n\"Yes, it is God.\"\n\n\"Oh, don't mention that name, nor quote Scripture to me!\" cried the\nwoman, throwing up her hands in exasperation. \"I've had that stuff\npreached at me until it turned my stomach! I hope you are not an\nemotional, weepy religionist. Let's not talk about that subject. I'm\nheartily sick of it!\"\n\n\"All right,\" replied Carmen cheerily. \"Padre Jos\u00e8 used to say--\"\n\n\"Who's he?\" demanded Miss Wall, somewhat curtly.\n\n\"Oh, he is a priest--\"\n\n\"A priest! Dear me! do you constantly associate with priests, and talk\nreligion?\"\n\nThe young girl laughed. \"Well,\" she responded, \"I've had a good deal\nto do with both.\"\n\n\"And are you any better for it?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes--lots!\" she said quickly.\n\nThe woman regarded her with curiosity. \"Tell me something about your\nlife,\" she said. \"They say you are a princess.\"\n\n\"Surely I am a princess,\" returned Carmen, laughing merrily. \"Listen;\nI will tell you about big, glorious Simit\u00ed, and the wonderful castle I\nlived in there, and about my Prime Minister, Don Rosendo, and--well,\nlisten, and then judge for yourself if I am not of royal extraction!\"\n\nLaughing again up into the mystified face of Miss Wall, the\nenthusiastic girl began to tell about her former life in far-off\nGuamoc\u00f3.\n\nAs she listened, the woman's eyes grew wide with interest. At times\nshe voiced her astonishment in sudden exclamations. And when the girl\nconcluded her brief recital, she bent upon the sparkling face a look\nof mingled wonder and admiration. \"Goodness! After going through all\nthat, how can you be so happy now? And with all your kin down there in\nthat awful war! Why--!\"\n\n\"Don't you think I am a princess now?\" Carmen asked, smiling up at\nher.\n\n\"I think you are a marvel!\" was the emphatic answer.\n\n\"And--you don't want to know what it was that kept me through it all,\nand that is still guiding me?\" The bright, animated face looked so\neagerly, so lovingly, into the world-scarred features of her\ncompanion.\n\n\"Not if you are going to talk religion. Tell me, who is this priest\nyou are seeking to-day, and why have you come to see him?\"\n\n\"Father Waite. He is the one who found me--when I got lost--and took\nme to my friends.\"\n\nThe big car whirled around a corner and stopped before a dingy little\nchurch edifice surmounted by a weather-beaten cross. On the steps of a\nmodest frame house adjoining stood a man. He turned as the car came\nup.\n\n\"Father Waite!\" Carmen threw wide the door of the car and sprang out.\n\"Father Waite!\" clasping his hands. \"Don't you know me? I'm Carmen!\"\n\nA light came into the startled man's eyes. He recognized her. Then he\nstepped back, that he might better see her. More than a year had\npassed since he had taken her, so oddly garbed, and clinging tightly\nto his hand, into the Ketchim office. And in that time, he thought,\nshe had been transformed into a vision of heavenly beauty.\n\n\"Well!\" cried the impatient girl. \"Aren't you going to speak?\" And\nwith that she threw her arms about him and kissed him loudly on both\ncheeks.\n\nThe man and Miss Wall gave vent to exclamations of astonishment. He\ncolored violently; Miss Wall sat with mouth agape.\n\n\"Aren't you glad to see me?\" pursued the girl, again grasping his\nhands.\n\nThen he found his tongue. \"An angel from heaven could not be more\nwelcome,\" he said. But his voice was low, and the note of sadness was\nprominent.\n\n\"Well, I am an angel from heaven,\" said the laughing, artless girl.\n\"And I'm an Inca princess. And I'm just plain Carmen Ariza. But,\nwhoever I am, I am, oh, so glad to see you again! I--\" she looked\nabout carefully--\"I read your sermon in the newspaper this morning.\nDid you mean me?\" she concluded abruptly.\n\nHe smiled wanly. \"Yes, I meant you,\" he softly answered.\n\n\"Come with me now,\" said the eager girl. \"I want to talk with you.\"\n\n\"Impossible,\" he replied, shaking his head.\n\n\"Then, will you come and see me?\" She thought for a moment. \"Why have\nyou never been to see me? Didn't you know I was still in the city?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" he replied. \"I used to see your name in the papers, often.\nAnd I have followed your career with great interest. But--you moved in\na circle--from which I--well, it was hardly possible for me to come to\nsee you, you know--\"\n\n\"It was!\" exclaimed the girl. \"But, never mind, you are coming now.\nHere,\" drawing a card from her bag, \"this is the address of Madam\nBeaubien. Will you come there to-morrow afternoon, at two, and talk\nwith me?\"\n\nHe looked at the card which she thrust into his hand, and then at the\nrichly-gowned girl before him. He seemed to be in a dream. But he\nnodded his head slowly.\n\n\"Tell me,\" she whispered, \"how is Sister Katie?\"\n\nAh, if the girl could have known how that great-hearted old soul had\nmourned her \"little bairn\" these many months.\n\n\"I will go to see her,\" said Carmen. \"But first you will come to me\nto-morrow.\" She beamed upon him as she clasped his hands again. Then\nshe entered the car, and sat waving her hand back at him as long as he\ncould see her.\n\nIt would be difficult to say which of the two, Miss Wall or Father\nWaite, was the more startled by this abrupt and lively _rencontre_.\nBut to Carmen, as she sat back in the car absorbed in thought, it had\nbeen a perfectly natural meeting between two warm friends. Suddenly\nthe girl turned to the woman. \"You haven't anything but money, and\nfine clothes, and automobiles, and jewels, you think. And you want\nsomething better. Do you know? I know what it is you want.\"\n\n\"What is it?\" asked the wondering woman, marveling at this strange\ngirl who went about embracing people so promiscuously.\n\n\"Love.\"\n\nThe woman's lip trembled slightly when she heard this, but she did not\nreply.\n\n\"And I'm going to love you,\" the girl continued. \"Oh, so much! You're\ntired of society gabble and gossip; you're tired of spending on\nyourself the money you never earned; you're not a bit of use to\nanybody, are you? But you want to be. You're a sort of tragedy, aren't\nyou? Oh, I know. There are just lots of them in high society, just as\nweary as you. They haven't anything but money. And they lack the very\ngreatest thing in all of life, the very thing that no amount of money\nwill buy, just love! But, do you know? they don't realize that, in\norder to get, they must give. In order to be loved, they must\nthemselves love. Now you start right in and love the whole world, love\neverybody, big and little. And, as you love people, try to see only\ntheir perfection. Never look at a bad trait, nor a blemish of any\nsort. Try it. In a week's time you will be a new woman.\"\n\n\"Do you do that?\" the woman asked in a low tone.\n\n\"I have _always_ done it,\" replied Carmen. \"I don't know anything but\nlove. I never knew what it was to hate or revile. I never could see\nwhat there was that deserved hatred or loathing. I don't see anything\nbut good--everywhere.\"\n\nThe woman slipped an arm about the girl. \"I--I don't mind your talking\nthat way to me,\" she whispered. \"But I just couldn't bear to listen to\nany more religion.\"\n\n\"Why!\" exclaimed Carmen. \"That's all there is to religion! Love is the\ntie that binds all together and all to God. Why, Miss Wall--\"\n\n\"Call me Elizabeth, please,\" interrupted the woman.\n\n\"Well then, Elizabeth,\" she said softly, \"all creeds have got to merge\ninto just one, some day, and, instead of saying 'I believe,' everybody\nwill say 'I understand and I love.' Why, the very person who loved\nmore than anybody else ever did was the one who saw God most clearly!\nHe knew that if we would see God--good everywhere--we would just\nsimply _have_ to love, for God _is_ love! Don't you see? It is so\nsimple!\"\n\n\"Do you love me, Carmen, because you pity me?\"\n\n\"No, indeed!\" was the emphatic answer. \"God's children are not to be\npitied--and I see in people only His children.\"\n\n\"Well, why, then, do you love me?\"\n\nThe girl replied quickly: \"God is love. I am His reflection. I reflect\nHim to you. That's loving you.\n\n\"And now,\" she continued cheerily, \"we are going to work together,\naren't we? You are first going to love everybody. And then you are\ngoing to see just what is right for you to do--what work you are to\ntake up--what interests you are to have. But love comes first.\"\n\n\"Tell me, Carmen, why are you in society? What keeps you there, in an\natmosphere so unsuited to your spiritual life?\"\n\n\"God.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" impatiently. \"But--\"\n\n\"Well, Elizabeth dear, every step I take is ordained by Him, who is my\nlife. I am where He places me. I leave everything to Him, and then\nkeep myself out of the way. If He wishes to use me elsewhere, He will\nremove me from society. But I wait for Him.\"\n\nThe woman looked at her and marveled. How could this girl, who, in her\nfew brief years, had passed through fire and flood, still love the\nhand that guided her!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 19\n\n\nTo the great horde of starving European nobility the daughters of\nAmerican millionaires have dropped as heavenly manna. It was but dire\nnecessity that forced low the bars of social caste to the transoceanic\ntraffic between fortune and title.\n\nThat Mrs. Hawley-Crowles might ever aspire to the purchase of a\ndecrepit dukedom had never entered her thought. A tottering earldom\nwas likewise beyond her purchasing power. She had contented herself\nthat Carmen should some day barter her rare culture, her charm, and\nher unrivaled beauty, for the more lowly title of an impecunious count\nor baron. But to what heights of ecstasy did her little soul rise when\nthe young Duke of Altern made it known to her that he would honor her\nbeautiful ward with his own glorious name--in exchange for La Libertad\nand other good and valuable considerations, receipt of which would be\nduly acknowledged.\n\n\"I--aw--have spoken to her, ye know, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles,\" that worthy\nyoung cad announced one afternoon, as he sat alone with the successful\nsociety leader in the warm glow of her living room. \"And--bah Jove!\nshe said we were engaged, ye know--really! Said we were awfully good\nfriends, ye know, and all that. 'Pon my word! she said she loved me.\"\nFor Reginald had done much thinking of late--and his creditors were\nrestless.\n\n\"Why, you don't mean it!\" cried the overpowered Mrs. Hawley-Crowles,\nbeaming like a full-blown sunflower.\n\n\"But I do, really! Only--ye know, she'll have to be--coached a bit, ye\nknow--told who we are--our ancestral history, and all that. You know\nwhat I mean, eh?\"\n\n\"Of course--you dear boy! Why, she just couldn't help loving you!\"\n\n\"No--aw--no, of course--that is--aw--she has excellent\nprospects--financial, I mean, eh? Mines, and all that, ye know--eh?\"\n\n\"Why, she owns the grandest gold mine in all South America! Think of\nit!\"\n\n\"Bah Jove! I--aw--I never was so attracted to a girl in all me\nblooming life! You will--a--speak to her, eh? Help me out, ye know.\nJust a few words, eh? You know what I mean?\"\n\n\"Never fear, Reginald\" she's yours. \"There will be no opposition.\"\n\n\"Opposition! Certainly not--not when she knows about our family.\nAnd--aw--mother will talk with you--that is, about the details. She'll\narrange them, ye know. I never was good at business.\"\n\nAnd the haughty mother of the young Duke did call shortly thereafter\nto consult in regard to her son's matrimonial desires. The nerve-racking\nround of balls, receptions, and other society functions was quite\nforgotten by the elated Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, whose ears tingled\ndeliciously under the pompous boastings of the Dowager Lady Altern. The\nhouse of Altern? Why, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles was convinced, after a\nhalf hour's conversation with this proud mother, that the royal house\nof Brunswick was but an impudent counterfeit! What was La Libertad\nworth? She knew not. But her sister's brother, Mr. Reed, who had\nhastily appraised it, had said that there was a mountain of gold there,\nonly awaiting Yankee enterprise. And Carmen? There was proof positive\nthat she was an Inca princess. Yes, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles was so honored\nby the deep interest which the young Duke manifested in the wonderful\ngirl! And she would undertake negotiations with her at once. But it\nmust be done wisely. Carmen was not like other girls. No, indeed!\n\nAnd now Mrs. Hawley-Crowles had to plan very carefully. She was terribly\nin debt; yet she had resources. The Beaubien was inexhaustible. Ames,\ntoo, might be depended upon. And La Libertad--well, there was Mr.\nPhilip O. Ketchim to reckon with. So she forthwith summoned him to a\nconsultation.\n\nBut, ere her talk with that prince of finance, another bit of good\nfortune fell into the lady's spacious lap. Reed had written that he\nwas doing poorly with his western mining ventures, and would have to\nraise money at once. He therefore offered to sell his interest in the\nSimit\u00ed Company. Moreover, he wanted his wife to come to him and make\nher home in California, where he doubtless would spend some years.\nMrs. Hawley-Crowles offered him twenty-five thousand dollars for his\nSimit\u00ed interest; of which offer Reed wired his immediate acceptance.\nThen the lady packed her rueful sister Westward Ho! and laid her newly\nacquired stock before the Beaubien for a large loan. That was but a\nday before Ketchim called.\n\n\"Madam,\" said that suave gentleman, smiling piously, \"you are a\ngenius. Our ability to announce the Duke of Altern as our largest\nstockholder will result in a boom in the sales of Simit\u00ed stock. The\nLord has greatly prospered our humble endeavors. Er--might I ask,\nMadam, if you would condescend to meet my wife some afternoon? We are\nrapidly acquiring some standing in a financial way, and Mrs. Ketchim\nwould like to know you and some of the more desirable members of your\nset, if it might be arranged.\"\n\nMrs. Hawley-Crowles beamed her joy. She drew herself up with a regnant\nair. The people were coming to her, their social queen, for\nrecognition!\n\n\"And there's my Uncle Ted, you know, Madam. He's president of the C.\nand R.\"\n\nMrs. Hawley-Crowles nodded and looked wise. \"Possibly we can arrange\nit,\" she said. \"But now about our other investments. What is Joplin\nZinc doing?\"\n\n\"Progressing splendidly, Madam. We shall declare a dividend this\nmonth.\"\n\nThe lady wondered, for Joplin Zinc was not yet in operation, according\nto the latest report.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nMeantime, while Mrs. Hawley-Crowles was still laying her plans to herd\nthe young girl into the mortgaged dukedom of Altern, Father Waite kept\nhis appointment, and called at the Beaubien mansion on the afternoon\nCarmen had set. He was warmly received by the girl herself, who had\nbeen watching for his coming.\n\n\"Now,\" she began like a bubbling fountain, when they were seated in\nthe music room, \"where's Jude? I want to find her.\"\n\n\"Jude? Why, I haven't the slightest idea to whom you refer,\" returned\nthe puzzled man.\n\n\"The woman who took me to the Sister Superior,\" explained Carmen.\n\n\"Ah! We never saw her again.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the girl confidently, \"I saw her, but she got away from\nme. But I shall find her--it is right that I should. Now tell me, what\nare you going to do?\"\n\n\"I have no idea. Earn my living some way,\" he replied meditatively.\n\n\"You have lots of friends who will help you?\"\n\n\"None,\" he said sadly. \"I am an apostate, you know.\"\n\n\"Well, that means that you're free. The chains have dropped, haven't\nthey?\"\n\n\"But left me dazed and confused.\"\n\n\"You are not dazed, nor confused! Why, you're like a prisoner coming\nout of his dungeon into the bright sunlight. You're only blinking,\nthat's all. And, as for confusion--well, if I would admit it to be\ntrue I could point to a terrible state of it! Just think, a duke wants\nto marry me; Mrs. Hawley-Crowles is determined that he shall; I am an\nInca princess, and yet I don't know who I am; my own people apparently\nare swallowed up by the war in Colombia; and I am in an environment\nhere in New York in which I have to fight every moment to keep myself\nfrom flying all to pieces! But I guess God intends to keep me here for\nthe present. Oh, yes, and Monsignor Lafelle insists that I am a\nCatholic and that I must join his Church.\"\n\n\"Monsignor Lafelle! You--you know him?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, very well. And you?\"\n\nHe evaded reply by another query. \"Is Monsignor Lafelle working with\nMadam Beaubien, your friend?\"\n\n\"I think not,\" laughed Carmen. \"But Mrs. Hawley-Crowles--\"\n\n\"Was it through him that she became a communicant?\"\n\n\"Yes. Why?\"\n\n\"And is he also working with Mr. J. Wilton Ames? He converted Mrs.\nAmes's sister, the Dowager Duchess, in England. The young Duke is also\ngoing to join the faith, I learn. But--you?\" He stopped suddenly and\nlooked searchingly at her.\n\nAt that moment a maid entered, bearing a card. Close on her heels\nfollowed the subject of their conversation, Monsignor himself.\n\nAs he entered, Carmen rose hastily to greet him. Lafelle bent over her\nhand. Then, as he straightened up, his glance fell upon Father Waite.\nThe latter bowed without speaking. For a moment the two men stood\neying each other sharply. Then Lafelle looked from Father Waite to\nCarmen quizzically. \"I beg your pardon,\" he said, \"I was not aware\nthat you had a caller. Madam Beaubien, is she at home?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Carmen simply. \"She went out for a ride.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" murmured Lafelle, looking significantly from the girl to Father\nWaite, while a smile curled his lips. \"I see. I will intrude no\nfurther.\" He bowed again, and turned toward the exit.\n\n\"Wait!\" rang forth Carmen's clear voice. She had caught the\nchurchman's insinuating glance and instantly read its meaning.\n\"Monsignor Lafelle, you will remain!\"\n\nThe churchman's brows arched with surprise, but he came back and stood\nby the chair which she indicated.\n\n\"And first,\" went on the girl, standing before him like an incarnate\nNemesis, her face flushed and her eyes snapping, \"you will hear from\nme a quotation from the Scripture, on which you assume to be\nauthority: 'As a man thinketh in his heart, so _is_ he!'\"\n\nFor a moment Lafelle flushed. Then his face darkened. Finally a bland\nsmile spread over his features, and he sat down. The girl resumed her\nseat.\n\n\"Now, Monsignor Lafelle,\" she continued severely, \"you have urged me\nto unite with your Church. When you asked me to subscribe to your\nbeliefs I looked first at them, and then at you, their product. You\nhave come here this afternoon to plead with me again. The thoughts\nwhich you accepted when you saw Father Waite here alone with me, are\nthey a reflection of love, which thinketh no evil? Or do they reflect\nthe intolerance, the bigotry, the hatred of the carnal mind? You told\nme that your Church would not let me teach it. Think you I will let it\nor you teach me?\"\n\nFather Waite sat amazed at the girl's stinging rebuke. When she\nconcluded he rose to go.\n\n\"No!\" said Carmen. \"You, too, shall remain. You have left the Church\nof which Monsignor Lafelle is a part. Either you have done that\nChurch, and him, a great injustice--or he does ignorant or wilful\nwrong in insisting that I unite with it.\"\n\n\"My dear child,\" said Lafelle gently, now recovered and wholly on his\nguard, \"your impetuosity gets the better of your judgment. This is no\noccasion for a theological discussion, nor are you sufficiently\ninformed to bear a part in such. As for myself, you unintentionally do\nme great wrong. As I have repeatedly told you, I seek only your\neternal welfare. Else would I not labor with you as I do.\"\n\nCarmen turned to Father Waite. \"Is my eternal welfare dependent upon\nacceptance of the Church's doctrines?\"\n\n\"No,\" he said, in a scarcely audible voice.\n\nA cynical look came into Lafelle's eyes. But he replied affably: \"When\npreachers fall out, the devil falls in. Your reply, Mr. Waite, comes\nquite consistently from one who has impudently tossed aside\nauthority.\"\n\n\"My authority, Monsignor,\" returned the ex-priest in a low tone, \"is\nJesus Christ, who said: 'Love thy neighbor as thyself.'\"\n\n\"Ah!\" murmured Lafelle; \"then it was love that prompted you to abandon\nyour little flock?\"\n\n\"I left my pulpit, Monsignor, because I had nothing to give my people.\nI no longer believe the dogmas of the Church. And I refused longer to\ntake the poor people's money to support an institution so politically\nreligious as I believe your Church to be. I could no longer take their\nmoney to purchase the release of their loved ones from an imagined\npurgatory--a place for which there is not the slightest Scriptural\nwarrant--\"\n\n\"You mistake, sir!\" interrupted Lafelle in an angry tone.\n\n\"Very well, Monsignor,\" replied Father Waite; \"grant, then, that there\nis such Scriptural warrant; I would nevertheless know that the\nexistence of purgatory was wholly incompatible with the reign of an\ninfinite God of love. And, knowing that, I have ceased to extort gifts\nof money from the ignorance of the living and the ghastly terrors of\nthe dying--\"\n\n\"And so deceive yourself that you are doing a righteous act in\nremoving their greatest consolation,\" the churchman again interrupted,\na sneer curving his lip.\n\n\"Consolation! The consolation which the stupifying drug affords, yes!\nAh, Monsignor, as I looked down into the faces of my poor people, week\nafter week, I knew that no sacerdotal intervention was needed to remit\ntheir sins, for their sins were but their unsolved problems of life.\nOh, the poor, grief-stricken mothers who bent their tear-stained eyes\nupon me as I preached the 'authority' of the Fathers! Well I knew\nthat, when I told them from my pulpit that their deceased infants, if\nbaptized, went straight to heaven, they blindly, madly accepted my\nwords! And when I went further and told them that their dead babes had\njoined the ranks of the blessed, and could thenceforth be prayed to,\ncould I wonder that they rejoiced and eagerly grasped the false\nmessage of cheer? They believed because they wanted it to be so. And\nyet those utterances of mine, based upon the accepted doctrine of\nHoly Church, were but narcotics, lulling those poor, afflicted minds\ninto a false sense of rest and security, and checking all further\nhuman progress.\"\n\nLafelle shrugged his shoulders. \"It is to be regretted,\" he said\ncoldly, \"that such narrowness of view should be permitted to impede\nthe salvation of souls.\"\n\n\"Salvation--of--souls!\" exclaimed Father Waite. \"Ah, how many souls\nhave I not saved!--and yet I know not whether they or I be really\nsaved! Saved? From what? From death? Certainly not! From misery,\ndisease, suffering in this life? No, alas, no! Saved, then, from what?\nAh, my friend, saved only from the torments of a hell and a purgatory\nconstructed in the fertile minds of busy theologians!\"\n\nLafelle turned to Carmen. \"Some other day, perhaps--when it may be\nmore convenient for us both--and you are alone--\"\n\nCarmen laughed. \"Don't quit the field, Monsignor--unless you surrender\nabjectly. You started this controversy, remember. And you were quite\nindiscreet, if you will recall.\"\n\nMonsignor bowed, smiling. \"You write my faults in brass,\" he gently\nlamented. \"When you publish my virtues, if you find that I am\npossessed of any, I fear you will write them in water.\"\n\nCarmen laughed again. \"Your virtues should advertise themselves,\nMonsignor.\"\n\n\"Ah, then do you not see in me the virtue of desiring your welfare\nabove all else, my child?\"\n\n\"And the welfare of this great country, which you have come here to\nassist in making dominantly Catholic, is it not so, Monsignor?\"\n\nLafelle started slightly. Then he smiled genially back at the girl.\n\"It is an ambition which I am not ashamed to own,\" he returned\ngently.\n\n\"But, Monsignor,\" Carmen continued earnestly, \"are you not aware of\nthe inevitable failure of your mission? Do you not know that mediaeval\ntheology comports not with modern progress?\"\n\n\"True, my child,\" replied the churchman. \"And more, that our\nso-called modern progress--modernism, free-thinking, liberty of\nconscience, and the consequent terrible extravagance of beliefs and\nfalse creeds--constitutes the greatest menace now confronting this\nfair land. Its end is inevitable anarchy and chaos. Perhaps you can\nsee that.\"\n\n\"Monsignor,\" said Carmen, \"in the Middle Ages the Church was supreme.\nEmperors and kings bowed in submission before her. The world was\ndominantly Catholic. Would you be willing, for the sake of Church\nsupremacy to-day, to return to the state of society and civilization\nthen obtaining?\"\n\n\"That would not follow.\"\n\n\"No? I point you to Mexico, Cuba, the Philippines, South America, all\nCatholic now or formerly, and I ask if you attribute not their\noppression, their ignorance, their low morals and stunted manhood, to\nthe dominance of churchly doctrines, which oppose freedom of\nconscience and press and speech, and make learning the privilege of\nthe clergy and the rich?\"\n\n\"It is an old argument, child,\" deprecated Lafelle. \"May I not point\nto France, on the contrary?\"\n\n\"She has all but driven the Church from her borders.\"\n\n\"But is still Catholic!\" he retorted. \"And England, though Anglican,\ncalls herself Catholic. She will return to the true fold. Germany is\nforsaking Luther, as she sees the old light shining still undimmed.\"\n\nCarmen looked at Father Waite. The latter read in her glance an\ninvitation further to voice his own convictions.\n\n\"Monsignor doubtless misreads the signs of the times,\" he said slowly.\n\"The hour has struck for the ancient and materialistic theories\nenunciated with such assumption of authority by ignorant, often\nblindly bigoted theologians, to be laid aside. The religion of our\nfathers, which is our present-day evangelical theology, was derived\nfrom the traditions of the early churchmen. They put their seal upon\nit; and we blindly accept it as authority, despite the glaring,\nirrefutable fact that it is utterly undemonstrable. Why do the people\ncontinue to be deceived by it? Alas! only because of its mesmeric\npromise of immortality beyond the grave.\"\n\nMonsignor bowed stiffly in the direction of Father Waite. \"Fortunately,\nyour willingness to plunge the Christian world into chaos will fail of\nconcrete results,\" he said coldly.\n\n\"I but voice the sentiments of millions, Monsignor. For them, too, the\ntime has come to put by forever the paraphernalia of images, candles,\nand all the trinkets used in the pagan ceremonial which has so\nquenched our spirituality, and to seek the undivided garment of the\nChrist.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\" murmured Lafelle.\n\n\"The world to-day, Monsignor, stands at the door of a new era, an era\nwhich promises a grander concept of God and religion, the tie which\nbinds all to Him, than has ever before been known. We are thinking. We\nare pondering. We are delving, studying, reflecting. And we are at\nlast beginning to work with true scientific precision and system. As\nin chemistry, mathematics, and the physical sciences, so in matters\nreligious, we are beginning to _prove_ our working hypotheses. And so\na new spiritual enlightenment is come. People are awaking to a dim\nperception of the meaning of spiritual life, as exemplified in Jesus\nChrist. And they are vaguely beginning to see that it is possible to\nevery one. The abandonment of superstition, religious and other, has\nresulted in such a sudden expansion of the human mind that the most\nmarvelous material progress the world has ever witnessed has come\nswiftly upon us, and we live more intensely in a single hour to-day\nthan our fathers lived in weeks before us. Oh, yes, we are already\ngrowing tired of materiality. The world is not yet satisfied. We are\nnot happy. But, Monsignor, let not the Church boast itself that the\nacceptance of her mediaeval dogmas will meet the world's great need.\nThat need will be met, I think, only as we more and more clearly\nperceive the tremendous import of the mission of Jesus, and learn how\nto grasp and apply the marvelous Christ-principle which he used and\ntold us we should likewise employ to work out our salvation.\"\n\nDuring Father Waite's earnest talk Lafelle sat with his eyes fixed\nupon Carmen. When the ex-priest concluded, the churchman ignored him\nand vouchsafed no reply.\n\n\"Well, Monsignor?\" said the girl, after waiting some moments in\nexpectation.\n\nLafelle smiled paternally. Then, nodding his shapely head, he said in\na pleading tone:\n\n\"Have I no champion here? Would you, too, suddenly abolish the Church,\nCatholic and Protestant alike? Why, my dear child, with your\nideals--which no one appreciates more highly than I--do you continue\nto persecute me so cruelly? Can not you, too, sense the unsoundness of\nthe views just now so eloquently voiced?\"\n\n\"That is cant, Monsignor! You speak wholly without authority or proof,\nas is your wont.\"\n\nThe man winced slightly. \"Well,\" he said, \"there are several hundred\nmillion Catholics and Protestants in the world to-day. Would you\npresume to say that they are all mistaken, and that you are right?\nSomething of an assumption, is it not? Indeed, I think you set the\nChurch an example in that respect.\"\n\n\"Monsignor, there were once several hundred millions who believed that\nthe earth was flat, and that the sun revolved about it. Were they\nmistaken?\"\n\n\"Yes. But the--\"\n\n\"And, Monsignor, there are billions to-day who believe that matter is\na solid, substantial reality, and that it possesses life and\nsensation. There are billions who believe that the physical eyes see,\nand the ears hear, and the hands feel. Yet these beliefs are all\ncapable of scientific refutation. Did you know that?\"\n\n\"I am not unacquainted with philosophical speculation,\" he returned\nsuggestively.\n\n\"This is not mere speculation, Monsignor,\" put in Father Waite. \"The\nbeliefs of the human mind are its fetish. Such beliefs become in time\nnational customs, and men defend them with frenzy, utterly wrong and\nundemonstrable though they be. Then they remain as the incubus of true\nprogress. By them understanding becomes degraded, and the human mind\nnarrows and shrinks. And the mind that clings to them will then\nmercilessly hunt out the dissenting minds of its heretical neighbors\nand stone them to death for disagreeing. So now, you would stone me\nfor obeying Christ's command to take up my bed on the Sabbath day.\"\n\nLafelle heaved a great sigh. \"Still you blazon my faults,\" he said in\na tone of mock sadness, and addressing Carmen. \"But, like the Church\nwhich you persecute, I shall endure. We have been martyred throughout\nthe ages. And we are very patient. Our wayward children forsake us,\"\nnodding toward Father Waite, \"and yet we welcome their return when\nthey have tired of the husks. The press teems with slander against us;\nwe are reviled from east to west. But our reply is that such slander\nand untruth can best be met by our leading individual lives of such an\nexemplary nature as to cause all men to be attracted by our holy\nlight.\"\n\n\"I agree with you, Monsignor,\" quickly replied Carmen. \"Scurrilous\nattacks upon the Church but make it a martyr. Vilification returns\nupon the one who hurls the abuse. One can not fling mud without\nsoiling one's hands. I oppose not men, but human systems of thought.\nWhatever is good will stand, and needs no defense. Whatever is\nerroneous must go. And there is no excuse, for salvation is at hand.\"\n\n\"Salvation? And your thought regarding that?\" he said in a skirmishing\ntone.\n\n\"_Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts_,\"\nshe replied earnestly. \"_To him that soweth righteousness_--right\nthinking--_shall be a sure reward_. Ah, Monsignor, do you at heart\nbelieve that the religion of the Christ depends upon doctrines, signs,\ndogmas? No, it does not. But signs and proofs naturally and inevitably\nfollow the right understanding of Jesus' teachings, even according to\nthese words: _These signs shall follow them that believe_. Paul gave the\nformula for salvation, when he said: _But we all with open face beholding\nas in a glass the glory of the Lord, are changed into the same image\nfrom glory to glory, even as by the Spirit of the Lord_. Can you\nunderstand that? Can you see that, taking Jesus as our model and\nfollowing his every command--seeing Him only, the Christ-principle, which\nis God, good, without any admixture of evil--we change, even though\nslowly, from glory to glory, step by step, until we rise out of all\nsense of evil and death? And this is done by the Spirit which is God.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Father Waite, taking up the conversation when she paused.\n\"Even the poorest human being can understand that. Why, then, the\nfungus growth of traditions, ceremonies, rites and forms which have\nsprung up about the Master's simple words? Why the wretched\nformalistic worship throughout the world? Why the Church's frigid,\nlifeless traditions, so inconsistent with the enlarging sense of God\nwhich marks this latest century? The Church has yet to prove its\nutility, its right to exist and to pose as the religious teacher of\nmankind. Else must it fall beneath the axe which is even now at the\nroot of the barren tree of theology. Her theology, like the Judaism of\nthe Master's day, has no prophets, no poets, no singers. And her\npriests, as in his time, have sunk into a fanatical observance of\nritual and form.\"\n\n\"And yet,\" observed Carmen, \"you still urge me to unite with it.\"\n\nLafelle was growing weary. Moreover, it irked him sore to be made a\ntarget for the unassailable logic of the apostate Waite. Then, too,\nthe appearance of the ex-priest there that afternoon in company with\nthis girl who held such radical views regarding religious matters\nportended in his thought the possibility of a united assault upon the\nfoundations of his cherished system. This girl was now a menace. She\nnettled and exasperated him. Yet, he could not let her alone. Did he\nhave the power to silence her? He thought he had.\n\n\"Have you finished with me?\" he asked, with a show of gaiety. \"If so,\nI will depart.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Carmen, \"you may go now.\"\n\nLafelle paled. He had not expected that reply. He was stung to the\nquick. What! dismissed like a lackey? He, Monsignor, a dignitary of\nHoly Church? He could not believe it! He turned upon the girl and her\ncompanion, furious with anger.\n\n\"I have been very patient with you both,\" he said in a voice that he\ncould not control. \"But there is a reasonable limit. Abuse the Church\nas you will, the fact remains that the world fears her and trembles\nbefore her awful voice! Why? Because the world recognizes her mighty\npower, a power of unified millions of human beings and exhaustless\nwealth. She is the leader, the guide, the teacher, the supreme object\nof worship of a countless army who would lay down their lives to-day\nfor her. Her subjects gather from every quarter of the globe. They are\nEnglish, French, German, American--_but they are Catholics first_!\nEmperor, King, Ruler, or Government--all are alike subject to her\nsupreme, divine authority! Nationalities, customs, family ties--all\nmelt away before her, to whom her followers bow in loyal consecration.\nThe power which her supreme leader and head wields is all but\nomnipotent! He is by divine decree Lord of the world. Hundreds of\nmillions bend before his throne and offer him their hearts and swords!\nI say, you have good reason to quake! Aye, America has reason to fear!\nThe onward march of Holy Church is not disturbed by the croaking\ncalumnies of such as you who would assault her! And to you I say,\nbeware!\" His face was purple, as he stopped and mopped his damp brow.\n\n\"What we have to beware of, Monsignor,\" said Father Waite gravely, \"is\nthe steady encroachments of Rome in this country, with her weapons of\nfear, ignorance, and intolerance--\"\n\n\"Intolerance! You speak of intolerance! Why, in this country, whose\nConstitution provided toleration for every form of religion--\"\n\nCarmen had risen and gone to the man. \"Monsignor,\" she said, \"the\nfounders of the American nation did provide for religious tolerance--and\nthey were wise according to their light. But we of this day are\nstill wiser, for we have some knowledge of the wonderful working of\nmental laws. I, too, believe in toleration of opinion. You are\nwelcome to yours, and I to mine. But--and here is the great point--the\nopinion which Holy Church has held throughout the ages regarding those\nwho do not accept her dogmas is that they are damned, that they are\noutcasts of heaven, that they merit the stake and rack. The Church's\nhatred of heretics has been deadly. Her thought concerning them has\nnot been that of love, such as Jesus sent out to all who did not\nagree with him, but deadly, suggestive hatred. Now our Constitution\ndoes not provide for tolerance of hate and murder-thoughts, which enter\nthe minds of the unsuspecting and work destruction there in the form\nof disease, disaster, and death. That is what we object to in you,\nMonsignor. You murder your opponents with your poisonous thoughts.\nAnd toward such thoughts we have a right to be very intolerant, even to\nthe point of destroying them in human mentalities. Again I say, I war\nnot against people, but against the murderous carnal thought of the\nhuman mind!\"\n\nMonsignor had fallen back before the girl's strong words. His face\nhad grown black, and his hands were working convulsively.\n\n\"Monsignor,\" continued Carmen in a low, steady voice, \"you have\nthreatened me with something which you apparently hold over me. You\nare very like the people of Galilee: if you can not refute by reason,\nyou would circumvent by law, by the Constitution, by Congress. That\nfailing, you would destroy. Instead of threatening us with the flames\nof hell for not being good, why do you not show us by the great\nexample of Jesus' love how to be so? Are you manifesting love now--or\nthe carnal mind? I judge your Church by such as manifest it to me.\nHow, then, shall I judge it by you to-day?\"\n\nHe rose slowly and took her by the hand. \"I beg your pardon,\" he said\nin a strange, unnatural voice. \"I was hasty. As you see, I am zealous.\nNaturally, I resent misjudgment. And I assure you that you quite\nmisunderstand me, and the Church which I represent. But--I may come\nagain?\"\n\n\"Surely, Monsignor,\" returned the girl heartily. \"A debate such as\nthis is stimulating, don't you think so?\"\n\nHe bowed and turned to go. Just then the Beaubien appeared.\n\n\"Ah, Monsignor,\" she said lightly, as she stepped into the room. \"You\nare exclusive. Why have you avoided me since your return to America?\"\n\n\"Madam,\" replied Lafelle, in some confusion, \"no one regrets more than\nI the press of business which necessitated it. But your little friend\nhas told me I may return.\"\n\n\"Always welcome, Monsignor,\" replied the Beaubien, scanning him\nnarrowly as she accompanied him to the door. \"By the way, you forgot\nour little compact, did you not?\" she added coldly.\n\n\"Madam, I came out of a sense of duty.\"\n\n\"Of that I have no doubt, Monsignor. _Adieu_.\"\n\nShe returned again to the music room, where Carmen made her acquainted\nwith Father Waite, and related the conversation with Lafelle. While\nthe girl talked the Beaubien's expression grew serious. Then Carmen\nlaunched into her association with the ex-priest, concluding with:\n\"And he must have something to do, right away, to earn his living!\"\n\nThe Beaubien laughed. She always did when Carmen, no matter how\nserious the conversation, infused her sparkling animation into it.\n\"That isn't nearly as important as to know what he thinks about\nMonsignor's errand here this afternoon, dearie,\" she said.\n\nFather Waite bowed. \"Madam,\" he said with great seriousness, \"I would\nbe very wide awake.\"\n\nThe Beaubien studied him for a moment. \"Why?\" she asked.\n\n\"I think--I think--\" He hesitated, and looked at Carmen.\n\n\"Well?\" impatiently.\n\n\"I think he--has been greatly angered by--this girl--and by my\npresence here.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" Her face set hard. Then abruptly: \"What are you going to do\nnow?\"\n\n\"I have funds enough to keep me some weeks, Madam, while making plans\nfor the future.\"\n\n\"Then remain where I can keep in touch with you.\"\n\nFor the Beaubien had just returned from a two hours' ride with J.\nWilton Ames, and she felt that she needed a friend.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 20\n\n\nThe Beaubien sat in the rounded window of the breakfast room. Carmen\nnestled at her feet. The maid had just removed the remains of the\nlight luncheon.\n\n\"Dearest, please, _please_ don't look so serious!\"\n\nThe Beaubien twined her fingers through the girl's flowing locks. \"I\nwill try, girlie,\" she said, though her voice broke.\n\nCarmen looked up into her face with a wistful yearning. \"Will you not\ntell me?\" she pleaded. \"Ever since Monsignor Lafelle and Father Waite\nwere here you have been so quiet; and that was nearly a week ago. I\nknow I can help, if you will only let me.\"\n\n\"How would you help, dearie?\" asked the woman absently.\n\n\"By knowing that God is everywhere, and that evil is unreal and\npowerless,\" came the quick, invariable reply.\n\n\"My sweet child! Can nothing shake your faith?\"\n\n\"No. Why, if I were chained to a stake, with fire all around me, I'd\nknow it wasn't true!\"\n\n\"I think you are chained--and the fire has been kindled,\" said the\nwoman in a voice that fell to a whisper.\n\n\"Then your thought is wrong--all wrong! And wrong thought just _can't_\nbe externalized to me, for I know that 'There shall no mischief happen\nto the righteous,' that is, to the right-thinking. And I think\nright.\"\n\n\"I'm sure you do, child.\" The Beaubien got up and walked slowly around\nthe room, as if to summon her strength. Then she returned to her\nchair.\n\n\"I'm going to tell you,\" she said firmly. \"You are right, and I have\nbeen wrong. It concerns you. And you have help that I have not. I--I\nhave lost a great deal of money.\"\n\nCarmen laughed in relief. \"Well, dear me! that's nothing.\"\n\nThe Beaubien smiled sadly. \"I agree with you. Mr. Ames may have my\nmoney. I have discovered in the past few months that there are better\nthings in life. But--\" her lips tightened, and her eyes half\nclosed--\"he can _not_ have you!\"\n\n\"Oh! He wants _me_?\"\n\n\"Yes. Listen, child: I know not why it is, but you awaken something in\nevery life into which you come. The woman I was a year ago and the\nwoman I am to-day meet almost as strangers now. Why? The only answer I\ncan give is, you. I don't know what you did to people in South\nAmerica; I can only surmise. Yet of this I am certain, wherever you\nwent you made a path of light. But the effect you have on people\ndiffers with differing natures. Just why this is, I do not know. It\nmust have something to do with those mental laws of which I am so\nignorant, and of which you know so much.\"\n\nCarmen looked at her in wondering anticipation. The Beaubien smiled\ndown into the face upturned so lovingly, and went on:\n\n\"From what you have told me about your priest, Jos\u00e8, I know that you\nwere the light of his life. He loved you to the complete obliteration\nof every other interest. You have not said so; but I know it. How,\nindeed, could it be otherwise? On the other hand, that heartless\nDiego--his mad desire to get possession of you was only animal. Why\nshould you, a child of heaven, arouse such opposite sentiments?\"\n\n\"Dearest,\" said the girl, laying her head on the woman's knees, \"that\nisn't what's worrying you.\"\n\n\"No--but I think of it so often. And, as for me, you have turned me\ninside-out.\"\n\nCarmen laughed again merrily. \"Well, I think this side wears better,\ndon't you?\"\n\n\"It is softer--it may not,\" returned the woman gently. \"But I have no\ndesire to change back.\" She bent and kissed the brown hair. \"Mr. Ames\nand I have been--no, not friends. I had no higher ideals than he, and\nI played his game with him. Then you came. And at a time when he had\ninvolved me heavily financially. The Colombian revolution--his cotton\ndeal--he must have foreseen, he is so uncanny--he must have known that\nto involve me meant control whenever he might need me! He needs me\nnow, for I stand between him and you.\"\n\n\"You don't!\" Carmen was on her feet. \"God stands between me and every\nform of evil!\" She sat down on the arm of the Beaubien's chair. \"Is it\nbecause you will not let him have me that he threatens to ruin you\nfinancially?\"\n\n\"Yes. He couldn't ruin me in reputation, for--\" her voice again faded\nto a whisper, \"I haven't any.\"\n\n\"That is not true!\" cried the girl, throwing her arms about the\nwoman's neck. \"Your true self is just coming to light! Why, it is\nbeautiful! And I love it so!\"\n\nThe Beaubien suddenly burst into a flood of tears. The strain of weeks\nwas at last manifesting. \"Oh, I have been in the gutter!--he dragged\nme through the mire!--and I let him! I did it for money, money! I gave\nmy soul for it! I schemed and plotted with him; I ruined and pillaged\nwith him; I murdered reputations and blasted lives with him, that I\nmight get money, dirty, blood-stained money! Oh, Carmen, I didn't know\nwhat I was doing, until you came! And now I'd hang on the cross if I\ncould undo it! But it's too late! And he has you and me in his\nclutches, and he is crushing us!\" She bent her head and sobbed\nviolently.\n\nCarmen bent over the weeping woman. \"Be still, and _know_ that I am\nGod.\" The Beaubien raised her head and smiled feebly through her\ntears.\n\n\"He governs all, dearest,\" whispered Carmen, as she drew the woman's\nhead to her breast. \"And He is _everywhere_.\"\n\n\"Let us go away!\" cried the Beaubien, starting up.\n\n\"Flee from our problems?\" returned the girl. \"But they would follow.\nNo, we will stay and meet them, right here!\"\n\nThe Beaubien's hand shook as she clasped Carmen's. \"I can't turn to\nKane, nor to Fitch, nor Weston. They are all afraid of him. I've\nruined Gannette myself--for him! I've ruined Mrs. Hawley-Crowles--\"\n\n\"Mrs. Hawley-Crowles!\" exclaimed Carmen, rising.\n\n\"Oh, don't, don't!\" sobbed the suffering woman, clinging to the girl.\n\n\"But--how did you do that?\"\n\n\"I lent her money--took her notes--which I sold again to Mr. Ames.\"\n\n\"Well, you can buy them back, can't you? And return the money to\nher?\"\n\n\"I can't! I've tried! He refuses to sell them!\"\n\n\"Then give her your own money.\"\n\n\"Most that I have is mortgaged to him on the investments I made at his\ndirection,\" wailed the woman.\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"I will try--I am trying, desperately! I will save her, if I can!\nBut--there is Monsignor Lafelle!\"\n\n\"Is he working with Mr. Ames?\"\n\n\"He works with and against him. And I'm sure he holds something over\nyou and me. But, I will send for him--I will renew my vows to his\nChurch--anything to--\"\n\n\"Listen, dearest,\" interrupted Carmen. \"I will go to Mr. Ames myself.\nIf I am the cause of it all, I can--\"\n\n\"You will not!\" cried the Beaubien fiercely. \"I--I would kill him!\"\n\n\"Why, mother dearest!\"\n\nThe desperate woman put her head in the girl's lap and sobbed\nbitterly.\n\n\"There is a way out, dearest,\" whispered Carmen. \"I _know_ there is,\nno matter what seems to be or to happen, for 'underneath are the\neverlasting arms.' I am not afraid. Mrs. Hawley-Crowles told me this\nmorning that Mrs. Ames intends to give a big reception next week. Of\ncourse we will go. And then I will see Mr. Ames and talk with him.\nDon't fear, dearest. He will do it for me. And--it will be right, I\nknow.\"\n\nAnd Carmen sat with the repentant woman all that day, struggling with\nher to close the door upon her sordid past, and to open it wide to\n\"that which is to come.\"\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe days following were busy ones for many with whom our story is\nconcerned. Every morning saw Carmen on her way to the Beaubien, to\ncomfort and advise. Every afternoon found her yielding gently to the\nrelentless demands of society, or to the tiresome calls of her\nthoroughly ardent wooer, the young Duke of Altern. Carmen would have\nhelped him if she could. But she found so little upon which to build.\nAnd she bore with him largely on account of Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, for\nwhom she and the Beaubien were now daily laboring. The young man\ntacitly assumed proprietorship over the girl, and all society was agog\nwith expectation of the public announcement of their engagement.\n\nMrs. Hawley-Crowles still came and went upon a tide of unruffled joy.\nThe cornucopia of Fortune lay full at her feet. Her broker, Ketchim,\nbasked in the sunlight of her golden smiles--and quietly sold his own\nSimit\u00ed stock on the strength of her patronage. Society fawned and\nsmirked at her approach, and envied her brilliant success, as it\ncopied the cut of her elaborate gowns--all but the deposed Mrs. Ames\nand her unlovely daughter, who sulked and hated, until they received a\ncall from Monsignor Lafelle. This was shortly after that gentleman's\nmeeting with Carmen and Father Waite in the Beaubien mansion. And he\nleft the Ames home with an ominous look on his face. \"The girl is a\nmenace,\" he muttered, \"and she deserves her fate.\"\n\nThe Ames grand reception, promising to be the most brilliant event of\nthe year, barring the famous _Bal de l'Op\u00e9ra_, was set for Thursday.\nBut neither Mrs. Hawley-Crowles nor Carmen had received invitations.\nTo the former it was evident that there was some mistake. \"For it\ncan't be possible that the hussy doesn't intend to invite us!\" she\nargued. But Thursday morning came, and found Mrs. Hawley-Crowles\ndrenched with tears of anxiety and vexation. \"I'd call her up and ask,\nif I dared,\" she groaned. But her courage failed. And, to the\namazement of the exclusive set, the brilliant function was held\nwithout the presence of its acknowledged leaders, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles\nand her ward, the Inca princess.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nOn Wednesday night Harris arrived from Denver. His arrival was\ninstantly made known to J. Wilton Ames, who, on the morning following,\nsummoned both him and Philip O. Ketchim to his private office. There\nwere present, also, Monsignor Lafelle and Alonzo Hood. Harris and\nKetchim came together. The latter was observed to change color as he\ntimidly entered the room and faced the waiting audience.\n\n\"Be seated, gentlemen,\" said Ames genially, after cordially shaking\nhands with them and introducing the churchman. Then, turning to\nHarris, \"You are on your way to Colombia, I learn. Going down to\ninaugurate work on the Simit\u00ed holdings, I suppose?\"\n\nHarris threw a quick glance at Ketchim. The latter sat blank,\nwondering if there were any portions of the earth to which Ames's long\narms did not reach.\n\n\"As a matter of fact,\" Ames continued, leaning back in his chair and\npressing the tips of his fingers together before him, \"a hitch seems\nto have developed in Simit\u00ed proceedings. I am interested, Mr.\nKetchim,\" turning suddenly and sharply upon that gentleman, \"because\nmy brokers have picked up for me several thousand shares of the\nstock.\"\n\nKetchim's hair began to rise.\n\n\"But,\" proceeded Ames calmly, \"now that I have put money into it, I\nlearn that the Simit\u00ed Company has no property whatever in Colombia.\"\n\nA haze slowly gathered before Ketchim's eyes. His ears hummed. His\nheart throbbed violently. \"How do you make that out, Mr. Ames?\" he\nheard Harris say in a voice that seemed to come from an infinite\ndistance. \"I myself saw the title papers which old Rosendo had, and\nsaw them transferred to Mr. Ketchim for the Simit\u00ed Company. Moreover,\nI personally visited the mine in question.\"\n\n\"La Libertad? Quite so,\" returned Ames. \"But, here's the rub. The\nproperty was relocated by this Rosendo, and he secured title to it\nunder the name of the Chicago mine. It was that name which deceived\nthe clerks in the Department of Mines in Cartagena, and caused them to\nissue title, not knowing that it really was the famous old La\nLibertad.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't see that there is any ground for confusion.\"\n\n\"Simply this,\" returned Ames evenly: \"La Libertad mine, since the\ndeath of its former owner, Don Ignacio de Rinc\u00f3n, has belonged to the\nChurch.\"\n\n\"What!\" Harris was on his feet. \"By what right does it belong to the\nChurch?\"\n\n\"By the ancient law of _'en manos muertas'_, my friend,\" replied Ames,\nunperturbed.\n\n\"Good Lord! what's that?\"\n\n\"Our friend, Monsignor Lafelle, representing the Church, will\nexplain,\" said Ames, waving a hand toward that gentleman.\n\nLafelle cleared his throat. \"I deeply regret this unfortunate\nsituation, gentlemen,\" he began. \"But, as Mr. Ames has pointed out,\nthe confusion came about through issuing title to the mine under the\nname Chicago. Don Ignacio de Rinc\u00f3n, long before his departure from\nColombia after the War of Independence, drew up his last will, and,\nfollowing the established custom among wealthy South Americans of that\nday, bequeathed this mine, La Libertad, and other property, to the\nChurch, invoking the old law of _'en manos muertas'_ which, being\ntranslated, means, 'in dead hands.' Pious Catholics of many lands have\ndone the same throughout the centuries. Such a bequest places property\nin the custody of the Church; and it may never be sold or disposed of\nin any way, but all revenue from it must be devoted to the purchase of\nMasses for the souls in purgatory. It was through the merest chance, I\nassure you, that your mistake was brought to light. Knowing that our\nfriend, Mr. Ames, had purchased stock in your company, I took the\npains to investigate while in Cartagena recently, and made the\ndiscovery which unfortunately renders your claim to the mine quite\nnull.\"\n\n\"God a'mighty!\" exploded Harris. \"Did you know this?\" turning savagely\nupon the paralyzed Ketchim.\n\n\"That,\" interposed Ames with cruel significance, \"is a matter which he\nwill explain in court.\"\n\nFleeting visions of the large blocks of stock which he had sold; of\nthe widows, orphans, and indigent clergymen whom he had involved; of\nthe notes which the banks held against him; of his questionable deals\nwith Mrs. Hawley-Crowles; and of the promiscuous peddling of his own\nholdings in the now ruined company, rushed over the clouded mind of\nthis young genius of high finance. His tongue froze, though his\ntrembling body dripped with perspiration. Somehow he got to his feet.\nSomehow he found the door, and groped his way to a descending\nelevator. And somehow he lived through that terror-haunted day and\nnight.\n\nBut very early next morning, while his blurred eyes were drinking in\nthe startling report of the Simit\u00ed Company's collapse, as set forth in\nthe newspaper which he clutched in his shaking hand, the maid led in a\nsoft-stepping gentleman, who laid a hand upon his quaking shoulder and\nread to him from a familiar-looking document an irresistible\ninvitation to take up lodgings in the city jail.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere were other events forward at the same time, which came to light\nthat fateful next day. It was noon when Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, after a\nnight of mingled worry and anger over the deliberate or unintentional\nexclusion of herself and Carmen from the Ames reception the preceding\nnight, descended to her combined breakfast and luncheon. At her plate\nlay the morning mail, including a letter from France. She tore it\nopen, hastily scanned it, then dropped with a gasp into her chair.\n\n\"Father--married to--a French--adventuress! Oh!\"\n\nThe long-cherished hope of a speedy inheritance of his snug fortune\nlay blasted at her feet.\n\nThe telephone bell rang sharply, and she rose dully to answer it. The\ncall came from the city editor of one of the great dailies. \"It is\nreported,\" said the voice, \"that your ward, Miss Carmen Ariza, is the\nillegitimate daughter of a negro priest, now in South America. We\nwould like your denial, for we learn that it was for this reason that\nyou and the young lady were not included among the guests at the Ames\nreception last evening.\"\n\nMrs. Hawley-Crowles's legs tottered under her, as she blindly wandered\nfrom the telephone without replying. Carmen--the daughter of a priest!\nHer father a negro--her mother, what? She, a mulatto, illegitimate--!\n\nThe stunned woman mechanically took up the morning paper which lay on\nthe table. Her glance was at once attracted to the great headlines\nannouncing the complete exposure of the Simit\u00ed bubble. Her eyes nearly\nburst from her head as she grasped its fatal meaning to her. With a\nlow, inarticulate sound issuing from her throat, she turned and groped\nher way back to her boudoir.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nMeanwhile, the automobile in which Carmen was speeding to the\nBeaubien mansion was approached by a bright, smiling young woman, as\nit halted for a moment at a street corner. Carmen recognized her as\na reporter for one of the evening papers, who had called often at the\nHawley-Crowles mansion that season for society items.\n\n\"Isn't it fortunate!\" exclaimed the young reporter. \"I was on my way\nto see you. Our office received a report this morning from some source\nthat your father--you know, there has been some mystery about your\nparentage--that he was really a priest, of South America. His\nname--let me think--what did they say it was?\"\n\n\"Jos\u00e8?\" laughed the innocent girl, utterly unsuspecting. The problem\nof her descent had really become a source of amusement to her.\n\n\"It began with a D, if I am not mistaken. I'm not up on Spanish\nnames,\" the young woman returned pleasantly.\n\n\"Oh, perhaps you mean Diego.\"\n\n\"That's it! Was that your father's name? We're very much interested to\nknow.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm sure I can't say. It might have been.\"\n\n\"Then you don't deny it?\"\n\n\"No; how can I?\" she said, smiling. \"I never knew him.\"\n\n\"But--you think it was, don't you?\"\n\n\"Well, I don't believe it was Padre Diego--he wasn't a good man.\"\n\n\"Then you knew him?\"\n\n\"Oh, very well! I was in his house, in Banco. He used to insist that I\nwas his child.\"\n\n\"I see. By the way, you knew a woman named Jude, didn't you? Here in\nthe city.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed!\" she exclaimed excitedly. \"Do you know where she is?\"\n\n\"No. But she took you out of a house down on--\"\n\n\"Yes. And I've tried to find her ever since.\"\n\n\"You know Father Waite, too, the ex-priest?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, very well. We're good friends.\"\n\n\"You and he going to work together, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Why, I'm sure I don't know. He's very unsettled.\"\n\n\"H'm! yes. Well, I thank you very much. You think this Diego might\nhave been your father? That is, you can't say positively that he\nwasn't?\"\n\n\"I can't say positively, no. But now I must go. You can come up to the\nhouse and talk about South America, if you want to.\"\n\nShe nodded pleasantly, and the car moved away. The innocent, ingenuous\ngirl was soon to learn what modern news-gathering and dissemination\nmeans in this great Republic. But she rode on, happy in the thought\nthat she and the Beaubien were formulating plans to save Mrs.\nHawley-Crowles.\n\n\"We'll arrange it somehow,\" said the Beaubien, looking up from her\npapers when Carmen entered. \"Go, dearie, and play the organ while I\nfinish this. Then I will return home with you to have a talk with Mrs.\nHawley-Crowles.\"\n\nFor hours the happy girl lingered at the beloved organ. The Beaubien\nat her desk below stopped often to listen. And often she would hastily\nbrush away the tears, and plunge again into her papers. \"I suppose I\nshould have told Mrs. Hawley-Crowles,\" she said. \"But I couldn't give\nher any hope. And even now it's very uncertain. Ames _will_ yield!\nI'll force him to! He knows I can expose him! And yet,\" she reflected\nsadly, \"who would believe _me_?\" The morning papers lay still unread\nupon her table.\n\nLate in the afternoon the Beaubien with Carmen entered her car and\ndirected the chauffeur to drive to the Hawley-Crowles home. As they\nentered a main thoroughfare they heard the newsboys excitedly crying\nextras.\n\n\"Horrible suicide! Double extra! Big mining scandal! Society woman\nblows out brains! Double extra!\"\n\nOf a sudden a vague, unformed presentiment of impending evil came to\nthe girl. She half rose, and clutched the Beaubien's hand. Then there\nflitted through her mind like a beam of light the words of the\npsalmist: \"A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy\nright hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.\" She sank back against\nthe Beaubien's shoulder and closed her eyes.\n\nThe car rolled on. Presently the chauffeur turned and said something\nthrough the speaking tube.\n\n\"What!\" cried the Beaubien, springing from the seat. \"Merciful heaven!\nStop and get a paper at once!\" The chauffeur complied.\n\nA loud cry escaped her as she took the sheet and glanced at the\nstartling headlines. Mrs. James Hawley-Crowles, financially ruined,\nand hurled to disgrace from the pinnacle of social leadership by the\nawful exposure of the parentage of her ward, had been found in her\nbedroom, dead, with a revolver clasped in her cold hand.\n\n\n\n\nCARMEN ARIZA\n\n\n\n\nBOOK 4\n\n\n                Watchman, what of the night?\n                The watchman said, The morning cometh.\n\n                                                         --_Isaiah._\n\n\n\n\nCARMEN ARIZA\n\nCHAPTER 1\n\n\nThe chill winds of another autumn swirled through the masonry-lined\nca\u00f1ons of the metropolis and sighed among the stark trees of its\ndeserted parks. They caught up the tinted leaves that dropped from\nquivering branches and tossed them high, as Fate wantons with human\nhopes before she blows her icy breath upon them. They shrieked among\nthe naked spars of the _Cossack_, drifting with her restless master\nfar out upon the white-capped waves. They moaned in low-toned agony\namong the marble pillars of the Crowles mausoleum, where lay in\npitying sleep the misguided woman whose gods of gold and tinsel had\nbetrayed her.\n\nOn the outskirts of the Bronx, in a newly opened suburb, a slender\ngirl, with books and papers under her arm, walked slowly against the\nsharp wind, holding her hat with her free hand, and talking rapidly to\na young man who accompanied her. Toward them came an old negro,\nleaning upon a cane. As he stepped humbly aside to make room, the girl\nlooked up. Then, without stopping, she slipped a few coins into his\ncoat pocket as she passed.\n\nThe negro stood in dumb amazement. He was poor--his clothes were thin\nand worn--but he was not a beggar--he had asked nothing. The girl\nturned and threw back a smile to him. Then of a sudden there came into\nthe old man's wrinkled, care-lined face such a look, such a\ncomprehension of that love which knows neither Jew nor Gentile, Greek\nnor Barbarian, as would have caused even the Rabbis, at the cost of\ndefilement, to pause and seek its heavenly meaning.\n\nA few blocks farther on the strong wind sternly disputed the girl's\nright to proceed, and she turned with a merry laugh to her companion.\nBut as she stood, the wind fell, leaving a heap of dead leaves about\nher feet. Glancing down, something caught her eye. She stooped and\ntook up a two-dollar bill.\n\nHer companion threw her a wondering look; but the girl made no\ncomment. In silence they went on, until a few minutes more of brisk\nwalking brought them to a newly built, stucco-coated bungalow. Running\nrapidly up the steps, the girl threw wide the door and called, \"Mother\ndear!\"\n\nThe Beaubien rose from her sewing to receive the hearty embrace.\n\"Well, dearie?\" she said, devouring the sparkling creature with eager\neyes. \"What luck?\"\n\n\"We're registered! Lewis begins his law course at once, and I may take\nwhat I wish. And Mr. Hitt's coming to call to-night and bring a\nfriend, a Mr. Haynerd, an editor. What's Jude got for supper? My! I'm\nstarved.\"\n\nThe Beaubien drew the girl to her and kissed her again and again. Then\nshe glanced over her shoulder at the man with a bantering twinkle in\nher eyes and said, \"Don't you wish you could do that? But you can't.\"\n\n\"Yes he can, too, mother,\" asserted the girl.\n\nFather Waite sighed. \"I'm afraid it wouldn't look well,\" he said.\n\"And, besides, I don't dare lose my heart to her.\"\n\nWith a final squeeze the girl tore herself from the Beaubien's\nreluctant arms and hurried to the little kitchen. \"What is it\nto-night, Jude?\" she demanded, catching the domestic in a vigorous\nembrace.\n\n\"Hist!\" said Jude, holding up a finger. \"It's a secret. I'm afraid\nyou'd tell him.\"\n\n\"Not a word--I promise.\"\n\n\"Well, then, liver and bacon, with floating island,\" she whispered,\nvery mysteriously.\n\n\"Oh, goody!\" cried Carmen. \"He just loves them both!\"\n\nReturning to the little parlor, Carmen encountered the fixed gaze of\nboth the Beaubien and Father Waite. \"Well?\" she demanded, stopping and\nlooking from one to the other.\n\n\"What about that two dollars?\" said the Beaubien, in a tone of mock\nseverity.\n\n\"Oh,\" laughed the girl, running to the woman and seating herself in\nthe waiting lap, \"he told, didn't he? Can't I ever trust you with a\nsecret?\" in a tone of rebuke, turning to the man.\n\n\"Surely,\" he replied, laughing; \"and I should not have divulged\nthis had I not seen in the incident something more than mere\nchance--something meant for us all.\"\n\nThen he became serious. \"I--I think I have seen the working of a\nstupendous mental law--am I not right?\" addressing the girl. \"You saw\na need, and met it, unsolicited. You found your own in another's\ngood.\"\n\nThe girl smiled at the Beaubien without replying. \"What about it,\ndearie?\" the latter asked tenderly.\n\n\"She need not answer,\" said Father Waite, \"for we know. She but cast\nher bread upon the unfathomable ocean of love, and it returned to her,\nwondrously enriched.\"\n\n\"If you are going to talk about me, I shall not stay,\" declared\nCarmen, rising. \"I'm going out to help Jude.\" And she departed for the\nkitchen, but not without leaving a smile for each of them as she went.\nAnd they understood.\n\nThe Beaubien and Father Waite remained some moments in silence. Then\nthe woman spoke. \"I am learning,\" she said. \"She is the light that is\nguiding me. This little incident which you have just related is but a\nmanifestation of the law of love by which she lives. She gave,\nunasked, and with no desire to be seen and advertised. It returned to\nher ten-fold. It is always so with her. There was no chance, no\nmiracle, no luck about it. She herself did nothing. It was--it\nwas--only the working of her beloved Christ-principle. Oh, Lewis! if\nwe only knew--\"\n\n\"We _shall_ know, Madam!\" declared the man vehemently. \"Her secret is\nbut the secret of Jesus himself, which was open to a world too dull to\ncomprehend. Carmen shall teach us. And,\" his eyes brightening, \"to\nthat end I have been formulating a great plan. That's why I've asked\nHitt to come here to-night. I have a scheme to propose. Remember, my\ndear friend, we are true searchers; and 'all things work together for\ngood to them that love God.' Our love of truth and real good is so\ngreat that, like the consuming desire of the Jewish nation, it is\n_bound_ to bring the Christ!\"\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nFor three months the Beaubien and Carmen had dwelt together in this\nlowly environment; and here they had found peace, the first that the\ntired woman had known since childhood. The sudden culmination of those\nmental forces which had ejected Carmen from society, crushed Ketchim\nand a score of others, and brought the deluded Mrs. Hawley-Crowles to\na bitter end, had left the Beaubien with dulled sensibilities. Even\nAmes himself had been shocked into momentary abandonment of his\nrelentless pursuit of humanity by the unanticipated _d\u00e9no\u00fbement_. But\nwhen he had sufficiently digested the newspaper accounts wherein were\nset forth in unsparing detail the base rumors of the girl's parentage\nand of her removal from a brothel before her sudden elevation to\nsocial heights, he rose in terrible wrath and prepared to hunt down to\nthe death the perpetrators of the foul calumny. Whence had come this\ntale, which even the girl could not refute? From Lafelle? He had\nsailed for Europe--though but a day before. Ketchim? The man was\ncringing like a craven murderer in his cell, for none dared give him\nbail. Reed? Harris? Was it revenge for his own sharp move in regard to\nLa Libertad? He would have given all he possessed to lay his heavy\nhands upon the guilty ones! The editors of the great newspapers,\nperhaps? Ames raged like a wounded lion in the office of every editor\nin the city. But they were perfectly safe, for the girl, although she\ntold a straightforward story, could not say positively that the\npublished statements concerning her were false. Yet, though few knew\nit, there were two city editors and several reporters who, in the days\nimmediately following, found it convenient to resign their positions\nand leave the city before the awful wrath of the powerful man.\n\nThen Ames turned upon his wife. And, after weeks of terror, that\nbrowbeaten woman, her hair whitening under the terrible persecution of\nher relentless master, fled secretly, with her terrified daughter, to\nEngland, whither the stupified Duke of Altern and his scandalized\nmother had betaken themselves immediately following the expos\u00e9.\nThereupon Ames's lawyer drew up a bill of divorce, alleging desertion,\nand laid it before the judge who fed from his master's hand.\n\nMeantime, the devouring wrath of Ames swept like a prairie fire over the\ndry, withering stalks of the smart set. He vowed he would take Carmen\nand flaunt her in the faces of the miserable character-assassins who\nhad sought her ruin! He swore he would support her with his untold\nmillions and force society to acknowledge her its queen! He had it\nin his power to wreck the husband of every arrogant, supercilious\ndame in the entire clique! He commenced at once with the unfortunate\nGannette. The latter, already tottering, soon fell before the subtle\nmachinations of Hodson and his able cohorts. Then, as a telling example\nto the rest, Ames pursued him to the doors of the Lunacy Commission,\nand rested not until that body had condemned his victim to a living\ndeath in a state asylum. Kane, Fitch, and Weston fled to cover, and\nconcentrated their guns upon their common enemy. The Beaubien alone\nstood out against him for three months. Her existence was death in\nlife; but from the hour that she first read the newspaper intelligence\nregarding Carmen and the unfortunate Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, she hid the\ngirl so completely that Ames was effectually balked in his attempts at\ndrastic vindication in her behalf.\n\nBut this served only to intensify his anger, and he thereupon turned\nits full force upon the lone woman. Driven to desperation, she stood\nat length at bay and hurled at him her remaining weapon. Again the\nsocial set was rent, and this time by the report that the black cloud\nof bigamy hung over Ames. It was a fat season for the newspapers, and\nthey made the most of it. As a result, several of them found\nthemselves with libel suits on their hands. The Beaubien herself was\nconfronted with a suit for defamation of character, and was obliged to\ntestify before the judge whom Ames owned outright that she had but the\nlatter's word for the charge, and that, years since, in a moment of\nmaudlin sentimentalism, he had confessed to her that, as far as he\nknew, the wife of his youth was still living. The suit went against\nher. Ames then took his heavy toll, and retired within himself to sulk\nand plan future assaults and reprisals.\n\nThe Beaubien, crushed, broken, sick at heart, gathered up the scant\nremains of her once large fortune, disposed of her effects, and\nwithdrew to the outskirts of the city. She would have left the\ncountry, but for the fact that the tangled state of her finances\nnecessitated her constant presence in New York while her lawyers\nstrove to bring order out of chaos and placate her raging persecutor.\nTo flee meant complete abandonment of her every financial resource to\nAmes. And so, with the assistance of Father Waite and Elizabeth Wall,\nwho placed themselves at once under her command, she took a little\nhouse, far from the scenes of her troubles, and quietly removed\nthither with Carmen.\n\nOne day shortly thereafter a woman knocked timidly at her door. Carmen\nsaw the caller and fled into her arms. \"It's Jude!\" she cried\njoyously.\n\nThe woman had come to return the string of pearls which the girl had\nthrust into her hands on the night of the Charity Ball. Nobody knew\nshe had them. She had not been able to bring herself to sell them. She\nhad wanted--oh, she knew not what, excepting that she wanted to see\nagain the girl whose image had haunted her since that eventful night\nwhen the strange child had wandered into her abandoned life. Yes, she\nwould have given her testimony as to Carmen; but who would have\nbelieved her, a prostitute? And--but the radiant girl gathered her in\nher arms and would not let her go without a promise to return.\n\nAnd return she did, many times. And each time there was a change in\nher. The Beaubien always forced upon her a little money and a promise\nto come back. It developed that Jude was cooking in a cheap down-town\nrestaurant. \"Why not for us, mother, if she will?\" asked Carmen one\nday. And, though the sin-stained woman demurred and protested her\nunworthiness, yet the love that knew no evil drew her irresistibly,\nand she yielded at length, with her heart bursting.\n\nThen, in her great joy, Carmen's glad cry echoed through the little\nhouse: \"Oh, mother dear, we're free, we're free!\"\n\nBut the Beaubien was not free. Night after night her sleepless pillow\nwas wet with bitter tears of remorse, when the accusing angel stood\nbefore her and relentlessly revealed each act of shameful meanness, of\ncruel selfishness, of sordid immorality in her wasted life. And,\nlastly, the weight of her awful guilt in bringing about the\ndestruction of Mrs. Hawley-Crowles lay upon her soul like a mountain.\nOh, if she had only foreseen even a little of it! Oh, that Carmen had\ncome to her before--or not at all! And yet she could not wish that she\nhad never known the girl. Far from it! The day of judgment was bound\nto come. She saw that now. And, but for the comforting presence of\nthat sweet child, she had long since become a raving maniac. It was\nCarmen who, in those first long nights of gnawing, corroding remorse,\nwound her soft arms about the Beaubien's neck, as she lay tossing in\nmental agony on her bed, and whispered the assurances of that infinite\nLove which said, \"Behold, I make all things new!\" It was Carmen who\nwhispered to her of the everlasting arms beneath, and of the mercy\nreflected by him who, though on the cross, forgave mankind because of\ntheir pitiable ignorance. It is ignorance, always ignorance of what\nconstitutes real good, that makes men seek it through wrong channels.\nThe Beaubien had sought good--all the world does--but she had never\nknown that God alone is good, and that men cannot find it until they\nreflect Him. And so she had \"missed the mark.\" Oh, sinful, mesmerized\nworld, ye shall find Me--the true good--only when ye seek Me with all\nyour heart! And yet, \"I, even I, am he that blotteth out thy\ntransgressions for mine own sake, and will not remember thy sins.\"\nOnly a God who is love could voice such a promise! And Carmen knew;\nand she hourly poured her great understanding of love into the empty\nheart of the stricken Beaubien.\n\nThen at last came days of quiet, and planning for the future. The\nBeaubien would live--yes, but not for herself. Nay, that life had gone\nout forever, nor would mention of it pass her lips again. The\nColombian revolution--her mendacious connivances with Ames--her\nsinful, impenitent life of gilded vice--aye, the door was now closed\nagainst that, absolutely and forever more. She had passed through the\nthroes of a new birth; she had risen again from the bed of anguish;\nbut she rose stripped of her worldly strength. Carmen was now the\nstaff upon which she leaned.\n\nAnd Carmen--what had been her thought when foul calumny laid its sooty\ntouch upon her? What had been the working of her mind when that world\nwhich she had sought to illumine with the light of her own purity had\ncast her out?\n\nWhen the blow fell the portals of her mind closed at once against\nevery accusing thought, against every insidious suggestion of defeat,\nof loss, of dishonor. The arrows of malice, as well as those of\nself-pity and condemnation, snapped and fell, one by one, as they\nhurtled vainly against the whole armor of God wherewith the girl stood\nclad. Self sank into service; and she gathered the bewildered,\nsuffering Beaubien into her arms as if she had been a child. She would\nhave gone to Ames, too, had she been permitted--not to plead for\nmercy, but to offer the tender consolation and support which, despite\nthe havoc he was committing, she knew he needed even more than the\nBeaubien herself.\n\n\"Paul had been a murderer,\" she often said, as she sat in the darkness\nalone with the suffering woman and held her trembling hand. \"But he\nbecame the chief of apostles. Think of it! When the light came, he\nshut the door against the past. If he hadn't, dearest, he never could\nhave done what he did. And you, and Mr. Ames, will have to do the\nsame.\" And this the Beaubien could do, and did, after months of\nsoul-racking struggle. But Ames sat in spiritual darkness, whipped by\nthe foul brood of lust and revenge, knowing not that the mountainous\nwrath which he hourly heaped higher would some day fall, and bury him\nfathoms deep.\n\nThroughout the crisis Father Waite had stood by them stanchly. And\nlikewise had Elizabeth Wall. \"I've just longed for some reasonable\nexcuse to become a social outcast,\" the latter had said, as she was\nhelping Carmen one day to pack her effects prior to removing from the\nHawley-Crowles mansion. \"I long for a hearthstone to which I can\nattach myself--\"\n\n\"Then attach yourself to ours!\" eagerly interrupted Carmen.\n\n\"I'll do it!\" declared Miss Wall. \"For I know that now you are really\ngoing to live--and I want to live as you will. Moreover--\" She paused\nand smiled queerly at the girl--\"I am quite in love with your hero,\nFather Waite, you know.\"\n\nHarris, too, made a brief call before departing again for Denver.\n\"I've got to hustle for a living now,\" he explained, \"and it's me for\nthe mountains once more! New York is no place for such a tender lamb\nas I. Oh, I've been well trimmed--but I know enough now to keep away\nfrom this burg!\"\n\nWhile he was yet speaking there came a loud ring at the front door of\nthe little bungalow, followed immediately by the entrance of the\nmanager of a down-town vaudeville house. He plunged at once into his\nerrand. He would offer Carmen one hundred dollars a week, and a\ncontract for six months, to appear twice daily in his theater. \"She'll\nmake a roar!\" he asserted. \"Heavens, Madam! but she did put it over\nthe society ginks.\" And the Beaubien, shivering at the awful\nproposal, was glad Harris was there to lead the zealous theatrical man\nfirmly to the door.\n\nLastly, came one Amos A. Hitt, gratuitously, to introduce himself as\none who knew Cartagena and was likely to return there in the not\ndistant future, where he would be glad to do what he might to remove\nthe stain which had been laid upon the name of the fair girl. The\ngenuineness of the man stood out so prominently that the Beaubien took\nhim at once into her house, where he was made acquainted with Carmen.\n\n\"Oh,\" cried the girl, \"Cartagena! Why, I wonder--do you know Padre\nJos\u00e8 de Rinc\u00f3n?\"\n\n\"A priest who once taught there in the University, many years ago? And\nwho was sent up the river, to Simit\u00ed? Yes, well.\"\n\nThen Carmen fell upon his neck; and there in that moment was begun a\nfriendship that grew daily stronger, and in time bore richest fruit.\nIt soon became known that Hitt was giving a course of lectures that\nfall in the University, covering the results of his archaeological\nexplorations; so Carmen and Father Waite went often to hear him. And\nthe long breaths of University atmosphere which the girl inhaled\nstimulated a desire for more. Besides, Father Waite had some time\nbefore announced his determination to study there that winter, as long\nas his meager funds would permit.\n\n\"I shall take up law,\" he had one day said. \"It will open to me the\ndoor of the political arena, where there is such great need of real\nmen, men who stand for human progress, patriotism, and morality. I\nshall seek office--not for itself, but for the good I can do, and the\nhelp I can be in a practical way to my fellow-men. I have a little\nmoney. I can work my way through.\"\n\nCarmen shared the inspiration; and so she, too, with the Beaubien's\npermission, applied for admittance to the great halls of learning, and\nwas accepted.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"And now,\" began Father Waite that evening, when Hitt and his friend\nhad come, and, to the glad surprise of Carmen, Elizabeth Wall had\ndriven up in her car to take the girl for a ride, but had yielded to\nthe urgent invitation to join the little conference, \"my plan, in\nwhich I invite you to join, is, briefly, _to study this girl_!\"\n\nCarmen's eyes opened wide, and her face portrayed blank amazement, as\nFather Waite stood pointing gravely to her. Nor were the others less\nastonished--all but the Beaubien. She nodded her head comprehendingly.\n\n\"Let me explain,\" Father Waite continued. \"We are assembled here\nto-night as representatives, now or formerly, of very diversified\nlines of human thought. I will begin with myself. I have stood as the\nembodiment of Christly claims, as the active agent of one of the\nmightiest of human institutions, the ancient Christian Church. For\nyears I have studied its accepted authorities and its all-inclusive\nassumptions, which embrace heaven, earth, and hell. For years I sought\nwith sincere consecration to apply its precepts to the dire needs of\nhumanity. I have traced its origin in the dim twilight of the\nChristian era and its progress down through the centuries, through\nheavy vicissitudes to absolute supremacy, on down through schisms and\nsubsequent decline, to the present hour, when the great system seems\nto be gathering its forces for a life and death stand in this, the New\nWorld. I have known and associated with its dignitaries and its humble\npriests. I know the policies and motives underlying its quiet\nmovements. I found it incompatible with human progress. And so I\nwithdrew from it my allegiance.\"\n\nCarmen's thought, as she listened, was busy with another whose\nexperience had not been dissimilar, but about whom the human coils had\nbeen too tightly wound to be so easily broken.\n\n\"Our scholarly friend, Mr. Hitt,\" Father Waite went on, \"represented\nthe great protest against the abuses and corruption which permeated\nthe system for which I stood. He, like myself, embodied the eternal\nwarfare of the true believer against the heretic. Yet, without my\nchurchly system, I was taught to believe, he and those who share his\nthought are damned. But, oh, strange anomaly! we both claimed the same\ndivine Father, and accepted the Christly definition of Him as Love. We\nwere two brothers of the same great family, yet calling each other\n_anathema_!\"\n\nHe looked over at Hitt and smiled. \"And to-day,\" he continued, \"we\nbrothers are humbly meeting on the common ground of failure--failure\nto understand the Christ, and to meet the needs of our fellow-men with\nour elaborate systems of theology.\"\n\n\"I heard another priest, years ago, make a similar confession,\" said\nHitt reflectively. \"I would he were here to-night!\"\n\n\"He is here, in spirit,\" replied Father Waite; \"for the same spirit of\neager inquiry and humble desire for truth that animates us no doubt\nmoved him. I have reason to think so,\" he added, looking at Carmen.\n\"For this girl's spiritual development I believe to be very largely\nhis work.\"\n\nHitt glanced at Carmen inquiringly. He knew but little as yet of her\npast association with the priest Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"You and I, Mr. Hitt, represented the greatest systems of so-called\nChristian belief,\" pursued Father Waite. \"Madam Beaubien, on the other\nhand, has represented the world that waits, as yet vainly, for\nredemption. We have not been able to afford it her. Yet--pardon my\nfrankness in thus referring to you, Madam. It is only to benefit us\nall--that the means of redemption _have_ been brought to her, we must\nnow admit.\"\n\nAll turned and looked at Carmen. She started to speak, but Father\nWaite raised a detaining hand. \"Let me proceed,\" he said. \"Miss Wall\nrepresents the weariness of spirit and unrest abroad in the world\nto-day, the spirit that finds life not worth the while; and Mr.\nHaynerd voices the cynical disbelief, the agnosticism, of that great\nclass who can not accept the childish tenets of our dogmatic systems\nof theology, yet who have nothing but the philosophy of stoicism or\nepicureanism to offer in substitute.\"\n\nHaynerd bowed and smiled. \"You have me correctly classified,\" he said.\n\"I'm a Yankee, and from Missouri.\"\n\n\"And now, having placed us,\" said the Beaubien, \"how will you classify\nCarmen?\"\n\nFather Waite looked at the girl reverently. \"Hers is the leaven,\" he\nreplied gently, \"which has leavened the whole lump.\n\n\"My good friends,\" he went on earnestly, \"like all priests and\npreachers, I have been but a helpless spectator of humanity's\ntroubles. I have longed and prayed to know how to do the works which\nJesus is said to have done; yet, at the sick-bed or the couch of\ndeath, what could I do--I, to whom the apostolic virtue is supposed to\nhave descended in the long line of succession? I could anoint with\nholy oil. I could make signs, and pray. I could give promises of\nremitted sins--though I knew I spoke not truth. I could comfort by\nvoicing the insipid views of our orthodox heaven. And yet I know that\nwhat I gave was but mental nostrums, narcotics, to stupify until death\nmight end the suffering. Is that serving Christ? Is that Christianity?\nAlas, no!\"\n\n\"And if you were a good orthodox priest,\" interposed Haynerd, \"you\nwould refuse burial to dissenters, and bar from your communion table\nall who were not of your faith, eh?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" sadly. \"I would have to, were I consistent; for Catholicism is\nthe only true faith, founded upon the revealed word of God, you know.\"\nHe smiled pathetically as he looked around at the little group.\n\n\"Now,\" he continued, \"you, Mr. Haynerd, are a man of the world. You\nare not in sympathy with the Church. You are an infidel, an\nunbeliever. And therefore are you '_anathema_,' you know.\" He laughed\nas he went on. \"But you can not deny that at times you think very\nseriously. And, I may go farther: you long, intensely, for something\nthat the world does not offer. Now, what is it but truth that you are\nseeking?\"\n\n\"I want to know,\" answered Haynerd quickly. \"I want to be shown. I\nam fond of exhibitions of sleight-of-hand and jugglery. But the\npriestly thaumaturgy that claims to transform a biscuit into the\nflesh of a man dead some two thousand years, and a bit of grape juice\ninto his blood, irritates me inexpressibly! And so does the\njugglery by which your Protestant fellows, Hitt, attempt to reconcile\ntheir opposite beliefs. Why, what difference can it possibly make\nto the Almighty whether we miserable little beings down here are\nbaptised with water, milk, or kerosene, or whether we are immersed,\nsprinkled, or well soused? Good heavens! for nearly twenty centuries\nyou have been wandering among the non-essentials. Isn't it time to get\ndown to business, and instead of burning at the stake every one who\ndiffers with you, try conscientiously to put into practice a few of\nthe simple moral precepts, such as the Golden Rule, and loving\none's neighbor as one's self?\"\n\n\"There,\" commented Father Waite, \"you have a bit of the world's\nopinion of the Church! Can we say that the censure is not just? Would\nnot Christ himself to-day speak even more scathingly to those who\nadvocate a system of belief that puts blinders on men's minds, and\nthen leads them into the pit of ignorance and superstition?\"\n\n\"Ye have taken away the key of knowledge,\" murmured Carmen; \"ye\nentered not in yourselves, and them that were entering in ye\nhindered.\"\n\n\"Just so!\" exclaimed Haynerd, looking at the girl who stood as a\nliving protest against all that hampers the expansion of the human\nmind; that quenches its note of joy, and dulls its enlarging and ever\nnobler concept of God. \"Now I want to know, first, if there is a God;\nand, if so, what He is, and what His relation is to me. I want to know\nwhat I am, and why I am here, and what future I may look forward to,\nif any. I don't care two raps about a God who can't help me here on\nearth, who can't set me right and make me happy--cure my ills, meet my\nneeds, and supply a few of the luxuries as well. And if there is a\nGod, and we can meet Him only by dying, then why in the name of common\nsense all this hullabaloo about death? Why, in that case, death is the\ngrandest thing in life! And I'm for committing suicide right away! But\nyou preacher fellows fight death tooth and nail. You're scared stiff\nwhen you contemplate it. You make Christianity just a grand\npreparation for death. Yet it isn't the gateway to life to you, and\nyou know it! Then why, if you are honest, do you tell such rubbish to\nyour trusting followers?\"\n\n\"I would remind you,\" returned Hitt with a little laugh, \"that I\ndon't, now.\"\n\n\"Well, friends,\" interposed Father Waite, \"it is to take up for\nearnest consideration just such questions as Mr. Haynerd propounds,\nthat I have my suggestion to make, namely, that we meet together once\nor twice a week, or as often as we may agree upon, to search for--\"\nhis voice dropped to a whisper--\"to search for God, and with this\nyoung girl as our guide. For I believe she is very close to Him. The\nworld knows God only by hearsay. Carmen has _proved_ Him.\n\n\"Men ask why it is,\" he went on, \"that God remains hidden from them;\nwhy they can not understand Him. They forget that Jesus revealed God\nas Love. And, if that is so, in order to know Him all mankind must\nlove their fellow-men. But they go right on hating one another,\ncheating, abusing, robbing, slaying, persecuting, and still wondering\nwhy they don't know God, regardless of the only possible way of ever\nworking out from the evils by which they are beset, if we believe that\nJesus told the truth, or was correctly reported.\" He paused and\nreflected for a moment. Then:\n\n\"The ancient prophet said: 'Ye shall seek me, and find me, when ye\nshall search for me with all your hearts.' It is my proposal that we\nbind ourselves together in such a search. To it we can bring diverse\ntalents. To our vast combined worldly experience, I bring knowledge of\nthe ancient Greek and Latin Fathers, together with Church history. Mr.\nHitt brings his command of the Hebrew language and history, and an\nintimate acquaintance with the ancient manuscripts, and Biblical\ninterpretation, together with a wide knowledge of the physical\nsciences. Madam Beaubien, Miss Wall, and Mr. Haynerd contribute their\nearnest, searching, inquisitive spirit, and a knowledge of the world's\nneeds. Moreover, we all come together without bias or prejudice. And\nCarmen--she contributes that in which we have all been so woefully\nlacking, and without which we can _never_ know God, the rarest,\ndeepest spirituality. She is a living proof of her faith. Shall we\nundertake the search, my friends? It means a study of her thought, and\nthe basis upon which it rests.\"\n\nThe Beaubien raised her hand to her moist eyes. She was thinking of\nthat worldly coterie which formerly was wont to meet nightly in her\nmagnificent mansion to prey upon their fellows. Oh, how different the\nspirit of this little gathering!\n\n\"You will meet here, with me,\" she said in a broken voice. \"I ask\nit.\"\n\nThere were none there unacquainted with the sorrows of this penitent,\nbroken woman. Each rose in turn and clasped her hand. Carmen threw\nher arms about her neck and kissed her repeatedly.\n\n\"You see,\" said the Beaubien, smiling up through her tears, \"what this\nchild's religion is? Would the swinging of incense burners and the\nmumbling of priestly formul\u00e6 enhance it?\"\n\n\"Jesus said, 'Having seen me ye have seen God,'\" said Father Waite.\n\n\"And I say,\" replied the Beaubien, \"that having seen this child, you\nhave indeed seen Him.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 2\n\n\n\"I'm afraid,\" Haynerd was saying, as he and Father Waite were wending\ntheir way to the Beaubien home a few evenings later, \"that this Carmen\nis the kind of girl you read about in sentimental novels; the kind who\nare always just ready to step into heaven, but who count for little in\nthe warfare and struggle of actual mundane existence. You get me? She\nisn't quite true to life, you know, as a book critic would say of an\nimpossible heroine.\"\n\n\"You mistake, my friend,\" replied Father Waite warmly. \"She is the\nvery kind we would see oftener, were it not for the belief that years\nbring wisdom, and so, as a consequence, the little child is crushed\nbeneath a load of false beliefs and human laws that make it reflect\nits mortal parents, rather than its heavenly one.\"\n\n\"But I'd like to see her under stress--\"\n\n\"Under stress! Good heavens, man! You haven't the slightest conception\nof the stress she's been under most of her life! But your criticism\nunconsciously pays her the highest tribute, for her kind never show by\nword, deed, or look what they are enduring. That frail-appearing girl\nhas stood up under loads that would have flattened you and me out like\ngold leaf!\"\n\n\"Well, she doesn't look it!\" protested Haynerd tenaciously.\n\n\"Of course she doesn't! Her kind never do! She's so far and away ahead\nof mortals like you and me that she doesn't admit the reality and\npower of evil--and, believe me, she's got her reasons for not\nadmitting it, too! Don't presume to judge her yet. Only try humbly to\nattain a little of her understanding and faith; and try to avoid\nmaking yourself ridiculous by criticising what you do not comprehend.\nThat, indeed, has been mankind's age-long blunder--and they have\nthereby made asses of themselves!\"\n\nEdward Haynerd, or \"Ned,\" as he was invariably known, prided himself\non being something of a philosopher. And in the name of philosophy he\nchose to be quixotic. That one who hated the dissimulations and shams\nof our class aristocracy so cordially should have earned his\nlivelihood--and a good one, too--as publisher of the Social Era, a\nsprightly weekly chronicle of happenings in fashionable society, would\nhave appeared anomalous in any but a man gifted in the Greek\nsophistries and their modern innumerable and arid offshoots. Haynerd\nwas a laughing Democritus, an easy-going, even-tempered fellow, doomed\nto be loved, and by the same graces thoroughly cheated by the world in\ngeneral. He had in his rapid career of some thirty-five years dipped\ndeeply into things mundane, and had come to the surface, sputtering\nand blowing, with his face well smeared with mud from the shallow\ndepths. Whereupon he remarked that such an existence was a poor way of\nserving the Lord, and turned cynic. His wit was his saving grace. It\nwas likewise his capital and stock-in-trade. By it he won a place for\nhimself in the newspaper world, and later, as a credit asset, had\nemployed it successfully in negotiating for the Social Era. It taking\nover the publication of this sheet he had remarked that life was\naltogether too short to permit of attempting anything worth while; and\nso he forthwith made no further assaults upon fame--assuming that he\nhad ever done so--but settled comfortably down to the enjoyment of his\nsinecure. He had never married. And as justification for his\nself-imposed celibacy he pompously quoted Kant: \"I am a bachelor, and\nI could not cease to be a bachelor without a disturbance that would be\nintolerable to me.\" Yet he was not a misogynist. He simply shirked\nresponsibility and ease-threatening risk.\n\n\"You see,\" he remarked, explaining himself later to Carmen, \"I'm a\npseudo-litt\u00e9rateur--I conduct a 'Who's It?' for the quidnunces of this\nblas\u00e9 old burg. And I really meet a need by furnishing an easy method\nof suicide, for my little vanity sheet is a sort of social mirror,\nthat all who look therein may die of laughter. By the way, I had to\nrun those base squibs about you; but, by George! I'm going to make a\nretraction in next Saturday's issue. I'll put a crimp in friend Ames\nthat'll make him squeal. I'll say he has ten wives, and eight of 'em\nZulus, at that!\"\n\n\"Don't, please!\" laughed Carmen. \"We have enough to meet, without\ngoing out of our way to stir up more. Let it all work out now, as it\nwill, in the right way.\"\n\n\"In the right way, eh? Is that part of your doctrine? Say, don't you\nthink that in formulating a new religion you're carrying coals to\nNewcastle? Seems to me we've got enough now, if we'd practice 'em.\"\n\n\"My religion, Mr. Haynerd, is only the practice of the teachings of a\nNazarene Jew, named Jesus,\" she replied gently.\n\n\"Well, my religion is Socialism, I guess,\" he said lightly.\n\n\"So's mine,\" she quickly returned. \"I'm a thorough Socialist. So we\nmeet on common ground, don't we?\" She held out her hand, and he took\nit, a puzzled expression coming into his face.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, glancing about, \"we'll have to dispute that later. I\nsee Father Waite is about to open this little religious seminar. But\nwe'll get back to the discussion of myself,\" he added, his eyes\ntwinkling. \"For, like Thoreau, I prefer to discuss that subject,\nbecause there's no other about which I know so much.\"\n\n\"Nor so little,\" she added, laughing and squeezing his hand as she\nturned from him.\n\nThe little coterie took their places around the dining room table,\nwhich was well strewn with books of reference and writing materials.\nFather Waite rapped gently for order. A deep, reverent silence fell\nupon the group. They had begun their search for God.\n\n\"Friends,\" began Father Waite slowly, \"we are inaugurating to-night a\nmission of the most profound significance. No question so vitally\ntouches the human race as the one which we shall reverently discuss in\nthis and subsequent meetings. I thought as I came in here to-night of\nthe wisdom of Epictitus, who said, 'What do I want? To acquaint myself\nwith the true order of things and comply with it.' I am sure no\nstatement so fully expresses our common desire as that.\"\n\n\"Just so!\" interrupted Haynerd. \"If Adam was a Baptist, I want to know\nand comply with the fact.\"\n\nA general laugh followed. Then Father Waite held up a hand and again\nbecame serious.\n\n\"Can we treat lightly even the Adam story, when we consider how much\nmisery and rancor its literal acceptance has caused among mankind? No.\nOut of deepest sympathy for a world in search of truth, let us pity\ntheir stumblings, and take heed that we fall not ourselves.\"\n\nHe paused. A hush lay upon the room. Carmen's hand stole toward the\nBeaubien's and clasped it tightly.\n\n\"In these days, as of old, it is still said, 'There is no God!' And\nyet, though the ignorant and wilful admit it not, mankind's very\nexistence is a function of their concept of a Creator, a sole\ncause of all that is. No question, economic, social, political, or\nother, is so vitally related to humanity as this: 'Is there a God?'\nAnd the corollary: 'What is His relation to me?' For there can be\nnothing so important as a knowledge of truth. Can the existence\nof a God be demonstrated? Can He be shown to be beneficent, in\nview of the world's testimony? What is our source of truth? If the\nBible, then can its authenticity be established? The greatest of\nour so-called civilizations are known as Christian. But who can say\nby them what Christianity really is?\"\n\n\"I am quite prepared to say what it is not!\" again interrupted\nHaynerd.\n\n\"Doubtless,\" resumed Father Waite. \"And so are we all. But at present\nwe are seeking constructive criticism, not solely destructive. There\nhas been quite enough of that sort in the world. But, to go a step\nfurther, can we say positively that the truth is to be found even in\nChristianity?\"\n\n\"Please explain your question,\" said Miss Wall, with a puzzled look.\n\n\"The first essential is always facts,\" he continued. \"The deduction of\nright conclusions will follow--provided, as Matthew Arnold so tersely\nsaid, we have sufficient delicacy of perception, subtlety, wisdom, and\ntact. And, I may add, sufficient freedom from prejudice and mental\nbias--ah, there is the stumbling block!\"\n\n\"Matthew Arnold,\" ventured Haynerd, \"was dubbed a first-class infidel,\nas I recall it.\"\n\n\"Doubtless. As have been many of the world's most earnest searchers.\nYet he enunciated much truth, which we to-day are acknowledging. But,\nto resume, since Christianity as we know it is based upon the\npersonality of a man, Jesus, we ask: Can the historicity of Jesus be\nestablished?\"\n\n\"What! Do you mean: did he ever live?\" queried Miss Wall in greater\nsurprise than before.\n\n\"Yes. And if so, is he correctly reported in what we call the Gospels?\nThen, did he reveal the truth to his followers? And, lastly, has that\ntruth been correctly transmitted to us?\"\n\n\"And,\" added Hitt, \"there is still the question: Assuming that he gave\nus the truth, can we apply it successfully to the meeting of our daily\nneeds?\"\n\n\"The point is well taken,\" replied Father Waite. \"For, though I may\nknow that there are very abstruse mathematical principles, yet I may\nbe utterly unable to demonstrate or use them. But now,\" he went on,\n\"we are brought to other vital questions concerning us. They are, I\nthink, points to which the theologian has given but scant thought. If\nwe conclude that there is a God, we are confronted with the material\nuniverse and man. Did He create them? And what are their natures and\nimport?\"\n\n\"Well!\" ejaculated Haynerd. \"Seems to me you've cut out a large\nassignment for this little party. Those are questions that the world\nhas played football with for thousands of years. Do you think we can\nsettle them in a few evenings' study? I think I'll be excused!\"\n\n\"No! We can't spare you,\" laughed Father Waite. Then he glanced at\nCarmen, who had sat quiet, apparently unhearing, during the remarks.\n\"I think you will hear things soon that will set you thinking,\" he\nsaid. \"But now we are going to let our traveled friend, Mr. Hitt,\ngive us just a word in summation of his thought regarding the\nmodern world and its attitude toward the questions which we have been\npropounding.\"\n\nThe explorer leaned back in his chair and assumed his customary\nattitude when in deep thought. All eyes turned upon him in eager\nexpectation.\n\n\"The world,\" he began reflectively, \"presents to me to-day the most\ninteresting aspect it has assumed since history began. True, the age\nis one of great mental confusion. Quite as true, startling discoveries\nand astounding inventions have so upset our staid old mediaeval views\nthat the world is hurriedly crowding them out, together with its God.\nDoctrines for which our fathers bled and burned are to-day lightly\ntossed upon the ash heap. The searchlight is turned never so\nmercilessly upon the founder of the Christian religion, and upon the\nmanuscripts which relate his words and deeds. Yet most of us have\ngrown so busy--I often wonder with what--that we have no time for that\nwhich can not be grasped as we run. We work desperately by day,\nbuilding up the grandest material fabric the world has ever seen; and\nat night we repair the machine for the next day's run. Even our\ncollege professors bewail the lack of time for solid reading and\nresearch. And if our young pursue studies, it is with the almost\nexclusive thought of education as a means of earning a material\nlivelihood later, and, if possible, rearing a mansion and stocking its\nlarder and garage. It is, I repeat, a grandly materialistic age,\nwherein, to the casual observer, spirituality is at a very low ebb.\"\n\nHe thrust his long legs under the table and cast his eyes upward to\nthe ceiling as he resumed:\n\n\"The modern world is still in its spiritual infancy, and does not\noften speak the name of God. Not that we are so much irreverent as\nthat we feel no special need of Him in our daily pursuits. Since we\nceased to tremble at the thunders of Sinai, and their lingering echoes\nin bulls and heresy condemnations, we find that we get along just as\nwell--indeed, much better. And it really is quite bad form now to\nspeak continually of God, or to refer to Him as anything real and\nvital. To be on such terms of intimacy with Him as this girl Carmen\nis--in thought, at least--would be regarded to-day as evidence of\nsentimentalism and weakness.\"\n\nHe paused again, to marshal his thought and give his auditors an\nopportunity for comment. Then, as the silence remained unbroken, he\ncontinued:\n\n\"Viewing the world from one standpoint, it has achieved remarkable\nsuccess in applying the knout to superstition and limitation. But,\nlike a too energetic housekeeper, it has swept out much that is\nessential with the _d\u00e9bris_. When spirituality ceases to be real or\nvital to a people, then a grave danger threatens them. Materiality has\nnever proved a blessing, as history shows. Life that is made up of\nstrain and ceaseless worry is not life. The incessant accumulation of\nmaterial wealth, when we do not know how really to enjoy it, is folly.\nTo pamper the flesh, to the complete ignoring of the spirit, is\nsuicide. The increased hankering after physical excitements and animal\npleasures, to the utter abandonment of the search for that which is\nreal and satisfying, is an exhibition of gross, mesmeric stupidity, to\nsay the least. It shows that our sense of life is awry.\"\n\n\"But the world is surely attempting its own betterment,\" protested\nHaynerd.\n\n\"I grant you that,\" replied Hitt. \"But legislation and coercion are\nthe wrong means to employ. They restrain, but they do not cure. They\nare only narcotics.\"\n\n\"Oh, well, you are not going to change the race until the individual\nhimself changes.\"\n\n\"Have I disputed that?\" said Hitt. \"Quite the contrary, that is the\npith of my observations. Reform is a hearthside affair. And no sane\nman will maintain that general reform can ever come until the\nindividual's needs are met--his daily, hourly, worldly needs.\"\n\n\"I think I get your point,\" said Father Waite. \"It is wholly a\nquestion of man's concept of the cause of things, himself included,\nand their purpose and end, is it not?\"\n\n\"Quite so,\" replied Hitt. \"The restless spirit of the modern world is\nhourly voicing its discontent with a faltering faith which has no\nother basis than blind belief. It wants demonstrable fact upon which\nto build. In plain words, _mankind would be better if they but knew\nhow_!\"\n\n\"Well, we show them how,\" asserted Haynerd. \"But they don't do as we\ntell 'em.\"\n\n\"Are you quite sure that you show them how?\" asked Hitt. \"What do you\never do toward showing them how permanently to eradicate a single\nhuman difficulty?\"\n\n\"Oh, well, putting it that way, nothing, of course.\"\n\n\"Quite so, my friend. The relief we afford is but temporary. And so\nthe world continues to wait for surcease from woe in a life beyond the\ngrave. But now, returning to our survey, let me say that amid all the\nfolly of vain pursuits, of wars and strife, of doleful living and\npitiable dying, there are more encouraging and hopeful signs hung out\nto the inquiring thought to-day than ever before in history. If I\nmisread not, we are already entered upon changes so tremendous that\ntheir end must be the revolutionizing of thought and conduct, and\nhence of life. Our present age is one of great extremes: though we\ntouch the depths, we are aiming likewise at the heights. I doubt if\nthere ever was a time when so many sensed the nothingness of the\npleasures of the flesh. I doubt if ever there was such a quickening of\nthe business conscience, and such a determined desire to introduce\nhonesty and purity into our dealings with one another. Never was the\nneed of religion more keenly felt by the world than it is to-day; and\nthat is why mankind are willing to accept any religious belief,\nhowever eccentric, that comes in the guise of truth and bearing the\npromise of surcease from sin, sickness, and sorrow here this side of\nthe grave. The world was never so hungry for religious truth; and this\nfact is a perpetual challenge to the Church. There is a tremendous\nworld-yearning to know and to do better. And what is its cause? I\nanswer, a growing appreciation of the idea that 'the kingdom of\nharmony is within you.'\"\n\n\"Jesus said that,\" murmured Carmen, looking up.\n\n\"He but amplified and gave form to the great fact that there was\nan influence for better things always existent in the ancient Jews,\nthat 'something not ourselves,' if you will, 'that makes for\nrighteousness.' And he showed that that influence could be outwardly\nexternalized in freedom from the ills which beset humanity.\"\n\n\"Very good,\" put in Haynerd. \"And then, what?\"\n\n\"That 'something not ourselves' is the germ of the true idea of God,\"\nanswered Hitt.\n\n\"Which makes God--?\"\n\n\"Wholly mental.\"\n\n\"Spirit?\"\n\n\"Mind,\" offered Carmen.\n\n\"The terms are synonymous,\" said Hitt. \"And now let me conclude with a\nfinal observation. Mankind's beliefs are in a whirl. Ecclesiasticism\nis dying. Orthodoxy and conservatism are hanging desperately to the\nworld's flying skirts, but they will eventually drop off. No change in\nthought has been greater than that concerning God. The absentee Lord\nwho started the universe and then withdrew has gone to the scrap heap,\nwith the ridiculous views of predestination and infant damnation. The\nidea of a God who at divers times interfered with His creation and\ntemporarily set aside His own laws to convince puny man of His\ngreatness, is likewise obsolescent. The world is slowly growing into a\nconception of a creator, of some kind, but at least mental, and\nuniversally present. Nay, more, available for all our problems and\nneeds. And the end will be the adoption of that conception, enlarged\nand purified still further, and taken into the minutest affairs of our\ndaily life--as this girl has done. The day of patient suffering in\nthis world, under the spell of a promise of compensating reward in the\nheavenly future, has all but passed. We are gradually becoming\nconscious of the stupendous fact that the kingdom of all harmony,\nimmortality, and good, is _right here within us_--and therefore can be\nnaught but a consciousness of absolute good, perfectly attainable by\nhumanity as the 'old man' of Paul is laid off, but not gained,\nnecessarily, through what we call death.\"\n\nThe silence which followed was broken at length by Miss Wall. \"And\nwhat constitutes the 'old man'?\" she asked.\n\n\"Largely, I think,\" said Hitt, \"the belief that matter is real.\"\n\n\"What?\" exclaimed Haynerd, almost rising from his chair. \"Matter,\nreal?\"\n\nHitt laughed. \"I stand on my statement,\" he replied.\n\nFather Waite rose slowly, as if lost in thought. \"History shows,\" he\nsaid, meditatively, \"that man's progress has been proportionate to his\nfreedom from the limitation of ignorance and undemonstrable belief.\nAnd that freedom has come as man's concept of God has grown less and\nless material, and more and more spiritual. From the animal nature of\nthe savage, to whom all is matter, down--or up--to the man of to-day,\nto whom mind is assuming ever greater ascendency, man's progress has\nbeen marked by a throwing off of limiting beliefs, theological or\nother, in material power and substance. The development of the least\nmaterial forces, steam, electricity, the X-ray, has come only as the\nhuman mind has thrown off a portion of its hampering material beliefs.\nI am astounded when I think of it, and of its marvelous message to\nfuture generations! For, from the premise that the creator of all\nthings is spirit, or mind, as you will, comes the corollary that the\ncreation itself must of necessity be _mental_. And from this come such\ndeductions as fairly make me tremble. Carmen has told me of the\ndeductions which her tutor, the priest Jos\u00e8, drew from the single\npremise that the universe is infinite in extent--a premise which I\nthink we all will accept.\"\n\n\"There can be no question about it,\" said Hitt, nodding his head.\n\n\"Well,\" continued Father Waite, \"that granted, we must likewise grant\nits creator to be infinite, must we not?\"\n\n\"Certainly.\"\n\n\"And that puts the creator out of the matter-class entirely. The\ncreator must be--\"\n\n\"Mind,\" said Carmen, supplying the thought ever-present with her.\n\n\"I see no other conclusion,\" said Father Waite. \"But, that granted, a\nflood of deductions pours in that sends human beliefs and reasoning\nhelter-skelter. For an infinite mind would eventually disintegrate if\nit were not perfect in every part.\"\n\n\"Perhaps it is already disintegrating, and that's what causes the evil\nin the world,\" hazarded Haynerd.\n\n\"Utterly untenable, my friend,\" put in Hitt. \"For, granted an infinite\nmind, we must grant the concomitant fact that such a mind is of very\nnecessity omnipotent, as well as perfect. What, then, could ever cause\ndisintegration in it?\"\n\n\"You are right,\" resumed Father Waite. \"And such a mind, of very\nnecessity perfect, omnipotent, and, of course, ever-present, must\nlikewise be eternal. For there would be nothing to contest its\nexistence. Age, decay, and death would be unknown to it. And so would\nevil.\"\n\n\"And that,\" said Carmen, rising, \"is my God.\"\n\nFather Waite nodded significantly to the others, and sat down, leaving\nthe girl facing them, her luminous eyes looking off into unfathomed\ndistances, and her face aglow with spiritual light.\n\n\"My God is infinite Good, to whom evil is unknown,\" she said. \"And\ngood includes all that is real. It includes wisdom, intelligence,\ntruth, life, and love--none of them material. How do I know? Oh, not\nby human reasoning, whereby you seek to establish the fact of His\nexistence, but by proof, daily proof, and in the hours when the floods\nof suppositional evil have swept over me. You would rest your faith on\nyour deductions. But, as Saint Gregory said, no merit lies in faith\nwhere human reason supplies the proof; and that you will all some day\nknow. Yes, my God is Mind. And He ceaselessly expresses Himself in and\nthrough His ideas, which He is constantly revealing. And He is\ninfinite in good. And these ideas express that goodness and\ninfinitude, from the tiniest up to the idea of God himself. And that\ngrandest idea is--man. Oh, no, not the men and women you think you see\nabout you in your daily walk. No! no! They but counterfeit the divine.\nBut the man that Jesus always saw back of every human concept. That\nman is God's own idea of Himself. He is God's image and likeness. He\nis God's reflection. That is the man we shall all put on when we have\nobeyed Paul and put off the old man, its counterfeit.\"\n\n\"Then, Carmen,\" said Father Waite, \"you believe all things to be\nmental?\"\n\n\"Yes, everything--man himself--and matter.\"\n\n\"But, if God is mind, and infinite, He must include all things. Hence\nHe must include this imperfect representation, called the physical\nman. Is it not so?\"\n\n\"No,\" returned the girl emphatically. \"Did not Jesus speak often of\nthe one lie about his Father, God? The material man and the material\nuniverse are but parts of that lie. And a lie is always a supposition;\nnot real. All evil is contained in that supposition--a supposition\nthat there is power and life and substance apart from God.\"\n\n\"But who made the supposition?\" queried Haynerd.\n\n\"A supposition is not made,\" replied Carmen quietly. \"Its existence is\nsuppositional.\"\n\n\"I don't quite get that,\" interposed Miss Wall, her brows knitting.\n\nCarmen smiled down at the inquiring woman. \"Listen,\" she said. \"The\ncreator of all things is mind. You admit that. But you would have that\nmind the creator of evil, also. Yet, your own reasoning has shown\nthat, on the premise of mind as infinite, such mind must be forever\nwhole, harmonious, perfect. The thoughts and ideas by which that mind\nexpresses itself must be likewise pure and perfect. Then that creative\nmind can not create evil. For, a mind that creates evil must itself be\nevil. And, being infinite, such a mind must include the evil it\ncreates. We would have, then, either a mind wholly evil, or one of\nmixed evil and good. In either case, that mind must then destroy\nitself. Am I not right?\"\n\n\"Your reasoning is, certainly,\" admitted Miss Wall. \"But, how to\naccount for evil, when God is infinite good--\"\n\n\"To account for it at all,\" replied Carmen, \"would be to make it\nsomething real. Jesus would account for it only by classing it as a\nlie about God. Now God, as the creative mind, must likewise be truth,\nsince He is perfection and harmony. Very well, a lie is always the\nopposite of truth. Evil is the direct opposite of good.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Father Waite, nodding his head as certain bright memories\nreturned to him. \"That is what you told me that day when I first\ntalked with you. And it started a new line of thought.\"\n\n\"Is it strange that God should have a suppositional opposite?\"\nasked Carmen. \"Has not everything with which you are concerned a\nsuppositional opposite? God is truth. His suppositional opposite is\nthe great lie of evil. God is good. Hence the same opposite. God is\nspirit. The suppositional opposite is matter. And matter is just as\nmental as the thoughts which you are now holding. God is real. Good\nis real. And so, evil and the lie are unreal.\"\n\n\"The distinction seems to me theoretical,\" protested Miss Wall.\n\nHitt then took the floor. \"That word 'real,'\" he said, \"is perhaps\nwhat is causing your confusion. The real is that which, according to\nSpencer, does not pass away. We used to believe matter indestructible,\nforever permanent. We learn that our views regarding it were very\nincorrect. Matter is quite destructible.\"\n\n\"And yet,\" said Father Waite, \"in this universe of constant change,\n_something_ endures. What is it but the mind that is God, expressing\nitself in such immaterial and permanent things as law, love, life,\npower?\"\n\n\"Exactly,\" replied Hitt. \"But now we have been brought back again to\nthe question of matter. If we can prove that matter is mental, and not\nreal substance, we will have established Carmen's premise that\neverything is mental. Then there remains but the distinction between\nthe mind that is God, and its suppositional opposite, as expressed in\nhuman existence. Let us conclude, therefore, that to-night we have\nestablished, at least as a working hypothesis, that, since a thing\nexisting implies a creator; and since the existent universe, being\ninfinite, demands an infinite creator; and since a creator can not be\ninfinite without being at once mind, perfect, eternal, omnipotent,\nomniactive, and good, we are fully justified in assuming that the\ncreator of all things still exists, and is infinite, ever-present\nmind. Further than that we are not prepared to go, until we have\ndiscussed the questions of matter and the physical universe and man.\nLet us leave those topics for a subsequent meeting. And now I suggest\nthat we unite in asking Carmen to sing for us, to crown the unity that\nhas marked this discussion with the harmony of her own beautiful\nvoice.\"\n\nA few moments later, about the small upright piano which the Beaubien\nhad rented for Carmen, the little group sat in reverent silence, while\nthe young girl sent out through the little room the harmonious\nexpression of her own inner life, the life that had never left heaven\nfor earth.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 3\n\n\nWith her exit from the _beau monde_ and her entrance upon the broad\nstage of University life, Carmen seemed to have awakened from the\nlethargy which her abrupt transition from mediaeval Simit\u00ed into the\nmodern world had occasioned. The static struggle to hold her own\nagainst the rushing currents of materialism had turned at length in\nher favor. Her lamp had been kept alight. The lethal influences which\nrose about her like stupifying fumes in the courts of fashion had been\nlifted and swept away by the fresher and more invigorating breezes\ninto which her bark had now been drawn.\n\nShe plunged into her new work joyously; yet not without a deeper\ncomprehension of its meaning than that of her fellow-students. She\nknew that the University was but another stepping-stone, even as her\nsocial life had been; another series of calls and opportunities to\n\"prove\" her God to be immanent good. And she thankfully accepted its\nofferings. For she was keenly alive to the materialistic leadings of\nthe \"higher education,\" and she would stand as a living protest\nagainst them.\n\nIt had not taken her long to discover the impotence lying at the heart\nof so-called modern education. She had not been slow to mark the\ndisappointment written upon the faces of many of her fellow-students,\nwho had sought in vain a great awakening light in those sacred\nprecincts of learning, but, their confidence betrayed, were now\nfloundering in the devouring morass of materialism. To her keen\ninsight the University stood revealed as the great panderer to this\nlatest century's obsessing idea that the true function of education is\nexpressed in the imparting of changing, human information and a\ntraining for the business of earning one's daily bread according to\nthe infamous code of the world's carnal social system. The University\ndid not meet the most urgent need of the race by equipping men to\nstand against the great crises of human experience. It did not teach\nmen to lay aside the counterfeit man of material sense; but rather\nemphasized the world's belief in the reality of this man by minutely\ndetailed courses in his mundane history and the manifestations of his\npitiable ignorance in his wanton crimes and watery ambitions. To\nCarmen, God was the most insistent fact of creation. And mankind's\nexistence could find its only justification in ceaseless, consecrated\nmanifestation of His harmonious activity. True, the University vaguely\nrecognized God as infinitely competent. But in the same breath it\nconfessed its utter ignorance of a demonstrable knowledge of Him, to\nknow whom alone is life. True, these men of worldly learning prayed.\nBut their hollow prayers bore no hope, for they knew not how to gain\nanswers to them.\n\nAnd yet the girl remained in her new environment, awaiting the call to\n\"come up higher.\" And meantime she strove to gain daily a wider\nknowledge of the Christ-principle, and its application to the needs\nand problems of her fellow-men. Her business was the reflection of her\nFather's business. Other ambition she had none. The weak, transient,\nflighty, so-called intellectual life which she saw about her sent no\ncall across the calm currents of her thought. Her education was\nreligious in the strictest, deepest sense, for she was learning to\nknow God.\n\nThough the girl pursued her way quietly, unwilling that the notoriety\nwhich had been fastened upon her should mark her as an object of\ncuriosity, yet her story soon spread among University circles, and the\nfirst semester was a scant two weeks old before her name had been\ndebated in the numerous Sororities and Women's Clubs, and quietly\ndropped. Negro blood coursed in her veins; and the stigma of parental\ndisgrace lay dark upon her. She lived with a woman of blackened\nreputation--a reputation which waxed no brighter under the casual,\nmalicious comments of J. Wilton Ames, whose great financial strength\nhad made him a Trustee of this institution of learning. If Carmen\ndivined the comment that was passed concerning herself, she gave no\nindication. But Hitt and Father Waite knew that the girl had not found\nfavor in the social and fraternal organizations of her mates; and they\nknew why.\n\n\"A curse upon such little minds!\" mused Hitt, when he could no longer\nrestrain himself. Then he called a student to his desk one day, at the\nconclusion of his lecture.\n\n\"Miss West,\" he said, \"you are leader in the most prominent Sorority\nin the University. I want you to give Miss Carmen Ariza a bid.\"\n\nThe girl shook her head. \"She is not desirable.\"\n\n\"But the charges against her are unfounded! They are flagrantly\nfalse!\" stormed Hitt.\n\n\"Have you proof, Professor?\" the girl asked, as she arched her brows.\n\n\"None definite. But--well, what if she were a negress? Hers is the\nmost brilliant mind in the entire student-body!\"\n\nBut, no. Race segregation is a divine tenet, scripturally justified.\nWhat though the girl's skin vied with the lilies and rosebuds? What\nthough her hair was the brown of ripe fields? Had not God Almighty\ndecreed that the negro should remain a drawer of water? A hewer of\nwood? Had the Lord designed him the equal of the noble white, He would\nhave bleached his face, and bridged his flat nose. Miss West was a\nSoutherner. And the reference to her dark-skinned sisters caused a\nlittle _moue_ of disgust, as she flatly declined to consider Carmen an\neligible candidate for membership in her Society.\n\n\"Lord above!\" ejaculated Hitt, who had been brooding over the incident\nas he walked home with Father Waite. \"That toadying, sycophantic,\nwealth-worshiping Miss West can see no farther than the epidermis! If\nwe could have maintained Carmen's reputation as an Inca princess, this\nsame girl would have fawned at her feet, and begged to kiss the edge\nof her robe! And she would have used every art of cajolery to\ningratiate herself into Carmen's favor, to catch the social crumbs\nthat our girl might chance to drop!\"\n\n\"There, there, Hitt,\" soothed Father Waite. \"Have you any idea that\nCarmen is at all injured by Miss West's supercilious conduct?\"\n\n\"Not in the least!\" asseverated Hitt vigorously. \"But it makes me\nso--!\"\n\n\"There, check that! You're forgetting the girl's influence, aren't\nyou?\"\n\nHitt gulped his wrath down his long throat. \"Waite,\" he blurted, \"that\ngirl's an angel! She isn't real!\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, she is!\" replied Father Waite. \"She's so real that we don't\nunderstand her--so real that she has been totally misunderstood by the\npetty minds that have sought to crush her here in New York, that's\nall.\"\n\n\"But certainly she is unique--\"\n\n\"Ah, yes; unique in that she goes about putting her arms around people\nand telling them that she loves them. Yes, that certainly is unique!\nAnd she is unique in that her purity and goodness hang about her like\nan exquisite aura, and make people instinctively turn and look after\nher as she passes. Unique in that in her sweet presence one seems to\nhear a strain of heavenly music vibrating on the air. So unique that\nthe dawn, the nesting birds, the wild flowers, the daily sunset,\nfairly intoxicate her with ecstasy and make her life a lyric.\"\n\nHitt essayed to reply; but the words hung in his throat.\n\n\"Yes,\" continued Father Waite, \"she is so unique that when the\nempty-headed, vain young Duke of Altern, learning that she had been\nthrown out of society because of the base rumor regarding her\nparentage, sent her a written statement to the effect that there was\nno engagement between them, and demanded that she sign it, she did\nso, with a happy smile, with an invocation, with a prayer for blessing\nupon those who had tried to ruin her.\"\n\n\"Good God! Did she do that?\"\n\n\"Aye, she did. And when Mrs. Hawley-Crowles and Ames and Lafelle\nfilched La Libertad from her, she would have given them the clothes on\nher back with it, if they had demanded them. Yes, she's unique--so\nunique that again and again I hear her murmur, as she looks off\nabsently into space: 'If it is right that he should have a son, then I\nwant it to be so.'\"\n\n\"Referring to--that priest--Jos\u00e8 de Rinc\u00f3n?\"\n\n\"Yes, doubtless. And time and again I have heard her say: 'God is\nlight. Sight depends upon light. Therefore Anita's babe sees.' Old\nRosendo's grandson, you know.\"\n\nHitt nodded. \"Waite,\" he said earnestly, \"she is simply illustrating\nwhat would happen to any of us if we threw ourselves wholly upon\nGod's protecting care, and took our thoughts only from Him. That's\nwhy she can lose her home, her family, her reputation, that\nmine--everything--and still stand. _She does what we don't dare to\ndo!_\"\n\n\"She is a living illustration,\" replied Father Waite, \"of the mighty\nfact that there is nothing so practical as _real_ Christianity. I want\nyou to tell Professor Cane that. He calls her 'the girl with the\nUtopian views,' because of her ingenuous replies in his sociological\nclass. But I want you to show him that she is very far from being\nimpractical.\"\n\n\"I'll do it,\" said Hitt emphatically. \"I'll prove to Cane that her\nreligion is not a visionary scheme for regulating a world inhabited\nonly by perfect beings, but is a working principle for the every-day\nsinner to use in the solution of his daily problems. Moreover, Waite,\nshe is a vivid illustration of the fact that when the individual\nimproves, the nation does likewise. Do you get me?\"\n\n\"I not only get you, but I stand as a proof of your statement,\"\nreturned Father Waite gently.\n\nCarmen, her thoughts above, though her feet trod the earth, came and\nwent, glad and happy. The change in her mode of living from the\nsupreme luxury of the Hawley-Crowles mansion to the common comforts of\nthe home where now she dwelt so simply with the Beaubien, seemed not\nto have caused even a ripple in the full current of her joy. Her life\nwas a symphony of thanksgiving; an antiphony, in which all Nature\nvoiced its responses to her in a diapason, full, rich, and harmonious.\nOften that autumn she might have been seen standing among the tinted\nleaves on the college campus, and drinking in their silent message.\nAnd then she might have been heard to exclaim, as she turned her rapt\ngaze beyond the venerable, vine-clad buildings: \"Oh, I feel as if I\njust couldn't stand it, all this wealth of beauty, of love, of\nboundless good!\" And yet she was alone, always alone. For her dark\nstory had reared a hedge about her; the taboo rested upon her; and\neven in the crowded classrooms the schoolmates of her own sex looked\naskance and drew their skirts about them.\n\nBut if the students avoided her, the faculty did not. And those like\nProfessor Cane, who had the opportunity and the ability to peer into\nthe depths of the girl's soul, took an immediate and increasing\ninterest in her. Often her own na\u00efve manners broke down the bars of\nconvention, and brought her enduring friendships among the men of\nlearning. This was especially the case with Doctor Morton, Dean of the\nSchool of Surgery. Yielding to a harmless impulse of curiosity, the\ngirl one afternoon had set out on a trip of exploration, and had\nchosen the Anatomy building to begin with. Many odd sights greeted her\neager gaze as she peered into classrooms and exhibit cases; but she\nmet with no one until she chanced to open the door of Doctor Morton's\nprivate laboratory, and found that eminent man bending over a human\nbrain, which he was dissecting.\n\nCarmen stopped, and stood hesitant. The doctor looked up, surprise\nwritten large upon his features as he noted his fair caller. \"Well!\"\nhe said, laying down his work.\n\n\"Well!\" returned Carmen. \"That sounds like the Indian 'How?' doesn't\nit?\" Then both laughed.\n\n\"You--are--Doctor Morton?\" queried the girl, twisting around and\nlooking at the name on the door to make certain.\n\n\"Yes,\" replied the genial doctor, with growing interest. He was a\ngray-haired, elderly man, slightly inclined to embonpoint, and with\nkeen, twinkling eyes. \"Will you come in?\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed,\" returned the girl; \"I'd love to. I am Carmen Ariza.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes. The young South American--lady. I have heard of you.\"\n\n\"Most everybody seems to have heard of me,\" sighed the girl. \"Well, it\ndoesn't make any difference about my coming in here, does it?\" She\nlooked up at him so wistfully that he felt a great tug at his\nheartstrings.\n\n\"Not a bit!\" he replied cordially. \"You're as welcome as the April\nsun.\"\n\nShe seized his hand and pressed it. \"Now tell me,\" she said eagerly,\nlooking about. \"What are you doing? What's that thing?\"\n\n\"That,\" said he, taking up the pulpy gray object, \"is the brain of my\nerstwhile friend and collaborator, Doctor Bolton. He willed it to the\nUniversity.\"\n\n\"Alas, poor Yorick!\" murmured Carmen, a facetious twinkle coming into\nher eyes as she looked at it. \"And why are you cutting it up?\"\n\n\"In the interests of science,\" returned the man, studying her. \"That\nwe may increase our knowledge of this marvelous mechanism of thought,\nand the laws by which it operates in mental processes.\"\n\n\"Then you still blindly seek the living among the dead, don't you?\"\nshe murmured. \"You think that this poor thing held life, and you\nsearch now among its ashes for the living principle. But, God is life;\nand 'Canst thou by searching find out God?'\"\n\nThe man regarded her intently without replying. She bent for a while\nover the half-dissected brain in deep thought. Then she looked up.\n\n\"Doctor,\" she said, \"life is not structural. God is life; and to know\nHim is to reflect life. Reflecting Him, we are immortal. Doctor, don't\nyou think it is about time to do away with this business of dying?\"\n\nThe man of science started visibly, and his eyes opened wider. The\nabrupt question quite swept him off his feet.\n\n\"You didn't really expect to find anything in this brain, did you?\"\nshe went on. \"The brain is composed of--what?\"\n\n\"Why, mostly water, with a few commonplace salts,\" he answered,\nwondering what the next question would be.\n\n\"And can a compound of water and a few commonplace salts _think_?\" she\nasked, looking intently at him.\n\n\"N--no,\" he answered tentatively.\n\n\"The brain is not the cause of thought, then, but an effect, is it\nnot?\" she pursued.\n\n\"Why, really, my dear Miss Carmen, we don't know. We call it the organ\nof thought, because in some way thought seems to be associated with\nit, rather than with--well, with the liver, or muscles, for example.\nAnd we learn that certain classes of mental disturbances are\nintimately associated with lesions or clots in the brain. That's about\nall.\"\n\nThe girl reflected for a few moments. Then:\n\n\"Doctor, you wouldn't cut up a machine to discover the motive power,\nwould you? But that is just what you are doing there with that brain.\nYou are hoping by dissecting it to find the power that made it go,\naren't you? And the power that made it go was mind--life.\"\n\n\"But the life is not in the brain now,\" hazarded the doctor.\n\n\"And never was,\" returned Carmen promptly. \"You see,\" she went on, \"if\nthe brain was ever alive, it could never cease to be so. If it ever\nlived, it could never die. That brain never manifested real life. It\nmanifested only a false sense of life. And that false sense died. Who\nor what says that the man who owned that brain is dead? Why, the human\nmind--human belief. It is the human mind, expressing its belief in\ndeath, and in a real opposite to life, or God. Don't you see?\"\n\n\"H'm!\" The doctor regarded the girl queerly. She returned his look\nwith a confident smile.\n\n\"You believe in evolution, don't you?\" she at length continued.\n\n\"Oh, surely,\" he replied unhesitatingly. \"There is overwhelming\nevidence of it.\"\n\n\"Well, then, in the process of evolution, which was evolved first, the\nbrain, or the mind which operates it and through it?\" she asked.\n\n\"Why,\" he replied meditatively, \"it is quite likely that they evolved\nsimultaneously, the brain being the mind's organ of expression.\"\n\n\"But don't you see, Doctor, that you are now making the mind really\ncome first? For that which expresses a thing is always secondary to\nthe thing expressed.\"\n\n\"Well, perhaps so,\" he said. \"At any rate, it is quite immaterial to a\npractical knowledge of how to meet the brain's ills. I am a practical\nman, you know.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry to hear that,\" she said simply. \"Practical men are so\nstupid and ignorant.\"\n\n\"Well, I declare!\" he exclaimed, putting his hands on his hips and\nstaring down at the smiling face.\n\n\"And you are so nice and friendly, I wouldn't want to think you stupid\nand ignorant,\" she went on blandly.\n\n\"H'm! Well, that kind o' takes the edge off your former classification\nof me,\" he said, greatly amused, yet wondering just what appraisal to\nplace upon this frank girl.\n\n\"And evolution,\" she continued, \"is an unfolding, isn't it? You see,\nthe great fact of creation is the creator, infinite mind. Well, that\nmind expresses itself in its ideas. And these it is unfolding all the\ntime. Now a fact always gives rise to a suppositional opposite. The\nopposite of a fact is an error. And that is why error has been called\n'negative truth.' Of course, there isn't any such thing as negative\ntruth! And so all error is simply falsity, supposition, without real\nexistence. Do you see?\"\n\nHe did not reply. But she went on unperturbed. \"Now, the human, or\ncarnal, mind is the negative truth of the real mind, God. It is\ninfinite mind's suppositional opposite. And it imitates the\ninfinite mind, but in a very stupid, blundering way. And so the whole\nphysical universe manifests evolution, too--an unfolding, or\nrevealing, of material types, or mental concepts. And all these\nmanifest the human mind's sense of life, and its equally strong\nsense of death. The universe, animals, men, are all human types,\nevolved, or unfolded, or revealed, in the human mind. And all are\nthe human mind's interpretations of infinite mind's real and eternal\nand perfect ideas. You see that, don't you?\n\n\"You know,\" she laughed, \"speaking of 'negative truth', the first\nchapter of Genesis sets forth positive truth, and the second chapter\nsets forth its opposite, negative truth. It is very odd, isn't it? But\nthere it is for everybody to read. And the human mind, of course, true\nto its beliefs, clings to the second chapter as the reality. Isn't it\nstrange?\"\n\nMeantime, Carmen's attention had been attracted to a large microscope\nthat stood on the table near her. Going to it, she peeped curiously\ndown into the tube. \"Well, what have you here?\" she inquired.\n\n\"Germs,\" he said mechanically.\n\n\"Germs! What funny, twisted things! Well,\" she suddenly asked, \"have\nyou got the fear germ here?\"\n\nHe broke into a laugh. But when the girl looked up, her face was quite\nserious.\n\n\"You do not know it, Doctor, for you are a practical man, but you\nhaven't anything but fear germs under this glass,\" she said in a low\nvoice.\n\n\"Why, those are germs of typhoid and tuberculosis!\" he exclaimed.\n\n\"And manifestations, externalizations, of the fear germ itself, which\nis mental,\" she added. \"These things don't cause disease,\" she went\non, pointing to the slide. \"But the thoughts which they manifest do.\nDo you scientists know why people die, Doctor?\"\n\n\"No,\" he admitted seriously. \"We really do not know why people die.\"\n\n\"Then I'll tell you,\" she said. \"_It's because they don't know enough\nto live._ This poor Doctor Bolton died because he didn't know that God\nwas life. He committed sickness, and then paid the penalty, death. He\nsinned by believing that there were other powers than God, by\nbelieving that life and thought were in matter. And so he paid the\nwages of sin, death. He simply missed the mark, that's all.\"\n\nShe turned and perched herself upon the table. \"You haven't asked me\nto sit down,\" she commented brightly. \"But, if you don't mind, I\nwill.\"\n\n\"I--I beg your pardon!\" the doctor exclaimed, coloring, and hastily\nsetting out a chair. \"I really was so interested in what you were\nsaying that I forgot my manners.\"\n\n\"No,\" she said, shaking her head as she declined the proffered chair,\n\"I'll sit here, so's I can look straight into your eyes. You go ahead\nand cut up poor Yorick, and I'll talk.\"\n\nThe doctor laughed again. \"You are much more interesting,\" he\nreturned, \"than poor Bolton, dead or alive. In fact, he really was\nquite a bore. But you are like a sparkling mountain rill, even if you\ndo give me a severe classification.\"\n\n\"Well,\" she replied, \"then you are honestly more interested in life\nthan in death, are you?\"\n\n\"Why, most assuredly!\" he said.\n\n\"So am I, much! Death is _such_ a mistake; and I haven't a bit of use\nfor it,\" she continued. \"It's like making mistakes in music, or\nmathematics. Now when we make mistakes in those, we never stop to\ndiscuss them. We correct them. But, dear me! The world has nearly\ntalked its poor old head off about the mistakes of sickness and death.\nIt never seems to occur to the world that Jesus always associated\nsickness with sin. You know, the Rabbis of his day seem to have hit\nupon a great truth, although they didn't make it really practical.\nThey maintained that a sick man could not be healed of his diseases\nuntil all his sins had been forgiven. And so they attempted to forgive\nsins and make men clean by their elaborate ceremonies. But they missed\nthe mark, too. And nobody got to the root of the difficulty until\nJesus came. He forgave sin by destroying it completely. And that cured\nthe disease that was the manifestation of sin. Now I ask, why do you,\nnearly two thousand years after his time, still do as the old Rabbis\ndid, and continue to treat the body--the effect--instead of the mental\ncause? But,\" looking down in meditation, \"I suppose if you did that\nthe people would cry, 'He hath a devil!' They thought I was a witch in\nSimit\u00ed.\"\n\n\"H'm!\" returned the doctor. \"Then you do not believe that disease is\ncaused by microbes, I take it?\"\n\n\"Disease caused by microbes? Yes, so it is. And the microbe? It is a\nmanifestation of the human mind again. And, as with typhoid fever,\ndiphtheria, and other diseases, the human mind applies its own\ncherished, ignorant beliefs in certain methods, and then renders\ninnocuous its own manifestations, microbes. The human mind makes its\nown diseases, and then in some cases removes the disease, but still by\nhuman, material methods. Its reliefs are only temporary. At last it\nyields itself to its false beliefs, and then goes out in what it calls\ndeath. It is all a mental process--all human thought and its various\nmanifestations. Now why not get beyond microbes and reach the cause,\neven of them, the human mind itself? Jesus did. Paul did. Others have\ndone so. Why do not you men of science do likewise?\"\n\nDoctor Morton himself took the chair which he had set out for the\ngirl. \"What you say,\" he replied slowly, \"is not new to me. But I can\nonly answer that the world is not ready yet for the great change which\nyou suggest.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" she exclaimed. \"What cant! What mesmerism you are laboring\nunder! Was the world ready for Jesus?\"\n\n\"No. He came too soon. Events show that.\"\n\n\"Well, then, would he be accepted to-day, if he had not come before?\"\n\n\"I can not say. But--I think he would not.\"\n\n\"And I quite agree with you,\" she said firmly. \"Now the world has\ndoctored for more than four thousand years, despite the fact that\nhealth is not sold in bottle or pill form. Doctor, what does the\nhistory of all these centuries of drugging show you?\"\n\nHe hesitated. Carmen waited a moment; then continued:\n\n\"Don't they demonstrate the absolute inability of medicines to cure\ndisease?\" she asked. \"Any more than putting men in prison cures\ncrime?\" she added as an afterthought.\n\n\"They at least prove that medication has not _permanently_ removed\ndisease,\" he ventured, not wishing to go too far.\n\n\"Doctor,\" she said earnestly, \"that man Jesus, who, according to you,\ncame too soon, said: 'Without me ye can do nothing.' Well, didn't he\ncome very, very close to the truth when he made that statement? He did\nnot say that without drugs or material remedies we could do nothing,\nbut that without the Christ-principle mankind would continue, as\nbefore, to miss the mark. He showed that disease and discord result\nfrom sin. Sin is lack of righteousness, lack of right-thinking about\nthings. It is wrong belief, false thought. Sin is mental. Its effect,\ndisease, is mental--a state of discordant consciousness. Can you with\ndrugs change a state of mind?\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" he replied quickly. \"Whiskey and opium cause changes in\none's state of mind.\"\n\n\"No,\" she answered. \"But the human belief of power inherent in whiskey\nand opium, or of the human body's reaction to them, causes a change in\nthe human thought-activity that is called consciousness. The state of\nhuman consciousness changes with the belief, but not the real state of\nmind. Can you not see that? And Doctor Bolton--\"\n\n\"Bolton was not sick. He died of natural causes, old age, and general\nbreakdown,\" was the doctor's refuge.\n\nCarmen laughed and sprang down from the table. \"What an obstinately\nobdurate lot you scientific men are!\" she exclaimed. \"Don't you know\nthat you doctors are only a development of the old 'medicine-man'? Now\nin the first place, Mr. Bolton isn't dead; and, in the second, there\nare no _natural_ causes of death. Old age? Why, that's gone out of\nfashion, long since.\"\n\n\"You deny senile changes--?\"\n\n\"I deny every human error!\" she interrupted.\n\n\"Then,\" with a note of banter in his voice, \"I take it that you do not\nexpect to die.\"\n\n\"I do not!\" she replied emphatically. \"I expect good, nothing but\ngood, ever! Don't you know that physiologists themselves admit that\nthe human body is composed of eighty-five per cent water and fifteen\nper cent ordinary salts? Can such a combination have intelligence and\nsensation? Do you still believe that life is dependent upon lungs,\nstomach, or liver? Why, the so-called 'unit cell' breathes, digests,\nand manifests life-functions, and yet it has no lungs, no mouth, no\nstomach, no organs. It is the human mind, assuming knowledge and power\nwhich it does _not_ possess, that says the sense of life shall depend\nupon such organs in the one case and not in the other. And the human\nmind could be utterly refuted if men would only learn to use the\nChrist-principle. Jesus and Paul used it, and proved material laws to\nbe only false beliefs.\"\n\n\"Well,\" he replied meditatively, \"if you are correct, then the\npreachers are way off the track. And I have long since come to the\nconclusion that--Well,\" changing abruptly back to the previous topic,\n\"so you refute the microbe theory, eh?\"\n\n\"I said I did and did not,\" she laughed. \"Listen: fear, worry, hatred,\nmalice, murder, all of which are mental things in themselves, manifest\nto the human mind as microbes. These are the hurtful microbes, and\nthey produce toxins, which poison the system. What is the cure?\nAntitoxins? No, indeed! Jesus gave the real and permanent cure. It is\nthe Christ-principle. Now you can learn that principle, and how to\napply it. But if you don't care to, why, then you must go on with your\nmaterial microbes and poisons, and with your diseases and death, until\nyou are ready to leave them and turn to that which is real. For all\nhuman-mind activity and manifestation, whether in microbes, death, or\nlife, is mental, and is but the counterfeit of the real activity of\ndivine mind, God.\n\n\"Do you know,\" she pursued earnestly, \"I heard a lecture the other day\nin which it was said that life is a sort of fermentation in the body.\nWell, as regards human life, I guess that is so. For the human body is\nonly a manifestation of the human mind; and the human mind surely is\nin a continuous state of ferment!\"\n\nShe paused and laughed. \"The lecturer,\" she continued, \"said that the\nrange of life was from ultra-microbe to man, and that Shakespeare\nbegan as a single cell. Think of it! The mundane concept of\nShakespeare's body may have unfolded from a cell-concept; but\nShakespeare was a manifestation of mind! And that mind was an\ninterpretation, though very imperfect, of the mind that is God. Why\ncan't you materialists raise your eyes above the dust? Why, you would\nchoke the very avenues of the spirit with mud!\"\n\n\"H'm! Well, your education seems to be--\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she interrupted, \"my education is beyond the vagaries that are\nso generally taught in the name of knowledge. Intellectual education\nis a farce. It does nothing for mankind, except to give them a false\nculture. Were the so-called great men of the past really educated?\nHere is an extract which I copied this afternoon from Hawthorne.\" She\nopened her note book and read:\n\n  \"'Ah, but there is a half-acknowledged melancholy like to this\n  when we stand in the perfected vigor of our life and feel that\n  Time has now given us all his flowers, and that the next work of\n  his never-idle fingers must be to steal them one by one away.'\n\n\"Now,\" she asked, \"was that man really educated? In current theology,\nyes. But that theology _could not solve his least earthly problem, nor\nmeet his slightest need_! Oh, what inexpressibly sad lives so many of\nyour greatest men have lived! Your Hawthorne, your Longfellow, they\nyearned for the rest which they were taught was to follow death. They\nwere the victims of false theology. They were mesmerized. If they\nbelieved in the Christ--and they thought they did--why, then, did they\nnot rise up and do as he bade them do, put death out? He taught no\nsuch resignation to human beliefs as they practiced! He showed men how\nto overcome the world. Why do we not try to overcome it? Has the time\nnot come? Is the world not sufficiently weary of dying?\"\n\nHe looked at her intently for some moments. She seemed, as she stood\nthere before him, like a thing of gossamer and sunshine that had\ndrifted into his laboratory, despite the closed door.\n\n\"Say,\" he suddenly exclaimed, as a new thought struck him, \"I'd like\nto have you talk with my friend, Reverend Patterson Moore! Pat and I\nhave barked at each other for many years now, and I'm getting tired.\nI'd like to shift him to a younger and more vigorous opponent. I\nbelieve you've been providentially sent to relieve me.\"\n\n\"Well,\" she acquiesced. \"You can tell Professor Hitt, and--\"\n\n\"Hitt, eh? You know him?\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed! He comes often to our house. He is very much interested\nin these things that you and I have been talking about to-day. We have\nregular meetings, with Father Waite, and Mr. Haynerd, and--\"\n\n\"Well, no wonder you can argue! You've had practice, it seems.\nBut--suppose I have Hitt bring me to one of your meetings, eh?\"\n\n\"Do!\" cried the girl. \"And bring your Reverend Pat.\"\n\nThe genial doctor laughed long and incontinently. \"I imagine Reverend\nPat wouldn't thank you for referring to him that way,\" he said. \"He is\na very high Anglican, and his dignity is marvelous--to say nothing of\nhis self-esteem. Well, we'll see, we'll see. But, don't go yet! We're\njust getting acquainted.\"\n\n\"I must,\" replied the girl. \"I didn't really mean to come in here, you\nknow. But I guess I was led, don't you?\"\n\nAnd when the door had closed upon her, the doctor sat silently beside\nthe pulseless brain of his deceased comrade and pondered long.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen Carmen entered the house, late that afternoon, she found the\nBeaubien in conversation with Professor Williams, of the University\nSchool of Music. That gentleman had learned through Hitt of the girl's\nunusual voice, and had dropped in on his way home to ask that he might\nhear and test it. With only a smile for reply, Carmen tossed her books\nand hat upon the sofa and went directly to the piano, where she\nlaunched into the weird Indian lament which had produced such an\nastounding effect upon her chance visitors at the Elwin school that\nday long gone, and which had been running in her thought and seeking\nexpression ever since her conversation with Doctor Morton a short\nwhile before.\n\nFor a full half hour she sang, lost in the harmony that poured from\nher soul. Father Waite entered, and quietly took a seat. She did not\nsee him. Song after song, most of them the characteristic soft\nmelodies of her people, and many her own simple improvisations, issued\nfrom the absorbed girl's lips. The Beaubien rose and stole softly from\nthe room. Father Waite sat with his head resting on his hand, striving\nto interpret the message which welled from the depths of his own\nbeing, where hidden, unused chords were vibrating in unison with those\nof this young girl.\n\nThen, abruptly, the singing stopped, and Carmen turned and faced her\nauditors. \"There,\" she said, with a happy sigh, \"that just _had_ to\ncome out!\"\n\nProfessor Williams rose and took her hand. \"Who, may I ask, was your\nteacher?\" he said, in a voice husky with emotion.\n\nCarmen smiled up at him. \"No human teacher,\" she said gently.\n\nA look of astonishment came into the man's face. He turned to Father\nWaite inquiringly. The latter nodded his confirmation of the girl's\nwords.\n\n\"Well!\" exclaimed the professor. \"I wonder if you realize what you\nhave got, Miss Carmen?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she replied simply. \"It's a beautiful gift, isn't it?\"\n\n\"But--I had thought of asking you to let me train you--but--I--I dare\nnot undertake to handle such a voice as yours. May I--may I send\nMaitre Rossanni to you, the great Italian? Will you sing for him?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" returned the girl; \"I'll sing for anybody. The gift isn't\nmine, you know. It is for all. I'm only the channel.\"\n\nWhen the professor had taken his reluctant departure, the Beaubien\nreturned and handed Carmen a letter. With a cry of joy the girl seized\nit and tore it open. It was from Colombia, the second one that her\nbeloved Rosendo had succeeded in getting down the river to the distant\ncoast. It had been written three months prior, and it bore many stains\nand evidences of the vicissitudes through which it had emerged. Yes,\nRosendo and his family were well, though still at Maria Rosa, far up\nthe Boque, with Don Nicol\u00e1s. The war raged below them, but they were\nsafe.\n\n\"And not a word from Padre Jos\u00e8, or about him,\" murmured the girl,\nsinking into a chair and clasping the soiled letter to her breast.\n\nFather Waite thought of the little newsboy of Cartagena, and his\npossible share in the cause of Jos\u00e8's silence. But he made no\ncomment.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 4\n\n\nCarmen's first serious test of her knowledge of English composition\nwas made early in the semester, in an essay on town life in Colombia;\nand so meritorious did her instructor consider it that he advised her\nto send it to a prominent literary magazine. The result was that the\nessay was accepted, and a request made for further contributions.\n\nThe girl bubbled with new-found happiness. Then she wrote another, and\nstill another article on the life and customs of her people. Both\nwere given publication; and with the money which she received for them\nshe bought a silk dress for Jude, much to that adoring woman's\nsurprise and vehement protest. Carmen might have saved the money\ntoward a piano--but, no; that would have been thinking of herself, and\nwas inadmissible. Nor did the Beaubien offer any objection. \"Indeed,\"\ncommented that fond shepherd of this lone lamb, \"she would have poured\nthe money out into somebody's open hand anyway, and it might as well\nbe Jude's.\"\n\nThen she choked back the tears as she added: \"The girl comes home\nevery night with an empty purse, no matter how full it may have been\nin the morning. What does she do with the money? Follow her some day\nand see.\"\n\nCarmen's slight success in the field of letters still further aroused\nHaynerd's interest. The peacefully somnolent Social Era, he thought,\nmight awaken to new things under the stimulus of such fresh writing as\nhers. Perhaps life did hold something of real value after all. Would\nshe furnish him with a column or two on the peculiar social aspect of\nthe metropolis?\n\nShe would, and did. And the result was that the staid conservative\nsheet was given a smart shaking; and several prominent society people\nsat up and blinked. The article was in no way malicious. It was not\neven condemnatory. It but threw a clear light from a somewhat unusual\nangle upon certain phases of New York's social life, and uncovered a\nfew of the more subtly hidden springs of its peculiar activity.\n\nAmong those who read her essay in the Social Era was J. Wilton Ames.\nHe first lay back in his chair and laughed uproariously. And then,\nwhen his agents discovered for him the identity of the author, he\nglowered. The Beaubien was still standing between him and this budding\ngenius. And though he might, and would, ultimately ruin the Beaubien\nfinancially, yet this girl, despite her social ostracism, bade fair to\nearn with her facile pen enough to maintain them both in luxury. So he\nbent anew to his vengeful schemes, for he would make them come to him.\nAs Trustee, he would learn what courses the girl was pursuing in the\nUniversity--for he had long known that she was in attendance there.\nThen he would learn who her associates were; what suggestions and\nadvice her instructors gave her; and her plans for the future. And he\nwould trace her sources of income and apply pressure at the most vital\npoint. He had never in his life been successfully balked. Much less by\na woman.\n\nThen Haynerd came to congratulate Carmen again, and to request that\nshe attend with him the formal opening of the new Ames mansion, the\ngreat Fifth Avenue palace, for he wanted her vivid, first-hand\nimpressions for his account of the brilliant affair in the Social Era.\nAs reporters, he explained, they would of necessity remain in\nseclusion, and the girl might disguise to such an extent as to prevent\nrecognition, if she chose. It was business for him, and an opportunity\nfor rich experience for her. And the fearless girl went, because it\nwould help Haynerd, though the Beaubien inwardly trembled.\n\nInvitations to the number of three hundred had been issued to the\n_\u00e9lite_ of New York, announcing the formal opening of the newly\nfinished, magnificent Ames dwelling. These invitations were wrought in\nenamel on cards of pure gold. Each had cost thirty dollars. The\nmansion itself, twelve millions. A month prior to the opening, the\nnewspapers had printed carefully-worded announcements of the return of\nMrs. J. Wilton Ames and her daughter, after a protracted stay at\nvarious foreign baths and rest-cures in the hope of restoring the\nformer's impaired health. But Mrs. Ames now felt that she could no\nlonger deprive society of her needed activities, and so had returned\nto conduct it through what promised to be a season of unusual\nbrilliancy. The papers did not, however, state that J. Wilton had\nhimself recalled her, after quietly destroying his bill of divorce,\nbecause he recognized the necessity of maintaining the social side of\nhis complicated existence on a par with his vast business affairs.\n\nAs Carmen and Haynerd approached the huge, white marble structure,\ncupolaed, gabled, buttressed, and pinnacled, an overwhelming sense of\nwhat it stood for suddenly came upon the girl, and she saw revealed in\na flash that side of its owner's life which for so many months she had\nbeen pondering. The great shadows that seemed to issue from the\nmassive exterior of the building swept out and engulfed her; and she\nturned and clasped Haynerd's arm with the feeling that she would\nsuffocate were she to remain longer in them.\n\n\"Perk up, little one,\" said Haynerd, taking her hand. \"We'll go round\nto the rear entrance, and I will present my business card there.\nAmes's secretary telephoned me instructions, and I said I was going to\nbring a lady reporter with me.\"\n\nCarmen caught her breath as she passed through the tall, exquisitely\nwrought iron gateway and along the marble walk which led to the rear.\nUp the winding steps to the front entrance, where swung the marvelous\nbronze doors which had stirred the imaginations of two continents,\nstreamed the favored of the fashionable world. Among them Carmen saw\nmany whom she recognized. The buffoon, Larry Beers, was there,\nswinging jauntily along with the bejeweled wife of Samson, the\nmultimillionaire packer. Kane and his wife, and Weston followed.\nOutside the gates there was incessant chugging of automobiles, mingled\nwith the shouted orders of the three policemen detailed to direct the\ntraffic. A pinched, ragged urchin and his tattered little sister crept\nup and peered wildly through the iron pickets of the fence; but a\nsharp rap from a policeman's club sent them scattering. Carmen stood\nfor a moment in the shadows and watched the swarm mount the marble\nsteps and enter through those wonderful doors. There were congressmen\nand senators, magnates and jurists, distillers and preachers. Each one\nowed his tithe of allegiance to Ames. Some were chained to him hard\nand fast, nor would break their bonds this side of the grave. Some he\nowned outright. There were those who grew white under his most casual\nglance. There were others who knew that his calloused hand was closing\nabout them, and that when it opened again they would fall to the\nground, dry as dust. Others, like moths, not yet singed, were hovering\never closer to the bright, cruel flame. Reverend Darius Borwell,\nbowing and smiling, alighted from his parochial car and tripped\nblithely up the glistening marble steps. Each and all, wrapping the\nskeleton of grief, greed, shame, or fear beneath swart broadcloth and\nshimmering silk, floated up those ghostly steps as if drawn by a\ntremendous magnet incarnate in the person of J. Wilton Ames.\n\nCarmen shuddered and turned away. Did the pale wraith of Mrs.\nHawley-Crowles sigh in the wake of that gilded assembly? Did the moans\nof poor, grief-stricken Mrs. Gannette, sitting in her poverty and\nsorrow, die into silence against those bronze doors? Was he, the being\nwho dwelt in that marble palace, the hydra-headed embodiment of the\ncarnal, Scriptural, age-old power that opposes God? And could he stand\nforever?\n\nTwo detectives met them at the rear door. How many others there were\nscattered through the house itself, Haynerd could only guess. But he\npassed inspection and was admitted with the girl. A butler took\nimmediate charge of them, and led them quickly through a short passage\nand to an elevator, by which they mounted to another floor, where,\nopening a paneled oak door, the dignified functionary preceded them\ninto a small reception hall, with lavatories at either end. Here he\nbade them remove their wraps and await his return.\n\n\"Well,\" commented Haynerd, with a light, nervous laugh, \"we've crossed\nthe Rubicon! Now don't miss a thing!\"\n\nA moment later the butler returned with a sharp-eyed young woman, Mrs.\nAmes's social secretary.\n\n\"You will be very careful in your report,\" the latter began at once in\na business-like manner. \"And you will submit the same to me for\napproval before it is published in your magazine. Mr. Ames deems that\nimperative, since your recent publication of an essay on modern\nsociety in this city. I have a list here of the guests, their business\nand social standing, and other data. You will run that in full. You\nwill say that this is the most brilliant assemblage ever gathered\nunder one roof in New York. The wealth represented here to-night will\ntotal not less than three billion dollars. The jewels alone displayed\nwill foot up not less than twenty millions. Now, let me see,\" again\nconsulting her notes.\n\nHaynerd stole a covert glance at Carmen and winked.\n\n\"The chef,\" the secretary resumed, \"was brought over from Paris by\nMrs. Ames on her recent return. His name, Pierre Lotard, descendant of\nthe famous chef of the Emperor Napoleon First. He considers that his\nmenu to-night surpasses anything he ever before achieved.\"\n\n\"May I ask,\" interrupted Haynerd, \"the probable cost of the supper?\"\n\n\"Yes, perhaps you had better mention that item. It will be in the\nneighborhood of three hundred dollars a plate. House and table\ndecorations, about eight thousand dollars. Here is a copy of the menu.\nRun it in full. The menu cards were hand-illuminated by Parisian\nartists, and each bears a sketch illustrative or suggestive of the\nguest to whom it is given.\"\n\n\"Cost?\" queried Haynerd off-handedly.\n\n\"Three thousand, if I correctly recall it,\" was the nonchalant reply.\n\"As to the viands, you will mention that they have been gathered from\nevery part of the world. Now come with me, and I will give you a hasty\nsketch of the house, while the guests are assembling in the grand\nsalon. Then you will remain in the balcony, where you will make what\nnotes you wish on the dress displayed. Refreshments will be served to\nyou later in this waiting room. I need not remind you that you are not\nexpected to mingle with the guests, nor to address any one. Keep to\nthe balcony, and quite out of view.\"\n\nOpening a door opposite the one through which she had entered, the\nyoung woman led her charges directly out upon the great marble balcony\noverlooking the grand salon below. A rush of brilliant light engulfed\nthem, and a potpourri of chatter and laughter, mingled with soft music\nfrom a distant organ, and the less distinct notes of the orchestra in\nthe still more distant ballroom, rose about them in confused babel, as\nthey tiptoed to the exquisitely carved marble railing and peered down\nupon the gorgeous pageant. The ceiling rose far above them, delicately\ntinted like a soft Italian sky. The lofty walls dropped, like\ngold-gray veils, to the richly carved paneled wainscoting beneath,\nwhich had once lined the halls of a mediaeval castle on the Rhine. The\ngreat windows were hidden behind rare Venetian lace curtains, over\nwhich fell hangings of brocade, repeating the soft tints of the wall\nand the brocade-covered chairs and divans ranged close about the sides\nof the splendid room. On the floor lay a massive, priceless Persian\ncarpet, dating from the fifteenth century.\n\nHaynerd drew a long breath, and whistled softly. From the end of the\nsalon he could mark the short flight of steps which led to the\nmezzanine, with its walls heavily tapestried, and broken by rich oak\ndoors opening into lavatories and lounging rooms, itself widening at\nthe far end into the grand billiard and smoking parlors, done off in\nCircassian walnut, with tables and furniture to harmonize. From the\nmezzanine he saw the grand stairway falling away in great, sweeping\ncurves, all in blended marble from the world's greatest quarries, and\ndelicately chased and carved into classic designs. Two tapestries,\ncenturies old, hung from the walls on either side. Far above, the oak\nceiling, for which the _Schwarzwald_ had been ranged, was overlaid\nwith pure gold leaf. The whole was suffused with the glow of myriad\nhidden and inverted lights, reflected in a thousand angles from\nburnished gold and marble and rarest gems.\n\nHaynerd turned to the waiting secretary. He groped in the chambers of\nhis imagery for some superlative adjective to express his emotion\nbefore this colossal display of wealth. But his ample vocabulary had\nfaded quite. He could only shake his head and give vent to the inept\nremark, \"Swell--by George!\"\n\nThe secretary, without replying, motioned them to follow. Passing\nnoiselessly around the balcony to the opposite side, she indicated a\ndoor below, leading off to the right from the grand salon.\n\n\"That room beyond,\" she said, \"is the petit salon. The decorative\neffects are by French artists. Beyond that is the morning room. It is\nin panels from French chateaux, covered with Gobelin tapestry. Now\nfrom here you can see a bit of the music room. The grand organ cost,\ninstalled, about two hundred thousand dollars. It is electrically\ncontrolled, with its pipes running all around the room, so as to give\nthe effect of music coming from every corner.\"\n\nHaynerd again softly whistled.\n\n\"There are three art galleries beyond, two for paintings, and one for\nsculpture. Mr. Ames has without doubt the finest art collection in\nAmerica. It includes several Titians, Veroneses, da Vincis, Turners,\nthree Rubens, and two Raphaels. By the way, it may interest you to\nknow that his negotiations for the Murillo Madonna were completed\nto-day, and the picture will be sent to him immediately.\"\n\n\"Might I ask what he paid for it?\" Haynerd inquired casually.\n\n\"You may say that he paid something over three hundred thousand\ndollars for it,\" she replied, in a quite matter of fact tone. \"Now,\"\nshe continued, \"you will go back to your first position, near the door\nof the waiting room, and remain there until I return. I may have an\nopportunity later to show you the library. It is very unique. Great\ncarved stone fireplace, taken from a Scotch castle. Hundreds of rare\nvolumes and first editions. Now, if any one approaches, you can step\nbehind the screen and remain out of view. You have chairs and a table\nthere for your writing. Do not in any event leave this balcony.\"\n\nWith this final injunction she turned and disappeared into the little\nwaiting room from which they had emerged.\n\nFor some moments Carmen and Haynerd stood looking alternately at\neach other and about them at their magnificent environment. Both had\nseen much of the gilded life, and the girl had dwelt some months in\nits alien atmosphere. But neither had ever witnessed such a\nstupendous display of material wealth as was here unfolded before\ntheir astonished gaze. At the head of the grand stairway stood the\nAmes trio, to receive their resplendent guests. The women were\nmagnificently gowned. But Ames's massive form in its simple black\nand chaste linen was the cynosure of all eyes. Even Haynerd could\nnot suppress a note of admiration as he gazed at the splendid figure.\n\n\"And yet,\" he murmured, \"a victim, like the rest, of the great\ndelusion.\"\n\nCarmen laid down the opera glasses through which she had been studying\nthe man. \"He is an expression,\" she said, \"of the American ideal--the\nideal of practical material life. It is toward his plane of life that\nthis country's youth are struggling, at, oh, what a cost! Think,\nthink, what his immense, misused revenue could do, if unselfishly\nused! Why, the cost of this single night's show would put two hundred\nmen like Father Waite through a four-year course in the University,\nand train them to do life's work! And what, what will Mr. Ames get out\nof it?\"\n\n\"Oh, further opportunities to increase his pile, I suppose,\" returned\nHaynerd, shrugging his shoulders.\n\n\"But, will he get real happiness? Peace? Joy? And does he need further\nopportunities to accumulate money? Does he not rather need some one to\nshow him the meaning of life, how to really live?\"\n\n\"He does, indeed! And it may be your mission, Carmen, to do just that.\nBut if you don't, then I sincerely hope the man may die before he\ndiscovers that all that he has achieved, his wealth, his prestige, his\npower, have not been worth striving for!\"\n\n\"He hasn't the slightest idea of the meaning of life,\" she murmured,\nlooking down upon the glittering throng. \"Nor have any of them.\"\n\n\"No,\" he replied. \"They put me in mind of Carlyle's famous remark, as\nhe stood looking out across the London Strand: 'There are in this city\nsome four million people, mostly fools.' How mean, narrow and hard\ntheir lives are! These are the high priests of vested privilege, of\nmediaevalism, of old institutions whose perpetual maintenance, even in\na generation that has progressed far beyond them, is a fungus blight\nupon us. Ah, there's little Willie Van Wot, all dolled out! He's\nglorifying his Creator now by devoting his foolish little existence to\ncoaching trips along the New England shore. He reminds me of the Fleet\nstreet poet who wrote a century ago of the similar occupation of a\nyoung dandy of that day--\n\n                  What can little T. O. do?\n                  Why, drive a Phaeton and Two!!!\n                  Can little T. O. do no more?\n                  Yes, drive a Phaeton and Four!!!!\n\n\"He's an interesting outgrowth of our unique social system, eh?\"\n\n\"We must follow Emerson and treat them all as we do pictures, look at\nthem in the best light,\" murmured Carmen.\n\n\"Aye, hang them in the best light!\" returned Haynerd. \"But make sure\nthey're well hung! There goes the pseudo-princess, member of the royal\nhouse of England. She carries the royal taint, too. I tell you, under\nthe splash and glitter you can see the feet of clay, eh?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" smiled Carmen, \"resting upon the high heel.\"\n\n\"Huh!\" muttered Haynerd, with a gesture of disgust. \"The women of\nfashion seem to feel that the Creator didn't do a good job when He\ndesigned the feminine sex--that He should have put a hump where the\nheel is, so's to slant the foot and make comfortable walking\nimpossible, as well as to insure a plentiful crop of foot-troubles and\ndeformities. The Chinese women used to manifest a similarly insane\nthought. Good heavens! High heel, low brain! The human mind is a cave\nof black ignorance!\"\n\nCarmen did not reply, but bent her attention again to the throng\nbelow.\n\n\"Look there,\" said Haynerd, indicating a stout, full-toiletted woman,\nresplendent with diamonds. \"That's our eminent French guest, Madam\nCarot. She severed herself from her tiresome consort last year by\nmeans of a bichloride tablet deftly immersed in his coffee, and then,\nleaving a sigh of regret hovering over his unhandsome remains,\nhastened to our friendly shores, to grace the _beau monde_ with her\ngowns and jewels.\"\n\nCarmen turned to him with a remonstrance of incredulity.\n\n\"Fact,\" he stubbornly insisted. \"The Social Era got the whole spicy\nstory. And there beside her is our indispensable Mrs. T. Oliver\nPennymon. See, she's drifted up to young Watson! Coquetting for a\nhusband still, the old buzzard!\"\n\n\"Mr. Haynerd!\"\n\n\"Well, it's fact, anyway,\" persisted the society monitor. \"And there\nbeyond her is fat little Mrs. Stuffenheimer, with her two unlovely,\nred-faced daughters. Ah, the despairing mamma is still vainly angling\nfor mates for her two chubby Venuses! If they're not married off\nproperly and into good social positions soon, it's mamma for the scrap\nheap! By George! it's positively tragic to see these anxious mothers\nat Newport and Atlantic City and other fashionable places, rushing\nmadly hither and yon with their marriageable daughters, dragging them\nfrom one function to another in the wild hope that they may ultimately\nland a man. Worry and pain dig deep furrows into poor mamma's face if\nshe sees her daughters fading into the has-been class. It requires\nheroism, I say, to travel in society! But I guess you know, eh? Well,\"\ntaking up his notebook, \"we must get busy now. By the way, how's your\nshorthand progressing?\"\n\n\"Oh, splendidly,\" replied the girl, her eyes still upon the massive\nfigure of Ames. Then, recovering from her abstraction, \"I can write as\nfast in it now as in longhand.\"\n\n\"Good!\" said Haynerd. \"You'll need it later.\"\n\nFor more than an hour the two sat in the seclusion of the splendid\nbalcony, looking down upon the scene of magnificence below. Through\nthe mind of the young girl ran a ceaseless paean of thanksgiving for\nher timely deliverance from the trammels which she so well knew\nenshackled these glittering birds of paradise. With it mingled a\ngreat, consuming desire, a soul-longing to pour into the vacuity of\nhigh society the leaven of her own pure thought. In particular did her\nboundless love now go out to that gigantic figure whose ideals of life\nthis sumptuous display of material wealth and power expressed. Why was\nhe doing this? What ulterior motive had he? Was it only a vainglorious\nexhibition of his own human prowess? Was it an announcement,\nmagnificent beyond compare, that he, J. Wilton Ames, had attained the\nsupreme heights of gratified world ambition? That the world at last\nlay at his feet? And that over it brooded the giant's lament that\nthere remained nothing more to conquer? But, if so, the girl at least\nknew that the man's herculean efforts to subdue the material world\nwere as nothing. The real conquest lay still before him, the conquest\nof self. And when that were faced and achieved, well she knew that no\nsuch garish display as this would announce the victory to a breathless\nworld.\n\nThe bustling little social secretary again appeared, and briefly\nannounced the production of an opera in the auditorium, to which she\nhad come to conduct them. Passing through the little waiting room and\nto the elevator, they quickly mounted to the unoccupied gallery of the\ntheater above. The parquet, which would seat nearly a thousand\nspectators, was rapidly filling with an eager, curious throng. The\nAmes trio and some of the more distinguished guests were already\noccupying the gorgeously decorated boxes at the sides. An orchestra of\nfifty pieces was visible in the hollow below the stage. Caroni, the\nfamous grand opera leader, stood ready to conduct. The opera itself\nwas the much discussed music drama, Salome.\n\n\"Now,\" commented Haynerd to his fair, wondering companion, who was\nlost in contemplation of the magnificent mural decorations of the\nlittle theater, \"we will see something rare, for this opera has been\ncalled the most artistic piece of indecency known to the stage. Good\nheavens! Ames has got Marie Deschamps for the title r\u00f4le. She'll cost\nhim not less than five thousand dollars for this one night. And--see\nhere,\" drawing Carmen's attention to the bill, \"Marcou and Corvalle\nbesides! The man must be made of money! These stars get three thousand\ndollars a night during the regular season.\"\n\nEvery phase of sophistication was manifested in that glittering\naudience when the curtain rose and the sensational theme was\nintroduced. But to none came thoughts like those which clamored for\nadmittance at the portals of Carmen's mentality. In the bold challenge\nof the insanely sensual portrayal of a carnal mind the girl saw the\nage-old defiance of the spirit by the flesh. In the rolls of the\nwondrous music, in its shrieks, its pleadings, and its dying echoes,\nshe heard voiced again the soul-lament of a weary world searching\nvainly in the mazes of human thought for truth. As the wonderful\nDeschamps danced weirdly before her in the ghastly light and fell\ngloating over her gory trophy, Carmen saw but the frantic struggles of\na diseased soul, portrayed as the skilled surgeon lays bare the\nmalignant growth that is eating the quivering tissues of a human\nframe. The immodesty of dress, the sensual suggestiveness of the\ndance, the brutal flouting of every element of refinement and\ndelicacy, blazoned in frenzied tone and movement the bloody orgy and\ndance of death which goes on incessantly upon the stage of human life,\nand ends in the mad whirl and confusion and insane gibbering over the\nlifeless trophies for which mankind sell their very souls.\n\n\"About the limit of tolerance, eh?\" commented Haynerd, when the final\ncurtain dropped. \"Yes, even to a vitiated taste. The passionate thirst\nfor the sensational has led to this sickening display of salacity--\"\n\n\"Splendid, wasn't it?\" came in tones of admiration from the social\nsecretary, who had returned to conduct her charges back to the balcony\nbefore the guests emerged from the theater. \"You will run the program\nin full, and comment at some length on the expense attached,\" she went\non. \"You have just witnessed the private production of a full opera,\nunabridged, and with the regular operatic cast. Supper will follow in\na half hour. Meantime, you will remain in the balcony where you were\nbefore.\"\n\nReturning to their former position, Carmen sank into a chair at the\nlittle table behind the screen, and strove to orient her thought.\nHaynerd sat down beside her to arrange his voluminous notes. Presently\nfootsteps were heard, and the sound of voices. Haynerd glanced through\nthe hinge of the screen. \"Ha!\" he whispered, \"here comes Ames\nand--who's with him? Ah, Representative Wales. Showing him about, I\nsuppose.\"\n\nCarmen gazed at the approaching men with fascinated eyes, although she\nsaw but one, the towering magician who had reared this fairy palace.\nShe saw Ames lead his companion to the door of the little waiting room\nat their right, and heard the congressman protest against entering.\n\n\"But we can talk undisturbed in here,\" urged Ames, his hand on the\ndoor.\n\n\"Better remain out here on the balcony,\" replied the congressman\nnervously, as he moved toward the railing.\n\nAmes laughed and shrugged his enormous shoulders. He understood the\nman's repugnance fully. But he humored him.\n\n\"You know, Wales,\" he said easily, going to the railing and peering\nover at the brilliant assemblage below, \"if I could get the heathen\nChinee to add an extra half-inch to his shirt length, I'd make a\nhundred millions. And then, perhaps, I wouldn't need to struggle with\nyour Ways and Means Committee as I do. By the way, the cotton schedule\nwill be reported out unchanged, I presume.\" He turned and looked\nquizzically at his companion as he said this.\n\nWales trembled slightly when he replied to the question he had been\nawaiting. \"I think not, Mr. Ames.\"\n\nThe giant's face clouded. \"Parsons will vote for it,\" he said\nsuggestively. \"What will you do?\"\n\nThe congressman hesitated. \"I--the party, Mr. Ames, is committed to\nthe high tariff principle. We can not let in a flood of foreign\ncotton--\"\n\n\"Then you want the fight between the farmers and spinners to continue,\neh?\" interposed Ames cynically. \"You don't seem to realize that in the\nend both will get more money than they are getting now, and that it\nwill come from the consumer, who will pay vastly higher for his\nfinished products, in addition to the tariff. Do you get me?\"\n\n\"It is a party principle, Mr. Ames,\" returned the congressman\ntenaciously.\n\n\"Look here, Wales,\" said Ames, turning savagely upon his companion.\n\"The cotton farmers are organizing. They have got to be stopped. Their\nco\u00f6perative associations must be smashed. The tariff schedule which\nyou have before your Committee will do it. And you are going to pass\nit.\"\n\n\"Mr. Ames,\" replied the congressman, \"I--I am opposed to the constant\nmanipulation of cotton by you rich men. I--\"\n\n\"There,\" interrupted Ames, \"never mind explaining your conscientious\nscruples. What I want to know is, do you intend to cast your vote for\nthe unaltered schedule?\"\n\n\"N--no, Mr. Ames, I can't--\"\n\n\"H'm,\" murmured Ames. Then, with easy nonchalance, turning to an\napparently irrelevant topic as he gazed over the railing, \"I heard\njust before coming from my office this evening that the doors of the\nMercantile Trust would not open to-morrow. Too bad! A lot of my\npersonal friends are heavily involved. Bank's been shaky for some\ntime. Ames and Company will take over their tangible assets; I believe\nyou were interested, were you not?\" He glanced at the trembling man\nout of the corners of his eyes.\n\nWales turned ashen. His hands shook as he grasped the railing before\nhim and tried to steady himself.\n\n\"Hits you pretty hard, eh?\" coolly queried Ames.\n\n\"It--it--yes--very hard,\" murmured the dazed man. \"Are you--positive?\"\n\n\"Quite. But step into the waiting room and 'phone the newspapers. They\nwill corroborate my statements.\"\n\nRepresentative Wales was serving his first term in Congress. His\nelection had been a matter of surprise to everybody, himself included,\nexcepting Ames. Wales knew not that his detailed personal history had\nbeen for many months carefully filed in the vaults of the Ames tower.\nNor did he ever suspect that his candidacy and election had been\nmatters of most careful thought on the part of the great financier\nand his political associates. But when he, a stranger to congressional\nhalls, was made a member of the Ways and Means Committee, his\nastonishment overleaped all bounds. Then Ames had smiled his own\ngratification, and arranged that the new member should attend the\nformal opening of the great Ames palace later in the year. Meantime,\nthe financier and the new congressman had met on several occasions,\nand the latter had felt no little pride in the attention which the\ngreat man had shown him.\n\nAnd so the path to fame had unrolled steadily before the guileless\nWales until this night, when the first suspicions of his thraldom had\npenetrated and darkened his thought. Then, like a crash from a clear\nsky, had come the announcement of the Mercantile Trust failure. And as\nhe stood there now, clutching the marble railing, his thought busy\nwith the woman and the two fair children who would be rendered\npenniless by this blow, the fell presence of the monster Ames seemed\nto bend over him as the epitome of ruthless, brutal, inhuman cunning.\n\n\"How much are you likely to lose by this failure?\" the giant asked.\n\nWales collected his scattered senses. \"Not less than fifty thousand\ndollars,\" he replied in a husky voice.\n\n\"H'm!\" commented Ames. \"Too bad! too bad! Well, let's go below. Ha!\nwhat's this?\" stooping and apparently taking up an object that had\nbeen lying on the floor back of the congressman. \"Well! well! your\nbank book, Wales. Must have slipped from your pocket.\"\n\nWales took the book in a dazed, mechanical way. \"Why--I have no--this\nis not mine,\" he murmured, gazing alternately at the pass book and at\nAmes.\n\n\"Your name's on it, at least,\" commented Ames laconically. \"And the\nbook's been issued by our bank, Ames and Company. Guess you've\nforgotten opening an account there, let me see, yes, a week ago.\" He\ntook the book and opened it. \"Ah, yes, I recall the incident now.\nThere's your deposit, made last Friday.\"\n\nWales choked. What did it mean? The book, made out in his name on Ames\nand Company, showed a deposit to his credit of fifty thousand\ndollars!\n\nAmes slipped his arm through the confused congressman's, and started\nwith him down the balcony. \"You see,\" he said, as they moved away,\n\"the Mercantile failure will not hit you as hard as you thought. Now,\nabout that cotton schedule, when you cast your vote for it, be sure\nthat--\" The voice died away as the men disappeared in the distance,\nleaving Carmen and Haynerd staring blankly at each other.\n\n\"Well!\" ejaculated Haynerd at length. \"What now?\"\n\n\"We must save them both,\" said Carmen quietly.\n\n\"I could make my everlasting fortune out of this!\" exclaimed Haynerd\nexcitedly.\n\n\"And lose your soul,\" replied the girl. \"But I will see Mr. Ames, and\ntell him that we overheard his conversation. He will save us all.\"\n\nHaynerd then smiled, but it was a hard smile, coming from one who knew\nthe world. \"Listen, my dear girl,\" he said, \"we will keep quiet, you\nand I. To mention this would be only to court disaster at the hands of\none who would strangle us at the slightest intimation of our\nknowledge. Can you not see the consequences to us?\"\n\n\"I can see but the right,\" returned Carmen determinedly. \"And the\nright shall prevail!\"\n\n\"But, my dear girl,\" cried Haynerd, now thoroughly alarmed both for\nhimself and her, \"he would ruin us! This is no affair of ours. We had\nno intention of hearing; and so let it be as if we had not heard.\"\n\n\"And let the lie of evil prevail? No, Mr. Haynerd, I could not, if I\nwould. Mr. Ames is being used by evil; and it is making him a channel\nto ruin Mr. Wales. Shall I stand idly by and permit it? No!\"\n\nShe rose, with a look of fixed resolution on her face. Haynerd sprang\nto his feet and laid a detaining hand upon her arm. As he did so, the\nscreen was quickly drawn aside, and Kathleen Ames and two of her young\ncompanions bent their curious gaze in upon them. Absorbed in their\nearnest conversation, Carmen and Haynerd had not heard the approach of\nthe young ladies, who were on a tour of inspection of the house before\nsupper.\n\n\"Reporters for the Social Era, Miss Ames,\" explained Haynerd, hastily\nanswering the unspoken question, while he made a courteous bow.\n\nBut Kathleen had not heard him. \"What--you!\" she cried, instantly\nrecognizing Carmen, and drawing back. \"How dared you! Oh!\"\n\n\"What is it, dear?\" asked one of the young ladies, as her eyes roved\nover Carmen's tense, motionless figure.\n\n\"You--creature!\" cried Kathleen, spurting her venom at Carmen, while\nher eyes snapped angrily and her hands twitched. \"When the front door\nis closed against you, you sneak in through the back door! Leave this\nhouse, instantly, or I shall have you thrown into the street!\"\n\n\"Why, Kathleen dear!\" exclaimed one of her companions. \"She is only a\nreporter!\"\n\n\"She is a low, negro wench!\" cried Kathleen maliciously. \"She comes\nfrom a brothel! She foisted herself upon society, and was discovered\nand kicked out! Her father is a dirty negro priest, and her mother a\nlow--\"\n\nHaynerd rushed to the maddened girl and clapped his hand over her\nmouth. \"Hush, for God's sake, Miss Ames!\" Then, to her companions,\n\"Take her away!\" he pleaded. \"And we will leave at once!\"\n\nBut a house detective, attracted by the loud conversation, had come up\nand interposed. At his signal another one approached. \"Bring Mr.\nAmes,\" he quietly commanded. \"I can not put them out if they have his\npermission to remain,\" he explained to the angry Kathleen.\n\nIn a few moments, during which the little group stood tense and quiet,\nAmes himself appeared.\n\n\"Well?\" he demanded. \"Ah!\" as his eyes lighted upon Carmen. \"My little\ngirl! And--so this is your assistant?\" turning inquiringly to Haynerd.\n\"By George! Her article in last week's Social Era was a corker. But,\"\nstaring from Kathleen to the others, \"what's the row?\"\n\n\"I want that creature put out of the house!\" demanded Kathleen,\ntrembling with rage and pointing to Carmen.\n\n\"Tut, tut,\" returned Ames easily. \"She's on business, and has my\npermission to remain. But, by George! that's a good joke,\" winking at\nHaynerd and breaking into a loud laugh. \"You put one over on us there,\nold man!\" he said.\n\n\"Father!\" Scalding tears of anger and humiliation were streaming down\nKathleen's face. \"If she remains, I shall go--I shall leave the\nhouse--I will not stay under the same roof with the lewd creature!\"\n\n\"Very well, then, run along,\" said Ames, taking the humiliated\nKathleen by the shoulders and turning her about. \"I will settle this\nwithout your assistance.\" Then he motioned to the house detectives to\ndepart, and turned to Haynerd and Carmen. \"Come in here,\" he said,\nleading the way to the little waiting room, and opening the door.\n\n\"Lord! but you belong down stairs with the rest,\" he ejaculated as he\nfaced Carmen, standing before him pale but unafraid. \"There isn't one\ndown there who is in your class!\" he exclaimed, placing his hands upon\nher shoulders and looking down into her beautiful face. \"And,\" he\ncontinued with sudden determination, \"I am going to take you down, and\nyou will sit at the table with me, as my special guest!\"\n\nA sudden fear gripped Haynerd, and he started to interpose. But Carmen\nspoke first.\n\n\"Very well, Mr. Ames,\" she said quietly. \"Take me down. I have a\nquestion to ask Mr. Wales when we are at the table.\"\n\nAn expression of surprise and inquiry came into Ames's face. \"Mr.\nWales?\" he said wonderingly. \"You mean Congressman--\"\n\nThen he stopped abruptly, and looked searchingly at Carmen and her\ncompanion. Haynerd paled. Carmen stood unflinching. Ames's expression\nof surprise gave place to one dark and menacing.\n\n\"You were behind that screen when Congressman Wales and I--\"\n\n\"Yes,\" returned Carmen calmly. \"I overheard all you said. I saw you\nbribe him.\"\n\nAmes stood like a huge, black cloud, glowering down upon the slender\ngirl. She looked up at him and smiled.\n\n\"You are going to tell him that the fifty thousand dollars are just a\nloan, and that he may vote as he chooses, aren't you?\" she said. \"You\nwill not ruin his life, and the lives of his wife and babies, will\nyou? You would never be happy, you know, if you did.\" Her voice was as\nquiet as the morning breeze.\n\n\"So!\" the giant sneered. \"You come into my house to play spy, eh? And\nif I had not caught you when I did you would have written another\ninteresting article for the Social Era, wouldn't you? By God! I'll\nbreak you, Haynerd, and your infernal sheet into a million pieces if\nyou dare print any such rot as this! And as for you, young lady--\"\n\n\"You can do nothing to me, Mr. Ames; and you don't really want to,\"\nsaid Carmen quickly. \"My reputation, you know--that is, the one which\nyou people have given me--is just as black as it could be, isn't it?\nSo that is safe.\" She laughed lightly.\n\nThen she became very serious again. \"It doesn't really make any\ndifference to you, Mr. Ames,\" she said, \"whether the cotton schedule\nis passed or not. You still have your millions--oh, so much more\nthan you will ever know what to do with! But Mr. Wales, he has his\nwife and his babies and his good reputation--would you rob him of\nthose priceless treasures, just to make a few dollars more for\nyourself?--dollars that you can't spend, and that you won't let\nothers have?\"\n\nDuring the girl's quiet talk Ames was regaining his self-control. When\nshe concluded he turned to Haynerd. \"Miss Carmen can step out into the\nbalcony. You and I will arrange this matter together,\" he said.\n\nCarmen moved toward the door.\n\n\"Now,\" said Ames significantly, and in a low voice, \"what's your\nprice?\"\n\nInstantly the girl turned back and threw herself between the two men.\n\"He is not for sale!\" she cried, her eyes flashing as she confronted\nAmes.\n\n\"Then, by God!\" shouted Ames, who had lost himself completely, \"I will\ncrush him like a dirty spider! And you, I'll drag you through the\ngutters and make your name a synonym of all that is vile in\nwomanhood!\"\n\nCarmen stepped quietly to the elevator and pressed the signal button.\n\n\"You shall not leave this house!\" cried the enraged Ames, starting\ntoward her. \"Or you'll go under arrest!\"\n\nThe girl drew herself up with splendid dignity, and faced him\nfearlessly. \"We _shall_ leave your house, and now, Mr. Ames!\" she\nsaid. \"You and that for which you stand can not touch us! The carnal\nmind is back of you! Omnipotent God is with us!\"\n\nShe moved away from him, then turned and stood for a moment, flashing,\nsparkling, radiant with a power which he could not comprehend. \"You\nknow not what you do. You are blinded and deceived by human lust and\ngreed. But the god you so ignorantly worship now will some day totter\nand fall upon you. Then you will awake, and you will see your present\nlife as a horrid dream.\"\n\nThe elevator appeared. Carmen and the dazed Haynerd stepped quickly\ninto it and descended without opposition to the lower floor. A few\nmoments later they were again in the street and hurrying to the\nnearest car line.\n\n\"Girlie,\" said Haynerd, mopping the perspiration from his brow, \"we're\nin for it now--and I shall be crushed! But you--I think your God will\nsave you.\"\n\nCarmen took his hand. \"His arm is not shortened,\" she murmured, \"that\nHe can not save us both.\"\n\nCHAPTER 5\n\nON the Monday morning following the Ames reception the society columns\nof the daily papers still teemed with extravagant depictions of the\nmagnificent affair. On that same morning, while Haynerd sat gloomily\nin the office of the Social Era, meditating on his giant adversary's\nprobable first move, Carmen, leaving her studies and classes, sought\nout an unpretentious home in one of the suburbs of the city, and for\nan hour or more talked earnestly with the timid, frightened little\nwife of Congressman Wales. Then, her work done, she dismissed the\nwhole affair from her mind, and hastened joyously back to the\nUniversity. She would have gone to see Ames himself. \"But,\" she\nreflected, as she dwelt on his conduct and words of the previous\nSaturday evening, \"he is not ready for it yet. And when he is, I will\ngo to him. And Kathleen--well, I will help her by seeing only the real\nchild of God, which was hidden that night by the veil of hatred and\njealousy. And that veil, after all, is but a shadow.\"\n\nThat evening the little group of searchers after God assembled again\nin the peaceful precincts of the Beaubien cottage. It was their third\nmeeting, and they had come together reverently to pursue the most\nmomentous inquiry that has ever stimulated human thought.\n\nHaynerd and Carmen had said little relative to the Ames reception; but\nthe former, still brooding over the certain consequences of his brush\nwith Ames, was dejected and distraught. Carmen, leaning upon her\nsustaining thought, and conceding no mite of power or intelligence to\nevil, glowed like a radiant star.\n\n\"What are you listening to?\" she asked of Haynerd, drawing him to one\nside. \"Are you giving ear to the voices of evil, or good? Which are\nyou making real to yourself? For those thoughts which are real to you\nwill become outwardly manifested, you know.\"\n\n\"Bah! He's got us--tight!\" muttered Haynerd, with a gesture signifying\ndefeat. \"And the insults of that arrogant daughter of his--\"\n\n\"She did not insult me,\" said Carmen quickly. \"She could not, for she\ndoesn't know me. She merely denounced her concept of me, and not my\nreal self. She vilified what she thought was Carmen Ariza; but it was\nonly her own thought of me that she insulted. Can't you see? And such\na concept of me as she holds deserves denouncing, doesn't it?\"\n\n\"Well, what are we going to do?\" he pursued testily.\n\n\"We are going to know,\" she whispered, \"that we two with God\nconstitute an overwhelming majority.\" She said nothing about her visit\nto the Wales home that morning, but pressed his hand, and then went to\ntake her place at the table, where Father Waite was already rapping\nfor order.\n\n\"My friends,\" began that earnest young man, looking lovingly about at\nthe little group, \"as we are gathered here we symbolize that\nanalytical, critical endeavor of the unbiased human mind to discover\nthe essence of religion. Religion is that which binds us to absolute\ntruth, and so is truth itself. If there is a God, we believe from our\nformer investigations that He must be universal mind. This belief\ncarries with it as necessary corollaries the beliefs that He must be\nperfect, eternal, and self-existent. The question, Who made God? must\nthen receive its sufficient answer in the staggering statement that He\nhas always existed, unchanged and unchangeable.\"\n\nA sigh from Haynerd announced that quizzical soul's struggle to grasp\na statement at once so radical and stupendous.\n\n\"True,\" continued Father Waite, addressing himself to his doubting\nfriend, \"the acceptance as fact of what we have deduced in our\nprevious meetings must render the God of orthodox theology quite\nobsolete. But, as a compensation, it gives to us the most enlarged and\nbeautiful concept of Him that we have ever had. It ennobles, broadens,\npurifies, and elevates our idea of Him. It destroys forever our\nbelittling view of Him as but a magnified human character, full of\nwrath and caprice and angry threats, and delighting in human\nceremonial and religious thaumaturgy. And, most practical of all for\nus, it renders the age-long problem of evil amenable to solution.\"\n\nJust then came a ring at the front door; and a moment later the\nBeaubien ushered Doctor Morton into the room. All rose and hastened to\nwelcome him.\n\n\"I--I am sure,\" began the visitor, looking at Carmen, \"that I am not\nintruding, for I really come on invitation, you know. Miss Carmen,\nfirst; and then, our good friend Hitt, who told me this afternoon that\nyou would probably meet this evening. I--I pondered the matter some\nlittle time--ah, but--well, to make it short, I couldn't keep away\nfrom a gathering so absolutely unique as this--I really couldn't.\"\n\nCarmen seized both his hands. \"My!\" she exclaimed, her eyes dancing,\n\"I am glad you came.\"\n\n\"And I, too,\" interposed Haynerd dryly, \"for now we have two\ntheological Philistines. I was feeling a bit lonely.\"\n\n\"Ah, my friend,\" replied the doctor, \"I am simply an advocate of\nreligious freedom, not a--\"\n\n\"And religious freedom, as our wise Bill Nye once said, is but the art\nof giving intolerance a little more room, eh?\" returned Haynerd with a\nlaugh.\n\nThe doctor shrugged his shoulders. \"You are a Philistine,\" he said. \"I\nam a human interrogation.\"\n\nCarmen took the doctor by the arm and led him to a place beside her at\nthe table. \"You--you didn't bring poor Yorick?\" she whispered, with a\nglint of mischief in her bright eyes.\n\n\"No,\" laughed the genial visitor, \"he's a dead one, you told me.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied the girl, \"awfully dead! He is an outward manifestation\nof dead human beliefs, isn't he? But now listen, Father Waite is going\nto speak.\"\n\nAfter a brief explanation to the doctor of the purpose of the\nmeeting, and a short r\u00e9sum\u00e9 of their previous deductions, Father Waite\ncontinued the exposition of his subject.\n\n\"The physical universe,\" he said, \"is to human beings a reality. And\nyet, according to Spencer's definition of reality, we must admit that\nthe universe as we see it is quite unreal. For the real is that which\nendures.\"\n\n\"And you mean to say that the universe will not endure?\" queried\nHaynerd abruptly.\n\n\"I do,\" replied Father Waite. \"The phenomena of the universe, even as\nwe see it, are in a state of ceaseless change. Birth, growth,\nmaturity, decay, and death seems to be the law for all things\nmaterial. There is perpetual genesis, and perpetual exodus.\"\n\n\"But,\" again urged Haynerd, \"matter itself remains, is indestructible.\"\n\n\"Not so,\" said Father Waite. \"Our friend, Doctor Morton, will\ncorroborate my statement, I am sure.\"\n\nThe doctor nodded. \"It is quite true,\" he said in reply. \"And as\nrevolutionary as true. The discovery, in the past few years, of the\ntremendously important fact that matter disintegrates and actually\ndisappears, has revolutionized all physical science and rendered the\nworld's text books obsolete.\"\n\n\"And matter actually disappears?\" echoed Miss Wall incredulously.\n\n\"Absolutely!\" interposed Hitt. \"The radium atom, we find, lasts some\nseventeen hundred years, or a trifle longer. What becomes of it when\nit is destroyed? We can only say that it disappears from human\nconsciousness.\"\n\n\"And so you reason that the whole material universe will ultimately\ndisappear from the human consciousness?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" returned Hitt, \"I feel certain of it. Let us consider of what\nthe universe consists. For many months I have been pondering this\ntopic incessantly. I find that I can agree, in a measure, with those\nscientists who regard the physical universe as composed of only a few\nelementary constituents, namely, matter, energy, space, and time--\"\n\n\"Each one of these elements is mental,\" interrupted Carmen.\n\n\"Exactly!\" replied Hitt. \"And the physical universe, even from the\nhuman standpoint, is, therefore, wholly mental.\"\n\n\"Well, but we see it!\" ejaculated Haynerd. \"And we feel and hear it!\nAnd I'm sure we smell it!\"\n\nHitt laughed. \"Do we?\" he asked.\n\n\"No,\" interposed Father Waite; \"we see only our mental concept of a\nuniverse, for seeing is wholly a mental process. Our comprehension of\nanything is entirely mental.\"\n\n\"But now,\" resumed Hitt, \"to get back to the supposed reality of the\nphysical universe, let us examine its constituents. First, let us\nconsider its unity established by the harmonious interplay of the\nforces permeating it. This great fact is what led Herbert Spencer to\nconclude that the universe could have but one creator, one ruler, and\nthat polytheism was untenable.\"\n\n\"We are quite agreed regarding that,\" said Father Waite. \"If the\nCreator is mind, He is of very necessity infinite and omnipotent;\nhence there can be but one Creator.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" continued Hitt. \"Now as to time. Is it material or\ntangible? Would it exist, but as a convenience for the human mind? Is\nit not really a creation of that mind? And, lastly, is it not merely a\nmental concept?\"\n\n\"Our consciousness of time,\" replied Carmen, \"is only our awareness of\na continuous series of mental states.\"\n\n\"That classifies it exactly,\" said Hitt, \"and renders it wholly\nmental. And now as to space,\" he resumed. \"We are accustomed to say,\nloosely, that space is that in which we see things about us. But in\nwhat does the process of seeing consist? I say, I see a chair. What I\nreally mean is that I am conscious of a chair. The process of seeing,\nwe are told, is this: light, coming from the chair, enters the eye and\ncasts an image of the chair upon the retina, much as a picture is\nthrown upon the ground glass of a camera. Then, in some way, the\nlittle rods and cones--the branching tips of the optic nerve which\nproject from the retina--are set in motion by the light-waves. This\nvibration is in some mysterious manner carried along the optic nerve\nto a center in the brain, and--well, then the mind becomes cognizant\nof the chair out there, that's all.\"\n\nThey sat silent for some moments. Then Miss Wall spoke. \"Do you mean\nto say,\" she queried, \"that, after thousands of years of thought and\ninvestigation, mankind now know nothing more than that about the\nprocess of seeing?\"\n\n\"I do,\" returned Hitt. \"I confess it in all humility.\"\n\n\"Then all I've got to say,\" put in Haynerd, \"is that the most\nremarkable thing about you learned men is your ignorance!\"\n\nThe doctor smiled. \"I find it is only the fool who is cocksure,\" he\nreplied.\n\n\"Now,\" said Hitt, resuming the conversation, \"let us go a step further\nand inquire, first, What is light? since the process of seeing is\nabsolutely dependent upon it.\"\n\n\"Light,\" offered the doctor, \"is vibrations, or wave-motion, so\nphysicists tell us.\"\n\n\"Just so,\" resumed Hitt. \"Light, we say, consists of vibrations. Not\nvibrations of anything tangible or definitely material, but--well,\njust vibrations in the abstract. It is vibratory or wave motion. Now\nlet us concede that these vibrations in some way get to the brain\ncenter; and then let us ask, Is the mind there, in the brain, awaiting\nthe arrival of these vibrations to inform it that there is a chair\noutside?\"\n\nHaynerd indulged in a cynical laugh.\n\n\"It is too serious for laughter, my friend,\" said Hitt. \"For to such\ncrude beliefs as this we may attribute all the miseries of mankind.\"\n\n\"How is that?\" queried Miss Wall in surprise.\n\n\"Simply because these beliefs constitute the general belief in a\nuniverse of matter without and about us. As a plain statement of fact,\n_there is no such thing_. But, I ask again, Is the mind within the\nbrain, waiting for vibrations that will give it information concerning\nthe external world? Or does the mind, from some focal point without\nthe brain, look first at these vibrations, and then translate them\ninto terms of things without? Do these vibrations in some way suggest\nform and color and substance to the waiting mind? Does the mind first\nlook at vibrating nerve-points, and then form its own opinions\nregarding material objects? Does anything material enter the eye?\"\n\n\"No,\" admitted the doctor; \"unless we believe that vibrations _per se_\nare material.\"\n\n\"Now I ask, Is the mind reduced to such slavery that it must depend\nupon vibrations for its knowledge of an outside world?\" continued\nHitt. \"And vibrations of minute pieces of flesh, at that! Flesh that\nwill some day decay and leave the mind helpless!\"\n\n\"Absurd!\" exclaimed Haynerd. \"Why doesn't the mind look directly at\nthe chair, instead of getting its knowledge of the chair through\nvibrations of bits of meat? Or isn't there any chair out there to look\nat?\"\n\n\"There!\" exclaimed Hitt. \"Now you've put your mental finger upon it.\nAnd now we are ready to nail to the cross of ignominy one of the\ncrudest, most insensate beliefs of the human race. _The human mind\ngets nothing whatsoever from vibrations, from the human, fleshly eye,\nnor from any one of the five so-called physical senses!_ The physical\nsense-testimony which mankind believe they receive from the eyes, the\nears, and the other sense organs, can, even at best, consist only of a\nlot of disconnected, unintelligible vibrations; and anything that the\nmind may infer from such vibrations is inferred _without any outside\nauthority whatsoever!\"_\n\n\"Well!\" ejaculated Miss Wall and Haynerd in a breath.\n\n\"And, further,\" continued Hitt, \"we are forced to admit that all that\nthe mind knows is the contents of itself, of its own consciousness,\nand nothing more. Then, instead of seeing, hearing, and feeling real\nmaterial objects outside of ourselves, we are in reality seeing,\nhearing, and feeling our own mental concepts of things--in other\nwords, _our own thoughts of things!\"_\n\nA deep silence lay for some moments over the little group at the\nconclusion of Hitt's words. Then Doctor Morton nodded his acquiescence\nin the deduction. \"And that,\" he said, \"effectually disposes of the\nquestion of space.\"\n\n\"There is no space, Doctor,\" replied Hitt. \"Space is likewise a mental\nconcept. The human mind sees, hears, and feels nothing but its own\nthoughts. These it posits within itself with reference to one another,\nand calls the process 'seeing material objects in space.' The mind as\nlittle needs a space in which to see things as in which to dream them.\nI repeat, we do not see external things, or things outside of\nourselves. We see always and only the thoughts that are within our own\nmentalities. Everything is within.\"\n\n\"That's why,\" murmured Carmen, \"Jesus said, 'The kingdom of heaven is\nwithin you.'\"\n\n\"Exactly!\" said Hitt. \"Did he not call evil, and all that originates\nin matter, the lie about God? And a lie is wholly mental. I tell you,\nthe existence of a world outside of ourselves, an objective world\ncomposed of matter, is wholly inferred--it is mental visualizing--and\nit is unreal, for it is not based upon fact, upon truth!\"\n\n\"Then,\" queried Haynerd, \"our supposed 'outer world' is but our\ncollection of thought-concepts which we hold within us, within our own\nconsciousness, eh?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"But--the question of God?\"\n\n\"We are ready for that again,\" replied Hitt. \"We have said that in the\nphysical universe all is in a state of incessant change. Since the\nphysical universe is but a mental concept to each one of us, we must\nadmit that, were the concept based upon truth, it would not change.\nOur concept of the universe must be without the real causative and\nsustaining principle of all reality, else would it not pass away. And\nyet, beneath and behind all these changes, _something_ endures. What\nis it? Matter? No. There is an enduring substance, invisible to human\nsight, but felt and known through its own influence. Is it law? Yes.\nMind? Yes. Ideas? Yes. But none of these things is in any sense\nmaterial. The material is the fleeting, human concept, composed of\nthought that is _not_ based upon reality. These other things, wholly\nmental, or spiritual, if you prefer, are based upon that 'something'\nwhich does endure, and which I will call the Causative Principle. It\nis the Universal Mind. It is what you loosely call God.\"\n\n\"Then did God make matter?\" persisted Haynerd.\n\n\"I think,\" interposed Doctor Morton at this juncture, \"that I can\nthrow some light upon the immaterial character of matter, if I may so\nput it; for even our physical reasoning throws it entirely into the\nrealm of the mental.\"\n\n\"Good!\" exclaimed Hitt. \"Let us hear from you, Doctor.\"\n\nThe doctor sat for some moments in a deep study. Then he began:\n\n\"The constitution of matter, speaking now from an admittedly\nmaterialistic standpoint, that of the physical sciences, is a subject\nof vastest interest and importance to mankind, for human existence\n_is_ material.\n\n\"The ultimate constituent of matter has been called the atom. But we\nhave said little when we have said that. The atom was once defined as\na particle of matter so minute as to admit of no further division.\nThat definition has gone to the rubbish heap, for the atom can now be\ntorn to pieces. But--and here is the revolutionary fact in modern\nphysical science--_it is no longer held necessary that matter should\nconsist of material particles!_ In fact, the great potential discovery\nof our day is that matter is electrical in composition, that it is\ncomposed of what are called 'electrons,' and that these electrons are\nthemselves composed of electric charges. But what is an electric\ncharge? Is it matter? No, not as we know matter. Is it even material?\nWe can not say that it is. It is without weight, bulk, dimensions, or\ntangibility. Well, then, it comes dangerously near being a mental\nthing, known to the human mind solely by its manifestations, does it\nnot? And of course our comprehension of it is entirely mental, as is\nour comprehension of everything.\"\n\nHe paused for a moment, that his words might be fully grasped. Then he\nwent on:\n\n\"Now these atoms, whatever they are, are supposed to join together to\nform molecules. What brings them together thus? Affinity, we are told.\nAnd what is affinity? Why, it is--well, law, if you please. And law? A\nmental thing, we must admit. Very good. Then, going a step further,\nmolecules are held together by cohesion to form material objects,\nchairs, trees, coal, and the like. But what is cohesion? Is it glue?\nCement? Ah, no! Again, it is law. And law is mental.\"\n\n\"But, Doctor--\" interrupted Haynerd.\n\nThe doctor held up a detaining hand. \"Let me finish,\" he said. \"Now we\nhave the very latest word from our physical scientists regarding the\nconstitution of matter: _it is composed of electric charges, held\ntogether by law._ Again, you may justly ask: Is matter material--or\nmental?\"\n\nHe paused again, and took up a book that lay before him.\n\n\"Here,\" he continued, \"I hold a solid, material, lumpy thing,\ncomposed, you will say, of matter. And yet, in essence, and if we can\nbelieve our scientists, this book is composed of billions of electric\ncharges--invisible things, without form, without weight, without\ncolor, without extension, held together by law, and making up a\nmaterial object which has mass, color, weight, and extension. From\nmillions of things which are invisible and have no size, we get an\nobject, visible and extended.\"\n\n\"It's absurd!\" exclaimed Miss Wall.\n\n\"Granted,\" interposed Hitt. \"Yet, the doctor is giving the very latest\ndeductions of the great scientists.\"\n\n\"But, Doctor,\" said Father Waite, \"the scientists tell us that they\nhave experimental evidence in support of the theories which you have\nstated regarding the composition of matter. Electricity has been\nproven granular, or atomic, in structure. And every electrical\ncharge consists of an exact number of electrical atoms spread out\nover the surface of the charged body. All this admits of definite\ncalculation.\"\n\n\"Admitted,\" said Hitt, taking up the challenge. \"And their very\ncalculations and deductions are rapidly wearing away the 'materialistic\ntheory' of matter. You will admit that mathematics is wholly\nconfined to the realm of mind. It is a strictly mental science, in no\nway material. It loses definiteness when 'practically' applied to\nmaterial objects. Kant saw this, and declared that a science might be\nregarded as further removed from or nearer to perfection in proportion\nto the amount of mathematics it contained. Now there has been an\nastonishing confirmation of this great truth just lately. At a banquet\ngiven in honor of the discoverer of wireless telegraphy it was stated\nthat the laws governing the traversing of space by the invisible\nelectric waves were more exact than the general laws of physics,\nwhere very complex formulas and coefficients are required for\ncorrecting the general laws, due to surrounding material conditions.\nThe greater exactness of laws governing the invisible electric waves\nwas said to be due to the absence of matter. And it was further\nstated that _whenever matter had to be taken into consideration there\ncould be no exact law of action!\"_ \"Which shows--?\"\n\n\"That matter admits of no definite laws,\" replied Hitt. \"That there\nare no real laws of matter. And that definiteness is attained only as\nwe dematerialize matter itself.\"\n\n\"In other words, get into the realm of the mental?\"\n\n\"Just so. And now for the application. I have said that we do not\nreceive any testimony whatsoever through the so-called material\nsenses, but that we see, hear, feel, taste, and smell our own\nthoughts--that is, the thoughts which, from some source, come into our\nmentalities. Very well, our scientists show us that, as they get\nfarther away from dense material thoughts, and deal more and more with\nthose which have less material structure, less material composition,\ntheir laws become more definite, more exact. Following this out to its\nultimate conclusion, we may say, then, that _only those laws which\nhave to do with the non-material are perfect_.\"\n\n\"And those,\" said Carmen, \"are the laws of mind.\"\n\n\"Exactly! And now the history of physical science shows that there has\nbeen a constant deviation from the old so-called fixed 'laws of\nmatter.' The law of impenetrability has had to go. A great physicist\ntells us that, when dealing with sufficiently high speeds, matter has\nno such property as impenetrability. Mass is a function of velocity.\nThe law of indestructibility has had to go. Matter deteriorates and\ngoes to pieces. The material elements are not fixed. The decided\ntendency of belief is toward a single element, of which all matter is\ncomposed, and of which the eighty-odd constituent elements of matter\naccepted to-day are but modifications. That unit element may be the\nether, of course. And the great Russian chemist, Mendeleef, so\nbelieved. But to us, the ether is a mental thing, a theory. But,\ngranting its existence, _its universal penetrability renders matter,\nas we know it, non-existent_. Everything reduces to the ether, in the\nfinal analysis. And all energy becomes vibrations in and of the\nether.\"\n\n\"And the ether,\" supplemented the doctor, \"has to be without mass,\ninvisible, tasteless, intangible, much more rigid than steel, and at\nthe same time some six hundred billion times lighter than air, in\norder to fulfill all the requirements made of it and to meet all\nconditions.\"\n\n\"Yes; and yet the ether is a very necessary theory, if we are going to\ncontinue to explain the phenomena of force on a material basis.\"\n\n\"But if we abandon that basis--?\"\n\n\"Then,\" said Carmen, \"matter reduces to what it really is, the human\nmind's _interpretation_ of substance.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Hitt, turning to her; \"I think you are right; matter is\nthe way real substance--let us say, spirit--looks to the human\nmentality. It is the way the human mind interprets its ideas of\nspirit. In other words, the human mind looks at the material thoughts\nand ideas which enter it, and calls them solid substance, occupying\nspace--calls them matter, with definite laws, and, in certain forms,\ncontaining life and intelligence.\"\n\n\"Aye, that is it!\" said Father Waite. \"And that has been the terrible\nmistake of the ages, the one great error, the one lie, that has caused\nus all to miss the mark and come short, far short, of the glory of the\nmind that is God. _There is the origin of the problem of evil!_\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly,\" replied Hitt. \"For evil is in essence but evil thought.\nAnd evil thought is invariably associated with matter. The origin of\nall evil is matter itself. And matter, we find, is but a mental\nconcept, a thing of thought. Oh, the irony of it!\"\n\n\"Well,\" put in Haynerd, who had been twitching nervously in his chair,\n\"let's get to the conclusion of this very learned discussion. I'm a\nplain man, and I'd like to know just where we've landed. What have you\nsaid that I can take home with me? The earth still revolves around the\nsun, even if it is a mean mud ball. And I can't see that I can get\nalong with less than three square meals a day.\"\n\n\"We have arrived,\" replied Hitt gravely, \"at a most momentous\nconclusion, deduced by the physical scientists themselves, namely,\nthat _things are not what they seem_. In other words, all things\nmaterial seem to reduce to vibrations in and of the ether; the basis\nof all materiality is energy, motion, activity--mental things. All the\nelements of matter seem to be but modifications of one all-pervading\nelement. That element is probably the ether, often called the 'mother\nof matter.' The elements, such as carbon, silicon, and the others, are\nnot elementary at all, but are forms of one universal element, the\nether. Hence, atoms are not atoms. The so-called rare elements are\nrare only because their lives are short. They disintegrate rapidly and\nchange into other forms of the universal element--or disappear. 'Atoms\nare but fleeting phases of matter,' we are told. They are by no means\neternal, even though they may endure for millions of years.\"\n\n\"Y-e-s?\" commented Haynerd with a yawn.\n\n\"A great scientist of our own day,\" Hitt continued, \"has said that\n'the ether is so modified as to constitute matter, in some way.' What\ndoes that mean? Simply that 'visible matter and invisible ether are\none and the same thing.' But to the five so-called physical senses the\nether is utterly incomprehensible. So, then, matter is wholly\nincomprehensible to the five physical senses. What is it, then, that\nwe call matter? It can be nothing more than the human mind's\ninterpretation of its idea of an all-pervading, omnipresent\n_something_, a something which represents substance to it.\"\n\n\"Let me add a further quotation from the great physical scientist to\nwhom you have referred,\" said the doctor. \"He has said that the ether\nis _not_ matter, but that it is material. And further, that we can not\ndeny that the ether may have some mental and spiritual functions to\nsubserve in some other order of existence, as matter has in this. It\nis wholly unrelated to any of our senses. The sense of sight takes\ncognizance of it, but only in a very indirect and not easily\nrecognized way. And yet--stupendous conclusion!--_without the ether\nthere could be no material universe at all_!\"\n\n\"In other words,\" said Hitt, \"the whole fabric of the material\nuniverse depends upon something utterly unrecognizable by the five\nphysical senses.\"\n\n\"Exactly!\" replied the doctor.\n\n\"Then,\" concluded Hitt, \"the physical senses give us no information\nwhatsoever of a real physical universe about us.\"\n\n\"And so,\" added Father Waite, \"we come back to Carmen's statement,\nnamely, that seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, and feeling are\nmental processes, in no way dependent upon the outer fleshly organs of\nsense--\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" interjected Haynerd. \"Why is it, then, that if the eyes\nare destroyed we do not see?\"\n\n\"Simply, my friend, because of human belief,\" replied Hitt. \"The human\nmind has been trained for untold centuries to dependence upon beliefs\nin the reality of matter, and beliefs in its dependence upon material\nmodes for sight, hearing, touch, and so on. It is because of its\nerroneous beliefs that the human mind is to-day enslaved by matter,\nand dependent upon it for its very sense of existence. The human mind\nhas made its sense of sight dependent upon a frail, pulpy bit of\nflesh, the eye. As long as that fleshly organ remains intact, the\nhuman mind sees its sense of sight externalized in the positing of its\nmental concepts about it as natural objects. But let that fleshly eye\nbe destroyed, and the human mind sees its belief of dependence upon\nthe material eye externalized as blindness. When the fleshly eye is\ngone the mind declares that it can no longer see. And what it declares\nas truth, as fact, becomes externalized to it. I repeat, the human\nmind sees and hears only its thoughts, its beliefs. And holding to\nthese beliefs, and making them real to itself, it eventually sees them\nexternalized in what it calls its outer world, its environment, its\nuniverse. And yet, the materialistic scientists themselves show that\nthe human mind can take no cognizance whatever through the five\nphysical senses of the all-pervading basis of its very existence, the\nether. And the ether--alas! it is but a theory which we find necessary\nfor any intelligible explanation of the farce of human existence on a\nmaterial basis.\"\n\n\"Now see here!\" retorted Haynerd, rising and giving expression to his\nprotest by means of emphatic gestures. \"I'm getting mixed--badly! You\ntell me that the existence of things demands a creator, and I admit\nit, for there can be no effect without a cause. Then you say that the\nuniverse is infinite; and I admit that, too, for the science of\nastronomy finds no limits to space, and no space unoccupied. You say\nthat the unity manifested in the universe proves that there can be but\none creator. Moreover, to create an infinite universe there must needs\nbe an omnipotent creator; and there can be but one who is omnipotent.\nI cordially agree. Further, I can see how that creator must be\nmind--infinite mind. And I can see why that mind must be absolutely\nperfect, with no intelligence of evil whatsoever, else would it be a\nhouse divided against itself. And such a house must eventually fall.\nNow I admit that the universe must be the manifestation, the\nexpression, of that infinite creative mind. But--and here's the\nsticking point--the universe is both good and evil! Hence, the mind\nwhich it manifests is likewise both good and evil--and the whole\npretty theory blows up!\"\n\nHe sat down abruptly, with the air of having given finality to a\nperplexing question.\n\nAll eyes then turned to Carmen, who slowly rose and surveyed the\nlittle group.\n\n\"It is not surprising,\" she said, smiling at the confused Haynerd,\n\"that difficulties arise when you attempt to reach God through human\nreasoning--spirit through matter. You have taken the unreal, and,\nthrough it, have sought to reach back to the real.\"\n\n\"Well,\" interrupted Haynerd testily, \"kindly explain the difference.\"\n\n\"Then, first,\" replied Carmen, \"let us adopt some common meeting\nground, some basis which we can all accept, and from which we can\nrise. Are you all agreed that, in our every-day life, everything is\nmental?--every action?--every object?--and that, as the philosopher\nMill said, 'Everything is a feeling of which the mind is conscious'?\nLet me illustrate my meaning,\" she continued, noting Haynerd's rising\nprotest. \"I see this book; I take it up; and drop it upon the table.\nHave I really seen a book? No; I have been conscious of thoughts which\nI call a book, nothing more. A real material book did not get into my\nmind; but _thoughts_ of a book did. And the activity of such thought\nresulted in a state of consciousness--for consciousness is mental\nactivity, the activity of thought. Remember that, even according to\nyour great physical scientists, this book is composed of millions of\ncharges of electricity, or electrons, moving at a tremendously high\nrate of speed. And yet, regardless of its composition, I am conscious\nonly of my thoughts of the book. It is but my thoughts that I see,\nafter all.\"\n\nShe paused and waited for the protest which was not voiced.\n\n\"Very well,\" she said, continuing; \"so it is with the sense of touch;\nI had the thought of touching it, and that thought I saw; I was\nconscious of it when it became active in my mentality. So with sound;\nwhen I let the book drop, I was conscious of my thought of sound. If\nthe book had been dropped in a vacuum I should not have been conscious\nof a thought of sound--why? Because, as Mr. Hitt has told us, the\nhuman mind has made its sense-testimony dependent upon vibrations. And\nyet, there is a clock ticking up there on the wall. Do you hear it?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Haynerd; \"now that you've called my attention to it.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes,\" replied the girl. \"You hear it when your thought is\ndirected to it. And yet the air was vibrating all the time, and, if\nhearing is dependent upon the fleshly ear, you should have heard it\nincessantly when you were not thinking of it, as well as you hear it\nnow when you are thinking of it. Am I not right?\"\n\n\"Well, perhaps so,\" assented Haynerd with some reluctance.\n\n\"We hear, see, and feel,\" continued the girl, \"when our thought is\ndirected to these processes. And the processes are wholly mental--they\ntake place within our mentalities--and it is there, within our minds,\nthat we see, hear, and feel _all_ things. And it is there, within our\nminds, that the universe exists for us. It is there that we hold our\nworld, our fleshly bodies, everything that we call material. _The\nuniverse that we think we see all about us consists of the mental\nconcepts, made up of thought, which we hold within our mentalities_.\"\n\nHaynerd nodded somewhat dubiously. Carmen proceeded with the\nexposition of her theme.\n\n\"Whence come these material thoughts that are within us? And are they\nreal? Can we control them? And how? They are real to us, at any rate,\nare they not? And if they are thoughts of pain and suffering and\ndeath, they are terribly real to us. But let us see, now that we can\nreason from the basis of the mental nature of all things. We have\nagreed that the creative principle is mind, and we call it God. This\ninfinite mind constantly expresses and manifests itself in ideas. Why,\nthat is a fundamental law of mind! You express yourself in your ideas\nand thoughts, which you try to externalize materially. But the\ninfinite mind expresses itself in an infinite number and variety of\nideas, all, like itself, pure, perfect, eternal, good, without any\nelements or seeds of decay or discord. And the incessant expression of\nthe creative mind in and through its numberless ideas constitutes the\nnever-ending process of creation.\"\n\n\"Let me add here,\" interrupted Hitt, \"that the Bible states that God\ncreated the heavens and earth in seven days. But numbers, we must\nremember, were mystical things to the ancient Hebrews, and were\nlargely used symbolically. The number seven, for example, was used to\nexpress wholeness, completeness. So we must remember that its use in\nGenesis has a much wider meaning than its absurd theological\ninterpretation into seven solar days. As Carmen says, the infinite\ncreative mind can never cease to express itself; creation can never\ncease; and creation is but the whole, complete revelation or\nunfoldment of infinite mind's ideas.\"\n\n\"And infinite mind,\" continued Carmen, \"requires infinite time in\nwhich to completely express itself. So time ceases to be, and we find\nthat all real things exist now, in an endless present. Now, the ideas\nof infinite mind range throughout the realm of infinity, but the\ngreatest idea that the creative mind can have is the idea of itself.\nThat idea is the image and likeness of the infinite creative mind. It\nis the perfect reflection of that mind--its perfect expression. That\nidea is what the man Jesus always saw back of the human concept of\nman. _That idea is the real man_!\"\n\n\"Well!\" exclaimed Haynerd. \"That's quite a different proposition from\nthe mud-men that I do business with daily. What are they? Children of\nGod?\"\n\n\"If they were real,\" said Carmen, \"they would have to be children of\nGod. But then they would not be 'mud-men.' Now I have just spoken of\nthe real, the spiritual creation. That is the creation mentioned in\nthe first chapter of Genesis, where all was created--revealed,\nunfolded--by God, and He saw that it was perfect, good. 'In the\nbeginning,' says the commentator. That is, 'To begin with--God.'\nEverything begins with God in the realm of the real. The creative mind\nis first. And the creation, or unfoldment, is like its creative\nprinciple, eternal and good.\"\n\n\"But,\" persisted Haynerd, \"how about the material man?\"\n\n\"Having created all things spiritually,\" continued the girl, \"was it\nnecessary that the creative mind should repeat its work, do it over\nagain, and produce the man of dust described in the second chapter of\nGenesis? Is that second account of the creation an inspiration of\ntruth--or a human comment?\"\n\n\"Call it what you will,\" said the cynical Haynerd; \"the fact remains\nthat the mud-man exists and has to be reckoned with.\"\n\n\"Both of your premises are wholly incorrect,\" returned the girl\ngently. \"He does _not_ exist, excepting in human, mortal thought. He\nis a product of only such thought. He and his material universe are\nseen and dealt with only in such thought. And such thought is the\ndirect antithesis of God's thought. And it is therefore unreal. It is\nthe supposition, the lie, the mist that went up and darkened the\nearth.\"\n\n\"But--the human man--?\"\n\n\"Is just what you have said, a hue of a man, a dark hue, the shadowy\nopposite which seems to counterfeit the real, spiritual man and claim\nall his attributes. He is not a compound of mind and matter, for we\nhave seen that all things are mental, even matter itself. He is a sort\nof mentality, a counterfeit of real mind. His body and his universe\nare in himself. And, like all that is unreal, he is transient,\npassing, ephemeral, mortal.\"\n\n\"Yet, God made him!\"\n\n\"No, for he does not exist, excepting in supposition. Does a\nsupposition really exist? If so, then not even truth can destroy it.\nBut supposition passes out before truth. No, the human mind is the\n'old man' of Paul. He is to be put off by knowing his nothingness, and\nby knowing the unreality of his supposed material environment and\nuniverse. As he goes out of consciousness, the real man, the idea of\nGod, perfect, harmonious, and eternal, comes in.\"\n\n\"And there,\" said Father Waite impressively, \"you have the whole\nscheme of salvation, as enunciated by the man Jesus.\"\n\n\"There is no doubt of it,\" added Hitt. \"And, oh, my friends! how\nfutile, how base, how worse than childish now appear the whole\ntheological fabric of the churches, their foolish man-made dogmas,\ntheir insensate beliefs in a fiery hell and a golden heaven. Oh, how\nbelittling now appear their concepts of God--a God who can damn\nunbaptised infants, who can predestine his children to eternal sorrow,\nwho creates and then curses his handiwork! Do you wonder that sin,\nsorrow, and death remain among us while such awful beliefs hold sway\nover the human mind? God help us, and the world!\"\n\nHaynerd, who had been sitting quietly for some moments, deep in\nthought, rose and held out his hands, as if in entreaty. \"Don't--don't!\"\nhe exclaimed. \"I can't hear any more. I want to think it all over.\nIt seems--it seems as if a curtain had been raised suddenly. And what I\nsee beyond is--\"\n\nCarmen went swiftly to the man and slipped an arm about him. \"That\ninfinite creative Mind, so misunderstood and misinterpreted by human\nbeings, is back of you,\" she whispered. \"And it is Love.\"\n\nHaynerd turned and grasped her hands. \"I believe it,\" he murmured.\n\"But had I not seen the proof in you, no amount of reasoning would\nhave convinced me.\" And, bowing to the little group, he went out.\n\n\"Well?\" said Hitt, turning inquiringly to the doctor.\n\nThe latter raised his head. \"If these things are true,\" he made answer\nslowly, \"then I shall have to recast my entire mentality, my whole\nbasis of thinking.\"\n\n\"It is just what you _must_ do, Doctor, if you would work out your\nsalvation,\" said Carmen. \"Jesus said we must repent if we would be\nsaved. Repentance--the Greek _metanoia_--means a complete and radical\nchange of thought.\"\n\n\"But--do you mean to say that the whole world has been mistaken? That\nthe entire human race has been deceived for ages?\"\n\n\"Why,\" said Hitt, \"it was only in our own day, comparatively speaking,\nthat the human race was undeceived in regard to the world being round.\nAnd there are thousands of human beings to-day who still believe in\nwitchcraft, and who worship the sun and moon, and whose lives are\nwholly under the spell of superstition. Human character, a great\nscientist tells us, has not changed since history began.\"\n\n\"But we can't revamp our thought-processes!\"\n\n\"Then we must go on missing the mark, sinning, suffering, sorrowing,\nand dying, over and over and over again, until we decide that we can\ndo so,\" said Hitt.\n\nThe doctor looked at Carmen and met that same smile of unbounded love\nwhich she gave without stint to a sin-weary world.\n\n\"I--I'll come again,\" he said. \"When? To-morrow night?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Carmen, rising and coming around to him. \"And,\" in a\nwhisper, \"bring Pat.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 6\n\n\nThe Social Era had for many years made its weekly appearance every\nSaturday morning, that its fashionable clientele might appease their\njaded appetites on the Sabbath day by nibbling at its spicy pabulum.\nBut, though the Ames reception had fallen on a Saturday night, the\nfollowing Friday morning found the columns of the Era still awaiting\na report of the notable affair. For Haynerd's hand seemed paralyzed.\nWhenever he set his pen to the task, there loomed before him only the\nscene in the little waiting room, and he could write of nothing else.\nHe found himself still dwelling upon the awful contrast between the\nslender wisp of a girl and her mountainous opponent, as they had stood\nbefore him; and the terrifying thoughts of what was sure to follow in\nconsequence drenched his skin with cold perspiration.\n\nOn the desk before him lay the essay which he had asked Carmen to\nwrite during the week, as her report of the brilliant event. He had\nread it through three times, and each time had read into it a new\nmeaning. He dared not run it. Not that it ridiculed or condemned--at\nleast, not openly--but because every one of its crisp comments\nadmitted of an interpretation which revealed the hidden depths of the\nsocial system, and its gigantic incarnation, as if under the glare of\na powerful searchlight. It was in no sense a muck-raking exposition.\nRather, it was an interpretation, and a suggestion. It was, too, a\nprediction; but not a curse. The girl loved those about whom she\nwrote. And yet, he who read the essay aright would learn that her love\nstopped not at the flimsy veil of the flesh, but penetrated until it\nrested upon the fair spiritual image beyond. And then Haynerd saw that\nthe essay was, in substance, a social clinic, to which all searchers\nafter truth were bidden, that they might learn a great lesson from her\nskillful dissection of the human mind, and her keen analysis of its\nconstituent thought.\n\nAs he sat wrapped in reflection, the early morning mail was brought\nin. He glanced up, and then started to his feet. The letters spread\nover his desk like an avalanche of snow; and the puffing mail carrier\ndeclared that he had made a special trip with them alone. Haynerd\nbegan to tear them open, one after another. Then he called the office\nboy, and set him at the task. There were more than five hundred of\nthem, and each contained a canceled subscription to the Social Era.\n\nA dark foreboding settled down over Haynerd's mind. He rose and went\nto the card-index to consult his subscription list. It was gone! He\nstood confusedly for a moment, then hastened to the window that looked\nout upon a fire-escape. Its lock lay broken upon the floor. He turned\nand rushed to the vault, which, reflecting his own habitual\ncarelessness, was never locked. His ledgers and account books were not\nthere. Then he crept back to his desk and sank into a chair.\n\nThe noon mail brought more letters of like nature, until the office\nboy tallied nearly eight hundred. Then Haynerd, as if rousing from a\ndream, reached for the telephone and summoned Hitt to his rescue. The\nSocial Era was foundering. Its mailing list had contained some\nfifteen hundred names. The subscription price was twelve dollars a\nyear--and never, to his knowledge, had it been paid in advance by his\nultra-rich patrons, most of whom were greatly in arrears. Haynerd saw\nit all vanishing now as quietly as the mist fades before the summer\nsun.\n\nWithin an hour the wondering Hitt was in conference with him, and\nHaynerd had told the story of the theft, of the Ames bribe, and the\nencounter following. \"But,\" he cried, \"can Ames kill my entire\nsubscription list, and in a single week?\"\n\n\"Easily,\" replied Hitt, \"and in any one of several ways. Apparently he\nhad caused your subscription list and books to be stolen. Your sun has\nset, Ned. Or, rather, Ames has lifted it bodily from the sky.\"\n\n\"Then I'll shoot him! I'll--! But we've got the goods on him! Carmen\nand I saw him bribe Wales! We'll expose him!\"\n\nHitt laughed. \"Forget all that,\" he said, laying a hand on the excited\nman's arm. \"Remember, that Wales would never dare breathe a word of\nit; Carmen has no reputation or standing whatsoever now in this city;\nand Ames would make out a case of blackmail against you so quickly\nthat it would sweep you right into the Tombs. Go easy. And first, let\nus get the girl herself down here.\"\n\nHe took the telephone and called up several of the University\ndepartments, after first ascertaining that she was not at her home.\nThen, having located her, he plunged into a study of the situation\nwith the distracted publisher.\n\n\"That's the way of it!\" cried Haynerd at length. \"Here I waste my\nevenings in learned philosophical discussions with you people, and\nmeantime, while we're figuring out that there is no evil, that\nmonster, Ames, stretches out a tentacle and strangles me! Fine\npractical discussions we've been having, ain't they? I tell you, I'm\nthrough with 'em!\" He brought his fist down upon the desk with a\ncrash.\n\n\"Ned,\" said Hitt, \"you're a fool.\"\n\n\"Sure I am!\" shouted Haynerd. \"Do I deny it? Here I had a nice, clean\nbusiness, no work, good pay--and, just because I associated with you\nand that girl, the whole damn thing goes up the flue! Pays to be good,\ndoesn't it? Nix!\"\n\n\"H'm; well, Ned, you're not only a fool, but a blooming idiot,\"\nreplied Hitt calmly.\n\n\"Lay it on! Lay it on thick!\" roared Haynerd. \"And if you run out of\nepithets, I'll supply a few! I'm a--\"\n\nThe door swung open, and Carmen entered, fresh as the sea breeze, and\npanting with her haste. \"Do you know,\" she began eagerly, \"two men\nfollowed me all the way down from the University! They watched me\ncome in here, and--but, what is wrong with you two?\" She stopped and\nlooked inquiringly from one to the other.\n\n\"Well,\" began Hitt hesitatingly, \"we were reflecting--\"\n\n\"Reflecting? What? Good, or evil?\" she demanded.\n\n\"We were just holding a wake, that's all,\" muttered Haynerd.\n\n\"Then wake up!\" she cried, seizing his hand.\n\nHitt pushed out a chair for the girl, and bade her sit down. Then he\nbriefly related the events which had led to her being summoned. \"And\nnow,\" he concluded, \"the question is, does Wales know that you and Ned\nsaw Ames try to bribe him?\"\n\n\"Why, of course he knows!\" cried Carmen. \"His wife told him.\"\n\n\"And who informed her?\"\n\n\"I did--last Monday morning, early,\" answered the wondering girl.\n\n\"Didn't I tell you?\" ejaculated Haynerd, turning upon Hitt and waving\nhis arms about. \"What do you--\"\n\n\"Hold your tongue, Ned!\" interrupted Hitt. Then, to Carmen, \"Why did\nyou tell her?\"\n\n\"Why--to save her, and her husband, and babies! I told her because it\nwas right! You know it was right!\"\n\n\"But, to save them, you have ruined Ned,\" pursued Hitt.\n\nThe girl turned to Haynerd, who sat doubled up in his chair, the\npicture of despair. \"I haven't ruined you, Ned.\" It was the first time\nshe had used this name in addressing him. \"Things never happen, you\nknow. And if you have been pushed out of this business, it is because\nit isn't fit for you, and because you've been awakened. You are for\nhigher, better things than the publishing of such a magazine as the\nSocial Era. I knew you just couldn't stay at this work. You have got\nto go up--\"\n\n\"Eh!\" Haynerd had roused out of his torpor. \"Go up? Yes, I've gone up,\nnicely! And I was making ten thousand dollars a year out of it! It was\na bully proposition!\" he blurted.\n\nThe girl smiled. \"I wasn't speaking of money,\" she said.\n\n\"But I was!\" retorted Haynerd. \"When I talk, it's in dollars and\ncents!\"\n\n\"And that's why your talk is mostly nonsense,\" put in Hitt. \"The\ngirl's right, I guess. You've stagnated here long enough, Ned. There's\nno such thing as standing still. Progress is a divine demand. It's now\nyour move.\"\n\n\"But--good Lord! what am I to do?\" wailed the man.\n\n\"You now have a grand opportunity,\" said Carmen, taking his hand.\n\n\"Opportunity!\"\n\n\"Yes; every trial in this life is an opportunity to prove that there\nis no evil,\" she said. \"Listen; you have been trained as a publisher.\nVery well, the world is waiting for the right kind of publications.\nOh, I've seen it for a long, long time. The demand is simply\ntremendous. Now meet it!\"\n\nHaynerd looked confusedly from Carmen to Hitt. The latter turned to\nthe girl. \"What, exactly, do you mean, Carmen?\" he asked.\n\n\"Let him publish now a clean magazine, or paper; let him print real\nnews; let him work, not for rich people's money, but for all people.\nWhy, the press is the greatest educator in the world! But, oh, how it\nhas been abused! Now let him come out boldly and stand for clean\njournalism. Let him find his own life, his own good, in service for\nothers.\"\n\n\"But, Carmen,\" protested Hitt, \"do the people want clean journalism?\nCould such a paper stand?\"\n\n\"It could, if it had the right thought back of it,\" returned the\nconfident girl.\n\nHaynerd had again lapsed into sulky silence. But Hitt pondered the\ngirl's words for some moments. She was not the first nor the only one\nwho had voiced such sentiments. He himself had even dared to hold the\nsame thoughts, and to read in them a leading that came not from\nmaterial ambitions. Then, of a sudden, an idea flamed up in his mind.\n\n\"The Express!\" he exclaimed.\n\nCarmen waited expectantly. Hitt's eyes widened with his expanding\nthought. \"Carlson, editor of the Express, wants to sell,\" he\ncontinued, speaking rapidly.\n\n\"It's a semi-weekly newspaper, printed only for country circulation;\nhas no subscription list,\" commented Haynerd, with a cynical shrug of\nhis shoulders.\n\n\"Buy it!\" exclaimed Carmen. \"Buy it! And change it into a daily! Make\nit a real newspaper!\"\n\nHitt looked into Carmen's glowing eyes. \"How old are you?\" he suddenly\nasked. The abruptness of the strange, apparently irrelevant question\nstartled the girl.\n\n\"Why,\" she replied slowly, \"as old as--as God. And as young.\"\n\n\"And, as human beings reckon time, eighteen, eh?\" continued Hitt.\n\nShe nodded, wondering what the question meant. Hitt then turned to\nHaynerd. \"How much money can you scrape together, if you sell this lot\nof junk?\" he asked, sweeping the place with a glance.\n\n\"Five or six thousand, all told, including bank account, bonds, and\neverything, I suppose,\" replied Haynerd mechanically.\n\n\"Carlson wants forty thousand for the Express. I'm not a rich man, as\nwealth is estimated to-day, but--well, oil is still flowing down in\nOhio. It isn't the money--it's--it's what's back of the cash.\"\n\nCarmen reached over and laid a hand on his arm. \"We can do it,\" she\nwhispered.\n\nHitt hesitated a moment longer, then sprang to his feet. \"And we\nwill!\" he cried. \"I've pondered and studied this scheme for a year,\nbut I've only to-day seen the right help. That is your tremendous,\ndriving thought,\" he said, turning to Carmen. \"That thought is a\nspiritual dynamite, that will blast its way through every material\nobstacle! Ned,\" seizing Haynerd by the shoulder and shaking him out of\nhis chair, \"rouse up! Your light has come! Now I'll 'phone Carlson\nright away and make an appointment to talk business with him. You'll\nstand with me, Carmen?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said simply.\n\n\"And you, Ned?\"\n\nHaynerd blinked for a few moments, like an owl in the light. But then,\nas a comprehension of Hitt's plan dawned upon his waking thought, he\nstraightened up.\n\n\"Buy the Express! Make a real paper of it! A--but Ames?\"\n\n\"He can't touch us! The clientele of the Express will not be made up\nof his puppets! Our paper will be for the people!\"\n\n\"But--your University work, Hitt?\"\n\n\"I give my last lecture next week.\"\n\n\"And you, Carmen?\"\n\n\"I was only biding my time,\" she replied gently. \"This is a real call.\nAnd my answer is: Here am I.\"\n\nTears began to trickle slowly down Haynerd's cheeks, as the tension in\nhis nerves slackened. He rose and seized the hands of his two friends.\n\"Hitt,\" he said, in a choking voice, \"I--I said I was a fool. But that\nfellow's dead now. The real man has waked up, and--well, what are you\nstanding there for, you great idiot? Go and call up Carlson!\"\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nAgain that evening the little group sat about the table in the dining\nroom of the Beaubien cottage. But only the three most directly\nconcerned, and the Beaubien, knew that the owner of the Express had\nreceived that afternoon an offer for the purchase of his newspaper,\nand that he had been given twenty-four hours in which to accept it.\nDoctor Morton was again present; and beside him sat his lifelong\nfriend and jousting-mate, the very Reverend Patterson Moore. Hitt\ntook the floor, and began speaking low and earnestly.\n\n\"We must remember,\" he said, \"in conjunction with what we have deduced\nregarding the infinite creative mind and its manifestations, that we\nmortals in our daily mundane existence deal only and always with\nphenomena, with appearances, with effects, and never with ultimate\ncauses. And so all our material knowledge is a knowledge of\nappearances only. Of the ultimate essence of things, the human mind\nknows nothing. All of its knowledge is relative. A phenomenon may be\nso-and-so with regard to another; but that either is absolute truth we\ncan not affirm. And yet--mark this well--as Spencer says, 'Every one\nof the arguments by which the relativity of our knowledge is\ndemonstrated distinctly postulates the positive existence of something\nbeyond the relative.'\"\n\n\"And just what does that mean?\" asked Miss Wall.\n\n\"It is a primitive statement of what is sometimes called the 'Theory\nof suppositional opposites'\", replied Hitt. \"It means that to every\nreality there is the corresponding unreality. For every truth there\nmay be postulated the supposition. We can not, as the great\nphilosopher says, conceive that our knowledge is a knowledge of\nappearances only, without at the same time conceiving a reality of\nwhich they are appearances. He further amplifies this by saying that\n'every positive notion--the concept of a thing by what it is--suggests\na negative notion--the concept of a thing by what it is not. But,\nthough these mutually suggest each other, _the positive alone is\nreal_.' Most momentous language, that! For, interpreted, it means: we\nmust deny the seeming, or that which appears to human sense, in order\nto see that which is real.\"\n\n\"Well, I declare!\" exclaimed Miss Wall, glancing about to note the\neffect of the speaker's words on the others.\n\nBut Carmen nodded her thorough agreement, and added: \"Did not Jesus\nsay that we must deny ourselves? Deny which self? Why, the self that\nappears to us, the matter-man, the dust-man, the man of the second\nchapter of Genesis. We must deny his reality, and know that he is\nnothing but a mental concept, formed out of suppositional thought, out\nof dust-thought. And that is material thought.\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly correct,\" said Hitt, turning to Carmen. \"But, before we\nconsider the astonishing teachings of Jesus, let us sum up the\nconclusions of philosophy. To begin with, then, there is a First\nCause, omnipotent and omnipresent, and of very necessity perfect. That\nCause lies back of all the phenomena of life; and, because of its real\nexistence, there arises the suppositional existence of its opposite,\nits negative, so to speak, which is unreal. The phenomena of human\nexistence have to do _only_ with the suppositional existence of the\ngreat First Cause's opposite. They are a reflection of that\nsupposition. Hence all human knowledge of an external world is but\nphenomenal, and consists of appearances which have no more real\nsubstance than have shadows. _We, as mortals, know but the shadowy,\nphenomenal existence._ _We do not know reality._ _Therefore, our\nknowledge is not real knowledge, but supposition._\n\n\"Now,\" he went on hastily, for he saw an expression of protest on\nReverend Moore's face, \"we are more or less familiar with a phenomenal\nexistence, with appearances, with effects; and our knowledge of these\nis entirely mental. We see all things as thought. These thoughts, such\nas feeling, seeing, hearing, and so on, we ignorantly attribute to the\nfive physical senses. This is what Ruskin calls the 'pathetic\nfallacy.' And because we do so, we find ourselves absolutely dependent\nupon these senses--in belief. Moreover, quoting Spencer again, only\nthe absolutely real is the absolutely persistent, or enduring. Truth,\nfor example. The truth of the multiplication table will endure\neternally. It is real. But is it any whit material?\"\n\n\"No,\" admitted Miss Wall, speaking for the others.\n\n\"And, as regards material objects which we seem to see and touch,\"\nwent on Hitt, \"we appear to see solidity and hardness, and we conceive\nas real objects what are only the mental signs or indications of\nobjects. Remember, matter does not and can not get into the mind. Only\nthoughts and ideas enter our mentalities. We see our _thoughts_ of\nhardness, solidity, and so on; and these thoughts point to something\nthat is real. That _something_ is--what? I repeat: _the ideas of the\ninfinite creative Mind_. The thoughts of size, shape, hardness, and so\non, which we group together and call material chairs, trees,\nmountains, and other objects, are but 'relative realities,' pointing\nto the absolute reality, infinite mind and its eternal ideas and\nthoughts.\"\n\nHe paused again for comments. But all seemed absorbed in his\nstatements. Then he resumed:\n\n\"Our concept of matter, which is now proven to be but a mental\nconcept, built up out of false thought, points to _mind_ as the real\nsubstance. Our concept of measurable space and distance is the direct\nopposite of the great truth that infinite mind is ever-present. Our\nconcept of time is the opposite of infinity. It is but human\nlimitation. Age is the opposite of eternity--and the old-age thought\nbrings extinction. So, _to every reality there is the corresponding\nunreality_. The opposite of good is evil. If the infinite creative\nmind is good--and we saw that by very necessity it _must_ be so--then\nevil becomes an awful unreality, and is real only to the false thought\nwhich entertains or holds it. If life is real--and infinite mind must\nitself be life--then death becomes the opposite unreality. And, as\nJesus said, it can be overcome. But were it real, _no power_, _divine\nor human_, _could ever overcome or destroy it_!\"\n\n\"Seems to me,\" remarked Haynerd dryly, \"that our study so far simply\ngoes to show, as Burke puts it, 'what shadows we are and what shadows\nwe pursue.'\"\n\nHitt smiled. \"When the world humiliates itself to the point that it\nwill accept that, my friend,\" he said, \"then it will become receptive\nto truth.\n\n\"But now let us go a little further,\" he went on. \"The great Lamarck\nvoiced a mighty fact when he said, 'Function precedes structure.' For\nby that we mean that the egg did not produce the bird, but the bird\nthe egg. The world seems about to pass from the very foolish belief\nthat physical structure is the cause of life, to the great fact that a\n_sense_ of life produces the physical structure. The former crude\nbelief enslaved man to his body. The latter tends to free him from\nsuch slavery.\"\n\n\"You see, Doctor,\" interrupted Carmen, \"the brain which you were\ncutting up the other day did not make poor Yorick's mind and thought,\nbut his mind made the brain.\"\n\nThe doctor smiled and shook a warning finger at the girl.\n\n\"The body,\" resumed Hitt, \"is a manifestation of the human mind's\nactivity. What constitutes the difference between a bird and a steam\nengine? This, in part: the engine is made by human hands from without;\nthe bird makes itself, that is, its body, from within. So it is with\nthe human body. But the ignorant human mind--ignorant _per se_--falls\na slave to its own creation, the mental concept which it calls its\nphysical body, and which it pampers and pets and loves, until it can\ncling to it no longer, because the mental concept, not being based on\nany real principle, is forced to pass away, having nothing but false\nthought to sustain it.\"\n\n\"But now,\" interposed Haynerd, who was again waxing impatient, \"just\nwhat is the practical application of all this abstruse reasoning?\"\n\n\"The very greatest imaginable, my friend,\" replied Hitt. \"A real thing\nis real forever. And so matter can not become non-existent _unless it\nis already nothing_! The world is beginning to recognize the\ntremendous fact that from nothing nothing can be made. Very well,\nsince the law of the conservation of energy seems to be established as\nregards energy _in toto_, why, we must conclude that there is no such\nthing as _annihilation_. And that means that _there is no such thing\nas absolute creation_! Whatever is real has always existed. The shadow\nnever was real, and does not exist. And so creation becomes unfolding,\nor revelation, or development, of what already exists, and has always\nexisted, and always will exist. Therefore, if matter, and all it\nincludes as concomitants, evil, sin, sickness, accident, chance, lack,\nand death, is based upon unreal, false thought, then it can all be\nremoved, put out of consciousness, by a knowledge of truth and a\nreversal of our accustomed human thought-processes.\"\n\n\"And that,\" said Carmen, \"is salvation. It is based on righteousness,\nwhich is right-thinking, thinking true thoughts, and thinking truly.\"\n\n\"And knowing,\" added Hitt, \"that evil, including matter, is the\nsuppositional opposite of truth. The doctrine of materialism has been\nutterly disproved even by the physicists themselves. For physicists\nhave at last agreed that inertia is the great essential property of\nmatter. That is, matter is not a cause, but an effect. It does not\noperate, but is operated upon. It is not a law-giver, but is subject\nto the human mind's so-called laws concerning it. It of itself is\nutterly without life or intelligence.\n\n\"Very good,\" he continued. \"Now Spencer said that matter was a\nmanifestation of an underlying power or force. Physicists tell us that\nmatter is made of electricity, that it is an electrical phenomenon,\nand that the ultimate constituent of matter is the electron. The\nelectron is said by some to be made up of superimposed layers of\npositive and negative electricity, and by others to be made up of only\nnegative charges. I rather prefer the latter view, for if composed of\nonly negative electricity it is more truly a negation. Matter is the\n_negative_ of real substance. It is a sort of negative truth.\n\n\"Now electricity is a form of energy. Hence matter is a form of\nenergy also. But our comprehension of it is _wholly mental_. Energy is\nmental. The only real energy there is or can be is the energy of the\ninfinite mind we call God. This the human mind copies, or imitates,\nby reason of what has been called 'the law of suppositional\nopposites,' already dwelt upon at some length. Everything manifests\nthis so-called law. Electricity is both positive and negative.\nGravitation is regarded by some physicists as the negative aspect of\nradiation-pressure, the latter being the pressure supposed to be\nexerted by all material bodies upon one another. The third law of\nmotion illustrates this so-called law, for it states that action\nand reaction are equal and opposite. There can be no positive action\nwithout a resultant negative one. The truth has its lie. The divine\nmind, God, has His opposite in the communal human, or mortal, mind.\nThe latter is manifested by the so-called minds which we call mankind.\nAnd from these so-called minds issue matter and material forms and\nbodies, with their so-called material laws.\n\n\"Yes, the material universe is running down. Stupendous fact! The\nentire human concept is running down. Matter, the human mental\nconcept, is not eternally permanent. Neither, therefore, are its\nconcomitants, sin and discord. Matter disintegrates and passes\naway--out of human consciousness. The whole material universe--the\nso-called mortal-mind concept--is hastening to its death!\"\n\n\"But as yet I think you have not given Mr. Haynerd the practical\napplication which he asks,\" suggested Father Waite, as Hitt paused\nafter his long exposition.\n\n\"I am now ready for that,\" replied Hitt. \"We have said that the\nmaterial is the relative. So all human knowledge is relative. But,\nthat being so, we can go a step further and add that human error is\nlikewise relative. And now--startling fact!--_it is absolutely\nimpossible to really know error_!\"\n\n\"Why--!\" burst from the incredulous Miss Wall.\n\n\"Well?\" said Hitt, turning to her. \"Can you know that two plus two\nequals seven?\"\n\n\"N--no.\"\n\n\"Let me make this statement of truth: nothing can be known definitely\nexcept as it is explained by the principle which governs it. Now what\nprinciple governs an error, whether that error be in music,\nmathematics, or life conduct?\"\n\nThere was no reply to the question.\n\n\"Very well,\" continued Hitt. \"Evil can not be really known. And that\nis why God--infinite Mind--can not behold evil. And now, friends, I\nhave come to the conclusion of a long series of deductions. If\ninfinite mind is the cause and creator, that is, the revealer, of all\nthat really exists, its suppositional opposite, its negative, must\nlikewise simulate a creation, or revelation, or unfolding, for this\nopposite must of very necessity pose as a creative principle. It must\nsimulate all the powers and attributes of the infinite creative mind.\nIf the creative mind gave rise to a spiritual universe and spiritual\nman, by which it expresses itself, then this suppositional opposite\nmust present its universe and its man, opposite in every particular to\nthe reality. _It is this sort of man and this sort of universe that\nwe, as mortals, seem to see all about us, and that we refer to as\nhuman beings and the physical universe._ And yet, all that we see,\nfeel, hear, smell, or taste is the false, suppositional thought that\ncomes into our so-called mentalities, and by its suppositional\nactivity there causes what we call consciousness or awareness of\nthings.\"\n\n\"Then,\" said Father Waite, more to enunciate his own thought than to\nquestion the deduction, \"what the human consciousness holds as\nknowledge is little more than belief and speculation, with no basis of\ntruth, no underlying principle.\"\n\n\"Just so. And it brings out the fruits of such beliefs in discord,\ndecay, and final dissolution, called death. For this human consciousness\nforms its own concept of a fleshly body, and a mind-and-matter man. It\nmakes the laws which govern its body, and it causes its body to obey\nthese false laws. Upon the quality of thought entering this human\nconsciousness depend all the phenomena of earthly life and environment\nwhich the mortal experiences. The human consciousness, in other words,\nis a _self-centered mass of erroneous thought, utterly without any basis\nof real principle, but actively engaged in building up mental images,\nand forming and maintaining an environment in which it supposes\nitself to live_. _This false thought in the human consciousness forms\ninto a false concept of man, and this is the soul-and-body man, the\nmind-and-matter man, which is called a human being, or a mortal._\"\n\n\"And there,\" commented Carmen, with a dreamy, far-away look, \"we have\nwhat Padre Jos\u00e8 so long ago spoke of as the 'externalization of\nthought.' It is the same law which Jesus had in mind when he said, 'As\na man thinketh in his heart, so is he.'\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Hitt. \"For we know only what enters our mentalities and\nbecomes active there. And every thought that does so enter, tends at\nonce to become externalized. That is, there is at once the tendency\nfor us to see it visualized in some way, either as material object, or\nenvironment, or on our bodies. And it is the very activity of such\nthought that constitutes the human mentality, as I have already\nsaid.\"\n\n\"And that thought is continually changing,\" suggested Father Waite.\n\n\"Just so. Its very lack of true principle requires that it should\nchange constantly, in order to simulate as closely as possible the\nreal. That accounts for the fleeting character of the whole human\nconcept of man and the physical universe. The human personality is\nnever fixed, although the elements of human character remain; that is,\nthose elements which are essentially unreal and mortal, such as lust,\ngreed, hatred, and materiality, seem to remain throughout the ages.\nThey will give way only before truth, even as Paul said. But not until\ntruth has been admitted to the human mentality and begins its solvent\nwork there, the work of denying and tearing down the false\nthought-concepts and replacing them with true ones.\"\n\n\"And will truth come through the physical senses?\" asked Miss Wall.\n\n\"No, decidedly no!\" said Hitt. \"The physical senses testify of\nnothing. Their supposed testimony is the material thought which enters\nthe human mentality and becomes active there, resulting in human\nconsciousness of both good and evil. And that thought will have to\ngive way to true thought, before we can begin to put off the 'old man'\nand put on the 'new.' Human thoughts, or, as we say, the physical\nsenses, do not and can not testify of absolute truth. They do not know\nGod.\"\n\n\"Ha!\" exclaimed Haynerd, rousing up. \"There goes the Church, and\noriginal sin, and fallen man!\"\n\n\"There is no such thing as 'fallen man,' my friend,\" said Hitt\nquietly. \"The spiritual man, the image and likeness, the reflection,\nof the infinite creative mind, is perfect as long as its principle\nremains perfect--and that is eternally. The mortal man never was\nperfect. He is a product of false, suppositional thought. He is not\nand never was man. He did not fall, because he has had no perfection\nto lose.\"\n\nReverend Patterson Moore, who had sat a silent, though not wholly\nsympathetic listener throughout the discussion, could now no longer\nwithhold his protest. \"No wonder,\" he abruptly exclaimed, \"that there\nare so few deep convictions to-day concerning the great essentials of\nChristianity! As I sit here and listen to you belittle God and rend\nthe great truths of His Christ, as announced in His Word, the Bible, I\nam moved by feelings poignantly sorrowful! The Christ has once been\ncrucified; and will you slay him again?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Carmen, her eyes dilating with surprise, \"but we would\nresurrect him! Don't you think you have kept him in the tomb long\nenough? The Christ-principle is intended for use, not for endless\nburial!\"\n\n\"I? My dear Miss Carmen, it is I who preach the risen Christ!\"\n\n\"You preach human theology, Mr. Moore,\" returned the girl. \"And\nbecause of centuries of such preaching the world has steadily sunk\nfrom the spiritual to the material, and lip service has taken the\nplace of that genuine spiritual worship which knows no evil, and\nwhich, because of that practical knowledge, heals the sick and raises\nthe dead.\"\n\n\"You insinuate that--?\"\n\n\"No, I state facts,\" said Carmen. \"Paul made some mistakes, for he was\nconsumed with zeal. But he stated truth when he said that the second\ncoming of Christ would occur when the 'old man' was put off. We have\nbeen discussing the 'old man' to-night, and showing how he may be put\noff. Now do you from your pulpit teach your people how that may be\ndone?\"\n\n\"I teach the vicarious atonement of the Christ, and prepare my flock\nfor the world to come,\" replied the minister with some heat.\n\n\"But I am interested in the eternal present,\" said the girl, \"not in a\nsuppositional future. And so was Jesus. The world to come is right\nhere. 'I am that which is, and which was, and which is to come,' says\nthe infinite, ever-present mind, God!\"\n\n\"I see no Christianity whatsoever in your speculative philosophy,\"\nretorted the minister. \"If what you say is true, and the world should\naccept it, all that we have learned in the ages past would be blotted\nout, and falsehood would be written across philosophy, science, and\nreligion. By wafting evil lightly aside as unreal, you dodge the\nissue, and extend license to all mankind to indulge it freely. Evil is\nan awful, a stupendous fact! And it can not be relegated to the realm\nof shadow, as you are trying to do!\"\n\n\"Did Jesus regard it as a reality?\" she asked. \"You know, Duns Scotus\nsaid: 'Since there is no real being outside of God, evil has no\nsubstantial existence. Perfection and reality are synonyms, hence\nabsolute imperfection is synonymous with absolute unreality.' Did\nJesus know less than this man? And do you really think he looked upon\nevil as a _reality_?\"\n\n\"He most certainly did!\"\n\n\"Then, if that is true,\" said the girl, \"I will have to reject him.\nBut come, we are right up to the point of discussing him and his\nteachings, and that will be the subject of our next meeting. Will you\njoin us, Mr. Moore? It is love, you know, that has drawn us all\ntogether. You'll come?\"\n\n\"It's an open forum, Moore,\" said the doctor, patting him on the back.\n\"Wisdom isn't going to die with you. Come and get a new viewpoint.\"\n\n\"I am quite well satisfied with my present one, Doctor,\" replied the\nminister tartly.\n\n\"Well, then, come and correct us when we err. It's your duty to save\nus if we're in danger, you know.\"\n\n\"He will come,\" said Hitt. \"And now, Carmen, the piano awaits you. By\nthe way, what did Maitre Rossanni tell you?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" replied the girl lightly, \"he begged me to let him train me for\nGrand Opera.\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"He said I would make a huge fortune,\" she laughed.\n\n\"And so you would! Well?\"\n\n\"I told him I carried my wealth with me, always, and that my fortune\nwas now so immense that I couldn't possibly hope to add to it.\"\n\n\"Then you refused the chance!\"\n\n\"My dear Mr. Hitt,\" she said, going to him and looking up into his\nface, \"I am too busy for Grand Opera and money-making. My voice\nbelongs to the world. I couldn't be happy if I made people pay to hear\nme sing.\"\n\nWith that she turned and seated herself at the piano, where she\nlaunched into a song that made the very Reverend Patterson Moore raise\nhis glasses and stare at her long and curiously.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 7\n\n\nMan reasons and seeks human counsel; but woman obeys her instincts.\nCarmen did this and more. Her life had been one of utter freedom from\ndependence upon human judgment. The burden of decision as to the\nwisdom of a course of action rested always upon her own thought. Never\ndid she seek to make a fellow-being her conscience. When the day of\njudgment came, the hour of trial or vital demand, it found her\nstanding boldly, because her love was made perfect, not through\ninstinct alone, but through conformity with the certain knowledge that\nhe who lacks wisdom may find it in the right thought of God and man.\nAnd so, when on the next day she joined Hitt and Haynerd in the office\nof the Social Era, and learned that Carlson had met their terms,\neagerly, and had transferred to them the moribund Express, she had no\nqualms as to the wisdom of the step which they were taking.\n\nBut not so her companions. Haynerd was a composite picture of doubt\nand fear, as he sat humped up in his chair. Hitt was serious to the\npoint of gloom, reflecting in a measure his companion's dismal\nforebodings.\n\n\"I was scared to death for fear he wouldn't sell,\" Haynerd was saying\nas the girl entered; \"and I was paralyzed whenever I thought that he\nwould.\"\n\nCarmen laughed aloud when she heard these words. \"Do you know,\" she\nsaid, \"you remind me of Lot's wife. She was told to go ahead, along\nthe right course. But she looked back--alas for her! Now you two being\nstarted right are looking back; and you are about to turn to salt\ntears!\n\n\"Now listen,\" she continued, as Haynerd began to remonstrate; \"don't\nvoice a single fear to me! You couldn't make me believe them true even\nif you argued for weeks--and we have no time for such foolishness\nnow. The first thing that you have got to do, Ned, is to start a\nlittle cemetery. In it you must bury your fears, right away, and\nwithout any mourning. Put up little headstones, if you wish; but don't\never go near the place afterward, excepting to plant the insults, and\ngibes, and denouncements, and vilifications which the human mind will\nhurl at you, once the Express starts out on its new career. Good is\nbound to stir up evil; and the Express is now in the business of good.\nRemember, the first thing the Apostles always did was to be afraid.\nAnd they kept Jesus busy pointing out the nothingness of their\nfears.\"\n\n\"Business of good!\" retorted Haynerd savagely. \"I guess we'll find\nourselves a bit lonely in it, too!\"\n\n\"True, humanly speaking,\" replied the girl, taking a chair beside him.\n\"But, Ned, let me tell you of the most startling thing I have found in\nthis great, new country. It is this: you Americans have, oh, so much\nanimal courage--and so little true moral courage! You know that the\npress is one of the most corrupt institutions in America, don't you?\nThe truth is not in it. Going into thousands of homes every day, it is\na deadlier menace than yellow fever. You know that it is muzzled by\nso-called religious bodies, by liquor interests, by vice-politicians,\nby commercialism, and its own craven cowardice. And yet, Ned, despite\nyour heart-longing, you dare not face the world and stand boldly for\nrighteousness in the conduct of the Express!\n\n\"Now,\" she went on hurriedly, \"let me tell you more. While you have\nbeen debating with your fears as you awaited Mr. Carlson's decision, I\nhave been busy. If I had allowed my mentality to become filled with\nfear and worry, as you have done, I would have had no room for real,\nconstructive thought. But I first thanked God for this grand\nopportunity to witness to Him; and then I put out every mental\nsuggestion of failure, of malicious enmity from the world, and from\nthose who think they do not love us, and with it every subtle argument\nabout the unpreparedness of the human mind for good. After that I set\nout to visit various newspaper offices in the city. I have talked with\nfour managing and city editors since yesterday noon. I have their\nviewpoints now, and know what motives animate them. I know what they\nthink. I know, in part, what the Express will have to meet--and how to\nmeet it.\"\n\nBoth men stared at her in blank amazement. Haynerd's jaw dropped as he\ngazed. He had had a long apprenticeship in the newspaper field, but\nnever would he have dared attempt what this fearless girl had just\ndone.\n\n\"I have found out what news is,\" Carmen resumed. \"It is wholly _a\nhuman invention_! It is the published vagaries of the carnal mind. In\nthe yellow journal it is the red-inked, screaming report of the\ntragedies of sin. I asked Mr. Fallom if he knew anything about mental\nlaws, and the terrible results of mental suggestion in his paper's\nalmost hourly heralding of murder, theft, and lust. But he only\nlaughed and said that the lurid reports of crime tended to keep people\nalive to what was going on about them. He couldn't see that he was\nmaking a terrible reality of every sort of evil, and holding it so\nconstantly before an ignorant, credulous world's eyes that little else\ncould be seen. The moral significance of his so-called news reports\nhad no meaning whatsoever for him!\"\n\n\"Did you go to see Adams?\" asked Haynerd, not believing that she would\nhave dared visit that journalistic demon.\n\n\"Yes,\" answered the girl, to his utter astonishment. \"Mr. Adams said\nhe had no time for maudlin sentimentalism or petticoat sophistry. He\nwas in the business of collecting and disseminating news, and he\nwanted that news to go _shrieking_ out of his office! Here is one of\nhis afternoon extras. You can see how the report of an Italian\nwife-murder shrieks in red letters an inch high on the very first\npage. But has Mr. Adams thereby seen and met his opportunity? Or has\nhe further prostituted journalism by this ignorant act?\"\n\n\"The people want it, Carmen,\" said Hitt slowly, though his voice\nseemed not to sound a real conviction.\n\n\"They do not!\" cried Carmen, her eyes snapping. \"If the church and the\npress were not mortally and morally blind, they would see the deadly\ndestruction which they are accomplishing by shrieking from pulpit and\nsanctum: 'Evil is real! Pietro Lasanni cuts his wife's throat! Evil is\nreal! Look, and be convinced!'\"\n\n\"But, Carmen, while what you say is doubtless true, it must be\nadmitted that the average man, especially the day laborer, reads his\nyellow journal avidly, and--\"\n\n\"Yes, he does,\" returned the girl. \"And why? The average man, as\nyou call him, is a victim of _the most pernicious social system\never devised by the human mind_! Swept along in the mad rush of\ncommercialism, or ground down beneath its ruthless wheels, his\njaded, jarred nerves and his tired mind cry out for artificial\nstimulation, for something that will for a moment divert his wearied\nthought from his hopeless situation. The Church offers him little\nthat is tangible this side of the grave. But whiskey, drugs, and\nyellow journalism do. Can't you see, Mr. Hitt--can't you, Ned--that\nthe world's cry for sensationalism is but a cry for something that\nwill make it forget its misery for a brief moment? The average man\nfeels the superficiality of the high speed of this century of mad\nrush; he longs as never before for a foundation of truth upon which to\nrest; he is tired of theological fairy-tales; he is desperately\ntired of sin, and sickness, and dying. He cares little about a\npromised life beyond the grave. He wants help here and now to solve\nhis problems. What does the press offer him? Little beyond a recount\nof his own daily miseries, and reports of graft and greed, and\naccounts of vulgar displays of material wealth that he has not and\ncan not have. And these reports divert his jaded mind for a moment and\ngive him a false, fleeting sense of pleasure--and then leave him\nsunk deeper than before in despair, and in hatred of existing\nconditions!\"\n\n\"The girl is right,\" said Hitt, turning to Haynerd. \"And we knew it,\nof course. But we have let our confidence slip. This steam-calliope\nage reflects the human-mind struggle for something other than its own\nunsatisfying ideas. It turns to thrills; it expresses its restlessness\nand dissatisfaction with itself by futurist and cubist art, so-called;\nby the rattle and vibration of machinery; by flaring billboards that\ninsult every sense of the artistic; and by the murk and muck of yellow\njournalism, with its hideous colored supplements and spine-thrilling\ntales. So much for the reader. But the publisher himself--well, he\nbattens materially, of course, upon the tired victims of our degrading\nsocial system. He sees but the sordid revenue in dollars and cents.\nBeyond that his morals do not extend.\"\n\n\"And they can't,\" said Haynerd. \"Decent journalism wouldn't\npay--doesn't--never did! Other papers have tried it, and miserably\nfailed!\"\n\n\"Then,\" returned Hitt calmly, after a moment's reflection, \"oil will\nmeet the deficit. As long as my paternal wells flow in Ohio the\nExpress will issue forth as a clean paper, a dignified, law-supporting\npurveyor to a taste for better things--even if it has to create that\ntaste. Its columns will be closed to salacious sensation, and its\nadvertising pages will be barred to vice, liquor, tobacco, and\ndrugs.\"\n\n\"Good!\" cried Carmen. \"And now we've got to get right down to\nbusiness.\"\n\n\"Just so,\" said Hitt, rising. \"It is my intention to issue the Express\none more week on its present basis, and then turn it into a penny\nmorning daily. I have seen and talked with its staff. They're good\nmen. I'm going to assume the management myself, with you, Carmen, as\nmy first assistant. Haynerd will become city editor. Now, what\nsuggestions have you?\"\n\n\"Oh, lots!\" cried the girl enthusiastically. \"But, first, how far may\nI go?\"\n\n\"The limit,\" replied Hitt, rubbing his hands together. \"You are my\nbrain, so to speak, henceforth. As to financial resources, I am\nprepared to dump a hundred thousand dollars right into the Express\nbefore a cent of revenue comes back.\"\n\n\"Another question, then: will you issue a Sunday edition?\" she asked.\n\n\"For a while, yes,\" he said. \"We'll see how it works, for I have some\nideas to try out.\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" resumed the girl eagerly, \"I want this paper to be for\n_all_ the people; to be independent in the truest sense of the term;\nand to be absolutely beyond the influence of political and religious\nsectarianism--you'll soon enough learn what that will cost you--to be\nan active, constructive force in this great city, and a patient,\ntireless, loving educator.\"\n\n\"Humph!\" grunted Haynerd, although he was listening very carefully.\n\n\"The Express will succeed,\" the girl went on, without noticing him,\n\"because our thought regarding it is successful. _We_ have already\nsucceeded; and that success will be externalized in our work. It makes\nno difference what the people may think of _us_; but it makes a lot of\ndifference what _we_ think of _them_ and _ourselves_. Now, our program\nis unlimited. We assume superiority over adverse conditions, and we\nclaim success, because we know that these things are mental, and that\nthey are divinely ours. Lot's wife didn't have the sort of confidence\nthat wins--she looked back. Our bridges are burnt behind us now. But\nthere is no doubt of the outcome. And so there is no doubt lurking in\nus to take the edge off our efforts, is there? The thought regarding\nthe Express has not been timidly born within us; it has come forth\nflashing vigor! Yes it has, Ned, despite your doubts! And we have\nwithin us a power mightier than any force outside of us. That is the\nknowledge of infinite mind's omnipotence, and our ability to use the\nChrist-principle to meet _every_ problem. Is it not so?\"\n\nHaynerd began to rouse up with a returning sense of confidence. Hitt\nsmiled and nodded to Carmen. The girl went on rapidly and eagerly:\n\n\"We are going to give the people news from a new standpoint, aren't\nwe? We are not going on the assumption that the report of mankind's\nerrors is the report of real news. The only thing that is really new\nis _good_. We'll report that. When I was in Mr. Adams's office two\nitems came in over the 'phone. One was the report of a jewel robbery,\nand the other was an announcement of the draining by the Government of\nsubmerged lands in Louisiana, so as to give an additional opportunity\nto those seeking farms. Which item did Mr. Adams put in bold type on\nthe front page? The first, yes. I was unable to locate the latter\nanywhere in the paper, although it was a timely bit of news.\"\n\n\"Very true,\" replied Hitt.\n\n\"Now another thing,\" continued the girl, \"I want the Sunday edition of\nthe Express to contain a r\u00e9sum\u00e9 of the important and vital news of the\nweek, with the very clearest, most impartial and enlightening\neditorial comment upon it. This calls for nice discrimination in the\nselection of those items for our comment. It means, however, the best\npractical education for the people. This was John Ruskin's idea, and\ncertainly is a splendid one. Still another thing, the Express will\nstand shoulder to shoulder with the women for equal suffrage. Are you\nagreed?\"\n\n\"Most emphatically!\" declared Hitt. \"It is the women who will clean up\nand regenerate this world, not the men. Reform is now in the hands of\nthe women. They have been held back long enough. And India proves that\nbackward women mean a backward nation.\"\n\n\"Then,\" continued Carmen, \"make a distinct Women's Department in the\nExpress, and put Miss Wall on the staff.\"\n\n\"Very well. Next?\" inquired Hitt, smiling.\n\n\"A daily educational department for foreigners, our immigrants, giving\nthem every possible aid in suggestions regarding their naturalization,\nthe languages, hotels, boarding houses, employment, and so on.\"\n\n\"Done,\" said Hitt. \"And what else?\"\n\n\"The Express is going to maintain a social service, and night schools.\nIt is going to establish vacation and permanent homes for girls. It is\ngoing to provide for vocational training. It is going to establish a\nlecture bureau--for lectures on _good_. It is going to build a model\ncity for workingmen. Then it is going to found a model city for\neverybody. It is going to establish clubs and meeting places for\nworkingmen, places where they may meet, and play games, and read, and\nhave social intercourse, and practical instruction. It is going to\nestablish the same for young boys. It is going to take the lead for\ncivic betterment in this city, and for child-welfare, and for--\"\n\nBy this time Haynerd was sitting erect and staring in bewilderment at\nthe girl. \"What do you mean?\" he sputtered. \"Aren't you wandering\nsomewhat beyond strict newspaper limits? We are in the news\nbusiness!\"\n\n\"And haven't I told you,\" returned the girl promptly, \"that the only\nthing new in this world is _good_? Our news is going to be _good_\nnews--the collection and dissemination of _good_ to all mankind.\nPeople who read our paper will no longer feel that it is dangerous to\nbe alive, but a glorious privilege. I am simply laying out our\nprogram. And Mr. Hitt said I could go the limit, you know.\"\n\nHitt had caught the girl's infectious enthusiasm, and his face was\nbeaming.\n\n\"That's it!\" he exclaimed. \"It's your unlimited thought, Carmen, that\nwe old dry-bones want! I understand you!\"\n\n\"Of course you do!\" she cried. \"And so does dear old protesting Ned.\nWhy, what is money? What is anything in this life, compared with real\nservice to our fellow-men? _The Express is not in business to make\nmoney!_ It is in the business of collecting and scattering the news of\ngood. Its dividends will be the happiness and joy it gives to mankind.\nWill it fail? It simply can't! For _good is the greatest success there\nis_!\"\n\nIt is likely that Hitt did not catch the full meaning of the girl's\nwords; and it is certain that Haynerd did not. But her boundless\nenthusiasm did penetrate in large degree into their souls, and they\nceased to insist on the query, Will it pay? The broader outlook was\nalready beginning to return profits to these men, as the newer\ndefinition of 'news' occupied their thought. Fear and doubt fled.\nSeizing their hats, they bade Carmen go with them to inspect the plant\nof the Express, and meet its staff.\n\n\"There's a question I'd like to ask,\" said Haynerd, as they pursued\ntheir way toward their recent purchase. \"I want to know what our\neditorial policy will be. Do we condone the offenses of our grafters\nand spoilsmen by remaining silent regarding their crimes? Or do we\nexpose them?\"\n\n\"We will let their guilt expose and kill itself,\" quickly returned\nCarmen. \"How? Well, you will see.\"\n\nA few minutes later they entered the gloomy, dust-laden offices of the\nExpress. Hitt's spirits sank again as he looked about him. But Carmen\nseemed to suffer no loss of enthusiasm. After a mental appraisal of\nthe dingy, uninviting environment she exclaimed: \"Well, one nice thing\nabout this is that we don't have much to start with!\"\n\nHitt reflected upon her cryptical remark, and then laughed.\n\nCarlson joined them at this juncture. It was evident that the sale of\nhis plant had removed a heavy load from his shoulders.\n\n\"My best reporter was out yesterday when you called,\" he said,\naddressing Hitt. \"He--well, he was a little the worse for wear. But\nhe's in now. Come into my office and I'll send for him.\"\n\nIn a few minutes a tall, boyish fellow responded to the editor's\nsummons. He must have been well under twenty, thought Hitt, marveling\nthat so young a man should be regarded as Carlson's best news\ngatherer. But his wonder grew apace when the editor introduced him as\nMr. Sidney Ames.\n\n\"Huh!\" ejaculated Haynerd. \"Know J. Wilton?\"\n\nThe lad smiled pallidly, as he bent his gaze upon Carmen, and\naddressed his reply to her. \"My governor,\" he said laconically.\n\n\"The deuce he is!\" returned Haynerd, beginning to bristle.\n\nCarlson dismissed the reporter, and turned to the curious group.\n\n\"The boy has the making of a fine newspaper man in him. Has something\nof his father's terrible energy. But he's doomed. Whiskey and morphine\ngot him. He used to come down here before his father threw him out. I\nlet him write little articles for the Express when he was barely\nsixteen years old; and they were mighty good, too. But he got mixed up\nin some scandal, and J. Wilton cut him off. The boy always did drink,\nI guess. But since his family troubles he's been on the straight road\nto the insane asylum. It's too bad. But you'll keep him, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Certainly not!\" replied Haynerd aggressively. \"His father is no\nfriend of mine, and--\"\n\n\"We _shall_ keep him,\" calmly interrupted Carmen. \"His father is a\n_very_ good friend of mine.\"\n\nCarlson looked from one to the other quizzically. \"H'm!\" he mused.\n\"Well,\" squinting over his glasses at the girl, \"this surely is\nwoman's era, isn't it?\"\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nA week later the Express, scarcely recognizable in its clean, fresh\ntype and modest headlines, with its crisp news and well written\neditorials, very unostentatiously made its entry into the already\ncrowded metropolitan field. Few noticed it. Adams picked it up and\nlaughed, a short, contemptuous laugh. Fallom glanced over it and\nwondered. J. Wilton Ames, who had been apprised of its advent, threw\nit into the waste basket--and then drew it out again. He re-read the\neditorial announcing the policy of the paper. From that he began a\ncareful survey of the whole sheet. His eye caught an article on the\nfeminist movement, signed by Carmen Ariza. His lip curled, but he read\nthe article through, and finished with the mental comment that it was\nwell written. Then he summoned Willett.\n\n\"I want this sheet carefully watched,\" he commanded, tossing the paper\nto his secretary. \"If anything is noticed that in any way refers to me\nor my interests, call my attention to it immediately.\"\n\nThe secretary bowed and departed. A moment afterward Henry Claus,\nnominal head of the great Claus brewing interests, was ushered in.\n\n\"We licked 'em, Mr. Ames, we licked 'em!\" cried the newcomer, rushing\nforward and clasping the financier's hand. \"The city council last\nnight voted against the neighborhood saloon license bill! Lined up\nsolidly for us! Fine, eh?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" commented the laconic Ames. \"Our aldermen are a very\nintelligent lot of statesmen, Claus. They're wise enough to see that\ntheir jobs depend upon whiskey. It requires very astute statesmanship,\nClaus, to see that. But some of our congressmen and senators have\nlearned the same thing.\"\n\nThe brewer pondered this delphic utterance and scratched his head.\n\n\"Well,\" continued Ames, \"have you your report?\"\n\n\"Eh? Yes, sure, Mr. Ames. Here.\"\n\nAmes studied the document. Then he looked severely at Claus. \"Sales\nless than last month,\" he remarked dryly.\n\n\"It's the local option law what done it, Mr. Ames,\" replied the brewer\napologetically. \"Them women--\"\n\n\"Bah! Let a few petticoats whip you, eh? But, anyway, you don't know\nhow to market your stuff. Look here, Claus, you've got to encourage\nthe young people more. We've got to get the girls and boys. If we get\nthe girls, we'll get the boys easily enough. It's the same in the\nliquor business as in certain others, Claus, you've got to land them\nyoung.\"\n\n\"But, Mr. Ames, I can't take 'em and pour it down their throats!\"\nexpostulated the brewer.\n\n\"You could if you knew how,\" returned Ames. \"Why, man! if I had\nnothing else to do I'd just like to devote myself to the sales end of\nthe brewing business. I'd use mental suggestion in such a way through\nadvertising that this country would drown in beer! Beer is just plain\nbeer to you dull-wits. But suppose we convinced people that it was a\nfood, eh? Advertise a chemical analysis of it, showing that it has\ngreater nutriment than beef. Catch the clerks and poor stenographers\nthat way. Don't call it beer; call it Maltdiet, or something like\nthat. Why, we couldn't begin to supply the demand!\"\n\n\"How would you advertise, Mr. Ames?\"\n\n\"Billboards in every field and along all railroads and highways;\nboards in every vacant lot in every town and city in the country;\nelectric signs everywhere; handbills; lectures--never thought of that,\ndid you? And samples--why, I'd put samples into every house in the\nUnion! I'd give away a million barrels of beer--and sell a hundred\nmillion as a result! But I'd work particularly with the young people.\nWork on them with literature and suggestion; they're more receptive\nthan adults. The hypnotism that works through suggestive advertising,\nClaus, is simply omnipotent! How about your newspaper contracts?\"\n\n\"We have all the papers, excepting the Express, Mr. Ames.\"\n\n\"The Express?\" Ames laughed. \"Well, that's a new venture. You can\nafford to pass it up. It's run by a college professor and a doll-faced\ngirl.\"\n\n\"But, Mr. Ames, our advertising manager tells me that the publishers\nof the Express called a meeting of the managers of all the other city\npapers, to discuss cutting out liquor advertising, and that since then\nthe rates have gone up, way up! You see, the example set by the\nExpress may--\"\n\n\"Humph!\" grunted Ames. Then he began to reflect. An example, backed by\nabsolute fearlessness--and he knew from experience that the publishers\nof the Express were without fear--well, it could not be wholly\nignored, even if the new paper had no circulation worth the name.\n\n\"Mr. Ames,\" resumed the brewer, \"the Express is in every newsstand in\nthe city. All the boys are selling it. It's in every hotel, in every\nsaloon, in every store and business house here. It's in the dives. It\nisn't sold, it's given away! Where do they get their money?\"\n\nAmes himself wondered. And he determined to find out.\n\n\"Leave it to me, Claus,\" he said at length, dismissing the brewer.\n\"I'll send for you in a day or so.\"\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was well after midnight when the little group assembled in the\ndining room of the Beaubien cottage to resume their interrupted\ndiscussions. Hitt and Haynerd were the last to arrive. They found\nDoctor Morton eagerly awaiting them. With him had come, not without\nsome reluctance, his prickly disputant, Reverend Patterson Moore, and\nanother friend and colleague, Doctor Siler, whose interest in these\nunique gatherings had been aroused by Morton.\n\n\"I've tried to give him a r\u00e9sum\u00e9 of our previous deductions,\" the\nlatter explained, as Hitt prepared to open the discussion. \"And he\nsays he has conscientious scruples--if you know what that means.\"\n\n\"He's a Philistine, that's all, eh?\" offered Haynerd.\n\nDoctor Siler nodded genially. \"I am like my friend, Reverend Edward\nHull, who says--\"\n\n\"There!\" interrupted Morton. \"Your friend has a life job molding the\nplastic minds of prospective preachers, and he doesn't want to lose\nthe sinecure. I don't blame him. Got a wife and babies depending on\nhim. He still preaches hell-fire and the resurrection of the flesh,\ndoesn't he? Well, in that case we can dispense with his views, for\nwe've sent that sort of doctrine to the ash heap.\"\n\nReverend Moore opened his mouth as if to protest; but Hitt prevented\nhim by taking the floor and plunging at once into his subject. \"The\nhour is very late,\" he said in apology, \"and we have much ground to\ncover. Who knows when we shall meet again?\"\n\nCarmen stole a hand beneath the table and grasped the Beaubien's. Then\nall waited expectantly.\n\n\"As I sat in my office this morning,\" began Hitt meditatively, \"I\nlooked often and long through the window and out over this great,\nroaring city. Everywhere I saw tremendous activity, frantic hurry, and\nnerve-racking strife. In the distance I marked the smoke curling\nupward from huge factories, packing houses, and elevators. The\nincessant seething, the rush and bustle, the noise, the heat, and\ndust, all spelled business, an enormous volume of human business--and\nyet, _not one iota of it contributed even a mite to the spiritual\nnature and needs of mankind_!\n\n\"I pondered this long. And then I looked down, far down, into the\nstreets below. There I saw the same diversified activity. And I saw,\ntoo, men and women, rich and comfortable, riding along happily in\ntheir automobiles, with not a thought beyond their physical\nwell-being. But, I asked myself, should they not ride thus, if they\nwish? And yet, the hour will soon come when sickness, disaster, and\ndeath will knock at their doors and sternly bid them come out. And\nthen?\"\n\n\"Just what I have sought to impress upon you whenever you advanced\nyour philosophical theories, Doctor,\" said Reverend Moore, turning to\nMorton. The doctor glowered back at him without reply. Hitt smiled and\nwent on.\n\n\"Now what should the man in the automobile do? Is there anything he\n_can_ do, after all? Yes, much, I think. Jesus told such as he to seek\nfirst the kingdom of harmony--a demonstrable understanding of truth.\nThe automobile riding would follow after that, and with safety. Why,\noh, why, will we go on wasting our precious time acquiring additional\nphysical sensations in motor cars, amusement parks, travel, anywhere\nand everywhere, instead of laboring first to acquire that real\nknowledge which alone will set us free from the bitter woes of human\nexistence!\"\n\n\"Jesus set us free, sir,\" interposed Reverend Moore sternly. \"And his\nvicarious atonement opens the door of immortality to all who believe\non his name.\"\n\n\"But that freedom, Mr. Moore, you believe will be acquired only after\ndeath. I dispute that belief strenuously. But let us return to that\nlater. At present we see mankind laboring for that which even they\nthemselves admit is not meat. They waste their substance for what is\nnot bread. And why? Because of their false beliefs of God and man,\nexternalized in a viciously cruel social system; because of their\ndependence upon the false supports of _materia medica_, orthodox\ntheology, man-devised creeds, and human opinions. Is it not\ndemonstrably so?\n\n\"And yet, who hath believed our report? Who wants to? Alas! men in our\nday think and read little that is serious; and they reflect hardly at\nall upon the vital things of life. They want to be let alone in their\ncomfortable materialistic beliefs, even though those beliefs rend\nthem, rive them, rack and twist them with vile, loathsome disease, and\nthen sink them into hideous, worm-infested graves! The human mind does\nnot want its undemonstrable beliefs challenged. It does not want the\nlight of unbiased investigation thrown upon the views which it has\naccepted ready-made from doctor and theologian. Again, why? Because,\nmy friends, the human mind is inert, despite its seemingly tremendous\nmaterial activity. And its inertia is the result of its own\nself-mesmerism, its own servile submission to beliefs which, as\nBalfour has shown, have grown up under every kind of influence except\nthat of genuine evidence. Chief of these are the prevalent religious\nbeliefs, which we are asked to receive as divinely inspired.\"\n\nDoctor Morton glanced at Reverend Moore and grinned. But that\ngentleman sat stolid, with arms folded and a scowl upon his sharp\nfeatures.\n\n\"Religion,\" continued Hitt, \"is that which binds us to the real. Alas!\nwhat a farce mankind have made of it. And why? Because, in its mad\ndesire to make matter real and to extract all pleasures from it, the\nhuman mind has tried to eliminate the soul.\"\n\n\"We have been having a bad spell of materialism, that's true,\"\ninterposed Doctor Morton. \"But we are progressing, I hope.\"\n\n\"Well,\" Hitt replied, \"perhaps so. Yet almost in our own day France\nput God out of her institutions; set up and crowned a prostitute as\nthe goddess of reason; and trailed the Bible through the streets of\nParis, tied to the tail of an ass! What followed? Spiritual\ndestitution. And in this country we have enthroned so-called physical\nscience, and, as Comte predicted, are about to conduct God to the\nfrontier and bow Him out with thanks for His provisional services.\nWith what result? As our droll philosopher, Hubbard, has said, 'Once\nman was a spirit, now he is matter. Once he was a flame, now he is a\ncandlestick. Once he was a son of God, now he is a chemical formula.\nOnce he was an angel, now he is plain mud.'\"\n\n\"But,\" exclaimed Reverend Moore, visibly nettled, \"that is because of\nhis falling away from the Church--\"\n\n\"My friend,\" said Hitt calmly, \"he fell away from the Church because\nhe could not stagnate longer with her and be happy. Orthodox theology\nhas largely become mere sentimentalism. The average man has a horror\nof being considered a namby-pamby, religiously weak, wishy-washy,\nso-called Christian. It makes him ashamed of himself to stand up\nin a congregation and sing 'My Jesus, I love Thee,' and 'In\nmansions of glory and endless delight.' What does he know about\nJesus? And he is far more concerned about his little brick bungalow\nand next month's rent than he is about celestial mansions. And I don't\nblame him. No; he leaves religion to women, whom he regards as the\nweaker sex. He turns to the ephemeral wisdom of human science--and,\npoor fool! remains no wiser than before. And the women? Well, how\noften nowadays do you hear the name of God on their lips? Is He\ndiscussed in society? Is He ever the topic of conversation at\nreceptions and balls? No; that person was right who said that\nreligion 'does not rise to the height of successful gossip.' It\nstands no show with the latest cabaret dance, the slashed skirt,\nand the daringly salacious drama as a theme of discourse. Oh, yes,\nwe still maintain our innumerable churches. And, though religion is\nthe most vital thing in the world to us, we hire a preacher to talk\nto us once a week about it! Would we hire men to talk once a week to\nus about business? Hardly! But religion is far, far less important to\nhuman thought than business--for the latter means automobiles and\nincreased opportunities for physical sensation.\"\n\n\"Well, Mr. Hitt,\" objected Doctor Siler, \"I am sure this is not such a\ngodless era as you would make out.\"\n\n\"No,\" returned Hitt. \"We have many gods, chief of whom is matter. The\nworld's acknowledged god is not spirit, despite the inescapable fact\nthat the motive-power of the universe is spiritual, and the only\naction is the expression of thought.\n\n\"But now,\" he continued, \"we have in our previous discussions made\nsome startling deductions, and we came to the conclusion that there is\na First Cause, and that it is infinite mind. But, having agreed upon\nthat, are we now ready to admit the logical corollary, namely, that\nthere can be but _one_ real mind? For that follows from the premise\nthat there is but one God who is infinite.\"\n\n\"Then we do not have individual minds?\" queried Miss Wall.\n\n\"We have but the one mind, God,\" he replied. \"There are not minds\nmany. The real man reflects God. Human men reflect the communal mortal\nmind, which is the suppositional opposite of the divine mind that is\nGod. I repeat, the so-called human mind knows not God. It never sees\neven His manifestations. It sees only its own interpretations of Him\nand His manifestations. And these it sees as mental concepts. For all\nthings are mental. Could anything be plainer?\"\n\n\"Well, they might be,\" suggested Doctor Siler.\n\nHitt laughed. \"Well then,\" he said, \"if you will not admit that all\nthings are mental--including the entire universe--you certainly are\nforced to admit that your comprehension of things is mental.\"\n\n\"Agreed,\" returned the doctor.\n\n\"Then you will likewise have to admit that you are not concerned with\n_things_, but with your comprehension of things.\"\n\n\"H'm, well--yes.\"\n\n\"And so, after all, you deal only with mental things--and everything\nis mental to you.\"\n\n\"But--whence the human mind? Did God create it?\" continued Doctor\nSiler. \"Did He, Mr. Moore?\"\n\n\"The Bible states clearly that He created _all_ things,\" returned that\ngentleman a little stiffly.\n\n\"My friends,\" resumed Hitt very earnestly, \"we are on the eve of a\ntremendous enlightenment, I believe. And for that we owe much to the\nso-called 'theory of suppositional opposites.' We have settled to our\nsatisfaction that, although mankind believe themselves to be dependent\nupon air, food, and water for existence, nevertheless they are really\ndependent upon something vastly finer, which is back of those things.\nThat 'something' we call God, for it is good. Matthew Arnold said that\nthe only thing that can be verified about God is that He is 'the\neternal power that makes for righteousness.' Very well, we are almost\nwilling to accept that alone--for that carries infinite implications.\nIt makes God an eternal, spiritual power, omnipotent as an influence\nfor good. It makes Him the infinite patron, so to speak, of\nright-thinking. And we know that thought is creative. So it makes Him\nthe sole creative force.\n\n\"But,\" he continued, \"force, or power, is not material. God by very\nnecessity is mind, including all intelligence. And His operations are\nconducted according to the spiritual law of evolution. Oh, yes,\nevolution is not a theory, it is a fact. God, infinite mind, evolves,\nuncovers, reveals, unfolds, His numberless eternal ideas. These\nreflect and manifest Him. The greatest of these is the one that\nincludes all others and expresses and reflects Him perfectly. That we\ncall man. That is the man who was 'made'--revealed, manifested--in\nHis image and likeness. There is no other image and likeness of God.\nMoreover, God has always existed, and always will. So His ideas,\nincluding real man, have had no beginning. They were not created, as\nwe regard creation, but have been unfolded.\n\n\"All well and good, so far. But now we come to the peculiar part,\nnamely, the fact that _reality seems always to have its shadow in\nunreality_. Every positive seems to have a negative. The magnet has\nits opposite poles, one positive, the other negative. Jesus had his\nNero. Truth has its opposing falsities. At the lowest ebb of the\nworld's morals appeared the Christ. The Christian religion springs\nfrom the soil of a Roman Emperor's blood-soaked gardens. And so it\ngoes. Harmony opposed by discord. Errors hampering the solving of\nmathematical problems. Spirit opposed by matter. Which is real? That\nwhich stands the test of demonstration as to permanence, I say with\nSpencer.\n\n\"And now we learn that it is the _communal mortal mind_ that stands as\nthe opposite and negative of the infinite mind that is God, and that\nit is but a supposition, without basis of real principle or fact. It\nhas its law of evolution, too, and evolves its types in human beings\nand animals, in mountain, tree, and stream. All material nature, in\nfact, is but the manifestation, or reflection, of this communal mortal\nmind.\n\n\"But, though God had no beginning, and will have no ending, this\ncommunal mortal mind, on the contrary, did have a seeming beginning,\nand will end its pseudo-existence. It seemingly began as a mental\nmist. It seemingly evolved form and became active. It seemingly\nevolved its universe, and its earth as its lower stratum. It made its\nfirmament, and it gradually filled its seas with moving things that\nmanifested its idea of life. Slowly, throughout inconceivable eons of\ntime, it unrolled and evolved, until at last, through untold\ngenerations of stupid, sluggish, often revolting animal forms, it\nbegan to evolve a type of mind, a crude representation of the mind\nthat is God, and manifesting its own concept of intelligence. That\ntype was primitive man.\n\n\"Now what was this communal mortal mind doing? Counterfeiting divine\nmind, if I may so express it. Evolving crude imitative types. But\ntypes that were without basis of principle, and so they passed\naway--the higher forms died, the lower disintegrated. Aye, death came\ninto the world because of sin, for the definition of sin is the\nAramaic word which Jesus used, translated '_hamartio_,' which means\n'missing the mark.' The mortal mind missed the mark. And so its types\ndied. And so they still die to-day. Yes, sin came through Adam, for\nAdam is the name of the communal mortal mind.\n\n\"Well, ages and ages passed, reckoned in the human mind concept of\ntime. The evolution was continually toward a higher and ever higher\ntype. Why? The influence of divine mind was penetrating it.\nPaleolithic man still died, because he did not have enough real\nknowledge in his mortal mind to keep him from missing the mark. He\nprobably had no belief in a future life, for he did not bury his dead\nafter the manner of those who later manifested this belief. But, after\nthe lapse of centuries, Neolithic man was found manifesting such a\nbelief. What has happened? This: the mortal mind was translating the\ndivine idea of immortality into its own terms and thus expressing it.\n\n\"Ages rolled on. The curtain began to rise upon what we call human\nhistory. The idea of a power not itself began to filter through the\nmist of mortal mind, and human beings felt its influence, the\ninfluence that makes for righteousness. And then, at last, through the\nmortal mind there began to filter the idea of the one God. The people\nwho best reflected this idea were the ancient Israelites. They called\nthemselves the 'chosen' people. Their so-called minds were, as Carmen\nhas expressed it, like window-panes that were a little cleaner than\nthe others. They let a bit more of the light through. God is light,\nyou know, according to the Scriptures. And little by little they began\nto record their thoughts regarding their concept of the one God. These\nwritings became sacred to them. And soon they were seeing their God\nmanifested everywhere, and hearing His voice in every sound of Nature.\nAnd as they saw, they wrote. And thus began that strange and mighty\nbook, the Bible, _the record of the evolution of the concept of God in\nthe human mind_.\"\n\n\"Do you mean to say that the Bible was not given by inspiration?\"\ndemanded Reverend Moore.\n\n\"No,\" replied Hitt. \"This filtering process that I have been speaking\nabout _is_ inspiration. Every bit of truth that comes to you or me\nto-day comes by inspiration--the breathing in--of the infinite mind\nthat is truth.\n\n\"And so,\" he went on, \"we have those reflections of the communal\nmortal mind which we call the Israelites recording their thoughts and\nideas. Sometimes they recorded plain fact; sometimes they wrapped\ntheir moral teachings in allegories and fables. Josephus says of Moses\nthat he wrote some things enigmatically, some allegorically, and the\nrest in plain words, since in his account of the first chapter of\nGenesis and the first three verses of the second he gives no hint of\nany mystery at all. But when he comes to the fourth verse of the\nsecond chapter he says Moses, after the seventh day was over, began\nto talk philosophically, and so he understood the rest of the second\nand third chapters in some enigmatical and allegorical sense. Quite\nso, it appears to me, for the writer, whoever he was, was then\nattempting the impossible task of explaining the enigma of evil, the\norigin of which is associated always with the dust-man.\"\n\n\"You deny the truth of the account of the creation as given in the\nsecond chapter of Genesis, do you?\" asked Reverend Moore. \"You deny\nthat man was tempted and fell?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Hitt, smiling, \"of course there is no special reason for\ndenying that serpents may have talked, millions and millions of years\nago. In fact, they still have rudimentary organs of speech--as do most\nanimals. Perhaps they all talked at one time. Snakes developed in the\nSilurian Era, some twenty million years ago. In the vast intervening\nstretch of time they may have lost their power to talk. But, as for\nthe second chapter of Genesis, Moses may or may not have written it.\nIndeed, he may not have written the first. We do not know. The book of\nGenesis shows plainly that it is a composite of several books by\nvarious authors. I incline to the belief that some more materialistic\nhand and mind than Moses's composed that second chapter. However that\nmay be, it is a splendid example of the human mind's crude attempt to\ninterpret the spiritual creation in its own material terms. It in a\nway represents the dawning upon the human mind of the idea of the\nspiritual creation. For when finite sense approaches the infinite it\nmust inevitably run into difficulties with which it can not cope; it\nmust meet problems which it can not solve, owing to its lack of a\nknowledge of the infinite principle involved. That's why the world\nrejected the first account of the creation and accepted the second,\nsnake-story, dust-man, apple tree, and all.\"\n\n\"Hitt!\" exclaimed Haynerd, his eyes wide agape. \"You're like a\nstory-book! Go on!\"\n\n\"Wait!\" interrupted Miss Wall. \"We know that man appeared on this\nearth in comparatively recent times. For millions and millions of\nyears before he was evolved animals and vegetables had been dying. Now\nwas their death due to sin? If so, whose?\"\n\n\"Assuredly,\" returned Hitt. \"Your difficulty arises from the fact that\nwe are accustomed to associate sin with human personality. But\nremember, the physical universe has been evolved from the communal\nmortal mind. It represents 'negative truth.' It has been dying from\nthe very beginning of its seeming existence, for its seeming existence\nalone is sin. The vegetables, the animals, and now the men, that have\nbeen evolved from it, and that express it and reflect and manifest\nit, must die, necessarily, because the so-called mind from which they\nevolve is not based upon the eternal, immortal principle, God. And so\nit and they miss the mark, and always have done so. You must cease to\nsay, Whose sin? Remember that the sin is inherent in the so-called\nmind that is expressed by things material. The absence of the\nprinciple which is God is sin, according to the Aramaic word,\ntranslated '_hamartio_,' which Jesus used. The most lowly cell that\nswam in the primeval seas manifested the communal mortal mind's sin,\nand died as a consequence.\"\n\n\"In other words, it manifested a supposition, as opposed to truth?\"\n\n\"Its existence was quite suppositional,\" replied Hitt. \"It did not\nmanifest life, but a material sense of existence. The subjective\nalways determines the objective. And so the communal mortal mind,\nso-called, determined these first lowly material and objective forms\nof existence. They were its phenomena, and they manifested it.\nDifferent types now manifest it, after long ages. But all are equally\nwithout basis of principle, all are subject to the mortal law that\neverything material contains within itself the elements for its own\ndestruction, and all must pass away. In our day we are dealing with\nthe highest type of mortal mind so far evolved, the human man. He,\ntoo, knows but one life, human life, the mortal-mind sense of\nexistence. His human life is demonstrably only a series of states of\nmaterial consciousness, states of thought-activity. The classification\nand placing of these states of consciousness give him his sense of\ntime. The positing of his mental concepts give him his sense of space.\nHis consciousness is a thought-activity, externalizing human opinions,\nideas, and beliefs, not based on truth. This consciousness--or\nsupposititious human mind--is very finite in nature, and so is\nessentially self-centered. It attributes its fleshly existence to\nmaterial things. It believes that its life depends upon its fleshly\nbody; and so it thinks itself in constant peril of losing it. It goes\nfurther, and believes that there are multitudes of other human minds,\neach having its own human, fleshly existence, or life, and each\ncapable of doing it and one another mortal injury. It believes that it\ncan be deprived by its neighboring mortal minds of all that it needs\nfor its sustenance, and that it can improve its own status at their\nexpense, and vice versa. It is filled with fears--not knowing that God\nis infinite good--and its fears become externalized as disaster, loss,\ncalamity, disease, and death at last. Perhaps its chief characteristic\nis mutability. It has no basis of principle to rest upon, and so it\nconstantly shifts and changes to accord with its own shifting thought.\nThere is nothing certain about it. It is here to-day, and gone\nto-morrow.\"\n\n\"Pretty dismal state of affairs!\" Haynerd was heard to mutter.\n\n\"Well, Ned,\" said Hitt, \"there is this hope: human consciousness\nalways refers its states to something. And that 'something' is real.\nIt is infinite mind, God, and its infinite manifestation. The human\nmind still translates or interprets God's greatest idea, Man, as 'a\nsuffering, sinning, troubled creature,' forgetting that this creature\nis only a mental concept, and that the human mind is looking only at\nits own thoughts, and that these thoughts are counterfeits of God's\nreal thoughts.\n\n\"Moreover, though the human mind is finite, and can not even begin to\ngrasp the infinite, the divine mind has penetrated the mist of error.\nThere is a spark of real reflection in every mortal. That spark can be\nmade to grow into a flame that will consume all error and leave the\nreal man revealed, a consciousness that knows no evil. There is now\nenough of a spark of intelligence in the human, so-called mind to\nenable it to lay hold on truth and grow out of itself. And there is no\nexcuse for not doing so, as Jesus said. If he had not come we wouldn't\nhave known that we were missing the mark so terribly.\"\n\n\"Well,\" observed Haynerd, \"after that classification I don't see that\nwe mortals have much to be puffed up about!\"\n\n\"All human beings, or mortals, Ned,\" said Hitt, \"are interpretations\nby the mortal mind of infinite mind's idea of itself, Man. These\ninterpretations are made in the human mind, and they remain posited\nthere. They differ from one another only in degree. All are false,\nand doomed to decay. How, then, can one mortal look down with\nsuperciliousness upon another, when all are in the same identical\nclass?\"\n\nCarmen's thoughts rested for a moment upon the meaningless existence\nof Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, who had anchored her life in the shifting\nsands of the flesh and its ephemeral joys.\n\n\"Now,\" resumed Hitt, \"we will come back to the question of progress.\nWhat is progress but the growing of the human mind out of itself under\nthe influence of the divine stimulus of demonstrable truth? And that\nis made possible when we grasp the stupendous fact that the human,\nmortal mind, including its man, is absolutely unreal and non-existent!\nThe human man changes rapidly in mind, and, consequently, in its lower\nstratum, or expression, the body. For that reason he need not carry\nover into to-day the old, false beliefs which were manifested by him\nyesterday. If he leaves them in the past, they cease to be manifested\nin his present or future. Thus he outgrows himself. Then, opening\nhimself to truth, he lays off the 'old man' and puts on the 'new.' He\ndenies himself--denies that there is any truth in the seeming reality\nof the mortal, material self--as Jesus bade us do.\"\n\n\"He must make new thoughts, then?\" said Miss Wall.\n\n\"No,\" replied Hitt. \"Thought is not manufactured. God is eternal mind.\nHis ideas and the thoughts regarding them must always have existed.\nHis thoughts are infinite in number. He, as mind, is an inexhaustible\nreservoir of thought. Now the human, mortal mind interprets His\nthoughts, and so _seems_ to manufacture new thought. It makes new\ninterpretations, but not new thoughts. When you hear people chatting,\ndo you think they are manufacturing new thought? Not a bit of it! They\nare but reflecting, or voicing, the communal so-called mortal mind's\ninterpretations of God's innumerable and real thoughts.\"\n\n\"And so,\" suggested Father Waite, \"the more nearly correct our\ninterpretations of His thoughts are, the nearer we approach to\nrighteousness.\"\n\n\"Just so,\" returned Hitt. \"There exist all sorts of real thoughts\nabout God's ideas. And these are good and eternal. But the human mind\nmakes likewise all sorts of erroneous translations of them. We shall\nsolve our problem of existence when we correctly interpret His\nthoughts, and use them only. When the human mentality becomes attuned\nor accustomed to certain thoughts, that kind flow into it readily from\nthe communal mortal mind. Some people think for years along certain\nerroneous or criminal lines. Their minds are set in that direction,\nand invite such a flow of thought. But were they to reverse the 'set,'\nthere would be a very different and better resulting externalization\nin health, prosperity, and morals.\"\n\n\"I think I see,\" said Miss Wall. \"And I begin to glimpse the true\nmission of Jesus, and why he was ready to give up everything for it.\"\n\n\"Yes. And now a word further about the so-called mortal mind. For,\nwhen we have collected and arranged all our data regarding it, we will\nfind ourselves in a position to begin to work out of it, and thereby\ntruly work out our salvation, even if with fear and trembling. I have\nsaid in a previous talk that, judging by the deductions of the\nphysical scientists, everything seems about to leave the material\nbasis and turn into vibrations, and 'man changes with velocity' of\nthese. They tell us that all life depends upon water; that life began,\neons ago, in the primeval sea. True, the human sense of existence, as\nI have said, began in the dark, primeval sea of mist, the deep and\nfluid mortal mind, so-called. And that sense of existence most\ncertainly is dependent upon the fluid of mortal mind. Bich\u00e2t has said\nthat 'life is the sum of the forces that resist death.' Spencer has\ndefined life as the 'continuous adjustment of internal to external\nrelations.' Very good, as applied to the human sense of life. The\nhuman mind makes multitudes of mental concepts, and then struggles\nincessantly to adjust itself to them, and at length gives up the\nstruggle, hopelessly beaten. Scientists tell us that life is due to a\ncontinuous series of bodily ferments. The body is in a constant state\nof ferment, and that gives rise to life. Good! We know that the human\nmind is in a state of incessant ferment. The human mind is a\nself-centered mass of writhing, seething, fermenting material thought.\nAnd that fermentation is outwardly manifested in its concept of body,\nand its material environment. The scientists themselves are rapidly\npushing matter back into the realm of the human mind. Bodily states\nare becoming recognized as manifestations of mental states--not vice\nversa, as has been ignorantly believed for ages. A prominent physician\ntold me the other day that many a condition of nervous prostration now\ncould be directly traced to selfishness. We know that hatred and anger\nproduce fatal poisons. The rattlesnake is a splendid example of that.\nI am told that its poison and the white of an egg are formed of\n_exactly the same amounts of the same elements_. The difference in\neffect is the thought lying back of each.\"\n\n\"Well!\" exclaimed Doctor Siler. \"You don't pretend that the snake\nthinks and hates--\"\n\n\"Doctor,\" said Hitt, \"for thousands upon thousands of years the human\nrace has been directing hatred and fear-thoughts toward the snake. Is\nit any wonder that the snake is now poisonous? That it now reflects\nback that poisonous thought to mankind?\"\n\n\"But some are not poisonous, you know.\"\n\n\"Can we say how long they have not been so, or how soon our hatred\nwill make them all poisonous? Do you know, moreover, that sorrow,\nremorse, all emotions, in fact, affect the perspiration that exudes\nfrom the human body? Do you know that hatred will render human\nperspiration the deadliest poison known to science? I am told that\nin a few minutes of murderous hatred enough of this poisonous\nperspiration is exuded from the human body to kill a man. And do\nyou know that the thought which manifests upon the body in such\ndeadly poison is just as deadly when sent into the mentality of a\nhuman being? Think what the Church's deadly hatred of so-called\nheretics has done in the last nineteen hundred years! Why, millions\nhave been killed by it alone! And in the name of Christ!\n\n\"But now,\" he said, consulting his watch, \"I must go. Even a newspaper\nman requires a little sleep. And I must make my apology for occupying\nthe floor to-night to the exclusion of you all. I have gradually been\nfilling up with these thoughts for some weeks, and I had to let them\nout. Besides--\"\n\n\"Mr. Hitt,\" interrupted Father Waite, \"I shall soon be ready to report\non those questions of Bible research which you assigned to me.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes,\" replied Hitt. \"Well, have you found that Jesus really was\nan historical character, or not?\"\n\n\"I think,\" said Carmen, \"that he has found that it really matters\nlittle whether there ever was such a person as the human man Jesus.\nThe Christ has always lived; and the Christ-principle which the man\nJesus is reported to have revealed to the world is with us, here, now,\nand always. It is the principle, rather than the man Jesus, that\nconcerns us, is it not?\"\n\n\"Miss Carmen,\" interposed Reverend Moore, \"Jesus was the incarnate Son\nof God, and your remarks concerning him are--\"\n\n\"Slow up, Pat!\" interrupted Doctor Morton. \"I'll fight that out with\nyou on the way home. Come, the meeting's adjourned.\"\n\n\"We will take up that question in our next discussion,\" said Hitt.\n\"But, wait; Carmen must give us just a short song before we part.\"\n\nThe girl went immediately to the piano. As she passed Hitt, she\nsqueezed his hand. A few minutes later the little group dispersed,\nwith the melody of the girl's voice trembling in their souls.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 8\n\n\nFor several days Ames reflected, and waited. Judging by the data which\nhe was able to secure, the Express was eating up money at a fearful\npace. To continue at that rate meant certain financial disaster in the\nnear future. And yet the publishers of the rejuvenated sheet seemed\nnever to count the cost of their experiment. Already they had begun\nthe introduction of innovations that were startling and even\nmirth-provoking to staid, conservative publishers in the journalistic\nfield. To survive the long period necessary for the education of the\npublic taste to such things as the Express stood for demanded a source\nof income no less permanent than La Libertad itself. But at this\nthought Ames chuckled aloud.\n\nThen an idea occurred to him. The Beaubien, of course, in her\ncrippled financial condition was affording the Express no monetary\nassistance. Carmen had nothing. Haynerd's few thousands were long\nsince dissipated. Hitt's income was measured. But--ah, Miss Wall! And\nher estate was handled by Ames and Company! And handled, we may add,\nin such a manner that Miss Wall knew naught regarding it, except that\nshe might draw upon it as one dips water from a hillside spring.\n\nThus Ames reflected. And as he meditated upon the new paper and its\npromoters, there gradually formed within him a consuming desire to see\nagain the fair young girl who had drawn him so strongly, despite his\nmountainous wrath and his flaming desire to crush her when she boldly\nfaced him in his own house on the night of his grand reception. Why\nhad he let her escape him then? He had been a fool! True, women had\nmeant little to him, at least in the last few years. But this girl had\nseemed to stir within him new emotions, or those long slumbering. He\nknew not, coarsely materialistic as was his current thought, that in\nhim, as in all who came within the radius of her pure affection, she\nhad swept chords whose music he had never heard before.\n\nDays passed, while Ames still mused. And then one morning he took down\nthe receiver and called up the office of the Express.\n\nNo, Mr. Hitt was not there--but this was his assistant. And:\n\n\"You didn't want to see Mr. Hitt, did you? You wanted to see me. Well,\nyou may come over.\"\n\nAmes nearly dropped the receiver in his astonishment. In the first\nplace, the girl had read his thought; and in the second, he was not\naccustomed to being told that he might go to see people--they came\ncringing to him.\n\n\"You may come at twelve-fifteen,\" continued the clear, firm voice.\n\"And remain a half hour; I'm very busy.\"\n\nAmes put down the instrument and looked about, thankful that no one\nwas there to comment on his embarrassment. Then he leaned back in his\nchair and went slowly over in thought the experiences of that eventful\nnight in his house. Why, this slip of a girl--a half-breed Indian at\nbest--this mere baby--! But he glanced up at the great electric wall\nclock, and wished it were then twelve-fifteen.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nAt noon Ames, jauntily swinging his light walking stick, strolled\ncasually into the office of the Express. His air was one of supreme\nconfidence in his own powers. He was superhuman, and he knew it. And\nthe knowledge rendered him unafraid of God, man, or beast. He had met\nand conquered everything mundane, excepting this young girl. But that\nthought was now delightful to him. In her he had unearthed a real\nnovelty, a ceaseless interest. She reminded him of a beautiful kitten.\nShe scratched and nettled him; but she was as nothing in his grasp.\n\nThe first thing that impressed him on entering the office was the air\nof prosperity which hung over the place. The environment, he mentally\ncommented, was somewhat unusual for a newspaper plant. Order, quiet,\nand cleanliness were dominant notes in the prevailing harmony. He\nfirst walked back into the pressroom to see if the same conditions\nprevailed there. Then he retraced his steps, and at length came to a\nhalt before a door bearing the inscription, \"Miss Ariza,\" on the\nglass. Turning the knob, he peered curiously in.\n\nThe room was small, but light and airy. Its furnishings were new, and\nits walls had been freshly tinted. A few pictures of good quality hung\nabout them. A handsome rug lay upon the floor. At the desk, bending\nover a new typewriter, sat Carmen.\n\n\"I beg pardon,\" said Ames, hesitating in the doorway.\n\nThe girl glanced up quickly. \"Oh, come in,\" she said. \"I was expecting\nyou.\"\n\nHe entered and took the chair indicated. \"You don't mind if I finish\nthis article, do you?\" she said, bending again to her work. \"It's got\nto go to the compositors right away.\"\n\n\"Certainly--don't stop,\" replied Ames easily. \"When we talk I want\nyour undivided attention.\"\n\n\"Oh, you're sure to get it,\" she returned, laughing. And Ames wondered\njust what she meant.\n\nHe sat back in his chair and watched her closely. How wondrous fair\nshe was! Yet, there was just a slight tint in her skin, he thought.\nPerhaps the report that she was a mulatto was not wholly unfounded,\nalthough the strain must have been greatly mixed. How simply she was\ndressed. He remembered her in her beautiful ball gown. He thought he\npreferred this. How rapidly her fingers sped over the keys. And what\nfingers! What a hand! He wanted to bend over and take it in his own.\nThen he suddenly remembered what the Beaubien had once told him--that\nshe always seemed to be a better woman in this girl's presence.\nBut--what changes had come since then! Could he go on persecuting the\nharassed woman? But he wouldn't, if--\n\n\"There!\" said the girl, with what seemed to be a little sigh of\nrelief. She pressed a button, and handed the typewritten sheets to the\nboy who responded. Then, turning to Ames:\n\n\"You've come to apologize, haven't you? But you needn't. I'm not a bit\noffended. I couldn't be, you know.\"\n\nApologize! Well, he certainly had not had any such intention when he\ncame in. In fact, he knew not just why he was there.\n\n\"You see, Congressman Wales didn't vote for the unaltered schedule.\nAnd so everything's all right, isn't it?\" she went on lightly.\n\nAmes's face darkened. \"No vote has been taken,\" he said, a dull anger\nrising within him.\n\n\"Oh, you are mistaken,\" replied the girl. \"The bill was voted out of\ncommittee an hour ago. That's what I was writing up. Here's the wire,\nshowing the alterations made. Mr. Wales voted for them.\"\n\nAmes read the message, and handed it back. Beyond the clouding of his\nfeatures he gave no indication of his feelings.\n\n\"So, you see,\" continued the girl, \"that incident is closed--for all\ntime, isn't it?\"\n\nHe did not reply for some moments. Then:\n\n\"Rather odd, isn't it?\" he commented, turning quite away from that\nsubject, and glancing about, \"that one with the high ideals you\nprofess should be doing newspaper work.\"\n\n\"Just the contrary,\" she quickly returned. \"There is nothing so\npractical as the ideal, for the ideal is the only reality.\"\n\n\"Well, just what, may I ask, are you trying to do here?\" he\ncontinued.\n\n\"Run a newspaper on a basis of _practical_ Christianity,\" she\nanswered, her eyes dancing. \"Just as all business will have to be\nconducted some day.\"\n\nHe leaned back and laughed.\n\n\"It is funny, isn't it?\" she said, \"to the carnal mind.\"\n\nThe laughter abruptly ceased, and he looked keenly at her. But there\nwas no trace of malice in her fair face as she steadily returned the\nlook.\n\n\"Has it paid yet?\" he asked in a bantering tone.\n\n\"Splendidly!\" she exclaimed.\n\n\"H'm! Well, I'll wager you won't get a dollar back on your investment\nfor years.\"\n\n\"A dollar! No, nor perhaps a penny! We are not measuring our profits\nin money!\"\n\n\"And your investment--let's see,\" he mused, trying to draw her out.\n\"You've put into this thing a couple of hundred thousand, eh?\"\n\nShe smiled. \"I'll tell you,\" she said, \"because money is the only\nmeasure you have for estimating the worth of our project. Mr. Hitt has\nput more than that amount already into the Express.\"\n\n\"Well! well! Quite a little for you people to lose, eh?\"\n\n\"You will have to change your tone if you remain here, Mr. Ames,\" she\nanswered quietly. \"We talk only prosperity in this office.\"\n\n\"Prosperity! In the face of overwhelming debts! That's good!\" he\nlaughed.\n\nShe looked at him closely for a moment. \"Debts?\" she said in a low\nvoice. \"_You_ speak of debts? You who owe your fellow-men what you can\nnever, never repay? Why, Mr. Ames, there is no man in this whole wide\nworld, I think, who is so terribly, hopelessly in debt as you!\"\n\n\"I? My dear girl! Why, I don't owe a dollar to any man!\"\n\n\"No?\" she queried, bending a little closer to him. \"You do not owe\nMadam Beaubien the money you are daily filching from her? You do not\nowe poor Mr. Gannette the money and freedom of which you robbed him?\nYou do not owe anything to the thousands of miners and mill hands who\nhave given, and still give, their lives for you? You do not owe for\nthe life which you took from Mrs. Hawley-Crowles? You do not owe for\nthe souls which you have debauched in your black career? For the human\nwreckage which lies strewn in your wake? You do not owe Mr. Haynerd\nfor the Social Era which you stole from him?\"\n\nAmes remained rigid and quiet while the girl spoke. And when she had\nfinished, and they sat looking squarely into each other's eyes, the\nsilence was like that which comes between the sharp click of lightning\nand the crash of thunder which follows. If it had been a man who thus\naddressed him, Ames would have hurled him to the floor and trampled\nhim. As it was, he rose slowly, like a black storm-cloud mounting\nabove the horizon, and stood over the girl.\n\nShe looked up into his face dauntlessly and smiled. \"Sit down,\" she\nquietly said. \"I've only begun. Don't threaten, please,\" she\ncontinued. \"It wouldn't do any good, for I am not a bit afraid of you.\nSit down.\"\n\nA faint smile began to play about Ames's mouth. Then he twitched his\nshoulders slightly. \"I--I got up,\" he said, with an assumption of\nnonchalance, \"to--to read that--ah, that motto over there on the\nwall.\" He went slowly to it and, stooping, read aloud:\n\n               \"Lift up the weak, and cheer the strong,\n               Defend the truth, combat the wrong!\n               You'll find no scepter like the pen\n               To hold and sway the hearts of men.\"\n\n\"That was written by your Eugene Field,\" offered the girl. \"Now read\nthe one on the opposite side. It is your _Tekel Upharsin_.\"\n\nHe went to the one she indicated, and read the spiritual admonition\nfrom Bryant:\n\n          \"Leave the vain, low strife\n          That makes men mad--the tug for wealth and power--\n          The passions and the cares that wither life,\n          And waste its little hour.\"\n\n\"Now,\" continued the girl, \"that is only a suggestion to you of the\nreal handwriting on the wall. I put it there purposely, knowing that\nsome day you would come in here and read it.\"\n\nAmes turned and looked at her in dumb wonder, as if she were some\nuncanny creature, possessed of occult powers. Then the significance of\nher words trickled through the portals of his thought.\n\n\"You mean, I suppose,\" he said, \"that if I am not persuaded by the\nsecond motto I shall feel the force of the first, as it sways you,\neh?\"\n\n\"I mean, Mr. Ames,\" she replied steadily, \"that the world is entering\nupon a new era of thought, and that your carnal views and methods\nbelong to a day that is past. This century has no place for them; it\nwearies of the things you represent; you are the epitome of that evil\nwhich must have its little hour of night before the reality dawns.\"\n\nHe regarded her intently for some moments. \"Am I to understand,\" he\nasked, \"that the Express, under its new management, is about to turn\nmuck-raker, and shovel mud at us men of wealth?\"\n\n\"We are not considering the Express now, Mr. Ames,\" she replied. \"It\nis I alone who am warning you.\"\n\n\"Do Hitt and Haynerd bring against me the charges which you voiced a\nmoment ago? And do you intend to make the columns of your paper spicy\nwith your comments on my character and methods? I verily believe you\nare declaring war!\"\n\n\"We are in the business of declaring truth, Mr. Ames,\" she said\ngently. \"The Express serves all people. It will not shield you when\nyou are the willing tool of evil, nor will it condone your methods at\nany price.\"\n\n\"War, eh? Very well,\" he replied with a bantering smile. \"I came over\nhere this noon to get the policy of your paper. I accept your\nchallenge.\"\n\n\"Our challenge, Mr. Ames,\" she returned, \"is the challenge which evil\nalways finds in good. It is perpetual.\"\n\n\"Fine!\" he exclaimed. \"I like a good enemy, and an honest one. All\nright, marshal your forces. Who's your general, Hitt or Haynerd?\"\n\n\"God,\" she answered simply.\n\nFor an instant the man was taken back. Then he recovered himself, and\nlaughed.\n\n\"Do you know,\" he said, bending close to her, \"I admire you _very_\nmuch. You are a splendid little fighter. Now let's see if we can't get\ntogether on terms of peace. The world hasn't used you right, and I\ndon't blame you for being at odds with it. I've wanted to talk with\nyou about this for some time. The pin-headed society hens got jealous\nand tried to kill you. But, if you'll just say the word, I'll set you\nright up on the very pinnacle of social prestige here. I'll take you\nby the hand and lead you down through the whole crowd of 'em, and\nknock 'em over right and left! I'll make you the leading woman of the\ncity; I'll back the Express; we'll make it the biggest newspaper in\nthe country; I'll make you and your friends rich and powerful; I'll\nput you in the place that is rightfully yours, eh? Will you let me?\"\n\nHe was bending ever nearer, and his hand closed over hers when he\nconcluded. His eyes were looking eagerly into her face, and a smile,\nwinning, enticing, full of meaning, played about his lips. His voice\nhad dropped to a whisper.\n\nCarmen returned his smile, but withdrew her hand. \"I'll join you,\" she\nsaid, \"on one condition.\"\n\n\"Name it!\" he eagerly cried.\n\n\"That you obey me.\"\n\n\"Well--and what does that mean?\"\n\n\"Go; sell that thou hast; and give to the poor. Then come, take up the\ncross, and follow--my leader.\"\n\nHe straightened up, and a sneer curled his lips. \"I suppose,\" he\ncoarsely insinuated, \"that you think you now have material for an\nilluminating essay on my conversation.\"\n\n\"No,\" she said gently. \"It is too dark to be illuminating.\"\n\nThe man's facial muscles twitched slightly under the sting, but he\nretained his outward composure. \"My dear girl,\" he said, \"it probably\nhas not occurred to you that the world regards the Express as utterly\nwithout excuse for existence. It says, and truly, that a wishy-washy\nsheet such as it, with its devitalized, strained, and bolted reports\nof the world's vivid happenings, deserves to go under from sheer lack\nof interest. The experiment has been tried before, and has signally\nfailed. Money alone can keep your paper alive. But, say the word,\nand--\"\n\n\"And your money, as well as your business ideals, will be ours?\" she\nconcluded for him.\n\nHe smiled and nodded.\n\n\"Mr. Ames,\" she said, \"you have no ideals. No man who amasses millions\nby taking advantage of the world's inhuman and pernicious social\nsystem can have ideals worthy of the name. To apply your methods, your\nthought, to the Express would result in sinking its moral tone into\nthe dust. As for your money--\"\n\n\"Commit suicide, then!\" cried the man, yielding to his rising anger.\n\"Let the Express go down, carrying you and your spineless associates\nwith it! But, remember, you will be the sole cause of its ruin, and\ntheirs!\"\n\nCarmen rose quietly and opened the office door. \"Your half hour is up,\nMr. Ames,\" she said, glancing at the little clock on her desk; \"and I\nmust return to my work.\"\n\nFor a moment the huge man stood looking down darkling upon the girl.\nHe would have given his soul if he could have clasped that slender\nform in his arms! A sudden impulse assailed him, and bade him fall\nupon his knees before her, and ask her forgiveness and guidance. She\nstood waiting--perhaps just for that, and always with that same smile\ninto which no one had ever yet read aught but limitless love.\n\nThe telephone bell rang sharply. Carmen hastened to answer the call.\n\n\"Oh, yes, Mr. Hitt. Yes--yes--the cotton schedule was reported out\nquite changed--yes, an hour ago!\"\n\nWhen she looked up, she was alone.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Dearie,\" said the Beaubien at evening, as Carmen seated herself in\nthat woman's lap and wound her arms about her neck, \"I am afraid for\nyou.\"\n\n\"Well, mother dearest,\" replied the girl, giving her a tighter\nsqueeze, \"that is a sheer waste of time. If you haven't anything more\nto occupy you than fear, you'd better come down to the office, and\nI'll set you to work.\"\n\n\"But--you have defied him--as he says, declared war--\"\n\n\"No, dearest, not that. It is the carnal mind, using him as a channel,\nthat has declared war against good. But evil is not power; nor has it\nbeen given power by God. My one thought is this: Am I doing that which\nwill result in the greatest good to the greatest number? Am I loving\nmy neighbor as myself? Serving as I would be served? Not as evil would\nwant to be served, but as good. If my mental attitude is right, then\nGod's law becomes operative in all that I do, and I am protected.\nDon't you see?\"\n\n\"I know, dearie, but--there's the telephone! Oh, I do hope they don't\nwant you!\"\n\nCarmen answered the call, and returned with the announcement that\nHaynerd was in distress. \"Sidney Ames is--not there,\" she said. \"He\nwas to report a meeting. Mr. Haynerd wanted Lewis. Now don't worry,\ndearest; I--I won't go alone.\"\n\nThe girl had taken her coat and hat. A moment later she gave the\nBeaubien a kiss, and hurried out into the night. In half an hour she\nstood at Haynerd's desk.\n\n\"What are we going to do?\" moaned that perturbed individual. \"Here I\nam, tied down, depending on Sid, and he's drunk!\"\n\n\"Well, I'm here. What's the assignment?\"\n\nHaynerd looked up at her, and hesitated. \"Mass meeting, over on the\nEast Side. Here's the address,\" taking up a slip of paper. \"Open\nmeeting, I'm told; but I suspect it's an I. W. W. affair. Hello!\" he\nsaid, replying to a telephone call. \"What's that? The Ames mills at\nAvon closed down this afternoon? What's reason? Oh, all right. Call me\nin an hour.\"\n\nHe hung up the receiver and turned to Carmen. \"That's what this\nmeeting is about,\" he said significantly. \"Four thousand hands\nsuddenly thrown out at the Avon mills. Dead of winter, too!\"\n\nSidney Ames slouched into the editor's office and sank heavily into a\nchair. Haynerd gave a despairing gesture. \"Look here,\" he said, in\nsudden desperation, \"that fellow's got to be sobered up, now! Or\nelse--\"\n\nAnother call came, this time from the Beaubien. Father Waite had just\ncome in. Could he take the assignment? Haynerd eagerly gave the\naddress over the 'phone, and bade him start at once.\n\n\"Now,\" he said, nodding at Carmen, and jerking his thumb over his\nshoulder toward the intoxicated reporter, \"it's up to you.\"\n\nCarmen rose at once and went to the lad. \"Come, Sidney,\" she said,\ntaking his hand.\n\nThe boy roused dully, and shuffled stupidly after the girl into her\nown little office.\n\nCarmen switched on the lights and closed the door. Then she went to\nthe limp, emaciated form crumpled up in a chair, and sat down beside\nit.\n\n\"Sidney,\" she said, taking his hand, \"there is but one habit--the\nhabit of righteousness. That is the habit that you are going to wear\nnow.\"\n\nOutside, the typewriters clicked, the telephones tinkled, and the\nlinotypes snapped. There were quick orders; men came and went\nhurriedly; but there was no noise, no confusion. Haynerd toiled like a\nbeaver; but his whole heart was in his work. He had found his niche.\nCarmen's little room voiced the sole discordant note that night. And\nas the girl sat there, holding the damp hand of the poor victim, she\nthanked her God that the lad's true individuality was His pure\nthought of him.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nAt dawn Sidney Ames awoke. A rosy-tinted glow lay over the little\nroom, and the quiet form at his side seemed an ethereal presence. A\ngentle pressure from the hand that still clasped his brought a return\nof his earthly sense, and he roused up.\n\n\"Miss Carmen! You--?\"\n\n\"Yes, Sidney.\" The gentle voice sounded to him like distant music.\n\n\"I--you--you brought me in here last night--but--\" His hands closed\nabout the little one that lay in his grasp. \"You--haven't sat\nhere--with me--all night?\"\n\n\"Yes, Sidney, all night.\"\n\nWith a low moan the boy buried his face in her arms, and burst into a\nflood of bitter tears.\n\n\"It isn't real, Sidney,\" she whispered, twining an arm about his neck.\n\"It isn't real.\"\n\nFor some moments the lad sobbed out his shame and misery. Carmen\nstroked his fair hair, and drew him closer to her, while tears of love\nand pity coursed down her own cheeks.\n\nThen, suddenly, the boy started up. \"Don't touch me!\" he cried,\nstruggling to his feet, while his eyes shone with a wild light.\n\nHe started for the door, but Carmen darted past him and stood with her\nback against it, facing him. \"Stop, Sidney!\" she cried, holding her\nhands against him. \"It can't drive you! It is powerless! _God reigns\nhere!_\"\n\nShe turned the lock as he hesitated; then took his arm and led him,\ntrembling and shivering, back to his chair.\n\n\"We are going to meet this, Sidney, you and I,\" she whispered, bending\nover the shaking form.\n\nThe suffering lad shook his head and buried his face in his hands.\n\"You can't,\" he moaned; \"you can't--I'm _gone!_\" His voice died into a\ntremble of hopeless despair, of utter surrender.\n\nCarmen bit her lip. She had faced many trying situations in her brief\nlife-experience; but, though she met it with dauntless courage and\nknew its source, the insidious suggestion now persisted that the eyes\nof her people were upon her, and that by this would stand or fall\ntheir faith. Aye, the world was watching her now, keen-eyed and\ncritical. Would she give it cause to say she could not prove her faith\nby her works?\n\nAnd then came the divine message that bade her \"Know that I am\nGod!\"--that bade her know that responsibility lay not upon her\nshoulders, but upon the Christ for whom she was now called to\nwitness. To see, or permit the world to see, this mountainous error,\nthis heaped-up evil, as real and having power, meant a denial of the\nChrist and utter defeat. It meant a weary retracing of her own steps,\nand a long night of spiritual darkness to those whose eyes had been\nupon her.\n\n\"Sidney,\" she said, turning to the sunken boy at her side, \"you are\nright, the old man _is_ gone. And now we are going to create 'new\nheavens and a new earth, and the former shall not be remembered nor\ncome into mind'--as thought. Underneath are the everlasting arms, and\nyou have sunk down, down, down, until at last you rest upon them, and\nyou find that you haven't sunk at all, and that you couldn't possibly\nget away from that infinite Love that is always drawing you to\nitself!\"\n\nShe put her arm again about the lad, and drew him toward her. \"Listen,\nSidney dear, I am standing with you--and with me is omnipotent God!\nHis arm is not shortened, that it can not save you from the pit of\nspiritual oblivion into which human thought would seem to make you\nthink you had fallen, engulfed by the senses.\"\n\nThe boy raised his head and looked at her through his bloodshot eyes.\n\"You don't know!\" he whispered hoarsely; \"you don't understand--\"\n\n\"It is just because I _do_ understand, Sidney, that I am able to help\nyou,\" she interrupted quickly. \"I understand it all.\"\n\n\"It--it isn't only whiskey--it's--\" his head sank again--\"it's--morphine!\nAnd--God! it's got me!\"\n\n\"It's got the false thought that seems to call itself 'you,'\" she\nsaid. \"Well, let it have it! They belong together. Let them go. We'll\ncling to them no longer, but shake them off for good. For good, I\nsaid, Sidney--and that means, for _God_!\"\n\n\"God?\" he echoed. \"I know no God! If there were a God, I shouldn't be\nwhere I am now.\"\n\n\"Then I will know it for you,\" she softly answered. \"And you are now\nright where you belong, in Him. And His love is about you.\"\n\n\"Love!\" He laughed bitterly. \"Love! I never knew what it meant. My\nparents didn't teach it to their children. And when I tried to learn,\nmy father kicked me into the street!\"\n\n\"Then, Sidney, I'll teach you. For I am in the world just to show what\nlove will do.\"\n\n\"My father--it's his fault--all his fault!\" cried the boy, flaring up\nand struggling to rise. \"God! I hate him--hate him! It's his fault\nthat I'm a sot and a drug fiend!\"\n\n\"It is hate, Sidney, that manifests in slavery, in sodden brains, and\nshaking nerves. You don't hate your father; the hate is against your\nthought of him; and that thought is all wrong. We're going to correct\nit.\"\n\n\"I used to drink--some, when I lived at home,\" the boy went on, still\ndwelling on the thoughts that held him chained. \"But he could have\nsaved me. And then I fell in love--I thought it was love, but it\nwasn't. The woman was--she was years older than I. When she left the\ncity, I followed her. And when I found out what she was, and came back\nhome, my father threw me out--cut me off--God!\"\n\n\"Never mind, Sidney,\" the girl whispered. \"It isn't true anyway.\" But\nshe realized that the boy must voice the thoughts that were tearing\nhis very soul, and she suffered him, for it uncovered to her the\nhidden sources of his awful malady.\n\n\"And then I drank, drank, drank!\" he moaned. \"And I lay in the\ngutters, and in brothels, and--then, one day, Carlson told me to come\nand work for him. He thought I could straighten up. And so I went to a\ndoctor, and he--God curse him!--he injected morphine into my arm to\nsober me. And that taught me that I could drink all I wanted to, and\nsober up on morphine. But then I learned--I found--\"\n\nHe stopped, and began to fumble in his pockets. His eyes became wilder\nas he searched.\n\n\"Where is it?\" he cried, turning fiercely upon the girl. \"Did you take\nit from me? Give it to me--_quick_!\" He caught her wrist and twisted\nit painfully. His voice became a scream.\n\n_\"God is everywhere!\"_ flashed through the girl's thought. \"I am not\nafraid to see evil seem to have power!\" Then aloud: \"I know what you\nare searching for, Sidney. Yes, I have it. Listen, and I will give it\nto you. You are searching for help. No, it isn't in morphine tablets.\nIt is in love--right here--the Christ-principle, that is bigger far\nthan the demons that seem to tear you! I have _all_ power from God,\nand you, evil, _can not touch me_!\"\n\nThe boy started at the ringing voice, and loosened his grasp. Then he\nsank back into his chair, shaking as with palsy.\n\n\"Sidney!\" she cried, seizing his hand. \"Rise, and stand with me! We\ndon't have to struggle--we don't have to fight--we only have to\n_know_. All that you are wrestling with is the world-wide belief that\nthere is a power apart from God! _There is none!_ Any claim that there\nis such a power is a lie! I have proved it! You and I will prove it\nagain! There is no power or intelligence in whiskey or morphine! I\nhave been sent to help you! The Christ-principle will save you! There\nis nothing beyond its reach, not even your problem!\n\n\"It is a problem, that's all, Sidney,\" she went on, as he became\ncalmer. \"And I have the solution. Will you put yourself in my charge,\nin my care, and let me meet it for you?\" She bent over him and looked\neagerly into his drawn face.\n\n\"We are not going to fight,\" she continued. \"We are not going to\nresist evil as the world does, and so make it real. I know, dear, just\nhow pressing your need is. I know, and I understand. I know how\nawfully real it seems to you. But trust me, as I trust the Christ. For\n_victory is inevitable_!\"\n\nFor a few moments they sat together, hand in hand. The boy seemed to\nhave been stunned. Then Carmen rose. \"Come,\" she said. \"I am going to\ntake you home with me. I am going to keep you right with me, right\nunder my thought. I'm going to be the mirror, constantly with you,\nthat reflects infinite love to you every moment. Come; your problem is\nmine now. The burden of proof rests upon me. Don't think of anything\nelse now, excepting that God has your hand and is leading you.\"\n\nShe took his arm and drew him, unresisting, yet uncomprehending, to\nthe door. As she opened it, she looked up into his face and smiled.\nThe boy choked, and turned back.\n\n\"No!\" she cried, shifting her grasp to his hand. \"No; you are mine\nnow! And I shall not turn you over to yourself again until the problem\nis solved!\"\n\nHitt met them as they came out of the room. \"Well,\" he said, \"I've\nkept Madam Beaubien informed as well as I could. But she's been\nworried. Where are you going?\"\n\n\"Home,\" she said simply. \"We'll be back at three--perhaps.\"\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nBut at three that afternoon the Beaubien telephoned to Hitt that\nCarmen would not be down.\n\n\"She will not leave the boy,\" the woman said. \"She holds him--I don't\nknow how. And I know he is trying desperately to help her. But--I\nnever saw any one stand as she does! Lewis is here, but he doesn't\ninterfere. We're going to put a bed in his room, and Sidney will sleep\nthere. Yes, I'll keep you informed. Tell Ned, won't you?\"\n\nHaynerd stormed; but the tempest was all on the surface. \"I know, I\nknow,\" he said, in reply to Hitt's explanation. \"That boy's life is\nmore to her than a million newspapers, or anything else in the\nuniverse just at present. She'll win! The devil can't look her in the\nface! I--I wish I were--What are you standing there for? Go 'long and\nget to work!\"\n\nIn the little Beaubien cottage that afternoon the angry waves of human\nfear, of human craving, of hatred, wrath, and utter misery mounted\nheaven-high, and fell again. Upon them walked the Christ. As the\nnight-shadows gathered, Sidney Ames, racked and exhausted, fell into a\ndeep sleep. Then Carmen left his bedside and went into the little\nparlor, where sat the Beaubien and Father Waite.\n\n\"Here,\" she said, handing a hypodermic needle and a vial of tablets to\nthe latter. \"He didn't use them. And now,\" she continued, \"you must\nwork with me, and stand--firm! Sidney's enemies are those of his own\nmental household. It is our task to drive them out. We have got to\nuproot from his consciousness the thought that alcohol and drugs are a\npower. Hatred and self-condemnation, as well as self-love, voiced in a\nsense of injury, are other mental enemies that have got to be driven\nout, too. There is absolutely _no_ human help! It is all mental, every\nbit of it! You have got to know that, and stand with me. We are going\nto prove the Christ-principle omnipotent with respect to these seeming\nthings.\n\n\"But,\" she added, after a moment's pause, \"you must not watch this\nerror so closely that it can't get away. Don't watch it at all! For if\nyou do, you make a reality of it--and then, well--\"\n\n\"The case is in your hands, Carmen,\" said Father Waite gently. \"We\nknow that Jesus would cure this boy instantly, if he were here--\"\n\n\"Well--the Christ _is_ here!\" cried the girl, turning upon him. \"Put\naway your 'ifs' and 'buts.' Stand, and _know_!\"\n\nThe man bowed before the rebuke. \"And these,\" he said, holding out the\nneedle and vial, \"shall we have further use for them?\"\n\n\"It will be given us what we are to do and say,\" she returned. \"The\ncase rests now with God.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 9\n\n\nFour weeks from that crisp morning when Carmen led the bewildered,\nstupified lad to her home, she and Sidney sat out upon the little\nporch of the cottage, drinking in the glories of the winter sun.\nJanuary was but half spent, and the lad and girl were making the most\nof the sudden thaw before the colder weather which had been predicted\nmight be upon them.\n\nWhat these intervening weeks had been to Carmen, none might have\nguessed as she sat there with the sunlight filtering in streamlets of\ngold through her brown hair. But their meaning to the boy might have\nbeen read with ease in the thin, white face, turned so constantly\ntoward his fair companion. They were deeply, legibly written there,\nthose black nights, when he would dash out into the hall, determined\nto break through the windows of the nearest dram shop and drink,\ndrink, drink, until the red liquor burst from his eyes, his mouth, his\nnostrils! Those ghastly nights, when Carmen would stand before him,\nher arms outspread across the door, and beat back the roaring devils\nwithin him! Those long days of agonized desire for the vicious drug\nwhich had sapped his manhood! Those fell hours, when low curses poured\nfrom his burning lips upon her and upon all mankind! Those cold,\nfreezing sweats, and the dry, cracking fever! Those hours when, with\nCarmen always by his side, he tramped mile after mile through drifts\nand ice, until he dropped at length from sheer exhaustion, only to\nawake, hours later, to find that the girl had brought him home, safe,\nunharmed!--\n\nAnd then, oh, the \"Peace, be still!\" which he began to hear, faint at\nfirst, but growing in volume, until, at last, it became a mighty,\nthunderous command, before which the demons paled and slunk away,\nnever to return! Oh, the tears of agony that had given way to tears of\njoy, of thanksgiving! Oh, the weakness that had been his strength!\nAnd, oh, the devotion of this fair girl--aye, and of her associates,\ntoo--but all through her! Had she proved her God before the eyes of\nthe world? That she had! Day after day, clad in the impenetrable armor\nof her love, she had stood at this struggling lad's side, meeting the\narrows of death with her shield of truth! Night after night she had\nsat by his couch, her hand crushed in his desperate grasp, flouting\nthe terror that stalked before his delirious gaze! What work she had\ndone in those long weeks, none would ever know; but the boy himself\nknew that he had emerged from the valley of the shadow of death with a\nnew mind, and that she had walked with him all the dark, cloud-hung\nway.\n\nAs they sat there in the bright sunlight that morning, their thought\nwas busy with the boy's future. Old plans, old ambitions, had seemed\nto lift with the lifting of the mortal curse which had rested upon\nhim, and upward through the ashes of the past a tender flower of hope\nwas pushing its way. He was now in a new world. The last tie which\nbound him to his family had been severed by his own father two weeks\nbefore, when the shadow of death fell athwart his mother's brilliant\npath. Mrs. J. Wilton Ames, delicate in health when recalled from\nabroad, and still suffering from the fatigue of the deadly social\nwarfare which had preceded her sudden flight from her husband's\nconsuming wrath, had failed to rally from the indisposition which\nseized her on the night of the grand Ames reception. For days she\nslowly faded, and then went quickly down under a sharp, withering\nattack of pneumonia. A few brief weeks after the formal opening of the\nAmes palace its mistress had sighed away her blasted hopes, her vain\ndesires, her petty schemes of human conquest and revenge, and had gone\nto face anew her problems on another plane of mortal thought. It was\nrumored by the servants that, in her last hours, when she heard the\nrustle of the death angel's wings beside her, a great terror had\nstricken her, and she had called wildly for that son whom she had\nnever cared to know. It was whispered that she had begged of her\nhusband to seek the lad and lead him home; that she had pleaded with\nhim to strive, with the boy, to find the better things of life; that\nshe had begged him to warn and be warned of her present sufferings, as\nshe lay there, stripped of every earthly aid, impoverished in heart,\nin soul, in mind, with her hands dusty and begrimed with the ashes of\nthis life's mocking spoils. How true these rumors, none might say.\nWhat truth lay hidden in her mad ravings about the parentage of\nCarmen, and her confused, muttered references to Monsignor Lafelle, no\none knew. But of those who stood about her bedside there was none who\ncould gainsay the awed whisperings of the servants that this haughty\nleader of the great city's aristocracy had passed from this life into\nthe darkness beyond in pitiable misery and terror.\n\nThe news of his mother's death had come at a time when the boy was\nwild with delirium, at an hour when Waite, and Hitt, and Carmen stood\nwith him in his room and strove to close their ears against the\nshrieking of the demon that was tearing him. Hitt at once called up\nWillett, and asked for instructions. A few minutes later came the\nmessage that the Ames house was forever barred against the wayward\nson. And it was not until this bright winter morning, when the lad\nagain sat clothed and in his right mind, that Carmen had gently broken\nthe news to him.\n\n\"I never knew her,\" the boy had said at length, rousing from his\nmeditations. \"Few of the rich people's children know their parents. I\nwas brought up by nurses and tutors. I never knew what it was to put\nmy arms around my mother, and kiss her. I used to long to, at times.\nAnd often I would plan to surprise her by suddenly running into her\narms and embracing her. But then, when I would see her, she was always\nso far away, so cold, so beautifully dressed. And she seldom spoke to\nme, or to Kathleen, until we were grown up. And by that time I was\nrunning wild. And then--then--\"\n\n\"There!\" admonished Carmen, reaching over and taking his hand. \"That's\nin our little private cemetery, you know. The old error is dead, and\nwe are not going to dig it up and rehearse it, are we?\"\n\nHe smiled wanly. \"I'm like a little baby,\" he said sadly. \"I'm just\nbeginning to live. And you are my mother, the only one I've ever\nknown.\"\n\nCarmen laughed merrily. \"Let me be your sister,\" she said. \"We are so\nnear of an age, you know.\"\n\nHe raised her hand to his lips. \"You are my angel,\" he murmured. \"My\nbright, beautiful angel. What would I have been without you!\"\n\n\"Now, Sidney!\" she warned, holding up a finger. \"What have I told you\nso often that Jesus said? 'Of mine own self I can do nothing.' Nor can\nI, Sidney dear. It was--\" her voice sank to a whisper--\"it was the\nChrist-principle. It worked through him as a channel; and it worked\nthrough me.\"\n\n\"You're going to teach me all about that,\" he said, again pressing her\nhand to his lips. \"You won't cast me adrift yet, will you, little\nsister?\"\n\n\"Cast you adrift! Never, Sidney dear! Why, you're still mine, you\nknow! I haven't given you back to yourself yet, have I? But now let's\ntalk about your work. If you want to write, you are going to, and you\nare going to write _right_.\"\n\n\"And you, Carmen?\" he asked, wondering.\n\n\"Back to the Express,\" she said lightly. \"I haven't written a word for\nit now for a month. And how dear, funny old Ned has scolded!\"\n\n\"You--you dropped everything--your work--all--for a poor, worthless\nhulk like me,\" he sighed. \"I--I can't understand it. You didn't know\nme, hardly.\"\n\n\"Sidney dear,\" the girl replied. \"It wasn't for you. It was for God.\nEverything I do is '_as unto Him_.' I would have done the same for\nanybody, whether I knew the person or not. I saw, not you, but the\nhuman need--oh, such a need! And the Christ-principle made me a human\nchannel for meeting it, that is all. Drop my work, and my own\ninterests! Why, Sidney, what is anything compared with meeting human\nneeds? Didn't Jesus drop everything and hurry out to meet the sick and\nthe suffering? Was money-making, or society, or personal desire, or\nworldly pleasure anything to him when he saw a need? You don't seem to\nunderstand that this is what I am here for--to show what love will\ndo.\"\n\n\"No,\" he murmured. \"I--I guess I know only the world's idea of love.\"\n\n\"And that is love's counterfeit, self-love, sentimentalism,\nsex-mesmerism, and all that,\" she added. \"But now, back to your work\nagain. You're going to write, write, write! My, but the world is\nhungry for _real_ literature! Your yearning to meet that need is a\nsign of your ability to do it. But, remember, everything that comes to\nyou comes from within. You are, in fact, a miner; and your mine is\nyour mind; and that is unlimited, for God is the only mind, infinite\nand omnipresent. Now you are going to mine that mind.\n\n\"Listen,\" she went on hurriedly. \"Don't be afraid to be afraid. We\nnever fear a real thing; we fear only our false thoughts of things.\nAlways those thoughts are absolutely wrong, and we wake up and find\nthat we were fearing only fear-thoughts themselves. Haven't you ever\nnoticed it? Now destroy the chains of fear which limit your thought,\nand God will issue!\n\n\"Well,\" without waiting for his reply, \"now you have reached that\nplane of thought where you don't really care for what the world has to\noffer you. You have ceased to want to be rich, or famous. You are not\nafraid to be obscure and poor. You have learned, at least in part,\nthat the real business of this life lies in seeking good, in\nmanifesting and expressing it in every walk, and in reflecting it\nconstantly to your fellow-men. Having learned that, you are ready to\nlive. Remember, there is no luck, no such thing as chance. The cause\nof everything that can possibly come to you lies within yourself. It\nis a function of your thought. The thought that you allow to enter\nyour mentality and become active there, later becomes externalized.\nBe, oh, so careful, then, about your thought, and the basis upon which\nit rests! For, in your writing, you have no right to inflict false\nthought upon your credulous fellow-mortals.\"\n\n\"But,\" he replied, \"we are told that in literature we must deal with\nhuman realities, and with things as they are. The human mind exists,\nand has to be dealt with.\"\n\n\"The human mind does not exist, Sidney, except as supposition. There\nare no human realities. The world still awaits the one who will show\nit things as they _really_ are. Human realities, so-called, are the\nhorrible, ghastly unrealities of carnal thought, without any basis of\nthe divine Christ-principle. I know, we are told that the great books\nof the world are those which preserve and interpret its life. Alas! is\nit true greatness to detail, over and over again in endless recital,\nthe carnal motives of the human mind, its passions and errors, its\nawful mesmerism, its final doom? Yes, perhaps, on one condition: that,\nlike a true critic, you picture human concepts only to show their\nunreality, their nothingness, and to show how they may be overcome.\"\n\n\"But most books--\"\n\n\"Ah, yes, most books are written only to amuse the dispirited human\nmind for a brief hour, to make it forget for a moment its troubles.\nThey are literary narcotics; they are sops to jaded appetites, that's\nall. A book, for example, that pictures an injured man discovering a\ngreat treasure, and then using it to carry out his schemes of\nrevenge--well, what influence for good has such a work? It is only a\nstimulus to evil, Sidney. But had it shown him using that great wealth\nto bless his persecutors and turn them from their mesmerism to real\nlife and good--\"\n\n\"Such things don't happen in this world, Carmen.\"\n\n\"But they could, and should, Sidney dear. And they will, some day.\nThen will come the new literature, the literature of _good_! And it\nwill make people think, rather than relieve them from the ennui of\nsolid thought, as our present novels do. The intellectual palate then\nwill find only insipidity in such books as pour from our presses now.\nThe ability to converse glibly about authors who wallow in human\nunrealities will then no longer be considered the hall-mark of\nculture. Culture in that day will be conformity to truth.\"\n\nThe lad smiled at the enthusiastic girl. \"Little sister,\" he said,\n\"you are a beautiful idealist.\"\n\n\"But,\" came her quick reply, \"are you not a living illustration of the\npracticability of my idealism, Sidney?\"\n\nThe boy choked, and tears filled his eyes. Carmen stole an arm about\nhim. \"The most practical man who ever lived, Sidney dear, was Jesus.\nAnd he was the greatest idealist. He had ideas that differed very\nradically from other people's, but he did not hide them for fear of\ngiving offense. He was not afraid to shock people with the truth about\nthemselves. He tore down, yes; but he then reconstructed, and on a\nfoundation of demonstrable truth. He was not afraid to defy the\nRabbis, the learned, and the puffed-up. He did not bow abjectly before\nthe mandarins and pedagogues. Had he done so, and given the people\nwhat they wanted and were accustomed to, they would have made him a\nking--and his mission would have been a dead failure!\"\n\n\"And for that they slew him,\" returned the boy.\n\n\"It is the cowardly fear of slaughter, Sidney, that keeps people from\ncoming out and standing for what they know to be right to-day. You are\nnot one of those cravens.\"\n\n\"But the people who do that, Carmen, are called demagogues and\nmuck-rakers!\"\n\nShe laughed. \"And the muck-rakers, Sidney, have made a sorry mess,\nhaven't they? They destroy without ruth, but seldom, if ever, put\nforth a sane suggestion for the betterment of conditions. They traffic\nin sensationalism, carping criticism, and abuse. 'To find fault,' said\nDemosthenes, 'is easy, and in every man's power; but to point out the\nproper remedy is the proof of a wise counselor.' The remedy which I\npoint out, Sidney, is the Christ-principle; and all I ask is that\nmankind seek to demonstrate it, even as Jesus bade us do. He was a\nsuccess, Sidney, the greatest success the world has ever known. And\nwhy? Because he followed ideals with utter loyalty--because he voiced\ntruth without fear--because he made his business the service of\nhumanity. He took his work seriously, not for money, not for human\npreferment, but for mankind. And his work bears the stamp of\neternity.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid--\" he began.\n\n\"You're _not_ afraid, Sidney!\" the girl quickly interrupted. \"Oh, why\ndoes the human mind always look for and expect that which it does not\nwant to see come or happen!\"\n\nThe boy laughed heartily at the quick sally of her delightfully\nquotidian thought. \"You didn't let me finish,\" he said. \"I was going\nto say that I'm afraid if I write and speak only of spiritual things I\nshall not be understood by the world, nor even given a hearing.\"\n\n\"Well, don't use that word 'afraid.' My! how the human mind clings to\neverything, even words, that express its chief bogy, fear.\"\n\n\"All right; I accept the rebuke. But, my question?\"\n\n\"That was the case with Jesus. And yet, has anything, written or\nspoken, ever endured as his spiritual teachings? The present-day novel\nor work of fiction is as fleeting as the human thought it attempts to\ncrystallize. Of the millions of books published, a handful endure.\nThose are they which illustrate the triumph of good over evil in human\nthought. And the greatest of such books is the Bible.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm hunting for a subject now.\"\n\n\"Don't hunt. Wait--and _know_! The subject will then choose you. It\nwill pelt you. It will drive you to the task of transcribing it. Just\nas one is now driving me. Sidney--perhaps I can give you the subject!\nPerhaps I am the channel for this, too!\"\n\nHe looked at her inquisitively. \"Well,\" bending over closer to her,\n\"what is it, little sister?\"\n\nThe girl looked out over the dripping shrubs and the soft snow. But\nher thought was not there. She saw a man, a priest, she knew not\nwhere, but delving, plodding, digging for the truth which the human\nmind has buried under centuries and centuries of material _d\u00e9bris_.\nShe saw him, patiently bearing his man-made burden, striving to shield\na tender, abandoned girl, and to transfer to her his own great worldly\nknowledge, but without its dross. She saw the mighty sacrifice, when\nthe man tore her from himself, and thrust her out beyond the awful\ndanger in which he dwelt. She understood now. The years had taught her\nmuch. It was love--aye, the love that alone makes men great, the love\nthat lays down human life in self-immolating service.\n\nShe turned to the waiting lad. \"You will write it, Sidney? I will tell\nyou the whole beautiful story. It is an illustration of the way love\nworks through human channels. And perhaps--perhaps, some day, the book\nmay reach him--yes, some day. And it will tell him--oh, Sidney, it\nwill tell him that I know, and that I love him, love him, love him!\"\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn the office of the manager of the Express three heads were close\ntogether that morning, and three faces bore outward evidence of the\nserious thought within.\n\n\"Miss Wall tells me, Ned,\" Hitt was saying, \"that her father used to\nbe associated with Ames, and that, at his demise, he left his estate,\nbadly entangled, for Ames to settle. Now it transpires that Ames has\nbeen cunning enough to permit Miss Wall to draw upon his bank almost\nwithout limit, he making up any deficit with his own personal notes.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" commented Haynerd. \"I think I see the shadow of his fine hand!\"\n\n\"And now,\" resumed Hitt, \"she is given to understand that Ames has\nbeen obliged by the bank examiner to withdraw his personal notes as\nsecurity for her deficits, and that the revenue from her estate must\nbe allowed to accrue to the benefit of the Ames bank until such time\nas all obligations are met.\"\n\n\"Beautiful!\" ejaculated Haynerd. \"In other words, Elizabeth is simply\ncut off!\"\n\n\"Just so. And now, another thing: Madam Beaubien's lawyer called on\nher to-day, and informed her that Hood had gone into court and secured\nan injunction, tying up all revenue from her estate until it can be\nunraveled. That cuts off her income, likewise.\"\n\nHaynerd whistled. \"The hound!\" he ejaculated. \"Ames is out to do up\nthe Express, eh?\"\n\n\"There is no doubt of it, Ned,\" returned Hitt seriously. \"And to\nutterly ruin all connected with it.\"\n\n\"Then, by God, we'll fight him to the last ditch!\" cried the excited\nHaynerd.\n\n\"I think you forget, Ned, that we have a lady with us,\" nodding toward\nMiss Wall, \"and that you are seriously trying to reform, for Carmen's\nsake.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon, Elizabeth,\" said Haynerd meekly. \"I really am\ntrying to be decent, you know. But when I think of Ames it's like a\nred rag to a bull!\"\n\nMiss Wall laughed. \"Never mind, Ned. I admire your fighting spirit.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" Hitt continued, \"oil still flows from our paternal wells.\nBut in order to raise money at once I shall be obliged either to sell\nmy oil holdings or mortgage them. They have got to take care of us all\nnow, including Madam Beaubien.\"\n\n\"Where's Carmen?\" asked Haynerd suddenly.\n\n\"Home, with Sidney. There's another anomaly: while Ames is trying to\nruin us, that girl is saving his son. Great world, isn't it?\"\n\n\"It's a hell of a world!\" cried Haynerd. \"I--I beg your pardon,\nElizabeth. The fact is, either you or I will have to retire from this\nmeeting, for I'm getting mad. I--I may say things yet!\"\n\n\"Say anything you want to, Ned. I like to hear your sulphurous\nlanguage to-day. It helps to express my own feelings,\" replied the\nwoman.\n\n\"The circulation of the Express,\" Hitt went on, \"is entirely\nartificial. Our expense is tremendous, and our revenue slight. And\nstill Carmen insists on branching out and putting into practical form\nher big ideas. Limitation is a word that is not in her vocabulary!\"\n\n\"Hitt, can't we fight Ames with his own fire? What about that Wales\naffair?\"\n\n\"Ames is very cunning,\" answered Hitt. \"When he learned that the\ncotton schedule had been altered in the Ways and Means Committee, he\npromptly closed down his Avon mills. That was to scare Congress. Then\nhe resumed, but on half time. That was a plea of distress. I presume\nhe will later return to full time, but with a reduced scale of wages.\nHe's trying to coerce Congress. Now how does he intend to do it? This\nway: he will force a strike at Avon--a February strike--four thousand\nhands out in the cold. Meantime, he'll influence every other spinner\nin the country to do likewise. They'll all follow his lead. Now, can\nCongress stand up against that sort of argument? And, besides, he will\ngrease the palms of a large number of our dignified statesmen, you may\nbe sure!\"\n\n\"Mr. Hitt,\" said Miss Wall, \"I suggest that you send Carmen to Avon at\nonce. I know of no one who can get to the bottom of things as she can.\nLet her collect the facts regarding the situation down there, and\nthen--\"\n\n\"Send her first to Washington!\" interrupted Haynerd. \"Have her hang\naround the lobbies of the Capitol for a while, and meet a lot of those\nold sap-heads. What information she won't succeed in worming out of\nthem isn't in 'em, that's all!\"\n\n\"But,\" objected Hitt, \"if she knew that we would use her information\nfor a personal attack upon Ames, she'd leave us.\"\n\n\"There's no objection to her getting the facts, anyway, is there?\"\ndemanded Haynerd, waxing hot again.\n\n\"N--no, I suppose not. But that will take additional money. Very well,\nI'll do it. I'll put a mortgage on my Ohio holdings at once.\"\n\n\"I don't think I would be afraid,\" suggested Miss Wall. \"We might not\nuse the information Carmen may collect in Avon or Washington, but\nsomething, I am sure, is bound to come out of it. Something always\ncomes out of what she does. She's the greatest asset the Express has.\nWe must use her.\"\n\n\"All well and good,\" put in Haynerd. \"And yet, if she finds anybody\ndown there who needs help, even the President himself, she'll throw\nthe Express to the winds, just as she did in Sidney's case. You can't\nbank on her!\"\n\n\"No, that's true, Ned, for while we preach she's off somewhere\npracticing. We evolve great truths, and she applies and demonstrates\nthem. But she has saved Sidney--her Christ did it through her. And she\nhas given the lad to us, a future valuable man.\"\n\n\"Sure--if we are to _have_ any future,\" growled Ned.\n\n\"See here,\" retorted Hitt, brindling, \"have we in our numerous\ngatherings at Madam Beaubien's spoken truth or nonsense? If you\nbelieve our report, then accept and apply it. Now who's to go to Avon\nwith Carmen?\"\n\n\"Sidney,\" suggested Miss Wall.\n\n\"Sid?\" exclaimed Haynerd. \"Huh! Why, if those Magyars down there\ndiscovered he was Ames's son, they'd eat him alive!\"\n\nThe telephone rang. Hitt answered the call. Then, turning to his\ncompanions:\n\n\"Waite says he wants a meeting to-night. He'd like to report on his\nresearch work. Guess we'd better call it. I'll inform Morton. No\ntelling when we may get together again, if the girl--\" He became\nsuddenly silent, and sat some time looking vacantly out through the\nwindow.\n\n\"She goes to Avon to-morrow,\" he abruptly announced, \"alone.\" His\nthought had been dwelling on that 'something not ourselves' which he\nknew was shielding and sustaining the girl.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 10\n\n\n\"We have now arrived at a subject whose interest and significance for\nus are incalculable,\" said Father Waite, standing before the little\ngroup which had assembled in their usual meeting place in the first\nhours of the morning, for only at that time could Hitt and Haynerd\nleave the Express. \"We have met to discuss briefly the meaning of that\nmarvelous record of a whole nation's search for God, the Bible. As\nhave been men's changing concepts of that 'something not ourselves\nthat makes for righteousness,' so have been individuals, tribes, and\nnations. The Bible records the development of these concepts in\nIsrael's thought; it records the unquenchable longings of that people\nfor truth; it records their prophetic vision, their sacred songs,\ntheir philosophy, their dreams, and their aspirations. To most of us\nthe Bible has long been a work of profound mystery, cryptical,\nundecipherable. And largely, I now believe, because we were wont to\napproach it with the bias of preconceived theories of literal, even\nverbal, inspiration, and because we could not read into it the record\nof Israel's changing idea of God, from a wrathful, consuming Lord of\nhuman caprice and passions, to the infinite Father of love, whom Jesus\nrevealed as the Christ-principle, which worked through him and through\nall who are gaining the true spiritual concept, as is this girl who\nsits here on my right with the lad whom you have seen rescued by the\nChrist from the pit of hell.\"\n\nHis voice choked when he referred to Carmen and Sidney. But he quickly\nstifled his emotion, and went on:\n\n\"In our last meeting Mr. Hitt clearly showed us how the so-called\nhuman mind has seemed to develop as the suppositional opposite of the\nmind that is God; and how through countless ages of human reckoning\nthat pseudo-mind has been revealing its various types, until at\nlength, rising ever higher in the scale of being, it revealed its\nhuman man as a mentality whose consciousness is the suppositional\nactivity of false thought, and which builds, incessantly, mental\nconcepts out of this kind of thought and posits them within itself as\nmaterial objects, as its own body, its universe, its all. And he\nshowed us how, little by little, that human mind's interpretations of\nthe infinite mind's true ideas became better, under the divine\ninfiltration of truth, until at last there developed a type, now known\nto us as the Jewish nation, which caught a clearer glimpse of truth,\nand became conscious of that 'something not ourselves' which makes\nfor right-thinking, and consequent correct mental concepts and\nexternalizations. This, then, was the starting point of our religion.\nThese first glimpses of truth, and their interpretations, as set forth\nin the writings of the early Jewish nation, constitute the nucleus of\nour Bible.\n\n\"But were these records exact statements of truth? Not always. The\nprimitive human mind could only lisp its wonderful glimpses of truth\nin legend and myth. And so in fable and allegory the early Israelites\nsought to show the power of good over evil, and thereby stimulate a\ndesire for right conduct, based, of course, on right-thinking. And\nthus it is that the most significant thing in their sacred records is\ntheir many, many stories of the triumph of the spiritual over the\nmaterial.\n\n\"Time passed. The Hebrew nation waxed prosperous. Their right-thinking\nbecame externalized outwardly in material abundance and physical\ncomfort. But the people's understanding was not sufficiently great to\nshield them from the temptation which material wealth and power always\nconstitute. Their vision gradually became obscured. The mist of\nmaterialism spread over it. Those wonderful flashes of truth ceased to\ndart across their mental horizon. Their god became a magnified concept\nof the human man, who dickered with them over the construction of his\ntemples, and who, by covenants, bribes, and promises, induced them to\nbehave themselves. Prophecy died. And at length the beautiful vision\nfaded quite away.\n\n\"Then followed four hundred human years, during which the vicissitudes\nof the Hebrew nation were many and dark. But during those long\ncenturies there developed that world wonder, a whole nation's united\nlonging for a deliverer! The prophets promised a great change in their\nfallen fortunes. Expectation grew keen. Desire expanded into yearning.\nTheir God would not forsake them. Was not His grace sufficient? Though\ntheir concept of Him had grossly degenerated, yet the deliverer would\ncome, he _must_!\n\n\"And he did. In the depths of their night--in the midst of the\nheaviest darkness that ever lay over the world--there arose a great\nlight. Through the densest ignorance of the human mind filtered the\nChrist-principle, and was set forth by the channel through which it\ncame, the man Jesus.\n\n\"What had happened? Had there been a conference among God, the Son,\nand the Holy Ghost, to debate the sending of salvation to mankind, as\nrecorded by the poet Milton? Alas! what a crude, materialistic\nconception. Had God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten\nSon? But God _is_ Love, infinite, unchanging. And His unique Son, the\nChrist-principle, available to all mankind, was 'before Abraham.' Had\na great, dimly perceived principle been demonstrated, namely, that,\nif we yearn long and earnestly for the right, it comes? Had the Jewish\nnation 'demonstrated' the Christ? Had their centuries of looking and\nexpecting resulted in a saviour being manifested to them? It was a\nperiod in the unfolding of human thought when civilization had reached\nits lowest depths. Morality had evaporated to the dregs. Rome was\nbecome the world's harlot. A few years more, and Nero would drag his\nvulpine immorality across the stage. Paganism was virtue in comparison\nwith the lust of men in that dark hour. And yet, in the very midst of\nit, appeared the most venerated, the most beloved man in all history,\nbearing the Christ-message like a flaming torch!\n\n\"'Always our being is descending into us,' said Emerson. But our true\nbeing can be none other than infinite mind's idea of itself. Our true\nindividuality must be the way that mind regards us. And thus it was\nthat Israel's true being descended, filtering in through the thick\nmists of error. That true being was the deliverer, _par excellence_,\nfor it was the message of truth that bade men deny themselves, their\ncarnal selves, and know but the one God, infinite mind. That was the\ngrace sufficient for them, that would have solved their problems, that\nwould have enabled them to lay off the 'old man' and his woes and\nafflictions, and put on the 'new man,' divine mind's image. But the\ncarnal mind sought a material kingdom. It wanted, not spirit, but\nmatter. It cruelly rejected the message-bearer, and sought to kill his\nmessage by slaying him on the cross. And thereby the Jewish nation\nrent itself asunder, and sank into carnal oblivion. Ah, how they have\nbeen cursed by the crucifixion of Jesus!\n\n\"Men ask to-day: Did Jesus really live? Or is he a mythical character,\nlike the gods of pagan Rome? Let us ask, in making our reply, how\ntruth comes to mankind? Is it not always through some human channel?\nThen the great sayings attributed to Jesus at least came from a human\nbeing. Let us go further: it is the common history of mankind that\ntruth comes to the human mind only after a period of preparation. Not\nconscious preparation, necessarily, but, rather, a preparation forced\nby events. The truth of a mathematical principle can not come to me\nunless I am prepared to receive it. And the greatest good comes to men\nonly after they have learned the nothingness of the material ambitions\nand aims which they have been pursuing. By its own rottenness the\nworld had been made fallow for truth. The awfulness of its own\nexposure in its rampant, unlicensed revels, had shown as never before\nthe human mind's absolute nothingness--its nothingness as regards real\nvalue, permanence, and genuine good--in that first century of our\nso-called Christian era. And when the nothingness of the carnal mind\nwas made plain, men saw the reality of the truth, as revealed in the\nChrist, back of it all. The divine message was whispered to a human\nmentality. And that mentality expanded under the God-influence, until\nat last it gave to the sin-weary world the Christ-principle of\nsalvation. Let us call that human mentality, for convenience, the man\nJesus.\n\n\"And now, was he born of a virgin? Impossible! And yet--let us see. It\nwas common enough in his day for virgins to pretend to be with child\nby the Holy Ghost; and so we do not criticise those who refuse to\naccept the dogma of the virgin birth. But a little reflection in the\nlight of what we have been discussing throws a wonderful illumination\nupon the question. If matter and material modes are real, then we must\nat once relegate the stories of the virgin birth, the miracles, the\nresurrection, and the ascension to the realm of myth. If the so-called\nlaws of matter are real, irrefragable laws, then we indulgently, pass\nby these stories as figments of heated imaginations. But, regarding\nmatter as a human, mortal concept, entirely mental, and wholly subject\nto the impress and influence of mind, and knowing, as we do now, that\n_mental concepts change with changed thought_, we are forced to look\nwith more favor upon these questions which for centuries caused men to\nshed their fellows' blood.\n\n\"Mr. Hitt pointed out in our last meeting that mortal beings are\ninterpretations in mortal or human mind of the infinite mind, God, and\nits ideas. The most perfect human interpretation of God's greatest\nidea, Man, was Christ Jesus. The _real_ selfhood of every one of us is\nGod's idea of us. It is spiritual, mental. The world calls it the\n'soul,' the 'divine essence,' and the 'immortal spark.' The Christ was\nthe real, spiritual selfhood of the man Jesus. So the Christ is the\nreal selfhood of each of us. It is not born of the flesh. It is not\nconceived and brought forth in conformity with human modes. Now was\nthis great fact externalized in the immaculate conception and birth?\nIt does not grow and decay and pass away in death. It is the 'unique'\nSon of God which is back of each one of us. But the world has seen it\nonly once in its fullness, and then through the man Jesus.\n\n\"Something happened in that first century of the so-called Christian\nera--something of tremendous significance. What was it? It was the\nbirth of the Christ-idea into the human consciousness. Was the\nChrist-idea virgin-born? Aye, that it was, for God, infinite Mind,\nalone was its origin and parent. The speculation which has turned\nabout that wonderful first century event has dealt with the human\nchannel through which the Christ-idea flowed to mankind. But let us\nsee what light our deductions throw even upon that.\n\n\"Referring all things to the realm of the mental, where we now\nknow they belong, we see that man never fell, but that Israel's idea\nof God and man did fall, woefully. We see that the Christ-principle\nappeared among men; we see that to-day it works marvels; we must\nadmit that throughout the ages before Jesus it had done so; we\nknow now that the great things which Israel is recorded to have\ndone were accomplished by the Christ-principle working through\nmen, and that when their vision became obscured they lost the\nknowledge of that principle and how to use it. History records the\nworking of great deeds by that same Christ-principle when it was\nre-born in our first century; and we also can see how the obscuring\nof the spiritual by the material in the Emperor Constantine's time\ncaused the loss of the Church's power to do great works. We are\nforced to admit the omnipotence, immanence, and eternality of the\nChrist-principle, for it is divine mind, God himself. Moses, Elisha,\nElijah, the ancient prophets, all had primitive perceptions of truth,\nand all became channels for the passing of the Christ-principle to\nmankind in some degree. But none of these men ever illustrated that\nprinciple as did the man Jesus. He is the most marvelous manifestation\nof God that has ever appeared among mankind; so true and exact was\nthe manifestation that he could tell the world that in seeing him\nthey were actually seeing the Father. It is quite true that many\nof his great sayings were not original with him. Great truths have\nbeen voiced, even by so-called pagans, from earliest times. But he\ndemonstrated and made practical the truth in these sayings. And he\nexposed the nothingness of the human mental concept of matter by\nhealing disease, walking the waves, and in other wonderful ways. It\nis true that long before his time Greek philosophers had hit upon the\ntheory of the nothingness of matter. Plato had said that only ideas\nwere real. But Jesus--or the one who brought the Christ-message--was\nthe clearest mentality, the cleanest human window-pane, to quote\nCarmen, that ever existed. Through him the divine mind showed with\nalmost unobscured fullness. God's existence had been discerned and\nHis goodness proved from time to time by prophets and patriarchs, but\nby no means to the extent that Jesus proved it. There were those\nbefore him who had asserted that there was but one reality, and that\nhuman consciousness was not the real self. There were even those who\nbelieved matter to be created by the force of thought, even as in\nour own day. _But it remained for Jesus to make those ideas\nintensely practical, even to the overcoming and dissolution of his\nwhole material concept of the universe and man._ And it remained\nfor him to show that the origin of evil is in the lie about God. It\nwas his mission to show that the devil was 'a man-killer from the\nbeginning,' because it is the supposition that there is power apart\nfrom God. It was his life purpose to show mankind that there is\nnothing in this lie to cause fear, and that it can be overcome by\novercoming the false thought which produces it. By overcoming that\nthought he showed men the evanescent nature of sickness and death.\nAnd sin he showed to be a missing of the mark through lack of\nunderstanding of what constitutes real good.\n\n\"Turn now again to the Bible, that fascinating record of a whole\npeople's search for God and their changing concept of Him. Note that,\nwherever in its records evil seems to be made real, it is for the\npurpose of uncovering and destroying it by the vigorous statements of\ntruth which you will almost invariably find standing near the\nexposition of error. So evil seemed very real in the first century of\nour era; but it was uncovered by the coming of Jesus. The exposure of\nevil revealed the Christ, right at hand.\"\n\n\"But,\" protested Haynerd, \"let's get back to the question of the\nvirgin birth.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" replied Father Waite. \"But let us first consider what\nhuman birth is.\"\n\n\"Now there!\" exclaimed Haynerd. \"Now you are touching my lifelong\nquestion. If I am immortal, where was I before I was born?\"\n\n\"Of which 'I' are you speaking, Ned?\" asked Father Waite. \"The real\n'I' is God's image and likeness, His reflection. It was never born,\nand never dies. The human 'I' had a beginning. And therefore it will\ncease to be. The human mind makes its own laws, and calls them laws of\nnature, or even God's laws. And it obeys them like a slave. Because\nGod is both Father and Mother to His children, His ideas, the human\nmind has decreed in its counterfeiting process that it is itself both\nmale and female, and that the union of these two is necessary in order\nto give rise to another human mind. Do you see how it imitates the\ndivine in an apish sort of way? And so elements of each sex-type of\nthe human mind are employed in the formation of another, their\noffspring. The process is wholly mental, and is one of human belief,\nquite apart from the usage of the divine Mind, who 'spake and it was\ndone,' mentally unfolding a spiritual creation. The real 'you,' Ned,\nhas always existed as God's idea of Himself. It is spiritual, not\nmaterial. It will come to light as the material 'you' is put off. The\nmaterial 'you' did not exist before it was humanly born. It was\nproduced in supposition by the union of the parent human minds, which\nthemselves were reflections of the male and female characteristics of\nthe communal mortal mind. It thus had a definite, supposititious\nbeginning. It will therefore have a definite end.\"\n\n\"And so I'm doomed to annihilation, eh? That's a comforting thought!\"\n\n\"Your mortal sense of existence, Ned, certainly is doomed to\nextinction. That which is supposition must go out. Oh, it doubtless\nwill not all be destroyed when you pass through that change which we\ncall death. It may linger until you have passed through many such\nexperiences. And so it behooves you to set about getting rid of it\nas soon as possible, and thus avoid the unpleasant experience of\ncountless death-throes. You see, Ned, an error in the premise will\nappear in the conclusion. Now you are starting with the premise that\nthe human 'you' is real. That premise is not based upon fact. Its\nbasis is rank error. All that you reflect of divine mind will\nendure permanently, but whatever you reflect of the lie regarding\nthat mind will pass away. Human beings know nothing of their origin,\nnor of their existence. Why? _Because there is nothing to know\nabout them; they are entirely supposititious!_ Paul says, in his\nletter to the Romans: 'They which are the children of the flesh, these\nare not the children of God.' The birth of the children of the\nflesh is wholly a human-mind process. The infant mentality thus\nproduced knows nothing whatsoever of itself. It has no knowledge; is\nnot founded on truth. It will later manifest hereditary beliefs,\nshowing the results of prenatal mesmerism. Then it will receive the\ngeneral assortment of human thought and opinion--very little of it\nbased on actual truth--which the world calls education. Then it\nlearns to regard itself as an individual, a separate being. And soon\nit attributes its origin to God. But the prenatal error will appear\nin the result. The being manifests every gradation of human thought;\nit grows; it suffers and enjoys materially; it bases its very\nexistence upon matter; it manifests the false activity of human\nthought in material consciousness; and then it externalizes its\nbeliefs, the consentaneous human beliefs, upon its body and in its\nenvironment; and finally, the activity of the false thought which\nconstitutes its consciousness ceases--and the being dies. Yes, its\ndeath will be due to sin, to '_hamartio_,' missing the mark. It\nnever knew God. And that, Ned, is human life, so-called.\n\n\"Death is not in any sense a cessation of life. The being who dies\nnever knew what it was to live. Death is the externalization of\nhuman, mortal beliefs, which are not based upon real knowledge, truth.\nAnd so, human birth is itself death. Paul said: 'They that are after\nthe flesh do mind the things of the flesh; but they that are after the\nspirit the things of the spirit.' In other words, mankind are striving\nterribly, desperately, to keep alive a sense of material, fleshly\nexistence. But they can't do it. They are foredoomed to failure,\ndespite the discovery of antitoxins. In the book of Job we read: 'The\nspirit of God hath made me, and the breath of the Almighty hath given\nme life.' Where, then, is the reality in prenatal mesmerism and the\ndrag of heredity? It is all supposition, all a part of the one lie,\nthe 'man-killer.'\n\n\"The change called death comes to all mortals. It is the culmination\nof the human mind's sense of limitation. It does not usher them into\nimmortal, illimitable bliss. It but leaves them upon another seeming\nplane of mortal thought, there to drag out another sense of existence,\nunless they have so learned the lesson which Jesus taught as to enable\nthem to overcome death. It will not be overcome for us. That is our\nwork. We have been shown how to do it. Why, then, do we waste our time\nin trivial things; in the heaping up of useless money; in the vain\nstrife for sensual pleasures? The mortal will live and die, and live\nand die, until at last he is beaten into line and forced to\ndemonstrate the Christ-principle. Hadn't we better begin that right\nhere and now? Wishing to die doesn't solve our problems. Suicide only\nmakes us start again, worse off than before. We shall overcome death\nwhen we have overcome sin, for the physical manifestation called death\nis but the externalization in conscious experience of spiritual\ndeath--lack of a demonstrable understanding of Life, Truth, Spirit,\nwhich is God, unlimited good.\"\n\n\"And the Church, Protestant and Catholic, with their ceremonies, their\nMasses, and--\"\n\n\"They have woefully missed the mark, Ned. They are all but spiritually\ndead. But I see protest rising in our good friends, Doctor Siler and\nReverend Moore, so I will hasten on, for we have much ground still to\ncover.\n\n\"Now, knowing that birth is a humanly mental process, is it possible\nthat the man Jesus was 'born of a virgin'? Quite so; but, more, _no\nman ever conceived and born in the way human beings are generated has\never begun to approach Jesus in degree of spirituality_. If he had\nbeen born in human ways, is it likely that he would ever have\ndeveloped such intense spirituality? Well, not in a brief thirty-three\nyears or so! And, on the other hand, if he had come into the world in\nsome way other than by being born of a woman, would he have been\nunderstandable at all to the human mind? I think not. He would have\nbeen wholly in the realm of the mental, far above human perception. If\nhe had been conceived by the union of the two sexes, as is the\nmortal-mind mode of generation, would he not have been too material to\nhave so quickly developed that spirituality which made him the light\nof the world at the age of thirty-three? I think it is a fair\nquestion. The theory of the virgin birth at least seems to meet the\nneed of a sort of middle course, whereby the man should not be too\nhuman to be the channel for the great measure of spirituality with\nwhich he was endowed, and yet should be human enough to be appreciable\nto other human minds.\n\n\"Remember, the Jesus who has been reported to us must have regarded\nmatter as unreal, as nothingness. His works plainly show that. And\nthey as plainly show that he came from the Father. His whole life was\nsuch as to render the virgin birth almost a necessity, as I see it.\nHow otherwise can we explain him? And from a study of the Gospels I\nsimply can not avoid the conclusion that his knowledge of the allness\nof God rendered matter such a nonentity to him that he overcame all\nmaterial laws, overcame the world of matter, and even at the last\ndematerialized his material body. It's an astonishing thought--and\nyet, who can show that it is not true? There are some things that\nreason insists on our accepting, despite the paucity of human\nrecords.\"\n\n\"I believe, Mr. Waite,\" said Doctor Morton, \"that the Gospels\naccording to Mark and John make no mention of the virgin birth. Is it\nnot so?\"\n\n\"Quite true,\" replied Father Waite. \"And I will go further: Biblical\nresearch during the past few years seems to have established the\nconclusion that Mark's Gospel antedates the others, but that prior to\nit there existed a collection of sayings by Jesus, called the _Logia_.\nThis collection of sayings seems to have been originally written in\nAramaic, the language Jesus spoke. Now Matthew Arnold tells us that\nthe Gospel narratives passed through at least fifty years of oral\ntradition before they became fixed in the form in which we now have\nthem. Of course it is quite possible that the story of the virgin\nbirth arose during those fifty years, for we can imagine how the life\nof Jesus was then discussed! Matthew and Luke alone speak of the\nvirgin birth. Mark's Gospel we believe to have been written by Mark\nhimself. And we believe that Papias, who wrote about the middle of the\nsecond century, spoke truly when he said: 'Mark having become (or\nhaving been) Peter's interpreter, wrote all that he remembered (or all\nthat Peter related) though he did not (record) in order that which\nwas said or done by Christ.' In other words, even as Renan admits,\nthe Gospel of Mark must be taken as authentically his. Now Matthew's\nGospel depends for most of its data upon Mark and the Collection of\nsayings. Mark's Gospel does not mention the virgin birth; the\nCollection probably did. Also, Matthew probably did not write the\nGospel attributed to him; but he almost certainly did write the\nCollection of sayings, from which in part the present Gospel according\nto Matthew was compiled. Luke's Gospel was undoubtedly written by the\nphysician Luke, Paul's companion, and depended largely for its data\nupon Mark's Gospel and the Collection of Matthew. Yet we can not say\nthat the omission of mention in the Gospels according to Mark and John\nof the virgin birth renders the story a legend, in view of our own\npresent great knowledge of the constitution of matter, of material\nlaws, and of the fact that the virgin birth is at least rendered\ncredible by the subsequent very extraordinary career of Jesus.\nMoreover, remember that our New Testament is a small book, and that it\nis quite probable that a great mass of literature existed on the\nsubject of Jesus and his work, and that it is possible that other of\nthe disciples wrote treatises, perhaps many of them. How many of these\ntouched on the subject of the virgin birth we may never know. Perhaps\nnone; perhaps all. But this conclusion at least we must accept: the\nvalidity of the story of the virgin birth does _not_ rest with the\nfour Gospels which have come down to us out of the great mass of\nliterature which probably once existed. Rather is the probability of\nthe immaculate conception a function of our present knowledge of\nmatter, its pseudo-laws, and the great fact that the entire life of\nJesus as reported in all the Gospels lends weight to the belief that\nhis birth was not in the ordinary mortal-mind manner.\"\n\n\"I accept that,\" said Hitt. \"I believe you are right.\"\n\n\"And I,\" said Carmen, \"can not see that the origin of the human\nchannel through which the Christ-principle flowed to mankind is of any\nconsequence. The principle has always existed. Jesus said that it\nexisted before Abraham. It alone is the important thing.\"\n\n\"Very true,\" replied Father Waite. \"It has been said that the\nimmaculate conception was the result of Mary's realization that real\nman is the son of God. This is a beautiful thought. Certainly Jesus\ndid seem to manifest some such metaphysical idea. Perhaps Mary was a\nwoman of tremendous force of character. Perhaps it did come to her\nthat her son should be the Messiah of his race. Jesus certainly did\nacquire the messianic consciousness--and thereby upheaved the world.\nBut, whatever the human mode of birth, certainly the Christ-principle\nwas brought into the world because of the world's tremendous need. It\ncame as a response. It is only the confusing of the Christ with the\nman Jesus that is so largely responsible for the weakness of orthodox\ntheology.\n\n\"But now, referring again to the Bible, let me say that the Pentateuch\nis composed of a variety of documents written by various authors. We\nhave no positive proof that Moses had aught to do with its authorship,\nalthough parts of it may be based on data which either he originated\nor sanctioned. The books of Samuel exhibit a plurality of sources. The\nbook of Isaiah was written to record the sayings of at least two\npersons, both men of marvelous spiritual vision. The Song of Solomon\nwas originally probably a Persian love-poem. The book of Job\nillustrates the human-mind problem of suffering, and the utter\ninadequacy of philosophy to heal it. It is a ringing protest against\nconventional theology.\n\n\"But it is with the New Testament that we are particularly concerned,\nfor we believe it to contain the method of salvation from human ills.\nNone of the original documents are extant, of course. And yet, the\nmost searching textual criticism goes to show that the New Testament\nbooks as we have them to-day are genuine reproductions of the original\ndocuments, with but very little adulteration of erroneous addition by\nlater hands. This means much to us. I have already spoken of the first\nthree Gospels. The book of Acts certainly was written by the author of\nthe third Gospel, Luke. First Peter was composed by the disciple\nPeter, or was written under his sanction. The Gospel of John and the\nbook of First John were written by one and the same author--but\nwhether by the disciple John or not, I can not say. If this great\ndisciple did not write the Fourth Gospel, at least his influence seems\nto be felt all through it. The probability is that he knew what was in\nit, and approved of it, although the actual composition may have been\nby another, possibly a very learned Greek. To me, the Fourth Gospel is\nthe most masterly work ever composed by man. It stands absolutely\nalone. The criticism that John, being a Jew, could not have composed\nit, falls before the greater truth that, having become a Christian, he\nwas no longer a Jew. He was a new creature. For how could he have been\nother, seeing that he had lived with Jesus?\n\n\"And now as to Paul, who contributes about one-third of the New\nTestament. I have mentioned the letters to the Thessalonians,\nCorinthians, Galatians, and Romans as indisputably his. To these we\ncan add, with scarcely less weight of authenticity, Colossians,\nPhilemon, Ephesians, and Philippians. As to the Epistles to Timothy\nand Titus, there is still doubt. These letters were written to the\nvarious Churches chronologically, as I have mentioned them. It has\nbeen said that Jesus was way over the heads of his reporters. That\nwas inevitable. Even Paul misunderstood him at times. But--and\nhere is the important fact for us--Paul's letters exhibit a\nmarvelous spiritual growth in the man, and show him at last to be the\ngrand master-metaphysician of the Christian era. Has it ever\noccurred to you that what the Gospels tell about is almost wholly\nspiritual? The material is all but neglected by their composers.\nIndeed, with the questions of time and place, the Gospel narrators\nseemed to have been but slightly concerned. But with the delineation\nof the Christ--ah! that was their theme. They were not writing a\nbiography. They were painting a spiritual portrait. In the light of\nthis great truth the apparent lack of harmony in the Gospel\nnarratives loses significance. And how little there is in the\nGospels of theology, of institution, of organization! How trifling are\ncreed and doctrine, how little are Catholicism and Protestantism,\ncompared with the stupendous fact that God is, and that His truth,\nthe Christ-principle, is still here to-day and available!\n\n\"And so with Paul, he was expounding the 'method and secret' of the\nChrist. And he first had to work up to it himself. He may have\nthought, when he wrote his first letter to the Thessalonians, that the\nman Jesus would come again in the skies, with great pomp and\nsurrounded by the Saints. But in his second letter he states plainly\nthat the Christ will come when the 'old man' is laid off. Not much\noccasion for misunderstanding there, I think. Indeed, after Jesus so\nclearly stated that the kingdom of heaven was within men, the marvel\nis that there could have arisen any confusion whatsoever on the\nsubject of the second coming of the Christ.\"\n\n\"I believe,\" interposed Reverend Moore, \"that the Epistle to the\nHebrews contains statements of belief in a judgment after death, in a\nheaven, a hell, and everlasting life, not wholly consistent with your\nremarks.\"\n\n\"The Epistle to the Hebrews,\" returned Father Waite, \"was not written\nby Paul, nor is it quite consistent with his letters. But, read Paul's\nwonderful eighth chapter of Romans. Read his third chapter of First\nCorinthians. Read all his letters in the order in which I have\nmentioned them, which was as they were written, and you can not fail\nto grasp his marvelous expanding perception of the Christ-principle;\nthe nothingness of the material concept; the impotence of the lie that\nopposes God, and constitutes all evil; and the necessity of\nright-thinking if one would work out his salvation from the errors\nthat assail mankind. Paul shows that he passed through a 'belief\nperiod,' and that he emerged into the light of demonstrable\nunderstanding at last. If men had followed him they never could have\nfallen into the absurd theological beliefs of foreordination, infant\ndamnation, the resurrection of the flesh, and all the other\ntheological horrors and atrocities of the centuries.\n\n\"Yes, the Bible is, as Arnold said, based on propositions which all\ncan verify. The trouble is, _mankind have not tried to verify them_!\nThey have relegated all that to the life beyond the grave. I fear a\nsorry disappointment awaits them, for, even as Paul says, they will be\nafter the change called death only what they were before. It is like\nrecovering from a case of sickness, for sickness and death are alike\nmanifestations of mortal thought. We awake from each still human,\nstill with our problems before us. We must break the mesmerism of the\nbelief that the practical application of Jesus' teachings must be\nrelegated to the realm of death, or to the unattainable. We must apply\nthe Christ-principle, and learn to hit the mark, for sin is always\nweakness, never strength.\n\n\"And remember this: having acquired a knowledge of the Christ, we are\nbidden to acknowledge him--that is, to _act-our-knowledge_. Many of\nthe world's philosophers have worked out great truths. But they have\nrested content with that. Many scientists, knowing that matter is\nunreal, nevertheless conduct themselves _as if it constituted the one\nand only real fact of existence_! Is error like truth? Decidedly no!\nIt is truth's exact opposite. Is truth real? Certainly it is! Then its\nopposite _can not_ be real. The human mentality holds the belief that\nthere is something apart from God, spirit. That belief becomes\nobjectified in the human mentality as matter. And within matter is\ncontained all evil of every sort and name. Evil is not, as the\nphilosophers would have us believe, a lower form of good. It is not\n'good in the making.' It is always error, the direct opposite of\ntruth. And if truth is real and eternal, error can not be. See the\ngrave mistake in which Emerson became enmeshed. He said: 'There seems\nto be a necessity in spirit to manifest itself in material forms.' Now\nfollow that out to its logical conclusion. If spirit is synonymous\nwith God, then God manifests Himself in both good and evil, fair and\nfoul, life and death--and which is good, and which bad? All is alike\nthe reflection of God. No, my friends, rather accept Jesus' statement\nthat evil is the lie, of which no man need be afraid, and which all\nmust and shall overcome. And the 'old man,' with all his material\nconcepts of nature and the universe, must and will be laid off, thus\nrevealing the spiritual man, the image and likeness of the one divine\nMind.\n\n\"Now, just a few words about miracles, the great stumbling block to\nthe acceptance of the Gospels. Are they, together with the entire\nGospel narrative, legendary? If so, they must have arisen during\nthose fifty years between Jesus and the recording of the narratives.\nBut this very period is covered by Paul's letters, which record his\nthought. And even the most relentless of Bible critics admit the\ngenuineness of Paul's authorship of the Epistles to the Romans,\nthe Corinthians, the Thessalonians, and the Galatians. If the\nGospel narratives are legends, they grew up and found acceptance in\nfifty years. A pretty fair miracle in itself, when we take into\nconsideration the inherent incredulity of the human mind! As Dean\nFarrar says: 'Who would have _invented_, who would have merely\n_imagined_, things so unlike the thoughts of man as these?'\n\n\"Now Paul must have been acquainted with men who had seen and known\nJesus. And we are forced to admit that Paul was a very strong, sane\nman. These legends could not have grown up in his day and been\naccepted by him. And as long as there were men living who had known\nJesus--and that must have been as late as the last quarter of the\nfirst century--the true events of Jesus' life could hardly have given\nway to a set of childish legends. As a matter of recorded fact, the\nvarious Christian Churches had accepted Jesus within thirty years of\nthe crucifixion. And, too, the words of Paul and the Synoptists were\nwritten at a time when the sick were still being healed and even the\ndead raised by the practical application of Jesus' teachings. Hence,\nmiracles did not astonish them.\n\n\"Our own inability to perform the works attributed to Jesus is hardly\nsufficient ground for denying the belief that he really did them. For\nwhat is a miracle? Certainly that the greater portion of the New\nTestament was written by a few fishermen, a publican, and a tentmaker\nis one of the most stupendous miracles on record! And the miracle of\nmiracles is Jesus Christ himself! Because Jesus is reported to have\nhealed the sick, raised the dead, and walked the waves, all in\nopposition to material laws--the so-called laws of nature--the world\nsays the reports are fantastic, that they are fables, and that his\nreporters were hypnotized, deluded! And yet I tell you that he did not\nbreak a single law! He did act in defiance of the so-called testimony\nof the physical senses, which has always been accepted by mankind as\nlaw. We now know what that sense-testimony is--human, mortal thought.\nHe did rise above human consciousness of evil. And because he did so,\nhe instantaneously healed the sick. A miracle expresses, not the\nbeliefs of the human mind, but the law of God, infinite mind, and\nmakes that law conceivable to the human mentality. God's laws are\n_never_ set aside, for by very definition a law is immutable, else it\nceases to be law. But when the human mind grows out of itself\nsufficiently to perceive those laws and to express them to its\nfellow-minds, the result is called a miracle. Moreover, the ability to\nperform miracles is but a function of spirituality. A miracle is a\nsign of one's having advanced to such a degree of spirituality as to\nenable him to rise above material consciousness and its limitations,\nwhich are called laws. The consciousness that knows no evil will\nperform miracles. The early Christians did great works. These works\nwere the 'signs following,' and attested their knowledge of the\nallness of God. A miracle is simply a proof of God. Carmen--\"\n\n\"Lewis!\" protested the girl.\n\n\"Let me say it, please. Carmen _knew_ that no power opposed to God\ncould hold Sidney. And the 'sign' followed. Yes, she performed a\nmiracle. She broke a human-mind, so-called law, a limitation. She\nproved God's law of harmony and holiness--wholeness--to be omnipresent\nand omnipotent. And, mark me, friends, _every one of us must learn to\ndo likewise_! Not only must the Church obey Jesus and do the works\nwhich he did, but every individual will have to do them himself.\"\n\n\"His works were done for a special reason, Mr. Waite,\" interposed\nReverend Moore. \"They were to testify to his messiahship. They are not\nrequired of us.\"\n\nFather Waite silently regarded the minister for some moments. Then he\nwent on gently:\n\n\"It seems incredible that the plain teachings of Jesus could have\nbeen so warped and twisted as they have been by orthodox theology.\nChristianity is _so_ simple! Why should even the preachers themselves\ncondemn the one who seeks to obey Christ? Mr. Moore, the real man\nis God's highest idea of Himself. The human mind makes mental concepts\nof God's man. And Jesus was the grandest concept of God's idea of\nHimself that the human mind has ever constructed by means of its\ninterpretations. He was the image of truth. One of his grandest\ncharacteristics was his implicit obedience to his vision of the\nFather. And he demanded just as implicit obedience from us. But he\nbade us, again and again, _heal the sick and raise the dead_!\"\n\n\"We heal the sick! We have our physicians!\"\n\n\"Yes? And Asa had his physicians to whom he turned--with the result\nthat he 'slept with his fathers.' There is no more ironical statement\nin the whole Bible than that. We turn to our physicians because we\nhave no faith in God. _Materia medica_ physicians do _not_ heal the\nsick. They sometimes succeed in causing the human mind temporarily to\nsubstitute a belief of health for a belief of disease that is all.\nBut Jesus and the early Christians healed by true prayer--the prayer\nof affirmation, the prayer that denied reality to evil, and affirmed\nthe omnipotence of God. And that was done through an understanding of\nGod as immutable law, or principle.\"\n\n\"Would you pray to a principle?\" demanded Reverend Moore, with a note\nof contempt in his voice. \"I prefer my own concept of God, as one who\nhears our petitions, and pities us, and not as a lifeless principle!\"\n\n\"God is principle, Mr. Moore,\" replied Father Waite, \"in that He is\n'_that by which all is_.' And in order to be such He must be, as the\nBible says, 'the same yesterday, to-day, and forever.' He must be\nimmovable, regardless of human pleading and petition. And so true\nprayer, the prayer that draws an answer, is not an objective appeal to\nHim, but is an intelligent application of the Christ-principle to all\nour problems and needs. Such prayer will remove mountains in\nproportion to the understanding and motive back of it. And such prayer\ndoes not seek to inform the Almighty of the state of affairs here\namong men, informing Him that evil is real and rampant, and begging\nthat He will stoop down and remove it. It is the prayer that manifests\nman's oneness with the infinite mind as its image, reflecting a\nknowledge of the allness of good and the consequent unreality and\npowerlessness of evil, the lie about it. It was healing by such\nprayer, Mr. Moore, that the Episcopal Synod rejected only recently.\nInstead of doing the healing themselves by means of the principle\ngiven them, they still plead with God, the immovable and immutable, to\ndo it for them, provided the very uncertain science of _materia\nmedica_ fails.\n\n\"The true method of prayer was employed by the early Christians, until\nthe splendid vision of the Christ became obscured and finally lost to\nthe Church by its bargaining with Constantine for a mess of pottage,\nnamely, temporal power. Then began to rise that great worldly\ninstitution, the so-called Holy Church. In the first half of the sixth\ncentury Justinian closed the schools of philosophy at Athens. For a\nwhile Judaizing Christianity continued its conflict with Gnosticism.\nAnd then both merged themselves into the Catholic form of faith, which\nissued forth from Rome, with Christian tradition grafted upon\npaganism. Theology and ritualism divided the gospel of healing the\nsick and saving the sinner into two radically different systems,\nneither of which is Christian, and neither of which can either heal or\nsave. Since then, lip-service and ceremonial have taken the place of\nhealing the sick and raising the dead. The world again slipped back\nsteadily from the spiritual to the material, and to-day ethics\nconstitutes our religion, and stupid drugs hold sway where once sat\nenthroned the healing Christ-principle.\"\n\n\"I would remind you, Mr. Waite, that I have Catholic leanings myself,\"\nsaid Doctor Siler. \"I don't like to hear either my religion or my\nprofession abused.\"\n\n\"My criticism, Doctor,\" replied Father Waite, \"is but an exposure of\nthe entrenched beliefs and modes of the human mind.\"\n\n\"But, sir, the Church is a great social force, and a present\nnecessity.\"\n\n\"The worth of a belief as a social force, Doctor, must be ascertained\nfrom its fruits. The Roman Church has been an age-long instigator of\nwars, disorders, and atrocious persecutions throughout the world. Its\nassumption that its creed is the only religious truth is an insult to\nthe world's expanding intelligence. Its arrogant claim to speak with\nthe authority of God is one of the anomalies of this century of\nenlightenment. Its mesmeric influence upon the poor and ignorant is a\ncontinuous tragedy.\"\n\n\"The poor and ignorant! Are you unmindful of the Church's schools and\nhospitals?\"\n\n\"No, Doctor. Nor am I ignorant of the fact that the success of\nChristianity is _not_ measured by hospitals. Rather, their continuance\nattests the lamentable failure of its orthodox misinterpretation. I\nhave been a priest, Doctor. I do not want to see this splendid country\nforced into the iron shackles of priestcraft.\"\n\n\"It can not happen here!\" cried Haynerd, pounding the table with his\nfist. \"The time has passed when a man can say, 'My church, be she\nright or wrong, but my church!' and insist that it shall be forced\nupon us, whether we like it or not!\"\n\n\"Doctor,\" continued Father Waite, \"the Romanist has always missed the\nmark. He prayed to a God of love to give him power to exterminate\nheretics--those who differed with him in belief. But he prayed with\niniquity, hatred, murder in his heart; and God, who is too pure to\nknow evil, heard him not. Prayer is the affirmation of omnipotent\n_good_. Is it good to murder one's fellow-men? The Psalmist wrote: 'If\nI regard iniquity in my heart the Lord will not hear me.' That is why\nthe Church's prayers and curses have failed, and why she herself is a\nfailing institution to-day. I say this in pity, not in malice.\"\n\n\"I, sir, believe in a religion that can hate,\" returned the doctor.\n\"Christianity is as much a religion of hate as of love--hatred of all\nthat is evil and opposed to the revealed Word of God.\"\n\n\"And thereby your religion will fail, and has failed, for God is love.\nYou, by your hatred of what you consider evil, make evil real. Indeed,\nthe Church has always emphasized evil as a great and living reality.\nHow could it ever hope to overcome it then? Your Church, Doctor, has\nlittle of the meekness of the Christ, and so, little of his strength.\nIt has little of his spirituality. Its numbers and great material\nwealth do not constitute power. Its assumptions remind me of the\nancient Jews, who declared that God spent much of His time reading\ntheir Talmud. You will have to lay aside, Doctor, all of it, and turn\nto the simple, demonstrable teachings of Jesus. When you have learned\nto do the works he did, then will you have justified yourself and your\nfaith.\"\n\nWhile Father Waite was speaking, Carmen had quietly risen and taken\nher place at the piano. When he concluded, she began to play and sing\nsoftly. As the sweet melody flowed out through the room the little\ngroup became silent and thoughtful. Again it was that same weird\nlament which the girl had sung long before in the Elwin school to\nvoice the emotions which surged up in her during her loneliness in the\ngreat city. In it her auditors heard again that night the echoing\nsighs of the passive Indians, enslaved by the Christian Spaniards.\nHitt's head sank upon his breast as he listened. Haynerd tried to\nspeak, but choked. The Beaubien buried her face in her hands and wept\nsoftly. The lines about Doctor Siler's mouth relaxed, and his lips\ntrembled. He rose quietly and went around to where Father Waite sat.\n\n\"My friend--\" He bent and took Father Waite's hand. \"We are--friends?\"\n\nFather Waite sprang to his feet and threw an arm about the doctor. \"We\nare more than that, Doctor,\" he whispered. \"We are brothers. And in\nreality we are both, here and now, beloved children of God.\"\n\nDoctor Siler bowed. Then he nodded to the others, and took his\ndeparture. As he passed the piano Carmen rose and seized his hand.\n\n\"You know, Doctor, that we love you, don't you?\"\n\n\"Your love,\" he murmured, as he bent over her hand, \"is from the\nChrist. Nay, it _is_ the Christ himself among us!\"\n\nHe would have said more, but his voice broke. Then he went out.\n\nWhen Hitt, Reverend Moore, and Doctor Morton had left, Haynerd, who\nhad remained for a moment to speak to Father Waite, turned to the\nBeaubien.\n\n\"Madam,\" he said, \"Mr. Hitt is a remarkable man. He is conducting a\nremarkable newspaper. But--\" He stopped and looked at Carmen. \"Well,\nif I mistake not, his quietness this evening indicated his belief that\nthis might be our last meeting for some time.\"\n\n\"Why, Ned?\"\n\nHaynerd shook his head dubiously. Then, abruptly:\n\n\"Telephone me, Carmen, if anything of interest comes up to-morrow in\nAvon.\"\n\nThe Beaubien turned quickly to the girl. \"You are going to Avon\nto-morrow? Don't! Please don't!\" There was a look of fear in her\neyes.\n\nCarmen drew the woman to her, then stooped and kissed her cheek.\n\"Mother dearest, I go to Avon with my God.\"\n\nThe Beaubien bowed her head. She knew it was so.\n\nAnd the girl went early the next morning.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 11\n\n\nThe town of Avon, two hours from New York, lay along Avon creek, from\nwhich its first manufacturing industries derived their motive power.\nYears before, when it was little more than a barren stretch of sand,\nsome enterprising soul had built a cotton mill there, with only a few\nprimitive looms. As the years passed, and kindly Congresses reared\nabout the industry a high protective wall, the business prospered\nmarvelously. But shortly after the death of the senior Ames the\ncompany became involved, through mismanagement, with the result that,\nto protect itself, the house of Ames and Company, the largest\ncreditor, was obliged to take over its mills.\n\nAt first, J. Wilton Ames was disposed to sell the assets of the\ndefunct company, despite the loss to his bank. But then, after a visit\nof inspection, and hours of meditation on certain ideas which had\noccurred to him, he decided to keep the property. The banging of the\nlooms, the whirr of the pickers, the sharp little shrieks of the\nspinning machines, fascinated him, as he stood before them. They\nseemed to typify the ceaseless throbbing of his own great brain. They\nseemed, too, to afford another outlet for that mighty flood of\nmaterialistic thought and energy which flowed incessantly through it.\n\nAnd so he set about reorganizing the business. He studied the process\nof cloth manufacture. He studied the growth and handling of cotton. He\nfamiliarized himself with every detail of the cotton market. He was\nalready well versed in the intricacies of the tariff. And soon the\nidle machinery was roaring again. Soon the capacity of the mills was\ndoubled. And soon, very soon, the great Ames mills at Avon had become\na corporate part of our stupendous mechanical development of the\ncentury just closed.\n\nWhen Carmen stepped from the train that morning she stood for a moment\nlooking uncertainly about her. Everywhere on one side as far as she\ncould see were low, ramshackle frame houses; a few brick store\nbuildings stood far up the main street; and over at her right the\nenormous brick mills loomed high above the frozen stream. The dull\nroar of the machinery drifted through the cold air to her ears. Up the\ntrack, along which she had just come, some ragged, illy clad children\nwere picking up bits of coal. The sight seemed to fix her decision.\nShe went directly to them, and asked their names.\n\n\"Anton Spivak,\" answered one of the children dully, when she laid a\nhand on his shoulder.\n\n\"And where do you live?\"\n\n\"Over dere,\" pointing off to the jungle of decrepit sheds. \"Me an'\nhim, we worked in de mills; but dere ain't no work fer us now. Dey's\non half time.\"\n\n\"Take me to your home,\" she said firmly.\n\nThe boy looked his astonishment. \"Dere ain't nobody to home,\" he\nreplied. \"De ol' man an' woman works in de mills daytimes.\"\n\n\"Come-a home wi' me,\" spoke up the boy's companion, a bright-faced\nlittle urchin of some ten years who had given his name as Tony Tolesi.\n\"We lives in de tenements.\"\n\nCarmen looked at him for a moment. \"Come,\" she said.\n\nUp the main street of the town they went for a short distance, then\nturned and wended their course, through narrow streets and byways,\ndown toward the mills. In a few minutes they were in the district\nwhere stood the great frame structures built by the Ames company to\nhouse its hands. Block after block of these they passed, massive,\nhorrible, decrepit things, and at last stopped at a grease-stained,\nbroken door, which the little fellow pushed open. The hall beyond was\ndark and cold. Carmen followed shivering, close after the boy, while\nhe trotted along, proud of the responsibility of conducting a visitor\nto his home. At the far end of the hall the lad plunged into a narrow\nstaircase, so narrow that a stout man could not have mounted it. Up\nfour of these broken flights Carmen toiled after him, and then down a\nlong, desolate corridor, which sent a chill into the very marrow of\nher bones.\n\n\"Dis is where we lives, Missy,\" announced the little fellow. \"Miss-a\nMarcus, she live in dere,\" pointing to the door directly opposite.\n\"She ain't got only one arm.\"\n\nHe pushed open the door before which they had halted. A rush of foul\nair and odors of cooking swept out. They enveloped the girl and seemed\nto hurl her back. A black-haired woman, holding a crying baby in her\narms, rose hastily from an unmade bed at one side of the room. Two\nlittle girls, six or eight years of age, and a boy still younger,\nranged about their mother and stared in wide-eyed wonder.\n\n\"Dis-a lady, she come to visit,\" announced Carmen's guide abruptly,\npointing a dirty finger at her.\n\nThe woman's face darkened, and she spoke harshly in a foreign tongue\nto the little fellow.\n\n\"She say,\" the boy interpreted, as a crestfallen look spread over his\nface, \"she say she don't spik _Inglese_.\"\n\n\"But I speak your language,\" said the girl, going quickly to her and\nextending a hand. Then, in that soft tongue which is music celestial\nto these Neapolitan strangers upon our inhospitable shores, she added,\n\"I want to know you; I want to talk to you.\"\n\nShe glanced quickly about the room. A littered, greasy cook stove\nstood in one corner. Close to it at either end were wooden couches,\nupon which were strewn a few tattered spreads and blankets, stained\nand grimy. A broken table, a decrepit chest of drawers, and a few\nrickety chairs completed the complement of furniture. The walls were\nunadorned, except for a stained chromo of the Virgin, and the plaster\nhad fallen away in many places. There was only one window in the room.\nSeveral of its panes were broken and stuffed with rags and papers.\n\nAt the sound of her own language the woman's expression changed. A\nlight came into her dull eyes, and she awkwardly took the proffered\nhand.\n\n\"You are--from Italy?\" she said in her native tongue. Then, sweeping\nthe girl's warm attire with a quick glance, \"You are rich! Why do you\ncome here?\"\n\n\"Your little boy brought me. And I am glad he did. No, I am not from\nItaly. I am rich, yes, but not in money.\"\n\nThe woman turned to her children and sent the little brood scattering.\nAt another sharp command little Tony set out a soiled, broken chair\nfor Carmen. But before the girl could take it the woman's voice again\nrose sharply.\n\n\"Wait!\" she commanded, turning fiercely upon Carmen. \"You are--what do\nyou say? slumming. You come with your gay party to look us over and go\naway laughing! No! You can not stay!\"\n\nCarmen did not smile. But reaching out, she gently lifted the heavy\nbaby from the woman's arms and sat down with it. For a moment she\npatted its cheeks and bent tenderly over it. Then she looked up at the\nbewildered mother.\n\n\"I have come here,\" she said softly, \"because I love you.\"\n\nThe woman's lips parted in astonishment. She turned dully and sat down\non one of the begrimed beds. Her little ones gathered about her, their\nsoiled fingers in their mouths, or clutching their tattered gowns, as\nthey gazed at the beautiful creature who had suddenly come into their\nmidst.\n\nThen the woman found her voice again. \"Eh! You are from the mission?\nYou come to talk of heaven? But I am busy.\"\n\n\"I am not from the mission,\" replied the girl gently. \"I have come to\ntalk, not of heaven, but of earth, and of you, and of Tony,\" smiling\ndown into the eager face of the little boy as he stood before her.\n\n\"You can't have Tony!\" cried the mother, starting up. \"You can't take\nany of my children! The judge took Pietro Corrello's boy last\nweek--but you can't have mine! Go away from here!\"\n\n\"I don't want your children,\" said Carmen, smiling up at the\nfrightened, suspicious mother. \"I want you. I want you to help me to\nhelp all of these people here who need us. The mills are running only\nhalf time, aren't they? The people do not have enough to eat. But we,\nyou and I, are going to make things better for them, for everybody\nhere, aren't we?\n\n\"But first,\" she went on hastily, to further allay the poor woman's\nfears and to check additional protest, \"suppose we plan our dinner.\nLet's see, Tony, what would you like?\"\n\nThe boy's lips instantly parted. His eyes began to glisten. He glanced\ninquiringly at his mother; but no sign came from her. Then he could no\nlonger contain himself:\n\n\"Spaghetti!\" he blurted. \"Soup! Buns!\"\n\nCarmen drew out her purse and turned to the woman. \"Come with me,\" she\nsaid. \"While we are gone, Tony and the children will wash the dishes\nand set the table. Come.\"\n\nFor a moment the woman looked uncomprehendingly at the girl, then at\nher children, and then about the miserable room in which they were\nhuddled. Amazement and confusion sat upon her heavy features. Then\nthese gave way to another dark look of suspicion. She opened her\nmouth--\n\nBut before she could voice her resentment, Carmen rose and threw an\narm about her. Then the girl quickly drew the startled woman to her\nand kissed her on the cheek. \"Come,\" she whispered, \"get your shawl.\nWe'll be back soon.\"\n\nGod's universal language is the language of love. All nations, all\ntribes understand it. The flood-gates, long barred, swiftly opened,\nand the tired, miserable woman sank sobbing upon the bed. She could\nnot comprehend what it was that had come so unannounced into her\ndreary existence that cold winter morning. People were not wont to\ntreat her so. Her life had been an endless, meaningless struggle\nagainst misery, want, grinding oppression. People did not put their\narms around her and kiss her thus. They scoffed at her, they abused\nher, they fought with her! She hated them, and the world in which she\nlived!\n\n\"I know, I know,\" whispered Carmen, as she drew the sobbing woman's\nhead upon her shoulder. \"But things will be better now. Love has found\nyou.\"\n\nThe woman suddenly raised up. \"You--you are--from heaven? An angel?\"\nShe drew back, and a frightened, superstitious look came into her\nface.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Carmen softly, taking the cue, \"I am an angel, right from\nheaven. Now you are no longer afraid of me, are you? Come.\"\n\nThe woman rose mechanically and took up her thin shawl. Carmen gave a\nfew directions to the gaping children. And as she went out into the\nbleak hall with the woman she heard one of them whisper in tones of\nawe:\n\n\"Tony, she said she--she was--an angel! Quick! Get down on your knees\nand cross yourself!\"\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nUpward to the blue vault of heaven, like the streaming mists that\nrise through the tropic moonlight from the hot _llanos_, goes the\nceaseless cry of humanity. Oh, if the god of the preachers were real,\nhis heart must have long since broken! Upward it streams, this\nsoul-piercing cry; up from the sodden, dull-brained toiler at the\ncrashing loom; up from the wretched outcast woman, selling herself\nto low passions to escape the slavery of human exploitation; up from\nthe muttering, ill-fed wreck, whose life has been cashed into\ndividends, whose dry, worthless hulk now totters to the scrap heap;\nup from the white-haired, flat-chested mother, whose stunted babes\nlie under little mounds with rude, wooden crosses in the dreary\ntextile burial grounds; up from the weak, the wicked, the ignorant,\nthe hopeless martyrs of the satanic social system that makes\npossible the activities of such human vultures as the colossus\nwhose great mills now hurled their defiant roar at this girl, this\ngirl whose life-motif was love.\n\nClose about her, at the wretched little table, sat the wondering group\nof children, greedily gorging themselves on the only full meal that\nthey could remember. And with them sat the still bewildered mother,\nstraining her dark eyes at the girl, and striving to see in her a\nhuman being, a woman like herself. At her right sat the widow Marcus,\nwho lived just across the hall. Her husband had been crushed to death\nin one of the pickers two years before. The company had paid her a\nhundred dollars, but had kept back five for alleged legal fees. She\nherself had lost an arm in one of these same pickers, long ago,\nbecause the great owner of the mills would not equip his plant with\nsafety devices.\n\n\"Come, Tony!\" said the mother at length, as a sense of the reality of\nlife suddenly returned to her. \"The lunch for your father!\"\n\nTony hurriedly swept the contents of his plate into his mouth, and\nwent for the battered dinner pail.\n\n\"My man goes to work at six-thirty in the morning,\" she explained to\nCarmen, when the little fellow had started to the mills with the pail\nunwontedly full. \"And he does not leave until five-thirty. He was a\nweaver, and he earned sometimes ten dollars a week. But he didn't\nlast. He wore out. And so he had to take a job as carder. He earns\nabout eight dollars a week now. But sometimes only six or seven.\"\n\n\"But you can't live on that, with your children!\" exclaimed Carmen.\n\n\"Yes, we could,\" replied the woman, \"if the work was steady. But it\nisn't. You see, if I could work steady, and the children too, we could\nlive. I am a good spinner. And I am not nearly so worn out as he is. I\nhave several years left in me yet.\"\n\nThe widow Marcus, who spoke the language from an association with\nItalian immigrants since childhood, added her comments from time to\ntime. She was a gray-haired, kindly soul, bearing no enmity toward the\nman to whom she had yielded her husband's life and her own.\n\n\"A man's no good in the mills after he's fifty,\" she said. \"You see,\nMiss, it's all piece-work, and a man has to be most terribly spry and\nactive. The strain is something awful, day after day, in the noise and\nbad air, and having to keep your eyes fixed on your work for ten hours\nat a stretch; and he wears out fast. Then he has to take a job where\nhe can't make so much. And when he's about fifty he's no good for the\nmills any more.\"\n\n\"And then what?\" asked Carmen.\n\n\"Well, if he hasn't any children, he goes to the poor-house. But, if\nhe has, then they take care of him.\"\n\n\"Then mill workers must have large families?\"\n\n\"Yes, they've got to, Miss. The little ones must work in the mills,\ntoo. These mills here take them on when they are only twelve, or even\nyounger. Tony has worked there, and he is only ten. It's against the\nlaw; but Mr. Ames gets around the law some way.\"\n\n\"Tell me, Mrs. Marcus, how do you live?\" the girl asked.\n\n\"I? Oh, I manage. The company paid me some money two years ago, and I\nhaven't spent all of it yet. Besides, I work round a bit. I'm pretty\nspry with one arm.\"\n\n\"But--you do not pay rent for your home?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes. I have only one room. It's small. There's no window in it.\nIt's an inside room.\"\n\n\"And you pay rent--to Mr. Ames--the man whose machines killed your\nhusband and took off your arm--you still pay rent to him, for one\nlittle room?\"\n\n\"Yes, Miss. He owns these tenements. Why, his company gave me almost a\nhundred dollars, you know! I was lucky, for when Lizzie Sidel's man\nlost his hand in the cog wheels he went to law to sue the company, and\nthree years afterward the case was thrown out of court and he had to\npay the costs himself. But he was a picker-boss, and got nine dollars\na week.\"\n\nA little hand stole up along Carmen's arm. She looked down into the\nwondering face of the child. \"I--I just wanted to see, _Signorina_, if\nyou were real.\"\n\n\"I have been wondering that myself, dear,\" replied the girl, as her\nthought dwelt upon what she had been hearing.\n\n\"I must go now, Miss,\" said the widow Marcus, rising. \"I promised to\ndrop in and look after Katie Hoolan's children this afternoon. She's\nup at the mills.\"\n\n\"Then I will go with you,\" Carmen announced. \"But I will come back\nhere,\" she added, as some little hands seized hers. \"If not to-day,\nthen soon--perhaps to-morrow.\"\n\nShe crossed the cold hall with Mrs. Marcus, and entered the doorway\nwhich led to the little inner room where dwelt the widow. There were a\ndozen such rooms in the building, the latter informed her. This one in\nparticular had been shunned for many years, for it had a bad\nreputation as a breeder of tuberculosis. But the rent was low, and so\nthe widow had taken it after her man was killed. It contained a broken\nstove, a dirty bed, and a couple of unsteady chairs. The odor was\nfetid. The walls were damp, and the paper which had once covered them\nwas molding and rotting off.\n\n\"It won't stay on,\" the widow explained, as she saw the girl looking\nat it. \"The walls are wet all the time. Comes up from the cellar. The\ncreek overflows and runs into the basement. They call this the\n'death-room.'\"\n\nDeath! Carmen shuddered when she looked about this fearful human\nhabitation. Yet, \"The only death to be feared,\" said Paracelsus, \"is\nunconsciousness of God.\" Was this impoverished woman, then, any less\ntruly alive than the rich owner of the mills which had robbed her of\nthe means of existence? And can a civilization be alive to the Christ\nwhen it breeds these antipodal types?\n\n\"And yet, who permits them?\" Haynerd had once exclaimed. \"Ames's\nmethods are the epitome of hell! But he is ours, and the worthy\noffspring of our ghastly, inhuman social system. We alone are to\nblame that he debauches courts, that he blinds executives, and that he\nbuys legislatures! We let him make the laws, and fatten upon the\nprey he takes within their limits. Aye, he is the crafty, vicious,\ngold-imbruted manifestation of a whole nation's greed!\" Nay, more, he\nis the externalization of a people's ignorance of God.\n\nCarmen's throat filled as she watched the old woman bustling about the\nwretched room and making a feeble attempt at order.\n\n\"You see,\" the widow went on, happy in the possession of an auditor,\n\"there is no use making apologies for the looks of my room; I couldn't\nmake it look much better if I tried. There's no running water. We have\nto get water from the hydrant down back of the house. It is pumped\nthere from the creek, and it's a long climb up these stairs when\nyou've got only one arm to hold the bucket. And I have to bring my\ncoal up, too. The coal dealer charges extra for bringing it up so\nfar.\"\n\nCarmen sat down on an empty box and watched her. The woman's lot\nseemed to have touched the depths of human wretchedness, and yet there\nburned within her soul a something that the oppression of human\navarice could not extinguish.\n\n\"It's the children, Miss, that I think about,\" she continued. \"It's\nnot so bad as when I was a little one and worked in the cloth mills in\nEngland. I was only six when I went into the mills there. I worked\nfrom seven in the morning until after six at night. And the air was so\nbad and we got so tired that we children used to fall asleep, and the\nboss used to carry a stick to whip us to keep us awake. My parents\ndied when I was only eight. They worked in the Hollow-ware works, and\ndied of lead poisoning. People only last four or five years at that\nwork.\"\n\nCarmen rose. \"How many children are employed in these mills here?\" she\nasked.\n\n\"I can't say, Miss. But hundreds of them.\"\n\n\"I want to see them,\" said the girl, and there was a hitch in her\nvoice as she spoke.\n\n\"You can go down and watch them come out about six this evening. It's\na sight to a stranger. But now I must hurry to look after the Hoolan\nbabes.\"\n\nWhen she again reached the street Carmen turned and looked up at the\nhideous structure from which she had emerged; then she drew a long\nbreath. The foul air of the \"death-room\" seemed to fill her lungs as\nwith leaden weights. The dim light that lay over the wretched hovel\nhung like a veil before her eyes.\n\n\"Katie lives a block down the street,\" said the widow, pointing in the\ndirection. \"She was burned out last winter. These tenements don't have\nfire-escapes, and the one she lived in burned to the ground in an\nhour. She lived on the second floor, and got out. But--six were burned\nto death.\"\n\nIt seemed to Carmen as she listened to the woman that the carnal\nmind's chamber of horrors was externalized there in the little town of\nAvon, existing with the dull consent of a people too ignorant, too\nimbruted, too mesmerized by the false values of life to rise and\ndestroy it.\n\nAll that cold winter afternoon the girl went from door to door. There\nwas no thought of fear when she met dull welcomes, scowls, and\nmenacing glances. In humble homes and wretched hovels; to Magyar,\nPole, Italian alike; to French Canadian, Irish and Portuguese; and to\nthe angry, the defiant, the sodden, the crushed, she unfolded her\nsimple banner of love, the boundless love that discriminates not, the\nlove that sees not things, but the thoughts and intents of the heart\nthat lie behind them. And dark looks faded, and tears came; withered\nhearts opened, and lifeless souls stirred anew. She knew their\nlanguages; and that knowledge unlocked their mental portals to her.\nShe knew their thoughts, and the blight under which they molded; and\nthat knowledge fell like the sun's bright rays upon them. She knew\nGod, their God and hers; and that knowledge began, even on that dull,\ngray afternoon, to cut into the chains of human rapacity which\nenslaved them.\n\nAt six that evening she stood at the tall iron gate of the mill yard.\nLittle Tony was at her side, clutching her hand. A single electric\nlamp across the street threw a flickering, yellow light upon the snow.\nThe great, roaring mills were ablaze with thousands of glittering\neyes. Suddenly their monster sirens shrieked, a blood-curdling yell.\nThen their huge mouths opened, and a human flood belched forth.\n\nCarmen gazed with riveted sight. They were not the image and likeness\nof God, these creatures, despite the doctrinal platitudes of the\nReverend Darius Borwell and the placid Doctor Jurges. They were not\nalive, these stooping, shuffling things, despite the fact that the\nreligiously contented Patterson Moore would argue that God had\nbreathed the spirit of life into the thing of dust which He created.\nAnd these children, drifting past in a great, surging throng! Fathers\nand mothers of a generation to come! Carmen knew that many of them,\ndespite their worn looks, were scarcely more than ten years old. These\nwere the flesh and blood upon which Ames, the jungle-beast, waxed\ngross! Upon their thin life-currents floated the magnificent\n_Cossack_!\n\nShe turned away in silence. Yes, she was right, evil can _not_ be\nreally known. There is no principle by which to explain the hideous\nthings of the human mind. And then she wondered what the Reverend\nDarius Borwell did to earn that comfortable salary of ten thousand a\nyear in his rich New York church.\n\n\"It's quite a sight, ain't it, Miss?\" said a voice close by.\n\nCarmen turned and confronted a priest. He was a man of medium height,\nyoung, and of Irish descent.\n\n\"It's a great sight,\" he continued, with a touch of brogue in his\ntones. \"Hey, Fagin!\" he cried, catching a passing workman's arm.\n\"Where's Ross?\"\n\n\"He ain't worked to-day, Father,\" replied the man, stopping and\ntouching his cap.\n\nThe young priest uttered an exclamation of displeasure. Then, as the\nworkman started away:\n\n\"You'll be at the Hall to-night, Fagin? And bring everybody you can.\"\n\nThe man addressed nodded and gave an affirmative grunt, then passed on\ninto the darkness.\n\n\"It's trying to reach a few of 'em I am,\" remarked the priest. \"But\nit's slow work. When a man's stomach's empty he hasn't much respect\nfor morality. And I can't feed the lot of 'em!\"\n\nCarmen gazed into the kindly blue eyes of the priest and wondered.\n\"How are you reaching them?\" she asked. \"I am very much interested.\"\n\nThe priest returned the girl's searching look. \"In settlement work?\"\nhe queried.\n\n\"No--but I am interested in my fellow-beings.\"\n\n\"Ah, then you'll understand. I've some rooms, some on Main street,\nwhich I call the Hall, and some down in the--well, the bad district,\nwhich I call the Mission. They're reading rooms, places for men to meet,\nand get acquainted, and rest, and talk. The Hall's for the fellows\nwho work, like this Fagin. The Mission's for the down-and-outs.\"\n\n\"But--are your rooms only for--for men of your faith?\"\n\n\"Nary a bit!\" exclaimed the priest with a little laugh. \"Race or\nreligion don't figure. It's to give help to every man that needs it.\"\n\n\"And you are giving your life to help these people?\" the girl went on.\n\"I want to see your Hall and Mission. Take me to them,\" she abruptly\ndemanded.\n\nThe priest gave a start of surprise. He looked down at little Tony,\nand then up at Carmen again.\n\n\"Come,\" she said. \"We will leave the boy at his door, and then go to\nyour Mission and Hall. Now tell me, you are a Roman Catholic priest?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said mechanically, following her as she started away.\n\n\"How did you happen to get into this sort of work?\" she pursued.\n\n\"Oh, I've been at it these ten years!\" he returned, now recovered from\nhis surprise, and pleased to talk about his work. \"I'd had some\nexperience in New York in the Bowery district. I came to the\nconclusion that there were mighty few down-and-outs who couldn't be\nset upon their pins again, given half a chance by any one sufficiently\ninterested. There's the point. You see, Miss, I believe in my\nfellow-men. The results have justified my labors. Oh, it's only\ntemporary, I know. It ain't going to change the whole social system.\nIt's a makeshift. But it helps a bit--and I like it.\n\n\"But,\" he continued more seriously, \"there's going to be trouble here.\nA strike is coming. And it's going to be a bad one. I wish I could\nconvince Mr. Ames.\"\n\n\"Have you tried?\" she asked.\n\n\"I've written him several times of late. It doesn't do any good. His\nsecretary writes back that Mr. Ames is doing all he can. But it's not\nmuch I see he's doing, except to go on sucking the blood from these\npoor devils down here!\"\n\nThey soon reached the tenement where Tony lived, and Carmen asked the\npriest to go up with her. He raised a hand and smiled.\n\n\"No,\" he said, \"the good woman doesn't like priests. And my labors\ndon't reach the women anyway, except through the men. They constitute\nmy field. Some one else must work among the women. I'll wait for you\nhere.\"\n\nIt was only by making many promises that Carmen could at last get away\nfrom the little group on the fourth floor. But she slipped a bill into\nTony's hands as she went out, and then hurriedly crossed the hall and\nopened the unlocked door of the widow Marcus's room. The place was\nempty. Carmen pinned a five-dollar bill upon the pillow and hastened\nout.\n\n\"Now,\" said the priest, when the girl had joined him in the street\nbelow, \"it ain't right to take you to the Mission--\"\n\n\"We'll go there first,\" the girl calmly announced. \"And then to the\nHall. By the way, there's a telephone in your place? I want to call up\nthe health officer. I want to report the condition of these\ntenements.\"\n\nThe priest laughed. \"It won't do any good, Miss. I've camped on his\nheels for months. And he can't do anything, anyway. I see that. If he\ngets too troublesome to those higher up, why, he gets fired. They\ndon't want his reports. He isn't here to report on conditions, but to\noverlook 'em. It's politics.\"\n\n\"You mean to say that nothing can be done in regard to those awful\nbuildings which Mr. Ames owns and rents to his mill hands?\" she said.\n\n\"That's it,\" he replied. \"It's criminal to let such buildings stand.\nBut Ames owns 'em. That's enough.\"\n\nThey went on in silence for some minutes. Meanwhile, the priest was\nstudying his fair companion, and wondering who she might be. At length\nhe inquired if she had ever been in Avon before.\n\n\"No,\" replied the girl. \"I wish I had!\"\n\n\"Haven't seen Pillette's house then? He's resident manager of the Ames\nmills. We can go a little out of our way and have a look at it.\"\n\nA few minutes later they stood at the iron gate of the manager's\nresidence, a massive, brown stone dwelling, set in among ancient trees\nin an estate of several acres, and surrounded by shrubs and bushes.\n\n\"Fine place, eh?\" remarked the priest.\n\n\"Beautiful,\" replied Carmen. \"Does he know all about those tenements\ndown there?\"\n\n\"Ah, that he does; and cares less. And he knows all about the terrible\nhot air in his mills, and the flying lint that clogs the lungs of the\nbabies working there. He sees them leave the place, dripping with\nperspiration, and go out into the zero temperature half naked. And\nwhen they go off with pneumonia, well he knows why; and cares less. He\nknows that the poor, tired workers in that great prison lose their\nsenses in the awful noise and roar, and sometimes get bewildered and\nfall afoul of belts and cogs, and lose their limbs or lives. He knows;\nand doesn't care. So does Mr. Ames. And he wouldn't put safety devices\nover his machines, because he doesn't care. I've written to him a\ndozen times about it. But--\n\n\"And then Pillette,\" he continued; \"I've asked him to furnish his\nhands with decent drinking water. They work ten and twelve hours in\nthat inferno, and when they want to drink, why, all they have is a\nbarrel of warm water, so covered with lint that it has to be pushed\naside in order to get at the water. Why, Pillette don't even give 'em\nchange rooms! He won't give 'em decent toilet rooms! Says Mr. Ames\ncan't afford it. Seems to me that when a man can give a ball and send\nout invitations on cards of solid gold, he can afford to give a\nthought to the thousands who have toiled and suffered in order to\nenable him to give such a ball, don't you?\"\n\nCarmen did. She had attended that reception. The memory came back now\nin hot, searing thoughts.\n\n\"Oh, he catches 'em coming and going!\" the priest went on. \"You see,\nhe manipulates Congress so that a high tariff law is passed,\nprotecting him from imported goods. Then he runs up the prices of his\noutput. That hits his mill hands, for they have to pay the higher\nprices that the tariff causes. Oh, no, it doesn't result in increased\nwages to them. Ha! ha! Not a bit! They're squeezed both ways. He is\nthe only one who profits by high tariff on cotton goods. See how it\nworks?\"\n\nYes, Carmen saw. She might not know that Ames periodically appeared\nbefore Congress and begged its protection--nay, threatened, and then\ndemanded. She might not know that Senator Gossitch ate meekly from the\ngreat man's hand, and speciously represented to his dignified\ncolleagues that the benefits of high protective duties were for \"the\npeople\" of the United States. She might not know how Hood, employed to\nevade the laws enacted to hedge and restrain his master, bribed and\nbought, schemed and contrived, lobbied, traded, and manipulated, that\nhis owner might batten on his blood-stained profits, while he kept his\nface turned away from the scenes of carnage, and his ears stopped\nagainst the piteous cries of his driven slaves. But she did know how\nneedless it all was, and how easy, oh! how pitiably easy, it would be\nto remedy every such condition, would the master but yield but a\nmodicum of his colossal, mesmeric selfishness. She did not know, she\ncould not, that the master, Ames, made a yearly profit from his mills\nof more than two hundred per cent. But she did know that, were he less\nstupidly greedy, even to the extent of taking but a hundred per cent\nprofit, he would turn a flood of sunshine into hundreds of sick,\ndespairing, dying souls.\n\n\"This is the place,\" she heard the priest say, his voice seeming to\ncome from a long distance. \"This is the Mission.\"\n\nShe stopped and looked about her. They were in front of an old,\ntwo-story building, decrepit and forbidding, but well lighted. While\nshe gazed, the priest opened the door and bade her enter.\n\n\"This down here is the reading room,\" he explained. \"The door is never\nlocked. Upstairs is my office, and sleeping rooms for men. Also a\nstock of old clothes I keep on hand for 'em when I send 'em out to\nlook for work. I've clothed an average of four men a day during the\npast year, and sent 'em out to look for jobs. I board 'em, and keep\n'em going until they land something. Sometimes I have to lend 'em\nmoney. I just help 'em to help themselves. No, I never bother about a\nman's religion. Come up to my office.\"\n\nCarmen climbed the rough steps to the floor above and entered the\nsmall but well-kept office of the priest.\n\n\"Now here,\" he said, with a touch of pride, \"is my card-index. I keep\ntab on all who come here. When they get straightened up and go out to\nhunt work, I give 'em identification cards. Just as soon as I can get\nfunds I'm going to put a billiard table back there and fit up a little\nchapel, so's the Catholic men who drift in here can attend service.\nYou know, a lot of 'em don't have the nerve to go to a church. Too\nproud. But they'd attend Mass here.\"\n\nCarmen looked at the man in admiration. Then a thought came to her.\n\"We haven't either of us asked the other's name,\" she said.\n\nThe priest's eyes twinkled. \"I've been dying to know yours,\" he\nreplied. \"I'm Father Magee, Daniel Magee. But the boys generally call\nme Danny. What shall I call you? Oh, give any name; it doesn't matter,\njust so's I'll know how to address you.\"\n\n\"I am Carmen Ariza. And I am from South America,\" said the girl\nsimply. \"Now sit down here. I want to talk to you. I have a lot to\nask.\"\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nAn hour later the girl rose from her chair. \"I shall have to wait and\nvisit the Hall another time,\" she said. \"I must catch the eight-thirty\nback to the city. But--\"\n\n\"I'll never see you go down this tough street to the depot alone!\"\naverred the priest, reaching for his hat.\n\nCarmen laughed. But she gratefully accepted the proffered escort. Two\nof Father Magee's assistants had come in meanwhile, and were caring\nfor the few applicants below.\n\n\"You're right, Miss Carmen,\" the priest said, as they started for the\ntrain. \"Mr. Ames _must_ be reached. Perhaps you can do it. I can't.\nBut I'll give you every assistance possible. It eats my heart out to\nsee the suffering of these poor people!\"\n\nAt eleven o'clock that night Carmen entered the office of the city\neditor of the Express. \"Ned,\" she said, \"I've been with Dante--no,\nDanny--in Inferno. Now I'm going to Washington. I want expense\nmoney--a good lot--so that I can leave to-morrow night.\"\n\nHaynerd's eyes dilated as he stared at the girl. \"Washington!\" he\nejaculated. \"Well--! But what did you find down in Avon?\"\n\n\"I'll write you a detailed report of my trip to-morrow. I'm going home\nnow,\" she replied.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 12\n\n\nIt is sometimes said of the man who toils at forge or loom in this\ngreat commonwealth that he is fast forgetting that Washington is\nsomething more significant to him than what is embraced in the\ndefinition of the gazetteers. Not so, however, of that class of the\ngenus _homo_ individualized in J. Wilton Ames. He leaned not upon such\nfrail dependence as the _Congressional Record_ for tempered reports of\nwhat goes on behind closed legislative doors; he went behind those\ndoors himself. He needed not to yield his meekly couched desires to\nthe law-builders whom his ballot helped select; he himself launched\nthose legislators, and gave them their steering charts. But, since the\ninterpretation of laws was to him vastly more important than their\nframing, he first applied himself to the selection of judges, and\nespecially those of the federal courts. With these safely seated and\ninstructed at home, he gave himself comfortably to the task of holding\nhis legislators in Washington to the course he chose.\n\nCarmen had not spent a day at the Capital before the significance of\nthis fact to the common citizen swept over her like a tidal wave. If\nthe people, those upon whom the stability of the nation rests, looked\nas carefully after appointments and elections as did Ames, would their\npresent wrongs continue long to endure? She thought not. And after she\nhad spent the day with the Washington correspondent of the Express, a\nMr. Sands, who, with his young wife, had just removed to the Capital,\nshe knew more with respect to the mesmerism of human inertia and its\nbaneful effects upon mankind than she had known before.\n\nAnd yet, after that first day of wandering through the hallowed\nprecincts of a nation's legislative halls, she sat down upon a bench\nin the shadow of the Capitol's great dome and asked herself the\nquestions: \"What am I here for, anyway? What can _I_ do? Why have I\ncome?\" She had acted upon--impulse? No; rather, upon instinct. And\ninstinct with her, as we have said, was unrestrained dependence upon\nher own thought, the thought which entered her mentality only after\nshe had first prepared the way by the removal of every obstruction,\nincluding self.\n\nAt the breakfast table the second morning after her arrival in the\ncity, Mr. Sands handed her a copy of the Express. Among the editorials\nwas her full report upon conditions as she had found them in Avon,\npublished without her signature. Following it was the editor's\ncomment, merciless in its exposition of fact, and ruthless in its\nexposure of the cruel greed externalized in the great cotton industry\nin that little town.\n\nCarmen rose from the table indignant and protesting. Hitt had said he\nwould be wise in whatever use he made of her findings. But, though\nquite devoid of malignity, this account and its added comment were\nnothing less than a personal attack upon the master spinner, Ames. And\nshe had sent another report from Washington last night, one comprising\nall she had learned from Mr. Sands. What would Hitt do with that? She\nmust get in touch with him at once. So she set out to find a telegraph\noffice, that she might check the impulsive publisher who was openly\nhurling his challenge at the giant Philistine.\n\nWhen the message had gone, the girl dismissed the subject from her\nthought, and gave herself up completely to the charm of the glorious\nmorning and her beautiful environment. For some time she wandered\naimlessly about the city; then bent her steps again toward the\nCapitol.\n\nAt the window of a florist she stopped and looked long and lovingly at\nthe gorgeous display within. In the midst of the beautiful profusion a\nsingle flower held her attention. It was a great, brilliant red rose,\na kind that she had never seen before. She went in and asked for it.\n\n\"We call it the 'President' rose, Miss,\" said the salesman in response\nto her query. \"It is quite new.\"\n\n\"I want it,\" she said simply.\n\nAnd when she went out with the splendid flower burning on her bosom\nlike living fire, she was glad that Hitt had not been there to see her\npay two dollars for it.\n\nThe great Capitol seemed to fascinate her, as she stood before it a\nfew moments later. The spell of tradition enwrapped her. The mighty\nsentiments and motives which had actuated the framers of the\nConstitution seemed to loom before her like monuments of eternal\nstone. Had statesmanship degenerated from that day of pure patriotism\ninto mere corruption? Mr. Sands would have her so believe.\n\n\"The people!\" he had exclaimed in scoffing tones. \"Why, my dear girl,\nthe people of your great State are represented in the national Senate\nby--whom? By nobody, I say. By the flies on the panes; by the mice in\nthe corners; by the god, perhaps, to whom the chaplain offers his\nineffectual prayers; but not by men. No; one of your Senators\nrepresents a great railroad; the other an express company! The people?\nThose Senators know no such ridiculous creature as 'the people'!\"\n\nShe turned from the Capitol, and for an hour or more strolled in the\nbrilliant sunlight. \"An economic disease,\" she murmured at length.\n\"That's what it is. And, like all disease, it is mental. It is a\ndisease of the human conscience. It comes from the fear of separation\nfrom good. It all reduces to the belief of separation from God--the\nbelief that upon men's own human efforts depend all the happiness and\nsatisfaction they can have. Why, I have never known anything but\nhappiness and abundance! And yet, _I have never made a single effort\nto acquire them_!\" For the girl saw not the past vicissitudes of her\nlife except as shadowy mists, which dimmed not the sun of her joy.\n\n\"Take care!\" cried a loud voice close to her.\n\nThere was a tramping of horses' feet. A great, dark body swept past.\nIt struck her, and brushed her to one side. She strove to hold\nherself, but fell.\n\nThe man and his companion were off their horses instantly, and\nassisted the girl to her feet.\n\n\"Are you hurt?\" asked the one who had been riding ahead. \"I called to\nyou, but you didn't seem to hear.\"\n\n\"Not a bit!\" laughed the girl, recovering her breath, and stooping to\nbrush the dust from her dress. \"I was dreaming, as usual.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm glad to hear that! It was a close shave! I'm mighty sorry!\nAre you sure you're all right? Perhaps you had better come in with\nus.\"\n\nThe girl raised her head and looked into his face with a bright smile.\nThe man's anxious expression slowly changed into one of wonder, and\nthen of something quite different. The girl's long, thick hair had\nbeen loosened by the fall, and was hanging about her shoulders. Framed\nin the deep brown profusion was the fairest face he had ever looked\nupon; the most winning smile; the most loving, compassionate glance.\n\n\"You'll have to come in now, and let the maid help you,\" he said\nfirmly. \"And I'll send you home in an auto. May I ask where you\nlive?\"\n\n\"New York,\" replied Carmen, a little confused as she struggled vainly\nwith her hair. \"Oh, I'm not going to fuss with it any more!\" she\nsuddenly exclaimed. \"Yes, I'll go with you, and let the maid do it up.\nIsn't it long!\"\n\nShe glanced about her, and then up the avenue toward which the men had\nbeen riding. A flush suddenly spread over her face, and she turned and\nlooked searchingly at the man.\n\n\"You--you--live--in--there?\" she stammered, pointing toward the\ndistant house. \"And you are--\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he replied, coming to her assistance, but evidently greatly\nenjoying her embarrassment, \"I am the President.\"\n\nCarmen gave a little gasp. \"Oh!\"\n\nThen her hand stole mechanically to the rose flaming upon her bosom.\n\"I--I guess I know why I bought this now,\" she said softly. Quickly\nunpinning it, she extended it to the man. \"I was bringing it to you,\nwasn't I?\" she laughed. \"It's a 'President' rose.\"\n\nThe picture was one that would have rejoiced an artist: the simple\ngirl, with her tumbled hair and wonderful face, standing there in the\nglorious sunlight, holding out a single rose to the chief executive of\na great nation.\n\nThe President bowed low and took the proffered flower. \"I thank you,\"\nhe said. \"It is beautiful. But the one who gives it is far more so.\"\n\nThen he bade his companion take the two horses to the stable, and\nmotioned to Carmen to accompany him.\n\n\"I was just returning from my morning ride,\" he began again, \"when you\nhappened--\"\n\n\"Things _never_ happen,\" interrupted the girl gently.\n\nHe looked at her with a little quizzical side glance. \"Then you didn't\nhappen to be in the way?\" he said, smiling.\n\n\"No,\" she returned gravely. \"I was obeying the law of cause and\neffect.\"\n\n\"And the cause?\" he pursued, much interested.\n\n\"A desire to see you, I guess. Or, perhaps, the _necessity_ of seeing\nyou. And because I wanted to see you in the interests of good, why,\nevil seemed to try to run over me.\"\n\n\"But why should you wish to see me?\" he continued, greatly wondering.\n\n\"Because you are the head of a wonderful nation. Your influence is\nvery great. And you are a good man.\"\n\nHe studied her for a moment. Then:\n\n\"You came down from New York to talk with me?\" he asked.\n\n\"I think I came all the way from South America to see you,\" she said.\n\n\"South America!\"\n\n\"Yes, Colombia.\"\n\n\"Colombia! There is a revolution in progress down there now. Did you\ncome to see me about that? I can do nothing--\"\n\nThe girl shook her head. \"No,\" she said, \"it's to prevent a revolution\nhere in your own country that I think I have come to see you.\"\n\nThey had by now reached the door of the Executive Mansion. Entering,\nthe President summoned a maid, and turned the big-eyed girl over to\nher. \"Bring her to my office,\" he directed, \"when she is ready.\"\n\nA little later the nameless girl from Simit\u00ed again stood before the\nPresident of the United States.\n\n\"I have an important conference at ten,\" he said, glancing at a clock.\n\"But we have a few minutes before that time. Will you--may I ask you\nto tell me something about yourself?\" he ventured. \"You are feeling\nall right? No bad effects from the accident?\" he added, looking\napprehensively at her while he set out a chair.\n\nThe girl drew the chair close to his desk and sat down. \"I know\nnothing about accidents,\" she said quietly. Then, turning quite from\nthat topic, she drew the President quickly into her thought and\ncarried him off with her as on a magic carpet.\n\nThe man listened in rapt attention. From time to time he turned and\nstared at his strange visitor. At other times he made notes of points\nwhich impressed him. Once he interrupted, when she made reference to\nher past life. \"This priest, Jos\u00e8 de Rinc\u00f3n, might he not have been\nimprisoned as a political offender?\"\n\n\"I do not know,\" the girl replied tenderly. \"My foster-father,\nRosendo, did not mention him in the two letters which I have\nreceived.\"\n\nThe President nodded; and the girl went rapidly on. Soon she was deep\nin the problem presented by Avon.\n\nBut at the mention of that town, and of its dominating genius, the\nPresident seemed to become nervous. At length he raised a hand, as if\nto end the interview.\n\n\"I fear I can do nothing at present,\" he said with an air of\nhelplessness. \"My influence is quite limited.\"\n\n\"But,\" she protested, \"you have the public welfare at heart. And can\nyou not see that public welfare is the welfare of each individual?\"\n\n\"I know Mr. Ames well,\" the President replied, somewhat irrelevantly.\n\"He, like all men of great wealth, presents a serious problem,\ndoubtless. But he himself, likewise, is confronted by problems of very\ntrying natures. We must give him time to work them out.\"\n\nThe girl sighed. \"It's like getting at the essence of Christianity,\"\nshe said. \"The world has had nearly two thousand years in which to do\nthat, but it hasn't made much of a start as yet. How much time does\nMr. Ames require? And how many more lives must he sacrifice?\"\n\n\"But,\" the President resumed reflectively, \"after all, it is the\npeople who are wholly responsible for the conditions which exist among\nthem. They have the means of remedying every economic situation, the\nballot. It is really all in their hands, is it not? They elect their\npublic officers, their judges, and their lawmakers.\"\n\nAgain the girl sighed. \"You too,\" she said, \"take refuge in the cant\nof the age. Yes, the people do try to elect public servants; but by\nsome strange anomaly the servant becomes master the moment he enters\nthe door of office. His thought then centers upon himself. And then\nthey, and you, sit helplessly back and cry, No use! And if the people\nrise, their servants meet them with a hail of lead. It's really\nchildishly ridiculous, isn't it? when you stop to consider it\nseriously.\"\n\nShe leaned her elbows upon the desk, and sat with chin in her hands,\nlooking squarely into the eyes of the President.\n\n\"So you, the head of this great nation, confess to utter helplessness,\"\nshe slowly said. \"But you don't have to.\"\n\nA servant entered at that moment with a card. The President glanced at\nit, and bade him request the caller to wait a few moments. Then, after\nsome reflection:\n\n\"The people will always--\"\n\nThe door through which the servant had passed was abruptly thrown\nopen, and a harsh voice preceded the entrance of a huge bulk.\n\n\"I am not accustomed to being told to wait, Mr. President,\" said the\nungracious voice. \"My appointment was for ten o'clock, and I am here\nto keep it.\"\n\nThen the newcomer stopped abruptly, and stared in amazement at the\nyoung girl, sitting with her elbows propped upon the desk, and her\nface close to that of the President.\n\nThe latter rose, flushed and angry. But Ames did not notice him. His\nattention was centered upon the girl who sat looking calmly up at him.\nA dark, menacing scowl drew his bushy eyebrows together, and made the\nsinister look which mantled his face one of ominous import to the\nperson upon whom it fell.\n\nCarmen was the first to break the tense silence. With a bright smile\nilluming her face she rose and held out a hand to the giant before\nher. \"Good morning, Mr. Ames,\" she said. \"We meet pretty often, don't\nwe?\"\n\nAmes ignored both the greeting and the extended hand. Turning upon the\nPresident, he said sharply: \"So, the Express seeks aid in the White\nHouse, eh?\"\n\n\"No, Mr. Ames,\" said Carmen quickly, answering for the President. \"It\nseeks to aid the White House.\"\n\nAmes turned to the girl. \"Might I ask,\" he said in a tone of mordant\nsarcasm, \"how you learned that I was to be here this morning? I would\nlike to employ your methods of espionage in my own business.\"\n\n\"I would give anything if you _would_ employ my methods in your\nbusiness,\" returned the girl gently.\n\nThe President looked in embarrassment from one to the other. \"I think,\nMiss Carmen,\" he said, \"that we must consider our interview ended.\nThis next hour belongs by appointment to Mr. Ames.\"\n\nA peculiar expression had come into Ames's features. His thought had\nbeen working rapidly. Here was an opportunity for a telling stroke. He\nwould play it. His manner suddenly became more gracious.\n\n\"Let her remain, Mr. President,\" he said in a tone pregnant with\nmeaning. \"I am glad to have a representative of the New York press\nwith us to hear you express your attitude toward the cotton\nschedule.\"\n\nThe President caught the insinuation. His hand was to be forced! His\nindignation mounted, but he checked it.\n\n\"The schedule has been reported out of committee,\" he replied briefly.\n\"It is now before Congress.\"\n\n\"I am aware of that,\" said Ames. \"And your influence with Congress in\nregard to it?\"\n\n\"I am studying the matter, Mr. Ames,\" returned the President slowly.\n\n\"Shall the Avon mills be closed pending a decision? Or, on the\nassumption that Congress will uphold the altered schedule, must the\nSpinners' Association begin immediate retrenchment? As president of\nthat Association, I ask for instructions.\"\n\n\"My influence with Congress, as you well know, Mr. Ames, is quite\nlimited,\" replied the hectored executive.\n\n\"It is not a question of the _amount_ of your influence with that\nbody, Mr. President,\" returned Ames coldly, \"but of how you will\nemploy that which you have.\"\n\nSilence lay upon them all for some moments. Then Ames resumed:\n\n\"I would remind you,\" he remarked with cruel insinuation, \"that--or,\"\nglancing at the girl, \"perhaps I should not make this public.\" He\npaused and awaited the effect of his significant words upon the\nPresident. Then, as the latter remained silent, he went on evenly:\n\n\"Second-term prospects, you are aware, are often very greatly\ninfluenced by public facts regarding the first election. Of course we\nare saying nothing that the press might use, but--well, you must\nrealize that there is some suspicion current as to the exact manner in\nwhich your election was--\"\n\n\"I think you wish to insinuate that my election was due to the\nCatholic vote, which you controlled in New York, and to your very\ngenerous campaign contributions, do you not? I see no reason for\nwithholding from the press your views on the subject.\"\n\n\"But, my friend, this is an age of investigation, and of suspicion\ntoward all public officials. And such rumors wouldn't look well on the\nfront pages of the press throughout the country. Of course, our young\nfriend here isn't going to mention them to her superiors; but,\nnevertheless, they ought to be suppressed at once. Their effect upon\nyour second-term prospects would be simply annihilating. Now I am in a\nposition to greatly assist in the matter of--well, in fact, I have\nalready once offered my aid to the Express. And I stand ready now to\njoin with it in giving the lie to those who are seeking to embarrass\nthe present administration. Miss Carmen is with us--\"\n\n\"Mr. Ames,\" the girl quietly interrupted, \"I wish _you_ were with\n_us_.\"\n\n\"But, my dear girl, have I--\"\n\n\"For then there would be no more suffering in Avon,\" she added.\n\n\"Ha! Then it was you who wrote that misleading stuff in the Express,\neh? I might have known it! May I ask,\" he added with a contemptuous\nsneer, \"by whose authority you have visited the houses occupied by my\ntenants, without my permission or knowledge? I take it you were down\nthere, although the cloudy weather must have quite dimmed your\nperception.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered in a low voice, \"I have been there. And it was\n_very_ cloudy. Yes, I visited your charnel houses and your cemeteries.\nI saw your victims. I held their trembling hands, and stroked their\nhot brows. I fed them, and gave them the promise that I would plead\ntheir cause with you.\"\n\n\"Humph! But you first come here to--\"\n\n\"It was with no thought of seeing you that I came to Washington, Mr.\nAmes. If I cross your path often, it must be for a purpose not yet\nrevealed to either of us. Perhaps it is to warn you, to awaken you, if\nnot too late, to a sense of your desperate state.\"\n\n\"My desperate state!\"\n\n\"Yes. You are drunk, you know, drunk with greed. And such continuous\ndrunkenness has made you sick unto death. It is the same dread disease\nof the soul that the wicked Cortez told the bewildered Mexicans he\nhad, and that could be cured only with gold. You--you don't see, Mr.\nAmes, that you are mesmerized by the evil which is always using you.\"\n\nShe stood close to the huge man, and looked straight up into his face.\nHe remained for a moment motionless, yielding again to that\nfascination which always held him when in her presence, and of which\nhe could give no account to himself. That slight, girlish figure--how\neasily he could crush her!\n\n\"But you couldn't, you know,\" she said cryptically, as she shook her\nhead.\n\n\"Couldn't what?\" he demanded.\n\n\"Crush me.\"\n\nHe recoiled a step, struck by the sudden revelation that the girl had\nread his thought.\n\n\"You see, Mr. Ames,\" she continued, \"what a craven error is before\ntruth. It makes a coward of you, doesn't it? Your boasted power is\nonly a mesmerism, which you throw like a huge net over your victims.\nYou and they can break it, if you will.\"\n\n\"Miss Carmen!\" exclaimed the President. \"We really must consider our\ninterview ended. Let us make an appointment for another day.\"\n\n\"I guess the appointment was made for to-day,\" the girl said softly.\n\"And by a higher power than any of us. Mr. Ames is the type of man who\nis slowly turning our Republican form of government into a despotism\nof wealth. He boasts that his power is already greater than a czar's.\nYou bow before it; and so the awful monster of privilege goes on\nunhampered, coiling its slimy tentacles about our national resources,\nour public utilities, and natural wealth. I--I can't see how you, the\nhead of this great nation, can stand trembling by and see him do it.\nIt is to me incomprehensible.\"\n\nThe President flushed. He made as if to reply, but restrained himself.\nCarmen gave no indication of leaving. A stern look then came into the\nPresident's face. He stood for a few minutes in thought. Then he\nturned again to his desk and sat down.\n\n\"Please be seated,\" he said, \"both of you. I don't know what quarrel\nthere is between you two, and I am not interested in it. But you, Miss\nCarmen, represent the press; Mr. Ames, business. The things which have\nbeen voiced here this morning must remain with us alone. Now let us\nsee if we can not meet on common ground. Is the attitude of your\nnewspaper, Miss Carmen, one of hostility toward great wealth?\"\n\n\"The Express raises its voice only against the folly and wickedness of\nthe human mind, not against personality,\" replied the girl.\n\n\"But you are attacking Mr. Ames.\"\n\n\"No. We attack only the human thought which manifests in him. We\noppose the carnal thought which expresses itself in the folly, the\nmadness of strife for excessive wealth. It is that strife that makes\nour hospitals and asylums a disgraceful necessity. It makes the\nimmigrant hordes of Europe flock here because they are attracted by\nthe horrible social system which fosters the growth of great fortunes\nand makes their acquisition possible. Our alms-houses and prisons\nincrease in number every year. It is because rich men misuse their\nwealth, trample justice under foot, and prostitute a whole nation's\nconscience.\"\n\n\"But the rich need not do that. They do not all--\"\n\n\"It is a law of human thought,\" said Carmen in reply, \"that mankind in\ntime become like that which has absorbed their attention. Rich men\nobey this law with utmost precision. They acquire the nature and\ncharacter of their god, gold. They rapidly grow to be like that which\nthey blindly worship. They harden like their money. They grow\nmetallic, yellow, calloused, unchanging, and soulless, like the coins\nthey heap up. There is the great danger to our country, Mr. President.\nAnd it is against the human thought that produces such beings--thought\nstamped with the dollar mark--that the Express opposes itself.\"\n\nShe hesitated, and looked in the direction of Ames. Then she added:\n\n\"Their features in time reveal to the world their metallic thought.\nTheir veins shrivel with the fiery lust of gold. Their arteries\nharden. And then, at last, they crumble and sink into the dust of\nwhich their god is made. And still their memories continue to poison\nthe very sources of our national existence. You see,\" she concluded,\n\"there is no fool so mired in his folly as the man who gives his soul\nfor great wealth.\"\n\n\"A very enjoyable little sermon, preached for my benefit, Miss\nCarmen,\" interposed Ames, bowing to her. \"And now if you have finished\nexcoriating my poor character,\" he continued dryly, \"will you kindly\nstate by whose authority you publish to the world my affairs?\"\n\n\"God's authority, Mr. Ames,\" returned the girl gently.\n\n\"Bah! The maudlin sentimentalism of such as you make us all suffer!\"\nhe exclaimed with a gesture of disgust. \"Hadn't we better sing a hymn\nnow? You're obsessed with your foolish religious notions! You're\nrunning amuck! You'll be wiser in a few years, I hope.\"\n\nThe girl reflected. \"And may I ask, Mr. Ames, by what right you own\nmines, and forests, and lands? Divine right, I suppose.\"\n\n\"By the divine right of law, most assuredly,\" he retorted.\n\n\"And you make the law. Yes, divine right! I have learned,\" she\ncontinued, turning to the President, \"that a bare handful of men own\nor control all the public utilities of this great country. It doesn't\nseem possible! But,\" abruptly, \"you believe in God, don't you?\"\n\nHe nodded his head, although with some embarrassment. His religion\nlabored heavily under political bias.\n\nShe looked down at the floor, and sat silent for a while. \"Divine\nright,\" she began to murmur, \"the fetish of the creatures made rich by\nour man-made social system! 'The heavens are thine, the earth also is\nthine: as for the world and the fullness thereof, thou hast founded\nthem.' But, oh, what must be the concept of God held by the rich, a\nGod who bestows these gifts upon a few, and with them the privilege\nand divine consent to oppress and crush their fellow-men! What a low\norder of intelligence the rich possess! An intelligence wherein the\nsentiments of love and justice have melted into money!\"\n\n\"Mr. President,\" put in Ames at this juncture, \"I think we have spent\nquite enough time moralizing. Suppose you now indicate your attitude\non the cotton tariff. I'd like to know what to expect.\"\n\nCarmen glanced quickly up. Her sparkling eyes looked right into the\nPresident's. A smile wreathed her mouth. \"I admire the man,\" she said,\n\"who dares to stand for the right in the face of the great taboo!\nThere are few men nowadays who stand for anything in particular.\"\n\n\"Look here!\" exclaimed Ames, aware now that he had made a mistake in\npermitting the girl to remain, \"I wish my interview to be with you\nalone, Mr. President.\"\n\nCarmen rose. \"I have embarrassed you both, haven't I?\" she said. \"I\nwill go. But first--\"\n\nShe went to Ames and laid a hand on his arm. \"I wish--I wish I might\nawaken you,\" she said gently. \"There is no victim at Avon in so\ndesperate a state as you. More gold will not cure you, any more than\nmore liquor can cure a slave to strong drink. You do not know that you\nare hourly practicing the most despicable form of robbery, the\nwringing of profits which you do not need out of the dire necessities\nof your fellow-beings.\"\n\nShe stopped and smiled down into the face of the man. His emotions\nwere in a whirl. This girl always dissected his soul with a smile on\nher face.\n\n\"I wish I might awaken you and your poor victims by showing you and\nthem that righteousness makes not for a home in the skies, but for\ngreater happiness and prosperity for everybody right here in this\nworld. Don't you really want the little babies to have enough to eat\ndown there at Avon? Do you really want the President to support you in\nthe matter of the cotton schedule, and so increase the misery and\nsorrow at your mills? You don't know, do you? that one's greatest\nhappiness is found only in that of others.\" She stood looking at him\nfor a few moments, then turned away.\n\nThe President rose and held out his hand to her. She almost laughed as\nshe took it, and her eyes shone with the light of her eager, unselfish\ndesire.\n\n\"I--I guess I'm like Paul,\" she said, \"consumed with zeal. Anyway,\nyou'll wear my rose, won't you?\"\n\n\"Indeed I will!\" he said heartily.\n\n\"And--you are not a bit afraid about a second term, are you? As for\nparty principle, why, you know, there is only _one_ principle, God. He\nis the Christ-principle, you know, and that is way above party\nprinciple.\"\n\nUnder the spell of the girl's strange words every emotion fled from\nthe men but that of amazement.\n\n\"Righteousness, you know, is right-thinking. And that touches just\nthat about which men are most chary, their pocketbooks.\"\n\nShe still held his hand. Then she arched her brows and said na\u00efvely:\n\"You will find in yesterday's Express something about Avon. You will\nnot use your influence with Congress until you have read it, will\nyou?\" And with that she left the room.\n\nA deep quiet fell upon the men, upon the great executive and the great\napostle of privilege. It seemed to the one that as the door closed\nagainst that bright presence the spirit of night descended; the other\nsat wrapped in the chaos of conflicting emotions in which she always\nleft him.\n\nSuddenly the President roused up. \"Who is she?\" he asked.\n\n\"She's the bastard daughter of a negro priest,\" replied Ames in an\nugly tone.\n\n\"What--she? That beautiful girl--! I don't believe it!\"\n\n\"By God, she is!\" cried the thoroughly angered Ames, bringing a huge\nfist down hard upon the desk. \"And I've got the proof! And, what's\nmore, she's head over heels in love with another renegade priest!\n\n\"But that's neither here nor there,\" he continued savagely. \"I want to\nknow what you are going to do for us?\"\n\n\"I--I do not see, Mr. Ames, that I can do anything,\" replied the\nPresident meditatively.\n\n\"Well--will you leave the details to us, and do as we tell you then?\"\nthe financier pursued, taking another tack.\n\nThe President hesitated. Then he raised his head. \"You say you have\nproof?\" he asked.\n\n\"Proof?\"\n\n\"Yes--about the girl, you--\"\n\n\"Damn the girl!\" almost shouted Ames. \"I've got proofs that will ruin\nher, and you too--and, by God, I'll use 'em, if you drive me to it!\nYou seem to forget that you were elected to do our bidding, my\nfriend!\"\n\nThe President again lapsed into silence. For a long time he sat\nstaring at the floor. Then he looked up. \"It was wonderful,\" he said,\n\"wonderful the way she faced you, like David before Goliath! There\nisn't a vestige of fear in her make-up. I--we'll talk this matter over\nsome other time, Mr. Ames,\" he finished, rising abruptly.\n\n\"We'll talk it over now!\" roared Ames, his self-control flying to the\nwinds. \"I can ruin you--make your administration a laughing-stock--and\nplunge this country into financial panic! Do you do as I say, or\nnot?\"\n\nThe President looked the angry man squarely in the eyes. \"I do not,\"\nhe answered quietly. \"Good morning.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 13\n\n\n\"It's corking! Simply corking!\" cried Haynerd, when he and Hitt had\nfinished reading Carmen's report on her first few days in Washington.\n\"Makes a fellow feel as if the best thing Congress could do would be\nto adjourn for about fifty years, eh? Such freak legislation! But\nshe's a wonder, Hitt! And she's booming the Express to the skies! Say,\ndo you know? she's in love, that girl is! That's why she is so--as the\nMexicans say--_simp\u00e1tico_.\"\n\n\"Eh? In love!\" exclaimed Hitt. \"Well, not with you, I hope!\"\n\n\"No, unfortunately,\" replied Haynerd, assuming a dejected mien, \"but\nwith that Rinc\u00f3n fellow--and he a priest! He's got a son down in\nCartagena somewhere, and he doesn't write to her either. She's told\nSid the whole story, and he's working it up into a book during his odd\nmoments. But, say,\" turning the conversation again into its original\nchannel, \"how much of her report are we going to run? You know, she\ntried to head us off. Doesn't want to attack Ames. Ha! ha! As if she\nhadn't already attacked him and strewn him all over the field!\"\n\n\"We'll have to be careful in our allusions to the President,\" replied\nHitt. \"I'll rewrite it myself, so as not to offend her or him. And\nI--but, by George! her reports are the truth, and they rightfully\nbelong to the people! The Express is the avowed servant of the\npublic! What she finds out belongs to all. I see no reason for\nconcealing a thing. Did I tell you that I had two inquiries from\nItalian and German papers, asking permission to translate her reports\ninto their own columns?\"\n\n\"No? Jerusalem! We're becoming famous! Did you wire her to see\nGossitch and Mall?\"\n\n\"Yes, and Logue, as well as others. And I've put dozens of senators\nand congressmen on our mailing list, including the President himself.\nI've prepared letters for each one of them, calling attention to the\ngirl and her unique reports. She certainly writes in a fascinating\nvein, doesn't she? Meanwhile, she's circulating around down there and\nadvertising us in the best possible manner. We're a success, old man!\"\nhe finished, slapping the city editor roundly upon the back.\n\n\"Humph!\" growled the latter. \"Confine your enthusiasm to words, my\nfriend. Say, what did you do about that liquid food advertisement?\"\n\n\"Discovered that it was beer,\" replied Hitt, \"and turned it firmly\ndown.\"\n\n\"Well, isn't beer a food? Not that we care to advertise it, but--\"\n\nHitt laughed. \"When that fellow Claus smoothly tried to convince me\nthat beer was a food, I sent a sample of his stuff to the Iles\nchemical laboratory for analysis. They reported ninety-four per cent\nwater, four per cent alcohol--defined now as a poisonous drug--and\nabout two per cent of possible food substance. If the beer had been of\nthe first grade there wouldn't have been even the two per cent of\nsolids. You know, I couldn't help thinking of what Carmen said about\nthe beer that is advertised in brown bottles to preserve it from the\ndeleterious effects of light. Light, you know, starts decay in beer.\nWell, light, according to Fuller, is 'God's eldest daughter.' Emerson\nsays it is the first of painters, and that there is nothing so foul\nthat intense light will not make it beautiful. Light destroys\nfermentation. Thus the light of truth destroys the fermentation which\nis supposed to constitute the human mind and body. So light tries to\npurify beer by breaking it up. The brewers have to put it into brown\nbottles to preserve its poisonous qualities. As Carmen says, beer\nsimply can't stand the light. No evil can stand the light. Remarkable,\nisn't it?\"\n\n\"Humph! It's astonishing that so many so-called reputable papers will\ntake their advertising stuff. It's just as bad as patent medicine\nads.\"\n\n\"Yes. And I note that the American public still spend their annual\nhundred million dollars for patent medicine dope. Most of this is\nspent by women, who are largely caught by the mail-order trade. I\nlearned of one exposure recently made where it was found that a widely\nadvertised eye wash was composed of borax and water. The cost was\nsomewhere about five cents a gallon, and it sold for a dollar an\nounce. Nice little profit of some two hundred and fifty thousand per\ncent, and all done by the mesmerism of suggestive advertising. Shrewd\nbusiness, eh? Nice example in morality. Speaking of parasites on\nsociety, Ames is not the only one!\"\n\n\"And yet those fellows howl and threaten us with the boycott because\nwe won't advertise their lies and delusions. It's as bad as\necclesiastical intolerance!\"\n\nCarmen spent a week in Washington. Then she returned to New York and\nwent directly to Avon. What she did there can only be surmised by a\nstudy of her reports to Hitt, who carefully edited them and ran them\nin the Express. Again, after several days, she journeyed back to\nWashington. Her enthusiasm was boundless; her energy exhaustless; her\nindustry ceaseless; and her persistency doggedly unshakable. In\nWashington she made her way unhindered among those whom she deemed\nessential to the work which she was doing. Doubtless her ability to do\nthis and to gain an audience with whomsoever she might choose was in\ngreat part due to her beauty and charming simplicity, her grace of\nmanner, and her wonderful and fearless innocence, combined with a\nmentality remarkable for its matured powers. Hitt and Haynerd groaned\nover her expenses, but promptly met them.\n\n\"She's worth it,\" growled the latter one day. \"She's had four\ndifferent talks with the President! How on earth do you suppose she\ndoes it? And how did she get Mall and Logue to take her to dinner and\nto the theater again and again? And what did she do to induce that\ndoddering old blunderbuss, Gossitch, to tell her what Ames was up to?\nI'll bet he made love to her! How do you suppose she found out that\nAmes was hand in glove with the medical profession, and working tooth\nand nail to help them secure a National Bureau of Health? Say, do you\nknow what that would do? It would foist allopathy upon every chick and\nchild of us! Make medication, drugging, compulsory! Good heavens! Have\nwe come to that in this supposedly free country? By the way, Hitt,\nDoctor Morton has been let out of the University. Fired! He says Ames\ndid it because of his association with us. What do you think of\nthat?\"\n\n\"I think, my friend,\" replied Hitt, \"that it is a very serious matter,\nand one that impinges heavily upon the rights of every one of us, when\na roaring lion like Ames is permitted to run loose through our\nstreets. Can nothing stop him!\"\n\n\"I've centered my hopes in Carmen,\" sighed Haynerd. \"She's my one last\nbet. If she can't stop him, then God himself can't!\"\n\nHitt turned and went into his office. A few moments later he came out\nagain and handed an opened letter to Haynerd. \"Some notes she's sent\nfrom Washington. Mentions the National Bureau of Health project. It\nhasn't escaped her, you see. Say, will you tell me where she picks up\nher information?\"\n\n\"The Lord gives it to her, I guess,\" said Haynerd, glancing over the\nletter. \"What's this?\"\n\n  \"'Reverend Borwell and Doctor Siler are down here lobbying for the\n  National Bureau of Health bill. Also, Senator Gossitch dropped a\n  remark to me yesterday which makes me believe that he and other\n  Senators have been approached by Tetham with reference to sending\n  an American ambassador to the Vatican. Mr. Ames favors this.'\"\n\nHaynerd handed the letter back to Hitt and plunged into the papers on\nhis desk. \"Don't say another word to me!\" he exclaimed. \"This\ncountry's going stark, staring mad! We're crazy, every mother's son of\nus!\"\n\n\"It's the human mind that is crazy, Ned, because it is wholly without\nany basis of principle,\" returned Hitt with a sigh.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Doctor Siler! I beg your pardon!\"\n\n\"Eh? Why, Miss Carmen!\" exclaimed that worthy person, looking up from\nthe gutter, whither he had hastened after his silk hat which had been\nknocked off by the encounter with the young girl who had rounded the\ncorner of Ninth street into Pennsylvania avenue and plunged full into\nhim.\n\n\"Oh, I'm so sorry, Doctor! I was coming from the Smithsonian\nInstitution, and I guess--\"\n\n\"Don't mention it, Miss Carmen. It's a privilege to have my hat\nknocked off by such a radiant creature as you.\"\n\n\"But it was so stupid of me! Dreaming again! And I want to offer\nmy--\"\n\n\"Look here, Miss Carmen, just offer yourself as my guest at luncheon,\nwill you? That will not only make amends, but place me hopelessly in\nyour debt.\"\n\n\"Indeed I will!\" exclaimed the girl heartily. \"I was on my way to a\nrestaurant.\"\n\n\"Then come with me. I've got a little place around the corner here\nthat would have made Epicurus sit up nights inditing odes to it.\"\n\nThe girl laughed merrily, and slipped her arm through his. A few\nminutes later they were seated at a little table in a secluded corner\nof the doctor's favorite chophouse.\n\n\"By the way, I met a friend of yours a few minutes ago,\" announced the\ndoctor, after they had given their orders. \"He was coming out of the\nWhite House, and--were you ever in a miniature cyclone? Well, that was\nAmes! He blew me right off the sidewalk! So angry, he didn't see me.\nThat's twice to-day I've been sent to the gutter!\" He laughed heartily\nover his experiences, then added significantly: \"You and he are both\nmental cyclones, but producing diametrically opposite effects.\"\n\nCarmen remained seriously thoughtful. The doctor went on chatting\nvolubly. \"Ames and the President don't seem to be pulling together\nas well as usual. The President has come out squarely against him\nnow in the matter of the cotton schedule. Ames declares that the\nresult will be a general financial panic this fall. By the way, Mr.\nSands, the Express correspondent, seems to be getting mighty close\nto administration affairs these days. Where did he get that data\nregarding a prospective National Bureau of Health, do you suppose?\"\n\n\"I gave it to him,\" was the simple reply.\n\nThe doctor dropped his fork, and stared at the girl. \"You!\" he\nexclaimed. \"Well--of course you naturally would be opposed to it.\nBut--\"\n\n\"Tell me,\" she interrupted, \"tell me candidly just what you doctors\nare striving for, anyway. For universal health? Are your activities\nall quite utilitarian, or--is it money and monopoly that you are\nafter? It makes a lot of difference, you know, in one's attitude\ntoward you. If you really seek the betterment of health, then you are\nonly honestly mistaken in your zeal. But if you are doing this to make\nmoney--and I think you are--then you are a lot of rascals, deserving\ndefeat.\"\n\n\"Miss Carmen, do you impugn my motives?\" He laughed lightly at the\nthought.\n\n\"N--well--\" She hesitated. He began to color slightly under her keen\nscrutiny. \"Well,\" she finally continued, \"let's see. If you doctors\nhave made the curative arts effective, and if you really do heal\ndisease, then I must support you, of course. But, while there is\nnothing quite so important to the average mortal as his health, yet I\nknow that there is hardly anything that has been dealt with in such a\nbungling way. The art of healing as employed by our various schools of\nmedicine to-day is the result of ages and ages of experimentation and\nbitter experience, isn't it? And its cost in human lives is simply\nincalculable. No science is so speculative, none so hypothetical, as\nthe so-called science of medicine.\"\n\n\"But we have had to learn,\" protested the doctor.\n\n\"Do you realize, Doctor,\" she resumed, \"that the teaching and\npreaching of disease for money is one of the greatest curses resting\nupon the world to-day? I never saw a doctor until I was on the boat\ncoming to New York. And then I thought he was one of the greatest\ncuriosities I had ever seen. I followed him about and listened to him\ntalk to the passengers. And I learned that, like most of our young\nmen, he had entered the practice of medicine under the pressure of\ndollars rather than altruism. Money is still the determining factor in\nthe choice of a profession by our young men. And success and fortune\nin the medical profession, more than in any other, depend upon the\ncredulity of the ignorant and helpless human mind.\"\n\n\"Do you deny that great progress has been made in the curative arts?\"\nhe demanded. \"See what we have done with diphtheria, with typhoid,\nwith smallpox, and malaria!\"\n\n\"Surely, Doctor, you can not believe that the mere temporary removing\nof a disease is _real_ healing! You render one lot of microbes\ninnocuous, after thousands of years of experimentation, and leave\nmankind subject to the rest. Then you render another set harmless. Do\nyou expect to go on that way, making set after set of microbes\nharmless to the human body, and thus in time, after millions of years,\neradicate disease entirely? Do you think that people will then cease\nto die? All the time you are working only in matter and through\nmaterial modes. Do you expect thereby to render the human sense of\nlife immortal? I think a sad disappointment awaits you. Your patients\nget well, only to fall sick again. And death to you is still as\ninevitable as ever, despite your boasted successes, is it not so?\"\n\nHe broke into a bantering laugh, but did not reply.\n\n\"Doctor, the human mind is self-inoculated. It suffers from\nauto-infection. It makes its own disease microbes. It will keep on\nmaking them, until it is educated out of itself, and taught to do\nbetter. Then it will give place to the real reflection of divine mind;\nand human beings will be no more. Why don't you realize this, you\ndoctors, and get started on the right track? Your real work is in the\n_mental_ realm. There you will find both cause and cure.\"\n\n\"Well, I for one have little respect for faith cure--\"\n\n\"Nor I,\" she interposed. \"Dependence upon material drugs, Doctor, is\nreliance upon the _phenomena_ of the human mind. Faith cure is\ndependence upon the human mind itself, upon the _noumenon_, instead of\nthe _phenomenon_. Do you see the difference? Hypnotism is mental\nsuggestion, the suggestions being human and material, not divine\ntruth. The drugging system is an outgrowth of the belief of life in\nmatter. Faith cure is the belief of life and power inherent in the\nhuman mind. One is no higher than the other. The origin of healing is\nshrouded in mythology, and every step of its so-called progress has\nbeen marked by superstition, dense ignorance, and fear. The first\ndoctor that history records was the Shaman, or medicine-man, whose\nremedies reflected his mental status, and later found apt illustration\nin the brew concocted by Macbeth's witches. And think you he has\ndisappeared? Unbelievable as it may seem, it was only a short time ago\nthat a case was reported from New York where the skin of a freshly\nkilled black cat was applied as a remedy for an ailment that had\nrefused to yield to the prescribed drugging! And only a few years ago\nsome one applied to the Liverpool museum for permission to touch a\nsick child's head with one of the prehistoric stone axes there\nexhibited.\"\n\n\"That was mere superstition,\" retorted the doctor.\n\n\"True,\" said Carmen. \"But _materia medica_ is superstition incarnate.\nAnd because of the superstition that life and virtue and power are\nresident in matter, mankind have swallowed nearly everything known to\nmaterial sense, in the hope that it would cure them of their own\nauto-infection. You remember what awful recipes Luther gave for\ndisease, and his exclamation of gratitude: 'How great is the mercy of\nGod who has put such healing virtue in all manner of muck!'\"\n\n\"Miss Carmen,\" resumed the doctor, \"we physicians are workers, not\ntheorists. We handle conditions as we find them, not as they ought to\nbe.\"\n\n\"Oh, no, you don't!\" laughed the girl. \"You handle conditions as the\nhuman, mortal mind believes them to be, that's all. You accept its\nugly pictures as real, and then you try desperately through\nlegislation to make us all accept them. Yet you would bitterly resent\nit if some religious body should try to legislate its beliefs upon\nyou.\n\n\"Now listen, you doctors are rank materialists. Perhaps it is because,\nas Hawthorne puts it, in your researches into the human frame your\nhigher and more subtle faculties are materialized, and you lose the\nspiritual view of existence. Your only remedy for diseased matter is\nmore matter. And these material remedies? Why, ignorance and\nsuperstition have given rise to by far the larger number of remedies\nin use by you to-day! And all of your attempts to rationalize medicine\nand place it upon a systematic basis have signally failed, because the\nonly curative property a drug has is the credulity of the person who\nswallows it. And that is a factor which varies with the individual.\"\n\n\"The most advanced physicians give little medicine nowadays, Miss\nCarmen.\"\n\n\"They are beginning to get away from it, little by little,\" she\nreplied. \"In recent years it has begun to dawn upon doctors and\npatients alike that the sick who recover do so, not because of the\ndrugs which they have taken, but _in spite of them_! One of the most\nprominent of our contemporary physicians who are getting away from the\nuse of drugs has said that eighty-five per cent of all illnesses get\nwell of their own accord, no matter what may or may not be done for\nthem. In a very remarkable article from this same doctor's pen, in\nwhich he speaks of the huge undertaking which physicians must assume\nin order to clear away the _materia medica_ rubbish of the ages, he\nstates that the greatest struggle which the coming doctor has on his\nhands is with drugs, and the deadly grip which they have on the\nconfidence and affections both of the profession and of the public.\nAmong his illuminating remarks about the drug system, I found two\ndrastic statements, which should serve to lift the veil from the eyes\nof the chronic drug taker. These are, first, 'Take away opium and\nalcohol, and the backbone of the patent medicine business would be\nbroken inside of forty-eight hours,' and, second, 'No drug, save\nquinine and mercury in special cases, will cure a disease.' In words\nwhich he quotes from another prominent physician, 'He is the best\ndoctor who knows the worthlessness of most drugs.'\n\n\"The hundreds of drugs listed in books on _materia medica_ I find are\ngradually being reduced in number to a possible forty or fifty, and\none doctor makes the radical statement that they can be cut down to\nthe 'six or seven real drugs.' Still further light has been thrown\nupon the debasing nature of the drugging system by a member of the\nPhiladelphia Drug Exchange, in a recent hearing before the House\nCommittee on municipal affairs right here. He is reported as saying\nthat it makes little difference what a manufacturer puts into a patent\nmedicine, for, after all, the effect of the medicine depends upon the\nfaith of the user. The sick man who turns to patent medicines for\nrelief becomes the victim of 'bottled faith.' If his faith is\nsufficiently great, a cure may be effected--and the treatment has been\n_wholly mental_! The question of ethics does not concern either the\npatent medicine manufacturer or the druggist, for they argue that if\nthe sick man's faith has been aroused to the point of producing a\ncure, the formula of the medicine itself is of no consequence, and,\ntherefore, if a solution of sugar and water sold as a cure for colds\ncan stimulate the sufferer's faith to the point of meeting his need,\nthe business is quite legitimate. 'A bunch of bottles and sentiment,'\nadds this member of the Drug Exchange, 'are the real essentials for\nworking healing miracles.'\"\n\n\"Say!\" exclaimed the doctor, again sitting back and regarding her with\namazement. \"You have a marvelous memory for data!\"\n\n\"But, Doctor, I am intensely interested in my fellow-men. I want to\nhelp them, and show them how to learn to live.\"\n\n\"So am I,\" he returned. \"And I am doing all I can, the very best I\nknow how to do.\"\n\n\"I guess you mean you are doing what you are prompted to do by every\nvagrant impulse that happens to stray into your mentality, aren't\nyou?\" she said archly. \"You haven't really seriously thought out your\nway, else you would not be here now urging Congress to spread a\nblanket of ignorance over the human mind. If you will reflect\nseriously, if you will lay aside monetary considerations, and a little\nof the hoary prejudice of the ages, and will carefully investigate our\npresent medical systems, you will find a large number of schools of\nmedicine, bitterly antagonistic to one another, and each accusing the\nother of inferiority as an exact science, and as grossly ignorant and\nreprehensibly careless of life. But which of these warring schools can\nshow the greatest number of cures is a bit of data that has never been\nascertained. A recent writer says: 'As important as we all realize\nhealth to be, the public is receiving treatment that is anything but\nscientific, and the amount of unnecessary suffering that is going on\nin the world is certainly enough to make a rock shed tears.' He\nfurther says that, 'at least seventy-five per cent of the people we\nmeet who are apparently well, are suffering from some chronic ailment\nthat regular medical systems can not cure,' and that many of these\nwould try further experimentation were it not for the criticism that\nis going on in the medical world regarding various curative systems.\nThe only hope under the drugging system is that the patient's life and\npurse may hold out under the strain of trying everything until he can\nlight upon the right thing before he reaches the end of the list.\"\n\n\"And do you include surgery in your general criticism?\" he asked.\n\n\"Surgery is no less an outgrowth of the belief of sentient matter than\nis the drugging system,\" she replied. \"It is admittedly necessary in\nthe present stage of the world's thought; but it is likewise admitted\nto be 'the very uncertain art of performing operations,' at least\nninety per cent of which are wholly unnecessary.\n\n\"You see,\" she went on, \"the effect upon the _moral_ nature of the\nsick man is never considered as rightfully having any influence upon\nthe choice of the system to be employed. If Beelzebub can cast out\ndemons, why not employ him? For, after all, the end to be attained is\nthe ejection of the demon. And if God had not intended minerals and\nplants to be used as both food and medicine, why did He make them?\nBesides, man must earn his bread in some way under our present crude\nand inhuman social system, and if the demand for drugs exists we may\nbe very sure it will be supplied by others, if not by ourselves.\nAgain, the influence of commercialism as a determining factor in the\nchoice of a profession, is an influence that works to keep many in the\npractice of a profession that they know to be both unscientific and\nharmful. The result is an inevitable lowering of ideals to the lust of\nmaterial accumulation.\"\n\n\"Well!\" he exclaimed. \"You certainly are hard on us poor doctors! And\nwe have done so much for you, too, despite your accusations. Think of\nthe babies that are now saved from diphtheria alone!\"\n\n\"And think of the children who are the victims of the medical mania!\"\nshe returned. \"Think how they are brought up under the tyranny of\nfear! Fear of this and of that; fear that if they scratch a finger\nblood poisoning will deprive them of life; fear that eating a bit of\nthis will cause death; or sitting in a breeze will result in wasting\nsickness! Isn't it criminal? As for diphtheria antitoxin, it is in the\nsame class as the white of an egg. It contains no chemicals. It is the\nresult of human belief, the belief that a horse that has recovered\nfrom diphtheria can never again be poisoned by the microbe of that\ndisease. The microbe, Doctor, is the externalization in the human\nmentality of the mortal beliefs of fear, of life and power in matter,\nand of disease and death. The microbe will be subject, therefore, to\nthe human mind's changing thought regarding it, always.\"\n\n\"Well then,\" said the doctor, \"if people are spiritual, and if they\nreally are a consciousness, as you say, why do we seem to be carrying\nabout a body with us all the time--a body from which we are utterly\nunable to get away?\"\n\n\"It is because the mortal mind and body are one, Doctor. The body is\na lower stratum of the human mind. Hence, the so-called mind is\nnever distinct from its body to the extent of complete separation,\nbut always has its substratum with it. And, Doctor, the mind can not\nhold a single thought without that thought tending to become\nexternalized--as Professor James tells us--and the externalization\ngenerally has to do with the body, for the mind has come to center\nall its hopes of happiness and pleasure in the body, and to base its\nsense of life upon it. The body, being a mental concept formed of\nfalse thought, passes away, from sheer lack of a definite principle\nupon which to rest. Therefore the sense of life embodied in it passes\naway with it. You know, the ancients had some idea of the cause of\ndisease when they attributed it to demons, for demons at least are\nmental influences. But then, after that, men began to believe that\ndisease was sent by God, either to punish them for their evil deeds,\nor to discipline and train them for paradise. Funny, isn't it? Think\nof regarding pain and suffering as divine agents! I don't wonder\npeople die, do you? Humboldt, you know, said: 'The time will come\nwhen it will be considered a disgrace for a man to be sick, when the\nworld will look upon it as a misdemeanor, the result of some\nvicious thinking.' Many people seem to think that thought affects\nonly the brain; but the fact is that _we think all over_!\"\n\n\"But look here,\" put in the doctor. \"Here's a question I intended to\nask Hitt the other night. He said the five physical senses did not\ntestify truly. Well now, if, as you say, the eyes do not testify to\ndisease, then they can't testify to cures either, eh?\" He sat back\nwith an air of triumph.\n\n\"Quite correct,\" replied Carmen. \"The physical senses testify only to\nbelief. In the case of sickness, they testify to false belief. In the\ncase of a cure, they testify to a changed belief, to a belief of\nrecovered health, that is all. It is all on the basis of human belief,\nyou see.\"\n\n\"Eh? But--nerves feel--\"\n\n\"Nerves, Doctor, like all matter, are externalizations of human\nthought. Can the externalization of thought talk back to thought? No.\nYou are still on the basis of mere human belief.\"\n\nAt that moment the doctor leaned over and tapped upon the window to\nattract the attention of some one in the street. Carmen looked out and\ncaught sight of a tall, angular man dressed in clerical garb. The man\nbowed pleasantly to the doctor, and cast an inquiring glance at the\ngirl, then passed on.\n\n\"A priest?\" inquired Carmen.\n\n\"Yes, Tetham,\" said the doctor.\n\n\"Oh, is that the man who maintains the lobby here at the Capital for\nhis Church? I've heard about him. He--well, it is his business to see\nthat members of his Church are promoted to political office, isn't it?\nHe trades votes of whole districts to various congressmen in return\nfor offices for strong church members. He also got the parochial\nschools of New York exempt from compulsory vaccination. The\nExpress--\"\n\n\"Eh? The Express has heard from him?\" inquired the doctor.\n\n\"Yes. We opposed the candidate Mr. Ames was supporting for Congress.\nWe also supported Mr. Wales in his work on the cotton schedule. And so\nwe heard from Father Tetham. He is supporting the National Bureau of\nHealth bill. He is working for the Laetare medal. He--\"\n\n\"Say, Miss Carmen, will you tell me where you pick up your news?\nReally, you astonish me! Do you know something about everybody here in\nWashington?\"\n\nShe laughed. \"I have learned much here,\" she said, \"about popular\ngovernment as exemplified by these United States. The knowledge is a\nlittle saddening. But it is especially saddening to see our\nconstitutional liberties threatened by this Bureau of Health bill, and\nby the Government's constant truckling to the Church of Rome. Doctor,\ncan it be that you want to commit this nation to the business of\npracticing medicine, and to its practice according to the allopathic,\nor 'regular' school? The American Medical Association, with its\nreactionary policies and repressive tendencies, is making strenuous\nendeavors to influence Congress to enact certain measures which would\nresult in the creation of such a Department of Health, the effect of\nwhich would be to monopolize the art of healing and to create a\n'healing trust.' If this calamity should be permitted to come upon the\nAmerican people, it would fall as a curtain of ignorance and\nsuperstition over our fair land, and shut out the light of the dawning\nSun of Truth. It would mean a reversion to the blight and mold of the\nMiddle Ages, in many respects a return in a degree to the ignorance\nand tyranny that stood for so many centuries like an impassable rock\nin the pathway of human progress. The attempt to foist upon a\nprogressive people a system of medicine and healing which is wholly\nunscientific and uncertain in its effects, but which is admittedly\nknown to be responsible for the death of millions and for untold\nsuffering and misery, and then to say, '_Thou shalt be cured thereby,\nor not be cured at all_,' is an insult to the intelligence of the\nFathers of our liberties, and a crime upon a people striving for the\nlight. It smacks of the Holy Inquisition: You accept our creed, or you\nshall go to hell--after we have broken you on the rack! Why, the\nthought of subjecting this people to years of further dosing and\nexperimentation along the materialistic lines of the 'regular' school,\nof curtailing their liberties, and forcing their necks under the yoke\nof medical tyranny, should come to them with the insistence of a\nclarion call, and startle them into such action that the subtle evil\nwhich lurks behind this proposed legislative action would be dragged\nout into the light and exterminated! To permit commercialism and\ngreed, the lust of mammon, and the pride of the flesh that expresses\nitself in the demand, 'Who shall be greatest?' to dictate the course\nof conduct that shall shape the destinies of a great people, is to\nadmit the failure of free government, and to revert to a condition of\nmind that we had thought long since outgrown. To yield our dear-bought\nliberties to Italian ecclesiastics, on the other hand--well, Doctor,\n_it is just unthinkable_!\"\n\n\"H'm! Well, at least you are delightfully frank with me. Yet you have\nthe effect of making me feel as if--as if I were in some way behind a\nveil. That--\"\n\n\"Well, the human mind is very decidedly behind a veil--indeed, behind\nmany of them. And how can it see God through them? Mankind just grope\nabout all their lives back of these veils, not knowing that God is\nright before them all the time. God has got to be everything, or else\nHe will be nothing. With or without drugs, it is God 'who healeth all\nthy diseases.' The difficulty with physicians is that they are densely\nignorant of what healing means, and so they always start with a\ndreadful handicap. They believe that there is something real to be\novercome--and of course fail to permanently overcome it. Many of them\nare not only pitiably ignorant, but are in the profession simply to\nmake money out of the fears and credulity of the people. Doctor, the\nphysician of to-day is in no way qualified to handle the question of\npublic health--especially those doctors who say: 'If you won't take\nour medicines we'll get a law passed that will make you take them.' To\nplace the health of the people in their hands would be a terrible\nmistake. The agitation for a federal Department of Health is based\nupon motives of ignorance and intentional wrong. If the people\ngenerally knew this, they would rise in a body against it. Make what\nlaws you wish for yourself, Doctor. The human mind is constantly\noccupied in the making of ridiculous laws and limitations. But do not\nattempt to foist your laws upon the people. Tell me, why all this\nagitation about teaching sex-hygiene in the public schools? Why not,\nfor a change, teach Christianity? What would be the result? But even\nthe Bible has been put out of the schools. And by whom? By your\nChurch, that its interpretation may continue to be falsely made by\nthose utterly and woefully ignorant of its true meaning!\"\n\nFor some moments they continued their meal in silence. Then the girl\ntook up the conversation again. \"Doctor,\" she said, \"will you come out\nfrom among them and be separate?\"\n\nHe looked at her quizzically. \"Oppose Ames?\" he finally said.\n\n\"Ah, that is the rub, then! Yes, oppose ignorance and falsity, even\nthough incarnate in Mr. Ames,\" she replied.\n\n\"He would ruin me!\" exclaimed the doctor. \"He ruins everybody who\nstands in his way! The cotton schedule has gone against him, and the\nwhole country will have to suffer for it!\"\n\n\"But how can he make the country suffer because he has been blocked in\nhis colossal selfishness?\" she asked.\n\n\"That I can not answer,\" said the doctor. \"But I do know that he has\nintimated that there will be no cotton crop in this country next\nyear.\"\n\n\"No cotton crop! Why, how can he prevent that?\"\n\nThe doctor shook his head. \"Mr. Ames stands as the claim of omnipotent\nevil,\" was his laconic reply.\n\nAnd when the meal was ended, the girl went her way, pondering deeply.\n\"No cotton crop! What--what did he mean?\" But that was something too\ndark to be reported to the Express.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nThree weeks from the day he had his brush with Carmen in the presence\nof the President, Ames, the great corruptionist, the master\nmanipulator, again returned from a visit to Washington, and in a\ndangerous frame of mind. What might have been his mental state had he\nknown that the train which drew his private car also brought Carmen\nback to New York, can only be conjectured. It was fortunate, no doubt,\nthat both were kept in ignorance of that fact, and that, while the\ngreat externalization of the human mind's \"claim\" of business sulked\nalone in his luxurious apartments, the little follower after\nrighteousness sat in one of the stuffy day coaches up ahead, holding\ntired, fretful babies, amusing restless children, and soothing away\nthe long hours to weary, care-worn mothers.\n\nWhen the financier's car drew into the station his valets breathed\ngreat sighs of relief, and his French chef and negro porter mopped the\nperspiration from their troubled brows, while silently offering peans\nof gratitude for safe delivery. When the surly giant descended the car\nsteps his waiting footman drew back in alarm, as he caught his\nmaster's black looks. When he threw himself into the limousine, his\nchauffeur drew a low whistle and sent a timidly significant glance in\nthe direction of the lackey. And when at last he flung open the doors\nof his private office and loudly summoned Hood, that capable and\ngenerally fearless individual quaked with dire foreboding.\n\n\"The Express--I want a libel suit brought against it at once! Draw it\nfor half a million! File it in Judge Penny's court!\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" responded the lawyer meekly. \"The grounds?\"\n\n\"Damn the grounds!\" shouted Ames. Then, in a voice trembling with\nanger: \"Have you read the last week's issues? Then find your grounds\nin them! Make that girl a defendant too!\"\n\n\"She has no financial interest in the paper, sir. And, as for the\nreports which they have published--I hardly think we can establish a\ncase from them--\"\n\n\"What? With Judge Penny sitting? If you and he can't make out a case\nagainst them, then I'll get a judge and a lawyer who can! I want that\nbill filed to-morrow!\" bringing his fist down upon the desk.\n\n\"Very well, sir,\" assented Hood, stepping back.\n\n\"Another thing,\" continued Ames, \"see Judge Hanson and have the\ncalling of the Ketchim case held in abeyance until I am ready for it.\nI've got a scheme to involve that negro wench in the trial, and drag\nher through the gutters! So, she's still in love with Rinc\u00f3n, eh?\nWell, we'll put a crimp in that little affair, I guess! Has Willett\nheard from Wenceslas?\"\n\n\"Not yet, sir.\"\n\n\"I'll lift the scalp from that blackguard Colombian prelate if he\ntries to trick me! Has Willett found Lafelle's whereabouts?\"\n\n\"No, sir. But the detectives report that he has been in Spain\nrecently.\"\n\n\"Spain! What's he--up to there?\" he exclaimed in a voice that began\nhigh and ended in a whisper.\n\nHe lapsed into a reflective mood, and for some moments his thoughts\nseemed to wander far. Then he pulled himself together and roused out\nof his meditations.\n\n\"You told Jayne that I would back the Budget to any extent, provided\nit would publish the stuff I sent it?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. He was very glad to accept your offer.\"\n\n\"Very well. You and Willett set about at once getting up daily\narticles attacking the Express. I want you to dig up every move ever\nmade by Hitt, Haynerd, that girl, Waite, Morton, and the whole\nmiserable, sneaking outfit! Rake up every scandal, every fact, or\nrumor, that is in any way associated with any of them. I want them\nliterally cannonaded by the Budget! Hitt's a renegade preacher!\nHaynerd was a bum before he got the Social Era! Waite is an unfrocked\npriest! Miss Wall's father was a distiller! That girl--that girl is\na--Did you know that she used to be in a brothel down in the red-light\ndistrict? Well, she did! Great record the publishers of the Express\nhave, eh? Now, by God! I want you and Jayne to bury that whole outfit\nunder a mountain of mud! I'm ready to spend ten millions to do it!\nKill 'em! Kill 'em all!\"\n\n\"I think we can do it, Mr. Ames,\" returned the lawyer confidently.\n\n\"You've got to! Now, another matter: I'm out to get the President's\nscalp! He's got to go down! Begin with those New York papers which we\ncan influence. I'll get Fallom and Adams over here for a conference.\nMeanwhile, think over what we'd better say to them. Our attacks upon\nthe President must begin at once! I've already bought up a Washington\ndaily for that purpose. They have a few facts now that will discredit\nhis administration!\"\n\n\"Very well, Mr. Ames. Ah--a--there is a matter that I must mention as\nsoon as you are ready to hear it, Mr. Ames--regarding Avon. It seems\nthat the reports which that girl has made have been translated into\nseveral languages, and are being used by labor agitators down there to\nstir up trouble. The mill hands, you know, never really understood\nwhat your profits were, and--well, they have always been quite\nignorant, you know, regarding any details of the business. But now\nthey think they have been enlightened--they think they see how the\ntariff has benefited you at their expense--and they are extremely\nbitter against you. That priest, Father Danny, has been doing a lot of\ntalking since the girl was down there.\"\n\n\"By God!\" cried Ames, rising from his chair, then sinking back again.\n\n\"You see, Mr. Ames,\" the lawyer continued, \"the situation is fast\nbecoming acute. The mill hands don't believe now that you were ever\njustified in shutting down, or putting them on half time. And, whether\nyou reduce wages or not, they are going to make very radical demands\nupon you in the near future, unless I am misinformed. These demands\ninclude better working conditions, better tenements, shorter hours,\nand very much higher wages. Also the enforcement of the child labor\nlaw, I am sorry to say.\"\n\n\"They don't dare!\" shouted Ames.\n\n\"But, after all, Mr. Ames, you know you have said that it would\nstrengthen your case with Congress if there should be a strike at\nAvon.\"\n\n\"But not now! Not now!\" cried Ames. \"It would ruin everything! I am\ndistinctly out of favor with the President--owing to that little negro\nwench! And Congress is going against me if I lose Gossitch, Logue, and\nMall! That girl has put me in bad down there! Wales is beginning to\nthreaten! By G--\"\n\n\"But, Mr. Ames, she can be removed, can she not?\"\n\n\"Violence would still further injure us. But--if we can drive the\nExpress upon the shoals, and then utterly discredit that girl, either\nin the libel suit or the Ketchim trial, why, then, with a little show\nof bettering things at Avon, we'll get what we want. But we've got\nwork before us. Say, is--is Sidney with the Express?\" he added\nhesitatingly.\n\nHood started, and shot a look of mingled surprise and curiosity at his\nmaster. Was it possible that Ames--\n\n\"You heard my question, Mr. Hood?\"\n\n\"I--I beg pardon! Yes, sir--Sidney is still with them. He--a--they say\nhe has quite conquered his--his--\"\n\n\"You mean, he's no longer a sot?\" Ames asked brutally. \"Out with it,\nman! Don't sit there like a smirking Chinese god!\"\n\n\"Well, Mr. Ames, I learn that Sidney has been cured of his habits, and\nthat the--that girl--did it,\" stammered the nervous lawyer.\n\nAmes's mouth jerked open--and then snapped shut. Silence held him. His\nhead slowly sank until his chin touched his breast. And as he sat thus\nenwrapped, Hood rose and noiselessly left the room.\n\nAlone sat the man of gold--ah, more alone than even he knew. Alone\nwith his bruised ambitions, his hectored egoism, his watery aims.\nAlone and plotting the ruin of those who had dared bid him halt in his\nmad, destroying career. Alone, this high priest of the caste of\nabsolutism, of the old individualism which is fast hurrying into the\nrealm of the forgotten. Alone, and facing a new century, with whose\nideals his own were utterly, stubbornly, hopelessly discrepant.\n\nAlone he sat, looking out, unmoved, upon the want and pain of\ncountless multitudes gone down beneath the yoke of conditions which he\nhad made too hard for them. Looking, unmoved, unhearing, upon the\nbitter struggles of the weak, the ignorant, the unskilled, the gross\nhewers of wood and drawers of water. Looking, and knowing not that in\ntheir piteous cry for help and light was sounded his own dire peril.\n\nThe door opened, and the office boy announced the chief stenographer\nof the great bank below. Ames looked up and silently nodded permission\nfor the man to enter.\n\n\"Mr. Ames,\" the clerk began, \"I--I have come to ask a favor--a\ngreat favor. I am having difficulty--considerable difficulty in\nsecuring stenographers, but--I may say--my greatest struggle is\nwith myself. I--Mr. Ames, I can not--I simply can not continue to\nhire stenographers at the old wage, nine dollars a week! I know how\nthese girls are forced to live. Mr. Ames, with prices where they\nare now, they can not live on that! May I not offer them more? Say,\nten or twelve dollars to start with?\"\n\nAmes looked at him fixedly. \"Why do you come to me with your request?\"\nhe asked coldly. \"Your superior is Mr. Doan.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, I know,\" replied the young man with hesitation. \"But--I--did\nspeak to him about it, and--he refused.\"\n\n\"I can do nothing, sir,\" returned Ames in a voice that chilled the\nman's life-current.\n\n\"Then I shall resign, Mr. Ames! I refuse to remain here and hire\nstenographers at that criminal wage!\"\n\n\"Very well, sir,\" replied Ames in the same low, freezing tone. \"Hand\nyour resignation to Mr. Doan. Good day, sir.\"\n\nAgain the guardian of the sanctity of private property was left alone.\nAgain, as he lapsed into dark revery, his thought turned back upon\nitself, and began the reconstruction of scenes and events long since\nshadowy dreams. And always as they built, the fair face of that young\ngirl appeared in the fabric. And always as he retraced his course, her\npath crossed and crossed again his own. Always as he moved, her\nreflection fell upon him--not in shadow, but in a flood of light,\nexposing the secret recesses of his sordid soul.\n\nHe dwelt again upon the smoothness of his way in those days, before\nher advent, when that group of canny pirates sat about the Beaubien's\ntable and laid their devious snares. It was only the summer before she\ncame that this same jolly company had merged their sacred trust assets\nto draw the clouds which that autumn burst upon the country as the\nworst financial panic it had known in years. And so shrewdly had they\nplanned, that the storm came unheralded from a clear sky, and at a\ntime when the nation was never more prosperous.\n\nHe laughed. It had been rich fun!\n\nAnd then, the potato scheme. They had wagered that he could not put it\nthrough. How neatly he had turned the trick, filled his pockets, and\ntransformed their doubts into wondering admiration! It had been rare\npleasure! Oh, yes, there had been some suffering, he had been told. He\nhad not given that a thought.\n\nAnd the Colombian revolution! How surprised the people of these United\nStates would be some day to learn that this tropic struggle was in\nessence an American war! The smug and unthinkingly contented in this\ngreat country of ours regarded the frenzied combat in the far South as\nbut a sort of _op\u00e9ra bouffe_. What fools, these Americans! And he,\nwhen that war should end, would control navigation on the great\nMagdalena and Cauca rivers, and acquire a long-term lease on the\nemerald mines near Bogot\u00e1. The price? Untold suffering--countless\nbroken hearts--indescribable, maddening torture--he had not given that\na thought.\n\nHe laughed again.\n\nBut he was tired, very tired. His trip to Washington had been\nexhausting. He had not been well of late. His eyes had been bloodshot,\nand there had been several slight hemorrhages from the nose. His\nphysician had shaken his head gravely, and had admonished him to be\ncareful--\n\nBut why did that girl continue to fascinate him? he wondered. Why now,\nin all his scheming and plotting, did he always see her before him?\nWas it only because of her rare physical beauty? If he wrote or read,\nher portrait lay upon the page; if he glanced up, she stood there\nfacing him. There was never accusation in her look, never malice, nor\ntrace of hate. Nor did she ever threaten. No; but always she\nsmiled--always she looked right into his eyes--always she seemed to\nsay, \"You would destroy me, but yet I love you.\"\n\nGod! What a plucky little fighter she was! And she fought him fairly.\nAye, much more so than he did her. She would scorn the use of his\nmethods. He had to admit _that_, though he hated her, detested her,\nwould have torn her into shreds--even while he acknowledged that he\nadmired her, yes, beyond all others, for her wonderful bravery and her\nloyal stand for what she considered the right.\n\nHe must have dozed while he sat there in the warm office alone.\nSurely, that hideous object now floating before his straining gaze,\nthat thing resembling the poor, shattered Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, was not\nreal! It was but a shadow, a flimsy thing of thought! And that\nwoestricken thing there, with its tenuous arms extended toward\nhim--was that Gannette? Heavens, no! Gannette had died, stark mad!\nBut, that other shade--so like his wife, a few months dead, yet alive\nagain! Whence came that look of horror in a face once so haughty! It\nwas unreal, ghastly unreal, as it drifted past! Ah, now he knew that\nhe was dreaming, for there, there in the light stood Carmen! Oh, what\na blessed relief to see that fair image there among those other\nghastly sights! He would speak to her--\n\nBut--_God above_! _What was that?_ A woman--no, not Carmen--fair\nand--\n\nHer white lips moved--they were transparent--he could see right\nthrough them--and great tears dropped from her bloodless cheeks when\nher accusing look fell upon him!\n\nSlowly she floated nearer--she stopped before him, and laid a hand\nupon his shoulder--it was cold, cold as ice! He tried to call out--to\nrise--to break away--\n\nAnd then, groaning aloud, and with his brow dripping perspiration, he\nawoke.\n\nHood entered, but stopped short when he saw his master's white face.\n\"Mr. Ames! You are ill!\" he cried.\n\nAmes passed a hand across his wet forehead. \"A--a little tired, that's\nall, I guess. What now?\"\n\nThe lawyer laid a large envelope upon the desk. \"It has come,\" he\nsaid. \"There's a delegation of Avon mill hands in the outer office.\nHere are their demands. It's just what I thought.\"\n\nAmes slowly took up the envelope. For a moment he hesitated. Again he\nseemed to see that smiling girl before him. His jaw set, and his face\ndrew slowly down into an expression of malignity. Then, without\nexamining its contents, he tore the envelope into shreds, and cast the\npieces into the waste basket.\n\n\"Put them out of the office!\" he commanded sharply. \"Wire Pillette at\nonce to discharge these fellows, and every one else concerned in the\nagitation! If those rats down there want to fight, they'll find me\nready!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 14\n\n\nThe immense frame of J. Wilton Ames bent slightly, and the great legs\nmight have been seen to drag a bit, as the man entered his private\nelevator the morning after his rejection of the mill hands' demands,\nand turned the lever that caused the lift to soar lightly to his\noffice above. And a mouse--had the immaculate condition of his\nluxurious _sanctum_ permitted such an alien dweller--could have seen\nhim sink heavily into his great desk chair, and lapse into deep\nthought. Hood, Willett, and Hodson entered in turn; but the magnate\ngave them scant consideration, and at length waved them all away, and\nbent anew to his meditations.\n\nTruth to tell--though he would not have owned it--the man was now\ndimly conscious of a new force at work upon him; of a change, slowly,\nsubtly taking place somewhere deep within. He was feebly cognizant of\nemotions quite unknown; of unfamiliar sentiments, whose outlines were\nbut just crystallizing out from the thick magma of his materialistic\nsoul.\n\nAnd he fought them; he hated them; they made him appear unto himself\nweak, even effeminate! His abhorrence of sentimentalism had been among\nthe strongest of his life-characteristics; and yet, though he could\nnot define it, a mellowing something seemed to be acting upon him that\ndull, bitterly cold winter morning, that shed a soft glow throughout\nhis mental chambers, that seemed to touch gently the hard, rugged\nthings of thought that lay within, and soften away their sharp\noutlines. He might not know what lay so heavily upon his thought, as\nhe sat there alone, with his head sunk upon his breast. And yet the\ngirl who haunted his dreams would have told him that it was an\ninterrogation, even the eternal question, \"What shall it profit a\nman--?\"\n\nSuddenly he looked up. The door had opened, he thought. Then he sat\nbolt upright and stared.\n\n\"Good morning, Mr. Ames. May I come in?\"\n\nCome in! Had ever such heavenly music touched his ears before! This\nwas not another dream! The vision this time was real! He sprang to his\nfeet. He would have held out his arms to her if he could.\n\nAnd yet, how dared she come to him? How dared she, after what she had\ndone? Was this fresh affrontery? Had she come again to flout him? To\nstand within the protection which her sex afforded and vivisect anew\nhis tired soul? But, whatever her motives, this girl did the most\ndaring things he had ever seen a woman do.\n\n\"Isn't it funny,\" she said, as she stood before him with a whimsical\nlittle smile, \"that wherever I go people so seldom ask me to sit\ndown!\"\n\nAmes sank back into his seat without speaking. Carmen stood for a\nmoment looking about her rich environment; then drew up a chair close\nto him.\n\n\"You haven't the slightest idea why I have come here, have you?\" she\nsaid sweetly, looking up into his face.\n\n\"I must confess myself quite ignorant of the cause of this unexpected\npleasure,\" he returned guardedly, bending his head in mock deference,\nwhile the great wonder retained possession of him.\n\n\"Well,\" she went on lightly, \"will you believe me when I tell you that\nI have come here because I love you?\"\n\nAha! A dark suspicion sprang up within him. So this was an attack from\na different quarter! Hitt and Haynerd had invoked her feminine wiles,\neh?\n\nNonsense! With one blow the unfamiliar sentiment which had been\nshedding its influence upon him that morning laid the ugly suspicion\ndead at his feet. A single glance into that sweet face turned so\nlovingly up to his brought his own deep curse upon himself for his\nhellish thought.\n\n\"You know,\" she bubbled, with a return of her wonted airy gaiety, \"I\njust had to run the gauntlet through guards and clerks and office boys\nto get here. Aren't you glad I didn't send in my card? For then you\nwould have refused to see me, wouldn't you?\"\n\n\"I would not!\" he replied harshly. Then he repented his tone. \"If I\nhad known you were out there,\" he said more gently, \"I'd have sent out\nand had you dragged in. I--I have wanted something this morning; and\nnow I am sure it was--\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she interrupted, taking the words out of his mouth, \"you wanted\n_me_. I knew you would. You see, it's just absolutely impossible to\noppose anybody who loves you. You know, that's the very method Jesus\ngave for overcoming our enemies--to love them, just love them to\npieces, until we find that we haven't any enemies at all any more.\nIsn't it simple? My! Well, that's the way I've been doing with\nyou--just loving you.\"\n\nThe man's brows knotted, and his lips tightened. Was this girl\nridiculing him? Or was there aught but the deepest sincerity expressed\nin the face from which he could not take his eyes? Impossible! And\nyet, did ever human being talk so strangely, so weirdly, as she?\n\nHe bent a little closer to her. \"Did you say that you loved me?\" he\nasked. \"I thought you looked upon me as a human monster.\" After all,\nthere was a note of pathos in the question. Carmen laid her hand upon\nhis.\n\n\"It's the _real_ you that I love,\" she answered gently. \"The monster\nis only human thought--the thought that has seemed to mesmerize you.\nBut you are going to throw off the mesmerism, aren't you? I'll help\nyou,\" she added brightly. \"You're going to put off the 'old man'\ncompletely--and you're going to begin by opening yourself and letting\nin a little love for those poor people down at Avon, aren't you? Yes,\nyou are!\"\n\nAt the mention of the people of Avon his face became stern and dark.\nAnd yet she spoke of them alone. She had not mentioned the Beaubien,\nMiss Wall, the Express, nor herself. He noted this, and wondered.\n\n\"You see, you don't understand, Mr. Ames. You'll be, oh, so surprised\nsome day when you learn a little about the laws of thought--even the\nway human thought operates! For you can't possibly do another person\nan injury without that injury flying back and striking you. It's a\nregular boomerang! You may not feel the effects of its return right\naway--but it does return, and the effects accumulate. And then, some\nday, when you least expect it, comes the crash! But, when you love a\nperson, why, that comes back to you too; and it never comes alone. It\njust brings loads of good with it. It helps you, and everybody. Oh,\nMr. Ames,\" she cried, suddenly rising and seizing both his hands,\n\"you've just _got_ to love those people down there! You can't help it,\neven if you think you can, for hate is not real--it's an awful\ndelusion!\"\n\nIt was not so much an appeal which the girl made as an affirmation of\nthings true and yet to come. The mighty _Thou shalt not!_ which Moses\nlaid upon his people, when transfused by the omnipotent love of the\nChrist was transformed from a clanking chain into a silken cord. The\nrestriction became a prophecy; for when thou hast yielded self to the\nbenign influence of the Christ-principle, then, indeed, thou shalt not\ndesire to break the law of God.\n\nCarmen returned to her chair, and sat eagerly expectant. Ames groped\nwithin his thought for a reply. And then his mental grasp closed upon\nthe words of Hood.\n\n\"They are very bitter against me--they hate me!\" he retorted lamely.\n\n\"Ah, yes,\" she said quickly. \"They reflect in kind your thought of\nthem. Your boomerangs of greed, of exploitation, of utter indifference\nwhich you have hurled at them, have returned upon you in hatred. Do\nyou know that hatred is a fearful poison? And do you know that\nanother's hatred resting upon you is deadly, unless you know how to\nmeet and neutralize it with love? For love is the neutralizing\nalkaloid.\"\n\n\"Love is--weakness,\" he said in a low tone. \"That kind, at least.\"\n\n\"Love weakness! Oh! Why, there is no such mighty power in the whole\nuniverse as love! It is omnipotent! It is hatred that is weak!\"\n\nAmes made a little gesture of contempt. \"We argue from different\nstandpoints,\" he said. \"I am a plain, matter-of-fact, cold-blooded\nbusiness man. There is no love in business!\"\n\n\"And that,\" she replied in a voice tinged with sadness, \"is why\nbusiness is such chaos; why there is so much failure, so much anxiety,\nfear, loss, and unhappiness in the business world. Mr. Ames, you\nhaven't the slightest conception of real business, have you?\"\n\nShe sat for a moment in thought. Then, brightly, \"I am in business,\nMr. Ames--?\"\n\n\"Humph! I am forced to agree with you there! The business of\nattempting to annihilate me!\"\n\n\"I am in the business of reflecting good to you, and to all mankind,\"\nshe gently corrected.\n\n\"Then suppose you manifest your love for me by refraining from\nmeddling further in my affairs. Suppose from now on you let me\nalone.\"\n\n\"Why--I am not meddling with you, Mr. Ames!\"\n\n\"No?\" He opened a drawer of the desk and took out several copies of\nthe Express. \"I am to consider that this is not strictly meddling,\neh?\" he continued, as he laid the papers before her.\n\n\"No, not at all,\" she promptly replied. \"That's uncovering evil, so's\nit can be destroyed. All that evil, calling itself you and your\nbusiness, has got to come to the surface--has got to come up to the\nlight, so that it can be--\"\n\n\"Ah! I see. Then I, the monster, must be exposed, eh? And afterward\ndestroyed. A very pretty little idea! And the mines and mills which I\nown--\"\n\n\"You own nothing, Mr. Ames, except by consent of the people whom you\noppress. They will wake up some day; and then state and national\nownership of public utilities will come, forced by such as you.\"\n\n\"And that desideratum will result in making everybody honest, I\nsuppose?\"\n\n\"No,\" she answered gravely. \"We must go deeper than that. All our\npresent troubles, whether domestic, business, civic, or social, come\nfrom a total misapprehension of the nature of God--a misunderstanding\nof what is really _good_. We have _all_ got to prove Him. And we are\nvery foolish to lose any more time setting about it, don't you think\nso?\n\n\"You see,\" she went on, while he sat studying her, \"those poor people\ndown at Avon don't know any more about what is the real good than you\ndo. And that's why their thoughts and yours center upon the false\npleasures of this ephemeral existence called life--this existence of\nthe so-called physical senses--and why you both become the tools of\nvice, disease, and misfortune. They build up such men as you, and then\nyou turn about and crush them. And in the end you are both what the\nBible says--poor, deluded fools.\"\n\n\"Well, I'll be--\"\n\n\"Oh, don't swear!\" she pleaded, again seizing his hand and laughing up\ninto his face. But then her smile vanished.\n\n\"It's time you started to prove God,\" she said earnestly. \"Won't you\nbegin now--to-day? Haven't you yet learned that evil is the very\nstupidest, dullest, most uninteresting thing in the world? It is,\nreally. Won't you turn from your material endeavors now, and take time\nto learn to really live? You've got plenty of time, you know, for you\naren't obliged to work for a living.\"\n\nShe was leaning close to him, and her breath touched his cheek. Her\nsoft little hand lay upon his own. And her great, dark eyes looked\ninto his with a light which he knew, despite his perverted thought,\ncame from the unquenchable flame of her selfless love.\n\nAgain that unfamiliar sentiment--nay, rather, that sentiment long\ndormant--stirred within him. Again his worldly concepts, long\nentrenched, instantly rose to meet and overthrow it. He had not yet\nlearned to analyze the thoughts which crept so silently into his\never-open mentality. To all alike he gave free access. And to those\nwhich savored of things earthy he still gave the power to build, with\nhimself as a willing tool.\n\n\"You will--help me--to live?\" he said. He thought her the most\ngloriously beautiful object he had ever known, as she sat there before\nhim, so simply gowned, and yet clothed with that which all the gold of\nOphir could not have bought.\n\n\"Yes, gladly--oh, so gladly!\" Her eyes sparkled with a rush of tears.\n\n\"Don't you think,\" he said gently, drawing his chair a little closer\nto her, \"that we have quite misunderstood each other? I am sure we\nhave.\"\n\n\"Perhaps so,\" she answered thoughtfully. \"But,\" with a happy smile\nagain lighting her features, \"we can understand each other now, can't\nwe?\"\n\n\"Of course we can! And hasn't the time come for us to work together,\ninstead of continuing to oppose each other?\"\n\n\"Yes! yes, indeed!\" she cried eagerly.\n\n\"I--I have been thinking so ever since I returned yesterday from\nWashington. I am--I--\"\n\n\"We need each other, don't we?\" the artless girl exclaimed, as she\nbeamed upon him.\n\n\"I am positive of it!\" he said with suggestive emphasis. \"I can help\nyou--more than you realize--and I want to. I--I've been sorry for you,\nlittle girl, mighty sorry, ever since that story got abroad about--\"\n\n\"Oh, never mind that!\" she interrupted happily. \"We are living in the\npresent, you know.\"\n\n\"True--and in the future. But things haven't been right for you. And I\nwant to see them straightened out. And you and I can do it, little\none. Madam Beaubien hasn't been treated right, either. And--\"\n\n\"There!\" she laughed, holding up a warning finger. \"We're going to\nforget that in the good we're going to do, aren't we?\"\n\n\"Yes, that's so. And you are going to get a square deal. Now, I've got\na plan to make everything right. I want to see you in the place that\nbelongs to you. I want to see you happy, and surrounded by all that is\nrightfully yours. And if you will join me, we will bring that all\nabout. I told you this once before, you may remember.\"\n\nHe stopped and awaited the effect of his words upon the girl.\n\n\"But, Mr. Ames,\" she replied, her eyes shining with a great hope,\n\"don't think about me! It's the people at Avon that I want to help.\"\n\n\"We'll help them, you and I. We'll make things right all round. And\nMadam Beaubien shall have no further trouble. Nor shall the Express.\"\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Ames! Do you really mean it? And--Sidney?\"\n\n\"Sidney shall come home--\"\n\nWith a rush the impulsive girl, forgetting all but the apparent\nsuccess of her mission, threw herself upon him and clasped her arms\nabout his neck. \"Oh,\" she cried, \"it is love that has done all this!\nAnd it has won you!\"\n\nThe startled man strained the girl tightly in his arms. He could feel\nthe quick throbbing in her throat. Her warm breath played upon his\ncheek like fitful tropic breezes. For a brief moment the supreme gift\nof the universe seemed to be laid at his feet. For a fleeting interval\nthe man of dust faded, and a new being, pure and white, seemed to rise\nwithin him.\n\n\"Yes,\" he murmured gently, \"we'll take him to our home with us.\"\n\nSlowly, very slowly, the girl released herself from his embrace and\nstepped back. \"With--_us_?\" she murmured, searching his face for the\nmeaning which she had dimly discerned in his words.\n\n\"Yes--listen!\" He reached forward and with a quick movement seized her\nhand. \"Listen, little girl. I want you--I want you! Not now--no, you\nneedn't come to me until you are ready. But say that you will come!\nSay that! Why, I didn't know until to-day what it was that was making\nme over! It's you! Don't go! Don't--\"\n\nCarmen had struggled away from him, and, with a look of bewilderment\nupon her face, was moving toward the door. \"Oh, I didn't know,\" she\nmurmured, \"that you were--were--proposing _marriage_ to me!\"\n\n\"Don't you understand?\" he pursued. \"We'll just make all things new!\nWe'll begin all over again, you and I! Why, I'll do anything--anything\nin the world you say, Carmen, if you will come to me--if you will be\nmy little wife!\n\n\"I know--I know,\" he hastily resumed, as she halted and stood\nseemingly rooted to the floor, \"there is a great difference in our\nages. But that is nothing--many happy marriages are made between ages\njust as far apart as ours. Think--think what it means to you! I'll\nmake you a queen! I'll surround you with limitless wealth! I'll make\nyou leader of society! I'll make Madam Beaubien rich! I'll support the\nExpress, and make it what you want it to be! I'll do whatever you say\nfor the people of Avon! Think, little girl, what depends now upon\nyou!\"\n\nCarmen turned and came slowly back to him. \"And--you will not do these\nthings--unless I marry you?\" she said in a voice scarcely above a\nwhisper.\n\n\"I will do them all, Carmen, if you will come to me!\"\n\n\"But--oh, you were only deceiving me all the time! And now--if I\nrefuse--then what?\"\n\n\"It depends upon you, entirely--and you will come? Not now--but within\nthe next few months--within the year--tell me that you will!\"\n\n\"But--you will do these things whether I come to you or not?\" she\npersisted.\n\n\"I've put it all into your hands,\" he answered shortly. \"I've named\nthe condition.\"\n\nA strange look crossed the girl's face. She stood as if stunned. Then\nshe glanced about in helpless bewilderment.\n\n\"I--I--love--you,\" she murmured, as she looked off toward the window,\nbut with unseeing eyes. \"I would do anything for you that was right.\nI--love--everybody--everybody; but there are no conditions to _my_\nlove. Oh!\" she suddenly cried, burying her face in her hands and\nbursting into tears. \"You have tried to _buy_ me!\"\n\nAmes rose and came to her. Taking her by the hand he led her,\nunresisting, back to her chair.\n\n\"Listen,\" he said, bending toward her. \"Go home now and think it\nall over. Then let me know your answer. It was sudden, I admit; I\ntook you by surprise. But--well, you are not going to prevent the\naccomplishment of all that good, are you? Think! It all depends upon\nyour word!\"\n\nThe girl raised her tear-stained face. She had been crushed; and\nanother lesson in the cruelty of the human mind--that human mind which\nhas changed not in a thousand years--had been read to her. But again\nshe smiled bravely, as she wiped her eyes.\n\n\"It's all right now,\" she murmured. \"It was all right all the\ntime--and I was protected.\"\n\nThen she turned to him. \"Some day,\" she said gently, and in a voice\nthat trembled just a little, \"you will help the people of Avon, but\nnot because I shall marry you. God does not work that way. I have\nloved you. And I love them. And nothing can kill that love. God will\nopen the way.\"\n\n\"Then you refuse my offer, do you?\" he asked sharply, as his face set.\n\"Remember, all the blame will be upon you. I have shown you a way\nout.\"\n\nShe looked up at him. She saw now with a clairvoyance which separated\nhim from the mask which he had worn. Her glance penetrated until it\nfound his soul.\n\n\"You have shown me the depths of the carnal mind,\" she slowly replied.\n\"The responsibility is not with me, but with--God. I--I came to-day\nto--to help you. But now I must leave you--with Him.\"\n\n\"Humph!\"\n\nHe stooped and took up her muff which lay upon the floor. As he did so,\na letter fell out. He seized it and glanced at the superscription.\n\n\"Cartagena! To Jos\u00e8 de Rinc\u00f3n! Another little _billet-doux_ to your\npriestly lover, eh?\"\n\nShe looked down at the letter which he held. \"It is money,\" she said,\nthough her thought seemed far away. \"Money that I am sending to a\nlittle newsboy who bears his name.\"\n\n\"Ha! His brat! But, you still love that fallen priest?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" was the whispered answer.\n\nHe rose and opened a drawer in his desk. Taking out a paper-bound\nbook, he held it out to the girl. \"Look here,\" he sneered. \"Here's a\nlittle piece of work which your brilliant lover did some time ago.\n'Confessions of a Roman Catholic Priest.' Do you know the penalty your\nclerical paramour paid for that, eh? Then I'll tell you,\" bending over\nclose to her ear, \"his _life_!\"\n\nCarmen rose unsteadily. The color had fled from her cheeks. She staggered\na few steps toward the door, then stopped. \"God--is--is--_everywhere_!\"\nshe murmured. It was the refuge of her childhood days.\n\nThen she reeled, and fell heavily to the floor.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 15\n\n\nIf additional proof of the awful cost of hating one's fellow-men were\nrequired, the strike which burst upon the industrial world that winter\nmust furnish it in sickening excess. But other facts, too, were\nrendered glaringly patent by that same desperate clash which made Avon\na shambles and transformed its fair name into a by-word, to be spoken\nonly in hushed whispers when one's thought dwells for a moment upon\nthe madness of the carnal mind that has once tasted blood. The\nman-cleft chasm between labor and capital, that still unbridged void\nwhich separates master and servant, and which a money-drunk class\ninsolently calls God-made, grows wider with each roar of musketry\naimed by a frenzied militia at helpless men and women; grows deeper\nwith each splitting crack of the dynamite that is laid to tear asunder\nthe conscienceless wielder of the goad; and must one day fall gaping\nin a cavernous embouchure that will engulf a nation.\n\nHitt saw it, and shuddered; Haynerd, too. Ames may have dimly marked\nthe typhoon on the horizon, but, like everything that manifested\nopposition to this superhuman will, it only set his teeth the firmer\nand thickened the callous about his cold heart. Carmen saw it, too.\nAnd she knew--and the world must some day know--that but one tie has\never been designed adequate to bridge this yawning ca\u00f1on of human\nhatred. That tie is love. Aye, well she knew that the world laughed,\nand called it chimera; called it idealism, and emotional weakness.\nAnd well she knew that the most pitiable weakness the world has ever\nseen was the class privilege which nailed the bearer of the creed of\nlove upon the cross, and to-day manifests in the frantic grasping of a\nnation's resources, and the ruthless murder of those who ask that\nthey, too, may have a share in that abundance which is the common\nbirthright of all. Do the political bully, the grafter, the tout, know\nthe meaning of love? No; but they can be taught. Oh, not by the\nhypocritical millionaire pietists who prate their glib platitudes to\ntheir Sunday Bible classes, and return to their luxurious homes to\norder the slaughter of starving women and babes! They, like their poor\nvictims, are deep under the spell of that mesmerism which tells them\nthat evil is good. Nor by the Church, with its lamentable weakness of\nknowledge and works. Only by those who have learned something of the\nChrist-principle, and are striving daily to demonstrate its\nomnipotence in part, can the world be taught a saving knowledge of the\nlove that solves every problem and creates a new heaven and a newer,\nbetter concept of the earth and its fullness.\n\nThat morning when Carmen went to see Ames the Express received word of\nthe walk-out of the Avon mill employes. Almost coincident with the\narrival of the news, Carmen herself came unsteadily into Hitt's\noffice. The editor glanced up at her, then looked a second time. He\nhad never before seen her face colorless. Finally he laid down his\npapers.\n\n\"What's happened?\" he asked.\n\n\"Nothing,\" answered the girl. \"What work have you--for me--to-day?\"\nShe smiled, though her lips trembled.\n\n\"Where have you been?\" he pursued, scanning her closely.\n\nShe did not reply at once. Then, so low that he scarcely caught the\nwords, \"I--I have been with--a friend.\"\n\nSidney Ames came puffing into the office at that moment. \"Hello!\" he\ncried as he saw Carmen. \"How does it happen you're out riding with\nWillett? Saw him help you out of an auto just now.\"\n\n\"He brought me here,\" she answered softly.\n\n\"Where from?\"\n\n\"Your father's office.\"\n\nHitt and the lad stared at her with open mouths. She turned, and\nstarted for her own room, moving as if in a haze. As she neared the\ndoor she stumbled. Sidney sprang after her and caught her in his arms.\nWhen she turned her face, they saw that her eyes were swimming in\ntears.\n\nHitt was on his feet instantly. \"Look here!\" he cried. \"Something's\nwrong! Leave us, Sidney. Let me talk with her alone.\"\n\nThe boy reluctantly obeyed. Hitt closed the door after him, then took\nthe girl's hand and led her back to his own chair. \"Now, little one,\"\nhe said gently, \"tell me all about it.\"\n\nFor a moment she sat quiet. Then the tears began to flow; and then she\nleaned her head against him and sobbed--sobbed as does the stricken\nmother who hangs over the lifeless form of her babe--sobbed as does\nthe strong man bereft of the friend of his bosom--sobbed as did the\nMan of Sorrow, when he held out his arms over the worldly city that\ncruelly rejected him. He was the channel for the divine; yet the\nwickedness of the human mind broke his great heart. Carmen was not far\nfrom him at that moment.\n\nHitt held her hand, and choked back the lump that filled his throat.\nThen the weeping slowly ceased, and the girl looked up into his\nanxious face.\n\n\"It's all past now,\" she said brokenly. \"Jesus forgave them that\nkilled him. And--\"\n\n\"You have been with--Ames?\" said Hitt in a low, quiet tone. \"And he\ntried to kill you?\"\n\n\"He--he knew not what he was doing. Evil used him, because as\nyet he has no spiritual understanding. But--God is life! There\nis--no--death!\" Her voice faded away in a whisper.\n\n\"Well, little girl, I am waiting for the whole story. What happened?\"\n\nCarmen got to her feet. \"Nothing happened, Mr. Hitt--nothing. It\ndidn't happen--it wasn't real. I--I seemed to manifest weakness--and I\nfell--to the floor--but I didn't lose consciousness. And just then Mr.\nWillett came in--and Mr. Ames sent me here with him.\"\n\n\"But what had Ames said to you, Carmen?\" persisted Hitt, his face dark\nwith anger.\n\nThe girl smiled feebly. \"I see Mr. Ames only as--as God's child,\" she\nmurmured. \"Evil is not real, and it doesn't happen. Now I want to\nwork--work as I never did before! I must! _I must!_\"\n\n\"Will you not tell me more about it?\" he asked, for he knew now that a\ndeadly thrust had been made at the girl's life.\n\nShe brushed the tears away from her eyes. \"It didn't happen,\" was her\nreply. \"Good is all that is. God is life. There is _no_ death!\"\n\nA suspicion flashed into Hitt's mind, kindled by the girl's insistence\nupon the nothingness of death. \"Carmen,\" he asked, \"did he tell you\nthat--some one had died?\"\n\nShe came to him and laid her head against him. Her hands stole into\nhis. \"Don't! Please, Mr. Hitt! We must never speak of this again!\nPromise me! I shall overcome it, for God is with me. Promise that no\none but us shall know! Make Sidney promise. It--it is--for me.\"\n\nThe man's eyes grew moist, and his throat filled. He drew the girl to\nhim and kissed her forehead. \"It shall be as you wish, little one,\" he\nsaid in a choking voice.\n\n\"Now set me to work!\" she cried wildly. \"Anything! This is another\nopportunity to--to prove God! I must prove Him! I must--right here!\"\n\nHe turned to his desk with a heavy heart. \"There is work to be done\nnow,\" he said. \"I wonder--\"\n\nShe took the telegram from his hands and scanned it. At once she\nbecame calm, her own sorrow swallowed up in selfless love. \"Oh, they\nhave gone out at Avon! Those mothers and children--they need me! Mr.\nHitt, I must go there at once!\"\n\n\"I thought so,\" he replied, swallowing hard. \"I knew what you would\ndo. But you are in higher hands than mine, Carmen. Go home now, and\nget ready. You can go down in the morning. And we, Sidney and I, will\nsay nothing of--of your visit to his father.\"\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nThat night Hitt called up the Beaubien and asked if he and Haynerd\nmight come and talk with her after the paper had gone to press, and\nrequesting that she notify Carmen and Father Waite. A few hours later\nthe little group met quietly in the humble cottage. Miss Wall and\nSidney were with them. And to them all those first dark hours of\nmorning, when as yet the symbol of God's omnipresence hung far below\nthe horizon, seemed prescient with a knowledge of evil's further\nclaims to the lives and fortunes of men.\n\n\"I have asked you here,\" Hitt gravely announced when they were\nassembled, \"to consider a matter which touches us all--how deeply, God\nalone knows. At ten o'clock to-night I received this message.\" He\nopened the paper which he held in his hand and read:\n\n  \"'Property of Hitt oil company, including derricks, pump houses,\n  storage tanks, destroyed by fire. Dynamite in pump houses\n  exploded, causing wells to cave and choke. Loss complete. Wire\n  instructions.'\"\n\nThe news burst over them like the cracking of a bomb. Haynerd, who,\nlike the others, had been kept in ignorance of the message until now,\nstarted from his chair with a loud exclamation, then sank back limp.\nCarmen's face went white. Evil seemed to have chosen that day with\ncanny shrewdness to overwhelm her with its quick sallies from out the\ndarkness of the carnal mind.\n\nHitt broke the tense silence. \"I see in this,\" he said slowly, \"the\nculmination of a long series of efforts to ruin the Express. That my\noil property was deliberately wrecked, I have not the slightest doubt.\nNor can I doubt by whose hand.\"\n\n\"Whose?\" demanded Haynerd, having again found his voice. \"Ames's?\"\n\nHitt replied indirectly. \"The Express has stood before the world as a\npaper unique and apart. And because of its high ideals, the forces of\nevil singled it out at the beginning for their murderous assaults.\nThat the press of this country is very generally muzzled, stifled,\nbought and paid for, I have good reason now to know. My constant\nbrushes with the liquor interests, with low politicians, judges,\nsenators, and dive-keepers, have not been revealed even to you. Could\nyou know the pressure which the Church, both Catholic and Protestant,\nhas tried to exert upon us, you would scarce credit me with veracity.\nBut the Express has stood out firm against feudalism, mediaevalism,\nand entrenched ecclesiasticism. It has fearlessly opposed the\nlegalizing of drugging. It has fought the debauching of a nation's\nmanhood by the legalized sale of a deadly poison, alcohol. And it has\nfought without quarter the pernicious activity of morally stunted\nbrewers and distillers, whose hellish motto is, 'Make the boys drink!'\nIt has fought the money octopus, and again and again has sounded to\nthe world the peril which money-drunken criminals like Ames and his\nclique constitute. And for that we must now wear the crown of\nmartyrdom!\"\n\nSilence, dismal and empty, lay over the little room for a long time.\nThen Hitt resumed. \"The Express has not been self-supporting. Its\ngrowth has been steady, but it has depended for its deficit upon the\nrevenue from my oil property. And so have we all. Ames ruined Madam\nBeaubien financially, as well as Miss Wall. He cleaned you out, Ned.\nAnd now, knowing that we all depended upon my oil wells, he has, I\ndoubt not, completely removed that source of income.\"\n\n\"But,\" exclaimed Haynerd, \"your property was insured, wasn't it?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Hitt, with a feeble attempt at a smile. \"But with the\nproviso that dynamite should not be kept on the premises. You will\nnote that dynamite wrecked the wells. That doubtless renders my\npolicies void. But, even in case I should have a fighting chance with\nthe insurance companies, don't you think that they will be advised\nthat I purposely set fire to the wells, in order to collect the\ninsurance? I most certainly do. And I shall find myself with a big\nlawsuit on my hands, and with no funds to conduct the fight. Ames's\nwork, you know, is always thorough, and the Express is already facing\nhis suit for libel.\"\n\n\"But you told us you were going to mortgage your property,\" said Miss\nWall.\n\n\"I stood ready to, should the Express require it. But, with its recent\nlittle boom, our paper did not seem to need that as yet,\" he\nreturned.\n\n\"Good God!\" cried Haynerd. \"We're done for!\"\n\n\"Yes, Ned, God _is_ good!\" It was Carmen who spoke.\n\nHitt turned quickly to the girl. \"Can you say that, after all you have\nendured, Carmen?\"\n\nHe looked at her for a moment, lost in wonder. \"An outcast babe,\" he\nmurmured, \"left on the banks of a great river far, far away; reared\nwithout knowledge of father or mother, and amid perils that hourly\nthreatened to crush her; torn from her beloved ones and thrust out\ninto an unknown and unsympathetic world; used as a stepping-stone to\nadvance the low social ambitions of worldly women; blackened by the\nfoulest slander, and ejected as an outcast by those who had fawned at\nher feet; still going about with her beautiful message of love, even\nthough knowing that her childhood home is enveloped in the flames of\nwar, and her dear ones scattered, perhaps lost; spurned from the door\nof the rich man whom she sought to save; carrying with her always the\nknowledge that the one upon whom her affections had centered had a son\nin distant Cartagena, and yet herself contributing to the support of\nthe little lad; and now, this morning--\" He stopped, for he remembered\nhis promise.\n\n\"This morning,\" she finished, \"shielded by the One who is both Father\nand Mother to me.\"\n\n\"That One surely ought to love you, Carmen--\"\n\n\"He does,\" she answered softly.\n\n\"Well!\" put in Haynerd, torn with anger and fear. \"What are we going\nto do now?\"\n\n\"Everything, Ned, that error seems to tell us not to do,\" replied the\ngirl.\n\nShe reached over to the little table that stood near, and took from it\na Bible. Opening it, she read aloud, very slowly, the entire\nfourteenth chapter of Exodus. Then she concluded by reading the last\ntwo verses of the eighth chapter of Romans.\n\n\"Now,\" she said, looking up, \"we know what we are going to do, don't\nwe? We are going right on, as 'seeing Him who is invisible' to men\nlike Mr. Ames.\"\n\nThey sat looking at her in silence.\n\n\"There is no curse, whether of the Church, or of business, or of any\ndepartment of human thought, that can overthrow legitimate business;\nand we are in the legitimate business of reflecting God to the world.\nIf the physical sense of supply is now lost, we are fortunate, for now\nwe are obliged to acquire a higher sense. All that we have comes from\nGod. And we become aware of it in our own consciousness. It is there\nthat we interpret His supply. Mr. Ames interprets it one way; we, in a\nvery different way. God has always been able to prepare a table in the\nwilderness of human thought. If we look for supply from without, we\nshall not find it, for everything is within. And the very fact that\nthere is a legitimate demand shows that there is the supply to meet\nit, for--though the world hasn't learned this yet--_it is the supply\nitself that really creates the demand_!\"\n\n\"But money makes the wheels go!\" retorted Haynerd.\n\n\"Money, Ned, is the counterfeit of God. He is our only supply. He is\nour Principle--infinite, inexhaustible. He is our credit--without\nlimit! We are facing a crisis, but, like every seeming disturbance of\nthe infinite harmony, it will vanish in a little while if we but cling\nto the divine Mind that is God for guidance.\"\n\nHitt folded the telegram and returned it to his pocket. \"Are you going\nto Avon to-morrow?\" he abruptly asked of the girl.\n\n\"Yes, why not?\"\n\n\"We can't afford it now!\" cried Haynerd.\n\nHitt reflected a moment. Then he rose. \"And we sit here lamenting!\" he\nexclaimed. \"And when we have in our midst this girl, who has borne,\nwithout one word of complaint or reviling, the world's most poignant\nsorrows! I--I really regret that I told you of--of this telegram. I\nseemed for a moment to be overwhelmed. But I am on my feet again\nnow!\"\n\nHe reached into a pocket and took out some bills, which he handed to\nCarmen. \"That will see you through for a day or so down there. If you\nneed more, wire me. I'll get it from some source! Come,\" he added,\nbeckoning to Haynerd, \"the Express will be issued to-morrow as usual,\nand we must get to bed. I've really had quite a strenuous day!\" He\nturned, then paused and looked at Carmen.\n\nThe girl caught the meaning in his glance, and went directly to the\npiano. Hitt followed and bent over her.\n\n\"Don't,\" he said, \"if you do not feel like it. This day has been a\nhard one for you, I know. And--\"\n\n\"But I do feel like it,\" she answered, smiling up at him. \"I want to\nsing for you. And,\" her voice dropped low, \"I want to sing to--Him.\"\n\nHitt gulped down something in his throat. \"The bravest little girl in\nthe whole wide world!\" he muttered through his set teeth.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe carnage at Avon was not incidental; it was the logical effect of\ndefinite mental causes. It was the orderly sequence of an endless\ntrain of hatred of man for man, bred of greed and the fear of\nstarvation. And starvation is the externalized human belief that life\nis at the caprice of intelligent matter. But that is an infraction of\nthe first Commandment, given when the human race was a babe.\n\nWhen the mill hands left their looms at evening of the day following\nAmes's rejection of their demands, the master closed the doors behind\nthem and locked them out. Were not these mills his?\n\nNo, they were a sacred trust asset.\n\nBah! The parrot-cry of the maudlin sentimental!\n\nBut, four thousand men, women, and little children, with never a\ndollar beyond their earnings of the day, thrust out into the blasts of\nthe bitterest winter the New England states had known in years!\n\nTrue; but why, then, did they strike? For, you see, that of itself\nproved the soundness of Ames's single reply to all further appeal:\n\"There is nothing whatever to arbitrate.\"\n\nIn the garden of the human mind waves many a flower, both black and\nred, fanned by the foul winds of carnal thought. There grow the\nbrothel, the dive, the gin-shop, the jail. About these hardier stems\ntwine the hospital, the cemetery, the madhouse, the morgue. And Satan,\n\"the man-killer from the beginning,\" waters their roots and makes\nfallow the soil with the blood of fools. But of those for whom the\ngardener waits, there is none whose blood is so life-giving to these\nnoxious plants as that type of the materially rich who, like Ames,\nhave waxed gross upon the flesh of their own brothers.\n\nAmes was a gambler in human lives. They were his chips, by which he\ngained or lost, and of themselves were void of intrinsic value. The\nworld was the table whereon he played; the game _rouge et noir_, with\nthe whirl of predatory commercialism as the wheel, and the ball\nweighted to drop where he might direct. He carried millions on margin,\nand with them carried the destinies, for weal or for woe, of millions\nof his fellow-men, with not one thought that he did so at the cost of\ntheir honor and morality, not less than their life-blood.\n\nIt had been his custom to close his mills for several months each\nyear, in order to save expense when times were dull. And he did this\nas casually as he closed the doors of his stables, and with much less\nthought for the welfare of those concerned. It is doubtful if he had\never really considered the fact that these four thousand human beings\nwere wholly dependent upon him for their very existence. For he was a\nbusiness man, and gold was far weightier in the scale of values than\nhuman flesh, and much less easily obtained. Cain's comforting\nphilosophy was quite correct, else would the business world not have\nbeen so firmly established upon it. Besides, he was terribly busy; and\nhis life was lived upon a plane high, high above that upon which these\nswarming toilers groveled with their snouts in the dust.\n\nAnd now, with the doors of his mills barred against the hungry hordes,\nhe would frame the terms upon which they should be reopened. The\neight-hour law must not be enforced. Perhaps he could influence the\nSupreme Court to declare it unconstitutional, as depriving the mill\nhands of the right to labor as long as they pleased. Wages should not\nbe raised. And the right to organize and band together for their\ncommon good would be contemptuously denied the ignorant rats who\nshould be permitted to toil for him once more. If they offered\nviolence, there was the state militia, armed and impatient to slay.\nAlso, this was an excellent opportunity to stamp out trade-unionism\nwithin the confines of his activities. He would win the plaudits of\nthe whole industrial world by so doing. He therefore immediately got\nin touch with the Governor, a Tammany puppet, and received that loyal\nhenchman's warm assurances of hearty support for any measures which\nthe great magnate might wish to enforce. He then approached the\nofficers of the state guard, and secured them to a man. Times were\nhard, and they welcomed his favor. He finally posted armed guards in\nall his buildings at Avon, and bade them remember that property rights\nwere of divine institution. Then he sat down and dictated the general\npolicy to be followed by the Amalgamated Spinners' Association\nthroughout the country in support of his own selfish ends.\n\nHis activity in these preparations, as in everything, was tremendous.\nHis agents swarmed over the state like ants. The Catholic Archbishop\nwas instructed that he must remove Father Danny from Avon, as his\ninfluence was pernicious. But the objection was made that the priest\nwas engaged only in humanitarian labors. It availed not; Ames desired\nthe man's removal. And removed he was. The widow Marcus likewise had\nbeen doing much talking. Ames's lawyer, Collins, had her haled into\ncourt and thoroughly reprimanded. And then, that matters might be\nprecipitated, and Congress duly impressed with the necessity of\naltering the cotton schedule in favor of the Spinners' Association,\nAmes ordered his agents to raise the rents of his miserable Avon\ntenements. There were few, he knew, who dared even attempt to meet the\nraise; and those who could not, he ordered set into the streets.\n\nIt was a wild winter's day that the magnate chose for the enforcement\nof this cruel order. A driving blizzard had raged throughout the\nnight, and the snow had banked up in drifts in places many feet deep.\nThe temperature was freezing, and the strong east wind cut like a\nknife. It was Ames's desire to teach these scum a needed lesson, and\nhe had chosen to enlist the elements to aid him in the righteous\ntask.\n\nFor a week, ever since the strike was declared, Carmen had lived among\nthese hectored people. Daily her reports of the unbearable situation\nhad gone to Hitt. And through them the editor had daily striven to\nawaken a nation's conscience. Ames read the articles, and through the\ncolumns of the Budget sought to modify them to the extent of shifting\nthe responsibility to the shoulders of the mill hands themselves, and\nto a dilatory Congress that was criminally negligent in so framing a\ncotton tariff as to make such industrial suffering possible. Nor did\nhe omit to foully vilify the Express and calumniate its personnel.\n\nAmid curses, screams, and despairing wails, the satanic work of\nejecting the tenement dwellers went on that day. Ames's hirelings,\nwith loaded rifles, assisted the constables and city police in the\nmiserable work, themselves cursing often because of the keen blasts\nthat nipped their ears and numbed their well-cased limbs. More than\none tiny, wailing babe was frozen at the breast that dull, drab\nafternoon, when the sun hung like a ghastly clot of human blood just\nabove the horizon, and its weird, yellow light flitted through the\nsnow-laden streets like gaunt spectres of death. More than one aged,\ntoil-spent laborer, broken at the loom in the service of his\ninsatiable master, fell prone in the drifts and lay there till his\nthin life-current froze and his tired heart stopped. More than one\nfrenzied, despairing father, forgetful for the moment of the divine\nright of property, rushed at a guard and madly strove with him, only\nto be clubbed into complaisance, or, perchance, be left in a welter of\ncrimson on the drifting snow. Carmen saw it all. She had been to see\nPillette that same morning, and had been laughed from his presence.\nShe did not understand, she was told, what miserable creatures these\nwere that dared ask for bread and human rights. Wait; they themselves\nwould show their true colors.\n\nAnd so they did. And the color was red. And it spurted like fountains\nfrom their veins. And they saw it with dimming eyes, and were glad,\nfor it brought sweet oblivion. That night there were great fires\nbuilt along the frozen creek. Shacks and tents were hastily reared;\nand the shivering, trembling women and babes given a desperate\nshelter. Then the men, sullen and grim, drew off into little groups,\nand into the saloons and gambling halls of the town. And when the\nblizzard was spent, and the cold stars were dropping their frozen\nlight, these dull-witted things began to move, slowly at first,\ncircling about like a great forming nebula, but gaining momentum and\npower with each revolution. More than a thousand strong, they circled\nout into the frozen streets of the little town, and up along the main\nthoroughfare. Their dull murmurs slowly gained volume. Their low\ncurses welled into a roar. And then, like the sudden bursting of\npent-up lava, they swept madly through the town, carrying everything\nto destruction before them.\n\nStores, shops, the bank itself, burst open before this wave of\nmaddened humanity. Guns and pistols were thrown from laden shelves to\nthe cursing, sweating mob below. Axes and knives were gathered by\narmfuls, and borne out into the streets to the whirling mass. Great\nbarrels of liquor were rolled into the gutters and burst asunder.\nBread and meat were dragged from the shops and savagely devoured. The\npolice gathered and planted themselves with spitting pistols before\nthe human surge. They went down like grass under stampeded cattle.\nFrightened clerks and operators rushed to the wires and sent wild,\nincoherent appeals for help to New York. Pandemonium had the reins,\nthe carnal mind was unleashed.\n\nOn rolled the mob, straight on to the massive stone house of Pillette,\nthe resident manager of the great Ames mills. On over the high iron\nfence, like hungry dock rats. On through the battered gate. On up the\nbroad drive, shouting, shooting, moaning, raving. On over the veranda,\nand in through broken windows and shattered doors, swarming like flies\nover reeking carrion, until the flames which burst through the peaked\nroof of the mansion drove them forth, and made them draw sullenly,\nprotestingly away, leaving the tattered bodies of Pillette and his\nwife and daughters to be consumed in the roaring furnace.\n\nOh, ye workers, ye toilers at loom and forge, it is indeed you who\nbear the world's burdens! It is you who create the rich man's wealth,\nand fight his battles. So ye fought in the great war between North and\nSouth, and protected the rich man at home, hovering in fright over his\nmoney bags. It is you who put into his hands the bayonet which he\nturns against you to guard his wealth and maintain his iniquitous\nprivilege. It is indeed in your hands that the destinies of this great\nnation lie; but what will ye do with your marvelous opportunity?\nWhat, with your stupendous, untried strength? Will ye once more set up\nthe golden calf, and prostrate yourselves before it? Will ye again\nenthrone ecclesiastical despotism, and grovel before image of Virgin\nand Saint? Will ye raise high the powers of mediaeval darkness, and\nbend your necks anew to the yoke of ignorance and stagnation? But\nthink you now that flames and dynamite will break your present bonds?\nAye, America may be made a land without a pauper, without a\nmillionaire, without industrial strife. But fire and sword will not\neffect the transformation. Yes, perhaps, as has been said, our\n\"comfortable social system and its authority will some day be blown to\natoms.\" But shall we then be better off than we are to-day? For shall\nwe know then how to use our precious liberty?\n\nBlood-drunk and reeling, the mob turned from the flaming wreckage and\nflowed down toward the mills. There were some among them, saner, and\nprescient of the dire consequences of their awful work, who counseled\nrestraint. But they were as chips in a torrent. Down into the creek\nbottom rolled the seething tide, with a momentum that carried it up\nthe far side and crashing into the heavily barred oak doors of the\ngreat mills. A crushing hail of bullets fell upon them, and their\nleaders went down; but the mass wavered not. Those within the\nbuildings knew that they would become carrion in the maws of the\nravening wolves outside, and fought with a courage fed with\ndesperation.\n\nIn the solemn hush of death Socrates said, \"The hour of departure has\narrived, and we go our ways, I to die and you to live. Which is\nbetter, God only knows.\" And mankind through the ages in their last\nhours have echoed this sentiment of the gentle philosopher. For all\nhuman philosophy leads to a single end--resignation.\n\nBut hunger transforms resignation into madness. And madness is murder.\nThe frenzied hordes swarming about the Ames mills knew in their heart\nof hearts that death was preferable to life in death under the goad of\nhuman exploitation. But such knowledge came only in rational moments.\nNow they were crazed and beyond reason.\n\nIn the distance, across the swale, the sky glowed red where the souls\nof the agent of predatory wealth and his family had gone out in\nwithering heat. In the stricken town, men huddled their trembling\nloved ones about them and stood with loaded muskets. Somewhere on the\nsteel bands that linked this scene of carnage with the great\nmetropolis beyond, a train plunged and roared, leaping over the\nquivering rails at the rate of a hundred miles an hour, bringing eager\nmilitiamen and their deadly instruments of civilization. For the Ames\nmills were private property. And that was a divine institution.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn his luxurious office in the tower of the Ames building the master\nsat that black night, surrounded by his laboring cohorts. Though they\nstrained under the excitement of the hour, Ames himself remained calm\nand determined. He was in constant communication with the Governor at\nAlbany, and with the municipal officers of both New York and Avon. He\nhad received the tidings of the destruction of the Pillette family\nwith a grim smile. But the smile had crystallized into an expression\nof black, malignant hatred when he demanded of the Governor that the\nNew York contingent of the state guard be sent at once to protect his\nproperty, and specified that the bullets used should be of the\n\"dum-dum\" variety. For they added to the horrors of death. Such\nbullets had been prohibited by the rules of modern warfare, it was\ntrue. But this was a class war. And Ames, foreseeing it all, had\npurchased a hundred thousand rounds of these hellish things for the\nmilitia to exchange for those which the Government furnished. And\nthen, as an additional measure of precaution, he had sent Hood and\nCollins into the United States District Court and persuaded the\nsitting judge to issue an injunction, enjoining any possible relief\ncommittees from furnishing food and shelter to such as might enter the\nindustrial conflict being waged against him.\n\nHad the man gone mad? That he had! And in the blood-red haze that hung\nbefore his glittering eyes was framed the face of the girl who had\nspurned him but a few days before. She was the embodiment of love that\nhad crossed his path and stirred up the very quintessence of evil\nwithin him. From the first she had drawn him. From the first she had\naroused within his soul a conflict of emotions such as he had never\nknown before. And from the night when, in the Hawley-Crowles box at\nthe opera he had held her hand and looked down into her fathomless\neyes, he had been tortured with the conflicting desires to possess\nthat fair creature, or to utterly destroy her.\n\nBut always she had eluded him. Always she hovered just within his\ngrasp; and then drew back as his itching fingers closed. Always she\ntold him she loved him--and he knew she lied not. But such love was\nnot his kind. When he loved, he possessed and used. And such love had\nits price--but not hers. And so hope strove with wrath, and chagrin\nwith despair. She was a babe! Yet she conquered him. He was omnipotent\nin this world! Her strength she drew from the world invisible. And\nwith it she had laid the giant low and bound him with chains.\n\nNot so! Though he knew now that she was lost to him forever; though\nwith foul curses he had seen hope flee; yet with it he had also bidden\nevery tender sentiment, every last vestige of good depart from his\nthought forever more. And:\n\n              \"----with hope, farewell fear,\n              Farewell remorse: all good to me is lost;\n              Evil, be thou my good!\"\n\nThat same night Hitt's wells burned. And that night the master slept\nnot, but sat alone at his desk in the great Fifth Avenue mansion, and\nplotted the annihilation of every human being who had dared oppose his\nworldly ambitions. Plotted, too, the further degradation and final\nruin of the girl who had dared to say she loved him, and yet would not\nbecome his toy.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere is no need to curse the iniquitous industrial and social system\nupon which the unstable fabric of our civilization rests, for that\nsystem is its own fell curse in the rotting fruit it bears. A bit of\nthat poisonous fruit had now dropped from the slimy branch at Avon. Up\nfrom the yards came the militiamen at double-quick, with rifles\nunslung and loaded with the satanic Ames bullets. Behind them they\ndragged two machine guns, capable of discharging three hundred times a\nminute. The mob had concentrated upon the central building of the mill\ngroup, and had just gained entrance through its shattered doors.\nBefore them the guards were falling slowly back, fighting every inch\nof the way. The dead lay in heaps. The air was thick with powder\nsmoke. One end of the building was in flames. The roar of battle was\ndeafening.\n\nQuickly swinging into action, the militia opened upon the mill hands.\nHemmed in between two fires, the mob broke and fled down the frozen\nstream. The officers of the guard then ordered their men to join in\nthe work of extinguishing the flames, which were beginning to make\nheadway, fanned by the strong draft which swept through the long\nbuilding. Until dawn they fought the stubborn fire. Then, the building\nsaved, they pitched their tents and sought a brief rest.\n\nAt noon the soldiers were again assembled, for there remained the task\nof arresting the leaders of the mob and bringing them to justice. The\ntown had been placed under martial law with the arrival of the\nmilitia. Its streets were patrolled by armed guards, and a strong\ncordon had been thrown around the shacks which the mill hands had\nhastily erected the afternoon before. And now, under the protection of\na detachment of soldiers, the demand was made for the unconditional\nsurrender of the striking laborers.\n\nDull terror lay like a pall over the miserable shacks huddled along\nthe dead stream. It was the dull, hopeless, numbing terror of the\nvictim who awaits the blow from the lion's paw in the arena. Weeping\nwives and mothers, clasping their little ones to them, knelt upon the\nfrozen ground and crossed themselves. Young men drew their newly-wed\nmates to their breasts and kissed them with trembling lips. Stern,\nhard-faced men, with great, knotted hands, grouped together and looked\nout in deadly hatred at the heartless force surrounding them.\n\nThen out from among them and across the ice went Carmen, up the\nslippery hillside, and straight to the multi-mouthed machine gun, at\nthe side of which stood Major Camp. She had been all night with these\nbewildered, maddened people. She had warmed shivering babes at her own\nbreast. She had comforted widows of a night, and newly-bereaved\nmothers. She had bound up gaping wounds, and had whispered tender\nwords of counsel and advice. And they had clung to her weeping; they\nhad called upon Virgin and Saint to bless her; and they named her the\nAngel of Avon--and the name would leave her no more.\n\n\"Take me,\" she said, \"take me into court, and let me tell all.\"\n\nThe major fell back in amazement. This beautiful, well-clad girl among\nsuch miserable vermin!\n\n\"You have demanded their leaders,\" she continued. \"I have been trying\nto lead them. Leave them, and take me.\"\n\nThe major's eyes roved over her face and figure. He could make nothing\nout of her words, but he motioned to an aid, and bade him place the\ngirl under arrest.\n\nA wild shout then rose from the shacks, as Carmen moved quietly away\nunder guard. It was the last roar of raging despair. The girl was\nbeing taken from them! A dozen men sprang out and rushed, muskets in\nhand, up toward the soldiers to liberate her. The major called to them\nto halt. Poor, dull-witted creatures! Their narrow vision could\ncomprehend but one thing at a time; and they saw in the arrest of the\ngirl only an additional insult piled upon their already mountainous\ninjuries.\n\nThe major shouted a command. A roar burst from the soldiers' rifles.\nIt was answered by a shriek of rage from the hovels, and a murderous\nreturn fire. Then the major gave another loud command, and the machine\nguns began to vomit forth their clattering message of death.\n\nAt the sound of shooting, Carmen's guard halted. Then one of them\nfell, pierced by a bullet from the strikers. The others released the\ngirl, and hurried back to the battle line. Carmen stood alone for a\nmoment. Bullets whizzed close about her.\n\nOne sang its death-song almost in her ear. Another tore through her\ncoat. Then she turned and made her way slowly up the hill to the\nparalyzed town.\n\nDown in the vale beneath, Death swung his scythe with long, sweeping\nstrokes. The two machine guns poured a flaming sheet of lead into the\nlittle camp below. The shacks fell like houses of cards. The tents\ncaught fire, and were whirled blazing aloft by the brisk wind. Men\ndropped like chaff from a mill. Hysterical, screaming women rushed\nhither and yon to save their young, and were torn to shreds by the\nmerciless fusillade from above. Babes stood for a moment bewildered,\nand then sank with great, gaping wounds in their little, quivering\nbodies. And over all brooded the spirit of the great manipulator,\nAmes, for the protection of whose sacred rights such ghastly work is\ndone among civilized men to-day.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nThat night, while the stars above Avon drew a veil of gray between\nthem and the earth below, that they might not see the red embers and\nstark bodies, Carmen came slowly, and with bent head, into the office\nof the Express. As she approached Hitt's door she heard him in earnest\nconversation with Haynerd.\n\n\"Yes,\" the editor was saying, \"I had a mortgage placed on the Express\nto-day, but I couldn't get much. And it's a short-term one, at that.\nStolz refused point blank to help us, unless we would let him dictate\nthe policy of the paper. No, he wouldn't buy outright. He's still\nfighting Ames for control of C. and R. And I learn, too, that the\nKetchim case is called for next week. That probably means an attempt\nby Ames to smoke Stolz out through Ketchim. It also means that\nCarmen--\"\n\n\"Yes; what about her?\"\n\n\"That she will be forced to go upon the stand as a witness.\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"And that, as I read it, means a further effort on Ames's part to\nutterly discredit her in the eyes of the world, and us through her\nassociation with the Express.\"\n\n\"But--where is she, Hitt? No word from her since we got the news of\nthe massacre at Avon this afternoon! Nothing happened to her, do you\nthink?\"\n\nHitt's face was serious, and he did not answer. Then Carmen herself\ncame through the open door. Both men rose with exclamations of\ngladness to welcome her. The girl's eyes were wet, and her wonted\nsmile had gone.\n\n\"Mr. Hitt,\" she said, \"I want a thousand dollars to-night.\"\n\n\"Well!\" Hitt and Haynerd both sat down hard.\n\n\"I must go back to Avon to-morrow,\" she announced. \"And the money is\nfor the--the people down there.\" Her voice caught, and her words\nstumbled.\n\nThe two men looked at each other blankly. Then Hitt reached out and\ntook her hand. \"Tell us,\" he said, \"about the trouble there to-day.\"\n\nCarmen shook her head. \"No,\" she said, \"we will not talk about evil.\nYou--you have the money? A thousand--\"\n\n\"I have that much on deposit in the bank now, Carmen,\" he replied\ngravely. His thought was on the mortgage which he had signed that\nmorning.\n\n\"Then write me a check at once, and I will deposit it in the Avon bank\nwhen I get there to-morrow. I must go home now--to see mother.\"\n\n\"But--let me think about it, Carmen. Money is--well, won't less than\nthat amount do you?\"\n\n\"No, Mr. Hitt. Write the check now.\"\n\nHitt sighed, but made no further protest. If the Express must founder,\nthen this money were well spent on the stricken people of Avon. He\ntook out his book, and immediately wrote the check and handed it to\nthe girl.\n\n\"Hitt,\" said Haynerd, after Carmen had left them and he had exhausted\nhis protests over the size of the check, \"something's killing that\ngirl! And it isn't only the trouble at Avon, either! What is it? I\nbelieve you know.\"\n\nHitt shook his head. \"She's no longer in this world, Ned. She left it\ntwo days ago.\"\n\n\"Eh? Say! News about that Rinc\u00f3n fellow?\"\n\nBut Hitt would say nothing to further illuminate his cryptic remark,\nand Haynerd soon switched to the grim topic of the industrial war in\nprogress at Avon.\n\n\"What are we coming to?\" he cried. \"What's going to be the end? A\nsocial and industrial system such as ours, which leaves the masses to\nstarve and consume with disease under intolerable burdens, that a\nhandful may rot in idleness and luxury, marks us in this latest\ncentury as hopelessly insane!\"\n\n\"Well, Ned, whence came the idea, think you, that it is divine justice\nfor a majority of the people on earth to be poor in order that a few\nmay be rich? And how are we going to get that perverted idea out of\nthe minds of men? Will legislation do it?\"\n\n\"Humph!\" grunted Haynerd. \"Legislation arouses no faith in me! We are\nsuffering here because, in our immensely selfish thought of ourselves\nonly, we have permitted the growth of such men as Ames, and allowed\nthem to monopolize the country's resources. Heavens! Future\ngenerations will laugh themselves sick over us! Why, what sane excuse\nis there for permitting the commonest necessities of life to be\njuggled with by gamblers and unmoral men of wealth? How can we ask to\nbe considered rational when we, with open eyes, allow 'corners' on\nfoodstuffs, and permit 'wheat kings' to amass millions by corralling\nthe supply of grain and then raising the price to the point where the\npoor washerwoman starves? Lord! We are a nation gone mad! The\nexistence of poverty in a country like America is not only proof\npositive that our social system is rotten to the core, but that our\nreligion is equally so! As a people we deserve to be incarcerated in\nasylums!\"\n\n\"A considerable peroration, Ned,\" smiled Hitt. \"And yet, one that I\ncan not refute. The only hope I see is in a radical change in the\nmental attitude of the so-called enlightened class--and yet they are\nthe very worst offenders!\"\n\n\"Sure! Doesn't the militia exist for men like Ames? To-day's work at\nAvon proves it, I think!\"\n\n\"Apparently so, Ned,\" returned Hitt sadly. \"And the only possibility\nof a change in enlightened people is through a better understanding of\nwhat is really good and worth while. That means real, practical\nChristianity. And of that Ames knows nothing.\"\n\n\"Seems to me, Hitt, that it ought to stagger our preachers to realize\nthat nineteen centuries of their brand of Christianity have scarcely\neven begun to cleanse society. What do you suppose Borwell thinks,\nanyway?\"\n\n\"Ned, they still cling to human law as necessarily a compelling\ninfluence in the shaping of mankind's moral nature.\"\n\n\"And go right on accepting the blood-stained money of criminal\nbusiness men who have had the misfortune to amass a million dollars!\nAnd, more, they actually hold such men up as patterns for the youth to\nemulate! As if the chief end of endeavor were to achieve the glorious\nmanhood of an Ames! And he a man who is deader than the corpses he\nmade at Avon to-day!\"\n\n\"The world's ideal, my friend, has long been the man who succeeds in\neverything except that which is worth while,\" replied Hitt. \"But we\nhave been bidden to come out from the world, and be separate. Is it\nnot so?\"\n\n\"Y--e--s, of course. But I can't take my thought from Avon--\"\n\n\"And thereby you emphasize your belief in the reality of evil.\"\n\n\"Well--look at us! The Express stands for righteousness. And now we\nare a dead duck!\"\n\n\"Then, if that is so, why not resign your position, Ned? Go seek work\nelsewhere.\"\n\n\"No, sir! Not while the Express has a leg to stand on! Your words are\nan offense to me, sir!\"\n\nHitt rose and clapped his friend heartily on the back. \"Ned, old man!\nYou're a jewel! Things do look very dark for us, if we look only with\nthe human sense of vision. But we are trying to look at the invisible\nthings within. And there is only perfection there. Come, we must get\nto work. The Express still lives.\"\n\n\"But--Carmen?\"\n\nHitt turned and faced him. \"Ned, Carmen is not in our hands. She is\nnow completely with her God. We must henceforth wait on Him.\"\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nOn the following afternoon at three a little group of Avon mill hands\ncrept past the guards and met in Father Danny's Mission, down in the\nsegregated vice district. They met there because they dared not go\nthrough the town to the Hall. Father Danny was with them. He had\nslipped into town the preceding night, and remained in hiding through\nthe day. And Carmen was with them, too. She had gone first to the\nHall, and then to the Mission, when she arrived again in the little\ntown. And after she had deposited Hitt's check in the bank she had\nasked Father Danny to call together some of the older and more\nintelligent of the mill hands, to discuss methods of disbursing the\nmoney.\n\nAlmost coincident with her arrival had come an order from Ames to\napprehend the girl as a disturber of the peace. The hush of death lay\nover Avon, and even the soldiers now stood aghast at their own bloody\nwork of the day before. Carmen had avoided the main thoroughfares, and\nhad made her way unrecognized. At a distance she saw the town jail,\nheavily guarded. Its capacity had been sorely taxed, and many of the\nprisoners had been crowded into cold, cheerless store rooms, and\nplaced under guards who stood ready to mow them down at the slightest\nthreatening gesture.\n\n\"It's come, Miss Carmen!\" whispered Father Danny, after he had quietly\ngreeted the girl. \"It's come! It may be the beginning of the great\nrevolution we've all known wasn't far off! I just _had_ to get back\nhere! They can only arrest me, anyway. And, oh, God! my poor, poor\npeople!\"\n\nHe sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands. But soon he\nsprang to his feet. \"No time for mollycoddling!\" he exclaimed. \"Come,\nmen, we'll give you checks, and do you get food for the babies. Only,\ndon't buy of the company stores!\"\n\n\"We'll have to, Father,\" said one of them. \"It's dangerous not to.\"\n\n\"But they've never taken cash from you there, ye know. Only your pay\nscrip.\"\n\n\"Aye, Father, and they've discounted that ten per cent each time. But\nif we bought at other stores we were discharged. And now we'd be\nblacklisted.\"\n\n\"Ah, God, that's true!\" exclaimed the priest. \"But now then, Miss\nCarmen, we'll begin.\"\n\nFor an hour the girl wrote small checks, and the priest handed them\nout to the eager laborers. They worked feverishly, for they knew that\nat any moment they might be apprehended.\n\n\"Ah, you men!\" cried Father Danny, at last unable to restrain himself.\n\"Did ye but know that this grand nation is wholly dependent on such as\nyou, its common people! Not on the rich, I say, the handful that own\nits mills and mines, but on you who work them for your rich masters!\nBut then, ye're so ignorant!\"\n\n\"Don't, Father!\" pleaded Carmen, \"don't! They have suffered so much!\"\n\n\"Ah, lass, it's but love that I'm dealin' out to 'em, God knows! And\nyet, it's they that are masters of the situation, only they don't know\nit! There's the pity! They've no leaders, except such as waste their\nmoney and leave 'em in the ditch! The world's social schemes, Miss\nCarmen, don't reach such as these. They're only sops. And they've got\nthe contempt of the wage-earners.\"\n\n\"The Church, Father, could do much for these people, if--\"\n\n\"Don't hesitate, Miss Carmen. You mean, if we didn't give all our\nthought to the rich, eh? But still, it's wholly up to the people\nthemselves, after all. And, mark me, when they do rise, why, such men\nas Ames won't know what's hit 'em!\"\n\nThe door was thrown violently open at that moment, and a squad of\nsoldiers under the command of a lieutenant entered.\n\nCarmen and Father Danny rose and faced them. The mill hands stood like\nstone images, their faces black with suppressed rage. The lieutenant\nhalted his men, and then advanced to the girl.\n\n\"Is a woman named Carmen Ariza here?\" he demanded rudely.\n\n\"I am she,\" replied the fearless girl.\n\n\"Come with us,\" he said in a rough voice.\n\n\"That she will not!\" cried Father Danny, suddenly pulling the girl\nback and thrusting himself before her.\n\nThe lieutenant raised his hand. The soldiers advanced. The mill hands\nquickly formed about the girl. And then, with a yell of rage, they\nthrew themselves upon the soldiers.\n\nFor a few minutes the little room was a bedlam. The crazed strikers\nfought without weapons, except such as they could wrest from the\nsoldiers. But they fought to the death. One of them seized Carmen and\nthrew her beneath the table at which she had been working. Above her\nraged the desperate conflict. The shouting and cursing might have been\nheard for blocks around. Father Danny stood in front of the table,\nbeneath which lay the girl. He strove desperately to maintain his\nposition, that he might protect her, meantime frantically calling to\nthe mill hands to drag her out to the rear, and escape by the back\ndoor.\n\nIn the midst of the _m\u00eal\u00e9e_ a soldier mounted a chair near the door\nand raised his rifle. The shot roared out, and Father Danny pitched\nforward to the floor. Another shot, and still another followed in\nquick succession. The strikers fell back. Confusion seized them. Then\nthey turned and fled precipitately through the rear exit.\n\nThe lieutenant dragged Carmen from beneath the table and out through\nthe door. Then, assembling his men, he gave an order, and they marched\naway with her up the icy street to the town jail.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 16\n\n\nWith the wreckage which he had wrought strewn about him, J. Wilton\nAmes sat at his rich desk far above the scampering human ants in the\nstreets below and contemplated the fell work of his own hands. And\noften and anon as he looked, great beads of perspiration welled out\nupon his forehead, and his breath came hot and dry. In the waste\nbasket at his feet lay crumpled the newspapers with their shrieking,\nred-lettered versions of the slaughter at Avon. He was not a coward,\nthis man! But he had pushed that basket around the desk out of his\nsight, for when he looked at it something rose before him that sent a\nchill to his very soul. At times his vision blurred; and then he\npassed his hands heavily across his eyes. He had chanced to read in\nthe grewsome accounts of the Avon massacre that little children had\nbeen found among those fallen shacks, writhing in their last agonies.\nAnd the reports had said that great, red-dripping holes had been\nripped in their thin little bodies by those awful \"dum-dum\" bullets.\nGod! Why had he used them? And why had the demoniac soldiers down\nthere blown the brains from harmless women and helpless babes? He\nreally had not intended to go so far!\n\nAnd yet, he had! Curse them! The brats would have grown up to oppose\nthe vested privileges of the rich! They, too, would have become\nanarchists and rioters, bent on leveling the huge industrial fabric\nwhich such as he had so laboriously erected under the legal protection\nafforded their sacred rights! He had done well to remove them now! And\nthe great captains of industry would thank him for the example he had\nthus fearlessly set!\n\nTo think of Avon was for him now to think in terms of blood. And yet\nhis carnal soul hourly wrestled sore with thoughts of a wholly\ndifferent stamp; with those strange emotions which he had felt when in\nCarmen's presence; with those unfamiliar sentiments which, had he not\nfought them back so bitterly, might have made him anew, and--\n\nBut the remembrance maddened him. His face grew black, and his mouth\npoured forth a torrent of foul imprecations and threats upon her and\nupon those who stood with her. His rage towered again. He smote the\ndesk with his great fist. He fumed, he frothed, he hurled reason from\nits throne, and bade the Furies again become his counselors.\n\nUpon the desk before him lay the mortgage papers which Hitt had\nsigned. He had bought the mortgage from the bank which had loaned the\nExpress the money. He would crush that sheet now, crush it until the\nink dripped black from its emasculated pages! And when it fell into\nhis hands, he would turn it into the yellowest of sensational\njournals, and hoot the memory of its present staff from ocean to\nocean!\n\nThen, his head sunk upon his breast, he fell to wondering if he might\nnot secure a mortgage upon the Beaubien cottage, and turn its\noccupants into the street. Ah, what a power was money! It was the\nlever by which he moved the world, and clubbed its dull-witted\ninhabitants into servile obeisance! Who could stand against him--\n\nThat girl!\n\nHe sprang to his feet and called Hood. That obedient lackey hastened\ninto his master's presence.\n\n\"The Ketchim trial?\" snarled Ames.\n\n\"Called for this week, sir,\" replied Hood, glad that the announcement\ncould not possibly offend his superior.\n\n\"Humph! The--that girl?\"\n\n\"Brought up from Avon, and lodged in the Tombs, sir.\"\n\n\"You tell Judge Spencer that if he allows her bail I'll see that his\nfederal appointment is killed, understand?\"\n\n\"You may rely upon him, sir.\"\n\nAmes regarded the man with a mixture of admiration and utter contempt.\nFor Hood stood before him a resplendent example of the influence of\nthe most subtle of all poisons, the insidious lure of money. Soul and\nbody he had prostituted himself and his undoubted talents to it. And\nnow, were he to be turned adrift by Ames, the man must inevitably sink\ninto oblivion, squeezed dry of every element of genuine manhood, and\nweighted with the unclean lucre for which his bony fingers had always\nitched.\n\n\"Will Cass defend Ketchim?\" the master asked.\n\n\"Oh, doubtless. He knows most about the formation of the defunct\nSimit\u00ed company.\"\n\n\"Well, see him and--you say he's young, and got a wife and baby? Offer\nhim twenty-five thousand to quit the case.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid it wouldn't do, sir,\" returned Hood, shaking his head\ndubiously. \"I've had men talking with him regarding the trial, and\nhe--\"\n\n\"Then get him over here. I'll see if I can't persuade him,\" growled\nAmes in an ugly tone.\n\nHood bowed and went out. A few minutes later Reverend Darius Borwell\nwas ushered into the financier's private office.\n\n\"Mr. Ames,\" cried that gentleman of the cloth, \"it's shocking,\nterribly so, what those unbridled, unprincipled mill hands have drawn\nupon themselves down in Avon! Goodness! And four members of the Church\nof the Social Revolution came to my study last evening and demanded\nthat I let them speak to my congregation on the coming Sabbath!\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"Why, I told them certainly not! My church is God's house! And I shall\nhave policemen stationed at the doors next Sunday to maintain order!\nTo think that it has come to this in America! But, Mr. Ames, is your\nhouse guarded? I would advise--\"\n\n\"Nobody can get within a block of my house, sir, without ringing a\nseries of electric bells,\" replied Ames evenly. \"I have fifty guards\nand private detectives in attendance in and about my premises all the\ntime. My limousine has been lined with sheet steel. And my every step\nis protected. I am not afraid for my life. I simply want to keep going\nuntil I can carry out a few plans I have in hand.\" His thought had\nreverted again to the fair girl in the Tombs.\n\n\"But now, Borwell,\" he continued, \"I want to talk with you about\nanother matter. I am drawing up my will, and--\"\n\n\"Why, my dear Mr. Ames! You are not ill?\"\n\nAmes thought of his physician's constantly iterated warning; but shook\nhis head. \"I may get caught in this Avon affair,\" he said evasively.\n\"And I want to be prepared. The President has sent his message to\nCongress, as you may be aware. There are unpleasant suggestions in it\nregarding dispossession in cases like my own. I'm coming back by\nmagnanimously willing to Congress a hundred millions, to stand as a\nfund for social uplift.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" sighed the clergyman. Great was Mammon!\n\n\"But the little matter I wish to discuss with you is the sum that I am\nsetting aside for the erection of a new church edifice,\" continued\nAmes, eying the minister narrowly.\n\n\"You don't mean it!\" cried that worthy gentleman, springing up and\nclasping the financier's hand. \"Mr. Ames! So magnanimous! Ah--the\namount?\"\n\n\"Well, will half a million do?\" suggested Ames.\n\nThe minister reflected a moment. One should not be too precipitate in\naccepting tentative benefactions. \"Ah--we really should have--ah--a\ntrifle more, Mr. Ames. There's the settlement home, and the commons,\nyou know, and--\"\n\n\"Humph! Well, we'll start with half a million,\" replied Ames dryly.\n\"By the way, you know Jurges, eh? Reverend William Jurges? Er--have\nyou any particular influence with him, if I may ask?\" His sharp eyes\nbored straight through the wondering divine.\n\n\"Why--yes--yes, I know the gentleman. And, as for influence--well, I\nmay--\"\n\n\"Yes, just so,\" put in Ames. \"Now there is a trial coming up this\nweek, and Jurges will be called to the stand. I want you to give him\nthe true facts in regard to it. I'll call Hood, and we'll go over them\nin detail now. Then you see Jurges this afternoon, and--say, he's\nraising a building fund too, isn't he?\"\n\nThe magnate summoned Hood again; and for an hour the trio discussed\nthe forthcoming trial of the unfortunate Philip O. Ketchim. Then Ames\ndismissed the clergyman, and bade his office boy admit the young\nlawyer, Cass, who had come in response to Hood's request.\n\nFor some moments after Cass entered the office Ames stood regarding\nhim, studying what manner of man he was, and how best to approach him.\nThen he opened the conversation by a casual reference to the\nunsatisfactory business situation which obtained throughout the\ncountry, and expressed wonder that young men just starting in their\nprofessions managed to make ends meet.\n\n\"But,\" he concluded with deep significance, \"better go hungry than\ntake on any class of business which, though promising good money\nreturns, nevertheless might eventually prove suicidal.\" He looked hard\nat the young lawyer when he paused.\n\n\"I quite agree with you, Mr. Ames,\" returned Cass. \"But as I am\nparticularly busy this morning, may I ask why you have sent for me?\nHave you anything that I can--\"\n\n\"I have,\" abruptly interrupted the financier. \"We need additions to\nour legal staff. I thought perhaps you might like to talk over the\nmatter with me, with a view to entering our employ.\"\n\n\"Why, Mr. Ames, I--I have never thought of--\" The young man's eyes\nglistened.\n\n\"Well, suppose you think of it now,\" said Ames, smiling graciously. \"I\nhave heard considerable about you of late, and I must say I rather\nlike the way you have been handling your work.\"\n\nCass looked at him with rising wonder. The work which he had been\ndoing of late was most ordinary and routine, and called for no display\nof legal skill whatever. Suspicions slowly began to rise.\n\n\"I'd hate to see you tackle anything at this stage of your career, Mr.\nCass, that would bring discredit upon you. And I am afraid your\nassociation with Ketchim is going to do just that. But possibly you do\nnot intend to handle further business for him?\"\n\nKetchim, though long confined in the Tombs, had at length secured\nbail, through the not wholly disinterested efforts of his uncle,\nStolz, the sworn enemy of Ames. And, because of his loyal efforts in\nbehalf of Ketchim, Stolz had insisted that Cass be retained as counsel\nfor the latter when his trial should come up.\n\n\"I'll tell you what I'll do, Mr. Cass,\" said Ames suddenly. \"Mr. Hood\nwill take you on at a salary of, say, five thousand to start with.\nWe'll try you out for a few weeks. Then, if we don't mutually fit,\nwhy, we'll quietly separate and say nothing. How about it?\"\n\nCass thought hard. Half of that salary would have looked large to him\nthen. But--\n\n\"May I ask,\" he slowly said in reply, \"what class of work Mr. Hood\nwould give me to start with?\"\n\n\"Why, nothing of great importance, perhaps, while you are getting into\nthe harness. Possibly court work, as a starter. You've had experience\nin that, eh?\"\n\nCass reflected again. The temptation was tremendous. That little house\nwhich he had passed and stopped to look at so wistfully every night on\nhis way home was now within his grasp.\n\nHe glanced up at the great man, sitting so calmly before him. Then he\nthought suddenly of Avon. Then of Carmen.\n\n\"Mr. Ames,\" he said, \"if I enter your employ, it must be with the\nstipulation that I shall have nothing to do with the Ketchim trial.\"\n\nAmes's face went suddenly dark. \"If you enter my employ, sir, it will\nbe with the stipulation that you do as I say,\" he returned coldly.\n\nAnd then the young lawyer saw through the mask. And his anger flamed\nhigh at what he discerned behind it. He rose and faced the great man.\n\n\"Mr. Ames,\" said he, \"you have made a mistake. I am poor, and I need\nbusiness. But I have not as yet fallen so completely under the spell\nof fortune-hunting as to sell my honor to a man like you! To enter\nyour employ, I now see, would mean the total loss of character and\nself respect. It would mean a lowering of my ideals, whatever they may\nbe, to your own vulgar standard. I may have done wrong in becoming\nassociated with Mr. Ketchim. In fact, I know that I have. But I\npledged myself to assist him. And yet, in doing so, I scarcely can\nblacken my reputation to the extent that I should were I to become\nyour legal henchman. I want wealth. But there are some terms upon\nwhich even I can not accept it. And your terms are among them. I bid\nyou good morning.\"\n\nAmes gave a snort of anger when Cass went out. Summoning Hood, he\nvented his great wrath upon that individual's bald pate. \"And now,\" he\nconcluded, \"I want that fellow Cass so wound up that he will sneak off\nto a lonely spot and commit suicide! And if you can't do it, then I'll\naccept your resignation!\"\n\n\"Very well, sir,\" replied Hood. \"And, by the way, Mr. Ames, I have\njust learned that Judge Harris, father of the young man who came up\nwith that girl, is in Colombia. Seems that he's taken some wealthy man\ndown there to look at La Libertad mine.\"\n\n\"What!\" Ames's eyes snapped fire.\n\n\"They believe you put one over on Ketchim, with the help of Monsignor\nLafelle, and so they've gone down to get titles to that mine.\"\n\n\"By G--\"\n\n\"And they say that--\"\n\n\"Never mind what they say!\" roared Ames. \"Cable Wenceslas at once to\nsee that those fellows remain permanently in Colombia. He has ways of\naccomplishing that. Humph! Fools! Judge Harris, eh? Ninny! I guess\nWenceslas can block his little game!\"\n\nHis great frame shook slightly as he stood consuming with rage, and a\nslight hemorrhage started from his nostrils. He turned to the\nlavatory. And as he walked, Hood thought his left foot dragged\nslightly. But the lawyer made no comment.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnd then, with the way well cleared, came the Ketchim trial, which has\ngone down in history as containing the most spectacular _d\u00e9no\u00fbement_\nin the record of legal procedure in the New World. Had it been\nconcerned, as was anticipated, only with routine legal procedure\nagainst the man Ketchim, a weak-souled compound of feeble sycophancy\nand low morals, it would have attracted slight attention, and would\nhave been spread upon the court records by uninterested clerks with\nnever a second thought. But there were elements entering into it of\nwhose existence the outside world could not have even dreamed. Into it\nconverged threads which now may be traced back to scenes and events in\nthree continents; threads whose intricate windings led through\ntrackless forest and dim-lit church; through court of fashion and hut\nof poverty; back through the dark mazes of mortal thought, where no\nlight shines upon the carnal aims and aspirations of the human mind;\nback even to the doors of a palace itself, even to the proudest throne\nof the Old World.\n\nBut none of these elements found expression in the indictment against\nthe frightened defendant, the small-visioned man who had sought to\nimitate the mighty Ames, and yet who lacked sufficient intelligence of\nthat sort which manifests in such a perversion of skill and power.\nAmes was a tremendous corruptionist, who stood beyond the laws simply\nbecause of the elemental fact that he himself made those laws. Ketchim\nwas a plain deceiver. And his deception was religious fervor. Mingling\nhis theology with fraud, he employed the unholy alliance for the\npurpose of exploiting the credulous who attended his prayer meetings\nand commented with bated breath upon his beautiful showing of\nreligious zeal. He was but one of a multitude afflicted with the\n\"dollar mania.\" His misfortune was that his methods were so antique\nthat they could not long fail of detection. And it was because of his\nuse of the mails for the purpose of deceit that the indictment had\nbeen drawn against Philip O. Ketchim _et al._ by the long-suffering,\ntolerant complainant, called the people.\n\nNominally the people's interests were in the hands of the Public\nProsecutor, a certain smug young worldling named Ellis. But, as that\ngentleman owed his appointment to Ames, it is not surprising that at\nhis right hand sat Hood and his well trained staff. Nominally, too,\nJudge Spencer conducted the trial strictly upon its merits, not all of\nwhich lay with the people. But the judge might have been still\nprosecuting petty cases back in the unknown little district from\nwhich he came, had it not been for the great influence of Ames, long\nsince, who had found him on a certain occasion useful. And so the jury\npanel contained none but those who, we may be very sure, were amenable\nto the tender pressure of a soft hand lined with yellow gold. And only\nthose points of evidence were sustained which conduced to the\nincrimination of the miserable defendant. Ketchim was doomed before\nthe trial began.\n\nAnd yet, to subserve the dark schemes of Ames, and to lengthen the\nperiod of torture to which his victims should be subjected, the trial\nwas dragged through many days. Besides, even he and his hirelings were\nbound to observe the formalities.\n\nIt was at the suggestion of Cass that no effort had been made to\nprocure bail for Carmen after her arrest. The dramatic may always be\nrelied upon to carry a point which even plain evidence negatives. And\nshe, acquiescing in the suggestion, remained a full two weeks in the\nTombs before Ames's eager counsel found their opportunity to confront\nher on the witness stand and besmirch her with their black charges.\nThe Beaubien was prostrated. But, knowing that for her another hour of\nhumiliation and sorrow had come, she strove mightily to summon her\nstrength for its advent. Father Waite toiled with Cass day and night.\nHitt and Haynerd, without financial resources, pursued their way, grim\nand silent. The Express was sinking beneath its mountainous load. And\nthey stood at the helm, stanch to their principles, not yielding an\niota to offers of assistance in exchange for a reversal of the policy\nupon which the paper had been launched.\n\n\"We're going down, Hitt,\" said Haynerd grimly. \"But we go with the\nflag flying at the mast!\"\n\nYet Hitt answered not. He was learning to know as did Carmen, and to\nsee with eyes which were invisible.\n\nIt was just when the jury had been impaneled, after long days of petty\nwrangling and childish recrimination among the opposing lawyers, that\nStolz came to Ames and laid down his sword. The control of C. and R.\nshould pass unequivocally to the latter if he would but save Ketchim\nfrom prison.\n\nThen Ames lay back and roared with laughter over his great triumph. C.\nand R! Poof! He would send Stolz' nephew to prison, and then roll a\nbomb along Wall Street whose detonation would startle the financial\nworld clean out of its orbit! Stolz had failed to notice that Ames's\nschemes had so signally worked out that C. and R. was practically in\nhis hands now! The defeated railroad magnate at length backed out of\nthe Ames office purple with rage. And then he pledged himself to\nhypothecate his entire fortune to the rescue of his worthless nephew.\n\nThus, in deep iniquity, was launched the famous trial, a process of\njustice in name only, serving as an outlet for a single man's long\nnurtured personal animosities. The adulterous union of religion and\nbusiness was only nominally before the bar. The victims, not the\ndefendant only, not the preachers, the washerwomen, the factory girls,\nthe widows, and the orphans, whose life savings Ketchim had drawn into\nhis net by the lure of pious benedictions, but rather those\nunfortunates who had chanced to incur the malicious hatred of the\ngreat, legalized malefactor, Ames, by opposition to his selfish\ncaprice, and whose utter defeat and discrediting before the public\nwould now place the crown of righteous expediency upon his own\nchicanery and extortion and his wantonly murderous deeds.\n\nThe prosecution scored from the beginning. Doctor Jurges, utterly\nconfused by the keen lawyers, and vainly endeavoring to follow the\ndictates of his conscience, while attempting to reconcile them with\nhis many talks with Darius Borwell, gave testimony which fell little\nshort of incriminating himself. For there were produced letters which\nhe had written to members of his congregation, and which for subtlety\nand deception, though doubtless innocently done, would have made a\nseasoned promoter look sharp to his own laurels.\n\nThen Harris was called. He had been summoned from Denver for the\ntrial. But his stuttering evidence gave no advantage to either side.\nAnd then--crowning blunder!--Cass permitted Ketchim himself to take\nthe stand. And the frightened, trembling broker gave his own cause\nsuch a blow that the prosecution might well have asked the judge to\ntake the case from the jury then and there. It was a legal _faux pas_;\nand Cass walked the floor and moaned the whole night through.\n\nThen, as per program, the prosecution called Madam Beaubien. Could not\nthat sorrowing woman have given testimony which would have aided the\ntottering defense, and unmasked the evil genius which presided over\nthis mock trial? Ah, yes, in abundance! But not one point would the\njudge sustain when it bordered upon forbidden territory. It was made\nplain to her that she was there to testify against Ketchim, and to\npermit the Ames lawyers to bandy her own name about the court room\nupon the sharp points of their cruel cross-questions and low\ninsinuations.\n\nBut, she protested, her knowledge of the Simit\u00ed company's affairs had\ncome through another person.\n\nAnd who might that be?\n\nMr. J. Wilton Ames.\n\nAh! But Mr. Ames should give his own testimony--for was it not he who\nhad, not long since, legally punished the witness on a charge of\ndefamation of character? The witness was dismissed. And the spectators\nknew that it was because the righteous prosecution could no longer\nstain its hands with one who bore such a tarnished name as she.\n\nAnd then, taunted and goaded to exasperation, the wronged woman burst\ninto tears and flayed the bigamist Ames there before the court room\ncrowded with eager society ladies and curious, non-toiling men. Flayed\nhim as men are seldom flayed and excoriated by the women they trample.\nThe bailiffs seized her, and dragged her into an ante-room; the judge\nbroke his gavel rapping for order, and threatened to clear the court;\nand then Cass, too young and inexperienced to avoid battle with\nseasoned warriors, rose and demanded that Madam Beaubien be returned\nto the stand.\n\nThe astonished judge hesitated. Cass stood his ground. He turned to\nthe people, as if seeking their support. A great murmur arose through\nthe court room. The judge looked down at Ames. That man, sitting calm\nand unimpassioned, nodded his head slightly. And the woman was led\nback to the chair.\n\n\"It may have an important bearing upon the case, Your Honor!\" cried\nthe young lawyer for the defense. \"Mr. Ames is to take the stand as an\nimportant witness in this case. If Madam Beaubien brings such a charge\nagainst him, it gives us reason to believe his honor peccable, and his\ntestimony open to suspicion!\"\n\nIt was a daring statement, and the whole room gasped, and held its\nbreath.\n\n\"I object, Your Honor!\" shouted the chief prosecutor, Ellis. \"The\nlawyer for the defense is in contempt of court! Madam Beaubien has\nbeen shown to be a--\"\n\n\"The objection is sustained!\" called the judge. \"The charge is utterly\nirrelevant! Order in the court!\"\n\n_\"His first wife's portrait--is in a glass window--in his yacht!\"_\ncried the hysterical Beaubien. Then she crumpled up in a limp mass,\nand was led from the chair half fainting.\n\nAt the woman's shrill words a white-haired man, dressed in black,\nclerical garb, who had been sitting in the rear of the room close to\nthe door, rose hastily, then slowly sat down again. At his feet\nreposed a satchel, bearing several foreign labels. Evidently he had\nbut just arrived from distant lands.\n\nConsternation reigned throughout the room for a few minutes. Then\nCass, believing that the psychological moment had arrived, loudly\ncalled Carmen Ariza to the stand. The dramatic play must be continued,\nnow that it had begun. The battle which had raged back and forth for\nlong, weary days, could be won, if at all, only by playing upon the\nemotions of the jury, for the evidence thus far given had resulted in\nshowing not only the defense, but likewise the Beaubien, and all who\nhad been associated with the Simit\u00ed company, including Cass himself,\nto be participators in gross, intentional fraud.\n\nThe remaining witness, the girl herself, had been purposely neglected\nby the prosecution, for the great Ames had planned that she must be\ncalled by the defense. Then would he bring up the prostitute, Jude,\nand from her wring testimony which must blast forever the girl's\nalready soiled name. Following her, he would himself take the stand,\nand tell of the girl's visits to his office; of her protestations of\nlove for him; of her embracing him; and of a thousand indiscretions\nwhich he had carefully garnered and stored for this triumphant\noccasion.\n\nBut the judge, visibly perturbed by the dramatic turn which the case\nseemed to be taking, studied his watch for a moment, then Ames's face,\nand then abruptly adjourned court until the following day. Yet not\nuntil Cass had been recognized, and the hounded girl summoned from her\ncell in the Tombs, to take the stand in the morning for--her life!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 17\n\n\nIn the days to come, when the divine leaven which is in the world\nto-day shall have brought more of the carnal mind's iniquity to the\nsurface, that the Sun of Truth may destroy the foul germs, there shall\nbe old men and women, and they which, looking up from their work, peep\nand mutter of strange things long gone, who shall fall wonderingly\nsilent when they have told again of the fair young girl who walked\nalone into the crowded court room that cold winter's morning. And\ntheir stories will vary with the telling, for no two might agree what\nmanner of being it was that came into their midst that day.\n\nEven the bailiffs, as if moved by some strange prescience, had fallen\nback and allowed her to enter alone. The buzz of subdued chatter\nceased, and a great silence came over all as they looked. Some swore,\nin awed whispers, when the dramatic day had ended, and judge and jury\nand wrangling lawyer had silently, and with bowed heads, gone quiet\nand thoughtful each to his home, that a nimbus encircled her beautiful\nhead when she came through the door and faced the gaping multitude.\nSome said that her eyes were raised; that she saw not earthly things;\nand that a heavenly presence moved beside her. Nor may we lightly set\naside these tales; for, after the curtain had fallen upon the\nwonderful scene about to be enacted, there was not one present who\nwould deny that, as the girl came into the great room and went\ndirectly to the witness chair, God himself walked at her side and held\nher hand.\n\n\"Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou\ndismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou\ngoest.\"\n\nThrough the mind of that same white-haired man in the clerical garb\nran these words as he watched the girl move silently across the room.\nShe seemed to have taken on a new meaning to him since the previous\nday. And as he looked, his eyes grew moist, and he drew out his\nhandkerchief.\n\nBut his were not the only eyes that had filled then. Hitt and Haynerd\nbent their heads, that the people might not see; Miss Wall and the\nBeaubien wept silently, and with no attempt to stay their grief; Jude\nburied her head in her hands, and rocked back and forth, moaning\nsoftly. Why they wept, they knew not. A welter of conflicting emotions\nsurged through their harassed souls. They seemed to have come now to\nthe great crisis. And which way the tide would turn rested with this\nlone girl.\n\nFor some moments after she was seated the silence remained unbroken.\nAnd as she sat there, waiting, she looked down at the man who sought\nto destroy what he might not possess. Some said afterward that as she\nlooked at him she smiled. Who knows but that the Christ himself smiled\ndown from the cross at those who had riven his great heart?\n\nBut Ames did not meet her glance. Somehow he dared not. He was far\nfrom well that morning, and an ugly, murderous mood possessed him. And\nyet, judged by the world's standards, he had tipped the crest of\nsuccess. He had conquered all. Men came and went at his slightest nod.\nHis coffers lay bursting with their heavy treasure. He was swollen\nwith wealth, with material power, with abnormal pride. His tender\nsensibilities and sympathies were happily completely ossified, and he\nwas stone deaf and blind to the agonies of a suffering world. Not a\nsingle aim but had been realized; not a lone ambition but had been\nmet. Even the armed camp at Avon, and the little wooden crosses over\nthe fresh mounds there, all testified to his omnipotence; and in them,\ndespite their horrors, he felt a satisfying sense of his own great\nmight.\n\nThe clerk held up the Bible for the girl to give her oath. She looked\nat him for a moment, and then smiled. \"I will tell the truth,\" she\nsaid simply.\n\nThe officer hesitated, and looked up at the judge. But the latter sat\nwith his eyes fixed upon the girl. The clerk did not press the point;\nand Carmen was delivered into the hands of the lawyers.\n\nCass hesitated. He knew not how to begin. Then, yielding to a sudden\nimpulse, he asked the girl to mention briefly the place of her birth,\nher parentage, and other statistical data, leading up to her\nassociation with the defendant.\n\nThe story that followed was simply given. It was but the one she had\ntold again and again. Yet the room hung on her every word. And when\nshe had concluded, Cass turned her back again to Simit\u00ed, and to\nRosendo's share in the mining project which had ultimated in this\nsuit.\n\nA far-away look came into the girl's eyes as she spoke of that great,\nblack man who had taken her from desolate Badillo into his own warm\nheart. There were few dry eyes among the spectators when she told of\nhis selfless love. And when she drew the portrait of him, standing\nalone in the cold mountain water, far up in the jungle of Guamoc\u00f3,\nbending over the laden _batea_, and toiling day by day in those\nghastly solitudes, that she might be protected and educated and raised\nabove her primitive environment in Simit\u00ed, there were sobs heard\nthroughout the room; and even the judge, hardened though he was by\nconflict with the human mind, removed his glasses and loudly cleared\nhis throat as he wiped them.\n\nAmes first grew weary as he listened, and then exasperated. His lawyer\nat length rose to object to the recital on the ground that it was\nlargely irrelevant to the case. And the judge, pulling himself\ntogether, sustained the objection. Cass sat down. Then the prosecution\neagerly took up the cross-examination. Ames's hour had come.\n\n\"Boast not thyself of to-morrow; for thou knowest not what a day may\nbring forth,\" murmured the white-haired man in the clerical garb far\nback in the crowded room. Had he learned the law of Truth to error,\n\"Thou shall surely die\"? Did he discern the vultures gnawing at the\nrich man's vitals? Did he, too, know that this giant of privilege, so\ninsolently flaunting his fleeting power, his blood-stained wealth and\nhis mortal pride, might as well seek to dim the sun in heaven as to\nescape the working of those infinite divine laws which shall effect\nthe destruction of evil and the establishment of the kingdom of heaven\neven here upon earth?\n\nAmes leaned over to whisper to Hood. The latter drew Ellis down and\ntransmitted his master's instructions. The atmosphere grew tense, and\nthe hush of expectancy lay over all.\n\n\"Miss Carmen,\" began Ellis easily, \"your parentage has been a matter\nof some dispute, if I mistake not, and--\"\n\nCass was on his feet to object. What had this question to do with the\nissue?\n\nBut the judge overruled the objection. That was what he was there for.\nCass should have divined it by this time.\n\n\"H'm!\" Ellis cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. \"And your\nfather, it is said, was a negro priest. I believe that has been\naccepted for some time. A certain Diego, if I recall correctly.\"\n\n\"I never knew my earthly father,\" replied Carmen in a low voice.\n\n\"But you have admitted that it might have been this Diego, have you\nnot?\"\n\n\"It might have been,\" returned the girl, looking off absently toward\nthe high windows.\n\n\"Did he not claim you as his daughter?\" pursued the lawyer.\n\n\"Yes,\" softly.\n\n\"Now,\" continued Ellis, \"that being reasonably settled, is it not also\ntrue that you used the claim of possessing this mine, La Libertad, as\na pretext for admission to society here in New York?\"\n\nThe girl did not answer, but only smiled pityingly at him. He, too,\nhad bartered his soul; and in her heart there rose a great sympathy\nfor him in his awful mesmerism.\n\n\"And that you claimed to be an Inca princess?\" went on the merciless\nlawyer.\n\n\"Answer!\" admonished the judge, looking severely down upon the silent\ngirl.\n\nCarmen sighed, and drew her gaze away from the windows. She was weary,\noh, so weary of this unspeakable mockery. And yet she was there to\nprove her God.\n\n\"I would like to ask this further question,\" Ellis resumed, without\nwaiting for her reply. \"Were you not at one time in a resort conducted\nby Madam Cazeau, down on--\"\n\nHe stopped short. The girl's eyes were looking straight into his, and\nthey seemed to have pierced his soul. \"I am sorry for you,\" she said\ngently, \"oh, so sorry! Yes, I was once in that place.\"\n\nThe man knew not whether to smile in triumph or hide his head in\nshame. He turned to Hood. But Hood would not look at him. Ames alone\nmet his embarrassed glance, and sent back a command to continue the\nattack.\n\nCass again rose and voiced his protest. What possible relation to the\nissue involved could such testimony have? But the judge bade him sit\ndown, as the counsel for the prosecution doubtless was bringing out\nfacts of greatest importance.\n\nEllis again cleared his throat and bent to his loathsome task. \"Now,\nMiss Ariza, in reference to your labors to incite the mill hands at\nAvon to deeds of violence, the public considers that as part of a\nconsistent line of attack upon Mr. Ames, in which you were aiding\nothers from whom you took your orders. May I ask you to cite the\nmotives upon which you acted?\"\n\nCass sank back in abject despair. Ketchim was being forgotten!\n\n\"We have not attacked Mr. Ames,\" she slowly replied, \"but only the\nthings he stands for. But you wouldn't understand.\"\n\nEllis smiled superciliously. \"A militant brand of social uplift, I\nsuppose?\"\n\n\"No, Mr. Ellis, but just Christianity.\"\n\n\"H'm. And that is the sort of remedy that anarchists apply to\nindustrial troubles, is it not?\"\n\n\"There is no remedy for industrial troubles but Christianity,\" she\nsaid gently. \"Not the burlesque Christianity of our countless sects\nand churches; not Roman Catholicism; not Protestantism; nor any of the\nfads and fancies of the human mind; but just the Christianity of Jesus\nof Nazareth, who knew that the human man was not God's image, but only\nstood for it in the mortal consciousness. And he always saw behind\nthis counterfeit the real man, the true likeness of God. And--\"\n\n\"You are diverging from the subject proper and consuming time, Miss\nAriza!\" interrupted the judge sternly.\n\nCarmen did not heed him, but continued quietly:\n\n\"And it was just such a man that Jesus portrayed in his daily walk and\nwords.\"\n\n\"Miss Ariza!\" again commanded the judge.\n\n\"No,\" the girl went calmly on, \"Jesus did not stand for the\nintolerance, the ignorance, the bigotry, the hatred, and the human\nhypothesis, the fraud, and chicanery, and the 'Who shall be greatest?'\nof human institutions. Nor did he make evil a reality, as mortals do.\nHe knew it seemed awfully real to the deceived human consciousness;\nbut he told that consciousness to be not afraid. And then he went to\nwork and drove out the belief of evil on the basis of its nothingness\nand its total lack of principle. The orthodox churches and sects of\nto-day do not do that. Oh, no! They strive for world dominion! Their\nkingdom is wholly temporal, and is upheld by heartless millionaires,\nand by warlike kings and emperors. Their tenets shame the intelligence\nof thinking men! Yet they have slain tens of millions to establish\nthem!\"\n\nWhat could the Court do? To remove the girl meant depriving Ames of\nhis prey. But if she remained upon the stand, she would put them all\nto confusion, for they had no means of silencing her. The judge looked\nblankly at Ames; his hands were tied.\n\nEllis hurried to change the current of her talk by interposing another\nquestion.\n\n\"Will you tell us, Miss Carmen, why you have been working--\"\n\n\"I have been working for God,\" she interrupted. Her voice was low and\nsteady, and her eyes shone with a light that men are not wont to see\nin those of their neighbors. \"I have not been working for men. He\nalone is my employer. And for Him I am here to-day.\"\n\nConsternation was plainly discernible in the camp of the prosecution.\nCass knew now that he need make no more objections. The defense had\npassed from his hands.\n\nAt this juncture James Ketchim, brother of the defendant, thinking to\nrelieve the strain and embarrassment, gave audible voice to one of his\nwonted witticisms. All turned to look at him. But the effect was not\nwhat he had anticipated. No one laughed.\n\n\"Hold your tongue, Mr. Ketchim!\" roared the exasperated judge, bending\nfar over his desk. \"You are just a smart little fool!\" And the elder\nKetchim retired in chagrin and confusion.\n\n\"Miss Carmen,\" pursued Ellis, eager to recover his advantage, for he\nsaw significant movements among the jury, \"do you not think the\nunfortunate results at Avon quite prove that you have allied yourself\nwith those who oppose the nation's industrial progress?\"\n\nCarmen sat silent. Order had now been restored in the court room, and\nEllis was feeling sure of himself again.\n\n\"You have opposed the constructive development of our country's\nresources by your assaults upon men of wealth, like Mr. Ames, for\nexample, have you not?\"\n\nThen the girl opened her mouth, and from it came words that fell upon\nthe room like masses of lead. \"I stand opposed to any man, Mr. Ellis,\nwho, to enrich himself, and for the purpose of revenge, spreads the\nboll weevil in the cotton fields of the South.\"\n\nDull silence descended upon the place. And yet it was a silence that\nfell crashing upon Ames's straining ears. He sat for a moment stunned;\nthen sprang to his feet. All eyes were turned upon him. He held out a\nhand, and made as if to speak; then sank again into his chair.\n\nEllis stood as if petrified. Then Hood rose and whispered to him.\nEllis collected himself, and turned to the judge.\n\n\"Your Honor, we regret to state that, from the replies which Miss\nAriza has given, we do not consider her mentally competent as a\nwitness. We therefore dismiss her.\"\n\nBut Cass had leaped to the floor. \"Your Honor!\" he cried. \"I should\nlike to examine the witness further!\"\n\n\"She is dismissed!\" returned the judge, glowering over his spectacles\nat the young lawyer.\n\n\"I stand on--\"\n\n\"Sit down!\" the judge bellowed.\n\n\"Miss Carmen!\" called Cass through the rising tumult, \"the lawyer for\nthe prosecution has heaped insults upon you in his low references to\nyour parentage. Will you--\"\n\nThe judge pounded upon his desk with the remnant of his broken gavel.\nThen he summoned the bailiffs.\n\n\"I shall order the room cleared!\" he called in a loud, threatening\nvoice.\n\nThe murmur subsided. The judge sat down and mopped his steaming face.\nHood and Ellis bent in whispered consultation. Ames was a study of\nwild, infuriated passion. Cass stood defiantly before the bar. Carmen\nsat quietly facing the crowded room. She had reached up and was\nfondling the little locket which hung at her throat. It was the first\ntime she had ever worn it. It was not a pretty piece of jewelry; and\nit had never occurred to her to wear it until that day. Nor would she\nhave thought of it then, had not the Beaubien brought it to the Tombs\nthe night before in a little box with some papers which the girl had\ncalled for. Why she had put it on, she could not say.\n\nSlowly, while the silence continued unbroken, the girl drew the\nslender chain around in front of her and unclasped it.\n\n\"I--I never--knew my parents,\" she murmured musingly, looking down\nlovingly at the little locket. Then she opened it and sat gazing, rapt\nand absorbed, at the two little portraits within. \"But there are their\npictures,\" she suddenly announced, holding the locket out to Cass.\n\nIt was said afterward that never in the history of legal procedure in\nNew York had that court room held such dead silence as when Cass stood\nbending over the faces of the girl's earthly parents, portrayed in the\nstrange little locket which Rosendo had taken from Badillo years\nbefore. Never had it known such a tense moment; never had the very air\nitself seemed so filled with a mighty, unseen presence, as on that day\nand in that crisal hour.\n\nWithout speaking, Hood rose and looked over Cass's shoulder at the\nlocket. A muffled cry escaped him, and he turned and stared at Ames.\nThe judge bent shaking over his desk.\n\n\"Mr. Hood!\" he exclaimed. \"Have you ever seen those pictures before?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" replied Hood in a voice that was scarcely heard.\n\n\"Where, sir?\"\n\nHood seemed to have frozen to the spot. His hands shook, and his words\ngibbered from his trembling lips.\n\n\"The--the woman's portrait, sir--is--is--the one in--in Mr. Ames's\nyacht!\"\n\n_\"My God!\"_\n\nThe piercing cry rang through the still room like a lost soul's\ndespairing wail. Ames had rushed from his seat, overturning his chair,\nthrusting the lawyers aside, and seized the locket. For a moment he\npeered wildly into it. It seemed as if his eyes would devour it,\nabsorb it, push themselves clean through it, in their eagerness to\ngrasp its meaning.\n\nThen he looked up. His eyes were red; his face ashen; his lips white.\nHis unsteady glance met the girl's. His mouth opened, and flapped like\na broken shutter in the wind. His arms swung wildly upward; then\ndropped heavily. Suddenly he bent to one side; caught himself;\nstraightened up; and then, with a horrifying, gurgling moan, crashed\nto the floor. The noise of the tremendous fall reverberated through\nthe great room like an echo of Satan's plunge into the pit of hell.\n\nPandemonium broke upon the scene. Wild confusion seized the excited\nspectators. They rushed forward in a mass, over railings, over chairs\nand tables, heedless of all but the great mystery that was slowly\nclearing away in the dim light that winter's morning. Through them the\nwhite-haired man, clad in clerical vestments, elbowed his way to the\nbar.\n\n\"Let me see the locket!\" he cried. \"Let me see it!\"\n\nHe tore it from Hood's hand and scanned it eagerly. Then he nodded his\nhead. \"The same! The very same!\" he murmured, trembling with\nexcitement. Then, shouting to the judge above the hubbub:\n\n\"Your Honor! I can throw some light upon this case!\"\n\nThe crowd fell back.\n\n\"Who are you?\" called the judge in a loud, quavering voice.\n\n\"I am Monsignor Lafelle. I have just returned from Europe. The woman's\nportrait in this little locket is that of Do\u00f1a Dolores, Infanta,\ndaughter of Queen Isabella the Second, of Spain! And this girl,\"\npointing to the bewildered Carmen, who sat clinging to the arms of her\nchair, \"is her child, and is a princess of the royal blood! Her father\nis the man who lies there--J. Wilton Ames!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 18\n\n\nBorne on pulsing electric waves, the news of the great _d\u00e9no\u00fbement_\nflashed over the city, and across a startled continent. Beneath the\nseas it sped, and into court and hovel. Madrid gasped; Seville panted;\nand old Padre Rafa\u00e9l de Rinc\u00f3n raised his hoary head and cackled\nshrilly.\n\nTo the seething court room came flying reporters and news gatherers,\nwho threw themselves despairingly against the closed portals. Within,\nthe bailiffs fought with the excited crowd, and held the doors against\nthe panic without.\n\nOver the prostrate form of Ames the physicians worked with feverish\nenergy, but shook their heads.\n\nIn the adjoining ante-room, whither she had been half carried, half\ndragged by Hitt when Ames fell, sat Carmen, clasped in the Beaubien's\narms, stunned, bewildered, and speechless. Hitt stood guard at the\ndoor; and Miss Wall and Jude tiptoed about with bated breath, unable\nto take their eyes from the girl.\n\nIn the court room without, Haynerd held the little locket, and plied\nMonsignor Lafelle with his incoherent questions. The excited editor's\nbrain was afire; but of one thing he was well assured, the Express\nwould bring out an extra that night that would scoop its rivals clean\nto the bone!\n\nIn a few minutes the bailiffs fought the mob back from the doors and\nadmitted a man, a photographer, who had been sent out to procure\nchemicals in the hope that the portrait of the man in the locket might\nbe cleaned. Ten minutes later the features of J. Wilton Ames stood\nforth clearly beside those of the wife of his youth. The picture\nshowed him younger in appearance, to be sure, but the likeness was\nunmistakable.\n\n\"Lord! Lord! Monsignor, but you are slow! Come to the point quickly!\nWe must go to press within an hour!\" wailed Haynerd, shaking the\nchurchman's arm in his excitement.\n\n\"But, what more?\" cried Lafelle. \"I saw the portrait in the Royal\nGallery, years ago, in Madrid. It impressed me. I could not forget the\nsad, sweet face. I saw it again in the stained-glass window in the\nAmes yacht. I became suspicious. I inquired when I returned to Spain.\nThere was much whispering, much shaking of heads, but little\ninformation. But this I know: the queen, the great Isabella, had a\nlover, a wonderful tenor, Marfori, Marquis de Loja. And one day a babe\nwas taken quietly to a little cottage in the Granada hills. Rumor said\nthat it was an Infanta, and that the tenor was its father. Who knew?\nOne man, perhaps: old Rafa\u00e9l de Rinc\u00f3n. But Rome suddenly recalled\nhim from Isabella's court, and after that he was very quiet.\"\n\n\"But, Ames?\" persisted Haynerd.\n\nLafelle shrugged his shoulders. \"Mr. Ames,\" he said, \"traveled much in\nEurope. He went often to Spain. He bought a vineyard in Granada--the\none from which he still procures his wine. And there--who knows?--he\nmet the Infanta. But probably neither he nor she guessed her royal\nbirth.\"\n\n\"Well! Good Lord! Then--?\"\n\n\"Well, they eloped--who knows? Whether married or not, I can not say.\nBut it is evident she went with him to Colombia, where, perhaps, he\nwas seeking a concession from Congress in Bogot\u00e1. So far, so good.\nThen came the news of his father's sudden death. He hastened out of\nthe country. Possibly he bade her wait for his return. But a\nprospective mother is often excitable. She waited a day, a week--who\nknows how long? And then she set out to follow him. Alas! she was wild\nto do such a thing. And it cost her life. She died at the little\nriverine town of Badillo, after her babe, Carmen, was born. Is it not\nplausible?\"\n\n\"God above!\" cried Haynerd. \"And the girl's wonderful voice?\"\n\n\"A heritage from her grandfather, the tenor, Marfori,\" Lafelle\nsuggested.\n\n\"But--the portraits--what is the name under that of Ames? Guillermo?\nThat is not his!\"\n\n\"Yes, for Guillermo in Spanish is William. Doubtless Ames told her his\nname was Will, contracted from Wilton, the name he went by in his\nyouth. And the nearest the Spanish could come to it was Guillermo.\nDiego's name was Guillermo Diego Polo. And after he had seen that name\nin the locket he used it as a further means of strengthening his claim\nupon the girl.\"\n\n\"Then--she is--a--princess!\"\n\n\"Yes, doubtless, if my reasoning is correct. Not an Inca princess, but\na princess of the reigning house of Spain.\"\n\nHaynerd could hold himself no longer, but rushed madly from the room\nand tore across town to the office of the Express.\n\nThen came the white-enameled ambulance, dashing and careening to the\ndoors of the building where Ames lay so quiet. Gently, silently, the\ngreat body was lifted and borne below. And then the chattering,\ngesticulating mob poured from the court room, from the halls and\ncorridors, and out into the chill sunlight of the streets, where they\nformed anew into little groups, and went over again the dramatic\nevents but a few minutes past.\n\nThen, too, emerged Carmen, heavily veiled from the curious, vulgar\ngaze of the rabble, and entered the waiting limousine, with the\nBeaubien and Hitt. Miss Wall and the gasping Jude followed in another.\nThe judge had bidden the girl go on her own recognizance. The arrest\nat Avon; the matter of bail; all had merged into the excitement of the\nhour and been forgotten. Ketchim went out on Cass's arm. The judge had\nordered the clerk to enter an adjournment.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nAll that afternoon and far into the night a gaping, wondering\nconcourse braved the cold and stood about the walk that led up to the\nlittle Beaubien cottage. Within, the curtains were drawn, and Sidney,\nJude, and Miss Wall answered the calls that came incessantly over the\ntelephone and to the doors. Sidney had not been in the court room, for\nHaynerd had left him at the editor's desk in his own absence. But with\nthe return of Haynerd the lad had hurried into a taxicab and commanded\nthe chauffeur to drive madly to the Beaubien home. And once through\nthe door, he clasped the beautiful girl in his arms and strained her\nto his breast.\n\n\"My sister!\" he cried. \"My own, my very own little sister! We only\npretended before, didn't we? But now--now, oh, God above! you really\nare my sister!\"\n\nThe scarce comprehending girl drew his head down and kissed him.\n\"Sidney,\" she murmured, \"the ways of God are past finding out!\"\n\nAye, for again, as of old, He had chosen the foolish things of the\nworld to confound the wise; He had chosen the weak to confound the\nmighty; and the base things, and the things despised, had He used to\nbring to naught the things that are. And why? That no flesh might\nglory in His terrible presence!\n\n\"Carmen!\" cried the excited boy. \"Think what this means to our book!\"\n\nThe girl smiled up at him; then turned away. \"My father!\" she\nmurmured. \"He--my father!\" she kept repeating, groping her way about\nthe room as if in a haze. \"He! It can't be! It can't!\"\n\nThe still dazed Beaubien drew the girl into her arms. \"My little\nprincess!\" she whispered. \"Oh! But who would have dreamed it! Yet I\ncalled you that from the very first. But--oh, Carmen! And he--that\nman--your father!\"\n\n\"Don't! Mother, don't! It--it isn't proved. It--\"\n\nThen the Beaubien's heart almost stopped. What if it were true? What,\nthen, would this sudden turn in the girl's life mean to the lone woman\nwho clung to her so?\n\n\"No, mother dearest,\" whispered Carmen, looking up through her tears.\n\"For even if it should be true, I will not leave you. He--he--\"\n\nShe stopped; and would speak of him no more.\n\nBut neither of them knew as yet that in that marvelous Fifth Avenue\npalace, behind those drawn curtains and guarded bronze doors, at which\nan eager crowd stood staring, Ames, the superman, lay dying, his left\nside, from the shoulder down, paralyzed.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn the holy quiet of the first hours of morning, the mist rose, and\nthe fallen man roused slowly out of his deep stupor. And then through\nthe dim-lit halls of the great mansion rang a piercing cry. For when\nhe awoke, the curtain stood raised upon his life; and the sight of its\nghastly content struck wild terror to his naked soul.\n\nHe had dreamed as he lay there, dreamed while the mist was rising. He\nthought he had been toiling with feverish energy through those black\nhours, building a wall about the things that were his. And into the\ndesign of the huge structure he had fitted the trophies of his\nconquest. Gannette toiled with him, straining, sweating, groaning.\nTogether they reared that monstrous wall; and as they labored, the man\nplotted the death of his companion when the work should be done, lest\nhe ask for pay. And into the corners of the wall they fitted little\nskulls. These were the children of Avon who had never played. And over\nthe great stones which they heaved into place they sketched red\ndollar-marks; and their paint was human blood. A soft wind swept over\nthe rising structure, and it bore a gentle voice: \"I am Love.\" But the\ntoilers looked up and cursed. \"Let us alone!\" they cried. \"Love is\nweakness!\" And over the rim of the wall looked fair faces. \"We are\nTruth, we are Life!\" But the men frothed with fury, and hurled skulls\nat the faces, and bade them begone! A youth and a tender girl looked\ndown at the sweating toilers. \"We ask help; we are young, and times\nare so hard!\" But the great man pointed to himself. \"Look at me!\" he\ncried. \"I need no help! Begone!\" And then the darkness settled down,\nfor the wall was now so high that it shut out the sun. And the great\nman howled with laughter; the wall was done. So he turned and smote\nhis companion unto death, and dipped his hands in the warm blood of\nthe quivering corpse.\n\nBut the darkness was heavy. The man grew lonely. And then he sought to\nmount the wall. But his hands slipped on the human blood of the red,\nslimy dollar-marks, and he fell crashing back among his tinkling\ntreasures. He rose, and tried again. The naked, splitting skulls\nleered at him. The toothless jaws clattered, and the eyeless sockets\nglowed eerily. The man raised his voice. He begged that a rope be\nlowered. He would go out once more into the sunlit world. But the\nchill wind brought him only despairing moans.\n\nThen he rushed madly to the wall, and smote it with his bare hands. It\nmocked him with the strength which he had given it. He turned and tore\nhis hair and flesh. He gnashed his teeth until they broke into bits.\nHe cursed; he raved; he pleaded; he offered all his great treasure for\nfreedom. But the skulls grinned their horrid mockery at him; and the\nblood on the stones dripped upon his burning head. And above it all he\nheard the low plotting of those without who were awaiting his death,\nthat they might throw down the wall and take away his treasure.\n\nAnd then his fear became frenzy; his love of gold turned to horror;\nhis reason fled; and he dashed himself wildly against the prison which\nhe had reared, until he fell, bleeding and broken. And as he fell, he\nheard the shrill cackle of demons that danced their hellish steps on\nthe top of the wall. Then the Furies flew down and bound him tight.\n\n  \"Ah, my God, What might I not have made of Thy fair world Had I\n  but loved Thy highest creature here? It was my duty to have loved\n  the highest; It surely was my profit had I known.\"\n\nHe awoke from his terror, dripping. He feebly lifted his head. Then he\nsought to raise his arms, to move. He was alive! And then the scream\ntore from his dry throat. His great body was half dead!\n\nThe attendants flew to his couch. The physicians bent over him and\nsought to soothe his mental agony. The man's torture was fearful to\nbehold; his weakness, pitiable. He sank again into somnolence. But the\nsleep was one of unbroken horror; and those in the room stopped in the\ncourse of their duties; and their faces blanched; and they held their\nhands to their ears, when his awful moans echoed through the curtained\nroom.\n\nThrough his dreams raced the endless panorama of his crowded life. Now\nhe was wading through muddy slums where stood the wretched houses\nwhich he rented for immoral purposes. He was madly searching for\nsomething. What could it be? Ah, yes, his girl! Some one had said she\nwas there. Who was it? Aye, who but himself? But he found her not. And\nhe wept bitterly.\n\nAnd then he hurried to Avon; and there he dug into those fresh\ngraves--dug, dug, dug, throwing the dirt up in great heaps behind him.\nAnd into the face of each corpse as he dragged it out of its damp bed\nhe peered eagerly. But with awful moans he threw them from him in\nturn, for she was not there.\n\nThen he fled down, down, far into the burning South; and there he\nroamed the trackless wastes, calling her name. And the wild beasts and\nthe hissing serpents looked out at him from the thick bush, looked\nwith great, red eyes, and then fled from him with loathing. And,\nsuddenly, he came upon another mound near the banks of a great river.\nAnd over it stood a rude cross; and on the cross he read the dim,\npenciled word, _Dolores_. Ah, God! how he cried out for the oblivion\nthat was not his. But the ghastly mound froze his blood, and he rushed\nfrom it in terror, and fell, whirling over and over, down, down into\neternal blackness filled with dying men's groans!\n\nThe awful day drew to a close. The exhausted attendants stood about\nthe bed with bated breath. The physicians had called Doctor Morton in\nconsultation, for the latter was a brain specialist. And while they\nsat gazing at the crazed, stricken giant, hopelessly struggling to\nlift the inert mass of his dead body, Reverend Darius Borwell entered.\nHe bowed silently to them all; then went to the bedside and took the\npatient's hand. A moment later he turned to the physicians and\nnurses.\n\n\"Let us ask God's help for Mr. Ames,\" he said gravely.\n\nThey bowed, and he knelt beside the bed and prayed long and earnestly;\nprayed that the loving Father who had made man in His image would take\npity on the suffering one who lay there, and, if it be His will, spare\nhim for Jesus' sake.\n\nHe arose from his knees, and they all sat quiet for some moments. Then\nDoctor Morton's heavy voice broke the silence of death. \"Mr. Borwell,\"\nhe said in awful earnestness, extending his hand toward the bed, \"cure\nthat man, if your religion is anything more than a name!\"\n\nA hot flush of indignation spread over the minister's face; but he did\nnot reply. Doctor Morton turned to the physicians.\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" he said solemnly, \"Mr. Ames, I think, is past our aid.\nThere is nothing on earth that can save him. If he lives, he will be\nhopelessly insane.\" He hesitated, and turned to a maid. \"Where is his\ndaughter Kathleen?\" he asked.\n\n\"Upstairs, sir, in her apartments,\" answered the maid, wiping her red\neyes.\n\n\"See that she remains there,\" said the doctor gruffly. \"Gentlemen,\"\nturning again to the physicians, \"I have but one suggestion. Send\nfor--for--that little girl, Carmen.\"\n\n\"It is ill-advised, Doctor,\" interrupted one of the men. \"It would\nonly further excite him. It might hasten the end.\"\n\n\"I do not agree with you,\" returned Doctor Morton. \"As it is, he is\ndoomed. With her here--there may be a chance.\"\n\nThe others shook their heads; but Doctor Morton persisted stubbornly.\nFinally Doctor Haley gave his ultimatum. \"If she is sent for, I shall\nretire from the case.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" announced Doctor Morton evenly, \"then I will take it\nmyself.\" He rose and went out into the vestibule where there was a\ntelephone. Calling for the Beaubien cottage, he gave a peremptory\norder that Carmen come at once in the automobile which he was sending\nfor her.\n\nThe Beaubien turned from the telephone to the girl. Her face was\ndeathly pale.\n\n\"What is it, mother dearest?\"\n\n\"They--they want--you!\"\n\n\"Why--is it--is he--\"\n\n\"They say he is--dying,\" the woman whispered.\n\nCarmen stood for a minute as if stunned. \"Why--I--didn't know--that\nthere was--anything wrong. Mother, you didn't tell me! Why?\"\n\nThe Beaubien threw her arms around the girl. Father Waite rose from\nthe table where he had been writing, and came to them.\n\n\"Go,\" he said to Carmen. \"The Lord is with thee! Go in this thy\nmight!\"\n\nA few minutes later the great bronze doors of the Ames mansion swung\nwide to admit the daughter of the house.\n\nDoctor Morton met the wondering girl, and led her directly into the\nsick-room. The other physicians had departed.\n\n\"Miss Carmen,\" he said gravely, \"Mr. Ames is past earthly help. He can\nnot live.\"\n\nThe girl turned upon him like a flash from a clear sky. \"You mean, he\n_shall_ not live!\" she cried. \"For you doctors have sentenced him!\"\n\nThe startled man bowed before the rebuke. Then a sense of her\nmagnificent environment, of her strange position, and of the vivid\nevents of the past few hours swept over her, and she became\nembarrassed. The nurses and attendants, too, who stood about and\nstared so hard at her, added to her confusion.\n\nBut the doctor took her hand. \"Listen,\" he said, \"I am leaving now,\nbut you will remain. If I am needed, one of the maids will summon\nme.\"\n\nCarmen stood for a moment without speaking. Then she walked slowly to\nthe bed and looked down at the man. Doctor Morton motioned to the\nattendants to withdraw. Then he himself stepped softly out and closed\nthe door. When the girl turned around, she was alone--with death.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 19\n\n\nA curious, gossiping world, dwelling only in the froth of the human\nmind, will not comprehend for many a year to come what took place in\nthat dim, tapestried chamber of the rich man in those next hours. When\ntwilight began to steal through the marble halls of the great,\nshrouded mansion, the nurse in charge, becoming apprehensive, softly\nopened the door of the sick-room and peeped in. Through the darkness\nshe saw the girl, sitting beside the bed, with the man's right hand\nclasped in both of hers, and her head resting upon his shoulder. And\nthe nurse quickly closed the door again in awe, and stole away.\n\nThe girl sat there all that day and all that night, nor would leave\nbut for brief moments to eat, or to reassure the Beaubien over the\ntelephone that all was well. Doctor Morton came, and went, and came\nagain. Carmen smiled, and held his hand for a moment each time, but\nsaid little. Ames had slept. And, more, his cheeks were stained where\nthe scalding tears had coursed down them. But the doctor would ask no\nquestions. He was satisfied. The nurses entered only when summoned.\nAnd three days and nights passed thus, while Carmen dwelt with the man\nwho, as the incarnation of error, seeking the destruction of others,\nhad destroyed himself.\n\nThen Doctor Morton announced to a waiting world that his patient would\nlive--but he would say no more. And the world heard, too, that\nKathleen Ames had left her father's roof--left in humiliation and\nchagrin when she learned that Carmen had come there to live--and had\ngone to England for a prolonged visit with the Dowager Duchess of\nAltern and her now thoroughly dismayed son. But Sidney came; and with\nhim the black-veiled Beaubien. And they both knelt beside the bed of\nsuffering; and the hand of the now quiet man slowly went out and lay\nfor a moment upon their bowed heads, while Carmen stood near. Then\nWillett was sent for; and he came often after that, and took his\nmaster's scarce audible instructions, and went away again to touch the\nwires and keys that ended the war of hatred at Avon; that brought\nFather Danny in the master's private car to the great metropolitan\nhospital; that sent to the startled Hitt the canceled mortgage papers\non the Express; and that inaugurated that great work of restitution\nwhich held the dwellers in the Ames mansion toiling over musty books\nand forgotten records for months to come.\n\nWhat had passed between the man and the sweet-faced girl who hovered\nover him like a ray of light, no one may know. That he had trod the\nglowing embers of hell, his cavernous, deep-lined face and whitening\nhair well testified. It was said afterward that on that third day he\nhad opened his eyes and looked straight into those of the girl. It was\nsaid that she then whispered but one word, \"Father.\" And that, when\nthe sound of her low voice fell upon his straining ears, he had\nreached out the arm that still held life, and had drawn her head down\nupon his breast, and wept like a motherless babe. But what he had\nsaid, if aught, about the abandoned mother who, on the banks of the\ndistant river, years gone, had yielded her life to him and his child,\nno one knew. Of but one thing was there any certainty: the name of\nPadre Jos\u00e8 de Rinc\u00f3n had not crossed their lips during those dark\ndays.\n\nAnd so two weeks passed. Then strong men lifted the giant from his bed\nand placed him in a wheel chair; and Carmen drew the chair out into\nthe conservatory, among the ferns and flowers, and sat beside him, his\nhand still clasped in both of hers. That he had found life, no one who\nmarked his tense, eager look, which in every waking moment lay upon\nthe girl, could deny. His body was dead; his soul was fluttering\nfeebly into a new sense of being.\n\nBut with the awakening of conscience, in the birth-throes of a new\nlife, came the horrors, the tortures, the wild frenzy of self-loathing;\nand, but for the girl who clung so desperately to him, he would have\nquickly ended his useless existence. What had he done! God! What mad\nwork had he done! He was a murderer of helpless babes! He was the\nblackest of criminals! The stage upon which the curtain had risen,\nwhereon he saw the hourly portrayal of his own fiendish deeds, stood\nalways before him like a haunting spectre; and as he gazed with\nhorrified eyes, his hair grew hourly white.\n\nAnd the torture was rendered more poignant by the demands of his\nerstwhile associates and henchmen. They had taken fright at the first\norders which had issued from the sick-bed, but now they swooped down\nupon the harassed man to learn what might be expected from him in the\nfuture. What were to be his policies now in regard to those manifold\ninterests which he was pursuing with such vigor a few weeks ago? Was\nhe still bent upon depriving Senator Gossitch of the seat which the\nAmes money had purchased? Was the Ketchim prosecution to continue? The\nAmalgamated Spinners' Association must know at once his further plans.\nThe Budget needed money and advice. His great railroad projects, his\nmining ventures, his cotton deals, his speculations and gambling\nschemes--whither should they tend now? Ward bosses, dive keepers,\nbank presidents, lawyers, magnates, and preachers clamored for\nadmission at his doors when they learned that he would live, but that\na marvelous, incomprehensible change had swept over him.\n\nThe tired, hectored man turned to Carmen. And she called Hitt and\nWaite and the keen-minded Beaubien. The latter's wide business\nexperience and worldly knowledge now stood them all in good stead, and\nshe threw herself like a bulwark between the stricken man and the\nhounds that roared at his gates. There were those among them who, like\nAmes, had bitterly fought all efforts at industrial and social reform,\nand yet who saw the dawning of a new era in the realms of finance, of\npolitics, of religion. There were those who sensed the slow awakening\nof the world-conscience, and who resisted it desperately, and who now\nsat frightened and angered at the thought of losing their great\nleader. Their attitude toward life, like his, had been wrong from the\nbeginning; they, like him, were striking examples of the dire effects\nof a false viewpoint in the impoverishing of human life. But, with\nhim, they had built up a tremendous material fabric. And now they\nshook with fear as they saw its chief support removed. For they must\nknow that his was a type that was fast passing, and after it must come\nthe complete breakdown of the old financial order. His world-embracing\ngambling--which touched all men in some way, for it had to do with the\nvery necessities of life, with crops, with railroads, with industries,\nand out of which he had coined untold millions--had ceased forever.\nWhat did it portend to them?\n\nAnd to him also came Reverend Darius Borwell, in whose congregation\nsat sanctimonious malefactors of vast wealth, whose pockets bulged\nwith disease-laden profits from the sales of women's bodies and souls.\nReverend Borwell came to offer the sufferer the dubious consolations\nof religion--and inquire if his beautiful change of heart would affect\nthe benefaction which he had designed for the new church.\n\nAh, this was the hour when the fallen giant faced the Apostle's awful\nquestion: What fruit had ye then in those things whereof ye are now\nashamed? _For the end of those things is death!_\n\nAnd then came Monsignor Lafelle, asking not to see the sick man, but\nthe girl. And, alone with her in the great library that day, he bent\nlow over her hand and begged that she would forgive and forget. It was\nhe who told Mrs. Ames that flagrantly false tale of the girl's\nparentage. He had received it from Wenceslas, in Cartagena. It was he\nwho, surmising the dark secret of Ames, had concluded that the\nsupposed Infanta had been his wife. And he had returned to New York\nto confront him with the charge, and to make great capital out of it.\nBut he had never suspected for a moment Carmen's connection with the\nmystery. And now--\n\nBut the girl saw only the image of God in the humiliated man. And when\nhe kissed her hand and departed, she bade him know, always, that she\nloved him as a brother. And he knew it, knew that her love was of the\nspirit--it left all for the Christ.\n\nA few days later there was delivered at the Ames mansion a cable\nmessage from Cartagena, in reply to one which the master had sent to\nthe lawyer, Estrella. Ames shook with suppressed excitement when he\nread it. Then he bade Carmen send at once for Hitt, Willett, and\nCaptain McCall, and leave them with him for a private conference.\n\n\"She must not know! She must not know!\" Ames repeated, as the three\nmen sat leaning eagerly forward an hour later, drinking in every word\nhe spoke. \"If the mission is successful, well and good. If it fails,\nthen our silence now will be justified, for as yet I have said nothing\nto her regarding him. Peace is being concluded there. Wenceslas has\nwon--but with--but of that later. When can you get under way,\nMcCall?\"\n\n\"To-night, sir. The bunkers are full.\"\n\n\"Very good. I will go aboard at ten. You will weigh anchor immediately.\"\n\n\"What?\" cried Hitt. \"You will go?\"\n\n\"I will!\" The sudden flash of his old-time energy nearly startled them\nfrom their chairs. \"And,\" he added, \"you, Mr. Hitt, will accompany us.\nNow, Willett, have the door of my limousine widened to accommodate\nthis wheel chair. I want a dozen men to insure our privacy, and to\nkeep the way clear. No one not in our confidence must see us depart.\"\n\nHitt gasped. \"But--Carmen--\"\n\n\"Goes with us,\" returned Ames. \"I can not spare her for a moment.\nMadam Beaubien will have charge of the house during our absence. We\nwill be back here, weather favorable, in three weeks--or not at all!\"\n\n\"Yet, she will know--\"\n\n\"Nothing. I take the trip, ostensibly, for the change; to get away\nfrom those who are hounding me here; for recuperation--anything! Go,\nnow, and make ready!\" The man's eyes glistened like live coals, and\nhis sunken cheeks took on a feverish glow.\n\nThat night the _Cossack_, enveloped in gloom, steamed noiselessly out\nof New York harbor, and turned her prow to the South. And when she\nhad entered the high sea, Captain McCall from his bridge aloft sent a\nmessage down to the waiting engineer:\n\n\"Full speed ahead!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 20\n\n\nCartagena's slumber of centuries had been broken by nearly four years\nof civil warfare. But on the day that the lookout in the abandoned\nconvent of Santa Candelaria, on the summit of La Popa, flashed the\nmessage down into the old city that a steam yacht had appeared on the\nnorthern horizon, she was preparing to sink back again into quiet\ndreams. For peace was being concluded among the warring political\nfactions. The country lay devastated and blood-soaked; but the cause\nof Christ had triumphed, and the Church still sat supreme in the\ncouncils of Bogot\u00e1. Cartagena was _en f\u00eate_; the last of the political\nagitators would be executed on the morrow. And so the lookout's\nmessage was received with indifference, even though he embellished it\nwith the comment that the boat must be privately owned, as no ships of\nthe regular lines were due to arrive that day.\n\nQuietly the graceful craft swept down past Tierra Bomba and into the\nBoca Chica, between the ancient forts of San Fernando and San Jos\u00e8,\nand came to anchor out in the beautiful harbor, a half mile from the\nancient gate of the clock. A few curious idlers along the shore\nwatched it and commented on its perfect lines. And the numerous\nofficials of the port lazily craned their necks at it, and yawningly\nawaited the arrival of the skiff that was immediately lowered and\nheaded for the pier.\n\nThe tall American who stepped from the little boat and came at once to\nthem to show his papers, easily satisfied their curiosity, for many\ntourists of the millionaire class dropped anchor in Cartagena's\nwonderful harbor, and came ashore to wander among the decaying\nmementos of her glorious past. And this boat was not a stranger to\nthese waters. On the yacht itself, as they glanced again toward it,\nthere was no sign of life. Even the diminishing volume of smoke that\nrose from its funnels evidenced the owner's intention of spending some\ntime in that romantic spot.\n\nFrom the dock, Hitt passed through the old gateway in the massive\nwall, quickly crossed the _Plaza de Coches_, and lost himself in the\ngay throngs that were entering upon the day's festivities.\nOccasionally he dropped into wine shops and little stores, and\nlingered about to catch stray bits of gossip. Then he slowly made his\nway up past the Cathedral and into the _Plaza de Sim\u00f3n Bol\u00edvar_.\n\nFor a while, sitting on a bench in front of the equestrian statue of\nthe famous _Libertador_, he watched the passing crowds. From time to\ntime his glance strayed over toward the Cathedral. Once he rose, and\nstarted in that direction; then came back and resumed his seat. It was\nevident that he was driven hard, and yet knew not just what course to\npursue.\n\nFinally he jumped to his feet and went over to a little cigar store\nwhich had caught his eye. He bent over the soiled glass case and\nselected several cigars from the shabby stock. Putting one of them\ninto his mouth, he lighted it, and then casually nodded to a\npowerfully built man standing near.\n\nThe latter turned to the proprietor and made some comment in Spanish.\nHitt immediately replied to it in the same tongue. The man flushed\nwith embarrassment; then doffed his hat and offered an apology. \"I\nforget, se\u00f1or,\" he said, \"that so many Americans speak our language.\"\n\nHitt held out his hand and laughed heartily at the incident. Then his\neye was attracted by a chain which the man wore.\n\n\"May I examine it?\" he asked, bending toward it.\n\n\"_Cierto_, _se\u00f1or_,\" returned the man cordially. \"It came from an\nIndian grave up in Guamoc\u00f3. I am a _guaquero_--grave digger--by\nprofession; Jorge Costal, by name.\"\n\nHitt glanced up at the man. Somehow he seemed to be familiar with that\nname. Somewhere he seemed to have heard it. But on whose lips?\nCarmen's? \"Suppose,\" he said, in his excellent Spanish, \"that we cross\nthe _Plaza_ to yonder wine shop. You may be able to tell me some of\nthe history of this interesting old town. And--it would be a great\nfavor, se\u00f1or.\"\n\nThe man bowed courteously and accepted the invitation. A few moments\nlater they sat at a little table, with a bottle between them,\ncommenting on the animated scene in the street without.\n\n\"Peace will be concluded to-day, they say,\" reflected Hitt, by way of\nintroduction.\n\n\"Yes,\" returned the man grimly, \"there is but little more blood to\nlet. That flows to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Political agitators?\" Hitt suggested.\n\nThe man's face darkened. \"Only one,\" he muttered. \"The other is--\"\n\nHe stopped and eyed Hitt furtively. But the American manifested only a\ncasual interest.\n\n\"Their names?\" he asked nonchalantly.\n\n\"They were posted this morning,\" said the man. \"Amado Jesus Fanor and\nJos\u00e8 de Rinc\u00f3n.\"\n\nHitt started, but held himself. \"Who--who are they?\" he asked in a\ncontrolled voice.\n\n\"A liberal general and an ex-priest.\"\n\n\"Ex-priest?\" exclaimed Hitt.\n\nThe man looked at him wonderingly. \"Yes, se\u00f1or. Why?\"\n\n\"Oh, nothing--nothing. It is the custom to--to shoot ex-priests down\nhere, eh?\"\n\n\"_Caramba!_ No! But this man--se\u00f1or, why do you ask?\"\n\n\"Well--it struck me as curious--that's all,\" returned Hitt, at a loss\nfor a suitable answer. \"You didn't happen to know these men, I\npresume?\"\n\n\"_Na_, _se\u00f1or_, you seek to involve me. Who are you, that you ask such\nquestions of a stranger?\" The man reflected the suspicious caution of\nthese troublous times.\n\n\"Why, _amigo_, it is of no concern to me,\" replied Hitt easily,\nflicking the ashes from his cigar. \"I once knew a fellow by that name.\nMet him here years ago. Learned that he afterward went to Simit\u00ed. But\nI--\"\n\n\"Se\u00f1or!\" cried the man, starting up. \"Are you the _Americano_, the man\nwho explored?\"\n\n\"I am,\" said Hitt, bending closer to him. \"And we are well met, for\nyou are Don Jorge, who knew Padre Jos\u00e8 de Rinc\u00f3n in Simit\u00ed, no?\"\n\nThe man cast a timid glance around the room. \"Se\u00f1or,\" he whispered,\n\"we must not say these things here! I leave you now--\"\n\n\"Not yet!\" Hitt laid a hand upon his. \"Where is he?\" he demanded in a\nlow voice.\n\n\"In San Fernando, se\u00f1or.\"\n\n\"And how long?\"\n\n\"A year, I think. He was first three years in the prison in Cartagena.\nBut the Bish--\"\n\n\"Eh? Don Wenceslas had him removed to San Fernando?\"\n\nThe man nodded.\n\n\"And--\"\n\n\"He will be shot to-morrow, se\u00f1or.\"\n\nHitt thought with desperate rapidity. Then he looked up. \"Why do you\nsay he is an ex-priest?\" he asked.\n\n\"He has just been excommunicated,\" replied the man. \"Cursed, they say,\nby bell, book, and candle.\"\n\n\"Good heavens! That he might be shot? Ah, I see it all! Ames's\nmessage! Of course Don Wenceslas would not dare to execute a priest in\ngood standing. And so he had him excommunicated, eh?\"\n\nDon Jorge shrugged his shoulders. \"_Quien sabe?_\" he muttered.\n\nHitt sat for a while in a deep study. Time was precious. And yet it\nwas flying like the winds. Then he roused up.\n\n\"You knew a little girl--in Simit\u00ed--in whom this Rinc\u00f3n was\ninterested?\"\n\n\"Ah, yes, se\u00f1or. But--why do you ask? She went to the great States\nfrom which you come. And I think little was heard from her after\nthat.\"\n\n\"Eh? Yes, true. She lived with--\"\n\n\"Don Rosendo Ariza.\"\n\n\"Yes. And he?\"\n\n\"Dead--he and his good wife, Do\u00f1a Maria.\"\n\nHitt's head sank. How could he break this to Carmen? Then he sprang to\nhis feet. \"Come,\" he said, \"we will stroll down by the walls. I would\nlike a look at San Fernando.\"\n\n\"Ha! Se\u00f1or, you--you--\"\n\nHitt threw him a look of caution, and shook his head. Then, motioning\nhim to follow, he led him out and down through the winding, tortuous\nthoroughfares. On the summit of the walls were sentinels, posted at\nfrequent intervals; and no civilian might walk upon the great\nenclosure until peace had been formally declared.\n\nHailing a passing carriage, Hitt urged the wondering Don Jorge into\nit, and bade the driver convey them to the old ruin of San Felipe, and\nleave them. There they climbed the broken incline into the battered\nfortress, and seated themselves in the shadow of a crumbling parapet.\nThey were alone on the enormous, grass-grown pile. From their position\nthey commanded a wonderful view across the town and harbor, and far\nout over the green waters of the Caribbean. The _Cossack_ lay asleep\nin the quiet harbor. Don Jorge saw it, and wondered whence it came.\n\n\"Listen, _amigo_,\" began Hitt, pointing to the yacht. \"In that boat is\na girl, whose dearest earthly treasure is the condemned prisoner out\nthere in San Fernando. That girl is the little Carmen, foster-daughter\nof old Rosendo.\"\n\n\"_Hombre!_\" cried Don Jorge, staring at Hitt as if he suspected his\nsanity.\n\n\"It is true, friend, for I myself came with her in that boat.\"\n\n\"_Caramba!_\"\n\n\"And,\" continued Hitt, glancing again about the ruined fortress and\nlowering his voice, \"we have come for Jos\u00e8 de Rinc\u00f3n.\"\n\n\"_Santa Virgen!_ Are you _loco_?\"\n\nHitt smiled. \"And now,\" he went on eagerly, \"how are we to get him?\"\n\n\"But, _amigo_! San Fernando is closely guarded! And he--_por\nsupuesto_, he will be in the dungeons!\"\n\n\"No doubt,\" returned Hitt dryly, \"if your excellent friend Wenceslas\nhas had anything to do with it. But dungeons have windows, eh?\"\n\n\"_Caramba_, yes; and San Fernando's are just above the water's edge.\nAnd when the waves are high the sea pours into them!\"\n\n\"And--could we learn which window is his, do you think?\"\n\n\"Se\u00f1or, I know,\" replied the man.\n\n\"Ha! And--\"\n\n\"I learned from one of the soldiers, Fernando, who once lived in\nSimit\u00ed. I had thought, se\u00f1or, that--that perhaps I--\"\n\n\"That perhaps you might make the attempt yourself, eh?\" put in Hitt\neagerly.\n\nDon Jorge nodded. Hitt sprang to his feet and looked out toward the\nsilent fortress.\n\n\"Don Jorge, it is dark out over the harbor at night, eh? No\nsearchlights?\"\n\n\"None, se\u00f1or.\"\n\nHitt began to pace back and forth. Suddenly he stopped, and stood\nlooking down through a hole in the broken pavement. Then he knelt and\npeered long and eagerly into it.\n\n\"Look here, friend,\" he called. \"How does one get into that place?\"\n\nDon Jorge came and looked into the aperture. \"It is one of the rooms\nof the fortress,\" he said. \"But--_caramba_! I know not how it may be\nreached.\"\n\n\"The passageways?\"\n\n\"Caved--all of them.\"\n\n\"But--you are a mighty husky fellow; and I am not weak. Suppose we try\nlifting one of these flags.\"\n\n\"_Na_, _se\u00f1or_, as well try the tunnels! But, why?\"\n\nHitt did not answer. But, bidding Don Jorge follow, he sought the\nfallen entrance to the old fortress, and plunged into the dark passage\nthat led off from it into the thick gloom. Groping his way down a\nlong, damp corridor, he came to a point where three narrower,\nbrick-lined tunnels branched off, one of them dipping into the earth\nat a sharp angle. He struck a match, and then started down this,\nfollowed by the wondering Don Jorge.\n\nA thousand bats, hideous denizens of these black tunnels, flouted\ntheir faces and disputed their progress. Don Jorge slapped wildly at\nthem, and cursed low. Hitt took up a long club and struck savagely\nabout him. On they stumbled, until the match flickered out, and they\nwere left in Stygian blackness, with the imps of darkness whirring\nmadly about them. Hitt struck another match, and plunged ahead.\n\nAt length they found the way blocked by a mass of rubbish which had\nfallen from the roof. Hitt studied it for a moment, then climbed upon\nit and, by the aid of the feeble light from his matches, peered into\nthe foul blackness beyond.\n\n\"Come,\" he said, preparing to proceed.\n\n\"_Na, amigo!_ Not I!\" exclaimed Don Jorge. His Latin soul had\nrevolted.\n\n\"Then wait for me here,\" said Hitt, pushing himself through the narrow\naperture at the top of the rubbish, and fighting the horde of\nterrified bats.\n\nA few minutes later he returned, covered with slime, and scratched and\nbleeding. \"All right,\" he muttered. \"Now let's get out of this\nmiserable hole!\"\n\nOut in the sunlight once more, Hitt sought to remove the stains from\nhis clothes, meanwhile bidding Don Jorge attend well to his words.\n\n\"You swim, eh?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Then do you come to the beach to-night to bathe, down across from the\nyacht. And, listen well: you would do much for the little Carmen, no?\nAnd for your friend Jos\u00e8? Very good. You will swim out to the yacht at\nseven to-night, with your clothes in a bundle on your head, eh? And,\nDon Jorge--but we will discuss that later. Now you go back to the city\nalone. I have much to do. And, note this, you have not seen me.\"\n\nMeantime, to the group of politicians, soldiers, and clergy assembled\nin the long audience room of the departmental offices to debate the\nterms of the peace protocol, news of the arrival of the _Cossack_ was\nbrought by a slow-moving messenger from the dock. At the abrupt\nannouncement the acting-Bishop was seen to start from his chair. Was\nthe master himself on board? _Quien sabe?_ And, if so--but,\nimpossible! He would have advised his faithful co-laborer of his\ncoming. And yet, what were those strange rumors which had trickled\nover the wires, and which, in his absorption in the local issues, and\nin the excitement attendant upon the restoration of peace and the\nsettlement of the multifold claims of innumerable greedy politicians,\nhe had all but forgotten? A thousand suggestions flashed through his\nmind, any one of which might account for the presence of the _Cossack_\nin Cartagena's harbor that day. But extreme caution must be observed\nuntil he might ascertain its errand. He therefore despatched a message\nto the yacht, expressing his great surprise and pleasure, and bidding\nits master meet him at a convenient hour in his study in the\nCathedral. This done, he bent anew to the work before him, yet with\nhis thought harried by doubt, suspicion, and torturing curiosity.\n\nWenceslas soon received a reply to his message. The master was aboard,\nbut unable to go ashore. The acting-Bishop would therefore come to him\nat once.\n\nWenceslas hesitated, and his brow furrowed. He knew he was called upon\nto render his reckoning to the great financier who had furnished the\nsinews of war. But he must have time to consider thoroughly his own\nadvantage, for well he understood that he was summoned to match his\nown keen wits with those of a master mind.\n\nAnd then there flashed through his thought the reports which had\ncircled the world but three short weeks before. The man of wealth had\nfound his daughter; and she was the girl for whom the two Americans\nhad outwitted him four years ago! And the girl--Simit\u00ed--and--ah,\nRinc\u00f3n! Good! He laughed outright. He would meet the financier--but\nnot until the morrow, at noon, for, he would allege, the unanticipated\narrival of Ames had found this day completely occupied. So he again\ndespatched his wondering messenger to the _Cossack_. And that\nmessenger was rowed out to the quiet yacht in the same boat with the\ntall American, whose clothes were torn and caked with mud, and in\nwhose eyes there glowed a fierce determination.\n\nThat night the sky was overcast. The harbingers of the wet season had\nalready arrived. At two in the morning the rain came, descending in a\ntorrent. In the midst of it a light skiff, rocking dangerously on the\nswelling sea, rounded a corner of San Fernando and crept like a shadow\nalong the dull gray wall. The sentry above had taken shelter from the\ndriving rain. The ancient fort lay heavily shrouded in gloom.\n\nAt one of the narrow, grated windows which were set just above the\nwater's surface the skiff hung, and a long form arose from its depths\nand grasped the iron bars. A moment later the gleam of an electric\nlantern flashed into the blackness within. It fell upon a rough bench,\nstanding in foul, slime-covered water. Upon the bench sat the huddled\nform of a man.\n\nThen another dark shape rose in the skiff. Another pair of hands laid\nhold on the iron bars. And behind those great, calloused hands\nstretched thick arms, with the strength of an ox. An iron lever was\ninserted between the bars. The heavy breathing and the low sounds of\nthe straining were drowned by the tropic storm. The prisoner leaped\nfrom the bench and stood ankle-deep in the water, straining his eyes\nupward.\n\nThe light flashed again into his face. His heart pounded wildly. His\nthrobbing ears caught the splash of a knotted rope falling into the\nwater at his feet. Above the noise of the rain he thought he heard a\ngroaning, creaking sound. Those rusted, storm-eaten bars in the\nblackness above must be slowly yielding to an awful pressure. He\nturned and dragged the slime-covered bench to the window, and stood\nupon it. Then he grasped the rope with a strength born anew of hope\nand excitement, and pulled himself upward. The hands from without\nseized him; and slowly, painfully, his emaciated body was crushed\nthrough the narrow space between the bent bars.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nCartagena awoke to experience another thrill. And then the ripple of\nexcitement gave place to anger. The rabble had lost one of its\nvictims, and that one the chief. Moreover, the presence of that\ngraceful yacht, sleeping so quietly out there in the sunlit harbor,\ncould not but be associated with that most daring deed of the\npreceding night, which had given liberty to the excommunicated priest\nand political malefactor, Jos\u00e8 de Rinc\u00f3n. Crowds of chattering,\ngesticulating citizens gathered along the harbor shores, and loudly\nvoiced their disappointment and threats. But the boat lay like a thing\nasleep. Not even a wisp of smoke rose from its yellow funnels.\n\nThen came the Alcalde, and the Departmental Governor, grave and\nsedate, with their aids and secretaries, their books and documents,\ntheir mandates and red-sealed processes, and were rowed out to\nconfront the master whom they believed to have dared to thwart the\nhand of justice and remain to taunt them with his egregious presence.\nThis should be made an international episode, whose ramifications\nwould wind down through years to come, and embrace long, stupid\ncongressional debates, apologies demanded, huge sums to salve a\nwounded nation, and the making and breaking of politicians too\nnumerous to mention!\n\nBut the giant who received them, bound to his chair, in the splendid\nlibrary of the palatial yacht, and with no attendant, save a single\nvalet, flared out in a towering rage at the gross insult offered him\nand his great country in these black charges. He had come on a\npeaceful errand; partly, too, for reasons of health. And he was at\nthat moment awaiting a visit from His Grace. What manner of reception\nwas this, that Cartagena extended to an influential representative of\nthe powerful States of the North!\n\n\"But,\" the discomfited Indignation Committee gasped, \"what of the tall\nAmerican who was seen to land the day before?\"\n\nThe master laughed in their faces. He? Why, but a poor, obsessed\narchaeologist, now prowling around the ruins of San Felipe, doubtless\nmumbling childishly as he prods the dust and mold of centuries! Go,\nvisit him, if they would be convinced!\n\nAnd when these had gone, chagrined and mortified--though filled\nwith wonder, for they had roamed the _Cossack_, and peered into\nits every nook and cranny, and stopped to look a second time at the\nfair-haired young boy who looked like a girl, and hovered close to\nthe master--came His Grace, Wenceslas. He came alone, and with a sneer\ncurling his imperious lips. And his calm, arrogant eyes held a\nmeaning that boded no good to the man who sat in his wheel chair,\nalone, and could not rise to welcome him.\n\n\"A very pretty trick, my powerful friend,\" said the angered churchman\nin his perfect English. \"And one that will cause your Government at\nWashington some--\"\n\n\"Enough!\" interrupted Ames in a steady voice. \"I sent for you\nyesterday, intending to ask you to release the man. I had terms then\nwhich would have advantaged you greatly. You were afraid to see me\nuntil you had evolved your plans of opposition. Only a fixed and\ndevilish hatred, nourished by you against a harmless priest who\npossessed your secrets, doomed him to die to-day. But we will pass\nthat for the present. I have here my demands for the aid I have\nfurnished you. You may look them over.\" He held out some typewritten\nsheets to Wenceslas.\n\nThe churchman glanced hastily over them; then handed them back with a\nsmile.\n\n\"With certain modifications,\" he said smoothly. \"The terms on which\npeace is concluded will scarcely admit of--\"\n\n\"Very well,\" returned Ames quietly. \"And now, La Libertad?\"\n\nWenceslas laughed. \"_En manos muertas_, my friend,\" he replied. \"It\nwas your own idea.\"\n\n\"And the emerald concession?\"\n\n\"Impossible! A government monopoly, you know,\" said His Grace easily.\n\"You see, my friend, it is a costly matter to effect the escape of\nstate prisoners. As things stand now, your little trick of last night\nquite protects me. For, first you instruct me, long ago, to place the\nweak little Jos\u00e8 in San Fernando; and I obey. Then you suffer a change\nof heart, and slip down here to release the man, who has become a\nstate prisoner. That quite removes you from any claims upon us for a\nshare of the spoils of war. I take it, you do not wish to risk\nexposure of your part in this four years' carnage?\"\n\nAmes drew a sigh. Then he pulled himself together. \"Wenceslas,\" he\nsaid, \"I am not the man with whom you dealt in these matters. He is\ndead. I have but one thing more to say, and that is that I renounce\nall claims upon you and your Government, excepting one. La Libertad\nmine was owned by the Rinc\u00f3n family. It was rediscovered by old\nRosendo, and the title transferred to his foster-daughter. Its\npossession must remain with her and her associates. There is no\nrecord, so you have informed me, to the effect that the Church\npossesses this mine.\"\n\n\"But, my friend, there shall be such a record to-day,\" laughed\nWenceslas. \"And, in your present situation, you will hardly care to\ncontest it.\"\n\nAmes smiled. He now had the information which he had been seeking. The\ntitle to the famous mine lay still with the Simit\u00ed company. He pressed\nthe call-button attached to his chair. The door opened, and Don Jorge\nentered, leading the erstwhile little newsboy, Jos\u00e8 de Rinc\u00f3n, by the\nhand.\n\nWenceslas gasped, and staggered back. He knew not the man; but the boy\nwas a familiar figure.\n\nDon Jorge advanced straight to him. Their faces almost touched.\n\n\"Your Grace, were you married to the woman by whom you had this son?\"\nDon Jorge's steady words fell upon the churchman's ears like a\nsentence of death.\n\n\"I ask,\" continued the dark-faced man, \"because I learned last night\nthat the lad's mother was my daughter, the little Maria.\"\n\n\"_Santa Virgen!_\"\n\n\"Yes, Your Grace, a sainted virgin, despoiled by a devil! And the man\nwho gave me this information--would you like to know? _Bien_, it was\nPadre Jos\u00e8 de Rinc\u00f3n, in whose arms she died, you lecherous dog!\"\n\nWenceslas paled, and his brow grew moist. He stared at the boy, and\nthen at the strong man whom he had so foully wronged.\n\n\"If you have concluded your talk with Se\u00f1or Ames,\" continued Don\nJorge, \"we will go ashore--you and the lad and I.\"\n\nWenceslas's face brightened. Ashore! Yes, by all means!\n\nThe trio turned and quietly left the room. Gaining the deck, Wenceslas\nfound a skiff awaiting them, and two strong sailors at the oars. Don\nJorge urged him on, and together they descended the ladder and entered\nthe boat. A few moments later they landed at the pier, and the skiff\nturned back to the yacht.\n\nAs to just what followed, accounts vary. There were some who\nremembered seeing His Grace pass through the narrow streets with a\ndark-skinned, powerful man, whose hand grasped that of the young\nnewsboy. There were others who said that they saw the boy leave them\nat the Cathedral, and the two men turn and enter. Still others said\nthey saw the heavy-set man come out alone. But there was only one who\ndiscovered the body of Wenceslas, crumpled up in a hideous heap upon\nthe floor of his study, with a poignard driven clean through his\nheart. That man was the old sexton, who fled screaming from the awful\nsight late that afternoon.\n\nAgain Cartagena shook with excitement, and seethed with mystery. Had\nthe escaped prisoner, Rinc\u00f3n, returned to commit this awful deed?\nThere were those who said he had. For the dark-skinned man who had\nentered the Cathedral with His Grace was seen again on the streets and\nin the wine shops that afternoon, and had been marked by some mounting\nthe broken incline of San Felipe.\n\nAgain the Governor and Alcalde and their numerous suite paid a visit\nto the master on board the _Cossack_. But they learned only that His\nGrace had gone ashore long before he met his fearful death. And so the\nGovernor returned to the city, and was driven to San Felipe. But his\nonly reward was the sight of the obsessed archaeologist, mud-stained\nand absorbed, prying about the old ruins, and uttering little cries of\ndelight at new discoveries of crumbling passageways and caving rooms.\nAnd so there was nothing for the disturbed town to do but settle down\nand ponder the strange case.\n\nA week later smoke was seen again pouring out of the _Cossack's_\nfunnels. That same day the Governor and Alcalde and their suites were\nbidden to a farewell banquet on board the luxurious yacht. Far into\nthe night they sat over their rare wines and rich food, drinking deep\nhealths to the _entente cordial_ which existed between the little\nrepublic of the South and the great one of the North. And while they\ndrank and sang and listened enraptured to the wonderful pipe-organ, a\nlittle boat put out from the dark, tangled shrubbery along the shore.\nAnd when it rubbed against the yacht, a muffled figure mounted the\nladder which hung in the shadows, and hastened through the rear\nhatchway and down into the depths of the boat. Then, long after\nmidnight, the last farewell being said by the dizzy officials, and the\nechoes of _Adios_, _adios_, _amigos_! lingering among its tall spars,\nthe _Cossack_ slipped noiselessly out of the Boca Chica, and set its\ncourse for New York.\n\nA few hours later, while the boat sped swiftly through the phosphorescent\nwaves, the escaped prisoner, Jos\u00e8 de Rinc\u00f3n, who had lain for a week\nhidden in the bowels of old fort San Felipe, stood alone in the wonderful\nsmoking room of the _Cossack_, and looked up at the sweet face pictured\nin the stained-glass window above. And then he turned quickly, for the\ndoor opened and a girl entered. A rush, a cry of joy, and his arms\nclosed about the fair vision that had sat by his side constantly during\nthe four long years of his imprisonment.\n\n\"Carmen!\"\n\n\"My Jos\u00e8!\"\n\n\"I have solved my problem! I have proved God! I have found the\nChrist!\"\n\n\"I knew you would, for he was with you always!\"\n\n\"But--oh, you beautiful, beautiful girl!\"\n\nThen in a little while she gently released herself and went to the\ndoor through which she had entered. She paused for a moment to smile\nback at the enraptured man, then turned and flung the door wide.\n\nA woman entered, leading a young boy. The man uttered a loud\nexclamation and started toward her.\n\n\"Ana!\"\n\nHe stopped short and stared down at the boy. Then he looked\nwonderingly at Carmen.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, stooping and lifting the boy up before Jos\u00e8, \"it is\nAnita's babe--_and he sees_!\"\n\nThe man clasped the child in his arms and buried his face in its\nhair.\n\nVerily, upon them that sat in darkness had the Light shined.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 21\n\n\nAnother summer had come and gone. Through the trees in Central Park\nthe afternoon sunlight, sifted and softened by the tinted autumn\nleaves, spread over the brown turf like a gossamer web. And it fell\nlike a gentle benediction upon the massive figure of a man, walking\nunsteadily beneath the trees, holding the hand of a young girl whose\nbeauty made every passer turn and look again.\n\n\"Now, father,\" laughed the girl, \"once more! There! Why, you step off\nlike a major!\"\n\nThey were familiar figures, out there in the park, for almost daily\nduring the past few weeks they might have been seen, as the girl\nlaughingly said, \"practicing their steps.\" And daily the man's control\nbecame firmer; daily that limp left arm and leg seemed increasingly to\nmanifest life.\n\nOn a bench near by sat a dark-featured woman. About her played her\nboy, filling the air with his merry shouts and his imperfect English.\n\n\"There, father, comes Jos\u00e8 after us,\" announced the girl, looking off\nwith love-lit eyes at an approaching automobile. \"And Lewis is with\nhim. Now, mind, you are going to get into the car without any help!\"\n\nThe man laughed, and declared vehemently that if he could not get in\nalone he would walk home. A few minutes later they had gone.\n\nThe profound depth of those changes which had come into the rich\nman's life, he himself might not fathom. But those who toiled\ndaily with him over his great ledgers and files knew that the\ntransformation went far. There were flashes at times of his former\nvigor and spirit of domination, but there were also periods of\ngrief that were heart-rending to behold, as when, poring over his\nrecords for the name of one whom in years past he had ruthlessly\nwrecked, he would find that the victim had gone in poverty beyond\nhis power to reimburse him. And again, when his thought dwelt on\nAvon, and the carnal madness which had filled those new graves there,\nhe would sink moaning into his chair and bury his drawn face in his\nhands and sob.\n\nAnd yet he strove madly, feverishly, to restore again to those from\nwhom he had taken. The Simit\u00ed company was revived, through his labors,\nand the great La Libertad restored to its reanimated stockholders.\nWork of development had begun on the property, and Harris was again in\nColombia in charge of operations. The Express was booming, and the\nrich man had consecrated himself to the carrying out of its clean\npolicies. The mills at Avon were running day and night; and in a new\nlocation, far from the old-time \"lungers' alley,\" long rows of little\ncottages were going up for their employes. The lawyer Collins had been\nremoved, and Lewis Waite was to take his place within a week. Father\nDanny, now recovered, rejoiced in resources such as he had never dared\nhope to command.\n\nAnd so the rich man toiled--ah, God! if he had only known before that\nin the happiness of others lay his own. If only he could have known\nthat but a moiety of his vast, unused income would have let floods of\nsunshine into the lives of those dwarfed, stunted children who toiled\nfor him, and never played! Oh, if when he closed his mills in the dull\nmonths he had but sent them and their tired mothers to the country\nfields, how they would have risen up and called him blessed! If he\ncould have but known that he was his brother's keeper, and in a sense\nthat the world as yet knows not! For he is indeed wise who loves his\nfellow-men; and he is a fool who hates them!\n\nThe great Fifth Avenue mansion was dark, except where hung a cluster\nof glowing bulbs over the rich mahogany table in the library. There\nabout that table sat the little group of searchers after God, with\ntheir number augmented now in ways of which they could not have\ndreamed. And Hitt, great-souled friend of the world, was speaking\nagain as had been his wont in the days now gone.\n\n\"The solution of the problems of mankind? Ah, yes, there is a\ncure-all; there is a final answer to every ethical question, every\nsocial, industrial, economic problem, the problems of liquor, poverty,\ndisease, war. And the remedy is so universal that it dissolves even\nthe tangles of tariff and theology. What is it? Ah, my friends, the\ngirl who came among us to 'show the world what love will do' has\ntaught us by her own rich life--it is love. But not the sex-mesmerism,\nthe covetousness, the self-love, which mask behind that heavenly name.\nFor God is Love. And to know Him is to receive that marvelous\nChrist-principle which unlocks for mankind the door of harmony.\n\n\"No, the world's troubles are not the fault of one man, nor of many,\nbut of all who seek happiness in things material, and forget that the\nreal man is the likeness of spirit, and that joy is spiritual. The\ntrusts, and the men of wealth, are not all malefactors; the churches\nare not wholly filled with evil men. But all, yes all, have 'missed\nthe mark' through the belief that matter and evil are real, and must\ngrope amid sickness, poverty, crime, and death, until they are willing\nto turn from such false beliefs, and from self, and seek their own in\nthe reflection of Him, who is Love, to their fellow-men. It is only as\nmen join to search for and apply the Christ-principle that they truly\nunite to solve the world's sore problems and reveal the waiting\nkingdom of harmony, which is always just at hand. And it can be done.\nIt must be, sometime.\n\n\"In that day all shall know that cause and effect are mental. The man\nwho hears the tempter, the carnal mind's suggestion to enrich himself\nmaterially at the cost of his brother, will know that it is but the\nvoice of mesmerism, that 'man-killer from the beginning', which bids\nhim sever himself from his God, who alone is infinite abundance. The\nsociety woman who flits like a gorgeous butterfly about the courts of\nfashion, her precious days wasted in motoring, her nights at cards,\nand whose vitality goes into dress, and into the watery schemes for\n'who shall be greatest' in the dismal realm of the human mind, must\nlearn, willingly or through suffering, that her activities are but\nmesmeric shams that counterfeit the divine activity which manifests in\njoy and fullness for all.\n\n\"Christianity? What is it but the Christ-knowledge, the knowledge of\ngood, and its correlated knowledge, that evil is only the mesmeric\nlie which has engulfed the world? But, oh, the depths of that divine\nknowledge! The knowledge which heals the sick, gives sight to the\nblind, and opens the prisons to them that are captive! We who are\ngathered here to-night, feeling in our midst that great, unseen\nPresence which makes for righteousness, know now that 'in my flesh\nshall I see God,' for we have indeed already seen and known Him.\"\n\nWith them sat the man who, swept by the storms of error and the carnal\nwinds of destruction, had solved his problem, even as the girl by his\nside told him he should, and had been found, when his foul prison\nopened, sitting \"clothed and in his right mind\" at the feet of the\nChrist. Jesus \"saw the heavens opened, and the Spirit--God--like a\ndove descending upon him--immediately the Spirit--carnal belief,\nerror, the lie--driveth him into the wilderness.\" And there he was\nmade to prove God. So Jos\u00e8 de Rinc\u00f3n, when the light had come, years\ngone, in desolate Simit\u00ed, had been bidden to know the one God, and\nnone else. But he wavered when the floods of evil rolled over him; he\nhad looked longingly back; he had clung too tightly to the human\nconcept that walked with him like a shining light in those dark days.\nAnd so she had been taken from him, and he had been hurled into the\nwilderness--alone with Him whom he must learn to know if he would see\nLife.\n\nThen self-consciousness went out, in those four years of his\ncaptivity, and he passed from thence into consciousness of God.\n\nThen his great world-knowledge he saw to have been wholly untrue. His\nstore of truth he saw to have been but relative at best. His knowledge\nhad rested, he then knew, upon viewpoints which had been utterly\nfalse. And so, like Paul, he died that he might live. He crucified\nSelf, that he might resurrect the image of God.\n\n\"The world,\" resumed Hitt, \"still worships false gods, though it\nreaches out for Truth. And yet, what are we all seeking? Only a\nstate of consciousness, a consciousness of good, of joy and harmony. And\nwe are seeking to rid ourselves of the consciousness of evil, with\nits sin, its disease and death. But, knowing now that consciousness\nis mental activity, the activity of thought, can we not see that\nharmony and immortality are within our grasp? for they are functions\nof right thought. Salvation is not from evil realities, but from the\nfalse sense of evil, even as Jesus taught and proved. The only salvation\npossible to mankind is in learning to think as Jesus did--not yielding\nour mentalities daily to a hodge-podge of mixed thoughts of good and\nevil, and then running to doctors and preachers when such yielding\nbrings its inevitable result in sickness and death. Jesus insisted that\nthe kingdom of heaven was within men, a tremendous potentiality\nwithin each one of us. How may it be reached? By removing hampering\nfalse belief, by removing the limitations of superstition and human\nopinion which hold its portals closed. True progress is the release of\nmankind from materialism, with its enslaving drudgery, its woes, and\nits inevitable death. Mankind's chief difficulty is ignorance of what\nGod is. Jesus proved Him to be mind, spirit. He proved Him to be the\ncreator of the spiritual universe, but not the originator of the lie\nof materiality. He showed matter to be but the manifestation of the\nfalse belief that creation is material. He showed it to be but a\nsense-impression, without life, without stability, without existence,\nexcept the pseudo-existence which it has in the false thought of\nwhich the human or carnal consciousness is formed. But the lack of\nunderstanding of the real nature of matter, and the persistent belief in\nthe stability of its so-called laws, has resulted in centuries of\nattempts to discredit the Bible records of his spiritual demonstrations\nof God's omnipotence and immanence, and so has prevented the human mind\nfrom accepting the proofs which it so eagerly sought. And now, after\nnineteen centuries of so-called Christian teaching, the human mind\nremains still deeply embedded in matter, and subject to the\nconsentaneous human beliefs which it calls material laws. Jesus\nshowed that it was the communal mortal mind, with its false beliefs\nin matter, sin, disease, and death, that constituted 'the flesh'; he\nshowed that mortals are begotten of such false beliefs; he showed\nthat the material universe is but manifested human belief. And we\nknow from our own reasoning that we see not things, but our _thoughts_\nof things; that we deal not with matter, but with material mental\nconcepts only. We know that the preachers have woefully missed the\nmark, and that the medicines of the doctors have destroyed more lives\nthan wars and famine, and yet will we not learn of the Master? To reach\nGod through material thinking is utterly impossible, for He is spirit,\nand He can be cognized only by a spiritual consciousness. Yet such a\nconsciousness is ours, if we will but have it.\n\n\"Ah, friends, God said: Let US make man in OUR image and likeness--let\nLife, Love, Spirit make its spiritual reflection. But where is that\nman to-day? Buried deep beneath the dogma and the crystallized human\nbeliefs of mortals--buried beneath 'the lie' which mankind accept\nabout truth. Nothing but _scientific_ religion will meet humanity's\ndire needs and reveal that man. And scientific religion admits of\nactual, practical proof. Christianity is as scientific as mathematics,\nand quite as capable of demonstration. Its proofs lie in doing the\nworks of the Master. He is a Christian who does these works; he who\ndoes not is none. Christianity is not a failure, but organized\necclesiasticism, which always collapses before a world crisis, has\nfailed utterly. The hideous chicane of imperial government and\nimperial religion against mankind has resulted in a Christian veneer,\nwhich cracks at the first test and reveals the unchanged human brute\nbeneath. The nations which writhe in deadly embrace to-day have never\nsought to prove God. They but emphasize the awful fact that the human\nmind has no grasp upon the Principle which is God, and at a time of\ncrisis reverts almost instantly to the primitive, despite so-called\nculture and civilization. Yes, religion as a perpetuation of ancient\nhuman conceptions, of materialistic traditions and opinions of 'the\nFathers,' is a flat failure. By it the people of great nations have\nbeen molded into servile submission to church and ruler--have been\npersuaded that wretchedness and poverty are eternal--that heaven is a\nrealm beyond the grave, to which admission is a function of outward\noblation--and that surcease from ills here, or in the life to come, is\na gift of the Church. Can we wonder that commercialism is mistaken by\nnations for progress? That king and emperor still call upon God to\nbless their barbaric attempts at conquest? And that human existence\nremains, what it has always been, a ghastly mockery of Life?\n\n\"Healing the sick by applied Christianity is not the attempt to alter\na mental concept; it is the bringing out of harmony where before was\ndiscord. Evil can not be 'thought away.' He who indulges evil only\nproves his belief in its reality and power. Christian healing is not\n'mental suggestion,' wherein all thought is material. When evil\nthinking is overcome, then the discords which result from it will\ndisappear from consciousness. That is the Christ-method. Behind all\nthat the physical senses seem to see, know, and feel, is the spiritual\nfact, perfect and eternal. Jesus healed the sick by establishing this\nfact in the human consciousness. And we must learn to do likewise. The\northodox churches must learn it. They must cease from the dust-man,\nwhose breath is in his nostrils; they must cease from preaching evil\nas an awful reality, permitted by God, or existing despite Him; they\nmust know it as Jesus bade all men know it, as the lie about Truth.\nThen, by holding the divine ideal before the human mind, they will\ncause that mentality gradually to relinquish its false beliefs and\ncopy the real. And thus, step by step, changing from better to better\nbeliefs, at length the human mind will have completely substituted\nreality for unreality, and will be no more, even in thought. The 'old\nman' will have given place to the 'new.' This is the method of Jesus.\nThere is no other. Yes, for the present we reckon with material\nsymbols; we have not yet fully learned their unreality. But at length,\nif we are faithful, we shall lay them aside, and know only Truth and\nits pure manifestations.\n\n\"Ah, my friends, how simple is Christianity! It is summed up in the\nSermon on the Mount. Our salvation is in righteousness. He who thinks\nright shall know things as they are. He who thinks wrong shall seem to\nknow them as they are not, and shall pass his days in sore travail,\neven in wars, famine, and utter misery. Then why not take up the\ndemonstration of Christianity in the spirit of joy and freedom from\nprejudice with which we pursue our earthly studies, and as gladly,\nthankfully seek to prove it? For it, of all things, is worth while. It\nalone is the true business of men. For if what we have developed in\nour many talks regarding God, man, and the mental nature of the\nuniverse and all things is true, then are the things with which men\nnow occupy themselves worth while? No, decidedly no! But are the\nthings which we have developed true? Yes, for they can be and have\nbeen demonstrated. Then, indeed, are we without excuse. Carmen has\nshown us the way. No, she is not unnatural; she is only divinely\nnatural. She has shown us what we all may become, if we but will. She\nhas shown us what we shall be able to do when we are completely lost\nin accord with God, and recognize no other life, substance, nor law\nthan His. But--\n\n\"'I form the light, and create darkness; I make peace, and create\nevil,' cried the prophet. _Truth always has its suppositional\nopposite!_ Choose ye then whom ye will serve. All is subject to proof.\nOnly that which is demonstrably true, not after the change which we\ncall death, but here this side of the grave, can stand. The only test\nof a Christian is in the 'signs following.' Without them his faith is\nbut sterile human belief, and his god but the distorted human concept\nwhom kings beseech to bless their slaughter.\n\n  \"'Cease ye from man, whose breath is in his nostrils; for wherein\n  is he to be accounted of?\n\n  \"'His breath goeth forth, he returneth to his earth; in that very\n  day his thoughts perish.\n\n  \"'That which is born of the flesh is flesh; and that which is born\n  of the Spirit is spirit.\n\n  \"'Wherefore henceforth know we no man after the flesh; yea, though\n  we have known Christ after the flesh, yet now henceforth know we\n  him no more.'\"\n\nThe fire crackled briskly on the great hearth. Carmen rose and turned\noff the light above them. All drew their chairs about the cheery\nblaze.\n\nSilence, sacred, holy, lay upon them. The rich man, now possessing\ntreasures beyond his wildest dreams, sat holding his daughter's hand.\nHer other hand lay in Jos\u00e8's. Sidney had just entered; and Haynerd had\nsent word that he would join them soon.\n\nThen the silence was broken by the rich man. His voice was unsteady\nand low.\n\n\"My friends, sorrow and joy fill my heart to-night. To the first I am\nresigned; it is my due; and yet, were it greater, I know not how I\ncould live. But the joy--who can understand it until he has passed\nthrough death into life! This little girl's mother knew not, nor did\nI, that she was royal born. Sometimes I wonder now if it is really so.\nAnd yet the evidence is such that I can scarcely doubt. We met in the\nsun-kissed hills of Granada; and we loved. Her old nurse was\nArgus-eyed; and our meetings were such as only lovers can effect. I\nwas young, wild, and my blood coursed like a torrent through my veins!\nBut I loved her, yes, base though I was, I loved her. And in these\nyears since I left her in that little house in Bogot\u00e1, I have suffered\nthe agonies of the lost when her memory and my own iniquity fell upon\nme and smote me sore--\n\n\"We were married in Spain, and the marriage was performed by Padre\nRafa\u00e9l de Rinc\u00f3n.\"\n\n\"My uncle!\" cried the startled Jos\u00e8.\n\n\"And then we fled,\" continued Ames. \"I was rich; I was roaming the\nworld, extending my vast business interests; and I took her to\nColombia, where I labored with the politicians in Bogot\u00e1 to grant me\ntimber and cattle concessions. We had a cottage on the outskirts of\nthe city, where we were happy. With us lived her faithful old nurse,\nwhom she would not leave in Spain--\n\n\"Then, one day, came a cable message that my father had died. The news\ntransformed me. I knew I must return at once to New York. But--I would\nnot take a wife back with me! Why, I know not. I was mad! And I kissed\nher tear-stained face, and bade her wait, for I would return and make\nher happy. And then--\n\n\"Months later I wrote to her, and, receiving no reply, I caused\ninquiry to be made. But she had gone--whither, no one knew. The old\nnurse, too, had disappeared. I never learned that a woman had been\nleft at Badillo to die. And she was not known in Bogot\u00e1. She was\ntimid, and went out seldom. And then--then I thought that a marriage\nhere would strengthen my position, for I was powerful and proud.\n\n\"Oh, the years that her sad face haunted me! I was mad, mad! I know\nnot why, but when the _Cossack_ was built I had her portrait in glass\nset in the smoking room. And night after night I have sat before it\nand cursed myself, and implored her to forgive!\"\n\n\"But--the locket?\" said Father Waite.\n\n\"It came from Spain. I was Guillermo to her, and she Dolores to me.\nBut I had never forgotten it. Had Carmen ever worn it in my presence I\nmust have recognized it at once. Oh, God, that she had! What would it\nnot have saved!\"\n\n\"Father!\" The girl's arms were about his neck.\n\n\"But,\" said Ames, choking down his sorrow, \"that man is dead. He, like\nGoliath, fought Truth, and the Truth fell upon him, crushing him to\npowder. The man who remains with you now lives only in this little\ngirl. And she has brought me my own son, Sidney, and another, Jos\u00e8.\nAll that I have is theirs, and they will give it to the world. I would\nthat she could have brought me that noble black man, Rosendo, who laid\ndown his beautiful life when he saw that his work was done. I learn\nfrom my inquiries that he and Do\u00f1a Maria lived with Don Nicol\u00e1s far up\nthe Boque river during the troublous times when Simit\u00ed was burned and\ndevastated. And that, when the troops had gone, they returned to their\ndesolated home, and died, within a month of each other. What do I not\nowe to them! And can my care of their daughter Ana and her little son\never cancel the debt? Alas, no!\"\n\nSidney turned to the man. \"Father, does Jos\u00e8 know that it was Kathleen\nwhom he rescued from the Tiber in Rome, years ago, and who caused him\nto lose his notebook?\"\n\nAnother exclamation burst from Jos\u00e8. Ames shook his head. \"No, Sidney,\nwe had not told him. Ah, how small is the world! And how inextricably\nbound together we all are! And, Jos\u00e8, I have not told you that the\nwoman who lived and died alone in the limestone caves near Honda, and\nwhose story you had from Don Jorge in Simit\u00ed, was doubtless the\nfaithful old nurse of Dolores. My investigations all but confirm it.\nPadre Rafa\u00e9l de Rinc\u00f3n maintained her there.\"\n\nHaynerd entered the room at that moment, and with him came Miss Wall.\n\n\"Now,\" said Hitt softly, \"the circle is complete. Carmen, may I--\"\n\nThe girl rose at once and went into the music room. Those who remained\nsat in awed, expectant silence. Another presence stole softly in, but\nthey saw him not. Soon through the great rooms and marble halls\ndrifted the low, weird melody which the girl had sung, long before, in\nthe dreary Elwin school.\n\nIn the flickering light of the fire strange shapes took form; and the\nshadows that danced on the walls silhouetted scenes from the dimming\npast. From out their weird imagery rose a single form. Into it passed\nthe unseen presence. Slowly it rose before them from out the shadows.\nIt was black of face, but its wondrous heart which had cradled the\nnameless babe of Badillo glistened like drifting snow.\n\nThe last sweet notes of the plaintive Indian lament fluttered from the\ngirl's lips, echoed among the marble pillars, and died away down the\ndistant corridors. She returned and bent over her father with a tender\ncaress.\n\nThen the great black man in the shadows extended his arms for a moment\nabove them, and faded from their sight. There was the sound of low\nweeping in the room. For\n\n  \"these are they which came out of great tribulation, and have\n  washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the\n  Lamb.\"\n\nGLOSSARY\n\n\nA\n\n\u00e1 buen precio, for a good price.\nadios, good-bye.\nadioscito, good-bye (used among intimates).\nalcalde, mayor, chief of village.\nalgarroba, the carob-tree bean.\nalpargates, hempen sandals.\namericano, American.\namigo, amiga, friend.\nanisado, liquor made from anise-seed.\n\u00e1 prop\u00f3sito, by-the-bye, apropos\narena, bull ring, circle where bull-fights are held.\narepa, corn cake baked in ashes.\narma blanca, steel arms, generally the machete.\narrastra, or arrastre, a mining mill.\narreglo, arrangement.\narriba, above.\narroyo, ditch, small stream, creek.\nasequia, gutter, conduit for water.\nauto da f\u00e9, public punishment by the Holy Inquisition.\navispas, wasps.\nay de m\u00ed, ah me! woe is me! alas!\n\n\nB\n\nbagre, fish from Lake Simit\u00ed, dried and salted.\nbaile, dance.\nbarra, bar of wood or iron.\nbatea, a wooden basin corresponding to the gold-pan.\nbejuco, thin filament, growing on tropical trees. Also, vine.\nbendita virgen, Blessed Virgin.\nbien, well.\nbien pues, well, then.\nbilletes, bank notes, government notes, paper money.\nbodega, warehouse. Also, depot, supply house, cellar.\nboga, boatman, rower.\nb\u00f3veda, vault, or arched enclosure. Burial vault, tomb.\nbueno, good.\nbuen padre, good father.\n\n\nC\n\ncabildo, corporation of a town, town council.\ncalentura, fever.\ncamino real, royal road, highway.\ncanasto, large basket, waste-basket.\ncantina, saloon, public drinking place.\nca\u00f1o, canal.\ncaoba, mahogany tree or wood.\ncapilla mayor, high altar, principal chapel.\ncapit\u00e1n, captain.\ncaramba, an interjection of no particular meaning.\nc\u00e1rcel, jail.\ncargadores, human pack-carriers, porters.\ncar\u00eds\u00edma, dearest little girl.\ncarita, dear little girl.\ncaro amigo, dear friend.\ncatalina, Katharine.\ncayman, crocodile.\nchamp\u00e1n, a native thatch-roofed river boat.\nchiquita m\u00eda, my dearest little girl.\nchiquito-a, dearest little one.\ncielo, heaven.\nci\u00e9naga, a marsh or moor. Sometimes lake.\ncierto, certain, sure, surely, certainly.\ncochero, coachman, driver.\ncola, a tropical non-alcoholic drink.\nc\u00f3lera, cholera.\ncolibr\u00ed, humming bird.\ncomadre, friend, when used casually addressing a woman.\ncomjejen, white wood-eating ant.\ncompadre, friend, when used casually addressing a man.\nconque, adios, \"well, good-bye.\"\nconque, hasta luego, \"well, good-bye until we meet again.\"\nconqueros, conquerors.\nconquistadores, conquerors.\ncordilleras, chain or ridge of mountains.\ncorriente, right, correct.\ncostumbre del pa\u00eds, national custom.\ncura, priest.\n\n\n\nD\n\nde nada, don't mention it.\ndesayuno, breakfast.\ndia, day.\ndiablo, devil.\ndios arriba, God above!\ndios m\u00edo, my God!\ndios nos guarde, God preserve us!\ndios y diablo, God and devil!\ndique, canal, channel.\ndoncella, young woman.\n\n\nE\n\nel, the (masculine).\nenamorada, infatuated one (female).\nen manos muertas, \"in dead hands.\"\nescapulario, scapulary.\nescritorio, writing desk.\n\n\nF\n\nferia, fair, festival.\nfiasco, failure.\nfinca, farm.\nflor, flower (pl. flores)\n\n\nG\n\ngarraf\u00f3n, jug.\ngarrapata, wood-tick.\ngarza, heron.\ngracias, thanks, thank you.\nguaquero, hunter of Indian graves.\nguerrillas, band of guerrillas.\n\n\nH\n\nhacienda, farm.\nhada, witch.\nhermano, brother.\nhermoso, beautiful.\nhermos\u00edsimo-a, most beautiful.\nhidalgo, nobleman,\nhola! halloo!\nhombre, man.\nhostia, sacred wafer used in the mass.\n\n\nI\n\niguana, large edible lizard.\ninfanta, Spanish princess.\n\n\nJ\n\njejen, gnat.\njipijapa, very fine woven straw, used in Panam\u00e1 hats.\njipitera, child's disease, due to eating dirt.\n\n\nL\n\nla, the (feminine).\nlianas, vines.\nllanos, flat plains.\nloado sea el buen dios, praised be the good God!\nloco, crazy, mad.\n\n\nM\n\nmacana, a very hard, tough palm, used in hut construction.\nmachete, cane-knife, large knife used for trail-cutting.\nmachetero, trail-cutter.\nmadre de dios, mother of God.\nmaestro, master.\nmaldito, cursed, cursed one.\nmantilla, head-scarf of lace.\nmariposa, butterfly.\nmatador, bull-fighter who slays the bull with the sword.\nm\u00e9dico, doctor.\nmestizo, half-breed.\nmilagro, miracle. Also, small gold image, blessed by a priest,\n  and supposed to work a cure.\nmora, bramble-bush.\nmozo, waiter, servant, also young boy or man.\nmuchacho, boy.\nmuy bien, very well.\nmuy buenos dias, \"good morning.\"\n\n\nN\n\nna, an expression of disagreement, disavowal, or demurral.\nnada, nothing,\nnada m\u00e1s, nothing more.\nnombre de dios, name of God.\n\n\nO\n\nojal\u00e1, \"would to God!\" \"God grant!\"\nolla, pot, or kettle. Also, a stew of meat and vegetables.\noporto, port wine.\n\n\nP\n\npadre, father, Father, priest.\npanela, the crude sugar of tropical America.\npantano, swamp.\npater-noster, the Lord's prayer.\npatio, the interior court of a dwelling, yard, garden.\npatron (naut.), cockswain of a boat.\npeon, day-laborer.\npeso, dollar.\npeso oro, a dollar in gold.\npeso y medio, a dollar and a half.\npetate, straw mat on which the poor people sleep.\nplaga, plague, pestilence.\nplatano, plantain tree, or its fruit.\nplaya, shore, beach, strand.\npolic\u00eda, police.\npor, for, by.\npor dios, by God!\npor el amor del cielo, for the love of heaven!\npor supuesto, of course.\nposada, inn, hotel, restaurant.\npozo, well, pond, puddle.\npronto, soon, quickly.\npueblo, town, settlement, people.\n\n\nQ\n\nquebrada, creek, small stream.\nqu\u00e9 chiste, what a joke!\nqu\u00e9 importa, what does it matter?\nquemador, public square where heretics were burned.\nqueridito-a, dear little one.\nquien sabe, who knows?\n\n\nR\n\nreal (reales), a silver coin, valued at 5, 10, or 12-1/2 cents.\nreligion de dinero, a religion of money.\nruana, a cape worn by the poor males of tropical America.\nrurales, country people, peasants, farmers.\n\n\nS\n\nsacrist\u00eda, sacristy.\nsan benito, the garb worn by condemned heretics.\nsanta mar\u00eda, Saint Mary.\nsanta virgen, the sainted Virgin.\nsanto dios, the blessed God!\nselva, forest.\nseminario, seminary.\nse\u00f1ora, Madam, Mrs., a mature woman, a married woman.\nse\u00f1orita, Miss, a young unmarried woman.\nsepulcros, tombs, graves.\nsierras, mountain chain.\nsiesta, the midday hour of rest, the hottest part of the day.\nsobrinito, little nephew.\n\n\nT\n\ntemprano, early.\nterciana, intermittent fever.\nt\u00eda, aunt.\ntierra caliente, hot lands.\nt\u00edo m\u00edo, my uncle.\ntiple, a small guitar.\ntoldo, awning, the mosquito netting hung over beds.\ntrago, tragito, a drink, a draught.\ntumba, tomb, grave.\n\n\nY\n\nya est\u00e1, v\u00e1monos, all ready, let's go!\nyucca, or yuca, the yucca plant or its roots.\n\n\n\n\nDONE INTO A BOOK FOR THE\n\nMAESTRO COMPANY BY W. B.\n\nCONKEY COMPANY, CHICAGO","title":"Carmen Ariza","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":427153}