CHAPTER 1

[Illustration: In the name of the Church he would serve these humble

people.

--Book 2, Page 77.]

CARMEN ARIZA

BY

CHARLES FRANCIS STOCKING, E. M.

Author of THE DIARY OF JEAN EVARTS, THE MAYOR OF FILBERT, Etc.

CHICAGO

THE MAESTRO CO.

1921

Copyright 1915

BY

CHARLES FRANCIS STOCKING

ISSUED JANUARY 1916

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

TWENTY-FIFTH EDITION

PRINTED IN U. S. A.

CARMEN ARIZA

BOOK 1

Doth this offend you?--the words that I speak unto you, they are

spirit, and they are life.

--_Jesus._

CARMEN ARIZA

CHAPTER 1

The tropical sun mounted the rim of the golden Caribbean, quivered

for a moment like a fledgeling preening its wings for flight, then

launched forth boldly into the vault of heaven, shattering the

lowering vapors of night into a myriad fleecy clouds of every form

and color, and driving them before it into the abysmal blue above.

Leaping the sullen walls of old Cartagena, the morning beams began to

glow in roseate hues on the red-tiled roofs of this ancient metropolis

of New Granada, and glance in shafts of fire from her glittering

domes and towers. Swiftly they climbed the moss-grown sides of church

and convent, and glided over the dull white walls of prison and

monastery alike. Pouring through half-turned shutters, they plashed

upon floors in floods of gold. Tapping noiselessly on closed

portals, they seemed to bid tardy sleepers arise, lest the hurrying

midday _siesta_ overtake them with tasks unfinished. The dormitory of

the ecclesiastical college, just within the east wall of the city,

glowed brilliantly in the clear light which it was reflecting to

the mirror of waters without. Its huge bulk had caught the first rays

of the rising sun, most of which had rebounded from its drab,

incrusted walls and sped out again over the dancing sea. A few,

however, escaped reflection by stealing through the slanting

shutters of a window close under the roof of the building. Within,

they fell upon a man kneeling on the tiled floor beside a rude cot

bed.

In appearance the man was not more than twenty-five years of age. His

black, close-curling hair, oval face, and skin of deep olive tint

indicated a Latin origin. His clerical garb proclaimed him a son of

the Church. The room was a small, whitewashed cell of stone, musty

with the dampness which had swept in from the sea during the night. It

was furnished with Spartan simplicity. Neither image, crucifix, nor

painting adorned its walls--the occupant's dress alone suggested his

calling. A hanging shelf held a few books, all evidently used as

texts in the adjoining college. A table, much littered; a wooden

dressing stand, with a small mirror; and an old-fashioned, haircloth

trunk, bearing numerous foreign labels, eked out the paucity of

furnishings.

If the man prayed, there was only his reverent attitude to indicate

it, for no words escaped his lips. But the frequent straining of his

tense body, and the fierce clenching of his thin hands, as he threw

his arms out over the unopened bed, were abundant evidence of a soul

tugging violently at its moorings. His was the attitude of one who has

ceased to inveigh against fate, who kneels dumbly before the cup of

Destiny, knowing that it must be drained.

With the break of day the bells awoke in the church towers throughout

the old city, and began to peal forth their noisy reminder of the

virility of the Holy Catholic faith. Then the man raised his head,

seemingly startled into awareness of his material environment. For a

few moments he listened confusedly to the insistent clatter--but he

made no sign of the cross, nor did his head bend with the weight of a

hollow _Ave_ on his bloodless lips while the clamoring muezzins filled

the warm, tropical air with their jangling appeal. Rising with an air

of weary indifference, he slowly crossed the room and threw wide the

shutters of the solitary window, admitting a torrent of sunlight. As

he did this, the door of the cell softly opened, and a young novitiate

entered.

"With your permission, Padre," said the boy, bowing low. "His Grace

summons you to the Cathedral."

The man made a languid gesture of dismissal, and turned from the lad

to the rare view which greeted him through the open window. The dusty

road below was beginning to manifest the city's awakening. Barefooted,

brown-skinned women, scantily clad in cheap calico gowns, were

swinging along with shallow baskets under their arms to the _plaza_

for the day's marketing. Some carried naked babes astride their hips;

some smoked long, slender cigars of their own rolling. Half-clad

children of all ages, mixtures of _mestizo_, Spaniard, and Jamaican

negro, trotted along beside them; and at intervals a blustering

_cochero_ rattled around the corner in a rickety, obsolete type of

trap behind a brace of emaciated horses.

The lively gossip of the passing groups preluded the noisy chaffering

to follow their arrival at the market place.

"_Caramba_, little pig!" shrilled a buxom matron, snatching her naked

offspring away from a passing vehicle. "Think you I have money to

waste on Masses for your naughty soul?"

"_Na, señora_," bantered another, "it will cost less now than later to

get him out of purgatory."

"But, _comadre_, do you stop at the Cathedral to say a _Pater-noster_?"

"To be sure, _amiga_, and an _Ave_, too. And let us return by way of

the Hotel España, for, _quien sabe_? we may catch a glimpse of the

famous _matador_."

"Señor Varilla?"

"Yes. He arrived from Barranquilla last night--so my Pedro tells

me--and will fight in the arena this Sunday. I have saved fifty

_pesos_ to see him. _Madre de Dios!_ but I would sell my soul to see

him slay but a single bull. And do you go?"

"God willing!"

The soft air, tempered by the languid ocean breeze, bore aloft the

laughter and friendly bantering of the marketers, mingled with the

awakening street sounds and the morning greetings which issued from

opening doors and windows. The scent of roses and the heavier

sweetness of orchids and tropical blooms drifted over the ancient city

from its innumerable _patios_ and public gardens. The age-incrusted

buildings fused in the mounting sun into squares of dazzling white,

over which the tiled roofs flowed in cinctures of crimson. Far off at

sea the smoke of an approaching vessel wove fantastic designs against

the tinted sky. Behind the city the convent of Santa Candelaria,

crowning the hill of La Popa, glowed like a diamond; and stretching

far to the south, and merging at the foot of the _Cordilleras_ into

the gloom-shrouded, menacing jungle, the steaming llanos offered

fleeting glimpses of their rich emerald color as the morning breeze

stirred the heavy clouds of vapor which hung sullenly above them.

To all this the man, looking vacantly out across the city walls to

where the sea birds dipped on the rippling waves, was apparently

oblivious. Nor did he manifest the slightest interest in the animated

scene before him until a tall, heavy-set young priest emerged from the

entrance of the dormitory below and stopped for a moment in the middle

of the road to bask in the brilliant sunlight and fill his lungs with

the invigorating ocean breeze. Turning his eyes suddenly upward, the

latter caught sight of the man at the window.

"Ah, _amigo_ Josè!" he called in friendly greeting, his handsome face

aglow with a cordial smile. "Our good Saint Claver has not lobbied for

us in vain! We shall yet have a good day for the bulls, no?"

"An excellent one, I think, Wenceslas," quickly replied the man

addressed, who then turned abruptly away as if he wished to avoid

further conversation. The priest below regarded the empty window for a

moment. Then, with a short, dry laugh and a cynical shrug of his broad

shoulders, he passed on.

As the man above turned back into the room his face, wearing the look

of one far gone in despair, was contorted with passion. Fear,

confusion, and undefined soul-longing seemed to move rapidly across

it, each leaving its momentary impression, and all mingling at times

in a surging flood that swelled the veins of his temples to the point

of rupture. Mechanically he paced his narrow cell, throwing frequent

furtive glances at the closed door, as if he suspected himself

watched. Often he stopped abruptly, and with head bowed and brows

furrowed, seemed to surrender his soul to the forces with which it was

wrestling. Often he clasped his head wildly in his hands and turned

his beseeching eyes upward, as if he would call upon an invisible

power above to aid him, yet restrained by the deadening conviction of

experience that such appeal would meet with no response, and that he

must stand in his own strength, however feeble.

Hours passed thus. The sun gained the zenith and the streets were

ablaze. Belated marketers, with laden baskets atop their heads, were

hurrying homeward, hugging the scanty shade of the glaring buildings.

Shopkeepers were drawing their shutters and closing their heavy doors,

leaving the hot noon hour asleep on the scorching portals. The midday

_Angelus_ called from the Cathedral tower. Then, as if shaken into

remembrance of the message which the boy had brought him at daybreak,

the man hurriedly took his black felt hat from the table, and without

further preparation left the room.

The stone pavements and narrow brick walks, above which the intense

heat hung in tremulous waves, were almost deserted as he hastened

toward the Cathedral. The business of the morning was finished; trade

was suspended until the sun, now dropping its fiery shafts straight as

plummets, should have sunk behind La Popa. As he turned into the Calle

Lozano an elderly woman, descending the winding brick stairway visible

through the open door of one of the numerous old colonial houses in

the lower end of this thoroughfare, called timidly to him.

"Marcelena," the priest returned, stopping. "The girl--is she--?"

"She is dying," interrupted the woman in a voice broken with sobs.

"Dying! Then the child--?"

"Yes, Padre, born an hour ago--a boy. It lives. Ah, _Santa Virgen_,

such suffering! Pray for us, Mother of God!" murmured the weeping

woman, bending her head and repeatedly making the sign of the cross.

"Who is with her now?" the priest continued hurriedly.

"Only Catalina. The doctor said he would return. He is good to the

blessed child. And Padre Lorenzo came--but he would not shrive her

little white soul--"

"And the father--?"

"He does not know," the woman sobbed. "Who would dare to tell him!

Think you he would come? That he would own the babe? He would not give

one blessed candle to set beside the little mother's poor sweet body!

Ah, _Santa Maria_! who will buy Masses for her little soul? Who--?"

"But he _shall_ know!" cried the priest, his face livid. "And he shall

acknowledge his child and care for it! _Dios--!_ But wait, Marcelena.

I can do nothing now. But I will return." Leaving the woman sobbing

prayers to the Virgin Mother, the priest hurried on.

Within the Cathedral the cool atmosphere met him with a sweet calm,

which flowed over his perturbed soul like a benediction. He drew a

chair from a pile in a corner and sat down for a moment near one of

the little side chapels, to recover from the stifling heat without and

prepare his thought for the impending interview with the Bishop. A dim

twilight enveloped the interior of the building, affording a grateful

relief from the blinding glare of the streets. It brought him a

transient sense of peace--the peace which his wearied soul had never

fully known. Peace brooded over the great nave, and hovered in the

soft air that drifted slowly through the deserted aisle up to the High

Altar, where lay the Sacred Host. A few votive candles were struggling

to send their feeble glow through the darkness. The great images of

the suffering Christ, of the Saints and the Virgin Mother had merged

their outlines into the heavy shadows which lay upon them.

The haunting memory of years of soul-struggle with doubt and fear, of

passionate longing for the light of truth in the gloom of superstition

and man-made creeds, for guidance among the devious paths of human

conjecture which lead nowhither--or to madness--seemed to fade into

the darkness which wrapped him in that holy calm. After all, what had

he won in his lifelong warfare with human beliefs? What had he gained

by his mad opposition to Holy Church? There she stood, calm, majestic,

undisturbed. Had not the Christ himself declared that the gates of

hell should not prevail against her? Was not the unfoldment of truth a

matter, not of years, but of ages? And were the minds of men to-day

prepared for higher verities than those she offered? Did not the

Church plant the seed as rapidly as the barren soil of the human mind

was tilled and made fallow? True, her sons, whom he had so obstinately

opposed, were blindly zealous. But were they wholly without wisdom?

Had not his own zeal been as unreasoningly directed to the forcing of

events? And still, through it all, she had held her indulgent arms

extended to him, as to all erring mankind. Why not now, like a tired

child, weary of futile resistance, yield to her motherly embrace and

be at last at peace? Again the temptation which he had stubbornly

resisted for a lifetime urged upon him with all its mesmeric

insistence.

He looked up, and his glance fell upon a small, glass-covered case,

dimly visible in the uncertain light at one side of the little altar.

The case was filled with tiny images of gold--_milagros_. Each had

received priestly blessing, and each was believed to have worked a

miraculous cure. The relaxed lines of the priest's care-worn face

instantly drew into an expression of hard austerity. Like the ebb of

the ocean, his recalcitrant thought surged back again in a towering

flood.

"What a spectacle!" he murmured. "Holy Church, assuming spiritual

leadership of the world, sunken in idolatry, and publicly parading her

fetishism in these lingering echoes of primitive demon-worship!"

Ah, the Master taught the omnipotence of God, whose ways he declared

as high above the blind grovelings of man as the dome of heaven swings

above earth. But how long, gentle Master, shall such as this be

declared thy Father's ways? How long shall superstition and idolatry

retain the power to fetter the souls of men? Is there no end to the

black curse of ignorance of Truth, which, after untold centuries,

still makes men sink with vain toil and consume with disease? And--are

those who sit about Peter's gorgeous tomb and approve these things

unerring guides to a right knowledge of God, to know whom, the Christ

has said, is life eternal?

A step behind him broke the flow of his dark revery.

"Our good Josè dreams below, while His Grace bites his nails above,"

said a soft, mellifluous voice. "_Qué chiste!_ It is--"

The priest sprang to his feet and faced the speaker. For a moment the

men regarded each other, the one uncertain as to the impending event,

but supremely confident of his ability to meet it; the other sick in

soul and torn with mental struggle, but for the moment fired anew with

the righteous wrath which his recent brief interview with the woman,

Marcelena, had kindled.

"Wenceslas--" The priest spoke in a strained, uncertain tone, striving

to hold his emotions in leash. "I have learned to-day--The girl,

Maria--"

"_Caro amigo_," interrupted Wenceslas smoothly, "what you have learned

to-day, or any other day, of the girl, Maria, is a lie."

"_Hombre!_" The priest turned livid. Stepping closer to Wenceslas--

"Do you think, inhuman! that I have not long known of your relations

with this girl? Who has not! And, further, I know--and Cartagena shall

know--that to-day she lies dying beside your child!"

Wenceslas recoiled. His face flushed, and the veins of his forehead

swelled with a purple flood. Then a pallor spread over his features,

and beads of perspiration started from his pores.

It was but momentary. Recovering himself, he laid a large hand on the

priest's shoulder, and, his face assuming its wonted smile, said in

his usual low tone, "_Amigo_, it seems that you have a penchant for

spreading gossip. Think you I am ignorant of the fact that because of

it Rome spewed you out for a meddlesome pest? Do you deceive yourself

that Cartagena will open her ears to your garbled reports? The hag,

Marcelena, lies! She has long hoped to gain some advantage from me, I

have told you-- But go now above and learn from His Grace, whom you

have had the impudence to keep waiting all morning, how tongues that

wag too freely can be silenced." He checked himself suddenly, as if he

feared he had said too much. Then, turning on his heel, he quickly

left the Cathedral.

The priest's head sank upon his breast, and he stood, infirm of

purpose and choking with words which he could not voice. The whirl in

which his confused brain had revolved for months--nay, years--had made

the determination of conduct with him a matter of hours, of days, of

weeks. Spontaneity of action had long since ceased within his fettered

mind, where doubt had laid its detaining hand upon his judgment.

Uncertainty of his steps, fear of their consequence, and dread lest he

precipitate the calamity which he felt hung always just above him, had

sapped the courage and strength of will which his soul needed for a

determined stand, and left him incapable of decisive action, even in

the face of grossest evil. The mordant reply of Wenceslas only

strengthened his conviction of the futility of massing his own feeble

forces against those of one so thoroughly entrenched as this man, who

had the ear of the Bishop--nay, whose resourceful mind was now said to

be actually directing the policies of the feeble old ecclesiastic who

held the bishopric of Cartagena.

As if groping through the blackness of midnight, he moved slowly down

the deserted nave of the Cathedral and mounted the winding stairs to

the ambulatory above. Pausing at the door of the _sanctum_ for a

moment to gather up his remnant of moral strength, he entered and

stood hesitant before the waiting Bishop.

CHAPTER 2

The long War of Independence which destroyed the last vestige of

Spanish control over the Peruvian colonies of South America was

virtually brought to a close by the terrific battle of Ayacucho,

fought on the plains between Pizarro's city of Lima and the ancient

Inca seat of Cuzco in the fall of 1824. The result of this battle had

been eagerly awaited in the city of Cartagena, capital of the newly

formed federation of Colombia. It was known there that the Royalist

army was concentrating for a final stand. It was known, too, that its

veterans greatly outnumbered the nondescript band of patriots, many of

whom were provided only with the _arma blanca_, the indispensable

_machete_ of tropical America. This fact lent a shred of encouragement

to the few proud Tory families still remaining in the city and

clinging forlornly to their broken fortunes, while vainly hoping for a

reëstablishment of the imperial regimen, as they pinned their fate to

this last desperate conflict. Among these, none had been prouder, none

more loyal to the Spanish Sovereign, and none more liberal in

dispensing its great wealth to bolster up a hopeless cause than the

ancient and aristocratic family at whose head stood Don Ignacio Josè

Marquez de Rincón, distinguished member of the _Cabildo_, and most

loyal subject of his imperial majesty, King Ferdinand VII. of Spain.

The house of Rincón traced its lineage back to the ferocious

adventurer, Juan de Rincón, favorite lieutenant of the renowned

_Conquistador_, Pedro de Heredia. When the latter, in the year 1533,

obtained from Charles V. the concession of New Andalusia, the whole

territory comprised between the mouths of the Magdalena and Atrato

rivers in what is now the Republic of Colombia, and undertook the

conquest of this enormously rich district, the fire-eating Juan, whom

the chroniclers of that romantic period quaintly described as "causing

the same effects as lightning and quicksilver," was his most

dependable support. Together they landed at the Indian village of

Calamari, and, after putting the pacific inhabitants to the sword--a

manner of disposal most satisfactory to the practical Juan--laid the

foundations of the present city of Cartagena, later destined to become

the "Queen of the Indies," the pride, as it was the despair, of the

haughty monarchs of Spain.

For his eminent services in this exploit Juan received a large tract

of land in the most fertile part of the Magdalena valley--which he

immediately staked and lost at the gaming-table. As a measure of

consolation, and doubtless with the view of checking Juan's gambling

propensities, Pedro de Heredia then bestowed upon him a strip of bleak

and unexplored mountain country adjacent to the river Atrato. Stung by

his sense of loss, as well as by the taunts of his boisterous

companions, and harassed by the practical conclusion that life's

brevity would not permit of wiping out their innumerable insults

singly by the sword, the raging Juan gathered together a few

blood-drinking companions of that ilk and set out to find diversion of

mind on his possessions.

Years passed. One day Juan again appeared on the streets of Cartagena,

and this time with gold enough to buy the city. The discovery of rich

auriferous sands on his estates adjoining the Atrato, which were

worked extensively for him by the natives whom he and his companions

had forced into subjection, had yielded him enormous wealth. He

settled in Cartagena, determined to make it his future home, and at

once set about buying great blocks of houses and erecting a palace for

himself. He began to acquire lands and mines in all directions. He

erected a sumptuous summer residence in what is now the suburb of

Turbaco. He built an _arena_, and bred bulls for it from famous stock

which he imported from the mother-country. He gave _fêtes_ and public

entertainments on the most lavish scale imaginable. In short, he

quickly became Cartagena's most influential and distinguished citizen,

as he was easily her richest.

But far more important to mention than all these dry details was the

undoubted change of character which had come over the man himself.

Perhaps it was the awful heat of the steaming Atrato valley that drew

the fire from his livid soul. Perhaps it was a dawning appreciation of

the opportunities made possible by his rapid acquisition of wealth

that had softened his character. Some said he had seen a vision of the

Virgin Mary. Others laid it to a terrible fever, in which for days he

had lain delirious in the shadow of death. Be that as it may, the

bloodthirsty _Conquistador_, who a few years before angrily shook the

dust of Cartagena from his feet, had now returned a changed man.

At once Juan began to manifest in an ever increasing degree an

interest in matters religious. In this respect his former character

suffered a complete reversal. He assiduously cultivated the clergy,

and gave large sums for the support of the Cathedral and the religious

orders of the city. The Bishop became a frequent guest at his

sumptuous table; and as often he in turn sought the Bishop for

consultation anent his benefactions and, in particular, for

consolation when haunted by sad memories of his devilish exploits in

early life. When the great-hearted Padre Bartolomé de las Casas,

infirm but still indefatigable in his work for the protection and

uplift of the Indians, arrived one memorable day in his little canoe

which his devoted native servants had paddled through the _dique_ from

the great river beyond, Juan was the first to greet him and insist

that he make his home with him while in the city. And on the night of

the Padre's arrival it is said that Juan, with tears streaming down

his scarred and wrinkled face, begged to be allowed to confess to him

the awful atrocities which he had committed upon the innocent and

harmless aborigines when, as was his wont, his breath hot with the

lust of blood, he had fallen upon them without provocation and hewed

them limb from limb.

In his old age the now gentle Juan, his former self almost obliterated,

expressed a desire to renounce the world, bestow his great wealth upon

the Church, and enter a monastery to pass his remaining years. Despite

the protestations of his numerous family, for whom his religious zeal

would permit him to leave but scanty provision, he was already

formulating plans toward this end when death overtook him, and his vast

estates descended intact to the family which he had founded.

So complete had been the transformation of Juan de Rincón during the

many years that he lived after his return to Cartagena that the

characteristics which he transmitted to his posterity were, in

general, quite the reverse of those which he himself had manifested so

abundantly in early life. Whereas, he had formerly been atrociously

cruel, boastingly impious, and a scoffer at matters religious, his

later descendants were generally tender of heart, soft of manner, and

of great piety. Whereas, in early manhood he had been fiery and

impulsive, quick of decision and immovable of opinion, his progeny

were increasingly inclined to be deliberate in judgment and

vacillating of purpose. So many of his descendants entered the

priesthood that the family was threatened with extinction, for in the

course of time it had become a sacred custom in the Rincón family to

consecrate the first-born son to the Church. This custom at length

became fixed, and was rigidly observed, even to the point of bigotry,

despite the obliteration of those branches where there was but a

single son.

The family, so auspiciously launched, waxed increasingly rich and

influential; and when the smoldering fires of revolution burst into

flame among the oppressed South American colonies, late in the year

1812, the house of Rincón, under royal and papal patronage, was found

occupying the first position of eminence and prestige in the proud old

city of Cartagena. Its wealth had become proverbial. Its sons,

educated by preceptors brought from Paris and Madrid, were prominent

at home and abroad. Its honor was unimpeachable. Its fair name was one

of the most resplendent jewels in the Spanish crown. And Don Ignacio

epitomized loyalty to Sovereign and Pope.

With the inauguration of hostilities no fears were felt by the

Rincón family for the ultimate success of the royalist arms, and

Don Ignacio immediately despatched word to his Sovereign in Madrid

that the wealth and services of his house were at the royal

disposal. Of this offer Ferdinand quickly availed himself. The Rincón

funds were drawn upon immediately and without stint to furnish men

and muniments for the long and disastrous struggle. Of the family

resources there was no lack while its members held their vast

possessions of lands and mines. But when, after the first successes

of the patriots, reprisals began to be visited upon the Tories of

Cartagena, and their possessions fell, one after another, into the

hands of the successful revolutionists, or were seized by former

slaves, Don Ignacio found it difficult to meet his royal master's

demands. The fickle King, already childish to the verge of imbecility,

gave scant thanks in return for the Rincón loyalty, and when at last,

stripped of his fortune, deserted by all but the few Tory families

who had the courage to remain in Cartagena until the close of the

war, Don Ignacio received with sinking heart the news of the battle

of Ayacucho, he knew full well that any future appeal to Ferdinand for

recognition of his great sacrifices would fall upon unhearing ears.

But to remain in republican Cartagena after the final success of the

revolutionists was to the royalist Don Ignacio quite impossible. Even

if permitted the attempt, he was so attached to the ancient order of

things that he could not adjust himself to the radically changed

conditions. So, gathering about him the sorrowing remnant of his

family, and converting into a pitifully small sum his few remaining

possessions, he took passage on an English trader and sailed for the

mother-country, to begin life anew among those whose speech and

customs were most familiar to him.

He settled in Seville, where the elder of his two sons, Rafaél de

Rincón, a lad of fifteen, was studying for the priesthood, under the

patronage of the Archbishop. There he established himself in the wine

business, associating with him his second son, Carlos, only a year the

junior of his brother. But, broken in spirit as well as in fortune, he

made little headway, and two years later died pitiably in poverty and

obscurity.

Through the influence of the Archbishop, the business, which Carlos

was far too young and immature to conduct, was absorbed by larger

interests, and the young lad retained as an employe. As the years

passed the boy developed sufficient commercial ability to enable him

to retain his position and to extract from it enough to provide for

the needs of himself and his dependents. He married, late in life, a

woman whose family had fled from Cartagena with his own and settled in

Seville. She was but a babe in arms at the time of the exodus, and

many years his junior. A year after the marriage a child was born to

them, a son. The babe's birth was premature, following a fright which

the mother received when attacked by a beggar. But the child lived.

And, according to the honored family custom, which the father insisted

on observing as rigidly in Spain as it had been formerly in Cartagena,

this son, Josè Francisco Enrique de Rincón, was at birth consecrated

to the service of God in the Holy Catholic Church.

CHAPTER 3

If, as Thoreau said, "God is on the side of the most sensitive," then

He should have been very close to the timid, irresolute lad in

Seville, in whom the softer traits of character, so unexpectedly

developed in the adventurous founder of the Rincón family, now stood

forth so prominently. Somber, moody, and retiring; delicately

sensitive and shrinking; acutely honest, even to the point of

morbidity; deeply religious and passionately studious, with a

consuming zeal for knowledge, and an unsatisfied yearning for truth,

the little Josè early in life presented a strange medley of

characteristics, which bespoke a need of the utmost care and wisdom on

the part of those who should have the directing of his career. Forced

into the world before his time, and strongly marked by his mother's

fear; afflicted with precarious health, and subjected to long and

desperate illnesses in childhood, his little soul early took on a

gloom and asceticism wholly unnatural to youth. Fear was constantly

instilled into his acutely receptive mind by his solicitous, doting

parents; and his life was thereby stunted, warped, and starved. He was

reared under the constant reminder of the baleful effects of food, of

air, of conduct, of this and that invisible force inimical to health;

and terror and anxiety followed him like a ghost and turned about all

his boyish memories. Under these repressing influences his mind could

not but develop with a lack of stamina for self-support. Hesitancy and

vacillation became pronounced. In time, the weight of any important

decision gave him acute, unendurable agony of mind. Called upon to

decide for himself a matter of import, his thought would become

confused, his brain torpid, and in tears and perplexity the tormented

lad would throw himself into the arms of his anxious parents and beg

to be told what course to pursue.

Thus his nature grew to depend upon something stronger than itself to

twine about. He sought it in his schoolmates; but they misread him.

The little acts which were due to his keen sensitiveness or to his

exaggerated reticence of disposition were frequently interpreted by

them as affronts, and he was generally left out of their games, or

avoided entirely. His playmates consequently became fewer and more

transient as the years gained upon him, until at length, trodden upon,

but unable to turn, he withdrew his love from the world and bestowed

it all upon his anxious mother. She became his only intimate, and from

her alone he sought the affection for which he yearned with an

intensity that he could not express. Shunning the boisterous,

frolicking children at the close of the school day, he would seek her,

and, nestling at her side, her hand clasped in his, would beg her to

talk to him of the things with which his childish thought was

struggling. These were many, but they revolved about a common

center--religion.

The salient characteristics already mentioned were associated with

others, equally prominent, and no less influential in the shaping of

his subsequent career. With the development of his deep, inward

earnestness there had appeared indications of latent powers of mind

that were more than ordinary. These took the form of childish

precocity in his studies, clearness of spiritual vision, and

maturity in his conduct and mode of life. The stunting of his

physical nature threw into greater prominence his exaggerated

soul-qualities, his tenderness, his morbid conscientiousness, and a

profound emotionalism which, at the sight of a great painting, or

the roll of the Cathedral organ, would flood his eyes and fill his

throat with sobs. When the reckless founder of the family experienced

a reversal of his own dark traits of soul, nearly three centuries

before, it was as if the pendulum had swung too far in the opposite

direction, and at the extreme point of its arc had left the little

Josè, with the sterner qualities of the old _Conquistador_ wholly

neutralized by self-condemnation, fear, infirmity of purpose, a high

degree of intellectuality, and a soul-permeating religious fervor.

At the mention of religion the timid lad at once became passionate,

engrossed--nay, obsessed. In his boyhood years, before the pall of

somber reticence had settled over him, he had been impressed with the

majesty of the Church and the gorgeousness of her material fabric. The

religious ideals taught him by his good mother took deep root. But the

day arrived when the expansion of his intellect reached such a point

as to enable him to detect a flaw in her reasoning. It was but a

little rift, yet the sharp edge of doubt slipped in. Alas! from that

hour he ceased to drift with the current of popular theological

belief; his frail bark turned, and launched out upon the storm-tossed

sea, where only the outstretched hand of the Master, treading the

heaving billows through the thick gloom, saved it at length from

destruction.

The hungry lad began to question his parents incessantly regarding the

things of the spirit. His teachers in the parochial school he plied

with queries which they could not meet. Day after day, while other

boys of his tender age romped in the street, he would steal into the

great Cathedral and stand, pathetically solitary, before the statues

of the Christ and the Virgin Mary, yearning over the problems with

which his childish thought was struggling, and the questions to which

no one could return satisfying replies.

Here again the boy seemed to manifest in exaggerated form the reversed

characteristics of the old _Conquistador_. But, unlike that of the

pious Juan, the mind of the little Josè was not so simple as to permit

it to accept without remonstrance the tenets of his family's faith.

Blind acceptance of any teaching, religious or secular, early became

quite impossible to him. This entailed many an hour of suffering to

the lad, and brought down upon his little head severe punishments from

his preceptors and parents. But in vain they admonished and

threatened. The child demanded proofs; and if proofs were not at hand,

his acceptance of the mooted teaching was but tentative, generally

only an outward yielding to his beloved mother's inexorable

insistence. Many the test papers he returned to his teachers whereon

he had written in answer to the questions set, "I am taught to reply

thus; but in my heart I do not believe it." Vainly the teachers

appealed to his parents. Futilely the latter pleaded and punished. The

placid receptiveness of the Rincón mind, which for more than three

hundred years had normally performed its absorptive functions and

imbibed the doctrines of its accepted and established human

authorities, without a trace of the heresy of suspecting their

genuineness, had at last experienced a reversal. True, the boy had

been born in the early hours of nineteenth century doubt and religious

skepticism. The so-called scientific spirit, buried for ages beneath

the _débris_ of human conjecture, was painfully emerging and preening

its wings for flight. The "higher criticism" was nascent, and ancient

traditions were already beginning to totter on the foundations which

the Fathers had set. But Spain, close wrapped in mediaeval dreams, had

suffered no taint of "modernism." The portals of her mind were well

guarded against the entrance of radical thought, and her dreamers were

yet lulled into lethargic adherence to outworn beliefs and musty

creeds by the mesmerism of priestly tradition. The peculiar cast of

mind of the boy Josè was not the product of influences from without,

but was rather an exemplification of the human mind's reversion to

type, wherein the narrow and bigoted mentality of many generations had

expanded once more into the breadth of scope and untrammeled freedom

of an ancient progenitor.

As the boy grew older his ability to absorb learning increased

astonishingly. His power of analysis, his keen perception and

retentive memory soon advanced him beyond the youths of his own age,

and forced him to seek outside the pale of the schoolroom for the

means to satisfy his hunger for knowledge. He early began to haunt the

bookstalls of Seville, and day after day would stand for hours

searching the treasures which he found there, and mulling over books

which all too frequently were _anathema_ to the orthodox. Often the

owner of one of these shops, who knew the lad's parents, and whose

interest had been stirred by his passion for reading, would let him

take one or more of the coveted volumes home over night, for the

slender family purse would not permit him to purchase what his heart

craved. Then came feasts for his famished little soul which often

lasted until daybreak.

It happened one evening that, when he crept off to his little room to

peer into one of these borrowed treasures, his father followed him.

Pushing the chamber door softly open the parent found the boy propped

against his pillow in bed, absorbed in a much-thumbed volume which he

was reading by the pale light of the single candle.

"Is it thus that you deceive your poor parents?" the fond father

began, in a tone of mock severity.

The startled lad stifled a cry and hastily thrust the book beneath his

pillow. The father's interest now became genuine. Leaning over the

terrified boy he drew forth the volume.

"Voltaire!"

The doting father stood petrified. Voltaire, _Antichrist_, Archfiend

of impiety--and in the hands of his beloved son!

Sleep fled the little household that night. In his father's arms,

while the distressed mother hung over them, the boy sobbed out his

confession. He had not intended to deceive. He had picked up this book

in the stall without knowing its nature. He had become so interested

in what it said about the Virgin Mary that he forgot all else. The

shopkeeper had found him reading it, and had laughed and winked at his

clerk when he bade the boy take it home for the night. The book had

fascinated him. He himself--did not his father know?--had so often

asked how the Virgin could be the mother of God, and why men prayed to

her. Yes, he knew it mocked their faith--and the sacred Scriptures. He

knew, too, that his father would not approve of it. That was why he

had tried to hide it beneath his pillow. He had been wicked,

desperately wicked, to deceive his dear parents--But the book--It made

him forget--It said so many things that seemed to be true--And--and--

"Oh, _padre mío_, forgive me, forgive me! I want to know the truth

about God and the world!" The delicate frame of the young lad shook in

paroxysms of grief.

Alas! it was but the anguished soul-cry which has echoed through the

halls of space since time began. What a mockery to meet it with empty

creed and human dogma! Alas! what a crime against innocence to stifle

the honest questionings of a budding mind with the musty cloak of

undemonstrable beliefs.

"But, my son, have I not often told you? The Holy Church gives us the

truth," replied the father, frightened by the storm which raged within

the childish soul, yet more alarmed at the turn which the mind of his

cherished son was apparently taking--his only son, dedicated to the

service of God from the cradle, and in whom the shattered hopes of

this once proud family were now centered.

"But this book laughs at us because we pray to a woman!" sobbed the

boy.

"True. But does not its author need the prayers of so pure a woman as

the Virgin? Do we not all need them? And is it not likely that one so

good as she would have great influence with God--much greater than we

ourselves, or even the best of men, could have?"

"But how can she be the mother of God? The Bible does not teach

that!"

"How do you know that the Bible does not teach it, my son?"

"I--I--have read--the Bible," faltered the lad.

"You have read the Bible!" cried the astonished father. "And where

have you done that, you wicked boy?"

"At the bookstore of Mariano," confessed the trembling child.

"_Madre de Dios!_" burst from the father, as he started to his feet.

"Mariano is a wicked infidel! The Bishop shall hear of this! Ah, well

may the Holy Father in Rome grieve to see his innocent babes led

astray by these servants of hell! But, my son," returning to the boy

and clasping him again in his arms, "it is not too late. The Virgin

Mother has protected you. You meant no harm. Satan covets your pure

little soul--But he shall not have it!" The father's tremulous voice

mounted high, "No, by the Saints in heaven, he shall not have it!"

The boy's assurance slowly returned under the influence of his

father's tender solicitude, even though he remained dimly conscious of

the rift widening little by little between his parents' settled

convictions and his own groping thought. With the assuaging of his

grief came again those insistent questions which throughout his life

had tormented his peace and driven him even to the doors of infidels

in search of truth.

"Father," he began timidly, "why was I wicked to read the Bible?"

"Because, my son, in doing so you yielded to the temptations of Satan.

The Bible is a great and mysterious book, written by God himself. He

meant it to be explained to us by the Holy Father, who is the head of

the Church which the good Saint Peter founded. We are not great enough

nor good enough to understand it. The Holy Father, who cares for God's

Church on earth, he is good enough, and he alone can interpret it to

us. Satan tries to do with all men just what he did with you, my

child. He seeks to make them read the Bible so that he can confuse

them and rob them of their faith. Then when he gets possession of

their souls he drags them down with him to hell, where they are lost

forever."

"And does the Holy Father really believe that Mary is the mother of

God?" persisted the boy, raising his tear-stained face.

"Yes--is she not? The blessed Saviour said that he and God were one.

And, as Mary is the mother of Christ, she is also the mother of

God--is she not? Let us read what the good Saint John Chrysostom

says." He rose and went into another room, returning in a few minutes

with a little volume. Taking the boy again on his knee, he continued,

"The blessed Saint tells us that the Virgin Mary was made the mother

of God in order that she might obtain salvation for many who, on

account of their wicked lives, could not be saved, because they had so

offended divine justice, but yet, by the help of her sweet mercy and

mighty intercession, might be cleansed and rendered fit for heaven. My

little son, you have always been taught that Mary is heaven's Queen.

And so she is ours, and reigns in heaven for us. Jesus loves to have

her close to him, and he can never refuse her requests. He always

grants what she asks. And that is the reason why we pray to her. She

never forgets us--never!"

A troubled look crossed the boy's face. Then he began anew. "Father

dear, God made everything, did He not? The Bible says that, anyway."

"Yes, child."

"Did He make Satan?"

The father hesitated. The child hurried on under the lash of his holy

inquisitiveness. "Father, how did evil come into the world? Is God

both good and bad? And how can a good God punish us forever for sins

committed here in only a few short years?"

"Ah, _queridito_!" cried the harassed father. "Such questions should

not have entered your little head for years to come! Why can you not

run and play as do other children? Why are you not happy as they are?

Why must you spend your days thinking of things that are far too deep

for you? Can you not wait? Some day you shall know all. Some day, when

you have entered the service of God, perhaps you may even learn these

things from the Holy Father himself. Then you will understand how the

good God lets evil tempt us in order that our faith in Him may be

exercised and grow strong--"

"And He lets Satan harm us purposely?" The boy's innocent dark eyes

looked up appealingly into his father's face.

"It is only for a short time, little son. And only those who are never

fit for heaven go down with Satan. But you are not one of those," he

hastily added, straining the boy to him. "And the Masses which the

good priests say for us will lift us out of purgatory and into heaven,

where the streets are pure gold and the gates are pearl. And there we

will all live together for--"

"Father," interrupted the boy, "I have thought of these things for a

long, long time. I do not believe them. And I do not wish to become a

priest."

The father fell silent. It was one of those tense moments which every

man experiences when he sees a withering frost slowly gathering over

the fondest hopes of a lifetime. The family of Rincón, aristocratic,

intensely loyal to Church and State, had willingly laid itself upon

the sacrificial altar in deference to its honored traditions. Custom

had become law. Obedience of son to parent and parent to Sovereign,

spiritual or temporal, had been the guiding star of the family's

destinies. To think was lawful; but to hold opinions at variance with

tradition was unspeakable heresy. Spontaneity of action was

commendable; but conduct not prescribed by King or Pope was

unpardonable crime. Loss of fortune, of worldly power and prestige,

were as nothing; deviation from the narrow path trodden by the

illustrious scions of the great Juan was everything. That this lad, to

whom had descended the undying memories of a long line of glorious

defenders of kingly and papal power, should presume to shatter the

sacred Rincón traditions, was unbelievable. It was none other than the

work of Satan. The boy had fallen an innocent victim to the devil's

wiles.

But the house of Rincón had withstood the assaults of the son of

perdition for more than three centuries. It would not yield now! The

all-powerful Church of Rome stood behind it--and the gates of hell

could not prevail against her! The Church would save her own. Yes, the

father silently argued, through his brother's influence the case

should be laid before His Eminence, the Archbishop. And, if need be,

the Holy Father himself should be called upon to cast the devil out of

this tormented child. To argue with the boy now were futile, even

dangerous. The lad had grown up with full knowledge of his parents'

fond hopes for his future. He had never openly opposed them, although

at times the worried mother would voice her fears to the father when

her little son brought his perplexing questions to her and failed to

find satisfaction. But until this night the father had felt no alarm.

Indeed, he had looked upon the child's inquisitiveness as but a

logical consequence of his precocity and unusual mental powers, in

which he himself felt a father's swelling pride. To his thought it

augured rapid promotion in the Church; it meant in time a Cardinal's

hat. Ah, what glorious possibilities! How the prestige of the now

sunken family would soar! Happily he had been aroused to an

appreciation of the boy's really desperate state in time. The case

should go before the Archbishop to-morrow, and the Church should hear

his call to hasten to the rescue of this wandering lamb.

CHAPTER 4

Seville is called the heart of Spain. In a deeper sense it is her

soul. Within it, extremes touch, but only to blend into a harmonious

unit which manifests the Spanish temperament and character more truly

there than in any other part of the world. In its Andalusian

atmosphere the religious instinct of the Spaniard reaches its fullest

embodiment. True, its bull-fights are gory spectacles; but they are

also gorgeous and solemn ceremonies. Its _ferias_ are tremendously

worldly; but they are none the less stupendous religious _fêtes_. Its

picturesque Easter processions, when colossal images of the Virgin are

carried among bareheaded and kneeling crowds, smack of paganism; but

we cannot question the genuineness of the religious fervor thus

displayed. Its Cathedral touches the _arena_; and its Archbishop

washes the feet of its old men. Its religion is still the living force

which unites and levels, exalts and debases. And its religion is

Rome.

On the fragrant spring morning following the discovery of the

execrated Voltaire, the little Josè, tightly clutching his father's

hand, threaded the narrow Sierpes and crossed the Prado de San

Sebastian, once the _Quemador_, where the Holy Inquisition was wont to

purge heresy from human souls with fire. The father shuddered, and his

stern face grew dark, as he thought of the revolting scenes once

enacted in that place in the name of Christ; and he inwardly voiced a

prayer of gratitude that the Holy Office had ceased to exist. Yet he

knew that, had he lived in that day, he would have handed his beloved

son over to that awful institution without demurral, rather than see

him develop those heretical views which were already rising from the

soil of his fertile, inquisitive mind.

The tinkling of a bell sounded down the street. Father and son quickly

doffed their hats and knelt on the pavement, while a priest, mounted

on a mule, rode swiftly past on his way to the bedside of a dying

communicant, the flickering lights and jingling bell announcing the

fact that he bore with him the Sacred Host.

"Please God, you will do the same some day, my son," murmured the

father. But the little Josè kept his eyes to the pavement, and would

make no reply.

Meanwhile, at a splendidly carved table in the library of his palatial

residence, surrounded by every luxury that wealth and ecclesiastical

influence could command, the Archbishop, pious shepherd of a restless

flock, sat with clouded brow and heavy heart. The festive ceremonials

of Easter were at hand, and the Church was again preparing to display

her chief splendors. But on the preceding Easter disturbances had

interrupted the processions of the Virgin; and already rumors had

reached the ears of the Archbishop of further trouble to be incited

during the approaching Holy Week by the growing body of skeptics and

anticlericals. To what extent these liberals had assumed the

proportions of a propaganda, and how active they would now show

themselves, were questions causing the holy man deep concern. Heavy

sighs escaped him as he voiced his fears to his sympathetic secretary

and associate, Rafaél de Rincón, the gaunt, ascetic uncle of the

little Josè.

"Alas!" he murmured gloomily. "Since the day that our Isabella yielded

to her heretic ministers and thrust aside the good Sister Patrocinio,

Spain has been in a perilous state. After that unholy act the

dethronement and exile of the Queen were inevitable."

"True, Your Eminence," replied the secretary. "But is there no cause

for hope in the elevation of her son, Alfonso, to the throne?"

"He is but seventeen--and absent from Spain six years. He lacks the

force of his talented mother. And there is no longer a Sister

Patrocinio to command the royal ear."

"Unfortunate, I admit, Your Eminence. She bore the _stigmata_, the

very marks of our Saviour's wounds, imprinted on her flesh, and worked

his miracles. But, in Alfonso--"

"No, no," interrupted the Archbishop impatiently; "he has styled

himself the first Republican in Europe. He will make Catholicism the

state religion; but he will extend religious toleration to all. He is

consumptive in mind as well as in body. And the army--alas! what may

we look for from it when soldiers like this Polo Hernandez refuse to

kneel during the Mass?"

"The man has been arrested, Your Eminence," the secretary offered in

consolation.

"But the court-martial acquitted him!"

"True. Yet he has now been summoned before the supreme court in

Madrid."

The Archbishop's face brightened somewhat. "And the result--what think

you?"

The secretary shrugged his drooping shoulders. "They will condemn

him."

Yes, doubtless he would be condemned, for mediaevalism dies hard in

Spain. But the incident was portentous, and the Archbishop and his

keen secretary heard in it an ominous echo.

A servant appeared at the heavy portieres, and at a sign from the

secretary ushered Josè and his father into the august presence

awaiting them.

An hour later the pair emerged from the palace and started homeward.

His Eminence, rousing himself from the profound revery in which he had

been sunk for some moments, turned to his expectant secretary.

"A Luther in embryo!" he ejaculated.

"I feared as much, Your Eminence," returned the austere secretary.

"And yet, a remarkable intellect! Astonishing mental power! But all

tainted with the damnable so-called scientific spirit!"

"True, Your Eminence."

"But marked you not his deep reverence for God? And his sturdy

honesty? And how, despite his embarrassment, the religious zeal of his

soul shown forth?"

"He is morbidly honest, Your Grace."

"A trait I wish we might employ to our own advantage," mused the

churchman. Then, continuing, "He is learned far beyond his years.

Indeed, his questions put me to some stress--but only for the

difficulty of framing replies intelligible to a mind so immature," he

added hastily. "Either he feared my presence, or he is naturally

shrinking."

"He is so by nature, Your Eminence."

The Archbishop reflected. "Naïve--pure--simple--mature, yet childish.

Have we covered the ground?"

"Not fully, Your Eminence. We omitted to mention his absorbing filial

devotion."

"True. And that, you tell me, is most pronounced."

"It is his strongest characteristic, Your Eminence. He has no will to

oppose it."

"Would that his devotion were for Holy Church!" sighed the Archbishop.

"I think it may be so directed, Your Eminence," quickly returned the

secretary.

"But--would he ever consent to enter the priesthood? And once in,

would he not prove a most dangerous element?"

The secretary made a deprecating gesture. "If I may suggest, such a

man as he promises to become is far more dangerous outside of the

Church than within, Your Eminence."

The Archbishop studied the man's face for a few moments. "There is

truth in your words, my friend. Yet how, think you, may he be

secured?"

"Your Eminence," replied the secretary warmly, "pardon these

suggestions in matters where you are far better fitted to pass sound

judgment than a humble servant of the Church like myself. But in this

case intimacy with my brother's family affords me data which may be

serviceable in bringing this matter to a conclusion. If I may be

permitted--"

The Archbishop nodded an unctuous and patronizing appreciation of his

elderly secretary's position, and the latter continued--

"Your Eminence, Holy Week is approaching, and we are beset with fears

lest the spirit of heresy which, alas! is abroad in our fair city,

shall manifest itself in such disturbances as may force us to abandon

these religious exercises in future. I need not point out the serious

nature of these demonstrations. Nor need I suggest that their relative

unimportance last year was due solely to lack of strong leadership.

Already our soldiers begin to refuse to kneel during the Mass. The

Holy Church is not yet called upon to display her weapons. But who

shall say to what measures she may not be forced when an able and

fearless leader shall arise among the heretics? To-day there has stood

before Your Eminence a lad possessing, in my opinion, the latent

qualifications for such leadership. I say, latent. I use the term

advisedly, for I know that he appears to manifest the Rincón lack of

decision. But so did I at his age. And who can say when the unfolding

of his other powers, now so markedly indicated, may not force the

development of those certain traits of character in which he now seems

deficient, but which, developed, would make him a power in the world?

Shall the Church permit this promising lad to stray from her, possibly

later to join issue with her enemies and use his great gifts to

propagate heresy and assault her foundations? Are we faithful to our

beloved Mother if we do not employ every means, foul or fair, to

destroy her enemies, even in the cradle? Remember, 'He who gains the

youth, possesses the future,' as the saying goes."

"Loyally spoken, faithful son," replied the Archbishop, shifting into

a more comfortable position. "And you suggest--?"

"This: that we wisely avail ourselves of his salient characteristics--his

weaknesses, if you wish--and secure him now to the Church."

"And, more specifically--?" with increasing animation.

"Your Eminence is already aware of the custom in our family of

consecrating the first-born son to the service of God. This boy has

been so consecrated from birth. It is the dearest hope of his parents.

At present their wishes are still his law. Their judgments yet

formulate his conduct. His sense of honor is acute. Your Eminence can

see that his word is sacred. His oath once taken would bind him

eternally. _It is for us to secure that oath!_"

"And how?" The Archbishop leaned forward eagerly.

"We, coöperating with his parents, will cater to his consuming passion

for learning, and offer him the education which the limited resources

of his family cannot provide. We save him from the drudgery of

commercialism, and open to him the life of the scholar. We suggest to

him a career consecrated to study and holy service. The Church

educates him--he serves his fellow-men through her. Once ordained, his

character is such, I believe, that he could never become an apostate.

And, whatever his services to Holy Church may be thereafter, she at

least will have effectually disposed of a possible opponent. She has

all to gain, and nothing to lose by such procedure. Unless I greatly

mistake the Rincón character, the lad will yield to our inducements

and his mother's prayers, the charm of the Church and the bias of her

tutelage, and ultimately take the oath of ordination. After that--"

"My faithful adviser," interrupted the Archbishop genially, as visions

of the Cardinal's hat for eminent services hovered before him, "write

immediately to Monsignor, Rector of the _Seminario_, in Rome. Say that

he must at once receive, at our expense and on our recommendation, a

lad of twelve, who greatly desires to be trained for the priesthood."

CHAPTER 5

Thus did the Church open her arms to receive her wandering child. Thus

did her infallible wisdom, as expressed through her zealous agents in

Seville, essay to solve the perplexing problems of this agitated

little mind, and whisper to its confused throbbing, "Peace, be still."

The final disposition came to the boy not without some measure of

relief, despite, his protest. The long days of argument and pleading,

of assurance that within the Church he should find abundant and

satisfactory answers to his questions, and of explanations which he

was adjured to receive on faith until such time as he might be able to

prove their soundness, had utterly exhausted his sensitive little

soul, and left him without the combative energy or will for further

remonstrance.

Nor was the conflict solely a matching of his convictions against

the desires of his parents and the persuasions of the Archbishop and

his loyal secretary. The boy's hunger for learning alone might have

caused him to yield to the lure of a broad education. Moreover, his

nature contained not one element of commercialism. The impossibility

of entering the wine business with his father, or of spending his life

in physical toil for a bare maintenance, was as patent to himself,

even at that early age, as to his parents. His bent was wholly

intellectual. But he knew that his father could not afford him an

education. Yet this the Church now offered freely. Again, his nature

was essentially religious. The Church now extended all her learning,

all her vast resources, all her spiritual power, to develop and foster

this instinct. Nay, more, to protect and guide its development into

right channels.

The fact, too, that the little Josè was a child of extreme emotions

must not be overlooked in an estimate of the influences which bore

upon him during these trying days. His devotion to an object upon

which he had set his affections amounted to obsession. He adored his

parents--reverenced his father--worshiped his mother. The latter he

was wont to compare to the flowers, to the bright-plumed birds, to the

butterflies that hovered in the sunlight of their little _patio_. He

indited childish poems to her, and likened her in purity and beauty to

the angels and the Virgin Mary. Her slightest wish was his inflexible

law. Not that he was never guilty of childish faults of conduct, of

little whims of stubbornness and petulance; but his character rested

on a foundation of honesty, sincerity, and filial love that was never

shaken by the summer storms of naughtiness which at times made their

little disturbances above.

The parents breathed a sigh of relief when the tired child at last

bowed to their wishes and accepted the destiny thrust upon him. The

coming of a son to these loyal royalists and zealous Catholics had

meant the imposition of a sacred trust. That he was called to high

service in the Church of God was evidenced by Satan's early and

malicious attacks upon him. There was but one course for them to

pursue, and they did not for a moment question its soundness. To their

thought, this precocious child lacked the wisdom and balance which

comes only with years. The infallible Church, their all-wise spiritual

guide, supported their contentions. What they did was for her and for

the eternal welfare of the boy. Likewise, for the maintenance of

family pride and honor in a generation tainted with liberalism and

distrust of the sacred traditions.

The Church, on the other hand, in the august person of the Archbishop,

had accomplished a triumph. She had recognized the child's unusual

gifts of mind, and had been alert to the dangers they threatened. If

secured to herself, and their development carefully directed, they

would mold him into her future champion. If, despite her careful

weeding and pruning, they expanded beyond the limits which she set,

_they should be stifled_! The peculiar and complex nature of the child

offered her a tremendous advantage. For, if reactionary, his own

highly developed sense of honor, together with his filial devotion and

his intense family pride, should of themselves be forced to choke all

activity in the direction of apostasy and liberalism. Heaven knew, the

Church could not afford to neglect any action which promised to secure

for her a loyal son; or, failing that, at least effectually check in

its incipiency the development of a threatened opponent! Truly, as the

astute secretary had said, this boy might prove troublesome within the

fold; but he might also prove more dangerous without. Verily, it was

a triumph for the cause of righteousness! And after the final

disposition, the good Archbishop had sat far into the night in the

comfort of his _sanctum_, drowsing over his pleasant meditations on

the rewards which his unflagging devotion to the cause of Holy Church

was sure some day to bring.

Time sped. The fragrant Sevillian spring melted into summer, and

summer merged with fall. The Rincón family was adjusting itself to the

turn in the career of its heir, the guardian and depository of its

revived hopes. During the weeks which intervened between his first

interview with the Archbishop and his final departure for Rome, Josè

had been carefully prepared by his uncle, who spared no effort to

stimulate in the boy a proper appreciation of his high calling. He was

taught that as a priest of the Holy Catholic Church he would become a

representative of the blessed Christ among men. His mission would be

to carry on the Saviour's work for the salvation of souls, and, with

the power of Christ and in His name, to instruct mankind in true

beliefs and righteous conduct. He would forgive sins, impose

penalties, and offer sacrificial atonement in the body of the

Saviour--in a word, he was to become _sacerdos alter Christus_,

another Christ. His training for this exalted work would cover a

period of six or eight years, perhaps longer, and would fit him to

become a power among men, a conserver of the sacred faith, and an

ensample of the highest morality.

"Ah, _sobrinito_," the sharp-visaged, gray-haired uncle had said,

"truly a fortunate boy are you to hear this grandest of opportunities

knocking at your door! A priest--a God! Nay, even more than God, for

as priest God gives you power over Himself!"

The boy's wondering eyes widened, and a look of mingled confusion and

astonishment came into his wan face. "I do not see, _tío mío_--I do

not see," he murmured.

"But you shall, you shall! And you shall understand the awful

responsibility which God thus reposes upon you, when He gives you

power to do greater things than He did when He created the world. You

shall command the Christ, and He shall come down at your bidding. Ah,

_chiquito_, a fortunate boy!" But the lad turned wearily away, without

sharing his uncle's enthusiasm.

The day before his departure Josè was again conducted before the

Archbishop, and after listening to a lengthy résumé of what the Church

was about to do for him, and what she expected in return, two solemn

vows were exacted from him--

"First," announced the uncle, in low, deliberate tones, "you will

solemnly promise your mother and your God that, daily praying to be

delivered from the baneful influences which now cause doubt and

questioning in your mind, and refraining from voicing them to your

teachers or fellow-students, you will strive to accept all that is

taught you in Rome, deferring every endeavor to prove the teachings

you are to receive until the end of your long course, when, by

training and discipline, you shall have so developed in goodness,

purity, and power, that you shall be found worthy to receive spiritual

confirmation of the great tenets upon which the Holy Roman Catholic

Church has been founded and reared."

He paused for a moment to catch his breath and let his portentous

words sink into the quivering brain of the lad before him. Then he

resumed--

"Second, keeping ever in mind your debt of gratitude to the Church,

you promise faithfully to finish your course, and at the end offer

yourself to the service of God in the holy priesthood."

The solemn hush that lay over the room when he finished was broken

only by the muffled sobs of the mother.

Tender in years, plunged into grief at the impending separation from

home and all that he held dear, the boy knelt before the secretary and

gave his trembling word to observe these obligations. Then, after he

had kissed the Bible and the Archbishop's extended hand, he threw

himself upon the floor in a torrent of tears.

On the following morning, a bright, sparkling November day, the little

Josè, spent with emotion, tore himself from his mother's clinging

embrace and set out for Rome, accompanied by his solicitous uncle.

"And, _queridito_," were the mother's last words, "I have your promise

that never will you voluntarily leave the Church?"

The appeal which his beseeching look carried back to her was not

granted. He slowly bowed his acquiescence, and turned away. A week

later he had entered upon the retreat with which the school year opens

in the _Seminario_.

CHAPTER 6

Rome, like a fallen gladiator, spent and prostrate on the Alban

hills, still awaits the issue of the conflict between the forces of

life and death within. Dead, where the blight of pagan and mediaeval

superstition has eaten into the quivering tissues; it lives where

the pulsing current of modernism expands its shrunken arteries and

bears the nourishing truth. Though eternal in tradition and

colossal in material achievement, the glory of the Imperial City

nevertheless rests on a foundation of perishable human ambitions,

creeds, and beliefs, manifested outwardly for a time in brilliant

deeds, great edifices, and comprehensive codes, but always bearing

within themselves the seeds of their own decay. No trophy brought to

her gates in triumph by the Caesars ever approached in worth the

simple truth with which Paul of Tarsus, chained to his jailer,

illumined his gloomy dungeon. Had the religious principles which he

and his devoted associates labored so unselfishly to impart to a

benighted world for its own good been recognized by Rome as the

"pearl without price," she would have built upon them as foundation

stones a truer glory, and one which would have drawn the nations of

the earth to worship within her walls. But Rome, in her master,

Constantine, saw only the lure of a temporal advantage to be gained

by fettering the totally misunderstood teachings of Jesus with the

shackles of organized politics. From this unhallowed marriage of

religion and statecraft was born that institution unlike either

parent, yet exhibiting modified characteristics of each, the Holy

Church. To this institution, now mighty in material riches and

power, but still mediaeval in character, despite the assaults of

centuries of progress, a combination of political maneuver, bigotry,

and weakness committed the young Josè, tender, sensitive, receptive,

and pure, to be trained as an agent to further its world-embracing

policies.

The retreat upon which the boy at once entered on his arrival at

the seminary extended over ten days. During this time there were

periods of solitary meditation--hours when his lonely heart cried out

in anguish for his beloved mother--visits to the blessed sacrament,

recitations of the office, and consultations with his spiritual

advisers, at which times his promises to his parents and the

Archbishop, coupled with his natural reticence and the embarrassment

occasioned by his strange environment, sealed his lips and prevented

the voicing of his honest questions and doubts. It was sought

through this retreat to so bring the lad under the influence of the

great religious teachings as to most deeply impress his heart and

mind with the importance of the seminary training upon which he had

entered. His day began with the dreaded meditation at five in the

morning, followed by hearing the Mass and receiving Communion. It

closed, after study and class work, with another visit to the blessed

sacrament, recital of the Rosary, spiritual reading, and prayer. On

Sundays he assisted at solemn High Mass in the church of the

_Seminario Pio_. One day a week was a holiday; but only in the

sense that it was devoted to visiting hospitals and charitable

institutions, in order to acquire practical experience and a

foretaste of his future work among the sick and needy. Clad in his

little violet cassock, low-crowned, three-cornered hat, and

_soprana_, he might be seen on these holidays trotting along with

his fellow-students in the wake of their superior, his brow

generally contracted, and his childish face seldom lighted by a happy

smile.

The first year passed without special incident. The boy, filled with

that quenchless ambition to know, which characterizes the finest

minds, entered eagerly upon his studies and faithfully observed his

promises. If his tender soul warped and his fresh, receptive mind

shriveled under the religious tutelage he received, no one but himself

knew it, not even his fond mother, as she clasped him again in her

arms when he returned home for the first summer vacation. With the

second year there began studies of absorbing interest to the boy, and

the youthful mind fed hungrily. This seemed to have the effect of

expanding somewhat his self-contained little soul. He appeared to grow

out of himself to a certain extent, to become less timid, less

reticent, even more sociable; and when he returned to Seville again at

the close of the year he had apparently lost much of the somberness of

disposition which had previously characterized him. The Archbishop

examined him closely; but the boy, speaking little, gave no hint of

the inner working of his thought; and if his soul seethed and

fermented within, the Rincón pride and honor covered it with a placid

demeanor and a bearing of outward calm. When the interview ended and

the lad had departed, the Archbishop descended to the indignity of

roundly slapping his ascetic secretary on his emaciated back, as an

indication of triumphant joy. The boy certainly was being charmed into

deep devotion to the Church! He was fast being bound to her altars!

Again the glorious spectacle of the Church triumphant in molding a

wavering youth into a devoted son!

Four years passed thus, almost in silence on the boy's part. Yet his

character suffered little change. At home he strove to avoid all

mention of the career upon which he was entering, although he gave

slight indication of dissatisfaction with it. He was punctilious in

his attendance upon religious services; but to have been otherwise

would have brought sorrow to his proud, happy parents. His days were

spent in complete absorption in his books, or in writing in his

journal. The latter he had begun shortly before entering the seminary,

and it was destined to exert a profound influence upon his life. Often

his parents would playfully urge him to read to them from it; but the

boy, devotedly obedient and filial in every other respect steadfastly

begged permission to refuse these requests. In that little whim the

fond parents humored him, and he was left largely alone to his books

and his meditations.

During Josè's fourth summer vacation a heavy sorrow suddenly fell upon

him and plunged him into such an excess of grief that it was feared

his mind would give way. His revered father, advanced in years, and

weakened by overwork and business worries, succumbed to the malaria so

prevalent in Seville during the hot months and passed away, after a

brief illness. The blow descended with terrific force upon the

morbidly disposed lad. It was his first intimate experience with

death. For days after the solemn events of the mourning and funeral he

sat as one stunned, holding his mother's hand and staring dumbly into

space; or for hours paced to and fro in the little _patio_, his face

rigidly set and his eyes fixed vacantly on the ground beneath. The

work of four years in opening his mind, in expanding his thought, in

drawing him out of his habitual reticence and developing within him

the sense of companionship and easy tolerance, was at one stroke

rendered null. Brought face to face with the grim destroyer, all the

doubt and confusion of former years broke the bounds which had held

them in abeyance and returned upon him with increased insistence.

Never before had he felt so keenly the impotence of mortal man and the

futility of worldly strivings. Never had he seen so clearly the fatal

defects in the accepted interpretation of Christ's mission on earth.

His earlier questionings returned in violent protests against the

emptiness of the beliefs and formalities of the Church. In times past

he had voiced vague and dimly outlined perceptions of her spiritual

needs. But now to him these needs had suddenly taken definite form.

Jesus had healed the sick of all manner of disease. He himself was

being trained to represent the Christ on earth. Would he, too, be

taught to heal the sick as the Master had done? The blessed Saviour

said, "The works that I do, ye shall do also." But the priests, his

representatives, clearly were not doing the works of the Master. And

if he himself had been an ordained priest at the time of his father's

death, could he have saved him? No, he well knew that he could not.

And yet he would have been the Saviour's representative among men.

Alas! how poor a one he well knew.

In his stress of mind he sought his uncle, and by him was again led

before the Archbishop. His reticence and timidity dispersed by his

great sorrow, the distraught boy faced the high ecclesiastic with

questions terribly blunt.

"Why, my Father, after four years in the _Seminario_, am I not being

taught to do the works which our blessed Saviour did?"

The placid Archbishop stared at the boy in dumb astonishment. Again,

after years of peace that had promised quiescence on these mooted

points! Well, he must buckle on his armor--if indeed he had not

outgrown it quite--and prepare to withstand anew the assaults of the

devil!

"H'm!--to be specific, my son--you mean--?" The great man was

sparring.

"Why do we not heal the sick as he did?" the boy explained tersely.

"Ah!" The peace-loving man of God breathed easier. How simple! The

devil was firing a cracked blunderbuss.

"My son," he advanced with paternal unction, "you have been taught--or

should have been, ere this--that the healing miracles of our blessed

Saviour belong to a dispensation long past. They were special signs

from God, given at the time of establishing His Church on earth, to

convince an incredulous multitude. They are not needed now. We

convince by logic and reason and by historical witnesses to the deeds

of the Saints and our blessed Saviour." As he pronounced this sacred

name the holy man devoutly crossed himself. "Men would believe no more

readily to-day," he added easily, "even if they should see miracles of

healing, for they would attribute them to the human mentality, to

suggestion, hypnotism, hallucination, and the like. Even the mighty

deeds of Christ were attributed to Beelzebub." The complacent Father

settled back into his chair with an air of having disposed for all

time of the mooted subject of miracles.

"That begs the question, my Father!" returned the boy quickly and

excitedly. "And as I read church history it is thus that the question

has been begged ever since the first century!"

"What!" The Archbishop was waxing hot. "Do you, a mere child of

sixteen, dare to dispute the claims of Holy Church?"

"My Father," the boy spoke slowly and with awful earnestness, "I have

been four years in the _Seminario_. I do not find the true Christ

there; nor do I think I shall find him within the Church."

"_Sanctissima Maria!_" The Archbishop bounded to his feet "Have you

sold yourself to the devil?" he exploded. "Have you fed these years at

the warm breasts of the Holy Mother, only to turn now and rend her?

Have you become a Protester? Apostate and forsworn!"

"My Father," the boy returned calmly, "did Jesus tell the truth--or

did he lie? If he spoke truth, then I think he is _not_ in the

Church to-day. She has wholly misunderstood him--or else she--she

deliberately falsifies."

The Archbishop sank gasping into his chair.

Josè went on. "You call me apostate and forsworn. I am neither. One

cannot become apostate when he has never believed. As to being

forsworn--I am a Rincón!"

The erect head and flashing eyes of the youth drew an involuntary

exclamation of approval from the anxious secretary, who had stood

striving to evolve from his befuddled wits some course adequate to the

strained situation.

But the boy's proud bearing was only momentary. The wonted look of

troubled wistfulness again settled over his face, and his shoulders

bent to their accustomed stoop, as if his frail body were slowly

crushing beneath a tremendous burden.

"My Father," he continued sadly, "do not the Gospels show that Jesus

proved the truth of all he taught by doing the works which we call

miracles? But does the Church to-day by any great works prove a single

one of her teachings? You say that Christianity no longer needs the

healing of the sick in order to prove its claims. I answer that, if

so, it likewise no longer needs the preaching of the gospel, for I

cannot find that Jesus made any distinction between the two. Always he

coupled one with the other. His command was ever, 'Preach the gospel,

heal the sick!' His works of healing were simply signs which showed

that he understood what he taught. They were his proofs, and they

followed naturally his great understanding of God. But what proofs do

you offer when you ask mankind to accept your preaching? Jesus said,

'He that believeth on me, the works that I do shall he do also.' If

you do not do the works which he did, it shows plainly that you do not

believe on him--that is, that you do not understand him. When I am an

ordained priest, and undertake to preach the gospel to the world, must

I confess to my people that I cannot prove what I am teaching? Must I

confess that there is no proof within the Church? Is it not so, that

true believers in Jesus Christ believe exactly in the proportion in

which they obey him and do his works?"

The boy paused for breath. The Archbishop and his secretary sat

spellbound before him. Then he resumed--

"How the consecrated wafer through the words of a priest becomes the

real body of Christ, I am as yet unable to learn. I do not believe it

does. How priests can grant absolution for sins when, to me, sins are

forgiven only when they are forsaken, I have not been taught. I do not

believe they can. The Church assumes to teach these things, but it

cannot prove them. From the great works of Jesus and his apostles it

has descended to the blessing of _milagros_ and candles, to the

worship of the Virgin and man-made Saints, to long processions, to

show and glitter--while without her doors the poor, the sick and the

dying stretch out their thin, white hands and beseech her to save

them, not from hell or purgatory in a supposed life to come, but from

misery, want and ignorance right here in this world, as Jesus told his

followers they should do. If you can show forth the omnipotence of God

by healing the sick and raising the dead, I could accept that as proof

of your understanding of the teachings of Jesus--and what you _really_

understand you can demonstrate and teach to others. Theological

questions used to bother me, but they do so no longer. Holy oil, holy

water, blessed candles, incense, images and display do not interest me

as they did when a child, nor do they any longer seem part of an

intelligent worship of God. But"--his voice rising in animation--"to

touch the blind man's eyes and see them open; to bid the leper be

clean, and see his skin flush with health--ah! that is to worship God

in spirit and in truth--that is to prove that you understand what

Jesus taught and are obeying, not part, but _all_ of his commands. I

am not apostate"--he concluded sadly--"I never did fully believe that

the religion of Jesus is the religion which the Church to-day preaches

and pretends to practice. I do not believe in her heaven, her

purgatory or her hell, nor do I believe that her Masses move God to

release souls from torment. I do not believe in her powers to pardon

and curse. I do not believe in her claims of infallibility. But--"

He hesitated a moment, as if not quite sure of his ground. Then his

face glowed with sudden eagerness, and he cried, "My Father, the

Church needs the light--do you not see it?--do you not, my uncle?"

turning appealingly to the hard-faced secretary. "Can we not work to

help her, and through her reach the world? Should not the Church

rightly be the greatest instrument for good? But how can she teach the

truth when she herself is so filled with error? How can she preach the

gospel when she knows not what the gospel is? But Jesus said that if

we obeyed him we should know of the doctrine, should know the true

meaning of the gospel. But we must first obey. We must not only

preach, but we must become spiritually minded enough to heal the

sick--"

"_Dios nos guarde!_" interrupted the Archbishop, attempting to rise,

but prevented by his secretary, who laid a restraining hand on his

arm. The latter then turned to the overwrought boy.

"My dear Josè," he said, smiling patronizingly upon the youth,

although his cold eyes glittered like bits of polished steel, "His

Eminence forgives your hasty words, for he recognizes your earnestness,

and, moreover, is aware how deeply your heart is lacerated by your

recent bereavement. But, further--and I say this in confidence to

you--His Eminence and I have discussed these very matters to which you

refer, and have long seen the need of certain changes within the

Church which will redound to her glory and usefulness. And you must know

that the Holy Father in Rome also recognizes these needs, and sees,

too, the time when they will be met. However, his great wisdom

prevents him from acting hastily. You must remember that our blessed

Saviour suffered many things to be so for the time, although he knew

they would be altered in due season. So it is with the Church. Her

children are not all deep thinkers, like yourself, but are for the most

part poor and ignorant people, who could not understand your high

views. They must be led in ways with which they are familiar until

they can be lifted gradually to higher planes of thought and conduct.

Is it not so? You are one who will do much for them, my son--but you

will accomplish nothing by attempting suddenly to overthrow the

established traditions which they reverence, nor by publicly prating

about the Church's defects. Your task will be to lead them gently,

imperceptibly, up out of darkness into the light, which, despite your

accusations, _does_ shine in the Church, and is visible to all who

rightly seek it. You have yet four years in the _Seminario_. You gave

us your promise--the Rincón word--that you would lay aside these

doubts and questionings until your course was completed. We do not

hold you--_but you hold yourself to your word_! Our sincere advice

is that you keep your counsel, and silently work with us for the Church

and mankind. The Church will offer you unlimited opportunities for

service. She is educating you. Indeed, has she not generously given you

the very data wherewith you are enabled now to accuse her? You will

find her always the same just, tolerant, wise Mother, leading her

children upward as fast as they are able to journey. Her work is

universal, and she is impervious to the shafts of envy, malice, and

hatred which her enemies launch at her. She has resources of which you

as yet know nothing. In the end she will triumph. You are offered an

opportunity to contribute toward that triumph and to share in it.

His Eminence knows that you will not permit Satan to make you reject

that offer now."

The secretary's sharp, beady eyes looked straight into those of the

youth, and held him. His small, round head, with its low brow and

grizzled locks, waved snake-like on the man's long neck. His tall

form, in its black cassock, bent over the lad like a spectre. His

slender arms, of uncanny length, waved constantly before him; and the

long, bony fingers seemed to reach into the boy's very soul and choke

the springs of life at their origin. His reasoning took the form of

suggestion, bearing the indisputable stamp of authority. Again, the

boy, confused and uncertain, bowed before years and worldly

experience, and returned to his solitude and the companionship of his

books and his writing.

"Occupy till I come," the patient Master had tenderly said. From

earliest boyhood Josè had heard this clarion call within his soul. And

striving, delving, plodding, he had sought to obey--struggling toward

the distant gleam, toward the realization of something better and

nearer the Master's thought than the childish creeds of his

fellow-men--something warmer, more vital than the pulseless decrees of

ecumenical councils--something to solve men's daily problems here on

earth--something to heal their diseases of body and soul, and lift

them into that realm of spiritual thinking where material pleasures,

sensations, and possessions no longer form the single aim and

existence of mankind, and life becomes what in reality it is, eternal

ecstasy! The Christ had promised! And Josè would occupy and wait in

faith until, with joy inexpressible, he should behold the shining form

of the Master at the door of his opened tomb.

"With Your Eminence's permission I will accompany the boy back to

Rome," the secretary said one day, shortly before Josè's return to the

seminary. "I will consult with the Rector, and suggest that certain

and special tutelage be given the lad. Let them bring their powers of

reasoning and argument to bear upon him, to the end that his thinking

may be directed into proper channels before it is too late. _Hombre!_"

he muttered, as with head bent and hands clasped behind his back he

slowly paced before the Archbishop. "To think that he is a Rincón! And

yet, but sixteen--a babe--a mere babe!"

CHAPTER 7

It must have been, necessarily, a very complex set of causes that

could lay hold on a boy so really gifted as Josè de Rincón and,

against his instincts and, on the part of those responsible for the

deed, with the certain knowledge of his disinclination, urge him into

the priesthood of a religious institution with which congenitally he

had but little in common.

To begin with, the bigoted and selfish desires of his parents found in

the boy's filial devotion a ready and sufficient means of compelling

him to any sacrifice of self. Only a thorough understanding of the

Spanish temperament will enable one to arrive at a just estimate of

Josè's character, and the sacredness of the promises given his mother.

Though the child might pine and droop like a cankered rosebud, yet he

would never cease to regard the sanctity of his oath as eternally

binding. And the mother would accept the sacrifice, for her love for

her little son was clouded by her great ambitions in respect to his

earthly career, and her genuine solicitude for his soul's eternal

welfare.

Family tradition, sacred and inviolable, played its by no means

small part in this affair. Custom, now as inviolable as the Jewish

law, decreed that the first-born son should sink his individuality

into that of the Mother Church. And to the Spaniard, _costumbre_

is law. Again, the vacillating and hesitant nature of the boy

himself contributed largely to the result; for, though supremely

gifted in receptivity and broadness of mind, in critical analysis

and keenness of perception, he nevertheless lacked the energy of will

necessary to the shaping of a life-course along normal lines. The boy

knew what he preferred, yet he said _Amen_ both to the prayers of

his parents and the suggestions of doubt which his own mind offered.

He was weakest where the greatest firmness was demanded. His love

of study, his innate shrinking from responsibility, and his

repugnance toward discord and strife--in a word, his lack of

fighting qualities--naturally caused him to seek the lines of least

resistance, and thus afforded a ready advantage to those who sought

to influence him.

But why, it may be asked, such zeal on the part of the Archbishop and

his secretary in forcing upon the boy a career to which they knew he

was disinclined? Why should loyal agents of the Church so tirelessly

urge into the priesthood one who might prove a serpent in her bosom?

The Archbishop may be dismissed from this discussion. That his motives

were wholly above the bias of worldly ambition, we may not affirm. Yet

we know that he was actuated by zeal for the Church; that he had its

advancement, its growth in power and prestige always at heart. And we

know that he would have rejoiced some day to boast, "We have saved to

the Church a brilliant son who threatened to become a redoubtable

enemy." The forces operating for and against this desideratum seemed

to him about equally matched. The boy was still very young. His mind

was as yet in the formative period, and would be for some years. If

the Church could secure her hold upon him during this period she would

doubtless retain it for all time; for, as the sagacious secretary so

often quoted to his superior, "Once a priest, always a priest,"

emphasizing the tenet that the character imprinted by ordination is

ineffaceable.

As for the secretary, he was a Rincón, proud and bigoted, and withal

fanatically loyal to the Church as an institution, whatever its or

his own degree of genuine piety. It was deeply galling to his

ecclesiastical pride to see the threatened development of heretical

tendencies in a scion of his house. These were weeds which must

and should be choked, cost what it might! To this end any means were

justified, for "What doth it profit a man to gain the whole world

and lose his own soul?" And the Rincón soul had been molded centuries

ago. The secretary hated the rapidly developing "scientific" spirit

of the age and the "higher criticism" with a genuine and deadly

hatred. His curse rested upon all modern culture. To him, the Jesuit

college at Rome had established the level of intellectual freedom.

He worshiped the landmarks which the Fathers had set, and he would

have opposed their removal with his life. No, the Rincón traditions

must be preserved at whatever cost! The heretical buddings within Josè

should be checked; he should enter the priesthood; his thinking

should be directed into proper channels; his mind should be bent into

conformity with Holy Church! If not--but there was no alternative.

The all-powerful Church could and would accomplish it.

In the choice of Rafaél de Rincón as secretary and assistant, the

Archbishop had secured to himself a man of vast knowledge of

ecclesiastical matters, of great acumen, and exceptional ability. The

man was a Jesuit, and a positive, dynamic representative of all that

the order stands for. He was now in his sixty-eighth year, but as

vigorous of mind and body as if he bore but half his burden of age.

For some years prior to his connection with the See of Seville he had

served in the royal household at Madrid. But, presumably at the

request of Queen Isabella, he had been peremptorily summoned to Rome

some three years before her exile; and when he again left the Eternal

City it was with the tentative papal appointment to Seville.

Just why Padre Rafaél had been relieved of his duties in Madrid was

never divulged. But gossip supplied the paucity of fact with the usual

delectable speculations, the most persistent of which had to do with

the rumored birth of a royal child. The deplorable conduct of the

Queen after her enforced marriage to Don Francisco D'Assis had thrown

the shadow of suspicion on the legitimacy of all her children; and

when it began to be widely hinted that Padre Rafaél, were he so

disposed, might point to a humble cottage in the sunlit hills of

Granada where lay a tiny _Infanta_, greatly resembling the famous

singer and favorite of the Queen, Marfori, Marquis de Loja, Isabella's

alarm was sufficient to arouse the Vatican to action. With the removal

of Padre Rafaél, and the bestowal of the "_Golden Rose of Faith and

Virtue_" upon the Queen by His Holiness, Pio Nono, the rumor quickly

subsided, and was soon forgotten.

Whether because of this supposed secret Padre Rafaél was in favor at

the court of Pio Nono's successor, we may not say. The man's character

was quite enigmatical, and divulged nothing. But, if we may again

appeal to rumor, he did appear to have influence in papal circles. And

we are not sure that he did not seek to augment that influence by

securing his irresolute little nephew to the Church. And yet, the

sincerity of his devotion to the papacy cannot be questioned, as

witness his services to Pius IX., "the first Christian to achieve

infallibility," during the troublesome years of 1870-71, when the

French _débâcle_ all but scuttled the papal ship of state. And if now

he sought to use his influence at the Vatican, we shall generously

attribute it to his loyalty to Rincón traditions, and his genuine

concern for the welfare of the little Josè, rather than to any desire

to advance his own ecclesiastical status.

But, it may be asked, during the eight years of Josè's course in the

seminary, did his tutors not mark the forces at work in the boy's

soul? And if so, why did they not urge his dismissal as unfit for the

calling of the priesthood?

Because, true to his promises, and stubbornly hugging the fetish of

family pride, the boy gave but little indication during the first four

years of his course of the heretical doubts and disbeliefs fermenting

within his troubled mind. And when, after the death of his father and

its consequent release of the flood of protest and mental disquiet so

long pent up within him, the uncle returned to Rome with the lad to

advise his instructors to bring extra pressure to bear upon him in

order to convince him of the truths upon which the Church rested, Josè

subsided again into his wonted attitude of placid endurance, even of

partial acceptance of the religious tutelage, and seldom gave further

sign of inner discord. Acting upon the suggestions of the uncle,

Josè's instructors took special pains to parade before him the

evidence and authorities supporting the claims of Holy Church and the

grand tenets upon which the faith reposed. In particular were the

arguments of Cardinal Newman cited to him, and the study of the

latter's Apology was made a requirement of his course. The writings of

the great Cardinal Manning also were laid before him, and he was told

to find therein ample support for all assumptions of the Church.

Silently and patiently the boy to outward appearance acquiesced; but

often the light of his midnight candle might have revealed a wan face,

frowning and perplexed, while before him lay the Cardinal's argument

for belief in the miraculous resuscitation of the Virgin Mary--the

argument being that the story is a beautiful one, and a comfort to

those pious souls who think it true!

Often, too, there lay before him the words of the great Newman:

"You may be taken away young; you may live to fourscore; you may

die in your bed, or in the open field--but if Mary intercedes for

you, that day will find you watching and ready. All things will be

fixed to secure your salvation, all dangers will be foreseen, all

obstacles removed, all aid provided."

And as often he would close the book and drop his head in wonder that

a man so humanly great could believe in an infinite, omnipotent God

amenable to influence, even to that of the sanctified Mary.

"The Christ said, 'These signs shall follow them that believe,'" he

sometimes murmured, as he sat wrapped in study. "But do the Master's

signs follow the Cardinals? Yet these men say they believe. What can

they do that other men can not? Alas, nothing! What boots their

sterile faith?"

The limitations with which the lad was hedged about in the _Seminario_

quite circumscribed his existence there. All lay influences were

carefully excluded, and he learned only what was selected for him

by his teachers. Added to this narrowing influence was his promise

to his mother that he would read nothing proscribed by the Church. Of

Bible criticism, therefore, he might know nothing. For original

investigation of authorities there was neither permission nor

opportunity. He was taught to discount historical criticism, and to

regard anarchy as the logical result of independence of thought.

He was likewise impressed with the fact that he must not question the

official acts of Holy Church.

"But," he once remonstrated, "it was by an ecumenical council--a group

of frail human beings--that the Pope was declared infallible! And that

only a few years ago!"

"The council but set its seal of affirmation to an already great and

established fact," was the reply. "As the supreme teacher and definer

of the Church of God no Pope has ever erred, nor ever can err, in the

exposition of revealed truth."

"But Tito Cennini said in class but yesterday that many of the Popes

had been wicked men!"

"You must learn to distinguish, my son, between the man and the

office. No matter what the private life of a Pope may have been, the

validity of his official acts is not thereby affected. Nor is the

doctrine of the Church."

"But,--"

"Nay, my son; this is what the Church teaches; and to slight it is to

emperil your soul."

But, despite his promises to his mother and the Archbishop, and in

despite, too, of his own conscientious endeavor to keep every

contaminating influence from entering his mind, he could not prevent

this same Tito from assiduously cultivating his friendship, and

voicing the most liberal and worldly opinions to him.

"_Perdio_, but you are an ignorant animal, Josè!" ejaculated the

little rascal one day, entering Josè's room and throwing himself upon

the bed. "Why, didn't you know that the Popes used to raise money by

selling their pardons and indulgences? That fellow Tetzel, back in

Luther's time, rated sacrilege at nine ducats, murder at seven,

witchcraft at six, and so on. Ever since the time of Innocent VIII.

immunity from purgatory could be bought. It was his chamberlain who

used to say, 'God willeth not the death of a sinner, but that he

should pay and live.' Ha! ha! Those were good old days, _amico mío_!"

But the serious Josè, to whom honor was a sacred thing, saw not his

companion's cause for mirth. "Tito," he hazarded, "our instructor

tells us that we must distinguish--"

"Ho! ho!" laughed the immodest Tito, "if the Apostolic virtue has been

handed down from the great Peter through the long line of Bishops of

Rome and later Popes, what happened to it when there were two or three

Popes, in the Middle Ages? And which branch retained the unbroken

succession? Of a truth, _amico_, you are very credulous!"

Josè looked at him horrified.

"And which branch now," continued the irrepressible Tito, "holds a

monopoly of the Apostolic virtue, the Anglican Church, the Greek, or

the Roman Catholic? For each claims it, and each regards its rival

claimants as rank heretics."

Josè could not but dwell long and thoughtfully on this. Then, later,

he again sought the graceless Tito. "_Amico_," he said eagerly, "why

do not these claimants of the true Apostolic virtue seek to prove

their claims, instead of, like pouting children, vainly spending

themselves in denouncing their rivals?"

"_Prove them!_" shouted Tito. "And how, _amico mío_?"

"Why," returned Josè earnestly, "by doing the works the Apostles did;

by healing the sick, and raising the dead, and--"

Tito answered with a mocking laugh. "_Perdio, amico!_ know you not

that if they submitted to such proof not one of the various

contestants could substantiate his claims?"

"Then, oh, then how could the council declare the Pope to be

infallible?"

Tito regarded his friend pityingly. "My wonder is, _amico_," he

replied seriously, "that they did not declare him _immortal_ as well.

When you read the true history of those exciting days and learn

something of the political intrigue with which the Church was then

connected, you will see certain excellent reasons why the Holy Father

should have been declared infallible. But let me ask you, _amico_, if

you have such doubts, why are you here, of all places? Surely it is

not your own life-purpose to become a priest!"

"My life-purpose," answered Josè meditatively, "is to find my soul--my

_real_ self."

Tito went away shaking his head. He could not understand such a

character as that of Josè. But, for that matter, no one ever

fathoms a fellow-being. And so we who have attempted a sketch of

the boy's mentality will not complain if its complexity prevents

us from adequately setting it forth. Rather shall we feel that we

have accomplished much if we have shown that the lad had no slight

justification for the budding seeds of religious doubt within his

mind, and for concluding that of the constitution of God men

know nothing, despite their fantastical theories and their bold

affirmations, as if He were a man in their immediate neighborhood,

with whom they were on the most intimate terms.

In the course of time Josè found the companionship of Tito increasingly

unendurable, and so he welcomed the formation of another friendship

among his mates, even though it was with a lad much older than himself,

Bernardo Damiano, a candidate for ordination, and one thoroughly

indoctrinated in the faith of Holy Church. With open and receptive

heart our young Levite eagerly availed himself of his new friend's

voluntary discourses on the mooted topics about which his own thought

incessantly revolved.

"Fear not, Josè, to accept all that is taught you here," said Bernardo

in kindly admonition; "for if this be not the very doctrine of the

Christ himself, where else will you find it? Among the Protesters?

Nay, they have, it is true, hundreds of churches; and they call

themselves Christians. But their religion is as diverse as their

churches are numerous, and it is not of God or Jesus Christ. They have

impiously borrowed from us. Their emasculated creeds are only

assumptions of human belief. They recognize no law of consistency, and

so they enjoy unbridled license. They believe what they please, and

each interprets Holy Writ to suit his own fantastical whims."

"But, the Popes--" began Josè, returning again to his troublesome

topic.

"Yes, and what of them?" replied his friend calmly. "Can you not see

beyond the human man to the Holy Office? The Holy Father is the

successor of the great Apostle Peter, whom our blessed Saviour

appointed his Vicar on earth, and constituted the supreme teacher and

judge in matters of morals. Remember, _Jesus Christ founded the

Catholic religion_! He established the Church, which he commanded all

men to support and obey. That Church is still, and always will be, the

infallible teacher of truth, for Jesus declared that it should never

fall. Let not Satan lead you to the Protesters, Josè, for their creeds

are but snares and pitfalls."

"I know nothing of Protestant creeds, nor want to," answered Josè. "If

Jesus Christ established the Catholic religion, then I want to accept

it, and shall conclude that my doubts and questionings are but the

whisperings of Satan. But--"

"But what, my friend? The Popes again?" Bernardo laughed, and put his

arm affectionately about the younger lad. "The Pope, Josè, is, always

has been, and always will be, supreme, crowned with the triple crown

as king of earth, and heaven, and hell. We mortals have not made him

so. Heaven alone did that. God himself made our Pontiff of the Holy

Catholic Church superior even to the angels; and if it were possible

for them to believe contrary to the faith, he could judge them and lay

the ban of excommunication upon them."

Josè's eyes widened while his friend talked. Was he losing his own

senses? Or was it true, as his lamented father had said, that he had

been cast under the spell of the devil's wiles? Had he been

foreordained to destruction by his own heretical thought? For, if what

he heard in Rome was truth, then was he damned, irrevocably!

"Come," said his friend, taking his arm; "let us go to the library and

read the _Credo_ of the Holy Father, Pius the Fourth, wherein is set

forth in detail the doctrinal system of our beloved Church. And let me

urge you, my dear young friend, to accept it, unreservedly, and be at

peace, else will your life be a ceaseless torment."

Oh, that he could have done so! That he could have joined those

thousands of faithful, loyal adherents to Holy Church, who find in its

doctrines naught that stimulates a doubt, nor urges against the divine

institution of its gorgeous, material fabric!

But, vain desire! "I cannot! I cannot!" he wailed in the dark hours of

night upon his bed. "I cannot love a God who has to be prayed to by

Saints and Virgin, and persuaded by them not to damn His own children!

I cannot believe that the Pope, a mere human being, can canonize

Saints and make spiritual beings who grant the prayers of men and

intercede with God for them! Yes, I know there are multitudes of good

people who believe and accept the doctrines of the Church. But, alas!

I am not one of them, nor can be."

For, we repeat, the little Josè was morbidly honest. And this gave

rise to fear, a corroding fear that he might not do right by his

God, his mother, and himself, the three variants in his complex

life-equation. His self-condemnation increased; yet his doubts

kept pace with it. He more than ever distrusted his own powers after

his first four years in the seminary. He more than ever lacked

self-confidence. He was more than ever vacillating, hesitant, and

infirm of purpose. He even at times, when under the pall of

melancholia, wondered if he had really loved his deceased father,

and whether it was real grief which he felt at his parent's demise.

Often, too, when fear and doubt pressed heavily, and his companions

avoided him because of the aura of gloom in which he dwelt, he

wondered if he were becoming insane. He seemed to become obsessed

with the belief that his ability to think was slowly paralyzing. And

with it his will. And yet, proof that this was not the case was

found in his stubborn opposition to trite acquiescence, and in his

infrequent reversals of mood, when he would even feel an intense,

if transient, sense of exaltation in the thought that he was doing

the best that in him lay.

It was during one of these lighter moods, and at the close of a school

year, that a great joy came to him in an event which left a lasting

impress upon his life. Following close upon a hurried visit which his

uncle paid to Rome, the boy was informed that it had been arranged for

him to accompany the Papal Legate on a brief journey through Germany

and England, returning through France, in order that he might gain a

first-hand impression of the magnitude of the work which the Church

was doing in the field, and meet some of her great men. The

broadening, quieting, confidence-inspiring influence of such a journey

would be, in the opinion of Padre Rafaél, incalculable. And so, with

eager, bubbling hope, the lad set out.

Whatever it may have been intended that the boy should see on this

ecclesiastical pilgrimage, he returned to Rome at the end of three

months with his quick, impressionable mind stuffed with food for

reflection. Though he had seen the glories of the Church, worshiped in

her matchless temples, and sat at the feet of her great scholars, now

in the quiet of his little room he found himself dwelling upon a

single thought, into which all of his collected impressions were

gathered: "The Church--Catholic and Protestant--is--oh, God, the

Church is--not sick, not dying, but--_dead_! Aye, it has served both

God and Mammon, and paid the awful penalty! And what is left?

_Caesarism_!" The great German and British nations were not Catholic.

But worse, the Protestant people of the German Empire were sadly

indifferent to religion. He had seen, in Berlin, men of family trying

to resell the Bibles which their children had used in preparation for

confirmation. He had found family worship all but extinct. He had

marked the widespread indifference among Protestant parents in regard

to the religious instruction of their young. He had been told there

that parents had but a slight conception of their duty as moral

guides, and that children were growing up with only sensuous pleasures

and material gain as their life-aims. Again and again he was shown

where in whole districts it was utterly impossible to secure young men

for ordination to the Protestant ministry. And he was furnished with

statistics setting forth the ominous fact that within a few years,

were the present decline unchecked, there would be no students in the

Protestant universities of the country.

"Do you not see in this, my son," said the Papal Legate, "the blight

of unbelief? Do you not mark the withering effects of the modern

so-called scientific thought? What think you of a religion wherein the

chief interest centers in trials for heresy; whose ultimate effect

upon human character is a return to the raw, primitive, immature sense

of life that once prevailed among this great people? What think you

now of Luther and his diabolical work?"

The wondering boy hung his head without reply. Would Germany at length

come to the true fold? And was that fold the Holy Catholic Church?

And England--ah! there was the Anglican church, Catholic, but not

Roman, and therefore but a counterfeit of the Lord's true Church.

Would it endure? "No," the Legate had said; "already defection has set

in, and the prodigal's return to the loving parent in Rome is but a

matter of time."

Then came his visit to the great abbey of Westminster, and the

impression which, to his last earthly day, he bore as one of his most

sacred treasures. There in the famous Jerusalem Chamber he had sat,

his eyes suffused with tears and his throat choked with emotion. In

that room the first Lancastrian king long years before had closed his

unhappy life. There the great Westminster Confession had been framed.

There William of Orange had held his weighty discussion of the

Prayer-Book revision, which was hoped to bring Churchmen and

Dissenters again into harmony. And there, greatest of all, had

gathered, day after day, and year after year, the patient, devoted

group of men who gave to the world its Revised Edition of the Holy

Bible, only a few brief years ago. As the rapt Josè closed his eyes

and listened to the whispered conversation of the scholarly men about

him, he seemed to see the consecrated Revisers, seated again at the

long table, deep in the holy search of the Scriptures for the profound

secrets of life which they hold. He saw with what sedulous care they

pursued their sacred work, without trace of prejudice or religious

bias, and with only the selfless purpose always before them to render

to mankind a priceless benefit in a more perfect rendition of the Word

of God. Why could not men come together now in that same generous

spirit of love? But no, Rome would never yield her assumptions. But

when the lad rose and followed his guides from the room, it was with a

new-born conviction, and a revival of his erstwhile firm purpose to

translate for himself, at the earliest opportunity, the Greek

Testament, if, perchance, he might find thereby what his yearning soul

so deeply craved, the truth.

That the boy was possessed of scholarly instincts, there could be no

doubt. His ability had immediately attracted his instructors on

entering the seminary. And, but for his stubborn opposition to

dogmatic acceptance without proofs, he might have taken and maintained

the position of leader in scholarship in the institution. Literature

and the languages, particularly Greek, were his favorite studies, and

in these he excelled. Even as a child, long before the eventful night

when his surreptitious reading of Voltaire precipitated events, he had

determined to master Greek, and some day to translate the New

Testament from the original sources into his beloved Castilian tongue.

Before setting out for Rome he had so applied himself to the worn

little grammar which the proprietor of the bookstall in Seville had

loaned him, that he was able to make translations with comparative

fluency. In the seminary he plunged into it with avidity; and when he

returned from his journey with the Papal Legate he began in earnest

his translation of the Testament. This, like so much of the boy's work

and writing, was done secretly and in spare moments. And his zeal was

such that often in the middle of the night it would compel him to rise

and, after drawing the shades carefully and stopping the crack under

the door with his cassock, light his candle and dig away at his

Testament until dawn.

This study of the New Testament in the Greek resulted in many

translations differing essentially from the accepted version, as could

not but happen when a mind so original as that of the boy Josè was

concentrated upon it. His first stumbling block was met in the prayer

of Jesus in an attempt to render the petition, "Give us this day our

daily bread," into idiomatic modern thought. The word translated

"daily" was not to be found elsewhere in the Greek language.

Evidently the Aramaic word which Jesus employed, and of which this

Greek word was a translation, must have been an unusual one--a coined

expression. And what did it mean? No one knows. Josè found means to

put the question to his tutor. He was told that it doubtless meant

"super-supernal." But what could "super-supernal" convey to the

world's multitude of hungry suppliants for the bread of life! And so

he rendered the phrase "Give us each day a better understanding of

Thee." Again, going carefully through his Testament the boy crossed

out the words translated "God," and in their places substituted

"divine influence." Many of the best known and most frequently

quoted passages suffered similarly radical changes at his hands. For

the translation "truth," the boy often preferred to substitute

"reality"; and such passages as "speaking the truth in love" were

rendered by him, "lovingly speaking of those things which are real."

"Faith" and "belief" were generally changed to "understanding" and

"real knowing," so that the passage, "O ye of little faith,"

became in his translation, "O ye of slight understanding." The word

"miracle" he consistently changed to "sign" throughout. The command to

ask "in the name of Jesus" caused him hours of deep and perplexing

thought, until he hit upon the, to him, happy rendering, "in his

character." Why not? In the character of the Christ mankind might ask

anything and it would be given them. But to acquire that character

men must repent. And the Greek word "metanoia," so generally

rendered "repentance," would therefore have to be translated "radical

and complete change of thought." Again, why not? Was not a complete

change of thought requisite if one were to become like Jesus? Could

mortals think continually of murder, warfare, disaster, failure,

crime, sickness and death, and of the acquisition of material

riches and power, and still hope to acquire the character of the

meek but mighty Nazarene? Decidedly no! And so he went on delving

and plodding, day after day, night after night, substituting and

changing, but always, even if unconsciously, giving to the Scripture

a more metaphysical and spiritual meaning, which displaced in its

translation much of the material and earthy.

Before the end of his seminary training the translation was complete.

What a new light it seemed to throw upon the mission of Jesus! How

fully he realized now that creeds and confessions had never even begun

to sound the profound depths of the Bible! What a changed message it

seemed to carry for mankind! How he longed to show it to his

preceptors and discuss it with them! But his courage failed when he

faced this thought. However, another expedient presented: he would

write a treatise on the New Testament, embodying the salient facts of

his translation, and send it out into the world for publication in the

hope that it might do much good. Again, night after night in holy zeal

he toiled on the work, and when completed, sent it, under his name, to

a prominent literary magazine published in Paris.

Its appearance--for it was accepted eagerly by the editor, who was

bitterly hostile to the Church--caused a stir in ecclesiastical

circles and plunged the unwise lad into a sea of trouble. The essay in

general might have been excusable on its distinct merits and the

really profound scholarship exhibited in its composition. But when the

boy, a candidate for holy orders, and almost on the eve of his

ordination, seized upon the famous statement of Jesus in which he is

reported to have told Peter that he was the rock upon which the Lord's

church should be eternally founded, and showed that Jesus called Peter

a stone, "_petros_," a loose stone, and one of many, whereas he then

said that his church should be founded upon "_petra_," the living,

immovable rock of truth, thus corroborating Saint Augustine, but

confuting other supposedly impregnable authority for the superiority

and infallibility of the Church, it was going a bit too far.

The result was severe penance, coupled with soul-searing reprimand,

and absolute prohibition of further original writing. His translation

of the Testament was confiscated, and he was commanded to destroy

all notes referring to it, and to refrain from making further

translations. His little room was searched, and all references and

papers which might be construed as unevangelical were seized and

burned. He was then transferred to another room for the remainder of

his seminary course, and given a roommate, a cynical, sneering

bully of Irish descent, steeped to the core in churchly doctrine,

who did not fail to embrace every opportunity to make the suffering

penitent realize that he was in disgrace and under surveillance. The

effect was to drive the sensitive boy still further into himself,

and to augment the sullenness of disposition which had earlier

characterized him and separated him from social intercourse with

the world in which he moved apart from his fellow-men.

Thus had Josè been shown very clearly that implicit obedience would at

all times be exacted from him by the Church. He had been shown quite

unmistakably that an inquisitive and determined spirit would not be

tolerated if it led to deductions at variance with accepted tradition.

He might starve mentally, if his prescribed food did not satisfy his

hunger; but he must understand, once for all, that truth had long

since been revealed, and that it was not within his province to

attempt any further additions to the revelation.

Once more, for the sake of his mother, and that he might learn all

that the Church had to teach him, the boy conscientiously tried to

obey. He was reminded again that, though taught to obey, he was being

trained to lead. This in a sense pleased him, as offering surcease

from an erking sense of responsibility. Nevertheless, though he

constantly wavered in decision; though at times the Church won him,

and he yielded temporarily to her abundant charms; the spirit of

protest did wax steadily stronger within him as the years passed. Back

and forth he swung, like a pendulum, now drawn by the power and

influence of the mighty Church; now, as he approached it, repelled by

the things which were revealed as he drew near. In the last two years

of his course his soul-revolt often took the form of open protest to

his preceptors against indulgences and the sacramental graces, against

the arbitrary Index Expurgatorius, and the Church's stubborn

opposition to modern progression. Like Faust, his studies were

convincing him more and more firmly of the emptiness of human

hypotheses and undemonstrable philosophy. The growing conviction that

the Holy Church was more worldly than spiritual filled his shrinking

soul at times with horror. The limiting thought of Rome was often

stifling to him. He had begun to realize that liberty of thought and

conscience were his only as he received it already outlined from the

Church. Even his interpretation of the Bible must come from her. His

very ideas must first receive the ecclesiastical stamp before he might

advance them. His opinions must measure up--or down--to those of his

tutors, ere he might even hold them. In terror he felt that the Church

was absorbing him, heart and mind. His individuality was seeping away.

In time he would become but a link in the great worldly system which

he was being trained to serve.

These convictions did not come to him all at once, nor were they as

yet firmly fixed. They were rather suggestions which became

increasingly insistent as the years went on. He had entered the

seminary at the tender age of twelve, his mind wholly unformed, but

protesting even then. All through his course he had sought what

there was in Christianity upon which he could lay firm hold. In

the Church he had found an ultra-conservative spirit and extreme

reverence for authority. Tito had told him that it was the equivalent

of ancestor-worship. But when he one day told his instructors that he

was not necessarily a disbeliever in the Scriptures because he did

not accept their interpretation of them, he could not but realize

that Tito had come dangerously near the truth. His translation of

the Greek Testament had forced him to the conclusion that much of the

material contained in the Gospels was not Jesus' own words, but the

commentaries of his reporters; not the Master's diction, but

theological lecturing by the writers of the Gospels. Moreover, in

the matter of prayer, especially, he was all at sea. As a child he had

spent hours formulating humble, fervent petitions, which did not seem

to draw replies. And so there began to form within his mind a

concept, faint and ill-defined, of a God very different from that

canonically accepted. He tried to believe that there was a Creator

back of all things, but that He was inexorable Law. And the lad

was convinced that, somehow, he had failed to get into harmony with

that infinite Law. But, in that case, why pray to Law? And, most

foolish of all, why seek to influence it, whether through Virgin or

Saint? And, if God is a good Father, why ask Him to _be_ good? Then,

to his insistent question, "_Unde Deus_?" he tried to formulate

the answer that God is Spirit, and omnipresent. But, alas! that

made the good God include evil. No, there was a terrible human

misunderstanding of the divine nature, a woeful misinterpretation.

He must try to ask for light in the character of the Christ. But

then, how to assume that character? Like a garment? Impossible! "Oh,

God above," he wailed aloud again and again, "I don't know what to

believe! I don't know what to think!" Foolish lad! Why did he think

at all, when there were those at hand to relieve him of that

onerous task?

And so, at last, Josè sought to resign himself to his fate, and,

thrusting aside these mocking questions, accept the opportunities for

service which his tutors so wisely emphasized as the Church's special

offering to him. He yielded to their encouragement to plunge heartily

into his studies, for in such absorption lay diversion from dangerous

channels of thought. Slowly, too, he yielded to their careful

insistence that he must suffer many things to be so for the nonce,

even as Jesus did, lest a too radical resistance now should delay the

final glorious consummation.

Was the boy actuated too strongly by the determination that his

widowed mother's hopes should never be blasted by any assertion of

his own will? Was he passively permitting himself to be warped and

twisted into a minion of an institution alien to his soul in bigoted

adherence to his morbid sense of integrity? Was he for the present

countenancing a lie, rather than permit the bursting of a bomb

which would rend the family and bring his beloved mother in sorrow to

the grave? Or was he biding his time, an undeveloped David, who

would some day sally forth like the lion of the tribe of Juda, to

match his moral courage against the blustering son of Anak? Time

only would tell. The formative period of his character was not yet

ended, and the data for prognostication were too complex and

conflicting. We can only be sure that his consuming desire to know

had been carefully fostered in the seminary, but in such a manner as

unwittingly to add to his confusion of thought and to increase his

fear of throwing himself unreservedly upon his own convictions. That

he grew to perceive the childishness of churchly dogma, we know.

That he appreciated the Church's insane license of affirmation, its

impudent affirmations of God's thoughts and desires, its coarse

assumptions of knowledge of the inner workings of the mind of

Omnipotence, we likewise know. But, on the other hand, we know

that he feared to break with the accepted faith. The claims of

Protestantism, though lacking the pomp and pageantry of Catholicism

to give them attractiveness, offered him an interpretation of Christ's

mission that was little better than the teachings he was receiving.

And so his hesitant and vacillating nature, which hurled him into the

lists to-day as the resolute foe of dogma and superstition, and

to-morrow would leave him weak and doubting at the feet of the

enemy, kept him wavering, silent and unhappy, on the thin edge of

resolution throughout the greater part of his course. His lack of

force, or the holding of his force in check by his filial honesty and

his uncertainty of conviction, kept him in the seminary for eight

years, during which his being was slowly, imperceptibly descending

into him. At the age of twenty he was still unsettled, but further

than even he himself realized from Rome. Who shall say that he was

not at the same time nearer to God?

On the day that he was twenty, three things of the gravest import

happened to the young Josè. His warm friend, Bernardo, died suddenly,

almost in his arms; his uncle, Rafaél de Rincón, paid an unexpected

visit to the Vatican; and the lad received the startling announcement

that he would be ordained to the priesthood on the following day.

The sudden demise of the young Bernardo plunged Josè into an excess of

grief and again encompassed him with the fear and horror of death. He

shut himself up in his room, and toward the close of the day took his

writing materials and penned a passionate appeal to his mother,

begging her to absolve him from his promises, and let him go out into

the world, a free man in search of truth. But scarcely had he finished

his letter when he was summoned into the Rector's office. There it was

explained to him that, in recognition of his high scholarship, of his

penitence and loyal obedience since the Testament episode, and of the

advanced work which he was now doing in the seminary and the splendid

promise he was giving, the Holy Father had been asked to grant a

special indult, waiving the usual age requirement and permitting the

boy to be ordained with the class which was to receive the holy order

of the priesthood the following day. It was further announced that

after ordination he should spend a year in travel with the Papal

Legate, and on his return might enter the office of the Papal

Secretary of State, as an under-secretary, or office assistant. While

there, he would be called upon to teach in the seminary, and later

might be sent to the University to pursue higher studies leading to

the degree of Doctor.

Before the boy had awakened to his situation, the day of his

ordination arrived. The proud mother, learning from the secretary of

the precipitation of events, and doting on the boy whom she had never

understood; in total ignorance of the complex elements of his soul,

and little realizing that between her and her beloved son there was

now a gulf fixed which would never be bridged, saw only the happy

fruition of a life ambition. Fortunately she had been kept in

ignorance of the dubious incident of the Testament translation and its

results upon the boy; and when the long anticipated day dawned her

eyes swam in tears of hallowed joy. The Archbishop and his grim

secretary each congratulated the other heartily, and the latter,

breaking into one of his rare smiles, murmured gratefully, "At last!

And our enemies have lost a champion!"

The night before the ordination Josè had begged to occupy a room

alone. The appeal which emanated from his sad face, his thin and

stooping body, his whole drawn and tortured being, would have melted

flint. His request was granted. Throughout the night the boy, on his

knees beside the little bed, wrestled with the emotions which were

tearing his soul. Despondency lay over him like a pall. A vague

presentiment of impending disaster pressed upon him like a millstone.

Ceaselessly he weighed and reviewed the forces which had combined to

drive him into the inconsistent position which he now occupied.

Inconsistent, for his highest ideal had been truth. He was by nature

consecrated to it. He had sought it diligently in the Church, and now

that he was about to become her priest he could not make himself

believe that he had found it. Now, when bound to her altars, he faced

a life of deception, of falsehood, as the champion of a faith which he

could not unreservedly embrace.

But he had accepted his education from the Church; and would he shrink

from making payment therefor? Yet, on the other hand, must he

sacrifice honor--yea, his whole future--to the payment of a debt

forced upon him before he had reached the age of reason? The oath of

ordination, the priest's oath, echoed in his throbbing ears like a

soul-sentence to eternal doom; while spectral shades of moving priests

and bishops, laying cold and unfeeling hands upon him, sealing him to

endless servitude to superstition and deception, glided to and fro

through the darkness before his straining eyes. Could he receive the

ordination to-morrow? He had promised--but the assumption of its

obligations would brand his shrinking soul with torturing falsehood!

If he sank under doubt and fear, could he still retract? What then of

his mother and his promise to her? What of the Rincón honor and pride?

Living disgrace, or a living lie--which? Sacrifice of self--or mother?

God knew, he had never deliberately countenanced a falsehood--yet,

through circumstances which he did not have the will to control, he

was a living one!

Fair visions of a life untrammeled by creed or religious convention

hovered at times that night before his mental gaze. He saw a cottage,

rose-bowered, glowing in the haze of the summer sun. He saw before its

door a woman, fresh and fair--his wife--and children--his--shouting

their joyous greetings as they trooped out to welcome him returning

from his day's labors. How he clung to this picture when it faded and

left him, an oath-bound celibate, facing his lonely and cheerless

destiny! God! what has the Church to offer for such sacrifice as this!

An education? Yea, an induction into relative truths and mortal

opinions, and the sad record of the devious wanderings of the human

mind! An opportunity for service? God knows, the free, unhampered

mind, open to truth and progress, loosed from mediaeval dogma and

ignorant convention, seeing its brothers' needs and meeting in them

its own, has opportunities for rich service to-day outside the Church

the like of which have never before been offered!

To and fro his heaving thought ebbed and flowed. Back and forth the

arguments, pro and con, surged through the still hours of the

night. After all, had he definite proof that the tenets of Holy

Church were false? No, he could not honestly say that he had. The

question still stood in abeyance. Even his conviction of their

falsity at times had sorely wavered. And if his heart cried out

against their acceptance, it nevertheless had nothing tangibly

definite to offer in substitution. But--the end had come so

suddenly! With his life free and untrammeled he might yet find the

truth. Oath-bound and limited to the strictures of the Church, what

hope was there but the acceptance of prescribed canons of human

belief? Still, the falsities which he believed he had found within the

Church were not greater than those against which she herself fought in

the world. And if she accepted him, did it not indicate on her part

a tacit recognition of the need of just what he had to offer, a

searching spirit of inquiry and consecration to the unfoldment of

truth? Alas! the incident of the Greek translation threw its

shadow of doubt upon that hope.

But if the Church accepted him, she _must_ accept his stand! He

_would_ raise his voice in protest, and would continually point to the

truth as he discerned it! If he received the order of priesthood from

her it was with the understanding that his acceptance of her tenets

was tentative! But--forlorn expedient! He knew something of

ecclesiastical history. He thought he knew--young as he was--that the

Church stood not for progress, not for conformity to changing ideals,

not for alignment with the world's great reforms, but for _herself_,

first, midst, and last!

Thus the conflict raged, while thoughts, momentous for even a mature

thinker, tore through the mind of this lad of twenty. Prayers for

light--prayers which would have rent the heart of an Ivan--burst at

times from the feverish lips of this child of circumstance. Infinite

Father--Divine Influence--Spirit of Love--whatever Thou art--wilt Thou

not illumine the thought-processes of this distracted youth and thus

provide the way of escape from impending destruction? Can it be Thy

will that this fair mind shall be utterly crushed? Do the agonized

words of appeal which rise to Thee from his riven soul fall broken

against ears of stone?

"Occupy till I come!" Yea, beloved Master, he hears thy voice and

strives to obey--but the night is filled with terror--the clouds of

error lower about him--the storm bursts--and thou art not there!

Day dawned. A classmate, sent to summon the lad, roused him from the

fitful sleep into which he had sunk on the cold floor. His mind was no

longer active. Dumbly following his preceptors at the appointed hour,

he proceeded with the class to the chapel. Dimly conscious of his

surroundings, his thought befogged as if in a dream, his eyes

half-blinded by the gray haze which seemed to hang before them, he

celebrated the Mass, like one under hypnosis, received the holy

orders, and assumed the obligations which constituted him a priest of

Holy Church.

CHAPTER 8

On a sweltering midsummer afternoon, a year after the events just

related, Rome lay panting for breath and counting the interminable

hours which must elapse before the unpitying sun would grant her a

short night's respite from her discomfort. Her streets were deserted

by all except those whose affairs necessitated their presence in

them. Her palaces and villas had been abandoned for weeks by their

fortunate owners, who had betaken themselves to the seashore or to the

more distance resorts of the North. The few inexperienced tourists

whose lack of practical knowledge in the matter of globe-trotting had

brought them into the city so unseasonably were hastily and

indignantly assembling their luggage and completing arrangements to

flee from their over-warm reception.

In a richly appointed suite of the city's most modern and

ultra-fashionable hotel two maids, a butler, and the head porter were

packing and removing a formidable array of trunks and suit cases,

while a woman of considerably less than middle age, comely in person

and tastefully attired in a loose dressing gown of flowered silk,

alternated between giving sharp directions to the perspiring workers

and venting her abundant wrath and disappointment upon the chief

clerk, as with evident reluctance she filled one of a number of signed

checks to cover the hotel expenses of herself and servants for a

period of three weeks, although they had arrived only the day before

and, on account of the stifling heat, were leaving on the night

express for Lucerne. The clerk regretted exceedingly, but on Madam

Ames' order the suite had been held vacant for that length of time,

during which the management had daily looked for her arrival, and had

received no word of her delay. Had Madam herself not just admitted

that she had altered her plans en route, without notifying the hotel,

and had gone first to the Italian lakes, without cancelling her order

for the suite? And so her sense of justice must convince her that the

management was acting wholly within its rights in making this demand.

While the preparations for departure were in progress the woman's

two children played about the trunks and raced through the rooms

and adjoining corridor with a child's indifference to climatal

conditions.

"Let's ring for the elevator and then hide, Sidney!" suggested the

girl, as she panted after her brother, who had run to the far end of

the long hall.

"No, Kathleen, it wouldn't be right," objected the boy.

"Right! Ho! ho! What's the harm, goody-goody? Go tell mother, if you

want to!" she called after him, as he started back to their rooms.

Refusing to accompany him, the girl leaned against the balustrade of a

stairway which led to the floor below and watched her brother until he

disappeared around a turn of the corridor.

"Baby!" burst from her pouting lips. "'Fraid of everything! It's no

fun playing with him!" Then, casting a glance of inquiry about her,

"I'd just like to hide down these stairs. Mother and nurse never let

me go where I want to."

Obeying the impulse stimulated by her freedom for the moment, the

child suddenly turned and darted down the stairway. On the floor

beneath she found herself at the head of a similar stairway, down

which she likewise hurried, with no other thought than to annoy her

brother, who was sure to be sent in search of her when her mother

discovered her absence. Opening the door below, the child unexpectedly

found herself in an alley back of the hotel.

Her sense of freedom was exhilarating. The sunlit alley beckoned to a

delightful journey of discovery. With a happy laugh and a toss of her

yellow curls she hurried along the narrow way and into the street

which crossed it a short distance beyond. Here she paused and looked

in each direction, uncertain which way to continue. In one direction,

far in the distance, she saw trees. They looked promising; she would

go that way. And trotting along the blazing, deserted street, she at

length reached the grateful shade and threw herself on the soft grass

beneath, tired and panting, but happy in the excitement of her little

adventure.

Recovering quickly, the child rose to explore her environment. She was

in one of those numerous public parks lining the Tiber and forming the

city's playground for her less fortunate wards. Here and there were

scattered a few people, mostly men, who had braved the heat of the

streets in the hope of obtaining a breath of cool air near the water.

At the river's edge a group of ragged urchins were romping noisily;

and on a bench near them a young priest sat, writing in a notebook. As

she walked toward them a beggar roused himself from the grass and

looked covetously through his evil eyes at the child's rich clothes.

The gamins stopped their play as the girl approached, and stared at

her in expectant curiosity. One of them, a girl of apparently her own

age, spoke to her, but in a language which she did not understand.

Receiving no reply, the urchins suddenly closed together, and holding

hands, began to circle around her, shouting like little Indians.

The child stood for a moment perplexed. Then terror seized her.

Hurling herself through the circle, she fled blindly, with the gamins

in pursuit. With no sense of direction, her only thought to escape

from the dirty band at her heels, she rushed straight to the river and

over the low bank into the sluggish, yellow water. A moment later the

priest who had been sitting on the bench near the river, startled by

the frenzied cries of the now frightened children, rushed into the

shallow water and brought the girl in safety to the bank.

Speaking to her in her own language, the priest sought to soothe the

child and learn her identity as he carried her to the edge of the park

and out into the street. But his efforts were unavailing. She could

only sob hysterically and call piteously for her mother. A civil guard

appeared at the street corner, and the priest summoned him. But

scarcely had he reported the details of the accident when, suddenly

uttering a cry, the priest thrust the girl into the arms of the

astonished officer and fled back to the bench where he had been

sitting. Another cry escaped him when he reached it. Throwing himself

upon the grass, he searched beneath the bench and explored the ground

about it. Then, his face blanched with fear, he rose and traversed the

entire park, questioning every occupant. The gamins who had caused the

accident had fled. The beggar, too, had disappeared. The park was all

but deserted. Returning again to the bench, the priest sank upon it

and buried his head in his hands, groaning aloud. A few minutes later

he abruptly rose and, glancing furtively around as if he feared to be

seen, hastened out to the street. Then, darting into a narrow

crossroad, he disappeared in the direction of the Vatican.

At midnight, Padre Josè de Rincón was still pacing the floor of his

room, frantic with apprehension. At the same hour, the small girl who

had so unwittingly plunged him into the gravest danger was safely

asleep in her mother's arms on the night express, which shrieked and

thundered on its way to Lucerne.

CHAPTER 9

Always as a child Josè had been the tortured victim of a vague,

unformed apprehension of impending disaster, a presentiment that some

day a great evil would befall him. The danger before which he now grew

white with fear seemed to realize that fatidic thought, and hang

suspended above him on a filament more tenuous than the hair which

held aloft the fabled sword of Damocles. That filament was the slender

chance that the notebook with which he was occupied when the terrified

child precipitated herself into the river, and which he had hastily

dropped on seeing her plight and rushing to the rescue, had been

picked up by those who would consider its value _nil_ as an instrument

of either good or evil. Before the accident occurred he had been

absorbed in his writing and was unaware of other occupants of the park

than himself and the children, whose boisterous romping in such close

proximity had scarce interrupted his occupation. Then their frightened

cries roused him to an absorbing sense of the girl's danger. Nor did

he think again of the notebook until he was relating the details of

the accident to the guard at the edge of the park, when, like a blow

from above, the thought of it struck him.

Trembling with dread anticipation, he had hurried back to the bench,

only to find his fears realized. The book had disappeared! His

frenzied search yielded no hint of its probable mode of removal.

Overcome by a sickening sense of misfortune, he had sunk upon the

bench in despair. But fear again roused him and drove him, slinking

like a hunted beast, from the park--fear that the possessor of the

book, appreciating its contents, but with no thought of returning it,

might be hovering near, with the view of seeing what manner of priest

it could be who would thus carelessly leave such writings as these in

the public parks and within the very shadow of St. Peter's.

But to escape immediate identification as their author did not remove

his danger. Their character was such that, should they fall into

certain hands, his identity must surely be established. Even though

his name did not appear, they abounded in references which could

hardly fail to point to him. But, far worse, they cited names of

personages high in political and ecclesiastical circles in references

which, should they become public, must inevitably set in motion forces

whose far-reaching and disastrous effects he dared not even imagine.

For the notebook contained the soul-history of the man. It was

the _journal intime_ which he had begun as a youth, and continued

and amplified through succeeding years. It was the repository of

his inmost thoughts, the receptacle of his secret convictions.

It held, crystallized in writing, his earliest protests against

the circumstances which were molding his life. It voiced the

subsequent agonized outpourings of his soul when the holy order of

priesthood was conferred upon him. It recorded his views of life,

of religion, of the cosmos. It held in burning words his thoughts

anent the Holy Catholic faith--his sense of its virtues, its

weaknesses, its assumptions, its fallacies. It set forth his

confession of helplessness before circumstances too strong for

his feeble will, and it cited therewith, as partial justification

for his conduct, his tender love for his mother and his firm

intention of keeping forever inviolable his promises to her. It

voiced his passionate prayers for light, and his dim hopes for

the future, while portraying the wreck of a life whose elements

had been too complex for him to sift and classify and combine in

their normal proportions.

A year had passed since the unhappy lad had opened his mouth to

receive the iron bit which Destiny had pressed so mercilessly against

it. During that time the Church had conscientiously carried out

her program as announced to him just prior to his ordination.

Associated with the Papal Legate, he had traveled extensively through

Europe, his impressionable mind avidly absorbing the customs,

languages, and thought-processes of many lands. At Lourdes he had

stood in deep meditation before the miraculous shrine, surrounded

with its piles of discarded canes and crutches, and wondered what

could be the principle, human or divine, that had effected such

cures. In Naples he had witnessed the miraculous liquefaction of

the blood of St. Januarius. He had seen the priests pass through the

great assemblage with the little vial in which the red clot slowly

dissolved into liquid before their credulous eyes; and he had turned

away that they might not mark his flush of shame. In the Cathedral at

Cologne he had gazed long at the supposed skulls of the three Magi who

had worshipped at the rude cradle of the Christ. Set in brilliant

jewels, in a resplendent gilded shrine, these whitened relics,

which Bishop Reinald is believed to have discovered in the twelfth

century, seemed to mock him in the very boldness of the pious fraud

which they externalized. Was the mystery of the Christ involved in

such deceit as this? And perpetrated by his Church? In unhappy Ireland

he had been forced to the conviction that misdirected religious zeal

must some day urge the sturdy Protesters of the North into armed

conflict with their Catholic brothers of the South in another of

those deplorable religious--nay, rather, _theological_--conflicts

which have stained the earth with human blood in the name of the

Prince of Peace. It was all incomprehensible to him, incongruous,

and damnably wicked. Why could not they come together to submit their

creeds, their religious beliefs and tenets, to the test of practical

demonstration, and then discard those which world-history has long

since shown inimical to progress and happiness? Paul urged this very

thing when he wrote, "_Prove_ all things; hold fast to that which is

good." But, alas! the human doctrine of infallibility now stood

squarely in the way.

From his travels with the Legate, Josè returned to Rome, burning with

the holy desire to lend his influence to the institution of those

reforms within the Church of which now he so clearly saw the need.

Savonarola had burned with this same selfless desire to reform the

Church from within. And his life became the forfeit. But the present

age was perforce more tolerant; and was likewise wanting in those

peculiar political conditions which had combined with the religious

issue to send the great reformer to a martyr's death.

As Josè entered Rome he found the city in a state of turmoil. The

occasion was the march of the Catholic gymnastic associations from

the church where they had heard the Mass to St. Peter's, where they

were to be received by the Holy Father. Cries of "Long live

free-thinking!" were issuing from the rabble which followed hooting in

the wake of the procession. To these were retorted, "Viva il Papa Re!"

Josè had been caught in the _mêlée_, and, but for the interference of

the civil authorities, might have suffered bodily injury. With his

corporeal bruises he now bore away another ineffaceable mental

impression. Were the Italian patriots justified in their hostility

toward the Vatican? Had United Italy come into existence with the

support of the Papacy, or in despite of it? Would the Church forever

set herself against freedom of thought? Always seek to imprison the

human mind? Was her unreasonably stubborn attitude directly

accountable for the presence of atheism in the place, of all places,

where her own influence ought to be most potent, the city of St.

Peter?

For reasons which he could only surmise--perhaps because of his high

scholarship--perhaps because of his remarkable memory, which

constituted him a living encyclopedia in respect of all that entered

it--Josè was now installed in the office of the Papal Secretary of

State as an office assistant. He had received the appointment with

indifference, for he was wholly devoid of ecclesiastical ambition. And

yet it was with a sense of relief that he now felt assured of a career

in the service of the Administrative Congregation of the Church, and

for all time removed from the likelihood of being relegated to the

performance of merely priestly functions. He therefore prepared to

bide his time, and patiently to await opportunities to lend his

willing support to the uplift of the Church and his fellow-men.

The limitations with which he had always been hedged about had not

permitted the lad to know much, if anything, of the multitude of books

on religious and philosophical subjects annually published throughout

the world; and his oath of obedience would have prevented him from

reading them if he had. But he saw no reason why, as part preparation

for his work of moral uplift, he should not continue to seek, at first

hand, the answer to the world-stirring query, What does the Bible

mean? If God gave it, if the theory of verbal inspiration is correct,

and if it is infallible, why then was it necessary to revise it, as

had been done in the wonderful Jerusalem Chamber which he had once

visited? Were those of his associates justified who had scoffed at

that work, and, with a sneer on their lips, voiced the caustic query,

"Fools! Why don't they let the Bible alone?" If the world is to be

instructed out of the old sensual theology, does the Bible contain the

truth with which to replace it? For to tear down an ideal without

substituting for it a better one is nothing short of criminal. And so

Josè plunged deeply into the study of Scriptural sources.

He had thought the rich treasures of the Vatican library unrestrictedly

open to him, and he therefore brought his fine Latin and Greek

scholarship to bear on its oldest uncial manuscripts. He began the study

of Hebrew, that he might later read the Talmud and the ancient Jewish

rabbinical lore. He pursued unflaggingly his studies of the English,

French, and German languages, that he might search for the truth

crystallized in those tongues. As his work progressed, the flush of

health came to his cheeks. His eyes reflected the consuming fire which

glowed in his eager soul. As he labored, he wrote; and his discoveries

and meditations all found lodgment in his sole confidant, his journal.

If the Church knew what Christianity was, then Josè was forced to

admit that he did not. He, weak, frail, fallible, _remit sins_?

Preposterous! What was the true remission of sins but their utter

destruction? He change the wafer and wine into the flesh and blood

of Jesus? Nay, he was no spiritual thaumaturgus! He could not do even

the least of the works of the Master, despite his priestly character!

Yet, it was not he, but the Christ, operating through him as a

channel, who performed the work. Then why did not the Christ

through him heal the sick and raise the dead? "Nay," he deplored,

as he bent over his task, "the Church may teach that the bones, the

teeth, the hair, and other human relics of canonized Saints can heal

the sick--but even the Cardinals and the Holy Father when they fall

ill demand the services, not of these, but of earthly physicians.

They seek not the Christ-healing then; nor can they by their boasted

powers heal themselves."

Israel's theme was: Righteousness is salvation. But Josè knew not how

to define righteousness. Surely it did not mean adherence to human

creeds! It was vastly more than observance of forms! "God is a

spirit," he read; "and they that worship Him must worship Him in

spirit and in truth." Then, voicing his own comments, "Why, then, this

crass materializing of worship? Are images of Saviour, Virgin, and

Saint necessary to excite the people to devotion? Nay, would not the

healing of the sick, the restoration of sight to the blind, and the

performance of the works of the Master by us priests do more than

wooden or marble images to lead men to worship? Proof! proof! proof!

'Show us your works, and we will show you our faith,' cry the people.

'Then will we no longer sacrifice our independence of thought to the

merciless tyranny of human tradition.'" And he knew that this related

to Catholic and Protestant, Jew and Mohammedan alike.

One day a Cardinal, passing through the library, saw the diligent

student at work, and paused to inquire into his labors. "And what do

you seek, my son?" was the kindly query of the aged churchman.

"Scriptural justification for the fundamental tenets of our faith,"

Josè replied quickly, carried away by his soul's animation.

"And you find it, without doubt?"

"Nay, Father, except through what is, to me, unwarranted license and

assumption."

The Cardinal silently continued his way. But permission to translate

further from the Vatican manuscripts was that day withdrawn from

Josè.

Again the youth lapsed into his former habit of moody revery. Shackled

and restless, driven anew into himself, he increasingly poured his

turbulent thought into his journal, not for other and profane eyes to

read--hardly, either, for his own reference--but simply because he

_must_ have some outlet for the expression of his heaving mind. He

turned to it, as he had in other crises in his life, when his pent

soul cried out for some form of relief. He began to revise the record

of the impressions received on his travels with the Papal Legate. He

recorded conversations and impressions of scenes and people which his

abnormally developed reticence would not permit him to discuss

verbally with his associates. He embodied his protests against the

restrictions of ecclesiastical authority. And he noted, too, many a

protest against the political, rather than religious, character of

much of the business transacted in the office to which he was

attached. In the discharge of his ordinary duties he necessarily

became acquainted with much of the inner administrative polity of the

Vatican, and thus at times he learned of policies which stirred his

alien soul to revolt. In his inferior position he could not hope to

raise his voice in protest against these measures which excited his

indignation; but in the loneliness of his room, or on his frequent

long walks after office hours, he was wont to brood over them until

his mind became surcharged and found relief only in emptying itself

into this journal. And often on summer days, when the intense heat

rendered his little room in the dormitory uninhabitable, he would take

his books and papers to some one of the smaller parks lining the

Tiber, and there would lose himself in study and meditation and the

recording of the ceaseless voicing of his lonely soul.

On this particular afternoon, however, his mind had been occupied with

matters of more than ordinary import. It happened that a Bishop from

the United States had arrived in Rome the preceding day to pay his

decennial visit to the Vatican and report on the spiritual condition

of his diocese. While awaiting the return of the Papal Secretary, he

had engaged in earnest conversation with a Cardinal-Bishop of the

Administrative Congregation, in a small room adjoining the one where

Josè was occupied with his clerical duties. The talk had been

animated, and the heavy tapestry at the door had not prevented much of

it from reaching the ears of the young priest and becoming fixed in

his retentive memory.

"While I feel most keenly the persecution to which the Church must

submit in the United States," the Bishop had said, "nevertheless

Your Eminence will admit that there is some ground for complaint in

the conduct of certain of her clergy. It is for the purpose of

removing such vantage ground from our critics that I again urge an

investigation of American priests, with the view of improving their

moral status."

"You say, 'persecution to which the Church _must_ submit.' Is that

quite true?" returned the Cardinal-Bishop. "That is, in the face of

your own gratifying reports? News from the American field is not only

encouraging, but highly stimulating. The statistics which are just at

hand from Monsignor, our Delegate in Washington, reveal the truly

astonishing growth of our beloved cause for the restoration of all

things in Christ. Has not God shown even in our beloved America that

our way of worshiping Him is the way He approves?"

"But, Your Eminence, the constant defections! It was only last week

that a priest and his entire congregation went over to the Episcopal

faith. And--"

"What of that? 'It must needs be that offenses come.' Where one drops

out, ten take his place."

"True, while we recruit our depleted ranks from the Old World. But,

with restricted immigration--"

"Which is not restricted, as yet," replied the Cardinal-Bishop with a

sapient smile. "Nor is there any restriction upon the inspiration,

political as well as spiritual, which the American Government draws

from Rome--an inspiration much more potent, I think, than our

Protestant brethren would care to admit."

"Is that inspiration such, think you, as to draw the American

Government more and more into the hands of the Church?"

"Its effect in the past unquestionably has been such," said the

Cardinal-Bishop meditatively.

"And shall our dreams of an age be fulfilled--that the Holy Father

will throw off the shackles which now hold him a prisoner within the

Vatican, and that he will then personally direct the carrying out of

those policies of world expansion which shall gather all mankind into

the fold of Holy Church?"

"There is a lessening doubt of it," was the tentative reply.

"And--" the Bishop hesitated. "And--shall we say that those

all-embracing policies ultimately will be directed by the Holy Father

from Washington itself?"

A long pause ensued, during which Josè was all ears.

"Why not?" finally returned the Cardinal-Bishop slowly. "Why not, if

it should better suit our purposes? It may become advisable to remove

the Holy See from Rome."

"But--impossible!"

"Not at all--quite possible, though I will not say probable. But let

us see, can we not say that the time has arrived when no President of

the United States can be elected without the Catholic vote? Having our

vote, we have his pledges to support our policies. These statistics

before us show that already seventy-five per cent of all Government

employes in Washington are of our faith. We control Federal, State,

County and City offices without number. I think--I think the time is

not distant when we shall be able to set up a candidate of our faith

for the Presidency, if we care to. And," he mused, "we shall elect

him. But, all in good time, all in good time."

"And is that," the Bishop interrogated eagerly, "what the Holy Father

is now contemplating?"

"I cannot say that it is," answered the noncommittal Cardinal-Bishop.

"But the Holy Father loves America. He rejoices in your report of

progress in your diocese. The successes attained by Catholic

candidates in the recent elections are most gratifying to him. This

not only testifies to the progress of Catholicism in America, but is

tangible proof of the growth of tolerance and liberal-mindedness in

that great nation. The fact that the Catholic Mass is now being said

in the American army affords further proof."

"Yes," meditated the Bishop. "Our candidates who receive election are

quite generally loyal to the Church."

"And should constitute a most potent factor in the holy work of making

America dominantly Catholic," added the older man.

"True, Your Eminence. And yet, this great desideratum can never come

about until the youth are brought into the true fold. And that means,

as you well know, the abolishing of the public school system."

"What think you of that?" asked the Cardinal-Bishop off-handedly.

The Bishop waxed suddenly animated. A subject had been broached which

lay close to his heart. "The public schools constitute a godless sink

of pollution!" he replied heatedly. "They are nurseries of vice! They

are part of an immoral and vicious system of education which is

undermining the religion of American children! I have always contended

that we, the Holy Catholic Church, _must_ control education! I hold

that education outside of the Church is heresy of the most damnable

kind! We have heretofore weakly protested against this pernicious

system, but without success, excepting"--and here he smiled

cynically--"that we have very generally succeeded in forcing the

discontinuance of Bible reading in the public schools. And in certain

towns where our parochial schools do not instruct beyond the eighth

grade, it looks as if we might force the introduction of a form of the

Catholic Mass to be read each morning in the High School."

"Excellent!" exclaimed the Cardinal-Bishop. "Your voice thrills me

like a trumpet call."

"I would it were such," cried the Bishop excitedly, "summoning the

faithful to strike a blow which shall be felt! What right have the

United States, or any nation, to educate the young? None whatever!

Education belongs to the Church! Our rights in this respect have been

usurped! But they shall be restored--if need be, at the point of

the--"

"You positively make my old heart leap to the fray," interrupted the

smiling, white-haired churchman. "But I feel assured that we shall

accomplish just that without violence or bloodshed, my son. You echo

my sentiments exactly on the pregnant question. And yet, by getting

Catholics employed in the public schools as teachers, and by electing

our candidates to public offices, we quietly accomplish our ends, do

we not?"

"But when will the Holy Father recognize the time as propitious for a

more decisive step in that respect?"

"Why, my son, I think you fail to see that we keep continually

stepping. We are growing by leaps and bounds in America. At the close

of the War of Independence the United States numbered some forty-five

thousand adherents to the Catholic faith. Now the number has increased

to twelve or fifteen millions. Of these, some four millions are

voters. A goodly number, is it not?"

"Then," cried the Bishop, "let the Holy Father boldly make the demand

that the States appropriate money for the support of our parochial

schools!"

Josè's ears throbbed. Before his ordination he had heard the Liturgy

for the conversion of America recited in the chapel of the seminary.

And as often he had sought to picture the condition of the New World

under the religio-political influence which has for centuries

dominated the Old. But he had always dismissed the idea of such

domination as wholly improbable, if not quite impossible in America.

Yet, since coming into the Papal Secretary's office, his views were

slowly undergoing revision. The Church was concentrating on America.

Of that there could be no doubt. Indeed, he had come to believe its

success as a future world-power to be a function of the stand which it

could secure and maintain in the United States. Now, as he strained

his ears, he could hear the aged Cardinal-Bishop's low, tense words--

"There can be no real separation of Church and State. The Church is

_not_ inferior to the civil power, nor is it in any way dependent

upon it. And the Church can never be excluded from educating and

training the young, from molding society, from making laws, and

governing, temporally and spiritually. From this attitude we shall

_never_ depart! Ours is the only true religion. England and Germany

have been spiritually dead. But, praise to the blessed Virgin who

has heard our prayers and made intercession for us, England, after

long centuries of struggle with man-made sects and indefinite dogma,

its spiritually-starving people fast drifting into atheism and

infidelity because of nothing to hold to, has awakened, and in these

first hours of her resurrection is fast returning to the Holy

Church of Rome. America, in these latter days, is rousing from the

blight of Puritanism, Protestantism, and their inevitable result,

free-thinking and anarchy, and is becoming the brightest jewel in

the Papal crown."

The Bishop smiled dubiously. "And yet, Your Eminence," he replied, "we

are heralded from one end of the land to the other as a menace to

Republican institutions."

"Ah, true. And you must agree that Romanism is a distinct menace to

the insane license of speech and press. It is a decided menace to the

insanity of Protestantism. But," he added archly, while his eyes

twinkled, "I have no doubt that when Catholic education has advanced a

little further many of your American preachers, editors, and

Chautauqua demagogues will find themselves behind the bars of

madhouses. Fortunately, that editor of the prominent American magazine

of which you were speaking switched from his heretic Episcopal faith

in time to avoid this unpleasant consequence."

The Bishop reflected for a moment. Then, deliberately, as if

meditating the great import of his words, "Your Eminence, in view of

our strength, and our impregnable position as God's chosen, cannot the

Holy Father insist that the United States mails be barred against the

infamous publications that so basely vilify our Church?"

"And thereby precipitate a revolution?" It was the firm voice of the

Papal Secretary himself, who at that moment entered the room.

"But, Monsignor," said the Bishop, as he rose and saluted the

newcomer, "how much longer must we submit to the gross injustice and

indignities practiced upon us by non-believers?"

"As long as the infallible Holy Father directs," replied that eminent

personage. "Obey him, as you would God himself," the Secretary

continued. "And teach your flock to do likewise. The ballot will do

for us in America what armed resistance never could. Listen, friend,

my finger is on the religious pulse of the world. Nowhere does this

pulse beat as strongly as in that part which we call the United

States. For years I have been watching the various contending forces

in that country, diligently and earnestly studying the elements acting

and reacting upon our Church there. I have come to the conclusion that

the success of Holy Church throughout the world depends upon its

advance in the United States during the next few years. I have become

an American enthusiast! The glorious work of making America Catholic

is so fraught with consequences of vastest import that my blood surges

with the enthusiasm of an old Crusader! But there is much still to be

done. America is a field white for the harvest, almost unobstructed."

"Then," queried the Bishop, "you do not reckon Protestantism an

obstruction?"

"Protestantism!" the Secretary rejoined with a cynical laugh. "No, I

reckon it as nothing. Protestantism in America is decadent. It has

split, divided, and disintegrated, until it is scarcely recognizable.

Its adherents are falling away in great numbers. Its weak tenets and

senile faith hold but comparatively few and lukewarm supporters. It

has degenerated into a sort of social organization, with musicals,

pink teas, and church suppers as attractions. No, America is _bound_

to be classed as a Catholic nation--and I expect to live to see it

thus. Our material and spiritual progress in the United States is

amazing, showing how nobly American Catholics have responded to the

Holy Father's appeal. New dioceses are springing up everywhere.

Churches are multiplying with astonishing rapidity. The discouraging

outlook in Europe is more, far more, than counterbalanced by our

wonderful progress in the United States. We might say that the

Vatican now rests upon American backs, for the United States send

more Peter's Pence to Rome than all other Catholic countries

together. We practically control her polls and her press. America was

discovered by Christopher Columbus, a Catholic in the service of a

Catholic ruler. It is Catholic in essence, and it shall so be

recognized! The Holy Catholic Church always has been and always will

be the sole and _only_ Christian authority. The Catholic religion by

rights ought to be, and ultimately shall be, the exclusively

dominant religion of the world, and every other sort of worship shall

be banished--interdicted--destroyed!"

For a while Josè heard no more. His ears burned and his brain

throbbed. He had become conscious of but one all-absorbing thought,

the fact of his vassalage to a world-embracing political system,

working in the name of the Christ. Not a new thought, by any

means--indeed an old one, often held--but now driven home to him most

emphatically. He forgot his clerical duties and sank into profound

revery on his inconsistent position in the office of the highest

functionary of Holy Church aside from the Supreme Pontiff himself.

He was aroused at length from his meditations by the departure of the

American Bishop. "It is true, as you report," the Papal Secretary was

saying earnestly. "America seems rife with modernism. Free-masonry,

socialism, and countless other fads and religious superstitions are

widely prevalent there. Nor do I underestimate their strength and

influence. And yet, I fear them not. There are also certain freak

religions, philosophical beliefs, wrung from the simple teachings of

our blessed Saviour, the rapid spread of which at one time did give me

some concern. The Holy Father mentioned one or two of them to-day, in

reference to his contemplated encyclical on modernism. But I now see

that they are cults based upon human personality; and with their

leaders removed, the fabrics will of themselves crumble."

He took leave of the Bishop, and turned again to address the

Cardinal-Bishop within. "A matter of the gravest import has arisen,"

he began in a low voice; "and one that may directly affect our

negotiations in regard to the support which the Holy Father will need

in case he issues a _pronunciamento_ that France, Spain, and Austria

shall no longer exercise the right of veto in papal elections. That

rumor regarding Isabella's daughter is again afloat. I have summoned

Father Rafaél de Rincón to Rome to state what he knows. But--" He rose

and looked out through the door at Josè, bending over his littered

desk. Then he went back, and resumed his conversation with the

Cardinal-Bishop, but in a tone so low that Josè could catch only

disconnected scraps.

"What, Colombia?" he at length heard the Cardinal-Bishop exclaim.

"Yes," was the Secretary's reply. "And presumably at the instigation

of that busybody, Wenceslas Ortiz. Though what concern he might have

in the _Infanta_ is to me incomprehensible--assuming, of course, that

there is such a royal daughter."

"But--Colombia elects a President soon, is it not so?"

"On the eve of election now," replied the Secretary. "And if the

influence of Wenceslas with the Bishop of Cartagena is what I am

almost forced to admit that it is, then the election is in his hands.

But, the _Infanta_--" The sound of his voice did not carry the rest of

his words to Josè's itching ears.

An hour later the Secretary and the Cardinal-Bishop came out of the

room and left the office together. "Yes," the Secretary was saying,

"in the case of Wenceslas it was 'pull and percuniam' that secured him

his place. The Church did not put him there."

The Cardinal-Bishop laughed genially. "Then the Holy Ghost was not

consulted, I take it," he said.

"No," replied the Secretary grimly. "And he has so complicated the

already delicate situation in Colombia that I fear Congress will table

the bill prohibiting Free-masonry. It is to be deplored. Among all the

Latin Republics none has been more thoroughly Catholic than

Colombia."

"Is the Holy Father's unpublished order regarding the sale and

distribution of Bibles loyally observed there?" queried the

Cardinal-Bishop.

The door closed upon them and Josè heard no more. His day's duties

ended, he went to his room to write and reflect. But the intense

afternoon heat again drove him forth to seek what comfort he might

near the river. With his notebook in hand he went to the little park,

as was his frequent wont. An hour or so later, while he was jotting

down his remembrance of the conversation just overheard, together with

his own caustic and protesting opinions, his absorption was broken by

the strange child's accident. A few minutes later the notebook had

disappeared.

And now the thought of all this medley of personal material and secret

matters of Church polity falling into the hands of those who might

make capital of it, and thereby drag the Rincón honor through the

mire, cast the man prostrate in the dust.

CHAPTER 10

Days passed--days whose every dawn found the priest staring in

sleepless, wide-eyed terror at the ceiling above--days crowded with

torturing apprehension and sickening suggestion--days when his knees

quaked and his hands shook when his superiors addressed him in the

performance of his customary duties. No mental picture was too

frightful or abhorrent for him to entertain as portraying a possible

consequence of the loss of his journal. He cowered in agony before

these visions. He dared not seek the little park again. He feared to

show himself in the streets. He dreaded the short walk from his

dormitory to the Vatican. His life became a sustained torture--a

consuming agony of uncertainty, interminable suspense, fearful

foreboding. The cruelty of his position corroded him. His health

suffered, and his cassock hung like a bag about his emaciated form.

Then the filament snapped and the sword fell. On a dismal, rainy

morning, some two months after the incident in the park, Josè was

summoned into the private office of the Papal Secretary of State. As

the priest entered the small room the Secretary, sitting alone at his

desk, turned and looked at him long and fixedly.

"So, my son," he said in a voice that froze the priest's blood, "you

are still alive?" Then, taking up a paper-covered book of medium size

which apparently he had been reading, he held it out without comment.

Josè took it mechanically. The book was crudely printed and showed

evidence of having been hastily issued. It came from the press of a

Viennese publisher, and bore the startling title, "Confessions of a

Roman Catholic Priest." As in a dream Josè opened it. A cry escaped

him, and the book fell from his hands. _It was his journal!_

There are sometimes crises in human lives when the storm-spent mind,

tossing on the waves of heaving emotion, tugs and strains at the ties

which moor it to reason, until they snap, and it sweeps out into the

unknown, where blackness and terror rage above the fathomless deep.

Such a crisis had entered the life of the unhappy priest, who now held

in his shaking hand the garbled publication of his life's most sacred

thoughts. Into whose hands his notes had fallen on that black day when

he had sacrificed everything for an unknown child, he knew not. How

they had made their way into Austria, and into the pressroom of the

heretical modernist who had gleefully issued them, twisted,

exaggerated, but unabridged, he might not even imagine. The terrible

fact remained that there in his hands they stared up at him in hideous

mockery, his soul-convictions, his heart's deepest and most inviolable

thoughts, details of his own personal history, secrets of state--all

ruthlessly exposed to the world's vulgar curiosity and the rapacity of

those who would not fail to play them up to the certain advantages to

which they lent themselves all too well.

And there before him, too, were the Secretary's sharp eyes, burning

into his very soul. He essayed to speak, to rise to his own defense.

But his throat filled, and the words which he would utter died on his

trembling lips. The room whirled about him. Floods of memory began to

sweep over him in huge billows. The conflicting forces which had

culminated in placing him in the paradoxical position in which he now

stood raced before him in confused review. Objects lost their definite

outlines and melted into the haze which rose before his straining

eyes. All things at last merged into the terrible presence of the

Papal Secretary, as he slowly rose, tall and gaunt, and with arm

extended and long, bony finger pointing to the yellow river in the

distance, said in words whose cruel suggestion scorched the raw soul

of the suffering priest:

"My son, be advised: the Tiber covers many sins."

Then pitying oblivion opened wide her arms, and the tired priest sank

gently into them.

CHAPTER 11

Rome again lay scorching beneath a merciless summer sun. But the

energetic uncle of Josè was not thereby restrained from making another

hurried visit to the Vatican. What his mission was does not appear in

papal records; but, like the one which he found occasion to make just

prior to the ordination of his nephew, this visit was not extended to

include Josè, who throughout that enervating summer lay tossing in

delirium in the great hospital of the Santo Spirito. We may be sure,

however, that its influence upon the disposition of the priest's case

after the recent _dénoûement_ was not inconsiderable, and that it was

largely responsible for his presence before the Holy Father himself

when, after weeks of racking fever, wan and emaciated, and leaning

upon the arm of the confidential valet of His Holiness, the young

priest faced that august personage and heard the infallible judgment

of the Holy See upon his unfortunate conduct.

On the throne of St. Peter, in the heavily tapestried private audience

room of the great Vatican prison-palace, and guarded from intrusion by

armed soldiery and hosts of watchful ecclesiastics of all grades, sat

the Infallible Council, the Vicar-General of the humble Nazarene, the

aged leader at whose beck a hundred million faithful followers bent in

lowly genuflection. Near him stood the Papal Secretary of State and

two Cardinal-Bishops of the Administrative Congregation.

Josè dragged himself wearily before the Supreme Pontiff and bent low.

"_Benedicite_, my erring son." The soft voice of His Holiness floated

not unmusically through the tense silence of the room.

"Arise. The hand of the Lord already has been laid heavily upon you in

wholesome chastening for your part in this deplorable affair. And the

same omnipotent hand has been stretched forth to prevent the baneful

effects of your thoughtless conduct. We do not condemn you, my son. It

was the work of the Evil One, who has ever found through your

weaknesses easy access to your soul."

Josè raised his blurred eyes and gazed at the Holy Father in perplexed

astonishment. But the genial countenance of the patriarch seemed to

confirm his mild words. A smile, tender and patronizing, in which Josè

read forgiveness--and yet with it a certain undefined something which

augured conditions upon which alone penalty for his culpability would

be remitted--lighted up the pale features of the Holy Father and

warmed the frozen life-currents of the shrinking priest.

"My son," the Pontiff continued tenderly, "our love for our wandering

children is but stimulated by their need of our protecting care. Fear

not; the guilty publisher of your notes has been awakened to his

fault, and the book which he so thoughtlessly issued has been quite

suppressed."

Josè bent his head and patiently awaited the conclusion.

"You have lain for weeks at death's door, my son. The words which you

uttered in your delirium corroborated our own thought of your

innocence of intentional wrong. And now that you have regained your

reason, you will confess to us that your reports, and especially your

account of the recent conversation between the Cardinal-Secretary of

State and the Cardinal-Bishop, were written under that depression of

mind which has long afflicted you, producing a form of mental

derangement, and giving rise to frequent hallucination. It is this

which has caused us to extend to you our sympathy and protection. Long

and intense study, family sorrow, and certain inherited traits of

disposition, whose rapid development have tended to lack of normal

mental balance, account to us for those deeds of eccentricity on your

part which have plunged us into extreme embarrassment and yourself

into the illness which threatened your young life. Is it not so, my

son?"

The priest stared up at the speaker in bewilderment. This unexpected

turn of affairs had swept his defense from his mind.

"The Holy Father awaits your reply," the Papal Secretary spoke with

severity. His own thought had been greatly ruffled that morning, and

his patience severely taxed by a threatened mutiny among the Swiss

guards, whose demands in regard to the quantity of wine allowed them

and whose memorial recounting other alleged grievances he had just

flatly rejected. The muffled cries of "_Viva Garibaldi!_" as the

petitioners left his presence were still echoing in the Secretary's

ears, and his anger had scarce begun to cool.

"We are patient, my Cardinal-Nephew," the Pontiff resumed mildly. "Our

love for this erring son enfolds him." Then, turning again to Josè,

"We have correctly summarized the causes of your recent conduct, have

we not?"

The priest made as if to reply, but hesitated, with the words

fluttering on his lips.

"My dear son"--the Holy Father bent toward the wondering priest in an

attitude of loving solicitation--"our blessed Saviour was ofttimes

confronted with those possessed of demons. Did he reject them? No;

and, despite the accusations against us in your writings, for which we

know you were not morally responsible, we, Christ's representative on

earth, are still touched with his love and pity for one so unfortunate

as you. With your help we shall stop the mouths of calumny, and set

you right before the world. We shall use our great resources to save

the Rincón honor which, through the working of Satan within you, is

now unjustly besmirched. We shall labor to restore you to your right

mind, and to the usefulness which your scholarly gifts make possible

to you. We indeed rejoice that your piteous appeal has reached our

ears. We rejoice to correct those erroneous views which you, in the

temporary aberration of reason, were driven to commit to writing, and

which so unfortunately fell into the hands of Satan's alert

emissaries. Your ravings during these weeks of delirium shed much

light upon the obsessing thoughts which plunged you into mild

insanity. And they have stirred the immeasurable depths of pity within

us."

The Holy Father paused after this unwontedly long speech. A dumb sense

of stupefaction seemed to possess the priest, and he passed his

shrunken hands before his eyes as if he would brush away a mist.

"That this unfortunate book is but the uttering of delirium, we have

already announced to the world," His Holiness gently continued. "But

out of our deep love for a family which has supplied so many

illustrious sons to our beloved Church we have suppressed mention of

your name in connection therewith."

The priest started, as he vaguely sensed the impending issue. What was

it that His Holiness was about to demand? That he denounce his

journal, over his own signature, as the ravings of a man temporarily

insane? He was well aware that the Vatican's mere denial of the

allegations therein contained, and its attributing of them to a mad

priest, would scarcely carry conviction to the Courts of Spain and

Austria, or to an astonished world. But, for him to declare them the

garbled and unauthentic utterances of an aberrant mind, and to make

public such statement in his own name, would save the situation,

possibly the Rincón honor, even though it stultify his own.

His Holiness waited a few moments for the priest's reply; but

receiving none, he continued with deep significance:

"You will not make it necessary, we know, for us to announce that a

mad priest, a son of the house of Rincón, now confined in an asylum,

voiced these heretical and treasonable utterances."

The voice of His Holiness flowed like cadences of softest music,

charming in its tenderness, winning in its appeal, but momentous in

its certain implication.

"In our solicitude for your recovery we commanded our own physicians

to attend you. To them you owe your life. To them, too, we owe our

gratitude for that report on your case which reveals the true nature

of the malady afflicting you."

The low voice vibrated in rhythmic waves through the dead silence of

the room.

"To them also you now owe this opportunity to abjure the writings

which have caused us and yourself such great sorrow; to them you owe

this privilege of confessing before us, who will receive your

recantation, remit your unintentional sins, and restore you to honor

and service in our beloved Church."

Josè suddenly came to himself. Recant! Confess! In God's name, what?

Abjure his writings, the convictions of a lifetime!

"These writings, my son, are not your sane and rational convictions,"

the Pontiff suggested.

Josè still stood mute before him.

"You renounce them now, in the clear light of restored reason; and you

swear future lealty to us and to Holy Church," the aged Father

continued.

"Make answer!" commanded one of the Cardinal-Bishops, starting toward

the wavering priest. "Down on your knees before the Holy Father, who

waits to forgive your venial sin!"

Josè turned swiftly to the approaching Cardinal and held up a hand.

The man stopped short. The Pontiff and his associates bent forward in

eager anticipation. The valet fell back, and Josè stood alone. In that

tense mental atmosphere the shrinking priest seemed to be transformed

into a Daniel.

"No, Holy Father, you mistake!" His voice rang through the room like a

clarion. "I do not recant! My writings _do_ express my deepest and

sanest convictions!"

The Pontiff's pallid face went dark. The eyes of the other auditors

bulged with astonishment. A dumb spell settled over the room.

"Father, my guilt lies not in having recorded my honest convictions,

nor in the fact that these records fell into the hands of those who

eagerly grasp every opportunity to attack their common enemy, the

Church. It lies rather in my weak resistance to those influences which

in early life combined to force upon me a career to which I was by

temperament and instinct utterly disinclined. It lies in my having

sacrificed myself to the selfish love of my mother and my own

exaggerated sense of family pride. It lies in my still remaining

outwardly a priest of the Catholic faith, when every fiber of my soul

revolts against the hypocrisy!"

"You are a subject of the Church!" the Papal Secretary interrupted.

"You have sworn to her and to the Sovereign Pontiff as loyal and

unquestioning obedience as to the will of God himself!"

Josè turned upon him. "Before my ordination," he cried, "I was a

voluntary subject of the Sovereign of Spain. Did that ceremony render

me an unwilling subject of the Holy Father? Does the ceremony of

ordination constitute the Romanizing of Spain? No, I am not a subject

of Rome, but of my conscience!"

Another dead pause followed, in which for some moments nothing

disturbed the oppressive silence. Josè looked eagerly into the

delicate features of the living Head of the Church. Then, with

decreased ardor, and in a voice tinged with pathos, he continued:

"Father, my mistakes have been only such as are natural to one of

my peculiar character. I came to know, but too late, that my

life-motives, though pure, found not in me the will for their

direction. I became a tool in the hands of those stronger than

myself. For what ultimate purpose, I know not. Of this only am I

certain, that my mother's ambitions, though selfish, were the only

pure motives among those which united to force the order of

priesthood upon me."

"Force!" burst in one of the Cardinal-Bishops. "Do you assume to make

the Holy Father believe that the priesthood can be _forced_ upon a

man? You assumed it willingly, gladly, as was your proper return for

the benefits which the Mother Church had bestowed upon you!"

"In a state of utmost confusion, bordering a mental breakdown, I

assumed it--outwardly," returned the priest sadly, "but my heart never

ceased to reject it. Once ordained, however, I sought in my feeble way

to study the needs of the Church, and prepare myself to assist in the

inauguration of reforms which I felt she must some day undertake."

The Pontiff's features twitched with ill-concealed irritation at this

confession; but before he could speak Josè continued:

"Oh, Father, and Cardinal-Princes of the Church, does not the need of

your people for truth wring your hearts? Turn from your zealous dreams

of world-conquest and see them, steeped in ignorance and superstition,

wretched with poverty, war, and crime, extending their hands to you as

their spiritual leaders--to you, Holy Father, who should be their

Moses, to smite the rock of error, that the living, saving truth may

gush out!"

He paused, as if fearful of his own rushing thought. Then: "Is not the

past fraught with lessons of deepest import to us? Is not the Church

being rejected by the nations of Europe because of our intolerance,

our oppression, our stubborn clinging to broken idols and effete forms

of faith? We are now turning from the wreckage which the Church has

wrought in the Old World, and our eyes are upon America. But can we

deceive ourselves that free, liberty-loving America will bow her neck

to the mediaeval yoke which the Church would impose upon her? Why, oh,

why cannot we see the Church's tremendous opportunities for good in

this century, and yield to that inevitable mental and moral

progression which must sweep her from her foundations, unless she

conform to its requirements and join in the movement toward universal

emancipation! Our people are taught from childhood to be led; they are

willing followers--none more willing in the world! But why lead them

into the pit? Why muzzle them with fear, oppress them with threats,

fetter them with outworn dogma and dead creed? Why continue to dazzle

them with pagan ceremonialism and oriental glamour, and then, our

exactions wrung from them, leave them to consume with disease and

decay with moral contagion?"

"The man is mad with heresy!" muttered the Pontiff, turning to the

Cardinal-Bishops.

"No, it is not I who is mad with heresy, but the Holy Church, of which

you are the spiritual Head!" cried the priest, his loud voice

trembling with indignation and his frail body swaying under his

rapidly growing excitement. "She is guilty of the damnable heresy

of concealing knowledge, of hiding truth, of stifling honest

questionings! She is guilty of grossest intolerance, of deadliest

hatred, of impurest motives--she, the self-constituted, self-endowed

spiritual guide of mankind, arrogating to herself infallibility,

superiority, supreme authority--yea, the very voice of God himself!"

The priest had now lost all sense of environment, and his voice waxed

louder as he continued:

"The conduct of the Church throughout the centuries has made her

the laughing-stock of history, an object of ridicule to every man

of education and sense! She is filled with superstition--do you not

know it? She is permeated with pagan idolatry, fetishism, and

carnal-mindedness! She is pitiably ignorant of the real teachings of

the Christ! Her dogmas have been formed by the subtle wits of Church

theologians. They are in this century as childish as her political

and social schemes are mischievous! Why have we formulated our

doctrine of purgatory? Why so solicitous about souls in purgatorial

torment, and yet so careless of them while still on earth? Where is

our justification for the doctrine of infallibility? Is liberty to

think the concession of God, or of the Holy Father? Where, oh,

where is the divine Christ in our system of theology? Is he to be

found in materialism, intolerance, the burning of Bibles, in

hatred of so-called heretics, and in worldly practices? Are we not

keeping the Christ in the sepulcher, refusing to permit him to

arise?"

His speech soared into the impassioned energy of thundered denunciation.

"Yes, Holy Father, and Cardinal-Bishops, I _am_ justified in

criticizing the Holy Catholic Church! And I am likewise justified in

condemning the Protestant Church! All have fallen woefully short of

the glory of God, and none obeys the simple commands of the Christ.

The Church throughout the world has become secularized, and worship is

but hollow consistency in the strict performance of outward acts of

devotion. Our religion is but a hypocritical show of conformity. Our

asylums, our hospitals, our institutions of charity? Alas! they but

evidence our woeful shortcoming, and our persistent refusal to rise

into the strength of the healing, saving Christ, which would render

these obsolete institutions unnecessary in the world of to-day! The

Holy Catholic Church is but a human institution. Its worldliness, its

scheming, its political machinations, make me shudder--!"

"Stop, madman!" thundered one of the Cardinal-Bishops, rushing upon

the frail Josè with such force as to fell him to the floor. The

Pontiff had risen, and sunk again into his chair. The valet hurried to

his assistance. The Papal Secretary, his face contorted with rage, and

his throat choking with the press of words which he strove to utter,

hastened to the door to summon help. "Remove this man!" he commanded,

pointing out the prostrate form of Josè to the two Swiss guards who

had responded to his call. "Confine him! He is violent--a raging

maniac!"

A few days later, Padre Josè de Rincón, having been pronounced by the

Vatican physicians mentally deranged, as the result of acute cerebral

anaemia, was quietly conveyed to a sequestered monastery at

Palazzola.

* * * * *

Two summers came, and fled again before the chill winds which blew

from the Alban hills. Then one day Josè's uncle appeared at the

monastery door with a written order from His Holiness, effecting the

priest's conditional release. Together they journeyed at once to

Seville, the uncle alert and energetic as ever, showing but slight

trace of time's devastating hand; Josè, the shadow of his former self

physically, and his mind clouded with the somber pall of melancholia.

Toward the close of a quiet summer, spent with his mother in his

boyhood home, Josè received from his uncle's hand another letter,

bearing the papal insignia. It was evident that it was not unexpected,

for it found the priest with his effects packed and ready for a

considerable journey. A hurried farewell to his mother, and the

life-weary Josè, combining innocence and misery in exaggerated

proportions, and still a vassal of Rome, set out for the port of

Cadiz. There, in company with the Apostolic Delegate and Envoy

Extraordinary to the Republic of Colombia, he embarked on the West

Indian trader Sarnia, bound for Cartagena, in the New World.

CHAPTER 12

There is no region in the Western Hemisphere more invested with the

spirit of romance and adventure than that strip of Caribbean coast

stretching from the Cape of Yucatan to the delta of the Orinoco and

known as the Spanish Main. No more superb setting could have been

chosen for the opening scenes of the New World drama. Skies of profoundest

blue--the tropical sun flaming through massive clouds of vapor--a sea

of exuberant color, foaming white over coral beaches--waving cocoa

palms against a background of exotic verdure marking a tortuous shore

line, which now rises sheer and precipitous from the water's edge to

dizzy, snowcapped, cloud-hung heights, now stretches away into vast

reaches of oozy mangrove bog and dank cinchona grove--here flecked with

stagnant lagoons that teem with slimy, crawling life--there flattened

into interminable, forest-covered plains and untrodden, primeval

wildernesses, impenetrable, defiant, alluring--and all perennially bathed

in dazzling light, vivid color, and soft, fragrant winds--with

everywhere redundant foliage--humming, chattering, screaming

life--profusion--extravagance--prodigality--riotous waste! Small wonder

that when this enticing shore was first revealed to the astonished

_Conquistadores_, where every form of Nature was wholly different from

anything their past experience afforded, they were childishly receptive to

every tale, however preposterous, of fountains of youth, of magical

lakes, or enchanted cities with mountains of gold in the depths of the

frowning jungle. They had come with their thought attuned to enchantment;

their minds were fallow to the incredible; they were fresh from their

conquest of the vast _Mare Tenebrosum_, with its mysteries and terrors.

At a single stroke from the arm of the intrepid Genoese the mediaeval

superstitions which peopled the unknown seas had fallen like fetters

from these daring and adventurous souls. The slumbering spirit of

knight-errantry awoke suddenly within their breasts; and when from their

frail galleons they beheld with ravished eyes this land of magic and

alluring mystery which spread out before them in such gorgeous

panorama, they plunged into the glittering waters with waving swords

and pennants, with shouts of praise and joy upon their lips, and

inaugurated that series of prodigious enterprise, extravagant deeds of

hardihood, and tremendous feats of prowess which still remain

unsurpassed in the annals of history for brilliancy, picturesqueness,

and wealth of incident.

With almost incredible rapidity and thoroughness the Spanish arms

spread over the New World, urged by the corroding lust of gold and the

sharp stimulus afforded by the mythical quests which animated the

simple minds of these hardy searchers for the Golden Fleece. Neither

trackless forests, withering heat, miasmatic climate nor savage

Indians could dampen their ardor or check their search for riches and

glory. They penetrated everywhere, steel-clad and glittering, with

lance and helmet and streaming banner. Every nook, every promontory of

a thousand miles of coast was minutely searched; every island was

bounded; every towering mountain scaled. Even those vast regions of

New Granada which to-day are as unknown as the least explored parts of

darkest Africa became the scenes of stirring adventure and brilliant

exploit of these daring crusaders of more than three centuries ago.

The real wonders yielded by this newly discovered land of enchantment

far exceeded the fabled Manoa or El Dorado of mythical lore; and the

adventurous expeditions that were first incited by these chimeras soon

changed into practical colonizing and developing projects of real and

permanent value. Amazing discoveries were made of empires which had

already developed a state of civilization, mechanical, military, and

agricultural, which rivaled those of Europe. Natural resources were

revealed such as the Old World had not even guessed were possible.

Great rivers, vast fertile plains, huge veins of gold and copper ore,

inexhaustible timber, a wealth of every material thing desired by man,

could be had almost without effort. Fortunate, indeed, was the Spanish

_Conquistador_ in the possession of such immeasurable riches;

fortunate, indeed, had he possessed the wisdom to meet the supreme

test of character which this sudden accession of wealth and power was

to bring!

With the opening of the vast treasure house flanked by the Spanish

Main came the Spaniard's supreme opportunity to master the world.

Soon in undisputed possession of the greater part of the Western

Hemisphere; with immeasurable wealth flowing into his coffers;

sustained by dauntless courage and an intrepid spirit of adventure;

with papal support, and the learning and genius of the centuries at

his command, he faced the opportunity to extend his sway over the

entire world and unite all peoples into a universal empire, both

temporal and spiritual. That he failed to rise to this possibility

was not due to any lack of appreciation of his tremendous opportunity,

nor to a dearth of leaders of real military genius, but to a

misapprehension of the great truth that the conquest of the world is

not to be wrought by feats of arms, but by the exercise of those

moral attributes and spiritual qualities of heart and soul which he

did not possess--or possessing, had prostituted to the carnal

influences of lust of material riches and temporal power.

In the immediate wake of the Spanish _Conqueros_ surged the drift and

flotsam of the Old World. Cities soon sprang up along the Spanish Main

which reflected a curious blend of the old-time life of Seville and

Madrid with the picturesque and turbulent elements of the adventurer

and buccaneer. The spirit of the West has always been synonymous with

a larger sense of freedom, a shaking off of prejudice and tradition

and the trammels of convention. The sixteenth century towns of the New

World were no exception, and their streets and _plazas_ early

exhibited a multicolored panorama, wherein freely mingled knight and

predaceous priest, swashbuckler and staid _hidalgo_, timid Indian and

veiled _doncella_--a potpourri of merchant, prelate, negro, thief, the

broken in fortune and the blackened in character--all poured into the

melting pot of the new West, and there steaming and straining,

scheming and plotting, attuned to any pitch of venturesome project, so

be it that gold and fame were the promised emoluments thereof.

And gold, and fame of a certain kind, were always to be had by those

whose ethical code permitted of a little straining. For the great

ships which carried the vast wealth of this new land of magic back to

the perennially empty coffers of Old Spain constituted a temptation

far more readily recognized than resisted. These huge, slow-moving

galleons, gilded and carved, crawling lazily over the surface of the

bright tropical sea, and often so heavily freighted with treasure as

to be unsafe in rough weather, came to be regarded as special

dispensations of Providence by the cattle thieves and driers of beef

who dwelt in the pirates' paradise of Tortuga and Hispaniola, and

little was required in way of soul-alchemy to transform the

_boucanier_ into the lawless and sanguinary, though picturesque,

corsair of that romantic age. The buccaneer was but a natural

evolution from the peculiar conditions then obtaining. Where human

society in the process of formation has not yet arrived at the

necessity of law to restrain the lust and greed of its members; and

where at the same time untold wealth is to be had at the slight cost

of a few lives; and, too, where even the children are taught that

whosoever aids in the destruction of Spanish ships and Spanish lives

renders a service to the Almighty, the buccaneer must be regarded as

the logical result. He multiplied with astonishing rapidity in these

warm, southern waters, and not a ship that sailed the Caribbean was

safe from his sudden depredations. So extensive and thorough was his

work that the bed of the Spanish Main is dotted with traditional

treasure ships, and to this day remnants of doubloons or "pieces of

eight" and bits of bullion and jewelry are washed up on the shining

beaches of Panamá and northern Colombia as grim memorials of his

lawless activities.

The expenditure of energy necessary to transport the gold, silver and

precious stones from the New World to the bottomless treasury of Spain

was stupendous. Yet not less stupendous was the amount of treasure

transported. From the distant mines of Potosi, from the Pilcomayo,

from the almost inaccessible fastnesses of what are now Bolivia and

Ecuador, a precious stream poured into the leaking treasure box of

Spain that totalled a value of no less than ten billion dollars. Much

of the wealth which came from Peru was shipped up to the isthmus of

Panamá, and thence transferred to plate-fleets. But the buccaneers

became so active along the Pacific coast that water shipment was

finally abandoned, and from that time transportation had to be made

overland by way of the Andean plateau, sometimes a distance of two

thousand miles, to the strongholds which were built to receive and

protect the treasure until the plate-fleets could be made up. Of these

strongholds there were two of the first importance, the old city of

Panamá, on the isthmus, and the almost equally old city of Cartagena,

on the northern coast of what is now the Republic of Colombia.

The spirit of ancient Carthage must have breathed upon this "Very

Royal and Loyal City" which Pedro de Heredia in the sixteenth century

founded on the north coast of New Granada, and bequeathed to it a

portion of its own romance and tragedy. Superbly placed upon a narrow,

tongue-shaped islet, one of a group that shield an ample harbor from

the sharp tropical storms which burst unheralded over the sea without;

girdled by huge, battlemented walls, and guarded by frowning

fortresses, Cartagena commanded the gateway to the exhaustless wealth

of the _Cordilleras_, at whose feet she still nestles, bathed in

perpetual sunshine, and kissed by cool ocean breezes which temper the

winds blowing hot from the steaming _llanos_ of the interior. By the

middle of the sixteenth century she offered all that the adventurous

seeker of fame and fortune could desire, and attracted to herself not

only the chivalry, but the beauty, wealth and learning which, mingled

with rougher elements, poured into the New World so freely in the

opening scenes of the great drama inaugurated by the arrival of the

tiny caravels of Columbus a half century before.

The city waxed quickly rich and powerful. Its natural advantages of

location, together with its massive fortifications, and its wonderful

harbor, so extensive that the combined fleets of Spain might readily

have found anchorage therein, early rendered it the choice of the

Spanish monarch as his most dependable reservoir and shipping point

for the accumulated treasure of his new possessions. The island upon

which the city arose was singularly well chosen for defense. Fortified

bridges were built to connect it with the mainland, and subterranean

passageways led from the great walls encircling it to the impregnable

fortress of San Felipe de Barajas, on Mount San Lázaro, a few hundred

yards back of the city and commanding the avenues and approaches of

the land side. To the east, and about a mile from the walls, the

abrupt hill of La Popa rises, surmounted by the convent of Santa

Candelaria, likewise connected by underground tunnels to the interior

of the city, and commanding the harbor and its approaches from the

sea. The harbor formerly connected with the open sea through two

entrances, the Boca Grande, a wide, fortified pass between the island

of Tierra Bomba and the tongue on which the city stands, and the Boca

Chica, some nine miles farther west, a narrow, tortuous pass, wide

enough to permit entry to but a single vessel at a time, and commanded

by forts San Fernando and San Josè.

By the middle of the seventeenth century Cartagena, "Queen of the

Indies and Queen of the Seas," had expanded into a proud and beautiful

city, the most important mart of the New World. Under royal patronage

its merchants enjoyed a monopoly of commerce with Spain. Under the

special favor of Rome it became an episcopal See, and the seat of the

Holy Inquisition. Its docks and warehouses, its great centers of

commerce, its sumptuous dwellings, its magnificent Cathedral, its

colleges and monasteries, and its proud aristocracy, all reflected the

spirit of enterprise which animated its sons and found expression in a

city which could boast a pride, a culture, and a wealth almost

unrivalled even in the Old World.

But, not unlike her ancient prototype, Cartagena succumbed to the very

influences which had made her great. Her wealth excited the cupidity

of freebooters, and her power aroused the jealousy of her formidable

rivals. Her religion itself became an excuse for the plundering hands

of Spain's enemies. Again and again the city was called upon to defend

the challenge which her riches and massive walls perpetually issued.

Again and again she was forced to yield to the heavy tributes and

disgraceful penalties of buccaneers and legalized pirates who, like

Drake, came to plunder her under royal patent. Cartagena rose and

fell, and rose again. But the human heart which throbs beneath the

lash of lust or revenge knows no barriers. Her great forts availed

nothing against the lawless hordes which swarmed over them. Neither

were her tremendous walls proof against starvation. Again and again,

her streets filled with her gaunt dead, she stubbornly held her gates

against the enemies of Spain who assaulted her in the name of

religion, only at last to weaken with terror and throw them open in

disgraceful welcome to the French de Pontis and his maudlin, rag-tag

followers, who drained her of her last drop of life blood. As her

gates swung wide and this nondescript band of marauders streamed in

with curses and shouts of exultation, the glory of this royal

mediaeval city passed out forever.

Almost from its inception, Cartagena had been the point of attack of

every enterprise launched with the object of wresting from Spain her

rich western possessions, so much coveted by her jealous and

revengeful rivals. It was Spain herself who fought for very existence

while Cartagena was holding her gates against the enemies of Holy

Church. And these enemies knew that they had pierced the Spanish heart

when the "Queen of the Indies" fell. And in no small measure did Spain

deserve the fate which overtook her. For, had it not been for the

stupendous amount of treasure derived from these new possessions, the

dramatic and dominant part which she played in the affairs of Europe

during the sixteenth century would have been impossible. This treasure

she wrested from her South American colonies at a cost in the

destruction of human life, in the outraging of human instincts, in

the debauching of ideals and the falsifying of hope, in hellish

oppression and ghastly torture, that can never be adequately

estimated. Her benevolent instruments of colonization were cannon and

saintly relics. Her agents were swaggering soldiers and bigoted

friars. Her system involved the impression of her language and her

undemonstrable religious beliefs upon the harmless aborigines. The

fruits of this system, which still linger after three centuries, are

superstition, black ignorance, and woeful mental retardation. To the

terrified aborigines the boasted Spanish civilization meant little

more than "gold, liquor, and sadness." Small wonder that the simple

Indians, unable to comprehend the Christian's lust for gold, poured

the molten metal down the throats of their captives, crying, "Eat,

Christian, eat!" They had borrowed their ideals from the Christian

Spaniards, who by means of the stake and rack were convincing them

that God was not in this western land until they came, bringing their

debauched concept of Christianity.

And so Cartagena fell, late in the seventeenth century, never to

regain more than a shadow of her former grandeur and prestige. But

again she rose, in a semblance of her martial spirit, when her native

sons, gathering fresh courage and inspiration from the waning powers

of the mother-country in the early years of the century just closed,

organized that federation which, after long years of almost hopeless

struggle, lifted the yoke of Spanish misrule from New Granada and

proclaimed the Republic of Colombia. Cartagena was the first city of

Colombia to declare its independence from Spain. And in the great war

which followed the "Heroic City" passed through terrible vicissitudes,

emerging from it still further depleted and sunken, a shell of massive

walls and battered defenses, with desolated homes and empty streets

echoing the tread of the mendicant _peon_.

As the nineteenth century, so rich in invention, discovery, and

stirring activity in the great States to the north, drew to a close, a

chance visitor to this battle-scarred, mediaeval city would have found

her asleep amid the dreams of her former greatness. Approaching from

the harbor, especially if he arrived in the early hours of morning,

his eyes would have met a view of exquisite beauty. Seen thus, great

moss-grown structures rise from within the lofty encircling walls,

with many a tower and gilded dome glittering in the clear sunlight and

standing out in sharp relief against the green background of

forest-plumed hills and towering mountains. The abysmal blue of the

untainted tropical sky overhead contrasts sharply with the red-tiled

roofs and dazzling white exteriors of the buildings beneath; and the

vivid tints, mingling with the iridescence of the scarcely rippling

waters of the harbor, blend into a color scheme of rarest loveliness

in the clear atmosphere which seems to magnify all distant objects and

intensify every hue.

A closer approach to the citadel which lies within the landlocked

harbor reveals in detail the features of the stupendous walls which

guard this key to Spain's former treasure house. Their immensity and

their marvelous construction bear witness to the genius of her famous

military engineers, and evoke the same admiration as do the great

temples and monuments of ancient Egypt. These grim walls, in places

sixty feet through, and pierced by numerous gates, are frequently

widened into broad esplanades, and set here and there with bastions

and watch towers to command strategic points. At the north end of the

city they expand into an elaborately fortified citadel, within which

are enormous fresh water tanks, formerly supplied by the rains, and

made necessary by the absence of springs so near the coast. Within the

walls at various points one finds the now abandoned barracks,

storerooms, and echoing dungeons, the latter in the days of the

stirring past too often pressed into service by the Holy Inquisition.

Underground tunnels, still intact, lead from the walls to the

Cathedral, the crumbling fortress of San Felipe de Barajas, and the

deserted convent on the summit of La Popa. Time-defying, grim,

dramatic reliques of an age forever past, breathing poetry and romance

from every crevice--still in fancy echoing from moldering tower and

scarred bulwark the clank of sabre, the tread of armored steed, and

the shouts of exulting _Conquistadores_--aye, their ghostly echoes

sinking in the fragrant air of night into soft whispers, which bear to

the tropical moon dark hints of ancient tragedies enacted within these

dim keeps and gloom-shrouded tunnels!

The pass of Boca Grande--"large mouth"--through which Drake's band of

marauders sailed triumphantly in the latter part of the sixteenth

century, was formerly the usual entrance to the city's magnificent

harbor. But its wide, deep channel, only two miles from the city

walls, afforded too easy access to undesirable visitors in the heyday

of freebooters; and the harassed Cartagenians, wearied of the

innumerable piratical attacks which this broad entrance constantly

invited, undertook to fill it up. This they accomplished after years

of heroic effort and an enormous expenditure of money, leaving the

harbor only the slender, tortuous entrance of Boca Chica--"little

mouth"--dangerous to incoming vessels because of the almost torrential

flow of the tide through it, but much more readily defended. The two

castles of San Fernando and San Josè, frowning structures of stone

dominating this entrance, have long since fallen into disuse, but are

still admirably preserved. Beneath the former, and extending far below

the surface of the water, is the old Bastile of the Inquisition,

occasionally pressed into requisition now to house recalcitrant

politicians, and where no great effort of the imagination is required

still to hear the groans of the tortured and the sighs of the

condemned, awaiting in chains and _san benitos_ the approaching _auto

da fé_.

But the greater distance from the present entrance of the harbor to

the city walls affords the visitor a longer period in which to enjoy

the charming panorama which seems to drift slowly out to meet him as

he stands entranced before it. The spell of romance and chivalry is

upon him long ere he disembarks; and once through the great gateway of

the citadel itself, he yields easily to the ineluctable charm which

seems to hover in the balmy air of this once proud city. Everywhere

are evidences of ancient grandeur, mingling with memories of enormous

wealth and violent scenes of strife. The narrow, winding streets,

characteristic of oriental cities; the Moorish architecture displayed

in the grandiose palaces and churches; the grated, unglazed windows,

through which still peep timid _señoritas_, as in the romantic days of

yore; the gaily painted balconies, over which bepowdered _doncellas_

lean to pass the day's gossip in the liquid tongue of Cervantes, all

transport one in thought to the chivalrous past, when this picturesque

survival of Spain's power in America was indeed the very Queen of the

western world and the proud boast of the haughty monarchs of Castile.

Nor was the city more dear to the Spanish King than to the spiritual

Sovereign who sat on Peter's throne. The Holy See strove to make

Cartagena the chief ecclesiastical center of the New World; and

churches, monasteries, colleges, and convents flourished there as

luxuriantly as the tropical vegetation. The city was early elevated to

a bishopric. A magnificent Cathedral was soon erected, followed by

other churches and buildings to house ecclesiastical orders, including

the Jesuit college, the University, the women's seminary, and the

homes for religious orders of both sexes. The same lavish expenditure

of labor and wealth was bestowed upon the religious structures as on

the walls and fortifications. The Cathedral and the church of San Juan

de Dios, the latter the most conspicuous structure in the city, with

its double towers and its immense monastery adjoining, became the

special recipients of the liberal outpourings of a community rich not

only in material wealth, but in culture and refinement as well. The

latter church in particular was the object of veneration of the

patrons of America's only Saint, the beneficent Pedro Claver, whose

whitened bones now repose in a wonderful glass coffin bound with

strips of gold beneath its magnificent marble altar. In the central

_plaza_ of the city still stands the building erected to house the

Holy Inquisition, so well preserved that it yet serves as a dwelling.

Adjacent to it, and lining the _plaza_, are spacious colonial

edifices, once the homes of wealth and culture, each shaded by

graceful palms and each enclosing its inner garden, or patio, where

tropical plants and aromatic shrubs riot in richest color and

fragrance throughout the year.

In the halcyon days of Cartagena's greatness, when, under the

protection of the powerful mother-country, her commerce extended to

the confines of the known world, her streets and markets presented a

scene of industry and activity wholly foreign to her in these latter

days of her decadence. From her port the rich traffic which once

centered in this thriving city moved, in constantly swelling volume,

in every direction. In her marts were formulated those audacious plans

which later took shape in ever-memorable expeditions up the Magdalena

and Cauca rivers in search of gold, or to establish new colonies and

extend the city's sphere of influence. From her gates were launched

those projects which had for their object the discovery of the

mysterious regions where rivers were said to flow over sands of pure

gold and silver, or the kingdom of El Dorado, where native potentates

sprinkled their bodies with gold dust before bathing in the streams

sacred to their deities. From this city the bold Quesada set out on

the exploits of discovery and conquest which opened to the world the

rich plateau of Bogotá, and ranked him among the greatest of the

_Conquistadores_. In those days a canal had been cut through the

swamps and dense coast lowlands to the majestic Magdalena river, some

sixty-five miles distant, where a riverine town was founded and given

the name of Calamar, the name Pedro de Heredia had first bestowed upon

Cartagena. Through this _dique_ the city's merchant vessels passed to

the great arterial stream beyond, and thence some thousand miles south

into the heart of the rich and little known regions of upper Colombia.

To-day, like the grass-grown streets of the ancient city, this canal,

choked with weeds and _débris_, is but a green and turbid pool, but

yet a reminder of the faded glory of the famous old town which played

such a dramatic _rôle_ in that age of desperate courage.

In the finished town of Cartagena Spain's dreams of imperial pomp and

magnificence were externalized. In her history the tragedy of the

New World drama has been preserved. To-day, sunk in decadence,

surrounded by the old mediaeval flavor, and steeped in the romance of

an age of chivalry forever past, her muniments and donjons, her

gray, crenelated walls and time-defying structures continue to express

that dogged tenacity of belief and stern defiance of unorthodox

opinion which for two hundred years maintained the Inquisition

within her gates and sacrificed her fair sons and daughters to an

undemonstrable creed. The heavy air of ecclesiasticism still hangs

over her. The priests and monks who accompanied every sanguinary

expedition of the _Conquistadores_, ready at all times to absolve

any desperado who might slay a harmless Indian in the name of Christ,

have their successors to-day in the astute and untiring sons of

Rome, who conserve the interests of Holy Church within these

battered walls and guard their portals against the entrance of radical

thought. Heredia had scarcely founded the city when King Philip sent

it a Bishop. And less than a decade later the Cathedral, which to-day

stands as the center of the episcopal See, was begun.

The Cathedral, though less imposing than the church of San Juan de

Dios, is a fine example of the ecclesiastical architecture of the

colonial era. Occupying a central position in the city, its

ever-open doors invite rich and poor alike, citizen and stranger,

to enter and linger in the refreshing atmosphere within, where the

subdued light and cool shadows of the great nave and chapels afford a

grateful respite from the glare and heat of the streets without.

Massive in exterior appearance, and not beautiful within, the

Cathedral nevertheless exhibits a construction which is at once

broad, simple and harmonious. The nave is more than usually wide

between its main piers, and its rounded arches are lofty and well

proportioned. Excellent portraits of former Bishops adorn its white

walls, and narrow rectangular windows at frequent intervals admit

a dim, mellow light through their dark panes. Before one of these

windows--apparently with no thought of incongruity in the exhibition

of such a gruesome object attached to a Christian church--there

has been affixed an iron grating, said to have served the Holy

Inquisition as a gridiron on which to roast its heretical victims.

Within, an ambulatory, supported on the first tier of arches,

affords a walk along either side of the nave, and leads to the

winding stairway of the bell tower. At one end of this ambulatory,

its entrance commanding a full view of the nave and the _capilla

mayor_, with its exquisitely carved marble altar, is located the

Bishop's _sanctum_. It was here that the young Spanish priest, Josè de

Rincón, stood before the Bishop of Cartagena on the certain midday

to which reference was made in the opening chapter of this recital,

and received with dull ears the ecclesiastical order which removed

him still farther from the world and doomed him to a living burial

in the crumbling town of Simití, in the wilderness of forgotten

Guamocó.

CHAPTER 13

"At last, you come!"

The querulous tones of the aged Bishop eddied the brooding silence

within the Cathedral. Without waiting for a reply he turned again to

his table and took up a paper containing a list of names.

"You wait until midday," he continued testily; "but you give me time

to reflect and decide. The parish of Simití has long been vacant. I

have assigned you to it. The Honda touches at Calamar to-morrow, going

up-river. You will take it."

"Simití! Father--!"

"_Bien_; and would you dispute this too!" quavered the ill-humored

Bishop.

"But--Simití--you surely cannot mean--!"

The Bishop turned sharply around. "I mean that after what I learn from

Rome I will not keep you here to teach your heresies in our

University! I mean that after what I hear this morning of your evil

practices I will not allow you to spend another day in Cartagena!" The

angry ecclesiastic brought his bony fist hard against the table to

emphasize the remark.

"_Madre de Dios!_" he resumed, after some moments of nursing his

choleric feelings. "Would you debate further! The Holy Father for some

unexplained reason inflicts a madman upon me! And I, innocent of what

you are, obey his instructions and place you in the University--with

what result? You have the effrontery--the madness--to lecture to your

classes on the heresies of Rome!"

"But--"

"And as if that were not burden enough for these old shoulders, I must

learn that I have taken a serpent to my bosom--but that you are still

sane enough to propagate heresies--to plot revolution with the

Radicals--and--shame consume you!--to wantonly ruin the fair daughters

of our diocese! But, do you see now why I send you where you can do

less evil than here in Cartagena?"

The priest slowly petrified under the tirade.

"The fault is not mine if I must act without instruction from

Rome," the Bishop went on petulantly. "Twice have I warned you

against your teachings--but I did not suspect then, for only

yesterday did I learn that before coming to me you had been confined

in a monastery--insane! But--_Hombre_! when you bring the blush of

shame to my cheeks because of your godless practices--it is time

to put you away without waiting for instruction!"

Godless practices! Was the Bishop or the priest going mad?

"Go now to your room," the Bishop added, turning again to his table.

"You have little enough time to prepare for your journey. Wenceslas

will give you letters to the Alcalde of Simití."

Wenceslas! The priest's thought flew back over the events of the

morning. Marcelena--Maria--the encounter below with--! _Dios!_ Could

it be that Wenceslas had fastened upon him the stigma of his own

crime? The priest found his tongue.

"Father!--it is untrue!--these charges are false as hell!" he

exclaimed excitedly. "I demand to know who brings them against me!"

The testy Bishop's wrath flared up anew. "You demand! Am I to sit here

and be catechised by _you_? It is enough that I know what occurs in my

diocese, and am well informed of your conduct!"

The doorway darkened, and the priest turned to meet the object of his

suspecting thought.

Bestowing a smile of patronage upon Josè, and bowing obsequiously

before the Bishop, Wenceslas laid some papers upon the table,

remarking as he did so, "The letters, Your Grace, to introduce our

Josè to his new field. Also his instructions and expense money."

"Wenceslas!" The priest confronted him fiercely. "Do you accuse me

before the Bishop?"

"Accuse, _amigo_?" Wenceslas queried in a tone of assumed surprise.

"Have I not said that your ready tongue and pen are your accusers?

But," with a conciliatory air, "we must remember that our good Bishop

mercifully views your conduct in the light of your recent mental

affliction, traces of which, unfortunately, have lingered to cause him

sorrow. And so he graciously prepares a place for you, _caro amigo_,

where rest and relief from the strain of teaching will do you much

good, and where life among simple and affectionate people will restore

you, he hopes, to soundness of mind."

The priest turned again to the Bishop in a complexity of appeal. The

soft speech of Wenceslas, so full of a double _entendu_, so markedly

in contrast with the Bishop's harsh but at least sincere tirade, left

no doubt in his mind that he was now the victim of a plot, whose

ramifications extended back to the confused circumstances of his early

life, and the doubtful purposes of his uncle and his influence upon

the sacerdotal directors in Rome. And he saw himself a helpless and

hopelessly entangled victim.

"Father!" In piteous appeal Josè held out his hands to the Bishop, who

had turned his back upon him and was busy with the papers on his

table.

"_Amigo_, the interview is ended," said Wenceslas quietly, stepping

between the priest and his superior.

Josè pushed wildly past the large form of Wenceslas and seized the

Bishop's hand.

"_Santa Maria!_" cried the petulant churchman. "Do you obey me, or no?

If not, then leave the Church--and spend your remaining days as a

hounded ex-priest and unfrocked apostate," he finished significantly.

"Go, prepare for your journey!"

Wenceslas slipped the letter and a few _pesos_ into the hand of the

smitten, bewildered Josè, and turning him to the door, gently urged

him out and closed it after him.

* * * * *

Just why the monastery gates had opened to him after two years'

deadening confinement, Josè had not been apprised. All he knew was

that his uncle had appeared with a papal appointment for him to the

University of Cartagena, and had urged his acceptance of it as the

only course likely to restore him both to health and position, and to

meet the deferred hopes of his sorrowing mother.

"Accept it, _sobrino mío_," the uncle had said. "Else, pass your

remaining days in confinement. There can be no refutation of the

charges against you. But, if these doors open again to you, think not

ever to sever your connection with the Church of Rome. For, if the

Rincón honor should prove inadequate to hold you to your oath, be

assured that Rincón justice will follow you until the grave wipes out

the stain upon our fair name."

"Then, _tío mío_, let the Church at once dismiss me, as unworthy to be

her son!" pleaded Josè.

"What, excommunication?" cried the horrified uncle. "Never! Death

first! Are you still mad?"

Josè looked into the cold, emotionless eyes of the man and shuddered.

The ancient spirit of the Holy Inquisition lurked there, and he

cowered before it. But at least the semblance of freedom had been

offered him. His numbed heart already had taken hope. He were indeed

mad not to acquiesce in his uncle's demands, and accept the proffered

opportunity to leave forever the scenes of his suffering and disgrace.

And so he bowed again before the inexorable.

Arriving in Cartagena some months before this narrative opens, he had

gradually yielded himself to the restorative effects of changed

environment and the hope which his uncle's warm assurances aroused,

that a career would open to him in the New World, unclouded by the

climacteric episode of the publishing of his journal and his

subsequent arrogant bearing before the Holy Father, which had provoked

his fate. Under the beneficent influences of the soft climate and the

new interests of this tropic land he began to feel a budding of

something like confidence, and the suggestions of an unfamiliar

ambition to retrieve past failure and yet gratify, even if in small

measure, the parental hope which had first directed him as a child

into the fold of the Church. The Bishop had assigned him at once to

pedagogical work in the University; and in the teaching of history,

the languages, and, especially, his beloved Greek, Josè had found an

absorption that was slowly dimming the memory of the dark days which

he had left behind in the Old World.

But the University had not afforded him the only interest in his new

field. He had not been many weeks on Colombian soil when his awakening

perceptions sensed the people's oppression under the tyranny of

ecclesiastical politicians. Nor did he fail to scent the approach of a

tremendous conflict, in which the country would pass through violent

throes in the struggle to shake off the galling yoke of Rome.

Maintaining an attitude of strict neutrality, he had striven quietly

to gauge the anticlerical movement, and had been appalled to find it

so widespread and menacing. Only a miracle could save unhappy Colombia

from being rent by the fiercest of religious wars in the near future.

Oh, if he but had the will, as he had the intellectual ability, to

throw himself into the widening breach!

"There is but one remedy," he murmured aloud, as he sat one evening on

a bench in the _plaza_ of Simón Bolívar, watching the stream of gaily

dressed promenaders parading slowly about on the tesselated walks, but

hearing little of their animated conversation.

"And what is that, may I ask, friend?"

The priest roused up with a start. He had no idea that his audible

meditations had been overheard. Besides, he had spoken in English. But

this question had been framed in the same tongue. He looked around. A

tall, slender man, with thin, bronzed face and well-trimmed Van Dyke

beard, sat beside him. The man laughed pleasantly.

"Didn't know that I should find any one here to-night who could speak

my lingo," he said cordially. "But, I repeat, what is the remedy?"

"Christianity," returned the amazed Josè, without knowing what he

said.

"And the condition to be remedied?" continued the stranger.

"This country's diseased--but to whom have I the honor of speaking?"

drawing himself up a little stiffly, and glancing about to see who

might be observing them.

"Oh, my credentials?" laughed the man, as he caught Josè's wondering

look. "I'm quite unknown in Cartagena, unfortunately. You must pardon

my Yankee inquisitiveness, but I've watched you out here for several

evenings, and have wondered what weighty problems you were wrestling

with. A quite unpardonable offense, from the Spanish viewpoint, but

wholly forgivable in an uncouth American, I'm sure. Besides, when I

heard you speak my language it made me a bit homesick, and I wanted to

hear more of the rugged tongue of the Gentiles."

Laughing again good-naturedly, he reached into an inner pocket and

drew out a wallet. "My name's Hitt," he said, handing Josè his card.

"But I didn't live up to it. That is, I failed to make a hit up north,

and so I'm down here." He chuckled at his own facetiousness. "Amos A.

Hitt," he went on affably. "There used to be a 'Reverend' before it.

That was when I was exploring the Lord's throne. I've dropped it, now

that I'm humbly exploring His footstool instead."

Josè yielded to the man's friendly advances. This was not the first

American he had met; yet it seemed a new type, and one that drew him

strongly.

"So you think this country diseased, eh?" the American continued.

Josè did not answer. While there was nothing in the stranger's

appearance and frank, open countenance to arouse suspicion, yet he

must be careful. He was living down one frightful mistake. He could

not risk another. But the man did not wait for a reply.

"Well, I'm quite agreed with you. It has _priest-itis_." He stopped

and looked curiously at Josè, as if awaiting the effect of his bold

words. Then--"I take it you are not really one of 'em?"

Josè stared at the man in amazement. Hitt laughed again. Then he drew

forth a cigar and held it out. "Smoke?" he said. The priest shook his

head. Hitt lighted the cigar himself, then settled back on the bench,

his hands jammed into his trousers pockets, and his long legs stuck

straight out in front, to the unconcealed annoyance of the passers-by.

But, despite his _brusquerie_ and his thoughtlessness, there was

something about the American that was wonderfully attractive to the

lonely priest.

"Yes, sir," Hitt went on abstractedly in corroboration of his former

statement, "Colombia is absolutely stagnant, due to Jesuitical

politics, the bane of all good Catholic countries. If she could shake

off priestcraft she'd have a chance--provided she didn't fall into

orthodox Protestantism."

Josè gasped, though he strove to hide his wonder. "You--" he began

hesitatingly, "you were in the ministry--?"

"Yes. Don't be afraid to come right out with it. I was a Presbyterian

divine some six years ago, in Cincinnati. Ever been there?"

Josè assured him that he had never seen the States.

"H'm," mused the ex-preacher; "great country--wonderful--none like it

in the world! I've been all over, Europe, Asia, Africa--seen 'em all.

America's the original Eden, and our women are the only true

descendants of mother Eve. No question about it, that apple incident

took place up in the States somewhere--probably in Ohio."

Josè caught the man's infectious humor and laughed heartily. Surely,

this American was a tonic, and of the sort that he most needed. "Then,

you are--still touring--?"

"I'm exploring," Hitt replied. "I'm here to study what ancient records

I may find in your library; then I shall go on to Medellin and Bogotá.

I'm on the track of a prehistoric Inca city, located somewhere in the

Andes--and no doubt in the most inaccessible spot imaginable.

Tradition cites this lost city as the cradle of Inca civilization.

Tampu Tocco, it is called in their legends, the place from which the

Incas went out to found that marvelous empire which eventually

included the greater part of South America. The difficulty is," he

added, knotting his brows, "that the city was evidently unknown to the

Spaniards. I can find no mention of it in Spanish literature, and I've

searched all through the libraries of Spain. My only hope now is that

I shall run across some document down here that will allude to it, or

some one who has heard likely Indian rumors."

Josè rubbed his eyes and looked hard at the man. "Well!" he

ejaculated, "you are--if I may be permitted to say it--an original

type."

"I presume I am," admitted the American genially. "I've been all sorts

of things in my day, preacher, teacher, editor. My father used to be a

circuit rider in New England forty years ago or more. Pious--good

Lord! Why, he was one of the kind who believe the good book 'from

kiver to kiver,' you know. Used to preach interminable sermons about

the mercy of the Lord in holding us all over the smoking pit and not

dropping us in! Why, man! after listening to him expound the

Scriptures at night I used to go to bed with my hair on end and my

skin all goose-flesh. No wonder I urged him to send me to the

Presbyterian Seminary!"

"And you were ordained?" queried Josè, dark memories rising in his own

thought.

"Thoroughly so! And glad I was of it, too, for I had grown up as pious

and orthodox as my good father. I considered the ordination a through

ticket to paradise."

"But--now--"

"Oh, I found myself in time," continued the man, answering Josè's

unspoken thought. "Then I stopped preaching beautiful legends, and

tried to be genuinely helpful to my congregation. I had a fine church

in Cincinnati at that time. But--well, I mixed a trifle too much

heresy into my up-to-date sermons, I guess. Anyway, the Assembly

didn't approve my orthodoxy, and I had as little respect for its

heterodoxy, and the upshot of it was that I quit--cold." He laughed

grimly as he finished the recital. "But," he went on gravely, "I now

see that it was due simply to my desire to progress beyond the

acceptance of tradition and allegory as truth, and to find some better

foundation upon which to build than the undemonstrable articles of

faith embraced in the Westminster Confession. To me, that confession

of faith had become a confession of ignorance." He turned his shrewd

eyes upon Josè. "I was in somewhat the same mental state that I think

you are in now," he added.

"And why, if I may ask, are you now exploring?" asked Josè,

disregarding the implication.

"Oh, as for that," replied the American easily, "I used to teach

history and became especially interested in ancient civilizations,

lost cities, and the like, in the Western Hemisphere. Long before I

left the ministry oil was struck on our little Pennsylvania farm,

and--well, I didn't have to work after that. So for some years I've

devoted myself strictly to my particular hobby of travel. And in my

work I find it necessary to discard ceremony, and scrape acquaintance

with all sorts and conditions. I especially cultivate clergymen. I've

wanted to know you ever since I first saw you out here. But I couldn't

wait for a formal introduction. And so I broke in unceremoniously upon

your meditations a few moments ago."

"I am grateful to you for doing so," said Josè frankly, holding out a

hand. "There is much that you can tell me--much that I want to know.

But--" He again looked cautiously around.

"Ah, I understand," said Hitt, quickly sensing the priest's

uneasiness. "What say you, shall we meet somewhere down by the city

wall? Say, at the old Inquisition cells?"

Josè nodded his acquiescence, and they separated. A few minutes later

the two were seated in one of the cavernous archways of the long,

echoing corridor which leads to the deserted barracks and the gloomy,

bat-infested cells beneath. A vagrant breeze drifted now and then

across the grim wall above them, and the deserted road in front lay

drenched in the yellow light of the tropic moon. There was little

likelihood of detection here, where the dreamy plash of the sea

drowned the low sound of their voices; and Josè breathed more freely

than in the populous _plaza_ which they had just left.

"Good Lord!" muttered the explorer, returning from a peep into the

foul blackness of a subterranean tunnel, "imagine what took place here

some three centuries ago!"

"Yes," returned Josè sadly; "and in the reeking dungeons of San

Fernando, out there at the harbor entrance. And, what is worse, my own

ancestors were among the perpetrators of those black deeds committed

in the name of Christ."

"Whew! You don't say! Tell me about it." The explorer drew closer.

Josè knew somehow that he could trust this stranger, and so he briefly

sketched his ancestral story to his sympathetic listener. "And no one

knows," he concluded in a depressed tone, "how many of the thousands

of victims of the Inquisition in Cartagena were sent to their doom by

the house of Rincón. It may be," he sighed, "that the sins of my

fathers have been visited upon me--that I am now paying in part the

penalty for their criminal zeal."

The explorer sat for some time in silent meditation. "Perhaps," he

said, "your family fell under the spell of old Saint Dominic. You

know the legend? How God deliberated long whether to punish the

wickedness of mankind by sending down war, plague, or famine, and was

finally prevailed upon by Saint Dominic to send, instead, the Holy

Inquisition. Another choice example of the convenient way the

world has always had of attributing the foulest deeds of men to the

Almighty. No wonder religion has so woefully declined!"

"But is it so up in the great North?" asked Josè. "Tell me, what is

the religious status there? My limitations have been such that I

have--I have not kept abreast of current theological thought."

"In the United States the conventional, passive submission to

orthodox dogma is rapidly becoming a thing of the past," the explorer

replied. "The people are beginning to think on these topics. All

human opinion, philosophical, religious, or scientific, is in a

state of liquefaction--not yet solidified. Just what will crystallize

out of the magma is uncertain. The country is experiencing a

religious crisis, and an irresistible determination to _know_ is

abroad in the land. Everything is being turned upside-down, and one

hardly dares longer say what he believes, for the dogma of to-day is

the fairy-tale of to-morrow. And, through it all, as some one has

tersely said, 'orthodoxy is hanging onto the coat-tails of progress in

a vain attempt to stop her.' We are facing in the United States

the momentous question, Is Christianity a failure? Although no one

knows what Christianity really is. But one thing is certain, the

brand of Christianity handed out by Protestant and Catholic alike is

mighty close to the borderline of dismal failure."

"But is there in the North no distinct trend in religious belief?"

queried Josè.

The explorer hesitated. "Yes," he said slowly, "there is. The man who

holds and promulgates any belief, religious or scientific, is being

more and more insistently forced to the point of demonstration. The

citation of patristic authority is becoming daily more thoroughly

obsolete."

"And there is no one who demonstrates practical Christianity?"

"No. Do you? Is there any one in your Church, or in the Protestant

faith, who does the works which Christ is reported to have done? Is

there any one who really tries to do them? Or thinks he could if he

tried? The good church Fathers from the third century down could

figure out that the world was created on the night before the

twenty-third of October, four thousand and four B. C., and that Adam's

fall occurred about noon of the day he was created. They could dilate

_ad nauseam_ on transubstantiation, the divine essence, and the

mystery of the Trinity; they could astonishingly allegorize the Bible

legends, and read into every word a deep, hidden, incomprehensible

sense; they could prove to their own satisfaction that Adam composed

certain of the Psalms; that Moses wrote every word of the Pentateuch,

even the story of his own death and burial; and that the entire Bible

was delivered by God to man, word for word, just as it stands,

including the punctuation. And yet, not one of them followed the

simple commands of Jesus closely enough to enable him to cure a

toothache, to say nothing of generally healing the sick and raising

the dead! Am I not right?"

"Yes--I am sorry to have to admit," murmured Josè.

"Well," went on the explorer, "that's what removed me from the

Presbyterian ministry. It is not Christianity that is a dismal

failure, but men's interpretation of it. Of true Christianity, I

confess I know little. Oh, I'm a fine preacher! And yet I am

representative of thousands of others, like myself, all at sea. Only,

the others are either ashamed or afraid to make this confession. But,

in my case, my daily bread did not depend upon my continuance in the

pulpit."

"But supposing that it had--"

"The result doubtless would have been the same. The orthodox faith was

utterly failing to supply me with a satisfying interpretation of

life, and it afforded me no means of escaping the discords of mundane

existence. It could only hold out an undemonstrable promise of a life

after death, provided I was elected, and provided I did not too

greatly offend the Creator during the few short years that I might

spend on earth. If I did that, then, according to the glorious

Westminster Confession, I was doomed--for we are not so fortunate as

you in having a purgatory from which we may escape through the

suffrages of the faithful," he concluded with a chuckle.

Josè knew, as he listened, that his own Church would hold this man a

blasphemer. The man by his own confession was branded a Protestant

heretic. And he, Josè, was _anathema_ for listening to these sincere,

brutally frank confidences, and tendering them his warm sympathy. Yet

he sat spellbound.

"And so I retired from the ministry," continued the explorer. "I had

become ashamed of tearing down other men's religious beliefs. I was

weary of having to apologize constantly for the organization to which

I was attached. At home I had been taught a devout faith in revealed

religion; in the world I was thrown upon its inquiring doubts; I

yearned for faith, yet demanded scientific proof. Why, I would have

been satisfied with even the slight degree of proof which we are able

to advance for our various physical sciences. But, no, it was not

forthcoming. I must believe because the Fathers had believed. I

struggled between emotion and reason, until--well, until I had to

throw it all over to keep from going mad."

Josè bowed in silence before this recital of a soul-experience so

closely paralleling his own.

"But, come," said the explorer cheerily, "I'm doing all the talking.

Now--"

"No! no!" interrupted the eager Josè. "I do not wish to talk. I want

to hear you. Go on, I beg of you! Your words are like rain to a

parched field. You will yet offer me something upon which I can build

with new hope."

"Do not be so sanguine, my friend," returned the explorer in a kindly

tone. "I fear I shall be only the reaper, who cuts the weeds and

stubble, and prepares the field for the sower. I have said that I am

an explorer. But my field is not limited to this material world. I am

an explorer of men's thoughts as well. I am in search of a religion. I

manifest this century's earnest quest for demonstrable truth. And so I

stop and question every one I meet, if perchance he may point me in

the right direction. My incessant wandering about the globe is, if I

may put it that way, but the outward manifestation of my ceaseless

search in the realm of the soul."

He paused. Then, reaching out and laying a hand upon the priest's

knee, he said in a low, earnest voice, "My friend, _something_

happened in that first year of our so-called Christian era. What it

was we do not know. But out of the smoke and dust, the haze and mist

of that great cataclysm has proceeded the character Jesus--absolutely

unique. It is a character which has had a terrific influence upon the

world ever since. Because of it empires have crumbled; a hundred

million human lives have been destroyed; and the thought-processes of

a world have been overthrown or reversed. Just what he said, just what

he did, just how he came, and how he went, we may not know with any

high degree of accuracy. But, beneath all the myth and legend, the

lore and childish human speculation of the intervening centuries,

there _must_ be a foundation of eternal truth. And it must be

broad--very broad. I am digging for it--as I dug on the sites of

ancient Troy and Babylon--as I have dug over the buried civilizations

of Mexico and Yucatan--as I shall dig for the hidden Inca towns on the

wooded heights of the Andes. And while I dig materially I am also

digging spiritually."

"And what have you found?" asked Josè hoarsely.

"I am still in the overburden of _débris_ which the sedulous, tireless

Fathers heaped mountain high upon the few recorded teachings of Jesus.

But already I see indications of things to come that would make the

members of the Council of Trent and the cocksure framers of the

Westminster Confession burst from their graves by sheer force of

astonishment! There are even now foreshadowings of such revolutionary

changes in our concept of God, of the universe, of matter, and the

human mind, of evil, and all the controverted points of theological

discussion of this day, as to make me tremble when I contemplate them.

In my first hasty judgment, after dipping into the 'Higher Criticism,'

I concluded that Jesus was but a charlatan, who had learned

thaumaturgy in Egypt and practiced it in Judea. Thanks to a better

appreciation of the same 'Higher Criticism' I am reconstructing my

concept of him now, and on a better basis. I once denounced God as the

creator of both good and evil, and of a man who He knew must

inevitably fall, even before the clay of which he was made had become

fairly dry. I changed that concept later to Matthew Arnold's 'that

something not ourselves that makes for righteousness.' But mighty few

to-day recognize such a God! Again, in Jesus' teaching that sin

brought death into the world, I began to see what is so dimly

foreshadowed to-day, the _mental_ nature of all things. 'Sin' is the

English translation of the original '_hamartio_,' which means, 'to

miss the mark,' a term used in archery. Well, then, missing the mark

is the mental result of nonconformity to law, is it not? And, going

further, if death is the result of missing the mark, and that is

itself due to mental cause, and, since death results from sickness,

old age, or catastrophe, then these things must likewise be mental.

Sickness, therefore, becomes wholly mental, does it not? Death becomes

mental. Sin is mental. Spirit, the Creator, is mental. Matter is

mental. And we live and act in a mental realm, do we not? The sick

man, then, becomes one who misses the mark, and therefore a sinner. I

think you will agree with me that the sick man is not at peace with

God, if God is 'that which makes for righteousness.' Surely the maker

of that old Icelandic sixteenth-century Bible must have been inspired

when, translating from Luther's Bible, he wrote in the first chapter

of Genesis, 'And God created man after His own likeness, in the

likeness of _Mind_ shaped He him.' Cannot you see the foreshadowing to

which I have referred?"

Josè kept silence. The current of his thought seemed about to swerve

from its wonted course.

"What is coming is this," continued the explorer earnestly, "a

tremendous broadening of our concept of God, a more exalted, a more

worthy concept of Him as spirit--or, if you will, as mind. An

abandonment of the puerile concept of Him as a sort of magnified man,

susceptible to the influence of preachers, or of Virgin and Saints,

and yielding to their petitions, to their higher sense of justice, and

to money-bought earthly ceremonies to lift an imaginary curse from His

own creatures. And with it will come that wonderful consciousness of

Him which I now begin to realize that Jesus must have had, a

consciousness of Him as omnipotent, omnipresent good. As I to-day read

the teachings of Jesus I am constrained to believe that he was

conscious _only_ of God and God's spiritual manifestation. And in that

remarkable consciousness the man Jesus realized his own life--indeed,

that consciousness _was_ his life--and it included no sense of evil.

The great lesson which I draw from it is that evil must, therefore, be

utterly unreal and non-existent. And heaven is but the acquisition of

that mind or consciousness which was in Christ Jesus."

"But, Mr. Hitt, such ideas are revolutionary!"

"True, if immediately and generally adopted. And so you see why the

Church strives to hold the people to its own archaic and innocuous

religious tenets; why your Church strives so zealously to hold its

adherents fast to the rules laid down by pagan emperors and ignorant,

often illiterate churchmen, in their councils and synods; and why the

Protestant church is so quick to denounce as unevangelical everything

that does not measure to its devitalized concept of Christianity. They

do not practice what they preach; yet they would not have you

practice anything else. The human mind that calls itself a Christian

is a funny thing, isn't it?"

He laughed lightly; then lapsed into silence. The sea breeze rose and

sighed among the great, incrusted arches. The restless waves moaned in

their eternal assault upon the defiant walls. The moon clouded, and a

warm rain began to fall. Josè rose. "I must return to the dormitory,"

he announced briefly. "When you pass me in the _plaza_ to-morrow

evening, come at once to this place. I will meet you here. You have--I

must--"

But he did not finish. Pressing the explorer's hand, he turned

abruptly and hurried up the dim, narrow street.

CHAPTER 14

All through the following day the priest mused over the conversation

of the preceding night. The precipitation with which this new

friendship had been formed, and the subsequent abrupt exchange of

confidences, had scarcely impressed him as unusual. He was wholly

absorbed by the radical thought which the man had voiced. He mulled

over it in his wakeful hours that night. He could not prevent it from

coloring the lecture which he delivered to his class in ancient

history that day. And when the sun at length dropped behind La Popa,

he hurried eagerly to the _plaza_. A few minutes later he and the

ex-clergyman met in the appointed rendezvous.

"I dropped in to have a look at the remains of Pedro Claver to-day,"

his new friend remarked. "The old sexton scraped and bowed with huge

joy as he led me behind the altar and lighted up the grewsome thing. I

suppose he believed that Pedro's soul was up in the clouds making

intercession with the Lord for him, while he, poor devil, was toting

tourists around to gaze at the Saint's ghastly bones in their glass

coffin. The thing would be funny were it not for its sad side, namely,

the dense and superstitious ignorance in which such as this poor

sexton are held all their lives by your Church. It's a shame to feed

them with the bones of dead Saints, instead of with the bread of life!

But," he reflected, "I was myself just as bigoted at one time. And my

zeal to convert the world to Protestantism was just as hot as any that

ever animated the missionaries of your faith."

He paused and looked quizzically at Josè. He seemed to be studying the

length to which he could go in his criticism of the ancient faith of

the house of Rincón. But Josè remained in expectant silence.

"Speaking of missionaries," the man resumed, "I shall never forget an

experience I had in China. My wealthy and ultra-aristocratic

congregation decided that I needed rest, and so sent me on a world

tour. It was a member of that same congregation, by the way, a stuffy

old dame whose wealth footed up to millions, who once remarked to me

in all confidence that she had no doubt the aristocracy of heaven was

composed of Presbyterians. Poor, old, empty-headed prig! What could I

do but assure her that I held the same comforting conviction! Well,

through influential friends in Pekin I was introduced to the eminent

Chinese statesman, Wang Fo, of delightful memory. Our conversation

turned on religion, and then I made the most inexcusable _faux pas_

that a blithering Yankee could make, that of expressing regret that he

was not of our faith. Good heavens! But he was the most gracious

gentleman in the world, and his biting rebuke was couched in tones of

silken softness.

"'What is it that you offer me?' he said mildly. 'Blind opinion?

Undemonstrated and undemonstrable theory? Why, may I ask, do you

come over here to convert us heathen, when your own Christian land

is rife with evil, with sedition, with religious hatred of man for

man, with bloodshed and greed? If your religious belief is true,

then you can demonstrate it--prove it beyond doubt. Do you say

that the wonderful material progress which your great country

manifests is due to Christianity? I answer you, no. It is due to

the unfettering of the human mind, to the laying off of much of

the mediaeval superstition which in the past ages has blighted

mankind. It is due largely to the abandonment of much of what you

are still pleased to call Christianity. The liberated human mind

has expanded to a degree never before seen in the world. We Chinese

are still mentally fettered by our stubborn resistance to change,

to progression. Your great inventors and your great men of finance

are but little hampered by religious superstition. Hence the

mental flights which they so boldly undertake, and the stupendous

achievements they attain. Is it not so?'

"What could I say? He had me. But he hadn't finished me quite.

"'I once devoted much time to the study of Chemistry,' he went on

blandly, 'and when I tell you that there is a law to the effect that

the volume of a gas is a function of its pressure I do so with the

full knowledge that I can furnish you indisputable proof therefor. But

when you come to me with your religious theories, and I mildly request

your proofs, you wish to imprison or hang me for doubting the

absurdities which you cannot establish!'

"He laughed genially, then took me kindly by the arm. 'Proof, my

zealous friend, proof,' he said. 'Give me proof this side of the grave

for what you believe, and then you will have converted the heathen.

And can your Catholic friend--or, shall I say enemy?--prove his

laughable doctrine of purgatory? The dead in purgatory dependent upon

the living! Why, I tell him, that smacks of Shintoism, wherein the

living feed the dead! Then he points in holy indignation to the Bible.

Bah! Cannot I prove anything I may wish from your Bible? What will

you have? Polygamy? Incest? Murder? Graft? Hand me your Bible, and

I will establish its divinity. No, my good friend. When you come to

me with proofs that you really do the works of him whom you profess

to follow, then will I gladly listen, for I, too, seek truth. But

in the present deplorable absence of proofs I take much more comfort

in the adoration of my amiable ancestors than I could in your

laughable and undemonstrable religious creeds.'

"I left his presence a saddened but chastened man, and went home to do

a little independent thinking. When I approached my Bible without the

bias of the Westminster Confession I discovered that it did serve

admirably as a wardrobe in which to hang any sort of religious

prejudice. Continued study made me see that religious faith is

generally mere human credulity. I discovered that in my pitying

contempt for those of differing belief I much resembled the Yankee who

ridiculed a Chinaman for wearing a pig-tail. 'True,' the Celestial

replied, 'we still wear the badge of our former slavery. But you

emancipated Americans, do you not wear the badge of a present and much

worse form of slavery in your domination by Tammany Hall, by your

corrupt politicians, and your organizers and protectors of crime?'

"As time passed I gradually began to feel much more kindly toward Matthew

Arnold, who said, 'Orthodox theology is an immense misunderstanding of

the Bible.' And I began likewise to respect his statement that our Bible

language is 'fluid and passing'--that much of it is the purest poetry,

beautiful and inspiring, but symbolical."

"But," broke in Josè, "you must admit that there is something awfully

wrong with the world, with--"

"Well," interrupted Hitt, "and what is it? As historical fact, that

story about Adam and Eve eating an apple and thereby bringing down

God's curse upon the whole innocent human race is but a figment of

little minds, and an insult to divine intelligence. But, as

symbolizing the dire penalty we pay for a belief in the reality of

both good and evil--ah, that is a note just beginning to be sounded in

the world at large. And it may account for the presence of the world's

evil."

"Yet, our experience certainly shows that evil is just as real and

just as immanent as good! And, indeed, more powerful in this life."

"If so," replied the explorer gravely, "then God created or instituted

it. And in that case I must break with God."

"Then you think it is all a question of our own individual idea of

God?"

"Entirely. And human concepts of Him have been many and varied. But

that worst of Old Testament interpreters of the first century, Philo,

came terribly close to the truth, I think, when, in a burst of

inspiration, he one day wrote: 'Heaven is mind, and earth is

sensation.' Matthew Arnold, I think, likewise came very close to the

truth when he said that the only God we can recognize is 'that

something not ourselves that makes for righteousness.' And, as for

evil, up in the United States there are some who are now lumping it

all under the head of 'mortal mind,' considering it all but the 'one

lie' which Jesus so often referred to, and regarding it as the

'suppositional opposite' of the mind that is God, and so, powerless.

Not a bad idea, I think. But whether the money-loving Yankee will ever

leave his mad chase for gold long enough to live this premise and so

demonstrate it, is a question. I'm watching its development with

intense interest. We in the States have wonderful, exceptional

opportunities for study and research. We ought to uncover the truth,

if any people should."

He fell into thoughtfulness again. Josè drew a long sigh. "I wish--I

wish," he murmured, "that I might go there--that I might live and work

and search up there."

The explorer roused up. "And why not?" he asked abruptly. "Look here,

come with me and spend a year or so digging around for buried Inca

towns. Then we will go back to the States. Why, man! it would make you

over. I'll take you as interpreter. And in the States I'll find a

place for you. Come. Will you?"

For a moment the doors of imagination swung wide, and in the burst of

light from within Josè saw the dreams of a lifetime fulfilled.

Emancipation lay that way. Freedom, soul-expansion, truth. It was his

God-given privilege. Who had the right to lay a detaining hand upon

him? Was not his soul his own, and his God's?

Then a dark hand stole out from the surrounding shadows and closed the

doors. From the blackness there seemed to rise a hollow voice,

uttering the single word, _Honor_. He thrust out an arm, as if to ward

off the assaults of temptation. "No, no," he said aloud, "I am bound

to the Church!"

"But why remain longer in an institution with which you are quite out

of sympathy?" the explorer urged.

"First, to help the Church. Who will uplift her if we desert her? And,

second, to help this, my ancestral country," replied Josè in deep

earnestness.

"Worthy aims, both," assented Hitt. "But, my friend, what will you

accomplish here, unless you can educate these people to think? I have

learned much about conditions in this country. I find that the priest

in Colombia is even more intolerant than in Ireland, for here he has a

monopoly, no competition. He is absolute. The Colombian is the logical

product of the doctrines of Holy Church. It is so in Mexico. It is so

wherever the curse of a fixed mentality is imposed upon a people. For

that engenders determined opposition to mobility. It quenches

responsiveness to new concepts and new ideas. It throttles a nation.

The bane of mental progress is the _Semper Idem_ of your Church."

"Christianity will remove the curse."

"I have no doubt whatever of that. It probably is the future cure for

all social ills and evils of every sort. But if so, it must be the

Christianity which Jesus taught and demonstrated--not the theological

chaff now disseminated in his name. Do not forget that we no longer

know what Christianity is. It is a lost science."

"It can and will be recovered!" cried Josè warmly.

"I have said that is foreshadowed. But we must have the whole garment

of the Christ, without human _addenda_. He is reported as having said,

'The works that I do bear witness of me.' Now the works of the

Christian Church bear ample witness that she has not the true

understanding of the Christ. Nor has that eminent Protestant divine,

now teaching in a theological seminary in the States, who recently

said that, although Jesus ministered miraculously to the physical man,

yet it was not his intention that his disciples should continue that

sort of ministry; that the healing which Jesus did was wholly

incidental, and was not an example to be permanently imitated. Good

heavens! how these poor theologians hide their inability to do the

works of the Master by taking refuge in such ridiculously unwarranted

assertions. To them the rule seems to be that, if you can't do a thing

you must deny the possibility of its being done. Great logic, isn't

it?

"And yet," he went on, "the Church has had nearly two thousand years

in which to learn to do the works of the Master. Pretty dull pupil, I

think. And we've had nearly two thousand years of theology from this

slow pupil. Would that she would from now on give us a little real

Christianity! Heavens! the world needs it. And yet, do you know,

sectarian feeling is still so bitter in the so-called Church of God

that if a Bishop of the Anglican Church should admit Presbyterians,

Methodists, or members of other denominations to his communion table a

scream of rage would go up all over England, and a mighty demand would

be raised to impeach the Bishop for heresy! Think of it! God above!

the puny human mind. Do you wonder that the dogma of the Church has

lost force? That, despite its thunders, thinking men laugh? I freely

admit that our great need is to find an adequate substitute for the

authority which others would like to impose upon us. But where shall

we find such authority, if not in those who demonstrate their ability

to do the works of the Master? Show me your works, and I'll show you

my faith. This is my perpetual challenge.

"But, now," he said, "returning to the subject so near your heart: the

condition of this country is that of a large part of South America,

where the population is unsettled, even turbulent, and where a

priesthood, fanatical, intolerant, often unscrupulous, pursue their

devious means to extend and perpetuate unhindered the sway of your

Church. Colombia is struggling to remove the blight which Spain laid

upon her, namely, mediaeval religion. It is this same blighting

religion, coupled with her remorseless greed, which has brought Spain

to her present decrepit, empty state. And how she did strive to force

that religion upon the world! Whole nations, like the Incas, for

example, ruthlessly slaughtered by the papal-benisoned riffraff of

Spain in her attempts to foist herself into world prestige and to

bolster up the monstrous assumptions of Holy Church! The Incas were a

grand nation, with a splendid mental viewpoint. But it withered under

the touch of the mediaeval narrowness fastened upon it. Whole nations

wasted in support of papal assumptions--and do you think that the end

is yet? Far from it! War is coming here in Colombia. It may come in

other parts of this Western Hemisphere, certainly in Mexico, certainly

in Peru and Bolivia and Chili, rocked in the cradle of Holy Church for

ages, but now at last awaking to a sense of their backward condition

and its cause. If ever the Church had a chance to show what she could

do when given a free hand, she has had it in these countries,

particularly in Mexico. In all the nearly four centuries of her

unmolested control in that fair land, oppressed by sword and crucifix,

did she ever make an attempt worth the name to uplift and emancipate

the common man? Not one. She took his few, hard-earned _pesos_ to get

his weary soul out of an imagined purgatory--but she left him to rot

in peonage while on earth! But, friend, I repeat, the struggle is

coming here in Colombia. And look you well to your own escape when it

arrives!"

"And can I do nothing to help avert it?" cried the distressed Josè.

"Well," returned the explorer meditatively, "such bondage is removable

either through education or war. But in Colombia I fear the latter

will overtake the former by many decades."

"Then rest assured that I shall in the meantime do what in me lies to

instruct my fellow-countrymen, and to avoid such a catastrophe!"

"Good luck to you, friend. And--by the way, here is a little book that

may help you in your work. I'm quite sure you've never read it. Under

the ban, you know. Renan's _Vie de Jésus_. It can do you no harm, and

may be useful."

Josè reached out and took the little volume. It was _anathema_, he

knew, but he could not refuse to accept it.

"And there is another book that I strongly recommend to you. I'm sorry

I haven't a copy here. It once created quite a sensation. It is

called, 'Confessions of a Roman Catholic Priest.' Published

anonymously, in Vienna, but unquestionably bearing the earmarks of

authenticity. It mentions this country--"

Without speaking, Josè had slowly risen and started down the musty

corridor, his thought aflame with the single desire to get away. Down

past the empty barracks and gaping cells he went, without stopping to

peer into their tenebrous depths--on and on, skirting the grim walls

that typified the mediaevalism surrounding and fettering his restless

thought--on to the long incline which led up to the broad esplanade on

the summit. Must he forever flee this pursuing Nemesis? Or should he

hurl himself from the wall, once he gained the top? At the upper end

of the incline he heard the low sound of voices. A priest and a young

girl who sat there on the parapet rose as he approached. He stopped

abruptly in front of them. "Wenceslas!" he exclaimed. "And Maria!"

"Ah, _amigo_, a quiet stroll before retiring? It is a sultry night."

"Yes," slowly replied Josè, looking at the girl, who drew back into

the shadow cast by the body of her companion. Then, bowing, he passed

on down the wall and disappeared in the darkness that shrouded the

distance.

A few minutes later the long form of the explorer appeared above the

incline. Wenceslas and the girl had departed. Seeing no one, the

American turned and descended to the ground, shaking his head in deep

perplexity.

CHAPTER 15

The next day was one of the Church's innumerable feast-days, and Josè

was free to utilize it as he might. He determined on a visit to the

suburb of Turbaco, some eight miles from Cartagena, and once the site

of Don Ignacio's magnificent country home. Although he had been some

months in Cartagena, he had never before felt any desire to pass

beyond its walls. Now it seemed to him that he must break the

limitation which those encircling walls typified, that his restless

thought might expand ere it formulated into definite concepts and

plans for future work. This morning he wanted to be alone. The old

injury done to his sensitive spirit by the publication of his journal

had been unwittingly opened anew. The old slowness had crept again

into his gait since the evening before. Over night his countenance had

resumed its wonted heaviness; and his slender shoulders bent again

beneath their former burden.

When Josè arrived in Cartagena he had found it a city of vivid

contrasts. There mediaevalism still strove with the spirit of modern

progress; and so it suited well as an environment for the dilation of

his shrunken soul-arteries. The lethal influence of the monastery long

lay over him, beneath which he continued to manifest those eccentric

habits which his prolonged state of loneliness had engendered. He

looked askance at the amenities which his associates tentatively held

out to him. He sank himself deep in study, and for weeks, even months,

he shunned the world of people and things. He found no stimulus to a

search for his ancestral palace within the city, nor for a study of

the Rincón records which lay moldering in the ancient city's

archives.

But, as the sunlit days drifted dreamily past with peaceful, unvarying

monotony, Josè's faculties, which had always been alert until he had

been declared insane, gradually awakened. His violently disturbed

balance began to right itself; his equilibrium became in a measure

restored. The deadening thought that he had accomplished nothing in

his vitiated life yielded to a hopeful determination to yet retrieve

past failure. The pride and fear which had balked the thought of

self-destruction now served to fan the flame of fresh resolve. He

dared not do any writing, it was true. But he could delve and study.

And a thousand avenues opened to him through which he could serve his

fellow-men. The papal instructions which his traveling companion, the

Apostolic Delegate, had brought to the Bishop of Cartagena, evidently

had sufficed for his credentials; and the latter had made no occasion

to refer to the priest's past. An order from the Vatican was law; and

the Bishop obeyed it with no other thought than its inerrancy and

inexorability. And with the lapse of the several months which had

slipped rapidly away while he sought to forget and to clear from his

mind the dark clouds of melancholia which had settled over it, Josè

became convinced that the Bishop knew nothing of his career prior to

his arrival in Colombia.

And it is possible that the young priest's secret would have died with

him--that he would have lived out his life amid the peaceful scenes of

this old, romantic town, and gone to his long rest at last with the

consciousness of having accomplished his mite in the service of his

fellow-beings; it is possible that Rome would have forgotten him; and

that his uncle's ambitions, to which he knew that he had been regarded

as in some way useful, would have flagged and perished over the watery

waste which separated the New World from the Old, but for the

intervention of one man, who crossed Josè's path early in his new

life, found him inimical to his own worldly projects, and removed him,

therefore, as sincerely in the name of Christ as the ancient

_Conquistadores_, with priestly blessing, hewed from their paths of

conquest the simple and harmless aborigines.

That man was Wenceslas Ortiz, trusted servant of Holy Church,

who had established himself in Cartagena to keep a watchful eye on

anticlerical proceedings. That he was able to do this, and at the

same time turn them greatly to his own advantage, marks him as a man

of more than usually keen and resourceful mentality. He was a

native son, born of prosperous parents in the riverine town of

Mompox, which, until the erratic Magdalena sought for itself a new

channel, was the chief port between Barranquilla and the distant

Honda. There had been neither family custom nor parental hopes

to consider among the motives which had directed him into the

Church. He was a born worldling, but with unmistakable talents for

and keen appreciation of the art of politics. His love of money was

subordinate only to his love of power. To both, his talents made

access easy. In the contemplation of a career in his early years

he had hesitated long between the Church and the Army; but had

finally thrown his lot with the former, as offering not only

equal possibilities of worldly preferment and riches, but far

greater stability in those periodic revolutions to which his

country was so addicted. The Army was frequently overthrown; the

Church, never. The Government changed with every successful

political revolution; the Church remained immovable. And so with

the art of a trained politician he cultivated his chosen field with

such intensity that even the Holy See felt the glow of his ardor,

and in recognition of his marked abilities, his pious fervor and

great influence, was constrained to place him just where he wished

to be, at the right hand of the Bishop of Cartagena, and probable

successor to that aged incumbent, who had grown to lean heavily

and confidingly upon him.

As coadjutor, or suffragan to the Bishop of Cartagena, Wenceslas Ortiz

had at length gathered unto himself sufficient influence of divers

nature as, in his opinion, to ensure him the See in case the bishopric

should, as was contemplated, be raised eventually to the status of a

Metropolitan. It was he, rather than the Bishop, who distributed

parishes to ambitious pastors and emoluments to greedy politicians.

His irons in ecclesiastical, political, social and commercial fires

were innumerable. The doctrine of the indivisibility of Church and

State had in him an able champion--but only because he thereby found a

sure means of increasing his prestige and augmenting his power and

wealth. His methods of work manifested keenness, subtlety, shrewdness

and skill. His rewards were lavish. His punishments, terrible. The

latter smacked of the Inquisition: he preferred torture to quick

despatch.

It had not taken Wenceslas long to estimate the character of the

newcomer, Josè. Nor was he slow to perceive that this liberal pietist

was cast in an unusual mold. Polity necessitated the cultivation of

Josè, as it required the friendship--or, in any event, the thorough

appraisement--of every one with whom Wenceslas might be associated.

But the blandishments, artifice, diplomacy and hints of advancements

which he poured out in profusion upon Josè he early saw would fail

utterly to penetrate the armor of moral reserve with which the priest

was clad, or effect in the slightest degree the impression which they

were calculated to make.

In the course of time the priest became irritating; later, annoying;

and finally, positively dangerous to the ambitions of Wenceslas. For,

to illustrate, Josè had once discovered him, in the absence of the

Bishop, celebrating Mass in a state of inebriation. This irritated.

Wenceslas had only been careless. Again, Josè had several times shown

himself suspicious of his fast-and-loose methods with the rival

political factions of Cartagena. This was annoying. Finally, he had

come upon Josè in the market place a few weeks prior, in earnest

conference with Marcelena and the girl, Maria; and subsequent

conversation with him developed the fact that the priest had other

dark suspicions which were but too well founded. This was dangerous.

It was high time to prepare for possible contingencies.

And so, in due time, carefully wording his hint that Padre Josè de

Rincón might be a Radical spy in the ecclesiastical camp, Wenceslas

found means to obtain from Rome a fairly comprehensive account of

the priest's past history. He mused over this until an idea suddenly

occurred to him, namely, the similarity of this account with many of

the passages which he had found in a certain book, "The Confessions

of a Roman Catholic Priest"--a book which had cast the shadow of

distrust upon Wenceslas himself in relation to certain matters of

ecclesiastical politics in Colombia nearly three years before, and

at a most unfortunate time. Indeed, this sudden, unheralded

exposure had forced him to a hurried recasting of certain cherished

plans, and drawn from him a burning, unquenchable desire to lay his

pious hands upon the writer.

His influence with Rome at length revealed the secret of the wretched

book's authorship. And from the moment that he learned it, Josè's fate

was sealed. The crafty politician laughed aloud as he read the

priest's history. Then he drew his plans and waited. But in the

interim he made further investigations; and these he extended far back

into the ancestral history of this unfortunate scion of the once

powerful house of Rincón.

Meantime, a few carefully chosen words to the Bishop aroused a dull

interest in that quarter. Josè had been seen mingling freely with men

of very liberal political views. It would be well to warn him. Again,

weeks later, Wenceslas was certain, from inquiries made among the

students, that Josè's work in the classroom bordered a trifle too

closely on radicalism. It were well to admonish him. And, still later,

happening to call at Josè's quarters just above his own in the

ecclesiastical dormitory, and not finding him in, he had been struck

by the absence of crucifix or other religious symbol in the room. Was

the young priest becoming careless of his example?

And now, on this important feast-day, where was Padre Josè? On the

preceding evening, as Wenceslas leaned over the parapet of the wall

after his surprise by Josè, he had noted in the dim light the salient

features of a foreigner who, he had just learned, was registered at

the Hotel Mariano from the United States. Moreover, Wenceslas had just

come from Josè's room, whither he had gone in search of him, and--may

the Saints pardon his excess of holy zeal which impelled him to

examine the absent priest's effects!--he had returned now to the

Bishop bearing a copy of Renan's _Vie de Jésus_, with the American's

name on the flyleaf. It certainly were well to admonish Padre Josè

again, and severely!

The Bishop, hardly to the surprise of his crafty coadjutor, flew into

a towering rage. He was a man of irascible temper, bitterly

intolerant, and unreasoningly violent against all unbelievers,

especially Americans whose affairs brought them to Colombia. In this

respect he was the epitome of the ecclesiastical anti-foreign

sentiment which obtained in that country. His intolerance of heretics

was such that he would gladly have bound his own kin to the stake had

he believed their opinions unorthodox. Yet he was thoroughly

conscientious, a devout churchman, and saturated with the beliefs of

papal infallibility and the divine origin of the Church. In the

observance of church rites and ceremonies he was unremitting. In the

soul-burning desire to witness the conversion of the world, and

especially to see the lost children of Europe either coaxed or beaten

back into the embrace of Holy Church, his zeal amounted to fanaticism.

In the present case--

"Your Eminence," suggested the suave Wenceslas to his exasperated

superior, "may I propose that you defer action until I can discover

the exact status of this American?"

And the Bishop forthwith placed the whole matter in his trusted

assistant's helpful hands.

Meantime, Josè and the American explorer sat in the shade of a

magnificent palm on a high hill in beautiful Turbaco, looking out over

the shimmering sea beyond. For Hitt had wandered into the _Plaza de

Coches_ just as Josè was taking a carriage, and the latter could not

well refuse his proffered companionship for the day. Yet Josè feared

to be seen in broad daylight with this stranger, and he involuntarily

murmured a _Loado sea Dios_! when they reached Turbaco, as he

believed, unobserved. He did not know that a sharp-eyed young

novitiate, whom Wenceslas had detailed to keep the priest under

surveillance, had hurried back to his superior with the report of

Josè's departure with the _Americano_ on this innocent pleasure

jaunt.

"Say no more, my friend, in apology for your abrupt departure last

evening," the explorer urged. "But tell me, rather, about your

illustrious grandfather who had his country seat in this delightful

spot. Why, man! this is paradise. I've a notion to come here to live

some day."

Josè cast his apprehensions upon the soft ocean breeze, and gave

himself up to the inspiriting influence of his charming environment.

He dwelt at length upon the Rincón greatness of mediaeval days, and

expressed the resolve sometime to delve into the family records which

he knew must be hidden away in the moldering old city of Cartagena.

"But now," he concluded, after another reference to the Church, "is

Colombia to witness again the horror of those days of carnage? And

over the human mind's interpretation of the Christ? God forbid!"

The American shook his head dubiously. "There is but one

remedy--education. Not sectarian, partisan, worldly education--not

instruction in relative truths and the chaff of materialistic

speculation--but that sort of education whereby the selfish human mind

is lifted in a measure out of itself, out of its petty jealousies and

envyings, out of sneaking graft and touting for worldly emolument, and

into a sense of the eternal truth that real prosperity and soundness

of states and institutions are to be realized only when the

Christ-principle, 'Love thy neighbor as thyself,' is made the measure

of conduct. There is a tremendous truth which has long since been

demonstrated, and yet which the world is most woefully slow to grasp,

namely, that the surest, quickest means of realizing one's own

prosperity and happiness is in that of others--not in a world to come,

but right here and now."

"But that means the inauguration of the millennium," protested Josè.

"Well, and why not so?" returned the explorer calmly. "Has not that

been the ultimate aim of Christianity, and of all serious effort for

reform for the past two thousand years? And, do you know, the

millennium could be ushered in to-morrow, if men only thought so?

Within an incredibly short time evil, even to death itself, could be

completely wiped off the earth. But this wiping-off process must take

place in the minds and thoughts of men. Of that I am thoroughly

convinced. But, tell me, have you ever expressed to the Bishop your

views regarding the condition of this country?"

Josè flushed. "Yes," he replied in embarrassment. "Only a week ago I

tried again to convince him of the inevitable trend of events here

unless drastic measures were interposed by the Church. I had even

lectured on it in my classes."

"Well, what did he say?"

"The Bishop is a man of very narrow vision," replied Josè. "He rebuked

me severely and truculantly bade me confine my attention to the

particular work assigned me and let affairs of politics alone. Of

course, that meant leaving them to his assistant, Wenceslas. Mr. Hitt,

Colombia needs a Luther!"

"Just so," returned the explorer gravely. "Priestcraft from the very

earliest times has been one of the greatest curses of mankind. Its

abuses date far back to Egyptian times, when even prostitution was

countenanced by the priests, and when they practiced all sorts of

impostures upon the ignorant masses. In the Middle Ages they turned

Christianity, the richest of blessings, into a snare, a delusion, a

rank farce. They arrogated to themselves all learning, all science. In

Peru it was even illicit for any one not belonging to the nobility to

attempt to acquire learning. That was the sole privilege of priests

and kings. In all nations, from the remotest antiquity, and whether

civilized or not, learning has been claimed by the priests as the

unique privilege of their caste--a privilege bestowed upon them by the

special favor of the ruling deity. That's why they always sought to

surround their intellectual treasures with a veil of mystery. Roger

Bacon, the English monk, once said that it was necessary to keep the

discoveries of the philosophers from those unworthy of knowing them.

How did he expect a realization of 'Thy kingdom come,' I wonder?"

"They didn't expect it to come--on earth," said Josè.

"No. They relegated that to the imagined realm which was to be entered

through the gateway of death. It's mighty convenient to be able to

relegate your proofs to that mysterious realm beyond the grave. That

has always been a tremendous power in the hands of priests of all

times and lands. By the way, did you know that the story of Abel's

assassination was one of many handed down, in one form or another, by

the priests of India and Egypt?"

"Do you mean it?" inquired Josè eagerly.

"Certainly. The story doubtless comes from the ancient Egyptian tale

which the priests of that time used to relate regarding the murder

of Osiris by his brother, Set. It was a deed of jealousy. The story

later became incorporated into the sacred books of India and Egypt,

and was afterward taken over by the Hebrews, when they were captives

in Egypt. The Hebrews learned much of Egyptian theology, and their

own religion was greatly tinctured by it subsequently. The legend of

the deluge, for example, is another tradition of those primitive

days, and credited by the nations of antiquity. But here there is the

likelihood of a connection with the great cataclysm of antiquity,

the disappearance of the island of Atlantis in consequence of a

violent earthquake and volcanic action. This alleged island,

supposed to be a portion of the strip at one time connecting South

America with Africa, is thought to have sunk beneath the waters of

the present Atlantic ocean some nine thousand years before Solon

visited Egypt, and hence, some eleven thousand years ago. Anyway,

the story of this awful catastrophe got into the Egyptian records

in the earliest times, and was handed down to the Hebrews, who

probably based their story of the flood upon it. You see, there is a

foundation of some sort for all those legends in the book of Genesis.

The difficulty has been that humanity has for centuries childishly

accepted them as historical fact. For example, the serpent story.

Now in very primitive times the serpent was the special emblem of

Kneph, the creator of the world, and was regarded as a sort of

good genius. It is still so regarded by the Chinese, who make of it

one of their most beautiful symbols, the dragon. Later it became the

emblem of Set, the slayer of Osiris; and after that it was looked

upon with horror as the enemy of mankind, the destroyer, the evil

principle. Hence, in Egypt, the Hebrew captives adopted the serpent

as emblematical of evil, and later used it in their scriptural

records as the evil genius that tempted Eve and brought about the

fall of man. And so all people whose religious beliefs are founded

upon the Hebrew Bible now look upon the serpent as the symbol of

evil. Jews, Christians, and Mohammedans thus regard it."

Josè gazed at the man with rapt interest. "Don't stop!" he urged. "Go

on! go on!"

Hitt laughed. "Well," he resumed, "the tree and the serpent were

worshiped all through eastern countries, from Scandinavia to the

Asiatic peninsula and down into Egypt. And, do you know, we even find

vestiges of such worship in America? Down in Adams county, Ohio, on

the banks of Brush creek, there is a great mound, called the serpent

mound. It is seven hundred feet long, and greatly resembles the one in

Glen Feechan, Argyleshire, Scotland. It also resembles the one I found

in the ancient city of Tiahuanuco, whose ruins lie at an elevation of

some thirteen thousand feet above the Pacific ocean, on the shores of

Lake Titicaca, near the Bolivian frontier. This ancient city ages ago

sent out colonists all over North and South America. These primitive

people believed that a serpent emitted an egg from its mouth, and that

the earth was born of that egg. Now the serpent mound in Ohio has an

egg in its mouth. What is the logical inference?"

"You don't mean it!" exclaimed Josè, his eyes wide with astonishment.

Hitt laughed again in evident enjoyment of the priest's wonder. Then

he resumed: "It has been established to my entire satisfaction that

the ancient Egyptians and the Mayas of Central and South America used

almost identical symbols. And from all antiquity, and by all nations,

the symbols of the tree and serpent and their worship have been so

closely identified as to render it certain that their origin is the

same. What, then, are the serpent and tree of knowledge in the Hebrew

Bible but an outgrowth of this? The tree of life, of civilization, of

knowledge, was placed in the middle of the land, of the 'garden,' of

the primitive country of the race, Mayax. And the empire of the Mayas

was situated between the two great continents of North and South

America. These people spread out in all directions. They populated the

then existing island of Atlantis. And when the terrible earthquake

occurred, whereby this island was sunk beneath the waves of the

Atlantic ocean, why, to these people the world had been drowned! The

story got to Egypt, to Chaldea, and to India. Hence the deluge record

of Genesis."

"But, these primitive people, how ancient are they?" queried Josè.

"No one can form any adequate estimate," said Hitt in reply. "The

wonderful city of Tiahuanuco was in ruins when Manco Capac laid the

foundations of the Inca empire, which was later devastated by the

Spaniards. And the Indians told the Spaniards that it had been

constructed by giants before the sun shone in heaven."

"Astonishing!" exclaimed Josè. "Such facts as these--if facts they

be--relegate much of the Scriptural authority to the realm of legend

and myth!"

"Quite so," returned the explorer. "When the human mind of this

century forces itself to approach a subject without prejudice or bias,

and without the desire to erect or maintain a purely human institution

at whatever cost to world-progress, then it finds that much of the

hampering, fettering dogma of mediaevalism now laid upon it by the

Church becomes pure fiction, without justifiable warrant or basis.

Remember, the Hebrew people gave us the Old Testament, in which they

had recorded for ages their tribal and national history, their poetry,

their beliefs and hopes, as well as their legends, gathered from all

sources. We have likewise the historical records of other nations. But

the Hebrew possessed one characteristic which differentiated him from

all other people. He was a monotheist, and he saw his God in every

thing, every event, every place. His concept of God was his

life-motif. This concept evolved slowly, painfully, throughout the

centuries. The ancient Hebrew patriarchs saw it as a variable God,

changeful, fickle, now violently angry, now humbly repentant, now

making contracts with mankind, now petulantly destroying His own

handiwork. He was a God who could order the slaughter of innocent

babes, as in the book of Samuel; or He was a tender, merciful Father,

as in the Psalms. He could harden hearts, wage bloody wars, walk with

men 'in the cool of the day,' create a universe with His fist, or

spend long days designing and devising the material utensils and

furniture of sacrifice to be used in His own worship. In short, men

saw in Him just what they saw in themselves. They saw but their mental

concept. The Bible records humanity's changing, evolving concept of

God, of that 'something not ourselves which makes for righteousness.'

And this concept gradually changed from the magnified God-man of the

Old Testament, a creature of human whims and passions, down to that

held by the man of Nazareth, a new and beautiful concept of God as

love. This new concept Jesus joyously gave to a sin-weary world that

had utterly missed the mark. But it cost him his earthly life to do

it. And the dark record of the so-called Christian Church, both

Protestant and Catholic, contains the name of many a one who has paid

the same penalty for a similar service of love.

"The Chaldeans and Egyptians," he went on, after a moment's reflective

pause, "gave the Hebrews their account of the creation of the

universe, the fall of man, the flood, and many other bits of mythical

lore. And into these stories the Hebrews read the activity of their

God, and drew from them deep moral lessons. Egypt gave the Hebrews at

least a part of the story of Joseph, as embodied in the hieroglyphics

which may be read on the banks of the Nile to-day. They probably also

gave the Hebrews the account of the creation found in the second

chapter of Genesis, for to this day you can see in some of the oldest

Egyptian temples pictures of the gods making men out of lumps of clay.

The discovery of the remains of the 'Neanderthal man' and the 'Ape-man

of Java' now places the dawn of human reason at a period some three to

five hundred thousand years prior to our present century, and,

combined with the development of the science of geology, which shows

that the total age of the earth's stratified rocks alone cannot be

much less than fifty-five millions of years, serves to cast additional

ridicule upon the Church's present attitude of stubborn adherence to

these prehistoric scriptural legends as literal, God-given fact. But,

to make the right use of these legends--well, that is another thing."

"And that?"

The explorer hesitated. "I find it difficult to explain," he said at

length. "But, remember what I have already said, there is, there

_must_ be, a foundation beneath all these legends which admonish

mankind to turn from evil to good. And, as I also said, that

foundation must be very broad. I have said that I was in search of a

religion. Why not, you may ask, accept the religious standard which

Jesus set? That was the new concept of God as love. Very good. I am

quite convinced that love is _the_ religion, _the_ tie which binds all

things together and to a common source and cause. And I am equally

convinced that Jesus is the only person recorded in history who ever

lived a life of pure reflection of the love which he called God. And

so you see why I am chipping and hewing away at the theological

conception of the Christ, and trying to get at the reality buried deep

beneath in the theological misconceptions of the centuries. I am quite

convinced that if men loved one another, as Jesus bade them do, all

war, strife, disease, poverty, and discord of every sort would vanish

from human experience. But--and here is a serious question--did Jesus

ask the impossible? Did he command us to love the sinful, erring

mortal whom we see in our daily walk--or did he--did he have a new

thought, namely, that by loving the real man, for which, perhaps, this

human concept stands in the human mind, _that this very act would

change that distorted concept and cause it to yield its place to the

real one_? I believe Jesus to have been the wisest man who ever trod

this earth. But I likewise believe that no man has ever been more

deplorably misunderstood, misquoted, and misinterpreted than he. And

so I am delving down, down beneath the mass of human conjecture and

ridiculous hypothesis which the Church Fathers and our own theologians

have heaped up over this unique character, if perchance I may some day

discover just what he was, just what he really said, and just what the

message which he sought to convey to mankind."

He leaned over and laid a hand on Josè's arm. "My young friend," he

said earnestly, "I believe there are meanings in the life and words of

Jesus of which the Church in its astounding self-sufficiency has never

even dreamed. Did he walk on the water? Did he feed the multitude with

a few loaves? Did he raise Lazarus? Did he himself issue from the

tomb? No more momentous questions were ever asked than these. For, if

so, _then the message of Jesus has a bearing on the material universe,

on the human mind, and the whole realm of thought that is utterly

revolutionary_! What was that message? Did the man's own apostles and

immediate followers understand it? Did Paul? Certain we are, however,

that the theology which Rome gave to her barbarian conquerors was

wholly different from that taught by Jesus and his disciples. And we

know that the history of Europe from the fall of the Roman Empire down

to the Franco-Prussian war is largely a recital of the development of

the religious beliefs which Rome handed down to her conquerors, and

their influence upon the human mind. These beliefs constitute the

working hypothesis of that institution known to-day as the Holy Roman

Catholic Church, and its separated offshoots, the Greek Catholic and

the Protestant Churches, including the numberless ramifications and

divisions of the latter. The question as to whether eternal salvation

is a function of complete immersion of the human body, or only a

gentle sprinkling, appears most lamentably puerile in the face of the

tremendous revolutionary truths hinted by the deeds of Jesus, assuming

that he has been correctly reported in the Gospels. No; Renan, in his

_Vie de Jésus_, which I gave you last night, missed it. Before him,

Voltaire and countless other critics of man-made theology missed it.

The writings of these men do serve, however, to mow down the

theological stubble in the world's field of thought. What is it, this

gigantic truth which Jesus brought? I do not know. But he himself is

reported to have said, 'If ye keep my commands, ye shall know of the

doctrine.' And his chief command was, _that we love God and our

fellow-men_. I have no doubt whatever that, when we follow this

command, we shall know of the doctrine which he came to establish in

the hearts of men."

"But his message was the brotherhood of man," said Josè.

"Nay," replied the explorer, "it was the _fatherhood_ of God,

rather. For that includes the brotherhood of man. But, while we agree

thus far, who can say what the fatherhood of God implies? Who,

realizing that this was Jesus' message, knows how to make it

practical, as he did? To him it meant--ah, what did it not mean! It

meant a consciousness that held _not one trace of evil_. It meant a

consciousness of God as omnipotent power, the irresistible power

of good, which, in the form of spirit, or mind, as some will have it,

is ever present. Is it not so? Well, then, who is there to-day,

within the Church or without, who understands the divine message of

the fatherhood of God sufficiently to acquire such a consciousness,

and to make the intensely practical application of the message to

every problem of mind, or body, or environment? Who to-day in your

Church or mine, for example, realizes that Jesus must have seen

something in matter far different from the solid, indestructible thing

that we think we see, and that this was due to his understanding of

the immanence of his Father as spirit--an understanding which enabled

him to walk on the waves, and to treat material things as if they

were not? No, my friend, the Christ-message of the fatherhood of God

is hardly apprehended in the world to-day in the slightest degree by

priest or prelate, church or sect. And yet, the influence of Jesus is

tremendous!"

Josè's brow knit in perplexity. "I--I don't believe I follow you,

quite," he said.

"I am not surprised," replied the explorer gently. "I sometimes wonder

if I understand myself just what it is that I am trying to express. My

belief is still in a state of transition. I am still searching. The

field has been cleared. And now--now I am waiting for the new seed. I

have abandoned forever the sterile, non-productive religious beliefs

of current theology. I have abandoned such belittling views of God as

the Presbyterian sublapsarian view of election. I have turned wearily

from the puerile dogma of your Church as unworthy of the Father of

Jesus. From delving into the mysteries of the Brahminism of India, of

ancestor-worship in Japan, of Confucianism in China, of Islamism in

the far East, I have come back to the wonderful man of Nazareth. And

now I am trying to see what Christianity would be if purged of its

adulterations--purged of the Greek philosophy of the early Fathers; of

the forgeries of the Middle Ages; of the pagan ceremonialism and

priestly rites and assumptions of power to save or damn in this

present century. And what do I find, after all this rubbish has been

filtered out? Love, friend--love; the unfathomable love of the Father

of Jesus, who knows no evil, no sin, no sickness, no death, no hell,

no material heaven, but whose kingdom is the harmonious realm of

spirit, or mind, wherein the individual consciousness knows no discord

of any name or nature."

The afternoon haze had been long gathering when Josè roused the sleeping

_cochero_ and prepared to return to the stifling ecclesiastical

atmosphere from which for a brief day he had been so happily free. A

cold chill swept over him when he took his seat in the carriage, and

he shuddered as if with an evil presentiment.

"And you still adhere to your determination to remain in the Church?"

his friend asked, as they turned from the green hills and nodding

palms of Turbaco, and set their course, toward the distant mediaeval

city.

"Yes," came the scarcely audible reply. But as Josè spoke, he knew

that his mind had that day been stripped of its last remaining vestige

of the old theology, leaving it bare, exposed--and receptive.

* * * * *

A week passed. The explorer had gone, as silently and unannounced as

he had come. The evening before his departure he and Josè had sat

again in the thick shadows of the old wall. The next morning he was on

the mighty river; and the priest was left with a great void in his

heart.

One noon, as Josè was returning from his classes, he pondered deeply

the last words of the explorer, "Remember, nothing that has been

invented by mankind or evolved by the human mind can stand, or remain.

We might just as well accept that great fact now as later, and adjust

ourselves to it. But the things of the spirit remain. And Paul has

told us what they are."

As he passed slowly along the winding little street toward the

dormitory, a messenger approached him with a summons from the Bishop.

He turned and started wonderingly toward the Cathedral. He had been

reprimanded once, twice, for the liberal views which he had expressed

to his classes. Was he to receive another rebuke now? He had tried to

be more careful of late. Had he been seen with the explorer?

An hour later, his eyes set and unseeing, and his thin lips trembling,

Josè dragged himself up the stone steps to his little room and threw

himself upon the bed. The bonds which had been slowly, imperceptibly

tightening during these few months of precious liberty had been drawn

suddenly taut. The Bishop, in the _rôle_ of _Inquisitor Natus_, had

just revealed a full knowledge of his dismal past, and had summarily

dismissed him from the University faculty. Josè, bewildered and

stunned, had tried vainly to defend himself. Then, realizing his

impotence before the uncompromising bigotry of this choleric

ecclesiastic, he had burst suddenly into a torrent of frenzied

declarations of his undeserved wrongs, of his resolve now to renounce

his oath, to leave the Church, to abandon honor, family, everything

that held or claimed him, and to flee into unknown and unknowing

parts, where his harassed soul might find a few years of rest before

its final flight! The Bishop became bitterly and implacably

infuriated, and remanded the excited priest to his room to reflect

upon his wild words, and to await the final disposition of his

case--unless he should have determined already to try the devious

route of apostasy.

Rising the next morning at dawn from the chill floor where he had

spent the torturing hours of an interminable night, and still clinging

forlornly to his battered sense of honor and family pride, Josè again

received the Bishop's summons; and, after the events of the morning

already related, faced the angry churchman's furious tirade, and with

it, what he could not have imagined before, a charge of hideous

immorality. Then had been set before him a choice between apostasy and

acceptance of the assignment to the parish of far-off Simití.

"And now, unpitying Fate," he murmured, as the door of the Bishop's

_sanctum_ closed behind him, and he wandered down through the gloom of

the quiet Cathedral, "receive your victim. You have chosen well your

carnal instruments--pride--ecclesiasticism--lust! My crimes? Aye, the

very lowest; for I have loved liberty of thought and conscience; I

have loved virtue and honor; the pursuits of intellect; the fair; the

noble; yea, the better things of life. I have loved my fellow-men; and

I have sought their emancipation from the thraldom of ignorance. I

have loved truth, and the Christ who revealed it to the dull minds of

mortals. Enough! I stand convicted! And--I accept the sentence--I have

no desire to resist it. For the end is now not distant!"

CHAPTER 16

The tropical moon shone in her fullness from an unclouded sky. Through

the ethereal atmosphere which bathed the storied city her beams fell,

plashing noiselessly upon the grim memorials of a stirring past. With

a mantle of peace they gently covered the former scenes of violence

and strife. With magic, intangible substance they filled out the rents

in the grassy walls and smoothed away the scars of battle. The pale

luster, streaming through narrow barbican and mildewed arch, touched

the decaying ruin of San Felipe with the wand of enchantment, and

restored it to pristine freshness and strength. Through the stillness

of night the watery vapor streamed upward from garden and _patio_, and

mingled with the scent of flushing roses and tropical buds in a

fragrant mist suffused with the moon's yellow glow.

On the low parapet bordering the eastern esplanade of the city wall

the solitary figure of the priest cast a narrow shadow in the pale

moonlight. The sounds which eddied the enveloping silence seemed to

echo in his ears the tread of mediaeval warriors. In the wraith-like

shadows he saw the armored forms of _Conquistadores_ in mortal strife

with vulpine buccaneers. In the whirring of the bats which flouted his

face he heard the singing of arrows and the hiss of hurled rocks. In

the moan of the ocean as it broke on the coral reef below sounded the

boom of cannon, the curses of combatants, and the groans of the dying.

Here and there moved tonsured monks, now absolving in the name of the

peaceful Christ the frenzied defenders of the Heroic City, now turning

to hurl curses at the swarming enemy and consign their blackened souls

to deepest hell, while holding images of the crucified Saviour to the

quivering lips of stricken warriors.

In the fancied combat raging in the moonlight before him he saw the

sons of the house of Rincón manifesting their devotion to Sovereign

and Pope, their unshaken faith in Holy Church, their hot zeal which

made them her valiant defenders, her support, her humble and devoted

slaves for more than three centuries.

What was the charm by which she had held them? And why had its potency

failed utterly when directed to him? But they were men of physical

action, not thought--men of deeds which called only for brave hearts

and stout bodies. It is true, there had been thinkers in those days,

when the valiant sons of Rincón hurled the enemy from Cartagena's

walls--but they lay rotting in dungeons--they lay broken on the rack,

or hung breathing out their souls to God amid the hot flames which His

self-appointed vicars kindled about them. The Rincóns of that day had

not been thinkers. But the centuries had finally evolved from their

number a man of thought. Alas! the evolution had developed intellect,

it is true--but the process had refined away the rugged qualities of

animal strength which, without a deeper hold on Truth and the way to

demonstrate it than Josè possessed, must leave him the plaything of

Fate.

Young in years, but old in sorrow; held by oaths which his ever-accusing

sense of honor would not let him break; trembling for his mother's

sake, and for the sake of Rincón pride, lest the ban of excommunication

fall upon him; yet little dreaming that Rome had no thought of this

while his own peculiar elements of character bound him as they did

to her; the man had at last yielded his life to the system which had

wrecked it in the name of Christ, and was now awaiting the morrow, when

the boat should bear him to far-off Simití. He went resignedly--even

with a dull sense of gladness--for he went to die. Life had yielded

him nothing--and constituted as he was, it could hold nothing for him

in the future.

The glorious moon poured its full splendor upon the quiet city.

Through the haze the convent on La Popa sparkled like an enchanted

castle, with a pavement of soft moonbeams leading up to its doors. The

trill of a distant nightingale rippled the scented air; and from the

_llanos_ were borne on the warm land breeze low feral sounds, broken

now and then by the plaintive piping of a lonely toucan. The cocoa

palms throughout the city stirred dreamily in the tempered moonlight;

and the banana trees, bending with their luscious burden, cast great,

mysterious shadows, wherein insect life rustled and scampered in

nocturnal activity.

"Padre Josè!"

A woman's voice called from below. The priest leaned over the wall.

"It is Catalina. I have been hunting everywhere. Maria is calling for

you. She cannot live long. You will come?"

Come? Yes--ah, why did he let his own misery blind him to the sorrow

of others even more unfortunate! Why had he forgotten the little

Maria! Descending the broad incline to the road below, Josè hurried

with the woman to the bedside of the dying girl. On the way the

warm-hearted, garrulous Catalina relieved her troubled and angered

soul.

"Padre Lorenzo came this morning. He would not shrive her unless we

would pay him first. He said he would do it for ten _pesos_--then

five--and then three. And when we kept telling him that we had no

money he told us to go out and borrow it, or he would leave the little

Maria to die as she was. He said she was a vile sinner anyway--that

she had not made her Easter duty--that she could not have the

Sacrament--and her soul would go straight to hell--and there was no

redemption! Then he came again this afternoon and said she must die;

but he would shrive her for two _pesos_. And when we told him we could

not borrow the money he was terribly angry, and cursed--and Marcelena

was frightened--and the little Maria almost died. But I told him to

go--that her little soul was whiter than his--and if he went to heaven

I didn't want Maria to go there too--and--!"

The woman's words burned through the priest's ears and into his

sickened soul. Recovering her breath, Catalina went on:

"It is only a few days ago that the little Maria meets Sister Isabel

in the _plaza_. 'Ah,' says Sister Isabel, 'you are going to be a

mother.'

"'Yes, Sister,' answers the little Maria, much confused; and she tries

to hide behind Marcelena.

"'It is very dangerous and you will suffer much unless you have a

sacred cord of Saint Frances,' says the Sister. 'I will bring you

one.'

"And then she asks where the little Maria lives; and that very day she

brings a piece of rope, with knots in it, which she says the priest

has blessed, and it is a sacred cord of Saint Frances, and if the

little Maria will wear it around her waist she will not suffer at the

parturition; and the little Maria must pay a _peso oro_ for it--and

the scared little lamb paid it, for she had saved a little money which

Don Carlos Ojeda gave her for washing--and she wore it when the babe

was born; but it didn't help her--"

"_Dios!_" ejaculated the priest.

"And Marcelena had paid a _peso y medio_," continued the excited

woman, "for a candle that Sister Natalia told her had come from the

altar of the Virgin of Santander and was very holy and would help one

through confinement. But the candle went out; and it was only a round

stick of wood with a little piece of candle on the end. And I--Padre,

I could not help it, I would do anything for the poor child--I paid

two _pesos oro_ for a new _escapulario_ for her. Sister Natalia said

it was very holy--it had been blessed by His Grace, the Bishop, just

for women who were to be mothers, and it would carry them through--but

if they died, it would take them right out of purgatory--and--!"

"Catalina!" interrupted the tortured priest. "Say no more!"

"But, Padre, the babe," the woman persisted. "What will become of it?

And--do you know?--Padre Lorenzo says _it is yours!_ He told Juanita

so--she lives below us. But Maria says no. She has told only

Marcelena--and Marcelena will never tell. Who is its father, Padre?"

The priest, recognizing the inevitable, patiently resigned himself to

the woman's talk without further reply. Presently they turned into the

Calle Lazano, and entering the house where Marcelena had greeted him

that morning, mounted to the chamber above where lay the little

Maria.

A single candle on a table near the head of the bed shed a flickering,

uncertain light. But the window was open, and the moon's beams poured

into the room in golden profusion. Aside from the girl, there were no

other occupants than Marcelena and the new-born child.

"Padre," murmured the passing girl, "you will not let me die without

the Sacrament?"

"No, child," replied the priest, bending over her, hot tears streaming

down his cheeks as she kissed his hand.

The girl had been beautiful, a type of that soft, southern beauty,

whose graces of form, full, regular features, and rich olive tint mark

them as truly Spanish, with but little admixture of inferior blood.

Her features were drawn and set now; but her great, brown eyes which

she raised to the priest were luminous with a wistful eagerness that

in this final hour became sacred.

"Marcelena," the priest hurriedly whispered to the woman. "I have

no--but it matters not now; she need not know that I come unprepared.

She must pass out of the world happy at last."

"There is a drop of wine that the doctor left; and I will fetch a bit

of bread," replied the woman, catching the meaning of the priest's

words.

"Bring it; and I will let her confess now."

Bending over the sinking girl, the priest bade her reveal the burden

resting on her conscience.

"_Carita_," he said tenderly, when the confession was ended, "fear

not. The blessed Saviour died for you. He went to prepare a place for

you and for us all. He forgave the sinful woman--_carita_, he forgives

you--yes, freely, gladly. He loves you, little one. Fear not what

Padre Lorenzo said. He is a sinful priest. Forget all now but the good

Saviour, who stands with open arms--with a smile on his beautiful

face--to welcome his dear child--his little girl--you, _carita_,

you."

"Padre--my babe?"

"Yes, child, it shall be cared for."

"But not by the Sisters"--excitedly--"not in an asylum--Padre, promise

me!"

"There, _carita_, it shall be as you wish."

"And you will care for it?"

"I, child?--ah, yes, I will care for it."

The girl sank back again with a smile of happiness. A deep silence

fell upon the room. At the feet of the priest Catalina huddled and

wept softly. Marcelena, in the shadow of the bed where she might not

be seen, rocked silently back and forth with breaking heart.

"Padre--you will--say Masses for me?" The words were scarcely

audible.

"Yes, _carita_."

"I--have no money--no money. He promised to give me--money--and

clothes--"

"There, _carita_, I will say Masses for you without money--every day,

for a year. And you shall have clothes--ah, carita, in heaven you

shall have everything."

The candle sputtered, and went out. The moon flooded the room with

ethereal radiance.

"Padre--lift me up--it grows dark--oh, Padre, you are so good to

me--so good."

"No, child, it is not I who am good to you, but the blessed Christ.

See him, _carita_--there--there in the moonlight he stands!"

The smoke from a neighboring chimney drifted slowly past the window

and shone white in the silvery beams. The girl, supported by the arm

of the priest, gazed at it through dimming eyes in reverent awe.

"Padre," she whispered, "it is the Saviour! Pray to him for me."

"Yes, child." And turning toward the window the priest extended his

hand.

"Blessed Saviour," he prayed, "this is one of thy stricken lambs,

lured by the wolf from the fold. And we have brought her back. Dost

thou bid her come?"

The sobs of the weeping woman at his feet floated through the room.

"Ah, thou tender and pitying Master--best friend of the sinning, the

sick, and the sorrowing--we offer to thee this bruised child. We find

no sin, no guile, in her; for after the ignorant code of men she has

paid the last farthing for satisfying the wolf's greed. Dost thou bid

her come?"

In the presence of death he felt his own terrible impotence. Of what

avail then was his Christianity? Or the Church's traditional words of

comfort? The priest's tears fell fast. But something within--perhaps

that "something not ourselves"--the voice of Israel's almost forgotten

God--whispered a hope that blossomed in this petition of tenderest

love and pity. He had long since ceased to pray for himself; but in

this, the only prayer that had welled from his chilled heart in

months, his pitying desire to humor the wishes of a dying girl had

unconsciously formulated his own soul's appeal.

"Blessed Saviour, take her to thine arms; shield her forever more

from the carnal lust of the wolf; lift her above the deadening

superstitions and hypocritical creeds of those who touch but to

stain; take her, Saviour, for we find her pure, innocent, clean;

suffering and sorrow have purged away the sin. Dost thou bid her

come?"

The scent of roses and orange blossoms from the garden below drifted

into the room on the warm breeze. A bird, awakened by the swaying of

its nest, peeped a few sweet notes of contentment, and slept again.

"We would save her--we would cure her--but we, too, have strayed from

thee and forgotten thy commands--and the precious gift of healing

which thou didst leave with men has long been lost. But thou art

here--thy compassionate touch still heals and saves. Jesus, unique son

of God, behold thy child. Wilt thou bid her come?"

"What says he, Padre?" murmured the sinking girl.

The priest bent close to her.

"He says come, _carita_--come!"

With a fluttering sigh the tired child sank back into the priest's

arms and dropped softly into her long sleep.

CHAPTER 17

The twisted, turbid "Danube of New Granada," under the gentle guidance

of its patron, Saint Mary Magdalene, threads the greater part of its

sinuous way through the heart of Colombia like an immense, slow-moving

morass. Born of the arduous tropic sun and chill snows, and imbued by

the river god with the nomadic instinct, it leaps from its pinnacled

cradle and rushes, sparkling with youthful vigor, down precipice and

perpendicular cliff; down rocky steeps and jagged ridges; whirling in

merry, momentary dance in shaded basins; singing in swirling eddies;

roaring in boisterous cataracts, to its mad plunge over the lofty wall

of Tequendama, whence it subsides into the dignity of broad maturity,

and begins its long, wandering, adult life, which slowly draws to a

sluggish old age and final oblivion in the infinite sea. Toward the

close of its meandering course, long after the follies and excesses of

early life, it takes unto itself a consort, the beautiful Cauca; and

together they flow, broadening and deepening as life nears its end;

merging their destinies; sharing their burdens; until at last, with

labors ended, they sink their identities in the sunlit Caribbean.

When the simple-minded _Conquistadores_ first pushed their frail

cockleshells out into the gigantic embouchure of this tawny stream and

looked vainly for the opposite shore, veiled by the dewy mists of a

glittering morn, they unconsciously crossed themselves and, forgetful

for the moment of greed and rapine and the lust of gold, stood in

reverent awe before the handiwork of their Creator. Ere the Spaniard

had laid his fell curse upon this ancient kingdom of the Chibchas, the

flowering banks of the Magdalena, to-day so mournfully characterized

by their frightful solitudes, were an almost unbroken village from the

present coast city of Barranquilla to Honda, the limit of navigation,

some nine hundred miles to the south. The cupidity of the heartless,

bigoted rabble from mediaeval slums which poured into this wonderland

late in the sixteenth century laid waste this luxuriant vale and

exterminated its trustful inhabitants. Now the warm airs that sigh at

night along the great river's uncultivated borders seem still to echo

the gentle laments of the once happy dwellers in this primitive

paradise.

Sitting in the rounded bow of the wretched riverine steamer Honda,

Padre Josè de Rincón gazed with vacant eyes upon the scenery on either

hand. The boat had arrived from Barranquilla that morning, and was now

experiencing the usual exasperating delay in embarking from Calamar.

He had just returned to it, after wandering for hours through the

forlorn little town, tormented physically by the myriad mosquitoes,

and mentally by a surprising eagerness to reach his destination. He

could account for the latter only on the ground of complete

resignation--a feeling experienced by those unfortunate souls who have

lost their way in life, and, after vain resistance to molding

circumstances, after the thwarting of ambitions, the quenching of

ideals, admit defeat, and await, with something of feverish

anticipation, the end. He had left Cartagena early that morning on the

ramshackle little train which, after hours of jolting over an

undulating roadbed, set him down in Calamar, exhausted with the heat

and dust-begrimed. He had not seen the Bishop nor Wenceslas since the

interview of the preceding day. Before his departure, however, he had

made provision for the burial of the girl, Maria, and the disposal of

her child. This he did at his own expense; and when the demands of

doctor and sexton had been met, and he had provided Marcelena with

funds for the care of herself and the child for at least a few weeks,

his purse was pitiably light.

Late in the afternoon the straggling remnant of a sea breeze drifted

up the river and tempered the scorching heat. Then the captain of the

Honda drained his last glass of red rum in the _posada_, reiterated to

his political affiliates with spiritous bombast his condensed opinion

anent the Government, and dramatically signaled the pilot to get under

way.

Beyond the fact that Simití lay somewhere behind the liana-veiled

banks of the great river, perhaps three hundred miles from Cartagena,

the priest knew nothing of his destination. There were no passengers

bound for the place, the captain had told him; nor had the captain

himself ever been there, although he knew that one must leave the boat

at a point called Badillo, and thence go by canoe to the town in

question.

But Josè's interest in Simití was only such as one might manifest in a

prison to which he was being conveyed. And, as a prisoner of the

Church, he inwardly prayed that his remaining days might be few. The

blows which had fallen, one after another, upon his keen, raw nerves

had left him benumbed. The cruel bruises which his faith in man had

received in Rome and Cartagena had left him listless, and without

pain. He was accepting the Bishop's final judgment mutely, for he had

already borne all that human nature could endure. His severance from a

life of faith and love was complete.

Nor could Josè learn when he might hope to reach Badillo, though he

made listless inquiry.

"_Na, Señor Padre_," the captain had said, "we never know where to

find the water. It is on the right to-day; on the left to-morrow.

There is low tide to-night; the morning may see it ten feet higher.

And Badillo--_quien sabe_? It might be washed away when we arrive."

And he shrugged his shoulders in complete disclaimer of any

responsibility therefor.

The captain's words were not idle, for the channel of the mighty river

changes with the caprice of a maiden's heart. With irresistible

momentum the tawny flood rolls over the continent, now impatiently

ploughing its way across a great bend, destroying plantations and

abruptly leaving towns and villages many miles inland; now savagely

filching away the soft loam banks beneath little settlements and

greedily adding broad acres to the burden of its surcharged waters.

Mighty giants of the forest, wrested from their footholds of

centuries, plunge with terrifying noise into the relentless stream;

great masses of earth, still cohering, break from their moorings and

glide into the whirling waters, where, like immense islands, they

journey bobbing and tumbling toward the distant sea.

Against the strong current, whose quartzose sediment tinkled

metallically about her iron prow, the clumsy Honda made slow headway.

She was a craft of some two hundred tons burden, with iron hull,

stern paddle wheel, and corrugated metal passenger deck and roof.

Below the passenger deck, and well forward on the hull, stood the

huge, wood-burning boiler, whose incandescent stack pierced the open

space where the gasping travelers were forced to congregate to get

what air they might. Midway on this deck she carried a few cabins at

either side. These, bare of furnishings, might accommodate a dozen

passengers, if the insufferable heat would permit them to be

occupied. Each traveler was obliged to supply his own bedding, and

likewise hammock, unless not too discriminating to use the soiled

cot provided. Many of those whose affairs necessitated river

travel--and there was no other mode of reaching the interior--were

content at night to wrap a light blanket about them and lie down

under their mosquito nets on the straw mats--_petates_--with which

every _peon_ goes provided. Of service, there was none that might be

so designated. A few dirty, half-dressed negro boys from the streets

of Barranquilla performed the functions of steward, waiting on table

with unwashed hands, helping to sling hammocks, or assisting with the

carving of the freshly killed beef on the slippery deck below.

Accustomed as he had been to the comforts of Rome, and to the less

elaborate though still adequate accommodations which Cartagena

afforded, Josè viewed his prison boat with sinking heart. Iron hull,

and above it the glowing boiler; over this the metal passenger deck;

and above that the iron roof, upon which the fierce tropical sun

poured its flaming heat all day; clouds of steam and vapor from

the hot river enveloping the boat--had the Holy Inquisition itself

sought to devise the most refined torture for a man of delicate

sensibilities like Josè de Rincón, it could not have done better than

send him up the great river at this season and on that miserable

craft, in company with his own morbid and soul-corroding thoughts.

The day wore on; and late in the evening the Honda docked at the

pretentious town of Maganguey, the point of transfer for the river

Cauca. Like the other passengers, from whom he had held himself

reservedly aloof, Josè gladly seized the opportunity to divert his

thoughts for a few moments by going ashore. But the moments stretched

into hours; and when he finally learned that the boat would not leave

until daybreak, he lapsed into a state of sullen desperation which,

but for the Rincón stubbornness, would have precipitated him into the

dark stream. Aimlessly he wandered about the town, avoiding any

possible _rencontre_ with priests, or with his fellow-passengers, many

of whom, together with the bacchanalian captain, he saw in the various

_cantinas_, making merry over rum and the native _anisado_.

The moon rose late, bathing the whitewashed town in a soft sheen and

covering with its yellow veil the filth and squalor which met the

priest at every turn as he wandered through its ill-lighted streets.

Maganguey in plan did not depart from the time-honored custom of the

Spaniards, who erected their cities by first locating the church, and

then building the town around it. So long as the church had a good

location, the rest of the town might shift for itself. Some of the

better buildings dated from the old colonial period, and had tile

roofs and red brick floors. Many bore scars received in the

internecine warfare which has raged in the unhappy country with but

brief intervals of peace since the days of Spanish occupation. But

most of the houses were of the typical mud-plastered, palm-thatched

variety, with dirt floors and scant furniture. Yet even in many of

these Josè noted pianos and sewing machines, generally of German make,

at which the housewife was occupied, while naked babes and squealing

pigs--the latter of scarcely less value than the former--fought for

places of preferment on the damp and grimy floors.

Wandering, blindly absorbed in thought, into a deserted road which

branched off from one of the narrow streets on the outskirts of the

town, Josè stumbled upon a figure crouching in the moonlight. Almost

before he realized that it was a human being a hand had reached up and

caught his.

"_Buen Padre!_" came a thick voice from the mass, "for the love of the

good Virgin, a few _pesos_!"

A beggar--perhaps a bandit! Ah, well; Josè's purse was light--and his

life of no value. So, recovering from his start, he sought in his

pockets for some _billetes_. But--yes, he remembered that after

purchasing his river transportation in Calamar he had carefully put

his few remaining bills in his trunk.

"_Amigo_, I am sorry, but I have no money with me," he said

regretfully. "But if you will come to the boat I will gladly give you

something there."

At this the figure emitted a scream of rage, and broke into a torrent

of sulphurous oaths. "_Na_, the Saints curse you beggarly priests! You

have no money, but you rob us poor devils with your lies, and then

leave us to rot to death!"

"But, _amigo_, did I not say--" began Josè soothingly.

"_Maldito!_" shrilled the figure; "may Joseph and Mary and Jesus curse

you! A million curses on you, _maldito_!" Pulling itself upward, the

shapeless thing sank its teeth deep into the priest's hand.

With a cry of pain the startled Josè tore himself loose, his hand

dripping with blood. At the same time the figure fell over into the

road and its enveloping rags slipped off, disclosing in the bright

moonlight a loathsome, distorted face and elephantine limbs, covered

with festering sores.

"Good God!" cried Josè, recoiling. "A leper!"

Turning swiftly from the hideous object, his brain awhirl with the

horrible nightmare, the priest fled blindly from the scene. Nauseated,

quivering with horror, with the obscene ravings of the leper still

ringing in his ears, he stumbled about the town until daybreak, when

the boat's shrieking whistle summoned him to embark.

The second day on the river seemed to Josè intolerable, as he shifted

about the creaking, straining tub to avoid the sun's piercing rays and

the heat which, drifting back from the hot stack forward, enveloped

the entire craft. There were but few passengers, some half dozen men

and two slatternly attired women. Whither they were bound, he knew

not, nor cared; and, though they saluted him courteously, he

studiously avoided being drawn into their conversations. The emotional

appeal of the great river and its forest-lined banks did not at first

affect him. Yet he sought forgetfulness of self by concentrating his

thought upon them.

The massed foliage constituted an impenetrable wall on either side.

Everywhere his eyes met a maze of _lianas_, creeping plants, begonias,

and bizarre vegetable forms, shapes and hues of which he had never

before had any adequate conception. Often he caught the glint of

great, rare butterflies hovering in the early sunlight which filtered

through the interlaced fronds and branches. Often when the boat hugged

the bank he saw indescribable buds and blossoms, and multicolored

orchids clinging to the drooping _bejucos_ which festooned the

enormous trees. As the afternoon waned and the sun hung low, the magic

stillness of the solitude began to cast its spell about him, and he

could imagine that he was penetrating a fairy-land. The vast stream,

winding, broadening, ramifying round wooded islets, throwing out long,

dusky lagoons and swampy arms, incessantly plying its numberless

activities, at length held him enraptured. As he brooded over it all,

his thought wandered back to the exploits of the intrepid Quesada and

his stalwart band who, centuries before, had forced their perilous way

along this same river, amid showers of poisoned arrows from hostile

natives, amid the assaults of tropical storms and malarial fevers, to

the plateau of Cundinamarca, the home of the primitive Muiscas; and

there gathering fresh strength and inspiration, had pushed on to the

site of Santa Fé de Bogotá.

A cry suddenly rang through the boat. "Man overboard!"

The clang of the pilot's bell stopped the clumsy craft; but not before

the ragged little negro boy who had served at Josè's table as steward

had been swept far away by the rapid current.

The utmost confusion immediately prevailed. Every one of the rabble

rout of stokers, stewards, and stevedores lost his wits and set up a

frenzied yell. Some who remembered that there was such a thing, tore

at the ropes which held the single lifeboat. But the boat had been put

on for appearance's sake, not for service, and successfully resisted

all efforts at removal. No one dared risk his life in attempted

rescue, for the river swarmed with crocodiles. There was vain racing,

counseling and gesticulating; but at length, the first wave of

excitement over, passengers and crew settled down to watch the outcome

of the boy's struggle for life, while the pilot endeavored to turn the

unwieldy steamer about.

"Now is the time to put up a prayer for the youngster, Padre," said a

voice behind Josè.

The priest turned. The speaker was evidently a native Colombian. Josè

had noticed him on the boat when he embarked at Calamar, and surmised

that he had probably come up from Barranquilla.

"An excellent opportunity to try the merits of a prayer to the Virgin,

no? If she can fish us out of purgatory she ought to pull this boy out

of the river, eh?" continued the speaker with a cynical smile.

"I would rather trust to a canoe and a pair of stout arms than a

prayer at present," returned Josè with candor.

"_Corriente!_" replied the man; "my way of thinking, exactly! But if I

had a good rifle now I'd put that little fellow out of his misery, for

he's going down, sure!"

It was not unkindly said; and Josè appreciated the man's rude

sentiment. Minutes passed in strained silence.

"_Hombre!_" cried the man. "He's going!"

The lad was evidently weakening. The rapid, swirling current

continually frustrated his efforts to reach the shore. Again the head

went under.

"_Dios!_" Josè exclaimed. "Is there no help?"

Jesus had walked the waves. Yet here his earthly representative,

trained in all the learning and culture of Holy Church to be an _Alter

Christus_, stood helplessly by and watched a child drown! God above!

what avail religious creed and churchly dogma? How impotent the

beliefs of men in such an hour! Could the Holy Father himself, with

all his assumptions, spiritual and temporal--with all his power to

loose from sin and from the imaginary torments of purgatory--save this

drowning boy?

Josè turned away in bitterness of heart. As he did so a murmur of awe

arose from the spectators. The priest looked again down the river.

Impelled from below, the body of the boy was hurled out of the water.

Then, as it fell, it disappeared.

"_Cayman!_" gasped the horrified crew.

Josè stood spellbound, as the ghastly truth dawned upon him. A

crocodile, gliding beneath the struggling lad, had tossed him upward,

and caught him in its loathsome jaws when he fell. Then it had dragged

him beneath the yellow waters, where he was seen no more.

Life is held cheaply by the Magdalena negro--excepting his own.

Shiftless and improvident child of the tropics, his animal wants

are readily satisfied by the fruits and fish which nature provides

for him so bountifully. Spiritual wants he has none--until calamity

touches him and he thinks he is about to die. Then witchcraft, charm,

incantation, the priest--anything that promises help is hurriedly

pressed into requisition to prolong his useless existence. If he

recovers, he forgets it all as hurriedly. The tragedy which had

just been enacted before the Honda's crew produced a ripple of

excitement--a momentary stirring of emotion--and was then speedily

forgotten, while the boat turned and drove its way up-stream against

the muddy waters.

But Josè could not forget. Nature had endowed him with a memory which

recorded as minutely and as lastingly as the phonographic cylinder.

The violent death of the boy haunted him, and mingled with the

recurrent memories of the sad passing of the little Maria, and his own

bitter life experience. Oh, the mystery of it all! The tragedy of

life! The sudden blighting of hopes! The ruthless crushing of hearts!

What did it mean? Did this infinite variety of good and evil which we

call life unite to manifest an infinite Creator? Nay, for then were

God more wicked than the lowest sinner! Was evil as real as good, and

more powerful? Yes. Did love and the soul's desire to be and do good

count for nothing in the end? No; for the end is death--always death!

And after that--who knows?

"We are coming to Banco, Padre," said the man who had addressed Josè

before, rousing him from his doleful meditations and pointing to the

lights of the distant town, now shimmering through the gathering

dusk.

As the boat with shrilly shrieking whistle drew near the landing, a

crowd hurriedly gathered on the bank to receive it. Venders of guava

jelly, rude pottery, and straw mats hastily spread out their

merchandise on the muddy ground and began to dilate loudly on their

merits. A scantily clad man held aloft a rare leopard skin, which he

vigorously offered for two _pesos_ gold. Slatternly women, peddling

queer delectables of uncertain composition, waved their thin, bare

arms and shrilly advertised their wares. Black, naked children bobbed

excitedly about; and gaunt dogs and shrieking pigs scampered

recklessly through the crowd and added to the general confusion. Here

and there Josè could see dignified looking men, dressed in white

cotton, and wearing straw--_jipijapa_--hats. These were merchants,

patiently awaiting consignments which they had perhaps ordered months

before. Crazy, ramshackle dwellings, perched unsteadily upon long,

slender stilts, rose from the water's edge; but substantial brick

buildings of fair size, with red-tile roofs and whitewashed walls,

mingled at intervals with the thatched mud huts and rude hovels

farther within the town. In a distant doorway he descried a woman

nursing a babe at one breast and a suckling pig at the other.

Convention is rigid in these Colombian river towns; but it is widely

inclusive.

"Come ashore with me, Padre, and forget what is worrying you," said

Josè's new acquaintance, taking him by the arm. "I have friends

here--_Hola!_ Padre Diego Guillermo!" he suddenly called, catching

sight of a black-frocked priest standing in the crowd on the shore.

The priest addressed, a short, stout, coarse-featured man of perhaps

forty, waved back a vigorous salutation.

"_Hombre!_" the man ejaculated, holding Josè's arm and starting down

the gangplank. "What new deviltry is the rogue up to now!"

The man and the priest addressed as Diego embraced warmly.

"Padre Diego Guillermo Polo, I have the extreme honor to present my

friend, the eminent Padre--" ceremoniously waving a hand toward Josè.

"Josè de Rincón," supplied the latter, bowing.

"Rincón!" murmured the priest Diego. Then, abruptly, "Of Cartagena?"

"Yes," returned Josè, with awakened interest.

"Not of Don Ignacio--?"

"My grandfather," Josè replied promptly, and with a touch of pride.

"Ha! he owned much property--many _fincas_--about here; and farther

west, in the Guamocó country, many mines, eh, Don Jorge?" exchanging a

significant look with the latter.

"But," he added, glancing at the perspiring Honda, "this old tub is

going to hang up here for the night. So do me the honor, señores, to

visit my little cell, and we will fight the cursed mosquitoes over a

sip of red rum. I have some of very excellent quality."

Josè and Don Jorge bowed their acquiescence and followed him up the

muddy road. The cell referred to consisted of a suite of several

rooms, commodiously furnished, and looking out from the second story

of one of the better colonial houses of the town upon a richly

blooming interior _patio_. As the visitors entered, a comely young

woman who had just lighted an oil-burning "student" lamp and placed it

upon the center table, disappeared into one of the more remote rooms.

"My niece," said the priest Diego, winking at Don Jorge as he set out

cigars and a _garrafón_ of Jamaica rum. "I have ordered a case of

American beer," he continued, lighting a cigar. "But that was two

months ago, and it hasn't arrived yet. _Diablo!_ but the good _médico_

tells me I drink too much rum for this very Christian climate."

Don Jorge swept the place with an appraising glance. "H'm," he

commented, as he poured himself a liberal libation from the

_garrafón_. "The Lord surely provides for His faithful children."

"Yes, the Lord, that's right," laughed Padre Diego; "still I am daily

rendering no small thanks to His Grace, Don Wenceslas, future Bishop

of Cartagena."

"And eminent services into the bargain, I'll venture," added Don

Jorge.

Padre Diego's eyes twinkled merrily. Josè started. Then even in this

remote town the artful Wenceslas maintained his agent!

"But our friend is neither drinking nor smoking," said Padre Diego,

turning inquiringly to Josè, who had left his glass untouched.

"With your permission," replied the latter; "I do not use liquor or

tobacco."

"Nor women either, eh?" laughed Padre Diego. "_Por Dios!_ what is it

the Dutchman says?

'Wer nicht liebt Wein, Weib und Gesang,

Der bleibt ein Narr sein Lebenlang.'

"_Caramba!_ but my German has all slipped from me."

"Don't worry," commented Don Jorge cynically; "for I'll wager it took

nothing good with it."

"_Hombre!_ but you are hard on a loyal servant of the Lord," exclaimed

Padre Diego in a tone of mock injury, as he drained another glass of

the fiery liquor.

"Servant of the Lord!" guffawed Don Jorge. "Of the Lord Pope, Lord

Wenceslas, or the Lord God, may we ask?"

"_Qué chiste!_ Why, stupid, all three. I do not put all my eggs into

one basket, however large. But tell me, now," he inquired, turning the

conversation from himself, "what is it brings you into this region

forsaken of the gods?"

"_Sepulcros_," Don Jorge briefly announced.

"Ha! Indian graves again! But have you abandoned your quest of _La

Tumba del Diablo_, in the Sinu valley?"

"Naturally, since the records show that it was opened centuries ago.

And I spent a good year's search on it, too! _Dios!_ They say it

yielded above thirty thousand _pesos_ gold."

"_Diablo!_"

"But I am on the track of others. I go now to Medellin; then to

Remedios; and there outfit for a trip of grave hunting through the old

Guamocó district."

"Guamocó! Then you will naturally come down the Simití trail, which

brings you out to the Magdalena."

"Simití?" interrupted Josè eagerly, turning to the speaker. "Do you

know the place?"

"Somewhat!" replied Padre Diego, laughing. "I had charge of that

parish for a few months--"

"But found it highly convenient to leave, no?" finished the merciless

Don Jorge.

"_Caramba!_ Would you have me die of _ennui_ in such a hell-hole?"

cried Diego with some aspersion.

"Hell-hole!" echoed Josè. "Is it so bad as that?"

"_Hombre!_ Yes--worse! They say that after the good Lord created

heaven and earth He had a few handfuls of dirt left, and these He

threw away. But crafty Satan, always with an eye single to going the

Lord one better, slyly gathered this dirt together again and made

Simití." Diego quickly finished another glass of rum, as if he would

drown the memory of the town.

Josè's heart slowly sank under the words.

"But why do you ask? You are not going there?" Padre Diego inquired.

Josè nodded an affirmative.

"_Diablo!_ Assigned?"

"Yes," in a voice scarcely audible.

The Padre whistled softly. "Then in that case," he said, brightening,

"we are brother sinners. So let us exchange confidences. What was your

crime, if one may ask?"

"Crime!" exclaimed Josè in amazement.

"Aye; who was she? Rich? Beautiful? Native? Or foreign? Come, the

story. We have a long night before us." And the coarse fellow settled

back expectantly in his chair.

Josè paled. "What do you mean?" he asked in a trembling voice.

"_Caramba!_" returned the Padre impatiently. "You surely know that no

respectable priest is ever sent to Simití! That it is the good

Bishop's penal colony for fallen clergy--and, I may add, the refuge of

political offenders of this and adjacent countries. Why, the present

schoolmaster there is a political outcast from Salvador!"

"No, I did not know it," replied Josè.

"_Por Dios!_ Then you are being jobbed, _amigo_! Did Don Wenceslas

give you letters to the Alcalde?"

"Yes."

"And--by the way, has Wenceslas been misbehaving of late?--for when he

does, somebody other than himself has to settle the score."

Josè remained silent.

"Ah," mused Diego, "but Don Wenceslas is artful. And yet, I think I

see the direction of his trained hand in this." Then he burst into a

rude laugh. "Come, _amigo_," he said, noting Josè's dejected mien;

"let us have your story. We may be able to advise. And we've had

experience--eh, Don Jorge?"

But Josè slowly shook his head. What mattered it now? Simití would

serve as well to bury him as any other tomb. He knew he was sent as a

lamb to the slaughter. But it was his affair--and his God's. Honor and

conscience had presented the score; and he was paying in full. His was

not a story to be bandied about by lewd priests like Padre Diego.

"No," he replied to the Padre's insistent solicitations; "with your

permission, we will talk of it no more."

"But--_Hombre_!" cried the Padre at last, in his coarse way stirred by

Josè's evident truthfulness. "Well--as you wish--I will not pry into

your secrets. But, take a bit of counsel from one who knows: when you

reach Simití, inquire for a man who hates me, one Rosendo Ariza--"

At this juncture the Honda's diabolical whistle pierced the murky

night air.

"_Caramba!_" cried Don Jorge, starting up. "Are they going to try the

river to-night?" And the men hurried back to the landing.

The moon was up, and the boat was getting under way. Padre Diego went

aboard to take leave of his friends.

"_Bien, amigo_," he said to Don Jorge; "I am sorry your stay is so

short. I had much to tell you. Interesting developments are forward,

and I hope you are well out of Guamocó when the trouble starts. For

the rivals of Antioquia and Simití will pay off a few scores in the

next revolution--a few left over from the last; and it would be well

not to get caught between them when they come together."

"And so it is coming?" said Don Jorge thoughtfully.

"Coming! _Hombre!_ It is all but here! The Hercules went up-river

yesterday. You will pass her. She has gone to keep a look-out in the

vicinity of Puerto Berrio. I am sorry for our friend," nodding toward

Josè, who was leaning over the boat's rail at some distance; "but

there is a job there. He doesn't belong in this country. And Simití

will finish him."

"Bah! only another priest less--and a weak-kneed one at that," said

Don Jorge with contempt; "and we have too many of them now, Lord

knows!"

"You forget that I am a priest," chuckled Diego.

"You! Yes, so you are," laughed Don Jorge; "but of the diocese of

hell! Well, we're off. I'll send a runner down the trail when I reach

the Tiguí river; and if you will have a letter in Simití informing me

of the status of things political, he can bring it up. _Conque_,

_adios_, my consummate villain."

The Honda, whistling prodigiously, swung out into mid-stream and set

her course up-river, warily feeling through the velvety darkness for

the uncertain channel. Once she grated over a hidden bar and hung for

a few moments, while her stack vomited torrents of sparks and her

great wheel angrily churned the water into creamy foam in the clear

moonlight. Once, rounding a sharp bend, she collided squarely with a

huge mahogany tree, rolling and plunging menacingly in the seaward

rushing waters.

"_Diablo!_" muttered Don Jorge, as he helped Josè swing his hammock

and adjust the mosquito netting. "I shall offer a candle a foot thick

to the blessed Virgin if I reach Puerto Berrio safely! _Santo Dios!_"

as the boat grazed another sand bar. "I've heard tell of steamers

hanging up on bars in this river for six weeks! And look!" pointing to

the projecting smoke-stack of a sunken steamer. "_Caramba!_ That is

what we just escaped!"

But Josè manifested slight interest in the dangers of river

navigation. His thoughts were revolving about the incidents of the

past few days, and, more especially, about Padre Diego and his

significant words. Don Jorge had volunteered no further explanation of

the man or his conversation; and Josè's reticence would not permit him

to make other inquiry. But, after all, his thought-processes always

evolved the same conclusion: What mattered it now? His interest in

life was at an end. He had not told Don Jorge of his experience with

the leper in Maganguey. He was trying to forget it. But his hand ached

cruelly; and the pain was always associated with loathsome and

repellant thoughts of the event.

* * * * *

The eastern sky was blushing at the approach of the amorous sun when

Josè left his hammock and prepared to endure another day on the river.

To the south the deep blue vault of heaven was dotted with downy

clouds. Behind the laboring steamer the river glittered through a

dazzling white haze. Ahead, its course was traceable for miles by the

thin vapor always rising from it. The jungle on either side was

brilliant with color and resonant with the songs of forest lyrists. In

the lofty fronds of venerable palms and cedars noisy macaws gossiped

and squabbled, and excited monkeys discussed the passing boat and

commented volubly on its character. In the shallow water at the margin

of the river blue herons and spindle-legged cranes were searching out

their morning meal. Crocodiles lay dozing on the _playas_, with mouths

opened invitingly to the stupid birds which were sure to yield to the

mesmerism. Far in the distance up-stream a young deer was drinking at

the water's edge.

The charm of the rare scene held the priest spellbound. As he gazed

upon it a king vulture--called by the natives the Vulture Papa, or

Pope Vulture--suddenly swooped down from the depths of heaven and,

lighting upon the carcass of a monster crocodile floating down the

river, began to feast upon the choicest morsels, while the buzzards

which had been circling about the carrion and feeding at will

respectfully withdrew until the royal appetite should be satiated.

"Holy graft, eh, Padre?" commented Don Jorge, coming up. "Those

brainless buzzards, if they only knew it and had sense enough to

unite, could strip every feather off that swaggering vulture and send

him packing. Fools! And we poor Colombians, if we had the courage,

could as easily throw the Church into the sea, holy candles, holy

oils, holy incense and all! _Diablo!_ But we are fleeced like sheep!"

To Josè it did not seem strange that this man should speak so frankly

to him, a priest. He felt that Don Jorge was not so much lacking in

courtesy and delicate respect for the feelings and opinions of others

as he was ruggedly honest and fearlessly sincere in his hatred of the

dissimulation and graft practiced upon the ignorant and unsuspecting.

For the rest of the day Don Jorge was busy with his maps and papers,

and Josè was left to himself.

The character of the landscape had altered with the narrowing of the

stream, and the river-plain now lay in a great volcanic basin flanked

by distant verdure-clad hills. Far to the southwest Josè could see the

faint outlines of the lofty _Cordilleras_. Somewhere in that direction

lay Simití. And back of it lay the ancient treasure house of Spain,

where countless thousands of sweating slaves had worn out their

straining bodies under the goad and lash, that the monarchs of Castile

might carry on their foolish religious wars and attempt their vain

projects of self-aggrandizement.

The day wore on without interest, and darkness closed in quickly when

the sun dropped behind the _Sierras_. It was to be Josè's last night

on the Magdalena, for the captain had told him that, barring disaster,

the next afternoon should find them at Badillo. After the evening meal

the priest took his chair to the bow of the steamer and gave himself

over to the gentle influences of the rare and soothing environment.

The churning of the boat was softly echoed by the sleeping forest. The

late moon shimmered through clouds of murky vapor, and cast ghostly

reflections along the broad river. The balmy air, trembling with the

radiating heat, was impregnated with sweetest odors from the myriad

buds and balsamic plants of the dark jungle wilderness on either hand,

where impervious walls rose in majestic, deterrant, awesome silence

from the low shore line, and tangled shrubs and bushes, rioting in

wild profusion, jealously hung to the water's edge that they might

hide every trace of the muddy banks. What shapes and forms the black

depths of that untrodden bush hid from his eyes, Josè might only

imagine. But he felt their presence--crawling, creeping things that

lay in patient ambush for their unwitting prey--slimy lizards,

gorgeously caparisoned--dank, twisting serpents--elephantine

tapirs--dull-witted sloths--sleek, wary jaguars--fierce formicidae,

poisonous and carnivorous. He might not see them, but he felt that he

was the cynosure of hundreds of keen eyes that followed him as the

boat glided close to the shore and silently crept through the shadows

which lay thick upon the river's edge. And the matted jungle, with its

colossal vegetation, he felt was peopled with other things--influences

intangible, and perhaps still unreal, but mightily potent with the

symbolized presence of the great Unknown, which stands back of all

phenomena and eagerly watches the movements of its children. These

influences had already cast their spell upon him. He was yielding,

slowly, to the "lure of the tropics," which few who come under its

attachment ever find the strength to dispel.

No habitations were visible on the dark shores. Only here and there in

the yellow glow of the boat's lanterns appeared the customary piles

of wood which the natives sell to the passing steamers for boiler

fuel, and which are found at frequent intervals along the river. At

one of these the Honda halted to replenish its supply. The usual

bickering between the negro owner and the boat captain resulted in a

bargain, and the half-naked stevedores began to transfer the wood to

the vessel, carrying it on their shoulders in the most primitive

manner, held in a strip of burlap. The rising moon had at last thrown

off its veil of murky clouds, and was shining in undimmed splendor in

a starry sky. Josè went ashore with the passengers; for the boat might

remain there for hours while her crew labored leisurely, with much

bantering and singing, and no anxious thought for the morrow.

The strumming of a _tiple_ in the distance attracted him. Following

it, he found a small settlement of bamboo huts hidden away in a

beautiful grove of moriche palms, through which the moonbeams filtered

in silvery stringers. Little gardens lay back of the dwellings, and

the usual number of goats and pigs were dozing in the heavy shadows of

the scarcely stirring trees. Reserved matrons and shy _doncellas_

appeared in the doorways; and curious children, naked and chubby, hid

in their mothers' scant skirts and peeped cautiously out at the

newcomers. The tranquil night was sweet with delicate odors wafted

from numberless plants and blossoms in the adjacent forest, and with

the fragrance breathed from the roses, gardenias and dahlias with

which these unpretentious dwellings were fairly embowered. A spirit of

calm and peaceful contentment hovered over the spot, and the round,

white moon smiled down in holy benediction upon the gentle folk who

passed their simple lives in this bower of delight, free from the goad

of human ambition, untrammeled by the false sense of wealth and its

entailments, and unspoiled by the artificialities of civilization.

One of the passengers suggested a dance, while waiting for the boat to

take on its fuel. The owner of the wood, apparently the chief

authority of the little settlement, immediately procured a _tom-tom_,

and gave orders for the _baile_. At his direction men, women and

children gathered in the moonlit clearing on the river bank and, while

the musician beat a monotonous tattoo on the crude drum, circled about

in the stately and dignified movements of their native dance.

It was a picture that Josè would not forget. The balmy air, soft as

velvet, and laden with delicious fragrance; the vast solitude,

stretching in trackless wilderness to unknown reaches on either hand;

the magic stillness of the tropic night; the figures of the dancers

weirdly silhouetted in the gorgeous moonlight; with the low, unvaried

beat of the _tom-tom_ rising dully through the warm air--all merged

into a scene of exquisite beauty and delight, which made an indelible

impression upon the priest's receptive mind.

And when the sounds of simple happiness had again died into silence,

and he lay in his hammock, listening to the spirit of the jungle

sighing through the night-blown palms, as the boat glided gently

through the lights and shadows of the quiet river, his soul voiced a

nameless yearning, a vague, unformed longing for an approach to the

life of simple content and child-like happiness of the kind and gentle

folk with whom he had been privileged to make this brief sojourn.

* * * * *

The crimson flush of the dawn-sky heralded another day of implacable

heat. The emerald coronals of palms and towering _caobas_ burned in

the early beams of the torrid sun. Light fogs rose reluctantly from

the river's bosom and dispersed in delicate vapors of opal and violet.

The tangled banks of dripping bush shone freshly green in the misty

light. The wilderness, grim and trenchant, reigned in unchallenged

despotism. Solitude, soul-oppressing, unbroken but for the calls of

feathered life, brooded over the birth of Josè's last day on the

Magdalena. About midday the steamer touched at the little village of

Bodega Central; but the iron-covered warehouse and the whitewashed mud

hovels glittered garishly in the fierce heat and stifled all desire to

go ashore. The call was brief, and the boat soon resumed its course

through the solitude and heat of the mighty river.

Immediately after leaving Bodega Central, Don Jorge approached Josè

and beckoned him to an unoccupied corner of the boat.

"_Amigo_," he began, after assuring himself that his words would not

carry to the other passengers, "the captain tells me the next stop is

Badillo, where you leave us. If all goes well you will be in Simití

to-night. No doubt a report of our meeting with Padre Diego has

already reached Don Wenceslas, who, you may be sure, has no thought of

forgetting you. I have no reason to tell you this other than the fact

that I think, as Padre Diego put it, you are being jobbed--not by the

Church, but by Wenceslas. I want to warn you, that is all. I hate

priests! They got me early--got my wife and girl, too! I hate the

Church, and the whole ghastly farce which it puts over on the ignorant

people of this country! But--," eying him sharply, "I would hardly

class you as a _real_ priest. There, never mind!" as Josè was about to

interrupt. "I think I understand. You simply went wrong. You meant

well, but something happened--as always does when one means well in

this world. But now to the point."

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

"Your grandfather, Don Ignacio, was a very rich man. The war stripped

him. He got just what he deserved. His _fincas_ and herds and mines

melted away from him like grease from a holy candle. And nobody

cared--any more than the Lord cares about candle grease. Most of his

property fell into the hands of his former slaves--and he had hundreds

of them hereabouts. But his most valuable possession, the great mine

of La Libertad, disappeared as completely as if blotted from the face

of the earth.

"That mine--no, not a mine, but a mountain of free gold--was located

somewhere in the Guamocó district. After the war this whole country

slipped back into the jungle, and had to be rediscovered. The Guamocó

region is to-day as unknown as it was before the Spaniards came.

Somewhere in the district, but covered deep beneath brush and forest

growth, is that mine, the richest in Colombia.

"Now, as you know, Don Ignacio left this country in considerable of a

hurry. But I think he always intended to come back again. Death killed

that ambition. I don't know about his sons. But the fact remains that

La Libertad has never been rediscovered since Don Ignacio's day. The

old records in Cartagena show the existence of such a mine in Spanish

times, and give a more or less accurate statement of its production.

_Diablo_! I hesitate to say how much! The old fellow had _arrastras_,

mills, and so on, in which slaves crushed the ore. The bullion was

melted into bars and brought down the trail to Simití, where he had

agents and warehouses and a store or two. From there it was shipped

down the river to Cartagena. But the war lasted thirteen years. And

during that time everything was in a state of terrible confusion. The

existence of mines was forgotten. The plantations were left unworked.

The male population was all but killed off. And the country sank back

into wilderness.

"_Bueno_; so much for history. Now to your friends on the coast--and

elsewhere. Don Wenceslas is quietly searching for that mine--has been

for years. He put his agent, Padre Diego, in Simití to learn what he

might there. But the fool priest was run out after he had ruined a

woman or two. However, Padre Diego is still in close touch with the

town, and is on the keen search for La Libertad. Wenceslas thinks

there may be descendants of some of Don Ignacio's old slaves still

living in Simití, or near there, and that they know the location of

the lost mine. And, if I mistake not, he figures that you will learn

the secret from them in some way, and that the mine will again come to

light. Now, if you get wind of that mine and attempt to locate it, or

purchase it from the natives, you will be beaten out of it in a hurry.

And you may be sure Don Wenceslas will be the one who will eventually

have it, for there is no craftier, smoother, brighter rascal in

Colombia than he. And so, take it from me, if you ever get wind of the

location of that famous property--which by rights is yours, having

belonged to your grandfather--_keep the information strictly to

yourself_!

"I do not know Simití. But I shall be working in the Guamocó district

for many months to come, hunting Indian graves. I shall have my

runners up and down the Simití trail frequently, and may get in touch

with you. It may be that you will need a friend. There! The boat is

whistling for Badillo. A last word: Keep out of the way of both

Wenceslas and Diego--cultivate the people of Simití--and keep your

mouth closed."

A few minutes later Josè stood on the river bank beside his little

haircloth trunk and traveling bag, sadly watching the steamer draw

away and resume her course up-stream. He watched it until it

disappeared around a bend. And then he stood watching the smoke rise

above the treetops, until that, too, faded in the distance. No one had

waved him a farewell from the boat. No one met him with a greeting of

welcome on the shore. He was a stranger among strangers.

He turned, with a heavy heart, to note his environment. It was a

typical riverine point. A single street, if it might be so called; a

half dozen bamboo dwellings, palm-thatched; and a score of natives,

with their innumerable gaunt dogs and porcine companions--this was

Badillo.

"_Señor Padre._" A tall, finely built native, clad in soiled white

cotton shirt and trousers, approached and addressed him in a kindly

tone. "Where do you go?"

"To Simití," replied the priest, turning eagerly to the man. "But," in

bewilderment, "where is it?"

"Over there," answered the native, pointing to the jungle on the far

side of the river. "Many leagues."

The wearied priest sat down on his trunk and buried his face in his

hands. Faintness and nausea seized him. It was the after-effect of his

long and difficult river experience. Or, perhaps, the deadly malaria

was beginning its insidious poisoning. The man approached and laid a

hand on his shoulder.

"Padre, why do you go to Simití?"

Josè raised his head and looked more closely at his interlocutor. The

native was a man of perhaps sixty years. His figure was that of an

athlete. He stood well over six feet high, with massive shoulders, and

a waist as slender as a woman's. His face was almost black in color,

and mottled with patches of white, so common to the natives of the hot

inlands. But there was that in its expression, a something that

looked out through those kindly black eyes, that assured Josè and

bespoke his confidence.

The man gravely repeated his question.

"I have been sent there by the Bishop of Cartagena. I am to have

charge of the parish," Josè replied.

The man slowly shook his finely shaped head.

"We want no priest in Simití," he said with quiet firmness. His manner

of speaking was abrupt, yet not ungracious.

"But--do you live there?" inquired Josè anxiously.

"Yes, Padre."

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

"I am Rosendo Ariza."

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

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

Rosendo quickly grasped his hand and slipped an arm about his

shoulders.

"I am your friend, Padre--" He stopped and appeared to reflect for a

moment. Then he added quickly, "My canoe is ready; and we must hurry,

or night will overtake us."

The priest essayed to rise, but stumbled. Then, as if he had been a

child, the man Rosendo picked him up and carried him down the bank to

a rude canoe, where he deposited him on a pile of empty bags in the

keel.

"Escolastico!" he called back to a young man who seemed to be the

chief character of the village. "Sell the _panela_ and yuccas _á buen

precio_; and remind Captain Julio not to forget on the next trip to

bring the little Carmen a doll from Barranquilla. I will be over again

next month. And Juan," addressing the sturdy youth who was preparing

to accompany him, "set in the Padre's baggage; and do you take the

paddle, and I will pole. _Conque, adioscito!_" waving his battered

straw hat to the natives congregated on the bank, while Juan pushed

the canoe from the shore and paddled vigorously out into the river.

"_Adioscito! adioscito! Don Rosendo y Juan!_" The hearty farewells of

the natives followed the canoe far out into the broad stream.

Across the open river in the livid heat of the early afternoon the

canoe slowly made its way. The sun from a cloudless sky viciously

poured down its glowing rays like molten metal. The boat burned; the

river steamed; the water was hot to his touch, when the priest feebly

dipped his hands into it and bathed his throbbing brow. Badillo faded

from view as they rounded a densely wooded island and entered a long

lagoon. Here they lost the slight breeze which they had had on the

main stream. In this narrow channel, hemmed in between lofty forest

walls of closely woven vines and foliage, it seemed to Josè that they

had entered a flaming inferno. The two boatmen sat silent and

inscrutable, plying their paddles without speaking.

Down the long lagoon the canoe drifted, keeping within what scant

shade the banks afforded, for the sun stood now directly overhead. The

heat was everywhere, insistent, unpitying. It burned, scalded, warped.

The foliage on either side of the channel merged into the hot waves

that rose trembling about them. The thin, burning air enveloped the

little craft with fire. Josè gasped for breath. His tongue swelled.

His pulse throbbed violently. His skin cracked. The quivering

appearance of the atmosphere robbed him of confidence in his own

vision. A cloud of insects hung always before his sight. Dead silence

lay upon the scene. Not a sound issued from the jungle. Not a bird or

animal betrayed its presence. The canoe was edging the Colombian

"hells," where even the denizens of the forest dare not venture forth

on the low, open _savannas_ in the killing heat of midday.

Josè sank down in the boat, wilting and semi-delirious. Through his

dimmed eyes the boatman looked like glowing inhuman things set in

flames. Rosendo came to him and placed his straw hat over his face.

Hours, interminable and torturing, seemed to pass on leaden wings.

Then Juan, deftly swerving his paddle, shot the canoe into a narrow

arm, and the garish sunlight was suddenly lost in the densely

intertwined branches overhanging the little stream.

"The outlet of _La Cienaga_, Padre," Rosendo offered, laying aside his

paddle and taking his long boat pole. "Lake Simití flows through this

and into the Magdalena." For a few moments he held the canoe steady,

while from his wallet he drew a few leaves of tobacco and deftly

rolled a long, thick cigar.

The real work of the _boga_ now began, and Rosendo with his long

punter settled down to the several hours' strenuous grind which was

necessary to force the heavy canoe up the little outlet and into the

distant lake beyond. Back and forth he traveled through the

half-length of the boat, setting the pole well forward in the soft

bank, or out into the stream itself, and then, with its end against

his shoulder, urging and teasing the craft a few feet at a time

against the strong current. Josè imagined, as he dully watched him,

that he could see death in the pestiferous effluvia which emanated

from the black, slimy mud which every plunge of the long pole brought

to the surface of the narrow stream.

The afternoon slowly waned, and the temperature lowered a few degrees.

A warm, animal-like breath drifted languidly out from the moist

jungle. The outlet, or _caño_, was heavily shaded throughout its

length. Crocodiles lay along its muddy banks, and slid into the water

at the approach of the canoe. Huge _iguanas_, the gorgeously colored

lizards of tropical America, scurried noisily through the overarching

branches. Here and there monkeys peeped curiously at the intruders and

chattered excitedly as they swung among the lofty treetops. But for

his exhaustion, Josè, as he lay propped up against his trunk, gazing

vacantly upon the slowly unrolling panorama of marvelous plant and

animal life on either hand, might have imagined himself in a realm of

enchantment.

At length the vegetation abruptly ceased; the stream widened; and the

canoe entered a broad lake, at the far end of which, three miles

distant, its two whitewashed churches and its plastered houses

reflecting the red glow of the setting sun, lay the ancient and

decayed town of Simití, the northern outlet of Spain's mediaeval

treasure house, at the edge of the forgotten district of Guamocó.

Paddling gently across the unruffled surface of the tepid waters,

Rosendo and Juan silently urged the canoe through the fast gathering

dusk, and at length drew up on the shaly beach of the old town. As

they did so, a little girl, bare of feet and with clustering brown

curls, came running out of the darkness.

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

Then, as she saw Rosendo and Juan assisting the priest from the boat,

she drew back abashed.

"Look, Carmencita," whispered Juan to the little maid; "we've brought

you a _big_ doll, haven't we?"

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

CARMEN ARIZA

BOOK 2

Ay, to save and redeem and restore, snatch Saul, the mistake,

Saul, the failure, the ruin he seems now,--and bid him awake from

the dream, the probation, the prelude, to find himself set clear

and safe in new light and new life,--a new harmony yet to be run

and continued and ended.

--_Browning._

CARMEN ARIZA

CHAPTER 1

Josè de Rincón opened his eyes and turned painfully on his hard bed.

The early sun streamed through the wooden grating before the unglazed

window. A slight, tepid breeze stirred the mosquito netting over him.

He was in the single sleeping room of the house. It contained another

bed like his own, of rough _macana_ palm strips, over which lay a

straw mat and a thin red blanket. Bed springs were unknown in Simití.

On the rude door, cobwebbed and dusty, a scorpion clung torpidly. From

the room beyond he heard subdued voices. His head and limbs ached

dully; and frightful memories of the river trip and the awful journey

from Badillo sickened him. With painful exertion he stood upon the

moist dirt floor and drew on his damp clothes. He had only a vague

recollection of the preceding night, but he knew that Rosendo had half

led, half dragged him past rows of dimly lighted, ghostly white houses

to his own abode, and there had put him to bed.

"_Muy buenos dias, Señor Padre_," Rosendo greeted him, as the priest

dragged himself out into the living room. "You have slept long. But

the señora will soon have your breakfast. Sit here--not in the sun!"

Rosendo placed one of the rough wooden chairs, with straight cowhide

back and seat, near the table.

"Carmencita has gone to the boat for fresh water. But--here she comes.

Pour the _Señor Padre_ a cup, _carita_," addressing a little girl who

at that moment entered the doorway, carrying a large earthen bottle on

her shoulder. It was the child who had met the boat when the priest

arrived the night, before.

"Fill the basin, too, _chiquita_, that the Padre may wash his hands,"

added Rosendo.

The child approached Josè, and with a dignified little courtesy and a

frank smile offered him a cup of the lukewarm water. The priest

accepted it languidly. But, glancing into her face, his eyes suddenly

widened, and the hand that was carrying the tin cup to his lips

stopped.

The barefoot girl, clad only in a short, sleeveless calico gown, stood

before him like a portrait from an old master. Her skin was almost

white, with but a tinge of olive. Her dark brown hair hung in curls to

her shoulders and framed a face of rarest beauty. Innocence, purity,

and love radiated from her fair features, from her beautifully rounded

limbs, from her soft, dark eyes that looked so fearlessly into his

own.

Josè felt himself strangely moved. Somewhere deep within his soul a

chord had been suddenly struck by the little presence; and the sound

was unfamiliar to him. Yet it awakened memories of distant scenes, of

old dreams, and forgotten longings. It seemed to echo from realms of

his soul that had never been penetrated. The tumult within died away.

The raging thought sank into calm. The man forgot himself, forgot that

he had come to Simití to die. His sorrow vanished. His sufferings

faded. He remained conscious only of something that he could not

outline, something in the soul of the child, a thing that perhaps he

once possessed, and that he knew he yet prized above all else on

earth.

He heard Rosendo's voice through an immeasurable distance--

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

The child without speaking turned obediently; and the priest's eyes

followed her until she disappeared into the kitchen.

"We call her 'the smile of God,'" said Rosendo, noting the priest's

absorption, "because she is always happy."

Josè remained sunk in thought. Then--

"A beautiful child!" he murmured. "A wonderfully beautiful child! I

had no idea--!"

"Yes, Padre, she is heaven's gift to us poor folk. I sometimes think

the angels themselves left her on the river bank."

"On the river bank!" Josè was awake now. "Why--she was not born

here?"

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

"Ah, then you once lived in Badillo?"

"_Na, Señor Padre_, she is not my child--except that the good God has

given her to me to protect."

"Not your child! Then whose is she?" The priest's voice was unwontedly

eager and his manner animated.

But Rosendo fell suddenly quiet and embarrassed, as if he realized

that already he had said too much to a stranger. A shade of suspicion

seemed to cross his face, and he rose hurriedly and went out into the

kitchen. A moment later he returned with the priest's breakfast--two

fried eggs, a hot corn _arepa_, fried _platanos_, dried fish, and

coffee sweetened with _panela_.

"When you have finished, Padre, we will visit the Alcalde," he said

quietly. "I must go down to the lake now to speak with Juan before he

goes out to fish."

Josè finished his meal alone. The interest which had been aroused by

the child continued to increase without reaction. His torpid soul had

been profoundly stirred. For the moment, though he knew not why, life

seemed to hold a vague, unshaped interest for him. He began to notice

his environment; he even thought he relished the coarse food set

before him.

The house he was in was a typical native three-room dwelling, built of

strips of _macana_ palm, set upright and tied together with pieces of

slender, tough _bejuco_ vine. The interstices between the strips were

filled with mud, and the whole whitewashed. The floors were dirt,

trodden hard; the steep-pitched roof was thatched with palm. A few

chairs like the one he occupied, the rude, uncovered table, some cheap

prints and a battered crucifix on the wall, were the only furnishings

of the living room.

While he was eating, the people of the town congregated quietly

about the open door. Friendly curiosity to see the new Padre, and

sincere desire to welcome him animated their simple minds. Naked

babes crawled to the threshold and peeped timidly in. Coarsely

clad women and young girls, many of the latter bedizened with bits

of bright ribbon or cheap trinkets, smiled their gentle greetings.

Black, dignified men, bare of feet, and wearing white cotton trousers

and black _ruanas_--the cape affected by the poor males of the

inlands--respectfully doffed their straw hats and bowed to him.

Rosendo's wife appeared from the kitchen and extended her hand to

him in unfeigned hospitality. Attired in a fresh calico gown, her

black hair plastered back over her head and tied with a clean black

ribbon, her bare feet encased in hemp sandals, she bore herself

with that grace and matronly dignity so indicative of her Spanish

forbears, and so particularly characteristic of the inhabitants of

this "valley of the pleasant 'yes.'"

Breakfast finished, the priest stepped to the doorway and raised his

hand in the invocation that was evidently expected from him.

"_Dominus vobiscum_," he repeated, not mechanically, not insincerely,

but in a spirit of benevolence, of genuine well-wishing, which his

contact with the child a few minutes before seemed to have aroused.

The people bent their heads piously and murmured, "_Et cum spiritu

tuo._"

The open door looked out upon the central _plaza_, where stood a large

church of typical colonial design and construction, and with a single

lateral bell tower. The building was set well up on a platform of

shale, with broad shale steps, much broken and worn, leading up to it

on all sides. Josè stepped out and mingled with the crowd, first

regarding the old church curiously, and then looking vainly for the

little girl, and sighing his disappointment when he did not see her.

In the _plaza_ he was joined by Rosendo; and together they went to

the house of the Alcalde. On the way the priest gazed about him with

growing curiosity. To the north of the town stretched the lake, known

to the residents only by the name of _La Cienaga_. It was a body of

water of fair size, in a setting of exquisite tropical beauty. In

a temperate climate, and a region more densely populated, this

lake would have been priceless. Here in forgotten Guamocó it lay like

an undiscovered gem, known only to those few inert and passive folk,

who enjoyed it with an inadequate sense of its rare beauty and

immeasurable worth. Several small and densely wooded isles rose

from its unrippled bosom; and tropical birds of brilliant color

hovered over it in the morning sun. Near one of its margins Josè

distinguished countless white _garzas_, the graceful herons whose

plumes yield the coveted aigrette of northern climes. They fed

undisturbed, for this region sleeps unmolested, far from the beaten

paths of tourist or vandal huntsman. To the west and south lay the

hills of Guamocó, and the lofty _Cordilleras_, purpling in the

light mist. Over the entire scene spread a damp warmth, like the

atmosphere of a hot-house. By midday Josè knew that the heat would

be insufferable.

The Alcalde, Don Mario Arvila, conducted his visitors through his

shabby little store and into the _patio_ in the rear, exclaiming

repeatedly, "Ah, _Señor Padre_, we welcome you! All Simití welcomes

you and kisses your hand!" In the shade of his arbor he sat down to

examine Josè's letters from Cartagena.

Don Mario was a large, florid man, huge of girth, with brown skin,

heavy jowls, puffed eyes, and bald head. As he read, his eyes snapped,

and at times he paused and looked up curiously at the priest. Then,

without comment, he folded the letters and put them into a pocket of

his crash coat.

"_Bien_," he said politely, "we must have the Padre meet Don Felipe

Alcozer as soon as he returns. Some repairs are needed on the

church; a few of the roof tiles have slipped, and the rain enters.

Perhaps, _Señor Padre_, you may say the Mass there next Sunday. We

will see. A--a--you had illustrious ancestors, Padre," he added with

hesitation.

"Do the letters mention my ancestry?" asked Josè with something of

mingled surprise and pride.

"They speak of your family, which was, as we all know, quite

renowned," replied the Alcalde courteously.

"Very," agreed Josè, wondering how much the Alcalde knew of his

family.

"Don Ignacio was not unknown in this _pueblo_," affably continued the

Alcalde.

At these words Rosendo started visibly and looked fixedly at the

priest.

"The family name of Rincón," the Alcalde went on, "appears on the old

records of Simití in many places, and it is said that Don Ignacio

himself came here more than once. Perhaps you know, _Señor Padre_,

that the Rincón family erected the church which stands in the _plaza_?

And so it is quite appropriate that their son should officiate in it

after all these centuries, is it not?"

No, Josè had not known it. He could not have imagined such a thing. He

knew little of his family's history. Of their former vast wealth he

had a vague notion. But here in this land of romance and tragedy he

seemed to be running upon their reliques everywhere.

The conversation drifted to parish matters; and soon Rosendo urged

their departure, as the sun was mounting high.

Seated at the table for the midday lunch, Josè again became lost in

contemplation of the child before him. Her fair face flushed under his

searching gaze; but she returned a smile of confidence and sweet

innocence that held him spellbound. Her great brown eyes were of

infinite depth. They expressed a something that he had never seen

before in human eyes. What manner of soul lay behind them? What was it

that through them looked out into this world of evil? Childish

innocence and purity, yes; but vastly more. Was it--God Himself? Josè

started at his own thought. Through his meditations he heard Rosendo's

voice.

"Simití is very old, Padre. In the days of the Spaniards it was a

large town, with many rich people. The Indians were all slaves then,

and they worked in the mines up there," indicating the distant

mountains. "Much gold was brought down here and shipped down the

Magdalena, for the _caño_ was wider in those days, and it was not so

hard to reach the river. This is the end of the Guamocó trail, which

was called in those days the _Camino Real_."

"You say the mines were very rich?" interrogated Josè; not that the

question expressed a more than casual interest, but rather to keep

Rosendo talking while he studied the child.

But at this question Rosendo suddenly became less loquacious. Josè

then felt that he was suspected of prying into matters which Rosendo

did not wish to discuss with him, and so he pressed the topic no

further.

"How many people did Don Mario say the parish contained?" he asked by

way of diverting the conversation.

"About two hundred, Padre."

"And it has been vacant long?"

"Four years."

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

It was an unfortunate remark. At the mention of the former priest's

name Doña Maria hurriedly left the table. Rosendo's black face grew

even darker, and took on a look of ineffable contempt. He did not

reply. And the meal ended in silence.

It was now plain to Josè that Rosendo distrusted him. But it mattered

little to the priest, beyond the fact that he had no wish to offend

any one. What interest had he in boorish Simití, or Guamocó? The place

was become his tomb--he had entered it to die. The child--the girl!

Ah, yes, she had touched a strange chord within him; and for a time he

had seemed to live again. But as the day waned, and pitiless heat and

deadly silence brooded over the decayed town, his starving soul sank

again into its former depression, and revived hope and interest died

within him.

The implacable heat burned through the noon hour; the dusty streets

were like the floor of a stone oven; the shale beds upon which the old

town rested sent up fiery, quivering waves; the houses seethed; earth

and sky were ablaze. How long could he endure it?

And the terrible _ennui_, the isolation, the utter lack of every trace

of culture, of the varied interests that feed the educated, trained

mind and minister to its comfort and growth--could he support it

patiently while awaiting the end? Would he go mad before the final

release came? He did not fear death; but he was horror-stricken at the

thought of madness! Of losing that rational sense of the Ego which

constituted his normal individuality!

Rosendo advised him to retire for the midday _siesta_. Through the

seemingly interminable afternoon he lay upon his hard bed with his

brain afire, while the events of his warped life moved before him in

spectral review. The week which had passed since he left Cartagena

seemed an age. When he might hope to receive word from the outside

world, he could not imagine. His isolation was now complete. Even

should letters succeed in reaching Simití for him, they must first

pass through the hands of the Alcalde.

And what did the Alcalde know of him? And then, again, what did it

matter? He must not lose sight of the fact that his interest in the

outside world--nay, his interest in all things had ceased. This was

the end. He had yielded, after years of struggle, to pride, fear,

doubt. He had bowed before his morbid sense of honor--a perverted

sense, he now admitted, but still one which bound him in fetters of

steel. His life had been one of grossest inconsistency. He was utterly

out of tune with the universe. His incessant clash with the world of

people and events had sounded nothing but agonizing discord. And his

confusion of thought had become such that, were he asked why he was in

Simití, he could scarcely have told. At length he dropped into a

feverish sleep.

The day drew to a close, and the flaming sun rested for a brief moment

on the lofty tip of Tolima. Josè awoke, dripping with perspiration,

his steaming blood rushing wildly through its throbbing channels.

Blindly he rose from his rough bed and stumbled out of the stifling

chamber. The living room was deserted. Who might be in the kitchen, he

did not stop to see. Dazed by the garish light and fierce heat, he

rushed from the house and over the burning shales toward the lake.

What he intended to do, he knew not. His weltering thought held but a

single concept--water! The lake would cool his burning skin--he would

wade out into it until it rose to his cracking lips--he would lie down

in it, till it quenched the fire in his head--he would sleep in it--he

would never leave it--it was cool--perhaps cold! What did the word

mean? Was there aught in the world but fire--flames--fierce,

withering, smothering, consuming heat? He thought the shales crackled

as they melted beneath him! He thought his feet sank to the ankles in

molten lava, and were so heavy he scarce could drag them! He thought

the blazing sun shot out great tongues of flame, like the arms of a

monster devilfish, which twined about him, transforming his blood to

vapor and sucking it out through his gaping pores!

A blinding light flashed before him as he reached the margin of the

lake. The universe burst into a ball of fire. He clasped his head in

his hands--stumbled--and fell, face down, in the tepid waters.