It was this hasty judgment of Wenceslas and his political a.s.sociates which had delayed further consideration of the objectionable measure for six years. But the interim had seen his party enormously strengthened, himself in control of the See, and his preparations completed for turning the revolt, whenever it should come, to his own great advantage. He had succeeded in holding the Church party aloof from actual partic.i.p.ation in politics during the present crisis. And he was now keeping it in constant readiness to throw its tremendous influence to whichever side should offer the greatest inducements.

Time pa.s.sed. The measure dragged. Congress dallied; and then prepared to adjourn. Wenceslas received a code message from his agent in Bogota that the measure would be laid on the table. At the same time came a sharp prod from New York. The funds had been provided to finance the impending revolution. The concessions to be granted were satisfactory.

Why the delay? Had the Church party exaggerated its influence upon Congress?

Wenceslas stormed aloud. "_Santa Virgen!_" he muttered, as he paced angrily back and forth in his study. "A curse upon Congress! A curse--"

He stopped still. In the midst of his imprecations an idea occurred to him. He went to his _escritorio_ and drew out the Legate's recent report. "Ah," he mused, "that pig-headed Alcalde. And the good little Jose. They may serve. _Bien_, we shall see."

Then he summoned his secretary and dictated telegrams to Bogota and New York, and a long letter to the Alcalde of Simiti. These finished, he called a young acolyte in waiting.

"Take a message to the Governor," he commanded. "Say to His Excellency that I shall, call upon him at three this afternoon, to discuss matters of gravest import." Dismissing his secretary, he leaned back in his chair and dropped into a profound revery.

Shortly before the hour which he had set for conference with the Departmental Governor, Wenceslas rose and went to his _escritorio_, from which he took a paper-bound book.

"H'm," he commented aloud. "'Confessions of a Roman Catholic Priest.'

_Bien_, I was correct in my surmise that I should some day have use for this little volume. Poor, misguided Rincon! But--_Bien_, I think it will do--I think it will do."

A smile played over his handsome, imperious face. Then he snapped the book shut and took up his hat. At the door he hesitated a moment, with his hand on the k.n.o.b.

"If the Alcalde were not such a fool, it would be impossible," he mused. "But--the combination--the isolation of Simiti--the imbecility of Don Mario--the predicament of our little Jose--_Hombre_! it is a rare situation, and it will work. It _must_ work--_cielo_! With the pig-headed Alcalde seizing government arms to suppress the Church party as represented by the foolish Jose, and with the President sending federal troops to quell the disturbance, the anticlericals will rise in a body throughout the country. Then Congress will hastily pa.s.s the measure to support the President, the Church party will swing into line with the Government--and the revolution will be on. Simiti provides the setting and the fuel; I, the torch. I will cable again to Ames when I leave the Governor." He swung the door open and went briskly out.

"Padre, I am crushed."

It was Rosendo who spoke. He and Jose were sitting out in the gathering dusk before the parish house on the evening of the day that Ana's babe had been christened. The old man's head was sunk upon his breast, and he rocked back and forth groaning aloud.

"We must be brave, Rosendo," returned Jose tenderly. "We have gone through much, you and I, since I came to Simiti. But--we have believed it to be in a good cause. Shall we surrender now?"

"But, Padre, after it all, to have her babe come into the world blind!

G.o.d above! The poor child--the poor child! Padre, it is the last thing that I can endure. My ambition is gone. I cannot return now to Guamoco. Let come what may, I am done."

"Rosendo," said Jose, drawing his chair closer to the old man, and laying a hand on his, "we have fought long and hard. But, if I mistake not, the greatest struggle is yet to come. The greatest demand upon your strength and mine is still to be made."

Rosendo raised his head. "What mean you, Padre?"

Jose spoke low and earnestly. "This: Juan returned from Bodega Central this evening. He reports that several large boxes are there, consigned to Don Mario, and bearing the government stamp. He found one of them slightly broken, and he peered within. What think you it contained?

Rifles!"

Rosendo stared at the priest dumbly. Jose went on:

"I did not intend to tell you this until morning. But it is right that you should hear it now, that your courage may rise in the face of danger. What think you? The federal government is sending arms to Simiti to establish a base here at the outlet of the Guamoco region, and well hidden from the Magdalena river. This town is to become a military depot, unless I mistake the signs. And danger no longer threatens, but is at our door."

"_Ca-ram-ba_!" Rosendo rose slowly and drew himself up to his full height. "War!" he exclaimed in a hoa.r.s.e whisper.

"There is no question about it, Rosendo," replied Jose gravely. "And I have no reason to doubt the truth of Diego's prophecy, that this time it will be one to be reckoned with."

"_Hombre_! And Carmen?"

"Take her into the hills, Rosendo. Start to-morrow."

"But you?"

Jose's thought was dwelling on his last talk with the girl. Again he felt her soft arms about his neck, and her warm breath against his cheek. He felt her kiss, and heard again her words, the sweetest, he thought, that had ever echoed in mortal ears. And then he thought of his mother, of his office, of the thousand obstacles that loomed huge and insurmountable between him and Carmen. He pa.s.sed a hand across his brow and sighed heavily.

"I remain here, Rosendo. I am weary, unutterably weary. I welcome, not only the opportunity for service which this war may bring, but likewise the hope of--death. If I could but know that she were safe--"

"_Caramba_! Think you she would leave you here, Padre? No!" Did Rosendo's words convey aught to the priest that he did not already know?

"But--Rosendo, I shall not go," he returned bitterly.

"Then neither do we, Padre," replied Rosendo, sitting again. "The child, Carmen--she--Padre, she loves you with a love that is not of the earth."

Morning found the old man's conviction still unshaken. Jose sought the quiet of his cottage to reflect. But his meditations were interrupted by Carmen.

"Padre," she began, sparkling like a mountain rill in the sunlight as she seated herself before him. "Pepito--Anita's babe--he is not blind, you know." Her head bobbed vigorously, as was her wont when she sought to give emphasis to her dramatic statements.

Jose smiled, and resigned himself to the inevitable. He had been expecting this.

"And, Padre, have you been thankful that he isn't?"

"Isn't what, child?"

"Blind. You know, Padre Diego thought he couldn't see the reality. He looked always at his bad thoughts. And so the not seeing, and the seeing of only bad things, were both--externalized, and the babe came to us without sight. That is, without what the human mind calls sight.

And now," she went on excitedly, "you and I have just _got_ to know that it isn't so! The babe sees. G.o.d's children all see. And I have thanked Him all morning that this is so, and that you and I see it.

Don't we, Padre dear? Yes, we do."

"Well--I suppose so," replied Jose abstractedly, his thought still occupied with the danger that hung over the little town.

"Suppose so! You _know_ so, Padre! There isn't any 'suppose' about it!

Now look: what makes sight? The eye? No. The eye is made _by_ the sight. The human mind just gets it twisted about. It thinks that sight depends upon the optic nerve, and upon the fleshly eye. But it isn't so. It is the sight that externalizes the 'meaty' eye. You see, the sight is within, not without. It is mental. G.o.d is all-seeing; and so, sight is eternal. Don't you see? Of course you do!"

Jose did not reply. Yes, he did see. But what he saw was the beautiful, animated girl before him. And the thought that he must some day be separated from her was eating his heart like a canker.

"Well, then," went on the girl, without waiting for his reply, "if a mortal's mental concept of sight is poor, why, he will manifest poor eyes. If the thought-concept were right, the manifestation would be right. Wouldn't it?"

Jose suddenly returned to the subject under discussion. "By that I suppose you mean, _chiquita_, that the babe's thought, or concept, of sight was all wrong, and so he came into the world blind."

"Not at all, Padre," she quickly replied. "The babe had nothing to do with it, except to seem to manifest the wrong thoughts of its father, or mother, or both. Or perhaps it manifests just simply bad thoughts, without the bad thoughts belonging to anybody. For, you know, we none of us really _have_ such thoughts. And such thoughts don't really exist. They are just a part of the one big lie about G.o.d."

"Then the babe sees?"

"Surely; the real babe is a child of G.o.d, and sees."

"But the human babe doesn't see," he retorted.

"But," she replied, "what you call the human babe is only your mental concept of the babe. And you see that mental concept as a blind one.