y arms.

"No, Padre," the girl answered firmly.

"_Na_, then, still afraid, eh?" he taunted, with rising anger.

"No, Padre; to be afraid would mean that I didn't understand God."

"Ha! Then come to me and prove that you do understand Him, eh?" he
suggested eagerly. "_Caramba_! why do you sit there like a mummy? Are
you invoking curses on the bald pate of your desolate father?"

"No, Padre; I am thanking God all the time that He is here, and that
He will not let you hurt me."

The man's lust-inflamed eyes narrowed and the expression on his evil
face became more sinister. "_Maldita_!" he growled, "will you come
hither, or must I--"

"No." She shook her head slowly, and her heavy curls glistened in the
sunlight. "No, Padre, God will not let me come to you."

Panting and cursing softly, the man got slowly to his feet. "_Madre de
Dios_!" he muttered; "then we will see if your God will let me come to
you!"

Carmen rose and stood hesitant. Her lips moved rapidly, though no
sound came from them. They were forming the words of the psalmist, "In
God have I put my trust: I will not be afraid what man can do unto
me." It was a verse Jose had taught her long since, when his own heart
was bursting with apprehension.

Diego stumbled heavily toward the child. She turned quickly as if to
flee. He thrust out his hand and clutched her dress. The flimsy
calico, frayed and worn, tore its full length, and the gown fell to
the floor. She stopped and turned to face the man. Her white body
glistened in the clear sunlight like a marble statue.

_"Por el amor de Dios_!" ejaculated the priest, straightening up and
regarding her with dull, blinking eyes. Then, like a tiger pouncing
upon a fawn, he seized the unresisting girl in his arms and staggered
back to his chair.

"_Caramba! Caramba_!" he exclaimed, holding her with one arm about her
waist, and with his free hand clumsily pouring another glass of wine.
"Only a thing of thought, eh? _Madre de Dios! Bien_, pretty thought,
drink with me this thought of wine!" He laughed boisterously at his
crude wit, and forced the glass between her lips.

"I--am not afraid--I am not afraid," she whispered, drinking. "It
cannot hurt me--nor can you. God _is_ here!"

"Hurt you!" he panted, setting down the glass and mopping his hot
brow, as he settled back into the chair again. "_Caramba_! who hurts
when he loves?"

"You--do--not--love--me, Padre!" she gasped under his tight clutch.
"You have