upport 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 Jose.

"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 Jesus_. It can do you no harm, and
may be useful."

Jose 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, Jose 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