ngues 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.

CHAPTER 2

"It was the little Carmen, Padre, who saw you run to the lake. She was
sitting at the kitchen door, studying her writing lesson."

The priest essayed to rise from his bed. Night had fallen, and the
feeble light of the candle cast heavy shadows over the room, and made
grotesque pictures of the black, anxious faces looking in at the
grated window.

"But, Rosendo, it--was--a dream--a terrible dream!"

"_Na_, Padre, it was true, for I myself took you from the lake,"
replied Rosendo tenderly.

Jose struggled to a sitting posture, but would have fallen back again
had not Rosendo's strong arm supported him. He passed his hand slowly
across his forehead, as if to brush the mental cobwebs from his
awakening brain. Then he inquired feebly:

"What does the doctor say?"

"Padre, there is no doctor in Simiti," Rosendo answered quietly.

"No doctor!"

Jose kept silence for a few moments. Then--

"But perhaps I do not need one. What time did it occur?"

"It did not happen to-day, Padre," said Rosendo with pitying
compassion. "It was nearly a week ago."

"Nearly a week! And have I lain here so long?"

"Yes, Padre."

The priest stared at him uncomprehendingly. Then--

"The dreams were frightful! I must have talked--raved! Rosendo--you
heard me--?" His voice betrayed anxiety.

"There, Padre, think no more about it. You were wild--I fought to keep
you in bed--we thought you must die--all but Carmen--but you have your
senses now--and you must forget the past."

Forget the past! Then his wild delirium had laid bare his soul! And
the man who had so faithfully nursed him through the crisis now
possessed the sordid details of this wretched life!

Jose struggled to orient his undirected mind. A hot wave of anger
swept over him at the thought that he was still living, that his
battered soul had not torn itself from earth during his delirium and
taken flight. Was he fated to live forever, to drag out an endless
existence, with his heart written upon his sleeve for the world to
read and turn to its own advantage? Rosendo had stood between him and
death