e the Church, and--

Impossible! Excommunication alone could sever the oath by which the
Church held him. And for that he could not say that he was ready. For
excommunication meant disgrace to his mother--perhaps the snapping of
a heart already sorely strained. To renounce his oath was dishonor. To
preach the Catholic faith without sincerity was scarcely less. Yet
amid present circumstances this seemed the only course open to him.

But what must he teach Carmen in regard to the Church? Could he
maintain his position in it, yet not of it; and at the same time rear
her without its pale, yet so as not to conflict with the people of
Simiti, nor cause such comment as might reach the ears of the Bishop
of Cartagena? God alone knew. It must be attempted, at any rate. There
was no other way. And if it was God's plan, he might safely trust Him
for the requisite strength and wisdom. For this course the isolation
of Simiti and the childish simplicity of its people afforded a
tremendous advantage. On the other hand, he knew that both he and
Carmen had powerful enemies. Yet, one with God might rout a host. And
Carmen walked with God.

Thus throughout the afternoon the priest weighed and pondered the
thoughts that sought admission to his reawakened mind. He was not
interrupted until sundown; and then Carmen entered the room with a
bowl of chocolate and some small wheaten loaves. Behind her, with an
amusing show of dignity, stalked a large heron, an elegant bird, with
long, scarlet legs, gray plumage, and a gracefully curved neck. When
the bird reached the threshold it stopped, and without warning gave
vent to a prolonged series of shrill, unmusical sounds. The startled
priest sat up in his bed and exclaimed in amazement.

"It is only Cantar-las-horas, Padre," laughed the little maid. "He
follows me wherever I go, unless he is off fishing. Sometimes when I
go out in the boat with padre Rosendo he flies clear across the lake
to meet us. He is lots older than I, and years ago, when there were
_Curas_ here, he learned his song. Whenever the _Angelas_ rang he
would try to sing just like it; and now he has the habit and can't
help it. But he is such a dear, wise old fellow," twining a chubby arm
lovingly about the bird's slender neck; "and he always sings just at
six o'clock, the time the _Angelas_ used to ring."

The heron manifested the deepest affection for the child as she gently
stroked its plumage and caressed its long, pointed