ed features.

What could the man do or say, limited, hounded, and without resources?
Could he force these simple people to buy Masses? Could he take their
money on a pretext which he felt to be utterly false? Yet Cartagena
_must_ be kept quiet at any hazard!

"Rosendo," he asked earnestly, "when you had a priest in Simiti, did
the people have Masses offered for their dead?"

"_Na_, Padre, we have little money for Masses," replied Rosendo
sadly.

"But you have bought them?"

"At times--long ago--for my first wife, when she died without a
priest, up in the Tigui country. But not when Padre Diego was here. I
couldn't see how Masses said by that drunken priest could please God,
or make Him release souls from purgatory--and Padre Diego was drunk
most of the time."

Jose became desperate. "Rosendo, we _must_ send money to the Bishop in
Cartagena. I _must_ stay here--I _must_! And I can stay only by
satisfying Wenceslas! If I can send him money he will think me too
valuable to remove. It is not the Church, Rosendo, but Wenceslas who
is persecuting me. It is he who has placed me here. He is using the
Church for his own evil ends. It is he who must be placated. But I--I
can't make these poor people buy Masses! And--but here, read his
letter," thrusting it into Rosendo's hand.

Rosendo shook his head thoughtfully, and a cloud had gathered over his
strong face when he returned the Bishop's letter to Jose.

"Padre, we will be hard pressed to support the church and you, without
buying Masses. There are about two hundred people here, perhaps fifty
families. But they are very, very poor. Only a few can afford to pay
even a _peso oro_ a month to the schoolmaster to have their children
taught. They may be able to give twenty _pesos_ a month to support you
and the church. But hardly more."

It seemed to Jose that his soul must burst under its limitations.

"Rosendo, let us take Carmen and flee!" he cried wildly.

"How far would we get, Padre? Have you money?"

No, Jose had nothing. He lapsed into silence-shrouded despair.

The sun dropped below the wooded hills, and Cantar-las-horas had sung
his weird vesper song. Dusk was thickening into night, though upon the
distant _Sierras_ a mellow glow still illumined the frosted peaks.
Moments crept slowly through the enveloping silence.

Then the mental gloom parted, and through it arose the great soul of
the black-faced man sitting beside the despairing priest.

"Padre"--Rose