eated themselves on the hillside in
the still night, "I think we shall all die of the plague. And it were
well so. I am tired, utterly tired of striving to live against such
odds. _Bien_, let it come!"

"Courage, _compadre_!" urged Rosendo, putting his great arm about the
priest's shoulders. "We must all go some time, and perhaps now; but
while we live let us live like men!"

"You do not fear death?"

"No--what is it that the old history of mine says? 'Death is not
departing, but arriving.' I am not afraid. But the little Carmen--I
wish that she might live. She--ah, Padre, she could do much good in
the world. _Bien_, we are all in the hands of the One who brought us
here--and He will take us in the way and at the time that He
appoints--is it not so, Padre?"

Jose lapsed again into meditation. No, he could not say that it was
so. The thoughts which he had expressed to Carmen that morning still
flitted through his mind. The child was right--Rosendo's philosophy
was that of resignation born of ignorance. It was the despair of
doubt. And he did not really think that Carmen would be smitten of the
plague. Something seemed to tell him that it was impossible. But, on
the other hand, he would himself observe every precaution in regard to
her. No, he would not sleep in the church that night. He had handled
the body of the plague's second victim, and he could not rest near the
child. Perhaps exposure to the night air and the heavy dews would
serve to cleanse him. And so he wrapped himself in the blanket which
Dona Maria brought from within the church, and lay down beside the
faithful pair.

In the long hours of that lonely night Jose lay beneath the shimmering
stars pondering, wondering. Down below in the smitten town the poor
children of his flock were eating their hearts out in anxious dread
and bitter sorrow. Was it through any fault of theirs that this thing
had come upon them, like a bolt from a cloudless sky? No--except that
they were human, mortal. And if the thing were real, it came from the
mind that is God; if unreal--but it seemed real to these simple folk,
terribly so!

His heart yearned toward them as his thought penetrated the still
reaches of the night and hovered about their lonely vigil. Yet, what
had he to offer? What balm could he extend to those wearing out weary
hours on beds of agony below? Religion? True religion, if they could
but understand it; but not again the empty husks of the faith that had