it. They brought clothes, but
they rotted where they were left. What he ate, no one could discover.
At last some good soul planted a fig tree near the cave, hoping that
the fruit in time would prove acceptable to him. One day they found
the tree cut down. _Bien_, time passed, and he was forgotten. One day
some men, passing the cave, found his body, pale and thin, with long,
white hair, lying at the entrance. But--_Caramba_! when they buried
the body they found it was that of a woman!"

He paused to draw some leaves of tobacco from his wallet and roll a
thick cigar. The sudden turn of his story drew an expression of
amazement from the priest.

"_Bien_," he resumed, "where the woman came from, and who she was,
never was learned. Nor how she lived. But of course some one must have
supplied her with food and clothes all these years. Perhaps she was
some grand dame, with a dramatic past, who had come there to escape
the world and do penance for her sins. What sorrow, what black tragedy
that cave concealed, no one may ever know! Nor am I at all interested
in that. The point is, either she found gold there, or had a quantity
of it that she brought with her--at least so I thought at the time.
So, when the _guaquero_ at Puerto Nacional told me the story, nothing
would do but I must go with him to search the cave. _Caramba!_ We
wasted three full months prying around there--and had our labor for
our pains!"

He tilted his chair back and puffed savagely at his cigar.

"Well, then I got on the windy side of another legend, a wild tale of
buried treasure in the vicinity of Mompox. Of course I hurried after
it. Spent six months pawing the hot dirt around that old town. Fell in
with your estimable citizen, Don Felipe, who swindled me out of a
hundred good _pesos oro_ on a fraudulent location and a forged map.
Then I cursed him and the place and went up to Banco."

"Banco!" Jose's heart began beating rapidly. Don Jorge went on:

"Your genial friend Diego is back there. Told me about his trip to
Simiti to see his little daughter."

"What did he say about her, _amigo_?" asked Jose in a controlled
voice.

"Not much--only that he expected to send for her soon. You know,
Rosendo's daughter is living with him. Fine looking wench, too!"

"But, Don Jorge," pursued Jose anxiously, "what think you, is the
little Carmen Diego's child?"

"_Hombre!_ How should I know? He no doubt has many."

"She does not look like him," asserted Jose,