fore their strained gaze, packed carefully in sawdust, lay several
bars of yellow metal. Rosendo took them out with trembling hands and
laid them upon the floor. "Gold, Padre, gold!" he muttered hoarsely.
"Gold, buried by your grandfather! _Caramba!--_

"Hold these, Padre!" hurrying out and returning with a pair of
homemade wooden balances. Again and again he carefully weighed the
bars. Then he began to calculate. It seemed to Jose that the old man
wasted hours arriving at a satisfactory result.

"Padre," he finally announced in tones which he strove vainly to
control, "there cannot be less than six thousand _pesos oro_ here!"

Jose drew a long breath. "Six thousand _pesos_--twenty-four thousand
francs! It is a fortune! Rosendo, we are rich!"

The trembling old man replaced the bars and carried them to Jose's
bed. The priest opened the door and called to Carmen.

"What was in the old box, Padre?" she asked happily, bounding into the
room.

He stooped and picked her up, almost crushing her in his arms. "The
answer to your question, _chiquita_. 'Before they call I will answer:
and while they are yet speaking, I will hear.'"

CHAPTER 23

When Jose awoke the next morning he quickly put his hand under his
pillow. Yes, the little coffer was there! It had not been a dream. He
drew it forth and raised the cover. The yellow bars glittered in the
morning rays sifting through the overhanging thatch at the window. He
passed his hand gently across them. What a fortunate discovery! And
how strangely brought about. They were rich! Now he could take Carmen
and flee! His heart leaped within him as he hastily threw on his scant
attire and went out into the balsamic air of the tropical morning.
Rosendo had gone to the village of Boque, starting before sun-up, so
Dona Maria announced. Some sudden impulse had seized him, and he had
set out forthwith, not stopping to discuss the motive with his
faithful consort. Jose concluded his _desayuno_, and then summoned
Carmen to the parish house for the day's lessons. She came with a song
on her lips.

"Don't stop, _chiquita_! Sing it again--it is beautiful; and my soul
drinks it in like heavenly dew!" he cried, as the child danced up to
him and threw her plump arms about his neck.

She turned about and sat down on the dusty threshold and repeated the
little song. The glittering sunlight streamed through her rich curls
like stringers of wire gold. Cucumbra came fawning to her and