, it seemed to me that they
must be fairies, not real. I came upon the old trail, Padre, the
_Camino Real_, now sunken and overgrown, which the Spaniards used.
They called it the Panama trail. It used to lead down to Cartagena.
_Hombre_! in places it is now twenty feet deep!"

"But, gold, Don Jorge?"

"Ah, Padre, what quartz veins I saw in that country! _Hombre_! Gold
will be discovered there without measure some day! But--_Caramba_!
This map which Don Carlos gave me is much in error. I must consult
again with him. Then I shall return to Simiti." Jose regretfully saw
him depart, for he had grown to love this ruggedly honest soul.

Meantime, Don Mario sulked in his house; nor during the intervening
year would he hold anything more than the most formal intercourse with
the priest. Jose ignored him as far as possible. Events move with
terrible deliberation in these tropic lands, and men's minds are heavy
and lethargic. Jose assumed that Don Mario had failed in the support
upon which he had counted; or else Diego's interest in Carmen was
dormant, perhaps utterly passed. Each succeeding day of quiet
increased his confidence, while he rounded out month after month in
this sequestered vale on the far confines of civilization, and the
girl attained her twelfth year. Moreover, as he noted with marveling,
often incredulous, mental gaze her swift, unhindered progress, the
rapid unfolding of her rich nature, and the increasing development of
a spirituality which seemed to raise her daily farther above the plane
on which he dwelt, he began to regard the uninterrupted culmination of
his plans for her as reasonably assured, if not altogether certain.

Juan continued his frequent trips down to Bodega Central as general
messenger and transportation agent for his fellow-townsmen, meanwhile
adoring Carmen from a distance of respectful decorum. Rosendo and
Lazaro, relaxing somewhat their vigilance over the girl, labored
daily on the little _hacienda_ across the lake. The dull-witted
folk, keeping to their dismally pretentious mud houses during the
pulsing heat of day, and singing their weird, moaning laments in the
quiet which reigned over this maculate hollow at night, followed
undeviatingly the monotonous routine of an existence which had no
other aim than the indulgence of the most primitive material wants.

"Ah, Padre," Rosendo would say of them, "they are so easy! They love
idleness; they like not labor. They fish, they play the