Josè looked up at him keenly. “Did the child say I should not die?” he asked softly, almost in a whisper.
“Yes, Padre; she says God’s children do not die,” returned Rosendo.
The priest’s blood stopped in its mad surge and slowly began to chill. God’s children do not die! What uncanny influence had he met with here in this crumbling, forgotten town? He sought the index of his memory for the sensations he had felt when he looked into the girl’s eyes on his first morning in Simití. But memory reported back only impressions of goodness––beauty––love.
Then a dim light––only a feeble gleam––seemed to flash before him, but at a great distance. Something called him––not by name, but by again touching that unfamiliar chord which had vibrated in his soul when the child had first stood before him. He felt a strange psychic presentiment as of things soon to be revealed. A sentiment akin to awe stole over him, as if he were standing in the presence of a great mystery––a mystery so transcendental that the groveling minds of mortals have never apprehended it. He turned again to the man sitting beside his bed.
“Rosendo––where is she?”
“Asleep, Padre,” pointing to the other bed. “But we must not wake her,” he admonished quickly, as the priest again sought to rise; “we will talk of her to-morrow. I think––”
Rosendo stopped abruptly and looked at the priest as if he would fathom the inmost nature of the man. Then he continued uncertainly:
“I––I may have some things to say to you to-morrow––if you are well enough to hear them. But I will think about it to-night, and––if––Bien! I will think about it.”
Rosendo rose slowly, as if weighted with heavy thoughts, and went out into the living room. Presently he returned with a rude, homemade broom and began to sweep a space on the dirt floor in the corner opposite Josè. This done, he spread out a light straw mat for his bed.