“Tell me, Rosendo, just what you mean,” said Josè reverently, laying his hand gently upon the older man’s arm.
Rosendo shook his head slowly. “Talk with her, Padre, and you will see. I cannot explain. Only, she is not like us. She is like––”
His voice dropped to a whisper.
“––she is like––God. And she knows Him better than she knows me.”
Josè’s head slowly sank upon his breast. The gloom within the musty church was thick; and the bats stirred restlessly among the dusty rafters overhead. Outside, the relentless heat poured down upon the deserted streets.
“Padre,” Rosendo resumed. “In the calentura you talked of wonderful things. You spoke of kings and popes and foreign lands, of beautiful cities and great marvels of which we know nothing. It was wonderful! And you recited beautiful poems––but often in other tongues than ours. Padre, you must be very learned. I listened, and was astonished, for we are so ignorant here in Simití, oh, so ignorant! We have no schools, and our poor little children grow up to be only peones and fishermen. But––the little Carmen––ah, she has a mind! Padre––”
Again he lapsed into silence, as if fearful to ask the boon.
“Yes, Rosendo, yes,” Josè eagerly reassured him. “Go on.”
Rosendo turned full upon the priest and spoke rapidly. “Padre, will you teach the little Carmen what you know? Will you make her a strong, learned woman, and fit her to do big things in the world––and then––then––”