“Who dedicated her to the Church?” demanded Josè sharply.
“Oh, Padre Diego, at her baptism, when she was a baby,” replied Don Mario in a matter of fact tone.
Josè shuddered at the thought of that unholy man’s loathsome hands resting upon the innocent girl. But he made no 32 immediate reply. Of all things, he knew that the guarding of his own tongue was now most important. But his thought was busy with Rosendo’s burning words of the preceding day, and with his own solemn vow. He reflected on his present paradoxical, hazardous position; on the tremendous problem which here confronted him; and on his desperate need of wisdom––yea, superhuman wisdom––to ward off from this child the net which he knew the subtlety and cruel cunning of shrewd, unscrupulous men would some day cause to be cast about her. A soul like hers, mirrored in a body so wondrous fair, must eventually draw the devil’s most envenomed barbs.
To Josè’s great relief Don Mario turned immediately from the present topic to one relating to the work of renovation. Finding a pretext for sending Carmen back to the house, the priest gave his attention unreservedly to the Alcalde. But his mind ceased not to revolve the implications in Don Mario’s words relative to the girl; and when the midday siesta came upon him his brow was knotted and his eyes gazed vacantly at the manifestations of activity about him.
Hurrying across the road to escape the scalding heat, Josè’s ears again caught the sound of singing, issuing evidently from Rosendo’s house. It was very like the clear, sweet voice which had floated into his room the morning after he awoke from his delirium. He approached the door reverently and looked in. Carmen was arranging the few poor dishes upon the rough table, and as she worked, her soul flowed across her lips in song.
The man listened astonished. The words and the simple melody which carried them were evidently an improvisation. But the voice––did that issue from a human throat? Yes, for in distant Spain and far-off Rome, in great cathedrals and concert halls, he had sometimes listened entranced to voices like this––stronger, and delicately trained, but reared upon even less of primitive talent.
The girl caught sight of him; and the song died on the warm air.
The priest strode toward her and clasped her in his arms. “Carmen, child! Who taught you to sing like that?”
The girl smiled up in his face. “God, Padre.”
Of course! He should have known. And in future he need never ask.