Josè’s mind reverted to what Rosendo had told him. When he lay tossing in delirium Carmen had said that he would not die. And yet that was perfectly logical, if she refused to admit the existence of evil.
“I thought lots about you last week, Padre.”
The soft voice was close to his ear, and every breath swept over his heartstrings and made them vibrate.
“Every night when I went to sleep I told God I knew He would cure you.”
The priest’s head sank upon his breast.
Verily, I have not seen such faith, no, not in Israel! And the faith of this child had glorified her vision until she saw “the heavens open and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man.”
“Carmen”––the priest spoke reverently––“do the sick ones always get well when you think about them?”
There was not a shade of euphemism in the unhesitating reply––
“They are never really sick, Padre.”
“But, by that you mean––”