“Quien sabe, Padre! Perhaps it was only the terciana, after all.”
“Well, then,” pursuing another tack, “do you think I was very sick that day when I rushed to the lake––?”
“Caramba, Padre! But you were turning cold––you hardly breathed––we all thought you must die––all but Carmen!”
“And what cured me, Rosendo?” the priest asked in a low, steady voice.
“Why––Padre, I can not say.”
“Nor can I, positively, my friend. But I do know that the little Carmen said I should not die. And she said the same of you when, as I would swear, you were in the fell clutches of the death angel himself.”
“Padre––” Rosendo’s eyes were large, and his voice trembled in awesome whisper––“is she––the little Carmen––is she––an hada?”
“A witch? Hombre! No!” cried Josè, bursting into a laugh at the perturbed features of the older man. “No, amigo, she is not an hada! Let us say, rather, as you first expressed it to me, she is an angel––and let us appreciate her as such.
“But,” he continued, “I tell you in all seriousness, there are things that such as you and I, with our limited outlook, have never dreamed of; and that child seems to have penetrated the veil that hides spiritual things from the material vision of men like us. Let us wait, and if we value that ‘something’ which she seems to possess and know how to use, let us cut off our right hands before we yield to the temptation to place any 98 obstacle in the way of her development along the lines which she has chosen, or which some unseen Power has chosen for her. It is for you and me, Rosendo, to stand aside and watch, while we protect her, if haply we may be privileged some day to learn her secret in full. You and I are the unlearned, while she is filled with wisdom. The world would say otherwise, and would condemn us as fools. Thank God we are out of the world here in Simití!”
He choked back the inrush of memories and brushed away a tear.