“Say no more, good friend,” interrupted the oily Diego, his beady eyes twinkling. “But you will not wonder it struck me odd that a father should not be permitted to embrace his own daughter.”
Dead silence, heavy and stifling, fell upon Josè. Slowly his throat filled, and his ears began to throb. Diego sat before him, smiling and twirling his fat thumbs. He looked like the images of Chinese gods Josè had seen in foreign lands.
Then the tortured man forced a laugh. Of course, the strain of yesterday had been too much for him! His overwrought mind had read into words and events meanings which they had not been meant to convey.
“True, amigo,” he managed to say, striving to steady his voice. “But we spiritual Fathers should not forget––”
Diego laughed egregiously. “Caramba, man! Let us get to the meat in the nut. Why do you think I am in Simití, braving the wrath of Rosendo and others? Why have I left my comfortable quarters in Banco, to undertake a journey, long and hazardous, to this godless hole?”
He paused, apparently enjoying the suffering he saw depicted upon Josè’s countenance.
“I will tell you,” he resumed. “But you will keep my confidence, no? We are brother priests, and must hold together. You protect me in this, and I return the favor in a like indiscretion. Bien, I explain: I am here partly because of the revolution, as I told you yesterday, and partly, as I did not tell you, to see my little girl, my daughter, Carmen––
“Caramba, man!” he cried, bounding to his feet, as he saw Josè slowly rise before him. “Listen! It is God’s truth! Sit down! Sit down!”
Josè dropped back into his chair like a withered leaf in the lull of a winter’s wind.
“Dios y diablo, but it rends me to make this confession, amigo! And yet, I look to you for support! The girl, Carmen––I am her father!”