Diego paced dramatically up and down before the scarce hearing Josè and unfolded his story in a quick, jerky voice, with many a gesture and much rolling of his bright eyes.
“Her mother was a Spanish woman of high degree. We met in Bogotá. My vows prevented me from marrying her, else I should have done so. Caramba, but I loved her! Bien, I was called to Cartagena. She feared, in her delicate state, that I was deserting her. She tried to follow me, and at Badillo was put off the boat. There, poor child, she passed away in grief, leaving her babe. May she rest forever on the bosom of the blessed Virgin!” Diego bowed reverently and crossed himself.
“Then I lost all trace of her. My diligent inquiries revealed nothing. Two years later I was assigned to the parish of Simití. Here I saw the little locket which I had given her, and knew that Carmen was my child. Ah, Dios! what a revelation to a breaking heart! But I could not openly acknowledge her, for I was already in disgrace, as you know. And, once down, it is easy to sink still further. I confess, I was indiscreet here. I was forced to fly. Rosendo’s daughter followed me, despite my protests. I was assigned to Banco. Bien, time passed, and you came. I had hoped you would take the little Carmen under your protection. God, how I grieved for the child! At last I determined, come what might, to see her. The revolution drove me to the mountains; and love for my girl brought me by way of Simití. And now, amigo, you have my confession––and you will not be hard on me? Caramba, I need a friend!” He sat down, and mopped his wet brow. His talk had shaken him visibly.
Again oppressive silence. Josè was staring with unseeing eyes out through the open doorway. A stream of sunlight poured over the dusty threshold, and myriad motes danced in the golden flood.
“Bien, amigo,” Diego resumed, with more confidence. “I had not thought to reveal this, my secret, to you––nor to any one, for that matter––but just to get a peep at my little daughter, and assure my anxious heart of her welfare. But since coming here and seeing how mature she is my plans have taken more definite shape. I shall leave at daybreak to-morrow, if Don Mario can have my supplies ready on this short notice, and––will take Carmen with me.”
Josè struggled wearily to his feet. The color had left his face, and ages seemed to bestride his bent shoulders. His voice quavered as he slowly spoke.
“Leave me now, Don Diego. It were better that we should not meet again until you depart.”
“But, amigo––ah, I feel for you, believe me! You are attached to the child––who would not be? Caramba, what is this world but a cemetery of bleaching hopes! But––how can I ask it? Amigo, send the child to me at the house of the Alcalde. I would hold her in my arms and feel a father’s joy. And bid the good Doña Maria make her ready for to-morrow’s journey.”
Josè turned to the man. An ominous calm now possessed him. “You said––the San Lucas district?”