Uttering a frightened cry, Josè rushed to the dazed Rosendo and got him to his feet. Then he picked up the child, and, his heart numb with fear, bore her into the house.
Clasping Carmen fiercely in his arms, Josè tried to aid Doña Maria in staunching the freely flowing blood. Rosendo, crazed with grief, bent over them, giving vent to moans which, despite his own fears, wrung the priest’s heart with pity for the suffering old man. At length the child opened her eyes.
“Praise God!” cried Rosendo, kneeling and showering kisses upon her hands. “Loado sea el buen Dios! Caramba! Caramba!”
“Padre Rosendo,” the girl murmured, smiling down at him, “your thoughts were driving you, just like Benjamín drives his oxen. And they were bad, or you wouldn’t have knocked me over.”
“Bad!” Rosendo went to the doorway and squatted down upon the dirt floor in the sunlight. “Bad!” he repeated. “Caramba, but they were murder-thoughts!”
“And they tried to make you murder me, didn’t they, padre dear?” She laughed. “But it didn’t really happen, anyway,” she added.
Rosendo buried his head in his hands and groaned aloud. Carmen slipped down from Josè’s lap and went unsteadily to the old man.
“They were not yours, those thoughts, padre dear,” putting her arms around his neck. “But they were whipping you 130 hard, just as if you belonged to them. And see, it just shows that bad thoughts can’t do anything. Look, I’m all right!” She stood off and smiled at him.
Rosendo reached out and clasped her in his long arms. “Chiquita,” he cried, “if you were not, your old padre Rosendo would throw himself into the lake!”
“More bad thoughts, padre dear!” She laughed and held up a warning finger. “But I was to tell you the desayuno was ready; and see, we have forgotten all about it!” Her merry laugh rang through the room like a silver bell.