“Go then, Rosendo, and I will follow later,” assented Josè, who now craved solitude for the struggle for self-mastery which he saw impending.
While Rosendo moved off toward the deserted shack, the priest continued his restless pacing along the crest of the hill. The morning was glorious––but for the blighting thoughts of men. The vivid green of the dewy hills shone like new-laid color. The lake lay like a diamond set in emeralds. The dead town glowed brilliantly white in the mounting sun. Josè knew that the heat would soon drive him from the hill. He glanced questioningly at the old church. He walked toward it; then mounted the broken steps. The hinges, rusted and broken, had let the heavy door, now bored through and through by comején ants, slip to one side. Through the opening thus afforded, Josè could peer into the cavernous blackness within. The sun shot its terrific heat at him, and the stone steps burned his sandaled feet. He pushed against the door. It yielded. Then through the opening he entered the dusty, ill-smelling old edifice.
When his eyes had become accustomed to the dimness within, he saw that the interior was like that of the other church, only in a more dilapidated state. There were but few benches; and the brick altar, poorer in construction, had crumbled away at one side. Dust, mold, and cobwebs covered everything; but the air was gratefully cool. Josè brushed the 168 thick dust from one of the benches. Then he lay down upon it, and was soon sunk in heavy sleep.
The sun had just crossed the meridian. Josè awoke, conscious that he was not alone. The weird legend that hung about the old church filtered slowly through his dazed brain. Rosendo had said that an angel of some kind dwelt in the place. And surely a presence sat on the bench in the twilight before him! He roused up, rubbed his sleepy eyes, and peered at it. A soft laugh echoed through the stillness.
“I looked all around for the bad angel that padre Rosendo said lived here, and I didn’t find anything but you.”
“Carmen, child! What are you doing here? Don’t come near me!” cried Josè, drawing away.
“Why, Padre––what is it? Why must I keep away from you? First, madre Maria tells me I must go to Boque with her. And now you will not let me come near you. And I love you so––” Tears choked her voice, and she sat looking in mute appeal at the priest.
Josè’s wit seemed hopelessly scattered. He passed his hand dully across his brow as if to brush the mist from his befogged brain.
“Padre dear.” The pathetic little voice wrung his heart. “Padre dear, when madre Maria told me I had to go to Boque, I went to your house to ask you, and––and you weren’t there. And I couldn’t find padre Rosendo either––and there wasn’t anybody in the streets at all––and I came up here. Then I saw the blanket out on the hill, and I kept hunting for you––I wanted to see you so much. And when I saw the door of the church broken, I thought you might be in here––and so I came in––and, oh, Padre dear, I was so glad to find you––but I wouldn’t wake you up––and while you were sleeping I just knew that God was taking care of you all the time––”