“They had taken my money chest, some thousands of pesos. I sought the priest. He laughed at me, and––Caramba! I struck him such a blow between his pig eyes that he lay senseless for hours!”
Josè glanced at the broad shoulders and the great knots of muscle on the man’s arms. He was of medium height, but with a frame of iron.
“Bien, Señor Padre, I, too, fled wild and raving from Maganguey that night, and plunged into the jungle. Months later I drifted down the river, as far as Mompox. And there one day I chanced upon old Marcelena, the child’s nurse. Like a cayman I seized her and dragged her into an alley. She confessed that my wife and girl were living there––the wife had become housekeeper for a young priest––the girl was in the convent. Caramba! I hurled the woman to the ground and turned my back upon the city!”
Josè’s interest in the all too common recital received a sudden stimulus.
“Your daughter’s name, Don Jorge, was––”
“Maria, Señor Padre.”
“And––she would now be, how old, perhaps?”
“About twenty-two, I think.”
“Her appearance?”
“Fair––complexion light, like her mother’s. Maria was a beautiful child––and good as she was beautiful.”