“I mean, Señor Padre, that I drifted down the river, unseen, to Maganguey one night. I entered that priest’s house. He did not awake the next morning.”
“God!” exclaimed Josè, starting up.
“Na, Padre, not God, but Satan! He rules this world.”
Josè sank back in his chair. Don Jorge leaned forward and laid a hand upon his knee. “My friend,” he said evenly, “you are young––how old, may I ask?”
“Twenty-seven,” murmured Josè.
“Caramba! A child! Bien, you have much to learn. I took to you on the boat because I knew you had made a mess of things, and it was not entirely your fault. I have seen others like you. You are no more in the Church than I am. Now why do you stay here? Do I offend in asking?”
Josè hesitated. “I––I have––work here, señor,” he replied.
“True,” said Don Jorge, “a chance to do much for these poor people––if the odds are not too strong against you. But––are you working for them alone? Or––does Diego’s child figure in the case? No offense, I assure you––I have reason to ask.”
Josè sought to read his eyes. The man looked squarely into his own, and the priest found no deception in their black depths.