“And, Padre,” he added, “the deposit is played out. There is no more gold there. And, now that we shall have none to send to the Bishop each month, Carmen’s fate is settled––unless we go away. And where shall we go? We could not get out of the country.” He hung his head and sat in gloomy dejection.
For more than a year Rosendo had panned the isolated alluvial deposit, and on his regular monthly returns to Simití he and the priest had sent from thirty to ninety pesos gold to Wenceslas. To this Josè sometimes added small amounts collected from the people of Simití, which they had gratuitously given him for Masses and for the support of the parish. Wenceslas, knowing the feeble strength of the parish, was surprised, but discreet; and though he continually urged Josè to greater efforts, and held out the allurements of “indulgences and special dispensations,” he made no inquiries regarding the source of the monthly contributions.
For many days following, Rosendo and the priest went about as in a thick, black cloud. “Rosendo,” said Josè at length, “go back to the mountains and search again. God was with us before. Have we any reason to doubt Him now?”
“And leave Carmen here, exposed to the danger that always hangs over her? Caramba, no! I would not go back now even if the deposit were not worked out! No!” Josè knew it would be futile to urge him.
Carmen came to the priest that same day. “Padre, I heard you and padre Rosendo talking this morning. Have you no money, no gold?”
“Why, child––there seems to be a need just at present,” he replied lightly. “But we might––well, we might send another of your questions to God. What say you?”
“Of course!” she cried delightedly, turning at once and hurrying away for pencil and paper.
“Now,” she panted, seating herself at the table. “Let us see; we want Him to give us pesos, don’t we?”
“Yes––many––a large sum. Make it big,” he said facetiously.