“But, Padre,” continued Rosendo at length, “they say that Don Mario has word from the Bishop that you once wrote a book against the Holy Father––”
“Good God!” The words burst from the priest’s lips like the sudden issuance of pent steam. Rosendo stared at him in bewilderment.
“Rosendo!” gasped Josè. “How know you that?”
“Caramba, Padre! it is what Lázaro tells me,” replied the old man, his own suspicion verging upon conviction.
Josè’s dark face became almost white, and his breath sobbed out in gasps. A vague idea of the game Wenceslas was playing now stole through his throbbing brain. That book, 300 his Nemesis, his pursuing Fate, had tracked him to this secluded corner of the earth, and in the hands of the most unscrupulous politician of South America was being used as a tool. But, precisely to what end, his wild thought did not as yet disclose. Still, above the welter of it all, he saw clearly that there must be no further delay on his part. Before he could speak, however, Rosendo had resumed the conversation.
“Padre,” he said, “had it occurred to you that you were watched, day and night?”
“No––heavens!” Josè had not suspected such a thing.
“It is so, Padre. Don Mario’s men keep you in sight during the day; and at night there is always some one hovering near your house. You could not escape now even if you would.”
Josè sank back in his chair limp and cold. His frenzied brain held but one thought: he had delayed until too late––and the end was at hand!
“Padre,” said Rosendo earnestly, “tell me about that book. You did write it? And against the Holy Father? But––you still say the Mass. You have not brought Carmen up in the Church. But it was I who told you not to––that her heart was her church, and it must not be disturbed. But––is it true, as the people say, that you really belong to the party that would destroy the Church?”