Wenceslas Ortiz stood before the Departmental Governor. His face was deeply serious, and his demeanor expressed the utmost gravity. In his hand he held a despatch. The Governor sat at his desk, nervously fumbling a pen.
“Bien, Señor,” said Wenceslas quietly, “do you act––or shall I take it to His Excellency, the President?”
The Governor moved uneasily in his chair. “Caramba!” he blurted out. “The report is too meager! And yet, I cannot see but that the Alcalde acted wholly within his rights!”
“Your Excellency, he seizes government arms––he attacks the church––he attempts to destroy the life of its priest. Nominally acting for the Government; at heart, anticlerical. Is it not evident? Will the Government clear itself now of the suspicion which this has aroused?”
“But the priest––did you not say only last week that he himself had published a book violently anticlerical in tone?”
“Señor, we will not discuss the matter further,” said Wenceslas, moving toward the door. “Your final decision––you will send troops to Simití, or no?”
“Certainly not! The evidence warrants no interference from me!”
Wenceslas courteously bowed himself out. Once beyond the door, he breathed a great sigh of relief. “Santa Virgen!” he muttered, “but I took a chance! Had he yielded and sent troops, all would have been spoiled. Now for Bogotá!”