“My blessing, Rosendo,” replied Josè sadly, “would do no good. He lies there because we have utterly forgotten what the Master came to teach. He lies there because of our false, undemonstrable, mortal beliefs. Oh, that the Church, instead of wasting time murmuring futile prayers over dead bodies, had striven to learn to do the deeds which the Christ said we should all do if we but kept his commandments!”
“But, Padre, you will say Masses for him?” pursued Rosendo.
“Masses? No, I can not––now. I would not take his or your money to give to the Church to get his soul out of an imagined purgatory which the Church long ago invented for the purpose of enriching herself materially––for, alas! after spiritual riches she has had little hankering.”
“To pay God to get His own children out of the flames, eh?” suggested Don Jorge. “It is what I have always said, the religion of the Church is a religion de dinero. If there ever was a God, either He is still laughing Himself sick at our follies––or else He has wept Himself to death over them! Jesus Christ taught no such stuff!”
“Friend,” said Josè solemnly, turning to Don Jorge, “I long 327 since learned what the whole world must learn some time, that the Church stands to-day, not as the bride of the Christ, but as the incarnation of the human mind, as error opposed to Truth. It is the embodiment of ‘Who shall be greatest?’ It is one of the various phenomena of the human mentality; and its adherents are the victims of authoritative falsehood. Its Mass and countless other ceremonies differ in no essential respect from ancient pagan worship. Of spirituality it has none. And so it can do none of the works of the Master. Its corrupting faith is foully materialistic. It has been weighed and found wanting. And as the human mind expands, the incoming light must drive out the black beliefs and deeds of Holy Church, else the oncoming centuries will have no place for it.”
“I believe you!” ejaculated Don Jorge. “But why do you still remain a priest? Hombre! I knew when I saw you on the river boat that you were none. But,” his voice dropping to a whisper, “there is a soldier in the road below. It would be well to leave. He might think we were here to plot.”
When the soldier had passed, they quietly left the gloomy cemetery and made their way quickly back through the straggling moonlight to Rosendo’s house. Doña Maria, with characteristic quietude, was preparing for the duties of the approaching day. Carmen lay asleep. Josè went to her bedside and bent over her, wondering. What were the events of the past few days in her sight? How did she interpret them? Was her faith still unshaken? What did Lázaro’s death and the execution of Don Mario mean to her? Did she, as he had done, look upon them as real events in a real world, created and governed by a good God? Or did she still hold such things to be the unreal phenomena of the human mentality?––unreal, because opposed to God, and without the infinite principle. As for himself, how had the current of his life been diverted by this rare child! What had she not sought to teach him by her simple faith, her unshaken trust in the immanence of good! True, as a pure reflection of good she had seemed to be the means of stirring up tremendous evil. But had he not seen the evil eventually consume itself, leaving her unscathed? And yet, would this continue? He himself had always conceded to the forces of evil as great power as to those of good––nay, even greater. And even now as he stood looking at her, wrapped in peaceful slumber, his strained sight caught no gleam of hope, no light flashing through the heavy clouds of misfortune that lowered above her. He turned away with an anxious sigh.
“Padre,” said the gentle Doña Maria, “the two Americanos––”
“Ah, yes,” interrupted Josè, suddenly remembering that he 328 had sent word to them to use his house while they remained in the town. “They had escaped my thought. Bien, they are––?”
“They brought their baggage to your house an hour ago and set up their beds in your living room. They will be asleep by now.”