“Now is the time to put up a prayer for the youngster, Padre,” said a voice behind Josè.
The priest turned. The speaker was evidently a native Colombian. Josè had noticed him on the boat when he embarked at Calamar, and surmised that he had probably come up from Barranquilla.
“An excellent opportunity to try the merits of a prayer to the Virgin, no? If she can fish us out of purgatory she ought to pull this boy out of the river, eh?” continued the speaker with a cynical smile.
“I would rather trust to a canoe and a pair of stout arms than a prayer at present,” returned Josè with candor.
“Corriente!” replied the man; “my way of thinking, exactly! But if I had a good rifle now I’d put that little fellow out of his misery, for he’s going down, sure!”
It was not unkindly said; and Josè appreciated the man’s rude sentiment. Minutes passed in strained silence.
“Hombre!” cried the man. “He’s going!”
The lad was evidently weakening. The rapid, swirling current continually frustrated his efforts to reach the shore. Again the head went under.
“Dios!” Josè exclaimed. “Is there no help?”
Jesus had walked the waves. Yet here his earthly representative, trained in all the learning and culture of Holy Church to be an Alter Christus, stood helplessly by and watched a 135 child drown! God above! what avail religious creed and churchly dogma? How impotent the beliefs of men in such an hour! Could the Holy Father himself, with all his assumptions, spiritual and temporal––with all his power to loose from sin and from the imaginary torments of purgatory––save this drowning boy?