“But I am on the track of others. I go now to Medellin; then to Remedios; and there outfit for a trip of grave hunting through the old Guamocó district.”
“Guamocó! Then you will naturally come down the Simití trail, which brings you out to the Magdalena.”
“Simití?” interrupted Josè eagerly, turning to the speaker. “Do you know the place?”
“Somewhat!” replied Padre Diego, laughing. “I had charge of that parish for a few months––”
“But found it highly convenient to leave, no?” finished the merciless Don Jorge.
“Caramba! Would you have me die of ennui in such a hell-hole?” cried Diego with some aspersion.
“Hell-hole!” echoed Josè. “Is it so bad as that?”
“Hombre! Yes––worse! They say that after the good Lord created heaven and earth He had a few handfuls of dirt left, and these He threw away. But crafty Satan, always with an eye single to going the Lord one better, slyly gathered this dirt together again and made Simití.” Diego quickly finished another glass of rum, as if he would drown the memory of the town.
Josè’s heart slowly sank under the words.
“But why do you ask? You are not going there?” Padre Diego inquired. Josè nodded an affirmative.