“Diablo! Assigned?”
“Yes,” in a voice scarcely audible.
The Padre whistled softly. “Then in that case,” he said, brightening, “we are brother sinners. So let us exchange confidences. What was your crime, if one may ask?”
“Crime!” exclaimed Josè in amazement.
“Aye; who was she? Rich? Beautiful? Native? Or foreign? Come, the story. We have a long night before us.” And the coarse fellow settled back expectantly in his chair.
Josè paled. “What do you mean?” he asked in a trembling voice.
“Caramba!” returned the Padre impatiently. “You surely know that no respectable priest is ever sent to Simití! That it is the good Bishop’s penal colony for fallen clergy––and, I may add, the refuge of political offenders of this and adjacent countries. Why, the present schoolmaster there is a political outcast from Salvador!”
“No, I did not know it,” replied Josè.
“Por Dios! Then you are being jobbed, amigo! Did Don Wenceslas give you letters to the Alcalde?”