The man gravely repeated his question.
“I have been sent there by the Bishop of Cartagena. I am to have charge of the parish,” Josè replied.
The man slowly shook his finely shaped head.
“We want no priest in Simití,” he said with quiet firmness. His manner of speaking was abrupt, yet not ungracious.
“But––do you live there?” inquired Josè anxiously.
“Yes, Padre.”
“Then you must know a man––Rosendo, I think his name––”
“I am Rosendo Ariza.”
Josè looked eagerly at the man. Then he wearily stretched out a hand.
“Rosendo––I am sick––I think. And––I have––no friends––”