“No, Father, it is impossible. And without a religion that will connect them with the universe, they will all perish. Only religion will serve; not socialism, nor education, nor anything.”
“Thou speakest well,” said the Bishop.
“The rabbits of the hills may be in the hands of God, Father. But they are at the mercy of men. The same with Mexico. The people sink heavier and heavier into inertia, and the Church cannot help them, because the Church does not possess the key-word to the Mexican soul.”
“Doesn’t the Mexican Soul know the Voice of God?” said the Bishop.
“Your own children may know your voice, Father. But if you go out to speak to the birds on the lake, or the deer among the mountains, will they know your voice? Will they wait and listen?”
“Who knows? It is said they waited to listen to the Holy Francisco of Assisi.”
“Now, Father, we must speak to the Mexicans in their own language, and give them the clue-word to their own souls. I shall say Quetzalcoatl. If I am wrong, let me perish. But I am not wrong.”
The Bishop fidgetted rather restlessly. He didn’t want to hear all this. And he did not want to answer. He was impotent anyhow.
“Your Church is the Catholic Church, Father?”
“Surely!” said the Bishop.