“Poor little heathen. He will not live. He will not live. Seven-months child. Condemned to the fires of hell.”
To tell you the truth, I did not care much at that time whether or not he did live, but for the sake of the nerves of the household, my own included, I was forced to ask them to explain.
“Why, he is a heretic!” they said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“He is not baptized.”
“Do you want to baptize him?” I asked, rather jokingly.
“Will you let us? Oh, Medica, Medica, run, run! We will baptize the little heretic!”
I was in for it, so went to my friend Don Paco, who was a very wealthy and influential man, and asked what I had to do.
“Oh, you have nothing to do,” he replied. “You do not count. Only the godfather matters, and that will be I.”
His duty, besides officiating at the ceremony, was to promise to do his utmost to keep the child in the Catholic faith.