“Humph!” muttered Vicente, doubtfully, while Feliz, with a sudden qualm at her outspoken approbation of measures subversive of an authority that her training had made her believe sanctioned by heaven cried:—
“Ave Maria Santisima! what have I said? In blaming, in casting reproach upon the clergy, am I not casting mud upon our Holy Mother the Church?”
“Feliz!” cried Vicente, impatiently, “that question too asks Comonfort. Such irrational fears as these are the real foes of progress; and so deeply are old prejudices and superstitions rooted, that they find a place in every heart; no matter how powerful the intellect, how clear the comprehension of the political situation, how scrupulous or unscrupulous the conscience, the same ghostly fears hang over all. What spells have those monks with their oppressions and their shameless lives thrown over us that we have been wax in their hands? Think of your own father,—a man of parts, generous, lofty-minded, but a fanatic. He shunned the monté table, the bull-fight, and all such costly sports as the hacenderos love; he almost lived in the Church. But that could not keep misfortune from his door: his cattle died; his horses were driven away in the revolution; his fields were devastated; and he was forced to borrow money on his lands. And to whom should he look but the clergy,—who so eager to lend, who so suave and kind as they? And when he was in the snare, who so pitiless in winding it around and about him, strangling, withering his life?”
“But, Vicente,” said Feliz, in a hard, embittered voice, “in our lot there was a show of justice. If you would have a more unmitigated use of pitiless craft, think of the fate of your own cousin Inez.”
The child within the shadow of the wall was listening breathlessly. Her innate rebellion against all authority made her quick to grasp the situation; a secret detestation of the coarse-handed, loud-voiced village priest who had succeeded Padre Francisco at Tres Hermanos quickened her apprehension. She looked at Vicente with glistening eyes. “Ah, well I remember poor Inez,” he said; “forced by her father to become a nun, that at his death he might win pardon for his soul by satisfying the greed of his councillors, she implored, wept, raved, fell into imbecility, and died; and her sad story, penetrating even the thickness of convent walls, was blackened by the assertion that she was possessed of devils foul and unclean,—she, the whitest, purest soul that ever stood before the gates of heaven.”
His voice choked; he was silent and sank again into his chair. “And Comonfort,” he muttered presently, “strives to conciliate wretches such as these. He is a man, Feliz, who with all his courage believes a poor compromise better than a long fight. Ah, the world believes Mexicans savage, unappeasable, blood-thirsty. How can they be otherwise with these blind leaders who precipitate them into those ditches which they fondly hope will prove roads to liberty and peace!”
Feliz looked at him with disquietude. “What, Vicente,” she said, “are you a man to be blown about by every wind,—a mere ordinary revolutionist seeking a new chief for each fresh battle?”
Vicente flushed at the insinuation. “One cause and a thousand chiefs if need be,” he said. “But there is now a man in Mexico, Feliz, who must inevitably become the head of this movement,—who, like the cause, will remain the same through all mischances. To-day he is the friend of Comonfort, but who knows? To-morrow—”
“He may be his enemy,” ejaculated Feliz. “I wonder if in all this land there can be found one man who can be faithful!”
“To-morrow,” said Vicente, completing his sentence, “he may be the friend and leader of all the lovers of freedom in Mexico; and if so, my leader. I have talked with that man, and he sees to the farthest ramifications of this great canker that is eating out the very vitals of our land. You will hear of him soon, Feliz, if you have not done so already. His name is Benito Juarez.”