"No, sir," was the reply. "If Mauricio, Francisco's uncle, has returned, he will say the prayers, and if he hasn't, someone else will."
"We must go, at any rate," said his father. "It will be, I imagine, both devotional and interesting to assist at the prayers."
Mrs. Page was unable to walk so far. Aunt Mary, glad of an excuse for avoiding close proximity to the Indians, toward whom she had an aversion which she could not conquer, decided to remain at home to keep her company.
From all directions groups of Indians—the women and children cleanly, if gaudily, attired—were wending their way to the church. The last bell began to ring as they climbed the steep elevation on top of which it stood. The people sat around the entrance; on the ground several very old women were crouched, motionless and patient.
Francisco came from the inside and opened wide the door. The congregation poured in—the men on one side, the women on the other. Nearly all the latter had shawls over their heads, few being without a tinge of red in their costumes. After Francisco had lighted two candles on the altar, an old woman left her place and went forward, kneeling on the steps of the little sanctuary. She recited the Rosary in Spanish, the people responding in low but distinct and reverent tones. After she had said one decade, she began another, reversing the prayers, saying the "Holy Mary," first, the people answering with the "Hail, Mary." The third decade was repeated in the usual manner, the fourth like the second. At the fifth, instead of praying as before, she lowered her voice to a sweet, monotonous chant.
"Dios te salve, Maria," she sang, and the others answered in the same fashion, "Santa Maria, Madre de Dios," till the decade was ended. It was all very strange and beautiful; the sweet voices of the dark-skinned worshipers, deprived of their priests and teachers, coming Sunday after Sunday thus to preserve and perpetuate the services of their religion. Other prayers, also in Spanish, were said, and the old woman returned to her place.
Francisco was about to extinguish the candles, when the door of the sacristy opened, and a tall, finely-formed Indian, about fifty years of age, issued forth. The boy stepped aside; the newcomer advanced to the railing. His sharp eyes seemed to rest at once upon the pictures which had been placed on the walls during the preceding week. He addressed the people in Spanish; then, pointing to the pictures, asked in English:
"Who can tell the person who has hung those pictures around the walls of the church?"
No one answered. The Indians, whispering among themselves, made various gestures of disapproval.
"You will all see that although they are very good pictures," he continued, "they are not for our church. We do not need them. We have here already the Sacred Hearts of Our Lord and His Mother; a kind lady would have given us also the stations, but for the removal which we must soon make from this—our home."