toward the _plaza_. Then the concourse
drifted slowly into the church. Don Jorge dragged Jose from the parish
house and up to the altar. "You have got to divide them, Padre!" he
whispered excitedly. "Your only hope now lies in the formation of your
own party to oppose the Alcalde! Talk to them as you never talked
before! Say all that you had stored up to say on Judgment Day!"

Again, as Jose faced his little flock and saw them, bare of feet,
scantily clad in their simple cotton and calico, their faces set in
deep seriousness, the ludicrous side of the whole situation flashed
before him, and he almost laughed aloud at the spectacle which the
ancient, decayed town at that moment presented. These primitive
folk--they were but children, with all a child's simplicity of nature,
its petulance, its immaturity of view, and its sudden and unreasoning
acceptance of authority! He turned to the altar and took up a tall
brass crucifix. He held it out before him for a moment. Then he called
upon the Christ to witness to the truth of what he was about to say.

A hush fell over the assembly. Even Don Mario seemed to become calm
after that dramatic spectacle. Then Jose spoke. He talked long and
earnestly. He knew not that such eloquence abode within him. His
declamation became more and more impassioned. He opened wide his heart
and called upon all present to look fearlessly within. Yes, he had
written the book in question. But its publication was unfortunate.
Yes, it had expressed his views at that time. But now--ah, now!

He stopped and looked about the church. The shadows were gathering
thick, and the smoking kerosene lamps battled vainly with the heavy
blackness. In a far corner of the room he saw Carmen and Ana. Rosendo
sat stolidly beside them. The sightless babe waved its tiny hands in
mute helplessness, while Dona Maria held it closely to her bosom.
Carmen's last admonition sang in his ears. He must know--really
_know_--that the babe could see! He must know that God was omnipotent!
His appeal to the people was not for himself. He cared not what
became of him. But Carmen--and now Ana and the blind babe--and the
calm, unimpassioned Dona Maria, the embodiment of all that was
greatest in feminine character--and Rosendo, waiting to lay down his
life for those he loved! And then, this people, soon, he felt, to be
shattered by the shock of war--ah, God above! what could he say that
might save them? If they could know, as Carmen did,