torments of purgatory--save this
drowning boy?

Jose turned away in bitterness of heart. As he did so a murmur of awe
arose from the spectators. The priest looked again down the river.
Impelled from below, the body of the boy was hurled out of the water.
Then, as it fell, it disappeared.

"_Cayman!_" gasped the horrified crew.

Jose stood spellbound, as the ghastly truth dawned upon him. A
crocodile, gliding beneath the struggling lad, had tossed him upward,
and caught him in its loathsome jaws when he fell. Then it had dragged
him beneath the yellow waters, where he was seen no more.

Life is held cheaply by the Magdalena negro--excepting his own.
Shiftless and improvident child of the tropics, his animal wants
are readily satisfied by the fruits and fish which nature provides
for him so bountifully. Spiritual wants he has none--until calamity
touches him and he thinks he is about to die. Then witchcraft, charm,
incantation, the priest--anything that promises help is hurriedly
pressed into requisition to prolong his useless existence. If he
recovers, he forgets it all as hurriedly. The tragedy which had
just been enacted before the Honda's crew produced a ripple of
excitement--a momentary stirring of emotion--and was then speedily
forgotten, while the boat turned and drove its way up-stream against
the muddy waters.

But Jose could not forget. Nature had endowed him with a memory which
recorded as minutely and as lastingly as the phonographic cylinder.
The violent death of the boy haunted him, and mingled with the
recurrent memories of the sad passing of the little Maria, and his own
bitter life experience. Oh, the mystery of it all! The tragedy of
life! The sudden blighting of hopes! The ruthless crushing of hearts!
What did it mean? Did this infinite variety of good and evil which we
call life unite to manifest an infinite Creator? Nay, for then were
God more wicked than the lowest sinner! Was evil as real as good, and
more powerful? Yes. Did love and the soul's desire to be and do good
count for nothing in the end? No; for the end is death--always death!
And after that--who knows?

"We are coming to Banco, Padre," said the man who had addressed Jose
before, rousing him from his doleful meditations and pointing to the
lights of the distant town, now shimmering through the gathering
dusk.

As the boat with shrilly shrieking whistle drew near the landing, a
crowd hurriedly gathered on the bank to receive it.