The Power and the Glory

A priest, the woman cackled you a priest! She went off into a peal of laughter, which was taken tentatively up by the children at the window. Padre José put his fingers up to his pink eyes as if they hurt. He said: My dear ... and the laughter went on.

Are you coming? ,

Padre José made a despairing gesture-as much as to say, what does one more failure matter in a life like this? He said: I don't think it's-possible.

Very well, the lieutenant said. He turned abruptly-he hadn't any more time to waste on mercy, and heard Padre José's voice speak imploringly: Tell him I shall pray. The children had gained confidence: one of them called sharply out: Come to bed, José, and the lieutenant laughed once-a poor unconvincing addition to the general laughter which now surrounded Padre José, ringing up all round to the disciplined constellations he had once known by name.

[195] The lieutenant opened the cell door: it was very dark inside: he shut the door carefully behind him and locked it, keeping his hand on his gun. He said: He won't come.

A little bunched figure in the darkness was the priest. He crouched on the floor like a child playing. He said: You mean-not tonight?

I mean he won't come at all.

There was silence for some while, if you could talk of silence where there was always the drill-drill of mosquitoes and the little crackling explosion of beetles against the wall. At last the priest said: He was afraid, I suppose ...

His wife wouldn't let him come.

Poor man. He tried to giggle, but no sound could have been more miserable than the half-hearted attempt. His head drooped between his knees: he looked as if he had abandoned everything, and been abandoned.

The lieutenant said: You had better know everything. You've been tried and found guilty.

Couldn't I have been present at my own trial?

It wouldn't have made any difference.

No. He was silent preparing an attitude. Then he asked with a kind of false jauntiness: And when, if I may ask ...?

Tomorrow. The promptness and brevity of the reply called his bluff. His head went down again and he seemed, as far as it was possible to see in the dark, to be biting his nails.

The lieutenant said: It's bad being alone on a night like this. If you would like to be transferred to the common cell ...

No, no. I'd rather be alone. I've got plenty to do. His voice failed, as though he had a heavy cold. He wheezed: So much to think about.

I should like to do something for you, the lieutenant said: I've brought you some brandy.

Against the law?

Yes.

It's very good of you. He took the small flask. You wouldn't need this, I dare say. But I've always been afraid of pain.

We have to die some time, the lieutenant said. It doesn't seem to matter so much when.

[196] You're a good man. You've got nothing to be afraid of.

You have such odd ideas, the lieutenant complained. He said: Sometimes I feel you're just trying to talk me round.

Round to what?

Oh, to letting you escape perhaps-or to believing in the Holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints ... how does that stuff go?

The forgiveness of sins.

You don't believe much in that, do you?

Oh, yes, I believe, the little man said obstinately.

Then what are you worried about?

I'm not ignorant, you see. I've always known what I've been doing. And I can't absolve myself.

Would Padre José coming here have made all that difference?

He had to wait a long while for his answer, and then he didn't understand it when it came: Another man ... it makes it easier ...

Is there nothing more I can do for you?

No. Nothing.

The lieutenant reopened the door, mechanically putting his hand again upon his revolver: he felt moody, as though now that the last priest was under lock and key there was nothing left to think about. The spring of action seemed to be broken. He looked back on the weeks of hunting as a happy time which was over now for ever. He felt without a purpose, as if life had drained out of the world. He said with bitter kindness (he couldn't summon up any hate of the small hollow man): Try to sleep.

He was closing the door when a scared voice spoke. Lieutenant.

Yes.

You've seen people shot. People like me.

Yes.

Does the pain go on-a long time?

No, no. A second, he said roughly, and closed the door, and picked his way back across the whitewashed yard. He went into the office: the pictures of the priest and the gunman were still pinned up on the wall: he tore them down-they would never be wanted again. Then he sat at the desk and put his [197] head upon his hands and fell asleep with utter weariness. He couldn't remember afterwards anything of his dreams except laughter, laughter all the time, and a long passage in which he could find no door.

The priest sat on the floor, holding the brandy flask. Presently he unscrewed the cap and put his mouth to it. The spirit didn't do a thing to him: it might have been water. He put it down again and began some kind of general confession, speaking in a whisper. He said: I have committed fornication. The formal phrase meant nothing at all: it was like a sentence in a newspaper: you couldn't feel repentance over a thing like that. He started again: I have lain with a woman, and tried to imagine the other priests asking him: How many times? Was she married? No. Without thinking what he was doing, he took another drink of brandy.

As the liquid touched his tongue he remembered his child, coming in out of the glare: the sullen unhappy knowledgeable face. He said: O God, help her. Damn me, I deserve it, but let her live for ever. This was the love he should have felt for every soul in the world: all the fear and the wish to save concentrated unjustly on the one child. He began to weep: it was as if he had to watch her drown slowly from the shore because he had forgotten how to swim. He thought: This is what I should feel all the time for everyone, and he tried to turn his brain away towards the half-caste, the lieutenant, even a dentist he had once sat with for a few minutes, the child at the banana station, calling up a long succession of faces, pushing at his attention as if it were a heavy door which wouldn't budge. For those were all in danger too. He prayed: God help them, but in the moment of prayer he switched back to his child beside the rubbish-dump, and he knew it was only for her that he prayed. Another failure.

After a while he began again: I have been drunk-I don't know how many times; there isn't a duty I haven't neglected; I have been guilty of pride, lack of charity ... The words were becoming formal again, meaning nothing. He had no confessor to turn his mind away from the formula to the fact.

He took another drink of brandy, and getting up with pain because of his cramp, he moved to the door and looked through [198] the bars at the hot moony square. He could see the police asleep in their hammocks, and one man who couldn't sleep lazily rocking up and down, up and down. There was an odd silence everywhere, even in the other cells: it was as if the whole world had tactfully turned its back to avoid seeing him die. He felt his way back along the wall to the farthest corner and sat down with the flask between his knees. He thought: If I hadn't been so useless, useless. … The eight hard hopeless years seemed to him to be only a caricature of service: a few communions, a few confessions, and an endless bad example. He thought: If I had only one soul to offer, so that I could say: Look what I've done. … People had died for him: they had deserved a saint, and a tinge of bitterness spread across his mind for their sake that God hadn't thought fit to send them one. Padre José and me, he thought, Padre José and me, and he took a drink again from the brandy flask. He thought of the cold faces of the saints rejecting him.

This night was slower than the last he spent in prison because he was alone. Only the brandy, which he finished about two in the morning, gave him any sleep at all. He felt sick with fear, his stomach ached, and his mouth was dry with the drink. He began to talk aloud to himself because he couldn't stand the silence any more. He complained miserably: It's all very well ... for saints, and later: How does he know it only lasts a second? How long's a second? : then he began to cry, beating his head gently against the wall. They had given a chance to Padre José, but they had never given him a chance at all. Perhaps they had got it all wrong-just because he had escaped them for such a time. Perhaps they really thought he would refuse the conditions Padre José had accepted, that he would refuse to marry, that he was proud. Perhaps if he suggested it himself, he would escape yet. The hope calmed him for a while, and he fell asleep with his head against the wall.

He had a curious dream. He dreamed he was sitting at a café table in front of the high altar of the cathedral. About six dishes were spread before him, and he was eating hungrily. There was a smell of incense and an odd sense of elation. The dishes-like all food in dreams-did not taste of much, but he had a sense that when he had finished them, he would have the best dish of all. A priest passed to and fro before the altar [199] saying Mass, but he took no notice: the service no longer seemed to concern him. At last the six plates were empty; someone out of sight rang the sanctus bell, and the serving priest knelt before he raised the Host. But he sat on, just waiting, paying no attention to the God over the altar, as if that was a God for other people and not for him. Then the glass by his plate began to fill with wine, and looking up he saw that the child from the banana station was serving him. She said: I got it from my father's room.

You didn't steal it?

Not exactly, she said in her careful and precise voice. He said: It is very good of you. I had forgotten the code-what did you call it?

Morse.

That was it. Morse. Three long taps and one short one, and immediately the taps began: the priest by the altar tapped, a whole invisible congregation tapped along the aisles-three long and one short. He said: What is it?

News, the child said, watching him with a stern, responsible, and interested gaze.

When he woke up it was dawn. He woke with a huge feeling of hope which suddenly and completely left him at the first sight of the prison yard. It was the morning of his death. He crouched on the floor with the empty brandy flask in his hand trying to remember an act of contrition. O God, I am sorry and beg pardon for all my sins ... crucified ... worthy of Thy dreadful punishments. He was confused, his mind was on other things: it was not the good death for which one always prayed. He caught sight of his own shadow on the cell wall: it had a look of surprise and grotesque unimportance. What a fool he had been to think that he was strong enough to stay when others fled. What an impossible fellow I am, he thought, and how useless. I have done nothing for anybody. I might just as well have never lived. His parents were dead-soon he wouldn't even be a memory-perhaps after all he wasn't really Hell-worthy. Tears poured down his face: he was not at the moment afraid of damnation--even the fear of pain was in the background. He felt only an immense disappointment because he had to go to God empty-handed, with nothing done at all. It seemed to him at that moment that it would have been [200] quite easy to have been a saint. It would only have needed a little self-restraint and a little courage. He felt like someone who has missed happiness by seconds at an appointed place. He knew now that at the end there was only one thing that counted-to be a saint.

PART IV

Chapter One

MRS. FELLOWS lay in bed in the hot hotel room, listening to the siren of a boat on the river. She could see nothing because she had a handkerchief soaked in eau-de-Cologne over her eyes and forehead. She called sharply out: My dear. My dear, but nobody replied. She felt that she had been prematurely buried in this big brass family tomb, all alone on two pillows, under a canopy. Dear, she said again sharply, and waited.

Yes, Trixy. It was Captain Fellows. He said: I was asleep, dreaming ...

Put some more Cologne on this handkerchief, dear. My head's splitting.

Yes, Trixy.

He took the handkerchief away: he looked old and tired and bored-a man without a hobby, and walking over to the dressing-table, he soaked the linen.

Not too much, dear. It will be days before we can get any more.

He didn't answer, and she said sharply: You heard what I said, dear, didn't you?

Yes.

You are so silent these days. You don't realize what it is to be ill and alone.

Well, Captain Fellows said, you know how it is.

But we agreed, dear, didn't we, that it was better just to say nothing at all, ever? We mustn't be morbid.

No.

We've got our own life to lead.

Yes.

He came across to the bed and laid the handkerchief over his wife's eyes. Then sitting down on a chair, he slipped his hand under the net and felt for her hand. They gave an odd [204] effect of being children, lost in a strange town, without adult care.

Have you got the tickets? she asked.

Yes, dear.'

I must get up later and pack, but my head hurts so. Did you tell them to collect the boxes?

I forgot.

You really must try to think of things, she said weakly and sullenly. There's no one else, and they both sat silent at a phrase they should have avoided. He said suddenly: There's a lot of excitement in town.

Not a revolution?

Oh, no. They've caught a priest and he's being shot this morning, poor devil. I can't help wondering whether it's the man Coral-I mean the man we sheltered.

It's not likely.

No.

There are so many priests.

He let go of her hand, and going to the window looked out. Boats on the river, a small stony public garden with a bust, and buzzards everywhere.

Mrs. Fellows said: It will be good to be back home. I sometimes thought I should die in this place.

Of course not, dear.

Well, people do.

Yes, they do, he said glumly.

Now, dear, Mrs. Fellows said sharply, your promise. She gave a long sigh: My poor head.

He said: Would you like some aspirin?

I don't know where I've put it. Somehow nothing is ever in its place.

Shall I go out and get you some more?

No, dear, I can't bear being left alone. She went on with dramatic brightness: I expect I shall be all right when we get home. I'll have a proper doctor then. I sometimes think it's more than a headache. Did I tell you that I'd heard from Norah?

No.

Get me my glasses, dear, and I'll read you-what concerns us.

[205] They're on your bed.

So they are. One of the sailing-boats cast off and began to drift down the wide sluggish stream, going towards the sea. She read with satisfaction: 'Dear Trix: how you have suffered. That scoundrel ...' She broke abruptly off: Oh, yes, and then she goes on: 'Of course, you and Charles must stay with us for a while until you have found somewhere to live. If you don't mind semi-detached ...'

Captain Fellows said suddenly and harshly: I'm not going back.

The rent is only fifty-six pounds a year, exclusive, and there's a maid's bathroom.

I'm staying.

A 'cookanheat.' What on earth are you saying, dear?

I'm not going back.

We've been over that so often, dear. You know it would kill me to stay.

You needn't stay.

But I couldn't go alone, Mrs. Fellows said. What on earth would Norah think? Besides-oh, it's absurd.

A man here can do a job of work.

Picking bananas, Mrs Fellows said. She gave a little cold laugh. And you weren't much good at that.

He turned furiously towards the bed. You don't mind, he said, do you-running away and leaving her ...?

It wasn't my fault. If you'd been at home ... She began to cry bunched up under the mosquito-net. She said: I'll never get home alive.

He came wearily over to the bed and took her hand again. It was no good. They had both been deserted. They had to stick together. You won't leave me alone, will you, dear? she asked. The room reeked of eau-de-Cologne.

No, dear.

You do realize how absurd it is?

Yes.

They sat in silence for a long while, as the morning sun climbed outside and the room got stiflingly hot. Mrs. Fellows said at last: A penny, dear.

What?

For your thoughts.

[206] I was just thinking of that priest. A queer fellow. He drank. I wonder if it's him.

If it is, I expect he deserves all he gets.

But the odd thing is-the way she went on afterwards-as if he'd told her things.

Darling, Mrs. Fellows repeated, with harsh weakness from the bed, your promise.

Yes, I'm sorry. I was trying, but it seems to come up all the time.

We've got each other, dear, Mrs. Fellows said, and the letter from Norah rustled as she turned her head, swathed in handkerchief, away from the hard outdoor light.

Mr. Tench bent over the enamel basin washing his hands with pink soap. He said in his bad Spanish: You don't need to be afraid. You can tell me directly it hurts.

The jefe's room had been fixed up as a kind of temporary dentist's office-at considerable expense, for it had entailed transporting not only Mr. Tench himself, but Mr. Tench's cabinet, chair, and all sorts of mysterious packing-cases which seemed to contain little but straw and which were unlikely to return empty.

I've had it for months, the jefe said. You can't imagine the pain ...

It was foolish of you not to call me in sooner. Your mouth's in a very bad state. You are lucky to have escaped-pyorrhoea. He finished washing and suddenly stood, towel in hand, thinking of something. What's the matter? the jefe said. Mr. Tench woke with a jump, and coming forward to his cabinet, began to lay out the drill needles in a little metallic row of pain. The jefe watched with apprehension. He said: Your hand is very jumpy. Are you quite sure you are well enough this morning?

It's indigestion, Mr. Tench said. Sometimes I have so many spots in front of my eyes I might be wearing a veil. He fitted a needle into the drill and bent the arm round. Now open your mouth very wide. He began to stuff the jefe's mouth with plugs of cotton. He said: I've never seen a mouth as bad as yours-except once.

[207] The jefe struggled to speak. Only a dentist could have interpreted the muffled and uneasy question.

He wasn't a patient. I expect someone cured him. You cure a lot of people in this country, don't you, with bullets?

As he picked and picked at the tooth, he tried to keep up a running fire of conversation: that was how one did things at Southend. He said: An odd thing happened to me just before I came up the river. I got a letter from my wife. Hadn't so much as heard from her for-oh, twenty years. Then out of the blue she ... He leant closer and levered furiously with his pick: the jefe beat the air and grunted. Wash out your mouth, Mr. Tench said, and began grimly to fix his drill. He said: What was I talking about? Oh, the wife, wasn't it? Seems she had got religion of some kind. Some sort of a group-Oxford. What would she be doing in Oxford? Wrote to say that she had forgiven me and wanted to make things legal. Divorce, I mean. Forgiven me, Mr. Tench said, looking round the little hideous room, lost in thought, with his hand on the drill. He belched and put his other hand against his stomach, pressing, pressing, seeking an obscure pain which was nearly always there. The jefe leant back exhausted with his mouth wide open.

It comes and goes, Mr. Tench said, losing the thread of his thought completely. Of course, it's nothing. just indigestion. But it gets me locked. He stared moodily into the jefe's mouth as if a crystal were concealed between the carious teeth. Then, as if he were exerting an awful effort of will, he leant forward, brought the arm of the drill round, and began to pedal. Buzz and grate. Buzz and grate. The jefe stiffened all over and clutched the arms of the chair, and Mr. Tench's foot went up and down, up and down. The jefe made odd sounds and waved his hands. Hold hard, Mr. Tench said, hold hard. There's just one tiny corner. Nearly finished. There she comes. There. He stopped and said: Good God, what's that?

He left the jefe altogether and went to the window. In the yard below a squad of police had just grounded their arms. With his hand on his stomach he protested: Not another revolution?

The jefe levered himself upright and spat out a gag. Of course not, he said. A man's being shot.

[208] What for?

Treason.

I thought you generally did it, Mr. Tench said, up by the cemetery? A horrid fascination kept him by the window: this was something he had never seen. He and the buzzards looked down together on the little whitewashed courtyard.

It was better not to this time. There might have been a demonstration. People are so ignorant.

A small man came out of a side door: he was held up by two policemen, but you could tell that he was doing his best-it was only that his legs were not fully under his control. They paddled him across to the opposite wall: an officer tied a handkerchief round his eyes. Mr. Tench thought: But I know him. Good God, one ought to do something. This was like seeing a neighbour shot.

The jefe said: What are you waiting for? The air gets into this tooth.

Of course there was nothing to do. Everything went very quickly like a routine. The officer stepped aside, the rifles went up, and the little man suddenly made jerky movements with his arms. He was trying to say something: what was the phrase they were always supposed to use? That was routine too, but perhaps his mouth was too dry, because nothing came out except a word that sounded more like Excuse. The crash of the rifles shook Mr. Tench: they seemed to vibrate inside his own guts; he felt rather sick and shut his eyes. Then there was a single shot, and opening his eyes again he saw the officer stuffing his gun back into his holster, and the little man was a routine heap beside the wall-something unimportant which had to be cleared away. Two knock-kneed men approached quickly. This was an arena, and there was the bull dead, and there was nothing more to wait for any longer.

Oh, the jefe moaned from the chair, the pain, the pain. He implored Mr. Tench: Hurry, but Mr. Tench was lost in thought beside the window, one hand automatically seeking in his stomach for the hidden uneasiness. He remembered the little man rising bitterly and hopelessly from his chair that blinding afternoon to follow the child out of town; he remembered a green watering-can, the photo of the children, that case he was making out of sand for a split palate.

[209] The stopping, the jefe pleaded, and Mr. Tench's eyes went to the little mound of gold on the glass dish. Currency-he would insist on foreign currency: this time he was going to clear out, clear out for good. In the yard everything had been tidied away: a man was throwing sand out of a spade, as if he were filling a grave. But there was no grave: there was nobody there: an appalling sense of loneliness came over Mr. Tench, doubling him with indigestion. The little fellow had spoken English and knew about his children. He felt deserted.

'And now,' the woman's voice swelled triumphantly, and the two little girls with beady eyes held their breath, 'the great testing day had come.' Even the boy showed interest, standing by the window, looking out into the dark curfew-emptied street-this was the last chapter, and in the last chapter things always happened violently. Perhaps all life was like that-dull and then a heroic flurry at the end.

'When the Chief of Police came to Juan's cell he found him on his knees, praying. He had not slept at all, but had spent his last night preparing for martyrdom. He was quite calm and happy, and smiling at the Chief of Police, he asked him if he had come to lead him to the banquet. Even that evil man, who had persecuted so many innocent people, was visibly moved.'

If only it would get on towards the shooting, the boy thought: the shooting never failed to excite him, and he always waited anxiously for the coup de grace.

'They led him out into the prison yard. No need to bind those hands now busy with his beads. In that short walk to the wall of execution, did young Juan look back on those few, those happy years he had so bravely spent? Did he remember days in the seminary, the kindly rebukes of his elders, the moulding discipline: days, too, of frivolity when he acted Nero before the old bishop? Nero was here beside him, and this the Roman amphitheatre.'

The mother's voice was getting a little hoarse: she fingered the remaining pages rapidly: it wasn't worth while stopping now, and she raced more and more rapidly on.

'Reaching the wall, Juan turned and began to pray-not for himself, but for his enemies, for the squad of poor [210] innocent Indian soldiers who faced him and even for the Chief of Police himself. He raised the crucifix at the end of his beads and prayed that God would forgive them, would enlighten their ignorance, and bring them at last-as Saul the persecutor was brought-into his eternal kingdom.'

Had they loaded? the boy said.

What do you mean-had they loaded?

Why didn't they fire and stop him?

Because God decided otherwise. She coughed and went on: 'The officer gave the command to present arms. In that moment a smile of complete adoration and happiness passed over Juan's face. It was as if he could see the arms of God open to receive him. He had always told his mother and sisters that he had a premonition that he would be in heaven before them. He would say with a whimsical smile to his mother, the good but over-careful housewife: I will have tidied everything up for you. Now the moment had come, the officer gave the order to fire, and-' She had been reading too fast because it was past the little girls' bedtime and now she was thwarted by a fit of hiccups. 'Fire,' she repeated, 'and ...'

The two little girls sat placidly side by side-they looked nearly asleep-this was the part of the book they never cared much about; they endured it for the sake of the amateur theatricals and the first communion, and of the sister who became a nun and paid a moving farewell to her family in the third chapter.

'Fire,' the mother tried again, 'and Juan, raising both arms above his head, called out in a strong brave voice to the soldiers and the levelled rifles: Hail Christ the King! Next moment he fell riddled with a dozen bullets and the officer, stooping over his body, put his revolver close to Juan's ear and pulled the trigger.'

A long sigh came from the window.

'No need to have fired another shot. The soul of the young hero had already left its earthly mansion, and the happy smile on the dead face told even those ignorant men where they would find Juan now. One of the men there that day was so moved by his bearing that he secretly soaked his handkerchief in the martyr's blood, and that handkerchief, cut into a hundred relics, found its way into many pious homes.' And [211] now, the mother went rapidly on, clapping her hands, to bed.

And that one, the boy said slowly, they shot today. Was he a hero too?

Yes.

The one who stayed with us that time?

Yes. He was one of the martyrs of the Church.

He had a funny smell, one of the little girls said.

You must never say that again, the mother said. He may be one of the saints.

Shall we pray to him then?

The mother hesitated. It would do no harm. Of course, before we know he is a saint, there will have to be miracles ... Did he call Viva el Cristo Rey? the boy asked.

Yes. He was one of the heroes of the faith.

And a handkerchief soaked in blood? the boy went on. Did anyone do that?

The mother said ponderously: I have reason to believe ... Señora Jiminez told me ... I think if your father will give me a little money, I shall be able to get a relic.

Does it cost money?

How else could it be managed? Everybody can't have a piece.

No.

He squatted beside the window, staring out, and behind his back came the muffled sound of small girls going to bed. It brought it home to one--to have had a hero in the house, though it had only been for twenty-four hours. And he was the last. There were no more priests and no more heroes. He listened resentfully to the sound of booted feet coming up the pavement. Ordinary life pressed round him. He got down from the window-seat and picked up his candle-Zapata, Villa, Madero, and the rest, they were all dead, and it was people like the man out there who killed them. He felt deceived.

The lieutenant came along the pavement: there was something brisk and stubborn about his walk, as if he were saying at every step: I have done what I have done. He looked in at the boy holding the candle with a look of indecisive recognition. He said to himself: I would do much more for him and them, much more, life is never going to be again for them [212] what it was for me, but the dynamic love which used to move his trigger-finger felt flat and dead. Of course, he told himself, it will come back. It was like love of a woman and went in cycles: he had satisfied himself that morning, that was all. This was satiety. He smiled painfully at the child through the window and said: Buenas noches. The boy was looking at his revolver-holster, and he remembered an incident in the plaza when he had allowed a child to touch his gun-perhaps this boy. He smiled again and touched it too-to show he remembered, and the boy crinkled up his face and spat through the window bars, accurately, so that a little blob of spittle lay on the revolver-butt.

The boy went across the patio to bed. He had a little dark room with an iron bedstead that he shared with his father. He lay next the wall and his father would lie on the outside, so that he could come to bed without waking his son. He took off his shoes and undressed glumly by candlelight: he could hear the whispering of prayers in the other room; he felt cheated and disappointed because he had missed something. Lying on his back in the heat he stared up at the ceiling, and it seemed to him that there was nothing in the world but the store, his mother reading, and silly games in the plaza.

But very soon he went to sleep. He dreamed that the priest whom they had shot that morning was back in the house dressed in the clothes his father had lent him and laid out stiffly for burial. The boy sat beside the bed and his mother read out of a very long book all about how the priest had acted in front of the bishop the part of Julius Caesar: there was a fish basket at her feet, and the fish were bleeding, wrapped in her handkerchief. He was very bored and very tired and somebody was hammering nails into a coffin in the passage. Suddenly the dead priest winked at him-an unmistakable flicker of the eyelid, just like that.

He woke and there was the crack, crack of the knocker on the outer door. His father wasn't in bed and there was complete silence in the other room. Hours must have passed. He lay listening: he was frightened, but after a short interval the knocking began again, and nobody stirred anywhere in the house. Reluctantly, he put his feet on the ground-it might [213] be only his father locked out: he lit the candle and wrapped a blanket round himself and stood listening again. His mother might hear it and go, but he knew very well that it was his duty. He was the only man in the house.

Slowly he made his way across the patio towards the outer door. Suppose it was the lieutenant come back to revenge himself for the spittle. ... He unlocked the heavy iron door and swung it open. A stranger stood in the street: a tall pale thin man with a rather sour mouth, who carried a small suitcase. He named the boy's mother and asked if this was the Señora's house. Yes, the boy said, but she was asleep. He began to shut the door, but a pointed shoe got in the way.

The stranger said: I have only just landed. I came up the river tonight. I thought perhaps ... I have an introduction for the Señora from a great friend of hers.

She is asleep, the boy repeated.

If you would let me come in, the man said with an odd frightened smile, and suddenly lowering his voice he said to the boy: I am a priest.

You? the boy exclaimed.

Yes, he said gently. My name is Father- But the boy had already swung the door open and put his lips to his hand before the other could give himself a name.

THE END

Table of Contents

PART I

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

PART II

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

PART III

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

PART IV

Chapter One