PROLOGUE
pack-mules, over treacherous trails. The desert down there has a peculiar horror; I do not mean thirst, nor Indian massacres, which are frequent. The very floor of the world is cracked open into countless canyons and arroyos, fissures in the earth which are sometimes ten feet deep, sometimes a thousand. Up and down these stony chasms the traveller and his mules clamber as best they can. It is impossible to go far in any direction without crossing them. If the Bishop of Durango should summon a disobedient priest by letter, who shall bring the Padre to him? Who can prove that he ever received the summons? The post is carried by hunters, fur trappers, gold seekers, whoever happens to be moving on the trails.”
The Norman Cardinal emptied his glass and wiped his lips.
“And the inhabitants, Father Ferrand? If these are the travellers, who stays at home?”
“Some thirty Indian nations, Monsignor, each with its own customs and language, many of them fiercely hostile to each other. And the Mexicans, a naturally devout people. Untaught and unshepherded, they cling to the faith of their fathers.”
“I have a letter from the Bishop of Durango, recommending his Vicar for this new post,” remarked Maria de Allande.
“Your Eminence, it would be a great misfortune if a native priest were appointed; they have never
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