PADRE MARTINEZ
whispered that the sick man had been gnawing the sheets for pain; she had brought over her best ones, and they were chewed to lacework across the top.
Father Vaillant approached the bed-side, “Get away from the bed a little, my good women. Arrange yourselves along the wall, your candles blind me.”
But as they began rising and lifting their candlesticks from the floor, the sick man called, “No, no, do not take away the lights! Some thief will come, and I will have nothing left.”
The women shrugged, looked reproachfully at Father Vaillant, and sat down again.
Padre Lucero was wasted to the bones. His cheeks were sunken, his hooked nose was clay-coloured and waxy, his eyes were wild with fever. They burned up at Father Joseph,—great, black, glittering, distrustful eyes. On this night of his departure the old man looked more Spaniard than Mexican. He clutched Father Joseph’s hand with a grip surprisingly strong, and gave the man who was rubbing his feet a vigorous kick in the chest.
“Have done with my feet there, and take away these wet rags. Now that the Vicar has come, I have something to say, and I want you all to hear.” Father Lucero’s voice had always been thin and high in pitch, his parishioners used to say it was like a horse talking. “Señor Vicario, you remember Padre
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