THE VICAR APOSTOLIC
attached to his fat horse by a wooden pivot driven through the saddle.
The younger grandson saw the priest's interest in this figure. “That,” he said, “is my name saint, Santiago.”
“Oh, yes; Santiago. He was a missionary, like me. In our country we call him St. Jacques, and he carries a staff and a wallet—but here he would need a horse, surely.”
The boy looked at him in surprise. “But he is the saint of horses. Isn't he that in your country?”
The Bishop shook his head. “No. I know nothing about that. How is he the saint of horses?”
“He blesses the mares and makes them fruitful. Even the Indians believe that. They know that if they neglect to pray to Santiago for a few years, the foals do not come right.”
A little later, after his devotions, the young Bishop lay down in Benito’s deep feather-bed, thinking how different was this night from his anticipation of it. He had expected to make a dry camp in the wilderness, and to sleep under a juniper tree, like the Prophet, tormented by thirst. But here he lay in comfort and safety, with love for his fellow creatures flowing like peace about his heart. If Father Vaillant were here, he would say, “A miracle”; that the Holy Mother, to whom he had addressed himself before the cruciform tree, had led him hither. And it was a
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