Round the corner of the house the mules were stamping-the guide must have brought them out to give them their maize: they were slow feeders, you had to give them a long start. It was time to begin Mass and be gone. He could smell the early morning-the world was still fresh and green, and in the village below the pastures a few dogs barked. The alarm clock tick-tocked in Miss Lehr's hand. He said: I must be going now. He felt an odd reluctance to leave Miss Lehr and the house and the brother sleeping in the inside room. He was aware of a mixture of tenderness and dependence. When a man wakes after a dangerous operation he puts a special value upon the first face he sees as the anaesthetic wears away.
He had no vestments, but the Masses in this village were nearer to the old parish days than any he had known in the last eight years-there was no fear of interruption: no hurried taking of the sacraments as the police approached. There was even an altar stone brought from the locked church. But because it was so peaceful he was all the more aware of his own sin as he prepared to take the Elements- Let not the participation of Thy Body, O Lord Jesus Christ, which I, though unworthy, presume to receive, turn to my judgment and condemnation. A virtuous man can almost cease to believe in Helclass="underline" but he carried Hell about with him. Sometimes at night he dreamed of it. Domine, non sum dignus ... domine, non sum dignus. ... Evil ran like malaria in his veins. He remembered a dream he had of a big grassy arena lined with the statues of saints-but the saints were alive, they turned their eyes this way and that, waiting for something. He waited, too, with an awful expectancy: bearded Peters and Pauls, with Bibles pressed to their breasts, watched some entrance behind his back he couldn't see-it had the menace of a beast. Then a marimba began to play, tinkly and repetitive, a firework exploded, and Christ danced into the arena-danced and postured with a bleeding painted face, up and down, up and down, grimacing like a prostitute, smiling and suggestive. He woke with the sense of complete despair that a man might feel finding the only money he possessed was counterfeit.
[168] ... and we saw His glory, the glory as of the only-begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth. Mass was over.
In three days, he told himself, I shall be in Las Casas: I shall have confessed and been absolved-and the thought of the child on the rubbish-heap came automatically back to him with painful love. What was the good of confession when you loved the result of your crime?
The people knelt as he made his way down the barn: he saw the little group of Indians: women whose children he had baptized: Pedro: the man from the cantina was there too, kneeling with his face buried in his plump hands, a chain of beads falling between the fingers. He looked a good man: perhaps he was a good man: perhaps, the priest thought, I have lost the faculty of judging-perhaps that woman in prison was the best person there. A horse cried in the early morning, tethered to a tree, and all the freshness of the morning came in through the open door.
Two men waited beside the mules: the guide was adjusting a stirrup and beside him, scratching under the armpit, awaiting his coming with a doubtful and defensive smile, stood the half-caste. He was like the small pain that reminds a man of his sickness, or perhaps like the unexpected memory which proves that love after all isn't dead. Well, the priest said, I didn't expect you here.
No, father, of course not. He scratched and smiled.
Have you brought the soldiers with you?
What things you do say, father, he protested with a callow giggle. Behind him, across the yard and through an open door, the priest could see Miss Lehr putting up his sandwiches: she had dressed, but she still wore her hairnet. She was wrapping the sandwiches carefully in grease-proof paper, and her sedate movements had a curious effect of unreality. It was the half-caste who was real. He said: What trick are you playing now? Had he perhaps bribed his guide to lead him back across the border? He could believe almost anything of that man.
You shouldn't say things like that, father.
Miss Lehr passed out of sight, with the soundlessness of a dream.
No?
[169] I'm here, father, the man seemed to take a long breath for his surprising stilted statement, on an errand of mercy. The guide finished with one mule and began on the next, shortening the already short Mexican stirrup; the priest giggled nervously. An errand of mercy?
Well, father, you're the only priest this side of Las Casas, and the man's dying …
What man?
The Yankee.
What are you talking about?
The one the police wanted. He robbed a bank. You know the one I mean.
He wouldn't need me, the priest said impatiently, remembering the photograph on the peeling wall, watching the first communion party.
Oh, he's a good Catholic, father. Scratching under his armpit, he didn't look at the priest. He's dying, and you and I wouldn't like to have on our conscience what that man ...
We shall be lucky if we haven't worse.
What do you mean, father?
The priest said: He's only killed and robbed. He hasn't betrayed his friends.
Holy Mother of God. I've never ...
We both have, the priest said. He turned to the guide. Are the mules ready?
Yes, father.
We'll start then. He had forgotten Miss Lehr completely: the other world had stretched a hand across the border, and he was again in the atmosphere of flight.
Where are you going? the half-caste said.
To Las Casas. He climbed stiffly onto his mule. The half-caste held onto his stirrup-leather, and he was reminded of their first meeting: there was the same mixture of complaint, appeal, abuse. You're a fine priest, he wailed up at him. Your bishop ought to hear of this. A man's dying, wants to confess, and just because you want to get to the city ...
Why do you think me such a fool? the priest said. I know why you've come. You're the only one they've got who can recognize me, and they can't follow me into this state. Now [170] if I ask you where this American is, you'll tell me-I know-you don't have to speak-that he's just the other side.
Oh, no, father, you're wrong there. He's just this side.
A mile or two makes no difference. Nobody here's likely to bring an action ...
It's an awful thing, father, the half-caste said, never to be believed. just because once-well, I admit it-
The priest kicked his mule into motion: they passed out of Mr. Lehr's yard and turned south: the half-caste trotted at his stirrup.
I remember, the priest said, that you said you'd never forget my face.
And I haven't, the man put in triumphantly, or I wouldn't be here, would I? Listen, father, I'll admit a lot. You don't know how a reward will tempt a poor man like me. And when you wouldn't trust me, I thought, well, if that's how he feels-I'll show him. But I'm a good Catholic, father, and when a dying man wants a priest ...
They climbed the long slope of Mr. Lehr's pastures which led to the next range of hills. The air was still fresh, at six in the morning, at three thousand feet; up there tonight it would be very cold-they had another six thousand feet to climb. The priest said uneasily: Why should I put my head into your noose? It was too absurd.
Look, father. The half-caste was holding up a scrap of paper: the familiar writing caught the priest's attention-the large deliberate handwriting of a child. The paper had been used to wrap up food: it was smeared and greasy: he read: The Prince of Denmark is wondering whether he should kill himself or not, whether it is better to go on suffering all the doubts about his father, or by one blow ...
Not that, father, on the other side. That's nothing.
The priest turned the paper and read a single phrase written in English in blunt penciclass="underline" For Christ's sake, father ... The mule, unbeaten, lapsed into a slow heavy walk: the priest made no attempt to urge it on: this piece of paper left no doubt whatever: he felt the trap close again, irrevocably.