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 grew to a tropical size and brilliance there among the sedges.

But this was the first time Father Vaillant had ever gone down into the Hondo after dark, and at the edge of the cliff he decided not to put Contento to so cruel a test. “He can do it,” he said to Trinidad, “but I will not make him.” He dismounted and went on foot down the steep winding trail.

They reached Father Lucero’s house before midnight. Half the population of the town seemed to be in attendance, and the place was lit up as if for a festival. The sick man’s chamber was full of Mexican women, sitting about on the floor, wrapped in their black shawls, saying their prayers with lighted candles before them. One could scarcely step for the candles.

Father Vaillant beckoned to a woman he knew well, Conçeption Gonzales, and asked her what was the meaning of this. She whispered that the dying Padre would have it so. His sight was growing dim, and he kept calling for more lights. All his life, Conçeption sighed, he had been so saving of candles, and had mostly done with a pine splinter in the evenings.

In the corner, on the bed, Father Lucero was groaning and tossing, one man rubbing his feet, and another wringing cloths out of hot water and putting them on his stomach to dull the pain. Señora Gonzales