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, stood by, wearing a rough beaver hat at the back of his head, and grasping a tall staff with a silver knob in his hand. These insignia of his dignity had been conferred upon him by the administration of the mine, the fountain of honor, of prosperity, and peace. He had been one of the first immigrants into this valley; his sons and sons-in-law worked within the mountain, which seemed, with its treasures, to pour down the thundering ore-shoots of the upper mesa the gifts of well-being, security, and justice upon the toilers. He listened to the news from the town with curiosity and indifference, as if concerning another world than his own. And it was true that they appeared to him so. In a very few years the sense of belonging to a powerful organization had been developed in these harassed, half-wild Indians. They were proud of, and attached to, the mine. It had secured their confidence and belief. They invested it with a protecting and invincible virtue, as though it were a fetish made by their own hands, for they were ignorant, and in other respects did not differ appreciably from the rest of mankind, which puts infinite trust in its own creations It never entered the alcalde's head that the mine could fail in its protection and force. Politics were good enough for the people of the town and the Campo. His yellow, round face, with wide nostrils, and motionless in expression, resembled a fierce full moon. He listened to the excited vaporings of the mozo without misgivings, without surprise, without any active sentiment whatever.

Padre Romàn sat dejectedly balancing himself, his feet just touching the ground, his hands gripping the