A few minutes later Josè stood on the river bank beside his little haircloth trunk and traveling bag, sadly watching the steamer draw away and resume her course up-stream. He watched it until it disappeared around a bend. And then he stood watching the smoke rise above the treetops, until that, too, faded in the distance. No one had waved him a farewell from the boat. No one met him with a greeting of welcome on the shore. He was a stranger among strangers. He turned, with a heavy heart, to note his environment. It was a typical riverine point. A single street, if it might be so called; a half dozen bamboo dwellings, palm-thatched; and a score of natives, with their innumerable gaunt dogs and porcine companions--this was Badillo. "_Señor Padre._" A tall, finely built native, clad in soiled white cotton shirt and trousers, approached and addressed him in a kindly tone. "Where do you go?" "To Simití," replied the priest, turning eagerly to the man. "But," in bewilderment, "where is it?" "Over there," answered the native, pointing to the jungle on the far side of the river. "Many leagues." The wearied priest sat down on his trunk and buried his face in his hands. Faintness and nausea seized him. It was the after-effect of his long and difficult river experience. Or, perhaps, the deadly malaria was beginning its insidious poisoning. The man approached and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Padre, why do you go to Simití?" Josè raised his head and looked more closely at his interlocutor. The native was a man of perhaps sixty years. His figure was that of an athlete. He stood well over six feet high, with massive shoulders, and a waist as slender as a woman's. His face was almost black in color, and mottled with patches of white, so common to the natives of the hot inlands. But there was that in its expression, a something that looked out through those kindly black eyes, that assured Josè and bespoke his confidence. The man gravely repeated his question. "I have been sent there by the Bishop of Cartagena. I am to have charge of the parish," Josè replied. The man slowly shook his finely shaped head. "We want no priest in Simití," he said with quiet firmness. His manner of speaking was abrupt, yet not ungracious. "But--do you live there?" inquired Josè anxiously. "Yes, Padre." "Then you must know a man--Rosendo, I think his name--" "I am Rosendo Ariza." Josè looked eagerly at the man. Then he wearily stretched out a hand. "Rosendo--I am sick--I think. And--I have--no friends--" Rosendo quickly grasped his hand and slipped an arm about his shoulders. "I am your friend, Padre--" He stopped and appeared to reflect for a moment. Then he added quickly, "My canoe is ready; and we must hurry, or night will overtake us." The priest essayed to rise, but stumbled. Then, as if he had been a child, the man Rosendo picked him up and carried him down the bank to a rude canoe, where he deposited him on a pile of empty bags in the keel.