Ay, to save and redeem and restore, snatch Saul, the mistake, Saul, the failure, the ruin he seems now,--and bid him awake from the dream, the probation, the prelude, to find himself set clear and safe in new light and new life,--a new harmony yet to be run and continued and ended. --_Browning._ CARMEN ARIZA CHAPTER 1 Josè de Rincón opened his eyes and turned painfully on his hard bed. The early sun streamed through the wooden grating before the unglazed window. A slight, tepid breeze stirred the mosquito netting over him. He was in the single sleeping room of the house. It contained another bed like his own, of rough _macana_ palm strips, over which lay a straw mat and a thin red blanket. Bed springs were unknown in Simití. On the rude door, cobwebbed and dusty, a scorpion clung torpidly. From the room beyond he heard subdued voices. His head and limbs ached dully; and frightful memories of the river trip and the awful journey from Badillo sickened him. With painful exertion he stood upon the moist dirt floor and drew on his damp clothes. He had only a vague recollection of the preceding night, but he knew that Rosendo had half led, half dragged him past rows of dimly lighted, ghostly white houses to his own abode, and there had put him to bed. "_Muy buenos dias, Señor Padre_," Rosendo greeted him, as the priest dragged himself out into the living room. "You have slept long. But the señora will soon have your breakfast. Sit here--not in the sun!" Rosendo placed one of the rough wooden chairs, with straight cowhide back and seat, near the table. "Carmencita has gone to the boat for fresh water. But--here she comes. Pour the _Señor Padre_ a cup, _carita_," addressing a little girl who at that moment entered the doorway, carrying a large earthen bottle on her shoulder. It was the child who had met the boat when the priest arrived the night, before. "Fill the basin, too, _chiquita_, that the Padre may wash his hands," added Rosendo. The child approached Josè, and with a dignified little courtesy and a frank smile offered him a cup of the lukewarm water. The priest accepted it languidly. But, glancing into her face, his eyes suddenly widened, and the hand that was carrying the tin cup to his lips stopped. The barefoot girl, clad only in a short, sleeveless calico gown, stood before him like a portrait from an old master. Her skin was almost white, with but a tinge of olive. Her dark brown hair hung in curls to her shoulders and framed a face of rarest beauty. Innocence, purity, and love radiated from her fair features, from her beautifully rounded limbs, from her soft, dark eyes that looked so fearlessly into his own.