But the University had not afforded him the only interest in his new field. He had not been many weeks on Colombian soil when his awakening perceptions sensed the people's oppression under the tyranny of ecclesiastical politicians. Nor did he fail to scent the approach of a tremendous conflict, in which the country would pass through violent throes in the struggle to shake off the galling yoke of Rome. Maintaining an attitude of strict neutrality, he had striven quietly to gauge the anticlerical movement, and had been appalled to find it so widespread and menacing. Only a miracle could save unhappy Colombia from being rent by the fiercest of religious wars in the near future. Oh, if he but had the will, as he had the intellectual ability, to throw himself into the widening breach! "There is but one remedy," he murmured aloud, as he sat one evening on a bench in the _plaza_ of Simón Bolívar, watching the stream of gaily dressed promenaders parading slowly about on the tesselated walks, but hearing little of their animated conversation. "And what is that, may I ask, friend?" The priest roused up with a start. He had no idea that his audible meditations had been overheard. Besides, he had spoken in English. But this question had been framed in the same tongue. He looked around. A tall, slender man, with thin, bronzed face and well-trimmed Van Dyke beard, sat beside him. The man laughed pleasantly. "Didn't know that I should find any one here to-night who could speak my lingo," he said cordially. "But, I repeat, what is the remedy?" "Christianity," returned the amazed Josè, without knowing what he said. "And the condition to be remedied?" continued the stranger. "This country's diseased--but to whom have I the honor of speaking?" drawing himself up a little stiffly, and glancing about to see who might be observing them. "Oh, my credentials?" laughed the man, as he caught Josè's wondering look. "I'm quite unknown in Cartagena, unfortunately. You must pardon my Yankee inquisitiveness, but I've watched you out here for several evenings, and have wondered what weighty problems you were wrestling with. A quite unpardonable offense, from the Spanish viewpoint, but wholly forgivable in an uncouth American, I'm sure. Besides, when I heard you speak my language it made me a bit homesick, and I wanted to hear more of the rugged tongue of the Gentiles." Laughing again good-naturedly, he reached into an inner pocket and drew out a wallet. "My name's Hitt," he said, handing Josè his card. "But I didn't live up to it. That is, I failed to make a hit up north, and so I'm down here." He chuckled at his own facetiousness. "Amos A. Hitt," he went on affably. "There used to be a 'Reverend' before it. That was when I was exploring the Lord's throne. I've dropped it, now that I'm humbly exploring His footstool instead."