"No, he'll die; it may take several years." "Will he suffer?" The surgeon pointed to the child. The little body was vibrating in exquisite torture and cold beads of sweat were welling up on the stoical Malay face. That night the Maestro went to the Post Hospital and asked the steward for some morphine. "The dose is----" the steward started to say, giving him the pellets. "I know, I know," the Maestro broke out hastily. "I've used it often." He did not know the dose, but he did not want to know it. He went back to Carnota. He found him with his sharp knees pressed tight against his chin. He gave him several pellets. He did not know what was the proper dose, but he knew that this one was surely a highly improper one, and that is all he wanted to know. The little boy had gone to sleep with a deep, restful sigh. And now he was there, beneath the pink-and-blue rosettes. The man and the woman were becoming uneasy beneath the vacant-eyed scrutiny of the Maestro. Finally the father stooped, wound his arms about the coffin, and looked up questioningly into the Maestro's face. "Yes," nodded the Maestro, "I will go with you." The man heaved the coffin to his shoulder. The boy took the shovel, the woman the candle, and they started in a file. The Maestro followed and took the shovel from the boy. At the cemetery the father began to dig in the black ooze, but the Maestro stopped him. He led them to a little knoll close by beneath a giant mango tree. The soil was dry there, and, taking off his jacket, the Maestro toiled till a little hole was ready. They lowered the paper-frilled box into it, then they scraped back the earth. The father went into the jungle and came back with a cross made of two bamboo sticks. He planted the cross and the Maestro placed a few stones about it. Then they walked back to the pueblo. "Are you very sad?" asked the Maestro of the woman. "Oho," she answered, "muy triste." But she had not understood the question. She had had nine children, and eight were buried. As far back as she could remember Death had never let by a year without entering her hut. She had long ceased feeling. They came to the plaza. The old cavalry horse was still standing as before, his swollen legs spread in a wide base, his head dropped to the ground, his patient, bulging eyes red with blood. His rattling, dolorous breath, above the humming undertone of carrion-flies, was the only break in the heated silence. The Maestro looked at the animal. His chin dropped to his chest. He raised his head with a sharp movement and walked on. "I have done well," he said. XIV THE CONFLUENCE