Father Corbelan had remained quite motionless for a time with that something vengeful in his immobility which seemed to characterize all his attitudes. A lurid glow of strong convictions gave its peculiar aspect to the black figure. But its fierceness became softened as the padre, fixing his eyes upon Decoud, raised his long, black arm slowly, impressively-- “And you--you are a perfect heathen,” he said, in a subdued, deep voice. He made a step nearer, pointing a forefinger at the young man’s breast. Decoud, very calm, felt the wall behind the curtain with the back of his head. Then, with his chin tilted well up, he smiled. “Very well,” he agreed with the slightly weary nonchalance of a man well used to these passages. “But is it perhaps that you have not discovered yet what is the God of my worship? It was an easier task with our Barrios.” The priest suppressed a gesture of discouragement. “You believe neither in stick nor stone,” he said. “Nor bottle,” added Decoud without stirring. “Neither does the other of your reverence’s confidants. I mean the Capataz of the Cargadores. He does not drink. Your reading of my character does honour to your perspicacity. But why call me a heathen?” “True,” retorted the priest. “You are ten times worse. A miracle could not convert you.” “I certainly do not believe in miracles,” said Decoud, quietly. Father Corbelan shrugged his high, broad shoulders doubtfully. “A sort of Frenchman--godless--a materialist,” he pronounced slowly, as if weighing the terms of a careful analysis. “Neither the son of his own country nor of any other,” he continued, thoughtfully. “Scarcely human, in fact,” Decoud commented under his breath, his head at rest against the wall, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling. “The victim of this faithless age,” Father Corbelan resumed in a deep but subdued voice. “But of some use as a journalist.” Decoud changed his pose and spoke in a more animated tone. “Has your worship neglected to read the last number of the Porvenir? I assure you it is just like the others. On the general policy it continues to call Montero a gran’ bestia, and stigmatize his brother, the guerrillero, for a combination of lackey and spy. What could be more effective? In local affairs it urges the Provincial Government to enlist bodily into the national army the band of Hernandez the Robber--who is apparently the protege of the Church--or at least of the Grand Vicar. Nothing could be more sound.” The priest nodded and turned on the heels of his square-toed shoes with big steel buckles. Again, with his hands clasped behind his back, he paced to and fro, planting his feet firmly. When he swung about, the skirt of his soutane was inflated slightly by the brusqueness of his movements.