A VOICE said: "Well, have you finished now?"
   The priest got up and made a small scared gesture of assent. He recognized the police officer who had given him money at the prison, a dark smart figure in the doorway with the storm-light glinting on his leggings. He had one hand on his revolver and he frowned sourly in at the dead gunman. "You didn't expect to see me," he said.
   "Oh, but I did," the priest said. "I must thank you—"
   "Thank me, what for?"
   "For letting me stay alone with him."
   "I am not a barbarian," the officer said. "Will you come out now, please? It's no use at all your trying to escape. You can [181] see that," he added, as the priest emerged and looked round at the dozen armed men who surrounded the hut.
   "I've had enough of escaping," he said. The half-caste was no longer in sight: the heavy clouds were piling up the sky: they made the real mountains look like little bright toys below them. He sighed and giggled nervously. "What a lot of trouble I had getting across those mountains, and now ... here I am ..."
   "I never believed you would return."
   "Oh, well, lieutenant, you know how it is. Even a coward has a sense of duty." The cool fresh wind which sometimes blows across before a storm breaks touched his skin. He said with badly affected ease: "Are you going to shoot me now?"
   The lieutenant said again sharply: "I am not a barbarian. You will be tried ... properly."
   "What for?"
   "For treason."
   "I have to go all the way back there?"
   "Yes. Unless you try to escape." He kept his hand on his gun as if he didn't trust the priest a yard. He said: "I could swear that somewhere …"
   "Oh, yes," the priest said. "You have seen me twice. When you took a hostage from my village ... you asked my child: 'Who is he?' She said: 'My father,' and you let me go." Suddenly the mountains ceased to exist: it was as if somebody had dashed a handful of water into their faces.
   "Quick," the lieutenant said, "into that hut." He called out to one of the men. "Bring us some boxes so that we can sit." The two of them joined the dead man in the hut as the storm came up all round them. A soldier dripping with rain carried in two packing-cases. "A candle," the lieutenant said. He sat down on one of the cases and took out his revolver. He said: "Sit down, there, away from the door, where I can see you." The soldier lit a candle and stuck it in its own wax on the hard earth floor, and the priest sat down, close to the American: huddled up in his attempt to get at his knife he gave an effect of wanting to reach his companion, to have a word or two in private. …They looked two of a kind, dirty and unshaved: the lieutenant seemed to belong to a different class altogether. He said with contempt: "So you have a child?"
   "Yes," the priest said.
   [182] "You—a priest."
   "You mustn't think they are all like me." He watched the candlelight blink on the bright buttons. He said: "There are good priests and bad priests. It is just that I am a bad priest."
   "Then perhaps we will be doing your Church a service …"
   "Yes."
   The lieutenant looked sharply up as if he thought he was being mocked. He said: "You told me twice. That I had seen you twice."
   "Yes, I was in prison. And you gave me money."
   "I remember." He said furiously: "What an appalling mockery! To have had you and then to let you go. Why, we lost two men looking for you. They'd be alive today. …" The candle sizzled as the drops of rain came through the roof. "This American wasn't worth two lives. He did no real harm."
   The rain poured ceaselessly down. They sat in silence. Suddenly the lieutenant said: "Keep your hand away from your pocket."
   "I was only feeling for a pack of cards. I thought perhaps it would help to pass the time ..."
   "I don't play cards," the lieutenant said harshly.
   "No, no. Not a game. Just a few tricks I can show you. May I?"
   "All right. If you wish to."
   Mr. Lehr had given him an old pack of cards. The priest said: "Here, you see, are three cards. The ace, the king, and the Jack. Now"—he spread them fanwise out on the floor"—tell me which is the ace."
   "This, of course," the lieutenant said grudgingly, showing no interest.
   "But you are wrong," the priest said, turning it up. "That is the jack."
   The lieutenant said contemptuously: "A game for gamblers—or children."
   "There is another trick," the priest said, "called Fly-Away Jack. I cut the pack into three—so. And I take this jack of hearts and I put it into the centre pack—so. Now I tap the three packs"—his face lit up as he spoke: it was such a long time since he had handled cards: he forgot the storm, the dead man, and the stubborn unfriendly face opposite him—"I say: [183] 'Fly away, Jack' "—he cut the left-hand pack in half and disclosed the jack—"and there he is."
   "Of course there are two jacks."
   "See for yourself." Unwillingly the lieutenant leant forward and inspected the centre pack. He said: "I suppose you tell the Indians that that is a miracle of God."
   "Oh, no," the priest giggled. "I learnt it from an Indian. He was the richest man in his village. Do you wonder, with such a hand? No, I used to show the tricks at any entertainments we had in the parish—for the guilds, you know."
   A look of physical disgust crossed the lieutenant's face. He said: "I remember those guilds."
   "When you were a boy?"
   "I was old enough to know ..."
   "Yes?"
   "The trickery." He broke out furiously with one hand on his gun, as though it had crossed his mind that it would be better to eliminate this beast, now, at this instant, for ever. "What an excuse it all was, what a fake. Sell all and give to the poor—that was the lesson, wasn't it?—and Se?ora So-and-so, the druggist's wife, would say the family wasn't really deserving of charity, and Se?or This, That, and the Other would say that if they starved, what else did they deserve, they were Socialists anyway, and the priest—you—would notice who had done his Easter duty and paid his Easter offering." His voice rose—a policeman looked into the hut anxiously—and withdrew again through the lashing rain. "The Church was poor, the priest was poor, therefore everyone should sell all and give to the Church."
   The priest said: "You are so right." He added quickly: "Wrong, too, of course."
   "How do you mean?" the lieutenant asked savagely. "Right? Won't you even defend ...?"
   "I felt at once that you were a good man when you gave me money at the prison."
   The lieutenant said: "I only listen to you because you have no hope. No hope at all. Nothing you say will make any difference."
   "No."
   He had no intention of angering the police officer, but he [184] had had very little practice the last eight years in talking to any but a few peasants and Indians. Now something in his tone infuriated the lieutenant. He said: "You're a danger. That's why we kill you. I have nothing against you, you understand, as a man."
   "Of course not. It's God you're against. I'm the sort of man you shut up every day—and give money to."
   "No, I don't fight against a fiction."
   But I'm not worth fighting, am I? You've said so. A liar, a drunkard. That man's worth a bullet more than I am."
   "It's your ideas." The lieutenant sweated a little in the hot steamy air. He said: "You are so cunning, you people. But tell me this—what have you ever done in Mexico for us? Have you ever told a landlord he shouldn't beat his peon—oh, yes, I know, in the confessional perhaps, and it's your duty, isn't it, to forget it at once? You come out and have dinner with him and it's your duty not to know that he has murdered a peasant. That's all finished. He's left it behind in your box."
   "Go on," the priest said. He sat on the packing-case with his hands on his knees and his head bent: he couldn't, though he tried, keep all his mind on what the lieutenant was saying. He was thinking—forty-eight hours to the capital. Today is Sunday. Perhaps on Wednesday I shall be dead. He felt it as a treachery that he was more afraid of the pain of the bullets than of what came after.
   "Well, we have ideas too," the lieutenant was saying. "No more money for saying prayers, no more money for building places to say prayers in. We'll give people food instead, teach them to read, give them books. We'll see they don't suffer."
   "But if they want to suffer ..."
   "A man may want to rape a woman. Are we to allow it because he wants to? Suffering is wrong."
   "And you suffer all the time," the priest commented, watching the sour Indian face behind the candle-flame. He said: "It sounds fine, doesn't it? Does the jefe feel like that too?"
   "Oh, we have our bad men."
   "And what happens afterwards? I mean after everybody has got enough to eat and can read the right books—the books you let them read?"
   [185] "Nothing. Death's a fact. We don't try to alter facts."
   "We agree about a lot of things," the priest said, idly dealing out his cards. "We have facts, too, we don't try to alter—that the world's unhappy whether you are rich or poor—unless you are a saint, and there aren't many of those. It's not worth bothering too much about a little pain here. There's one belief we both of us have—that it will all be much the same in a hundred years." He fumbled, trying to shuffle, and bent the cards: his hands were not steady.
   "All the same, you're worried now about a little pain," the lieutenant said maliciously, watching his fingers.
   "But I'm not a saint," the priest said. "I'm not even a brave man." He looked apprehensively up: light was coming back: the candle was no longer necessary. It would soon be clear enough to start the long journey back. He felt a desire to go on talking, to delay even by a few minutes the decision to start. He said: "That's another difference between us. It's no good your working for your end unless you're a good man yourself. And there won't always be good men in your party. Then you'll have all the old starvation, beating, get-rich-anyhow. But it doesn't matter so much my being a coward—and all the rest. I can put God into a mans mouth just the same—and I can give him God's pardon. It wouldn't make any difference to that if every priest in the Church was like me."
   "That's another thing I don't understand," the lieutenant said, "why you—of all people—should have stayed when the others ran."
   "They didn't all run," the priest said.
   "But why did you stay?"
   "Once," the priest said, "I asked myself that. The fact is, a man isn't presented suddenly with two courses to follow. One good and one bad. He gets caught up. The first year—well, I didn't believe there was really any cause to run. Churches have been burnt before now. You know how often. It doesn't mean much. I thought I'd stay till next month, say, and see if things were better. Then—oh, you don't know how time can slip by." It was quite light again now: the afternoon rain was over: life had to go on. A policeman passed the entrance of the hut and looked in curiously at the pair of them. "Do you know I [186] suddenly realized that I was the only priest left for miles around? The law which made priests marry finished them. They went: they were quite right to go. There was one priest in particular—who had always disapproved of me. I have a tongue, you know, and it used to wag. He said—quite rightly—that I wasn't a firm character. He escaped. It felt—you'll laugh at this—just as it did at school when a bully I had been afraid of—for years—got too old for any more teaching and was turned out. You see, I didn't have to think about anybody's opinion any more. The peoples—they didn't worry me. They liked me." He gave a weak smile, sideways, towards the humped Yankee.
   "Go on," the lieutenant said moodily.
   "You'll know all............