THE lieutenant waited till after dark and then he went himself. It would be dangerous to send another man because the news would be around the city in no time that Padre José had been permitted to carry out a religious duty in the prison. It was wiser not to let even the jefe know: one didn't trust one's superiors when one was more successful than they were. He knew the jefe wasn't pleased that he had brought the priest in—an escape would have been better from his point of view.
   In the patio he could feel himself watched by a dozen eyes: the children clustered there ready to shout at Padre José if he appeared. He wished he had promised the priest nothing, but he was going to keep his word—because it would be a triumph for that old corrupt God-ridden world if it could show itself superior on any point—whether of courage, truthfulness, justice ...
   Nobody answered his knock: he stood darkly in the patio like a petitioner. Then he knocked again, and a voice called: "A moment. A moment."
   Padre José put his face against the bars of his window and said: "Who's there?" He seemed to be fumbling at something near the ground.
   "Lieutenant of police."
   "Oh," Padre José squeaked. "Excuse me. It is my trousers. In the dark." He seemed to heave at something and there was a sharp crack, as if his belt or braces had given way. Across the patio the children began to squeak: "Padre José. Padre José." When he came to the door he wouldn't look at them, muttering tenderly: "The little devils."
   The lieutenant said: "I want you to come up to the police station."
   [193] "But I've done nothing. Nothing. I've been so careful."
   "Padre José," the children squeaked.
   He said imploringly: "If it's anything about a burial, you've been misinformed. I wouldn't even say a prayer."
   "Padre José. Padre José."
   The lieutenant turned and strode across the patio. He said furiously to the faces at the grille: "Be quiet. Go to bed. At once. Do you hear me?" They dropped out of sight one by one, but immediately the lieutenant's back was turned, they were there again watching.
   Padre José said: "Nobody can do anything with those children."
   A woman's voice said: "Where are you, José?"
   "Here, my dear. It is the police."
   A huge woman in a white night-dress came billowing out at them: it wasn't much after seven: perhaps she lived, the lieutenant thought, in that dress—perhaps she lived in bed. He said: "Your husband," dwelling on the term with satisfaction, "your husband is wanted at the station."
   "Who says so?"
   "I do."
   "He's done nothing."
   "I was just saying, my dear ..."
   "Be quiet. Leave the talking to me."
   "You can both stop jabbering," the lieutenant said. "You're wanted at the station to see a man—a priest. He wants to confess."
   "To me?"
   "Yes. There's no one else."
   "Poor man," Padre José said. His little pink eyes swept the patio. "Poor man." He shifted uneasily, and took a furtive look at the sky where the constellations wheeled.
   "You won't go," the woman said.
   "It's against the law, isn't it?" Padre José asked.
   "You needn't trouble about that."
   "Oh, we needn't, eh?" the woman said. "I can see through you. You don't want my husband to be let alone. You want to trick him. I know your work. You get people to ask him to say prayers—he's a kind man. But I'd have you remember this—he's a pensioner of the government."
   [194] The lieutenant said slowly: "This priest—he has been working for years secretly—for your Church. We've caught him and, of course, he'll be shot tomorrow. He's not a bad man" and I told him he could see you. He seems to think it will do him good."
   "I know him," the woman interrupted, "he's a drunkard. That's all he is."
   "Poor man," Padre José said. "He tried to hide here once."
   "I promise you," the lieutenant said, "nobody shall know."
   "Nobody know?" the woman cackled. "Why, it will be all over town. Look at those children there. They never leave José alone." She went on: "There'll be no end to it—everybody will be wanting to confess, and the Governor will hear of it, and the pension will be stopped."
   "Perhaps, my dear," José said, "it's my duty ..."
   "You aren't a priest any more," the woman said, "you're my husband." She used a coarse word. "That's your duty now." The lieutenant listened to them with acid satisfaction. It was like rediscovering an old belief. He said: "I can't wait here while you argue. Are you going to come with me?"
   "He can't make you"" the woman said.
   "My dear, it's only that ... well ... I am a priest."
   "A priest," the woman cackled" "you a priest!" She went off into a peal of laughter, which was taken tentatively up by the children at the window. Padre José put his fingers up to his pink eyes as if they hurt. He said: "My dear ..." and the laughter went on.
   "Are you coming?" ,
   Padre José made a despairing gesture—as much as to say, what does one more failure matter in a life like this? He said: "I don't think it's—possible."
   "Very well," the lieutenant said. He turned abruptly—he hadn't any more time to waste on mercy, and heard Padre José's voice speak imploringly: "Tell him I shall pray." The children had gained confidence: one of them called sharply out: "Come to bed, José," and the lieutenant laughed once—a poor unconvincing addition to the general laughter which now surrounded Padre José, ringing up all round to the disciplined constellations he had once known by name.
   [195] The lieutenant opened the cell door: it was very dark inside: he shut the door carefully behind him and locked it, keeping his hand on his gun. He said: "He won't come."
   A little bunched figure in the darkness was the priest. He crouched on the floor like a child playing. He said: "You mean—not tonight?"
   "I mean he won't come at all."
   There was silence for some while, if you could talk of silence where there was always the drill—drill of mosquitoes and the little crackling explosion of beetles against the wall. At last the priest said: "He was afraid, I suppose ..."
   "His wife wouldn't let him come."
   "Poor man." He tried to giggle, but no sound could have been more miserable than the half-hearted attempt. His head drooped between his knees: he looked as if he had abandoned everything, and been abandoned.
   The lieutenant said: "You had better know everything. You've been tried and found guilty."
   "Couldn't I have been present at my own trial?"
   "It wouldn't have made any difference."
   "No." He was silent" preparing an attitude. Then he asked with a kind of false jauntiness: "And when, if I may ask ...?"
   "Tomorrow." The promptness and brevity of the reply called his bluff. His head went down again and he seemed, as far as it was possible to see in the dark, to be biting his nails.
   The lieutenant said: "It's bad being alone on a night like this. If you would like to be transferred to the common cell ..."
   "No, no. I'd rather be alone. I've got plenty to do." His voice failed, as though he had a heavy cold. He wheezed: "So much to think about."
   "I should like to do something for you," the lieutenant said: "I've brought you some brandy."
   "Against the law?"
   "Yes."
   "It's very good of you." He took the small flask. "You wouldn't need this, I dare say. But I've always been afraid of pain."
   "We have to die some time," the lieutenant said. "It doesn't seem to matter so much when."
   [196] "You're a good man. You've got nothing to be afraid of."
   "You have such odd ideas," the lieutenant complained. He said: "Sometimes I feel you're just trying to talk me round."
   "Round to what?"
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