It was his muleteer, Jose.

Father Pedro's sunken eye brightened.
"Ah, Jose! Quickly, then; hast thou found Sanchicha ?" "Truly, your reverence! And I have brought her with me, just as she is; though if your reverence make more of her than to fill the six-foot hole and say a prayer over her, I'll give the mule that brought her here for food for the bull's horns.

She neither hears nor speaks, but whether from weakness or sheer wantonness, I know not." "Peace, then! and let thy tongue take example from hers.

Bring her with thee into the sacristy and attend without.

Go!" Father Pedro watched the disappearing figure of the muleteer and hurriedly swept his thin, dry hand, veined and ribbed like a brown November leaf, over his stony forehead, with a sound that seemed almost a rustle.