Bishop Cagliero was in the dining room sipping his cafecito, when Pedro, the servant, dashed in, his mouth wide open and his eyes popping. The bishop started, nearly spilling the coffee over his soutane.

"What's up, Pedro?" he sputtered.

"Bishop, come quickly! It's Zepherin!"

"Zepherin? What's he done?"

"Gone Indians, I tell you! Gone wild!"

A million thoughts raced through his head, Cagliero moved swiftly. His experience with the Indian temperament warned him of the odd twists it could take. As gentle as lambs on day, the next day they could be like raging lions -- especially if they had been offended, or had drunk the potent aguardiente. A horrible suspicion crossed his mind. He brushed it aside, however. Impossible! Zepherin was too young for that. Besides, he was an entirely different type of Indian. But, then, one never knew . . .

By this time he had reached the corridor leading to the playground. Usually during this short recess the boys confined themselves to talking in groups of twos or threes. But not this morning. Now they were cheering and shouting wildly, "Bravo! Muy bien!"

He opened the door and dashed out into the playground praying he would be in time to avert God knows what disaster. So engrossed were the boys in what was happening they did not even notice him. He had to elbow his way to the front of the crowd where a rare spectacle met his eyes.

In the circle which the boys had formed around the playground, a rawboned gray stallion, more accustomed to dragging a cart than to racing, was lumbering round and round, his iron hoofs scattering dirt in all directions. On his bare back crouched a figure with a brown face, his hands clutching the horse's untrimmed mane, and his coattails flying!

The bravos and muy biens were occasioned by the fact that every now and then the rider would perform some astonishing feat of horsemanship. He would slide off the horse, still holding on to the mane, race alongside the pounding hoofs, then leap onto it again; or he would lean over the horse's side, gradually lower himself until he was almost under its belly. Altogether, it was such an outstanding exhibition that even Cagliero was impressed. For the moment he forgot why he had come and joined in the applause.

The horse himself had entered into the spirit of the thing. Every time the boys cheered, he threw his head in the air and shook his shaggy mane!

The bell rang for class, but no one heard it. It rang a second time. Finally, the boys pulled the horse to a stop. The others separated to let him through and for the first time Cagliero noticed the milkman's cart standing on the edge of the playground, its empty shafts resting on the ground. The boys gave the horseman a final round of applause before disappearing into the classrooms. Zepherin hurriedly put the horse back between the shafts and, when he had finished, straightened up to find the bishop standing in front of him. An embarrassed look crept into his face.

I'm sorry, Bishop," he blurted out. "But when I saw that horse standing idle I just couldn't help it. Something took hold of me. The next thing I knew I was --"

"Trying to break the neck of one of my best boys!"

The boy's eyes lit up. "Oh, Bishop!" his breath came quickly. "It was like riding once again across the pampas with my father! I miss those things so much!" He quickly became contrite again. "I'm sorry if I've caused any trouble."

"Well," said Bishop Cagliero gruffly, "I can't say I'd enjoy seeing you race that tired old horse round the playground every day. Though I must admit you did provide the boys with an exciting recess."

Zepherin took the bishop's hand in his own and kissed it. "It will never happen again."

"Forget it. Why don't we walk a little? You're late for class as it is. Your teacher will excuse you when you tell him you were with me."

Zepherin began to walk alongside the bishop and, as was his habit when he walked with anyone, tried to keep in step.

"You seem happier now than you did when you first came. Are you?"

"Much happier."

"In the beginning you gave me the impression you wanted to avoid me. Why was that?"

"Well . . ." Zepherin hesitated, lowering his head and walked on in silence.

"If you don't want to tell your old friend --" Cagliero began.

"No, no no! It is not that!"

"Then what is it?"

"When I first came here I thought everyone would be like the huincas . . . I mean the people I met in Zapala, at the academy."

"Are they?"

"No. I find them so helpful, so sym . . . sympa . . ."

"Sympathetic," the bishop supplied the word gently. "Sympathetic. Yes, exactly," the boy said slowly.

Zepherin seemed on the point of withdrawing into himself again. Cagliero, however, had no intention of letting that happen. "By the way," he went on, "you never did tell me what happened at Zapala and the academy."

At first Zepherin was reluctant to reveal his feelings to any huinca; but under the gentle persuasion of the other he finally poured out his heart, describing his life at the academy, the persecutions, the cruelty, the injustice of the huincas and the consequent distrust and hatred.

When he had finished, the bishop clicked his tongue. "My poor boy! Your contacts with the whites have not been very fortunate, have they? But don't worry, I promise that you'll find things different here. Only," Cagliero looked intently at the boy, "I want you to place your trust in me. I want you to let me help you."

Zepherin raised his head and gazed into the bishop's eyes. In those brown depths strangely enough, he discovered the same sympathy and understanding that had surprised him in the eyes of the officer at Zapala.

Not long after that the two met again. Cagliero was crossing the playground during recreation when all of a sudden Zepherin made a wild dash after a companion and barely escaped colliding with him.

"Hombre mio, a donde vas?" he said in mock concern. "Keep running like that and you'll end up in the River Plata! Oh, it's you, Zepherin!"

"Disculpe, Seņor Obispo!"

"I forgot that you must be used to running across the pampas in one minute flat. But perhaps you can stay still once in a while to talk to your friend. Come along and tell me all about yourself. To begin with: how are your studies?"

"I find them difficult, Bishop," replied the boy in halting Spanish. "But here nobody laughs at me when I make mistakes. So I keep on making mistakes -- and learning Spanish!"

"Good! The man who never makes a mistake, never made anything. And what about the food, your teachers, companions . . . everything?"

Encouraged by this invitation, Zepherin went on to tell him what he felt about his life at San Carlos. Everything was so different, he confessed, that at times he found himself completely at a loss. Above all, it was still the timetable which most confused him. Back home on the pampas, he explained, he had regulated his activities by the sone and the moon, by the times to eat and the times to play -- all of which afforded him plenty of leeway. "But here the week is divided into days, the days into hours, the hours into minutes. . . It makes poor Zepherin's head spin!"

The difficulties here may have been much the same as those at the academy, but there was a difference. There they had caused him to suffer a great deal in their attempts to force him to toe the line. Here, on the contrary, everybody was patient and kind. True, the boys sometimes burst out laughing when he arrived at some place as they were about to leave, but the teachers never made fun of him. Instead, they took him aside and told him what he should have done so that he would not make the same mistake again.

"What do you like most about the life here?" asked the bishop.

To his surprise Zepherin replied, "El panecillo," referring to the little loaf of bread which the boys found very appetizing.

Cagliero laughed despite himself. "And what do you like least?"

"To tell the truth, Bishop, I do not know if it is sitting down on the little bench learning to make shoes I have never worn, or learning to march in line from one place to another when I shall never be a soldier!"

Cagliero laughed again. "When I was a boy I felt exactly the same way myself about lining up and marching. And how about your religion class?"

"I understand nothing. They speak too fast for me."

"I see." Cagliero thought for a moment. "Look, Zepherin, " he said, "I shall put a little book on your desk this evening which will help you. A gift from your friend the bishop. Would you like that ?"

His friend the bishop! Zepherin was so affected that he could not speak. His eyes shone. What he now felt for the bishop amounted to veneration. His cordiality, his smiling face and laughing eyes, his warmth and understanding -- all this made Zepherin look forward to the days when the bishop visited San Carlos.

"I shall keep the gift most carefully," he finally replied.

"I'd rather you'd use it a lot, even learn it by heart. It will help you with your Spanish -- and with something else. I have to leave San Carlos for a while. But when I come back maybe I can help you understand things a little better! There goes the bell. You'd better be off now or you'll be late."

Zepherin looked around a little desperately. "But . . . but which way do I go?" he asked.

"Take my hand," said Cagliero. "You and I'll go to the classroom together. I want to see for myself how these young rascals are making out with their books!"

That evening, full of anticipation, Zepherin entered the study hall with the rest of the boys. Just as the bishop had promised, he found lying on his desk a small book.

Zepherin took it up with both hands and pressed it to his lips. He opened it slowly, turning its pages, read it softly to himself. His whispering grew loud enough to be overheard by the boys and they exchanged amused glances. When Zepherin noticed that they were looking at him, he smiled back at them and simply shrugged his shoulders.

After that, every evening when he came into the study he would go through a sort of ritual. First he carefully wiped the palms of his hands on the legs of his pants then took out the book and began to read, or rather, to utter the words, syllable by syllable. The more he grasped the meaning of what he read, the more he understood why "his friend the bishop" had insisted that, instead of preserving it as a keepsake, he should study it, and even learn it by heart. For this book explained things the padre had told him at the tolderia but which had always puzzled him.

True, the padre had come to the tolderia to speak about God. But, given the scarcity of padres and the long distances involved, that was not often. When he did come and talk to them, Zepherin used to feel sorry for him. He knew neither the language nor the customs of the people and they in turn had only the vaguest notion of what he was trying to explain. Sometimes he would drop his arms, lift his eyes to heaven and exclaim: "But don't you understand at least that?" Whenever he did this the people would insist that they understood perfectly and urge him to move on to some other point. They liked it best of all when he told them stories of how Christian martyrs had proved themselves heroes by dying for their faith.

All this had left Zepherin with jumbled ideas about religion. God, it seemed, floated all over the world, inside and outside the toldos. You could neither see, nor touch, nor hear Him -- but He was there. He had made everything that was good, nothing that was bad. He loved everybody, both the Indians and the huincas. That God loved the Indians, his people could understand. But when the padre said that He also loved the huincas they raised their eyebrows. How could He love the huincas who had stolen the land from the Indians, had killed them, and even now continued to oppress them?

When they talked among themselves, Zepherin heard the objections they raised against the padre's teaching. They could not trust a God who was a huinca. Judging from the pictures the padre showed them God certainly was a huinca, and how could a huinca God be on the side of the Indians? How was it that the padre condemned the Indians for stealing and killing when that was how the huincas had come to own everything? The padre also said that when they came to die, Indians and huincas would live peacefully together in heaven. Manuel wanted to know how his father Calfucura, who fierce hated every huinca, could live in peace with them? As soon as he saw them come into heaven he would seize the nearest weapon and go after them! However, that would never happen, one elder had pointed out, for, as far as he could see, heaven was far too small to hold even half the people the padre said would go there.

So when the padre departed, the people carried on as before. They did not give up their extra wives, nor chase away the pitonisa, nor take down the totem which stood at the head of the tolderia, nor give up their drunken carousing -- all things which the padre had condemned!

Whenever Zepherin recalled such objections he would ask for an explanation. He liked it best, of course, when the bishop was home for he made everything sound easy, and besides, he understood Indian lore and could explain things in terms that were familiar.

In this way Zepherin came to understand, for instance, how Gneche was but a dim and confused picture the Indians had of God; how the Indian idea of heaven consisted of little more than a state of perpetual drunkenness. The real heaven must be something entirely different and beautiful. As a Christian, too, he could count as friends and brothers all the wonderful people who had shown themselves as brave as any warrior in the face of death. If his people only understood that these men and women were looking down on them from heaven, maybe they wouldn't feel as sad and desolate as he himself had so often felt out on the lonely pampa with nothing but the stars for company.

When Bishop Cagliero told him the story of the redemption, he saw something of a parallel: if God had given His son Christ for His people, had not his father Manuel given his son Zepherin for his people? When the bishop went on to say that if he, Zepherin, had been the only person living on earth at the time, God would still have sent down His son, and he would still have suffered torture and death for him. It sounded unbelievable yet the bishop insisted that it was perfectly true. And if it was true it meant that in God's eyes he was the most important person in the world!

How he would love to go back to his people to tell them all this! He could prevent so many disorders which he now saw must give great offense to God. God then would certainly be more inclined to help his people than He had been before. Were these disorders the reason why God had helped the Indians so little in the past?

"Say! Must be a mighty interesting book if it grips a cacique's son so much he lets someone creep up on him!"

"Oh, Bishop, I didn't hear you!"

"You don't have to carry it around during recreation!"

"Bishop, I love it! I want to know it so well I can explain everything it says to my people."

"I admire your zeal. On the other hand, I don't think it wise for you to be sitting under a tree while your friends are at recreation. You must take care of your health. As it is you look rather tired and your face is flushed. `Better a live donkey than a dead philosopher!' Right?"

"Right, Bishop. But I want to enter the religion contest."

"I'm glad to hear that. And I believe I can give you a job that will help you with both the contest and your Spanish."

"Wonderful!"

"Every Sunday we open a center for the poor children of the district. We divide several hundred boys into classes. That means we need plenty of teachers. Why don't you volunteer to teach? With your husky build at least you should be able to keep order with no trouble at all."

"Do you think, Bishop, that I know enough to teach anyone, even a small boy?"

"You're bound to know more than they, for, unfortunately they know nothing at all. How about it?

"I shall be happy to do it."

"Very well, then. I'll count on you this coming Sunday."

The center was, as the bishop had said, a place where the boys of the district -- especially the poor and the forgotten -- could come to learn a little of religion. After that they were entertained with games, contests, shows and a treat of bread and fruit.

On the following Sunday, Zepherin formed part of the band of monitors who, under an experienced hand, marched off to begin the day's activities. Reassured that each was well acquainted with his duties, the leader gave the orders to throw open the gates.

One glance at the screaming mass of youngsters rushing through the gates forced Zepherin to retreat. His thoughts flew back to the stories of the malones. In a remarkably short time, however, the monitors split the mass into groups according to size and age. Very soon lessons got under way, and relative quite descended on the playground.

It was not long before Zepherin was entrusted with a group of his own. Although they were the smallest boys, he felt great satisfaction in knowing that he was their teacher. In a sense, he was beginning the career his father had planned for him. His dark complexion and Indian blood, instead of being an obstacle to his success, became an asset. On the Sunday that he was to take over his own group, he was surprised to see on small boy dragging another even smaller boy up to him. Both of them were as dirty and as naked as the children who ran about the tolderias.

The bigger boy hailed him, "Hey, seņor!"

The emphasized "seņor" made Zepherin stand up a little straighter. "Yes?"

"This kid wants to ask you something."

"What?"

"C'mon, Juanito. Ask him."

Juanito, however, wasn't asking anything. He didn't even dare to look in Zepherin's direction, but kept struggling in vain to wriggle free.

"Do you know what he wanted to ask me?" Zepherin inquired of the bigger boy.

"Yep. Wants to know if you're a real Indian chief?"

"I'm the sone of one and one day I'll be a chief, too."

The older youngster eyed Zepherin for a moment, then blurted, "And he wants to know if you eat people."

The question startled Zepherin. Perhaps he should have felt insulted, but the situation was so ludicrous he could hardly keep from laughing. Very seriously, however, he replied: "Of course. One a day. Sometimes they are big, sometimes they are as small as . . ." He looked around for an object of comparison. Then, very deliberately, he pointed to the smaller boy. "You! Of course," he went on, "I stopped eating people when I came here, but if I find any troublemakers in my class, who knows? Maybe I'll have to start all over again. Now, before I --" But with a squeal that was a mixture of glee and fear, the two scampered back to their games before Zepherin could finish.

His teaching experience provided him with something of a shock. When he asked one boy, "Who made the world? the little fellow merely looked at him with a vacant stare.

"What?" Zepherin could not hide his astonishment. "You mean to tell me that you don't know even that?" Immediately he regretted his remark, for the hapless youngster, lowering his head in shame, slunk back to hid himself among his companions.

Zepherin could scarcely believe that these children who were white and who lived in the great city of Buenos Aires could be so ignorant. The children of the tolderias know as much! But it was not enough to grow indignant. From that moment on he determined to take his responsibility even more seriously. He not only taught the children to the limits of his ability and theirs, but also provided entertainment for them -- puppet shows, card tricks, and "magic," in which he had become relatively expert. Many a time also he would deprive himself of his dessert or even a portion of his meals to give it to some undernourished urchin in his group.