As he waved good-bye to the teachers and the boys who had come to bid him Godspeed a passerby inquired who the young Indian was, who received so much attention, he blushed at the whispered reply, "Zepherin Namuncura, the son of Chief Manuel. The bishop is taking him to Rome to become a padre so he can come back to work for his people." He shivered in that raw, fog-drenched morning of July 5, 1904, for it was midwinter in these regions.

If that sudden appearance of blood had shocked him, it had not shocked his doctor, Padre Garrone, who had been quietly following his gradual decline. Ever since Zepherin's arrival at Viedma, Garrone's clinical eye had spotted the danger signal - that slight persistent cough. During a rehearsal of Rossini's William Tell,, he had seen Zepherin so overcome by such a violent fit of coughing that he had had to relinquish his part.

In the launch beside him were two others: Garrone and the bishop, both too occupied with their thoughts to make light conversation. After a long period in Patagonia, Garrone was going home for a well-deserved rest. His thoughts were pleasant.

Not so the thoughts of Cagliero. To him this trip possessed sad undertones; he was leaving Patagonia and he feared it might be forever. This, despite the fact that, in recognition of his merits and life-long service, the Holy See had made him an archbishop and recalled him to Rome. The thought of leaving Patagonia had so saddened him that after a day of farewells, he had insisted on leaving very early the next morning to avoid another leave-taking, this time from the boys.

The three travelers shook hands with a few friends who had accompanied them, boarded a break for Fortin Mercedes and that same day they took the galera to Bahia Blanca.

Even at the best of times travel by galera was meant only for the robust. In that cold and wet southern winter Zepherin found it almost unbearable, especially since his health was still precarious. Garrone wrote only one word to describe the entire trip: abominable! Yet neither cold nor discomfort, nor unpleasant stopovers at primitive rest houses brought a single word of complaint to the youth's lips. At Bahia Blanca they entrained and another full day's travel brought them to Buenos Aires.

The other times that Zepherin had come to the great city he had had very little opportunity of seeing -- and was incapable of understanding -- the institutions and activities which made Buenos Aires the most important center in South America. This time it was different. Cagliero had come to bid his farewells and his rounds covered people in all walks of life, in every section of the city. Fortunately for Zepherin, Cagliero was also keen to introduce him to all and sundry as proof of the civilizing influence of the Missions. They toured the elegant sections which he otherwise might never have seen; they penetrated deep into the slums and dock sections to where otherwise he would never have dared. No matter where they went or to whom they spoke, invariably it reminded Cagliero of an interesting anecdote -- all of which opened up new horizons to Zepherin.

In their travels they passed through one of the city's oldest sections. Like the little towns on the outskirts of Buenos Aires, this had a distinctly Spanish air. No wars of liberation against the mother country could ever erase the Spanish heritage of the inhabitants or destroy the Spanish blood that still coursed in their veins. These old families formed a tightly knit community and kept themselves aloof from the immigrants, who for the most part, besides being strangers, were also impoverished and unlettered, and lived in the squalid sections near the docks.

The homes they called on were built in massive colonial style, rambling enough to shelter prolific families, numerous servants and colonies of pets. The size of the house of one benefactor, in particular, amazed Zepherin. The first patio was given over to the cultivation of flowers and masses of strange, exotic plants; the second patio ran the entire length of the house, and to one side of it stretched a line of servants' rooms, an open kitchen and a baking oven. At the end of this patio lay a huge pantry. Guests of all kinds, Cagliero explained, were accustomed to staying not just overnight, but for a week or even a month! In this, they were like the Indians. Poor relations were never turned away empty-handed, and the wandering beggar -- if he were ready to chop a stack of firewood -- could always earn a substantial meal. In another house they came upon three or four Indian women making lard and soap. These immediately took a liking to him and loaded him with sweets, dried fruits and preserves. While he tasted a little of everything, he balked at touching even a single drop of the potent aguardiente, explaining that it was not good for Indians. As he came away, he could not help comparing their style of living with that of his own ill-nourished people in the tolderias.

What he wanted most, however, was to visit the poorer section of the city called La Boca, where so many of his own people lived. Cagliero told him that this served also as a haven for revolutionaries, a breeding ground of criminals, of secret societies and of violent anticlericals. At one time a mob, rushing out from here, had set fire to the Jesuits' school, stormed the archbishop's palace and threatened the Franciscan church. The pastor never ventured from the house without a loaded pistol! The task of running such a wild parish finally proved too much for him and he quit. Until Cagliero came, no one had been found courageous enough to take the pastor's place.

Cagliero told him the story of the day he had decided to launch a frontal attack and march straight into La Boca! His friends had thrown up their hands in horror. "Hadn't he heard what had happened to other priests with the same intention?" To defend himself he had brought his own weapon: not a loaded pistol, but a pocketful of medals. "Yes, of course," his friends advised, "But take something else with you -- like one or two hefty bodyguards."

"I intend to go alone."

"Well then, if you insist on going alone, at least wear civilian dress so they wont know you're a priest."

"I will go alone," Cagliero had insisted doggedly, "and I shall go dressed as a padre."

"Alone and dressed as a padre to La Boca? Dios mio!"

Through La Boca, therefore, Zepherin accompanied Cagliero. Boarding an old horse-drawn streetcar they paid to get through the tollgate, continued on past the ship chandlers, the yards stocked with wood, sand, lime, fruits, fowl and a myriad of other things. Near the docks Zepherin, for the first time, caught sight of the tall masts of sailing ships, gently rolling from side to side. Close to the river's edge lay the shipyards which formerly had built these sturdy sailing vessels but which were not building the new steamboats.

From La Boca had spread the dread cholera in 1874, wiping out 20,000 of the population, and again four years later came an even greater horror -- the bubonic plague! Sanitation was still primitive; there was little or no sewerage, and the tanks they used only magnified the danger of epidemics.

At night the streets, dimly lighted by kerosene lamps, were dangerous, with robberies frequent and murders not uncommon. Even the police were afraid to patrol those streets after dark. It was with a certain feeling of relief, therefore, that he heard the bishop declare he was anxious to conclude his visits before sunset.

Before leaving Buenos Aires, Zepherin wrote two letters to the Mission at Junin de los Andes. He asked the padres to find out from his father the exact dates of his birth and baptism. Little attention was given to such details in a family as large as Manuel's. "When I'm in Italy," he explains, "there will be times when I shall have to show my birth certificate. If I cannot, things will not go well for me."

Came the day when all farewells had been given, all preparations completed, and Zepherin and the rest of the party followed Cagliero up the gangway of the S.S. Sicilia. Zepherin's attention was at once taken up by the movements of the crew as they maneuvered the great ship away from the pier into the muddy waters of the Rio Plata. Once into the fairway, she gave a final toot and headed slowly downstream toward the clear waters of the open sea.

As they moved down the river and the objects dotting the coastline grew smaller, Zepherin decided to clime to the boat deck to get a better look at the departing scene. Crossing the deck, he caught sight of a familiar figure. He called out to him but to his surprise there was no response. He ran up and when the bishop turned he witnessed something that he had never believed possible: The eyes of this great man were dimmed with tears!

"Senor obispo!" he cried. "What is the matter? Are you already seasick?"

This brought a wry smile to Cagliero's face. He shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps it would be nearer the truth to say that I am already homesick."

"But you are going home!"

"Hardly. After spending thirty years here, after having planted so much seed and watched it grow. . . " He shook his head sadly. "My home is here."

Cagliero's achievements during those thirty years made a long and imposing list. At the ceremony of departure they had presented him with an album containing abundant evidence of the important part he had played in the development of the young republic. At the moment of Zepherin's interruption he had been recalling something of all this -- the difficulties, the dangers, the moments of despair, the moments of success and triumph. Like the day, for example, when President Roca before congress had pointed to him and called him "the man who civilized Patagonia."

Apart from the words of President Roca, perhaps the words which gave him the greatest satisfaction were those of the bishop of La Plata: "It's so easy to spot the men of Cagliero's school. They are always in action, always willing to give up even necessary rest when it's a question of working, preaching, confessing, teaching, going out of their way to save souls. They adapt themselves to any kind of food or lodging, face any kind of discomfort or difficulty."

By this time tiny pinpoints of light had begun to pierce the growing dusk and the air coming in from the sea had grown colder. Just then the ship's bell clanged, bringing Cagliero back from the past. He put his hand on Zepherin's shoulder and shook him affectionately. "Never become old, Zepherin. But if you do, be careful not to bore people with old men's tales. And don't worry about me. My sickness -- non est ad mortem. It is not fatal!"

"Will you please tell me what is the matter?"

Cagliero laughed at the boy's ingenuousness. "I can see no harm in that. I was merely thinking . . . But come. Let's walk. Perhaps it is better for me to get some of it off my chest. I never was in the habit of bottling things up inside me.!"

They left the rail and walked up and down the narrow space between the lifeboats and the funnels. The gentle rolling of the ship did not make walking difficult. As was his habit, Cagliero folded his hands behind his back. Zepherin tucked both hands in the folds of his jacket, and, as was his habit, did his best to keep in step with the other.

"I was thinking, mi querido Ceferin," Cagliero began, "how this voyage means such vastly different things to you and to me. To you it means renewed good health, continuation of your studies and finally -- let us pray! -- your dream fulfilled. But to me it holds out hope of what? My bones tell me I have ended my career in South America. It has been a long one and, I hope, not an unfruitful one. God has used me to advance the causes of both the Church and civilization. But now, I repeat, what does the future hold? Shall I go back to a life of repose, of idleness?" He raised both eyes and hands to heaven. "Please, God, not that! But at sixty-five, what else can they do with me? And if I'm kept in Rome I shall never again see my beloved Argentina."

Cagliero went on in this vein and Zepherin realized that at times he was talking more to himself than to him. But not for all the world would he have said or done anything to stop the other's flow of memories.

They continued walking up and down until a gong sounded below.

"Dinner!" exclaimed Cagliero, suddenly brightening. "Let's go down and show that captain that on this trip he's not going to save on our meals!'

Pursuing a schedule of studies designed to approximate as closely as possible that of his school days did not prevent Zepherin from taking full advantage of his free hours. These he frequently spent with the children on board who loved to have him entertain them with stories of his strange life on the pampas. Even in the ordinary way these stories would have fascinated them for, like his father, Zepherin possessed a storyteller's gift. But now they were being told by a real Indian, one who had either lived through them himself or else had heard them from the participants. Little wonder that even the adults, under pretext of taking care of the youngsters, would casually drop by and end up like the children listening spellbound to his tales.

It was obvious that the voyage was doing him good, and he confessed as much in a letter he wrote back to Buenos Aires: "I am getting very fat in the face," he wrote. This made him happy for his health was now of the utmost importance if he were to reach his goal. "I keep praying that the Lord may cure me once and for all, so that one day I shall see my dream come true."

One morning while he was bravely trying to study despite the heat of the cabin -- they had sailed from a South American winter into a European summer -- the door flung open and Garrone burst in.

"Quick! Cone on deck!" he cried.

"What's up?"

"Come quickly! The bishop wants you at once!"

Zepherin jumped up and followed him out of the cabin, along the passageway, and onto the deck. At first he imagined that it was a fire drill of the kind they had practiced a few days before. But once on deck he saw the passengers crowding the rail and staring eastward across the ocean. Cagliero stood in front of the crowd and Zepherin had to elbow his way through. Sighting him, Cagliero pulled him to his side.

"Look!"

Zepherin looked in the direction he was pointing but could see nothing.

"What is it, Bishop?"

"Look over there," repeated Cagliero. Then, stretching forth his arm he called out, "Land ho!"

Zepherin looked more carefully and at last was able to make out a faint, gray line. It was land all right. A shiver of emotion ran through him. For the first time he was looking at the continent of Europe!