His hands trembled slightly as he took up the letter and brought it closer to his eyes. His hands had never trembled in the midst of danger or even after long hours of carousing. But they trembled now as he read, "My studies went well, but I had to discontinue them because I was a little weak. It is now a month since they have begun a treatment which, they tell me, will completely cure me. Taking care of me is no less a person than the doctor of the Holy Father! From here I shall go to another hospital near the sea to recuperate. Once I feel better I shall return to Buenos Aires and then go to Viedma . . ."

Manuel read on. But in that phrase, "I shall return to Buenos Aires and then to Viedma," was all he really wanted to know. Now he was certain he had won a victory over those who had schemed to take his son away from him. What was equally important, Zepherin had already fulfilled the first part of his plan. From the start he had not wanted his son to go to Europe. His plans had been for him only to learn the huinca language and skills and to become acquainted with their people of importance. Then he was to return to San Ignacio.

But the huincas had tried to take Zepherin away from him for good. Zepherin had gone away with them, fully intending to come back, for Zepherin did not think the huincas could deceive. But he, Manuel, was an old hand in dealing with the huincas! He knew from experience that when they said one thing they usually meant another. It had always surprised them to find that he could use their own stratagems against them!

None of this mattered any more; what mattered now was that Zepherin was coming home. And he was coming home after having carried out the plan that his father had mapped out for him. Zepherin had lived for many years with the hunicas, had learned their skills, their ways, their speech and, what was even more important, had made friends with their leaders. With what gratification he had read of Zepherin's reception in Buenos Aires, of the important people he had met in the Catholic Church and in the government! Yet that was nothing to his successes in Italy where he had met the queen, or in Rome where he had made friends with the Holy Father! With such a start there was no saying how far his son might go. Time alone would tell. He rose stiffly from the rug and in a voice amazingly strong for one of his age, bellowed out: "Bernard! Call the family together. Important news!"

"What is the important news, Papa?"

"Zepherin is coming home!"

"To stay?"

"To stay. Never again will I let him leave my side."

Manuel at once sent off a letter to his son, telling him how happy he was at the way things were going. Anxious to keep the boy aware of the bonds that bound him to his people, he again reminded him that he was the son of a cacique who once had ruled the pampas and had led the bravest of all Indians -- the Araucanos. While he was in Rome -- "the greatest city in the world" -- he was to pray for his father, his family and his people.

Next he summoned the elders of the tolderia and discussed with them how to prepare for the return of Zepherin.

Although concerned with preparations for a suitable welcome, what lay uppermost in his mind was the question: How to make the best use of the talents and status Zepherin had now acquired? Always an excellent organizer, the cacique already envisaged a school system for both young and old; already he foresaw the need for training the young men. He would also need buildings and equipment. His quick mind immediately started scheming how to extract from Buenos Aires the money to pay for such a project.

At that moment in another part of the tolderia a woman sat outside her humble toldo, absorbed in her own thoughts. Ever since she had been forced to leave the cacique she had spent most of her time that way. She had not, of course, been completely abandoned. Manuel and her children had seen to that. But life had never been the same. It had been much more difficult when Zepherin had gone. Even as a child he had been concerned about her needs. It was as if there existed between them some secret understanding which did not exist between her and the others. Was it because he was the only one of her womb who, besides being a descendent of the proud Araucanos, was, like herself, also a descendant of the still prouder conquistadors?

"Senora Rosaria."

The sound startled her, bringing her back to the present.

"A letter for you. From very far away." The carrier raised his voice loud enough for the other women to hear. "From Rome." In a flurry of interest, with staring eyes and open mouths they crowded around Rosaria.

"What does it say? Open it quickly so we may hear all the news!"

Rosaria took the letter and without looking at it clutched it to her bosom. Unheeding of the pleas of the women, she turned and entered her toldo. The women, clicking their tongues in disappointment, and showing resentment, sullenly returned to their chores.

To prolong the pleasure of anticipation, Rosaria minutely examined the envelope before opening it. Pulling a long bone pin from her dress, she slit the top. Out fell a colored picture of a man dressed like a bishop with the words Pius X at the bottom. She did not know who he was but in his letter Zepherin would explain everything. Zepherin was aware that there were so many things of the outside world she did not understand.

With a certain trepidation sh smoothed out the letter and began to decipher its contents. From the very first word, however, she knew that the news would be good. As she read on, her pleasure increased and a smile deepened the creases at the corners of her tired eyes.

As the month of May advanced it became evident that Zepherin, instead of improving, was declining. As he grew worse, his anxiety for others increased, and in particular for the boy in the bed next to him who was nearing the end. "When I leave this hospital," he pleaded with his nurse, "please take care of him. You have no idea how he suffers. He hardly sleeps at all during the night."

Zepherin now began a fateful struggle for his own life. His one hope was that he would recover enough to be transferred to the hospital by the sea where he would be given treatment to allow him to return to his native land. After that he was certain everything would turn out well. Yet what he was saying about his young friend he could easily have said about himself for neither did he sleep much night or day because of his persistent cough.

On the night of May 11 came the worst attack so far. Whatever it meant to Zepherin it meant only one thing to those watching over him: they prepared him for Extreme Unction. He fought to keep conscious throughout while his spirit struggled in mortal combat. Yet there was never anything violent about his conflict. After he had received Viaticum, he grew calmer, his breathing lighter. Frequently he sank into periods of deep slumber. During the early morning hours there was one particular moment when he smiled and closed his eyes . . .

At last the great day had arrived! After all the trouble with his studies, his father, and others, and, of course, with his health! There was a time when he had even been a t death's door! All this was now over and the plans and hopes of himself and those who lived him had finally been fulfilled.

This morning he had awakened, scarcely able to believe that his ordination had really taken place. "It must be a dream!" he kept telling himself. But a glace about the familiar toldo of his father was enough to convince him that there was nothing of a dream about the gifts, nor in the fatigue he felt after the celebration of his homecoming, the embraces and greetings from the caciques and Indians who had come from far and near to congratulate him. Everything around him bore witness, not to any dream but to a pleasant reality. When he had finished dressing he hurried out of the toldo.

To his dismay he found that he was late. Cagliero and Costamagna were already vested and waiting.

"Hurry up!" Costamagna snapped. "And don't try to make yourself so important! You're not the only Indian God has chosen, and for my money you're certainly not the best! Just ordained and already you're making your betters wait for you.!"

Cagliero smiled. "Don't mind him, Zepherin. That's only his way." He lowered his voice. "How you and I have looked forward to this moment!"

The altar had been set out at the head of the valley along which he had often raced as a boy. The golden sand of the valley floor contrasted strikingly with the blue sky. Seats had been arranged in rows in front of the altar. On these sat the members of his family with his mother and father in the middle. Dressed in his colonel's uniform, his father sat proudly erect, his hands clasping the hilt of the sword. For his mother there seemed to be no one else in the whole valley but her son. His sister Clarisa smiled and wiggled her fingers at him.

Behind the family he could see a large gathering of Indians. They were all dressed in decent if simple clothing with their hair neatly cut and oiled. How happy his father must be to see that his plans for their welfare he met with such success!

At last he was vested and followed the little cortege of altar boys and the two bishops. A choir began to sing. He glanced at the choir and to his astonishment saw that it was composed entirely of his childhood friends!

He went through the first part of the Mass a little hesitant. Costamagna would correct him with a curt admonition or a sharp jab in the ribs; Cagliero, on the other hand, would gently press his arm and whisper what to do.

He approached the Consecration. This was the moment when he would exercise the supreme power of his priesthood. This was the moment he had lived for. Uncaring whether or not his trembling hands betrayed him, he concentrated on what he was about to accomplish and took up the wafer as delicately as his shaking hands would allow. As he prepared to whisper the words of Consecration he relived the moment when the bishop had pronounced over him the words, "You have not chose Me; I have chosen you." He made such an effort to stop the violent trembling of his hands that he broke out in a sweat. The trembling was communicated to his whole body. "Oh God!" he sobbed. "You are too good! I am not worthy. I can't go on!" A curt order, a sharp jab in the ribs; a light pressure on his arm, a whisper -- all these had the effect of helping him control himself.

"Hoc est corpus meum. This is my body."

"Hic est enim calix sanguinis mei. This is the chalice of my blood."

It was finished. Putting his elbows on the altar, and resting his head on his arms, totally insensible to his surroundings, he burst into tears. This time the others did not disturb him but let the weeping run its course. he consumed the Host, the raised the chalice. As the Blood ran past his lips, with a flash of intuition he understood that never again would he experience such consolation because never again would such an abundance of grace flood his soul, and in that moment, with a terrible and final clarity, he knew that the dream of his life was over . . . "

"Nurse, wipe the blood off his lips."

The white-haired figure slid to his knees by the side of the bed. He had been gently chafing Zepherin's hand in a futile attempt to console the dying boy, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on his face. Momentarily he had raised his head to answer the question of someone nearby, and when he had turned to look at Zepherin again, a subtle change in the features had warned him. Taking a firmer grip on the hand, his fingers searched for the pulse, and he stayed like that for a moment, his eyes staring into space. Then he let the boy's inert hand slide from his grasp.

"He's dead!" His voice held a note of surprise, almost of disbelief. "Zepherin's gone!" He looked around him vacantly, not quite sure of what he should do. Of all those concerned, he had lost most in the death of Zepherin. Ever since he had first met him, with a sure instinct he had sensed that this was not the usual run of young Indian who had come for a little schooling. This was a chosen soul in whom grace, if allowed, could work wonders. He had felt himself immediately drawn to Zepherin just as the boy had been drawn to him. He had watched with pleasure as he had taken his first timid steps, and then with certain if slow progress had moved toward his goal.

How happy he had been to discover that his intuition had been right! He would never forget the day Zepherin had walked into his room and declared, "Please don't laugh at me, Bishop! I want to become an apostle to my people." Don't laugh at me! "My God!" he recalled. "At that moment I felt more like shedding tears of consolation."

From the time he had landed in South America, Cagliero had lived and breathed for his Mission. What joy, then, had it not given him to think that soon he would count among his missionaries an Indian, and not an ordinary Indian, but the son of a famous cacique! What a proud day that would have been for himself, for the Indian people, and for his Mission!

With the death of Zepherin had crumbled one more dream; and one more link binding him to his beloved Argentina, his segunda patria, had been broken. He was not getting any younger and blows like this were becoming harder to bear. God could be so harsh, so demanding. Crossing himself wearily, he rose stiffly first from one knee then from the other. With head bowed, looking neither to the right nor to the left, and completely unaware of the presence of the others, he made his way out of the room.