They first laid plans for Zepherin's welcome. No effort would be spared. The festivities would be remembered for a long time. Next they took up the cacique's plans for Zepherin's future. There was a moment of silence when the cacique rose. They were accustomed to Manuel's dramatic timing . . .

Suddenly Clarisa burst into the gathering and ran up to her father. "The padre is coming!" she cried. The announcement produced an effect like the sudden stirring of a beehive. The manner of arrival signified something of unusual importance. Ordinarily, he would have sent word of his coming long ahead so as to ensure the presence of every member of the tolderia. Not only Manuel and the elders, but everyone else began to speculate on the reasons for the unexpected visit. The meeting broke up in disorder. The children with shrieks and cries scampered off after Clarisa; the adults followed. They were eager to learn the news the visitor was bringing. Finally, Manuel led the elders off to meet the padre. When he reached the rise in the land from which he customarily waited the arrival of important visitors, the children had already broadcast news of the padre's arrival. By this time the visitor had entered the low valley leading to the tolderia, and even at a distance Manuel felt that he should be able to recognize him, but he could not. He was not one of the men from Junin de los Andes; he was a stranger. Why should a strange padre want to see him?

As the man on horseback approached, one of the cacique's sons took the horse by the bridle and led him up to his father. The rider dismounted stiffly. When he took off his beret in greeting, a puff of pampa dust flew from it. The shoulders and the sleeves of the black soutane were white with dust; dust had formed a dark crust at the corners of the man's mouth, had gathered on the wings of his nostrils.

Manuel waited until he had shaken off some of the dust before going up to him.

"Welcome," he said. "You have come a long way. Have you eaten?"

"Not for some time."

"Then you must eat at once. We have no luxuries but what we have is yours."

"Let my belly wait for my mouth," said the other. "What I have to say is much more important than to eat." He looked round at the people, then turned again to Manuel. "I think we should speak in private." He traced a blessing over the heads of the gathering. "My friends," he called out. "Please go back to your toldos. Later the cacique himself will speak to you."

"Will it be wise to bring the elders?" asked Manuel.

"It will be wise. It will also be wise to call his mother."

"Whose mother?"

"The mother of Zepherin."

Manuel had begun to lead the others inside the toldo. Now he turned and fixed his stony gaze on the padre. "Rosaria?"

The padre met the look without a change of expression. "Rosaria."

Because he had either been outgazed or else because he did not think it worthwhile to dispute the matter, Manuel grunted an order to one of the others who had crowded into the toldo. He at once shuffled out of the toldo and moments later returned, followed by Rosaria. Only then did Manuel notice how different she was from the woman he had rejected. She had aged quickly as all Indian women do, and the sorrow she had borne was written in the lines that creased her brow. He looked critically at her for a moment, then gave his attention to the business at hand.

The others were seated around him as they had been before the interruption. The padre sat on his left. After a few preliminary remarks the latter told the audience that he came all the way from Buenos Aires.

The cacique could wait no longer. "Padre, what is the great news you bring us from the capital?"

"It concerns Zepherin." The padre fixed his eyes on the ground.

"Ah!" the cacique's eyes lit up. "Then it must be good news. Tell us quickly." He turned to the elders. "Listen carefully, for the padre brings us news of my son. He has already written that he is coming home." Turning back to the padre, he asked, "When will he arrive at the capital? When will he come here?"

"Cacique, your son will never arrive at the capital. He will never come here."

"What do you mean?" Manuel eyes narrowed. A horrible suspicion began to cross his mind. The elders sat up, tense and waiting.

"Your son is dead!"

A horrified gasp escaped from the elders. Manuel did not say one word. Instead, he rose to his feet; and as he rose, his two eyes blazed with fury. When at last he stood erect, he repeated in a whisper, "Dead?" and stared at the padre as if expecting to be contradicted.

"I'm sorry." The padre did not dare look into those eyes. "Zepherin is dead. We received word in Buenos Aires and I was sent to break the news to you so that you would have no doubt of the truth."

"If he is dead, then you huincas killed him!" shouted Manuel hoarsely. He turned to the elders. "And do you know why? Because he had learnt their secrets and wanted to come back to me but they would not let him. They killed him instead. But they forget that I am still strong enough to avenge his death. Do you hear? I shall avenge the death of my son!" He looked around wildly as if searching for a weapon. Finding none, he shot his clenched fists into the air and emitted a howl. To the horror of the onlookers, he swung around again and with a powerful sweep of his arm struck the padre full on the side of the face.

"Huinca!" he hissed, his whole countenance contorted with hate. "Huinca!" The padre keeled over from the force of the blow and lay still. "Huinca! Huinca!"

Rosaria screamed and rushed to where the padre lay unconscious. Kneeling down beside him she cradled his head in her elbow and began to loosen the collar of his soutane. "Water!" she cried. "Water!" One of the Indians snatched a bowl that hung on the toldo wall, scooped water from the gourd and handed it to her. She dipped her fingers in the bowl and began to dampen the brow of the padre. Next she carefully placed the bowl to his lips and urged him to drink.

Fearful that Manuel had taken leave of his senses, the others rose to their feet, preparing to deal with him as they would have dealt with any Indian crazed from drink. But they quickly realized that their fears were groundless. As soon as Manuel saw the harm he had done in his wild fury, his madness left him, and like a spent runner, his arms fell by his side, his shoulders slumped.

Outside the told, the Indians were gathering to hear from the lips of their cacique the news the messenger had brought. The confused noise of their voices grew louder and had the effect of shaking the cacique out of his stupor. His first thoughts were of the padre who by now had somewhat recovered from the blow. Manuel knelt down beside him.

"I'm sorry," he said gruffly. "You had no part in this." Then he added: "Perhaps it will be well if you spoke to my people. I cannot speak of the death of my son."

The padre understood and although still a little dazed, rose and followed Manuel outside. The first one to come forward to greet him was Clarisa. She took his hand and kissed it. HE turned to the people.

"My good people," he began;. It was so hard to tell them. "I bring you sad news. Zepherin, the son of your great cacique, is dead."

A low moan rose from the crowd.

"But I must also tell you that he had been near death for a long time.

The moan again rose and fell.

"All of us -- his father, his people, his friend the bishop -- expected great things from him. But God loved him so much He took him to Himself. We hope that he will not forget us from his place in heaven. To show him that we will not forget him hear on earth, tomorrow we shall pray for the repose of his soul. May his spirit remain always with us."