He made a step nearer, pointing a forefinger at the young man's breast.
Decoud, very calm, felt the wall behind the curtain with the back of his
head. Then, with his chin tilted well up, he smiled.
"Very well," he agreed with the slightly weary nonchalance of a man well
used to these passages. "But is it perhaps that you have not discovered
yet what is the God of my worship? It was an easier task with our
Barrios."
The priest suppressed a gesture of discouragement. "You believe neither
in stick nor stone," he said.
"Nor bottle," added Decoud without stirring. "Neither does the other of
your reverence's confidants. I mean the Capataz of the Cargadores.
He does not drink. Your reading of my character does honour to your
perspicacity. But why call me a heathen?"
"True," retorted the priest. "You are ten times worse. A miracle could
not convert you."
"I certainly do not believe in miracles," said Decoud, quietly. Father
Corbelan shrugged his high, broad shoulders doubtfully.
"A sort of Frenchman--godless--a materialist," he pronounced slowly, as
if weighing the terms of a careful analysis.
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