Holy Mother of God

"Holy Mother of God. I've never ..."
"We both have," the priest said. He turned to the guide. "Are the mules ready?"
"Yes, father."
"We'll start then." He had forgotten Miss Lehr completely: the other world had stretched a hand across the border, and he was again in the atmosphere of flight.
"Where are you going?" the half-caste said.
"To Las Casas." He climbed stiffly onto his mule. The half-caste held onto his stirrup-leather, and he was reminded of their first meeting: there was the same mixture of complaint, appeal, abuse. "You're a fine priest," he wailed up at him. "Your bishop ought to hear of this. A man's dying, wants to confess, and just because you want to get to the city ..."
"Why do you think me such a fool?" the priest said. "I know why you've come. You're the only one they've got who can recognize me, and they can't follow me into this state. Now [170] if I ask you where this American is, you'll tell me—I know—you don't have to speak—that he's just the other side."
"Oh, no, father, you're wrong there. He's just this side."
"A mile or two makes no difference. Nobody here's likely to bring an action ..."
"It's an awful thing, father," the half-caste said, "never to be believed. just because once—well, I admit it—"
The priest kicked his mule into motion: they passed out of Mr. Lehr's yard and turned south: the half-caste trotted at his stirrup.
"I remember," the priest said, "that you said you'd never forget my face."
"And I haven't," the man put in triumphantly, "or I wouldn't be here, would I? Listen, father, I'll admit a lot. You don't know how a reward will tempt a poor man like me. And when you wouldn't trust me, I thought, well, if that's how he feels—I'll show him. But I'm a good Catholic, father, and when a dying man wants a priest ..."
They climbed the long slope of Mr. Lehr's pastures which led to the next range of hills. The air was still fresh, at six in the morning, at three thousand feet; up there tonight it would be very cold—they had another six thousand feet to climb. The priest said uneasily: "Why should I put my head into your noose?" It was too absurd.
"Look, father." The half-caste was holding up a scrap of paper: the familiar writing caught the priest's attention—the large deliberate handwriting of a child. The paper had been used to wrap up food: it was smeared and greasy: he read: "The Prince of Denmark is wondering whether he should kill himself or not, whether it is better to go on suffering all the doubts about his father, or by one blow ..."
"Not that, father, on the other side. That's nothing."
The priest turned the paper and read a single phrase written in English in blunt pencil: "For Christ's sake, father ..." The mule, unbeaten, lapsed into a slow heavy walk: the priest made no attempt to urge it on: this piece of paper left no doubt whatever: he felt the trap close again, irrevocably.
He asked: "How did this come to you?"
"It was this way, father. I was with the police when they shot him. It was in a village the other side. He picked up a [171] child to act as a screen, but, of course, the soldiers didn't pay any attention. It was only an Indian. They were both shot, but he escaped."