"Not much. It wouldn't pay if he was living, and he died four years
ago."
"You are sure of that?"
"I am."
"There are other relations, perhaps?"
"None."
Father Pedro was silent. When he spoke again, it was with a changed
voice. "What is your purpose, then?" he asked, with the first indication
of priestly sympathy in his manner. "You cannot ask forgiveness of the
earthly father you have injured, you refuse the intercession of holy
Church with the Heavenly Father you have disobeyed. Speak, wretched man!
What is it you want?"
"I want to find the child."
"But if it were possible, if she were still living, are you fit to seek
her, to even make yourself known to her, to appear before her?"
"Well, if I made it profitable to her, perhaps."
"Perhaps," echoed the priest, scornfully. "So be it. But why come here?"
"To ask your advice. To know how to begin my search. You know this
country. You were here when that boat drifted ashore beyond that
mountain."
"Ah, indeed. I have much to do with it.
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