bare shanks no more sacred than an Indian's. He did not look like a
priest at all, and I forgot to kneel to him, but stared with my mouth
open. And what do you think he did, my friends? He turned white like the
hand of a dona in her teens and--and--dropped his cassock. And--"

"Well? well?"

"What do you think rolled to the ground, my friends? Chunks of yellow
stuff that glittered, and a shower of sparkling yellow sand--beautiful
as sunshine on the floor. I gave a cry and ran to pick it up. I had
never seen anything so beautiful, I never had wanted anything so much. I
felt that I would die for it in that moment, my friends. But that
priest, what do you think he did? He gave a yell of rage, as if he could
tear me in pieces, and flung himself all over that sunshine of earth.
'My gold!' he cried. 'Mine! mine! You shall not take it from me.' 'If it
is yours it is not mine, my father,' I said, feeling ashamed,--though I
still wanted it; 'I will help you to pick it up.' He got up then, his
face very red again, and I could see that he was trying to put on his
dignity as fast as he had put down his cassock--he looked better with
both in place. 'My son,' he said,'the day is warm and I am very tired,
and, I fear, a little ill. These rocks are nothing. They please my eye,
and I pick them up sometimes as I walk among the hills. Leave them
there. I do not want them. We will return to the Mission.' 'If you do
not want them, then may I have them?' I asked--the blood flew all over
my body, my friends. He scowled as if I had asked him for the candles on
the altar. 'No,' he said, 'you cannot.' Then he put his big hand on my
shoulder--he could twist your neck in a minute with those hands--
'Listen to me, my son,' he said, very soft, and looking so kind now, you
can't think. 'There is poison in those stones, pretty as they are,
deadly poison. It has murdered millions of souls and hundreds of bodies.