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“Mission accomplished, sir,” the young officer says, clicking his heels.

Moreira César rises to his feet from behind a folding table, where he is sitting between Colonel Tamarindo and Major Cunha Matos. He walks over to the prisoner and his cold little eyes look him over from head to foot. His face betrays no emotion, but the nearsighted journalist notices that he is biting his lower lip, as is his habit whenever he is taken by surprise.

“Good show, Lieutenant,” he says, extending his hand. “Go take a rest now.”

The nearsighted journalist sees the colonel’s eyes meet his for the space of an instant and fears that he will order him to leave. But he does not do so.

Moreira César slowly studies the prisoner. They are very nearly the same height, though the colonel is much thinner. “You’re half dead with fear.”

“Yes, sir, I am,” the prisoner stammers. He is trembling so badly he can scarcely speak. “I’ve been badly mistreated. My office as a priest…”

“Has not prevented you from placing yourself in the service of the enemies of your country,” the colonel silences him, pacing back and forth in front of the curé of Cumbe, who has lowered his head.

“I am a peace-loving man, sir,” he moans.

“No, you’re an enemy of the Republic, in the service of a monarchist insurrection and a foreign power.”

“A foreign power?” Father Joaquim stammers, so stupefied that he forgets how terrified he is.

“In your case, I shall not allow you to use superstition as an excuse,” Moreira César adds in a soft voice, his hands behind his back. “All that foolishness about the end of the world, about God and the Devil.”

Those present watch, without a word, as the colonel paces back and forth. The nearsighted journalist feels the itch at the end of his nose that precedes a sneeze, and for some reason this alarms him.

“Your fear tells me that you know what’s going on, my good man,” Moreira César says in a harsh tone of voice. “And it so happens that we have ways of making the bravest jagunços talk. So don’t make us waste time.”

“I have nothing to hide,” the parish priest stammers, beginning to tremble once more. “I don’t know if I’ve done the right thing or the wrong thing, I’m all confused…”

“In particular, the relations with conspirators outside,” the colonel interrupts him, and the nearsighted journalist notes that the officer is nervously twining and untwining his fingers behind his back. “Landowners, politicians, military advisers, either native or English.”

“English?” the priest exclaims, completely taken aback. “I never saw a foreigner in Canudos, only the poorest and humblest people. What landowner or politician would ever set foot amid all that wretchedness? I assure you, sir. There are people who have come from a long way away, I grant you. From Pernambuco, from O Piauí. That’s one of the things that amazes me. How so many people have been able…”

“How many?” the colonel interrupts him, and the little parish priest gives a start.

“Thousands,” he murmurs. “Five thousand, eight thousand, I couldn’t say. The poorest of the poor, the most helpless. And I know whereof I speak, for I’ve seen endless misery hereabouts, what with the drought, the epidemics. But it’s as though those worst off had agreed to congregate up there, as though God had gathered them together. The sick, the infirm, all the people with no hope left, living up there, one on top of the other. Wasn’t it my obligation as a priest to be there with them?”

“It has always been the policy of the Catholic Church to be where it believes it to be to its advantage to be,” Moreira César answers. “Was it your bishop who ordered you to aid the rebels?”

“And yet, despite their misery, those people are happy,” Father Joaquim stammers, as though he hadn’t heard the question. His eyes fly back and forth between Moreira César, Tamarindo, and Cunha Matos. “The happiest people I’ve ever seen, sir. It’s difficult to grant that, even for me. But it’s true, absolutely true. He’s given them a peace of mind, a resigned acceptance of privations, of suffering, that is