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[6]

A door, now rotting into dust, conceals the sacristy. Closed by a wooden peg, this door suggests that some poor soul still cares for the old place. Yes, some one cares. A Rumsen chief, old Capitan Carlos, comes in once a year, to smooth the falling stones and keep his memory of the church alive.

On pushing the door ajar, a ray of light, a rush of air, go with us into the sacristy. The floor is mud. A broken table leans against the wall. Above this table hang some poor oil pictures, in the Spanish school of sacred art; a faded Sefora of Carmelo, and by way of balance, a yet more faded Jesu Christo. Covered by dust and grime lie votive offerings of the village sort; among the heaps, a bunch of forest leaves, and a chaplet of paper flowers.

All sorts of creeping things defile the floor and wall. The room smells moist and mouldy; so we turn our faces towards the chancel, leaving our Lady of Carmelo in the gloom, and shutting the door on spiders, centipedes, forest leaves, and artificial flowers.

This chancel has a purer interest than the sacristy.

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