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.