Three years in the country had given him reasonable dominion of the native languages. When he awoke, he found himself surrounded by a group of indifferent natives who were preparing to sacrifice him before an altar, an altar that to Bartolomé seemed to be the bed where he would rest, at last, from his fears, from his destiny, from himself. He wanted to die there, without any hope, isolated, with his thoughts fixed on distant Spain, particularly in the convent of Los Abrojos, where Carlos Quinto once condescended to lessen his eminence and tell him that he trusted in the religious zeal of his redemptive work. In front of his topographical ignorance he sat quietly waiting for death. The powerful jungle of Guatemala had captured him, merciless and definitive. When Brother Bartolomé Arrazola felt lost, he accepted that nothing could
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