Willa Cather's "Death Comes for the Archbishop"

 Back in town. On the road (since March 2), I was posting my stuff (mostly bird pics with brief commentary) only on Instagram.

Anyway, here's an interesting "clip" from Cather's novel (I have been dipping into her since Nebraska and "Death" also was part of why I went through Santa Fe):

Jacinto threw away the end of his cornhusk cigarette and again spoke without being addressed. "The ev-en-ing-star," he said in English, slowly and somewhat sententiously, then relapsed into Spanish. "You see the little star beside, Padre? Indians call him the guide." The two companions sat, each thinking his own thoughts as night closed in about them; a blue night set with stars, the bulk of the solitary mesas cutting into the firmament. The Bishop seldom questioned Jacinto about his thoughts or beliefs. He didn't think it polite, and he believed it to be useless. There was no way in which he could transfer his own memories of European civilization into the Indian mind, and he was quite willing to believe that behind Jacinto there was a long tradition, a story of experience, which no language could translate to him. A chill came with the darkness. Father Latour put on his old fur-lined cloak, and Jacinto, loosening the blanket tied about his loins, drew it up over his head and shoulders. "Many stars," he said presently. "What you think about the stars, Padre?" "The wise men tell us they are worlds, like ours, Jacinto."