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diff --git a/old/old-2025-04-28/2802-0.txt b/old/old-2025-04-28/2802-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index a788d78..0000000 --- a/old/old-2025-04-28/2802-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,15628 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Ramona, by Helen Hunt Jackson - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Ramona - -Author: Helen Hunt Jackson - -Posting Date: December 31, 2008 [EBook #2802] -Release Date: September, 2001 -Last Updated: March 15, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RAMONA *** - - - - -Produced by David Reed - - - - - -RAMONA - -By Helen Hunt Jackson - - - - -I - -IT was sheep-shearing time in Southern California, but sheep-shearing -was late at the Senora Moreno's. The Fates had seemed to combine to -put it off. In the first place, Felipe Moreno had been ill. He was the -Senora's eldest son, and since his father's death had been at the head -of his mother's house. Without him, nothing could be done on the ranch, -the Senora thought. It had been always, “Ask Senor Felipe,” “Go to Senor -Felipe,” “Senor Felipe will attend to it,” ever since Felipe had had the -dawning of a beard on his handsome face. - -In truth, it was not Felipe, but the Senora, who really decided all -questions from greatest to least, and managed everything on the place, -from the sheep-pastures to the artichoke-patch; but nobody except the -Senora herself knew this. An exceedingly clever woman for her day and -generation was Senora Gonzaga Moreno,--as for that matter, exceedingly -clever for any day and generation; but exceptionally clever for the day -and generation to which she belonged. Her life, the mere surface of it, -if it had been written, would have made a romance, to grow hot and -cold over: sixty years of the best of old Spain, and the wildest of New -Spain, Bay of Biscay, Gulf of Mexico, Pacific Ocean,--the waves of them -all had tossed destinies for the Senora. The Holy Catholic Church had -had its arms round her from first to last; and that was what had brought -her safe through, she would have said, if she had ever said anything -about herself, which she never did,--one of her many wisdoms. So quiet, -so reserved, so gentle an exterior never was known to veil such an -imperious and passionate nature, brimful of storm, always passing -through stress; never thwarted, except at peril of those who did it; -adored and hated by turns, and each at the hottest. A tremendous force, -wherever she appeared, was Senora Moreno; but no stranger would suspect -it, to see her gliding about, in her scanty black gown, with her rosary -hanging at her side, her soft dark eyes cast down, and an expression of -mingled melancholy and devotion on her face. She looked simply like a -sad, spiritual-minded old lady, amiable and indolent, like her race, but -sweeter and more thoughtful than their wont. Her voice heightened this -mistaken impression. She was never heard to speak either loud or fast. -There was at times even a curious hesitancy in her speech, which came -near being a stammer, or suggested the measured care with which people -speak who have been cured of stammering. It made her often appear as if -she did not known her own mind; at which people sometimes took heart; -when, if they had only known the truth, they would have known that the -speech hesitated solely because the Senora knew her mind so exactly that -she was finding it hard to make the words convey it as she desired, or -in a way to best attain her ends. - -About this very sheep-shearing there had been, between her and the head -shepherd, Juan Canito, called Juan Can for short, and to distinguish him -from Juan Jose, the upper herdsman of the cattle, some discussions which -would have been hot and angry ones in any other hands than the Senora's. - -Juan Canito wanted the shearing to begin, even though Senor Felipe were -ill in bed, and though that lazy shepherd Luigo had not yet got back -with the flock that had been driven up the coast for pasture. -“There were plenty of sheep on the place to begin with,” he said one -morning,--“at least a thousand;” and by the time they were done, Luigo -would surely be back with the rest; and as for Senor Felipe's being in -bed, had not he, Juan Canito, stood at the packing-bag, and handled the -wool, when Senor Felipe was a boy? Why could he not do it again? The -Senora did not realize how time was going; there would be no shearers -to be hired presently, since the Senora was determined to have none -but Indians. Of course, if she would employ Mexicans, as all the other -ranches in the valley did, it would be different; but she was resolved -upon having Indians,--“God knows why,” he interpolated surlily, under -his breath. - -“I do not quite understand you, Juan,” interrupted Senora Moreno at the -precise instant the last syllable of this disrespectful ejaculation had -escaped Juan's lips; “speak a little louder. I fear I am growing deaf in -my old age.” - -What gentle, suave, courteous tones! and the calm dark eyes rested on -Juan Canito with a look to the fathoming of which he was as unequal -as one of his own sheep would have been. He could not have told why he -instantly and involuntarily said, “Beg your pardon, Senora.” - -“Oh, you need not ask my pardon, Juan,” the Senora replied with -exquisite gentleness; “it is not you who are to blame, if I am deaf. I -have fancied for a year I did not hear quite as well as I once did. -But about the Indians, Juan; did not Senor Felipe tell you that he -had positively engaged the same band of shearers we had last autumn, -Alessandro's band from Temecula? They will wait until we are ready for -them. Senor Felipe will send a messenger for them. He thinks them the -best shearers in the country. He will be well enough in a week or two, -he thinks, and the poor sheep must bear their loads a few days longer. -Are they looking well, do you think, Juan? Will the crop be a good one? -General Moreno used to say that you could reckon up the wool-crop to a -pound, while it was on the sheep's backs.” - -“Yes, Senora,” answered the mollified Juan; “the poor beasts look -wonderfully well considering the scant feed they have had all winter. -We'll not come many pounds short of our last year's crop, if any. -Though, to be sure, there is no telling in what case that--Luigo will -bring his flock back.” - -The Senora smiled, in spite of herself, at the pause and gulp with which -Juan had filled in the hiatus where he had longed to set a contemptuous -epithet before Luigo's name. - -This was another of the instances where the Senora's will and Juan -Canito's had clashed and he did not dream of it, having set it all down -as usual to the score of young Senor Felipe. - -Encouraged by the Senora's smile, Juan proceeded: “Senor Felipe can see -no fault in Luigo, because they were boys together; but I can tell him, -he will rue it, one of these mornings, when he finds a flock of sheep -worse than dead on his hands, and no thanks to anybody but Luigo. While -I can have him under my eye, here in the valley, it is all very well; -but he is no more fit to take responsibility of a flock, than one of -the very lambs themselves. He'll drive them off their feet one day, and -starve them the next; and I've known him to forget to give them water. -When he's in his dreams, the Virgin only knows what he won't do.” - -During this brief and almost unprecedented outburst of Juan's the -Senora's countenance had been slowly growing stern. Juan had not seen -it. His eyes had been turned away from her, looking down into the -upturned eager face of his favorite collie, who was leaping and -gambolling and barking at his feet. - -“Down, Capitan, down!” he said in a fond tone, gently repulsing him; -“thou makest such a noise the Senora can hear nothing but thy voice.” - -“I heard only too distinctly, Juan Canito,” said the Senora in a sweet -but icy tone. “It is not well for one servant to backbite another. -It gives me great grief to hear such words; and I hope when Father -Salvierderra comes, next month, you will not forget to confess this sin -of which you have been guilty in thus seeking to injure a fellow-being. -If Senor Felipe listens to you, the poor boy Luigo will be cast out -homeless on the world some day; and what sort of a deed would that be, -Juan Canito, for one Christian to do to another? I fear the Father will -give you penance, when he hears what you have said.” - -“Senora, it is not to harm the lad,” Juan began, every fibre of his -faithful frame thrilling with a sense of the injustice of her reproach. - -But the Senora had turned her back. Evidently she would hear no more -from him then. He stood watching her as she walked away, at her usual -slow pace, her head slightly bent forward, her rosary lifted in her left -hand, and the fingers of the right hand mechanically slipping the beads. - -“Prayers, always prayers!” thought Juan to himself, as his eyes followed -her. “If they'll take one to heaven, the Senora'll go by the straight -road, that's sure! I'm sorry I vexed her. But what's a man to do, if -he's the interest of the place at heart, I'd like to know. Is he to -stand by, and see a lot of idle mooning louts run away with everything? -Ah, but it was an ill day for the estate when the General died,--an ill -day! an ill day! And they may scold me as much as they please, and set -me to confessing my sins to the Father; it's very well for them, they've -got me to look after matters. Senor Felipe will do well enough when he's -a man, maybe; but a boy like him! Bah!” And the old man stamped his -foot with a not wholly unreasonable irritation, at the false position in -which he felt himself put. - -“Confess to Father Salvierderra, indeed!” he muttered aloud. “Ay, that -will I. He's a man of sense, if he is a priest,”--at which slip of the -tongue the pious Juan hastily crossed himself,--“and I'll ask him to -give me some good advice as to how I'm to manage between this young boy -at the head of everything, and a doting mother who thinks he has the -wisdom of a dozen grown men. The Father knew the place in the olden -time. He knows it's no child's play to look after the estate even now, -much smaller as it is! An ill day when the old General died, an ill -day indeed, the saints rest his soul!” Saying this, Juan shrugged his -shoulders, and whistling to Capitan, walked towards the sunny veranda of -the south side of the kitchen wing of the house, where it had been for -twenty odd years his habit to sit on the long bench and smoke his pipe -of a morning. Before he had got half-way across the court-yard, however, -a thought struck him. He halted so suddenly that Capitan, with the quick -sensitiveness of his breed, thought so sudden a change of purpose could -only come from something in connection with sheep; and, true to his -instinct of duty, pricked up his ears, poised himself for a full run, -and looked up in his master's face waiting for explanation and signal. -But Juan did not observe him. - -“Ha!” he said, “Father Salvierderra comes next month, does he? Let's -see. To-day is the 25th. That's it. The sheep-shearing is not to come -off till the Father gets here. Then each morning it will be mass in the -chapel, and each night vespers; and the crowd will be here at least -two days longer to feed, for the time they will lose by that and by -the confessions. That's what Senor Felipe is up to. He's a pious lad. -I recollect now, it was the same way two years ago. Well, well, it is a -good thing for those poor Indian devils to get a bit of religion now and -then; and it's like old times to see the chapel full of them kneeling, -and more than can get in at the door; I doubt not it warms the Senora's -heart to see them all there, as if they belonged to the house, as -they used to: and now I know when it's to be, I have only to make my -arrangements accordingly. It is always in the first week of the month -the Father gets here. Yes; she said, 'Senor Felipe will be well enough -in a week or two, he thinks.' Ha! ha! It will be nearer two; ten days or -thereabouts. I'll begin the booths next week. A plague on that Luigo for -not being back here. He's the best hand I have to cut the willow boughs -for the roofs. He knows the difference between one year's growth and -another's; I'll say that much for him, spite of the silly dreaming head -he's got on his shoulders.” - -Juan was so pleased with his clearing up in his mind as to Senor -Felipe's purpose about the time of the sheep-shearing, that it put him -in good humor for the day,--good humor with everybody, and himself most -of all. As he sat on the low bench, his head leaning back against the -whitewashed wall, his long legs stretched out nearly across the whole -width of the veranda, his pipe firm wedged in the extreme left corner -of his mouth, his hands in his pockets, he was the picture of placid -content. The troop of youngsters which still swarmed around the kitchen -quarters of Senora Moreno's house, almost as numerous and inexplicable -as in the grand old days of the General's time, ran back and forth -across Juan's legs, fell down between them, and picked themselves up by -help of clutches at his leather trousers, all unreproved by Juan, though -loudly scolded and warned by their respective mothers from the kitchen. - -“What's come to Juan Can to be so good-natured to-day?” saucily asked -Margarita, the youngest and prettiest of the maids, popping her head out -of a window, and twitching Juan's hair. He was so gray and wrinkled -that the maids all felt at ease with him. He seemed to them as old as -Methuselah; but he was not really so old as they thought, nor they so -safe in their tricks. The old man had hot blood in his veins yet, as the -under-shepherds could testify. - -“The sight of your pretty face, Senorita Margarita,” answered Juan -quickly, cocking his eye at her, rising to his feet, and making a mock -bow towards the window. - -“He! he! Senorita, indeed!” chuckled Margarita's mother, old Marda the -cook. “Senor Juan Canito is pleased to be merry at the doors of his -betters;” and she flung a copper saucepan full of not over-clean water -so deftly past Juan's head, that not a drop touched him, and yet he had -the appearance of having been ducked. At which bit of sleight-of-hand -the whole court-yard, young and old, babies, cocks, hens, and turkeys, -all set up a shout and a cackle, and dispersed to the four corners of -the yard as if scattered by a volley of bird-shot. Hearing the racket, -the rest of the maids came running,--Anita and Maria, the twins, women -forty years old, born on the place the year after General Moreno brought -home his handsome young bride; their two daughters, Rosa and Anita the -Little, as she was still called, though she outweighed her mother; old -Juanita, the oldest woman in the household, of whom even the Senora was -said not to know the exact age or history; and she, poor thing, could -tell nothing, having been silly for ten years or more, good for nothing -except to shell beans: that she did as fast and well as ever, and was -never happy except she was at it. Luckily for her, beans are the one -crop never omitted or stinted on a Mexican estate; and for sake of old -Juanita they stored every year in the Moreno house, rooms full of beans -in the pod (tons of them, one would think), enough to feed an army. But -then, it was like a little army even now, the Senora's household; nobody -ever knew exactly how many women were in the kitchen, or how many men -in the fields. There were always women cousins, or brother's wives or -widows or daughters, who had come to stay, or men cousins, or sister's -husbands or sons, who were stopping on their way up or down the valley. -When it came to the pay-roll, Senor Felipe knew to whom he paid wages; -but who were fed and lodged under his roof, that was quite another -thing. It could not enter into the head of a Mexican gentleman to make -either count or account of that. It would be a disgraceful niggardly -thought. - -To the Senora it seemed as if there were no longer any people about the -place. A beggarly handful, she would have said, hardly enough to do the -work of the house, or of the estate, sadly as the latter had dwindled. -In the General's day, it had been a free-handed boast of his that never -less than fifty persons, men, women and children, were fed within his -gates each day; how many more, he did not care, nor know. But that time -had indeed gone, gone forever; and though a stranger, seeing the sudden -rush and muster at door and window, which followed on old Marda's -letting fly the water at Juan's head, would have thought, “Good heavens, -do all those women, children, and babies belong in that one house!” the -Senora's sole thought, as she at that moment went past the gate, was, -“Poor things! how few there are left of them! I am afraid old Marda has -to work too hard. I must spare Margarita more from the house to help -her.” And she sighed deeply, and unconsciously held her rosary nearer to -her heart, as she went into the house and entered her son's bedroom. The -picture she saw there was one to thrill any mother's heart; and as it -met her eye, she paused on the threshold for a second,--only a second, -however; and nothing could have astonished Felipe Moreno so much as to -have been told that at the very moment when his mother's calm voice was -saying to him, “Good morning, my son, I hope you have slept well, and -are better,” there was welling up in her heart a passionate ejaculation, -“O my glorious son! The saints have sent me in him the face of his -father! He is fit for a kingdom!” - -The truth is, Felipe Moreno was not fit for a kingdom at all. If he had -been, he would not have been so ruled by his mother without ever finding -it out. But so far as mere physical beauty goes, there never was a -king born, whose face, stature, and bearing would set off a crown or a -throne, or any of the things of which the outside of royalty is made up, -better than would Felipe Moreno's. And it was true, as the Senora said, -whether the saints had anything to do with it or not, that he had the -face of his father. So strong a likeness is seldom seen. When Felipe -once, on the occasion of a grand celebration and procession, put on the -gold-wrought velvet mantle, gayly embroidered short breeches fastened at -the knee with red ribbons, and gold-and-silver-trimmed sombrero, which -his father had worn twenty-five years before, the Senora fainted at her -first look at him,--fainted and fell; and when she opened her eyes, and -saw the same splendid, gayly arrayed, dark-bearded man, bending over her -in distress, with words of endearment and alarm, she fainted again. - -“Mother, mother mia,” cried Felipe, “I will not wear them if it makes -you feel like this! Let me take them off. I will not go to their cursed -parade;” and he sprang to his feet, and began with trembling fingers to -unbuckle the sword-belt. - -“No, no, Felipe,” faintly cried the Senora, from the ground. “It is my -wish that you wear them;” and staggering to her feet, with a burst of -tears, she rebuckled the old sword-belt, which her fingers had so many -times--never unkissed--buckled, in the days when her husband had bade -her farewell and gone forth to the uncertain fates of war. “Wear -them!” she cried, with gathering fire in her tones, and her eyes dry -of tears,--“wear them, and let the American hounds see what a Mexican -officer and gentleman looked like before they had set their base, -usurping feet on our necks!” And she followed him to the gate, and stood -erect, bravely waving her handkerchief as he galloped off, till he was -out of sight. Then with a changed face and a bent head she crept slowly -to her room, locked herself in, fell on her knees before the Madonna at -the head of her bed, and spent the greater part of the day praying that -she might be forgiven, and that all heretics might be discomfited. From -which part of these supplications she derived most comfort is easy to -imagine. - -Juan Canito had been right in his sudden surmise that it was for Father -Salvierderra's coming that the sheep-shearing was being delayed, and not -in consequence of Senor Felipe's illness, or by the non-appearance of -Luigo and his flock of sheep. Juan would have chuckled to himself still -more at his perspicacity, had he overheard the conversation going on -between the Senora and her son, at the very time when he, half asleep -on the veranda, was, as he would have called it, putting two and two -together and convincing himself that old Juan was as smart as they were, -and not to be kept in the dark by all their reticence and equivocation. - -“Juan Can is growing very impatient about the sheep-shearing,” said -the Senora. “I suppose you are still of the same mind about it, -Felipe,--that it is better to wait till Father Salvierderra comes? As -the only chance those Indians have of seeing him is here, it would seem -a Christian duty to so arrange it, if it be possible; but Juan is very -restive. He is getting old, and chafes a little, I fancy, under your -control. He cannot forget that you were a boy on his knee. Now I, for my -part, am like to forget that you were ever anything but a man for me to -lean on.” - -Felipe turned his handsome face toward his mother with a beaming smile -of filial affection and gratified manly vanity. “Indeed, my mother, if -I can be sufficient for you to lean on, I will ask nothing more of the -saints;” and he took his mother's thin and wasted little hands, both at -once, in his own strong right hand, and carried them to his lips as a -lover might have done. “You will spoil me, mother,” he said, “you make -me so proud.” - -“No, Felipe, it is I who am proud,” promptly replied the mother; “and I -do not call it being proud, only grateful to God for having given me -a son wise enough to take his father's place, and guide and protect me -through the few remaining years I have to live. I shall die content, -seeing you at the head of the estate, and living as a Mexican gentleman -should; that is, so far as now remains possible in this unfortunate -country. But about the sheep-shearing, Felipe. Do you wish to have it -begun before the Father is here? Of course, Alessandro is all ready -with his band. It is but two days' journey for a messenger to bring -him. Father Salvierderra cannot be here before the 10th of the month. He -leaves Santa Barbara on the 1st, and he will walk all the way,--a good -six days' journey, for he is old now and feeble; then he must stop -in Ventura for a Sunday, and a day at the Ortega's ranch, and at the -Lopez's,--there, there is a christening. Yes, the 10th is the very -earliest that he can be here,--near two weeks from now. So far as your -getting up is concerned, it might perhaps be next week. You will be -nearly well by that time.” - -“Yes, indeed,” laughed Felipe, stretching himself out in the bed and -giving a kick to the bedclothes that made the high bedposts and the -fringed canopy roof shake and creak; “I am well now, if it were not for -this cursed weakness when I stand on my feet. I believe it would do me -good to get out of doors.” - -In truth, Felipe had been hankering for the sheep-shearing himself. It -was a brisk, busy, holiday sort of time to him, hard as he worked in it; -and two weeks looked long to wait. - -“It is always thus after a fever,” said his mother. “The weakness lasts -many weeks. I am not sure that you will be strong enough even in two -weeks to do the packing; but, as Juan Can said this morning, he stood -at the packing-bag when you were a boy, and there was no need of waiting -for you for that!” - -“He said that, did he!” exclaimed Felipe, wrathfully. “The old man is -getting insolent. I'll tell him that nobody will pack the sacks but -myself, while I am master here; and I will have the sheep-shearing when -I please, and not before.” - -“I suppose it would not be wise to say that it is not to take place till -the Father comes, would it?” asked the Senora, hesitatingly, as if the -thing were evenly balanced in her mind. “The Father has not that hold -on the younger men he used to have, and I have thought that even in -Juan himself I have detected a remissness. The spirit of unbelief is -spreading in the country since the Americans are running up and down -everywhere seeking money, like dogs with their noses to the ground! It -might vex Juan if he knew that you were waiting only for the Father. -What do you think?” - -“I think it is enough for him to know that the sheep-shearing waits for -my pleasure,” answered Felipe, still wrathful, “and that is the end of -it.” And so it was; and, moreover, precisely the end which Senora Moreno -had had in her own mind from the beginning; but not even Juan Canito -himself suspected its being solely her purpose, and not her son's. As -for Felipe, if any person had suggested to him that it was his mother, -and not he, who had decided that the sheep-shearing would be better -deferred until the arrival of Father Salvierderra from Santa Barbara, -and that nothing should be said on the ranch about this being the real -reason of the postponing, Felipe would have stared in astonishment, and -have thought that person either crazy or a fool. - -To attain one's ends in this way is the consummate triumph of art. Never -to appear as a factor in the situation; to be able to wield other men, -as instruments, with the same direct and implicit response to will that -one gets from a hand or a foot,--this is to triumph, indeed: to be as -nearly controller and conqueror of Fates as fate permits. There have -been men prominent in the world's affairs at one time and another, who -have sought and studied such a power and have acquired it to a -great degree. By it they have manipulated legislators, ambassadors, -sovereigns; and have grasped, held, and played with the destinies -of empires. But it is to be questioned whether even in these notable -instances there has ever been such marvellous completeness of success -as is sometimes seen in the case of a woman in whom the power is an -instinct and not an attainment; a passion rather than a purpose. -Between the two results, between the two processes, there is just that -difference which is always to be seen between the stroke of talent and -the stroke of genius. - -Senora Moreno's was the stroke of genius. - - - - -II - -THE Senora Moreno's house was one of the best specimens to be found -in California of the representative house of the half barbaric, half -elegant, wholly generous and free-handed life led there by Mexican men -and women of degree in the early part of this century, under the rule of -the Spanish and Mexican viceroys, when the laws of the Indies were still -the law of the land, and its old name, “New Spain,” was an ever-present -link and stimulus to the warmest memories and deepest patriotisms of its -people. - -It was a picturesque life, with more of sentiment and gayety in it, more -also that was truly dramatic, more romance, than will ever be seen -again on those sunny shores. The aroma of it all lingers there still; -industries and inventions have not yet slain it; it will last out its -century,--in fact, it can never be quite lost, so long as there is left -standing one such house as the Senora Moreno's. - -When the house was built, General Moreno owned all the land within a -radius of forty miles,--forty miles westward, down the valley to the -sea; forty miles eastward, into the San Fernando Mountains; and good -forty miles more or less along the coast. The boundaries were not very -strictly defined; there was no occasion, in those happy days, to reckon -land by inches. It might be asked, perhaps, just how General Moreno -owned all this land, and the question might not be easy to answer. It -was not and could not be answered to the satisfaction of the United -States Land Commission, which, after the surrender of California, -undertook to sift and adjust Mexican land titles; and that was the -way it had come about that the Senora Moreno now called herself a poor -woman. Tract after tract, her lands had been taken away from her; it -looked for a time as if nothing would be left. Every one of the claims -based on deeds of gift from Governor Pio Fico, her husband's most -intimate friend, was disallowed. They all went by the board in one -batch, and took away from the Senora in a day the greater part of -her best pasture-lands. They were lands which had belonged to the -Bonaventura Mission, and lay along the coast at the mouth of the valley -down which the little stream which ran past her house went to the sea; -and it had been a great pride and delight to the Senora, when she was -young, to ride that forty miles by her husband's side, all the way on -their own lands, straight from their house to their own strip of shore. -No wonder she believed the Americans thieves, and spoke of them always -as hounds. The people of the United States have never in the least -realized that the taking possession of California was not only a -conquering of Mexico, but a conquering of California as well; that the -real bitterness of the surrender was not so much to the empire which -gave up the country, as to the country itself which was given up. -Provinces passed back and forth in that way, helpless in the hands of -great powers, have all the ignominy and humiliation of defeat, with none -of the dignities or compensations of the transaction. - -Mexico saved much by her treaty, spite of having to acknowledge herself -beaten; but California lost all. Words cannot tell the sting of such -a transfer. It is a marvel that a Mexican remained in the country; -probably none did, except those who were absolutely forced to it. - -Luckily for the Senora Moreno, her title to the lands midway in the -valley was better than to those lying to the east and the west, which -had once belonged to the missions of San Fernando and Bonaventura; -and after all the claims, counter-claims, petitions, appeals, and -adjudications were ended, she still was left in undisputed possession of -what would have been thought by any new-comer into the country to be a -handsome estate, but which seemed to the despoiled and indignant Senora -a pitiful fragment of one. Moreover, she declared that she should never -feel secure of a foot of even this. Any day, she said, the United States -Government might send out a new Land Commission to examine the decrees -of the first, and revoke such as they saw fit. Once a thief, always a -thief. Nobody need feel himself safe under American rule. There was -no knowing what might happen any day; and year by year the lines of -sadness, resentment, anxiety, and antagonism deepened on the Senora's -fast aging face. - -It gave her unspeakable satisfaction, when the Commissioners, laying out -a road down the valley, ran it at the back of her house instead of -past the front. “It is well,” she said. “Let their travel be where it -belongs, behind our kitchens; and no one have sight of the front doors -of our houses, except friends who have come to visit us.” Her enjoyment -of this never flagged. Whenever she saw, passing the place, wagons -or carriages belonging to the hated Americans, it gave her a distinct -thrill of pleasure to think that the house turned its back on them. She -would like always to be able to do the same herself; but whatever she, -by policy or in business, might be forced to do, the old house, at any -rate, would always keep the attitude of contempt,--its face turned away. - -One other pleasure she provided herself with, soon after this road was -opened,--a pleasure in which religious devotion and race antagonism were -so closely blended that it would have puzzled the subtlest of priests to -decide whether her act were a sin or a virtue. She caused to be set -up, upon every one of the soft rounded hills which made the beautiful -rolling sides of that part of the valley, a large wooden cross; not a -hill in sight of her house left without the sacred emblem of her faith. -“That the heretics may know, when they go by, that they are on the -estate of a good Catholic,” she said, “and that the faithful may be -reminded to pray. There have been miracles of conversion wrought on the -most hardened by a sudden sight of the Blessed Cross.” - -There they stood, summer and winter, rain and shine, the silent, solemn, -outstretched arms, and became landmarks to many a guideless traveller -who had been told that his way would be by the first turn to the left -or the right, after passing the last one of the Senora Moreno's crosses, -which he couldn't miss seeing. And who shall say that it did not -often happen that the crosses bore a sudden message to some idle -heart journeying by, and thus justified the pious half of the Senora's -impulse? Certain it is, that many a good Catholic halted and crossed -himself when he first beheld them, in the lonely places, standing out in -sudden relief against the blue sky; and if he said a swift short prayer -at the sight, was he not so much the better? - -The house, was of adobe, low, with a wide veranda on the three sides of -the inner court, and a still broader one across the entire front, which -looked to the south. These verandas, especially those on the inner -court, were supplementary rooms to the house. The greater part of the -family life went on in them. Nobody stayed inside the walls, except when -it was necessary. All the kitchen work, except the actual cooking, was -done here, in front of the kitchen doors and windows. Babies slept, -were washed, sat in the dirt, and played, on the veranda. The women said -their prayers, took their naps, and wove their lace there. Old Juanita -shelled her beans there, and threw the pods down on the tile floor, -till towards night they were sometimes piled up high around her, like -corn-husks at a husking. The herdsmen and shepherds smoked there, -lounged there, trained their dogs there; there the young made love, and -the old dozed; the benches, which ran the entire length of the walls, -were worn into hollows, and shone like satin; the tiled floors also were -broken and sunk in places, making little wells, which filled up in times -of hard rains, and were then an invaluable addition to the children's -resources for amusement, and also to the comfort of the dogs, cats, and -fowls, who picked about among them, taking sips from each. - -The arched veranda along the front was a delightsome place. It must -have been eighty feet long, at least, for the doors of five large rooms -opened on it. The two westernmost rooms had been added on, and made four -steps higher than the others; which gave to that end of the veranda the -look of a balcony, or loggia. Here the Senora kept her flowers; great -red water-jars, hand-made by the Indians of San Luis Obispo Mission, -stood in close rows against the walls, and in them were always growing -fine geraniums, carnations, and yellow-flowered musk. The Senora's -passion for musk she had inherited from her mother. It was so strong -that she sometimes wondered at it; and one day, as she sat with Father -Salvierderra in the veranda, she picked a handful of the blossoms, and -giving them to him, said, “I do not know why it is, but it seems to me -if I were dead I could be brought to life by the smell of musk.” - -“It is in your blood, Senora,” the old monk replied. “When I was last in -your father's house in Seville, your mother sent for me to her room, -and under her window was a stone balcony full of growing musk, which so -filled the room with its odor that I was like to faint. But she said -it cured her of diseases, and without it she fell ill. You were a baby -then.” - -“Yes,” cried the Senora, “but I recollect that balcony. I recollect -being lifted up to a window, and looking down into a bed of blooming -yellow flowers; but I did not know what they were. How strange!” - -“No. Not strange, daughter,” replied Father Salvierderra. “It would have -been stranger if you had not acquired the taste, thus drawing it in with -the mother's milk. It would behoove mothers to remember this far more -than they do.” - -Besides the geraniums and carnations and musk in the red jars, there -were many sorts of climbing vines,--some coming from the ground, and -twining around the pillars of the veranda; some growing in great bowls, -swung by cords from the roof of the veranda, or set on shelves against -the walls. These bowls were of gray stone, hollowed and polished, -shining smooth inside and out. They also had been made by the Indians, -nobody knew how many ages ago, scooped and polished by the patient -creatures, with only stones for tools. - -Among these vines, singing from morning till night, hung the -Senora's canaries and finches, half a dozen of each, all of different -generations, raised by the Senora. She was never without a young -bird-family on hand; and all the way from Bonaventura to Monterey, it -was thought a piece of good luck to come into possession of a canary or -finch of Senora Moreno's 'raising. - -Between the veranda and the river meadows, out on which it looked, all -was garden, orange grove, and almond orchard; the orange grove always -green, never without snowy bloom or golden fruit; the garden never -without flowers, summer or winter; and the almond orchard, in early -spring, a fluttering canopy of pink and white petals, which, seen from -the hills on the opposite side of the river, looked as if rosy sunrise -clouds had fallen, and become tangled in the tree-tops. On either hand -stretched away other orchards,--peach, apricot, pear, apple pomegranate; -and beyond these, vineyards. Nothing was to be seen but verdure or -bloom or fruit, at whatever time of year you sat on the Senora's south -veranda. - -A wide straight walk shaded by a trellis so knotted and twisted with -grapevines that little was to be seen of the trellis wood-work, led -straight down from the veranda steps, through the middle of the garden, -to a little brook at the foot of it. Across this brook, in the shade -of a dozen gnarled old willow-trees, were set the broad flat stone -washboards on which was done all the family washing. No long dawdling, -and no running away from work on the part of the maids, thus close to -the eye of the Senora at the upper end of the garden; and if they had -known how picturesque they looked there, kneeling on the grass, lifting -the dripping linen out of the water, rubbing it back and forth on the -stones, sousing it, wringing it, splashing the clear water in each -other's faces, they would have been content to stay at the washing day -in and day out, for there was always somebody to look on from above. -Hardly a day passed that the Senora had not visitors. She was still -a person of note; her house the natural resting-place for all who -journeyed through the valley; and whoever came, spent all of his time, -when not eating, sleeping, or walking over the place, sitting with the -Senora on the sunny veranda. Few days in winter were cold enough, and -in summer the day must be hot indeed to drive the Senora and her friends -indoors. There stood on the veranda three carved oaken chairs, and a -carved bench, also of oak, which had been brought to the Senora for safe -keeping by the faithful old sacristan of San Luis Rey, at the time of -the occupation of that Mission by the United States troops, soon after -the conquest of California. Aghast at the sacrilegious acts of the -soldiers, who were quartered in the very church itself, and amused -themselves by making targets of the eyes and noses of the saints' -statues, the sacristan, stealthily, day by day and night after night, -bore out of the church all that he dared to remove, burying some -articles in cottonwood copses, hiding others in his own poor little -hovel, until he had wagon-loads of sacred treasures. Then, still more -stealthily, he carried them, a few at a time, concealed in the bottom of -a cart, under a load of hay or of brush, to the house of the Senora, who -felt herself deeply honored by his confidence, and received everything -as a sacred trust, to be given back into the hands of the Church again, -whenever the Missions should be restored, of which at that time all -Catholics had good hope. And so it had come about that no bedroom in the -Senora's house was without a picture or a statue of a saint or of the -Madonna; and some had two; and in the little chapel in the garden the -altar was surrounded by a really imposing row of holy and apostolic -figures, which had looked down on the splendid ceremonies of the San -Luis Rey Mission, in Father Peyri's time, no more benignly than they -now did on the humbler worship of the Senora's family in its diminished -estate. That one had lost an eye, another an arm, that the once -brilliant colors of the drapery were now faded and shabby, only enhanced -the tender reverence with which the Senora knelt before them, her eyes -filling with indignant tears at thought of the heretic hands which -had wrought such defilement. Even the crumbling wreaths which had been -placed on some of the statues' heads at the time of the last ceremonial -at which they had figured in the Mission, had been brought away with -them by the devout sacristan, and the Senora had replaced each one, -holding it only a degree less sacred than the statue itself. - -This chapel was dearer to the Senora than her house. It had been built -by the General in the second year of their married life. In it her four -children had been christened, and from it all but one, her handsome -Felipe, had been buried while they were yet infants. In the General's -time, while the estate was at its best, and hundreds of Indians living -within its borders, there was many a Sunday when the scene to be -witnessed there was like the scenes at the Missions,--the chapel full of -kneeling men and women; those who could not find room inside kneeling -on the garden walks outside; Father Salvierderra, in gorgeous -vestments, coming, at close of the services, slowly down the aisle, the -close-packed rows of worshippers parting to right and left to let him -through, all looking up eagerly for his blessing, women giving him -offerings of fruit or flowers, and holding up their babies that he might -lay his hands on their heads. No one but Father Salvierderra had ever -officiated in the Moreno chapel, or heard the confession of a Moreno. He -was a Franciscan, one of the few now left in the country; so revered and -beloved by all who had come under his influence, that they would wait -long months without the offices of the Church, rather than confess -their sins or confide their perplexities to any one else. From this -deep-seated attachment on the part of the Indians and the older Mexican -families in the country to the Franciscan Order, there had grown up, -not unnaturally, some jealousy of them in the minds of the later-come -secular priests, and the position of the few monks left was not wholly a -pleasant one. It had even been rumored that they were to be forbidden -to continue longer their practice of going up and down the country, -ministering everywhere; were to be compelled to restrict their labors -to their own colleges at Santa Barbara and Santa Inez. When something -to this effect was one day said in the Senora Moreno's presence, two -scarlet spots sprang on her cheeks, and before she bethought herself, -she exclaimed, “That day, I burn down my chapel!” - -Luckily, nobody but Felipe heard the rash threat, and his exclamation of -unbounded astonishment recalled the Senora to herself. - -“I spoke rashly, my son,” she said. “The Church is to be obeyed always; -but the Franciscan Fathers are responsible to no one but the Superior of -their own order; and there is no one in this land who has the authority -to forbid their journeying and ministering to whoever desires their -offices. As for these Catalan priests who are coming in here, I cannot -abide them. No Catalan but has bad blood in his veins!” - -There was every reason in the world why the Senora should be thus warmly -attached to the Franciscan Order. From her earliest recollections the -gray gown and cowl had been familiar to her eyes, and had represented -the things which she was taught to hold most sacred and dear. Father -Salvierderra himself had come from Mexico to Monterey in the same ship -which had brought her father to be the commandante of the Santa Barbara -Presidio; and her best-beloved uncle, her father's eldest brother, was -at that time the Superior of the Santa Barbara Mission. The sentiment -and romance of her youth were almost equally divided between the -gayeties, excitements, adornments of the life at the Presidio, and the -ceremonies and devotions of the life at the Mission. She was famed as -the most beautiful girl in the country. Men of the army, men of the -navy, and men of the Church, alike adored her. Her name was a toast -from Monterey to San Diego. When at last she was wooed and won by Felipe -Moreno, one of the most distinguished of the Mexican Generals, her -wedding ceremonies were the most splendid ever seen in the country. -The right tower of the Mission church at Santa Barbara had been just -completed, and it was arranged that the consecration of this tower -should take place at the time of her wedding, and that her wedding feast -should be spread in the long outside corridor of the Mission building. -The whole country, far and near, was bid. The feast lasted three days; -open tables to everybody; singing, dancing, eating, drinking, and making -merry. At that time there were long streets of Indian houses stretching -eastward from the Mission; before each of these houses was built a booth -of green boughs. The Indians, as well as the Fathers from all the other -Missions, were invited to come. The Indians came in bands, singing songs -and bringing gifts. As they appeared, the Santa Barbara Indians went -out to meet them, also singing, bearing gifts, and strewing seeds on -the ground, in token of welcome. The young Senora and her bridegroom, -splendidly clothed, were seen of all, and greeted, whenever they -appeared, by showers of seeds and grains and blossoms. On the third -day, still in their wedding attire, and bearing lighted candles in their -hands, they walked with the monks in a procession, round and round the -new tower, the monks chanting, and sprinkling incense and holy water -on its walls, the ceremony seeming to all devout beholders to give a -blessed consecration to the union of the young pair as well as to the -newly completed tower. After this they journeyed in state, accompanied -by several of the General's aids and officers, and by two Franciscan -Fathers, up to Monterey, stopping on their way at all the Missions, and -being warmly welcomed and entertained at each. - -General Moreno was much beloved by both army and Church. In many of the -frequent clashings between the military and the ecclesiastical powers -he, being as devout and enthusiastic a Catholic as he was zealous and -enthusiastic a soldier, had had the good fortune to be of material -assistance to each party. The Indians also knew his name well, having -heard it many times mentioned with public thanksgivings in the Mission -churches, after some signal service he had rendered to the Fathers -either in Mexico or Monterey. And now, by taking as his bride the -daughter of a distinguished officer, and the niece of the Santa Barbara -Superior, he had linked himself anew to the two dominant powers and -interests of the country. - -When they reached San Luis Obispo, the whole Indian population turned -out to meet them, the Padre walking at the head. As they approached the -Mission doors the Indians swarmed closer and closer and still closer, -took the General's horse by the head, and finally almost by actual force -compelled him to allow himself to be lifted into a blanket, held high -up by twenty strong men; and thus he was borne up the steps, across -the corridor, and into the Padre's room. It was a position ludicrously -undignified in itself, but the General submitted to it good-naturedly. - -“Oh, let them do it, if they like,” he cried, laughingly, to Padre -Martinez, who was endeavoring to quiet the Indians and hold them back. -“Let them do it. It pleases the poor creatures.” - -On the morning of their departure, the good Padre, having exhausted all -his resources for entertaining his distinguished guests, caused to -be driven past the corridors, for their inspection, all the poultry -belonging to the Mission. The procession took an hour to pass. For -music, there was the squeaking, cackling, hissing, gobbling, crowing, -quacking of the fowls, combined with the screaming, scolding, and -whip-cracking of the excited Indian marshals of the lines. First came -the turkeys, then the roosters, then the white hens, then the black, and -then the yellow, next the ducks, and at the tail of the spectacle -long files of geese, some strutting, some half flying and hissing in -resentment and terror at the unwonted coercions to which they were -subjected. The Indians had been hard at work all night capturing, -sorting, assorting, and guarding the rank and file of their novel -pageant. It would be safe to say that a droller sight never was seen, -and never will be, on the Pacific coast or any other. Before it was done -with, the General and his bride had nearly died with laughter; and the -General could never allude to it without laughing almost as heartily -again. - -At Monterey they were more magnificently feted; at the Presidio, at the -Mission, on board Spanish, Mexican, and Russian ships lying in harbor, -balls, dances, bull-fights, dinners, all that the country knew of -festivity, was lavished on the beautiful and winning young bride. The -belles of the coast, from San Diego up, had all gathered at Monterey for -these gayeties, but not one of them could be for a moment compared to -her. This was the beginning of the Senora's life as a married woman. -She was then just twenty. A close observer would have seen even then, -underneath the joyous smile, the laughing eye, the merry voice, a look -thoughtful, tender, earnest, at times enthusiastic. This look was the -reflection of those qualities in her, then hardly aroused, which made -her, as years developed her character and stormy fates thickened around -her life, the unflinching comrade of her soldier husband, the passionate -adherent of the Church. Through wars, insurrections, revolutions, -downfalls, Spanish, Mexican, civil, ecclesiastical, her standpoint, -her poise, remained the same. She simply grew more and more proudly, -passionately, a Spaniard and a Moreno; more and more stanchly and -fierily a Catholic, and a lover of the Franciscans. - -During the height of the despoiling and plundering of the Missions, -under the Secularization Act, she was for a few years almost beside -herself. More than once she journeyed alone, when the journey was by -no means without danger, to Monterey, to stir up the Prefect of -the Missions to more energetic action, to implore the governmental -authorities to interfere, and protect the Church's property. It -was largely in consequence of her eloquent entreaties that Governor -Micheltorena issued his bootless order, restoring to the Church all the -Missions south of San Luis Obispo. But this order cost Micheltorena his -political head, and General Moreno was severely wounded in one of the -skirmishes of the insurrection which drove Micheltorena out of the -country. - -In silence and bitter humiliation the Senora nursed her husband back -to health again, and resolved to meddle no more in the affairs of her -unhappy country and still more unhappy Church. As year by year she -saw the ruin of the Missions steadily going on, their vast properties -melting away, like dew before the sun, in the hands of dishonest -administrators and politicians, the Church powerless to contend with the -unprincipled greed in high places, her beloved Franciscan Fathers driven -from the country or dying of starvation at their posts, she submitted -herself to what, she was forced to admit, seemed to be the inscrutable -will of God for the discipline and humiliation of the Church. In a sort -of bewildered resignation she waited to see what further sufferings -were to come, to fill up the measure of the punishment which, for some -mysterious purpose, the faithful must endure. But when close upon -all this discomfiture and humiliation of her Church followed the -discomfiture and humiliation of her country in war, and the near and -evident danger of an English-speaking people's possessing the land, -all the smothered fire of the Senora's nature broke out afresh. With -unfaltering hands she buckled on her husband's sword, and with dry eyes -saw him go forth to fight. She had but one regret, that she was not the -mother of sons to fight also. - -“Would thou wert a man, Felipe,” she exclaimed again and again in tones -the child never forgot. “Would thou wert a man, that thou might go also -to fight these foreigners!” - -Any race under the sun would have been to the Senora less hateful than -the American. She had scorned them in her girlhood, when they came -trading to post after post. She scorned them still. The idea of being -forced to wage a war with pedlers was to her too monstrous to be -believed. In the outset she had no doubt that the Mexicans would win in -the contest. - -“What!” she cried, “shall we who won independence from Spain, be beaten -by these traders? It is impossible!” - -When her husband was brought home to her dead, killed in the last fight -the Mexican forces made, she said icily, “He would have chosen to die -rather than to have been forced to see his country in the hands of -the enemy.” And she was almost frightened at herself to see how this -thought, as it dwelt in her mind, slew the grief in her heart. She had -believed she could not live if her husband were to be taken away from -her; but she found herself often glad that he was dead,--glad that he -was spared the sight and the knowledge of the things which happened; -and even the yearning tenderness with which her imagination pictured -him among the saints, was often turned into a fierce wondering whether -indignation did not fill his soul, even in heaven, at the way things -were going in the land for whose sake he had died. - -Out of such throes as these had been born the second nature which made -Senora Moreno the silent, reserved, stern, implacable woman they knew, -who knew her first when she was sixty. Of the gay, tender, sentimental -girl, who danced and laughed with the officers, and prayed and confessed -with the Fathers, forty years before, there was small trace left now, -in the low-voiced, white-haired, aged woman, silent, unsmiling, -placid-faced, who manoeuvred with her son and her head shepherd alike, -to bring it about that a handful of Indians might once more confess -their sins to a Franciscan monk in the Moreno chapel. - - - - -III - -JUAN CANITO and Senor Felipe were not the only members of the Senora's -family who were impatient for the sheep-shearing. There was also Ramona. -Ramona was, to the world at large, a far more important person than the -Senora herself. The Senora was of the past; Ramona was of the present. -For one eye that could see the significant, at times solemn, beauty of -the Senora's pale and shadowed countenance, there were a hundred that -flashed with eager pleasure at the barest glimpse of Ramona's face; the -shepherds, the herdsmen, the maids, the babies, the dogs, the poultry, -all loved the sight of Ramona; all loved her, except the Senora. The -Senora loved her not; never had loved her, never could love her; and -yet she had stood in the place of mother to the girl ever since her -childhood, and never once during the whole sixteen years of her life had -shown her any unkindness in act. She had promised to be a mother to her; -and with all the inalienable stanchness of her nature she fulfilled the -letter of her promise. More than the bond lay in the bond; but that was -not the Senora's fault. - -The story of Ramona the Senora never told. To most of the Senora's -acquaintances now, Ramona was a mystery. They did not know--and no one -ever asked a prying question of the Senora Moreno--who Ramona's parents -were, whether they were living or dead, or why Ramona, her name not -being Moreno, lived always in the Senora's house as a daughter, tended -and attended equally with the adored Felipe. A few gray-haired men and -women here and there in the country could have told the strange story -of Ramona; but its beginning was more than a half-century back, and much -had happened since then. They seldom thought of the child. They knew she -was in the Senora Moreno's keeping, and that was enough. The affairs of -the generation just going out were not the business of the young people -coming in. They would have tragedies enough of their own presently; what -was the use of passing down the old ones? Yet the story was not one to -be forgotten; and now and then it was told in the twilight of a summer -evening, or in the shadows of vines on a lingering afternoon, and all -young men and maidens thrilled who heard it. - -It was an elder sister of the Senora's,--a sister old enough to be wooed -and won while the Senora was yet at play,--who had been promised in -marriage to a young Scotchman named Angus Phail. She was a beautiful -woman; and Angus Phail, from the day that he first saw her standing in -the Presidio gate, became so madly her lover, that he was like a man -bereft of his senses. This was the only excuse ever to be made for -Ramona Gonzaga's deed. It could never be denied, by her bitterest -accusers, that, at the first, and indeed for many months, she told Angus -she did not love him, and could not marry him; and that it was only -after his stormy and ceaseless entreaties, that she did finally promise -to become his wife. Then, almost immediately, she went away to Monterey, -and Angus set sail for San Blas. He was the owner of the richest line -of ships which traded along the coast at that time; the richest stuffs, -carvings, woods, pearls, and jewels, which came into the country, came -in his ships. The arrival of one of them was always an event; and -Angus himself, having been well-born in Scotland, and being wonderfully -well-mannered for a seafaring man, was made welcome in all the best -houses, wherever his ships went into harbor, from Monterey to San Diego. - -The Senorita Ramona Gonzaga sailed for Monterey the same day and hour -her lover sailed for San Blas. They stood on the decks waving signals to -each other as one sailed away to the south, the other to the north. -It was remembered afterward by those who were in the ship with the -Senorita, that she ceased to wave her signals, and had turned her face -away, long before her lover's ship was out of sight. But the men of the -“San Jose” said that Angus Phail stood immovable, gazing northward, -till nightfall shut from his sight even the horizon line at which the -Monterey ship had long before disappeared from view. - -This was to be his last voyage. He went on this only because his honor -was pledged to do so. Also, he comforted himself by thinking that he -would bring back for his bride, and for the home he meant to give her, -treasures of all sorts, which none could select so well as he. Through -the long weeks of the voyage he sat on deck, gazing dreamily at the -waves, and letting his imagination feed on pictures of jewels, satins, -velvets, laces, which would best deck his wife's form and face. When -he could not longer bear the vivid fancies' heat in his blood, he would -pace the deck, swifter and swifter, till his steps were like those -of one flying in fear; at such times the men heard him muttering and -whispering to himself, “Ramona! Ramona!” Mad with love from the first -to the last was Angus Phail; and there were many who believed that if he -had ever seen the hour when he called Ramona Gonzaga his own, his reason -would have fled forever at that moment, and he would have killed either -her or himself, as men thus mad have been known to do. But that hour -never came. When, eight months later, the “San Jose” sailed into the -Santa Barbara harbor, and Angus Phail leaped breathless on shore, the -second man he met, no friend of his, looking him maliciously in -the face, said. “So, ho! You're just too late for the wedding! Your -sweetheart, the handsome Gonzaga girl, was married here, yesterday, to a -fine young officer of the Monterey Presidio!” - -Angus reeled, struck the man a blow full in the face, and fell on the -ground, foaming at the mouth. He was lifted and carried into a house, -and, speedily recovering, burst with the strength of a giant from the -hands of those who were holding him, sprang out of the door, and ran -bareheaded up the road toward the Presidio. At the gate he was stopped -by the guard, who knew him. - -“Is it true?” gasped Angus. - -“Yes, Senor,” replied the man, who said afterward that his knees shook -under him with terror at the look on the Scotchman's face. He feared he -would strike him dead for his reply. But, instead, Angus burst into -a maudlin laugh, and, turning away, went staggering down the street, -singing and laughing. - -The next that was known of him was in a low drinking-place, where he was -seen lying on the floor, dead drunk; and from that day he sank lower and -lower, till one of the commonest sights to be seen in Santa Barbara was -Angus Phail reeling about, tipsy, coarse, loud, profane, dangerous. - -“See what the Senorita escaped!” said the thoughtless. “She was quite -right not to have married such a drunken wretch.” - -In the rare intervals when he was partially sober, he sold all he -possessed,--ship after ship sold for a song, and the proceeds squandered -in drinking or worse. He never had a sight of his lost bride. He did not -seek it; and she, terrified, took every precaution to avoid it, and soon -returned with her husband to Monterey. - -Finally Angus disappeared, and after a time the news came up from Los -Angeles that he was there, had gone out to the San Gabriel Mission, -and was living with the Indians. Some years later came the still more -surprising news that he had married a squaw,--a squaw with several -Indian children,--had been legally married by the priest in the San -Gabriel Mission Church. And that was the last that the faithless Ramona -Gonzaga ever heard of her lover, until twenty-five years after her -marriage, when one day he suddenly appeared in her presence. How he -had gained admittance to the house was never known; but there he stood -before her, bearing in his arms a beautiful babe, asleep. Drawing -himself up to the utmost of his six feet of height, and looking at her -sternly, with eyes blue like steel, he said: “Senora Ortegna, you once -did me a great wrong. You sinned, and the Lord has punished you. He has -denied you children. I also have done a wrong; I have sinned, and the -Lord has punished me. He has given me a child. I ask once more at your -hands a boon. Will you take this child of mine, and bring it up as a -child of yours, or of mine, ought to be brought up?” - -The tears were rolling down the Senora Ortegna's cheeks. The Lord -had indeed punished her in more ways than Angus Phail knew. Her -childlessness, bitter as that had been, was the least of them. -Speechless, she rose, and stretched out her arms for the child. He -placed it in them. Still the child slept on, undisturbed. - -“I do not know if I will be permitted,” she said falteringly; “my -husband--” - -“Father Salvierderra will command it. I have seen him,” replied Angus. - -The Senora's face brightened. “If that be so, I hope it can be as you -wish,” she said. Then a strange embarrassment came upon her, and looking -down upon the infant, she said inquiringly, “But the child's mother?” - -Angus's face turned swarthy red. Perhaps, face to face with this gentle -and still lovely woman he had once so loved, he first realized to the -full how wickedly he had thrown away his life. With a quick wave of -his hand, which spoke volumes, he said: “That is nothing. She has other -children, of her own blood. This is mine, my only one, my daughter. I -wish her to be yours; otherwise, she will be taken by the Church.” - -With each second that she felt the little warm body's tender weight in -her arms, Ramona Ortegna's heart had more and more yearned towards the -infant. At these words she bent her face down and kissed its cheek. “Oh, -no! not to the Church! I will love it as my own,” she said. - -Angus Phail's face quivered. Feelings long dead within him stirred in -their graves. He gazed at the sad and altered face, once so beautiful, -so dear. “I should hardly have known you, Senora!” burst from him -involuntarily. - -She smiled piteously, with no resentment. “That is not strange. I hardly -know myself,” she whispered. “Life has dealt very hardly with me. -I should not have known you either--Angus.” She pronounced his name -hesitatingly, half appealingly. At the sound of the familiar syllables, -so long unheard, the man's heart broke down. He buried his face in his -hands, and sobbed out: “O Ramona, forgive me! I brought the child here, -not wholly in love; partly in vengeance. But I am melted now. Are you -sure you wish to keep her? I will take her away if you are not.” - -“Never, so long as I live, Angus,” replied Senora Ortegna. “Already I -feel that she is a mercy from the Lord. If my husband sees no offence in -her presence, she will be a joy in my life. Has she been christened?” - -Angus cast his eyes down. A sudden fear smote him. “Before I had thought -of bringing her to you,” he stammered, “at first I had only the thought -of giving her to the Church. I had had her christened by”--the words -refused to leave his lips--“the name--Can you not guess, Senora, what -name she bears?” - -The Senora knew. “My own?” she said. - -Angus bowed his head. “The only woman's name that my lips ever spoke -with love,” he said, reassured, “was the name my daughter should bear.” - -“It is well,” replied the Senora. Then a great silence fell between -them. Each studied the other's face, tenderly, bewilderedly. Then by a -simultaneous impulse they drew nearer. Angus stretched out both his arms -with a gesture of infinite love and despair, bent down and kissed the -hands which lovingly held his sleeping child. - -“God bless you, Ramona! Farewell! You will never see me more,” he cried, -and was gone. - -In a moment more he reappeared on the threshold of the door, but only to -say in a low tone, “There is no need to be alarmed if the child does not -wake for some hours yet. She has had a safe sleeping-potion given her. -It will not harm her.” - -One more long lingering look into each other's faces, and the two -lovers, so strangely parted, still more strangely met, had parted again, -forever. The quarter of a century which had lain between them had been -bridged in both their hearts as if it were but a day. In the heart -of the man it was the old passionate adoring love reawakening; -a resurrection of the buried dead, to full life, with lineaments -unchanged. In the woman it was not that; there was no buried love to -come to such resurrection in her heart, for she had never loved Angus -Phail. But, long unloved, ill-treated, heartbroken, she woke at that -moment to the realization of what manner of love it had been which she -had thrown away in her youth; her whole being yearned for it now, and -Angus was avenged. - -When Francis Ortegna, late that night, reeled, half-tipsy, into -his wife's room, he was suddenly sobered by the sight which met his -eyes,--his wife kneeling by the side of the cradle, in which lay, -smiling in its sleep, a beautiful infant. - -“What in the devil's name,” he began; then recollecting, he muttered: -“Oh, the Indian brat! I see! I wish you joy, Senora Ortegna, of your -first child!” and with a mock bow, and cruel sneer, he staggered by, -giving the cradle an angry thrust with his foot as he passed. - -The brutal taunt did not much wound the Senora. The time had long since -passed when unkind words from her husband could give her keen pain. But -it was a warning not lost upon her new-born mother instinct, and from -that day the little Ramona was carefully kept and tended in apartments -where there was no danger of her being seen by the man to whom the sight -of her baby face was only a signal for anger and indecency. - -Hitherto Ramona Ortegna had, so far as was possible, carefully concealed -from her family the unhappiness of her married life. Ortegna's -character was indeed well known; his neglect of his wife, his shameful -dissipations of all sorts, were notorious in every port in the country. -But from the wife herself no one had even heard so much as a syllable of -complaint. She was a Gonzaga, and she knew how to suffer in silence, But -now she saw a reason for taking her sister into her confidence. It was -plain to her that she had not many years to live; and what then would -become of the child? Left to the tender mercies of Ortegna, it was only -too certain what would become of her. Long sad hours of perplexity the -lonely woman passed, with the little laughing babe in her arms, vainly -endeavoring to forecast her future. The near chance of her own death had -not occurred to her mind when she accepted the trust. - -Before the little Ramona was a year old, Angus Phail died. An Indian -messenger from San Gabriel brought the news to Senora Ortegna. He -brought her also a box and a letter, given to him by Angus the day -before his death. The box contained jewels of value, of fashions a -quarter of a century old. They were the jewels which Angus had bought -for his bride. These alone remained of all his fortune. Even in the -lowest depths of his degradation, a certain sentiment had restrained him -from parting with them. The letter contained only these words: “I send -you all I have to leave my daughter. I meant to bring them myself this -year. I wished to kiss your hands and hers once more. But I am dying. -Farewell.” - -After these jewels were in her possession, Senora Ortegna rested not -till she had persuaded Senora Moreno to journey to Monterey, and had -put the box into her keeping as a sacred trust. She also won from her a -solemn promise that at her own death she would adopt the little -Ramona. This promise came hard from Senora Moreno. Except for Father -Salvierderra's influence, she had not given it. She did not wish any -dealings with such alien and mongrel blood, “If the child were pure -Indian, I would like it better,” she said. “I like not these crosses. It -is the worst, and not the best of each, that remains.” - -But the promise once given, Senora Ortegna was content. Well she knew -that her sister would not lie, nor evade a trust. The little Ramona's -future was assured. During the last years of the unhappy woman's life -the child was her only comfort. Ortegna's conduct had become so openly -and defiantly infamous, that he even flaunted his illegitimate relations -in his wife's presence; subjecting her to gross insults, spite of her -helpless invalidism. This last outrage was too much for the Gonzaga -blood to endure; the Senora never afterward left her apartment, or spoke -to her husband. Once more she sent for her sister to come; this time, to -see her die. Every valuable she possessed, jewels, laces, brocades, and -damasks, she gave into her sister's charge, to save them from falling -into the hands of the base creature that she knew only too well would -stand in her place as soon as the funeral services had been said over -her dead body. - -Stealthily, as if she had been a thief, the sorrowing Senora Moreno -conveyed her sister's wardrobe, article by article, out of the house, to -be sent to her own home. It was the wardrobe of a princess. The Ortegnas -lavished money always on the women whose hearts they broke; and never -ceased to demand of them that they should sit superbly arrayed in their -lonely wretchedness. - -One hour after the funeral, with a scant and icy ceremony of farewell -to her dead sister's husband, Senora Moreno, leading the little -four-year-old Ramona by the hand, left the house, and early the next -morning set sail for home. - -When Ortegna discovered that his wife's jewels and valuables of all -kinds were gone, he fell into a great rage, and sent a messenger off, -post-haste, with an insulting letter to the Senora Moreno, demanding -their return. For answer, he got a copy of his wife's memoranda of -instructions to her sister, giving all the said valuables to her in -trust for Ramona; also a letter from Father Salvierderra, upon reading -which he sank into a fit of despondency that lasted a day or two, and -gave his infamous associates considerable alarm, lest they had lost -their comrade. But he soon shook off the influence, whatever it was, and -settled back into his old gait on the same old high-road to the devil. -Father Salvierderra could alarm him, but not save him. - -And this was the mystery of Ramona. No wonder the Senora Moreno never -told the story. No wonder, perhaps, that she never loved the child. It -was a sad legacy, indissolubly linked with memories which had in them -nothing but bitterness, shame, and sorrow from first to last. - -How much of all this the young Ramona knew or suspected, was locked in -her own breast. Her Indian blood had as much proud reserve in it as was -ever infused into the haughtiest Gonzaga's veins. While she was yet a -little child, she had one day said to the Senora Moreno, “Senora, why -did my mother give me to the Senora Ortegna?” - -Taken unawares, the Senora replied hastily: “Your mother had nothing -whatever to do with it. It was your father.” - -“Was my mother dead?” continued the child. - -Too late the Senora saw her mistake. “I do not know,” she replied; which -was literally true, but had the spirit of a lie in it. “I never saw your -mother.” - -“Did the Senora Ortegna ever see her?” persisted Ramona. - -“No, never,” answered the Senora, coldly, the old wounds burning at the -innocent child's unconscious touch. - -Ramona felt the chill, and was silent for a time, her face sad, and her -eyes tearful. At last she said, “I wish I knew if my mother was dead.” - -“Why?” asked the Senora. - -“Because if she is not dead I would ask her why she did not want me to -stay with her.” - -The gentle piteousness of this reply smote the Senora's conscience. -Taking the child in her arms, she said, “Who has been talking to you of -these things, Ramona?” - -“Juan Can,” she replied. - -“What did he say?” asked the Senora, with a look in her eye which boded -no good to Juan Canito. - -“It was not to me he said it, it was to Luigo; but I heard him,” - answered Ramona, speaking slowly, as if collecting her various -reminiscences on the subject. “Twice I heard him. He said that my mother -was no good, and that my father was bad too.” And the tears rolled down -the child's cheeks. - -The Senora's sense of justice stood her well in place of tenderness, -now. Caressing the little orphan as she had never before done, she said, -with an earnestness which sank deep into the child's mind, “Ramona must -not believe any such thing as that. Juan Can is a bad man to say it. -He never saw either your father or your mother, and so he could know -nothing about them. I knew your father very well. He was not a bad man. -He was my friend, and the friend of the Senora Ortegna; and that was the -reason he gave you to the Senora Ortegna, because she had no child of -her own. And I think your mother had a good many.” - -“Oh!” said Ramona, relieved, for the moment, at this new view of the -situation,--that the gift had been not as a charity to her, but to the -Senora Ortegna. “Did the Senora Ortegna want a little daughter very -much?” - -“Yes, very much indeed,” said the Senora, heartily and with fervor. “She -had grieved many years because she had no child.” - -Silence again for a brief space, during which the little lonely heart, -grappling with its vague instinct of loss and wrong, made wide thrusts -into the perplexities hedging it about, and presently electrified the -Senora by saying in a half-whisper, “Why did not my father bring me to -you first? Did he know you did not want any daughter?” - -The Senora was dumb for a second; then recovering herself, she said: -“Your father was the Senora Ortegna's friend more than he was mine. I -was only a child, then.” - -“Of course you did not need any daughter when you had Felipe,” continued -Ramona, pursuing her original line of inquiry and reflection without -noticing the Senora's reply. “A son is more than a daughter; but most -people have both,” eying the Senora keenly, to see what response this -would bring. - -But the Senora was weary and uncomfortable with the talk. At the very -mention of Felipe, a swift flash of consciousness of her inability -to love Ramona had swept through her mind. “Ramona,” she said firmly, -“while you are a little girl, you cannot understand any of these things. -When you are a woman, I will tell you all that I know myself about your -father and your mother. It is very little. Your father died when you -were only two years old. All that you have to do is to be a good child, -and say your prayers, and when Father Salvierderra comes he will be -pleased with you. And he will not be pleased if you ask troublesome -questions. Don't ever speak to me again about this. When the proper time -comes I will tell you myself.” - -This was when Ramona was ten. She was now nineteen. She had never again -asked the Senora a question bearing on the forbidden subject. She had -been a good child and said her prayers, and Father Salvierderra had been -always pleased with her, growing more and more deeply attached to her -year by year. But the proper time had not yet come for the Senora to -tell her anything more about her father and mother. There were few -mornings on which the girl did not think, “Perhaps it may be to-day -that she will tell me.” But she would not ask. Every word of that -conversation was as vivid in her mind as it had been the day it -occurred; and it would hardly be an exaggeration to say that during -every day of the whole nine years had deepened in her heart the -conviction which had prompted the child's question, “Did he know that -you did not want any daughter?” - -A nature less gentle than Ramona's would have been embittered, or at -least hardened, by this consciousness. But Ramona's was not. She never -put it in words to herself. She accepted it, as those born deformed seem -sometimes to accept the pain and isolation caused by their deformity, -with an unquestioning acceptance, which is as far above resignation, as -resignation is above rebellious repining. - -No one would have known, from Ramona's face, manner, or habitual -conduct, that she had ever experienced a sorrow or had a care. Her face -was sunny, she had a joyous voice, and never was seen to pass a human -being without a cheerful greeting, to highest and lowest the same. Her -industry was tireless. She had had two years at school, in the Convent -of the Sacred Heart at Los Angeles, where the Senora had placed her -at much personal sacrifice, during one of the hardest times the Moreno -estate had ever seen. Here she had won the affection of all the Sisters, -who spoke of her habitually as the “blessed child.” They had taught her -all the dainty arts of lace-weaving, embroidery, and simple fashions -of painting and drawing, which they knew; not overmuch learning out of -books, but enough to make her a passionate lover of verse and romance. -For serious study or for deep thought she had no vocation. She was a -simple, joyous, gentle, clinging, faithful nature, like a clear brook -rippling along in the sun,--a nature as unlike as possible to the -Senora's, with its mysterious depths and stormy, hidden currents. - -Of these Ramona was dimly conscious, and at times had a tender, -sorrowful pity for the Senora, which she dared not show, and could only -express by renewed industry, and tireless endeavor to fulfil every duty -possible in the house. This gentle faithfulness was not wholly lost on -Senora Moreno, though its source she never suspected; and it won no new -recognition from her for Ramona, no increase of love. - -But there was one on whom not an act, not a look, not a smile of all -this graciousness was thrown away. That one was Felipe. Daily more and -more he wondered at his mother's lack of affection for Ramona. Nobody -knew so well as he how far short she stopped of loving her. Felipe knew -what it meant, how it felt, to be loved by the Senora Moreno. But Felipe -had learned while he was a boy that one sure way to displease his mother -was to appear to be aware that she did not treat Ramona as she treated -him. And long before he had become a man he had acquired the habit of -keeping to himself most of the things he thought and felt about his -little playmate sister,--a dangerous habit, out of which were slowly -ripening bitter fruits for the Senora's gathering in later years. - - - - -IV - -IT was longer even than the Senora had thought it would be, before -Father Salvierderra arrived. The old man had grown feeble during the -year that she had not seen him, and it was a very short day's journey -that he could make now without too great fatigue. It was not only his -body that had failed. He had lost heart; and the miles which would have -been nothing to him, had he walked in the companionship of hopeful and -happy thoughts, stretched out wearily as he brooded over sad memories -and still sadder anticipations,--the downfall of the Missions, the loss -of their vast estates, and the growing power of the ungodly in the land. -The final decision of the United States Government in regard to the -Mission-lands had been a terrible blow to him. He had devoutly believed -that ultimate restoration of these great estates to the Church was -inevitable. In the long vigils which he always kept when at home at the -Franciscan Monastery in Santa Barbara, kneeling on the stone pavement -in the church, and praying ceaselessly from midnight till dawn, he had -often had visions vouchsafed him of a new dispensation, in which the -Mission establishments should be reinstated in all their old splendor -and prosperity, and their Indian converts again numbered by tens of -thousands. - -Long after every one knew that this was impossible, he would narrate -these visions with the faith of an old Bible seer, and declare that they -must come true, and that it was a sin to despond. But as year after year -he journeyed up and down the country, seeing, at Mission after Mission, -the buildings crumbling into ruin, the lands all taken, sold, resold, -and settled by greedy speculators; the Indian converts disappearing, -driven back to their original wildernesses, the last traces of the noble -work of his order being rapidly swept away, his courage faltered, his -faith died out. Changes in the manners and customs of his order itself, -also, were giving him deep pain. He was a Franciscan of the same type as -Francis of Assisi. To wear a shoe in place of a sandal, to take money in -a purse for a journey, above all to lay aside the gray gown and cowl for -any sort of secular garment, seemed to him wicked. To own comfortable -clothes while there were others suffering for want of them--and -there were always such--seemed to him a sin for which one might not -undeservedly be smitten with sudden and terrible punishment. In vain the -Brothers again and again supplied him with a warm cloak; he gave it away -to the first beggar he met: and as for food, the refectory would have -been left bare, and the whole brotherhood starving, if the supplies had -not been carefully hidden and locked, so that Father Salvierderra could -not give them all away. He was fast becoming that most tragic yet often -sublime sight, a man who has survived, not only his own time, but -the ideas and ideals of it. Earth holds no sharper loneliness: the -bitterness of exile, the anguish of friendlessness at their utmost, -are in it; and yet it is so much greater than they, that even they seem -small part of it. - -It was with thoughts such as these that Father Salvierderra drew near -the home of the Senora Moreno late in the afternoon of one of those -midsummer days of which Southern California has so many in spring. The -almonds had bloomed and the blossoms fallen; the apricots also, and the -peaches and pears; on all the orchards of these fruits had come a filmy -tint of green, so light it was hardly more than a shadow on the gray. -The willows were vivid light green, and the orange groves dark and -glossy like laurel. The billowy hills on either side the valley were -covered with verdure and bloom,--myriads of low blossoming plants, so -close to the earth that their tints lapped and overlapped on each other, -and on the green of the grass, as feathers in fine plumage overlap each -other and blend into a changeful color. - -The countless curves, hollows, and crests of the coast-hills in Southern -California heighten these chameleon effects of the spring verdure; they -are like nothing in nature except the glitter of a brilliant lizard in -the sun or the iridescent sheen of a peacock's neck. - -Father Salvierderra paused many times to gaze at the beautiful picture. -Flowers were always dear to the Franciscans. Saint Francis himself -permitted all decorations which could be made of flowers. He classed -them with his brothers and sisters, the sun, moon, and stars,--all -members of the sacred choir praising God. - -It was melancholy to see how, after each one of these pauses, each fresh -drinking in of the beauty of the landscape and the balmy air, the old -man resumed his slow pace, with a long sigh and his eyes cast down. -The fairer this beautiful land, the sadder to know it lost to the -Church,--alien hands reaping its fulness, establishing new customs, -new laws. All the way down the coast from Santa Barbara he had seen, -at every stopping-place, new tokens of the settling up of the -country,--farms opening, towns growing; the Americans pouring in, at -all points, to reap the advantages of their new possessions. It was -this which had made his journey heavy-hearted, and made him feel, in -approaching the Senora Moreno's, as if he were coming to one of the last -sure strongholds of the Catholic faith left in the country. - -When he was within two miles of the house, he struck off from the -highway into a narrow path that he recollected led by a short-cut -through the hills, and saved nearly a third of the distance. It was -more than a year since he had trod this path, and as he found it growing -fainter and fainter, and more and more overgrown with the wild mustard, -he said to himself, “I think no one can have passed through here this -year.” - -As he proceeded he found the mustard thicker and thicker. The wild -mustard in Southern California is like that spoken of in the New -Testament, in the branches of which the birds of the air may rest. -Coming up out of the earth, so slender a stem that dozens can find -starting-point in an inch, it darts up, a slender straight shoot, five, -ten, twenty feet, with hundreds of fine feathery branches locking -and interlocking with all the other hundreds around it, till it is an -inextricable network like lace. Then it bursts into yellow bloom still -finer, more feathery and lacelike. The stems are so infinitesimally -small, and of so dark a green, that at a short distance they do not -show, and the cloud of blossom seems floating in the air; at times it -looks like golden dust. With a clear blue sky behind it, as it is often -seen, it looks like a golden snow-storm. The plant is a tyrant and a -nuisance,--the terror of the farmer; it takes riotous possession of a -whole field in a season; once in, never out; for one plant this year, a -million the next; but it is impossible to wish that the land were freed -from it. Its gold is as distinct a value to the eye as the nugget gold -is in the pocket. - -Father Salvierderra soon found himself in a veritable thicket of these -delicate branches, high above his head, and so interlaced that he could -make headway only by slowly and patiently disentangling them, as one -would disentangle a skein of silk. It was a fantastic sort of dilemma, -and not unpleasing. Except that the Father was in haste to reach his -journey's end, he would have enjoyed threading his way through -the golden meshes. Suddenly he heard faint notes of singing. He -paused,--listened. It was the voice of a woman. It was slowly drawing -nearer, apparently from the direction in which he was going. At -intervals it ceased abruptly, then began again; as if by a sudden but -brief interruption, like that made by question and answer. Then, peering -ahead through the mustard blossoms, he saw them waving and bending, and -heard sounds as if they were being broken. Evidently some one entering -on the path from the opposite end had been caught in the fragrant -thicket as he was. The notes grew clearer, though still low and sweet -as the twilight notes of the thrush; the mustard branches waved more and -more violently; light steps were now to be heard. Father Salvierderra -stood still as one in a dream, his eyes straining forward into the -golden mist of blossoms. In a moment more came, distinct and clear to -his ear, the beautiful words of the second stanza of Saint Francis's -inimitable lyric, “The Canticle of the Sun:” - -“Praise be to thee, O Lord, for all thy creatures, and especially for -our brother the Sun,--who illuminates the day, and by his beauty and -splendor shadows forth unto us thine.” - -“Ramona!” exclaimed the Father, his thin cheeks flushing with pleasure. -“The blessed child!” And as he spoke, her face came into sight, set in -a swaying frame of the blossoms, as she parted them lightly to right and -left with her hands, and half crept, half danced through the loop-hole -openings thus made. Father Salvierderra was past eighty, but his blood -was not too old to move quicker at the sight of this picture. A man must -be dead not to thrill at it. Ramona's beauty was of the sort to be best -enhanced by the waving gold which now framed her face. She had just -enough of olive tint in her complexion to underlie and enrich her skin -without making it swarthy. Her hair was like her Indian mother's, heavy -and black, but her eyes were like her father's, steel-blue. Only those -who came very near to Ramona knew, however, that her eyes were blue, for -the heavy black eyebrows and long black lashes so shaded and shadowed -them that they looked black as night. At the same instant that Father -Salvierderra first caught sight of her face, Ramona also saw him, and -crying out joyfully, “Ah, Father, I knew you would come by this path, -and something told me you were near!” she sprang forward, and sank on -her knees before him, bowing her head for his blessing. In silence he -laid his hands on her brow. It would not have been easy for him to speak -to her at that first moment. She had looked to the devout old monk, as -she sprang through the cloud of golden flowers, the sun falling on -her bared head, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shining, more like an -apparition of an angel or saint, than like the flesh-and-blood maiden -whom he had carried in his arms when she was a babe. - -“We have been waiting, waiting, oh, so long for you, Father!” she said, -rising. “We began to fear that you might be ill. The shearers have been -sent for, and will be here tonight, and that was the reason I felt so -sure you would come. I knew the Virgin would bring you in time for mass -in the chapel on the first morning.” - -The monk smiled half sadly. “Would there were more with such faith as -yours, daughter,” he said. “Are all well on the place?” - -“Yes, Father, all well,” she answered. “Felipe has been ill with a -fever; but he is out now, these ten days, and fretting for--for your -coming.” - -Ramona had like to have said the literal truth,--“fretting for the -sheep-shearing,” but recollected herself in time. - -“And the Senora?” said the Father. - -“She is well,” answered Ramona, gently, but with a slight change of -tone,--so slight as to be almost imperceptible; but an acute observer -would have always detected it in the girl's tone whenever she spoke of -the Senora Moreno. “And you,--are you well yourself, Father?” she asked -affectionately, noting with her quick, loving eye how feebly the old -man walked, and that he carried what she had never before seen in his -hand,--a stout staff to steady his steps. “You must be very tired with -the long journey on foot.” - -“Ay, Ramona, I am tired,” he replied. “Old age is conquering me. It will -not be many times more that I shall see this place.” - -“Oh, do not say that, Father,” cried Ramona; “you can ride, when it -tires you too much to walk. The Senora said, only the other day, that -she wished you would let her give you a horse; that it was not right for -you to take these long journeys on foot. You know we have hundreds of -horses. It is nothing, one horse,” she added, seeing the Father slowly -shake his head. - -“No;” he said, “it is not that. I could not refuse anything at the hands -of the Senora. But it was the rule of our order to go on foot. We -must deny the flesh. Look at our beloved master in this land, Father -Junipero, when he was past eighty, walking from San Diego to Monterey, -and all the while a running ulcer in one of his legs, for which most men -would have taken to a bed, to be healed. It is a sinful fashion that -is coming in, for monks to take their ease doing God's work. I can no -longer walk swiftly, but I must walk all the more diligently.” - -While they were talking, they had been slowly moving forward, Ramona -slightly in advance, gracefully bending the mustard branches, and -holding them down till the Father had followed in her steps. As they -came out from the thicket, she exclaimed, laughing, “There is Felipe, in -the willows. I told him I was coming to meet you, and he laughed at me. -Now he will see I was right.” - -Astonished enough, Felipe, hearing voices, looked up, and saw Ramona and -the Father approaching. Throwing down the knife with which he had been -cutting the willows, he hastened to meet them, and dropped on his knees, -as Ramona had done, for the monk's blessing. As he knelt there, the wind -blowing his hair loosely off his brow, his large brown eyes lifted in -gentle reverence to the Father's face, and his face full of affectionate -welcome, Ramona thought to herself, as she had thought hundreds of times -since she became a woman, “How beautiful Felipe is! No wonder the Senora -loves him so much! If I had been beautiful like that she would have -liked me better.” Never was a little child more unconscious of her own -beauty than Ramona still was. All the admiration which was expressed -to her in word and look she took for simple kindness and good-will. -Her face, as she herself saw it in her glass, did not please her. She -compared her straight, massive black eyebrows with Felipe's, arched and -delicately pencilled, and found her own ugly. The expression of gentle -repose which her countenance wore, seemed to her an expression of -stupidity. “Felipe looks so bright!” she thought, as she noted his -mobile changing face, never for two successive seconds the same. “There -is nobody like Felipe.” And when his brown eyes were fixed on her, as -they so often were, in a long lingering gaze, she looked steadily back -into their velvet depths with an abstracted sort of intensity which -profoundly puzzled Felipe. It was this look, more than any other one -thing, which had for two years held Felipe's tongue in leash, as it -were, and made it impossible for him to say to Ramona any of the loving -things of which his heart had been full ever since he could remember. -The boy had spoken them unhesitatingly, unconsciously; but the man found -himself suddenly afraid. “What is it she thinks when she looks into my -eyes so?” he wondered. If he had known that the thing she was usually -thinking was simply, “How much handsomer brown eyes are than blue! -I wish my eyes were the color of Felipe's!” he would have perceived, -perhaps, what would have saved him sorrow, if he had known it, that a -girl who looked at a man thus, would be hard to win to look at him as a -lover. But being a lover, he could not see this. He saw only enough to -perplex and deter him. - -As they drew near the house, Ramona saw Margarita standing at the gate -of the garden. She was holding something white in her hands, looking -down at it, and crying piteously. As she perceived Ramona, she made an -eager leap forward, and then shrank back again, making dumb signals -of distress to her. Her whole attitude was one of misery and entreaty. -Margarita was, of all the maids, most beloved by Ramona. Though they -were nearly of the same age, it had been Margarita who first had charge -of Ramona; the nurse and her charge had played together, grown up -together, become women together, and were now, although Margarita never -presumed on the relation, or forgot to address Ramona as Senorita, more -like friends than like mistress and maid. - -“Pardon me, Father,” said Ramona. “I see that Margarita there is in -trouble. I will leave Felipe to go with you to the house. I will be with -you again in a few moments.” And kissing his hand, she flew rather than -ran across the field to the foot of the garden. - -Before she reached the spot, Margarita had dropped on the ground and -buried her face in her hands. A mass of crumpled and stained linen lay -at her feet. - -“What is it? What has happened, Margarita mia?” cried Ramona, in the -affectionate Spanish phrase. For answer, Margarita removed one wet hand -from her eyes, and pointed with a gesture of despair to the crumpled -linen. Sobs choked her voice, and she buried her face again in her -hands. - -Ramona stooped, and lifted one corner of the linen. An involuntary cry -of dismay broke from her, at which Margarita's sobs redoubled, and -she gasped out, “Yes, Senorita, it is totally ruined! It can never be -mended, and it will be needed for the mass to-morrow morning. When I saw -the Father coming by your side, I prayed to the Virgin to let me die. -The Senora will never forgive me.” - -It was indeed a sorry sight. The white linen altar-cloth, the cloth -which the Senora Moreno had with her own hands made into one solid front -of beautiful lace of the Mexican fashion, by drawing out part of the -threads and sewing the remainder into intricate patterns, the -cloth which had always been on the altar, when mass was said, since -Margarita's and Ramona's earliest recollections,--there it lay, torn, -stained, as if it had been dragged through muddy brambles. In silence, -aghast, Ramona opened it out and held it up. “How did it happen, -Margarita?” she whispered, glancing in terror up towards the house. - -“Oh, that is the worst of it, Senorita!” sobbed the girl. “That is the -worst of it! If it were not for that, I would not be so afraid. If it -had happened any other way, the Senora might have forgiven me; but she -never will. I would rather die than tell her;” and she shook from head -to foot. - -“Stop crying, Margarita!” said Ramona, firmly, “and tell me all about -it. It isn't so bad as it looks. I think I can mend it.” - -“Oh, the saints bless you!” cried Margarita, looking up for the first -time. “Do you really think you can mend it, Senorita? If you will mend -that lace, I'll go on my knees for you all the rest of my life!” - -Ramona laughed in spite of herself. “You'll serve me better by keeping -on your feet,” she said merrily; at which Margarita laughed too, through -her tears. They were both young. - -“Oh, but Senorita,” Margarita began again in a tone of anguish, her -tears flowing afresh, “there is not time! It must be washed and ironed -to-night, for the mass to-morrow morning, and I have to help at the -supper. Anita and Rosa are both ill in bed, you know, and Maria has gone -away for a week. The Senora said if the Father came to-night I must help -mother, and must wait on table. It cannot be done. I was just going -to iron it now, and I found it--so--It was in the artichoke-patch, and -Capitan, the beast, had been tossing it among the sharp pricks of the -old last year's seeds.” - -“In the artichoke-patch!” ejaculated Ramona. “How under heavens did it -get there?” - -“Oh, that was what I meant, Senorita, when I said she never would -forgive me. She has forbidden me many times to hang anything to dry on -the fence there; and if I had only washed it when she first told me, two -days ago, all would have been well. But I forgot it till this afternoon, -and there was no sun in the court to dry it, and you know how the sun -lies on the artichoke-patch, and I put a strong cloth over the fence, -so that the wood should not pierce the lace, and I did not leave it more -than half an hour, just while I said a few words to Luigo, and there -was no wind; and I believe the saints must have fetched it down to the -ground to punish me for my disobedience.” - -Ramona had been all this time carefully smoothing out the torn places, -“It is not so bad as it looks,” she said; “if it were not for the hurry, -there would be no trouble in mending it. But I will do it the best I -can, so that it will not show, for to-morrow, and then, after the Father -is gone, I can repair it at leisure, and make it just as good as new. -I think I can mend it and wash it before dark,” and she glanced at the -sun. “Oh, yes, there are good three hours of daylight yet. I can do it. -You put the irons on the fire, to have them hot, to iron it as soon -as it is partly dried. You will see it will not show that anything has -happened to it.” - -“Will the Senora know?” asked poor Margarita, calmed and reassured, but -still in mortal terror. - -Ramona turned her steady glance full on Margarita's face. “You would not -be any happier if she were deceived, do you think?” she said gravely. - -“O Senorita, after it is mended? If it really does not show?” pleaded -the girl. - -“I will tell her myself, and not till after it is mended,” said Ramona; -but she did not smile. - -“Ah, Senorita,” said Margarita, deprecatingly, “you do not know what it -is to have the Senora displeased with one.” - -“Nothing can be so bad as to be displeased with one's self,” retorted -Ramona, as she walked swiftly away to her room with the linen rolled up -under her arm. Luckily for Margarita's cause, she met no one on the way. -The Senora had welcomed Father Salvierderra at the foot of the veranda -steps, and had immediately closeted herself with him. She had much to -say to him,--much about which she wished his help and counsel, and much -which she wished to learn from him as to affairs in the Church and in -the country generally. - -Felipe had gone off at once to find Juan Canito, to see if everything -were ready for the sheep-shearing to begin on the next day, if the -shearers arrived in time; and there was very good chance of their coming -in by sundown this day, Felipe thought, for he had privately instructed -his messenger to make all possible haste, and to impress on the Indians -the urgent need of their losing no time on the road. - -It had been a great concession on the Senora's part to allow the -messenger to be sent off before she had positive intelligence as to the -Father's movements. But as day after day passed and no news came, even -she perceived that it would not do to put off the sheep-shearing much -longer, or, as Juan Canito said, “forever.” The Father might have fallen -ill; and if that were so, it might very easily be weeks before they -heard of it, so scanty were the means of communication between the -remote places on his route of visitation. The messenger had therefore -been sent to summon the Temecula shearers, and Senora had resigned -herself to the inevitable; piously praying, however, morning and night, -and at odd moments in the day, that the Father might arrive before the -Indians did. When she saw him coming up the garden-walk, leaning on -the arm of her Felipe, on the afternoon of the very day which was the -earliest possible day for the Indians to arrive, it was not strange that -she felt, mingled with the joy of her greeting to her long-loved friend -and confessor, a triumphant exultation that the saints had heard her -prayers. - -In the kitchen all was bustle and stir. The coming of any guest into the -house was a signal for unwonted activities there,--even the coming of -Father Salvierderra, who never knew whether the soup had force-meat -balls in it or not, old Marda said; and that was to her the last extreme -of indifference to good things of the flesh. “But if he will not eat, -he can see,” she said; and her pride for herself and for the house was -enlisted in setting forth as goodly an array of viands as her larder -afforded, She grew suddenly fastidious over the size and color of the -cabbages to go into the beef-pot, and threw away one whole saucepan full -of rice, because Margarita had put only one onion in instead of two. - -“Have I not told you again and again that for the Father it is always -two onions?” she exclaimed. “It is the dish he most favors of all; and -it is a pity too, old as he is. It makes him no blood. It is good beef -he should take now.” - -The dining-room was on the opposite side of the courtyard from the -kitchen, and there was a perpetual procession of small messengers going -back and forth between the rooms. It was the highest ambition of each -child to be allowed to fetch and carry dishes in the preparation of -the meals at all times; but when by so doing they could perchance get a -glimpse through the dining-room door, open on the veranda, of strangers -and guests, their restless rivalry became unmanageable. Poor Margarita, -between her own private anxieties and her multiplied duties of helping -in the kitchen, and setting the table, restraining and overseeing her -army of infant volunteers, was nearly distraught; not so distraught, -however, but that she remembered and found time to seize a lighted -candle in the kitchen, run and set it before the statue of Saint Francis -of Paula in her bedroom, hurriedly whispering a prayer that the lace -might be made whole like new. Several times before the afternoon had -waned she snatched a moment to fling herself down at the statue's feet -and pray her foolish little prayer over again. We think we are quite -sure that it is a foolish little prayer, when people pray to have torn -lace made whole. But it would be hard to show the odds between asking -that, and asking that it may rain, or that the sick may get well. As the -grand old Russian says, what men usually ask for, when they pray to God, -is, that two and two may not make four. All the same he is to be pitied -who prays not. It was only the thought of that candle at Saint Francis's -feet, which enabled Margarita to struggle through this anxious and -unhappy afternoon and evening. - -At last supper was ready,--a great dish of spiced beef and cabbage in -the centre of the table; a tureen of thick soup, with force-meat balls -and red peppers in it; two red earthen platters heaped, one with the -boiled rice and onions, the other with the delicious frijoles (beans) -so dear to all Mexican hearts; cut-glass dishes filled with hot stewed -pears, or preserved quinces, or grape jelly; plates of frosted cakes of -various sorts; and a steaming silver teakettle, from which went up an -aroma of tea such as had never been bought or sold in all California, -the Senora's one extravagance and passion. - -“Where is Ramona?” asked the Senora, surprised and displeased, as she -entered the dining-room, “Margarita, go tell the Senorita that we are -waiting for her.” - -Margarita started tremblingly, with flushed face, towards the door. What -would happen now! “O Saint Francis,” she inwardly prayed, “help us this -once!” - -“Stay,” said Felipe. “Do not call Senorita Ramona.” Then, turning to his -mother, “Ramona cannot come. She is not in the house. She has a duty to -perform for to-morrow,” he said; and he looked meaningly at his mother, -adding, “we will not wait for her.” - -Much bewildered, the Senora took her seat at the head of the table in a -mechanical way, and began, “But--” Felipe, seeing that questions were to -follow, interrupted her: “I have just spoken with her. It is impossible -for her to come;” and turning to Father Salvierderra, he at once engaged -him in conversation, and left the baffled Senora to bear her unsatisfied -curiosity as best she could. - -Margarita looked at Felipe with an expression of profound gratitude, -which he did not observe, and would not in the least have understood; -for Ramona had not confided to him any details of the disaster. Seeing -him under her window, she had called cautiously to him, and said: “Dear -Felipe, do you think you can save me from having to come to supper? A -dreadful accident has happened to the altar-cloth, and I must mend it -and wash it, and there is barely time before dark. Don't let them call -me; I shall be down at the brook, and they will not find me, and your -mother will be displeased.” - -This wise precaution of Ramona's was the salvation of everything, so far -as the altar-cloth was concerned. The rents had proved far less serious -than she had feared; the daylight held out till the last of them was -skilfully mended; and just as the red beams of the sinking sun came -streaming through the willow-trees at the foot of the garden, Ramona, -darting down the garden, had reached the brook, and kneeling on the -grass, had dipped the linen into the water. - -Her hurried working over the lace, and her anxiety, had made her cheeks -scarlet. As she ran down the garden, her comb had loosened and her hair -fallen to her waist. Stopping only to pick up the comb and thrust it in -her pocket, she had sped on, as it would soon be too dark for her to see -the stains on the linen, and it was going to be no small trouble to get -them out without fraying the lace. - -Her hair in disorder, her sleeves pinned loosely on her shoulders, her -whole face aglow with the earnestness of her task, she bent low over -the stones, rinsing the altar-cloth up and down in the water, anxiously -scanning it, then plunging it in again. - -The sunset beams played around her hair like a halo; the whole place was -aglow with red light, and her face was kindled into transcendent beauty. -A sound arrested her attention. She looked up. Forms, dusky black -against the fiery western sky, were coming down the valley. It was the -band of Indian shearers. They turned to the left, and went towards the -sheep sheds and booths. But there was one of them that Ramona did not -see. He had been standing for some minutes concealed behind a large -willow-tree a few rods from the place where Ramona was kneeling. It was -Alessandro, son of Pablo Assis, captain of the shearing band. Walking -slowly along in advance of his men, he had felt a light, as from a -mirror held in the sun, smite his eyes. It was the red sunbeam on the -glittering water where Ramona knelt. In the same second he saw Ramona. - -He halted, as wild creatures of the forest halt at a sound; gazed; -walked abruptly away from his men, who kept on, not noticing his -disappearance. Cautiously he moved a few steps nearer, into the shelter -of a gnarled old willow, from behind which he could gaze unperceived on -the beautiful vision,--for so it seemed to him. - -As he gazed, his senses seemed leaving him, and unconsciously he spoke -aloud; “Christ! What shall I do!” - - - - -V - -THE room in which Father Salvierderra always slept when at the Senora -Moreno's house was the southeast corner room. It had a window to the -south and one to the east. When the first glow of dawn came in the sky, -this eastern window was lit up as by a fire. The Father was always on -watch for it, having usually been at prayer for hours. As the first ray -reached the window, he would throw the casement wide open, and standing -there with bared head, strike up the melody of the sunrise hymn sung in -all devout Mexican families. It was a beautiful custom, not yet wholly -abandoned. At the first dawn of light, the oldest member of the family -arose, and began singing some hymn familiar to the household. It was the -duty of each person hearing it to immediately rise, or at least sit up -in bed, and join in the singing. In a few moments the whole family would -be singing, and the joyous sounds pouring out from the house like -the music of the birds in the fields at dawn. The hymns were usually -invocations to the Virgin, or to the saint of the day, and the melodies -were sweet and simple. - -On this morning there was another watcher for the dawn besides Father -Salvierderra. It was Alessandro, who had been restlessly wandering about -since midnight, and had finally seated himself under the willow-trees by -the brook, at the spot where he had seen Ramona the evening before. He -recollected this custom of the sunrise hymn when he and his band were -at the Senora's the last year, and he had chanced then to learn that the -Father slept in the southeast room. From the spot where he sat, he could -see the south window of this room. He could also see the low eastern -horizon, at which a faint luminous line already showed. The sky was like -amber; a few stars still shone faintly in the zenith. There was not -a sound. It was one of those rare moments in which one can without -difficulty realize the noiseless spinning of the earth through space. -Alessandro knew nothing of this; he could not have been made to believe -that the earth was moving. He thought the sun was coming up apace, -and the earth was standing still,--a belief just as grand, just as -thrilling, so far as all that goes, as the other: men worshipped the sun -long before they found out that it stood still. Not the most reverent -astronomer, with the mathematics of the heavens at his tongue's end, -could have had more delight in the wondrous phenomenon of the dawn, than -did this simple-minded, unlearned man. - -His eyes wandered from the horizon line of slowly increasing light, to -the windows of the house, yet dark and still. “Which window is hers? -Will she open it when the song begins?” he thought. “Is it on this side -of the house? Who can she be? She was not here last year. Saw the saints -ever so beautiful a creature!” - -At last came the full red ray across the meadow. Alessandro sprang to -his feet. In the next second Father Salvierderra flung up his south -window, and leaning out, his cowl thrown off, his thin gray locks -streaming back, began in a feeble but not unmelodious voice to sing,-- - - “O beautiful Queen, - Princess of Heaven.” - -Before he had finished the second line, a half-dozen voices had joined -in,--the Senora, from her room at the west end of the veranda, beyond -the flowers; Felipe, from the adjoining room; Ramona, from hers, the -next; and Margarita and other of the maids already astir in the wings of -the house. As the volume of melody swelled, the canaries waked, and the -finches and the linnets in the veranda roof. The tiles of this roof were -laid on bundles of tule reeds, in which the linnets delighted to build -their nests. The roof was alive with them,--scores and scores, nay -hundreds, tame as chickens; their tiny shrill twitter was like the -tuning of myriads of violins. - - “Singers at dawn - From the heavens above - People all regions; - Gladly we too sing,” - -continued the hymn, the birds corroborating the stanza. Then men's -voices joined in,--Juan and Luigo, and a dozen more, walking slowly up -from the sheepfolds. The hymn was a favorite one, known to all. - - “Come, O sinners, - Come, and we will sing - Tender hymns - To our refuge,” - -was the chorus, repeated after each of the five verses of the hymn. - -Alessandro also knew the hymn well. His father, Chief Pablo, had been -the leader of the choir at the San Luis Rey Mission in the last years of -its splendor, and had brought away with him much of the old choir music. -Some of the books had been written by his own hand, on parchment. He not -only sang well, but was a good player on the violin. There was not at -any of the Missions so fine a band of performers on stringed instruments -as at San Luis Rey. Father Peyri was passionately fond of music, and -spared no pains in training all the neophytes under his charge who -showed any special talent in that direction. Chief Pablo, after the -breaking up of the Mission, had settled at Temecula, with a small band -of his Indians, and endeavored, so far as was in his power, to keep -up the old religious services. The music in the little chapel of the -Temecula Indians was a surprise to all who heard it. - -Alessandro had inherited his father's love and talent for music, and -knew all the old Mission music by heart. This hymn to the - - “Beautiful Queen, - Princess of Heaven,” - -was one of his special favorites; and as he heard verse after verse -rising, he could not forbear striking in. - -At the first notes of this rich new voice, Ramona's voice ceased in -surprise; and, throwing up her window, she leaned out, eagerly looking -in all directions to see who it could be. Alessandro saw her, and sang -no more. - -“What could it have been? Did I dream it?” thought Ramona, drew in her -head, and began to sing again. - -With the next stanza of the chorus, the same rich barytone notes. They -seemed to float in under all the rest, and bear them along, as a great -wave bears a boat. Ramona had never heard such a voice. Felipe had -a good tenor, and she liked to sing with him, or to hear him; but -this--this was from another world, this sound. Ramona felt every note of -it penetrating her consciousness with a subtle thrill almost like pain. -When the hymn ended, she listened eagerly, hoping Father Salvierderra -would strike up a second hymn, as he often did; but he did not this -morning; there was too much to be done; everybody was in a hurry to -be at work: windows shut, doors opened; the sounds of voices from all -directions, ordering, questioning, answering, began to be heard. The sun -rose and let a flood of work-a-day light on the whole place. - -Margarita ran and unlocked the chapel door, putting up a heartfelt -thanksgiving to Saint Francis and the Senorita, as she saw the snowy -altar-cloth in its place, looking, from that distance at least, as good -as new. - -The Indians and the shepherds, and laborers of all sorts, were coming -towards the chapel. The Senora, with her best black silk handkerchief -bound tight around her forehead, the ends hanging down each side of her -face, making her look like an Assyrian priestess, was descending the -veranda steps, Felipe at her side; and Father Salvierderra had already -entered the chapel before Ramona appeared, or Alessandro stirred from -his vantage-post of observation at the willows. - -When Ramona came out from the door she bore in her hands a high silver -urn filled with ferns. She had been for many days gathering and hoarding -these. They were hard to find, growing only in one place in a rocky -canon, several miles away. - -As she stepped from the veranda to the ground, Alessandro walked slowly -up the garden-walk, facing her. She met his eyes, and, without knowing -why, thought, “That must be the Indian who sang.” As she turned to the -right and entered the chapel, Alessandro followed her hurriedly, and -knelt on the stones close to the chapel door. He would be near when she -came out. As he looked in at the door, he saw her glide up the aisle, -place the ferns on the reading-desk, and then kneel down by Felipe in -front of the altar. Felipe turned towards her, smiling slightly, with a -look as of secret intelligence. - -“Ah, Senor Felipe has married. She is his wife,” thought Alessandro, and -a strange pain seized him. He did not analyze it; hardly knew what it -meant. He was only twenty-one. He had not thought much about women. He -was a distant, cold boy, his own people of the Temecula village said. -It had come, they believed, of learning to read, which was always bad. -Chief Pablo had not done his son any good by trying to make him like -white men. If the Fathers could have stayed, and the life at the Mission -have gone on, why, Alessandro could have had work to do for the Fathers, -as his father had before him. Pablo had been Father Peyri's right-hand -man at the Mission; had kept all the accounts about the cattle; paid the -wages; handled thousands of dollars of gold every month. But that was -“in the time of the king;” it was very different now. The Americans -would not let an Indian do anything but plough and sow and herd cattle. -A man need not read and write, to do that. - -Even Pablo sometimes doubted whether he had done wisely in teaching -Alessandro all he knew himself. Pablo was, for one of his race, wise and -far-seeing. He perceived the danger threatening his people on all sides. -Father Peyri, before he left the country, had said to him: “Pablo, your -people will be driven like sheep to the slaughter, unless you keep them -together. Knit firm bonds between them; band them into pueblos; make -them work; and above all, keep peace with the whites. It is your only -chance.” - -Most strenuously Pablo had striven to obey Father Peyri's directions. He -had set his people the example of constant industry, working steadily in -his fields and caring well for his herds. He had built a chapel in his -little village, and kept up forms of religious service there. Whenever -there were troubles with the whites, or rumors of them, he went from -house to house, urging, persuading, commanding his people to keep the -peace. At one time when there was an insurrection of some of the Indian -tribes farther south, and for a few days it looked as if there would -be a general Indian war, he removed the greater part of his band, men, -women, and children driving their flocks and herds with them, to -Los Angeles, and camped there for several days, that they might be -identified with the whites in case hostilities became serious. - -But his labors did not receive the reward that they deserved. With every -day that the intercourse between his people and the whites increased, -he saw the whites gaining, his people surely losing ground, and his -anxieties deepened. The Mexican owner of the Temecula valley, a friend -of Father Peyri's, and a good friend also of Pablo's, had returned -to Mexico in disgust with the state of affairs in California, and was -reported to be lying at the point of death. This man's promise to Pablo, -that he and his people should always live in the valley undisturbed, -was all the title Pablo had to the village lands. In the days when the -promise was given, it was all that was necessary. The lines marking off -the Indians' lands were surveyed, and put on the map of the estate. No -Mexican proprietor ever broke faith with an Indian family or village, -thus placed on his lands. - -But Pablo had heard rumors, which greatly disquieted him, that such -pledges and surveyed lines as these were corning to be held as of no -value, not binding on purchasers of grants. He was intelligent enough -to see that if this were so, he and his people were ruined. All these -perplexities and fears he confided to Alessandro; long anxious hours the -father and son spent together, walking back and forth in the village, or -sitting in front of their little adobe house, discussing what could be -done. There was always the same ending to the discussion,--a long sigh, -and, “We must wait, we can do nothing.” - -No wonder Alessandro seemed, to the more ignorant and thoughtless young -men and women of his village, a cold and distant lad. He was made old -before his time. He was carrying in his heart burdens of which they -knew nothing. So long as the wheat fields came up well, and there was -no drought, and the horses and sheep had good pasture, in plenty, on the -hills, the Temecula people could be merry, go day by day to their easy -work, play games at sunset, and sleep sound all night. But Alessandro -and his father looked beyond. And this was the one great reason why -Alessandro had not yet thought about women, in way of love; this, -and also the fact that even the little education he had received was -sufficient to raise a slight barrier, of which he was unconsciously -aware, between him and the maidens of the village. If a quick, warm -fancy for any one of them ever stirred in his veins, he found himself -soon, he knew not how, cured of it. For a dance, or a game, or a -friendly chat, for the trips into the mountains after acorns, or to the -marshes for grasses and reeds, he was their good comrade, and they were -his; but never had the desire to take one of them for his wife, entered -into Alessandro's mind. The vista of the future, for him, was filled -full by thoughts which left no room for love's dreaming; one purpose and -one fear filled it,--the purpose to be his father's worthy successor, -for Pablo was old now, and very feeble; the fear, that exile and ruin -were in store for them all. - -It was of these things he had been thinking as be walked alone, in -advance of his men, on the previous night, when he first saw Ramona -kneeling at the brook. Between that moment and the present, it seemed -to Alessandro that some strange miracle must have happened to him. The -purposes and the fears had alike gone. A face replaced them; a vague -wonder, pain, joy, he knew not what, filled him so to overflowing that -he was bewildered. If he had been what the world calls a civilized man, -he would have known instantly and would have been capable of weighing, -analyzing, and reflecting on his sensations at leisure. But he was not -a civilized man; he had to bring to bear on his present situation only -simple, primitive, uneducated instincts and impulses. If Ramona had been -a maiden of his own people or race, he would have drawn near to her as -quickly as iron to the magnet. But now, if he had gone so far as to even -think of her in such a way, she would have been, to his view, as far -removed from him as was the morning star beneath whose radiance he had -that morning watched, hoping for sight of her at her window. He did not, -however, go so far as to thus think of her. Even that would have -been impossible. He only knelt on the stones outside the chapel door, -mechanically repeating the prayers with the rest, waiting for her to -reappear. He had no doubt, now, that she was Senor Felipe's wife; all -the same he wished to kneel there till she came out, that he might see -her face again. His vista of purpose, fear, hope, had narrowed now down -to that,--just one more sight of her. Ever so civilized, he could hardly -have worshipped a woman better. The mass seemed to him endlessly long. -Until near the last, he forgot to sing; then, in the closing of the -final hymn, he suddenly remembered, and the clear deep-toned voice -pealed out, as before, like the undertone of a great sea-wave, sweeping -along. - -Ramona heard the first note, and felt again the same thrill. She was as -much a musician born as Alessandro himself. As she rose from her knees, -she whispered to Felipe: “Felipe, do find out which one of the Indians -it is has that superb voice. I never heard anything like it.” - -“Oh, that is Alessandro,” replied Felipe, “old Pablo's son. He is a -splendid fellow. Don't you recollect his singing two years ago?” - -“I was not here,” replied Ramona; “you forget.” - -“Ah, yes, so you were away; I had forgotten,” said Felipe. “Well, he -was here. They made him captain of the shearing-band, though he was only -twenty, and he managed the men splendidly. They saved nearly all their -money to carry home, and I never knew them do such a thing before. -Father Salvierderra was here, which might have had something to do with -it; but I think it was quite as much Alessandro. He plays the violin -beautifully. I hope he has brought it along. He plays the old San Luis -Rey music. His father was band-master there.” - -Ramona's eyes kindled with pleasure. “Does your mother like it, to have -him play?” she asked. - -Felipe nodded. “We'll have him up on the veranda tonight,” he said. - -While this whispered colloquy was going on, the chapel had emptied, -the Indians and Mexicans all hurrying out to set about the day's work. -Alessandro lingered at the doorway as long as he dared, till he was -sharply called by Juan Canito, looking back: “What are you gaping at -there, you Alessandro! Hurry, now, and get your men to work. After -waiting till near midsummer for this shearing, we'll make as quick work -of it as we can. Have you got your best shearers here?” - -“Ay, that I have,” answered Alessandro; “not a man of them but can shear -his hundred in a day, There is not such a band as ours in all San Diego -County; and we don't turn out the sheep all bleeding, either; you'll see -scarce a scratch on their sides.” - -“Humph.” retorted Juan Can. “'Tis a poor shearer, indeed, that draws -blood to speak of. I've sheared many a thousand sheep in my day, and -never a red stain on the shears. But the Mexicans have always been famed -for good shearers.” - -Juan's invidious emphasis on the word “Mexicans” did not escape -Alessandro. “And we Indians also,” he answered, good-naturedly, -betraying no annoyance; “but as for these Americans, I saw one at work -the other day, that man Lomax, who settled near Temecula, and upon my -faith, Juan Can, I thought it was a slaughter-pen, and not a shearing. -The poor beasts limped off with the blood running.” - -Juan did not see his way clear at the moment to any fitting rejoinder to -this easy assumption, on Alessandro's part, of the equal superiority -of Indians and Mexicans in the sheep-shearing art; so, much vexed, with -another “Humph!” he walked away; walked away so fast, that he lost the -sight of a smile on Alessandro's face, which would have vexed him still -further. - -At the sheep-shearing sheds and pens all was stir and bustle. The -shearing shed was a huge caricature of a summerhouse,--a long, narrow -structure, sixty feet long by twenty or thirty wide, all roof and -pillars; no walls; the supports, slender rough posts, as far apart -as was safe, for the upholding of the roof, which was of rough planks -loosely laid from beam to beam. On three sides of this were the -sheep-pens filled with sheep and lambs. - -A few rods away stood the booths in which the shearers' food was to be -cooked and the shearers fed. These were mere temporary affairs, roofed -only by willow boughs with the leaves left on. Near these, the Indians -had already arranged their camp; a hut or two of green boughs had -been built, but for the most part they would sleep rolled up in their -blankets, on the ground. There was a brisk wind, and the gay colored -wings of the windmill blew furiously round and round, pumping out into -the tank below a stream of water so swift and strong, that as the men -crowded around, wetting and sharpening their knives, they got well -spattered, and had much merriment, pushing and elbowing each other into -the spray. - -A high four-posted frame stood close to the shed; in this, swung from -the four corners, hung one of the great sacking bags in which the -fleeces were to be packed. A big pile of bags lay on the ground at the -foot of the posts. Juan Can eyed them with a chuckle. “We'll fill more -than those before night, Senor Felipe,” he said. He was in his element, -Juan Can, at shearing times. Then came his reward for the somewhat -monotonous and stupid year's work. The world held no better feast for -his eyes than the sight of a long row of big bales of fleece, tied, -stamped with the Moreno brand, ready to be drawn away to the mills. -“Now, there is something substantial,” he thought; “no chance of wool -going amiss in market!” - -If a year's crop were good, Juan's happiness was assured for the next -six months. If it proved poor, he turned devout immediately, and -spent the next six months calling on the saints for better luck, and -redoubling his exertions with the sheep. - -On one of the posts of the shed short projecting slats were nailed, like -half-rounds of a ladder. Lightly as a rope-walker Felipe ran up these, -to the roof, and took his stand there, ready to take the fleeces and -pack them in the bag as fast as they should be tossed up from below. -Luigo, with a big leathern wallet fastened in front of him, filled with -five-cent pieces, took his stand in the centre of the shed. The thirty -shearers, running into the nearest pen, dragged each his sheep into -the shed, in a twinkling of an eye had the creature between his knees, -helpless, immovable, and the sharp sound of the shears set in. The -sheep-shearing had begun. No rest now. Not a second's silence from the -bleating, baa-ing, opening and shutting, clicking, sharpening of shears, -flying of fleeces through the air to the roof, pressing and stamping -them down in the bales; not a second's intermission, except the hour of -rest at noon, from sunrise till sunset, till the whole eight thousand -of the Senora Moreno's sheep were shorn. It was a dramatic spectacle. As -soon as a sheep was shorn, the shearer ran with the fleece in his -hand to Luigo, threw it down on a table, received his five-cent piece, -dropped it in his pocket, ran to the pen, dragged out another sheep, and -in less than five minutes was back again with a second fleece. The shorn -sheep, released, bounded off into another pen, where, light in the head -no doubt from being three to five pounds lighter on their legs, they -trotted round bewilderedly for a moment, then flung up their heels and -capered for joy. - -It was warm work. The dust from the fleeces and the trampling feet -filled the air. As the sun rose higher in the sky the sweat poured off -the men's faces; and Felipe, standing without shelter on the roof, found -out very soon that he had by no means yet got back his full strength -since the fever. Long before noon, except for sheer pride, and for -the recollection of Juan Canito's speech, he would have come down and -yielded his place to the old man. But he was resolved not to give up, -and he worked on, though his face was purple and his head throbbing. -After the bag of fleeces is half full, the packer stands in it, jumping -with his full weight on the wool, as he throws in the fleeces, to -compress them as much as possible. When Felipe began to do this, he -found that he had indeed overrated his strength. As the first cloud of -the sickening dust came up, enveloping his head, choking his breath, -he turned suddenly dizzy, and calling faintly, “Juan, I am ill,” sank -helpless down in the wool. He had fainted. At Juan Canito's scream of -dismay, a great hubbub and outcry arose; all saw instantly what had -happened. Felipe's head was hanging limp over the edge of the bag, Juan -in vain endeavoring to get sufficient foothold by his side to lift him. -One after another the men rushed up the ladder, until they were all -standing, a helpless, excited crowd, on the roof, one proposing one -thing, one another. Only Luigo had had the presence of mind to run to -the house for help. The Senora was away from home. She had gone with -Father Salvierderra to a friend's house, a half-day's journey off. -But Ramona was there. Snatching all she could think of in way of -restoratives, she came flying back with Luigo, followed by every servant -of the establishment, all talking, groaning, gesticulating, suggesting, -wringing their hands,--as disheartening a Babel as ever made bad matters -worse. - -Reaching the shed, Ramona looked up to the roof bewildered. “Where is -he?” she cried. The next instant she saw his head, held in Juan Canito's -arms, just above the edge of the wool-bag. She groaned, “Oh, how will he -ever be lifted out!” - -“I will lift him, Senora,” cried Alessandro, coming to the front, “I am -very strong. Do not be afraid; I will bring him safe down.” And swinging -himself down the ladder, he ran swiftly to the camp, and returned, -bringing in his hands blankets. Springing quickly to the roof again, -he knotted the blankets firmly together, and tying them at the middle -around his waist, threw the ends to his men, telling them to hold him -firm. He spoke in the Indian tongue as he was hurriedly doing this, -and Ramona did not at first understand his plan. But when she saw -the Indians move a little back from the edge of the roof, holding the -blankets firm grasped, while Alessandro stepped out on one of the narrow -cross-beams from which the bag swung, she saw what he meant to do. She -held her breath. Felipe was a slender man; Alessandro was much heavier, -and many inches taller. Still, could any man carry such a burden safely -on that narrow beam! Ramona looked away, and shut her eyes, through -the silence which followed. It was only a few moments; but it seemed an -eternity before a glad murmur of voices told her that it was done, and -looking up, she saw Felipe lying on the roof, unconscious, his face -white, his eyes shut. At this sight, all the servants broke out afresh, -weeping and wailing, “He is dead! He is dead!” - -Ramona stood motionless, her eyes fixed on Felipe's face. She, too, -believed him dead; but her thought was of the Senora. - -“He is not dead,” cried Juan Canito, who had thrust his hand under -Felipe's shirt. “He is not dead. It is only a faint.” - -At this the first tears rolled down Ramona's face. She looked piteously -at the ladder up and down which she had seen Alessandro run as if it -were an easy indoor staircase. “If I could only get up there!” she said, -looking from one to another. “I think I can;” and she put one foot on -the lower round. - -“Holy Virgin!” cried Juan Can, seeing her movement. “Senorita! Senorita! -do not attempt it. It is not too easy for a man. You will break your -neck. He is fast coming to his senses.” - -Alessandro caught the words. Spite of all the confusion and terror of -the scene, his heart heard the word, “Senorita.” Ramona was not the -wife of Felipe, or of any man. Yet Alessandro recollected that he had -addressed her as Senora, and she did not seem surprised. Coming to the -front of the group he said, bending forward, “Senorita!” There must -have been something in the tone which made Ramona start. The simple word -could not have done it. “Senorita,” said Alessandro, “it will be nothing -to bring Senor Felipe down the ladder. He is, in my arms, no more -than one of the lambs yonder. I will bring him down as soon as he is -recovered. He is better here till then. He will very soon be himself -again. It was only the heat.” Seeing that the expression of anxious -distress did not grow less on Ramona's face, he continued, in a tone -still more earnest, “Will not the Senorita trust me to bring him safe -down?” - -Ramona smiled faintly through her tears. “Yes,” she said, “I will trust -you. You are Alessandro, are you not?” - -“Yes, Senorita,” he answered, greatly surprised, “I am Alessandro.” - - - - -VI - -A BAD beginning did not make a good ending of the Senora Moreno's -sheep-shearing this year. One as superstitiously prejudiced against -Roman Catholic rule as she was in favor of it, would have found, in the -way things fell out, ample reason for a belief that the Senora was -being punished for having let all the affairs of her place come to a -standstill, to await the coming of an old monk. But the pious Senora, -looking at the other side of the shield, was filled with gratitude -that, since all this ill luck was to befall her, she had the good Father -Salvierderra at her side to give her comfort and counsel. - -It was not yet quite noon of the first day, when Felipe fainted and fell -in the wool; and it was only a little past noon of the third, when -Juan Canito, who, not without some secret exultation, had taken Senor -Felipe's place at the packing, fell from the cross-beam to the ground, -and broke his right leg,--a bad break near the knee; and Juan Canito's -bones were much too old for fresh knitting. He would never again be able -to do more than hobble about on crutches, dragging along the useless -leg. It was a cruel blow to the old man. He could not be resigned to -it. He lost faith in his saints, and privately indulged in blasphemous -beratings and reproaches of them, which would have filled the Senora -with terror, had she known that such blasphemies were being committed -under her roof. - -“As many times as I have crossed that plank, in my day!” cried Juan; -“only the fiends themselves could have made me trip; and there was that -whole box of candles I paid for with my own money last month, and burned -to Saint Francis in the chapel for this very sheep-shearing! He may sit -in the dark, for all me, to the end of time! He is no saint at all! What -are they for, if not to keep us from harm when we pray to them? I'll -pray no more. I believe the Americans are right, who laugh at us.” From -morning till night, and nearly from night till morning, for the leg -ached so he slept little, poor Juan groaned and grumbled and swore, and -swore and grumbled and groaned. Taking care of him was enough, Margarita -said, to wear out the patience of the Madonna herself. There was no -pleasing him, whatever you did, and his tongue was never still a minute. -For her part, she believed that it must be as he said, that the fiends -had pushed him off the plank, and that the saints had had their reasons -for leaving him to his fate. A coldness and suspicion gradually grew up -in the minds of all the servants towards him. His own reckless language, -combined with Margarita's reports, gave the superstitious fair ground -for believing that something had gone mysteriously wrong, and that the -Devil was in a fair way to get his soul, which was very hard for the old -man, in addition to all the rest he had to bear. The only alleviation he -had for his torments, was in having his fellow-servants, men and women, -drop in, sit by his pallet, and chat with him, telling him all that was -going on; and when by degrees they dropped off, coming more and more -seldom, and one by one leaving off coming altogether, it was the one -drop that overflowed his cup of misery; and he turned his face to the -wall, left off grumbling, and spoke only when he must. - -This phase frightened Margarita even more than the first. Now, she -thought, surely the dumb terror and remorse of one who belongs to the -Devil had seized him, and her hands trembled as she went through the -needful ministrations for him each day. Three months, at least, the -doctor, who had come from Ventura to set the leg, had said he must lie -still in bed and be thus tended. “Three months!” sighed Margarita. “If I -be not dead or gone crazy myself before the end of that be come!” - -The Senora was too busy with Felipe to pay attention or to give thought -to Juan. Felipe's fainting had been the symptom and beginning of a -fierce relapse of the fever, and he was lying in his bed, tossing and -raving in delirium, always about the wool. - -“Throw them faster, faster! That's a good fleece; five pounds more; a -round ton in those bales. Juan! Alessandro! Captain!--Jesus, how this -sun burns my head!” - -Several times he had called “Alessandro” so earnestly, that Father -Salvierderra advised bringing Alessandro into the room, to see if by any -chance there might have been something in his mind that he wished to say -to him. But when Alessandro stood by the bedside, Felipe gazed at -him vacantly, as he did at all the others, still repeating, however, -“Alessandro! Alessandro!” - -“I think perhaps he wants Alessandro to play on his violin,” sobbed out -Ramona. “He was telling me how beautifully Alessandro played, and said -he would have him up on the veranda in the evening to play to us.” - -“We might try it,” said Father Salvierderra. “Have you your violin here, -Alessandro?” - -“Alas, no, Father,” replied Alessandro, “I did not bring it.” - -“Perhaps it would do him good it you were to sing, then,” said Ramona. -“He was speaking of your voice also.” - -“Oh, try, try.” said the Senorita, turning to Alessandro. “Sing -something low and soft.” - -Alessandro walked from the bed to the open window, and after thinking -for a moment, began a slow strain from one of the masses. - -At the first note, Felipe became suddenly quiet, evidently listening. An -expression of pleasure spread over his feverish face. He turned his head -to one side, put his hand under his cheek and closed his eyes. The three -watching him looked at each other in astonishment. - -“It is a miracle,” said Father Salvierderra. “He will sleep.” - -“It was what he wanted!” whispered Ramona. - -The Senora spoke not, but buried her face in the bedclothes for a -second; then lifting it, she gazed at Alessandro as if she were praying -to a saint. He, too, saw the change in Felipe, and sang lower and lower, -till the notes sounded as if they came from afar; lower and lower, -slower; finally they ceased, as if they died away lost in distance. As -they ceased, Felipe opened his eyes. - -“Oh, go on, go on!” the Senora implored in a whisper shrill with -anxiety. “Do not stop!” - -Alessandro repeated the strain, slow, solemn; his voice trembled; the -air in the room seemed stifling, spite of the open window; he felt -something like terror, as he saw Felipe evidently sinking to sleep by -reason of the notes of his voice. There had been nothing in Alessandro's -healthy outdoor experience to enable him to understand such a -phenomenon. Felipe breathed more and more slowly, softly, regularly; -soon he was in a deep sleep. The singing stopped; Felipe did not stir. - -“Can I go?” whispered Alessandro. - -“No, no.” replied the Senora, impatiently. “He may wake any minute.” - -Alessandro looked troubled, but bowed his head submissively, and -remained standing by the window. Father Salvierderra was kneeling on -one side of the bed, the Senora at the other, Ramona at the foot,--all -praying; the silence was so great that the slight sounds of the rosary -beads slipping against each other seemed loud. In a niche in the wall, -at the head of the bed, stood a statue of the Madonna, on the other side -a picture of Santa Barbara. Candles were burning before each. The long -wicks smouldered and died down, sputtering, then flared up again as -the ends fell into the melted wax. The Senora's eyes were fixed on the -Madonna. The Father's were closed. Ramona gazed at Felipe with tears -streaming down her face as she mechanically told her beads. - -“She is his betrothed, no doubt,” thought Alessandro. “The saints will -not let him die;” and Alessandro also prayed. But the oppression of the -scene was too much for him. Laying his hand on the low window-sill, he -vaulted over it, saying to Ramona, who turned her head at the sound, -“I will not go away, Senorita, I will be close under the window, if he -awakes.” - -Once in the open air, he drew a long breath, and gazed bewilderedly -about him, like one just recovering consciousness after a faint. Then -he threw himself on the ground under the window, and lay looking up into -the sky. Capitan came up, and with a low whine stretched himself out at -full length by his side. The dog knew as well as any other one of the -house that danger and anguish were there. - -One hour passed, two, three; still no sound from Felipe's room. -Alessandro rose, and looked in at the window. The Father and the Senora -had not changed their attitudes; their lips were yet moving in prayer. -But Ramona had yielded to her fatigue; slipped from her knees into a -sitting posture, with her head leaning against the post of the bedstead, -and fallen asleep. Her face was swollen and discolored by weeping, and -heavy circles under her eyes told how tired she was. For three days and -nights she had scarcely rested, so constant were the demands on her. -Between Felipe's illness and Juan Can's, there was not a moment without -something to be done, or some perplexing question to be settled, and -above all, and through all, the terrible sorrow. Ramona was broken down -with grief at the thought of Felipe's death. She had never known till -she saw him lying there delirious, and as she in her inexperience -thought, dying, how her whole life was entwined with his. But now, at -the very thought of what it would be to live without him, her heart -sickened. “When he is buried, I will ask Father Salvierderra to take -me away. I never can live here alone,” she said to herself, never for a -moment perceiving that the word “alone” was a strange one to have come -into her mind in the connection. The thought of the Senora did not enter -into her imaginations of the future which so smote her with terror. In -the Senora's presence, Ramona always felt herself alone. - -Alessandro stood at the window, his arms folded, leaning on the sill, -his eyes fixed on Ramona's face and form. To any other than a lover's -eyes she had not looked beautiful now; but to Alessandro she looked more -beautiful than the picture of Santa Barbara on the wall beyond. With a -lover's instinct he knew the thoughts which had written such lines -on her face in the last three days. “It will kill her if he dies,” - he thought, “if these three days have made her look like that.” And -Alessandro threw himself on the ground again, his face down. He did not -know whether it were an hour or a day that he had lain there, when he -heard Father Salvierderra's voice speaking his name. He sprang up, to -see the old monk standing in the window, tears running down his cheeks. -“God be praised,” he said, “the Senor Felipe will get well. A sweat has -broken out on his skin; he still sleeps, but when he wakes he will be in -his right mind. The strength of the fever is broken. But, Alessandro, we -know not how to spare you. Can you not let the men go without you, and -remain here? The Senora would like to have you remain in Juan Can's -place till he is about. She will give you the same wages he had. Would -it not be a good thing for you, Alessandro? You cannot be sure of -earning so much as that for the next three months, can you?” - -While the Father was speaking, a tumult had been going on in -Alessandro's breast. He did not know by name any of the impulses which -were warring there, tearing him in twain, as it were, by their pulling -in opposite directions; one saying “Stay!” and the other saying “Go!” - He would not have known what any one meant, who had said to him, “It -is danger to stay; it is safety to fly.” All the same, he felt as if he -could do neither. - -“There is another shearing yet, Father,” he began, “at the Ortega's -ranch. I had promised to go to them as soon as I had finished here, and -they have been wroth enough with us for the delay already. It will not -do to break the promise, Father.” - -Father Salvierderra's face fell. “No, my son, certainly not,” he said; -“but could no one else take your place with the band?” - -Hearing these words, Ramona came to the window, and leaning out, -whispered, “Are you talking about Alessandro's staying? Let me come -and talk to him. He must not go.” And running swiftly through the hall, -across the veranda, and down the steps, she stood by Alessandro's side -in a moment. Looking up in his face pleadingly, she said: “We can't let -you go, Alessandro. The Senor will pay wages to some other to go in your -place with the shearers. We want you to stay here in Juan Can's place -till he is well. Don't say you can't stay! Felipe may need you to sing -again, and what would we do then? Can't you stay?” - -“Yes, I can stay, Senorita,” answered Alessandro, gravely. “I will stay -so long as you need me.” - -“Oh, thank you, Alessandro!” Ramona cried. “You are good, to stay. The -Senora will see that it is no loss to you;” and she flew back to the -house. - -“It is not for the wages, Senorita,” Alessandro began; but Ramona -was gone. She did not hear him, and he turned away with a sense of -humiliation. “I don't want the Senorita to think that it was the money -kept me,” he said, turning to Father Salvierderra. “I would not leave -the band for money; it is to help, because they are in trouble, Father.” - -“Yes, yes, son. I understand that,” replied the monk, who had known -Alessandro since he was a little fellow playing in the corridors of San -Luis Rey, the pet of all the Brothers there. “That is quite right of -you, and the Senora will not be insensible of it. It is not for such -things that money can pay. They are indeed in great trouble now, and -only the two women in the house; and I must soon be going on my way -North again.” - -“Is it sure that Senor Felipe will get well?” asked Alessandro. - -“I think so,” replied Father Salvierderra. “These relapses are always -worse than the first attack; but I have never known one to die, after -he had the natural sweat to break from the skin, and got good sleep. I -doubt not he will be in his bed, though, for many days, and there will -be much to be seen to. It was an ill luck to have Juan Can laid up, -too, just at this time. I must go and see him; I hear he is in most -rebellious frame of mind, and blasphemes impiously.” - -“That does he!” said Alessandro. “He swears the saints gave him over to -the fiends to push him off the plank, and he'll have none of them from -this out! I told him to beware, or they might bring him to worse things -yet if he did not mend his speech of them.” - -Sighing deeply as they walked along, the monk said: “It is but a sign -of the times. Blasphemers are on the highway. The people are being -corrupted. Keeps your father the worship in the chapel still, and does a -priest come often to the village?” - -“Only twice a year,” replied Alessandro; “and sometimes for a funeral, -if there is money enough to pay for the mass. But my father has the -chapel open, and each Sunday we sing what we know of the mass; and the -people are often there praying.” - -“Ay, ay! Ever for money!” groaned Father Salvierderra, not heeding the -latter part of the sentence. “Ever for money! It is a shame. But that it -were sure to be held as a trespass, I would go myself to Temecula once -in three months; but I may not. The priests do not love our order.” - -“Oh, if you could, Father,” exclaimed Alessandro, “it would make my -father very glad! He speaks often to me of the difference he sees -between the words of the Church now and in the days of the Mission. He -is very sad, Father, and in great fear about our village. They say the -Americans, when they buy the Mexicans' lands, drive the Indians away as -if they were dogs; they say we have no right to our lands. Do you think -that can be so, Father, when we have always lived on them, and the -owners promised them to us forever?” - -Father Salvierderra was silent a long time before replying, and -Alessandro watched his face anxiously. He seemed to be hesitating for -words to convey his meaning. At last he said: “Got your father any -notice, at any time since the Americans took the country,--notice to -appear before a court, or anything about a title to the land?” - -“No, Father,” replied Alessandro. - -“There has to be some such paper, as I understand their laws,” continued -the monk; “some notice, before any steps can be taken to remove Indians -from an estate. It must be done according to the law, in the courts. If -you have had no such notice, you are not in danger.” - -“But, Father,” persisted Alessandro, “how could there be a law to take -away from us the land which the Senor Valdez gave us forever?” - -“Gave he to you any paper, any writing to show it?” - -“No, no paper; but it is marked in red lines on the map. It was marked -off by Jose Ramirez, of Los Angeles, when they marked all the boundaries -of Senor Valdez's estate. They had many instruments of brass and wood to -measure with, and a long chain, very heavy, which I helped them carry. -I myself saw it marked on the map. They all slept in my father's -house,--Senor Valdez, and Ramirez, and the man who made the measures. He -hired one of our men to carry his instruments, and I went to help, for I -wished to see how it was done; but I could understand nothing, and Jose -told me a man must study many years to learn the way of it. It seemed to -me our way, by the stones, was much better. But I know it is all marked -on the map, for it was with a red line; and my father understood it, and -Jose Ramirez and Senor Valdez both pointed to it with their finger, and -they said, 'All this here is your land, Pablo, always.' I do not think -my father need fear, do you?” - -“I hope not,” replied Father Salvierderra, cautiously; “but since the -way that all the lands of the Missions have been taken away, I have -small faith in the honesty of the Americans. I think they will take all -that they can. The Church has suffered terrible loss at their hands.” - -“That is what my father says,” replied Alessandro. “He says, 'Look at -San Luis Rey! Nothing but the garden and orchard left, of all their vast -lands where they used to pasture thirty thousand sheep. If the Church -and the Fathers could not keep their lands, what can we Indians do?' -That is what my father says.” - -“True, true!” said the monk, as he turned into the door of the room -where Juan Can lay on his narrow bed, longing yet fearing to see Father -Salvierderra's face coming in. “We are all alike helpless in their -hands, Alessandro. They possess the country, and can make what laws they -please. We can only say, 'God's will be done,'” and he crossed himself -devoutly, repeating the words twice. - -Alessandro did the same, and with a truly devout spirit, for he was full -of veneration for the Fathers and their teachings; but as he walked on -towards the shearing-shed he thought: “Then, again, how can it be God's -will that wrong be done? It cannot be God's will that one man should -steal from another all he has. That would make God no better than a -thief, it looks to me. But how can it happen, if it is not God's will?” - -It does not need that one be educated, to see the logic in this formula. -Generations of the oppressed and despoiled, before Alessandro, had -grappled with the problem in one shape or another. - -At the shearing-shed, Alessandro found his men in confusion and -ill-humor. The shearing had been over and done by ten in the morning, -and why were they not on their way to the Ortega's? Waiting all day,--it -was now near sunset,--with nothing to do, and still worse with not -much of anything to eat, had made them all cross; and no wonder. The -economical Juan Can, finding that the work would be done by ten, and -supposing they would be off before noon, had ordered only two sheep -killed for them the day before, and the mutton was all gone, and old -Marda, getting her cue from Juan, had cooked no more frijoles than the -family needed themselves; so the poor shearers had indeed had a sorry -day of it, in no wise alleviated either by the reports brought from time -to time that their captain was lying on the ground, face down, under -Senor Felipe's window, and must not be spoken to. - -It was not a propitious moment for Alessandro to make the announcement -of his purpose to leave the band; but he made a clean breast of it in -few words, and diplomatically diverted all resentment from himself by -setting them immediately to voting for a new captain to take his place -for the remainder of the season. - -“Very well!” they said hotly; “captain for this year, captain for next, -too!” It wasn't so easy to step out and in again of the captaincy of the -shearers! - -“All right,” said Alessandro; “please yourselves! It is all the same -to me. But here I am going to stay for the present. Father Salvierderra -wishes it.” - -“Oh, if the Father wishes it, that is different.” “Ah, that alters -the case!” “Alessandro is right!” came up in confused murmur from the -appeased crowd. They were all good Catholics, every one of the Temecula -men, and would never think of going against the Father's orders. But -when they understood that Alessandro's intention was to remain until -Juan Canito's leg should be well enough for him to go about again, fresh -grumblings began. That would not do. It would be all summer. Alessandro -must be at home for the Saint Juan's Day fete, in midsummer,--no doing -anything without Alessandro then. What was he thinking of? Not of the -midsummer fete, that was certain, when he promised to stay as long as -the Senorita Ramona should need him. Alessandro had remembered nothing -except the Senorita's voice, while she was speaking to him. If he had -had a hundred engagements for the summer, he would have forgotten -them all. Now that he was reminded of the midsummer fete, it must be -confessed he was for a moment dismayed at the recollection; for that was -a time, when, as he well knew, his father could not do without his help. -There were sometimes a thousand Indians at this fete, and disorderly -whites took advantage of the occasion to sell whisky and encourage all -sorts of license and disturbance. Yes, Alessandro's clear path of duty -lay at Temecula when that fete came off. That was certain. - -“I will manage to be at home then,” he said. “If I am not through here -by that time, I will at least come for the fete. That you may depend -on.” - -The voting for the new captain did not take long. There was, in fact, -but one man in the band fit for the office. That was Fernando, the only -old man in the band; all the rest were young men under thirty, or boys. -Fernando had been captain for several years, but had himself begged, -two years ago, that the band would elect Alessandro in his place. He was -getting old, and he did not like to have to sit up and walk about the -first half of every night, to see that the shearers were not gambling -away all their money at cards; he preferred to roll himself up in his -blanket at sunset and sleep till dawn the next morning. But just for -these few remaining weeks he had no objection to taking the office -again. And Alessandro was right, entirely right, in remaining; they -ought all to see that, Fernando said; and his word had great weight with -the men. - -The Senora Moreno, he reminded them, had always been a good friend -of theirs, and had said that so long as she had sheep to shear, the -Temecula shearers should do it; and it would be very ungrateful now if -they did not do all they could to help her in her need. - -The blankets were rolled up, the saddles collected, the ponies caught -and driven up to the shed, when Ramona and Margarita were seen coming at -full speed from the house. - -“Alessandro! Alessandro!” cried Ramona, out of breath, “I have only just -now heard that the men have had no dinner to-day. I am ashamed; but you -know it would not have happened except for the sickness in the house. -Everybody thought they were going away this morning. Now they must have -a good supper before they go. It is already cooking. Tell them to wait.” - -Those of the men who understood the Spanish language, in which Ramona -spoke, translated it to those who did not, and there was a cordial -outburst of thanks to the Senorita from all lips. All were only too -ready to wait for the supper. Their haste to begin on the Ortega -sheep-shearing had suddenly faded from their minds. Only Alessandro -hesitated. - -“It is a good six hours' ride to Ortega's,” he said to the men. “You'll -be late in, if you do not start now.” - -“Supper will be ready in an hour,” said Ramona. “Please let them stay; -one hour can't make any difference.” - -Alessandro smiled. “It will take nearer two, Senorita, before they are -off,” he said; “but it shall be as you wish, and many thanks to you, -Senorita, for thinking of it.” - -“Oh, I did not think of it myself,” said Ramona. “It was Margarita, -here, who came and told me. She knew we would be ashamed to have the -shearers go away hungry. I am afraid they are very hungry indeed,” she -added ruefully. “It must be dreadful to go a whole day without anything -to eat; they had their breakfast soon after sunrise, did they not?” - -“Yes, Senorita,” answered Alessandro, “but that is not long; one can do -without food very well for one day. I often do.” - -“Often.” exclaimed Ramona; “but why should you do that?” Then suddenly -bethinking herself, she said in her heart, “Oh, what a thoughtless -question! Can it be they are so poor as that?” And to save Alessandro -from replying, she set off on a run for the house, saying, “Come, come, -Margarita, we must go and help at the supper.” - -“Will the Senorita let me help, too,” asked Alessandro, wondering at his -own boldness,--“if there is anything I can do?” - -“Oh, no,” she cried, “there is not. Yes, there is, too. You can help -carry the things down to the booth; for we are short of hands now, with -Juan Can in bed, and Luigo gone to Ventura for the doctor. You and some -of your men might carry all the supper over. I'll call you when we are -ready.” - -The men sat down in a group and waited contentedly, smoking, chatting, -and laughing. Alessandro walked up and down between the kitchen and -the shed. He could hear the sounds of rattling dishes, jingling spoons, -frying, pouring water. Savory smells began to be wafted out. Evidently -old Marda meant to atone for the shortcoming of the noon. Juan Can, in -his bed, also heard and smelled what was going on. “May the fiends get -me,” he growled, “if that wasteful old hussy isn't getting up a feast -for those beasts of Indians! There's mutton and onions, and peppers -stewing, and potatoes, I'll be bound, and God knows what else, for -beggars that are only too thankful to get a handful of roasted wheat or -a bowl of acorn porridge at home. Well, they'll have to say they -were well feasted at the Moreno's,--that's one comfort. I wonder if -Margarita'll think I am worthy of tasting that stew! San Jose! but it -smells well! Margarita! Margarita!” he called at top of his lungs; but -Margarita did not hear. She was absorbed in her duties in the kitchen; -and having already taken Juan at sundown a bowl of the good broth which -the doctor had said was the only sort of food he must eat for two weeks, -she had dismissed him from her mind for the night. Moreover, Margarita -was absent-minded to-night. She was more than half in love with the -handsome Alessandro, who, when he had been on the ranch the year -before, had danced with her, and said many a light pleasant word to her, -evenings, as a young man may; and what ailed him now, that he seemed, -when he saw her, as if she were no more than a transparent shade, -through which he stared at the sky behind her, she did not know. Senor -Felipe's illness, she thought, and the general misery and confusion, -had perhaps put everything else out of his head; but now he was going -to stay, and it would be good fun having him there, if only Senor Felipe -got well, which he seemed likely to do. And as Margarita flew about, -here, there, and everywhere, she cast frequent glances at the tall -straight figure pacing up and down in the dusk outside. - -Alessandro did not see her. He did not see anything. He was looking off -at the sunset, and listening. Ramona had said, “I will call you when we -are ready.” But she did not do as she said. She told Margarita to call. - -“Run, Margarita,” she said. “All is ready now; see if Alessandro is in -sight. Call him to come and take the things.” - -So it was Margarita's voice, and not Ramona's, that called “Alessandro! -Alessandro! the supper is ready.” - -But it was Ramona who, when Alessandro reached the doorway, stood there -holding in her arms a huge smoking platter of the stew which had so -roused poor Juan Can's longings; and it was Ramona who said, as she gave -it into Alessandro's hands, “Take care, Alessandro, it is very full. The -gravy will run over if you are not careful. You are not used to waiting -on table;” and as she said it, she smiled full into Alessandro's -eyes,--a little flitting, gentle, friendly smile, which went near to -making him drop the platter, mutton, gravy, and all, then and there, at -her feet. - -The men ate fast and greedily, and it was not, after all, much more than -an hour, when, full fed and happy, they were mounting their horses to -set off. At the last moment Alessandro drew one of them aside. “Jose,” - he said, “whose horse is the faster, yours or Antonio's?” - -“Mine,” promptly replied Jose. “Mine, by a great deal. I will run -Antonio any day he likes.” - -Alessandro knew this as well before asking as after. But Alessandro was -learning a great many things in these days, among other things a little -diplomacy. He wanted a man to ride at the swiftest to Temecula and back. -He knew that Jose's pony could go like the wind. He also knew that there -was a perpetual feud of rivalry between him and Antonio, in matter of -the fleetness of their respective ponies. So, having chosen Jose for -his messenger, he went thus to work to make sure that he would urge his -horse to its utmost speed. - -Whispering in Jose's ear a few words, he said, “Will you go? I will pay -you for the time, all you could earn at the shearing.” - -“I will go,” said Jose, elated. “You will see me back tomorrow by -sundown.” - -“Not earlier?” asked Alessandro. “I thought by noon.” - -“Well, by noon be it, then,” said Jose. “The horse can do it.” - -“Have great care!” said Alessandro. - -“That will I,” replied Jose; and giving his horse's sides a sharp punch -with his knees, set off at full gallop westward. - -“I have sent Jose with a message to Temecula,” said Alessandro, walking -up to Fernando. “He will be back here tomorrow noon, and join you at the -Ortega's the next morning.” - -“Back here by noon to-morrow!” exclaimed Fernando. “Not unless he kills -his horse!” - -“That was what he said,” replied Alessandro, nonchalantly. - -“Easy enough, too!” cried Antonio, riding up on his little dun mare. -“I'd go in less time than that, on this mare. Jose's is no match for -her, and never was. Why did you not send me, Alessandro?” - -“Is your horse really faster than Jose's?” said Alessandro. “Then I wish -I had sent you. I'll send you next time.” - - - - -VII - -IT was strange to see how quickly and naturally Alessandro fitted into -his place in the household. How tangles straightened out, and rough -places became smooth, as he quietly took matters in hand. Luckily, old -Juan Can had always liked him, and felt a great sense of relief at the -news of his staying on. Not a wholly unselfish relief, perhaps, for -since his accident Juan had not been without fears that he might lose -his place altogether; there was a Mexican he knew, who had long -been scheming to get the situation, and had once openly boasted at -a fandango, where he was dancing with Anita, that as soon as that -superannuated old fool, Juan Canito, was out of the way, he meant to -be the Senora Moreno's head shepherd himself. To have seen this man in -authority on the place, would have driven Juan out of his mind. - -But the gentle Alessandro, only an Indian,--and of course the Senora -would never think of putting an Indian permanently in so responsible a -position on the estate,--it was exactly as Juan would have wished; and -he fraternized with Alessandro heartily from the outset; kept him in -his room by the hour, giving him hundreds of long-winded directions and -explanations about things which, if only he had known it, Alessandro -understood far better than he did. - -Alessandro's father had managed the Mission flocks and herds at San Luis -Rey for twenty years; few were as skilful as he; he himself owned nearly -as many sheep as the Senora Moreno; but this Juan did not know. Neither -did he realize that Alessandro, as Chief Pablo's son, had a position -of his own not without dignity and authority. To Juan, an Indian was -an Indian, and that was the end of it. The gentle courteousness of -Alessandro's manner, his quiet behavior, were all set down in Juan's -mind to the score of the boy's native amiability and sweetness. If Juan -had been told that the Senor Felipe himself had not been more carefully -trained in all precepts of kindliness, honorable dealing, and polite -usage, by the Senora, his mother, than had Alessandro by his father, he -would have opened his eyes wide. The standards of the two parents -were different, to be sure; but the advantage could not be shown to be -entirely on the Senora's side. There were many things that Felipe knew, -of which Alessandro was profoundly ignorant; but there were others -in which Alessandro could have taught Felipe; and when it came to the -things of the soul, and of honor, Alessandro's plane was the higher -of the two. Felipe was a fair-minded, honorable man, as men go; but -circumstances and opportunity would have a hold on him they could never -get on Alessandro. Alessandro would not lie; Felipe might. Alessandro -was by nature full of veneration and the religious instinct; Felipe had -been trained into being a good Catholic. But they were both singularly -pure-minded, open-hearted, generous-souled young men, and destined, by -the strange chance which had thus brought them into familiar relations, -to become strongly attached to each other. After the day on which -the madness of Felipe's fever had been so miraculously soothed and -controlled by Alessandro's singing, he was never again wildly delirious. -When he waked in the night from that first long sleep, he was, as Father -Salvierderra had predicted, in his right mind; knew every one, and asked -rational questions. But the over-heated and excited brain did not -for some time wholly resume normal action. At intervals he wandered, -especially when just arousing from sleep; and, strangely enough, it -was always for Alessandro that he called at these times, and it seemed -always to be music that he craved. He recollected Alessandro's having -sung to him that first night. “I was not so crazy as you all thought,” - he said. “I knew a great many of the things I said, but I couldn't help -saying them; and I heard Ramona ask Alessandro to sing; and when he -began, I remember I thought the Virgin had reached down and put her hand -on my head and cooled it.” - -On the second evening, the first after the shearers had left, -Alessandro, seeing Ramona in the veranda, went to the foot of the steps, -and said, “Senorita, would Senor Felipe like to have me play on the -violin to him tonight?” - -“Why, whose violin have you got?” exclaimed Ramona, astonished. - -“My own, Senorita.” - -“Your own! I thought you said you did not bring it.” - -“Yes, Senorita, that is true; but I sent for it last night, and it is -here.” - -“Sent to Temecula and back already!” cried Ramona. - -“Yes, Senorita. Our ponies are swift and strong. They can go a hundred -miles in a day, and not suffer. It was Jose brought it, and he is at the -Ortega's by this time.” - -Ramona's eyes glistened. “I wish I could have thanked him,” she said. -“You should have let me know. He ought to have been paid for going.” - -“I paid him, Senorita; he went for me,” said Alessandro, with a shade of -wounded pride in the tone, which Ramona should have perceived, but did -not, and went on hurting the lover's heart still more. - -“But it was for us that you sent for it, Alessandro; the Senora would -rather pay the messenger herself.” - -“It is paid, Senorita. It is nothing. If the Senor Felipe wishes to hear -the violin, I will play;” and Alessandro walked slowly away. - -Ramona gazed after him. For the first time, she looked at him with no -thought of his being an Indian,--a thought there had surely been no need -of her having, since his skin was not a shade darker than Felipe's; -but so strong was the race feeling, that never till that moment had she -forgotten it. - -“What a superb head, and what a walk!” she thought. Then, looking more -observantly, she said: “He walks as if he were offended. He did not -like my offering to pay for the messenger. He wanted to do it for dear -Felipe. I will tell Felipe, and we will give him some present when he -goes away.” - -“Isn't he splendid, Senorita?” came in a light laughing tone from -Margarita's lips close to her ear, in the fond freedom of their -relation. “Isn't he splendid? And oh, Senorita, you can't think how he -dances! Last year I danced with him every night; he has wings on his -feet, for all he is so tall and big.” - -There was a coquettish consciousness in the girl's tone, that was -suddenly, for some unexplained reason, exceedingly displeasing to -Ramona. Drawing herself away, she spoke to Margarita in a tone she had -never before in her life used. “It is not fitting to speak like that -about young men. The Senora would be displeased if she heard you,” she -said, and walked swiftly away leaving poor Margarita as astounded as if -she had got a box on the ear. - -She looked after Ramona's retreating figure, then after Alessandro's. -She had heard them talking together just before she came up. Thoroughly -bewildered and puzzled, she stood motionless for several seconds, -reflecting; then, shaking her head, she ran away, trying to dismiss the -harsh speech from her mind. “Alessandro must have vexed the Senorita,” - she thought, “to make her speak like that to me.” But the incident was -not so easily dismissed from Margarita's thoughts. Many times in the -day it recurred to her, still a bewilderment and a puzzle, as far from -solution as ever. It was a tiny seed, whose name she did not dream of; -but it was dropped in soil where it would grow some day,--forcing-house -soil, and a bitter seed; and when it blossomed, Ramona would have an -enemy. - -All unconscious, equally of Margarita's heart and her own, Ramona -proceeded to Felipe's room. Felipe was sleeping, the Senora sitting by -his side, as she had sat for days and nights,--her dark face looking -thinner and more drawn each day; her hair looking even whiter, if that -could be; and her voice growing hollow from faintness and sorrow. - -“Dear Senora,” whispered Ramona, “do go out for a few moments while he -sleeps, and let me watch,--just on the walk in front of the veranda. The -sun is still lying there, bright and warm. You will be ill if you do not -have air.” - -The Senora shook her head. “My place is here,” she answered, speaking in -a dry, hard tone. Sympathy was hateful to the Senora Moreno; she wished -neither to give it nor take it. “I shall not leave him. I do not need -the air.” - -Ramona had a cloth-of-gold rose in her hand. The veranda eaves were now -shaded with them, hanging down like a thick fringe of golden tassels. It -was the rose Felipe loved best. Stooping, she laid it on the bed, near -Felipe's head. “He will like to see it when he wakes,” she said. - -The Senora seized it, and flung it far out in the room. “Take it away! -Flowers are poison when one is ill,” she said coldly. “Have I never told -you that?” - -“No, Senora,” replied Ramona, meekly; and she glanced involuntarily at -the saucer of musk which the Senora kept on the table close to Felipe's -pillow. - -“The musk is different,” said the Senora, seeing the glance. “Musk is a -medicine; it revives.” - -Ramona knew, but she would have never dared to say, that Felipe hated -musk. Many times he had said to her how he hated the odor; but his -mother was so fond of it, that it must always be that the veranda and -the house would be full of it. Ramona hated it too. At times it made her -faint, with a deadly faintness. But neither she nor Felipe would have -confessed as much to the Senora; and if they had, she would have thought -it all a fancy. - -“Shall I stay?” asked Ramona, gently. - -“As you please,” replied the Senora. The simple presence of Ramona irked -her now with a feeling she did not pretend to analyze, and would -have been terrified at if she had. She would not have dared to say -to herself, in plain words: “Why is that girl well and strong, and my -Felipe lying here like to die! If Felipe dies, I cannot bear the sight -of her. What is she, to be preserved of the saints!” - -But that, or something like it, was what she felt whenever Ramona -entered the room; still more, whenever she assisted in ministering to -Felipe. If it had been possible, the Senora would have had no hands but -her own do aught for her boy. Even tears from Ramona sometimes irritated -her. “What does she know about loving Felipe! He is nothing to her!” - thought the Senora, strangely mistaken, strangely blind, strangely -forgetting how feeble is the tie of blood in the veins by the side of -love in the heart. - -If into this fiery soul of the Senora's could have been dropped one -second's knowledge of the relative positions she and Ramona already -occupied in Felipe's heart, she would, on the spot, have either died -herself or have slain Ramona, one or the other. But no such knowledge -was possible; no such idea could have found entrance into the Senora's -mind. A revelation from Heaven of it could hardly have reached even her -ears. So impenetrable are the veils which, fortunately for us all, are -forever held by viewless hands between us and the nearest and closest of -our daily companions. - -At twilight of this day Felipe was restless and feverish again. He had -dozed at intervals all day long, but had had no refreshing sleep. - -“Send for Alessandro,” he said. “Let him come and sing to me.” - -“He has his violin now; he can play, if you would like that better,” - said Ramona; and she related what Alessandro had told her of the -messenger's having ridden to Temecula and back in a night and half a -day, to bring it. - -“I wanted to pay the man,” she said; “I knew of course your mother would -wish to reward him. But I fancy Alessandro was offended. He answered me -shortly that it was paid, and it was nothing.” - -“You couldn't have offended him more,” said Felipe. “What a pity! He is -as proud as Lucifer himself, that Alessandro. You know his father has -always been the head of their band; in fact, he has authority over -several bands; General, they call it now, since they got the title from -the Americans; they used to call it Chief., and until Father Peyri left -San Luis Rey, Pablo was in charge of all the sheep, and general steward -and paymaster. Father Peyri trusted him with everything; I've heard he -would leave boxes full of uncounted gold in Pablo's charge to pay off -the Indians. Pablo reads and writes, and is very well off; he has as -many sheep as we have, I fancy!” - -“What!” exclaimed Ramona, astonished. “They all look as if they were -poor.” - -“Oh, well, so they are,” replied Felipe, “compared with us; but one -reason is, they share everything with each other. Old Pablo feeds and -supports half his village, they say. So long as he has anything, he will -never see one of his Indians hungry.” - -“How generous!” warmly exclaimed Ramona; “I think they are better than -we are, Felipe!” - -“I think so, too,” said Felipe. “That's what I have always said. The -Indians are the most generous people in the world. Of course they have -learned it partly from us; but they were very much so when the Fathers -first came here. You ask Father Salvierderra some day. He has read -all Father Junipero's and Father Crespi's diaries, and he says it is -wonderful how the wild savages gave food to every one who came.” - -“Felipe, you are talking too much,” said the Senora's voice, in the -doorway; and as she spoke she looked reproachfully at Ramona. If she -had said in words, “See how unfit you are to be trusted with Felipe. No -wonder I do not leave the room except when I must!” her meaning could -not have been plainer. Ramona felt it keenly, and not without some -misgiving that it was deserved. - -“Oh, dear Felipe, has it hurt you?” she said timidly; and to the Senora, -“Indeed, Senora, he has been speaking but a very few moments, very low.” - -“Go call Alessandro, Ramona, will you?” said Felipe. “Tell him to bring -his violin. I think I will go to sleep if he plays.” - -A long search Ramona had for Alessandro. Everybody had seen him a few -minutes ago, but nobody knew where he was now. Kitchens, sheepfolds, -vineyards, orchards, Juan Can's bedchamber,--Ramona searched them all -in vain. At last, standing at the foot of the veranda steps, and looking -down the garden, she thought she saw figures moving under the willows by -the washing-stones. - -“Can he be there?” she said. “What can he be doing there? Who is it with -him?” And she walked down the path, calling, “Alessandro! Alessandro!” - -At the first sound, Alessandro sprang from the side of his companion, -and almost before the second syllables had been said, was standing face -to face with Ramona. - -“Here I am, Senorita. Does Senor Felipe want me? I have my violin here. -I thought perhaps he would like to have me play to him in the twilight.” - -“Yes,” replied Ramona, “he wishes to hear you. I have been looking -everywhere for you.” As she spoke, she was half unconsciously peering -beyond into the dusk, to see whose figure it was, slowly moving by the -brook. - -Nothing escaped Alessandro's notice where Ramona was concerned. “It is -Margarita,” he said instantly. “Does the Senorita want her? Shall I run -and call her?” - -“No,” said Ramona, again displeased, she knew not why, nor in fact knew -she was displeased; “no, I was not looking for her. What is she doing -there?” - -“She is washing,” replied Alessandro, innocently. - -“Washing at this time of day!” thought Ramona, severely. “A mere -pretext. I shall watch Margarita. The Senora would never allow this sort -of thing.” And as she walked back to the house by Alessandro's side, -she meditated whether or no she would herself speak to Margarita on the -subject in the morning. - -Margarita, in the mean time, was also having her season of reflections -not the pleasantest. As she soused her aprons up and down in the water, -she said to herself, “I may as well finish them now I am here. How -provoking! I've no more than got a word with him, than she must come, -calling him away. And he flies as if he was shot on an arrow, at -the first word. I'd like to know what's come over the man, to be so -different. If I could ever get a good half-hour with him alone, I'd soon -find out. Oh, but his eyes go through me, through and through me! I -know he's an Indian, but what do I care for that. He's a million times -handsomer than Senor Felipe. And Juan Jose said the other day he'd make -enough better head shepherd than old Juan Can, if Senor Felipe'd only -see it; and why shouldn't he get to see it, if Alessandro's here -all summer?” And before the aprons were done, Margarita had a fine -air-castle up: herself and Alessandro married, a nice little house, -children playing in the sunshine below the artichoke-patch, she herself -still working for the Senora. “And the Senorita will perhaps marry Senor -Felipe,” she added, her thoughts moving more hesitatingly. “He worships -the ground she walks on. Anybody with quarter of a blind eye can see -that; but maybe the Senora would not let him. Anyhow, Senor Felipe is -sure to have a wife, and so and so.” It was an innocent, girlish castle, -built of sweet and natural longings, for which no maiden, high or -low, need blush; but its foundations were laid in sand, on which would -presently beat such winds and floods as poor little Margarita never -dreamed of. - -The next day Margarita and Ramona both went about their day's business -with a secret purpose in their hearts. Margarita had made up her mind -that before night she would, by fair means or foul, have a good long -talk with Alessandro. “He was fond enough of me last year, I know,” - she said to herself, recalling some of the dances and the good-night -leave-takings at that time. “It's because he is so put upon by everybody -now. What with Juan Can in one bed sending for him to prate to him about -the sheep, and Senor Felipe in another sending for him to fiddle him to -sleep, and all the care of the sheep, it's a wonder he's not out of his -mind altogether. But I'll find a chance, or make one, before this day's -sun sets. If I can once get a half-hour with him, I'm not afraid after -that; I know the way it is with men!” said the confident Margarita, -who, truth being told, it must be admitted, did indeed know a great -deal about the way it is with men, and could be safely backed, in a fair -field, with a fair start, against any girl of her age and station in -the country. So much for Margarita's purpose, at the outset of a day -destined to be an eventful one in her life. - -Ramona's purpose was no less clear. She had decided, after some -reflection, that she would not speak to the Senora about Margarita's -having been under the willows with Alessandro in the previous evening, -but would watch her carefully and see whether there were any farther -signs of her attempting to have clandestine interviews with him. - -This course she adopted, she thought, chiefly because of her affection -for Margarita, and her unwillingness to expose her to the Senora's -displeasure, which would be great, and terrible to bear. She was also -aware of an unwillingness to bring anything to light which would reflect -ever so lightly upon Alessandro in the Senora's estimation. “And he is -not really to blame,” thought Ramona, “if a girl follows him about and -makes free with him. She must have seen him at the willows, and gone -down there on purpose to meet him, making a pretext of the washing. For -she never in this world would have gone to wash in the dark, as he must -have known, if he were not a fool. He is not the sort of person, it -seems to me, to be fooling with maids. He seems as full of grave thought -as Father Salvierderra. If I see anything amiss in Margarita to-day, I -shall speak to her myself, kindly but firmly, and tell her to conduct -herself more discreetly.” - -Then, as the other maiden's had done, Ramona's thoughts, being -concentrated on Alessandro, altered a little from their first key, and -grew softer and more imaginative; strangely enough, taking some of the -phrases, as it were, out of the other maiden's mouth. - -“I never saw such eyes as Alessandro has,” she said. “I wonder any girl -should make free with him. Even I myself, when he fixes his eyes on me, -feel a constraint. There is something in them like the eyes of a saint, -so solemn, yet so mild. I am sure he is very good.” - -And so the day opened; and if there were abroad in the valley that day -a demon of mischief, let loose to tangle the skeins of human affairs, -things could not have fallen out better for his purpose than they did; -for it was not yet ten o'clock of the morning, when Ramona, sitting at -her embroidery in the veranda, half hid behind the vines, saw Alessandro -going with his pruning-knife in his hand towards the artichoke-patch at -the east of the garden, and joining the almond orchard. “I wonder -what he is going to do there,” she thought. “He can't be going to cut -willows;” and her eyes followed him till he disappeared among the trees. - -Ramona was not the only one who saw this. Margarita, looking from the -east window of Father Salvierderra's room, saw the same thing. “Now's -my chance!” she said; and throwing a white reboso coquettishly over her -head, she slipped around the corner of the house. She ran swiftly in the -direction in which Alessandro had gone. The sound of her steps reached -Ramona, who, lifting her eyes, took in the whole situation at a glance. -There was no possible duty, no possible message, which would take -Margarita there. Ramona's cheeks blazed with a disproportionate -indignation. But she bethought herself, “Ah, the Senora may have sent -her to call Alessandro!” She rose, went to the door of Felipe's room, -and looked in. The Senora was sitting in the chair by Felipe's bed, -with her eyes closed. Felipe was dozing. The Senora opened her eyes, and -looked inquiringly at Ramona. - -“Do you know where Margarita is?” said Ramona. - -“In Father Salvierderra's room, or else in the kitchen helping Marda,” - replied the Senora, in a whisper. “I told her to help Marda with the -peppers this morning.” - -Ramona nodded, returned to the veranda, and sat down to decide on -her course of action. Then she rose again, and going to Father -Salvierderra's room, looked in. The room was still in disorder. -Margarita had left her work there unfinished. The color deepened on -Ramona's cheeks. It was strange how accurately she divined each process -of the incident. “She saw him from this window,” said Ramona, “and has -run after him. It is shameful. I will go and call her back, and let her -see that I saw it all. It is high time that this was stopped.” - -But once back in the veranda, Ramona halted, and seated herself in her -chair again. The idea of seeming to spy was revolting to her. - -“I will wait here till she comes back,” she said, and took up her -embroidery. But she could not work. As the minutes went slowly by, she -sat with her eyes fixed on the almond orchard, where first Alessandro -and then Margarita had disappeared. At last she could bear it no longer. -It seemed to her already a very long time. It was not in reality very -long,--a half hour or so, perhaps; but it was long enough for Margarita -to have made great headway, as she thought, in her talk with Alessandro, -and for things to have reached just the worst possible crisis at which -they could have been surprised, when Ramona suddenly appeared at the -orchard gate, saying in a stern tone, “Margarita, you are wanted in the -house!” At a bad crisis, indeed, for everybody concerned. The picture -which Ramona had seen, as she reached the gate, was this: Alessandro, -standing with his back against the fence, his right hand hanging -listlessly down, with the pruning-knife in it, his left hand in the hand -of Margarita, who stood close to him, looking up in his face, with a -half-saucy, half-loving expression. What made bad matters worse, was, -that at the first sight of Ramona, Alessandro snatched his hand from -Margarita's, and tried to draw farther off from her, looking at her with -an expression which, even in her anger, Ramona could not help seeing was -one of disgust and repulsion. And if Ramona saw it, how much more did -Margarita! Saw it, as only a woman repulsed in presence of another woman -can see and feel. The whole thing was over in the twinkling of an eye; -the telling it takes double, treble the time of the happening. Before -Alessandro was fairly aware what had befallen, Ramona and Margarita -were disappearing from view under the garden trellis,--Ramona walking in -advance, stately, silent, and Margarita following, sulky, abject in her -gait, but with a raging whirlwind in her heart. - -It had taken only the twinkling of an eye, but it had told Margarita the -truth. Alessandro too. - -“My God.” he said, “the Senorita thought me making love to that girl. -May the fiends get her! The Senorita looked at me as if I were a dog. How -could she think a man would look at a woman after he had once seen her! -And I can never, never speak to her to tell her! Oh, this cannot be -borne!” And in his rage Alessandro threw his pruning-knife whirling -through the air so fiercely, it sank to the hilt in one of the old -olive-trees. He wished he were dead. He was minded to flee the place. -How could he ever look the Senorita in the face again! - -“Perdition take that girl!” he said over and over in his helpless -despair. An ill outlook for Margarita after this; and the girl had not -deserved it. - -In Margarita's heart the pain was more clearly defined. She had seen -Ramona a half-second before Alessandro had; and dreaming no special -harm, except a little confusion at being seen thus standing with -him,--for she would tell the Senorita all about it when matters had gone -a little farther,--had not let go of Alessandro's hand. But the next -second she had seen in his face a look; oh, she would never forget it, -never! That she should live to have had any man look at her like that! -At the first glimpse of the Senorita, all the blood in his body seemed -rushing into his face, and he had snatched his hand away,--for it was -Margarita herself that had taken his hand, not he hers,--had snatched -his hand away, and pushed her from him, till she had nearly fallen. All -this might have been borne, if it had been only a fear of the Senorita's -seeing them, which had made him do it. But Margarita knew a great deal -better than that. That one swift, anguished, shame-smitten, appealing, -worshipping look on Alessandro's face, as his eyes rested on Ramona, was -like a flash of light into Margarita's consciousness. Far better than -Alessandro himself, she now knew his secret. In her first rage she did -not realize either the gulf between herself and Ramona, or that between -Ramona and Alessandro. Her jealous rage was as entire as if they had -all been equals together. She lost her head altogether, and there was -embodied insolence in the tone in which she said presently, “Did the -Senorita want me?” - -Turning swiftly on her, and looking her full in the eye, Ramona said: -“I saw you go to the orchard, Margarita, and I knew what you went for. I -knew that you were at the brook last night with Alessandro. All I wanted -of you was, to tell you that if I see anything more of this sort, I -shall speak to the Senora.” - -“There is no harm,” muttered Margarita, sullenly. “I don't know what the -Senorita means.” - -“You know very well, Margarita,” retorted Ramona. “You know that the -Senora permits nothing of the kind. Be careful, now, what you do.” And -with that the two separated, Ramona returning to the veranda and her -embroidery, and Margarita to her neglected duty of making the good -Father's bed. But each girl's heart was hot and unhappy; and Margarita's -would have been still hotter and unhappier, had she heard the words -which were being spoken on the veranda a little later. - -After a few minutes of his blind rage at Margarita, himself, and fate -generally, Alessandro, recovering his senses, had ingeniously persuaded -himself that, as the Senora's; and also the Senorita's servant, for the -time being, he owed it to them to explain the situation in which he had -just been found. Just what he was to say he did not know; but no sooner -had the thought struck him, than he set off at full speed for the house, -hoping to find Ramona on the veranda, where he knew she spent all her -time when not with Senor Felipe. - -When Ramona saw him coming, she lowered her eyes, and was absorbed in -her embroidery. She did not wish to look at him. - -The footsteps stopped. She knew he was standing at the steps. She would -not look up. She thought if she did not, he would go away. She did not -know either the Indian or the lover nature. After a time, finding the -consciousness of the soundless presence intolerable, she looked up, and -surprised on Alessandro's face a gaze which had, in its long interval -of freedom from observation, been slowly gathering up into it all the -passion of the man's soul, as a burning-glass draws the fire of the -sun's rays. Involuntarily a low cry burst from Ramona's lips, and she -sprang to her feet. - -“Ah! did I frighten the Senorita? Forgive. I have been waiting here a -long time to speak to her. I wished to say--” - -Suddenly Alessandro discovered that he did not know what he wished to -say. - -As suddenly, Ramona discovered that she knew all he wished to say. But -she spoke not, only looked at him searchingly. - -“Senorita,” he began again, “I would never be unfaithful to my duty to -the Senora, and to you.” - -“I believe you, Alessandro,” said Ramona. “It is not necessary to say -more.” - -At these words a radiant joy spread over Alessandro's face. He had not -hoped for this. He felt, rather than heard, that Ramona understood him. -He felt, for the first time, a personal relation between himself and -her. - -“It is well,” he said, in the brief phrase so frequent with his people. -“It is well.” And with a reverent inclination of his head, he walked -away. Margarita, still dawdling surlily over her work in Father -Salvierderra's room, heard Alessandro's voice, and running to discover -to whom he was speaking, caught these last, words. Peering from behind -a curtain, she saw the look with which he said them; saw also the -expression on Ramona's face as she listened. - -Margarita clenched her hands. The seed had blossomed. Ramona had an -enemy. - -“Oh, but I am glad Father Salvierderra has gone!” said the girl, -bitterly. “He'd have had this out of me, spite of everything. I haven't -got to confess for a year, maybe; and much can happen in that time.” - -Much, indeed! - - - - -VIII - -FELIPE gained but slowly. The relapse was indeed, as Father Salvierderra -had said, worse than the original attack. Day after day he lay with -little apparent change; no pain, but a weakness so great that it was -almost harder to bear than sharp suffering would have been. Nearly every -day Alessandro was sent for to play or sing to him. It seemed to be the -only thing that roused him from his half lethargic state. Sometimes he -would talk with Alessandro on matters relative to the estate, and show -for a few moments something like his old animation; but he was soon -tired, and would close his eyes, saying: “I will speak with you again -about this, Alessandro; I am going to sleep now. Sing.” - -The Senora, seeing Felipe's enjoyment of Alessandro's presence, soon -came to have a warm feeling towards him herself; moreover, she greatly -liked his quiet reticence. There was hardly a surer road to the Senora's -favor, for man or woman, than to be chary of speech and reserved -in demeanor. She had an instinct of kinship to all that was silent, -self-contained, mysterious, in human nature. The more she observed -Alessandro, the more she trusted and approved him. Luckily for Juan Can, -he did not know how matters were working in his mistress's mind. If he -had, he would have been in a fever of apprehension, and would have got -at swords' points with Alessandro immediately. On the contrary, all -unaware of the real situation of affairs, and never quite sure that the -Mexican he dreaded might not any day hear of his misfortune, and appear, -asking for the place, he took every opportunity to praise Alessandro to -the Senora. She never visited his bedside that he had not something to -say in favor of the lad, as he called him. - -“Truly, Senora,” he said again and again, “I do marvel where the lad -got so much knowledge, at his age. He is like an old hand at the sheep -business. He knows more than any shepherd I have,--a deal more; and it -is not only of sheep. He has had experience, too, in the handling of -cattle. Juan Jose has been beholden to him more than once, already, for -a remedy of which he knew not. And such modesty, withal. I knew not that -there were such Indians; surely there cannot be many such.” - -“No, I fancy not,” the Senora would reply, absently. “His father is a -man of intelligence, and has trained his son well.” - -“There is nothing he is not ready to do,” continued Alessandro's -eulogist. “He is as handy with tools as if he had been 'prenticed to a -carpenter. He has made me a new splint for my leg, which was a relief -like salve to a wound, so much easier was it than before. He is a good -lad,--a good lad.” - -None of these sayings of Juan's were thrown away on the Senora. More and -more closely she watched Alessandro; and the very thing which Juan -had feared, and which he had thought to avert by having Alessandro his -temporary substitute, was slowly coming to pass. The idea was working -in the Senora's mind, that she might do a worse thing than engage this -young, strong, active, willing man to remain permanently in her employ. -The possibility of an Indian's being so born and placed that he would -hesitate about becoming permanently a servant even to the Senora Moreno, -did not occur to her. However, she would do nothing hastily. There would -be plenty of time before Juan Can's leg was well. She would study the -young man more. In the mean time, she would cause Felipe to think of the -idea, and propose it. - -So one day she said to Felipe: “What a voice that Alessandro has, -Felipe. We shall miss his music sorely when he goes, shall we not?” - -“He's not going!” exclaimed Felipe, startled. - -“Oh, no, no; not at present. He agreed to stay till Juan Can was -about again; but that will be not more than six weeks now, or eight, I -suppose. You forget how time has flown while you have been lying here -ill, my son.” - -“True, true!” said Felipe. “Is it really a month already?” and he -sighed. - -“Juan Can tells me that the lad has a marvellous knowledge for one of -his years,” continued the Senora. “He says he is as skilled with cattle -as with sheep; knows more than any shepherd we have on the place. He -seems wonderfully quiet and well-mannered. I never saw an Indian who had -such behavior.” - -“Old Pablo is just like him,” said Felipe. “It was natural enough, -living so long with Father Peyri. And I've seen other Indians, too, with -a good deal the same manner as Alessandro. It's born in them.” - -“I can't bear the idea of Alessandro's going away. But by that time you -will be well and strong,” said the Senora; “you would not miss him then, -would you?” - -“Yes, I would, too!” said Felipe, pettishly. He was still weak enough to -be childish. “I like him about me. He's worth a dozen times as much as -any man we've got. But I don't suppose money could hire him to stay on -any ranch.” - -“Were you thinking of hiring him permanently?” asked the Senora, in a -surprised tone. “I don't doubt you could do so if you wished. They are -all poor, I suppose; he would not work with the shearers if he were not -poor.” - -“Oh, it isn't that,” said Felipe, impatiently. “You can't understand, -because you've never been among them. But they are just as proud as we -are. Some of them, I mean; such men as old Pablo. They shear sheep for -money just as I sell wool for money. There isn't so much difference. -Alessandro's men in the band obey him, and all the men in the village -obey Pablo, just as implicitly as my men here obey me. Faith, much more -so!” added Felipe, laughing. “You can't understand it, mother, but it's -so. I am not at all sure I could offer Alessandro Assis money enough to -tempt him to stay here as my servant.” - -The Senora's nostrils dilated in scorn. “No, I do not understand it,” - she said. “Most certainly I do not understand it. Of what is it that -these noble lords of villages are so proud? their ancestors,--naked -savages less than a hundred years ago? Naked savages they themselves -too, to-day, if we had not come here to teach and civilize them. The -race was never meant for anything but servants. That was all the Fathers -ever expected to make of them,--good, faithful Catholics, and contented -laborers in the fields. Of course there are always exceptional -instances, and I think, myself, Alessandro is one. I don't believe, -however, he is so exceptional, but that if you were to offer him, for -instance, the same wages you pay Juan Can, he would jump at the chance -of staying on the place.” - -“Well, I shall think about it,” said Felipe. “I'd like nothing better -than to have him here always. He's a fellow I heartily like. I'll think -about it.” - -Which was all the Senora wanted done at present. - -Ramona had chanced to come in as this conversation was going on. Hearing -Alessandro's name she seated herself at the window, looking out, but -listening intently. The month had done much for Alessandro with -Ramona, though neither Alessandro nor Ramona knew it. It had done -this much,--that Ramona knew always when Alessandro was near, that she -trusted him, and that she had ceased to think of him as an Indian any -more than when she thought of Felipe, she thought of him as a Mexican. -Moreover, seeing the two men frequently together, she had admitted to -herself, as Margarita had done before her, that Alessandro was far the -handsomer man of the two. This Ramona did not like to admit, but she -could not help it. - -“I wish Felipe were as tall and strong as Alessandro,” she said to -herself many a time. “I do not see why he could not have been. I wonder -if the Senora sees how much handsomer Alessandro is.” - -When Felipe said that he did not believe he could offer Alessandro Assis -money enough to tempt him to stay on the place, Ramona opened her lips -suddenly, as if to speak, then changed her mind, and remained silent. -She had sometimes displeased the Senora by taking part in conversations -between her and her son. - -Felipe saw the motion, but he also thought it wiser to wait till after -his mother had left the room, before he asked Ramona what she was on the -point of saying. As soon as the Senora went out, he said, “What was it, -Ramona, you were going to say just now?” - -Ramona colored. She had decided not to say it. - -“Tell me, Ramona,” persisted Felipe. “You were going to say something -about Alessandro's staying; I know you were.” - -Ramona did not answer. For the first time in her life she found herself -embarrassed before Felipe. - -“Don't you like Alessandro?” said Felipe. - -“Oh, yes!” replied Ramona, with instant eagerness. “It was not that at -all. I like him very much;” But then she stopped. - -“Well, what is it, then? Have you heard anything on the place about his -staying?” - -“Oh, no, no; not a word!” said Ramona. “Everybody understands that he is -here only till Juan Can gets well. But you said you did not believe you -could offer him money enough to tempt him to stay.” - -“Well,” said Felipe, inquiringly, “I do not. Do you?” - -“I think he would like to stay,” said Ramona, hesitatingly. “That was -what I was going to say.” - -“What makes you think so?” asked Felipe. - -“I don't know,” Ramona said, still more hesitatingly. Now that she had -said it, she was sorry. Felipe looked curiously at her. Hesitancy like -this, doubts, uncertainty as to her impressions, were not characteristic -of Ramona. A flitting something which was far from being suspicion -or jealousy, and yet was of kin to them both, went through Felipe's -mind,--went through so swiftly that he was scarce conscious of it; if -he had been, he would have scorned himself. Jealous of an Indian -sheep-shearers Impossible! Nevertheless, the flitting something left a -trace, and prevented Felipe from forgetting the trivial incident; and -after this, it was certain that Felipe would observe Ramona more closely -than he had done; would weigh her words and actions; and if she should -seem by a shade altered in either, would watch still more closely. -Meshes were closing around Ramona. Three watchers of her every look and -act,--Alessandro in pure love, Margarita in jealous hate, Felipe in love -and perplexity. Only the Senora observed her not. If she had, -matters might have turned out very differently, for the Senora was -clear-sighted, rarely mistaken in her reading of people's motives, never -long deceived; but her observing and discriminating powers were not in -focus, so far as Ramona was concerned. The girl was curiously outside of -the Senora's real life. Shelter, food, clothes, all external needs, in -so far as her means allowed, the Senora would, without fail, provide for -the child her sister had left in her hands as a trust; but a personal -relation with her, a mother's affection, or even interest and -acquaintance, no. The Senora had not that to give. And if she had it -not, was she to blame? What could she do? Years ago Father Salvierderra -had left off remonstrating with her on this point. “Is there more I -should do for the child? Do you see aught lacking, aught amiss?” the -Senora would ask, conscientiously, but with pride. And the Father, thus -inquired of, could not point out a duty which had been neglected. - -“You do not love her, my daughter,” he said. - -“No.” Senora Moreno's truthfulness was of the adamantine order. “No, I -do not. I cannot. One cannot love by act of will.” - -“That is true,” the Father would say sadly; “but affection may be -cultivated.” - -“Yes, if it exists,” was the Senora's constant answer. “But in this case -it does not exist. I shall never love Ramona. Only at your command, and -to save my sister a sorrow, I took her. I will never fail in my duty to -her.” - -It was of no use. As well say to the mountain, “Be cast into the sea,” - as try to turn the Senora's heart in any direction whither it did not of -itself tend. All that Father Salvierderra could do, was to love Ramona -the more himself, which he did heartily, and more and more each year, -and small marvel at it; for a gentler, sweeter maiden never drew breath -than this same Ramona, who had been all these years, save for Felipe, -lonely in the Senora Moreno's house. - -Three watchers of Ramona now. If there had been a fourth, and that -fourth herself, matters might have turned out differently. But how -should Ramona watch? How should Ramona know? Except for her two years at -school with the nuns, she had never been away from the Senora's house. -Felipe was the only young man she had known,--Felipe, her brother since -she was five years old. - -There were no gayeties in the Senora Moreno's home. Felipe, when he -needed them, went one day's journey, or two, or three, to get them; went -as often as he liked. Ramona never went. How many times she had longed -to go to Santa Barbara, or to Monterey, or Los Angeles; but to have -asked the Senora's permission to accompany her on some of her now -infrequent journeys to these places would have required more courage -than Ramona possessed. It was now three years since she left the convent -school, but she was still as fresh from the hands of the nuns as on the -day when, with loving tears, they had kissed her in farewell. The few -romances and tales and bits of verse she had read were of the most -innocent and old-fashioned kind, and left her hardly less childlike than -before. This childlikeness, combined with her happy temperament, had -kept her singularly contented in her monotonous life. She had fed the -birds, taken care of the flowers, kept the chapel in order, helped in -light household work, embroidered, sung, and, as the Senora eight -years before had bade her do, said her prayers and pleased Father -Salvierderra. - -By processes strangely unlike, she and Alessandro had both been kept -strangely free from thoughts of love and of marriage,--he by living in -the shadow, and she by living in the sun; his heart and thoughts filled -with perplexities and fears, hers filled by a placid routine of light -and easy tasks, and the outdoor pleasures of a child. - -As the days went on, and Felipe still remained feeble, Alessandro -meditated a bold stroke. Each time that he went to Felipe's room to sing -or to play, he felt himself oppressed by the air. An hour of it made him -uncomfortable. The room was large, and had two windows, and the door was -never shut; yet the air seemed to Alessandro stifling. - -“I should be as ill as the Senor Felipe, if I had to stay in that room, -and a bed is a weakening thing, enough to pull the strongest man down,” - said Alessandro to Juan Can one day. “Do you think I should anger them -if I asked them to let me bring Senor Felipe out to the veranda and put -him on a bed of my making? I'd wager my head I'd put him on his feet in -a week.” - -“And if you did that, you might ask the Senora for the half of the -estate, and get it, lad,” replied Juan, Seeing the hot blood darkening -in Alessandro's face at his words, he hastened to add, “Do not be so -hot-blooded. I meant not that you would ask any reward for doing it; I -was only thinking what joy it would be to the Senora to see Senor Felipe -on his feet again. It has often crossed my thoughts that if he did not -get up from this sickness the Senora would not be long behind him. It is -but for him that she lives. And who would have the estate in that case, -I have never been able to find out.” - -“Would it not be the Senorita?” asked Alessandro. - -Juan Can laughed an ugly laugh. “Ha, ha! Let the Senora hear you say -that!” he said. “Faith, it will be little the Senorita gets more -than enough for her bread, may be, out of the Moreno estate. Hark ye, -Alessandro; if you will not tell, I will tell you the story of the -Senorita. You know she is not of the Moreno blood; is no relation of -theirs.” - -“Yes,” said Alessandro; “Margarita has said to me that the Senorita -Ramona was only the foster-child of the Senora Moreno.” - -“Foster-child!” repeated Juan Can, contemptuously, “there is something -to the tale I know not, nor ever could find out; for when I was in -Monterey the Ortegna house was shut, and I could not get speech of any -of their people. But this much I know, that it was the Senora Ortegna -that had the girl first in keeping; and there was a scandalous tale -about her birth.” - -If Juan Can's eyes had not been purblind with old age, he would have -seen that in Alessandro's face which would have made him choose his -words more carefully. But he went on: “It was after the Senora Ortegna -was buried, that our Senora returned, bringing this child with her; and -I do assure you, lad, I have seen the Senora look at her many a time as -if she wished her dead. And it is a shame, for she was always as fair -and good a child as the saints ever saw. But a stain on the blood, a -stain on the blood, lad, is a bitter thing in a house. This much I know, -her mother was an Indian. Once when I was in the chapel, behind the big -Saint Joseph there, I overheard the Senora say as much. She was talking -to Father Salvierderra, and she said, 'If the child had only the one -blood in her veins, it would be different. I like not these crosses with -Indians.'” - -If Alessandro had been civilized, he would at this word “Indian” have -bounded to his feet. Being Alessandro, he stood if possible stiller than -before, and said in a low voice, “How know you it was the mother that -was the Indian?” - -Juan laughed again, maliciously: “Ha, it is the Ortegna face she has; -and that Ortegna, why, he was the scandal byword of the whole coast. -There was not a decent woman would have spoken to him, except for his -wife's sake.” - -“But did you not say that it was in the Senora Ortegna's keeping that -the child was?” asked Alessandro, breathing harder and faster each -moment now; stupid old Juan Can so absorbed in relish of his gossip, -that he noticed nothing. - -“Ay, ay. So I said,” he went on; “and so it was. There be such saints, -you know; though the Lord knows if she had been minded to give shelter -to all her husband's bastards, she might have taken lease of a church to -hold them. But there was a story about a man's coming with this infant -and leaving it in the Senora's room; and she, poor lady, never having -had a child of her own, did warm to it at first sight, and kept it with -her to the last; and I wager me, a hard time she had to get our Senora -to take the child when she died; except that it was to spite Ortegna, I -think our Senora would as soon the child had been dead.” - -“Has she not treated her kindly?” asked Alessandro, in a husky voice. - -Juan Can's pride resented this question. “Do you suppose the Senora -Moreno would do an unkindness to one under her roof?” he asked loftily. -“The Senorita has been always, in all things, like Senor Felipe himself. -It was so that she promised the Senora Ortegna, I have heard.” - -“Does the Senorita know all this?” asked Alessandro. - -Juan Can crossed himself. “Saints save us, no!” he exclaimed. “I'll not -forget, to my longest day, what it cost me, once I spoke in her hearing, -when she was yet small. I did not know she heard; but she went to the -Senora, asking who was her mother. And she said I had said her mother -was no good, which in faith I did, and no wonder. And the Senora came to -me, and said she, 'Juan Canito, you have been a long time in our house; -but if ever I hear of your mentioning aught concerning the Senorita -Ramona, on this estate or anywhere else in the country, that day you -leave my service!'--And you'd not do me the ill-turn to speak of it, -Alessandro, now?” said the old man, anxiously. “My tongue runs away with -me, lying here on this cursed bed, with nothing to do,--an active man -like me.” - -“No, I'll not speak of it, you may be assured,” said Alessandro, walking -away slowly. - -“Here! Here!” called Juan. “What about that plan you had for making a -bed for Senor Felipe on the verandah Was it of raw-hide you meant?” - -“Ah, I had forgotten,” said Alessandro, returning. “Yes, that was it. -There is great virtue in a raw-hide, tight stretched; my father says -that it is the only bed the Fathers would ever sleep on, in the Mission -days. I myself like the ground even better; but my father sleeps always -on the rawhide. He says it keeps him well. Do you think I might speak of -it to the Senora?” - -“Speak of it to Senor Felipe himself,” said Juan. “It will be as he -says. He rules this place now, from beginning to end; and it is but -yesterday I held him on my knee. It is soon that the old are pushed to -the wall, Alessandro.” - -“Nay, Juan Canito,” replied Alessandro, kindly. “It is not so. My father -is many years older than you are, and he rules our people to-day as -firmly as ever. I myself obey him, as if I were a lad still.” - -“What else, then, but a lad do you call yourself, I wonder?” thought -Juan; but he answered, “It is not so with us. The old are not held in -such reverence.” - -“That is not well,” replied Alessandro. “We have been taught -differently. There is an old man in our village who is many, many years -older than my father. He helped to carry the mortar at the building of -the San Diego Mission, I do not know how many years ago. He is long past -a hundred years of age. He is blind and childish, and cannot walk; but -he is cared for by every one. And we bring him in our arms to every -council, and set him by my father's side. He talks very foolishly -sometimes, but my father will not let him be interrupted. He says -it brings bad luck to affront the aged. We will presently be aged -ourselves.” - -“Ay, ay!” said Juan, sadly. “We must all come to it. It is beginning to -look not so far off to me!” - -Alessandro stared, no less astonished at Juan Can's unconscious -revelation of his standard of measurement of years than Juan had been -at his. “Faith, old man, what name dost give to yourself to-day!” he -thought; but went on with the topic of the raw-hide bed. “I may not so -soon get speech with Senor Felipe,” he said. “It is usually when he is -sleepy that I go to play for him or to sing. But it makes my heart heavy -to see him thus languishing day by day, and all for lack of the air and -the sun, I do believe, indeed, Juan.” - -“Ask the Senorita, then,” said Juan. “She has his ear at all times.” - -Alessandro made no answer. Why was it that it did not please him,--this -suggestion of speaking to Ramona of his plan for Felipe's welfare? He -could not have told; but he did not wish to speak of it to her. - -“I will speak to the Senora,” he said; and as luck would have it, at -that moment the Senora stood in the doorway, come to ask after Juan -Can's health. - -The suggestion of the raw-hide bed struck her favorably. She herself -had, in her youth, heard much of their virtues, and slept on them. -“Yes,” she said, “they are good. We will try it. It was only yesterday -that Senor Felipe was complaining of the bed he lies on; and when he -was well, he thought nothing could be so good; he brought it here, at a -great price, for me, but I could not lie on it. It seemed as if it would -throw me off as soon as I lay down; it is a cheating device, like all -these innovations the Americans have brought into the country. But Senor -Felipe till now thought it a luxury; now he tosses on it, and says it is -throwing him all the time.” - -Alessandro smiled, in spite of his reverence for the Senora. “I once lay -down on one myself, Senora,” he said, “and that was what I said to my -father. It was like a wild horse under me, making himself ready to buck. -I thought perhaps the invention was of the saints, that men should not -sleep too long.” - -“There is a pile of raw-hides,” said Juan, “well cured, but not too -stiff; Juan Jose was to have sent them off to-day to be sold; one of -those will be just right. It must not be too dry.” - -“The fresher the better,” said Alessandro, “so it have no dampness. -Shall I make the bed, Senora?” he asked, “and will the Senora permit -that I make it on the veranda? I was just asking Juan Can if he thought -I might be so bold as to ask you to let me bring Senor Felipe into the -outer air. With us, it is thought death to be shut up in walls, as he -has been so long. Not till we are sure to die, do we go into the dark -like that.” - -The Senora hesitated. She did not share Alessandro's prejudice in favor -of fresh air. - -“Night and day both?” she said. “Surely it is not well to sleep out in -the night?” - -“That is the best of all, Senora,” replied Alessandro, earnestly. “I beg -the Senora to try it. If Senor Felipe have not mended greatly after the -first night he had so slept, then Alessandro will be a liar.” - -“No, only mistaken,” said the Senora, gently. She felt herself greatly -drawn to this young man by his devotion, as she thought, of Felipe. -“When I die and leave Felipe here,” she had more than once said to -herself, “it would be a great good to him to have such a servant as this -on the place.” - -“Very well, Alessandro,” she replied; “make the bed, and we will try it -at once.” - -This was early in the forenoon. The sun was still high in the west, -when Ramona, sitting as usual in the veranda, at her embroidery, saw -Alessandro coming, followed by two men, bearing the raw-hide bed. - -“What can that be?” she said. “Some new invention of Alessandro's, but -for what?” - -“A bed for the Senor Felipe, Senorita,” said Alessandro, running lightly -up the steps. “The Senora has given permission to place it here on the -veranda, and Senor Felipe is to lie here day and night; and it will be -a marvel in your eyes how he will gain strength. It is the close room -which is keeping him weak now; he has no illness.” - -“I believe that is the truth, Alessandro,” exclaimed Ramona; “I have -been thinking the same thing. My head aches after I am in that room but -an hour, and when I come here I am well. But the nights too, Alessandro? -Is it not harmful to sleep out in the night air?” - -“Why, Senorita?” asked Alessandro, simply. - -And Ramona had no answer, except, “I do not know; I have always heard -so.” - -“My people do not think so,” replied Alessandro; “unless it is cold, -we like it better. It is good, Senorita, to look up at the sky in the -night.” - -“I should think it would be,” cried Ramona. “I never thought of it. I -should like to do it.” - -Alessandro was busy, with his face bent down, arranging the bedstead in -a sheltered corner of the veranda. If his face had been lifted, Ramona -would have seen a look on it that would have startled her more than -the one she had surprised a few days previous, after the incident with -Margarita. All day there had been coming and going in Alessandro's brain -a confused procession of thoughts, vague yet intense. Put in words, -they would have been found to be little more than ringing changes on -this idea: “The Senorita Ramona has Indian blood in her veins. The -Senorita Ramona is alone. The Senora loves her not. Indian blood! Indian -blood!” These, or something like them, would have been the words; but -Alessandro did not put them in words. He only worked away on the rough -posts for Senor Felipe's bedstead, hammered, fitted, stretched the -raw-hide and made it tight and firm, driving every nail, striking every -blow, with a bounding sense of exultant strength, as if there were -suddenly all around him a new heaven and a new earth. - -Now, when he heard Ramona say suddenly in her girlish, eager tone, “It -must be; I never thought of it; I should like to try it,” these vague -confused thoughts of the day, and the day's bounding sense of exultant -strength, combined in a quick vision before Alessandro's eyes,--a vision -of starry skies overhead, Ramona and himself together, looking up to -them. But when he raised his head, all he said was, “There, Senorita! -That is all firm, now. If Senor Felipe will let me lay him an this bed, -he will sleep as he has not slept since he fell ill.” - -Ramona ran eagerly into Felipe's room, “The bed is all ready on the -veranda,” she exclaimed. “Shall Alessandro come in and carry you out?” - -Felipe looked up, startled. The Senora turned on Ramona that expression -of gentle, resigned displeasure, which always hurt the girl's sensitive -nature far worse than anger. “I had not spoken to Felipe yet of the -change, Ramona,” she said. “I supposed that Alessandro would have -informed me when the bed was ready; I am sorry you came in so suddenly. -Felipe is still very weak, you see.” - -“What is it? What is it?” exclaimed Felipe, impatiently. - -As soon as it was explained to him, he was like a child in his haste to -be moved. - -“That's just what I needed!” he exclaimed. “This cursed bed racks every -bone in my body, and I have longed for the sun more than ever a thirsty -man longed for water. Bless you, Alessandro,” he went on, seeing -Alessandro in the doorway. “Come here, and take me up in those long arms -of yours, and carry me quick. Already I feel myself better.” - -Alessandro lifted him as if he were a baby; indeed, it was but a light -burden now, Felipe's wasted body, for a man much less strong than -Alessandro to lift. - -Ramona, chilled and hurt, ran in advance, carrying pillows and blankets. -As she began to arrange them on the couch, the Senora took them from her -hands, saying, “I will arrange them myself;” and waved Ramona away. - -It was a little thing. Ramona was well used to such. Ordinarily it would -have given her no pain she could not conceal. But the girl's nerves were -not now in equilibrium. She had had hard work to keep back her tears -at the first rebuff. This second was too much. She turned, and walked -swiftly away, the tears rolling down her cheeks. - -Alessandro saw it; Felipe saw it. - -To Felipe the sight was, though painful, not a surprise. He knew but -too well how often his mother hurt Ramona. All he thought now, in his -weakness, was, “Alas! what a pity my mother does not love Ramona!” - -To Alessandro the sight was the one drop too much in the cup. As he -stooped to lay Felipe on the bed, he trembled so that Felipe looked up, -half afraid. - -“Am I still so heavy, Alessandro?” he said smiling. - -“It is not your weight, Senor Felipe,” answered Alessandro, off guard, -still trembling, his eyes following Ramona. - -Felipe saw. In the next second, the eyes of the two young men met. -Alessandro's fell before Felipe's. Felipe gazed on, steadily, at -Alessandro. - -“Ah!” he said; and as he said it, he closed his eyes, and let his head -sink back into the pillow. - -“Is that comfortable? Is that right?” asked the Senora, who had seen -nothing. - -“The first comfortable moment I have had, mother,” said Felipe. “Stay, -Alessandro, I want to speak to you as soon as I am rested. This move has -shaken me up a good deal. Wait.” - -“Yes, Senor,” replied Alessandro, and seated himself on the veranda -steps. - -“If you are to stay, Alessandro,” said the Senora, “I will go and look -after some matters that need my attention. I feel always at ease about -Senor Felipe when you are with him. You will stay till I come back?” - -“Yes, Senora,” said Alessandro, in a tone cold as the Senora's own had -been to Ramona. He was no longer in heart the Senora Moreno's servant. -In fact, he was at that very moment revolving confusedly in his mind -whether there could be any possibility of his getting away before the -expiration of the time for which he had agreed to stay. - -It was a long time before Felipe opened his eyes. Alessandro thought he -was asleep. - -At last Felipe spoke. He had been watching Alessandro's face for some -minutes. “Alessandro,” he said. - -Alessandro sprang to his feet, and walked swiftly to the bedside. He did -not know what the next word might be. He felt that the Senor Felipe had -seen straight into his heart in that one moment's look, and Alessandro -was preparing for anything. - -“Alessandro,” said Felipe, “my mother has been speaking to me about your -remaining with us permanently. Juan Can is now very old, and after this -accident will go on crutches the rest of his days, poor soul! We are in -great need of some man who understands sheep, and the care of the place -generally.” - -As he spoke, he watched Alessandro's face closely. Swift changing -expressions passed over it. Surprise predominated. Felipe misunderstood -the surprise. “I knew you would be surprised,” he said. “I told my -mother that you would not think of it; that you had stayed now only -because we were in trouble.” - -Alessandro bowed his head gratefully. This recognition from Felipe gave -him pleasure. - -“Yes, Senor,” he said, “that was it. I told Father Salvierderra it was -not for the wages. But my father and I have need of all the money we can -earn. Our people are very poor, Senor. I do not know whether my father -would think I ought to take the place you offer me, or not, Senor. It -would be as he said. I will ask him.” - -“Then you would be willing to take it?” asked Felipe. - -“Yes, Senor, if my father wished me to take it,” replied Alessandro, -looking steadily and gravely at Felipe; adding, after a second's -pause, “if you are sure that you desire it, Senor Felipe, it would be a -pleasure to me to be of help to you.” - -And yet it was only a few moments ago that Alessandro had been turning -over in his mind the possibility of leaving the Senora Moreno's service -immediately. This change had not been a caprice, not been an impulse -of passionate desire to remain near Ramona; it had come from a sudden -consciousness that the Senor Felipe would be his friend. And Alessandro -was not mistaken. - - - - -IX - -WHEN the Senora came back to the veranda, she found Felipe asleep, -Alessandro standing at the foot of the bed, with his arms crossed on his -breast, watching him. As the Senora drew near, Alessandro felt again the -same sense of dawning hatred which had seized him at her harsh speech to -Ramona. He lowered his eyes, and waited to be dismissed. - -“You can go now, Alessandro,” said the Senora. “I will sit here. You -are quite sure that it will be safe for Senor Felipe to sleep here all -night?” - -“It will cure him before many nights,” replied Alessandro, still without -raising his eyes, and turning to go. - -“Stay,” said the Senora. Alessandro paused. “It will not do for him to -be alone here in the night, Alessandro.” - -Alessandro had thought of this, and had remembered that if he lay on -the veranda floor by Senor Felipe's side, he would also lie under the -Senorita's window. - -“No, Senora,” he replied. “I will lie here by his side. That was what I -had thought, if the Senora is willing.” - -“Thank you, Alessandro,” said the Senora, in a tone which would have -surprised poor Ramona, still sitting alone in her room, with sad eyes. -She did not know the Senora could speak thus sweetly to any one but -Felipe. “Thank you! You are kind. I will have a bed made for you.” - -“Oh, no.” cried Alessandro; “if the Senora will excuse me, I could not -lie on a bed. A raw-hide like Senor Felipe's, and my blanket, are all I -want. I could not lie on any bed.” - -“To be sure,” thought the Senora; “what was I thinking of! How the -boy makes one forget he is an Indian! But the floor is harder than the -ground, Alessandro,” she said kindly. - -“No, Senora,” he said, “it is all one; and to-night I will not sleep. -I will watch Senor Felipe, in case there should be a wind, or he should -wake and need something.” - -“I will watch him myself till midnight,” said the Senora. “I should feel -easier to see how he sleeps at first.” - -It was the balmiest of summer nights, and as still as if no living thing -were on the earth. There was a full moon, which shone on the garden, and -on the white front of the little chapel among the trees. Ramona, from -her window, saw Alessandro pacing up and down the walk. She had seen him -spread down the raw-hide by Felipe's bed, and had seen the Senora take -her place in one of the big carved chairs. She wondered if they were -both going to watch; she wondered why the Senora would never let her sit -up and watch with Felipe. - -“I am not of any use to anybody,” she thought sadly. She dared not -go out and ask any questions about the arrangements for the night. At -supper the Senora had spoken to her only in the same cold and distant -manner which always made her dumb and afraid. She had not once seen -Felipe alone during the day. Margarita, who, in the former times,--ah, -how far away those former times looked now!--had been a greater comfort -to Ramona than she realized,--Margarita now was sulky and silent, never -came into Ramona's presence if she could help it, and looked at her -sometimes with an expression which made Ramona tremble, and say to -herself, “She hates me; She has always hated me since that morning.” - -It had been a long, sad day to Ramona; and as she sat in her window -leaning her head against the sash, and looked at Alessandro pacing up -and down, she felt for the first time, and did not shrink from it nor in -any wise disavow or disguise it to herself, that she was glad he loved -her. More than this she did not think; beyond this she did not go. -Her mind was not like Margarita's, full of fancies bred of freedom in -intercourse with men. But distinctly, tenderly glad that Alessandro -loved her, and distinctly, tenderly aware how well he loved her, she -was, as she sat at her window this night, looking out into the moonlit -garden; after she had gone to bed, she could still hear his slow, -regular steps on the garden-walk, and the last thought she had, as she -fell asleep, was that she was glad Alessandro loved her. - -The moon had been long set, and the garden, chapel-front, trees, vines, -were all wrapped in impenetrable darkness, when Ramona awoke, sat up in -her bed, and listened. All was so still that the sound of Felipe's low, -regular breathing came in through her open window. After hearkening to -it for a few moments, she rose noiselessly from her bed, and creeping to -the window parted the curtains and looked out; noiselessly, she thought; -but it was not noiselessly enough to escape Alessandro's quick ear; -without a sound, he sprang to his feet, and stood looking at Ramona's -window. - -“I am here, Senorita,” he whispered. “Do you want anything?” - -“Has he slept all night like this?” she whispered back. - -“Yes, Senorita. He has not once moved.” - -“How good!” said Ramona. “How good!” - -Then she stood still; she wanted to speak again to Alessandro, to hear -him speak again, but she could think of no more to say. Because she -could not, she gave a little sigh. - -Alessandro took one swift step towards the window. “May the saints bless -you, Senorita,” he whispered fervently. - -“Thank you, Alessandro,” murmured Ramona, and glided back to her bed, -but not to sleep. It lacked not much of dawn; as the first faint light -filtered through the darkness, Ramona heard the Senora's window open. - -“Surely she will not strike up the hymn and wake Felipe,” thought -Ramona; and she sprang again to the window to listen. A few low words -between the Senora and Alessandro, and then the Senora's window closed -again, and all was still. - -“I thought she would not have the heart to wake him,” said Ramona to -herself. “The Virgin would have had no pleasure in our song, I am sure; -but I will say a prayer to her instead;” and she sank on her knees at -the head of her bed, and began saying a whispered prayer. The footfall -of a spider in Ramona's room had not been light enough to escape the -ear of that watching lover outside. Again Alessandro's tall figure arose -from the floor, turning towards Ramona's window; and now the darkness -was so far softened to dusk, that the outline of his form could be seen. -Ramona felt it rather than saw it, and stopped praying. Alessandro was -sure he had heard her voice. - -“Did the Senorita speak?” he whispered, his face close at the curtain. -Ramona, startled, dropped her rosary, which rattled as it fell on the -wooden floor. - -“No, no, Alessandro,” she said, “I did not speak.” And she trembled, -she knew not why. The sound of the beads on the floor explained to -Alessandro what had been the whispered words he heard. - -“She was at her prayers,” he thought, ashamed and sorry. “Forgive me,” - he whispered, “I thought you called;” and he stepped back to the outer -edge of the veranda, and seated himself on the railing. He would lie -down no more. Ramona remained on her knees, gazing at the window. -Through the transparent muslin curtain the dawning light came slowly, -steadily, till at last she could see Alessandro distinctly. Forgetful -of all else, she knelt gazing at him. The rosary lay on the floor, -forgotten. Ramona would not finish that prayer, that day. But her heart -was full of thanksgiving and gratitude, and the Madonna had a better -prayer than any in the book. - -The sun was up, and the canaries, finches, and linnets had made the -veranda ring with joyous racket, before Felipe opened his eyes. The -Senora had come and gone and come again, looking at him anxiously, but -he stirred not. Ramona had stolen timidly out, glancing at Alessandro -only long enough to give him one quick smile, and bent over Felipe's -bed, holding her breath, he lay so still. - -“Ought he to sleep so long?” she whispered. - -“Till the noon, it may be,” answered Alessandro; “and when he wakes, you -will see by his eye that he is another man.” - -It was indeed so. When Felipe first looked about him, he laughed -outright with pure pleasure. Then catching sight of Alessandro at the -steps, he called, in a stronger voice than had yet been heard from him, -“Alessandro, you are a famous physician. Why couldn't that fool from -Ventura have known as much? With all his learning, he had had me in the -next world before many days, except for you. Now, Alessandro, breakfast! -I'm hungry. I had forgotten what the thought of food was like to a -hungry stomach. And plenty! plenty!” he called, as Alessandro ran toward -the kitchen. “Bring all they have.” - -When the Senora saw Felipe bolstered up in the bed, his eye bright, -his color good, his voice clear, eating heartily like his old self, -she stood like a statue in the middle of the veranda for a moment; then -turning to Alessandro, she said chokingly, “May Heaven reward you!” and -disappeared abruptly in her own room. When she came out, her eyes -were red. All day she moved and spoke with a softness unwonted, indeed -inconceivable. She even spoke kindly and without constraint to Ramona. -She felt like one brought back from the dead. - -After this, a new sort of life began for them all. Felipe's bed on -the veranda was the rallying point for everything and everybody.. The -servants came to look up at him, and wish him well, from the garden-walk -below. Juan Can, when he first hobbled out on the stout crutches -Alessandro had made him of manzanita wood, dragged himself all the way -round the house, to have a look at Senor Felipe and a word with him. The -Senora sat there, in the big carved chair, looking like a sibyl with her -black silk banded head-dress severely straight across her brow, and her -large dark eyes gazing out, past Felipe, into the far south sky. Ramona -lived there too, with her embroidery or her book, sitting on cushions on -the floor in a corner, or at the foot of Felipe's bed, always so placed, -however,--if anybody had noticed, but nobody did,--so placed that she -could look at Felipe without looking full at the Senora's chair, even if -the Senora were not in it. - -Here also came Alessandro many times a day,--sometimes sent for, -sometimes of his own accord. He was freely welcome. When he played or -sang he sat on the upper step of the stairs leading down to the garden. -He also had a secret, which he thought all his own, in regard to the -positions he chose. He sat always, when Ramona was there, in the spot -which best commanded a view of her face. The secret was not all his own. -Felipe knew it. Nothing was escaping Felipe in these days. A bomb-shell -exploding at their feet would not have more astonished the different -members of this circle, the Senora, Ramona, Alessandro, than it would -to have been made suddenly aware of the thoughts which were going on in -Felipe's mind now, from day to day, as he lay there placidly looking at -them all. - -It is probable that if Felipe had been in full health and strength when -the revelation suddenly came to him that Alessandro loved Ramona, and -that Ramona might love Alessandro, he would have been instantly filled -with jealous antagonism. But at the time when this revelation came, he -was prostrate, feeble, thinking many times a day that he must soon die; -it did not seem to Felipe that a man could be so weak as he was, and -ever again be strong and well. Side by side with these forebodings of -his own death, always came the thought of Ramona. What would become of -her, if he were gone? Only too well he knew that the girl's heart would -be broken; that she could not live on alone with his mother. Felipe -adored his mother; but he understood her feeling about Ramona. - -With his feebleness had also come to Felipe, as is often the case in -long illnesses, a greater clearness of perception. Ramona had ceased to -puzzle him. He no longer asked himself what her long, steady look into -his eyes meant. He knew. He saw it mean that as a sister she loved him, -had always loved him, and could love him in no other way. He wondered a -little at himself that this gave him no more pain; only a sort of sweet, -mournful tenderness towards her. It must be because he was so soon going -out of the world, he thought. Presently he began to be aware that a new -quality was coming into his love for her. He himself was returning -to the brother love which he had had for her when they were children -together, and in which he had felt no change until he became a man and -Ramona a woman. It was strange what a peace fell upon Felipe when this -was finally clear and settled in his mind. No doubt he had had more -misgiving and fear about his mother in the matter than he had ever -admitted to himself; perhaps also the consciousness of Ramona's -unfortunate birth had rankled at times; but all this was past now. -Ramona was his sister. He was her brother. What course should he pursue -in the crisis which he saw drawing near? How could he best help Ramona? -What would be best for both her and Alessandro? Long before the thought -of any possible union between himself and Ramona had entered into -Alessandro's mind, still longer before it had entered into Ramona's to -think of Alessandro as a husband, Felipe had spent hours in forecasting, -plotting, and planning for them. For the first time in his life he felt -himself in the dark as to his mother's probable action. That any concern -as to Ramona's personal happiness or welfare would influence her, he -knew better than to think for a moment. So far as that was concerned, -Ramona might wander out the next hour, wife of a homeless beggar, -and his mother would feel no regret. But Ramona had been the adopted -daughter of the Senora Ortegna, bore the Ortegna name, and had lived as -foster-child in the house of the Morenos. Would the Senora permit such a -one to marry an Indian? - -Felipe doubted. The longer he thought, the more he doubted. The more -he watched, the more he saw that the question might soon have to be -decided. Any hour might precipitate it. He made plan after plan for -forestalling trouble, for preparing his mother; but Felipe was by nature -indolent, and now he was, in addition, feeble. Day after day slipped by. -It was exceedingly pleasant on the veranda. Ramona was usually with him; -his mother was gentler, less sad, than he had ever seen her. Alessandro -was always at hand, ready for any service,--in the field, in the -house,--his music a delight, his strength and fidelity a repose, his -personal presence always agreeable. “If only my mother could think -it,” reflected Felipe, “it would be the best thing, all round, to have -Alessandro stay here as overseer of the place, and then they might be -married. Perhaps before the summer is over she will come to see it so.” - -And the delicious, languid, semi-tropic summer came hovering over the -valley. The apricots turned golden, the peaches glowed, the grapes -filled and hardened, like opaque emeralds hung thick under the canopied -vines. The garden was a shade brown, and the roses had all fallen; but -there were lilies, and orange-blossoms, and poppies, and carnations, and -geraniums in the pots, and musk,--oh, yes, ever and always musk. It was -like an enchanter's spell, the knack the Senora had of forever keeping -relays of musk to bloom all the year; and it was still more like an -enchanter's spell, that Felipe would never confess that he hated it.' -But the bees liked it, and the humming-birds,--the butterflies also; -and the air was full of them. The veranda was a quieter place now as the -season's noon grew near. The linnets were all nesting, and the finches -and the canaries too; and the Senora spent hours, every day, tirelessly -feeding the mothers. The vines had all grown and spread out to their -thickest; no need any longer of the gay blanket Alessandro had pinned up -that first morning to keep the sun off Felipe's head. - -What was the odds between a to-day and a to-morrow in such a spot -as this? “To-morrow,” said Felipe, “I will speak to my mother,” and -“to-morrow,” and “to-morrow;” but he did not. - -There was one close observer of these pleasant veranda days that Felipe -knew nothing about. That was Margarita. As the girl came and went about -her household tasks, she was always on the watch for Alessandro, on the -watch for Ramona. She was biding her time. Just what shape her revenge -was going to take, she did not know. It was no use plotting. It must be -as it fell out; but that the hour and the way for her revenge would come -she never doubted. - -When she saw the group on the veranda, as she often did, all listening -to Alessandro's violin, or to his singing, Alessandro himself now at his -ease and free in the circle, as if he had been there always, her anger -was almost beyond bounds. - -“Oh, ho! like a member of the family; quite so!” she sneered. “It is new -times when a head shepherd spends his time with the ladies of the house, -and sits in their presence like a guest who is invited! We shall see; we -shall see what comes of all this!” And she knew not which she hated the -more of the two, Alessandro or Ramona. - -Since the day of the scene at the artichoke-field she had never spoken -to Alessandro, and had avoided, so far as was possible, seeing him. At -first Alessandro was sorry for this, and tried to be friendly with her. -As soon as he felt assured that the incident had not hurt him at all in -the esteem of Ramona, he began to be sorry for Margarita. “A man should -not be rude to any maiden,” he thought; and he hated to remember how he -had pushed Margarita from him, and snatched his hand away, when he -had in the outset made no objection to her taking it. But Margarita's -resentment was not to be appeased. She understood only too clearly how -little Alessandro's gentle advances meant, and she would none of them. -“Let him go to his Senorita,” she said bitterly, mocking the reverential -tone in which she had overheard him pronounce the word. “She is fond -enough of him, if only the fool had eyes to see it. She'll be ready to -throw herself at his head before long, if this kind of thing keeps up. -'It is not well to speak thus freely of young men, Margarita!' Ha, -ha! Little I thought that day which way the wind set in my mistress's -temper! I'll wager she reproves me no more, under this roof or any -other! Curse her! What did she want of Alessandro, except to turn his -head, and then bid him go his way!” - -To do Margarita justice, she never once dreamed of the possibility of -Ramona's wedding Alessandro. A clandestine affair, an intrigue of more -or less intensity, such as she herself might have carried on with any -one of the shepherds,--this was the utmost stretch of Margarita's angry -imaginations in regard to her young mistress's liking for Alessandro. -There was not, in her way of looking at things, any impossibility of -such a thing as that. But marriage! It might be questioned whether that -idea would have been any more startling to the Senora herself than to -Margarita. - -Little had passed between Alessandro and Ramona which Margarita did not -know. The girl was always like a sprite,--here, there, everywhere, in -an hour, and with eyes which, as her mother often told her, saw on all -sides of her head. Now, fired by her new purpose, new passion, she moved -swifter than ever, and saw and heard even more, There were few hours of -any day when she did not know to a certainty where both Alessandro and -Ramona were; and there had been few meetings between them which she had -not either seen or surmised. - -In the simple life of such a household as the Senora's, it was not -strange that this was possible; nevertheless, it argued and involved -untiring vigilance on Margarita's part. Even Felipe, who thought -himself, from his vantage-post of observation on the veranda, and from -his familiar relation with Ramona, well informed of most that happened, -would have been astonished to hear all that Margarita could have -told him. In the first days Ramona herself had guilelessly told him -much,--had told him how Alessandro, seeing her trying to sprinkle and -bathe and keep alive the green ferns with which she had decorated the -chapel for Father Salvierderra's coming, had said: “Oh, Senorita, they -are dead! Do not take trouble with them! I will bring you fresh ones;” - and the next morning she had found, lying at the chapel door, a pile of -such ferns as she had never before seen; tall ones, like ostrich-plumes, -six and eight feet high; the feathery maidenhair, and the gold fern, and -the silver, twice as large as she ever had found them. The chapel was -beautiful, like a conservatory, after she had arranged them in vases and -around the high candlesticks. - -It was Alessandro, too, who had picked up in the artichoke-patch all -of the last year's seed-vessels which had not been trampled down by the -cattle, and bringing one to her, had asked shyly if she did not think -it prettier than flowers made out of paper. His people, he said, made -wreaths of them. And so they were, more beautiful than any paper flowers -which ever were made,--great soft round disks of fine straight threads -like silk, with a kind of saint's halo around them of sharp, stiff -points, glossy as satin, and of a lovely creamy color. It was the -strangest thing in the world nobody had ever noticed them as they lay -there on the ground. She had put a great wreath of them around Saint -Joseph's head, and a bunch in the Madonna's hand; and when the Senora -saw them, she exclaimed in admiration, and thought they must have been -made of silk and satin. - -And Alessandro had brought her beautiful baskets, made by the Indian -women at Pala, and one which had come from the North, from the Tulare -country; it had gay feathers woven in with the reeds,--red and yellow, -in alternate rows, round and round. It was like a basket made out of a -bright-colored bird. - -And a beautiful stone bowl Alessandro had brought her, glossy black, -that came all the way from Catalina Island; a friend of Alessandro's got -it. For the first few weeks it had seemed as if hardly a day passed -that there was not some new token to be chronicled of Alessandro's -thoughtfulness and good-will. Often, too, Ramona had much to tell that -Alessandro had said,--tales of the old Mission days that he had heard -from his father; stories of saints, and of the early Fathers, who were -more like saints than like men, Alessandro said,--Father Junipero, who -founded the first Missions, and Father Crespi, his friend. Alessandro's -grandfather had journeyed with Father Crespi as his servant, and many a -miracle he had with his own eyes seen Father Crespi perform. There was a -cup out of which the Father always took his chocolate for breakfast,--a -beautiful cup, which was carried in a box, the only luxury the Father -had; and one morning it was broken, and everybody was in terror and -despair. “Never mind, never mind,” said the Father; “I will make it -whole;” and taking the two pieces in his hands, he held them tight -together, and prayed over them, and they became one solid piece again, -and it was used all through the journey, just as before. - -But now, Ramona never spoke voluntarily of Alessandro. To Felipe's -sometimes artfully put questions or allusions to him, she made brief -replies, and never continued the topic; and Felipe had observed another -thing: she now rarely looked at Alessandro. When he was speaking to -others she kept her eyes on the ground. If he addressed her, she -looked quickly up at him, but lowered her eyes after the first glance. -Alessandro also observed this, and was glad of it. He understood it. He -knew how differently she could look in his face in the rare moments when -they were alone together. He fondly thought he alone knew this; but he -was mistaken. Margarita knew. She had more than once seen it. - -It had happened more than once that he had found Ramona at the willows -by the brook, and had talked with her there. The first time it happened, -it was a chance; after that never a chance again, for Alessandro went -often seeking the spot, hoping to find her. In Ramona's mind too, not -avowed, but half consciously, there was, if not the hope of seeing him -there, at least the memory that it was there they had met. It was a -pleasant spot,--cool and shady even at noon, and the running water -always full of music. Ramona often knelt there of a morning, washing out -a bit of lace or a handkerchief; and when Alessandro saw her, it went -hard with him to stay away. At such moments the vision returned to him -vividly of that first night when, for the first second, seeing her face -in the sunset glow, he had thought her scarce mortal. It was not that -he even now thought her less a saint; but ah, how well he knew her to -be human! He had gone alone in the dark to this spot many a time, and, -lying on the grass, put his hands into the running water, and played -with it dreamily, thinking, in his poetic Indian fashion, thoughts like -these: “Whither have gone the drops that passed beneath her hands, just -here? These drops will never find those in the sea; but I love this -water!” - -Margarita had seen him thus lying, and without dreaming of the refined -sentiment which prompted his action, had yet groped blindly towards it, -thinking to herself: “He hopes his Senorita will come down to him there. -A nice place it is for a lady to meet her lover, at the washing-stones! -It will take swifter water than any in that brook, Senorita Ramona, to -wash you white in the Senora's eyes, if ever she come upon you there -with the head shepherd, making free with him, may be! Oh, but if that -could only happen, I'd die content!” And the more Margarita watched, -the more she thought it not unlikely that it might turn out so. It was -oftener at the willows than anywhere else that Ramona and Alessandro -met; and, as Margarita noticed with malicious satisfaction, they talked -each time longer, each time parted more lingeringly. Several times it -had happened to be near supper-time; and Margarita, with one eye on -the garden-walk, had hovered restlessly near the Senora, hoping to be -ordered to call the Senorita to supper. - -“If but I could come on them of a sudden, and say to her as she did to -me, 'You are wanted in the house'! Oh, but it would do my soul good! I'd -say it so it would sting like a lash laid on both their faces! It will -come! It will come! It will be there that she'll be caught one of these -fine times she's having! I'll wait! It will come!” - - - - -X - -IT came. And when it came, it fell out worse for Ramona than Margarita's -most malicious hopes had pictured; but Margarita had no hand in it. It -was the Senora herself. - -Since Felipe had so far gained as to be able to be dressed, sit in his -chair on the veranda, and walk about the house and garden a little, -the Senora, at ease in her mind about him, had resumed her old habit of -long, lonely walks on the place. It had been well said by her servants, -that there was not a blade of grass on the estate that the Senora had -not seen. She knew every inch of her land. She had a special purpose -in walking over it now. She was carefully examining to see whether she -could afford to sell to the Ortegas a piece of pasture-land which they -greatly desired to buy, as it joined a pasturage tract of theirs. This -bit of land lay farther from the house than the Senora realized, and it -had taken more time than she thought it would, to go over it; and it was -already sunset on this eventful day, when, hurrying home, she turned -off from the highway into the same shortcut path in which Father -Salvierderra had met Ramona in the spring. There was no difficulty now -in getting through the mustard tangle. It was parched and dry, and had -been trampled by cattle. The Senora walked rapidly, but it was -dusky twilight when she reached the willows; so dusky that she saw -nothing--and she stepped so lightly on the smooth brown path that she -made no sound--until suddenly, face to face with a man and a woman -standing locked in each other's arms, she halted, stepped back a pace, -gave a cry of surprise, and, in the same second, recognized the faces of -the two, who, stricken dumb, stood apart, each gazing into her face with -terror. - -Strangely enough, it was Ramona who spoke first. Terror for herself had -stricken her dumb; terror for Alessandro gave her a voice. - -“Senora,” she began. - -“Silence! Shameful creature!” cried the Senora. “Do not dare to speak! -Go to your room!” - -Ramona did not move. - -“As for you,” the Senora continued, turning to Alessandro, “you,”--she -was about to say, “You are discharged from my service from this hour,” - but recollecting herself in time, said,--“you will answer to Senor -Felipe. Out of my sight!” And the Senora Moreno actually, for once in -her life beside herself with rage, stamped her foot on the ground. “Out -of my sight!” she repeated. - -Alessandro did not stir, except to turn towards Ramona with an inquiring -look. He would run no risk of doing what she did not wish. He had no -idea what she would think it best to do in this terrible dilemma. - -“Go, Alessandro,” said Ramona, calmly, still looking the Senora full in -the eye. Alessandro obeyed; before the words had left her lips, he had -walked away. - -Ramona's composure, and Alessandro's waiting for further orders than her -own before stirring from the spot, were too much for Senora Moreno. A -wrath, such as she had not felt since she was young, took possession of -her. As Ramona opened her lips again, saying, “Senora,” the Senora did a -shameful deed; she struck the girl on the mouth, a cruel blow. - -“Speak not to me!” she cried again; and seizing her by the arm, she -pushed rather than dragged her up the garden-walk. - -“Senora, you hurt my arm,” said Ramona, still in the same calm voice. -“You need not hold me. I will go with you. I am not afraid.” - -Was this Ramona? The Senora, already ashamed, let go the arm, and -stared in the girl's face. Even in the twilight she could see upon it -an expression of transcendent peace, and a resolve of which no one would -have thought it capable. “What does this mean?” thought the Senora, -still weak, and trembling all over, from rage. “The hussy, the -hypocrite!” and she seized the arm again. - -This time Ramona did not remonstrate, but submitted to being led like -a prisoner, pushed into her own room, the door slammed violently and -locked on the outside. - -All of which Margarita saw. She had known for an hour that Ramona -and Alessandro were at the willows, and she had been consumed with -impatience at the Senora's prolonged absence. More than once she had -gone to Felipe, and asked with assumed interest if he were not hungry, -and if he and the Senorita would not have their supper. - -“No, no, not till the Senora returns,” Felipe had answered. He, too, -happened this time to know where Ramona and Alessandro were. He knew -also where the Senora had gone, and that she would be late home; but he -did not know that there would be any chance of her returning by way of -the willows at the brook; if he had known it, he would have contrived to -summon Ramona. - -When Margarita saw Ramona shoved into her room by the pale and trembling -Senora, saw the key turned, taken out, and dropped into the Senora's -pocket, she threw her apron over her head, and ran into the back porch. -Almost a remorse seized her. She remembered in a flash how often Ramona -had helped her in times gone by,--sheltered her from the Senora's -displeasure. She recollected the torn altar-cloth. “Holy Virgin! what -will be done to her now?” she exclaimed, under her breath. Margarita -had never conceived of such an extremity as this. Disgrace, and a sharp -reprimand, and a sundering of all relations with Alessandro,--this was -all Margarita had meant to draw down on Ramona's head. But the Senora -looked as if she might kill her. - -“She always did hate her, in her heart,” reflected Margarita; “she -shan't starve her to death, anyhow. I'll never stand by and see that. -But it must have been something shameful the Senora saw, to have brought -her to such a pass as this;” and Margarita's jealousy again got the -better of her sympathy. “Good enough for her. No more than she deserved. -An honest fellow like Alessandro, that would make a good husband for any -girl!” Margarita's short-lived remorse was over. She was an enemy again. - -It was an odd thing, how identical were Margarita's and the Senora's -view and interpretation of the situation. The Senora looking at it from -above, and Margarita looking at it from below, each was sure, and they -were both equally sure, that it could be nothing more nor less than a -disgraceful intrigue. Mistress and maid were alike incapable either of -conjecturing or of believing the truth. - -As ill luck would have it,--or was it good luck?--Felipe also had -witnessed the scene in the garden-walk. Hearing voices, he had looked -out of his window, and, almost doubting the evidence of his senses, had -seen his mother violently dragging Ramona by the arm,--Ramona pale, but -strangely placid; his mother with rage and fury in her white face. The -sight told its own tale to Felipe. Smiting his forehead with his hand, -he groaned out: “Fool that I was, to let her be surprised; she has come -on them unawares; now she will never, never forgive it!” And Felipe -threw himself on his bed, to think what should be done. Presently he -heard his mother's voice, still agitated, calling his name. He remained -silent, sure she would soon seek him in his room. When she entered, and, -seeing him on the bed, came swiftly towards him, saying, “Felipe, dear, -are you ill?” he replied in a feeble voice, “No, mother, only tired a -little to-night;” and as she bent over him, anxious, alarmed, he threw -his arms around her neck and kissed her warmly. “Mother mia!” he said -passionately, “what should I do without you?” The caress, the loving -words, acted like oil on the troubled waters. They restored the Senora -as nothing else could. What mattered anything, so long as she had her -adoring and adorable son! And she would not speak to him, now that he -was so tired, of this disgraceful and vexing matter of Alessandro. It -could wait till morning. She would send him his supper in his room, and -he would not miss Ramona, perhaps. - -“I will send your supper here, Felipe,” she said; “you must not -overdo; you have been walking too much. Lie still.” And kissing him -affectionately, she went to the dining-room, where Margarita, vainly -trying to look as if nothing had happened, was standing, ready to serve -supper. When the Senora entered, with her countenance composed, and in -her ordinary tones said, “Margarita, you can take Senor Felipe's supper -into his room; he is lying down, and will not get up; he is tired,” - Margarita was ready to doubt if she had not been in a nightmare dream. -Had she, or had she not, within the last half-hour, seen the Senora, -shaking and speechless with rage, push the Senorita Ramona into her -room, and lock her up there? She was so bewildered that she stood still -and gazed at the Senora, with her mouth wide open. - -“What are you staring at, girl?” asked the Senora, so sharply that -Margarita jumped. - -“Oh, nothing, nothing, Senora! And the Senorita, will she come to -supper? Shall I call her?” she said. - -The Senora eyed her. Had she seen? Could she have seen? The Senora -Moreno was herself again. So long as Ramona was under her roof, no -matter what she herself might do or say to the girl, no servant should -treat her with disrespect, or know that aught was wrong. - -“The Senorita is not well,” she said coldly. “She is in her room. I -myself will take her some supper later, if she wishes it. Do not disturb -her.” And the Senora returned to Felipe. - -Margarita chuckled inwardly, and proceeded to clear the table she had -spread with such malicious punctuality two short hours before. In those -two short hours how much had happened! - -“Small appetite for supper will our Senorita have, I reckon,” said the -bitter Margarita, “and the Senor Alessandro also! I'm curious to see how -he will carry himself.” - -But her curiosity was not gratified. Alessandro came not to the kitchen. -The last of the herdsmen had eaten and gone; it was past nine o'clock, -and no Alessandro. Slyly Margarita ran out and searched in some of the -places where she knew he was in the habit of going; but Alessandro -was not to be found. Once she brushed so near his hiding-place that he -thought he was discovered, and was on the point of speaking, but -luckily held his peace, and she passed on. Alessandro was hid behind the -geranium clump at the chapel door; sitting on the ground, with his knees -drawn up to his chin, watching Ramona's window. He intended to stay -there all night. He felt that he might be needed: if Ramona wanted him, -she would either open her window and call, or would come out and go down -through the garden-walk to the willows. In either case, he would see her -from the hiding-place he had chosen. He was racked by his emotions; mad -with joy one minute, sick at heart with misgiving the next. Ramona loved -him. She had told him so. She had said she would go away with him and -be his wife. The words had but just passed her lips, at that dreadful -moment when the Senora appeared in their presence. As he lived the scene -over again, he re-experienced the joy and the terror equally. - -What was not that terrible Senora capable of doing? Why did she look -at him and at Ramona with such loathing scorn? Since she knew that the -Senorita was half Indian, why should she think it so dreadful a thing -for her to marry an Indian man? It did not once enter into Alessandro's -mind, that the Senora could have had any other thought, seeing them as -she did, in each other's arms. And again what had he to give to Ramona? -Could she live in a house such as he must live in,--live as the Temecula -women lived? No! for her sake he must leave his people; must go to some -town, must do--he knew not what--something to earn more money. Anguish -seized him as he pictured to himself Ramona suffering deprivations. The -more he thought of the future in this light, the more his joy faded and -his fear grew. He had never had sufficient hope that she could be his, -to look forward thus to the practical details of life; he had only gone -on loving, and in a vague way dreaming and hoping; and now,--now, in -a moment, all had been changed; in a moment he had spoken, and she had -spoken, and such words once spoken, there was no going back; and he had -put his arms around her, and felt her head on his shoulder, and kissed -her! Yes, he, Alessandro, had kissed the Senorita Ramona, and she had -been glad of it, and had kissed him on the lips, as no maiden kisses a -man unless she will wed with him,--him, Alessandro! Oh, no wonder the -man's brain whirled, as he sat there in the silent darkness, wondering, -afraid, helpless; his love wrenched from him, in the very instant of -their first kiss,--wrenched from him, and he himself ordered, by one who -had the right to order him, to begone! What could an Indian do against a -Moreno! - -Would Felipe help him? Ay, there was Felipe! That Felipe was his -friend, Alessandro knew with a knowledge as sure as the wild partridge's -instinct for the shelter of her brood; but could Felipe move the Senora? -Oh, that terrible Senora! What would become of them? - -As in the instant of drowning, men are said to review in a second the -whole course of their lives, so in this supreme moment of Alessandro's -love there flashed through his mind vivid pictures of every word and act -of Ramona's since he first knew her. He recollected the tone in which -she had said, and the surprise with which he heard her say it, at the -time of Felipe's fall, “You are Alessandro, are you not?” He heard again -her soft-whispered prayers the first night Felipe slept on the veranda. -He recalled her tender distress because the shearers had had no dinner; -the evident terribleness to her of a person going one whole day without -food. “O God! will she always have food each day if she comes with me?” - he said. And at the bare thought he was ready to flee away from her -forever. Then he recalled her look and her words only a few hours ago, -when he first told her he loved her; and his heart took courage. She -had said, “I know you love me, Alessandro, and I am glad of it,” and had -lifted her eyes to his, with all the love that a woman's eyes can carry; -and when he threw his arms around her, she had of her own accord come -closer, and laid one hand on his shoulder, and turned her face to his. -Ah, what else mattered! There was the whole world; if she loved him like -this, nothing could make them wretched; his love would be enough for -her,--and for him hers was an empire. - -It was indeed true, though neither the Senora nor Margarita would have -believed it, that this had been the first word of love ever spoken -between Alessandro and Ramona, the first caress ever given, the first -moment of unreserve. It had come about, as lovers' first words, first -caresses, are so apt to do, unexpectedly, with no more premonition, at -the instant, than there is of the instant of the opening of a flower. -Alessandro had been speaking to Ramona of the conversation Felipe had -held with him in regard to remaining on the place, and asked her if she -knew of the plan. - -“Yes,” she said; “I heard the Senora talking about it with Felipe, some -days ago.” - -“Was she against my staying?” asked Alessandro, quickly. - -“I think not,” said Ramona, “but I am not sure. It is not easy to be -sure what the Senora wishes, till afterward. It was Felipe that proposed -it.” - -This somewhat enigmatical statement as to the difficulty of knowing the -Senora's wishes was like Greek to Alessandro's mind. - -“I do not understand, Senorita,” he said. “What do you mean by -'afterward'?” - -“I mean,” replied Ramona, “that the Senora never says she wishes -anything; she says she leaves everything to Felipe to decide, or to -Father Salvierderra. But I think it is always decided as she wishes to -have it, after all. The Senora is wonderful, Alessandro; don't you think -so?” - -“She loves Senor Felipe very much,” was Alessandro's evasive reply. - -“Oh, yes,” exclaimed Ramona. “You do not begin to know how much. She -does not love any other human being. He takes it all. She hasn't any -left. If he had died, she would have died too. That is the reason she -likes you so much; she thinks you saved Felipe's life. I mean, that -is one reason,” added Ramona, smiling, and looking up confidingly at -Alessandro, who smiled back, not in vanity, but honest gratitude that -the Senorita was pleased to intimate that he was not unworthy of the -Senora's regard. - -“I do not think she likes me,” he said. “I cannot tell why; but I do -not think she likes any one in the world. She is not like any one I ever -saw, Senorita.” - -“No,” replied Ramona, thoughtfully. “She is not. I am, oh, so afraid of -her, Alessandro! I have always been, ever since I was a little girl. I -used to think she hated me; but now I think she does not care one way or -the other, if I keep out of her way.” - -While Ramona spoke these words, her eyes were fixed on the running -water at her feet. If she had looked up, and seen the expression in -Alessandro's eyes as he listened, the thing which was drawing near would -have drawn near faster, would have arrived at that moment; but she did -not look up. She went on, little dreaming how hard she was making it for -Alessandro. - -“Many's the time I've come down here, at night, to this brook, and -looked at it, and wished it was a big river, so I could throw myself -in, and be carried away out to the sea, dead. But it is a fearful sin, -Father Salvierderra says, to take one's own life; and always the next -morning, when the sun came out, and the birds sang, I've been glad -enough I had not done it. Were you ever so unhappy as that, Alessandro?” - -“No, Senorita, never,” replied Alessandro; “and it is thought a great -disgrace, among us, to kill one's self. I think I could never do it. -But, oh, Senorita, it is a grief to think of your being unhappy. Will -you always be so? Must you always stay here?” - -“Oh, but I am not always unhappy!” said Ramona, with her sunny little -laugh. “Indeed, I am generally very happy. Father Salvierderra says that -if one does no sin, one will be always happy, and that it is a sin not -to rejoice every hour of the day in the sun and the sky and the work -there is to do; and there is always plenty of that.” Then, her face -clouding, she continued: “I suppose I shall always stay here. I have no -other home; you know I was the Senora's sister's adopted child. She died -when I was little, and the Senora kindly took me. Father Salvierderra -says I must never forget to be grateful to her for all she has done for -me, and I try not to.” - -Alessandro eyed her closely. The whole story, as Juan Can had told it to -him, of the girl's birth, was burning in his thoughts. How he longed to -cry out, “O my loved one, they have made you homeless in your home. They -despise you. The blood of my race is in your veins; come to me; come to -me! be surrounded with love!” But he dared not. How could he dare? - -Some strange spell seemed to have unloosed Ramona's tongue to-night. -She had never before spoken to Alessandro of her own personal history or -burdens; but she went on: “The worst thing is, Alessandro, that she will -not tell me who my mother was; and I do not know if she is alive or not, -or anything about her. Once I asked the Senora, but she forbade me ever -to ask her again. She said she herself would tell me when it was proper -for me to know. But she never has.” - -How the secret trembled on Alessandro's lips now. Ramona had never -seemed so near, so intimate, so trusting. What would happen if he were -to tell her the truth? Would the sudden knowledge draw her closer to -him, or repel her? - -“Have you never asked her again?” he said. - -Ramona looked up astonished. “No one ever disobeyed the Senora,” she -said quickly. - -“I would!” exclaimed Alessandro. - -“You may think so,” said Ramona, “but you couldn't. When you tried, you -would find you couldn't. I did ask Father Salvierderra once.” - -“What did he say?” asked Alessandro, breathless. - -“The same thing. He said I must not ask; I was not old enough. When the -time came, I would be told,” answered Ramona, sadly. “I don't see what -they can mean by the time's coming. What do you suppose they meant?” - -“I do not know the ways of any people but my own, Senorita,” replied -Alessandro. “Many things that your people do, and still more that these -Americans do, are to me so strange, I know nothing what they mean. -Perhaps they do not know who was your mother?” - -“I am sure they do,” answered Ramona, in a low tone, as if the words -were wrung from her. “But let us talk about something else, Alessandro; -not about sad things, about pleasant things. Let us talk about your -staying here.” - -“Would it be truly a pleasure to the Senorita Ramona, if I stayed?” said -Alessandro. - -“You know it would,” answered Ramona, frankly, yet with a tremor in her -voice, which Alessandro felt. “I do not see what we could any of us do -without you. Felipe says he shall not let you go.” - -Alessandro's face glowed. “It must be as my father says, Senorita,” he -said. “A messenger came from him yesterday, and I sent him back with a -letter telling him what the Senor Felipe had proposed to me, and asking -him what I should do. My father is very old, Senorita, and I do not see -how he can well spare me. I am his only child, and my mother died years -ago. We live alone together in our house, and when I am away he is very -lonely. But he would like to have me earn the wages, I know, and I hope -he will think it best for me to stay. There are many things we want to -do for the village; most of our people are poor, and can do little more -than get what they need to eat day by day, and my father wishes to see -them better off before he dies. Now that the Americans are coming in all -around us, he is afraid and anxious all the time. He wants to get a big -fence built around our land, so as to show where it is; but the people -cannot take much time to work on the fence; they need all their time to -work for themselves and their families. Indians have a hard time to live -now, Senorita. Were you ever in Temecula?” - -“No,” said Ramona. “Is it a large town?” - -Alessandro sighed. “Dear Senorita, it is not a town; it is only a little -village not more than twenty houses in all, and some of those are built -only of tule. There is a chapel, and a graveyard. We built an adobe wall -around the graveyard last year. That my father said we would do, before -we built the fence round the village.” - -“How many people are there in the village?” asked Ramona. - -“Nearly two hundred, when they are all there; but many of them are away -most of the time. They must go where they can get work; they are -hired by the farmers, or to do work on the great ditches, or to go as -shepherds; and some of them take their wives and children with them. I -do not believe the Senorita has ever seen any very poor people.” - -“Oh, yes, I have, Alessandro, at Santa Barbara. There were many poor -people there, and the Sisters used to give them food every week.” - -“Indians?” said Alessandro. - -Ramona colored. “Yes,” she said, “some of them were, but not like your -men, Alessandro. They were very different; miserable looking; they could -not read nor write, and they seemed to have no ambition.” - -“That is the trouble,” said Alessandro, “with so many of them; it is -with my father's people, too. They say, 'What is the use?' My father -gets in despair with them, because they will not learn better. He gives -them a great deal, but they do not seem to be any better off for it. -There is only one other man in our village who can read and write, -besides my father and me, Senorita; and yet my father is all the time -begging them to come to his house and learn of him. But they say they -have no time; and indeed there is much truth in that, Senorita. You see -everybody has troubles, Senorita.” - -Ramona had been listening with sorrowful face. All this was new to her. -Until to-night, neither she nor Alessandro had spoken of private and -personal matters. - -“Ah, but these are real troubles,” she said. “I do not think mine were -real troubles at all. I wish I could do something for your people, -Alessandro. If the village were only near by, I could teach them, could -I not? I could teach them to read. The Sisters always said, that to -teach the ignorant and the poor was the noblest work one could do. I -wish I could teach your people. Have you any relatives there -besides your father? Is there any one in the village that you--love, -Alessandro?” - -Alessandro was too much absorbed in thoughts of his people, to observe -the hesitating emphasis with which Ramona asked this question. - -“Yes, Senorita, I love them all. They are like my brothers and sisters, -all of my father's people,” he said; “and I am unhappy about them all -the time.” - -During the whole of this conversation Ramona had had an undercurrent of -thought going on, which was making her uneasy. The more Alessandro said -about his father and his people, the more she realized that he was held -to Temecula by bonds that would be hard to break, the more she feared -his father would not let him remain away from home for any length of -time. At the thought of his going away, her very heart sickened. Taking -a sudden step towards him, she said abruptly, “Alessandro, I am afraid -your father will not give his consent to your staying here.” - -“So am I, Senorita,” he replied sadly. - -“And you would not stay if he did not approve of it, of course,” she -said. - -“How could I, Senorita?” - -“No,” she said, “it would not be right;” but as she said these words, -the tears filled her eyes. - -Alessandro saw them. The world changed in that second. “Senorita! -Senorita Ramona!” he cried, “tears have come in your eyes! O Senorita, -then you will not be angry if I say that I love you!” and Alessandro -trembled with the terror and delight of having said the words. - -Hardly did he trust his palpitating senses to be telling him true the -words that followed, quick, firm, though only in a whisper,--“I know -that you love me, Alessandro, and I am glad of it!” Yes, this was -what the Senorita Ramona was saying! And when he stammered, “But you, -Senorita, you do not--you could not--” “Yes, Alessandro, I do--I love -you!” in the same clear, firm whisper; and the next minute Alessandro's -arms were around Ramona, and he had kissed her, sobbing rather than -saying, “O Senorita, do you mean that you will go with me? that you -are mine? Oh, no, beloved Senorita, you cannot mean that!” But he was -kissing her. He knew she did mean it; and Ramona, whispering, “Yes, -Alessandro, I do mean it; I will go with you,” clung to him with her -hands, and kissed him, and repeated it, “I will go with you, I love -you.” And then, just then, came the Senora's step, and her sharp cry -of amazement, and there she stood, no more than an arm's-length away, -looking at them with her indignant, terrible eyes. - -What an hour this for Alessandro to be living over and over, as he -crouched in the darkness, watching! But the bewilderment of his emotions -did not dull his senses. As if stalking deer in a forest, he listened -for sounds from the house. It seemed strangely still. As the darkness -deepened, it seemed still stranger that no lamps were lit. Darkness in -the Senora's room, in the Senorita's; a faint light in the dining-room, -soon put out,--evidently no supper going on there. Only from under -Felipe's door streamed a faint radiance; and creeping close to the -veranda, Alessandro heard voices fitfully talking,--the Senora's and -Felipe's; no word from Ramona. Piteously he fixed his eyes on her -window; it was open, but the curtains tight drawn; no stir, no sound. -Where was she? What had been done to his love? Only the tireless caution -and infinite patience of his Indian blood kept Alessandro from going -to her window. But he would imperil nothing by acting on his own -responsibility. He would wait, if it were till daylight, till his -love made a sign. Certainly before long Senor Felipe would come to his -veranda bed, and then he could venture to speak to him. But it was near -midnight when the door of Felipe's room opened, and he and his mother -came out, still speaking in low tones. Felipe lay down on his couch; his -mother, bending over, kissed him, bade him good-night, and went into her -own room. - -It had been some time now since Alessandro had left off sleeping on the -veranda floor by Felipe's side. Felipe was so well it was not needful. -But Felipe felt sure he would come to-night, and was not surprised -when, a few minutes after the Senora's door closed, he heard a low voice -through the vines, “Senor Felipe?” - -“Hush, Alessandro,” whispered Felipe. “Do not make a sound. To-morrow -morning early I will see you, behind the little sheepfold. It is not -safe to talk here.” - -“Where is the Senorita?” Alessandro breathed rather than said. - -“In her room,” answered Felipe. - -“Well?” said Alessandro. - -“Yes,” said Felipe, hoping he was not lying; and this was all Alessandro -had to comfort himself with, through his long night of watching. No, not -all; one other thing comforted him,--the notes of two wood-doves, that -at intervals he heard, cooing to each other; just the two notes, the -call and the answer, “Love?” “Here.” “Love?” “Here,”--and long intervals -of silence between. Plain as if written on a page was the thing they -told. - -“That is what my Ramona is like,” thought he, “the gentle wood-dove. If -she is my wife my people will call her Majel, the Wood-Dove.” - - - - -XI - -WHEN the Senora bade Felipe good-night, she did not go to bed. After -closing her door, she sat down to think what should be done about -Ramona. It had been a hard task she had set herself, talking all the -evening with Felipe without alluding to the topic uppermost in her mind. -But Felipe was still nervous and irritable. She would not spoil his -night's rest, she thought, by talking of disagreeable things. Moreover, -she was not clear in her own mind what she wished to have done about -Alessandro. If Ramona were to be sent away to the nuns, which was the -only thing the Senora could think of as yet, there would be no reason -for discharging Alessandro. And with him the Senora was by no means -ready to part, though in her first anger she had been ready to dismiss -him on the spot. As she pursued her reflections, the whole situation -cleared itself in her mind; so easily do affairs fall into line, in the -plottings and plannings of an arbitrary person, who makes in his formula -no allowance for a human element which he cannot control. - -Ramona should be sent in disgrace to the Sisters' School, to be a -servant there for the rest of her life. The Senora would wash her hands -of her forever. Even Father Salvierderra himself could not expect -her any longer to keep such a shameless creature under her roof. Her -sister's written instructions had provided for the possibility of just -such a contingency. Going to a secret closet in the wall, behind a -life-size statue of Saint Catharine, the Senora took out an iron box, -battered and rusty with age, and set it on the bed. The key turned with -difficulty in the lock. It was many years since the Senora had opened -this box. No one but herself knew of its existence. There had been many -times in the history of the Moreno house when the price of the contents -of that box would have averted loss and misfortune; but the Senora no -more thought of touching the treasure than if it had been guarded by -angels with fiery swords. There they lay, brilliant and shining even in -the dim light of the one candle,--rubies, emeralds, pearls, and yellow -diamonds. The Senora's lip curled as she looked at them. “Fine dowry, -truly, for a creature like this!” she said. “Well I knew in the -beginning no good would come of it; base begotten, base born, she has -but carried out the instincts of her nature. I suppose I may be grateful -that my own son was too pure to be her prey!” “To be given to my adopted -daughter, Ramona Ortegna, on her wedding day,”--so the instructions -ran,--“if she weds worthily and with your approval. Should such a -misfortune occur, which I do not anticipate, as that she should prove -unworthy, then these jewels, and all I have left to her of value, shall -be the property of the Church.” - -“No mention as to what I am to do with the girl herself if she proves -unworthy,” thought the Senora, bitterly; “but the Church is the place -for her; no other keeping will save her from the lowest depths of -disgrace. I recollect my sister said that Angus had at first intended to -give the infant to the Church. Would to God he had done so, or left it -with its Indian mother!” and the Senora rose, and paced the floor. The -paper of her dead sister's handwriting fell at her feet. As she walked, -her long skirt swept it rustling to and fro. She stooped, picked it up, -read it again, with increasing bitterness. No softness at the memory of -her sister's love for the little child; no relenting. “Unworthy!” Yes, -that was a mild word to apply to Ramona, now. It was all settled; -and when the girl was once out of the house, the Senora would breathe -easier. She and Felipe would lead their lives together, and Felipe would -wed some day. Was there a woman fair enough, good enough, for Felipe to -wed? But he must wed; and the place would be gay with children's voices, -and Ramona would be forgotten. - -The Senora did not know how late it was. “I will tell her to-night,” she -said. “I will lose no time; and now she shall hear who her mother was!” - -It was a strange freak of just impulse in the Senora's angry soul, which -made her suddenly remember that Ramona had had no supper, and led her -to go to the kitchen, get a jug of milk and some bread, and take them -to the room. Turning the key cautiously, that Felipe might not hear, she -opened the door and glided in. No voice greeted her; she held her candle -high up; no Ramona in sight; the bed was empty. She glanced at the -window. It was open. A terror seized the Senora; fresh anger also. “She -has run off with Alessandro,” she thought, “What horrible disgrace.” - Standing motionless, she heard a faint, regular breathing from the other -side of the bed. Hastily crossing the room, she saw a sight which had -melted a heart that was only ice; but the Senora's was stone toward -Ramona. There lay Ramona on the floor, her head on a pillow at the feet -of the big Madonna which stood in the corner. Her left hand was under -her cheek, her right arm flung tight around the base of the statue. She -was sound asleep. Her face was wet with tears. Her whole attitude was -full of significance. Even helpless in sleep, she was one who had taken -refuge in sanctuary. This thought had been distinct in the girl's mind -when she found herself, spite of all her woe and terror, growing sleepy. -“She won't dare to hurt me at the Virgin's feet,” she had said; “and -the window is open. Felipe would hear if I called; and Alessandro will -watch.” And with a prayer on her lips she fell asleep. - -It was Felipe's nearness more than the Madonna's, which saved her from -being roused to hear her doom. The Senora stood for some moments -looking at her, and at the open window. With a hot rush of disgraceful -suspicions, she noted what she had never before thought of, that -Alessandro, through all his watching with Felipe, had had close access -to Ramona's window. “Shameful creature!” she repeated to herself. “And -she can sleep! It is well she prayed, if the Virgin will hear such!” and -she turned away, first setting down the jug of milk and the bread on a -table. Then, with a sudden and still more curious mingling of justness -in her wrath, she returned, and lifting the coverlet from the bed, -spread it over Ramona, covering her carefully from head to foot. Then -she went out and again locked the door. - -Felipe, from his bed, heard and divined all, but made no sound. “Thank -God, the poor child is asleep!” he said; “and my poor dear mother feared -to awake me by speaking to her! What will become of us all to-morrow!” - And Felipe tossed and turned, and had barely fallen into an uneasy -sleep, when his mother's window opened, and she sang the first line of -the sunrise hymn. Instantly Ramona joined, evidently awake and ready; -and no sooner did the watching Alessandro hear the first note of her -voice, than he struck in; and Margarita, who had been up for an hour, -prowling, listening, peering, wondering, her soul racked between her -jealousy and her fears,--even Margarita delayed not to unite; and -Felipe, too, sang feebly; and the volume of the song went up as rounded -and melodious as if all hearts were at peace and in harmony, instead of -being all full of sorrow, confusion, or hatred. But there was no one of -them all who was not the better for the singing; Ramona and Alessandro -most of all. - -“The saints be praised,” said Alessandro. “There is my wood-dove's -voice. She can sing!” And, “Alessandro was near. He watched all night. I -am glad he loves me,” said Ramona. - -“To hear those two voices.” said the Senora; “would one suppose they -could sing like that? Perhaps it is not so bad as I think.” - -As soon as the song was done, Alessandro ran to the sheepfold, where -Felipe had said he would see him. The minutes would be like years to -Alessandro till he had seen Felipe. - -Ramona, when she waked and found herself carefully covered, and bread -and milk standing on the table, felt much reassured. Only the Senora's -own hand had done this, she felt sure, for she had heard her the -previous evening turn the key in the lock, then violently take it out; -and Ramona knew well that the fact of her being thus a prisoner would be -known to none but the Senora herself. The Senora would not set servants -to gossiping. She ate her bread and milk thankfully, for she was very -hungry. Then she set her room in order, said her prayers, and sat down -to wait. For what? She could not imagine; in truth, she did not much -try. Ramona had passed now into a country where the Senora did not rule. -She felt little fear. Felipe would not see her harmed, and she was going -away presently with Alessandro. It was wonderful what peace and freedom -lay in the very thought. The radiance on her face of these two new-born -emotions was the first thing the Senora observed as she opened the door, -and slowly, very slowly, eyeing Ramona with a steady look, entered the -room. This joyous composure on Ramona's face angered the Senora, as it -had done before, when she was dragging her up the garden-walk. It seemed -to her like nothing less than brazen effrontery, and it changed the -whole tone and manner of her address. - -Seating herself opposite Ramona, but at the farthest side of the room, -she said, in a tone scornful and insulting, “What have you to say for -yourself?” - -Returning the Senora's gaze with one no less steady, Ramona spoke in the -same calm tone in which she had twice the evening before attempted to -stay the Senora's wrath. This time, she was not interrupted. - -“Senora,” she said slowly, “I tried to tell you last night, but you -would not hear me. If you had listened, you would not have been so -angry. Neither Alessandro nor I have done anything wrong, and we were -not ashamed. We love each other, and we are going to be married, and go -away. I thank you, Senora, for all you have done for me; I am sure -you will be a great deal happier when I am away;” and Ramona looked -wistfully, with no shade of resentment, into the Senora's dark, shrunken -face. “You have been very good to do so much for a girl you did not -love. Thank you for the bread and milk last night. Perhaps I can go away -with Alessandro to-day. I do not know what he will wish. We had only -just that minute spoken of being married, when you found us last night.” - -The Senora's face was a study during the few moments that it took to say -these words. She was dumb with amazement. Instantaneously, on the -first sense of relief that the disgrace had not been what she supposed, -followed a new wrath, if possible hotter than the first; not so much -scorn, but a bitterer anger. “Marry! Marry that Indian!” she cried, as -soon as she found voice. “You marry an Indian? Never! Are you mad? I -will never permit it.” - -Ramona looked anxiously at her. “I have never disobeyed you, Senora,” - she said, “but this is different from all other things; you are not my -mother. I have promised to marry Alessandro.” - -The girl's gentleness deceived the Senora. - -“No,” she said icily, “I am not your mother; but I stand in a mother's -place to you. You were my sister's adopted child, and she gave you to -me. You cannot marry without my permission, and I forbid you ever to -speak again of marrying this Indian.” - -The moment had come for the Senora Moreno to find out, to her surprise -and cost, of what stuff this girl was made,--this girl, who had -for fourteen years lived by her side, docile, gentle, sunny, and -uncomplaining in her loneliness. Springing to her feet, and walking -swiftly till she stood close face to face with the Senora, who, herself -startled by the girl's swift motion, had also risen to her feet, Ramona -said, in a louder, firmer voice: “Senora Moreno, you may forbid me -as much as you please. The whole world cannot keep me from marrying -Alessandro. I love him. I have promised, and I shall keep my word.” And -with her young lithe arms straight down at her sides, her head thrown -back, Ramona flashed full in the Senora's face a look of proud defiance. -It was the first free moment her soul had ever known. She felt herself -buoyed up as by wings in air. Her old terror of the Senora fell from her -like a garment thrown off. - -“Pshaw!” said the Senora, contemptuously, half amused, in spite of her -wrath, by the girl's, as she thought, bootless vehemence, “you talk like -a fool. Do you not know that I can shut you up in the nunnery to-morrow, -if I choose?” - -“No, you cannot!” replied Ramona. - -“Who, then, is to hinder me.” said the Senora, insolently. - -“Alessandro!” answered Ramona, proudly. - -“Alessandro!” the Senora sneered. “Alessandro! Ha! a beggarly Indian, on -whom my servants will set the dogs, if I bid them! Ha, ha!” - -The Senora's sneering tone but roused Ramona more. “You would never -dare!” she cried; “Felipe would not permit it!” A most unwise retort for -Ramona. - -“Felipe!” cried the Senora, in a shrill voice. “How dare you pronounce -his name! He will none of you, from this hour! I forbid him to speak to -you. Indeed, he will never desire to set eyes on you when he hears the -truth.” - -“You are mistaken, Senora,” answered Ramona, more gently. “Felipe is -Alessandro's friend, and--mine,” she added, after a second's pause. - -“So, ho! the Senorita thinks she is all-powerful in the house of -Moreno!” cried the Senora. “We will see! we will see! Follow me, -Senorita Ramona!” And throwing open the door, the Senora strode out, -looking back over her shoulder. - -“Follow me!” she cried again sharply, seeing that Ramona hesitated; and -Ramona went; across the passage-way leading to the dining-room, out into -the veranda, down the entire length of it, to the Senora's room,--the -Senora walking with a quick, agitated step, strangely unlike her usual -gait; Ramona walking far slower than was her habit, and with her eyes -bent on the ground. As they passed the dining-room door, Margarita, -standing just inside, shot at Ramona a vengeful, malignant glance. - -“She would help the Senora against me in anything,” thought Ramona; and -she felt a thrill of fear, such as the Senora with all her threats had -not stirred. - -The Senora's windows were open. She closed them both, and drew the -curtains tight. Then she locked the door, Ramona watching her every -movement. - -“Sit down in that chair,” said the Senora, pointing to one near the -fireplace. A sudden nervous terror seized Ramona. - -“I would rather stand, Senora,” she said. - -“Do as I bid you.” said the Senora, in a husky tone; and Ramona obeyed. -It was a low, broad armchair, and as she sank back into it, her senses -seemed leaving her. She leaned her head against the back and closed -her eyes. The room swam. She was roused by the Senora's strong -smelling-salts held for her to breathe, and a mocking taunt from the -Senora's iciest voice: “The Senorita does not seem so over-strong as she -did a few moments back!” - -Ramona tried to reason with herself; surely no ill could happen to her, -in this room, within call of the whole house. But an inexplicable terror -had got possession of her; and when the Senora, with a sneer on her -face, took hold of the Saint Catharine statue, and wheeling it half -around, brought into view a door in the wall, with a big iron key in the -keyhole, which she proceeded to turn, Ramona shook with fright. She had -read of persons who had been shut up alive in cells in the wall, and -starved to death. With dilating eyes she watched the Senora, who, all -unaware of her terror, was prolonging it and intensifying it by her -every act. First she took out the small iron box, and set it on a table. -Then, kneeling, she drew out from an inner recess in the closet a large -leather-covered box, and pulled it, grating and scraping along the -floor, till it stood in front of Ramona. All this time she spoke no -word, and the cruel expression of her countenance deepened each moment. -The fiends had possession of the Senora Moreno this morning, and no -mistake. A braver heart than Ramona's might have indeed been fearful, at -being locked up alone with a woman who looked like that. - -Finally, she locked the door and wheeled the statue back into its place. -Ramona breathed freer. She was not, after all, to be thrust into -the wall closet and left to starve. She gazed with wonder at the old -battered boxes. What could it all mean? - -“Senorita Ramona Ortegna,” began the Senora, drawing up a chair, and -seating herself by the table on which stood the iron box, “I will now -explain to you why you will not marry the Indian Alessandro.” - -At these words, this name, Ramona was herself again,--not her old self, -her new self, Alessandro's promised wife. The very sound of his name, -even on an enemy's tongue, gave her strength. The terrors fled away. -She looked up, first at the Senora, then at the nearest window. She was -young and strong; at one bound, if worst came to worst, she could leap -through the window, and fly for her life, calling on Alessandro. - -“I shall marry the Indian Alessandro, Senora Moreno,” she said, in a -tone as defiant, and now almost as insolent, as the Senora's own. - -The Senora paid no heed to the words, except to say, “Do not interrupt -me again. I have much to tell you;” and opening the box, she lifted out -and placed on the table tray after tray of jewels. The sheet of written -paper lay at the bottom of the box. - -“Do you see this paper, Senorita Ramona?” she asked, holding it up. -Ramona bowed her head. “This was written by my sister, the Senora -Ortegna, who adopted you and gave you her name. These were her final -instructions to me, in regard to the disposition to be made of the -property she left to you.” - -Ramona's lips parted. She leaned forward, breathless, listening, while -the Senora read sentence after sentence. All the pent-up pain, wonder, -fear of her childhood and her girlhood, as to the mystery of her birth, -swept over her anew, now. Like one hearkening for life or death, she -listened. She forgot Alessandro. She did not look at the jewels. Her -eyes never left the Senora's face. At the close of the reading, the -Senora said sternly, “You see, now, that my sister left to me the entire -disposition of everything belonging to you.” - -“But it hasn't said who was my mother,” cried Ramona. “Is that all there -is in the paper?” - -The Senora looked stupefied. Was the girl feigning? Did she care nothing -that all these jewels, almost a little fortune, were to be lost to her -forever? - -“Who was your mother?” she exclaimed, scornfully, “There was no need to -write that down. Your mother was an Indian. Everybody knew that!” - -At the word “Indian,” Ramona gave a low cry. - -The Senora misunderstood it. “Ay,” she said, “a low, common Indian. I -told my sister, when she took you, the Indian blood in your veins would -show some day; and now it has come true.” - -Ramona's cheeks were scarlet. Her eyes flashed. “Yes, Senora Moreno,” - she said, springing to her feet; “the Indian blood in my veins shows -to-day. I understand many things I never understood before. Was it -because I was an Indian that you have always hated me?” - -“You are not an Indian, and I have never hated you,” interrupted the -Senora. - -Ramona heeded her not, but went on, more and more impetuously. “And if -I am an Indian, why do you object to my marrying Alessandro? Oh, I am -glad I am an Indian! I am of his people. He will be glad!” The words -poured like a torrent out of her lips. In her excitement she came closer -and closer to the Senora. “You are a cruel woman,” she said. “I did not -know it before; but now I do. If you knew I was an Indian, you had no -reason to treat me so shamefully as you did last night, when you saw me -with Alessandro. You have always hated me. Is my mother alive'? Where -does she live? Tell me; and I will go to her to-day. Tell me! She will -be glad that Alessandro loves me!” - -It was a cruel look, indeed, and a crueller tone, with which the Senora -answered: “I have not the least idea who your mother was, or if she is -still alive, Nobody ever knew anything about her,--some low, vicious -creature, that your father married when he was out of his senses, as you -are now, when you talk of marrying Alessandro!” - -“He married her, then?” asked Ramona, with emphasis. “How know you that, -Senora Moreno?” - -“He told my sister so,” replied the Senora, reluctantly. She grudged the -girl even this much of consolation. - -“What was his name?” asked Ramona. - -“Phail; Angus Phail,” the Senora replied almost mechanically. She found -herself strangely constrained by Ramona's imperious earnestness, and she -chafed under it. The tables were being turned on her, she hardly knew -how. Ramona seemed to tower in stature, and to have the bearing of -the one in authority, as she stood before her pouring out passionate -question after question. The Senora turned to the larger box, and opened -it. With unsteady hands she lifted out the garments which for so many -years had rarely seen the light. Shawls and ribosos of damask, laces, -gowns of satin, of velvet. As the Senora flung one after another on the -chairs, it was a glittering pile of shining, costly stuffs. Ramona's -eyes rested on them dreamily. - -“Did my adopted mother wear all these?” she asked, lifting in her hand a -fold of lace, and holding it up to the light, in evident admiration. - -Again the Senora misconceived her. The girl seemed not insensible to the -value and beauty of this costly raiment. Perhaps she would be lured by -it. - -“All these are yours, Ramona, you understand, on your wedding day, if -you marry worthily, with my permission,” said the Senora, in a voice -a shade less cold than had hitherto come from her lips. “Did you -understand what I read you?” - -The girl did not answer. She had taken up in her hand a ragged, crimson -silk handkerchief, which, tied in many knots, lay in one corner of the -jewel-box. - -“There are pearls in that,” said the Senora; “that came with the things -your father sent to my sister when he died.” - -Ramona's eyes gleamed. She began untying the knots. The handkerchief was -old, the knots tied tight, and undisturbed for years. As she reached the -last knot, and felt the hard stones, she paused. “This was my father's, -then.” she said. - -“Yes,” said the Senora, scornfully. She thought she had detected a new -baseness in the girl. She was going to set up a claim to all which had -been her father's property. “They were your father's, and all these -rubies, and these yellow diamonds;” and she pushed the tray towards her. - -Ramona had untied the last knot. Holding the handkerchief carefully -above the tray, she shook the pearls out. A strange, spicy fragrance -came from the silk. The pearls fell in among the rubies, rolling right -and left, making the rubies look still redder by contrast with their -snowy whiteness. - -“I will keep this handkerchief,” she said, thrusting it as she spoke, -by a swift resolute movement into her bosom. “I am very glad to have one -thing that belonged to my father. The jewels, Senora, you can give to -the Church, if Father Salvierderra thinks that is right. I shall marry -Alessandro;” and still keeping one hand in her bosom where she had -thrust the handkerchief, she walked away and seated herself again in her -chair. - -Father Salvierderra! The name smote the Senora like a spear-thrust, -There could be no stronger evidence of the abnormal excitement under -which she had been laboring for the last twenty-four hours, than the -fact that she had not once, during all this time, thought to ask herself -what Father Salvierderra would say, or might command, in this crisis. -Her religion and the long habit of its outward bonds had alike gone from -her in her sudden wrath against Ramona. It was with a real terror that -she became conscious of this. - -“Father Salvierderra?” she stammered; “he has nothing to do with it.” - -But Ramona saw the change in the Senora's face, at the word, and -followed up her advantage. “Father Salvierderra has to do with -everything,” she said boldly. “He knows Alessandro, He will not forbid -me to marry him, and if he did--” Ramona stopped. She also was smitten -with a sudden terror at the vista opening before her,--of a disobedience -to Father Salvierderra. - -“And if he did,” repeated the Senora, eyeing Ramona keenly, “would you -disobey him?” - -“Yes,” said Ramona. - -“I will tell Father Salvierderra what you say,” retorted the Senora, -sarcastically, “that he may spare himself the humiliation of laying any -commands on you, to be thus disobeyed.” - -Ramona's lip quivered, and her eyes filled with the tears which no other -of the Senora's taunts had been strong enough to bring. Dearly she -loved the old monk; had loved him since her earliest recollection. His -displeasure would be far more dreadful to her than the Senora's. His -would give her grief; the Senora's, at utmost, only terror. - -Clasping her hands, she said, “Oh, Senora, have mercy! Do not say that -to the Father!” - -“It is my duty to tell the Father everything that happens in my family,” - answered the Senora, chillingly. “He will agree with me, that if you -persist in this disobedience you will deserve the severest punishment. I -shall tell him all;” and she began putting the trays back in the box. - -“You will not tell him as it really is, Senora,” persisted Ramona. “I -will tell him myself.” - -“You shall not see him! I will take care of that!” cried the Senora, so -vindictively that Ramona shuddered. - -“I will give you one more chance,” said the Senora, pausing in the -act of folding up one of the damask gowns. “Will you obey me? Will you -promise to have nothing more to do with this Indian?” - -“Never, Senora,” replied Ramona; “never!” - -“Then the consequences be on your own head,” cried the Senora. “Go to -your room! And, hark! I forbid you to speak of all this to Senor Felipe. -Do you hear?” - -Ramona bowed her head. “I hear,” she said; and gliding out of the room, -closed the door behind her, and instead of going to her room, sped like -a hunted creature down the veranda steps, across the garden, calling in -a low tone, “Felipe! Felipe! Where are you, Felipe?” - - - - -XII - -THE little sheepfold, or corral, was beyond the artichoke-patch, on that -southern slope whose sunshine had proved so disastrous a temptation to -Margarita in the matter of drying the altar-cloth. It was almost like a -terrace, this long slope; and the sheepfold, being near the bottom, -was wholly out of sight of the house. This was the reason Felipe had -selected it as the safest spot for his talk with Alessandro. - -When Ramona reached the end of the trellised walk in the garden, she -halted and looked to the right and left. No one was in sight. As she -entered the Senora's room an hour before, she had caught a glimpse of -some one, she felt almost positive it was Felipe, turning off in the -path to the left, leading down to the sheepfold. She stood irresolute -for a moment, gazing earnestly down this path. “If the saints would only -tell me where he is!” she said aloud. She trembled as she stood there, -fearing each second to hear the Senora's voice calling her. But fortune -was favoring Ramona, for once; even as the words passed her lips, she -saw Felipe coming slowly up the bank. She flew to meet him. “Oh, Felipe, -Felipe!” she began. - -“Yes, dear, I know it all,” interrupted Felipe; “Alessandro has told -me.” - -“She forbade me to speak to you, Felipe,” said Ramona, “but I could not -bear it. What are we to do? Where is Alessandro?” - -“My mother forbade you to speak to me!” cried Felipe, in a tone of -terror. “Oh, Ramona, why did you disobey her? If she sees us talking, -she will be even more displeased. Fly back to your room. Leave it all to -me. I will do all that I can.” - -“But, Felipe,” began Ramona, wringing her hands in distress. - -“I know! I know!” said Felipe; “but you must not make my mother any more -angry. I don't know what she will do till I talk with her. Do go back to -your room! Did she not tell you to stay there?” - -“Yes,” sobbed Ramona, “but I cannot. Oh, Felipe, I am so afraid! Do help -us! Do you think you can? You won't let her shut me up in the convent, -will you, Felipe? Where is Alessandro? Why can't I go away with him this -minute? Where is he? Dear Felipe, let me go now.” - -Felipe's face was horror-stricken. “Shut you in the convent!” he gasped. -“Did she say that? Ramona, dear, fly back to your room. Let me talk -to her. Fly, I implore you. I can't do anything for you if she sees me -talking with you now;” and he turned away, and walked swiftly down the -terrace. - -Ramona felt as if she were indeed alone in the world. How could she -go back into that house! Slowly she walked up the garden-path again, -meditating a hundred wild plans of escape. Where, where was Alessandro? -Why did he not appear for her rescue? Her heart failed her; and when -she entered her room, she sank on the floor in a paroxysm of hopeless -weeping. If she had known that Alessandro was already a good half-hour's -journey on his way to Temecula, galloping farther and farther away from -her each moment, she would have despaired indeed. - -This was what Felipe, after hearing the whole story, had counselled him -to do. Alessandro had given him so vivid a description of the Senora's -face and tone, when she had ordered him out of her sight, that Felipe -was alarmed. He had never seen his mother angry like that. He could not -conceive why her wrath should have been so severe. The longer he talked -with Alessandro, the more he felt that it would be wiser for him to be -out of sight till the first force of her anger had been spent. “I will -say that I sent you,” said Felipe, “so she cannot feel that you have -committed any offence in going. Come back in four days, and by that time -it will be all settled what you shall do.” - -It went hard with Alessandro to go without seeing Ramona; but it did not -need Felipe's exclamation of surprise, to convince him that it would be -foolhardy to attempt it. His own judgment had told him that it would be -out of the question. - -“But you will tell her all, Senor Felipe? You will tell her that it is -for her sake I go?” the poor fellow said piteously, gazing into Felipe's -eyes as if he would read his inmost soul. - -“I will, indeed, Alessandro; I will,” replied Felipe; and he held his -hand out to Alessandro, as to a friend and equal. “You may trust me to -do all I can do for Ramona and for you.” - -“God bless you, Senor Felipe,” answered Alessandro, gravely, a slight -trembling of his voice alone showing how deeply he was moved. - -“He's a noble fellow,” said Felipe to himself, as he watched Alessandro -leap on his horse, which had been tethered near the corral all -night,--“a noble fellow! There isn't a man among all my friends who -would have been manlier or franker than he has been in this whole -business. I don't in the least wonder that Ramona loves him. He's a -noble fellow! But what is to be done! What is to be done!” - -Felipe was sorely perplexed. No sharp crisis of disagreement had ever -arisen between him and his mother, but he felt that one was coming -now. He was unaware of the extent of his influence over her. He doubted -whether he could move her very far. The threat of shutting Ramona up in -the convent terrified him more than he liked to admit to himself. Had -she power to do that? Felipe did not know. She must believe that she -had, or she would not have made the threat. Felipe's whole soul revolted -at the cruel injustice of the idea. - -“As if it were a sin for the poor girl to love Alessandro!” he said. -“I'd help her to run away with him, if worse comes to worst. What can -make my mother feel so!” And Felipe paced back and forth till the sun -was high, and the sharp glare and heat reminded him that he must seek -shelter; then he threw himself down under the willows. He dreaded to -go into the house. His instinctive shrinking from the disagreeable, his -disposition to put off till another time, held him back, hour by hour. -The longer he thought the situation over, the less he knew how to broach -the subject to his mother; the more uncertain he felt whether it would -be wise for him to broach it at all. Suddenly he heard his name called. -It was Margarita, who had been sent to call him to dinner. “Good -heavens! dinner already!” he cried, springing to his feet. - -“Yes, Senor,” replied Margarita, eyeing him observantly. She had seen -him talking with Alessandro, had seen Alessandro galloping away down -the river road. She had also gathered much from the Senora's look, -and Ramona's, as they passed the dining-room door together soon after -breakfast. Margarita could have given a tolerably connected account of -all that had happened within the last twenty-four hours to the chief -actors in this tragedy which had so suddenly begun in the Moreno -household. Not supposed to know anything, she yet knew nearly all; and -her every pulse was beating high with excited conjecture and wonder as -to what would come next. - -Dinner was a silent and constrained meal,--Ramona absent, the fiction of -her illness still kept up; Felipe embarrassed, and unlike himself; the -Senora silent, full of angry perplexity. At her first glance in Felipe's -face, she thought to herself, “Ramona has spoken to him. When and how -did she do it?” For it had been only a few moments after Ramona had left -her presence, that she herself had followed, and, seeing the girl in her -own room, had locked the door as before, and had spent the rest of the -morning on the veranda within hands' reach of Ramona's window. How, -when, and where had she contrived to communicate with Felipe? The longer -the Senora studied over this, the angrier and more baffled she felt; to -be outwitted was even worse to her than to be disobeyed. Under her very -eyes, as it were, something evidently had happened, not only against -her will, but which she could not explain. Her anger even rippled out -towards Felipe, and was fed by the recollection of Ramona's unwise -retort, “Felipe would not let you!” What had Felipe done or said to make -the girl so sure that he would be on her side and Alessandro's? Was it -come to this, that she, the Senora Moreno, was to be defied in her own -house by children and servants! - -It was with a tone of severe displeasure that she said to Felipe, as -she rose from the dinner-table, “My son, I would like to have some -conversation with you in my room, if you are at leisure.” - -“Certainly, mother,” said Felipe, a load rolling off his mind at her -having thus taken the initiative, for which he lacked courage; and -walking swiftly towards her, he attempted to put his arm around her -waist, as it was his affectionate habit frequently to do. She repulsed -him gently, but bethinking herself, passed her hand through his arm, -and leaning on it heavily as she walked, said: “This is the most fitting -way, my son. I must lean more and more heavily on you each year now. Age -is telling on me fast. Do you not find me greatly changed, Felipe, in -the last year?” - -“No, madre mia,” replied Felipe, “indeed I do not. I see not that you -have changed in the last ten years.” And he was honest in this. His -eyes did not note the changes so clear to others, and for the best of -reasons. The face he saw was one no one else ever beheld; it was kindled -by emotion, transfigured by love, whenever it was turned towards him. - -The Senora sighed deeply as she answered: “That must be because you so -love me, Felipe. I myself see the changes even day by day. Troubles -tell on me as they did not when I was younger. Even within the last -twenty-four hours I seem to myself to have aged frightfully;” and she -looked keenly at Felipe as she seated herself in the arm-chair where -poor Ramona had swooned a few hours before. Felipe remained standing -before her, gazing, with a tender expression, upon her features, but -saying nothing. - -“I see that Ramona has told you all!” she continued, her voice hardening -as she spoke. What a fortunate wording of her sentence! - -“No, mother; it was not Ramona, it was Alessandro, who told me this -morning, early,” Felipe answered hastily, hurrying on, to draw the -conversation as far away from Ramona as possible. “He came and spoke to -me last night after I was in bed; but I told him to wait till morning, -and then I would hear all he had to say.” - -“Ah!” said the Senora, relieved. Then, as Felipe remained silent, she -asked, “And what did he say?” - -“He told me all that had happened.” - -“All!” said the Senora, sneeringly. “Do you suppose that he told you -all?” - -“He said that you had bidden him begone out of your sight,” said Felipe, -“and that he supposed he must go. So I told him to go at once. I thought -you would prefer not to see him again.” - -“Ah!” said the Senora again, startled, gratified that Felipe had so -promptly seconded her action, but sorry that Alessandro had gone. “Ah, I -did not know whether you would think it best to discharge him at once -or not; I told him he must answer to you. I did not know but you might -devise some measures by which he could be retained on the estate.” - -Felipe stared. Could he believe his ears? This did not sound like the -relentless displeasure he had expected. Could Ramona have been dreaming? -In his astonishment, he did not weigh his mother's words carefully; he -did not carry his conjecture far enough; he did not stop to make sure -that retaining Alessandro on the estate might not of necessity bode any -good to Ramona; but with his usual impetuous ardor, sanguine, at the -first glimpse of hope, that all was well, he exclaimed joyfully, “Ah, -dear mother, if that could only be done, all would be well;” and, never -noting the expression of his mother's face, nor pausing to take breath, -he poured out all he thought and felt on the subject. - -“That is just what I have been hoping for ever since I saw that he and -Ramona were growing so fond of each other. He is a splendid fellow, and -the best hand we have ever had on the place. All the men like him; he -would make a capital overseer; and if we put him in charge of the whole -estate, there would not be any objection to his marrying Ramona. That -would give them a good living here with us.” - -“Enough!” cried the Senora, in a voice which fell on Felipe's ears -like a voice from some other world,--so hollow, so strange. He stopped -speaking, and uttered an ejaculation of amazement. At the first words -he had uttered, the Senora had fixed her eyes on the floor,--a habit of -hers when she wished to listen with close attention. Lifting her eyes -now, fixing them full on Felipe, she regarded him with a look which not -all his filial reverence could bear without resentment. It was nearly as -scornful as that with which she had regarded Ramona. Felipe colored. - -“Why do you look at me like that, mother?” he exclaimed. “What have I -done?” - -The Senora waved her hand imperiously. “Enough!” she reiterated. “Do not -say any more. I wish to think for a few moments;” and she fixed her eyes -on the floor again. - -Felipe studied her countenance. A more nearly rebellious feeling than -he had supposed himself capable of slowly arose in his heart. Now he for -the first time perceived what terror his mother must inspire in a girl -like Ramona. - -“Poor little one!” he thought. “If my mother looked at her as she did at -me just now, I wonder she did not die.” - -A great storm was going on in the Senora's bosom. Wrath against Ramona -was uppermost in it. In addition to all else, the girl had now been the -cause, or at least the occasion, of Felipe's having, for the first time -in his whole life, angered her beyond her control. - -“As if I had not suffered enough by reason of that creature,” she -thought bitterly to herself, “without her coming between me and Felipe!” - -But nothing could long come between the Senora and Felipe. Like a fresh -lava-stream flowing down close on the track of its predecessor, came the -rush of the mother's passionate love for her son close on the passionate -anger at his words. - -When she lifted her eyes they were full of tears, which it smote Felipe -to see. As she gazed at him, they rolled down her cheeks, and she said -in trembling tones: “Forgive me, my child; I had not thought anything -could make me thus angry with you. That shameless creature is costing us -too dear. She must leave the house.” - -Felipe's heart gave a bound; Ramona had not been mistaken, then. A -bitter shame seized him at his mother's cruelty. But her tears made him -tender; and it was in a gentle, even pleading voice that he replied: -“I do not see, mother, why you call Ramona shameless. There is nothing -wrong in her loving Alessandro.” - -“I found her in his arms!” exclaimed the Senora. - -“I know,” said Felipe; “Alessandro told me that he had just at that -instant told her he loved her, and she had said she loved him, and would -marry him, just as you came up.” - -“Humph!” retorted the Senora; “do you think that Indian would have dared -to speak a word of love to the Senorita Ramona Ortegna, if she had not -conducted herself shamelessly? I wonder that he concerned himself to -speak about marriage to her at all.” - -“Oh, mother! mother!” was all that Felipe could say to this. He was -aghast. He saw now, in a flash, the whole picture as it lay in his -mother's mind, and his heart sank within him. “Mother!” he repeated, in -a tone which spoke volumes. - -“Ay,” she continued, “that is what I say. I see no reason why he -hesitated to take her, as he would take any Indian squaw, with small -ceremony of marrying.” - -“Alessandro would not take any woman that way any quicker than I would, -mother,” said Felipe courageously; “you do him injustice.” He longed -to add, “And Ramona too,” but he feared to make bad matters worse by -pleading for her at present. - -“No, I do not,” said the Senora; “I do Alessandro full justice. I -think very few men would have behaved as well as he has under the same -temptation. I do not hold him in the least responsible for all that has -happened. It is all Ramona's fault.” - -Felipe's patience gave way. He had not known, till now, how very closely -this pure and gentle girl, whom he had loved as a sister in his boyhood, -and had come near loving as a lover in his manhood, had twined herself -around his heart. He could not remain silent another moment, and hear -her thus wickedly accused. - -“Mother!” he exclaimed, in a tone which made the Senora look up at him -in sudden astonishment. “Mother, I cannot help it if I make you very -angry; I must speak; I can't bear to hear you say such things of Ramona. -I have seen for a long time that Alessandro loved the very ground under -her feet; and Ramona would not have been a woman if she had not seen it -too! She has seen it, and has felt it, and has come to love him with all -her soul, just as I hope some woman will love me one of these days. If I -am ever loved as well as she loves Alessandro, I shall be lucky. I think -they ought to be married; and I think we ought to take Alessandro on to -the estate, so that they can live here. I don't see anything disgraceful -in it, nor anything wrong, nor anything but what was perfectly natural. -You know, mother, it isn't as if Ramona really belonged to our family; -you know she is half Indian.” A scornful ejaculation from his mother -interrupted him here; but Felipe hurried on, partly because he was borne -out of himself at last by impetuous feeling, partly that he dreaded to -stop, because if he did, his mother would speak; and already he felt -a terror of what her next words might be. “I have often thought about -Ramona's future, mother. You know a great many men would not want to -marry her, just because she is half Indian. You, yourself, would never -have given your consent to my marrying her, if I had wanted to.” Again -an exclamation from the Senora, this time more of horror than of scorn. -But Felipe pressed on. “No, of course you would not, I always knew that; -except for that, I might have loved her myself, for a sweeter girl -never drew breath in this God's earth.” Felipe was reckless now; having -entered on this war, he would wage it with every weapon that lay within -his reach; if one did not tell, another might. “You have never loved -her. I don't know that you have ever even liked her; I don't think you -have. I know, as a little boy, I always used to see how much kinder you -were to me than to her, and I never could understand it. And you are -unjust to her now. I've been watching her all summer; I've seen her and -Alessandro together continually. You know yourself, mother, he has been -with us on the veranda, day after day, just as if he were one of the -family. I've watched them by the hour, when I lay there so sick; I -thought you must have seen it too. I don't believe Alessandro has ever -looked or said or done a thing I wouldn't have done in his place; and I -don't believe Ramona has ever looked, said, or done a thing I would not -be willing to have my own sister do!” Here Felipe paused. He had made -his charge; like a young impetuous general, massing all his forces at -the onset; he had no reserves. It is not the way to take Gibraltars. - -When he paused, literally breathless, he had spoken so fast,--and even -yet Felipe was not quite strong, so sadly had the fever undermined his -constitution,--the Senora looked at him interrogatively, and said in -a now composed tone: “You do not believe that Ramona has done anything -that you would not be willing to have your own sister do? Would you be -willing that your own sister should marry Alessandro?” - -Clever Senora Moreno! During the few moments that Felipe had been -speaking, she had perceived certain things which it would be beyond her -power to do; certain others that it would be impolitic to try to do. -Nothing could possibly compensate her for antagonizing Felipe. Nothing -could so deeply wound her, as to have him in a resentful mood towards -her; or so weaken her real control of him, as to have him feel that she -arbitrarily overruled his preference or his purpose. In presence of her -imperious will, even her wrath capitulated and surrendered. There would -be no hot words between her and her son. He should believe that he -determined the policy of the Moreno house, even in this desperate -crisis. - -Felipe did not answer. A better thrust was never seen on any field than -the Senora's question. She repeated it, still more deliberately, in her -wonted gentle voice. The Senora was herself again, as she had not been -for a moment since she came upon Alessandro and Ramona at the brook. -How just and reasonable the question sounded, as she repeated it slowly, -with an expression in her eyes, of poising and weighing matters. “Would -you be willing that your own sister should marry Alessandro?” - -Felipe was embarrassed. He saw whither he was being led. He could give -but one answer to this question. “No, mother,” he said, “I should not; -but--” - -“Never mind buts,” interrupted his mother; “we have not got to those -yet;” and she smiled on Felipe,--an affectionate smile, but it somehow -gave him a feeling of dread. “Of course I knew you could make but one -answer to my question. If you had a sister, you would rather see her -dead than married to any one of these Indians.” - -Felipe opened his lips eagerly, to speak. “Not so,” he said. - -“Wait, dear!” exclaimed his mother. “One thing at a time, I see how full -your loving heart is, and I was never prouder of you as my son than when -listening just now to your eloquent defence of Ramona, Perhaps you -may be right and I wrong as to her character and conduct. We will not -discuss those points.” It was here that the Senora had perceived some -things that it would be out of her power to do. “We will not discuss -those, because they do not touch the real point at issue. What it is -our duty to do by Ramona, in such a matter as this, does not turn on -her worthiness or unworthiness. The question is, Is it right for you -to allow her to do what you would not allow your own sister to do?” The -Senora paused for a second, noted with secret satisfaction how puzzled -and unhappy Felipe looked; then, in a still gentler voice, she went on, -“You surely would not think that right, my son, would you?” And now the -Senora waited for an answer. - -“No, mother,” came reluctantly from Felipe's lips. “I suppose not; -but--” - -“I was sure my own son could make no other reply,” interrupted the -Senora. She did not wish Felipe at present to do more than reply to -her questions. “Of course it would not be right for us to let Ramona -do anything which we would not let her do if she were really of our own -blood. That is the way I have always looked at my obligation to her. My -sister intended to rear her as her own daughter. She had given her her -own name. When my sister died, she transferred to me all her right and -responsibility in and for the child. You do not suppose that if your -aunt had lived, she would have ever given her consent to her adopted -daughter's marrying an Indian, do you?” - -Again the Senora paused for a reply, and again the reluctant Felipe -said, in a low tone, “No, I suppose she would not.” - -“Very well. Then that lays a double obligation on us. It is not only -that we are not to permit Ramona to do a thing which we would consider -disgraceful to one of our own blood; we are not to betray the trust -reposed in us by the only person who had a right to control her, and who -transferred that trust to us. Is not that so?” - -“Yes, mother,” said the unhappy Felipe. - -He saw the meshes closing around him. He felt that there was a flaw -somewhere in his mother's reasoning, but he could not point it out; -in fact, he could hardly make it distinct to himself. His brain was -confused. Only one thing he saw clearly, and that was, that after all -had been said and done, Ramona would still marry Alessandro. But it was -evident that it would never be with his mother's consent. “Nor with mine -either, openly, the way she puts it. I don't see how it can be; and yet -I have promised Alessandro to do all I could for him. Curse the luck, -I wish he had never set foot on the place!” said Felipe in his heart, -growing unreasonable, and tired with the perplexity. - -The Senora continued: “I shall always blame myself bitterly for having -failed to see what was going on. As you say, Alessandro has been with -us a great deal since your illness, with his music, and singing, and one -thing and another; but I can truly say that I never thought of Ramona's -being in danger of looking upon him in the light of a possible lover, -any more than of her looking thus upon Juan Canito, or Luigo, or any -other of the herdsmen or laborers. I regret it more than words can -express, and I do not know what we can do, now that it has happened.” - -“That's it, mother! That's it!” broke in Felipe. “You see, you see it is -too late now.” - -The Senora went on as if Felipe had not spoken. “I suppose you would -really very much regret to part with Alessandro, and your word is in a -way pledged to him, as you had asked him if he would stay on the place, -Of course, now that all this has happened, it would be very unpleasant -for Ramona to stay here, and see him continually--at least for a time, -until she gets over this strange passion she seems to have conceived -for him. It will not last. Such sudden passions never do.” The Senora -artfully interpolated, “What should you think, Felipe, of having her go -back to the Sisters' school for a time? She was very happy there.” - -The Senora had strained a point too far. Felipe's self-control suddenly -gave way, and as impetuously as he had spoken in the beginning, he spoke -again now, nerved by the memory of Ramona's face and tone as she had -cried to him in the garden, “Oh, Felipe, you won't let her shut me up -in the convent, will you?” “Mother!” he cried, “you would never do that. -You would not shut the poor girl up in the convent!” - -The Senora raised her eyebrows in astonishment. “Who spoke of shutting -up?” she said. “Ramona has already been there at school. She might go -again. She is not too old to learn. A change of scene and occupation is -the best possible cure for a girl who has a thing of this sort to get -over. Can you propose anything better, my son? What would you advise?” - And a third time the Senora paused for an answer. - -These pauses and direct questions of the Senora's were like nothing -in life so much as like that stage in a spider's processes when, -withdrawing a little way from a half-entangled victim, which still -supposes himself free, it rests from its weaving, and watches the victim -flutter. Subtle questions like these, assuming, taking for granted as -settled, much which had never been settled at all, were among the best -weapons in the Senora's armory. They rarely failed her. - -“Advise!” cried Felipe, excitedly. “Advise! This is what I advise--to -let Ramona and Alessandro marry. I can't help all you say about our -obligations. I dare say you're right; and it's a cursedly awkward -complication for us, anyhow, the way you put it.” - -“Yes, awkward for you, as the head of our house,” interrupted the -Senora, sighing. “I don't quite see how you would face it.” - -“Well, I don't propose to face it,” continued Felipe, testily. “I don't -propose to have anything to do with it, from first to last. Let her go -away with him, if she wants to.' - -“Without our consent?” said the Senora, gently. - -“Yes, without it, if she can't go with it; and I don't see, as you have -stated it, how we could exactly take any responsibility about marrying -her to Alessandro. But for heaven's sake, mother, let her go! She will -go, any way. You haven't the least idea how she loves Alessandro, or how -he loves her. Let her go!” - -“Do you really think she would run away with him, if it came to that?” - asked the Senora, earnestly. “Run away and marry him, spite of our -refusing to consent to the marriage?” - -“I do,” said Felipe. - -“Then it is your opinion, is it, that the only thing left for us to do, -is to wash our hands of it altogether, and leave her free to do what she -pleases?” - -“That's just what I do think, mother,” replied Felipe, his heart growing -lighter at her words. “That's just what I do think. We can't prevent -it, and it is of no use to try. Do let us tell them they can do as they -like.” - -“Of course, Alessandro must leave us, then,” said the Senora. “They -could not stay here.” - -“I don't see why!” said Felipe, anxiously. - -“You will, my son, if you think a moment. Could we possibly give a -stronger indorsement to their marriage than by keeping them here? Don't -you see that would be so?” - -Felipe's eyes fell. “Then I suppose they couldn't be married here, -either,” he said. - -“What more could we do than that, for a marriage that we heartily -approved of, my son?” - -“True, mother;” and Felipe clapped his hand to his forehead. “But then -we force them to run away!” - -“Oh, no.” said the Senora, icily. “If they go, they will go of their -own accord. We hope they will never do anything so foolish and wrong. If -they do, I suppose we shall always be held in a measure responsible for -not having prevented it. But if you think it is not wise, or of no use -to attempt that, I do not see what there is to be done.” - -Felipe did not speak. He felt discomfited; felt as if he had betrayed -his friend Alessandro, his sister Ramona; as if a strange complication, -network of circumstances, had forced him into a false position; he did -not see what more he could ask, what more could be asked, of his mother; -he did not see, either, that much less could have been granted to -Alessandro and Ramona; he was angry, wearied, perplexed. - -The Senora studied his face. “You do not seem satisfied, Felipe dear,” - she said tenderly. “As, indeed, how could you be in this unfortunate -state of affairs? But can you think of anything different for us to do?” - -“No,” said Felipe, bitterly. “I can't, that's the worst of it. It is -just turning Ramona out of the house, that's all.” - -“Felipe! Felipe!” exclaimed the Senora, “how unjust you are to yourself! -You know you would never do that! You know that she has always had a -home here as if she were a daughter; and always will have, as long as -she wishes it. If she chooses to turn her back on it, and go away, is -it our fault? Do not let your pity for this misguided girl blind you to -what is just to yourself and to me. Turn Ramona out of the house! You -know I promised my sister to bring her up as my own child; and I have -always felt that my son would receive the trust from me, when I died. -Ramona has a home under the Moreno roof so long as she will accept it. -It is not just, Felipe, to say that we turn her out;” and tears stood in -the Senora's eyes. - -“Forgive me, dear mother,” cried the unhappy Felipe. “Forgive me for -adding one burden to all you have to bear. Truth is, this miserable -business has so distraught my senses, I can't seem to see anything as it -is. Dear mother, it is very hard for you. I wish it were done with.” - -“Thanks for your precious sympathy, my Felipe,” replied the Senora. “If -it were not for you, I should long ago have broken down beneath my cares -and burdens. But among them all, have been few so grievous as this. I -feel myself and our home dishonored. But we must submit. As you say, -Felipe, I wish it were done with. It would be as well, perhaps, to send -for Ramona at once, and tell her what we have decided. She is no doubt -in great anxiety; we will see her here.” - -Felipe would have greatly preferred to see Ramona alone; but as he knew -not how to bring this about he assented to his mother's suggestion. - -Opening her door, the Senora walked slowly down the passage-way, -unlocked Ramona's door, and said: “Ramona, be so good as to come to my -room. Felipe and I have something to say to you.” - -Ramona followed, heavy-hearted. The words, “Felipe and I,” boded no -good. - -“The Senora has made Felipe think just as she does herself,” thought -Ramona. “Oh, what will become of me!” and she stole a reproachful, -imploring look at Felipe. He smiled back in a way which reassured her; -but the reassurance did not last long. - -“Senorita Ramona Ortegna,” began the Senora. Felipe shivered. He had had -no conception that his mother could speak in that way. The words seemed -to open a gulf between Ramona and all the rest of the world, so cold -and distant they sounded,--as the Senora might speak to an intruding -stranger. - -“Senorita Ramona Ortegna,” she said, “my son and I have been discussing -what it is best for us to do in the mortifying and humiliating position -in which you place us by your relation with the Indian Alessandro. Of -course you know--or you ought to know--that it is utterly impossible -for us to give our consent to your making such a marriage; we should be -false to a trust, and dishonor our own family name, if we did that.” - -Ramona's eyes dilated, her cheeks paled; she opened her lips, but no -sound came from them; she looked toward Felipe, and seeing him with -downcast eyes, and an expression of angry embarrassment on his face, -despair seized her. Felipe had deserted their cause. Oh, where, where -was Alessandro! Clasping her hands, she uttered a low cry,--a cry that -cut Felipe to the heart. He was finding out, in thus being witness of -Ramona's suffering, that she was far nearer and dearer to him than he -had realized. It would have taken very little, at such moments as these, -to have made Felipe her lover again; he felt now like springing to her -side, folding his arms around her, and bidding his mother defiance. It -took all the self-control he could gather, to remain silent, and trust -to Ramona's understanding him later. - -Ramona's cry made no break in the smooth, icy flow of the Senora's -sentences. She gave no sign of having heard it, but continued: “My son -tells me that he thinks our forbidding it would make no difference; that -you would go away with the man all the same. I suppose he is right in -thinking so, as you yourself told me that even if Father Salvierderra -forbade it, you would disobey him. Of course, if this is your -determination, we are powerless. Even if I were to put you in the -keeping of the Church, which is what I am sure my sister, who adopted -you as her child, would do, if she were alive, you would devise some -means of escape, and thus bring a still greater and more public scandal -on the family. Felipe thinks that it is not worth while to attempt to -bring you to reason in that way; and we shall therefore do nothing. I -wish to impress it upon you that my son, as head of this house, and I, -as my sister's representative, consider you a member of our own family. -So long as we have a home for ourselves, that home is yours, as it -always has been. If you choose to leave it, and to disgrace yourself and -us by marrying an Indian, we cannot help ourselves.” - -The Senora paused. Ramona did not speak. Her eyes were fixed on the -Senora's face, as if she would penetrate to her inmost soul; the girl -was beginning to recognize the Senora's true nature; her instincts and -her perceptions were sharpened by love. - -“Have you anything to say to me or to my son?” asked the Senora. - -“No, Senora,” replied Ramona; “I do not think of anything more to say -than I said this morning. Yes,” she added, “there is. Perhaps I shall -not speak with you again before I go away. I thank you once more for -the home you have given me for so many years. And you too, Felipe,” she -continued, turning towards Felipe, her face changing, all her pent-up -affection and sorrow looking out of her tearful eyes,--“you too, dear -Felipe. You have always been so good to me. I shall always love you as -long as I live;” and she held out both her hands to him. Felipe took -them in his, and was about to speak, when the Senora interrupted -him. She did not intend to have any more of this sort of affectionate -familiarity between her son and Ramona. - -“Are we to understand that you are taking your leave now?” she said. “Is -it your purpose to go at once?” - -“I do not know, Senora,” stammered Ramona; “I have not seen Alessandro; -I have not heard--” And she looked up in distress at Felipe, who -answered compassionately,-- - -“Alessandro has gone.” - -“Gone!” shrieked Ramona. “Gone! not gone, Felipe!” - -“Only for four days,” replied Felipe. “To Temecula. I thought it would -be better for him to be away for a day or two. He is to come back -immediately. Perhaps he will be back day after to-morrow.” - -“Did he want to go? What did he go for? Why didn't you let me go with -him? Oh, why, why did he go?” cried Ramona. - -“He went because my son told him to go,” broke in the Senora, impatient -of this scene, and of the sympathy she saw struggling in Felipe's -expressive features. “My son thought, and rightly, that the sight of him -would be more than I could bear just now; so he ordered him to go away, -and Alessandro obeyed.” - -Like a wounded creature at bay, Ramona turned suddenly away from Felipe, -and facing the Senora, her eyes resolute and dauntless spite of the -streaming tears, exclaimed, lifting her right hand as she spoke, “You -have been cruel; God will punish you!” and without waiting to see what -effect her words had produced, without looking again at Felipe, she -walked swiftly out of the room. - -“You see,” said the Senora, “you see she defies us.” - -“She is desperate,” said Felipe. “I am sorry I sent Alessandro away.” - -“No, my son,” replied the Senora, “you were wise, as you always are. -It may bring her to her senses, to have a few days' reflection in -solitude.” - -“You do not mean to keep her locked up, mother, do you?” cried Felipe. - -The Senora turned a look of apparently undisguised amazement on him. -“You would not think that best, would you? Did you not say that all we -could do, was simply not to interfere with her in any way? To wash our -hands, so far as is possible, of all responsibility about her?” - -“Yes, yes,” said the baffled Felipe; “that was what I said. But, -mother--” He stopped. He did not know what he wanted to say. - -The Senora looked tenderly at him, her face full of anxious inquiry. - -“What is it, Felipe dear? Is there anything more you think I ought to -say or do?” she asked. - -“What is it you are going to do, mother?” said Felipe. “I don't seem to -understand what you are going to do.” - -“Nothing, Felipe! You have entirely convinced me that all effort would -be thrown away. I shall do nothing,” replied the Senora. “Nothing -whatever.” - -“Then as long as Ramona is here, everything will be just as it always -has been?” said Felipe. - -The Senora smiled sadly. “Dear Felipe, do you think that possible? A -girl who has announced her determination to disobey not only you and -me, but Father Salvierderra, who is going to bring disgrace both on the -Moreno and the Ortegna name,--we can't feel exactly the same towards her -as we did before, can we?” - -Felipe made an impatient gesture. “No, of course not. But I mean, is -everything to be just the same, outwardly, as it was before?” - -“I supposed so,” said the Senora. “Was not that your idea? We must try -to have it so, I think. Do not you?” - -“Yes,” groaned Felipe, “if we can!” - - - - -XIII - -THE Senora Moreno had never before been so discomfited as in this matter -of Ramona and Alessandro. It chafed her to think over her conversation -with Felipe; to recall how far the thing she finally attained was from -the thing she had in view when she began. To have Ramona sent to the -convent, Alessandro kept as overseer of the place, and the Ortegna -jewels turned into the treasury of the Church,--this was the plan she -had determined on in her own mind. Instead of this, Alessandro was not -to be overseer on the place; Ramona would not go to the convent: she -would be married to Alessandro, and they would go away together; and -the Ortegna jewels,--well, that was a thing to be decided in the future; -that should be left to Father Salvierderra to decide. Bold as the Senora -was, she had not quite the courage requisite to take that question -wholly into her own hands. - -One thing was clear, Felipe must not be consulted in regard to them. He -had never known of them, and need not now. Felipe was far too much in -sympathy with Ramona to take a just view of the situation. He would be -sure to have a quixotic idea of Ramona's right of ownership. It was not -impossible that Father Salvierderra might have the same feeling. If so, -she must yield; but that would go harder with her than all the rest. -Almost the Senora would have been ready to keep the whole thing a secret -from the Father, if he had not been at the time of the Senora Ortegna's -death fully informed of all the particulars of her bequest to her -adopted child. At any rate, it would be nearly a year before the Father -came again, and in the mean time she would not risk writing about it. -The treasure was as safe in Saint Catharine's keeping as it had been all -these fourteen years; it should still lie hidden there. When Ramona went -away with Alessandro, she would write to Father Salvierderra, simply -stating the facts in her own way, and telling him that all further -questions must wait for decision until they met. - -And so she plotted and planned, and mapped out the future in her -tireless weaving brain, till she was somewhat soothed for the partial -failure of her plans. - -There is nothing so skilful in its own defence as imperious pride. It -has an ingenious system of its own, of reprisals,--a system so ingenious -that the defeat must be sore indeed, after which it cannot still -find some booty to bring off! And even greater than this ingenuity at -reprisals is its capacity for self-deception. In this regard, it outdoes -vanity a thousandfold. Wounded vanity knows when it is mortally hurt; -and limps off the field, piteous, all disguises thrown away. But pride -carries its banner to the last; and fast as it is driven from one field -unfurls it in another, never admitting that there is a shade less honor -in the second field than in the first, or in the third than in the -second; and so on till death. It is impossible not to have a certain -sort of admiration for this kind of pride. Cruel, those who have it, are -to all who come in their way; but they are equally cruel to themselves, -when pride demands the sacrifice. Such pride as this has led many a -forlorn hope, on the earth, when all other motives have died out of -men's breasts; has won many a crown, which has not been called by its -true name. - -Before the afternoon was over, the Senora had her plan, her chart of -the future, as it were, all reconstructed; the sting of her discomfiture -soothed; the placid quiet of her manner restored; her habitual -occupations also, and little ways, all resumed. She was going to do -“nothing” in regard to Ramona. Only she herself knew how much that -meant; how bitterly much! She wished she were sure that Felipe also -would do “nothing;” but her mind still misgave her about Felipe. -Unpityingly she had led him on, and entangled him in his own words, -step by step, till she had brought him to the position she wished him to -take. Ostensibly, his position and hers were one, their action a unit; -all the same, she did not deceive herself as to his real feeling about -the affair. He loved Ramona. He liked Alessandro. Barring the question -of family pride, which he had hardly thought of till she suggested -it, and which he would not dwell on apart from her continuing to press -it,--barring this, he would have liked to have Alessandro marry Ramona -and remain on the place. All this would come uppermost in Felipe's -mind again when he was removed from the pressure of her influence. -Nevertheless, she did not intend to speak with him on the subject again, -or to permit him to speak to her. Her ends would be best attained -by taking and keeping the ground that the question of their -non-interference having been settled once for all, the painful topic -should never be renewed between them. In patient silence they must await -Ramona's action; must bear whatever of disgrace and pain she chose to -inflict on the family which had sheltered her from her infancy till now. - -The details of the “nothing” she proposed to do, slowly arranged -themselves in her mind. There should be no apparent change in Ramona's -position in the house. She should come and go as freely as ever; no -watch on her movements; she should eat, sleep, rise up and sit down -with them, as before; there should be not a word, or act, that Felipe's -sympathetic sensitiveness could construe into any provocation to Ramona -to run away. Nevertheless, Ramona should be made to feel, every moment -of every hour, that she was in disgrace; that she was with them, but not -of them; that she had chosen an alien's position, and must abide by it. -How this was to be done, the Senora did not put in words to herself, but -she knew very well. If anything would bring the girl to her senses, this -would. There might still be a hope, the Senora believed, so little did -she know Ramona's nature, or the depth of her affection for Alessandro, -that she might be in this manner brought to see the enormity of the -offence she would commit if she persisted in her purpose. And if she did -perceive this, confess her wrong, and give up the marriage,--the Senora -grew almost generous and tolerant in her thoughts as she contemplated -this contingency,--if she did thus humble herself and return to her -rightful allegiance to the Moreno house, the Senora would forgive her, -and would do more for her than she had ever hitherto done. She would -take her to Los Angeles and to Monterey; would show her a little more -of the world; and it was by no means unlikely that there might thus come -about for her a satisfactory and honorable marriage. Felipe should see -that she was not disposed to deal unfairly by Ramona in any way, if -Ramona herself would behave properly. - -Ramona's surprise, when the Senora entered her room just before supper, -and, in her ordinary tone, asked a question about the chili which was -drying on the veranda, was so great, that she could not avoid showing it -both in her voice and look. - -The Senora recognized this immediately, but gave no sign of having done -so, continuing what she had to say about the chili, the hot sun, the -turning of the grapes, etc., precisely as she would have spoken to -Ramona a week previous. At least, this was what Ramona at first thought; -but before the sentences were finished, she had detected in the Senora's -eye and tone the weapons which were to be employed against her. The -emotion of half-grateful wonder with which she had heard the first words -changed quickly to heartsick misery before they were concluded; and -she said to herself: “That's the way she is going to break me down, she -thinks! But she can't do it. I can bear anything for four days; and the -minute Alessandro comes, I will go away with him.” This train of thought -in Ramona's mind was reflected in her face. The Senora saw it, and -hardened herself still more. It was to be war, then. No hope of -surrender. Very well. The girl had made her choice. - -Margarita was now the most puzzled person in the household. She had -overheard snatches of the conversation between Felipe and his mother and -Ramona, having let her curiosity get so far the better of her discretion -as to creep to the door and listen. In fact, she narrowly escaped -being caught, having had barely time to begin her feint of sweeping the -passage-way, when Ramona, flinging the door wide open, came out, -after her final reply to the Senora, the words of which Margarita had -distinctly heard: “God will punish you.” - -“Holy Virgin! how dare she say that to the Senora?” ejaculated -Margarita, under her breath; and the next second Ramona rushed by, not -even seeing her. But the Senora's vigilant eyes, following Ramona, -saw her; and the Senora's voice had a ring of suspicion in it, as she -called, “How comes it you are sweeping the passage-way at this hour of -the day, Margarita?” - -It was surely the devil himself that put into Margarita's head the quick -lie which she instantaneously told. “There was early breakfast, Senora, -to be cooked for Alessandro, who was setting off in haste, and my mother -was not up, so I had it to cook.” - -As Margarita said this, Felipe fixed his eyes steadily upon her. She -changed color. Felipe knew this was a lie. He had seen Margarita peering -about among the willows while he was talking with Alessandro at the -sheepfold; he had seen Alessandro halt for a moment and speak to her as -he rode past,--only for a moment; then, pricking his horse sharply, he -had galloped off down the valley road. No breakfast had Alessandro had -at Margarita's hands, or any other's, that morning. What could have been -Margarita's motive for telling this lie? - -But Felipe had too many serious cares on his mind to busy himself long -with any thought of Margarita or her fibs. She had said the first thing -which came into her head, most likely, to shelter herself from the -Senora's displeasure; which was indeed very near the truth, only there -was added a spice of malice against Alessandro. A slight undercurrent of -jealous antagonism towards him had begun to grow up among the servants -of late; fostered, if not originated, by Margarita's sharp sayings as to -his being admitted to such strange intimacy with the family. - -While Felipe continued ill, and was so soothed to rest by his music, -there was no room for cavil. It was natural that Alessandro came and -went as a physician might. But after Felipe had recovered, why should -this freedom and intimacy continue? More than once there had been sullen -mutterings of this kind on the north veranda, when all the laborers -and servants were gathered there of an evening, Alessandro alone being -absent from the group, and the sounds of his voice or his violin coming -from the south veranda, where the family sat. - -“It would be a good thing if we too had a bit of music now and then,” - Juan Canito would grumble; “but the lad's chary enough of his bow on -this side the house.” - -“Ho! we're not good enough for him to play to!” Margarita would reply; -“'Like master, like servant,' is a good proverb sometimes, but not -always. But there's a deal going on, on the veranda yonder, besides -fiddling!” and Margarita's lips would purse themselves up in an -expression of concentrated mystery and secret knowledge, well fitted to -draw from everybody a fire of questions, none of which, however, would -she answer. She knew better than to slander the Senorita Ramona, or to -say a word even reflecting upon her unfavorably. Not a man or a woman -there would have borne it. They all had loved Ramona ever since she came -among them as a toddling baby. They petted her then, and idolized her -now. Not one of them whom she had not done good offices for,--nursed -them, cheered them, remembered their birthdays and their saints'-days. -To no one but her mother had Margarita unbosomed what she knew, and what -she suspected; and old Marda, frightened at the bare pronouncing of such -words, had terrified Margarita into the solemnest of promises never, -under any circumstances whatever, to say such things to any other member -of the family. Marda did not believe them. She could not. She believed -that Margarita's jealousy had imagined all. - -“And the Senora; she'd send you packing off this place in an hour, -and me too, long's I've lived here, if ever she was to know of you -blackening the Senorita. An Indian, too! You must be mad, Margarita!” - -When Margarita, in triumph, had flown to tell her that the Senora had -just dragged the Senorita Ramona up the garden-walk, and shoved her into -her room and locked the door, and that it was because she had caught her -with Alessandro at the washing-stones, Marda first crossed herself in -sheer mechanical fashion at the shock of the story, and then cuffed -Margarita's ears for telling her. - -“I'll take the head off your neck, if you say that aloud again! -Whatever's come to the Senora! Forty years I've lived under this roof, -and I never saw her lift a hand to a living creature yet. You're out of -your senses, child!” she said, all the time gazing fearfully towards the -room. - -“You'll see whether I am out of my senses or not,” retorted Margarita, -and ran back to the dining-room. And after the dining-room door was -shut, and the unhappy pretence of a supper had begun, old Marda had -herself crept softly to the Senorita's door and listened, and heard -Ramona sobbing as if her heart would break. Then she knew that what -Margarita had said must be true, and her faithful soul was in sore -straits what to think. The Senorita misdemean herself! Never! Whatever -happened, it was not that! There was some horrible mistake somewhere. -Kneeling at the keyhole, she had called cautiously to Ramona, “Oh, my -lamb, what is it?” But Ramona had not heard her, and the danger was too -great of remaining; so scrambling up with difficulty from her rheumatic -knees, the old woman had hobbled back to the kitchen as much in the dark -as before, and, by a curiously illogical consequence, crosser than ever -to her daughter. All the next day she watched for herself, and could -not but see that all appearances bore out Margarita's statements. -Alessandro's sudden departure had been a tremendous corroboration of the -story. Not one of the men had had an inkling of it; Juan Canito, Luigo, -both alike astonished; no word left, no message sent; only Senor Felipe -had said carelessly to Juan Can, after breakfast: “You'll have to look -after things yourself for a few days, Juan. Alessandro has gone to -Temecula.” - -“For a few days!” exclaimed Margarita, sarcastically, when this was -repeated to her. “That's easy said! If Alessandro Assis is seen here -again, I'll eat my head! He's played his last tune on the south veranda, -I wager you.” - -But when at supper-time of this same eventful day the Senora was heard, -as she passed the Senorita's door, to say in her ordinary voice, “Are -you ready for supper, Ramona?” and Ramona was seen to come out and walk -by the Senora's side to the dining-room; silent, to be sure,--but then -that was no strange thing, the Senorita always was more silent in the -Senora's presence,--when Marda, standing in the court-yard, feigning to -be feeding her chickens, but keeping a close eye on the passage-ways, -saw this, she was relieved, and thought: “It's only a dispute there has -been. There will be disputes in families sometimes. It is none of our -affair. All is settled now.” - -And Margarita, standing in the dining-room, when she saw them all -coming in as usual,--the Senora, Felipe, Ramona,--no change, even to -her scrutinizing eye, in anybody's face, was more surprised than she had -been for many a day; and began to think again, as she had more than -once since this tragedy began, that she must have dreamed much that she -remembered. - -But surfaces are deceitful, and eyes see little. Considering its -complexity, the fineness and delicacy of its mechanism, the results -attainable by the human eye seem far from adequate to the expenditure -put upon it. We have flattered ourselves by inventing proverbs of -comparison in matter of blindness,--“blind as a bat,” for instance. It -would be safe to say that there cannot be found in the animal kingdom -a bat, or any other creature, so blind in its own range of circumstance -and connection, as the greater majority of human beings are in the -bosoms of their families. Tempers strain and recover, hearts break and -heal, strength falters, fails, and comes near to giving way altogether, -every day, without being noted by the closest lookers-on. - -Before night of this second day since the trouble had burst like a -storm-cloud on the peaceful Moreno household, everything had so resumed -the ordinary expression and routine, that a shrewder observer and -reasoner than Margarita might well be excused for doubting if any -serious disaster could have occurred to any one. Senor Felipe sauntered -about in his usual fashion, smoking his cigarettes, or lay on his bed in -the veranda, dozing. The Senora went her usual rounds of inspection, fed -her birds, spoke to every one in her usual tone, sat in her carved chair -with her hands folded, gazing out on the southern sky. Ramona busied -herself with her usual duties, dusted the chapel, put fresh flowers -before all the Madonnas, and then sat down at her embroidery. Ramona had -been for a long time at work on a beautiful altar-cloth for the chapel. -It was to have been a present to the Senora. It was nearly done. As she -held up the frame in which it was stretched, and looked at the delicate -tracery of the pattern, she sighed. It had been with a mingled feeling -of interest and hopelessness that she had for months been at work on it, -often saying to herself, “She won't care much for it, beautiful as it -is, just because I did it; but Father Salvierderra will be pleased when -he sees it.” - -Now, as she wove the fine threads in and out, she thought: “She will -never let it be used on the altar. I wonder if I could any way get it to -Father Salvierderra, at Santa Barbara. I would like to give it to him. -I will ask Alessandro. I'm sure the Senora would never use it, and it -would be a shame to leave it here. I shall take it with me.” But as she -thought these things, her face was unruffled. A strange composure had -settled on Ramona. “Only four days; only four days; I can bear anything -for four days!” these words were coming and going in her mind like -refrains of songs which haunt one's memory and will not be still. She -saw that Felipe looked anxiously at her, but she answered his inquiring -looks always with a gentle smile. It was evident that the Senora did -not intend that she and Felipe should have any private conversation; -but that did not so much matter. After all, there was not so much to be -said. Felipe knew all. She could tell him nothing; Felipe had acted for -the best, as he thought, in sending Alessandro away till the heat of the -Senora's anger should have spent itself. - -After her first dismay at suddenly learning that Alessandro had gone, -had passed, she had reflected that it was just as well. He would come -back prepared to take her with him. How, or where, she did not know; -but she would go with no questions. Perhaps she would not even bid the -Senora good-by; she wondered how that would arrange itself, and how far -Alessandro would have to take her, to find a priest to marry them. It -was a terrible thing to have to do, to go out of a home in such a way: -no wedding--no wedding clothes--no friends--to go unmarried, and journey -to a priest's house, to have the ceremony performed; “but it is not my -fault,” said Ramona to herself; “it is hers. She drives me to do it. If -it is wrong, the blame will be hers. Father Salvierderra would gladly -come here and marry us, if she would send for him. I wish we could go to -him, Alessandro and I; perhaps we can. I would not be afraid to ride so -far; we could do it in two days.” The more Ramona thought of this, the -more it appeared to her the natural thing for them to do. “He will be on -our side, I know he will,” she thought. “He always liked Alessandro, and -he loves me.” - -It was strange how little bitterness toward the Senora was in the girl's -mind; how comparatively little she thought of her. Her heart was too -full of Alessandro and of their future; and it had never been Ramona's -habit to dwell on the Senora in her thoughts. As from her childhood up -she had accepted the fact of the Senora's coldness toward her, so now -she accepted her injustice and opposition as part of the nature of -things, and not to be altered. - -During all these hours, during the coming and going of these crowds -of fears, sorrows, memories, anticipations in Ramona's heart, all that -there was to be seen to the eye was simply a calm, quiet girl, sitting -on the veranda, diligently working at her lace-frame. Even Felipe was -deceived by her calmness, and wondered what it meant,--if it could be -that she was undergoing the change that his mother had thought possible, -and designated as coming “to her senses.” Even Felipe did not know the -steadfast fibre of the girl's nature; neither did he realize what a bond -had grown between her and Alessandro. In fact, he sometimes wondered of -what this bond had been made. He had himself seen the greater part -of their intercourse with each other; nothing could have been farther -removed from anything like love-making. There had been no crisis -of incident, or marked moments of experience such as in Felipe's -imaginations of love were essential to the fulness of its growth. This -is a common mistake on the part of those who have never felt love's true -bonds. Once in those chains, one perceives that they are not of the sort -full forged in a day. They are made as the great iron cables are made, -on which bridges are swung across the widest water-channels,--not of -single huge rods, or bars, which would be stronger, perhaps, to look -at, but of myriads of the finest wires, each one by itself so fine, so -frail, it would barely hold a child's kite in the wind: by hundreds, -hundreds of thousands of such, twisted, re-twisted together, are made -the mighty cables, which do not any more swerve from their place in the -air, under the weight and jar of the ceaseless traffic and tread of two -cities, than the solid earth swerves under the same ceaseless weight and -jar. Such cables do not break. - -Even Ramona herself would have found it hard to tell why she thus loved -Alessandro; how it began, or by what it grew. It had not been a sudden -adoration, like his passion for her; it was, in the beginning, simply -a response; but now it was as strong a love as his,--as strong, and as -unchangeable. The Senora's harsh words had been like a forcing-house air -to it, and the sudden knowledge of the fact of her own Indian descent -seemed to her like a revelation, pointing out the path in which destiny -called her to walk. She thrilled with pleasure at the thought of the joy -with which Alessandro would hear this,--the joy and the surprise. She -imagined to herself, in hundreds of ways, the time, place, and phrase in -which she would tell him. She could not satisfy herself as to the best; -as to which would give keenest pleasure to him and to her. She would -tell him, as soon as she saw him; it should be her first word of -greeting. No! There would be too much of trouble and embarrassment then. -She would wait till they were far away, till they were alone, in the -wilderness; and then she would turn to him, and say, “Alessandro, my -people are your people!” Or she would wait, and keep her secret until -she had reached Temecula, and they had begun their life there, and -Alessandro had been astonished to see how readily and kindly she took -to all the ways of the Indian village; and then, when he expressed -some such emotion, she would quietly say, “But I too am an Indian, -Alessandro!” - -Strange, sad bride's dreams these; but they made Ramona's heart beat -with happiness as she dreamed them. - - - - -XIV - -THE first day had gone, it was near night of the second, and not a word -had passed between Felipe and Ramona, except in the presence of the -Senora. It would have been beautiful to see, if it had not been so cruel -a thing, the various and devious methods by which the Senora had brought -this about. Felipe, oddly enough, was more restive under it than Ramona. -She had her dreams. He had nothing but his restless consciousness that -he had not done for her what he hoped; that he must seem to her to have -been disloyal; this, and a continual wonder what she could be planning -or expecting which made her so placid, kept Felipe in a fever of unrest, -of which his mother noted every sign, and redoubled her vigilance. - -Felipe thought perhaps he could speak to Ramona in the night, through -her window. But the August heats were fierce now; everybody slept with -wide-open windows; the Senora was always wakeful; if she should chance -to hear him thus holding secret converse with Ramona, it would indeed -make bad matters worse. Nevertheless, he decided to try it. At the first -sound of his footsteps on the veranda floor, “My son, are you ill? Can I -do anything?” came from the Senora's window. She had not been asleep at -all. It would take more courage than Felipe possessed, to try that plan -again; and he lay on his veranda bed, this afternoon, tossing about with -sheer impatience at his baffled purpose. Ramona sat at the foot of the -bed, taking the last stitches in the nearly completed altar-cloth. The -Senora sat in her usual seat, dozing, with her head thrown back. It -was very hot; a sultry south-wind, with dust from the desert, had been -blowing all day, and every living creature was more or less prostrated -by it. - -As the Senora's eyes closed, a sudden thought struck Felipe. Taking -out a memorandum-book in which he kept his accounts, he began rapidly -writing. Looking up, and catching Ramona's eye, he made a sign to her -that it was for her. She glanced apprehensively at the Senora. She was -asleep. Presently Felipe, folding the note, and concealing it in his -hand, rose, and walked towards Ramona's window, Ramona terrifiedly -watching him; the sound of Felipe's steps roused the Senora, who sat -up instantly, and gazed about her with that indescribable expression -peculiar to people who hope they have not been asleep, but know they -have. “Have I been asleep?” she asked. - -“About one minute, mother,” answered Felipe, who was leaning, as he -spoke, against Ramona's open window, his arms crossed behind him. -Stretching them out, and back and forth a few times, yawning idly, he -said, “This heat is intolerable!” Then he sauntered leisurely down the -veranda steps into the garden-walk, and seated himself on the bench -under the trellis there. - -The note had been thrown into Ramona's room. She was hot and cold with -fear lest she might not be able to get it unobserved. What if the -Senora were to go first into the room! She hardly dared look at her. But -fortune is not always on the side of tyrants. The Senora was fast dozing -off again, relieved that Felipe was out of speaking distance of Ramona. -As soon as her eyes were again shut, Ramona rose to go. The Senora -opened her eyes. Ramona was crossing the threshold of the door; she was -going into the house. Good! Still farther away from Felipe. - -“Are you going to your room, Ramona?” said the Senor. - -“I was,” replied Ramona, alarmed. “Did you want me here?” - -“No,” said the Senora; and she closed her eyes again. - -In a second more the note was safe in Ramona's hands. - -“Dear Ramona,” Felipe had written, “I am distracted because I cannot -speak with you alone. Can you think of any way? I want to explain things -to you. I am afraid you do not understand. Don't be unhappy. Alessandro -will surely be back in four days. I want to help you all I can, but you -saw I could not do much. Nobody will hinder your doing what you please; -but, dear, I wish you would not go away from us!” - -Tearing the paper into small fragments, Ramona thrust them into her -bosom, to be destroyed later. Then looking out of the window, and seeing -that the Senora was now in a sound sleep, she ventured to write a reply -to Felipe, though when she would find a safe opportunity to give it to -him, there was no telling. “Thank you, dear Felipe. Don't be anxious. I -am not unhappy. I understand all about it. But I must go away as soon as -Alessandro comes.” Hiding this also safe in her bosom, she went back to -the veranda. Felipe rose, and walked toward the steps. Ramona, suddenly -bold, stooped, and laid her note on the second step. Again the tired -eyes of the Senora opened. They had not been shut five minutes; Ramona -was at her work; Felipe was coming up the steps from the garden. He -nodded laughingly to his mother, and laid his finger on his lips. All -was well. The Senora dozed again. Her nap had cost her more than she -would ever know. This one secret interchange between Felipe and Ramona -then, thus making, as it were, common cause with each other as against -her, and in fear of her, was a step never to be recalled,--a step whose -significance could scarcely be overestimated. Tyrants, great and -small, are apt to overlook such possibilities as this; to forget the -momentousness which the most trivial incident may assume when forced -into false proportions and relations. Tyranny can make liars and cheats -out of the honestest souls. It is done oftener than any except close -students of human nature realize. When kings and emperors do this, the -world cries out with sympathy, and holds the plotters more innocent than -the tyrant who provoked the plot. It is Russia that stands branded in -men's thoughts, and not Siberia. - -The Senora had a Siberia of her own, and it was there that Ramona was -living in these days. The Senora would have been surprised to know how -little the girl felt the cold. To be sure, it was not as if she had ever -felt warmth in the Senora's presence; yet between the former chill and -this were many degrees, and except for her new life, and new love, and -hope in the thought of Alessandro, Ramona could not have borne it for a -day. - -The fourth day came; it seemed strangely longer than the others had. -All day Ramona watched and listened. Felipe, too; for, knowing what -Alessandro's impatience would be, he had, in truth, looked for him on -the previous night. The horse he rode was a fleet one, and would have -made the journey with ease in half the time. But Felipe reflected that -there might be many things for Alessandro to arrange at Temecula. He -would doubtless return prepared to take Ramona back with him, in case -that proved the only alternative left them. Felipe grew wretched as -his fancy dwelt on the picture of Ramona's future. He had been in the -Temecula village. He knew its poverty; the thought of Ramona there was -monstrous, To the indolent, ease-loving Felipe it was incredible that a -girl reared as Ramona had been, could for a moment contemplate leading -the life of a poor laboring man's wife. He could not conceive of love's -making one undertake any such life. Felipe had much to learn of love. -Night came; no Alessandro. Till the darkness settled down, Ramona sat, -watching the willows. When she could no longer see, she listened. The -Senora, noting all, also listened. She was uneasy as to the next stage -of affairs, but she would not speak. Nothing should induce her to swerve -from the line of conduct on which she had determined. It was the full of -the moon. When the first broad beam of its light came over the hill, and -flooded the garden and the white front of the little chapel, just as it -had done on that first night when Alessandro watched with Felipe on the -veranda, Ramona pressed her face against the window-panes, and gazed out -into the garden. At each flickering, motion of the shadows she saw the -form of a man approaching. Again and again she saw it. Again and again -the breeze died, and the shadow ceased. It was near morning before, -weary, sad, she crept to bed; but not to sleep. With wide-open, anxious -eyes, she still watched and listened. Never had the thought once crossed -her mind that Alessandro might not come at the time Felipe had said. In -her childlike simplicity she had accepted this as unquestioningly as -she had accepted other facts in her life. Now that he did not come, -unreasoning and unfounded terror took possession of her, and she asked -herself continually, “Will he ever come! They sent him away; perhaps he -will be too proud to come back!” Then faith would return, and saying to -herself, “He would never, never forsake me; he knows I have no one in -the whole world but him; he knows how I love him,” she would regain -composure, and remind herself of the many detentions which might have -prevented his coming at the time set. Spite of all, however, she was -heavy at heart; and at breakfast her anxious eyes and absent look were -sad to see. They hurt Felipe. Too well he knew what it meant. He also -was anxious. The Senora saw it in his face, and it vexed her. The girl -might well pine, and be mortified if her lover did not appear. But why -should Felipe disquiet himself? The Senora disliked it. It was a bad -symptom. There might be trouble ahead yet. There was, indeed, trouble -ahead,--of a sort the Senora's imaginings had not pictured. - -Another day passed; another night; another, and another. One week now -since Alessandro, as he leaped on his horse, had grasped Felipe's hand, -and said: “You will tell the Senorita; you will make sure that she -understands why I go; and in four days I will be back.” One week, and he -had not come. The three who were watching and wondering looked covertly -into each other's faces, each longing to know what the others thought. - -Ramona was wan and haggard. She had scarcely slept. The idea had taken -possession of her that Alessandro was dead. On the sixth and seventh -days she had walked each afternoon far down the river road, by which he -would be sure to come; down the meadows, and by the cross-cut, out -to the highway; at each step straining her tearful eyes into the -distance,--the cruel, blank, silent distance. She had come back -after dark, whiter and more wan than she went out. As she sat at the -supper-table, silent, making no feint of eating, only drinking glass -after glass of milk, in thirsty haste, even Margarita pitied her. But -the Senora did not. She thought the best thing which could happen, would -be that the Indian should never come back. Ramona would recover from it -in a little while; the mortification would be the worst thing, but even -that, time would heal. She wondered that the girl had not more pride -than to let her wretchedness be so plainly seen. She herself would have -died before she would go about with such a woe-begone face, for a whole -household to see and gossip about. - -On the morning of the eighth day, Ramona, desperate, waylaid Felipe, as -he was going down the veranda steps. The Senora was in the garden, and -saw them; but Ramona did not care. “Felipe!” she cried, “I must, I must -speak to you! Do you think Alessandro is dead? What else could keep him -from coming?” Her lips were dry, her cheeks scarlet, her voice husky. -A few more days of this, and she would be in a brain fever, Felipe -thought, as he looked compassionately at her. - -“Oh, no, no, dear! Do not think that!” he replied. “A thousand things -might have kept him.” - -“Ten thousand things would not! Nothing could!” said Ramona. “I know he -is dead. Can't you send a messenger, Felipe, and see?” - -The Senora was walking toward them. She overheard the last words. -Looking toward Felipe, no more regarding Ramona than if she had not been -within sight or hearing, the Senora said, “It seems to me that would not -be quite consistent with dignity. How does it strike you, Felipe' If -you thought best, we might spare a man as soon as the vintage is done, I -suppose.” - -Ramona walked away. The vintage would not be over for a week. There -were several vineyards yet which had not been touched; every hand on the -place was hard at work, picking the grapes, treading them out in tubs, -emptying the juice into stretched raw-hides swung from cross-beams in -a long shed. In the willow copse the brandy-still was in full blast; it -took one man to watch it; this was Juan Can's favorite work; for reasons -of his own he liked best to do it alone; and now that he could no longer -tread grapes in the tubs, he had a better chance for uninterrupted work -at the still. “No ill but has its good,” he thought sometimes, as he lay -comfortably stretched out in the shade, smoking his pipe day after day, -and breathing the fumes of the fiery brandy. - -As Ramona disappeared in the doorway, the Senora, coming close to -Felipe, and laying her hand on his arm, said in a confidential tone, -nodding her head in the direction in which Ramona had vanished: “She -looks badly, Felipe. I don't know what we can do. We surely cannot send -to summon back a lover we do not wish her to marry, can we? It is very -perplexing. Most unfortunate, every way. What do you think, my son?” - There was almost a diabolical art in the manner in which the Senora -could, by a single phrase or question, plant in a person's mind the -precise idea she wished him to think he had originated himself. - -“No; of course we can't send for him,” replied Felipe, angrily; “unless -it is to send him to marry her; I wish he had never set foot on the -place. I am sure I don't know what to do. Ramona's looks frighten me. I -believe she will die.” - -“I cannot wish Alessandro had never set foot on the place,” said the -Senora, gently, “for I feel that I owe your life to him, my Felipe; and -he is not to blame for Ramona's conduct. You need not fear her dying, -She may be ill; but people do not die of love like hers for Alessandro.” - -“Of what kind do they die, mother?” asked Felipe, impatiently. - -The Senora looked reproachfully at him. “Not often of any,” she said; -“but certainly not of a sudden passion for a person in every way beneath -them, in position, in education, in all points which are essential to -congeniality of tastes or association of life.” - -The Senora spoke calmly, with no excitement, as if she were discussing -an abstract case. Sometimes, when she spoke like this, Felipe for -the moment felt as if she were entirely right, as if it were really a -disgraceful thing in Ramona to have thus loved Alessandro. It could not -be gainsaid that there was this gulf, of which she spoke. Alessandro was -undeniably Ramona's inferior in position, education, in all the external -matters of life; but in nature, in true nobility of soul, no! Alessandro -was no man's inferior in these; and in capacity to love,--Felipe -sometimes wondered whether he had ever known Alessandro's equal in that. -This thought had occurred to him more than once, as from his sick-bed he -had, unobserved, studied the expression with which Alessandro gazed at -Ramona. But all this made no difference in the perplexity of the present -dilemma, in the embarrassment of his and his mother's position now. Send -a messenger to ask why Alessandro did not return! Not even if he had -been an accepted and publicly recognized lover, would Felipe do that! -Ramona ought to have more pride. She ought of herself to know that. And -when Felipe, later in the day, saw Ramona again, he said as much to her. -He said it as gently as he could; so gently that she did not at first -comprehend his idea. It was so foreign, so incompatible with her faith, -how could she? - -When she did understand, she said slowly: “You mean that it will not do -to send to find out if Alessandro is dead, because it will look as if I -wished him to marry me whether he wished it or not?” and she fixed her -eyes on Felipe's, with an expression he could not fathom. - -“Yes, dear,” he answered, “something like that, though you put it -harshly.” - -“Is it not true,” she persisted, “that is what you mean?” - -Reluctantly Felipe admitted that it was. - -Ramona was silent for some moments; then she said, speaking still -more slowly, “If you feel like that, we had better never talk about -Alessandro again. I suppose it is not possible that you should know, as -I do, that nothing but his being dead would keep him from coming -back. Thanks, dear Felipe;” and after this she did not speak again of -Alessandro. - -Days went by; a week. The vintage was over. The Senora wondered if -Ramona would now ask again for a messenger to go to Temecula. Almost -even the Senora relented, as she looked into the girl's white and wasted -face, as she sat silent, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on -the willows. The altar-cloth was done, folded and laid away. It would -never hang in the Moreno chapel. It was promised, in Ramona's mind, to -Father Salvierderra. She had resolved to go to him; if he, a feeble old -man, could walk all the way between Santa Barbara and their home, she -could surely do the same. She would not lose the way. There were not -many roads; she could ask. The convent, the bare thought of which -had been so terrible to Ramona fourteen days ago, when the Senora had -threatened her with it, now seemed a heavenly refuge, the only shelter -she craved. There was a school for orphans attached to the convent at -San Juan Bautista, she knew; she would ask the Father to let her go -there, and she would spend the rest of her life in prayer, and in -teaching the orphan girls. As hour after hour she sat revolving this -plan, her fancy projected itself so vividly into the future, that she -lived years of her life. She felt herself middle-aged, old. She saw the -procession of nuns, going to vespers, leading the children by the hand; -herself wrinkled and white-haired, walking between two of the little -ones. The picture gave her peace. As soon as she grew a little stronger, -she would set off on her journey to the Father; she could not go just -yet, she was too weak; her feet trembled if she did but walk to the foot -of the garden. Alessandro was dead; there could be no doubt of that. -He was buried in that little walled graveyard of which he had told -her. Sometimes she thought she would try to go there and see his grave, -perhaps see his father; if Alessandro had told him of her, the old man -would be glad to see her; perhaps, after all, her work might lie there, -among Alessandro's people. But this looked hard: she had not courage for -it; shelter and rest were what she wanted,--the sound of the Church's -prayers, and the Father's blessing every day. The convent was the best. - -She thought she was sure that Alessandro was dead; but she was not, for -she still listened, still watched. Each day she walked out on the river -road, and sat waiting till dusk. At last came a day when she could not -go; her strength failed her. She lay all day on her bed. To the Senora, -who asked frigidly if she were ill, she answered: “No, Senora, I do not -think I am ill, I have no pain, but I cannot get up. I shall be better -to-morrow.” - -“I will send you strong broth and a medicine,” the Senora said; and sent -her both by the hands of Margarita, whose hatred and jealousy broke down -at the first sight of Ramona's face on the pillow; it looked so much -thinner and sharper there than it had when she was sitting up. “Oh, -Senorita! Senorita!” she cried, in a tone of poignant grief, “are you -going to die? Forgive me, forgive me!” - -“I have nothing to forgive you, Margarita,” replied Ramona, raising -herself on her elbow, and lifting her eyes kindly to the girl's face -as she took the broth from her hands. “I do not know why you ask me to -forgive you.” - -Margarita flung herself on her knees by the bed, in a passion of -weeping. “Oh, but you do know, Senorita, you do know! Forgive me!” - -“No, I know nothing,” replied Ramona; “but if you know anything, it is -all forgiven. I am not going to die, Margarita. I am going away,” she -added, after a second's pause. Her inmost instinct told her that she -could trust Margarita now. Alessandro being dead, Margarita would no -longer be her enemy, and Margarita could perhaps help her. “I am going -away, Margarita, as soon as I feel a little stronger. I am going to a -convent; but the Senora does not know. You will not tell?” - -“No, Senorita!” whispered Margarita,--thinking in her heart, “Yes, she -is going away, but it will be with the angels.”--“No, Senorita, I will -not tell. I will do anything you want me to.” - -“Thanks, Margarita mia,” replied Ramona. “I thought you would;” and she -lay back on her pillow, and closed her eyes, looking so much more like -death than like life that Margarita's tears flowed faster than before, -and she ran to her mother, sobbing out, “Mother, mother! the Senorita is -ill to death. I am sure she is. She has taken to her bed; and she is as -white as Senor Felipe was at the worst of the fever.” - -“Ay,” said old Marda, who had seen all this for days back; “ay, she has -wasted away, this last week, like one in a fever, sure enough; I have -seen it. It must be she is starving herself to death.” - -“Indeed, she has not eaten for ten days,--hardly since that day;” - and Margarita and her mother exchanged looks. It was not necessary to -further define the day. - -“Juan Can says he thinks he will never be seen here again,” continued -Margarita. - -“The saints grant it, then,” said Marda, hotly, “if it is he has cost -the Senorita all this! I am that turned about in my head with it all, -that I've no thoughts to think; but plain enough it is, he is mixed up -with whatever 'tis has gone wrong.” - -“I could tell what it is,” said Margarita, her old pertness coming -uppermost for a moment; “but I've got no more to say, now the Senorita's -lying on her bed, with the face she's got. It's enough to break your -heart to look at her. I could just go down on my knees to her for all -I've said; and I will, and to Saint Francis too! She's going to be with -him before long; I know she is.” - -“No,” said the wiser, older Marda. “She is not so ill as you think. She -is young. It's the heart's gone out of her; that's all. I've been that -way myself. People are, when they're young.” - -“I'm young!” retorted Margarita. “I've never been that way.” - -“There's many a mile to the end of the road, my girl,” said Marda, -significantly; “and 'It's ill boasting the first day out,' was a proverb -when I was your age!” - -Marda had never been much more than half-way fond of this own child -of hers. Their natures were antagonistic. Traits which, in Margarita's -father, had embittered many a day of Marda's early married life, were -perpetually cropping out in Margarita, making between the mother and -daughter a barrier which even parental love was not always strong enough -to surmount. And, as was inevitable, this antagonism was constantly -leading to things which seemed to Margarita, and in fact were, unjust -and ill-founded. - -“She's always flinging out at me, whatever I do,” thought Margarita. -“I know one thing; I'll never tell her what the Senorita's told me; -never,--not till after she's gone.” - -A sudden suspicion flashed into Margarita's mind. She seated herself on -the bench outside the kitchen door, to wrestle with it. What if it were -not to a convent at all, but to Alessandro, that the Senorita meant to -go! No; that was preposterous. If it had been that, she would have gone -with him in the outset. Nobody who was plotting to run away with a lover -ever wore such a look as the Senorita wore now. Margarita dismissed the -thought; yet it left its trace. She would be more observant for having -had it; her resuscitated affection far her young mistress was not yet -so strong that it would resist the assaults of jealousy, if that passion -were to be again aroused in her fiery soul. Though she had never been -deeply in love with Alessandro herself, she had been enough so, and -she remembered him vividly enough, to feel yet a sharp emotion of -displeasure at the recollection of his devotion to the Senorita. Now -that the Senorita seemed to be deserted, unhappy, prostrated, she had no -room for anything but pity for her; but let Alessandro come on the stage -again, and all would be changed. The old hostility would return. It was -but a dubious sort of ally, after all, that Ramona had so unexpectedly -secured in Margarita. She might prove the sharpest of broken reeds. - -It was sunset of the eighteenth day since Alessandro's departure. Ramona -had lain for four days well-nigh motionless on her bed. She herself -began to think she must be going to die. Her mind seemed to be vacant of -all thought. She did not even sorrow for Alessandro's death; she seemed -torpid, body and soul. Such prostrations as these are Nature's enforced -rests. It is often only by help of them that our bodies tide over -crises, strains, in which, if we continued to battle, we should be -slain. - -As Ramona lay half unconscious,--neither awake nor yet asleep,--on this -evening, she was suddenly aware of a vivid impression produced upon her; -it was not sound, it was not sight. She was alone; the house was still -as death; the warm September twilight silence reigned outside, She sat -up in her bed, intent--half alarmed--half glad--bewildered--alive. What -had happened? Still there was no sound, no stir. The twilight was fast -deepening; not a breath of air moving. Gradually her bewildered senses -and faculties awoke from their long-dormant condition; she looked around -the room; even the walls seemed revivified; she clasped her hands, and -leaped from the bed. “Alessandro is not dead!” she said aloud; and she -laughed hysterically. “He is not dead!” she repeated. “He is not dead! -He is somewhere near!” - -With quivering hands she dressed, and stole out of the house. After -the first few seconds she found herself strangely strong; she did not -tremble; her feet trod firm on the ground. “Oh, miracle!” she thought, -as she hastened down the garden-walk; “I am well again! Alessandro is -near!” So vivid was the impression, that when she reached the willows -and found the spot silent, vacant, as when she had last sat there, -hopeless, broken-hearted, she experienced a revulsion of disappointment. -“Not here!” she cried; “not here!” and a swift fear shook her. “Am I -mad? Is it this way, perhaps, people lose their senses, when they are as -I have been!” - -But the young, strong blood was running swift in her veins. No! this -was no madness; rather a newly discovered power; a fulness of sense; a -revelation. Alessandro was near. - -Swiftly she walked down the river road. The farther she went, the keener -grew her expectation, her sense of Alessandro's nearness. In her present -mood she would have walked on and on, even to Temecula itself, sure that -she was at each step drawing nearer to Alessandro. - -As she approached the second willow copse, which lay perhaps a quarter -of a mile west of the first, she saw the figure of a man, standing, -leaning against one of the trees. She halted. It could not be -Alessandro. He would not have paused for a moment so near the house -where he was to find her. She was afraid to go on. It was late to meet -a stranger in this lonely spot. The figure was strangely still; so still -that, as she peered through the dusk, she half fancied it might be an -optical illusion. She advanced a few steps, hesitatingly, then stopped. -As she did so, the man advanced a few steps, then stopped. As he came -out from the shadows of the trees, she saw that he was of Alessandro's -height. She quickened her steps, then suddenly stopped again. What did -this mean? It could not be Alessandro. Ramona wrung her hands in agony -of suspense. An almost unconquerable instinct urged her forward; but -terror held her back. After standing irresolute for some minutes, she -turned to walk back to the house, saying, “I must not run the risk of -its being a stranger. If it is Alessandro, he will come.” - -But her feet seemed to refuse to move in the opposite direction. Slower -and slower she walked for a few paces, then turned again. The man had -returned to his former place, and stood as at first, leaning against the -tree. - -“It may be a messenger from him,” she said; “a messenger who has been -told not to come to the house until after dark.” - -Her mind was made up. She quickened her pace to a run. A few moments -more brought her so near that she could see distinctly. It was--yes, it -was Alessandro. He did not see her. His face was turned partially away, -his head resting against the tree; he must be ill. Ramona flew, rather -than ran. In a moment more, Alessandro had heard the light steps, -turned, saw Ramona, and, with a cry, bounded forward, and they were -clasped in each other's arms before they had looked in each other's -faces. Ramona spoke first. Disengaging herself gently, and looking -up, she began: “Alessandro--” But at the first sight of his face she -shrieked. Was this Alessandro, this haggard, emaciated, speechless man, -who gazed at her with hollow eyes, full of misery, and no joy! “O God,” - cried Ramona, “You have been ill! you are ill! My God, Alessandro, what -is it?” - -Alessandro passed his hand slowly over his forehead, as if trying to -collect his thoughts before speaking, all the while keeping his eyes -fixed on Ramona, with the same anguished look, convulsively holding both -her hands in his. - -“Senorita,” he said, “my Senorita!” Then he stopped. His tongue seemed -to refuse him utterance; and this voice,--this strange, hard, unresonant -voice,--whose voice was it? Not Alessandro's. - -“My Senorita,” he began again, “I could not go without one sight of your -face; but when I was here, I had not courage to go near the house. If -you had not come, I should have gone back without seeing you.” - -Ramona heard these words in fast-deepening terror, What did they mean? -Her look seemed to suggest a new thought to Alessandro. - -“Heavens, Senorita!” he cried, “have you not heard? Do you not know what -has happened?” - -“I know nothing, love,” answered Ramona. “I have heard nothing since -you went away. For ten days I have been sure you were dead; but to-night -something told me that you were near, and I came to meet you.” - -At the first words of Ramona's sentence, Alessandro threw his arms -around her again. As she said “love,” his whole frame shook with -emotion. - -“My Senorita!” he whispered, “my Senorita! how shall I tell you! How -shall I tell you!” - -“What is there to tell, Alessandro?” she said. “I am afraid of nothing, -now that you are here, and not dead, as I thought.” - -But Alessandro did not speak. It seemed impossible. At last, straining -her closer to his breast, he cried: “Dearest Senorita! I feel as if -I should die when I tell you,--I have no home; my father is dead; -my people are driven out of their village. I am only a beggar now, -Senorita; like those you used to feed and pity in Los Angeles convent!” - As he spoke the last words, he reeled, and, supporting himself against -the tree, added: “I am not strong, Senorita; we have been starving.” - -Ramona's face did not reassure him. Even in the dusk he could see its -look of incredulous horror. He misread it. - -“I only came to look at you once more,” he continued. “I will go now. -May the saints bless you, my Senorita, always. I think the Virgin sent -you to me to-night. I should never have seen your face if you had not -come.” - -While he was speaking, Ramona had buried her face in his bosom. Lifting -it now, she said, “Did you mean to leave me to think you were dead, -Alessandro?” - -“I thought that the news about our village must have reached you,” he -said, “and that you would know I had no home, and could not come, to -seem to remind you of what you had said. Oh, Senorita, it was little -enough I had before to give you! I don't know how I dared to believe -that you could come to be with me; but I loved you so much, I had -thought of many things I could do; and--” lowering his voice and -speaking almost sullenly--“it is the saints, I believe, who have -punished me thus for having resolved to leave my people, and take all I -had for myself and you. Now they have left me nothing;” and he groaned. - -“Who?” cried Ramona. “Was there a battle? Was your father killed?” She -was trembling with horror. - -“No,” answered Alessandro. “There was no battle. There would have been, -if I had had my way; but my father implored me not to resist. He said it -would only make it worse for us in the end. The sheriff, too, he begged -me to let it all go on peaceably, and help him keep the people quiet. He -felt terribly to have to do it. It was Mr. Rothsaker, from San Diego. We -had often worked for him on his ranch. He knew all about us. Don't you -recollect, Senorita, I told you about him,--how fair he always was, and -kind too? He has the biggest wheat-ranch in Cajon; we've harvested miles -and miles of wheat for him. He said he would have rather died, almost, -than have had it to do; but if we resisted, he would have to order his -men to shoot. He had twenty men with him. They thought there would be -trouble; and well they might,--turning a whole village full of men and -women and children out of their houses, and driving them off like foxes. -If it had been any man but Mr. Rothsaker, I would have shot him dead, -if I had hung for it; but I knew if he thought we must go, there was no -help for us.” - -“But, Alessandro,” interrupted Ramona, “I can't understand. Who was it -made Mr. Rothsaker do it? Who has the land now?” - -“I don't know who they are,” Alessandro replied, his voice full of -anger and scorn. “They're Americans--eight or ten of them. They all got -together and brought a suit, they call it, up in San Francisco; and it -was decided in the court that they owned all our land. That was all Mr. -Rothsaker could tell about it. It was the law, he said, and nobody could -go against the law.” - -“Oh,” said Ramona, “that's the way the Americans took so much of the -Senora's land away from her. It was in the court up in San Francisco; -and they decided that miles and miles of her land, which the General -had always had, was not hers at all. They said it belonged to the United -States Government.” - -“They are a pack of thieves and liars, every one of them!” cried -Alessandro. “They are going to steal all the land in this country; we -might all just as well throw ourselves into the sea, and let them have -it. My father had been telling me this for years. He saw it coming; but -I did not believe him. I did not think men could be so wicked; but he -was right. I am glad he is dead. That is the only thing I have to be -thankful for now. One day I thought he was going to get well, and I -prayed to the Virgin not to let him. I did not want him to live. He -never knew anything clear after they took him out of his house. That was -before I got there. I found him sitting on the ground outside. They said -it was the sun that had turned him crazy; but it was not. It was his -heart breaking in his bosom. He would not come out of his house, and -the men lifted him up and carried him out by force, and threw him on the -ground; and then they threw out all the furniture we had; and when he -saw them doing that, he put his hands up to his head, and called out, -'Alessandro! Alessandro!' and I was not there! Senorita, they said it -was a voice to make the dead hear, that he called with; and nobody -could stop him. All that day and all the night he kept on calling. God! -Senorita, I wonder I did not die when they told me! When I got there, -some one had built up a little booth of tule over his head, to keep the -sun off. He did not call any more, only for water, water. That was what -made them think the sun had done it. They did all they could; but it was -such a dreadful time, nobody could do much; the sheriff's men were in -great hurry; they gave no time. They said the people must all be off in -two days. Everybody was running hither and thither. Everything out of -the houses in piles on the ground. The people took all the roofs off -their houses too. They were made of the tule reeds; so they would do -again. Oh, Senorita, don't ask me to tell you any more! It is like -death. I can't!” - -Ramona was crying bitterly. She did not know what to say. What was love, -in face of such calamity? What had she to give to a man stricken like -this.' - -“Don't weep, Senorita,” said Alessandro, drearily. “Tears kill one, and -do no good.” - -“How long did your father live?” asked Ramona, clasping her arms closer -around his neck. They were sitting on the ground now, and Ramona, -yearning over Alessandro, as if she were the strong one and he the one -to be sheltered, had drawn his head to her bosom, caressing him as if -he had been hers for years. Nothing could have so clearly shown his -enfeebled and benumbed condition, as the manner in which he received -these caresses, which once would have made him beside himself with joy. -He leaned against her breast as a child might. - -“He! He died only four days ago. I stayed to bury him, and then I came -away. I have been three days on the way; the horse, poor beast, is -almost weaker than I. The Americans took my horse,” Alessandro said. - -“Took your horse!” cried Ramona, aghast. “Is that the law, too?” - -“So Mr. Rothsaker told me. He said the judge had said he must take -enough of our cattle and horses to pay all it had cost for the suit up -in San Francisco. They didn't reckon the cattle at what they were worth, -I thought; but they said cattle were selling very low now. There were -not enough in all the village to pay it, so we had to make it up in -horses; and they took mine. I was not there the day they drove the -cattle away, or I would have put a ball into Benito's head before any -American should ever have had him to ride. But I was over in Pachanga -with my father. He would not stir a step for anybody but me; so I led -him all the way; and then after he got there he was so ill I never left -him a minute. He did not know me any more, nor know anything that had -happened. I built a little hut of tule, and he lay on the ground till he -died. When I put him in his grave, I was glad.” - -“In Temecula?” asked Ramona. - -“In Temecula.” exclaimed Alessandro, fiercely. “You don't seem to -understand, Senorita. We have no right in Temecula, not even to our -graveyard full of the dead. Mr. Rothsaker warned us all not to be -hanging about there; for he said the men who were coming in were a -rough set, and they would shoot any Indian at sight, if they saw him -trespassing on their property.” - -“Their property!” ejaculated Ramona. - -“Yes; it is theirs,” said Alessandro, doggedly. “That is the law. -They've got all the papers to show it. That is what my father always -said,--if the Senor Valdez had only given him a paper! But they never -did in those days. Nobody had papers. The American law is different.” - -“It's a law of thieves!” cried Ramona. - -“Yes, and of murderers too,” said Alessandro. “Don't you call my father -murdered just as much as if they had shot him? I do! and, O Senorita, -my Senorita, there was Jose! You recollect Jose, who went for my violin? -But, my beloved one, I am killing you with these terrible things! I will -speak no more.” - -“No, no, Alessandro. Tell me all, all. You must have no grief I do not -share. Tell me about Jose,” cried Ramona, breathlessly. - -“Senorita, it will break your heart to hear. Jose was married a year -ago. He had the best house in Temecula, next to my father's. It was the -only other one that had a shingled roof. And he had a barn too, and that -splendid horse he rode, and oxen, and a flock of sheep. He was at home -when the sheriff came. A great many of the men were away, grapepicking. -That made it worse. But Jose was at home; for his wife had a little baby -only a few weeks old, and the child seemed sickly and not like to live, -and Jose would not leave it. Jose was the first one that saw the sheriff -riding into the village, and the band of armed men behind him, and Jose -knew what it meant. He had often talked it over with me and with my -father, and now he saw that it had come; and he went crazy in one -minute, and fell on the ground all froth at his mouth. He had had a fit -like that once before; and the doctor said if he had another, he would -die. But he did not. They picked him up, and presently he was better; -and Mr. Rothsaker said nobody worked so well in the moving the first -day as Jose did. Most of the men would not lift a hand. They sat on the -ground with the women, and covered up their faces, and would not see. -But Jose worked; and, Senorita, one of the first things he did, was to -run with my father's violin to the store, to Mrs. Hartsel, and ask her -to hide it for us; Jose knew it was worth money. But before noon the -second day he had another fit, and died in it,--died right in his own -door, carrying out some of the things; and after Carmena--that's his -wife's name--saw he was dead, she never spoke, but sat rocking back -and forth on the ground, with the baby in her arms. She went over to -Pachanga at the same time I did with my father. It was a long procession -of us.” - -“Where is Pachanga?” asked Ramona. - -“About three miles from Temecula, a little sort of canon. I told -the people they'd better move over there; the land did not belong to -anybody, and perhaps they could make a living there. There isn't any -water; that's the worst of it.” - -“No water!” cried Ramona. - -“No running water. There is one little spring, and they dug a well by it -as soon as they got there; so there was water to drink, but that is all. -I saw Carmena could hardly keep up, and I carried the baby for her on -one arm, while I led my father with the other hand; but the baby cried, -so she took it back. I thought then it wouldn't live the day out; but -it did live till the morning of the day my father died. Just a few hours -before he died, Carmena came along with the baby rolled up in her shawl, -and sat down by me on the ground, and did not speak. When I said, 'How -is the little one?' she opened her shawl and showed it to me, dead. -'Good, Carmena!' said I. 'It is good! My father is dying too. We will -bury them together.' So she sat by me all that morning, and at night -she helped me dig the graves. I wanted to put the baby on my father's -breast; but she said, no, it must have a little grave. So she dug it -herself; and we put them in; and she never spoke, except that once. She -was sitting there by the grave when I came away. I made a cross of two -little trees with the boughs chopped off, and set it up by the graves. -So that is the way our new graveyard was begun,--my father and the -little baby; it is the very young and the very old that have the blessed -fortune to die. I cannot die, it seems!” - -“Where did they bury Jose?” gasped Ramona. - -“In Temecula,” said Alessandro. “Mr. Rothsaker made two of his men dig -a grave in our old graveyard for Jose. But I think Carmena will go at -night and bring his body away. I would! But, my Senorita, it is very -dark, I can hardly see your beloved eyes. I think you must not stay -longer. Can I go as far as the brook with you, safely, without being -seen? The saints bless you, beloved, for coming. I could not have lived, -I think, without one more sight of your face;” and, springing to his -feet, Alessandro stood waiting for Ramona to move. She remained -still. She was in a sore strait. Her heart held but one impulse, one -desire,--to go with Alessandro; nothing was apparently farther from -his thoughts than this. Could she offer to go? Should she risk laying a -burden on him greater than he could bear? If he were indeed a beggar, as -he said, would his life be hindered or helped by her? She felt herself -strong and able. Work had no terrors for her; privations she knew -nothing of, but she felt no fear of them. - -“Alessandro!” she said, in a tone which startled him. - -“My Senorita!” he said tenderly. - -“You have never once called me Ramona.” - -“I cannot, Senorita!” he replied. - -“Why not?” - -“I do not know. I sometimes think 'Ramona,'” he added faintly; “but not -often. If I think of you by any other name than as my Senorita, it is -usually by a name you never heard.” - -“What is it?” exclaimed Ramona, wonderingly. - -“An Indian word, my dearest one, the name of the bird you are like,--the -wood-dove. In the Luiseno tongue that is Majel; that was what I thought -my people would have called you, if you had come to dwell among us. It -is a beautiful name, Senorita, and is like you.” - -Alessandro was still standing. Ramona rose; coming close to him, she -laid both her hands on his breast, and her head on her hands, and said: -“Alessandro, I have something to tell you. I am an Indian. I belong to -your people.” - -Alessandro's silence astonished her. “You are surprised,” she said. “I -thought you would be glad.” - -“The gladness of it came to me long ago, my Senorita,” he said. “I knew -it!” - -“How?” cried Ramona. “And you never told me, Alessandro!” - -“How could I?” he replied. “I dared not. Juan Canito, it was told me.” - -“Juan Canito!” said Ramona, musingly. “How could he have known?” Then in -a few rapid words she told Alessandro all that the Senora had told her. -“Is that what Juan Can said?” she asked. - -“All except the father's name,” stammered Alessandro. - -“Who did he say was my father?” she asked. - -Alessandro was silent. - -“It matters not,” said Ramona. “He was wrong. The Senora, of course, -knew. He was a friend of hers, and of the Senora Ortegna, to whom he -gave me. But I think, Alessandro, I have more of my mother than of my -father.” - -“Yes, you have, my Senorita,” replied Alessandro, tenderly. “After I -knew it, I then saw what it was in your face had always seemed to me -like the faces of my own people.” - -“Are you not glad, Alessandro?” - -“Yes, my Senorita.” - -What more should Ramona say? Suddenly her heart gave way; and without -premeditation, without resolve, almost without consciousness of what -she was doing, she flung herself on Alessandro's breast, and cried: “Oh, -Alessandro, take me with you! take me with you! I would rather die than -have you leave me again!” - - - - -XV - -ALESSANDRO'S first answer to this cry of Ramona's was a tightening of -his arms around her; closer and closer he held her, till it was almost -pain; she could hear the throbs of his heart, but he did not speak. -Then, letting his arms fall, taking her hand in his, he laid it on -his forehead reverently, and said, in a voice which was so husky and -trembling she could barely understand his words: “My Senorita knows that -my life is hers. She can ask me to go into the fire or into the sea, and -neither the fire nor the sea would frighten me; they would but make -me glad for her sake. But I cannot take my Senorita's life to throw it -away. She is tender; she would die; she cannot lie on the earth for a -bed, and have no food to eat. My Senorita does not know what she says.” - -His solemn tone; this third-person designation, as if he were speaking -of her, not with her, almost as if he were thinking aloud to God rather -than speaking to her, merely calmed and strengthened, did not deter -Ramona. “I am strong; I can work too, Alessandro. You do not know. We -can both work. I am not afraid to lie on the earth; and God will give us -food,” she said. - -“That was what I thought, my Senorita, until now. When I rode away -that morning, I had it in my thoughts, as you say, that if you were not -afraid, I would not be; and that there would at least always be food, -and I could make it that you should never suffer; but, Senorita, the -saints are displeased. They do not pray for us any more. It is as my -father said, they have forsaken us. These Americans will destroy us all. -I do not know but they will presently begin to shoot us and poison -us, to get us all out of the country, as they do the rabbits and the -gophers; it would not be any worse than what they have done. Would not -you rather be dead, Senorita, than be as I am to-day?” - -Each word he spoke but intensified Ramona's determination to share -his lot. “Alessandro,” she interrupted, “there are many men among your -people who have wives, are there not?” - -“Yes, Senorita!” replied Alessandro, wonderingly. - -“Have their wives left them and gone away, now that this trouble has -come?” - -“No, Senorita.” still more wonderingly; “how could they?” - -“They are going to stay with them, help them to earn money, try to make -them happier, are they not?” - -“Yes, Senorita.” Alessandro began to see whither these questions tended. -It was not unlike the Senora's tactics, the way in which Ramona narrowed -in her lines of interrogation. - -“Do the women of your people love their husbands very much?” - -“Very much, Senorita.” A pause. It was very dark now. Alessandro could -not see the hot currents running swift and red over Ramona's face; even -her neck changed color as she asked her last question. “Do you think any -one of them loves her husband more than I love you, Alessandro?” - -Alessandro's arms were again around her, before the words were done. -Were not such words enough to make a dead man live? Almost; but not -enough to make such a love as Alessandro's selfish. Alessandro was -silent. - -“You know there is not one!” said Ramona, impetuously. - -“Oh, it is too much!” cried Alessandro, throwing his arms up wildly. -Then, drawing her to him again, he said, the words pouring out -breathless: “My Senorita, you take me to the door of heaven, but I dare -not go in. I know it would kill you, Senorita, to live the life we must -live. Let me go, dearest Senorita; let me go! It had been better if you -had never seen me.” - -“Do you know what I was going to do, Alessandro, if you had not come?” - said Ramona. “I was going to run away from the Senora's house, all -alone, and walk all the way to Santa Barbara, to Father Salvierderra, -and ask him to put me in the convent at San Juan Bautista; and that is -what I will do now if you leave me!” - -“Oh, no, no, Senorita, my Senorita, you will not do that! My beautiful -Senorita in the convent! No, no!” cried Alessandro, greatly agitated. - -“Yes, if you do not let me come with you, I shall do it. I shall set out -to-morrow.” - -Her words carried conviction to Alessandro's soul. He knew she would do -as she said. “Even that would not be so dreadful as to be hunted like a -wild beast, Senorita; as you may be, if you come with me.” - -“When I thought you were dead, Alessandro, I did not think the convent -would be dreadful at all. I thought it would be peace; and I could do -good, teaching the children. But if I knew you were alive, I could never -have peace; not for one minute have peace, Alessandro! I would rather -die, than not be where you are. Oh, Alessandro, take me with you!” - -Alessandro was conquered. “I will take you, my most beloved Senorita,” - he said gravely,--no lover's gladness in his tone, and his voice was -hollow; “I will take you. Perhaps the saints will have mercy on you, -even if they have forsaken me and my people!” - -“Your people are my people, dearest; and the saints never forsake any -one who does not forsake them. You will be glad all our lives long, -Alessandro,” cried Ramona; and she laid her head on his breast in solemn -silence for a moment, as if registering a vow. - -Well might Felipe have said that he would hold himself fortunate if any -woman ever loved him as Ramona loved Alessandro. - -When she lifted her head, she said timidly, now that she was sure, “Then -you will take your Ramona with you, Alessandro?” - -“I will take you with me till I die; and may the Madonna guard you, my -Ramona,” replied Alessandro, clasping her to his breast, and bowing -his head upon hers. But there were tears in his eyes, and they were not -tears of joy; and in his heart he said, as in his rapturous delight when -he first saw Ramona bending over the brook under the willows he had said -aloud, “My God! what shall I do!” - -It was not easy to decide on the best plan of procedure now. Alessandro -wished to go boldly to the house, see Senor Felipe, and if need be the -Senora. Ramona quivered with terror at the bare mention of it. “You do -not know the Senora, Alessandro,” she cried, “or you would never think -of it. She has been terrible all this time. She hates me so that she -would kill me if she dared. She pretends that she will do nothing to -prevent my going away; but I believe at the last minute she would throw -me in the well in the court-yard, rather than have me go with you.” - -“I would never let her harm you,” said Alessandro. “Neither would Senor -Felipe.” - -“She turns Felipe round her finger as if he were soft wax,” answered -Ramona. “She makes him of a hundred minds in a minute, and he can't help -himself. Oh, I think she is in league with the fiends, Alessandro! Don't -dare to come near the house; I will come here as soon as every one is -asleep. We must go at once.” - -Ramona's terrors overruled Alessandro's judgment, and he consented to -wait for her at the spot where they now stood. She turned back twice to -embrace him again. “Oh, my Alessandro, promise me that you will not stir -from this place till I come,” she said. - -“I will be here when you come,” he said. - -“It will not be more than two hours,” she said, “or three, at the -utmost. It must be nine o'clock now.” - -She did not observe that Alessandro had evaded the promise not to leave -the spot. That promise Alessandro would not have given. He had something -to do in preparation for this unexpected flight of Ramona. In her -innocence, her absorption in her thoughts of Alessandro and of love, she -had never seemed to consider how she would make this long journey. -As Alessandro had ridden towards Temecula, eighteen days ago, he had -pictured himself riding back on his fleet, strong Benito, and bringing -Antonio's matchless little dun mare for Ramona to ride. Only eighteen -short days ago; and as he was dreaming that very dream, he had looked up -and seen Antonio on the little dun mare, galloping towards him like the -wind, the overridden creature's breath coming from her like pants of -a steam-engine, and her sides dripping blood, where Antonio, who loved -her, had not spared the cruel spurs; and Antonio, seeing him, had -uttered a cry, and flinging himself off, came with a bound to his side, -and with gasps between his words told him. Alessandro could not remember -the words, only that after them he set his teeth, and dropping the -bridle, laid his head down between Benito's ears, and whispered to him; -and Benito never stopped, but galloped on all that day, till he came -into Temecula; and there Alessandro saw the roofless houses, and -the wagons being loaded, and the people running about, the women and -children wailing; and then they showed him the place where his father -lay on the ground, under the tule, and jumping off Benito he let him go, -and that was the last he ever saw of him. Only eighteen days ago! And -now here he was, under the willows,--the same copse where he first -halted, at his first sight of Ramona; and it was night, dark night, and -Ramona had been there, in his arms; she was his; and she was going back -presently to go away with him,--where! He had no home in the wide world -to which to take her,--and this poor beast he had ridden from Temecula, -had it strength enough left to carry her? Alessandro doubted. He had -himself walked more than half the distance, to spare the creature, and -yet there had been good pasture all the way; but the animal had been too -long starved to recover quickly. In the Pachanga canon, where they had -found refuge, the grass was burned up by the sun, and the few horses -taken over there had suffered wretchedly; some had died. But Alessandro, -even while his arms were around Ramona, had revolved in his mind a -project he would not have dared to confide to her. If Baba, Ramona's own -horse, was still in the corral, Alessandro could without difficulty -lure him out. He thought it would be no sin. At any rate, if it were, -it could not be avoided. The Senorita must have a horse, and Baba had -always been her own; had followed her about like a dog ever since he -could run; in fact, the only taming he had ever had, had been done by -Ramona, with bread and honey. He was intractable to others; but Ramona -could guide him by a wisp of his silky mane. Alessandro also had nearly -as complete control over him; for it had been one of his greatest -pleasures, during the summer, when he could not see Ramona, to caress -and fondle her horse, till Baba knew and loved him next to his young -mistress. If only Baba were in the corral, all would be well. As soon as -the sound of Ramona's footsteps had died away, Alessandro followed with -quick but stealthy steps; keeping well down in the bottom, below the -willows, he skirted the terrace where the artichoke-patch and the -sheepfolds lay, and then turned up to approach the corral from the -farther side. There was no light in any of the herdsmen's huts. They -were all asleep. That was good. Well Alessandro knew how sound they -slept; many a night while he slept there with them he had walked twice -over their bodies as they lay stretched on skins on the floor,--out -and in without rousing them. If only Baba would not give a loud whinny. -leaning on the corral-fence, Alessandro gave a low, hardly audible -whistle. The horses were all in a group together at the farther end of -the corral. At the sound there was a slight movement in the group; and -one of them turned and came a pace or two toward Alessandro. - -“I believe that is Baba himself,” thought Alessandro; and he made -another low sound. The horse quickened his steps; then halted, as if he -suspected some mischief. - -“Baba,” whispered Alessandro. The horse knew his name as well as any -dog; knew Alessandro's voice too; but the sagacious creature seemed -instinctively to know that here was an occasion for secrecy and caution. -If Alessandro whispered, he, Baba, would whisper back; and it was little -more than a whispered whinny which he gave, as he trotted quickly to the -fence, and put his nose to Alessandro's face, rubbing and kissing and -giving soft whinnying sighs. - -“Hush! hush! Baba,” whispered Alessandro, as if he were speaking to a -human being. “Hush!” and he proceeded cautiously to lift off the upper -rails and bushes of the fence. The horse understood instantly; and as -soon as the fence was a little lowered, leaped over it and stood still -by Alessandro's side, while he replaced the rails, smiling to himself, -spite of his grave anxiety, to think of Juan Can's wonder in the morning -as to how Baba had managed to get out of the corral. - -This had taken only a few moments. It was better luck than Alessandro -had hoped for; emboldened by it, he began to wonder if he could not get -the saddle too. The saddles, harnesses, bridles, and all such things -hung on pegs in an open barn, such as is constantly to be seen in -Southern California; as significant a testimony, in matter of climate, -as any Signal Service Report could be,--a floor and a roof; no walls, -only corner posts to hold the roof. Nothing but summerhouses on a large -scale are the South California barns. Alessandro stood musing. The -longer he thought, the greater grew his desire for that saddle. - -“Baba, if only you knew what I wanted of you, you'd lie down on the -ground here and wait while I got the saddle. But I dare not risk leaving -you. Come, Baba!” and he struck down the hill again, the horse following -him softly. When he got down below the terrace, he broke into a run, -with his hand in Baba's mane, as if it were a frolic; and in a few -moments they were safe in the willow copse, where Alessandro's poor pony -was tethered. Fastening Baba with the same lariat, Alessandro patted him -on the neck, pressed his face to his nose, and said aloud, “Good Baba, -stay here till the Senorita comes.” Baba whinnied. - -“Why shouldn't he know the Senorita's name! I believe he does!” thought -Alessandro, as he turned and again ran swiftly back to the corral. He -felt strong now,--felt like a new man. Spite of all the terror, joy -thrilled him. When he reached the corral, all was yet still. The horses -had not moved from their former position. Throwing himself flat on the -ground, Alessandro crept on his breast from the corral to the barn, -several rods' distance. This was the most hazardous part of his -adventure; every other moment he paused, lay motionless for some -seconds, then crept a few paces more. As he neared the corner where -Ramona's saddle always hung, his heart beat. Sometimes, of a warm night, -Luigo slept on the barn floor. If he were there to-night, all was lost. -Groping in the darkness, Alessandro pulled himself up on the post, felt -for the saddle, found it, lifted it, and in a trice was flat on the -ground again, drawing the saddle along after him. Not a sound had he -made, that the most watchful of sheep-dogs could hear. - -“Ha, old Capitan, caught you napping this time!” said Alessandro to -himself, as at last he got safe to the bottom of the terrace, and, -springing to his feet, bounded away with the saddle on his shoulders. -It was a weight for a starving man to carry, but he felt it not, for -the rejoicing he had in its possession. Now his Senorita would go in -comfort. To ride Baba was to be rocked in a cradle. If need be, Baba -would carry them both, and never know it; and it might come to that, -Alessandro thought, as he knelt by the side of his poor beast, which was -stretched out on the ground exhausted; Baba standing by, looking down in -scornful wonder at this strange new associate. - -“The saints be praised!” thought Alessandro, as he seated himself to -wait. “This looks as if they would not desert my Senorita.” - -Thoughts whirled in his brain. Where should they go first? What would be -best? Would they be pursued? Where could they hide? Where should he seek -a new home? - -It was bootless thinking, until Ramona was by his side. He must lay -each plan before her. She must decide. The first thing was to get to -San Diego, to the priest, to be married. That would be three days' hard -ride; five for the exhausted Indian pony. What should they eat on -the ways Ah! Alessandro bethought him of the violin at Hartsel's. Mr. -Hartsel would give him money on that; perhaps buy it. Then Alessandro -remembered his own violin. He had not once thought of it before. It lay -in its case on a table in Senor Felipe's room when he came away, Was it -possible? No, of course it could not be possible that the Senorita would -think to bring it. What would she bring? She would be wise, Alessandro -was sure. - -How long the hours seemed as he sat thus plotting and conjecturing; more -and more thankful, as each hour went by, to see the sky still clouded, -the darkness dense. “It must have been the saints, too, that brought me -on a night when there was no moon,” he thought; and then he said again, -devout and simple-minded man that he was. “They mean to protect my -Senorita; they will let me take care of her.” - -Ramona was threading a perilous way, through great difficulties. She had -reached her room unobserved, so far as she could judge. Luckily for her, -Margarita was in bed with a terrible toothache, for which her mother had -given her a strong sleeping-draught. Margarita was disposed of. If she -had not been, Ramona would never have got away, for Margarita would have -known that she had been out of the house for two hours, and would have -watched to see what it meant. - -Ramona came in through the court-yard; she dared not go by the veranda, -sure that Felipe and his mother were sitting there still, for it was not -late. - -As she entered her room, she heard them talking. She closed one of her -windows, to let them know she was there. Then she knelt at the Madonna's -feet, and in an inaudible whisper told her all she was going to do, and -prayed that she would watch over her and Alessandro, and show them where -to go. - -“I know she will! I am sure she will!” whispered Ramona to herself as -she rose from her knees. - -Then she threw herself on her bed, to wait till the Senora and Felipe -should be asleep. Her brain was alert, clear. She knew exactly what she -wished to do. She had thought that all out, more than two weeks ago, -when she was looking for Alessandro hour by hour. - -Early in the summer Alessandro had given to her, as curiosities, two -of the large nets which the Indian women use for carrying all sorts of -burdens. They are woven out of the fibres of a flax-like plant, and -are strong as iron. The meshes being large, they are very light; are -gathered at each end, and fastened to a band which goes around the -forehead. In these can be carried on the back, with comparative ease, -heavier loads than could be lifted in any other way. Until Ramona -recollected these, she had been perplexed to know how she should carry -the things which she had made up her mind it would be right for her to -take,--only a few; simply necessaries; one stuff gown and her shawls; -the new altar-cloth, and two changes of clothes; that would not be a -great deal; she had a right to so much, she thought, now that she -had seen the jewels in the Senora's keeping. “I will tell Father -Salvierderra exactly what I took,” she thought, “and ask him if it was -too much.” She did not like to think that all these clothes she must -take had been paid for with the Senora Moreno's money. - -And Alessandro's violin. Whatever else she left, that must go. What -would life be to Alessandro without a violin! And if they went to Los -Angeles, he might earn money by playing at dances. Already Ramona had -devised several ways by which they could both earn money. - -There must be also food for the journey. And it must be good food, too; -wine for Alessandro. Anguish filled her heart as she recalled how gaunt -he looked. “Starving,” he said they had been. Good God! Starving! And -she had sat down each day at loaded tables, and seen, each day, good -food thrown to the dogs to eat. - -It was long before the Senora went to her room; and long after that -before Felipe's breathing had become so deep and regular that Ramona -dared feel sure that he was asleep. At last she ventured out. All was -dark; it was past midnight. - -“The violin first!” she said; and creeping into the dining-room, and -through the inner door to Felipe's room, she brought it out, rolled it -in shawl after shawl, and put it in the net with her clothes. Then she -stole out, with this net on her back, “like a true Indian woman as I -am,” she said, almost gayly, to herself,--through the court-yard, around -the southeast corner of the house, past the garden, down to the willows, -where she laid down her load, and went back for the second. - -This was harder. Wine she was resolved to have and bread and cold -meat. She did not know so well where to put her hand on old Marda's -possessions as on her own, and she dared not strike a light. She made -several journeys to the kitchen and pantry before she had completed her -store. Wine, luckily, she found in the dining-room,--two full bottles; -also milk, which she poured into a leathern flask which hung on the wall -in the veranda. - -Now all was ready. She leaned from her window, and listened to Felipe's -breathing. “How can I go without bidding him good-by?” she said. “How -can I?” and she stood irresolute. - -“Dear Felipe! Dear Felipe! He has always been so good to me! He has done -all he could for me. I wish I dared kiss him. I will leave a note for -him.” - -Taking a pencil and paper, and a tiny wax taper, whose light -would hardly be seen across a room, she slipped once more into the -dining-room, knelt on the floor behind the door, lighted her taper, and -wrote:-- - -“DEAR FELIPE,--Alessandro has come, and I am going away with him -to-night. Don't let anything be done to us, if you can help it. I don't -know where we are going. I hope, to Father Salvierderra. I shall love -you always. Thank you, dear Felipe, for all your kindness. - -“RAMONA.” - -It had not taken a moment. She blew out her taper, and crept back into -her room. Felipe's bed was now moved close to the wall of the house. -From her window she could reach its foot. Slowly, cautiously, she -stretched out her arm and dropped the little paper on the coverlet, just -over Felipe's feet. There was a risk that the Senora would come out in -the morning, before Felipe awaked, and see the note first; but that risk -she would take. - -“Farewell, dear Felipe!” she whispered, under her breath, as she turned -from the window. - -The delay had cost her dear. The watchful Capitan, from his bed at the -upper end of the court, had half heard, half scented, something strange -going on. As Ramona stepped out, he gave one short, quick bark, and came -bounding down. - -“Holy Virgin, I am lost!” thought Ramona; but, crouching on the ground, -she quickly opened her net, and as Capitan came towards her, gave him a -piece of meat, fondling and caressing him. While he ate it, wagging his -tail, and making great demonstrations of joy, she picked up her load -again, and still fondling him, said, “Come on, Capitan!” It was her last -chance. If he barked again, somebody would be waked; if he went by her -side quietly, she might escape. A cold sweat of terror burst on her -forehead as she took her first step cautiously. The dog followed. She -quickened her pace; he trotted along, still smelling the meat in the -net. When she reached the willows, she halted, debating whether she -should give him a large piece of meat, and try to run away while he was -eating it, or whether she should let him go quietly along. She decided -on the latter course; and, picking up her other net, walked on. She was -safe now. She turned, and looked back towards the house; all was dark -and still. She could hardly see its outline. A great wave of emotion -swept over her. It was the only home she had ever known. All she -had experienced of happiness, as well as of bitter pain, had been -there,--Felipe, Father Salvierderra, the servants, the birds, the -garden, the dear chapel! Ah, if she could have once more prayed in the -chapel! Who would put fresh flowers and ferns in the chapel now? How -Felipe would miss her, when he knelt before the altar! For fourteen -years she had knelt by his side. And the Senora,--the hard, cold Senora! -She would alone be glad. Everybody else would be sorry. “They will all -be sorry I have gone,--all but the Senora! I wish it had been so that I -could have bidden them all good-by, and had them all bid me good-by, and -wish us good fortune!” thought the gentle, loving girl, as she drew a -long sigh, and, turning her back on her home, went forward in the path -she had chosen. - -She stooped and patted Capitan on the head. “Will you come with me, -Capitan?” she said; and Capitan leaped up joyfully, giving two or three -short, sharp notes of delight. “Good Capitan, come! They will not -miss him out of so many,” she thought, “and it will always seem like -something from home, as long as I have Capitan.” - -When Alessandro first saw Ramona's figure dimly in the gloom, drawing -slowly nearer, he did not recognize it, and he was full of apprehension -at the sight. What stranger could it be, abroad in these lonely meadows -at this hour of the night? Hastily he led the horses farther back into -the copse, and hid himself behind a tree, to watch. In a few moments -more he thought he recognized Capitan, bounding by the side of this -bent and slow-moving figure. Yet this was surely an Indian woman toiling -along under a heavy load. But what Indian woman would have so superb a -collie as Capitan? Alessandro strained his eyes through the darkness. -Presently he saw the figure halt,--drop part of its burden. - -“Alessandro!” came in a sweet, low call. - -He bounded like a deer, crying, “My Senorita! my Senorita! Can that be -you? To think that you have brought these heavy loads!” - -Ramona laughed. “Do you remember the day you showed me how the Indian -women carried so much on their backs, in these nets? I did not think -then I would use it so soon. But it hurts my forehead, Alessandro. It -isn't the weight, but the strings cut. I couldn't have carried them much -farther!” - -“Ah, you had no basket to cover the head,” replied Alessandro, as he -threw up the two nets on his shoulders as if they had been feathers. In -doing so, he felt the violin-case. - -“Is it the violin?” he cried. “My blessed one, where did you get it?” - -“Off the table in Felipe's room,” she answered. “I knew you would rather -have it than anything else. I brought very little, Alessandro; it seemed -nothing while I was getting it; but it is very heavy to carry. Will -it be too much for the poor tired horse? You and I can walk. And see, -Alessandro, here is Capitan. He waked up, and I had to bring him, to -keep him still. Can't he go with us?” - -Capitan was leaping up, putting his paws on Alessandro's breast, -licking his face, yelping, doing all a dog could do, to show welcome and -affection. - -Alessandro laughed aloud. Ramona had not more than two or three times -heard him do this. It frightened her. “Why do you laugh, Alessandro?” - she said. - -“To think what I have to show you, my Senorita,” he said. “Look here;” - and turning towards the willows, he gave two or three low whistles, at -the first note of which Baba came trotting out of the copse to the end -of his lariat, and began to snort and whinny with delight as soon as he -perceived Ramona. - -Ramona burst into tears. The surprise was too great. - -“Are you not glad, Senorita?” cried Alessandro, aghast. “Is it not your -own horse? If you do not wish to take him, I will lead him back. My pony -can carry you, if we journey very slowly. But I thought it would be joy -to you to have Baba.” - -“Oh, it is! it is!” sobbed Ramona, with her head on Baba's neck. “It is -a miracle,--a miracle. How did he come here? And, the saddle too!” she -cried, for the first time observing that. “Alessandro,” in an awe-struck -whisper, “did the saints send him? Did you find him here?” It would have -seemed to Ramona's faith no strange thing, had this been so. - -“I think the saints helped me to bring him,” answered Alessandro, -seriously, “or else I had not done it so easily. I did but call, near -the corral-fence, and he came to my hand, and leaped over the rails at -my word, as quickly as Capitan might have done. He is yours, Senorita. -It is no harm to take him?” - -“Oh, no!” answered Ramona. “He is more mine than anything else I had; -for it was Felipe gave him to me when he could but just stand on his -legs; he was only two days old; and I have fed him out of my hand every -day till now; and now he is five. Dear Baba, we will never be parted, -never!” and she took his head in both her hands, and laid her cheek -against it lovingly. - -Alessandro was busy, fastening the two nets on either side of the -saddle. “Baba will never know he has a load at all; they are not so -heavy as my Senorita thought,” he said. “It was the weight on the -forehead, with nothing to keep the strings from the skin, which gave her -pain.” - -Alessandro was making all haste. His hands trembled. “We must make all -the speed we can, dearest Senorita,” he said, “for a few hours. Then we -will rest. Before light, we will be in a spot where we can hide safely -all day. We will journey only by night, lest they pursue us.” - -“They will not,” said Ramona. “There is no danger. The Senora said she -should do nothing. 'Nothing!'” she repeated, in a bitter tone. “That is -what she made Felipe say, too. Felipe wanted to help us. He would have -liked to have you stay with us; but all he could get was, that she would -do 'nothing!' But they will not follow us. They will wish never to hear -of me again. I mean, the Senora will wish never to hear of me. Felipe -will be sorry. Felipe is very good, Alessandro.” - -They were all ready now,--Ramona on Baba, the two packed nets swinging -from her saddle, one on either side. Alessandro, walking, led his tired -pony. It was a sad sort of procession for one going to be wed, but -Ramona's heart was full of joy. - -“I don't know why it is, Alessandro,” she said; “I should think I -would be afraid, but I have not the least fear,--not the least; not of -anything that can come, Alessandro,” she reiterated with emphasis. “Is -it not strange?” - -“Yes, Senorita,” he replied solemnly, laying his hand on hers as he -walked close at her side. “It is strange. I am afraid,--afraid for you, -my Senorita! But it is done, and we will not go back; and perhaps the -saints will help you, and will let me take care of you. They must love -you, Senorita; but they do not love me, nor my people.” - -“Are you never going to call me by my name?” asked Ramona. “I hate your -calling me Senorita. That was what the Senora always called me when she -was displeased.” - -“I will never speak the word again!” cried Alessandro. “The saints -forbid I should speak to you in the words of that woman!” - -“Can't you say Ramona?” she asked. - -Alessandro hesitated. He could not have told why it seemed to him -difficult to say Ramona. - -“What was that other name, you said you always thought of me by?” she -continued. “The Indian name,--the name of the dove?” - -“Majel,” he said. “It is by that name I have oftenest thought of you -since the night I watched all night for you, after you had kissed me, -and two wood-doves were calling and answering each other in the dark; -and I said to myself, that is what my love is like, the wood-dove: the -wood-dove's voice is low like hers, and sweeter than any other sound in -the earth; and the wood-dove is true to one mate always--” He stopped. - -“As I to you, Alessandro,” said Ramona, leaning from her horse, and -resting her hand on Alessandro's shoulder. - -Baba stopped. He was used to knowing by the most trivial signs what his -mistress wanted; he did not understand this new situation; no one had -ever before, when Ramona was riding him, walked by his side so close -that he touched his shoulders, and rested his hand in his mane. If it -had been anybody else than Alessandro, Baba would not have permitted it -even now. But it must be all right, since Ramona was quiet; and now she -had stretched out her hand and rested it on Alessandro's shoulder. -Did that mean halt for a moment? Baba thought it might, and acted -accordingly; turning his head round to the right, and looking back to -see what came of it. - -Alessandro's arms around Ramona, her head bent down to his, their lips -together,--what could Baba think? As mischievously as if he had been -a human being or an elf, Baba bounded to one side and tore the lovers -apart. They both laughed, and cantered on,--Alessandro running; the poor -Indian pony feeling the contagion, and loping as it had not done for -many a day. - -“Majel is my name, then,” said Ramona, “is it? It is a sweet sound, but -I would like it better Majella. Call me Majella.” - -“That will be good,” replied Alessandro, “for the reason that never -before had any one the same name. It will not be hard for me to say -Majella. I know not why your name of Ramona has always been hard to my -tongue.” - -“Because it was to be that you should call me Majella,” said Ramona. -“Remember, I am Ramona no longer. That also was the name the Senora -called me by--and dear Felipe too,” she added thoughtfully. “He would -not know me by my new name. I would like to have him always call -me Ramona. But for all the rest of the world I am Majella, -now,--Alessandro's Majel!” - - - - -XVI - -AFTER they reached the highway, and had trotted briskly on for a mile, -Alessandro suddenly put out his hand, and taking Baba by the rein, began -turning him round and round in the road. - -“We will not go any farther in the road,” he said, “but I must conceal -our tracks here. We will go backwards for a few paces.” The obedient -Baba backed slowly, half dancing, as if he understood the trick; the -Indian pony, too, curvetted awkwardly, then by a sudden bound under -Alessandro's skilful guidance, leaped over a rock to the right, and -stood waiting further orders. Baba followed, and Capitan; and there was -no trail to show where they had left the road. - -After trotting the pony round and round again in ever-widening circles, -cantering off in one direction after another, then backing over the -tracks for a few moments, Ramona docilely following, though much -bewildered as to what it all meant, Alessandro said: “I think now they -will never discover where we left the road. They will ride along, seeing -our tracks plain, and then they will be so sure that we would have kept -straight on, that they will not notice for a time; and when they do, -they will never be able to see where the trail ended. And now my Majella -has a very hard ride before her. Will she be afraid?” - -“Afraid.” laughed Ramona. “Afraid,--on Baba, and with you!” - -But it was indeed a hard ride. Alessandro had decided to hide for -the day in a canon he knew, from which a narrow trail led direct to -Temecula,--a trail which was known to none but Indians. Once in this -canon, they would be safe from all possible pursuit. Alessandro did not -in the least share Ramona's confidence that no effort would be made to -overtake them. To his mind, it appeared certain that the Senora would -never accept the situation without making an attempt to recover at least -the horse and the dog. “She can say, if she chooses, that I have stolen -one of her horses,” he thought to himself bitterly; “and everybody would -believe her. Nobody would believe us, if we said it was the Senorita's -own horse.” - -The head of the canon was only a couple of miles from the road; but it -was in a nearly impenetrable thicket of chaparral, where young oaks had -grown up so high that their tops made, as it were, a second stratum of -thicket. Alessandro had never ridden through it; he had come up on foot -once from the other side, and, forcing his way through the tangle had -found, to his surprise, that he was near the highway. It was from this -canon that he had brought the ferns which it had so delighted Ramona -to arrange for the decoration of the chapel. The place was filled with -them, growing almost in tropical luxuriance; but this was a mile or so -farther down, and to reach that spot from above, Alessandro had had to -let himself down a sheer wall of stone. The canon at its head was little -more than a rift in the rocks, and the stream which had its rise in -it was only a trickling spring at the beginning. It was this precious -water, as well as the inaccessibility of the spot, which had decided -Alessandro to gain the place at all hazards and costs. But a wall of -granite would not have seemed a much more insuperable obstacle than did -this wall of chaparral, along which they rode, vainly searching for a -break in it. It appeared to Alessandro to have thickened and knit even -since the last spring. At last they made their way down a small side -canon,--a sort of wing to the main canon; a very few rods down this, and -they were as hidden from view from above as if the earth had swallowed -them. The first red tints of the dawn were coming. From the eastern -horizon to the zenith, the whole sky was like a dappled crimson fleece. - -“Oh, what a lovely place.” exclaimed Ramona. “I am sure this was not a -hard ride at all, Alessandro! Is this where we are to stay?” - -Alessandro turned a compassionate look upon her. “How little does the -wood-dove know of rough places!” he said. “This is only the beginning; -hardly is it even the beginning.” - -Fastening his pony to a bush, he reconnoitred the place, disappearing -from sight the moment he entered the chaparral in any direction. -Returning at last, with a grave face, he said, “Will Majella let me -leave her here for a little time? There is a way, but I can find it only -on foot. I will not be gone long. I know it is near.” - -Tears came into Ramona's eyes. The only thing she dreaded was the losing -sight of Alessandro. He gazed at her anxiously. “I must go, Majella,” he -said with emphasis. “We are in danger here.” - -“Go! go! Alessandro,” she cried. “But, oh, do not be long!” - -As he disappeared in the thicket, the tough boughs crackling and -snapping before him, it seemed to Ramona that she was again alone in the -world. Capitan, too, bounded after Alessandro, and did not return at her -call. All was still. Ramona laid her head on Baba's neck. The moments -seemed hours. At last, just as the yellow light streamed across the -sky, and the crimson fleeces turned in one second to gold, she heard -Alessandro's steps, the next moment saw his face. It was aglow with joy. - -“I have found the trail!” he exclaimed; “but we must climb up again out -of this; and it is too light. I like it not.” - -With fear and trembling they urged their horses up and out into the open -again, and galloped a half-mile farther west, still keeping as close -to the chaparral thicket as possible. Here Alessandro, who led the way, -suddenly turned into the very thicket itself; no apparent opening; but -the boughs parted and closed, and his head appeared above them; -still the little pony was trotting bravely along. Baba snorted -with displeasure as he plunged into the same bristling pathway. The -thick-set, thorny branches smote Ramona's cheeks. What was worse, they -caught the nets swung on Baba's sides; presently these were held fast, -and Baba began to rear and kick. Here was a real difficulty. Alessandro -dismounted, cut the strings, and put both the packages securely on the -back of his own pony. “I will walk,” he said. “It was only a little way -longer I would have ridden. I shall lead Baba, where it is narrow.” - -“Narrow,” indeed. It was from sheer terror, soon, that Ramona shut her -eyes. A path, it seemed to her only a hand's-breadth wide,--a stony, -crumbling path,--on the side of a precipice, down which the stones -rolled, and rolled, and rolled, echoing, far out of sight, as they -passed; at each step the beasts took, the stones rolled and fell. Only -the yucca-plants, with their sharp bayonet-leaves, had made shift to -keep foothold on this precipice. Of these there were thousands; and -their tall flower-stalks, fifteen, twenty feet high, set thick with the -shining, smooth seed-cups, glistened like satin chalices in the sun. -Below--hundreds of feet below--lay the canon bottom, a solid bed of -chaparral, looking soft and even as a bed of moss. Giant sycamore-trees -lifted their heads, at intervals, above this; and far out in the plain -glistened the loops of the river, whose sources, unknown to the world, -seen of but few human eyes, were to be waters of comfort to these -fugitives this day. - -Alessandro was cheered. The trail was child's play to him. At the first -tread of Baba's dainty steps on the rolling stones, he saw that the -horse was as sure-footed as an Indian pony. In a few short hours, now, -they would be all at rest. He knew where, under a sycamore-clump, there -was running water, clear as crystal, and cold,--almost colder than one -could drink,--and green grass too; plenty for two days' feed for the -horses, or even three; and all California might be searched over in vain -for them, once they were down this trail. His heart full of joy at these -thoughts, he turned, to see Ramona pallid, her lips parted, her eyes -full of terror. He had forgotten that her riding had hitherto been -only on the smooth ways of the valley and the plain, There she was so -fearless, that he had had no misgiving about her nerves here; but she -had dropped the reins, was clutching Baba's mane with both hands, and -sitting unsteadily in her saddle. She had been too proud to cry out; but -she was nearly beside herself with fright. Alessandro halted so suddenly -that Baba, whose nose was nearly on his shoulder, came to so sharp a -stop that Ramona uttered a cry. She thought he had lost his footing. - -Alessandro looked at her in dismay. To dismount on that perilous trail -was impossible; moreover, to walk there would take more nerve than to -ride. Yet she looked as if she could not much longer keep her seat. - -“Carita,” he cried, “I was stupid not to have told you how narrow the -way is; but it is safe. I can run in it. I ran all this way with the -ferns on my back I brought for you.” - -“Oh, did you?” gasped Ramona, diverted, for the moment, from her -contemplation of the abyss, and more reassured by that change of her -thoughts than she could have been by anything else. “Did you? It is -frightful, Alessandro. I never heard of such a trail. I feel as if I -were on a rope in the air. If I could get down and go on my hands and -knees, I think I would like it better. Could I?” - -“I would not dare to have you get off, just here, Majella,” answered -Alessandro, sorrowfully. “It is dreadful to me to see you suffer so; I -will go very slowly. Indeed, it is safe; we all came up here, the whole -band, for the sheep-shearing,--old Fernando on his horse all the way.” - -“Really,” said Ramona, taking comfort at each word, “I will try not to -be so silly. Is it far, dearest Alessandro?” - -“Not much more as steep as this, dear, nor so narrow; but it will be an -hour yet before we stop.” - -But the worst was over for Ramona now, and long before they reached the -bottom of the precipice she was ready to laugh at her fears; only, -as she looked back at the zigzag lines of the path over which she had -come,--little more than a brown thread, they seemed, flung along the -rock,--she shuddered. - -Down in the bottom of the canon it was still the dusky gloaming when -they arrived. Day came late to this fairy spot. Only at high noon did -the sun fairly shine in. As Ramona looked around her, she uttered an -exclamation of delight, which satisfied Alessandro. “Yes,” he said, -“when I came here for the ferns, I wished to myself many times that you -could see it. There is not in all this country so beautiful a place. -This is our first home, my Majella,” he added, in a tone almost solemn; -and throwing his arms around her, he drew her to his breast, with the -first feeling of joy he had experienced. - -“I wish we could live here always,” cried Ramona. - -“Would Majella be content?” said Alessandro. - -“Very,” she answered. - -He sighed. “There would not be land enough, to live here,” he said. -“If there were, I too would like to stay here till I died, Majella, and -never see the face of a white man again!” Already the instinct of the -hunted and wounded animal to seek hiding, was striving in Alessandro's -blood. “But there would be no food. We could not live here.” Ramona's -exclamation had set Alessandro to thinking, however. “Would Majella be -content to stay here three days now?” he asked. “There is grass enough -for the horses for that time. We should be very safe here; and I fear -very much we should not be safe on any road. I think, Majella, the -Senora will send men after Baba.” - -“Baba!” cried Ramona, aghast at the idea. “My own horse! She would not -dare to call it stealing a horse, to take my own Baba!” But even as -she spoke, her heart misgave her. The Senora would dare anything; would -misrepresent anything; only too well Ramona knew what the very mention -of the phrase “horse-stealing” meant all through the country. She looked -piteously at Alessandro. He read her thoughts. - -“Yes, that is it, Majella,” he said. “If she sent men after Baba, there -is no knowing what they might do. It would not do any good for you to -say he was yours. They would not believe you; and they might take me -too, if the Senora had told them to, and put me into Ventura jail.” - -“She's just wicked enough to do it!” cried Ramona. “Let us not stir out -of this spot, Alessandro,--not for a week! Couldn't we stay a week? By -that time she would have given over looking for us.” - -“I am afraid not a week. There is not feed for the horses; and I do not -know what we could eat. I have my gun, but there is not much, now, to -kill.” - -“But I have brought meat and bread, Alessandro,” said Ramona, earnestly, -“and we could eat very little each day, and make it last!” She was like -a child, in her simplicity and eagerness. Every other thought was for -the time being driven out of her mind by the terror of being pursued. -Pursuit of her, she knew, would not be in the Senora's plan; but the -reclaiming of Baba and Capitan, that was another thing. The more Ramona -thought of it, the more it seemed to her a form of vengeance which would -be likely to commend itself to the Senora's mind. Felipe might possibly -prevent it. It was he who had given Baba to her. He would feel that -it would be shameful to recall or deny the gift. Only in Felipe lay -Ramona's hope. - -If she had thought to tell Alessandro that in her farewell note -to Felipe she had said that she supposed they were going to Father -Salvierderra, it would have saved both her and Alessandro much -disquietude. Alessandro would have known that men pursuing them, on that -supposition, would have gone straight down the river road to the sea, -and struck northward along the coast. But it did not occur to Ramona to -mention this; in fact, she hardly recollected it after the first day. -Alessandro had explained to her his plan, which was to go by way of -Temecula to San Diego, to be married there by Father Gaspara, the priest -of that parish, and then go to the village or pueblo of San Pasquale, -about fifteen miles northwest of San Diego. A cousin of Alessandro's -was the head man of this village, and had many times begged him to come -there to live; but Alessandro had steadily refused, believing it to -be his duty to remain at Temecula with his father. San Pasquale was -a regularly established pueblo, founded by a number of the Indian -neophytes of the San Luis Rey Mission at the time of the breaking up -of that Mission. It was established by a decree of the Governor of -California, and the lands of the San Pasquale Valley given to it. A -paper recording this establishment and gift, signed by the Governor's -own hand, was given to the Indian who was the first Alcalde of the -pueblo. He was Chief Pablo's brother. At his death the authority passed -into the hands of his son, Ysidro, the cousin of whom Alessandro had -spoken. - -“Ysidro has that paper still,” Alessandro said, “and he thinks it -will keep them their village. Perhaps it will; but the Americans are -beginning to come in at the head of the valley, and I do not believe, -Majella, there is any safety anywhere. Still, for a few years we can -perhaps stay there. There are nearly two hundred Indians in the valley; -it is much better than Temecula, and Ysidro's people are much better off -than ours were. They have splendid herds of cattle and horses, and large -wheat-fields. Ysidro's house stands under a great fig-tree; they say it -is the largest fig-tree in the country.” - -“But, Alessandro,” cried Ramona, “why do you think it is not safe there, -if Ysidro has the paper? I thought a paper made it all right.” - -“I don't know,” replied Alessandro. “Perhaps it may be; but I have got -the feeling now that nothing will be of any use against the Americans. I -don't believe they will mind the paper.” - -“They didn't mind the papers the Senora had for all that land of hers -they took away,” said Ramona, thoughtfully. “But Felipe said that was -because Pio Pico was a bad man, and gave away lands he had no right to -give away.” - -“That's just it,” said Alessandro. “Can't they say that same thing about -any governor, especially if he has given lands to us? If the Senora -couldn't keep hers, with Senor Felipe to help her, and he knows all -about the law, and can speak the American language, what chance is there -for us? We can't take care of ourselves any better than the wild beasts -can, my Majella. Oh, why, why did you come with me? Why did I let you?” - -After such words as these, Alessandro would throw himself on the ground, -and for a few moments not even Ramona's voice would make him look up. It -was strange that the gentle girl, unused to hardship, or to the thought -of danger, did not find herself terrified by these fierce glooms and -apprehensions of her lover. But she was appalled by nothing. Saved from -the only thing in life she had dreaded, sure that Alessandro lived, and -that he would not leave her, she had no fears. This was partly from -her inexperience, from her utter inability to conceive of the things -Alessandro's imagination painted in colors only too true; but it was -also largely due to the inalienable loyalty and quenchless courage of -her soul,--qualities in her nature never yet tested; qualities of -which she hardly knew so much as the name, but which were to bear her -steadfast and buoyant through many sorrowful years. - -Before nightfall of this their first day in the wilderness, Alessandro -had prepared for Ramona a bed of finely broken twigs of the manzanita -and ceanothus, both of which grew in abundance all through the canon. -Above these he spread layers of glossy ferns, five and six feet long; -when it was done, it was a couch no queen need have scorned. As Ramona -seated herself on it, she exclaimed: “Now I shall see how it feels to -lie and look up at the stars at night! Do you recollect, Alessandro, -the night you put Felipe's bed on the veranda, when you told me how -beautiful it was to lie at night out of doors and look up at the stars?” - -Indeed did Alessandro remember that night,--the first moment he had ever -dared to dream of the Senorita Ramona as his own. “Yes, I remember it, -my Majella,” he answered slowly; and in a moment more added, “That was -the day Juan Can had told me that your mother was of my people; and that -was the night I first dared in my thoughts to say that perhaps you might -some day love me.” - -“But where are you going to sleep, Alessandro?” said Ramona, seeing that -he spread no more boughs. “You have made yourself no bed.” - -Alessandro laughed. “I need no bed,” he said. “We think it is on our -mother's lap we lie, when we lie on the ground. It is not hard, Majella. -It is soft, and rests one better than beds. But to-night I shall not -sleep. I will sit by this tree and watch.” - -“Why, what are you afraid of?” asked Ramona. - -“It may grow so cold that I must make a fire for Majella,” he answered. -“It sometimes gets very cold before morning in these canons; so I shall -feel safer to watch to-night.” - -This he said, not to alarm Ramona. His real reason for watching was, -that he had seen on the edge of the stream tracks which gave him -uneasiness. They were faint and evidently old; but they looked like the -tracks of a mountain lion. As soon as it was dark enough to prevent the -curl of smoke from being seen from below, he would light a fire, and -keep it blazing all night, and watch, gun in hand, lest the beast -return. - -“But you will be dead, Alessandro, if you do not sleep. You are not -strong,” said Ramona, anxiously. - -“I am strong now, Majella,” answered Alessandro. And indeed he did -already look like a renewed man, spite of all his fatigue and anxiety. -“I am no longer weak; and to-morrow I will sleep, and you shall watch.” - -“Will you lie on the fern-bed then?” asked Ramona, gleefully. - -“I would like the ground better,” said honest Alessandro. - -Ramona looked disappointed. “That is very strange,” she said. “It is -not so soft, this bed of boughs, that one need fear to be made tender by -lying on it,” she continued, throwing herself down; “but oh, how sweet, -how sweet it smells!” - -“Yes, there is spice-wood in it,” he answered. “I put it in at the head, -for Majella's pillow.” - -Ramona was very tired, and she was happy. All night long she slept -like a child. She did not hear Alessandro's steps. She did not hear -the crackling of the fire he lighted. She did not hear the barking of -Capitan, who more than once, spite of all Alessandro could do to quiet -him, made the canon echo with sharp, quick notes of warning, as he heard -the stealthy steps of wild creatures in the chaparral. Hour after hour -she slept on. And hour after hour Alessandro sat leaning against a huge -sycamore-trunk, and watched her. As the fitful firelight played over her -face, he thought he had never seen it so beautiful, Its expression of -calm repose insensibly soothed and strengthened him. She looked like a -saint, he thought; perhaps it was as a saint of help and guidance, the -Virgin was sending her to him and his people. The darkness deepened, -became blackness; only the red gleams from the fire broke it, in swaying -rifts, as the wind makes rifts in black storm-clouds in the heavens. -With the darkness, the stillness also deepened. Nothing broke that, -except an occasional motion of Baba or the pony, or an alert signal from -Capitan; then all seemed stiller than ever. Alessandro felt as if God -himself were in the canon. Countless times in his life before he had -lain in lonely places under the sky and watched the night through, but -he never felt like this. It was ecstasy, and yet it was pain. What was -to come on the morrow, and the next morrow, and the next, and the next, -all through the coming years? What was to come to this beloved and -loving woman who lay there sleeping, so confident, so trustful, guarded -only by him,--by him, Alessandro, the exile, fugitive, homeless man? - -Before the dawn, wood-doves began their calling. The canon was full -of them, no two notes quite alike, it seemed to Alessandro's sharpened -sense; pair after pair, he fancied that he recognized, speaking and -replying, as did the pair whose voices had so comforted him the night he -watched under the geranium hedge by the Moreno chapel,--“Love?” “Here!” - “Love?” “Here!” They comforted him still more now. “They too have only -each other,” he thought, as he bent his eyes lovingly on Ramona's face. - -It was dawn, and past dawn, on the plains, before it was yet morning -twilight in the canon; but the birds in the upper boughs' of the -sycamores caught the tokens of the coming day, and began to twitter in -the dusk. Their notes fell on Ramona's sleeping ear, like the familiar -sound of the linnets in the veranda-thatch at home, and waked her -instantly. Sitting up bewildered, and looking about her, she exclaimed, -“Oh, is it morning already, and so dark? The birds can see more sky than -we! Sing, Alessandro,” and she began the hymn:-- - -“'Singers at dawn From the heavens above People all regions; Gladly we -too sing.'” - -Never went up truer invocation, from sweeter spot. - -“Sing not so loud, my Majel,” whispered Alessandro, as her voice went -carolling like a lark's in the pure ether. “There might be hunters near -who would hear;” and he joined in with low and muffled tones. - -As she dropped her voice at this caution, it seemed even sweeter than -before:-- - - “'Come, O sinners, - Come, and we will sing - Tender hymns - To our refuge,'” - -“Ah, Majella, there is no sinner here, except me!” said Alessandro. “My -Majella is like one of the Virgin's own saints.” And indeed he might -have been forgiven the thought as he gazed at Ramona, sitting there in -the shimmering light, her face thrown out into relief by the gray wall -of fern-draped rock behind her; her splendid hair, unbound, falling in -tangled masses to her waist; her cheeks flushed, her face radiant with -devout and fervent supplication, her eyes uplifted to the narrow belt of -sky overhead, where filmy vapors were turning to gold, touched by a sun -she could not see. - -“Hush, my love,” she breathed rather than said. “That would be a sin, if -you really thought it. - - 'O beautiful Queen, - Princess of Heaven,'” - -she continued, repeating the first lines of the song; and then, sinking -on her knees, reached out one hand for Alessandro's, and glided, almost -without a break in the melodious sound, into a low recitative of the -morning-prayers. Her rosary was of fine-chased gold beads, with an ivory -crucifix; a rare and precious relic of the Missions' olden times. It -had belonged to Father Peyri himself, was given by him to Father -Salvierderra, and by Father Salvierderra to the “blessed child,” Ramona, -at her confirmation. A warmer token of his love and trust he could not -have bestowed upon her, and to Ramona's religious and affectionate -heart it had always seemed a bond and an assurance, not only of Father -Salvierderra's love, but of the love and protection of the now sainted -Peyri. - -As she pronounced the last words of her trusting prayer, and slipped the -last of the golden beads along on its string, a thread of sunlight -shot into the canon through a deep narrow gap in its rocky eastern -crest,--shot in for a second, no more; fell aslant the rosary, lighted -it; by a flash as if of fire, across the fine-cut facets of the beads, -on Ramona's hands, and on the white face of the ivory Christ. Only a -flash, and it was gone! To both Ramona and Alessandro it came like an -omen,--like a message straight from the Virgin. Could she choose better -messenger,--she, the compassionate one, the loving woman in heaven; -mother of the Christ to whom they prayed, through her,--mother, for -whose sake He would regard their least cry,--could she choose better -messenger, or swifter, than the sunbeam, to say that she heard and would -help them in these sore straits. - -Perhaps there were not, in the whole great world, at that moment to be -found, two souls who were experiencing so vivid a happiness as thrilled -the veins of these two friendless ones, on their knees, alone in the -wilderness, gazing half awe-stricken at the shining rosary. - - - - -XVII - -BEFORE the end of their second day in the canon, the place had become to -Ramona so like a friendly home, that she dreaded to leave its shelter. -Nothing is stronger proof of the original intent of Nature to do more -for man than the civilization in its arrogance will long permit her to -do, than the quick and sure way in which she reclaims his affection, -when by weariness, idle chance, or disaster, he is returned, for an -interval, to her arms. How soon he rejects the miserable subterfuges of -what he had called habits; sheds the still more miserable pretences of -superiority, makeshifts of adornment, and chains of custom! “Whom the -gods love, die young,” has been too long carelessly said. It is not -true, in the sense in which men use the words. Whom the gods love, dwell -with nature; if they are ever lured away, return to her before they are -old. Then, however long they live before they die, they die young. Whom -the gods love, live young--forever. - -With the insight of a lover added to the instinct of the Indian, -Alessandro saw how, hour by hour, there grew in Ramona's eyes the wonted -look of one at home; how she watched the shadows, and knew what they -meant. - -“If we lived here, the walls would be sun-dials for us, would they not?” - she said, in a tone of pleasure. “I see that yon tall yucca has gone in -shadow sooner than it did yesterday.” - -And, “What millions of things grow here, Alessandro! I did not know -there were so many. Have they all names? The nuns taught us some names; -but they were hard, and I forgot them, We might name them for ourselves, -if we lived here. They would be our relations.” - -And, “For one year I should lie and look up at the sky, my Alessandro, -and do nothing else. It hardly seems as if it would be a sin to do -nothing for a year, if one gazed steadily at the sky all the while.” - -And, “Now I know what it is I have always seen in your face, Alessandro. -It is the look from the sky. One must be always serious and not unhappy, -but never too glad, I think, when he lives with nothing between him and -the sky, and the saints can see him every minute.” - -And, “I cannot believe that it is but two days I have lived in the -air, Alessandro. This seems to me the first home I have ever had. Is it -because I am Indian, Alessandro, that it gives me such joy?” - -It was strange how many more words Ramona spoke than Alessandro, yet how -full she felt their intercourse to be. His silence was more than silent; -it was taciturn. Yet she always felt herself answered. A monosyllable -of Alessandro's, nay, a look, told what other men took long sentences to -say, and said less eloquently. - -After long thinking over this, she exclaimed, “You speak as the trees -speak, and like the rock yonder, and the flowers, without saying -anything!” - -This delighted Alessandro's very heart. “And you, Majella,” he -exclaimed; “when you say that, you speak in the language of our people; -you are as we are.” - -And Ramona, in her turn, was made happy by his words,--happier than she -would have been made by any other praise or fondness. - -Alessandro found himself regaining all his strength as if by a miracle. -The gaunt look had left his face. Almost it seemed that its contour was -already fuller. There is a beautiful old Gaelic legend of a Fairy who -wooed a Prince, came again and again to him, and, herself invisible to -all but the Prince, hovered in the air, sang loving songs to draw him -away from the crowd of his indignant nobles, who heard her voice and -summoned magicians to rout her by all spells and enchantments at their -command. Finally they succeeded in silencing her and driving her off; -but as she vanished from the Prince's sight she threw him an apple,--a -magic golden apple. Once having tasted of this, he refused all other -food. Day after day, night after night, he ate only this golden apple; -and yet, morning after morning, evening after evening, there lay the -golden fruit, still whole and shining, as if he had not fed upon it; -and when the Fairy came the next time, the Prince leaped into her magic -boat, sailed away with her, and never was seen in his kingdom again. It -was only an allegory, this legend,--a beautiful allegory, and true,--of -love and lovers. The food on which Alessandro was, hour by hour, now -growing strong, was as magic and invisible as Prince Connla's apple, and -just as strength-giving. - -“My Alessandro, how is it you look so well, so soon?” said Ramona, -studying his countenance with loving care. “I thought that night you -would die. Now you look nearly strong as ever; your eyes shine, and your -hand is not hot! It is the blessed air; it has cured you, as it cured -Felipe of the fever.” - -“If the air could keep me well, I had not been ill, Majella,” replied -Alessandro. “I had been under no roof except the tule-shed, till I saw -you. It is not the air;” and he looked at her with a gaze that said the -rest. - -At twilight of the third day, when Ramona saw Alessandro leading up -Baba, saddled ready for the journey, the tears filled her eyes. At noon -Alessandro had said to her: “To-night, Majella, we must go. There is not -grass enough for another day. We must go while the horses are strong. I -dare not lead them any farther down the canon to graze, for there is -a ranch only a few miles lower. To-day I found one of the man's cows -feeding near Baba.” - -Ramona made no remonstrance. The necessity was too evident; but the -look on her face gave Alessandro a new pang. He, too, felt as if exiled -afresh in leaving the spot. And now, as he led the horses slowly up, and -saw Ramona sitting in a dejected attitude beside the nets in which were -again carefully packed their small stores, his heart ached anew. Again -the sense of his homeless and destitute condition settled like an -unbearable burden on his soul. Whither and to what was he leading his -Majella? - -But once in the saddle, Ramona recovered cheerfulness. Baba was in -such gay heart, she could not be wholly sad. The horse seemed fairly -rollicking with satisfaction at being once more on the move. Capitan, -too, was gay. He had found the canon dull, spite of its refreshing -shade and cool water. He longed for sheep. He did not understand this -inactivity. The puzzled look on his face had made Ramona laugh more than -once, as he would come and stand before her, wagging his tail and fixing -his eyes intently on her face, as if he said in so many words, “What -in the world are you about in this canon, and do not you ever intend to -return home? Or if you will stay here, why not keep sheep? Do you not -see that I have nothing to do?” - -“We must ride all night, Majella,” said Alessandro, “and lose no time. -It is a long way to the place where we shall stay to-morrow.” - -“Is it a canon?” asked Ramona, hopefully. - -“No,” he replied, “not a canon; but there are beautiful oak-trees. It -is where we get our acorns for the winter. It is on the top of a high -hill.” - -“Will it be safe there?” she asked. - -“I think so,” he replied; “though not so safe as here. There is no such -place as this in all the country.” - -“And then where shall we go next?” she asked. - -“That is very near Temecula,” he said. “We must go into Temecula, dear -Majella. I must go to Mr. Hartsel's. He is friendly. He will give me -money for my father's violin. If it were not for that, I would never go -near the place again.” - -“I would like to see it, Alessandro,” she said gently. - -“Oh, no, no, Majella!” he cried; “you would not. It is terrible; the -houses all unroofed,--all but my father's and Jose's. They were -shingled roofs; they will be just the same; all the rest are only walls. -Antonio's mother threw hers down; I don't know how the old woman ever -had the strength; they said she was like a fury. She said nobody should -ever live in those walls again; and she took a pole, and made a great -hole in one side, and then she ran Antonio's wagon against it with all -her might, till it fell in. No, Majella. It will be dreadful.” - -“Wouldn't you like to go into the graveyard again, Alessandro?” she said -timidly. - -“The saints forbid!” he said solemnly. “I think it would make me a -murderer to stand in that graveyard! If I had not you, my Majel, I -should kill some white man when I came out. Oh, do not speak of it!” he -added, after a moment's silence; “it takes the strength all out of my -blood again, Majella. It feels as if I should die!” - -And the word “Temecula” was not mentioned between them again until dusk -the next day, when, as they were riding slowly along between low, wooded -hills, they suddenly came to an opening, a green, marshy place, with -a little thread of trickling water, at which their horses stopped, and -drank thirstily; and Ramona, looking ahead, saw lights twinkling in the -distance. “Lights, Alessandro, lights!” she exclaimed, pointing to them. - -“Yes, Majella,” he replied, “it is Temecula,” and springing off his pony -he came to her side, and putting both his hands on hers, said: “I have -been thinking, for a long way back, Carita, what is to be done here. I -do not know. What does Majella think will be wise? If men have been sent -out to pursue us, they may be at Hartsel's. His store is the place where -everybody stops, everybody goes. I dare not have you go there, Majella; -yet I must go. The only way I can get any money is from Mr. Hartsel.” - -“I must wait somewhere while you go!” said Ramona, her heart beating as -she gazed ahead into the blackness of the great plain. It looked vast as -the sea. “That is the only safe thing, Alessandro.” - -“I think so too,” he said; “but, oh, I am afraid for you; and will not -you be afraid?” - -“Yes,” she replied, “I am afraid. But it is not so dangerous as the -other.” - -“If anything were to happen to me, and I could not come back to you, -Majella, if you give Baba his reins he will take you safe home,--he and -Capitan.” - -Ramona shrieked aloud. She had not thought of this possibility. -Alessandro had thought of everything. “What could happen?” she cried. - -“I mean if the men were there, and if they took me for stealing the -horse,” he said. - -“But you would not have the horse with you,” she said. “How could they -take you?” - -“That mightn't make any difference,” replied Alessandro. “They might -take me, to make me tell where the horse was.” - -“Oh, Alessandro,” sobbed Ramona, “what shall we do!” Then in another -second, gathering her courage, she exclaimed, “Alessandro, I know what -I will do. I will stay in the graveyard. No one will come there. Shall I -not be safest there?” - -“Holy Virgin! would my Majel stay there?” exclaimed Alessandro. - -“Why not?” she said. “It is not the dead that will harm us. They would -all help us if they could. I have no fear. I will wait there while you -go; and if you do not come in an hour, I will come to Mr. Hartsel's -after you. If there are men of the Senora's there, they will know me; -they will not dare to touch me. They will know that Felipe would punish -them. I will not be afraid. And if they are ordered to take Baba, they -can have him; we can walk when the pony is tired.” - -Her confidence was contagious. “My wood-dove has in her breast the heart -of the lion,” said Alessandro, fondly. “We will do as she says. She -is wise;” and he turned their horses' heads in the direction of the -graveyard. It was surrounded by a low adobe wall, with one small gate -of wooden paling. As they reached it, Alessandro exclaimed, “The thieves -have taken the gate!” - -“What could they have wanted with that?” said Ramona - -“To burn,” he said doggedly, “It was wood; but it was very little. They -might have left the graves safe from wild beasts and cattle!” - -As they entered the enclosure, a dark figure rose from one of the -graves. Ramona started. - -“Fear nothing,” whispered Alessandro. “It must be one of our people. I -am glad; now you will not be alone. It is Carmena, I am sure. That was -the corner where they buried Jose. I will speak to her;” and leaving -Ramona at the gate, he went slowly on, saying in a low voice, in -the Luiseno language, “Carmena, is that you? Have no fear. It is I, -Alessandro!” - -It was Carmena. The poor creature, nearly crazed with grief, was -spending her days by her baby's grave in Pachanga, and her nights by her -husband's in Temecula. She dared not come to Temecula by day, for the -Americans were there, and she feared them. After a short talk with her, -Alessandro returned, leading her along. Bringing her to Ramona's side, -he laid her feverish hand in Ramona's, and said: “Majella, I have told -her all. She cannot speak a word of Spanish, but she is very glad, she -says, that you have come with me, and she will stay close by your side -till I come back.” - -Ramona's tender heart ached with desire to comfort the girl; but all -she could do was to press her hand in silence. Even in the darkness she -could see the hollow, mournful eyes and the wasted cheek. Words are less -needful to sorrow than to joy. Carmena felt in every fibre how Ramona -was pitying her. Presently she made a gentle motion, as if to draw her -from the saddle. Ramona bent down and looked inquiringly into her face. -Again she drew her gently with one hand, and with the other pointed to -the corner from which she had come. Ramona understood. “She wants to -show me her husband's grave,” she thought. “She does not like to be away -from it. I will go with her.” - -Dismounting, and taking Baba's bridle over her arm, she bowed her head -assentingly, and still keeping firm hold of Carmena's hand, followed -her. The graves were thick, and irregularly placed, each mound marked -by a small wooden cross. Carmena led with the swift step of one who knew -each inch of the way by heart. More than once Ramona stumbled and nearly -fell, and Baba was impatient and restive at the strange inequalities -under his feet. When they reached the corner, Ramona saw the fresh-piled -earth of the new grave. Uttering a wailing cry, Carmena, drawing Ramona -to the edge of it, pointing down with her right hand, then laid both -hands on her heart, and gazed at Ramona piteously. Ramona burst into -weeping, and again clasping Carmena's hand, laid it on her own breast, -to show her sympathy. Carmena did not weep. She was long past that; -and she felt for the moment lifted out of herself by the sweet, sudden -sympathy of this stranger,--this girl like herself, yet so different, -so wonderful, so beautiful, Carmena was sure she must be. Had the saints -sent her from heaven to Alessandro? What did it mean? Carmena's bosom -was heaving with the things she longed to say and to ask; but all she -could do was to press Ramona's hand again and again, and occasionally -lay her soft cheek upon it. - -“Now, was it not the saints that put it into my head to come to the -graveyard?” thought Ramona. “What a comfort to this poor heart-broken -thing to see Alessandro! And she keeps me from all fear. Holy Virgin! -but I had died of terror here all alone. Not that the dead would harm -me; but simply from the vast, silent plain, and the gloom.” - -Soon Carmena made signs to Ramona that they would return to the gate. -Considerate and thoughtful, she remembered that Alessandro would expect -to find them there. But it was a long and weary watch they had, waiting -for Alessandro to come. - -After leaving them, and tethering his pony, he had struck off at a -quick run for Hartsel's, which was perhaps an eighth of a mile from the -graveyard. His own old home lay a little to the right. As he drew near, -he saw a light in its windows. He stopped as if shot. “A light in our -house!” he exclaimed; and he clenched his hands. “Those cursed robbers -have gone into it to live already!” His blood seemed turning to fire. -Ramona would not have recognized the face of her Alessandro now. It was -full of implacable vengeance. Involuntarily he felt for his knife. It -was gone. His gun he had left inside the graveyard, leaning against the -wall. Ah! in the graveyard! Yes, and there also was Ramona waiting for -him. Thoughts of vengeance fled. The world held now but one work, one -hope, one passion, for him. But he would at least see who were these -dwellers in his father's house. A fierce desire to see their faces -burned within him. Why should he thus torture himself? Why, indeed? But -he must. He would see the new home-life already begun on the grave of -his. Stealthily creeping under the window from which the light shone, he -listened. He heard children's voices; a woman's voice; at intervals the -voice of a man, gruff and surly; various household sounds also. It was -evidently the supper-hour. Cautiously raising himself till his eyes were -on a level with the lowest panes in the window, he looked in. - -A table was set in the middle of the floor, and there were sitting at it -a man, woman, and two children. The youngest, little more than a baby, -sat in its high chair, drumming with a spoon on the table, impatient for -its supper. The room was in great confusion,--beds made on the floor, -open boxes half unpacked, saddles and harness thrown down in the -corners; evidently there were new-comers into the house. The window -was open by an inch. It had warped, and would not shut down. Bitterly -Alessandro recollected how he had put off from day to day the planing -of that window to make it shut tight. Now, thanks to the crack, he could -hear all that was said. The woman looked weary and worn. Her face was a -sensitive one, and her voice kindly; but the man had the countenance -of a brute,--of a human brute. Why do we malign the so-called brute -creation, making their names a unit of comparison for base traits which -never one of them possessed? - -“It seems as if I never should get to rights in this world!” said the -woman. Alessandro understood enough English to gather the meaning of -what she said. He listened eagerly. “When will the next wagon get here?” - -“I don't know,” growled her husband. “There's been a slide in that -cursed canon, and blocked the road. They won't be here for several days -yet. Hain't you got stuff enough round now? If you'd clear up what's -here now, then 'twould be time enough to grumble because you hadn't got -everything.” - -“But, John,” she replied, “I can't clear up till the bureau comes, to -put the things away in, and the bedstead. I can't seem to do anything.” - -“You can grumble, I take notice,” he answered. “That's about all you -women are good for, anyhow. There was a first-rate raw-hide bedstead -in here. If Rothsaker hadn't been such a fool's to let those dogs of -Indians carry off all their truck, we might have had that!” - -The woman looked at him reproachfully, but did not speak for a moment. -Then her cheeks flushed, and seeming unable to repress the speech, she -exclaimed, “Well, I'm thankful enough he did let the poor things take -their furniture. I'd never have slept a wink an that bedstead, I know, -if it had ha' been left here. It's bad enough to take their houses this -way!” - -“Oh, you shut up your head for a blamed fool, will you!” cried the man. -He was half drunk, his worst and most dangerous state. She glanced at -him half timorously, half indignantly, and turning to the children, -began feeding the baby. At that second the other child looked up, and -catching sight of the outline of Alessandro's head, cried out, “There's -a man there! There, at the window!” - -Alessandro threw himself flat on the ground, and held his breath. Had -he imperilled all, brought danger on himself and Ramona, by yielding to -this mad impulse to look once more inside the walls of his home? With -a fearful oath, the half-drunken man exclaimed, “One of those damned -Indians, I expect. I've seen several hangin' round to-day. We'll have to -shoot two or three of 'em yet, before we're rid of 'em!” and he took his -gun down from the pegs above the fireplace, and went to the door with it -in his hand. - -“Oh, don't fire, father, don't.” cried the woman. “They'll come and -murder us all in our sleep if you do! Don't fire!” and she pulled him -back by the sleeve. - -Shaking her off, with another oath, he stepped across the threshold, and -stood listening, and peering into the darkness. Alessandro's heart beat -like a hammer in his breast. Except for the thought of Ramona, he would -have sprung on the man, seized his gun, and killed him. - -“I don't believe it was anybody, after all, father,” persisted the -woman. “Bud's always seein' things. I don't believe there was anybody -there. Come in; supper's gettin' all cold.” - -“Well, I'll jest fire, to let 'em know there's powder 'n shot round -here,” said the fiend. “If it hits any on 'em roamin' round, he won't -know what hurt him;” and levelling his gun at random, with his drunken, -unsteady hand he fired. The bullet whistled away harmlessly into -the empty darkness. Hearkening a few moments, and hearing no cry, he -hiccuped, “Mi-i-issed him that time,” and went in to his supper. - -Alessandro did not dare to stir for a long time. How he cursed his own -folly in having brought himself into this plight! What needless pain of -waiting he was inflicting on the faithful one, watching for him in that -desolate and fearful place of graves! At last he ventured,--sliding -along on his belly a few inches at a time, till, several rods from the -house, he dared at last to spring to his feet and bound away at full -speed for Hartsel's. - -Hartsel's was one of those mongrel establishments to be seen nowhere -except in Southern California. Half shop, half farm, half tavern, it -gathered up to itself all the threads of the life of the whole region. -Indians, ranchmen, travellers of all sorts, traded at Hartsel's, drank -at Hartsel's, slept at Hartsel's. It was the only place of its kind -within a radius of twenty miles; and it was the least bad place of its -kind within a much wider radius. - -Hartsel was by no means a bad fellow--when he was sober; but as that -condition was not so frequent as it should have been, he sometimes came -near being a very bad fellow indeed. At such times everybody was afraid -of him,--wife, children, travellers, ranchmen, and all. “It was only a -question of time and occasion,” they said, “Hartsel's killing somebody -sooner or later;” and it looked as if the time were drawing near -fast. But, out of his cups, Hartsel was kindly, and fairly truthful; -entertaining, too, to a degree which held many a wayfarer chained to his -chair till small hours of the morning, listening to his landlord's talk. -How he had drifted from Alsace to San Diego County, he could hardly have -told in minute detail himself, there had been so many stages and phases -of the strange journey; but he had come to his last halt now. Here, in -this Temecula, he would lay his bones. He liked the country. He liked -the wild life, and, for a wonder, he liked the Indians. Many a good word -he spoke for them to travellers who believed no good of the race, and -evidently listened with polite incredulity when he would say, as he -often did: “I've never lost a dollar off these Indians yet. They do all -their trading with me. There's some of them I trust as high's a hundred -dollars. If they can't pay this year, they'll pay next; and if they die, -their relations will pay their debts for them, a little at a time, till -they've got it all paid off. They'll pay in wheat, or bring a steer, -maybe, or baskets or mats the women make; but they'll pay. They're -honester 'n the general run of Mexicans about paying; I mean Mexicans -that are as poor's they are.” - -Hartsel's dwelling-house was a long, low adobe building, with still -lower flanking additions, in which were bedrooms for travellers, the -kitchen, and storerooms. The shop was a separate building, of rough -planks, a story and a half high, the loft of which was one great -dormitory well provided with beds on the floor, but with no other -article of bedroom furniture. They who slept in this loft had no -fastidious standards of personal luxury. These two buildings, with some -half-dozen out-houses of one sort and another, stood in an enclosure -surrounded by a low white picket fence, which gave to the place a -certain home-like look, spite of the neglected condition of the ground, -which was bare sand, or sparsely tufted with weeds and wild grass. A few -plants, parched and straggling, stood in pots and tin cans around the -door of the dwelling-house. One hardly knew whether they made the place -look less desolate or more so. But they were token of a woman's -hand, and of a nature which craved something more than the unredeemed -wilderness around her afforded. - -A dull and lurid light streamed out from the wide-open door of the -store. Alessandro drew cautiously near. The place was full of men, and -he heard loud laughing and talking. He dared not go in. Stealing around -to the rear, he leaped the fence, and went to the other house and opened -the kitchen door. Here he was not afraid. Mrs. Hartsel had never any but -Indian servants in her employ. The kitchen was lighted only by one -dim candle. On the stove were sputtering and hissing all the pots and -frying-pans it would hold. Much cooking was evidently going on for the -men who were noisily rollicking in the other house. - -Seating himself by the fire, Alessandro waited. In a few moments Mrs. -Hartsel came hurrying back to her work. It was no uncommon experience to -find an Indian quietly sitting by her fire. In the dim light she did not -recognize Alessandro, but mistook him, as he sat bowed over, his head in -his hands, for old Ramon, who was a sort of recognized hanger-on of the -place, earning his living there by odd jobs of fetching and carrying, -and anything else he could do. - -“Run, Ramon,” she said, “and bring me more wood; this cotton wood is so -dry, it burns out like rotten punk; I'm off my feet to-night, with all -these men to cook for;” then turning to the table, she began cutting -her bread, and did not see how tall and unlike Ramon was the man who -silently rose and went out to do her bidding. When, a few moments later, -Alessandro re-entered, bringing a huge armful of wood, which it would -have cost poor old Ramon three journeys at least to bring, and throwing -it down, on the hearth, said, “Will that be enough, Mrs. Hartsel?” - she gave a scream of surprise, and dropped her knife. “Why, who--” she -began; then, seeing his face, her own lighting up with pleasure, she -continued, “Alessandro! Is it you? Why, I took you in the dark for old -Ramon! I thought you were in Pachanga.” - -“In Pachanga!” Then as yet no one had come from the Senora Moreno's to -Hartsel's in search of him and the Senorita Ramona! Alessandro's heart -felt almost light in his bosom, From the one immediate danger he had -dreaded, they were safe; but no trace of emotion showed on his face, and -he did not raise his eyes as he replied; “I have been in Pachanga. My -father is dead. I have buried him there.” - -“Oh, Alessandro! Did he die?” cried the kindly woman, coming closer to -Alessandro, and laying her hand on his shoulder. “I heard he was sick.” - She paused; she did not know what to say. She had suffered so at the -time of the ejectment of the Indians, that it had made her ill. For two -days she had kept her doors shut and her windows close curtained, that -she need not see the terrible sights. She was not a woman of many words. -She was a Mexican, but there were those who said that some Indian blood -ran in her veins. This was not improbable; and it seemed more than ever -probable now, as she stood still by Alessandro's side, her hand on his -shoulder, her eyes fixed in distress on his face. How he had altered! -How well she recollected his lithe figure, his alert motion, his superb -bearing, his handsome face, when she last saw him in the spring! - -“You were away all summer, Alessandro?” she said at last, turning back -to her work. - -“Yes,” he said: “at the Senora Moreno's.” - -“So I heard,” she said. “That is a fine great place, is it not? Is her -son grown a fine man? He was a lad when I saw him. He went through here -with a drove of sheep once.” - -“Ay, he is a man now,” said Alessandro, and buried his face in his hands -again. - -“Poor fellow! I don't wonder he does not want to speak,” thought Mrs. -Hartsel. “I'll just let him alone;” and she spoke no more for some -moments. - -Alessandro sat still by the fire. A strange apathy seemed to have seized -him; at last he said wearily: “I must be going now. I wanted to see Mr. -Hartsel a minute, but he seems to be busy in the store.” - -“Yes,” she said, “a lot of San Francisco men; they belong to the company -that's coming in here in the valley; they've been here two days. Oh, -Alessandro,” she continued, bethinking herself, “Jim's got your violin -here; Jose brought it.” - -“Yes, I know it,” answered Alessandro. “Jose told me; and that was one -thing I stopped for.” - -“I'll run and get it,” she exclaimed. - -“No,” said Alessandro, in a slow, husky voice. “I do not want it. I -thought Mr. Hartsel might buy it. I want some money. It was not mine; it -was my father's. It is a great deal better than mine. My father said it -would bring a great deal of money. It is very old.” - -“Indeed it is,” she replied; “one of those men in there was looking at -it last night. He was astonished at it, and he would not believe Jim -when he told him about its having come from the Mission.” - -“Does he play? Will he buy it?” cried Alessandro. - -“I don't know; I'll call Jim,” she said; and running out she looked in -at the other door, saying, “Jim! Jim!” - -Alas, Jim was in no condition to reply. At her first glance in his face, -her countenance hardened into an expression of disgust and defiance. -Returning to the kitchen, she said scornfully, disdaining all disguises, -“Jim's drunk. No use your talking to him to-night. Wait till morning.” - -“Till morning!” A groan escaped from Alessandro, in spite of himself. “I -can't!” he cried. “I must go on to-night.” - -“Why, what for?” exclaimed Mrs. Hartsel, much astonished. For one brief -second Alessandro revolved in his mind the idea of confiding everything -to her; only for a second, however. No; the fewer knew his secret and -Ramona's, the better. - -“I must be in San Diego to-morrow,” he said. - -“Got work there?” she said. - -“Yes; that is, in San Pasquale,” he said; “and I ought to have been -there three days ago.” - -Mrs. Hartsel mused. “Jim can't do anything to-night,” she said; “that's -certain. You might see the man yourself, and ask him if he'd buy it.” - -Alessandro shook his head. An invincible repugnance withheld him. -He could not face one of these Americans who were “coming in” to his -valley. Mrs. Hartsel understood. - -“I'll tell you, Alessandro,” said the kindly woman, “I'll give you what -money you need to-night, and then, if you say so, Jim'll sell the violin -to-morrow, if the man wants it, and you can pay me back out of that, and -when you're along this way again you can have the rest. Jim'll make as -good a trade for you's he can. He's a real good friend to all of you, -Alessandro, when he's himself.” - -“I know it, Mrs. Hartsel. I'd trust Mr. Hartsel more than any other man -in this country,” said Alessandro. “He's about the only white man I do -trust!” - -Mrs. Hartsel was fumbling in a deep pocket in her under-petticoat. -Gold-piece after gold-piece she drew out. “Humph! Got more'n I thought -I had,” she said. “I've kept all that's been paid in here to-day, for I -knew Jim'd be drunk before night.” - -Alessandro's eyes fastened on the gold. How he longed for an abundance -of those little shining pieces for his Majella! He sighed as Mrs. -Hartsel counted them out on the table,--one, two, three, four, bright -five-dollar pieces. - -“That is as much as I dare take,” said Alessandro, when she put down -the fourth. “Will you trust me for so much?” he added sadly. “You know I -have nothing left now. Mrs. Hartsel, I am only a beggar, till I get some -work to do.” - -The tears came into Mrs. Hartsel's eyes. “It's a shame!” she said,--“a -shame, Alessandro! Jim and I haven't thought of anything else, since it -happened. Jim says they'll never prosper, never. Trust you? Yes, indeed. -Jim and I'd trust you, or your father, the last day of our lives.” - -“I'm glad he is dead,” said Alessandro, as he knotted the gold into -his handkerchief and put it into his bosom. “But he was murdered, Mrs. -Hartsel,--murdered, just as much as if they had fired a bullet into -him.” - -“That's true.” she exclaimed vehemently. “I say so too; and so was Jose. -That's just what I said at the time,--that bullets would not be half so -inhuman!” - -The words had hardly left her lips, when the door from the dining-room -burst open, and a dozen men, headed by the drunken Jim, came stumbling, -laughing, reeling into the kitchen. - -“Where's supper! Give us our supper! What are you about with your Indian -here? I'll teach you how to cook ham!” stammered Jim, making a lurch -towards the stove. The men behind caught him and saved him. Eyeing the -group with scorn, Mrs. Hartsel, who had not a cowardly nerve in her -body, said: “Gentlemen, if you will take your seats at the table, I will -bring in your supper immediately. It is all ready.” - -One or two of the soberer ones, shamed by her tone, led the rest back -into the dining-room, where, seating themselves, they began to pound the -table and swing the chairs, swearing, and singing ribald songs. - -“Get off as quick as you can, Alessandro,” whispered Mrs. Hartsel, as -she passed by him, standing like a statue, his eyes, full of hatred and -contempt, fixed on the tipsy group. “You'd better go. There's no knowing -what they'll do next.” - -“Are you not afraid?” he said in a low tone. - -“No!” she said. “I'm used to it. I can always manage Jim. And Ramon's -round somewhere,--he and the bull-pups; if worse comes to worse, I can -call the dogs. These San Francisco fellows are always the worst to get -drunk. But you'd better get out of the way!” - -“And these are the men that have stolen our lands, and killed my father, -and Jose, and Carmena's baby!” thought Alessandro, as he ran swiftly -back towards the graveyard. “And Father Salvierderra says, God is good. -It must be the saints no longer pray to Him for us!” - -But Alessandro's heart was too full of other thoughts, now, to dwell -long on past wrongs, however bitter. The present called him too -loudly. Putting his hand in his bosom, and feeling the soft, knotted -handkerchief, he thought: “Twenty dollars! It is not much! But it will -buy food for many days for my Majella and for Baba!” - - - - -XVIII - -EXCEPT for the reassuring help of Carmena's presence by her side, Ramona -would never have had courage to remain during this long hour in the -graveyard. As it was, she twice resolved to bear the suspense no longer, -and made a movement to go. The chance of Alessandro's encountering at -Hartsel's the men sent in pursuit of him and of Baba, loomed in her -thoughts into a more and more frightful danger each moment she reflected -upon it. It was a most unfortunate suggestion for Alessandro to have -made. Her excited fancy went on and on, picturing the possible scenes -which might be going on almost within stone's-throw of where she was -sitting, helpless, in the midnight darkness,--Alessandro seized, tied, -treated as a thief, and she, Ramona, not there to vindicate him, to -terrify the men into letting him go. She could not bear it; she would -ride boldly to Hartsel's door. But when she made a motion as if she -would go, and said in the soft Spanish, of which Carmena knew no word, -but which yet somehow conveyed Ramona's meaning, “I must go! It is too -long! I cannot wait here!” Carmena had clasped her hand tighter, and -said in the San Luiseno tongue, of which Ramona knew no word, but which -yet somehow conveyed Carmena's meaning, “O beloved lady, you must not -go! Waiting is the only safe thing. Alessandro said, to wait here. He -will come.” The word “Alessandro” was plain. Yes, Alessandro had said, -wait; Carmena was right. She would obey, but it was a fearful ordeal. It -was strange how Ramona, who felt herself preternaturally brave, afraid -of nothing, so long as Alessandro was by her side, became timorous and -wretched the instant he was lost to her sight. When she first heard his -steps coming, she quivered with terror lest they might not be his. The -next second she knew; and with a glad cry, “Alessandro! Alessandro!” she -bounded to him, dropping Baba's reins. - -Sighing gently, Carmena picked up the reins, and stood still, holding -the horse, while the lovers clasped each other with breathless words. -“How she loves Alessandro!” thought the widowed Carmena. “Will they -leave him alive to stay with her? It is better not to love!” But there -was no bitter envy in her mind for the two who were thus blest while she -went desolate. All of Pablo's people had great affection for Alessandro. -They had looked forward to his being over them in his father's place. -They knew his goodness, and were proud of his superiority to themselves. - -“Majella, you tremble,” said Alessandro, as he threw his arms around -her. “You have feared! Yet you were not alone.” He glanced at Carmena's -motionless figure, standing by Baba. - -“No, not alone, dear Alessandro, but it was so long!” replied Ramona; -“and I feared the men had taken you, as you feared. Was there any one -there?” - -“No! No one has heard anything. All was well. They thought I had just -come from Pachanga,” he answered. - -“Except for Carmena, I should have ridden after you half an hour ago,” - continued Ramona. “But she told me to wait.” - -“She told you!” repeated Alessandro. “How did you understand her -speech?” - -“I do not know. Was it not a strange thing?” replied Ramona. “She spoke -in your tongue, but I thought I understood her, Ask her if she did not -say that I must not go; that it was safer to wait; that you had so said, -and you would soon come.” - -Alessandro repeated the words to Carmena. “Did you say that?” he asked. - -“Yes,” answered Carmena. - -“You see, then, she has understood the Luiseno words,” he said -delightedly. “She is one of us.” - -“Yes,” said Carmena, gravely, “she is one of us.” Then, taking Ramona's -hand in both of her own for farewell, she repeated, in a tone as of dire -prophecy, “One of us, Alessandro! one of us!” And as she gazed after -their retreating forms, almost immediately swallowed and lost in the -darkness, she repeated the words again to herself,--“One of us! one of -us! Sorrow came to me; she rides to meet it!” and she crept back to her -husband's grave, and threw herself down, to watch till the dawn. - -The road which Alessandro would naturally have taken would carry them -directly by Hartsel's again. But, wishing to avoid all risk of meeting -or being seen by any of the men on the place, he struck well out to -the north, to make a wide circuit around it. This brought them past -the place where Antonio's house had stood. Here Alessandro halted, and -putting his hand on Baba's rein, walked the horses close to the pile of -ruined walls. “This was Antonio's house, Majella,” he whispered. “I wish -every house in the valley had been pulled down like this. Old Juana was -right. The Americans are living in my father's house, Majella,” he went -on, his whisper growing thick with rage. “That was what kept me so long. -I was looking in at the window at them eating their supper. I thought I -should go mad, Majella. If I had had my gun, I should have shot them all -dead!” - -An almost inarticulate gasp was Ramona's first reply to this. “Living in -your house!” she said. “You saw them?” - -“Yes,” he said; “the man, and his wife, and two little children; and the -man came out, with his gun, on the doorstep, and fired it. They thought -they heard something moving, and it might be an Indian; so he fired. -That was what kept me so long.” - -Just at this moment Baba tripped over some small object on the ground. -A few steps farther, and he tripped again. “There is something caught -round his foot, Alessandro,” said Ramona. “It keeps moving.” - -Alessandro jumped off his horse, and kneeling down, exclaimed, “It's a -stake,--and the lariat fastened to it. Holy Virgin! what--” The rest of -his ejaculation was inaudible. The next Ramona knew, he had run swiftly -on, a rod or two. Baba had followed, and Capitan and the pony; and there -stood a splendid black horse, as big as Baba, and Alessandro talking -under his breath to him, and clapping both his hands over the horse's -nose, to stop him, as often as he began whinnying; and it seemed hardly -a second more before he had his saddle off the poor little Indian pony, -and striking it sharply on its sides had turned it free, had saddled -the black horse, and leaping on his back, said, with almost a sob in his -voice: “My Majella, it is Benito, my own Benito. Now the saints indeed -have helped us! Oh, the ass, the idiot, to stake out Benito with such a -stake as that! A jack rabbit had pulled it up. Now, my Majella, we will -gallop! Faster! faster! I will not breathe easy till we are out of this -cursed valley. When we are once in the Santa Margarita Canon, I know a -trail they will never find!” - -Like the wind galloped Benito,--Alessandro half lying on his back, -stroking his forehead, whispering to him, the horse snorting with joy: -which were gladder of the two, horse or man, could not be said. And -neck by neck with Benito came Baba. How the ground flew away under their -feet! This was companionship, indeed, worthy of Baba's best powers. -Not in all the California herds could be found two superber horses -than Benito and Baba. A wild, almost reckless joy took possession of -Alessandro. Ramona was half terrified as she heard him still talking, -talking to Benito. For an hour they did not draw rein. Both Benito -and Alessandro knew every inch of the ground. Then, just as they had -descended into the deepest part of the canon, Alessandro suddenly reined -sharply to the left, and began climbing the precipitous wall. “Can you -follow, dearest Majella?” he cried. - -“Do you suppose Benito can do anything that Baba cannot?” she retorted, -pressing on closely. - -But Baba did not like it. Except for the stimulus of Benito ahead, he -would have given Ramona trouble. - -“There is only a little, rough like this, dear,” called Alessandro, as -he leaped a fallen tree, and halted to see how Baba took it. “Good!” he -cried, as Baba jumped it like a deer. “Good! Majella! We have got the -two best horses in the country. You'll see they are alike, when daylight -comes. I have often wondered they were so much alike. They would go -together splendidly.” - -After a few rods of this steep climbing they came out on the top of -the canon's south wall, in a dense oak forest comparatively free from -underbrush. “Now,” said Alessandro, “I can go from here to San Diego by -paths that no white man knows. We will be near there before daylight.” - -Already the keen salt air of the ocean smote their faces. Ramona drank -it in with delight. “I taste salt in the air, Alessandro,” she cried. - -“Yes, it is the sea,” he said. “This canon leads straight to the sea. I -wish we could go by the shore, Majella. It is beautiful there. When it -is still, the waves come as gently to the land as if they were in play; -and you can ride along with your horse's feet in the water, and the -green cliffs almost over your head; and the air off the water is like -wine in one's head.” - -“Cannot we go there?” she said longingly. “Would it not be safe?” - -“I dare not,” he answered regretfully. “Not now, Majella; for on the -shore-way, at all times, there are people going and coming.” - -“Some other time, Alessandro, we can come, after we are married, and -there is no danger?” she asked. - -“Yes, Majella,” he replied; but as he spoke the words, he thought, “Will -a time ever come when there will be no danger?” - -The shore of the Pacific Ocean for many miles north of San Diego is a -succession of rounding promontories, walling the mouths of canons, down -many of which small streams make to the sea. These canons are green and -rich at bottom, and filled with trees, chiefly oak. Beginning as little -more than rifts in the ground, they deepen and widen, till at their -mouths they have a beautiful crescent of shining beach from an eighth to -a quarter of a mile long, The one which Alessandro hoped to reach -before morning was not a dozen miles from the old town of San Diego, and -commanded a fine view of the outer harbor. When he was last in it, he -had found it a nearly impenetrable thicket of young oak-trees. Here, he -believed, they could hide safely all day, and after nightfall ride into -San Diego, be married at the priest's house, and push on to San Pasquale -that same night. “All day, in that canon, Majella can look at the sea,” - he thought; “but I will not tell her now, for it may be the trees have -been cut down, and we cannot be so close to the shore.” - -It was near sunrise when they reached the place. The trees had not been -cut down. Their tops, seen from above, looked like a solid bed of moss -filling in the canon bottom. The sky and the sea were both red. As -Ramona looked down into this soft green pathway, it seemed, leading out -to the wide and sparkling sea, she thought Alessandro had brought her -into a fairy-land. - -“What a beautiful world!” she cried; and riding up so close to Benito -that she could lay her hand on Alessandro's, she said solemnly: “Do you -not think we ought to be very happy, Alessandro, in such a beautiful -world as this? Do you think we might sing our sunrise hymn here?” - -Alessandro glanced around. They were alone on the breezy open; it was -not yet full dawn; great masses of crimson vapor were floating upward -from the hills behind San Diego. The light was still burning in the -light-house on the promontory walling the inner harbor, but in a few -moments more it would be day. “No, Majella, not here.” he said. “We must -not stay. As soon as the sun rises, a man or a horse may be seen on this -upper coast-line as far as eye can reach. We must be among the trees -with all the speed we can make.” - -It was like a house with a high, thick roof of oak tree-tops, the -shelter they found. No sun penetrated it; a tiny trickle of water still -remained, and some grass along its rims was still green, spite of the -long drought,--a scanty meal for Baba and Benito, but they ate it with -relish in each other's company. - -“They like each other, those two,” said Ramona, laughing, as she watched -them. “They will be friends.” - -“Ay,” said Alessandro, also smiling. “Horses are friends, like men, and -can hate each other, like men, too. Benito would never see Antonio's -mare, the little yellow one, that he did not let fly his heels at her; -and she was as afraid, at sight of him, as a cat is at a dog. Many a -time I have laughed to see it.” - -“Know you the priest at San Diego?” asked Ramona. - -“Not well,” replied Alessandro. “He came seldom to Temecula when I was -there; but he is a friend of Indians. I know he came with the men from -San Diego at the time when there was fighting, and the whites were in -great terror; and they said, except for Father Gaspara's words, there -would not have been a white man left alive in Pala. My father had sent -all his people away before that fight began. He knew it was coming, but -he would have nothing to do with it. He said the Indians were all crazy. -It was no use. They would only be killed themselves. That is the worst -thing, my Majella. The stupid Indians fight and kill, and then what can -we do? The white men think we are all the same. Father Gaspara has never -been to Pala, I heard, since that time. There goes there now the -San Juan Capistrano priest. He is a bad man. He takes money from the -starving poor.” - -“A priest!” ejaculated Ramona, horror-stricken. - -“Ay! a priest!” replied Alessandro. “They are not all good,--not like -Father Salvierderra.” - -“Oh, if we could but have gone to Father Salvierderra!” exclaimed -Ramona, involuntarily. - -Alessandro looked distressed. “It would have been much more danger, -Majella,” he said, “and I had no knowledge of work I could do there.” - -His look made Ramona remorseful at once. How cruel to lay one -feather-weight of additional burden on this loving man. “Oh, this is -much better, really,” she said. “I did not mean what I said. It is only -because I have always loved Father Salvierderra so. And the Senora will -tell him what is not true. Could we not send him a letter, Alessandro?” - -“There is a Santa Inez Indian I know,” replied Alessandro, “who comes -down with nets to sell, sometimes, to Temecula. I know not if he goes -to San Diego. If I could get speech with him, he would go up from Santa -Inez to Santa Barbara for me, I am sure; for once he lay in my father's -house, sick for many weeks, and I nursed him, and since then he is -always begging me to take a net from him, whenever he comes. It is not -two days from Santa Inez to Santa Barbara.” - -“I wish it were the olden time now, Alessandro,” sighed Ramona, “when -the men like Father Salvierderra had all the country. Then there would -be work for all, at the Missions. The Senora says the Missions were like -palaces, and that there were thousands of Indians in every one of them; -thousands and thousands, all working so happy and peaceful.” - -“The Senora does not know all that happened at the Missions,” replied -Alessandro. “My father says that at some of them were dreadful things, -when bad men had power. Never any such things at San Luis Rey. Father -Peyri was like a father to all his Indians. My father says that they -would all of them lie down in a fire for him, if he had commanded it. -And when he went away, to leave the country, when his heart was broken, -and the Mission all ruined, he had to fly by night, Majella, just as you -and I have done; for if the Indians had known it, they would have risen -up to keep him. There was a ship here in San Diego harbor, to sail for -Mexico, and the Father made up his mind to go in it; and it was over -this same road we have come, my Majella, that he rode, and by night; and -my father was the only one he trusted to know it. My father came with -him; they took the swiftest horses, and they rode all night, and my -father carried in front of him, on the horse, a box of the sacred things -of the altar, very heavy. And many a time my father has told me the -story, how they got to San Diego at daybreak, and the Father was rowed -out to the ship in a little boat; and not much more than on board was -he, my father standing like one dead on the shore, watching, he loved -him so, when, lo! he heard a great crying, and shouting, and trampling -of horses' feet, and there came galloping down to the water's edge three -hundred of the Indians from San Luis Rey, who had found out that the -Father had gone to San Diego to take ship, and they had ridden all night -on his track, to fetch him back. And when my father pointed to the ship, -and told them he was already on board, they set up a cry fit to bring -the very sky down; and some of them flung themselves into the sea, and -swam out to the ship, and cried and begged to be taken on board and go -with him. And Father Peyri stood on the deck, blessing them, and -saying farewell, with the tears running on his face; and one of the -Indians--how they never knew--made shift to climb up on the chains -and ropes, and got into the ship itself; and they let him stay, and -he sailed away with the Father. And my father said he was all his life -sorry that he himself had not thought to do the same thing; but he -was like one dumb and deaf and with no head, he was so unhappy at the -Father's going.” - -“Was it here, in this very harbor?” asked Ramona, in breathless -interest, pointing out towards the blue water of which they could see a -broad belt framed by their leafy foreground arch of oak tops. - -“Ay, just there he sailed,--as that ship goes now,” he exclaimed, as a -white-sailed schooner sailed swiftly by, going out to sea. “But the ship -lay at first inside the bar; you cannot see the inside harbor from here. -It is the most beautiful water I have ever seen, Majella. The two high -lands come out like two arms to hold it and keep it safe, as if they -loved it.” - -“But, Alessandro,” continued Ramona, “were there really bad men at the -other Missions? Surely not the Franciscan Fathers?” - -“Perhaps not the Fathers themselves, but the men under them. It was -too much power, Majella. When my father has told me how it was, it has -seemed to me I should not have liked to be as he was. It is not right -that one man should have so much power. There was one at the San Gabriel -Mission; he was an Indian. He had been set over the rest; and when a -whole band of them ran away one time, and went back into the mountains, -he went after them; and he brought back a piece of each man's ear; the -pieces were strung on a string; and he laughed, and said that was to -know them by again,--by their clipped ears. An old woman, a Gabrieleno, -who came over to Temecula, told me she saw that. She lived at the -Mission herself. The Indians did not all want to come to the Missions; -some of them preferred to stay in the woods, and live as they always -had lived; and I think they had a right to do that if they preferred, -Majella. It was stupid of them to stay and be like beasts, and not know -anything; but do you not think they had the right?” - -“It is the command to preach the gospel to every creature,” replied the -pious Ramona. “That is what Father Salvierderra said was the reason -the Franciscans came here. I think they ought to have made the Indians -listen. But that was dreadful about the ears, Alessandro. Do you believe -it?” - -“The old woman laughed when she told it,” he answered. “She said it was -a joke; so I think it was true. I know I would have killed the man who -tried to crop my ears that way.” - -“Did you ever tell that to Father Salvierderra?” asked Ramona. - -“No, Majella. It would not be polite,” said Alessandro. - -“Well, I don't believe it,” replied Ramona, in a relieved tone. “I don't -believe any Franciscan ever could have permitted such things.” - -The great red light in the light-house tower had again blazed out, -and had been some time burning before Alessandro thought it prudent to -resume their journey. The road on which they must go into old San Diego, -where Father Gaspara lived, was the public road from San Diego to San -Luis Rey, and they were almost sure to meet travellers on it. - -But their fleet horses bore them so well, that it was not late when they -reached the town. Father Gaspara's house was at the end of a long, low -adobe building, which had served no mean purpose in the old Presidio -days, but was now fallen into decay; and all its rooms except those -occupied by the Father, had been long uninhabited. On the opposite -side of the way, in a neglected, weedy open, stood his chapel,--a -poverty-stricken little place, its walls imperfectly whitewashed, -decorated by a few coarse pictures and by broken sconces of -looking-glass, rescued in their dilapidated condition from the -Mission buildings, now gone utterly to ruin. In these had been put -handle-holders of common tin, in which a few cheap candles dimly lighted -the room. Everything about it was in unison with the atmosphere of the -place,--the most profoundly melancholy in all Southern California. Here -was the spot where that grand old Franciscan, Padre Junipero Serra, -began his work, full of the devout and ardent purpose to reclaim the -wilderness and its peoples to his country and his Church; on this very -beach he went up and down for those first terrible weeks, nursing -the sick, praying with the dying, and burying the dead, from the -pestilence-stricken Mexican ships lying in the harbor. Here he baptized -his first Indian converts, and founded his first Mission. And the only -traces now remaining of his heroic labors and hard-won successes were a -pile of crumbling ruins, a few old olive-trees and palms; in less than -another century even these would be gone; returned into the keeping of -that mother, the earth, who puts no head-stones at the sacredest of her -graves. - -Father Gaspara had been for many years at San Diego. Although not a -Franciscan, having, indeed, no especial love for the order, he had been -from the first deeply impressed by the holy associations of the place. -He had a nature at once fiery and poetic; there were but three things he -could have been,--a soldier, a poet, or a priest. Circumstances had made -him a priest; and the fire and the poetry which would have wielded the -sword or kindled the verse, had he found himself set either to fight or -to sing, had all gathered into added force in his priestly vocation. -The look of a soldier he had never quite lost,--neither the look nor the -tread; and his flashing dark eyes, heavy black hair and beard, and -quick elastic step, seemed sometimes strangely out of harmony with his -priest's gown. And it was the sensitive soul of the poet in him which -had made him withdraw within himself more and more, year after year, as -he found himself comparatively powerless to do anything for the hundreds -of Indians that he would fain have seen gathered once more, as of old, -into the keeping of the Church. He had made frequent visits to them in -their shifting refuges, following up family after family, band after -band, that he knew; he had written bootless letter after letter to the -Government officials of one sort and another, at Washington. He had made -equally bootless efforts to win some justice, some protection for them, -from officials nearer home; he had endeavored to stir the Church itself -to greater efficiency in their behalf. Finally, weary, disheartened, -and indignant with that intense, suppressed indignation which the poetic -temperament alone can feel, he had ceased,--had said, “It is of no use; -I will speak no word; I am done; I can bear no more!” and settling down -into the routine of his parochial duties to the little Mexican and Irish -congregation of his charge in San Diego, he had abandoned all effort to -do more for the Indians than visit their chief settlements once or twice -a year, to administer the sacraments. When fresh outrages were brought -to his notice, he paced his room, plucked fiercely at his black beard, -with ejaculations, it is to be feared, savoring more of the camp than -the altar; but he made no effort to do anything. Lighting his pipe, he -would sit down on the old bench in his tile-paved veranda, and smoke -by the hour, gazing out on the placid water of the deserted harbor, -brooding, ever brooding, over the wrongs he could not redress. - -A few paces off from his door stood the just begun walls of a fine -brick church, which it had been the dream and pride of his heart to -see builded, and full of worshippers. This, too, had failed. With San -Diego's repeatedly vanishing hopes and dreams of prosperity had gone -this hope and dream of Father Gaspara's. It looked, now, as if it -would be indeed a waste of money to build a costly church on this site. -Sentiment, however sacred and loving towards the dead, must yield to -the demands of the living. To build a church on the ground where Father -Junipero first trod and labored, would be a work to which no Catholic -could be indifferent; but there were other and more pressing claims to -be met first. This was right. Yet the sight of these silent walls, only -a few feet high, was a sore one to Father Gaspara,--a daily cross, which -he did not find grow lighter as he paced up and down his veranda, year -in and year out, in the balmy winter and cool summer of that magic -climate. - -“Majella, the chapel is lighted; but that is good!” exclaimed -Alessandro, as they rode into the silent plaza. “Father Gaspara must -be there;” and jumping off his horse, he peered in at the uncurtained -window. “A marriage, Majella,--a marriage!” he cried, hastily returning. -“This, too, is good fortune. We need not to wait long.” - -When the sacristan whispered to Father Gaspara that an Indian couple had -just come in, wishing to be married, the Father frowned. His supper was -waiting; he had been out all day, over at the old Mission olive-orchard, -where he had not found things to his mind; the Indian man and wife whom -he hired to take care of the few acres the Church yet owned there had -been neglecting the Church lands and trees, to look after their own. The -Father was vexed, tired, and hungry, and the expression with which he -regarded Alessandro and Ramona, as they came towards him, was one of the -least prepossessing of which his dark face was capable. Ramona, who had -never knelt to any priest save the gentle Father Salvierderra, and who -had supposed that all priests must look, at least, friendly, was shocked -at the sight of the impatient visage confronting her. But, as his first -glance fell on Ramona, Father Gaspara's expression changed. - -“What is all this!” he thought; and as quick as he thought it, he -exclaimed, in a severe tone, looking at Ramona, “Woman, are you an -Indian?” - -“Yes, Father,” answered Ramona, gently. “My mother was an Indian.” - -“Ah! half-breed!” thought Father Gaspara. “It is strange how sometimes -one of the types will conquer, and sometimes another! But this is no -common creature;” and it was with a look of new interest and sympathy -on his face that he proceeded with the ceremony,--the other couple, a -middle-aged Irishman, with his more than middle-aged bride, standing -quietly by, and looking on with a vague sort of wonder in their ugly, -impassive faces, as if it struck them oddly that Indians should marry. - -The book of the marriage-records was kept in Father Gaspara's own rooms, -locked up and hidden even from his old housekeeper. He had had bitter -reason to take this precaution. It had been for more than one man's -interest to cut leaves out of this old record, which dated back to 1769, -and had many pages written full in the hand of Father Junipero himself. - -As they came out of the chapel, Father Gaspara leading the way, the -Irish couple shambling along shamefacedly apart from each other, -Alessandro, still holding Ramona's hand in his, said, “Will you ride, -dear? It is but a step.” - -“No, thanks, dear Alessandro, I would rather walk,” she replied; and -Alessandro slipping the bridles of the two horses over his left arm, -they walked on. Father Gaspara heard the question and answer, and was -still more puzzled. - -“He speaks as a gentleman speaks to a lady,” he mused. “What does it -mean? Who are they?” - -Father Gaspara was a well-born man, and in his home in Spain had been -used to associations far superior to any which he had known in his -Californian life, A gentle courtesy of tone and speech, such as that -with which Alessandro had addressed Ramona, was not often heard in -his parish. When they entered his house, he again regarded them both -attentively. Ramona wore on her head the usual black shawl of the -Mexican women. There was nothing distinctive, to the Father's eye, in -her figure or face. In the dim light of the one candle,--Father Gaspara -allowed himself no luxuries,--the exquisite coloring of her skin and the -deep blue of her eyes were not to be seen. Alessandro's tall figure -and dignified bearing were not uncommon. The Father had seen many as -fine-looking Indian men. But his voice was remarkable, and he spoke -better Spanish than was wont to be heard from Indians. - -“Where are you from?” said the Father, as he held his pen poised in -hand, ready to write their names in the old raw-hide-bound book. - -“Temecula, Father,” replied Alessandro. - -Father Gaspara dropped his pen. “The village the Americans drove out the -other day?” he cried. - -“Yes, Father.” - -Father Gaspara sprang from his chair, took refuge from his excitement, -as usual, in pacing the floor. “Go! go! I'm done with you! It's all -over,” he said fiercely to the Irish bride and groom, who had given him -their names and their fee, but were still hanging about irresolute, not -knowing if all were ended or not. “A burning shame! The most dastardly -thing I have seen yet in this land forsaken of God!” cried the Father. -“I saw the particulars of it in the San Diego paper yesterday.” Then, -coming to a halt in front of Alessandro, he exclaimed: “The paper said -that the Indians were compelled to pay all the costs of the suit; that -the sheriff took their cattle to do it. Was that true?” - -“Yes, Father,” replied Alessandro. - -The Father strode up and down again, plucking at his beard. “What are -you going to do?” he said. “Where have you all gone? There were two -hundred in your village the last time I was there.” - -“Some have gone over into Pachanga,” replied Alessandro, “some to San -Pasquale, and the rest to San Bernardino.” - -“Body of Jesus! man! But you take it with philosophy!” stormed Father -Gaspara. - -Alessandro did not understand the word “philosophy,” but he knew what -the Father meant. “Yes, Father,” he said doggedly. “It is now twenty-one -days ago. I was not so at first. There is nothing to be done.” - -Ramona held tight to Alessandro's hand. She was afraid of this fierce, -black-bearded priest, who dashed back and forth, pouring out angry -invectives. - -“The United States Government will suffer for it!” he continued. “It is -a Government of thieves and robbers! God will punish them. You will see; -they will be visited with a curse,--a curse in their borders; their sons -and their daughters shall be desolate! But why do I prate in these vain -words? My son, tell me your names again;” and he seated himself once -more at the table where the ancient marriage-record lay open. - -After writing Alessandro's name, he turned to Ramona. “And the woman's?” - he said. - -Alessandro looked at Ramona. In the chapel he had said simply, -“Majella.” What name should he give more? - -Without a second's hesitation, Ramona answered, “Majella. Majella Phail -is my name.” - -She pronounced the word “Phail,” slowly. It was new to her. She had -never seen it written; as it lingered on her lips, the Father, to -whom also it was a new word, misunderstood it, took it to be in two -syllables, and so wrote it. - -The last step was taken in the disappearance of Ramona. How should any -one, searching in after years, find any trace of Ramona Ortegna, in the -woman married under the name of “Majella Fayeel”? - -“No, no! Put up your money, son,” said Father Gaspara, as Alessandro -began to undo the knots of the handkerchief in which his gold was tied. -“Put up your money. I'll take no money from a Temecula Indian. I would -the Church had money to give you. Where are you going now?” - -“To San Pasquale, Father.” - -“Ah! San Pasquale! The head man there has the old pueblo paper,” said -Father Gaspara. “He was showing it to me the other day. That will, it -may be, save you there. But do not trust to it, son. Buy yourself a -piece of land as the white man buys his. Trust to nothing.” - -Alessandro looked anxiously in the Father's face. “How is that, Father?” - he said. “I do not know.” - -“Well, their rules be thick as the crabs here on the beach,” replied -Father Gaspara; “and, faith, they appear to me to be backwards of motion -also, like the crabs: but the lawyers understand. When you have picked -out your land, and have the money, come to me, and I will go with you -and see that you are not cheated in the buying, so far as I can tell; -but I myself am at my wit's ends with their devices. Farewell, son! -Farewell, daughter!” he said, rising from his chair. Hunger was again -getting the better of sympathy in Father Gaspara, and as he sat down -to his long-deferred supper, the Indian couple faded from his mind; but -after supper was over, as he sat smoking his pipe on the veranda, they -returned again, and lingered in his thoughts,--lingered strangely, it -seemed to him; he could not shake off the impression that there was -something unusual about the woman. “I shall hear of them again, some -day,” he thought. And he thought rightly. - - - - -XIX - -AFTER leaving Father Gaspara's door, Alessandro and Ramona rode slowly -through the now deserted plaza, and turned northward, on the river road, -leaving the old Presidio walls on their right. The river was low, and -they forded it without difficulty. - -“I have seen this river so high that there was no fording it for many -days,” said Alessandro; “but that was in spring.” - -“Then it is well we came not at that time,” said Ramona, “All the times -have fallen out well for us, Alessandro,--the dark nights, and the -streams low; but look! as I say it, there comes the moon!” and she -pointed to the fine threadlike arc of the new moon, just visible in the -sky. “Not big enough to do us any harm, however,” she added. “But, dear -Alessandro, do you not think we are safe now?” - -“I know not, Majella, if ever we may be safe; but I hope so. I have been -all day thinking I had gone foolish last night, when I told Mrs. Hartsel -that I was on my way to San Pasquale. But if men should come there -asking for us, she would understand, I think, and keep a still tongue. -She would keep harm from us if she could.” - -Their way from San Diego to San Pasquale lay at first along a high mesa, -or table-land, covered with low shrub growths; after some ten or twelve -miles of this, they descended among winding ridges, into a narrow -valley,--the Poway valley. It was here that the Mexicans made one of -their few abortive efforts to repel the American forces. - -“Here were some Americans killed, in a fight with the Mexicans, -Majella,” said Alessandro. “I myself have a dozen bullets which I picked -up in the ground about here. Many a time I have looked at them and -thought if there should come another war against the Americans, I -would fire them again, if I could. Does Senor Felipe think there is -any likelihood that his people will rise against them any more? If they -would, they would have all the Indians to help them, now. It would be a -mercy if they might be driven out of the land, Majella.” - -“Yes,” sighed Majella. “But there is no hope. I have heard the Senora -speak of it with Felipe. There is no hope. They have power, and great -riches, she said. Money is all that they think of. To get money, they -will commit any crime, even murder. Every day there comes the news of -their murdering each other for gold. Mexicans kill each other only for -hate, Alessandro,--for hate, or in anger; never for gold.” - -“Indians, also,” replied Alessandro. “Never one Indian killed another, -yet, for money. It is for vengeance, always. For money! Bah! Majella, -they are dogs!” - -Rarely did Alessandro speak with such vehemence; but this last outrage -on his people had kindled in his veins a fire of scorn and hatred -which would never die out. Trust in an American was henceforth to him -impossible. The name was a synonym for fraud and cruelty. - -“They cannot all be so bad, I think, Alessandro,” said Ramona. “There -must be some that are honest; do you not think so?” - -“Where are they, then,” he cried fiercely,--“the ones who are good? -Among my people there are always some that are bad; but they are in -disgrace. My father punished them, the whole people punished them. If -there are Americans who are good, who will not cheat and kill, why do -they not send after these robbers and punish them? And how is it that -they make laws which cheat? It was the American law which took Temecula -away from us, and gave it to those men! The law was on the side of the -thieves. No, Majella, it is a people that steals! That is their name,--a -people that steals, and that kills for money. Is not that a good name -for a great people to bear, when they are like the sands in the sea, -they are so many?” - -“That is what the Senora says,” answered Ramona. “She says they are all -thieves; that she knows not, each day, but that on the next will come -more of them, with new laws, to take away more of her land. She had once -more than twice what she has now, Alessandro.” - -“Yes,” he replied; “I know it. My father has told me. He was with Father -Peyri at the place, when General Moreno was alive. Then all was his to -the sea,--all that land we rode over the second night, Majella.” - -“Yes,” she said, “all to the sea! That is what the Senora is ever -saying: 'To the sea!' Oh, the beautiful sea! Can we behold it from San -Pasquale, Alessandro?” - -“No, my Majella, it is too far. San Pasquale is in the valley; it has -hills all around it like walls. But it is good. Majella will love it; -and I will build a house, Majella. All the people will help me. That is -the way with our people. In two days it will be done. But it will be a -poor place for my Majella,” he said sadly. Alessandro's heart was ill at -ease. Truly a strange bride's journey was this; but Ramona felt no fear. - -“No place can be so poor that I do not choose it, if you are there, -rather than the most beautiful place in the world where you are not, -Alessandro,” she said. - -“But my Majella loves things that are beautiful,” said Alessandro. “She -has lived like a queen.” - -“Oh, Alessandro,” merrily laughed Ramona, “how little you know of -the way queens live! Nothing was fine at the Senora Moreno's, only -comfortable; and any house you will build, I can make as comfortable -as that was; it is nothing but trouble to have one so large as the -Senora's. Margarita used to be tired to death, sweeping all those -rooms in which nobody lived except the blessed old San Luis Rey saints. -Alessandro, if we could have had just one statue, either Saint Francis -or the Madonna, to bring back to our house! That is what I would like -better than all other things in the world. It is beautiful to sleep with -the Madonna close to your bed. She speaks often to you in dreams.” - -Alessandro fixed serious, questioning eyes on Ramona as she uttered -these words. When she spoke like this, he felt indeed as if a being of -some other sphere had come to dwell by his side. “I cannot find how to -feel towards the saints as you do, my Majella,” he said. “I am afraid of -them. It must be because they love you, and do not love us. That is what -I believe, Majella. I believe they are displeased with us, and no longer -make mention of us in heaven. That is what the Fathers taught that the -saints were ever doing,--praying to God for us, and to the Virgin and -Jesus. It is not possible, you see, that they could have been praying -for us, and yet such things have happened, as happened in Temecula. I do -not know how it is my people have displeased them.” - -“I think Father Salvierderra would say that it is a sin to be afraid of -the saints, Alessandro,” replied Ramona, earnestly. “He has often told -me that it was a sin to be unhappy; and that withheld me many times from -being wretched because the Senora would not love me. And, Alessandro,” - she went on, growing more and more fervent in tone, “even if nothing but -misfortune comes to people, that does not prove that the saints do not -love them; for when the saints were on earth themselves, look what they -suffered: martyrs they were, almost all of them. Look at what holy -Saint Catharine endured, and the blessed Saint Agnes. It is not by what -happens to us here in this world that we can tell if the saints love us, -or if we will see the Blessed Virgin.” - -“How can we tell, then?” he asked. - -“By what we feel in our hearts, Alessandro,” she replied; “just as I -knew all the time, when you did not come,--I knew that you loved me. -I knew that in my heart; and I shall always know it, no matter what -happens. If you are dead, I shall know that you love me. And you,--you -will know that I love you, the same.” - -“Yes,” said Alessandro, reflectively, “that is true. But, Majella, it is -not possible to have the same thoughts about a saint as about a person -that one has seen, and heard the voice, and touched the hand.” - -“No, not quite,” said Ramona; “not quite, about a saint; but one can -for the Blessed Virgin, Alessandro! I am sure of that. Her statue, in my -room at the Senora's, has been always my mother. Ever since I was little -I have told her all I did. It was she helped me to plan what I should -bring away with us. She reminded me of many things I had forgotten, -except for her.” - -“Did you hear her speak?” said Alessandro, awe-stricken. - -“Not exactly in words; but just the same as in words,” replied Ramona, -confidently. “You see when you sleep in the room with her, it is very -different from what it is if you only see her in a chapel. Oh, I could -never be very unhappy with her in my room!” - -“I would almost go and steal it for you, Majella,” cried Alessandro, -with sacrilegious warmth. - -“Holy Virgin!” cried Ramona, “never speak such a word. You would be -struck dead if you laid your hand on her! I fear even the thought was a -sin.” - -“There was a small figure of her in the wall of our house,” said -Alessandro. “It was from San Luis Rey. I do not know what became of -it,--if it were left behind, or if they took it with my father's things -to Pachanga. I did not see it there. When I go again, I will look.” - -“Again!” cried Ramona. “What say you? You go again to Pachanga? You will -not leave me, Alessandro?” - -At the bare mention of Alessandro's leaving her, Ramona's courage always -vanished. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, she was transformed -from the dauntless, confident, sunny woman, who bore him up as it were -on wings of hope and faith, to a timid, shrinking, despondent child, -crying out in alarm, and clinging to the hand. - -“After a time, dear Majella, when you are wonted to the place, I must -go, to fetch the wagon and the few things that were ours. There is the -raw-hide bed which was Father Peyri's, and he gave to my father. Majella -will like to lie on that. My father believed it had great virtue.” - -“Like that you made for Felipe?” she asked. - -“Yes; but it is not so large. In those days the cattle were not so -large as they are now: this is not so broad as Senor Felipe's. There -are chairs, too, from the Mission, three of them, one almost as fine -as those on your veranda at home. They were given to my father. And -music-books,--beautiful parchment books! Oh, I hope those are not lost, -Majella! If Jose had lived, he would have looked after it all. But in -the confusion, all the things belonging to the village were thrown into -wagons together, and no one knew where anything was. But all the people -knew my father's chairs and the books of the music. If the Americans did -not steal them, everything will be safe. My people do not steal. -There was never but one thief in our village, and my father had him so -whipped, he ran away and never came back. I heard he was living in San -Jacinto, and was a thief yet, spite of all that whipping he had. I think -if it is in the blood to be a thief, not even whipping will take it out, -Majella.” - -“Like the Americans,” she said, half laughing, but with tears in the -voice. “Whipping would not cure them.” - -It wanted yet more than an hour of dawn when they reached the crest of -the hill from which they looked down on the San Pasquale valley. Two -such crests and valleys they had passed; this was the broadest of the -three valleys, and the hills walling it were softer and rounder of -contour than any they had yet seen. To the east and northeast lay ranges -of high mountains, their tops lost in the clouds. The whole sky was -overcast and gray. - -“If it were spring, this would mean rain,” said Alessandro; “but it -cannot rain, I think, now.” - -“No!” laughed Ramona, “not till we get our house done. Will it be of -adobe, Alessandro?” - -“Dearest Majella, not yet! At first it must be of the tule. They are -very comfortable while it is warm, and before winter I will build one of -adobe.” - -“Two houses! Wasteful Alessandro! If the tule house is good, I shall not -let you, Alessandro, build another.” - -Ramona's mirthful moments bewildered Alessandro. To his slower -temperament and saddened nature they seemed preternatural; as if she -were all of a sudden changed into a bird, or some gay creature outside -the pale of human life,--outside and above it. - -“You speak as the birds sing, my Majella,” he said slowly. “It was well -to name you Majel; only the wood-dove has not joy in her voice, as you -have. She says only that she loves and waits.” - -“I say that, too, Alessandro!” replied Ramona, reaching out both her -arms towards him. - -The horses were walking slowly, and very close side by side. Baba and -Benito were now such friends they liked to pace closely side by side; -and Baba and Benito were by no means without instinctive recognitions of -the sympathy between their riders. Already Benito knew Ramona's voice, -and answered it with pleasure; and Baba had long ago learned to stop -when his mistress laid her hand on Alessandro's shoulder. He stopped -now, and it was long minutes before he had the signal to go on again. - -“Majella! Majella!” cried Alessandro, as, grasping both her hands in -his, he held them to his cheeks, to his neck, to his mouth, “if the -saints would ask Alessandro to be a martyr for Majella's sake, like -those she was telling of, then she would know if Alessandro loved her! -But what can Alessandro do now? What, oh, what? Majella gives all; -Alessandro gives nothing!” and he bowed his forehead on her hands, -before he put them back gently on Baba's neck. - -Tears filled Ramona's eyes. How should she win this saddened man, this -distrusting lover, to the joy which was his desert? “Alessandro can -do one thing,” she said, insensibly falling into his mode of -speaking,--“one thing for his Majella: never, never say that he has -nothing to give her. When he says that, he makes Majella a liar; for -she has said that he is all the world to her,--he himself all the world -which she desires. Is Majella a liar?” - -But it was even now with an ecstasy only half joy, the other half -anguish, that Alessandro replied: “Majella cannot lie. Majella is like -the saints. Alessandro is hers.” - -When they rode down into the valley, the whole village was astir. The -vintage-time had nearly passed; everywhere were to be seen large, flat -baskets of grapes drying in the sun. Old women and children were turning -these, or pounding acorns in the deep stone bowls; others were beating -the yucca-stalks, and putting them to soak in water; the oldest women -were sitting on the ground, weaving baskets. There were not many men in -the village now; two large bands were away at work,--one at the autumn -sheep-shearing, and one working on a large irrigating ditch at San -Bernardino. - -In different directions from the village slow-moving herds of goats or -of cattle could be seen, being driven to pasture on the hills; some men -were ploughing; several groups were at work building houses of bundles -of the tule reeds. - -“These are some of the Temecula people,” said Alessandro; “they -are building themselves new houses here. See those piles of bundles -darker-colored than the rest. Those are their old roofs they brought -from Temecula. There, there comes Ysidro!” he cried joyfully, as a man, -well-mounted, who had been riding from point to point in the village, -came galloping towards them. As soon as Ysidro recognized Alessandro, he -flung himself from his horse. Alessandro did the same, and both running -swiftly towards each other till they met, they embraced silently. -Ramona, riding up, held out her hand, saying, as she did so, “Ysidro?” - -Pleased, yet surprised, at this confident and assured greeting, Ysidro -saluted her, and turning to Alessandro, said in their own tongue, “Who -is this woman whom you bring, that has heard my name?” - -“My wife!” answered Alessandro, in the same tongue. “We were married -last night by Father Gaspara. She comes from the house of the Senora -Moreno. We will live in San Pasquale, if you have land for me, as you -have said.” - -What astonishment Ysidro felt, he showed none. Only a grave and -courteous welcome was in his face and in his words as he said, “It -is well. There is room. You are welcome.” But when he heard the soft -Spanish syllables in which Ramona spoke to Alessandro, and Alessandro, -translating her words to him, said, “Majel speaks only in the Spanish -tongue, but she will learn ours,” a look of disquiet passed over his -countenance. His heart feared for Alessandro, and he said, “Is she, -then, not Indian? Whence got she the name of Majel?” - -A look of swift intelligence from Alessandro reassured him. “Indian on -the mother's side!” said Alessandro, “and she belongs in heart to our -people. She is alone, save for me. She is one blessed of the Virgin, -Ysidro. She will help us. The name Majel I have given her, for she is -like the wood-dove; and she is glad to lay her old name down forever, to -bear this new name in our tongue.” - -And this was Ramona's introduction to the Indian village,--this and her -smile; perhaps the smile did most. Even the little children were not -afraid of her. The women, though shy, in the beginning, at sight of her -noble bearing, and her clothes of a kind and quality they associated -only with superiors, soon felt her friendliness, and, what was more, -saw by her every word, tone, look, that she was Alessandro's. If -Alessandro's, theirs. She was one of them. Ramona would have been -profoundly impressed and touched, could she have heard them speaking -among themselves about her; wondering how it had come about that she, -so beautiful, and nurtured in the Moreno house, of which they all knew, -should be Alessandro's loving wife. It must be, they thought in their -simplicity, that the saints had sent it as an omen of good to the Indian -people. Toward night they came, bringing in a hand-barrow the most aged -woman in the village to look at her. She wished to see the beautiful -stranger before the sun went down, they said, because she was now so old -she believed each night that before morning her time would come to die. -They also wished to hear the old woman's verdict on her. When Alessandro -saw them coming, he understood, and made haste to explain it to Ramona. -While he was yet speaking, the procession arrived, and the aged woman in -her strange litter was placed silently on the ground in front of Ramona, -who was sitting under Ysidro's great fig-tree. Those who had borne her -withdrew, and seated themselves a few paces off. Alessandro spoke -first. In a few words he told the old woman of Ramona's birth, of their -marriage, and of her new name of adoption; then he said, “Take her hand, -dear Majella, if you feel no fear.” - -There was something scarcely human in the shrivelled arm and hand -outstretched in greeting; but Ramona took it in hers with tender -reverence: “Say to her for me, Alessandro,” she said, “that I bow down -to her great age with reverence, and that I hope, if it is the will of -God that I live on the earth so long as she has, I may be worthy of such -reverence as these people all feel for her.” - -Alessandro turned a grateful look on Ramona as he translated this -speech, so in unison with Indian modes of thought and feeling. A murmur -of pleasure rose from the group of women sitting by. The aged woman made -no reply; her eyes still studied Ramona's face, and she still held her -hand. - -“Tell her,” continued Ramona, “that I ask if there is anything I can do -for her. Say I will be her daughter if she will let me.” - -“It must be the Virgin herself that is teaching Majella what to say,” - thought Alessandro, as he repeated this in the San Luiseno tongue. - -Again the women murmured pleasure, but the old woman spoke not. “And say -that you will be her son,” added Ramona. - -Alessandro said it. It was perhaps for this that the old woman had -waited. Lifting up her arm, like a sibyl, she said: “It is well; I am -your mother. The winds of the valley shall love you, and the grass shall -dance when you come. The daughter looks on her mother's face each day. I -will go;” and making a sign to her bearers, she was lifted, and carried -to her house. - -The scene affected Ramona deeply. The simplest acts of these people -seemed to her marvellously profound in their meanings. She was not -herself sufficiently educated or versed in life to know why she was so -moved,--to know that such utterances, such symbolisms as these, among -primitive peoples, are thus impressive because they are truly and -grandly dramatic; but she was none the less stirred by them, because she -could not analyze or explain them. - -“I will go and see her every day,” she said; “she shall be like my -mother, whom I never saw.” - -“We must both go each day,” said Alessandro. “What we have said is a -solemn promise among my people; it would not be possible to break it.” - -Ysidro's home was in the centre of the village, on a slightly rising -ground; it was a picturesque group of four small houses, three of tule -reeds and one of adobe,--the latter a comfortable little house of two -rooms, with a floor and a shingled roof, both luxuries in San Pasquale. -The great fig-tree, whose luxuriance and size were noted far and near -throughout the country, stood half-way down the slope; but its boughs -shaded all three of the tule houses. On one of its lower branches was -fastened a dove-cote, ingeniously made of willow wands, plastered with -adobe, and containing so many rooms that the whole tree seemed sometimes -a-flutter with doves and dovelings. Here and there, between the houses, -were huge baskets, larger than barrels, woven of twigs, as the eagle -weaves its nest, only tighter and thicker. These were the outdoor -granaries; in these were kept acorns, barley, wheat, and corn. Ramona -thought them, as well she might, the prettiest things she ever saw. - -“Are they hard to make?” she asked. “Can you make them, Alessandro? I -shall want many.” - -“All you want, my Majella,” replied Alessandro. “We will go together to -get the twigs; I can, I dare say, buy some in the village. It is only -two days to make a large one.” - -“No. Do not buy one,” she exclaimed. “I wish everything in our house -to be made by ourselves.” In which, again, Ramona was unconsciously -striking one of the keynotes of pleasure in the primitive harmonies of -existence. - -The tule house which stood nearest to the dove-cote was, by a lucky -chance, now empty. Ysidro's brother Ramon, who had occupied it, having -gone with his wife and baby to San Bernardino, for the winter, to work; -this house Ysidro was but too happy to give to Alessandro till his own -should be done. It was a tiny place, though it was really two houses -joined together by a roofed passage-way. In this passage-way the tidy -Juana, Ramon's wife, kept her few pots and pans, and a small stove. -It looked to Ramona like a baby-house. Timidly Alessandro said: “Can -Majella live in this small place for a time? It will not be very long; -there are adobes already made.” - -His countenance cleared as Ramona replied gleefully, “I think it will be -very comfortable, and I shall feel as if we were all doves together in -the dove-cote!” - -“Majel!” exclaimed Alessandro; and that was all he said. - -Only a few rods off stood the little chapel; in front of it swung on -a cross-bar from two slanting posts an old bronze bell which had once -belonged to the San Diego Mission. When Ramona read the date, “1790,” on -its side, and heard that it was from the San Diego Mission church it had -come, she felt a sense of protection in its presence. - -“Think, Alessandro,” she said; “this bell, no doubt, has rung many times -for the mass for the holy Father Junipero himself. It is a blessing to -the village. I want to live where I can see it all the time. It will be -like a saint's statue in the house.” - -With every allusion that Ramona made to the saints' statues, -Alessandro's desire to procure one for her deepened. He said nothing; -but he revolved it in his mind continually. He had once gone with his -shearers to San Fernando, and there he had seen in a room of the old -Mission buildings a dozen statues of saints huddled in dusty confusion. -The San Fernando church was in crumbled ruins, and such of the church -properties as were left there were in the keeping of a Mexican not -over-careful, and not in the least devout. It would not trouble him to -part with a saint or two, Alessandro thought, and no irreverence to -the saint either; on the contrary, the greatest of reverence, since -the statue was to be taken from a place where no one cared for it, and -brought into one where it would be tenderly cherished, and worshipped -every day. If only San Fernando were not so far away, and the wooden -saints so heavy! However, it should come about yet. Majella should -have a saint; nor distance nor difficulty should keep Alessandro from -procuring for his Majel the few things that lay within his power. But he -held his peace about it. It would be a sweeter gift, if she did not know -it beforehand. He pleased himself as subtly and secretly as if he had -come of civilized generations, thinking how her eyes would dilate, if -she waked up some morning and saw the saint by her bedside; and how sure -she would be to think, at first, it was a miracle,--his dear, devout -Majella, who, with all her superior knowledge, was yet more credulous -than he. All her education had not taught her to think, as he, untaught, -had learned, in his solitude with nature. - -Before Alessandro had been two days in San Pasquale, he had heard of a -piece of good-fortune which almost passed his belief, and which startled -him for once out of his usual impassive demeanor. - -“You know I have a herd of cattle of your father's, and near a hundred -sheep?” said Ysidro. - -“Holy Virgin!” cried Alessandro, “you do not mean that! How is that? -They told me all our stock was taken by the Americans.” - -“Yes, so it was, all that was in Temecula,” replied Ysidro; “but in the -spring your father sent down to know if I would take a herd for him up -into the mountains, with ours, as he feared the Temecula pasture would -fall short, and the people there, who could not leave, must have their -cattle near home; so he sent a herd over,--I think, near fifty head; -and many of the cows have calved; and he sent, also, a little flock of -sheep,--a hundred, Ramon said; he herded them with ours all summer, and -he left a man up there with them. They will be down next week. It is -time they were sheared.” - -Before he had finished speaking, Alessandro had vanished, bounding like -a deer. Ysidro stared after him; but seeing him enter the doorway of the -little tule hut, he understood, and a sad smile passed over his face. He -was not yet persuaded that this marriage of Alessandro's would turn out -a blessing. “What are a handful of sheep to her!” he thought. - -Breathless, panting, Alessandro burst into Ramona's presence. “Majella! -my Majella! There are cattle--and sheep,” he cried. “The saints be -praised! We are not like the beggars, as I said.” - -“I told you that God would give us food, dear Alessandro,” replied -Ramona, gently. - -“You do not wonder! You do not ask!” he cried, astonished at her calm. -“Does Majella think that a sheep or a steer can come down from the -skies?” - -“Nay, not as our eyes would see,” she answered; “but the holy ones who -live in the skies can do anything they like on the earth. Whence came -these cattle, and how are they ours?” - -When he told her, her face grew solemn. “Do you remember that night in -the willows,” she said, “when I was like one dying, because you would -not bring me with you? You had no faith that there would be food. And -I told you then that the saints never forsook those who loved them, and -that God would give food. And even at that moment, when you did not know -it, there were your cattle and your sheep feeding in the mountains, -in the keeping of God! Will my Alessandro believe after this?” and she -threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. - -“It is true,” said Alessandro. “I will believe, after this, that the -saints love my Majella.” - -But as he walked at a slower pace back to Ysidro, he said to himself: -“Majella did not see Temecula. What would she have said about the -saints, if she had seen that, and seen the people dying for want of -food? It is only for her that the saints pray. They are displeased with -my people.” - - - - -XX - -ONE year, and a half of another year, had passed. Sheep-shearings and -vintages had been in San Pasquale; and Alessandro's new house, having -been beaten on by the heavy spring rains, looked no longer new. It stood -on the south side of the valley,--too far, Ramona felt, from the blessed -bell; but there had not been land enough for wheat-fields any nearer, -and she could see the chapel, and the posts, and, on a clear day, the -bell itself. The house was small. “Small to hold so much joy,” she said, -when Alessandro first led her to it, and said, deprecatingly, “It is -small, Majella,--too small;” and he recollected bitterly, as he spoke, -the size of Ramona's own room at the Senora's house. “Too small,” he -repeated. - -“Very small to hold so much joy, my Alessandro,” she laughed; “but quite -large enough to hold two persons.” - -It looked like a palace to the San Pasquale people, after Ramona had -arranged their little possessions in it; and she herself felt rich as -she looked around her two small rooms. The old San Luis Rey chairs -and the raw-hide bedstead were there, and, most precious of all, the -statuette of the Madonna. For this Alessandro had built a niche in the -wall, between the head of the bed and the one window. The niche was deep -enough to hold small pots in front of the statuette; and Ramona kept -constantly growing there wild-cucumber plants, which wreathed and -re-wreathed the niche till it looked like a bower. Below it hung her -gold rosary and the ivory Christ; and many a woman of the village, when -she came to see Ramona, asked permission to go into the bedroom and say -her prayers there; so that it finally came to be a sort of shrine for -the whole village. - -A broad veranda, as broad as the Senora's, ran across the front of the -little house. This was the only thing for which Ramona had asked. She -could not quite fancy life without a veranda, and linnets in the thatch. -But the linnets had not yet come. In vain Ramona strewed food for them, -and laid little trains of crumbs to lure them inside the posts; they -would not build nests inside. It was not their way in San Pasquale. They -lived in the canons, but this part of the valley was too bare of trees -for them. “In a year or two more, when we have orchards, they will -come,” Alessandro said. - -With the money from that first sheep-shearing, and from the sale of part -of his cattle, Alessandro had bought all he needed in the way of farming -implements,--a good wagon and harnesses, and a plough. Baba and Benito, -at first restive and indignant, soon made up their minds to work. Ramona -had talked to Baba about it as she would have talked to a brother. In -fact, except for Ramona's help, it would have been a question whether -even Alessandro could have made Baba work in harness. “Good Baba!” - Ramona said, as she slipped piece after piece of the harness over his -neck,--“Good Baba, you must help us; we have so much work to do, and -you are so strong! Good Baba, do you love me?” and with one hand in his -mane, and her cheek, every few steps, laid close to his, she led Baba up -and down the first furrows he ploughed. - -“My Senorita!” thought Alessandro to himself, half in pain, half in -pride, as, running behind with the unevenly jerked plough, he watched -her laughing face and blowing hair,--“my Senorita!” - -But Ramona would not run with her hand in Baba's mane this winter. There -was a new work for her, indoors. In a rustic cradle, which Alessandro -had made, under her directions, of the woven twigs, like the great -outdoor acorn-granaries, only closer woven, and of an oval shape, and -lifted from the floor by four uprights of red manzanita stems,--in -this cradle, on soft white wool fleeces, covered with white homespun -blankets, lay Ramona's baby, six months old, lusty, strong, and -beautiful, as only children born of great love and under healthful -conditions can be. This child was a girl, to Alessandro's delight; to -Ramona's regret,--so far as a loving mother can feel regret connected -with her firstborn. Ramona had wished for an Alessandro; but the -disappointed wish faded out of her thoughts, hour by hour, as she gazed -into her baby-girl's blue eyes,--eyes so blue that their color was the -first thing noticed by each person who looked at her. - -“Eyes of the sky,” exclaimed Ysidro, when he first saw her. - -“Like the mother's,” said Alessandro; on which Ysidro turned an -astonished look upon Ramona, and saw for the first time that her eyes, -too, were blue. - -“Wonderful!” he said. “It is so. I never saw it;” and he wondered in his -heart what father it had been, who had given eyes like those to one born -of an Indian mother. - -“Eyes of the sky,” became at once the baby's name in the village; and -Alessandro and Ramona, before they knew it, had fallen into the way of -so calling her. But when it came to the christening, they demurred. The -news was brought to the village, one Saturday, that Father Gaspara would -hold services in the valley the next day, and that he wished all the -new-born babes to be brought for christening. Late into the night, -Alessandro and Ramona sat by their sleeping baby and discussed what -should be her name. Ramona wondered that Alessandro did not wish to name -her Majella. - -“No! Never but one Majella,” he said, in a tone which gave Ramona a -sense of vague fear, it was so solemn. - -They discussed “Ramona,” “Isabella.” Alessandro suggested Carmena. This -had been his mother's name. - -At the mention of it Ramona shuddered, recollecting the scene in -the Temecula graveyard. “Oh, no, no! Not that!” she cried. “It is -ill-fated;” and Alessandro blamed himself for having forgotten her only -association with the name. - -At last Alessandro said: “The people have named her, I think, Majella. -Whatever name we give her in the chapel, she will never be called -anything but 'Eyes of the Sky,' in the village.” - -“Let that name be her true one, then,” said Ramona. And so it was -settled; and when Father Gaspara took the little one in his arms, -and made the sign of the cross on her brow, he pronounced with some -difficulty the syllables of the Indian name, which meant “Blue Eyes,” or -“Eyes of the Sky.” - -Heretofore, when Father Gaspara had come to San Pasquale to say mass, he -had slept at Lomax's, the store and post-office, six miles away, in the -Bernardo valley. But Ysidro, with great pride, had this time ridden to -meet him, to say that his cousin Alessandro, who had come to live in the -valley, and had a good new adobe house, begged that the Father would do -him the honor to stay with him. - -“And indeed, Father,” added Ysidro, “you will be far better lodged and -fed than in the house of Lomax. My cousin's wife knows well how all -should be done.” - -“Alessandro! Alessandro!” said the Father, musingly. “Has he been long -married?” - -“No, Father,” answered Ysidro. “But little more than two years. They -were married by you, on their way from Temecula here.” - -“Ay, ay. I remember,” said Father Gaspara. “I will come;” and it was -with no small interest that he looked forward to meeting again the -couple that had so strongly impressed him. - -Ramona was full of eager interest in her preparations for entertaining -the priest. This was like the olden time; and as she busied herself with -her cooking and other arrangements, the thought of Father Salvierderra -was much in her mind. She could, perhaps, hear news of him from Father -Gaspara. It was she who had suggested the idea to Alessandro; and when -he said, “But where will you sleep yourself, with the child, Majella, -if we give our room to the Father? I can lie on the floor outside; but -you?”--“I will go to Ysidro's, and sleep with Juana,” she replied. “For -two nights, it is no matter; and it is such shame to have the Father -sleep in the house of an American, when we have a good bed like this!” - -Seldom in his life had Alessandro experienced such a sense of -gratification as he did when he led Father Gaspara into his and Ramona's -bedroom. The clean whitewashed walls, the bed neatly made, with broad -lace on sheets and pillows, hung with curtains and a canopy of bright -red calico, the old carved chairs, the Madonna shrine in its bower of -green leaves, the shelves on the walls, the white-curtained window,--all -made up a picture such as Father Gaspara had never before seen in -his pilgrimages among the Indian villages. He could not restrain an -ejaculation of surprise. Then his eye falling on the golden rosary, he -exclaimed, “Where got you that?” - -“It is my wife's,” replied Alessandro, proudly. “It was given to her by -Father Salvierderra.” - -“Ah!” said the Father. “He died the other day.” - -“Dead! Father Salvierderra dead!” cried Alessandro. “That will be a -terrible blow. Oh, Father, I implore you not to speak of it in her -presence. She must not know it till after the christening. It will make -her heart heavy, so that she will have no joy.” - -Father Gaspara was still scrutinizing the rosary and crucifix. “To be -sure, to be sure,” he said absently; “I will say nothing of it; but this -is a work of art, this crucifix; do you know what you have here? And -this,--is this not an altar-cloth?” he added, lifting up the beautiful -wrought altar-cloth, which Ramona, in honor of his coming, had pinned on -the wall below the Madonna's shrine. - -“Yes, Father, it was made for that. My wife made it. It was to be a -present to Father Salvierderra; but she has not seen him, to give it to -him. It will take the light out of the sun for her, when first she hears -that he is dead.” - -Father Gaspara was about to ask another question, when Ramona appeared -in the doorway, flushed with running. She had carried the baby over to -Juana's and left her there, that she might be free to serve the Father's -supper. - -“I pray you tell her not,” said Alessandro, under his breath; but it -was too late. Seeing the Father with her rosary in his hand, Ramona -exclaimed:-- - -“That, Father, is my most sacred possession. It once belonged to Father -Peyri, of San Luis Rey, and he gave it to Father Salvierderra, who gave -it to me, Know you Father Salvierderra? I was hoping to hear news of him -through you.” - -“Yes, I knew him,--not very well; it is long since I saw him,” stammered -Father Gaspara. His hesitancy alone would not have told Ramona -the truth; she would have set that down to the secular priest's -indifference, or hostility, to the Franciscan order; but looking at -Alessandro, she saw terror and sadness on his face. No shadow there -ever escaped her eye. “What is it, Alessandro?” she exclaimed. “Is it -something about Father Salvierderra? Is he ill?” - -Alessandro shook his head. He did not know what to say. Looking from -one to the other, seeing the confused pain in both their faces, Ramona, -laying both her hands on her breast, in the expressive gesture she had -learned from the Indian women, cried out in a piteous tone: “You will -not tell me! You do not speak! Then he is dead!” and she sank on her -knees. - -“Yes, my daughter, he is dead,” said Father Gaspara, more tenderly than -that brusque and warlike priest often spoke. “He died a month ago, at -Santa Barbara. I am grieved to have brought you tidings to give you -such sorrow. But you must not mourn for him. He was very feeble, and he -longed to die, I heard. He could no longer work, and he did not wish to -live.” - -Ramona had buried her face in her hands. The Father's words were only -a confused sound in her ears. She had heard nothing after the words, “a -month ago.” She remained silent and motionless for some moments; then -rising, without speaking a word, or looking at either of the men, she -crossed the room and knelt down before the Madonna. By a common impulse, -both Alessandro and Father Gaspara silently left the room. As they stood -together outside the door, the Father said, “I would go back to Lomax's -if it were not so late. I like not to be here when your wife is in such -grief.” - -“That would but be another grief, Father,” said Alessandro. “She has -been full of happiness in making ready for you. She is very strong of -soul. It is she who makes me strong often, and not I who give strength -to her.” - -“My faith, but the man is right,” thought Father Gaspara, a half-hour -later, when, with a calm face, Ramona summoned them to supper. He did -not know, as Alessandro did, how that face had changed in the half-hour. -It wore a look Alessandro had never seen upon it. Almost he dreaded to -speak to her. - -When he walked by her side, later in the evening, as she went across the -valley to Fernando's house, he ventured to mention Father Salvierderra's -name. Ramona laid her hand on his lips. “I cannot talk about him yet, -dear,” she said. “I never believed that he would die without giving us -his blessing. Do not speak of him till to-morrow is over.” - -Ramona's saddened face smote on all the women's hearts as they met her -the next morning. One by one they gazed, astonished, then turned away, -and spoke softly among themselves. They all loved her, and half revered -her too, for her great kindness, and readiness to teach and to help -them. She had been like a sort of missionary in the valley ever since -she came, and no one had ever seen her face without a smile. Now she -smiled not. Yet there was the beautiful baby in its white dress, ready -to be christened; and the sun shone, and the bell had been ringing -for half an hour, and from every corner of the valley the people were -gathering, and Father Gaspara, in his gold and green cassock, was -praying before the altar; it was a joyous day in San Pasquale. Why did -Alessandro and Ramona kneel apart in a corner, with such heart-stricken -countenances, not even looking glad when their baby laughed, and reached -up her hands? Gradually it was whispered about what had happened. Some -one had got it from Antonio, of Temecula, Alessandro's friend. Then -all the women's faces grew sad too. They all had heard of Father -Salvierderra, and many of them had prayed to the ivory Christ in -Ramona's room, and knew that he had given it to her. - -As Ramona passed out of the chapel, some of them came up to her, and -taking her hand in theirs, laid it on their hearts, speaking no word. -The gesture was more than any speech could have been. - -When Father Gaspara was taking leave, Ramona said, with quivering lips, -“Father, if there is anything you know of Father Salvierderra's last -hours, I would be grateful to you for telling me.” - -“I heard very little,” replied the Father, “except that he had been -feeble for some weeks; yet he would persist in spending most of the -night kneeling on the stone floor in the church, praying.” - -“Yes,” interrupted Ramona; “that he always did.” - -“And the last morning,” continued the Father, “the Brothers found him -there, still kneeling on the stone floor, but quite powerless to move; -and they lifted him, and carried him to his room, and there they found, -to their horror, that he had had no bed; he had lain on the stones; and -then they took him to the Superior's own room, and laid him in the bed, -and he did not speak any more, and at noon he died.” - -“Thank you very much, Father,” said Ramona, without lifting her eyes -from the ground; and in the same low, tremulous tone, “I am glad that I -know that he is dead.” - -“Strange what a hold those Franciscans got on these Indians!” mused -Father Gaspara, as he rode down the valley. “There's none of them would -look like that if I were dead, I warrant me! There,” he exclaimed, “I -meant to have asked Alessandro who this wife of his is! I don't believe -she is a Temecula Indian. Next time I come, I will find out. She's had -some schooling somewhere, that's plain. She's quite superior to the -general run of them. Next time I come, I will find out about her.” - -“Next time!” In what calendar are kept the records of those next times -which never come? Long before Father Gaspara visited San Pasquale again, -Alessandro and Ramona were far away, and strangers were living in their -home. - -It seemed to Ramona in after years, as she looked back over this life, -that the news of Father Salvierderra's death was the first note of -the knell of their happiness. It was but a few days afterward, when -Alessandro came in one noon with an expression on his face that -terrified her; seating himself in a chair, he buried his face in his -hands, and would neither look up nor speak; not until Ramona was near -crying from his silence, did he utter a word. Then, looking at her with -a ghastly face, he said in a hollow voice, “It has begun!” and buried -his face again. Finally Ramona's tears wrung from him the following -story: - -Ysidro, it seemed, had the previous year rented a canon, at the head of -the valley, to one Doctor Morong. It was simply as bee-pasture that the -Doctor wanted it, he said. He put his hives there, and built a sort of -hut for the man whom he sent up to look after the honey. Ysidro did not -need the land, and thought it a good chance to make a little money. He -had taken every precaution to make the transaction a safe one; had gone -to San Diego, and got Father Gaspara to act as interpreter for him, in -the interview with Morong; it had been a written agreement, and the rent -agreed upon had been punctually paid. Now, the time of the lease having -expired, Ysidro had been to San Diego to ask the Doctor if he wished -to renew it for another year; and the Doctor had said that the land was -his, and he was coming out there to build a house, and live. - -Ysidro had gone to Father Gaspara for help, and Father Gaspara had had -an angry interview with Doctor Morong; but it had done no good. The -Doctor said the land did not belong to Ysidro at all, but to the United -States Government; and that he had paid the money for it to the agents -in Los Angeles, and there would very soon come papers from Washington, -to show that it was his. Father Gaspara had gone with Ysidro to a lawyer -in San Diego, and had shown to his lawyer Ysidro's paper,--the old one -from the Mexican Governor of California, establishing the pueblo of San -Pasquale, and saying how many leagues of land the Indians were to have; -but the lawyer had only laughed at Father Gaspara for believing that -such a paper as that was good for anything. He said that was all very -well when the country belonged to Mexico, but it was no good now; that -the Americans owned it now; and everything was done by the American law -now, not by the Mexican law any more. - -“Then we do not own any land in San Pasquale at all,” said Ysidro. “Is -that what it means?” - -And the lawyer had said, he did not know how it would be with the -cultivated land, and the village where the houses were,--he could -not tell about that; but he thought it all belonged to the men at -Washington. - -Father Gaspara was in such rage, Ysidro said, that he tore open his gown -on his breast, and he smote himself, and he said he wished he were a -soldier, and no priest, that he might fight this accursed United States -Government; and the lawyer laughed at him, and told him to look after -souls,--that was his business,--and let the Indian beggars alone! “Yes, -that was what he said,--'the Indian beggars!' and so they would be all -beggars, presently.” - -Alessandro told this by gasps, as it were; at long intervals. His voice -was choked; his whole frame shook. He was nearly beside himself with -rage and despair. - -“You see, it is as I said, Majella. There is no place safe. We can do -nothing! We might better be dead!” - -“It is a long way off, that canon Doctor Morong had,” said Ramona, -piteously. “It wouldn't do any harm, his living there, if no more came.” - -“Majella talks like a dove, and not like a woman,” said Alessandro, -fiercely. “Will there be one to come, and not two? It is the beginning. -To-morrow may come ten more, with papers to show that the land is -theirs. We can do nothing, any more than the wild beasts. They are -better than we.” - -From this day Alessandro was a changed man. Hope had died in his bosom. -In all the village councils,--and they were many and long now, for the -little community had been plunged into great anxiety and distress -by this Doctor Morong's affair,--Alessandro sat dumb and gloomy. To -whatever was proposed, he had but one reply: “It is of no use. We can do -nothing.” - -“Eat your dinners to-day, to-morrow we starve,” he said one night, -bitterly, as the council broke up. When Ysidro proposed to him that -they should journey to Los Angeles, where Father Gaspara had said the -headquarters of the Government officers were, and where they could learn -all about the new laws in regard to land, Alessandro laughed at him. -“What more is it, then, which you wish to know, my brother, about the -American laws?” he said. “Is it not enough that you know they have made -a law which will take the land from Indians; from us who have owned -it longer than any can remember; land that our ancestors are buried -in,--will take that land and give it to themselves, and say it is -theirs? Is it to hear this again said in your face, and to see the man -laugh who says it, like the lawyer in San Diego, that you will journey -to Los Angeles? I will not go!” - -And Ysidro went alone. Father Gaspara gave him a letter to the Los -Angeles priest, who went with him to the land-office, patiently -interpreted for him all he had to say, and as patiently interpreted -all that the officials had to say in reply. They did not laugh, as -Alessandro in his bitterness had said. They were not inhuman, and -they felt sincere sympathy for this man, representative of two hundred -hard-working, industrious people, in danger of being turned out of house -and home. But they were very busy; they had to say curtly, and in few -words, all there was to be said: the San Pasquale district was certainly -the property of the United States Government, and the lands were in -market, to be filed on, and bought, according to the homestead laws, -These officials had neither authority nor option in the matter. They -were there simply to carry out instructions, and obey orders. - -Ysidro understood the substance of all this, though the details were -beyond his comprehension. But he did not regret having taken the -journey; he had now made his last effort for his people. The Los Angeles -priest had promised that he would himself write a letter to Washington, -to lay the case before the head man there, and perhaps something would -be done for their relief. It seemed incredible to Ysidro, as, riding -along day after day, on his sad homeward journey, he reflected on the -subject,--it seemed incredible to him that the Government would permit -such a village as theirs to be destroyed. He reached home just at -sunset; and looking down, as Alessandro and Ramona had done on the -morning of their arrival, from the hillcrests at the west end of the -valley, seeing the broad belt of cultivated fields and orchards, the -peaceful little hamlet of houses, he groaned. “If the people who make -these laws could only see this village, they would never turn us out, -never! They can't know what is being done. I am sure they can't know.” - -“What did I tell you?” cried Alessandro, galloping up on Benito, and -reining him in so sharply he reared and plunged. “What did I tell you? -I saw by your face, many paces back, that you had come as you went, or -worse! I have been watching for you these two days. Another American -has come in with Morong in the canon; they are making corrals; they will -keep stock. You will see how long we have any pasture-lands in that end -of the valley. I drive all my stock to San Diego next week. I will sell -it for what it will bring,--both the cattle and the sheep. It is no use. -You will see.” - -When Ysidro began to recount his interview with the land-office -authorities, Alessandro broke in fiercely: “I wish to hear no more of -it. Their names and their speech are like smoke in my eyes and my nose. -I think I shall go mad, Ysidro. Go tell your story to the men who are -waiting to hear it, and who yet believe that an American may speak -truth!” - -Alessandro was as good as his word. The very next week he drove all -his cattle and sheep to San Diego, and sold them at great loss. “It -is better than nothing,” he said. “They will not now be sold by the -sheriff, like my father's in Temecula.” The money he got, he took to -Father Gaspara. “Father,” he said huskily. “I have sold all my stock. I -would not wait for the Americans to sell it for me, and take the money. -I have not got much, but it is better than nothing. It will make that we -do not starve for one year. Will you keep it for me, Father? I dare not -have it in San Pasquale. San Pasquale will be like Temecula,--it may be -to-morrow.” - -To the Father's suggestion that he should put the money in a bank in San -Diego, Alessandro cried: “Sooner would I throw it in the sea yonder! I -trust no man, henceforth; only the Church I will trust. Keep it for me, -Father, I pray you,” and the Father could not refuse his imploring tone. - -“What are your plans now?” he asked. - -“Plans!” repeated Alessandro,--“plans, Father! Why should I make plans? -I will stay in my house so long as the Americans will let me. You saw -our little house, Father!” His voice broke as he said this. “I have -large wheat-fields; if I can get one more crop off them, it will be -something; but my land is of the richest in the valley, and as soon as -the Americans see it, they will want it. Farewell, Father. I thank you -for keeping my money, and for all you said to the thief Morong. Ysidro -told me. Farewell.” And he was gone, and out of sight on the swift -galloping Benito, before Father Gaspara bethought himself. - -“And I remembered not to ask who his wife was. I will look back at the -record,” said the Father. Taking down the old volume, he ran his eye -back over the year. Marriages were not so many in Father Gaspara's -parish, that the list took long to read. The entry of Alessandro's -marriage was blotted. The Father had been in haste that night. -“Alessandro Assis. Majella Fa--” No more could be read. The name meant -nothing to Father Gaspara. “Clearly an Indian name,” he said to himself; -“yet she seemed superior in every way. I wonder where she got it.” - -The winter wore along quietly in San Pasquale. The delicious soft rains -set in early, promising a good grain year. It seemed a pity not to get -in as much wheat as possible; and all the San Pasquale people went early -to ploughing new fields,--all but Alessandro. - -“If I reap all I have, I will thank the saints,” he said. “I will plough -no more land for the robbers.” But after his fields were all planted, -and the beneficent rains still kept on, and the hills all along the -valley wall began to turn green earlier than ever before was known, -he said to Ramona one morning, “I think I will make one more field of -wheat. There will be a great yield this year. Maybe we will be left -unmolested till the harvest is over.” - -“Oh, yes, and for many more harvests, dear Alessandro!” said Ramona, -cheerily. “You are always looking on the black side.” - -“There is no other but the black side, Majella,” he replied. “Strain my -eyes as I may, on all sides all is black. You will see. Never any more -harvests in San Pasquale for us, after this. If we get this, we are -lucky. I have seen the white men riding up and down in the valley, and -I found some of their cursed bits of wood with figures on them set up -on my land the other day; and I pulled them up and burned them to ashes. -But I will plough one more field this week; though, I know not why it -is, my thoughts go against it even now. But I will do it; and I will not -come home till night, Majella, for the field is too far to go and come -twice. I shall be the whole day ploughing.” So saying, he stooped and -kissed the baby, and then kissing Ramona, went out. - -Ramona stood at the door and watched him as he harnessed Benito and Baba -to the plough. He did not once look back at her; his face seemed full of -thought, his hands acting as it were mechanically. After he had gone -a few rods from the house, he stopped, stood still for some minutes -meditatingly, then went on irresolutely, halted again, but finally went -on, and disappeared from sight among the low foothills to the east. -Sighing deeply, Ramona turned back to her work. But her heart was too -disquieted. She could not keep back the tears. - -“How changed is Alessandro!” she thought. “It terrifies me to see him -thus. I will tell the Blessed Virgin about it;” and kneeling before the -shrine, she prayed fervently and long. She rose comforted, and -drawing the baby's cradle out into the veranda, seated herself at her -embroidery. Her skill with her needle had proved a not inconsiderable -source of income, her fine lace-work being always taken by San Diego -merchants, and at fairly good prices. - -It seemed to her only a short time that she had been sitting thus, when, -glancing up at the sun, she saw it was near noon; at the same moment -she saw Alessandro approaching, with the horses. In dismay, she thought, -“There is no dinner! He said he would not come!” and springing up, was -about to run to meet him, when she observed that he was not alone. -A short, thick-set man was walking by his side; they were talking -earnestly. It was a white man. What did it bode? Presently they stopped. -She saw Alessandro lift his hand and point to the house, then to the -tule sheds in the rear. He seemed to be talking excitedly; the white -man also; they were both speaking at once. Ramona shivered with fear. -Motionless she stood, straining eye and ear; she could hear nothing, -but the gestures told much. Had it come,--the thing Alessandro had said -would come? Were they to be driven out,--driven out this very day, when -the Virgin had only just now seemed to promise her help and protection? - -The baby stirred, waked, began to cry. Catching the child up to her -breast, she stilled her by convulsive caresses. Clasping her tight in -her arms, she walked a few steps towards Alessandro, who, seeing her, -made an imperative gesture to her to return. Sick at heart, she went -back to the veranda and sat down to wait. - -In a few moments she saw the white man counting out money into -Alessandro's hand; then he turned and walked away, Alessandro still -standing as if rooted to the spot, gazing into the palm of his hand, -Benito and Baba slowly walking away from him unnoticed; at last he -seemed to rouse himself as from a trance, and picking up the horses' -reins, came slowly toward her. Again she started to meet him; again -he made the same authoritative gesture to her to return; and again she -seated herself, trembling in every nerve of her body. Ramona was now -sometimes afraid of Alessandro. When these fierce glooms seized him, -she dreaded, she knew not what. He seemed no more the Alessandro she had -loved. - -Deliberately, lingeringly, he unharnessed the horses and put them in -the corral. Then still more deliberately, lingeringly, he walked to the -house; walked, without speaking, past Ramona, into the door. A lurid -spot on each cheek showed burning red through the bronze of his skin. -His eyes glittered. In silence Ramona followed him, and saw him draw -from his pocket a handful of gold-pieces, fling them on the table, and -burst into a laugh more terrible than any weeping,--a laugh which wrung -from her instantly, involuntarily, the cry, “Oh, my Alessandro! my -Alessandro! What is it? Are you mad?” - -“No, my sweet Majel,” he exclaimed, turning to her, and flinging his -arms round her and the child together, drawing them so close to his -breast that the embrace hurt,--“no, I am not mad; but I think I shall -soon be! What is that gold? The price of this house, Majel, and of the -fields,--of all that was ours in San Pasquale! To-morrow we will go out -into the world again. I will see if I can find a place the Americans do -not want!” - -It did not take many words to tell the story. Alessandro had not been -ploughing more than an hour, when, hearing a strange sound, he looked -up and saw a man unloading lumber a few rods off'. Alessandro stopped -midway in the furrow and watched him. The man also watched Alessandro. -Presently he came toward him, and said roughly, “Look here! Be off, will -you? This is my land. I'm going to build a house here.” - -Alessandro had replied, “This was my land yesterday. How comes it yours -to-day?” - -Something in the wording of this answer, or something in Alessandro's -tone and bearing, smote the man's conscience, or heart, or what stood -to him in the place of conscience and heart, and he said: “Come, now, my -good fellow, you look like a reasonable kind of a fellow; you just clear -out, will you, and not make me any trouble. You see the land's mine. -I've got all this land round here;” and he waved his arm, describing a -circle; “three hundred and twenty acres, me and my brother together, and -we're coming in here to settle. We got our papers from Washington last -week. It's all right, and you may just as well go peaceably, as make a -fuss about it. Don't you see?” - -Yes, Alessandro saw. He had been seeing this precise thing for months. -Many times, in his dreams and in his waking thoughts, he had lived over -scenes similar to this. An almost preternatural calm and wisdom seemed -to be given him now. - -“Yes, I see, Senor,” he said. “I am not surprised. I knew it would come; -but I hoped it would not be till after harvest. I will not give you any -trouble, Senor, because I cannot. If I could, I would. But I have -heard all about the new law which gives all the Indians' lands to the -Americans. We cannot help ourselves. But it is very hard, Senor.” He -paused. - -The man, confused and embarrassed, astonished beyond expression at -being met in this way by an Indian, did not find words come ready to his -tongue. “Of course, I know it does seem a little rough on fellows like -you, that are industrious, and have done some work on the land. But you -see the land's in the market; I've paid my money for it.” - -“The Senor is going to build a house?” asked Alessandro. - -“Yes,” the man answered. “I've got my family in San Diego, and I want to -get them settled as soon as I can. My wife won't feel comfortable till -she's in her own house. We're from the States, and she's been used to -having everything comfortable.” - -“I have a wife and child, Senor,” said Alessandro, still in the same -calm, deliberate tone; “and we have a very good house of two rooms. It -would save the Senor's building, if he would buy mine.” - -“How far is it?” said the man. “I can't tell exactly where the -boundaries of my land are, for the stakes we set have been pulled up.” - -“Yes, Senor, I pulled them up and burned them. They were on my land,” - replied Alessandro. “My house is farther west than your stakes; and I -have large wheat-fields there, too,--many acres, Senor, all planted.” - -Here was a chance, indeed. The man's eyes gleamed. He would do the -handsome thing. He would give this fellow something for his house and -wheat-crops. First he would see the house, however; and it was for -that purpose he had walked back with Alessandro, When he saw the neat -whitewashed adobe, with its broad veranda, the sheds and corrals all -in good order, he instantly resolved to get possession of them by fair -means or foul. - -“There will be three hundred dollars' worth of wheat in July, Senor, you -can see for yourself; and a house so good as that, you cannot build for -less than one hundred dollars. What will you give me for them?” - -“I suppose I can have them without paying you for them, if I choose,” - said the man, insolently. - -“No, Senor,” replied Alessandro. - -“What's to hinder, then, I'd like to know!” in a brutal sneer. “You -haven't got any rights here, whatever, according to law.” - -“I shall hinder, Senor,” replied Alessandro. “I shall burn down the -sheds and corrals, tear down the house; and before a blade of the wheat -is reaped, I will burn that.” Still in the same calm tone. - -“What'll you take?” said the man, sullenly. - -“Two hundred dollars,” replied Alessandro. - -“Well, leave your plough and wagon, and I'll give it to you,” said the -man; “and a big fool I am, too. Well laughed at, I'll be, do you know -it, for buying out an Indian!” - -“The wagon, Senor, cost me one hundred and thirty dollars in San Diego. -You cannot buy one so good for less. I will not sell it. I need it to -take away my things in. The plough you may have. That is worth twenty.” - -“I'll do it,” said the man; and pulling out a heavy buckskin pouch, he -counted out into Alessandro's hand two hundred dollars in gold. - -“Is that all right?” he said, as he put down the last piece. - -“That is the sum I said, Senor,” replied Alessandro. “Tomorrow, at noon, -you can come into the house.” - -“Where will you go?” asked the man, again slightly touched by -Alessandro's manner. “Why don't you stay round here? I expect you could -get work enough; there are a lot of farmers coming in here; they'll want -hands.” - -A fierce torrent of words sprang to Alessandro's lips, but he choked -them back. “I do not know where I shall go, but I will not stay here,” - he said; and that ended the interview. - -“I don't know as I blame him a mite for feeling that way,” thought the -man from the States, as he walked slowly back to his pile of lumber. “I -expect I should feel just so myself.” - -Almost before Alessandro had finished this tale, he began to move -about the room, taking down, folding up, opening and shutting lids; his -restlessness was terrible to see. “By sunrise, I would like to be off,” - he said. “It is like death, to be in the house which is no longer ours.” - Ramona had spoken no words since her first cry on hearing that terrible -laugh. She was like one stricken dumb. The shock was greater to her than -to Alessandro. He had lived with it ever present in his thoughts for a -year. She had always hoped. But far more dreadful than the loss of her -home, was the anguish of seeing, hearing, the changed face, changed -voice, of Alessandro. Almost this swallowed up the other. She obeyed -him mechanically, working faster and faster as he grew more and more -feverish in his haste. Before sundown the little house was dismantled; -everything, except the bed and the stove, packed in the big wagon. - -“Now, we must cook food for the journey,” said Alessandro. - -“Where are we going?” said the weeping Ramona. - -“Where?” ejaculated Alessandro, so scornfully that it sounded like -impatience with Ramona, and made her tears flow afresh. “Where? I know -not, Majella! Into the mountains, where the white men come not! At -sunrise we will start.” - -Ramona wished to say good-by to their friends. There were women in the -village that she tenderly loved. But Alessandro was unwilling. “There -will be weeping and crying, Majella; I pray you do not speak to one. Why -should we have more tears? Let us disappear. I will say all to Ysidro. -He will tell them.” - -This was a sore grief to Ramona. In her heart she rebelled against it, -as she had never yet rebelled against an act of Alessandro's; but she -could not distress him. Was not his burden heavy enough now? - -Without a word of farewell to any one, they set off in the gray dawn, -before a creature was stirring in the village,--the wagon piled high; -Ramona, her baby in her arms, in front; Alessandro walking. The load was -heavy. Benito and Baba walked slowly. Capitan, unhappy, looking first at -Ramona's face, then at Alessandro's, walked dispiritedly by their side. -He knew all was wrong. - -As Alessandro turned the horses into a faintly marked road leading in a -northeasterly direction, Ramona said with a sob, “Where does this road -lead, Alessandro?” - -“To San Jacinto,” he said. “San Jacinto Mountain. Do not look back, -Majella! Do not look back!” he cried, as he saw Ramona, with streaming -eyes, gazing back towards San Pasquale. “Do not look back! It is gone! -Pray to the saints now, Majella! Pray! Pray!” - - - - -XXI - -THE Senora Moreno was dying. It had been a sad two years in the Moreno -house. After the first excitement following Ramona's departure had -died away, things had settled down in a surface similitude of their old -routine. But nothing was really the same. No one was so happy as before. -Juan Canito was heart-broken. There had been set over him the very -Mexican whose coming to the place he had dreaded. The sheep had not done -well; there had been a drought; many had died of hunger,--a thing for -which the new Mexican overseer was not to blame, though it pleased Juan -to hold him so, and to say from morning till night that if his leg had -not been broken, or if the lad Alessandro had been there, the wool-crop -would have been as big as ever. Not one of the servants liked this -Mexican; he had a sorry time of it, poor fellow; each man and woman on -the place had or fancied some reason for being set against him; some -from sympathy with Juan Can, some from idleness and general impatience; -Margarita, most of all, because he was not Alessandro. Margarita, -between remorse about her young mistress and pique and disappointment -about Alessandro, had become a very unhappy girl; and her mother, -instead of comforting or soothing her, added to her misery by -continually bemoaning Ramona's fate. The void that Ramona had left in -the whole household seemed an irreparable one; nothing came to fill it; -there was no forgetting; every day her name was mentioned by some one; -mentioned with bated breath, fearful conjecture, compassion, and regret. -Where had she vanished? Had she indeed gone to the convent, as she said, -or had she fled with Alessandro? - -Margarita would have given her right hand to know. Only Juan Can felt -sure. Very well Juan Can knew that nobody but Alessandro had the wit and -the power over Baba to lure him out of that corral, “and never a rail -out of its place.” And the saddle, too! Ay, the smart lad! He had done -the best he could for the Senorita; but, Holy Virgin! what had got into -the Senorita to run off like that, with an Indian,--even Alessandro! -The fiends had bewitched her. Tirelessly Juan Can questioned every -traveller, every wandering herder he saw. No one knew anything of -Alessandro, beyond the fact that all the Temecula Indians had been -driven out of their village, and that there was now not an Indian in the -valley. There was a rumor that Alessandro and his father had both -died; but no one knew anything certainly. The Temecula Indians had -disappeared, that was all there was of it,--disappeared, like any wild -creatures, foxes or coyotes, hunted down, driven out; the valley was rid -of them. But the Senorita! She was not with these fugitives. That could -not be! Heaven forbid! - -“If I'd my legs, I'd go and see for myself.” said Juan Can. “It would -be some comfort to know even the worst. Perdition take the Senora, who -drove her to it! Ay, drove her to it! That's what I say, Luigo.” In some -of his most venturesome wrathy moments he would say: “There's none -of you know the truth about the Senorita but me! It's a hard hand the -Senora's reared her with, from the first. She's a wonderful woman, our -Senora! She gets power over one.” - -But the Senora's power was shaken now. More changed than all else in the -changed Moreno household, was the relation between the Senora Moreno and -her son Felipe. On the morning after Ramona's disappearance, words had -been spoken by each which neither would ever forget. In fact, the Senora -believed that it was of them she was dying, and perhaps that was not far -from the truth; the reason that forces could no longer rally in her to -repel disease, lying no doubt largely in the fact that to live seemed no -longer to her desirable. - -Felipe had found the note Ramona had laid on his bed. Before it was yet -dawn he had waked, and tossing uneasily under the light covering had -heard the rustle of the paper, and knowing instinctively that it was -from Ramona, had risen instantly to make sure of it. Before his mother -opened her window, he had read it. He felt like one bereft of his senses -as he read. Gone! Gone with Alessandro! Stolen away like a thief in the -night, his dear, sweet little sister! Ah, what a cruel shame! Scales -seemed to drop from Felipe's eyes as he lay motionless, thinking of -it. A shame! a cruel shame! And he and his mother were the ones who had -brought it on Ramona's head, and on the house of Moreno. Felipe felt -as if he had been under a spell all along, not to have realized this. -“That's what I told my mother!” he groaned,--“that it drove her to -running away! Oh, my sweet Ramona! what will become of her? I will go -after them, and bring them back;” and Felipe rose, and hastily dressing -himself, ran down the veranda steps, to gain a little more time to -think. He returned shortly, to meet his mother standing in the doorway, -with pale, affrighted face. - -“Felipe!” she cried, “Ramona is not here.” - -“I know it,” he replied in an angry tone. “That is what I told you we -should do,--drive her to running away with Alessandro!” - -“With Alessandro!” interrupted the Senora. - -“Yes,” continued Felipe,--“with Alessandro, the Indian! Perhaps you -think it is less disgrace to the names of Ortegna and Moreno to have her -run away with him, than to be married to him here under our roof! I -do not! Curse the day, I say, when I ever lent myself to breaking the -girl's heart! I am going after them, to fetch them back!” - -If the skies had opened and rained fire, the Senora had hardly less -quailed and wondered than she did at these words; but even for fire from -the skies she would not surrender till she must. - -“How know you that it is with Alessandro?” she said. - -“Because she has written it here!” cried Felipe, defiantly holding -up his little note. “She left this, her good-by to me. Bless her! She -writes like a saint, to thank me for all my goodness to her,--I, who -drove her to steal out of my house like a thief!” - -The phrase, “my house,” smote the Senora's ear like a note from some -other sphere, which indeed it was,--from the new world into which Felipe -had been in an hour born. Her cheeks flushed, and she opened her lips to -reply; but before she had uttered a word, Luigo came running round -the corner, Juan Can hobbling after him at a miraculous pace on his -crutches. “Senor Felipe! Senor Felipe! Oh, Senora!” they cried. “Thieves -have been here in the night! Baba is gone,--Baba, and the Senorita's -saddle.” - -A malicious smile broke over the Senora's countenance, and turning to -Felipe, she said in a tone--what a tone it was! Felipe felt as if -he must put his hands to his ears to shut it out; Felipe would never -forget,--“As you were saying, like a thief in the night!” - -With a swifter and more energetic movement than any had ever before seen -Senor Felipe make, he stepped forward, saying in an undertone to his -mother, “For God's sake, mother, not a word before the men!--What is -that you say, Luigo? Baba gone? We must see to our corral. I will come -down, after breakfast, and look at it;” and turning his back on them, he -drew his mother by a firm grasp, she could not resist, into the house. - -She gazed at him in sheer, dumb wonder. - -“Ay, mother,” he said, “you may well look thus in wonder; I have been no -man, to let my foster-sister, I care not what blood were in her veins, -be driven to this pass! I will set out this day, and bring her back.” - -“The day you do that, then, I lie in this house dead!” retorted the -Senora, at white heat. “You may rear as many Indian families as you -please under the Moreno roof, I will at least have my grave!” In spite -of her anger, grief convulsed her; and in another second she had -burst into tears, and sunk helpless and trembling into a chair. No -counterfeiting now. No pretences. The Senora Moreno's heart broke within -her, when those words passed her lips to her adored Felipe. At the -sight, Felipe flung himself on his knees before her; he kissed the aged -hands as they lay trembling in her lap. “Mother mia,” he cried, “you -will break my heart if you speak like that! Oh, why, why do you command -me to do what a man may not? I would die for you, my mother; but how can -I see my sister a homeless wanderer in the wilderness?” - -“I suppose the man Alessandro has something he calls a home,” said the -Senora, regaining herself a little. “Had they no plans? Spoke she not in -her letter of what they would do?” - -“Only that they would go to Father Salvierderra first,” he replied. - -“Ah!” The Senora reflected. At first startled, her second thought was -that this would be the best possible thing which could happen. “Father -Salvierderra will counsel them what to do,” she said. “He could no doubt -establish them in Santa Barbara in some way. My son, when you reflect, -you will see the impossibility of bringing them here. Help them in any -way you like, but do not bring them here.” She paused. “Not until I am -dead, Felipe! It will not be long.” - -Felipe bowed his head in his mother's lap. She laid her hands on his -hair, and stroked it with passionate tenderness. “My Felipe!” she said. -“It was a cruel fate to rob me of you at the last!” - -“Mother! mother!” he cried in anguish. “I am yours,--wholly, devotedly -yours! Why do you torture me thus?” - -“I will not torture you more,” she said wearily, in a feeble tone. “I -ask only one thing of you; let me never hear again the name of that -wretched girl, who has brought all this woe on our house; let her name -never be spoken on this place by man, woman, or child. Like a thief in -the night! Ay, a horse-thief!” - -Felipe sprang to his feet. - -“Mother.” he said, “Baba was Ramona's own; I myself gave him to her as -soon as he was born!” - -The Senora made no reply. She had fainted. Calling the maids, in terror -and sorrow Felipe bore her to her bed, and she did not leave it for many -days. She seemed hovering between life and death. Felipe watched over -her as a lover might; her great mournful eyes followed his every motion. -She spoke little, partly because of physical weakness, partly from -despair. The Senora had got her death-blow. She would die hard. It would -take long. Yet she was dying, and she knew it. - -Felipe did not know it. When he saw her going about again, with a step -only a little slower than before, and with a countenance not so much -changed as he had feared, he thought she would be well again, after a -time. And now he would go in search of Ramona. How he hoped he should -find them in Santa Barbara! He must leave them there, or wherever he -should find them; never again would he for a moment contemplate the -possibility of bringing them home with him. But he would see them; help -them, if need be. Ramona should not feel herself an outcast, so long as -he lived. - -When he said, agitatedly, to his mother, one night, “You are so -strong now, mother, I think I will take a journey; I will not be away -long,--not over a week,” she understood, and with a deep sigh replied: -“I am not strong; but I am as strong as I shall ever be. If the journey -must be taken, it is as well done now.” - -How was the Senora changed! - -“It must be, mother,” said Felipe, “or I would not leave you. I will set -off before sunrise, so I will say farewell tonight.” - -But in the morning, at his first step, his mother's window opened, and -there she stood, wan, speechless, looking at him. “You must go, my son?” - she asked at last. - -“I must, mother!” and Felipe threw his arms around her, and kissed her -again and again. “Dearest mother! Do smile! Can you not?” - -“No, my son, I cannot. Farewell. The saints keep you. Farewell.” And she -turned, that she might not see him go. - -Felipe rode away with a sad heart, but his purpose did not falter. -Following straight down the river road to the sea, he then kept up along -the coast, asking here and there, cautiously, if persons answering to -the description of Alessandro and Ramona had been seen. No one had seen -any such persons. - -When, on the night of the second day, he rode up to the Santa Barbara -Mission, the first figure he saw was the venerable Father Salvierderra -sitting in the corridor. As Felipe approached, the old man's face beamed -with pleasure, and he came forward totteringly, leaning on a staff in -each hand. “Welcome, my son!” he said. “Are all well? You find me very -feeble just now; my legs are failing me sorely this autumn.” - -Dismay seized on Felipe at the Father's first words. He would not have -spoken thus, had he seen Ramona. Barely replying to the greeting, Felipe -exclaimed: “Father, I come seeking Ramona. Has she not been with you?” - -Father Salvierderra's face was reply to the question. “Ramona!” he -cried. “Seeking Ramona! What has befallen the blessed child?” - -It was a bitter story for Felipe to tell; but he told it, sparing -himself no shame. He would have suffered less in the telling, had he -known how well Father Salvierderra understood his mother's character, -and her almost unlimited power over all persons around her. Father -Salvierderra was not shocked at the news of Ramona's attachment for -Alessandro. He regretted it, but he did not think it shame, as the -Senora had done. As Felipe talked with him, he perceived even more -clearly how bitter and unjust his mother had been to Alessandro. - -“He is a noble young man,” said Father Salvierderra. “His father was one -of the most trusted of Father Peyri's assistants. You must find them, -Felipe. I wonder much they did not come to me. Perhaps they may yet -come. When you find them, bear them my blessing, and say that I wish -they would come hither. I would like to give them my blessing before -I die. Felipe, I shall never leave Santa Barbara again. My time draws -near.” - -Felipe was so full of impatience to continue his search, that he hardly -listened to the Father's words. “I will not tarry,” he said. “I cannot -rest till I find her. I will ride back as far as Ventura to-night.” - -“You will send me word by a messenger, when you find them,” said the -Father. “God grant no harm has befallen them. I will pray for them, -Felipe;” and he tottered into the church. - -Felipe's thoughts, as he retraced his road, were full of bewilderment -and pain. He was wholly at loss to conjecture what course Alessandro and -Ramona had taken, or what could have led them to abandon their intention -of going to Father Salvierderra. Temecula seemed the only place, now, to -look for them; and yet from Temecula Felipe had heard, only a few days -before leaving home, that there was not an Indian left in the valley. -But he could at least learn there where the Indians had gone. Poor as -the clew seemed, it was all he had. Cruelly Felipe urged his horse -on his return journey. He grudged an hour's rest to himself or to the -beast; and before he reached the head of the Temecula canon the creature -was near spent. At the steepest part he jumped off and walked, to save -her strength. As he was toiling slowly up a narrow, rocky pass, he -suddenly saw an Indian's head peering over the ledge. He made signs -to him to come down. The Indian turned his head, and spoke to some one -behind; one after another a score of figures rose. They made signs to -Felipe to come up. “Poor things!” he thought; “they are afraid.” He -shouted to them that his horse was too tired to climb that wall; but if -they would come down, he would give them money, holding up a gold-piece. -They consulted among themselves; presently they began slowly descending, -still halting at intervals, and looking suspiciously at him. He held -up the gold again, and beckoned. As soon as they could see his face -distinctly, they broke into a run. That was no enemy's face. - -Only one of the number could speak Spanish. On hearing this man's reply -to Felipe's first question, a woman, who had listened sharply and caught -the word Alessandro, came forward, and spoke rapidly in the Indian -tongue. - -“This woman has seen Alessandro,” said the man. - -“Where?” said Felipe, breathlessly. - -“In Temecula, two weeks ago,” he said. - -“Ask her if he had any one with him,” said Felipe. - -“No,” said the woman. “He was alone.” - -A convulsion passed over Felipe's face. “Alone!” What did this mean! He -reflected. The woman watched him. “Is she sure he was alone; there was -no one with him?” - -“Yes.” - -“Was he riding a big black horse?” - -“No, a white horse,” answered the woman, promptly. “A small white -horse.” - -It was Carmena, every nerve of her loyal nature on the alert to baffle -this pursuer of Alessandro and Ramona. Again Felipe reflected. “Ask her -if she saw him for any length of time; how long she saw him.” - -“All night,” he answered. “He spent the night where she did.” - -Felipe despaired. “Does she know where he is now?” he asked. - -“He was going to San Luis Obispo, to go in a ship to Monterey.” - -“What to do?” - -“She does not know.” - -“Did he say when he would come back?” - -“Yes.” - -“When?” - -“Never! He said he would never set foot in Temecula again.” - -“Does she know him well?” - -“As well as her own brother.” - -What more could Felipe ask? With a groan, wrung from the very depths of -his heart, he tossed the man a gold-piece; another to the woman. “I am -sorry,” he said. “Alessandro was my friend. I wanted to see him;” and he -rode away, Carmena's eyes following him with a covert gleam of triumph. - -When these last words of his were interpreted to her, she started, made -as if she would run after him, but checked herself. “No,” she thought. -“It may be a lie. He may be an enemy, for all that. I will not tell. -Alessandro wished not to be found. I will not tell.” - -And thus vanished the last chance of succor for Ramona; vanished in a -moment; blown like a thistledown on a chance breath,--the breath of a -loyal, loving friend, speaking a lie to save her. - -Distraught with grief, Felipe returned home. Ramona had been very -ill when she left home. Had she died, and been buried by the lonely, -sorrowing Alessandro? And was that the reason Alessandro was going away -to the North, never to return? Fool that he was, to have shrunk from -speaking Ramona's name to the Indians! He would return, and ask again. -As soon as he had seen his mother, he would set off again, and never -cease searching till he had found either Ramona or her grave. But when -Felipe entered his mother's presence, his first look in her face told -him that he would not leave her side again until he had laid her at rest -in the tomb. - -“Thank God! you have come, Felipe,” she said in a feeble voice. “I had -begun to fear you would not come in time to say farewell to me. I am -going to leave you, my son;” and the tears rolled down her cheeks. - -Though she no longer wished to live, neither did she wish to die,--this -poor, proud, passionate, defeated, bereft Senora. All the consolations -of her religion seemed to fail her. She had prayed incessantly, but got -no peace. She fixed her imploring eyes on the Virgin's face and on the -saints; but all seemed to her to wear a forbidding look. “If Father -Salvierderra would only come!” she groaned. “He could give me peace. If -only I can live till he comes again!” - -When Felipe told her of the old man's feeble state, and that he would -never again make the journey, she turned her face to the wall and wept. -Not only for her own soul's help did she wish to see him: she wished -to put into his hands the Ortegna jewels. What would become of them? To -whom should she transfer the charge? Was there a secular priest -within reach that she could trust? When her sister had said, in her -instructions, “the Church,” she meant, as the Senora Moreno well knew, -the Franciscans. The Senora dared not consult Felipe; yet she must. Day -by day these fretting anxieties and perplexities wasted her strength, -and her fever grew higher and higher. She asked no questions as to the -result of Felipe's journey, and he dared not mention Ramona's name. At -last he could bear it no longer, and one day said, “Mother, I found no -trace of Ramona. I have not the least idea where she is. The Father had -not seen her or heard of her. I fear she is dead.” - -“Better so,” was the Senora's sole reply; and she fell again into still -deeper, more perplexed thought about the hidden treasure. Each day she -resolved, “To-morrow I will tell Felipe;” and when to-morrow came, -she put it off again. Finally she decided not to do it till she found -herself dying. Father Salvierderra might yet come once more, and -then all would be well. With trembling hands she wrote him a letter, -imploring him to be brought to her, and sent it by messenger, who was -empowered to hire a litter and four men to bring the Father gently and -carefully all the way. But when the messenger reached Santa Barbara, -Father Salvierderra was too feeble to be moved; too feeble even -to write. He could write only by amanuensis, and wrote, therefore, -guardedly, sending her his blessing, and saying that he hoped her -foster-child might yet be restored to the keeping of her friends. The -Father had been in sore straits of mind, as month after month had passed -without tidings of his “blessed child.” - -Soon after this came the news that the Father was dead. This dealt the -Senora a terrible blow. She never left her bed after it. And so the year -had worn on; and Felipe, mourning over his sinking and failing mother, -and haunted by terrible fears about the lost Ramona, had been tortured -indeed. - -But the end drew near, now. The Senora was plainly dying. The Ventura -doctor had left off coming, saying that he could do no more; nothing -remained but to give her what ease was possible; in a day or two more -all would be over. Felipe hardly left her bedside. Rarely was mother so -loved and nursed by son. No daughter could have shown more tenderness -and devotion. In the close relation and affection of these last days, -the sense of alienation and antagonism faded from both their hearts. - -“My adorable Felipe!” she would murmur. “What a son hast thou been!” - And, “My beloved mother! How shall I give you up?” Felipe would reply, -bowing his head on her hands,--so wasted now, so white, so weak; those -hands which had been cruel and strong little more than one short year -ago. Ah, no one could refuse to forgive the Senora now! The gentle -Ramona, had she seen her, had wept tears of pity. Her eyes wore at times -a look almost of terror. It was the secret. How should she speak it? -What would Felipe say? At last the moment came. She had been with -difficulty roused from a long fainting; one more such would be the -last, she knew,--knew even better than those around her. As she regained -consciousness, she gasped, “Felipe! Alone!” - -He understood, and waved the rest away. - -“Alone!” she said again, turning her eyes to the door. - -“Leave the room,” said Felipe; “all--wait outside;” and he closed the -door on them. Even then the Senora hesitated. Almost was she ready to -go out of life leaving the hidden treasure to its chance of discovery, -rather than with her own lips reveal to Felipe what she saw now, saw -with the terrible, relentless clear-sightedness of death, would make -him, even after she was in her grave, reproach her in his thoughts. - -But she dared not withhold it. It must be said. Pointing to the statue -of Saint Catharine, whose face seemed, she thought, to frown unforgiving -upon her, she said, “Felipe--behind that statue--look!” - -Felipe thought her delirious, and said tenderly, “Nothing is there, -dearest mother. Be calm. I am here.” - -New terror seized the dying woman. Was she to be forced to carry -the secret to the grave? to be denied this late avowal? “No! no! -Felipe--there is a door there--secret door. Look! Open! I must tell -you!” - -Hastily Felipe moved the statue. There was indeed the door, as she had -said. - -“Do not tell me now, mother dear. Wait till you are stronger,” he said. -As he spoke, he turned, and saw, with alarm, his mother sitting upright -in the bed, her right arm outstretched, her hand pointing to the door, -her eyes in a glassy stare, her face convulsed. Before a cry could pass -his lips, she had fallen back. The Senora Moreno was dead. - -At Felipe's cry, the women waiting in the hall hurried in, wailing -aloud as their first glance showed them all was over. In the confusion, -Felipe, with a pale, set face, pushed the statue back into its place. -Even then a premonition of horror swept over him. What was he, the son, -to find behind that secret door, at sight of which his mother had died -with that look of anguished terror in her eyes? All through the sad -duties of the next four days Felipe was conscious of the undercurrent -of this premonition. The funeral ceremonies were impressive. The little -chapel could not hold the quarter part of those who came, from far and -near. Everybody wished to do honor to the Senora Moreno. A priest from -Ventura and one from San Luis Obispo were there. When all was done, they -bore the Senora to the little graveyard on the hillside, and laid her by -the side of her husband and her children; silent and still at last, -the restless, passionate, proud, sad heart! When, the night after the -funeral, the servants saw Senor Felipe going into his mother's room, -they shuddered, and whispered, “Oh, he must not! He will break his -heart, Senor Felipe! How he loved her!” - -Old Marda ventured to follow him, and at the threshold said: “Dear Senor -Felipe, do not! It is not good to go there! Come away!” - -But he put her gently by, saying, “I would rather be here, good Marda;” - and went in and locked the door. - -It was past midnight when he came out. His face was stern. He had buried -his mother again. Well might the Senora have dreaded to tell to Felipe -the tale of the Ortegna treasure. Until he reached the bottom of the -jewel-box, and found the Senora Ortegna's letter to his mother, he was -in entire bewilderment at all he saw. After he had read this letter, he -sat motionless for a long time, his head buried in his hands. His soul -was wrung. - -“And she thought that shame, and not this!” he said bitterly. - -But one thing remained for Felipe now, If Ramona lived, he would find -her, and restore to her this her rightful property. If she were dead, it -must go to the Santa Barbara College. - -“Surely my mother must have intended to give it to the Church,” he said. -“But why keep it all this time? It is this that has killed her. Oh, -shame! oh, disgrace!” From the grave in which Felipe had buried his -mother now, was no resurrection. - -Replacing everything as before in the safe hiding-place, he sat down and -wrote a letter to the Superior of the Santa Barbara College, telling -him of the existence of these valuables, which in certain contingencies -would belong to the College. Early in the morning he gave this letter to -Juan Canito, saying: “I am going away, Juan, on a journey. If anything -happens to me, and I do not return, send this letter by trusty messenger -to Santa Barbara.” - -“Will you be long away, Senor Felipe?” asked the old man, piteously. - -“I cannot tell, Juan,” replied Felipe. “It may be only a short time; it -may be long. I leave everything in your care. You will do all according -to your best judgment, I know. I will say to all that I have left you in -charge.” - -“Thanks, Senor Felipe! Thanks!” exclaimed Juan, happier than he had been -for two years. “Indeed, you may trust me! From the time you were a boy -till now, I have had no thought except for your house.” - -Even in heaven the Senora Moreno had felt woe as if in hell, had she -known the thoughts with which her Felipe galloped this morning out of -the gateway through which, only the day before, he had walked weeping -behind her body borne to burial. - -“And she thought this no shame to the house of Moreno!” he said. “My -God!” - - - - -XXII - -DURING the first day of Ramona's and Alessandro's sad journey they -scarcely spoke. Alessandro walked at the horses' heads, his face sunk on -his breast, his eyes fixed on the ground. Ramona watched him in anxious -fear. Even the baby's voice and cooing laugh won from him no response. -After they were camped for the night, she said, “Dear Alessandro, will -you not tell me where we are going?” - -In spite of her gentleness, there was a shade of wounded feeling in her -tone. Alessandro flung himself on his knees before her, and cried: “My -Majella! my Majella! it seems to me I am going mad! I cannot tell what -to do. I do not know what I think; all my thoughts seem whirling round -as leaves do in brooks in the time of the spring rains. Do you think I -can be going mad? It was enough to make me!” - -Ramona, her own heart wrung with fear, soothed him as best she could. -“Dear Alessandro,” she said, “let us go to Los Angeles, and not live -with the Indians any more. You could get work there. You could play at -dances sometimes; there must be plenty of work. I could get more sewing -to do, too. It would be better, I think.” - -He looked horror-stricken at the thought. “Go live among the white -people!” he cried. “What does Majella think would become of one Indian, -or two, alone among whites? If they will come to our villages and drive -us out a hundred at a time, what would they do to one man alone? Oh, -Majella is foolish!” - -“But there are many of your people at work for whites at San Bernardino -and other places,” she persisted. “Why could not we do as they do?” - -“Yes,” he said bitterly, “at work for whites; so they are, Majella has -not seen. No man will pay an Indian but half wages; even long ago, when -the Fathers were not all gone, and tried to help the Indians, my father -has told me that it was the way only to pay an Indian one-half that a -white man or a Mexican had. It was the Mexicans, too, did that, Majella. -And now they pay the Indians in money sometimes, half wages; sometimes -in bad flour, or things he does not want; sometimes in whiskey; and if -he will not take it, and asks for his money, they laugh, and tell him to -go, then. One man in San Bernardino last year, when an Indian would not -take a bottle of sour wine for pay for a day's work, shot him in the -cheek with his pistol, and told him to mind how he was insolent any -more! Oh, Majella, do not ask me to go work in the towns! I should kill -some man, Majella, if I saw things like that.” - -Ramona shuddered, and was silent. Alessandro continued: “If Majella -would not be afraid, I know a place, high up on the mountain, where -no white man has ever been, or ever will be. I found it when I was -following a bear. The beast led me up. It was his home; and I said then, -it was a fit hiding-place for a man. There is water, and a little green -valley. We could live there; but it would be no more than to live,, it -is very small, the valley. Majella would be afraid?” - -“Yes, Alessandro, I would be afraid, all alone on a high mountain. Oh, -do not let us go there! Try something else first, Alessandro. Is there -no other Indian village you know?” - -“There is Saboba,” he said, “at foot of the San Jacinto Mountain; I had -thought of that. Some of my people went there from Temecula; but it is -a poor little village, Majella. Majella would not like to live in it. -Neither do I believe it will long be any safer than San Pasquale. There -was a kind, good old man who owned all that valley,--Senor Ravallo; he -found the village of Saboba there when he came to the country. It is one -of the very oldest of all; he was good to all Indians, and he said they -should never be disturbed, never. He is dead; but his three sons have -the estate yet, and I think they would keep their father's promise to -the Indians. But you see, to-morrow, Majella, they may die, or go back -to Mexico, as Senor Valdez did, and then the Americans will get it, as -they did Temecula. And there are already white men living in the valley. -We will go that way, Majella. Majella shall see. If she says stay, we -will stay.” - -It was in the early afternoon that they entered the broad valley of San -Jacinto. They entered it from the west. As they came in, though the sky -over their heads was overcast and gray, the eastern and northeastern -part of the valley was flooded with a strange light, at once ruddy and -golden. It was a glorious sight. The jagged top and spurs of San Jacinto -Mountain shone like the turrets and posterns of a citadel built of -rubies. The glow seemed preternatural. - -“Behold San Jacinto!” cried Alessandro. - -Ramona exclaimed in delight. “It is an omen!” she said. “We are going -into the sunlight, out of the shadow;” and she glanced back at the west, -which was of a slaty blackness. - -“I like it not!” said Alessandro. “The shadow follows too fast!” - -Indeed it did. Even as he spoke, a fierce wind blew from the north, and -tearing off fleeces from the black cloud, sent them in scurrying masses -across the sky. In a moment more, snow-flakes began to fall. - -“Holy Virgin!” cried Alessandro. Too well he knew what it meant. He -urged the horses, running fast beside them. It was of no use. Too much -even for Baba and Benito to make any haste, with the heavily loaded -wagon. - -“There is an old sheep-corral and a hut not over a mile farther, if we -could but reach it!” groaned Alessandro. “Majella, you and the child -will freeze.” - -“She is warm on my breast,” said Ramona; “but, Alessandro, what ice in -this wind! It is like a knife at my back!” - -Alessandro uttered another ejaculation of dismay. The snow was fast -thickening; already the track was covered. The wind lessened. - -“Thank God, that wind no longer cuts as it did,” said Ramona, her teeth -chattering, clasping the baby closer and closer. - -“I would rather it blew than not,” said Alessandro; “it will carry the -snow before it. A little more of this, and we cannot see, any more than -in the night.” - -Still thicker and faster fell the snow; the air was dense; it was, as -Alessandro had said, worse than the darkness of night,--this strange -opaque whiteness, thick, choking, freezing one's breath. Presently -the rough jolting of the wagon showed that they were off the road. The -horses stopped; refused to go on. - -“We are lost, if we stay here!” cried Alessandro. “Come, my Benito, -come!” and he took him by the head, and pulled him by main force back -into the road, and led him along. It was terrible. Ramona's heart sank -within her. She felt her arms growing numb; how much longer could she -hold the baby safe? She called to Alessandro. He did not hear her; the -wind had risen again; the snow was being blown in masses; it was like -making headway among whirling snow-drifts. - -“We will die,” thought Ramona. “Perhaps it is as well!” And that was the -last she knew, till she heard a shouting, and found herself being shaken -and beaten, and heard a strange voice saying, “Sorry ter handle yer so -rough, ma'am, but we've got ter git yer out ter the fire!” - -“Fire!” Were there such things as fire and warmth? Mechanically she put -the baby into the unknown arms that were reaching up to her, and tried -to rise from her seat; but she could not move. - -“Set still! set still!” said the strange voice. “I'll jest carry the -baby ter my wife, an' come back fur you. I allowed yer couldn't git up -on yer feet;” and the tall form disappeared. The baby, thus vigorously -disturbed from her warm sleep, began to cry. - -“Thank God!” said Alessandro, at the plunging horses' heads. “The child -is alive! Majella!” he called. - -“Yes, Alessandro,” she answered faintly, the gusts sweeping her voice -like a distant echo past him. - -It was a marvellous rescue. They had been nearer the old sheep-corral -than Alessandro had thought; but except that other storm-beaten -travellers had reached it before them, Alessandro had never found it. -Just as he felt his strength failing him, and had thought to himself, -in almost the same despairing words as Ramona, “This will end all our -troubles,” he saw a faint light to the left. Instantly he had turned the -horses' heads towards it. The ground was rough and broken, and more than -once he had been in danger of overturning the wagon; but he had pressed -on, shouting at intervals for help. At last his call was answered, and -another light appeared; this time a swinging one, coming slowly towards -him,--a lantern, in the hand of a man, whose first words, “Wall, -stranger, I allow yer inter trouble,” were as intelligible to Alessandro -as if they had been spoken in the purest San Luiseno dialect. - -Not so, to the stranger, Alessandro's grateful reply in Spanish. - -“Another o' these no-'count Mexicans, by thunder!” thought Jeff Hyer to -himself. “Blamed ef I'd lived in a country all my life, ef I wouldn't -know better'n to git caught out in such weather's this!” And as he put -the crying babe into his wife's arms, he said half impatiently, “Ef I'd -knowed 't wuz Mexicans, Ri, I wouldn't ev' gone out ter 'um. They're -more ter hum 'n I am, 'n these yer tropicks.” - -“Naow, Jeff, yer know yer wouldn't let ennythin' in shape ev a human -creetur go perishin' past aour fire sech weather's this,” replied the -woman, as she took the baby, which recognized the motherly hand at its -first touch, and ceased crying. - -“Why, yer pooty, blue-eyed little thing!” she exclaimed, as she looked -into the baby's face. “I declar, Jos, think o' sech a mite's this bein' -aout'n this weather. I'll jest warm up some milk for it this minnit.” - -“Better see't th' mother fust, Ri,” said Jeff, leading, half carrying, -Ramona into the hut. “She's nigh abaout froze stiff!” - -But the sight of her baby safe and smiling was a better restorative for -Ramona than anything else, and in a few moments she had fully recovered. -It was in a strange group she found herself. On a mattress, in the -corner of the hut, lay a young man apparently about twenty-five, whose -bright eyes and flushed cheeks told but too plainly the story of his -disease. The woman, tall, ungainly, her face gaunt, her hands hardened -and wrinkled, gown ragged, shoes ragged, her dry and broken light hair -wound in a careless, straggling knot in her neck, wisps of it flying -over her forehead, was certainly not a prepossessing figure. Yet spite -of her careless, unkempt condition, there was a certain gentle dignity -in her bearing, and a kindliness in her glance, which won trust and -warmed hearts at once. Her pale blue eyes were still keen-sighted; and -as she fixed them on Ramona, she thought to herself, “This ain't no -common Mexican, no how.” “Be ye movers?” she said. - -Ramona stared. In the little English she knew, that word was not -included. “Ah, Senora,” she said regretfully, “I cannot talk in the -English speech; only in Spanish.” - -“Spanish, eh? Yer mean Mexican? Jos, hyar, he kin talk thet. He can't -talk much, though; 'tain't good fur him; his lungs is out er kilter. -Thet's what we're bringin' him hyar fur,--fur warm climate! 'pears -like it, don't it?” and she chuckled grimly, but with a side glance of -ineffable tenderness at the sick man. “Ask her who they be, Jos,” she -added. - -Jos lifted himself on his elbow, and fixing his shining eyes on Ramona, -said in Spanish, “My mother asks if you are travellers?” - -“Yes,” said Ramona. “We have come all the way from San Diego. We are -Indians.” - -“Injuns!” ejaculated Jos's mother. “Lord save us, Jos! Hev we reelly -took in Injuns? What on airth--Well, well, she's fond uv her baby's enny -white woman! I kin see thet; an', Injun or no Injun, they've got to stay -naow. Yer couldn't turn a dog out 'n sech weather's this. I bet thet -baby's father wuz white, then. Look at them blue eyes.” - -Ramona listened and looked intently, but could understand nothing. -Almost she doubted if the woman were really speaking English. She had -never before heard so many English sentences without being able to -understand one word. The Tennessee drawl so altered even the commonest -words, that she did not recognize them. Turning to Jos, she said gently, -“I know very little English. I am so sorry I cannot understand. Will it -tire you to interpret to me what your mother said?” - -Jos was as full of humor as his mother. “She wants me to tell her what -you wuz sayin',” he said, “I allow, I'll only tell her the part on't -she'll like best.--My mother says you can stay here with us till the -storm is over,” he said to Ramona. - -Swifter than lightning, Ramona had seized the woman's hand and carried -it to her heart, with an expressive gesture of gratitude and emotion. -“Thanks! thanks! Senora!” she cried. - -“What is it she calls me, Jos?” asked his mother. - -“Senora,” he replied. “It only means the same as lady.” - -“Shaw, Jos! You tell her I ain't any lady. Tell her everybody round -where we live calls me 'Aunt Ri,' or 'Mis Hyer;' she kin call me -whichever she's a mind to. She's reel sweet-spoken.” - -With some difficulty Jos explained his mother's disclaimer of the title -of Senora, and the choice of names she offered to Ramona. - -Ramona, with smiles which won both mother and son, repeated after him -both names, getting neither exactly right at first trial, and finally -said, “I like 'Aunt Ri' best; she is so kind, like aunt, to every one.” - -“Naow, ain't thet queer, Jos,” said Aunt Ri, “aout here 'n thes -wilderness to ketch sumbody sayin' thet,--jest what they all say ter -hum? I donno's I'm enny kinder'n ennybody else. I don't want ter see -ennybody put upon, nor noways sufferin', ef so be's I kin help; but thet -ain't ennythin' stronary, ez I know. I donno how ennybody could feel -enny different.” - -“There's lots doos, mammy,” replied Jos, affectionately. “Yer'd find out -fast enuf, ef yer went raound more. There's mighty few's good's you air -ter everybody.” - -Ramona was crouching in the corner by the fire, her baby held close to -her breast. The place which at first had seemed a haven of warmth, she -now saw was indeed but a poor shelter against the fearful storm which -raged outside. It was only a hut of rough boards, carelessly knocked -together for a shepherd's temporary home. It had been long unused, and -many of the boards were loose and broken. Through these crevices, at -every blast of the wind, the fine snow swirled. On the hearth were -burning a few sticks of wood, dead cottonwood branches, which Jef Hyer -had hastily collected before the storm reached its height. A few more -sticks lay by the hearth. Aunt Ri glanced at them anxiously. A poor -provision for a night in the snow. “Be ye warm, Jos?” she asked. - -“Not very, mammy,” he said; “but I ain't cold, nuther; an' thet's -somethin'.” - -It was the way in the Hyer family to make the best of things; they had -always possessed this virtue to such an extent, that they suffered -from it as from a vice. There was hardly to be found in all Southern -Tennessee a more contented, shiftless, ill-bestead family than theirs. -But there was no grumbling. Whatever went wrong, whatever was lacking, -it was “jest like aour luck,” they said, and did nothing, or next to -nothing, about it. Good-natured, affectionate, humorous people; after -all, they got more comfort out of life than many a family whose surface -conditions were incomparably better than theirs. When Jos, their oldest -child and only son, broke down, had hemorrhage after hemorrhage, and -the doctor said the only thing that could save him was to go across the -plains in a wagon to California, they said, “What good luck 'Lizy was -married last year! Now there ain't nuthin' ter hinder sellin' the farm -'n goin' right off.” And they sold their little place for half it was -worth, traded cattle for a pair of horses and a covered wagon, and set -off, half beggared, with their sick boy on a bed in the bottom of the -wagon, as cheery as if they were rich people on a pleasure-trip. A pair -of steers “to spell” the horses, and a cow to give milk for Jos, they -drove before them; and so they had come by slow stages, sometimes -camping for a week at a time, all the way from Tennessee to the San -Jacinto Valley. They were rewarded. Jos was getting well. Another six -months, they thought, would see him cured; and it would have gone hard -with any one who had tried to persuade either Jefferson or Maria Hyer -that they were not as lucky a couple as could be found. Had they not -saved Joshua, their son? - -Nicknames among this class of poor whites in the South seem singularly -like those in vogue in New England. From totally opposite motives, the -lazy, easy-going Tennesseean and the hurry-driven Vermonter cut down all -their family names to the shortest. To speak three syllables where one -will answer, seems to the Vermonter a waste of time; to the Tennesseean, -quite too much trouble. Mrs. Hyer could hardly recollect ever having -heard her name, “Maria,” in full; as a child, and until she was married, -she was simply “Ri;” and as soon as she had a house of her own, to -become a centre of hospitality and help, she was adopted by common -consent of the neighborhood, in a sort of titular and universal -aunt-hood, which really was a much greater tribute and honor than she -dreamed. Not a man, woman, or child, within her reach, that did not call -her or know of her as “Aunt Ri.” - -“I donno whether I'd best make enny more fire naow or not,” she said -reflectively; “ef this storm's goin' to last till mornin', we'll come -short o' wood, thet's clear.” As she spoke, the door of the hut burst -open, and her husband staggered in, followed by Alessandro, both covered -with snow, their arms full of wood. Alessandro, luckily, knew of a -little clump of young cottonwood-trees in a ravine, only a few rods from -the house; and the first thing he had thought of, after tethering the -horses in shelter between the hut and the wagons, was to get wood. Jeff, -seeing him take a hatchet from the wagon, had understood, got his own, -and followed; and now there lay on the ground enough to keep them warm -for hours. As soon as Alessandro had thrown down his load, he darted to -Ramona, and kneeling down, looked anxiously into the baby's face, then -into hers; then he said devoutly, “The saints be praised, my Majella! It -is a miracle!” - -Jos listened in dismay to this ejaculation. “Ef they ain't Catholics!” - he thought. “What kind o' Injuns be they I wonder. I won't tell mammy -they're Catholics; she'd feel wuss'n ever. I don't care what they be. -Thet gal's got the sweetest eyes'n her head ever I saw sence I wuz -born.” - -By help of Jos's interpreting, the two families soon became well -acquainted with each other's condition and plans; and a feeling of -friendliness, surprising under the circumstances, grew up between them. - -“Jeff,” said Aunt Ri,--“Jeff, they can't understand a word we say, -so't's no harm done, I s'pose, to speak afore 'em, though't don't seem -hardly fair to take advantage o' their not knowin' any language but -their own; but I jest tell you thet I've got a lesson'n the subjeck uv -Injuns. I've always hed a reel mean feelin' about 'em; I didn't want ter -come nigh 'em, nor ter hev 'em come nigh me. This woman, here, she's ez -sweet a creetur's ever I see; 'n' ez bound up 'n thet baby's yer could -ask enny woman to be; 'n' 's fur thet man, can't yer see, Jeff, he jest -worships the ground she walks on? Thet's a fact, Jeff. I donno's ever I -see a white man think so much uv a woman; come, naow, Jeff, d' yer think -yer ever did yerself?” - -Aunt Ri was excited. The experience was, to her, almost incredible. Her -ideas of Indians had been drawn from newspapers, and from a book or two -of narratives of massacres, and from an occasional sight of vagabond -bands or families they had encountered in their journey across the -plains. Here she found herself sitting side by side in friendly -intercourse with an Indian man and Indian woman, whose appearance and -behavior were attractive; towards whom she felt herself singularly -drawn. - -“I'm free to confess, Jos,” she said, “I wouldn't ha' bleeved it. I -hain't seen nobody, black, white, or gray, sence we left hum, I've took -to like these yere folks. An' they're real dark; 's dark's any nigger in -Tennessee; 'n' he's pewer Injun; her father wuz white, she sez, but she -don't call herself nothin' but an Injun, the same's he is. D' yer -notice the way she looks at him, Jos? Don't she jest set a store by thet -feller? 'N' I don't blame her.” - -Indeed, Jos had noticed. No man was likely to see Ramona with Alessandro -without perceiving the rare quality of her devotion to him. And now -there was added to this devotion an element of indefinable anxiety which -made its vigilance unceasing. Ramona feared for Alessandro's reason. -She had hardly put it into words to herself, but the terrible fear dwelt -with her. She felt that another blow would be more than he could bear. - -The storm lasted only a few hours. When it cleared, the valley was a -solid expanse of white, and the stars shone out as if in an Arctic sky. - -“It will be all gone by noon to-morrow,” said Alessandro to Jos, who was -dreading the next day. - -“Not really!” he said. - -“You will see,” said Alessandro. “I have often known it thus. It is like -death while it lasts; but it is never long.” - -The Hyers were on their way to some hot springs on the north side of the -valley. Here they proposed to camp for three months, to try the waters -for Jos. They had a tent, and all that was necessary for living in their -primitive fashion. Aunt Ri was looking forward to the rest with great -anticipation; she was heartily tired of being on the move. Her husband's -anticipations were of a more stirring nature. He had heard that there -was good hunting on San Jacinto Mountain. When he found that Alessandro -knew the region thoroughly, and had been thinking of settling there, he -was rejoiced, and proposed to him to become his companion and guide -in hunting expeditions. Ramona grasped eagerly at the suggestion; -companionship, she was sure, would do Alessandro good,--companionship, -the outdoor life, and the excitement of hunting, of which he was fond. -This hot-spring canon was only a short distance from the Saboba village, -of which they had spoken as a possible home; which she had from the -first desired to try. She no longer had repugnance to the thought of an -Indian village; she already felt a sense of kinship and shelter with any -Indian people. She had become, as Carmena had said, “one of them.” - -A few days saw the two families settled,--the Hyers in their tent and -wagon, at the hot springs, and Alessandro and Ramona, with the baby, in -a little adobe house in the Saboba village. The house belonged to an -old Indian woman who, her husband having died, had gone to live with -a daughter, and was very glad to get a few dollars by renting her own -house. It was a wretched place; one small room, walled with poorly made -adobe bricks, thatched with tule, no floor, and only one window. When -Alessandro heard Ramona say cheerily, “Oh, this will do very well, when -it is repaired a little,” his face was convulsed, and he turned away; -but he said nothing. It was the only house to be had in the village, -and there were few better. Two months later, no one would have known it. -Alessandro had had good luck in hunting. Two fine deerskins covered the -earth floor; a third was spread over the bedstead; and the horns, hung -on the walls, served for hooks to hang clothes upon. The scarlet calico -canopy was again set up over the bed, and the woven cradle, on its red -manzanita frame, stood near. A small window in the door, and one more -cut in the walls, let in light and air. On a shelf near one of these -windows stood the little Madonna, again wreathed with vines as in San -Pasquale. - -When Aunt Ri first saw the room, after it was thus arranged, she put -both arms akimbo, and stood in the doorway, her mouth wide open, her -eyes full of wonder. Finally her wonder framed itself in an ejaculation: -“Wall, I allow yer air fixed up!” - -Aunt Ri, at her best estate, had never possessed a room which had -the expression of this poor little mud hut of Ramona's. She could not -understand it. The more she studied the place, the less she understood -it. On returning to the tent, she said to Jos: “It beats all ever I -see, the way thet Injun woman's got fixed up out er nothin'. It ain't no -more'n a hovel, a mud hovel, Jos, not much bigger'n this yer tent, fur -all three on 'em, an' the bed an' the stove an' everythin'; an' I vow, -Jos, she's fixed it so't looks jest like a parlor! It beats me, it does. -I'd jest like you to see it.” - -And when Jos saw it, and Jeff, they were as full of wonder as Aunt Ri -had been. Dimly they recognized the existence of a principle here which -had never entered into their life. They did not know it by name, and -it could not have been either taught, transferred, or explained to the -good-hearted wife and mother who had been so many years the affectionate -disorderly genius of their home. But they felt its charm; and when, -one day, after the return of Alessandro and Jeff from a particularly -successful hunt, the two families had sat down together to a supper -of Ramona's cooking,--stewed venison and artichokes, and frijoles with -chili,--their wonder was still greater. - -“Ask her if this is Injun style of cooking, Jos,” said Aunt Ri. “I never -thought nothin' o' beans; but these air good, 'n' no mistake!” - -Ramona laughed. “No; it is Mexican,” she said. “I learned to cook from -an old Mexican woman.” - -“Wall, I'd like the receipt on't; but I allow I shouldn't never git the -time to fuss with it,” said Aunt Ri; “but I may's well git the rule, -naow I'm here.” - -Alessandro began to lose some of his gloom. He had earned money. He -had been lifted out of himself by kindly companionship; he saw Ramona -cheerful, the little one sunny; the sense of home, the strongest passion -Alessandro possessed, next to his love for Ramona, began again to awake -in him. He began to talk about building a house. He had found things in -the village better than he feared. It was but a poverty-stricken little -handful, to be sure; still, they were unmolested; the valley was large; -their stock ran free; the few white settlers, one at the upper end and -two or three on the south side, had manifested no disposition to crowd -the Indians; the Ravallo brothers were living on the estate still, -and there was protection in that, Alessandro thought. And Majella was -content. Majella had found friends. Something, not quite hope, but akin -to it, began to stir in Alessandro's heart. He would build a house; -Majella should no longer live in this mud hut. But to his surprise, when -he spoke of it, Ramona said no; they had all they needed, now. Was not -Alessandro comfortable? She was. It would be wise to wait longer before -building. - -Ramona knew many things that Alessandro did not. While he had been away -on his hunts, she had had speech with many a one he never saw. She had -gone to the store and post-office several times, to exchange baskets or -lace for flour, and she had heard talk there which disquieted her. She -did not believe that Saboba was safe. One day she had heard a man say, -“If there is a drought we shall have the devil to pay with our stock -before winter is over.” “Yes,” said another; “and look at those damned -Indians over there in Saboba, with water running all the time in their -village! It's a shame they should have that spring!” - -Not for worlds would Ramona have told this to Alessandro. She kept it -locked in her own breast, but it rankled there like a ceaseless warning -and prophecy. When she reached home that day she went down to the spring -in the centre of the village, and stood a long time looking at the -bubbling water. It was indeed a priceless treasure; a long irrigating -ditch led from it down into the bottom, where lay the cultivated -fields,--many acres in wheat, barley, and vegetables. Alessandro himself -had fields there from which they would harvest all they needed for the -horses and their cow all winter, in case pasturage failed. If the whites -took away this water, Saboba would be ruined. However, as the spring -began in the very heart of the village, they could not take it without -destroying the village. “And the Ravallos would surely never let that be -done,” thought Ramona. “While they live, it will not happen.” - -It was a sad day for Ramona and Alessandro when the kindly Hyers pulled -up their tent-stakes and left the valley. Their intended three months -had stretched into six, they had so enjoyed the climate, and the waters -had seemed to do such good to Jos. But, “We ain't rich folks, yer know, -not by a long ways, we ain't,” said Aunt Ri; “an' we've got pretty nigh -down to where Jeff an' me's got to begin airnin' suthin'. Ef we kin git -settled 'n some o' these towns where there's carpenterin' to be done. -Jeff, he's a master hand to thet kind o' work, though yer mightn't -think it; 'n I kin airn right smart at weavin'; jest give me a good -carpet-loom, 'n I won't be beholden to nobody for vittles. I jest du -love weavin'. I donno how I've contented myself this hull year, or nigh -about a year, without a loom. Jeff, he sez to me once, sez he, 'Ri, do -yer think yer'd be contented in heaven without yer loom?' an' I was free -to say I didn't know's I should.” - -“Is it hard?” cried Ramona. “Could I learn to do it?” It was wonderful -what progress in understanding and speaking English Ramona had made in -these six months. She now understood nearly all that was said directly -to her, though she could not follow general and confused conversation. - -“Wall, 'tis, an' 'tain't,” said Aunt Ri. “I don't s'pose I'm much of a -jedge; fur I can't remember when I fust learned it. I know I set in -the loom to weave when my feet couldn't reach the floor; an' I don't -remember nothin' about fust learnin' to spool 'n' warp. I've tried to -teach lots of folks; an' sum learns quick, an' some don't never learn; -it's jest 's 't strikes 'em. I should think, naow, thet you wuz one o' -the kind could turn yer hands to anythin'. When we get settled in San -Bernardino, if yer'll come down thar, I'll teach yer all I know, 'n' be -glad ter. I donno's 't 's goin' to be much uv a place for carpet-weavin' -though, anywheres raound 'n this yer country; not but what thar's plenty -o' rags, but folks seems to be wearin' 'em; pooty gen'ral wear, I sh'd -say. I've seen more cloes on folks' backs hyar, thet wan't no more'n fit -for carpet-rags, than any place ever I struck. They're drefful sheftless -lot, these yere Mexicans; 'n' the Injuns is wuss. Naow when I say -Injuns, I don't never mean yeow, yer know thet. Yer ain't ever seemed to -me one mite like an Injun.” - -“Most of our people haven't had any chance,” said Ramona. “You wouldn't -believe if I were to tell you what things have been done to them; how -they are robbed, and cheated, and turned out of their homes.” - -Then she told the story of Temecula, and of San Pasquale, in Spanish, to -Jos, who translated it with no loss in the telling. Aunt Ri was aghast; -she found no words to express her indignation. - -“I don't bleeve the Guvvermunt knows anything about it.” she said. “Why, -they take folks up, n'n penetentiarize 'em fur life, back 'n Tennessee, -fur things thet ain't so bad's thet! Somebody ought ter be sent ter tell -'em 't Washington what's goin' on hyar.” - -“I think it's the people in Washington that have done it,” said Ramona, -sadly. “Is it not in Washington all the laws are made?” - -“I bleeve so!” said Aunt Ri, “Ain't it, Jos? It's Congress ain't 't, -makes the laws?” - -“I bleeve so.” said Jos. “They make some, at any rate. I donno's they -make 'em all.” - -“It is all done by the American law,” said Ramona, “all these things; -nobody can help himself; for if anybody goes against the law he has to -be killed or put in prison; that was what the sheriff told Alessandro, -at Temecula. He felt very sorry for the Temecula people, the sheriff -did; but he had to obey the law himself. Alessandro says there isn't any -help.” - -Aunt Ri shook her head. She was not convinced. “I sh'll make a business -o' findin' out abaout this thing yit,” she said. “I think yer hain't got -the rights on't yit. There's cheatin' somewhere!” - -“It's all cheating.” said Ramona; “but there isn't any help for it, Aunt -Ri. The Americans think it is no shame to cheat for money.” - -“I'm an Ummeriken!” cried Aunt Ri; “an' Jeff Hyer, and Jos! We're -Ummerikens! 'n' we wouldn't cheat nobody, not ef we knowed it, not -out er a doller. We're pore, an' I allus expect to be, but we're above -cheatin'; an' I tell you, naow, the Ummeriken people don't want any o' -this cheatin' done, naow! I'm going to ask Jeff haow 'tis. Why, it's a -burnin' shame to any country! So 'tis! I think something oughter be done -abaout it! I wouldn't mind goin' myself, ef thar wan't anybody else!” - -A seed had been sown in Aunt Ri's mind which was not destined to die for -want of soil. She was hot with shame and anger, and full of impulse to -do something. “I ain't nobody,” she said; “I know thet well enough,--I -ain't nobody nor nothin'; but I allow I've got suthin' to say abaout the -country I live in, 'n' the way things hed oughter be; or 't least Jeff -hez; 'n' thet's the same thing. I tell yer, Jos, I ain't goin' to rest, -nor ter give yeou 'n' yer father no rest nuther, till yeou find aout -what all this yere means she's been tellin' us.” - -But sharper and closer anxieties than any connected with rights to lands -and homes were pressing upon Alessandro and Ramona. All summer the baby -had been slowly drooping; so slowly that it was each day possible for -Ramona to deceive herself, thinking that there had been since yesterday -no loss, perhaps a little gain; but looking back from the autumn to the -spring, and now from the winter to the autumn, there was no doubt that -she had been steadily going down. From the day of that terrible chill -in the snow-storm, she had never been quite well, Ramona thought. Before -that, she was strong, always strong, always beautiful and merry, Now her -pinched little face was sad to see, and sometimes for hours she made a -feeble wailing cry without any apparent cause. All the simple remedies -that Aunt Ri had known, had failed to touch her disease; in fact, -Aunt Ri from the first had been baffled in her own mind by the child's -symptoms. Day after day Alessandro knelt by the cradle, his hands -clasped, his face set. Hour after hour, night and day, indoors and out, -he bore her in his arms, trying to give her relief. Prayer after prayer -to the Virgin, to the saints, Ramona had said; and candles by the dozen, -though money was now scant, she had burned before the Madonna; all in -vain. At last she implored Alessandro to go to San Bernardino and see a -doctor. “Find Aunt Ri,” she said; “she will go with you, with Jos, and -talk to him; she can make him understand. Tell Aunt Ri she seems just as -she did when they were here, only weaker and thinner.” - -Alessandro found Aunt Ri in a sort of shanty on the outskirts of San -Bernardino. “Not to rights yit,” she said,--as if she ever would be. -Jeff had found work; and Jos, too, had been able to do a little on -pleasant days. He had made a loom and put up a loom-house for his -mother,--a floor just large enough to hold the loom, rough walls, and -a roof; one small square window,--that was all; but if Aunt Ri had -been presented with a palace, she would not have been so well pleased. -Already she had woven a rag carpet for herself, was at work on one for -a neighbor, and had promised as many more as she could do before spring; -the news of the arrival of a rag-carpet weaver having gone with despatch -all through the lower walks of San Bernardino life. “I wouldn't hev -bleeved they hed so many rags besides what they're wearin',” said Aunt -Ri, as sack after sack appeared at her door. Already, too, Aunt Ri -had gathered up the threads of the village life; in her friendly, -impressionable way she had come into relation with scores of people, and -knew who was who, and what was what, and why, among them all, far better -than many an old resident of the town. - -When she saw Benito galloping up to her door, she sprang down from -her high stool at the loom, and ran bareheaded to the gate, and before -Alessandro had dismounted, cried: “Ye're jest the man I wanted; I've -been tryin' to 'range it so's we could go down 'n' see yer, but Jeff -couldn't leave the job he's got; an' I'm druv nigh abaout off my feet, -'n' I donno when we'd hev fetched it. How's all? Why didn't yer come in -ther wagon 'n' fetch 'em 'long? I've got heaps ter tell yer. I allowed -yer hadn't got the rights o' all them things. The Guvvermunt ain't on -the side o' the thieves, as yer said. I knowed they couldn't be,' an' -they've jest sent out a man a purpose to look after things fur yer,--to -take keer o' the Injuns 'n' nothin' else. That's what he's here fur. He -come last month; he's a reel nice man. I seen him 'n' talked with him a -spell, last week; I'm gwine to make his wife a rag carpet. 'N' there's -a doctor, too, to 'tend ter yer when ye're sick, 'n' the Guvvermunt pays -him; yer don't hev to pay nothin'; 'n' I tell yeow, thet's a heap o' -savin', to git yer docterin' fur nuthin'!” - -Aunt Ri was out of breath. Alessandro had not understood half she said. -He looked about helplessly for Jos. Jos was away. In his broken English -he tried to explain what Ramona had wished her to do. - -“Doctor! Thet's jest what I'm tellin' yer! There is one here's paid by -the Guvvermunt to 'tend to the Injuns thet's sick. I'll go 'n' show yer -ter his house. I kin tell him jest how the baby is. P'r'aps he'll drive -down 'n' see her!” - -Ah! if he would! What would Majella say, should she see him enter the -door bringing a doctor! - -Luckily Jos returned in time to go with them to the doctor's house as -interpreter. Alessandro was bewildered. He could not understand this new -phase of affairs, Could it be true? As they walked along, he listened -with trembling, half-incredulous hope to Jos's interpretation of Aunt -Ri's voluble narrative. - -The doctor was in his office. To Aunt Ri's statement of Alessandro's -errand he listened indifferently, and then said, “Is he an Agency -Indian?” - -“A what?” exclaimed Aunt Ri. - -“Does he belong to the Agency? Is his name on the Agency books?” - -“No,” said she; “he never heern uv any Agency till I wuz tellin' him, -jest naow. We knoo him, him 'n' her, over 'n San Jacinto. He lives in -Saboba. He's never been to San Bernardino sence the Agent come aout.” - -“Well, is he going to put his name down on the books?” said the doctor, -impatiently. “You ought to have taken him to the Agent first.” - -“Ain't you the Guvvermunt doctor for all Injuns?” asked Aunt Ri, -wrathfully. “Thet's what I heerd.” - -“Well, my good woman, you hear a great deal, I expect, that isn't true;” - and the doctor laughed coarsely but not ill-naturedly, Alessandro all -the time studying his face with the scrutiny of one awaiting life and -death; “I am the Agency physician, and I suppose all the Indians will -sooner or later come in and report themselves to the Agent; you'd better -take this man over there. What does he want now?” - -Aunt Ri began to explain the baby's case. Cutting her short, the doctor -said, “Yes, yes, I understand. I'll give him something that will -help her;” and going into an inner room, he brought out a bottle of -dark-colored liquid, wrote a few lines of prescription, and handed it to -Alessandro, saying, “That will do her good, I guess.” - -“Thanks, Senor, thanks,” said Alessandro. - -The doctor stared. “That's the first Indian's said 'Thank you' in this -office,” he said. “You tell the Agent you've brought him a rara avis.” - -“What's that, Jos?” said Aunt Ri, as they went out. - -“Donno!” said Jos. “I don't like thet man, anyhow, mammy. He's no good.” - -Alessandro looked at the bottle of medicine like one in a dream. Would -it make the baby well? Had it indeed been given to him by that great -Government in Washington? Was he to be protected now? Could this man, -who had been sent out to take care of Indians, get back his San Pasquale -farm for him? Alessandro's brain was in a whirl. - -From the doctor's office they went to the Agent's house. Here, Aunt Ri -felt herself more at home. - -“I've brought ye thet Injun I wuz tellin' ye uv,” she said, with a wave -of her hand toward Alessandro. “We've ben ter ther doctor's to git some -metcen fur his baby. She's reel sick, I'm afeerd.” - -The Agent sat down at his desk, opened a large ledger, saying as he did -so, “The man's never been here before, has he?” - -“No,” said Aunt Ri. - -“What is his name?” - -Jos gave it, and the Agent began to write it in the book. “Stop him.” - cried Alessandro, agitatedly to Jos. “Don't let him write, till I know -what he puts my name in his book for!” - -“Wait,” said Jos. “He doesn't want you to write his name in that book. -He wants to know what it's put there for.” - -Wheeling his chair with a look of suppressed impatience, yet trying -to speak kindly, the Agent said: “There's no making these Indians -understand anything. They seem to think if I have their names in my -book, it gives me some power over them.” - -“Wall, don't it?” said the direct-minded Aunt Ri. “Hain't yer got any -power over 'em? If yer hain't got it over them, who have yer got it -over? What yer goin' to do for 'em?” - -The Agent laughed in spite of himself. “Well, Aunt Ri,”--she was already -“Aunt Ri” to the Agent's boys,--“that's just the trouble with this -Agency. It is very different from what it would be if I had all my -Indians on a reservation.” - -Alessandro understood the words “my Indians.” He had heard them before. - -“What does he mean by his Indians, Jos?” he asked fiercely. “I will not -have my name in his book if it makes me his.” - -When Jos reluctantly interpreted this, the Agent lost his temper. -“That's all the use there is trying to do anything with them! Let him -go, then, if he doesn't want any help from the Government!” - -“Oh, no, no.” cried Aunt Ri. “Yeow jest explain it to Jos, an' he'll -make him understand.” - -Alessandro's face had darkened. All this seemed to him exceedingly -suspicious. Could it be possible that Aunt Ri and Jos, the first whites -except Mr. Hartsel he had ever trusted, were deceiving him? No; that was -impossible. But they themselves might be deceived. That they were simple -and ignorant, Alessandro well knew. “Let us go!” he said. “I do not wish -to sign any paper.” - -“Naow don't be a fool, will yeow? Yeow ain't signin' a thing!” said Aunt -Ri. “Jos, yeow tell him I say there ain't anythin' a bindin' him, hevin' -his name 'n' thet book, It's only so the Agent kin know what Injuns -wants help, 'n' where they air. Ain't thet so?” she added, turning to -the Agent. “Tell him he can't hev the Agency doctor, ef he ain't on the -Agency books.” - -Not have the doctor? Give up this precious medicine which might save his -baby's life? No! he could not do that. Majella would say, let the name -be written, rather than that. - -“Let him write the name, then,” said Alessandro, doggedly; but he went -out of the room feeling as if he had put a chain around his neck. - - - - -XXIII - -THE medicine did the baby no good. In fact, it did her harm. She was too -feeble for violent remedies. In a week, Alessandro appeared again at the -Agency doctor's door. This time he had come with a request which to -his mind seemed not unreasonable. He had brought Baba for the doctor to -ride. Could the doctor then refuse to go to Saboba? Baba would carry -him there in three hours, and it would be like a cradle all the way. -Alessandro's name was in the Agency books. It was for this he had -written it,--for this and nothing else,--to save the baby's life. Having -thus enrolled himself as one of the Agency Indians, he had a claim on -this the Agency doctor. And that his application might be all in due -form, he took with him the Agency interpreter. He had had a misgiving, -before, that Aunt Ri's kindly volubility had not been well timed. Not -one unnecessary word, was Alessandro's motto. - -To say that the Agency doctor was astonished at being requested to ride -thirty miles to prescribe for an ailing Indian baby, would be a mild -statement of the doctor's emotion. He could hardly keep from laughing, -when it was made clear to him that this was what the Indian father -expected. - -“Good Lord!” he said, turning to a crony who chanced to be lounging in -the office. “Listen to that beggar, will you? I wonder what he thinks -the Government pays me a year for doctoring Indians!” - -Alessandro listened so closely it attracted the doctor's attention. “Do -you understand English?” he asked sharply. - -“A very little, Senor,” replied Alessandro. - -The doctor would be more careful in his speech, then. But he made it -most emphatically clear that the thing Alessandro had asked was not -only out of the question, but preposterous. Alessandro pleaded. For the -child's sake he could do it. The horse was at the door; there was no -such horse in San Bernardino County; he went like the wind, and one -would not know he was in motion, it was so easy. Would not the doctor -come down and look at the horse? Then he would see what it would be like -to ride him. - -“Oh, I've seen plenty of your Indian ponies,” said the doctor. “I know -they can run.” - -Alessandro lingered. He could not give up this last hope. The tears came -into his eyes. “It is our only child, Senor,” he said. “It will take you -but six hours in all. My wife counts the moments till you come! If the -child dies, she will die.” - -“No! no!” The doctor was weary of being importuned. “Tell the man it -is impossible! I'd soon have my hands full, if I began to go about the -country this way. They'd be sending for me down to Agua Caliente next, -and bringing up their ponies to carry me.” - -“He will not go?” asked Alessandro. - -The interpreter shook his head. “He cannot,” he said. - -Without a word Alessandro left the room. Presently he returned. “Ask him -if he will come for money?” he said. “I have gold at home. I will pay -him, what the white men pay him.” - -“Tell him no man of any color could pay me for going sixty miles!” said -the doctor. - -And Alessandro departed again, walking so slowly, however, that he heard -the coarse laugh, and the words, “Gold! Looked like it, didn't he?” - which followed his departure from the room. - -When Ramona saw him returning alone, she wrung her hands. Her heart -seemed breaking. The baby had lain in a sort of stupor since noon; -she was plainly worse, and Ramona had been going from the door to the -cradle, from the cradle to the door, for an hour, looking each moment -for the hoped-for aid. It had not once crossed her mind that the doctor -would not come. She had accepted in much fuller faith than Alessandro -the account of the appointment by the Government of these two men to -look after the Indians' interests. What else could their coming mean, -except that, at last, the Indians were to have justice? She thought, -in her simplicity, that the doctor must have died, since Alessandro was -riding home alone. - -“He would not come!” said Alessandro, as he threw himself off his horse, -wearily. - -“Would not!” cried Ramona. “Would not! Did you not say the Government -had sent him to be the doctor for Indians?” - -“That was what they said,” he replied. “You see it is a lie, like the -rest! But I offered him gold, and he would not come then. The child must -die, Majella!” - -“She shall not die!” cried Ramona. “We will carry her to him!” The -thought struck them both as an inspiration. Why had they not thought of -it before? “You can fasten the cradle on Baba's back, and he will go so -gently, she will think it is but play; and I will walk by her side, or -you, all the way!” she continued. “And we can sleep at Aunt Ri's house. -Oh, why, why did we not do it before? Early in the morning we will -start.” - -All through the night they sat watching the little creature. If they had -ever seen death, they would have known that there was no hope for the -child. But how should Ramona and Alessandro know? - -The sun rose bright and warm. Before it was up, the cradle was ready, -ingeniously strapped on Baba's back. When the baby was placed in it, she -smiled. “The first smile she has given for days,” cried Ramona. “Oh, the -air itself will do good to her! Let me walk by her first! Come, Baba! -Dear Baba!” and Ramona stepped almost joyfully by the horse's side, -Alessandro riding Benito. As they paced along, their eyes never leaving -the baby's face, Ramona said, in a low tone, “Alessandro, I am almost -afraid to tell you what I have done. I took the little Jesus out of the -Madonna's arms and hid it! Did you never hear, that if you do that, the -Madonna will grant you anything, to get him back again in her arms' Did -you ever hear of it?” - -“Never!” exclaimed Alessandro, with horror in his tone. “Never, Majella! -How dared you?” - -“I dare anything now!” said Ramona. “I have been thinking to do it for -some days, and to tell her she could not have him any more till she gave -me back the baby well and strong; but I knew I could not have courage to -sit and look at her all lonely without him in her arms, so I did not do -it. But now we are to be away, I thought, that is the time; and I told -her, 'When we come back with our baby well, you shall have your little -Jesus again, too; now, Holy Mother, you go with us, and make the doctor -cure our baby!' Oh, I have heard, many times, women tell the Senora they -had done this, and always they got what they wanted. Never will she let -the Jesus be out of her arms more than three weeks before she will -grant any prayer one can make. It was that way she brought you to me, -Alessandro. I never before told you. I was afraid. I think she had -brought you sooner, but I could keep the little Jesus hid from her only -at night. In the day I could not, because the Senora would see. So she -did not miss him so much; else she had brought you quicker.” - -“But, Majella,” said the logical Alessandro, “it was because I could not -leave my father that I did not come. As soon as he was buried, I came.” - -“If it had not been for the Virgin, you would never have come at all,” - said Ramona, confidently. - -For the first hour of this sad journey it seemed as if the child were -really rallying; the air, the sunlight, the novel motion, the smiling -mother by her side, the big black horses she had already learned to -love, all roused her to an animation she had not shown for days. But -it was only the last flicker of the expiring flame. The eyes drooped, -closed; a strange pallor came over the face. Alessandro saw it first. -He was now walking, Ramona riding Benito. “Majella!” he cried, in a tone -which told her all. - -In a second she was at the baby's side, with a cry which smote the -dying child's consciousness. Once more the eyelids lifted; she knew her -mother; a swift spasm shook the little frame; a convulsion as of -agony swept over the face, then it was at peace. Ramona's shrieks were -heart-rending. Fiercely she put Alessandro away from her, as he strove -to caress her. She stretched her arms up towards the sky. “I have killed -her! I have killed her!” she cried. “Oh, let me die!” - -Slowly Alessandro turned Baba's head homeward again. - -“Oh, give her to me! Let her lie on my breast! I will hold her warm!” - gasped Ramona. - -Silently Alessandro laid the body in her arms. He had not spoken since -his first cry of alarm, If Ramona had looked at him, she would have -forgotten her grief for her dead child. Alessandro's face seemed turned -to stone. - -When they reached the house, Ramona, laying the child on the bed, ran -hastily to a corner of the room, and lifting the deerskin, drew from its -hiding-place the little wooden Jesus. With tears streaming, she laid it -again in the Madonna's arms, and flinging herself on her knees, sobbed -out prayers for forgiveness. Alessandro stood at the foot of the bed, -his arms folded, his eyes riveted on the child. Soon he went out, still -without speaking. Presently Ramona heard the sound of a saw. She groaned -aloud, and her tears flowed faster: Alessandro was making the baby's -coffin. Mechanically she rose, and, moving like one half paralyzed, -she dressed the little one in fresh white clothes for the burial; then -laying her in the cradle, she spread over it the beautiful lace-wrought -altar-cloth. As she adjusted its folds, her mind was carried back to the -time when she embroidered it, sitting on the Senora's veranda; the song -of the finches, the linnets; the voice and smile of Felipe; Alessandro -sitting on the steps, drawing divine music from his violin. Was that -she,--that girl who sat there weaving the fine threads in the beautiful -altar-cloth? Was it a hundred years ago? Was it another world? Was it -Alessandro yonder, driving those nails into a coffin? How the blows -rang, louder and louder! The air seemed deafening full of sound. With -her hands pressed to her temples, Ramona sank to the floor. A merciful -unconsciousness set her free, for an interval, from her anguish. - -When she opened her eyes, she was lying on the bed. Alessandro had -lifted her and laid her there, making no effort to rouse her. He thought -she would die too; and even that thought did not stir him from his -lethargy. When she opened her eyes, and looked at him, he did not speak. -She closed them. He did not move. Presently she opened them again. “I -heard you out there,” she said. - -“Yes,” he replied. “It is done.” And he pointed to a little box of rough -boards by the side of the cradle. - -“Is Majella ready to go to the mountain now?” he asked. - -“Yes, Alessandro, I am ready,” she said. - -“We will hide forever,” he said. - -“It makes no difference,” she replied. - -The Saboba women did not know what to think of Ramona now. She had never -come into sympathetic relations with them, as she had with the women of -San Pasquale. Her intimacy with the Hyers had been a barrier the Saboba -people could not surmount. No one could be on such terms with whites, -and be at heart an Indian, they thought; so they held aloof from Ramona. -But now in her bereavement they gathered round her. They wept at sight -of the dead baby's face, lying in its tiny white coffin. Ramona had -covered the box with white cloth, and the lace altar-cloth thrown over -it fell in folds to the floor. “Why does not this mother weep? Is she -like the whites, who have no heart?” said the Saboba mothers among -themselves; and they were embarrassed before her, and knew not what -to say. Ramona perceived it, but had no life in her to speak to them. -Benumbing terrors, which were worse than her grief, were crowding -Ramona's heart now. She had offended the Virgin; she had committed a -blasphemy: in one short hour the Virgin had punished her, had smitten -her child dead before her eyes. And now Alessandro was going mad; hour -by hour Ramona fancied she saw changes in him. What form would the -Virgin's vengeance take next? Would she let Alessandro become a raging -madman, and finally kill both himself and her? That seemed to Ramona -the most probable fate in store for them. When the funeral was over, and -they returned to their desolate home, at the sight of the empty cradle -Ramona broke down. - -“Oh, take me away, Alessandro! Anywhere! I don't care where! anywhere, -so it is not here!” she cried. - -“Would Majella be afraid, now, on the high mountain, the place I told -her of?” he said. - -“No!” she replied earnestly. “No! I am afraid of nothing! Only take me -away!” - -A gleam of wild delight flitted across Alessandro's face. “It is well,” - he said. “My Majella, we will go to the mountain; we will be safe -there.” - -The same fierce restlessness which took possession of him at San -Pasquale again showed itself in his every act. His mind was unceasingly -at work, planning the details of their move and of the new life. He -mentioned them one after another to Ramona. They could not take both -horses; feed would be scanty there, and there would be no need of two -horses. The cow also they must give up. Alessandro would kill her, and -the meat, dried, would last them for a long time. The wagon he hoped -he could sell; and he would buy a few sheep; sheep and goats could live -well in these heights to which they were going. Safe at last! Oh, yes, -very safe; not only against whites, who, because the little valley was -so small and bare, would not desire it, but against Indians also. For -the Indians, silly things, had a terror of the upper heights of San -Jacinto; they believed the Devil lived there, and money would not hire -one of the Saboba Indians to go so high as this valley which Alessandro -had discovered. Fiercely he gloated over each one of these features -of safety in their hiding-place. “The first time I saw it, Majella,--I -believe the saints led me there,--I said, it is a hiding-place. And -then I never thought I would be in want of such,--of a place to keep my -Majella safe! safe! Oh, my Majel!” And he clasped her to his breast with -a terrifying passion. - -For an Indian to sell a horse and wagon in the San Jacinto valley was -not an easy thing, unless he would give them away. Alessandro had hard -work to give civil answers to the men who wished to buy Benito and the -wagon for quarter of their value. He knew they would not have dared to -so much as name such prices to a white man. Finally Ramona, who had felt -unconquerable misgivings as to the wisdom of thus irrevocably parting -from their most valuable possessions, persuaded him to take both horses -and wagon to San Bernardino, and offer them to the Hyers to use for the -winter. - -It would be just the work for Jos, to keep him in the open air, if -he could get teaming to do; she was sure he would be thankful for the -chance. “He is as fond of the horses as we are ourselves, Alessandro,” - she said. “They would be well cared for; and then, if we did not like -living on the mountain, we could have the horses and wagon again when we -came down, or Jos could sell them for us in San Bernardino. Nobody could -see Benito and Baba working together, and not want them.” - -“Majella is wiser than the dove!” cried Alessandro. “She has seen what -is the best thing to do. I will take them.” - -When he was ready to set off, he implored Ramona to go with him; but -with a look of horror she refused. “Never,” she cried, “one step on that -accursed road! I will never go on that road again unless it is to be -carried, as we brought her, dead.” - -Neither did Ramona wish to see Aunt Ri. Her sympathy would be -intolerable, spite of all its affectionate kindliness. “Tell her I love -her,” she said, “but I do not want to see a human being yet; next year -perhaps we will go down,--if there is any other way besides that road.” - -Aunt Ri was deeply grieved. She could not understand Ramona's feeling. -It rankled deep. “I allow I'd never hev bleeved it uv her, never,” she -said. “I shan't never think she wuz quite right 'n her head, to do 't! -I allow we shan't never set eyes on ter her, Jos. I've got jest thet -feelin' abaout it. 'Pears like she'd gone klar out 'er this yer world -inter anuther.” - -The majestic bulwark of San Jacinto Mountain looms in the southern -horizon of the San Bernardino valley. It was in full sight from the door -of the little shanty in which Aunt Ri's carpet-loom stood. As she sat -there hour after hour, sometimes seven hours to the day, working the -heavy treadle, and slipping the shuttle back and forth, she gazed with -tender yearnings at the solemn, shining summit. When sunset colors smote -it, it glowed like fire; on cloudy days, it was lost in the clouds. - -“'Pears like 'twas next door to heaven, up there, Jos,” Aunt Ri would -say. “I can't tell yer the feelin' 't comes over me, to look up 't it, -ever sence I knowed she wuz there. 'T shines enuf to put yer eyes aout, -sometimes; I allow 'tain't so light's thet when you air into 't; 't -can't be; ther couldn't nobody stan' it, ef 't wuz. I allow 't must be -like bein' dead, Jos, don't yer think so, to be livin' thar? He sed ther -couldn't nobody git to 'em. Nobody ever seed the place but hisself. He -found it a huntin'. Thar's water thar, 'n' thet's abaout all thar is, -fur's I cud make aout; I allow we shan't never see her agin.” - -The horses and the wagon were indeed a godsend to Jos. It was the very -thing he had been longing for; the only sort of work he was as yet -strong enough to do, and there was plenty of it to be had in San -Bernardino. But the purchase of a wagon suitable for the purpose was at -present out of their power; the utmost Aunt Ri had hoped to accomplish -was to have, at the end of a year, a sufficient sum laid up to buy one. -They had tried in vain to exchange their heavy emigrant-wagon for one -suitable for light work. “'Pears like I'd die o' shame,” said Aunt Ri, -“sometimes when I ketch myself er thinkin' what luck et's ben to Jos, er -gettin' thet Injun's hosses an' waggin. But ef Jos keeps on, airnin' ez -much ez he hez so fur, he's goin' ter pay the Injun part on 't, when he -cums. I allow ter Jos 'tain't no more'n fair. Why, them hosses, they'll -dew good tew days' work'n one. I never see sech hosses; 'n' they're jest -like kittens; they've ben drefful pets, I allow. I know she set all the -world, 'n' more tew, by thet nigh one. He wuz hern, ever sence she wuz a -child. Pore thing,--'pears like she hedn't hed no chance!” - -Alessandro had put off, from day to day, the killing of the cow. It went -hard with him to slaughter the faithful creature, who knew him, and came -towards him at the first sound of his voice. He had pastured her, since -the baby died, in a canon about three miles northeast of the village,--a -lovely green canon with oak-trees and a running brook. It was here that -he had thought of building his house if they had stayed in Saboba. But -Alessandro laughed bitterly to himself now, as he recalled that dream. -Already the news had come to Saboba that a company had been formed for -the settling up of the San Jacinto valley; the Ravallo brothers had sold -to this company a large grant of land. The white ranchmen in the valley -were all fencing in their lands; no more free running of stock. The -Saboba people were too poor to build miles of fencing; they must soon -give up keeping stock; and the next thing would be that they would be -driven out, like the people of Temecula. It was none too soon that he -had persuaded Majella to flee to the mountain. There, at least, they -could live and die in peace,--a poverty-stricken life, and the loneliest -of deaths; but they would have each other. It was well the baby had -died; she was saved all this misery. By the time she had grown to be -a woman, if she had lived, there would be no place in all the country -where an Indian could find refuge. Brooding over such thoughts as -these, Alessandro went up into the canon one morning. It must be done. -Everything was ready for their move; it would take many days to carry -even their few possessions up the steep mountain trail to their new -home; the pony which had replaced Benito and Baba could not carry a -heavy load. While this was being done, Ramona would dry the beef which -would be their supply of meat for many months. Then they would go. - -At noon he came down with the first load of the meat, and Ramona began -cutting it into long strips, as is the Mexican fashion of drying. -Alessandro returned for the remainder. Early in the afternoon, as Ramona -went to and fro about her work, she saw a group of horsemen riding from -house to house, in the upper part of the village; women came running out -excitedly from each house as the horsemen left it; finally one of them -darted swiftly up the hill to Ramona. “Hide it! hide it!” she cried, -breathless; “hide the meat! It is Merrill's men, from the end of the -valley. They have lost a steer, and they say we stole it. They found the -place, with blood on it, where it was killed; and they say we did it. -Oh, hide the meat! They took all that Fernando had; and it was his own, -that he bought; he did not know anything about their steer!” - -“I shall not hide it!” cried Ramona, indignantly. “It is our own cow. -Alessandro killed it to-day.” - -“They won't believe you!” said the woman, in distress. “They'll take it -all away. Oh, hide some of it!” And she dragged a part of it across the -floor, and threw it under the bed, Ramona standing by, stupefied. - -Before she had spoken again, the forms of the galloping riders darkened -the doorway; the foremost of them, leaping off his horse, exclaimed: -“By God! here's the rest of it. If they ain't the damnedest impudent -thieves! Look at this woman, cutting it up! Put that down, will you? -We'll save you the trouble of dryin' our meat for us, besides killin' -it! Fork over, now, every bit you've got, you--” And he called Ramona by -a vile epithet. - -Every drop of blood left Ramona's face. Her eyes blazed, and she came -forward with the knife uplifted in her hand. “Out of my house, you dogs -of the white color!” she said. “This meat is our own; my husband killed -the creature but this morning.” - -Her tone and bearing surprised them. There were six of the men, and they -had all swarmed into the little room. - -“I say, Merrill,” said one of them, “hold on; the squaw says her husband -only jest killed it to-day. It might be theirs.” - -Ramona turned on him like lightning. “Are you liars, you all,” she -cried, “that you think I lie? I tell you the meat is ours; and there is -not an Indian in this village would steal cattle!” - -A derisive shout of laughter from all the men greeted this speech; and -at that second, the leader, seeing the mark of blood where the Indian -woman had dragged the meat across the ground, sprang to the bed, and -lifting the deerskin, pointed with a sneer to the beef hidden there. -“Perhaps, when you know Injun's well's I do,” he said, “you won't be for -believin' all they say! What's she got it hid under the bed for, if it -was their own cow?” and he stooped to drag the meat out. “Give us a hand -here, Jake!” - -“If you touch it, I will kill you!” cried Ramona, beside herself with -rage; and she sprang between the men, her uplifted knife gleaming. - -“Hoity-toity!” cried Jake, stepping back; “that's a handsome squaw when -she's mad! Say, boys, let's leave her some of the meat. She wasn't to -blame; of course, she believes what her husband told her.” - -“You go to grass for a soft-head, you Jake!” muttered Merrill, as he -dragged the meat out from beneath the bed. - -“What is all this?” said a deep voice in the door; and Ramona, turning, -with a glad cry, saw Alessandro standing there, looking on, with an -expression which, even in her own terror and indignation, gave her a -sense of dread, it was so icily defiant. He had his hand on his gun. -“What is all this?” he repeated. He knew very well. - -“It's that Temecula man,” said one of the men, in a low tone, to -Merrill. “If I'd known 't was his house, I wouldn't have let you come -here. You're up the wrong tree, sure!” - -Merrill dropped the meat he was dragging over the floor, and turned to -confront Alessandro's eyes. His countenance fell. Even he saw that -he had made a mistake. He began to speak. Alessandro interrupted him. -Alessandro could speak forcibly in Spanish. Pointing to his pony, which -stood at the door with a package on its back, the remainder of the meat -rolled in the hide, he said: “There is the remainder of the beef. -I killed the creature this morning, in the canon. I will take Senor -Merrill to the place, if he wishes it. Senor Merrill's steer was killed -down in the willows yonder, yesterday.” - -“That's so!” cried the men, gathering around him. “How did you know? Who -did it?” - -Alessandro made no reply. He was looking at Ramona. She had flung her -shawl over her head, as the other woman had done, and the two were -cowering in the corner, their faces turned away. Ramona dared not look -on; she felt sure Alessandro would kill some one. But this was not the -type of outrage that roused Alessandro to dangerous wrath. He even felt -a certain enjoyment in the discomfiture of the self-constituted posse -of searchers for stolen goods. To all their questions in regard to the -stolen steer, he maintained silence. He would not open his lips. At -last, angry, ashamed, with a volley of coarse oaths at him for his -obstinacy, they rode away. Alessandro went to Ramona's side. She was -trembling. Her hands were like ice. - -“Let us go to the mountain to-night!” she gasped. “Take me where I need -never see a white face again!” - -A melancholy joy gleamed in Alessandro's eyes. Ramona, at last, felt as -he did. - -“I would not dare to leave Majella there alone, while there is no -house,” he said; “and I must go and come many times, before all the -things can be carried.” - -“It will be less danger there than here, Alessandro,” said Ramona, -bursting into violent weeping as she recalled the insolent leer with -which the man Jake had looked at her. “Oh! I cannot stay here!” - -“It will not be many days, my Majel. I will borrow Fernando's pony, to -take double at once; then we can go sooner.” - -“Who was it stole that man's steer?” said Ramona. “Why did you not tell -them? They looked as if they would kill you.” - -“It was that Mexican that lives in the bottom, Jose Castro. I myself -came on him, cutting the steer up. He said it was his; but I knew very -well, by the way he spoke, he was lying. But why should I tell? They -think only Indians will steal cattle. I can tell them, the Mexicans -steal more.” - -“I told them there was not an Indian in this village would steal -cattle,” said Ramona, indignantly. - -“That was not true, Majella,” replied Alessandro, sadly. “When they -are very hungry, they will steal a heifer or steer. They lose many -themselves, and they say it is not so much harm to take one when they -can get it. This man Merrill, they say, branded twenty steers for his -own, last spring, when he knew they were Saboba cattle!” - -“Why did they not make him give them up?” cried Ramona. - -“Did not Majella see to-day why they can do nothing? There is no help -for us, Majella, only to hide; that is all we can do!” - -A new terror had entered into Ramona's life; she dared not tell it to -Alessandro; she hardly put it into words in her thoughts. But she was -haunted by the face of the man Jake, as by a vision of evil, and on one -pretext and another she contrived to secure the presence of some one of -the Indian women in her house whenever Alessandro was away. Every day -she saw the man riding past. Once he had galloped up to the open door, -looked in, spoken in a friendly way to her, and ridden on. Ramona's -instinct was right. Jake was merely biding his time. He had made up his -mind to settle in the San Jacinto valley, at least for a few years, and -he wished to have an Indian woman come to live with him and keep his -house. Over in Santa Ysabel, his brother had lived in that way with an -Indian mistress for three years; and when he sold out, and left Santa -Ysabel, he had given the woman a hundred dollars and a little house for -herself and her child. And she was not only satisfied, but held herself, -in consequence of this temporary connection with a white man, much above -her Indian relatives and friends. When an Indian man had wished to marry -her, she had replied scornfully that she would never marry an Indian; -she might marry another white man, but an Indian,--never. Nobody had -held his brother in any less esteem for this connection; it was quite -the way in the country. And if Jake could induce this handsomest squaw -he had ever seen, to come and live with him in a smaller fashion, he -would consider himself a lucky man, and also think he was doing a good -thing for the squaw. It was all very clear and simple in his mind; -and when, seeing Ramona walking alone in the village one morning, he -overtook her, and walking by her side began to sound her on the -subject, he had small misgivings as to the result. Ramona trembled as he -approached her. She walked faster, and would not look at him; but he, in -his ignorance, misinterpreted these signs egregiously. - -“Are you married to your husband?” he finally said. “It is but a poor -place he gives you to live in. If you will come and live with me, you -shall have the best house in the valley, as good as the Ravallos'; -and--” Jake did not finish his sentence. With a cry which haunted -his memory for years, Ramona sprang from his side as if to run; then, -halting suddenly, she faced him, her eyes like javelins, her breath -coming fast. “Beast!” she said, and spat towards him; then turned and -fled to the nearest house, where she sank on the floor and burst into -tears, saying that the man below there in the road had been rude to her. -Yes, the women said, he was a bad man; they all knew it. Of this Ramona -said no word to Alessandro. She dared not; she believed he would kill -Jake. - -When the furious Jake confided to his friend Merrill his repulse, and -the indignity accompanying it, Merrill only laughed at him, and said: “I -could have told you better than to try that woman. She's married, fast -enough. There's plenty you can get, though, if you want 'em. They're -first-rate about a house, and jest's faithful's dogs. You can trust 'em -with every dollar you've got.” - -From this day, Ramona never knew an instant's peace or rest till she -stood on the rim of the refuge valley, high on San Jacinto. Then, gazing -around, looking up at the lofty pinnacles above, which seemed to pierce -the sky, looking down upon the world,--it seemed the whole world, -so limitless it stretched away at her feet,--feeling that infinite -unspeakable sense of nearness to Heaven, remoteness from earth which -comes only on mountain heights, she drew in a long breath of delight, -and cried: “At last! at last, Alessandro! Here we are safe! This is -freedom! This is joy!” - -“Can Majella be content?” he asked. - -“I can almost be glad, Alessandro!” she cried, inspired by the glorious -scene. “I dreamed not it was like this!” - -It was a wondrous valley. The mountain seemed to have been cleft to -make it. It lay near midway to the top, and ran transversely on the -mountain's side, its western or southwestern end being many feet lower -than the eastern. Both the upper and lower ends were closed by piles of -rocks and tangled fallen trees; the rocky summit of the mountain itself -made the southern wall; the northern was a spur, or ridge, nearly -vertical, and covered thick with pine-trees. A man might roam years -on the mountain and not find this cleft. At the upper end gushed out -a crystal spring, which trickled rather than ran, in a bed of marshy -green, the entire length of the valley, disappeared in the rocks at the -lower end, and came out no more; many times Alessandro had searched for -it lower down, but could find no trace of it. During the summer, when -he was hunting with Jeff, he had several times climbed the wall and -descended it on the inner side, to see if the rivulet still ran; and, to -his joy, had found it the same in July as in January. Drought could not -harm it, then. What salvation in such a spring! And the water was pure -and sweet as if it came from the skies. - -A short distance off was another ridge or spur of the mountain, widening -out into almost a plateau. This was covered with acorn-bearing oaks; and -under them were flat stones worn into hollows, where bygone generations -of Indians had ground the nuts into meal. Generations long bygone -indeed, for it was not in the memory of the oldest now living, that -Indians had ventured so high up as this on San Jacinto. It was held to -be certain death to climb to its summit, and foolhardy in the extreme to -go far up its sides. - -There was exhilaration in the place. It brought healing to both -Alessandro and Ramona. Even the bitter grief for the baby's death was -soothed. She did not seem so far off, since they had come so much nearer -to the sky. They lived at first in a tent; no time to build a house, -till the wheat and vegetables were planted. Alessandro was surprised, -when he came to the ploughing, to see how much good land he had. The -valley thrust itself, in inlets and coves, into the very rocks of its -southern wall; lovely sheltered nooks these were, where he hated to -wound the soft, flower-filled sward with his plough. As soon as the -planting was done, he began to fell trees for the house. No mournful -gray adobe this time, but walls of hewn pine, with half the bark left -on; alternate yellow and brown, as gay as if glad hearts had devised it. -The roof, of thatch, tule, and yucca-stalks, double laid and thick, -was carried out several feet in front of the house, making a sort of -bower-like veranda, supported by young fir-tree stems, left rough. Once -more Ramona would sit under a thatch with birds'-nests in it. A little -corral for the sheep, and a rough shed for the pony, and the home was -complete: far the prettiest home they had ever had. And here, in the -sunny veranda, when autumn came, sat Ramona, plaiting out of fragrant -willow twigs a cradle. The one over which she had wept such bitter tears -in the valley, they had burned the night before they left their Saboba -home. It was in early autumn she sat plaiting this cradle. The ground -around was strewn with wild grapes drying; the bees were feasting on -them in such clouds that Ramona rose frequently from her work to drive -them away, saying, as she did so, “Good bees, make our honey from -something else; we gain nothing if you drain our grapes for it; we want -these grapes for the winter;” and as she spoke, her imagination sped -fleetly forward to the winter, The Virgin must have forgiven her, to -give her again the joy of a child in her arms. Ay, a joy! Spite of -poverty, spite of danger, spite of all that cruelty and oppression could -do, it would still be a joy to hold her child in her arms. - -The baby was born before winter came. An old Indian woman, the same -whose house they had hired in Saboba, had come up to live with Ramona. -She was friendless now, her daughter having died, and she thankfully -came to be as a mother to Ramona. She was ignorant and feeble but Ramona -saw in her always the picture of what her own mother might perchance -be, wandering, suffering, she knew not what or where; and her yearning, -filial instinct found sad pleasure in caring for this lonely, childless, -aged one. - -Ramona was alone with her on the mountain at the time of the baby's -birth. Alessandro had gone to the valley, to be gone two days; but -Ramona felt no fear. When Alessandro returned, and she laid the child in -his arms, she said with a smile, radiant once more, like the old smiles, -“See, beloved! The Virgin has forgiven me; she has given us a daughter -again!” - -But Alessandro did not smile. Looking scrutinizingly into the baby's -face, he sighed, and said, “Alas, Majella, her eyes are like mine, not -yours!” - -“I am glad of it,” cried Ramona. “I was glad the first minute I saw it.” - -He shook his head. “It is an ill fate to have the eyes of Alessandro,” - he said. “They look ever on woe;” and he laid the baby back on Ramona's -breast, and stood gazing sadly at her. - -“Dear Alessandro,” said Ramona, “it is a sin to always mourn. Father -Salvierderra said if we repined under our crosses, then a heavier cross -would be laid on us. Worse things would come.” - -“Yes,” he said. “That is true. Worse things will come.” And he walked -away, with his head sunk deep on his breast. - - - - -XXIV - -THERE was no real healing for Alessandro. His hurts had gone too deep. -His passionate heart, ever secretly brooding on the wrongs he had borne, -the hopeless outlook for his people in the future, and most of all on -the probable destitution and suffering in store for Ramona, consumed -itself as by hidden fires. Speech, complaint, active antagonism, might -have saved him; but all these were foreign to his self-contained, -reticent, repressed nature. Slowly, so slowly that Ramona could not tell -on what hour or what day her terrible fears first changed to an even -more terrible certainty, his brain gave way, and the thing, in dread -of which he had cried out the morning they left San Pasquale, came upon -him. Strangely enough, and mercifully, now that it had really come, -he did not know it. He knew that he suddenly came to his consciousness -sometimes, and discovered himself in strange and unexplained situations; -had no recollection of what had happened for an interval of time, longer -or shorter. But he thought it was only a sort of sickness; he did not -know that during those intervals his acts were the acts of a madman; -never violent, aggressive, or harmful to any one; never destructive. -It was piteous to see how in these intervals his delusions were always -shaped by the bitterest experiences of his life. Sometimes he fancied -that the Americans were pursuing him, or that they were carrying off -Ramona, and he was pursuing them. At such times he would run with maniac -swiftness for hours, till he fell exhausted on the ground, and slowly -regained true consciousness by exhaustion. At other times he believed -he owned vast flocks and herds; would enter any enclosure he saw, where -there were sheep or cattle, go about among them, speaking of them to -passers-by as his own. Sometimes he would try to drive them away; but on -being remonstrated with, would bewilderedly give up the attempt. Once he -suddenly found himself in the road driving a small flock of goats, whose -he knew not, nor whence he got them. Sitting down by the roadside, he -buried his head in his hands. “What has happened to my memory?” he said. -“I must be ill of a fever!” As he sat there, the goats, of their own -accord, turned and trotted back into a corral near by, the owner of -which stood, laughing, on his doorsill; and when Alessandro came up, -said goodnaturedly, “All right, Alessandro! I saw you driving off my -goats, but I thought you'd bring 'em back.” - -Everybody in the valley knew him, and knew his condition. It did not -interfere with his capacity as a worker, for the greater part of -the time. He was one of the best shearers in the region, the best -horse-breaker; and his services were always in demand, spite of the risk -there was of his having at any time one of these attacks of wandering. -His absences were a great grief to Ramona, not only from the loneliness -in which it left her, but from the anxiety she felt lest his mental -disorder might at any time take a more violent and dangerous shape. This -anxiety was all the more harrowing because she must keep it locked in -her own breast, her wise and loving instinct telling her that nothing -could be more fatal to him than the knowledge of his real condition. -More than once he reached home, breathless, panting, the sweat rolling -off his face, crying aloud, “The Americans have found us out, Majella! -They were on the trail! I baffled them. I came up another way.” At such -times she would soothe him like a child; persuade him to lie down and -rest; and when he waked and wondered why he was so tired, she would say, -“You were all out of breath when you came in, dear. You must not climb -so fast; it is foolish to tire one's self so.” - -In these days Ramona began to think earnestly of Felipe. She believed -Alessandro might be cured. A wise doctor could surely do something for -him. If Felipe knew what sore straits she was in, Felipe would help her. -But how could she reach Felipe without the Senora's knowing it? And, -still more, how could she send a letter to Felipe without Alessandro's -knowing what she had written? Ramona was as helpless in her freedom on -this mountain eyrie as if she had been chained hand and foot. - -And so the winter wore away, and the spring. What wheat grew in their -fields in this upper air! Wild oats, too, in every nook and corner. -The goats frisked and fattened, and their hair grew long and silky; the -sheep were already heavy again with wool, and it was not yet midsummer. -The spring rains had been good; the stream was full, and flowers grew -along its edges thick as in beds. - -The baby had thrived; as placid, laughing a little thing as if its -mother had never known sorrow. “One would think she had suckled pain,” - thought Ramona, “so constantly have I grieved this year; but the Virgin -has kept her well.” - -If prayers could compass it, that would surely have been so; for night -and day the devout, trusting, and contrite Ramona had knelt before the -Madonna and told her golden beads, till they were wellnigh worn smooth -of all their delicate chasing. - -At midsummer was to be a fete in the Saboba village, and the San -Bernardino priest would come there. This would be the time to take the -baby down to be christened; this also would be the time to send the -letter to Felipe, enclosed in one to Aunt Ri, who would send it for her -from San Bernardino. Ramona felt half guilty as she sat plotting what -she should say and how she should send it,--she, who had never had in -her loyal, transparent breast one thought secret from Alessandro since -they were wedded. But it was all for his sake. When he was well, he -would thank her. - -She wrote the letter with much study and deliberation; her dread of its -being read by the Senora was so great, that it almost paralyzed her pen -as she wrote. More than once she destroyed pages, as being too sacred a -confidence for unloving eyes to read. At last, the day before the fete, -it was done, and safely hidden away. The baby's white robe, finely -wrought in open-work, was also done, and freshly washed and ironed. -No baby would there be at the fete so daintily wrapped as hers; and -Alessandro had at last given his consent that the name should be -Majella. It was a reluctant consent, yielded finally only to please -Ramona; and, contrary to her wont, she had been willing in this instance -to have her own wish fulfilled rather than his. Her heart was set upon -having the seal of baptism added to the name she so loved; and, “If I -were to die,” she thought, “how glad Alessandro would be, to have still -a Majella!” - -All her preparations were completed, and it was yet not noon. She seated -herself on the veranda to watch for Alessandro, who had been two days -away, and was to have returned the previous evening, to make ready for -the trip to Saboba. She was disquieted at his failure to return at the -appointed time. As the hours crept on and he did not come, her anxiety -increased. The sun had gone more than an hour past the midheavens before -he came. He had ridden fast; she had heard the quick strokes of the -horse's hoofs on the ground before she saw him. “Why comes he riding -like that?” she thought, and ran to meet him. As he drew near, she saw -to her surprise that he was riding a new horse. “Why, Alessandro!” she -cried. “What horse is this?” - -He looked at her bewilderedly, then at the horse. True; it was not his -own horse! He struck his hand on his forehead, endeavoring to collect -his thoughts. “Where is my horse, then?” he said. - -“My God! Alessandro,” cried Ramona. “Take the horse back instantly. They -will say you stole it.” - -“But I left my pony there in the corral,” he said. “They will know I -did not mean to steal it. How could I ever have made the mistake? I -recollect nothing, Majella. I must have had one of the sicknesses.” - -Ramona's heart was cold with fear. Only too well she knew what summary -punishment was dealt in that region to horse-thieves. “Oh, let me take -it back, dear!” she cried, “Let me go down with it. They will believe -me.” - -“Majella!” he exclaimed, “think you I would send you into the fold of -the wolf? My wood-dove! It is in Jim Farrar's corral I left my pony. I -was there last night, to see about his sheep-shearing in the autumn. And -that is the last I know. I will ride back as soon as I have rested. I am -heavy with sleep.” - -Thinking it safer to let him sleep for an hour, as his brain was -evidently still confused, Ramona assented to this, though a sense of -danger oppressed her. Getting fresh hay from the corral, she with her -own hands rubbed the horse down. It was a fine, powerful black horse; -Alessandro had evidently urged him cruelly up the steep trail, for -his sides were steaming, his nostrils white with foam. Tears stood -in Ramona's eyes as she did what she could for him. He recognized her -good-will, and put his nose to her face. “It must be because he was -black like Benito, that Alessandro took him,” she thought. “Oh, Mary -Mother, help us to get the creature safe back!” she said. - -When she went into the house, Alessandro was asleep. Ramona glanced -at the sun. It was already in the western sky. By no possibility could -Alessandro go to Farrar's and back before dark. She was on the point -of waking him, when a furious barking from Capitan and the other dogs -roused him instantly from his sleep, and springing to his feet, he ran -out to see what it meant. In a moment more Ramona followed,--only a -moment, hardly a moment; but when she reached the threshold, it was to -hear a gun-shot, to see Alessandro fall to the ground, to see, in the -same second, a ruffianly man leap from his horse, and standing over -Alessandro's body, fire his pistol again, once, twice, into the -forehead, cheek. Then with a volley of oaths, each word of which seemed -to Ramona's reeling senses to fill the air with a sound like thunder, he -untied the black horse from the post where Ramona had fastened him, and -leaping into his saddle again, galloped away, leading the horse. As he -rode away, he shook his fist at Ramona, who was kneeling on the ground, -striving to lift Alessandro's head, and to stanch the blood flowing -from the ghastly wounds. “That'll teach you damned Indians to leave -off stealing our horses!” he cried, and with another volley of terrible -oaths was out of sight. - -With a calmness which was more dreadful than any wild outcry of grief, -Ramona sat on the ground by Alessandro's body, and held his hands in -hers. There was nothing to be done for him. The first shot had been -fatal, close to his heart,--the murderer aimed well; the after-shots, -with the pistol, were from mere wanton brutality. After a few seconds -Ramona rose, went into the house, brought out the white altar-cloth, and -laid it over the mutilated face. As she did this, she recalled words -she had heard Father Salvierderra quote as having been said by Father -Junipero, when one of the Franciscan Fathers had been massacred by the -Indians, at San Diego. “Thank God.” he said, “the ground is now watered -by the blood of a martyr!” - -“The blood of a martyr!” The words seemed to float in the air; to -cleanse it from the foul blasphemies the murderer had spoken. “My -Alessandro!” she said. “Gone to be with the saints; one of the blessed -martyrs; they will listen to what a martyr says.” His hands were warm. -She laid them in her bosom, kissed them again and again. Stretching -herself on the ground by his side, she threw one arm over him, and -whispered in his ear, “My love, my Alessandro! Oh, speak once to -Majella! Why do I not grieve more? My Alessandro! Is he not blest -already? And soon we will be with him! The burdens were too great. He -could not bear them!” Then waves of grief broke over her, and she sobbed -convulsively; but still she shed no tears. Suddenly she sprang to her -feet, and looked wildly around. The sun was not many hours high. Whither -should she go for help? The old Indian woman had gone away with the -sheep, and would not be back till dark. Alessandro must not lie there -on the ground. To whom should she go? To walk to Saboba was out of the -question. There was another Indian village nearer,--the village of the -Cahuillas, on one of the high plateaus of San Jacinto. She had once been -there. Could she find that trail now? She must try. There was no human -help nearer. - -Taking the baby in her arms, she knelt by Alessandro, and kissing him, -whispered, “Farewell, my beloved. I will not be long gone. I go to bring -friends.” As she set off, swiftly running, Capitan, who had been lying -by Alessandro's side, uttering heart-rending howls, bounded to his feet -to follow her. “No, Capitan,” she said; and leading him back to the -body, she took his head in her hands, looked into his eyes, and said, -“Capitan, watch here.” With a whimpering cry, he licked her hands, and -stretched himself on the ground. He understood, and would obey; but his -eyes followed her wistfully till she disappeared from sight. - -The trail was rough, and hard to find. More than once Ramona stopped, -baffled, among the rocky ridges and precipices. Her clothes were torn, -her face bleeding, from the thorny shrubs; her feet seemed leaden, she -made her way so slowly. It was dark in the ravines; as she climbed spur -after spur, and still saw nothing but pine forests or bleak opens, her -heart sank within her. The way had not seemed so long before. Alessandro -had been with her; it was a joyous, bright day, and they had lingered -wherever they liked, and yet the way had seemed short. Fear seized her -that she was lost. If that were so, before morning she would be with -Alessandro; for fierce beasts roamed San Jacinto by night. But for the -baby's sake, she must not die. Feverishly she pressed on. At last, just -as it had grown so dark she could see only a few hand-breadths before -her, and was panting more from terror than from running, lights suddenly -gleamed out, only a few rods ahead. It was the Cahuilla village. In a -few moments she was there. - -It is a poverty-stricken little place, the Cahuilla village,--a cluster -of tule and adobe huts, on a narrow bit of bleak and broken ground, -on San Jacinto Mountain; the people are very poor, but are proud -and high-spirited,--veritable mountaineers in nature, fierce and -independent. - -Alessandro had warm friends among them, and the news that he had been -murdered, and that his wife had run all the way down the mountain, with -her baby in her arms, for help, went like wild-fire through the place. -The people gathered in an excited group around the house where Ramona -had taken refuge. She was lying, half unconscious, on a bed. As soon -as she had gasped out her terrible story, she had fallen forward on the -floor, fainting, and the baby had been snatched from her arms just in -time to save it. She did not seem to miss the child; had not asked for -it, or noticed it when it was brought to the bed. A merciful oblivion -seemed to be fast stealing over her senses. But she had spoken words -enough to set the village in a blaze of excitement. It ran higher and -higher. Men were everywhere mounting their horses,--some to go up and -bring Alessandro's body down; some organizing a party to go at once to -Jim Farrar's house and shoot him: these were the younger men, friends of -Alessandro. Earnestly the aged Capitan of the village implored them to -refrain from such violence. - -“Why should ten be dead instead of one, my sons?” he said. “Will you -leave your wives and your children like his? The whites will kill us all -if you lay hands on the man. Perhaps they themselves will punish him.” - -A derisive laugh rose from the group. Never yet within their experience -had a white man been punished for shooting an Indian. The Capitan knew -that as well as they did. Why did he command them to sit still like -women, and do nothing, when a friend was murdered? - -“Because I am old, and you are young. I have seen that we fight in -vain,” said the wise old man. “It is not sweet to me, any more than to -you. It is a fire in my veins; but I am old. I have seen. I forbid you -to go.” - -The women added their entreaties to his, and the young men abandoned -their project. But it was with sullen reluctance; and mutterings were -to be heard, on all sides, that the time would come yet. There was more -than one way of killing a man. Farrar would not be long seen in the -valley. Alessandro should be avenged. - -As Farrar rode slowly down the mountain, leading his recovered horse, he -revolved in his thoughts what course to pursue. A few years before, he -would have gone home, no more disquieted at having killed an Indian than -if he had killed a fox or a wolf. But things were different now. This -Agent, that the Government had taken it into its head to send out to -look after the Indians, had made it hot, the other day, for some fellows -in San Bernardino who had maltreated an Indian; he had even gone so -far as to arrest several liquor-dealers for simply selling whiskey to -Indians. If he were to take this case of Alessandro's in hand, it might -be troublesome. Farrar concluded that his wisest course would be to make -a show of good conscience and fair-dealing by delivering himself up -at once to the nearest justice of the peace, as having killed a man -in self-defence, Accordingly he rode straight to the house of a Judge -Wells, a few miles below Saboba, and said that he wished to surrender -himself as having committed “justifiable homicide” on an Indian, or -Mexican, he did net know which, who had stolen his horse. He told a -plausible story. He professed not to know the man, or the place; but did -not explain how it was, that, knowing neither, he had gone so direct to -the spot. - -He said: “I followed the trail for some time, but when I reached a turn, -I came into a sort of blind trail, where I lost the track. I think the -horse had been led up on hard sod, to mislead any one on the track. I -pushed on, crossed the creek, and soon found the tracks again in soft -ground. This part of the mountain was perfectly unknown to me, and very -wild. Finally I came to a ridge, from which I looked down on a little -ranch. As I came near the house, the dogs began to bark, just as I -discovered my horse tied to a tree. Hearing the dogs, an Indian, or -Mexican, I could not tell which, came out of the house, flourishing a -large knife. I called out to him, 'Whose horse is that?' He answered -in Spanish, 'It is mine.' 'Where did you get it?' I asked. 'In San -Jacinto,' was his reply. As he still came towards me, brandishing the -knife, I drew my gun, and said, 'Stop, or I'll shoot!' He did not stop, -and I fired; still he did not stop, so I fired again; and as he did not -fall, I knocked him down with the butt of my gun. After he was down, I -shot him twice with my pistol.” - -The duty of a justice in such a case as this was clear. Taking the -prisoner into custody, he sent out messengers to summon a jury of six -men to hold inquest on the body of said Indian, or Mexican; and early -the next morning, led by Farrar, they set out for the mountain. When -they reached the ranch, the body had been removed; the house was -locked; no signs left of the tragedy of the day before, except a few -blood-stains on the ground, where Alessandro had fallen. Farrar seemed -greatly relieved at this unexpected phase of affairs. However, when he -found that Judge Wells, instead of attempting to return to the valley -that night, proposed to pass the night at a ranch only a few miles -from the Cahuilla village, he became almost hysterical with fright. -He declared that the Cahuillas would surely come and murder him in the -night, and begged piteously that the men would all stay with him to -guard him. - -At midnight Judge Wells was roused by the arrival of the Capitan and -head men of the Cahuilla village. They had heard of his arrival with his -jury, and they had come to lead them to their village, where the body of -the murdered man lay. They were greatly distressed on learning that they -ought not to have removed the body from the spot where the death had -taken place, and that now no inquest could be held. - -Judge Wells himself, however, went back with them, saw the body, and -heard the full account of the murder as given by Ramona on her first -arrival. Nothing more could now be learned from her, as she was in high -fever and delirium; knew no one, not even her baby when they laid it -on her breast. She lay restlessly tossing from side to side, talking -incessantly, clasping her rosary in her hands, and constantly mingling -snatches of prayers with cries for Alessandro and Felipe; the only token -of consciousness she gave was to clutch the rosary wildly, and sometimes -hide it in her bosom, if they attempted to take it from her. - -Judge Wells was a frontiersman, and by no means sentimentally inclined; -but the tears stood in his eyes as he looked at the unconscious Ramona. - -Farrar had pleaded that the preliminary hearing might take place -immediately; but after this visit to the village, the judge refused his -request, and appointed the trial a week from that day, to give time -for Ramona to recover, and appear as a witness. He impressed upon the -Indians as strongly as he could the importance of having her appear. It -was evident that Farrar's account of the affair was false from first to -last. Alessandro had no knife. He had not had time to go many steps from -the door; the volley of oaths, and the two shots almost simultaneously, -were what Ramona heard as she ran to the door. Alessandro could not have -spoken many words. - -The day for the hearing came. Farrar had been, during the interval, in a -merely nominal custody; having been allowed to go about his business, -on his own personal guarantee of appearing in time for the trial. It -was with a strange mixture of regret and relief that Judge Wells saw the -hour of the trial arrive, and not a witness on the ground except Farrar -himself. That Farrar was a brutal ruffian, the whole country knew. This -last outrage was only one of a long series; the judge would have been -glad to have committed him for trial, and have seen him get his deserts. -But San Jacinto Valley, wild, sparsely settled as it was, had yet as -fixed standards and criterions of popularity as the most civilized of -communities could show; and to betray sympathy with Indians was more -than any man's political head was worth. The word “justice” had lost its -meaning, if indeed it ever had any, so far as they were concerned. The -valley was a unit on that question, however divided it might be upon -others. On the whole, the judge was relieved, though it was not without -a bitter twinge, as of one accessory after the deed, and unfaithful to -a friend; for he had known Alessandro well. Yet, on the whole, he was -relieved when he was forced to accede to the motion made by Farrar's -counsel, that “the prisoner be discharged on ground of justifiable -homicide, no witnesses having appeared against him.” - -He comforted himself by thinking--what was no doubt true--that even if -the case had been brought to a jury trial, the result would have been -the same; for there would never have been found a San Diego County jury -that would convict a white man of murder for killing an Indian, if -there were no witnesses to the occurrence except the Indian wife. But he -derived small comfort from this. Alessandro's face haunted him, and also -the memory of Ramona's, as she lay tossing and moaning in the wretched -Cahuilla hovel. He knew that only her continued illness, or her death, -could explain her not having come to the trial. The Indians would have -brought her in their arms all the way, if she had been alive and in -possession of her senses. - -During the summer that she and Alessandro had lived in Saboba he had -seen her many times, and had been impressed by her rare quality. His -children knew her and loved her; had often been in her house; his wife -had bought her embroidery. Alessandro also had worked for him; and no -one knew better than Judge Wells that Alessandro in his senses was as -incapable of stealing a horse as any white man in the valley. Farrar -knew it; everybody knew it. Everybody knew, also, about his strange fits -of wandering mind; and that when these half-crazed fits came on him, -he was wholly irresponsible. Farrar knew this. The only explanation of -Farrar's deed was, that on seeing his horse spent and exhausted from -having been forced up that terrible trail, he was seized by ungovernable -rage, and fired on the second, without knowing what he did. “But he -wouldn't have done it, if it hadn't been an Indian!” mused the judge. -“He'd ha' thought twice before he shot any white man down, that way.” - -Day after day such thoughts as these pursued the judge, and he could not -shake them off. An uneasy sense that he owed something to Ramona, or, if -Ramona were dead, to the little child she had left, haunted him. There -might in some such way be a sort of atonement made to the murdered, -unavenged Alessandro. He might even take the child, and bring it up in -his own house. That was by no means an uncommon thing in the valley. The -longer he thought, the more he felt himself eased in his mind by this -purpose; and he decided that as soon as he could find leisure he would -go to the Cahuilla village and see what could be done. - -But it was not destined that stranger hands should bring succor to -Ramona. Felipe had at last found trace of her. Felipe was on the way. - - - - -XXV - -EFFECTUALLY misled by the faithful Carmena, Felipe had begun his search -for Alessandro by going direct to Monterey. He found few Indians in the -place, and not one had ever heard Alessandro's name. Six miles from the -town was a little settlement of them, in hiding, in the bottoms of the -San Carlos River, near the old Mission. The Catholic priest advised him -to search there; sometimes, he said, fugitives of one sort and another -took refuge in this settlement, lived there for a few months, then -disappeared as noiselessly as they had come. Felipe searched there also; -equally in vain. - -He questioned all the sailors in port; all the shippers. No one had -heard of an Indian shipping on board any vessel; in fact, a captain -would have to be in straits before he would take an Indian in his crew. - -“But this was an exceptionally good worker, this Indian; he could turn -his hand to anything; he might have gone as ship's carpenter.” - -“That might be,” they said; “nobody had ever heard of any such thing, -however;” and very much they all wondered what it was that made the -handsome, sad Mexican gentleman so anxious to find this Indian. - -Felipe wasted weeks in Monterey. Long after he had ceased to hope, he -lingered. He felt as if he would like to stay till every ship that had -sailed out of Monterey in the last three years had returned. Whenever he -heard of one coming into harbor, he hastened to the shore, and closely -watched the disembarking. His melancholy countenance, with its eager, -searching look, became a familiar sight to every one; even the children -knew that the pale gentleman was looking for some one he could not find. -Women pitied him, and gazed at him tenderly, wondering if a man could -look like that for anything save the loss of a sweetheart. Felipe made -no confidences. He simply asked, day after day, of every one he met, for -an Indian named Alessandro Assis. - -Finally he shook himself free from the dreamy spell of the place, -and turned his face southward again. He went by the route which the -Franciscan Fathers used to take, when the only road on the California -coast was the one leading from Mission to Mission. Felipe had heard -Father Salvierderra say that there were in the neighborhood of each of -the old Missions Indian villages, or families still living. He thought -it not improbable that, from Alessandro's father's long connection with -the San Luis Rey Mission, Alessandro might be known to some of these -Indians. He would leave no stone unturned; no Indian village unsearched; -no Indian unquestioned. - -San Juan Bautista came first; then Soledad, San Antonio, San Miguel, San -Luis Obispo, Santa Inez; and that brought him to Santa Barbara. He -had spent two months on the journey. At each of these places he found -Indians; miserable, half-starved creatures, most of them. Felipe's heart -ached, and he was hot with shame, at their condition. The ruins of the -old Mission buildings were sad to see, but the human ruins were sadder. -Now Felipe understood why Father Salvierderra's heart had broken, and -why his mother had been full of such fierce indignation against the -heretic usurpers and despoilers of the estates which the Franciscans -once held. He could not understand why the Church had submitted, -without fighting, to such indignities and robberies. At every one of the -Missions he heard harrowing tales of the sufferings of those Fathers who -had clung to their congregations to the last, and died at their posts. -At Soledad an old Indian, weeping, showed him the grave of Father -Sarria, who had died there of starvation. “He gave us all he had, to the -last,” said the old man. “He lay on a raw-hide on the ground, as we did; -and one morning, before he had finished the mass, he fell forward at the -altar and was dead. And when we put him in the grave, his body was only -bones, and no flesh; he had gone so long without food, to give it to -us.” - -At all these Missions Felipe asked in vain for Alessandro. They knew -very little, these northern Indians, about those in the south, they -said. It was seldom one from the southern tribes came northward. They -did not understand each other's speech. The more Felipe inquired, and -the longer he reflected, the more he doubted Alessandro's having ever -gone to Monterey. At Santa Barbara he made a long stay. The Brothers -at the College welcomed him hospitably. They had heard from Father -Salvierderra the sad story of Ramona, and were distressed, with Felipe, -that no traces had been found of her. It grieved Father Salvierderra to -the last, they said; he prayed for her daily, but said he could not get -any certainty in his spirit of his prayers being heard. Only the day -before he died, he had said this to Father Francis, a young Brazilian -monk, to whom he was greatly attached. - -In Felipe's overwrought frame of mind this seemed to him a terrible -omen; and he set out on his journey with a still heavier heart -than before. He believed Ramona was dead, buried in some unknown, -unconsecrated spot, never to be found; yet he would not give up the -search. As he journeyed southward, he began to find persons who had -known of Alessandro; and still more, those who had known his father, old -Pablo. But no one had heard anything of Alessandro's whereabouts since -the driving out of his people from Temecula; there was no knowing where -any of those Temecula people were now. They had scattered “like a flock -of ducks,” one Indian said,--“like a flock of ducks after they are -fired into. You'd never see all those ducks in any one place again. The -Temecula people were here, there, and everywhere, all through San Diego -County. There was one Temecula man at San Juan Capistrano, however. The -Senor would better see him. He no doubt knew about Alessandro. He was -living in a room in the old Mission building. The priest had given it -to him for taking care of the chapel and the priest's room, and a little -rent besides. He was a hard man, the San Juan Capistrano priest; he -would take the last dollar from a poor man.” - -It was late at night when Felipe reached San Juan Capistrano; but he -could not sleep till he had seen this man. Here was the first clew he -had gained. He found the man, with his wife and children, in a large -corner room opening on the inner court of the Mission quadrangle. The -room was dark and damp as a cellar; a fire smouldered in the enormous -fireplace; a few skins and rags were piled near the hearth, and on these -lay the woman, evidently ill. The sunken tile floor was icy cold to the -feet; the wind swept in at a dozen broken places in the corridor side -of the wall; there was not an article of furniture. “Heavens!” thought -Felipe, as he entered, “a priest of our Church take rent for such a hole -as this!” - -There was no light in the place, except the little which came from the -fire. “I am sorry I have no candle, Senor,” said the man, as he came -forward. “My wife is sick, and we are very poor.” - -“No matter,” said Felipe, his hand already at his purse. “I only want to -ask you a few questions. You are from Temecula, they tell me.” - -“Yes, Senor,” the man replied in a dogged tone,--no man of Temecula -could yet hear the word without a pang,--“I was of Temecula.” - -“I want to find one Alessandro Assis who lived there. You knew him, I -suppose,” said Felipe, eagerly. - -At this moment a brand broke in the smouldering fire, and for one second -a bright blaze shot up; only for a second, then all was dark again. But -the swift blaze had fallen on Felipe's face, and with a start which -he could not control, but which Felipe did not see, the Indian had -recognized him. “Ha, ha!” he thought to himself. “Senor Felipe Moreno, -you come to the wrong house asking for news of Alessandro Assis!” - -It was Antonio,--Antonio, who had been at the Moreno sheep-shearing; -Antonio, who knew even more than Carmena had known, for he knew what a -marvel and miracle it seemed that the beautiful Senorita from the Moreno -house should have loved Alessandro, and wedded him; and he knew that on -the night she went away with him, Alessandro had lured out of the corral -a beautiful horse for her to ride. Alessandro had told him all about -it,--Baba, fiery, splendid Baba, black as night, with a white star in -his forehead. Saints! but it was a bold thing to do, to steal such a -horse as that, with a star for a mark; and no wonder that even now, -though near three years afterwards, Senor Felipe was in search of him. -Of course it could be only the horse he wanted. Ha! much help might he -get from Antonio! - -“Yes, Senor, I knew him,” he replied. - -“Do you know where he is now?” - -“No, Senor.” - -“Do you know where he went, from Temecula?” - -“No, Senor.” - -“A woman told me he went to Monterey. I have been there looking for -him.” - -“I heard, too, he had gone to Monterey.” - -“Where did you see him last?” - -“In Temecula.” - -“Was he alone?” - -“Yes, Senor.” - -“Did you ever hear of his being married?” - -“No, Senor.” - -“Where are the greater part of the Temecula people now?” - -“Like this, Senor,” with a bitter gesture, pointing to his wife. “Most -of us are beggars. A few here, a few there. Some have gone to Capitan -Grande, some way down into Lower California.” - -Wearily Felipe continued his bootless questioning. No suspicion that the -man was deceiving him crossed his mind. At last, with a sigh, he -said, “I hoped to have found Alessandro by your means. I am greatly -disappointed. - -“I doubt not that, Senor Felipe Moreno,” thought Antonio. “I am sorry, -Senor,” he said. - -It smote his conscience when Felipe laid in his hand a generous -gold-piece, and said, “Here is a bit of money for you. I am sorry to see -you so poorly off.” - -The thanks which he spoke sounded hesitating and gruff, so remorseful -did he feel. Senor Felipe had always been kind to them. How well they -had fared always in his house! It was a shame to lie to him; yet the -first duty was to Alessandro. It could not be avoided. And thus a second -time help drifted away from Ramona. - -At Temecula, from Mrs. Hartsel, Felipe got the first true intelligence -of Alessandro's movements; but at first it only confirmed his worst -forebodings. Alessandro had been at Mrs. Hartsel's house; he had been -alone, and on foot; he was going to walk all the way to San Pasquale, -where he had the promise of work. - -How sure the kindly woman was that she was telling the exact truth. -After long ransacking of her memory and comparing of events, she fixed -the time so nearly to the true date, that it was to Felipe's mind a -terrible corroboration of his fears. It was, he thought, about a week -after Ramona's flight from home that Alessandro had appeared thus, -alone, on foot, at Mrs. Hartsel's. In great destitution, she said; and -she had lent him money on the expectation of selling his violin; but -they had never sold it; there it was yet. And that Alessandro was dead, -she had no more doubt than that she herself was alive; for else, he -would have come back to pay her what he owed. The honestest fellow that -ever lived, was Alessandro. Did not the Senor Moreno think so? Had he -not found him so always? There were not many such Indians as Alessandro -and his father. If there had been, it would have been better for their -people. “If they'd all been like Alessandro, I tell you,” she said, “it -would have taken more than any San Diego sheriff to have put them out of -their homes here.” - -“But what could they do to help themselves, Mrs. Hartsel?” asked Felipe. -“The law was against them. We can't any of us go against that. I myself -have lost half my estate in the same way.” - -“Well, at any rate they wouldn't have gone without fighting!” she said. -“'If Alessandro had been here!' they all said.” - -Felipe asked to see the violin. “But that is not Alessandro's,” he -exclaimed. “I have seen his.” - -“No!” she said. “Did I say it was his? It was his father's. One of the -Indians brought it in here to hide it with us at the time they were -driven out. It is very old, they say, and worth a great deal of money, -if you could find the right man to buy it. But he has not come along -yet. He will, though. I am not a bit afraid but that we'll get our money -back on it. If Alessandro was alive, he'd have been here long before -this.” - -Finding Mrs. Hartsel thus friendly, Felipe suddenly decided to tell -her the whole story. Surprise and incredulity almost overpowered her at -first. She sat buried in thought for some minutes; then she sprang -to her feet, and cried: “If he's got that girl with him, he's hiding -somewhere. There's nothing like an Indian to hide; and if he is hiding, -every other Indian knows it, and you just waste your breath asking any -questions of any of them. They will die before they will tell you one -thing. They are as secret as the grave. And they, every one of them, -worshipped Alessandro. You see they thought he would be over them, after -Pablo, and they were all proud of him because he could read and -write, and knew more than most of them. If I were in your place,” she -continued, “I would not give it up yet. I should go to San Pasquale. Now -it might just be that she was along with him that night he stopped here, -hid somewhere, while he came in to get the money. I know I urged him to -stay all night, and he said he could not do it. I don't know, though, -where he could possibly have left her while he came here.” - -Never in all her life had Mrs. Hartsel been so puzzled and so astonished -as now. But her sympathy, and her confident belief that Alessandro might -yet be found, gave unspeakable cheer to Felipe. - -“If I find them, I shall take them home with me, Mrs. Hartsel,” he said -as he rode away; “and we will come by this road and stop to see you.” - And the very speaking of the words cheered him all the way to San -Pasquale. - -But before he had been in San Pasquale an hour, he was plunged into a -perplexity and disappointment deeper than he had yet felt. He found the -village in disorder, the fields neglected, many houses deserted, the -remainder of the people preparing to move away. In the house of Ysidro, -Alessandro's kinsman, was living a white family,--the family of a man -who had pre-empted the greater part of the land on which the village -stood. Ysidro, profiting by Alessandro's example, when he found -that there was no help, that the American had his papers from the -land-office, in all due form, certifying that the land was his, had -given the man his option of paying for the house or having it burned -down. The man had bought the house; and it was only the week before -Felipe arrived, that Ysidro had set off, with all his goods and -chattels, for Mesa Grande. He might possibly have told the Senor more, -the people said, than any one now in the village could; but even Ysidro -did not know where Alessandro intended to settle. He told no one. He -went to the north. That was all they knew. - -To the north! That north which Felipe thought he had thoroughly -searched. He sighed at the word. The Senor could, if he liked, see the -house in which Alessandro had lived. There it was, on the south side of -the valley, just in the edge of the foothills; some Americans lived in -it now. Such a good ranch Alessandro had; the best wheat in the valley. -The American had paid Alessandro something for it,--they did not know -how much; but Alessandro was very lucky to get anything. If only they -had listened to him. He was always telling them this would come. Now it -was too late for most of them to get anything for their farms. One man -had taken the whole of the village lands, and he had bought Ysidro's -house because it was the best; and so they would not get anything. They -were utterly disheartened, broken-spirited. - -In his sympathy for them, Felipe almost forgot his own distresses. -“Where are you going?” he asked of several. - -“Who knows, Senor?” was their reply. “Where can we go? There is no -place.” - -When, in reply to his questions in regard to Alessandro's wife, Felipe -heard her spoken of as “Majella,” his perplexity deepened. Finally he -asked if no one had ever heard the name Ramona. - -“Never.” - -What could it mean? Could it be possible that this was another -Alessandro than the one of whom he was in search? Felipe bethought -himself of a possible marriage-record. Did they know where Alessandro -had married this wife of his, of whom every word they spoke seemed both -like and unlike Ramona? - -Yes. It was in San Diego they had been married, by Father Gaspara. - -Hoping against hope, the baffled Felipe rode on to San Diego; and here, -as ill-luck would have it, he found, not Father Gaspara, who would at -his first word have understood all, but a young Irish priest, who had -only just come to be Father Gaspara's assistant. Father Gaspara was -away in the mountains, at Santa Ysabel. But the young assistant would do -equally well, to examine the records. He was courteous and kind; brought -out the tattered old book, and, looking over his shoulder, his breath -coming fast with excitement and fear, there Felipe read, in Father -Gaspara's hasty and blotted characters, the fatal entry of the names, -“Alessandro Assis and Majella Fa--” - -Heart-sick, Felipe went away. Most certainly Ramona would never have -been married under any but her own name. Who, then, was this woman whom -Alessandro Assis had married in less than ten days from the night on -which Ramona had left her home? Some Indian woman for whom he felt -compassion, or to whom he was bound by previous ties? And where, in what -lonely, forever hidden spot, was the grave of Ramona? - -Now at last Felipe felt sure that she was dead. It was useless searching -farther. Yet, after he reached home, his restless conjectures took one -more turn, and he sat down and wrote a letter to every priest between -San Diego and Monterey, asking if there were on his books a record of -the marriage of one Alessandro Assis and Ramona Ortegna. - -It was not impossible that there might be, after all, another Alessandro -Assis, The old Fathers, in baptizing their tens of thousands of Indian -converts, were sore put to it to make out names enough. There might -have been another Assis besides old Pablo, and of Alessandros there were -dozens everywhere. - -This last faint hope also failed. No record anywhere of an Alessandro -Assis, except in Father Gaspara's book. - -As Felipe was riding out of San Pasquale, he had seen an Indian man and -woman walking by the side of mules heavily laden. Two little children, -two young or too feeble to walk, were so packed in among the bundles -that their faces were the only part of them in sight. The woman was -crying bitterly. “More of these exiles. God help the poor creatures!” - thought Felipe; and he pulled out his purse, and gave the woman a piece -of gold. She looked up in as great astonishment as if the money had -fallen from the skies. “Thanks! Thanks, Senor!” she exclaimed; and the -man coming up to Felipe said also, “God reward you, Senor! That is more -money than I had in the world! Does the Senor know of any place where I -could get work?” - -Felipe longed to say, “Yes, come to my estate; there you shall have -work!” In the olden time he would have done it without a second thought, -for both the man and the woman had good faces,--were young and strong. -But the pay-roll of the Moreno estate was even now too long for -its dwindled fortunes. “No, my man, I am sorry to say I do not,” he -answered. “I live a long way from here. Where were you thinking of -going?” - -“Somewhere in San Jacinto,” said the man. “They say the Americans have -not come in there much yet. I have a brother living there. Thanks, -Senor; may the saints reward you!” - -“San Jacinto!” After Felipe returned home, the name haunted his -thoughts. The grand mountain-top bearing that name he had known well -in many a distant horizon. “Juan Can,” he said one day, “are there many -Indians in San Jacinto?” - -“The mountain?” said Juan Can. - -“Ay, I suppose, the mountain,” said Felipe. “What else is there?” - -“The valley, too,” replied Juan. “The San Jacinto Valley is a fine, -broad valley, though the river is not much to be counted on. It is -mostly dry sand a good part of the year. But there is good grazing. -There is one village of Indians I know in the valley; some of the -San Luis Rey Indians came from there; and up on the mountain is a big -village; the wildest Indians in all the country live there. Oh, they are -fierce, Senor!” - -The next morning Felipe set out for San Jacinto. Why had no one -mentioned, why had he not himself known, of these villages? Perhaps -there were yet others he had not heard of. Hope sprang in Felipe's -impressionable nature as easily as it died. An hour, a moment, might see -him both lifted up and cast down. When he rode into the sleepy little -village street of San Bernardino, and saw, in the near horizon, against -the southern sky, a superb mountain-peak, changing in the sunset lights -from turquoise to ruby, and from ruby to turquoise again, he said to -himself, “She is there! I have found her!” - -The sight of the mountain affected him, as it had always affected Aunt -Ri, with an indefinable, solemn sense of something revealed, yet hidden. -“San Jacinto?” he said to a bystander, pointing to it with his whip. - -“Yes, Senor,” replied the man. As he spoke, a pair of black horses came -whirling round the corner, and he sprang to one side, narrowly escaping -being knocked down. “That Tennessee fellow'll run over somebody yet, -with those black devils of his, if he don't look out,” he muttered, as -he recovered his balance. - -Felipe glanced at the horses, then driving his spurs deep into his -horse's sides, galloped after them. “Baba! by God!” he cried aloud in -his excitement and forgetful of everything, he urged his horse faster, -shouting as he rode, “Stop that man! Stop that man with the black -horses!” - -Jos, hearing his name called on all sides, reined in Benito and Baba -as soon as he could, and looked around in bewilderment to see what had -happened. Before he had time to ask any questions, Felipe had overtaken -him, and riding straight to Baba's head, had flung himself from his own -horse and taken Baba by the rein, crying, “Baba! Baba!” Baba knew his -voice, and began to whinny and plunge. Felipe was nearly unmanned. For -the second, he forgot everything. A crowd was gathering around them. It -had never been quite clear to the San Bernardino mind that Jos's title -to Benito and Baba would bear looking into; and it was no surprise, -therefore, to some of the on-lookers, to hear Felipe cry in a loud -voice, looking suspiciously at Jos, “How did you get him?” - -Jos was a wag, and Jos was never hurried. The man did not live, nor -could the occasion arrive, which would quicken his constitutional drawl. -Before even beginning his answer he crossed one leg over the other and -took a long, observant look at Felipe; then in a pleasant voice he said: -“Wall, Senor,--I allow yer air a Senor by yer color,--it would take -right smart uv time tew tell yeow haow I cum by thet hoss, 'n' by the -other one tew. They ain't mine, neither one on 'em.” - -Jos's speech was as unintelligible to Felipe as it had been to Ramona, -Jos saw it, and chuckled. - -“Mebbe 't would holp yer tew understand me ef I wuz tew talk Mexican,” - he said, and proceeded to repeat in tolerably good Spanish the sum and -substance of what he had just said, adding: “They belong to an Indian -over on San Jacinto; at least, the off one does; the nigh one's his -wife's; he wouldn't ever call thet one anything but hers. It had been -hers ever sence she was a girl, they said, I never saw people think so -much of hosses as they did.” - -Before Jos had finished speaking, Felipe had bounded into the wagon, -throwing his horse's reins to a boy in the crowd, and crying, “Follow -along with my horse, will you? I must speak to this man.” - -Found! Found,--the saints be praised,--at last! How should he tell this -man fast enough? How should he thank him enough? - -Laying his hand on Jos's knee, he cried: “I can't explain to you; I -can't tell you. Bless you forever,--forever! It must be the saints led -you here!” - -“Oh, Lawd!” thought Jos; “another o' them 'saint' fellers! I allow not, -Senor,” he said, relapsing into Tennesseean. “It wur Tom Wurmsee led me; -I wuz gwine ter move his truck fur him this arternoon.” - -“Take me home with you to your house,” said Felipe, still trembling with -excitement; “we cannot talk here in the street. I want to hear all -you can tell me about them. I have been searching for them all over -California.” - -Jos's face lighted up. This meant good fortune for that gentle, sweet -Ramona, he was sure. “I'll take you straight there,” he said; “but first -I must stop at Tom's. He will be waiting for me.” - -The crowd dispersed, disappointed; cheated out of their anticipated -scene of an arrest for horse-stealing. “Good for you, Tennessee!” and, -“Fork over that black horse, Jos!” echoed from the departing groups. -Sensations were not so common in San Bernardino that they could afford -to slight so notable an occasion as this. - -As Jos turned the corner into the street where he lived, he saw his -mother coming at a rapid run towards them, her sun-bonnet half off her -head, her spectacles pushed up in her hair. - -“Why, thar's mammy!” he exclaimed. “What ever hez gone wrong naow?” - -Before he finished speaking, she saw the black horses, and snatching -her bonnet from her head waved it wildly, crying, “Yeow Jos! Jos, hyar! -Stop! I wuz er comin' ter hunt yer!” - -Breathlessly she continued talking, her words half lost in the sound -of the wheels. Apparently she did not see the stranger sitting by Jos's -side. “Oh, Jos, thar's the terriblest news come! Thet Injun Alessandro's -got killed; murdered; jest murdered, I say; 'tain't no less. Thar wuz an -Injun come down from ther mounting with a letter to the Agent.” - -“Good God! Alessandro killed!” burst from Felipe's lips in a -heart-rending voice. - -Jos looked bewilderedly from his mother to Felipe; the complication was -almost beyond him. “Oh, Lawd!” he gasped. Turning to Felipe, “Thet's -mammy,” he said. “She wuz real fond o' both on 'em.” Turning to his -mother, “This hyar's her brother,” he said. “He jest knowed me by Baba, -hyar on ther street. He's been huntin' 'em everywhar.” - -Aunt Ri grasped the situation instantly. Wiping her streaming eyes, she -sobbed out: “Wall, I'll allow, arter this, thar is sech a thing ez a -Providence, ez they call it. 'Pears like ther couldn't ennythin' less -brung yer hyar jest naow. I know who yer be; ye're her brother Feeleepy, -ain't yer? Menny's ther time she's tolt me about yer! Oh, Lawd! How air -we ever goin' to git ter her? I allow she's dead! I allow she'd never -live arter seein' him shot down dead! He tolt me thar couldn't nobody -git up thar whar they'd gone; no white folks, I mean. Oh, Lawd, Lawd!” - -Felipe stood paralyzed, horror-stricken. He turned in despair to Jos. -“Tell me in Spanish,” he said. “I cannot understand.” - -As Jos gradually drew out the whole story from his mother's excited and -incoherent speech, and translated it, Felipe groaned aloud, “Too late! -Too late!” He too felt, as Aunt Ri had, that Ramona never could have -survived the shock of seeing her husband murdered. “Too late! Too late!” - he cried, as he staggered into the house. “She has surely died of the -sight.” - -“I allow she didn't die, nuther,” said Jos; “not ser long ez she hed -thet young un to look arter!” - -“Yer air right, Jos!” said Aunt Ri. “I allow yer air right. Thar -couldn't nothin' kill her, short er wild beasts, ef she hed ther baby -'n her arms! She ain't dead, not ef the baby ez erlive, I allow. Thet's -some comfort.” - -Felipe sat with his face buried in his hands. Suddenly looking up, he -said, “How far is it?” - -“Thirty miles 'n' more inter the valley, where we wuz,” said Jos; “'n' -the Lawd knows how fur 'tis up on ter the mounting, where they wuz -livin'. It's like goin' up the wall uv a house, goin' up San Jacinto -Mounting, daddy sez. He wuz thar huntin' all summer with Alessandro.” - -How strange, how incredible it seemed, to hear Alessandro's name thus -familiarly spoken,--spoken by persons who had known him so recently, and -who were grieving, grieving as friends, to hear of his terrible death! -Felipe felt as if he were in a trance. Rousing himself, he said, “We -must go. We must start at once. You will let me have the horses?” - -“Wall, I allow yer've got more right ter 'em 'n--” began Jos, -energetically, forgetting himself; then, dropping Tennesseean, he -completed in Spanish his cordial assurances that the horses were at -Felipe's command. - -“Jos! He's got ter take me!” cried Aunt Ri. “I allow I ain't never gwine -ter set still hyar, 'n' thet girl inter sech trouble; 'n' if so be -ez she is reely dead, thar's the baby. He hadn't orter go alone by -hisself.” - -Felipe was thankful, indeed, for Aunt Ri's companionship, and expressed -himself in phrases so warm, that she was embarrassed. - -“Yeow tell him, Jos,” she said, “I can't never git used ter bein' called -Senory. Yeow tell him his' sister allers called me Aunt Ri, 'n' I jest -wish he would. I allow me 'n' him'll git along all right. 'Pears like -I'd known him all my days, jest ez 't did with her, arter the fust. -I'm free to confess I take more ter these Mexicans than I do ter these -low-down, driven Yankees, ennyhow,--a heap more; but I can't stand -bein' Senory'd! Yeow tell him, Jos. I s'pose thar's a word for 'aunt' in -Mexican, ain't there? 'Pears like thar couldn't be no langwedge 'thout -sech a word! He'll know what it means! I'd go off with him a heap easier -ef he'd call me jest plain Aunt Ri, ez I'm used ter, or Mis Hyer, either -un on 'em; but Aunt Ri's the nateralest.” - -Jos had some anxiety about his mother's memory of the way to San -Jacinto. She laughed. - -“Don't yeow be a mite oneasy,” she said. “I bet yeow I'd go clean back -ter the States ther way we cum. I allow I've got every mile on 't 'n -my hed plain's a turnpike. Yeow nor yer dad, neiry one on yer, couldn't -begin to do 't. But what we air gwine ter do, fur gettin' up the -mounting, thet's another thing. Thet's more 'n I dew know. But thar'll -be a way pervided, Jos, sure's yeow're bawn. The Lawd ain't gwine to get -hisself hindered er holpin' Ramony this time; I ain't a mite afeerd.” - -Felipe could not have found a better ally. The comparative silence -enforced between them by reason of lack of a common vehicle for their -thoughts was on the whole less of a disadvantage than would have at -first appeared. They understood each other well enough for practical -purposes, and their unity in aim, and in affection for Ramona, made a -bond so strong, it could not have been enhanced by words. - -It was past sundown when they left San Bernardino, but a full moon made -the night as good as day for their journey. When it first shone out, -Aunt Ri, pointing to it, said curtly, “Thet's lucky.” - -“Yes,” replied Felipe, who did not know either of the words she had -spoken, “it is good. It shows to us the way.” - -“Thar, naow, say he can't understand English!” thought Aunt Ri. - -Benito and Baba travelled as if they knew the errand on which they were -hurrying. Good forty miles they had gone without flagging once, when -Aunt Ri, pointing to a house on the right hand of the road, the only one -they had seen for many miles, said: “We'll hev to sleep hyar. I donno -the road beyant this. I allow they're gone ter bed; but they'll hev to -git up 'n' take us in. They're used ter doin' it. They dew consid'able -business keepin' movers. I know 'em. They're reel friendly fur the kind -o' people they air. They're druv to death. It can't be far frum their -time to git up, ennyhow. They're up every mornin' uv thar lives long -afore daylight, a feedin' their stock, an' gittin' ready fur the day's -work. I used ter hear 'em 'n' see 'em, when we wuz campin' here. The -fust I saw uv it, I thought somebody wuz sick in the house, to git 'em -up thet time o' night; but arterwards we found out 't wan't nothin' but -thar reggerlar way. When I told dad, sez I, 'Dad, did ever yer hear -sech a thing uz gittin' up afore light to feed stock?' 'n' ter feed -theirselves tew. They'd their own breakfast all clared away, 'n' dishes -washed, too, afore light; 'n' prayers said beside; they're Methodys, -terrible pious. I used ter tell dad they talked a heap about believin' -in God; I don't allow but what they dew believe in God, tew, but -they don't worship Him so much's they worship work; not nigh so much. -Believin' 'n' worshippin' 's tew things. Yeow wouldn't see no sech -doin's in Tennessee. I allow the Lawd meant some time fur sleepin'; 'n' -I'm satisfied with his times o' lightin' up. But these Merrills air reel -nice folks, fur all this I've ben tellin' yer!--Lawd! I don't believe -he's understood a word I've said, naow!” thought Aunt Ri to herself, -suddenly becoming aware of the hopeless bewilderment on Felipe's face. -“'Tain't much use sayin' anything more'n plain yes 'n' no, between folks -thet can't understand each other's langwedge; 'n' s' fur's thet goes, I -allow thar ain't any gret use'n the biggest part o' what's sed between -folks thet doos!” - -When the Merrill family learned Felipe's purpose of going up the -mountain to the Cahuilla village, they attempted to dissuade him from -taking his own horses. He would kill them both, high-spirited horses -like those, they said, if he took them over that road. It was a cruel -road. They pointed out to him the line where it wound, doubling and -tacking on the sides of precipices, like a path for a goat or chamois. -Aunt Ri shuddered at the sight, but said nothing. - -“I'm gwine whar he goes,” she said grimly to herself. “I ain't a gwine -ter back daown naow; but I dew jest wish Jeff Hyer wuz along.” - -Felipe himself disliked what he saw and heard of the grade. The road -had been built for bringing down lumber, and for six miles it was at -perilous angles. After this it wound along on ridges and in ravines till -it reached the heart of a great pine forest, where stood a saw-mill. -Passing this, it plunged into still darker, denser woods, some fifteen -miles farther on, and then came out among vast opens, meadows, and -grassy foot-hills, still on the majestic mountain's northern or eastern -slopes. From these, another steep road, little more than a trail, led -south, and up to the Cahuilla village. A day and a half's hard journey, -at the shortest, it was from Merrill's; and no one unfamiliar with the -country could find the last part of the way without a guide. Finally -it was arranged that one of the younger Merrills should go in this -capacity, and should also take two of his strongest horses, accustomed -to the road. By the help of these the terrible ascent was made without -difficulty, though Baba at first snorted, plunged, and resented the -humiliation of being harnessed with his head at another horse's tail. - -Except for their sad errand, both Felipe and Aunt Ri would have -experienced a keen delight in this ascent. With each fresh lift on the -precipitous terraces, the view off to the south and west broadened, -until the whole San Jacinto Valley lay unrolled at their feet. The pines -were grand; standing, they seemed shapely columns; fallen, the upper -curve of their huge yellow disks came above a man's head, so massive was -their size. On many of them the bark had been riddled from root to top, -as by myriads of bullet-holes. In each hole had been cunningly stored -away an acorn,--the woodpeckers' granaries. - -“Look at thet, naow!” exclaimed the observant Aunt Ri; “an' thar's -folk's thet sez dumb critters ain't got brains. They ain't noways dumb -to each other, I notice; an' we air dumb aourselves when we air ketched -with furriners. I allow I'm next door to dumb myself with this hyar -Mexican I'm er travellin' with.” - -“That's so!” replied Sam Merrill. “When we fust got here, I thought I'd -ha' gone clean out o' my head tryin' to make these Mexicans sense my -meanin'; my tongue was plaguy little use to me. But now I can talk their -lingo fust-rate; but pa, he can't talk to 'em nohow; he hain't learned -the fust word; 'n' he's ben here goin' on two years longer'n we have.” - -The miles seemed leagues to Felipe. Aunt Ri's drawling tones, as she -chatted volubly with young Merrill, chafed him. How could she chatter! -But when he thought this, it would chance that in a few moments more he -would see her clandestinely wiping away tears, and his heart would warm -to her again. - -They slept at a miserable cabin in one of the clearings, and at early -dawn pushed on, reaching the Cahuilla village before noon. As their -carriage came in sight, a great running to and fro of people was to be -seen. Such an event as the arrival of a comfortable carriage drawn by -four horses had never before taken place in the village. The agitation -into which the people had been thrown by the murder of Alessandro had -by no means subsided; they were all on the alert, suspicious of each new -occurrence. The news had only just reached the village that Farrar had -been set at liberty, and would not be punished for his crime, and the -flames of indignation and desire for vengeance, which the aged Capitan -had so much difficulty in allaying in the outset, were bursting forth -again this morning. It was therefore a crowd of hostile and lowering -faces which gathered around the carriage as it stopped in front of the -Capitan's house. - -Aunt Ri's face was a ludicrous study of mingled terror, defiance, and -contempt. “Uv all ther low-down, no-'count, beggarly trash ever I laid -eyes on,” she said in a low tone to Merrill, “I allow these yere air the -wust! But I allow they'd flatten us all aout in jest abaout a minnit, -if they wuz to set aout tew! Ef she ain't hyar, we air in a scrape, I -allow.” - -“Oh, they're friendly enough,” laughed Merrill. “They're all stirred -up, now, about the killin' o' that Injun; that's what makes 'em look -so fierce. I don't wonder! 'Twas a derned mean thing Jim Farrar did, a -firin' into the man after he was dead. I don't blame him for killin' -the cuss, not a bit; I'd have shot any man livin' that 'ad taken a good -horse o' mine up that trail. That's the only law we stock men've got -out in this country. We've got to protect ourselves. But it was a mean, -low-lived trick to blow the feller's face to pieces after he was dead; -but Jim's a rough feller, 'n' I expect he was so mad, when he see his -horse, that he didn't know what he did.” - -Aunt Ri was half paralyzed with astonishment at this speech. Felipe had -leaped out of the carriage, and after a few words with the old Capitan, -had hurried with him into his house. Felipe had evidently forgotten that -she was still in the carriage. His going into the house looked as if -Ramona was there. Aunt Ri, in all her indignation and astonishment, was -conscious of this train of thought running through her mind; but not -even the near prospect of seeing Ramona could bridle her tongue now, -or make her defer replying to the extraordinary statements she had just -heard. The words seemed to choke her as she began. “Young man,” she -said, “I donno much abaout yeour raisin'. I've heered yeour folks wuz -great on religion. Naow, we ain't, Jeff 'n' me; we warn't raised thet -way; but I allow ef I wuz ter hear my boy, Jos,--he's jest abaout yeour -age, 'n' make tew, though he's narrerer chested,--ef I should hear him -say what yeou've jest said, I allow I sh'd expect to see him struck by -lightnin'; 'n' I sh'dn't think he hed got more 'n his deserts, I allow I -sh'dn't!” - -What more Aunt Ri would have said to the astounded Merrill was never -known, for at that instant the old Capitan, returning to the door, -beckoned to her; and springing from her seat to the ground, sternly -rejecting Sam's offered hand, she hastily entered the house. As she -crossed the threshold, Felipe turned an anguished face toward her, and -said, “Come, speak to her.” He was on his knees by a wretched pallet on -the floor. Was that Ramona,--that prostrate form; hair dishevelled, eyes -glittering, cheeks scarlet, hands playing meaninglessly, like the hands -of one crazed, with a rosary of gold beads? Yes, it was Ramona; and -it was like this she had lain there now ten days; and the people had -exhausted all their simple skill for her in vain. - -Aunt Ri burst into tears. “Oh, Lawd!” she said. “Ef I had some 'old man' -hyar, I'd bring her aout er thet fever! I dew bleeve I seed some on 't -growin' not more'n er mile back.” And without a second look, or another -word, she ran out of the door, and springing into the carriage, said, -speaking faster than she had been heard to speak for thirty years: “Yeow -jest turn raound 'n' drive me back a piece, the way we come. I allow -I'll git a weed thet'll break thet fever. Faster, faster! Run yer -hosses. 'Tain't above er mile back, whar I seed it,” she cried, leaning -out, eagerly scrutinizing each inch of the barren ground. “Stop! Here -'tis!” she cried. “I knowed I smelt the bitter on 't somewhars along -hyar;” and in a few minutes more she had a mass of the soft, shining, -gray, feathery leaves in her hands, and was urging the horses fiercely -on their way back. “This'll cure her, ef ennything will,” she said, as -she entered the room again; but her heart sank as she saw Ramona's eyes -roving restlessly over Felipe's face, no sign of recognition in them. -“She's bad,” she said, her lips trembling; “but, 'never say die!' ez -allers our motto; 'tain't never tew late fur ennything but oncet, 'n' -yer can't tell when thet time's come till it's past 'n' gone.” - -Steaming bowls of the bitterly odorous infusion she held at Ramona's -nostrils; with infinite patience she forced drop after drop of it -between the unconscious lips; she bathed the hands and head, her own -hands blistered by the heat. It was a fight with death; but love and -life won. Before night Ramona was asleep. - -Felipe and Aunt Ri sat by her, strange but not uncongenial watchers, -each taking heart from the other's devotion. All night long Ramona -slept. As Felipe watched her, he remembered his own fever, and how she -had knelt by his bed and prayed there. He glanced around the room. In a -niche in the mud wall was a cheap print of the Madonna, one candle just -smouldering out before it. The village people had drawn heavily on their -poverty-stricken stores, keeping candles burning for Alessandro and -Ramona during the past ten days. The rosary had slipped from Ramona's -hold; taking it cautiously in his hand, Felipe went to the Madonna's -picture, and falling on his knees, began to pray as simply as if he were -alone. The Indians, standing on the doorway, also fell on their knees, -and a low-whispered murmur was heard. - -For a moment Aunt Ri looked at the kneeling figures with contempt. “Oh, -Lawd!” she thought, “the pore heathen, prayin' ter a picter!” Then a -sudden revulsion seized her. “I allow I ain't gwine ter be the unly one -out er the hull number thet don't seem to hev nothin' ter pray ter; I -allow I'll jine in prayer, tew, but I shan't say mine ter no picter!” - And Aunt Ri fell on her knees; and when a young Indian woman by her side -slipped a rosary into her hand, Aunt Ri did not repulse it, but hid it -in the folds of her gown till the prayers were done. It was a moment and -a lesson Aunt Ri never forgot. - - - - -XXVI - -THE Capitan's house faced the east. Just as day broke, and the light -streamed in at the open door, Ramona's eyes unclosed. Felipe and Aunt -Ri were both by her side. With a look of bewildered terror, she gazed at -them. - -“Thar, thar, naow! Yer jest shet yer eyes 'n' go right off ter sleep -agin, honey,” said Aunt Ri, composedly, laying her hand on Ramona's -eyelids, and compelling them down. “We air hyar, Feeleepy 'n' me, 'n' -we air goin' ter stay. I allow yer needn't be afeerd o' nothin'. Go ter -sleep, honey.” - -The eyelids quivered beneath Aunt Ri's fingers. Tears forced their way, -and rolled slowly down the cheeks. The lips trembled; the voice strove -to speak, but it was only like the ghost of a whisper, the faint -question that came,--“Felipe?” - -“Yes, dear! I am here, too,” breathed Felipe; “go to sleep. We will not -leave you!” - -And again Ramona sank away into the merciful sleep which was saving her -life. - -“Ther longer she kin sleep, ther better,” said Aunt Ri, with a sigh, -deep-drawn like a groan. “I allow I dread ter see her reely come to. -'T'll be wus'n the fust; she'll hev ter live it all over again!” - -But Aunt Ri did not know what forces of fortitude had been gathering -in Ramona's soul during these last bitter years. Out of her gentle -constancy had been woven the heroic fibre of which martyrs are made; -this, and her inextinguishable faith, had made her strong, as were -those of old, who “had trial of cruel mocking, wandering about, being -destitute, afflicted, tormented, wandered in deserts and in mountains, -and in dens and caves of the earth.” - -When she waked the second time, it was with a calm, almost beatific -smile that she gazed on Felipe, and whispered, “How did you find me, -dear Felipe?” It was rather by the motions of her lips than by any -sound that he knew the words. She had not yet strength enough to make an -audible sound. When they laid her baby on her breast, she smiled again, -and tried to embrace her, but was too weak. Pointing to the baby's eyes, -she whispered, gazing earnestly at Felipe, “Alessandro.” A convulsion -passed over her face as she spoke the word, and the tears flowed. - -Felipe could not speak. He glanced helplessly at Aunt Ri, who promptly -responded: “Naow, honey, don't yeow talk. 'Tain't good fur ye; 'n' -Feeleepy 'n' me, we air in a powerful hurry ter git yer strong 'n' -well, 'n' tote ye out er this--” Aunt Ri stopped. No substantive in her -vocabulary answered her need at that moment. “I allow ye kin go 'n a -week, ef nothin' don't go agin ye more'n I see naow; but ef yer git ter -talkin', thar's no tellin' when yer'll git up. Yeow jest shet up, honey. -We'll look arter everythin'.” - -Feebly Ramona turned her grateful, inquiring eyes on Felipe. Her lips -framed the words, “With you?” - -“Yes, dear, home with me,” said Felipe, clasping her hand in his. “I -have been searching for you all this time.” - -An anxious look came into the sweet face. Felipe knew what it meant. How -often he had seen it in the olden time. He feared to shock her by the -sudden mention of the Senora's death; yet that would harm her less than -continued anxiety. “I am alone, dear Ramona,” he whispered. “There is no -one now but you, my sister, to take care of me. My mother has been dead -a year.” - -The eyes dilated, then filled with sympathetic tears. “Dear Felipe!” - she sighed; but her heart took courage. Felipe's phrase was like one -inspired; another duty, another work, another loyalty, waiting for -Ramona. Not only her child to live for, but to “take care of Felipe”! -Ramona would not die! Youth, a mother's love, a sister's affection and -duty, on the side of life,--the battle was won, and won quickly, too. - -To the simple Cahuillas it seemed like a miracle; and they looked on -Aunt Ri's weather-beaten face with something akin to a superstitious -reverence. They themselves were not ignorant of the value of the herb -by means of which she had wrought the marvellous cure; but they had made -repeated experiments with it upon Ramona, without success. It must be -that there had been some potent spell in Aunt Ri's handling. They would -hardly believe her when, in answer to their persistent questioning, she -reiterated the assertion that she had used nothing except the hot water -and “old man,” which was her name for the wild wormwood; and which, -when explained to them, impressed them greatly, as having no doubt some -significance in connection with the results of her preparation of the -leaves. - -Rumors about Felipe ran swiftly throughout the region. The presence in -the Cahuilla village of a rich Mexican gentleman who spent gold like -water, and kept mounted men riding day and night, after everything, -anything, he wanted for his sick sister, was an event which in the -atmosphere of that lonely country loomed into colossal proportions. He -had travelled all over California, with four horses, in search of her. -He was only waiting till she was well, to take her to his home in the -south; and then he was going to arrest the man who had murdered her -husband, and have him hanged,--yes, hanged! Small doubt about that; -or, if the law cleared him, there was still the bullet. This rich Senor -would see him shot, if rope were not to be had. Jim Farrar heard these -tales, and quaked in his guilty soul. The rope he had small fear of, for -well he knew the temper of San Diego County juries and judges; but the -bullet, that was another thing; and these Mexicans were like Indians in -their vengeance. Time did not tire them, and their memories were long. -Farrar cursed the day he had let his temper get the better of him on -that lonely mountainside; how much the better, nobody but he himself -knew,--nobody but he and Ramona: and even Ramona did not know the bitter -whole. She knew that Alessandro had no knife, and had gone forward with -no hostile intent; but she knew nothing beyond that. Only the murderer -himself knew that the dialogue which he had reported to the judge and -jury, to justify his act, was an entire fabrication of his own, and -that, instead of it, had been spoken but four words by Alessandro, and -those were, “Senor, I will explain;” and that even after the first shot -had pierced his lungs, and the blood was choking in his throat, he had -still run a step or two farther, with his hand uplifted deprecatingly, -and made one more effort to speak before he fell to the ground dead. -Callous as Farrar was, and clear as it was in his mind that killing an -Indian was no harm, he had not liked to recall the pleading anguish in -Alessandro's tone and in his face as he fell. He had not liked to recall -this, even before he heard of this rich Mexican brother-in-law who -had appeared on the scene; and now, he found the memories still more -unpleasant. Fear is a wonderful goad to remorse. There was another -thing, too, which to his great wonder had been apparently overlooked by -everybody; at least, nothing had been said about it; but the bearing of -it on his case, if the case were brought up a second time and minutely -investigated, would be most unfortunate. And this was, that the only -clew he had to the fact of Alessandro's having taken his horse, was that -the poor, half-crazed fellow had left his own well-known gray pony in -the corral in place of the horse he took. A strange thing, surely, for a -horse-thief to do! Cold sweat burst out on Farrar's forehead, more -than once, as he realized how this, coupled with the well-known fact -of Alessandro's liability to attacks of insanity, might be made to tell -against him, if he should be brought to trial for the murder. He was -as cowardly as he was cruel: never yet were the two traits separate -in human nature; and after a few days of this torturing suspense and -apprehension, he suddenly resolved to leave the country, if not forever, -at least for a few years, till this brother-in-law should be out of the -way. He lost no time in carrying out his resolution; and it was well -he did not, for it was only three days after he had disappeared, that -Felipe walked into Judge Wells's office, one morning, to make inquiries -relative to the preliminary hearing which had been held there in the -matter of the murder of the Indian, Alessandro Assis, by James Farrar. -And when the judge, taking down his books, read to Felipe his notes of -the case, and went on to say, “If Farrar's testimony is true, Ramona's, -the wife's, must be false,” and “at any rate, her testimony would not be -worth a straw with any jury,” Felipe sprang to his feet, and cried, “She -of whom you speak is my foster-sister; and, by God, Senor, if I can find -that man, I will shoot him as I would a dog! And I'll see, then, if a -San Diego County jury will hang me for ridding the country of such a -brute!” and Felipe would have been as good as his word. It was a wise -thing Farrar had done in making his escape. - -When Aunt Ri heard that Farrar had fled the country, she pushed up -her spectacles and looked reflectively at her informant. It was young -Merrill. “Fled ther country, hez he?” she said. “Wall, he kin flee ez -many countries ez he likes, an' 't won't dew him no good. I know yeow -folks hyar don't seem ter think killin' an Injun's enny murder, but I -say 'tis; an' yeow'll all git it brung home ter yer afore yer die: ef -'tain't brung one way, 't'll be anuther; yeow jest mind what I say, 'n' -don't yeow furgit it. Naow this miser'ble murderer, this Farrar, thet's -lighted out er hyar, he's nothin' more'n a skunk, but he's got the Lawd -arter him, naow. It's jest's well he's gawn; I never did b'leeve in -hangin'. I never could. It's jest tew men dead 'stead o' one. I don't -want to see no man hung, no marter what he's done, 'n' I don't want to -see no man shot down, nuther, no marter what he's done; 'n' this hyar -Feeleepy, he's thet highstrung, he'd ha' shot thet Farrar, any minnit, -quicker'n lightnin', ef he'd ketched him; so it's better all raound -he's lit aout. But I tell yeow, naow, he hain't made much by goin'! Thet -Injun he murdered 'll foller him night 'n' day, till he dies, 'n' long -arter; he'll wish he wuz dead afore he doos die, I allow he will, naow. -He'll be jest like a man I knowed back in Tennessee. I wa'n't but a -mite then, but I never forgot it. 'Tis a great country fur gourds, East -Tennessee is, whar I wuz raised; 'n' thar wuz two houses, 'n' a fence -between 'em, 'n' these gourds a runnin' all over the fence; 'n' one o' -ther childun picked one o' them gourds, an' they fit abaout it; 'n' then -the women took it up,--ther childun's mothers, yer know,--'n' they got -fightin' abaout it; 'n' then 't the last the men took it up, 'n' they -fit; 'n' Rowell he got his butcher-knife, 'n' he ground it up, 'n' he -picked a querril with Claiborne, 'n' he cut him inter pieces. They hed -him up for 't, 'n' somehow they clared him. I don't see how they ever -did, but they put 't off, 'n' put 't off, 'n' 't last they got him free; -'n' he lived on thar a spell, but he couldn't stan' it; 'peared like -he never hed no peace; 'n' he came over ter our 'us, 'n' sed he, -'Jake,'--they allers called daddy 'Jake,' or 'Uncle Jake,'--'Jake,' sed -he, 'I can't stan' it, livin' hyar.' 'Why,' sez daddy, 'the law o' the -country's clar'd ye.' 'Yes,' sez he, 'but the law o' God hain't; 'n' -I've got Claiborne allers with me. Thar ain't any path so narrer, but -he's a walkin' in it, by my side, all day; 'n' come night, I sleep with -him ter one side, 'n' my wife 't other; 'n' I can't stan' it.' Them's -ther very words I heered him say, 'n' I wuzn't ennythin' but a mite, but -I didn't furgit it. Wall, sir, he went West, way aout hyar to Californy, -'n' he couldn't stay thar nuther, 'n' he came back hum agin; 'n' I wuz -bigger then, a gal grown, 'n' daddy sez to him,--I heern him,--'Wal,' -sez he, 'did Claiborne foller yer?' 'Yes,' sez he, 'he follered me. I'll -never git shet o' him in this world. He's allers clost to me everywhar.' -Yer see, 'twas jest his conscience er whippin' him. Thet's all 't wuz. -'T least, thet's all I think 't wuz; though thar wuz those thet said -'t wuz Claiborne's ghost. 'N' thet'll be the way 't 'll be with this -miser'ble Farrar. He'll live ter wish he'd let hisself be hanged er -shot, er erry which way, ter git out er his misery.” - -Young Merrill listened with unwonted gravity to Aunt Ri's earnest words. -They reached a depth in his nature which had been long untouched; a -stratum, so to speak, which lay far beneath the surface. The character -of the Western frontiersman is often a singular accumulation of such -strata,--the training and beliefs of his earliest days overlain by -successions of unrelated and violent experiences, like geological -deposits. Underneath the exterior crust of the most hardened and -ruffianly nature often remains--its forms not yet quite fossilized--a -realm full of the devout customs, doctrines, religious influences, which -the boy knew, and the man remembers, By sudden upheaval, in some great -catastrophe or struggle in his mature life, these all come again into -the light. Assembly Catechism definitions, which he learned in his -childhood, and has not thought of since, ring in his ears, and he is -thrown into all manner of confusions and inconsistencies of feeling and -speech by this clashing of the old and new man within him. It was much -in this way that Aunt Ri's words smote upon young Merrill. He was not -many years removed from the sound of a preaching of the straitest New -England Calvinism. The wild frontier life had drawn him in and under, as -in a whirlpool; but he was New Englander yet at heart. - -“That's so, Aunt Ri!” he exclaimed. “That's so! I don't s'pose a man -that's committed murder 'll ever have any peace in this world, nor in -the next nuther, without he repents; but ye see this horse-stealin' -business is different. 'Tain't murder to kill a hoss-thief, any way you -can fix it; everybody admits that. A feller that's caught horse-stealin' -had ought to be shot; and he will be, too, I tell you, in this country!” - -A look of impatient despair spread over Aunt Ri's face. “I hain't no -patience left with yer,” she said, “er talkin' abaout stealin' hosses ez -ef hosses wuz more'n human bein's! But lettin' thet all go, this Injun, -he wuz crazy. Yer all knowed it. Thet Farrar knowed it. D'yer think ef -he'd ben stealin' the hoss, he'd er left his own hoss in the corral, -same ez, yer might say, leavin' his kyerd to say 't wuz he done it; 'n' -the hoss er tied in plain sight 'n front uv his house fur ennybody ter -see?” - -“Left his own horse, so he did!” retorted Merrill. “A poor, miserable, -knock-kneed old pony, that wa'n't worth twenty dollars; 'n' Jim's horse -was worth two hundred, 'n' cheap at that.” - -“Thet ain't nuther here nor thar in what we air sayin',” persisted Aunt -Ri. “I ain't a speakin' on 't ez a swap er hosses. What I say is, he -wa'n't tryin' to cover 't up thet he'd tuk the hoss. We air sum used ter -hoss-thieves in Tennessee; but I never heered o' one yit thet left -his name fur a refference berhind him, ter show which road he tuk, 'n' -fastened ther stolen critter ter his front gate when he got hum! I allow -me 'n' yeow hedn't better say anythin' much more on ther subjeck, fur I -allow we air bound to querril ef we dew;” and nothing that Merrill said -could draw another word out of Aunt Ri in regard to Alessandro's death. -But there was another subject on which she was tireless, and her speech -eloquent. It was the kindness and goodness of the Cahuilla people. The -last vestige of her prejudice against Indians had melted and gone, in -the presence of their simple-hearted friendliness. “I'll never hear a -word said agin 'em, never, ter my longest day,” she said. “The way the -pore things hed jest stripped theirselves, to git things fur Ramony, -beat all ever I see among white folks, 'n' I've ben raound more'n most. -'N' they wa'n't lookin' fur no pay, nuther; fur they didn't know, till -Feeleepy 'n' me cum, thet she had any folks ennywhar, 'n' they'd ha' -taken care on her till she died, jest the same. The sick allers ez took -care on among them, they sed, 's long uz enny on em hez got a thing -left. Thet's ther way they air raised; I allow white folks might take a -lesson on 'em, in thet; 'n' in heaps uv other things tew. Oh, I'm done -talkin' again Injuns, naow, don't yeow furgit it! But I know, fur all -thet, 't won't make any difference; 'pears like there cuddn't nobody -b'leeve ennythin' 'n this world 'thout seein' 't theirselves. I wuz thet -way tew; I allow I hain't got no call ter talk; but I jest wish the hull -world could see what I've seen! Thet's all!” - -It was a sad day in the village when Ramona and her friends departed. -Heartily as the kindly people rejoiced in her having found such a -protector for herself and her child, and deeply as they felt Felipe's -and Aunt Ri's good-will and gratitude towards them, they were yet -conscious of a loss,--of a void. The gulf between them and the rest of -the world seemed defined anew, their sense of isolation deepened, their -hopeless poverty emphasized. Ramona, wife of Alessandro, had been as -their sister,--one of them; as such, she would have had share in all -their life had to offer. But its utmost was nothing, was but hardship -and deprivation; and she was being borne away from it, like one rescued, -not so much from death, as from a life worse than death. - -The tears streamed down Ramona's face as she bade them farewell. She -embraced again and again the young mother who had for so many days -suckled her child, even, it was said, depriving her own hardier babe -that Ramona's should not suffer. “Sister, you have given me my child,” - she cried; “I can never thank you; I will pray for you all my life.” - -She made no inquiries as to Felipe's plans. Unquestioningly, like a -little child, she resigned herself into his hands. A power greater than -hers was ordering her way; Felipe was its instrument. No other voice -spoke to guide her. The same old simplicity of acceptance which had -characterized her daily life in her girlhood, and kept her serene -and sunny then,--serene under trials, sunny in her routine of little -duties,--had kept her serene through all the afflictions, and calm, -if not sunny, under all the burdens of her later life; and it did not -desert her even now. - -Aunt Ri gazed at her with a sentiment as near to veneration as her dry, -humorous, practical nature was capable of feeling. “I allow I donno but -I sh'd cum ter believin' in saints tew,” she said, “ef I wuz ter live -'long side er thet gal. 'Pears like she wuz suthin' more 'n human. 'T -beats me plum out, ther way she takes her troubles. Thar's sum would -say she hedn't no feelin'; but I allow she hez more 'n most folks. I kin -see, 'tain't thet. I allow I didn't never expect ter think 's well uv -prayin' to picters, 'n' strings er beads, 'n' sech; but ef 't 's thet -keeps her up ther way she's kept up, I allow thar's more in it 'n -it's hed credit fur. I ain't gwine ter say enny more agin it' nor agin -Injuns. 'Pears like I'm gittin' heaps er new idears inter my head, these -days. I'll turn Injun, mebbe, afore I git through!” - -The farewell to Aunt Ri was hardest of all. Ramona clung to her as to a -mother. At times she felt that she would rather stay by her side than go -home with Felipe; then she reproached herself for the thought, as for a -treason and ingratitude. Felipe saw the feeling, and did not wonder at -it. “Dear girl,” he thought; “it is the nearest she has ever come to -knowing what a mother's love is like!” And he lingered in San Bernardino -week after week, on the pretence that Ramona was not yet strong enough -to bear the journey home, when in reality his sole motive for staying -was his reluctance to deprive her of Aunt Ri's wholesome and cheering -companionship. - -Aunt Ri was busily at work on a rag carpet for the Indian Agent's wife. -She had just begun it, had woven only a few inches, on that dreadful -morning when the news of Alessandro's death reached her. It was of her -favorite pattern, the “hit-er-miss” pattern, as she called it; no set -stripes or regular alternation of colors, but ball after ball of the -indiscriminately mixed tints, woven back and forth, on a warp of a -single color. The constant variety in it, the unexpectedly harmonious -blending of the colors, gave her delight, and afforded her a subject, -too, of not unphilosophical reflection. - -“Wall,” she said, “it's called ther 'hit-er-miss' pattren; but it's -'hit' oftener'n 'tis 'miss.' Thar ain't enny accountin' fur ther way -ther breadths'll come, sometimes; 'pears like 't wuz kind er magic, when -they air sewed tergether; 'n' I allow thet's ther way it's gwine ter -be with heaps er things in this life. It's jest a kind er 'hit-er-miss' -pattren we air all on us livin' on; 'tain't much use tryin' ter reckon -how 't 'll come aout; but the breadths doos fit heaps better 'n yer'd -think; come ter sew 'em, 'tain't never no sech colors ez yer thought -'t wuz gwine ter be; but it's allers pooty, allers; never see a -'hit-er-miss' pattren 'n my life yit, thet wa'n't pooty. 'N' ther wa'n't -never nobody fetched me rags, 'n' hed 'em all planned aout, 'n' jest -ther way they wanted ther warp, 'n' jest haow ther stripes wuz ter come, -'n' all, thet they wa'n't orful diserpynted when they cum ter see 't -done. It don't never look's they thought 't would, never! I larned thet -lesson airly; 'n' I allers make 'em write aout on a paper, jest ther -wedth er every stripe, 'n' each er ther colors, so's they kin see it's -what they ordered; 'r else they'd allers say I hedn't wove 't's I wuz -told ter. I got ketched thet way oncet! I allow ennybody's a bawn fool -gits ketched twice runnin' ther same way. But fur me, I'll take ther -'hit-er-miss' pattren, every time, sir, straight along.” - -When the carpet was done, Aunt Ri took the roll in her own independent -arms, and strode with it to the Agent's house. She had been biding the -time when she should have this excuse for going there. Her mind was -burdened with questions she wished to ask, information she wished to -give, and she chose an hour when she knew she would find the Agent -himself at home. - -“I allow yer heered why I wuz behind time with this yere carpet,” she -said; “I wuz up ter San Jacinto Mounting, where thet Injun wuz murdered. -We brung his widder 'n' ther baby daown with us, me 'n' her brother. -He's tuk her home ter his house ter live. He's reel well off.” - -Yes, the Agent had heard this; he had wondered why the widow did not -come to see him; he had expected to hear from her. - -“Wall, I did hent ter her thet p'raps yer could dew something, ef she -wuz ter tell yer all abaout it; but she allowed thar wa'n't enny use in -talkin'. Ther jedge, he sed her witnessin' wouldn't be wuth nuthin' to -no jury; 'n' thet wuz what I wuz a wantin' to ask yeow, ef thet wuz so.” - -“Yes, that is what the lawyers here told me,” said the Agent. “I was -going to have the man arrested, but they said it would be folly to bring -the case to trial. The woman's testimony would not be believed.” - -“Yeow've got power ter git a man punished fur sellin' whiskey to Injuns, -I notice,” broke in Aunt Ri; “hain't yer? I see yeour man 'n' the -marshal here arrestin' 'em pooty lively last month; they sed 'twas yeour -doin'; yeow was a gwine ter prossacute every livin' son o' hell--them -wuz thar words--thet sold whiskey ter Injuns.” - -“That's so!” said the Agent. “So I am; I am determined to break up this -vile business of selling whiskey to Indians. It is no use trying to do -anything for them while they are made drunk in this way; it's a sin and -a shame.” - -“Thet's so, I allow ter yeow,” said Aunt Ri. “Thar ain't any gainsayin' -thet. But ef yeow've got power ter git a man put in jail fur sellin' -whiskey 't 'n Injun, 'n' hain't got power to git him punished ef he goes -'n' kills thet Injun, 't sems ter me thar's suthin' cur'us abaout thet.” - -“That is just the trouble in my position here, Aunt Ri,” he said. “I -have no real power over my Indians, as I ought to have.” - -“What makes yer call 'em yeour Injuns?” broke in Aunt Ri. - -The Agent colored. Aunt Ri was a privileged character, but her logical -method of questioning was inconvenient. - -“I only mean that they are under my charge,” he said. “I don't mean that -they belong to me in any way.” - -“Wall, I allow not,” retorted Aunt Ri, “enny more 'n I dew. They air -airnin' their livin', sech 's 'tis, ef yer kin call it a livin'. I've -been 'mongst 'em, naow, they hyar last tew weeks, 'n' I allow I've had -my eyes opened ter some things. What's thet docter er yourn, him thet -they call the Agency doctor,--what's he got ter do?” - -“To attend to the Indians of this Agency when they are sick,” replied -the Agent, promptly. - -“Wall, thet's what I heern; thet's what yeow sed afore, 'n' thet's why -Alessandro, the Injun thet wuz murdered,--thet's why he put his name -down 'n yeour books, though 't went agin him orful ter do it. He wuz -high-spereted, 'n' 'd allers took keer er hisself; but he'd ben druv out -er fust one place 'n' then another, tell he'd got clar down, 'n' pore; -'n' he jest begged thet doctor er yourn to go to see his little gal, 'n' -the docter wouldn't; 'n' more'n thet, he laughed at him fur askin.' 'N' -they set the little thing on the hoss ter bring her here, 'n' she died -afore they'd come a mile with her; 'n' 't wuz thet, on top er all the -rest druv Alessandro crazy. He never hed none er them wandrin' spells -till arter thet. Naow I allow thet wa'n't right eh thet docter. I -wouldn't hev no sech docter's thet raound my Agency, ef I wuz yeow. -Pr'aps yer never heered uv thet. I told Ramony I didn't bleeve yer -knowed it, or ye'd hev made him go.” - -“No, Aunt Ri,” said the Agent; “I could not have done that; he is only -required to doctor such Indians as come here.” - -“I allow, then, thar ain't any gret use en hevin' him at all,” said Aunt -Ri; “'pears like thar ain't more'n a harndful uv Injuns raound here. I -expect he gits well paid?” and she paused for an answer. None came. The -Agent did not feel himself obliged to reveal to Aunt Ri what salary -the Government paid the San Bernardino doctor for sending haphazard -prescriptions to Indians he never saw. - -After a pause Aunt Ri resumed: “Ef it ain't enny offence ter yeow, I -allow I'd like ter know jest what 'tis yeow air here ter dew fur these -Injuns. I've got my feelin's considdable stirred up, bein' among 'em -'n' knowing this hyar one, thet's ben murdered. Hev ye got enny power to -giv' 'em ennything,--food or sech? They air powerful pore, most on 'em.” - -“I have had a little fund for buying supplies for them in times -of special suffering;” replied the Agent, “a very little; and the -Department has appropriated some money for wagons and ploughs; not -enough, however, to supply every village; you see these Indians are in -the main self-supporting.” - -“Thet's jest it,” persisted Aunt Ri. “Thet's what I've ben seein'; 'n' -thet's why I want so bad ter git at what 'tis the Guvvermunt means ter -hev yeow dew fur 'em. I allow ef yeow ain't ter feed 'em, an' ef yer -can't put folks inter jail fur robbin' 'n' cheatin' 'em, not ter say -killin' 'em,--ef yer can't dew ennythin' more 'n keep 'em from gettin' -whiskey, wall, I'm free ter say--” Aunt Ri paused; she did not wish to -seem to reflect on the Agent's usefulness, and so concluded her sentence -very differently from her first impulse,--“I'm free ter say I shouldn't -like ter stan' in yer shoes.” - -“You may very well say that, Aunt Ri,” laughed the Agent, complacently. -“It is the most troublesome Agency in the whole list, and the least -satisfactory.” - -“Wall, I allow it mought be the least satisfyin',” rejoined the -indefatigable Aunt Ri; “but I donno whar the trouble comes in, ef so -be's thar's no more kin be done than yer wuz er tellin'.” And she looked -honestly puzzled. - -“Look there, Aunt Ri!” said he, triumphantly, pointing to a pile of -books and papers. “All those to be gone through with, and a report to be -made out every month, and a voucher to be sent for every lead-pencil I -buy. I tell you I work harder than I ever did in my life before, and for -less pay.” - -“I allow yer hev hed easy times afore, then,” retorted Aunt Ri, -good-naturedly satirical, “ef yeow air plum tired doin' thet!” And she -took her leave, not a whit clearer in her mind as to the real nature and -function of the Indian Agency than she was in the beginning. - -Through all of Ramona's journey home she seemed to herself to be in a -dream. Her baby in her arms; the faithful creatures, Baba and Benito, -gayly trotting along at a pace so swift that the carriage seemed -gliding; Felipe by her side,--the dear Felipe,--his eyes wearing the -same bright and loving look as of old,--what strange thing was it which -had happened to her to make it all seem unreal? Even the little one -in her arms,--she too, seemed unreal! Ramona did not know it, but -her nerves were still partially paralyzed. Nature sends merciful -anaesthetics in the shocks which almost kill us. In the very sharpness -of the blow sometimes lies its own first healing. It would be long -before Ramona would fully realize that Alessandro was dead. Her worst -anguish was yet to come. - -Felipe did not know and could not have understood this; and it was with -a marvelling gratitude that he saw Ramona, day after day, placid, -always ready with a smile when he spoke to her. Her gratitude for each -thoughtfulness of his smote him like a reproach; all the more that he -knew her gentle heart had never held a thought of reproach in it towards -him. “Grateful to me!” he thought. “To me, who might have spared her all -this woe if I had been strong!” - -Never would Felipe forgive himself,--no, not to the day of his death. -His whole life should be devoted to her and her child; but what a -pitiful thing was that to render! - -As they drew near home, he saw Ramona often try to conceal from him that -she had shed tears. At last he said to her: “Dearest Ramona, do not fear -to weep before me. I would not be any constraint on you. It is better -for you to let the tears come freely, my sister. They are healing to -wounds.” - -“I do not think so, Felipe,” replied Ramona. “Tears are only selfish and -weak. They are like a cry because we are hurt. It is not possible always -to keep them back; but I am ashamed when I have wept, and think also -that I have sinned, because I have given a sad sight to others. Father -Salvierderra always said that it was a duty to look happy, no matter how -much we might be suffering.” - -“That is more than human power can do!” said Felipe. - -“I think not,” replied Ramona. “If it were, Father Salvierderra would -not have commanded it. And do you not recollect, Felipe, what a smile -his face always wore? and his heart had been broken for many, many years -before he died. Alone, in the night, when he prayed, he used to weep, -from the great wrestling he had with God, he told me; but we never -saw him except with a smile. When one thinks in the wilderness, alone, -Felipe, many things become clear. I have been learning, all these years -in the wilderness, as if I had had a teacher. Sometimes I almost thought -that the spirit of Father Salvierderra was by my side putting thoughts -into my mind. I hope I can tell them to my child when she is old enough. -She will understand them quicker than I did, for she has Alessandro's -soul; you can see that by her eyes. And all these things of which I -speak were in his heart from his childhood. They belong to the air and -the sky and the sun, and all trees know them.” - -When Ramona spoke thus of Alessandro, Felipe marvelled in silence. He -himself had been afraid to mention Alessandro's name; but Ramona spoke -it as if he were yet by her side. Felipe could not fathom this. There -were to be many things yet which Felipe could not fathom in this lovely, -sorrowing, sunny sister of his. - -When they reached the house, the servants, who had been on the watch -for days, were all gathered in the court-yard, old Marda and Juan Can -heading the group; only two absent,--Margarita and Luigo. They had been -married some months before, and were living at the Ortegas ranch, where -Luigo, to Juan Can's scornful amusement, had been made head shepherd. - -On all sides were beaming faces, smiles, and glad cries of greeting. -Underneath these were affectionate hearts quaking with fear lest the -home-coming be but a sad one after all. Vaguely they knew a little of -what their dear Senorita had been through since she left them; it seemed -that she must be sadly altered by so much sorrow, and that it would -be terrible to her to come back to the place so full of painful -associations. “And the Senora gone, too,” said one of the outdoor hands, -as they were talking it over; “it's not the same place at all that it -was when the Senora was here.” - -“Humph!” muttered Juan Can, more consequential and overbearing than -ever, for this year of absolute control of the estate. “Humph! that's -all you know. A good thing the Senora died when she did, I can tell you! -We'd never have seen the Senorita back here else; I can tell you that, -my man! And for my part, I'd much rather be under Senor Felipe and the -Senorita than under the Senora, peace to her ashes! She had her day. -They can have theirs now.” - -When these loving and excited retainers saw Ramona--pale, but with her -own old smile on her face--coming towards them with her babe in her -arms, they broke into wild cheering, and there was not a dry eye in the -group. - -Singling out old Marda by a glance, Ramona held out the baby towards -her, and said in her old gentle, affectionate voice, “I am sure you will -love my baby, Marda!” - -“Senorita! Senorita! God bless you, Senorita!” they cried; and closed -up their ranks around the baby, touching her, praising her, handing her -from one to another. - -Ramona stood for a few seconds watching them; then she said, “Give her -to me, Marda. I will myself carry her into the house;” and she moved -toward the inner door. - -“This way, dear; this way,” cried Felipe. “It is Father Salvierderra's -room I ordered to be prepared for you, because it is so sunny for the -baby!” - -“Thanks, kind Felipe!” cried Ramona, and her eyes said more than her -words. She knew he had divined the one thing she had most dreaded in -returning,--the crossing again the threshold of her own room. It would -be long now before she would enter that room. Perhaps she would never -enter it. How tender and wise of Felipe! - -Yes; Felipe was both tender and wise, now. How long would the wisdom -hold the tenderness in leash, as he day after day looked upon the face -of this beautiful woman,--so much more beautiful now than she had been -before her marriage, that Felipe sometimes, as he gazed at her, thought -her changed even in feature? But in this very change lay a spell which -would for a long time surround her, and set her as apart from lover's -thoughts as if she were guarded by a cordon of viewless spirits. There -was a rapt look of holy communion on her face, which made itself felt by -the dullest perception, and sometimes overawed even where it attracted. -It was the same thing which Aunt Ri had felt, and formulated in her own -humorous fashion. But old Marda put it better, when, one day, in reply -to a half-terrified, low-whispered suggestion of Juan Can, to the effect -that it was “a great pity that Senor Felipe hadn't married the Senorita -years ago,--what if he were to do it yet?” she said, also under her -breath. “It is my opinion he'd as soon think of Saint Catharine herself! -Not but that it would be a great thing if it could be!” - -And now the thing that the Senora had imagined to herself so often -had come about,--the presence of a little child in her house, on the -veranda, in the garden, everywhere; the sunny, joyous, blest presence. -But how differently had it come! Not Felipe's child, as she proudly -had pictured, but the child of Ramona: the friendless, banished -Ramona returned now into full honor and peace as the daughter of the -house,--Ramona, widow of Alessandro. If the child had been Felipe's own, -he could not have felt for it a greater love. From the first, the little -thing had clung to him as only second to her mother. She slept hours in -his arms, one little hand hid in his dark beard, close to his lips, -and kissed again and again when no one saw. Next to Ramona herself in -Felipe's heart came Ramona's child; and on the child he could lavish the -fondness he felt that he could never dare to show to the mother, Month -by month it grew clearer to Felipe that the mainsprings of Ramona's -life were no longer of this earth; that she walked as one in constant -fellowship with one unseen. Her frequent and calm mention of Alessandro -did not deceive him. It did not mean a lessening grief: it meant an -unchanged relation. - -One thing weighed heavily on Felipe's mind,--the concealed treasure. A -sense of humiliation withheld him, day after day, from speaking of -it. But he could have no peace until Ramona knew it. Each hour that he -delayed the revelation he felt himself almost as guilty as he had held -his mother to be. At last he spoke. He had not said many words, before -Ramona interrupted him. “Oh, yes!” she said. “I knew about those things; -your mother told me. When we were in such trouble, I used to wish -sometimes we could have had a few of the jewels. But they were all given -to the Church. That was what the Senora Ortegna said must be done with -them if I married against your mother's wishes.” - -It was with a shame-stricken voice that Felipe replied: “Dear Ramona, -they were not given to the Church. You know Father Salvierderra died; -and I suppose my mother did not know what to do with them. She told me -about them just as she was dying.” - -“But why did you not give them to the Church, dear?” asked Ramona, -simply. - -“Why?” cried Felipe. “Because I hold them to be yours, and yours only. -I would never have given them to the Church, until I had sure proof that -you were dead and had left no children.” - -Ramona's eyes were fixed earnestly on Felipe's face. “You have not read -the Senora Ortegna's letter?” she said. - -“Yes, I have,” he replied, “every word of it.” - -“But that said I was not to have any of the things if I married against -the Senora Moreno's will.” - -Felipe groaned. Had his mother lied? “No, dear,” he said, “that was not -the word. It was, if you married unworthily.” - -Ramona reflected. “I never recollected the words,” she said. “I was -too frightened; but I thought that was what it meant. I did not marry -unworthily. Do you feel sure, Felipe, that it would be honest for me to -take them for my child?” - -“Perfectly,” said Felipe. - -“Do you think Father Salvierderra would say I ought to keep them?” - -“I am sure of it, dear.” - -“I will think about it, Felipe. I cannot decide hastily. Your mother did -not think I had any right to them, if I married Alessandro. That was -why she showed them to me. I never knew of them till then. I took one -thing,--a handkerchief of my father's. I was very glad to have it; -but it got lost when we went from San Pasquale. Alessandro rode back a -half-day's journey to find it for me; but it had blown away. I grieved -sorely for it.” - -The next day Ramona said to Felipe: “Dear Felipe, I have thought it all -over about those jewels. I believe it will be right for my daughter to -have them. Can there be some kind of a paper written for me to sign, to -say that if she dies they are all to be given to the Church,--to Father -Salvierderra's College, in Santa Barbara? That is where I would rather -have them go.” - -“Yes, dear,” said Felipe; “and then we will put them in some safer -place. I will take them to Los Angeles when I go. It is wonderful no one -has stolen them all these years!” - -And so a second time the Ortegna jewels were passed on, by a written -bequest, into the keeping of that mysterious, certain, uncertain thing -we call the future, and delude our selves with the fancy that we -can have much to do with its shaping. - - ***** - -Life ran smoothly in the Moreno household,--smoothly to the eye. Nothing -could be more peaceful, fairer to see, than the routine of its days, -with the simple pleasures, light tasks, and easy diligence of all. -Summer and winter were alike sunny, and had each its own joys. There was -not an antagonistic or jarring element; and, flitting back and forth, -from veranda to veranda, garden to garden, room to room, equally at -home and equally welcome everywhere, there went perpetually, running, -frisking, laughing, rejoicing, the little child that had so strangely -drifted into this happy shelter,--the little Ramona. As unconscious of -aught sad or fateful in her destiny as the blossoms with which it was -her delight to play, she sometimes seemed to her mother to have been -from the first in some mysterious way disconnected from it, removed, set -free from all that could ever by any possibility link her to sorrow. - -Ramona herself bore no impress of sorrow; rather her face had now an -added radiance. There had been a period, soon after her return, when -she felt that she for the first time waked to the realization of her -bereavement; when every sight, sound, and place seemed to cry out, -mocking her with the name and the memory of Alessandro. But she wrestled -with this absorbing grief as with a sin; setting her will steadfastly -to the purposes of each day's duty, and, most of all, to the duty of -joyfulness. She repeated to herself Father Salvierderra's sayings, till -she more than knew them by heart; and she spent long hours of the night -in prayer, as it had been his wont to do. - -No one but Felipe dreamed of these vigils and wrestlings. He knew them; -and he knew, too, when they ceased, and the new light of a new -victory diffused itself over Ramona's face: but neither did the first -dishearten, nor the latter encourage him. Felipe was a clearer-sighted -lover now than he had been in his earlier youth. He knew that into the -world where Ramona really lived he did not so much as enter; yet her -every act, word, look, was full of loving thoughtfulness of and for -him, loving happiness in his companionship. And while this was so, all -Felipe's unrest could not make him unhappy. - -There were other causes entering into this unrest besides his yearning -desire to win Ramona for his wife. Year by year the conditions of life -in California were growing more distasteful to him. The methods, aims, -standards of the fast incoming Americans were to him odious. Their -boasted successes, the crowding of colonies, schemes of settlement and -development,--all were disagreeable and irritating. The passion for -money and reckless spending of it, the great fortunes made in one hour, -thrown away in another, savored to Felipe's mind more of brigandage and -gambling than of the occupations of gentlemen. He loathed them. Life -under the new government grew more and more intolerable to him; both his -hereditary instincts and prejudices, and his temperament, revolted. -He found himself more and more alone in the country. Even the Spanish -tongue was less and less spoken. He was beginning to yearn for -Mexico,--for Mexico, which he had never seen, yet yearned for like an -exile. There he might yet live among men of his own race and degree, -and of congenial beliefs and occupations. Whenever he thought of this -change, always came the quick memory of Ramona. Would she be willing -to go? Could it be that she felt a bond to this land, in which she had -known nothing but sufferings. - -At last he asked her. To his unutterable surprise, Ramona cried: -“Felipe! The saints be praised! I should never have told you. I did not -think that you could wish to leave this estate. But my most beautiful -dream for Ramona would be, that she should grow up in Mexico.” - -And as she spoke, Felipe understood by a lightning intuition, and -wondered that he had not foreknown it, that she would spare her daughter -the burden she had gladly, heroically borne herself, in the bond of -race. - -The question was settled. With gladness of heart almost more than he -could have believed possible, Felipe at once communicated with some rich -American proprietors who had desired to buy the Moreno estate. Land in -the valley had so greatly advanced in value, that the sum he received -for it was larger than he had dared to hope; was ample for the -realization of all his plans for the new life in Mexico. From the hour -that this was determined, and the time for their sailing fixed, a new -expression came into Ramona's face. Her imagination was kindled. An -untried future beckoned,--a future which she would embrace and conquer -for her daughter. Felipe saw the look, felt the change, and for the -first time hoped. It would be a new world, a new life; why not a new -love? She could not always be blind to his devotion; and when she saw -it, could she refuse to reward it? He would be very patient, and wait -long, he thought. Surely, since he had been patient so long without -hope, he could be still more patient now that hope had dawned! But -patience is not hope's province in breasts of lovers. From the day when -Felipe first thought to himself, “She will yet be mine,” it grew harder, -and not easier, for him to refrain from pouring out his love in words. -Her tender sisterliness, which had been such balm and comfort to him, -grew at times intolerable; and again and again her gentle spirit -was deeply disquieted with the fear that she had displeased him, so -strangely did he conduct himself. - -He had resolved that nothing should tempt him to disclose to her his -passion and its dreams, until they had reached their new home. But there -came a moment which mastered him, and he spoke. - -It was in Monterey. They were to sail on the morrow; and had been on -board the ship to complete the last arrangements. They were rowed back -to shore in a little boat. A full moon shone. Ramona sat bareheaded in -the end of the boat, and the silver radiance from the water seemed to -float up around her, and invest her as with a myriad halos. Felipe gazed -at her till his senses swam; and when, on stepping from the boat, she -put her hand in his, and said, as she had said hundreds of times before, -“Dear Felipe, how good you are!” he clasped her hands wildly, and cried, -“Ramona, my love! Oh, can you not love me?” - -The moonlight was bright as day. They were alone on the shore. Ramona -gazed at him for one second, in surprise. Only for a second; then she -knew all. “Felipe! My brother!” she cried, and stretched out her hands -as if in warning. - -“No! I am not your brother!” he cried. “I will not be your brother! I -would rather die!” - -“Felipe!” cried Ramona again. This time her voice recalled him to -himself. It was a voice of terror and of pain. - -“Forgive me, my sweet one!” he exclaimed. “I will never say it again. -But I have loved you so long--so long!” - -Ramona's head had fallen forward on her breast, her eyes fixed on the -shining sands; the waves rose and fell, rose and fell, at her feet -gently as sighs. A great revelation had come to Ramona. In this supreme -moment of Felipe's abandonment of all disguises, she saw his whole -past life in a new light. Remorse smote her. “Dear Felipe,” she said, -clasping her hands, “I have been very selfish. I did not know--” - -“Of course you did not, love,” said Felipe. “How could you? But I have -never loved any one else. I have always loved you. Can you not learn to -love me? I did not mean to tell you for a long time yet. But now I have -spoken; I cannot hide it any more.” - -Ramona drew nearer to him, still with her hands clasped. “I have always -loved you,” she said. “I love no other living man; but, Felipe,”--her -voice sank to a solemn whisper,--“do you not know, Felipe, that part of -me is dead,--dead? can never live again? You could not want me for your -wife, Felipe, when part of me is dead!” - -Felipe threw his arms around her. He was beside himself with joy. “You -would not say that if you did not think you could be my wife,” he cried. -“Only give yourself to me, my love, I care not whether you call yourself -dead or alive!” - -Ramona stood quietly in his arms. Ah, well for Felipe that he did not -know, never could know, the Ramona that Alessandro had known. This -gentle, faithful, grateful Ramona, asking herself fervently now if she -would do her brother a wrong, yielding up to him what seemed to her only -the broken fragment of a life; weighing his words, not in the light of -passion, but of calmest, most unselfish action,--ah, how unlike was she -to that Ramona who flung herself on Alessandro's breast, crying, “Take -me with you! I would rather die than have you leave me!” - -Ramona had spoken truth. Part of her was dead. But Ramona saw now, with -infallible intuition, that even as she had loved Alessandro, so Felipe -loved her. Could she refuse to give Felipe happiness, when he had saved -her, saved her child? What else now remained for them, these words -having been spoken? “I will be your wife, dear Felipe,” she said, -speaking solemnly, slowly, “if you are sure it will make you happy, and -if you think it is right.” - -“Right!” ejaculated Felipe, mad with the joy unlooked for so soon. -“Nothing else would be right! My Ramona, I will love you so, you will -forget you ever said that part of you was dead!” - -A strange look which startled Felipe swept across Ramona's face; it -might have been a moonbeam. It passed. Felipe never saw it again. - -General Moreno's name was still held in warm remembrance in the city of -Mexico, and Felipe found himself at once among friends. On the day after -their arrival he and Ramona were married in the cathedral, old Marda -and Juan Can, with his crutches, kneeling in proud joy behind them. -The story of the romance of their lives, being widely rumored, greatly -enhanced the interest with which they were welcomed. The beautiful young -Senora Moreno was the theme of the city; and Felipe's bosom thrilled -with pride to see the gentle dignity of demeanor by which she was -distinguished in all assemblages. It was indeed a new world, a new life. -Ramona might well doubt her own identity. But undying memories stood -like sentinels in her breast. When the notes of doves, calling to each -other, fell on her ear, her eyes sought the sky, and she heard a voice -saying, “Majella!” This was the only secret her loyal, loving heart had -kept from Felipe. A loyal, loving heart indeed it was,--loyal, loving, -serene. Few husbands so blest as the Senor Felipe Moreno. - -Sons and daughters came to bear his name. The daughters were all -beautiful; but the most beautiful of them all, and, it was said, the -most beloved by both father and mother, was the eldest one: the one -who bore the mother's name, and was only step-daughter to the -Senor,--Ramona,--Ramona, daughter of Alessandro the Indian. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ramona, by Helen Hunt Jackson - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RAMONA *** - -***** This file should be named 2802-0.txt or 2802-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/2/8/0/2802/ - -Produced by David Reed - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily -keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. - - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: - - http://www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/old-2025-04-28/2802-0.zip b/old/old-2025-04-28/2802-0.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 2f943a8..0000000 --- a/old/old-2025-04-28/2802-0.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/old-2025-04-28/2802-h.zip b/old/old-2025-04-28/2802-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index b1f1419..0000000 --- a/old/old-2025-04-28/2802-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/old-2025-04-28/2802-h/2802-h.htm b/old/old-2025-04-28/2802-h/2802-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index e57e97d..0000000 --- a/old/old-2025-04-28/2802-h/2802-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,17805 +0,0 @@ -<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> - -<!DOCTYPE html - PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > - -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> - <head> - <title> - Ramona, by Helen Hunt Jackson - </title> - <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> - - body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} - P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } - H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } - hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} - .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } - blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} - .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} - .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} - .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} - div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } - div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } - .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} - .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} - .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; - margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; - text-align: right;} - pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} - -</style> - </head> - <body> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Ramona, by Helen Hunt Jackson - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Ramona - -Author: Helen Hunt Jackson - -Release Date: December 31, 2008 [EBook #2802] -Last Updated: March 15, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RAMONA *** - - - - -Produced by David Reed, and David Widger - - - - - - -</pre> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <h1> - RAMONA - </h1> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h2> - By Helen Hunt Jackson - </h2> - <p> - <br /> <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> <br /> - </p> - <blockquote> - <p class="toc"> - <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> I </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> II </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> III </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> IV </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> V </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> VI </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> VII </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> VIII </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> IX </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> X </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> XI </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> XII </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> XIII </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> XIV </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> XV </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> XVI </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> XVII </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> XVIII </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> XIX </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> XX </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> XXI </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> XXII </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> XXIII </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> XXIV </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> XXV </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> XXVI </a> - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - </blockquote> - <p> - <br /> <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - I - </h2> - <p> - IT was sheep-shearing time in Southern California, but sheep-shearing was - late at the Senora Moreno's. The Fates had seemed to combine to put it - off. In the first place, Felipe Moreno had been ill. He was the Senora's - eldest son, and since his father's death had been at the head of his - mother's house. Without him, nothing could be done on the ranch, the - Senora thought. It had been always, “Ask Senor Felipe,” “Go to Senor - Felipe,” “Senor Felipe will attend to it,” ever since Felipe had had the - dawning of a beard on his handsome face. - </p> - <p> - In truth, it was not Felipe, but the Senora, who really decided all - questions from greatest to least, and managed everything on the place, - from the sheep-pastures to the artichoke-patch; but nobody except the - Senora herself knew this. An exceedingly clever woman for her day and - generation was Senora Gonzaga Moreno,—as for that matter, - exceedingly clever for any day and generation; but exceptionally clever - for the day and generation to which she belonged. Her life, the mere - surface of it, if it had been written, would have made a romance, to grow - hot and cold over: sixty years of the best of old Spain, and the wildest - of New Spain, Bay of Biscay, Gulf of Mexico, Pacific Ocean,—the - waves of them all had tossed destinies for the Senora. The Holy Catholic - Church had had its arms round her from first to last; and that was what - had brought her safe through, she would have said, if she had ever said - anything about herself, which she never did,—one of her many - wisdoms. So quiet, so reserved, so gentle an exterior never was known to - veil such an imperious and passionate nature, brimful of storm, always - passing through stress; never thwarted, except at peril of those who did - it; adored and hated by turns, and each at the hottest. A tremendous - force, wherever she appeared, was Senora Moreno; but no stranger would - suspect it, to see her gliding about, in her scanty black gown, with her - rosary hanging at her side, her soft dark eyes cast down, and an - expression of mingled melancholy and devotion on her face. She looked - simply like a sad, spiritual-minded old lady, amiable and indolent, like - her race, but sweeter and more thoughtful than their wont. Her voice - heightened this mistaken impression. She was never heard to speak either - loud or fast. There was at times even a curious hesitancy in her speech, - which came near being a stammer, or suggested the measured care with which - people speak who have been cured of stammering. It made her often appear - as if she did not known her own mind; at which people sometimes took - heart; when, if they had only known the truth, they would have known that - the speech hesitated solely because the Senora knew her mind so exactly - that she was finding it hard to make the words convey it as she desired, - or in a way to best attain her ends. - </p> - <p> - About this very sheep-shearing there had been, between her and the head - shepherd, Juan Canito, called Juan Can for short, and to distinguish him - from Juan Jose, the upper herdsman of the cattle, some discussions which - would have been hot and angry ones in any other hands than the Senora's. - </p> - <p> - Juan Canito wanted the shearing to begin, even though Senor Felipe were - ill in bed, and though that lazy shepherd Luigo had not yet got back with - the flock that had been driven up the coast for pasture. “There were - plenty of sheep on the place to begin with,” he said one morning,—“at - least a thousand;” and by the time they were done, Luigo would surely be - back with the rest; and as for Senor Felipe's being in bed, had not he, - Juan Canito, stood at the packing-bag, and handled the wool, when Senor - Felipe was a boy? Why could he not do it again? The Senora did not realize - how time was going; there would be no shearers to be hired presently, - since the Senora was determined to have none but Indians. Of course, if - she would employ Mexicans, as all the other ranches in the valley did, it - would be different; but she was resolved upon having Indians,—“God - knows why,” he interpolated surlily, under his breath. - </p> - <p> - “I do not quite understand you, Juan,” interrupted Senora Moreno at the - precise instant the last syllable of this disrespectful ejaculation had - escaped Juan's lips; “speak a little louder. I fear I am growing deaf in - my old age.” - </p> - <p> - What gentle, suave, courteous tones! and the calm dark eyes rested on Juan - Canito with a look to the fathoming of which he was as unequal as one of - his own sheep would have been. He could not have told why he instantly and - involuntarily said, “Beg your pardon, Senora.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you need not ask my pardon, Juan,” the Senora replied with exquisite - gentleness; “it is not you who are to blame, if I am deaf. I have fancied - for a year I did not hear quite as well as I once did. But about the - Indians, Juan; did not Senor Felipe tell you that he had positively - engaged the same band of shearers we had last autumn, Alessandro's band - from Temecula? They will wait until we are ready for them. Senor Felipe - will send a messenger for them. He thinks them the best shearers in the - country. He will be well enough in a week or two, he thinks, and the poor - sheep must bear their loads a few days longer. Are they looking well, do - you think, Juan? Will the crop be a good one? General Moreno used to say - that you could reckon up the wool-crop to a pound, while it was on the - sheep's backs.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Senora,” answered the mollified Juan; “the poor beasts look - wonderfully well considering the scant feed they have had all winter. - We'll not come many pounds short of our last year's crop, if any. Though, - to be sure, there is no telling in what case that—Luigo will bring - his flock back.” - </p> - <p> - The Senora smiled, in spite of herself, at the pause and gulp with which - Juan had filled in the hiatus where he had longed to set a contemptuous - epithet before Luigo's name. - </p> - <p> - This was another of the instances where the Senora's will and Juan - Canito's had clashed and he did not dream of it, having set it all down as - usual to the score of young Senor Felipe. - </p> - <p> - Encouraged by the Senora's smile, Juan proceeded: “Senor Felipe can see no - fault in Luigo, because they were boys together; but I can tell him, he - will rue it, one of these mornings, when he finds a flock of sheep worse - than dead on his hands, and no thanks to anybody but Luigo. While I can - have him under my eye, here in the valley, it is all very well; but he is - no more fit to take responsibility of a flock, than one of the very lambs - themselves. He'll drive them off their feet one day, and starve them the - next; and I've known him to forget to give them water. When he's in his - dreams, the Virgin only knows what he won't do.” - </p> - <p> - During this brief and almost unprecedented outburst of Juan's the Senora's - countenance had been slowly growing stern. Juan had not seen it. His eyes - had been turned away from her, looking down into the upturned eager face - of his favorite collie, who was leaping and gambolling and barking at his - feet. - </p> - <p> - “Down, Capitan, down!” he said in a fond tone, gently repulsing him; “thou - makest such a noise the Senora can hear nothing but thy voice.” - </p> - <p> - “I heard only too distinctly, Juan Canito,” said the Senora in a sweet but - icy tone. “It is not well for one servant to backbite another. It gives me - great grief to hear such words; and I hope when Father Salvierderra comes, - next month, you will not forget to confess this sin of which you have been - guilty in thus seeking to injure a fellow-being. If Senor Felipe listens - to you, the poor boy Luigo will be cast out homeless on the world some - day; and what sort of a deed would that be, Juan Canito, for one Christian - to do to another? I fear the Father will give you penance, when he hears - what you have said.” - </p> - <p> - “Senora, it is not to harm the lad,” Juan began, every fibre of his - faithful frame thrilling with a sense of the injustice of her reproach. - </p> - <p> - But the Senora had turned her back. Evidently she would hear no more from - him then. He stood watching her as she walked away, at her usual slow - pace, her head slightly bent forward, her rosary lifted in her left hand, - and the fingers of the right hand mechanically slipping the beads. - </p> - <p> - “Prayers, always prayers!” thought Juan to himself, as his eyes followed - her. “If they'll take one to heaven, the Senora'll go by the straight - road, that's sure! I'm sorry I vexed her. But what's a man to do, if he's - the interest of the place at heart, I'd like to know. Is he to stand by, - and see a lot of idle mooning louts run away with everything? Ah, but it - was an ill day for the estate when the General died,—an ill day! an - ill day! And they may scold me as much as they please, and set me to - confessing my sins to the Father; it's very well for them, they've got me - to look after matters. Senor Felipe will do well enough when he's a man, - maybe; but a boy like him! Bah!” And the old man stamped his foot with a - not wholly unreasonable irritation, at the false position in which he felt - himself put. - </p> - <p> - “Confess to Father Salvierderra, indeed!” he muttered aloud. “Ay, that - will I. He's a man of sense, if he is a priest,”—at which slip of - the tongue the pious Juan hastily crossed himself,—“and I'll ask him - to give me some good advice as to how I'm to manage between this young boy - at the head of everything, and a doting mother who thinks he has the - wisdom of a dozen grown men. The Father knew the place in the olden time. - He knows it's no child's play to look after the estate even now, much - smaller as it is! An ill day when the old General died, an ill day indeed, - the saints rest his soul!” Saying this, Juan shrugged his shoulders, and - whistling to Capitan, walked towards the sunny veranda of the south side - of the kitchen wing of the house, where it had been for twenty odd years - his habit to sit on the long bench and smoke his pipe of a morning. Before - he had got half-way across the court-yard, however, a thought struck him. - He halted so suddenly that Capitan, with the quick sensitiveness of his - breed, thought so sudden a change of purpose could only come from - something in connection with sheep; and, true to his instinct of duty, - pricked up his ears, poised himself for a full run, and looked up in his - master's face waiting for explanation and signal. But Juan did not observe - him. - </p> - <p> - “Ha!” he said, “Father Salvierderra comes next month, does he? Let's see. - To-day is the 25th. That's it. The sheep-shearing is not to come off till - the Father gets here. Then each morning it will be mass in the chapel, and - each night vespers; and the crowd will be here at least two days longer to - feed, for the time they will lose by that and by the confessions. That's - what Senor Felipe is up to. He's a pious lad. I recollect now, it was the - same way two years ago. Well, well, it is a good thing for those poor - Indian devils to get a bit of religion now and then; and it's like old - times to see the chapel full of them kneeling, and more than can get in at - the door; I doubt not it warms the Senora's heart to see them all there, - as if they belonged to the house, as they used to: and now I know when - it's to be, I have only to make my arrangements accordingly. It is always - in the first week of the month the Father gets here. Yes; she said, 'Senor - Felipe will be well enough in a week or two, he thinks.' Ha! ha! It will - be nearer two; ten days or thereabouts. I'll begin the booths next week. A - plague on that Luigo for not being back here. He's the best hand I have to - cut the willow boughs for the roofs. He knows the difference between one - year's growth and another's; I'll say that much for him, spite of the - silly dreaming head he's got on his shoulders.” - </p> - <p> - Juan was so pleased with his clearing up in his mind as to Senor Felipe's - purpose about the time of the sheep-shearing, that it put him in good - humor for the day,—good humor with everybody, and himself most of - all. As he sat on the low bench, his head leaning back against the - whitewashed wall, his long legs stretched out nearly across the whole - width of the veranda, his pipe firm wedged in the extreme left corner of - his mouth, his hands in his pockets, he was the picture of placid content. - The troop of youngsters which still swarmed around the kitchen quarters of - Senora Moreno's house, almost as numerous and inexplicable as in the grand - old days of the General's time, ran back and forth across Juan's legs, - fell down between them, and picked themselves up by help of clutches at - his leather trousers, all unreproved by Juan, though loudly scolded and - warned by their respective mothers from the kitchen. - </p> - <p> - “What's come to Juan Can to be so good-natured to-day?” saucily asked - Margarita, the youngest and prettiest of the maids, popping her head out - of a window, and twitching Juan's hair. He was so gray and wrinkled that - the maids all felt at ease with him. He seemed to them as old as - Methuselah; but he was not really so old as they thought, nor they so safe - in their tricks. The old man had hot blood in his veins yet, as the - under-shepherds could testify. - </p> - <p> - “The sight of your pretty face, Senorita Margarita,” answered Juan - quickly, cocking his eye at her, rising to his feet, and making a mock bow - towards the window. - </p> - <p> - “He! he! Senorita, indeed!” chuckled Margarita's mother, old Marda the - cook. “Senor Juan Canito is pleased to be merry at the doors of his - betters;” and she flung a copper saucepan full of not over-clean water so - deftly past Juan's head, that not a drop touched him, and yet he had the - appearance of having been ducked. At which bit of sleight-of-hand the - whole court-yard, young and old, babies, cocks, hens, and turkeys, all set - up a shout and a cackle, and dispersed to the four corners of the yard as - if scattered by a volley of bird-shot. Hearing the racket, the rest of the - maids came running,—Anita and Maria, the twins, women forty years - old, born on the place the year after General Moreno brought home his - handsome young bride; their two daughters, Rosa and Anita the Little, as - she was still called, though she outweighed her mother; old Juanita, the - oldest woman in the household, of whom even the Senora was said not to - know the exact age or history; and she, poor thing, could tell nothing, - having been silly for ten years or more, good for nothing except to shell - beans: that she did as fast and well as ever, and was never happy except - she was at it. Luckily for her, beans are the one crop never omitted or - stinted on a Mexican estate; and for sake of old Juanita they stored every - year in the Moreno house, rooms full of beans in the pod (tons of them, - one would think), enough to feed an army. But then, it was like a little - army even now, the Senora's household; nobody ever knew exactly how many - women were in the kitchen, or how many men in the fields. There were - always women cousins, or brother's wives or widows or daughters, who had - come to stay, or men cousins, or sister's husbands or sons, who were - stopping on their way up or down the valley. When it came to the pay-roll, - Senor Felipe knew to whom he paid wages; but who were fed and lodged under - his roof, that was quite another thing. It could not enter into the head - of a Mexican gentleman to make either count or account of that. It would - be a disgraceful niggardly thought. - </p> - <p> - To the Senora it seemed as if there were no longer any people about the - place. A beggarly handful, she would have said, hardly enough to do the - work of the house, or of the estate, sadly as the latter had dwindled. In - the General's day, it had been a free-handed boast of his that never less - than fifty persons, men, women and children, were fed within his gates - each day; how many more, he did not care, nor know. But that time had - indeed gone, gone forever; and though a stranger, seeing the sudden rush - and muster at door and window, which followed on old Marda's letting fly - the water at Juan's head, would have thought, “Good heavens, do all those - women, children, and babies belong in that one house!” the Senora's sole - thought, as she at that moment went past the gate, was, “Poor things! how - few there are left of them! I am afraid old Marda has to work too hard. I - must spare Margarita more from the house to help her.” And she sighed - deeply, and unconsciously held her rosary nearer to her heart, as she went - into the house and entered her son's bedroom. The picture she saw there - was one to thrill any mother's heart; and as it met her eye, she paused on - the threshold for a second,—only a second, however; and nothing - could have astonished Felipe Moreno so much as to have been told that at - the very moment when his mother's calm voice was saying to him, “Good - morning, my son, I hope you have slept well, and are better,” there was - welling up in her heart a passionate ejaculation, “O my glorious son! The - saints have sent me in him the face of his father! He is fit for a - kingdom!” - </p> - <p> - The truth is, Felipe Moreno was not fit for a kingdom at all. If he had - been, he would not have been so ruled by his mother without ever finding - it out. But so far as mere physical beauty goes, there never was a king - born, whose face, stature, and bearing would set off a crown or a throne, - or any of the things of which the outside of royalty is made up, better - than would Felipe Moreno's. And it was true, as the Senora said, whether - the saints had anything to do with it or not, that he had the face of his - father. So strong a likeness is seldom seen. When Felipe once, on the - occasion of a grand celebration and procession, put on the gold-wrought - velvet mantle, gayly embroidered short breeches fastened at the knee with - red ribbons, and gold-and-silver-trimmed sombrero, which his father had - worn twenty-five years before, the Senora fainted at her first look at - him,—fainted and fell; and when she opened her eyes, and saw the - same splendid, gayly arrayed, dark-bearded man, bending over her in - distress, with words of endearment and alarm, she fainted again. - </p> - <p> - “Mother, mother mia,” cried Felipe, “I will not wear them if it makes you - feel like this! Let me take them off. I will not go to their cursed - parade;” and he sprang to his feet, and began with trembling fingers to - unbuckle the sword-belt. - </p> - <p> - “No, no, Felipe,” faintly cried the Senora, from the ground. “It is my - wish that you wear them;” and staggering to her feet, with a burst of - tears, she rebuckled the old sword-belt, which her fingers had so many - times—never unkissed—buckled, in the days when her husband had - bade her farewell and gone forth to the uncertain fates of war. “Wear - them!” she cried, with gathering fire in her tones, and her eyes dry of - tears,—“wear them, and let the American hounds see what a Mexican - officer and gentleman looked like before they had set their base, usurping - feet on our necks!” And she followed him to the gate, and stood erect, - bravely waving her handkerchief as he galloped off, till he was out of - sight. Then with a changed face and a bent head she crept slowly to her - room, locked herself in, fell on her knees before the Madonna at the head - of her bed, and spent the greater part of the day praying that she might - be forgiven, and that all heretics might be discomfited. From which part - of these supplications she derived most comfort is easy to imagine. - </p> - <p> - Juan Canito had been right in his sudden surmise that it was for Father - Salvierderra's coming that the sheep-shearing was being delayed, and not - in consequence of Senor Felipe's illness, or by the non-appearance of - Luigo and his flock of sheep. Juan would have chuckled to himself still - more at his perspicacity, had he overheard the conversation going on - between the Senora and her son, at the very time when he, half asleep on - the veranda, was, as he would have called it, putting two and two together - and convincing himself that old Juan was as smart as they were, and not to - be kept in the dark by all their reticence and equivocation. - </p> - <p> - “Juan Can is growing very impatient about the sheep-shearing,” said the - Senora. “I suppose you are still of the same mind about it, Felipe,—that - it is better to wait till Father Salvierderra comes? As the only chance - those Indians have of seeing him is here, it would seem a Christian duty - to so arrange it, if it be possible; but Juan is very restive. He is - getting old, and chafes a little, I fancy, under your control. He cannot - forget that you were a boy on his knee. Now I, for my part, am like to - forget that you were ever anything but a man for me to lean on.” - </p> - <p> - Felipe turned his handsome face toward his mother with a beaming smile of - filial affection and gratified manly vanity. “Indeed, my mother, if I can - be sufficient for you to lean on, I will ask nothing more of the saints;” - and he took his mother's thin and wasted little hands, both at once, in - his own strong right hand, and carried them to his lips as a lover might - have done. “You will spoil me, mother,” he said, “you make me so proud.” - </p> - <p> - “No, Felipe, it is I who am proud,” promptly replied the mother; “and I do - not call it being proud, only grateful to God for having given me a son - wise enough to take his father's place, and guide and protect me through - the few remaining years I have to live. I shall die content, seeing you at - the head of the estate, and living as a Mexican gentleman should; that is, - so far as now remains possible in this unfortunate country. But about the - sheep-shearing, Felipe. Do you wish to have it begun before the Father is - here? Of course, Alessandro is all ready with his band. It is but two - days' journey for a messenger to bring him. Father Salvierderra cannot be - here before the 10th of the month. He leaves Santa Barbara on the 1st, and - he will walk all the way,—a good six days' journey, for he is old - now and feeble; then he must stop in Ventura for a Sunday, and a day at - the Ortega's ranch, and at the Lopez's,—there, there is a - christening. Yes, the 10th is the very earliest that he can be here,—near - two weeks from now. So far as your getting up is concerned, it might - perhaps be next week. You will be nearly well by that time.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, indeed,” laughed Felipe, stretching himself out in the bed and - giving a kick to the bedclothes that made the high bedposts and the - fringed canopy roof shake and creak; “I am well now, if it were not for - this cursed weakness when I stand on my feet. I believe it would do me - good to get out of doors.” - </p> - <p> - In truth, Felipe had been hankering for the sheep-shearing himself. It was - a brisk, busy, holiday sort of time to him, hard as he worked in it; and - two weeks looked long to wait. - </p> - <p> - “It is always thus after a fever,” said his mother. “The weakness lasts - many weeks. I am not sure that you will be strong enough even in two weeks - to do the packing; but, as Juan Can said this morning, he stood at the - packing-bag when you were a boy, and there was no need of waiting for you - for that!” - </p> - <p> - “He said that, did he!” exclaimed Felipe, wrathfully. “The old man is - getting insolent. I'll tell him that nobody will pack the sacks but - myself, while I am master here; and I will have the sheep-shearing when I - please, and not before.” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose it would not be wise to say that it is not to take place till - the Father comes, would it?” asked the Senora, hesitatingly, as if the - thing were evenly balanced in her mind. “The Father has not that hold on - the younger men he used to have, and I have thought that even in Juan - himself I have detected a remissness. The spirit of unbelief is spreading - in the country since the Americans are running up and down everywhere - seeking money, like dogs with their noses to the ground! It might vex Juan - if he knew that you were waiting only for the Father. What do you think?” - </p> - <p> - “I think it is enough for him to know that the sheep-shearing waits for my - pleasure,” answered Felipe, still wrathful, “and that is the end of it.” - And so it was; and, moreover, precisely the end which Senora Moreno had - had in her own mind from the beginning; but not even Juan Canito himself - suspected its being solely her purpose, and not her son's. As for Felipe, - if any person had suggested to him that it was his mother, and not he, who - had decided that the sheep-shearing would be better deferred until the - arrival of Father Salvierderra from Santa Barbara, and that nothing should - be said on the ranch about this being the real reason of the postponing, - Felipe would have stared in astonishment, and have thought that person - either crazy or a fool. - </p> - <p> - To attain one's ends in this way is the consummate triumph of art. Never - to appear as a factor in the situation; to be able to wield other men, as - instruments, with the same direct and implicit response to will that one - gets from a hand or a foot,—this is to triumph, indeed: to be as - nearly controller and conqueror of Fates as fate permits. There have been - men prominent in the world's affairs at one time and another, who have - sought and studied such a power and have acquired it to a great degree. By - it they have manipulated legislators, ambassadors, sovereigns; and have - grasped, held, and played with the destinies of empires. But it is to be - questioned whether even in these notable instances there has ever been - such marvellous completeness of success as is sometimes seen in the case - of a woman in whom the power is an instinct and not an attainment; a - passion rather than a purpose. Between the two results, between the two - processes, there is just that difference which is always to be seen - between the stroke of talent and the stroke of genius. - </p> - <p> - Senora Moreno's was the stroke of genius. - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - II - </h2> - <p> - THE Senora Moreno's house was one of the best specimens to be found in - California of the representative house of the half barbaric, half elegant, - wholly generous and free-handed life led there by Mexican men and women of - degree in the early part of this century, under the rule of the Spanish - and Mexican viceroys, when the laws of the Indies were still the law of - the land, and its old name, “New Spain,” was an ever-present link and - stimulus to the warmest memories and deepest patriotisms of its people. - </p> - <p> - It was a picturesque life, with more of sentiment and gayety in it, more - also that was truly dramatic, more romance, than will ever be seen again - on those sunny shores. The aroma of it all lingers there still; industries - and inventions have not yet slain it; it will last out its century,—in - fact, it can never be quite lost, so long as there is left standing one - such house as the Senora Moreno's. - </p> - <p> - When the house was built, General Moreno owned all the land within a - radius of forty miles,—forty miles westward, down the valley to the - sea; forty miles eastward, into the San Fernando Mountains; and good forty - miles more or less along the coast. The boundaries were not very strictly - defined; there was no occasion, in those happy days, to reckon land by - inches. It might be asked, perhaps, just how General Moreno owned all this - land, and the question might not be easy to answer. It was not and could - not be answered to the satisfaction of the United States Land Commission, - which, after the surrender of California, undertook to sift and adjust - Mexican land titles; and that was the way it had come about that the - Senora Moreno now called herself a poor woman. Tract after tract, her - lands had been taken away from her; it looked for a time as if nothing - would be left. Every one of the claims based on deeds of gift from - Governor Pio Fico, her husband's most intimate friend, was disallowed. - They all went by the board in one batch, and took away from the Senora in - a day the greater part of her best pasture-lands. They were lands which - had belonged to the Bonaventura Mission, and lay along the coast at the - mouth of the valley down which the little stream which ran past her house - went to the sea; and it had been a great pride and delight to the Senora, - when she was young, to ride that forty miles by her husband's side, all - the way on their own lands, straight from their house to their own strip - of shore. No wonder she believed the Americans thieves, and spoke of them - always as hounds. The people of the United States have never in the least - realized that the taking possession of California was not only a - conquering of Mexico, but a conquering of California as well; that the - real bitterness of the surrender was not so much to the empire which gave - up the country, as to the country itself which was given up. Provinces - passed back and forth in that way, helpless in the hands of great powers, - have all the ignominy and humiliation of defeat, with none of the - dignities or compensations of the transaction. - </p> - <p> - Mexico saved much by her treaty, spite of having to acknowledge herself - beaten; but California lost all. Words cannot tell the sting of such a - transfer. It is a marvel that a Mexican remained in the country; probably - none did, except those who were absolutely forced to it. - </p> - <p> - Luckily for the Senora Moreno, her title to the lands midway in the valley - was better than to those lying to the east and the west, which had once - belonged to the missions of San Fernando and Bonaventura; and after all - the claims, counter-claims, petitions, appeals, and adjudications were - ended, she still was left in undisputed possession of what would have been - thought by any new-comer into the country to be a handsome estate, but - which seemed to the despoiled and indignant Senora a pitiful fragment of - one. Moreover, she declared that she should never feel secure of a foot of - even this. Any day, she said, the United States Government might send out - a new Land Commission to examine the decrees of the first, and revoke such - as they saw fit. Once a thief, always a thief. Nobody need feel himself - safe under American rule. There was no knowing what might happen any day; - and year by year the lines of sadness, resentment, anxiety, and antagonism - deepened on the Senora's fast aging face. - </p> - <p> - It gave her unspeakable satisfaction, when the Commissioners, laying out a - road down the valley, ran it at the back of her house instead of past the - front. “It is well,” she said. “Let their travel be where it belongs, - behind our kitchens; and no one have sight of the front doors of our - houses, except friends who have come to visit us.” Her enjoyment of this - never flagged. Whenever she saw, passing the place, wagons or carriages - belonging to the hated Americans, it gave her a distinct thrill of - pleasure to think that the house turned its back on them. She would like - always to be able to do the same herself; but whatever she, by policy or - in business, might be forced to do, the old house, at any rate, would - always keep the attitude of contempt,—its face turned away. - </p> - <p> - One other pleasure she provided herself with, soon after this road was - opened,—a pleasure in which religious devotion and race antagonism - were so closely blended that it would have puzzled the subtlest of priests - to decide whether her act were a sin or a virtue. She caused to be set up, - upon every one of the soft rounded hills which made the beautiful rolling - sides of that part of the valley, a large wooden cross; not a hill in - sight of her house left without the sacred emblem of her faith. “That the - heretics may know, when they go by, that they are on the estate of a good - Catholic,” she said, “and that the faithful may be reminded to pray. There - have been miracles of conversion wrought on the most hardened by a sudden - sight of the Blessed Cross.” - </p> - <p> - There they stood, summer and winter, rain and shine, the silent, solemn, - outstretched arms, and became landmarks to many a guideless traveller who - had been told that his way would be by the first turn to the left or the - right, after passing the last one of the Senora Moreno's crosses, which he - couldn't miss seeing. And who shall say that it did not often happen that - the crosses bore a sudden message to some idle heart journeying by, and - thus justified the pious half of the Senora's impulse? Certain it is, that - many a good Catholic halted and crossed himself when he first beheld them, - in the lonely places, standing out in sudden relief against the blue sky; - and if he said a swift short prayer at the sight, was he not so much the - better? - </p> - <p> - The house, was of adobe, low, with a wide veranda on the three sides of - the inner court, and a still broader one across the entire front, which - looked to the south. These verandas, especially those on the inner court, - were supplementary rooms to the house. The greater part of the family life - went on in them. Nobody stayed inside the walls, except when it was - necessary. All the kitchen work, except the actual cooking, was done here, - in front of the kitchen doors and windows. Babies slept, were washed, sat - in the dirt, and played, on the veranda. The women said their prayers, - took their naps, and wove their lace there. Old Juanita shelled her beans - there, and threw the pods down on the tile floor, till towards night they - were sometimes piled up high around her, like corn-husks at a husking. The - herdsmen and shepherds smoked there, lounged there, trained their dogs - there; there the young made love, and the old dozed; the benches, which - ran the entire length of the walls, were worn into hollows, and shone like - satin; the tiled floors also were broken and sunk in places, making little - wells, which filled up in times of hard rains, and were then an invaluable - addition to the children's resources for amusement, and also to the - comfort of the dogs, cats, and fowls, who picked about among them, taking - sips from each. - </p> - <p> - The arched veranda along the front was a delightsome place. It must have - been eighty feet long, at least, for the doors of five large rooms opened - on it. The two westernmost rooms had been added on, and made four steps - higher than the others; which gave to that end of the veranda the look of - a balcony, or loggia. Here the Senora kept her flowers; great red - water-jars, hand-made by the Indians of San Luis Obispo Mission, stood in - close rows against the walls, and in them were always growing fine - geraniums, carnations, and yellow-flowered musk. The Senora's passion for - musk she had inherited from her mother. It was so strong that she - sometimes wondered at it; and one day, as she sat with Father Salvierderra - in the veranda, she picked a handful of the blossoms, and giving them to - him, said, “I do not know why it is, but it seems to me if I were dead I - could be brought to life by the smell of musk.” - </p> - <p> - “It is in your blood, Senora,” the old monk replied. “When I was last in - your father's house in Seville, your mother sent for me to her room, and - under her window was a stone balcony full of growing musk, which so filled - the room with its odor that I was like to faint. But she said it cured her - of diseases, and without it she fell ill. You were a baby then.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” cried the Senora, “but I recollect that balcony. I recollect being - lifted up to a window, and looking down into a bed of blooming yellow - flowers; but I did not know what they were. How strange!” - </p> - <p> - “No. Not strange, daughter,” replied Father Salvierderra. “It would have - been stranger if you had not acquired the taste, thus drawing it in with - the mother's milk. It would behoove mothers to remember this far more than - they do.” - </p> - <p> - Besides the geraniums and carnations and musk in the red jars, there were - many sorts of climbing vines,—some coming from the ground, and - twining around the pillars of the veranda; some growing in great bowls, - swung by cords from the roof of the veranda, or set on shelves against the - walls. These bowls were of gray stone, hollowed and polished, shining - smooth inside and out. They also had been made by the Indians, nobody knew - how many ages ago, scooped and polished by the patient creatures, with - only stones for tools. - </p> - <p> - Among these vines, singing from morning till night, hung the Senora's - canaries and finches, half a dozen of each, all of different generations, - raised by the Senora. She was never without a young bird-family on hand; - and all the way from Bonaventura to Monterey, it was thought a piece of - good luck to come into possession of a canary or finch of Senora Moreno's - 'raising. - </p> - <p> - Between the veranda and the river meadows, out on which it looked, all was - garden, orange grove, and almond orchard; the orange grove always green, - never without snowy bloom or golden fruit; the garden never without - flowers, summer or winter; and the almond orchard, in early spring, a - fluttering canopy of pink and white petals, which, seen from the hills on - the opposite side of the river, looked as if rosy sunrise clouds had - fallen, and become tangled in the tree-tops. On either hand stretched away - other orchards,—peach, apricot, pear, apple pomegranate; and beyond - these, vineyards. Nothing was to be seen but verdure or bloom or fruit, at - whatever time of year you sat on the Senora's south veranda. - </p> - <p> - A wide straight walk shaded by a trellis so knotted and twisted with - grapevines that little was to be seen of the trellis wood-work, led - straight down from the veranda steps, through the middle of the garden, to - a little brook at the foot of it. Across this brook, in the shade of a - dozen gnarled old willow-trees, were set the broad flat stone washboards - on which was done all the family washing. No long dawdling, and no running - away from work on the part of the maids, thus close to the eye of the - Senora at the upper end of the garden; and if they had known how - picturesque they looked there, kneeling on the grass, lifting the dripping - linen out of the water, rubbing it back and forth on the stones, sousing - it, wringing it, splashing the clear water in each other's faces, they - would have been content to stay at the washing day in and day out, for - there was always somebody to look on from above. Hardly a day passed that - the Senora had not visitors. She was still a person of note; her house the - natural resting-place for all who journeyed through the valley; and - whoever came, spent all of his time, when not eating, sleeping, or walking - over the place, sitting with the Senora on the sunny veranda. Few days in - winter were cold enough, and in summer the day must be hot indeed to drive - the Senora and her friends indoors. There stood on the veranda three - carved oaken chairs, and a carved bench, also of oak, which had been - brought to the Senora for safe keeping by the faithful old sacristan of - San Luis Rey, at the time of the occupation of that Mission by the United - States troops, soon after the conquest of California. Aghast at the - sacrilegious acts of the soldiers, who were quartered in the very church - itself, and amused themselves by making targets of the eyes and noses of - the saints' statues, the sacristan, stealthily, day by day and night after - night, bore out of the church all that he dared to remove, burying some - articles in cottonwood copses, hiding others in his own poor little hovel, - until he had wagon-loads of sacred treasures. Then, still more stealthily, - he carried them, a few at a time, concealed in the bottom of a cart, under - a load of hay or of brush, to the house of the Senora, who felt herself - deeply honored by his confidence, and received everything as a sacred - trust, to be given back into the hands of the Church again, whenever the - Missions should be restored, of which at that time all Catholics had good - hope. And so it had come about that no bedroom in the Senora's house was - without a picture or a statue of a saint or of the Madonna; and some had - two; and in the little chapel in the garden the altar was surrounded by a - really imposing row of holy and apostolic figures, which had looked down - on the splendid ceremonies of the San Luis Rey Mission, in Father Peyri's - time, no more benignly than they now did on the humbler worship of the - Senora's family in its diminished estate. That one had lost an eye, - another an arm, that the once brilliant colors of the drapery were now - faded and shabby, only enhanced the tender reverence with which the Senora - knelt before them, her eyes filling with indignant tears at thought of the - heretic hands which had wrought such defilement. Even the crumbling - wreaths which had been placed on some of the statues' heads at the time of - the last ceremonial at which they had figured in the Mission, had been - brought away with them by the devout sacristan, and the Senora had - replaced each one, holding it only a degree less sacred than the statue - itself. - </p> - <p> - This chapel was dearer to the Senora than her house. It had been built by - the General in the second year of their married life. In it her four - children had been christened, and from it all but one, her handsome - Felipe, had been buried while they were yet infants. In the General's - time, while the estate was at its best, and hundreds of Indians living - within its borders, there was many a Sunday when the scene to be witnessed - there was like the scenes at the Missions,—the chapel full of - kneeling men and women; those who could not find room inside kneeling on - the garden walks outside; Father Salvierderra, in gorgeous vestments, - coming, at close of the services, slowly down the aisle, the close-packed - rows of worshippers parting to right and left to let him through, all - looking up eagerly for his blessing, women giving him offerings of fruit - or flowers, and holding up their babies that he might lay his hands on - their heads. No one but Father Salvierderra had ever officiated in the - Moreno chapel, or heard the confession of a Moreno. He was a Franciscan, - one of the few now left in the country; so revered and beloved by all who - had come under his influence, that they would wait long months without the - offices of the Church, rather than confess their sins or confide their - perplexities to any one else. From this deep-seated attachment on the part - of the Indians and the older Mexican families in the country to the - Franciscan Order, there had grown up, not unnaturally, some jealousy of - them in the minds of the later-come secular priests, and the position of - the few monks left was not wholly a pleasant one. It had even been rumored - that they were to be forbidden to continue longer their practice of going - up and down the country, ministering everywhere; were to be compelled to - restrict their labors to their own colleges at Santa Barbara and Santa - Inez. When something to this effect was one day said in the Senora - Moreno's presence, two scarlet spots sprang on her cheeks, and before she - bethought herself, she exclaimed, “That day, I burn down my chapel!” - </p> - <p> - Luckily, nobody but Felipe heard the rash threat, and his exclamation of - unbounded astonishment recalled the Senora to herself. - </p> - <p> - “I spoke rashly, my son,” she said. “The Church is to be obeyed always; - but the Franciscan Fathers are responsible to no one but the Superior of - their own order; and there is no one in this land who has the authority to - forbid their journeying and ministering to whoever desires their offices. - As for these Catalan priests who are coming in here, I cannot abide them. - No Catalan but has bad blood in his veins!” - </p> - <p> - There was every reason in the world why the Senora should be thus warmly - attached to the Franciscan Order. From her earliest recollections the gray - gown and cowl had been familiar to her eyes, and had represented the - things which she was taught to hold most sacred and dear. Father - Salvierderra himself had come from Mexico to Monterey in the same ship - which had brought her father to be the commandante of the Santa Barbara - Presidio; and her best-beloved uncle, her father's eldest brother, was at - that time the Superior of the Santa Barbara Mission. The sentiment and - romance of her youth were almost equally divided between the gayeties, - excitements, adornments of the life at the Presidio, and the ceremonies - and devotions of the life at the Mission. She was famed as the most - beautiful girl in the country. Men of the army, men of the navy, and men - of the Church, alike adored her. Her name was a toast from Monterey to San - Diego. When at last she was wooed and won by Felipe Moreno, one of the - most distinguished of the Mexican Generals, her wedding ceremonies were - the most splendid ever seen in the country. The right tower of the Mission - church at Santa Barbara had been just completed, and it was arranged that - the consecration of this tower should take place at the time of her - wedding, and that her wedding feast should be spread in the long outside - corridor of the Mission building. The whole country, far and near, was - bid. The feast lasted three days; open tables to everybody; singing, - dancing, eating, drinking, and making merry. At that time there were long - streets of Indian houses stretching eastward from the Mission; before each - of these houses was built a booth of green boughs. The Indians, as well as - the Fathers from all the other Missions, were invited to come. The Indians - came in bands, singing songs and bringing gifts. As they appeared, the - Santa Barbara Indians went out to meet them, also singing, bearing gifts, - and strewing seeds on the ground, in token of welcome. The young Senora - and her bridegroom, splendidly clothed, were seen of all, and greeted, - whenever they appeared, by showers of seeds and grains and blossoms. On - the third day, still in their wedding attire, and bearing lighted candles - in their hands, they walked with the monks in a procession, round and - round the new tower, the monks chanting, and sprinkling incense and holy - water on its walls, the ceremony seeming to all devout beholders to give a - blessed consecration to the union of the young pair as well as to the - newly completed tower. After this they journeyed in state, accompanied by - several of the General's aids and officers, and by two Franciscan Fathers, - up to Monterey, stopping on their way at all the Missions, and being - warmly welcomed and entertained at each. - </p> - <p> - General Moreno was much beloved by both army and Church. In many of the - frequent clashings between the military and the ecclesiastical powers he, - being as devout and enthusiastic a Catholic as he was zealous and - enthusiastic a soldier, had had the good fortune to be of material - assistance to each party. The Indians also knew his name well, having - heard it many times mentioned with public thanksgivings in the Mission - churches, after some signal service he had rendered to the Fathers either - in Mexico or Monterey. And now, by taking as his bride the daughter of a - distinguished officer, and the niece of the Santa Barbara Superior, he had - linked himself anew to the two dominant powers and interests of the - country. - </p> - <p> - When they reached San Luis Obispo, the whole Indian population turned out - to meet them, the Padre walking at the head. As they approached the - Mission doors the Indians swarmed closer and closer and still closer, took - the General's horse by the head, and finally almost by actual force - compelled him to allow himself to be lifted into a blanket, held high up - by twenty strong men; and thus he was borne up the steps, across the - corridor, and into the Padre's room. It was a position ludicrously - undignified in itself, but the General submitted to it good-naturedly. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, let them do it, if they like,” he cried, laughingly, to Padre - Martinez, who was endeavoring to quiet the Indians and hold them back. - “Let them do it. It pleases the poor creatures.” - </p> - <p> - On the morning of their departure, the good Padre, having exhausted all - his resources for entertaining his distinguished guests, caused to be - driven past the corridors, for their inspection, all the poultry belonging - to the Mission. The procession took an hour to pass. For music, there was - the squeaking, cackling, hissing, gobbling, crowing, quacking of the - fowls, combined with the screaming, scolding, and whip-cracking of the - excited Indian marshals of the lines. First came the turkeys, then the - roosters, then the white hens, then the black, and then the yellow, next - the ducks, and at the tail of the spectacle long files of geese, some - strutting, some half flying and hissing in resentment and terror at the - unwonted coercions to which they were subjected. The Indians had been hard - at work all night capturing, sorting, assorting, and guarding the rank and - file of their novel pageant. It would be safe to say that a droller sight - never was seen, and never will be, on the Pacific coast or any other. - Before it was done with, the General and his bride had nearly died with - laughter; and the General could never allude to it without laughing almost - as heartily again. - </p> - <p> - At Monterey they were more magnificently feted; at the Presidio, at the - Mission, on board Spanish, Mexican, and Russian ships lying in harbor, - balls, dances, bull-fights, dinners, all that the country knew of - festivity, was lavished on the beautiful and winning young bride. The - belles of the coast, from San Diego up, had all gathered at Monterey for - these gayeties, but not one of them could be for a moment compared to her. - This was the beginning of the Senora's life as a married woman. She was - then just twenty. A close observer would have seen even then, underneath - the joyous smile, the laughing eye, the merry voice, a look thoughtful, - tender, earnest, at times enthusiastic. This look was the reflection of - those qualities in her, then hardly aroused, which made her, as years - developed her character and stormy fates thickened around her life, the - unflinching comrade of her soldier husband, the passionate adherent of the - Church. Through wars, insurrections, revolutions, downfalls, Spanish, - Mexican, civil, ecclesiastical, her standpoint, her poise, remained the - same. She simply grew more and more proudly, passionately, a Spaniard and - a Moreno; more and more stanchly and fierily a Catholic, and a lover of - the Franciscans. - </p> - <p> - During the height of the despoiling and plundering of the Missions, under - the Secularization Act, she was for a few years almost beside herself. - More than once she journeyed alone, when the journey was by no means - without danger, to Monterey, to stir up the Prefect of the Missions to - more energetic action, to implore the governmental authorities to - interfere, and protect the Church's property. It was largely in - consequence of her eloquent entreaties that Governor Micheltorena issued - his bootless order, restoring to the Church all the Missions south of San - Luis Obispo. But this order cost Micheltorena his political head, and - General Moreno was severely wounded in one of the skirmishes of the - insurrection which drove Micheltorena out of the country. - </p> - <p> - In silence and bitter humiliation the Senora nursed her husband back to - health again, and resolved to meddle no more in the affairs of her unhappy - country and still more unhappy Church. As year by year she saw the ruin of - the Missions steadily going on, their vast properties melting away, like - dew before the sun, in the hands of dishonest administrators and - politicians, the Church powerless to contend with the unprincipled greed - in high places, her beloved Franciscan Fathers driven from the country or - dying of starvation at their posts, she submitted herself to what, she was - forced to admit, seemed to be the inscrutable will of God for the - discipline and humiliation of the Church. In a sort of bewildered - resignation she waited to see what further sufferings were to come, to - fill up the measure of the punishment which, for some mysterious purpose, - the faithful must endure. But when close upon all this discomfiture and - humiliation of her Church followed the discomfiture and humiliation of her - country in war, and the near and evident danger of an English-speaking - people's possessing the land, all the smothered fire of the Senora's - nature broke out afresh. With unfaltering hands she buckled on her - husband's sword, and with dry eyes saw him go forth to fight. She had but - one regret, that she was not the mother of sons to fight also. - </p> - <p> - “Would thou wert a man, Felipe,” she exclaimed again and again in tones - the child never forgot. “Would thou wert a man, that thou might go also to - fight these foreigners!” - </p> - <p> - Any race under the sun would have been to the Senora less hateful than the - American. She had scorned them in her girlhood, when they came trading to - post after post. She scorned them still. The idea of being forced to wage - a war with pedlers was to her too monstrous to be believed. In the outset - she had no doubt that the Mexicans would win in the contest. - </p> - <p> - “What!” she cried, “shall we who won independence from Spain, be beaten by - these traders? It is impossible!” - </p> - <p> - When her husband was brought home to her dead, killed in the last fight - the Mexican forces made, she said icily, “He would have chosen to die - rather than to have been forced to see his country in the hands of the - enemy.” And she was almost frightened at herself to see how this thought, - as it dwelt in her mind, slew the grief in her heart. She had believed she - could not live if her husband were to be taken away from her; but she - found herself often glad that he was dead,—glad that he was spared - the sight and the knowledge of the things which happened; and even the - yearning tenderness with which her imagination pictured him among the - saints, was often turned into a fierce wondering whether indignation did - not fill his soul, even in heaven, at the way things were going in the - land for whose sake he had died. - </p> - <p> - Out of such throes as these had been born the second nature which made - Senora Moreno the silent, reserved, stern, implacable woman they knew, who - knew her first when she was sixty. Of the gay, tender, sentimental girl, - who danced and laughed with the officers, and prayed and confessed with - the Fathers, forty years before, there was small trace left now, in the - low-voiced, white-haired, aged woman, silent, unsmiling, placid-faced, who - manoeuvred with her son and her head shepherd alike, to bring it about - that a handful of Indians might once more confess their sins to a - Franciscan monk in the Moreno chapel. - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - III - </h2> - <p> - JUAN CANITO and Senor Felipe were not the only members of the Senora's - family who were impatient for the sheep-shearing. There was also Ramona. - Ramona was, to the world at large, a far more important person than the - Senora herself. The Senora was of the past; Ramona was of the present. For - one eye that could see the significant, at times solemn, beauty of the - Senora's pale and shadowed countenance, there were a hundred that flashed - with eager pleasure at the barest glimpse of Ramona's face; the shepherds, - the herdsmen, the maids, the babies, the dogs, the poultry, all loved the - sight of Ramona; all loved her, except the Senora. The Senora loved her - not; never had loved her, never could love her; and yet she had stood in - the place of mother to the girl ever since her childhood, and never once - during the whole sixteen years of her life had shown her any unkindness in - act. She had promised to be a mother to her; and with all the inalienable - stanchness of her nature she fulfilled the letter of her promise. More - than the bond lay in the bond; but that was not the Senora's fault. - </p> - <p> - The story of Ramona the Senora never told. To most of the Senora's - acquaintances now, Ramona was a mystery. They did not know—and no - one ever asked a prying question of the Senora Moreno—who Ramona's - parents were, whether they were living or dead, or why Ramona, her name - not being Moreno, lived always in the Senora's house as a daughter, tended - and attended equally with the adored Felipe. A few gray-haired men and - women here and there in the country could have told the strange story of - Ramona; but its beginning was more than a half-century back, and much had - happened since then. They seldom thought of the child. They knew she was - in the Senora Moreno's keeping, and that was enough. The affairs of the - generation just going out were not the business of the young people coming - in. They would have tragedies enough of their own presently; what was the - use of passing down the old ones? Yet the story was not one to be - forgotten; and now and then it was told in the twilight of a summer - evening, or in the shadows of vines on a lingering afternoon, and all - young men and maidens thrilled who heard it. - </p> - <p> - It was an elder sister of the Senora's,—a sister old enough to be - wooed and won while the Senora was yet at play,—who had been - promised in marriage to a young Scotchman named Angus Phail. She was a - beautiful woman; and Angus Phail, from the day that he first saw her - standing in the Presidio gate, became so madly her lover, that he was like - a man bereft of his senses. This was the only excuse ever to be made for - Ramona Gonzaga's deed. It could never be denied, by her bitterest - accusers, that, at the first, and indeed for many months, she told Angus - she did not love him, and could not marry him; and that it was only after - his stormy and ceaseless entreaties, that she did finally promise to - become his wife. Then, almost immediately, she went away to Monterey, and - Angus set sail for San Blas. He was the owner of the richest line of ships - which traded along the coast at that time; the richest stuffs, carvings, - woods, pearls, and jewels, which came into the country, came in his ships. - The arrival of one of them was always an event; and Angus himself, having - been well-born in Scotland, and being wonderfully well-mannered for a - seafaring man, was made welcome in all the best houses, wherever his ships - went into harbor, from Monterey to San Diego. - </p> - <p> - The Senorita Ramona Gonzaga sailed for Monterey the same day and hour her - lover sailed for San Blas. They stood on the decks waving signals to each - other as one sailed away to the south, the other to the north. It was - remembered afterward by those who were in the ship with the Senorita, that - she ceased to wave her signals, and had turned her face away, long before - her lover's ship was out of sight. But the men of the “San Jose” said that - Angus Phail stood immovable, gazing northward, till nightfall shut from - his sight even the horizon line at which the Monterey ship had long before - disappeared from view. - </p> - <p> - This was to be his last voyage. He went on this only because his honor was - pledged to do so. Also, he comforted himself by thinking that he would - bring back for his bride, and for the home he meant to give her, treasures - of all sorts, which none could select so well as he. Through the long - weeks of the voyage he sat on deck, gazing dreamily at the waves, and - letting his imagination feed on pictures of jewels, satins, velvets, - laces, which would best deck his wife's form and face. When he could not - longer bear the vivid fancies' heat in his blood, he would pace the deck, - swifter and swifter, till his steps were like those of one flying in fear; - at such times the men heard him muttering and whispering to himself, - “Ramona! Ramona!” Mad with love from the first to the last was Angus - Phail; and there were many who believed that if he had ever seen the hour - when he called Ramona Gonzaga his own, his reason would have fled forever - at that moment, and he would have killed either her or himself, as men - thus mad have been known to do. But that hour never came. When, eight - months later, the “San Jose” sailed into the Santa Barbara harbor, and - Angus Phail leaped breathless on shore, the second man he met, no friend - of his, looking him maliciously in the face, said. “So, ho! You're just - too late for the wedding! Your sweetheart, the handsome Gonzaga girl, was - married here, yesterday, to a fine young officer of the Monterey - Presidio!” - </p> - <p> - Angus reeled, struck the man a blow full in the face, and fell on the - ground, foaming at the mouth. He was lifted and carried into a house, and, - speedily recovering, burst with the strength of a giant from the hands of - those who were holding him, sprang out of the door, and ran bareheaded up - the road toward the Presidio. At the gate he was stopped by the guard, who - knew him. - </p> - <p> - “Is it true?” gasped Angus. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Senor,” replied the man, who said afterward that his knees shook - under him with terror at the look on the Scotchman's face. He feared he - would strike him dead for his reply. But, instead, Angus burst into a - maudlin laugh, and, turning away, went staggering down the street, singing - and laughing. - </p> - <p> - The next that was known of him was in a low drinking-place, where he was - seen lying on the floor, dead drunk; and from that day he sank lower and - lower, till one of the commonest sights to be seen in Santa Barbara was - Angus Phail reeling about, tipsy, coarse, loud, profane, dangerous. - </p> - <p> - “See what the Senorita escaped!” said the thoughtless. “She was quite - right not to have married such a drunken wretch.” - </p> - <p> - In the rare intervals when he was partially sober, he sold all he - possessed,—ship after ship sold for a song, and the proceeds - squandered in drinking or worse. He never had a sight of his lost bride. - He did not seek it; and she, terrified, took every precaution to avoid it, - and soon returned with her husband to Monterey. - </p> - <p> - Finally Angus disappeared, and after a time the news came up from Los - Angeles that he was there, had gone out to the San Gabriel Mission, and - was living with the Indians. Some years later came the still more - surprising news that he had married a squaw,—a squaw with several - Indian children,—had been legally married by the priest in the San - Gabriel Mission Church. And that was the last that the faithless Ramona - Gonzaga ever heard of her lover, until twenty-five years after her - marriage, when one day he suddenly appeared in her presence. How he had - gained admittance to the house was never known; but there he stood before - her, bearing in his arms a beautiful babe, asleep. Drawing himself up to - the utmost of his six feet of height, and looking at her sternly, with - eyes blue like steel, he said: “Senora Ortegna, you once did me a great - wrong. You sinned, and the Lord has punished you. He has denied you - children. I also have done a wrong; I have sinned, and the Lord has - punished me. He has given me a child. I ask once more at your hands a - boon. Will you take this child of mine, and bring it up as a child of - yours, or of mine, ought to be brought up?” - </p> - <p> - The tears were rolling down the Senora Ortegna's cheeks. The Lord had - indeed punished her in more ways than Angus Phail knew. Her childlessness, - bitter as that had been, was the least of them. Speechless, she rose, and - stretched out her arms for the child. He placed it in them. Still the - child slept on, undisturbed. - </p> - <p> - “I do not know if I will be permitted,” she said falteringly; “my husband—” - </p> - <p> - “Father Salvierderra will command it. I have seen him,” replied Angus. - </p> - <p> - The Senora's face brightened. “If that be so, I hope it can be as you - wish,” she said. Then a strange embarrassment came upon her, and looking - down upon the infant, she said inquiringly, “But the child's mother?” - </p> - <p> - Angus's face turned swarthy red. Perhaps, face to face with this gentle - and still lovely woman he had once so loved, he first realized to the full - how wickedly he had thrown away his life. With a quick wave of his hand, - which spoke volumes, he said: “That is nothing. She has other children, of - her own blood. This is mine, my only one, my daughter. I wish her to be - yours; otherwise, she will be taken by the Church.” - </p> - <p> - With each second that she felt the little warm body's tender weight in her - arms, Ramona Ortegna's heart had more and more yearned towards the infant. - At these words she bent her face down and kissed its cheek. “Oh, no! not - to the Church! I will love it as my own,” she said. - </p> - <p> - Angus Phail's face quivered. Feelings long dead within him stirred in - their graves. He gazed at the sad and altered face, once so beautiful, so - dear. “I should hardly have known you, Senora!” burst from him - involuntarily. - </p> - <p> - She smiled piteously, with no resentment. “That is not strange. I hardly - know myself,” she whispered. “Life has dealt very hardly with me. I should - not have known you either—Angus.” She pronounced his name - hesitatingly, half appealingly. At the sound of the familiar syllables, so - long unheard, the man's heart broke down. He buried his face in his hands, - and sobbed out: “O Ramona, forgive me! I brought the child here, not - wholly in love; partly in vengeance. But I am melted now. Are you sure you - wish to keep her? I will take her away if you are not.” - </p> - <p> - “Never, so long as I live, Angus,” replied Senora Ortegna. “Already I feel - that she is a mercy from the Lord. If my husband sees no offence in her - presence, she will be a joy in my life. Has she been christened?” - </p> - <p> - Angus cast his eyes down. A sudden fear smote him. “Before I had thought - of bringing her to you,” he stammered, “at first I had only the thought of - giving her to the Church. I had had her christened by”—the words - refused to leave his lips—“the name—Can you not guess, Senora, - what name she bears?” - </p> - <p> - The Senora knew. “My own?” she said. - </p> - <p> - Angus bowed his head. “The only woman's name that my lips ever spoke with - love,” he said, reassured, “was the name my daughter should bear.” - </p> - <p> - “It is well,” replied the Senora. Then a great silence fell between them. - Each studied the other's face, tenderly, bewilderedly. Then by a - simultaneous impulse they drew nearer. Angus stretched out both his arms - with a gesture of infinite love and despair, bent down and kissed the - hands which lovingly held his sleeping child. - </p> - <p> - “God bless you, Ramona! Farewell! You will never see me more,” he cried, - and was gone. - </p> - <p> - In a moment more he reappeared on the threshold of the door, but only to - say in a low tone, “There is no need to be alarmed if the child does not - wake for some hours yet. She has had a safe sleeping-potion given her. It - will not harm her.” - </p> - <p> - One more long lingering look into each other's faces, and the two lovers, - so strangely parted, still more strangely met, had parted again, forever. - The quarter of a century which had lain between them had been bridged in - both their hearts as if it were but a day. In the heart of the man it was - the old passionate adoring love reawakening; a resurrection of the buried - dead, to full life, with lineaments unchanged. In the woman it was not - that; there was no buried love to come to such resurrection in her heart, - for she had never loved Angus Phail. But, long unloved, ill-treated, - heartbroken, she woke at that moment to the realization of what manner of - love it had been which she had thrown away in her youth; her whole being - yearned for it now, and Angus was avenged. - </p> - <p> - When Francis Ortegna, late that night, reeled, half-tipsy, into his wife's - room, he was suddenly sobered by the sight which met his eyes,—his - wife kneeling by the side of the cradle, in which lay, smiling in its - sleep, a beautiful infant. - </p> - <p> - “What in the devil's name,” he began; then recollecting, he muttered: “Oh, - the Indian brat! I see! I wish you joy, Senora Ortegna, of your first - child!” and with a mock bow, and cruel sneer, he staggered by, giving the - cradle an angry thrust with his foot as he passed. - </p> - <p> - The brutal taunt did not much wound the Senora. The time had long since - passed when unkind words from her husband could give her keen pain. But it - was a warning not lost upon her new-born mother instinct, and from that - day the little Ramona was carefully kept and tended in apartments where - there was no danger of her being seen by the man to whom the sight of her - baby face was only a signal for anger and indecency. - </p> - <p> - Hitherto Ramona Ortegna had, so far as was possible, carefully concealed - from her family the unhappiness of her married life. Ortegna's character - was indeed well known; his neglect of his wife, his shameful dissipations - of all sorts, were notorious in every port in the country. But from the - wife herself no one had even heard so much as a syllable of complaint. She - was a Gonzaga, and she knew how to suffer in silence, But now she saw a - reason for taking her sister into her confidence. It was plain to her that - she had not many years to live; and what then would become of the child? - Left to the tender mercies of Ortegna, it was only too certain what would - become of her. Long sad hours of perplexity the lonely woman passed, with - the little laughing babe in her arms, vainly endeavoring to forecast her - future. The near chance of her own death had not occurred to her mind when - she accepted the trust. - </p> - <p> - Before the little Ramona was a year old, Angus Phail died. An Indian - messenger from San Gabriel brought the news to Senora Ortegna. He brought - her also a box and a letter, given to him by Angus the day before his - death. The box contained jewels of value, of fashions a quarter of a - century old. They were the jewels which Angus had bought for his bride. - These alone remained of all his fortune. Even in the lowest depths of his - degradation, a certain sentiment had restrained him from parting with - them. The letter contained only these words: “I send you all I have to - leave my daughter. I meant to bring them myself this year. I wished to - kiss your hands and hers once more. But I am dying. Farewell.” - </p> - <p> - After these jewels were in her possession, Senora Ortegna rested not till - she had persuaded Senora Moreno to journey to Monterey, and had put the - box into her keeping as a sacred trust. She also won from her a solemn - promise that at her own death she would adopt the little Ramona. This - promise came hard from Senora Moreno. Except for Father Salvierderra's - influence, she had not given it. She did not wish any dealings with such - alien and mongrel blood, “If the child were pure Indian, I would like it - better,” she said. “I like not these crosses. It is the worst, and not the - best of each, that remains.” - </p> - <p> - But the promise once given, Senora Ortegna was content. Well she knew that - her sister would not lie, nor evade a trust. The little Ramona's future - was assured. During the last years of the unhappy woman's life the child - was her only comfort. Ortegna's conduct had become so openly and defiantly - infamous, that he even flaunted his illegitimate relations in his wife's - presence; subjecting her to gross insults, spite of her helpless - invalidism. This last outrage was too much for the Gonzaga blood to - endure; the Senora never afterward left her apartment, or spoke to her - husband. Once more she sent for her sister to come; this time, to see her - die. Every valuable she possessed, jewels, laces, brocades, and damasks, - she gave into her sister's charge, to save them from falling into the - hands of the base creature that she knew only too well would stand in her - place as soon as the funeral services had been said over her dead body. - </p> - <p> - Stealthily, as if she had been a thief, the sorrowing Senora Moreno - conveyed her sister's wardrobe, article by article, out of the house, to - be sent to her own home. It was the wardrobe of a princess. The Ortegnas - lavished money always on the women whose hearts they broke; and never - ceased to demand of them that they should sit superbly arrayed in their - lonely wretchedness. - </p> - <p> - One hour after the funeral, with a scant and icy ceremony of farewell to - her dead sister's husband, Senora Moreno, leading the little four-year-old - Ramona by the hand, left the house, and early the next morning set sail - for home. - </p> - <p> - When Ortegna discovered that his wife's jewels and valuables of all kinds - were gone, he fell into a great rage, and sent a messenger off, - post-haste, with an insulting letter to the Senora Moreno, demanding their - return. For answer, he got a copy of his wife's memoranda of instructions - to her sister, giving all the said valuables to her in trust for Ramona; - also a letter from Father Salvierderra, upon reading which he sank into a - fit of despondency that lasted a day or two, and gave his infamous - associates considerable alarm, lest they had lost their comrade. But he - soon shook off the influence, whatever it was, and settled back into his - old gait on the same old high-road to the devil. Father Salvierderra could - alarm him, but not save him. - </p> - <p> - And this was the mystery of Ramona. No wonder the Senora Moreno never told - the story. No wonder, perhaps, that she never loved the child. It was a - sad legacy, indissolubly linked with memories which had in them nothing - but bitterness, shame, and sorrow from first to last. - </p> - <p> - How much of all this the young Ramona knew or suspected, was locked in her - own breast. Her Indian blood had as much proud reserve in it as was ever - infused into the haughtiest Gonzaga's veins. While she was yet a little - child, she had one day said to the Senora Moreno, “Senora, why did my - mother give me to the Senora Ortegna?” - </p> - <p> - Taken unawares, the Senora replied hastily: “Your mother had nothing - whatever to do with it. It was your father.” - </p> - <p> - “Was my mother dead?” continued the child. - </p> - <p> - Too late the Senora saw her mistake. “I do not know,” she replied; which - was literally true, but had the spirit of a lie in it. “I never saw your - mother.” - </p> - <p> - “Did the Senora Ortegna ever see her?” persisted Ramona. - </p> - <p> - “No, never,” answered the Senora, coldly, the old wounds burning at the - innocent child's unconscious touch. - </p> - <p> - Ramona felt the chill, and was silent for a time, her face sad, and her - eyes tearful. At last she said, “I wish I knew if my mother was dead.” - </p> - <p> - “Why?” asked the Senora. - </p> - <p> - “Because if she is not dead I would ask her why she did not want me to - stay with her.” - </p> - <p> - The gentle piteousness of this reply smote the Senora's conscience. Taking - the child in her arms, she said, “Who has been talking to you of these - things, Ramona?” - </p> - <p> - “Juan Can,” she replied. - </p> - <p> - “What did he say?” asked the Senora, with a look in her eye which boded no - good to Juan Canito. - </p> - <p> - “It was not to me he said it, it was to Luigo; but I heard him,” answered - Ramona, speaking slowly, as if collecting her various reminiscences on the - subject. “Twice I heard him. He said that my mother was no good, and that - my father was bad too.” And the tears rolled down the child's cheeks. - </p> - <p> - The Senora's sense of justice stood her well in place of tenderness, now. - Caressing the little orphan as she had never before done, she said, with - an earnestness which sank deep into the child's mind, “Ramona must not - believe any such thing as that. Juan Can is a bad man to say it. He never - saw either your father or your mother, and so he could know nothing about - them. I knew your father very well. He was not a bad man. He was my - friend, and the friend of the Senora Ortegna; and that was the reason he - gave you to the Senora Ortegna, because she had no child of her own. And I - think your mother had a good many.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh!” said Ramona, relieved, for the moment, at this new view of the - situation,—that the gift had been not as a charity to her, but to - the Senora Ortegna. “Did the Senora Ortegna want a little daughter very - much?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, very much indeed,” said the Senora, heartily and with fervor. “She - had grieved many years because she had no child.” - </p> - <p> - Silence again for a brief space, during which the little lonely heart, - grappling with its vague instinct of loss and wrong, made wide thrusts - into the perplexities hedging it about, and presently electrified the - Senora by saying in a half-whisper, “Why did not my father bring me to you - first? Did he know you did not want any daughter?” - </p> - <p> - The Senora was dumb for a second; then recovering herself, she said: “Your - father was the Senora Ortegna's friend more than he was mine. I was only a - child, then.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course you did not need any daughter when you had Felipe,” continued - Ramona, pursuing her original line of inquiry and reflection without - noticing the Senora's reply. “A son is more than a daughter; but most - people have both,” eying the Senora keenly, to see what response this - would bring. - </p> - <p> - But the Senora was weary and uncomfortable with the talk. At the very - mention of Felipe, a swift flash of consciousness of her inability to love - Ramona had swept through her mind. “Ramona,” she said firmly, “while you - are a little girl, you cannot understand any of these things. When you are - a woman, I will tell you all that I know myself about your father and your - mother. It is very little. Your father died when you were only two years - old. All that you have to do is to be a good child, and say your prayers, - and when Father Salvierderra comes he will be pleased with you. And he - will not be pleased if you ask troublesome questions. Don't ever speak to - me again about this. When the proper time comes I will tell you myself.” - </p> - <p> - This was when Ramona was ten. She was now nineteen. She had never again - asked the Senora a question bearing on the forbidden subject. She had been - a good child and said her prayers, and Father Salvierderra had been always - pleased with her, growing more and more deeply attached to her year by - year. But the proper time had not yet come for the Senora to tell her - anything more about her father and mother. There were few mornings on - which the girl did not think, “Perhaps it may be to-day that she will tell - me.” But she would not ask. Every word of that conversation was as vivid - in her mind as it had been the day it occurred; and it would hardly be an - exaggeration to say that during every day of the whole nine years had - deepened in her heart the conviction which had prompted the child's - question, “Did he know that you did not want any daughter?” - </p> - <p> - A nature less gentle than Ramona's would have been embittered, or at least - hardened, by this consciousness. But Ramona's was not. She never put it in - words to herself. She accepted it, as those born deformed seem sometimes - to accept the pain and isolation caused by their deformity, with an - unquestioning acceptance, which is as far above resignation, as - resignation is above rebellious repining. - </p> - <p> - No one would have known, from Ramona's face, manner, or habitual conduct, - that she had ever experienced a sorrow or had a care. Her face was sunny, - she had a joyous voice, and never was seen to pass a human being without a - cheerful greeting, to highest and lowest the same. Her industry was - tireless. She had had two years at school, in the Convent of the Sacred - Heart at Los Angeles, where the Senora had placed her at much personal - sacrifice, during one of the hardest times the Moreno estate had ever - seen. Here she had won the affection of all the Sisters, who spoke of her - habitually as the “blessed child.” They had taught her all the dainty arts - of lace-weaving, embroidery, and simple fashions of painting and drawing, - which they knew; not overmuch learning out of books, but enough to make - her a passionate lover of verse and romance. For serious study or for deep - thought she had no vocation. She was a simple, joyous, gentle, clinging, - faithful nature, like a clear brook rippling along in the sun,—a - nature as unlike as possible to the Senora's, with its mysterious depths - and stormy, hidden currents. - </p> - <p> - Of these Ramona was dimly conscious, and at times had a tender, sorrowful - pity for the Senora, which she dared not show, and could only express by - renewed industry, and tireless endeavor to fulfil every duty possible in - the house. This gentle faithfulness was not wholly lost on Senora Moreno, - though its source she never suspected; and it won no new recognition from - her for Ramona, no increase of love. - </p> - <p> - But there was one on whom not an act, not a look, not a smile of all this - graciousness was thrown away. That one was Felipe. Daily more and more he - wondered at his mother's lack of affection for Ramona. Nobody knew so well - as he how far short she stopped of loving her. Felipe knew what it meant, - how it felt, to be loved by the Senora Moreno. But Felipe had learned - while he was a boy that one sure way to displease his mother was to appear - to be aware that she did not treat Ramona as she treated him. And long - before he had become a man he had acquired the habit of keeping to himself - most of the things he thought and felt about his little playmate sister,—a - dangerous habit, out of which were slowly ripening bitter fruits for the - Senora's gathering in later years. - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - IV - </h2> - <p> - IT was longer even than the Senora had thought it would be, before Father - Salvierderra arrived. The old man had grown feeble during the year that - she had not seen him, and it was a very short day's journey that he could - make now without too great fatigue. It was not only his body that had - failed. He had lost heart; and the miles which would have been nothing to - him, had he walked in the companionship of hopeful and happy thoughts, - stretched out wearily as he brooded over sad memories and still sadder - anticipations,—the downfall of the Missions, the loss of their vast - estates, and the growing power of the ungodly in the land. The final - decision of the United States Government in regard to the Mission-lands - had been a terrible blow to him. He had devoutly believed that ultimate - restoration of these great estates to the Church was inevitable. In the - long vigils which he always kept when at home at the Franciscan Monastery - in Santa Barbara, kneeling on the stone pavement in the church, and - praying ceaselessly from midnight till dawn, he had often had visions - vouchsafed him of a new dispensation, in which the Mission establishments - should be reinstated in all their old splendor and prosperity, and their - Indian converts again numbered by tens of thousands. - </p> - <p> - Long after every one knew that this was impossible, he would narrate these - visions with the faith of an old Bible seer, and declare that they must - come true, and that it was a sin to despond. But as year after year he - journeyed up and down the country, seeing, at Mission after Mission, the - buildings crumbling into ruin, the lands all taken, sold, resold, and - settled by greedy speculators; the Indian converts disappearing, driven - back to their original wildernesses, the last traces of the noble work of - his order being rapidly swept away, his courage faltered, his faith died - out. Changes in the manners and customs of his order itself, also, were - giving him deep pain. He was a Franciscan of the same type as Francis of - Assisi. To wear a shoe in place of a sandal, to take money in a purse for - a journey, above all to lay aside the gray gown and cowl for any sort of - secular garment, seemed to him wicked. To own comfortable clothes while - there were others suffering for want of them—and there were always - such—seemed to him a sin for which one might not undeservedly be - smitten with sudden and terrible punishment. In vain the Brothers again - and again supplied him with a warm cloak; he gave it away to the first - beggar he met: and as for food, the refectory would have been left bare, - and the whole brotherhood starving, if the supplies had not been carefully - hidden and locked, so that Father Salvierderra could not give them all - away. He was fast becoming that most tragic yet often sublime sight, a man - who has survived, not only his own time, but the ideas and ideals of it. - Earth holds no sharper loneliness: the bitterness of exile, the anguish of - friendlessness at their utmost, are in it; and yet it is so much greater - than they, that even they seem small part of it. - </p> - <p> - It was with thoughts such as these that Father Salvierderra drew near the - home of the Senora Moreno late in the afternoon of one of those midsummer - days of which Southern California has so many in spring. The almonds had - bloomed and the blossoms fallen; the apricots also, and the peaches and - pears; on all the orchards of these fruits had come a filmy tint of green, - so light it was hardly more than a shadow on the gray. The willows were - vivid light green, and the orange groves dark and glossy like laurel. The - billowy hills on either side the valley were covered with verdure and - bloom,—myriads of low blossoming plants, so close to the earth that - their tints lapped and overlapped on each other, and on the green of the - grass, as feathers in fine plumage overlap each other and blend into a - changeful color. - </p> - <p> - The countless curves, hollows, and crests of the coast-hills in Southern - California heighten these chameleon effects of the spring verdure; they - are like nothing in nature except the glitter of a brilliant lizard in the - sun or the iridescent sheen of a peacock's neck. - </p> - <p> - Father Salvierderra paused many times to gaze at the beautiful picture. - Flowers were always dear to the Franciscans. Saint Francis himself - permitted all decorations which could be made of flowers. He classed them - with his brothers and sisters, the sun, moon, and stars,—all members - of the sacred choir praising God. - </p> - <p> - It was melancholy to see how, after each one of these pauses, each fresh - drinking in of the beauty of the landscape and the balmy air, the old man - resumed his slow pace, with a long sigh and his eyes cast down. The fairer - this beautiful land, the sadder to know it lost to the Church,—alien - hands reaping its fulness, establishing new customs, new laws. All the way - down the coast from Santa Barbara he had seen, at every stopping-place, - new tokens of the settling up of the country,—farms opening, towns - growing; the Americans pouring in, at all points, to reap the advantages - of their new possessions. It was this which had made his journey - heavy-hearted, and made him feel, in approaching the Senora Moreno's, as - if he were coming to one of the last sure strongholds of the Catholic - faith left in the country. - </p> - <p> - When he was within two miles of the house, he struck off from the highway - into a narrow path that he recollected led by a short-cut through the - hills, and saved nearly a third of the distance. It was more than a year - since he had trod this path, and as he found it growing fainter and - fainter, and more and more overgrown with the wild mustard, he said to - himself, “I think no one can have passed through here this year.” - </p> - <p> - As he proceeded he found the mustard thicker and thicker. The wild mustard - in Southern California is like that spoken of in the New Testament, in the - branches of which the birds of the air may rest. Coming up out of the - earth, so slender a stem that dozens can find starting-point in an inch, - it darts up, a slender straight shoot, five, ten, twenty feet, with - hundreds of fine feathery branches locking and interlocking with all the - other hundreds around it, till it is an inextricable network like lace. - Then it bursts into yellow bloom still finer, more feathery and lacelike. - The stems are so infinitesimally small, and of so dark a green, that at a - short distance they do not show, and the cloud of blossom seems floating - in the air; at times it looks like golden dust. With a clear blue sky - behind it, as it is often seen, it looks like a golden snow-storm. The - plant is a tyrant and a nuisance,—the terror of the farmer; it takes - riotous possession of a whole field in a season; once in, never out; for - one plant this year, a million the next; but it is impossible to wish that - the land were freed from it. Its gold is as distinct a value to the eye as - the nugget gold is in the pocket. - </p> - <p> - Father Salvierderra soon found himself in a veritable thicket of these - delicate branches, high above his head, and so interlaced that he could - make headway only by slowly and patiently disentangling them, as one would - disentangle a skein of silk. It was a fantastic sort of dilemma, and not - unpleasing. Except that the Father was in haste to reach his journey's - end, he would have enjoyed threading his way through the golden meshes. - Suddenly he heard faint notes of singing. He paused,—listened. It - was the voice of a woman. It was slowly drawing nearer, apparently from - the direction in which he was going. At intervals it ceased abruptly, then - began again; as if by a sudden but brief interruption, like that made by - question and answer. Then, peering ahead through the mustard blossoms, he - saw them waving and bending, and heard sounds as if they were being - broken. Evidently some one entering on the path from the opposite end had - been caught in the fragrant thicket as he was. The notes grew clearer, - though still low and sweet as the twilight notes of the thrush; the - mustard branches waved more and more violently; light steps were now to be - heard. Father Salvierderra stood still as one in a dream, his eyes - straining forward into the golden mist of blossoms. In a moment more came, - distinct and clear to his ear, the beautiful words of the second stanza of - Saint Francis's inimitable lyric, “The Canticle of the Sun:” - </p> - <p> - “Praise be to thee, O Lord, for all thy creatures, and especially for our - brother the Sun,—who illuminates the day, and by his beauty and - splendor shadows forth unto us thine.” - </p> - <p> - “Ramona!” exclaimed the Father, his thin cheeks flushing with pleasure. - “The blessed child!” And as he spoke, her face came into sight, set in a - swaying frame of the blossoms, as she parted them lightly to right and - left with her hands, and half crept, half danced through the loop-hole - openings thus made. Father Salvierderra was past eighty, but his blood was - not too old to move quicker at the sight of this picture. A man must be - dead not to thrill at it. Ramona's beauty was of the sort to be best - enhanced by the waving gold which now framed her face. She had just enough - of olive tint in her complexion to underlie and enrich her skin without - making it swarthy. Her hair was like her Indian mother's, heavy and black, - but her eyes were like her father's, steel-blue. Only those who came very - near to Ramona knew, however, that her eyes were blue, for the heavy black - eyebrows and long black lashes so shaded and shadowed them that they - looked black as night. At the same instant that Father Salvierderra first - caught sight of her face, Ramona also saw him, and crying out joyfully, - “Ah, Father, I knew you would come by this path, and something told me you - were near!” she sprang forward, and sank on her knees before him, bowing - her head for his blessing. In silence he laid his hands on her brow. It - would not have been easy for him to speak to her at that first moment. She - had looked to the devout old monk, as she sprang through the cloud of - golden flowers, the sun falling on her bared head, her cheeks flushed, her - eyes shining, more like an apparition of an angel or saint, than like the - flesh-and-blood maiden whom he had carried in his arms when she was a - babe. - </p> - <p> - “We have been waiting, waiting, oh, so long for you, Father!” she said, - rising. “We began to fear that you might be ill. The shearers have been - sent for, and will be here tonight, and that was the reason I felt so sure - you would come. I knew the Virgin would bring you in time for mass in the - chapel on the first morning.” - </p> - <p> - The monk smiled half sadly. “Would there were more with such faith as - yours, daughter,” he said. “Are all well on the place?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Father, all well,” she answered. “Felipe has been ill with a fever; - but he is out now, these ten days, and fretting for—for your - coming.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona had like to have said the literal truth,—“fretting for the - sheep-shearing,” but recollected herself in time. - </p> - <p> - “And the Senora?” said the Father. - </p> - <p> - “She is well,” answered Ramona, gently, but with a slight change of tone,—so - slight as to be almost imperceptible; but an acute observer would have - always detected it in the girl's tone whenever she spoke of the Senora - Moreno. “And you,—are you well yourself, Father?” she asked - affectionately, noting with her quick, loving eye how feebly the old man - walked, and that he carried what she had never before seen in his hand,—a - stout staff to steady his steps. “You must be very tired with the long - journey on foot.” - </p> - <p> - “Ay, Ramona, I am tired,” he replied. “Old age is conquering me. It will - not be many times more that I shall see this place.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, do not say that, Father,” cried Ramona; “you can ride, when it tires - you too much to walk. The Senora said, only the other day, that she wished - you would let her give you a horse; that it was not right for you to take - these long journeys on foot. You know we have hundreds of horses. It is - nothing, one horse,” she added, seeing the Father slowly shake his head. - </p> - <p> - “No;” he said, “it is not that. I could not refuse anything at the hands - of the Senora. But it was the rule of our order to go on foot. We must - deny the flesh. Look at our beloved master in this land, Father Junipero, - when he was past eighty, walking from San Diego to Monterey, and all the - while a running ulcer in one of his legs, for which most men would have - taken to a bed, to be healed. It is a sinful fashion that is coming in, - for monks to take their ease doing God's work. I can no longer walk - swiftly, but I must walk all the more diligently.” - </p> - <p> - While they were talking, they had been slowly moving forward, Ramona - slightly in advance, gracefully bending the mustard branches, and holding - them down till the Father had followed in her steps. As they came out from - the thicket, she exclaimed, laughing, “There is Felipe, in the willows. I - told him I was coming to meet you, and he laughed at me. Now he will see I - was right.” - </p> - <p> - Astonished enough, Felipe, hearing voices, looked up, and saw Ramona and - the Father approaching. Throwing down the knife with which he had been - cutting the willows, he hastened to meet them, and dropped on his knees, - as Ramona had done, for the monk's blessing. As he knelt there, the wind - blowing his hair loosely off his brow, his large brown eyes lifted in - gentle reverence to the Father's face, and his face full of affectionate - welcome, Ramona thought to herself, as she had thought hundreds of times - since she became a woman, “How beautiful Felipe is! No wonder the Senora - loves him so much! If I had been beautiful like that she would have liked - me better.” Never was a little child more unconscious of her own beauty - than Ramona still was. All the admiration which was expressed to her in - word and look she took for simple kindness and good-will. Her face, as she - herself saw it in her glass, did not please her. She compared her - straight, massive black eyebrows with Felipe's, arched and delicately - pencilled, and found her own ugly. The expression of gentle repose which - her countenance wore, seemed to her an expression of stupidity. “Felipe - looks so bright!” she thought, as she noted his mobile changing face, - never for two successive seconds the same. “There is nobody like Felipe.” - And when his brown eyes were fixed on her, as they so often were, in a - long lingering gaze, she looked steadily back into their velvet depths - with an abstracted sort of intensity which profoundly puzzled Felipe. It - was this look, more than any other one thing, which had for two years held - Felipe's tongue in leash, as it were, and made it impossible for him to - say to Ramona any of the loving things of which his heart had been full - ever since he could remember. The boy had spoken them unhesitatingly, - unconsciously; but the man found himself suddenly afraid. “What is it she - thinks when she looks into my eyes so?” he wondered. If he had known that - the thing she was usually thinking was simply, “How much handsomer brown - eyes are than blue! I wish my eyes were the color of Felipe's!” he would - have perceived, perhaps, what would have saved him sorrow, if he had known - it, that a girl who looked at a man thus, would be hard to win to look at - him as a lover. But being a lover, he could not see this. He saw only - enough to perplex and deter him. - </p> - <p> - As they drew near the house, Ramona saw Margarita standing at the gate of - the garden. She was holding something white in her hands, looking down at - it, and crying piteously. As she perceived Ramona, she made an eager leap - forward, and then shrank back again, making dumb signals of distress to - her. Her whole attitude was one of misery and entreaty. Margarita was, of - all the maids, most beloved by Ramona. Though they were nearly of the same - age, it had been Margarita who first had charge of Ramona; the nurse and - her charge had played together, grown up together, become women together, - and were now, although Margarita never presumed on the relation, or forgot - to address Ramona as Senorita, more like friends than like mistress and - maid. - </p> - <p> - “Pardon me, Father,” said Ramona. “I see that Margarita there is in - trouble. I will leave Felipe to go with you to the house. I will be with - you again in a few moments.” And kissing his hand, she flew rather than - ran across the field to the foot of the garden. - </p> - <p> - Before she reached the spot, Margarita had dropped on the ground and - buried her face in her hands. A mass of crumpled and stained linen lay at - her feet. - </p> - <p> - “What is it? What has happened, Margarita mia?” cried Ramona, in the - affectionate Spanish phrase. For answer, Margarita removed one wet hand - from her eyes, and pointed with a gesture of despair to the crumpled - linen. Sobs choked her voice, and she buried her face again in her hands. - </p> - <p> - Ramona stooped, and lifted one corner of the linen. An involuntary cry of - dismay broke from her, at which Margarita's sobs redoubled, and she gasped - out, “Yes, Senorita, it is totally ruined! It can never be mended, and it - will be needed for the mass to-morrow morning. When I saw the Father - coming by your side, I prayed to the Virgin to let me die. The Senora will - never forgive me.” - </p> - <p> - It was indeed a sorry sight. The white linen altar-cloth, the cloth which - the Senora Moreno had with her own hands made into one solid front of - beautiful lace of the Mexican fashion, by drawing out part of the threads - and sewing the remainder into intricate patterns, the cloth which had - always been on the altar, when mass was said, since Margarita's and - Ramona's earliest recollections,—there it lay, torn, stained, as if - it had been dragged through muddy brambles. In silence, aghast, Ramona - opened it out and held it up. “How did it happen, Margarita?” she - whispered, glancing in terror up towards the house. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that is the worst of it, Senorita!” sobbed the girl. “That is the - worst of it! If it were not for that, I would not be so afraid. If it had - happened any other way, the Senora might have forgiven me; but she never - will. I would rather die than tell her;” and she shook from head to foot. - </p> - <p> - “Stop crying, Margarita!” said Ramona, firmly, “and tell me all about it. - It isn't so bad as it looks. I think I can mend it.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, the saints bless you!” cried Margarita, looking up for the first - time. “Do you really think you can mend it, Senorita? If you will mend - that lace, I'll go on my knees for you all the rest of my life!” - </p> - <p> - Ramona laughed in spite of herself. “You'll serve me better by keeping on - your feet,” she said merrily; at which Margarita laughed too, through her - tears. They were both young. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, but Senorita,” Margarita began again in a tone of anguish, her tears - flowing afresh, “there is not time! It must be washed and ironed to-night, - for the mass to-morrow morning, and I have to help at the supper. Anita - and Rosa are both ill in bed, you know, and Maria has gone away for a - week. The Senora said if the Father came to-night I must help mother, and - must wait on table. It cannot be done. I was just going to iron it now, - and I found it—so—It was in the artichoke-patch, and Capitan, - the beast, had been tossing it among the sharp pricks of the old last - year's seeds.” - </p> - <p> - “In the artichoke-patch!” ejaculated Ramona. “How under heavens did it get - there?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that was what I meant, Senorita, when I said she never would forgive - me. She has forbidden me many times to hang anything to dry on the fence - there; and if I had only washed it when she first told me, two days ago, - all would have been well. But I forgot it till this afternoon, and there - was no sun in the court to dry it, and you know how the sun lies on the - artichoke-patch, and I put a strong cloth over the fence, so that the wood - should not pierce the lace, and I did not leave it more than half an hour, - just while I said a few words to Luigo, and there was no wind; and I - believe the saints must have fetched it down to the ground to punish me - for my disobedience.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona had been all this time carefully smoothing out the torn places, “It - is not so bad as it looks,” she said; “if it were not for the hurry, there - would be no trouble in mending it. But I will do it the best I can, so - that it will not show, for to-morrow, and then, after the Father is gone, - I can repair it at leisure, and make it just as good as new. I think I can - mend it and wash it before dark,” and she glanced at the sun. “Oh, yes, - there are good three hours of daylight yet. I can do it. You put the irons - on the fire, to have them hot, to iron it as soon as it is partly dried. - You will see it will not show that anything has happened to it.” - </p> - <p> - “Will the Senora know?” asked poor Margarita, calmed and reassured, but - still in mortal terror. - </p> - <p> - Ramona turned her steady glance full on Margarita's face. “You would not - be any happier if she were deceived, do you think?” she said gravely. - </p> - <p> - “O Senorita, after it is mended? If it really does not show?” pleaded the - girl. - </p> - <p> - “I will tell her myself, and not till after it is mended,” said Ramona; - but she did not smile. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, Senorita,” said Margarita, deprecatingly, “you do not know what it is - to have the Senora displeased with one.” - </p> - <p> - “Nothing can be so bad as to be displeased with one's self,” retorted - Ramona, as she walked swiftly away to her room with the linen rolled up - under her arm. Luckily for Margarita's cause, she met no one on the way. - The Senora had welcomed Father Salvierderra at the foot of the veranda - steps, and had immediately closeted herself with him. She had much to say - to him,—much about which she wished his help and counsel, and much - which she wished to learn from him as to affairs in the Church and in the - country generally. - </p> - <p> - Felipe had gone off at once to find Juan Canito, to see if everything were - ready for the sheep-shearing to begin on the next day, if the shearers - arrived in time; and there was very good chance of their coming in by - sundown this day, Felipe thought, for he had privately instructed his - messenger to make all possible haste, and to impress on the Indians the - urgent need of their losing no time on the road. - </p> - <p> - It had been a great concession on the Senora's part to allow the messenger - to be sent off before she had positive intelligence as to the Father's - movements. But as day after day passed and no news came, even she - perceived that it would not do to put off the sheep-shearing much longer, - or, as Juan Canito said, “forever.” The Father might have fallen ill; and - if that were so, it might very easily be weeks before they heard of it, so - scanty were the means of communication between the remote places on his - route of visitation. The messenger had therefore been sent to summon the - Temecula shearers, and Senora had resigned herself to the inevitable; - piously praying, however, morning and night, and at odd moments in the - day, that the Father might arrive before the Indians did. When she saw him - coming up the garden-walk, leaning on the arm of her Felipe, on the - afternoon of the very day which was the earliest possible day for the - Indians to arrive, it was not strange that she felt, mingled with the joy - of her greeting to her long-loved friend and confessor, a triumphant - exultation that the saints had heard her prayers. - </p> - <p> - In the kitchen all was bustle and stir. The coming of any guest into the - house was a signal for unwonted activities there,—even the coming of - Father Salvierderra, who never knew whether the soup had force-meat balls - in it or not, old Marda said; and that was to her the last extreme of - indifference to good things of the flesh. “But if he will not eat, he can - see,” she said; and her pride for herself and for the house was enlisted - in setting forth as goodly an array of viands as her larder afforded, She - grew suddenly fastidious over the size and color of the cabbages to go - into the beef-pot, and threw away one whole saucepan full of rice, because - Margarita had put only one onion in instead of two. - </p> - <p> - “Have I not told you again and again that for the Father it is always two - onions?” she exclaimed. “It is the dish he most favors of all; and it is a - pity too, old as he is. It makes him no blood. It is good beef he should - take now.” - </p> - <p> - The dining-room was on the opposite side of the courtyard from the - kitchen, and there was a perpetual procession of small messengers going - back and forth between the rooms. It was the highest ambition of each - child to be allowed to fetch and carry dishes in the preparation of the - meals at all times; but when by so doing they could perchance get a - glimpse through the dining-room door, open on the veranda, of strangers - and guests, their restless rivalry became unmanageable. Poor Margarita, - between her own private anxieties and her multiplied duties of helping in - the kitchen, and setting the table, restraining and overseeing her army of - infant volunteers, was nearly distraught; not so distraught, however, but - that she remembered and found time to seize a lighted candle in the - kitchen, run and set it before the statue of Saint Francis of Paula in her - bedroom, hurriedly whispering a prayer that the lace might be made whole - like new. Several times before the afternoon had waned she snatched a - moment to fling herself down at the statue's feet and pray her foolish - little prayer over again. We think we are quite sure that it is a foolish - little prayer, when people pray to have torn lace made whole. But it would - be hard to show the odds between asking that, and asking that it may rain, - or that the sick may get well. As the grand old Russian says, what men - usually ask for, when they pray to God, is, that two and two may not make - four. All the same he is to be pitied who prays not. It was only the - thought of that candle at Saint Francis's feet, which enabled Margarita to - struggle through this anxious and unhappy afternoon and evening. - </p> - <p> - At last supper was ready,—a great dish of spiced beef and cabbage in - the centre of the table; a tureen of thick soup, with force-meat balls and - red peppers in it; two red earthen platters heaped, one with the boiled - rice and onions, the other with the delicious frijoles (beans) so dear to - all Mexican hearts; cut-glass dishes filled with hot stewed pears, or - preserved quinces, or grape jelly; plates of frosted cakes of various - sorts; and a steaming silver teakettle, from which went up an aroma of tea - such as had never been bought or sold in all California, the Senora's one - extravagance and passion. - </p> - <p> - “Where is Ramona?” asked the Senora, surprised and displeased, as she - entered the dining-room, “Margarita, go tell the Senorita that we are - waiting for her.” - </p> - <p> - Margarita started tremblingly, with flushed face, towards the door. What - would happen now! “O Saint Francis,” she inwardly prayed, “help us this - once!” - </p> - <p> - “Stay,” said Felipe. “Do not call Senorita Ramona.” Then, turning to his - mother, “Ramona cannot come. She is not in the house. She has a duty to - perform for to-morrow,” he said; and he looked meaningly at his mother, - adding, “we will not wait for her.” - </p> - <p> - Much bewildered, the Senora took her seat at the head of the table in a - mechanical way, and began, “But—” Felipe, seeing that questions were - to follow, interrupted her: “I have just spoken with her. It is impossible - for her to come;” and turning to Father Salvierderra, he at once engaged - him in conversation, and left the baffled Senora to bear her unsatisfied - curiosity as best she could. - </p> - <p> - Margarita looked at Felipe with an expression of profound gratitude, which - he did not observe, and would not in the least have understood; for Ramona - had not confided to him any details of the disaster. Seeing him under her - window, she had called cautiously to him, and said: “Dear Felipe, do you - think you can save me from having to come to supper? A dreadful accident - has happened to the altar-cloth, and I must mend it and wash it, and there - is barely time before dark. Don't let them call me; I shall be down at the - brook, and they will not find me, and your mother will be displeased.” - </p> - <p> - This wise precaution of Ramona's was the salvation of everything, so far - as the altar-cloth was concerned. The rents had proved far less serious - than she had feared; the daylight held out till the last of them was - skilfully mended; and just as the red beams of the sinking sun came - streaming through the willow-trees at the foot of the garden, Ramona, - darting down the garden, had reached the brook, and kneeling on the grass, - had dipped the linen into the water. - </p> - <p> - Her hurried working over the lace, and her anxiety, had made her cheeks - scarlet. As she ran down the garden, her comb had loosened and her hair - fallen to her waist. Stopping only to pick up the comb and thrust it in - her pocket, she had sped on, as it would soon be too dark for her to see - the stains on the linen, and it was going to be no small trouble to get - them out without fraying the lace. - </p> - <p> - Her hair in disorder, her sleeves pinned loosely on her shoulders, her - whole face aglow with the earnestness of her task, she bent low over the - stones, rinsing the altar-cloth up and down in the water, anxiously - scanning it, then plunging it in again. - </p> - <p> - The sunset beams played around her hair like a halo; the whole place was - aglow with red light, and her face was kindled into transcendent beauty. A - sound arrested her attention. She looked up. Forms, dusky black against - the fiery western sky, were coming down the valley. It was the band of - Indian shearers. They turned to the left, and went towards the sheep sheds - and booths. But there was one of them that Ramona did not see. He had been - standing for some minutes concealed behind a large willow-tree a few rods - from the place where Ramona was kneeling. It was Alessandro, son of Pablo - Assis, captain of the shearing band. Walking slowly along in advance of - his men, he had felt a light, as from a mirror held in the sun, smite his - eyes. It was the red sunbeam on the glittering water where Ramona knelt. - In the same second he saw Ramona. - </p> - <p> - He halted, as wild creatures of the forest halt at a sound; gazed; walked - abruptly away from his men, who kept on, not noticing his disappearance. - Cautiously he moved a few steps nearer, into the shelter of a gnarled old - willow, from behind which he could gaze unperceived on the beautiful - vision,—for so it seemed to him. - </p> - <p> - As he gazed, his senses seemed leaving him, and unconsciously he spoke - aloud; “Christ! What shall I do!” - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - V - </h2> - <p> - THE room in which Father Salvierderra always slept when at the Senora - Moreno's house was the southeast corner room. It had a window to the south - and one to the east. When the first glow of dawn came in the sky, this - eastern window was lit up as by a fire. The Father was always on watch for - it, having usually been at prayer for hours. As the first ray reached the - window, he would throw the casement wide open, and standing there with - bared head, strike up the melody of the sunrise hymn sung in all devout - Mexican families. It was a beautiful custom, not yet wholly abandoned. At - the first dawn of light, the oldest member of the family arose, and began - singing some hymn familiar to the household. It was the duty of each - person hearing it to immediately rise, or at least sit up in bed, and join - in the singing. In a few moments the whole family would be singing, and - the joyous sounds pouring out from the house like the music of the birds - in the fields at dawn. The hymns were usually invocations to the Virgin, - or to the saint of the day, and the melodies were sweet and simple. - </p> - <p> - On this morning there was another watcher for the dawn besides Father - Salvierderra. It was Alessandro, who had been restlessly wandering about - since midnight, and had finally seated himself under the willow-trees by - the brook, at the spot where he had seen Ramona the evening before. He - recollected this custom of the sunrise hymn when he and his band were at - the Senora's the last year, and he had chanced then to learn that the - Father slept in the southeast room. From the spot where he sat, he could - see the south window of this room. He could also see the low eastern - horizon, at which a faint luminous line already showed. The sky was like - amber; a few stars still shone faintly in the zenith. There was not a - sound. It was one of those rare moments in which one can without - difficulty realize the noiseless spinning of the earth through space. - Alessandro knew nothing of this; he could not have been made to believe - that the earth was moving. He thought the sun was coming up apace, and the - earth was standing still,—a belief just as grand, just as thrilling, - so far as all that goes, as the other: men worshipped the sun long before - they found out that it stood still. Not the most reverent astronomer, with - the mathematics of the heavens at his tongue's end, could have had more - delight in the wondrous phenomenon of the dawn, than did this - simple-minded, unlearned man. - </p> - <p> - His eyes wandered from the horizon line of slowly increasing light, to the - windows of the house, yet dark and still. “Which window is hers? Will she - open it when the song begins?” he thought. “Is it on this side of the - house? Who can she be? She was not here last year. Saw the saints ever so - beautiful a creature!” - </p> - <p> - At last came the full red ray across the meadow. Alessandro sprang to his - feet. In the next second Father Salvierderra flung up his south window, - and leaning out, his cowl thrown off, his thin gray locks streaming back, - began in a feeble but not unmelodious voice to sing,— - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - “O beautiful Queen, - Princess of Heaven.” - </pre> - <p> - Before he had finished the second line, a half-dozen voices had joined in,—the - Senora, from her room at the west end of the veranda, beyond the flowers; - Felipe, from the adjoining room; Ramona, from hers, the next; and - Margarita and other of the maids already astir in the wings of the house. - As the volume of melody swelled, the canaries waked, and the finches and - the linnets in the veranda roof. The tiles of this roof were laid on - bundles of tule reeds, in which the linnets delighted to build their - nests. The roof was alive with them,—scores and scores, nay - hundreds, tame as chickens; their tiny shrill twitter was like the tuning - of myriads of violins. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - “Singers at dawn - From the heavens above - People all regions; - Gladly we too sing,” - </pre> - <p> - continued the hymn, the birds corroborating the stanza. Then men's voices - joined in,—Juan and Luigo, and a dozen more, walking slowly up from - the sheepfolds. The hymn was a favorite one, known to all. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - “Come, O sinners, - Come, and we will sing - Tender hymns - To our refuge,” - </pre> - <p> - was the chorus, repeated after each of the five verses of the hymn. - </p> - <p> - Alessandro also knew the hymn well. His father, Chief Pablo, had been the - leader of the choir at the San Luis Rey Mission in the last years of its - splendor, and had brought away with him much of the old choir music. Some - of the books had been written by his own hand, on parchment. He not only - sang well, but was a good player on the violin. There was not at any of - the Missions so fine a band of performers on stringed instruments as at - San Luis Rey. Father Peyri was passionately fond of music, and spared no - pains in training all the neophytes under his charge who showed any - special talent in that direction. Chief Pablo, after the breaking up of - the Mission, had settled at Temecula, with a small band of his Indians, - and endeavored, so far as was in his power, to keep up the old religious - services. The music in the little chapel of the Temecula Indians was a - surprise to all who heard it. - </p> - <p> - Alessandro had inherited his father's love and talent for music, and knew - all the old Mission music by heart. This hymn to the - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - “Beautiful Queen, - Princess of Heaven,” - </pre> - <p> - was one of his special favorites; and as he heard verse after verse - rising, he could not forbear striking in. - </p> - <p> - At the first notes of this rich new voice, Ramona's voice ceased in - surprise; and, throwing up her window, she leaned out, eagerly looking in - all directions to see who it could be. Alessandro saw her, and sang no - more. - </p> - <p> - “What could it have been? Did I dream it?” thought Ramona, drew in her - head, and began to sing again. - </p> - <p> - With the next stanza of the chorus, the same rich barytone notes. They - seemed to float in under all the rest, and bear them along, as a great - wave bears a boat. Ramona had never heard such a voice. Felipe had a good - tenor, and she liked to sing with him, or to hear him; but this—this - was from another world, this sound. Ramona felt every note of it - penetrating her consciousness with a subtle thrill almost like pain. When - the hymn ended, she listened eagerly, hoping Father Salvierderra would - strike up a second hymn, as he often did; but he did not this morning; - there was too much to be done; everybody was in a hurry to be at work: - windows shut, doors opened; the sounds of voices from all directions, - ordering, questioning, answering, began to be heard. The sun rose and let - a flood of work-a-day light on the whole place. - </p> - <p> - Margarita ran and unlocked the chapel door, putting up a heartfelt - thanksgiving to Saint Francis and the Senorita, as she saw the snowy - altar-cloth in its place, looking, from that distance at least, as good as - new. - </p> - <p> - The Indians and the shepherds, and laborers of all sorts, were coming - towards the chapel. The Senora, with her best black silk handkerchief - bound tight around her forehead, the ends hanging down each side of her - face, making her look like an Assyrian priestess, was descending the - veranda steps, Felipe at her side; and Father Salvierderra had already - entered the chapel before Ramona appeared, or Alessandro stirred from his - vantage-post of observation at the willows. - </p> - <p> - When Ramona came out from the door she bore in her hands a high silver urn - filled with ferns. She had been for many days gathering and hoarding - these. They were hard to find, growing only in one place in a rocky canon, - several miles away. - </p> - <p> - As she stepped from the veranda to the ground, Alessandro walked slowly up - the garden-walk, facing her. She met his eyes, and, without knowing why, - thought, “That must be the Indian who sang.” As she turned to the right - and entered the chapel, Alessandro followed her hurriedly, and knelt on - the stones close to the chapel door. He would be near when she came out. - As he looked in at the door, he saw her glide up the aisle, place the - ferns on the reading-desk, and then kneel down by Felipe in front of the - altar. Felipe turned towards her, smiling slightly, with a look as of - secret intelligence. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, Senor Felipe has married. She is his wife,” thought Alessandro, and a - strange pain seized him. He did not analyze it; hardly knew what it meant. - He was only twenty-one. He had not thought much about women. He was a - distant, cold boy, his own people of the Temecula village said. It had - come, they believed, of learning to read, which was always bad. Chief - Pablo had not done his son any good by trying to make him like white men. - If the Fathers could have stayed, and the life at the Mission have gone - on, why, Alessandro could have had work to do for the Fathers, as his - father had before him. Pablo had been Father Peyri's right-hand man at the - Mission; had kept all the accounts about the cattle; paid the wages; - handled thousands of dollars of gold every month. But that was “in the - time of the king;” it was very different now. The Americans would not let - an Indian do anything but plough and sow and herd cattle. A man need not - read and write, to do that. - </p> - <p> - Even Pablo sometimes doubted whether he had done wisely in teaching - Alessandro all he knew himself. Pablo was, for one of his race, wise and - far-seeing. He perceived the danger threatening his people on all sides. - Father Peyri, before he left the country, had said to him: “Pablo, your - people will be driven like sheep to the slaughter, unless you keep them - together. Knit firm bonds between them; band them into pueblos; make them - work; and above all, keep peace with the whites. It is your only chance.” - </p> - <p> - Most strenuously Pablo had striven to obey Father Peyri's directions. He - had set his people the example of constant industry, working steadily in - his fields and caring well for his herds. He had built a chapel in his - little village, and kept up forms of religious service there. Whenever - there were troubles with the whites, or rumors of them, he went from house - to house, urging, persuading, commanding his people to keep the peace. At - one time when there was an insurrection of some of the Indian tribes - farther south, and for a few days it looked as if there would be a general - Indian war, he removed the greater part of his band, men, women, and - children driving their flocks and herds with them, to Los Angeles, and - camped there for several days, that they might be identified with the - whites in case hostilities became serious. - </p> - <p> - But his labors did not receive the reward that they deserved. With every - day that the intercourse between his people and the whites increased, he - saw the whites gaining, his people surely losing ground, and his anxieties - deepened. The Mexican owner of the Temecula valley, a friend of Father - Peyri's, and a good friend also of Pablo's, had returned to Mexico in - disgust with the state of affairs in California, and was reported to be - lying at the point of death. This man's promise to Pablo, that he and his - people should always live in the valley undisturbed, was all the title - Pablo had to the village lands. In the days when the promise was given, it - was all that was necessary. The lines marking off the Indians' lands were - surveyed, and put on the map of the estate. No Mexican proprietor ever - broke faith with an Indian family or village, thus placed on his lands. - </p> - <p> - But Pablo had heard rumors, which greatly disquieted him, that such - pledges and surveyed lines as these were corning to be held as of no - value, not binding on purchasers of grants. He was intelligent enough to - see that if this were so, he and his people were ruined. All these - perplexities and fears he confided to Alessandro; long anxious hours the - father and son spent together, walking back and forth in the village, or - sitting in front of their little adobe house, discussing what could be - done. There was always the same ending to the discussion,—a long - sigh, and, “We must wait, we can do nothing.” - </p> - <p> - No wonder Alessandro seemed, to the more ignorant and thoughtless young - men and women of his village, a cold and distant lad. He was made old - before his time. He was carrying in his heart burdens of which they knew - nothing. So long as the wheat fields came up well, and there was no - drought, and the horses and sheep had good pasture, in plenty, on the - hills, the Temecula people could be merry, go day by day to their easy - work, play games at sunset, and sleep sound all night. But Alessandro and - his father looked beyond. And this was the one great reason why Alessandro - had not yet thought about women, in way of love; this, and also the fact - that even the little education he had received was sufficient to raise a - slight barrier, of which he was unconsciously aware, between him and the - maidens of the village. If a quick, warm fancy for any one of them ever - stirred in his veins, he found himself soon, he knew not how, cured of it. - For a dance, or a game, or a friendly chat, for the trips into the - mountains after acorns, or to the marshes for grasses and reeds, he was - their good comrade, and they were his; but never had the desire to take - one of them for his wife, entered into Alessandro's mind. The vista of the - future, for him, was filled full by thoughts which left no room for love's - dreaming; one purpose and one fear filled it,—the purpose to be his - father's worthy successor, for Pablo was old now, and very feeble; the - fear, that exile and ruin were in store for them all. - </p> - <p> - It was of these things he had been thinking as be walked alone, in advance - of his men, on the previous night, when he first saw Ramona kneeling at - the brook. Between that moment and the present, it seemed to Alessandro - that some strange miracle must have happened to him. The purposes and the - fears had alike gone. A face replaced them; a vague wonder, pain, joy, he - knew not what, filled him so to overflowing that he was bewildered. If he - had been what the world calls a civilized man, he would have known - instantly and would have been capable of weighing, analyzing, and - reflecting on his sensations at leisure. But he was not a civilized man; - he had to bring to bear on his present situation only simple, primitive, - uneducated instincts and impulses. If Ramona had been a maiden of his own - people or race, he would have drawn near to her as quickly as iron to the - magnet. But now, if he had gone so far as to even think of her in such a - way, she would have been, to his view, as far removed from him as was the - morning star beneath whose radiance he had that morning watched, hoping - for sight of her at her window. He did not, however, go so far as to thus - think of her. Even that would have been impossible. He only knelt on the - stones outside the chapel door, mechanically repeating the prayers with - the rest, waiting for her to reappear. He had no doubt, now, that she was - Senor Felipe's wife; all the same he wished to kneel there till she came - out, that he might see her face again. His vista of purpose, fear, hope, - had narrowed now down to that,—just one more sight of her. Ever so - civilized, he could hardly have worshipped a woman better. The mass seemed - to him endlessly long. Until near the last, he forgot to sing; then, in - the closing of the final hymn, he suddenly remembered, and the clear - deep-toned voice pealed out, as before, like the undertone of a great - sea-wave, sweeping along. - </p> - <p> - Ramona heard the first note, and felt again the same thrill. She was as - much a musician born as Alessandro himself. As she rose from her knees, - she whispered to Felipe: “Felipe, do find out which one of the Indians it - is has that superb voice. I never heard anything like it.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that is Alessandro,” replied Felipe, “old Pablo's son. He is a - splendid fellow. Don't you recollect his singing two years ago?” - </p> - <p> - “I was not here,” replied Ramona; “you forget.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, yes, so you were away; I had forgotten,” said Felipe. “Well, he was - here. They made him captain of the shearing-band, though he was only - twenty, and he managed the men splendidly. They saved nearly all their - money to carry home, and I never knew them do such a thing before. Father - Salvierderra was here, which might have had something to do with it; but I - think it was quite as much Alessandro. He plays the violin beautifully. I - hope he has brought it along. He plays the old San Luis Rey music. His - father was band-master there.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona's eyes kindled with pleasure. “Does your mother like it, to have - him play?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - Felipe nodded. “We'll have him up on the veranda tonight,” he said. - </p> - <p> - While this whispered colloquy was going on, the chapel had emptied, the - Indians and Mexicans all hurrying out to set about the day's work. - Alessandro lingered at the doorway as long as he dared, till he was - sharply called by Juan Canito, looking back: “What are you gaping at - there, you Alessandro! Hurry, now, and get your men to work. After waiting - till near midsummer for this shearing, we'll make as quick work of it as - we can. Have you got your best shearers here?” - </p> - <p> - “Ay, that I have,” answered Alessandro; “not a man of them but can shear - his hundred in a day, There is not such a band as ours in all San Diego - County; and we don't turn out the sheep all bleeding, either; you'll see - scarce a scratch on their sides.” - </p> - <p> - “Humph.” retorted Juan Can. “'Tis a poor shearer, indeed, that draws blood - to speak of. I've sheared many a thousand sheep in my day, and never a red - stain on the shears. But the Mexicans have always been famed for good - shearers.” - </p> - <p> - Juan's invidious emphasis on the word “Mexicans” did not escape - Alessandro. “And we Indians also,” he answered, good-naturedly, betraying - no annoyance; “but as for these Americans, I saw one at work the other - day, that man Lomax, who settled near Temecula, and upon my faith, Juan - Can, I thought it was a slaughter-pen, and not a shearing. The poor beasts - limped off with the blood running.” - </p> - <p> - Juan did not see his way clear at the moment to any fitting rejoinder to - this easy assumption, on Alessandro's part, of the equal superiority of - Indians and Mexicans in the sheep-shearing art; so, much vexed, with - another “Humph!” he walked away; walked away so fast, that he lost the - sight of a smile on Alessandro's face, which would have vexed him still - further. - </p> - <p> - At the sheep-shearing sheds and pens all was stir and bustle. The shearing - shed was a huge caricature of a summerhouse,—a long, narrow - structure, sixty feet long by twenty or thirty wide, all roof and pillars; - no walls; the supports, slender rough posts, as far apart as was safe, for - the upholding of the roof, which was of rough planks loosely laid from - beam to beam. On three sides of this were the sheep-pens filled with sheep - and lambs. - </p> - <p> - A few rods away stood the booths in which the shearers' food was to be - cooked and the shearers fed. These were mere temporary affairs, roofed - only by willow boughs with the leaves left on. Near these, the Indians had - already arranged their camp; a hut or two of green boughs had been built, - but for the most part they would sleep rolled up in their blankets, on the - ground. There was a brisk wind, and the gay colored wings of the windmill - blew furiously round and round, pumping out into the tank below a stream - of water so swift and strong, that as the men crowded around, wetting and - sharpening their knives, they got well spattered, and had much merriment, - pushing and elbowing each other into the spray. - </p> - <p> - A high four-posted frame stood close to the shed; in this, swung from the - four corners, hung one of the great sacking bags in which the fleeces were - to be packed. A big pile of bags lay on the ground at the foot of the - posts. Juan Can eyed them with a chuckle. “We'll fill more than those - before night, Senor Felipe,” he said. He was in his element, Juan Can, at - shearing times. Then came his reward for the somewhat monotonous and - stupid year's work. The world held no better feast for his eyes than the - sight of a long row of big bales of fleece, tied, stamped with the Moreno - brand, ready to be drawn away to the mills. “Now, there is something - substantial,” he thought; “no chance of wool going amiss in market!” - </p> - <p> - If a year's crop were good, Juan's happiness was assured for the next six - months. If it proved poor, he turned devout immediately, and spent the - next six months calling on the saints for better luck, and redoubling his - exertions with the sheep. - </p> - <p> - On one of the posts of the shed short projecting slats were nailed, like - half-rounds of a ladder. Lightly as a rope-walker Felipe ran up these, to - the roof, and took his stand there, ready to take the fleeces and pack - them in the bag as fast as they should be tossed up from below. Luigo, - with a big leathern wallet fastened in front of him, filled with five-cent - pieces, took his stand in the centre of the shed. The thirty shearers, - running into the nearest pen, dragged each his sheep into the shed, in a - twinkling of an eye had the creature between his knees, helpless, - immovable, and the sharp sound of the shears set in. The sheep-shearing - had begun. No rest now. Not a second's silence from the bleating, baa-ing, - opening and shutting, clicking, sharpening of shears, flying of fleeces - through the air to the roof, pressing and stamping them down in the bales; - not a second's intermission, except the hour of rest at noon, from sunrise - till sunset, till the whole eight thousand of the Senora Moreno's sheep - were shorn. It was a dramatic spectacle. As soon as a sheep was shorn, the - shearer ran with the fleece in his hand to Luigo, threw it down on a - table, received his five-cent piece, dropped it in his pocket, ran to the - pen, dragged out another sheep, and in less than five minutes was back - again with a second fleece. The shorn sheep, released, bounded off into - another pen, where, light in the head no doubt from being three to five - pounds lighter on their legs, they trotted round bewilderedly for a - moment, then flung up their heels and capered for joy. - </p> - <p> - It was warm work. The dust from the fleeces and the trampling feet filled - the air. As the sun rose higher in the sky the sweat poured off the men's - faces; and Felipe, standing without shelter on the roof, found out very - soon that he had by no means yet got back his full strength since the - fever. Long before noon, except for sheer pride, and for the recollection - of Juan Canito's speech, he would have come down and yielded his place to - the old man. But he was resolved not to give up, and he worked on, though - his face was purple and his head throbbing. After the bag of fleeces is - half full, the packer stands in it, jumping with his full weight on the - wool, as he throws in the fleeces, to compress them as much as possible. - When Felipe began to do this, he found that he had indeed overrated his - strength. As the first cloud of the sickening dust came up, enveloping his - head, choking his breath, he turned suddenly dizzy, and calling faintly, - “Juan, I am ill,” sank helpless down in the wool. He had fainted. At Juan - Canito's scream of dismay, a great hubbub and outcry arose; all saw - instantly what had happened. Felipe's head was hanging limp over the edge - of the bag, Juan in vain endeavoring to get sufficient foothold by his - side to lift him. One after another the men rushed up the ladder, until - they were all standing, a helpless, excited crowd, on the roof, one - proposing one thing, one another. Only Luigo had had the presence of mind - to run to the house for help. The Senora was away from home. She had gone - with Father Salvierderra to a friend's house, a half-day's journey off. - But Ramona was there. Snatching all she could think of in way of - restoratives, she came flying back with Luigo, followed by every servant - of the establishment, all talking, groaning, gesticulating, suggesting, - wringing their hands,—as disheartening a Babel as ever made bad - matters worse. - </p> - <p> - Reaching the shed, Ramona looked up to the roof bewildered. “Where is he?” - she cried. The next instant she saw his head, held in Juan Canito's arms, - just above the edge of the wool-bag. She groaned, “Oh, how will he ever be - lifted out!” - </p> - <p> - “I will lift him, Senora,” cried Alessandro, coming to the front, “I am - very strong. Do not be afraid; I will bring him safe down.” And swinging - himself down the ladder, he ran swiftly to the camp, and returned, - bringing in his hands blankets. Springing quickly to the roof again, he - knotted the blankets firmly together, and tying them at the middle around - his waist, threw the ends to his men, telling them to hold him firm. He - spoke in the Indian tongue as he was hurriedly doing this, and Ramona did - not at first understand his plan. But when she saw the Indians move a - little back from the edge of the roof, holding the blankets firm grasped, - while Alessandro stepped out on one of the narrow cross-beams from which - the bag swung, she saw what he meant to do. She held her breath. Felipe - was a slender man; Alessandro was much heavier, and many inches taller. - Still, could any man carry such a burden safely on that narrow beam! - Ramona looked away, and shut her eyes, through the silence which followed. - It was only a few moments; but it seemed an eternity before a glad murmur - of voices told her that it was done, and looking up, she saw Felipe lying - on the roof, unconscious, his face white, his eyes shut. At this sight, - all the servants broke out afresh, weeping and wailing, “He is dead! He is - dead!” - </p> - <p> - Ramona stood motionless, her eyes fixed on Felipe's face. She, too, - believed him dead; but her thought was of the Senora. - </p> - <p> - “He is not dead,” cried Juan Canito, who had thrust his hand under - Felipe's shirt. “He is not dead. It is only a faint.” - </p> - <p> - At this the first tears rolled down Ramona's face. She looked piteously at - the ladder up and down which she had seen Alessandro run as if it were an - easy indoor staircase. “If I could only get up there!” she said, looking - from one to another. “I think I can;” and she put one foot on the lower - round. - </p> - <p> - “Holy Virgin!” cried Juan Can, seeing her movement. “Senorita! Senorita! - do not attempt it. It is not too easy for a man. You will break your neck. - He is fast coming to his senses.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro caught the words. Spite of all the confusion and terror of the - scene, his heart heard the word, “Senorita.” Ramona was not the wife of - Felipe, or of any man. Yet Alessandro recollected that he had addressed - her as Senora, and she did not seem surprised. Coming to the front of the - group he said, bending forward, “Senorita!” There must have been something - in the tone which made Ramona start. The simple word could not have done - it. “Senorita,” said Alessandro, “it will be nothing to bring Senor Felipe - down the ladder. He is, in my arms, no more than one of the lambs yonder. - I will bring him down as soon as he is recovered. He is better here till - then. He will very soon be himself again. It was only the heat.” Seeing - that the expression of anxious distress did not grow less on Ramona's - face, he continued, in a tone still more earnest, “Will not the Senorita - trust me to bring him safe down?” - </p> - <p> - Ramona smiled faintly through her tears. “Yes,” she said, “I will trust - you. You are Alessandro, are you not?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Senorita,” he answered, greatly surprised, “I am Alessandro.” - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - VI - </h2> - <p> - A BAD beginning did not make a good ending of the Senora Moreno's - sheep-shearing this year. One as superstitiously prejudiced against Roman - Catholic rule as she was in favor of it, would have found, in the way - things fell out, ample reason for a belief that the Senora was being - punished for having let all the affairs of her place come to a standstill, - to await the coming of an old monk. But the pious Senora, looking at the - other side of the shield, was filled with gratitude that, since all this - ill luck was to befall her, she had the good Father Salvierderra at her - side to give her comfort and counsel. - </p> - <p> - It was not yet quite noon of the first day, when Felipe fainted and fell - in the wool; and it was only a little past noon of the third, when Juan - Canito, who, not without some secret exultation, had taken Senor Felipe's - place at the packing, fell from the cross-beam to the ground, and broke - his right leg,—a bad break near the knee; and Juan Canito's bones - were much too old for fresh knitting. He would never again be able to do - more than hobble about on crutches, dragging along the useless leg. It was - a cruel blow to the old man. He could not be resigned to it. He lost faith - in his saints, and privately indulged in blasphemous beratings and - reproaches of them, which would have filled the Senora with terror, had - she known that such blasphemies were being committed under her roof. - </p> - <p> - “As many times as I have crossed that plank, in my day!” cried Juan; “only - the fiends themselves could have made me trip; and there was that whole - box of candles I paid for with my own money last month, and burned to - Saint Francis in the chapel for this very sheep-shearing! He may sit in - the dark, for all me, to the end of time! He is no saint at all! What are - they for, if not to keep us from harm when we pray to them? I'll pray no - more. I believe the Americans are right, who laugh at us.” From morning - till night, and nearly from night till morning, for the leg ached so he - slept little, poor Juan groaned and grumbled and swore, and swore and - grumbled and groaned. Taking care of him was enough, Margarita said, to - wear out the patience of the Madonna herself. There was no pleasing him, - whatever you did, and his tongue was never still a minute. For her part, - she believed that it must be as he said, that the fiends had pushed him - off the plank, and that the saints had had their reasons for leaving him - to his fate. A coldness and suspicion gradually grew up in the minds of - all the servants towards him. His own reckless language, combined with - Margarita's reports, gave the superstitious fair ground for believing that - something had gone mysteriously wrong, and that the Devil was in a fair - way to get his soul, which was very hard for the old man, in addition to - all the rest he had to bear. The only alleviation he had for his torments, - was in having his fellow-servants, men and women, drop in, sit by his - pallet, and chat with him, telling him all that was going on; and when by - degrees they dropped off, coming more and more seldom, and one by one - leaving off coming altogether, it was the one drop that overflowed his cup - of misery; and he turned his face to the wall, left off grumbling, and - spoke only when he must. - </p> - <p> - This phase frightened Margarita even more than the first. Now, she - thought, surely the dumb terror and remorse of one who belongs to the - Devil had seized him, and her hands trembled as she went through the - needful ministrations for him each day. Three months, at least, the - doctor, who had come from Ventura to set the leg, had said he must lie - still in bed and be thus tended. “Three months!” sighed Margarita. “If I - be not dead or gone crazy myself before the end of that be come!” - </p> - <p> - The Senora was too busy with Felipe to pay attention or to give thought to - Juan. Felipe's fainting had been the symptom and beginning of a fierce - relapse of the fever, and he was lying in his bed, tossing and raving in - delirium, always about the wool. - </p> - <p> - “Throw them faster, faster! That's a good fleece; five pounds more; a - round ton in those bales. Juan! Alessandro! Captain!—Jesus, how this - sun burns my head!” - </p> - <p> - Several times he had called “Alessandro” so earnestly, that Father - Salvierderra advised bringing Alessandro into the room, to see if by any - chance there might have been something in his mind that he wished to say - to him. But when Alessandro stood by the bedside, Felipe gazed at him - vacantly, as he did at all the others, still repeating, however, - “Alessandro! Alessandro!” - </p> - <p> - “I think perhaps he wants Alessandro to play on his violin,” sobbed out - Ramona. “He was telling me how beautifully Alessandro played, and said he - would have him up on the veranda in the evening to play to us.” - </p> - <p> - “We might try it,” said Father Salvierderra. “Have you your violin here, - Alessandro?” - </p> - <p> - “Alas, no, Father,” replied Alessandro, “I did not bring it.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps it would do him good it you were to sing, then,” said Ramona. “He - was speaking of your voice also.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, try, try.” said the Senorita, turning to Alessandro. “Sing something - low and soft.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro walked from the bed to the open window, and after thinking for - a moment, began a slow strain from one of the masses. - </p> - <p> - At the first note, Felipe became suddenly quiet, evidently listening. An - expression of pleasure spread over his feverish face. He turned his head - to one side, put his hand under his cheek and closed his eyes. The three - watching him looked at each other in astonishment. - </p> - <p> - “It is a miracle,” said Father Salvierderra. “He will sleep.” - </p> - <p> - “It was what he wanted!” whispered Ramona. - </p> - <p> - The Senora spoke not, but buried her face in the bedclothes for a second; - then lifting it, she gazed at Alessandro as if she were praying to a - saint. He, too, saw the change in Felipe, and sang lower and lower, till - the notes sounded as if they came from afar; lower and lower, slower; - finally they ceased, as if they died away lost in distance. As they - ceased, Felipe opened his eyes. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, go on, go on!” the Senora implored in a whisper shrill with anxiety. - “Do not stop!” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro repeated the strain, slow, solemn; his voice trembled; the air - in the room seemed stifling, spite of the open window; he felt something - like terror, as he saw Felipe evidently sinking to sleep by reason of the - notes of his voice. There had been nothing in Alessandro's healthy outdoor - experience to enable him to understand such a phenomenon. Felipe breathed - more and more slowly, softly, regularly; soon he was in a deep sleep. The - singing stopped; Felipe did not stir. - </p> - <p> - “Can I go?” whispered Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - “No, no.” replied the Senora, impatiently. “He may wake any minute.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro looked troubled, but bowed his head submissively, and remained - standing by the window. Father Salvierderra was kneeling on one side of - the bed, the Senora at the other, Ramona at the foot,—all praying; - the silence was so great that the slight sounds of the rosary beads - slipping against each other seemed loud. In a niche in the wall, at the - head of the bed, stood a statue of the Madonna, on the other side a - picture of Santa Barbara. Candles were burning before each. The long wicks - smouldered and died down, sputtering, then flared up again as the ends - fell into the melted wax. The Senora's eyes were fixed on the Madonna. The - Father's were closed. Ramona gazed at Felipe with tears streaming down her - face as she mechanically told her beads. - </p> - <p> - “She is his betrothed, no doubt,” thought Alessandro. “The saints will not - let him die;” and Alessandro also prayed. But the oppression of the scene - was too much for him. Laying his hand on the low window-sill, he vaulted - over it, saying to Ramona, who turned her head at the sound, “I will not - go away, Senorita, I will be close under the window, if he awakes.” - </p> - <p> - Once in the open air, he drew a long breath, and gazed bewilderedly about - him, like one just recovering consciousness after a faint. Then he threw - himself on the ground under the window, and lay looking up into the sky. - Capitan came up, and with a low whine stretched himself out at full length - by his side. The dog knew as well as any other one of the house that - danger and anguish were there. - </p> - <p> - One hour passed, two, three; still no sound from Felipe's room. Alessandro - rose, and looked in at the window. The Father and the Senora had not - changed their attitudes; their lips were yet moving in prayer. But Ramona - had yielded to her fatigue; slipped from her knees into a sitting posture, - with her head leaning against the post of the bedstead, and fallen asleep. - Her face was swollen and discolored by weeping, and heavy circles under - her eyes told how tired she was. For three days and nights she had - scarcely rested, so constant were the demands on her. Between Felipe's - illness and Juan Can's, there was not a moment without something to be - done, or some perplexing question to be settled, and above all, and - through all, the terrible sorrow. Ramona was broken down with grief at the - thought of Felipe's death. She had never known till she saw him lying - there delirious, and as she in her inexperience thought, dying, how her - whole life was entwined with his. But now, at the very thought of what it - would be to live without him, her heart sickened. “When he is buried, I - will ask Father Salvierderra to take me away. I never can live here - alone,” she said to herself, never for a moment perceiving that the word - “alone” was a strange one to have come into her mind in the connection. - The thought of the Senora did not enter into her imaginations of the - future which so smote her with terror. In the Senora's presence, Ramona - always felt herself alone. - </p> - <p> - Alessandro stood at the window, his arms folded, leaning on the sill, his - eyes fixed on Ramona's face and form. To any other than a lover's eyes she - had not looked beautiful now; but to Alessandro she looked more beautiful - than the picture of Santa Barbara on the wall beyond. With a lover's - instinct he knew the thoughts which had written such lines on her face in - the last three days. “It will kill her if he dies,” he thought, “if these - three days have made her look like that.” And Alessandro threw himself on - the ground again, his face down. He did not know whether it were an hour - or a day that he had lain there, when he heard Father Salvierderra's voice - speaking his name. He sprang up, to see the old monk standing in the - window, tears running down his cheeks. “God be praised,” he said, “the - Senor Felipe will get well. A sweat has broken out on his skin; he still - sleeps, but when he wakes he will be in his right mind. The strength of - the fever is broken. But, Alessandro, we know not how to spare you. Can - you not let the men go without you, and remain here? The Senora would like - to have you remain in Juan Can's place till he is about. She will give you - the same wages he had. Would it not be a good thing for you, Alessandro? - You cannot be sure of earning so much as that for the next three months, - can you?” - </p> - <p> - While the Father was speaking, a tumult had been going on in Alessandro's - breast. He did not know by name any of the impulses which were warring - there, tearing him in twain, as it were, by their pulling in opposite - directions; one saying “Stay!” and the other saying “Go!” He would not - have known what any one meant, who had said to him, “It is danger to stay; - it is safety to fly.” All the same, he felt as if he could do neither. - </p> - <p> - “There is another shearing yet, Father,” he began, “at the Ortega's ranch. - I had promised to go to them as soon as I had finished here, and they have - been wroth enough with us for the delay already. It will not do to break - the promise, Father.” - </p> - <p> - Father Salvierderra's face fell. “No, my son, certainly not,” he said; - “but could no one else take your place with the band?” - </p> - <p> - Hearing these words, Ramona came to the window, and leaning out, - whispered, “Are you talking about Alessandro's staying? Let me come and - talk to him. He must not go.” And running swiftly through the hall, across - the veranda, and down the steps, she stood by Alessandro's side in a - moment. Looking up in his face pleadingly, she said: “We can't let you go, - Alessandro. The Senor will pay wages to some other to go in your place - with the shearers. We want you to stay here in Juan Can's place till he is - well. Don't say you can't stay! Felipe may need you to sing again, and - what would we do then? Can't you stay?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I can stay, Senorita,” answered Alessandro, gravely. “I will stay so - long as you need me.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, thank you, Alessandro!” Ramona cried. “You are good, to stay. The - Senora will see that it is no loss to you;” and she flew back to the - house. - </p> - <p> - “It is not for the wages, Senorita,” Alessandro began; but Ramona was - gone. She did not hear him, and he turned away with a sense of - humiliation. “I don't want the Senorita to think that it was the money - kept me,” he said, turning to Father Salvierderra. “I would not leave the - band for money; it is to help, because they are in trouble, Father.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, yes, son. I understand that,” replied the monk, who had known - Alessandro since he was a little fellow playing in the corridors of San - Luis Rey, the pet of all the Brothers there. “That is quite right of you, - and the Senora will not be insensible of it. It is not for such things - that money can pay. They are indeed in great trouble now, and only the two - women in the house; and I must soon be going on my way North again.” - </p> - <p> - “Is it sure that Senor Felipe will get well?” asked Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - “I think so,” replied Father Salvierderra. “These relapses are always - worse than the first attack; but I have never known one to die, after he - had the natural sweat to break from the skin, and got good sleep. I doubt - not he will be in his bed, though, for many days, and there will be much - to be seen to. It was an ill luck to have Juan Can laid up, too, just at - this time. I must go and see him; I hear he is in most rebellious frame of - mind, and blasphemes impiously.” - </p> - <p> - “That does he!” said Alessandro. “He swears the saints gave him over to - the fiends to push him off the plank, and he'll have none of them from - this out! I told him to beware, or they might bring him to worse things - yet if he did not mend his speech of them.” - </p> - <p> - Sighing deeply as they walked along, the monk said: “It is but a sign of - the times. Blasphemers are on the highway. The people are being corrupted. - Keeps your father the worship in the chapel still, and does a priest come - often to the village?” - </p> - <p> - “Only twice a year,” replied Alessandro; “and sometimes for a funeral, if - there is money enough to pay for the mass. But my father has the chapel - open, and each Sunday we sing what we know of the mass; and the people are - often there praying.” - </p> - <p> - “Ay, ay! Ever for money!” groaned Father Salvierderra, not heeding the - latter part of the sentence. “Ever for money! It is a shame. But that it - were sure to be held as a trespass, I would go myself to Temecula once in - three months; but I may not. The priests do not love our order.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, if you could, Father,” exclaimed Alessandro, “it would make my father - very glad! He speaks often to me of the difference he sees between the - words of the Church now and in the days of the Mission. He is very sad, - Father, and in great fear about our village. They say the Americans, when - they buy the Mexicans' lands, drive the Indians away as if they were dogs; - they say we have no right to our lands. Do you think that can be so, - Father, when we have always lived on them, and the owners promised them to - us forever?” - </p> - <p> - Father Salvierderra was silent a long time before replying, and Alessandro - watched his face anxiously. He seemed to be hesitating for words to convey - his meaning. At last he said: “Got your father any notice, at any time - since the Americans took the country,—notice to appear before a - court, or anything about a title to the land?” - </p> - <p> - “No, Father,” replied Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - “There has to be some such paper, as I understand their laws,” continued - the monk; “some notice, before any steps can be taken to remove Indians - from an estate. It must be done according to the law, in the courts. If - you have had no such notice, you are not in danger.” - </p> - <p> - “But, Father,” persisted Alessandro, “how could there be a law to take - away from us the land which the Senor Valdez gave us forever?” - </p> - <p> - “Gave he to you any paper, any writing to show it?” - </p> - <p> - “No, no paper; but it is marked in red lines on the map. It was marked off - by Jose Ramirez, of Los Angeles, when they marked all the boundaries of - Senor Valdez's estate. They had many instruments of brass and wood to - measure with, and a long chain, very heavy, which I helped them carry. I - myself saw it marked on the map. They all slept in my father's house,—Senor - Valdez, and Ramirez, and the man who made the measures. He hired one of - our men to carry his instruments, and I went to help, for I wished to see - how it was done; but I could understand nothing, and Jose told me a man - must study many years to learn the way of it. It seemed to me our way, by - the stones, was much better. But I know it is all marked on the map, for - it was with a red line; and my father understood it, and Jose Ramirez and - Senor Valdez both pointed to it with their finger, and they said, 'All - this here is your land, Pablo, always.' I do not think my father need - fear, do you?” - </p> - <p> - “I hope not,” replied Father Salvierderra, cautiously; “but since the way - that all the lands of the Missions have been taken away, I have small - faith in the honesty of the Americans. I think they will take all that - they can. The Church has suffered terrible loss at their hands.” - </p> - <p> - “That is what my father says,” replied Alessandro. “He says, 'Look at San - Luis Rey! Nothing but the garden and orchard left, of all their vast lands - where they used to pasture thirty thousand sheep. If the Church and the - Fathers could not keep their lands, what can we Indians do?' That is what - my father says.” - </p> - <p> - “True, true!” said the monk, as he turned into the door of the room where - Juan Can lay on his narrow bed, longing yet fearing to see Father - Salvierderra's face coming in. “We are all alike helpless in their hands, - Alessandro. They possess the country, and can make what laws they please. - We can only say, 'God's will be done,'” and he crossed himself devoutly, - repeating the words twice. - </p> - <p> - Alessandro did the same, and with a truly devout spirit, for he was full - of veneration for the Fathers and their teachings; but as he walked on - towards the shearing-shed he thought: “Then, again, how can it be God's - will that wrong be done? It cannot be God's will that one man should steal - from another all he has. That would make God no better than a thief, it - looks to me. But how can it happen, if it is not God's will?” - </p> - <p> - It does not need that one be educated, to see the logic in this formula. - Generations of the oppressed and despoiled, before Alessandro, had - grappled with the problem in one shape or another. - </p> - <p> - At the shearing-shed, Alessandro found his men in confusion and ill-humor. - The shearing had been over and done by ten in the morning, and why were - they not on their way to the Ortega's? Waiting all day,—it was now - near sunset,—with nothing to do, and still worse with not much of - anything to eat, had made them all cross; and no wonder. The economical - Juan Can, finding that the work would be done by ten, and supposing they - would be off before noon, had ordered only two sheep killed for them the - day before, and the mutton was all gone, and old Marda, getting her cue - from Juan, had cooked no more frijoles than the family needed themselves; - so the poor shearers had indeed had a sorry day of it, in no wise - alleviated either by the reports brought from time to time that their - captain was lying on the ground, face down, under Senor Felipe's window, - and must not be spoken to. - </p> - <p> - It was not a propitious moment for Alessandro to make the announcement of - his purpose to leave the band; but he made a clean breast of it in few - words, and diplomatically diverted all resentment from himself by setting - them immediately to voting for a new captain to take his place for the - remainder of the season. - </p> - <p> - “Very well!” they said hotly; “captain for this year, captain for next, - too!” It wasn't so easy to step out and in again of the captaincy of the - shearers! - </p> - <p> - “All right,” said Alessandro; “please yourselves! It is all the same to - me. But here I am going to stay for the present. Father Salvierderra - wishes it.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, if the Father wishes it, that is different.” “Ah, that alters the - case!” “Alessandro is right!” came up in confused murmur from the appeased - crowd. They were all good Catholics, every one of the Temecula men, and - would never think of going against the Father's orders. But when they - understood that Alessandro's intention was to remain until Juan Canito's - leg should be well enough for him to go about again, fresh grumblings - began. That would not do. It would be all summer. Alessandro must be at - home for the Saint Juan's Day fete, in midsummer,—no doing anything - without Alessandro then. What was he thinking of? Not of the midsummer - fete, that was certain, when he promised to stay as long as the Senorita - Ramona should need him. Alessandro had remembered nothing except the - Senorita's voice, while she was speaking to him. If he had had a hundred - engagements for the summer, he would have forgotten them all. Now that he - was reminded of the midsummer fete, it must be confessed he was for a - moment dismayed at the recollection; for that was a time, when, as he well - knew, his father could not do without his help. There were sometimes a - thousand Indians at this fete, and disorderly whites took advantage of the - occasion to sell whisky and encourage all sorts of license and - disturbance. Yes, Alessandro's clear path of duty lay at Temecula when - that fete came off. That was certain. - </p> - <p> - “I will manage to be at home then,” he said. “If I am not through here by - that time, I will at least come for the fete. That you may depend on.” - </p> - <p> - The voting for the new captain did not take long. There was, in fact, but - one man in the band fit for the office. That was Fernando, the only old - man in the band; all the rest were young men under thirty, or boys. - Fernando had been captain for several years, but had himself begged, two - years ago, that the band would elect Alessandro in his place. He was - getting old, and he did not like to have to sit up and walk about the - first half of every night, to see that the shearers were not gambling away - all their money at cards; he preferred to roll himself up in his blanket - at sunset and sleep till dawn the next morning. But just for these few - remaining weeks he had no objection to taking the office again. And - Alessandro was right, entirely right, in remaining; they ought all to see - that, Fernando said; and his word had great weight with the men. - </p> - <p> - The Senora Moreno, he reminded them, had always been a good friend of - theirs, and had said that so long as she had sheep to shear, the Temecula - shearers should do it; and it would be very ungrateful now if they did not - do all they could to help her in her need. - </p> - <p> - The blankets were rolled up, the saddles collected, the ponies caught and - driven up to the shed, when Ramona and Margarita were seen coming at full - speed from the house. - </p> - <p> - “Alessandro! Alessandro!” cried Ramona, out of breath, “I have only just - now heard that the men have had no dinner to-day. I am ashamed; but you - know it would not have happened except for the sickness in the house. - Everybody thought they were going away this morning. Now they must have a - good supper before they go. It is already cooking. Tell them to wait.” - </p> - <p> - Those of the men who understood the Spanish language, in which Ramona - spoke, translated it to those who did not, and there was a cordial - outburst of thanks to the Senorita from all lips. All were only too ready - to wait for the supper. Their haste to begin on the Ortega sheep-shearing - had suddenly faded from their minds. Only Alessandro hesitated. - </p> - <p> - “It is a good six hours' ride to Ortega's,” he said to the men. “You'll be - late in, if you do not start now.” - </p> - <p> - “Supper will be ready in an hour,” said Ramona. “Please let them stay; one - hour can't make any difference.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro smiled. “It will take nearer two, Senorita, before they are - off,” he said; “but it shall be as you wish, and many thanks to you, - Senorita, for thinking of it.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I did not think of it myself,” said Ramona. “It was Margarita, here, - who came and told me. She knew we would be ashamed to have the shearers go - away hungry. I am afraid they are very hungry indeed,” she added ruefully. - “It must be dreadful to go a whole day without anything to eat; they had - their breakfast soon after sunrise, did they not?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Senorita,” answered Alessandro, “but that is not long; one can do - without food very well for one day. I often do.” - </p> - <p> - “Often.” exclaimed Ramona; “but why should you do that?” Then suddenly - bethinking herself, she said in her heart, “Oh, what a thoughtless - question! Can it be they are so poor as that?” And to save Alessandro from - replying, she set off on a run for the house, saying, “Come, come, - Margarita, we must go and help at the supper.” - </p> - <p> - “Will the Senorita let me help, too,” asked Alessandro, wondering at his - own boldness,—“if there is anything I can do?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no,” she cried, “there is not. Yes, there is, too. You can help carry - the things down to the booth; for we are short of hands now, with Juan Can - in bed, and Luigo gone to Ventura for the doctor. You and some of your men - might carry all the supper over. I'll call you when we are ready.” - </p> - <p> - The men sat down in a group and waited contentedly, smoking, chatting, and - laughing. Alessandro walked up and down between the kitchen and the shed. - He could hear the sounds of rattling dishes, jingling spoons, frying, - pouring water. Savory smells began to be wafted out. Evidently old Marda - meant to atone for the shortcoming of the noon. Juan Can, in his bed, also - heard and smelled what was going on. “May the fiends get me,” he growled, - “if that wasteful old hussy isn't getting up a feast for those beasts of - Indians! There's mutton and onions, and peppers stewing, and potatoes, - I'll be bound, and God knows what else, for beggars that are only too - thankful to get a handful of roasted wheat or a bowl of acorn porridge at - home. Well, they'll have to say they were well feasted at the Moreno's,—that's - one comfort. I wonder if Margarita'll think I am worthy of tasting that - stew! San Jose! but it smells well! Margarita! Margarita!” he called at - top of his lungs; but Margarita did not hear. She was absorbed in her - duties in the kitchen; and having already taken Juan at sundown a bowl of - the good broth which the doctor had said was the only sort of food he must - eat for two weeks, she had dismissed him from her mind for the night. - Moreover, Margarita was absent-minded to-night. She was more than half in - love with the handsome Alessandro, who, when he had been on the ranch the - year before, had danced with her, and said many a light pleasant word to - her, evenings, as a young man may; and what ailed him now, that he seemed, - when he saw her, as if she were no more than a transparent shade, through - which he stared at the sky behind her, she did not know. Senor Felipe's - illness, she thought, and the general misery and confusion, had perhaps - put everything else out of his head; but now he was going to stay, and it - would be good fun having him there, if only Senor Felipe got well, which - he seemed likely to do. And as Margarita flew about, here, there, and - everywhere, she cast frequent glances at the tall straight figure pacing - up and down in the dusk outside. - </p> - <p> - Alessandro did not see her. He did not see anything. He was looking off at - the sunset, and listening. Ramona had said, “I will call you when we are - ready.” But she did not do as she said. She told Margarita to call. - </p> - <p> - “Run, Margarita,” she said. “All is ready now; see if Alessandro is in - sight. Call him to come and take the things.” - </p> - <p> - So it was Margarita's voice, and not Ramona's, that called “Alessandro! - Alessandro! the supper is ready.” - </p> - <p> - But it was Ramona who, when Alessandro reached the doorway, stood there - holding in her arms a huge smoking platter of the stew which had so roused - poor Juan Can's longings; and it was Ramona who said, as she gave it into - Alessandro's hands, “Take care, Alessandro, it is very full. The gravy - will run over if you are not careful. You are not used to waiting on - table;” and as she said it, she smiled full into Alessandro's eyes,—a - little flitting, gentle, friendly smile, which went near to making him - drop the platter, mutton, gravy, and all, then and there, at her feet. - </p> - <p> - The men ate fast and greedily, and it was not, after all, much more than - an hour, when, full fed and happy, they were mounting their horses to set - off. At the last moment Alessandro drew one of them aside. “Jose,” he - said, “whose horse is the faster, yours or Antonio's?” - </p> - <p> - “Mine,” promptly replied Jose. “Mine, by a great deal. I will run Antonio - any day he likes.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro knew this as well before asking as after. But Alessandro was - learning a great many things in these days, among other things a little - diplomacy. He wanted a man to ride at the swiftest to Temecula and back. - He knew that Jose's pony could go like the wind. He also knew that there - was a perpetual feud of rivalry between him and Antonio, in matter of the - fleetness of their respective ponies. So, having chosen Jose for his - messenger, he went thus to work to make sure that he would urge his horse - to its utmost speed. - </p> - <p> - Whispering in Jose's ear a few words, he said, “Will you go? I will pay - you for the time, all you could earn at the shearing.” - </p> - <p> - “I will go,” said Jose, elated. “You will see me back tomorrow by - sundown.” - </p> - <p> - “Not earlier?” asked Alessandro. “I thought by noon.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, by noon be it, then,” said Jose. “The horse can do it.” - </p> - <p> - “Have great care!” said Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - “That will I,” replied Jose; and giving his horse's sides a sharp punch - with his knees, set off at full gallop westward. - </p> - <p> - “I have sent Jose with a message to Temecula,” said Alessandro, walking up - to Fernando. “He will be back here tomorrow noon, and join you at the - Ortega's the next morning.” - </p> - <p> - “Back here by noon to-morrow!” exclaimed Fernando. “Not unless he kills - his horse!” - </p> - <p> - “That was what he said,” replied Alessandro, nonchalantly. - </p> - <p> - “Easy enough, too!” cried Antonio, riding up on his little dun mare. “I'd - go in less time than that, on this mare. Jose's is no match for her, and - never was. Why did you not send me, Alessandro?” - </p> - <p> - “Is your horse really faster than Jose's?” said Alessandro. “Then I wish I - had sent you. I'll send you next time.” - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - VII - </h2> - <p> - IT was strange to see how quickly and naturally Alessandro fitted into his - place in the household. How tangles straightened out, and rough places - became smooth, as he quietly took matters in hand. Luckily, old Juan Can - had always liked him, and felt a great sense of relief at the news of his - staying on. Not a wholly unselfish relief, perhaps, for since his accident - Juan had not been without fears that he might lose his place altogether; - there was a Mexican he knew, who had long been scheming to get the - situation, and had once openly boasted at a fandango, where he was dancing - with Anita, that as soon as that superannuated old fool, Juan Canito, was - out of the way, he meant to be the Senora Moreno's head shepherd himself. - To have seen this man in authority on the place, would have driven Juan - out of his mind. - </p> - <p> - But the gentle Alessandro, only an Indian,—and of course the Senora - would never think of putting an Indian permanently in so responsible a - position on the estate,—it was exactly as Juan would have wished; - and he fraternized with Alessandro heartily from the outset; kept him in - his room by the hour, giving him hundreds of long-winded directions and - explanations about things which, if only he had known it, Alessandro - understood far better than he did. - </p> - <p> - Alessandro's father had managed the Mission flocks and herds at San Luis - Rey for twenty years; few were as skilful as he; he himself owned nearly - as many sheep as the Senora Moreno; but this Juan did not know. Neither - did he realize that Alessandro, as Chief Pablo's son, had a position of - his own not without dignity and authority. To Juan, an Indian was an - Indian, and that was the end of it. The gentle courteousness of - Alessandro's manner, his quiet behavior, were all set down in Juan's mind - to the score of the boy's native amiability and sweetness. If Juan had - been told that the Senor Felipe himself had not been more carefully - trained in all precepts of kindliness, honorable dealing, and polite - usage, by the Senora, his mother, than had Alessandro by his father, he - would have opened his eyes wide. The standards of the two parents were - different, to be sure; but the advantage could not be shown to be entirely - on the Senora's side. There were many things that Felipe knew, of which - Alessandro was profoundly ignorant; but there were others in which - Alessandro could have taught Felipe; and when it came to the things of the - soul, and of honor, Alessandro's plane was the higher of the two. Felipe - was a fair-minded, honorable man, as men go; but circumstances and - opportunity would have a hold on him they could never get on Alessandro. - Alessandro would not lie; Felipe might. Alessandro was by nature full of - veneration and the religious instinct; Felipe had been trained into being - a good Catholic. But they were both singularly pure-minded, open-hearted, - generous-souled young men, and destined, by the strange chance which had - thus brought them into familiar relations, to become strongly attached to - each other. After the day on which the madness of Felipe's fever had been - so miraculously soothed and controlled by Alessandro's singing, he was - never again wildly delirious. When he waked in the night from that first - long sleep, he was, as Father Salvierderra had predicted, in his right - mind; knew every one, and asked rational questions. But the over-heated - and excited brain did not for some time wholly resume normal action. At - intervals he wandered, especially when just arousing from sleep; and, - strangely enough, it was always for Alessandro that he called at these - times, and it seemed always to be music that he craved. He recollected - Alessandro's having sung to him that first night. “I was not so crazy as - you all thought,” he said. “I knew a great many of the things I said, but - I couldn't help saying them; and I heard Ramona ask Alessandro to sing; - and when he began, I remember I thought the Virgin had reached down and - put her hand on my head and cooled it.” - </p> - <p> - On the second evening, the first after the shearers had left, Alessandro, - seeing Ramona in the veranda, went to the foot of the steps, and said, - “Senorita, would Senor Felipe like to have me play on the violin to him - tonight?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, whose violin have you got?” exclaimed Ramona, astonished. - </p> - <p> - “My own, Senorita.” - </p> - <p> - “Your own! I thought you said you did not bring it.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Senorita, that is true; but I sent for it last night, and it is - here.” - </p> - <p> - “Sent to Temecula and back already!” cried Ramona. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Senorita. Our ponies are swift and strong. They can go a hundred - miles in a day, and not suffer. It was Jose brought it, and he is at the - Ortega's by this time.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona's eyes glistened. “I wish I could have thanked him,” she said. “You - should have let me know. He ought to have been paid for going.” - </p> - <p> - “I paid him, Senorita; he went for me,” said Alessandro, with a shade of - wounded pride in the tone, which Ramona should have perceived, but did - not, and went on hurting the lover's heart still more. - </p> - <p> - “But it was for us that you sent for it, Alessandro; the Senora would - rather pay the messenger herself.” - </p> - <p> - “It is paid, Senorita. It is nothing. If the Senor Felipe wishes to hear - the violin, I will play;” and Alessandro walked slowly away. - </p> - <p> - Ramona gazed after him. For the first time, she looked at him with no - thought of his being an Indian,—a thought there had surely been no - need of her having, since his skin was not a shade darker than Felipe's; - but so strong was the race feeling, that never till that moment had she - forgotten it. - </p> - <p> - “What a superb head, and what a walk!” she thought. Then, looking more - observantly, she said: “He walks as if he were offended. He did not like - my offering to pay for the messenger. He wanted to do it for dear Felipe. - I will tell Felipe, and we will give him some present when he goes away.” - </p> - <p> - “Isn't he splendid, Senorita?” came in a light laughing tone from - Margarita's lips close to her ear, in the fond freedom of their relation. - “Isn't he splendid? And oh, Senorita, you can't think how he dances! Last - year I danced with him every night; he has wings on his feet, for all he - is so tall and big.” - </p> - <p> - There was a coquettish consciousness in the girl's tone, that was - suddenly, for some unexplained reason, exceedingly displeasing to Ramona. - Drawing herself away, she spoke to Margarita in a tone she had never - before in her life used. “It is not fitting to speak like that about young - men. The Senora would be displeased if she heard you,” she said, and - walked swiftly away leaving poor Margarita as astounded as if she had got - a box on the ear. - </p> - <p> - She looked after Ramona's retreating figure, then after Alessandro's. She - had heard them talking together just before she came up. Thoroughly - bewildered and puzzled, she stood motionless for several seconds, - reflecting; then, shaking her head, she ran away, trying to dismiss the - harsh speech from her mind. “Alessandro must have vexed the Senorita,” she - thought, “to make her speak like that to me.” But the incident was not so - easily dismissed from Margarita's thoughts. Many times in the day it - recurred to her, still a bewilderment and a puzzle, as far from solution - as ever. It was a tiny seed, whose name she did not dream of; but it was - dropped in soil where it would grow some day,—forcing-house soil, - and a bitter seed; and when it blossomed, Ramona would have an enemy. - </p> - <p> - All unconscious, equally of Margarita's heart and her own, Ramona - proceeded to Felipe's room. Felipe was sleeping, the Senora sitting by his - side, as she had sat for days and nights,—her dark face looking - thinner and more drawn each day; her hair looking even whiter, if that - could be; and her voice growing hollow from faintness and sorrow. - </p> - <p> - “Dear Senora,” whispered Ramona, “do go out for a few moments while he - sleeps, and let me watch,—just on the walk in front of the veranda. - The sun is still lying there, bright and warm. You will be ill if you do - not have air.” - </p> - <p> - The Senora shook her head. “My place is here,” she answered, speaking in a - dry, hard tone. Sympathy was hateful to the Senora Moreno; she wished - neither to give it nor take it. “I shall not leave him. I do not need the - air.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona had a cloth-of-gold rose in her hand. The veranda eaves were now - shaded with them, hanging down like a thick fringe of golden tassels. It - was the rose Felipe loved best. Stooping, she laid it on the bed, near - Felipe's head. “He will like to see it when he wakes,” she said. - </p> - <p> - The Senora seized it, and flung it far out in the room. “Take it away! - Flowers are poison when one is ill,” she said coldly. “Have I never told - you that?” - </p> - <p> - “No, Senora,” replied Ramona, meekly; and she glanced involuntarily at the - saucer of musk which the Senora kept on the table close to Felipe's - pillow. - </p> - <p> - “The musk is different,” said the Senora, seeing the glance. “Musk is a - medicine; it revives.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona knew, but she would have never dared to say, that Felipe hated - musk. Many times he had said to her how he hated the odor; but his mother - was so fond of it, that it must always be that the veranda and the house - would be full of it. Ramona hated it too. At times it made her faint, with - a deadly faintness. But neither she nor Felipe would have confessed as - much to the Senora; and if they had, she would have thought it all a - fancy. - </p> - <p> - “Shall I stay?” asked Ramona, gently. - </p> - <p> - “As you please,” replied the Senora. The simple presence of Ramona irked - her now with a feeling she did not pretend to analyze, and would have been - terrified at if she had. She would not have dared to say to herself, in - plain words: “Why is that girl well and strong, and my Felipe lying here - like to die! If Felipe dies, I cannot bear the sight of her. What is she, - to be preserved of the saints!” - </p> - <p> - But that, or something like it, was what she felt whenever Ramona entered - the room; still more, whenever she assisted in ministering to Felipe. If - it had been possible, the Senora would have had no hands but her own do - aught for her boy. Even tears from Ramona sometimes irritated her. “What - does she know about loving Felipe! He is nothing to her!” thought the - Senora, strangely mistaken, strangely blind, strangely forgetting how - feeble is the tie of blood in the veins by the side of love in the heart. - </p> - <p> - If into this fiery soul of the Senora's could have been dropped one - second's knowledge of the relative positions she and Ramona already - occupied in Felipe's heart, she would, on the spot, have either died - herself or have slain Ramona, one or the other. But no such knowledge was - possible; no such idea could have found entrance into the Senora's mind. A - revelation from Heaven of it could hardly have reached even her ears. So - impenetrable are the veils which, fortunately for us all, are forever held - by viewless hands between us and the nearest and closest of our daily - companions. - </p> - <p> - At twilight of this day Felipe was restless and feverish again. He had - dozed at intervals all day long, but had had no refreshing sleep. - </p> - <p> - “Send for Alessandro,” he said. “Let him come and sing to me.” - </p> - <p> - “He has his violin now; he can play, if you would like that better,” said - Ramona; and she related what Alessandro had told her of the messenger's - having ridden to Temecula and back in a night and half a day, to bring it. - </p> - <p> - “I wanted to pay the man,” she said; “I knew of course your mother would - wish to reward him. But I fancy Alessandro was offended. He answered me - shortly that it was paid, and it was nothing.” - </p> - <p> - “You couldn't have offended him more,” said Felipe. “What a pity! He is as - proud as Lucifer himself, that Alessandro. You know his father has always - been the head of their band; in fact, he has authority over several bands; - General, they call it now, since they got the title from the Americans; - they used to call it Chief., and until Father Peyri left San Luis Rey, - Pablo was in charge of all the sheep, and general steward and paymaster. - Father Peyri trusted him with everything; I've heard he would leave boxes - full of uncounted gold in Pablo's charge to pay off the Indians. Pablo - reads and writes, and is very well off; he has as many sheep as we have, I - fancy!” - </p> - <p> - “What!” exclaimed Ramona, astonished. “They all look as if they were - poor.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, well, so they are,” replied Felipe, “compared with us; but one reason - is, they share everything with each other. Old Pablo feeds and supports - half his village, they say. So long as he has anything, he will never see - one of his Indians hungry.” - </p> - <p> - “How generous!” warmly exclaimed Ramona; “I think they are better than we - are, Felipe!” - </p> - <p> - “I think so, too,” said Felipe. “That's what I have always said. The - Indians are the most generous people in the world. Of course they have - learned it partly from us; but they were very much so when the Fathers - first came here. You ask Father Salvierderra some day. He has read all - Father Junipero's and Father Crespi's diaries, and he says it is wonderful - how the wild savages gave food to every one who came.” - </p> - <p> - “Felipe, you are talking too much,” said the Senora's voice, in the - doorway; and as she spoke she looked reproachfully at Ramona. If she had - said in words, “See how unfit you are to be trusted with Felipe. No wonder - I do not leave the room except when I must!” her meaning could not have - been plainer. Ramona felt it keenly, and not without some misgiving that - it was deserved. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, dear Felipe, has it hurt you?” she said timidly; and to the Senora, - “Indeed, Senora, he has been speaking but a very few moments, very low.” - </p> - <p> - “Go call Alessandro, Ramona, will you?” said Felipe. “Tell him to bring - his violin. I think I will go to sleep if he plays.” - </p> - <p> - A long search Ramona had for Alessandro. Everybody had seen him a few - minutes ago, but nobody knew where he was now. Kitchens, sheepfolds, - vineyards, orchards, Juan Can's bedchamber,—Ramona searched them all - in vain. At last, standing at the foot of the veranda steps, and looking - down the garden, she thought she saw figures moving under the willows by - the washing-stones. - </p> - <p> - “Can he be there?” she said. “What can he be doing there? Who is it with - him?” And she walked down the path, calling, “Alessandro! Alessandro!” - </p> - <p> - At the first sound, Alessandro sprang from the side of his companion, and - almost before the second syllables had been said, was standing face to - face with Ramona. - </p> - <p> - “Here I am, Senorita. Does Senor Felipe want me? I have my violin here. I - thought perhaps he would like to have me play to him in the twilight.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” replied Ramona, “he wishes to hear you. I have been looking - everywhere for you.” As she spoke, she was half unconsciously peering - beyond into the dusk, to see whose figure it was, slowly moving by the - brook. - </p> - <p> - Nothing escaped Alessandro's notice where Ramona was concerned. “It is - Margarita,” he said instantly. “Does the Senorita want her? Shall I run - and call her?” - </p> - <p> - “No,” said Ramona, again displeased, she knew not why, nor in fact knew - she was displeased; “no, I was not looking for her. What is she doing - there?” - </p> - <p> - “She is washing,” replied Alessandro, innocently. - </p> - <p> - “Washing at this time of day!” thought Ramona, severely. “A mere pretext. - I shall watch Margarita. The Senora would never allow this sort of thing.” - And as she walked back to the house by Alessandro's side, she meditated - whether or no she would herself speak to Margarita on the subject in the - morning. - </p> - <p> - Margarita, in the mean time, was also having her season of reflections not - the pleasantest. As she soused her aprons up and down in the water, she - said to herself, “I may as well finish them now I am here. How provoking! - I've no more than got a word with him, than she must come, calling him - away. And he flies as if he was shot on an arrow, at the first word. I'd - like to know what's come over the man, to be so different. If I could ever - get a good half-hour with him alone, I'd soon find out. Oh, but his eyes - go through me, through and through me! I know he's an Indian, but what do - I care for that. He's a million times handsomer than Senor Felipe. And - Juan Jose said the other day he'd make enough better head shepherd than - old Juan Can, if Senor Felipe'd only see it; and why shouldn't he get to - see it, if Alessandro's here all summer?” And before the aprons were done, - Margarita had a fine air-castle up: herself and Alessandro married, a nice - little house, children playing in the sunshine below the artichoke-patch, - she herself still working for the Senora. “And the Senorita will perhaps - marry Senor Felipe,” she added, her thoughts moving more hesitatingly. “He - worships the ground she walks on. Anybody with quarter of a blind eye can - see that; but maybe the Senora would not let him. Anyhow, Senor Felipe is - sure to have a wife, and so and so.” It was an innocent, girlish castle, - built of sweet and natural longings, for which no maiden, high or low, - need blush; but its foundations were laid in sand, on which would - presently beat such winds and floods as poor little Margarita never - dreamed of. - </p> - <p> - The next day Margarita and Ramona both went about their day's business - with a secret purpose in their hearts. Margarita had made up her mind that - before night she would, by fair means or foul, have a good long talk with - Alessandro. “He was fond enough of me last year, I know,” she said to - herself, recalling some of the dances and the good-night leave-takings at - that time. “It's because he is so put upon by everybody now. What with - Juan Can in one bed sending for him to prate to him about the sheep, and - Senor Felipe in another sending for him to fiddle him to sleep, and all - the care of the sheep, it's a wonder he's not out of his mind altogether. - But I'll find a chance, or make one, before this day's sun sets. If I can - once get a half-hour with him, I'm not afraid after that; I know the way - it is with men!” said the confident Margarita, who, truth being told, it - must be admitted, did indeed know a great deal about the way it is with - men, and could be safely backed, in a fair field, with a fair start, - against any girl of her age and station in the country. So much for - Margarita's purpose, at the outset of a day destined to be an eventful one - in her life. - </p> - <p> - Ramona's purpose was no less clear. She had decided, after some - reflection, that she would not speak to the Senora about Margarita's - having been under the willows with Alessandro in the previous evening, but - would watch her carefully and see whether there were any farther signs of - her attempting to have clandestine interviews with him. - </p> - <p> - This course she adopted, she thought, chiefly because of her affection for - Margarita, and her unwillingness to expose her to the Senora's - displeasure, which would be great, and terrible to bear. She was also - aware of an unwillingness to bring anything to light which would reflect - ever so lightly upon Alessandro in the Senora's estimation. “And he is not - really to blame,” thought Ramona, “if a girl follows him about and makes - free with him. She must have seen him at the willows, and gone down there - on purpose to meet him, making a pretext of the washing. For she never in - this world would have gone to wash in the dark, as he must have known, if - he were not a fool. He is not the sort of person, it seems to me, to be - fooling with maids. He seems as full of grave thought as Father - Salvierderra. If I see anything amiss in Margarita to-day, I shall speak - to her myself, kindly but firmly, and tell her to conduct herself more - discreetly.” - </p> - <p> - Then, as the other maiden's had done, Ramona's thoughts, being - concentrated on Alessandro, altered a little from their first key, and - grew softer and more imaginative; strangely enough, taking some of the - phrases, as it were, out of the other maiden's mouth. - </p> - <p> - “I never saw such eyes as Alessandro has,” she said. “I wonder any girl - should make free with him. Even I myself, when he fixes his eyes on me, - feel a constraint. There is something in them like the eyes of a saint, so - solemn, yet so mild. I am sure he is very good.” - </p> - <p> - And so the day opened; and if there were abroad in the valley that day a - demon of mischief, let loose to tangle the skeins of human affairs, things - could not have fallen out better for his purpose than they did; for it was - not yet ten o'clock of the morning, when Ramona, sitting at her embroidery - in the veranda, half hid behind the vines, saw Alessandro going with his - pruning-knife in his hand towards the artichoke-patch at the east of the - garden, and joining the almond orchard. “I wonder what he is going to do - there,” she thought. “He can't be going to cut willows;” and her eyes - followed him till he disappeared among the trees. - </p> - <p> - Ramona was not the only one who saw this. Margarita, looking from the east - window of Father Salvierderra's room, saw the same thing. “Now's my - chance!” she said; and throwing a white reboso coquettishly over her head, - she slipped around the corner of the house. She ran swiftly in the - direction in which Alessandro had gone. The sound of her steps reached - Ramona, who, lifting her eyes, took in the whole situation at a glance. - There was no possible duty, no possible message, which would take - Margarita there. Ramona's cheeks blazed with a disproportionate - indignation. But she bethought herself, “Ah, the Senora may have sent her - to call Alessandro!” She rose, went to the door of Felipe's room, and - looked in. The Senora was sitting in the chair by Felipe's bed, with her - eyes closed. Felipe was dozing. The Senora opened her eyes, and looked - inquiringly at Ramona. - </p> - <p> - “Do you know where Margarita is?” said Ramona. - </p> - <p> - “In Father Salvierderra's room, or else in the kitchen helping Marda,” - replied the Senora, in a whisper. “I told her to help Marda with the - peppers this morning.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona nodded, returned to the veranda, and sat down to decide on her - course of action. Then she rose again, and going to Father Salvierderra's - room, looked in. The room was still in disorder. Margarita had left her - work there unfinished. The color deepened on Ramona's cheeks. It was - strange how accurately she divined each process of the incident. “She saw - him from this window,” said Ramona, “and has run after him. It is - shameful. I will go and call her back, and let her see that I saw it all. - It is high time that this was stopped.” - </p> - <p> - But once back in the veranda, Ramona halted, and seated herself in her - chair again. The idea of seeming to spy was revolting to her. - </p> - <p> - “I will wait here till she comes back,” she said, and took up her - embroidery. But she could not work. As the minutes went slowly by, she sat - with her eyes fixed on the almond orchard, where first Alessandro and then - Margarita had disappeared. At last she could bear it no longer. It seemed - to her already a very long time. It was not in reality very long,—a - half hour or so, perhaps; but it was long enough for Margarita to have - made great headway, as she thought, in her talk with Alessandro, and for - things to have reached just the worst possible crisis at which they could - have been surprised, when Ramona suddenly appeared at the orchard gate, - saying in a stern tone, “Margarita, you are wanted in the house!” At a bad - crisis, indeed, for everybody concerned. The picture which Ramona had - seen, as she reached the gate, was this: Alessandro, standing with his - back against the fence, his right hand hanging listlessly down, with the - pruning-knife in it, his left hand in the hand of Margarita, who stood - close to him, looking up in his face, with a half-saucy, half-loving - expression. What made bad matters worse, was, that at the first sight of - Ramona, Alessandro snatched his hand from Margarita's, and tried to draw - farther off from her, looking at her with an expression which, even in her - anger, Ramona could not help seeing was one of disgust and repulsion. And - if Ramona saw it, how much more did Margarita! Saw it, as only a woman - repulsed in presence of another woman can see and feel. The whole thing - was over in the twinkling of an eye; the telling it takes double, treble - the time of the happening. Before Alessandro was fairly aware what had - befallen, Ramona and Margarita were disappearing from view under the - garden trellis,—Ramona walking in advance, stately, silent, and - Margarita following, sulky, abject in her gait, but with a raging - whirlwind in her heart. - </p> - <p> - It had taken only the twinkling of an eye, but it had told Margarita the - truth. Alessandro too. - </p> - <p> - “My God.” he said, “the Senorita thought me making love to that girl. May - the fiends get her! The Senorita looked at me as if I were a dog. How - could she think a man would look at a woman after he had once seen her! - And I can never, never speak to her to tell her! Oh, this cannot be - borne!” And in his rage Alessandro threw his pruning-knife whirling - through the air so fiercely, it sank to the hilt in one of the old - olive-trees. He wished he were dead. He was minded to flee the place. How - could he ever look the Senorita in the face again! - </p> - <p> - “Perdition take that girl!” he said over and over in his helpless despair. - An ill outlook for Margarita after this; and the girl had not deserved it. - </p> - <p> - In Margarita's heart the pain was more clearly defined. She had seen - Ramona a half-second before Alessandro had; and dreaming no special harm, - except a little confusion at being seen thus standing with him,—for - she would tell the Senorita all about it when matters had gone a little - farther,—had not let go of Alessandro's hand. But the next second - she had seen in his face a look; oh, she would never forget it, never! - That she should live to have had any man look at her like that! At the - first glimpse of the Senorita, all the blood in his body seemed rushing - into his face, and he had snatched his hand away,—for it was - Margarita herself that had taken his hand, not he hers,—had snatched - his hand away, and pushed her from him, till she had nearly fallen. All - this might have been borne, if it had been only a fear of the Senorita's - seeing them, which had made him do it. But Margarita knew a great deal - better than that. That one swift, anguished, shame-smitten, appealing, - worshipping look on Alessandro's face, as his eyes rested on Ramona, was - like a flash of light into Margarita's consciousness. Far better than - Alessandro himself, she now knew his secret. In her first rage she did not - realize either the gulf between herself and Ramona, or that between Ramona - and Alessandro. Her jealous rage was as entire as if they had all been - equals together. She lost her head altogether, and there was embodied - insolence in the tone in which she said presently, “Did the Senorita want - me?” - </p> - <p> - Turning swiftly on her, and looking her full in the eye, Ramona said: “I - saw you go to the orchard, Margarita, and I knew what you went for. I knew - that you were at the brook last night with Alessandro. All I wanted of you - was, to tell you that if I see anything more of this sort, I shall speak - to the Senora.” - </p> - <p> - “There is no harm,” muttered Margarita, sullenly. “I don't know what the - Senorita means.” - </p> - <p> - “You know very well, Margarita,” retorted Ramona. “You know that the - Senora permits nothing of the kind. Be careful, now, what you do.” And - with that the two separated, Ramona returning to the veranda and her - embroidery, and Margarita to her neglected duty of making the good - Father's bed. But each girl's heart was hot and unhappy; and Margarita's - would have been still hotter and unhappier, had she heard the words which - were being spoken on the veranda a little later. - </p> - <p> - After a few minutes of his blind rage at Margarita, himself, and fate - generally, Alessandro, recovering his senses, had ingeniously persuaded - himself that, as the Senora's; and also the Senorita's servant, for the - time being, he owed it to them to explain the situation in which he had - just been found. Just what he was to say he did not know; but no sooner - had the thought struck him, than he set off at full speed for the house, - hoping to find Ramona on the veranda, where he knew she spent all her time - when not with Senor Felipe. - </p> - <p> - When Ramona saw him coming, she lowered her eyes, and was absorbed in her - embroidery. She did not wish to look at him. - </p> - <p> - The footsteps stopped. She knew he was standing at the steps. She would - not look up. She thought if she did not, he would go away. She did not - know either the Indian or the lover nature. After a time, finding the - consciousness of the soundless presence intolerable, she looked up, and - surprised on Alessandro's face a gaze which had, in its long interval of - freedom from observation, been slowly gathering up into it all the passion - of the man's soul, as a burning-glass draws the fire of the sun's rays. - Involuntarily a low cry burst from Ramona's lips, and she sprang to her - feet. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! did I frighten the Senorita? Forgive. I have been waiting here a long - time to speak to her. I wished to say—” - </p> - <p> - Suddenly Alessandro discovered that he did not know what he wished to say. - </p> - <p> - As suddenly, Ramona discovered that she knew all he wished to say. But she - spoke not, only looked at him searchingly. - </p> - <p> - “Senorita,” he began again, “I would never be unfaithful to my duty to the - Senora, and to you.” - </p> - <p> - “I believe you, Alessandro,” said Ramona. “It is not necessary to say - more.” - </p> - <p> - At these words a radiant joy spread over Alessandro's face. He had not - hoped for this. He felt, rather than heard, that Ramona understood him. He - felt, for the first time, a personal relation between himself and her. - </p> - <p> - “It is well,” he said, in the brief phrase so frequent with his people. - “It is well.” And with a reverent inclination of his head, he walked away. - Margarita, still dawdling surlily over her work in Father Salvierderra's - room, heard Alessandro's voice, and running to discover to whom he was - speaking, caught these last, words. Peering from behind a curtain, she saw - the look with which he said them; saw also the expression on Ramona's face - as she listened. - </p> - <p> - Margarita clenched her hands. The seed had blossomed. Ramona had an enemy. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, but I am glad Father Salvierderra has gone!” said the girl, bitterly. - “He'd have had this out of me, spite of everything. I haven't got to - confess for a year, maybe; and much can happen in that time.” - </p> - <p> - Much, indeed! - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - VIII - </h2> - <p> - FELIPE gained but slowly. The relapse was indeed, as Father Salvierderra - had said, worse than the original attack. Day after day he lay with little - apparent change; no pain, but a weakness so great that it was almost - harder to bear than sharp suffering would have been. Nearly every day - Alessandro was sent for to play or sing to him. It seemed to be the only - thing that roused him from his half lethargic state. Sometimes he would - talk with Alessandro on matters relative to the estate, and show for a few - moments something like his old animation; but he was soon tired, and would - close his eyes, saying: “I will speak with you again about this, - Alessandro; I am going to sleep now. Sing.” - </p> - <p> - The Senora, seeing Felipe's enjoyment of Alessandro's presence, soon came - to have a warm feeling towards him herself; moreover, she greatly liked - his quiet reticence. There was hardly a surer road to the Senora's favor, - for man or woman, than to be chary of speech and reserved in demeanor. She - had an instinct of kinship to all that was silent, self-contained, - mysterious, in human nature. The more she observed Alessandro, the more - she trusted and approved him. Luckily for Juan Can, he did not know how - matters were working in his mistress's mind. If he had, he would have been - in a fever of apprehension, and would have got at swords' points with - Alessandro immediately. On the contrary, all unaware of the real situation - of affairs, and never quite sure that the Mexican he dreaded might not any - day hear of his misfortune, and appear, asking for the place, he took - every opportunity to praise Alessandro to the Senora. She never visited - his bedside that he had not something to say in favor of the lad, as he - called him. - </p> - <p> - “Truly, Senora,” he said again and again, “I do marvel where the lad got - so much knowledge, at his age. He is like an old hand at the sheep - business. He knows more than any shepherd I have,—a deal more; and - it is not only of sheep. He has had experience, too, in the handling of - cattle. Juan Jose has been beholden to him more than once, already, for a - remedy of which he knew not. And such modesty, withal. I knew not that - there were such Indians; surely there cannot be many such.” - </p> - <p> - “No, I fancy not,” the Senora would reply, absently. “His father is a man - of intelligence, and has trained his son well.” - </p> - <p> - “There is nothing he is not ready to do,” continued Alessandro's eulogist. - “He is as handy with tools as if he had been 'prenticed to a carpenter. He - has made me a new splint for my leg, which was a relief like salve to a - wound, so much easier was it than before. He is a good lad,—a good - lad.” - </p> - <p> - None of these sayings of Juan's were thrown away on the Senora. More and - more closely she watched Alessandro; and the very thing which Juan had - feared, and which he had thought to avert by having Alessandro his - temporary substitute, was slowly coming to pass. The idea was working in - the Senora's mind, that she might do a worse thing than engage this young, - strong, active, willing man to remain permanently in her employ. The - possibility of an Indian's being so born and placed that he would hesitate - about becoming permanently a servant even to the Senora Moreno, did not - occur to her. However, she would do nothing hastily. There would be plenty - of time before Juan Can's leg was well. She would study the young man - more. In the mean time, she would cause Felipe to think of the idea, and - propose it. - </p> - <p> - So one day she said to Felipe: “What a voice that Alessandro has, Felipe. - We shall miss his music sorely when he goes, shall we not?” - </p> - <p> - “He's not going!” exclaimed Felipe, startled. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, no; not at present. He agreed to stay till Juan Can was about - again; but that will be not more than six weeks now, or eight, I suppose. - You forget how time has flown while you have been lying here ill, my son.” - </p> - <p> - “True, true!” said Felipe. “Is it really a month already?” and he sighed. - </p> - <p> - “Juan Can tells me that the lad has a marvellous knowledge for one of his - years,” continued the Senora. “He says he is as skilled with cattle as - with sheep; knows more than any shepherd we have on the place. He seems - wonderfully quiet and well-mannered. I never saw an Indian who had such - behavior.” - </p> - <p> - “Old Pablo is just like him,” said Felipe. “It was natural enough, living - so long with Father Peyri. And I've seen other Indians, too, with a good - deal the same manner as Alessandro. It's born in them.” - </p> - <p> - “I can't bear the idea of Alessandro's going away. But by that time you - will be well and strong,” said the Senora; “you would not miss him then, - would you?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I would, too!” said Felipe, pettishly. He was still weak enough to - be childish. “I like him about me. He's worth a dozen times as much as any - man we've got. But I don't suppose money could hire him to stay on any - ranch.” - </p> - <p> - “Were you thinking of hiring him permanently?” asked the Senora, in a - surprised tone. “I don't doubt you could do so if you wished. They are all - poor, I suppose; he would not work with the shearers if he were not poor.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, it isn't that,” said Felipe, impatiently. “You can't understand, - because you've never been among them. But they are just as proud as we - are. Some of them, I mean; such men as old Pablo. They shear sheep for - money just as I sell wool for money. There isn't so much difference. - Alessandro's men in the band obey him, and all the men in the village obey - Pablo, just as implicitly as my men here obey me. Faith, much more so!” - added Felipe, laughing. “You can't understand it, mother, but it's so. I - am not at all sure I could offer Alessandro Assis money enough to tempt - him to stay here as my servant.” - </p> - <p> - The Senora's nostrils dilated in scorn. “No, I do not understand it,” she - said. “Most certainly I do not understand it. Of what is it that these - noble lords of villages are so proud? their ancestors,—naked savages - less than a hundred years ago? Naked savages they themselves too, to-day, - if we had not come here to teach and civilize them. The race was never - meant for anything but servants. That was all the Fathers ever expected to - make of them,—good, faithful Catholics, and contented laborers in - the fields. Of course there are always exceptional instances, and I think, - myself, Alessandro is one. I don't believe, however, he is so exceptional, - but that if you were to offer him, for instance, the same wages you pay - Juan Can, he would jump at the chance of staying on the place.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I shall think about it,” said Felipe. “I'd like nothing better than - to have him here always. He's a fellow I heartily like. I'll think about - it.” - </p> - <p> - Which was all the Senora wanted done at present. - </p> - <p> - Ramona had chanced to come in as this conversation was going on. Hearing - Alessandro's name she seated herself at the window, looking out, but - listening intently. The month had done much for Alessandro with Ramona, - though neither Alessandro nor Ramona knew it. It had done this much,—that - Ramona knew always when Alessandro was near, that she trusted him, and - that she had ceased to think of him as an Indian any more than when she - thought of Felipe, she thought of him as a Mexican. Moreover, seeing the - two men frequently together, she had admitted to herself, as Margarita had - done before her, that Alessandro was far the handsomer man of the two. - This Ramona did not like to admit, but she could not help it. - </p> - <p> - “I wish Felipe were as tall and strong as Alessandro,” she said to herself - many a time. “I do not see why he could not have been. I wonder if the - Senora sees how much handsomer Alessandro is.” - </p> - <p> - When Felipe said that he did not believe he could offer Alessandro Assis - money enough to tempt him to stay on the place, Ramona opened her lips - suddenly, as if to speak, then changed her mind, and remained silent. She - had sometimes displeased the Senora by taking part in conversations - between her and her son. - </p> - <p> - Felipe saw the motion, but he also thought it wiser to wait till after his - mother had left the room, before he asked Ramona what she was on the point - of saying. As soon as the Senora went out, he said, “What was it, Ramona, - you were going to say just now?” - </p> - <p> - Ramona colored. She had decided not to say it. - </p> - <p> - “Tell me, Ramona,” persisted Felipe. “You were going to say something - about Alessandro's staying; I know you were.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona did not answer. For the first time in her life she found herself - embarrassed before Felipe. - </p> - <p> - “Don't you like Alessandro?” said Felipe. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes!” replied Ramona, with instant eagerness. “It was not that at - all. I like him very much;” But then she stopped. - </p> - <p> - “Well, what is it, then? Have you heard anything on the place about his - staying?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, no; not a word!” said Ramona. “Everybody understands that he is - here only till Juan Can gets well. But you said you did not believe you - could offer him money enough to tempt him to stay.” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” said Felipe, inquiringly, “I do not. Do you?” - </p> - <p> - “I think he would like to stay,” said Ramona, hesitatingly. “That was what - I was going to say.” - </p> - <p> - “What makes you think so?” asked Felipe. - </p> - <p> - “I don't know,” Ramona said, still more hesitatingly. Now that she had - said it, she was sorry. Felipe looked curiously at her. Hesitancy like - this, doubts, uncertainty as to her impressions, were not characteristic - of Ramona. A flitting something which was far from being suspicion or - jealousy, and yet was of kin to them both, went through Felipe's mind,—went - through so swiftly that he was scarce conscious of it; if he had been, he - would have scorned himself. Jealous of an Indian sheep-shearers - Impossible! Nevertheless, the flitting something left a trace, and - prevented Felipe from forgetting the trivial incident; and after this, it - was certain that Felipe would observe Ramona more closely than he had - done; would weigh her words and actions; and if she should seem by a shade - altered in either, would watch still more closely. Meshes were closing - around Ramona. Three watchers of her every look and act,—Alessandro - in pure love, Margarita in jealous hate, Felipe in love and perplexity. - Only the Senora observed her not. If she had, matters might have turned - out very differently, for the Senora was clear-sighted, rarely mistaken in - her reading of people's motives, never long deceived; but her observing - and discriminating powers were not in focus, so far as Ramona was - concerned. The girl was curiously outside of the Senora's real life. - Shelter, food, clothes, all external needs, in so far as her means - allowed, the Senora would, without fail, provide for the child her sister - had left in her hands as a trust; but a personal relation with her, a - mother's affection, or even interest and acquaintance, no. The Senora had - not that to give. And if she had it not, was she to blame? What could she - do? Years ago Father Salvierderra had left off remonstrating with her on - this point. “Is there more I should do for the child? Do you see aught - lacking, aught amiss?” the Senora would ask, conscientiously, but with - pride. And the Father, thus inquired of, could not point out a duty which - had been neglected. - </p> - <p> - “You do not love her, my daughter,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “No.” Senora Moreno's truthfulness was of the adamantine order. “No, I do - not. I cannot. One cannot love by act of will.” - </p> - <p> - “That is true,” the Father would say sadly; “but affection may be - cultivated.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, if it exists,” was the Senora's constant answer. “But in this case - it does not exist. I shall never love Ramona. Only at your command, and to - save my sister a sorrow, I took her. I will never fail in my duty to her.” - </p> - <p> - It was of no use. As well say to the mountain, “Be cast into the sea,” as - try to turn the Senora's heart in any direction whither it did not of - itself tend. All that Father Salvierderra could do, was to love Ramona the - more himself, which he did heartily, and more and more each year, and - small marvel at it; for a gentler, sweeter maiden never drew breath than - this same Ramona, who had been all these years, save for Felipe, lonely in - the Senora Moreno's house. - </p> - <p> - Three watchers of Ramona now. If there had been a fourth, and that fourth - herself, matters might have turned out differently. But how should Ramona - watch? How should Ramona know? Except for her two years at school with the - nuns, she had never been away from the Senora's house. Felipe was the only - young man she had known,—Felipe, her brother since she was five - years old. - </p> - <p> - There were no gayeties in the Senora Moreno's home. Felipe, when he needed - them, went one day's journey, or two, or three, to get them; went as often - as he liked. Ramona never went. How many times she had longed to go to - Santa Barbara, or to Monterey, or Los Angeles; but to have asked the - Senora's permission to accompany her on some of her now infrequent - journeys to these places would have required more courage than Ramona - possessed. It was now three years since she left the convent school, but - she was still as fresh from the hands of the nuns as on the day when, with - loving tears, they had kissed her in farewell. The few romances and tales - and bits of verse she had read were of the most innocent and old-fashioned - kind, and left her hardly less childlike than before. This childlikeness, - combined with her happy temperament, had kept her singularly contented in - her monotonous life. She had fed the birds, taken care of the flowers, - kept the chapel in order, helped in light household work, embroidered, - sung, and, as the Senora eight years before had bade her do, said her - prayers and pleased Father Salvierderra. - </p> - <p> - By processes strangely unlike, she and Alessandro had both been kept - strangely free from thoughts of love and of marriage,—he by living - in the shadow, and she by living in the sun; his heart and thoughts filled - with perplexities and fears, hers filled by a placid routine of light and - easy tasks, and the outdoor pleasures of a child. - </p> - <p> - As the days went on, and Felipe still remained feeble, Alessandro - meditated a bold stroke. Each time that he went to Felipe's room to sing - or to play, he felt himself oppressed by the air. An hour of it made him - uncomfortable. The room was large, and had two windows, and the door was - never shut; yet the air seemed to Alessandro stifling. - </p> - <p> - “I should be as ill as the Senor Felipe, if I had to stay in that room, - and a bed is a weakening thing, enough to pull the strongest man down,” - said Alessandro to Juan Can one day. “Do you think I should anger them if - I asked them to let me bring Senor Felipe out to the veranda and put him - on a bed of my making? I'd wager my head I'd put him on his feet in a - week.” - </p> - <p> - “And if you did that, you might ask the Senora for the half of the estate, - and get it, lad,” replied Juan, Seeing the hot blood darkening in - Alessandro's face at his words, he hastened to add, “Do not be so - hot-blooded. I meant not that you would ask any reward for doing it; I was - only thinking what joy it would be to the Senora to see Senor Felipe on - his feet again. It has often crossed my thoughts that if he did not get up - from this sickness the Senora would not be long behind him. It is but for - him that she lives. And who would have the estate in that case, I have - never been able to find out.” - </p> - <p> - “Would it not be the Senorita?” asked Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - Juan Can laughed an ugly laugh. “Ha, ha! Let the Senora hear you say - that!” he said. “Faith, it will be little the Senorita gets more than - enough for her bread, may be, out of the Moreno estate. Hark ye, - Alessandro; if you will not tell, I will tell you the story of the - Senorita. You know she is not of the Moreno blood; is no relation of - theirs.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said Alessandro; “Margarita has said to me that the Senorita Ramona - was only the foster-child of the Senora Moreno.” - </p> - <p> - “Foster-child!” repeated Juan Can, contemptuously, “there is something to - the tale I know not, nor ever could find out; for when I was in Monterey - the Ortegna house was shut, and I could not get speech of any of their - people. But this much I know, that it was the Senora Ortegna that had the - girl first in keeping; and there was a scandalous tale about her birth.” - </p> - <p> - If Juan Can's eyes had not been purblind with old age, he would have seen - that in Alessandro's face which would have made him choose his words more - carefully. But he went on: “It was after the Senora Ortegna was buried, - that our Senora returned, bringing this child with her; and I do assure - you, lad, I have seen the Senora look at her many a time as if she wished - her dead. And it is a shame, for she was always as fair and good a child - as the saints ever saw. But a stain on the blood, a stain on the blood, - lad, is a bitter thing in a house. This much I know, her mother was an - Indian. Once when I was in the chapel, behind the big Saint Joseph there, - I overheard the Senora say as much. She was talking to Father - Salvierderra, and she said, 'If the child had only the one blood in her - veins, it would be different. I like not these crosses with Indians.'” - </p> - <p> - If Alessandro had been civilized, he would at this word “Indian” have - bounded to his feet. Being Alessandro, he stood if possible stiller than - before, and said in a low voice, “How know you it was the mother that was - the Indian?” - </p> - <p> - Juan laughed again, maliciously: “Ha, it is the Ortegna face she has; and - that Ortegna, why, he was the scandal byword of the whole coast. There was - not a decent woman would have spoken to him, except for his wife's sake.” - </p> - <p> - “But did you not say that it was in the Senora Ortegna's keeping that the - child was?” asked Alessandro, breathing harder and faster each moment now; - stupid old Juan Can so absorbed in relish of his gossip, that he noticed - nothing. - </p> - <p> - “Ay, ay. So I said,” he went on; “and so it was. There be such saints, you - know; though the Lord knows if she had been minded to give shelter to all - her husband's bastards, she might have taken lease of a church to hold - them. But there was a story about a man's coming with this infant and - leaving it in the Senora's room; and she, poor lady, never having had a - child of her own, did warm to it at first sight, and kept it with her to - the last; and I wager me, a hard time she had to get our Senora to take - the child when she died; except that it was to spite Ortegna, I think our - Senora would as soon the child had been dead.” - </p> - <p> - “Has she not treated her kindly?” asked Alessandro, in a husky voice. - </p> - <p> - Juan Can's pride resented this question. “Do you suppose the Senora Moreno - would do an unkindness to one under her roof?” he asked loftily. “The - Senorita has been always, in all things, like Senor Felipe himself. It was - so that she promised the Senora Ortegna, I have heard.” - </p> - <p> - “Does the Senorita know all this?” asked Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - Juan Can crossed himself. “Saints save us, no!” he exclaimed. “I'll not - forget, to my longest day, what it cost me, once I spoke in her hearing, - when she was yet small. I did not know she heard; but she went to the - Senora, asking who was her mother. And she said I had said her mother was - no good, which in faith I did, and no wonder. And the Senora came to me, - and said she, 'Juan Canito, you have been a long time in our house; but if - ever I hear of your mentioning aught concerning the Senorita Ramona, on - this estate or anywhere else in the country, that day you leave my - service!'—And you'd not do me the ill-turn to speak of it, - Alessandro, now?” said the old man, anxiously. “My tongue runs away with - me, lying here on this cursed bed, with nothing to do,—an active man - like me.” - </p> - <p> - “No, I'll not speak of it, you may be assured,” said Alessandro, walking - away slowly. - </p> - <p> - “Here! Here!” called Juan. “What about that plan you had for making a bed - for Senor Felipe on the verandah Was it of raw-hide you meant?” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, I had forgotten,” said Alessandro, returning. “Yes, that was it. - There is great virtue in a raw-hide, tight stretched; my father says that - it is the only bed the Fathers would ever sleep on, in the Mission days. I - myself like the ground even better; but my father sleeps always on the - rawhide. He says it keeps him well. Do you think I might speak of it to - the Senora?” - </p> - <p> - “Speak of it to Senor Felipe himself,” said Juan. “It will be as he says. - He rules this place now, from beginning to end; and it is but yesterday I - held him on my knee. It is soon that the old are pushed to the wall, - Alessandro.” - </p> - <p> - “Nay, Juan Canito,” replied Alessandro, kindly. “It is not so. My father - is many years older than you are, and he rules our people to-day as firmly - as ever. I myself obey him, as if I were a lad still.” - </p> - <p> - “What else, then, but a lad do you call yourself, I wonder?” thought Juan; - but he answered, “It is not so with us. The old are not held in such - reverence.” - </p> - <p> - “That is not well,” replied Alessandro. “We have been taught differently. - There is an old man in our village who is many, many years older than my - father. He helped to carry the mortar at the building of the San Diego - Mission, I do not know how many years ago. He is long past a hundred years - of age. He is blind and childish, and cannot walk; but he is cared for by - every one. And we bring him in our arms to every council, and set him by - my father's side. He talks very foolishly sometimes, but my father will - not let him be interrupted. He says it brings bad luck to affront the - aged. We will presently be aged ourselves.” - </p> - <p> - “Ay, ay!” said Juan, sadly. “We must all come to it. It is beginning to - look not so far off to me!” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro stared, no less astonished at Juan Can's unconscious revelation - of his standard of measurement of years than Juan had been at his. “Faith, - old man, what name dost give to yourself to-day!” he thought; but went on - with the topic of the raw-hide bed. “I may not so soon get speech with - Senor Felipe,” he said. “It is usually when he is sleepy that I go to play - for him or to sing. But it makes my heart heavy to see him thus - languishing day by day, and all for lack of the air and the sun, I do - believe, indeed, Juan.” - </p> - <p> - “Ask the Senorita, then,” said Juan. “She has his ear at all times.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro made no answer. Why was it that it did not please him,—this - suggestion of speaking to Ramona of his plan for Felipe's welfare? He - could not have told; but he did not wish to speak of it to her. - </p> - <p> - “I will speak to the Senora,” he said; and as luck would have it, at that - moment the Senora stood in the doorway, come to ask after Juan Can's - health. - </p> - <p> - The suggestion of the raw-hide bed struck her favorably. She herself had, - in her youth, heard much of their virtues, and slept on them. “Yes,” she - said, “they are good. We will try it. It was only yesterday that Senor - Felipe was complaining of the bed he lies on; and when he was well, he - thought nothing could be so good; he brought it here, at a great price, - for me, but I could not lie on it. It seemed as if it would throw me off - as soon as I lay down; it is a cheating device, like all these innovations - the Americans have brought into the country. But Senor Felipe till now - thought it a luxury; now he tosses on it, and says it is throwing him all - the time.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro smiled, in spite of his reverence for the Senora. “I once lay - down on one myself, Senora,” he said, “and that was what I said to my - father. It was like a wild horse under me, making himself ready to buck. I - thought perhaps the invention was of the saints, that men should not sleep - too long.” - </p> - <p> - “There is a pile of raw-hides,” said Juan, “well cured, but not too stiff; - Juan Jose was to have sent them off to-day to be sold; one of those will - be just right. It must not be too dry.” - </p> - <p> - “The fresher the better,” said Alessandro, “so it have no dampness. Shall - I make the bed, Senora?” he asked, “and will the Senora permit that I make - it on the veranda? I was just asking Juan Can if he thought I might be so - bold as to ask you to let me bring Senor Felipe into the outer air. With - us, it is thought death to be shut up in walls, as he has been so long. - Not till we are sure to die, do we go into the dark like that.” - </p> - <p> - The Senora hesitated. She did not share Alessandro's prejudice in favor of - fresh air. - </p> - <p> - “Night and day both?” she said. “Surely it is not well to sleep out in the - night?” - </p> - <p> - “That is the best of all, Senora,” replied Alessandro, earnestly. “I beg - the Senora to try it. If Senor Felipe have not mended greatly after the - first night he had so slept, then Alessandro will be a liar.” - </p> - <p> - “No, only mistaken,” said the Senora, gently. She felt herself greatly - drawn to this young man by his devotion, as she thought, of Felipe. “When - I die and leave Felipe here,” she had more than once said to herself, “it - would be a great good to him to have such a servant as this on the place.” - </p> - <p> - “Very well, Alessandro,” she replied; “make the bed, and we will try it at - once.” - </p> - <p> - This was early in the forenoon. The sun was still high in the west, when - Ramona, sitting as usual in the veranda, at her embroidery, saw Alessandro - coming, followed by two men, bearing the raw-hide bed. - </p> - <p> - “What can that be?” she said. “Some new invention of Alessandro's, but for - what?” - </p> - <p> - “A bed for the Senor Felipe, Senorita,” said Alessandro, running lightly - up the steps. “The Senora has given permission to place it here on the - veranda, and Senor Felipe is to lie here day and night; and it will be a - marvel in your eyes how he will gain strength. It is the close room which - is keeping him weak now; he has no illness.” - </p> - <p> - “I believe that is the truth, Alessandro,” exclaimed Ramona; “I have been - thinking the same thing. My head aches after I am in that room but an - hour, and when I come here I am well. But the nights too, Alessandro? Is - it not harmful to sleep out in the night air?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, Senorita?” asked Alessandro, simply. - </p> - <p> - And Ramona had no answer, except, “I do not know; I have always heard so.” - </p> - <p> - “My people do not think so,” replied Alessandro; “unless it is cold, we - like it better. It is good, Senorita, to look up at the sky in the night.” - </p> - <p> - “I should think it would be,” cried Ramona. “I never thought of it. I - should like to do it.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro was busy, with his face bent down, arranging the bedstead in a - sheltered corner of the veranda. If his face had been lifted, Ramona would - have seen a look on it that would have startled her more than the one she - had surprised a few days previous, after the incident with Margarita. All - day there had been coming and going in Alessandro's brain a confused - procession of thoughts, vague yet intense. Put in words, they would have - been found to be little more than ringing changes on this idea: “The - Senorita Ramona has Indian blood in her veins. The Senorita Ramona is - alone. The Senora loves her not. Indian blood! Indian blood!” These, or - something like them, would have been the words; but Alessandro did not put - them in words. He only worked away on the rough posts for Senor Felipe's - bedstead, hammered, fitted, stretched the raw-hide and made it tight and - firm, driving every nail, striking every blow, with a bounding sense of - exultant strength, as if there were suddenly all around him a new heaven - and a new earth. - </p> - <p> - Now, when he heard Ramona say suddenly in her girlish, eager tone, “It - must be; I never thought of it; I should like to try it,” these vague - confused thoughts of the day, and the day's bounding sense of exultant - strength, combined in a quick vision before Alessandro's eyes,—a - vision of starry skies overhead, Ramona and himself together, looking up - to them. But when he raised his head, all he said was, “There, Senorita! - That is all firm, now. If Senor Felipe will let me lay him an this bed, he - will sleep as he has not slept since he fell ill.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona ran eagerly into Felipe's room, “The bed is all ready on the - veranda,” she exclaimed. “Shall Alessandro come in and carry you out?” - </p> - <p> - Felipe looked up, startled. The Senora turned on Ramona that expression of - gentle, resigned displeasure, which always hurt the girl's sensitive - nature far worse than anger. “I had not spoken to Felipe yet of the - change, Ramona,” she said. “I supposed that Alessandro would have informed - me when the bed was ready; I am sorry you came in so suddenly. Felipe is - still very weak, you see.” - </p> - <p> - “What is it? What is it?” exclaimed Felipe, impatiently. - </p> - <p> - As soon as it was explained to him, he was like a child in his haste to be - moved. - </p> - <p> - “That's just what I needed!” he exclaimed. “This cursed bed racks every - bone in my body, and I have longed for the sun more than ever a thirsty - man longed for water. Bless you, Alessandro,” he went on, seeing - Alessandro in the doorway. “Come here, and take me up in those long arms - of yours, and carry me quick. Already I feel myself better.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro lifted him as if he were a baby; indeed, it was but a light - burden now, Felipe's wasted body, for a man much less strong than - Alessandro to lift. - </p> - <p> - Ramona, chilled and hurt, ran in advance, carrying pillows and blankets. - As she began to arrange them on the couch, the Senora took them from her - hands, saying, “I will arrange them myself;” and waved Ramona away. - </p> - <p> - It was a little thing. Ramona was well used to such. Ordinarily it would - have given her no pain she could not conceal. But the girl's nerves were - not now in equilibrium. She had had hard work to keep back her tears at - the first rebuff. This second was too much. She turned, and walked swiftly - away, the tears rolling down her cheeks. - </p> - <p> - Alessandro saw it; Felipe saw it. - </p> - <p> - To Felipe the sight was, though painful, not a surprise. He knew but too - well how often his mother hurt Ramona. All he thought now, in his - weakness, was, “Alas! what a pity my mother does not love Ramona!” - </p> - <p> - To Alessandro the sight was the one drop too much in the cup. As he - stooped to lay Felipe on the bed, he trembled so that Felipe looked up, - half afraid. - </p> - <p> - “Am I still so heavy, Alessandro?” he said smiling. - </p> - <p> - “It is not your weight, Senor Felipe,” answered Alessandro, off guard, - still trembling, his eyes following Ramona. - </p> - <p> - Felipe saw. In the next second, the eyes of the two young men met. - Alessandro's fell before Felipe's. Felipe gazed on, steadily, at - Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - “Ah!” he said; and as he said it, he closed his eyes, and let his head - sink back into the pillow. - </p> - <p> - “Is that comfortable? Is that right?” asked the Senora, who had seen - nothing. - </p> - <p> - “The first comfortable moment I have had, mother,” said Felipe. “Stay, - Alessandro, I want to speak to you as soon as I am rested. This move has - shaken me up a good deal. Wait.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Senor,” replied Alessandro, and seated himself on the veranda steps. - </p> - <p> - “If you are to stay, Alessandro,” said the Senora, “I will go and look - after some matters that need my attention. I feel always at ease about - Senor Felipe when you are with him. You will stay till I come back?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Senora,” said Alessandro, in a tone cold as the Senora's own had - been to Ramona. He was no longer in heart the Senora Moreno's servant. In - fact, he was at that very moment revolving confusedly in his mind whether - there could be any possibility of his getting away before the expiration - of the time for which he had agreed to stay. - </p> - <p> - It was a long time before Felipe opened his eyes. Alessandro thought he - was asleep. - </p> - <p> - At last Felipe spoke. He had been watching Alessandro's face for some - minutes. “Alessandro,” he said. - </p> - <p> - Alessandro sprang to his feet, and walked swiftly to the bedside. He did - not know what the next word might be. He felt that the Senor Felipe had - seen straight into his heart in that one moment's look, and Alessandro was - preparing for anything. - </p> - <p> - “Alessandro,” said Felipe, “my mother has been speaking to me about your - remaining with us permanently. Juan Can is now very old, and after this - accident will go on crutches the rest of his days, poor soul! We are in - great need of some man who understands sheep, and the care of the place - generally.” - </p> - <p> - As he spoke, he watched Alessandro's face closely. Swift changing - expressions passed over it. Surprise predominated. Felipe misunderstood - the surprise. “I knew you would be surprised,” he said. “I told my mother - that you would not think of it; that you had stayed now only because we - were in trouble.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro bowed his head gratefully. This recognition from Felipe gave - him pleasure. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Senor,” he said, “that was it. I told Father Salvierderra it was not - for the wages. But my father and I have need of all the money we can earn. - Our people are very poor, Senor. I do not know whether my father would - think I ought to take the place you offer me, or not, Senor. It would be - as he said. I will ask him.” - </p> - <p> - “Then you would be willing to take it?” asked Felipe. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Senor, if my father wished me to take it,” replied Alessandro, - looking steadily and gravely at Felipe; adding, after a second's pause, - “if you are sure that you desire it, Senor Felipe, it would be a pleasure - to me to be of help to you.” - </p> - <p> - And yet it was only a few moments ago that Alessandro had been turning - over in his mind the possibility of leaving the Senora Moreno's service - immediately. This change had not been a caprice, not been an impulse of - passionate desire to remain near Ramona; it had come from a sudden - consciousness that the Senor Felipe would be his friend. And Alessandro - was not mistaken. - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - IX - </h2> - <p> - WHEN the Senora came back to the veranda, she found Felipe asleep, - Alessandro standing at the foot of the bed, with his arms crossed on his - breast, watching him. As the Senora drew near, Alessandro felt again the - same sense of dawning hatred which had seized him at her harsh speech to - Ramona. He lowered his eyes, and waited to be dismissed. - </p> - <p> - “You can go now, Alessandro,” said the Senora. “I will sit here. You are - quite sure that it will be safe for Senor Felipe to sleep here all night?” - </p> - <p> - “It will cure him before many nights,” replied Alessandro, still without - raising his eyes, and turning to go. - </p> - <p> - “Stay,” said the Senora. Alessandro paused. “It will not do for him to be - alone here in the night, Alessandro.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro had thought of this, and had remembered that if he lay on the - veranda floor by Senor Felipe's side, he would also lie under the - Senorita's window. - </p> - <p> - “No, Senora,” he replied. “I will lie here by his side. That was what I - had thought, if the Senora is willing.” - </p> - <p> - “Thank you, Alessandro,” said the Senora, in a tone which would have - surprised poor Ramona, still sitting alone in her room, with sad eyes. She - did not know the Senora could speak thus sweetly to any one but Felipe. - “Thank you! You are kind. I will have a bed made for you.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no.” cried Alessandro; “if the Senora will excuse me, I could not lie - on a bed. A raw-hide like Senor Felipe's, and my blanket, are all I want. - I could not lie on any bed.” - </p> - <p> - “To be sure,” thought the Senora; “what was I thinking of! How the boy - makes one forget he is an Indian! But the floor is harder than the ground, - Alessandro,” she said kindly. - </p> - <p> - “No, Senora,” he said, “it is all one; and to-night I will not sleep. I - will watch Senor Felipe, in case there should be a wind, or he should wake - and need something.” - </p> - <p> - “I will watch him myself till midnight,” said the Senora. “I should feel - easier to see how he sleeps at first.” - </p> - <p> - It was the balmiest of summer nights, and as still as if no living thing - were on the earth. There was a full moon, which shone on the garden, and - on the white front of the little chapel among the trees. Ramona, from her - window, saw Alessandro pacing up and down the walk. She had seen him - spread down the raw-hide by Felipe's bed, and had seen the Senora take her - place in one of the big carved chairs. She wondered if they were both - going to watch; she wondered why the Senora would never let her sit up and - watch with Felipe. - </p> - <p> - “I am not of any use to anybody,” she thought sadly. She dared not go out - and ask any questions about the arrangements for the night. At supper the - Senora had spoken to her only in the same cold and distant manner which - always made her dumb and afraid. She had not once seen Felipe alone during - the day. Margarita, who, in the former times,—ah, how far away those - former times looked now!—had been a greater comfort to Ramona than - she realized,—Margarita now was sulky and silent, never came into - Ramona's presence if she could help it, and looked at her sometimes with - an expression which made Ramona tremble, and say to herself, “She hates - me; She has always hated me since that morning.” - </p> - <p> - It had been a long, sad day to Ramona; and as she sat in her window - leaning her head against the sash, and looked at Alessandro pacing up and - down, she felt for the first time, and did not shrink from it nor in any - wise disavow or disguise it to herself, that she was glad he loved her. - More than this she did not think; beyond this she did not go. Her mind was - not like Margarita's, full of fancies bred of freedom in intercourse with - men. But distinctly, tenderly glad that Alessandro loved her, and - distinctly, tenderly aware how well he loved her, she was, as she sat at - her window this night, looking out into the moonlit garden; after she had - gone to bed, she could still hear his slow, regular steps on the - garden-walk, and the last thought she had, as she fell asleep, was that - she was glad Alessandro loved her. - </p> - <p> - The moon had been long set, and the garden, chapel-front, trees, vines, - were all wrapped in impenetrable darkness, when Ramona awoke, sat up in - her bed, and listened. All was so still that the sound of Felipe's low, - regular breathing came in through her open window. After hearkening to it - for a few moments, she rose noiselessly from her bed, and creeping to the - window parted the curtains and looked out; noiselessly, she thought; but - it was not noiselessly enough to escape Alessandro's quick ear; without a - sound, he sprang to his feet, and stood looking at Ramona's window. - </p> - <p> - “I am here, Senorita,” he whispered. “Do you want anything?” - </p> - <p> - “Has he slept all night like this?” she whispered back. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Senorita. He has not once moved.” - </p> - <p> - “How good!” said Ramona. “How good!” - </p> - <p> - Then she stood still; she wanted to speak again to Alessandro, to hear him - speak again, but she could think of no more to say. Because she could not, - she gave a little sigh. - </p> - <p> - Alessandro took one swift step towards the window. “May the saints bless - you, Senorita,” he whispered fervently. - </p> - <p> - “Thank you, Alessandro,” murmured Ramona, and glided back to her bed, but - not to sleep. It lacked not much of dawn; as the first faint light - filtered through the darkness, Ramona heard the Senora's window open. - </p> - <p> - “Surely she will not strike up the hymn and wake Felipe,” thought Ramona; - and she sprang again to the window to listen. A few low words between the - Senora and Alessandro, and then the Senora's window closed again, and all - was still. - </p> - <p> - “I thought she would not have the heart to wake him,” said Ramona to - herself. “The Virgin would have had no pleasure in our song, I am sure; - but I will say a prayer to her instead;” and she sank on her knees at the - head of her bed, and began saying a whispered prayer. The footfall of a - spider in Ramona's room had not been light enough to escape the ear of - that watching lover outside. Again Alessandro's tall figure arose from the - floor, turning towards Ramona's window; and now the darkness was so far - softened to dusk, that the outline of his form could be seen. Ramona felt - it rather than saw it, and stopped praying. Alessandro was sure he had - heard her voice. - </p> - <p> - “Did the Senorita speak?” he whispered, his face close at the curtain. - Ramona, startled, dropped her rosary, which rattled as it fell on the - wooden floor. - </p> - <p> - “No, no, Alessandro,” she said, “I did not speak.” And she trembled, she - knew not why. The sound of the beads on the floor explained to Alessandro - what had been the whispered words he heard. - </p> - <p> - “She was at her prayers,” he thought, ashamed and sorry. “Forgive me,” he - whispered, “I thought you called;” and he stepped back to the outer edge - of the veranda, and seated himself on the railing. He would lie down no - more. Ramona remained on her knees, gazing at the window. Through the - transparent muslin curtain the dawning light came slowly, steadily, till - at last she could see Alessandro distinctly. Forgetful of all else, she - knelt gazing at him. The rosary lay on the floor, forgotten. Ramona would - not finish that prayer, that day. But her heart was full of thanksgiving - and gratitude, and the Madonna had a better prayer than any in the book. - </p> - <p> - The sun was up, and the canaries, finches, and linnets had made the - veranda ring with joyous racket, before Felipe opened his eyes. The Senora - had come and gone and come again, looking at him anxiously, but he stirred - not. Ramona had stolen timidly out, glancing at Alessandro only long - enough to give him one quick smile, and bent over Felipe's bed, holding - her breath, he lay so still. - </p> - <p> - “Ought he to sleep so long?” she whispered. - </p> - <p> - “Till the noon, it may be,” answered Alessandro; “and when he wakes, you - will see by his eye that he is another man.” - </p> - <p> - It was indeed so. When Felipe first looked about him, he laughed outright - with pure pleasure. Then catching sight of Alessandro at the steps, he - called, in a stronger voice than had yet been heard from him, “Alessandro, - you are a famous physician. Why couldn't that fool from Ventura have known - as much? With all his learning, he had had me in the next world before - many days, except for you. Now, Alessandro, breakfast! I'm hungry. I had - forgotten what the thought of food was like to a hungry stomach. And - plenty! plenty!” he called, as Alessandro ran toward the kitchen. “Bring - all they have.” - </p> - <p> - When the Senora saw Felipe bolstered up in the bed, his eye bright, his - color good, his voice clear, eating heartily like his old self, she stood - like a statue in the middle of the veranda for a moment; then turning to - Alessandro, she said chokingly, “May Heaven reward you!” and disappeared - abruptly in her own room. When she came out, her eyes were red. All day - she moved and spoke with a softness unwonted, indeed inconceivable. She - even spoke kindly and without constraint to Ramona. She felt like one - brought back from the dead. - </p> - <p> - After this, a new sort of life began for them all. Felipe's bed on the - veranda was the rallying point for everything and everybody.. The servants - came to look up at him, and wish him well, from the garden-walk below. - Juan Can, when he first hobbled out on the stout crutches Alessandro had - made him of manzanita wood, dragged himself all the way round the house, - to have a look at Senor Felipe and a word with him. The Senora sat there, - in the big carved chair, looking like a sibyl with her black silk banded - head-dress severely straight across her brow, and her large dark eyes - gazing out, past Felipe, into the far south sky. Ramona lived there too, - with her embroidery or her book, sitting on cushions on the floor in a - corner, or at the foot of Felipe's bed, always so placed, however,—if - anybody had noticed, but nobody did,—so placed that she could look - at Felipe without looking full at the Senora's chair, even if the Senora - were not in it. - </p> - <p> - Here also came Alessandro many times a day,—sometimes sent for, - sometimes of his own accord. He was freely welcome. When he played or sang - he sat on the upper step of the stairs leading down to the garden. He also - had a secret, which he thought all his own, in regard to the positions he - chose. He sat always, when Ramona was there, in the spot which best - commanded a view of her face. The secret was not all his own. Felipe knew - it. Nothing was escaping Felipe in these days. A bomb-shell exploding at - their feet would not have more astonished the different members of this - circle, the Senora, Ramona, Alessandro, than it would to have been made - suddenly aware of the thoughts which were going on in Felipe's mind now, - from day to day, as he lay there placidly looking at them all. - </p> - <p> - It is probable that if Felipe had been in full health and strength when - the revelation suddenly came to him that Alessandro loved Ramona, and that - Ramona might love Alessandro, he would have been instantly filled with - jealous antagonism. But at the time when this revelation came, he was - prostrate, feeble, thinking many times a day that he must soon die; it did - not seem to Felipe that a man could be so weak as he was, and ever again - be strong and well. Side by side with these forebodings of his own death, - always came the thought of Ramona. What would become of her, if he were - gone? Only too well he knew that the girl's heart would be broken; that - she could not live on alone with his mother. Felipe adored his mother; but - he understood her feeling about Ramona. - </p> - <p> - With his feebleness had also come to Felipe, as is often the case in long - illnesses, a greater clearness of perception. Ramona had ceased to puzzle - him. He no longer asked himself what her long, steady look into his eyes - meant. He knew. He saw it mean that as a sister she loved him, had always - loved him, and could love him in no other way. He wondered a little at - himself that this gave him no more pain; only a sort of sweet, mournful - tenderness towards her. It must be because he was so soon going out of the - world, he thought. Presently he began to be aware that a new quality was - coming into his love for her. He himself was returning to the brother love - which he had had for her when they were children together, and in which he - had felt no change until he became a man and Ramona a woman. It was - strange what a peace fell upon Felipe when this was finally clear and - settled in his mind. No doubt he had had more misgiving and fear about his - mother in the matter than he had ever admitted to himself; perhaps also - the consciousness of Ramona's unfortunate birth had rankled at times; but - all this was past now. Ramona was his sister. He was her brother. What - course should he pursue in the crisis which he saw drawing near? How could - he best help Ramona? What would be best for both her and Alessandro? Long - before the thought of any possible union between himself and Ramona had - entered into Alessandro's mind, still longer before it had entered into - Ramona's to think of Alessandro as a husband, Felipe had spent hours in - forecasting, plotting, and planning for them. For the first time in his - life he felt himself in the dark as to his mother's probable action. That - any concern as to Ramona's personal happiness or welfare would influence - her, he knew better than to think for a moment. So far as that was - concerned, Ramona might wander out the next hour, wife of a homeless - beggar, and his mother would feel no regret. But Ramona had been the - adopted daughter of the Senora Ortegna, bore the Ortegna name, and had - lived as foster-child in the house of the Morenos. Would the Senora permit - such a one to marry an Indian? - </p> - <p> - Felipe doubted. The longer he thought, the more he doubted. The more he - watched, the more he saw that the question might soon have to be decided. - Any hour might precipitate it. He made plan after plan for forestalling - trouble, for preparing his mother; but Felipe was by nature indolent, and - now he was, in addition, feeble. Day after day slipped by. It was - exceedingly pleasant on the veranda. Ramona was usually with him; his - mother was gentler, less sad, than he had ever seen her. Alessandro was - always at hand, ready for any service,—in the field, in the house,—his - music a delight, his strength and fidelity a repose, his personal presence - always agreeable. “If only my mother could think it,” reflected Felipe, - “it would be the best thing, all round, to have Alessandro stay here as - overseer of the place, and then they might be married. Perhaps before the - summer is over she will come to see it so.” - </p> - <p> - And the delicious, languid, semi-tropic summer came hovering over the - valley. The apricots turned golden, the peaches glowed, the grapes filled - and hardened, like opaque emeralds hung thick under the canopied vines. - The garden was a shade brown, and the roses had all fallen; but there were - lilies, and orange-blossoms, and poppies, and carnations, and geraniums in - the pots, and musk,—oh, yes, ever and always musk. It was like an - enchanter's spell, the knack the Senora had of forever keeping relays of - musk to bloom all the year; and it was still more like an enchanter's - spell, that Felipe would never confess that he hated it.' But the bees - liked it, and the humming-birds,—the butterflies also; and the air - was full of them. The veranda was a quieter place now as the season's noon - grew near. The linnets were all nesting, and the finches and the canaries - too; and the Senora spent hours, every day, tirelessly feeding the - mothers. The vines had all grown and spread out to their thickest; no need - any longer of the gay blanket Alessandro had pinned up that first morning - to keep the sun off Felipe's head. - </p> - <p> - What was the odds between a to-day and a to-morrow in such a spot as this? - “To-morrow,” said Felipe, “I will speak to my mother,” and “to-morrow,” - and “to-morrow;” but he did not. - </p> - <p> - There was one close observer of these pleasant veranda days that Felipe - knew nothing about. That was Margarita. As the girl came and went about - her household tasks, she was always on the watch for Alessandro, on the - watch for Ramona. She was biding her time. Just what shape her revenge was - going to take, she did not know. It was no use plotting. It must be as it - fell out; but that the hour and the way for her revenge would come she - never doubted. - </p> - <p> - When she saw the group on the veranda, as she often did, all listening to - Alessandro's violin, or to his singing, Alessandro himself now at his ease - and free in the circle, as if he had been there always, her anger was - almost beyond bounds. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, ho! like a member of the family; quite so!” she sneered. “It is new - times when a head shepherd spends his time with the ladies of the house, - and sits in their presence like a guest who is invited! We shall see; we - shall see what comes of all this!” And she knew not which she hated the - more of the two, Alessandro or Ramona. - </p> - <p> - Since the day of the scene at the artichoke-field she had never spoken to - Alessandro, and had avoided, so far as was possible, seeing him. At first - Alessandro was sorry for this, and tried to be friendly with her. As soon - as he felt assured that the incident had not hurt him at all in the esteem - of Ramona, he began to be sorry for Margarita. “A man should not be rude - to any maiden,” he thought; and he hated to remember how he had pushed - Margarita from him, and snatched his hand away, when he had in the outset - made no objection to her taking it. But Margarita's resentment was not to - be appeased. She understood only too clearly how little Alessandro's - gentle advances meant, and she would none of them. “Let him go to his - Senorita,” she said bitterly, mocking the reverential tone in which she - had overheard him pronounce the word. “She is fond enough of him, if only - the fool had eyes to see it. She'll be ready to throw herself at his head - before long, if this kind of thing keeps up. 'It is not well to speak thus - freely of young men, Margarita!' Ha, ha! Little I thought that day which - way the wind set in my mistress's temper! I'll wager she reproves me no - more, under this roof or any other! Curse her! What did she want of - Alessandro, except to turn his head, and then bid him go his way!” - </p> - <p> - To do Margarita justice, she never once dreamed of the possibility of - Ramona's wedding Alessandro. A clandestine affair, an intrigue of more or - less intensity, such as she herself might have carried on with any one of - the shepherds,—this was the utmost stretch of Margarita's angry - imaginations in regard to her young mistress's liking for Alessandro. - There was not, in her way of looking at things, any impossibility of such - a thing as that. But marriage! It might be questioned whether that idea - would have been any more startling to the Senora herself than to - Margarita. - </p> - <p> - Little had passed between Alessandro and Ramona which Margarita did not - know. The girl was always like a sprite,—here, there, everywhere, in - an hour, and with eyes which, as her mother often told her, saw on all - sides of her head. Now, fired by her new purpose, new passion, she moved - swifter than ever, and saw and heard even more, There were few hours of - any day when she did not know to a certainty where both Alessandro and - Ramona were; and there had been few meetings between them which she had - not either seen or surmised. - </p> - <p> - In the simple life of such a household as the Senora's, it was not strange - that this was possible; nevertheless, it argued and involved untiring - vigilance on Margarita's part. Even Felipe, who thought himself, from his - vantage-post of observation on the veranda, and from his familiar relation - with Ramona, well informed of most that happened, would have been - astonished to hear all that Margarita could have told him. In the first - days Ramona herself had guilelessly told him much,—had told him how - Alessandro, seeing her trying to sprinkle and bathe and keep alive the - green ferns with which she had decorated the chapel for Father - Salvierderra's coming, had said: “Oh, Senorita, they are dead! Do not take - trouble with them! I will bring you fresh ones;” and the next morning she - had found, lying at the chapel door, a pile of such ferns as she had never - before seen; tall ones, like ostrich-plumes, six and eight feet high; the - feathery maidenhair, and the gold fern, and the silver, twice as large as - she ever had found them. The chapel was beautiful, like a conservatory, - after she had arranged them in vases and around the high candlesticks. - </p> - <p> - It was Alessandro, too, who had picked up in the artichoke-patch all of - the last year's seed-vessels which had not been trampled down by the - cattle, and bringing one to her, had asked shyly if she did not think it - prettier than flowers made out of paper. His people, he said, made wreaths - of them. And so they were, more beautiful than any paper flowers which - ever were made,—great soft round disks of fine straight threads like - silk, with a kind of saint's halo around them of sharp, stiff points, - glossy as satin, and of a lovely creamy color. It was the strangest thing - in the world nobody had ever noticed them as they lay there on the ground. - She had put a great wreath of them around Saint Joseph's head, and a bunch - in the Madonna's hand; and when the Senora saw them, she exclaimed in - admiration, and thought they must have been made of silk and satin. - </p> - <p> - And Alessandro had brought her beautiful baskets, made by the Indian women - at Pala, and one which had come from the North, from the Tulare country; - it had gay feathers woven in with the reeds,—red and yellow, in - alternate rows, round and round. It was like a basket made out of a - bright-colored bird. - </p> - <p> - And a beautiful stone bowl Alessandro had brought her, glossy black, that - came all the way from Catalina Island; a friend of Alessandro's got it. - For the first few weeks it had seemed as if hardly a day passed that there - was not some new token to be chronicled of Alessandro's thoughtfulness and - good-will. Often, too, Ramona had much to tell that Alessandro had said,—tales - of the old Mission days that he had heard from his father; stories of - saints, and of the early Fathers, who were more like saints than like men, - Alessandro said,—Father Junipero, who founded the first Missions, - and Father Crespi, his friend. Alessandro's grandfather had journeyed with - Father Crespi as his servant, and many a miracle he had with his own eyes - seen Father Crespi perform. There was a cup out of which the Father always - took his chocolate for breakfast,—a beautiful cup, which was carried - in a box, the only luxury the Father had; and one morning it was broken, - and everybody was in terror and despair. “Never mind, never mind,” said - the Father; “I will make it whole;” and taking the two pieces in his - hands, he held them tight together, and prayed over them, and they became - one solid piece again, and it was used all through the journey, just as - before. - </p> - <p> - But now, Ramona never spoke voluntarily of Alessandro. To Felipe's - sometimes artfully put questions or allusions to him, she made brief - replies, and never continued the topic; and Felipe had observed another - thing: she now rarely looked at Alessandro. When he was speaking to others - she kept her eyes on the ground. If he addressed her, she looked quickly - up at him, but lowered her eyes after the first glance. Alessandro also - observed this, and was glad of it. He understood it. He knew how - differently she could look in his face in the rare moments when they were - alone together. He fondly thought he alone knew this; but he was mistaken. - Margarita knew. She had more than once seen it. - </p> - <p> - It had happened more than once that he had found Ramona at the willows by - the brook, and had talked with her there. The first time it happened, it - was a chance; after that never a chance again, for Alessandro went often - seeking the spot, hoping to find her. In Ramona's mind too, not avowed, - but half consciously, there was, if not the hope of seeing him there, at - least the memory that it was there they had met. It was a pleasant spot,—cool - and shady even at noon, and the running water always full of music. Ramona - often knelt there of a morning, washing out a bit of lace or a - handkerchief; and when Alessandro saw her, it went hard with him to stay - away. At such moments the vision returned to him vividly of that first - night when, for the first second, seeing her face in the sunset glow, he - had thought her scarce mortal. It was not that he even now thought her - less a saint; but ah, how well he knew her to be human! He had gone alone - in the dark to this spot many a time, and, lying on the grass, put his - hands into the running water, and played with it dreamily, thinking, in - his poetic Indian fashion, thoughts like these: “Whither have gone the - drops that passed beneath her hands, just here? These drops will never - find those in the sea; but I love this water!” - </p> - <p> - Margarita had seen him thus lying, and without dreaming of the refined - sentiment which prompted his action, had yet groped blindly towards it, - thinking to herself: “He hopes his Senorita will come down to him there. A - nice place it is for a lady to meet her lover, at the washing-stones! It - will take swifter water than any in that brook, Senorita Ramona, to wash - you white in the Senora's eyes, if ever she come upon you there with the - head shepherd, making free with him, may be! Oh, but if that could only - happen, I'd die content!” And the more Margarita watched, the more she - thought it not unlikely that it might turn out so. It was oftener at the - willows than anywhere else that Ramona and Alessandro met; and, as - Margarita noticed with malicious satisfaction, they talked each time - longer, each time parted more lingeringly. Several times it had happened - to be near supper-time; and Margarita, with one eye on the garden-walk, - had hovered restlessly near the Senora, hoping to be ordered to call the - Senorita to supper. - </p> - <p> - “If but I could come on them of a sudden, and say to her as she did to me, - 'You are wanted in the house'! Oh, but it would do my soul good! I'd say - it so it would sting like a lash laid on both their faces! It will come! - It will come! It will be there that she'll be caught one of these fine - times she's having! I'll wait! It will come!” - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - X - </h2> - <p> - IT came. And when it came, it fell out worse for Ramona than Margarita's - most malicious hopes had pictured; but Margarita had no hand in it. It was - the Senora herself. - </p> - <p> - Since Felipe had so far gained as to be able to be dressed, sit in his - chair on the veranda, and walk about the house and garden a little, the - Senora, at ease in her mind about him, had resumed her old habit of long, - lonely walks on the place. It had been well said by her servants, that - there was not a blade of grass on the estate that the Senora had not seen. - She knew every inch of her land. She had a special purpose in walking over - it now. She was carefully examining to see whether she could afford to - sell to the Ortegas a piece of pasture-land which they greatly desired to - buy, as it joined a pasturage tract of theirs. This bit of land lay - farther from the house than the Senora realized, and it had taken more - time than she thought it would, to go over it; and it was already sunset - on this eventful day, when, hurrying home, she turned off from the highway - into the same shortcut path in which Father Salvierderra had met Ramona in - the spring. There was no difficulty now in getting through the mustard - tangle. It was parched and dry, and had been trampled by cattle. The - Senora walked rapidly, but it was dusky twilight when she reached the - willows; so dusky that she saw nothing—and she stepped so lightly on - the smooth brown path that she made no sound—until suddenly, face to - face with a man and a woman standing locked in each other's arms, she - halted, stepped back a pace, gave a cry of surprise, and, in the same - second, recognized the faces of the two, who, stricken dumb, stood apart, - each gazing into her face with terror. - </p> - <p> - Strangely enough, it was Ramona who spoke first. Terror for herself had - stricken her dumb; terror for Alessandro gave her a voice. - </p> - <p> - “Senora,” she began. - </p> - <p> - “Silence! Shameful creature!” cried the Senora. “Do not dare to speak! Go - to your room!” - </p> - <p> - Ramona did not move. - </p> - <p> - “As for you,” the Senora continued, turning to Alessandro, “you,”—she - was about to say, “You are discharged from my service from this hour,” but - recollecting herself in time, said,—“you will answer to Senor - Felipe. Out of my sight!” And the Senora Moreno actually, for once in her - life beside herself with rage, stamped her foot on the ground. “Out of my - sight!” she repeated. - </p> - <p> - Alessandro did not stir, except to turn towards Ramona with an inquiring - look. He would run no risk of doing what she did not wish. He had no idea - what she would think it best to do in this terrible dilemma. - </p> - <p> - “Go, Alessandro,” said Ramona, calmly, still looking the Senora full in - the eye. Alessandro obeyed; before the words had left her lips, he had - walked away. - </p> - <p> - Ramona's composure, and Alessandro's waiting for further orders than her - own before stirring from the spot, were too much for Senora Moreno. A - wrath, such as she had not felt since she was young, took possession of - her. As Ramona opened her lips again, saying, “Senora,” the Senora did a - shameful deed; she struck the girl on the mouth, a cruel blow. - </p> - <p> - “Speak not to me!” she cried again; and seizing her by the arm, she pushed - rather than dragged her up the garden-walk. - </p> - <p> - “Senora, you hurt my arm,” said Ramona, still in the same calm voice. “You - need not hold me. I will go with you. I am not afraid.” - </p> - <p> - Was this Ramona? The Senora, already ashamed, let go the arm, and stared - in the girl's face. Even in the twilight she could see upon it an - expression of transcendent peace, and a resolve of which no one would have - thought it capable. “What does this mean?” thought the Senora, still weak, - and trembling all over, from rage. “The hussy, the hypocrite!” and she - seized the arm again. - </p> - <p> - This time Ramona did not remonstrate, but submitted to being led like a - prisoner, pushed into her own room, the door slammed violently and locked - on the outside. - </p> - <p> - All of which Margarita saw. She had known for an hour that Ramona and - Alessandro were at the willows, and she had been consumed with impatience - at the Senora's prolonged absence. More than once she had gone to Felipe, - and asked with assumed interest if he were not hungry, and if he and the - Senorita would not have their supper. - </p> - <p> - “No, no, not till the Senora returns,” Felipe had answered. He, too, - happened this time to know where Ramona and Alessandro were. He knew also - where the Senora had gone, and that she would be late home; but he did not - know that there would be any chance of her returning by way of the willows - at the brook; if he had known it, he would have contrived to summon - Ramona. - </p> - <p> - When Margarita saw Ramona shoved into her room by the pale and trembling - Senora, saw the key turned, taken out, and dropped into the Senora's - pocket, she threw her apron over her head, and ran into the back porch. - Almost a remorse seized her. She remembered in a flash how often Ramona - had helped her in times gone by,—sheltered her from the Senora's - displeasure. She recollected the torn altar-cloth. “Holy Virgin! what will - be done to her now?” she exclaimed, under her breath. Margarita had never - conceived of such an extremity as this. Disgrace, and a sharp reprimand, - and a sundering of all relations with Alessandro,—this was all - Margarita had meant to draw down on Ramona's head. But the Senora looked - as if she might kill her. - </p> - <p> - “She always did hate her, in her heart,” reflected Margarita; “she shan't - starve her to death, anyhow. I'll never stand by and see that. But it must - have been something shameful the Senora saw, to have brought her to such a - pass as this;” and Margarita's jealousy again got the better of her - sympathy. “Good enough for her. No more than she deserved. An honest - fellow like Alessandro, that would make a good husband for any girl!” - Margarita's short-lived remorse was over. She was an enemy again. - </p> - <p> - It was an odd thing, how identical were Margarita's and the Senora's view - and interpretation of the situation. The Senora looking at it from above, - and Margarita looking at it from below, each was sure, and they were both - equally sure, that it could be nothing more nor less than a disgraceful - intrigue. Mistress and maid were alike incapable either of conjecturing or - of believing the truth. - </p> - <p> - As ill luck would have it,—or was it good luck?—Felipe also - had witnessed the scene in the garden-walk. Hearing voices, he had looked - out of his window, and, almost doubting the evidence of his senses, had - seen his mother violently dragging Ramona by the arm,—Ramona pale, - but strangely placid; his mother with rage and fury in her white face. The - sight told its own tale to Felipe. Smiting his forehead with his hand, he - groaned out: “Fool that I was, to let her be surprised; she has come on - them unawares; now she will never, never forgive it!” And Felipe threw - himself on his bed, to think what should be done. Presently he heard his - mother's voice, still agitated, calling his name. He remained silent, sure - she would soon seek him in his room. When she entered, and, seeing him on - the bed, came swiftly towards him, saying, “Felipe, dear, are you ill?” he - replied in a feeble voice, “No, mother, only tired a little to-night;” and - as she bent over him, anxious, alarmed, he threw his arms around her neck - and kissed her warmly. “Mother mia!” he said passionately, “what should I - do without you?” The caress, the loving words, acted like oil on the - troubled waters. They restored the Senora as nothing else could. What - mattered anything, so long as she had her adoring and adorable son! And - she would not speak to him, now that he was so tired, of this disgraceful - and vexing matter of Alessandro. It could wait till morning. She would - send him his supper in his room, and he would not miss Ramona, perhaps. - </p> - <p> - “I will send your supper here, Felipe,” she said; “you must not overdo; - you have been walking too much. Lie still.” And kissing him - affectionately, she went to the dining-room, where Margarita, vainly - trying to look as if nothing had happened, was standing, ready to serve - supper. When the Senora entered, with her countenance composed, and in her - ordinary tones said, “Margarita, you can take Senor Felipe's supper into - his room; he is lying down, and will not get up; he is tired,” Margarita - was ready to doubt if she had not been in a nightmare dream. Had she, or - had she not, within the last half-hour, seen the Senora, shaking and - speechless with rage, push the Senorita Ramona into her room, and lock her - up there? She was so bewildered that she stood still and gazed at the - Senora, with her mouth wide open. - </p> - <p> - “What are you staring at, girl?” asked the Senora, so sharply that - Margarita jumped. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, nothing, nothing, Senora! And the Senorita, will she come to supper? - Shall I call her?” she said. - </p> - <p> - The Senora eyed her. Had she seen? Could she have seen? The Senora Moreno - was herself again. So long as Ramona was under her roof, no matter what - she herself might do or say to the girl, no servant should treat her with - disrespect, or know that aught was wrong. - </p> - <p> - “The Senorita is not well,” she said coldly. “She is in her room. I myself - will take her some supper later, if she wishes it. Do not disturb her.” - And the Senora returned to Felipe. - </p> - <p> - Margarita chuckled inwardly, and proceeded to clear the table she had - spread with such malicious punctuality two short hours before. In those - two short hours how much had happened! - </p> - <p> - “Small appetite for supper will our Senorita have, I reckon,” said the - bitter Margarita, “and the Senor Alessandro also! I'm curious to see how - he will carry himself.” - </p> - <p> - But her curiosity was not gratified. Alessandro came not to the kitchen. - The last of the herdsmen had eaten and gone; it was past nine o'clock, and - no Alessandro. Slyly Margarita ran out and searched in some of the places - where she knew he was in the habit of going; but Alessandro was not to be - found. Once she brushed so near his hiding-place that he thought he was - discovered, and was on the point of speaking, but luckily held his peace, - and she passed on. Alessandro was hid behind the geranium clump at the - chapel door; sitting on the ground, with his knees drawn up to his chin, - watching Ramona's window. He intended to stay there all night. He felt - that he might be needed: if Ramona wanted him, she would either open her - window and call, or would come out and go down through the garden-walk to - the willows. In either case, he would see her from the hiding-place he had - chosen. He was racked by his emotions; mad with joy one minute, sick at - heart with misgiving the next. Ramona loved him. She had told him so. She - had said she would go away with him and be his wife. The words had but - just passed her lips, at that dreadful moment when the Senora appeared in - their presence. As he lived the scene over again, he re-experienced the - joy and the terror equally. - </p> - <p> - What was not that terrible Senora capable of doing? Why did she look at - him and at Ramona with such loathing scorn? Since she knew that the - Senorita was half Indian, why should she think it so dreadful a thing for - her to marry an Indian man? It did not once enter into Alessandro's mind, - that the Senora could have had any other thought, seeing them as she did, - in each other's arms. And again what had he to give to Ramona? Could she - live in a house such as he must live in,—live as the Temecula women - lived? No! for her sake he must leave his people; must go to some town, - must do—he knew not what—something to earn more money. Anguish - seized him as he pictured to himself Ramona suffering deprivations. The - more he thought of the future in this light, the more his joy faded and - his fear grew. He had never had sufficient hope that she could be his, to - look forward thus to the practical details of life; he had only gone on - loving, and in a vague way dreaming and hoping; and now,—now, in a - moment, all had been changed; in a moment he had spoken, and she had - spoken, and such words once spoken, there was no going back; and he had - put his arms around her, and felt her head on his shoulder, and kissed - her! Yes, he, Alessandro, had kissed the Senorita Ramona, and she had been - glad of it, and had kissed him on the lips, as no maiden kisses a man - unless she will wed with him,—him, Alessandro! Oh, no wonder the - man's brain whirled, as he sat there in the silent darkness, wondering, - afraid, helpless; his love wrenched from him, in the very instant of their - first kiss,—wrenched from him, and he himself ordered, by one who - had the right to order him, to begone! What could an Indian do against a - Moreno! - </p> - <p> - Would Felipe help him? Ay, there was Felipe! That Felipe was his friend, - Alessandro knew with a knowledge as sure as the wild partridge's instinct - for the shelter of her brood; but could Felipe move the Senora? Oh, that - terrible Senora! What would become of them? - </p> - <p> - As in the instant of drowning, men are said to review in a second the - whole course of their lives, so in this supreme moment of Alessandro's - love there flashed through his mind vivid pictures of every word and act - of Ramona's since he first knew her. He recollected the tone in which she - had said, and the surprise with which he heard her say it, at the time of - Felipe's fall, “You are Alessandro, are you not?” He heard again her - soft-whispered prayers the first night Felipe slept on the veranda. He - recalled her tender distress because the shearers had had no dinner; the - evident terribleness to her of a person going one whole day without food. - “O God! will she always have food each day if she comes with me?” he said. - And at the bare thought he was ready to flee away from her forever. Then - he recalled her look and her words only a few hours ago, when he first - told her he loved her; and his heart took courage. She had said, “I know - you love me, Alessandro, and I am glad of it,” and had lifted her eyes to - his, with all the love that a woman's eyes can carry; and when he threw - his arms around her, she had of her own accord come closer, and laid one - hand on his shoulder, and turned her face to his. Ah, what else mattered! - There was the whole world; if she loved him like this, nothing could make - them wretched; his love would be enough for her,—and for him hers - was an empire. - </p> - <p> - It was indeed true, though neither the Senora nor Margarita would have - believed it, that this had been the first word of love ever spoken between - Alessandro and Ramona, the first caress ever given, the first moment of - unreserve. It had come about, as lovers' first words, first caresses, are - so apt to do, unexpectedly, with no more premonition, at the instant, than - there is of the instant of the opening of a flower. Alessandro had been - speaking to Ramona of the conversation Felipe had held with him in regard - to remaining on the place, and asked her if she knew of the plan. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” she said; “I heard the Senora talking about it with Felipe, some - days ago.” - </p> - <p> - “Was she against my staying?” asked Alessandro, quickly. - </p> - <p> - “I think not,” said Ramona, “but I am not sure. It is not easy to be sure - what the Senora wishes, till afterward. It was Felipe that proposed it.” - </p> - <p> - This somewhat enigmatical statement as to the difficulty of knowing the - Senora's wishes was like Greek to Alessandro's mind. - </p> - <p> - “I do not understand, Senorita,” he said. “What do you mean by - 'afterward'?” - </p> - <p> - “I mean,” replied Ramona, “that the Senora never says she wishes anything; - she says she leaves everything to Felipe to decide, or to Father - Salvierderra. But I think it is always decided as she wishes to have it, - after all. The Senora is wonderful, Alessandro; don't you think so?” - </p> - <p> - “She loves Senor Felipe very much,” was Alessandro's evasive reply. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes,” exclaimed Ramona. “You do not begin to know how much. She does - not love any other human being. He takes it all. She hasn't any left. If - he had died, she would have died too. That is the reason she likes you so - much; she thinks you saved Felipe's life. I mean, that is one reason,” - added Ramona, smiling, and looking up confidingly at Alessandro, who - smiled back, not in vanity, but honest gratitude that the Senorita was - pleased to intimate that he was not unworthy of the Senora's regard. - </p> - <p> - “I do not think she likes me,” he said. “I cannot tell why; but I do not - think she likes any one in the world. She is not like any one I ever saw, - Senorita.” - </p> - <p> - “No,” replied Ramona, thoughtfully. “She is not. I am, oh, so afraid of - her, Alessandro! I have always been, ever since I was a little girl. I - used to think she hated me; but now I think she does not care one way or - the other, if I keep out of her way.” - </p> - <p> - While Ramona spoke these words, her eyes were fixed on the running water - at her feet. If she had looked up, and seen the expression in Alessandro's - eyes as he listened, the thing which was drawing near would have drawn - near faster, would have arrived at that moment; but she did not look up. - She went on, little dreaming how hard she was making it for Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - “Many's the time I've come down here, at night, to this brook, and looked - at it, and wished it was a big river, so I could throw myself in, and be - carried away out to the sea, dead. But it is a fearful sin, Father - Salvierderra says, to take one's own life; and always the next morning, - when the sun came out, and the birds sang, I've been glad enough I had not - done it. Were you ever so unhappy as that, Alessandro?” - </p> - <p> - “No, Senorita, never,” replied Alessandro; “and it is thought a great - disgrace, among us, to kill one's self. I think I could never do it. But, - oh, Senorita, it is a grief to think of your being unhappy. Will you - always be so? Must you always stay here?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, but I am not always unhappy!” said Ramona, with her sunny little - laugh. “Indeed, I am generally very happy. Father Salvierderra says that - if one does no sin, one will be always happy, and that it is a sin not to - rejoice every hour of the day in the sun and the sky and the work there is - to do; and there is always plenty of that.” Then, her face clouding, she - continued: “I suppose I shall always stay here. I have no other home; you - know I was the Senora's sister's adopted child. She died when I was - little, and the Senora kindly took me. Father Salvierderra says I must - never forget to be grateful to her for all she has done for me, and I try - not to.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro eyed her closely. The whole story, as Juan Can had told it to - him, of the girl's birth, was burning in his thoughts. How he longed to - cry out, “O my loved one, they have made you homeless in your home. They - despise you. The blood of my race is in your veins; come to me; come to - me! be surrounded with love!” But he dared not. How could he dare? - </p> - <p> - Some strange spell seemed to have unloosed Ramona's tongue to-night. She - had never before spoken to Alessandro of her own personal history or - burdens; but she went on: “The worst thing is, Alessandro, that she will - not tell me who my mother was; and I do not know if she is alive or not, - or anything about her. Once I asked the Senora, but she forbade me ever to - ask her again. She said she herself would tell me when it was proper for - me to know. But she never has.” - </p> - <p> - How the secret trembled on Alessandro's lips now. Ramona had never seemed - so near, so intimate, so trusting. What would happen if he were to tell - her the truth? Would the sudden knowledge draw her closer to him, or repel - her? - </p> - <p> - “Have you never asked her again?” he said. - </p> - <p> - Ramona looked up astonished. “No one ever disobeyed the Senora,” she said - quickly. - </p> - <p> - “I would!” exclaimed Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - “You may think so,” said Ramona, “but you couldn't. When you tried, you - would find you couldn't. I did ask Father Salvierderra once.” - </p> - <p> - “What did he say?” asked Alessandro, breathless. - </p> - <p> - “The same thing. He said I must not ask; I was not old enough. When the - time came, I would be told,” answered Ramona, sadly. “I don't see what - they can mean by the time's coming. What do you suppose they meant?” - </p> - <p> - “I do not know the ways of any people but my own, Senorita,” replied - Alessandro. “Many things that your people do, and still more that these - Americans do, are to me so strange, I know nothing what they mean. Perhaps - they do not know who was your mother?” - </p> - <p> - “I am sure they do,” answered Ramona, in a low tone, as if the words were - wrung from her. “But let us talk about something else, Alessandro; not - about sad things, about pleasant things. Let us talk about your staying - here.” - </p> - <p> - “Would it be truly a pleasure to the Senorita Ramona, if I stayed?” said - Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - “You know it would,” answered Ramona, frankly, yet with a tremor in her - voice, which Alessandro felt. “I do not see what we could any of us do - without you. Felipe says he shall not let you go.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro's face glowed. “It must be as my father says, Senorita,” he - said. “A messenger came from him yesterday, and I sent him back with a - letter telling him what the Senor Felipe had proposed to me, and asking - him what I should do. My father is very old, Senorita, and I do not see - how he can well spare me. I am his only child, and my mother died years - ago. We live alone together in our house, and when I am away he is very - lonely. But he would like to have me earn the wages, I know, and I hope he - will think it best for me to stay. There are many things we want to do for - the village; most of our people are poor, and can do little more than get - what they need to eat day by day, and my father wishes to see them better - off before he dies. Now that the Americans are coming in all around us, he - is afraid and anxious all the time. He wants to get a big fence built - around our land, so as to show where it is; but the people cannot take - much time to work on the fence; they need all their time to work for - themselves and their families. Indians have a hard time to live now, - Senorita. Were you ever in Temecula?” - </p> - <p> - “No,” said Ramona. “Is it a large town?” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro sighed. “Dear Senorita, it is not a town; it is only a little - village not more than twenty houses in all, and some of those are built - only of tule. There is a chapel, and a graveyard. We built an adobe wall - around the graveyard last year. That my father said we would do, before we - built the fence round the village.” - </p> - <p> - “How many people are there in the village?” asked Ramona. - </p> - <p> - “Nearly two hundred, when they are all there; but many of them are away - most of the time. They must go where they can get work; they are hired by - the farmers, or to do work on the great ditches, or to go as shepherds; - and some of them take their wives and children with them. I do not believe - the Senorita has ever seen any very poor people.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes, I have, Alessandro, at Santa Barbara. There were many poor - people there, and the Sisters used to give them food every week.” - </p> - <p> - “Indians?” said Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - Ramona colored. “Yes,” she said, “some of them were, but not like your - men, Alessandro. They were very different; miserable looking; they could - not read nor write, and they seemed to have no ambition.” - </p> - <p> - “That is the trouble,” said Alessandro, “with so many of them; it is with - my father's people, too. They say, 'What is the use?' My father gets in - despair with them, because they will not learn better. He gives them a - great deal, but they do not seem to be any better off for it. There is - only one other man in our village who can read and write, besides my - father and me, Senorita; and yet my father is all the time begging them to - come to his house and learn of him. But they say they have no time; and - indeed there is much truth in that, Senorita. You see everybody has - troubles, Senorita.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona had been listening with sorrowful face. All this was new to her. - Until to-night, neither she nor Alessandro had spoken of private and - personal matters. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, but these are real troubles,” she said. “I do not think mine were - real troubles at all. I wish I could do something for your people, - Alessandro. If the village were only near by, I could teach them, could I - not? I could teach them to read. The Sisters always said, that to teach - the ignorant and the poor was the noblest work one could do. I wish I - could teach your people. Have you any relatives there besides your father? - Is there any one in the village that you—love, Alessandro?” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro was too much absorbed in thoughts of his people, to observe the - hesitating emphasis with which Ramona asked this question. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Senorita, I love them all. They are like my brothers and sisters, - all of my father's people,” he said; “and I am unhappy about them all the - time.” - </p> - <p> - During the whole of this conversation Ramona had had an undercurrent of - thought going on, which was making her uneasy. The more Alessandro said - about his father and his people, the more she realized that he was held to - Temecula by bonds that would be hard to break, the more she feared his - father would not let him remain away from home for any length of time. At - the thought of his going away, her very heart sickened. Taking a sudden - step towards him, she said abruptly, “Alessandro, I am afraid your father - will not give his consent to your staying here.” - </p> - <p> - “So am I, Senorita,” he replied sadly. - </p> - <p> - “And you would not stay if he did not approve of it, of course,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “How could I, Senorita?” - </p> - <p> - “No,” she said, “it would not be right;” but as she said these words, the - tears filled her eyes. - </p> - <p> - Alessandro saw them. The world changed in that second. “Senorita! Senorita - Ramona!” he cried, “tears have come in your eyes! O Senorita, then you - will not be angry if I say that I love you!” and Alessandro trembled with - the terror and delight of having said the words. - </p> - <p> - Hardly did he trust his palpitating senses to be telling him true the - words that followed, quick, firm, though only in a whisper,—“I know - that you love me, Alessandro, and I am glad of it!” Yes, this was what the - Senorita Ramona was saying! And when he stammered, “But you, Senorita, you - do not—you could not—” “Yes, Alessandro, I do—I love - you!” in the same clear, firm whisper; and the next minute Alessandro's - arms were around Ramona, and he had kissed her, sobbing rather than - saying, “O Senorita, do you mean that you will go with me? that you are - mine? Oh, no, beloved Senorita, you cannot mean that!” But he was kissing - her. He knew she did mean it; and Ramona, whispering, “Yes, Alessandro, I - do mean it; I will go with you,” clung to him with her hands, and kissed - him, and repeated it, “I will go with you, I love you.” And then, just - then, came the Senora's step, and her sharp cry of amazement, and there - she stood, no more than an arm's-length away, looking at them with her - indignant, terrible eyes. - </p> - <p> - What an hour this for Alessandro to be living over and over, as he - crouched in the darkness, watching! But the bewilderment of his emotions - did not dull his senses. As if stalking deer in a forest, he listened for - sounds from the house. It seemed strangely still. As the darkness - deepened, it seemed still stranger that no lamps were lit. Darkness in the - Senora's room, in the Senorita's; a faint light in the dining-room, soon - put out,—evidently no supper going on there. Only from under - Felipe's door streamed a faint radiance; and creeping close to the - veranda, Alessandro heard voices fitfully talking,—the Senora's and - Felipe's; no word from Ramona. Piteously he fixed his eyes on her window; - it was open, but the curtains tight drawn; no stir, no sound. Where was - she? What had been done to his love? Only the tireless caution and - infinite patience of his Indian blood kept Alessandro from going to her - window. But he would imperil nothing by acting on his own responsibility. - He would wait, if it were till daylight, till his love made a sign. - Certainly before long Senor Felipe would come to his veranda bed, and then - he could venture to speak to him. But it was near midnight when the door - of Felipe's room opened, and he and his mother came out, still speaking in - low tones. Felipe lay down on his couch; his mother, bending over, kissed - him, bade him good-night, and went into her own room. - </p> - <p> - It had been some time now since Alessandro had left off sleeping on the - veranda floor by Felipe's side. Felipe was so well it was not needful. But - Felipe felt sure he would come to-night, and was not surprised when, a few - minutes after the Senora's door closed, he heard a low voice through the - vines, “Senor Felipe?” - </p> - <p> - “Hush, Alessandro,” whispered Felipe. “Do not make a sound. To-morrow - morning early I will see you, behind the little sheepfold. It is not safe - to talk here.” - </p> - <p> - “Where is the Senorita?” Alessandro breathed rather than said. - </p> - <p> - “In her room,” answered Felipe. - </p> - <p> - “Well?” said Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said Felipe, hoping he was not lying; and this was all Alessandro - had to comfort himself with, through his long night of watching. No, not - all; one other thing comforted him,—the notes of two wood-doves, - that at intervals he heard, cooing to each other; just the two notes, the - call and the answer, “Love?” “Here.” “Love?” “Here,”—and long - intervals of silence between. Plain as if written on a page was the thing - they told. - </p> - <p> - “That is what my Ramona is like,” thought he, “the gentle wood-dove. If - she is my wife my people will call her Majel, the Wood-Dove.” - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XI - </h2> - <p> - WHEN the Senora bade Felipe good-night, she did not go to bed. After - closing her door, she sat down to think what should be done about Ramona. - It had been a hard task she had set herself, talking all the evening with - Felipe without alluding to the topic uppermost in her mind. But Felipe was - still nervous and irritable. She would not spoil his night's rest, she - thought, by talking of disagreeable things. Moreover, she was not clear in - her own mind what she wished to have done about Alessandro. If Ramona were - to be sent away to the nuns, which was the only thing the Senora could - think of as yet, there would be no reason for discharging Alessandro. And - with him the Senora was by no means ready to part, though in her first - anger she had been ready to dismiss him on the spot. As she pursued her - reflections, the whole situation cleared itself in her mind; so easily do - affairs fall into line, in the plottings and plannings of an arbitrary - person, who makes in his formula no allowance for a human element which he - cannot control. - </p> - <p> - Ramona should be sent in disgrace to the Sisters' School, to be a servant - there for the rest of her life. The Senora would wash her hands of her - forever. Even Father Salvierderra himself could not expect her any longer - to keep such a shameless creature under her roof. Her sister's written - instructions had provided for the possibility of just such a contingency. - Going to a secret closet in the wall, behind a life-size statue of Saint - Catharine, the Senora took out an iron box, battered and rusty with age, - and set it on the bed. The key turned with difficulty in the lock. It was - many years since the Senora had opened this box. No one but herself knew - of its existence. There had been many times in the history of the Moreno - house when the price of the contents of that box would have averted loss - and misfortune; but the Senora no more thought of touching the treasure - than if it had been guarded by angels with fiery swords. There they lay, - brilliant and shining even in the dim light of the one candle,—rubies, - emeralds, pearls, and yellow diamonds. The Senora's lip curled as she - looked at them. “Fine dowry, truly, for a creature like this!” she said. - “Well I knew in the beginning no good would come of it; base begotten, - base born, she has but carried out the instincts of her nature. I suppose - I may be grateful that my own son was too pure to be her prey!” “To be - given to my adopted daughter, Ramona Ortegna, on her wedding day,”—so - the instructions ran,—“if she weds worthily and with your approval. - Should such a misfortune occur, which I do not anticipate, as that she - should prove unworthy, then these jewels, and all I have left to her of - value, shall be the property of the Church.” - </p> - <p> - “No mention as to what I am to do with the girl herself if she proves - unworthy,” thought the Senora, bitterly; “but the Church is the place for - her; no other keeping will save her from the lowest depths of disgrace. I - recollect my sister said that Angus had at first intended to give the - infant to the Church. Would to God he had done so, or left it with its - Indian mother!” and the Senora rose, and paced the floor. The paper of her - dead sister's handwriting fell at her feet. As she walked, her long skirt - swept it rustling to and fro. She stooped, picked it up, read it again, - with increasing bitterness. No softness at the memory of her sister's love - for the little child; no relenting. “Unworthy!” Yes, that was a mild word - to apply to Ramona, now. It was all settled; and when the girl was once - out of the house, the Senora would breathe easier. She and Felipe would - lead their lives together, and Felipe would wed some day. Was there a - woman fair enough, good enough, for Felipe to wed? But he must wed; and - the place would be gay with children's voices, and Ramona would be - forgotten. - </p> - <p> - The Senora did not know how late it was. “I will tell her to-night,” she - said. “I will lose no time; and now she shall hear who her mother was!” - </p> - <p> - It was a strange freak of just impulse in the Senora's angry soul, which - made her suddenly remember that Ramona had had no supper, and led her to - go to the kitchen, get a jug of milk and some bread, and take them to the - room. Turning the key cautiously, that Felipe might not hear, she opened - the door and glided in. No voice greeted her; she held her candle high up; - no Ramona in sight; the bed was empty. She glanced at the window. It was - open. A terror seized the Senora; fresh anger also. “She has run off with - Alessandro,” she thought, “What horrible disgrace.” Standing motionless, - she heard a faint, regular breathing from the other side of the bed. - Hastily crossing the room, she saw a sight which had melted a heart that - was only ice; but the Senora's was stone toward Ramona. There lay Ramona - on the floor, her head on a pillow at the feet of the big Madonna which - stood in the corner. Her left hand was under her cheek, her right arm - flung tight around the base of the statue. She was sound asleep. Her face - was wet with tears. Her whole attitude was full of significance. Even - helpless in sleep, she was one who had taken refuge in sanctuary. This - thought had been distinct in the girl's mind when she found herself, spite - of all her woe and terror, growing sleepy. “She won't dare to hurt me at - the Virgin's feet,” she had said; “and the window is open. Felipe would - hear if I called; and Alessandro will watch.” And with a prayer on her - lips she fell asleep. - </p> - <p> - It was Felipe's nearness more than the Madonna's, which saved her from - being roused to hear her doom. The Senora stood for some moments looking - at her, and at the open window. With a hot rush of disgraceful suspicions, - she noted what she had never before thought of, that Alessandro, through - all his watching with Felipe, had had close access to Ramona's window. - “Shameful creature!” she repeated to herself. “And she can sleep! It is - well she prayed, if the Virgin will hear such!” and she turned away, first - setting down the jug of milk and the bread on a table. Then, with a sudden - and still more curious mingling of justness in her wrath, she returned, - and lifting the coverlet from the bed, spread it over Ramona, covering her - carefully from head to foot. Then she went out and again locked the door. - </p> - <p> - Felipe, from his bed, heard and divined all, but made no sound. “Thank - God, the poor child is asleep!” he said; “and my poor dear mother feared - to awake me by speaking to her! What will become of us all to-morrow!” And - Felipe tossed and turned, and had barely fallen into an uneasy sleep, when - his mother's window opened, and she sang the first line of the sunrise - hymn. Instantly Ramona joined, evidently awake and ready; and no sooner - did the watching Alessandro hear the first note of her voice, than he - struck in; and Margarita, who had been up for an hour, prowling, - listening, peering, wondering, her soul racked between her jealousy and - her fears,—even Margarita delayed not to unite; and Felipe, too, - sang feebly; and the volume of the song went up as rounded and melodious - as if all hearts were at peace and in harmony, instead of being all full - of sorrow, confusion, or hatred. But there was no one of them all who was - not the better for the singing; Ramona and Alessandro most of all. - </p> - <p> - “The saints be praised,” said Alessandro. “There is my wood-dove's voice. - She can sing!” And, “Alessandro was near. He watched all night. I am glad - he loves me,” said Ramona. - </p> - <p> - “To hear those two voices.” said the Senora; “would one suppose they could - sing like that? Perhaps it is not so bad as I think.” - </p> - <p> - As soon as the song was done, Alessandro ran to the sheepfold, where - Felipe had said he would see him. The minutes would be like years to - Alessandro till he had seen Felipe. - </p> - <p> - Ramona, when she waked and found herself carefully covered, and bread and - milk standing on the table, felt much reassured. Only the Senora's own - hand had done this, she felt sure, for she had heard her the previous - evening turn the key in the lock, then violently take it out; and Ramona - knew well that the fact of her being thus a prisoner would be known to - none but the Senora herself. The Senora would not set servants to - gossiping. She ate her bread and milk thankfully, for she was very hungry. - Then she set her room in order, said her prayers, and sat down to wait. - For what? She could not imagine; in truth, she did not much try. Ramona - had passed now into a country where the Senora did not rule. She felt - little fear. Felipe would not see her harmed, and she was going away - presently with Alessandro. It was wonderful what peace and freedom lay in - the very thought. The radiance on her face of these two new-born emotions - was the first thing the Senora observed as she opened the door, and - slowly, very slowly, eyeing Ramona with a steady look, entered the room. - This joyous composure on Ramona's face angered the Senora, as it had done - before, when she was dragging her up the garden-walk. It seemed to her - like nothing less than brazen effrontery, and it changed the whole tone - and manner of her address. - </p> - <p> - Seating herself opposite Ramona, but at the farthest side of the room, she - said, in a tone scornful and insulting, “What have you to say for - yourself?” - </p> - <p> - Returning the Senora's gaze with one no less steady, Ramona spoke in the - same calm tone in which she had twice the evening before attempted to stay - the Senora's wrath. This time, she was not interrupted. - </p> - <p> - “Senora,” she said slowly, “I tried to tell you last night, but you would - not hear me. If you had listened, you would not have been so angry. - Neither Alessandro nor I have done anything wrong, and we were not - ashamed. We love each other, and we are going to be married, and go away. - I thank you, Senora, for all you have done for me; I am sure you will be a - great deal happier when I am away;” and Ramona looked wistfully, with no - shade of resentment, into the Senora's dark, shrunken face. “You have been - very good to do so much for a girl you did not love. Thank you for the - bread and milk last night. Perhaps I can go away with Alessandro to-day. I - do not know what he will wish. We had only just that minute spoken of - being married, when you found us last night.” - </p> - <p> - The Senora's face was a study during the few moments that it took to say - these words. She was dumb with amazement. Instantaneously, on the first - sense of relief that the disgrace had not been what she supposed, followed - a new wrath, if possible hotter than the first; not so much scorn, but a - bitterer anger. “Marry! Marry that Indian!” she cried, as soon as she - found voice. “You marry an Indian? Never! Are you mad? I will never permit - it.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona looked anxiously at her. “I have never disobeyed you, Senora,” she - said, “but this is different from all other things; you are not my mother. - I have promised to marry Alessandro.” - </p> - <p> - The girl's gentleness deceived the Senora. - </p> - <p> - “No,” she said icily, “I am not your mother; but I stand in a mother's - place to you. You were my sister's adopted child, and she gave you to me. - You cannot marry without my permission, and I forbid you ever to speak - again of marrying this Indian.” - </p> - <p> - The moment had come for the Senora Moreno to find out, to her surprise and - cost, of what stuff this girl was made,—this girl, who had for - fourteen years lived by her side, docile, gentle, sunny, and uncomplaining - in her loneliness. Springing to her feet, and walking swiftly till she - stood close face to face with the Senora, who, herself startled by the - girl's swift motion, had also risen to her feet, Ramona said, in a louder, - firmer voice: “Senora Moreno, you may forbid me as much as you please. The - whole world cannot keep me from marrying Alessandro. I love him. I have - promised, and I shall keep my word.” And with her young lithe arms - straight down at her sides, her head thrown back, Ramona flashed full in - the Senora's face a look of proud defiance. It was the first free moment - her soul had ever known. She felt herself buoyed up as by wings in air. - Her old terror of the Senora fell from her like a garment thrown off. - </p> - <p> - “Pshaw!” said the Senora, contemptuously, half amused, in spite of her - wrath, by the girl's, as she thought, bootless vehemence, “you talk like a - fool. Do you not know that I can shut you up in the nunnery to-morrow, if - I choose?” - </p> - <p> - “No, you cannot!” replied Ramona. - </p> - <p> - “Who, then, is to hinder me.” said the Senora, insolently. - </p> - <p> - “Alessandro!” answered Ramona, proudly. - </p> - <p> - “Alessandro!” the Senora sneered. “Alessandro! Ha! a beggarly Indian, on - whom my servants will set the dogs, if I bid them! Ha, ha!” - </p> - <p> - The Senora's sneering tone but roused Ramona more. “You would never dare!” - she cried; “Felipe would not permit it!” A most unwise retort for Ramona. - </p> - <p> - “Felipe!” cried the Senora, in a shrill voice. “How dare you pronounce his - name! He will none of you, from this hour! I forbid him to speak to you. - Indeed, he will never desire to set eyes on you when he hears the truth.” - </p> - <p> - “You are mistaken, Senora,” answered Ramona, more gently. “Felipe is - Alessandro's friend, and—mine,” she added, after a second's pause. - </p> - <p> - “So, ho! the Senorita thinks she is all-powerful in the house of Moreno!” - cried the Senora. “We will see! we will see! Follow me, Senorita Ramona!” - And throwing open the door, the Senora strode out, looking back over her - shoulder. - </p> - <p> - “Follow me!” she cried again sharply, seeing that Ramona hesitated; and - Ramona went; across the passage-way leading to the dining-room, out into - the veranda, down the entire length of it, to the Senora's room,—the - Senora walking with a quick, agitated step, strangely unlike her usual - gait; Ramona walking far slower than was her habit, and with her eyes bent - on the ground. As they passed the dining-room door, Margarita, standing - just inside, shot at Ramona a vengeful, malignant glance. - </p> - <p> - “She would help the Senora against me in anything,” thought Ramona; and - she felt a thrill of fear, such as the Senora with all her threats had not - stirred. - </p> - <p> - The Senora's windows were open. She closed them both, and drew the - curtains tight. Then she locked the door, Ramona watching her every - movement. - </p> - <p> - “Sit down in that chair,” said the Senora, pointing to one near the - fireplace. A sudden nervous terror seized Ramona. - </p> - <p> - “I would rather stand, Senora,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “Do as I bid you.” said the Senora, in a husky tone; and Ramona obeyed. It - was a low, broad armchair, and as she sank back into it, her senses seemed - leaving her. She leaned her head against the back and closed her eyes. The - room swam. She was roused by the Senora's strong smelling-salts held for - her to breathe, and a mocking taunt from the Senora's iciest voice: “The - Senorita does not seem so over-strong as she did a few moments back!” - </p> - <p> - Ramona tried to reason with herself; surely no ill could happen to her, in - this room, within call of the whole house. But an inexplicable terror had - got possession of her; and when the Senora, with a sneer on her face, took - hold of the Saint Catharine statue, and wheeling it half around, brought - into view a door in the wall, with a big iron key in the keyhole, which - she proceeded to turn, Ramona shook with fright. She had read of persons - who had been shut up alive in cells in the wall, and starved to death. - With dilating eyes she watched the Senora, who, all unaware of her terror, - was prolonging it and intensifying it by her every act. First she took out - the small iron box, and set it on a table. Then, kneeling, she drew out - from an inner recess in the closet a large leather-covered box, and pulled - it, grating and scraping along the floor, till it stood in front of - Ramona. All this time she spoke no word, and the cruel expression of her - countenance deepened each moment. The fiends had possession of the Senora - Moreno this morning, and no mistake. A braver heart than Ramona's might - have indeed been fearful, at being locked up alone with a woman who looked - like that. - </p> - <p> - Finally, she locked the door and wheeled the statue back into its place. - Ramona breathed freer. She was not, after all, to be thrust into the wall - closet and left to starve. She gazed with wonder at the old battered - boxes. What could it all mean? - </p> - <p> - “Senorita Ramona Ortegna,” began the Senora, drawing up a chair, and - seating herself by the table on which stood the iron box, “I will now - explain to you why you will not marry the Indian Alessandro.” - </p> - <p> - At these words, this name, Ramona was herself again,—not her old - self, her new self, Alessandro's promised wife. The very sound of his - name, even on an enemy's tongue, gave her strength. The terrors fled away. - She looked up, first at the Senora, then at the nearest window. She was - young and strong; at one bound, if worst came to worst, she could leap - through the window, and fly for her life, calling on Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - “I shall marry the Indian Alessandro, Senora Moreno,” she said, in a tone - as defiant, and now almost as insolent, as the Senora's own. - </p> - <p> - The Senora paid no heed to the words, except to say, “Do not interrupt me - again. I have much to tell you;” and opening the box, she lifted out and - placed on the table tray after tray of jewels. The sheet of written paper - lay at the bottom of the box. - </p> - <p> - “Do you see this paper, Senorita Ramona?” she asked, holding it up. Ramona - bowed her head. “This was written by my sister, the Senora Ortegna, who - adopted you and gave you her name. These were her final instructions to - me, in regard to the disposition to be made of the property she left to - you.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona's lips parted. She leaned forward, breathless, listening, while the - Senora read sentence after sentence. All the pent-up pain, wonder, fear of - her childhood and her girlhood, as to the mystery of her birth, swept over - her anew, now. Like one hearkening for life or death, she listened. She - forgot Alessandro. She did not look at the jewels. Her eyes never left the - Senora's face. At the close of the reading, the Senora said sternly, “You - see, now, that my sister left to me the entire disposition of everything - belonging to you.” - </p> - <p> - “But it hasn't said who was my mother,” cried Ramona. “Is that all there - is in the paper?” - </p> - <p> - The Senora looked stupefied. Was the girl feigning? Did she care nothing - that all these jewels, almost a little fortune, were to be lost to her - forever? - </p> - <p> - “Who was your mother?” she exclaimed, scornfully, “There was no need to - write that down. Your mother was an Indian. Everybody knew that!” - </p> - <p> - At the word “Indian,” Ramona gave a low cry. - </p> - <p> - The Senora misunderstood it. “Ay,” she said, “a low, common Indian. I told - my sister, when she took you, the Indian blood in your veins would show - some day; and now it has come true.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona's cheeks were scarlet. Her eyes flashed. “Yes, Senora Moreno,” she - said, springing to her feet; “the Indian blood in my veins shows to-day. I - understand many things I never understood before. Was it because I was an - Indian that you have always hated me?” - </p> - <p> - “You are not an Indian, and I have never hated you,” interrupted the - Senora. - </p> - <p> - Ramona heeded her not, but went on, more and more impetuously. “And if I - am an Indian, why do you object to my marrying Alessandro? Oh, I am glad I - am an Indian! I am of his people. He will be glad!” The words poured like - a torrent out of her lips. In her excitement she came closer and closer to - the Senora. “You are a cruel woman,” she said. “I did not know it before; - but now I do. If you knew I was an Indian, you had no reason to treat me - so shamefully as you did last night, when you saw me with Alessandro. You - have always hated me. Is my mother alive'? Where does she live? Tell me; - and I will go to her to-day. Tell me! She will be glad that Alessandro - loves me!” - </p> - <p> - It was a cruel look, indeed, and a crueller tone, with which the Senora - answered: “I have not the least idea who your mother was, or if she is - still alive, Nobody ever knew anything about her,—some low, vicious - creature, that your father married when he was out of his senses, as you - are now, when you talk of marrying Alessandro!” - </p> - <p> - “He married her, then?” asked Ramona, with emphasis. “How know you that, - Senora Moreno?” - </p> - <p> - “He told my sister so,” replied the Senora, reluctantly. She grudged the - girl even this much of consolation. - </p> - <p> - “What was his name?” asked Ramona. - </p> - <p> - “Phail; Angus Phail,” the Senora replied almost mechanically. She found - herself strangely constrained by Ramona's imperious earnestness, and she - chafed under it. The tables were being turned on her, she hardly knew how. - Ramona seemed to tower in stature, and to have the bearing of the one in - authority, as she stood before her pouring out passionate question after - question. The Senora turned to the larger box, and opened it. With - unsteady hands she lifted out the garments which for so many years had - rarely seen the light. Shawls and ribosos of damask, laces, gowns of - satin, of velvet. As the Senora flung one after another on the chairs, it - was a glittering pile of shining, costly stuffs. Ramona's eyes rested on - them dreamily. - </p> - <p> - “Did my adopted mother wear all these?” she asked, lifting in her hand a - fold of lace, and holding it up to the light, in evident admiration. - </p> - <p> - Again the Senora misconceived her. The girl seemed not insensible to the - value and beauty of this costly raiment. Perhaps she would be lured by it. - </p> - <p> - “All these are yours, Ramona, you understand, on your wedding day, if you - marry worthily, with my permission,” said the Senora, in a voice a shade - less cold than had hitherto come from her lips. “Did you understand what I - read you?” - </p> - <p> - The girl did not answer. She had taken up in her hand a ragged, crimson - silk handkerchief, which, tied in many knots, lay in one corner of the - jewel-box. - </p> - <p> - “There are pearls in that,” said the Senora; “that came with the things - your father sent to my sister when he died.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona's eyes gleamed. She began untying the knots. The handkerchief was - old, the knots tied tight, and undisturbed for years. As she reached the - last knot, and felt the hard stones, she paused. “This was my father's, - then.” she said. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said the Senora, scornfully. She thought she had detected a new - baseness in the girl. She was going to set up a claim to all which had - been her father's property. “They were your father's, and all these - rubies, and these yellow diamonds;” and she pushed the tray towards her. - </p> - <p> - Ramona had untied the last knot. Holding the handkerchief carefully above - the tray, she shook the pearls out. A strange, spicy fragrance came from - the silk. The pearls fell in among the rubies, rolling right and left, - making the rubies look still redder by contrast with their snowy - whiteness. - </p> - <p> - “I will keep this handkerchief,” she said, thrusting it as she spoke, by a - swift resolute movement into her bosom. “I am very glad to have one thing - that belonged to my father. The jewels, Senora, you can give to the - Church, if Father Salvierderra thinks that is right. I shall marry - Alessandro;” and still keeping one hand in her bosom where she had thrust - the handkerchief, she walked away and seated herself again in her chair. - </p> - <p> - Father Salvierderra! The name smote the Senora like a spear-thrust, There - could be no stronger evidence of the abnormal excitement under which she - had been laboring for the last twenty-four hours, than the fact that she - had not once, during all this time, thought to ask herself what Father - Salvierderra would say, or might command, in this crisis. Her religion and - the long habit of its outward bonds had alike gone from her in her sudden - wrath against Ramona. It was with a real terror that she became conscious - of this. - </p> - <p> - “Father Salvierderra?” she stammered; “he has nothing to do with it.” - </p> - <p> - But Ramona saw the change in the Senora's face, at the word, and followed - up her advantage. “Father Salvierderra has to do with everything,” she - said boldly. “He knows Alessandro, He will not forbid me to marry him, and - if he did—” Ramona stopped. She also was smitten with a sudden - terror at the vista opening before her,—of a disobedience to Father - Salvierderra. - </p> - <p> - “And if he did,” repeated the Senora, eyeing Ramona keenly, “would you - disobey him?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said Ramona. - </p> - <p> - “I will tell Father Salvierderra what you say,” retorted the Senora, - sarcastically, “that he may spare himself the humiliation of laying any - commands on you, to be thus disobeyed.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona's lip quivered, and her eyes filled with the tears which no other - of the Senora's taunts had been strong enough to bring. Dearly she loved - the old monk; had loved him since her earliest recollection. His - displeasure would be far more dreadful to her than the Senora's. His would - give her grief; the Senora's, at utmost, only terror. - </p> - <p> - Clasping her hands, she said, “Oh, Senora, have mercy! Do not say that to - the Father!” - </p> - <p> - “It is my duty to tell the Father everything that happens in my family,” - answered the Senora, chillingly. “He will agree with me, that if you - persist in this disobedience you will deserve the severest punishment. I - shall tell him all;” and she began putting the trays back in the box. - </p> - <p> - “You will not tell him as it really is, Senora,” persisted Ramona. “I will - tell him myself.” - </p> - <p> - “You shall not see him! I will take care of that!” cried the Senora, so - vindictively that Ramona shuddered. - </p> - <p> - “I will give you one more chance,” said the Senora, pausing in the act of - folding up one of the damask gowns. “Will you obey me? Will you promise to - have nothing more to do with this Indian?” - </p> - <p> - “Never, Senora,” replied Ramona; “never!” - </p> - <p> - “Then the consequences be on your own head,” cried the Senora. “Go to your - room! And, hark! I forbid you to speak of all this to Senor Felipe. Do you - hear?” - </p> - <p> - Ramona bowed her head. “I hear,” she said; and gliding out of the room, - closed the door behind her, and instead of going to her room, sped like a - hunted creature down the veranda steps, across the garden, calling in a - low tone, “Felipe! Felipe! Where are you, Felipe?” - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XII - </h2> - <p> - THE little sheepfold, or corral, was beyond the artichoke-patch, on that - southern slope whose sunshine had proved so disastrous a temptation to - Margarita in the matter of drying the altar-cloth. It was almost like a - terrace, this long slope; and the sheepfold, being near the bottom, was - wholly out of sight of the house. This was the reason Felipe had selected - it as the safest spot for his talk with Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - When Ramona reached the end of the trellised walk in the garden, she - halted and looked to the right and left. No one was in sight. As she - entered the Senora's room an hour before, she had caught a glimpse of some - one, she felt almost positive it was Felipe, turning off in the path to - the left, leading down to the sheepfold. She stood irresolute for a - moment, gazing earnestly down this path. “If the saints would only tell me - where he is!” she said aloud. She trembled as she stood there, fearing - each second to hear the Senora's voice calling her. But fortune was - favoring Ramona, for once; even as the words passed her lips, she saw - Felipe coming slowly up the bank. She flew to meet him. “Oh, Felipe, - Felipe!” she began. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, dear, I know it all,” interrupted Felipe; “Alessandro has told me.” - </p> - <p> - “She forbade me to speak to you, Felipe,” said Ramona, “but I could not - bear it. What are we to do? Where is Alessandro?” - </p> - <p> - “My mother forbade you to speak to me!” cried Felipe, in a tone of terror. - “Oh, Ramona, why did you disobey her? If she sees us talking, she will be - even more displeased. Fly back to your room. Leave it all to me. I will do - all that I can.” - </p> - <p> - “But, Felipe,” began Ramona, wringing her hands in distress. - </p> - <p> - “I know! I know!” said Felipe; “but you must not make my mother any more - angry. I don't know what she will do till I talk with her. Do go back to - your room! Did she not tell you to stay there?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” sobbed Ramona, “but I cannot. Oh, Felipe, I am so afraid! Do help - us! Do you think you can? You won't let her shut me up in the convent, - will you, Felipe? Where is Alessandro? Why can't I go away with him this - minute? Where is he? Dear Felipe, let me go now.” - </p> - <p> - Felipe's face was horror-stricken. “Shut you in the convent!” he gasped. - “Did she say that? Ramona, dear, fly back to your room. Let me talk to - her. Fly, I implore you. I can't do anything for you if she sees me - talking with you now;” and he turned away, and walked swiftly down the - terrace. - </p> - <p> - Ramona felt as if she were indeed alone in the world. How could she go - back into that house! Slowly she walked up the garden-path again, - meditating a hundred wild plans of escape. Where, where was Alessandro? - Why did he not appear for her rescue? Her heart failed her; and when she - entered her room, she sank on the floor in a paroxysm of hopeless weeping. - If she had known that Alessandro was already a good half-hour's journey on - his way to Temecula, galloping farther and farther away from her each - moment, she would have despaired indeed. - </p> - <p> - This was what Felipe, after hearing the whole story, had counselled him to - do. Alessandro had given him so vivid a description of the Senora's face - and tone, when she had ordered him out of her sight, that Felipe was - alarmed. He had never seen his mother angry like that. He could not - conceive why her wrath should have been so severe. The longer he talked - with Alessandro, the more he felt that it would be wiser for him to be out - of sight till the first force of her anger had been spent. “I will say - that I sent you,” said Felipe, “so she cannot feel that you have committed - any offence in going. Come back in four days, and by that time it will be - all settled what you shall do.” - </p> - <p> - It went hard with Alessandro to go without seeing Ramona; but it did not - need Felipe's exclamation of surprise, to convince him that it would be - foolhardy to attempt it. His own judgment had told him that it would be - out of the question. - </p> - <p> - “But you will tell her all, Senor Felipe? You will tell her that it is for - her sake I go?” the poor fellow said piteously, gazing into Felipe's eyes - as if he would read his inmost soul. - </p> - <p> - “I will, indeed, Alessandro; I will,” replied Felipe; and he held his hand - out to Alessandro, as to a friend and equal. “You may trust me to do all I - can do for Ramona and for you.” - </p> - <p> - “God bless you, Senor Felipe,” answered Alessandro, gravely, a slight - trembling of his voice alone showing how deeply he was moved. - </p> - <p> - “He's a noble fellow,” said Felipe to himself, as he watched Alessandro - leap on his horse, which had been tethered near the corral all night,—“a - noble fellow! There isn't a man among all my friends who would have been - manlier or franker than he has been in this whole business. I don't in the - least wonder that Ramona loves him. He's a noble fellow! But what is to be - done! What is to be done!” - </p> - <p> - Felipe was sorely perplexed. No sharp crisis of disagreement had ever - arisen between him and his mother, but he felt that one was coming now. He - was unaware of the extent of his influence over her. He doubted whether he - could move her very far. The threat of shutting Ramona up in the convent - terrified him more than he liked to admit to himself. Had she power to do - that? Felipe did not know. She must believe that she had, or she would not - have made the threat. Felipe's whole soul revolted at the cruel injustice - of the idea. - </p> - <p> - “As if it were a sin for the poor girl to love Alessandro!” he said. “I'd - help her to run away with him, if worse comes to worst. What can make my - mother feel so!” And Felipe paced back and forth till the sun was high, - and the sharp glare and heat reminded him that he must seek shelter; then - he threw himself down under the willows. He dreaded to go into the house. - His instinctive shrinking from the disagreeable, his disposition to put - off till another time, held him back, hour by hour. The longer he thought - the situation over, the less he knew how to broach the subject to his - mother; the more uncertain he felt whether it would be wise for him to - broach it at all. Suddenly he heard his name called. It was Margarita, who - had been sent to call him to dinner. “Good heavens! dinner already!” he - cried, springing to his feet. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Senor,” replied Margarita, eyeing him observantly. She had seen him - talking with Alessandro, had seen Alessandro galloping away down the river - road. She had also gathered much from the Senora's look, and Ramona's, as - they passed the dining-room door together soon after breakfast. Margarita - could have given a tolerably connected account of all that had happened - within the last twenty-four hours to the chief actors in this tragedy - which had so suddenly begun in the Moreno household. Not supposed to know - anything, she yet knew nearly all; and her every pulse was beating high - with excited conjecture and wonder as to what would come next. - </p> - <p> - Dinner was a silent and constrained meal,—Ramona absent, the fiction - of her illness still kept up; Felipe embarrassed, and unlike himself; the - Senora silent, full of angry perplexity. At her first glance in Felipe's - face, she thought to herself, “Ramona has spoken to him. When and how did - she do it?” For it had been only a few moments after Ramona had left her - presence, that she herself had followed, and, seeing the girl in her own - room, had locked the door as before, and had spent the rest of the morning - on the veranda within hands' reach of Ramona's window. How, when, and - where had she contrived to communicate with Felipe? The longer the Senora - studied over this, the angrier and more baffled she felt; to be outwitted - was even worse to her than to be disobeyed. Under her very eyes, as it - were, something evidently had happened, not only against her will, but - which she could not explain. Her anger even rippled out towards Felipe, - and was fed by the recollection of Ramona's unwise retort, “Felipe would - not let you!” What had Felipe done or said to make the girl so sure that - he would be on her side and Alessandro's? Was it come to this, that she, - the Senora Moreno, was to be defied in her own house by children and - servants! - </p> - <p> - It was with a tone of severe displeasure that she said to Felipe, as she - rose from the dinner-table, “My son, I would like to have some - conversation with you in my room, if you are at leisure.” - </p> - <p> - “Certainly, mother,” said Felipe, a load rolling off his mind at her - having thus taken the initiative, for which he lacked courage; and walking - swiftly towards her, he attempted to put his arm around her waist, as it - was his affectionate habit frequently to do. She repulsed him gently, but - bethinking herself, passed her hand through his arm, and leaning on it - heavily as she walked, said: “This is the most fitting way, my son. I must - lean more and more heavily on you each year now. Age is telling on me - fast. Do you not find me greatly changed, Felipe, in the last year?” - </p> - <p> - “No, madre mia,” replied Felipe, “indeed I do not. I see not that you have - changed in the last ten years.” And he was honest in this. His eyes did - not note the changes so clear to others, and for the best of reasons. The - face he saw was one no one else ever beheld; it was kindled by emotion, - transfigured by love, whenever it was turned towards him. - </p> - <p> - The Senora sighed deeply as she answered: “That must be because you so - love me, Felipe. I myself see the changes even day by day. Troubles tell - on me as they did not when I was younger. Even within the last twenty-four - hours I seem to myself to have aged frightfully;” and she looked keenly at - Felipe as she seated herself in the arm-chair where poor Ramona had - swooned a few hours before. Felipe remained standing before her, gazing, - with a tender expression, upon her features, but saying nothing. - </p> - <p> - “I see that Ramona has told you all!” she continued, her voice hardening - as she spoke. What a fortunate wording of her sentence! - </p> - <p> - “No, mother; it was not Ramona, it was Alessandro, who told me this - morning, early,” Felipe answered hastily, hurrying on, to draw the - conversation as far away from Ramona as possible. “He came and spoke to me - last night after I was in bed; but I told him to wait till morning, and - then I would hear all he had to say.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah!” said the Senora, relieved. Then, as Felipe remained silent, she - asked, “And what did he say?” - </p> - <p> - “He told me all that had happened.” - </p> - <p> - “All!” said the Senora, sneeringly. “Do you suppose that he told you all?” - </p> - <p> - “He said that you had bidden him begone out of your sight,” said Felipe, - “and that he supposed he must go. So I told him to go at once. I thought - you would prefer not to see him again.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah!” said the Senora again, startled, gratified that Felipe had so - promptly seconded her action, but sorry that Alessandro had gone. “Ah, I - did not know whether you would think it best to discharge him at once or - not; I told him he must answer to you. I did not know but you might devise - some measures by which he could be retained on the estate.” - </p> - <p> - Felipe stared. Could he believe his ears? This did not sound like the - relentless displeasure he had expected. Could Ramona have been dreaming? - In his astonishment, he did not weigh his mother's words carefully; he did - not carry his conjecture far enough; he did not stop to make sure that - retaining Alessandro on the estate might not of necessity bode any good to - Ramona; but with his usual impetuous ardor, sanguine, at the first glimpse - of hope, that all was well, he exclaimed joyfully, “Ah, dear mother, if - that could only be done, all would be well;” and, never noting the - expression of his mother's face, nor pausing to take breath, he poured out - all he thought and felt on the subject. - </p> - <p> - “That is just what I have been hoping for ever since I saw that he and - Ramona were growing so fond of each other. He is a splendid fellow, and - the best hand we have ever had on the place. All the men like him; he - would make a capital overseer; and if we put him in charge of the whole - estate, there would not be any objection to his marrying Ramona. That - would give them a good living here with us.” - </p> - <p> - “Enough!” cried the Senora, in a voice which fell on Felipe's ears like a - voice from some other world,—so hollow, so strange. He stopped speaking, - and uttered an ejaculation of amazement. At the first words he had - uttered, the Senora had fixed her eyes on the floor,—a habit of hers - when she wished to listen with close attention. Lifting her eyes now, - fixing them full on Felipe, she regarded him with a look which not all his - filial reverence could bear without resentment. It was nearly as scornful - as that with which she had regarded Ramona. Felipe colored. - </p> - <p> - “Why do you look at me like that, mother?” he exclaimed. “What have I - done?” - </p> - <p> - The Senora waved her hand imperiously. “Enough!” she reiterated. “Do not - say any more. I wish to think for a few moments;” and she fixed her eyes - on the floor again. - </p> - <p> - Felipe studied her countenance. A more nearly rebellious feeling than he - had supposed himself capable of slowly arose in his heart. Now he for the - first time perceived what terror his mother must inspire in a girl like - Ramona. - </p> - <p> - “Poor little one!” he thought. “If my mother looked at her as she did at - me just now, I wonder she did not die.” - </p> - <p> - A great storm was going on in the Senora's bosom. Wrath against Ramona was - uppermost in it. In addition to all else, the girl had now been the cause, - or at least the occasion, of Felipe's having, for the first time in his - whole life, angered her beyond her control. - </p> - <p> - “As if I had not suffered enough by reason of that creature,” she thought - bitterly to herself, “without her coming between me and Felipe!” - </p> - <p> - But nothing could long come between the Senora and Felipe. Like a fresh - lava-stream flowing down close on the track of its predecessor, came the - rush of the mother's passionate love for her son close on the passionate - anger at his words. - </p> - <p> - When she lifted her eyes they were full of tears, which it smote Felipe to - see. As she gazed at him, they rolled down her cheeks, and she said in - trembling tones: “Forgive me, my child; I had not thought anything could - make me thus angry with you. That shameless creature is costing us too - dear. She must leave the house.” - </p> - <p> - Felipe's heart gave a bound; Ramona had not been mistaken, then. A bitter - shame seized him at his mother's cruelty. But her tears made him tender; - and it was in a gentle, even pleading voice that he replied: “I do not - see, mother, why you call Ramona shameless. There is nothing wrong in her - loving Alessandro.” - </p> - <p> - “I found her in his arms!” exclaimed the Senora. - </p> - <p> - “I know,” said Felipe; “Alessandro told me that he had just at that - instant told her he loved her, and she had said she loved him, and would - marry him, just as you came up.” - </p> - <p> - “Humph!” retorted the Senora; “do you think that Indian would have dared - to speak a word of love to the Senorita Ramona Ortegna, if she had not - conducted herself shamelessly? I wonder that he concerned himself to speak - about marriage to her at all.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, mother! mother!” was all that Felipe could say to this. He was - aghast. He saw now, in a flash, the whole picture as it lay in his - mother's mind, and his heart sank within him. “Mother!” he repeated, in a - tone which spoke volumes. - </p> - <p> - “Ay,” she continued, “that is what I say. I see no reason why he hesitated - to take her, as he would take any Indian squaw, with small ceremony of - marrying.” - </p> - <p> - “Alessandro would not take any woman that way any quicker than I would, - mother,” said Felipe courageously; “you do him injustice.” He longed to - add, “And Ramona too,” but he feared to make bad matters worse by pleading - for her at present. - </p> - <p> - “No, I do not,” said the Senora; “I do Alessandro full justice. I think - very few men would have behaved as well as he has under the same - temptation. I do not hold him in the least responsible for all that has - happened. It is all Ramona's fault.” - </p> - <p> - Felipe's patience gave way. He had not known, till now, how very closely - this pure and gentle girl, whom he had loved as a sister in his boyhood, - and had come near loving as a lover in his manhood, had twined herself - around his heart. He could not remain silent another moment, and hear her - thus wickedly accused. - </p> - <p> - “Mother!” he exclaimed, in a tone which made the Senora look up at him in - sudden astonishment. “Mother, I cannot help it if I make you very angry; I - must speak; I can't bear to hear you say such things of Ramona. I have - seen for a long time that Alessandro loved the very ground under her feet; - and Ramona would not have been a woman if she had not seen it too! She has - seen it, and has felt it, and has come to love him with all her soul, just - as I hope some woman will love me one of these days. If I am ever loved as - well as she loves Alessandro, I shall be lucky. I think they ought to be - married; and I think we ought to take Alessandro on to the estate, so that - they can live here. I don't see anything disgraceful in it, nor anything - wrong, nor anything but what was perfectly natural. You know, mother, it - isn't as if Ramona really belonged to our family; you know she is half - Indian.” A scornful ejaculation from his mother interrupted him here; but - Felipe hurried on, partly because he was borne out of himself at last by - impetuous feeling, partly that he dreaded to stop, because if he did, his - mother would speak; and already he felt a terror of what her next words - might be. “I have often thought about Ramona's future, mother. You know a - great many men would not want to marry her, just because she is half - Indian. You, yourself, would never have given your consent to my marrying - her, if I had wanted to.” Again an exclamation from the Senora, this time - more of horror than of scorn. But Felipe pressed on. “No, of course you - would not, I always knew that; except for that, I might have loved her - myself, for a sweeter girl never drew breath in this God's earth.” Felipe - was reckless now; having entered on this war, he would wage it with every - weapon that lay within his reach; if one did not tell, another might. “You - have never loved her. I don't know that you have ever even liked her; I - don't think you have. I know, as a little boy, I always used to see how - much kinder you were to me than to her, and I never could understand it. - And you are unjust to her now. I've been watching her all summer; I've - seen her and Alessandro together continually. You know yourself, mother, - he has been with us on the veranda, day after day, just as if he were one - of the family. I've watched them by the hour, when I lay there so sick; I - thought you must have seen it too. I don't believe Alessandro has ever - looked or said or done a thing I wouldn't have done in his place; and I - don't believe Ramona has ever looked, said, or done a thing I would not be - willing to have my own sister do!” Here Felipe paused. He had made his - charge; like a young impetuous general, massing all his forces at the - onset; he had no reserves. It is not the way to take Gibraltars. - </p> - <p> - When he paused, literally breathless, he had spoken so fast,—and - even yet Felipe was not quite strong, so sadly had the fever undermined - his constitution,—the Senora looked at him interrogatively, and said - in a now composed tone: “You do not believe that Ramona has done anything - that you would not be willing to have your own sister do? Would you be - willing that your own sister should marry Alessandro?” - </p> - <p> - Clever Senora Moreno! During the few moments that Felipe had been - speaking, she had perceived certain things which it would be beyond her - power to do; certain others that it would be impolitic to try to do. - Nothing could possibly compensate her for antagonizing Felipe. Nothing - could so deeply wound her, as to have him in a resentful mood towards her; - or so weaken her real control of him, as to have him feel that she - arbitrarily overruled his preference or his purpose. In presence of her - imperious will, even her wrath capitulated and surrendered. There would be - no hot words between her and her son. He should believe that he determined - the policy of the Moreno house, even in this desperate crisis. - </p> - <p> - Felipe did not answer. A better thrust was never seen on any field than - the Senora's question. She repeated it, still more deliberately, in her - wonted gentle voice. The Senora was herself again, as she had not been for - a moment since she came upon Alessandro and Ramona at the brook. How just - and reasonable the question sounded, as she repeated it slowly, with an - expression in her eyes, of poising and weighing matters. “Would you be - willing that your own sister should marry Alessandro?” - </p> - <p> - Felipe was embarrassed. He saw whither he was being led. He could give but - one answer to this question. “No, mother,” he said, “I should not; but—” - </p> - <p> - “Never mind buts,” interrupted his mother; “we have not got to those yet;” - and she smiled on Felipe,—an affectionate smile, but it somehow gave - him a feeling of dread. “Of course I knew you could make but one answer to - my question. If you had a sister, you would rather see her dead than - married to any one of these Indians.” - </p> - <p> - Felipe opened his lips eagerly, to speak. “Not so,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Wait, dear!” exclaimed his mother. “One thing at a time, I see how full - your loving heart is, and I was never prouder of you as my son than when - listening just now to your eloquent defence of Ramona, Perhaps you may be - right and I wrong as to her character and conduct. We will not discuss - those points.” It was here that the Senora had perceived some things that - it would be out of her power to do. “We will not discuss those, because - they do not touch the real point at issue. What it is our duty to do by - Ramona, in such a matter as this, does not turn on her worthiness or - unworthiness. The question is, Is it right for you to allow her to do what - you would not allow your own sister to do?” The Senora paused for a - second, noted with secret satisfaction how puzzled and unhappy Felipe - looked; then, in a still gentler voice, she went on, “You surely would not - think that right, my son, would you?” And now the Senora waited for an - answer. - </p> - <p> - “No, mother,” came reluctantly from Felipe's lips. “I suppose not; but—” - </p> - <p> - “I was sure my own son could make no other reply,” interrupted the Senora. - She did not wish Felipe at present to do more than reply to her questions. - “Of course it would not be right for us to let Ramona do anything which we - would not let her do if she were really of our own blood. That is the way - I have always looked at my obligation to her. My sister intended to rear - her as her own daughter. She had given her her own name. When my sister - died, she transferred to me all her right and responsibility in and for - the child. You do not suppose that if your aunt had lived, she would have - ever given her consent to her adopted daughter's marrying an Indian, do - you?” - </p> - <p> - Again the Senora paused for a reply, and again the reluctant Felipe said, - in a low tone, “No, I suppose she would not.” - </p> - <p> - “Very well. Then that lays a double obligation on us. It is not only that - we are not to permit Ramona to do a thing which we would consider - disgraceful to one of our own blood; we are not to betray the trust - reposed in us by the only person who had a right to control her, and who - transferred that trust to us. Is not that so?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, mother,” said the unhappy Felipe. - </p> - <p> - He saw the meshes closing around him. He felt that there was a flaw - somewhere in his mother's reasoning, but he could not point it out; in - fact, he could hardly make it distinct to himself. His brain was confused. - Only one thing he saw clearly, and that was, that after all had been said - and done, Ramona would still marry Alessandro. But it was evident that it - would never be with his mother's consent. “Nor with mine either, openly, - the way she puts it. I don't see how it can be; and yet I have promised - Alessandro to do all I could for him. Curse the luck, I wish he had never - set foot on the place!” said Felipe in his heart, growing unreasonable, - and tired with the perplexity. - </p> - <p> - The Senora continued: “I shall always blame myself bitterly for having - failed to see what was going on. As you say, Alessandro has been with us a - great deal since your illness, with his music, and singing, and one thing - and another; but I can truly say that I never thought of Ramona's being in - danger of looking upon him in the light of a possible lover, any more than - of her looking thus upon Juan Canito, or Luigo, or any other of the - herdsmen or laborers. I regret it more than words can express, and I do - not know what we can do, now that it has happened.” - </p> - <p> - “That's it, mother! That's it!” broke in Felipe. “You see, you see it is - too late now.” - </p> - <p> - The Senora went on as if Felipe had not spoken. “I suppose you would - really very much regret to part with Alessandro, and your word is in a way - pledged to him, as you had asked him if he would stay on the place, Of - course, now that all this has happened, it would be very unpleasant for - Ramona to stay here, and see him continually—at least for a time, - until she gets over this strange passion she seems to have conceived for - him. It will not last. Such sudden passions never do.” The Senora artfully - interpolated, “What should you think, Felipe, of having her go back to the - Sisters' school for a time? She was very happy there.” - </p> - <p> - The Senora had strained a point too far. Felipe's self-control suddenly - gave way, and as impetuously as he had spoken in the beginning, he spoke - again now, nerved by the memory of Ramona's face and tone as she had cried - to him in the garden, “Oh, Felipe, you won't let her shut me up in the - convent, will you?” “Mother!” he cried, “you would never do that. You - would not shut the poor girl up in the convent!” - </p> - <p> - The Senora raised her eyebrows in astonishment. “Who spoke of shutting - up?” she said. “Ramona has already been there at school. She might go - again. She is not too old to learn. A change of scene and occupation is - the best possible cure for a girl who has a thing of this sort to get - over. Can you propose anything better, my son? What would you advise?” And - a third time the Senora paused for an answer. - </p> - <p> - These pauses and direct questions of the Senora's were like nothing in - life so much as like that stage in a spider's processes when, withdrawing - a little way from a half-entangled victim, which still supposes himself - free, it rests from its weaving, and watches the victim flutter. Subtle - questions like these, assuming, taking for granted as settled, much which - had never been settled at all, were among the best weapons in the Senora's - armory. They rarely failed her. - </p> - <p> - “Advise!” cried Felipe, excitedly. “Advise! This is what I advise—to - let Ramona and Alessandro marry. I can't help all you say about our - obligations. I dare say you're right; and it's a cursedly awkward - complication for us, anyhow, the way you put it.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, awkward for you, as the head of our house,” interrupted the Senora, - sighing. “I don't quite see how you would face it.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I don't propose to face it,” continued Felipe, testily. “I don't - propose to have anything to do with it, from first to last. Let her go - away with him, if she wants to.' - </p> - <p> - “Without our consent?” said the Senora, gently. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, without it, if she can't go with it; and I don't see, as you have - stated it, how we could exactly take any responsibility about marrying her - to Alessandro. But for heaven's sake, mother, let her go! She will go, any - way. You haven't the least idea how she loves Alessandro, or how he loves - her. Let her go!” - </p> - <p> - “Do you really think she would run away with him, if it came to that?” - asked the Senora, earnestly. “Run away and marry him, spite of our - refusing to consent to the marriage?” - </p> - <p> - “I do,” said Felipe. - </p> - <p> - “Then it is your opinion, is it, that the only thing left for us to do, is - to wash our hands of it altogether, and leave her free to do what she - pleases?” - </p> - <p> - “That's just what I do think, mother,” replied Felipe, his heart growing - lighter at her words. “That's just what I do think. We can't prevent it, - and it is of no use to try. Do let us tell them they can do as they like.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course, Alessandro must leave us, then,” said the Senora. “They could - not stay here.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't see why!” said Felipe, anxiously. - </p> - <p> - “You will, my son, if you think a moment. Could we possibly give a - stronger indorsement to their marriage than by keeping them here? Don't - you see that would be so?” - </p> - <p> - Felipe's eyes fell. “Then I suppose they couldn't be married here, - either,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “What more could we do than that, for a marriage that we heartily approved - of, my son?” - </p> - <p> - “True, mother;” and Felipe clapped his hand to his forehead. “But then we - force them to run away!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no.” said the Senora, icily. “If they go, they will go of their own - accord. We hope they will never do anything so foolish and wrong. If they - do, I suppose we shall always be held in a measure responsible for not - having prevented it. But if you think it is not wise, or of no use to - attempt that, I do not see what there is to be done.” - </p> - <p> - Felipe did not speak. He felt discomfited; felt as if he had betrayed his - friend Alessandro, his sister Ramona; as if a strange complication, - network of circumstances, had forced him into a false position; he did not - see what more he could ask, what more could be asked, of his mother; he - did not see, either, that much less could have been granted to Alessandro - and Ramona; he was angry, wearied, perplexed. - </p> - <p> - The Senora studied his face. “You do not seem satisfied, Felipe dear,” she - said tenderly. “As, indeed, how could you be in this unfortunate state of - affairs? But can you think of anything different for us to do?” - </p> - <p> - “No,” said Felipe, bitterly. “I can't, that's the worst of it. It is just - turning Ramona out of the house, that's all.” - </p> - <p> - “Felipe! Felipe!” exclaimed the Senora, “how unjust you are to yourself! - You know you would never do that! You know that she has always had a home - here as if she were a daughter; and always will have, as long as she - wishes it. If she chooses to turn her back on it, and go away, is it our - fault? Do not let your pity for this misguided girl blind you to what is - just to yourself and to me. Turn Ramona out of the house! You know I - promised my sister to bring her up as my own child; and I have always felt - that my son would receive the trust from me, when I died. Ramona has a - home under the Moreno roof so long as she will accept it. It is not just, - Felipe, to say that we turn her out;” and tears stood in the Senora's - eyes. - </p> - <p> - “Forgive me, dear mother,” cried the unhappy Felipe. “Forgive me for - adding one burden to all you have to bear. Truth is, this miserable - business has so distraught my senses, I can't seem to see anything as it - is. Dear mother, it is very hard for you. I wish it were done with.” - </p> - <p> - “Thanks for your precious sympathy, my Felipe,” replied the Senora. “If it - were not for you, I should long ago have broken down beneath my cares and - burdens. But among them all, have been few so grievous as this. I feel - myself and our home dishonored. But we must submit. As you say, Felipe, I - wish it were done with. It would be as well, perhaps, to send for Ramona - at once, and tell her what we have decided. She is no doubt in great - anxiety; we will see her here.” - </p> - <p> - Felipe would have greatly preferred to see Ramona alone; but as he knew - not how to bring this about he assented to his mother's suggestion. - </p> - <p> - Opening her door, the Senora walked slowly down the passage-way, unlocked - Ramona's door, and said: “Ramona, be so good as to come to my room. Felipe - and I have something to say to you.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona followed, heavy-hearted. The words, “Felipe and I,” boded no good. - </p> - <p> - “The Senora has made Felipe think just as she does herself,” thought - Ramona. “Oh, what will become of me!” and she stole a reproachful, - imploring look at Felipe. He smiled back in a way which reassured her; but - the reassurance did not last long. - </p> - <p> - “Senorita Ramona Ortegna,” began the Senora. Felipe shivered. He had had - no conception that his mother could speak in that way. The words seemed to - open a gulf between Ramona and all the rest of the world, so cold and - distant they sounded,—as the Senora might speak to an intruding - stranger. - </p> - <p> - “Senorita Ramona Ortegna,” she said, “my son and I have been discussing - what it is best for us to do in the mortifying and humiliating position in - which you place us by your relation with the Indian Alessandro. Of course - you know—or you ought to know—that it is utterly impossible - for us to give our consent to your making such a marriage; we should be - false to a trust, and dishonor our own family name, if we did that.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona's eyes dilated, her cheeks paled; she opened her lips, but no sound - came from them; she looked toward Felipe, and seeing him with downcast - eyes, and an expression of angry embarrassment on his face, despair seized - her. Felipe had deserted their cause. Oh, where, where was Alessandro! - Clasping her hands, she uttered a low cry,—a cry that cut Felipe to - the heart. He was finding out, in thus being witness of Ramona's - suffering, that she was far nearer and dearer to him than he had realized. - It would have taken very little, at such moments as these, to have made - Felipe her lover again; he felt now like springing to her side, folding - his arms around her, and bidding his mother defiance. It took all the - self-control he could gather, to remain silent, and trust to Ramona's - understanding him later. - </p> - <p> - Ramona's cry made no break in the smooth, icy flow of the Senora's - sentences. She gave no sign of having heard it, but continued: “My son - tells me that he thinks our forbidding it would make no difference; that - you would go away with the man all the same. I suppose he is right in - thinking so, as you yourself told me that even if Father Salvierderra - forbade it, you would disobey him. Of course, if this is your - determination, we are powerless. Even if I were to put you in the keeping - of the Church, which is what I am sure my sister, who adopted you as her - child, would do, if she were alive, you would devise some means of escape, - and thus bring a still greater and more public scandal on the family. - Felipe thinks that it is not worth while to attempt to bring you to reason - in that way; and we shall therefore do nothing. I wish to impress it upon - you that my son, as head of this house, and I, as my sister's - representative, consider you a member of our own family. So long as we - have a home for ourselves, that home is yours, as it always has been. If - you choose to leave it, and to disgrace yourself and us by marrying an - Indian, we cannot help ourselves.” - </p> - <p> - The Senora paused. Ramona did not speak. Her eyes were fixed on the - Senora's face, as if she would penetrate to her inmost soul; the girl was - beginning to recognize the Senora's true nature; her instincts and her - perceptions were sharpened by love. - </p> - <p> - “Have you anything to say to me or to my son?” asked the Senora. - </p> - <p> - “No, Senora,” replied Ramona; “I do not think of anything more to say than - I said this morning. Yes,” she added, “there is. Perhaps I shall not speak - with you again before I go away. I thank you once more for the home you - have given me for so many years. And you too, Felipe,” she continued, - turning towards Felipe, her face changing, all her pent-up affection and - sorrow looking out of her tearful eyes,—“you too, dear Felipe. You - have always been so good to me. I shall always love you as long as I - live;” and she held out both her hands to him. Felipe took them in his, - and was about to speak, when the Senora interrupted him. She did not - intend to have any more of this sort of affectionate familiarity between - her son and Ramona. - </p> - <p> - “Are we to understand that you are taking your leave now?” she said. “Is - it your purpose to go at once?” - </p> - <p> - “I do not know, Senora,” stammered Ramona; “I have not seen Alessandro; I - have not heard—” And she looked up in distress at Felipe, who - answered compassionately,— - </p> - <p> - “Alessandro has gone.” - </p> - <p> - “Gone!” shrieked Ramona. “Gone! not gone, Felipe!” - </p> - <p> - “Only for four days,” replied Felipe. “To Temecula. I thought it would be - better for him to be away for a day or two. He is to come back - immediately. Perhaps he will be back day after to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - “Did he want to go? What did he go for? Why didn't you let me go with him? - Oh, why, why did he go?” cried Ramona. - </p> - <p> - “He went because my son told him to go,” broke in the Senora, impatient of - this scene, and of the sympathy she saw struggling in Felipe's expressive - features. “My son thought, and rightly, that the sight of him would be - more than I could bear just now; so he ordered him to go away, and - Alessandro obeyed.” - </p> - <p> - Like a wounded creature at bay, Ramona turned suddenly away from Felipe, - and facing the Senora, her eyes resolute and dauntless spite of the - streaming tears, exclaimed, lifting her right hand as she spoke, “You have - been cruel; God will punish you!” and without waiting to see what effect - her words had produced, without looking again at Felipe, she walked - swiftly out of the room. - </p> - <p> - “You see,” said the Senora, “you see she defies us.” - </p> - <p> - “She is desperate,” said Felipe. “I am sorry I sent Alessandro away.” - </p> - <p> - “No, my son,” replied the Senora, “you were wise, as you always are. It - may bring her to her senses, to have a few days' reflection in solitude.” - </p> - <p> - “You do not mean to keep her locked up, mother, do you?” cried Felipe. - </p> - <p> - The Senora turned a look of apparently undisguised amazement on him. “You - would not think that best, would you? Did you not say that all we could - do, was simply not to interfere with her in any way? To wash our hands, so - far as is possible, of all responsibility about her?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, yes,” said the baffled Felipe; “that was what I said. But, mother—” - He stopped. He did not know what he wanted to say. - </p> - <p> - The Senora looked tenderly at him, her face full of anxious inquiry. - </p> - <p> - “What is it, Felipe dear? Is there anything more you think I ought to say - or do?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - “What is it you are going to do, mother?” said Felipe. “I don't seem to - understand what you are going to do.” - </p> - <p> - “Nothing, Felipe! You have entirely convinced me that all effort would be - thrown away. I shall do nothing,” replied the Senora. “Nothing whatever.” - </p> - <p> - “Then as long as Ramona is here, everything will be just as it always has - been?” said Felipe. - </p> - <p> - The Senora smiled sadly. “Dear Felipe, do you think that possible? A girl - who has announced her determination to disobey not only you and me, but - Father Salvierderra, who is going to bring disgrace both on the Moreno and - the Ortegna name,—we can't feel exactly the same towards her as we - did before, can we?” - </p> - <p> - Felipe made an impatient gesture. “No, of course not. But I mean, is - everything to be just the same, outwardly, as it was before?” - </p> - <p> - “I supposed so,” said the Senora. “Was not that your idea? We must try to - have it so, I think. Do not you?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” groaned Felipe, “if we can!” - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XIII - </h2> - <p> - THE Senora Moreno had never before been so discomfited as in this matter - of Ramona and Alessandro. It chafed her to think over her conversation - with Felipe; to recall how far the thing she finally attained was from the - thing she had in view when she began. To have Ramona sent to the convent, - Alessandro kept as overseer of the place, and the Ortegna jewels turned - into the treasury of the Church,—this was the plan she had - determined on in her own mind. Instead of this, Alessandro was not to be - overseer on the place; Ramona would not go to the convent: she would be - married to Alessandro, and they would go away together; and the Ortegna - jewels,—well, that was a thing to be decided in the future; that - should be left to Father Salvierderra to decide. Bold as the Senora was, - she had not quite the courage requisite to take that question wholly into - her own hands. - </p> - <p> - One thing was clear, Felipe must not be consulted in regard to them. He - had never known of them, and need not now. Felipe was far too much in - sympathy with Ramona to take a just view of the situation. He would be - sure to have a quixotic idea of Ramona's right of ownership. It was not - impossible that Father Salvierderra might have the same feeling. If so, - she must yield; but that would go harder with her than all the rest. - Almost the Senora would have been ready to keep the whole thing a secret - from the Father, if he had not been at the time of the Senora Ortegna's - death fully informed of all the particulars of her bequest to her adopted - child. At any rate, it would be nearly a year before the Father came - again, and in the mean time she would not risk writing about it. The - treasure was as safe in Saint Catharine's keeping as it had been all these - fourteen years; it should still lie hidden there. When Ramona went away - with Alessandro, she would write to Father Salvierderra, simply stating - the facts in her own way, and telling him that all further questions must - wait for decision until they met. - </p> - <p> - And so she plotted and planned, and mapped out the future in her tireless - weaving brain, till she was somewhat soothed for the partial failure of - her plans. - </p> - <p> - There is nothing so skilful in its own defence as imperious pride. It has - an ingenious system of its own, of reprisals,—a system so ingenious - that the defeat must be sore indeed, after which it cannot still find some - booty to bring off! And even greater than this ingenuity at reprisals is - its capacity for self-deception. In this regard, it outdoes vanity a - thousandfold. Wounded vanity knows when it is mortally hurt; and limps off - the field, piteous, all disguises thrown away. But pride carries its - banner to the last; and fast as it is driven from one field unfurls it in - another, never admitting that there is a shade less honor in the second - field than in the first, or in the third than in the second; and so on - till death. It is impossible not to have a certain sort of admiration for - this kind of pride. Cruel, those who have it, are to all who come in their - way; but they are equally cruel to themselves, when pride demands the - sacrifice. Such pride as this has led many a forlorn hope, on the earth, - when all other motives have died out of men's breasts; has won many a - crown, which has not been called by its true name. - </p> - <p> - Before the afternoon was over, the Senora had her plan, her chart of the - future, as it were, all reconstructed; the sting of her discomfiture - soothed; the placid quiet of her manner restored; her habitual occupations - also, and little ways, all resumed. She was going to do “nothing” in - regard to Ramona. Only she herself knew how much that meant; how bitterly - much! She wished she were sure that Felipe also would do “nothing;” but - her mind still misgave her about Felipe. Unpityingly she had led him on, - and entangled him in his own words, step by step, till she had brought him - to the position she wished him to take. Ostensibly, his position and hers - were one, their action a unit; all the same, she did not deceive herself - as to his real feeling about the affair. He loved Ramona. He liked - Alessandro. Barring the question of family pride, which he had hardly - thought of till she suggested it, and which he would not dwell on apart - from her continuing to press it,—barring this, he would have liked - to have Alessandro marry Ramona and remain on the place. All this would - come uppermost in Felipe's mind again when he was removed from the - pressure of her influence. Nevertheless, she did not intend to speak with - him on the subject again, or to permit him to speak to her. Her ends would - be best attained by taking and keeping the ground that the question of - their non-interference having been settled once for all, the painful topic - should never be renewed between them. In patient silence they must await - Ramona's action; must bear whatever of disgrace and pain she chose to - inflict on the family which had sheltered her from her infancy till now. - </p> - <p> - The details of the “nothing” she proposed to do, slowly arranged - themselves in her mind. There should be no apparent change in Ramona's - position in the house. She should come and go as freely as ever; no watch - on her movements; she should eat, sleep, rise up and sit down with them, - as before; there should be not a word, or act, that Felipe's sympathetic - sensitiveness could construe into any provocation to Ramona to run away. - Nevertheless, Ramona should be made to feel, every moment of every hour, - that she was in disgrace; that she was with them, but not of them; that - she had chosen an alien's position, and must abide by it. How this was to - be done, the Senora did not put in words to herself, but she knew very - well. If anything would bring the girl to her senses, this would. There - might still be a hope, the Senora believed, so little did she know - Ramona's nature, or the depth of her affection for Alessandro, that she - might be in this manner brought to see the enormity of the offence she - would commit if she persisted in her purpose. And if she did perceive - this, confess her wrong, and give up the marriage,—the Senora grew - almost generous and tolerant in her thoughts as she contemplated this - contingency,—if she did thus humble herself and return to her - rightful allegiance to the Moreno house, the Senora would forgive her, and - would do more for her than she had ever hitherto done. She would take her - to Los Angeles and to Monterey; would show her a little more of the world; - and it was by no means unlikely that there might thus come about for her a - satisfactory and honorable marriage. Felipe should see that she was not - disposed to deal unfairly by Ramona in any way, if Ramona herself would - behave properly. - </p> - <p> - Ramona's surprise, when the Senora entered her room just before supper, - and, in her ordinary tone, asked a question about the chili which was - drying on the veranda, was so great, that she could not avoid showing it - both in her voice and look. - </p> - <p> - The Senora recognized this immediately, but gave no sign of having done - so, continuing what she had to say about the chili, the hot sun, the - turning of the grapes, etc., precisely as she would have spoken to Ramona - a week previous. At least, this was what Ramona at first thought; but - before the sentences were finished, she had detected in the Senora's eye - and tone the weapons which were to be employed against her. The emotion of - half-grateful wonder with which she had heard the first words changed - quickly to heartsick misery before they were concluded; and she said to - herself: “That's the way she is going to break me down, she thinks! But - she can't do it. I can bear anything for four days; and the minute - Alessandro comes, I will go away with him.” This train of thought in - Ramona's mind was reflected in her face. The Senora saw it, and hardened - herself still more. It was to be war, then. No hope of surrender. Very - well. The girl had made her choice. - </p> - <p> - Margarita was now the most puzzled person in the household. She had - overheard snatches of the conversation between Felipe and his mother and - Ramona, having let her curiosity get so far the better of her discretion - as to creep to the door and listen. In fact, she narrowly escaped being - caught, having had barely time to begin her feint of sweeping the - passage-way, when Ramona, flinging the door wide open, came out, after her - final reply to the Senora, the words of which Margarita had distinctly - heard: “God will punish you.” - </p> - <p> - “Holy Virgin! how dare she say that to the Senora?” ejaculated Margarita, - under her breath; and the next second Ramona rushed by, not even seeing - her. But the Senora's vigilant eyes, following Ramona, saw her; and the - Senora's voice had a ring of suspicion in it, as she called, “How comes it - you are sweeping the passage-way at this hour of the day, Margarita?” - </p> - <p> - It was surely the devil himself that put into Margarita's head the quick - lie which she instantaneously told. “There was early breakfast, Senora, to - be cooked for Alessandro, who was setting off in haste, and my mother was - not up, so I had it to cook.” - </p> - <p> - As Margarita said this, Felipe fixed his eyes steadily upon her. She - changed color. Felipe knew this was a lie. He had seen Margarita peering - about among the willows while he was talking with Alessandro at the - sheepfold; he had seen Alessandro halt for a moment and speak to her as he - rode past,—only for a moment; then, pricking his horse sharply, he - had galloped off down the valley road. No breakfast had Alessandro had at - Margarita's hands, or any other's, that morning. What could have been - Margarita's motive for telling this lie? - </p> - <p> - But Felipe had too many serious cares on his mind to busy himself long - with any thought of Margarita or her fibs. She had said the first thing - which came into her head, most likely, to shelter herself from the - Senora's displeasure; which was indeed very near the truth, only there was - added a spice of malice against Alessandro. A slight undercurrent of - jealous antagonism towards him had begun to grow up among the servants of - late; fostered, if not originated, by Margarita's sharp sayings as to his - being admitted to such strange intimacy with the family. - </p> - <p> - While Felipe continued ill, and was so soothed to rest by his music, there - was no room for cavil. It was natural that Alessandro came and went as a - physician might. But after Felipe had recovered, why should this freedom - and intimacy continue? More than once there had been sullen mutterings of - this kind on the north veranda, when all the laborers and servants were - gathered there of an evening, Alessandro alone being absent from the - group, and the sounds of his voice or his violin coming from the south - veranda, where the family sat. - </p> - <p> - “It would be a good thing if we too had a bit of music now and then,” Juan - Canito would grumble; “but the lad's chary enough of his bow on this side - the house.” - </p> - <p> - “Ho! we're not good enough for him to play to!” Margarita would reply; - “'Like master, like servant,' is a good proverb sometimes, but not always. - But there's a deal going on, on the veranda yonder, besides fiddling!” and - Margarita's lips would purse themselves up in an expression of - concentrated mystery and secret knowledge, well fitted to draw from - everybody a fire of questions, none of which, however, would she answer. - She knew better than to slander the Senorita Ramona, or to say a word even - reflecting upon her unfavorably. Not a man or a woman there would have - borne it. They all had loved Ramona ever since she came among them as a - toddling baby. They petted her then, and idolized her now. Not one of them - whom she had not done good offices for,—nursed them, cheered them, - remembered their birthdays and their saints'-days. To no one but her - mother had Margarita unbosomed what she knew, and what she suspected; and - old Marda, frightened at the bare pronouncing of such words, had terrified - Margarita into the solemnest of promises never, under any circumstances - whatever, to say such things to any other member of the family. Marda did - not believe them. She could not. She believed that Margarita's jealousy - had imagined all. - </p> - <p> - “And the Senora; she'd send you packing off this place in an hour, and me - too, long's I've lived here, if ever she was to know of you blackening the - Senorita. An Indian, too! You must be mad, Margarita!” - </p> - <p> - When Margarita, in triumph, had flown to tell her that the Senora had just - dragged the Senorita Ramona up the garden-walk, and shoved her into her - room and locked the door, and that it was because she had caught her with - Alessandro at the washing-stones, Marda first crossed herself in sheer - mechanical fashion at the shock of the story, and then cuffed Margarita's - ears for telling her. - </p> - <p> - “I'll take the head off your neck, if you say that aloud again! Whatever's - come to the Senora! Forty years I've lived under this roof, and I never - saw her lift a hand to a living creature yet. You're out of your senses, - child!” she said, all the time gazing fearfully towards the room. - </p> - <p> - “You'll see whether I am out of my senses or not,” retorted Margarita, and - ran back to the dining-room. And after the dining-room door was shut, and - the unhappy pretence of a supper had begun, old Marda had herself crept - softly to the Senorita's door and listened, and heard Ramona sobbing as if - her heart would break. Then she knew that what Margarita had said must be - true, and her faithful soul was in sore straits what to think. The - Senorita misdemean herself! Never! Whatever happened, it was not that! - There was some horrible mistake somewhere. Kneeling at the keyhole, she - had called cautiously to Ramona, “Oh, my lamb, what is it?” But Ramona had - not heard her, and the danger was too great of remaining; so scrambling up - with difficulty from her rheumatic knees, the old woman had hobbled back - to the kitchen as much in the dark as before, and, by a curiously - illogical consequence, crosser than ever to her daughter. All the next day - she watched for herself, and could not but see that all appearances bore - out Margarita's statements. Alessandro's sudden departure had been a - tremendous corroboration of the story. Not one of the men had had an - inkling of it; Juan Canito, Luigo, both alike astonished; no word left, no - message sent; only Senor Felipe had said carelessly to Juan Can, after - breakfast: “You'll have to look after things yourself for a few days, - Juan. Alessandro has gone to Temecula.” - </p> - <p> - “For a few days!” exclaimed Margarita, sarcastically, when this was - repeated to her. “That's easy said! If Alessandro Assis is seen here - again, I'll eat my head! He's played his last tune on the south veranda, I - wager you.” - </p> - <p> - But when at supper-time of this same eventful day the Senora was heard, as - she passed the Senorita's door, to say in her ordinary voice, “Are you - ready for supper, Ramona?” and Ramona was seen to come out and walk by the - Senora's side to the dining-room; silent, to be sure,—but then that - was no strange thing, the Senorita always was more silent in the Senora's - presence,—when Marda, standing in the court-yard, feigning to be - feeding her chickens, but keeping a close eye on the passage-ways, saw - this, she was relieved, and thought: “It's only a dispute there has been. - There will be disputes in families sometimes. It is none of our affair. - All is settled now.” - </p> - <p> - And Margarita, standing in the dining-room, when she saw them all coming - in as usual,—the Senora, Felipe, Ramona,—no change, even to - her scrutinizing eye, in anybody's face, was more surprised than she had - been for many a day; and began to think again, as she had more than once - since this tragedy began, that she must have dreamed much that she - remembered. - </p> - <p> - But surfaces are deceitful, and eyes see little. Considering its - complexity, the fineness and delicacy of its mechanism, the results - attainable by the human eye seem far from adequate to the expenditure put - upon it. We have flattered ourselves by inventing proverbs of comparison - in matter of blindness,—“blind as a bat,” for instance. It would be - safe to say that there cannot be found in the animal kingdom a bat, or any - other creature, so blind in its own range of circumstance and connection, - as the greater majority of human beings are in the bosoms of their - families. Tempers strain and recover, hearts break and heal, strength - falters, fails, and comes near to giving way altogether, every day, - without being noted by the closest lookers-on. - </p> - <p> - Before night of this second day since the trouble had burst like a - storm-cloud on the peaceful Moreno household, everything had so resumed - the ordinary expression and routine, that a shrewder observer and reasoner - than Margarita might well be excused for doubting if any serious disaster - could have occurred to any one. Senor Felipe sauntered about in his usual - fashion, smoking his cigarettes, or lay on his bed in the veranda, dozing. - The Senora went her usual rounds of inspection, fed her birds, spoke to - every one in her usual tone, sat in her carved chair with her hands - folded, gazing out on the southern sky. Ramona busied herself with her - usual duties, dusted the chapel, put fresh flowers before all the - Madonnas, and then sat down at her embroidery. Ramona had been for a long - time at work on a beautiful altar-cloth for the chapel. It was to have - been a present to the Senora. It was nearly done. As she held up the frame - in which it was stretched, and looked at the delicate tracery of the - pattern, she sighed. It had been with a mingled feeling of interest and - hopelessness that she had for months been at work on it, often saying to - herself, “She won't care much for it, beautiful as it is, just because I - did it; but Father Salvierderra will be pleased when he sees it.” - </p> - <p> - Now, as she wove the fine threads in and out, she thought: “She will never - let it be used on the altar. I wonder if I could any way get it to Father - Salvierderra, at Santa Barbara. I would like to give it to him. I will ask - Alessandro. I'm sure the Senora would never use it, and it would be a - shame to leave it here. I shall take it with me.” But as she thought these - things, her face was unruffled. A strange composure had settled on Ramona. - “Only four days; only four days; I can bear anything for four days!” these - words were coming and going in her mind like refrains of songs which haunt - one's memory and will not be still. She saw that Felipe looked anxiously - at her, but she answered his inquiring looks always with a gentle smile. - It was evident that the Senora did not intend that she and Felipe should - have any private conversation; but that did not so much matter. After all, - there was not so much to be said. Felipe knew all. She could tell him - nothing; Felipe had acted for the best, as he thought, in sending - Alessandro away till the heat of the Senora's anger should have spent - itself. - </p> - <p> - After her first dismay at suddenly learning that Alessandro had gone, had - passed, she had reflected that it was just as well. He would come back - prepared to take her with him. How, or where, she did not know; but she - would go with no questions. Perhaps she would not even bid the Senora - good-by; she wondered how that would arrange itself, and how far - Alessandro would have to take her, to find a priest to marry them. It was - a terrible thing to have to do, to go out of a home in such a way: no - wedding—no wedding clothes—no friends—to go unmarried, - and journey to a priest's house, to have the ceremony performed; “but it - is not my fault,” said Ramona to herself; “it is hers. She drives me to do - it. If it is wrong, the blame will be hers. Father Salvierderra would - gladly come here and marry us, if she would send for him. I wish we could - go to him, Alessandro and I; perhaps we can. I would not be afraid to ride - so far; we could do it in two days.” The more Ramona thought of this, the - more it appeared to her the natural thing for them to do. “He will be on - our side, I know he will,” she thought. “He always liked Alessandro, and - he loves me.” - </p> - <p> - It was strange how little bitterness toward the Senora was in the girl's - mind; how comparatively little she thought of her. Her heart was too full - of Alessandro and of their future; and it had never been Ramona's habit to - dwell on the Senora in her thoughts. As from her childhood up she had - accepted the fact of the Senora's coldness toward her, so now she accepted - her injustice and opposition as part of the nature of things, and not to - be altered. - </p> - <p> - During all these hours, during the coming and going of these crowds of - fears, sorrows, memories, anticipations in Ramona's heart, all that there - was to be seen to the eye was simply a calm, quiet girl, sitting on the - veranda, diligently working at her lace-frame. Even Felipe was deceived by - her calmness, and wondered what it meant,—if it could be that she - was undergoing the change that his mother had thought possible, and - designated as coming “to her senses.” Even Felipe did not know the - steadfast fibre of the girl's nature; neither did he realize what a bond - had grown between her and Alessandro. In fact, he sometimes wondered of - what this bond had been made. He had himself seen the greater part of - their intercourse with each other; nothing could have been farther removed - from anything like love-making. There had been no crisis of incident, or - marked moments of experience such as in Felipe's imaginations of love were - essential to the fulness of its growth. This is a common mistake on the - part of those who have never felt love's true bonds. Once in those chains, - one perceives that they are not of the sort full forged in a day. They are - made as the great iron cables are made, on which bridges are swung across - the widest water-channels,—not of single huge rods, or bars, which - would be stronger, perhaps, to look at, but of myriads of the finest - wires, each one by itself so fine, so frail, it would barely hold a - child's kite in the wind: by hundreds, hundreds of thousands of such, - twisted, re-twisted together, are made the mighty cables, which do not any - more swerve from their place in the air, under the weight and jar of the - ceaseless traffic and tread of two cities, than the solid earth swerves - under the same ceaseless weight and jar. Such cables do not break. - </p> - <p> - Even Ramona herself would have found it hard to tell why she thus loved - Alessandro; how it began, or by what it grew. It had not been a sudden - adoration, like his passion for her; it was, in the beginning, simply a - response; but now it was as strong a love as his,—as strong, and as - unchangeable. The Senora's harsh words had been like a forcing-house air - to it, and the sudden knowledge of the fact of her own Indian descent - seemed to her like a revelation, pointing out the path in which destiny - called her to walk. She thrilled with pleasure at the thought of the joy - with which Alessandro would hear this,—the joy and the surprise. She - imagined to herself, in hundreds of ways, the time, place, and phrase in - which she would tell him. She could not satisfy herself as to the best; as - to which would give keenest pleasure to him and to her. She would tell - him, as soon as she saw him; it should be her first word of greeting. No! - There would be too much of trouble and embarrassment then. She would wait - till they were far away, till they were alone, in the wilderness; and then - she would turn to him, and say, “Alessandro, my people are your people!” - Or she would wait, and keep her secret until she had reached Temecula, and - they had begun their life there, and Alessandro had been astonished to see - how readily and kindly she took to all the ways of the Indian village; and - then, when he expressed some such emotion, she would quietly say, “But I - too am an Indian, Alessandro!” - </p> - <p> - Strange, sad bride's dreams these; but they made Ramona's heart beat with - happiness as she dreamed them. - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XIV - </h2> - <p> - THE first day had gone, it was near night of the second, and not a word - had passed between Felipe and Ramona, except in the presence of the - Senora. It would have been beautiful to see, if it had not been so cruel a - thing, the various and devious methods by which the Senora had brought - this about. Felipe, oddly enough, was more restive under it than Ramona. - She had her dreams. He had nothing but his restless consciousness that he - had not done for her what he hoped; that he must seem to her to have been - disloyal; this, and a continual wonder what she could be planning or - expecting which made her so placid, kept Felipe in a fever of unrest, of - which his mother noted every sign, and redoubled her vigilance. - </p> - <p> - Felipe thought perhaps he could speak to Ramona in the night, through her - window. But the August heats were fierce now; everybody slept with - wide-open windows; the Senora was always wakeful; if she should chance to - hear him thus holding secret converse with Ramona, it would indeed make - bad matters worse. Nevertheless, he decided to try it. At the first sound - of his footsteps on the veranda floor, “My son, are you ill? Can I do - anything?” came from the Senora's window. She had not been asleep at all. - It would take more courage than Felipe possessed, to try that plan again; - and he lay on his veranda bed, this afternoon, tossing about with sheer - impatience at his baffled purpose. Ramona sat at the foot of the bed, - taking the last stitches in the nearly completed altar-cloth. The Senora - sat in her usual seat, dozing, with her head thrown back. It was very hot; - a sultry south-wind, with dust from the desert, had been blowing all day, - and every living creature was more or less prostrated by it. - </p> - <p> - As the Senora's eyes closed, a sudden thought struck Felipe. Taking out a - memorandum-book in which he kept his accounts, he began rapidly writing. - Looking up, and catching Ramona's eye, he made a sign to her that it was - for her. She glanced apprehensively at the Senora. She was asleep. - Presently Felipe, folding the note, and concealing it in his hand, rose, - and walked towards Ramona's window, Ramona terrifiedly watching him; the - sound of Felipe's steps roused the Senora, who sat up instantly, and gazed - about her with that indescribable expression peculiar to people who hope - they have not been asleep, but know they have. “Have I been asleep?” she - asked. - </p> - <p> - “About one minute, mother,” answered Felipe, who was leaning, as he spoke, - against Ramona's open window, his arms crossed behind him. Stretching them - out, and back and forth a few times, yawning idly, he said, “This heat is - intolerable!” Then he sauntered leisurely down the veranda steps into the - garden-walk, and seated himself on the bench under the trellis there. - </p> - <p> - The note had been thrown into Ramona's room. She was hot and cold with - fear lest she might not be able to get it unobserved. What if the Senora - were to go first into the room! She hardly dared look at her. But fortune - is not always on the side of tyrants. The Senora was fast dozing off - again, relieved that Felipe was out of speaking distance of Ramona. As - soon as her eyes were again shut, Ramona rose to go. The Senora opened her - eyes. Ramona was crossing the threshold of the door; she was going into - the house. Good! Still farther away from Felipe. - </p> - <p> - “Are you going to your room, Ramona?” said the Senor. - </p> - <p> - “I was,” replied Ramona, alarmed. “Did you want me here?” - </p> - <p> - “No,” said the Senora; and she closed her eyes again. - </p> - <p> - In a second more the note was safe in Ramona's hands. - </p> - <p> - “Dear Ramona,” Felipe had written, “I am distracted because I cannot speak - with you alone. Can you think of any way? I want to explain things to you. - I am afraid you do not understand. Don't be unhappy. Alessandro will - surely be back in four days. I want to help you all I can, but you saw I - could not do much. Nobody will hinder your doing what you please; but, - dear, I wish you would not go away from us!” - </p> - <p> - Tearing the paper into small fragments, Ramona thrust them into her bosom, - to be destroyed later. Then looking out of the window, and seeing that the - Senora was now in a sound sleep, she ventured to write a reply to Felipe, - though when she would find a safe opportunity to give it to him, there was - no telling. “Thank you, dear Felipe. Don't be anxious. I am not unhappy. I - understand all about it. But I must go away as soon as Alessandro comes.” - Hiding this also safe in her bosom, she went back to the veranda. Felipe - rose, and walked toward the steps. Ramona, suddenly bold, stooped, and - laid her note on the second step. Again the tired eyes of the Senora - opened. They had not been shut five minutes; Ramona was at her work; - Felipe was coming up the steps from the garden. He nodded laughingly to - his mother, and laid his finger on his lips. All was well. The Senora - dozed again. Her nap had cost her more than she would ever know. This one - secret interchange between Felipe and Ramona then, thus making, as it - were, common cause with each other as against her, and in fear of her, was - a step never to be recalled,—a step whose significance could - scarcely be overestimated. Tyrants, great and small, are apt to overlook - such possibilities as this; to forget the momentousness which the most - trivial incident may assume when forced into false proportions and - relations. Tyranny can make liars and cheats out of the honestest souls. - It is done oftener than any except close students of human nature realize. - When kings and emperors do this, the world cries out with sympathy, and - holds the plotters more innocent than the tyrant who provoked the plot. It - is Russia that stands branded in men's thoughts, and not Siberia. - </p> - <p> - The Senora had a Siberia of her own, and it was there that Ramona was - living in these days. The Senora would have been surprised to know how - little the girl felt the cold. To be sure, it was not as if she had ever - felt warmth in the Senora's presence; yet between the former chill and - this were many degrees, and except for her new life, and new love, and - hope in the thought of Alessandro, Ramona could not have borne it for a - day. - </p> - <p> - The fourth day came; it seemed strangely longer than the others had. All - day Ramona watched and listened. Felipe, too; for, knowing what - Alessandro's impatience would be, he had, in truth, looked for him on the - previous night. The horse he rode was a fleet one, and would have made the - journey with ease in half the time. But Felipe reflected that there might - be many things for Alessandro to arrange at Temecula. He would doubtless - return prepared to take Ramona back with him, in case that proved the only - alternative left them. Felipe grew wretched as his fancy dwelt on the - picture of Ramona's future. He had been in the Temecula village. He knew - its poverty; the thought of Ramona there was monstrous, To the indolent, - ease-loving Felipe it was incredible that a girl reared as Ramona had - been, could for a moment contemplate leading the life of a poor laboring - man's wife. He could not conceive of love's making one undertake any such - life. Felipe had much to learn of love. Night came; no Alessandro. Till - the darkness settled down, Ramona sat, watching the willows. When she - could no longer see, she listened. The Senora, noting all, also listened. - She was uneasy as to the next stage of affairs, but she would not speak. - Nothing should induce her to swerve from the line of conduct on which she - had determined. It was the full of the moon. When the first broad beam of - its light came over the hill, and flooded the garden and the white front - of the little chapel, just as it had done on that first night when - Alessandro watched with Felipe on the veranda, Ramona pressed her face - against the window-panes, and gazed out into the garden. At each - flickering, motion of the shadows she saw the form of a man approaching. - Again and again she saw it. Again and again the breeze died, and the - shadow ceased. It was near morning before, weary, sad, she crept to bed; - but not to sleep. With wide-open, anxious eyes, she still watched and - listened. Never had the thought once crossed her mind that Alessandro - might not come at the time Felipe had said. In her childlike simplicity - she had accepted this as unquestioningly as she had accepted other facts - in her life. Now that he did not come, unreasoning and unfounded terror - took possession of her, and she asked herself continually, “Will he ever - come! They sent him away; perhaps he will be too proud to come back!” Then - faith would return, and saying to herself, “He would never, never forsake - me; he knows I have no one in the whole world but him; he knows how I love - him,” she would regain composure, and remind herself of the many - detentions which might have prevented his coming at the time set. Spite of - all, however, she was heavy at heart; and at breakfast her anxious eyes - and absent look were sad to see. They hurt Felipe. Too well he knew what - it meant. He also was anxious. The Senora saw it in his face, and it vexed - her. The girl might well pine, and be mortified if her lover did not - appear. But why should Felipe disquiet himself? The Senora disliked it. It - was a bad symptom. There might be trouble ahead yet. There was, indeed, - trouble ahead,—of a sort the Senora's imaginings had not pictured. - </p> - <p> - Another day passed; another night; another, and another. One week now - since Alessandro, as he leaped on his horse, had grasped Felipe's hand, - and said: “You will tell the Senorita; you will make sure that she - understands why I go; and in four days I will be back.” One week, and he - had not come. The three who were watching and wondering looked covertly - into each other's faces, each longing to know what the others thought. - </p> - <p> - Ramona was wan and haggard. She had scarcely slept. The idea had taken - possession of her that Alessandro was dead. On the sixth and seventh days - she had walked each afternoon far down the river road, by which he would - be sure to come; down the meadows, and by the cross-cut, out to the - highway; at each step straining her tearful eyes into the distance,—the - cruel, blank, silent distance. She had come back after dark, whiter and - more wan than she went out. As she sat at the supper-table, silent, making - no feint of eating, only drinking glass after glass of milk, in thirsty - haste, even Margarita pitied her. But the Senora did not. She thought the - best thing which could happen, would be that the Indian should never come - back. Ramona would recover from it in a little while; the mortification - would be the worst thing, but even that, time would heal. She wondered - that the girl had not more pride than to let her wretchedness be so - plainly seen. She herself would have died before she would go about with - such a woe-begone face, for a whole household to see and gossip about. - </p> - <p> - On the morning of the eighth day, Ramona, desperate, waylaid Felipe, as he - was going down the veranda steps. The Senora was in the garden, and saw - them; but Ramona did not care. “Felipe!” she cried, “I must, I must speak - to you! Do you think Alessandro is dead? What else could keep him from - coming?” Her lips were dry, her cheeks scarlet, her voice husky. A few - more days of this, and she would be in a brain fever, Felipe thought, as - he looked compassionately at her. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, no, dear! Do not think that!” he replied. “A thousand things - might have kept him.” - </p> - <p> - “Ten thousand things would not! Nothing could!” said Ramona. “I know he is - dead. Can't you send a messenger, Felipe, and see?” - </p> - <p> - The Senora was walking toward them. She overheard the last words. Looking - toward Felipe, no more regarding Ramona than if she had not been within - sight or hearing, the Senora said, “It seems to me that would not be quite - consistent with dignity. How does it strike you, Felipe' If you thought - best, we might spare a man as soon as the vintage is done, I suppose.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona walked away. The vintage would not be over for a week. There were - several vineyards yet which had not been touched; every hand on the place - was hard at work, picking the grapes, treading them out in tubs, emptying - the juice into stretched raw-hides swung from cross-beams in a long shed. - In the willow copse the brandy-still was in full blast; it took one man to - watch it; this was Juan Can's favorite work; for reasons of his own he - liked best to do it alone; and now that he could no longer tread grapes in - the tubs, he had a better chance for uninterrupted work at the still. “No - ill but has its good,” he thought sometimes, as he lay comfortably - stretched out in the shade, smoking his pipe day after day, and breathing - the fumes of the fiery brandy. - </p> - <p> - As Ramona disappeared in the doorway, the Senora, coming close to Felipe, - and laying her hand on his arm, said in a confidential tone, nodding her - head in the direction in which Ramona had vanished: “She looks badly, - Felipe. I don't know what we can do. We surely cannot send to summon back - a lover we do not wish her to marry, can we? It is very perplexing. Most - unfortunate, every way. What do you think, my son?” There was almost a - diabolical art in the manner in which the Senora could, by a single phrase - or question, plant in a person's mind the precise idea she wished him to - think he had originated himself. - </p> - <p> - “No; of course we can't send for him,” replied Felipe, angrily; “unless it - is to send him to marry her; I wish he had never set foot on the place. I - am sure I don't know what to do. Ramona's looks frighten me. I believe she - will die.” - </p> - <p> - “I cannot wish Alessandro had never set foot on the place,” said the - Senora, gently, “for I feel that I owe your life to him, my Felipe; and he - is not to blame for Ramona's conduct. You need not fear her dying, She may - be ill; but people do not die of love like hers for Alessandro.” - </p> - <p> - “Of what kind do they die, mother?” asked Felipe, impatiently. - </p> - <p> - The Senora looked reproachfully at him. “Not often of any,” she said; “but - certainly not of a sudden passion for a person in every way beneath them, - in position, in education, in all points which are essential to - congeniality of tastes or association of life.” - </p> - <p> - The Senora spoke calmly, with no excitement, as if she were discussing an - abstract case. Sometimes, when she spoke like this, Felipe for the moment - felt as if she were entirely right, as if it were really a disgraceful - thing in Ramona to have thus loved Alessandro. It could not be gainsaid - that there was this gulf, of which she spoke. Alessandro was undeniably - Ramona's inferior in position, education, in all the external matters of - life; but in nature, in true nobility of soul, no! Alessandro was no man's - inferior in these; and in capacity to love,—Felipe sometimes - wondered whether he had ever known Alessandro's equal in that. This - thought had occurred to him more than once, as from his sick-bed he had, - unobserved, studied the expression with which Alessandro gazed at Ramona. - But all this made no difference in the perplexity of the present dilemma, - in the embarrassment of his and his mother's position now. Send a - messenger to ask why Alessandro did not return! Not even if he had been an - accepted and publicly recognized lover, would Felipe do that! Ramona ought - to have more pride. She ought of herself to know that. And when Felipe, - later in the day, saw Ramona again, he said as much to her. He said it as - gently as he could; so gently that she did not at first comprehend his - idea. It was so foreign, so incompatible with her faith, how could she? - </p> - <p> - When she did understand, she said slowly: “You mean that it will not do to - send to find out if Alessandro is dead, because it will look as if I - wished him to marry me whether he wished it or not?” and she fixed her - eyes on Felipe's, with an expression he could not fathom. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, dear,” he answered, “something like that, though you put it - harshly.” - </p> - <p> - “Is it not true,” she persisted, “that is what you mean?” - </p> - <p> - Reluctantly Felipe admitted that it was. - </p> - <p> - Ramona was silent for some moments; then she said, speaking still more - slowly, “If you feel like that, we had better never talk about Alessandro - again. I suppose it is not possible that you should know, as I do, that - nothing but his being dead would keep him from coming back. Thanks, dear - Felipe;” and after this she did not speak again of Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - Days went by; a week. The vintage was over. The Senora wondered if Ramona - would now ask again for a messenger to go to Temecula. Almost even the - Senora relented, as she looked into the girl's white and wasted face, as - she sat silent, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on the - willows. The altar-cloth was done, folded and laid away. It would never - hang in the Moreno chapel. It was promised, in Ramona's mind, to Father - Salvierderra. She had resolved to go to him; if he, a feeble old man, - could walk all the way between Santa Barbara and their home, she could - surely do the same. She would not lose the way. There were not many roads; - she could ask. The convent, the bare thought of which had been so terrible - to Ramona fourteen days ago, when the Senora had threatened her with it, - now seemed a heavenly refuge, the only shelter she craved. There was a - school for orphans attached to the convent at San Juan Bautista, she knew; - she would ask the Father to let her go there, and she would spend the rest - of her life in prayer, and in teaching the orphan girls. As hour after - hour she sat revolving this plan, her fancy projected itself so vividly - into the future, that she lived years of her life. She felt herself - middle-aged, old. She saw the procession of nuns, going to vespers, - leading the children by the hand; herself wrinkled and white-haired, - walking between two of the little ones. The picture gave her peace. As - soon as she grew a little stronger, she would set off on her journey to - the Father; she could not go just yet, she was too weak; her feet trembled - if she did but walk to the foot of the garden. Alessandro was dead; there - could be no doubt of that. He was buried in that little walled graveyard - of which he had told her. Sometimes she thought she would try to go there - and see his grave, perhaps see his father; if Alessandro had told him of - her, the old man would be glad to see her; perhaps, after all, her work - might lie there, among Alessandro's people. But this looked hard: she had - not courage for it; shelter and rest were what she wanted,—the sound - of the Church's prayers, and the Father's blessing every day. The convent - was the best. - </p> - <p> - She thought she was sure that Alessandro was dead; but she was not, for - she still listened, still watched. Each day she walked out on the river - road, and sat waiting till dusk. At last came a day when she could not go; - her strength failed her. She lay all day on her bed. To the Senora, who - asked frigidly if she were ill, she answered: “No, Senora, I do not think - I am ill, I have no pain, but I cannot get up. I shall be better - to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - “I will send you strong broth and a medicine,” the Senora said; and sent - her both by the hands of Margarita, whose hatred and jealousy broke down - at the first sight of Ramona's face on the pillow; it looked so much - thinner and sharper there than it had when she was sitting up. “Oh, - Senorita! Senorita!” she cried, in a tone of poignant grief, “are you - going to die? Forgive me, forgive me!” - </p> - <p> - “I have nothing to forgive you, Margarita,” replied Ramona, raising - herself on her elbow, and lifting her eyes kindly to the girl's face as - she took the broth from her hands. “I do not know why you ask me to - forgive you.” - </p> - <p> - Margarita flung herself on her knees by the bed, in a passion of weeping. - “Oh, but you do know, Senorita, you do know! Forgive me!” - </p> - <p> - “No, I know nothing,” replied Ramona; “but if you know anything, it is all - forgiven. I am not going to die, Margarita. I am going away,” she added, - after a second's pause. Her inmost instinct told her that she could trust - Margarita now. Alessandro being dead, Margarita would no longer be her - enemy, and Margarita could perhaps help her. “I am going away, Margarita, - as soon as I feel a little stronger. I am going to a convent; but the - Senora does not know. You will not tell?” - </p> - <p> - “No, Senorita!” whispered Margarita,—thinking in her heart, “Yes, - she is going away, but it will be with the angels.”—“No, Senorita, I - will not tell. I will do anything you want me to.” - </p> - <p> - “Thanks, Margarita mia,” replied Ramona. “I thought you would;” and she - lay back on her pillow, and closed her eyes, looking so much more like - death than like life that Margarita's tears flowed faster than before, and - she ran to her mother, sobbing out, “Mother, mother! the Senorita is ill - to death. I am sure she is. She has taken to her bed; and she is as white - as Senor Felipe was at the worst of the fever.” - </p> - <p> - “Ay,” said old Marda, who had seen all this for days back; “ay, she has - wasted away, this last week, like one in a fever, sure enough; I have seen - it. It must be she is starving herself to death.” - </p> - <p> - “Indeed, she has not eaten for ten days,—hardly since that day;” and - Margarita and her mother exchanged looks. It was not necessary to further - define the day. - </p> - <p> - “Juan Can says he thinks he will never be seen here again,” continued - Margarita. - </p> - <p> - “The saints grant it, then,” said Marda, hotly, “if it is he has cost the - Senorita all this! I am that turned about in my head with it all, that - I've no thoughts to think; but plain enough it is, he is mixed up with - whatever 'tis has gone wrong.” - </p> - <p> - “I could tell what it is,” said Margarita, her old pertness coming - uppermost for a moment; “but I've got no more to say, now the Senorita's - lying on her bed, with the face she's got. It's enough to break your heart - to look at her. I could just go down on my knees to her for all I've said; - and I will, and to Saint Francis too! She's going to be with him before - long; I know she is.” - </p> - <p> - “No,” said the wiser, older Marda. “She is not so ill as you think. She is - young. It's the heart's gone out of her; that's all. I've been that way - myself. People are, when they're young.” - </p> - <p> - “I'm young!” retorted Margarita. “I've never been that way.” - </p> - <p> - “There's many a mile to the end of the road, my girl,” said Marda, - significantly; “and 'It's ill boasting the first day out,' was a proverb - when I was your age!” - </p> - <p> - Marda had never been much more than half-way fond of this own child of - hers. Their natures were antagonistic. Traits which, in Margarita's - father, had embittered many a day of Marda's early married life, were - perpetually cropping out in Margarita, making between the mother and - daughter a barrier which even parental love was not always strong enough - to surmount. And, as was inevitable, this antagonism was constantly - leading to things which seemed to Margarita, and in fact were, unjust and - ill-founded. - </p> - <p> - “She's always flinging out at me, whatever I do,” thought Margarita. “I - know one thing; I'll never tell her what the Senorita's told me; never,—not - till after she's gone.” - </p> - <p> - A sudden suspicion flashed into Margarita's mind. She seated herself on - the bench outside the kitchen door, to wrestle with it. What if it were - not to a convent at all, but to Alessandro, that the Senorita meant to go! - No; that was preposterous. If it had been that, she would have gone with - him in the outset. Nobody who was plotting to run away with a lover ever - wore such a look as the Senorita wore now. Margarita dismissed the - thought; yet it left its trace. She would be more observant for having had - it; her resuscitated affection far her young mistress was not yet so - strong that it would resist the assaults of jealousy, if that passion were - to be again aroused in her fiery soul. Though she had never been deeply in - love with Alessandro herself, she had been enough so, and she remembered - him vividly enough, to feel yet a sharp emotion of displeasure at the - recollection of his devotion to the Senorita. Now that the Senorita seemed - to be deserted, unhappy, prostrated, she had no room for anything but pity - for her; but let Alessandro come on the stage again, and all would be - changed. The old hostility would return. It was but a dubious sort of - ally, after all, that Ramona had so unexpectedly secured in Margarita. She - might prove the sharpest of broken reeds. - </p> - <p> - It was sunset of the eighteenth day since Alessandro's departure. Ramona - had lain for four days well-nigh motionless on her bed. She herself began - to think she must be going to die. Her mind seemed to be vacant of all - thought. She did not even sorrow for Alessandro's death; she seemed - torpid, body and soul. Such prostrations as these are Nature's enforced - rests. It is often only by help of them that our bodies tide over crises, - strains, in which, if we continued to battle, we should be slain. - </p> - <p> - As Ramona lay half unconscious,—neither awake nor yet asleep,—on - this evening, she was suddenly aware of a vivid impression produced upon - her; it was not sound, it was not sight. She was alone; the house was - still as death; the warm September twilight silence reigned outside, She - sat up in her bed, intent—half alarmed—half glad—bewildered—alive. - What had happened? Still there was no sound, no stir. The twilight was - fast deepening; not a breath of air moving. Gradually her bewildered - senses and faculties awoke from their long-dormant condition; she looked - around the room; even the walls seemed revivified; she clasped her hands, - and leaped from the bed. “Alessandro is not dead!” she said aloud; and she - laughed hysterically. “He is not dead!” she repeated. “He is not dead! He - is somewhere near!” - </p> - <p> - With quivering hands she dressed, and stole out of the house. After the - first few seconds she found herself strangely strong; she did not tremble; - her feet trod firm on the ground. “Oh, miracle!” she thought, as she - hastened down the garden-walk; “I am well again! Alessandro is near!” So - vivid was the impression, that when she reached the willows and found the - spot silent, vacant, as when she had last sat there, hopeless, - broken-hearted, she experienced a revulsion of disappointment. “Not here!” - she cried; “not here!” and a swift fear shook her. “Am I mad? Is it this - way, perhaps, people lose their senses, when they are as I have been!” - </p> - <p> - But the young, strong blood was running swift in her veins. No! this was - no madness; rather a newly discovered power; a fulness of sense; a - revelation. Alessandro was near. - </p> - <p> - Swiftly she walked down the river road. The farther she went, the keener - grew her expectation, her sense of Alessandro's nearness. In her present - mood she would have walked on and on, even to Temecula itself, sure that - she was at each step drawing nearer to Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - As she approached the second willow copse, which lay perhaps a quarter of - a mile west of the first, she saw the figure of a man, standing, leaning - against one of the trees. She halted. It could not be Alessandro. He would - not have paused for a moment so near the house where he was to find her. - She was afraid to go on. It was late to meet a stranger in this lonely - spot. The figure was strangely still; so still that, as she peered through - the dusk, she half fancied it might be an optical illusion. She advanced a - few steps, hesitatingly, then stopped. As she did so, the man advanced a - few steps, then stopped. As he came out from the shadows of the trees, she - saw that he was of Alessandro's height. She quickened her steps, then - suddenly stopped again. What did this mean? It could not be Alessandro. - Ramona wrung her hands in agony of suspense. An almost unconquerable - instinct urged her forward; but terror held her back. After standing - irresolute for some minutes, she turned to walk back to the house, saying, - “I must not run the risk of its being a stranger. If it is Alessandro, he - will come.” - </p> - <p> - But her feet seemed to refuse to move in the opposite direction. Slower - and slower she walked for a few paces, then turned again. The man had - returned to his former place, and stood as at first, leaning against the - tree. - </p> - <p> - “It may be a messenger from him,” she said; “a messenger who has been told - not to come to the house until after dark.” - </p> - <p> - Her mind was made up. She quickened her pace to a run. A few moments more - brought her so near that she could see distinctly. It was—yes, it - was Alessandro. He did not see her. His face was turned partially away, - his head resting against the tree; he must be ill. Ramona flew, rather - than ran. In a moment more, Alessandro had heard the light steps, turned, - saw Ramona, and, with a cry, bounded forward, and they were clasped in - each other's arms before they had looked in each other's faces. Ramona - spoke first. Disengaging herself gently, and looking up, she began: - “Alessandro—” But at the first sight of his face she shrieked. Was - this Alessandro, this haggard, emaciated, speechless man, who gazed at her - with hollow eyes, full of misery, and no joy! “O God,” cried Ramona, “You - have been ill! you are ill! My God, Alessandro, what is it?” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro passed his hand slowly over his forehead, as if trying to - collect his thoughts before speaking, all the while keeping his eyes fixed - on Ramona, with the same anguished look, convulsively holding both her - hands in his. - </p> - <p> - “Senorita,” he said, “my Senorita!” Then he stopped. His tongue seemed to - refuse him utterance; and this voice,—this strange, hard, unresonant - voice,—whose voice was it? Not Alessandro's. - </p> - <p> - “My Senorita,” he began again, “I could not go without one sight of your - face; but when I was here, I had not courage to go near the house. If you - had not come, I should have gone back without seeing you.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona heard these words in fast-deepening terror, What did they mean? Her - look seemed to suggest a new thought to Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - “Heavens, Senorita!” he cried, “have you not heard? Do you not know what - has happened?” - </p> - <p> - “I know nothing, love,” answered Ramona. “I have heard nothing since you - went away. For ten days I have been sure you were dead; but to-night - something told me that you were near, and I came to meet you.” - </p> - <p> - At the first words of Ramona's sentence, Alessandro threw his arms around - her again. As she said “love,” his whole frame shook with emotion. - </p> - <p> - “My Senorita!” he whispered, “my Senorita! how shall I tell you! How shall - I tell you!” - </p> - <p> - “What is there to tell, Alessandro?” she said. “I am afraid of nothing, - now that you are here, and not dead, as I thought.” - </p> - <p> - But Alessandro did not speak. It seemed impossible. At last, straining her - closer to his breast, he cried: “Dearest Senorita! I feel as if I should - die when I tell you,—I have no home; my father is dead; my people - are driven out of their village. I am only a beggar now, Senorita; like - those you used to feed and pity in Los Angeles convent!” As he spoke the - last words, he reeled, and, supporting himself against the tree, added: “I - am not strong, Senorita; we have been starving.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona's face did not reassure him. Even in the dusk he could see its look - of incredulous horror. He misread it. - </p> - <p> - “I only came to look at you once more,” he continued. “I will go now. May - the saints bless you, my Senorita, always. I think the Virgin sent you to - me to-night. I should never have seen your face if you had not come.” - </p> - <p> - While he was speaking, Ramona had buried her face in his bosom. Lifting it - now, she said, “Did you mean to leave me to think you were dead, - Alessandro?” - </p> - <p> - “I thought that the news about our village must have reached you,” he - said, “and that you would know I had no home, and could not come, to seem - to remind you of what you had said. Oh, Senorita, it was little enough I - had before to give you! I don't know how I dared to believe that you could - come to be with me; but I loved you so much, I had thought of many things - I could do; and—” lowering his voice and speaking almost sullenly—“it - is the saints, I believe, who have punished me thus for having resolved to - leave my people, and take all I had for myself and you. Now they have left - me nothing;” and he groaned. - </p> - <p> - “Who?” cried Ramona. “Was there a battle? Was your father killed?” She was - trembling with horror. - </p> - <p> - “No,” answered Alessandro. “There was no battle. There would have been, if - I had had my way; but my father implored me not to resist. He said it - would only make it worse for us in the end. The sheriff, too, he begged me - to let it all go on peaceably, and help him keep the people quiet. He felt - terribly to have to do it. It was Mr. Rothsaker, from San Diego. We had - often worked for him on his ranch. He knew all about us. Don't you - recollect, Senorita, I told you about him,—how fair he always was, - and kind too? He has the biggest wheat-ranch in Cajon; we've harvested - miles and miles of wheat for him. He said he would have rather died, - almost, than have had it to do; but if we resisted, he would have to order - his men to shoot. He had twenty men with him. They thought there would be - trouble; and well they might,—turning a whole village full of men - and women and children out of their houses, and driving them off like - foxes. If it had been any man but Mr. Rothsaker, I would have shot him - dead, if I had hung for it; but I knew if he thought we must go, there was - no help for us.” - </p> - <p> - “But, Alessandro,” interrupted Ramona, “I can't understand. Who was it - made Mr. Rothsaker do it? Who has the land now?” - </p> - <p> - “I don't know who they are,” Alessandro replied, his voice full of anger - and scorn. “They're Americans—eight or ten of them. They all got - together and brought a suit, they call it, up in San Francisco; and it was - decided in the court that they owned all our land. That was all Mr. - Rothsaker could tell about it. It was the law, he said, and nobody could - go against the law.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” said Ramona, “that's the way the Americans took so much of the - Senora's land away from her. It was in the court up in San Francisco; and - they decided that miles and miles of her land, which the General had - always had, was not hers at all. They said it belonged to the United - States Government.” - </p> - <p> - “They are a pack of thieves and liars, every one of them!” cried - Alessandro. “They are going to steal all the land in this country; we - might all just as well throw ourselves into the sea, and let them have it. - My father had been telling me this for years. He saw it coming; but I did - not believe him. I did not think men could be so wicked; but he was right. - I am glad he is dead. That is the only thing I have to be thankful for - now. One day I thought he was going to get well, and I prayed to the - Virgin not to let him. I did not want him to live. He never knew anything - clear after they took him out of his house. That was before I got there. I - found him sitting on the ground outside. They said it was the sun that had - turned him crazy; but it was not. It was his heart breaking in his bosom. - He would not come out of his house, and the men lifted him up and carried - him out by force, and threw him on the ground; and then they threw out all - the furniture we had; and when he saw them doing that, he put his hands up - to his head, and called out, 'Alessandro! Alessandro!' and I was not - there! Senorita, they said it was a voice to make the dead hear, that he - called with; and nobody could stop him. All that day and all the night he - kept on calling. God! Senorita, I wonder I did not die when they told me! - When I got there, some one had built up a little booth of tule over his - head, to keep the sun off. He did not call any more, only for water, - water. That was what made them think the sun had done it. They did all - they could; but it was such a dreadful time, nobody could do much; the - sheriff's men were in great hurry; they gave no time. They said the people - must all be off in two days. Everybody was running hither and thither. - Everything out of the houses in piles on the ground. The people took all - the roofs off their houses too. They were made of the tule reeds; so they - would do again. Oh, Senorita, don't ask me to tell you any more! It is - like death. I can't!” - </p> - <p> - Ramona was crying bitterly. She did not know what to say. What was love, - in face of such calamity? What had she to give to a man stricken like - this.' - </p> - <p> - “Don't weep, Senorita,” said Alessandro, drearily. “Tears kill one, and do - no good.” - </p> - <p> - “How long did your father live?” asked Ramona, clasping her arms closer - around his neck. They were sitting on the ground now, and Ramona, yearning - over Alessandro, as if she were the strong one and he the one to be - sheltered, had drawn his head to her bosom, caressing him as if he had - been hers for years. Nothing could have so clearly shown his enfeebled and - benumbed condition, as the manner in which he received these caresses, - which once would have made him beside himself with joy. He leaned against - her breast as a child might. - </p> - <p> - “He! He died only four days ago. I stayed to bury him, and then I came - away. I have been three days on the way; the horse, poor beast, is almost - weaker than I. The Americans took my horse,” Alessandro said. - </p> - <p> - “Took your horse!” cried Ramona, aghast. “Is that the law, too?” - </p> - <p> - “So Mr. Rothsaker told me. He said the judge had said he must take enough - of our cattle and horses to pay all it had cost for the suit up in San - Francisco. They didn't reckon the cattle at what they were worth, I - thought; but they said cattle were selling very low now. There were not - enough in all the village to pay it, so we had to make it up in horses; - and they took mine. I was not there the day they drove the cattle away, or - I would have put a ball into Benito's head before any American should ever - have had him to ride. But I was over in Pachanga with my father. He would - not stir a step for anybody but me; so I led him all the way; and then - after he got there he was so ill I never left him a minute. He did not - know me any more, nor know anything that had happened. I built a little - hut of tule, and he lay on the ground till he died. When I put him in his - grave, I was glad.” - </p> - <p> - “In Temecula?” asked Ramona. - </p> - <p> - “In Temecula.” exclaimed Alessandro, fiercely. “You don't seem to - understand, Senorita. We have no right in Temecula, not even to our - graveyard full of the dead. Mr. Rothsaker warned us all not to be hanging - about there; for he said the men who were coming in were a rough set, and - they would shoot any Indian at sight, if they saw him trespassing on their - property.” - </p> - <p> - “Their property!” ejaculated Ramona. - </p> - <p> - “Yes; it is theirs,” said Alessandro, doggedly. “That is the law. They've - got all the papers to show it. That is what my father always said,—if - the Senor Valdez had only given him a paper! But they never did in those - days. Nobody had papers. The American law is different.” - </p> - <p> - “It's a law of thieves!” cried Ramona. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, and of murderers too,” said Alessandro. “Don't you call my father - murdered just as much as if they had shot him? I do! and, O Senorita, my - Senorita, there was Jose! You recollect Jose, who went for my violin? But, - my beloved one, I am killing you with these terrible things! I will speak - no more.” - </p> - <p> - “No, no, Alessandro. Tell me all, all. You must have no grief I do not - share. Tell me about Jose,” cried Ramona, breathlessly. - </p> - <p> - “Senorita, it will break your heart to hear. Jose was married a year ago. - He had the best house in Temecula, next to my father's. It was the only - other one that had a shingled roof. And he had a barn too, and that - splendid horse he rode, and oxen, and a flock of sheep. He was at home - when the sheriff came. A great many of the men were away, grapepicking. - That made it worse. But Jose was at home; for his wife had a little baby - only a few weeks old, and the child seemed sickly and not like to live, - and Jose would not leave it. Jose was the first one that saw the sheriff - riding into the village, and the band of armed men behind him, and Jose - knew what it meant. He had often talked it over with me and with my - father, and now he saw that it had come; and he went crazy in one minute, - and fell on the ground all froth at his mouth. He had had a fit like that - once before; and the doctor said if he had another, he would die. But he - did not. They picked him up, and presently he was better; and Mr. - Rothsaker said nobody worked so well in the moving the first day as Jose - did. Most of the men would not lift a hand. They sat on the ground with - the women, and covered up their faces, and would not see. But Jose worked; - and, Senorita, one of the first things he did, was to run with my father's - violin to the store, to Mrs. Hartsel, and ask her to hide it for us; Jose - knew it was worth money. But before noon the second day he had another - fit, and died in it,—died right in his own door, carrying out some - of the things; and after Carmena—that's his wife's name—saw he - was dead, she never spoke, but sat rocking back and forth on the ground, - with the baby in her arms. She went over to Pachanga at the same time I - did with my father. It was a long procession of us.” - </p> - <p> - “Where is Pachanga?” asked Ramona. - </p> - <p> - “About three miles from Temecula, a little sort of canon. I told the - people they'd better move over there; the land did not belong to anybody, - and perhaps they could make a living there. There isn't any water; that's - the worst of it.” - </p> - <p> - “No water!” cried Ramona. - </p> - <p> - “No running water. There is one little spring, and they dug a well by it - as soon as they got there; so there was water to drink, but that is all. I - saw Carmena could hardly keep up, and I carried the baby for her on one - arm, while I led my father with the other hand; but the baby cried, so she - took it back. I thought then it wouldn't live the day out; but it did live - till the morning of the day my father died. Just a few hours before he - died, Carmena came along with the baby rolled up in her shawl, and sat - down by me on the ground, and did not speak. When I said, 'How is the - little one?' she opened her shawl and showed it to me, dead. 'Good, - Carmena!' said I. 'It is good! My father is dying too. We will bury them - together.' So she sat by me all that morning, and at night she helped me - dig the graves. I wanted to put the baby on my father's breast; but she - said, no, it must have a little grave. So she dug it herself; and we put - them in; and she never spoke, except that once. She was sitting there by - the grave when I came away. I made a cross of two little trees with the - boughs chopped off, and set it up by the graves. So that is the way our - new graveyard was begun,—my father and the little baby; it is the - very young and the very old that have the blessed fortune to die. I cannot - die, it seems!” - </p> - <p> - “Where did they bury Jose?” gasped Ramona. - </p> - <p> - “In Temecula,” said Alessandro. “Mr. Rothsaker made two of his men dig a - grave in our old graveyard for Jose. But I think Carmena will go at night - and bring his body away. I would! But, my Senorita, it is very dark, I can - hardly see your beloved eyes. I think you must not stay longer. Can I go - as far as the brook with you, safely, without being seen? The saints bless - you, beloved, for coming. I could not have lived, I think, without one - more sight of your face;” and, springing to his feet, Alessandro stood - waiting for Ramona to move. She remained still. She was in a sore strait. - Her heart held but one impulse, one desire,—to go with Alessandro; - nothing was apparently farther from his thoughts than this. Could she - offer to go? Should she risk laying a burden on him greater than he could - bear? If he were indeed a beggar, as he said, would his life be hindered - or helped by her? She felt herself strong and able. Work had no terrors - for her; privations she knew nothing of, but she felt no fear of them. - </p> - <p> - “Alessandro!” she said, in a tone which startled him. - </p> - <p> - “My Senorita!” he said tenderly. - </p> - <p> - “You have never once called me Ramona.” - </p> - <p> - “I cannot, Senorita!” he replied. - </p> - <p> - “Why not?” - </p> - <p> - “I do not know. I sometimes think 'Ramona,'” he added faintly; “but not - often. If I think of you by any other name than as my Senorita, it is - usually by a name you never heard.” - </p> - <p> - “What is it?” exclaimed Ramona, wonderingly. - </p> - <p> - “An Indian word, my dearest one, the name of the bird you are like,—the - wood-dove. In the Luiseno tongue that is Majel; that was what I thought my - people would have called you, if you had come to dwell among us. It is a - beautiful name, Senorita, and is like you.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro was still standing. Ramona rose; coming close to him, she laid - both her hands on his breast, and her head on her hands, and said: - “Alessandro, I have something to tell you. I am an Indian. I belong to - your people.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro's silence astonished her. “You are surprised,” she said. “I - thought you would be glad.” - </p> - <p> - “The gladness of it came to me long ago, my Senorita,” he said. “I knew - it!” - </p> - <p> - “How?” cried Ramona. “And you never told me, Alessandro!” - </p> - <p> - “How could I?” he replied. “I dared not. Juan Canito, it was told me.” - </p> - <p> - “Juan Canito!” said Ramona, musingly. “How could he have known?” Then in a - few rapid words she told Alessandro all that the Senora had told her. “Is - that what Juan Can said?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - “All except the father's name,” stammered Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - “Who did he say was my father?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - Alessandro was silent. - </p> - <p> - “It matters not,” said Ramona. “He was wrong. The Senora, of course, knew. - He was a friend of hers, and of the Senora Ortegna, to whom he gave me. - But I think, Alessandro, I have more of my mother than of my father.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, you have, my Senorita,” replied Alessandro, tenderly. “After I knew - it, I then saw what it was in your face had always seemed to me like the - faces of my own people.” - </p> - <p> - “Are you not glad, Alessandro?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, my Senorita.” - </p> - <p> - What more should Ramona say? Suddenly her heart gave way; and without - premeditation, without resolve, almost without consciousness of what she - was doing, she flung herself on Alessandro's breast, and cried: “Oh, - Alessandro, take me with you! take me with you! I would rather die than - have you leave me again!” - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XV - </h2> - <p> - ALESSANDRO'S first answer to this cry of Ramona's was a tightening of his - arms around her; closer and closer he held her, till it was almost pain; - she could hear the throbs of his heart, but he did not speak. Then, - letting his arms fall, taking her hand in his, he laid it on his forehead - reverently, and said, in a voice which was so husky and trembling she - could barely understand his words: “My Senorita knows that my life is - hers. She can ask me to go into the fire or into the sea, and neither the - fire nor the sea would frighten me; they would but make me glad for her - sake. But I cannot take my Senorita's life to throw it away. She is - tender; she would die; she cannot lie on the earth for a bed, and have no - food to eat. My Senorita does not know what she says.” - </p> - <p> - His solemn tone; this third-person designation, as if he were speaking of - her, not with her, almost as if he were thinking aloud to God rather than - speaking to her, merely calmed and strengthened, did not deter Ramona. “I - am strong; I can work too, Alessandro. You do not know. We can both work. - I am not afraid to lie on the earth; and God will give us food,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “That was what I thought, my Senorita, until now. When I rode away that - morning, I had it in my thoughts, as you say, that if you were not afraid, - I would not be; and that there would at least always be food, and I could - make it that you should never suffer; but, Senorita, the saints are - displeased. They do not pray for us any more. It is as my father said, - they have forsaken us. These Americans will destroy us all. I do not know - but they will presently begin to shoot us and poison us, to get us all out - of the country, as they do the rabbits and the gophers; it would not be - any worse than what they have done. Would not you rather be dead, - Senorita, than be as I am to-day?” - </p> - <p> - Each word he spoke but intensified Ramona's determination to share his - lot. “Alessandro,” she interrupted, “there are many men among your people - who have wives, are there not?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Senorita!” replied Alessandro, wonderingly. - </p> - <p> - “Have their wives left them and gone away, now that this trouble has - come?” - </p> - <p> - “No, Senorita.” still more wonderingly; “how could they?” - </p> - <p> - “They are going to stay with them, help them to earn money, try to make - them happier, are they not?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Senorita.” Alessandro began to see whither these questions tended. - It was not unlike the Senora's tactics, the way in which Ramona narrowed - in her lines of interrogation. - </p> - <p> - “Do the women of your people love their husbands very much?” - </p> - <p> - “Very much, Senorita.” A pause. It was very dark now. Alessandro could not - see the hot currents running swift and red over Ramona's face; even her - neck changed color as she asked her last question. “Do you think any one - of them loves her husband more than I love you, Alessandro?” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro's arms were again around her, before the words were done. Were - not such words enough to make a dead man live? Almost; but not enough to - make such a love as Alessandro's selfish. Alessandro was silent. - </p> - <p> - “You know there is not one!” said Ramona, impetuously. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, it is too much!” cried Alessandro, throwing his arms up wildly. Then, - drawing her to him again, he said, the words pouring out breathless: “My - Senorita, you take me to the door of heaven, but I dare not go in. I know - it would kill you, Senorita, to live the life we must live. Let me go, - dearest Senorita; let me go! It had been better if you had never seen me.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you know what I was going to do, Alessandro, if you had not come?” - said Ramona. “I was going to run away from the Senora's house, all alone, - and walk all the way to Santa Barbara, to Father Salvierderra, and ask him - to put me in the convent at San Juan Bautista; and that is what I will do - now if you leave me!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, no, Senorita, my Senorita, you will not do that! My beautiful - Senorita in the convent! No, no!” cried Alessandro, greatly agitated. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, if you do not let me come with you, I shall do it. I shall set out - to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - Her words carried conviction to Alessandro's soul. He knew she would do as - she said. “Even that would not be so dreadful as to be hunted like a wild - beast, Senorita; as you may be, if you come with me.” - </p> - <p> - “When I thought you were dead, Alessandro, I did not think the convent - would be dreadful at all. I thought it would be peace; and I could do - good, teaching the children. But if I knew you were alive, I could never - have peace; not for one minute have peace, Alessandro! I would rather die, - than not be where you are. Oh, Alessandro, take me with you!” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro was conquered. “I will take you, my most beloved Senorita,” he - said gravely,—no lover's gladness in his tone, and his voice was - hollow; “I will take you. Perhaps the saints will have mercy on you, even - if they have forsaken me and my people!” - </p> - <p> - “Your people are my people, dearest; and the saints never forsake any one - who does not forsake them. You will be glad all our lives long, - Alessandro,” cried Ramona; and she laid her head on his breast in solemn - silence for a moment, as if registering a vow. - </p> - <p> - Well might Felipe have said that he would hold himself fortunate if any - woman ever loved him as Ramona loved Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - When she lifted her head, she said timidly, now that she was sure, “Then - you will take your Ramona with you, Alessandro?” - </p> - <p> - “I will take you with me till I die; and may the Madonna guard you, my - Ramona,” replied Alessandro, clasping her to his breast, and bowing his - head upon hers. But there were tears in his eyes, and they were not tears - of joy; and in his heart he said, as in his rapturous delight when he - first saw Ramona bending over the brook under the willows he had said - aloud, “My God! what shall I do!” - </p> - <p> - It was not easy to decide on the best plan of procedure now. Alessandro - wished to go boldly to the house, see Senor Felipe, and if need be the - Senora. Ramona quivered with terror at the bare mention of it. “You do not - know the Senora, Alessandro,” she cried, “or you would never think of it. - She has been terrible all this time. She hates me so that she would kill - me if she dared. She pretends that she will do nothing to prevent my going - away; but I believe at the last minute she would throw me in the well in - the court-yard, rather than have me go with you.” - </p> - <p> - “I would never let her harm you,” said Alessandro. “Neither would Senor - Felipe.” - </p> - <p> - “She turns Felipe round her finger as if he were soft wax,” answered - Ramona. “She makes him of a hundred minds in a minute, and he can't help - himself. Oh, I think she is in league with the fiends, Alessandro! Don't - dare to come near the house; I will come here as soon as every one is - asleep. We must go at once.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona's terrors overruled Alessandro's judgment, and he consented to wait - for her at the spot where they now stood. She turned back twice to embrace - him again. “Oh, my Alessandro, promise me that you will not stir from this - place till I come,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “I will be here when you come,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “It will not be more than two hours,” she said, “or three, at the utmost. - It must be nine o'clock now.” - </p> - <p> - She did not observe that Alessandro had evaded the promise not to leave - the spot. That promise Alessandro would not have given. He had something - to do in preparation for this unexpected flight of Ramona. In her - innocence, her absorption in her thoughts of Alessandro and of love, she - had never seemed to consider how she would make this long journey. As - Alessandro had ridden towards Temecula, eighteen days ago, he had pictured - himself riding back on his fleet, strong Benito, and bringing Antonio's - matchless little dun mare for Ramona to ride. Only eighteen short days - ago; and as he was dreaming that very dream, he had looked up and seen - Antonio on the little dun mare, galloping towards him like the wind, the - overridden creature's breath coming from her like pants of a steam-engine, - and her sides dripping blood, where Antonio, who loved her, had not spared - the cruel spurs; and Antonio, seeing him, had uttered a cry, and flinging - himself off, came with a bound to his side, and with gasps between his - words told him. Alessandro could not remember the words, only that after - them he set his teeth, and dropping the bridle, laid his head down between - Benito's ears, and whispered to him; and Benito never stopped, but - galloped on all that day, till he came into Temecula; and there Alessandro - saw the roofless houses, and the wagons being loaded, and the people - running about, the women and children wailing; and then they showed him - the place where his father lay on the ground, under the tule, and jumping - off Benito he let him go, and that was the last he ever saw of him. Only - eighteen days ago! And now here he was, under the willows,—the same - copse where he first halted, at his first sight of Ramona; and it was - night, dark night, and Ramona had been there, in his arms; she was his; - and she was going back presently to go away with him,—where! He had - no home in the wide world to which to take her,—and this poor beast - he had ridden from Temecula, had it strength enough left to carry her? - Alessandro doubted. He had himself walked more than half the distance, to - spare the creature, and yet there had been good pasture all the way; but - the animal had been too long starved to recover quickly. In the Pachanga - canon, where they had found refuge, the grass was burned up by the sun, - and the few horses taken over there had suffered wretchedly; some had - died. But Alessandro, even while his arms were around Ramona, had revolved - in his mind a project he would not have dared to confide to her. If Baba, - Ramona's own horse, was still in the corral, Alessandro could without - difficulty lure him out. He thought it would be no sin. At any rate, if it - were, it could not be avoided. The Senorita must have a horse, and Baba - had always been her own; had followed her about like a dog ever since he - could run; in fact, the only taming he had ever had, had been done by - Ramona, with bread and honey. He was intractable to others; but Ramona - could guide him by a wisp of his silky mane. Alessandro also had nearly as - complete control over him; for it had been one of his greatest pleasures, - during the summer, when he could not see Ramona, to caress and fondle her - horse, till Baba knew and loved him next to his young mistress. If only - Baba were in the corral, all would be well. As soon as the sound of - Ramona's footsteps had died away, Alessandro followed with quick but - stealthy steps; keeping well down in the bottom, below the willows, he - skirted the terrace where the artichoke-patch and the sheepfolds lay, and - then turned up to approach the corral from the farther side. There was no - light in any of the herdsmen's huts. They were all asleep. That was good. - Well Alessandro knew how sound they slept; many a night while he slept - there with them he had walked twice over their bodies as they lay - stretched on skins on the floor,—out and in without rousing them. If - only Baba would not give a loud whinny. leaning on the corral-fence, - Alessandro gave a low, hardly audible whistle. The horses were all in a - group together at the farther end of the corral. At the sound there was a - slight movement in the group; and one of them turned and came a pace or - two toward Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - “I believe that is Baba himself,” thought Alessandro; and he made another - low sound. The horse quickened his steps; then halted, as if he suspected - some mischief. - </p> - <p> - “Baba,” whispered Alessandro. The horse knew his name as well as any dog; - knew Alessandro's voice too; but the sagacious creature seemed - instinctively to know that here was an occasion for secrecy and caution. - If Alessandro whispered, he, Baba, would whisper back; and it was little - more than a whispered whinny which he gave, as he trotted quickly to the - fence, and put his nose to Alessandro's face, rubbing and kissing and - giving soft whinnying sighs. - </p> - <p> - “Hush! hush! Baba,” whispered Alessandro, as if he were speaking to a - human being. “Hush!” and he proceeded cautiously to lift off the upper - rails and bushes of the fence. The horse understood instantly; and as soon - as the fence was a little lowered, leaped over it and stood still by - Alessandro's side, while he replaced the rails, smiling to himself, spite - of his grave anxiety, to think of Juan Can's wonder in the morning as to - how Baba had managed to get out of the corral. - </p> - <p> - This had taken only a few moments. It was better luck than Alessandro had - hoped for; emboldened by it, he began to wonder if he could not get the - saddle too. The saddles, harnesses, bridles, and all such things hung on - pegs in an open barn, such as is constantly to be seen in Southern - California; as significant a testimony, in matter of climate, as any - Signal Service Report could be,—a floor and a roof; no walls, only - corner posts to hold the roof. Nothing but summerhouses on a large scale - are the South California barns. Alessandro stood musing. The longer he - thought, the greater grew his desire for that saddle. - </p> - <p> - “Baba, if only you knew what I wanted of you, you'd lie down on the ground - here and wait while I got the saddle. But I dare not risk leaving you. - Come, Baba!” and he struck down the hill again, the horse following him - softly. When he got down below the terrace, he broke into a run, with his - hand in Baba's mane, as if it were a frolic; and in a few moments they - were safe in the willow copse, where Alessandro's poor pony was tethered. - Fastening Baba with the same lariat, Alessandro patted him on the neck, - pressed his face to his nose, and said aloud, “Good Baba, stay here till - the Senorita comes.” Baba whinnied. - </p> - <p> - “Why shouldn't he know the Senorita's name! I believe he does!” thought - Alessandro, as he turned and again ran swiftly back to the corral. He felt - strong now,—felt like a new man. Spite of all the terror, joy - thrilled him. When he reached the corral, all was yet still. The horses - had not moved from their former position. Throwing himself flat on the - ground, Alessandro crept on his breast from the corral to the barn, - several rods' distance. This was the most hazardous part of his adventure; - every other moment he paused, lay motionless for some seconds, then crept - a few paces more. As he neared the corner where Ramona's saddle always - hung, his heart beat. Sometimes, of a warm night, Luigo slept on the barn - floor. If he were there to-night, all was lost. Groping in the darkness, - Alessandro pulled himself up on the post, felt for the saddle, found it, - lifted it, and in a trice was flat on the ground again, drawing the saddle - along after him. Not a sound had he made, that the most watchful of - sheep-dogs could hear. - </p> - <p> - “Ha, old Capitan, caught you napping this time!” said Alessandro to - himself, as at last he got safe to the bottom of the terrace, and, - springing to his feet, bounded away with the saddle on his shoulders. It - was a weight for a starving man to carry, but he felt it not, for the - rejoicing he had in its possession. Now his Senorita would go in comfort. - To ride Baba was to be rocked in a cradle. If need be, Baba would carry - them both, and never know it; and it might come to that, Alessandro - thought, as he knelt by the side of his poor beast, which was stretched - out on the ground exhausted; Baba standing by, looking down in scornful - wonder at this strange new associate. - </p> - <p> - “The saints be praised!” thought Alessandro, as he seated himself to wait. - “This looks as if they would not desert my Senorita.” - </p> - <p> - Thoughts whirled in his brain. Where should they go first? What would be - best? Would they be pursued? Where could they hide? Where should he seek a - new home? - </p> - <p> - It was bootless thinking, until Ramona was by his side. He must lay each - plan before her. She must decide. The first thing was to get to San Diego, - to the priest, to be married. That would be three days' hard ride; five - for the exhausted Indian pony. What should they eat on the ways Ah! - Alessandro bethought him of the violin at Hartsel's. Mr. Hartsel would - give him money on that; perhaps buy it. Then Alessandro remembered his own - violin. He had not once thought of it before. It lay in its case on a - table in Senor Felipe's room when he came away, Was it possible? No, of - course it could not be possible that the Senorita would think to bring it. - What would she bring? She would be wise, Alessandro was sure. - </p> - <p> - How long the hours seemed as he sat thus plotting and conjecturing; more - and more thankful, as each hour went by, to see the sky still clouded, the - darkness dense. “It must have been the saints, too, that brought me on a - night when there was no moon,” he thought; and then he said again, devout - and simple-minded man that he was. “They mean to protect my Senorita; they - will let me take care of her.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona was threading a perilous way, through great difficulties. She had - reached her room unobserved, so far as she could judge. Luckily for her, - Margarita was in bed with a terrible toothache, for which her mother had - given her a strong sleeping-draught. Margarita was disposed of. If she had - not been, Ramona would never have got away, for Margarita would have known - that she had been out of the house for two hours, and would have watched - to see what it meant. - </p> - <p> - Ramona came in through the court-yard; she dared not go by the veranda, - sure that Felipe and his mother were sitting there still, for it was not - late. - </p> - <p> - As she entered her room, she heard them talking. She closed one of her - windows, to let them know she was there. Then she knelt at the Madonna's - feet, and in an inaudible whisper told her all she was going to do, and - prayed that she would watch over her and Alessandro, and show them where - to go. - </p> - <p> - “I know she will! I am sure she will!” whispered Ramona to herself as she - rose from her knees. - </p> - <p> - Then she threw herself on her bed, to wait till the Senora and Felipe - should be asleep. Her brain was alert, clear. She knew exactly what she - wished to do. She had thought that all out, more than two weeks ago, when - she was looking for Alessandro hour by hour. - </p> - <p> - Early in the summer Alessandro had given to her, as curiosities, two of - the large nets which the Indian women use for carrying all sorts of - burdens. They are woven out of the fibres of a flax-like plant, and are - strong as iron. The meshes being large, they are very light; are gathered - at each end, and fastened to a band which goes around the forehead. In - these can be carried on the back, with comparative ease, heavier loads - than could be lifted in any other way. Until Ramona recollected these, she - had been perplexed to know how she should carry the things which she had - made up her mind it would be right for her to take,—only a few; - simply necessaries; one stuff gown and her shawls; the new altar-cloth, - and two changes of clothes; that would not be a great deal; she had a - right to so much, she thought, now that she had seen the jewels in the - Senora's keeping. “I will tell Father Salvierderra exactly what I took,” - she thought, “and ask him if it was too much.” She did not like to think - that all these clothes she must take had been paid for with the Senora - Moreno's money. - </p> - <p> - And Alessandro's violin. Whatever else she left, that must go. What would - life be to Alessandro without a violin! And if they went to Los Angeles, - he might earn money by playing at dances. Already Ramona had devised - several ways by which they could both earn money. - </p> - <p> - There must be also food for the journey. And it must be good food, too; - wine for Alessandro. Anguish filled her heart as she recalled how gaunt he - looked. “Starving,” he said they had been. Good God! Starving! And she had - sat down each day at loaded tables, and seen, each day, good food thrown - to the dogs to eat. - </p> - <p> - It was long before the Senora went to her room; and long after that before - Felipe's breathing had become so deep and regular that Ramona dared feel - sure that he was asleep. At last she ventured out. All was dark; it was - past midnight. - </p> - <p> - “The violin first!” she said; and creeping into the dining-room, and - through the inner door to Felipe's room, she brought it out, rolled it in - shawl after shawl, and put it in the net with her clothes. Then she stole - out, with this net on her back, “like a true Indian woman as I am,” she - said, almost gayly, to herself,—through the court-yard, around the - southeast corner of the house, past the garden, down to the willows, where - she laid down her load, and went back for the second. - </p> - <p> - This was harder. Wine she was resolved to have and bread and cold meat. - She did not know so well where to put her hand on old Marda's possessions - as on her own, and she dared not strike a light. She made several journeys - to the kitchen and pantry before she had completed her store. Wine, - luckily, she found in the dining-room,—two full bottles; also milk, - which she poured into a leathern flask which hung on the wall in the - veranda. - </p> - <p> - Now all was ready. She leaned from her window, and listened to Felipe's - breathing. “How can I go without bidding him good-by?” she said. “How can - I?” and she stood irresolute. - </p> - <p> - “Dear Felipe! Dear Felipe! He has always been so good to me! He has done - all he could for me. I wish I dared kiss him. I will leave a note for - him.” - </p> - <p> - Taking a pencil and paper, and a tiny wax taper, whose light would hardly - be seen across a room, she slipped once more into the dining-room, knelt - on the floor behind the door, lighted her taper, and wrote:— - </p> - <p> - “DEAR FELIPE,—Alessandro has come, and I am going away with him - to-night. Don't let anything be done to us, if you can help it. I don't - know where we are going. I hope, to Father Salvierderra. I shall love you - always. Thank you, dear Felipe, for all your kindness. - </p> - <p> - “RAMONA.” - </p> - <p> - It had not taken a moment. She blew out her taper, and crept back into her - room. Felipe's bed was now moved close to the wall of the house. From her - window she could reach its foot. Slowly, cautiously, she stretched out her - arm and dropped the little paper on the coverlet, just over Felipe's feet. - There was a risk that the Senora would come out in the morning, before - Felipe awaked, and see the note first; but that risk she would take. - </p> - <p> - “Farewell, dear Felipe!” she whispered, under her breath, as she turned - from the window. - </p> - <p> - The delay had cost her dear. The watchful Capitan, from his bed at the - upper end of the court, had half heard, half scented, something strange - going on. As Ramona stepped out, he gave one short, quick bark, and came - bounding down. - </p> - <p> - “Holy Virgin, I am lost!” thought Ramona; but, crouching on the ground, - she quickly opened her net, and as Capitan came towards her, gave him a - piece of meat, fondling and caressing him. While he ate it, wagging his - tail, and making great demonstrations of joy, she picked up her load - again, and still fondling him, said, “Come on, Capitan!” It was her last - chance. If he barked again, somebody would be waked; if he went by her - side quietly, she might escape. A cold sweat of terror burst on her - forehead as she took her first step cautiously. The dog followed. She - quickened her pace; he trotted along, still smelling the meat in the net. - When she reached the willows, she halted, debating whether she should give - him a large piece of meat, and try to run away while he was eating it, or - whether she should let him go quietly along. She decided on the latter - course; and, picking up her other net, walked on. She was safe now. She - turned, and looked back towards the house; all was dark and still. She - could hardly see its outline. A great wave of emotion swept over her. It - was the only home she had ever known. All she had experienced of - happiness, as well as of bitter pain, had been there,—Felipe, Father - Salvierderra, the servants, the birds, the garden, the dear chapel! Ah, if - she could have once more prayed in the chapel! Who would put fresh flowers - and ferns in the chapel now? How Felipe would miss her, when he knelt - before the altar! For fourteen years she had knelt by his side. And the - Senora,—the hard, cold Senora! She would alone be glad. Everybody - else would be sorry. “They will all be sorry I have gone,—all but - the Senora! I wish it had been so that I could have bidden them all - good-by, and had them all bid me good-by, and wish us good fortune!” - thought the gentle, loving girl, as she drew a long sigh, and, turning her - back on her home, went forward in the path she had chosen. - </p> - <p> - She stooped and patted Capitan on the head. “Will you come with me, - Capitan?” she said; and Capitan leaped up joyfully, giving two or three - short, sharp notes of delight. “Good Capitan, come! They will not miss him - out of so many,” she thought, “and it will always seem like something from - home, as long as I have Capitan.” - </p> - <p> - When Alessandro first saw Ramona's figure dimly in the gloom, drawing - slowly nearer, he did not recognize it, and he was full of apprehension at - the sight. What stranger could it be, abroad in these lonely meadows at - this hour of the night? Hastily he led the horses farther back into the - copse, and hid himself behind a tree, to watch. In a few moments more he - thought he recognized Capitan, bounding by the side of this bent and - slow-moving figure. Yet this was surely an Indian woman toiling along - under a heavy load. But what Indian woman would have so superb a collie as - Capitan? Alessandro strained his eyes through the darkness. Presently he - saw the figure halt,—drop part of its burden. - </p> - <p> - “Alessandro!” came in a sweet, low call. - </p> - <p> - He bounded like a deer, crying, “My Senorita! my Senorita! Can that be - you? To think that you have brought these heavy loads!” - </p> - <p> - Ramona laughed. “Do you remember the day you showed me how the Indian - women carried so much on their backs, in these nets? I did not think then - I would use it so soon. But it hurts my forehead, Alessandro. It isn't the - weight, but the strings cut. I couldn't have carried them much farther!” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, you had no basket to cover the head,” replied Alessandro, as he threw - up the two nets on his shoulders as if they had been feathers. In doing - so, he felt the violin-case. - </p> - <p> - “Is it the violin?” he cried. “My blessed one, where did you get it?” - </p> - <p> - “Off the table in Felipe's room,” she answered. “I knew you would rather - have it than anything else. I brought very little, Alessandro; it seemed - nothing while I was getting it; but it is very heavy to carry. Will it be - too much for the poor tired horse? You and I can walk. And see, - Alessandro, here is Capitan. He waked up, and I had to bring him, to keep - him still. Can't he go with us?” - </p> - <p> - Capitan was leaping up, putting his paws on Alessandro's breast, licking - his face, yelping, doing all a dog could do, to show welcome and - affection. - </p> - <p> - Alessandro laughed aloud. Ramona had not more than two or three times - heard him do this. It frightened her. “Why do you laugh, Alessandro?” she - said. - </p> - <p> - “To think what I have to show you, my Senorita,” he said. “Look here;” and - turning towards the willows, he gave two or three low whistles, at the - first note of which Baba came trotting out of the copse to the end of his - lariat, and began to snort and whinny with delight as soon as he perceived - Ramona. - </p> - <p> - Ramona burst into tears. The surprise was too great. - </p> - <p> - “Are you not glad, Senorita?” cried Alessandro, aghast. “Is it not your - own horse? If you do not wish to take him, I will lead him back. My pony - can carry you, if we journey very slowly. But I thought it would be joy to - you to have Baba.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, it is! it is!” sobbed Ramona, with her head on Baba's neck. “It is a - miracle,—a miracle. How did he come here? And, the saddle too!” she - cried, for the first time observing that. “Alessandro,” in an awe-struck - whisper, “did the saints send him? Did you find him here?” It would have - seemed to Ramona's faith no strange thing, had this been so. - </p> - <p> - “I think the saints helped me to bring him,” answered Alessandro, - seriously, “or else I had not done it so easily. I did but call, near the - corral-fence, and he came to my hand, and leaped over the rails at my - word, as quickly as Capitan might have done. He is yours, Senorita. It is - no harm to take him?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no!” answered Ramona. “He is more mine than anything else I had; for - it was Felipe gave him to me when he could but just stand on his legs; he - was only two days old; and I have fed him out of my hand every day till - now; and now he is five. Dear Baba, we will never be parted, never!” and - she took his head in both her hands, and laid her cheek against it - lovingly. - </p> - <p> - Alessandro was busy, fastening the two nets on either side of the saddle. - “Baba will never know he has a load at all; they are not so heavy as my - Senorita thought,” he said. “It was the weight on the forehead, with - nothing to keep the strings from the skin, which gave her pain.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro was making all haste. His hands trembled. “We must make all the - speed we can, dearest Senorita,” he said, “for a few hours. Then we will - rest. Before light, we will be in a spot where we can hide safely all day. - We will journey only by night, lest they pursue us.” - </p> - <p> - “They will not,” said Ramona. “There is no danger. The Senora said she - should do nothing. 'Nothing!'” she repeated, in a bitter tone. “That is - what she made Felipe say, too. Felipe wanted to help us. He would have - liked to have you stay with us; but all he could get was, that she would - do 'nothing!' But they will not follow us. They will wish never to hear of - me again. I mean, the Senora will wish never to hear of me. Felipe will be - sorry. Felipe is very good, Alessandro.” - </p> - <p> - They were all ready now,—Ramona on Baba, the two packed nets - swinging from her saddle, one on either side. Alessandro, walking, led his - tired pony. It was a sad sort of procession for one going to be wed, but - Ramona's heart was full of joy. - </p> - <p> - “I don't know why it is, Alessandro,” she said; “I should think I would be - afraid, but I have not the least fear,—not the least; not of - anything that can come, Alessandro,” she reiterated with emphasis. “Is it - not strange?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Senorita,” he replied solemnly, laying his hand on hers as he walked - close at her side. “It is strange. I am afraid,—afraid for you, my - Senorita! But it is done, and we will not go back; and perhaps the saints - will help you, and will let me take care of you. They must love you, - Senorita; but they do not love me, nor my people.” - </p> - <p> - “Are you never going to call me by my name?” asked Ramona. “I hate your - calling me Senorita. That was what the Senora always called me when she - was displeased.” - </p> - <p> - “I will never speak the word again!” cried Alessandro. “The saints forbid - I should speak to you in the words of that woman!” - </p> - <p> - “Can't you say Ramona?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - Alessandro hesitated. He could not have told why it seemed to him - difficult to say Ramona. - </p> - <p> - “What was that other name, you said you always thought of me by?” she - continued. “The Indian name,—the name of the dove?” - </p> - <p> - “Majel,” he said. “It is by that name I have oftenest thought of you since - the night I watched all night for you, after you had kissed me, and two - wood-doves were calling and answering each other in the dark; and I said - to myself, that is what my love is like, the wood-dove: the wood-dove's - voice is low like hers, and sweeter than any other sound in the earth; and - the wood-dove is true to one mate always—” He stopped. - </p> - <p> - “As I to you, Alessandro,” said Ramona, leaning from her horse, and - resting her hand on Alessandro's shoulder. - </p> - <p> - Baba stopped. He was used to knowing by the most trivial signs what his - mistress wanted; he did not understand this new situation; no one had ever - before, when Ramona was riding him, walked by his side so close that he - touched his shoulders, and rested his hand in his mane. If it had been - anybody else than Alessandro, Baba would not have permitted it even now. - But it must be all right, since Ramona was quiet; and now she had - stretched out her hand and rested it on Alessandro's shoulder. Did that - mean halt for a moment? Baba thought it might, and acted accordingly; - turning his head round to the right, and looking back to see what came of - it. - </p> - <p> - Alessandro's arms around Ramona, her head bent down to his, their lips - together,—what could Baba think? As mischievously as if he had been - a human being or an elf, Baba bounded to one side and tore the lovers - apart. They both laughed, and cantered on,—Alessandro running; the - poor Indian pony feeling the contagion, and loping as it had not done for - many a day. - </p> - <p> - “Majel is my name, then,” said Ramona, “is it? It is a sweet sound, but I - would like it better Majella. Call me Majella.” - </p> - <p> - “That will be good,” replied Alessandro, “for the reason that never before - had any one the same name. It will not be hard for me to say Majella. I - know not why your name of Ramona has always been hard to my tongue.” - </p> - <p> - “Because it was to be that you should call me Majella,” said Ramona. - “Remember, I am Ramona no longer. That also was the name the Senora called - me by—and dear Felipe too,” she added thoughtfully. “He would not - know me by my new name. I would like to have him always call me Ramona. - But for all the rest of the world I am Majella, now,—Alessandro's - Majel!” - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XVI - </h2> - <p> - AFTER they reached the highway, and had trotted briskly on for a mile, - Alessandro suddenly put out his hand, and taking Baba by the rein, began - turning him round and round in the road. - </p> - <p> - “We will not go any farther in the road,” he said, “but I must conceal our - tracks here. We will go backwards for a few paces.” The obedient Baba - backed slowly, half dancing, as if he understood the trick; the Indian - pony, too, curvetted awkwardly, then by a sudden bound under Alessandro's - skilful guidance, leaped over a rock to the right, and stood waiting - further orders. Baba followed, and Capitan; and there was no trail to show - where they had left the road. - </p> - <p> - After trotting the pony round and round again in ever-widening circles, - cantering off in one direction after another, then backing over the tracks - for a few moments, Ramona docilely following, though much bewildered as to - what it all meant, Alessandro said: “I think now they will never discover - where we left the road. They will ride along, seeing our tracks plain, and - then they will be so sure that we would have kept straight on, that they - will not notice for a time; and when they do, they will never be able to - see where the trail ended. And now my Majella has a very hard ride before - her. Will she be afraid?” - </p> - <p> - “Afraid.” laughed Ramona. “Afraid,—on Baba, and with you!” - </p> - <p> - But it was indeed a hard ride. Alessandro had decided to hide for the day - in a canon he knew, from which a narrow trail led direct to Temecula,—a - trail which was known to none but Indians. Once in this canon, they would - be safe from all possible pursuit. Alessandro did not in the least share - Ramona's confidence that no effort would be made to overtake them. To his - mind, it appeared certain that the Senora would never accept the situation - without making an attempt to recover at least the horse and the dog. “She - can say, if she chooses, that I have stolen one of her horses,” he thought - to himself bitterly; “and everybody would believe her. Nobody would - believe us, if we said it was the Senorita's own horse.” - </p> - <p> - The head of the canon was only a couple of miles from the road; but it was - in a nearly impenetrable thicket of chaparral, where young oaks had grown - up so high that their tops made, as it were, a second stratum of thicket. - Alessandro had never ridden through it; he had come up on foot once from - the other side, and, forcing his way through the tangle had found, to his - surprise, that he was near the highway. It was from this canon that he had - brought the ferns which it had so delighted Ramona to arrange for the - decoration of the chapel. The place was filled with them, growing almost - in tropical luxuriance; but this was a mile or so farther down, and to - reach that spot from above, Alessandro had had to let himself down a sheer - wall of stone. The canon at its head was little more than a rift in the - rocks, and the stream which had its rise in it was only a trickling spring - at the beginning. It was this precious water, as well as the - inaccessibility of the spot, which had decided Alessandro to gain the - place at all hazards and costs. But a wall of granite would not have - seemed a much more insuperable obstacle than did this wall of chaparral, - along which they rode, vainly searching for a break in it. It appeared to - Alessandro to have thickened and knit even since the last spring. At last - they made their way down a small side canon,—a sort of wing to the - main canon; a very few rods down this, and they were as hidden from view - from above as if the earth had swallowed them. The first red tints of the - dawn were coming. From the eastern horizon to the zenith, the whole sky - was like a dappled crimson fleece. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, what a lovely place.” exclaimed Ramona. “I am sure this was not a - hard ride at all, Alessandro! Is this where we are to stay?” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro turned a compassionate look upon her. “How little does the - wood-dove know of rough places!” he said. “This is only the beginning; - hardly is it even the beginning.” - </p> - <p> - Fastening his pony to a bush, he reconnoitred the place, disappearing from - sight the moment he entered the chaparral in any direction. Returning at - last, with a grave face, he said, “Will Majella let me leave her here for - a little time? There is a way, but I can find it only on foot. I will not - be gone long. I know it is near.” - </p> - <p> - Tears came into Ramona's eyes. The only thing she dreaded was the losing - sight of Alessandro. He gazed at her anxiously. “I must go, Majella,” he - said with emphasis. “We are in danger here.” - </p> - <p> - “Go! go! Alessandro,” she cried. “But, oh, do not be long!” - </p> - <p> - As he disappeared in the thicket, the tough boughs crackling and snapping - before him, it seemed to Ramona that she was again alone in the world. - Capitan, too, bounded after Alessandro, and did not return at her call. - All was still. Ramona laid her head on Baba's neck. The moments seemed - hours. At last, just as the yellow light streamed across the sky, and the - crimson fleeces turned in one second to gold, she heard Alessandro's - steps, the next moment saw his face. It was aglow with joy. - </p> - <p> - “I have found the trail!” he exclaimed; “but we must climb up again out of - this; and it is too light. I like it not.” - </p> - <p> - With fear and trembling they urged their horses up and out into the open - again, and galloped a half-mile farther west, still keeping as close to - the chaparral thicket as possible. Here Alessandro, who led the way, - suddenly turned into the very thicket itself; no apparent opening; but the - boughs parted and closed, and his head appeared above them; still the - little pony was trotting bravely along. Baba snorted with displeasure as - he plunged into the same bristling pathway. The thick-set, thorny branches - smote Ramona's cheeks. What was worse, they caught the nets swung on - Baba's sides; presently these were held fast, and Baba began to rear and - kick. Here was a real difficulty. Alessandro dismounted, cut the strings, - and put both the packages securely on the back of his own pony. “I will - walk,” he said. “It was only a little way longer I would have ridden. I - shall lead Baba, where it is narrow.” - </p> - <p> - “Narrow,” indeed. It was from sheer terror, soon, that Ramona shut her - eyes. A path, it seemed to her only a hand's-breadth wide,—a stony, - crumbling path,—on the side of a precipice, down which the stones - rolled, and rolled, and rolled, echoing, far out of sight, as they passed; - at each step the beasts took, the stones rolled and fell. Only the - yucca-plants, with their sharp bayonet-leaves, had made shift to keep - foothold on this precipice. Of these there were thousands; and their tall - flower-stalks, fifteen, twenty feet high, set thick with the shining, - smooth seed-cups, glistened like satin chalices in the sun. Below—hundreds - of feet below—lay the canon bottom, a solid bed of chaparral, - looking soft and even as a bed of moss. Giant sycamore-trees lifted their - heads, at intervals, above this; and far out in the plain glistened the - loops of the river, whose sources, unknown to the world, seen of but few - human eyes, were to be waters of comfort to these fugitives this day. - </p> - <p> - Alessandro was cheered. The trail was child's play to him. At the first - tread of Baba's dainty steps on the rolling stones, he saw that the horse - was as sure-footed as an Indian pony. In a few short hours, now, they - would be all at rest. He knew where, under a sycamore-clump, there was - running water, clear as crystal, and cold,—almost colder than one - could drink,—and green grass too; plenty for two days' feed for the - horses, or even three; and all California might be searched over in vain - for them, once they were down this trail. His heart full of joy at these - thoughts, he turned, to see Ramona pallid, her lips parted, her eyes full - of terror. He had forgotten that her riding had hitherto been only on the - smooth ways of the valley and the plain, There she was so fearless, that - he had had no misgiving about her nerves here; but she had dropped the - reins, was clutching Baba's mane with both hands, and sitting unsteadily - in her saddle. She had been too proud to cry out; but she was nearly - beside herself with fright. Alessandro halted so suddenly that Baba, whose - nose was nearly on his shoulder, came to so sharp a stop that Ramona - uttered a cry. She thought he had lost his footing. - </p> - <p> - Alessandro looked at her in dismay. To dismount on that perilous trail was - impossible; moreover, to walk there would take more nerve than to ride. - Yet she looked as if she could not much longer keep her seat. - </p> - <p> - “Carita,” he cried, “I was stupid not to have told you how narrow the way - is; but it is safe. I can run in it. I ran all this way with the ferns on - my back I brought for you.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, did you?” gasped Ramona, diverted, for the moment, from her - contemplation of the abyss, and more reassured by that change of her - thoughts than she could have been by anything else. “Did you? It is - frightful, Alessandro. I never heard of such a trail. I feel as if I were - on a rope in the air. If I could get down and go on my hands and knees, I - think I would like it better. Could I?” - </p> - <p> - “I would not dare to have you get off, just here, Majella,” answered - Alessandro, sorrowfully. “It is dreadful to me to see you suffer so; I - will go very slowly. Indeed, it is safe; we all came up here, the whole - band, for the sheep-shearing,—old Fernando on his horse all the - way.” - </p> - <p> - “Really,” said Ramona, taking comfort at each word, “I will try not to be - so silly. Is it far, dearest Alessandro?” - </p> - <p> - “Not much more as steep as this, dear, nor so narrow; but it will be an - hour yet before we stop.” - </p> - <p> - But the worst was over for Ramona now, and long before they reached the - bottom of the precipice she was ready to laugh at her fears; only, as she - looked back at the zigzag lines of the path over which she had come,—little - more than a brown thread, they seemed, flung along the rock,—she - shuddered. - </p> - <p> - Down in the bottom of the canon it was still the dusky gloaming when they - arrived. Day came late to this fairy spot. Only at high noon did the sun - fairly shine in. As Ramona looked around her, she uttered an exclamation - of delight, which satisfied Alessandro. “Yes,” he said, “when I came here - for the ferns, I wished to myself many times that you could see it. There - is not in all this country so beautiful a place. This is our first home, - my Majella,” he added, in a tone almost solemn; and throwing his arms - around her, he drew her to his breast, with the first feeling of joy he - had experienced. - </p> - <p> - “I wish we could live here always,” cried Ramona. - </p> - <p> - “Would Majella be content?” said Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - “Very,” she answered. - </p> - <p> - He sighed. “There would not be land enough, to live here,” he said. “If - there were, I too would like to stay here till I died, Majella, and never - see the face of a white man again!” Already the instinct of the hunted and - wounded animal to seek hiding, was striving in Alessandro's blood. “But - there would be no food. We could not live here.” Ramona's exclamation had - set Alessandro to thinking, however. “Would Majella be content to stay - here three days now?” he asked. “There is grass enough for the horses for - that time. We should be very safe here; and I fear very much we should not - be safe on any road. I think, Majella, the Senora will send men after - Baba.” - </p> - <p> - “Baba!” cried Ramona, aghast at the idea. “My own horse! She would not - dare to call it stealing a horse, to take my own Baba!” But even as she - spoke, her heart misgave her. The Senora would dare anything; would - misrepresent anything; only too well Ramona knew what the very mention of - the phrase “horse-stealing” meant all through the country. She looked - piteously at Alessandro. He read her thoughts. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, that is it, Majella,” he said. “If she sent men after Baba, there is - no knowing what they might do. It would not do any good for you to say he - was yours. They would not believe you; and they might take me too, if the - Senora had told them to, and put me into Ventura jail.” - </p> - <p> - “She's just wicked enough to do it!” cried Ramona. “Let us not stir out of - this spot, Alessandro,—not for a week! Couldn't we stay a week? By - that time she would have given over looking for us.” - </p> - <p> - “I am afraid not a week. There is not feed for the horses; and I do not - know what we could eat. I have my gun, but there is not much, now, to - kill.” - </p> - <p> - “But I have brought meat and bread, Alessandro,” said Ramona, earnestly, - “and we could eat very little each day, and make it last!” She was like a - child, in her simplicity and eagerness. Every other thought was for the - time being driven out of her mind by the terror of being pursued. Pursuit - of her, she knew, would not be in the Senora's plan; but the reclaiming of - Baba and Capitan, that was another thing. The more Ramona thought of it, - the more it seemed to her a form of vengeance which would be likely to - commend itself to the Senora's mind. Felipe might possibly prevent it. It - was he who had given Baba to her. He would feel that it would be shameful - to recall or deny the gift. Only in Felipe lay Ramona's hope. - </p> - <p> - If she had thought to tell Alessandro that in her farewell note to Felipe - she had said that she supposed they were going to Father Salvierderra, it - would have saved both her and Alessandro much disquietude. Alessandro - would have known that men pursuing them, on that supposition, would have - gone straight down the river road to the sea, and struck northward along - the coast. But it did not occur to Ramona to mention this; in fact, she - hardly recollected it after the first day. Alessandro had explained to her - his plan, which was to go by way of Temecula to San Diego, to be married - there by Father Gaspara, the priest of that parish, and then go to the - village or pueblo of San Pasquale, about fifteen miles northwest of San - Diego. A cousin of Alessandro's was the head man of this village, and had - many times begged him to come there to live; but Alessandro had steadily - refused, believing it to be his duty to remain at Temecula with his - father. San Pasquale was a regularly established pueblo, founded by a - number of the Indian neophytes of the San Luis Rey Mission at the time of - the breaking up of that Mission. It was established by a decree of the - Governor of California, and the lands of the San Pasquale Valley given to - it. A paper recording this establishment and gift, signed by the - Governor's own hand, was given to the Indian who was the first Alcalde of - the pueblo. He was Chief Pablo's brother. At his death the authority - passed into the hands of his son, Ysidro, the cousin of whom Alessandro - had spoken. - </p> - <p> - “Ysidro has that paper still,” Alessandro said, “and he thinks it will - keep them their village. Perhaps it will; but the Americans are beginning - to come in at the head of the valley, and I do not believe, Majella, there - is any safety anywhere. Still, for a few years we can perhaps stay there. - There are nearly two hundred Indians in the valley; it is much better than - Temecula, and Ysidro's people are much better off than ours were. They - have splendid herds of cattle and horses, and large wheat-fields. Ysidro's - house stands under a great fig-tree; they say it is the largest fig-tree - in the country.” - </p> - <p> - “But, Alessandro,” cried Ramona, “why do you think it is not safe there, - if Ysidro has the paper? I thought a paper made it all right.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't know,” replied Alessandro. “Perhaps it may be; but I have got the - feeling now that nothing will be of any use against the Americans. I don't - believe they will mind the paper.” - </p> - <p> - “They didn't mind the papers the Senora had for all that land of hers they - took away,” said Ramona, thoughtfully. “But Felipe said that was because - Pio Pico was a bad man, and gave away lands he had no right to give away.” - </p> - <p> - “That's just it,” said Alessandro. “Can't they say that same thing about - any governor, especially if he has given lands to us? If the Senora - couldn't keep hers, with Senor Felipe to help her, and he knows all about - the law, and can speak the American language, what chance is there for us? - We can't take care of ourselves any better than the wild beasts can, my - Majella. Oh, why, why did you come with me? Why did I let you?” - </p> - <p> - After such words as these, Alessandro would throw himself on the ground, - and for a few moments not even Ramona's voice would make him look up. It - was strange that the gentle girl, unused to hardship, or to the thought of - danger, did not find herself terrified by these fierce glooms and - apprehensions of her lover. But she was appalled by nothing. Saved from - the only thing in life she had dreaded, sure that Alessandro lived, and - that he would not leave her, she had no fears. This was partly from her - inexperience, from her utter inability to conceive of the things - Alessandro's imagination painted in colors only too true; but it was also - largely due to the inalienable loyalty and quenchless courage of her soul,—qualities - in her nature never yet tested; qualities of which she hardly knew so much - as the name, but which were to bear her steadfast and buoyant through many - sorrowful years. - </p> - <p> - Before nightfall of this their first day in the wilderness, Alessandro had - prepared for Ramona a bed of finely broken twigs of the manzanita and - ceanothus, both of which grew in abundance all through the canon. Above - these he spread layers of glossy ferns, five and six feet long; when it - was done, it was a couch no queen need have scorned. As Ramona seated - herself on it, she exclaimed: “Now I shall see how it feels to lie and - look up at the stars at night! Do you recollect, Alessandro, the night you - put Felipe's bed on the veranda, when you told me how beautiful it was to - lie at night out of doors and look up at the stars?” - </p> - <p> - Indeed did Alessandro remember that night,—the first moment he had - ever dared to dream of the Senorita Ramona as his own. “Yes, I remember - it, my Majella,” he answered slowly; and in a moment more added, “That was - the day Juan Can had told me that your mother was of my people; and that - was the night I first dared in my thoughts to say that perhaps you might - some day love me.” - </p> - <p> - “But where are you going to sleep, Alessandro?” said Ramona, seeing that - he spread no more boughs. “You have made yourself no bed.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro laughed. “I need no bed,” he said. “We think it is on our - mother's lap we lie, when we lie on the ground. It is not hard, Majella. - It is soft, and rests one better than beds. But to-night I shall not - sleep. I will sit by this tree and watch.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, what are you afraid of?” asked Ramona. - </p> - <p> - “It may grow so cold that I must make a fire for Majella,” he answered. - “It sometimes gets very cold before morning in these canons; so I shall - feel safer to watch to-night.” - </p> - <p> - This he said, not to alarm Ramona. His real reason for watching was, that - he had seen on the edge of the stream tracks which gave him uneasiness. - They were faint and evidently old; but they looked like the tracks of a - mountain lion. As soon as it was dark enough to prevent the curl of smoke - from being seen from below, he would light a fire, and keep it blazing all - night, and watch, gun in hand, lest the beast return. - </p> - <p> - “But you will be dead, Alessandro, if you do not sleep. You are not - strong,” said Ramona, anxiously. - </p> - <p> - “I am strong now, Majella,” answered Alessandro. And indeed he did already - look like a renewed man, spite of all his fatigue and anxiety. “I am no - longer weak; and to-morrow I will sleep, and you shall watch.” - </p> - <p> - “Will you lie on the fern-bed then?” asked Ramona, gleefully. - </p> - <p> - “I would like the ground better,” said honest Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - Ramona looked disappointed. “That is very strange,” she said. “It is not - so soft, this bed of boughs, that one need fear to be made tender by lying - on it,” she continued, throwing herself down; “but oh, how sweet, how - sweet it smells!” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, there is spice-wood in it,” he answered. “I put it in at the head, - for Majella's pillow.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona was very tired, and she was happy. All night long she slept like a - child. She did not hear Alessandro's steps. She did not hear the crackling - of the fire he lighted. She did not hear the barking of Capitan, who more - than once, spite of all Alessandro could do to quiet him, made the canon - echo with sharp, quick notes of warning, as he heard the stealthy steps of - wild creatures in the chaparral. Hour after hour she slept on. And hour - after hour Alessandro sat leaning against a huge sycamore-trunk, and - watched her. As the fitful firelight played over her face, he thought he - had never seen it so beautiful, Its expression of calm repose insensibly - soothed and strengthened him. She looked like a saint, he thought; perhaps - it was as a saint of help and guidance, the Virgin was sending her to him - and his people. The darkness deepened, became blackness; only the red - gleams from the fire broke it, in swaying rifts, as the wind makes rifts - in black storm-clouds in the heavens. With the darkness, the stillness - also deepened. Nothing broke that, except an occasional motion of Baba or - the pony, or an alert signal from Capitan; then all seemed stiller than - ever. Alessandro felt as if God himself were in the canon. Countless times - in his life before he had lain in lonely places under the sky and watched - the night through, but he never felt like this. It was ecstasy, and yet it - was pain. What was to come on the morrow, and the next morrow, and the - next, and the next, all through the coming years? What was to come to this - beloved and loving woman who lay there sleeping, so confident, so - trustful, guarded only by him,—by him, Alessandro, the exile, - fugitive, homeless man? - </p> - <p> - Before the dawn, wood-doves began their calling. The canon was full of - them, no two notes quite alike, it seemed to Alessandro's sharpened sense; - pair after pair, he fancied that he recognized, speaking and replying, as - did the pair whose voices had so comforted him the night he watched under - the geranium hedge by the Moreno chapel,—“Love?” “Here!” “Love?” - “Here!” They comforted him still more now. “They too have only each - other,” he thought, as he bent his eyes lovingly on Ramona's face. - </p> - <p> - It was dawn, and past dawn, on the plains, before it was yet morning - twilight in the canon; but the birds in the upper boughs' of the sycamores - caught the tokens of the coming day, and began to twitter in the dusk. - Their notes fell on Ramona's sleeping ear, like the familiar sound of the - linnets in the veranda-thatch at home, and waked her instantly. Sitting up - bewildered, and looking about her, she exclaimed, “Oh, is it morning - already, and so dark? The birds can see more sky than we! Sing, - Alessandro,” and she began the hymn:— - </p> - <p> - “'Singers at dawn From the heavens above People all regions; Gladly we too - sing.'” - </p> - <p> - Never went up truer invocation, from sweeter spot. - </p> - <p> - “Sing not so loud, my Majel,” whispered Alessandro, as her voice went - carolling like a lark's in the pure ether. “There might be hunters near - who would hear;” and he joined in with low and muffled tones. - </p> - <p> - As she dropped her voice at this caution, it seemed even sweeter than - before:— - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - “'Come, O sinners, - Come, and we will sing - Tender hymns - To our refuge,'” - </pre> - <p> - “Ah, Majella, there is no sinner here, except me!” said Alessandro. “My - Majella is like one of the Virgin's own saints.” And indeed he might have - been forgiven the thought as he gazed at Ramona, sitting there in the - shimmering light, her face thrown out into relief by the gray wall of - fern-draped rock behind her; her splendid hair, unbound, falling in - tangled masses to her waist; her cheeks flushed, her face radiant with - devout and fervent supplication, her eyes uplifted to the narrow belt of - sky overhead, where filmy vapors were turning to gold, touched by a sun - she could not see. - </p> - <p> - “Hush, my love,” she breathed rather than said. “That would be a sin, if - you really thought it. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - 'O beautiful Queen, - Princess of Heaven,'” - </pre> - <p> - she continued, repeating the first lines of the song; and then, sinking on - her knees, reached out one hand for Alessandro's, and glided, almost - without a break in the melodious sound, into a low recitative of the - morning-prayers. Her rosary was of fine-chased gold beads, with an ivory - crucifix; a rare and precious relic of the Missions' olden times. It had - belonged to Father Peyri himself, was given by him to Father Salvierderra, - and by Father Salvierderra to the “blessed child,” Ramona, at her - confirmation. A warmer token of his love and trust he could not have - bestowed upon her, and to Ramona's religious and affectionate heart it had - always seemed a bond and an assurance, not only of Father Salvierderra's - love, but of the love and protection of the now sainted Peyri. - </p> - <p> - As she pronounced the last words of her trusting prayer, and slipped the - last of the golden beads along on its string, a thread of sunlight shot - into the canon through a deep narrow gap in its rocky eastern crest,—shot - in for a second, no more; fell aslant the rosary, lighted it; by a flash - as if of fire, across the fine-cut facets of the beads, on Ramona's hands, - and on the white face of the ivory Christ. Only a flash, and it was gone! - To both Ramona and Alessandro it came like an omen,—like a message - straight from the Virgin. Could she choose better messenger,—she, - the compassionate one, the loving woman in heaven; mother of the Christ to - whom they prayed, through her,—mother, for whose sake He would - regard their least cry,—could she choose better messenger, or - swifter, than the sunbeam, to say that she heard and would help them in - these sore straits. - </p> - <p> - Perhaps there were not, in the whole great world, at that moment to be - found, two souls who were experiencing so vivid a happiness as thrilled - the veins of these two friendless ones, on their knees, alone in the - wilderness, gazing half awe-stricken at the shining rosary. - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XVII - </h2> - <p> - BEFORE the end of their second day in the canon, the place had become to - Ramona so like a friendly home, that she dreaded to leave its shelter. - Nothing is stronger proof of the original intent of Nature to do more for - man than the civilization in its arrogance will long permit her to do, - than the quick and sure way in which she reclaims his affection, when by - weariness, idle chance, or disaster, he is returned, for an interval, to - her arms. How soon he rejects the miserable subterfuges of what he had - called habits; sheds the still more miserable pretences of superiority, - makeshifts of adornment, and chains of custom! “Whom the gods love, die - young,” has been too long carelessly said. It is not true, in the sense in - which men use the words. Whom the gods love, dwell with nature; if they - are ever lured away, return to her before they are old. Then, however long - they live before they die, they die young. Whom the gods love, live young—forever. - </p> - <p> - With the insight of a lover added to the instinct of the Indian, - Alessandro saw how, hour by hour, there grew in Ramona's eyes the wonted - look of one at home; how she watched the shadows, and knew what they - meant. - </p> - <p> - “If we lived here, the walls would be sun-dials for us, would they not?” - she said, in a tone of pleasure. “I see that yon tall yucca has gone in - shadow sooner than it did yesterday.” - </p> - <p> - And, “What millions of things grow here, Alessandro! I did not know there - were so many. Have they all names? The nuns taught us some names; but they - were hard, and I forgot them, We might name them for ourselves, if we - lived here. They would be our relations.” - </p> - <p> - And, “For one year I should lie and look up at the sky, my Alessandro, and - do nothing else. It hardly seems as if it would be a sin to do nothing for - a year, if one gazed steadily at the sky all the while.” - </p> - <p> - And, “Now I know what it is I have always seen in your face, Alessandro. - It is the look from the sky. One must be always serious and not unhappy, - but never too glad, I think, when he lives with nothing between him and - the sky, and the saints can see him every minute.” - </p> - <p> - And, “I cannot believe that it is but two days I have lived in the air, - Alessandro. This seems to me the first home I have ever had. Is it because - I am Indian, Alessandro, that it gives me such joy?” - </p> - <p> - It was strange how many more words Ramona spoke than Alessandro, yet how - full she felt their intercourse to be. His silence was more than silent; - it was taciturn. Yet she always felt herself answered. A monosyllable of - Alessandro's, nay, a look, told what other men took long sentences to say, - and said less eloquently. - </p> - <p> - After long thinking over this, she exclaimed, “You speak as the trees - speak, and like the rock yonder, and the flowers, without saying - anything!” - </p> - <p> - This delighted Alessandro's very heart. “And you, Majella,” he exclaimed; - “when you say that, you speak in the language of our people; you are as we - are.” - </p> - <p> - And Ramona, in her turn, was made happy by his words,—happier than - she would have been made by any other praise or fondness. - </p> - <p> - Alessandro found himself regaining all his strength as if by a miracle. - The gaunt look had left his face. Almost it seemed that its contour was - already fuller. There is a beautiful old Gaelic legend of a Fairy who - wooed a Prince, came again and again to him, and, herself invisible to all - but the Prince, hovered in the air, sang loving songs to draw him away - from the crowd of his indignant nobles, who heard her voice and summoned - magicians to rout her by all spells and enchantments at their command. - Finally they succeeded in silencing her and driving her off; but as she - vanished from the Prince's sight she threw him an apple,—a magic - golden apple. Once having tasted of this, he refused all other food. Day - after day, night after night, he ate only this golden apple; and yet, - morning after morning, evening after evening, there lay the golden fruit, - still whole and shining, as if he had not fed upon it; and when the Fairy - came the next time, the Prince leaped into her magic boat, sailed away - with her, and never was seen in his kingdom again. It was only an - allegory, this legend,—a beautiful allegory, and true,—of love - and lovers. The food on which Alessandro was, hour by hour, now growing - strong, was as magic and invisible as Prince Connla's apple, and just as - strength-giving. - </p> - <p> - “My Alessandro, how is it you look so well, so soon?” said Ramona, - studying his countenance with loving care. “I thought that night you would - die. Now you look nearly strong as ever; your eyes shine, and your hand is - not hot! It is the blessed air; it has cured you, as it cured Felipe of - the fever.” - </p> - <p> - “If the air could keep me well, I had not been ill, Majella,” replied - Alessandro. “I had been under no roof except the tule-shed, till I saw - you. It is not the air;” and he looked at her with a gaze that said the - rest. - </p> - <p> - At twilight of the third day, when Ramona saw Alessandro leading up Baba, - saddled ready for the journey, the tears filled her eyes. At noon - Alessandro had said to her: “To-night, Majella, we must go. There is not - grass enough for another day. We must go while the horses are strong. I - dare not lead them any farther down the canon to graze, for there is a - ranch only a few miles lower. To-day I found one of the man's cows feeding - near Baba.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona made no remonstrance. The necessity was too evident; but the look - on her face gave Alessandro a new pang. He, too, felt as if exiled afresh - in leaving the spot. And now, as he led the horses slowly up, and saw - Ramona sitting in a dejected attitude beside the nets in which were again - carefully packed their small stores, his heart ached anew. Again the sense - of his homeless and destitute condition settled like an unbearable burden - on his soul. Whither and to what was he leading his Majella? - </p> - <p> - But once in the saddle, Ramona recovered cheerfulness. Baba was in such - gay heart, she could not be wholly sad. The horse seemed fairly rollicking - with satisfaction at being once more on the move. Capitan, too, was gay. - He had found the canon dull, spite of its refreshing shade and cool water. - He longed for sheep. He did not understand this inactivity. The puzzled - look on his face had made Ramona laugh more than once, as he would come - and stand before her, wagging his tail and fixing his eyes intently on her - face, as if he said in so many words, “What in the world are you about in - this canon, and do not you ever intend to return home? Or if you will stay - here, why not keep sheep? Do you not see that I have nothing to do?” - </p> - <p> - “We must ride all night, Majella,” said Alessandro, “and lose no time. It - is a long way to the place where we shall stay to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - “Is it a canon?” asked Ramona, hopefully. - </p> - <p> - “No,” he replied, “not a canon; but there are beautiful oak-trees. It is - where we get our acorns for the winter. It is on the top of a high hill.” - </p> - <p> - “Will it be safe there?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - “I think so,” he replied; “though not so safe as here. There is no such - place as this in all the country.” - </p> - <p> - “And then where shall we go next?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - “That is very near Temecula,” he said. “We must go into Temecula, dear - Majella. I must go to Mr. Hartsel's. He is friendly. He will give me money - for my father's violin. If it were not for that, I would never go near the - place again.” - </p> - <p> - “I would like to see it, Alessandro,” she said gently. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, no, Majella!” he cried; “you would not. It is terrible; the - houses all unroofed,—all but my father's and Jose's. They were - shingled roofs; they will be just the same; all the rest are only walls. - Antonio's mother threw hers down; I don't know how the old woman ever had - the strength; they said she was like a fury. She said nobody should ever - live in those walls again; and she took a pole, and made a great hole in - one side, and then she ran Antonio's wagon against it with all her might, - till it fell in. No, Majella. It will be dreadful.” - </p> - <p> - “Wouldn't you like to go into the graveyard again, Alessandro?” she said - timidly. - </p> - <p> - “The saints forbid!” he said solemnly. “I think it would make me a - murderer to stand in that graveyard! If I had not you, my Majel, I should - kill some white man when I came out. Oh, do not speak of it!” he added, - after a moment's silence; “it takes the strength all out of my blood - again, Majella. It feels as if I should die!” - </p> - <p> - And the word “Temecula” was not mentioned between them again until dusk - the next day, when, as they were riding slowly along between low, wooded - hills, they suddenly came to an opening, a green, marshy place, with a - little thread of trickling water, at which their horses stopped, and drank - thirstily; and Ramona, looking ahead, saw lights twinkling in the - distance. “Lights, Alessandro, lights!” she exclaimed, pointing to them. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Majella,” he replied, “it is Temecula,” and springing off his pony - he came to her side, and putting both his hands on hers, said: “I have - been thinking, for a long way back, Carita, what is to be done here. I do - not know. What does Majella think will be wise? If men have been sent out - to pursue us, they may be at Hartsel's. His store is the place where - everybody stops, everybody goes. I dare not have you go there, Majella; - yet I must go. The only way I can get any money is from Mr. Hartsel.” - </p> - <p> - “I must wait somewhere while you go!” said Ramona, her heart beating as - she gazed ahead into the blackness of the great plain. It looked vast as - the sea. “That is the only safe thing, Alessandro.” - </p> - <p> - “I think so too,” he said; “but, oh, I am afraid for you; and will not you - be afraid?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” she replied, “I am afraid. But it is not so dangerous as the - other.” - </p> - <p> - “If anything were to happen to me, and I could not come back to you, - Majella, if you give Baba his reins he will take you safe home,—he - and Capitan.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona shrieked aloud. She had not thought of this possibility. Alessandro - had thought of everything. “What could happen?” she cried. - </p> - <p> - “I mean if the men were there, and if they took me for stealing the - horse,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “But you would not have the horse with you,” she said. “How could they - take you?” - </p> - <p> - “That mightn't make any difference,” replied Alessandro. “They might take - me, to make me tell where the horse was.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Alessandro,” sobbed Ramona, “what shall we do!” Then in another - second, gathering her courage, she exclaimed, “Alessandro, I know what I - will do. I will stay in the graveyard. No one will come there. Shall I not - be safest there?” - </p> - <p> - “Holy Virgin! would my Majel stay there?” exclaimed Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - “Why not?” she said. “It is not the dead that will harm us. They would all - help us if they could. I have no fear. I will wait there while you go; and - if you do not come in an hour, I will come to Mr. Hartsel's after you. If - there are men of the Senora's there, they will know me; they will not dare - to touch me. They will know that Felipe would punish them. I will not be - afraid. And if they are ordered to take Baba, they can have him; we can - walk when the pony is tired.” - </p> - <p> - Her confidence was contagious. “My wood-dove has in her breast the heart - of the lion,” said Alessandro, fondly. “We will do as she says. She is - wise;” and he turned their horses' heads in the direction of the - graveyard. It was surrounded by a low adobe wall, with one small gate of - wooden paling. As they reached it, Alessandro exclaimed, “The thieves have - taken the gate!” - </p> - <p> - “What could they have wanted with that?” said Ramona - </p> - <p> - “To burn,” he said doggedly, “It was wood; but it was very little. They - might have left the graves safe from wild beasts and cattle!” - </p> - <p> - As they entered the enclosure, a dark figure rose from one of the graves. - Ramona started. - </p> - <p> - “Fear nothing,” whispered Alessandro. “It must be one of our people. I am - glad; now you will not be alone. It is Carmena, I am sure. That was the - corner where they buried Jose. I will speak to her;” and leaving Ramona at - the gate, he went slowly on, saying in a low voice, in the Luiseno - language, “Carmena, is that you? Have no fear. It is I, Alessandro!” - </p> - <p> - It was Carmena. The poor creature, nearly crazed with grief, was spending - her days by her baby's grave in Pachanga, and her nights by her husband's - in Temecula. She dared not come to Temecula by day, for the Americans were - there, and she feared them. After a short talk with her, Alessandro - returned, leading her along. Bringing her to Ramona's side, he laid her - feverish hand in Ramona's, and said: “Majella, I have told her all. She - cannot speak a word of Spanish, but she is very glad, she says, that you - have come with me, and she will stay close by your side till I come back.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona's tender heart ached with desire to comfort the girl; but all she - could do was to press her hand in silence. Even in the darkness she could - see the hollow, mournful eyes and the wasted cheek. Words are less needful - to sorrow than to joy. Carmena felt in every fibre how Ramona was pitying - her. Presently she made a gentle motion, as if to draw her from the - saddle. Ramona bent down and looked inquiringly into her face. Again she - drew her gently with one hand, and with the other pointed to the corner - from which she had come. Ramona understood. “She wants to show me her - husband's grave,” she thought. “She does not like to be away from it. I - will go with her.” - </p> - <p> - Dismounting, and taking Baba's bridle over her arm, she bowed her head - assentingly, and still keeping firm hold of Carmena's hand, followed her. - The graves were thick, and irregularly placed, each mound marked by a - small wooden cross. Carmena led with the swift step of one who knew each - inch of the way by heart. More than once Ramona stumbled and nearly fell, - and Baba was impatient and restive at the strange inequalities under his - feet. When they reached the corner, Ramona saw the fresh-piled earth of - the new grave. Uttering a wailing cry, Carmena, drawing Ramona to the edge - of it, pointing down with her right hand, then laid both hands on her - heart, and gazed at Ramona piteously. Ramona burst into weeping, and again - clasping Carmena's hand, laid it on her own breast, to show her sympathy. - Carmena did not weep. She was long past that; and she felt for the moment - lifted out of herself by the sweet, sudden sympathy of this stranger,—this - girl like herself, yet so different, so wonderful, so beautiful, Carmena - was sure she must be. Had the saints sent her from heaven to Alessandro? - What did it mean? Carmena's bosom was heaving with the things she longed - to say and to ask; but all she could do was to press Ramona's hand again - and again, and occasionally lay her soft cheek upon it. - </p> - <p> - “Now, was it not the saints that put it into my head to come to the - graveyard?” thought Ramona. “What a comfort to this poor heart-broken - thing to see Alessandro! And she keeps me from all fear. Holy Virgin! but - I had died of terror here all alone. Not that the dead would harm me; but - simply from the vast, silent plain, and the gloom.” - </p> - <p> - Soon Carmena made signs to Ramona that they would return to the gate. - Considerate and thoughtful, she remembered that Alessandro would expect to - find them there. But it was a long and weary watch they had, waiting for - Alessandro to come. - </p> - <p> - After leaving them, and tethering his pony, he had struck off at a quick - run for Hartsel's, which was perhaps an eighth of a mile from the - graveyard. His own old home lay a little to the right. As he drew near, he - saw a light in its windows. He stopped as if shot. “A light in our house!” - he exclaimed; and he clenched his hands. “Those cursed robbers have gone - into it to live already!” His blood seemed turning to fire. Ramona would - not have recognized the face of her Alessandro now. It was full of - implacable vengeance. Involuntarily he felt for his knife. It was gone. - His gun he had left inside the graveyard, leaning against the wall. Ah! in - the graveyard! Yes, and there also was Ramona waiting for him. Thoughts of - vengeance fled. The world held now but one work, one hope, one passion, - for him. But he would at least see who were these dwellers in his father's - house. A fierce desire to see their faces burned within him. Why should he - thus torture himself? Why, indeed? But he must. He would see the new - home-life already begun on the grave of his. Stealthily creeping under the - window from which the light shone, he listened. He heard children's - voices; a woman's voice; at intervals the voice of a man, gruff and surly; - various household sounds also. It was evidently the supper-hour. - Cautiously raising himself till his eyes were on a level with the lowest - panes in the window, he looked in. - </p> - <p> - A table was set in the middle of the floor, and there were sitting at it a - man, woman, and two children. The youngest, little more than a baby, sat - in its high chair, drumming with a spoon on the table, impatient for its - supper. The room was in great confusion,—beds made on the floor, - open boxes half unpacked, saddles and harness thrown down in the corners; - evidently there were new-comers into the house. The window was open by an - inch. It had warped, and would not shut down. Bitterly Alessandro - recollected how he had put off from day to day the planing of that window - to make it shut tight. Now, thanks to the crack, he could hear all that - was said. The woman looked weary and worn. Her face was a sensitive one, - and her voice kindly; but the man had the countenance of a brute,—of - a human brute. Why do we malign the so-called brute creation, making their - names a unit of comparison for base traits which never one of them - possessed? - </p> - <p> - “It seems as if I never should get to rights in this world!” said the - woman. Alessandro understood enough English to gather the meaning of what - she said. He listened eagerly. “When will the next wagon get here?” - </p> - <p> - “I don't know,” growled her husband. “There's been a slide in that cursed - canon, and blocked the road. They won't be here for several days yet. - Hain't you got stuff enough round now? If you'd clear up what's here now, - then 'twould be time enough to grumble because you hadn't got everything.” - </p> - <p> - “But, John,” she replied, “I can't clear up till the bureau comes, to put - the things away in, and the bedstead. I can't seem to do anything.” - </p> - <p> - “You can grumble, I take notice,” he answered. “That's about all you women - are good for, anyhow. There was a first-rate raw-hide bedstead in here. If - Rothsaker hadn't been such a fool's to let those dogs of Indians carry off - all their truck, we might have had that!” - </p> - <p> - The woman looked at him reproachfully, but did not speak for a moment. - Then her cheeks flushed, and seeming unable to repress the speech, she - exclaimed, “Well, I'm thankful enough he did let the poor things take - their furniture. I'd never have slept a wink an that bedstead, I know, if - it had ha' been left here. It's bad enough to take their houses this way!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you shut up your head for a blamed fool, will you!” cried the man. He - was half drunk, his worst and most dangerous state. She glanced at him - half timorously, half indignantly, and turning to the children, began - feeding the baby. At that second the other child looked up, and catching - sight of the outline of Alessandro's head, cried out, “There's a man - there! There, at the window!” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro threw himself flat on the ground, and held his breath. Had he - imperilled all, brought danger on himself and Ramona, by yielding to this - mad impulse to look once more inside the walls of his home? With a fearful - oath, the half-drunken man exclaimed, “One of those damned Indians, I - expect. I've seen several hangin' round to-day. We'll have to shoot two or - three of 'em yet, before we're rid of 'em!” and he took his gun down from - the pegs above the fireplace, and went to the door with it in his hand. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, don't fire, father, don't.” cried the woman. “They'll come and murder - us all in our sleep if you do! Don't fire!” and she pulled him back by the - sleeve. - </p> - <p> - Shaking her off, with another oath, he stepped across the threshold, and - stood listening, and peering into the darkness. Alessandro's heart beat - like a hammer in his breast. Except for the thought of Ramona, he would - have sprung on the man, seized his gun, and killed him. - </p> - <p> - “I don't believe it was anybody, after all, father,” persisted the woman. - “Bud's always seein' things. I don't believe there was anybody there. Come - in; supper's gettin' all cold.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I'll jest fire, to let 'em know there's powder 'n shot round here,” - said the fiend. “If it hits any on 'em roamin' round, he won't know what - hurt him;” and levelling his gun at random, with his drunken, unsteady - hand he fired. The bullet whistled away harmlessly into the empty - darkness. Hearkening a few moments, and hearing no cry, he hiccuped, - “Mi-i-issed him that time,” and went in to his supper. - </p> - <p> - Alessandro did not dare to stir for a long time. How he cursed his own - folly in having brought himself into this plight! What needless pain of - waiting he was inflicting on the faithful one, watching for him in that - desolate and fearful place of graves! At last he ventured,—sliding - along on his belly a few inches at a time, till, several rods from the - house, he dared at last to spring to his feet and bound away at full speed - for Hartsel's. - </p> - <p> - Hartsel's was one of those mongrel establishments to be seen nowhere - except in Southern California. Half shop, half farm, half tavern, it - gathered up to itself all the threads of the life of the whole region. - Indians, ranchmen, travellers of all sorts, traded at Hartsel's, drank at - Hartsel's, slept at Hartsel's. It was the only place of its kind within a - radius of twenty miles; and it was the least bad place of its kind within - a much wider radius. - </p> - <p> - Hartsel was by no means a bad fellow—when he was sober; but as that - condition was not so frequent as it should have been, he sometimes came - near being a very bad fellow indeed. At such times everybody was afraid of - him,—wife, children, travellers, ranchmen, and all. “It was only a - question of time and occasion,” they said, “Hartsel's killing somebody - sooner or later;” and it looked as if the time were drawing near fast. - But, out of his cups, Hartsel was kindly, and fairly truthful; - entertaining, too, to a degree which held many a wayfarer chained to his - chair till small hours of the morning, listening to his landlord's talk. - How he had drifted from Alsace to San Diego County, he could hardly have - told in minute detail himself, there had been so many stages and phases of - the strange journey; but he had come to his last halt now. Here, in this - Temecula, he would lay his bones. He liked the country. He liked the wild - life, and, for a wonder, he liked the Indians. Many a good word he spoke - for them to travellers who believed no good of the race, and evidently - listened with polite incredulity when he would say, as he often did: “I've - never lost a dollar off these Indians yet. They do all their trading with - me. There's some of them I trust as high's a hundred dollars. If they - can't pay this year, they'll pay next; and if they die, their relations - will pay their debts for them, a little at a time, till they've got it all - paid off. They'll pay in wheat, or bring a steer, maybe, or baskets or - mats the women make; but they'll pay. They're honester 'n the general run - of Mexicans about paying; I mean Mexicans that are as poor's they are.” - </p> - <p> - Hartsel's dwelling-house was a long, low adobe building, with still lower - flanking additions, in which were bedrooms for travellers, the kitchen, - and storerooms. The shop was a separate building, of rough planks, a story - and a half high, the loft of which was one great dormitory well provided - with beds on the floor, but with no other article of bedroom furniture. - They who slept in this loft had no fastidious standards of personal - luxury. These two buildings, with some half-dozen out-houses of one sort - and another, stood in an enclosure surrounded by a low white picket fence, - which gave to the place a certain home-like look, spite of the neglected - condition of the ground, which was bare sand, or sparsely tufted with - weeds and wild grass. A few plants, parched and straggling, stood in pots - and tin cans around the door of the dwelling-house. One hardly knew - whether they made the place look less desolate or more so. But they were - token of a woman's hand, and of a nature which craved something more than - the unredeemed wilderness around her afforded. - </p> - <p> - A dull and lurid light streamed out from the wide-open door of the store. - Alessandro drew cautiously near. The place was full of men, and he heard - loud laughing and talking. He dared not go in. Stealing around to the - rear, he leaped the fence, and went to the other house and opened the - kitchen door. Here he was not afraid. Mrs. Hartsel had never any but - Indian servants in her employ. The kitchen was lighted only by one dim - candle. On the stove were sputtering and hissing all the pots and - frying-pans it would hold. Much cooking was evidently going on for the men - who were noisily rollicking in the other house. - </p> - <p> - Seating himself by the fire, Alessandro waited. In a few moments Mrs. - Hartsel came hurrying back to her work. It was no uncommon experience to - find an Indian quietly sitting by her fire. In the dim light she did not - recognize Alessandro, but mistook him, as he sat bowed over, his head in - his hands, for old Ramon, who was a sort of recognized hanger-on of the - place, earning his living there by odd jobs of fetching and carrying, and - anything else he could do. - </p> - <p> - “Run, Ramon,” she said, “and bring me more wood; this cotton wood is so - dry, it burns out like rotten punk; I'm off my feet to-night, with all - these men to cook for;” then turning to the table, she began cutting her - bread, and did not see how tall and unlike Ramon was the man who silently - rose and went out to do her bidding. When, a few moments later, Alessandro - re-entered, bringing a huge armful of wood, which it would have cost poor - old Ramon three journeys at least to bring, and throwing it down, on the - hearth, said, “Will that be enough, Mrs. Hartsel?” she gave a scream of - surprise, and dropped her knife. “Why, who—” she began; then, seeing - his face, her own lighting up with pleasure, she continued, “Alessandro! - Is it you? Why, I took you in the dark for old Ramon! I thought you were - in Pachanga.” - </p> - <p> - “In Pachanga!” Then as yet no one had come from the Senora Moreno's to - Hartsel's in search of him and the Senorita Ramona! Alessandro's heart - felt almost light in his bosom, From the one immediate danger he had - dreaded, they were safe; but no trace of emotion showed on his face, and - he did not raise his eyes as he replied; “I have been in Pachanga. My - father is dead. I have buried him there.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Alessandro! Did he die?” cried the kindly woman, coming closer to - Alessandro, and laying her hand on his shoulder. “I heard he was sick.” - She paused; she did not know what to say. She had suffered so at the time - of the ejectment of the Indians, that it had made her ill. For two days - she had kept her doors shut and her windows close curtained, that she need - not see the terrible sights. She was not a woman of many words. She was a - Mexican, but there were those who said that some Indian blood ran in her - veins. This was not improbable; and it seemed more than ever probable now, - as she stood still by Alessandro's side, her hand on his shoulder, her - eyes fixed in distress on his face. How he had altered! How well she - recollected his lithe figure, his alert motion, his superb bearing, his - handsome face, when she last saw him in the spring! - </p> - <p> - “You were away all summer, Alessandro?” she said at last, turning back to - her work. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” he said: “at the Senora Moreno's.” - </p> - <p> - “So I heard,” she said. “That is a fine great place, is it not? Is her son - grown a fine man? He was a lad when I saw him. He went through here with a - drove of sheep once.” - </p> - <p> - “Ay, he is a man now,” said Alessandro, and buried his face in his hands - again. - </p> - <p> - “Poor fellow! I don't wonder he does not want to speak,” thought Mrs. - Hartsel. “I'll just let him alone;” and she spoke no more for some - moments. - </p> - <p> - Alessandro sat still by the fire. A strange apathy seemed to have seized - him; at last he said wearily: “I must be going now. I wanted to see Mr. - Hartsel a minute, but he seems to be busy in the store.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” she said, “a lot of San Francisco men; they belong to the company - that's coming in here in the valley; they've been here two days. Oh, - Alessandro,” she continued, bethinking herself, “Jim's got your violin - here; Jose brought it.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I know it,” answered Alessandro. “Jose told me; and that was one - thing I stopped for.” - </p> - <p> - “I'll run and get it,” she exclaimed. - </p> - <p> - “No,” said Alessandro, in a slow, husky voice. “I do not want it. I - thought Mr. Hartsel might buy it. I want some money. It was not mine; it - was my father's. It is a great deal better than mine. My father said it - would bring a great deal of money. It is very old.” - </p> - <p> - “Indeed it is,” she replied; “one of those men in there was looking at it - last night. He was astonished at it, and he would not believe Jim when he - told him about its having come from the Mission.” - </p> - <p> - “Does he play? Will he buy it?” cried Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - “I don't know; I'll call Jim,” she said; and running out she looked in at - the other door, saying, “Jim! Jim!” - </p> - <p> - Alas, Jim was in no condition to reply. At her first glance in his face, - her countenance hardened into an expression of disgust and defiance. - Returning to the kitchen, she said scornfully, disdaining all disguises, - “Jim's drunk. No use your talking to him to-night. Wait till morning.” - </p> - <p> - “Till morning!” A groan escaped from Alessandro, in spite of himself. “I - can't!” he cried. “I must go on to-night.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, what for?” exclaimed Mrs. Hartsel, much astonished. For one brief - second Alessandro revolved in his mind the idea of confiding everything to - her; only for a second, however. No; the fewer knew his secret and - Ramona's, the better. - </p> - <p> - “I must be in San Diego to-morrow,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Got work there?” she said. - </p> - <p> - “Yes; that is, in San Pasquale,” he said; “and I ought to have been there - three days ago.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Hartsel mused. “Jim can't do anything to-night,” she said; “that's - certain. You might see the man yourself, and ask him if he'd buy it.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro shook his head. An invincible repugnance withheld him. He could - not face one of these Americans who were “coming in” to his valley. Mrs. - Hartsel understood. - </p> - <p> - “I'll tell you, Alessandro,” said the kindly woman, “I'll give you what - money you need to-night, and then, if you say so, Jim'll sell the violin - to-morrow, if the man wants it, and you can pay me back out of that, and - when you're along this way again you can have the rest. Jim'll make as - good a trade for you's he can. He's a real good friend to all of you, - Alessandro, when he's himself.” - </p> - <p> - “I know it, Mrs. Hartsel. I'd trust Mr. Hartsel more than any other man in - this country,” said Alessandro. “He's about the only white man I do - trust!” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Hartsel was fumbling in a deep pocket in her under-petticoat. - Gold-piece after gold-piece she drew out. “Humph! Got more'n I thought I - had,” she said. “I've kept all that's been paid in here to-day, for I knew - Jim'd be drunk before night.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro's eyes fastened on the gold. How he longed for an abundance of - those little shining pieces for his Majella! He sighed as Mrs. Hartsel - counted them out on the table,—one, two, three, four, bright - five-dollar pieces. - </p> - <p> - “That is as much as I dare take,” said Alessandro, when she put down the - fourth. “Will you trust me for so much?” he added sadly. “You know I have - nothing left now. Mrs. Hartsel, I am only a beggar, till I get some work - to do.” - </p> - <p> - The tears came into Mrs. Hartsel's eyes. “It's a shame!” she said,—“a - shame, Alessandro! Jim and I haven't thought of anything else, since it - happened. Jim says they'll never prosper, never. Trust you? Yes, indeed. - Jim and I'd trust you, or your father, the last day of our lives.” - </p> - <p> - “I'm glad he is dead,” said Alessandro, as he knotted the gold into his - handkerchief and put it into his bosom. “But he was murdered, Mrs. - Hartsel,—murdered, just as much as if they had fired a bullet into - him.” - </p> - <p> - “That's true.” she exclaimed vehemently. “I say so too; and so was Jose. - That's just what I said at the time,—that bullets would not be half - so inhuman!” - </p> - <p> - The words had hardly left her lips, when the door from the dining-room - burst open, and a dozen men, headed by the drunken Jim, came stumbling, - laughing, reeling into the kitchen. - </p> - <p> - “Where's supper! Give us our supper! What are you about with your Indian - here? I'll teach you how to cook ham!” stammered Jim, making a lurch - towards the stove. The men behind caught him and saved him. Eyeing the - group with scorn, Mrs. Hartsel, who had not a cowardly nerve in her body, - said: “Gentlemen, if you will take your seats at the table, I will bring - in your supper immediately. It is all ready.” - </p> - <p> - One or two of the soberer ones, shamed by her tone, led the rest back into - the dining-room, where, seating themselves, they began to pound the table - and swing the chairs, swearing, and singing ribald songs. - </p> - <p> - “Get off as quick as you can, Alessandro,” whispered Mrs. Hartsel, as she - passed by him, standing like a statue, his eyes, full of hatred and - contempt, fixed on the tipsy group. “You'd better go. There's no knowing - what they'll do next.” - </p> - <p> - “Are you not afraid?” he said in a low tone. - </p> - <p> - “No!” she said. “I'm used to it. I can always manage Jim. And Ramon's - round somewhere,—he and the bull-pups; if worse comes to worse, I - can call the dogs. These San Francisco fellows are always the worst to get - drunk. But you'd better get out of the way!” - </p> - <p> - “And these are the men that have stolen our lands, and killed my father, - and Jose, and Carmena's baby!” thought Alessandro, as he ran swiftly back - towards the graveyard. “And Father Salvierderra says, God is good. It must - be the saints no longer pray to Him for us!” - </p> - <p> - But Alessandro's heart was too full of other thoughts, now, to dwell long - on past wrongs, however bitter. The present called him too loudly. Putting - his hand in his bosom, and feeling the soft, knotted handkerchief, he - thought: “Twenty dollars! It is not much! But it will buy food for many - days for my Majella and for Baba!” - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XVIII - </h2> - <p> - EXCEPT for the reassuring help of Carmena's presence by her side, Ramona - would never have had courage to remain during this long hour in the - graveyard. As it was, she twice resolved to bear the suspense no longer, - and made a movement to go. The chance of Alessandro's encountering at - Hartsel's the men sent in pursuit of him and of Baba, loomed in her - thoughts into a more and more frightful danger each moment she reflected - upon it. It was a most unfortunate suggestion for Alessandro to have made. - Her excited fancy went on and on, picturing the possible scenes which - might be going on almost within stone's-throw of where she was sitting, - helpless, in the midnight darkness,—Alessandro seized, tied, treated - as a thief, and she, Ramona, not there to vindicate him, to terrify the - men into letting him go. She could not bear it; she would ride boldly to - Hartsel's door. But when she made a motion as if she would go, and said in - the soft Spanish, of which Carmena knew no word, but which yet somehow - conveyed Ramona's meaning, “I must go! It is too long! I cannot wait - here!” Carmena had clasped her hand tighter, and said in the San Luiseno - tongue, of which Ramona knew no word, but which yet somehow conveyed - Carmena's meaning, “O beloved lady, you must not go! Waiting is the only - safe thing. Alessandro said, to wait here. He will come.” The word - “Alessandro” was plain. Yes, Alessandro had said, wait; Carmena was right. - She would obey, but it was a fearful ordeal. It was strange how Ramona, - who felt herself preternaturally brave, afraid of nothing, so long as - Alessandro was by her side, became timorous and wretched the instant he - was lost to her sight. When she first heard his steps coming, she quivered - with terror lest they might not be his. The next second she knew; and with - a glad cry, “Alessandro! Alessandro!” she bounded to him, dropping Baba's - reins. - </p> - <p> - Sighing gently, Carmena picked up the reins, and stood still, holding the - horse, while the lovers clasped each other with breathless words. “How she - loves Alessandro!” thought the widowed Carmena. “Will they leave him alive - to stay with her? It is better not to love!” But there was no bitter envy - in her mind for the two who were thus blest while she went desolate. All - of Pablo's people had great affection for Alessandro. They had looked - forward to his being over them in his father's place. They knew his - goodness, and were proud of his superiority to themselves. - </p> - <p> - “Majella, you tremble,” said Alessandro, as he threw his arms around her. - “You have feared! Yet you were not alone.” He glanced at Carmena's - motionless figure, standing by Baba. - </p> - <p> - “No, not alone, dear Alessandro, but it was so long!” replied Ramona; “and - I feared the men had taken you, as you feared. Was there any one there?” - </p> - <p> - “No! No one has heard anything. All was well. They thought I had just come - from Pachanga,” he answered. - </p> - <p> - “Except for Carmena, I should have ridden after you half an hour ago,” - continued Ramona. “But she told me to wait.” - </p> - <p> - “She told you!” repeated Alessandro. “How did you understand her speech?” - </p> - <p> - “I do not know. Was it not a strange thing?” replied Ramona. “She spoke in - your tongue, but I thought I understood her, Ask her if she did not say - that I must not go; that it was safer to wait; that you had so said, and - you would soon come.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro repeated the words to Carmena. “Did you say that?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” answered Carmena. - </p> - <p> - “You see, then, she has understood the Luiseno words,” he said - delightedly. “She is one of us.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said Carmena, gravely, “she is one of us.” Then, taking Ramona's - hand in both of her own for farewell, she repeated, in a tone as of dire - prophecy, “One of us, Alessandro! one of us!” And as she gazed after their - retreating forms, almost immediately swallowed and lost in the darkness, - she repeated the words again to herself,—“One of us! one of us! - Sorrow came to me; she rides to meet it!” and she crept back to her - husband's grave, and threw herself down, to watch till the dawn. - </p> - <p> - The road which Alessandro would naturally have taken would carry them - directly by Hartsel's again. But, wishing to avoid all risk of meeting or - being seen by any of the men on the place, he struck well out to the - north, to make a wide circuit around it. This brought them past the place - where Antonio's house had stood. Here Alessandro halted, and putting his - hand on Baba's rein, walked the horses close to the pile of ruined walls. - “This was Antonio's house, Majella,” he whispered. “I wish every house in - the valley had been pulled down like this. Old Juana was right. The - Americans are living in my father's house, Majella,” he went on, his - whisper growing thick with rage. “That was what kept me so long. I was - looking in at the window at them eating their supper. I thought I should - go mad, Majella. If I had had my gun, I should have shot them all dead!” - </p> - <p> - An almost inarticulate gasp was Ramona's first reply to this. “Living in - your house!” she said. “You saw them?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” he said; “the man, and his wife, and two little children; and the - man came out, with his gun, on the doorstep, and fired it. They thought - they heard something moving, and it might be an Indian; so he fired. That - was what kept me so long.” - </p> - <p> - Just at this moment Baba tripped over some small object on the ground. A - few steps farther, and he tripped again. “There is something caught round - his foot, Alessandro,” said Ramona. “It keeps moving.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro jumped off his horse, and kneeling down, exclaimed, “It's a - stake,—and the lariat fastened to it. Holy Virgin! what—” The - rest of his ejaculation was inaudible. The next Ramona knew, he had run - swiftly on, a rod or two. Baba had followed, and Capitan and the pony; and - there stood a splendid black horse, as big as Baba, and Alessandro talking - under his breath to him, and clapping both his hands over the horse's - nose, to stop him, as often as he began whinnying; and it seemed hardly a - second more before he had his saddle off the poor little Indian pony, and - striking it sharply on its sides had turned it free, had saddled the black - horse, and leaping on his back, said, with almost a sob in his voice: “My - Majella, it is Benito, my own Benito. Now the saints indeed have helped - us! Oh, the ass, the idiot, to stake out Benito with such a stake as that! - A jack rabbit had pulled it up. Now, my Majella, we will gallop! Faster! - faster! I will not breathe easy till we are out of this cursed valley. - When we are once in the Santa Margarita Canon, I know a trail they will - never find!” - </p> - <p> - Like the wind galloped Benito,—Alessandro half lying on his back, - stroking his forehead, whispering to him, the horse snorting with joy: - which were gladder of the two, horse or man, could not be said. And neck - by neck with Benito came Baba. How the ground flew away under their feet! - This was companionship, indeed, worthy of Baba's best powers. Not in all - the California herds could be found two superber horses than Benito and - Baba. A wild, almost reckless joy took possession of Alessandro. Ramona - was half terrified as she heard him still talking, talking to Benito. For - an hour they did not draw rein. Both Benito and Alessandro knew every inch - of the ground. Then, just as they had descended into the deepest part of - the canon, Alessandro suddenly reined sharply to the left, and began - climbing the precipitous wall. “Can you follow, dearest Majella?” he - cried. - </p> - <p> - “Do you suppose Benito can do anything that Baba cannot?” she retorted, - pressing on closely. - </p> - <p> - But Baba did not like it. Except for the stimulus of Benito ahead, he - would have given Ramona trouble. - </p> - <p> - “There is only a little, rough like this, dear,” called Alessandro, as he - leaped a fallen tree, and halted to see how Baba took it. “Good!” he - cried, as Baba jumped it like a deer. “Good! Majella! We have got the two - best horses in the country. You'll see they are alike, when daylight - comes. I have often wondered they were so much alike. They would go - together splendidly.” - </p> - <p> - After a few rods of this steep climbing they came out on the top of the - canon's south wall, in a dense oak forest comparatively free from - underbrush. “Now,” said Alessandro, “I can go from here to San Diego by - paths that no white man knows. We will be near there before daylight.” - </p> - <p> - Already the keen salt air of the ocean smote their faces. Ramona drank it - in with delight. “I taste salt in the air, Alessandro,” she cried. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, it is the sea,” he said. “This canon leads straight to the sea. I - wish we could go by the shore, Majella. It is beautiful there. When it is - still, the waves come as gently to the land as if they were in play; and - you can ride along with your horse's feet in the water, and the green - cliffs almost over your head; and the air off the water is like wine in - one's head.” - </p> - <p> - “Cannot we go there?” she said longingly. “Would it not be safe?” - </p> - <p> - “I dare not,” he answered regretfully. “Not now, Majella; for on the - shore-way, at all times, there are people going and coming.” - </p> - <p> - “Some other time, Alessandro, we can come, after we are married, and there - is no danger?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Majella,” he replied; but as he spoke the words, he thought, “Will a - time ever come when there will be no danger?” - </p> - <p> - The shore of the Pacific Ocean for many miles north of San Diego is a - succession of rounding promontories, walling the mouths of canons, down - many of which small streams make to the sea. These canons are green and - rich at bottom, and filled with trees, chiefly oak. Beginning as little - more than rifts in the ground, they deepen and widen, till at their mouths - they have a beautiful crescent of shining beach from an eighth to a - quarter of a mile long, The one which Alessandro hoped to reach before - morning was not a dozen miles from the old town of San Diego, and - commanded a fine view of the outer harbor. When he was last in it, he had - found it a nearly impenetrable thicket of young oak-trees. Here, he - believed, they could hide safely all day, and after nightfall ride into - San Diego, be married at the priest's house, and push on to San Pasquale - that same night. “All day, in that canon, Majella can look at the sea,” he - thought; “but I will not tell her now, for it may be the trees have been - cut down, and we cannot be so close to the shore.” - </p> - <p> - It was near sunrise when they reached the place. The trees had not been - cut down. Their tops, seen from above, looked like a solid bed of moss - filling in the canon bottom. The sky and the sea were both red. As Ramona - looked down into this soft green pathway, it seemed, leading out to the - wide and sparkling sea, she thought Alessandro had brought her into a - fairy-land. - </p> - <p> - “What a beautiful world!” she cried; and riding up so close to Benito that - she could lay her hand on Alessandro's, she said solemnly: “Do you not - think we ought to be very happy, Alessandro, in such a beautiful world as - this? Do you think we might sing our sunrise hymn here?” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro glanced around. They were alone on the breezy open; it was not - yet full dawn; great masses of crimson vapor were floating upward from the - hills behind San Diego. The light was still burning in the light-house on - the promontory walling the inner harbor, but in a few moments more it - would be day. “No, Majella, not here.” he said. “We must not stay. As soon - as the sun rises, a man or a horse may be seen on this upper coast-line as - far as eye can reach. We must be among the trees with all the speed we can - make.” - </p> - <p> - It was like a house with a high, thick roof of oak tree-tops, the shelter - they found. No sun penetrated it; a tiny trickle of water still remained, - and some grass along its rims was still green, spite of the long drought,—a - scanty meal for Baba and Benito, but they ate it with relish in each - other's company. - </p> - <p> - “They like each other, those two,” said Ramona, laughing, as she watched - them. “They will be friends.” - </p> - <p> - “Ay,” said Alessandro, also smiling. “Horses are friends, like men, and - can hate each other, like men, too. Benito would never see Antonio's mare, - the little yellow one, that he did not let fly his heels at her; and she - was as afraid, at sight of him, as a cat is at a dog. Many a time I have - laughed to see it.” - </p> - <p> - “Know you the priest at San Diego?” asked Ramona. - </p> - <p> - “Not well,” replied Alessandro. “He came seldom to Temecula when I was - there; but he is a friend of Indians. I know he came with the men from San - Diego at the time when there was fighting, and the whites were in great - terror; and they said, except for Father Gaspara's words, there would not - have been a white man left alive in Pala. My father had sent all his - people away before that fight began. He knew it was coming, but he would - have nothing to do with it. He said the Indians were all crazy. It was no - use. They would only be killed themselves. That is the worst thing, my - Majella. The stupid Indians fight and kill, and then what can we do? The - white men think we are all the same. Father Gaspara has never been to - Pala, I heard, since that time. There goes there now the San Juan - Capistrano priest. He is a bad man. He takes money from the starving - poor.” - </p> - <p> - “A priest!” ejaculated Ramona, horror-stricken. - </p> - <p> - “Ay! a priest!” replied Alessandro. “They are not all good,—not like - Father Salvierderra.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, if we could but have gone to Father Salvierderra!” exclaimed Ramona, - involuntarily. - </p> - <p> - Alessandro looked distressed. “It would have been much more danger, - Majella,” he said, “and I had no knowledge of work I could do there.” - </p> - <p> - His look made Ramona remorseful at once. How cruel to lay one - feather-weight of additional burden on this loving man. “Oh, this is much - better, really,” she said. “I did not mean what I said. It is only because - I have always loved Father Salvierderra so. And the Senora will tell him - what is not true. Could we not send him a letter, Alessandro?” - </p> - <p> - “There is a Santa Inez Indian I know,” replied Alessandro, “who comes down - with nets to sell, sometimes, to Temecula. I know not if he goes to San - Diego. If I could get speech with him, he would go up from Santa Inez to - Santa Barbara for me, I am sure; for once he lay in my father's house, - sick for many weeks, and I nursed him, and since then he is always begging - me to take a net from him, whenever he comes. It is not two days from - Santa Inez to Santa Barbara.” - </p> - <p> - “I wish it were the olden time now, Alessandro,” sighed Ramona, “when the - men like Father Salvierderra had all the country. Then there would be work - for all, at the Missions. The Senora says the Missions were like palaces, - and that there were thousands of Indians in every one of them; thousands - and thousands, all working so happy and peaceful.” - </p> - <p> - “The Senora does not know all that happened at the Missions,” replied - Alessandro. “My father says that at some of them were dreadful things, - when bad men had power. Never any such things at San Luis Rey. Father - Peyri was like a father to all his Indians. My father says that they would - all of them lie down in a fire for him, if he had commanded it. And when - he went away, to leave the country, when his heart was broken, and the - Mission all ruined, he had to fly by night, Majella, just as you and I - have done; for if the Indians had known it, they would have risen up to - keep him. There was a ship here in San Diego harbor, to sail for Mexico, - and the Father made up his mind to go in it; and it was over this same - road we have come, my Majella, that he rode, and by night; and my father - was the only one he trusted to know it. My father came with him; they took - the swiftest horses, and they rode all night, and my father carried in - front of him, on the horse, a box of the sacred things of the altar, very - heavy. And many a time my father has told me the story, how they got to - San Diego at daybreak, and the Father was rowed out to the ship in a - little boat; and not much more than on board was he, my father standing - like one dead on the shore, watching, he loved him so, when, lo! he heard - a great crying, and shouting, and trampling of horses' feet, and there - came galloping down to the water's edge three hundred of the Indians from - San Luis Rey, who had found out that the Father had gone to San Diego to - take ship, and they had ridden all night on his track, to fetch him back. - And when my father pointed to the ship, and told them he was already on - board, they set up a cry fit to bring the very sky down; and some of them - flung themselves into the sea, and swam out to the ship, and cried and - begged to be taken on board and go with him. And Father Peyri stood on the - deck, blessing them, and saying farewell, with the tears running on his - face; and one of the Indians—how they never knew—made shift to - climb up on the chains and ropes, and got into the ship itself; and they - let him stay, and he sailed away with the Father. And my father said he - was all his life sorry that he himself had not thought to do the same - thing; but he was like one dumb and deaf and with no head, he was so - unhappy at the Father's going.” - </p> - <p> - “Was it here, in this very harbor?” asked Ramona, in breathless interest, - pointing out towards the blue water of which they could see a broad belt - framed by their leafy foreground arch of oak tops. - </p> - <p> - “Ay, just there he sailed,—as that ship goes now,” he exclaimed, as - a white-sailed schooner sailed swiftly by, going out to sea. “But the ship - lay at first inside the bar; you cannot see the inside harbor from here. - It is the most beautiful water I have ever seen, Majella. The two high - lands come out like two arms to hold it and keep it safe, as if they loved - it.” - </p> - <p> - “But, Alessandro,” continued Ramona, “were there really bad men at the - other Missions? Surely not the Franciscan Fathers?” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps not the Fathers themselves, but the men under them. It was too - much power, Majella. When my father has told me how it was, it has seemed - to me I should not have liked to be as he was. It is not right that one - man should have so much power. There was one at the San Gabriel Mission; - he was an Indian. He had been set over the rest; and when a whole band of - them ran away one time, and went back into the mountains, he went after - them; and he brought back a piece of each man's ear; the pieces were - strung on a string; and he laughed, and said that was to know them by - again,—by their clipped ears. An old woman, a Gabrieleno, who came - over to Temecula, told me she saw that. She lived at the Mission herself. - The Indians did not all want to come to the Missions; some of them - preferred to stay in the woods, and live as they always had lived; and I - think they had a right to do that if they preferred, Majella. It was - stupid of them to stay and be like beasts, and not know anything; but do - you not think they had the right?” - </p> - <p> - “It is the command to preach the gospel to every creature,” replied the - pious Ramona. “That is what Father Salvierderra said was the reason the - Franciscans came here. I think they ought to have made the Indians listen. - But that was dreadful about the ears, Alessandro. Do you believe it?” - </p> - <p> - “The old woman laughed when she told it,” he answered. “She said it was a - joke; so I think it was true. I know I would have killed the man who tried - to crop my ears that way.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you ever tell that to Father Salvierderra?” asked Ramona. - </p> - <p> - “No, Majella. It would not be polite,” said Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - “Well, I don't believe it,” replied Ramona, in a relieved tone. “I don't - believe any Franciscan ever could have permitted such things.” - </p> - <p> - The great red light in the light-house tower had again blazed out, and had - been some time burning before Alessandro thought it prudent to resume - their journey. The road on which they must go into old San Diego, where - Father Gaspara lived, was the public road from San Diego to San Luis Rey, - and they were almost sure to meet travellers on it. - </p> - <p> - But their fleet horses bore them so well, that it was not late when they - reached the town. Father Gaspara's house was at the end of a long, low - adobe building, which had served no mean purpose in the old Presidio days, - but was now fallen into decay; and all its rooms except those occupied by - the Father, had been long uninhabited. On the opposite side of the way, in - a neglected, weedy open, stood his chapel,—a poverty-stricken little - place, its walls imperfectly whitewashed, decorated by a few coarse - pictures and by broken sconces of looking-glass, rescued in their - dilapidated condition from the Mission buildings, now gone utterly to - ruin. In these had been put handle-holders of common tin, in which a few - cheap candles dimly lighted the room. Everything about it was in unison - with the atmosphere of the place,—the most profoundly melancholy in - all Southern California. Here was the spot where that grand old - Franciscan, Padre Junipero Serra, began his work, full of the devout and - ardent purpose to reclaim the wilderness and its peoples to his country - and his Church; on this very beach he went up and down for those first - terrible weeks, nursing the sick, praying with the dying, and burying the - dead, from the pestilence-stricken Mexican ships lying in the harbor. Here - he baptized his first Indian converts, and founded his first Mission. And - the only traces now remaining of his heroic labors and hard-won successes - were a pile of crumbling ruins, a few old olive-trees and palms; in less - than another century even these would be gone; returned into the keeping - of that mother, the earth, who puts no head-stones at the sacredest of her - graves. - </p> - <p> - Father Gaspara had been for many years at San Diego. Although not a - Franciscan, having, indeed, no especial love for the order, he had been - from the first deeply impressed by the holy associations of the place. He - had a nature at once fiery and poetic; there were but three things he - could have been,—a soldier, a poet, or a priest. Circumstances had - made him a priest; and the fire and the poetry which would have wielded - the sword or kindled the verse, had he found himself set either to fight - or to sing, had all gathered into added force in his priestly vocation. - The look of a soldier he had never quite lost,—neither the look nor - the tread; and his flashing dark eyes, heavy black hair and beard, and - quick elastic step, seemed sometimes strangely out of harmony with his - priest's gown. And it was the sensitive soul of the poet in him which had - made him withdraw within himself more and more, year after year, as he - found himself comparatively powerless to do anything for the hundreds of - Indians that he would fain have seen gathered once more, as of old, into - the keeping of the Church. He had made frequent visits to them in their - shifting refuges, following up family after family, band after band, that - he knew; he had written bootless letter after letter to the Government - officials of one sort and another, at Washington. He had made equally - bootless efforts to win some justice, some protection for them, from - officials nearer home; he had endeavored to stir the Church itself to - greater efficiency in their behalf. Finally, weary, disheartened, and - indignant with that intense, suppressed indignation which the poetic - temperament alone can feel, he had ceased,—had said, “It is of no - use; I will speak no word; I am done; I can bear no more!” and settling - down into the routine of his parochial duties to the little Mexican and - Irish congregation of his charge in San Diego, he had abandoned all effort - to do more for the Indians than visit their chief settlements once or - twice a year, to administer the sacraments. When fresh outrages were - brought to his notice, he paced his room, plucked fiercely at his black - beard, with ejaculations, it is to be feared, savoring more of the camp - than the altar; but he made no effort to do anything. Lighting his pipe, - he would sit down on the old bench in his tile-paved veranda, and smoke by - the hour, gazing out on the placid water of the deserted harbor, brooding, - ever brooding, over the wrongs he could not redress. - </p> - <p> - A few paces off from his door stood the just begun walls of a fine brick - church, which it had been the dream and pride of his heart to see builded, - and full of worshippers. This, too, had failed. With San Diego's - repeatedly vanishing hopes and dreams of prosperity had gone this hope and - dream of Father Gaspara's. It looked, now, as if it would be indeed a - waste of money to build a costly church on this site. Sentiment, however - sacred and loving towards the dead, must yield to the demands of the - living. To build a church on the ground where Father Junipero first trod - and labored, would be a work to which no Catholic could be indifferent; - but there were other and more pressing claims to be met first. This was - right. Yet the sight of these silent walls, only a few feet high, was a - sore one to Father Gaspara,—a daily cross, which he did not find - grow lighter as he paced up and down his veranda, year in and year out, in - the balmy winter and cool summer of that magic climate. - </p> - <p> - “Majella, the chapel is lighted; but that is good!” exclaimed Alessandro, - as they rode into the silent plaza. “Father Gaspara must be there;” and - jumping off his horse, he peered in at the uncurtained window. “A - marriage, Majella,—a marriage!” he cried, hastily returning. “This, - too, is good fortune. We need not to wait long.” - </p> - <p> - When the sacristan whispered to Father Gaspara that an Indian couple had - just come in, wishing to be married, the Father frowned. His supper was - waiting; he had been out all day, over at the old Mission olive-orchard, - where he had not found things to his mind; the Indian man and wife whom he - hired to take care of the few acres the Church yet owned there had been - neglecting the Church lands and trees, to look after their own. The Father - was vexed, tired, and hungry, and the expression with which he regarded - Alessandro and Ramona, as they came towards him, was one of the least - prepossessing of which his dark face was capable. Ramona, who had never - knelt to any priest save the gentle Father Salvierderra, and who had - supposed that all priests must look, at least, friendly, was shocked at - the sight of the impatient visage confronting her. But, as his first - glance fell on Ramona, Father Gaspara's expression changed. - </p> - <p> - “What is all this!” he thought; and as quick as he thought it, he - exclaimed, in a severe tone, looking at Ramona, “Woman, are you an - Indian?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Father,” answered Ramona, gently. “My mother was an Indian.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah! half-breed!” thought Father Gaspara. “It is strange how sometimes one - of the types will conquer, and sometimes another! But this is no common - creature;” and it was with a look of new interest and sympathy on his face - that he proceeded with the ceremony,—the other couple, a middle-aged - Irishman, with his more than middle-aged bride, standing quietly by, and - looking on with a vague sort of wonder in their ugly, impassive faces, as - if it struck them oddly that Indians should marry. - </p> - <p> - The book of the marriage-records was kept in Father Gaspara's own rooms, - locked up and hidden even from his old housekeeper. He had had bitter - reason to take this precaution. It had been for more than one man's - interest to cut leaves out of this old record, which dated back to 1769, - and had many pages written full in the hand of Father Junipero himself. - </p> - <p> - As they came out of the chapel, Father Gaspara leading the way, the Irish - couple shambling along shamefacedly apart from each other, Alessandro, - still holding Ramona's hand in his, said, “Will you ride, dear? It is but - a step.” - </p> - <p> - “No, thanks, dear Alessandro, I would rather walk,” she replied; and - Alessandro slipping the bridles of the two horses over his left arm, they - walked on. Father Gaspara heard the question and answer, and was still - more puzzled. - </p> - <p> - “He speaks as a gentleman speaks to a lady,” he mused. “What does it mean? - Who are they?” - </p> - <p> - Father Gaspara was a well-born man, and in his home in Spain had been used - to associations far superior to any which he had known in his Californian - life, A gentle courtesy of tone and speech, such as that with which - Alessandro had addressed Ramona, was not often heard in his parish. When - they entered his house, he again regarded them both attentively. Ramona - wore on her head the usual black shawl of the Mexican women. There was - nothing distinctive, to the Father's eye, in her figure or face. In the - dim light of the one candle,—Father Gaspara allowed himself no - luxuries,—the exquisite coloring of her skin and the deep blue of - her eyes were not to be seen. Alessandro's tall figure and dignified - bearing were not uncommon. The Father had seen many as fine-looking Indian - men. But his voice was remarkable, and he spoke better Spanish than was - wont to be heard from Indians. - </p> - <p> - “Where are you from?” said the Father, as he held his pen poised in hand, - ready to write their names in the old raw-hide-bound book. - </p> - <p> - “Temecula, Father,” replied Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - Father Gaspara dropped his pen. “The village the Americans drove out the - other day?” he cried. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Father.” - </p> - <p> - Father Gaspara sprang from his chair, took refuge from his excitement, as - usual, in pacing the floor. “Go! go! I'm done with you! It's all over,” he - said fiercely to the Irish bride and groom, who had given him their names - and their fee, but were still hanging about irresolute, not knowing if all - were ended or not. “A burning shame! The most dastardly thing I have seen - yet in this land forsaken of God!” cried the Father. “I saw the - particulars of it in the San Diego paper yesterday.” Then, coming to a - halt in front of Alessandro, he exclaimed: “The paper said that the - Indians were compelled to pay all the costs of the suit; that the sheriff - took their cattle to do it. Was that true?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Father,” replied Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - The Father strode up and down again, plucking at his beard. “What are you - going to do?” he said. “Where have you all gone? There were two hundred in - your village the last time I was there.” - </p> - <p> - “Some have gone over into Pachanga,” replied Alessandro, “some to San - Pasquale, and the rest to San Bernardino.” - </p> - <p> - “Body of Jesus! man! But you take it with philosophy!” stormed Father - Gaspara. - </p> - <p> - Alessandro did not understand the word “philosophy,” but he knew what the - Father meant. “Yes, Father,” he said doggedly. “It is now twenty-one days - ago. I was not so at first. There is nothing to be done.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona held tight to Alessandro's hand. She was afraid of this fierce, - black-bearded priest, who dashed back and forth, pouring out angry - invectives. - </p> - <p> - “The United States Government will suffer for it!” he continued. “It is a - Government of thieves and robbers! God will punish them. You will see; - they will be visited with a curse,—a curse in their borders; their - sons and their daughters shall be desolate! But why do I prate in these - vain words? My son, tell me your names again;” and he seated himself once - more at the table where the ancient marriage-record lay open. - </p> - <p> - After writing Alessandro's name, he turned to Ramona. “And the woman's?” - he said. - </p> - <p> - Alessandro looked at Ramona. In the chapel he had said simply, “Majella.” - What name should he give more? - </p> - <p> - Without a second's hesitation, Ramona answered, “Majella. Majella Phail is - my name.” - </p> - <p> - She pronounced the word “Phail,” slowly. It was new to her. She had never - seen it written; as it lingered on her lips, the Father, to whom also it - was a new word, misunderstood it, took it to be in two syllables, and so - wrote it. - </p> - <p> - The last step was taken in the disappearance of Ramona. How should any - one, searching in after years, find any trace of Ramona Ortegna, in the - woman married under the name of “Majella Fayeel”? - </p> - <p> - “No, no! Put up your money, son,” said Father Gaspara, as Alessandro began - to undo the knots of the handkerchief in which his gold was tied. “Put up - your money. I'll take no money from a Temecula Indian. I would the Church - had money to give you. Where are you going now?” - </p> - <p> - “To San Pasquale, Father.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah! San Pasquale! The head man there has the old pueblo paper,” said - Father Gaspara. “He was showing it to me the other day. That will, it may - be, save you there. But do not trust to it, son. Buy yourself a piece of - land as the white man buys his. Trust to nothing.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro looked anxiously in the Father's face. “How is that, Father?” - he said. “I do not know.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, their rules be thick as the crabs here on the beach,” replied - Father Gaspara; “and, faith, they appear to me to be backwards of motion - also, like the crabs: but the lawyers understand. When you have picked out - your land, and have the money, come to me, and I will go with you and see - that you are not cheated in the buying, so far as I can tell; but I myself - am at my wit's ends with their devices. Farewell, son! Farewell, - daughter!” he said, rising from his chair. Hunger was again getting the - better of sympathy in Father Gaspara, and as he sat down to his - long-deferred supper, the Indian couple faded from his mind; but after - supper was over, as he sat smoking his pipe on the veranda, they returned - again, and lingered in his thoughts,—lingered strangely, it seemed - to him; he could not shake off the impression that there was something - unusual about the woman. “I shall hear of them again, some day,” he - thought. And he thought rightly. - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XIX - </h2> - <p> - AFTER leaving Father Gaspara's door, Alessandro and Ramona rode slowly - through the now deserted plaza, and turned northward, on the river road, - leaving the old Presidio walls on their right. The river was low, and they - forded it without difficulty. - </p> - <p> - “I have seen this river so high that there was no fording it for many - days,” said Alessandro; “but that was in spring.” - </p> - <p> - “Then it is well we came not at that time,” said Ramona, “All the times - have fallen out well for us, Alessandro,—the dark nights, and the - streams low; but look! as I say it, there comes the moon!” and she pointed - to the fine threadlike arc of the new moon, just visible in the sky. “Not - big enough to do us any harm, however,” she added. “But, dear Alessandro, - do you not think we are safe now?” - </p> - <p> - “I know not, Majella, if ever we may be safe; but I hope so. I have been - all day thinking I had gone foolish last night, when I told Mrs. Hartsel - that I was on my way to San Pasquale. But if men should come there asking - for us, she would understand, I think, and keep a still tongue. She would - keep harm from us if she could.” - </p> - <p> - Their way from San Diego to San Pasquale lay at first along a high mesa, - or table-land, covered with low shrub growths; after some ten or twelve - miles of this, they descended among winding ridges, into a narrow valley,—the - Poway valley. It was here that the Mexicans made one of their few abortive - efforts to repel the American forces. - </p> - <p> - “Here were some Americans killed, in a fight with the Mexicans, Majella,” - said Alessandro. “I myself have a dozen bullets which I picked up in the - ground about here. Many a time I have looked at them and thought if there - should come another war against the Americans, I would fire them again, if - I could. Does Senor Felipe think there is any likelihood that his people - will rise against them any more? If they would, they would have all the - Indians to help them, now. It would be a mercy if they might be driven out - of the land, Majella.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” sighed Majella. “But there is no hope. I have heard the Senora - speak of it with Felipe. There is no hope. They have power, and great - riches, she said. Money is all that they think of. To get money, they will - commit any crime, even murder. Every day there comes the news of their - murdering each other for gold. Mexicans kill each other only for hate, - Alessandro,—for hate, or in anger; never for gold.” - </p> - <p> - “Indians, also,” replied Alessandro. “Never one Indian killed another, - yet, for money. It is for vengeance, always. For money! Bah! Majella, they - are dogs!” - </p> - <p> - Rarely did Alessandro speak with such vehemence; but this last outrage on - his people had kindled in his veins a fire of scorn and hatred which would - never die out. Trust in an American was henceforth to him impossible. The - name was a synonym for fraud and cruelty. - </p> - <p> - “They cannot all be so bad, I think, Alessandro,” said Ramona. “There must - be some that are honest; do you not think so?” - </p> - <p> - “Where are they, then,” he cried fiercely,—“the ones who are good? - Among my people there are always some that are bad; but they are in - disgrace. My father punished them, the whole people punished them. If - there are Americans who are good, who will not cheat and kill, why do they - not send after these robbers and punish them? And how is it that they make - laws which cheat? It was the American law which took Temecula away from - us, and gave it to those men! The law was on the side of the thieves. No, - Majella, it is a people that steals! That is their name,—a people - that steals, and that kills for money. Is not that a good name for a great - people to bear, when they are like the sands in the sea, they are so - many?” - </p> - <p> - “That is what the Senora says,” answered Ramona. “She says they are all - thieves; that she knows not, each day, but that on the next will come more - of them, with new laws, to take away more of her land. She had once more - than twice what she has now, Alessandro.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” he replied; “I know it. My father has told me. He was with Father - Peyri at the place, when General Moreno was alive. Then all was his to the - sea,—all that land we rode over the second night, Majella.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” she said, “all to the sea! That is what the Senora is ever saying: - 'To the sea!' Oh, the beautiful sea! Can we behold it from San Pasquale, - Alessandro?” - </p> - <p> - “No, my Majella, it is too far. San Pasquale is in the valley; it has - hills all around it like walls. But it is good. Majella will love it; and - I will build a house, Majella. All the people will help me. That is the - way with our people. In two days it will be done. But it will be a poor - place for my Majella,” he said sadly. Alessandro's heart was ill at ease. - Truly a strange bride's journey was this; but Ramona felt no fear. - </p> - <p> - “No place can be so poor that I do not choose it, if you are there, rather - than the most beautiful place in the world where you are not, Alessandro,” - she said. - </p> - <p> - “But my Majella loves things that are beautiful,” said Alessandro. “She - has lived like a queen.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Alessandro,” merrily laughed Ramona, “how little you know of the way - queens live! Nothing was fine at the Senora Moreno's, only comfortable; - and any house you will build, I can make as comfortable as that was; it is - nothing but trouble to have one so large as the Senora's. Margarita used - to be tired to death, sweeping all those rooms in which nobody lived - except the blessed old San Luis Rey saints. Alessandro, if we could have - had just one statue, either Saint Francis or the Madonna, to bring back to - our house! That is what I would like better than all other things in the - world. It is beautiful to sleep with the Madonna close to your bed. She - speaks often to you in dreams.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro fixed serious, questioning eyes on Ramona as she uttered these - words. When she spoke like this, he felt indeed as if a being of some - other sphere had come to dwell by his side. “I cannot find how to feel - towards the saints as you do, my Majella,” he said. “I am afraid of them. - It must be because they love you, and do not love us. That is what I - believe, Majella. I believe they are displeased with us, and no longer - make mention of us in heaven. That is what the Fathers taught that the - saints were ever doing,—praying to God for us, and to the Virgin and - Jesus. It is not possible, you see, that they could have been praying for - us, and yet such things have happened, as happened in Temecula. I do not - know how it is my people have displeased them.” - </p> - <p> - “I think Father Salvierderra would say that it is a sin to be afraid of - the saints, Alessandro,” replied Ramona, earnestly. “He has often told me - that it was a sin to be unhappy; and that withheld me many times from - being wretched because the Senora would not love me. And, Alessandro,” she - went on, growing more and more fervent in tone, “even if nothing but - misfortune comes to people, that does not prove that the saints do not - love them; for when the saints were on earth themselves, look what they - suffered: martyrs they were, almost all of them. Look at what holy Saint - Catharine endured, and the blessed Saint Agnes. It is not by what happens - to us here in this world that we can tell if the saints love us, or if we - will see the Blessed Virgin.” - </p> - <p> - “How can we tell, then?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “By what we feel in our hearts, Alessandro,” she replied; “just as I knew - all the time, when you did not come,—I knew that you loved me. I - knew that in my heart; and I shall always know it, no matter what happens. - If you are dead, I shall know that you love me. And you,—you will - know that I love you, the same.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said Alessandro, reflectively, “that is true. But, Majella, it is - not possible to have the same thoughts about a saint as about a person - that one has seen, and heard the voice, and touched the hand.” - </p> - <p> - “No, not quite,” said Ramona; “not quite, about a saint; but one can for - the Blessed Virgin, Alessandro! I am sure of that. Her statue, in my room - at the Senora's, has been always my mother. Ever since I was little I have - told her all I did. It was she helped me to plan what I should bring away - with us. She reminded me of many things I had forgotten, except for her.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you hear her speak?” said Alessandro, awe-stricken. - </p> - <p> - “Not exactly in words; but just the same as in words,” replied Ramona, - confidently. “You see when you sleep in the room with her, it is very - different from what it is if you only see her in a chapel. Oh, I could - never be very unhappy with her in my room!” - </p> - <p> - “I would almost go and steal it for you, Majella,” cried Alessandro, with - sacrilegious warmth. - </p> - <p> - “Holy Virgin!” cried Ramona, “never speak such a word. You would be struck - dead if you laid your hand on her! I fear even the thought was a sin.” - </p> - <p> - “There was a small figure of her in the wall of our house,” said - Alessandro. “It was from San Luis Rey. I do not know what became of it,—if - it were left behind, or if they took it with my father's things to - Pachanga. I did not see it there. When I go again, I will look.” - </p> - <p> - “Again!” cried Ramona. “What say you? You go again to Pachanga? You will - not leave me, Alessandro?” - </p> - <p> - At the bare mention of Alessandro's leaving her, Ramona's courage always - vanished. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, she was transformed - from the dauntless, confident, sunny woman, who bore him up as it were on - wings of hope and faith, to a timid, shrinking, despondent child, crying - out in alarm, and clinging to the hand. - </p> - <p> - “After a time, dear Majella, when you are wonted to the place, I must go, - to fetch the wagon and the few things that were ours. There is the - raw-hide bed which was Father Peyri's, and he gave to my father. Majella - will like to lie on that. My father believed it had great virtue.” - </p> - <p> - “Like that you made for Felipe?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - “Yes; but it is not so large. In those days the cattle were not so large - as they are now: this is not so broad as Senor Felipe's. There are chairs, - too, from the Mission, three of them, one almost as fine as those on your - veranda at home. They were given to my father. And music-books,—beautiful - parchment books! Oh, I hope those are not lost, Majella! If Jose had - lived, he would have looked after it all. But in the confusion, all the - things belonging to the village were thrown into wagons together, and no - one knew where anything was. But all the people knew my father's chairs - and the books of the music. If the Americans did not steal them, - everything will be safe. My people do not steal. There was never but one - thief in our village, and my father had him so whipped, he ran away and - never came back. I heard he was living in San Jacinto, and was a thief - yet, spite of all that whipping he had. I think if it is in the blood to - be a thief, not even whipping will take it out, Majella.” - </p> - <p> - “Like the Americans,” she said, half laughing, but with tears in the - voice. “Whipping would not cure them.” - </p> - <p> - It wanted yet more than an hour of dawn when they reached the crest of the - hill from which they looked down on the San Pasquale valley. Two such - crests and valleys they had passed; this was the broadest of the three - valleys, and the hills walling it were softer and rounder of contour than - any they had yet seen. To the east and northeast lay ranges of high - mountains, their tops lost in the clouds. The whole sky was overcast and - gray. - </p> - <p> - “If it were spring, this would mean rain,” said Alessandro; “but it cannot - rain, I think, now.” - </p> - <p> - “No!” laughed Ramona, “not till we get our house done. Will it be of - adobe, Alessandro?” - </p> - <p> - “Dearest Majella, not yet! At first it must be of the tule. They are very - comfortable while it is warm, and before winter I will build one of - adobe.” - </p> - <p> - “Two houses! Wasteful Alessandro! If the tule house is good, I shall not - let you, Alessandro, build another.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona's mirthful moments bewildered Alessandro. To his slower temperament - and saddened nature they seemed preternatural; as if she were all of a - sudden changed into a bird, or some gay creature outside the pale of human - life,—outside and above it. - </p> - <p> - “You speak as the birds sing, my Majella,” he said slowly. “It was well to - name you Majel; only the wood-dove has not joy in her voice, as you have. - She says only that she loves and waits.” - </p> - <p> - “I say that, too, Alessandro!” replied Ramona, reaching out both her arms - towards him. - </p> - <p> - The horses were walking slowly, and very close side by side. Baba and - Benito were now such friends they liked to pace closely side by side; and - Baba and Benito were by no means without instinctive recognitions of the - sympathy between their riders. Already Benito knew Ramona's voice, and - answered it with pleasure; and Baba had long ago learned to stop when his - mistress laid her hand on Alessandro's shoulder. He stopped now, and it - was long minutes before he had the signal to go on again. - </p> - <p> - “Majella! Majella!” cried Alessandro, as, grasping both her hands in his, - he held them to his cheeks, to his neck, to his mouth, “if the saints - would ask Alessandro to be a martyr for Majella's sake, like those she was - telling of, then she would know if Alessandro loved her! But what can - Alessandro do now? What, oh, what? Majella gives all; Alessandro gives - nothing!” and he bowed his forehead on her hands, before he put them back - gently on Baba's neck. - </p> - <p> - Tears filled Ramona's eyes. How should she win this saddened man, this - distrusting lover, to the joy which was his desert? “Alessandro can do one - thing,” she said, insensibly falling into his mode of speaking,—“one - thing for his Majella: never, never say that he has nothing to give her. - When he says that, he makes Majella a liar; for she has said that he is - all the world to her,—he himself all the world which she desires. Is - Majella a liar?” - </p> - <p> - But it was even now with an ecstasy only half joy, the other half anguish, - that Alessandro replied: “Majella cannot lie. Majella is like the saints. - Alessandro is hers.” - </p> - <p> - When they rode down into the valley, the whole village was astir. The - vintage-time had nearly passed; everywhere were to be seen large, flat - baskets of grapes drying in the sun. Old women and children were turning - these, or pounding acorns in the deep stone bowls; others were beating the - yucca-stalks, and putting them to soak in water; the oldest women were - sitting on the ground, weaving baskets. There were not many men in the - village now; two large bands were away at work,—one at the autumn - sheep-shearing, and one working on a large irrigating ditch at San - Bernardino. - </p> - <p> - In different directions from the village slow-moving herds of goats or of - cattle could be seen, being driven to pasture on the hills; some men were - ploughing; several groups were at work building houses of bundles of the - tule reeds. - </p> - <p> - “These are some of the Temecula people,” said Alessandro; “they are - building themselves new houses here. See those piles of bundles - darker-colored than the rest. Those are their old roofs they brought from - Temecula. There, there comes Ysidro!” he cried joyfully, as a man, - well-mounted, who had been riding from point to point in the village, came - galloping towards them. As soon as Ysidro recognized Alessandro, he flung - himself from his horse. Alessandro did the same, and both running swiftly - towards each other till they met, they embraced silently. Ramona, riding - up, held out her hand, saying, as she did so, “Ysidro?” - </p> - <p> - Pleased, yet surprised, at this confident and assured greeting, Ysidro - saluted her, and turning to Alessandro, said in their own tongue, “Who is - this woman whom you bring, that has heard my name?” - </p> - <p> - “My wife!” answered Alessandro, in the same tongue. “We were married last - night by Father Gaspara. She comes from the house of the Senora Moreno. We - will live in San Pasquale, if you have land for me, as you have said.” - </p> - <p> - What astonishment Ysidro felt, he showed none. Only a grave and courteous - welcome was in his face and in his words as he said, “It is well. There is - room. You are welcome.” But when he heard the soft Spanish syllables in - which Ramona spoke to Alessandro, and Alessandro, translating her words to - him, said, “Majel speaks only in the Spanish tongue, but she will learn - ours,” a look of disquiet passed over his countenance. His heart feared - for Alessandro, and he said, “Is she, then, not Indian? Whence got she the - name of Majel?” - </p> - <p> - A look of swift intelligence from Alessandro reassured him. “Indian on the - mother's side!” said Alessandro, “and she belongs in heart to our people. - She is alone, save for me. She is one blessed of the Virgin, Ysidro. She - will help us. The name Majel I have given her, for she is like the - wood-dove; and she is glad to lay her old name down forever, to bear this - new name in our tongue.” - </p> - <p> - And this was Ramona's introduction to the Indian village,—this and - her smile; perhaps the smile did most. Even the little children were not - afraid of her. The women, though shy, in the beginning, at sight of her - noble bearing, and her clothes of a kind and quality they associated only - with superiors, soon felt her friendliness, and, what was more, saw by her - every word, tone, look, that she was Alessandro's. If Alessandro's, - theirs. She was one of them. Ramona would have been profoundly impressed - and touched, could she have heard them speaking among themselves about - her; wondering how it had come about that she, so beautiful, and nurtured - in the Moreno house, of which they all knew, should be Alessandro's loving - wife. It must be, they thought in their simplicity, that the saints had - sent it as an omen of good to the Indian people. Toward night they came, - bringing in a hand-barrow the most aged woman in the village to look at - her. She wished to see the beautiful stranger before the sun went down, - they said, because she was now so old she believed each night that before - morning her time would come to die. They also wished to hear the old - woman's verdict on her. When Alessandro saw them coming, he understood, - and made haste to explain it to Ramona. While he was yet speaking, the - procession arrived, and the aged woman in her strange litter was placed - silently on the ground in front of Ramona, who was sitting under Ysidro's - great fig-tree. Those who had borne her withdrew, and seated themselves a - few paces off. Alessandro spoke first. In a few words he told the old - woman of Ramona's birth, of their marriage, and of her new name of - adoption; then he said, “Take her hand, dear Majella, if you feel no - fear.” - </p> - <p> - There was something scarcely human in the shrivelled arm and hand - outstretched in greeting; but Ramona took it in hers with tender - reverence: “Say to her for me, Alessandro,” she said, “that I bow down to - her great age with reverence, and that I hope, if it is the will of God - that I live on the earth so long as she has, I may be worthy of such - reverence as these people all feel for her.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro turned a grateful look on Ramona as he translated this speech, - so in unison with Indian modes of thought and feeling. A murmur of - pleasure rose from the group of women sitting by. The aged woman made no - reply; her eyes still studied Ramona's face, and she still held her hand. - </p> - <p> - “Tell her,” continued Ramona, “that I ask if there is anything I can do - for her. Say I will be her daughter if she will let me.” - </p> - <p> - “It must be the Virgin herself that is teaching Majella what to say,” - thought Alessandro, as he repeated this in the San Luiseno tongue. - </p> - <p> - Again the women murmured pleasure, but the old woman spoke not. “And say - that you will be her son,” added Ramona. - </p> - <p> - Alessandro said it. It was perhaps for this that the old woman had waited. - Lifting up her arm, like a sibyl, she said: “It is well; I am your mother. - The winds of the valley shall love you, and the grass shall dance when you - come. The daughter looks on her mother's face each day. I will go;” and - making a sign to her bearers, she was lifted, and carried to her house. - </p> - <p> - The scene affected Ramona deeply. The simplest acts of these people seemed - to her marvellously profound in their meanings. She was not herself - sufficiently educated or versed in life to know why she was so moved,—to - know that such utterances, such symbolisms as these, among primitive - peoples, are thus impressive because they are truly and grandly dramatic; - but she was none the less stirred by them, because she could not analyze - or explain them. - </p> - <p> - “I will go and see her every day,” she said; “she shall be like my mother, - whom I never saw.” - </p> - <p> - “We must both go each day,” said Alessandro. “What we have said is a - solemn promise among my people; it would not be possible to break it.” - </p> - <p> - Ysidro's home was in the centre of the village, on a slightly rising - ground; it was a picturesque group of four small houses, three of tule - reeds and one of adobe,—the latter a comfortable little house of two - rooms, with a floor and a shingled roof, both luxuries in San Pasquale. - The great fig-tree, whose luxuriance and size were noted far and near - throughout the country, stood half-way down the slope; but its boughs - shaded all three of the tule houses. On one of its lower branches was - fastened a dove-cote, ingeniously made of willow wands, plastered with - adobe, and containing so many rooms that the whole tree seemed sometimes - a-flutter with doves and dovelings. Here and there, between the houses, - were huge baskets, larger than barrels, woven of twigs, as the eagle - weaves its nest, only tighter and thicker. These were the outdoor - granaries; in these were kept acorns, barley, wheat, and corn. Ramona - thought them, as well she might, the prettiest things she ever saw. - </p> - <p> - “Are they hard to make?” she asked. “Can you make them, Alessandro? I - shall want many.” - </p> - <p> - “All you want, my Majella,” replied Alessandro. “We will go together to - get the twigs; I can, I dare say, buy some in the village. It is only two - days to make a large one.” - </p> - <p> - “No. Do not buy one,” she exclaimed. “I wish everything in our house to be - made by ourselves.” In which, again, Ramona was unconsciously striking one - of the keynotes of pleasure in the primitive harmonies of existence. - </p> - <p> - The tule house which stood nearest to the dove-cote was, by a lucky - chance, now empty. Ysidro's brother Ramon, who had occupied it, having - gone with his wife and baby to San Bernardino, for the winter, to work; - this house Ysidro was but too happy to give to Alessandro till his own - should be done. It was a tiny place, though it was really two houses - joined together by a roofed passage-way. In this passage-way the tidy - Juana, Ramon's wife, kept her few pots and pans, and a small stove. It - looked to Ramona like a baby-house. Timidly Alessandro said: “Can Majella - live in this small place for a time? It will not be very long; there are - adobes already made.” - </p> - <p> - His countenance cleared as Ramona replied gleefully, “I think it will be - very comfortable, and I shall feel as if we were all doves together in the - dove-cote!” - </p> - <p> - “Majel!” exclaimed Alessandro; and that was all he said. - </p> - <p> - Only a few rods off stood the little chapel; in front of it swung on a - cross-bar from two slanting posts an old bronze bell which had once - belonged to the San Diego Mission. When Ramona read the date, “1790,” on - its side, and heard that it was from the San Diego Mission church it had - come, she felt a sense of protection in its presence. - </p> - <p> - “Think, Alessandro,” she said; “this bell, no doubt, has rung many times - for the mass for the holy Father Junipero himself. It is a blessing to the - village. I want to live where I can see it all the time. It will be like a - saint's statue in the house.” - </p> - <p> - With every allusion that Ramona made to the saints' statues, Alessandro's - desire to procure one for her deepened. He said nothing; but he revolved - it in his mind continually. He had once gone with his shearers to San - Fernando, and there he had seen in a room of the old Mission buildings a - dozen statues of saints huddled in dusty confusion. The San Fernando - church was in crumbled ruins, and such of the church properties as were - left there were in the keeping of a Mexican not over-careful, and not in - the least devout. It would not trouble him to part with a saint or two, - Alessandro thought, and no irreverence to the saint either; on the - contrary, the greatest of reverence, since the statue was to be taken from - a place where no one cared for it, and brought into one where it would be - tenderly cherished, and worshipped every day. If only San Fernando were - not so far away, and the wooden saints so heavy! However, it should come - about yet. Majella should have a saint; nor distance nor difficulty should - keep Alessandro from procuring for his Majel the few things that lay - within his power. But he held his peace about it. It would be a sweeter - gift, if she did not know it beforehand. He pleased himself as subtly and - secretly as if he had come of civilized generations, thinking how her eyes - would dilate, if she waked up some morning and saw the saint by her - bedside; and how sure she would be to think, at first, it was a miracle,—his - dear, devout Majella, who, with all her superior knowledge, was yet more - credulous than he. All her education had not taught her to think, as he, - untaught, had learned, in his solitude with nature. - </p> - <p> - Before Alessandro had been two days in San Pasquale, he had heard of a - piece of good-fortune which almost passed his belief, and which startled - him for once out of his usual impassive demeanor. - </p> - <p> - “You know I have a herd of cattle of your father's, and near a hundred - sheep?” said Ysidro. - </p> - <p> - “Holy Virgin!” cried Alessandro, “you do not mean that! How is that? They - told me all our stock was taken by the Americans.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, so it was, all that was in Temecula,” replied Ysidro; “but in the - spring your father sent down to know if I would take a herd for him up - into the mountains, with ours, as he feared the Temecula pasture would - fall short, and the people there, who could not leave, must have their - cattle near home; so he sent a herd over,—I think, near fifty head; - and many of the cows have calved; and he sent, also, a little flock of - sheep,—a hundred, Ramon said; he herded them with ours all summer, - and he left a man up there with them. They will be down next week. It is - time they were sheared.” - </p> - <p> - Before he had finished speaking, Alessandro had vanished, bounding like a - deer. Ysidro stared after him; but seeing him enter the doorway of the - little tule hut, he understood, and a sad smile passed over his face. He - was not yet persuaded that this marriage of Alessandro's would turn out a - blessing. “What are a handful of sheep to her!” he thought. - </p> - <p> - Breathless, panting, Alessandro burst into Ramona's presence. “Majella! my - Majella! There are cattle—and sheep,” he cried. “The saints be - praised! We are not like the beggars, as I said.” - </p> - <p> - “I told you that God would give us food, dear Alessandro,” replied Ramona, - gently. - </p> - <p> - “You do not wonder! You do not ask!” he cried, astonished at her calm. - “Does Majella think that a sheep or a steer can come down from the skies?” - </p> - <p> - “Nay, not as our eyes would see,” she answered; “but the holy ones who - live in the skies can do anything they like on the earth. Whence came - these cattle, and how are they ours?” - </p> - <p> - When he told her, her face grew solemn. “Do you remember that night in the - willows,” she said, “when I was like one dying, because you would not - bring me with you? You had no faith that there would be food. And I told - you then that the saints never forsook those who loved them, and that God - would give food. And even at that moment, when you did not know it, there - were your cattle and your sheep feeding in the mountains, in the keeping - of God! Will my Alessandro believe after this?” and she threw her arms - around his neck and kissed him. - </p> - <p> - “It is true,” said Alessandro. “I will believe, after this, that the - saints love my Majella.” - </p> - <p> - But as he walked at a slower pace back to Ysidro, he said to himself: - “Majella did not see Temecula. What would she have said about the saints, - if she had seen that, and seen the people dying for want of food? It is - only for her that the saints pray. They are displeased with my people.” - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XX - </h2> - <p> - ONE year, and a half of another year, had passed. Sheep-shearings and - vintages had been in San Pasquale; and Alessandro's new house, having been - beaten on by the heavy spring rains, looked no longer new. It stood on the - south side of the valley,—too far, Ramona felt, from the blessed - bell; but there had not been land enough for wheat-fields any nearer, and - she could see the chapel, and the posts, and, on a clear day, the bell - itself. The house was small. “Small to hold so much joy,” she said, when - Alessandro first led her to it, and said, deprecatingly, “It is small, - Majella,—too small;” and he recollected bitterly, as he spoke, the - size of Ramona's own room at the Senora's house. “Too small,” he repeated. - </p> - <p> - “Very small to hold so much joy, my Alessandro,” she laughed; “but quite - large enough to hold two persons.” - </p> - <p> - It looked like a palace to the San Pasquale people, after Ramona had - arranged their little possessions in it; and she herself felt rich as she - looked around her two small rooms. The old San Luis Rey chairs and the - raw-hide bedstead were there, and, most precious of all, the statuette of - the Madonna. For this Alessandro had built a niche in the wall, between - the head of the bed and the one window. The niche was deep enough to hold - small pots in front of the statuette; and Ramona kept constantly growing - there wild-cucumber plants, which wreathed and re-wreathed the niche till - it looked like a bower. Below it hung her gold rosary and the ivory - Christ; and many a woman of the village, when she came to see Ramona, - asked permission to go into the bedroom and say her prayers there; so that - it finally came to be a sort of shrine for the whole village. - </p> - <p> - A broad veranda, as broad as the Senora's, ran across the front of the - little house. This was the only thing for which Ramona had asked. She - could not quite fancy life without a veranda, and linnets in the thatch. - But the linnets had not yet come. In vain Ramona strewed food for them, - and laid little trains of crumbs to lure them inside the posts; they would - not build nests inside. It was not their way in San Pasquale. They lived - in the canons, but this part of the valley was too bare of trees for them. - “In a year or two more, when we have orchards, they will come,” Alessandro - said. - </p> - <p> - With the money from that first sheep-shearing, and from the sale of part - of his cattle, Alessandro had bought all he needed in the way of farming - implements,—a good wagon and harnesses, and a plough. Baba and - Benito, at first restive and indignant, soon made up their minds to work. - Ramona had talked to Baba about it as she would have talked to a brother. - In fact, except for Ramona's help, it would have been a question whether - even Alessandro could have made Baba work in harness. “Good Baba!” Ramona - said, as she slipped piece after piece of the harness over his neck,—“Good - Baba, you must help us; we have so much work to do, and you are so strong! - Good Baba, do you love me?” and with one hand in his mane, and her cheek, - every few steps, laid close to his, she led Baba up and down the first - furrows he ploughed. - </p> - <p> - “My Senorita!” thought Alessandro to himself, half in pain, half in pride, - as, running behind with the unevenly jerked plough, he watched her - laughing face and blowing hair,—“my Senorita!” - </p> - <p> - But Ramona would not run with her hand in Baba's mane this winter. There - was a new work for her, indoors. In a rustic cradle, which Alessandro had - made, under her directions, of the woven twigs, like the great outdoor - acorn-granaries, only closer woven, and of an oval shape, and lifted from - the floor by four uprights of red manzanita stems,—in this cradle, - on soft white wool fleeces, covered with white homespun blankets, lay - Ramona's baby, six months old, lusty, strong, and beautiful, as only - children born of great love and under healthful conditions can be. This - child was a girl, to Alessandro's delight; to Ramona's regret,—so - far as a loving mother can feel regret connected with her firstborn. - Ramona had wished for an Alessandro; but the disappointed wish faded out - of her thoughts, hour by hour, as she gazed into her baby-girl's blue - eyes,—eyes so blue that their color was the first thing noticed by - each person who looked at her. - </p> - <p> - “Eyes of the sky,” exclaimed Ysidro, when he first saw her. - </p> - <p> - “Like the mother's,” said Alessandro; on which Ysidro turned an astonished - look upon Ramona, and saw for the first time that her eyes, too, were - blue. - </p> - <p> - “Wonderful!” he said. “It is so. I never saw it;” and he wondered in his - heart what father it had been, who had given eyes like those to one born - of an Indian mother. - </p> - <p> - “Eyes of the sky,” became at once the baby's name in the village; and - Alessandro and Ramona, before they knew it, had fallen into the way of so - calling her. But when it came to the christening, they demurred. The news - was brought to the village, one Saturday, that Father Gaspara would hold - services in the valley the next day, and that he wished all the new-born - babes to be brought for christening. Late into the night, Alessandro and - Ramona sat by their sleeping baby and discussed what should be her name. - Ramona wondered that Alessandro did not wish to name her Majella. - </p> - <p> - “No! Never but one Majella,” he said, in a tone which gave Ramona a sense - of vague fear, it was so solemn. - </p> - <p> - They discussed “Ramona,” “Isabella.” Alessandro suggested Carmena. This - had been his mother's name. - </p> - <p> - At the mention of it Ramona shuddered, recollecting the scene in the - Temecula graveyard. “Oh, no, no! Not that!” she cried. “It is ill-fated;” - and Alessandro blamed himself for having forgotten her only association - with the name. - </p> - <p> - At last Alessandro said: “The people have named her, I think, Majella. - Whatever name we give her in the chapel, she will never be called anything - but 'Eyes of the Sky,' in the village.” - </p> - <p> - “Let that name be her true one, then,” said Ramona. And so it was settled; - and when Father Gaspara took the little one in his arms, and made the sign - of the cross on her brow, he pronounced with some difficulty the syllables - of the Indian name, which meant “Blue Eyes,” or “Eyes of the Sky.” - </p> - <p> - Heretofore, when Father Gaspara had come to San Pasquale to say mass, he - had slept at Lomax's, the store and post-office, six miles away, in the - Bernardo valley. But Ysidro, with great pride, had this time ridden to - meet him, to say that his cousin Alessandro, who had come to live in the - valley, and had a good new adobe house, begged that the Father would do - him the honor to stay with him. - </p> - <p> - “And indeed, Father,” added Ysidro, “you will be far better lodged and fed - than in the house of Lomax. My cousin's wife knows well how all should be - done.” - </p> - <p> - “Alessandro! Alessandro!” said the Father, musingly. “Has he been long - married?” - </p> - <p> - “No, Father,” answered Ysidro. “But little more than two years. They were - married by you, on their way from Temecula here.” - </p> - <p> - “Ay, ay. I remember,” said Father Gaspara. “I will come;” and it was with - no small interest that he looked forward to meeting again the couple that - had so strongly impressed him. - </p> - <p> - Ramona was full of eager interest in her preparations for entertaining the - priest. This was like the olden time; and as she busied herself with her - cooking and other arrangements, the thought of Father Salvierderra was - much in her mind. She could, perhaps, hear news of him from Father - Gaspara. It was she who had suggested the idea to Alessandro; and when he - said, “But where will you sleep yourself, with the child, Majella, if we - give our room to the Father? I can lie on the floor outside; but you?”—“I - will go to Ysidro's, and sleep with Juana,” she replied. “For two nights, - it is no matter; and it is such shame to have the Father sleep in the - house of an American, when we have a good bed like this!” - </p> - <p> - Seldom in his life had Alessandro experienced such a sense of - gratification as he did when he led Father Gaspara into his and Ramona's - bedroom. The clean whitewashed walls, the bed neatly made, with broad lace - on sheets and pillows, hung with curtains and a canopy of bright red - calico, the old carved chairs, the Madonna shrine in its bower of green - leaves, the shelves on the walls, the white-curtained window,—all - made up a picture such as Father Gaspara had never before seen in his - pilgrimages among the Indian villages. He could not restrain an - ejaculation of surprise. Then his eye falling on the golden rosary, he - exclaimed, “Where got you that?” - </p> - <p> - “It is my wife's,” replied Alessandro, proudly. “It was given to her by - Father Salvierderra.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah!” said the Father. “He died the other day.” - </p> - <p> - “Dead! Father Salvierderra dead!” cried Alessandro. “That will be a - terrible blow. Oh, Father, I implore you not to speak of it in her - presence. She must not know it till after the christening. It will make - her heart heavy, so that she will have no joy.” - </p> - <p> - Father Gaspara was still scrutinizing the rosary and crucifix. “To be - sure, to be sure,” he said absently; “I will say nothing of it; but this - is a work of art, this crucifix; do you know what you have here? And this,—is - this not an altar-cloth?” he added, lifting up the beautiful wrought - altar-cloth, which Ramona, in honor of his coming, had pinned on the wall - below the Madonna's shrine. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Father, it was made for that. My wife made it. It was to be a - present to Father Salvierderra; but she has not seen him, to give it to - him. It will take the light out of the sun for her, when first she hears - that he is dead.” - </p> - <p> - Father Gaspara was about to ask another question, when Ramona appeared in - the doorway, flushed with running. She had carried the baby over to - Juana's and left her there, that she might be free to serve the Father's - supper. - </p> - <p> - “I pray you tell her not,” said Alessandro, under his breath; but it was - too late. Seeing the Father with her rosary in his hand, Ramona exclaimed:— - </p> - <p> - “That, Father, is my most sacred possession. It once belonged to Father - Peyri, of San Luis Rey, and he gave it to Father Salvierderra, who gave it - to me, Know you Father Salvierderra? I was hoping to hear news of him - through you.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I knew him,—not very well; it is long since I saw him,” - stammered Father Gaspara. His hesitancy alone would not have told Ramona - the truth; she would have set that down to the secular priest's - indifference, or hostility, to the Franciscan order; but looking at - Alessandro, she saw terror and sadness on his face. No shadow there ever - escaped her eye. “What is it, Alessandro?” she exclaimed. “Is it something - about Father Salvierderra? Is he ill?” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro shook his head. He did not know what to say. Looking from one - to the other, seeing the confused pain in both their faces, Ramona, laying - both her hands on her breast, in the expressive gesture she had learned - from the Indian women, cried out in a piteous tone: “You will not tell me! - You do not speak! Then he is dead!” and she sank on her knees. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, my daughter, he is dead,” said Father Gaspara, more tenderly than - that brusque and warlike priest often spoke. “He died a month ago, at - Santa Barbara. I am grieved to have brought you tidings to give you such - sorrow. But you must not mourn for him. He was very feeble, and he longed - to die, I heard. He could no longer work, and he did not wish to live.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona had buried her face in her hands. The Father's words were only a - confused sound in her ears. She had heard nothing after the words, “a - month ago.” She remained silent and motionless for some moments; then - rising, without speaking a word, or looking at either of the men, she - crossed the room and knelt down before the Madonna. By a common impulse, - both Alessandro and Father Gaspara silently left the room. As they stood - together outside the door, the Father said, “I would go back to Lomax's if - it were not so late. I like not to be here when your wife is in such - grief.” - </p> - <p> - “That would but be another grief, Father,” said Alessandro. “She has been - full of happiness in making ready for you. She is very strong of soul. It - is she who makes me strong often, and not I who give strength to her.” - </p> - <p> - “My faith, but the man is right,” thought Father Gaspara, a half-hour - later, when, with a calm face, Ramona summoned them to supper. He did not - know, as Alessandro did, how that face had changed in the half-hour. It - wore a look Alessandro had never seen upon it. Almost he dreaded to speak - to her. - </p> - <p> - When he walked by her side, later in the evening, as she went across the - valley to Fernando's house, he ventured to mention Father Salvierderra's - name. Ramona laid her hand on his lips. “I cannot talk about him yet, - dear,” she said. “I never believed that he would die without giving us his - blessing. Do not speak of him till to-morrow is over.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona's saddened face smote on all the women's hearts as they met her the - next morning. One by one they gazed, astonished, then turned away, and - spoke softly among themselves. They all loved her, and half revered her - too, for her great kindness, and readiness to teach and to help them. She - had been like a sort of missionary in the valley ever since she came, and - no one had ever seen her face without a smile. Now she smiled not. Yet - there was the beautiful baby in its white dress, ready to be christened; - and the sun shone, and the bell had been ringing for half an hour, and - from every corner of the valley the people were gathering, and Father - Gaspara, in his gold and green cassock, was praying before the altar; it - was a joyous day in San Pasquale. Why did Alessandro and Ramona kneel - apart in a corner, with such heart-stricken countenances, not even looking - glad when their baby laughed, and reached up her hands? Gradually it was - whispered about what had happened. Some one had got it from Antonio, of - Temecula, Alessandro's friend. Then all the women's faces grew sad too. - They all had heard of Father Salvierderra, and many of them had prayed to - the ivory Christ in Ramona's room, and knew that he had given it to her. - </p> - <p> - As Ramona passed out of the chapel, some of them came up to her, and - taking her hand in theirs, laid it on their hearts, speaking no word. The - gesture was more than any speech could have been. - </p> - <p> - When Father Gaspara was taking leave, Ramona said, with quivering lips, - “Father, if there is anything you know of Father Salvierderra's last - hours, I would be grateful to you for telling me.” - </p> - <p> - “I heard very little,” replied the Father, “except that he had been feeble - for some weeks; yet he would persist in spending most of the night - kneeling on the stone floor in the church, praying.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” interrupted Ramona; “that he always did.” - </p> - <p> - “And the last morning,” continued the Father, “the Brothers found him - there, still kneeling on the stone floor, but quite powerless to move; and - they lifted him, and carried him to his room, and there they found, to - their horror, that he had had no bed; he had lain on the stones; and then - they took him to the Superior's own room, and laid him in the bed, and he - did not speak any more, and at noon he died.” - </p> - <p> - “Thank you very much, Father,” said Ramona, without lifting her eyes from - the ground; and in the same low, tremulous tone, “I am glad that I know - that he is dead.” - </p> - <p> - “Strange what a hold those Franciscans got on these Indians!” mused Father - Gaspara, as he rode down the valley. “There's none of them would look like - that if I were dead, I warrant me! There,” he exclaimed, “I meant to have - asked Alessandro who this wife of his is! I don't believe she is a - Temecula Indian. Next time I come, I will find out. She's had some - schooling somewhere, that's plain. She's quite superior to the general run - of them. Next time I come, I will find out about her.” - </p> - <p> - “Next time!” In what calendar are kept the records of those next times - which never come? Long before Father Gaspara visited San Pasquale again, - Alessandro and Ramona were far away, and strangers were living in their - home. - </p> - <p> - It seemed to Ramona in after years, as she looked back over this life, - that the news of Father Salvierderra's death was the first note of the - knell of their happiness. It was but a few days afterward, when Alessandro - came in one noon with an expression on his face that terrified her; - seating himself in a chair, he buried his face in his hands, and would - neither look up nor speak; not until Ramona was near crying from his - silence, did he utter a word. Then, looking at her with a ghastly face, he - said in a hollow voice, “It has begun!” and buried his face again. Finally - Ramona's tears wrung from him the following story: - </p> - <p> - Ysidro, it seemed, had the previous year rented a canon, at the head of - the valley, to one Doctor Morong. It was simply as bee-pasture that the - Doctor wanted it, he said. He put his hives there, and built a sort of hut - for the man whom he sent up to look after the honey. Ysidro did not need - the land, and thought it a good chance to make a little money. He had - taken every precaution to make the transaction a safe one; had gone to San - Diego, and got Father Gaspara to act as interpreter for him, in the - interview with Morong; it had been a written agreement, and the rent - agreed upon had been punctually paid. Now, the time of the lease having - expired, Ysidro had been to San Diego to ask the Doctor if he wished to - renew it for another year; and the Doctor had said that the land was his, - and he was coming out there to build a house, and live. - </p> - <p> - Ysidro had gone to Father Gaspara for help, and Father Gaspara had had an - angry interview with Doctor Morong; but it had done no good. The Doctor - said the land did not belong to Ysidro at all, but to the United States - Government; and that he had paid the money for it to the agents in Los - Angeles, and there would very soon come papers from Washington, to show - that it was his. Father Gaspara had gone with Ysidro to a lawyer in San - Diego, and had shown to his lawyer Ysidro's paper,—the old one from - the Mexican Governor of California, establishing the pueblo of San - Pasquale, and saying how many leagues of land the Indians were to have; - but the lawyer had only laughed at Father Gaspara for believing that such - a paper as that was good for anything. He said that was all very well when - the country belonged to Mexico, but it was no good now; that the Americans - owned it now; and everything was done by the American law now, not by the - Mexican law any more. - </p> - <p> - “Then we do not own any land in San Pasquale at all,” said Ysidro. “Is - that what it means?” - </p> - <p> - And the lawyer had said, he did not know how it would be with the - cultivated land, and the village where the houses were,—he could not - tell about that; but he thought it all belonged to the men at Washington. - </p> - <p> - Father Gaspara was in such rage, Ysidro said, that he tore open his gown - on his breast, and he smote himself, and he said he wished he were a - soldier, and no priest, that he might fight this accursed United States - Government; and the lawyer laughed at him, and told him to look after - souls,—that was his business,—and let the Indian beggars - alone! “Yes, that was what he said,—'the Indian beggars!' and so - they would be all beggars, presently.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro told this by gasps, as it were; at long intervals. His voice - was choked; his whole frame shook. He was nearly beside himself with rage - and despair. - </p> - <p> - “You see, it is as I said, Majella. There is no place safe. We can do - nothing! We might better be dead!” - </p> - <p> - “It is a long way off, that canon Doctor Morong had,” said Ramona, - piteously. “It wouldn't do any harm, his living there, if no more came.” - </p> - <p> - “Majella talks like a dove, and not like a woman,” said Alessandro, - fiercely. “Will there be one to come, and not two? It is the beginning. - To-morrow may come ten more, with papers to show that the land is theirs. - We can do nothing, any more than the wild beasts. They are better than - we.” - </p> - <p> - From this day Alessandro was a changed man. Hope had died in his bosom. In - all the village councils,—and they were many and long now, for the - little community had been plunged into great anxiety and distress by this - Doctor Morong's affair,—Alessandro sat dumb and gloomy. To whatever - was proposed, he had but one reply: “It is of no use. We can do nothing.” - </p> - <p> - “Eat your dinners to-day, to-morrow we starve,” he said one night, - bitterly, as the council broke up. When Ysidro proposed to him that they - should journey to Los Angeles, where Father Gaspara had said the - headquarters of the Government officers were, and where they could learn - all about the new laws in regard to land, Alessandro laughed at him. “What - more is it, then, which you wish to know, my brother, about the American - laws?” he said. “Is it not enough that you know they have made a law which - will take the land from Indians; from us who have owned it longer than any - can remember; land that our ancestors are buried in,—will take that - land and give it to themselves, and say it is theirs? Is it to hear this - again said in your face, and to see the man laugh who says it, like the - lawyer in San Diego, that you will journey to Los Angeles? I will not go!” - </p> - <p> - And Ysidro went alone. Father Gaspara gave him a letter to the Los Angeles - priest, who went with him to the land-office, patiently interpreted for - him all he had to say, and as patiently interpreted all that the officials - had to say in reply. They did not laugh, as Alessandro in his bitterness - had said. They were not inhuman, and they felt sincere sympathy for this - man, representative of two hundred hard-working, industrious people, in - danger of being turned out of house and home. But they were very busy; - they had to say curtly, and in few words, all there was to be said: the - San Pasquale district was certainly the property of the United States - Government, and the lands were in market, to be filed on, and bought, - according to the homestead laws, These officials had neither authority nor - option in the matter. They were there simply to carry out instructions, - and obey orders. - </p> - <p> - Ysidro understood the substance of all this, though the details were - beyond his comprehension. But he did not regret having taken the journey; - he had now made his last effort for his people. The Los Angeles priest had - promised that he would himself write a letter to Washington, to lay the - case before the head man there, and perhaps something would be done for - their relief. It seemed incredible to Ysidro, as, riding along day after - day, on his sad homeward journey, he reflected on the subject,—it - seemed incredible to him that the Government would permit such a village - as theirs to be destroyed. He reached home just at sunset; and looking - down, as Alessandro and Ramona had done on the morning of their arrival, - from the hillcrests at the west end of the valley, seeing the broad belt - of cultivated fields and orchards, the peaceful little hamlet of houses, - he groaned. “If the people who make these laws could only see this - village, they would never turn us out, never! They can't know what is - being done. I am sure they can't know.” - </p> - <p> - “What did I tell you?” cried Alessandro, galloping up on Benito, and - reining him in so sharply he reared and plunged. “What did I tell you? I - saw by your face, many paces back, that you had come as you went, or - worse! I have been watching for you these two days. Another American has - come in with Morong in the canon; they are making corrals; they will keep - stock. You will see how long we have any pasture-lands in that end of the - valley. I drive all my stock to San Diego next week. I will sell it for - what it will bring,—both the cattle and the sheep. It is no use. You - will see.” - </p> - <p> - When Ysidro began to recount his interview with the land-office - authorities, Alessandro broke in fiercely: “I wish to hear no more of it. - Their names and their speech are like smoke in my eyes and my nose. I - think I shall go mad, Ysidro. Go tell your story to the men who are - waiting to hear it, and who yet believe that an American may speak truth!” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro was as good as his word. The very next week he drove all his - cattle and sheep to San Diego, and sold them at great loss. “It is better - than nothing,” he said. “They will not now be sold by the sheriff, like my - father's in Temecula.” The money he got, he took to Father Gaspara. - “Father,” he said huskily. “I have sold all my stock. I would not wait for - the Americans to sell it for me, and take the money. I have not got much, - but it is better than nothing. It will make that we do not starve for one - year. Will you keep it for me, Father? I dare not have it in San Pasquale. - San Pasquale will be like Temecula,—it may be to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - To the Father's suggestion that he should put the money in a bank in San - Diego, Alessandro cried: “Sooner would I throw it in the sea yonder! I - trust no man, henceforth; only the Church I will trust. Keep it for me, - Father, I pray you,” and the Father could not refuse his imploring tone. - </p> - <p> - “What are your plans now?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “Plans!” repeated Alessandro,—“plans, Father! Why should I make - plans? I will stay in my house so long as the Americans will let me. You - saw our little house, Father!” His voice broke as he said this. “I have - large wheat-fields; if I can get one more crop off them, it will be - something; but my land is of the richest in the valley, and as soon as the - Americans see it, they will want it. Farewell, Father. I thank you for - keeping my money, and for all you said to the thief Morong. Ysidro told - me. Farewell.” And he was gone, and out of sight on the swift galloping - Benito, before Father Gaspara bethought himself. - </p> - <p> - “And I remembered not to ask who his wife was. I will look back at the - record,” said the Father. Taking down the old volume, he ran his eye back - over the year. Marriages were not so many in Father Gaspara's parish, that - the list took long to read. The entry of Alessandro's marriage was - blotted. The Father had been in haste that night. “Alessandro Assis. - Majella Fa—” No more could be read. The name meant nothing to Father - Gaspara. “Clearly an Indian name,” he said to himself; “yet she seemed - superior in every way. I wonder where she got it.” - </p> - <p> - The winter wore along quietly in San Pasquale. The delicious soft rains - set in early, promising a good grain year. It seemed a pity not to get in - as much wheat as possible; and all the San Pasquale people went early to - ploughing new fields,—all but Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - “If I reap all I have, I will thank the saints,” he said. “I will plough - no more land for the robbers.” But after his fields were all planted, and - the beneficent rains still kept on, and the hills all along the valley - wall began to turn green earlier than ever before was known, he said to - Ramona one morning, “I think I will make one more field of wheat. There - will be a great yield this year. Maybe we will be left unmolested till the - harvest is over.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes, and for many more harvests, dear Alessandro!” said Ramona, - cheerily. “You are always looking on the black side.” - </p> - <p> - “There is no other but the black side, Majella,” he replied. “Strain my - eyes as I may, on all sides all is black. You will see. Never any more - harvests in San Pasquale for us, after this. If we get this, we are lucky. - I have seen the white men riding up and down in the valley, and I found - some of their cursed bits of wood with figures on them set up on my land - the other day; and I pulled them up and burned them to ashes. But I will - plough one more field this week; though, I know not why it is, my thoughts - go against it even now. But I will do it; and I will not come home till - night, Majella, for the field is too far to go and come twice. I shall be - the whole day ploughing.” So saying, he stooped and kissed the baby, and - then kissing Ramona, went out. - </p> - <p> - Ramona stood at the door and watched him as he harnessed Benito and Baba - to the plough. He did not once look back at her; his face seemed full of - thought, his hands acting as it were mechanically. After he had gone a few - rods from the house, he stopped, stood still for some minutes - meditatingly, then went on irresolutely, halted again, but finally went - on, and disappeared from sight among the low foothills to the east. - Sighing deeply, Ramona turned back to her work. But her heart was too - disquieted. She could not keep back the tears. - </p> - <p> - “How changed is Alessandro!” she thought. “It terrifies me to see him - thus. I will tell the Blessed Virgin about it;” and kneeling before the - shrine, she prayed fervently and long. She rose comforted, and drawing the - baby's cradle out into the veranda, seated herself at her embroidery. Her - skill with her needle had proved a not inconsiderable source of income, - her fine lace-work being always taken by San Diego merchants, and at - fairly good prices. - </p> - <p> - It seemed to her only a short time that she had been sitting thus, when, - glancing up at the sun, she saw it was near noon; at the same moment she - saw Alessandro approaching, with the horses. In dismay, she thought, - “There is no dinner! He said he would not come!” and springing up, was - about to run to meet him, when she observed that he was not alone. A - short, thick-set man was walking by his side; they were talking earnestly. - It was a white man. What did it bode? Presently they stopped. She saw - Alessandro lift his hand and point to the house, then to the tule sheds in - the rear. He seemed to be talking excitedly; the white man also; they were - both speaking at once. Ramona shivered with fear. Motionless she stood, - straining eye and ear; she could hear nothing, but the gestures told much. - Had it come,—the thing Alessandro had said would come? Were they to - be driven out,—driven out this very day, when the Virgin had only - just now seemed to promise her help and protection? - </p> - <p> - The baby stirred, waked, began to cry. Catching the child up to her - breast, she stilled her by convulsive caresses. Clasping her tight in her - arms, she walked a few steps towards Alessandro, who, seeing her, made an - imperative gesture to her to return. Sick at heart, she went back to the - veranda and sat down to wait. - </p> - <p> - In a few moments she saw the white man counting out money into - Alessandro's hand; then he turned and walked away, Alessandro still - standing as if rooted to the spot, gazing into the palm of his hand, - Benito and Baba slowly walking away from him unnoticed; at last he seemed - to rouse himself as from a trance, and picking up the horses' reins, came - slowly toward her. Again she started to meet him; again he made the same - authoritative gesture to her to return; and again she seated herself, - trembling in every nerve of her body. Ramona was now sometimes afraid of - Alessandro. When these fierce glooms seized him, she dreaded, she knew not - what. He seemed no more the Alessandro she had loved. - </p> - <p> - Deliberately, lingeringly, he unharnessed the horses and put them in the - corral. Then still more deliberately, lingeringly, he walked to the house; - walked, without speaking, past Ramona, into the door. A lurid spot on each - cheek showed burning red through the bronze of his skin. His eyes - glittered. In silence Ramona followed him, and saw him draw from his - pocket a handful of gold-pieces, fling them on the table, and burst into a - laugh more terrible than any weeping,—a laugh which wrung from her - instantly, involuntarily, the cry, “Oh, my Alessandro! my Alessandro! What - is it? Are you mad?” - </p> - <p> - “No, my sweet Majel,” he exclaimed, turning to her, and flinging his arms - round her and the child together, drawing them so close to his breast that - the embrace hurt,—“no, I am not mad; but I think I shall soon be! - What is that gold? The price of this house, Majel, and of the fields,—of - all that was ours in San Pasquale! To-morrow we will go out into the world - again. I will see if I can find a place the Americans do not want!” - </p> - <p> - It did not take many words to tell the story. Alessandro had not been - ploughing more than an hour, when, hearing a strange sound, he looked up - and saw a man unloading lumber a few rods off'. Alessandro stopped midway - in the furrow and watched him. The man also watched Alessandro. Presently - he came toward him, and said roughly, “Look here! Be off, will you? This - is my land. I'm going to build a house here.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro had replied, “This was my land yesterday. How comes it yours - to-day?” - </p> - <p> - Something in the wording of this answer, or something in Alessandro's tone - and bearing, smote the man's conscience, or heart, or what stood to him in - the place of conscience and heart, and he said: “Come, now, my good - fellow, you look like a reasonable kind of a fellow; you just clear out, - will you, and not make me any trouble. You see the land's mine. I've got - all this land round here;” and he waved his arm, describing a circle; - “three hundred and twenty acres, me and my brother together, and we're - coming in here to settle. We got our papers from Washington last week. - It's all right, and you may just as well go peaceably, as make a fuss - about it. Don't you see?” - </p> - <p> - Yes, Alessandro saw. He had been seeing this precise thing for months. - Many times, in his dreams and in his waking thoughts, he had lived over - scenes similar to this. An almost preternatural calm and wisdom seemed to - be given him now. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I see, Senor,” he said. “I am not surprised. I knew it would come; - but I hoped it would not be till after harvest. I will not give you any - trouble, Senor, because I cannot. If I could, I would. But I have heard - all about the new law which gives all the Indians' lands to the Americans. - We cannot help ourselves. But it is very hard, Senor.” He paused. - </p> - <p> - The man, confused and embarrassed, astonished beyond expression at being - met in this way by an Indian, did not find words come ready to his tongue. - “Of course, I know it does seem a little rough on fellows like you, that - are industrious, and have done some work on the land. But you see the - land's in the market; I've paid my money for it.” - </p> - <p> - “The Senor is going to build a house?” asked Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” the man answered. “I've got my family in San Diego, and I want to - get them settled as soon as I can. My wife won't feel comfortable till - she's in her own house. We're from the States, and she's been used to - having everything comfortable.” - </p> - <p> - “I have a wife and child, Senor,” said Alessandro, still in the same calm, - deliberate tone; “and we have a very good house of two rooms. It would - save the Senor's building, if he would buy mine.” - </p> - <p> - “How far is it?” said the man. “I can't tell exactly where the boundaries - of my land are, for the stakes we set have been pulled up.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Senor, I pulled them up and burned them. They were on my land,” - replied Alessandro. “My house is farther west than your stakes; and I have - large wheat-fields there, too,—many acres, Senor, all planted.” - </p> - <p> - Here was a chance, indeed. The man's eyes gleamed. He would do the - handsome thing. He would give this fellow something for his house and - wheat-crops. First he would see the house, however; and it was for that - purpose he had walked back with Alessandro, When he saw the neat - whitewashed adobe, with its broad veranda, the sheds and corrals all in - good order, he instantly resolved to get possession of them by fair means - or foul. - </p> - <p> - “There will be three hundred dollars' worth of wheat in July, Senor, you - can see for yourself; and a house so good as that, you cannot build for - less than one hundred dollars. What will you give me for them?” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose I can have them without paying you for them, if I choose,” said - the man, insolently. - </p> - <p> - “No, Senor,” replied Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - “What's to hinder, then, I'd like to know!” in a brutal sneer. “You - haven't got any rights here, whatever, according to law.” - </p> - <p> - “I shall hinder, Senor,” replied Alessandro. “I shall burn down the sheds - and corrals, tear down the house; and before a blade of the wheat is - reaped, I will burn that.” Still in the same calm tone. - </p> - <p> - “What'll you take?” said the man, sullenly. - </p> - <p> - “Two hundred dollars,” replied Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - “Well, leave your plough and wagon, and I'll give it to you,” said the - man; “and a big fool I am, too. Well laughed at, I'll be, do you know it, - for buying out an Indian!” - </p> - <p> - “The wagon, Senor, cost me one hundred and thirty dollars in San Diego. - You cannot buy one so good for less. I will not sell it. I need it to take - away my things in. The plough you may have. That is worth twenty.” - </p> - <p> - “I'll do it,” said the man; and pulling out a heavy buckskin pouch, he - counted out into Alessandro's hand two hundred dollars in gold. - </p> - <p> - “Is that all right?” he said, as he put down the last piece. - </p> - <p> - “That is the sum I said, Senor,” replied Alessandro. “Tomorrow, at noon, - you can come into the house.” - </p> - <p> - “Where will you go?” asked the man, again slightly touched by Alessandro's - manner. “Why don't you stay round here? I expect you could get work - enough; there are a lot of farmers coming in here; they'll want hands.” - </p> - <p> - A fierce torrent of words sprang to Alessandro's lips, but he choked them - back. “I do not know where I shall go, but I will not stay here,” he said; - and that ended the interview. - </p> - <p> - “I don't know as I blame him a mite for feeling that way,” thought the man - from the States, as he walked slowly back to his pile of lumber. “I expect - I should feel just so myself.” - </p> - <p> - Almost before Alessandro had finished this tale, he began to move about - the room, taking down, folding up, opening and shutting lids; his - restlessness was terrible to see. “By sunrise, I would like to be off,” he - said. “It is like death, to be in the house which is no longer ours.” - Ramona had spoken no words since her first cry on hearing that terrible - laugh. She was like one stricken dumb. The shock was greater to her than - to Alessandro. He had lived with it ever present in his thoughts for a - year. She had always hoped. But far more dreadful than the loss of her - home, was the anguish of seeing, hearing, the changed face, changed voice, - of Alessandro. Almost this swallowed up the other. She obeyed him - mechanically, working faster and faster as he grew more and more feverish - in his haste. Before sundown the little house was dismantled; everything, - except the bed and the stove, packed in the big wagon. - </p> - <p> - “Now, we must cook food for the journey,” said Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - “Where are we going?” said the weeping Ramona. - </p> - <p> - “Where?” ejaculated Alessandro, so scornfully that it sounded like - impatience with Ramona, and made her tears flow afresh. “Where? I know - not, Majella! Into the mountains, where the white men come not! At sunrise - we will start.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona wished to say good-by to their friends. There were women in the - village that she tenderly loved. But Alessandro was unwilling. “There will - be weeping and crying, Majella; I pray you do not speak to one. Why should - we have more tears? Let us disappear. I will say all to Ysidro. He will - tell them.” - </p> - <p> - This was a sore grief to Ramona. In her heart she rebelled against it, as - she had never yet rebelled against an act of Alessandro's; but she could - not distress him. Was not his burden heavy enough now? - </p> - <p> - Without a word of farewell to any one, they set off in the gray dawn, - before a creature was stirring in the village,—the wagon piled high; - Ramona, her baby in her arms, in front; Alessandro walking. The load was - heavy. Benito and Baba walked slowly. Capitan, unhappy, looking first at - Ramona's face, then at Alessandro's, walked dispiritedly by their side. He - knew all was wrong. - </p> - <p> - As Alessandro turned the horses into a faintly marked road leading in a - northeasterly direction, Ramona said with a sob, “Where does this road - lead, Alessandro?” - </p> - <p> - “To San Jacinto,” he said. “San Jacinto Mountain. Do not look back, - Majella! Do not look back!” he cried, as he saw Ramona, with streaming - eyes, gazing back towards San Pasquale. “Do not look back! It is gone! - Pray to the saints now, Majella! Pray! Pray!” - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XXI - </h2> - <p> - THE Senora Moreno was dying. It had been a sad two years in the Moreno - house. After the first excitement following Ramona's departure had died - away, things had settled down in a surface similitude of their old - routine. But nothing was really the same. No one was so happy as before. - Juan Canito was heart-broken. There had been set over him the very Mexican - whose coming to the place he had dreaded. The sheep had not done well; - there had been a drought; many had died of hunger,—a thing for which - the new Mexican overseer was not to blame, though it pleased Juan to hold - him so, and to say from morning till night that if his leg had not been - broken, or if the lad Alessandro had been there, the wool-crop would have - been as big as ever. Not one of the servants liked this Mexican; he had a - sorry time of it, poor fellow; each man and woman on the place had or - fancied some reason for being set against him; some from sympathy with - Juan Can, some from idleness and general impatience; Margarita, most of - all, because he was not Alessandro. Margarita, between remorse about her - young mistress and pique and disappointment about Alessandro, had become a - very unhappy girl; and her mother, instead of comforting or soothing her, - added to her misery by continually bemoaning Ramona's fate. The void that - Ramona had left in the whole household seemed an irreparable one; nothing - came to fill it; there was no forgetting; every day her name was mentioned - by some one; mentioned with bated breath, fearful conjecture, compassion, - and regret. Where had she vanished? Had she indeed gone to the convent, as - she said, or had she fled with Alessandro? - </p> - <p> - Margarita would have given her right hand to know. Only Juan Can felt - sure. Very well Juan Can knew that nobody but Alessandro had the wit and - the power over Baba to lure him out of that corral, “and never a rail out - of its place.” And the saddle, too! Ay, the smart lad! He had done the - best he could for the Senorita; but, Holy Virgin! what had got into the - Senorita to run off like that, with an Indian,—even Alessandro! The - fiends had bewitched her. Tirelessly Juan Can questioned every traveller, - every wandering herder he saw. No one knew anything of Alessandro, beyond - the fact that all the Temecula Indians had been driven out of their - village, and that there was now not an Indian in the valley. There was a - rumor that Alessandro and his father had both died; but no one knew - anything certainly. The Temecula Indians had disappeared, that was all - there was of it,—disappeared, like any wild creatures, foxes or - coyotes, hunted down, driven out; the valley was rid of them. But the - Senorita! She was not with these fugitives. That could not be! Heaven - forbid! - </p> - <p> - “If I'd my legs, I'd go and see for myself.” said Juan Can. “It would be - some comfort to know even the worst. Perdition take the Senora, who drove - her to it! Ay, drove her to it! That's what I say, Luigo.” In some of his - most venturesome wrathy moments he would say: “There's none of you know - the truth about the Senorita but me! It's a hard hand the Senora's reared - her with, from the first. She's a wonderful woman, our Senora! She gets - power over one.” - </p> - <p> - But the Senora's power was shaken now. More changed than all else in the - changed Moreno household, was the relation between the Senora Moreno and - her son Felipe. On the morning after Ramona's disappearance, words had - been spoken by each which neither would ever forget. In fact, the Senora - believed that it was of them she was dying, and perhaps that was not far - from the truth; the reason that forces could no longer rally in her to - repel disease, lying no doubt largely in the fact that to live seemed no - longer to her desirable. - </p> - <p> - Felipe had found the note Ramona had laid on his bed. Before it was yet - dawn he had waked, and tossing uneasily under the light covering had heard - the rustle of the paper, and knowing instinctively that it was from - Ramona, had risen instantly to make sure of it. Before his mother opened - her window, he had read it. He felt like one bereft of his senses as he - read. Gone! Gone with Alessandro! Stolen away like a thief in the night, - his dear, sweet little sister! Ah, what a cruel shame! Scales seemed to - drop from Felipe's eyes as he lay motionless, thinking of it. A shame! a - cruel shame! And he and his mother were the ones who had brought it on - Ramona's head, and on the house of Moreno. Felipe felt as if he had been - under a spell all along, not to have realized this. “That's what I told my - mother!” he groaned,—“that it drove her to running away! Oh, my - sweet Ramona! what will become of her? I will go after them, and bring - them back;” and Felipe rose, and hastily dressing himself, ran down the - veranda steps, to gain a little more time to think. He returned shortly, - to meet his mother standing in the doorway, with pale, affrighted face. - </p> - <p> - “Felipe!” she cried, “Ramona is not here.” - </p> - <p> - “I know it,” he replied in an angry tone. “That is what I told you we - should do,—drive her to running away with Alessandro!” - </p> - <p> - “With Alessandro!” interrupted the Senora. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” continued Felipe,—“with Alessandro, the Indian! Perhaps you - think it is less disgrace to the names of Ortegna and Moreno to have her - run away with him, than to be married to him here under our roof! I do - not! Curse the day, I say, when I ever lent myself to breaking the girl's - heart! I am going after them, to fetch them back!” - </p> - <p> - If the skies had opened and rained fire, the Senora had hardly less - quailed and wondered than she did at these words; but even for fire from - the skies she would not surrender till she must. - </p> - <p> - “How know you that it is with Alessandro?” she said. - </p> - <p> - “Because she has written it here!” cried Felipe, defiantly holding up his - little note. “She left this, her good-by to me. Bless her! She writes like - a saint, to thank me for all my goodness to her,—I, who drove her to - steal out of my house like a thief!” - </p> - <p> - The phrase, “my house,” smote the Senora's ear like a note from some other - sphere, which indeed it was,—from the new world into which Felipe - had been in an hour born. Her cheeks flushed, and she opened her lips to - reply; but before she had uttered a word, Luigo came running round the - corner, Juan Can hobbling after him at a miraculous pace on his crutches. - “Senor Felipe! Senor Felipe! Oh, Senora!” they cried. “Thieves have been - here in the night! Baba is gone,—Baba, and the Senorita's saddle.” - </p> - <p> - A malicious smile broke over the Senora's countenance, and turning to - Felipe, she said in a tone—what a tone it was! Felipe felt as if he - must put his hands to his ears to shut it out; Felipe would never forget,—“As - you were saying, like a thief in the night!” - </p> - <p> - With a swifter and more energetic movement than any had ever before seen - Senor Felipe make, he stepped forward, saying in an undertone to his - mother, “For God's sake, mother, not a word before the men!—What is - that you say, Luigo? Baba gone? We must see to our corral. I will come - down, after breakfast, and look at it;” and turning his back on them, he - drew his mother by a firm grasp, she could not resist, into the house. - </p> - <p> - She gazed at him in sheer, dumb wonder. - </p> - <p> - “Ay, mother,” he said, “you may well look thus in wonder; I have been no - man, to let my foster-sister, I care not what blood were in her veins, be - driven to this pass! I will set out this day, and bring her back.” - </p> - <p> - “The day you do that, then, I lie in this house dead!” retorted the - Senora, at white heat. “You may rear as many Indian families as you please - under the Moreno roof, I will at least have my grave!” In spite of her - anger, grief convulsed her; and in another second she had burst into - tears, and sunk helpless and trembling into a chair. No counterfeiting - now. No pretences. The Senora Moreno's heart broke within her, when those - words passed her lips to her adored Felipe. At the sight, Felipe flung - himself on his knees before her; he kissed the aged hands as they lay - trembling in her lap. “Mother mia,” he cried, “you will break my heart if - you speak like that! Oh, why, why do you command me to do what a man may - not? I would die for you, my mother; but how can I see my sister a - homeless wanderer in the wilderness?” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose the man Alessandro has something he calls a home,” said the - Senora, regaining herself a little. “Had they no plans? Spoke she not in - her letter of what they would do?” - </p> - <p> - “Only that they would go to Father Salvierderra first,” he replied. - </p> - <p> - “Ah!” The Senora reflected. At first startled, her second thought was that - this would be the best possible thing which could happen. “Father - Salvierderra will counsel them what to do,” she said. “He could no doubt - establish them in Santa Barbara in some way. My son, when you reflect, you - will see the impossibility of bringing them here. Help them in any way you - like, but do not bring them here.” She paused. “Not until I am dead, - Felipe! It will not be long.” - </p> - <p> - Felipe bowed his head in his mother's lap. She laid her hands on his hair, - and stroked it with passionate tenderness. “My Felipe!” she said. “It was - a cruel fate to rob me of you at the last!” - </p> - <p> - “Mother! mother!” he cried in anguish. “I am yours,—wholly, - devotedly yours! Why do you torture me thus?” - </p> - <p> - “I will not torture you more,” she said wearily, in a feeble tone. “I ask - only one thing of you; let me never hear again the name of that wretched - girl, who has brought all this woe on our house; let her name never be - spoken on this place by man, woman, or child. Like a thief in the night! - Ay, a horse-thief!” - </p> - <p> - Felipe sprang to his feet. - </p> - <p> - “Mother.” he said, “Baba was Ramona's own; I myself gave him to her as - soon as he was born!” - </p> - <p> - The Senora made no reply. She had fainted. Calling the maids, in terror - and sorrow Felipe bore her to her bed, and she did not leave it for many - days. She seemed hovering between life and death. Felipe watched over her - as a lover might; her great mournful eyes followed his every motion. She - spoke little, partly because of physical weakness, partly from despair. - The Senora had got her death-blow. She would die hard. It would take long. - Yet she was dying, and she knew it. - </p> - <p> - Felipe did not know it. When he saw her going about again, with a step - only a little slower than before, and with a countenance not so much - changed as he had feared, he thought she would be well again, after a - time. And now he would go in search of Ramona. How he hoped he should find - them in Santa Barbara! He must leave them there, or wherever he should - find them; never again would he for a moment contemplate the possibility - of bringing them home with him. But he would see them; help them, if need - be. Ramona should not feel herself an outcast, so long as he lived. - </p> - <p> - When he said, agitatedly, to his mother, one night, “You are so strong - now, mother, I think I will take a journey; I will not be away long,—not - over a week,” she understood, and with a deep sigh replied: “I am not - strong; but I am as strong as I shall ever be. If the journey must be - taken, it is as well done now.” - </p> - <p> - How was the Senora changed! - </p> - <p> - “It must be, mother,” said Felipe, “or I would not leave you. I will set - off before sunrise, so I will say farewell tonight.” - </p> - <p> - But in the morning, at his first step, his mother's window opened, and - there she stood, wan, speechless, looking at him. “You must go, my son?” - she asked at last. - </p> - <p> - “I must, mother!” and Felipe threw his arms around her, and kissed her - again and again. “Dearest mother! Do smile! Can you not?” - </p> - <p> - “No, my son, I cannot. Farewell. The saints keep you. Farewell.” And she - turned, that she might not see him go. - </p> - <p> - Felipe rode away with a sad heart, but his purpose did not falter. - Following straight down the river road to the sea, he then kept up along - the coast, asking here and there, cautiously, if persons answering to the - description of Alessandro and Ramona had been seen. No one had seen any - such persons. - </p> - <p> - When, on the night of the second day, he rode up to the Santa Barbara - Mission, the first figure he saw was the venerable Father Salvierderra - sitting in the corridor. As Felipe approached, the old man's face beamed - with pleasure, and he came forward totteringly, leaning on a staff in each - hand. “Welcome, my son!” he said. “Are all well? You find me very feeble - just now; my legs are failing me sorely this autumn.” - </p> - <p> - Dismay seized on Felipe at the Father's first words. He would not have - spoken thus, had he seen Ramona. Barely replying to the greeting, Felipe - exclaimed: “Father, I come seeking Ramona. Has she not been with you?” - </p> - <p> - Father Salvierderra's face was reply to the question. “Ramona!” he cried. - “Seeking Ramona! What has befallen the blessed child?” - </p> - <p> - It was a bitter story for Felipe to tell; but he told it, sparing himself - no shame. He would have suffered less in the telling, had he known how - well Father Salvierderra understood his mother's character, and her almost - unlimited power over all persons around her. Father Salvierderra was not - shocked at the news of Ramona's attachment for Alessandro. He regretted - it, but he did not think it shame, as the Senora had done. As Felipe - talked with him, he perceived even more clearly how bitter and unjust his - mother had been to Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - “He is a noble young man,” said Father Salvierderra. “His father was one - of the most trusted of Father Peyri's assistants. You must find them, - Felipe. I wonder much they did not come to me. Perhaps they may yet come. - When you find them, bear them my blessing, and say that I wish they would - come hither. I would like to give them my blessing before I die. Felipe, I - shall never leave Santa Barbara again. My time draws near.” - </p> - <p> - Felipe was so full of impatience to continue his search, that he hardly - listened to the Father's words. “I will not tarry,” he said. “I cannot - rest till I find her. I will ride back as far as Ventura to-night.” - </p> - <p> - “You will send me word by a messenger, when you find them,” said the - Father. “God grant no harm has befallen them. I will pray for them, - Felipe;” and he tottered into the church. - </p> - <p> - Felipe's thoughts, as he retraced his road, were full of bewilderment and - pain. He was wholly at loss to conjecture what course Alessandro and - Ramona had taken, or what could have led them to abandon their intention - of going to Father Salvierderra. Temecula seemed the only place, now, to - look for them; and yet from Temecula Felipe had heard, only a few days - before leaving home, that there was not an Indian left in the valley. But - he could at least learn there where the Indians had gone. Poor as the clew - seemed, it was all he had. Cruelly Felipe urged his horse on his return - journey. He grudged an hour's rest to himself or to the beast; and before - he reached the head of the Temecula canon the creature was near spent. At - the steepest part he jumped off and walked, to save her strength. As he - was toiling slowly up a narrow, rocky pass, he suddenly saw an Indian's - head peering over the ledge. He made signs to him to come down. The Indian - turned his head, and spoke to some one behind; one after another a score - of figures rose. They made signs to Felipe to come up. “Poor things!” he - thought; “they are afraid.” He shouted to them that his horse was too - tired to climb that wall; but if they would come down, he would give them - money, holding up a gold-piece. They consulted among themselves; presently - they began slowly descending, still halting at intervals, and looking - suspiciously at him. He held up the gold again, and beckoned. As soon as - they could see his face distinctly, they broke into a run. That was no - enemy's face. - </p> - <p> - Only one of the number could speak Spanish. On hearing this man's reply to - Felipe's first question, a woman, who had listened sharply and caught the - word Alessandro, came forward, and spoke rapidly in the Indian tongue. - </p> - <p> - “This woman has seen Alessandro,” said the man. - </p> - <p> - “Where?” said Felipe, breathlessly. - </p> - <p> - “In Temecula, two weeks ago,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Ask her if he had any one with him,” said Felipe. - </p> - <p> - “No,” said the woman. “He was alone.” - </p> - <p> - A convulsion passed over Felipe's face. “Alone!” What did this mean! He - reflected. The woman watched him. “Is she sure he was alone; there was no - one with him?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “Was he riding a big black horse?” - </p> - <p> - “No, a white horse,” answered the woman, promptly. “A small white horse.” - </p> - <p> - It was Carmena, every nerve of her loyal nature on the alert to baffle - this pursuer of Alessandro and Ramona. Again Felipe reflected. “Ask her if - she saw him for any length of time; how long she saw him.” - </p> - <p> - “All night,” he answered. “He spent the night where she did.” - </p> - <p> - Felipe despaired. “Does she know where he is now?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “He was going to San Luis Obispo, to go in a ship to Monterey.” - </p> - <p> - “What to do?” - </p> - <p> - “She does not know.” - </p> - <p> - “Did he say when he would come back?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “When?” - </p> - <p> - “Never! He said he would never set foot in Temecula again.” - </p> - <p> - “Does she know him well?” - </p> - <p> - “As well as her own brother.” - </p> - <p> - What more could Felipe ask? With a groan, wrung from the very depths of - his heart, he tossed the man a gold-piece; another to the woman. “I am - sorry,” he said. “Alessandro was my friend. I wanted to see him;” and he - rode away, Carmena's eyes following him with a covert gleam of triumph. - </p> - <p> - When these last words of his were interpreted to her, she started, made as - if she would run after him, but checked herself. “No,” she thought. “It - may be a lie. He may be an enemy, for all that. I will not tell. - Alessandro wished not to be found. I will not tell.” - </p> - <p> - And thus vanished the last chance of succor for Ramona; vanished in a - moment; blown like a thistledown on a chance breath,—the breath of a - loyal, loving friend, speaking a lie to save her. - </p> - <p> - Distraught with grief, Felipe returned home. Ramona had been very ill when - she left home. Had she died, and been buried by the lonely, sorrowing - Alessandro? And was that the reason Alessandro was going away to the - North, never to return? Fool that he was, to have shrunk from speaking - Ramona's name to the Indians! He would return, and ask again. As soon as - he had seen his mother, he would set off again, and never cease searching - till he had found either Ramona or her grave. But when Felipe entered his - mother's presence, his first look in her face told him that he would not - leave her side again until he had laid her at rest in the tomb. - </p> - <p> - “Thank God! you have come, Felipe,” she said in a feeble voice. “I had - begun to fear you would not come in time to say farewell to me. I am going - to leave you, my son;” and the tears rolled down her cheeks. - </p> - <p> - Though she no longer wished to live, neither did she wish to die,—this - poor, proud, passionate, defeated, bereft Senora. All the consolations of - her religion seemed to fail her. She had prayed incessantly, but got no - peace. She fixed her imploring eyes on the Virgin's face and on the - saints; but all seemed to her to wear a forbidding look. “If Father - Salvierderra would only come!” she groaned. “He could give me peace. If - only I can live till he comes again!” - </p> - <p> - When Felipe told her of the old man's feeble state, and that he would - never again make the journey, she turned her face to the wall and wept. - Not only for her own soul's help did she wish to see him: she wished to - put into his hands the Ortegna jewels. What would become of them? To whom - should she transfer the charge? Was there a secular priest within reach - that she could trust? When her sister had said, in her instructions, “the - Church,” she meant, as the Senora Moreno well knew, the Franciscans. The - Senora dared not consult Felipe; yet she must. Day by day these fretting - anxieties and perplexities wasted her strength, and her fever grew higher - and higher. She asked no questions as to the result of Felipe's journey, - and he dared not mention Ramona's name. At last he could bear it no - longer, and one day said, “Mother, I found no trace of Ramona. I have not - the least idea where she is. The Father had not seen her or heard of her. - I fear she is dead.” - </p> - <p> - “Better so,” was the Senora's sole reply; and she fell again into still - deeper, more perplexed thought about the hidden treasure. Each day she - resolved, “To-morrow I will tell Felipe;” and when to-morrow came, she put - it off again. Finally she decided not to do it till she found herself - dying. Father Salvierderra might yet come once more, and then all would be - well. With trembling hands she wrote him a letter, imploring him to be - brought to her, and sent it by messenger, who was empowered to hire a - litter and four men to bring the Father gently and carefully all the way. - But when the messenger reached Santa Barbara, Father Salvierderra was too - feeble to be moved; too feeble even to write. He could write only by - amanuensis, and wrote, therefore, guardedly, sending her his blessing, and - saying that he hoped her foster-child might yet be restored to the keeping - of her friends. The Father had been in sore straits of mind, as month - after month had passed without tidings of his “blessed child.” - </p> - <p> - Soon after this came the news that the Father was dead. This dealt the - Senora a terrible blow. She never left her bed after it. And so the year - had worn on; and Felipe, mourning over his sinking and failing mother, and - haunted by terrible fears about the lost Ramona, had been tortured indeed. - </p> - <p> - But the end drew near, now. The Senora was plainly dying. The Ventura - doctor had left off coming, saying that he could do no more; nothing - remained but to give her what ease was possible; in a day or two more all - would be over. Felipe hardly left her bedside. Rarely was mother so loved - and nursed by son. No daughter could have shown more tenderness and - devotion. In the close relation and affection of these last days, the - sense of alienation and antagonism faded from both their hearts. - </p> - <p> - “My adorable Felipe!” she would murmur. “What a son hast thou been!” And, - “My beloved mother! How shall I give you up?” Felipe would reply, bowing - his head on her hands,—so wasted now, so white, so weak; those hands - which had been cruel and strong little more than one short year ago. Ah, - no one could refuse to forgive the Senora now! The gentle Ramona, had she - seen her, had wept tears of pity. Her eyes wore at times a look almost of - terror. It was the secret. How should she speak it? What would Felipe say? - At last the moment came. She had been with difficulty roused from a long - fainting; one more such would be the last, she knew,—knew even - better than those around her. As she regained consciousness, she gasped, - “Felipe! Alone!” - </p> - <p> - He understood, and waved the rest away. - </p> - <p> - “Alone!” she said again, turning her eyes to the door. - </p> - <p> - “Leave the room,” said Felipe; “all—wait outside;” and he closed the - door on them. Even then the Senora hesitated. Almost was she ready to go - out of life leaving the hidden treasure to its chance of discovery, rather - than with her own lips reveal to Felipe what she saw now, saw with the - terrible, relentless clear-sightedness of death, would make him, even - after she was in her grave, reproach her in his thoughts. - </p> - <p> - But she dared not withhold it. It must be said. Pointing to the statue of - Saint Catharine, whose face seemed, she thought, to frown unforgiving upon - her, she said, “Felipe—behind that statue—look!” - </p> - <p> - Felipe thought her delirious, and said tenderly, “Nothing is there, - dearest mother. Be calm. I am here.” - </p> - <p> - New terror seized the dying woman. Was she to be forced to carry the - secret to the grave? to be denied this late avowal? “No! no! Felipe—there - is a door there—secret door. Look! Open! I must tell you!” - </p> - <p> - Hastily Felipe moved the statue. There was indeed the door, as she had - said. - </p> - <p> - “Do not tell me now, mother dear. Wait till you are stronger,” he said. As - he spoke, he turned, and saw, with alarm, his mother sitting upright in - the bed, her right arm outstretched, her hand pointing to the door, her - eyes in a glassy stare, her face convulsed. Before a cry could pass his - lips, she had fallen back. The Senora Moreno was dead. - </p> - <p> - At Felipe's cry, the women waiting in the hall hurried in, wailing aloud - as their first glance showed them all was over. In the confusion, Felipe, - with a pale, set face, pushed the statue back into its place. Even then a - premonition of horror swept over him. What was he, the son, to find behind - that secret door, at sight of which his mother had died with that look of - anguished terror in her eyes? All through the sad duties of the next four - days Felipe was conscious of the undercurrent of this premonition. The - funeral ceremonies were impressive. The little chapel could not hold the - quarter part of those who came, from far and near. Everybody wished to do - honor to the Senora Moreno. A priest from Ventura and one from San Luis - Obispo were there. When all was done, they bore the Senora to the little - graveyard on the hillside, and laid her by the side of her husband and her - children; silent and still at last, the restless, passionate, proud, sad - heart! When, the night after the funeral, the servants saw Senor Felipe - going into his mother's room, they shuddered, and whispered, “Oh, he must - not! He will break his heart, Senor Felipe! How he loved her!” - </p> - <p> - Old Marda ventured to follow him, and at the threshold said: “Dear Senor - Felipe, do not! It is not good to go there! Come away!” - </p> - <p> - But he put her gently by, saying, “I would rather be here, good Marda;” - and went in and locked the door. - </p> - <p> - It was past midnight when he came out. His face was stern. He had buried - his mother again. Well might the Senora have dreaded to tell to Felipe the - tale of the Ortegna treasure. Until he reached the bottom of the - jewel-box, and found the Senora Ortegna's letter to his mother, he was in - entire bewilderment at all he saw. After he had read this letter, he sat - motionless for a long time, his head buried in his hands. His soul was - wrung. - </p> - <p> - “And she thought that shame, and not this!” he said bitterly. - </p> - <p> - But one thing remained for Felipe now, If Ramona lived, he would find her, - and restore to her this her rightful property. If she were dead, it must - go to the Santa Barbara College. - </p> - <p> - “Surely my mother must have intended to give it to the Church,” he said. - “But why keep it all this time? It is this that has killed her. Oh, shame! - oh, disgrace!” From the grave in which Felipe had buried his mother now, - was no resurrection. - </p> - <p> - Replacing everything as before in the safe hiding-place, he sat down and - wrote a letter to the Superior of the Santa Barbara College, telling him - of the existence of these valuables, which in certain contingencies would - belong to the College. Early in the morning he gave this letter to Juan - Canito, saying: “I am going away, Juan, on a journey. If anything happens - to me, and I do not return, send this letter by trusty messenger to Santa - Barbara.” - </p> - <p> - “Will you be long away, Senor Felipe?” asked the old man, piteously. - </p> - <p> - “I cannot tell, Juan,” replied Felipe. “It may be only a short time; it - may be long. I leave everything in your care. You will do all according to - your best judgment, I know. I will say to all that I have left you in - charge.” - </p> - <p> - “Thanks, Senor Felipe! Thanks!” exclaimed Juan, happier than he had been - for two years. “Indeed, you may trust me! From the time you were a boy - till now, I have had no thought except for your house.” - </p> - <p> - Even in heaven the Senora Moreno had felt woe as if in hell, had she known - the thoughts with which her Felipe galloped this morning out of the - gateway through which, only the day before, he had walked weeping behind - her body borne to burial. - </p> - <p> - “And she thought this no shame to the house of Moreno!” he said. “My God!” - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XXII - </h2> - <p> - DURING the first day of Ramona's and Alessandro's sad journey they - scarcely spoke. Alessandro walked at the horses' heads, his face sunk on - his breast, his eyes fixed on the ground. Ramona watched him in anxious - fear. Even the baby's voice and cooing laugh won from him no response. - After they were camped for the night, she said, “Dear Alessandro, will you - not tell me where we are going?” - </p> - <p> - In spite of her gentleness, there was a shade of wounded feeling in her - tone. Alessandro flung himself on his knees before her, and cried: “My - Majella! my Majella! it seems to me I am going mad! I cannot tell what to - do. I do not know what I think; all my thoughts seem whirling round as - leaves do in brooks in the time of the spring rains. Do you think I can be - going mad? It was enough to make me!” - </p> - <p> - Ramona, her own heart wrung with fear, soothed him as best she could. - “Dear Alessandro,” she said, “let us go to Los Angeles, and not live with - the Indians any more. You could get work there. You could play at dances - sometimes; there must be plenty of work. I could get more sewing to do, - too. It would be better, I think.” - </p> - <p> - He looked horror-stricken at the thought. “Go live among the white - people!” he cried. “What does Majella think would become of one Indian, or - two, alone among whites? If they will come to our villages and drive us - out a hundred at a time, what would they do to one man alone? Oh, Majella - is foolish!” - </p> - <p> - “But there are many of your people at work for whites at San Bernardino - and other places,” she persisted. “Why could not we do as they do?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” he said bitterly, “at work for whites; so they are, Majella has not - seen. No man will pay an Indian but half wages; even long ago, when the - Fathers were not all gone, and tried to help the Indians, my father has - told me that it was the way only to pay an Indian one-half that a white - man or a Mexican had. It was the Mexicans, too, did that, Majella. And now - they pay the Indians in money sometimes, half wages; sometimes in bad - flour, or things he does not want; sometimes in whiskey; and if he will - not take it, and asks for his money, they laugh, and tell him to go, then. - One man in San Bernardino last year, when an Indian would not take a - bottle of sour wine for pay for a day's work, shot him in the cheek with - his pistol, and told him to mind how he was insolent any more! Oh, - Majella, do not ask me to go work in the towns! I should kill some man, - Majella, if I saw things like that.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona shuddered, and was silent. Alessandro continued: “If Majella would - not be afraid, I know a place, high up on the mountain, where no white man - has ever been, or ever will be. I found it when I was following a bear. - The beast led me up. It was his home; and I said then, it was a fit - hiding-place for a man. There is water, and a little green valley. We - could live there; but it would be no more than to live,, it is very small, - the valley. Majella would be afraid?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Alessandro, I would be afraid, all alone on a high mountain. Oh, do - not let us go there! Try something else first, Alessandro. Is there no - other Indian village you know?” - </p> - <p> - “There is Saboba,” he said, “at foot of the San Jacinto Mountain; I had - thought of that. Some of my people went there from Temecula; but it is a - poor little village, Majella. Majella would not like to live in it. - Neither do I believe it will long be any safer than San Pasquale. There - was a kind, good old man who owned all that valley,—Senor Ravallo; - he found the village of Saboba there when he came to the country. It is - one of the very oldest of all; he was good to all Indians, and he said - they should never be disturbed, never. He is dead; but his three sons have - the estate yet, and I think they would keep their father's promise to the - Indians. But you see, to-morrow, Majella, they may die, or go back to - Mexico, as Senor Valdez did, and then the Americans will get it, as they - did Temecula. And there are already white men living in the valley. We - will go that way, Majella. Majella shall see. If she says stay, we will - stay.” - </p> - <p> - It was in the early afternoon that they entered the broad valley of San - Jacinto. They entered it from the west. As they came in, though the sky - over their heads was overcast and gray, the eastern and northeastern part - of the valley was flooded with a strange light, at once ruddy and golden. - It was a glorious sight. The jagged top and spurs of San Jacinto Mountain - shone like the turrets and posterns of a citadel built of rubies. The glow - seemed preternatural. - </p> - <p> - “Behold San Jacinto!” cried Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - Ramona exclaimed in delight. “It is an omen!” she said. “We are going into - the sunlight, out of the shadow;” and she glanced back at the west, which - was of a slaty blackness. - </p> - <p> - “I like it not!” said Alessandro. “The shadow follows too fast!” - </p> - <p> - Indeed it did. Even as he spoke, a fierce wind blew from the north, and - tearing off fleeces from the black cloud, sent them in scurrying masses - across the sky. In a moment more, snow-flakes began to fall. - </p> - <p> - “Holy Virgin!” cried Alessandro. Too well he knew what it meant. He urged - the horses, running fast beside them. It was of no use. Too much even for - Baba and Benito to make any haste, with the heavily loaded wagon. - </p> - <p> - “There is an old sheep-corral and a hut not over a mile farther, if we - could but reach it!” groaned Alessandro. “Majella, you and the child will - freeze.” - </p> - <p> - “She is warm on my breast,” said Ramona; “but, Alessandro, what ice in - this wind! It is like a knife at my back!” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro uttered another ejaculation of dismay. The snow was fast - thickening; already the track was covered. The wind lessened. - </p> - <p> - “Thank God, that wind no longer cuts as it did,” said Ramona, her teeth - chattering, clasping the baby closer and closer. - </p> - <p> - “I would rather it blew than not,” said Alessandro; “it will carry the - snow before it. A little more of this, and we cannot see, any more than in - the night.” - </p> - <p> - Still thicker and faster fell the snow; the air was dense; it was, as - Alessandro had said, worse than the darkness of night,—this strange - opaque whiteness, thick, choking, freezing one's breath. Presently the - rough jolting of the wagon showed that they were off the road. The horses - stopped; refused to go on. - </p> - <p> - “We are lost, if we stay here!” cried Alessandro. “Come, my Benito, come!” - and he took him by the head, and pulled him by main force back into the - road, and led him along. It was terrible. Ramona's heart sank within her. - She felt her arms growing numb; how much longer could she hold the baby - safe? She called to Alessandro. He did not hear her; the wind had risen - again; the snow was being blown in masses; it was like making headway - among whirling snow-drifts. - </p> - <p> - “We will die,” thought Ramona. “Perhaps it is as well!” And that was the - last she knew, till she heard a shouting, and found herself being shaken - and beaten, and heard a strange voice saying, “Sorry ter handle yer so - rough, ma'am, but we've got ter git yer out ter the fire!” - </p> - <p> - “Fire!” Were there such things as fire and warmth? Mechanically she put - the baby into the unknown arms that were reaching up to her, and tried to - rise from her seat; but she could not move. - </p> - <p> - “Set still! set still!” said the strange voice. “I'll jest carry the baby - ter my wife, an' come back fur you. I allowed yer couldn't git up on yer - feet;” and the tall form disappeared. The baby, thus vigorously disturbed - from her warm sleep, began to cry. - </p> - <p> - “Thank God!” said Alessandro, at the plunging horses' heads. “The child is - alive! Majella!” he called. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Alessandro,” she answered faintly, the gusts sweeping her voice like - a distant echo past him. - </p> - <p> - It was a marvellous rescue. They had been nearer the old sheep-corral than - Alessandro had thought; but except that other storm-beaten travellers had - reached it before them, Alessandro had never found it. Just as he felt his - strength failing him, and had thought to himself, in almost the same - despairing words as Ramona, “This will end all our troubles,” he saw a - faint light to the left. Instantly he had turned the horses' heads towards - it. The ground was rough and broken, and more than once he had been in - danger of overturning the wagon; but he had pressed on, shouting at - intervals for help. At last his call was answered, and another light - appeared; this time a swinging one, coming slowly towards him,—a - lantern, in the hand of a man, whose first words, “Wall, stranger, I allow - yer inter trouble,” were as intelligible to Alessandro as if they had been - spoken in the purest San Luiseno dialect. - </p> - <p> - Not so, to the stranger, Alessandro's grateful reply in Spanish. - </p> - <p> - “Another o' these no-'count Mexicans, by thunder!” thought Jeff Hyer to - himself. “Blamed ef I'd lived in a country all my life, ef I wouldn't know - better'n to git caught out in such weather's this!” And as he put the - crying babe into his wife's arms, he said half impatiently, “Ef I'd knowed - 't wuz Mexicans, Ri, I wouldn't ev' gone out ter 'um. They're more ter hum - 'n I am, 'n these yer tropicks.” - </p> - <p> - “Naow, Jeff, yer know yer wouldn't let ennythin' in shape ev a human - creetur go perishin' past aour fire sech weather's this,” replied the - woman, as she took the baby, which recognized the motherly hand at its - first touch, and ceased crying. - </p> - <p> - “Why, yer pooty, blue-eyed little thing!” she exclaimed, as she looked - into the baby's face. “I declar, Jos, think o' sech a mite's this bein' - aout'n this weather. I'll jest warm up some milk for it this minnit.” - </p> - <p> - “Better see't th' mother fust, Ri,” said Jeff, leading, half carrying, - Ramona into the hut. “She's nigh abaout froze stiff!” - </p> - <p> - But the sight of her baby safe and smiling was a better restorative for - Ramona than anything else, and in a few moments she had fully recovered. - It was in a strange group she found herself. On a mattress, in the corner - of the hut, lay a young man apparently about twenty-five, whose bright - eyes and flushed cheeks told but too plainly the story of his disease. The - woman, tall, ungainly, her face gaunt, her hands hardened and wrinkled, - gown ragged, shoes ragged, her dry and broken light hair wound in a - careless, straggling knot in her neck, wisps of it flying over her - forehead, was certainly not a prepossessing figure. Yet spite of her - careless, unkempt condition, there was a certain gentle dignity in her - bearing, and a kindliness in her glance, which won trust and warmed hearts - at once. Her pale blue eyes were still keen-sighted; and as she fixed them - on Ramona, she thought to herself, “This ain't no common Mexican, no how.” - “Be ye movers?” she said. - </p> - <p> - Ramona stared. In the little English she knew, that word was not included. - “Ah, Senora,” she said regretfully, “I cannot talk in the English speech; - only in Spanish.” - </p> - <p> - “Spanish, eh? Yer mean Mexican? Jos, hyar, he kin talk thet. He can't talk - much, though; 'tain't good fur him; his lungs is out er kilter. Thet's - what we're bringin' him hyar fur,—fur warm climate! 'pears like it, - don't it?” and she chuckled grimly, but with a side glance of ineffable - tenderness at the sick man. “Ask her who they be, Jos,” she added. - </p> - <p> - Jos lifted himself on his elbow, and fixing his shining eyes on Ramona, - said in Spanish, “My mother asks if you are travellers?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said Ramona. “We have come all the way from San Diego. We are - Indians.” - </p> - <p> - “Injuns!” ejaculated Jos's mother. “Lord save us, Jos! Hev we reelly took - in Injuns? What on airth—Well, well, she's fond uv her baby's enny - white woman! I kin see thet; an', Injun or no Injun, they've got to stay - naow. Yer couldn't turn a dog out 'n sech weather's this. I bet thet - baby's father wuz white, then. Look at them blue eyes.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona listened and looked intently, but could understand nothing. Almost - she doubted if the woman were really speaking English. She had never - before heard so many English sentences without being able to understand - one word. The Tennessee drawl so altered even the commonest words, that - she did not recognize them. Turning to Jos, she said gently, “I know very - little English. I am so sorry I cannot understand. Will it tire you to - interpret to me what your mother said?” - </p> - <p> - Jos was as full of humor as his mother. “She wants me to tell her what you - wuz sayin',” he said, “I allow, I'll only tell her the part on't she'll - like best.—My mother says you can stay here with us till the storm - is over,” he said to Ramona. - </p> - <p> - Swifter than lightning, Ramona had seized the woman's hand and carried it - to her heart, with an expressive gesture of gratitude and emotion. - “Thanks! thanks! Senora!” she cried. - </p> - <p> - “What is it she calls me, Jos?” asked his mother. - </p> - <p> - “Senora,” he replied. “It only means the same as lady.” - </p> - <p> - “Shaw, Jos! You tell her I ain't any lady. Tell her everybody round where - we live calls me 'Aunt Ri,' or 'Mis Hyer;' she kin call me whichever she's - a mind to. She's reel sweet-spoken.” - </p> - <p> - With some difficulty Jos explained his mother's disclaimer of the title of - Senora, and the choice of names she offered to Ramona. - </p> - <p> - Ramona, with smiles which won both mother and son, repeated after him both - names, getting neither exactly right at first trial, and finally said, “I - like 'Aunt Ri' best; she is so kind, like aunt, to every one.” - </p> - <p> - “Naow, ain't thet queer, Jos,” said Aunt Ri, “aout here 'n thes wilderness - to ketch sumbody sayin' thet,—jest what they all say ter hum? I - donno's I'm enny kinder'n ennybody else. I don't want ter see ennybody put - upon, nor noways sufferin', ef so be's I kin help; but thet ain't - ennythin' stronary, ez I know. I donno how ennybody could feel enny - different.” - </p> - <p> - “There's lots doos, mammy,” replied Jos, affectionately. “Yer'd find out - fast enuf, ef yer went raound more. There's mighty few's good's you air - ter everybody.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona was crouching in the corner by the fire, her baby held close to her - breast. The place which at first had seemed a haven of warmth, she now saw - was indeed but a poor shelter against the fearful storm which raged - outside. It was only a hut of rough boards, carelessly knocked together - for a shepherd's temporary home. It had been long unused, and many of the - boards were loose and broken. Through these crevices, at every blast of - the wind, the fine snow swirled. On the hearth were burning a few sticks - of wood, dead cottonwood branches, which Jef Hyer had hastily collected - before the storm reached its height. A few more sticks lay by the hearth. - Aunt Ri glanced at them anxiously. A poor provision for a night in the - snow. “Be ye warm, Jos?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - “Not very, mammy,” he said; “but I ain't cold, nuther; an' thet's - somethin'.” - </p> - <p> - It was the way in the Hyer family to make the best of things; they had - always possessed this virtue to such an extent, that they suffered from it - as from a vice. There was hardly to be found in all Southern Tennessee a - more contented, shiftless, ill-bestead family than theirs. But there was - no grumbling. Whatever went wrong, whatever was lacking, it was “jest like - aour luck,” they said, and did nothing, or next to nothing, about it. - Good-natured, affectionate, humorous people; after all, they got more - comfort out of life than many a family whose surface conditions were - incomparably better than theirs. When Jos, their oldest child and only - son, broke down, had hemorrhage after hemorrhage, and the doctor said the - only thing that could save him was to go across the plains in a wagon to - California, they said, “What good luck 'Lizy was married last year! Now - there ain't nuthin' ter hinder sellin' the farm 'n goin' right off.” And - they sold their little place for half it was worth, traded cattle for a - pair of horses and a covered wagon, and set off, half beggared, with their - sick boy on a bed in the bottom of the wagon, as cheery as if they were - rich people on a pleasure-trip. A pair of steers “to spell” the horses, - and a cow to give milk for Jos, they drove before them; and so they had - come by slow stages, sometimes camping for a week at a time, all the way - from Tennessee to the San Jacinto Valley. They were rewarded. Jos was - getting well. Another six months, they thought, would see him cured; and - it would have gone hard with any one who had tried to persuade either - Jefferson or Maria Hyer that they were not as lucky a couple as could be - found. Had they not saved Joshua, their son? - </p> - <p> - Nicknames among this class of poor whites in the South seem singularly - like those in vogue in New England. From totally opposite motives, the - lazy, easy-going Tennesseean and the hurry-driven Vermonter cut down all - their family names to the shortest. To speak three syllables where one - will answer, seems to the Vermonter a waste of time; to the Tennesseean, - quite too much trouble. Mrs. Hyer could hardly recollect ever having heard - her name, “Maria,” in full; as a child, and until she was married, she was - simply “Ri;” and as soon as she had a house of her own, to become a centre - of hospitality and help, she was adopted by common consent of the - neighborhood, in a sort of titular and universal aunt-hood, which really - was a much greater tribute and honor than she dreamed. Not a man, woman, - or child, within her reach, that did not call her or know of her as “Aunt - Ri.” - </p> - <p> - “I donno whether I'd best make enny more fire naow or not,” she said - reflectively; “ef this storm's goin' to last till mornin', we'll come - short o' wood, thet's clear.” As she spoke, the door of the hut burst - open, and her husband staggered in, followed by Alessandro, both covered - with snow, their arms full of wood. Alessandro, luckily, knew of a little - clump of young cottonwood-trees in a ravine, only a few rods from the - house; and the first thing he had thought of, after tethering the horses - in shelter between the hut and the wagons, was to get wood. Jeff, seeing - him take a hatchet from the wagon, had understood, got his own, and - followed; and now there lay on the ground enough to keep them warm for - hours. As soon as Alessandro had thrown down his load, he darted to - Ramona, and kneeling down, looked anxiously into the baby's face, then - into hers; then he said devoutly, “The saints be praised, my Majella! It - is a miracle!” - </p> - <p> - Jos listened in dismay to this ejaculation. “Ef they ain't Catholics!” he - thought. “What kind o' Injuns be they I wonder. I won't tell mammy they're - Catholics; she'd feel wuss'n ever. I don't care what they be. Thet gal's - got the sweetest eyes'n her head ever I saw sence I wuz born.” - </p> - <p> - By help of Jos's interpreting, the two families soon became well - acquainted with each other's condition and plans; and a feeling of - friendliness, surprising under the circumstances, grew up between them. - </p> - <p> - “Jeff,” said Aunt Ri,—“Jeff, they can't understand a word we say, - so't's no harm done, I s'pose, to speak afore 'em, though't don't seem - hardly fair to take advantage o' their not knowin' any language but their - own; but I jest tell you thet I've got a lesson'n the subjeck uv Injuns. - I've always hed a reel mean feelin' about 'em; I didn't want ter come nigh - 'em, nor ter hev 'em come nigh me. This woman, here, she's ez sweet a - creetur's ever I see; 'n' ez bound up 'n thet baby's yer could ask enny - woman to be; 'n' 's fur thet man, can't yer see, Jeff, he jest worships - the ground she walks on? Thet's a fact, Jeff. I donno's ever I see a white - man think so much uv a woman; come, naow, Jeff, d' yer think yer ever did - yerself?” - </p> - <p> - Aunt Ri was excited. The experience was, to her, almost incredible. Her - ideas of Indians had been drawn from newspapers, and from a book or two of - narratives of massacres, and from an occasional sight of vagabond bands or - families they had encountered in their journey across the plains. Here she - found herself sitting side by side in friendly intercourse with an Indian - man and Indian woman, whose appearance and behavior were attractive; - towards whom she felt herself singularly drawn. - </p> - <p> - “I'm free to confess, Jos,” she said, “I wouldn't ha' bleeved it. I hain't - seen nobody, black, white, or gray, sence we left hum, I've took to like - these yere folks. An' they're real dark; 's dark's any nigger in - Tennessee; 'n' he's pewer Injun; her father wuz white, she sez, but she - don't call herself nothin' but an Injun, the same's he is. D' yer notice - the way she looks at him, Jos? Don't she jest set a store by thet feller? - 'N' I don't blame her.” - </p> - <p> - Indeed, Jos had noticed. No man was likely to see Ramona with Alessandro - without perceiving the rare quality of her devotion to him. And now there - was added to this devotion an element of indefinable anxiety which made - its vigilance unceasing. Ramona feared for Alessandro's reason. She had - hardly put it into words to herself, but the terrible fear dwelt with her. - She felt that another blow would be more than he could bear. - </p> - <p> - The storm lasted only a few hours. When it cleared, the valley was a solid - expanse of white, and the stars shone out as if in an Arctic sky. - </p> - <p> - “It will be all gone by noon to-morrow,” said Alessandro to Jos, who was - dreading the next day. - </p> - <p> - “Not really!” he said. - </p> - <p> - “You will see,” said Alessandro. “I have often known it thus. It is like - death while it lasts; but it is never long.” - </p> - <p> - The Hyers were on their way to some hot springs on the north side of the - valley. Here they proposed to camp for three months, to try the waters for - Jos. They had a tent, and all that was necessary for living in their - primitive fashion. Aunt Ri was looking forward to the rest with great - anticipation; she was heartily tired of being on the move. Her husband's - anticipations were of a more stirring nature. He had heard that there was - good hunting on San Jacinto Mountain. When he found that Alessandro knew - the region thoroughly, and had been thinking of settling there, he was - rejoiced, and proposed to him to become his companion and guide in hunting - expeditions. Ramona grasped eagerly at the suggestion; companionship, she - was sure, would do Alessandro good,—companionship, the outdoor life, - and the excitement of hunting, of which he was fond. This hot-spring canon - was only a short distance from the Saboba village, of which they had - spoken as a possible home; which she had from the first desired to try. - She no longer had repugnance to the thought of an Indian village; she - already felt a sense of kinship and shelter with any Indian people. She - had become, as Carmena had said, “one of them.” - </p> - <p> - A few days saw the two families settled,—the Hyers in their tent and - wagon, at the hot springs, and Alessandro and Ramona, with the baby, in a - little adobe house in the Saboba village. The house belonged to an old - Indian woman who, her husband having died, had gone to live with a - daughter, and was very glad to get a few dollars by renting her own house. - It was a wretched place; one small room, walled with poorly made adobe - bricks, thatched with tule, no floor, and only one window. When Alessandro - heard Ramona say cheerily, “Oh, this will do very well, when it is - repaired a little,” his face was convulsed, and he turned away; but he - said nothing. It was the only house to be had in the village, and there - were few better. Two months later, no one would have known it. Alessandro - had had good luck in hunting. Two fine deerskins covered the earth floor; - a third was spread over the bedstead; and the horns, hung on the walls, - served for hooks to hang clothes upon. The scarlet calico canopy was again - set up over the bed, and the woven cradle, on its red manzanita frame, - stood near. A small window in the door, and one more cut in the walls, let - in light and air. On a shelf near one of these windows stood the little - Madonna, again wreathed with vines as in San Pasquale. - </p> - <p> - When Aunt Ri first saw the room, after it was thus arranged, she put both - arms akimbo, and stood in the doorway, her mouth wide open, her eyes full - of wonder. Finally her wonder framed itself in an ejaculation: “Wall, I - allow yer air fixed up!” - </p> - <p> - Aunt Ri, at her best estate, had never possessed a room which had the - expression of this poor little mud hut of Ramona's. She could not - understand it. The more she studied the place, the less she understood it. - On returning to the tent, she said to Jos: “It beats all ever I see, the - way thet Injun woman's got fixed up out er nothin'. It ain't no more'n a - hovel, a mud hovel, Jos, not much bigger'n this yer tent, fur all three on - 'em, an' the bed an' the stove an' everythin'; an' I vow, Jos, she's fixed - it so't looks jest like a parlor! It beats me, it does. I'd jest like you - to see it.” - </p> - <p> - And when Jos saw it, and Jeff, they were as full of wonder as Aunt Ri had - been. Dimly they recognized the existence of a principle here which had - never entered into their life. They did not know it by name, and it could - not have been either taught, transferred, or explained to the good-hearted - wife and mother who had been so many years the affectionate disorderly - genius of their home. But they felt its charm; and when, one day, after - the return of Alessandro and Jeff from a particularly successful hunt, the - two families had sat down together to a supper of Ramona's cooking,—stewed - venison and artichokes, and frijoles with chili,—their wonder was - still greater. - </p> - <p> - “Ask her if this is Injun style of cooking, Jos,” said Aunt Ri. “I never - thought nothin' o' beans; but these air good, 'n' no mistake!” - </p> - <p> - Ramona laughed. “No; it is Mexican,” she said. “I learned to cook from an - old Mexican woman.” - </p> - <p> - “Wall, I'd like the receipt on't; but I allow I shouldn't never git the - time to fuss with it,” said Aunt Ri; “but I may's well git the rule, naow - I'm here.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro began to lose some of his gloom. He had earned money. He had - been lifted out of himself by kindly companionship; he saw Ramona - cheerful, the little one sunny; the sense of home, the strongest passion - Alessandro possessed, next to his love for Ramona, began again to awake in - him. He began to talk about building a house. He had found things in the - village better than he feared. It was but a poverty-stricken little - handful, to be sure; still, they were unmolested; the valley was large; - their stock ran free; the few white settlers, one at the upper end and two - or three on the south side, had manifested no disposition to crowd the - Indians; the Ravallo brothers were living on the estate still, and there - was protection in that, Alessandro thought. And Majella was content. - Majella had found friends. Something, not quite hope, but akin to it, - began to stir in Alessandro's heart. He would build a house; Majella - should no longer live in this mud hut. But to his surprise, when he spoke - of it, Ramona said no; they had all they needed, now. Was not Alessandro - comfortable? She was. It would be wise to wait longer before building. - </p> - <p> - Ramona knew many things that Alessandro did not. While he had been away on - his hunts, she had had speech with many a one he never saw. She had gone - to the store and post-office several times, to exchange baskets or lace - for flour, and she had heard talk there which disquieted her. She did not - believe that Saboba was safe. One day she had heard a man say, “If there - is a drought we shall have the devil to pay with our stock before winter - is over.” “Yes,” said another; “and look at those damned Indians over - there in Saboba, with water running all the time in their village! It's a - shame they should have that spring!” - </p> - <p> - Not for worlds would Ramona have told this to Alessandro. She kept it - locked in her own breast, but it rankled there like a ceaseless warning - and prophecy. When she reached home that day she went down to the spring - in the centre of the village, and stood a long time looking at the - bubbling water. It was indeed a priceless treasure; a long irrigating - ditch led from it down into the bottom, where lay the cultivated fields,—many - acres in wheat, barley, and vegetables. Alessandro himself had fields - there from which they would harvest all they needed for the horses and - their cow all winter, in case pasturage failed. If the whites took away - this water, Saboba would be ruined. However, as the spring began in the - very heart of the village, they could not take it without destroying the - village. “And the Ravallos would surely never let that be done,” thought - Ramona. “While they live, it will not happen.” - </p> - <p> - It was a sad day for Ramona and Alessandro when the kindly Hyers pulled up - their tent-stakes and left the valley. Their intended three months had - stretched into six, they had so enjoyed the climate, and the waters had - seemed to do such good to Jos. But, “We ain't rich folks, yer know, not by - a long ways, we ain't,” said Aunt Ri; “an' we've got pretty nigh down to - where Jeff an' me's got to begin airnin' suthin'. Ef we kin git settled 'n - some o' these towns where there's carpenterin' to be done. Jeff, he's a - master hand to thet kind o' work, though yer mightn't think it; 'n I kin - airn right smart at weavin'; jest give me a good carpet-loom, 'n I won't - be beholden to nobody for vittles. I jest du love weavin'. I donno how - I've contented myself this hull year, or nigh about a year, without a - loom. Jeff, he sez to me once, sez he, 'Ri, do yer think yer'd be - contented in heaven without yer loom?' an' I was free to say I didn't - know's I should.” - </p> - <p> - “Is it hard?” cried Ramona. “Could I learn to do it?” It was wonderful - what progress in understanding and speaking English Ramona had made in - these six months. She now understood nearly all that was said directly to - her, though she could not follow general and confused conversation. - </p> - <p> - “Wall, 'tis, an' 'tain't,” said Aunt Ri. “I don't s'pose I'm much of a - jedge; fur I can't remember when I fust learned it. I know I set in the - loom to weave when my feet couldn't reach the floor; an' I don't remember - nothin' about fust learnin' to spool 'n' warp. I've tried to teach lots of - folks; an' sum learns quick, an' some don't never learn; it's jest 's 't - strikes 'em. I should think, naow, thet you wuz one o' the kind could turn - yer hands to anythin'. When we get settled in San Bernardino, if yer'll - come down thar, I'll teach yer all I know, 'n' be glad ter. I donno's 't - 's goin' to be much uv a place for carpet-weavin' though, anywheres raound - 'n this yer country; not but what thar's plenty o' rags, but folks seems - to be wearin' 'em; pooty gen'ral wear, I sh'd say. I've seen more cloes on - folks' backs hyar, thet wan't no more'n fit for carpet-rags, than any - place ever I struck. They're drefful sheftless lot, these yere Mexicans; - 'n' the Injuns is wuss. Naow when I say Injuns, I don't never mean yeow, - yer know thet. Yer ain't ever seemed to me one mite like an Injun.” - </p> - <p> - “Most of our people haven't had any chance,” said Ramona. “You wouldn't - believe if I were to tell you what things have been done to them; how they - are robbed, and cheated, and turned out of their homes.” - </p> - <p> - Then she told the story of Temecula, and of San Pasquale, in Spanish, to - Jos, who translated it with no loss in the telling. Aunt Ri was aghast; - she found no words to express her indignation. - </p> - <p> - “I don't bleeve the Guvvermunt knows anything about it.” she said. “Why, - they take folks up, n'n penetentiarize 'em fur life, back 'n Tennessee, - fur things thet ain't so bad's thet! Somebody ought ter be sent ter tell - 'em 't Washington what's goin' on hyar.” - </p> - <p> - “I think it's the people in Washington that have done it,” said Ramona, - sadly. “Is it not in Washington all the laws are made?” - </p> - <p> - “I bleeve so!” said Aunt Ri, “Ain't it, Jos? It's Congress ain't 't, makes - the laws?” - </p> - <p> - “I bleeve so.” said Jos. “They make some, at any rate. I donno's they make - 'em all.” - </p> - <p> - “It is all done by the American law,” said Ramona, “all these things; - nobody can help himself; for if anybody goes against the law he has to be - killed or put in prison; that was what the sheriff told Alessandro, at - Temecula. He felt very sorry for the Temecula people, the sheriff did; but - he had to obey the law himself. Alessandro says there isn't any help.” - </p> - <p> - Aunt Ri shook her head. She was not convinced. “I sh'll make a business o' - findin' out abaout this thing yit,” she said. “I think yer hain't got the - rights on't yit. There's cheatin' somewhere!” - </p> - <p> - “It's all cheating.” said Ramona; “but there isn't any help for it, Aunt - Ri. The Americans think it is no shame to cheat for money.” - </p> - <p> - “I'm an Ummeriken!” cried Aunt Ri; “an' Jeff Hyer, and Jos! We're - Ummerikens! 'n' we wouldn't cheat nobody, not ef we knowed it, not out er - a doller. We're pore, an' I allus expect to be, but we're above cheatin'; - an' I tell you, naow, the Ummeriken people don't want any o' this cheatin' - done, naow! I'm going to ask Jeff haow 'tis. Why, it's a burnin' shame to - any country! So 'tis! I think something oughter be done abaout it! I - wouldn't mind goin' myself, ef thar wan't anybody else!” - </p> - <p> - A seed had been sown in Aunt Ri's mind which was not destined to die for - want of soil. She was hot with shame and anger, and full of impulse to do - something. “I ain't nobody,” she said; “I know thet well enough,—I - ain't nobody nor nothin'; but I allow I've got suthin' to say abaout the - country I live in, 'n' the way things hed oughter be; or 't least Jeff - hez; 'n' thet's the same thing. I tell yer, Jos, I ain't goin' to rest, - nor ter give yeou 'n' yer father no rest nuther, till yeou find aout what - all this yere means she's been tellin' us.” - </p> - <p> - But sharper and closer anxieties than any connected with rights to lands - and homes were pressing upon Alessandro and Ramona. All summer the baby - had been slowly drooping; so slowly that it was each day possible for - Ramona to deceive herself, thinking that there had been since yesterday no - loss, perhaps a little gain; but looking back from the autumn to the - spring, and now from the winter to the autumn, there was no doubt that she - had been steadily going down. From the day of that terrible chill in the - snow-storm, she had never been quite well, Ramona thought. Before that, - she was strong, always strong, always beautiful and merry, Now her pinched - little face was sad to see, and sometimes for hours she made a feeble - wailing cry without any apparent cause. All the simple remedies that Aunt - Ri had known, had failed to touch her disease; in fact, Aunt Ri from the - first had been baffled in her own mind by the child's symptoms. Day after - day Alessandro knelt by the cradle, his hands clasped, his face set. Hour - after hour, night and day, indoors and out, he bore her in his arms, - trying to give her relief. Prayer after prayer to the Virgin, to the - saints, Ramona had said; and candles by the dozen, though money was now - scant, she had burned before the Madonna; all in vain. At last she - implored Alessandro to go to San Bernardino and see a doctor. “Find Aunt - Ri,” she said; “she will go with you, with Jos, and talk to him; she can - make him understand. Tell Aunt Ri she seems just as she did when they were - here, only weaker and thinner.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro found Aunt Ri in a sort of shanty on the outskirts of San - Bernardino. “Not to rights yit,” she said,—as if she ever would be. - Jeff had found work; and Jos, too, had been able to do a little on - pleasant days. He had made a loom and put up a loom-house for his mother,—a - floor just large enough to hold the loom, rough walls, and a roof; one - small square window,—that was all; but if Aunt Ri had been presented - with a palace, she would not have been so well pleased. Already she had - woven a rag carpet for herself, was at work on one for a neighbor, and had - promised as many more as she could do before spring; the news of the - arrival of a rag-carpet weaver having gone with despatch all through the - lower walks of San Bernardino life. “I wouldn't hev bleeved they hed so - many rags besides what they're wearin',” said Aunt Ri, as sack after sack - appeared at her door. Already, too, Aunt Ri had gathered up the threads of - the village life; in her friendly, impressionable way she had come into - relation with scores of people, and knew who was who, and what was what, - and why, among them all, far better than many an old resident of the town. - </p> - <p> - When she saw Benito galloping up to her door, she sprang down from her - high stool at the loom, and ran bareheaded to the gate, and before - Alessandro had dismounted, cried: “Ye're jest the man I wanted; I've been - tryin' to 'range it so's we could go down 'n' see yer, but Jeff couldn't - leave the job he's got; an' I'm druv nigh abaout off my feet, 'n' I donno - when we'd hev fetched it. How's all? Why didn't yer come in ther wagon 'n' - fetch 'em 'long? I've got heaps ter tell yer. I allowed yer hadn't got the - rights o' all them things. The Guvvermunt ain't on the side o' the - thieves, as yer said. I knowed they couldn't be,' an' they've jest sent - out a man a purpose to look after things fur yer,—to take keer o' - the Injuns 'n' nothin' else. That's what he's here fur. He come last - month; he's a reel nice man. I seen him 'n' talked with him a spell, last - week; I'm gwine to make his wife a rag carpet. 'N' there's a doctor, too, - to 'tend ter yer when ye're sick, 'n' the Guvvermunt pays him; yer don't - hev to pay nothin'; 'n' I tell yeow, thet's a heap o' savin', to git yer - docterin' fur nuthin'!” - </p> - <p> - Aunt Ri was out of breath. Alessandro had not understood half she said. He - looked about helplessly for Jos. Jos was away. In his broken English he - tried to explain what Ramona had wished her to do. - </p> - <p> - “Doctor! Thet's jest what I'm tellin' yer! There is one here's paid by the - Guvvermunt to 'tend to the Injuns thet's sick. I'll go 'n' show yer ter - his house. I kin tell him jest how the baby is. P'r'aps he'll drive down - 'n' see her!” - </p> - <p> - Ah! if he would! What would Majella say, should she see him enter the door - bringing a doctor! - </p> - <p> - Luckily Jos returned in time to go with them to the doctor's house as - interpreter. Alessandro was bewildered. He could not understand this new - phase of affairs, Could it be true? As they walked along, he listened with - trembling, half-incredulous hope to Jos's interpretation of Aunt Ri's - voluble narrative. - </p> - <p> - The doctor was in his office. To Aunt Ri's statement of Alessandro's - errand he listened indifferently, and then said, “Is he an Agency Indian?” - </p> - <p> - “A what?” exclaimed Aunt Ri. - </p> - <p> - “Does he belong to the Agency? Is his name on the Agency books?” - </p> - <p> - “No,” said she; “he never heern uv any Agency till I wuz tellin' him, jest - naow. We knoo him, him 'n' her, over 'n San Jacinto. He lives in Saboba. - He's never been to San Bernardino sence the Agent come aout.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, is he going to put his name down on the books?” said the doctor, - impatiently. “You ought to have taken him to the Agent first.” - </p> - <p> - “Ain't you the Guvvermunt doctor for all Injuns?” asked Aunt Ri, - wrathfully. “Thet's what I heerd.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, my good woman, you hear a great deal, I expect, that isn't true;” - and the doctor laughed coarsely but not ill-naturedly, Alessandro all the - time studying his face with the scrutiny of one awaiting life and death; - “I am the Agency physician, and I suppose all the Indians will sooner or - later come in and report themselves to the Agent; you'd better take this - man over there. What does he want now?” - </p> - <p> - Aunt Ri began to explain the baby's case. Cutting her short, the doctor - said, “Yes, yes, I understand. I'll give him something that will help - her;” and going into an inner room, he brought out a bottle of - dark-colored liquid, wrote a few lines of prescription, and handed it to - Alessandro, saying, “That will do her good, I guess.” - </p> - <p> - “Thanks, Senor, thanks,” said Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - The doctor stared. “That's the first Indian's said 'Thank you' in this - office,” he said. “You tell the Agent you've brought him a rara avis.” - </p> - <p> - “What's that, Jos?” said Aunt Ri, as they went out. - </p> - <p> - “Donno!” said Jos. “I don't like thet man, anyhow, mammy. He's no good.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro looked at the bottle of medicine like one in a dream. Would it - make the baby well? Had it indeed been given to him by that great - Government in Washington? Was he to be protected now? Could this man, who - had been sent out to take care of Indians, get back his San Pasquale farm - for him? Alessandro's brain was in a whirl. - </p> - <p> - From the doctor's office they went to the Agent's house. Here, Aunt Ri - felt herself more at home. - </p> - <p> - “I've brought ye thet Injun I wuz tellin' ye uv,” she said, with a wave of - her hand toward Alessandro. “We've ben ter ther doctor's to git some - metcen fur his baby. She's reel sick, I'm afeerd.” - </p> - <p> - The Agent sat down at his desk, opened a large ledger, saying as he did - so, “The man's never been here before, has he?” - </p> - <p> - “No,” said Aunt Ri. - </p> - <p> - “What is his name?” - </p> - <p> - Jos gave it, and the Agent began to write it in the book. “Stop him.” - cried Alessandro, agitatedly to Jos. “Don't let him write, till I know - what he puts my name in his book for!” - </p> - <p> - “Wait,” said Jos. “He doesn't want you to write his name in that book. He - wants to know what it's put there for.” - </p> - <p> - Wheeling his chair with a look of suppressed impatience, yet trying to - speak kindly, the Agent said: “There's no making these Indians understand - anything. They seem to think if I have their names in my book, it gives me - some power over them.” - </p> - <p> - “Wall, don't it?” said the direct-minded Aunt Ri. “Hain't yer got any - power over 'em? If yer hain't got it over them, who have yer got it over? - What yer goin' to do for 'em?” - </p> - <p> - The Agent laughed in spite of himself. “Well, Aunt Ri,”—she was - already “Aunt Ri” to the Agent's boys,—“that's just the trouble with - this Agency. It is very different from what it would be if I had all my - Indians on a reservation.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro understood the words “my Indians.” He had heard them before. - </p> - <p> - “What does he mean by his Indians, Jos?” he asked fiercely. “I will not - have my name in his book if it makes me his.” - </p> - <p> - When Jos reluctantly interpreted this, the Agent lost his temper. “That's - all the use there is trying to do anything with them! Let him go, then, if - he doesn't want any help from the Government!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, no.” cried Aunt Ri. “Yeow jest explain it to Jos, an' he'll make - him understand.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro's face had darkened. All this seemed to him exceedingly - suspicious. Could it be possible that Aunt Ri and Jos, the first whites - except Mr. Hartsel he had ever trusted, were deceiving him? No; that was - impossible. But they themselves might be deceived. That they were simple - and ignorant, Alessandro well knew. “Let us go!” he said. “I do not wish - to sign any paper.” - </p> - <p> - “Naow don't be a fool, will yeow? Yeow ain't signin' a thing!” said Aunt - Ri. “Jos, yeow tell him I say there ain't anythin' a bindin' him, hevin' - his name 'n' thet book, It's only so the Agent kin know what Injuns wants - help, 'n' where they air. Ain't thet so?” she added, turning to the Agent. - “Tell him he can't hev the Agency doctor, ef he ain't on the Agency - books.” - </p> - <p> - Not have the doctor? Give up this precious medicine which might save his - baby's life? No! he could not do that. Majella would say, let the name be - written, rather than that. - </p> - <p> - “Let him write the name, then,” said Alessandro, doggedly; but he went out - of the room feeling as if he had put a chain around his neck. - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XXIII - </h2> - <p> - THE medicine did the baby no good. In fact, it did her harm. She was too - feeble for violent remedies. In a week, Alessandro appeared again at the - Agency doctor's door. This time he had come with a request which to his - mind seemed not unreasonable. He had brought Baba for the doctor to ride. - Could the doctor then refuse to go to Saboba? Baba would carry him there - in three hours, and it would be like a cradle all the way. Alessandro's - name was in the Agency books. It was for this he had written it,—for - this and nothing else,—to save the baby's life. Having thus enrolled - himself as one of the Agency Indians, he had a claim on this the Agency - doctor. And that his application might be all in due form, he took with - him the Agency interpreter. He had had a misgiving, before, that Aunt Ri's - kindly volubility had not been well timed. Not one unnecessary word, was - Alessandro's motto. - </p> - <p> - To say that the Agency doctor was astonished at being requested to ride - thirty miles to prescribe for an ailing Indian baby, would be a mild - statement of the doctor's emotion. He could hardly keep from laughing, - when it was made clear to him that this was what the Indian father - expected. - </p> - <p> - “Good Lord!” he said, turning to a crony who chanced to be lounging in the - office. “Listen to that beggar, will you? I wonder what he thinks the - Government pays me a year for doctoring Indians!” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro listened so closely it attracted the doctor's attention. “Do - you understand English?” he asked sharply. - </p> - <p> - “A very little, Senor,” replied Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - The doctor would be more careful in his speech, then. But he made it most - emphatically clear that the thing Alessandro had asked was not only out of - the question, but preposterous. Alessandro pleaded. For the child's sake - he could do it. The horse was at the door; there was no such horse in San - Bernardino County; he went like the wind, and one would not know he was in - motion, it was so easy. Would not the doctor come down and look at the - horse? Then he would see what it would be like to ride him. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I've seen plenty of your Indian ponies,” said the doctor. “I know - they can run.” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro lingered. He could not give up this last hope. The tears came - into his eyes. “It is our only child, Senor,” he said. “It will take you - but six hours in all. My wife counts the moments till you come! If the - child dies, she will die.” - </p> - <p> - “No! no!” The doctor was weary of being importuned. “Tell the man it is - impossible! I'd soon have my hands full, if I began to go about the - country this way. They'd be sending for me down to Agua Caliente next, and - bringing up their ponies to carry me.” - </p> - <p> - “He will not go?” asked Alessandro. - </p> - <p> - The interpreter shook his head. “He cannot,” he said. - </p> - <p> - Without a word Alessandro left the room. Presently he returned. “Ask him - if he will come for money?” he said. “I have gold at home. I will pay him, - what the white men pay him.” - </p> - <p> - “Tell him no man of any color could pay me for going sixty miles!” said - the doctor. - </p> - <p> - And Alessandro departed again, walking so slowly, however, that he heard - the coarse laugh, and the words, “Gold! Looked like it, didn't he?” which - followed his departure from the room. - </p> - <p> - When Ramona saw him returning alone, she wrung her hands. Her heart seemed - breaking. The baby had lain in a sort of stupor since noon; she was - plainly worse, and Ramona had been going from the door to the cradle, from - the cradle to the door, for an hour, looking each moment for the hoped-for - aid. It had not once crossed her mind that the doctor would not come. She - had accepted in much fuller faith than Alessandro the account of the - appointment by the Government of these two men to look after the Indians' - interests. What else could their coming mean, except that, at last, the - Indians were to have justice? She thought, in her simplicity, that the - doctor must have died, since Alessandro was riding home alone. - </p> - <p> - “He would not come!” said Alessandro, as he threw himself off his horse, - wearily. - </p> - <p> - “Would not!” cried Ramona. “Would not! Did you not say the Government had - sent him to be the doctor for Indians?” - </p> - <p> - “That was what they said,” he replied. “You see it is a lie, like the - rest! But I offered him gold, and he would not come then. The child must - die, Majella!” - </p> - <p> - “She shall not die!” cried Ramona. “We will carry her to him!” The thought - struck them both as an inspiration. Why had they not thought of it before? - “You can fasten the cradle on Baba's back, and he will go so gently, she - will think it is but play; and I will walk by her side, or you, all the - way!” she continued. “And we can sleep at Aunt Ri's house. Oh, why, why - did we not do it before? Early in the morning we will start.” - </p> - <p> - All through the night they sat watching the little creature. If they had - ever seen death, they would have known that there was no hope for the - child. But how should Ramona and Alessandro know? - </p> - <p> - The sun rose bright and warm. Before it was up, the cradle was ready, - ingeniously strapped on Baba's back. When the baby was placed in it, she - smiled. “The first smile she has given for days,” cried Ramona. “Oh, the - air itself will do good to her! Let me walk by her first! Come, Baba! Dear - Baba!” and Ramona stepped almost joyfully by the horse's side, Alessandro - riding Benito. As they paced along, their eyes never leaving the baby's - face, Ramona said, in a low tone, “Alessandro, I am almost afraid to tell - you what I have done. I took the little Jesus out of the Madonna's arms - and hid it! Did you never hear, that if you do that, the Madonna will - grant you anything, to get him back again in her arms' Did you ever hear - of it?” - </p> - <p> - “Never!” exclaimed Alessandro, with horror in his tone. “Never, Majella! - How dared you?” - </p> - <p> - “I dare anything now!” said Ramona. “I have been thinking to do it for - some days, and to tell her she could not have him any more till she gave - me back the baby well and strong; but I knew I could not have courage to - sit and look at her all lonely without him in her arms, so I did not do - it. But now we are to be away, I thought, that is the time; and I told - her, 'When we come back with our baby well, you shall have your little - Jesus again, too; now, Holy Mother, you go with us, and make the doctor - cure our baby!' Oh, I have heard, many times, women tell the Senora they - had done this, and always they got what they wanted. Never will she let - the Jesus be out of her arms more than three weeks before she will grant - any prayer one can make. It was that way she brought you to me, - Alessandro. I never before told you. I was afraid. I think she had brought - you sooner, but I could keep the little Jesus hid from her only at night. - In the day I could not, because the Senora would see. So she did not miss - him so much; else she had brought you quicker.” - </p> - <p> - “But, Majella,” said the logical Alessandro, “it was because I could not - leave my father that I did not come. As soon as he was buried, I came.” - </p> - <p> - “If it had not been for the Virgin, you would never have come at all,” - said Ramona, confidently. - </p> - <p> - For the first hour of this sad journey it seemed as if the child were - really rallying; the air, the sunlight, the novel motion, the smiling - mother by her side, the big black horses she had already learned to love, - all roused her to an animation she had not shown for days. But it was only - the last flicker of the expiring flame. The eyes drooped, closed; a - strange pallor came over the face. Alessandro saw it first. He was now - walking, Ramona riding Benito. “Majella!” he cried, in a tone which told - her all. - </p> - <p> - In a second she was at the baby's side, with a cry which smote the dying - child's consciousness. Once more the eyelids lifted; she knew her mother; - a swift spasm shook the little frame; a convulsion as of agony swept over - the face, then it was at peace. Ramona's shrieks were heart-rending. - Fiercely she put Alessandro away from her, as he strove to caress her. She - stretched her arms up towards the sky. “I have killed her! I have killed - her!” she cried. “Oh, let me die!” - </p> - <p> - Slowly Alessandro turned Baba's head homeward again. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, give her to me! Let her lie on my breast! I will hold her warm!” - gasped Ramona. - </p> - <p> - Silently Alessandro laid the body in her arms. He had not spoken since his - first cry of alarm, If Ramona had looked at him, she would have forgotten - her grief for her dead child. Alessandro's face seemed turned to stone. - </p> - <p> - When they reached the house, Ramona, laying the child on the bed, ran - hastily to a corner of the room, and lifting the deerskin, drew from its - hiding-place the little wooden Jesus. With tears streaming, she laid it - again in the Madonna's arms, and flinging herself on her knees, sobbed out - prayers for forgiveness. Alessandro stood at the foot of the bed, his arms - folded, his eyes riveted on the child. Soon he went out, still without - speaking. Presently Ramona heard the sound of a saw. She groaned aloud, - and her tears flowed faster: Alessandro was making the baby's coffin. - Mechanically she rose, and, moving like one half paralyzed, she dressed - the little one in fresh white clothes for the burial; then laying her in - the cradle, she spread over it the beautiful lace-wrought altar-cloth. As - she adjusted its folds, her mind was carried back to the time when she - embroidered it, sitting on the Senora's veranda; the song of the finches, - the linnets; the voice and smile of Felipe; Alessandro sitting on the - steps, drawing divine music from his violin. Was that she,—that girl - who sat there weaving the fine threads in the beautiful altar-cloth? Was - it a hundred years ago? Was it another world? Was it Alessandro yonder, - driving those nails into a coffin? How the blows rang, louder and louder! - The air seemed deafening full of sound. With her hands pressed to her - temples, Ramona sank to the floor. A merciful unconsciousness set her - free, for an interval, from her anguish. - </p> - <p> - When she opened her eyes, she was lying on the bed. Alessandro had lifted - her and laid her there, making no effort to rouse her. He thought she - would die too; and even that thought did not stir him from his lethargy. - When she opened her eyes, and looked at him, he did not speak. She closed - them. He did not move. Presently she opened them again. “I heard you out - there,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” he replied. “It is done.” And he pointed to a little box of rough - boards by the side of the cradle. - </p> - <p> - “Is Majella ready to go to the mountain now?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Alessandro, I am ready,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “We will hide forever,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “It makes no difference,” she replied. - </p> - <p> - The Saboba women did not know what to think of Ramona now. She had never - come into sympathetic relations with them, as she had with the women of - San Pasquale. Her intimacy with the Hyers had been a barrier the Saboba - people could not surmount. No one could be on such terms with whites, and - be at heart an Indian, they thought; so they held aloof from Ramona. But - now in her bereavement they gathered round her. They wept at sight of the - dead baby's face, lying in its tiny white coffin. Ramona had covered the - box with white cloth, and the lace altar-cloth thrown over it fell in - folds to the floor. “Why does not this mother weep? Is she like the - whites, who have no heart?” said the Saboba mothers among themselves; and - they were embarrassed before her, and knew not what to say. Ramona - perceived it, but had no life in her to speak to them. Benumbing terrors, - which were worse than her grief, were crowding Ramona's heart now. She had - offended the Virgin; she had committed a blasphemy: in one short hour the - Virgin had punished her, had smitten her child dead before her eyes. And - now Alessandro was going mad; hour by hour Ramona fancied she saw changes - in him. What form would the Virgin's vengeance take next? Would she let - Alessandro become a raging madman, and finally kill both himself and her? - That seemed to Ramona the most probable fate in store for them. When the - funeral was over, and they returned to their desolate home, at the sight - of the empty cradle Ramona broke down. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, take me away, Alessandro! Anywhere! I don't care where! anywhere, so - it is not here!” she cried. - </p> - <p> - “Would Majella be afraid, now, on the high mountain, the place I told her - of?” he said. - </p> - <p> - “No!” she replied earnestly. “No! I am afraid of nothing! Only take me - away!” - </p> - <p> - A gleam of wild delight flitted across Alessandro's face. “It is well,” he - said. “My Majella, we will go to the mountain; we will be safe there.” - </p> - <p> - The same fierce restlessness which took possession of him at San Pasquale - again showed itself in his every act. His mind was unceasingly at work, - planning the details of their move and of the new life. He mentioned them - one after another to Ramona. They could not take both horses; feed would - be scanty there, and there would be no need of two horses. The cow also - they must give up. Alessandro would kill her, and the meat, dried, would - last them for a long time. The wagon he hoped he could sell; and he would - buy a few sheep; sheep and goats could live well in these heights to which - they were going. Safe at last! Oh, yes, very safe; not only against - whites, who, because the little valley was so small and bare, would not - desire it, but against Indians also. For the Indians, silly things, had a - terror of the upper heights of San Jacinto; they believed the Devil lived - there, and money would not hire one of the Saboba Indians to go so high as - this valley which Alessandro had discovered. Fiercely he gloated over each - one of these features of safety in their hiding-place. “The first time I - saw it, Majella,—I believe the saints led me there,—I said, it - is a hiding-place. And then I never thought I would be in want of such,—of - a place to keep my Majella safe! safe! Oh, my Majel!” And he clasped her - to his breast with a terrifying passion. - </p> - <p> - For an Indian to sell a horse and wagon in the San Jacinto valley was not - an easy thing, unless he would give them away. Alessandro had hard work to - give civil answers to the men who wished to buy Benito and the wagon for - quarter of their value. He knew they would not have dared to so much as - name such prices to a white man. Finally Ramona, who had felt - unconquerable misgivings as to the wisdom of thus irrevocably parting from - their most valuable possessions, persuaded him to take both horses and - wagon to San Bernardino, and offer them to the Hyers to use for the - winter. - </p> - <p> - It would be just the work for Jos, to keep him in the open air, if he - could get teaming to do; she was sure he would be thankful for the chance. - “He is as fond of the horses as we are ourselves, Alessandro,” she said. - “They would be well cared for; and then, if we did not like living on the - mountain, we could have the horses and wagon again when we came down, or - Jos could sell them for us in San Bernardino. Nobody could see Benito and - Baba working together, and not want them.” - </p> - <p> - “Majella is wiser than the dove!” cried Alessandro. “She has seen what is - the best thing to do. I will take them.” - </p> - <p> - When he was ready to set off, he implored Ramona to go with him; but with - a look of horror she refused. “Never,” she cried, “one step on that - accursed road! I will never go on that road again unless it is to be - carried, as we brought her, dead.” - </p> - <p> - Neither did Ramona wish to see Aunt Ri. Her sympathy would be intolerable, - spite of all its affectionate kindliness. “Tell her I love her,” she said, - “but I do not want to see a human being yet; next year perhaps we will go - down,—if there is any other way besides that road.” - </p> - <p> - Aunt Ri was deeply grieved. She could not understand Ramona's feeling. It - rankled deep. “I allow I'd never hev bleeved it uv her, never,” she said. - “I shan't never think she wuz quite right 'n her head, to do 't! I allow - we shan't never set eyes on ter her, Jos. I've got jest thet feelin' - abaout it. 'Pears like she'd gone klar out 'er this yer world inter - anuther.” - </p> - <p> - The majestic bulwark of San Jacinto Mountain looms in the southern horizon - of the San Bernardino valley. It was in full sight from the door of the - little shanty in which Aunt Ri's carpet-loom stood. As she sat there hour - after hour, sometimes seven hours to the day, working the heavy treadle, - and slipping the shuttle back and forth, she gazed with tender yearnings - at the solemn, shining summit. When sunset colors smote it, it glowed like - fire; on cloudy days, it was lost in the clouds. - </p> - <p> - “'Pears like 'twas next door to heaven, up there, Jos,” Aunt Ri would say. - “I can't tell yer the feelin' 't comes over me, to look up 't it, ever - sence I knowed she wuz there. 'T shines enuf to put yer eyes aout, - sometimes; I allow 'tain't so light's thet when you air into 't; 't can't - be; ther couldn't nobody stan' it, ef 't wuz. I allow 't must be like - bein' dead, Jos, don't yer think so, to be livin' thar? He sed ther - couldn't nobody git to 'em. Nobody ever seed the place but hisself. He - found it a huntin'. Thar's water thar, 'n' thet's abaout all thar is, - fur's I cud make aout; I allow we shan't never see her agin.” - </p> - <p> - The horses and the wagon were indeed a godsend to Jos. It was the very - thing he had been longing for; the only sort of work he was as yet strong - enough to do, and there was plenty of it to be had in San Bernardino. But - the purchase of a wagon suitable for the purpose was at present out of - their power; the utmost Aunt Ri had hoped to accomplish was to have, at - the end of a year, a sufficient sum laid up to buy one. They had tried in - vain to exchange their heavy emigrant-wagon for one suitable for light - work. “'Pears like I'd die o' shame,” said Aunt Ri, “sometimes when I - ketch myself er thinkin' what luck et's ben to Jos, er gettin' thet - Injun's hosses an' waggin. But ef Jos keeps on, airnin' ez much ez he hez - so fur, he's goin' ter pay the Injun part on 't, when he cums. I allow ter - Jos 'tain't no more'n fair. Why, them hosses, they'll dew good tew days' - work'n one. I never see sech hosses; 'n' they're jest like kittens; - they've ben drefful pets, I allow. I know she set all the world, 'n' more - tew, by thet nigh one. He wuz hern, ever sence she wuz a child. Pore - thing,—'pears like she hedn't hed no chance!” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro had put off, from day to day, the killing of the cow. It went - hard with him to slaughter the faithful creature, who knew him, and came - towards him at the first sound of his voice. He had pastured her, since - the baby died, in a canon about three miles northeast of the village,—a - lovely green canon with oak-trees and a running brook. It was here that he - had thought of building his house if they had stayed in Saboba. But - Alessandro laughed bitterly to himself now, as he recalled that dream. - Already the news had come to Saboba that a company had been formed for the - settling up of the San Jacinto valley; the Ravallo brothers had sold to - this company a large grant of land. The white ranchmen in the valley were - all fencing in their lands; no more free running of stock. The Saboba - people were too poor to build miles of fencing; they must soon give up - keeping stock; and the next thing would be that they would be driven out, - like the people of Temecula. It was none too soon that he had persuaded - Majella to flee to the mountain. There, at least, they could live and die - in peace,—a poverty-stricken life, and the loneliest of deaths; but - they would have each other. It was well the baby had died; she was saved - all this misery. By the time she had grown to be a woman, if she had - lived, there would be no place in all the country where an Indian could - find refuge. Brooding over such thoughts as these, Alessandro went up into - the canon one morning. It must be done. Everything was ready for their - move; it would take many days to carry even their few possessions up the - steep mountain trail to their new home; the pony which had replaced Benito - and Baba could not carry a heavy load. While this was being done, Ramona - would dry the beef which would be their supply of meat for many months. - Then they would go. - </p> - <p> - At noon he came down with the first load of the meat, and Ramona began - cutting it into long strips, as is the Mexican fashion of drying. - Alessandro returned for the remainder. Early in the afternoon, as Ramona - went to and fro about her work, she saw a group of horsemen riding from - house to house, in the upper part of the village; women came running out - excitedly from each house as the horsemen left it; finally one of them - darted swiftly up the hill to Ramona. “Hide it! hide it!” she cried, - breathless; “hide the meat! It is Merrill's men, from the end of the - valley. They have lost a steer, and they say we stole it. They found the - place, with blood on it, where it was killed; and they say we did it. Oh, - hide the meat! They took all that Fernando had; and it was his own, that - he bought; he did not know anything about their steer!” - </p> - <p> - “I shall not hide it!” cried Ramona, indignantly. “It is our own cow. - Alessandro killed it to-day.” - </p> - <p> - “They won't believe you!” said the woman, in distress. “They'll take it - all away. Oh, hide some of it!” And she dragged a part of it across the - floor, and threw it under the bed, Ramona standing by, stupefied. - </p> - <p> - Before she had spoken again, the forms of the galloping riders darkened - the doorway; the foremost of them, leaping off his horse, exclaimed: “By - God! here's the rest of it. If they ain't the damnedest impudent thieves! - Look at this woman, cutting it up! Put that down, will you? We'll save you - the trouble of dryin' our meat for us, besides killin' it! Fork over, now, - every bit you've got, you—” And he called Ramona by a vile epithet. - </p> - <p> - Every drop of blood left Ramona's face. Her eyes blazed, and she came - forward with the knife uplifted in her hand. “Out of my house, you dogs of - the white color!” she said. “This meat is our own; my husband killed the - creature but this morning.” - </p> - <p> - Her tone and bearing surprised them. There were six of the men, and they - had all swarmed into the little room. - </p> - <p> - “I say, Merrill,” said one of them, “hold on; the squaw says her husband - only jest killed it to-day. It might be theirs.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona turned on him like lightning. “Are you liars, you all,” she cried, - “that you think I lie? I tell you the meat is ours; and there is not an - Indian in this village would steal cattle!” - </p> - <p> - A derisive shout of laughter from all the men greeted this speech; and at - that second, the leader, seeing the mark of blood where the Indian woman - had dragged the meat across the ground, sprang to the bed, and lifting the - deerskin, pointed with a sneer to the beef hidden there. “Perhaps, when - you know Injun's well's I do,” he said, “you won't be for believin' all - they say! What's she got it hid under the bed for, if it was their own - cow?” and he stooped to drag the meat out. “Give us a hand here, Jake!” - </p> - <p> - “If you touch it, I will kill you!” cried Ramona, beside herself with - rage; and she sprang between the men, her uplifted knife gleaming. - </p> - <p> - “Hoity-toity!” cried Jake, stepping back; “that's a handsome squaw when - she's mad! Say, boys, let's leave her some of the meat. She wasn't to - blame; of course, she believes what her husband told her.” - </p> - <p> - “You go to grass for a soft-head, you Jake!” muttered Merrill, as he - dragged the meat out from beneath the bed. - </p> - <p> - “What is all this?” said a deep voice in the door; and Ramona, turning, - with a glad cry, saw Alessandro standing there, looking on, with an - expression which, even in her own terror and indignation, gave her a sense - of dread, it was so icily defiant. He had his hand on his gun. “What is - all this?” he repeated. He knew very well. - </p> - <p> - “It's that Temecula man,” said one of the men, in a low tone, to Merrill. - “If I'd known 't was his house, I wouldn't have let you come here. You're - up the wrong tree, sure!” - </p> - <p> - Merrill dropped the meat he was dragging over the floor, and turned to - confront Alessandro's eyes. His countenance fell. Even he saw that he had - made a mistake. He began to speak. Alessandro interrupted him. Alessandro - could speak forcibly in Spanish. Pointing to his pony, which stood at the - door with a package on its back, the remainder of the meat rolled in the - hide, he said: “There is the remainder of the beef. I killed the creature - this morning, in the canon. I will take Senor Merrill to the place, if he - wishes it. Senor Merrill's steer was killed down in the willows yonder, - yesterday.” - </p> - <p> - “That's so!” cried the men, gathering around him. “How did you know? Who - did it?” - </p> - <p> - Alessandro made no reply. He was looking at Ramona. She had flung her - shawl over her head, as the other woman had done, and the two were - cowering in the corner, their faces turned away. Ramona dared not look on; - she felt sure Alessandro would kill some one. But this was not the type of - outrage that roused Alessandro to dangerous wrath. He even felt a certain - enjoyment in the discomfiture of the self-constituted posse of searchers - for stolen goods. To all their questions in regard to the stolen steer, he - maintained silence. He would not open his lips. At last, angry, ashamed, - with a volley of coarse oaths at him for his obstinacy, they rode away. - Alessandro went to Ramona's side. She was trembling. Her hands were like - ice. - </p> - <p> - “Let us go to the mountain to-night!” she gasped. “Take me where I need - never see a white face again!” - </p> - <p> - A melancholy joy gleamed in Alessandro's eyes. Ramona, at last, felt as he - did. - </p> - <p> - “I would not dare to leave Majella there alone, while there is no house,” - he said; “and I must go and come many times, before all the things can be - carried.” - </p> - <p> - “It will be less danger there than here, Alessandro,” said Ramona, - bursting into violent weeping as she recalled the insolent leer with which - the man Jake had looked at her. “Oh! I cannot stay here!” - </p> - <p> - “It will not be many days, my Majel. I will borrow Fernando's pony, to - take double at once; then we can go sooner.” - </p> - <p> - “Who was it stole that man's steer?” said Ramona. “Why did you not tell - them? They looked as if they would kill you.” - </p> - <p> - “It was that Mexican that lives in the bottom, Jose Castro. I myself came - on him, cutting the steer up. He said it was his; but I knew very well, by - the way he spoke, he was lying. But why should I tell? They think only - Indians will steal cattle. I can tell them, the Mexicans steal more.” - </p> - <p> - “I told them there was not an Indian in this village would steal cattle,” - said Ramona, indignantly. - </p> - <p> - “That was not true, Majella,” replied Alessandro, sadly. “When they are - very hungry, they will steal a heifer or steer. They lose many themselves, - and they say it is not so much harm to take one when they can get it. This - man Merrill, they say, branded twenty steers for his own, last spring, - when he knew they were Saboba cattle!” - </p> - <p> - “Why did they not make him give them up?” cried Ramona. - </p> - <p> - “Did not Majella see to-day why they can do nothing? There is no help for - us, Majella, only to hide; that is all we can do!” - </p> - <p> - A new terror had entered into Ramona's life; she dared not tell it to - Alessandro; she hardly put it into words in her thoughts. But she was - haunted by the face of the man Jake, as by a vision of evil, and on one - pretext and another she contrived to secure the presence of some one of - the Indian women in her house whenever Alessandro was away. Every day she - saw the man riding past. Once he had galloped up to the open door, looked - in, spoken in a friendly way to her, and ridden on. Ramona's instinct was - right. Jake was merely biding his time. He had made up his mind to settle - in the San Jacinto valley, at least for a few years, and he wished to have - an Indian woman come to live with him and keep his house. Over in Santa - Ysabel, his brother had lived in that way with an Indian mistress for - three years; and when he sold out, and left Santa Ysabel, he had given the - woman a hundred dollars and a little house for herself and her child. And - she was not only satisfied, but held herself, in consequence of this - temporary connection with a white man, much above her Indian relatives and - friends. When an Indian man had wished to marry her, she had replied - scornfully that she would never marry an Indian; she might marry another - white man, but an Indian,—never. Nobody had held his brother in any - less esteem for this connection; it was quite the way in the country. And - if Jake could induce this handsomest squaw he had ever seen, to come and - live with him in a smaller fashion, he would consider himself a lucky man, - and also think he was doing a good thing for the squaw. It was all very - clear and simple in his mind; and when, seeing Ramona walking alone in the - village one morning, he overtook her, and walking by her side began to - sound her on the subject, he had small misgivings as to the result. Ramona - trembled as he approached her. She walked faster, and would not look at - him; but he, in his ignorance, misinterpreted these signs egregiously. - </p> - <p> - “Are you married to your husband?” he finally said. “It is but a poor - place he gives you to live in. If you will come and live with me, you - shall have the best house in the valley, as good as the Ravallos'; and—” - Jake did not finish his sentence. With a cry which haunted his memory for - years, Ramona sprang from his side as if to run; then, halting suddenly, - she faced him, her eyes like javelins, her breath coming fast. “Beast!” - she said, and spat towards him; then turned and fled to the nearest house, - where she sank on the floor and burst into tears, saying that the man - below there in the road had been rude to her. Yes, the women said, he was - a bad man; they all knew it. Of this Ramona said no word to Alessandro. - She dared not; she believed he would kill Jake. - </p> - <p> - When the furious Jake confided to his friend Merrill his repulse, and the - indignity accompanying it, Merrill only laughed at him, and said: “I could - have told you better than to try that woman. She's married, fast enough. - There's plenty you can get, though, if you want 'em. They're first-rate - about a house, and jest's faithful's dogs. You can trust 'em with every - dollar you've got.” - </p> - <p> - From this day, Ramona never knew an instant's peace or rest till she stood - on the rim of the refuge valley, high on San Jacinto. Then, gazing around, - looking up at the lofty pinnacles above, which seemed to pierce the sky, - looking down upon the world,—it seemed the whole world, so limitless - it stretched away at her feet,—feeling that infinite unspeakable - sense of nearness to Heaven, remoteness from earth which comes only on - mountain heights, she drew in a long breath of delight, and cried: “At - last! at last, Alessandro! Here we are safe! This is freedom! This is - joy!” - </p> - <p> - “Can Majella be content?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “I can almost be glad, Alessandro!” she cried, inspired by the glorious - scene. “I dreamed not it was like this!” - </p> - <p> - It was a wondrous valley. The mountain seemed to have been cleft to make - it. It lay near midway to the top, and ran transversely on the mountain's - side, its western or southwestern end being many feet lower than the - eastern. Both the upper and lower ends were closed by piles of rocks and - tangled fallen trees; the rocky summit of the mountain itself made the - southern wall; the northern was a spur, or ridge, nearly vertical, and - covered thick with pine-trees. A man might roam years on the mountain and - not find this cleft. At the upper end gushed out a crystal spring, which - trickled rather than ran, in a bed of marshy green, the entire length of - the valley, disappeared in the rocks at the lower end, and came out no - more; many times Alessandro had searched for it lower down, but could find - no trace of it. During the summer, when he was hunting with Jeff, he had - several times climbed the wall and descended it on the inner side, to see - if the rivulet still ran; and, to his joy, had found it the same in July - as in January. Drought could not harm it, then. What salvation in such a - spring! And the water was pure and sweet as if it came from the skies. - </p> - <p> - A short distance off was another ridge or spur of the mountain, widening - out into almost a plateau. This was covered with acorn-bearing oaks; and - under them were flat stones worn into hollows, where bygone generations of - Indians had ground the nuts into meal. Generations long bygone indeed, for - it was not in the memory of the oldest now living, that Indians had - ventured so high up as this on San Jacinto. It was held to be certain - death to climb to its summit, and foolhardy in the extreme to go far up - its sides. - </p> - <p> - There was exhilaration in the place. It brought healing to both Alessandro - and Ramona. Even the bitter grief for the baby's death was soothed. She - did not seem so far off, since they had come so much nearer to the sky. - They lived at first in a tent; no time to build a house, till the wheat - and vegetables were planted. Alessandro was surprised, when he came to the - ploughing, to see how much good land he had. The valley thrust itself, in - inlets and coves, into the very rocks of its southern wall; lovely - sheltered nooks these were, where he hated to wound the soft, - flower-filled sward with his plough. As soon as the planting was done, he - began to fell trees for the house. No mournful gray adobe this time, but - walls of hewn pine, with half the bark left on; alternate yellow and - brown, as gay as if glad hearts had devised it. The roof, of thatch, tule, - and yucca-stalks, double laid and thick, was carried out several feet in - front of the house, making a sort of bower-like veranda, supported by - young fir-tree stems, left rough. Once more Ramona would sit under a - thatch with birds'-nests in it. A little corral for the sheep, and a rough - shed for the pony, and the home was complete: far the prettiest home they - had ever had. And here, in the sunny veranda, when autumn came, sat - Ramona, plaiting out of fragrant willow twigs a cradle. The one over which - she had wept such bitter tears in the valley, they had burned the night - before they left their Saboba home. It was in early autumn she sat - plaiting this cradle. The ground around was strewn with wild grapes - drying; the bees were feasting on them in such clouds that Ramona rose - frequently from her work to drive them away, saying, as she did so, “Good - bees, make our honey from something else; we gain nothing if you drain our - grapes for it; we want these grapes for the winter;” and as she spoke, her - imagination sped fleetly forward to the winter, The Virgin must have - forgiven her, to give her again the joy of a child in her arms. Ay, a joy! - Spite of poverty, spite of danger, spite of all that cruelty and - oppression could do, it would still be a joy to hold her child in her - arms. - </p> - <p> - The baby was born before winter came. An old Indian woman, the same whose - house they had hired in Saboba, had come up to live with Ramona. She was - friendless now, her daughter having died, and she thankfully came to be as - a mother to Ramona. She was ignorant and feeble but Ramona saw in her - always the picture of what her own mother might perchance be, wandering, - suffering, she knew not what or where; and her yearning, filial instinct - found sad pleasure in caring for this lonely, childless, aged one. - </p> - <p> - Ramona was alone with her on the mountain at the time of the baby's birth. - Alessandro had gone to the valley, to be gone two days; but Ramona felt no - fear. When Alessandro returned, and she laid the child in his arms, she - said with a smile, radiant once more, like the old smiles, “See, beloved! - The Virgin has forgiven me; she has given us a daughter again!” - </p> - <p> - But Alessandro did not smile. Looking scrutinizingly into the baby's face, - he sighed, and said, “Alas, Majella, her eyes are like mine, not yours!” - </p> - <p> - “I am glad of it,” cried Ramona. “I was glad the first minute I saw it.” - </p> - <p> - He shook his head. “It is an ill fate to have the eyes of Alessandro,” he - said. “They look ever on woe;” and he laid the baby back on Ramona's - breast, and stood gazing sadly at her. - </p> - <p> - “Dear Alessandro,” said Ramona, “it is a sin to always mourn. Father - Salvierderra said if we repined under our crosses, then a heavier cross - would be laid on us. Worse things would come.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” he said. “That is true. Worse things will come.” And he walked - away, with his head sunk deep on his breast. - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XXIV - </h2> - <p> - THERE was no real healing for Alessandro. His hurts had gone too deep. His - passionate heart, ever secretly brooding on the wrongs he had borne, the - hopeless outlook for his people in the future, and most of all on the - probable destitution and suffering in store for Ramona, consumed itself as - by hidden fires. Speech, complaint, active antagonism, might have saved - him; but all these were foreign to his self-contained, reticent, repressed - nature. Slowly, so slowly that Ramona could not tell on what hour or what - day her terrible fears first changed to an even more terrible certainty, - his brain gave way, and the thing, in dread of which he had cried out the - morning they left San Pasquale, came upon him. Strangely enough, and - mercifully, now that it had really come, he did not know it. He knew that - he suddenly came to his consciousness sometimes, and discovered himself in - strange and unexplained situations; had no recollection of what had - happened for an interval of time, longer or shorter. But he thought it was - only a sort of sickness; he did not know that during those intervals his - acts were the acts of a madman; never violent, aggressive, or harmful to - any one; never destructive. It was piteous to see how in these intervals - his delusions were always shaped by the bitterest experiences of his life. - Sometimes he fancied that the Americans were pursuing him, or that they - were carrying off Ramona, and he was pursuing them. At such times he would - run with maniac swiftness for hours, till he fell exhausted on the ground, - and slowly regained true consciousness by exhaustion. At other times he - believed he owned vast flocks and herds; would enter any enclosure he saw, - where there were sheep or cattle, go about among them, speaking of them to - passers-by as his own. Sometimes he would try to drive them away; but on - being remonstrated with, would bewilderedly give up the attempt. Once he - suddenly found himself in the road driving a small flock of goats, whose - he knew not, nor whence he got them. Sitting down by the roadside, he - buried his head in his hands. “What has happened to my memory?” he said. - “I must be ill of a fever!” As he sat there, the goats, of their own - accord, turned and trotted back into a corral near by, the owner of which - stood, laughing, on his doorsill; and when Alessandro came up, said - goodnaturedly, “All right, Alessandro! I saw you driving off my goats, but - I thought you'd bring 'em back.” - </p> - <p> - Everybody in the valley knew him, and knew his condition. It did not - interfere with his capacity as a worker, for the greater part of the time. - He was one of the best shearers in the region, the best horse-breaker; and - his services were always in demand, spite of the risk there was of his - having at any time one of these attacks of wandering. His absences were a - great grief to Ramona, not only from the loneliness in which it left her, - but from the anxiety she felt lest his mental disorder might at any time - take a more violent and dangerous shape. This anxiety was all the more - harrowing because she must keep it locked in her own breast, her wise and - loving instinct telling her that nothing could be more fatal to him than - the knowledge of his real condition. More than once he reached home, - breathless, panting, the sweat rolling off his face, crying aloud, “The - Americans have found us out, Majella! They were on the trail! I baffled - them. I came up another way.” At such times she would soothe him like a - child; persuade him to lie down and rest; and when he waked and wondered - why he was so tired, she would say, “You were all out of breath when you - came in, dear. You must not climb so fast; it is foolish to tire one's - self so.” - </p> - <p> - In these days Ramona began to think earnestly of Felipe. She believed - Alessandro might be cured. A wise doctor could surely do something for - him. If Felipe knew what sore straits she was in, Felipe would help her. - But how could she reach Felipe without the Senora's knowing it? And, still - more, how could she send a letter to Felipe without Alessandro's knowing - what she had written? Ramona was as helpless in her freedom on this - mountain eyrie as if she had been chained hand and foot. - </p> - <p> - And so the winter wore away, and the spring. What wheat grew in their - fields in this upper air! Wild oats, too, in every nook and corner. The - goats frisked and fattened, and their hair grew long and silky; the sheep - were already heavy again with wool, and it was not yet midsummer. The - spring rains had been good; the stream was full, and flowers grew along - its edges thick as in beds. - </p> - <p> - The baby had thrived; as placid, laughing a little thing as if its mother - had never known sorrow. “One would think she had suckled pain,” thought - Ramona, “so constantly have I grieved this year; but the Virgin has kept - her well.” - </p> - <p> - If prayers could compass it, that would surely have been so; for night and - day the devout, trusting, and contrite Ramona had knelt before the Madonna - and told her golden beads, till they were wellnigh worn smooth of all - their delicate chasing. - </p> - <p> - At midsummer was to be a fete in the Saboba village, and the San - Bernardino priest would come there. This would be the time to take the - baby down to be christened; this also would be the time to send the letter - to Felipe, enclosed in one to Aunt Ri, who would send it for her from San - Bernardino. Ramona felt half guilty as she sat plotting what she should - say and how she should send it,—she, who had never had in her loyal, - transparent breast one thought secret from Alessandro since they were - wedded. But it was all for his sake. When he was well, he would thank her. - </p> - <p> - She wrote the letter with much study and deliberation; her dread of its - being read by the Senora was so great, that it almost paralyzed her pen as - she wrote. More than once she destroyed pages, as being too sacred a - confidence for unloving eyes to read. At last, the day before the fete, it - was done, and safely hidden away. The baby's white robe, finely wrought in - open-work, was also done, and freshly washed and ironed. No baby would - there be at the fete so daintily wrapped as hers; and Alessandro had at - last given his consent that the name should be Majella. It was a reluctant - consent, yielded finally only to please Ramona; and, contrary to her wont, - she had been willing in this instance to have her own wish fulfilled - rather than his. Her heart was set upon having the seal of baptism added - to the name she so loved; and, “If I were to die,” she thought, “how glad - Alessandro would be, to have still a Majella!” - </p> - <p> - All her preparations were completed, and it was yet not noon. She seated - herself on the veranda to watch for Alessandro, who had been two days - away, and was to have returned the previous evening, to make ready for the - trip to Saboba. She was disquieted at his failure to return at the - appointed time. As the hours crept on and he did not come, her anxiety - increased. The sun had gone more than an hour past the midheavens before - he came. He had ridden fast; she had heard the quick strokes of the - horse's hoofs on the ground before she saw him. “Why comes he riding like - that?” she thought, and ran to meet him. As he drew near, she saw to her - surprise that he was riding a new horse. “Why, Alessandro!” she cried. - “What horse is this?” - </p> - <p> - He looked at her bewilderedly, then at the horse. True; it was not his own - horse! He struck his hand on his forehead, endeavoring to collect his - thoughts. “Where is my horse, then?” he said. - </p> - <p> - “My God! Alessandro,” cried Ramona. “Take the horse back instantly. They - will say you stole it.” - </p> - <p> - “But I left my pony there in the corral,” he said. “They will know I did - not mean to steal it. How could I ever have made the mistake? I recollect - nothing, Majella. I must have had one of the sicknesses.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona's heart was cold with fear. Only too well she knew what summary - punishment was dealt in that region to horse-thieves. “Oh, let me take it - back, dear!” she cried, “Let me go down with it. They will believe me.” - </p> - <p> - “Majella!” he exclaimed, “think you I would send you into the fold of the - wolf? My wood-dove! It is in Jim Farrar's corral I left my pony. I was - there last night, to see about his sheep-shearing in the autumn. And that - is the last I know. I will ride back as soon as I have rested. I am heavy - with sleep.” - </p> - <p> - Thinking it safer to let him sleep for an hour, as his brain was evidently - still confused, Ramona assented to this, though a sense of danger - oppressed her. Getting fresh hay from the corral, she with her own hands - rubbed the horse down. It was a fine, powerful black horse; Alessandro had - evidently urged him cruelly up the steep trail, for his sides were - steaming, his nostrils white with foam. Tears stood in Ramona's eyes as - she did what she could for him. He recognized her good-will, and put his - nose to her face. “It must be because he was black like Benito, that - Alessandro took him,” she thought. “Oh, Mary Mother, help us to get the - creature safe back!” she said. - </p> - <p> - When she went into the house, Alessandro was asleep. Ramona glanced at the - sun. It was already in the western sky. By no possibility could Alessandro - go to Farrar's and back before dark. She was on the point of waking him, - when a furious barking from Capitan and the other dogs roused him - instantly from his sleep, and springing to his feet, he ran out to see - what it meant. In a moment more Ramona followed,—only a moment, - hardly a moment; but when she reached the threshold, it was to hear a - gun-shot, to see Alessandro fall to the ground, to see, in the same - second, a ruffianly man leap from his horse, and standing over - Alessandro's body, fire his pistol again, once, twice, into the forehead, - cheek. Then with a volley of oaths, each word of which seemed to Ramona's - reeling senses to fill the air with a sound like thunder, he untied the - black horse from the post where Ramona had fastened him, and leaping into - his saddle again, galloped away, leading the horse. As he rode away, he - shook his fist at Ramona, who was kneeling on the ground, striving to lift - Alessandro's head, and to stanch the blood flowing from the ghastly - wounds. “That'll teach you damned Indians to leave off stealing our - horses!” he cried, and with another volley of terrible oaths was out of - sight. - </p> - <p> - With a calmness which was more dreadful than any wild outcry of grief, - Ramona sat on the ground by Alessandro's body, and held his hands in hers. - There was nothing to be done for him. The first shot had been fatal, close - to his heart,—the murderer aimed well; the after-shots, with the - pistol, were from mere wanton brutality. After a few seconds Ramona rose, - went into the house, brought out the white altar-cloth, and laid it over - the mutilated face. As she did this, she recalled words she had heard - Father Salvierderra quote as having been said by Father Junipero, when one - of the Franciscan Fathers had been massacred by the Indians, at San Diego. - “Thank God.” he said, “the ground is now watered by the blood of a - martyr!” - </p> - <p> - “The blood of a martyr!” The words seemed to float in the air; to cleanse - it from the foul blasphemies the murderer had spoken. “My Alessandro!” she - said. “Gone to be with the saints; one of the blessed martyrs; they will - listen to what a martyr says.” His hands were warm. She laid them in her - bosom, kissed them again and again. Stretching herself on the ground by - his side, she threw one arm over him, and whispered in his ear, “My love, - my Alessandro! Oh, speak once to Majella! Why do I not grieve more? My - Alessandro! Is he not blest already? And soon we will be with him! The - burdens were too great. He could not bear them!” Then waves of grief broke - over her, and she sobbed convulsively; but still she shed no tears. - Suddenly she sprang to her feet, and looked wildly around. The sun was not - many hours high. Whither should she go for help? The old Indian woman had - gone away with the sheep, and would not be back till dark. Alessandro must - not lie there on the ground. To whom should she go? To walk to Saboba was - out of the question. There was another Indian village nearer,—the - village of the Cahuillas, on one of the high plateaus of San Jacinto. She - had once been there. Could she find that trail now? She must try. There - was no human help nearer. - </p> - <p> - Taking the baby in her arms, she knelt by Alessandro, and kissing him, - whispered, “Farewell, my beloved. I will not be long gone. I go to bring - friends.” As she set off, swiftly running, Capitan, who had been lying by - Alessandro's side, uttering heart-rending howls, bounded to his feet to - follow her. “No, Capitan,” she said; and leading him back to the body, she - took his head in her hands, looked into his eyes, and said, “Capitan, - watch here.” With a whimpering cry, he licked her hands, and stretched - himself on the ground. He understood, and would obey; but his eyes - followed her wistfully till she disappeared from sight. - </p> - <p> - The trail was rough, and hard to find. More than once Ramona stopped, - baffled, among the rocky ridges and precipices. Her clothes were torn, her - face bleeding, from the thorny shrubs; her feet seemed leaden, she made - her way so slowly. It was dark in the ravines; as she climbed spur after - spur, and still saw nothing but pine forests or bleak opens, her heart - sank within her. The way had not seemed so long before. Alessandro had - been with her; it was a joyous, bright day, and they had lingered wherever - they liked, and yet the way had seemed short. Fear seized her that she was - lost. If that were so, before morning she would be with Alessandro; for - fierce beasts roamed San Jacinto by night. But for the baby's sake, she - must not die. Feverishly she pressed on. At last, just as it had grown so - dark she could see only a few hand-breadths before her, and was panting - more from terror than from running, lights suddenly gleamed out, only a - few rods ahead. It was the Cahuilla village. In a few moments she was - there. - </p> - <p> - It is a poverty-stricken little place, the Cahuilla village,—a - cluster of tule and adobe huts, on a narrow bit of bleak and broken - ground, on San Jacinto Mountain; the people are very poor, but are proud - and high-spirited,—veritable mountaineers in nature, fierce and - independent. - </p> - <p> - Alessandro had warm friends among them, and the news that he had been - murdered, and that his wife had run all the way down the mountain, with - her baby in her arms, for help, went like wild-fire through the place. The - people gathered in an excited group around the house where Ramona had - taken refuge. She was lying, half unconscious, on a bed. As soon as she - had gasped out her terrible story, she had fallen forward on the floor, - fainting, and the baby had been snatched from her arms just in time to - save it. She did not seem to miss the child; had not asked for it, or - noticed it when it was brought to the bed. A merciful oblivion seemed to - be fast stealing over her senses. But she had spoken words enough to set - the village in a blaze of excitement. It ran higher and higher. Men were - everywhere mounting their horses,—some to go up and bring - Alessandro's body down; some organizing a party to go at once to Jim - Farrar's house and shoot him: these were the younger men, friends of - Alessandro. Earnestly the aged Capitan of the village implored them to - refrain from such violence. - </p> - <p> - “Why should ten be dead instead of one, my sons?” he said. “Will you leave - your wives and your children like his? The whites will kill us all if you - lay hands on the man. Perhaps they themselves will punish him.” - </p> - <p> - A derisive laugh rose from the group. Never yet within their experience - had a white man been punished for shooting an Indian. The Capitan knew - that as well as they did. Why did he command them to sit still like women, - and do nothing, when a friend was murdered? - </p> - <p> - “Because I am old, and you are young. I have seen that we fight in vain,” - said the wise old man. “It is not sweet to me, any more than to you. It is - a fire in my veins; but I am old. I have seen. I forbid you to go.” - </p> - <p> - The women added their entreaties to his, and the young men abandoned their - project. But it was with sullen reluctance; and mutterings were to be - heard, on all sides, that the time would come yet. There was more than one - way of killing a man. Farrar would not be long seen in the valley. - Alessandro should be avenged. - </p> - <p> - As Farrar rode slowly down the mountain, leading his recovered horse, he - revolved in his thoughts what course to pursue. A few years before, he - would have gone home, no more disquieted at having killed an Indian than - if he had killed a fox or a wolf. But things were different now. This - Agent, that the Government had taken it into its head to send out to look - after the Indians, had made it hot, the other day, for some fellows in San - Bernardino who had maltreated an Indian; he had even gone so far as to - arrest several liquor-dealers for simply selling whiskey to Indians. If he - were to take this case of Alessandro's in hand, it might be troublesome. - Farrar concluded that his wisest course would be to make a show of good - conscience and fair-dealing by delivering himself up at once to the - nearest justice of the peace, as having killed a man in self-defence, - Accordingly he rode straight to the house of a Judge Wells, a few miles - below Saboba, and said that he wished to surrender himself as having - committed “justifiable homicide” on an Indian, or Mexican, he did net know - which, who had stolen his horse. He told a plausible story. He professed - not to know the man, or the place; but did not explain how it was, that, - knowing neither, he had gone so direct to the spot. - </p> - <p> - He said: “I followed the trail for some time, but when I reached a turn, I - came into a sort of blind trail, where I lost the track. I think the horse - had been led up on hard sod, to mislead any one on the track. I pushed on, - crossed the creek, and soon found the tracks again in soft ground. This - part of the mountain was perfectly unknown to me, and very wild. Finally I - came to a ridge, from which I looked down on a little ranch. As I came - near the house, the dogs began to bark, just as I discovered my horse tied - to a tree. Hearing the dogs, an Indian, or Mexican, I could not tell - which, came out of the house, flourishing a large knife. I called out to - him, 'Whose horse is that?' He answered in Spanish, 'It is mine.' 'Where - did you get it?' I asked. 'In San Jacinto,' was his reply. As he still - came towards me, brandishing the knife, I drew my gun, and said, 'Stop, or - I'll shoot!' He did not stop, and I fired; still he did not stop, so I - fired again; and as he did not fall, I knocked him down with the butt of - my gun. After he was down, I shot him twice with my pistol.” - </p> - <p> - The duty of a justice in such a case as this was clear. Taking the - prisoner into custody, he sent out messengers to summon a jury of six men - to hold inquest on the body of said Indian, or Mexican; and early the next - morning, led by Farrar, they set out for the mountain. When they reached - the ranch, the body had been removed; the house was locked; no signs left - of the tragedy of the day before, except a few blood-stains on the ground, - where Alessandro had fallen. Farrar seemed greatly relieved at this - unexpected phase of affairs. However, when he found that Judge Wells, - instead of attempting to return to the valley that night, proposed to pass - the night at a ranch only a few miles from the Cahuilla village, he became - almost hysterical with fright. He declared that the Cahuillas would surely - come and murder him in the night, and begged piteously that the men would - all stay with him to guard him. - </p> - <p> - At midnight Judge Wells was roused by the arrival of the Capitan and head - men of the Cahuilla village. They had heard of his arrival with his jury, - and they had come to lead them to their village, where the body of the - murdered man lay. They were greatly distressed on learning that they ought - not to have removed the body from the spot where the death had taken - place, and that now no inquest could be held. - </p> - <p> - Judge Wells himself, however, went back with them, saw the body, and heard - the full account of the murder as given by Ramona on her first arrival. - Nothing more could now be learned from her, as she was in high fever and - delirium; knew no one, not even her baby when they laid it on her breast. - She lay restlessly tossing from side to side, talking incessantly, - clasping her rosary in her hands, and constantly mingling snatches of - prayers with cries for Alessandro and Felipe; the only token of - consciousness she gave was to clutch the rosary wildly, and sometimes hide - it in her bosom, if they attempted to take it from her. - </p> - <p> - Judge Wells was a frontiersman, and by no means sentimentally inclined; - but the tears stood in his eyes as he looked at the unconscious Ramona. - </p> - <p> - Farrar had pleaded that the preliminary hearing might take place - immediately; but after this visit to the village, the judge refused his - request, and appointed the trial a week from that day, to give time for - Ramona to recover, and appear as a witness. He impressed upon the Indians - as strongly as he could the importance of having her appear. It was - evident that Farrar's account of the affair was false from first to last. - Alessandro had no knife. He had not had time to go many steps from the - door; the volley of oaths, and the two shots almost simultaneously, were - what Ramona heard as she ran to the door. Alessandro could not have spoken - many words. - </p> - <p> - The day for the hearing came. Farrar had been, during the interval, in a - merely nominal custody; having been allowed to go about his business, on - his own personal guarantee of appearing in time for the trial. It was with - a strange mixture of regret and relief that Judge Wells saw the hour of - the trial arrive, and not a witness on the ground except Farrar himself. - That Farrar was a brutal ruffian, the whole country knew. This last - outrage was only one of a long series; the judge would have been glad to - have committed him for trial, and have seen him get his deserts. But San - Jacinto Valley, wild, sparsely settled as it was, had yet as fixed - standards and criterions of popularity as the most civilized of - communities could show; and to betray sympathy with Indians was more than - any man's political head was worth. The word “justice” had lost its - meaning, if indeed it ever had any, so far as they were concerned. The - valley was a unit on that question, however divided it might be upon - others. On the whole, the judge was relieved, though it was not without a - bitter twinge, as of one accessory after the deed, and unfaithful to a - friend; for he had known Alessandro well. Yet, on the whole, he was - relieved when he was forced to accede to the motion made by Farrar's - counsel, that “the prisoner be discharged on ground of justifiable - homicide, no witnesses having appeared against him.” - </p> - <p> - He comforted himself by thinking—what was no doubt true—that - even if the case had been brought to a jury trial, the result would have - been the same; for there would never have been found a San Diego County - jury that would convict a white man of murder for killing an Indian, if - there were no witnesses to the occurrence except the Indian wife. But he - derived small comfort from this. Alessandro's face haunted him, and also - the memory of Ramona's, as she lay tossing and moaning in the wretched - Cahuilla hovel. He knew that only her continued illness, or her death, - could explain her not having come to the trial. The Indians would have - brought her in their arms all the way, if she had been alive and in - possession of her senses. - </p> - <p> - During the summer that she and Alessandro had lived in Saboba he had seen - her many times, and had been impressed by her rare quality. His children - knew her and loved her; had often been in her house; his wife had bought - her embroidery. Alessandro also had worked for him; and no one knew better - than Judge Wells that Alessandro in his senses was as incapable of - stealing a horse as any white man in the valley. Farrar knew it; everybody - knew it. Everybody knew, also, about his strange fits of wandering mind; - and that when these half-crazed fits came on him, he was wholly - irresponsible. Farrar knew this. The only explanation of Farrar's deed - was, that on seeing his horse spent and exhausted from having been forced - up that terrible trail, he was seized by ungovernable rage, and fired on - the second, without knowing what he did. “But he wouldn't have done it, if - it hadn't been an Indian!” mused the judge. “He'd ha' thought twice before - he shot any white man down, that way.” - </p> - <p> - Day after day such thoughts as these pursued the judge, and he could not - shake them off. An uneasy sense that he owed something to Ramona, or, if - Ramona were dead, to the little child she had left, haunted him. There - might in some such way be a sort of atonement made to the murdered, - unavenged Alessandro. He might even take the child, and bring it up in his - own house. That was by no means an uncommon thing in the valley. The - longer he thought, the more he felt himself eased in his mind by this - purpose; and he decided that as soon as he could find leisure he would go - to the Cahuilla village and see what could be done. - </p> - <p> - But it was not destined that stranger hands should bring succor to Ramona. - Felipe had at last found trace of her. Felipe was on the way. - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XXV - </h2> - <p> - EFFECTUALLY misled by the faithful Carmena, Felipe had begun his search - for Alessandro by going direct to Monterey. He found few Indians in the - place, and not one had ever heard Alessandro's name. Six miles from the - town was a little settlement of them, in hiding, in the bottoms of the San - Carlos River, near the old Mission. The Catholic priest advised him to - search there; sometimes, he said, fugitives of one sort and another took - refuge in this settlement, lived there for a few months, then disappeared - as noiselessly as they had come. Felipe searched there also; equally in - vain. - </p> - <p> - He questioned all the sailors in port; all the shippers. No one had heard - of an Indian shipping on board any vessel; in fact, a captain would have - to be in straits before he would take an Indian in his crew. - </p> - <p> - “But this was an exceptionally good worker, this Indian; he could turn his - hand to anything; he might have gone as ship's carpenter.” - </p> - <p> - “That might be,” they said; “nobody had ever heard of any such thing, - however;” and very much they all wondered what it was that made the - handsome, sad Mexican gentleman so anxious to find this Indian. - </p> - <p> - Felipe wasted weeks in Monterey. Long after he had ceased to hope, he - lingered. He felt as if he would like to stay till every ship that had - sailed out of Monterey in the last three years had returned. Whenever he - heard of one coming into harbor, he hastened to the shore, and closely - watched the disembarking. His melancholy countenance, with its eager, - searching look, became a familiar sight to every one; even the children - knew that the pale gentleman was looking for some one he could not find. - Women pitied him, and gazed at him tenderly, wondering if a man could look - like that for anything save the loss of a sweetheart. Felipe made no - confidences. He simply asked, day after day, of every one he met, for an - Indian named Alessandro Assis. - </p> - <p> - Finally he shook himself free from the dreamy spell of the place, and - turned his face southward again. He went by the route which the Franciscan - Fathers used to take, when the only road on the California coast was the - one leading from Mission to Mission. Felipe had heard Father Salvierderra - say that there were in the neighborhood of each of the old Missions Indian - villages, or families still living. He thought it not improbable that, - from Alessandro's father's long connection with the San Luis Rey Mission, - Alessandro might be known to some of these Indians. He would leave no - stone unturned; no Indian village unsearched; no Indian unquestioned. - </p> - <p> - San Juan Bautista came first; then Soledad, San Antonio, San Miguel, San - Luis Obispo, Santa Inez; and that brought him to Santa Barbara. He had - spent two months on the journey. At each of these places he found Indians; - miserable, half-starved creatures, most of them. Felipe's heart ached, and - he was hot with shame, at their condition. The ruins of the old Mission - buildings were sad to see, but the human ruins were sadder. Now Felipe - understood why Father Salvierderra's heart had broken, and why his mother - had been full of such fierce indignation against the heretic usurpers and - despoilers of the estates which the Franciscans once held. He could not - understand why the Church had submitted, without fighting, to such - indignities and robberies. At every one of the Missions he heard harrowing - tales of the sufferings of those Fathers who had clung to their - congregations to the last, and died at their posts. At Soledad an old - Indian, weeping, showed him the grave of Father Sarria, who had died there - of starvation. “He gave us all he had, to the last,” said the old man. “He - lay on a raw-hide on the ground, as we did; and one morning, before he had - finished the mass, he fell forward at the altar and was dead. And when we - put him in the grave, his body was only bones, and no flesh; he had gone - so long without food, to give it to us.” - </p> - <p> - At all these Missions Felipe asked in vain for Alessandro. They knew very - little, these northern Indians, about those in the south, they said. It - was seldom one from the southern tribes came northward. They did not - understand each other's speech. The more Felipe inquired, and the longer - he reflected, the more he doubted Alessandro's having ever gone to - Monterey. At Santa Barbara he made a long stay. The Brothers at the - College welcomed him hospitably. They had heard from Father Salvierderra - the sad story of Ramona, and were distressed, with Felipe, that no traces - had been found of her. It grieved Father Salvierderra to the last, they - said; he prayed for her daily, but said he could not get any certainty in - his spirit of his prayers being heard. Only the day before he died, he had - said this to Father Francis, a young Brazilian monk, to whom he was - greatly attached. - </p> - <p> - In Felipe's overwrought frame of mind this seemed to him a terrible omen; - and he set out on his journey with a still heavier heart than before. He - believed Ramona was dead, buried in some unknown, unconsecrated spot, - never to be found; yet he would not give up the search. As he journeyed - southward, he began to find persons who had known of Alessandro; and still - more, those who had known his father, old Pablo. But no one had heard - anything of Alessandro's whereabouts since the driving out of his people - from Temecula; there was no knowing where any of those Temecula people - were now. They had scattered “like a flock of ducks,” one Indian said,—“like - a flock of ducks after they are fired into. You'd never see all those - ducks in any one place again. The Temecula people were here, there, and - everywhere, all through San Diego County. There was one Temecula man at - San Juan Capistrano, however. The Senor would better see him. He no doubt - knew about Alessandro. He was living in a room in the old Mission - building. The priest had given it to him for taking care of the chapel and - the priest's room, and a little rent besides. He was a hard man, the San - Juan Capistrano priest; he would take the last dollar from a poor man.” - </p> - <p> - It was late at night when Felipe reached San Juan Capistrano; but he could - not sleep till he had seen this man. Here was the first clew he had - gained. He found the man, with his wife and children, in a large corner - room opening on the inner court of the Mission quadrangle. The room was - dark and damp as a cellar; a fire smouldered in the enormous fireplace; a - few skins and rags were piled near the hearth, and on these lay the woman, - evidently ill. The sunken tile floor was icy cold to the feet; the wind - swept in at a dozen broken places in the corridor side of the wall; there - was not an article of furniture. “Heavens!” thought Felipe, as he entered, - “a priest of our Church take rent for such a hole as this!” - </p> - <p> - There was no light in the place, except the little which came from the - fire. “I am sorry I have no candle, Senor,” said the man, as he came - forward. “My wife is sick, and we are very poor.” - </p> - <p> - “No matter,” said Felipe, his hand already at his purse. “I only want to - ask you a few questions. You are from Temecula, they tell me.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Senor,” the man replied in a dogged tone,—no man of Temecula - could yet hear the word without a pang,—“I was of Temecula.” - </p> - <p> - “I want to find one Alessandro Assis who lived there. You knew him, I - suppose,” said Felipe, eagerly. - </p> - <p> - At this moment a brand broke in the smouldering fire, and for one second a - bright blaze shot up; only for a second, then all was dark again. But the - swift blaze had fallen on Felipe's face, and with a start which he could - not control, but which Felipe did not see, the Indian had recognized him. - “Ha, ha!” he thought to himself. “Senor Felipe Moreno, you come to the - wrong house asking for news of Alessandro Assis!” - </p> - <p> - It was Antonio,—Antonio, who had been at the Moreno sheep-shearing; - Antonio, who knew even more than Carmena had known, for he knew what a - marvel and miracle it seemed that the beautiful Senorita from the Moreno - house should have loved Alessandro, and wedded him; and he knew that on - the night she went away with him, Alessandro had lured out of the corral a - beautiful horse for her to ride. Alessandro had told him all about it,—Baba, - fiery, splendid Baba, black as night, with a white star in his forehead. - Saints! but it was a bold thing to do, to steal such a horse as that, with - a star for a mark; and no wonder that even now, though near three years - afterwards, Senor Felipe was in search of him. Of course it could be only - the horse he wanted. Ha! much help might he get from Antonio! - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Senor, I knew him,” he replied. - </p> - <p> - “Do you know where he is now?” - </p> - <p> - “No, Senor.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you know where he went, from Temecula?” - </p> - <p> - “No, Senor.” - </p> - <p> - “A woman told me he went to Monterey. I have been there looking for him.” - </p> - <p> - “I heard, too, he had gone to Monterey.” - </p> - <p> - “Where did you see him last?” - </p> - <p> - “In Temecula.” - </p> - <p> - “Was he alone?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Senor.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you ever hear of his being married?” - </p> - <p> - “No, Senor.” - </p> - <p> - “Where are the greater part of the Temecula people now?” - </p> - <p> - “Like this, Senor,” with a bitter gesture, pointing to his wife. “Most of - us are beggars. A few here, a few there. Some have gone to Capitan Grande, - some way down into Lower California.” - </p> - <p> - Wearily Felipe continued his bootless questioning. No suspicion that the - man was deceiving him crossed his mind. At last, with a sigh, he said, “I - hoped to have found Alessandro by your means. I am greatly disappointed. - </p> - <p> - “I doubt not that, Senor Felipe Moreno,” thought Antonio. “I am sorry, - Senor,” he said. - </p> - <p> - It smote his conscience when Felipe laid in his hand a generous - gold-piece, and said, “Here is a bit of money for you. I am sorry to see - you so poorly off.” - </p> - <p> - The thanks which he spoke sounded hesitating and gruff, so remorseful did - he feel. Senor Felipe had always been kind to them. How well they had - fared always in his house! It was a shame to lie to him; yet the first - duty was to Alessandro. It could not be avoided. And thus a second time - help drifted away from Ramona. - </p> - <p> - At Temecula, from Mrs. Hartsel, Felipe got the first true intelligence of - Alessandro's movements; but at first it only confirmed his worst - forebodings. Alessandro had been at Mrs. Hartsel's house; he had been - alone, and on foot; he was going to walk all the way to San Pasquale, - where he had the promise of work. - </p> - <p> - How sure the kindly woman was that she was telling the exact truth. After - long ransacking of her memory and comparing of events, she fixed the time - so nearly to the true date, that it was to Felipe's mind a terrible - corroboration of his fears. It was, he thought, about a week after - Ramona's flight from home that Alessandro had appeared thus, alone, on - foot, at Mrs. Hartsel's. In great destitution, she said; and she had lent - him money on the expectation of selling his violin; but they had never - sold it; there it was yet. And that Alessandro was dead, she had no more - doubt than that she herself was alive; for else, he would have come back - to pay her what he owed. The honestest fellow that ever lived, was - Alessandro. Did not the Senor Moreno think so? Had he not found him so - always? There were not many such Indians as Alessandro and his father. If - there had been, it would have been better for their people. “If they'd all - been like Alessandro, I tell you,” she said, “it would have taken more - than any San Diego sheriff to have put them out of their homes here.” - </p> - <p> - “But what could they do to help themselves, Mrs. Hartsel?” asked Felipe. - “The law was against them. We can't any of us go against that. I myself - have lost half my estate in the same way.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, at any rate they wouldn't have gone without fighting!” she said. - “'If Alessandro had been here!' they all said.” - </p> - <p> - Felipe asked to see the violin. “But that is not Alessandro's,” he - exclaimed. “I have seen his.” - </p> - <p> - “No!” she said. “Did I say it was his? It was his father's. One of the - Indians brought it in here to hide it with us at the time they were driven - out. It is very old, they say, and worth a great deal of money, if you - could find the right man to buy it. But he has not come along yet. He - will, though. I am not a bit afraid but that we'll get our money back on - it. If Alessandro was alive, he'd have been here long before this.” - </p> - <p> - Finding Mrs. Hartsel thus friendly, Felipe suddenly decided to tell her - the whole story. Surprise and incredulity almost overpowered her at first. - She sat buried in thought for some minutes; then she sprang to her feet, - and cried: “If he's got that girl with him, he's hiding somewhere. There's - nothing like an Indian to hide; and if he is hiding, every other Indian - knows it, and you just waste your breath asking any questions of any of - them. They will die before they will tell you one thing. They are as - secret as the grave. And they, every one of them, worshipped Alessandro. - You see they thought he would be over them, after Pablo, and they were all - proud of him because he could read and write, and knew more than most of - them. If I were in your place,” she continued, “I would not give it up - yet. I should go to San Pasquale. Now it might just be that she was along - with him that night he stopped here, hid somewhere, while he came in to - get the money. I know I urged him to stay all night, and he said he could - not do it. I don't know, though, where he could possibly have left her - while he came here.” - </p> - <p> - Never in all her life had Mrs. Hartsel been so puzzled and so astonished - as now. But her sympathy, and her confident belief that Alessandro might - yet be found, gave unspeakable cheer to Felipe. - </p> - <p> - “If I find them, I shall take them home with me, Mrs. Hartsel,” he said as - he rode away; “and we will come by this road and stop to see you.” And the - very speaking of the words cheered him all the way to San Pasquale. - </p> - <p> - But before he had been in San Pasquale an hour, he was plunged into a - perplexity and disappointment deeper than he had yet felt. He found the - village in disorder, the fields neglected, many houses deserted, the - remainder of the people preparing to move away. In the house of Ysidro, - Alessandro's kinsman, was living a white family,—the family of a man - who had pre-empted the greater part of the land on which the village - stood. Ysidro, profiting by Alessandro's example, when he found that there - was no help, that the American had his papers from the land-office, in all - due form, certifying that the land was his, had given the man his option - of paying for the house or having it burned down. The man had bought the - house; and it was only the week before Felipe arrived, that Ysidro had set - off, with all his goods and chattels, for Mesa Grande. He might possibly - have told the Senor more, the people said, than any one now in the village - could; but even Ysidro did not know where Alessandro intended to settle. - He told no one. He went to the north. That was all they knew. - </p> - <p> - To the north! That north which Felipe thought he had thoroughly searched. - He sighed at the word. The Senor could, if he liked, see the house in - which Alessandro had lived. There it was, on the south side of the valley, - just in the edge of the foothills; some Americans lived in it now. Such a - good ranch Alessandro had; the best wheat in the valley. The American had - paid Alessandro something for it,—they did not know how much; but - Alessandro was very lucky to get anything. If only they had listened to - him. He was always telling them this would come. Now it was too late for - most of them to get anything for their farms. One man had taken the whole - of the village lands, and he had bought Ysidro's house because it was the - best; and so they would not get anything. They were utterly disheartened, - broken-spirited. - </p> - <p> - In his sympathy for them, Felipe almost forgot his own distresses. “Where - are you going?” he asked of several. - </p> - <p> - “Who knows, Senor?” was their reply. “Where can we go? There is no place.” - </p> - <p> - When, in reply to his questions in regard to Alessandro's wife, Felipe - heard her spoken of as “Majella,” his perplexity deepened. Finally he - asked if no one had ever heard the name Ramona. - </p> - <p> - “Never.” - </p> - <p> - What could it mean? Could it be possible that this was another Alessandro - than the one of whom he was in search? Felipe bethought himself of a - possible marriage-record. Did they know where Alessandro had married this - wife of his, of whom every word they spoke seemed both like and unlike - Ramona? - </p> - <p> - Yes. It was in San Diego they had been married, by Father Gaspara. - </p> - <p> - Hoping against hope, the baffled Felipe rode on to San Diego; and here, as - ill-luck would have it, he found, not Father Gaspara, who would at his - first word have understood all, but a young Irish priest, who had only - just come to be Father Gaspara's assistant. Father Gaspara was away in the - mountains, at Santa Ysabel. But the young assistant would do equally well, - to examine the records. He was courteous and kind; brought out the - tattered old book, and, looking over his shoulder, his breath coming fast - with excitement and fear, there Felipe read, in Father Gaspara's hasty and - blotted characters, the fatal entry of the names, “Alessandro Assis and - Majella Fa—” - </p> - <p> - Heart-sick, Felipe went away. Most certainly Ramona would never have been - married under any but her own name. Who, then, was this woman whom - Alessandro Assis had married in less than ten days from the night on which - Ramona had left her home? Some Indian woman for whom he felt compassion, - or to whom he was bound by previous ties? And where, in what lonely, - forever hidden spot, was the grave of Ramona? - </p> - <p> - Now at last Felipe felt sure that she was dead. It was useless searching - farther. Yet, after he reached home, his restless conjectures took one - more turn, and he sat down and wrote a letter to every priest between San - Diego and Monterey, asking if there were on his books a record of the - marriage of one Alessandro Assis and Ramona Ortegna. - </p> - <p> - It was not impossible that there might be, after all, another Alessandro - Assis, The old Fathers, in baptizing their tens of thousands of Indian - converts, were sore put to it to make out names enough. There might have - been another Assis besides old Pablo, and of Alessandros there were dozens - everywhere. - </p> - <p> - This last faint hope also failed. No record anywhere of an Alessandro - Assis, except in Father Gaspara's book. - </p> - <p> - As Felipe was riding out of San Pasquale, he had seen an Indian man and - woman walking by the side of mules heavily laden. Two little children, two - young or too feeble to walk, were so packed in among the bundles that - their faces were the only part of them in sight. The woman was crying - bitterly. “More of these exiles. God help the poor creatures!” thought - Felipe; and he pulled out his purse, and gave the woman a piece of gold. - She looked up in as great astonishment as if the money had fallen from the - skies. “Thanks! Thanks, Senor!” she exclaimed; and the man coming up to - Felipe said also, “God reward you, Senor! That is more money than I had in - the world! Does the Senor know of any place where I could get work?” - </p> - <p> - Felipe longed to say, “Yes, come to my estate; there you shall have work!” - In the olden time he would have done it without a second thought, for both - the man and the woman had good faces,—were young and strong. But the - pay-roll of the Moreno estate was even now too long for its dwindled - fortunes. “No, my man, I am sorry to say I do not,” he answered. “I live a - long way from here. Where were you thinking of going?” - </p> - <p> - “Somewhere in San Jacinto,” said the man. “They say the Americans have not - come in there much yet. I have a brother living there. Thanks, Senor; may - the saints reward you!” - </p> - <p> - “San Jacinto!” After Felipe returned home, the name haunted his thoughts. - The grand mountain-top bearing that name he had known well in many a - distant horizon. “Juan Can,” he said one day, “are there many Indians in - San Jacinto?” - </p> - <p> - “The mountain?” said Juan Can. - </p> - <p> - “Ay, I suppose, the mountain,” said Felipe. “What else is there?” - </p> - <p> - “The valley, too,” replied Juan. “The San Jacinto Valley is a fine, broad - valley, though the river is not much to be counted on. It is mostly dry - sand a good part of the year. But there is good grazing. There is one - village of Indians I know in the valley; some of the San Luis Rey Indians - came from there; and up on the mountain is a big village; the wildest - Indians in all the country live there. Oh, they are fierce, Senor!” - </p> - <p> - The next morning Felipe set out for San Jacinto. Why had no one mentioned, - why had he not himself known, of these villages? Perhaps there were yet - others he had not heard of. Hope sprang in Felipe's impressionable nature - as easily as it died. An hour, a moment, might see him both lifted up and - cast down. When he rode into the sleepy little village street of San - Bernardino, and saw, in the near horizon, against the southern sky, a - superb mountain-peak, changing in the sunset lights from turquoise to - ruby, and from ruby to turquoise again, he said to himself, “She is there! - I have found her!” - </p> - <p> - The sight of the mountain affected him, as it had always affected Aunt Ri, - with an indefinable, solemn sense of something revealed, yet hidden. “San - Jacinto?” he said to a bystander, pointing to it with his whip. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Senor,” replied the man. As he spoke, a pair of black horses came - whirling round the corner, and he sprang to one side, narrowly escaping - being knocked down. “That Tennessee fellow'll run over somebody yet, with - those black devils of his, if he don't look out,” he muttered, as he - recovered his balance. - </p> - <p> - Felipe glanced at the horses, then driving his spurs deep into his horse's - sides, galloped after them. “Baba! by God!” he cried aloud in his - excitement and forgetful of everything, he urged his horse faster, - shouting as he rode, “Stop that man! Stop that man with the black horses!” - </p> - <p> - Jos, hearing his name called on all sides, reined in Benito and Baba as - soon as he could, and looked around in bewilderment to see what had - happened. Before he had time to ask any questions, Felipe had overtaken - him, and riding straight to Baba's head, had flung himself from his own - horse and taken Baba by the rein, crying, “Baba! Baba!” Baba knew his - voice, and began to whinny and plunge. Felipe was nearly unmanned. For the - second, he forgot everything. A crowd was gathering around them. It had - never been quite clear to the San Bernardino mind that Jos's title to - Benito and Baba would bear looking into; and it was no surprise, - therefore, to some of the on-lookers, to hear Felipe cry in a loud voice, - looking suspiciously at Jos, “How did you get him?” - </p> - <p> - Jos was a wag, and Jos was never hurried. The man did not live, nor could - the occasion arrive, which would quicken his constitutional drawl. Before - even beginning his answer he crossed one leg over the other and took a - long, observant look at Felipe; then in a pleasant voice he said: “Wall, - Senor,—I allow yer air a Senor by yer color,—it would take - right smart uv time tew tell yeow haow I cum by thet hoss, 'n' by the - other one tew. They ain't mine, neither one on 'em.” - </p> - <p> - Jos's speech was as unintelligible to Felipe as it had been to Ramona, Jos - saw it, and chuckled. - </p> - <p> - “Mebbe 't would holp yer tew understand me ef I wuz tew talk Mexican,” he - said, and proceeded to repeat in tolerably good Spanish the sum and - substance of what he had just said, adding: “They belong to an Indian over - on San Jacinto; at least, the off one does; the nigh one's his wife's; he - wouldn't ever call thet one anything but hers. It had been hers ever sence - she was a girl, they said, I never saw people think so much of hosses as - they did.” - </p> - <p> - Before Jos had finished speaking, Felipe had bounded into the wagon, - throwing his horse's reins to a boy in the crowd, and crying, “Follow - along with my horse, will you? I must speak to this man.” - </p> - <p> - Found! Found,—the saints be praised,—at last! How should he - tell this man fast enough? How should he thank him enough? - </p> - <p> - Laying his hand on Jos's knee, he cried: “I can't explain to you; I can't - tell you. Bless you forever,—forever! It must be the saints led you - here!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Lawd!” thought Jos; “another o' them 'saint' fellers! I allow not, - Senor,” he said, relapsing into Tennesseean. “It wur Tom Wurmsee led me; I - wuz gwine ter move his truck fur him this arternoon.” - </p> - <p> - “Take me home with you to your house,” said Felipe, still trembling with - excitement; “we cannot talk here in the street. I want to hear all you can - tell me about them. I have been searching for them all over California.” - </p> - <p> - Jos's face lighted up. This meant good fortune for that gentle, sweet - Ramona, he was sure. “I'll take you straight there,” he said; “but first I - must stop at Tom's. He will be waiting for me.” - </p> - <p> - The crowd dispersed, disappointed; cheated out of their anticipated scene - of an arrest for horse-stealing. “Good for you, Tennessee!” and, “Fork - over that black horse, Jos!” echoed from the departing groups. Sensations - were not so common in San Bernardino that they could afford to slight so - notable an occasion as this. - </p> - <p> - As Jos turned the corner into the street where he lived, he saw his mother - coming at a rapid run towards them, her sun-bonnet half off her head, her - spectacles pushed up in her hair. - </p> - <p> - “Why, thar's mammy!” he exclaimed. “What ever hez gone wrong naow?” - </p> - <p> - Before he finished speaking, she saw the black horses, and snatching her - bonnet from her head waved it wildly, crying, “Yeow Jos! Jos, hyar! Stop! - I wuz er comin' ter hunt yer!” - </p> - <p> - Breathlessly she continued talking, her words half lost in the sound of - the wheels. Apparently she did not see the stranger sitting by Jos's side. - “Oh, Jos, thar's the terriblest news come! Thet Injun Alessandro's got - killed; murdered; jest murdered, I say; 'tain't no less. Thar wuz an Injun - come down from ther mounting with a letter to the Agent.” - </p> - <p> - “Good God! Alessandro killed!” burst from Felipe's lips in a heart-rending - voice. - </p> - <p> - Jos looked bewilderedly from his mother to Felipe; the complication was - almost beyond him. “Oh, Lawd!” he gasped. Turning to Felipe, “Thet's - mammy,” he said. “She wuz real fond o' both on 'em.” Turning to his - mother, “This hyar's her brother,” he said. “He jest knowed me by Baba, - hyar on ther street. He's been huntin' 'em everywhar.” - </p> - <p> - Aunt Ri grasped the situation instantly. Wiping her streaming eyes, she - sobbed out: “Wall, I'll allow, arter this, thar is sech a thing ez a - Providence, ez they call it. 'Pears like ther couldn't ennythin' less - brung yer hyar jest naow. I know who yer be; ye're her brother Feeleepy, - ain't yer? Menny's ther time she's tolt me about yer! Oh, Lawd! How air we - ever goin' to git ter her? I allow she's dead! I allow she'd never live - arter seein' him shot down dead! He tolt me thar couldn't nobody git up - thar whar they'd gone; no white folks, I mean. Oh, Lawd, Lawd!” - </p> - <p> - Felipe stood paralyzed, horror-stricken. He turned in despair to Jos. - “Tell me in Spanish,” he said. “I cannot understand.” - </p> - <p> - As Jos gradually drew out the whole story from his mother's excited and - incoherent speech, and translated it, Felipe groaned aloud, “Too late! Too - late!” He too felt, as Aunt Ri had, that Ramona never could have survived - the shock of seeing her husband murdered. “Too late! Too late!” he cried, - as he staggered into the house. “She has surely died of the sight.” - </p> - <p> - “I allow she didn't die, nuther,” said Jos; “not ser long ez she hed thet - young un to look arter!” - </p> - <p> - “Yer air right, Jos!” said Aunt Ri. “I allow yer air right. Thar couldn't - nothin' kill her, short er wild beasts, ef she hed ther baby 'n her arms! - She ain't dead, not ef the baby ez erlive, I allow. Thet's some comfort.” - </p> - <p> - Felipe sat with his face buried in his hands. Suddenly looking up, he - said, “How far is it?” - </p> - <p> - “Thirty miles 'n' more inter the valley, where we wuz,” said Jos; “'n' the - Lawd knows how fur 'tis up on ter the mounting, where they wuz livin'. - It's like goin' up the wall uv a house, goin' up San Jacinto Mounting, - daddy sez. He wuz thar huntin' all summer with Alessandro.” - </p> - <p> - How strange, how incredible it seemed, to hear Alessandro's name thus - familiarly spoken,—spoken by persons who had known him so recently, - and who were grieving, grieving as friends, to hear of his terrible death! - Felipe felt as if he were in a trance. Rousing himself, he said, “We must - go. We must start at once. You will let me have the horses?” - </p> - <p> - “Wall, I allow yer've got more right ter 'em 'n—” began Jos, - energetically, forgetting himself; then, dropping Tennesseean, he - completed in Spanish his cordial assurances that the horses were at - Felipe's command. - </p> - <p> - “Jos! He's got ter take me!” cried Aunt Ri. “I allow I ain't never gwine - ter set still hyar, 'n' thet girl inter sech trouble; 'n' if so be ez she - is reely dead, thar's the baby. He hadn't orter go alone by hisself.” - </p> - <p> - Felipe was thankful, indeed, for Aunt Ri's companionship, and expressed - himself in phrases so warm, that she was embarrassed. - </p> - <p> - “Yeow tell him, Jos,” she said, “I can't never git used ter bein' called - Senory. Yeow tell him his' sister allers called me Aunt Ri, 'n' I jest - wish he would. I allow me 'n' him'll git along all right. 'Pears like I'd - known him all my days, jest ez 't did with her, arter the fust. I'm free - to confess I take more ter these Mexicans than I do ter these low-down, - driven Yankees, ennyhow,—a heap more; but I can't stand bein' - Senory'd! Yeow tell him, Jos. I s'pose thar's a word for 'aunt' in - Mexican, ain't there? 'Pears like thar couldn't be no langwedge 'thout - sech a word! He'll know what it means! I'd go off with him a heap easier - ef he'd call me jest plain Aunt Ri, ez I'm used ter, or Mis Hyer, either - un on 'em; but Aunt Ri's the nateralest.” - </p> - <p> - Jos had some anxiety about his mother's memory of the way to San Jacinto. - She laughed. - </p> - <p> - “Don't yeow be a mite oneasy,” she said. “I bet yeow I'd go clean back ter - the States ther way we cum. I allow I've got every mile on 't 'n my hed - plain's a turnpike. Yeow nor yer dad, neiry one on yer, couldn't begin to - do 't. But what we air gwine ter do, fur gettin' up the mounting, thet's - another thing. Thet's more 'n I dew know. But thar'll be a way pervided, - Jos, sure's yeow're bawn. The Lawd ain't gwine to get hisself hindered er - holpin' Ramony this time; I ain't a mite afeerd.” - </p> - <p> - Felipe could not have found a better ally. The comparative silence - enforced between them by reason of lack of a common vehicle for their - thoughts was on the whole less of a disadvantage than would have at first - appeared. They understood each other well enough for practical purposes, - and their unity in aim, and in affection for Ramona, made a bond so - strong, it could not have been enhanced by words. - </p> - <p> - It was past sundown when they left San Bernardino, but a full moon made - the night as good as day for their journey. When it first shone out, Aunt - Ri, pointing to it, said curtly, “Thet's lucky.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” replied Felipe, who did not know either of the words she had - spoken, “it is good. It shows to us the way.” - </p> - <p> - “Thar, naow, say he can't understand English!” thought Aunt Ri. - </p> - <p> - Benito and Baba travelled as if they knew the errand on which they were - hurrying. Good forty miles they had gone without flagging once, when Aunt - Ri, pointing to a house on the right hand of the road, the only one they - had seen for many miles, said: “We'll hev to sleep hyar. I donno the road - beyant this. I allow they're gone ter bed; but they'll hev to git up 'n' - take us in. They're used ter doin' it. They dew consid'able business - keepin' movers. I know 'em. They're reel friendly fur the kind o' people - they air. They're druv to death. It can't be far frum their time to git - up, ennyhow. They're up every mornin' uv thar lives long afore daylight, a - feedin' their stock, an' gittin' ready fur the day's work. I used ter hear - 'em 'n' see 'em, when we wuz campin' here. The fust I saw uv it, I thought - somebody wuz sick in the house, to git 'em up thet time o' night; but - arterwards we found out 't wan't nothin' but thar reggerlar way. When I - told dad, sez I, 'Dad, did ever yer hear sech a thing uz gittin' up afore - light to feed stock?' 'n' ter feed theirselves tew. They'd their own - breakfast all clared away, 'n' dishes washed, too, afore light; 'n' - prayers said beside; they're Methodys, terrible pious. I used ter tell dad - they talked a heap about believin' in God; I don't allow but what they dew - believe in God, tew, but they don't worship Him so much's they worship - work; not nigh so much. Believin' 'n' worshippin' 's tew things. Yeow - wouldn't see no sech doin's in Tennessee. I allow the Lawd meant some time - fur sleepin'; 'n' I'm satisfied with his times o' lightin' up. But these - Merrills air reel nice folks, fur all this I've ben tellin' yer!—Lawd! - I don't believe he's understood a word I've said, naow!” thought Aunt Ri - to herself, suddenly becoming aware of the hopeless bewilderment on - Felipe's face. “'Tain't much use sayin' anything more'n plain yes 'n' no, - between folks thet can't understand each other's langwedge; 'n' s' fur's - thet goes, I allow thar ain't any gret use'n the biggest part o' what's - sed between folks thet doos!” - </p> - <p> - When the Merrill family learned Felipe's purpose of going up the mountain - to the Cahuilla village, they attempted to dissuade him from taking his - own horses. He would kill them both, high-spirited horses like those, they - said, if he took them over that road. It was a cruel road. They pointed - out to him the line where it wound, doubling and tacking on the sides of - precipices, like a path for a goat or chamois. Aunt Ri shuddered at the - sight, but said nothing. - </p> - <p> - “I'm gwine whar he goes,” she said grimly to herself. “I ain't a gwine ter - back daown naow; but I dew jest wish Jeff Hyer wuz along.” - </p> - <p> - Felipe himself disliked what he saw and heard of the grade. The road had - been built for bringing down lumber, and for six miles it was at perilous - angles. After this it wound along on ridges and in ravines till it reached - the heart of a great pine forest, where stood a saw-mill. Passing this, it - plunged into still darker, denser woods, some fifteen miles farther on, - and then came out among vast opens, meadows, and grassy foot-hills, still - on the majestic mountain's northern or eastern slopes. From these, another - steep road, little more than a trail, led south, and up to the Cahuilla - village. A day and a half's hard journey, at the shortest, it was from - Merrill's; and no one unfamiliar with the country could find the last part - of the way without a guide. Finally it was arranged that one of the - younger Merrills should go in this capacity, and should also take two of - his strongest horses, accustomed to the road. By the help of these the - terrible ascent was made without difficulty, though Baba at first snorted, - plunged, and resented the humiliation of being harnessed with his head at - another horse's tail. - </p> - <p> - Except for their sad errand, both Felipe and Aunt Ri would have - experienced a keen delight in this ascent. With each fresh lift on the - precipitous terraces, the view off to the south and west broadened, until - the whole San Jacinto Valley lay unrolled at their feet. The pines were - grand; standing, they seemed shapely columns; fallen, the upper curve of - their huge yellow disks came above a man's head, so massive was their - size. On many of them the bark had been riddled from root to top, as by - myriads of bullet-holes. In each hole had been cunningly stored away an - acorn,—the woodpeckers' granaries. - </p> - <p> - “Look at thet, naow!” exclaimed the observant Aunt Ri; “an' thar's folk's - thet sez dumb critters ain't got brains. They ain't noways dumb to each - other, I notice; an' we air dumb aourselves when we air ketched with - furriners. I allow I'm next door to dumb myself with this hyar Mexican I'm - er travellin' with.” - </p> - <p> - “That's so!” replied Sam Merrill. “When we fust got here, I thought I'd - ha' gone clean out o' my head tryin' to make these Mexicans sense my - meanin'; my tongue was plaguy little use to me. But now I can talk their - lingo fust-rate; but pa, he can't talk to 'em nohow; he hain't learned the - fust word; 'n' he's ben here goin' on two years longer'n we have.” - </p> - <p> - The miles seemed leagues to Felipe. Aunt Ri's drawling tones, as she - chatted volubly with young Merrill, chafed him. How could she chatter! But - when he thought this, it would chance that in a few moments more he would - see her clandestinely wiping away tears, and his heart would warm to her - again. - </p> - <p> - They slept at a miserable cabin in one of the clearings, and at early dawn - pushed on, reaching the Cahuilla village before noon. As their carriage - came in sight, a great running to and fro of people was to be seen. Such - an event as the arrival of a comfortable carriage drawn by four horses had - never before taken place in the village. The agitation into which the - people had been thrown by the murder of Alessandro had by no means - subsided; they were all on the alert, suspicious of each new occurrence. - The news had only just reached the village that Farrar had been set at - liberty, and would not be punished for his crime, and the flames of - indignation and desire for vengeance, which the aged Capitan had so much - difficulty in allaying in the outset, were bursting forth again this - morning. It was therefore a crowd of hostile and lowering faces which - gathered around the carriage as it stopped in front of the Capitan's - house. - </p> - <p> - Aunt Ri's face was a ludicrous study of mingled terror, defiance, and - contempt. “Uv all ther low-down, no-'count, beggarly trash ever I laid - eyes on,” she said in a low tone to Merrill, “I allow these yere air the - wust! But I allow they'd flatten us all aout in jest abaout a minnit, if - they wuz to set aout tew! Ef she ain't hyar, we air in a scrape, I allow.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, they're friendly enough,” laughed Merrill. “They're all stirred up, - now, about the killin' o' that Injun; that's what makes 'em look so - fierce. I don't wonder! 'Twas a derned mean thing Jim Farrar did, a firin' - into the man after he was dead. I don't blame him for killin' the cuss, - not a bit; I'd have shot any man livin' that 'ad taken a good horse o' - mine up that trail. That's the only law we stock men've got out in this - country. We've got to protect ourselves. But it was a mean, low-lived - trick to blow the feller's face to pieces after he was dead; but Jim's a - rough feller, 'n' I expect he was so mad, when he see his horse, that he - didn't know what he did.” - </p> - <p> - Aunt Ri was half paralyzed with astonishment at this speech. Felipe had - leaped out of the carriage, and after a few words with the old Capitan, - had hurried with him into his house. Felipe had evidently forgotten that - she was still in the carriage. His going into the house looked as if - Ramona was there. Aunt Ri, in all her indignation and astonishment, was - conscious of this train of thought running through her mind; but not even - the near prospect of seeing Ramona could bridle her tongue now, or make - her defer replying to the extraordinary statements she had just heard. The - words seemed to choke her as she began. “Young man,” she said, “I donno - much abaout yeour raisin'. I've heered yeour folks wuz great on religion. - Naow, we ain't, Jeff 'n' me; we warn't raised thet way; but I allow ef I - wuz ter hear my boy, Jos,—he's jest abaout yeour age, 'n' make tew, - though he's narrerer chested,—ef I should hear him say what yeou've - jest said, I allow I sh'd expect to see him struck by lightnin'; 'n' I - sh'dn't think he hed got more 'n his deserts, I allow I sh'dn't!” - </p> - <p> - What more Aunt Ri would have said to the astounded Merrill was never - known, for at that instant the old Capitan, returning to the door, - beckoned to her; and springing from her seat to the ground, sternly - rejecting Sam's offered hand, she hastily entered the house. As she - crossed the threshold, Felipe turned an anguished face toward her, and - said, “Come, speak to her.” He was on his knees by a wretched pallet on - the floor. Was that Ramona,—that prostrate form; hair dishevelled, - eyes glittering, cheeks scarlet, hands playing meaninglessly, like the - hands of one crazed, with a rosary of gold beads? Yes, it was Ramona; and - it was like this she had lain there now ten days; and the people had - exhausted all their simple skill for her in vain. - </p> - <p> - Aunt Ri burst into tears. “Oh, Lawd!” she said. “Ef I had some 'old man' - hyar, I'd bring her aout er thet fever! I dew bleeve I seed some on 't - growin' not more'n er mile back.” And without a second look, or another - word, she ran out of the door, and springing into the carriage, said, - speaking faster than she had been heard to speak for thirty years: “Yeow - jest turn raound 'n' drive me back a piece, the way we come. I allow I'll - git a weed thet'll break thet fever. Faster, faster! Run yer hosses. - 'Tain't above er mile back, whar I seed it,” she cried, leaning out, - eagerly scrutinizing each inch of the barren ground. “Stop! Here 'tis!” - she cried. “I knowed I smelt the bitter on 't somewhars along hyar;” and - in a few minutes more she had a mass of the soft, shining, gray, feathery - leaves in her hands, and was urging the horses fiercely on their way back. - “This'll cure her, ef ennything will,” she said, as she entered the room - again; but her heart sank as she saw Ramona's eyes roving restlessly over - Felipe's face, no sign of recognition in them. “She's bad,” she said, her - lips trembling; “but, 'never say die!' ez allers our motto; 'tain't never - tew late fur ennything but oncet, 'n' yer can't tell when thet time's come - till it's past 'n' gone.” - </p> - <p> - Steaming bowls of the bitterly odorous infusion she held at Ramona's - nostrils; with infinite patience she forced drop after drop of it between - the unconscious lips; she bathed the hands and head, her own hands - blistered by the heat. It was a fight with death; but love and life won. - Before night Ramona was asleep. - </p> - <p> - Felipe and Aunt Ri sat by her, strange but not uncongenial watchers, each - taking heart from the other's devotion. All night long Ramona slept. As - Felipe watched her, he remembered his own fever, and how she had knelt by - his bed and prayed there. He glanced around the room. In a niche in the - mud wall was a cheap print of the Madonna, one candle just smouldering out - before it. The village people had drawn heavily on their poverty-stricken - stores, keeping candles burning for Alessandro and Ramona during the past - ten days. The rosary had slipped from Ramona's hold; taking it cautiously - in his hand, Felipe went to the Madonna's picture, and falling on his - knees, began to pray as simply as if he were alone. The Indians, standing - on the doorway, also fell on their knees, and a low-whispered murmur was - heard. - </p> - <p> - For a moment Aunt Ri looked at the kneeling figures with contempt. “Oh, - Lawd!” she thought, “the pore heathen, prayin' ter a picter!” Then a - sudden revulsion seized her. “I allow I ain't gwine ter be the unly one - out er the hull number thet don't seem to hev nothin' ter pray ter; I - allow I'll jine in prayer, tew, but I shan't say mine ter no picter!” And - Aunt Ri fell on her knees; and when a young Indian woman by her side - slipped a rosary into her hand, Aunt Ri did not repulse it, but hid it in - the folds of her gown till the prayers were done. It was a moment and a - lesson Aunt Ri never forgot. - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XXVI - </h2> - <p> - THE Capitan's house faced the east. Just as day broke, and the light - streamed in at the open door, Ramona's eyes unclosed. Felipe and Aunt Ri - were both by her side. With a look of bewildered terror, she gazed at - them. - </p> - <p> - “Thar, thar, naow! Yer jest shet yer eyes 'n' go right off ter sleep agin, - honey,” said Aunt Ri, composedly, laying her hand on Ramona's eyelids, and - compelling them down. “We air hyar, Feeleepy 'n' me, 'n' we air goin' ter - stay. I allow yer needn't be afeerd o' nothin'. Go ter sleep, honey.” - </p> - <p> - The eyelids quivered beneath Aunt Ri's fingers. Tears forced their way, - and rolled slowly down the cheeks. The lips trembled; the voice strove to - speak, but it was only like the ghost of a whisper, the faint question - that came,—“Felipe?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, dear! I am here, too,” breathed Felipe; “go to sleep. We will not - leave you!” - </p> - <p> - And again Ramona sank away into the merciful sleep which was saving her - life. - </p> - <p> - “Ther longer she kin sleep, ther better,” said Aunt Ri, with a sigh, - deep-drawn like a groan. “I allow I dread ter see her reely come to. 'T'll - be wus'n the fust; she'll hev ter live it all over again!” - </p> - <p> - But Aunt Ri did not know what forces of fortitude had been gathering in - Ramona's soul during these last bitter years. Out of her gentle constancy - had been woven the heroic fibre of which martyrs are made; this, and her - inextinguishable faith, had made her strong, as were those of old, who - “had trial of cruel mocking, wandering about, being destitute, afflicted, - tormented, wandered in deserts and in mountains, and in dens and caves of - the earth.” - </p> - <p> - When she waked the second time, it was with a calm, almost beatific smile - that she gazed on Felipe, and whispered, “How did you find me, dear - Felipe?” It was rather by the motions of her lips than by any sound that - he knew the words. She had not yet strength enough to make an audible - sound. When they laid her baby on her breast, she smiled again, and tried - to embrace her, but was too weak. Pointing to the baby's eyes, she - whispered, gazing earnestly at Felipe, “Alessandro.” A convulsion passed - over her face as she spoke the word, and the tears flowed. - </p> - <p> - Felipe could not speak. He glanced helplessly at Aunt Ri, who promptly - responded: “Naow, honey, don't yeow talk. 'Tain't good fur ye; 'n' - Feeleepy 'n' me, we air in a powerful hurry ter git yer strong 'n' well, - 'n' tote ye out er this—” Aunt Ri stopped. No substantive in her - vocabulary answered her need at that moment. “I allow ye kin go 'n a week, - ef nothin' don't go agin ye more'n I see naow; but ef yer git ter talkin', - thar's no tellin' when yer'll git up. Yeow jest shet up, honey. We'll look - arter everythin'.” - </p> - <p> - Feebly Ramona turned her grateful, inquiring eyes on Felipe. Her lips - framed the words, “With you?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, dear, home with me,” said Felipe, clasping her hand in his. “I have - been searching for you all this time.” - </p> - <p> - An anxious look came into the sweet face. Felipe knew what it meant. How - often he had seen it in the olden time. He feared to shock her by the - sudden mention of the Senora's death; yet that would harm her less than - continued anxiety. “I am alone, dear Ramona,” he whispered. “There is no - one now but you, my sister, to take care of me. My mother has been dead a - year.” - </p> - <p> - The eyes dilated, then filled with sympathetic tears. “Dear Felipe!” she - sighed; but her heart took courage. Felipe's phrase was like one inspired; - another duty, another work, another loyalty, waiting for Ramona. Not only - her child to live for, but to “take care of Felipe”! Ramona would not die! - Youth, a mother's love, a sister's affection and duty, on the side of - life,—the battle was won, and won quickly, too. - </p> - <p> - To the simple Cahuillas it seemed like a miracle; and they looked on Aunt - Ri's weather-beaten face with something akin to a superstitious reverence. - They themselves were not ignorant of the value of the herb by means of - which she had wrought the marvellous cure; but they had made repeated - experiments with it upon Ramona, without success. It must be that there - had been some potent spell in Aunt Ri's handling. They would hardly - believe her when, in answer to their persistent questioning, she - reiterated the assertion that she had used nothing except the hot water - and “old man,” which was her name for the wild wormwood; and which, when - explained to them, impressed them greatly, as having no doubt some - significance in connection with the results of her preparation of the - leaves. - </p> - <p> - Rumors about Felipe ran swiftly throughout the region. The presence in the - Cahuilla village of a rich Mexican gentleman who spent gold like water, - and kept mounted men riding day and night, after everything, anything, he - wanted for his sick sister, was an event which in the atmosphere of that - lonely country loomed into colossal proportions. He had travelled all over - California, with four horses, in search of her. He was only waiting till - she was well, to take her to his home in the south; and then he was going - to arrest the man who had murdered her husband, and have him hanged,—yes, - hanged! Small doubt about that; or, if the law cleared him, there was - still the bullet. This rich Senor would see him shot, if rope were not to - be had. Jim Farrar heard these tales, and quaked in his guilty soul. The - rope he had small fear of, for well he knew the temper of San Diego County - juries and judges; but the bullet, that was another thing; and these - Mexicans were like Indians in their vengeance. Time did not tire them, and - their memories were long. Farrar cursed the day he had let his temper get - the better of him on that lonely mountainside; how much the better, nobody - but he himself knew,—nobody but he and Ramona: and even Ramona did - not know the bitter whole. She knew that Alessandro had no knife, and had - gone forward with no hostile intent; but she knew nothing beyond that. - Only the murderer himself knew that the dialogue which he had reported to - the judge and jury, to justify his act, was an entire fabrication of his - own, and that, instead of it, had been spoken but four words by - Alessandro, and those were, “Senor, I will explain;” and that even after - the first shot had pierced his lungs, and the blood was choking in his - throat, he had still run a step or two farther, with his hand uplifted - deprecatingly, and made one more effort to speak before he fell to the - ground dead. Callous as Farrar was, and clear as it was in his mind that - killing an Indian was no harm, he had not liked to recall the pleading - anguish in Alessandro's tone and in his face as he fell. He had not liked - to recall this, even before he heard of this rich Mexican brother-in-law - who had appeared on the scene; and now, he found the memories still more - unpleasant. Fear is a wonderful goad to remorse. There was another thing, - too, which to his great wonder had been apparently overlooked by - everybody; at least, nothing had been said about it; but the bearing of it - on his case, if the case were brought up a second time and minutely - investigated, would be most unfortunate. And this was, that the only clew - he had to the fact of Alessandro's having taken his horse, was that the - poor, half-crazed fellow had left his own well-known gray pony in the - corral in place of the horse he took. A strange thing, surely, for a - horse-thief to do! Cold sweat burst out on Farrar's forehead, more than - once, as he realized how this, coupled with the well-known fact of - Alessandro's liability to attacks of insanity, might be made to tell - against him, if he should be brought to trial for the murder. He was as - cowardly as he was cruel: never yet were the two traits separate in human - nature; and after a few days of this torturing suspense and apprehension, - he suddenly resolved to leave the country, if not forever, at least for a - few years, till this brother-in-law should be out of the way. He lost no - time in carrying out his resolution; and it was well he did not, for it - was only three days after he had disappeared, that Felipe walked into - Judge Wells's office, one morning, to make inquiries relative to the - preliminary hearing which had been held there in the matter of the murder - of the Indian, Alessandro Assis, by James Farrar. And when the judge, - taking down his books, read to Felipe his notes of the case, and went on - to say, “If Farrar's testimony is true, Ramona's, the wife's, must be - false,” and “at any rate, her testimony would not be worth a straw with - any jury,” Felipe sprang to his feet, and cried, “She of whom you speak is - my foster-sister; and, by God, Senor, if I can find that man, I will shoot - him as I would a dog! And I'll see, then, if a San Diego County jury will - hang me for ridding the country of such a brute!” and Felipe would have - been as good as his word. It was a wise thing Farrar had done in making - his escape. - </p> - <p> - When Aunt Ri heard that Farrar had fled the country, she pushed up her - spectacles and looked reflectively at her informant. It was young Merrill. - “Fled ther country, hez he?” she said. “Wall, he kin flee ez many - countries ez he likes, an' 't won't dew him no good. I know yeow folks - hyar don't seem ter think killin' an Injun's enny murder, but I say 'tis; - an' yeow'll all git it brung home ter yer afore yer die: ef 'tain't brung - one way, 't'll be anuther; yeow jest mind what I say, 'n' don't yeow - furgit it. Naow this miser'ble murderer, this Farrar, thet's lighted out - er hyar, he's nothin' more'n a skunk, but he's got the Lawd arter him, - naow. It's jest's well he's gawn; I never did b'leeve in hangin'. I never - could. It's jest tew men dead 'stead o' one. I don't want to see no man - hung, no marter what he's done, 'n' I don't want to see no man shot down, - nuther, no marter what he's done; 'n' this hyar Feeleepy, he's thet - highstrung, he'd ha' shot thet Farrar, any minnit, quicker'n lightnin', ef - he'd ketched him; so it's better all raound he's lit aout. But I tell - yeow, naow, he hain't made much by goin'! Thet Injun he murdered 'll - foller him night 'n' day, till he dies, 'n' long arter; he'll wish he wuz - dead afore he doos die, I allow he will, naow. He'll be jest like a man I - knowed back in Tennessee. I wa'n't but a mite then, but I never forgot it. - 'Tis a great country fur gourds, East Tennessee is, whar I wuz raised; 'n' - thar wuz two houses, 'n' a fence between 'em, 'n' these gourds a runnin' - all over the fence; 'n' one o' ther childun picked one o' them gourds, an' - they fit abaout it; 'n' then the women took it up,—ther childun's - mothers, yer know,—'n' they got fightin' abaout it; 'n' then 't the - last the men took it up, 'n' they fit; 'n' Rowell he got his - butcher-knife, 'n' he ground it up, 'n' he picked a querril with - Claiborne, 'n' he cut him inter pieces. They hed him up for 't, 'n' - somehow they clared him. I don't see how they ever did, but they put 't - off, 'n' put 't off, 'n' 't last they got him free; 'n' he lived on thar a - spell, but he couldn't stan' it; 'peared like he never hed no peace; 'n' - he came over ter our 'us, 'n' sed he, 'Jake,'—they allers called - daddy 'Jake,' or 'Uncle Jake,'—'Jake,' sed he, 'I can't stan' it, - livin' hyar.' 'Why,' sez daddy, 'the law o' the country's clar'd ye.' - 'Yes,' sez he, 'but the law o' God hain't; 'n' I've got Claiborne allers - with me. Thar ain't any path so narrer, but he's a walkin' in it, by my - side, all day; 'n' come night, I sleep with him ter one side, 'n' my wife - 't other; 'n' I can't stan' it.' Them's ther very words I heered him say, - 'n' I wuzn't ennythin' but a mite, but I didn't furgit it. Wall, sir, he - went West, way aout hyar to Californy, 'n' he couldn't stay thar nuther, - 'n' he came back hum agin; 'n' I wuz bigger then, a gal grown, 'n' daddy - sez to him,—I heern him,—'Wal,' sez he, 'did Claiborne foller - yer?' 'Yes,' sez he, 'he follered me. I'll never git shet o' him in this - world. He's allers clost to me everywhar.' Yer see, 'twas jest his - conscience er whippin' him. Thet's all 't wuz. 'T least, thet's all I - think 't wuz; though thar wuz those thet said 't wuz Claiborne's ghost. - 'N' thet'll be the way 't 'll be with this miser'ble Farrar. He'll live - ter wish he'd let hisself be hanged er shot, er erry which way, ter git - out er his misery.” - </p> - <p> - Young Merrill listened with unwonted gravity to Aunt Ri's earnest words. - They reached a depth in his nature which had been long untouched; a - stratum, so to speak, which lay far beneath the surface. The character of - the Western frontiersman is often a singular accumulation of such strata,—the - training and beliefs of his earliest days overlain by successions of - unrelated and violent experiences, like geological deposits. Underneath - the exterior crust of the most hardened and ruffianly nature often remains—its - forms not yet quite fossilized—a realm full of the devout customs, - doctrines, religious influences, which the boy knew, and the man - remembers, By sudden upheaval, in some great catastrophe or struggle in - his mature life, these all come again into the light. Assembly Catechism - definitions, which he learned in his childhood, and has not thought of - since, ring in his ears, and he is thrown into all manner of confusions - and inconsistencies of feeling and speech by this clashing of the old and - new man within him. It was much in this way that Aunt Ri's words smote - upon young Merrill. He was not many years removed from the sound of a - preaching of the straitest New England Calvinism. The wild frontier life - had drawn him in and under, as in a whirlpool; but he was New Englander - yet at heart. - </p> - <p> - “That's so, Aunt Ri!” he exclaimed. “That's so! I don't s'pose a man - that's committed murder 'll ever have any peace in this world, nor in the - next nuther, without he repents; but ye see this horse-stealin' business - is different. 'Tain't murder to kill a hoss-thief, any way you can fix it; - everybody admits that. A feller that's caught horse-stealin' had ought to - be shot; and he will be, too, I tell you, in this country!” - </p> - <p> - A look of impatient despair spread over Aunt Ri's face. “I hain't no - patience left with yer,” she said, “er talkin' abaout stealin' hosses ez - ef hosses wuz more'n human bein's! But lettin' thet all go, this Injun, he - wuz crazy. Yer all knowed it. Thet Farrar knowed it. D'yer think ef he'd - ben stealin' the hoss, he'd er left his own hoss in the corral, same ez, - yer might say, leavin' his kyerd to say 't wuz he done it; 'n' the hoss er - tied in plain sight 'n front uv his house fur ennybody ter see?” - </p> - <p> - “Left his own horse, so he did!” retorted Merrill. “A poor, miserable, - knock-kneed old pony, that wa'n't worth twenty dollars; 'n' Jim's horse - was worth two hundred, 'n' cheap at that.” - </p> - <p> - “Thet ain't nuther here nor thar in what we air sayin',” persisted Aunt - Ri. “I ain't a speakin' on 't ez a swap er hosses. What I say is, he - wa'n't tryin' to cover 't up thet he'd tuk the hoss. We air sum used ter - hoss-thieves in Tennessee; but I never heered o' one yit thet left his - name fur a refference berhind him, ter show which road he tuk, 'n' - fastened ther stolen critter ter his front gate when he got hum! I allow - me 'n' yeow hedn't better say anythin' much more on ther subjeck, fur I - allow we air bound to querril ef we dew;” and nothing that Merrill said - could draw another word out of Aunt Ri in regard to Alessandro's death. - But there was another subject on which she was tireless, and her speech - eloquent. It was the kindness and goodness of the Cahuilla people. The - last vestige of her prejudice against Indians had melted and gone, in the - presence of their simple-hearted friendliness. “I'll never hear a word - said agin 'em, never, ter my longest day,” she said. “The way the pore - things hed jest stripped theirselves, to git things fur Ramony, beat all - ever I see among white folks, 'n' I've ben raound more'n most. 'N' they - wa'n't lookin' fur no pay, nuther; fur they didn't know, till Feeleepy 'n' - me cum, thet she had any folks ennywhar, 'n' they'd ha' taken care on her - till she died, jest the same. The sick allers ez took care on among them, - they sed, 's long uz enny on em hez got a thing left. Thet's ther way they - air raised; I allow white folks might take a lesson on 'em, in thet; 'n' - in heaps uv other things tew. Oh, I'm done talkin' again Injuns, naow, - don't yeow furgit it! But I know, fur all thet, 't won't make any - difference; 'pears like there cuddn't nobody b'leeve ennythin' 'n this - world 'thout seein' 't theirselves. I wuz thet way tew; I allow I hain't - got no call ter talk; but I jest wish the hull world could see what I've - seen! Thet's all!” - </p> - <p> - It was a sad day in the village when Ramona and her friends departed. - Heartily as the kindly people rejoiced in her having found such a - protector for herself and her child, and deeply as they felt Felipe's and - Aunt Ri's good-will and gratitude towards them, they were yet conscious of - a loss,—of a void. The gulf between them and the rest of the world - seemed defined anew, their sense of isolation deepened, their hopeless - poverty emphasized. Ramona, wife of Alessandro, had been as their sister,—one - of them; as such, she would have had share in all their life had to offer. - But its utmost was nothing, was but hardship and deprivation; and she was - being borne away from it, like one rescued, not so much from death, as - from a life worse than death. - </p> - <p> - The tears streamed down Ramona's face as she bade them farewell. She - embraced again and again the young mother who had for so many days suckled - her child, even, it was said, depriving her own hardier babe that Ramona's - should not suffer. “Sister, you have given me my child,” she cried; “I can - never thank you; I will pray for you all my life.” - </p> - <p> - She made no inquiries as to Felipe's plans. Unquestioningly, like a little - child, she resigned herself into his hands. A power greater than hers was - ordering her way; Felipe was its instrument. No other voice spoke to guide - her. The same old simplicity of acceptance which had characterized her - daily life in her girlhood, and kept her serene and sunny then,—serene - under trials, sunny in her routine of little duties,—had kept her - serene through all the afflictions, and calm, if not sunny, under all the - burdens of her later life; and it did not desert her even now. - </p> - <p> - Aunt Ri gazed at her with a sentiment as near to veneration as her dry, - humorous, practical nature was capable of feeling. “I allow I donno but I - sh'd cum ter believin' in saints tew,” she said, “ef I wuz ter live 'long - side er thet gal. 'Pears like she wuz suthin' more 'n human. 'T beats me - plum out, ther way she takes her troubles. Thar's sum would say she hedn't - no feelin'; but I allow she hez more 'n most folks. I kin see, 'tain't - thet. I allow I didn't never expect ter think 's well uv prayin' to - picters, 'n' strings er beads, 'n' sech; but ef 't 's thet keeps her up - ther way she's kept up, I allow thar's more in it 'n it's hed credit fur. - I ain't gwine ter say enny more agin it' nor agin Injuns. 'Pears like I'm - gittin' heaps er new idears inter my head, these days. I'll turn Injun, - mebbe, afore I git through!” - </p> - <p> - The farewell to Aunt Ri was hardest of all. Ramona clung to her as to a - mother. At times she felt that she would rather stay by her side than go - home with Felipe; then she reproached herself for the thought, as for a - treason and ingratitude. Felipe saw the feeling, and did not wonder at it. - “Dear girl,” he thought; “it is the nearest she has ever come to knowing - what a mother's love is like!” And he lingered in San Bernardino week - after week, on the pretence that Ramona was not yet strong enough to bear - the journey home, when in reality his sole motive for staying was his - reluctance to deprive her of Aunt Ri's wholesome and cheering - companionship. - </p> - <p> - Aunt Ri was busily at work on a rag carpet for the Indian Agent's wife. - She had just begun it, had woven only a few inches, on that dreadful - morning when the news of Alessandro's death reached her. It was of her - favorite pattern, the “hit-er-miss” pattern, as she called it; no set - stripes or regular alternation of colors, but ball after ball of the - indiscriminately mixed tints, woven back and forth, on a warp of a single - color. The constant variety in it, the unexpectedly harmonious blending of - the colors, gave her delight, and afforded her a subject, too, of not - unphilosophical reflection. - </p> - <p> - “Wall,” she said, “it's called ther 'hit-er-miss' pattren; but it's 'hit' - oftener'n 'tis 'miss.' Thar ain't enny accountin' fur ther way ther - breadths'll come, sometimes; 'pears like 't wuz kind er magic, when they - air sewed tergether; 'n' I allow thet's ther way it's gwine ter be with - heaps er things in this life. It's jest a kind er 'hit-er-miss' pattren we - air all on us livin' on; 'tain't much use tryin' ter reckon how 't 'll - come aout; but the breadths doos fit heaps better 'n yer'd think; come ter - sew 'em, 'tain't never no sech colors ez yer thought 't wuz gwine ter be; - but it's allers pooty, allers; never see a 'hit-er-miss' pattren 'n my - life yit, thet wa'n't pooty. 'N' ther wa'n't never nobody fetched me rags, - 'n' hed 'em all planned aout, 'n' jest ther way they wanted ther warp, 'n' - jest haow ther stripes wuz ter come, 'n' all, thet they wa'n't orful - diserpynted when they cum ter see 't done. It don't never look's they - thought 't would, never! I larned thet lesson airly; 'n' I allers make 'em - write aout on a paper, jest ther wedth er every stripe, 'n' each er ther - colors, so's they kin see it's what they ordered; 'r else they'd allers - say I hedn't wove 't's I wuz told ter. I got ketched thet way oncet! I - allow ennybody's a bawn fool gits ketched twice runnin' ther same way. But - fur me, I'll take ther 'hit-er-miss' pattren, every time, sir, straight - along.” - </p> - <p> - When the carpet was done, Aunt Ri took the roll in her own independent - arms, and strode with it to the Agent's house. She had been biding the - time when she should have this excuse for going there. Her mind was - burdened with questions she wished to ask, information she wished to give, - and she chose an hour when she knew she would find the Agent himself at - home. - </p> - <p> - “I allow yer heered why I wuz behind time with this yere carpet,” she - said; “I wuz up ter San Jacinto Mounting, where thet Injun wuz murdered. - We brung his widder 'n' ther baby daown with us, me 'n' her brother. He's - tuk her home ter his house ter live. He's reel well off.” - </p> - <p> - Yes, the Agent had heard this; he had wondered why the widow did not come - to see him; he had expected to hear from her. - </p> - <p> - “Wall, I did hent ter her thet p'raps yer could dew something, ef she wuz - ter tell yer all abaout it; but she allowed thar wa'n't enny use in - talkin'. Ther jedge, he sed her witnessin' wouldn't be wuth nuthin' to no - jury; 'n' thet wuz what I wuz a wantin' to ask yeow, ef thet wuz so.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, that is what the lawyers here told me,” said the Agent. “I was going - to have the man arrested, but they said it would be folly to bring the - case to trial. The woman's testimony would not be believed.” - </p> - <p> - “Yeow've got power ter git a man punished fur sellin' whiskey to Injuns, I - notice,” broke in Aunt Ri; “hain't yer? I see yeour man 'n' the marshal - here arrestin' 'em pooty lively last month; they sed 'twas yeour doin'; - yeow was a gwine ter prossacute every livin' son o' hell—them wuz - thar words—thet sold whiskey ter Injuns.” - </p> - <p> - “That's so!” said the Agent. “So I am; I am determined to break up this - vile business of selling whiskey to Indians. It is no use trying to do - anything for them while they are made drunk in this way; it's a sin and a - shame.” - </p> - <p> - “Thet's so, I allow ter yeow,” said Aunt Ri. “Thar ain't any gainsayin' - thet. But ef yeow've got power ter git a man put in jail fur sellin' - whiskey 't 'n Injun, 'n' hain't got power to git him punished ef he goes - 'n' kills thet Injun, 't sems ter me thar's suthin' cur'us abaout thet.” - </p> - <p> - “That is just the trouble in my position here, Aunt Ri,” he said. “I have - no real power over my Indians, as I ought to have.” - </p> - <p> - “What makes yer call 'em yeour Injuns?” broke in Aunt Ri. - </p> - <p> - The Agent colored. Aunt Ri was a privileged character, but her logical - method of questioning was inconvenient. - </p> - <p> - “I only mean that they are under my charge,” he said. “I don't mean that - they belong to me in any way.” - </p> - <p> - “Wall, I allow not,” retorted Aunt Ri, “enny more 'n I dew. They air - airnin' their livin', sech 's 'tis, ef yer kin call it a livin'. I've been - 'mongst 'em, naow, they hyar last tew weeks, 'n' I allow I've had my eyes - opened ter some things. What's thet docter er yourn, him thet they call - the Agency doctor,—what's he got ter do?” - </p> - <p> - “To attend to the Indians of this Agency when they are sick,” replied the - Agent, promptly. - </p> - <p> - “Wall, thet's what I heern; thet's what yeow sed afore, 'n' thet's why - Alessandro, the Injun thet wuz murdered,—thet's why he put his name - down 'n yeour books, though 't went agin him orful ter do it. He wuz - high-spereted, 'n' 'd allers took keer er hisself; but he'd ben druv out - er fust one place 'n' then another, tell he'd got clar down, 'n' pore; 'n' - he jest begged thet doctor er yourn to go to see his little gal, 'n' the - docter wouldn't; 'n' more'n thet, he laughed at him fur askin.' 'N' they - set the little thing on the hoss ter bring her here, 'n' she died afore - they'd come a mile with her; 'n' 't wuz thet, on top er all the rest druv - Alessandro crazy. He never hed none er them wandrin' spells till arter - thet. Naow I allow thet wa'n't right eh thet docter. I wouldn't hev no - sech docter's thet raound my Agency, ef I wuz yeow. Pr'aps yer never - heered uv thet. I told Ramony I didn't bleeve yer knowed it, or ye'd hev - made him go.” - </p> - <p> - “No, Aunt Ri,” said the Agent; “I could not have done that; he is only - required to doctor such Indians as come here.” - </p> - <p> - “I allow, then, thar ain't any gret use en hevin' him at all,” said Aunt - Ri; “'pears like thar ain't more'n a harndful uv Injuns raound here. I - expect he gits well paid?” and she paused for an answer. None came. The - Agent did not feel himself obliged to reveal to Aunt Ri what salary the - Government paid the San Bernardino doctor for sending haphazard - prescriptions to Indians he never saw. - </p> - <p> - After a pause Aunt Ri resumed: “Ef it ain't enny offence ter yeow, I allow - I'd like ter know jest what 'tis yeow air here ter dew fur these Injuns. - I've got my feelin's considdable stirred up, bein' among 'em 'n' knowing - this hyar one, thet's ben murdered. Hev ye got enny power to giv' 'em - ennything,—food or sech? They air powerful pore, most on 'em.” - </p> - <p> - “I have had a little fund for buying supplies for them in times of special - suffering;” replied the Agent, “a very little; and the Department has - appropriated some money for wagons and ploughs; not enough, however, to - supply every village; you see these Indians are in the main - self-supporting.” - </p> - <p> - “Thet's jest it,” persisted Aunt Ri. “Thet's what I've ben seein'; 'n' - thet's why I want so bad ter git at what 'tis the Guvvermunt means ter hev - yeow dew fur 'em. I allow ef yeow ain't ter feed 'em, an' ef yer can't put - folks inter jail fur robbin' 'n' cheatin' 'em, not ter say killin' 'em,—ef - yer can't dew ennythin' more 'n keep 'em from gettin' whiskey, wall, I'm - free ter say—” Aunt Ri paused; she did not wish to seem to reflect - on the Agent's usefulness, and so concluded her sentence very differently - from her first impulse,—“I'm free ter say I shouldn't like ter stan' - in yer shoes.” - </p> - <p> - “You may very well say that, Aunt Ri,” laughed the Agent, complacently. - “It is the most troublesome Agency in the whole list, and the least - satisfactory.” - </p> - <p> - “Wall, I allow it mought be the least satisfyin',” rejoined the - indefatigable Aunt Ri; “but I donno whar the trouble comes in, ef so be's - thar's no more kin be done than yer wuz er tellin'.” And she looked - honestly puzzled. - </p> - <p> - “Look there, Aunt Ri!” said he, triumphantly, pointing to a pile of books - and papers. “All those to be gone through with, and a report to be made - out every month, and a voucher to be sent for every lead-pencil I buy. I - tell you I work harder than I ever did in my life before, and for less - pay.” - </p> - <p> - “I allow yer hev hed easy times afore, then,” retorted Aunt Ri, - good-naturedly satirical, “ef yeow air plum tired doin' thet!” And she - took her leave, not a whit clearer in her mind as to the real nature and - function of the Indian Agency than she was in the beginning. - </p> - <p> - Through all of Ramona's journey home she seemed to herself to be in a - dream. Her baby in her arms; the faithful creatures, Baba and Benito, - gayly trotting along at a pace so swift that the carriage seemed gliding; - Felipe by her side,—the dear Felipe,—his eyes wearing the same - bright and loving look as of old,—what strange thing was it which - had happened to her to make it all seem unreal? Even the little one in her - arms,—she too, seemed unreal! Ramona did not know it, but her nerves - were still partially paralyzed. Nature sends merciful anaesthetics in the - shocks which almost kill us. In the very sharpness of the blow sometimes - lies its own first healing. It would be long before Ramona would fully - realize that Alessandro was dead. Her worst anguish was yet to come. - </p> - <p> - Felipe did not know and could not have understood this; and it was with a - marvelling gratitude that he saw Ramona, day after day, placid, always - ready with a smile when he spoke to her. Her gratitude for each - thoughtfulness of his smote him like a reproach; all the more that he knew - her gentle heart had never held a thought of reproach in it towards him. - “Grateful to me!” he thought. “To me, who might have spared her all this - woe if I had been strong!” - </p> - <p> - Never would Felipe forgive himself,—no, not to the day of his death. - His whole life should be devoted to her and her child; but what a pitiful - thing was that to render! - </p> - <p> - As they drew near home, he saw Ramona often try to conceal from him that - she had shed tears. At last he said to her: “Dearest Ramona, do not fear - to weep before me. I would not be any constraint on you. It is better for - you to let the tears come freely, my sister. They are healing to wounds.” - </p> - <p> - “I do not think so, Felipe,” replied Ramona. “Tears are only selfish and - weak. They are like a cry because we are hurt. It is not possible always - to keep them back; but I am ashamed when I have wept, and think also that - I have sinned, because I have given a sad sight to others. Father - Salvierderra always said that it was a duty to look happy, no matter how - much we might be suffering.” - </p> - <p> - “That is more than human power can do!” said Felipe. - </p> - <p> - “I think not,” replied Ramona. “If it were, Father Salvierderra would not - have commanded it. And do you not recollect, Felipe, what a smile his face - always wore? and his heart had been broken for many, many years before he - died. Alone, in the night, when he prayed, he used to weep, from the great - wrestling he had with God, he told me; but we never saw him except with a - smile. When one thinks in the wilderness, alone, Felipe, many things - become clear. I have been learning, all these years in the wilderness, as - if I had had a teacher. Sometimes I almost thought that the spirit of - Father Salvierderra was by my side putting thoughts into my mind. I hope I - can tell them to my child when she is old enough. She will understand them - quicker than I did, for she has Alessandro's soul; you can see that by her - eyes. And all these things of which I speak were in his heart from his - childhood. They belong to the air and the sky and the sun, and all trees - know them.” - </p> - <p> - When Ramona spoke thus of Alessandro, Felipe marvelled in silence. He - himself had been afraid to mention Alessandro's name; but Ramona spoke it - as if he were yet by her side. Felipe could not fathom this. There were to - be many things yet which Felipe could not fathom in this lovely, - sorrowing, sunny sister of his. - </p> - <p> - When they reached the house, the servants, who had been on the watch for - days, were all gathered in the court-yard, old Marda and Juan Can heading - the group; only two absent,—Margarita and Luigo. They had been - married some months before, and were living at the Ortegas ranch, where - Luigo, to Juan Can's scornful amusement, had been made head shepherd. - </p> - <p> - On all sides were beaming faces, smiles, and glad cries of greeting. - Underneath these were affectionate hearts quaking with fear lest the - home-coming be but a sad one after all. Vaguely they knew a little of what - their dear Senorita had been through since she left them; it seemed that - she must be sadly altered by so much sorrow, and that it would be terrible - to her to come back to the place so full of painful associations. “And the - Senora gone, too,” said one of the outdoor hands, as they were talking it - over; “it's not the same place at all that it was when the Senora was - here.” - </p> - <p> - “Humph!” muttered Juan Can, more consequential and overbearing than ever, - for this year of absolute control of the estate. “Humph! that's all you - know. A good thing the Senora died when she did, I can tell you! We'd - never have seen the Senorita back here else; I can tell you that, my man! - And for my part, I'd much rather be under Senor Felipe and the Senorita - than under the Senora, peace to her ashes! She had her day. They can have - theirs now.” - </p> - <p> - When these loving and excited retainers saw Ramona—pale, but with - her own old smile on her face—coming towards them with her babe in - her arms, they broke into wild cheering, and there was not a dry eye in - the group. - </p> - <p> - Singling out old Marda by a glance, Ramona held out the baby towards her, - and said in her old gentle, affectionate voice, “I am sure you will love - my baby, Marda!” - </p> - <p> - “Senorita! Senorita! God bless you, Senorita!” they cried; and closed up - their ranks around the baby, touching her, praising her, handing her from - one to another. - </p> - <p> - Ramona stood for a few seconds watching them; then she said, “Give her to - me, Marda. I will myself carry her into the house;” and she moved toward - the inner door. - </p> - <p> - “This way, dear; this way,” cried Felipe. “It is Father Salvierderra's - room I ordered to be prepared for you, because it is so sunny for the - baby!” - </p> - <p> - “Thanks, kind Felipe!” cried Ramona, and her eyes said more than her - words. She knew he had divined the one thing she had most dreaded in - returning,—the crossing again the threshold of her own room. It - would be long now before she would enter that room. Perhaps she would - never enter it. How tender and wise of Felipe! - </p> - <p> - Yes; Felipe was both tender and wise, now. How long would the wisdom hold - the tenderness in leash, as he day after day looked upon the face of this - beautiful woman,—so much more beautiful now than she had been before - her marriage, that Felipe sometimes, as he gazed at her, thought her - changed even in feature? But in this very change lay a spell which would - for a long time surround her, and set her as apart from lover's thoughts - as if she were guarded by a cordon of viewless spirits. There was a rapt - look of holy communion on her face, which made itself felt by the dullest - perception, and sometimes overawed even where it attracted. It was the - same thing which Aunt Ri had felt, and formulated in her own humorous - fashion. But old Marda put it better, when, one day, in reply to a - half-terrified, low-whispered suggestion of Juan Can, to the effect that - it was “a great pity that Senor Felipe hadn't married the Senorita years - ago,—what if he were to do it yet?” she said, also under her breath. - “It is my opinion he'd as soon think of Saint Catharine herself! Not but - that it would be a great thing if it could be!” - </p> - <p> - And now the thing that the Senora had imagined to herself so often had - come about,—the presence of a little child in her house, on the - veranda, in the garden, everywhere; the sunny, joyous, blest presence. But - how differently had it come! Not Felipe's child, as she proudly had - pictured, but the child of Ramona: the friendless, banished Ramona - returned now into full honor and peace as the daughter of the house,—Ramona, - widow of Alessandro. If the child had been Felipe's own, he could not have - felt for it a greater love. From the first, the little thing had clung to - him as only second to her mother. She slept hours in his arms, one little - hand hid in his dark beard, close to his lips, and kissed again and again - when no one saw. Next to Ramona herself in Felipe's heart came Ramona's - child; and on the child he could lavish the fondness he felt that he could - never dare to show to the mother, Month by month it grew clearer to Felipe - that the mainsprings of Ramona's life were no longer of this earth; that - she walked as one in constant fellowship with one unseen. Her frequent and - calm mention of Alessandro did not deceive him. It did not mean a - lessening grief: it meant an unchanged relation. - </p> - <p> - One thing weighed heavily on Felipe's mind,—the concealed treasure. - A sense of humiliation withheld him, day after day, from speaking of it. - But he could have no peace until Ramona knew it. Each hour that he delayed - the revelation he felt himself almost as guilty as he had held his mother - to be. At last he spoke. He had not said many words, before Ramona - interrupted him. “Oh, yes!” she said. “I knew about those things; your - mother told me. When we were in such trouble, I used to wish sometimes we - could have had a few of the jewels. But they were all given to the Church. - That was what the Senora Ortegna said must be done with them if I married - against your mother's wishes.” - </p> - <p> - It was with a shame-stricken voice that Felipe replied: “Dear Ramona, they - were not given to the Church. You know Father Salvierderra died; and I - suppose my mother did not know what to do with them. She told me about - them just as she was dying.” - </p> - <p> - “But why did you not give them to the Church, dear?” asked Ramona, simply. - </p> - <p> - “Why?” cried Felipe. “Because I hold them to be yours, and yours only. I - would never have given them to the Church, until I had sure proof that you - were dead and had left no children.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona's eyes were fixed earnestly on Felipe's face. “You have not read - the Senora Ortegna's letter?” she said. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I have,” he replied, “every word of it.” - </p> - <p> - “But that said I was not to have any of the things if I married against - the Senora Moreno's will.” - </p> - <p> - Felipe groaned. Had his mother lied? “No, dear,” he said, “that was not - the word. It was, if you married unworthily.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona reflected. “I never recollected the words,” she said. “I was too - frightened; but I thought that was what it meant. I did not marry - unworthily. Do you feel sure, Felipe, that it would be honest for me to - take them for my child?” - </p> - <p> - “Perfectly,” said Felipe. - </p> - <p> - “Do you think Father Salvierderra would say I ought to keep them?” - </p> - <p> - “I am sure of it, dear.” - </p> - <p> - “I will think about it, Felipe. I cannot decide hastily. Your mother did - not think I had any right to them, if I married Alessandro. That was why - she showed them to me. I never knew of them till then. I took one thing,—a - handkerchief of my father's. I was very glad to have it; but it got lost - when we went from San Pasquale. Alessandro rode back a half-day's journey - to find it for me; but it had blown away. I grieved sorely for it.” - </p> - <p> - The next day Ramona said to Felipe: “Dear Felipe, I have thought it all - over about those jewels. I believe it will be right for my daughter to - have them. Can there be some kind of a paper written for me to sign, to - say that if she dies they are all to be given to the Church,—to - Father Salvierderra's College, in Santa Barbara? That is where I would - rather have them go.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, dear,” said Felipe; “and then we will put them in some safer place. - I will take them to Los Angeles when I go. It is wonderful no one has - stolen them all these years!” - </p> - <p> - And so a second time the Ortegna jewels were passed on, by a written - bequest, into the keeping of that mysterious, certain, uncertain thing we - call the future, and delude our selves with the fancy that we can have - much to do with its shaping. - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - Life ran smoothly in the Moreno household,—smoothly to the eye. - Nothing could be more peaceful, fairer to see, than the routine of its - days, with the simple pleasures, light tasks, and easy diligence of all. - Summer and winter were alike sunny, and had each its own joys. There was - not an antagonistic or jarring element; and, flitting back and forth, from - veranda to veranda, garden to garden, room to room, equally at home and - equally welcome everywhere, there went perpetually, running, frisking, - laughing, rejoicing, the little child that had so strangely drifted into - this happy shelter,—the little Ramona. As unconscious of aught sad - or fateful in her destiny as the blossoms with which it was her delight to - play, she sometimes seemed to her mother to have been from the first in - some mysterious way disconnected from it, removed, set free from all that - could ever by any possibility link her to sorrow. - </p> - <p> - Ramona herself bore no impress of sorrow; rather her face had now an added - radiance. There had been a period, soon after her return, when she felt - that she for the first time waked to the realization of her bereavement; - when every sight, sound, and place seemed to cry out, mocking her with the - name and the memory of Alessandro. But she wrestled with this absorbing - grief as with a sin; setting her will steadfastly to the purposes of each - day's duty, and, most of all, to the duty of joyfulness. She repeated to - herself Father Salvierderra's sayings, till she more than knew them by - heart; and she spent long hours of the night in prayer, as it had been his - wont to do. - </p> - <p> - No one but Felipe dreamed of these vigils and wrestlings. He knew them; - and he knew, too, when they ceased, and the new light of a new victory - diffused itself over Ramona's face: but neither did the first dishearten, - nor the latter encourage him. Felipe was a clearer-sighted lover now than - he had been in his earlier youth. He knew that into the world where Ramona - really lived he did not so much as enter; yet her every act, word, look, - was full of loving thoughtfulness of and for him, loving happiness in his - companionship. And while this was so, all Felipe's unrest could not make - him unhappy. - </p> - <p> - There were other causes entering into this unrest besides his yearning - desire to win Ramona for his wife. Year by year the conditions of life in - California were growing more distasteful to him. The methods, aims, - standards of the fast incoming Americans were to him odious. Their boasted - successes, the crowding of colonies, schemes of settlement and - development,—all were disagreeable and irritating. The passion for - money and reckless spending of it, the great fortunes made in one hour, - thrown away in another, savored to Felipe's mind more of brigandage and - gambling than of the occupations of gentlemen. He loathed them. Life under - the new government grew more and more intolerable to him; both his - hereditary instincts and prejudices, and his temperament, revolted. He - found himself more and more alone in the country. Even the Spanish tongue - was less and less spoken. He was beginning to yearn for Mexico,—for - Mexico, which he had never seen, yet yearned for like an exile. There he - might yet live among men of his own race and degree, and of congenial - beliefs and occupations. Whenever he thought of this change, always came - the quick memory of Ramona. Would she be willing to go? Could it be that - she felt a bond to this land, in which she had known nothing but - sufferings. - </p> - <p> - At last he asked her. To his unutterable surprise, Ramona cried: “Felipe! - The saints be praised! I should never have told you. I did not think that - you could wish to leave this estate. But my most beautiful dream for - Ramona would be, that she should grow up in Mexico.” - </p> - <p> - And as she spoke, Felipe understood by a lightning intuition, and wondered - that he had not foreknown it, that she would spare her daughter the burden - she had gladly, heroically borne herself, in the bond of race. - </p> - <p> - The question was settled. With gladness of heart almost more than he could - have believed possible, Felipe at once communicated with some rich - American proprietors who had desired to buy the Moreno estate. Land in the - valley had so greatly advanced in value, that the sum he received for it - was larger than he had dared to hope; was ample for the realization of all - his plans for the new life in Mexico. From the hour that this was - determined, and the time for their sailing fixed, a new expression came - into Ramona's face. Her imagination was kindled. An untried future - beckoned,—a future which she would embrace and conquer for her - daughter. Felipe saw the look, felt the change, and for the first time - hoped. It would be a new world, a new life; why not a new love? She could - not always be blind to his devotion; and when she saw it, could she refuse - to reward it? He would be very patient, and wait long, he thought. Surely, - since he had been patient so long without hope, he could be still more - patient now that hope had dawned! But patience is not hope's province in - breasts of lovers. From the day when Felipe first thought to himself, “She - will yet be mine,” it grew harder, and not easier, for him to refrain from - pouring out his love in words. Her tender sisterliness, which had been - such balm and comfort to him, grew at times intolerable; and again and - again her gentle spirit was deeply disquieted with the fear that she had - displeased him, so strangely did he conduct himself. - </p> - <p> - He had resolved that nothing should tempt him to disclose to her his - passion and its dreams, until they had reached their new home. But there - came a moment which mastered him, and he spoke. - </p> - <p> - It was in Monterey. They were to sail on the morrow; and had been on board - the ship to complete the last arrangements. They were rowed back to shore - in a little boat. A full moon shone. Ramona sat bareheaded in the end of - the boat, and the silver radiance from the water seemed to float up around - her, and invest her as with a myriad halos. Felipe gazed at her till his - senses swam; and when, on stepping from the boat, she put her hand in his, - and said, as she had said hundreds of times before, “Dear Felipe, how good - you are!” he clasped her hands wildly, and cried, “Ramona, my love! Oh, - can you not love me?” - </p> - <p> - The moonlight was bright as day. They were alone on the shore. Ramona - gazed at him for one second, in surprise. Only for a second; then she knew - all. “Felipe! My brother!” she cried, and stretched out her hands as if in - warning. - </p> - <p> - “No! I am not your brother!” he cried. “I will not be your brother! I - would rather die!” - </p> - <p> - “Felipe!” cried Ramona again. This time her voice recalled him to himself. - It was a voice of terror and of pain. - </p> - <p> - “Forgive me, my sweet one!” he exclaimed. “I will never say it again. But - I have loved you so long—so long!” - </p> - <p> - Ramona's head had fallen forward on her breast, her eyes fixed on the - shining sands; the waves rose and fell, rose and fell, at her feet gently - as sighs. A great revelation had come to Ramona. In this supreme moment of - Felipe's abandonment of all disguises, she saw his whole past life in a - new light. Remorse smote her. “Dear Felipe,” she said, clasping her hands, - “I have been very selfish. I did not know—” - </p> - <p> - “Of course you did not, love,” said Felipe. “How could you? But I have - never loved any one else. I have always loved you. Can you not learn to - love me? I did not mean to tell you for a long time yet. But now I have - spoken; I cannot hide it any more.” - </p> - <p> - Ramona drew nearer to him, still with her hands clasped. “I have always - loved you,” she said. “I love no other living man; but, Felipe,”—her - voice sank to a solemn whisper,—“do you not know, Felipe, that part - of me is dead,—dead? can never live again? You could not want me for - your wife, Felipe, when part of me is dead!” - </p> - <p> - Felipe threw his arms around her. He was beside himself with joy. “You - would not say that if you did not think you could be my wife,” he cried. - “Only give yourself to me, my love, I care not whether you call yourself - dead or alive!” - </p> - <p> - Ramona stood quietly in his arms. Ah, well for Felipe that he did not - know, never could know, the Ramona that Alessandro had known. This gentle, - faithful, grateful Ramona, asking herself fervently now if she would do - her brother a wrong, yielding up to him what seemed to her only the broken - fragment of a life; weighing his words, not in the light of passion, but - of calmest, most unselfish action,—ah, how unlike was she to that - Ramona who flung herself on Alessandro's breast, crying, “Take me with - you! I would rather die than have you leave me!” - </p> - <p> - Ramona had spoken truth. Part of her was dead. But Ramona saw now, with - infallible intuition, that even as she had loved Alessandro, so Felipe - loved her. Could she refuse to give Felipe happiness, when he had saved - her, saved her child? What else now remained for them, these words having - been spoken? “I will be your wife, dear Felipe,” she said, speaking - solemnly, slowly, “if you are sure it will make you happy, and if you - think it is right.” - </p> - <p> - “Right!” ejaculated Felipe, mad with the joy unlooked for so soon. - “Nothing else would be right! My Ramona, I will love you so, you will - forget you ever said that part of you was dead!” - </p> - <p> - A strange look which startled Felipe swept across Ramona's face; it might - have been a moonbeam. It passed. Felipe never saw it again. - </p> - <p> - General Moreno's name was still held in warm remembrance in the city of - Mexico, and Felipe found himself at once among friends. On the day after - their arrival he and Ramona were married in the cathedral, old Marda and - Juan Can, with his crutches, kneeling in proud joy behind them. The story - of the romance of their lives, being widely rumored, greatly enhanced the - interest with which they were welcomed. The beautiful young Senora Moreno - was the theme of the city; and Felipe's bosom thrilled with pride to see - the gentle dignity of demeanor by which she was distinguished in all - assemblages. It was indeed a new world, a new life. Ramona might well - doubt her own identity. But undying memories stood like sentinels in her - breast. When the notes of doves, calling to each other, fell on her ear, - her eyes sought the sky, and she heard a voice saying, “Majella!” This was - the only secret her loyal, loving heart had kept from Felipe. A loyal, - loving heart indeed it was,—loyal, loving, serene. Few husbands so - blest as the Senor Felipe Moreno. - </p> - <p> - Sons and daughters came to bear his name. The daughters were all - beautiful; but the most beautiful of them all, and, it was said, the most - beloved by both father and mother, was the eldest one: the one who bore - the mother's name, and was only step-daughter to the Senor,—Ramona,—Ramona, - daughter of Alessandro the Indian. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ramona, by Helen Hunt Jackson - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RAMONA *** - -***** This file should be named 2802-h.htm or 2802-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/2/8/0/2802/ - -Produced by David Reed, and David Widger - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Ramona - -Author: Helen Hunt Jackson - -Posting Date: December 31, 2008 [EBook #2802] -Release Date: September, 2001 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RAMONA *** - - - - -Produced by David Reed - - - - - -RAMONA - -By Helen Hunt Jackson - - - - -I - -IT was sheep-shearing time in Southern California, but sheep-shearing -was late at the Senora Moreno's. The Fates had seemed to combine to -put it off. In the first place, Felipe Moreno had been ill. He was the -Senora's eldest son, and since his father's death had been at the head -of his mother's house. Without him, nothing could be done on the ranch, -the Senora thought. It had been always, "Ask Senor Felipe," "Go to Senor -Felipe," "Senor Felipe will attend to it," ever since Felipe had had the -dawning of a beard on his handsome face. - -In truth, it was not Felipe, but the Senora, who really decided all -questions from greatest to least, and managed everything on the place, -from the sheep-pastures to the artichoke-patch; but nobody except the -Senora herself knew this. An exceedingly clever woman for her day and -generation was Senora Gonzaga Moreno,--as for that matter, exceedingly -clever for any day and generation; but exceptionally clever for the day -and generation to which she belonged. Her life, the mere surface of it, -if it had been written, would have made a romance, to grow hot and -cold over: sixty years of the best of old Spain, and the wildest of New -Spain, Bay of Biscay, Gulf of Mexico, Pacific Ocean,--the waves of them -all had tossed destinies for the Senora. The Holy Catholic Church had -had its arms round her from first to last; and that was what had brought -her safe through, she would have said, if she had ever said anything -about herself, which she never did,--one of her many wisdoms. So quiet, -so reserved, so gentle an exterior never was known to veil such an -imperious and passionate nature, brimful of storm, always passing -through stress; never thwarted, except at peril of those who did it; -adored and hated by turns, and each at the hottest. A tremendous force, -wherever she appeared, was Senora Moreno; but no stranger would suspect -it, to see her gliding about, in her scanty black gown, with her rosary -hanging at her side, her soft dark eyes cast down, and an expression of -mingled melancholy and devotion on her face. She looked simply like a -sad, spiritual-minded old lady, amiable and indolent, like her race, but -sweeter and more thoughtful than their wont. Her voice heightened this -mistaken impression. She was never heard to speak either loud or fast. -There was at times even a curious hesitancy in her speech, which came -near being a stammer, or suggested the measured care with which people -speak who have been cured of stammering. It made her often appear as if -she did not known her own mind; at which people sometimes took heart; -when, if they had only known the truth, they would have known that the -speech hesitated solely because the Senora knew her mind so exactly that -she was finding it hard to make the words convey it as she desired, or -in a way to best attain her ends. - -About this very sheep-shearing there had been, between her and the head -shepherd, Juan Canito, called Juan Can for short, and to distinguish him -from Juan Jose, the upper herdsman of the cattle, some discussions which -would have been hot and angry ones in any other hands than the Senora's. - -Juan Canito wanted the shearing to begin, even though Senor Felipe were -ill in bed, and though that lazy shepherd Luigo had not yet got back -with the flock that had been driven up the coast for pasture. -"There were plenty of sheep on the place to begin with," he said one -morning,--"at least a thousand;" and by the time they were done, Luigo -would surely be back with the rest; and as for Senor Felipe's being in -bed, had not he, Juan Canito, stood at the packing-bag, and handled the -wool, when Senor Felipe was a boy? Why could he not do it again? The -Senora did not realize how time was going; there would be no shearers -to be hired presently, since the Senora was determined to have none -but Indians. Of course, if she would employ Mexicans, as all the other -ranches in the valley did, it would be different; but she was resolved -upon having Indians,--"God knows why," he interpolated surlily, under -his breath. - -"I do not quite understand you, Juan," interrupted Senora Moreno at the -precise instant the last syllable of this disrespectful ejaculation had -escaped Juan's lips; "speak a little louder. I fear I am growing deaf in -my old age." - -What gentle, suave, courteous tones! and the calm dark eyes rested on -Juan Canito with a look to the fathoming of which he was as unequal -as one of his own sheep would have been. He could not have told why he -instantly and involuntarily said, "Beg your pardon, Senora." - -"Oh, you need not ask my pardon, Juan," the Senora replied with -exquisite gentleness; "it is not you who are to blame, if I am deaf. I -have fancied for a year I did not hear quite as well as I once did. -But about the Indians, Juan; did not Senor Felipe tell you that he -had positively engaged the same band of shearers we had last autumn, -Alessandro's band from Temecula? They will wait until we are ready for -them. Senor Felipe will send a messenger for them. He thinks them the -best shearers in the country. He will be well enough in a week or two, -he thinks, and the poor sheep must bear their loads a few days longer. -Are they looking well, do you think, Juan? Will the crop be a good one? -General Moreno used to say that you could reckon up the wool-crop to a -pound, while it was on the sheep's backs." - -"Yes, Senora," answered the mollified Juan; "the poor beasts look -wonderfully well considering the scant feed they have had all winter. -We'll not come many pounds short of our last year's crop, if any. -Though, to be sure, there is no telling in what case that--Luigo will -bring his flock back." - -The Senora smiled, in spite of herself, at the pause and gulp with which -Juan had filled in the hiatus where he had longed to set a contemptuous -epithet before Luigo's name. - -This was another of the instances where the Senora's will and Juan -Canito's had clashed and he did not dream of it, having set it all down -as usual to the score of young Senor Felipe. - -Encouraged by the Senora's smile, Juan proceeded: "Senor Felipe can see -no fault in Luigo, because they were boys together; but I can tell him, -he will rue it, one of these mornings, when he finds a flock of sheep -worse than dead on his hands, and no thanks to anybody but Luigo. While -I can have him under my eye, here in the valley, it is all very well; -but he is no more fit to take responsibility of a flock, than one of -the very lambs themselves. He'll drive them off their feet one day, and -starve them the next; and I've known him to forget to give them water. -When he's in his dreams, the Virgin only knows what he won't do." - -During this brief and almost unprecedented outburst of Juan's the -Senora's countenance had been slowly growing stern. Juan had not seen -it. His eyes had been turned away from her, looking down into the -upturned eager face of his favorite collie, who was leaping and -gambolling and barking at his feet. - -"Down, Capitan, down!" he said in a fond tone, gently repulsing him; -"thou makest such a noise the Senora can hear nothing but thy voice." - -"I heard only too distinctly, Juan Canito," said the Senora in a sweet -but icy tone. "It is not well for one servant to backbite another. -It gives me great grief to hear such words; and I hope when Father -Salvierderra comes, next month, you will not forget to confess this sin -of which you have been guilty in thus seeking to injure a fellow-being. -If Senor Felipe listens to you, the poor boy Luigo will be cast out -homeless on the world some day; and what sort of a deed would that be, -Juan Canito, for one Christian to do to another? I fear the Father will -give you penance, when he hears what you have said." - -"Senora, it is not to harm the lad," Juan began, every fibre of his -faithful frame thrilling with a sense of the injustice of her reproach. - -But the Senora had turned her back. Evidently she would hear no more -from him then. He stood watching her as she walked away, at her usual -slow pace, her head slightly bent forward, her rosary lifted in her left -hand, and the fingers of the right hand mechanically slipping the beads. - -"Prayers, always prayers!" thought Juan to himself, as his eyes followed -her. "If they'll take one to heaven, the Senora'll go by the straight -road, that's sure! I'm sorry I vexed her. But what's a man to do, if -he's the interest of the place at heart, I'd like to know. Is he to -stand by, and see a lot of idle mooning louts run away with everything? -Ah, but it was an ill day for the estate when the General died,--an ill -day! an ill day! And they may scold me as much as they please, and set -me to confessing my sins to the Father; it's very well for them, they've -got me to look after matters. Senor Felipe will do well enough when he's -a man, maybe; but a boy like him! Bah!" And the old man stamped his -foot with a not wholly unreasonable irritation, at the false position in -which he felt himself put. - -"Confess to Father Salvierderra, indeed!" he muttered aloud. "Ay, that -will I. He's a man of sense, if he is a priest,"--at which slip of the -tongue the pious Juan hastily crossed himself,--"and I'll ask him to -give me some good advice as to how I'm to manage between this young boy -at the head of everything, and a doting mother who thinks he has the -wisdom of a dozen grown men. The Father knew the place in the olden -time. He knows it's no child's play to look after the estate even now, -much smaller as it is! An ill day when the old General died, an ill -day indeed, the saints rest his soul!" Saying this, Juan shrugged his -shoulders, and whistling to Capitan, walked towards the sunny veranda of -the south side of the kitchen wing of the house, where it had been for -twenty odd years his habit to sit on the long bench and smoke his pipe -of a morning. Before he had got half-way across the court-yard, however, -a thought struck him. He halted so suddenly that Capitan, with the quick -sensitiveness of his breed, thought so sudden a change of purpose could -only come from something in connection with sheep; and, true to his -instinct of duty, pricked up his ears, poised himself for a full run, -and looked up in his master's face waiting for explanation and signal. -But Juan did not observe him. - -"Ha!" he said, "Father Salvierderra comes next month, does he? Let's -see. To-day is the 25th. That's it. The sheep-shearing is not to come -off till the Father gets here. Then each morning it will be mass in the -chapel, and each night vespers; and the crowd will be here at least -two days longer to feed, for the time they will lose by that and by -the confessions. That's what Senor Felipe is up to. He's a pious lad. -I recollect now, it was the same way two years ago. Well, well, it is a -good thing for those poor Indian devils to get a bit of religion now and -then; and it's like old times to see the chapel full of them kneeling, -and more than can get in at the door; I doubt not it warms the Senora's -heart to see them all there, as if they belonged to the house, as -they used to: and now I know when it's to be, I have only to make my -arrangements accordingly. It is always in the first week of the month -the Father gets here. Yes; she said, 'Senor Felipe will be well enough -in a week or two, he thinks.' Ha! ha! It will be nearer two; ten days or -thereabouts. I'll begin the booths next week. A plague on that Luigo for -not being back here. He's the best hand I have to cut the willow boughs -for the roofs. He knows the difference between one year's growth and -another's; I'll say that much for him, spite of the silly dreaming head -he's got on his shoulders." - -Juan was so pleased with his clearing up in his mind as to Senor -Felipe's purpose about the time of the sheep-shearing, that it put him -in good humor for the day,--good humor with everybody, and himself most -of all. As he sat on the low bench, his head leaning back against the -whitewashed wall, his long legs stretched out nearly across the whole -width of the veranda, his pipe firm wedged in the extreme left corner -of his mouth, his hands in his pockets, he was the picture of placid -content. The troop of youngsters which still swarmed around the kitchen -quarters of Senora Moreno's house, almost as numerous and inexplicable -as in the grand old days of the General's time, ran back and forth -across Juan's legs, fell down between them, and picked themselves up by -help of clutches at his leather trousers, all unreproved by Juan, though -loudly scolded and warned by their respective mothers from the kitchen. - -"What's come to Juan Can to be so good-natured to-day?" saucily asked -Margarita, the youngest and prettiest of the maids, popping her head out -of a window, and twitching Juan's hair. He was so gray and wrinkled -that the maids all felt at ease with him. He seemed to them as old as -Methuselah; but he was not really so old as they thought, nor they so -safe in their tricks. The old man had hot blood in his veins yet, as the -under-shepherds could testify. - -"The sight of your pretty face, Senorita Margarita," answered Juan -quickly, cocking his eye at her, rising to his feet, and making a mock -bow towards the window. - -"He! he! Senorita, indeed!" chuckled Margarita's mother, old Marda the -cook. "Senor Juan Canito is pleased to be merry at the doors of his -betters;" and she flung a copper saucepan full of not over-clean water -so deftly past Juan's head, that not a drop touched him, and yet he had -the appearance of having been ducked. At which bit of sleight-of-hand -the whole court-yard, young and old, babies, cocks, hens, and turkeys, -all set up a shout and a cackle, and dispersed to the four corners of -the yard as if scattered by a volley of bird-shot. Hearing the racket, -the rest of the maids came running,--Anita and Maria, the twins, women -forty years old, born on the place the year after General Moreno brought -home his handsome young bride; their two daughters, Rosa and Anita the -Little, as she was still called, though she outweighed her mother; old -Juanita, the oldest woman in the household, of whom even the Senora was -said not to know the exact age or history; and she, poor thing, could -tell nothing, having been silly for ten years or more, good for nothing -except to shell beans: that she did as fast and well as ever, and was -never happy except she was at it. Luckily for her, beans are the one -crop never omitted or stinted on a Mexican estate; and for sake of old -Juanita they stored every year in the Moreno house, rooms full of beans -in the pod (tons of them, one would think), enough to feed an army. But -then, it was like a little army even now, the Senora's household; nobody -ever knew exactly how many women were in the kitchen, or how many men -in the fields. There were always women cousins, or brother's wives or -widows or daughters, who had come to stay, or men cousins, or sister's -husbands or sons, who were stopping on their way up or down the valley. -When it came to the pay-roll, Senor Felipe knew to whom he paid wages; -but who were fed and lodged under his roof, that was quite another -thing. It could not enter into the head of a Mexican gentleman to make -either count or account of that. It would be a disgraceful niggardly -thought. - -To the Senora it seemed as if there were no longer any people about the -place. A beggarly handful, she would have said, hardly enough to do the -work of the house, or of the estate, sadly as the latter had dwindled. -In the General's day, it had been a free-handed boast of his that never -less than fifty persons, men, women and children, were fed within his -gates each day; how many more, he did not care, nor know. But that time -had indeed gone, gone forever; and though a stranger, seeing the sudden -rush and muster at door and window, which followed on old Marda's -letting fly the water at Juan's head, would have thought, "Good heavens, -do all those women, children, and babies belong in that one house!" the -Senora's sole thought, as she at that moment went past the gate, was, -"Poor things! how few there are left of them! I am afraid old Marda has -to work too hard. I must spare Margarita more from the house to help -her." And she sighed deeply, and unconsciously held her rosary nearer to -her heart, as she went into the house and entered her son's bedroom. The -picture she saw there was one to thrill any mother's heart; and as it -met her eye, she paused on the threshold for a second,--only a second, -however; and nothing could have astonished Felipe Moreno so much as to -have been told that at the very moment when his mother's calm voice was -saying to him, "Good morning, my son, I hope you have slept well, and -are better," there was welling up in her heart a passionate ejaculation, -"O my glorious son! The saints have sent me in him the face of his -father! He is fit for a kingdom!" - -The truth is, Felipe Moreno was not fit for a kingdom at all. If he had -been, he would not have been so ruled by his mother without ever finding -it out. But so far as mere physical beauty goes, there never was a -king born, whose face, stature, and bearing would set off a crown or a -throne, or any of the things of which the outside of royalty is made up, -better than would Felipe Moreno's. And it was true, as the Senora said, -whether the saints had anything to do with it or not, that he had the -face of his father. So strong a likeness is seldom seen. When Felipe -once, on the occasion of a grand celebration and procession, put on the -gold-wrought velvet mantle, gayly embroidered short breeches fastened at -the knee with red ribbons, and gold-and-silver-trimmed sombrero, which -his father had worn twenty-five years before, the Senora fainted at her -first look at him,--fainted and fell; and when she opened her eyes, and -saw the same splendid, gayly arrayed, dark-bearded man, bending over her -in distress, with words of endearment and alarm, she fainted again. - -"Mother, mother mia," cried Felipe, "I will not wear them if it makes -you feel like this! Let me take them off. I will not go to their cursed -parade;" and he sprang to his feet, and began with trembling fingers to -unbuckle the sword-belt. - -"No, no, Felipe," faintly cried the Senora, from the ground. "It is my -wish that you wear them;" and staggering to her feet, with a burst of -tears, she rebuckled the old sword-belt, which her fingers had so many -times--never unkissed--buckled, in the days when her husband had bade -her farewell and gone forth to the uncertain fates of war. "Wear -them!" she cried, with gathering fire in her tones, and her eyes dry -of tears,--"wear them, and let the American hounds see what a Mexican -officer and gentleman looked like before they had set their base, -usurping feet on our necks!" And she followed him to the gate, and stood -erect, bravely waving her handkerchief as he galloped off, till he was -out of sight. Then with a changed face and a bent head she crept slowly -to her room, locked herself in, fell on her knees before the Madonna at -the head of her bed, and spent the greater part of the day praying that -she might be forgiven, and that all heretics might be discomfited. From -which part of these supplications she derived most comfort is easy to -imagine. - -Juan Canito had been right in his sudden surmise that it was for Father -Salvierderra's coming that the sheep-shearing was being delayed, and not -in consequence of Senor Felipe's illness, or by the non-appearance of -Luigo and his flock of sheep. Juan would have chuckled to himself still -more at his perspicacity, had he overheard the conversation going on -between the Senora and her son, at the very time when he, half asleep -on the veranda, was, as he would have called it, putting two and two -together and convincing himself that old Juan was as smart as they were, -and not to be kept in the dark by all their reticence and equivocation. - -"Juan Can is growing very impatient about the sheep-shearing," said -the Senora. "I suppose you are still of the same mind about it, -Felipe,--that it is better to wait till Father Salvierderra comes? As -the only chance those Indians have of seeing him is here, it would seem -a Christian duty to so arrange it, if it be possible; but Juan is very -restive. He is getting old, and chafes a little, I fancy, under your -control. He cannot forget that you were a boy on his knee. Now I, for my -part, am like to forget that you were ever anything but a man for me to -lean on." - -Felipe turned his handsome face toward his mother with a beaming smile -of filial affection and gratified manly vanity. "Indeed, my mother, if -I can be sufficient for you to lean on, I will ask nothing more of the -saints;" and he took his mother's thin and wasted little hands, both at -once, in his own strong right hand, and carried them to his lips as a -lover might have done. "You will spoil me, mother," he said, "you make -me so proud." - -"No, Felipe, it is I who am proud," promptly replied the mother; "and I -do not call it being proud, only grateful to God for having given me -a son wise enough to take his father's place, and guide and protect me -through the few remaining years I have to live. I shall die content, -seeing you at the head of the estate, and living as a Mexican gentleman -should; that is, so far as now remains possible in this unfortunate -country. But about the sheep-shearing, Felipe. Do you wish to have it -begun before the Father is here? Of course, Alessandro is all ready -with his band. It is but two days' journey for a messenger to bring -him. Father Salvierderra cannot be here before the 10th of the month. He -leaves Santa Barbara on the 1st, and he will walk all the way,--a good -six days' journey, for he is old now and feeble; then he must stop -in Ventura for a Sunday, and a day at the Ortega's ranch, and at the -Lopez's,--there, there is a christening. Yes, the 10th is the very -earliest that he can be here,--near two weeks from now. So far as your -getting up is concerned, it might perhaps be next week. You will be -nearly well by that time." - -"Yes, indeed," laughed Felipe, stretching himself out in the bed and -giving a kick to the bedclothes that made the high bedposts and the -fringed canopy roof shake and creak; "I am well now, if it were not for -this cursed weakness when I stand on my feet. I believe it would do me -good to get out of doors." - -In truth, Felipe had been hankering for the sheep-shearing himself. It -was a brisk, busy, holiday sort of time to him, hard as he worked in it; -and two weeks looked long to wait. - -"It is always thus after a fever," said his mother. "The weakness lasts -many weeks. I am not sure that you will be strong enough even in two -weeks to do the packing; but, as Juan Can said this morning, he stood -at the packing-bag when you were a boy, and there was no need of waiting -for you for that!" - -"He said that, did he!" exclaimed Felipe, wrathfully. "The old man is -getting insolent. I'll tell him that nobody will pack the sacks but -myself, while I am master here; and I will have the sheep-shearing when -I please, and not before." - -"I suppose it would not be wise to say that it is not to take place till -the Father comes, would it?" asked the Senora, hesitatingly, as if the -thing were evenly balanced in her mind. "The Father has not that hold -on the younger men he used to have, and I have thought that even in -Juan himself I have detected a remissness. The spirit of unbelief is -spreading in the country since the Americans are running up and down -everywhere seeking money, like dogs with their noses to the ground! It -might vex Juan if he knew that you were waiting only for the Father. -What do you think?" - -"I think it is enough for him to know that the sheep-shearing waits for -my pleasure," answered Felipe, still wrathful, "and that is the end of -it." And so it was; and, moreover, precisely the end which Senora Moreno -had had in her own mind from the beginning; but not even Juan Canito -himself suspected its being solely her purpose, and not her son's. As -for Felipe, if any person had suggested to him that it was his mother, -and not he, who had decided that the sheep-shearing would be better -deferred until the arrival of Father Salvierderra from Santa Barbara, -and that nothing should be said on the ranch about this being the real -reason of the postponing, Felipe would have stared in astonishment, and -have thought that person either crazy or a fool. - -To attain one's ends in this way is the consummate triumph of art. Never -to appear as a factor in the situation; to be able to wield other men, -as instruments, with the same direct and implicit response to will that -one gets from a hand or a foot,--this is to triumph, indeed: to be as -nearly controller and conqueror of Fates as fate permits. There have -been men prominent in the world's affairs at one time and another, who -have sought and studied such a power and have acquired it to a -great degree. By it they have manipulated legislators, ambassadors, -sovereigns; and have grasped, held, and played with the destinies -of empires. But it is to be questioned whether even in these notable -instances there has ever been such marvellous completeness of success -as is sometimes seen in the case of a woman in whom the power is an -instinct and not an attainment; a passion rather than a purpose. -Between the two results, between the two processes, there is just that -difference which is always to be seen between the stroke of talent and -the stroke of genius. - -Senora Moreno's was the stroke of genius. - - - - -II - -THE Senora Moreno's house was one of the best specimens to be found -in California of the representative house of the half barbaric, half -elegant, wholly generous and free-handed life led there by Mexican men -and women of degree in the early part of this century, under the rule of -the Spanish and Mexican viceroys, when the laws of the Indies were still -the law of the land, and its old name, "New Spain," was an ever-present -link and stimulus to the warmest memories and deepest patriotisms of its -people. - -It was a picturesque life, with more of sentiment and gayety in it, more -also that was truly dramatic, more romance, than will ever be seen -again on those sunny shores. The aroma of it all lingers there still; -industries and inventions have not yet slain it; it will last out its -century,--in fact, it can never be quite lost, so long as there is left -standing one such house as the Senora Moreno's. - -When the house was built, General Moreno owned all the land within a -radius of forty miles,--forty miles westward, down the valley to the -sea; forty miles eastward, into the San Fernando Mountains; and good -forty miles more or less along the coast. The boundaries were not very -strictly defined; there was no occasion, in those happy days, to reckon -land by inches. It might be asked, perhaps, just how General Moreno -owned all this land, and the question might not be easy to answer. It -was not and could not be answered to the satisfaction of the United -States Land Commission, which, after the surrender of California, -undertook to sift and adjust Mexican land titles; and that was the -way it had come about that the Senora Moreno now called herself a poor -woman. Tract after tract, her lands had been taken away from her; it -looked for a time as if nothing would be left. Every one of the claims -based on deeds of gift from Governor Pio Fico, her husband's most -intimate friend, was disallowed. They all went by the board in one -batch, and took away from the Senora in a day the greater part of -her best pasture-lands. They were lands which had belonged to the -Bonaventura Mission, and lay along the coast at the mouth of the valley -down which the little stream which ran past her house went to the sea; -and it had been a great pride and delight to the Senora, when she was -young, to ride that forty miles by her husband's side, all the way on -their own lands, straight from their house to their own strip of shore. -No wonder she believed the Americans thieves, and spoke of them always -as hounds. The people of the United States have never in the least -realized that the taking possession of California was not only a -conquering of Mexico, but a conquering of California as well; that the -real bitterness of the surrender was not so much to the empire which -gave up the country, as to the country itself which was given up. -Provinces passed back and forth in that way, helpless in the hands of -great powers, have all the ignominy and humiliation of defeat, with none -of the dignities or compensations of the transaction. - -Mexico saved much by her treaty, spite of having to acknowledge herself -beaten; but California lost all. Words cannot tell the sting of such -a transfer. It is a marvel that a Mexican remained in the country; -probably none did, except those who were absolutely forced to it. - -Luckily for the Senora Moreno, her title to the lands midway in the -valley was better than to those lying to the east and the west, which -had once belonged to the missions of San Fernando and Bonaventura; -and after all the claims, counter-claims, petitions, appeals, and -adjudications were ended, she still was left in undisputed possession of -what would have been thought by any new-comer into the country to be a -handsome estate, but which seemed to the despoiled and indignant Senora -a pitiful fragment of one. Moreover, she declared that she should never -feel secure of a foot of even this. Any day, she said, the United States -Government might send out a new Land Commission to examine the decrees -of the first, and revoke such as they saw fit. Once a thief, always a -thief. Nobody need feel himself safe under American rule. There was -no knowing what might happen any day; and year by year the lines of -sadness, resentment, anxiety, and antagonism deepened on the Senora's -fast aging face. - -It gave her unspeakable satisfaction, when the Commissioners, laying out -a road down the valley, ran it at the back of her house instead of -past the front. "It is well," she said. "Let their travel be where it -belongs, behind our kitchens; and no one have sight of the front doors -of our houses, except friends who have come to visit us." Her enjoyment -of this never flagged. Whenever she saw, passing the place, wagons -or carriages belonging to the hated Americans, it gave her a distinct -thrill of pleasure to think that the house turned its back on them. She -would like always to be able to do the same herself; but whatever she, -by policy or in business, might be forced to do, the old house, at any -rate, would always keep the attitude of contempt,--its face turned away. - -One other pleasure she provided herself with, soon after this road was -opened,--a pleasure in which religious devotion and race antagonism were -so closely blended that it would have puzzled the subtlest of priests to -decide whether her act were a sin or a virtue. She caused to be set -up, upon every one of the soft rounded hills which made the beautiful -rolling sides of that part of the valley, a large wooden cross; not a -hill in sight of her house left without the sacred emblem of her faith. -"That the heretics may know, when they go by, that they are on the -estate of a good Catholic," she said, "and that the faithful may be -reminded to pray. There have been miracles of conversion wrought on the -most hardened by a sudden sight of the Blessed Cross." - -There they stood, summer and winter, rain and shine, the silent, solemn, -outstretched arms, and became landmarks to many a guideless traveller -who had been told that his way would be by the first turn to the left -or the right, after passing the last one of the Senora Moreno's crosses, -which he couldn't miss seeing. And who shall say that it did not -often happen that the crosses bore a sudden message to some idle -heart journeying by, and thus justified the pious half of the Senora's -impulse? Certain it is, that many a good Catholic halted and crossed -himself when he first beheld them, in the lonely places, standing out in -sudden relief against the blue sky; and if he said a swift short prayer -at the sight, was he not so much the better? - -The house, was of adobe, low, with a wide veranda on the three sides of -the inner court, and a still broader one across the entire front, which -looked to the south. These verandas, especially those on the inner -court, were supplementary rooms to the house. The greater part of the -family life went on in them. Nobody stayed inside the walls, except when -it was necessary. All the kitchen work, except the actual cooking, was -done here, in front of the kitchen doors and windows. Babies slept, -were washed, sat in the dirt, and played, on the veranda. The women said -their prayers, took their naps, and wove their lace there. Old Juanita -shelled her beans there, and threw the pods down on the tile floor, -till towards night they were sometimes piled up high around her, like -corn-husks at a husking. The herdsmen and shepherds smoked there, -lounged there, trained their dogs there; there the young made love, and -the old dozed; the benches, which ran the entire length of the walls, -were worn into hollows, and shone like satin; the tiled floors also were -broken and sunk in places, making little wells, which filled up in times -of hard rains, and were then an invaluable addition to the children's -resources for amusement, and also to the comfort of the dogs, cats, and -fowls, who picked about among them, taking sips from each. - -The arched veranda along the front was a delightsome place. It must -have been eighty feet long, at least, for the doors of five large rooms -opened on it. The two westernmost rooms had been added on, and made four -steps higher than the others; which gave to that end of the veranda the -look of a balcony, or loggia. Here the Senora kept her flowers; great -red water-jars, hand-made by the Indians of San Luis Obispo Mission, -stood in close rows against the walls, and in them were always growing -fine geraniums, carnations, and yellow-flowered musk. The Senora's -passion for musk she had inherited from her mother. It was so strong -that she sometimes wondered at it; and one day, as she sat with Father -Salvierderra in the veranda, she picked a handful of the blossoms, and -giving them to him, said, "I do not know why it is, but it seems to me -if I were dead I could be brought to life by the smell of musk." - -"It is in your blood, Senora," the old monk replied. "When I was last in -your father's house in Seville, your mother sent for me to her room, -and under her window was a stone balcony full of growing musk, which so -filled the room with its odor that I was like to faint. But she said -it cured her of diseases, and without it she fell ill. You were a baby -then." - -"Yes," cried the Senora, "but I recollect that balcony. I recollect -being lifted up to a window, and looking down into a bed of blooming -yellow flowers; but I did not know what they were. How strange!" - -"No. Not strange, daughter," replied Father Salvierderra. "It would have -been stranger if you had not acquired the taste, thus drawing it in with -the mother's milk. It would behoove mothers to remember this far more -than they do." - -Besides the geraniums and carnations and musk in the red jars, there -were many sorts of climbing vines,--some coming from the ground, and -twining around the pillars of the veranda; some growing in great bowls, -swung by cords from the roof of the veranda, or set on shelves against -the walls. These bowls were of gray stone, hollowed and polished, -shining smooth inside and out. They also had been made by the Indians, -nobody knew how many ages ago, scooped and polished by the patient -creatures, with only stones for tools. - -Among these vines, singing from morning till night, hung the -Senora's canaries and finches, half a dozen of each, all of different -generations, raised by the Senora. She was never without a young -bird-family on hand; and all the way from Bonaventura to Monterey, it -was thought a piece of good luck to come into possession of a canary or -finch of Senora Moreno's 'raising. - -Between the veranda and the river meadows, out on which it looked, all -was garden, orange grove, and almond orchard; the orange grove always -green, never without snowy bloom or golden fruit; the garden never -without flowers, summer or winter; and the almond orchard, in early -spring, a fluttering canopy of pink and white petals, which, seen from -the hills on the opposite side of the river, looked as if rosy sunrise -clouds had fallen, and become tangled in the tree-tops. On either hand -stretched away other orchards,--peach, apricot, pear, apple pomegranate; -and beyond these, vineyards. Nothing was to be seen but verdure or -bloom or fruit, at whatever time of year you sat on the Senora's south -veranda. - -A wide straight walk shaded by a trellis so knotted and twisted with -grapevines that little was to be seen of the trellis wood-work, led -straight down from the veranda steps, through the middle of the garden, -to a little brook at the foot of it. Across this brook, in the shade -of a dozen gnarled old willow-trees, were set the broad flat stone -washboards on which was done all the family washing. No long dawdling, -and no running away from work on the part of the maids, thus close to -the eye of the Senora at the upper end of the garden; and if they had -known how picturesque they looked there, kneeling on the grass, lifting -the dripping linen out of the water, rubbing it back and forth on the -stones, sousing it, wringing it, splashing the clear water in each -other's faces, they would have been content to stay at the washing day -in and day out, for there was always somebody to look on from above. -Hardly a day passed that the Senora had not visitors. She was still -a person of note; her house the natural resting-place for all who -journeyed through the valley; and whoever came, spent all of his time, -when not eating, sleeping, or walking over the place, sitting with the -Senora on the sunny veranda. Few days in winter were cold enough, and -in summer the day must be hot indeed to drive the Senora and her friends -indoors. There stood on the veranda three carved oaken chairs, and a -carved bench, also of oak, which had been brought to the Senora for safe -keeping by the faithful old sacristan of San Luis Rey, at the time of -the occupation of that Mission by the United States troops, soon after -the conquest of California. Aghast at the sacrilegious acts of the -soldiers, who were quartered in the very church itself, and amused -themselves by making targets of the eyes and noses of the saints' -statues, the sacristan, stealthily, day by day and night after night, -bore out of the church all that he dared to remove, burying some -articles in cottonwood copses, hiding others in his own poor little -hovel, until he had wagon-loads of sacred treasures. Then, still more -stealthily, he carried them, a few at a time, concealed in the bottom of -a cart, under a load of hay or of brush, to the house of the Senora, who -felt herself deeply honored by his confidence, and received everything -as a sacred trust, to be given back into the hands of the Church again, -whenever the Missions should be restored, of which at that time all -Catholics had good hope. And so it had come about that no bedroom in the -Senora's house was without a picture or a statue of a saint or of the -Madonna; and some had two; and in the little chapel in the garden the -altar was surrounded by a really imposing row of holy and apostolic -figures, which had looked down on the splendid ceremonies of the San -Luis Rey Mission, in Father Peyri's time, no more benignly than they -now did on the humbler worship of the Senora's family in its diminished -estate. That one had lost an eye, another an arm, that the once -brilliant colors of the drapery were now faded and shabby, only enhanced -the tender reverence with which the Senora knelt before them, her eyes -filling with indignant tears at thought of the heretic hands which -had wrought such defilement. Even the crumbling wreaths which had been -placed on some of the statues' heads at the time of the last ceremonial -at which they had figured in the Mission, had been brought away with -them by the devout sacristan, and the Senora had replaced each one, -holding it only a degree less sacred than the statue itself. - -This chapel was dearer to the Senora than her house. It had been built -by the General in the second year of their married life. In it her four -children had been christened, and from it all but one, her handsome -Felipe, had been buried while they were yet infants. In the General's -time, while the estate was at its best, and hundreds of Indians living -within its borders, there was many a Sunday when the scene to be -witnessed there was like the scenes at the Missions,--the chapel full of -kneeling men and women; those who could not find room inside kneeling -on the garden walks outside; Father Salvierderra, in gorgeous -vestments, coming, at close of the services, slowly down the aisle, the -close-packed rows of worshippers parting to right and left to let him -through, all looking up eagerly for his blessing, women giving him -offerings of fruit or flowers, and holding up their babies that he might -lay his hands on their heads. No one but Father Salvierderra had ever -officiated in the Moreno chapel, or heard the confession of a Moreno. He -was a Franciscan, one of the few now left in the country; so revered and -beloved by all who had come under his influence, that they would wait -long months without the offices of the Church, rather than confess -their sins or confide their perplexities to any one else. From this -deep-seated attachment on the part of the Indians and the older Mexican -families in the country to the Franciscan Order, there had grown up, -not unnaturally, some jealousy of them in the minds of the later-come -secular priests, and the position of the few monks left was not wholly a -pleasant one. It had even been rumored that they were to be forbidden -to continue longer their practice of going up and down the country, -ministering everywhere; were to be compelled to restrict their labors -to their own colleges at Santa Barbara and Santa Inez. When something -to this effect was one day said in the Senora Moreno's presence, two -scarlet spots sprang on her cheeks, and before she bethought herself, -she exclaimed, "That day, I burn down my chapel!" - -Luckily, nobody but Felipe heard the rash threat, and his exclamation of -unbounded astonishment recalled the Senora to herself. - -"I spoke rashly, my son," she said. "The Church is to be obeyed always; -but the Franciscan Fathers are responsible to no one but the Superior of -their own order; and there is no one in this land who has the authority -to forbid their journeying and ministering to whoever desires their -offices. As for these Catalan priests who are coming in here, I cannot -abide them. No Catalan but has bad blood in his veins!" - -There was every reason in the world why the Senora should be thus warmly -attached to the Franciscan Order. From her earliest recollections the -gray gown and cowl had been familiar to her eyes, and had represented -the things which she was taught to hold most sacred and dear. Father -Salvierderra himself had come from Mexico to Monterey in the same ship -which had brought her father to be the commandante of the Santa Barbara -Presidio; and her best-beloved uncle, her father's eldest brother, was -at that time the Superior of the Santa Barbara Mission. The sentiment -and romance of her youth were almost equally divided between the -gayeties, excitements, adornments of the life at the Presidio, and the -ceremonies and devotions of the life at the Mission. She was famed as -the most beautiful girl in the country. Men of the army, men of the -navy, and men of the Church, alike adored her. Her name was a toast -from Monterey to San Diego. When at last she was wooed and won by Felipe -Moreno, one of the most distinguished of the Mexican Generals, her -wedding ceremonies were the most splendid ever seen in the country. -The right tower of the Mission church at Santa Barbara had been just -completed, and it was arranged that the consecration of this tower -should take place at the time of her wedding, and that her wedding feast -should be spread in the long outside corridor of the Mission building. -The whole country, far and near, was bid. The feast lasted three days; -open tables to everybody; singing, dancing, eating, drinking, and making -merry. At that time there were long streets of Indian houses stretching -eastward from the Mission; before each of these houses was built a booth -of green boughs. The Indians, as well as the Fathers from all the other -Missions, were invited to come. The Indians came in bands, singing songs -and bringing gifts. As they appeared, the Santa Barbara Indians went -out to meet them, also singing, bearing gifts, and strewing seeds on -the ground, in token of welcome. The young Senora and her bridegroom, -splendidly clothed, were seen of all, and greeted, whenever they -appeared, by showers of seeds and grains and blossoms. On the third -day, still in their wedding attire, and bearing lighted candles in their -hands, they walked with the monks in a procession, round and round the -new tower, the monks chanting, and sprinkling incense and holy water -on its walls, the ceremony seeming to all devout beholders to give a -blessed consecration to the union of the young pair as well as to the -newly completed tower. After this they journeyed in state, accompanied -by several of the General's aids and officers, and by two Franciscan -Fathers, up to Monterey, stopping on their way at all the Missions, and -being warmly welcomed and entertained at each. - -General Moreno was much beloved by both army and Church. In many of the -frequent clashings between the military and the ecclesiastical powers -he, being as devout and enthusiastic a Catholic as he was zealous and -enthusiastic a soldier, had had the good fortune to be of material -assistance to each party. The Indians also knew his name well, having -heard it many times mentioned with public thanksgivings in the Mission -churches, after some signal service he had rendered to the Fathers -either in Mexico or Monterey. And now, by taking as his bride the -daughter of a distinguished officer, and the niece of the Santa Barbara -Superior, he had linked himself anew to the two dominant powers and -interests of the country. - -When they reached San Luis Obispo, the whole Indian population turned -out to meet them, the Padre walking at the head. As they approached the -Mission doors the Indians swarmed closer and closer and still closer, -took the General's horse by the head, and finally almost by actual force -compelled him to allow himself to be lifted into a blanket, held high -up by twenty strong men; and thus he was borne up the steps, across -the corridor, and into the Padre's room. It was a position ludicrously -undignified in itself, but the General submitted to it good-naturedly. - -"Oh, let them do it, if they like," he cried, laughingly, to Padre -Martinez, who was endeavoring to quiet the Indians and hold them back. -"Let them do it. It pleases the poor creatures." - -On the morning of their departure, the good Padre, having exhausted all -his resources for entertaining his distinguished guests, caused to -be driven past the corridors, for their inspection, all the poultry -belonging to the Mission. The procession took an hour to pass. For -music, there was the squeaking, cackling, hissing, gobbling, crowing, -quacking of the fowls, combined with the screaming, scolding, and -whip-cracking of the excited Indian marshals of the lines. First came -the turkeys, then the roosters, then the white hens, then the black, and -then the yellow, next the ducks, and at the tail of the spectacle -long files of geese, some strutting, some half flying and hissing in -resentment and terror at the unwonted coercions to which they were -subjected. The Indians had been hard at work all night capturing, -sorting, assorting, and guarding the rank and file of their novel -pageant. It would be safe to say that a droller sight never was seen, -and never will be, on the Pacific coast or any other. Before it was done -with, the General and his bride had nearly died with laughter; and the -General could never allude to it without laughing almost as heartily -again. - -At Monterey they were more magnificently feted; at the Presidio, at the -Mission, on board Spanish, Mexican, and Russian ships lying in harbor, -balls, dances, bull-fights, dinners, all that the country knew of -festivity, was lavished on the beautiful and winning young bride. The -belles of the coast, from San Diego up, had all gathered at Monterey for -these gayeties, but not one of them could be for a moment compared to -her. This was the beginning of the Senora's life as a married woman. -She was then just twenty. A close observer would have seen even then, -underneath the joyous smile, the laughing eye, the merry voice, a look -thoughtful, tender, earnest, at times enthusiastic. This look was the -reflection of those qualities in her, then hardly aroused, which made -her, as years developed her character and stormy fates thickened around -her life, the unflinching comrade of her soldier husband, the passionate -adherent of the Church. Through wars, insurrections, revolutions, -downfalls, Spanish, Mexican, civil, ecclesiastical, her standpoint, -her poise, remained the same. She simply grew more and more proudly, -passionately, a Spaniard and a Moreno; more and more stanchly and -fierily a Catholic, and a lover of the Franciscans. - -During the height of the despoiling and plundering of the Missions, -under the Secularization Act, she was for a few years almost beside -herself. More than once she journeyed alone, when the journey was by -no means without danger, to Monterey, to stir up the Prefect of -the Missions to more energetic action, to implore the governmental -authorities to interfere, and protect the Church's property. It -was largely in consequence of her eloquent entreaties that Governor -Micheltorena issued his bootless order, restoring to the Church all the -Missions south of San Luis Obispo. But this order cost Micheltorena his -political head, and General Moreno was severely wounded in one of the -skirmishes of the insurrection which drove Micheltorena out of the -country. - -In silence and bitter humiliation the Senora nursed her husband back -to health again, and resolved to meddle no more in the affairs of her -unhappy country and still more unhappy Church. As year by year she -saw the ruin of the Missions steadily going on, their vast properties -melting away, like dew before the sun, in the hands of dishonest -administrators and politicians, the Church powerless to contend with the -unprincipled greed in high places, her beloved Franciscan Fathers driven -from the country or dying of starvation at their posts, she submitted -herself to what, she was forced to admit, seemed to be the inscrutable -will of God for the discipline and humiliation of the Church. In a sort -of bewildered resignation she waited to see what further sufferings -were to come, to fill up the measure of the punishment which, for some -mysterious purpose, the faithful must endure. But when close upon -all this discomfiture and humiliation of her Church followed the -discomfiture and humiliation of her country in war, and the near and -evident danger of an English-speaking people's possessing the land, -all the smothered fire of the Senora's nature broke out afresh. With -unfaltering hands she buckled on her husband's sword, and with dry eyes -saw him go forth to fight. She had but one regret, that she was not the -mother of sons to fight also. - -"Would thou wert a man, Felipe," she exclaimed again and again in tones -the child never forgot. "Would thou wert a man, that thou might go also -to fight these foreigners!" - -Any race under the sun would have been to the Senora less hateful than -the American. She had scorned them in her girlhood, when they came -trading to post after post. She scorned them still. The idea of being -forced to wage a war with pedlers was to her too monstrous to be -believed. In the outset she had no doubt that the Mexicans would win in -the contest. - -"What!" she cried, "shall we who won independence from Spain, be beaten -by these traders? It is impossible!" - -When her husband was brought home to her dead, killed in the last fight -the Mexican forces made, she said icily, "He would have chosen to die -rather than to have been forced to see his country in the hands of -the enemy." And she was almost frightened at herself to see how this -thought, as it dwelt in her mind, slew the grief in her heart. She had -believed she could not live if her husband were to be taken away from -her; but she found herself often glad that he was dead,--glad that he -was spared the sight and the knowledge of the things which happened; -and even the yearning tenderness with which her imagination pictured -him among the saints, was often turned into a fierce wondering whether -indignation did not fill his soul, even in heaven, at the way things -were going in the land for whose sake he had died. - -Out of such throes as these had been born the second nature which made -Senora Moreno the silent, reserved, stern, implacable woman they knew, -who knew her first when she was sixty. Of the gay, tender, sentimental -girl, who danced and laughed with the officers, and prayed and confessed -with the Fathers, forty years before, there was small trace left now, -in the low-voiced, white-haired, aged woman, silent, unsmiling, -placid-faced, who manoeuvred with her son and her head shepherd alike, -to bring it about that a handful of Indians might once more confess -their sins to a Franciscan monk in the Moreno chapel. - - - - -III - -JUAN CANITO and Senor Felipe were not the only members of the Senora's -family who were impatient for the sheep-shearing. There was also Ramona. -Ramona was, to the world at large, a far more important person than the -Senora herself. The Senora was of the past; Ramona was of the present. -For one eye that could see the significant, at times solemn, beauty of -the Senora's pale and shadowed countenance, there were a hundred that -flashed with eager pleasure at the barest glimpse of Ramona's face; the -shepherds, the herdsmen, the maids, the babies, the dogs, the poultry, -all loved the sight of Ramona; all loved her, except the Senora. The -Senora loved her not; never had loved her, never could love her; and -yet she had stood in the place of mother to the girl ever since her -childhood, and never once during the whole sixteen years of her life had -shown her any unkindness in act. She had promised to be a mother to her; -and with all the inalienable stanchness of her nature she fulfilled the -letter of her promise. More than the bond lay in the bond; but that was -not the Senora's fault. - -The story of Ramona the Senora never told. To most of the Senora's -acquaintances now, Ramona was a mystery. They did not know--and no one -ever asked a prying question of the Senora Moreno--who Ramona's parents -were, whether they were living or dead, or why Ramona, her name not -being Moreno, lived always in the Senora's house as a daughter, tended -and attended equally with the adored Felipe. A few gray-haired men and -women here and there in the country could have told the strange story -of Ramona; but its beginning was more than a half-century back, and much -had happened since then. They seldom thought of the child. They knew she -was in the Senora Moreno's keeping, and that was enough. The affairs of -the generation just going out were not the business of the young people -coming in. They would have tragedies enough of their own presently; what -was the use of passing down the old ones? Yet the story was not one to -be forgotten; and now and then it was told in the twilight of a summer -evening, or in the shadows of vines on a lingering afternoon, and all -young men and maidens thrilled who heard it. - -It was an elder sister of the Senora's,--a sister old enough to be wooed -and won while the Senora was yet at play,--who had been promised in -marriage to a young Scotchman named Angus Phail. She was a beautiful -woman; and Angus Phail, from the day that he first saw her standing in -the Presidio gate, became so madly her lover, that he was like a man -bereft of his senses. This was the only excuse ever to be made for -Ramona Gonzaga's deed. It could never be denied, by her bitterest -accusers, that, at the first, and indeed for many months, she told Angus -she did not love him, and could not marry him; and that it was only -after his stormy and ceaseless entreaties, that she did finally promise -to become his wife. Then, almost immediately, she went away to Monterey, -and Angus set sail for San Blas. He was the owner of the richest line -of ships which traded along the coast at that time; the richest stuffs, -carvings, woods, pearls, and jewels, which came into the country, came -in his ships. The arrival of one of them was always an event; and -Angus himself, having been well-born in Scotland, and being wonderfully -well-mannered for a seafaring man, was made welcome in all the best -houses, wherever his ships went into harbor, from Monterey to San Diego. - -The Senorita Ramona Gonzaga sailed for Monterey the same day and hour -her lover sailed for San Blas. They stood on the decks waving signals to -each other as one sailed away to the south, the other to the north. -It was remembered afterward by those who were in the ship with the -Senorita, that she ceased to wave her signals, and had turned her face -away, long before her lover's ship was out of sight. But the men of the -"San Jose" said that Angus Phail stood immovable, gazing northward, -till nightfall shut from his sight even the horizon line at which the -Monterey ship had long before disappeared from view. - -This was to be his last voyage. He went on this only because his honor -was pledged to do so. Also, he comforted himself by thinking that he -would bring back for his bride, and for the home he meant to give her, -treasures of all sorts, which none could select so well as he. Through -the long weeks of the voyage he sat on deck, gazing dreamily at the -waves, and letting his imagination feed on pictures of jewels, satins, -velvets, laces, which would best deck his wife's form and face. When -he could not longer bear the vivid fancies' heat in his blood, he would -pace the deck, swifter and swifter, till his steps were like those -of one flying in fear; at such times the men heard him muttering and -whispering to himself, "Ramona! Ramona!" Mad with love from the first -to the last was Angus Phail; and there were many who believed that if he -had ever seen the hour when he called Ramona Gonzaga his own, his reason -would have fled forever at that moment, and he would have killed either -her or himself, as men thus mad have been known to do. But that hour -never came. When, eight months later, the "San Jose" sailed into the -Santa Barbara harbor, and Angus Phail leaped breathless on shore, the -second man he met, no friend of his, looking him maliciously in -the face, said. "So, ho! You're just too late for the wedding! Your -sweetheart, the handsome Gonzaga girl, was married here, yesterday, to a -fine young officer of the Monterey Presidio!" - -Angus reeled, struck the man a blow full in the face, and fell on the -ground, foaming at the mouth. He was lifted and carried into a house, -and, speedily recovering, burst with the strength of a giant from the -hands of those who were holding him, sprang out of the door, and ran -bareheaded up the road toward the Presidio. At the gate he was stopped -by the guard, who knew him. - -"Is it true?" gasped Angus. - -"Yes, Senor," replied the man, who said afterward that his knees shook -under him with terror at the look on the Scotchman's face. He feared he -would strike him dead for his reply. But, instead, Angus burst into -a maudlin laugh, and, turning away, went staggering down the street, -singing and laughing. - -The next that was known of him was in a low drinking-place, where he was -seen lying on the floor, dead drunk; and from that day he sank lower and -lower, till one of the commonest sights to be seen in Santa Barbara was -Angus Phail reeling about, tipsy, coarse, loud, profane, dangerous. - -"See what the Senorita escaped!" said the thoughtless. "She was quite -right not to have married such a drunken wretch." - -In the rare intervals when he was partially sober, he sold all he -possessed,--ship after ship sold for a song, and the proceeds squandered -in drinking or worse. He never had a sight of his lost bride. He did not -seek it; and she, terrified, took every precaution to avoid it, and soon -returned with her husband to Monterey. - -Finally Angus disappeared, and after a time the news came up from Los -Angeles that he was there, had gone out to the San Gabriel Mission, -and was living with the Indians. Some years later came the still more -surprising news that he had married a squaw,--a squaw with several -Indian children,--had been legally married by the priest in the San -Gabriel Mission Church. And that was the last that the faithless Ramona -Gonzaga ever heard of her lover, until twenty-five years after her -marriage, when one day he suddenly appeared in her presence. How he -had gained admittance to the house was never known; but there he stood -before her, bearing in his arms a beautiful babe, asleep. Drawing -himself up to the utmost of his six feet of height, and looking at her -sternly, with eyes blue like steel, he said: "Senora Ortegna, you once -did me a great wrong. You sinned, and the Lord has punished you. He has -denied you children. I also have done a wrong; I have sinned, and the -Lord has punished me. He has given me a child. I ask once more at your -hands a boon. Will you take this child of mine, and bring it up as a -child of yours, or of mine, ought to be brought up?" - -The tears were rolling down the Senora Ortegna's cheeks. The Lord -had indeed punished her in more ways than Angus Phail knew. Her -childlessness, bitter as that had been, was the least of them. -Speechless, she rose, and stretched out her arms for the child. He -placed it in them. Still the child slept on, undisturbed. - -"I do not know if I will be permitted," she said falteringly; "my -husband--" - -"Father Salvierderra will command it. I have seen him," replied Angus. - -The Senora's face brightened. "If that be so, I hope it can be as you -wish," she said. Then a strange embarrassment came upon her, and looking -down upon the infant, she said inquiringly, "But the child's mother?" - -Angus's face turned swarthy red. Perhaps, face to face with this gentle -and still lovely woman he had once so loved, he first realized to the -full how wickedly he had thrown away his life. With a quick wave of -his hand, which spoke volumes, he said: "That is nothing. She has other -children, of her own blood. This is mine, my only one, my daughter. I -wish her to be yours; otherwise, she will be taken by the Church." - -With each second that she felt the little warm body's tender weight in -her arms, Ramona Ortegna's heart had more and more yearned towards the -infant. At these words she bent her face down and kissed its cheek. "Oh, -no! not to the Church! I will love it as my own," she said. - -Angus Phail's face quivered. Feelings long dead within him stirred in -their graves. He gazed at the sad and altered face, once so beautiful, -so dear. "I should hardly have known you, Senora!" burst from him -involuntarily. - -She smiled piteously, with no resentment. "That is not strange. I hardly -know myself," she whispered. "Life has dealt very hardly with me. -I should not have known you either--Angus." She pronounced his name -hesitatingly, half appealingly. At the sound of the familiar syllables, -so long unheard, the man's heart broke down. He buried his face in his -hands, and sobbed out: "O Ramona, forgive me! I brought the child here, -not wholly in love; partly in vengeance. But I am melted now. Are you -sure you wish to keep her? I will take her away if you are not." - -"Never, so long as I live, Angus," replied Senora Ortegna. "Already I -feel that she is a mercy from the Lord. If my husband sees no offence in -her presence, she will be a joy in my life. Has she been christened?" - -Angus cast his eyes down. A sudden fear smote him. "Before I had thought -of bringing her to you," he stammered, "at first I had only the thought -of giving her to the Church. I had had her christened by"--the words -refused to leave his lips--"the name--Can you not guess, Senora, what -name she bears?" - -The Senora knew. "My own?" she said. - -Angus bowed his head. "The only woman's name that my lips ever spoke -with love," he said, reassured, "was the name my daughter should bear." - -"It is well," replied the Senora. Then a great silence fell between -them. Each studied the other's face, tenderly, bewilderedly. Then by a -simultaneous impulse they drew nearer. Angus stretched out both his arms -with a gesture of infinite love and despair, bent down and kissed the -hands which lovingly held his sleeping child. - -"God bless you, Ramona! Farewell! You will never see me more," he cried, -and was gone. - -In a moment more he reappeared on the threshold of the door, but only to -say in a low tone, "There is no need to be alarmed if the child does not -wake for some hours yet. She has had a safe sleeping-potion given her. -It will not harm her." - -One more long lingering look into each other's faces, and the two -lovers, so strangely parted, still more strangely met, had parted again, -forever. The quarter of a century which had lain between them had been -bridged in both their hearts as if it were but a day. In the heart -of the man it was the old passionate adoring love reawakening; -a resurrection of the buried dead, to full life, with lineaments -unchanged. In the woman it was not that; there was no buried love to -come to such resurrection in her heart, for she had never loved Angus -Phail. But, long unloved, ill-treated, heartbroken, she woke at that -moment to the realization of what manner of love it had been which she -had thrown away in her youth; her whole being yearned for it now, and -Angus was avenged. - -When Francis Ortegna, late that night, reeled, half-tipsy, into -his wife's room, he was suddenly sobered by the sight which met his -eyes,--his wife kneeling by the side of the cradle, in which lay, -smiling in its sleep, a beautiful infant. - -"What in the devil's name," he began; then recollecting, he muttered: -"Oh, the Indian brat! I see! I wish you joy, Senora Ortegna, of your -first child!" and with a mock bow, and cruel sneer, he staggered by, -giving the cradle an angry thrust with his foot as he passed. - -The brutal taunt did not much wound the Senora. The time had long since -passed when unkind words from her husband could give her keen pain. But -it was a warning not lost upon her new-born mother instinct, and from -that day the little Ramona was carefully kept and tended in apartments -where there was no danger of her being seen by the man to whom the sight -of her baby face was only a signal for anger and indecency. - -Hitherto Ramona Ortegna had, so far as was possible, carefully concealed -from her family the unhappiness of her married life. Ortegna's -character was indeed well known; his neglect of his wife, his shameful -dissipations of all sorts, were notorious in every port in the country. -But from the wife herself no one had even heard so much as a syllable of -complaint. She was a Gonzaga, and she knew how to suffer in silence, But -now she saw a reason for taking her sister into her confidence. It was -plain to her that she had not many years to live; and what then would -become of the child? Left to the tender mercies of Ortegna, it was only -too certain what would become of her. Long sad hours of perplexity the -lonely woman passed, with the little laughing babe in her arms, vainly -endeavoring to forecast her future. The near chance of her own death had -not occurred to her mind when she accepted the trust. - -Before the little Ramona was a year old, Angus Phail died. An Indian -messenger from San Gabriel brought the news to Senora Ortegna. He -brought her also a box and a letter, given to him by Angus the day -before his death. The box contained jewels of value, of fashions a -quarter of a century old. They were the jewels which Angus had bought -for his bride. These alone remained of all his fortune. Even in the -lowest depths of his degradation, a certain sentiment had restrained him -from parting with them. The letter contained only these words: "I send -you all I have to leave my daughter. I meant to bring them myself this -year. I wished to kiss your hands and hers once more. But I am dying. -Farewell." - -After these jewels were in her possession, Senora Ortegna rested not -till she had persuaded Senora Moreno to journey to Monterey, and had -put the box into her keeping as a sacred trust. She also won from her a -solemn promise that at her own death she would adopt the little -Ramona. This promise came hard from Senora Moreno. Except for Father -Salvierderra's influence, she had not given it. She did not wish any -dealings with such alien and mongrel blood, "If the child were pure -Indian, I would like it better," she said. "I like not these crosses. It -is the worst, and not the best of each, that remains." - -But the promise once given, Senora Ortegna was content. Well she knew -that her sister would not lie, nor evade a trust. The little Ramona's -future was assured. During the last years of the unhappy woman's life -the child was her only comfort. Ortegna's conduct had become so openly -and defiantly infamous, that he even flaunted his illegitimate relations -in his wife's presence; subjecting her to gross insults, spite of her -helpless invalidism. This last outrage was too much for the Gonzaga -blood to endure; the Senora never afterward left her apartment, or spoke -to her husband. Once more she sent for her sister to come; this time, to -see her die. Every valuable she possessed, jewels, laces, brocades, and -damasks, she gave into her sister's charge, to save them from falling -into the hands of the base creature that she knew only too well would -stand in her place as soon as the funeral services had been said over -her dead body. - -Stealthily, as if she had been a thief, the sorrowing Senora Moreno -conveyed her sister's wardrobe, article by article, out of the house, to -be sent to her own home. It was the wardrobe of a princess. The Ortegnas -lavished money always on the women whose hearts they broke; and never -ceased to demand of them that they should sit superbly arrayed in their -lonely wretchedness. - -One hour after the funeral, with a scant and icy ceremony of farewell -to her dead sister's husband, Senora Moreno, leading the little -four-year-old Ramona by the hand, left the house, and early the next -morning set sail for home. - -When Ortegna discovered that his wife's jewels and valuables of all -kinds were gone, he fell into a great rage, and sent a messenger off, -post-haste, with an insulting letter to the Senora Moreno, demanding -their return. For answer, he got a copy of his wife's memoranda of -instructions to her sister, giving all the said valuables to her in -trust for Ramona; also a letter from Father Salvierderra, upon reading -which he sank into a fit of despondency that lasted a day or two, and -gave his infamous associates considerable alarm, lest they had lost -their comrade. But he soon shook off the influence, whatever it was, and -settled back into his old gait on the same old high-road to the devil. -Father Salvierderra could alarm him, but not save him. - -And this was the mystery of Ramona. No wonder the Senora Moreno never -told the story. No wonder, perhaps, that she never loved the child. It -was a sad legacy, indissolubly linked with memories which had in them -nothing but bitterness, shame, and sorrow from first to last. - -How much of all this the young Ramona knew or suspected, was locked in -her own breast. Her Indian blood had as much proud reserve in it as was -ever infused into the haughtiest Gonzaga's veins. While she was yet a -little child, she had one day said to the Senora Moreno, "Senora, why -did my mother give me to the Senora Ortegna?" - -Taken unawares, the Senora replied hastily: "Your mother had nothing -whatever to do with it. It was your father." - -"Was my mother dead?" continued the child. - -Too late the Senora saw her mistake. "I do not know," she replied; which -was literally true, but had the spirit of a lie in it. "I never saw your -mother." - -"Did the Senora Ortegna ever see her?" persisted Ramona. - -"No, never," answered the Senora, coldly, the old wounds burning at the -innocent child's unconscious touch. - -Ramona felt the chill, and was silent for a time, her face sad, and her -eyes tearful. At last she said, "I wish I knew if my mother was dead." - -"Why?" asked the Senora. - -"Because if she is not dead I would ask her why she did not want me to -stay with her." - -The gentle piteousness of this reply smote the Senora's conscience. -Taking the child in her arms, she said, "Who has been talking to you of -these things, Ramona?" - -"Juan Can," she replied. - -"What did he say?" asked the Senora, with a look in her eye which boded -no good to Juan Canito. - -"It was not to me he said it, it was to Luigo; but I heard him," -answered Ramona, speaking slowly, as if collecting her various -reminiscences on the subject. "Twice I heard him. He said that my mother -was no good, and that my father was bad too." And the tears rolled down -the child's cheeks. - -The Senora's sense of justice stood her well in place of tenderness, -now. Caressing the little orphan as she had never before done, she said, -with an earnestness which sank deep into the child's mind, "Ramona must -not believe any such thing as that. Juan Can is a bad man to say it. -He never saw either your father or your mother, and so he could know -nothing about them. I knew your father very well. He was not a bad man. -He was my friend, and the friend of the Senora Ortegna; and that was the -reason he gave you to the Senora Ortegna, because she had no child of -her own. And I think your mother had a good many." - -"Oh!" said Ramona, relieved, for the moment, at this new view of the -situation,--that the gift had been not as a charity to her, but to the -Senora Ortegna. "Did the Senora Ortegna want a little daughter very -much?" - -"Yes, very much indeed," said the Senora, heartily and with fervor. "She -had grieved many years because she had no child." - -Silence again for a brief space, during which the little lonely heart, -grappling with its vague instinct of loss and wrong, made wide thrusts -into the perplexities hedging it about, and presently electrified the -Senora by saying in a half-whisper, "Why did not my father bring me to -you first? Did he know you did not want any daughter?" - -The Senora was dumb for a second; then recovering herself, she said: -"Your father was the Senora Ortegna's friend more than he was mine. I -was only a child, then." - -"Of course you did not need any daughter when you had Felipe," continued -Ramona, pursuing her original line of inquiry and reflection without -noticing the Senora's reply. "A son is more than a daughter; but most -people have both," eying the Senora keenly, to see what response this -would bring. - -But the Senora was weary and uncomfortable with the talk. At the very -mention of Felipe, a swift flash of consciousness of her inability -to love Ramona had swept through her mind. "Ramona," she said firmly, -"while you are a little girl, you cannot understand any of these things. -When you are a woman, I will tell you all that I know myself about your -father and your mother. It is very little. Your father died when you -were only two years old. All that you have to do is to be a good child, -and say your prayers, and when Father Salvierderra comes he will be -pleased with you. And he will not be pleased if you ask troublesome -questions. Don't ever speak to me again about this. When the proper time -comes I will tell you myself." - -This was when Ramona was ten. She was now nineteen. She had never again -asked the Senora a question bearing on the forbidden subject. She had -been a good child and said her prayers, and Father Salvierderra had been -always pleased with her, growing more and more deeply attached to her -year by year. But the proper time had not yet come for the Senora to -tell her anything more about her father and mother. There were few -mornings on which the girl did not think, "Perhaps it may be to-day -that she will tell me." But she would not ask. Every word of that -conversation was as vivid in her mind as it had been the day it -occurred; and it would hardly be an exaggeration to say that during -every day of the whole nine years had deepened in her heart the -conviction which had prompted the child's question, "Did he know that -you did not want any daughter?" - -A nature less gentle than Ramona's would have been embittered, or at -least hardened, by this consciousness. But Ramona's was not. She never -put it in words to herself. She accepted it, as those born deformed seem -sometimes to accept the pain and isolation caused by their deformity, -with an unquestioning acceptance, which is as far above resignation, as -resignation is above rebellious repining. - -No one would have known, from Ramona's face, manner, or habitual -conduct, that she had ever experienced a sorrow or had a care. Her face -was sunny, she had a joyous voice, and never was seen to pass a human -being without a cheerful greeting, to highest and lowest the same. Her -industry was tireless. She had had two years at school, in the Convent -of the Sacred Heart at Los Angeles, where the Senora had placed her -at much personal sacrifice, during one of the hardest times the Moreno -estate had ever seen. Here she had won the affection of all the Sisters, -who spoke of her habitually as the "blessed child." They had taught her -all the dainty arts of lace-weaving, embroidery, and simple fashions -of painting and drawing, which they knew; not overmuch learning out of -books, but enough to make her a passionate lover of verse and romance. -For serious study or for deep thought she had no vocation. She was a -simple, joyous, gentle, clinging, faithful nature, like a clear brook -rippling along in the sun,--a nature as unlike as possible to the -Senora's, with its mysterious depths and stormy, hidden currents. - -Of these Ramona was dimly conscious, and at times had a tender, -sorrowful pity for the Senora, which she dared not show, and could only -express by renewed industry, and tireless endeavor to fulfil every duty -possible in the house. This gentle faithfulness was not wholly lost on -Senora Moreno, though its source she never suspected; and it won no new -recognition from her for Ramona, no increase of love. - -But there was one on whom not an act, not a look, not a smile of all -this graciousness was thrown away. That one was Felipe. Daily more and -more he wondered at his mother's lack of affection for Ramona. Nobody -knew so well as he how far short she stopped of loving her. Felipe knew -what it meant, how it felt, to be loved by the Senora Moreno. But Felipe -had learned while he was a boy that one sure way to displease his mother -was to appear to be aware that she did not treat Ramona as she treated -him. And long before he had become a man he had acquired the habit of -keeping to himself most of the things he thought and felt about his -little playmate sister,--a dangerous habit, out of which were slowly -ripening bitter fruits for the Senora's gathering in later years. - - - - -IV - -IT was longer even than the Senora had thought it would be, before -Father Salvierderra arrived. The old man had grown feeble during the -year that she had not seen him, and it was a very short day's journey -that he could make now without too great fatigue. It was not only his -body that had failed. He had lost heart; and the miles which would have -been nothing to him, had he walked in the companionship of hopeful and -happy thoughts, stretched out wearily as he brooded over sad memories -and still sadder anticipations,--the downfall of the Missions, the loss -of their vast estates, and the growing power of the ungodly in the land. -The final decision of the United States Government in regard to the -Mission-lands had been a terrible blow to him. He had devoutly believed -that ultimate restoration of these great estates to the Church was -inevitable. In the long vigils which he always kept when at home at the -Franciscan Monastery in Santa Barbara, kneeling on the stone pavement -in the church, and praying ceaselessly from midnight till dawn, he had -often had visions vouchsafed him of a new dispensation, in which the -Mission establishments should be reinstated in all their old splendor -and prosperity, and their Indian converts again numbered by tens of -thousands. - -Long after every one knew that this was impossible, he would narrate -these visions with the faith of an old Bible seer, and declare that they -must come true, and that it was a sin to despond. But as year after year -he journeyed up and down the country, seeing, at Mission after Mission, -the buildings crumbling into ruin, the lands all taken, sold, resold, -and settled by greedy speculators; the Indian converts disappearing, -driven back to their original wildernesses, the last traces of the noble -work of his order being rapidly swept away, his courage faltered, his -faith died out. Changes in the manners and customs of his order itself, -also, were giving him deep pain. He was a Franciscan of the same type as -Francis of Assisi. To wear a shoe in place of a sandal, to take money in -a purse for a journey, above all to lay aside the gray gown and cowl for -any sort of secular garment, seemed to him wicked. To own comfortable -clothes while there were others suffering for want of them--and -there were always such--seemed to him a sin for which one might not -undeservedly be smitten with sudden and terrible punishment. In vain the -Brothers again and again supplied him with a warm cloak; he gave it away -to the first beggar he met: and as for food, the refectory would have -been left bare, and the whole brotherhood starving, if the supplies had -not been carefully hidden and locked, so that Father Salvierderra could -not give them all away. He was fast becoming that most tragic yet often -sublime sight, a man who has survived, not only his own time, but -the ideas and ideals of it. Earth holds no sharper loneliness: the -bitterness of exile, the anguish of friendlessness at their utmost, -are in it; and yet it is so much greater than they, that even they seem -small part of it. - -It was with thoughts such as these that Father Salvierderra drew near -the home of the Senora Moreno late in the afternoon of one of those -midsummer days of which Southern California has so many in spring. The -almonds had bloomed and the blossoms fallen; the apricots also, and the -peaches and pears; on all the orchards of these fruits had come a filmy -tint of green, so light it was hardly more than a shadow on the gray. -The willows were vivid light green, and the orange groves dark and -glossy like laurel. The billowy hills on either side the valley were -covered with verdure and bloom,--myriads of low blossoming plants, so -close to the earth that their tints lapped and overlapped on each other, -and on the green of the grass, as feathers in fine plumage overlap each -other and blend into a changeful color. - -The countless curves, hollows, and crests of the coast-hills in Southern -California heighten these chameleon effects of the spring verdure; they -are like nothing in nature except the glitter of a brilliant lizard in -the sun or the iridescent sheen of a peacock's neck. - -Father Salvierderra paused many times to gaze at the beautiful picture. -Flowers were always dear to the Franciscans. Saint Francis himself -permitted all decorations which could be made of flowers. He classed -them with his brothers and sisters, the sun, moon, and stars,--all -members of the sacred choir praising God. - -It was melancholy to see how, after each one of these pauses, each fresh -drinking in of the beauty of the landscape and the balmy air, the old -man resumed his slow pace, with a long sigh and his eyes cast down. -The fairer this beautiful land, the sadder to know it lost to the -Church,--alien hands reaping its fulness, establishing new customs, -new laws. All the way down the coast from Santa Barbara he had seen, -at every stopping-place, new tokens of the settling up of the -country,--farms opening, towns growing; the Americans pouring in, at -all points, to reap the advantages of their new possessions. It was -this which had made his journey heavy-hearted, and made him feel, in -approaching the Senora Moreno's, as if he were coming to one of the last -sure strongholds of the Catholic faith left in the country. - -When he was within two miles of the house, he struck off from the -highway into a narrow path that he recollected led by a short-cut -through the hills, and saved nearly a third of the distance. It was -more than a year since he had trod this path, and as he found it growing -fainter and fainter, and more and more overgrown with the wild mustard, -he said to himself, "I think no one can have passed through here this -year." - -As he proceeded he found the mustard thicker and thicker. The wild -mustard in Southern California is like that spoken of in the New -Testament, in the branches of which the birds of the air may rest. -Coming up out of the earth, so slender a stem that dozens can find -starting-point in an inch, it darts up, a slender straight shoot, five, -ten, twenty feet, with hundreds of fine feathery branches locking -and interlocking with all the other hundreds around it, till it is an -inextricable network like lace. Then it bursts into yellow bloom still -finer, more feathery and lacelike. The stems are so infinitesimally -small, and of so dark a green, that at a short distance they do not -show, and the cloud of blossom seems floating in the air; at times it -looks like golden dust. With a clear blue sky behind it, as it is often -seen, it looks like a golden snow-storm. The plant is a tyrant and a -nuisance,--the terror of the farmer; it takes riotous possession of a -whole field in a season; once in, never out; for one plant this year, a -million the next; but it is impossible to wish that the land were freed -from it. Its gold is as distinct a value to the eye as the nugget gold -is in the pocket. - -Father Salvierderra soon found himself in a veritable thicket of these -delicate branches, high above his head, and so interlaced that he could -make headway only by slowly and patiently disentangling them, as one -would disentangle a skein of silk. It was a fantastic sort of dilemma, -and not unpleasing. Except that the Father was in haste to reach his -journey's end, he would have enjoyed threading his way through -the golden meshes. Suddenly he heard faint notes of singing. He -paused,--listened. It was the voice of a woman. It was slowly drawing -nearer, apparently from the direction in which he was going. At -intervals it ceased abruptly, then began again; as if by a sudden but -brief interruption, like that made by question and answer. Then, peering -ahead through the mustard blossoms, he saw them waving and bending, and -heard sounds as if they were being broken. Evidently some one entering -on the path from the opposite end had been caught in the fragrant -thicket as he was. The notes grew clearer, though still low and sweet -as the twilight notes of the thrush; the mustard branches waved more and -more violently; light steps were now to be heard. Father Salvierderra -stood still as one in a dream, his eyes straining forward into the -golden mist of blossoms. In a moment more came, distinct and clear to -his ear, the beautiful words of the second stanza of Saint Francis's -inimitable lyric, "The Canticle of the Sun:" - -"Praise be to thee, O Lord, for all thy creatures, and especially for -our brother the Sun,--who illuminates the day, and by his beauty and -splendor shadows forth unto us thine." - -"Ramona!" exclaimed the Father, his thin cheeks flushing with pleasure. -"The blessed child!" And as he spoke, her face came into sight, set in -a swaying frame of the blossoms, as she parted them lightly to right and -left with her hands, and half crept, half danced through the loop-hole -openings thus made. Father Salvierderra was past eighty, but his blood -was not too old to move quicker at the sight of this picture. A man must -be dead not to thrill at it. Ramona's beauty was of the sort to be best -enhanced by the waving gold which now framed her face. She had just -enough of olive tint in her complexion to underlie and enrich her skin -without making it swarthy. Her hair was like her Indian mother's, heavy -and black, but her eyes were like her father's, steel-blue. Only those -who came very near to Ramona knew, however, that her eyes were blue, for -the heavy black eyebrows and long black lashes so shaded and shadowed -them that they looked black as night. At the same instant that Father -Salvierderra first caught sight of her face, Ramona also saw him, and -crying out joyfully, "Ah, Father, I knew you would come by this path, -and something told me you were near!" she sprang forward, and sank on -her knees before him, bowing her head for his blessing. In silence he -laid his hands on her brow. It would not have been easy for him to speak -to her at that first moment. She had looked to the devout old monk, as -she sprang through the cloud of golden flowers, the sun falling on -her bared head, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shining, more like an -apparition of an angel or saint, than like the flesh-and-blood maiden -whom he had carried in his arms when she was a babe. - -"We have been waiting, waiting, oh, so long for you, Father!" she said, -rising. "We began to fear that you might be ill. The shearers have been -sent for, and will be here tonight, and that was the reason I felt so -sure you would come. I knew the Virgin would bring you in time for mass -in the chapel on the first morning." - -The monk smiled half sadly. "Would there were more with such faith as -yours, daughter," he said. "Are all well on the place?" - -"Yes, Father, all well," she answered. "Felipe has been ill with a -fever; but he is out now, these ten days, and fretting for--for your -coming." - -Ramona had like to have said the literal truth,--"fretting for the -sheep-shearing," but recollected herself in time. - -"And the Senora?" said the Father. - -"She is well," answered Ramona, gently, but with a slight change of -tone,--so slight as to be almost imperceptible; but an acute observer -would have always detected it in the girl's tone whenever she spoke of -the Senora Moreno. "And you,--are you well yourself, Father?" she asked -affectionately, noting with her quick, loving eye how feebly the old -man walked, and that he carried what she had never before seen in his -hand,--a stout staff to steady his steps. "You must be very tired with -the long journey on foot." - -"Ay, Ramona, I am tired," he replied. "Old age is conquering me. It will -not be many times more that I shall see this place." - -"Oh, do not say that, Father," cried Ramona; "you can ride, when it -tires you too much to walk. The Senora said, only the other day, that -she wished you would let her give you a horse; that it was not right for -you to take these long journeys on foot. You know we have hundreds of -horses. It is nothing, one horse," she added, seeing the Father slowly -shake his head. - -"No;" he said, "it is not that. I could not refuse anything at the hands -of the Senora. But it was the rule of our order to go on foot. We -must deny the flesh. Look at our beloved master in this land, Father -Junipero, when he was past eighty, walking from San Diego to Monterey, -and all the while a running ulcer in one of his legs, for which most men -would have taken to a bed, to be healed. It is a sinful fashion that -is coming in, for monks to take their ease doing God's work. I can no -longer walk swiftly, but I must walk all the more diligently." - -While they were talking, they had been slowly moving forward, Ramona -slightly in advance, gracefully bending the mustard branches, and -holding them down till the Father had followed in her steps. As they -came out from the thicket, she exclaimed, laughing, "There is Felipe, in -the willows. I told him I was coming to meet you, and he laughed at me. -Now he will see I was right." - -Astonished enough, Felipe, hearing voices, looked up, and saw Ramona and -the Father approaching. Throwing down the knife with which he had been -cutting the willows, he hastened to meet them, and dropped on his knees, -as Ramona had done, for the monk's blessing. As he knelt there, the wind -blowing his hair loosely off his brow, his large brown eyes lifted in -gentle reverence to the Father's face, and his face full of affectionate -welcome, Ramona thought to herself, as she had thought hundreds of times -since she became a woman, "How beautiful Felipe is! No wonder the Senora -loves him so much! If I had been beautiful like that she would have -liked me better." Never was a little child more unconscious of her own -beauty than Ramona still was. All the admiration which was expressed -to her in word and look she took for simple kindness and good-will. -Her face, as she herself saw it in her glass, did not please her. She -compared her straight, massive black eyebrows with Felipe's, arched and -delicately pencilled, and found her own ugly. The expression of gentle -repose which her countenance wore, seemed to her an expression of -stupidity. "Felipe looks so bright!" she thought, as she noted his -mobile changing face, never for two successive seconds the same. "There -is nobody like Felipe." And when his brown eyes were fixed on her, as -they so often were, in a long lingering gaze, she looked steadily back -into their velvet depths with an abstracted sort of intensity which -profoundly puzzled Felipe. It was this look, more than any other one -thing, which had for two years held Felipe's tongue in leash, as it -were, and made it impossible for him to say to Ramona any of the loving -things of which his heart had been full ever since he could remember. -The boy had spoken them unhesitatingly, unconsciously; but the man found -himself suddenly afraid. "What is it she thinks when she looks into my -eyes so?" he wondered. If he had known that the thing she was usually -thinking was simply, "How much handsomer brown eyes are than blue! -I wish my eyes were the color of Felipe's!" he would have perceived, -perhaps, what would have saved him sorrow, if he had known it, that a -girl who looked at a man thus, would be hard to win to look at him as a -lover. But being a lover, he could not see this. He saw only enough to -perplex and deter him. - -As they drew near the house, Ramona saw Margarita standing at the gate -of the garden. She was holding something white in her hands, looking -down at it, and crying piteously. As she perceived Ramona, she made an -eager leap forward, and then shrank back again, making dumb signals -of distress to her. Her whole attitude was one of misery and entreaty. -Margarita was, of all the maids, most beloved by Ramona. Though they -were nearly of the same age, it had been Margarita who first had charge -of Ramona; the nurse and her charge had played together, grown up -together, become women together, and were now, although Margarita never -presumed on the relation, or forgot to address Ramona as Senorita, more -like friends than like mistress and maid. - -"Pardon me, Father," said Ramona. "I see that Margarita there is in -trouble. I will leave Felipe to go with you to the house. I will be with -you again in a few moments." And kissing his hand, she flew rather than -ran across the field to the foot of the garden. - -Before she reached the spot, Margarita had dropped on the ground and -buried her face in her hands. A mass of crumpled and stained linen lay -at her feet. - -"What is it? What has happened, Margarita mia?" cried Ramona, in the -affectionate Spanish phrase. For answer, Margarita removed one wet hand -from her eyes, and pointed with a gesture of despair to the crumpled -linen. Sobs choked her voice, and she buried her face again in her -hands. - -Ramona stooped, and lifted one corner of the linen. An involuntary cry -of dismay broke from her, at which Margarita's sobs redoubled, and -she gasped out, "Yes, Senorita, it is totally ruined! It can never be -mended, and it will be needed for the mass to-morrow morning. When I saw -the Father coming by your side, I prayed to the Virgin to let me die. -The Senora will never forgive me." - -It was indeed a sorry sight. The white linen altar-cloth, the cloth -which the Senora Moreno had with her own hands made into one solid front -of beautiful lace of the Mexican fashion, by drawing out part of the -threads and sewing the remainder into intricate patterns, the -cloth which had always been on the altar, when mass was said, since -Margarita's and Ramona's earliest recollections,--there it lay, torn, -stained, as if it had been dragged through muddy brambles. In silence, -aghast, Ramona opened it out and held it up. "How did it happen, -Margarita?" she whispered, glancing in terror up towards the house. - -"Oh, that is the worst of it, Senorita!" sobbed the girl. "That is the -worst of it! If it were not for that, I would not be so afraid. If it -had happened any other way, the Senora might have forgiven me; but she -never will. I would rather die than tell her;" and she shook from head -to foot. - -"Stop crying, Margarita!" said Ramona, firmly, "and tell me all about -it. It isn't so bad as it looks. I think I can mend it." - -"Oh, the saints bless you!" cried Margarita, looking up for the first -time. "Do you really think you can mend it, Senorita? If you will mend -that lace, I'll go on my knees for you all the rest of my life!" - -Ramona laughed in spite of herself. "You'll serve me better by keeping -on your feet," she said merrily; at which Margarita laughed too, through -her tears. They were both young. - -"Oh, but Senorita," Margarita began again in a tone of anguish, her -tears flowing afresh, "there is not time! It must be washed and ironed -to-night, for the mass to-morrow morning, and I have to help at the -supper. Anita and Rosa are both ill in bed, you know, and Maria has gone -away for a week. The Senora said if the Father came to-night I must help -mother, and must wait on table. It cannot be done. I was just going -to iron it now, and I found it--so--It was in the artichoke-patch, and -Capitan, the beast, had been tossing it among the sharp pricks of the -old last year's seeds." - -"In the artichoke-patch!" ejaculated Ramona. "How under heavens did it -get there?" - -"Oh, that was what I meant, Senorita, when I said she never would -forgive me. She has forbidden me many times to hang anything to dry on -the fence there; and if I had only washed it when she first told me, two -days ago, all would have been well. But I forgot it till this afternoon, -and there was no sun in the court to dry it, and you know how the sun -lies on the artichoke-patch, and I put a strong cloth over the fence, -so that the wood should not pierce the lace, and I did not leave it more -than half an hour, just while I said a few words to Luigo, and there -was no wind; and I believe the saints must have fetched it down to the -ground to punish me for my disobedience." - -Ramona had been all this time carefully smoothing out the torn places, -"It is not so bad as it looks," she said; "if it were not for the hurry, -there would be no trouble in mending it. But I will do it the best I -can, so that it will not show, for to-morrow, and then, after the Father -is gone, I can repair it at leisure, and make it just as good as new. -I think I can mend it and wash it before dark," and she glanced at the -sun. "Oh, yes, there are good three hours of daylight yet. I can do it. -You put the irons on the fire, to have them hot, to iron it as soon -as it is partly dried. You will see it will not show that anything has -happened to it." - -"Will the Senora know?" asked poor Margarita, calmed and reassured, but -still in mortal terror. - -Ramona turned her steady glance full on Margarita's face. "You would not -be any happier if she were deceived, do you think?" she said gravely. - -"O Senorita, after it is mended? If it really does not show?" pleaded -the girl. - -"I will tell her myself, and not till after it is mended," said Ramona; -but she did not smile. - -"Ah, Senorita," said Margarita, deprecatingly, "you do not know what it -is to have the Senora displeased with one." - -"Nothing can be so bad as to be displeased with one's self," retorted -Ramona, as she walked swiftly away to her room with the linen rolled up -under her arm. Luckily for Margarita's cause, she met no one on the way. -The Senora had welcomed Father Salvierderra at the foot of the veranda -steps, and had immediately closeted herself with him. She had much to -say to him,--much about which she wished his help and counsel, and much -which she wished to learn from him as to affairs in the Church and in -the country generally. - -Felipe had gone off at once to find Juan Canito, to see if everything -were ready for the sheep-shearing to begin on the next day, if the -shearers arrived in time; and there was very good chance of their coming -in by sundown this day, Felipe thought, for he had privately instructed -his messenger to make all possible haste, and to impress on the Indians -the urgent need of their losing no time on the road. - -It had been a great concession on the Senora's part to allow the -messenger to be sent off before she had positive intelligence as to the -Father's movements. But as day after day passed and no news came, even -she perceived that it would not do to put off the sheep-shearing much -longer, or, as Juan Canito said, "forever." The Father might have fallen -ill; and if that were so, it might very easily be weeks before they -heard of it, so scanty were the means of communication between the -remote places on his route of visitation. The messenger had therefore -been sent to summon the Temecula shearers, and Senora had resigned -herself to the inevitable; piously praying, however, morning and night, -and at odd moments in the day, that the Father might arrive before the -Indians did. When she saw him coming up the garden-walk, leaning on -the arm of her Felipe, on the afternoon of the very day which was the -earliest possible day for the Indians to arrive, it was not strange that -she felt, mingled with the joy of her greeting to her long-loved friend -and confessor, a triumphant exultation that the saints had heard her -prayers. - -In the kitchen all was bustle and stir. The coming of any guest into the -house was a signal for unwonted activities there,--even the coming of -Father Salvierderra, who never knew whether the soup had force-meat -balls in it or not, old Marda said; and that was to her the last extreme -of indifference to good things of the flesh. "But if he will not eat, -he can see," she said; and her pride for herself and for the house was -enlisted in setting forth as goodly an array of viands as her larder -afforded, She grew suddenly fastidious over the size and color of the -cabbages to go into the beef-pot, and threw away one whole saucepan full -of rice, because Margarita had put only one onion in instead of two. - -"Have I not told you again and again that for the Father it is always -two onions?" she exclaimed. "It is the dish he most favors of all; and -it is a pity too, old as he is. It makes him no blood. It is good beef -he should take now." - -The dining-room was on the opposite side of the courtyard from the -kitchen, and there was a perpetual procession of small messengers going -back and forth between the rooms. It was the highest ambition of each -child to be allowed to fetch and carry dishes in the preparation of -the meals at all times; but when by so doing they could perchance get a -glimpse through the dining-room door, open on the veranda, of strangers -and guests, their restless rivalry became unmanageable. Poor Margarita, -between her own private anxieties and her multiplied duties of helping -in the kitchen, and setting the table, restraining and overseeing her -army of infant volunteers, was nearly distraught; not so distraught, -however, but that she remembered and found time to seize a lighted -candle in the kitchen, run and set it before the statue of Saint Francis -of Paula in her bedroom, hurriedly whispering a prayer that the lace -might be made whole like new. Several times before the afternoon had -waned she snatched a moment to fling herself down at the statue's feet -and pray her foolish little prayer over again. We think we are quite -sure that it is a foolish little prayer, when people pray to have torn -lace made whole. But it would be hard to show the odds between asking -that, and asking that it may rain, or that the sick may get well. As the -grand old Russian says, what men usually ask for, when they pray to God, -is, that two and two may not make four. All the same he is to be pitied -who prays not. It was only the thought of that candle at Saint Francis's -feet, which enabled Margarita to struggle through this anxious and -unhappy afternoon and evening. - -At last supper was ready,--a great dish of spiced beef and cabbage in -the centre of the table; a tureen of thick soup, with force-meat balls -and red peppers in it; two red earthen platters heaped, one with the -boiled rice and onions, the other with the delicious frijoles (beans) -so dear to all Mexican hearts; cut-glass dishes filled with hot stewed -pears, or preserved quinces, or grape jelly; plates of frosted cakes of -various sorts; and a steaming silver teakettle, from which went up an -aroma of tea such as had never been bought or sold in all California, -the Senora's one extravagance and passion. - -"Where is Ramona?" asked the Senora, surprised and displeased, as she -entered the dining-room, "Margarita, go tell the Senorita that we are -waiting for her." - -Margarita started tremblingly, with flushed face, towards the door. What -would happen now! "O Saint Francis," she inwardly prayed, "help us this -once!" - -"Stay," said Felipe. "Do not call Senorita Ramona." Then, turning to his -mother, "Ramona cannot come. She is not in the house. She has a duty to -perform for to-morrow," he said; and he looked meaningly at his mother, -adding, "we will not wait for her." - -Much bewildered, the Senora took her seat at the head of the table in a -mechanical way, and began, "But--" Felipe, seeing that questions were to -follow, interrupted her: "I have just spoken with her. It is impossible -for her to come;" and turning to Father Salvierderra, he at once engaged -him in conversation, and left the baffled Senora to bear her unsatisfied -curiosity as best she could. - -Margarita looked at Felipe with an expression of profound gratitude, -which he did not observe, and would not in the least have understood; -for Ramona had not confided to him any details of the disaster. Seeing -him under her window, she had called cautiously to him, and said: "Dear -Felipe, do you think you can save me from having to come to supper? A -dreadful accident has happened to the altar-cloth, and I must mend it -and wash it, and there is barely time before dark. Don't let them call -me; I shall be down at the brook, and they will not find me, and your -mother will be displeased." - -This wise precaution of Ramona's was the salvation of everything, so far -as the altar-cloth was concerned. The rents had proved far less serious -than she had feared; the daylight held out till the last of them was -skilfully mended; and just as the red beams of the sinking sun came -streaming through the willow-trees at the foot of the garden, Ramona, -darting down the garden, had reached the brook, and kneeling on the -grass, had dipped the linen into the water. - -Her hurried working over the lace, and her anxiety, had made her cheeks -scarlet. As she ran down the garden, her comb had loosened and her hair -fallen to her waist. Stopping only to pick up the comb and thrust it in -her pocket, she had sped on, as it would soon be too dark for her to see -the stains on the linen, and it was going to be no small trouble to get -them out without fraying the lace. - -Her hair in disorder, her sleeves pinned loosely on her shoulders, her -whole face aglow with the earnestness of her task, she bent low over -the stones, rinsing the altar-cloth up and down in the water, anxiously -scanning it, then plunging it in again. - -The sunset beams played around her hair like a halo; the whole place was -aglow with red light, and her face was kindled into transcendent beauty. -A sound arrested her attention. She looked up. Forms, dusky black -against the fiery western sky, were coming down the valley. It was the -band of Indian shearers. They turned to the left, and went towards the -sheep sheds and booths. But there was one of them that Ramona did not -see. He had been standing for some minutes concealed behind a large -willow-tree a few rods from the place where Ramona was kneeling. It was -Alessandro, son of Pablo Assis, captain of the shearing band. Walking -slowly along in advance of his men, he had felt a light, as from a -mirror held in the sun, smite his eyes. It was the red sunbeam on the -glittering water where Ramona knelt. In the same second he saw Ramona. - -He halted, as wild creatures of the forest halt at a sound; gazed; -walked abruptly away from his men, who kept on, not noticing his -disappearance. Cautiously he moved a few steps nearer, into the shelter -of a gnarled old willow, from behind which he could gaze unperceived on -the beautiful vision,--for so it seemed to him. - -As he gazed, his senses seemed leaving him, and unconsciously he spoke -aloud; "Christ! What shall I do!" - - - - -V - -THE room in which Father Salvierderra always slept when at the Senora -Moreno's house was the southeast corner room. It had a window to the -south and one to the east. When the first glow of dawn came in the sky, -this eastern window was lit up as by a fire. The Father was always on -watch for it, having usually been at prayer for hours. As the first ray -reached the window, he would throw the casement wide open, and standing -there with bared head, strike up the melody of the sunrise hymn sung in -all devout Mexican families. It was a beautiful custom, not yet wholly -abandoned. At the first dawn of light, the oldest member of the family -arose, and began singing some hymn familiar to the household. It was the -duty of each person hearing it to immediately rise, or at least sit up -in bed, and join in the singing. In a few moments the whole family would -be singing, and the joyous sounds pouring out from the house like -the music of the birds in the fields at dawn. The hymns were usually -invocations to the Virgin, or to the saint of the day, and the melodies -were sweet and simple. - -On this morning there was another watcher for the dawn besides Father -Salvierderra. It was Alessandro, who had been restlessly wandering about -since midnight, and had finally seated himself under the willow-trees by -the brook, at the spot where he had seen Ramona the evening before. He -recollected this custom of the sunrise hymn when he and his band were -at the Senora's the last year, and he had chanced then to learn that the -Father slept in the southeast room. From the spot where he sat, he could -see the south window of this room. He could also see the low eastern -horizon, at which a faint luminous line already showed. The sky was like -amber; a few stars still shone faintly in the zenith. There was not -a sound. It was one of those rare moments in which one can without -difficulty realize the noiseless spinning of the earth through space. -Alessandro knew nothing of this; he could not have been made to believe -that the earth was moving. He thought the sun was coming up apace, -and the earth was standing still,--a belief just as grand, just as -thrilling, so far as all that goes, as the other: men worshipped the sun -long before they found out that it stood still. Not the most reverent -astronomer, with the mathematics of the heavens at his tongue's end, -could have had more delight in the wondrous phenomenon of the dawn, than -did this simple-minded, unlearned man. - -His eyes wandered from the horizon line of slowly increasing light, to -the windows of the house, yet dark and still. "Which window is hers? -Will she open it when the song begins?" he thought. "Is it on this side -of the house? Who can she be? She was not here last year. Saw the saints -ever so beautiful a creature!" - -At last came the full red ray across the meadow. Alessandro sprang to -his feet. In the next second Father Salvierderra flung up his south -window, and leaning out, his cowl thrown off, his thin gray locks -streaming back, began in a feeble but not unmelodious voice to sing,-- - - "O beautiful Queen, - Princess of Heaven." - -Before he had finished the second line, a half-dozen voices had joined -in,--the Senora, from her room at the west end of the veranda, beyond -the flowers; Felipe, from the adjoining room; Ramona, from hers, the -next; and Margarita and other of the maids already astir in the wings of -the house. As the volume of melody swelled, the canaries waked, and the -finches and the linnets in the veranda roof. The tiles of this roof were -laid on bundles of tule reeds, in which the linnets delighted to build -their nests. The roof was alive with them,--scores and scores, nay -hundreds, tame as chickens; their tiny shrill twitter was like the -tuning of myriads of violins. - - "Singers at dawn - From the heavens above - People all regions; - Gladly we too sing," - -continued the hymn, the birds corroborating the stanza. Then men's -voices joined in,--Juan and Luigo, and a dozen more, walking slowly up -from the sheepfolds. The hymn was a favorite one, known to all. - - "Come, O sinners, - Come, and we will sing - Tender hymns - To our refuge," - -was the chorus, repeated after each of the five verses of the hymn. - -Alessandro also knew the hymn well. His father, Chief Pablo, had been -the leader of the choir at the San Luis Rey Mission in the last years of -its splendor, and had brought away with him much of the old choir music. -Some of the books had been written by his own hand, on parchment. He not -only sang well, but was a good player on the violin. There was not at -any of the Missions so fine a band of performers on stringed instruments -as at San Luis Rey. Father Peyri was passionately fond of music, and -spared no pains in training all the neophytes under his charge who -showed any special talent in that direction. Chief Pablo, after the -breaking up of the Mission, had settled at Temecula, with a small band -of his Indians, and endeavored, so far as was in his power, to keep -up the old religious services. The music in the little chapel of the -Temecula Indians was a surprise to all who heard it. - -Alessandro had inherited his father's love and talent for music, and -knew all the old Mission music by heart. This hymn to the - - "Beautiful Queen, - Princess of Heaven," - -was one of his special favorites; and as he heard verse after verse -rising, he could not forbear striking in. - -At the first notes of this rich new voice, Ramona's voice ceased in -surprise; and, throwing up her window, she leaned out, eagerly looking -in all directions to see who it could be. Alessandro saw her, and sang -no more. - -"What could it have been? Did I dream it?" thought Ramona, drew in her -head, and began to sing again. - -With the next stanza of the chorus, the same rich barytone notes. They -seemed to float in under all the rest, and bear them along, as a great -wave bears a boat. Ramona had never heard such a voice. Felipe had -a good tenor, and she liked to sing with him, or to hear him; but -this--this was from another world, this sound. Ramona felt every note of -it penetrating her consciousness with a subtle thrill almost like pain. -When the hymn ended, she listened eagerly, hoping Father Salvierderra -would strike up a second hymn, as he often did; but he did not this -morning; there was too much to be done; everybody was in a hurry to -be at work: windows shut, doors opened; the sounds of voices from all -directions, ordering, questioning, answering, began to be heard. The sun -rose and let a flood of work-a-day light on the whole place. - -Margarita ran and unlocked the chapel door, putting up a heartfelt -thanksgiving to Saint Francis and the Senorita, as she saw the snowy -altar-cloth in its place, looking, from that distance at least, as good -as new. - -The Indians and the shepherds, and laborers of all sorts, were coming -towards the chapel. The Senora, with her best black silk handkerchief -bound tight around her forehead, the ends hanging down each side of her -face, making her look like an Assyrian priestess, was descending the -veranda steps, Felipe at her side; and Father Salvierderra had already -entered the chapel before Ramona appeared, or Alessandro stirred from -his vantage-post of observation at the willows. - -When Ramona came out from the door she bore in her hands a high silver -urn filled with ferns. She had been for many days gathering and hoarding -these. They were hard to find, growing only in one place in a rocky -canon, several miles away. - -As she stepped from the veranda to the ground, Alessandro walked slowly -up the garden-walk, facing her. She met his eyes, and, without knowing -why, thought, "That must be the Indian who sang." As she turned to the -right and entered the chapel, Alessandro followed her hurriedly, and -knelt on the stones close to the chapel door. He would be near when she -came out. As he looked in at the door, he saw her glide up the aisle, -place the ferns on the reading-desk, and then kneel down by Felipe in -front of the altar. Felipe turned towards her, smiling slightly, with a -look as of secret intelligence. - -"Ah, Senor Felipe has married. She is his wife," thought Alessandro, and -a strange pain seized him. He did not analyze it; hardly knew what it -meant. He was only twenty-one. He had not thought much about women. He -was a distant, cold boy, his own people of the Temecula village said. -It had come, they believed, of learning to read, which was always bad. -Chief Pablo had not done his son any good by trying to make him like -white men. If the Fathers could have stayed, and the life at the Mission -have gone on, why, Alessandro could have had work to do for the Fathers, -as his father had before him. Pablo had been Father Peyri's right-hand -man at the Mission; had kept all the accounts about the cattle; paid the -wages; handled thousands of dollars of gold every month. But that was -"in the time of the king;" it was very different now. The Americans -would not let an Indian do anything but plough and sow and herd cattle. -A man need not read and write, to do that. - -Even Pablo sometimes doubted whether he had done wisely in teaching -Alessandro all he knew himself. Pablo was, for one of his race, wise and -far-seeing. He perceived the danger threatening his people on all sides. -Father Peyri, before he left the country, had said to him: "Pablo, your -people will be driven like sheep to the slaughter, unless you keep them -together. Knit firm bonds between them; band them into pueblos; make -them work; and above all, keep peace with the whites. It is your only -chance." - -Most strenuously Pablo had striven to obey Father Peyri's directions. He -had set his people the example of constant industry, working steadily in -his fields and caring well for his herds. He had built a chapel in his -little village, and kept up forms of religious service there. Whenever -there were troubles with the whites, or rumors of them, he went from -house to house, urging, persuading, commanding his people to keep the -peace. At one time when there was an insurrection of some of the Indian -tribes farther south, and for a few days it looked as if there would -be a general Indian war, he removed the greater part of his band, men, -women, and children driving their flocks and herds with them, to -Los Angeles, and camped there for several days, that they might be -identified with the whites in case hostilities became serious. - -But his labors did not receive the reward that they deserved. With every -day that the intercourse between his people and the whites increased, -he saw the whites gaining, his people surely losing ground, and his -anxieties deepened. The Mexican owner of the Temecula valley, a friend -of Father Peyri's, and a good friend also of Pablo's, had returned -to Mexico in disgust with the state of affairs in California, and was -reported to be lying at the point of death. This man's promise to Pablo, -that he and his people should always live in the valley undisturbed, -was all the title Pablo had to the village lands. In the days when the -promise was given, it was all that was necessary. The lines marking off -the Indians' lands were surveyed, and put on the map of the estate. No -Mexican proprietor ever broke faith with an Indian family or village, -thus placed on his lands. - -But Pablo had heard rumors, which greatly disquieted him, that such -pledges and surveyed lines as these were corning to be held as of no -value, not binding on purchasers of grants. He was intelligent enough -to see that if this were so, he and his people were ruined. All these -perplexities and fears he confided to Alessandro; long anxious hours the -father and son spent together, walking back and forth in the village, or -sitting in front of their little adobe house, discussing what could be -done. There was always the same ending to the discussion,--a long sigh, -and, "We must wait, we can do nothing." - -No wonder Alessandro seemed, to the more ignorant and thoughtless young -men and women of his village, a cold and distant lad. He was made old -before his time. He was carrying in his heart burdens of which they -knew nothing. So long as the wheat fields came up well, and there was -no drought, and the horses and sheep had good pasture, in plenty, on the -hills, the Temecula people could be merry, go day by day to their easy -work, play games at sunset, and sleep sound all night. But Alessandro -and his father looked beyond. And this was the one great reason why -Alessandro had not yet thought about women, in way of love; this, -and also the fact that even the little education he had received was -sufficient to raise a slight barrier, of which he was unconsciously -aware, between him and the maidens of the village. If a quick, warm -fancy for any one of them ever stirred in his veins, he found himself -soon, he knew not how, cured of it. For a dance, or a game, or a -friendly chat, for the trips into the mountains after acorns, or to the -marshes for grasses and reeds, he was their good comrade, and they were -his; but never had the desire to take one of them for his wife, entered -into Alessandro's mind. The vista of the future, for him, was filled -full by thoughts which left no room for love's dreaming; one purpose and -one fear filled it,--the purpose to be his father's worthy successor, -for Pablo was old now, and very feeble; the fear, that exile and ruin -were in store for them all. - -It was of these things he had been thinking as be walked alone, in -advance of his men, on the previous night, when he first saw Ramona -kneeling at the brook. Between that moment and the present, it seemed -to Alessandro that some strange miracle must have happened to him. The -purposes and the fears had alike gone. A face replaced them; a vague -wonder, pain, joy, he knew not what, filled him so to overflowing that -he was bewildered. If he had been what the world calls a civilized man, -he would have known instantly and would have been capable of weighing, -analyzing, and reflecting on his sensations at leisure. But he was not -a civilized man; he had to bring to bear on his present situation only -simple, primitive, uneducated instincts and impulses. If Ramona had been -a maiden of his own people or race, he would have drawn near to her as -quickly as iron to the magnet. But now, if he had gone so far as to even -think of her in such a way, she would have been, to his view, as far -removed from him as was the morning star beneath whose radiance he had -that morning watched, hoping for sight of her at her window. He did not, -however, go so far as to thus think of her. Even that would have -been impossible. He only knelt on the stones outside the chapel door, -mechanically repeating the prayers with the rest, waiting for her to -reappear. He had no doubt, now, that she was Senor Felipe's wife; all -the same he wished to kneel there till she came out, that he might see -her face again. His vista of purpose, fear, hope, had narrowed now down -to that,--just one more sight of her. Ever so civilized, he could hardly -have worshipped a woman better. The mass seemed to him endlessly long. -Until near the last, he forgot to sing; then, in the closing of the -final hymn, he suddenly remembered, and the clear deep-toned voice -pealed out, as before, like the undertone of a great sea-wave, sweeping -along. - -Ramona heard the first note, and felt again the same thrill. She was as -much a musician born as Alessandro himself. As she rose from her knees, -she whispered to Felipe: "Felipe, do find out which one of the Indians -it is has that superb voice. I never heard anything like it." - -"Oh, that is Alessandro," replied Felipe, "old Pablo's son. He is a -splendid fellow. Don't you recollect his singing two years ago?" - -"I was not here," replied Ramona; "you forget." - -"Ah, yes, so you were away; I had forgotten," said Felipe. "Well, he -was here. They made him captain of the shearing-band, though he was only -twenty, and he managed the men splendidly. They saved nearly all their -money to carry home, and I never knew them do such a thing before. -Father Salvierderra was here, which might have had something to do with -it; but I think it was quite as much Alessandro. He plays the violin -beautifully. I hope he has brought it along. He plays the old San Luis -Rey music. His father was band-master there." - -Ramona's eyes kindled with pleasure. "Does your mother like it, to have -him play?" she asked. - -Felipe nodded. "We'll have him up on the veranda tonight," he said. - -While this whispered colloquy was going on, the chapel had emptied, -the Indians and Mexicans all hurrying out to set about the day's work. -Alessandro lingered at the doorway as long as he dared, till he was -sharply called by Juan Canito, looking back: "What are you gaping at -there, you Alessandro! Hurry, now, and get your men to work. After -waiting till near midsummer for this shearing, we'll make as quick work -of it as we can. Have you got your best shearers here?" - -"Ay, that I have," answered Alessandro; "not a man of them but can shear -his hundred in a day, There is not such a band as ours in all San Diego -County; and we don't turn out the sheep all bleeding, either; you'll see -scarce a scratch on their sides." - -"Humph." retorted Juan Can. "'Tis a poor shearer, indeed, that draws -blood to speak of. I've sheared many a thousand sheep in my day, and -never a red stain on the shears. But the Mexicans have always been famed -for good shearers." - -Juan's invidious emphasis on the word "Mexicans" did not escape -Alessandro. "And we Indians also," he answered, good-naturedly, -betraying no annoyance; "but as for these Americans, I saw one at work -the other day, that man Lomax, who settled near Temecula, and upon my -faith, Juan Can, I thought it was a slaughter-pen, and not a shearing. -The poor beasts limped off with the blood running." - -Juan did not see his way clear at the moment to any fitting rejoinder to -this easy assumption, on Alessandro's part, of the equal superiority -of Indians and Mexicans in the sheep-shearing art; so, much vexed, with -another "Humph!" he walked away; walked away so fast, that he lost the -sight of a smile on Alessandro's face, which would have vexed him still -further. - -At the sheep-shearing sheds and pens all was stir and bustle. The -shearing shed was a huge caricature of a summerhouse,--a long, narrow -structure, sixty feet long by twenty or thirty wide, all roof and -pillars; no walls; the supports, slender rough posts, as far apart -as was safe, for the upholding of the roof, which was of rough planks -loosely laid from beam to beam. On three sides of this were the -sheep-pens filled with sheep and lambs. - -A few rods away stood the booths in which the shearers' food was to be -cooked and the shearers fed. These were mere temporary affairs, roofed -only by willow boughs with the leaves left on. Near these, the Indians -had already arranged their camp; a hut or two of green boughs had -been built, but for the most part they would sleep rolled up in their -blankets, on the ground. There was a brisk wind, and the gay colored -wings of the windmill blew furiously round and round, pumping out into -the tank below a stream of water so swift and strong, that as the men -crowded around, wetting and sharpening their knives, they got well -spattered, and had much merriment, pushing and elbowing each other into -the spray. - -A high four-posted frame stood close to the shed; in this, swung from -the four corners, hung one of the great sacking bags in which the -fleeces were to be packed. A big pile of bags lay on the ground at the -foot of the posts. Juan Can eyed them with a chuckle. "We'll fill more -than those before night, Senor Felipe," he said. He was in his element, -Juan Can, at shearing times. Then came his reward for the somewhat -monotonous and stupid year's work. The world held no better feast for -his eyes than the sight of a long row of big bales of fleece, tied, -stamped with the Moreno brand, ready to be drawn away to the mills. -"Now, there is something substantial," he thought; "no chance of wool -going amiss in market!" - -If a year's crop were good, Juan's happiness was assured for the next -six months. If it proved poor, he turned devout immediately, and -spent the next six months calling on the saints for better luck, and -redoubling his exertions with the sheep. - -On one of the posts of the shed short projecting slats were nailed, like -half-rounds of a ladder. Lightly as a rope-walker Felipe ran up these, -to the roof, and took his stand there, ready to take the fleeces and -pack them in the bag as fast as they should be tossed up from below. -Luigo, with a big leathern wallet fastened in front of him, filled with -five-cent pieces, took his stand in the centre of the shed. The thirty -shearers, running into the nearest pen, dragged each his sheep into -the shed, in a twinkling of an eye had the creature between his knees, -helpless, immovable, and the sharp sound of the shears set in. The -sheep-shearing had begun. No rest now. Not a second's silence from the -bleating, baa-ing, opening and shutting, clicking, sharpening of shears, -flying of fleeces through the air to the roof, pressing and stamping -them down in the bales; not a second's intermission, except the hour of -rest at noon, from sunrise till sunset, till the whole eight thousand -of the Senora Moreno's sheep were shorn. It was a dramatic spectacle. As -soon as a sheep was shorn, the shearer ran with the fleece in his -hand to Luigo, threw it down on a table, received his five-cent piece, -dropped it in his pocket, ran to the pen, dragged out another sheep, and -in less than five minutes was back again with a second fleece. The shorn -sheep, released, bounded off into another pen, where, light in the head -no doubt from being three to five pounds lighter on their legs, they -trotted round bewilderedly for a moment, then flung up their heels and -capered for joy. - -It was warm work. The dust from the fleeces and the trampling feet -filled the air. As the sun rose higher in the sky the sweat poured off -the men's faces; and Felipe, standing without shelter on the roof, found -out very soon that he had by no means yet got back his full strength -since the fever. Long before noon, except for sheer pride, and for -the recollection of Juan Canito's speech, he would have come down and -yielded his place to the old man. But he was resolved not to give up, -and he worked on, though his face was purple and his head throbbing. -After the bag of fleeces is half full, the packer stands in it, jumping -with his full weight on the wool, as he throws in the fleeces, to -compress them as much as possible. When Felipe began to do this, he -found that he had indeed overrated his strength. As the first cloud of -the sickening dust came up, enveloping his head, choking his breath, -he turned suddenly dizzy, and calling faintly, "Juan, I am ill," sank -helpless down in the wool. He had fainted. At Juan Canito's scream of -dismay, a great hubbub and outcry arose; all saw instantly what had -happened. Felipe's head was hanging limp over the edge of the bag, Juan -in vain endeavoring to get sufficient foothold by his side to lift him. -One after another the men rushed up the ladder, until they were all -standing, a helpless, excited crowd, on the roof, one proposing one -thing, one another. Only Luigo had had the presence of mind to run to -the house for help. The Senora was away from home. She had gone with -Father Salvierderra to a friend's house, a half-day's journey off. -But Ramona was there. Snatching all she could think of in way of -restoratives, she came flying back with Luigo, followed by every servant -of the establishment, all talking, groaning, gesticulating, suggesting, -wringing their hands,--as disheartening a Babel as ever made bad matters -worse. - -Reaching the shed, Ramona looked up to the roof bewildered. "Where is -he?" she cried. The next instant she saw his head, held in Juan Canito's -arms, just above the edge of the wool-bag. She groaned, "Oh, how will he -ever be lifted out!" - -"I will lift him, Senora," cried Alessandro, coming to the front, "I am -very strong. Do not be afraid; I will bring him safe down." And swinging -himself down the ladder, he ran swiftly to the camp, and returned, -bringing in his hands blankets. Springing quickly to the roof again, -he knotted the blankets firmly together, and tying them at the middle -around his waist, threw the ends to his men, telling them to hold him -firm. He spoke in the Indian tongue as he was hurriedly doing this, -and Ramona did not at first understand his plan. But when she saw -the Indians move a little back from the edge of the roof, holding the -blankets firm grasped, while Alessandro stepped out on one of the narrow -cross-beams from which the bag swung, she saw what he meant to do. She -held her breath. Felipe was a slender man; Alessandro was much heavier, -and many inches taller. Still, could any man carry such a burden safely -on that narrow beam! Ramona looked away, and shut her eyes, through -the silence which followed. It was only a few moments; but it seemed an -eternity before a glad murmur of voices told her that it was done, and -looking up, she saw Felipe lying on the roof, unconscious, his face -white, his eyes shut. At this sight, all the servants broke out afresh, -weeping and wailing, "He is dead! He is dead!" - -Ramona stood motionless, her eyes fixed on Felipe's face. She, too, -believed him dead; but her thought was of the Senora. - -"He is not dead," cried Juan Canito, who had thrust his hand under -Felipe's shirt. "He is not dead. It is only a faint." - -At this the first tears rolled down Ramona's face. She looked piteously -at the ladder up and down which she had seen Alessandro run as if it -were an easy indoor staircase. "If I could only get up there!" she said, -looking from one to another. "I think I can;" and she put one foot on -the lower round. - -"Holy Virgin!" cried Juan Can, seeing her movement. "Senorita! Senorita! -do not attempt it. It is not too easy for a man. You will break your -neck. He is fast coming to his senses." - -Alessandro caught the words. Spite of all the confusion and terror of -the scene, his heart heard the word, "Senorita." Ramona was not the -wife of Felipe, or of any man. Yet Alessandro recollected that he had -addressed her as Senora, and she did not seem surprised. Coming to the -front of the group he said, bending forward, "Senorita!" There must -have been something in the tone which made Ramona start. The simple word -could not have done it. "Senorita," said Alessandro, "it will be nothing -to bring Senor Felipe down the ladder. He is, in my arms, no more -than one of the lambs yonder. I will bring him down as soon as he is -recovered. He is better here till then. He will very soon be himself -again. It was only the heat." Seeing that the expression of anxious -distress did not grow less on Ramona's face, he continued, in a tone -still more earnest, "Will not the Senorita trust me to bring him safe -down?" - -Ramona smiled faintly through her tears. "Yes," she said, "I will trust -you. You are Alessandro, are you not?" - -"Yes, Senorita," he answered, greatly surprised, "I am Alessandro." - - - - -VI - -A BAD beginning did not make a good ending of the Senora Moreno's -sheep-shearing this year. One as superstitiously prejudiced against -Roman Catholic rule as she was in favor of it, would have found, in the -way things fell out, ample reason for a belief that the Senora was -being punished for having let all the affairs of her place come to a -standstill, to await the coming of an old monk. But the pious Senora, -looking at the other side of the shield, was filled with gratitude -that, since all this ill luck was to befall her, she had the good Father -Salvierderra at her side to give her comfort and counsel. - -It was not yet quite noon of the first day, when Felipe fainted and fell -in the wool; and it was only a little past noon of the third, when -Juan Canito, who, not without some secret exultation, had taken Senor -Felipe's place at the packing, fell from the cross-beam to the ground, -and broke his right leg,--a bad break near the knee; and Juan Canito's -bones were much too old for fresh knitting. He would never again be able -to do more than hobble about on crutches, dragging along the useless -leg. It was a cruel blow to the old man. He could not be resigned to -it. He lost faith in his saints, and privately indulged in blasphemous -beratings and reproaches of them, which would have filled the Senora -with terror, had she known that such blasphemies were being committed -under her roof. - -"As many times as I have crossed that plank, in my day!" cried Juan; -"only the fiends themselves could have made me trip; and there was that -whole box of candles I paid for with my own money last month, and burned -to Saint Francis in the chapel for this very sheep-shearing! He may sit -in the dark, for all me, to the end of time! He is no saint at all! What -are they for, if not to keep us from harm when we pray to them? I'll -pray no more. I believe the Americans are right, who laugh at us." From -morning till night, and nearly from night till morning, for the leg -ached so he slept little, poor Juan groaned and grumbled and swore, and -swore and grumbled and groaned. Taking care of him was enough, Margarita -said, to wear out the patience of the Madonna herself. There was no -pleasing him, whatever you did, and his tongue was never still a minute. -For her part, she believed that it must be as he said, that the fiends -had pushed him off the plank, and that the saints had had their reasons -for leaving him to his fate. A coldness and suspicion gradually grew up -in the minds of all the servants towards him. His own reckless language, -combined with Margarita's reports, gave the superstitious fair ground -for believing that something had gone mysteriously wrong, and that the -Devil was in a fair way to get his soul, which was very hard for the old -man, in addition to all the rest he had to bear. The only alleviation he -had for his torments, was in having his fellow-servants, men and women, -drop in, sit by his pallet, and chat with him, telling him all that was -going on; and when by degrees they dropped off, coming more and more -seldom, and one by one leaving off coming altogether, it was the one -drop that overflowed his cup of misery; and he turned his face to the -wall, left off grumbling, and spoke only when he must. - -This phase frightened Margarita even more than the first. Now, she -thought, surely the dumb terror and remorse of one who belongs to the -Devil had seized him, and her hands trembled as she went through the -needful ministrations for him each day. Three months, at least, the -doctor, who had come from Ventura to set the leg, had said he must lie -still in bed and be thus tended. "Three months!" sighed Margarita. "If I -be not dead or gone crazy myself before the end of that be come!" - -The Senora was too busy with Felipe to pay attention or to give thought -to Juan. Felipe's fainting had been the symptom and beginning of a -fierce relapse of the fever, and he was lying in his bed, tossing and -raving in delirium, always about the wool. - -"Throw them faster, faster! That's a good fleece; five pounds more; a -round ton in those bales. Juan! Alessandro! Captain!--Jesus, how this -sun burns my head!" - -Several times he had called "Alessandro" so earnestly, that Father -Salvierderra advised bringing Alessandro into the room, to see if by any -chance there might have been something in his mind that he wished to say -to him. But when Alessandro stood by the bedside, Felipe gazed at -him vacantly, as he did at all the others, still repeating, however, -"Alessandro! Alessandro!" - -"I think perhaps he wants Alessandro to play on his violin," sobbed out -Ramona. "He was telling me how beautifully Alessandro played, and said -he would have him up on the veranda in the evening to play to us." - -"We might try it," said Father Salvierderra. "Have you your violin here, -Alessandro?" - -"Alas, no, Father," replied Alessandro, "I did not bring it." - -"Perhaps it would do him good it you were to sing, then," said Ramona. -"He was speaking of your voice also." - -"Oh, try, try." said the Senorita, turning to Alessandro. "Sing -something low and soft." - -Alessandro walked from the bed to the open window, and after thinking -for a moment, began a slow strain from one of the masses. - -At the first note, Felipe became suddenly quiet, evidently listening. An -expression of pleasure spread over his feverish face. He turned his head -to one side, put his hand under his cheek and closed his eyes. The three -watching him looked at each other in astonishment. - -"It is a miracle," said Father Salvierderra. "He will sleep." - -"It was what he wanted!" whispered Ramona. - -The Senora spoke not, but buried her face in the bedclothes for a -second; then lifting it, she gazed at Alessandro as if she were praying -to a saint. He, too, saw the change in Felipe, and sang lower and lower, -till the notes sounded as if they came from afar; lower and lower, -slower; finally they ceased, as if they died away lost in distance. As -they ceased, Felipe opened his eyes. - -"Oh, go on, go on!" the Senora implored in a whisper shrill with -anxiety. "Do not stop!" - -Alessandro repeated the strain, slow, solemn; his voice trembled; the -air in the room seemed stifling, spite of the open window; he felt -something like terror, as he saw Felipe evidently sinking to sleep by -reason of the notes of his voice. There had been nothing in Alessandro's -healthy outdoor experience to enable him to understand such a -phenomenon. Felipe breathed more and more slowly, softly, regularly; -soon he was in a deep sleep. The singing stopped; Felipe did not stir. - -"Can I go?" whispered Alessandro. - -"No, no." replied the Senora, impatiently. "He may wake any minute." - -Alessandro looked troubled, but bowed his head submissively, and -remained standing by the window. Father Salvierderra was kneeling on -one side of the bed, the Senora at the other, Ramona at the foot,--all -praying; the silence was so great that the slight sounds of the rosary -beads slipping against each other seemed loud. In a niche in the wall, -at the head of the bed, stood a statue of the Madonna, on the other side -a picture of Santa Barbara. Candles were burning before each. The long -wicks smouldered and died down, sputtering, then flared up again as -the ends fell into the melted wax. The Senora's eyes were fixed on the -Madonna. The Father's were closed. Ramona gazed at Felipe with tears -streaming down her face as she mechanically told her beads. - -"She is his betrothed, no doubt," thought Alessandro. "The saints will -not let him die;" and Alessandro also prayed. But the oppression of the -scene was too much for him. Laying his hand on the low window-sill, he -vaulted over it, saying to Ramona, who turned her head at the sound, -"I will not go away, Senorita, I will be close under the window, if he -awakes." - -Once in the open air, he drew a long breath, and gazed bewilderedly -about him, like one just recovering consciousness after a faint. Then -he threw himself on the ground under the window, and lay looking up into -the sky. Capitan came up, and with a low whine stretched himself out at -full length by his side. The dog knew as well as any other one of the -house that danger and anguish were there. - -One hour passed, two, three; still no sound from Felipe's room. -Alessandro rose, and looked in at the window. The Father and the Senora -had not changed their attitudes; their lips were yet moving in prayer. -But Ramona had yielded to her fatigue; slipped from her knees into a -sitting posture, with her head leaning against the post of the bedstead, -and fallen asleep. Her face was swollen and discolored by weeping, and -heavy circles under her eyes told how tired she was. For three days and -nights she had scarcely rested, so constant were the demands on her. -Between Felipe's illness and Juan Can's, there was not a moment without -something to be done, or some perplexing question to be settled, and -above all, and through all, the terrible sorrow. Ramona was broken down -with grief at the thought of Felipe's death. She had never known till -she saw him lying there delirious, and as she in her inexperience -thought, dying, how her whole life was entwined with his. But now, at -the very thought of what it would be to live without him, her heart -sickened. "When he is buried, I will ask Father Salvierderra to take -me away. I never can live here alone," she said to herself, never for a -moment perceiving that the word "alone" was a strange one to have come -into her mind in the connection. The thought of the Senora did not enter -into her imaginations of the future which so smote her with terror. In -the Senora's presence, Ramona always felt herself alone. - -Alessandro stood at the window, his arms folded, leaning on the sill, -his eyes fixed on Ramona's face and form. To any other than a lover's -eyes she had not looked beautiful now; but to Alessandro she looked more -beautiful than the picture of Santa Barbara on the wall beyond. With a -lover's instinct he knew the thoughts which had written such lines -on her face in the last three days. "It will kill her if he dies," -he thought, "if these three days have made her look like that." And -Alessandro threw himself on the ground again, his face down. He did not -know whether it were an hour or a day that he had lain there, when he -heard Father Salvierderra's voice speaking his name. He sprang up, to -see the old monk standing in the window, tears running down his cheeks. -"God be praised," he said, "the Senor Felipe will get well. A sweat has -broken out on his skin; he still sleeps, but when he wakes he will be in -his right mind. The strength of the fever is broken. But, Alessandro, we -know not how to spare you. Can you not let the men go without you, and -remain here? The Senora would like to have you remain in Juan Can's -place till he is about. She will give you the same wages he had. Would -it not be a good thing for you, Alessandro? You cannot be sure of -earning so much as that for the next three months, can you?" - -While the Father was speaking, a tumult had been going on in -Alessandro's breast. He did not know by name any of the impulses which -were warring there, tearing him in twain, as it were, by their pulling -in opposite directions; one saying "Stay!" and the other saying "Go!" -He would not have known what any one meant, who had said to him, "It -is danger to stay; it is safety to fly." All the same, he felt as if he -could do neither. - -"There is another shearing yet, Father," he began, "at the Ortega's -ranch. I had promised to go to them as soon as I had finished here, and -they have been wroth enough with us for the delay already. It will not -do to break the promise, Father." - -Father Salvierderra's face fell. "No, my son, certainly not," he said; -"but could no one else take your place with the band?" - -Hearing these words, Ramona came to the window, and leaning out, -whispered, "Are you talking about Alessandro's staying? Let me come -and talk to him. He must not go." And running swiftly through the hall, -across the veranda, and down the steps, she stood by Alessandro's side -in a moment. Looking up in his face pleadingly, she said: "We can't let -you go, Alessandro. The Senor will pay wages to some other to go in your -place with the shearers. We want you to stay here in Juan Can's place -till he is well. Don't say you can't stay! Felipe may need you to sing -again, and what would we do then? Can't you stay?" - -"Yes, I can stay, Senorita," answered Alessandro, gravely. "I will stay -so long as you need me." - -"Oh, thank you, Alessandro!" Ramona cried. "You are good, to stay. The -Senora will see that it is no loss to you;" and she flew back to the -house. - -"It is not for the wages, Senorita," Alessandro began; but Ramona -was gone. She did not hear him, and he turned away with a sense of -humiliation. "I don't want the Senorita to think that it was the money -kept me," he said, turning to Father Salvierderra. "I would not leave -the band for money; it is to help, because they are in trouble, Father." - -"Yes, yes, son. I understand that," replied the monk, who had known -Alessandro since he was a little fellow playing in the corridors of San -Luis Rey, the pet of all the Brothers there. "That is quite right of -you, and the Senora will not be insensible of it. It is not for such -things that money can pay. They are indeed in great trouble now, and -only the two women in the house; and I must soon be going on my way -North again." - -"Is it sure that Senor Felipe will get well?" asked Alessandro. - -"I think so," replied Father Salvierderra. "These relapses are always -worse than the first attack; but I have never known one to die, after -he had the natural sweat to break from the skin, and got good sleep. I -doubt not he will be in his bed, though, for many days, and there will -be much to be seen to. It was an ill luck to have Juan Can laid up, -too, just at this time. I must go and see him; I hear he is in most -rebellious frame of mind, and blasphemes impiously." - -"That does he!" said Alessandro. "He swears the saints gave him over to -the fiends to push him off the plank, and he'll have none of them from -this out! I told him to beware, or they might bring him to worse things -yet if he did not mend his speech of them." - -Sighing deeply as they walked along, the monk said: "It is but a sign -of the times. Blasphemers are on the highway. The people are being -corrupted. Keeps your father the worship in the chapel still, and does a -priest come often to the village?" - -"Only twice a year," replied Alessandro; "and sometimes for a funeral, -if there is money enough to pay for the mass. But my father has the -chapel open, and each Sunday we sing what we know of the mass; and the -people are often there praying." - -"Ay, ay! Ever for money!" groaned Father Salvierderra, not heeding the -latter part of the sentence. "Ever for money! It is a shame. But that it -were sure to be held as a trespass, I would go myself to Temecula once -in three months; but I may not. The priests do not love our order." - -"Oh, if you could, Father," exclaimed Alessandro, "it would make my -father very glad! He speaks often to me of the difference he sees -between the words of the Church now and in the days of the Mission. He -is very sad, Father, and in great fear about our village. They say the -Americans, when they buy the Mexicans' lands, drive the Indians away as -if they were dogs; they say we have no right to our lands. Do you think -that can be so, Father, when we have always lived on them, and the -owners promised them to us forever?" - -Father Salvierderra was silent a long time before replying, and -Alessandro watched his face anxiously. He seemed to be hesitating for -words to convey his meaning. At last he said: "Got your father any -notice, at any time since the Americans took the country,--notice to -appear before a court, or anything about a title to the land?" - -"No, Father," replied Alessandro. - -"There has to be some such paper, as I understand their laws," continued -the monk; "some notice, before any steps can be taken to remove Indians -from an estate. It must be done according to the law, in the courts. If -you have had no such notice, you are not in danger." - -"But, Father," persisted Alessandro, "how could there be a law to take -away from us the land which the Senor Valdez gave us forever?" - -"Gave he to you any paper, any writing to show it?" - -"No, no paper; but it is marked in red lines on the map. It was marked -off by Jose Ramirez, of Los Angeles, when they marked all the boundaries -of Senor Valdez's estate. They had many instruments of brass and wood to -measure with, and a long chain, very heavy, which I helped them carry. -I myself saw it marked on the map. They all slept in my father's -house,--Senor Valdez, and Ramirez, and the man who made the measures. He -hired one of our men to carry his instruments, and I went to help, for I -wished to see how it was done; but I could understand nothing, and Jose -told me a man must study many years to learn the way of it. It seemed to -me our way, by the stones, was much better. But I know it is all marked -on the map, for it was with a red line; and my father understood it, and -Jose Ramirez and Senor Valdez both pointed to it with their finger, and -they said, 'All this here is your land, Pablo, always.' I do not think -my father need fear, do you?" - -"I hope not," replied Father Salvierderra, cautiously; "but since the -way that all the lands of the Missions have been taken away, I have -small faith in the honesty of the Americans. I think they will take all -that they can. The Church has suffered terrible loss at their hands." - -"That is what my father says," replied Alessandro. "He says, 'Look at -San Luis Rey! Nothing but the garden and orchard left, of all their vast -lands where they used to pasture thirty thousand sheep. If the Church -and the Fathers could not keep their lands, what can we Indians do?' -That is what my father says." - -"True, true!" said the monk, as he turned into the door of the room -where Juan Can lay on his narrow bed, longing yet fearing to see Father -Salvierderra's face coming in. "We are all alike helpless in their -hands, Alessandro. They possess the country, and can make what laws they -please. We can only say, 'God's will be done,'" and he crossed himself -devoutly, repeating the words twice. - -Alessandro did the same, and with a truly devout spirit, for he was full -of veneration for the Fathers and their teachings; but as he walked on -towards the shearing-shed he thought: "Then, again, how can it be God's -will that wrong be done? It cannot be God's will that one man should -steal from another all he has. That would make God no better than a -thief, it looks to me. But how can it happen, if it is not God's will?" - -It does not need that one be educated, to see the logic in this formula. -Generations of the oppressed and despoiled, before Alessandro, had -grappled with the problem in one shape or another. - -At the shearing-shed, Alessandro found his men in confusion and -ill-humor. The shearing had been over and done by ten in the morning, -and why were they not on their way to the Ortega's? Waiting all day,--it -was now near sunset,--with nothing to do, and still worse with not -much of anything to eat, had made them all cross; and no wonder. The -economical Juan Can, finding that the work would be done by ten, and -supposing they would be off before noon, had ordered only two sheep -killed for them the day before, and the mutton was all gone, and old -Marda, getting her cue from Juan, had cooked no more frijoles than the -family needed themselves; so the poor shearers had indeed had a sorry -day of it, in no wise alleviated either by the reports brought from time -to time that their captain was lying on the ground, face down, under -Senor Felipe's window, and must not be spoken to. - -It was not a propitious moment for Alessandro to make the announcement -of his purpose to leave the band; but he made a clean breast of it in -few words, and diplomatically diverted all resentment from himself by -setting them immediately to voting for a new captain to take his place -for the remainder of the season. - -"Very well!" they said hotly; "captain for this year, captain for next, -too!" It wasn't so easy to step out and in again of the captaincy of the -shearers! - -"All right," said Alessandro; "please yourselves! It is all the same -to me. But here I am going to stay for the present. Father Salvierderra -wishes it." - -"Oh, if the Father wishes it, that is different." "Ah, that alters -the case!" "Alessandro is right!" came up in confused murmur from the -appeased crowd. They were all good Catholics, every one of the Temecula -men, and would never think of going against the Father's orders. But -when they understood that Alessandro's intention was to remain until -Juan Canito's leg should be well enough for him to go about again, fresh -grumblings began. That would not do. It would be all summer. Alessandro -must be at home for the Saint Juan's Day fete, in midsummer,--no doing -anything without Alessandro then. What was he thinking of? Not of the -midsummer fete, that was certain, when he promised to stay as long as -the Senorita Ramona should need him. Alessandro had remembered nothing -except the Senorita's voice, while she was speaking to him. If he had -had a hundred engagements for the summer, he would have forgotten -them all. Now that he was reminded of the midsummer fete, it must be -confessed he was for a moment dismayed at the recollection; for that was -a time, when, as he well knew, his father could not do without his help. -There were sometimes a thousand Indians at this fete, and disorderly -whites took advantage of the occasion to sell whisky and encourage all -sorts of license and disturbance. Yes, Alessandro's clear path of duty -lay at Temecula when that fete came off. That was certain. - -"I will manage to be at home then," he said. "If I am not through here -by that time, I will at least come for the fete. That you may depend -on." - -The voting for the new captain did not take long. There was, in fact, -but one man in the band fit for the office. That was Fernando, the only -old man in the band; all the rest were young men under thirty, or boys. -Fernando had been captain for several years, but had himself begged, -two years ago, that the band would elect Alessandro in his place. He was -getting old, and he did not like to have to sit up and walk about the -first half of every night, to see that the shearers were not gambling -away all their money at cards; he preferred to roll himself up in his -blanket at sunset and sleep till dawn the next morning. But just for -these few remaining weeks he had no objection to taking the office -again. And Alessandro was right, entirely right, in remaining; they -ought all to see that, Fernando said; and his word had great weight with -the men. - -The Senora Moreno, he reminded them, had always been a good friend -of theirs, and had said that so long as she had sheep to shear, the -Temecula shearers should do it; and it would be very ungrateful now if -they did not do all they could to help her in her need. - -The blankets were rolled up, the saddles collected, the ponies caught -and driven up to the shed, when Ramona and Margarita were seen coming at -full speed from the house. - -"Alessandro! Alessandro!" cried Ramona, out of breath, "I have only just -now heard that the men have had no dinner to-day. I am ashamed; but you -know it would not have happened except for the sickness in the house. -Everybody thought they were going away this morning. Now they must have -a good supper before they go. It is already cooking. Tell them to wait." - -Those of the men who understood the Spanish language, in which Ramona -spoke, translated it to those who did not, and there was a cordial -outburst of thanks to the Senorita from all lips. All were only too -ready to wait for the supper. Their haste to begin on the Ortega -sheep-shearing had suddenly faded from their minds. Only Alessandro -hesitated. - -"It is a good six hours' ride to Ortega's," he said to the men. "You'll -be late in, if you do not start now." - -"Supper will be ready in an hour," said Ramona. "Please let them stay; -one hour can't make any difference." - -Alessandro smiled. "It will take nearer two, Senorita, before they are -off," he said; "but it shall be as you wish, and many thanks to you, -Senorita, for thinking of it." - -"Oh, I did not think of it myself," said Ramona. "It was Margarita, -here, who came and told me. She knew we would be ashamed to have the -shearers go away hungry. I am afraid they are very hungry indeed," she -added ruefully. "It must be dreadful to go a whole day without anything -to eat; they had their breakfast soon after sunrise, did they not?" - -"Yes, Senorita," answered Alessandro, "but that is not long; one can do -without food very well for one day. I often do." - -"Often." exclaimed Ramona; "but why should you do that?" Then suddenly -bethinking herself, she said in her heart, "Oh, what a thoughtless -question! Can it be they are so poor as that?" And to save Alessandro -from replying, she set off on a run for the house, saying, "Come, come, -Margarita, we must go and help at the supper." - -"Will the Senorita let me help, too," asked Alessandro, wondering at his -own boldness,--"if there is anything I can do?" - -"Oh, no," she cried, "there is not. Yes, there is, too. You can help -carry the things down to the booth; for we are short of hands now, with -Juan Can in bed, and Luigo gone to Ventura for the doctor. You and some -of your men might carry all the supper over. I'll call you when we are -ready." - -The men sat down in a group and waited contentedly, smoking, chatting, -and laughing. Alessandro walked up and down between the kitchen and -the shed. He could hear the sounds of rattling dishes, jingling spoons, -frying, pouring water. Savory smells began to be wafted out. Evidently -old Marda meant to atone for the shortcoming of the noon. Juan Can, in -his bed, also heard and smelled what was going on. "May the fiends get -me," he growled, "if that wasteful old hussy isn't getting up a feast -for those beasts of Indians! There's mutton and onions, and peppers -stewing, and potatoes, I'll be bound, and God knows what else, for -beggars that are only too thankful to get a handful of roasted wheat or -a bowl of acorn porridge at home. Well, they'll have to say they -were well feasted at the Moreno's,--that's one comfort. I wonder if -Margarita'll think I am worthy of tasting that stew! San Jose! but it -smells well! Margarita! Margarita!" he called at top of his lungs; but -Margarita did not hear. She was absorbed in her duties in the kitchen; -and having already taken Juan at sundown a bowl of the good broth which -the doctor had said was the only sort of food he must eat for two weeks, -she had dismissed him from her mind for the night. Moreover, Margarita -was absent-minded to-night. She was more than half in love with the -handsome Alessandro, who, when he had been on the ranch the year -before, had danced with her, and said many a light pleasant word to her, -evenings, as a young man may; and what ailed him now, that he seemed, -when he saw her, as if she were no more than a transparent shade, -through which he stared at the sky behind her, she did not know. Senor -Felipe's illness, she thought, and the general misery and confusion, -had perhaps put everything else out of his head; but now he was going -to stay, and it would be good fun having him there, if only Senor Felipe -got well, which he seemed likely to do. And as Margarita flew about, -here, there, and everywhere, she cast frequent glances at the tall -straight figure pacing up and down in the dusk outside. - -Alessandro did not see her. He did not see anything. He was looking off -at the sunset, and listening. Ramona had said, "I will call you when we -are ready." But she did not do as she said. She told Margarita to call. - -"Run, Margarita," she said. "All is ready now; see if Alessandro is in -sight. Call him to come and take the things." - -So it was Margarita's voice, and not Ramona's, that called "Alessandro! -Alessandro! the supper is ready." - -But it was Ramona who, when Alessandro reached the doorway, stood there -holding in her arms a huge smoking platter of the stew which had so -roused poor Juan Can's longings; and it was Ramona who said, as she gave -it into Alessandro's hands, "Take care, Alessandro, it is very full. The -gravy will run over if you are not careful. You are not used to waiting -on table;" and as she said it, she smiled full into Alessandro's -eyes,--a little flitting, gentle, friendly smile, which went near to -making him drop the platter, mutton, gravy, and all, then and there, at -her feet. - -The men ate fast and greedily, and it was not, after all, much more than -an hour, when, full fed and happy, they were mounting their horses to -set off. At the last moment Alessandro drew one of them aside. "Jose," -he said, "whose horse is the faster, yours or Antonio's?" - -"Mine," promptly replied Jose. "Mine, by a great deal. I will run -Antonio any day he likes." - -Alessandro knew this as well before asking as after. But Alessandro was -learning a great many things in these days, among other things a little -diplomacy. He wanted a man to ride at the swiftest to Temecula and back. -He knew that Jose's pony could go like the wind. He also knew that there -was a perpetual feud of rivalry between him and Antonio, in matter of -the fleetness of their respective ponies. So, having chosen Jose for -his messenger, he went thus to work to make sure that he would urge his -horse to its utmost speed. - -Whispering in Jose's ear a few words, he said, "Will you go? I will pay -you for the time, all you could earn at the shearing." - -"I will go," said Jose, elated. "You will see me back tomorrow by -sundown." - -"Not earlier?" asked Alessandro. "I thought by noon." - -"Well, by noon be it, then," said Jose. "The horse can do it." - -"Have great care!" said Alessandro. - -"That will I," replied Jose; and giving his horse's sides a sharp punch -with his knees, set off at full gallop westward. - -"I have sent Jose with a message to Temecula," said Alessandro, walking -up to Fernando. "He will be back here tomorrow noon, and join you at the -Ortega's the next morning." - -"Back here by noon to-morrow!" exclaimed Fernando. "Not unless he kills -his horse!" - -"That was what he said," replied Alessandro, nonchalantly. - -"Easy enough, too!" cried Antonio, riding up on his little dun mare. -"I'd go in less time than that, on this mare. Jose's is no match for -her, and never was. Why did you not send me, Alessandro?" - -"Is your horse really faster than Jose's?" said Alessandro. "Then I wish -I had sent you. I'll send you next time." - - - - -VII - -IT was strange to see how quickly and naturally Alessandro fitted into -his place in the household. How tangles straightened out, and rough -places became smooth, as he quietly took matters in hand. Luckily, old -Juan Can had always liked him, and felt a great sense of relief at the -news of his staying on. Not a wholly unselfish relief, perhaps, for -since his accident Juan had not been without fears that he might lose -his place altogether; there was a Mexican he knew, who had long -been scheming to get the situation, and had once openly boasted at -a fandango, where he was dancing with Anita, that as soon as that -superannuated old fool, Juan Canito, was out of the way, he meant to -be the Senora Moreno's head shepherd himself. To have seen this man in -authority on the place, would have driven Juan out of his mind. - -But the gentle Alessandro, only an Indian,--and of course the Senora -would never think of putting an Indian permanently in so responsible a -position on the estate,--it was exactly as Juan would have wished; and -he fraternized with Alessandro heartily from the outset; kept him in -his room by the hour, giving him hundreds of long-winded directions and -explanations about things which, if only he had known it, Alessandro -understood far better than he did. - -Alessandro's father had managed the Mission flocks and herds at San Luis -Rey for twenty years; few were as skilful as he; he himself owned nearly -as many sheep as the Senora Moreno; but this Juan did not know. Neither -did he realize that Alessandro, as Chief Pablo's son, had a position -of his own not without dignity and authority. To Juan, an Indian was -an Indian, and that was the end of it. The gentle courteousness of -Alessandro's manner, his quiet behavior, were all set down in Juan's -mind to the score of the boy's native amiability and sweetness. If Juan -had been told that the Senor Felipe himself had not been more carefully -trained in all precepts of kindliness, honorable dealing, and polite -usage, by the Senora, his mother, than had Alessandro by his father, he -would have opened his eyes wide. The standards of the two parents -were different, to be sure; but the advantage could not be shown to be -entirely on the Senora's side. There were many things that Felipe knew, -of which Alessandro was profoundly ignorant; but there were others -in which Alessandro could have taught Felipe; and when it came to the -things of the soul, and of honor, Alessandro's plane was the higher -of the two. Felipe was a fair-minded, honorable man, as men go; but -circumstances and opportunity would have a hold on him they could never -get on Alessandro. Alessandro would not lie; Felipe might. Alessandro -was by nature full of veneration and the religious instinct; Felipe had -been trained into being a good Catholic. But they were both singularly -pure-minded, open-hearted, generous-souled young men, and destined, by -the strange chance which had thus brought them into familiar relations, -to become strongly attached to each other. After the day on which -the madness of Felipe's fever had been so miraculously soothed and -controlled by Alessandro's singing, he was never again wildly delirious. -When he waked in the night from that first long sleep, he was, as Father -Salvierderra had predicted, in his right mind; knew every one, and asked -rational questions. But the over-heated and excited brain did not -for some time wholly resume normal action. At intervals he wandered, -especially when just arousing from sleep; and, strangely enough, it -was always for Alessandro that he called at these times, and it seemed -always to be music that he craved. He recollected Alessandro's having -sung to him that first night. "I was not so crazy as you all thought," -he said. "I knew a great many of the things I said, but I couldn't help -saying them; and I heard Ramona ask Alessandro to sing; and when he -began, I remember I thought the Virgin had reached down and put her hand -on my head and cooled it." - -On the second evening, the first after the shearers had left, -Alessandro, seeing Ramona in the veranda, went to the foot of the steps, -and said, "Senorita, would Senor Felipe like to have me play on the -violin to him tonight?" - -"Why, whose violin have you got?" exclaimed Ramona, astonished. - -"My own, Senorita." - -"Your own! I thought you said you did not bring it." - -"Yes, Senorita, that is true; but I sent for it last night, and it is -here." - -"Sent to Temecula and back already!" cried Ramona. - -"Yes, Senorita. Our ponies are swift and strong. They can go a hundred -miles in a day, and not suffer. It was Jose brought it, and he is at the -Ortega's by this time." - -Ramona's eyes glistened. "I wish I could have thanked him," she said. -"You should have let me know. He ought to have been paid for going." - -"I paid him, Senorita; he went for me," said Alessandro, with a shade of -wounded pride in the tone, which Ramona should have perceived, but did -not, and went on hurting the lover's heart still more. - -"But it was for us that you sent for it, Alessandro; the Senora would -rather pay the messenger herself." - -"It is paid, Senorita. It is nothing. If the Senor Felipe wishes to hear -the violin, I will play;" and Alessandro walked slowly away. - -Ramona gazed after him. For the first time, she looked at him with no -thought of his being an Indian,--a thought there had surely been no need -of her having, since his skin was not a shade darker than Felipe's; -but so strong was the race feeling, that never till that moment had she -forgotten it. - -"What a superb head, and what a walk!" she thought. Then, looking more -observantly, she said: "He walks as if he were offended. He did not -like my offering to pay for the messenger. He wanted to do it for dear -Felipe. I will tell Felipe, and we will give him some present when he -goes away." - -"Isn't he splendid, Senorita?" came in a light laughing tone from -Margarita's lips close to her ear, in the fond freedom of their -relation. "Isn't he splendid? And oh, Senorita, you can't think how he -dances! Last year I danced with him every night; he has wings on his -feet, for all he is so tall and big." - -There was a coquettish consciousness in the girl's tone, that was -suddenly, for some unexplained reason, exceedingly displeasing to -Ramona. Drawing herself away, she spoke to Margarita in a tone she had -never before in her life used. "It is not fitting to speak like that -about young men. The Senora would be displeased if she heard you," she -said, and walked swiftly away leaving poor Margarita as astounded as if -she had got a box on the ear. - -She looked after Ramona's retreating figure, then after Alessandro's. -She had heard them talking together just before she came up. Thoroughly -bewildered and puzzled, she stood motionless for several seconds, -reflecting; then, shaking her head, she ran away, trying to dismiss the -harsh speech from her mind. "Alessandro must have vexed the Senorita," -she thought, "to make her speak like that to me." But the incident was -not so easily dismissed from Margarita's thoughts. Many times in the -day it recurred to her, still a bewilderment and a puzzle, as far from -solution as ever. It was a tiny seed, whose name she did not dream of; -but it was dropped in soil where it would grow some day,--forcing-house -soil, and a bitter seed; and when it blossomed, Ramona would have an -enemy. - -All unconscious, equally of Margarita's heart and her own, Ramona -proceeded to Felipe's room. Felipe was sleeping, the Senora sitting by -his side, as she had sat for days and nights,--her dark face looking -thinner and more drawn each day; her hair looking even whiter, if that -could be; and her voice growing hollow from faintness and sorrow. - -"Dear Senora," whispered Ramona, "do go out for a few moments while he -sleeps, and let me watch,--just on the walk in front of the veranda. The -sun is still lying there, bright and warm. You will be ill if you do not -have air." - -The Senora shook her head. "My place is here," she answered, speaking in -a dry, hard tone. Sympathy was hateful to the Senora Moreno; she wished -neither to give it nor take it. "I shall not leave him. I do not need -the air." - -Ramona had a cloth-of-gold rose in her hand. The veranda eaves were now -shaded with them, hanging down like a thick fringe of golden tassels. It -was the rose Felipe loved best. Stooping, she laid it on the bed, near -Felipe's head. "He will like to see it when he wakes," she said. - -The Senora seized it, and flung it far out in the room. "Take it away! -Flowers are poison when one is ill," she said coldly. "Have I never told -you that?" - -"No, Senora," replied Ramona, meekly; and she glanced involuntarily at -the saucer of musk which the Senora kept on the table close to Felipe's -pillow. - -"The musk is different," said the Senora, seeing the glance. "Musk is a -medicine; it revives." - -Ramona knew, but she would have never dared to say, that Felipe hated -musk. Many times he had said to her how he hated the odor; but his -mother was so fond of it, that it must always be that the veranda and -the house would be full of it. Ramona hated it too. At times it made her -faint, with a deadly faintness. But neither she nor Felipe would have -confessed as much to the Senora; and if they had, she would have thought -it all a fancy. - -"Shall I stay?" asked Ramona, gently. - -"As you please," replied the Senora. The simple presence of Ramona irked -her now with a feeling she did not pretend to analyze, and would -have been terrified at if she had. She would not have dared to say -to herself, in plain words: "Why is that girl well and strong, and my -Felipe lying here like to die! If Felipe dies, I cannot bear the sight -of her. What is she, to be preserved of the saints!" - -But that, or something like it, was what she felt whenever Ramona -entered the room; still more, whenever she assisted in ministering to -Felipe. If it had been possible, the Senora would have had no hands but -her own do aught for her boy. Even tears from Ramona sometimes irritated -her. "What does she know about loving Felipe! He is nothing to her!" -thought the Senora, strangely mistaken, strangely blind, strangely -forgetting how feeble is the tie of blood in the veins by the side of -love in the heart. - -If into this fiery soul of the Senora's could have been dropped one -second's knowledge of the relative positions she and Ramona already -occupied in Felipe's heart, she would, on the spot, have either died -herself or have slain Ramona, one or the other. But no such knowledge -was possible; no such idea could have found entrance into the Senora's -mind. A revelation from Heaven of it could hardly have reached even her -ears. So impenetrable are the veils which, fortunately for us all, are -forever held by viewless hands between us and the nearest and closest of -our daily companions. - -At twilight of this day Felipe was restless and feverish again. He had -dozed at intervals all day long, but had had no refreshing sleep. - -"Send for Alessandro," he said. "Let him come and sing to me." - -"He has his violin now; he can play, if you would like that better," -said Ramona; and she related what Alessandro had told her of the -messenger's having ridden to Temecula and back in a night and half a -day, to bring it. - -"I wanted to pay the man," she said; "I knew of course your mother would -wish to reward him. But I fancy Alessandro was offended. He answered me -shortly that it was paid, and it was nothing." - -"You couldn't have offended him more," said Felipe. "What a pity! He is -as proud as Lucifer himself, that Alessandro. You know his father has -always been the head of their band; in fact, he has authority over -several bands; General, they call it now, since they got the title from -the Americans; they used to call it Chief., and until Father Peyri left -San Luis Rey, Pablo was in charge of all the sheep, and general steward -and paymaster. Father Peyri trusted him with everything; I've heard he -would leave boxes full of uncounted gold in Pablo's charge to pay off -the Indians. Pablo reads and writes, and is very well off; he has as -many sheep as we have, I fancy!" - -"What!" exclaimed Ramona, astonished. "They all look as if they were -poor." - -"Oh, well, so they are," replied Felipe, "compared with us; but one -reason is, they share everything with each other. Old Pablo feeds and -supports half his village, they say. So long as he has anything, he will -never see one of his Indians hungry." - -"How generous!" warmly exclaimed Ramona; "I think they are better than -we are, Felipe!" - -"I think so, too," said Felipe. "That's what I have always said. The -Indians are the most generous people in the world. Of course they have -learned it partly from us; but they were very much so when the Fathers -first came here. You ask Father Salvierderra some day. He has read -all Father Junipero's and Father Crespi's diaries, and he says it is -wonderful how the wild savages gave food to every one who came." - -"Felipe, you are talking too much," said the Senora's voice, in the -doorway; and as she spoke she looked reproachfully at Ramona. If she -had said in words, "See how unfit you are to be trusted with Felipe. No -wonder I do not leave the room except when I must!" her meaning could -not have been plainer. Ramona felt it keenly, and not without some -misgiving that it was deserved. - -"Oh, dear Felipe, has it hurt you?" she said timidly; and to the Senora, -"Indeed, Senora, he has been speaking but a very few moments, very low." - -"Go call Alessandro, Ramona, will you?" said Felipe. "Tell him to bring -his violin. I think I will go to sleep if he plays." - -A long search Ramona had for Alessandro. Everybody had seen him a few -minutes ago, but nobody knew where he was now. Kitchens, sheepfolds, -vineyards, orchards, Juan Can's bedchamber,--Ramona searched them all -in vain. At last, standing at the foot of the veranda steps, and looking -down the garden, she thought she saw figures moving under the willows by -the washing-stones. - -"Can he be there?" she said. "What can he be doing there? Who is it with -him?" And she walked down the path, calling, "Alessandro! Alessandro!" - -At the first sound, Alessandro sprang from the side of his companion, -and almost before the second syllables had been said, was standing face -to face with Ramona. - -"Here I am, Senorita. Does Senor Felipe want me? I have my violin here. -I thought perhaps he would like to have me play to him in the twilight." - -"Yes," replied Ramona, "he wishes to hear you. I have been looking -everywhere for you." As she spoke, she was half unconsciously peering -beyond into the dusk, to see whose figure it was, slowly moving by the -brook. - -Nothing escaped Alessandro's notice where Ramona was concerned. "It is -Margarita," he said instantly. "Does the Senorita want her? Shall I run -and call her?" - -"No," said Ramona, again displeased, she knew not why, nor in fact knew -she was displeased; "no, I was not looking for her. What is she doing -there?" - -"She is washing," replied Alessandro, innocently. - -"Washing at this time of day!" thought Ramona, severely. "A mere -pretext. I shall watch Margarita. The Senora would never allow this sort -of thing." And as she walked back to the house by Alessandro's side, -she meditated whether or no she would herself speak to Margarita on the -subject in the morning. - -Margarita, in the mean time, was also having her season of reflections -not the pleasantest. As she soused her aprons up and down in the water, -she said to herself, "I may as well finish them now I am here. How -provoking! I've no more than got a word with him, than she must come, -calling him away. And he flies as if he was shot on an arrow, at -the first word. I'd like to know what's come over the man, to be so -different. If I could ever get a good half-hour with him alone, I'd soon -find out. Oh, but his eyes go through me, through and through me! I -know he's an Indian, but what do I care for that. He's a million times -handsomer than Senor Felipe. And Juan Jose said the other day he'd make -enough better head shepherd than old Juan Can, if Senor Felipe'd only -see it; and why shouldn't he get to see it, if Alessandro's here -all summer?" And before the aprons were done, Margarita had a fine -air-castle up: herself and Alessandro married, a nice little house, -children playing in the sunshine below the artichoke-patch, she herself -still working for the Senora. "And the Senorita will perhaps marry Senor -Felipe," she added, her thoughts moving more hesitatingly. "He worships -the ground she walks on. Anybody with quarter of a blind eye can see -that; but maybe the Senora would not let him. Anyhow, Senor Felipe is -sure to have a wife, and so and so." It was an innocent, girlish castle, -built of sweet and natural longings, for which no maiden, high or -low, need blush; but its foundations were laid in sand, on which would -presently beat such winds and floods as poor little Margarita never -dreamed of. - -The next day Margarita and Ramona both went about their day's business -with a secret purpose in their hearts. Margarita had made up her mind -that before night she would, by fair means or foul, have a good long -talk with Alessandro. "He was fond enough of me last year, I know," -she said to herself, recalling some of the dances and the good-night -leave-takings at that time. "It's because he is so put upon by everybody -now. What with Juan Can in one bed sending for him to prate to him about -the sheep, and Senor Felipe in another sending for him to fiddle him to -sleep, and all the care of the sheep, it's a wonder he's not out of his -mind altogether. But I'll find a chance, or make one, before this day's -sun sets. If I can once get a half-hour with him, I'm not afraid after -that; I know the way it is with men!" said the confident Margarita, -who, truth being told, it must be admitted, did indeed know a great -deal about the way it is with men, and could be safely backed, in a fair -field, with a fair start, against any girl of her age and station in -the country. So much for Margarita's purpose, at the outset of a day -destined to be an eventful one in her life. - -Ramona's purpose was no less clear. She had decided, after some -reflection, that she would not speak to the Senora about Margarita's -having been under the willows with Alessandro in the previous evening, -but would watch her carefully and see whether there were any farther -signs of her attempting to have clandestine interviews with him. - -This course she adopted, she thought, chiefly because of her affection -for Margarita, and her unwillingness to expose her to the Senora's -displeasure, which would be great, and terrible to bear. She was also -aware of an unwillingness to bring anything to light which would reflect -ever so lightly upon Alessandro in the Senora's estimation. "And he is -not really to blame," thought Ramona, "if a girl follows him about and -makes free with him. She must have seen him at the willows, and gone -down there on purpose to meet him, making a pretext of the washing. For -she never in this world would have gone to wash in the dark, as he must -have known, if he were not a fool. He is not the sort of person, it -seems to me, to be fooling with maids. He seems as full of grave thought -as Father Salvierderra. If I see anything amiss in Margarita to-day, I -shall speak to her myself, kindly but firmly, and tell her to conduct -herself more discreetly." - -Then, as the other maiden's had done, Ramona's thoughts, being -concentrated on Alessandro, altered a little from their first key, and -grew softer and more imaginative; strangely enough, taking some of the -phrases, as it were, out of the other maiden's mouth. - -"I never saw such eyes as Alessandro has," she said. "I wonder any girl -should make free with him. Even I myself, when he fixes his eyes on me, -feel a constraint. There is something in them like the eyes of a saint, -so solemn, yet so mild. I am sure he is very good." - -And so the day opened; and if there were abroad in the valley that day -a demon of mischief, let loose to tangle the skeins of human affairs, -things could not have fallen out better for his purpose than they did; -for it was not yet ten o'clock of the morning, when Ramona, sitting at -her embroidery in the veranda, half hid behind the vines, saw Alessandro -going with his pruning-knife in his hand towards the artichoke-patch at -the east of the garden, and joining the almond orchard. "I wonder -what he is going to do there," she thought. "He can't be going to cut -willows;" and her eyes followed him till he disappeared among the trees. - -Ramona was not the only one who saw this. Margarita, looking from the -east window of Father Salvierderra's room, saw the same thing. "Now's -my chance!" she said; and throwing a white reboso coquettishly over her -head, she slipped around the corner of the house. She ran swiftly in the -direction in which Alessandro had gone. The sound of her steps reached -Ramona, who, lifting her eyes, took in the whole situation at a glance. -There was no possible duty, no possible message, which would take -Margarita there. Ramona's cheeks blazed with a disproportionate -indignation. But she bethought herself, "Ah, the Senora may have sent -her to call Alessandro!" She rose, went to the door of Felipe's room, -and looked in. The Senora was sitting in the chair by Felipe's bed, -with her eyes closed. Felipe was dozing. The Senora opened her eyes, and -looked inquiringly at Ramona. - -"Do you know where Margarita is?" said Ramona. - -"In Father Salvierderra's room, or else in the kitchen helping Marda," -replied the Senora, in a whisper. "I told her to help Marda with the -peppers this morning." - -Ramona nodded, returned to the veranda, and sat down to decide on -her course of action. Then she rose again, and going to Father -Salvierderra's room, looked in. The room was still in disorder. -Margarita had left her work there unfinished. The color deepened on -Ramona's cheeks. It was strange how accurately she divined each process -of the incident. "She saw him from this window," said Ramona, "and has -run after him. It is shameful. I will go and call her back, and let her -see that I saw it all. It is high time that this was stopped." - -But once back in the veranda, Ramona halted, and seated herself in her -chair again. The idea of seeming to spy was revolting to her. - -"I will wait here till she comes back," she said, and took up her -embroidery. But she could not work. As the minutes went slowly by, she -sat with her eyes fixed on the almond orchard, where first Alessandro -and then Margarita had disappeared. At last she could bear it no longer. -It seemed to her already a very long time. It was not in reality very -long,--a half hour or so, perhaps; but it was long enough for Margarita -to have made great headway, as she thought, in her talk with Alessandro, -and for things to have reached just the worst possible crisis at which -they could have been surprised, when Ramona suddenly appeared at the -orchard gate, saying in a stern tone, "Margarita, you are wanted in the -house!" At a bad crisis, indeed, for everybody concerned. The picture -which Ramona had seen, as she reached the gate, was this: Alessandro, -standing with his back against the fence, his right hand hanging -listlessly down, with the pruning-knife in it, his left hand in the hand -of Margarita, who stood close to him, looking up in his face, with a -half-saucy, half-loving expression. What made bad matters worse, was, -that at the first sight of Ramona, Alessandro snatched his hand from -Margarita's, and tried to draw farther off from her, looking at her with -an expression which, even in her anger, Ramona could not help seeing was -one of disgust and repulsion. And if Ramona saw it, how much more did -Margarita! Saw it, as only a woman repulsed in presence of another woman -can see and feel. The whole thing was over in the twinkling of an eye; -the telling it takes double, treble the time of the happening. Before -Alessandro was fairly aware what had befallen, Ramona and Margarita -were disappearing from view under the garden trellis,--Ramona walking in -advance, stately, silent, and Margarita following, sulky, abject in her -gait, but with a raging whirlwind in her heart. - -It had taken only the twinkling of an eye, but it had told Margarita the -truth. Alessandro too. - -"My God." he said, "the Senorita thought me making love to that girl. -May the fiends get her! The Senorita looked at me as if I were a dog. How -could she think a man would look at a woman after he had once seen her! -And I can never, never speak to her to tell her! Oh, this cannot be -borne!" And in his rage Alessandro threw his pruning-knife whirling -through the air so fiercely, it sank to the hilt in one of the old -olive-trees. He wished he were dead. He was minded to flee the place. -How could he ever look the Senorita in the face again! - -"Perdition take that girl!" he said over and over in his helpless -despair. An ill outlook for Margarita after this; and the girl had not -deserved it. - -In Margarita's heart the pain was more clearly defined. She had seen -Ramona a half-second before Alessandro had; and dreaming no special -harm, except a little confusion at being seen thus standing with -him,--for she would tell the Senorita all about it when matters had gone -a little farther,--had not let go of Alessandro's hand. But the next -second she had seen in his face a look; oh, she would never forget it, -never! That she should live to have had any man look at her like that! -At the first glimpse of the Senorita, all the blood in his body seemed -rushing into his face, and he had snatched his hand away,--for it was -Margarita herself that had taken his hand, not he hers,--had snatched -his hand away, and pushed her from him, till she had nearly fallen. All -this might have been borne, if it had been only a fear of the Senorita's -seeing them, which had made him do it. But Margarita knew a great deal -better than that. That one swift, anguished, shame-smitten, appealing, -worshipping look on Alessandro's face, as his eyes rested on Ramona, was -like a flash of light into Margarita's consciousness. Far better than -Alessandro himself, she now knew his secret. In her first rage she did -not realize either the gulf between herself and Ramona, or that between -Ramona and Alessandro. Her jealous rage was as entire as if they had -all been equals together. She lost her head altogether, and there was -embodied insolence in the tone in which she said presently, "Did the -Senorita want me?" - -Turning swiftly on her, and looking her full in the eye, Ramona said: -"I saw you go to the orchard, Margarita, and I knew what you went for. I -knew that you were at the brook last night with Alessandro. All I wanted -of you was, to tell you that if I see anything more of this sort, I -shall speak to the Senora." - -"There is no harm," muttered Margarita, sullenly. "I don't know what the -Senorita means." - -"You know very well, Margarita," retorted Ramona. "You know that the -Senora permits nothing of the kind. Be careful, now, what you do." And -with that the two separated, Ramona returning to the veranda and her -embroidery, and Margarita to her neglected duty of making the good -Father's bed. But each girl's heart was hot and unhappy; and Margarita's -would have been still hotter and unhappier, had she heard the words -which were being spoken on the veranda a little later. - -After a few minutes of his blind rage at Margarita, himself, and fate -generally, Alessandro, recovering his senses, had ingeniously persuaded -himself that, as the Senora's; and also the Senorita's servant, for the -time being, he owed it to them to explain the situation in which he had -just been found. Just what he was to say he did not know; but no sooner -had the thought struck him, than he set off at full speed for the house, -hoping to find Ramona on the veranda, where he knew she spent all her -time when not with Senor Felipe. - -When Ramona saw him coming, she lowered her eyes, and was absorbed in -her embroidery. She did not wish to look at him. - -The footsteps stopped. She knew he was standing at the steps. She would -not look up. She thought if she did not, he would go away. She did not -know either the Indian or the lover nature. After a time, finding the -consciousness of the soundless presence intolerable, she looked up, and -surprised on Alessandro's face a gaze which had, in its long interval -of freedom from observation, been slowly gathering up into it all the -passion of the man's soul, as a burning-glass draws the fire of the -sun's rays. Involuntarily a low cry burst from Ramona's lips, and she -sprang to her feet. - -"Ah! did I frighten the Senorita? Forgive. I have been waiting here a -long time to speak to her. I wished to say--" - -Suddenly Alessandro discovered that he did not know what he wished to -say. - -As suddenly, Ramona discovered that she knew all he wished to say. But -she spoke not, only looked at him searchingly. - -"Senorita," he began again, "I would never be unfaithful to my duty to -the Senora, and to you." - -"I believe you, Alessandro," said Ramona. "It is not necessary to say -more." - -At these words a radiant joy spread over Alessandro's face. He had not -hoped for this. He felt, rather than heard, that Ramona understood him. -He felt, for the first time, a personal relation between himself and -her. - -"It is well," he said, in the brief phrase so frequent with his people. -"It is well." And with a reverent inclination of his head, he walked -away. Margarita, still dawdling surlily over her work in Father -Salvierderra's room, heard Alessandro's voice, and running to discover -to whom he was speaking, caught these last, words. Peering from behind -a curtain, she saw the look with which he said them; saw also the -expression on Ramona's face as she listened. - -Margarita clenched her hands. The seed had blossomed. Ramona had an -enemy. - -"Oh, but I am glad Father Salvierderra has gone!" said the girl, -bitterly. "He'd have had this out of me, spite of everything. I haven't -got to confess for a year, maybe; and much can happen in that time." - -Much, indeed! - - - - -VIII - -FELIPE gained but slowly. The relapse was indeed, as Father Salvierderra -had said, worse than the original attack. Day after day he lay with -little apparent change; no pain, but a weakness so great that it was -almost harder to bear than sharp suffering would have been. Nearly every -day Alessandro was sent for to play or sing to him. It seemed to be the -only thing that roused him from his half lethargic state. Sometimes he -would talk with Alessandro on matters relative to the estate, and show -for a few moments something like his old animation; but he was soon -tired, and would close his eyes, saying: "I will speak with you again -about this, Alessandro; I am going to sleep now. Sing." - -The Senora, seeing Felipe's enjoyment of Alessandro's presence, soon -came to have a warm feeling towards him herself; moreover, she greatly -liked his quiet reticence. There was hardly a surer road to the Senora's -favor, for man or woman, than to be chary of speech and reserved -in demeanor. She had an instinct of kinship to all that was silent, -self-contained, mysterious, in human nature. The more she observed -Alessandro, the more she trusted and approved him. Luckily for Juan Can, -he did not know how matters were working in his mistress's mind. If he -had, he would have been in a fever of apprehension, and would have got -at swords' points with Alessandro immediately. On the contrary, all -unaware of the real situation of affairs, and never quite sure that the -Mexican he dreaded might not any day hear of his misfortune, and appear, -asking for the place, he took every opportunity to praise Alessandro to -the Senora. She never visited his bedside that he had not something to -say in favor of the lad, as he called him. - -"Truly, Senora," he said again and again, "I do marvel where the lad -got so much knowledge, at his age. He is like an old hand at the sheep -business. He knows more than any shepherd I have,--a deal more; and it -is not only of sheep. He has had experience, too, in the handling of -cattle. Juan Jose has been beholden to him more than once, already, for -a remedy of which he knew not. And such modesty, withal. I knew not that -there were such Indians; surely there cannot be many such." - -"No, I fancy not," the Senora would reply, absently. "His father is a -man of intelligence, and has trained his son well." - -"There is nothing he is not ready to do," continued Alessandro's -eulogist. "He is as handy with tools as if he had been 'prenticed to a -carpenter. He has made me a new splint for my leg, which was a relief -like salve to a wound, so much easier was it than before. He is a good -lad,--a good lad." - -None of these sayings of Juan's were thrown away on the Senora. More and -more closely she watched Alessandro; and the very thing which Juan -had feared, and which he had thought to avert by having Alessandro his -temporary substitute, was slowly coming to pass. The idea was working -in the Senora's mind, that she might do a worse thing than engage this -young, strong, active, willing man to remain permanently in her employ. -The possibility of an Indian's being so born and placed that he would -hesitate about becoming permanently a servant even to the Senora Moreno, -did not occur to her. However, she would do nothing hastily. There would -be plenty of time before Juan Can's leg was well. She would study the -young man more. In the mean time, she would cause Felipe to think of the -idea, and propose it. - -So one day she said to Felipe: "What a voice that Alessandro has, -Felipe. We shall miss his music sorely when he goes, shall we not?" - -"He's not going!" exclaimed Felipe, startled. - -"Oh, no, no; not at present. He agreed to stay till Juan Can was -about again; but that will be not more than six weeks now, or eight, I -suppose. You forget how time has flown while you have been lying here -ill, my son." - -"True, true!" said Felipe. "Is it really a month already?" and he -sighed. - -"Juan Can tells me that the lad has a marvellous knowledge for one of -his years," continued the Senora. "He says he is as skilled with cattle -as with sheep; knows more than any shepherd we have on the place. He -seems wonderfully quiet and well-mannered. I never saw an Indian who had -such behavior." - -"Old Pablo is just like him," said Felipe. "It was natural enough, -living so long with Father Peyri. And I've seen other Indians, too, with -a good deal the same manner as Alessandro. It's born in them." - -"I can't bear the idea of Alessandro's going away. But by that time you -will be well and strong," said the Senora; "you would not miss him then, -would you?" - -"Yes, I would, too!" said Felipe, pettishly. He was still weak enough to -be childish. "I like him about me. He's worth a dozen times as much as -any man we've got. But I don't suppose money could hire him to stay on -any ranch." - -"Were you thinking of hiring him permanently?" asked the Senora, in a -surprised tone. "I don't doubt you could do so if you wished. They are -all poor, I suppose; he would not work with the shearers if he were not -poor." - -"Oh, it isn't that," said Felipe, impatiently. "You can't understand, -because you've never been among them. But they are just as proud as we -are. Some of them, I mean; such men as old Pablo. They shear sheep for -money just as I sell wool for money. There isn't so much difference. -Alessandro's men in the band obey him, and all the men in the village -obey Pablo, just as implicitly as my men here obey me. Faith, much more -so!" added Felipe, laughing. "You can't understand it, mother, but it's -so. I am not at all sure I could offer Alessandro Assis money enough to -tempt him to stay here as my servant." - -The Senora's nostrils dilated in scorn. "No, I do not understand it," -she said. "Most certainly I do not understand it. Of what is it that -these noble lords of villages are so proud? their ancestors,--naked -savages less than a hundred years ago? Naked savages they themselves -too, to-day, if we had not come here to teach and civilize them. The -race was never meant for anything but servants. That was all the Fathers -ever expected to make of them,--good, faithful Catholics, and contented -laborers in the fields. Of course there are always exceptional -instances, and I think, myself, Alessandro is one. I don't believe, -however, he is so exceptional, but that if you were to offer him, for -instance, the same wages you pay Juan Can, he would jump at the chance -of staying on the place." - -"Well, I shall think about it," said Felipe. "I'd like nothing better -than to have him here always. He's a fellow I heartily like. I'll think -about it." - -Which was all the Senora wanted done at present. - -Ramona had chanced to come in as this conversation was going on. Hearing -Alessandro's name she seated herself at the window, looking out, but -listening intently. The month had done much for Alessandro with -Ramona, though neither Alessandro nor Ramona knew it. It had done -this much,--that Ramona knew always when Alessandro was near, that she -trusted him, and that she had ceased to think of him as an Indian any -more than when she thought of Felipe, she thought of him as a Mexican. -Moreover, seeing the two men frequently together, she had admitted to -herself, as Margarita had done before her, that Alessandro was far the -handsomer man of the two. This Ramona did not like to admit, but she -could not help it. - -"I wish Felipe were as tall and strong as Alessandro," she said to -herself many a time. "I do not see why he could not have been. I wonder -if the Senora sees how much handsomer Alessandro is." - -When Felipe said that he did not believe he could offer Alessandro Assis -money enough to tempt him to stay on the place, Ramona opened her lips -suddenly, as if to speak, then changed her mind, and remained silent. -She had sometimes displeased the Senora by taking part in conversations -between her and her son. - -Felipe saw the motion, but he also thought it wiser to wait till after -his mother had left the room, before he asked Ramona what she was on the -point of saying. As soon as the Senora went out, he said, "What was it, -Ramona, you were going to say just now?" - -Ramona colored. She had decided not to say it. - -"Tell me, Ramona," persisted Felipe. "You were going to say something -about Alessandro's staying; I know you were." - -Ramona did not answer. For the first time in her life she found herself -embarrassed before Felipe. - -"Don't you like Alessandro?" said Felipe. - -"Oh, yes!" replied Ramona, with instant eagerness. "It was not that at -all. I like him very much;" But then she stopped. - -"Well, what is it, then? Have you heard anything on the place about his -staying?" - -"Oh, no, no; not a word!" said Ramona. "Everybody understands that he is -here only till Juan Can gets well. But you said you did not believe you -could offer him money enough to tempt him to stay." - -"Well," said Felipe, inquiringly, "I do not. Do you?" - -"I think he would like to stay," said Ramona, hesitatingly. "That was -what I was going to say." - -"What makes you think so?" asked Felipe. - -"I don't know," Ramona said, still more hesitatingly. Now that she had -said it, she was sorry. Felipe looked curiously at her. Hesitancy like -this, doubts, uncertainty as to her impressions, were not characteristic -of Ramona. A flitting something which was far from being suspicion -or jealousy, and yet was of kin to them both, went through Felipe's -mind,--went through so swiftly that he was scarce conscious of it; if -he had been, he would have scorned himself. Jealous of an Indian -sheep-shearers Impossible! Nevertheless, the flitting something left a -trace, and prevented Felipe from forgetting the trivial incident; and -after this, it was certain that Felipe would observe Ramona more closely -than he had done; would weigh her words and actions; and if she should -seem by a shade altered in either, would watch still more closely. -Meshes were closing around Ramona. Three watchers of her every look and -act,--Alessandro in pure love, Margarita in jealous hate, Felipe in love -and perplexity. Only the Senora observed her not. If she had, -matters might have turned out very differently, for the Senora was -clear-sighted, rarely mistaken in her reading of people's motives, never -long deceived; but her observing and discriminating powers were not in -focus, so far as Ramona was concerned. The girl was curiously outside of -the Senora's real life. Shelter, food, clothes, all external needs, in -so far as her means allowed, the Senora would, without fail, provide for -the child her sister had left in her hands as a trust; but a personal -relation with her, a mother's affection, or even interest and -acquaintance, no. The Senora had not that to give. And if she had it -not, was she to blame? What could she do? Years ago Father Salvierderra -had left off remonstrating with her on this point. "Is there more I -should do for the child? Do you see aught lacking, aught amiss?" the -Senora would ask, conscientiously, but with pride. And the Father, thus -inquired of, could not point out a duty which had been neglected. - -"You do not love her, my daughter," he said. - -"No." Senora Moreno's truthfulness was of the adamantine order. "No, I -do not. I cannot. One cannot love by act of will." - -"That is true," the Father would say sadly; "but affection may be -cultivated." - -"Yes, if it exists," was the Senora's constant answer. "But in this case -it does not exist. I shall never love Ramona. Only at your command, and -to save my sister a sorrow, I took her. I will never fail in my duty to -her." - -It was of no use. As well say to the mountain, "Be cast into the sea," -as try to turn the Senora's heart in any direction whither it did not of -itself tend. All that Father Salvierderra could do, was to love Ramona -the more himself, which he did heartily, and more and more each year, -and small marvel at it; for a gentler, sweeter maiden never drew breath -than this same Ramona, who had been all these years, save for Felipe, -lonely in the Senora Moreno's house. - -Three watchers of Ramona now. If there had been a fourth, and that -fourth herself, matters might have turned out differently. But how -should Ramona watch? How should Ramona know? Except for her two years at -school with the nuns, she had never been away from the Senora's house. -Felipe was the only young man she had known,--Felipe, her brother since -she was five years old. - -There were no gayeties in the Senora Moreno's home. Felipe, when he -needed them, went one day's journey, or two, or three, to get them; went -as often as he liked. Ramona never went. How many times she had longed -to go to Santa Barbara, or to Monterey, or Los Angeles; but to have -asked the Senora's permission to accompany her on some of her now -infrequent journeys to these places would have required more courage -than Ramona possessed. It was now three years since she left the convent -school, but she was still as fresh from the hands of the nuns as on the -day when, with loving tears, they had kissed her in farewell. The few -romances and tales and bits of verse she had read were of the most -innocent and old-fashioned kind, and left her hardly less childlike than -before. This childlikeness, combined with her happy temperament, had -kept her singularly contented in her monotonous life. She had fed the -birds, taken care of the flowers, kept the chapel in order, helped in -light household work, embroidered, sung, and, as the Senora eight -years before had bade her do, said her prayers and pleased Father -Salvierderra. - -By processes strangely unlike, she and Alessandro had both been kept -strangely free from thoughts of love and of marriage,--he by living in -the shadow, and she by living in the sun; his heart and thoughts filled -with perplexities and fears, hers filled by a placid routine of light -and easy tasks, and the outdoor pleasures of a child. - -As the days went on, and Felipe still remained feeble, Alessandro -meditated a bold stroke. Each time that he went to Felipe's room to sing -or to play, he felt himself oppressed by the air. An hour of it made him -uncomfortable. The room was large, and had two windows, and the door was -never shut; yet the air seemed to Alessandro stifling. - -"I should be as ill as the Senor Felipe, if I had to stay in that room, -and a bed is a weakening thing, enough to pull the strongest man down," -said Alessandro to Juan Can one day. "Do you think I should anger them -if I asked them to let me bring Senor Felipe out to the veranda and put -him on a bed of my making? I'd wager my head I'd put him on his feet in -a week." - -"And if you did that, you might ask the Senora for the half of the -estate, and get it, lad," replied Juan, Seeing the hot blood darkening -in Alessandro's face at his words, he hastened to add, "Do not be so -hot-blooded. I meant not that you would ask any reward for doing it; I -was only thinking what joy it would be to the Senora to see Senor Felipe -on his feet again. It has often crossed my thoughts that if he did not -get up from this sickness the Senora would not be long behind him. It is -but for him that she lives. And who would have the estate in that case, -I have never been able to find out." - -"Would it not be the Senorita?" asked Alessandro. - -Juan Can laughed an ugly laugh. "Ha, ha! Let the Senora hear you say -that!" he said. "Faith, it will be little the Senorita gets more -than enough for her bread, may be, out of the Moreno estate. Hark ye, -Alessandro; if you will not tell, I will tell you the story of the -Senorita. You know she is not of the Moreno blood; is no relation of -theirs." - -"Yes," said Alessandro; "Margarita has said to me that the Senorita -Ramona was only the foster-child of the Senora Moreno." - -"Foster-child!" repeated Juan Can, contemptuously, "there is something -to the tale I know not, nor ever could find out; for when I was in -Monterey the Ortegna house was shut, and I could not get speech of any -of their people. But this much I know, that it was the Senora Ortegna -that had the girl first in keeping; and there was a scandalous tale -about her birth." - -If Juan Can's eyes had not been purblind with old age, he would have -seen that in Alessandro's face which would have made him choose his -words more carefully. But he went on: "It was after the Senora Ortegna -was buried, that our Senora returned, bringing this child with her; and -I do assure you, lad, I have seen the Senora look at her many a time as -if she wished her dead. And it is a shame, for she was always as fair -and good a child as the saints ever saw. But a stain on the blood, a -stain on the blood, lad, is a bitter thing in a house. This much I know, -her mother was an Indian. Once when I was in the chapel, behind the big -Saint Joseph there, I overheard the Senora say as much. She was talking -to Father Salvierderra, and she said, 'If the child had only the one -blood in her veins, it would be different. I like not these crosses with -Indians.'" - -If Alessandro had been civilized, he would at this word "Indian" have -bounded to his feet. Being Alessandro, he stood if possible stiller than -before, and said in a low voice, "How know you it was the mother that -was the Indian?" - -Juan laughed again, maliciously: "Ha, it is the Ortegna face she has; -and that Ortegna, why, he was the scandal byword of the whole coast. -There was not a decent woman would have spoken to him, except for his -wife's sake." - -"But did you not say that it was in the Senora Ortegna's keeping that -the child was?" asked Alessandro, breathing harder and faster each -moment now; stupid old Juan Can so absorbed in relish of his gossip, -that he noticed nothing. - -"Ay, ay. So I said," he went on; "and so it was. There be such saints, -you know; though the Lord knows if she had been minded to give shelter -to all her husband's bastards, she might have taken lease of a church to -hold them. But there was a story about a man's coming with this infant -and leaving it in the Senora's room; and she, poor lady, never having -had a child of her own, did warm to it at first sight, and kept it with -her to the last; and I wager me, a hard time she had to get our Senora -to take the child when she died; except that it was to spite Ortegna, I -think our Senora would as soon the child had been dead." - -"Has she not treated her kindly?" asked Alessandro, in a husky voice. - -Juan Can's pride resented this question. "Do you suppose the Senora -Moreno would do an unkindness to one under her roof?" he asked loftily. -"The Senorita has been always, in all things, like Senor Felipe himself. -It was so that she promised the Senora Ortegna, I have heard." - -"Does the Senorita know all this?" asked Alessandro. - -Juan Can crossed himself. "Saints save us, no!" he exclaimed. "I'll not -forget, to my longest day, what it cost me, once I spoke in her hearing, -when she was yet small. I did not know she heard; but she went to the -Senora, asking who was her mother. And she said I had said her mother -was no good, which in faith I did, and no wonder. And the Senora came to -me, and said she, 'Juan Canito, you have been a long time in our house; -but if ever I hear of your mentioning aught concerning the Senorita -Ramona, on this estate or anywhere else in the country, that day you -leave my service!'--And you'd not do me the ill-turn to speak of it, -Alessandro, now?" said the old man, anxiously. "My tongue runs away with -me, lying here on this cursed bed, with nothing to do,--an active man -like me." - -"No, I'll not speak of it, you may be assured," said Alessandro, walking -away slowly. - -"Here! Here!" called Juan. "What about that plan you had for making a -bed for Senor Felipe on the verandah Was it of raw-hide you meant?" - -"Ah, I had forgotten," said Alessandro, returning. "Yes, that was it. -There is great virtue in a raw-hide, tight stretched; my father says -that it is the only bed the Fathers would ever sleep on, in the Mission -days. I myself like the ground even better; but my father sleeps always -on the rawhide. He says it keeps him well. Do you think I might speak of -it to the Senora?" - -"Speak of it to Senor Felipe himself," said Juan. "It will be as he -says. He rules this place now, from beginning to end; and it is but -yesterday I held him on my knee. It is soon that the old are pushed to -the wall, Alessandro." - -"Nay, Juan Canito," replied Alessandro, kindly. "It is not so. My father -is many years older than you are, and he rules our people to-day as -firmly as ever. I myself obey him, as if I were a lad still." - -"What else, then, but a lad do you call yourself, I wonder?" thought -Juan; but he answered, "It is not so with us. The old are not held in -such reverence." - -"That is not well," replied Alessandro. "We have been taught -differently. There is an old man in our village who is many, many years -older than my father. He helped to carry the mortar at the building of -the San Diego Mission, I do not know how many years ago. He is long past -a hundred years of age. He is blind and childish, and cannot walk; but -he is cared for by every one. And we bring him in our arms to every -council, and set him by my father's side. He talks very foolishly -sometimes, but my father will not let him be interrupted. He says -it brings bad luck to affront the aged. We will presently be aged -ourselves." - -"Ay, ay!" said Juan, sadly. "We must all come to it. It is beginning to -look not so far off to me!" - -Alessandro stared, no less astonished at Juan Can's unconscious -revelation of his standard of measurement of years than Juan had been -at his. "Faith, old man, what name dost give to yourself to-day!" he -thought; but went on with the topic of the raw-hide bed. "I may not so -soon get speech with Senor Felipe," he said. "It is usually when he is -sleepy that I go to play for him or to sing. But it makes my heart heavy -to see him thus languishing day by day, and all for lack of the air and -the sun, I do believe, indeed, Juan." - -"Ask the Senorita, then," said Juan. "She has his ear at all times." - -Alessandro made no answer. Why was it that it did not please him,--this -suggestion of speaking to Ramona of his plan for Felipe's welfare? He -could not have told; but he did not wish to speak of it to her. - -"I will speak to the Senora," he said; and as luck would have it, at -that moment the Senora stood in the doorway, come to ask after Juan -Can's health. - -The suggestion of the raw-hide bed struck her favorably. She herself -had, in her youth, heard much of their virtues, and slept on them. -"Yes," she said, "they are good. We will try it. It was only yesterday -that Senor Felipe was complaining of the bed he lies on; and when he -was well, he thought nothing could be so good; he brought it here, at a -great price, for me, but I could not lie on it. It seemed as if it would -throw me off as soon as I lay down; it is a cheating device, like all -these innovations the Americans have brought into the country. But Senor -Felipe till now thought it a luxury; now he tosses on it, and says it is -throwing him all the time." - -Alessandro smiled, in spite of his reverence for the Senora. "I once lay -down on one myself, Senora," he said, "and that was what I said to my -father. It was like a wild horse under me, making himself ready to buck. -I thought perhaps the invention was of the saints, that men should not -sleep too long." - -"There is a pile of raw-hides," said Juan, "well cured, but not too -stiff; Juan Jose was to have sent them off to-day to be sold; one of -those will be just right. It must not be too dry." - -"The fresher the better," said Alessandro, "so it have no dampness. -Shall I make the bed, Senora?" he asked, "and will the Senora permit -that I make it on the veranda? I was just asking Juan Can if he thought -I might be so bold as to ask you to let me bring Senor Felipe into the -outer air. With us, it is thought death to be shut up in walls, as he -has been so long. Not till we are sure to die, do we go into the dark -like that." - -The Senora hesitated. She did not share Alessandro's prejudice in favor -of fresh air. - -"Night and day both?" she said. "Surely it is not well to sleep out in -the night?" - -"That is the best of all, Senora," replied Alessandro, earnestly. "I beg -the Senora to try it. If Senor Felipe have not mended greatly after the -first night he had so slept, then Alessandro will be a liar." - -"No, only mistaken," said the Senora, gently. She felt herself greatly -drawn to this young man by his devotion, as she thought, of Felipe. -"When I die and leave Felipe here," she had more than once said to -herself, "it would be a great good to him to have such a servant as this -on the place." - -"Very well, Alessandro," she replied; "make the bed, and we will try it -at once." - -This was early in the forenoon. The sun was still high in the west, -when Ramona, sitting as usual in the veranda, at her embroidery, saw -Alessandro coming, followed by two men, bearing the raw-hide bed. - -"What can that be?" she said. "Some new invention of Alessandro's, but -for what?" - -"A bed for the Senor Felipe, Senorita," said Alessandro, running lightly -up the steps. "The Senora has given permission to place it here on the -veranda, and Senor Felipe is to lie here day and night; and it will be -a marvel in your eyes how he will gain strength. It is the close room -which is keeping him weak now; he has no illness." - -"I believe that is the truth, Alessandro," exclaimed Ramona; "I have -been thinking the same thing. My head aches after I am in that room but -an hour, and when I come here I am well. But the nights too, Alessandro? -Is it not harmful to sleep out in the night air?" - -"Why, Senorita?" asked Alessandro, simply. - -And Ramona had no answer, except, "I do not know; I have always heard -so." - -"My people do not think so," replied Alessandro; "unless it is cold, -we like it better. It is good, Senorita, to look up at the sky in the -night." - -"I should think it would be," cried Ramona. "I never thought of it. I -should like to do it." - -Alessandro was busy, with his face bent down, arranging the bedstead in -a sheltered corner of the veranda. If his face had been lifted, Ramona -would have seen a look on it that would have startled her more than -the one she had surprised a few days previous, after the incident with -Margarita. All day there had been coming and going in Alessandro's brain -a confused procession of thoughts, vague yet intense. Put in words, -they would have been found to be little more than ringing changes on -this idea: "The Senorita Ramona has Indian blood in her veins. The -Senorita Ramona is alone. The Senora loves her not. Indian blood! Indian -blood!" These, or something like them, would have been the words; but -Alessandro did not put them in words. He only worked away on the rough -posts for Senor Felipe's bedstead, hammered, fitted, stretched the -raw-hide and made it tight and firm, driving every nail, striking every -blow, with a bounding sense of exultant strength, as if there were -suddenly all around him a new heaven and a new earth. - -Now, when he heard Ramona say suddenly in her girlish, eager tone, "It -must be; I never thought of it; I should like to try it," these vague -confused thoughts of the day, and the day's bounding sense of exultant -strength, combined in a quick vision before Alessandro's eyes,--a vision -of starry skies overhead, Ramona and himself together, looking up to -them. But when he raised his head, all he said was, "There, Senorita! -That is all firm, now. If Senor Felipe will let me lay him an this bed, -he will sleep as he has not slept since he fell ill." - -Ramona ran eagerly into Felipe's room, "The bed is all ready on the -veranda," she exclaimed. "Shall Alessandro come in and carry you out?" - -Felipe looked up, startled. The Senora turned on Ramona that expression -of gentle, resigned displeasure, which always hurt the girl's sensitive -nature far worse than anger. "I had not spoken to Felipe yet of the -change, Ramona," she said. "I supposed that Alessandro would have -informed me when the bed was ready; I am sorry you came in so suddenly. -Felipe is still very weak, you see." - -"What is it? What is it?" exclaimed Felipe, impatiently. - -As soon as it was explained to him, he was like a child in his haste to -be moved. - -"That's just what I needed!" he exclaimed. "This cursed bed racks every -bone in my body, and I have longed for the sun more than ever a thirsty -man longed for water. Bless you, Alessandro," he went on, seeing -Alessandro in the doorway. "Come here, and take me up in those long arms -of yours, and carry me quick. Already I feel myself better." - -Alessandro lifted him as if he were a baby; indeed, it was but a light -burden now, Felipe's wasted body, for a man much less strong than -Alessandro to lift. - -Ramona, chilled and hurt, ran in advance, carrying pillows and blankets. -As she began to arrange them on the couch, the Senora took them from her -hands, saying, "I will arrange them myself;" and waved Ramona away. - -It was a little thing. Ramona was well used to such. Ordinarily it would -have given her no pain she could not conceal. But the girl's nerves were -not now in equilibrium. She had had hard work to keep back her tears -at the first rebuff. This second was too much. She turned, and walked -swiftly away, the tears rolling down her cheeks. - -Alessandro saw it; Felipe saw it. - -To Felipe the sight was, though painful, not a surprise. He knew but -too well how often his mother hurt Ramona. All he thought now, in his -weakness, was, "Alas! what a pity my mother does not love Ramona!" - -To Alessandro the sight was the one drop too much in the cup. As he -stooped to lay Felipe on the bed, he trembled so that Felipe looked up, -half afraid. - -"Am I still so heavy, Alessandro?" he said smiling. - -"It is not your weight, Senor Felipe," answered Alessandro, off guard, -still trembling, his eyes following Ramona. - -Felipe saw. In the next second, the eyes of the two young men met. -Alessandro's fell before Felipe's. Felipe gazed on, steadily, at -Alessandro. - -"Ah!" he said; and as he said it, he closed his eyes, and let his head -sink back into the pillow. - -"Is that comfortable? Is that right?" asked the Senora, who had seen -nothing. - -"The first comfortable moment I have had, mother," said Felipe. "Stay, -Alessandro, I want to speak to you as soon as I am rested. This move has -shaken me up a good deal. Wait." - -"Yes, Senor," replied Alessandro, and seated himself on the veranda -steps. - -"If you are to stay, Alessandro," said the Senora, "I will go and look -after some matters that need my attention. I feel always at ease about -Senor Felipe when you are with him. You will stay till I come back?" - -"Yes, Senora," said Alessandro, in a tone cold as the Senora's own had -been to Ramona. He was no longer in heart the Senora Moreno's servant. -In fact, he was at that very moment revolving confusedly in his mind -whether there could be any possibility of his getting away before the -expiration of the time for which he had agreed to stay. - -It was a long time before Felipe opened his eyes. Alessandro thought he -was asleep. - -At last Felipe spoke. He had been watching Alessandro's face for some -minutes. "Alessandro," he said. - -Alessandro sprang to his feet, and walked swiftly to the bedside. He did -not know what the next word might be. He felt that the Senor Felipe had -seen straight into his heart in that one moment's look, and Alessandro -was preparing for anything. - -"Alessandro," said Felipe, "my mother has been speaking to me about your -remaining with us permanently. Juan Can is now very old, and after this -accident will go on crutches the rest of his days, poor soul! We are in -great need of some man who understands sheep, and the care of the place -generally." - -As he spoke, he watched Alessandro's face closely. Swift changing -expressions passed over it. Surprise predominated. Felipe misunderstood -the surprise. "I knew you would be surprised," he said. "I told my -mother that you would not think of it; that you had stayed now only -because we were in trouble." - -Alessandro bowed his head gratefully. This recognition from Felipe gave -him pleasure. - -"Yes, Senor," he said, "that was it. I told Father Salvierderra it was -not for the wages. But my father and I have need of all the money we can -earn. Our people are very poor, Senor. I do not know whether my father -would think I ought to take the place you offer me, or not, Senor. It -would be as he said. I will ask him." - -"Then you would be willing to take it?" asked Felipe. - -"Yes, Senor, if my father wished me to take it," replied Alessandro, -looking steadily and gravely at Felipe; adding, after a second's -pause, "if you are sure that you desire it, Senor Felipe, it would be a -pleasure to me to be of help to you." - -And yet it was only a few moments ago that Alessandro had been turning -over in his mind the possibility of leaving the Senora Moreno's service -immediately. This change had not been a caprice, not been an impulse -of passionate desire to remain near Ramona; it had come from a sudden -consciousness that the Senor Felipe would be his friend. And Alessandro -was not mistaken. - - - - -IX - -WHEN the Senora came back to the veranda, she found Felipe asleep, -Alessandro standing at the foot of the bed, with his arms crossed on his -breast, watching him. As the Senora drew near, Alessandro felt again the -same sense of dawning hatred which had seized him at her harsh speech to -Ramona. He lowered his eyes, and waited to be dismissed. - -"You can go now, Alessandro," said the Senora. "I will sit here. You -are quite sure that it will be safe for Senor Felipe to sleep here all -night?" - -"It will cure him before many nights," replied Alessandro, still without -raising his eyes, and turning to go. - -"Stay," said the Senora. Alessandro paused. "It will not do for him to -be alone here in the night, Alessandro." - -Alessandro had thought of this, and had remembered that if he lay on -the veranda floor by Senor Felipe's side, he would also lie under the -Senorita's window. - -"No, Senora," he replied. "I will lie here by his side. That was what I -had thought, if the Senora is willing." - -"Thank you, Alessandro," said the Senora, in a tone which would have -surprised poor Ramona, still sitting alone in her room, with sad eyes. -She did not know the Senora could speak thus sweetly to any one but -Felipe. "Thank you! You are kind. I will have a bed made for you." - -"Oh, no." cried Alessandro; "if the Senora will excuse me, I could not -lie on a bed. A raw-hide like Senor Felipe's, and my blanket, are all I -want. I could not lie on any bed." - -"To be sure," thought the Senora; "what was I thinking of! How the -boy makes one forget he is an Indian! But the floor is harder than the -ground, Alessandro," she said kindly. - -"No, Senora," he said, "it is all one; and to-night I will not sleep. -I will watch Senor Felipe, in case there should be a wind, or he should -wake and need something." - -"I will watch him myself till midnight," said the Senora. "I should feel -easier to see how he sleeps at first." - -It was the balmiest of summer nights, and as still as if no living thing -were on the earth. There was a full moon, which shone on the garden, and -on the white front of the little chapel among the trees. Ramona, from -her window, saw Alessandro pacing up and down the walk. She had seen him -spread down the raw-hide by Felipe's bed, and had seen the Senora take -her place in one of the big carved chairs. She wondered if they were -both going to watch; she wondered why the Senora would never let her sit -up and watch with Felipe. - -"I am not of any use to anybody," she thought sadly. She dared not -go out and ask any questions about the arrangements for the night. At -supper the Senora had spoken to her only in the same cold and distant -manner which always made her dumb and afraid. She had not once seen -Felipe alone during the day. Margarita, who, in the former times,--ah, -how far away those former times looked now!--had been a greater comfort -to Ramona than she realized,--Margarita now was sulky and silent, never -came into Ramona's presence if she could help it, and looked at her -sometimes with an expression which made Ramona tremble, and say to -herself, "She hates me; She has always hated me since that morning." - -It had been a long, sad day to Ramona; and as she sat in her window -leaning her head against the sash, and looked at Alessandro pacing up -and down, she felt for the first time, and did not shrink from it nor in -any wise disavow or disguise it to herself, that she was glad he loved -her. More than this she did not think; beyond this she did not go. -Her mind was not like Margarita's, full of fancies bred of freedom in -intercourse with men. But distinctly, tenderly glad that Alessandro -loved her, and distinctly, tenderly aware how well he loved her, she -was, as she sat at her window this night, looking out into the moonlit -garden; after she had gone to bed, she could still hear his slow, -regular steps on the garden-walk, and the last thought she had, as she -fell asleep, was that she was glad Alessandro loved her. - -The moon had been long set, and the garden, chapel-front, trees, vines, -were all wrapped in impenetrable darkness, when Ramona awoke, sat up in -her bed, and listened. All was so still that the sound of Felipe's low, -regular breathing came in through her open window. After hearkening to -it for a few moments, she rose noiselessly from her bed, and creeping to -the window parted the curtains and looked out; noiselessly, she thought; -but it was not noiselessly enough to escape Alessandro's quick ear; -without a sound, he sprang to his feet, and stood looking at Ramona's -window. - -"I am here, Senorita," he whispered. "Do you want anything?" - -"Has he slept all night like this?" she whispered back. - -"Yes, Senorita. He has not once moved." - -"How good!" said Ramona. "How good!" - -Then she stood still; she wanted to speak again to Alessandro, to hear -him speak again, but she could think of no more to say. Because she -could not, she gave a little sigh. - -Alessandro took one swift step towards the window. "May the saints bless -you, Senorita," he whispered fervently. - -"Thank you, Alessandro," murmured Ramona, and glided back to her bed, -but not to sleep. It lacked not much of dawn; as the first faint light -filtered through the darkness, Ramona heard the Senora's window open. - -"Surely she will not strike up the hymn and wake Felipe," thought -Ramona; and she sprang again to the window to listen. A few low words -between the Senora and Alessandro, and then the Senora's window closed -again, and all was still. - -"I thought she would not have the heart to wake him," said Ramona to -herself. "The Virgin would have had no pleasure in our song, I am sure; -but I will say a prayer to her instead;" and she sank on her knees at -the head of her bed, and began saying a whispered prayer. The footfall -of a spider in Ramona's room had not been light enough to escape the -ear of that watching lover outside. Again Alessandro's tall figure arose -from the floor, turning towards Ramona's window; and now the darkness -was so far softened to dusk, that the outline of his form could be seen. -Ramona felt it rather than saw it, and stopped praying. Alessandro was -sure he had heard her voice. - -"Did the Senorita speak?" he whispered, his face close at the curtain. -Ramona, startled, dropped her rosary, which rattled as it fell on the -wooden floor. - -"No, no, Alessandro," she said, "I did not speak." And she trembled, -she knew not why. The sound of the beads on the floor explained to -Alessandro what had been the whispered words he heard. - -"She was at her prayers," he thought, ashamed and sorry. "Forgive me," -he whispered, "I thought you called;" and he stepped back to the outer -edge of the veranda, and seated himself on the railing. He would lie -down no more. Ramona remained on her knees, gazing at the window. -Through the transparent muslin curtain the dawning light came slowly, -steadily, till at last she could see Alessandro distinctly. Forgetful -of all else, she knelt gazing at him. The rosary lay on the floor, -forgotten. Ramona would not finish that prayer, that day. But her heart -was full of thanksgiving and gratitude, and the Madonna had a better -prayer than any in the book. - -The sun was up, and the canaries, finches, and linnets had made the -veranda ring with joyous racket, before Felipe opened his eyes. The -Senora had come and gone and come again, looking at him anxiously, but -he stirred not. Ramona had stolen timidly out, glancing at Alessandro -only long enough to give him one quick smile, and bent over Felipe's -bed, holding her breath, he lay so still. - -"Ought he to sleep so long?" she whispered. - -"Till the noon, it may be," answered Alessandro; "and when he wakes, you -will see by his eye that he is another man." - -It was indeed so. When Felipe first looked about him, he laughed -outright with pure pleasure. Then catching sight of Alessandro at the -steps, he called, in a stronger voice than had yet been heard from him, -"Alessandro, you are a famous physician. Why couldn't that fool from -Ventura have known as much? With all his learning, he had had me in the -next world before many days, except for you. Now, Alessandro, breakfast! -I'm hungry. I had forgotten what the thought of food was like to a -hungry stomach. And plenty! plenty!" he called, as Alessandro ran toward -the kitchen. "Bring all they have." - -When the Senora saw Felipe bolstered up in the bed, his eye bright, -his color good, his voice clear, eating heartily like his old self, -she stood like a statue in the middle of the veranda for a moment; then -turning to Alessandro, she said chokingly, "May Heaven reward you!" and -disappeared abruptly in her own room. When she came out, her eyes -were red. All day she moved and spoke with a softness unwonted, indeed -inconceivable. She even spoke kindly and without constraint to Ramona. -She felt like one brought back from the dead. - -After this, a new sort of life began for them all. Felipe's bed on -the veranda was the rallying point for everything and everybody.. The -servants came to look up at him, and wish him well, from the garden-walk -below. Juan Can, when he first hobbled out on the stout crutches -Alessandro had made him of manzanita wood, dragged himself all the way -round the house, to have a look at Senor Felipe and a word with him. The -Senora sat there, in the big carved chair, looking like a sibyl with her -black silk banded head-dress severely straight across her brow, and her -large dark eyes gazing out, past Felipe, into the far south sky. Ramona -lived there too, with her embroidery or her book, sitting on cushions on -the floor in a corner, or at the foot of Felipe's bed, always so placed, -however,--if anybody had noticed, but nobody did,--so placed that she -could look at Felipe without looking full at the Senora's chair, even if -the Senora were not in it. - -Here also came Alessandro many times a day,--sometimes sent for, -sometimes of his own accord. He was freely welcome. When he played or -sang he sat on the upper step of the stairs leading down to the garden. -He also had a secret, which he thought all his own, in regard to the -positions he chose. He sat always, when Ramona was there, in the spot -which best commanded a view of her face. The secret was not all his own. -Felipe knew it. Nothing was escaping Felipe in these days. A bomb-shell -exploding at their feet would not have more astonished the different -members of this circle, the Senora, Ramona, Alessandro, than it would -to have been made suddenly aware of the thoughts which were going on in -Felipe's mind now, from day to day, as he lay there placidly looking at -them all. - -It is probable that if Felipe had been in full health and strength when -the revelation suddenly came to him that Alessandro loved Ramona, and -that Ramona might love Alessandro, he would have been instantly filled -with jealous antagonism. But at the time when this revelation came, he -was prostrate, feeble, thinking many times a day that he must soon die; -it did not seem to Felipe that a man could be so weak as he was, and -ever again be strong and well. Side by side with these forebodings of -his own death, always came the thought of Ramona. What would become of -her, if he were gone? Only too well he knew that the girl's heart would -be broken; that she could not live on alone with his mother. Felipe -adored his mother; but he understood her feeling about Ramona. - -With his feebleness had also come to Felipe, as is often the case in -long illnesses, a greater clearness of perception. Ramona had ceased to -puzzle him. He no longer asked himself what her long, steady look into -his eyes meant. He knew. He saw it mean that as a sister she loved him, -had always loved him, and could love him in no other way. He wondered a -little at himself that this gave him no more pain; only a sort of sweet, -mournful tenderness towards her. It must be because he was so soon going -out of the world, he thought. Presently he began to be aware that a new -quality was coming into his love for her. He himself was returning -to the brother love which he had had for her when they were children -together, and in which he had felt no change until he became a man and -Ramona a woman. It was strange what a peace fell upon Felipe when this -was finally clear and settled in his mind. No doubt he had had more -misgiving and fear about his mother in the matter than he had ever -admitted to himself; perhaps also the consciousness of Ramona's -unfortunate birth had rankled at times; but all this was past now. -Ramona was his sister. He was her brother. What course should he pursue -in the crisis which he saw drawing near? How could he best help Ramona? -What would be best for both her and Alessandro? Long before the thought -of any possible union between himself and Ramona had entered into -Alessandro's mind, still longer before it had entered into Ramona's to -think of Alessandro as a husband, Felipe had spent hours in forecasting, -plotting, and planning for them. For the first time in his life he felt -himself in the dark as to his mother's probable action. That any concern -as to Ramona's personal happiness or welfare would influence her, he -knew better than to think for a moment. So far as that was concerned, -Ramona might wander out the next hour, wife of a homeless beggar, -and his mother would feel no regret. But Ramona had been the adopted -daughter of the Senora Ortegna, bore the Ortegna name, and had lived as -foster-child in the house of the Morenos. Would the Senora permit such a -one to marry an Indian? - -Felipe doubted. The longer he thought, the more he doubted. The more -he watched, the more he saw that the question might soon have to be -decided. Any hour might precipitate it. He made plan after plan for -forestalling trouble, for preparing his mother; but Felipe was by nature -indolent, and now he was, in addition, feeble. Day after day slipped by. -It was exceedingly pleasant on the veranda. Ramona was usually with him; -his mother was gentler, less sad, than he had ever seen her. Alessandro -was always at hand, ready for any service,--in the field, in the -house,--his music a delight, his strength and fidelity a repose, his -personal presence always agreeable. "If only my mother could think -it," reflected Felipe, "it would be the best thing, all round, to have -Alessandro stay here as overseer of the place, and then they might be -married. Perhaps before the summer is over she will come to see it so." - -And the delicious, languid, semi-tropic summer came hovering over the -valley. The apricots turned golden, the peaches glowed, the grapes -filled and hardened, like opaque emeralds hung thick under the canopied -vines. The garden was a shade brown, and the roses had all fallen; but -there were lilies, and orange-blossoms, and poppies, and carnations, and -geraniums in the pots, and musk,--oh, yes, ever and always musk. It was -like an enchanter's spell, the knack the Senora had of forever keeping -relays of musk to bloom all the year; and it was still more like an -enchanter's spell, that Felipe would never confess that he hated it.' -But the bees liked it, and the humming-birds,--the butterflies also; -and the air was full of them. The veranda was a quieter place now as the -season's noon grew near. The linnets were all nesting, and the finches -and the canaries too; and the Senora spent hours, every day, tirelessly -feeding the mothers. The vines had all grown and spread out to their -thickest; no need any longer of the gay blanket Alessandro had pinned up -that first morning to keep the sun off Felipe's head. - -What was the odds between a to-day and a to-morrow in such a spot -as this? "To-morrow," said Felipe, "I will speak to my mother," and -"to-morrow," and "to-morrow;" but he did not. - -There was one close observer of these pleasant veranda days that Felipe -knew nothing about. That was Margarita. As the girl came and went about -her household tasks, she was always on the watch for Alessandro, on the -watch for Ramona. She was biding her time. Just what shape her revenge -was going to take, she did not know. It was no use plotting. It must be -as it fell out; but that the hour and the way for her revenge would come -she never doubted. - -When she saw the group on the veranda, as she often did, all listening -to Alessandro's violin, or to his singing, Alessandro himself now at his -ease and free in the circle, as if he had been there always, her anger -was almost beyond bounds. - -"Oh, ho! like a member of the family; quite so!" she sneered. "It is new -times when a head shepherd spends his time with the ladies of the house, -and sits in their presence like a guest who is invited! We shall see; we -shall see what comes of all this!" And she knew not which she hated the -more of the two, Alessandro or Ramona. - -Since the day of the scene at the artichoke-field she had never spoken -to Alessandro, and had avoided, so far as was possible, seeing him. At -first Alessandro was sorry for this, and tried to be friendly with her. -As soon as he felt assured that the incident had not hurt him at all in -the esteem of Ramona, he began to be sorry for Margarita. "A man should -not be rude to any maiden," he thought; and he hated to remember how he -had pushed Margarita from him, and snatched his hand away, when he -had in the outset made no objection to her taking it. But Margarita's -resentment was not to be appeased. She understood only too clearly how -little Alessandro's gentle advances meant, and she would none of them. -"Let him go to his Senorita," she said bitterly, mocking the reverential -tone in which she had overheard him pronounce the word. "She is fond -enough of him, if only the fool had eyes to see it. She'll be ready to -throw herself at his head before long, if this kind of thing keeps up. -'It is not well to speak thus freely of young men, Margarita!' Ha, -ha! Little I thought that day which way the wind set in my mistress's -temper! I'll wager she reproves me no more, under this roof or any -other! Curse her! What did she want of Alessandro, except to turn his -head, and then bid him go his way!" - -To do Margarita justice, she never once dreamed of the possibility of -Ramona's wedding Alessandro. A clandestine affair, an intrigue of more -or less intensity, such as she herself might have carried on with any -one of the shepherds,--this was the utmost stretch of Margarita's angry -imaginations in regard to her young mistress's liking for Alessandro. -There was not, in her way of looking at things, any impossibility of -such a thing as that. But marriage! It might be questioned whether that -idea would have been any more startling to the Senora herself than to -Margarita. - -Little had passed between Alessandro and Ramona which Margarita did not -know. The girl was always like a sprite,--here, there, everywhere, in -an hour, and with eyes which, as her mother often told her, saw on all -sides of her head. Now, fired by her new purpose, new passion, she moved -swifter than ever, and saw and heard even more, There were few hours of -any day when she did not know to a certainty where both Alessandro and -Ramona were; and there had been few meetings between them which she had -not either seen or surmised. - -In the simple life of such a household as the Senora's, it was not -strange that this was possible; nevertheless, it argued and involved -untiring vigilance on Margarita's part. Even Felipe, who thought -himself, from his vantage-post of observation on the veranda, and from -his familiar relation with Ramona, well informed of most that happened, -would have been astonished to hear all that Margarita could have -told him. In the first days Ramona herself had guilelessly told him -much,--had told him how Alessandro, seeing her trying to sprinkle and -bathe and keep alive the green ferns with which she had decorated the -chapel for Father Salvierderra's coming, had said: "Oh, Senorita, they -are dead! Do not take trouble with them! I will bring you fresh ones;" -and the next morning she had found, lying at the chapel door, a pile of -such ferns as she had never before seen; tall ones, like ostrich-plumes, -six and eight feet high; the feathery maidenhair, and the gold fern, and -the silver, twice as large as she ever had found them. The chapel was -beautiful, like a conservatory, after she had arranged them in vases and -around the high candlesticks. - -It was Alessandro, too, who had picked up in the artichoke-patch all -of the last year's seed-vessels which had not been trampled down by the -cattle, and bringing one to her, had asked shyly if she did not think -it prettier than flowers made out of paper. His people, he said, made -wreaths of them. And so they were, more beautiful than any paper flowers -which ever were made,--great soft round disks of fine straight threads -like silk, with a kind of saint's halo around them of sharp, stiff -points, glossy as satin, and of a lovely creamy color. It was the -strangest thing in the world nobody had ever noticed them as they lay -there on the ground. She had put a great wreath of them around Saint -Joseph's head, and a bunch in the Madonna's hand; and when the Senora -saw them, she exclaimed in admiration, and thought they must have been -made of silk and satin. - -And Alessandro had brought her beautiful baskets, made by the Indian -women at Pala, and one which had come from the North, from the Tulare -country; it had gay feathers woven in with the reeds,--red and yellow, -in alternate rows, round and round. It was like a basket made out of a -bright-colored bird. - -And a beautiful stone bowl Alessandro had brought her, glossy black, -that came all the way from Catalina Island; a friend of Alessandro's got -it. For the first few weeks it had seemed as if hardly a day passed -that there was not some new token to be chronicled of Alessandro's -thoughtfulness and good-will. Often, too, Ramona had much to tell that -Alessandro had said,--tales of the old Mission days that he had heard -from his father; stories of saints, and of the early Fathers, who were -more like saints than like men, Alessandro said,--Father Junipero, who -founded the first Missions, and Father Crespi, his friend. Alessandro's -grandfather had journeyed with Father Crespi as his servant, and many a -miracle he had with his own eyes seen Father Crespi perform. There was a -cup out of which the Father always took his chocolate for breakfast,--a -beautiful cup, which was carried in a box, the only luxury the Father -had; and one morning it was broken, and everybody was in terror and -despair. "Never mind, never mind," said the Father; "I will make it -whole;" and taking the two pieces in his hands, he held them tight -together, and prayed over them, and they became one solid piece again, -and it was used all through the journey, just as before. - -But now, Ramona never spoke voluntarily of Alessandro. To Felipe's -sometimes artfully put questions or allusions to him, she made brief -replies, and never continued the topic; and Felipe had observed another -thing: she now rarely looked at Alessandro. When he was speaking to -others she kept her eyes on the ground. If he addressed her, she -looked quickly up at him, but lowered her eyes after the first glance. -Alessandro also observed this, and was glad of it. He understood it. He -knew how differently she could look in his face in the rare moments when -they were alone together. He fondly thought he alone knew this; but he -was mistaken. Margarita knew. She had more than once seen it. - -It had happened more than once that he had found Ramona at the willows -by the brook, and had talked with her there. The first time it happened, -it was a chance; after that never a chance again, for Alessandro went -often seeking the spot, hoping to find her. In Ramona's mind too, not -avowed, but half consciously, there was, if not the hope of seeing him -there, at least the memory that it was there they had met. It was a -pleasant spot,--cool and shady even at noon, and the running water -always full of music. Ramona often knelt there of a morning, washing out -a bit of lace or a handkerchief; and when Alessandro saw her, it went -hard with him to stay away. At such moments the vision returned to him -vividly of that first night when, for the first second, seeing her face -in the sunset glow, he had thought her scarce mortal. It was not that -he even now thought her less a saint; but ah, how well he knew her to -be human! He had gone alone in the dark to this spot many a time, and, -lying on the grass, put his hands into the running water, and played -with it dreamily, thinking, in his poetic Indian fashion, thoughts like -these: "Whither have gone the drops that passed beneath her hands, just -here? These drops will never find those in the sea; but I love this -water!" - -Margarita had seen him thus lying, and without dreaming of the refined -sentiment which prompted his action, had yet groped blindly towards it, -thinking to herself: "He hopes his Senorita will come down to him there. -A nice place it is for a lady to meet her lover, at the washing-stones! -It will take swifter water than any in that brook, Senorita Ramona, to -wash you white in the Senora's eyes, if ever she come upon you there -with the head shepherd, making free with him, may be! Oh, but if that -could only happen, I'd die content!" And the more Margarita watched, -the more she thought it not unlikely that it might turn out so. It was -oftener at the willows than anywhere else that Ramona and Alessandro -met; and, as Margarita noticed with malicious satisfaction, they talked -each time longer, each time parted more lingeringly. Several times it -had happened to be near supper-time; and Margarita, with one eye on -the garden-walk, had hovered restlessly near the Senora, hoping to be -ordered to call the Senorita to supper. - -"If but I could come on them of a sudden, and say to her as she did to -me, 'You are wanted in the house'! Oh, but it would do my soul good! I'd -say it so it would sting like a lash laid on both their faces! It will -come! It will come! It will be there that she'll be caught one of these -fine times she's having! I'll wait! It will come!" - - - - -X - -IT came. And when it came, it fell out worse for Ramona than Margarita's -most malicious hopes had pictured; but Margarita had no hand in it. It -was the Senora herself. - -Since Felipe had so far gained as to be able to be dressed, sit in his -chair on the veranda, and walk about the house and garden a little, -the Senora, at ease in her mind about him, had resumed her old habit of -long, lonely walks on the place. It had been well said by her servants, -that there was not a blade of grass on the estate that the Senora had -not seen. She knew every inch of her land. She had a special purpose -in walking over it now. She was carefully examining to see whether she -could afford to sell to the Ortegas a piece of pasture-land which they -greatly desired to buy, as it joined a pasturage tract of theirs. This -bit of land lay farther from the house than the Senora realized, and it -had taken more time than she thought it would, to go over it; and it was -already sunset on this eventful day, when, hurrying home, she turned -off from the highway into the same shortcut path in which Father -Salvierderra had met Ramona in the spring. There was no difficulty now -in getting through the mustard tangle. It was parched and dry, and had -been trampled by cattle. The Senora walked rapidly, but it was -dusky twilight when she reached the willows; so dusky that she saw -nothing--and she stepped so lightly on the smooth brown path that she -made no sound--until suddenly, face to face with a man and a woman -standing locked in each other's arms, she halted, stepped back a pace, -gave a cry of surprise, and, in the same second, recognized the faces of -the two, who, stricken dumb, stood apart, each gazing into her face with -terror. - -Strangely enough, it was Ramona who spoke first. Terror for herself had -stricken her dumb; terror for Alessandro gave her a voice. - -"Senora," she began. - -"Silence! Shameful creature!" cried the Senora. "Do not dare to speak! -Go to your room!" - -Ramona did not move. - -"As for you," the Senora continued, turning to Alessandro, "you,"--she -was about to say, "You are discharged from my service from this hour," -but recollecting herself in time, said,--"you will answer to Senor -Felipe. Out of my sight!" And the Senora Moreno actually, for once in -her life beside herself with rage, stamped her foot on the ground. "Out -of my sight!" she repeated. - -Alessandro did not stir, except to turn towards Ramona with an inquiring -look. He would run no risk of doing what she did not wish. He had no -idea what she would think it best to do in this terrible dilemma. - -"Go, Alessandro," said Ramona, calmly, still looking the Senora full in -the eye. Alessandro obeyed; before the words had left her lips, he had -walked away. - -Ramona's composure, and Alessandro's waiting for further orders than her -own before stirring from the spot, were too much for Senora Moreno. A -wrath, such as she had not felt since she was young, took possession of -her. As Ramona opened her lips again, saying, "Senora," the Senora did a -shameful deed; she struck the girl on the mouth, a cruel blow. - -"Speak not to me!" she cried again; and seizing her by the arm, she -pushed rather than dragged her up the garden-walk. - -"Senora, you hurt my arm," said Ramona, still in the same calm voice. -"You need not hold me. I will go with you. I am not afraid." - -Was this Ramona? The Senora, already ashamed, let go the arm, and -stared in the girl's face. Even in the twilight she could see upon it -an expression of transcendent peace, and a resolve of which no one would -have thought it capable. "What does this mean?" thought the Senora, -still weak, and trembling all over, from rage. "The hussy, the -hypocrite!" and she seized the arm again. - -This time Ramona did not remonstrate, but submitted to being led like -a prisoner, pushed into her own room, the door slammed violently and -locked on the outside. - -All of which Margarita saw. She had known for an hour that Ramona -and Alessandro were at the willows, and she had been consumed with -impatience at the Senora's prolonged absence. More than once she had -gone to Felipe, and asked with assumed interest if he were not hungry, -and if he and the Senorita would not have their supper. - -"No, no, not till the Senora returns," Felipe had answered. He, too, -happened this time to know where Ramona and Alessandro were. He knew -also where the Senora had gone, and that she would be late home; but he -did not know that there would be any chance of her returning by way of -the willows at the brook; if he had known it, he would have contrived to -summon Ramona. - -When Margarita saw Ramona shoved into her room by the pale and trembling -Senora, saw the key turned, taken out, and dropped into the Senora's -pocket, she threw her apron over her head, and ran into the back porch. -Almost a remorse seized her. She remembered in a flash how often Ramona -had helped her in times gone by,--sheltered her from the Senora's -displeasure. She recollected the torn altar-cloth. "Holy Virgin! what -will be done to her now?" she exclaimed, under her breath. Margarita -had never conceived of such an extremity as this. Disgrace, and a sharp -reprimand, and a sundering of all relations with Alessandro,--this was -all Margarita had meant to draw down on Ramona's head. But the Senora -looked as if she might kill her. - -"She always did hate her, in her heart," reflected Margarita; "she -shan't starve her to death, anyhow. I'll never stand by and see that. -But it must have been something shameful the Senora saw, to have brought -her to such a pass as this;" and Margarita's jealousy again got the -better of her sympathy. "Good enough for her. No more than she deserved. -An honest fellow like Alessandro, that would make a good husband for any -girl!" Margarita's short-lived remorse was over. She was an enemy again. - -It was an odd thing, how identical were Margarita's and the Senora's -view and interpretation of the situation. The Senora looking at it from -above, and Margarita looking at it from below, each was sure, and they -were both equally sure, that it could be nothing more nor less than a -disgraceful intrigue. Mistress and maid were alike incapable either of -conjecturing or of believing the truth. - -As ill luck would have it,--or was it good luck?--Felipe also had -witnessed the scene in the garden-walk. Hearing voices, he had looked -out of his window, and, almost doubting the evidence of his senses, had -seen his mother violently dragging Ramona by the arm,--Ramona pale, but -strangely placid; his mother with rage and fury in her white face. The -sight told its own tale to Felipe. Smiting his forehead with his hand, -he groaned out: "Fool that I was, to let her be surprised; she has come -on them unawares; now she will never, never forgive it!" And Felipe -threw himself on his bed, to think what should be done. Presently he -heard his mother's voice, still agitated, calling his name. He remained -silent, sure she would soon seek him in his room. When she entered, and, -seeing him on the bed, came swiftly towards him, saying, "Felipe, dear, -are you ill?" he replied in a feeble voice, "No, mother, only tired a -little to-night;" and as she bent over him, anxious, alarmed, he threw -his arms around her neck and kissed her warmly. "Mother mia!" he said -passionately, "what should I do without you?" The caress, the loving -words, acted like oil on the troubled waters. They restored the Senora -as nothing else could. What mattered anything, so long as she had her -adoring and adorable son! And she would not speak to him, now that he -was so tired, of this disgraceful and vexing matter of Alessandro. It -could wait till morning. She would send him his supper in his room, and -he would not miss Ramona, perhaps. - -"I will send your supper here, Felipe," she said; "you must not -overdo; you have been walking too much. Lie still." And kissing him -affectionately, she went to the dining-room, where Margarita, vainly -trying to look as if nothing had happened, was standing, ready to serve -supper. When the Senora entered, with her countenance composed, and in -her ordinary tones said, "Margarita, you can take Senor Felipe's supper -into his room; he is lying down, and will not get up; he is tired," -Margarita was ready to doubt if she had not been in a nightmare dream. -Had she, or had she not, within the last half-hour, seen the Senora, -shaking and speechless with rage, push the Senorita Ramona into her -room, and lock her up there? She was so bewildered that she stood still -and gazed at the Senora, with her mouth wide open. - -"What are you staring at, girl?" asked the Senora, so sharply that -Margarita jumped. - -"Oh, nothing, nothing, Senora! And the Senorita, will she come to -supper? Shall I call her?" she said. - -The Senora eyed her. Had she seen? Could she have seen? The Senora -Moreno was herself again. So long as Ramona was under her roof, no -matter what she herself might do or say to the girl, no servant should -treat her with disrespect, or know that aught was wrong. - -"The Senorita is not well," she said coldly. "She is in her room. I -myself will take her some supper later, if she wishes it. Do not disturb -her." And the Senora returned to Felipe. - -Margarita chuckled inwardly, and proceeded to clear the table she had -spread with such malicious punctuality two short hours before. In those -two short hours how much had happened! - -"Small appetite for supper will our Senorita have, I reckon," said the -bitter Margarita, "and the Senor Alessandro also! I'm curious to see how -he will carry himself." - -But her curiosity was not gratified. Alessandro came not to the kitchen. -The last of the herdsmen had eaten and gone; it was past nine o'clock, -and no Alessandro. Slyly Margarita ran out and searched in some of the -places where she knew he was in the habit of going; but Alessandro -was not to be found. Once she brushed so near his hiding-place that he -thought he was discovered, and was on the point of speaking, but -luckily held his peace, and she passed on. Alessandro was hid behind the -geranium clump at the chapel door; sitting on the ground, with his knees -drawn up to his chin, watching Ramona's window. He intended to stay -there all night. He felt that he might be needed: if Ramona wanted him, -she would either open her window and call, or would come out and go down -through the garden-walk to the willows. In either case, he would see her -from the hiding-place he had chosen. He was racked by his emotions; mad -with joy one minute, sick at heart with misgiving the next. Ramona loved -him. She had told him so. She had said she would go away with him and -be his wife. The words had but just passed her lips, at that dreadful -moment when the Senora appeared in their presence. As he lived the scene -over again, he re-experienced the joy and the terror equally. - -What was not that terrible Senora capable of doing? Why did she look -at him and at Ramona with such loathing scorn? Since she knew that the -Senorita was half Indian, why should she think it so dreadful a thing -for her to marry an Indian man? It did not once enter into Alessandro's -mind, that the Senora could have had any other thought, seeing them as -she did, in each other's arms. And again what had he to give to Ramona? -Could she live in a house such as he must live in,--live as the Temecula -women lived? No! for her sake he must leave his people; must go to some -town, must do--he knew not what--something to earn more money. Anguish -seized him as he pictured to himself Ramona suffering deprivations. The -more he thought of the future in this light, the more his joy faded and -his fear grew. He had never had sufficient hope that she could be his, -to look forward thus to the practical details of life; he had only gone -on loving, and in a vague way dreaming and hoping; and now,--now, in -a moment, all had been changed; in a moment he had spoken, and she had -spoken, and such words once spoken, there was no going back; and he had -put his arms around her, and felt her head on his shoulder, and kissed -her! Yes, he, Alessandro, had kissed the Senorita Ramona, and she had -been glad of it, and had kissed him on the lips, as no maiden kisses a -man unless she will wed with him,--him, Alessandro! Oh, no wonder the -man's brain whirled, as he sat there in the silent darkness, wondering, -afraid, helpless; his love wrenched from him, in the very instant of -their first kiss,--wrenched from him, and he himself ordered, by one who -had the right to order him, to begone! What could an Indian do against a -Moreno! - -Would Felipe help him? Ay, there was Felipe! That Felipe was his -friend, Alessandro knew with a knowledge as sure as the wild partridge's -instinct for the shelter of her brood; but could Felipe move the Senora? -Oh, that terrible Senora! What would become of them? - -As in the instant of drowning, men are said to review in a second the -whole course of their lives, so in this supreme moment of Alessandro's -love there flashed through his mind vivid pictures of every word and act -of Ramona's since he first knew her. He recollected the tone in which -she had said, and the surprise with which he heard her say it, at the -time of Felipe's fall, "You are Alessandro, are you not?" He heard again -her soft-whispered prayers the first night Felipe slept on the veranda. -He recalled her tender distress because the shearers had had no dinner; -the evident terribleness to her of a person going one whole day without -food. "O God! will she always have food each day if she comes with me?" -he said. And at the bare thought he was ready to flee away from her -forever. Then he recalled her look and her words only a few hours ago, -when he first told her he loved her; and his heart took courage. She -had said, "I know you love me, Alessandro, and I am glad of it," and had -lifted her eyes to his, with all the love that a woman's eyes can carry; -and when he threw his arms around her, she had of her own accord come -closer, and laid one hand on his shoulder, and turned her face to his. -Ah, what else mattered! There was the whole world; if she loved him like -this, nothing could make them wretched; his love would be enough for -her,--and for him hers was an empire. - -It was indeed true, though neither the Senora nor Margarita would have -believed it, that this had been the first word of love ever spoken -between Alessandro and Ramona, the first caress ever given, the first -moment of unreserve. It had come about, as lovers' first words, first -caresses, are so apt to do, unexpectedly, with no more premonition, at -the instant, than there is of the instant of the opening of a flower. -Alessandro had been speaking to Ramona of the conversation Felipe had -held with him in regard to remaining on the place, and asked her if she -knew of the plan. - -"Yes," she said; "I heard the Senora talking about it with Felipe, some -days ago." - -"Was she against my staying?" asked Alessandro, quickly. - -"I think not," said Ramona, "but I am not sure. It is not easy to be -sure what the Senora wishes, till afterward. It was Felipe that proposed -it." - -This somewhat enigmatical statement as to the difficulty of knowing the -Senora's wishes was like Greek to Alessandro's mind. - -"I do not understand, Senorita," he said. "What do you mean by -'afterward'?" - -"I mean," replied Ramona, "that the Senora never says she wishes -anything; she says she leaves everything to Felipe to decide, or to -Father Salvierderra. But I think it is always decided as she wishes to -have it, after all. The Senora is wonderful, Alessandro; don't you think -so?" - -"She loves Senor Felipe very much," was Alessandro's evasive reply. - -"Oh, yes," exclaimed Ramona. "You do not begin to know how much. She -does not love any other human being. He takes it all. She hasn't any -left. If he had died, she would have died too. That is the reason she -likes you so much; she thinks you saved Felipe's life. I mean, that -is one reason," added Ramona, smiling, and looking up confidingly at -Alessandro, who smiled back, not in vanity, but honest gratitude that -the Senorita was pleased to intimate that he was not unworthy of the -Senora's regard. - -"I do not think she likes me," he said. "I cannot tell why; but I do -not think she likes any one in the world. She is not like any one I ever -saw, Senorita." - -"No," replied Ramona, thoughtfully. "She is not. I am, oh, so afraid of -her, Alessandro! I have always been, ever since I was a little girl. I -used to think she hated me; but now I think she does not care one way or -the other, if I keep out of her way." - -While Ramona spoke these words, her eyes were fixed on the running -water at her feet. If she had looked up, and seen the expression in -Alessandro's eyes as he listened, the thing which was drawing near would -have drawn near faster, would have arrived at that moment; but she did -not look up. She went on, little dreaming how hard she was making it for -Alessandro. - -"Many's the time I've come down here, at night, to this brook, and -looked at it, and wished it was a big river, so I could throw myself -in, and be carried away out to the sea, dead. But it is a fearful sin, -Father Salvierderra says, to take one's own life; and always the next -morning, when the sun came out, and the birds sang, I've been glad -enough I had not done it. Were you ever so unhappy as that, Alessandro?" - -"No, Senorita, never," replied Alessandro; "and it is thought a great -disgrace, among us, to kill one's self. I think I could never do it. -But, oh, Senorita, it is a grief to think of your being unhappy. Will -you always be so? Must you always stay here?" - -"Oh, but I am not always unhappy!" said Ramona, with her sunny little -laugh. "Indeed, I am generally very happy. Father Salvierderra says that -if one does no sin, one will be always happy, and that it is a sin not -to rejoice every hour of the day in the sun and the sky and the work -there is to do; and there is always plenty of that." Then, her face -clouding, she continued: "I suppose I shall always stay here. I have no -other home; you know I was the Senora's sister's adopted child. She died -when I was little, and the Senora kindly took me. Father Salvierderra -says I must never forget to be grateful to her for all she has done for -me, and I try not to." - -Alessandro eyed her closely. The whole story, as Juan Can had told it to -him, of the girl's birth, was burning in his thoughts. How he longed to -cry out, "O my loved one, they have made you homeless in your home. They -despise you. The blood of my race is in your veins; come to me; come to -me! be surrounded with love!" But he dared not. How could he dare? - -Some strange spell seemed to have unloosed Ramona's tongue to-night. -She had never before spoken to Alessandro of her own personal history or -burdens; but she went on: "The worst thing is, Alessandro, that she will -not tell me who my mother was; and I do not know if she is alive or not, -or anything about her. Once I asked the Senora, but she forbade me ever -to ask her again. She said she herself would tell me when it was proper -for me to know. But she never has." - -How the secret trembled on Alessandro's lips now. Ramona had never -seemed so near, so intimate, so trusting. What would happen if he were -to tell her the truth? Would the sudden knowledge draw her closer to -him, or repel her? - -"Have you never asked her again?" he said. - -Ramona looked up astonished. "No one ever disobeyed the Senora," she -said quickly. - -"I would!" exclaimed Alessandro. - -"You may think so," said Ramona, "but you couldn't. When you tried, you -would find you couldn't. I did ask Father Salvierderra once." - -"What did he say?" asked Alessandro, breathless. - -"The same thing. He said I must not ask; I was not old enough. When the -time came, I would be told," answered Ramona, sadly. "I don't see what -they can mean by the time's coming. What do you suppose they meant?" - -"I do not know the ways of any people but my own, Senorita," replied -Alessandro. "Many things that your people do, and still more that these -Americans do, are to me so strange, I know nothing what they mean. -Perhaps they do not know who was your mother?" - -"I am sure they do," answered Ramona, in a low tone, as if the words -were wrung from her. "But let us talk about something else, Alessandro; -not about sad things, about pleasant things. Let us talk about your -staying here." - -"Would it be truly a pleasure to the Senorita Ramona, if I stayed?" said -Alessandro. - -"You know it would," answered Ramona, frankly, yet with a tremor in her -voice, which Alessandro felt. "I do not see what we could any of us do -without you. Felipe says he shall not let you go." - -Alessandro's face glowed. "It must be as my father says, Senorita," he -said. "A messenger came from him yesterday, and I sent him back with a -letter telling him what the Senor Felipe had proposed to me, and asking -him what I should do. My father is very old, Senorita, and I do not see -how he can well spare me. I am his only child, and my mother died years -ago. We live alone together in our house, and when I am away he is very -lonely. But he would like to have me earn the wages, I know, and I hope -he will think it best for me to stay. There are many things we want to -do for the village; most of our people are poor, and can do little more -than get what they need to eat day by day, and my father wishes to see -them better off before he dies. Now that the Americans are coming in all -around us, he is afraid and anxious all the time. He wants to get a big -fence built around our land, so as to show where it is; but the people -cannot take much time to work on the fence; they need all their time to -work for themselves and their families. Indians have a hard time to live -now, Senorita. Were you ever in Temecula?" - -"No," said Ramona. "Is it a large town?" - -Alessandro sighed. "Dear Senorita, it is not a town; it is only a little -village not more than twenty houses in all, and some of those are built -only of tule. There is a chapel, and a graveyard. We built an adobe wall -around the graveyard last year. That my father said we would do, before -we built the fence round the village." - -"How many people are there in the village?" asked Ramona. - -"Nearly two hundred, when they are all there; but many of them are away -most of the time. They must go where they can get work; they are -hired by the farmers, or to do work on the great ditches, or to go as -shepherds; and some of them take their wives and children with them. I -do not believe the Senorita has ever seen any very poor people." - -"Oh, yes, I have, Alessandro, at Santa Barbara. There were many poor -people there, and the Sisters used to give them food every week." - -"Indians?" said Alessandro. - -Ramona colored. "Yes," she said, "some of them were, but not like your -men, Alessandro. They were very different; miserable looking; they could -not read nor write, and they seemed to have no ambition." - -"That is the trouble," said Alessandro, "with so many of them; it is -with my father's people, too. They say, 'What is the use?' My father -gets in despair with them, because they will not learn better. He gives -them a great deal, but they do not seem to be any better off for it. -There is only one other man in our village who can read and write, -besides my father and me, Senorita; and yet my father is all the time -begging them to come to his house and learn of him. But they say they -have no time; and indeed there is much truth in that, Senorita. You see -everybody has troubles, Senorita." - -Ramona had been listening with sorrowful face. All this was new to her. -Until to-night, neither she nor Alessandro had spoken of private and -personal matters. - -"Ah, but these are real troubles," she said. "I do not think mine were -real troubles at all. I wish I could do something for your people, -Alessandro. If the village were only near by, I could teach them, could -I not? I could teach them to read. The Sisters always said, that to -teach the ignorant and the poor was the noblest work one could do. I -wish I could teach your people. Have you any relatives there -besides your father? Is there any one in the village that you--love, -Alessandro?" - -Alessandro was too much absorbed in thoughts of his people, to observe -the hesitating emphasis with which Ramona asked this question. - -"Yes, Senorita, I love them all. They are like my brothers and sisters, -all of my father's people," he said; "and I am unhappy about them all -the time." - -During the whole of this conversation Ramona had had an undercurrent of -thought going on, which was making her uneasy. The more Alessandro said -about his father and his people, the more she realized that he was held -to Temecula by bonds that would be hard to break, the more she feared -his father would not let him remain away from home for any length of -time. At the thought of his going away, her very heart sickened. Taking -a sudden step towards him, she said abruptly, "Alessandro, I am afraid -your father will not give his consent to your staying here." - -"So am I, Senorita," he replied sadly. - -"And you would not stay if he did not approve of it, of course," she -said. - -"How could I, Senorita?" - -"No," she said, "it would not be right;" but as she said these words, -the tears filled her eyes. - -Alessandro saw them. The world changed in that second. "Senorita! -Senorita Ramona!" he cried, "tears have come in your eyes! O Senorita, -then you will not be angry if I say that I love you!" and Alessandro -trembled with the terror and delight of having said the words. - -Hardly did he trust his palpitating senses to be telling him true the -words that followed, quick, firm, though only in a whisper,--"I know -that you love me, Alessandro, and I am glad of it!" Yes, this was -what the Senorita Ramona was saying! And when he stammered, "But you, -Senorita, you do not--you could not--" "Yes, Alessandro, I do--I love -you!" in the same clear, firm whisper; and the next minute Alessandro's -arms were around Ramona, and he had kissed her, sobbing rather than -saying, "O Senorita, do you mean that you will go with me? that you -are mine? Oh, no, beloved Senorita, you cannot mean that!" But he was -kissing her. He knew she did mean it; and Ramona, whispering, "Yes, -Alessandro, I do mean it; I will go with you," clung to him with her -hands, and kissed him, and repeated it, "I will go with you, I love -you." And then, just then, came the Senora's step, and her sharp cry -of amazement, and there she stood, no more than an arm's-length away, -looking at them with her indignant, terrible eyes. - -What an hour this for Alessandro to be living over and over, as he -crouched in the darkness, watching! But the bewilderment of his emotions -did not dull his senses. As if stalking deer in a forest, he listened -for sounds from the house. It seemed strangely still. As the darkness -deepened, it seemed still stranger that no lamps were lit. Darkness in -the Senora's room, in the Senorita's; a faint light in the dining-room, -soon put out,--evidently no supper going on there. Only from under -Felipe's door streamed a faint radiance; and creeping close to the -veranda, Alessandro heard voices fitfully talking,--the Senora's and -Felipe's; no word from Ramona. Piteously he fixed his eyes on her -window; it was open, but the curtains tight drawn; no stir, no sound. -Where was she? What had been done to his love? Only the tireless caution -and infinite patience of his Indian blood kept Alessandro from going -to her window. But he would imperil nothing by acting on his own -responsibility. He would wait, if it were till daylight, till his -love made a sign. Certainly before long Senor Felipe would come to his -veranda bed, and then he could venture to speak to him. But it was near -midnight when the door of Felipe's room opened, and he and his mother -came out, still speaking in low tones. Felipe lay down on his couch; his -mother, bending over, kissed him, bade him good-night, and went into her -own room. - -It had been some time now since Alessandro had left off sleeping on the -veranda floor by Felipe's side. Felipe was so well it was not needful. -But Felipe felt sure he would come to-night, and was not surprised -when, a few minutes after the Senora's door closed, he heard a low voice -through the vines, "Senor Felipe?" - -"Hush, Alessandro," whispered Felipe. "Do not make a sound. To-morrow -morning early I will see you, behind the little sheepfold. It is not -safe to talk here." - -"Where is the Senorita?" Alessandro breathed rather than said. - -"In her room," answered Felipe. - -"Well?" said Alessandro. - -"Yes," said Felipe, hoping he was not lying; and this was all Alessandro -had to comfort himself with, through his long night of watching. No, not -all; one other thing comforted him,--the notes of two wood-doves, that -at intervals he heard, cooing to each other; just the two notes, the -call and the answer, "Love?" "Here." "Love?" "Here,"--and long intervals -of silence between. Plain as if written on a page was the thing they -told. - -"That is what my Ramona is like," thought he, "the gentle wood-dove. If -she is my wife my people will call her Majel, the Wood-Dove." - - - - -XI - -WHEN the Senora bade Felipe good-night, she did not go to bed. After -closing her door, she sat down to think what should be done about -Ramona. It had been a hard task she had set herself, talking all the -evening with Felipe without alluding to the topic uppermost in her mind. -But Felipe was still nervous and irritable. She would not spoil his -night's rest, she thought, by talking of disagreeable things. Moreover, -she was not clear in her own mind what she wished to have done about -Alessandro. If Ramona were to be sent away to the nuns, which was the -only thing the Senora could think of as yet, there would be no reason -for discharging Alessandro. And with him the Senora was by no means -ready to part, though in her first anger she had been ready to dismiss -him on the spot. As she pursued her reflections, the whole situation -cleared itself in her mind; so easily do affairs fall into line, in the -plottings and plannings of an arbitrary person, who makes in his formula -no allowance for a human element which he cannot control. - -Ramona should be sent in disgrace to the Sisters' School, to be a -servant there for the rest of her life. The Senora would wash her hands -of her forever. Even Father Salvierderra himself could not expect -her any longer to keep such a shameless creature under her roof. Her -sister's written instructions had provided for the possibility of just -such a contingency. Going to a secret closet in the wall, behind a -life-size statue of Saint Catharine, the Senora took out an iron box, -battered and rusty with age, and set it on the bed. The key turned with -difficulty in the lock. It was many years since the Senora had opened -this box. No one but herself knew of its existence. There had been many -times in the history of the Moreno house when the price of the contents -of that box would have averted loss and misfortune; but the Senora no -more thought of touching the treasure than if it had been guarded by -angels with fiery swords. There they lay, brilliant and shining even in -the dim light of the one candle,--rubies, emeralds, pearls, and yellow -diamonds. The Senora's lip curled as she looked at them. "Fine dowry, -truly, for a creature like this!" she said. "Well I knew in the -beginning no good would come of it; base begotten, base born, she has -but carried out the instincts of her nature. I suppose I may be grateful -that my own son was too pure to be her prey!" "To be given to my adopted -daughter, Ramona Ortegna, on her wedding day,"--so the instructions -ran,--"if she weds worthily and with your approval. Should such a -misfortune occur, which I do not anticipate, as that she should prove -unworthy, then these jewels, and all I have left to her of value, shall -be the property of the Church." - -"No mention as to what I am to do with the girl herself if she proves -unworthy," thought the Senora, bitterly; "but the Church is the place -for her; no other keeping will save her from the lowest depths of -disgrace. I recollect my sister said that Angus had at first intended to -give the infant to the Church. Would to God he had done so, or left it -with its Indian mother!" and the Senora rose, and paced the floor. The -paper of her dead sister's handwriting fell at her feet. As she walked, -her long skirt swept it rustling to and fro. She stooped, picked it up, -read it again, with increasing bitterness. No softness at the memory of -her sister's love for the little child; no relenting. "Unworthy!" Yes, -that was a mild word to apply to Ramona, now. It was all settled; -and when the girl was once out of the house, the Senora would breathe -easier. She and Felipe would lead their lives together, and Felipe would -wed some day. Was there a woman fair enough, good enough, for Felipe to -wed? But he must wed; and the place would be gay with children's voices, -and Ramona would be forgotten. - -The Senora did not know how late it was. "I will tell her to-night," she -said. "I will lose no time; and now she shall hear who her mother was!" - -It was a strange freak of just impulse in the Senora's angry soul, which -made her suddenly remember that Ramona had had no supper, and led her -to go to the kitchen, get a jug of milk and some bread, and take them -to the room. Turning the key cautiously, that Felipe might not hear, she -opened the door and glided in. No voice greeted her; she held her candle -high up; no Ramona in sight; the bed was empty. She glanced at the -window. It was open. A terror seized the Senora; fresh anger also. "She -has run off with Alessandro," she thought, "What horrible disgrace." -Standing motionless, she heard a faint, regular breathing from the other -side of the bed. Hastily crossing the room, she saw a sight which had -melted a heart that was only ice; but the Senora's was stone toward -Ramona. There lay Ramona on the floor, her head on a pillow at the feet -of the big Madonna which stood in the corner. Her left hand was under -her cheek, her right arm flung tight around the base of the statue. She -was sound asleep. Her face was wet with tears. Her whole attitude was -full of significance. Even helpless in sleep, she was one who had taken -refuge in sanctuary. This thought had been distinct in the girl's mind -when she found herself, spite of all her woe and terror, growing sleepy. -"She won't dare to hurt me at the Virgin's feet," she had said; "and -the window is open. Felipe would hear if I called; and Alessandro will -watch." And with a prayer on her lips she fell asleep. - -It was Felipe's nearness more than the Madonna's, which saved her from -being roused to hear her doom. The Senora stood for some moments -looking at her, and at the open window. With a hot rush of disgraceful -suspicions, she noted what she had never before thought of, that -Alessandro, through all his watching with Felipe, had had close access -to Ramona's window. "Shameful creature!" she repeated to herself. "And -she can sleep! It is well she prayed, if the Virgin will hear such!" and -she turned away, first setting down the jug of milk and the bread on a -table. Then, with a sudden and still more curious mingling of justness -in her wrath, she returned, and lifting the coverlet from the bed, -spread it over Ramona, covering her carefully from head to foot. Then -she went out and again locked the door. - -Felipe, from his bed, heard and divined all, but made no sound. "Thank -God, the poor child is asleep!" he said; "and my poor dear mother feared -to awake me by speaking to her! What will become of us all to-morrow!" -And Felipe tossed and turned, and had barely fallen into an uneasy -sleep, when his mother's window opened, and she sang the first line of -the sunrise hymn. Instantly Ramona joined, evidently awake and ready; -and no sooner did the watching Alessandro hear the first note of her -voice, than he struck in; and Margarita, who had been up for an hour, -prowling, listening, peering, wondering, her soul racked between her -jealousy and her fears,--even Margarita delayed not to unite; and -Felipe, too, sang feebly; and the volume of the song went up as rounded -and melodious as if all hearts were at peace and in harmony, instead of -being all full of sorrow, confusion, or hatred. But there was no one of -them all who was not the better for the singing; Ramona and Alessandro -most of all. - -"The saints be praised," said Alessandro. "There is my wood-dove's -voice. She can sing!" And, "Alessandro was near. He watched all night. I -am glad he loves me," said Ramona. - -"To hear those two voices." said the Senora; "would one suppose they -could sing like that? Perhaps it is not so bad as I think." - -As soon as the song was done, Alessandro ran to the sheepfold, where -Felipe had said he would see him. The minutes would be like years to -Alessandro till he had seen Felipe. - -Ramona, when she waked and found herself carefully covered, and bread -and milk standing on the table, felt much reassured. Only the Senora's -own hand had done this, she felt sure, for she had heard her the -previous evening turn the key in the lock, then violently take it out; -and Ramona knew well that the fact of her being thus a prisoner would be -known to none but the Senora herself. The Senora would not set servants -to gossiping. She ate her bread and milk thankfully, for she was very -hungry. Then she set her room in order, said her prayers, and sat down -to wait. For what? She could not imagine; in truth, she did not much -try. Ramona had passed now into a country where the Senora did not rule. -She felt little fear. Felipe would not see her harmed, and she was going -away presently with Alessandro. It was wonderful what peace and freedom -lay in the very thought. The radiance on her face of these two new-born -emotions was the first thing the Senora observed as she opened the door, -and slowly, very slowly, eyeing Ramona with a steady look, entered the -room. This joyous composure on Ramona's face angered the Senora, as it -had done before, when she was dragging her up the garden-walk. It seemed -to her like nothing less than brazen effrontery, and it changed the -whole tone and manner of her address. - -Seating herself opposite Ramona, but at the farthest side of the room, -she said, in a tone scornful and insulting, "What have you to say for -yourself?" - -Returning the Senora's gaze with one no less steady, Ramona spoke in the -same calm tone in which she had twice the evening before attempted to -stay the Senora's wrath. This time, she was not interrupted. - -"Senora," she said slowly, "I tried to tell you last night, but you -would not hear me. If you had listened, you would not have been so -angry. Neither Alessandro nor I have done anything wrong, and we were -not ashamed. We love each other, and we are going to be married, and go -away. I thank you, Senora, for all you have done for me; I am sure -you will be a great deal happier when I am away;" and Ramona looked -wistfully, with no shade of resentment, into the Senora's dark, shrunken -face. "You have been very good to do so much for a girl you did not -love. Thank you for the bread and milk last night. Perhaps I can go away -with Alessandro to-day. I do not know what he will wish. We had only -just that minute spoken of being married, when you found us last night." - -The Senora's face was a study during the few moments that it took to say -these words. She was dumb with amazement. Instantaneously, on the -first sense of relief that the disgrace had not been what she supposed, -followed a new wrath, if possible hotter than the first; not so much -scorn, but a bitterer anger. "Marry! Marry that Indian!" she cried, as -soon as she found voice. "You marry an Indian? Never! Are you mad? I -will never permit it." - -Ramona looked anxiously at her. "I have never disobeyed you, Senora," -she said, "but this is different from all other things; you are not my -mother. I have promised to marry Alessandro." - -The girl's gentleness deceived the Senora. - -"No," she said icily, "I am not your mother; but I stand in a mother's -place to you. You were my sister's adopted child, and she gave you to -me. You cannot marry without my permission, and I forbid you ever to -speak again of marrying this Indian." - -The moment had come for the Senora Moreno to find out, to her surprise -and cost, of what stuff this girl was made,--this girl, who had -for fourteen years lived by her side, docile, gentle, sunny, and -uncomplaining in her loneliness. Springing to her feet, and walking -swiftly till she stood close face to face with the Senora, who, herself -startled by the girl's swift motion, had also risen to her feet, Ramona -said, in a louder, firmer voice: "Senora Moreno, you may forbid me -as much as you please. The whole world cannot keep me from marrying -Alessandro. I love him. I have promised, and I shall keep my word." And -with her young lithe arms straight down at her sides, her head thrown -back, Ramona flashed full in the Senora's face a look of proud defiance. -It was the first free moment her soul had ever known. She felt herself -buoyed up as by wings in air. Her old terror of the Senora fell from her -like a garment thrown off. - -"Pshaw!" said the Senora, contemptuously, half amused, in spite of her -wrath, by the girl's, as she thought, bootless vehemence, "you talk like -a fool. Do you not know that I can shut you up in the nunnery to-morrow, -if I choose?" - -"No, you cannot!" replied Ramona. - -"Who, then, is to hinder me." said the Senora, insolently. - -"Alessandro!" answered Ramona, proudly. - -"Alessandro!" the Senora sneered. "Alessandro! Ha! a beggarly Indian, on -whom my servants will set the dogs, if I bid them! Ha, ha!" - -The Senora's sneering tone but roused Ramona more. "You would never -dare!" she cried; "Felipe would not permit it!" A most unwise retort for -Ramona. - -"Felipe!" cried the Senora, in a shrill voice. "How dare you pronounce -his name! He will none of you, from this hour! I forbid him to speak to -you. Indeed, he will never desire to set eyes on you when he hears the -truth." - -"You are mistaken, Senora," answered Ramona, more gently. "Felipe is -Alessandro's friend, and--mine," she added, after a second's pause. - -"So, ho! the Senorita thinks she is all-powerful in the house of -Moreno!" cried the Senora. "We will see! we will see! Follow me, -Senorita Ramona!" And throwing open the door, the Senora strode out, -looking back over her shoulder. - -"Follow me!" she cried again sharply, seeing that Ramona hesitated; and -Ramona went; across the passage-way leading to the dining-room, out into -the veranda, down the entire length of it, to the Senora's room,--the -Senora walking with a quick, agitated step, strangely unlike her usual -gait; Ramona walking far slower than was her habit, and with her eyes -bent on the ground. As they passed the dining-room door, Margarita, -standing just inside, shot at Ramona a vengeful, malignant glance. - -"She would help the Senora against me in anything," thought Ramona; and -she felt a thrill of fear, such as the Senora with all her threats had -not stirred. - -The Senora's windows were open. She closed them both, and drew the -curtains tight. Then she locked the door, Ramona watching her every -movement. - -"Sit down in that chair," said the Senora, pointing to one near the -fireplace. A sudden nervous terror seized Ramona. - -"I would rather stand, Senora," she said. - -"Do as I bid you." said the Senora, in a husky tone; and Ramona obeyed. -It was a low, broad armchair, and as she sank back into it, her senses -seemed leaving her. She leaned her head against the back and closed -her eyes. The room swam. She was roused by the Senora's strong -smelling-salts held for her to breathe, and a mocking taunt from the -Senora's iciest voice: "The Senorita does not seem so over-strong as she -did a few moments back!" - -Ramona tried to reason with herself; surely no ill could happen to her, -in this room, within call of the whole house. But an inexplicable terror -had got possession of her; and when the Senora, with a sneer on her -face, took hold of the Saint Catharine statue, and wheeling it half -around, brought into view a door in the wall, with a big iron key in the -keyhole, which she proceeded to turn, Ramona shook with fright. She had -read of persons who had been shut up alive in cells in the wall, and -starved to death. With dilating eyes she watched the Senora, who, all -unaware of her terror, was prolonging it and intensifying it by her -every act. First she took out the small iron box, and set it on a table. -Then, kneeling, she drew out from an inner recess in the closet a large -leather-covered box, and pulled it, grating and scraping along the -floor, till it stood in front of Ramona. All this time she spoke no -word, and the cruel expression of her countenance deepened each moment. -The fiends had possession of the Senora Moreno this morning, and no -mistake. A braver heart than Ramona's might have indeed been fearful, at -being locked up alone with a woman who looked like that. - -Finally, she locked the door and wheeled the statue back into its place. -Ramona breathed freer. She was not, after all, to be thrust into -the wall closet and left to starve. She gazed with wonder at the old -battered boxes. What could it all mean? - -"Senorita Ramona Ortegna," began the Senora, drawing up a chair, and -seating herself by the table on which stood the iron box, "I will now -explain to you why you will not marry the Indian Alessandro." - -At these words, this name, Ramona was herself again,--not her old self, -her new self, Alessandro's promised wife. The very sound of his name, -even on an enemy's tongue, gave her strength. The terrors fled away. -She looked up, first at the Senora, then at the nearest window. She was -young and strong; at one bound, if worst came to worst, she could leap -through the window, and fly for her life, calling on Alessandro. - -"I shall marry the Indian Alessandro, Senora Moreno," she said, in a -tone as defiant, and now almost as insolent, as the Senora's own. - -The Senora paid no heed to the words, except to say, "Do not interrupt -me again. I have much to tell you;" and opening the box, she lifted out -and placed on the table tray after tray of jewels. The sheet of written -paper lay at the bottom of the box. - -"Do you see this paper, Senorita Ramona?" she asked, holding it up. -Ramona bowed her head. "This was written by my sister, the Senora -Ortegna, who adopted you and gave you her name. These were her final -instructions to me, in regard to the disposition to be made of the -property she left to you." - -Ramona's lips parted. She leaned forward, breathless, listening, while -the Senora read sentence after sentence. All the pent-up pain, wonder, -fear of her childhood and her girlhood, as to the mystery of her birth, -swept over her anew, now. Like one hearkening for life or death, she -listened. She forgot Alessandro. She did not look at the jewels. Her -eyes never left the Senora's face. At the close of the reading, the -Senora said sternly, "You see, now, that my sister left to me the entire -disposition of everything belonging to you." - -"But it hasn't said who was my mother," cried Ramona. "Is that all there -is in the paper?" - -The Senora looked stupefied. Was the girl feigning? Did she care nothing -that all these jewels, almost a little fortune, were to be lost to her -forever? - -"Who was your mother?" she exclaimed, scornfully, "There was no need to -write that down. Your mother was an Indian. Everybody knew that!" - -At the word "Indian," Ramona gave a low cry. - -The Senora misunderstood it. "Ay," she said, "a low, common Indian. I -told my sister, when she took you, the Indian blood in your veins would -show some day; and now it has come true." - -Ramona's cheeks were scarlet. Her eyes flashed. "Yes, Senora Moreno," -she said, springing to her feet; "the Indian blood in my veins shows -to-day. I understand many things I never understood before. Was it -because I was an Indian that you have always hated me?" - -"You are not an Indian, and I have never hated you," interrupted the -Senora. - -Ramona heeded her not, but went on, more and more impetuously. "And if -I am an Indian, why do you object to my marrying Alessandro? Oh, I am -glad I am an Indian! I am of his people. He will be glad!" The words -poured like a torrent out of her lips. In her excitement she came closer -and closer to the Senora. "You are a cruel woman," she said. "I did not -know it before; but now I do. If you knew I was an Indian, you had no -reason to treat me so shamefully as you did last night, when you saw me -with Alessandro. You have always hated me. Is my mother alive'? Where -does she live? Tell me; and I will go to her to-day. Tell me! She will -be glad that Alessandro loves me!" - -It was a cruel look, indeed, and a crueller tone, with which the Senora -answered: "I have not the least idea who your mother was, or if she is -still alive, Nobody ever knew anything about her,--some low, vicious -creature, that your father married when he was out of his senses, as you -are now, when you talk of marrying Alessandro!" - -"He married her, then?" asked Ramona, with emphasis. "How know you that, -Senora Moreno?" - -"He told my sister so," replied the Senora, reluctantly. She grudged the -girl even this much of consolation. - -"What was his name?" asked Ramona. - -"Phail; Angus Phail," the Senora replied almost mechanically. She found -herself strangely constrained by Ramona's imperious earnestness, and she -chafed under it. The tables were being turned on her, she hardly knew -how. Ramona seemed to tower in stature, and to have the bearing of -the one in authority, as she stood before her pouring out passionate -question after question. The Senora turned to the larger box, and opened -it. With unsteady hands she lifted out the garments which for so many -years had rarely seen the light. Shawls and ribosos of damask, laces, -gowns of satin, of velvet. As the Senora flung one after another on the -chairs, it was a glittering pile of shining, costly stuffs. Ramona's -eyes rested on them dreamily. - -"Did my adopted mother wear all these?" she asked, lifting in her hand a -fold of lace, and holding it up to the light, in evident admiration. - -Again the Senora misconceived her. The girl seemed not insensible to the -value and beauty of this costly raiment. Perhaps she would be lured by -it. - -"All these are yours, Ramona, you understand, on your wedding day, if -you marry worthily, with my permission," said the Senora, in a voice -a shade less cold than had hitherto come from her lips. "Did you -understand what I read you?" - -The girl did not answer. She had taken up in her hand a ragged, crimson -silk handkerchief, which, tied in many knots, lay in one corner of the -jewel-box. - -"There are pearls in that," said the Senora; "that came with the things -your father sent to my sister when he died." - -Ramona's eyes gleamed. She began untying the knots. The handkerchief was -old, the knots tied tight, and undisturbed for years. As she reached the -last knot, and felt the hard stones, she paused. "This was my father's, -then." she said. - -"Yes," said the Senora, scornfully. She thought she had detected a new -baseness in the girl. She was going to set up a claim to all which had -been her father's property. "They were your father's, and all these -rubies, and these yellow diamonds;" and she pushed the tray towards her. - -Ramona had untied the last knot. Holding the handkerchief carefully -above the tray, she shook the pearls out. A strange, spicy fragrance -came from the silk. The pearls fell in among the rubies, rolling right -and left, making the rubies look still redder by contrast with their -snowy whiteness. - -"I will keep this handkerchief," she said, thrusting it as she spoke, -by a swift resolute movement into her bosom. "I am very glad to have one -thing that belonged to my father. The jewels, Senora, you can give to -the Church, if Father Salvierderra thinks that is right. I shall marry -Alessandro;" and still keeping one hand in her bosom where she had -thrust the handkerchief, she walked away and seated herself again in her -chair. - -Father Salvierderra! The name smote the Senora like a spear-thrust, -There could be no stronger evidence of the abnormal excitement under -which she had been laboring for the last twenty-four hours, than the -fact that she had not once, during all this time, thought to ask herself -what Father Salvierderra would say, or might command, in this crisis. -Her religion and the long habit of its outward bonds had alike gone from -her in her sudden wrath against Ramona. It was with a real terror that -she became conscious of this. - -"Father Salvierderra?" she stammered; "he has nothing to do with it." - -But Ramona saw the change in the Senora's face, at the word, and -followed up her advantage. "Father Salvierderra has to do with -everything," she said boldly. "He knows Alessandro, He will not forbid -me to marry him, and if he did--" Ramona stopped. She also was smitten -with a sudden terror at the vista opening before her,--of a disobedience -to Father Salvierderra. - -"And if he did," repeated the Senora, eyeing Ramona keenly, "would you -disobey him?" - -"Yes," said Ramona. - -"I will tell Father Salvierderra what you say," retorted the Senora, -sarcastically, "that he may spare himself the humiliation of laying any -commands on you, to be thus disobeyed." - -Ramona's lip quivered, and her eyes filled with the tears which no other -of the Senora's taunts had been strong enough to bring. Dearly she -loved the old monk; had loved him since her earliest recollection. His -displeasure would be far more dreadful to her than the Senora's. His -would give her grief; the Senora's, at utmost, only terror. - -Clasping her hands, she said, "Oh, Senora, have mercy! Do not say that -to the Father!" - -"It is my duty to tell the Father everything that happens in my family," -answered the Senora, chillingly. "He will agree with me, that if you -persist in this disobedience you will deserve the severest punishment. I -shall tell him all;" and she began putting the trays back in the box. - -"You will not tell him as it really is, Senora," persisted Ramona. "I -will tell him myself." - -"You shall not see him! I will take care of that!" cried the Senora, so -vindictively that Ramona shuddered. - -"I will give you one more chance," said the Senora, pausing in the -act of folding up one of the damask gowns. "Will you obey me? Will you -promise to have nothing more to do with this Indian?" - -"Never, Senora," replied Ramona; "never!" - -"Then the consequences be on your own head," cried the Senora. "Go to -your room! And, hark! I forbid you to speak of all this to Senor Felipe. -Do you hear?" - -Ramona bowed her head. "I hear," she said; and gliding out of the room, -closed the door behind her, and instead of going to her room, sped like -a hunted creature down the veranda steps, across the garden, calling in -a low tone, "Felipe! Felipe! Where are you, Felipe?" - - - - -XII - -THE little sheepfold, or corral, was beyond the artichoke-patch, on that -southern slope whose sunshine had proved so disastrous a temptation to -Margarita in the matter of drying the altar-cloth. It was almost like a -terrace, this long slope; and the sheepfold, being near the bottom, -was wholly out of sight of the house. This was the reason Felipe had -selected it as the safest spot for his talk with Alessandro. - -When Ramona reached the end of the trellised walk in the garden, she -halted and looked to the right and left. No one was in sight. As she -entered the Senora's room an hour before, she had caught a glimpse of -some one, she felt almost positive it was Felipe, turning off in the -path to the left, leading down to the sheepfold. She stood irresolute -for a moment, gazing earnestly down this path. "If the saints would only -tell me where he is!" she said aloud. She trembled as she stood there, -fearing each second to hear the Senora's voice calling her. But fortune -was favoring Ramona, for once; even as the words passed her lips, she -saw Felipe coming slowly up the bank. She flew to meet him. "Oh, Felipe, -Felipe!" she began. - -"Yes, dear, I know it all," interrupted Felipe; "Alessandro has told -me." - -"She forbade me to speak to you, Felipe," said Ramona, "but I could not -bear it. What are we to do? Where is Alessandro?" - -"My mother forbade you to speak to me!" cried Felipe, in a tone of -terror. "Oh, Ramona, why did you disobey her? If she sees us talking, -she will be even more displeased. Fly back to your room. Leave it all to -me. I will do all that I can." - -"But, Felipe," began Ramona, wringing her hands in distress. - -"I know! I know!" said Felipe; "but you must not make my mother any more -angry. I don't know what she will do till I talk with her. Do go back to -your room! Did she not tell you to stay there?" - -"Yes," sobbed Ramona, "but I cannot. Oh, Felipe, I am so afraid! Do help -us! Do you think you can? You won't let her shut me up in the convent, -will you, Felipe? Where is Alessandro? Why can't I go away with him this -minute? Where is he? Dear Felipe, let me go now." - -Felipe's face was horror-stricken. "Shut you in the convent!" he gasped. -"Did she say that? Ramona, dear, fly back to your room. Let me talk -to her. Fly, I implore you. I can't do anything for you if she sees me -talking with you now;" and he turned away, and walked swiftly down the -terrace. - -Ramona felt as if she were indeed alone in the world. How could she -go back into that house! Slowly she walked up the garden-path again, -meditating a hundred wild plans of escape. Where, where was Alessandro? -Why did he not appear for her rescue? Her heart failed her; and when -she entered her room, she sank on the floor in a paroxysm of hopeless -weeping. If she had known that Alessandro was already a good half-hour's -journey on his way to Temecula, galloping farther and farther away from -her each moment, she would have despaired indeed. - -This was what Felipe, after hearing the whole story, had counselled him -to do. Alessandro had given him so vivid a description of the Senora's -face and tone, when she had ordered him out of her sight, that Felipe -was alarmed. He had never seen his mother angry like that. He could not -conceive why her wrath should have been so severe. The longer he talked -with Alessandro, the more he felt that it would be wiser for him to be -out of sight till the first force of her anger had been spent. "I will -say that I sent you," said Felipe, "so she cannot feel that you have -committed any offence in going. Come back in four days, and by that time -it will be all settled what you shall do." - -It went hard with Alessandro to go without seeing Ramona; but it did not -need Felipe's exclamation of surprise, to convince him that it would be -foolhardy to attempt it. His own judgment had told him that it would be -out of the question. - -"But you will tell her all, Senor Felipe? You will tell her that it is -for her sake I go?" the poor fellow said piteously, gazing into Felipe's -eyes as if he would read his inmost soul. - -"I will, indeed, Alessandro; I will," replied Felipe; and he held his -hand out to Alessandro, as to a friend and equal. "You may trust me to -do all I can do for Ramona and for you." - -"God bless you, Senor Felipe," answered Alessandro, gravely, a slight -trembling of his voice alone showing how deeply he was moved. - -"He's a noble fellow," said Felipe to himself, as he watched Alessandro -leap on his horse, which had been tethered near the corral all -night,--"a noble fellow! There isn't a man among all my friends who -would have been manlier or franker than he has been in this whole -business. I don't in the least wonder that Ramona loves him. He's a -noble fellow! But what is to be done! What is to be done!" - -Felipe was sorely perplexed. No sharp crisis of disagreement had ever -arisen between him and his mother, but he felt that one was coming -now. He was unaware of the extent of his influence over her. He doubted -whether he could move her very far. The threat of shutting Ramona up in -the convent terrified him more than he liked to admit to himself. Had -she power to do that? Felipe did not know. She must believe that she -had, or she would not have made the threat. Felipe's whole soul revolted -at the cruel injustice of the idea. - -"As if it were a sin for the poor girl to love Alessandro!" he said. -"I'd help her to run away with him, if worse comes to worst. What can -make my mother feel so!" And Felipe paced back and forth till the sun -was high, and the sharp glare and heat reminded him that he must seek -shelter; then he threw himself down under the willows. He dreaded to -go into the house. His instinctive shrinking from the disagreeable, his -disposition to put off till another time, held him back, hour by hour. -The longer he thought the situation over, the less he knew how to broach -the subject to his mother; the more uncertain he felt whether it would -be wise for him to broach it at all. Suddenly he heard his name called. -It was Margarita, who had been sent to call him to dinner. "Good -heavens! dinner already!" he cried, springing to his feet. - -"Yes, Senor," replied Margarita, eyeing him observantly. She had seen -him talking with Alessandro, had seen Alessandro galloping away down -the river road. She had also gathered much from the Senora's look, -and Ramona's, as they passed the dining-room door together soon after -breakfast. Margarita could have given a tolerably connected account of -all that had happened within the last twenty-four hours to the chief -actors in this tragedy which had so suddenly begun in the Moreno -household. Not supposed to know anything, she yet knew nearly all; and -her every pulse was beating high with excited conjecture and wonder as -to what would come next. - -Dinner was a silent and constrained meal,--Ramona absent, the fiction of -her illness still kept up; Felipe embarrassed, and unlike himself; the -Senora silent, full of angry perplexity. At her first glance in Felipe's -face, she thought to herself, "Ramona has spoken to him. When and how -did she do it?" For it had been only a few moments after Ramona had left -her presence, that she herself had followed, and, seeing the girl in her -own room, had locked the door as before, and had spent the rest of the -morning on the veranda within hands' reach of Ramona's window. How, -when, and where had she contrived to communicate with Felipe? The longer -the Senora studied over this, the angrier and more baffled she felt; to -be outwitted was even worse to her than to be disobeyed. Under her very -eyes, as it were, something evidently had happened, not only against -her will, but which she could not explain. Her anger even rippled out -towards Felipe, and was fed by the recollection of Ramona's unwise -retort, "Felipe would not let you!" What had Felipe done or said to make -the girl so sure that he would be on her side and Alessandro's? Was it -come to this, that she, the Senora Moreno, was to be defied in her own -house by children and servants! - -It was with a tone of severe displeasure that she said to Felipe, as -she rose from the dinner-table, "My son, I would like to have some -conversation with you in my room, if you are at leisure." - -"Certainly, mother," said Felipe, a load rolling off his mind at her -having thus taken the initiative, for which he lacked courage; and -walking swiftly towards her, he attempted to put his arm around her -waist, as it was his affectionate habit frequently to do. She repulsed -him gently, but bethinking herself, passed her hand through his arm, -and leaning on it heavily as she walked, said: "This is the most fitting -way, my son. I must lean more and more heavily on you each year now. Age -is telling on me fast. Do you not find me greatly changed, Felipe, in -the last year?" - -"No, madre mia," replied Felipe, "indeed I do not. I see not that you -have changed in the last ten years." And he was honest in this. His -eyes did not note the changes so clear to others, and for the best of -reasons. The face he saw was one no one else ever beheld; it was kindled -by emotion, transfigured by love, whenever it was turned towards him. - -The Senora sighed deeply as she answered: "That must be because you so -love me, Felipe. I myself see the changes even day by day. Troubles -tell on me as they did not when I was younger. Even within the last -twenty-four hours I seem to myself to have aged frightfully;" and she -looked keenly at Felipe as she seated herself in the arm-chair where -poor Ramona had swooned a few hours before. Felipe remained standing -before her, gazing, with a tender expression, upon her features, but -saying nothing. - -"I see that Ramona has told you all!" she continued, her voice hardening -as she spoke. What a fortunate wording of her sentence! - -"No, mother; it was not Ramona, it was Alessandro, who told me this -morning, early," Felipe answered hastily, hurrying on, to draw the -conversation as far away from Ramona as possible. "He came and spoke to -me last night after I was in bed; but I told him to wait till morning, -and then I would hear all he had to say." - -"Ah!" said the Senora, relieved. Then, as Felipe remained silent, she -asked, "And what did he say?" - -"He told me all that had happened." - -"All!" said the Senora, sneeringly. "Do you suppose that he told you -all?" - -"He said that you had bidden him begone out of your sight," said Felipe, -"and that he supposed he must go. So I told him to go at once. I thought -you would prefer not to see him again." - -"Ah!" said the Senora again, startled, gratified that Felipe had so -promptly seconded her action, but sorry that Alessandro had gone. "Ah, I -did not know whether you would think it best to discharge him at once -or not; I told him he must answer to you. I did not know but you might -devise some measures by which he could be retained on the estate." - -Felipe stared. Could he believe his ears? This did not sound like the -relentless displeasure he had expected. Could Ramona have been dreaming? -In his astonishment, he did not weigh his mother's words carefully; he -did not carry his conjecture far enough; he did not stop to make sure -that retaining Alessandro on the estate might not of necessity bode any -good to Ramona; but with his usual impetuous ardor, sanguine, at the -first glimpse of hope, that all was well, he exclaimed joyfully, "Ah, -dear mother, if that could only be done, all would be well;" and, never -noting the expression of his mother's face, nor pausing to take breath, -he poured out all he thought and felt on the subject. - -"That is just what I have been hoping for ever since I saw that he and -Ramona were growing so fond of each other. He is a splendid fellow, and -the best hand we have ever had on the place. All the men like him; he -would make a capital overseer; and if we put him in charge of the whole -estate, there would not be any objection to his marrying Ramona. That -would give them a good living here with us." - -"Enough!" cried the Senora, in a voice which fell on Felipe's ears -like a voice from some other world,--so hollow, so strange. He stopped -speaking, and uttered an ejaculation of amazement. At the first words -he had uttered, the Senora had fixed her eyes on the floor,--a habit of -hers when she wished to listen with close attention. Lifting her eyes -now, fixing them full on Felipe, she regarded him with a look which not -all his filial reverence could bear without resentment. It was nearly as -scornful as that with which she had regarded Ramona. Felipe colored. - -"Why do you look at me like that, mother?" he exclaimed. "What have I -done?" - -The Senora waved her hand imperiously. "Enough!" she reiterated. "Do not -say any more. I wish to think for a few moments;" and she fixed her eyes -on the floor again. - -Felipe studied her countenance. A more nearly rebellious feeling than -he had supposed himself capable of slowly arose in his heart. Now he for -the first time perceived what terror his mother must inspire in a girl -like Ramona. - -"Poor little one!" he thought. "If my mother looked at her as she did at -me just now, I wonder she did not die." - -A great storm was going on in the Senora's bosom. Wrath against Ramona -was uppermost in it. In addition to all else, the girl had now been the -cause, or at least the occasion, of Felipe's having, for the first time -in his whole life, angered her beyond her control. - -"As if I had not suffered enough by reason of that creature," she -thought bitterly to herself, "without her coming between me and Felipe!" - -But nothing could long come between the Senora and Felipe. Like a fresh -lava-stream flowing down close on the track of its predecessor, came the -rush of the mother's passionate love for her son close on the passionate -anger at his words. - -When she lifted her eyes they were full of tears, which it smote Felipe -to see. As she gazed at him, they rolled down her cheeks, and she said -in trembling tones: "Forgive me, my child; I had not thought anything -could make me thus angry with you. That shameless creature is costing us -too dear. She must leave the house." - -Felipe's heart gave a bound; Ramona had not been mistaken, then. A -bitter shame seized him at his mother's cruelty. But her tears made him -tender; and it was in a gentle, even pleading voice that he replied: -"I do not see, mother, why you call Ramona shameless. There is nothing -wrong in her loving Alessandro." - -"I found her in his arms!" exclaimed the Senora. - -"I know," said Felipe; "Alessandro told me that he had just at that -instant told her he loved her, and she had said she loved him, and would -marry him, just as you came up." - -"Humph!" retorted the Senora; "do you think that Indian would have dared -to speak a word of love to the Senorita Ramona Ortegna, if she had not -conducted herself shamelessly? I wonder that he concerned himself to -speak about marriage to her at all." - -"Oh, mother! mother!" was all that Felipe could say to this. He was -aghast. He saw now, in a flash, the whole picture as it lay in his -mother's mind, and his heart sank within him. "Mother!" he repeated, in -a tone which spoke volumes. - -"Ay," she continued, "that is what I say. I see no reason why he -hesitated to take her, as he would take any Indian squaw, with small -ceremony of marrying." - -"Alessandro would not take any woman that way any quicker than I would, -mother," said Felipe courageously; "you do him injustice." He longed -to add, "And Ramona too," but he feared to make bad matters worse by -pleading for her at present. - -"No, I do not," said the Senora; "I do Alessandro full justice. I -think very few men would have behaved as well as he has under the same -temptation. I do not hold him in the least responsible for all that has -happened. It is all Ramona's fault." - -Felipe's patience gave way. He had not known, till now, how very closely -this pure and gentle girl, whom he had loved as a sister in his boyhood, -and had come near loving as a lover in his manhood, had twined herself -around his heart. He could not remain silent another moment, and hear -her thus wickedly accused. - -"Mother!" he exclaimed, in a tone which made the Senora look up at him -in sudden astonishment. "Mother, I cannot help it if I make you very -angry; I must speak; I can't bear to hear you say such things of Ramona. -I have seen for a long time that Alessandro loved the very ground under -her feet; and Ramona would not have been a woman if she had not seen it -too! She has seen it, and has felt it, and has come to love him with all -her soul, just as I hope some woman will love me one of these days. If I -am ever loved as well as she loves Alessandro, I shall be lucky. I think -they ought to be married; and I think we ought to take Alessandro on to -the estate, so that they can live here. I don't see anything disgraceful -in it, nor anything wrong, nor anything but what was perfectly natural. -You know, mother, it isn't as if Ramona really belonged to our family; -you know she is half Indian." A scornful ejaculation from his mother -interrupted him here; but Felipe hurried on, partly because he was borne -out of himself at last by impetuous feeling, partly that he dreaded to -stop, because if he did, his mother would speak; and already he felt -a terror of what her next words might be. "I have often thought about -Ramona's future, mother. You know a great many men would not want to -marry her, just because she is half Indian. You, yourself, would never -have given your consent to my marrying her, if I had wanted to." Again -an exclamation from the Senora, this time more of horror than of scorn. -But Felipe pressed on. "No, of course you would not, I always knew that; -except for that, I might have loved her myself, for a sweeter girl -never drew breath in this God's earth." Felipe was reckless now; having -entered on this war, he would wage it with every weapon that lay within -his reach; if one did not tell, another might. "You have never loved -her. I don't know that you have ever even liked her; I don't think you -have. I know, as a little boy, I always used to see how much kinder you -were to me than to her, and I never could understand it. And you are -unjust to her now. I've been watching her all summer; I've seen her and -Alessandro together continually. You know yourself, mother, he has been -with us on the veranda, day after day, just as if he were one of the -family. I've watched them by the hour, when I lay there so sick; I -thought you must have seen it too. I don't believe Alessandro has ever -looked or said or done a thing I wouldn't have done in his place; and I -don't believe Ramona has ever looked, said, or done a thing I would not -be willing to have my own sister do!" Here Felipe paused. He had made -his charge; like a young impetuous general, massing all his forces at -the onset; he had no reserves. It is not the way to take Gibraltars. - -When he paused, literally breathless, he had spoken so fast,--and even -yet Felipe was not quite strong, so sadly had the fever undermined his -constitution,--the Senora looked at him interrogatively, and said in -a now composed tone: "You do not believe that Ramona has done anything -that you would not be willing to have your own sister do? Would you be -willing that your own sister should marry Alessandro?" - -Clever Senora Moreno! During the few moments that Felipe had been -speaking, she had perceived certain things which it would be beyond her -power to do; certain others that it would be impolitic to try to do. -Nothing could possibly compensate her for antagonizing Felipe. Nothing -could so deeply wound her, as to have him in a resentful mood towards -her; or so weaken her real control of him, as to have him feel that she -arbitrarily overruled his preference or his purpose. In presence of her -imperious will, even her wrath capitulated and surrendered. There would -be no hot words between her and her son. He should believe that he -determined the policy of the Moreno house, even in this desperate -crisis. - -Felipe did not answer. A better thrust was never seen on any field than -the Senora's question. She repeated it, still more deliberately, in her -wonted gentle voice. The Senora was herself again, as she had not been -for a moment since she came upon Alessandro and Ramona at the brook. -How just and reasonable the question sounded, as she repeated it slowly, -with an expression in her eyes, of poising and weighing matters. "Would -you be willing that your own sister should marry Alessandro?" - -Felipe was embarrassed. He saw whither he was being led. He could give -but one answer to this question. "No, mother," he said, "I should not; -but--" - -"Never mind buts," interrupted his mother; "we have not got to those -yet;" and she smiled on Felipe,--an affectionate smile, but it somehow -gave him a feeling of dread. "Of course I knew you could make but one -answer to my question. If you had a sister, you would rather see her -dead than married to any one of these Indians." - -Felipe opened his lips eagerly, to speak. "Not so," he said. - -"Wait, dear!" exclaimed his mother. "One thing at a time, I see how full -your loving heart is, and I was never prouder of you as my son than when -listening just now to your eloquent defence of Ramona, Perhaps you -may be right and I wrong as to her character and conduct. We will not -discuss those points." It was here that the Senora had perceived some -things that it would be out of her power to do. "We will not discuss -those, because they do not touch the real point at issue. What it is -our duty to do by Ramona, in such a matter as this, does not turn on -her worthiness or unworthiness. The question is, Is it right for you -to allow her to do what you would not allow your own sister to do?" The -Senora paused for a second, noted with secret satisfaction how puzzled -and unhappy Felipe looked; then, in a still gentler voice, she went on, -"You surely would not think that right, my son, would you?" And now the -Senora waited for an answer. - -"No, mother," came reluctantly from Felipe's lips. "I suppose not; -but--" - -"I was sure my own son could make no other reply," interrupted the -Senora. She did not wish Felipe at present to do more than reply to -her questions. "Of course it would not be right for us to let Ramona -do anything which we would not let her do if she were really of our own -blood. That is the way I have always looked at my obligation to her. My -sister intended to rear her as her own daughter. She had given her her -own name. When my sister died, she transferred to me all her right and -responsibility in and for the child. You do not suppose that if your -aunt had lived, she would have ever given her consent to her adopted -daughter's marrying an Indian, do you?" - -Again the Senora paused for a reply, and again the reluctant Felipe -said, in a low tone, "No, I suppose she would not." - -"Very well. Then that lays a double obligation on us. It is not only -that we are not to permit Ramona to do a thing which we would consider -disgraceful to one of our own blood; we are not to betray the trust -reposed in us by the only person who had a right to control her, and who -transferred that trust to us. Is not that so?" - -"Yes, mother," said the unhappy Felipe. - -He saw the meshes closing around him. He felt that there was a flaw -somewhere in his mother's reasoning, but he could not point it out; -in fact, he could hardly make it distinct to himself. His brain was -confused. Only one thing he saw clearly, and that was, that after all -had been said and done, Ramona would still marry Alessandro. But it was -evident that it would never be with his mother's consent. "Nor with mine -either, openly, the way she puts it. I don't see how it can be; and yet -I have promised Alessandro to do all I could for him. Curse the luck, -I wish he had never set foot on the place!" said Felipe in his heart, -growing unreasonable, and tired with the perplexity. - -The Senora continued: "I shall always blame myself bitterly for having -failed to see what was going on. As you say, Alessandro has been with -us a great deal since your illness, with his music, and singing, and one -thing and another; but I can truly say that I never thought of Ramona's -being in danger of looking upon him in the light of a possible lover, -any more than of her looking thus upon Juan Canito, or Luigo, or any -other of the herdsmen or laborers. I regret it more than words can -express, and I do not know what we can do, now that it has happened." - -"That's it, mother! That's it!" broke in Felipe. "You see, you see it is -too late now." - -The Senora went on as if Felipe had not spoken. "I suppose you would -really very much regret to part with Alessandro, and your word is in a -way pledged to him, as you had asked him if he would stay on the place, -Of course, now that all this has happened, it would be very unpleasant -for Ramona to stay here, and see him continually--at least for a time, -until she gets over this strange passion she seems to have conceived -for him. It will not last. Such sudden passions never do." The Senora -artfully interpolated, "What should you think, Felipe, of having her go -back to the Sisters' school for a time? She was very happy there." - -The Senora had strained a point too far. Felipe's self-control suddenly -gave way, and as impetuously as he had spoken in the beginning, he spoke -again now, nerved by the memory of Ramona's face and tone as she had -cried to him in the garden, "Oh, Felipe, you won't let her shut me up -in the convent, will you?" "Mother!" he cried, "you would never do that. -You would not shut the poor girl up in the convent!" - -The Senora raised her eyebrows in astonishment. "Who spoke of shutting -up?" she said. "Ramona has already been there at school. She might go -again. She is not too old to learn. A change of scene and occupation is -the best possible cure for a girl who has a thing of this sort to get -over. Can you propose anything better, my son? What would you advise?" -And a third time the Senora paused for an answer. - -These pauses and direct questions of the Senora's were like nothing -in life so much as like that stage in a spider's processes when, -withdrawing a little way from a half-entangled victim, which still -supposes himself free, it rests from its weaving, and watches the victim -flutter. Subtle questions like these, assuming, taking for granted as -settled, much which had never been settled at all, were among the best -weapons in the Senora's armory. They rarely failed her. - -"Advise!" cried Felipe, excitedly. "Advise! This is what I advise--to -let Ramona and Alessandro marry. I can't help all you say about our -obligations. I dare say you're right; and it's a cursedly awkward -complication for us, anyhow, the way you put it." - -"Yes, awkward for you, as the head of our house," interrupted the -Senora, sighing. "I don't quite see how you would face it." - -"Well, I don't propose to face it," continued Felipe, testily. "I don't -propose to have anything to do with it, from first to last. Let her go -away with him, if she wants to.' - -"Without our consent?" said the Senora, gently. - -"Yes, without it, if she can't go with it; and I don't see, as you have -stated it, how we could exactly take any responsibility about marrying -her to Alessandro. But for heaven's sake, mother, let her go! She will -go, any way. You haven't the least idea how she loves Alessandro, or how -he loves her. Let her go!" - -"Do you really think she would run away with him, if it came to that?" -asked the Senora, earnestly. "Run away and marry him, spite of our -refusing to consent to the marriage?" - -"I do," said Felipe. - -"Then it is your opinion, is it, that the only thing left for us to do, -is to wash our hands of it altogether, and leave her free to do what she -pleases?" - -"That's just what I do think, mother," replied Felipe, his heart growing -lighter at her words. "That's just what I do think. We can't prevent -it, and it is of no use to try. Do let us tell them they can do as they -like." - -"Of course, Alessandro must leave us, then," said the Senora. "They -could not stay here." - -"I don't see why!" said Felipe, anxiously. - -"You will, my son, if you think a moment. Could we possibly give a -stronger indorsement to their marriage than by keeping them here? Don't -you see that would be so?" - -Felipe's eyes fell. "Then I suppose they couldn't be married here, -either," he said. - -"What more could we do than that, for a marriage that we heartily -approved of, my son?" - -"True, mother;" and Felipe clapped his hand to his forehead. "But then -we force them to run away!" - -"Oh, no." said the Senora, icily. "If they go, they will go of their -own accord. We hope they will never do anything so foolish and wrong. If -they do, I suppose we shall always be held in a measure responsible for -not having prevented it. But if you think it is not wise, or of no use -to attempt that, I do not see what there is to be done." - -Felipe did not speak. He felt discomfited; felt as if he had betrayed -his friend Alessandro, his sister Ramona; as if a strange complication, -network of circumstances, had forced him into a false position; he did -not see what more he could ask, what more could be asked, of his mother; -he did not see, either, that much less could have been granted to -Alessandro and Ramona; he was angry, wearied, perplexed. - -The Senora studied his face. "You do not seem satisfied, Felipe dear," -she said tenderly. "As, indeed, how could you be in this unfortunate -state of affairs? But can you think of anything different for us to do?" - -"No," said Felipe, bitterly. "I can't, that's the worst of it. It is -just turning Ramona out of the house, that's all." - -"Felipe! Felipe!" exclaimed the Senora, "how unjust you are to yourself! -You know you would never do that! You know that she has always had a -home here as if she were a daughter; and always will have, as long as -she wishes it. If she chooses to turn her back on it, and go away, is -it our fault? Do not let your pity for this misguided girl blind you to -what is just to yourself and to me. Turn Ramona out of the house! You -know I promised my sister to bring her up as my own child; and I have -always felt that my son would receive the trust from me, when I died. -Ramona has a home under the Moreno roof so long as she will accept it. -It is not just, Felipe, to say that we turn her out;" and tears stood in -the Senora's eyes. - -"Forgive me, dear mother," cried the unhappy Felipe. "Forgive me for -adding one burden to all you have to bear. Truth is, this miserable -business has so distraught my senses, I can't seem to see anything as it -is. Dear mother, it is very hard for you. I wish it were done with." - -"Thanks for your precious sympathy, my Felipe," replied the Senora. "If -it were not for you, I should long ago have broken down beneath my cares -and burdens. But among them all, have been few so grievous as this. I -feel myself and our home dishonored. But we must submit. As you say, -Felipe, I wish it were done with. It would be as well, perhaps, to send -for Ramona at once, and tell her what we have decided. She is no doubt -in great anxiety; we will see her here." - -Felipe would have greatly preferred to see Ramona alone; but as he knew -not how to bring this about he assented to his mother's suggestion. - -Opening her door, the Senora walked slowly down the passage-way, -unlocked Ramona's door, and said: "Ramona, be so good as to come to my -room. Felipe and I have something to say to you." - -Ramona followed, heavy-hearted. The words, "Felipe and I," boded no -good. - -"The Senora has made Felipe think just as she does herself," thought -Ramona. "Oh, what will become of me!" and she stole a reproachful, -imploring look at Felipe. He smiled back in a way which reassured her; -but the reassurance did not last long. - -"Senorita Ramona Ortegna," began the Senora. Felipe shivered. He had had -no conception that his mother could speak in that way. The words seemed -to open a gulf between Ramona and all the rest of the world, so cold -and distant they sounded,--as the Senora might speak to an intruding -stranger. - -"Senorita Ramona Ortegna," she said, "my son and I have been discussing -what it is best for us to do in the mortifying and humiliating position -in which you place us by your relation with the Indian Alessandro. Of -course you know--or you ought to know--that it is utterly impossible -for us to give our consent to your making such a marriage; we should be -false to a trust, and dishonor our own family name, if we did that." - -Ramona's eyes dilated, her cheeks paled; she opened her lips, but no -sound came from them; she looked toward Felipe, and seeing him with -downcast eyes, and an expression of angry embarrassment on his face, -despair seized her. Felipe had deserted their cause. Oh, where, where -was Alessandro! Clasping her hands, she uttered a low cry,--a cry that -cut Felipe to the heart. He was finding out, in thus being witness of -Ramona's suffering, that she was far nearer and dearer to him than he -had realized. It would have taken very little, at such moments as these, -to have made Felipe her lover again; he felt now like springing to her -side, folding his arms around her, and bidding his mother defiance. It -took all the self-control he could gather, to remain silent, and trust -to Ramona's understanding him later. - -Ramona's cry made no break in the smooth, icy flow of the Senora's -sentences. She gave no sign of having heard it, but continued: "My son -tells me that he thinks our forbidding it would make no difference; that -you would go away with the man all the same. I suppose he is right in -thinking so, as you yourself told me that even if Father Salvierderra -forbade it, you would disobey him. Of course, if this is your -determination, we are powerless. Even if I were to put you in the -keeping of the Church, which is what I am sure my sister, who adopted -you as her child, would do, if she were alive, you would devise some -means of escape, and thus bring a still greater and more public scandal -on the family. Felipe thinks that it is not worth while to attempt to -bring you to reason in that way; and we shall therefore do nothing. I -wish to impress it upon you that my son, as head of this house, and I, -as my sister's representative, consider you a member of our own family. -So long as we have a home for ourselves, that home is yours, as it -always has been. If you choose to leave it, and to disgrace yourself and -us by marrying an Indian, we cannot help ourselves." - -The Senora paused. Ramona did not speak. Her eyes were fixed on the -Senora's face, as if she would penetrate to her inmost soul; the girl -was beginning to recognize the Senora's true nature; her instincts and -her perceptions were sharpened by love. - -"Have you anything to say to me or to my son?" asked the Senora. - -"No, Senora," replied Ramona; "I do not think of anything more to say -than I said this morning. Yes," she added, "there is. Perhaps I shall -not speak with you again before I go away. I thank you once more for -the home you have given me for so many years. And you too, Felipe," she -continued, turning towards Felipe, her face changing, all her pent-up -affection and sorrow looking out of her tearful eyes,--"you too, dear -Felipe. You have always been so good to me. I shall always love you as -long as I live;" and she held out both her hands to him. Felipe took -them in his, and was about to speak, when the Senora interrupted -him. She did not intend to have any more of this sort of affectionate -familiarity between her son and Ramona. - -"Are we to understand that you are taking your leave now?" she said. "Is -it your purpose to go at once?" - -"I do not know, Senora," stammered Ramona; "I have not seen Alessandro; -I have not heard--" And she looked up in distress at Felipe, who -answered compassionately,-- - -"Alessandro has gone." - -"Gone!" shrieked Ramona. "Gone! not gone, Felipe!" - -"Only for four days," replied Felipe. "To Temecula. I thought it would -be better for him to be away for a day or two. He is to come back -immediately. Perhaps he will be back day after to-morrow." - -"Did he want to go? What did he go for? Why didn't you let me go with -him? Oh, why, why did he go?" cried Ramona. - -"He went because my son told him to go," broke in the Senora, impatient -of this scene, and of the sympathy she saw struggling in Felipe's -expressive features. "My son thought, and rightly, that the sight of him -would be more than I could bear just now; so he ordered him to go away, -and Alessandro obeyed." - -Like a wounded creature at bay, Ramona turned suddenly away from Felipe, -and facing the Senora, her eyes resolute and dauntless spite of the -streaming tears, exclaimed, lifting her right hand as she spoke, "You -have been cruel; God will punish you!" and without waiting to see what -effect her words had produced, without looking again at Felipe, she -walked swiftly out of the room. - -"You see," said the Senora, "you see she defies us." - -"She is desperate," said Felipe. "I am sorry I sent Alessandro away." - -"No, my son," replied the Senora, "you were wise, as you always are. -It may bring her to her senses, to have a few days' reflection in -solitude." - -"You do not mean to keep her locked up, mother, do you?" cried Felipe. - -The Senora turned a look of apparently undisguised amazement on him. -"You would not think that best, would you? Did you not say that all we -could do, was simply not to interfere with her in any way? To wash our -hands, so far as is possible, of all responsibility about her?" - -"Yes, yes," said the baffled Felipe; "that was what I said. But, -mother--" He stopped. He did not know what he wanted to say. - -The Senora looked tenderly at him, her face full of anxious inquiry. - -"What is it, Felipe dear? Is there anything more you think I ought to -say or do?" she asked. - -"What is it you are going to do, mother?" said Felipe. "I don't seem to -understand what you are going to do." - -"Nothing, Felipe! You have entirely convinced me that all effort would -be thrown away. I shall do nothing," replied the Senora. "Nothing -whatever." - -"Then as long as Ramona is here, everything will be just as it always -has been?" said Felipe. - -The Senora smiled sadly. "Dear Felipe, do you think that possible? A -girl who has announced her determination to disobey not only you and -me, but Father Salvierderra, who is going to bring disgrace both on the -Moreno and the Ortegna name,--we can't feel exactly the same towards her -as we did before, can we?" - -Felipe made an impatient gesture. "No, of course not. But I mean, is -everything to be just the same, outwardly, as it was before?" - -"I supposed so," said the Senora. "Was not that your idea? We must try -to have it so, I think. Do not you?" - -"Yes," groaned Felipe, "if we can!" - - - - -XIII - -THE Senora Moreno had never before been so discomfited as in this matter -of Ramona and Alessandro. It chafed her to think over her conversation -with Felipe; to recall how far the thing she finally attained was from -the thing she had in view when she began. To have Ramona sent to the -convent, Alessandro kept as overseer of the place, and the Ortegna -jewels turned into the treasury of the Church,--this was the plan she -had determined on in her own mind. Instead of this, Alessandro was not -to be overseer on the place; Ramona would not go to the convent: she -would be married to Alessandro, and they would go away together; and -the Ortegna jewels,--well, that was a thing to be decided in the future; -that should be left to Father Salvierderra to decide. Bold as the Senora -was, she had not quite the courage requisite to take that question -wholly into her own hands. - -One thing was clear, Felipe must not be consulted in regard to them. He -had never known of them, and need not now. Felipe was far too much in -sympathy with Ramona to take a just view of the situation. He would be -sure to have a quixotic idea of Ramona's right of ownership. It was not -impossible that Father Salvierderra might have the same feeling. If so, -she must yield; but that would go harder with her than all the rest. -Almost the Senora would have been ready to keep the whole thing a secret -from the Father, if he had not been at the time of the Senora Ortegna's -death fully informed of all the particulars of her bequest to her -adopted child. At any rate, it would be nearly a year before the Father -came again, and in the mean time she would not risk writing about it. -The treasure was as safe in Saint Catharine's keeping as it had been all -these fourteen years; it should still lie hidden there. When Ramona went -away with Alessandro, she would write to Father Salvierderra, simply -stating the facts in her own way, and telling him that all further -questions must wait for decision until they met. - -And so she plotted and planned, and mapped out the future in her -tireless weaving brain, till she was somewhat soothed for the partial -failure of her plans. - -There is nothing so skilful in its own defence as imperious pride. It -has an ingenious system of its own, of reprisals,--a system so ingenious -that the defeat must be sore indeed, after which it cannot still -find some booty to bring off! And even greater than this ingenuity at -reprisals is its capacity for self-deception. In this regard, it outdoes -vanity a thousandfold. Wounded vanity knows when it is mortally hurt; -and limps off the field, piteous, all disguises thrown away. But pride -carries its banner to the last; and fast as it is driven from one field -unfurls it in another, never admitting that there is a shade less honor -in the second field than in the first, or in the third than in the -second; and so on till death. It is impossible not to have a certain -sort of admiration for this kind of pride. Cruel, those who have it, are -to all who come in their way; but they are equally cruel to themselves, -when pride demands the sacrifice. Such pride as this has led many a -forlorn hope, on the earth, when all other motives have died out of -men's breasts; has won many a crown, which has not been called by its -true name. - -Before the afternoon was over, the Senora had her plan, her chart of -the future, as it were, all reconstructed; the sting of her discomfiture -soothed; the placid quiet of her manner restored; her habitual -occupations also, and little ways, all resumed. She was going to do -"nothing" in regard to Ramona. Only she herself knew how much that -meant; how bitterly much! She wished she were sure that Felipe also -would do "nothing;" but her mind still misgave her about Felipe. -Unpityingly she had led him on, and entangled him in his own words, -step by step, till she had brought him to the position she wished him to -take. Ostensibly, his position and hers were one, their action a unit; -all the same, she did not deceive herself as to his real feeling about -the affair. He loved Ramona. He liked Alessandro. Barring the question -of family pride, which he had hardly thought of till she suggested -it, and which he would not dwell on apart from her continuing to press -it,--barring this, he would have liked to have Alessandro marry Ramona -and remain on the place. All this would come uppermost in Felipe's -mind again when he was removed from the pressure of her influence. -Nevertheless, she did not intend to speak with him on the subject again, -or to permit him to speak to her. Her ends would be best attained -by taking and keeping the ground that the question of their -non-interference having been settled once for all, the painful topic -should never be renewed between them. In patient silence they must await -Ramona's action; must bear whatever of disgrace and pain she chose to -inflict on the family which had sheltered her from her infancy till now. - -The details of the "nothing" she proposed to do, slowly arranged -themselves in her mind. There should be no apparent change in Ramona's -position in the house. She should come and go as freely as ever; no -watch on her movements; she should eat, sleep, rise up and sit down -with them, as before; there should be not a word, or act, that Felipe's -sympathetic sensitiveness could construe into any provocation to Ramona -to run away. Nevertheless, Ramona should be made to feel, every moment -of every hour, that she was in disgrace; that she was with them, but not -of them; that she had chosen an alien's position, and must abide by it. -How this was to be done, the Senora did not put in words to herself, but -she knew very well. If anything would bring the girl to her senses, this -would. There might still be a hope, the Senora believed, so little did -she know Ramona's nature, or the depth of her affection for Alessandro, -that she might be in this manner brought to see the enormity of the -offence she would commit if she persisted in her purpose. And if she did -perceive this, confess her wrong, and give up the marriage,--the Senora -grew almost generous and tolerant in her thoughts as she contemplated -this contingency,--if she did thus humble herself and return to her -rightful allegiance to the Moreno house, the Senora would forgive her, -and would do more for her than she had ever hitherto done. She would -take her to Los Angeles and to Monterey; would show her a little more -of the world; and it was by no means unlikely that there might thus come -about for her a satisfactory and honorable marriage. Felipe should see -that she was not disposed to deal unfairly by Ramona in any way, if -Ramona herself would behave properly. - -Ramona's surprise, when the Senora entered her room just before supper, -and, in her ordinary tone, asked a question about the chili which was -drying on the veranda, was so great, that she could not avoid showing it -both in her voice and look. - -The Senora recognized this immediately, but gave no sign of having done -so, continuing what she had to say about the chili, the hot sun, the -turning of the grapes, etc., precisely as she would have spoken to -Ramona a week previous. At least, this was what Ramona at first thought; -but before the sentences were finished, she had detected in the Senora's -eye and tone the weapons which were to be employed against her. The -emotion of half-grateful wonder with which she had heard the first words -changed quickly to heartsick misery before they were concluded; and -she said to herself: "That's the way she is going to break me down, she -thinks! But she can't do it. I can bear anything for four days; and the -minute Alessandro comes, I will go away with him." This train of thought -in Ramona's mind was reflected in her face. The Senora saw it, and -hardened herself still more. It was to be war, then. No hope of -surrender. Very well. The girl had made her choice. - -Margarita was now the most puzzled person in the household. She had -overheard snatches of the conversation between Felipe and his mother and -Ramona, having let her curiosity get so far the better of her discretion -as to creep to the door and listen. In fact, she narrowly escaped -being caught, having had barely time to begin her feint of sweeping the -passage-way, when Ramona, flinging the door wide open, came out, -after her final reply to the Senora, the words of which Margarita had -distinctly heard: "God will punish you." - -"Holy Virgin! how dare she say that to the Senora?" ejaculated -Margarita, under her breath; and the next second Ramona rushed by, not -even seeing her. But the Senora's vigilant eyes, following Ramona, -saw her; and the Senora's voice had a ring of suspicion in it, as she -called, "How comes it you are sweeping the passage-way at this hour of -the day, Margarita?" - -It was surely the devil himself that put into Margarita's head the quick -lie which she instantaneously told. "There was early breakfast, Senora, -to be cooked for Alessandro, who was setting off in haste, and my mother -was not up, so I had it to cook." - -As Margarita said this, Felipe fixed his eyes steadily upon her. She -changed color. Felipe knew this was a lie. He had seen Margarita peering -about among the willows while he was talking with Alessandro at the -sheepfold; he had seen Alessandro halt for a moment and speak to her as -he rode past,--only for a moment; then, pricking his horse sharply, he -had galloped off down the valley road. No breakfast had Alessandro had -at Margarita's hands, or any other's, that morning. What could have been -Margarita's motive for telling this lie? - -But Felipe had too many serious cares on his mind to busy himself long -with any thought of Margarita or her fibs. She had said the first thing -which came into her head, most likely, to shelter herself from the -Senora's displeasure; which was indeed very near the truth, only there -was added a spice of malice against Alessandro. A slight undercurrent of -jealous antagonism towards him had begun to grow up among the servants -of late; fostered, if not originated, by Margarita's sharp sayings as to -his being admitted to such strange intimacy with the family. - -While Felipe continued ill, and was so soothed to rest by his music, -there was no room for cavil. It was natural that Alessandro came and -went as a physician might. But after Felipe had recovered, why should -this freedom and intimacy continue? More than once there had been sullen -mutterings of this kind on the north veranda, when all the laborers -and servants were gathered there of an evening, Alessandro alone being -absent from the group, and the sounds of his voice or his violin coming -from the south veranda, where the family sat. - -"It would be a good thing if we too had a bit of music now and then," -Juan Canito would grumble; "but the lad's chary enough of his bow on -this side the house." - -"Ho! we're not good enough for him to play to!" Margarita would reply; -"'Like master, like servant,' is a good proverb sometimes, but not -always. But there's a deal going on, on the veranda yonder, besides -fiddling!" and Margarita's lips would purse themselves up in an -expression of concentrated mystery and secret knowledge, well fitted to -draw from everybody a fire of questions, none of which, however, would -she answer. She knew better than to slander the Senorita Ramona, or to -say a word even reflecting upon her unfavorably. Not a man or a woman -there would have borne it. They all had loved Ramona ever since she came -among them as a toddling baby. They petted her then, and idolized her -now. Not one of them whom she had not done good offices for,--nursed -them, cheered them, remembered their birthdays and their saints'-days. -To no one but her mother had Margarita unbosomed what she knew, and what -she suspected; and old Marda, frightened at the bare pronouncing of such -words, had terrified Margarita into the solemnest of promises never, -under any circumstances whatever, to say such things to any other member -of the family. Marda did not believe them. She could not. She believed -that Margarita's jealousy had imagined all. - -"And the Senora; she'd send you packing off this place in an hour, -and me too, long's I've lived here, if ever she was to know of you -blackening the Senorita. An Indian, too! You must be mad, Margarita!" - -When Margarita, in triumph, had flown to tell her that the Senora had -just dragged the Senorita Ramona up the garden-walk, and shoved her into -her room and locked the door, and that it was because she had caught her -with Alessandro at the washing-stones, Marda first crossed herself in -sheer mechanical fashion at the shock of the story, and then cuffed -Margarita's ears for telling her. - -"I'll take the head off your neck, if you say that aloud again! -Whatever's come to the Senora! Forty years I've lived under this roof, -and I never saw her lift a hand to a living creature yet. You're out of -your senses, child!" she said, all the time gazing fearfully towards the -room. - -"You'll see whether I am out of my senses or not," retorted Margarita, -and ran back to the dining-room. And after the dining-room door was -shut, and the unhappy pretence of a supper had begun, old Marda had -herself crept softly to the Senorita's door and listened, and heard -Ramona sobbing as if her heart would break. Then she knew that what -Margarita had said must be true, and her faithful soul was in sore -straits what to think. The Senorita misdemean herself! Never! Whatever -happened, it was not that! There was some horrible mistake somewhere. -Kneeling at the keyhole, she had called cautiously to Ramona, "Oh, my -lamb, what is it?" But Ramona had not heard her, and the danger was too -great of remaining; so scrambling up with difficulty from her rheumatic -knees, the old woman had hobbled back to the kitchen as much in the dark -as before, and, by a curiously illogical consequence, crosser than ever -to her daughter. All the next day she watched for herself, and could -not but see that all appearances bore out Margarita's statements. -Alessandro's sudden departure had been a tremendous corroboration of the -story. Not one of the men had had an inkling of it; Juan Canito, Luigo, -both alike astonished; no word left, no message sent; only Senor Felipe -had said carelessly to Juan Can, after breakfast: "You'll have to look -after things yourself for a few days, Juan. Alessandro has gone to -Temecula." - -"For a few days!" exclaimed Margarita, sarcastically, when this was -repeated to her. "That's easy said! If Alessandro Assis is seen here -again, I'll eat my head! He's played his last tune on the south veranda, -I wager you." - -But when at supper-time of this same eventful day the Senora was heard, -as she passed the Senorita's door, to say in her ordinary voice, "Are -you ready for supper, Ramona?" and Ramona was seen to come out and walk -by the Senora's side to the dining-room; silent, to be sure,--but then -that was no strange thing, the Senorita always was more silent in the -Senora's presence,--when Marda, standing in the court-yard, feigning to -be feeding her chickens, but keeping a close eye on the passage-ways, -saw this, she was relieved, and thought: "It's only a dispute there has -been. There will be disputes in families sometimes. It is none of our -affair. All is settled now." - -And Margarita, standing in the dining-room, when she saw them all -coming in as usual,--the Senora, Felipe, Ramona,--no change, even to -her scrutinizing eye, in anybody's face, was more surprised than she had -been for many a day; and began to think again, as she had more than -once since this tragedy began, that she must have dreamed much that she -remembered. - -But surfaces are deceitful, and eyes see little. Considering its -complexity, the fineness and delicacy of its mechanism, the results -attainable by the human eye seem far from adequate to the expenditure -put upon it. We have flattered ourselves by inventing proverbs of -comparison in matter of blindness,--"blind as a bat," for instance. It -would be safe to say that there cannot be found in the animal kingdom -a bat, or any other creature, so blind in its own range of circumstance -and connection, as the greater majority of human beings are in the -bosoms of their families. Tempers strain and recover, hearts break and -heal, strength falters, fails, and comes near to giving way altogether, -every day, without being noted by the closest lookers-on. - -Before night of this second day since the trouble had burst like a -storm-cloud on the peaceful Moreno household, everything had so resumed -the ordinary expression and routine, that a shrewder observer and -reasoner than Margarita might well be excused for doubting if any -serious disaster could have occurred to any one. Senor Felipe sauntered -about in his usual fashion, smoking his cigarettes, or lay on his bed in -the veranda, dozing. The Senora went her usual rounds of inspection, fed -her birds, spoke to every one in her usual tone, sat in her carved chair -with her hands folded, gazing out on the southern sky. Ramona busied -herself with her usual duties, dusted the chapel, put fresh flowers -before all the Madonnas, and then sat down at her embroidery. Ramona had -been for a long time at work on a beautiful altar-cloth for the chapel. -It was to have been a present to the Senora. It was nearly done. As she -held up the frame in which it was stretched, and looked at the delicate -tracery of the pattern, she sighed. It had been with a mingled feeling -of interest and hopelessness that she had for months been at work on it, -often saying to herself, "She won't care much for it, beautiful as it -is, just because I did it; but Father Salvierderra will be pleased when -he sees it." - -Now, as she wove the fine threads in and out, she thought: "She will -never let it be used on the altar. I wonder if I could any way get it to -Father Salvierderra, at Santa Barbara. I would like to give it to him. -I will ask Alessandro. I'm sure the Senora would never use it, and it -would be a shame to leave it here. I shall take it with me." But as she -thought these things, her face was unruffled. A strange composure had -settled on Ramona. "Only four days; only four days; I can bear anything -for four days!" these words were coming and going in her mind like -refrains of songs which haunt one's memory and will not be still. She -saw that Felipe looked anxiously at her, but she answered his inquiring -looks always with a gentle smile. It was evident that the Senora did -not intend that she and Felipe should have any private conversation; -but that did not so much matter. After all, there was not so much to be -said. Felipe knew all. She could tell him nothing; Felipe had acted for -the best, as he thought, in sending Alessandro away till the heat of the -Senora's anger should have spent itself. - -After her first dismay at suddenly learning that Alessandro had gone, -had passed, she had reflected that it was just as well. He would come -back prepared to take her with him. How, or where, she did not know; -but she would go with no questions. Perhaps she would not even bid the -Senora good-by; she wondered how that would arrange itself, and how far -Alessandro would have to take her, to find a priest to marry them. It -was a terrible thing to have to do, to go out of a home in such a way: -no wedding--no wedding clothes--no friends--to go unmarried, and journey -to a priest's house, to have the ceremony performed; "but it is not my -fault," said Ramona to herself; "it is hers. She drives me to do it. If -it is wrong, the blame will be hers. Father Salvierderra would gladly -come here and marry us, if she would send for him. I wish we could go to -him, Alessandro and I; perhaps we can. I would not be afraid to ride so -far; we could do it in two days." The more Ramona thought of this, the -more it appeared to her the natural thing for them to do. "He will be on -our side, I know he will," she thought. "He always liked Alessandro, and -he loves me." - -It was strange how little bitterness toward the Senora was in the girl's -mind; how comparatively little she thought of her. Her heart was too -full of Alessandro and of their future; and it had never been Ramona's -habit to dwell on the Senora in her thoughts. As from her childhood up -she had accepted the fact of the Senora's coldness toward her, so now -she accepted her injustice and opposition as part of the nature of -things, and not to be altered. - -During all these hours, during the coming and going of these crowds -of fears, sorrows, memories, anticipations in Ramona's heart, all that -there was to be seen to the eye was simply a calm, quiet girl, sitting -on the veranda, diligently working at her lace-frame. Even Felipe was -deceived by her calmness, and wondered what it meant,--if it could be -that she was undergoing the change that his mother had thought possible, -and designated as coming "to her senses." Even Felipe did not know the -steadfast fibre of the girl's nature; neither did he realize what a bond -had grown between her and Alessandro. In fact, he sometimes wondered of -what this bond had been made. He had himself seen the greater part -of their intercourse with each other; nothing could have been farther -removed from anything like love-making. There had been no crisis -of incident, or marked moments of experience such as in Felipe's -imaginations of love were essential to the fulness of its growth. This -is a common mistake on the part of those who have never felt love's true -bonds. Once in those chains, one perceives that they are not of the sort -full forged in a day. They are made as the great iron cables are made, -on which bridges are swung across the widest water-channels,--not of -single huge rods, or bars, which would be stronger, perhaps, to look -at, but of myriads of the finest wires, each one by itself so fine, so -frail, it would barely hold a child's kite in the wind: by hundreds, -hundreds of thousands of such, twisted, re-twisted together, are made -the mighty cables, which do not any more swerve from their place in the -air, under the weight and jar of the ceaseless traffic and tread of two -cities, than the solid earth swerves under the same ceaseless weight and -jar. Such cables do not break. - -Even Ramona herself would have found it hard to tell why she thus loved -Alessandro; how it began, or by what it grew. It had not been a sudden -adoration, like his passion for her; it was, in the beginning, simply -a response; but now it was as strong a love as his,--as strong, and as -unchangeable. The Senora's harsh words had been like a forcing-house air -to it, and the sudden knowledge of the fact of her own Indian descent -seemed to her like a revelation, pointing out the path in which destiny -called her to walk. She thrilled with pleasure at the thought of the joy -with which Alessandro would hear this,--the joy and the surprise. She -imagined to herself, in hundreds of ways, the time, place, and phrase in -which she would tell him. She could not satisfy herself as to the best; -as to which would give keenest pleasure to him and to her. She would -tell him, as soon as she saw him; it should be her first word of -greeting. No! There would be too much of trouble and embarrassment then. -She would wait till they were far away, till they were alone, in the -wilderness; and then she would turn to him, and say, "Alessandro, my -people are your people!" Or she would wait, and keep her secret until -she had reached Temecula, and they had begun their life there, and -Alessandro had been astonished to see how readily and kindly she took -to all the ways of the Indian village; and then, when he expressed -some such emotion, she would quietly say, "But I too am an Indian, -Alessandro!" - -Strange, sad bride's dreams these; but they made Ramona's heart beat -with happiness as she dreamed them. - - - - -XIV - -THE first day had gone, it was near night of the second, and not a word -had passed between Felipe and Ramona, except in the presence of the -Senora. It would have been beautiful to see, if it had not been so cruel -a thing, the various and devious methods by which the Senora had brought -this about. Felipe, oddly enough, was more restive under it than Ramona. -She had her dreams. He had nothing but his restless consciousness that -he had not done for her what he hoped; that he must seem to her to have -been disloyal; this, and a continual wonder what she could be planning -or expecting which made her so placid, kept Felipe in a fever of unrest, -of which his mother noted every sign, and redoubled her vigilance. - -Felipe thought perhaps he could speak to Ramona in the night, through -her window. But the August heats were fierce now; everybody slept with -wide-open windows; the Senora was always wakeful; if she should chance -to hear him thus holding secret converse with Ramona, it would indeed -make bad matters worse. Nevertheless, he decided to try it. At the first -sound of his footsteps on the veranda floor, "My son, are you ill? Can I -do anything?" came from the Senora's window. She had not been asleep at -all. It would take more courage than Felipe possessed, to try that plan -again; and he lay on his veranda bed, this afternoon, tossing about with -sheer impatience at his baffled purpose. Ramona sat at the foot of the -bed, taking the last stitches in the nearly completed altar-cloth. The -Senora sat in her usual seat, dozing, with her head thrown back. It -was very hot; a sultry south-wind, with dust from the desert, had been -blowing all day, and every living creature was more or less prostrated -by it. - -As the Senora's eyes closed, a sudden thought struck Felipe. Taking -out a memorandum-book in which he kept his accounts, he began rapidly -writing. Looking up, and catching Ramona's eye, he made a sign to her -that it was for her. She glanced apprehensively at the Senora. She was -asleep. Presently Felipe, folding the note, and concealing it in his -hand, rose, and walked towards Ramona's window, Ramona terrifiedly -watching him; the sound of Felipe's steps roused the Senora, who sat -up instantly, and gazed about her with that indescribable expression -peculiar to people who hope they have not been asleep, but know they -have. "Have I been asleep?" she asked. - -"About one minute, mother," answered Felipe, who was leaning, as he -spoke, against Ramona's open window, his arms crossed behind him. -Stretching them out, and back and forth a few times, yawning idly, he -said, "This heat is intolerable!" Then he sauntered leisurely down the -veranda steps into the garden-walk, and seated himself on the bench -under the trellis there. - -The note had been thrown into Ramona's room. She was hot and cold with -fear lest she might not be able to get it unobserved. What if the -Senora were to go first into the room! She hardly dared look at her. But -fortune is not always on the side of tyrants. The Senora was fast dozing -off again, relieved that Felipe was out of speaking distance of Ramona. -As soon as her eyes were again shut, Ramona rose to go. The Senora -opened her eyes. Ramona was crossing the threshold of the door; she was -going into the house. Good! Still farther away from Felipe. - -"Are you going to your room, Ramona?" said the Senor. - -"I was," replied Ramona, alarmed. "Did you want me here?" - -"No," said the Senora; and she closed her eyes again. - -In a second more the note was safe in Ramona's hands. - -"Dear Ramona," Felipe had written, "I am distracted because I cannot -speak with you alone. Can you think of any way? I want to explain things -to you. I am afraid you do not understand. Don't be unhappy. Alessandro -will surely be back in four days. I want to help you all I can, but you -saw I could not do much. Nobody will hinder your doing what you please; -but, dear, I wish you would not go away from us!" - -Tearing the paper into small fragments, Ramona thrust them into her -bosom, to be destroyed later. Then looking out of the window, and seeing -that the Senora was now in a sound sleep, she ventured to write a reply -to Felipe, though when she would find a safe opportunity to give it to -him, there was no telling. "Thank you, dear Felipe. Don't be anxious. I -am not unhappy. I understand all about it. But I must go away as soon as -Alessandro comes." Hiding this also safe in her bosom, she went back to -the veranda. Felipe rose, and walked toward the steps. Ramona, suddenly -bold, stooped, and laid her note on the second step. Again the tired -eyes of the Senora opened. They had not been shut five minutes; Ramona -was at her work; Felipe was coming up the steps from the garden. He -nodded laughingly to his mother, and laid his finger on his lips. All -was well. The Senora dozed again. Her nap had cost her more than she -would ever know. This one secret interchange between Felipe and Ramona -then, thus making, as it were, common cause with each other as against -her, and in fear of her, was a step never to be recalled,--a step whose -significance could scarcely be overestimated. Tyrants, great and -small, are apt to overlook such possibilities as this; to forget the -momentousness which the most trivial incident may assume when forced -into false proportions and relations. Tyranny can make liars and cheats -out of the honestest souls. It is done oftener than any except close -students of human nature realize. When kings and emperors do this, the -world cries out with sympathy, and holds the plotters more innocent than -the tyrant who provoked the plot. It is Russia that stands branded in -men's thoughts, and not Siberia. - -The Senora had a Siberia of her own, and it was there that Ramona was -living in these days. The Senora would have been surprised to know how -little the girl felt the cold. To be sure, it was not as if she had ever -felt warmth in the Senora's presence; yet between the former chill and -this were many degrees, and except for her new life, and new love, and -hope in the thought of Alessandro, Ramona could not have borne it for a -day. - -The fourth day came; it seemed strangely longer than the others had. -All day Ramona watched and listened. Felipe, too; for, knowing what -Alessandro's impatience would be, he had, in truth, looked for him on -the previous night. The horse he rode was a fleet one, and would have -made the journey with ease in half the time. But Felipe reflected that -there might be many things for Alessandro to arrange at Temecula. He -would doubtless return prepared to take Ramona back with him, in case -that proved the only alternative left them. Felipe grew wretched as -his fancy dwelt on the picture of Ramona's future. He had been in the -Temecula village. He knew its poverty; the thought of Ramona there was -monstrous, To the indolent, ease-loving Felipe it was incredible that a -girl reared as Ramona had been, could for a moment contemplate leading -the life of a poor laboring man's wife. He could not conceive of love's -making one undertake any such life. Felipe had much to learn of love. -Night came; no Alessandro. Till the darkness settled down, Ramona sat, -watching the willows. When she could no longer see, she listened. The -Senora, noting all, also listened. She was uneasy as to the next stage -of affairs, but she would not speak. Nothing should induce her to swerve -from the line of conduct on which she had determined. It was the full of -the moon. When the first broad beam of its light came over the hill, and -flooded the garden and the white front of the little chapel, just as it -had done on that first night when Alessandro watched with Felipe on the -veranda, Ramona pressed her face against the window-panes, and gazed out -into the garden. At each flickering, motion of the shadows she saw the -form of a man approaching. Again and again she saw it. Again and again -the breeze died, and the shadow ceased. It was near morning before, -weary, sad, she crept to bed; but not to sleep. With wide-open, anxious -eyes, she still watched and listened. Never had the thought once crossed -her mind that Alessandro might not come at the time Felipe had said. In -her childlike simplicity she had accepted this as unquestioningly as -she had accepted other facts in her life. Now that he did not come, -unreasoning and unfounded terror took possession of her, and she asked -herself continually, "Will he ever come! They sent him away; perhaps he -will be too proud to come back!" Then faith would return, and saying to -herself, "He would never, never forsake me; he knows I have no one in -the whole world but him; he knows how I love him," she would regain -composure, and remind herself of the many detentions which might have -prevented his coming at the time set. Spite of all, however, she was -heavy at heart; and at breakfast her anxious eyes and absent look were -sad to see. They hurt Felipe. Too well he knew what it meant. He also -was anxious. The Senora saw it in his face, and it vexed her. The girl -might well pine, and be mortified if her lover did not appear. But why -should Felipe disquiet himself? The Senora disliked it. It was a bad -symptom. There might be trouble ahead yet. There was, indeed, trouble -ahead,--of a sort the Senora's imaginings had not pictured. - -Another day passed; another night; another, and another. One week now -since Alessandro, as he leaped on his horse, had grasped Felipe's hand, -and said: "You will tell the Senorita; you will make sure that she -understands why I go; and in four days I will be back." One week, and he -had not come. The three who were watching and wondering looked covertly -into each other's faces, each longing to know what the others thought. - -Ramona was wan and haggard. She had scarcely slept. The idea had taken -possession of her that Alessandro was dead. On the sixth and seventh -days she had walked each afternoon far down the river road, by which he -would be sure to come; down the meadows, and by the cross-cut, out -to the highway; at each step straining her tearful eyes into the -distance,--the cruel, blank, silent distance. She had come back -after dark, whiter and more wan than she went out. As she sat at the -supper-table, silent, making no feint of eating, only drinking glass -after glass of milk, in thirsty haste, even Margarita pitied her. But -the Senora did not. She thought the best thing which could happen, would -be that the Indian should never come back. Ramona would recover from it -in a little while; the mortification would be the worst thing, but even -that, time would heal. She wondered that the girl had not more pride -than to let her wretchedness be so plainly seen. She herself would have -died before she would go about with such a woe-begone face, for a whole -household to see and gossip about. - -On the morning of the eighth day, Ramona, desperate, waylaid Felipe, as -he was going down the veranda steps. The Senora was in the garden, and -saw them; but Ramona did not care. "Felipe!" she cried, "I must, I must -speak to you! Do you think Alessandro is dead? What else could keep him -from coming?" Her lips were dry, her cheeks scarlet, her voice husky. -A few more days of this, and she would be in a brain fever, Felipe -thought, as he looked compassionately at her. - -"Oh, no, no, dear! Do not think that!" he replied. "A thousand things -might have kept him." - -"Ten thousand things would not! Nothing could!" said Ramona. "I know he -is dead. Can't you send a messenger, Felipe, and see?" - -The Senora was walking toward them. She overheard the last words. -Looking toward Felipe, no more regarding Ramona than if she had not been -within sight or hearing, the Senora said, "It seems to me that would not -be quite consistent with dignity. How does it strike you, Felipe' If -you thought best, we might spare a man as soon as the vintage is done, I -suppose." - -Ramona walked away. The vintage would not be over for a week. There -were several vineyards yet which had not been touched; every hand on the -place was hard at work, picking the grapes, treading them out in tubs, -emptying the juice into stretched raw-hides swung from cross-beams in -a long shed. In the willow copse the brandy-still was in full blast; it -took one man to watch it; this was Juan Can's favorite work; for reasons -of his own he liked best to do it alone; and now that he could no longer -tread grapes in the tubs, he had a better chance for uninterrupted work -at the still. "No ill but has its good," he thought sometimes, as he lay -comfortably stretched out in the shade, smoking his pipe day after day, -and breathing the fumes of the fiery brandy. - -As Ramona disappeared in the doorway, the Senora, coming close to -Felipe, and laying her hand on his arm, said in a confidential tone, -nodding her head in the direction in which Ramona had vanished: "She -looks badly, Felipe. I don't know what we can do. We surely cannot send -to summon back a lover we do not wish her to marry, can we? It is very -perplexing. Most unfortunate, every way. What do you think, my son?" -There was almost a diabolical art in the manner in which the Senora -could, by a single phrase or question, plant in a person's mind the -precise idea she wished him to think he had originated himself. - -"No; of course we can't send for him," replied Felipe, angrily; "unless -it is to send him to marry her; I wish he had never set foot on the -place. I am sure I don't know what to do. Ramona's looks frighten me. I -believe she will die." - -"I cannot wish Alessandro had never set foot on the place," said the -Senora, gently, "for I feel that I owe your life to him, my Felipe; and -he is not to blame for Ramona's conduct. You need not fear her dying, -She may be ill; but people do not die of love like hers for Alessandro." - -"Of what kind do they die, mother?" asked Felipe, impatiently. - -The Senora looked reproachfully at him. "Not often of any," she said; -"but certainly not of a sudden passion for a person in every way beneath -them, in position, in education, in all points which are essential to -congeniality of tastes or association of life." - -The Senora spoke calmly, with no excitement, as if she were discussing -an abstract case. Sometimes, when she spoke like this, Felipe for -the moment felt as if she were entirely right, as if it were really a -disgraceful thing in Ramona to have thus loved Alessandro. It could not -be gainsaid that there was this gulf, of which she spoke. Alessandro was -undeniably Ramona's inferior in position, education, in all the external -matters of life; but in nature, in true nobility of soul, no! Alessandro -was no man's inferior in these; and in capacity to love,--Felipe -sometimes wondered whether he had ever known Alessandro's equal in that. -This thought had occurred to him more than once, as from his sick-bed he -had, unobserved, studied the expression with which Alessandro gazed at -Ramona. But all this made no difference in the perplexity of the present -dilemma, in the embarrassment of his and his mother's position now. Send -a messenger to ask why Alessandro did not return! Not even if he had -been an accepted and publicly recognized lover, would Felipe do that! -Ramona ought to have more pride. She ought of herself to know that. And -when Felipe, later in the day, saw Ramona again, he said as much to her. -He said it as gently as he could; so gently that she did not at first -comprehend his idea. It was so foreign, so incompatible with her faith, -how could she? - -When she did understand, she said slowly: "You mean that it will not do -to send to find out if Alessandro is dead, because it will look as if I -wished him to marry me whether he wished it or not?" and she fixed her -eyes on Felipe's, with an expression he could not fathom. - -"Yes, dear," he answered, "something like that, though you put it -harshly." - -"Is it not true," she persisted, "that is what you mean?" - -Reluctantly Felipe admitted that it was. - -Ramona was silent for some moments; then she said, speaking still -more slowly, "If you feel like that, we had better never talk about -Alessandro again. I suppose it is not possible that you should know, as -I do, that nothing but his being dead would keep him from coming -back. Thanks, dear Felipe;" and after this she did not speak again of -Alessandro. - -Days went by; a week. The vintage was over. The Senora wondered if -Ramona would now ask again for a messenger to go to Temecula. Almost -even the Senora relented, as she looked into the girl's white and wasted -face, as she sat silent, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on -the willows. The altar-cloth was done, folded and laid away. It would -never hang in the Moreno chapel. It was promised, in Ramona's mind, to -Father Salvierderra. She had resolved to go to him; if he, a feeble old -man, could walk all the way between Santa Barbara and their home, she -could surely do the same. She would not lose the way. There were not -many roads; she could ask. The convent, the bare thought of which -had been so terrible to Ramona fourteen days ago, when the Senora had -threatened her with it, now seemed a heavenly refuge, the only shelter -she craved. There was a school for orphans attached to the convent at -San Juan Bautista, she knew; she would ask the Father to let her go -there, and she would spend the rest of her life in prayer, and in -teaching the orphan girls. As hour after hour she sat revolving this -plan, her fancy projected itself so vividly into the future, that she -lived years of her life. She felt herself middle-aged, old. She saw the -procession of nuns, going to vespers, leading the children by the hand; -herself wrinkled and white-haired, walking between two of the little -ones. The picture gave her peace. As soon as she grew a little stronger, -she would set off on her journey to the Father; she could not go just -yet, she was too weak; her feet trembled if she did but walk to the foot -of the garden. Alessandro was dead; there could be no doubt of that. -He was buried in that little walled graveyard of which he had told -her. Sometimes she thought she would try to go there and see his grave, -perhaps see his father; if Alessandro had told him of her, the old man -would be glad to see her; perhaps, after all, her work might lie there, -among Alessandro's people. But this looked hard: she had not courage for -it; shelter and rest were what she wanted,--the sound of the Church's -prayers, and the Father's blessing every day. The convent was the best. - -She thought she was sure that Alessandro was dead; but she was not, for -she still listened, still watched. Each day she walked out on the river -road, and sat waiting till dusk. At last came a day when she could not -go; her strength failed her. She lay all day on her bed. To the Senora, -who asked frigidly if she were ill, she answered: "No, Senora, I do not -think I am ill, I have no pain, but I cannot get up. I shall be better -to-morrow." - -"I will send you strong broth and a medicine," the Senora said; and sent -her both by the hands of Margarita, whose hatred and jealousy broke down -at the first sight of Ramona's face on the pillow; it looked so much -thinner and sharper there than it had when she was sitting up. "Oh, -Senorita! Senorita!" she cried, in a tone of poignant grief, "are you -going to die? Forgive me, forgive me!" - -"I have nothing to forgive you, Margarita," replied Ramona, raising -herself on her elbow, and lifting her eyes kindly to the girl's face -as she took the broth from her hands. "I do not know why you ask me to -forgive you." - -Margarita flung herself on her knees by the bed, in a passion of -weeping. "Oh, but you do know, Senorita, you do know! Forgive me!" - -"No, I know nothing," replied Ramona; "but if you know anything, it is -all forgiven. I am not going to die, Margarita. I am going away," she -added, after a second's pause. Her inmost instinct told her that she -could trust Margarita now. Alessandro being dead, Margarita would no -longer be her enemy, and Margarita could perhaps help her. "I am going -away, Margarita, as soon as I feel a little stronger. I am going to a -convent; but the Senora does not know. You will not tell?" - -"No, Senorita!" whispered Margarita,--thinking in her heart, "Yes, she -is going away, but it will be with the angels."--"No, Senorita, I will -not tell. I will do anything you want me to." - -"Thanks, Margarita mia," replied Ramona. "I thought you would;" and she -lay back on her pillow, and closed her eyes, looking so much more like -death than like life that Margarita's tears flowed faster than before, -and she ran to her mother, sobbing out, "Mother, mother! the Senorita is -ill to death. I am sure she is. She has taken to her bed; and she is as -white as Senor Felipe was at the worst of the fever." - -"Ay," said old Marda, who had seen all this for days back; "ay, she has -wasted away, this last week, like one in a fever, sure enough; I have -seen it. It must be she is starving herself to death." - -"Indeed, she has not eaten for ten days,--hardly since that day;" -and Margarita and her mother exchanged looks. It was not necessary to -further define the day. - -"Juan Can says he thinks he will never be seen here again," continued -Margarita. - -"The saints grant it, then," said Marda, hotly, "if it is he has cost -the Senorita all this! I am that turned about in my head with it all, -that I've no thoughts to think; but plain enough it is, he is mixed up -with whatever 'tis has gone wrong." - -"I could tell what it is," said Margarita, her old pertness coming -uppermost for a moment; "but I've got no more to say, now the Senorita's -lying on her bed, with the face she's got. It's enough to break your -heart to look at her. I could just go down on my knees to her for all -I've said; and I will, and to Saint Francis too! She's going to be with -him before long; I know she is." - -"No," said the wiser, older Marda. "She is not so ill as you think. She -is young. It's the heart's gone out of her; that's all. I've been that -way myself. People are, when they're young." - -"I'm young!" retorted Margarita. "I've never been that way." - -"There's many a mile to the end of the road, my girl," said Marda, -significantly; "and 'It's ill boasting the first day out,' was a proverb -when I was your age!" - -Marda had never been much more than half-way fond of this own child -of hers. Their natures were antagonistic. Traits which, in Margarita's -father, had embittered many a day of Marda's early married life, were -perpetually cropping out in Margarita, making between the mother and -daughter a barrier which even parental love was not always strong enough -to surmount. And, as was inevitable, this antagonism was constantly -leading to things which seemed to Margarita, and in fact were, unjust -and ill-founded. - -"She's always flinging out at me, whatever I do," thought Margarita. -"I know one thing; I'll never tell her what the Senorita's told me; -never,--not till after she's gone." - -A sudden suspicion flashed into Margarita's mind. She seated herself on -the bench outside the kitchen door, to wrestle with it. What if it were -not to a convent at all, but to Alessandro, that the Senorita meant to -go! No; that was preposterous. If it had been that, she would have gone -with him in the outset. Nobody who was plotting to run away with a lover -ever wore such a look as the Senorita wore now. Margarita dismissed the -thought; yet it left its trace. She would be more observant for having -had it; her resuscitated affection far her young mistress was not yet -so strong that it would resist the assaults of jealousy, if that passion -were to be again aroused in her fiery soul. Though she had never been -deeply in love with Alessandro herself, she had been enough so, and -she remembered him vividly enough, to feel yet a sharp emotion of -displeasure at the recollection of his devotion to the Senorita. Now -that the Senorita seemed to be deserted, unhappy, prostrated, she had no -room for anything but pity for her; but let Alessandro come on the stage -again, and all would be changed. The old hostility would return. It was -but a dubious sort of ally, after all, that Ramona had so unexpectedly -secured in Margarita. She might prove the sharpest of broken reeds. - -It was sunset of the eighteenth day since Alessandro's departure. Ramona -had lain for four days well-nigh motionless on her bed. She herself -began to think she must be going to die. Her mind seemed to be vacant of -all thought. She did not even sorrow for Alessandro's death; she seemed -torpid, body and soul. Such prostrations as these are Nature's enforced -rests. It is often only by help of them that our bodies tide over -crises, strains, in which, if we continued to battle, we should be -slain. - -As Ramona lay half unconscious,--neither awake nor yet asleep,--on this -evening, she was suddenly aware of a vivid impression produced upon her; -it was not sound, it was not sight. She was alone; the house was still -as death; the warm September twilight silence reigned outside, She sat -up in her bed, intent--half alarmed--half glad--bewildered--alive. What -had happened? Still there was no sound, no stir. The twilight was fast -deepening; not a breath of air moving. Gradually her bewildered senses -and faculties awoke from their long-dormant condition; she looked around -the room; even the walls seemed revivified; she clasped her hands, and -leaped from the bed. "Alessandro is not dead!" she said aloud; and she -laughed hysterically. "He is not dead!" she repeated. "He is not dead! -He is somewhere near!" - -With quivering hands she dressed, and stole out of the house. After -the first few seconds she found herself strangely strong; she did not -tremble; her feet trod firm on the ground. "Oh, miracle!" she thought, -as she hastened down the garden-walk; "I am well again! Alessandro is -near!" So vivid was the impression, that when she reached the willows -and found the spot silent, vacant, as when she had last sat there, -hopeless, broken-hearted, she experienced a revulsion of disappointment. -"Not here!" she cried; "not here!" and a swift fear shook her. "Am I -mad? Is it this way, perhaps, people lose their senses, when they are as -I have been!" - -But the young, strong blood was running swift in her veins. No! this -was no madness; rather a newly discovered power; a fulness of sense; a -revelation. Alessandro was near. - -Swiftly she walked down the river road. The farther she went, the keener -grew her expectation, her sense of Alessandro's nearness. In her present -mood she would have walked on and on, even to Temecula itself, sure that -she was at each step drawing nearer to Alessandro. - -As she approached the second willow copse, which lay perhaps a quarter -of a mile west of the first, she saw the figure of a man, standing, -leaning against one of the trees. She halted. It could not be -Alessandro. He would not have paused for a moment so near the house -where he was to find her. She was afraid to go on. It was late to meet -a stranger in this lonely spot. The figure was strangely still; so still -that, as she peered through the dusk, she half fancied it might be an -optical illusion. She advanced a few steps, hesitatingly, then stopped. -As she did so, the man advanced a few steps, then stopped. As he came -out from the shadows of the trees, she saw that he was of Alessandro's -height. She quickened her steps, then suddenly stopped again. What did -this mean? It could not be Alessandro. Ramona wrung her hands in agony -of suspense. An almost unconquerable instinct urged her forward; but -terror held her back. After standing irresolute for some minutes, she -turned to walk back to the house, saying, "I must not run the risk of -its being a stranger. If it is Alessandro, he will come." - -But her feet seemed to refuse to move in the opposite direction. Slower -and slower she walked for a few paces, then turned again. The man had -returned to his former place, and stood as at first, leaning against the -tree. - -"It may be a messenger from him," she said; "a messenger who has been -told not to come to the house until after dark." - -Her mind was made up. She quickened her pace to a run. A few moments -more brought her so near that she could see distinctly. It was--yes, it -was Alessandro. He did not see her. His face was turned partially away, -his head resting against the tree; he must be ill. Ramona flew, rather -than ran. In a moment more, Alessandro had heard the light steps, -turned, saw Ramona, and, with a cry, bounded forward, and they were -clasped in each other's arms before they had looked in each other's -faces. Ramona spoke first. Disengaging herself gently, and looking -up, she began: "Alessandro--" But at the first sight of his face she -shrieked. Was this Alessandro, this haggard, emaciated, speechless man, -who gazed at her with hollow eyes, full of misery, and no joy! "O God," -cried Ramona, "You have been ill! you are ill! My God, Alessandro, what -is it?" - -Alessandro passed his hand slowly over his forehead, as if trying to -collect his thoughts before speaking, all the while keeping his eyes -fixed on Ramona, with the same anguished look, convulsively holding both -her hands in his. - -"Senorita," he said, "my Senorita!" Then he stopped. His tongue seemed -to refuse him utterance; and this voice,--this strange, hard, unresonant -voice,--whose voice was it? Not Alessandro's. - -"My Senorita," he began again, "I could not go without one sight of your -face; but when I was here, I had not courage to go near the house. If -you had not come, I should have gone back without seeing you." - -Ramona heard these words in fast-deepening terror, What did they mean? -Her look seemed to suggest a new thought to Alessandro. - -"Heavens, Senorita!" he cried, "have you not heard? Do you not know what -has happened?" - -"I know nothing, love," answered Ramona. "I have heard nothing since -you went away. For ten days I have been sure you were dead; but to-night -something told me that you were near, and I came to meet you." - -At the first words of Ramona's sentence, Alessandro threw his arms -around her again. As she said "love," his whole frame shook with -emotion. - -"My Senorita!" he whispered, "my Senorita! how shall I tell you! How -shall I tell you!" - -"What is there to tell, Alessandro?" she said. "I am afraid of nothing, -now that you are here, and not dead, as I thought." - -But Alessandro did not speak. It seemed impossible. At last, straining -her closer to his breast, he cried: "Dearest Senorita! I feel as if -I should die when I tell you,--I have no home; my father is dead; -my people are driven out of their village. I am only a beggar now, -Senorita; like those you used to feed and pity in Los Angeles convent!" -As he spoke the last words, he reeled, and, supporting himself against -the tree, added: "I am not strong, Senorita; we have been starving." - -Ramona's face did not reassure him. Even in the dusk he could see its -look of incredulous horror. He misread it. - -"I only came to look at you once more," he continued. "I will go now. -May the saints bless you, my Senorita, always. I think the Virgin sent -you to me to-night. I should never have seen your face if you had not -come." - -While he was speaking, Ramona had buried her face in his bosom. Lifting -it now, she said, "Did you mean to leave me to think you were dead, -Alessandro?" - -"I thought that the news about our village must have reached you," he -said, "and that you would know I had no home, and could not come, to -seem to remind you of what you had said. Oh, Senorita, it was little -enough I had before to give you! I don't know how I dared to believe -that you could come to be with me; but I loved you so much, I had -thought of many things I could do; and--" lowering his voice and -speaking almost sullenly--"it is the saints, I believe, who have -punished me thus for having resolved to leave my people, and take all I -had for myself and you. Now they have left me nothing;" and he groaned. - -"Who?" cried Ramona. "Was there a battle? Was your father killed?" She -was trembling with horror. - -"No," answered Alessandro. "There was no battle. There would have been, -if I had had my way; but my father implored me not to resist. He said it -would only make it worse for us in the end. The sheriff, too, he begged -me to let it all go on peaceably, and help him keep the people quiet. He -felt terribly to have to do it. It was Mr. Rothsaker, from San Diego. We -had often worked for him on his ranch. He knew all about us. Don't you -recollect, Senorita, I told you about him,--how fair he always was, and -kind too? He has the biggest wheat-ranch in Cajon; we've harvested miles -and miles of wheat for him. He said he would have rather died, almost, -than have had it to do; but if we resisted, he would have to order his -men to shoot. He had twenty men with him. They thought there would be -trouble; and well they might,--turning a whole village full of men and -women and children out of their houses, and driving them off like foxes. -If it had been any man but Mr. Rothsaker, I would have shot him dead, -if I had hung for it; but I knew if he thought we must go, there was no -help for us." - -"But, Alessandro," interrupted Ramona, "I can't understand. Who was it -made Mr. Rothsaker do it? Who has the land now?" - -"I don't know who they are," Alessandro replied, his voice full of -anger and scorn. "They're Americans--eight or ten of them. They all got -together and brought a suit, they call it, up in San Francisco; and it -was decided in the court that they owned all our land. That was all Mr. -Rothsaker could tell about it. It was the law, he said, and nobody could -go against the law." - -"Oh," said Ramona, "that's the way the Americans took so much of the -Senora's land away from her. It was in the court up in San Francisco; -and they decided that miles and miles of her land, which the General -had always had, was not hers at all. They said it belonged to the United -States Government." - -"They are a pack of thieves and liars, every one of them!" cried -Alessandro. "They are going to steal all the land in this country; we -might all just as well throw ourselves into the sea, and let them have -it. My father had been telling me this for years. He saw it coming; but -I did not believe him. I did not think men could be so wicked; but he -was right. I am glad he is dead. That is the only thing I have to be -thankful for now. One day I thought he was going to get well, and I -prayed to the Virgin not to let him. I did not want him to live. He -never knew anything clear after they took him out of his house. That was -before I got there. I found him sitting on the ground outside. They said -it was the sun that had turned him crazy; but it was not. It was his -heart breaking in his bosom. He would not come out of his house, and -the men lifted him up and carried him out by force, and threw him on the -ground; and then they threw out all the furniture we had; and when he -saw them doing that, he put his hands up to his head, and called out, -'Alessandro! Alessandro!' and I was not there! Senorita, they said it -was a voice to make the dead hear, that he called with; and nobody -could stop him. All that day and all the night he kept on calling. God! -Senorita, I wonder I did not die when they told me! When I got there, -some one had built up a little booth of tule over his head, to keep the -sun off. He did not call any more, only for water, water. That was what -made them think the sun had done it. They did all they could; but it was -such a dreadful time, nobody could do much; the sheriff's men were in -great hurry; they gave no time. They said the people must all be off in -two days. Everybody was running hither and thither. Everything out of -the houses in piles on the ground. The people took all the roofs off -their houses too. They were made of the tule reeds; so they would do -again. Oh, Senorita, don't ask me to tell you any more! It is like -death. I can't!" - -Ramona was crying bitterly. She did not know what to say. What was love, -in face of such calamity? What had she to give to a man stricken like -this.' - -"Don't weep, Senorita," said Alessandro, drearily. "Tears kill one, and -do no good." - -"How long did your father live?" asked Ramona, clasping her arms closer -around his neck. They were sitting on the ground now, and Ramona, -yearning over Alessandro, as if she were the strong one and he the one -to be sheltered, had drawn his head to her bosom, caressing him as if -he had been hers for years. Nothing could have so clearly shown his -enfeebled and benumbed condition, as the manner in which he received -these caresses, which once would have made him beside himself with joy. -He leaned against her breast as a child might. - -"He! He died only four days ago. I stayed to bury him, and then I came -away. I have been three days on the way; the horse, poor beast, is -almost weaker than I. The Americans took my horse," Alessandro said. - -"Took your horse!" cried Ramona, aghast. "Is that the law, too?" - -"So Mr. Rothsaker told me. He said the judge had said he must take -enough of our cattle and horses to pay all it had cost for the suit up -in San Francisco. They didn't reckon the cattle at what they were worth, -I thought; but they said cattle were selling very low now. There were -not enough in all the village to pay it, so we had to make it up in -horses; and they took mine. I was not there the day they drove the -cattle away, or I would have put a ball into Benito's head before any -American should ever have had him to ride. But I was over in Pachanga -with my father. He would not stir a step for anybody but me; so I led -him all the way; and then after he got there he was so ill I never left -him a minute. He did not know me any more, nor know anything that had -happened. I built a little hut of tule, and he lay on the ground till he -died. When I put him in his grave, I was glad." - -"In Temecula?" asked Ramona. - -"In Temecula." exclaimed Alessandro, fiercely. "You don't seem to -understand, Senorita. We have no right in Temecula, not even to our -graveyard full of the dead. Mr. Rothsaker warned us all not to be -hanging about there; for he said the men who were coming in were a -rough set, and they would shoot any Indian at sight, if they saw him -trespassing on their property." - -"Their property!" ejaculated Ramona. - -"Yes; it is theirs," said Alessandro, doggedly. "That is the law. -They've got all the papers to show it. That is what my father always -said,--if the Senor Valdez had only given him a paper! But they never -did in those days. Nobody had papers. The American law is different." - -"It's a law of thieves!" cried Ramona. - -"Yes, and of murderers too," said Alessandro. "Don't you call my father -murdered just as much as if they had shot him? I do! and, O Senorita, -my Senorita, there was Jose! You recollect Jose, who went for my violin? -But, my beloved one, I am killing you with these terrible things! I will -speak no more." - -"No, no, Alessandro. Tell me all, all. You must have no grief I do not -share. Tell me about Jose," cried Ramona, breathlessly. - -"Senorita, it will break your heart to hear. Jose was married a year -ago. He had the best house in Temecula, next to my father's. It was the -only other one that had a shingled roof. And he had a barn too, and that -splendid horse he rode, and oxen, and a flock of sheep. He was at home -when the sheriff came. A great many of the men were away, grapepicking. -That made it worse. But Jose was at home; for his wife had a little baby -only a few weeks old, and the child seemed sickly and not like to live, -and Jose would not leave it. Jose was the first one that saw the sheriff -riding into the village, and the band of armed men behind him, and Jose -knew what it meant. He had often talked it over with me and with my -father, and now he saw that it had come; and he went crazy in one -minute, and fell on the ground all froth at his mouth. He had had a fit -like that once before; and the doctor said if he had another, he would -die. But he did not. They picked him up, and presently he was better; -and Mr. Rothsaker said nobody worked so well in the moving the first -day as Jose did. Most of the men would not lift a hand. They sat on the -ground with the women, and covered up their faces, and would not see. -But Jose worked; and, Senorita, one of the first things he did, was to -run with my father's violin to the store, to Mrs. Hartsel, and ask her -to hide it for us; Jose knew it was worth money. But before noon the -second day he had another fit, and died in it,--died right in his own -door, carrying out some of the things; and after Carmena--that's his -wife's name--saw he was dead, she never spoke, but sat rocking back -and forth on the ground, with the baby in her arms. She went over to -Pachanga at the same time I did with my father. It was a long procession -of us." - -"Where is Pachanga?" asked Ramona. - -"About three miles from Temecula, a little sort of canon. I told -the people they'd better move over there; the land did not belong to -anybody, and perhaps they could make a living there. There isn't any -water; that's the worst of it." - -"No water!" cried Ramona. - -"No running water. There is one little spring, and they dug a well by it -as soon as they got there; so there was water to drink, but that is all. -I saw Carmena could hardly keep up, and I carried the baby for her on -one arm, while I led my father with the other hand; but the baby cried, -so she took it back. I thought then it wouldn't live the day out; but -it did live till the morning of the day my father died. Just a few hours -before he died, Carmena came along with the baby rolled up in her shawl, -and sat down by me on the ground, and did not speak. When I said, 'How -is the little one?' she opened her shawl and showed it to me, dead. -'Good, Carmena!' said I. 'It is good! My father is dying too. We will -bury them together.' So she sat by me all that morning, and at night -she helped me dig the graves. I wanted to put the baby on my father's -breast; but she said, no, it must have a little grave. So she dug it -herself; and we put them in; and she never spoke, except that once. She -was sitting there by the grave when I came away. I made a cross of two -little trees with the boughs chopped off, and set it up by the graves. -So that is the way our new graveyard was begun,--my father and the -little baby; it is the very young and the very old that have the blessed -fortune to die. I cannot die, it seems!" - -"Where did they bury Jose?" gasped Ramona. - -"In Temecula," said Alessandro. "Mr. Rothsaker made two of his men dig -a grave in our old graveyard for Jose. But I think Carmena will go at -night and bring his body away. I would! But, my Senorita, it is very -dark, I can hardly see your beloved eyes. I think you must not stay -longer. Can I go as far as the brook with you, safely, without being -seen? The saints bless you, beloved, for coming. I could not have lived, -I think, without one more sight of your face;" and, springing to his -feet, Alessandro stood waiting for Ramona to move. She remained -still. She was in a sore strait. Her heart held but one impulse, one -desire,--to go with Alessandro; nothing was apparently farther from -his thoughts than this. Could she offer to go? Should she risk laying a -burden on him greater than he could bear? If he were indeed a beggar, as -he said, would his life be hindered or helped by her? She felt herself -strong and able. Work had no terrors for her; privations she knew -nothing of, but she felt no fear of them. - -"Alessandro!" she said, in a tone which startled him. - -"My Senorita!" he said tenderly. - -"You have never once called me Ramona." - -"I cannot, Senorita!" he replied. - -"Why not?" - -"I do not know. I sometimes think 'Ramona,'" he added faintly; "but not -often. If I think of you by any other name than as my Senorita, it is -usually by a name you never heard." - -"What is it?" exclaimed Ramona, wonderingly. - -"An Indian word, my dearest one, the name of the bird you are like,--the -wood-dove. In the Luiseno tongue that is Majel; that was what I thought -my people would have called you, if you had come to dwell among us. It -is a beautiful name, Senorita, and is like you." - -Alessandro was still standing. Ramona rose; coming close to him, she -laid both her hands on his breast, and her head on her hands, and said: -"Alessandro, I have something to tell you. I am an Indian. I belong to -your people." - -Alessandro's silence astonished her. "You are surprised," she said. "I -thought you would be glad." - -"The gladness of it came to me long ago, my Senorita," he said. "I knew -it!" - -"How?" cried Ramona. "And you never told me, Alessandro!" - -"How could I?" he replied. "I dared not. Juan Canito, it was told me." - -"Juan Canito!" said Ramona, musingly. "How could he have known?" Then in -a few rapid words she told Alessandro all that the Senora had told her. -"Is that what Juan Can said?" she asked. - -"All except the father's name," stammered Alessandro. - -"Who did he say was my father?" she asked. - -Alessandro was silent. - -"It matters not," said Ramona. "He was wrong. The Senora, of course, -knew. He was a friend of hers, and of the Senora Ortegna, to whom he -gave me. But I think, Alessandro, I have more of my mother than of my -father." - -"Yes, you have, my Senorita," replied Alessandro, tenderly. "After I -knew it, I then saw what it was in your face had always seemed to me -like the faces of my own people." - -"Are you not glad, Alessandro?" - -"Yes, my Senorita." - -What more should Ramona say? Suddenly her heart gave way; and without -premeditation, without resolve, almost without consciousness of what -she was doing, she flung herself on Alessandro's breast, and cried: "Oh, -Alessandro, take me with you! take me with you! I would rather die than -have you leave me again!" - - - - -XV - -ALESSANDRO'S first answer to this cry of Ramona's was a tightening of -his arms around her; closer and closer he held her, till it was almost -pain; she could hear the throbs of his heart, but he did not speak. -Then, letting his arms fall, taking her hand in his, he laid it on -his forehead reverently, and said, in a voice which was so husky and -trembling she could barely understand his words: "My Senorita knows that -my life is hers. She can ask me to go into the fire or into the sea, and -neither the fire nor the sea would frighten me; they would but make -me glad for her sake. But I cannot take my Senorita's life to throw it -away. She is tender; she would die; she cannot lie on the earth for a -bed, and have no food to eat. My Senorita does not know what she says." - -His solemn tone; this third-person designation, as if he were speaking -of her, not with her, almost as if he were thinking aloud to God rather -than speaking to her, merely calmed and strengthened, did not deter -Ramona. "I am strong; I can work too, Alessandro. You do not know. We -can both work. I am not afraid to lie on the earth; and God will give us -food," she said. - -"That was what I thought, my Senorita, until now. When I rode away -that morning, I had it in my thoughts, as you say, that if you were not -afraid, I would not be; and that there would at least always be food, -and I could make it that you should never suffer; but, Senorita, the -saints are displeased. They do not pray for us any more. It is as my -father said, they have forsaken us. These Americans will destroy us all. -I do not know but they will presently begin to shoot us and poison -us, to get us all out of the country, as they do the rabbits and the -gophers; it would not be any worse than what they have done. Would not -you rather be dead, Senorita, than be as I am to-day?" - -Each word he spoke but intensified Ramona's determination to share -his lot. "Alessandro," she interrupted, "there are many men among your -people who have wives, are there not?" - -"Yes, Senorita!" replied Alessandro, wonderingly. - -"Have their wives left them and gone away, now that this trouble has -come?" - -"No, Senorita." still more wonderingly; "how could they?" - -"They are going to stay with them, help them to earn money, try to make -them happier, are they not?" - -"Yes, Senorita." Alessandro began to see whither these questions tended. -It was not unlike the Senora's tactics, the way in which Ramona narrowed -in her lines of interrogation. - -"Do the women of your people love their husbands very much?" - -"Very much, Senorita." A pause. It was very dark now. Alessandro could -not see the hot currents running swift and red over Ramona's face; even -her neck changed color as she asked her last question. "Do you think any -one of them loves her husband more than I love you, Alessandro?" - -Alessandro's arms were again around her, before the words were done. -Were not such words enough to make a dead man live? Almost; but not -enough to make such a love as Alessandro's selfish. Alessandro was -silent. - -"You know there is not one!" said Ramona, impetuously. - -"Oh, it is too much!" cried Alessandro, throwing his arms up wildly. -Then, drawing her to him again, he said, the words pouring out -breathless: "My Senorita, you take me to the door of heaven, but I dare -not go in. I know it would kill you, Senorita, to live the life we must -live. Let me go, dearest Senorita; let me go! It had been better if you -had never seen me." - -"Do you know what I was going to do, Alessandro, if you had not come?" -said Ramona. "I was going to run away from the Senora's house, all -alone, and walk all the way to Santa Barbara, to Father Salvierderra, -and ask him to put me in the convent at San Juan Bautista; and that is -what I will do now if you leave me!" - -"Oh, no, no, Senorita, my Senorita, you will not do that! My beautiful -Senorita in the convent! No, no!" cried Alessandro, greatly agitated. - -"Yes, if you do not let me come with you, I shall do it. I shall set out -to-morrow." - -Her words carried conviction to Alessandro's soul. He knew she would do -as she said. "Even that would not be so dreadful as to be hunted like a -wild beast, Senorita; as you may be, if you come with me." - -"When I thought you were dead, Alessandro, I did not think the convent -would be dreadful at all. I thought it would be peace; and I could do -good, teaching the children. But if I knew you were alive, I could never -have peace; not for one minute have peace, Alessandro! I would rather -die, than not be where you are. Oh, Alessandro, take me with you!" - -Alessandro was conquered. "I will take you, my most beloved Senorita," -he said gravely,--no lover's gladness in his tone, and his voice was -hollow; "I will take you. Perhaps the saints will have mercy on you, -even if they have forsaken me and my people!" - -"Your people are my people, dearest; and the saints never forsake any -one who does not forsake them. You will be glad all our lives long, -Alessandro," cried Ramona; and she laid her head on his breast in solemn -silence for a moment, as if registering a vow. - -Well might Felipe have said that he would hold himself fortunate if any -woman ever loved him as Ramona loved Alessandro. - -When she lifted her head, she said timidly, now that she was sure, "Then -you will take your Ramona with you, Alessandro?" - -"I will take you with me till I die; and may the Madonna guard you, my -Ramona," replied Alessandro, clasping her to his breast, and bowing -his head upon hers. But there were tears in his eyes, and they were not -tears of joy; and in his heart he said, as in his rapturous delight when -he first saw Ramona bending over the brook under the willows he had said -aloud, "My God! what shall I do!" - -It was not easy to decide on the best plan of procedure now. Alessandro -wished to go boldly to the house, see Senor Felipe, and if need be the -Senora. Ramona quivered with terror at the bare mention of it. "You do -not know the Senora, Alessandro," she cried, "or you would never think -of it. She has been terrible all this time. She hates me so that she -would kill me if she dared. She pretends that she will do nothing to -prevent my going away; but I believe at the last minute she would throw -me in the well in the court-yard, rather than have me go with you." - -"I would never let her harm you," said Alessandro. "Neither would Senor -Felipe." - -"She turns Felipe round her finger as if he were soft wax," answered -Ramona. "She makes him of a hundred minds in a minute, and he can't help -himself. Oh, I think she is in league with the fiends, Alessandro! Don't -dare to come near the house; I will come here as soon as every one is -asleep. We must go at once." - -Ramona's terrors overruled Alessandro's judgment, and he consented to -wait for her at the spot where they now stood. She turned back twice to -embrace him again. "Oh, my Alessandro, promise me that you will not stir -from this place till I come," she said. - -"I will be here when you come," he said. - -"It will not be more than two hours," she said, "or three, at the -utmost. It must be nine o'clock now." - -She did not observe that Alessandro had evaded the promise not to leave -the spot. That promise Alessandro would not have given. He had something -to do in preparation for this unexpected flight of Ramona. In her -innocence, her absorption in her thoughts of Alessandro and of love, she -had never seemed to consider how she would make this long journey. -As Alessandro had ridden towards Temecula, eighteen days ago, he had -pictured himself riding back on his fleet, strong Benito, and bringing -Antonio's matchless little dun mare for Ramona to ride. Only eighteen -short days ago; and as he was dreaming that very dream, he had looked up -and seen Antonio on the little dun mare, galloping towards him like the -wind, the overridden creature's breath coming from her like pants of -a steam-engine, and her sides dripping blood, where Antonio, who loved -her, had not spared the cruel spurs; and Antonio, seeing him, had -uttered a cry, and flinging himself off, came with a bound to his side, -and with gasps between his words told him. Alessandro could not remember -the words, only that after them he set his teeth, and dropping the -bridle, laid his head down between Benito's ears, and whispered to him; -and Benito never stopped, but galloped on all that day, till he came -into Temecula; and there Alessandro saw the roofless houses, and -the wagons being loaded, and the people running about, the women and -children wailing; and then they showed him the place where his father -lay on the ground, under the tule, and jumping off Benito he let him go, -and that was the last he ever saw of him. Only eighteen days ago! And -now here he was, under the willows,--the same copse where he first -halted, at his first sight of Ramona; and it was night, dark night, and -Ramona had been there, in his arms; she was his; and she was going back -presently to go away with him,--where! He had no home in the wide world -to which to take her,--and this poor beast he had ridden from Temecula, -had it strength enough left to carry her? Alessandro doubted. He had -himself walked more than half the distance, to spare the creature, and -yet there had been good pasture all the way; but the animal had been too -long starved to recover quickly. In the Pachanga canon, where they had -found refuge, the grass was burned up by the sun, and the few horses -taken over there had suffered wretchedly; some had died. But Alessandro, -even while his arms were around Ramona, had revolved in his mind a -project he would not have dared to confide to her. If Baba, Ramona's own -horse, was still in the corral, Alessandro could without difficulty -lure him out. He thought it would be no sin. At any rate, if it were, -it could not be avoided. The Senorita must have a horse, and Baba had -always been her own; had followed her about like a dog ever since he -could run; in fact, the only taming he had ever had, had been done by -Ramona, with bread and honey. He was intractable to others; but Ramona -could guide him by a wisp of his silky mane. Alessandro also had nearly -as complete control over him; for it had been one of his greatest -pleasures, during the summer, when he could not see Ramona, to caress -and fondle her horse, till Baba knew and loved him next to his young -mistress. If only Baba were in the corral, all would be well. As soon as -the sound of Ramona's footsteps had died away, Alessandro followed with -quick but stealthy steps; keeping well down in the bottom, below the -willows, he skirted the terrace where the artichoke-patch and the -sheepfolds lay, and then turned up to approach the corral from the -farther side. There was no light in any of the herdsmen's huts. They -were all asleep. That was good. Well Alessandro knew how sound they -slept; many a night while he slept there with them he had walked twice -over their bodies as they lay stretched on skins on the floor,--out -and in without rousing them. If only Baba would not give a loud whinny. -leaning on the corral-fence, Alessandro gave a low, hardly audible -whistle. The horses were all in a group together at the farther end of -the corral. At the sound there was a slight movement in the group; and -one of them turned and came a pace or two toward Alessandro. - -"I believe that is Baba himself," thought Alessandro; and he made -another low sound. The horse quickened his steps; then halted, as if he -suspected some mischief. - -"Baba," whispered Alessandro. The horse knew his name as well as any -dog; knew Alessandro's voice too; but the sagacious creature seemed -instinctively to know that here was an occasion for secrecy and caution. -If Alessandro whispered, he, Baba, would whisper back; and it was little -more than a whispered whinny which he gave, as he trotted quickly to the -fence, and put his nose to Alessandro's face, rubbing and kissing and -giving soft whinnying sighs. - -"Hush! hush! Baba," whispered Alessandro, as if he were speaking to a -human being. "Hush!" and he proceeded cautiously to lift off the upper -rails and bushes of the fence. The horse understood instantly; and as -soon as the fence was a little lowered, leaped over it and stood still -by Alessandro's side, while he replaced the rails, smiling to himself, -spite of his grave anxiety, to think of Juan Can's wonder in the morning -as to how Baba had managed to get out of the corral. - -This had taken only a few moments. It was better luck than Alessandro -had hoped for; emboldened by it, he began to wonder if he could not get -the saddle too. The saddles, harnesses, bridles, and all such things -hung on pegs in an open barn, such as is constantly to be seen in -Southern California; as significant a testimony, in matter of climate, -as any Signal Service Report could be,--a floor and a roof; no walls, -only corner posts to hold the roof. Nothing but summerhouses on a large -scale are the South California barns. Alessandro stood musing. The -longer he thought, the greater grew his desire for that saddle. - -"Baba, if only you knew what I wanted of you, you'd lie down on the -ground here and wait while I got the saddle. But I dare not risk leaving -you. Come, Baba!" and he struck down the hill again, the horse following -him softly. When he got down below the terrace, he broke into a run, -with his hand in Baba's mane, as if it were a frolic; and in a few -moments they were safe in the willow copse, where Alessandro's poor pony -was tethered. Fastening Baba with the same lariat, Alessandro patted him -on the neck, pressed his face to his nose, and said aloud, "Good Baba, -stay here till the Senorita comes." Baba whinnied. - -"Why shouldn't he know the Senorita's name! I believe he does!" thought -Alessandro, as he turned and again ran swiftly back to the corral. He -felt strong now,--felt like a new man. Spite of all the terror, joy -thrilled him. When he reached the corral, all was yet still. The horses -had not moved from their former position. Throwing himself flat on the -ground, Alessandro crept on his breast from the corral to the barn, -several rods' distance. This was the most hazardous part of his -adventure; every other moment he paused, lay motionless for some -seconds, then crept a few paces more. As he neared the corner where -Ramona's saddle always hung, his heart beat. Sometimes, of a warm night, -Luigo slept on the barn floor. If he were there to-night, all was lost. -Groping in the darkness, Alessandro pulled himself up on the post, felt -for the saddle, found it, lifted it, and in a trice was flat on the -ground again, drawing the saddle along after him. Not a sound had he -made, that the most watchful of sheep-dogs could hear. - -"Ha, old Capitan, caught you napping this time!" said Alessandro to -himself, as at last he got safe to the bottom of the terrace, and, -springing to his feet, bounded away with the saddle on his shoulders. -It was a weight for a starving man to carry, but he felt it not, for -the rejoicing he had in its possession. Now his Senorita would go in -comfort. To ride Baba was to be rocked in a cradle. If need be, Baba -would carry them both, and never know it; and it might come to that, -Alessandro thought, as he knelt by the side of his poor beast, which was -stretched out on the ground exhausted; Baba standing by, looking down in -scornful wonder at this strange new associate. - -"The saints be praised!" thought Alessandro, as he seated himself to -wait. "This looks as if they would not desert my Senorita." - -Thoughts whirled in his brain. Where should they go first? What would be -best? Would they be pursued? Where could they hide? Where should he seek -a new home? - -It was bootless thinking, until Ramona was by his side. He must lay -each plan before her. She must decide. The first thing was to get to -San Diego, to the priest, to be married. That would be three days' hard -ride; five for the exhausted Indian pony. What should they eat on -the ways Ah! Alessandro bethought him of the violin at Hartsel's. Mr. -Hartsel would give him money on that; perhaps buy it. Then Alessandro -remembered his own violin. He had not once thought of it before. It lay -in its case on a table in Senor Felipe's room when he came away, Was it -possible? No, of course it could not be possible that the Senorita would -think to bring it. What would she bring? She would be wise, Alessandro -was sure. - -How long the hours seemed as he sat thus plotting and conjecturing; more -and more thankful, as each hour went by, to see the sky still clouded, -the darkness dense. "It must have been the saints, too, that brought me -on a night when there was no moon," he thought; and then he said again, -devout and simple-minded man that he was. "They mean to protect my -Senorita; they will let me take care of her." - -Ramona was threading a perilous way, through great difficulties. She had -reached her room unobserved, so far as she could judge. Luckily for her, -Margarita was in bed with a terrible toothache, for which her mother had -given her a strong sleeping-draught. Margarita was disposed of. If she -had not been, Ramona would never have got away, for Margarita would have -known that she had been out of the house for two hours, and would have -watched to see what it meant. - -Ramona came in through the court-yard; she dared not go by the veranda, -sure that Felipe and his mother were sitting there still, for it was not -late. - -As she entered her room, she heard them talking. She closed one of her -windows, to let them know she was there. Then she knelt at the Madonna's -feet, and in an inaudible whisper told her all she was going to do, and -prayed that she would watch over her and Alessandro, and show them where -to go. - -"I know she will! I am sure she will!" whispered Ramona to herself as -she rose from her knees. - -Then she threw herself on her bed, to wait till the Senora and Felipe -should be asleep. Her brain was alert, clear. She knew exactly what she -wished to do. She had thought that all out, more than two weeks ago, -when she was looking for Alessandro hour by hour. - -Early in the summer Alessandro had given to her, as curiosities, two -of the large nets which the Indian women use for carrying all sorts of -burdens. They are woven out of the fibres of a flax-like plant, and -are strong as iron. The meshes being large, they are very light; are -gathered at each end, and fastened to a band which goes around the -forehead. In these can be carried on the back, with comparative ease, -heavier loads than could be lifted in any other way. Until Ramona -recollected these, she had been perplexed to know how she should carry -the things which she had made up her mind it would be right for her to -take,--only a few; simply necessaries; one stuff gown and her shawls; -the new altar-cloth, and two changes of clothes; that would not be a -great deal; she had a right to so much, she thought, now that she -had seen the jewels in the Senora's keeping. "I will tell Father -Salvierderra exactly what I took," she thought, "and ask him if it was -too much." She did not like to think that all these clothes she must -take had been paid for with the Senora Moreno's money. - -And Alessandro's violin. Whatever else she left, that must go. What -would life be to Alessandro without a violin! And if they went to Los -Angeles, he might earn money by playing at dances. Already Ramona had -devised several ways by which they could both earn money. - -There must be also food for the journey. And it must be good food, too; -wine for Alessandro. Anguish filled her heart as she recalled how gaunt -he looked. "Starving," he said they had been. Good God! Starving! And -she had sat down each day at loaded tables, and seen, each day, good -food thrown to the dogs to eat. - -It was long before the Senora went to her room; and long after that -before Felipe's breathing had become so deep and regular that Ramona -dared feel sure that he was asleep. At last she ventured out. All was -dark; it was past midnight. - -"The violin first!" she said; and creeping into the dining-room, and -through the inner door to Felipe's room, she brought it out, rolled it -in shawl after shawl, and put it in the net with her clothes. Then she -stole out, with this net on her back, "like a true Indian woman as I -am," she said, almost gayly, to herself,--through the court-yard, around -the southeast corner of the house, past the garden, down to the willows, -where she laid down her load, and went back for the second. - -This was harder. Wine she was resolved to have and bread and cold -meat. She did not know so well where to put her hand on old Marda's -possessions as on her own, and she dared not strike a light. She made -several journeys to the kitchen and pantry before she had completed her -store. Wine, luckily, she found in the dining-room,--two full bottles; -also milk, which she poured into a leathern flask which hung on the wall -in the veranda. - -Now all was ready. She leaned from her window, and listened to Felipe's -breathing. "How can I go without bidding him good-by?" she said. "How -can I?" and she stood irresolute. - -"Dear Felipe! Dear Felipe! He has always been so good to me! He has done -all he could for me. I wish I dared kiss him. I will leave a note for -him." - -Taking a pencil and paper, and a tiny wax taper, whose light -would hardly be seen across a room, she slipped once more into the -dining-room, knelt on the floor behind the door, lighted her taper, and -wrote:-- - -"DEAR FELIPE,--Alessandro has come, and I am going away with him -to-night. Don't let anything be done to us, if you can help it. I don't -know where we are going. I hope, to Father Salvierderra. I shall love -you always. Thank you, dear Felipe, for all your kindness. - -"RAMONA." - -It had not taken a moment. She blew out her taper, and crept back into -her room. Felipe's bed was now moved close to the wall of the house. -From her window she could reach its foot. Slowly, cautiously, she -stretched out her arm and dropped the little paper on the coverlet, just -over Felipe's feet. There was a risk that the Senora would come out in -the morning, before Felipe awaked, and see the note first; but that risk -she would take. - -"Farewell, dear Felipe!" she whispered, under her breath, as she turned -from the window. - -The delay had cost her dear. The watchful Capitan, from his bed at the -upper end of the court, had half heard, half scented, something strange -going on. As Ramona stepped out, he gave one short, quick bark, and came -bounding down. - -"Holy Virgin, I am lost!" thought Ramona; but, crouching on the ground, -she quickly opened her net, and as Capitan came towards her, gave him a -piece of meat, fondling and caressing him. While he ate it, wagging his -tail, and making great demonstrations of joy, she picked up her load -again, and still fondling him, said, "Come on, Capitan!" It was her last -chance. If he barked again, somebody would be waked; if he went by her -side quietly, she might escape. A cold sweat of terror burst on her -forehead as she took her first step cautiously. The dog followed. She -quickened her pace; he trotted along, still smelling the meat in the -net. When she reached the willows, she halted, debating whether she -should give him a large piece of meat, and try to run away while he was -eating it, or whether she should let him go quietly along. She decided -on the latter course; and, picking up her other net, walked on. She was -safe now. She turned, and looked back towards the house; all was dark -and still. She could hardly see its outline. A great wave of emotion -swept over her. It was the only home she had ever known. All she -had experienced of happiness, as well as of bitter pain, had been -there,--Felipe, Father Salvierderra, the servants, the birds, the -garden, the dear chapel! Ah, if she could have once more prayed in the -chapel! Who would put fresh flowers and ferns in the chapel now? How -Felipe would miss her, when he knelt before the altar! For fourteen -years she had knelt by his side. And the Senora,--the hard, cold Senora! -She would alone be glad. Everybody else would be sorry. "They will all -be sorry I have gone,--all but the Senora! I wish it had been so that I -could have bidden them all good-by, and had them all bid me good-by, and -wish us good fortune!" thought the gentle, loving girl, as she drew a -long sigh, and, turning her back on her home, went forward in the path -she had chosen. - -She stooped and patted Capitan on the head. "Will you come with me, -Capitan?" she said; and Capitan leaped up joyfully, giving two or three -short, sharp notes of delight. "Good Capitan, come! They will not -miss him out of so many," she thought, "and it will always seem like -something from home, as long as I have Capitan." - -When Alessandro first saw Ramona's figure dimly in the gloom, drawing -slowly nearer, he did not recognize it, and he was full of apprehension -at the sight. What stranger could it be, abroad in these lonely meadows -at this hour of the night? Hastily he led the horses farther back into -the copse, and hid himself behind a tree, to watch. In a few moments -more he thought he recognized Capitan, bounding by the side of this -bent and slow-moving figure. Yet this was surely an Indian woman toiling -along under a heavy load. But what Indian woman would have so superb a -collie as Capitan? Alessandro strained his eyes through the darkness. -Presently he saw the figure halt,--drop part of its burden. - -"Alessandro!" came in a sweet, low call. - -He bounded like a deer, crying, "My Senorita! my Senorita! Can that be -you? To think that you have brought these heavy loads!" - -Ramona laughed. "Do you remember the day you showed me how the Indian -women carried so much on their backs, in these nets? I did not think -then I would use it so soon. But it hurts my forehead, Alessandro. It -isn't the weight, but the strings cut. I couldn't have carried them much -farther!" - -"Ah, you had no basket to cover the head," replied Alessandro, as he -threw up the two nets on his shoulders as if they had been feathers. In -doing so, he felt the violin-case. - -"Is it the violin?" he cried. "My blessed one, where did you get it?" - -"Off the table in Felipe's room," she answered. "I knew you would rather -have it than anything else. I brought very little, Alessandro; it seemed -nothing while I was getting it; but it is very heavy to carry. Will -it be too much for the poor tired horse? You and I can walk. And see, -Alessandro, here is Capitan. He waked up, and I had to bring him, to -keep him still. Can't he go with us?" - -Capitan was leaping up, putting his paws on Alessandro's breast, -licking his face, yelping, doing all a dog could do, to show welcome and -affection. - -Alessandro laughed aloud. Ramona had not more than two or three times -heard him do this. It frightened her. "Why do you laugh, Alessandro?" -she said. - -"To think what I have to show you, my Senorita," he said. "Look here;" -and turning towards the willows, he gave two or three low whistles, at -the first note of which Baba came trotting out of the copse to the end -of his lariat, and began to snort and whinny with delight as soon as he -perceived Ramona. - -Ramona burst into tears. The surprise was too great. - -"Are you not glad, Senorita?" cried Alessandro, aghast. "Is it not your -own horse? If you do not wish to take him, I will lead him back. My pony -can carry you, if we journey very slowly. But I thought it would be joy -to you to have Baba." - -"Oh, it is! it is!" sobbed Ramona, with her head on Baba's neck. "It is -a miracle,--a miracle. How did he come here? And, the saddle too!" she -cried, for the first time observing that. "Alessandro," in an awe-struck -whisper, "did the saints send him? Did you find him here?" It would have -seemed to Ramona's faith no strange thing, had this been so. - -"I think the saints helped me to bring him," answered Alessandro, -seriously, "or else I had not done it so easily. I did but call, near -the corral-fence, and he came to my hand, and leaped over the rails at -my word, as quickly as Capitan might have done. He is yours, Senorita. -It is no harm to take him?" - -"Oh, no!" answered Ramona. "He is more mine than anything else I had; -for it was Felipe gave him to me when he could but just stand on his -legs; he was only two days old; and I have fed him out of my hand every -day till now; and now he is five. Dear Baba, we will never be parted, -never!" and she took his head in both her hands, and laid her cheek -against it lovingly. - -Alessandro was busy, fastening the two nets on either side of the -saddle. "Baba will never know he has a load at all; they are not so -heavy as my Senorita thought," he said. "It was the weight on the -forehead, with nothing to keep the strings from the skin, which gave her -pain." - -Alessandro was making all haste. His hands trembled. "We must make all -the speed we can, dearest Senorita," he said, "for a few hours. Then we -will rest. Before light, we will be in a spot where we can hide safely -all day. We will journey only by night, lest they pursue us." - -"They will not," said Ramona. "There is no danger. The Senora said she -should do nothing. 'Nothing!'" she repeated, in a bitter tone. "That is -what she made Felipe say, too. Felipe wanted to help us. He would have -liked to have you stay with us; but all he could get was, that she would -do 'nothing!' But they will not follow us. They will wish never to hear -of me again. I mean, the Senora will wish never to hear of me. Felipe -will be sorry. Felipe is very good, Alessandro." - -They were all ready now,--Ramona on Baba, the two packed nets swinging -from her saddle, one on either side. Alessandro, walking, led his tired -pony. It was a sad sort of procession for one going to be wed, but -Ramona's heart was full of joy. - -"I don't know why it is, Alessandro," she said; "I should think I -would be afraid, but I have not the least fear,--not the least; not of -anything that can come, Alessandro," she reiterated with emphasis. "Is -it not strange?" - -"Yes, Senorita," he replied solemnly, laying his hand on hers as he -walked close at her side. "It is strange. I am afraid,--afraid for you, -my Senorita! But it is done, and we will not go back; and perhaps the -saints will help you, and will let me take care of you. They must love -you, Senorita; but they do not love me, nor my people." - -"Are you never going to call me by my name?" asked Ramona. "I hate your -calling me Senorita. That was what the Senora always called me when she -was displeased." - -"I will never speak the word again!" cried Alessandro. "The saints -forbid I should speak to you in the words of that woman!" - -"Can't you say Ramona?" she asked. - -Alessandro hesitated. He could not have told why it seemed to him -difficult to say Ramona. - -"What was that other name, you said you always thought of me by?" she -continued. "The Indian name,--the name of the dove?" - -"Majel," he said. "It is by that name I have oftenest thought of you -since the night I watched all night for you, after you had kissed me, -and two wood-doves were calling and answering each other in the dark; -and I said to myself, that is what my love is like, the wood-dove: the -wood-dove's voice is low like hers, and sweeter than any other sound in -the earth; and the wood-dove is true to one mate always--" He stopped. - -"As I to you, Alessandro," said Ramona, leaning from her horse, and -resting her hand on Alessandro's shoulder. - -Baba stopped. He was used to knowing by the most trivial signs what his -mistress wanted; he did not understand this new situation; no one had -ever before, when Ramona was riding him, walked by his side so close -that he touched his shoulders, and rested his hand in his mane. If it -had been anybody else than Alessandro, Baba would not have permitted it -even now. But it must be all right, since Ramona was quiet; and now she -had stretched out her hand and rested it on Alessandro's shoulder. -Did that mean halt for a moment? Baba thought it might, and acted -accordingly; turning his head round to the right, and looking back to -see what came of it. - -Alessandro's arms around Ramona, her head bent down to his, their lips -together,--what could Baba think? As mischievously as if he had been -a human being or an elf, Baba bounded to one side and tore the lovers -apart. They both laughed, and cantered on,--Alessandro running; the poor -Indian pony feeling the contagion, and loping as it had not done for -many a day. - -"Majel is my name, then," said Ramona, "is it? It is a sweet sound, but -I would like it better Majella. Call me Majella." - -"That will be good," replied Alessandro, "for the reason that never -before had any one the same name. It will not be hard for me to say -Majella. I know not why your name of Ramona has always been hard to my -tongue." - -"Because it was to be that you should call me Majella," said Ramona. -"Remember, I am Ramona no longer. That also was the name the Senora -called me by--and dear Felipe too," she added thoughtfully. "He would -not know me by my new name. I would like to have him always call -me Ramona. But for all the rest of the world I am Majella, -now,--Alessandro's Majel!" - - - - -XVI - -AFTER they reached the highway, and had trotted briskly on for a mile, -Alessandro suddenly put out his hand, and taking Baba by the rein, began -turning him round and round in the road. - -"We will not go any farther in the road," he said, "but I must conceal -our tracks here. We will go backwards for a few paces." The obedient -Baba backed slowly, half dancing, as if he understood the trick; the -Indian pony, too, curvetted awkwardly, then by a sudden bound under -Alessandro's skilful guidance, leaped over a rock to the right, and -stood waiting further orders. Baba followed, and Capitan; and there was -no trail to show where they had left the road. - -After trotting the pony round and round again in ever-widening circles, -cantering off in one direction after another, then backing over the -tracks for a few moments, Ramona docilely following, though much -bewildered as to what it all meant, Alessandro said: "I think now they -will never discover where we left the road. They will ride along, seeing -our tracks plain, and then they will be so sure that we would have kept -straight on, that they will not notice for a time; and when they do, -they will never be able to see where the trail ended. And now my Majella -has a very hard ride before her. Will she be afraid?" - -"Afraid." laughed Ramona. "Afraid,--on Baba, and with you!" - -But it was indeed a hard ride. Alessandro had decided to hide for -the day in a canon he knew, from which a narrow trail led direct to -Temecula,--a trail which was known to none but Indians. Once in this -canon, they would be safe from all possible pursuit. Alessandro did not -in the least share Ramona's confidence that no effort would be made to -overtake them. To his mind, it appeared certain that the Senora would -never accept the situation without making an attempt to recover at least -the horse and the dog. "She can say, if she chooses, that I have stolen -one of her horses," he thought to himself bitterly; "and everybody would -believe her. Nobody would believe us, if we said it was the Senorita's -own horse." - -The head of the canon was only a couple of miles from the road; but it -was in a nearly impenetrable thicket of chaparral, where young oaks had -grown up so high that their tops made, as it were, a second stratum of -thicket. Alessandro had never ridden through it; he had come up on foot -once from the other side, and, forcing his way through the tangle had -found, to his surprise, that he was near the highway. It was from this -canon that he had brought the ferns which it had so delighted Ramona -to arrange for the decoration of the chapel. The place was filled with -them, growing almost in tropical luxuriance; but this was a mile or so -farther down, and to reach that spot from above, Alessandro had had to -let himself down a sheer wall of stone. The canon at its head was little -more than a rift in the rocks, and the stream which had its rise in -it was only a trickling spring at the beginning. It was this precious -water, as well as the inaccessibility of the spot, which had decided -Alessandro to gain the place at all hazards and costs. But a wall of -granite would not have seemed a much more insuperable obstacle than did -this wall of chaparral, along which they rode, vainly searching for a -break in it. It appeared to Alessandro to have thickened and knit even -since the last spring. At last they made their way down a small side -canon,--a sort of wing to the main canon; a very few rods down this, and -they were as hidden from view from above as if the earth had swallowed -them. The first red tints of the dawn were coming. From the eastern -horizon to the zenith, the whole sky was like a dappled crimson fleece. - -"Oh, what a lovely place." exclaimed Ramona. "I am sure this was not a -hard ride at all, Alessandro! Is this where we are to stay?" - -Alessandro turned a compassionate look upon her. "How little does the -wood-dove know of rough places!" he said. "This is only the beginning; -hardly is it even the beginning." - -Fastening his pony to a bush, he reconnoitred the place, disappearing -from sight the moment he entered the chaparral in any direction. -Returning at last, with a grave face, he said, "Will Majella let me -leave her here for a little time? There is a way, but I can find it only -on foot. I will not be gone long. I know it is near." - -Tears came into Ramona's eyes. The only thing she dreaded was the losing -sight of Alessandro. He gazed at her anxiously. "I must go, Majella," he -said with emphasis. "We are in danger here." - -"Go! go! Alessandro," she cried. "But, oh, do not be long!" - -As he disappeared in the thicket, the tough boughs crackling and -snapping before him, it seemed to Ramona that she was again alone in the -world. Capitan, too, bounded after Alessandro, and did not return at her -call. All was still. Ramona laid her head on Baba's neck. The moments -seemed hours. At last, just as the yellow light streamed across the -sky, and the crimson fleeces turned in one second to gold, she heard -Alessandro's steps, the next moment saw his face. It was aglow with joy. - -"I have found the trail!" he exclaimed; "but we must climb up again out -of this; and it is too light. I like it not." - -With fear and trembling they urged their horses up and out into the open -again, and galloped a half-mile farther west, still keeping as close -to the chaparral thicket as possible. Here Alessandro, who led the way, -suddenly turned into the very thicket itself; no apparent opening; but -the boughs parted and closed, and his head appeared above them; -still the little pony was trotting bravely along. Baba snorted -with displeasure as he plunged into the same bristling pathway. The -thick-set, thorny branches smote Ramona's cheeks. What was worse, they -caught the nets swung on Baba's sides; presently these were held fast, -and Baba began to rear and kick. Here was a real difficulty. Alessandro -dismounted, cut the strings, and put both the packages securely on the -back of his own pony. "I will walk," he said. "It was only a little way -longer I would have ridden. I shall lead Baba, where it is narrow." - -"Narrow," indeed. It was from sheer terror, soon, that Ramona shut her -eyes. A path, it seemed to her only a hand's-breadth wide,--a stony, -crumbling path,--on the side of a precipice, down which the stones -rolled, and rolled, and rolled, echoing, far out of sight, as they -passed; at each step the beasts took, the stones rolled and fell. Only -the yucca-plants, with their sharp bayonet-leaves, had made shift to -keep foothold on this precipice. Of these there were thousands; and -their tall flower-stalks, fifteen, twenty feet high, set thick with the -shining, smooth seed-cups, glistened like satin chalices in the sun. -Below--hundreds of feet below--lay the canon bottom, a solid bed of -chaparral, looking soft and even as a bed of moss. Giant sycamore-trees -lifted their heads, at intervals, above this; and far out in the plain -glistened the loops of the river, whose sources, unknown to the world, -seen of but few human eyes, were to be waters of comfort to these -fugitives this day. - -Alessandro was cheered. The trail was child's play to him. At the first -tread of Baba's dainty steps on the rolling stones, he saw that the -horse was as sure-footed as an Indian pony. In a few short hours, now, -they would be all at rest. He knew where, under a sycamore-clump, there -was running water, clear as crystal, and cold,--almost colder than one -could drink,--and green grass too; plenty for two days' feed for the -horses, or even three; and all California might be searched over in vain -for them, once they were down this trail. His heart full of joy at these -thoughts, he turned, to see Ramona pallid, her lips parted, her eyes -full of terror. He had forgotten that her riding had hitherto been -only on the smooth ways of the valley and the plain, There she was so -fearless, that he had had no misgiving about her nerves here; but she -had dropped the reins, was clutching Baba's mane with both hands, and -sitting unsteadily in her saddle. She had been too proud to cry out; but -she was nearly beside herself with fright. Alessandro halted so suddenly -that Baba, whose nose was nearly on his shoulder, came to so sharp a -stop that Ramona uttered a cry. She thought he had lost his footing. - -Alessandro looked at her in dismay. To dismount on that perilous trail -was impossible; moreover, to walk there would take more nerve than to -ride. Yet she looked as if she could not much longer keep her seat. - -"Carita," he cried, "I was stupid not to have told you how narrow the -way is; but it is safe. I can run in it. I ran all this way with the -ferns on my back I brought for you." - -"Oh, did you?" gasped Ramona, diverted, for the moment, from her -contemplation of the abyss, and more reassured by that change of her -thoughts than she could have been by anything else. "Did you? It is -frightful, Alessandro. I never heard of such a trail. I feel as if I -were on a rope in the air. If I could get down and go on my hands and -knees, I think I would like it better. Could I?" - -"I would not dare to have you get off, just here, Majella," answered -Alessandro, sorrowfully. "It is dreadful to me to see you suffer so; I -will go very slowly. Indeed, it is safe; we all came up here, the whole -band, for the sheep-shearing,--old Fernando on his horse all the way." - -"Really," said Ramona, taking comfort at each word, "I will try not to -be so silly. Is it far, dearest Alessandro?" - -"Not much more as steep as this, dear, nor so narrow; but it will be an -hour yet before we stop." - -But the worst was over for Ramona now, and long before they reached the -bottom of the precipice she was ready to laugh at her fears; only, -as she looked back at the zigzag lines of the path over which she had -come,--little more than a brown thread, they seemed, flung along the -rock,--she shuddered. - -Down in the bottom of the canon it was still the dusky gloaming when -they arrived. Day came late to this fairy spot. Only at high noon did -the sun fairly shine in. As Ramona looked around her, she uttered an -exclamation of delight, which satisfied Alessandro. "Yes," he said, -"when I came here for the ferns, I wished to myself many times that you -could see it. There is not in all this country so beautiful a place. -This is our first home, my Majella," he added, in a tone almost solemn; -and throwing his arms around her, he drew her to his breast, with the -first feeling of joy he had experienced. - -"I wish we could live here always," cried Ramona. - -"Would Majella be content?" said Alessandro. - -"Very," she answered. - -He sighed. "There would not be land enough, to live here," he said. -"If there were, I too would like to stay here till I died, Majella, and -never see the face of a white man again!" Already the instinct of the -hunted and wounded animal to seek hiding, was striving in Alessandro's -blood. "But there would be no food. We could not live here." Ramona's -exclamation had set Alessandro to thinking, however. "Would Majella be -content to stay here three days now?" he asked. "There is grass enough -for the horses for that time. We should be very safe here; and I fear -very much we should not be safe on any road. I think, Majella, the -Senora will send men after Baba." - -"Baba!" cried Ramona, aghast at the idea. "My own horse! She would not -dare to call it stealing a horse, to take my own Baba!" But even as -she spoke, her heart misgave her. The Senora would dare anything; would -misrepresent anything; only too well Ramona knew what the very mention -of the phrase "horse-stealing" meant all through the country. She looked -piteously at Alessandro. He read her thoughts. - -"Yes, that is it, Majella," he said. "If she sent men after Baba, there -is no knowing what they might do. It would not do any good for you to -say he was yours. They would not believe you; and they might take me -too, if the Senora had told them to, and put me into Ventura jail." - -"She's just wicked enough to do it!" cried Ramona. "Let us not stir out -of this spot, Alessandro,--not for a week! Couldn't we stay a week? By -that time she would have given over looking for us." - -"I am afraid not a week. There is not feed for the horses; and I do not -know what we could eat. I have my gun, but there is not much, now, to -kill." - -"But I have brought meat and bread, Alessandro," said Ramona, earnestly, -"and we could eat very little each day, and make it last!" She was like -a child, in her simplicity and eagerness. Every other thought was for -the time being driven out of her mind by the terror of being pursued. -Pursuit of her, she knew, would not be in the Senora's plan; but the -reclaiming of Baba and Capitan, that was another thing. The more Ramona -thought of it, the more it seemed to her a form of vengeance which would -be likely to commend itself to the Senora's mind. Felipe might possibly -prevent it. It was he who had given Baba to her. He would feel that -it would be shameful to recall or deny the gift. Only in Felipe lay -Ramona's hope. - -If she had thought to tell Alessandro that in her farewell note -to Felipe she had said that she supposed they were going to Father -Salvierderra, it would have saved both her and Alessandro much -disquietude. Alessandro would have known that men pursuing them, on that -supposition, would have gone straight down the river road to the sea, -and struck northward along the coast. But it did not occur to Ramona to -mention this; in fact, she hardly recollected it after the first day. -Alessandro had explained to her his plan, which was to go by way of -Temecula to San Diego, to be married there by Father Gaspara, the priest -of that parish, and then go to the village or pueblo of San Pasquale, -about fifteen miles northwest of San Diego. A cousin of Alessandro's -was the head man of this village, and had many times begged him to come -there to live; but Alessandro had steadily refused, believing it to -be his duty to remain at Temecula with his father. San Pasquale was -a regularly established pueblo, founded by a number of the Indian -neophytes of the San Luis Rey Mission at the time of the breaking up -of that Mission. It was established by a decree of the Governor of -California, and the lands of the San Pasquale Valley given to it. A -paper recording this establishment and gift, signed by the Governor's -own hand, was given to the Indian who was the first Alcalde of the -pueblo. He was Chief Pablo's brother. At his death the authority passed -into the hands of his son, Ysidro, the cousin of whom Alessandro had -spoken. - -"Ysidro has that paper still," Alessandro said, "and he thinks it -will keep them their village. Perhaps it will; but the Americans are -beginning to come in at the head of the valley, and I do not believe, -Majella, there is any safety anywhere. Still, for a few years we can -perhaps stay there. There are nearly two hundred Indians in the valley; -it is much better than Temecula, and Ysidro's people are much better off -than ours were. They have splendid herds of cattle and horses, and large -wheat-fields. Ysidro's house stands under a great fig-tree; they say it -is the largest fig-tree in the country." - -"But, Alessandro," cried Ramona, "why do you think it is not safe there, -if Ysidro has the paper? I thought a paper made it all right." - -"I don't know," replied Alessandro. "Perhaps it may be; but I have got -the feeling now that nothing will be of any use against the Americans. I -don't believe they will mind the paper." - -"They didn't mind the papers the Senora had for all that land of hers -they took away," said Ramona, thoughtfully. "But Felipe said that was -because Pio Pico was a bad man, and gave away lands he had no right to -give away." - -"That's just it," said Alessandro. "Can't they say that same thing about -any governor, especially if he has given lands to us? If the Senora -couldn't keep hers, with Senor Felipe to help her, and he knows all -about the law, and can speak the American language, what chance is there -for us? We can't take care of ourselves any better than the wild beasts -can, my Majella. Oh, why, why did you come with me? Why did I let you?" - -After such words as these, Alessandro would throw himself on the ground, -and for a few moments not even Ramona's voice would make him look up. It -was strange that the gentle girl, unused to hardship, or to the thought -of danger, did not find herself terrified by these fierce glooms and -apprehensions of her lover. But she was appalled by nothing. Saved from -the only thing in life she had dreaded, sure that Alessandro lived, and -that he would not leave her, she had no fears. This was partly from -her inexperience, from her utter inability to conceive of the things -Alessandro's imagination painted in colors only too true; but it was -also largely due to the inalienable loyalty and quenchless courage of -her soul,--qualities in her nature never yet tested; qualities of -which she hardly knew so much as the name, but which were to bear her -steadfast and buoyant through many sorrowful years. - -Before nightfall of this their first day in the wilderness, Alessandro -had prepared for Ramona a bed of finely broken twigs of the manzanita -and ceanothus, both of which grew in abundance all through the canon. -Above these he spread layers of glossy ferns, five and six feet long; -when it was done, it was a couch no queen need have scorned. As Ramona -seated herself on it, she exclaimed: "Now I shall see how it feels to -lie and look up at the stars at night! Do you recollect, Alessandro, -the night you put Felipe's bed on the veranda, when you told me how -beautiful it was to lie at night out of doors and look up at the stars?" - -Indeed did Alessandro remember that night,--the first moment he had ever -dared to dream of the Senorita Ramona as his own. "Yes, I remember it, -my Majella," he answered slowly; and in a moment more added, "That was -the day Juan Can had told me that your mother was of my people; and that -was the night I first dared in my thoughts to say that perhaps you might -some day love me." - -"But where are you going to sleep, Alessandro?" said Ramona, seeing that -he spread no more boughs. "You have made yourself no bed." - -Alessandro laughed. "I need no bed," he said. "We think it is on our -mother's lap we lie, when we lie on the ground. It is not hard, Majella. -It is soft, and rests one better than beds. But to-night I shall not -sleep. I will sit by this tree and watch." - -"Why, what are you afraid of?" asked Ramona. - -"It may grow so cold that I must make a fire for Majella," he answered. -"It sometimes gets very cold before morning in these canons; so I shall -feel safer to watch to-night." - -This he said, not to alarm Ramona. His real reason for watching was, -that he had seen on the edge of the stream tracks which gave him -uneasiness. They were faint and evidently old; but they looked like the -tracks of a mountain lion. As soon as it was dark enough to prevent the -curl of smoke from being seen from below, he would light a fire, and -keep it blazing all night, and watch, gun in hand, lest the beast -return. - -"But you will be dead, Alessandro, if you do not sleep. You are not -strong," said Ramona, anxiously. - -"I am strong now, Majella," answered Alessandro. And indeed he did -already look like a renewed man, spite of all his fatigue and anxiety. -"I am no longer weak; and to-morrow I will sleep, and you shall watch." - -"Will you lie on the fern-bed then?" asked Ramona, gleefully. - -"I would like the ground better," said honest Alessandro. - -Ramona looked disappointed. "That is very strange," she said. "It is -not so soft, this bed of boughs, that one need fear to be made tender by -lying on it," she continued, throwing herself down; "but oh, how sweet, -how sweet it smells!" - -"Yes, there is spice-wood in it," he answered. "I put it in at the head, -for Majella's pillow." - -Ramona was very tired, and she was happy. All night long she slept -like a child. She did not hear Alessandro's steps. She did not hear -the crackling of the fire he lighted. She did not hear the barking of -Capitan, who more than once, spite of all Alessandro could do to quiet -him, made the canon echo with sharp, quick notes of warning, as he heard -the stealthy steps of wild creatures in the chaparral. Hour after hour -she slept on. And hour after hour Alessandro sat leaning against a huge -sycamore-trunk, and watched her. As the fitful firelight played over her -face, he thought he had never seen it so beautiful, Its expression of -calm repose insensibly soothed and strengthened him. She looked like a -saint, he thought; perhaps it was as a saint of help and guidance, the -Virgin was sending her to him and his people. The darkness deepened, -became blackness; only the red gleams from the fire broke it, in swaying -rifts, as the wind makes rifts in black storm-clouds in the heavens. -With the darkness, the stillness also deepened. Nothing broke that, -except an occasional motion of Baba or the pony, or an alert signal from -Capitan; then all seemed stiller than ever. Alessandro felt as if God -himself were in the canon. Countless times in his life before he had -lain in lonely places under the sky and watched the night through, but -he never felt like this. It was ecstasy, and yet it was pain. What was -to come on the morrow, and the next morrow, and the next, and the next, -all through the coming years? What was to come to this beloved and -loving woman who lay there sleeping, so confident, so trustful, guarded -only by him,--by him, Alessandro, the exile, fugitive, homeless man? - -Before the dawn, wood-doves began their calling. The canon was full -of them, no two notes quite alike, it seemed to Alessandro's sharpened -sense; pair after pair, he fancied that he recognized, speaking and -replying, as did the pair whose voices had so comforted him the night he -watched under the geranium hedge by the Moreno chapel,--"Love?" "Here!" -"Love?" "Here!" They comforted him still more now. "They too have only -each other," he thought, as he bent his eyes lovingly on Ramona's face. - -It was dawn, and past dawn, on the plains, before it was yet morning -twilight in the canon; but the birds in the upper boughs' of the -sycamores caught the tokens of the coming day, and began to twitter in -the dusk. Their notes fell on Ramona's sleeping ear, like the familiar -sound of the linnets in the veranda-thatch at home, and waked her -instantly. Sitting up bewildered, and looking about her, she exclaimed, -"Oh, is it morning already, and so dark? The birds can see more sky than -we! Sing, Alessandro," and she began the hymn:-- - -"'Singers at dawn From the heavens above People all regions; Gladly we -too sing.'" - -Never went up truer invocation, from sweeter spot. - -"Sing not so loud, my Majel," whispered Alessandro, as her voice went -carolling like a lark's in the pure ether. "There might be hunters near -who would hear;" and he joined in with low and muffled tones. - -As she dropped her voice at this caution, it seemed even sweeter than -before:-- - - "'Come, O sinners, - Come, and we will sing - Tender hymns - To our refuge,'" - -"Ah, Majella, there is no sinner here, except me!" said Alessandro. "My -Majella is like one of the Virgin's own saints." And indeed he might -have been forgiven the thought as he gazed at Ramona, sitting there in -the shimmering light, her face thrown out into relief by the gray wall -of fern-draped rock behind her; her splendid hair, unbound, falling in -tangled masses to her waist; her cheeks flushed, her face radiant with -devout and fervent supplication, her eyes uplifted to the narrow belt of -sky overhead, where filmy vapors were turning to gold, touched by a sun -she could not see. - -"Hush, my love," she breathed rather than said. "That would be a sin, if -you really thought it. - - 'O beautiful Queen, - Princess of Heaven,'" - -she continued, repeating the first lines of the song; and then, sinking -on her knees, reached out one hand for Alessandro's, and glided, almost -without a break in the melodious sound, into a low recitative of the -morning-prayers. Her rosary was of fine-chased gold beads, with an ivory -crucifix; a rare and precious relic of the Missions' olden times. It -had belonged to Father Peyri himself, was given by him to Father -Salvierderra, and by Father Salvierderra to the "blessed child," Ramona, -at her confirmation. A warmer token of his love and trust he could not -have bestowed upon her, and to Ramona's religious and affectionate -heart it had always seemed a bond and an assurance, not only of Father -Salvierderra's love, but of the love and protection of the now sainted -Peyri. - -As she pronounced the last words of her trusting prayer, and slipped the -last of the golden beads along on its string, a thread of sunlight -shot into the canon through a deep narrow gap in its rocky eastern -crest,--shot in for a second, no more; fell aslant the rosary, lighted -it; by a flash as if of fire, across the fine-cut facets of the beads, -on Ramona's hands, and on the white face of the ivory Christ. Only a -flash, and it was gone! To both Ramona and Alessandro it came like an -omen,--like a message straight from the Virgin. Could she choose better -messenger,--she, the compassionate one, the loving woman in heaven; -mother of the Christ to whom they prayed, through her,--mother, for -whose sake He would regard their least cry,--could she choose better -messenger, or swifter, than the sunbeam, to say that she heard and would -help them in these sore straits. - -Perhaps there were not, in the whole great world, at that moment to be -found, two souls who were experiencing so vivid a happiness as thrilled -the veins of these two friendless ones, on their knees, alone in the -wilderness, gazing half awe-stricken at the shining rosary. - - - - -XVII - -BEFORE the end of their second day in the canon, the place had become to -Ramona so like a friendly home, that she dreaded to leave its shelter. -Nothing is stronger proof of the original intent of Nature to do more -for man than the civilization in its arrogance will long permit her to -do, than the quick and sure way in which she reclaims his affection, -when by weariness, idle chance, or disaster, he is returned, for an -interval, to her arms. How soon he rejects the miserable subterfuges of -what he had called habits; sheds the still more miserable pretences of -superiority, makeshifts of adornment, and chains of custom! "Whom the -gods love, die young," has been too long carelessly said. It is not -true, in the sense in which men use the words. Whom the gods love, dwell -with nature; if they are ever lured away, return to her before they are -old. Then, however long they live before they die, they die young. Whom -the gods love, live young--forever. - -With the insight of a lover added to the instinct of the Indian, -Alessandro saw how, hour by hour, there grew in Ramona's eyes the wonted -look of one at home; how she watched the shadows, and knew what they -meant. - -"If we lived here, the walls would be sun-dials for us, would they not?" -she said, in a tone of pleasure. "I see that yon tall yucca has gone in -shadow sooner than it did yesterday." - -And, "What millions of things grow here, Alessandro! I did not know -there were so many. Have they all names? The nuns taught us some names; -but they were hard, and I forgot them, We might name them for ourselves, -if we lived here. They would be our relations." - -And, "For one year I should lie and look up at the sky, my Alessandro, -and do nothing else. It hardly seems as if it would be a sin to do -nothing for a year, if one gazed steadily at the sky all the while." - -And, "Now I know what it is I have always seen in your face, Alessandro. -It is the look from the sky. One must be always serious and not unhappy, -but never too glad, I think, when he lives with nothing between him and -the sky, and the saints can see him every minute." - -And, "I cannot believe that it is but two days I have lived in the -air, Alessandro. This seems to me the first home I have ever had. Is it -because I am Indian, Alessandro, that it gives me such joy?" - -It was strange how many more words Ramona spoke than Alessandro, yet how -full she felt their intercourse to be. His silence was more than silent; -it was taciturn. Yet she always felt herself answered. A monosyllable -of Alessandro's, nay, a look, told what other men took long sentences to -say, and said less eloquently. - -After long thinking over this, she exclaimed, "You speak as the trees -speak, and like the rock yonder, and the flowers, without saying -anything!" - -This delighted Alessandro's very heart. "And you, Majella," he -exclaimed; "when you say that, you speak in the language of our people; -you are as we are." - -And Ramona, in her turn, was made happy by his words,--happier than she -would have been made by any other praise or fondness. - -Alessandro found himself regaining all his strength as if by a miracle. -The gaunt look had left his face. Almost it seemed that its contour was -already fuller. There is a beautiful old Gaelic legend of a Fairy who -wooed a Prince, came again and again to him, and, herself invisible to -all but the Prince, hovered in the air, sang loving songs to draw him -away from the crowd of his indignant nobles, who heard her voice and -summoned magicians to rout her by all spells and enchantments at their -command. Finally they succeeded in silencing her and driving her off; -but as she vanished from the Prince's sight she threw him an apple,--a -magic golden apple. Once having tasted of this, he refused all other -food. Day after day, night after night, he ate only this golden apple; -and yet, morning after morning, evening after evening, there lay the -golden fruit, still whole and shining, as if he had not fed upon it; -and when the Fairy came the next time, the Prince leaped into her magic -boat, sailed away with her, and never was seen in his kingdom again. It -was only an allegory, this legend,--a beautiful allegory, and true,--of -love and lovers. The food on which Alessandro was, hour by hour, now -growing strong, was as magic and invisible as Prince Connla's apple, and -just as strength-giving. - -"My Alessandro, how is it you look so well, so soon?" said Ramona, -studying his countenance with loving care. "I thought that night you -would die. Now you look nearly strong as ever; your eyes shine, and your -hand is not hot! It is the blessed air; it has cured you, as it cured -Felipe of the fever." - -"If the air could keep me well, I had not been ill, Majella," replied -Alessandro. "I had been under no roof except the tule-shed, till I saw -you. It is not the air;" and he looked at her with a gaze that said the -rest. - -At twilight of the third day, when Ramona saw Alessandro leading up -Baba, saddled ready for the journey, the tears filled her eyes. At noon -Alessandro had said to her: "To-night, Majella, we must go. There is not -grass enough for another day. We must go while the horses are strong. I -dare not lead them any farther down the canon to graze, for there is -a ranch only a few miles lower. To-day I found one of the man's cows -feeding near Baba." - -Ramona made no remonstrance. The necessity was too evident; but the -look on her face gave Alessandro a new pang. He, too, felt as if exiled -afresh in leaving the spot. And now, as he led the horses slowly up, and -saw Ramona sitting in a dejected attitude beside the nets in which were -again carefully packed their small stores, his heart ached anew. Again -the sense of his homeless and destitute condition settled like an -unbearable burden on his soul. Whither and to what was he leading his -Majella? - -But once in the saddle, Ramona recovered cheerfulness. Baba was in -such gay heart, she could not be wholly sad. The horse seemed fairly -rollicking with satisfaction at being once more on the move. Capitan, -too, was gay. He had found the canon dull, spite of its refreshing -shade and cool water. He longed for sheep. He did not understand this -inactivity. The puzzled look on his face had made Ramona laugh more than -once, as he would come and stand before her, wagging his tail and fixing -his eyes intently on her face, as if he said in so many words, "What -in the world are you about in this canon, and do not you ever intend to -return home? Or if you will stay here, why not keep sheep? Do you not -see that I have nothing to do?" - -"We must ride all night, Majella," said Alessandro, "and lose no time. -It is a long way to the place where we shall stay to-morrow." - -"Is it a canon?" asked Ramona, hopefully. - -"No," he replied, "not a canon; but there are beautiful oak-trees. It -is where we get our acorns for the winter. It is on the top of a high -hill." - -"Will it be safe there?" she asked. - -"I think so," he replied; "though not so safe as here. There is no such -place as this in all the country." - -"And then where shall we go next?" she asked. - -"That is very near Temecula," he said. "We must go into Temecula, dear -Majella. I must go to Mr. Hartsel's. He is friendly. He will give me -money for my father's violin. If it were not for that, I would never go -near the place again." - -"I would like to see it, Alessandro," she said gently. - -"Oh, no, no, Majella!" he cried; "you would not. It is terrible; the -houses all unroofed,--all but my father's and Jose's. They were -shingled roofs; they will be just the same; all the rest are only walls. -Antonio's mother threw hers down; I don't know how the old woman ever -had the strength; they said she was like a fury. She said nobody should -ever live in those walls again; and she took a pole, and made a great -hole in one side, and then she ran Antonio's wagon against it with all -her might, till it fell in. No, Majella. It will be dreadful." - -"Wouldn't you like to go into the graveyard again, Alessandro?" she said -timidly. - -"The saints forbid!" he said solemnly. "I think it would make me a -murderer to stand in that graveyard! If I had not you, my Majel, I -should kill some white man when I came out. Oh, do not speak of it!" he -added, after a moment's silence; "it takes the strength all out of my -blood again, Majella. It feels as if I should die!" - -And the word "Temecula" was not mentioned between them again until dusk -the next day, when, as they were riding slowly along between low, wooded -hills, they suddenly came to an opening, a green, marshy place, with -a little thread of trickling water, at which their horses stopped, and -drank thirstily; and Ramona, looking ahead, saw lights twinkling in the -distance. "Lights, Alessandro, lights!" she exclaimed, pointing to them. - -"Yes, Majella," he replied, "it is Temecula," and springing off his pony -he came to her side, and putting both his hands on hers, said: "I have -been thinking, for a long way back, Carita, what is to be done here. I -do not know. What does Majella think will be wise? If men have been sent -out to pursue us, they may be at Hartsel's. His store is the place where -everybody stops, everybody goes. I dare not have you go there, Majella; -yet I must go. The only way I can get any money is from Mr. Hartsel." - -"I must wait somewhere while you go!" said Ramona, her heart beating as -she gazed ahead into the blackness of the great plain. It looked vast as -the sea. "That is the only safe thing, Alessandro." - -"I think so too," he said; "but, oh, I am afraid for you; and will not -you be afraid?" - -"Yes," she replied, "I am afraid. But it is not so dangerous as the -other." - -"If anything were to happen to me, and I could not come back to you, -Majella, if you give Baba his reins he will take you safe home,--he and -Capitan." - -Ramona shrieked aloud. She had not thought of this possibility. -Alessandro had thought of everything. "What could happen?" she cried. - -"I mean if the men were there, and if they took me for stealing the -horse," he said. - -"But you would not have the horse with you," she said. "How could they -take you?" - -"That mightn't make any difference," replied Alessandro. "They might -take me, to make me tell where the horse was." - -"Oh, Alessandro," sobbed Ramona, "what shall we do!" Then in another -second, gathering her courage, she exclaimed, "Alessandro, I know what -I will do. I will stay in the graveyard. No one will come there. Shall I -not be safest there?" - -"Holy Virgin! would my Majel stay there?" exclaimed Alessandro. - -"Why not?" she said. "It is not the dead that will harm us. They would -all help us if they could. I have no fear. I will wait there while you -go; and if you do not come in an hour, I will come to Mr. Hartsel's -after you. If there are men of the Senora's there, they will know me; -they will not dare to touch me. They will know that Felipe would punish -them. I will not be afraid. And if they are ordered to take Baba, they -can have him; we can walk when the pony is tired." - -Her confidence was contagious. "My wood-dove has in her breast the heart -of the lion," said Alessandro, fondly. "We will do as she says. She -is wise;" and he turned their horses' heads in the direction of the -graveyard. It was surrounded by a low adobe wall, with one small gate -of wooden paling. As they reached it, Alessandro exclaimed, "The thieves -have taken the gate!" - -"What could they have wanted with that?" said Ramona - -"To burn," he said doggedly, "It was wood; but it was very little. They -might have left the graves safe from wild beasts and cattle!" - -As they entered the enclosure, a dark figure rose from one of the -graves. Ramona started. - -"Fear nothing," whispered Alessandro. "It must be one of our people. I -am glad; now you will not be alone. It is Carmena, I am sure. That was -the corner where they buried Jose. I will speak to her;" and leaving -Ramona at the gate, he went slowly on, saying in a low voice, in -the Luiseno language, "Carmena, is that you? Have no fear. It is I, -Alessandro!" - -It was Carmena. The poor creature, nearly crazed with grief, was -spending her days by her baby's grave in Pachanga, and her nights by her -husband's in Temecula. She dared not come to Temecula by day, for the -Americans were there, and she feared them. After a short talk with her, -Alessandro returned, leading her along. Bringing her to Ramona's side, -he laid her feverish hand in Ramona's, and said: "Majella, I have told -her all. She cannot speak a word of Spanish, but she is very glad, she -says, that you have come with me, and she will stay close by your side -till I come back." - -Ramona's tender heart ached with desire to comfort the girl; but all -she could do was to press her hand in silence. Even in the darkness she -could see the hollow, mournful eyes and the wasted cheek. Words are less -needful to sorrow than to joy. Carmena felt in every fibre how Ramona -was pitying her. Presently she made a gentle motion, as if to draw her -from the saddle. Ramona bent down and looked inquiringly into her face. -Again she drew her gently with one hand, and with the other pointed to -the corner from which she had come. Ramona understood. "She wants to -show me her husband's grave," she thought. "She does not like to be away -from it. I will go with her." - -Dismounting, and taking Baba's bridle over her arm, she bowed her head -assentingly, and still keeping firm hold of Carmena's hand, followed -her. The graves were thick, and irregularly placed, each mound marked -by a small wooden cross. Carmena led with the swift step of one who knew -each inch of the way by heart. More than once Ramona stumbled and nearly -fell, and Baba was impatient and restive at the strange inequalities -under his feet. When they reached the corner, Ramona saw the fresh-piled -earth of the new grave. Uttering a wailing cry, Carmena, drawing Ramona -to the edge of it, pointing down with her right hand, then laid both -hands on her heart, and gazed at Ramona piteously. Ramona burst into -weeping, and again clasping Carmena's hand, laid it on her own breast, -to show her sympathy. Carmena did not weep. She was long past that; -and she felt for the moment lifted out of herself by the sweet, sudden -sympathy of this stranger,--this girl like herself, yet so different, -so wonderful, so beautiful, Carmena was sure she must be. Had the saints -sent her from heaven to Alessandro? What did it mean? Carmena's bosom -was heaving with the things she longed to say and to ask; but all she -could do was to press Ramona's hand again and again, and occasionally -lay her soft cheek upon it. - -"Now, was it not the saints that put it into my head to come to the -graveyard?" thought Ramona. "What a comfort to this poor heart-broken -thing to see Alessandro! And she keeps me from all fear. Holy Virgin! -but I had died of terror here all alone. Not that the dead would harm -me; but simply from the vast, silent plain, and the gloom." - -Soon Carmena made signs to Ramona that they would return to the gate. -Considerate and thoughtful, she remembered that Alessandro would expect -to find them there. But it was a long and weary watch they had, waiting -for Alessandro to come. - -After leaving them, and tethering his pony, he had struck off at a -quick run for Hartsel's, which was perhaps an eighth of a mile from the -graveyard. His own old home lay a little to the right. As he drew near, -he saw a light in its windows. He stopped as if shot. "A light in our -house!" he exclaimed; and he clenched his hands. "Those cursed robbers -have gone into it to live already!" His blood seemed turning to fire. -Ramona would not have recognized the face of her Alessandro now. It was -full of implacable vengeance. Involuntarily he felt for his knife. It -was gone. His gun he had left inside the graveyard, leaning against the -wall. Ah! in the graveyard! Yes, and there also was Ramona waiting for -him. Thoughts of vengeance fled. The world held now but one work, one -hope, one passion, for him. But he would at least see who were these -dwellers in his father's house. A fierce desire to see their faces -burned within him. Why should he thus torture himself? Why, indeed? But -he must. He would see the new home-life already begun on the grave of -his. Stealthily creeping under the window from which the light shone, he -listened. He heard children's voices; a woman's voice; at intervals the -voice of a man, gruff and surly; various household sounds also. It was -evidently the supper-hour. Cautiously raising himself till his eyes were -on a level with the lowest panes in the window, he looked in. - -A table was set in the middle of the floor, and there were sitting at it -a man, woman, and two children. The youngest, little more than a baby, -sat in its high chair, drumming with a spoon on the table, impatient for -its supper. The room was in great confusion,--beds made on the floor, -open boxes half unpacked, saddles and harness thrown down in the -corners; evidently there were new-comers into the house. The window -was open by an inch. It had warped, and would not shut down. Bitterly -Alessandro recollected how he had put off from day to day the planing -of that window to make it shut tight. Now, thanks to the crack, he could -hear all that was said. The woman looked weary and worn. Her face was a -sensitive one, and her voice kindly; but the man had the countenance -of a brute,--of a human brute. Why do we malign the so-called brute -creation, making their names a unit of comparison for base traits which -never one of them possessed? - -"It seems as if I never should get to rights in this world!" said the -woman. Alessandro understood enough English to gather the meaning of -what she said. He listened eagerly. "When will the next wagon get here?" - -"I don't know," growled her husband. "There's been a slide in that -cursed canon, and blocked the road. They won't be here for several days -yet. Hain't you got stuff enough round now? If you'd clear up what's -here now, then 'twould be time enough to grumble because you hadn't got -everything." - -"But, John," she replied, "I can't clear up till the bureau comes, to -put the things away in, and the bedstead. I can't seem to do anything." - -"You can grumble, I take notice," he answered. "That's about all you -women are good for, anyhow. There was a first-rate raw-hide bedstead -in here. If Rothsaker hadn't been such a fool's to let those dogs of -Indians carry off all their truck, we might have had that!" - -The woman looked at him reproachfully, but did not speak for a moment. -Then her cheeks flushed, and seeming unable to repress the speech, she -exclaimed, "Well, I'm thankful enough he did let the poor things take -their furniture. I'd never have slept a wink an that bedstead, I know, -if it had ha' been left here. It's bad enough to take their houses this -way!" - -"Oh, you shut up your head for a blamed fool, will you!" cried the man. -He was half drunk, his worst and most dangerous state. She glanced at -him half timorously, half indignantly, and turning to the children, -began feeding the baby. At that second the other child looked up, and -catching sight of the outline of Alessandro's head, cried out, "There's -a man there! There, at the window!" - -Alessandro threw himself flat on the ground, and held his breath. Had -he imperilled all, brought danger on himself and Ramona, by yielding to -this mad impulse to look once more inside the walls of his home? With -a fearful oath, the half-drunken man exclaimed, "One of those damned -Indians, I expect. I've seen several hangin' round to-day. We'll have to -shoot two or three of 'em yet, before we're rid of 'em!" and he took his -gun down from the pegs above the fireplace, and went to the door with it -in his hand. - -"Oh, don't fire, father, don't." cried the woman. "They'll come and -murder us all in our sleep if you do! Don't fire!" and she pulled him -back by the sleeve. - -Shaking her off, with another oath, he stepped across the threshold, and -stood listening, and peering into the darkness. Alessandro's heart beat -like a hammer in his breast. Except for the thought of Ramona, he would -have sprung on the man, seized his gun, and killed him. - -"I don't believe it was anybody, after all, father," persisted the -woman. "Bud's always seein' things. I don't believe there was anybody -there. Come in; supper's gettin' all cold." - -"Well, I'll jest fire, to let 'em know there's powder 'n shot round -here," said the fiend. "If it hits any on 'em roamin' round, he won't -know what hurt him;" and levelling his gun at random, with his drunken, -unsteady hand he fired. The bullet whistled away harmlessly into -the empty darkness. Hearkening a few moments, and hearing no cry, he -hiccuped, "Mi-i-issed him that time," and went in to his supper. - -Alessandro did not dare to stir for a long time. How he cursed his own -folly in having brought himself into this plight! What needless pain of -waiting he was inflicting on the faithful one, watching for him in that -desolate and fearful place of graves! At last he ventured,--sliding -along on his belly a few inches at a time, till, several rods from the -house, he dared at last to spring to his feet and bound away at full -speed for Hartsel's. - -Hartsel's was one of those mongrel establishments to be seen nowhere -except in Southern California. Half shop, half farm, half tavern, it -gathered up to itself all the threads of the life of the whole region. -Indians, ranchmen, travellers of all sorts, traded at Hartsel's, drank -at Hartsel's, slept at Hartsel's. It was the only place of its kind -within a radius of twenty miles; and it was the least bad place of its -kind within a much wider radius. - -Hartsel was by no means a bad fellow--when he was sober; but as that -condition was not so frequent as it should have been, he sometimes came -near being a very bad fellow indeed. At such times everybody was afraid -of him,--wife, children, travellers, ranchmen, and all. "It was only a -question of time and occasion," they said, "Hartsel's killing somebody -sooner or later;" and it looked as if the time were drawing near -fast. But, out of his cups, Hartsel was kindly, and fairly truthful; -entertaining, too, to a degree which held many a wayfarer chained to his -chair till small hours of the morning, listening to his landlord's talk. -How he had drifted from Alsace to San Diego County, he could hardly have -told in minute detail himself, there had been so many stages and phases -of the strange journey; but he had come to his last halt now. Here, in -this Temecula, he would lay his bones. He liked the country. He liked -the wild life, and, for a wonder, he liked the Indians. Many a good word -he spoke for them to travellers who believed no good of the race, and -evidently listened with polite incredulity when he would say, as he -often did: "I've never lost a dollar off these Indians yet. They do all -their trading with me. There's some of them I trust as high's a hundred -dollars. If they can't pay this year, they'll pay next; and if they die, -their relations will pay their debts for them, a little at a time, till -they've got it all paid off. They'll pay in wheat, or bring a steer, -maybe, or baskets or mats the women make; but they'll pay. They're -honester 'n the general run of Mexicans about paying; I mean Mexicans -that are as poor's they are." - -Hartsel's dwelling-house was a long, low adobe building, with still -lower flanking additions, in which were bedrooms for travellers, the -kitchen, and storerooms. The shop was a separate building, of rough -planks, a story and a half high, the loft of which was one great -dormitory well provided with beds on the floor, but with no other -article of bedroom furniture. They who slept in this loft had no -fastidious standards of personal luxury. These two buildings, with some -half-dozen out-houses of one sort and another, stood in an enclosure -surrounded by a low white picket fence, which gave to the place a -certain home-like look, spite of the neglected condition of the ground, -which was bare sand, or sparsely tufted with weeds and wild grass. A few -plants, parched and straggling, stood in pots and tin cans around the -door of the dwelling-house. One hardly knew whether they made the place -look less desolate or more so. But they were token of a woman's -hand, and of a nature which craved something more than the unredeemed -wilderness around her afforded. - -A dull and lurid light streamed out from the wide-open door of the -store. Alessandro drew cautiously near. The place was full of men, and -he heard loud laughing and talking. He dared not go in. Stealing around -to the rear, he leaped the fence, and went to the other house and opened -the kitchen door. Here he was not afraid. Mrs. Hartsel had never any but -Indian servants in her employ. The kitchen was lighted only by one -dim candle. On the stove were sputtering and hissing all the pots and -frying-pans it would hold. Much cooking was evidently going on for the -men who were noisily rollicking in the other house. - -Seating himself by the fire, Alessandro waited. In a few moments Mrs. -Hartsel came hurrying back to her work. It was no uncommon experience to -find an Indian quietly sitting by her fire. In the dim light she did not -recognize Alessandro, but mistook him, as he sat bowed over, his head in -his hands, for old Ramon, who was a sort of recognized hanger-on of the -place, earning his living there by odd jobs of fetching and carrying, -and anything else he could do. - -"Run, Ramon," she said, "and bring me more wood; this cotton wood is so -dry, it burns out like rotten punk; I'm off my feet to-night, with all -these men to cook for;" then turning to the table, she began cutting -her bread, and did not see how tall and unlike Ramon was the man who -silently rose and went out to do her bidding. When, a few moments later, -Alessandro re-entered, bringing a huge armful of wood, which it would -have cost poor old Ramon three journeys at least to bring, and throwing -it down, on the hearth, said, "Will that be enough, Mrs. Hartsel?" -she gave a scream of surprise, and dropped her knife. "Why, who--" she -began; then, seeing his face, her own lighting up with pleasure, she -continued, "Alessandro! Is it you? Why, I took you in the dark for old -Ramon! I thought you were in Pachanga." - -"In Pachanga!" Then as yet no one had come from the Senora Moreno's to -Hartsel's in search of him and the Senorita Ramona! Alessandro's heart -felt almost light in his bosom, From the one immediate danger he had -dreaded, they were safe; but no trace of emotion showed on his face, and -he did not raise his eyes as he replied; "I have been in Pachanga. My -father is dead. I have buried him there." - -"Oh, Alessandro! Did he die?" cried the kindly woman, coming closer to -Alessandro, and laying her hand on his shoulder. "I heard he was sick." -She paused; she did not know what to say. She had suffered so at the -time of the ejectment of the Indians, that it had made her ill. For two -days she had kept her doors shut and her windows close curtained, that -she need not see the terrible sights. She was not a woman of many words. -She was a Mexican, but there were those who said that some Indian blood -ran in her veins. This was not improbable; and it seemed more than ever -probable now, as she stood still by Alessandro's side, her hand on his -shoulder, her eyes fixed in distress on his face. How he had altered! -How well she recollected his lithe figure, his alert motion, his superb -bearing, his handsome face, when she last saw him in the spring! - -"You were away all summer, Alessandro?" she said at last, turning back -to her work. - -"Yes," he said: "at the Senora Moreno's." - -"So I heard," she said. "That is a fine great place, is it not? Is her -son grown a fine man? He was a lad when I saw him. He went through here -with a drove of sheep once." - -"Ay, he is a man now," said Alessandro, and buried his face in his hands -again. - -"Poor fellow! I don't wonder he does not want to speak," thought Mrs. -Hartsel. "I'll just let him alone;" and she spoke no more for some -moments. - -Alessandro sat still by the fire. A strange apathy seemed to have seized -him; at last he said wearily: "I must be going now. I wanted to see Mr. -Hartsel a minute, but he seems to be busy in the store." - -"Yes," she said, "a lot of San Francisco men; they belong to the company -that's coming in here in the valley; they've been here two days. Oh, -Alessandro," she continued, bethinking herself, "Jim's got your violin -here; Jose brought it." - -"Yes, I know it," answered Alessandro. "Jose told me; and that was one -thing I stopped for." - -"I'll run and get it," she exclaimed. - -"No," said Alessandro, in a slow, husky voice. "I do not want it. I -thought Mr. Hartsel might buy it. I want some money. It was not mine; it -was my father's. It is a great deal better than mine. My father said it -would bring a great deal of money. It is very old." - -"Indeed it is," she replied; "one of those men in there was looking at -it last night. He was astonished at it, and he would not believe Jim -when he told him about its having come from the Mission." - -"Does he play? Will he buy it?" cried Alessandro. - -"I don't know; I'll call Jim," she said; and running out she looked in -at the other door, saying, "Jim! Jim!" - -Alas, Jim was in no condition to reply. At her first glance in his face, -her countenance hardened into an expression of disgust and defiance. -Returning to the kitchen, she said scornfully, disdaining all disguises, -"Jim's drunk. No use your talking to him to-night. Wait till morning." - -"Till morning!" A groan escaped from Alessandro, in spite of himself. "I -can't!" he cried. "I must go on to-night." - -"Why, what for?" exclaimed Mrs. Hartsel, much astonished. For one brief -second Alessandro revolved in his mind the idea of confiding everything -to her; only for a second, however. No; the fewer knew his secret and -Ramona's, the better. - -"I must be in San Diego to-morrow," he said. - -"Got work there?" she said. - -"Yes; that is, in San Pasquale," he said; "and I ought to have been -there three days ago." - -Mrs. Hartsel mused. "Jim can't do anything to-night," she said; "that's -certain. You might see the man yourself, and ask him if he'd buy it." - -Alessandro shook his head. An invincible repugnance withheld him. -He could not face one of these Americans who were "coming in" to his -valley. Mrs. Hartsel understood. - -"I'll tell you, Alessandro," said the kindly woman, "I'll give you what -money you need to-night, and then, if you say so, Jim'll sell the violin -to-morrow, if the man wants it, and you can pay me back out of that, and -when you're along this way again you can have the rest. Jim'll make as -good a trade for you's he can. He's a real good friend to all of you, -Alessandro, when he's himself." - -"I know it, Mrs. Hartsel. I'd trust Mr. Hartsel more than any other man -in this country," said Alessandro. "He's about the only white man I do -trust!" - -Mrs. Hartsel was fumbling in a deep pocket in her under-petticoat. -Gold-piece after gold-piece she drew out. "Humph! Got more'n I thought -I had," she said. "I've kept all that's been paid in here to-day, for I -knew Jim'd be drunk before night." - -Alessandro's eyes fastened on the gold. How he longed for an abundance -of those little shining pieces for his Majella! He sighed as Mrs. -Hartsel counted them out on the table,--one, two, three, four, bright -five-dollar pieces. - -"That is as much as I dare take," said Alessandro, when she put down -the fourth. "Will you trust me for so much?" he added sadly. "You know I -have nothing left now. Mrs. Hartsel, I am only a beggar, till I get some -work to do." - -The tears came into Mrs. Hartsel's eyes. "It's a shame!" she said,--"a -shame, Alessandro! Jim and I haven't thought of anything else, since it -happened. Jim says they'll never prosper, never. Trust you? Yes, indeed. -Jim and I'd trust you, or your father, the last day of our lives." - -"I'm glad he is dead," said Alessandro, as he knotted the gold into -his handkerchief and put it into his bosom. "But he was murdered, Mrs. -Hartsel,--murdered, just as much as if they had fired a bullet into -him." - -"That's true." she exclaimed vehemently. "I say so too; and so was Jose. -That's just what I said at the time,--that bullets would not be half so -inhuman!" - -The words had hardly left her lips, when the door from the dining-room -burst open, and a dozen men, headed by the drunken Jim, came stumbling, -laughing, reeling into the kitchen. - -"Where's supper! Give us our supper! What are you about with your Indian -here? I'll teach you how to cook ham!" stammered Jim, making a lurch -towards the stove. The men behind caught him and saved him. Eyeing the -group with scorn, Mrs. Hartsel, who had not a cowardly nerve in her -body, said: "Gentlemen, if you will take your seats at the table, I will -bring in your supper immediately. It is all ready." - -One or two of the soberer ones, shamed by her tone, led the rest back -into the dining-room, where, seating themselves, they began to pound the -table and swing the chairs, swearing, and singing ribald songs. - -"Get off as quick as you can, Alessandro," whispered Mrs. Hartsel, as -she passed by him, standing like a statue, his eyes, full of hatred and -contempt, fixed on the tipsy group. "You'd better go. There's no knowing -what they'll do next." - -"Are you not afraid?" he said in a low tone. - -"No!" she said. "I'm used to it. I can always manage Jim. And Ramon's -round somewhere,--he and the bull-pups; if worse comes to worse, I can -call the dogs. These San Francisco fellows are always the worst to get -drunk. But you'd better get out of the way!" - -"And these are the men that have stolen our lands, and killed my father, -and Jose, and Carmena's baby!" thought Alessandro, as he ran swiftly -back towards the graveyard. "And Father Salvierderra says, God is good. -It must be the saints no longer pray to Him for us!" - -But Alessandro's heart was too full of other thoughts, now, to dwell -long on past wrongs, however bitter. The present called him too -loudly. Putting his hand in his bosom, and feeling the soft, knotted -handkerchief, he thought: "Twenty dollars! It is not much! But it will -buy food for many days for my Majella and for Baba!" - - - - -XVIII - -EXCEPT for the reassuring help of Carmena's presence by her side, Ramona -would never have had courage to remain during this long hour in the -graveyard. As it was, she twice resolved to bear the suspense no longer, -and made a movement to go. The chance of Alessandro's encountering at -Hartsel's the men sent in pursuit of him and of Baba, loomed in her -thoughts into a more and more frightful danger each moment she reflected -upon it. It was a most unfortunate suggestion for Alessandro to have -made. Her excited fancy went on and on, picturing the possible scenes -which might be going on almost within stone's-throw of where she was -sitting, helpless, in the midnight darkness,--Alessandro seized, tied, -treated as a thief, and she, Ramona, not there to vindicate him, to -terrify the men into letting him go. She could not bear it; she would -ride boldly to Hartsel's door. But when she made a motion as if she -would go, and said in the soft Spanish, of which Carmena knew no word, -but which yet somehow conveyed Ramona's meaning, "I must go! It is too -long! I cannot wait here!" Carmena had clasped her hand tighter, and -said in the San Luiseno tongue, of which Ramona knew no word, but which -yet somehow conveyed Carmena's meaning, "O beloved lady, you must not -go! Waiting is the only safe thing. Alessandro said, to wait here. He -will come." The word "Alessandro" was plain. Yes, Alessandro had said, -wait; Carmena was right. She would obey, but it was a fearful ordeal. It -was strange how Ramona, who felt herself preternaturally brave, afraid -of nothing, so long as Alessandro was by her side, became timorous and -wretched the instant he was lost to her sight. When she first heard his -steps coming, she quivered with terror lest they might not be his. The -next second she knew; and with a glad cry, "Alessandro! Alessandro!" she -bounded to him, dropping Baba's reins. - -Sighing gently, Carmena picked up the reins, and stood still, holding -the horse, while the lovers clasped each other with breathless words. -"How she loves Alessandro!" thought the widowed Carmena. "Will they -leave him alive to stay with her? It is better not to love!" But there -was no bitter envy in her mind for the two who were thus blest while she -went desolate. All of Pablo's people had great affection for Alessandro. -They had looked forward to his being over them in his father's place. -They knew his goodness, and were proud of his superiority to themselves. - -"Majella, you tremble," said Alessandro, as he threw his arms around -her. "You have feared! Yet you were not alone." He glanced at Carmena's -motionless figure, standing by Baba. - -"No, not alone, dear Alessandro, but it was so long!" replied Ramona; -"and I feared the men had taken you, as you feared. Was there any one -there?" - -"No! No one has heard anything. All was well. They thought I had just -come from Pachanga," he answered. - -"Except for Carmena, I should have ridden after you half an hour ago," -continued Ramona. "But she told me to wait." - -"She told you!" repeated Alessandro. "How did you understand her -speech?" - -"I do not know. Was it not a strange thing?" replied Ramona. "She spoke -in your tongue, but I thought I understood her, Ask her if she did not -say that I must not go; that it was safer to wait; that you had so said, -and you would soon come." - -Alessandro repeated the words to Carmena. "Did you say that?" he asked. - -"Yes," answered Carmena. - -"You see, then, she has understood the Luiseno words," he said -delightedly. "She is one of us." - -"Yes," said Carmena, gravely, "she is one of us." Then, taking Ramona's -hand in both of her own for farewell, she repeated, in a tone as of dire -prophecy, "One of us, Alessandro! one of us!" And as she gazed after -their retreating forms, almost immediately swallowed and lost in the -darkness, she repeated the words again to herself,--"One of us! one of -us! Sorrow came to me; she rides to meet it!" and she crept back to her -husband's grave, and threw herself down, to watch till the dawn. - -The road which Alessandro would naturally have taken would carry them -directly by Hartsel's again. But, wishing to avoid all risk of meeting -or being seen by any of the men on the place, he struck well out to -the north, to make a wide circuit around it. This brought them past -the place where Antonio's house had stood. Here Alessandro halted, and -putting his hand on Baba's rein, walked the horses close to the pile of -ruined walls. "This was Antonio's house, Majella," he whispered. "I wish -every house in the valley had been pulled down like this. Old Juana was -right. The Americans are living in my father's house, Majella," he went -on, his whisper growing thick with rage. "That was what kept me so long. -I was looking in at the window at them eating their supper. I thought I -should go mad, Majella. If I had had my gun, I should have shot them all -dead!" - -An almost inarticulate gasp was Ramona's first reply to this. "Living in -your house!" she said. "You saw them?" - -"Yes," he said; "the man, and his wife, and two little children; and the -man came out, with his gun, on the doorstep, and fired it. They thought -they heard something moving, and it might be an Indian; so he fired. -That was what kept me so long." - -Just at this moment Baba tripped over some small object on the ground. -A few steps farther, and he tripped again. "There is something caught -round his foot, Alessandro," said Ramona. "It keeps moving." - -Alessandro jumped off his horse, and kneeling down, exclaimed, "It's a -stake,--and the lariat fastened to it. Holy Virgin! what--" The rest of -his ejaculation was inaudible. The next Ramona knew, he had run swiftly -on, a rod or two. Baba had followed, and Capitan and the pony; and there -stood a splendid black horse, as big as Baba, and Alessandro talking -under his breath to him, and clapping both his hands over the horse's -nose, to stop him, as often as he began whinnying; and it seemed hardly -a second more before he had his saddle off the poor little Indian pony, -and striking it sharply on its sides had turned it free, had saddled -the black horse, and leaping on his back, said, with almost a sob in his -voice: "My Majella, it is Benito, my own Benito. Now the saints indeed -have helped us! Oh, the ass, the idiot, to stake out Benito with such a -stake as that! A jack rabbit had pulled it up. Now, my Majella, we will -gallop! Faster! faster! I will not breathe easy till we are out of this -cursed valley. When we are once in the Santa Margarita Canon, I know a -trail they will never find!" - -Like the wind galloped Benito,--Alessandro half lying on his back, -stroking his forehead, whispering to him, the horse snorting with joy: -which were gladder of the two, horse or man, could not be said. And -neck by neck with Benito came Baba. How the ground flew away under their -feet! This was companionship, indeed, worthy of Baba's best powers. -Not in all the California herds could be found two superber horses -than Benito and Baba. A wild, almost reckless joy took possession of -Alessandro. Ramona was half terrified as she heard him still talking, -talking to Benito. For an hour they did not draw rein. Both Benito -and Alessandro knew every inch of the ground. Then, just as they had -descended into the deepest part of the canon, Alessandro suddenly reined -sharply to the left, and began climbing the precipitous wall. "Can you -follow, dearest Majella?" he cried. - -"Do you suppose Benito can do anything that Baba cannot?" she retorted, -pressing on closely. - -But Baba did not like it. Except for the stimulus of Benito ahead, he -would have given Ramona trouble. - -"There is only a little, rough like this, dear," called Alessandro, as -he leaped a fallen tree, and halted to see how Baba took it. "Good!" he -cried, as Baba jumped it like a deer. "Good! Majella! We have got the -two best horses in the country. You'll see they are alike, when daylight -comes. I have often wondered they were so much alike. They would go -together splendidly." - -After a few rods of this steep climbing they came out on the top of -the canon's south wall, in a dense oak forest comparatively free from -underbrush. "Now," said Alessandro, "I can go from here to San Diego by -paths that no white man knows. We will be near there before daylight." - -Already the keen salt air of the ocean smote their faces. Ramona drank -it in with delight. "I taste salt in the air, Alessandro," she cried. - -"Yes, it is the sea," he said. "This canon leads straight to the sea. I -wish we could go by the shore, Majella. It is beautiful there. When it -is still, the waves come as gently to the land as if they were in play; -and you can ride along with your horse's feet in the water, and the -green cliffs almost over your head; and the air off the water is like -wine in one's head." - -"Cannot we go there?" she said longingly. "Would it not be safe?" - -"I dare not," he answered regretfully. "Not now, Majella; for on the -shore-way, at all times, there are people going and coming." - -"Some other time, Alessandro, we can come, after we are married, and -there is no danger?" she asked. - -"Yes, Majella," he replied; but as he spoke the words, he thought, "Will -a time ever come when there will be no danger?" - -The shore of the Pacific Ocean for many miles north of San Diego is a -succession of rounding promontories, walling the mouths of canons, down -many of which small streams make to the sea. These canons are green and -rich at bottom, and filled with trees, chiefly oak. Beginning as little -more than rifts in the ground, they deepen and widen, till at their -mouths they have a beautiful crescent of shining beach from an eighth to -a quarter of a mile long, The one which Alessandro hoped to reach -before morning was not a dozen miles from the old town of San Diego, and -commanded a fine view of the outer harbor. When he was last in it, he -had found it a nearly impenetrable thicket of young oak-trees. Here, he -believed, they could hide safely all day, and after nightfall ride into -San Diego, be married at the priest's house, and push on to San Pasquale -that same night. "All day, in that canon, Majella can look at the sea," -he thought; "but I will not tell her now, for it may be the trees have -been cut down, and we cannot be so close to the shore." - -It was near sunrise when they reached the place. The trees had not been -cut down. Their tops, seen from above, looked like a solid bed of moss -filling in the canon bottom. The sky and the sea were both red. As -Ramona looked down into this soft green pathway, it seemed, leading out -to the wide and sparkling sea, she thought Alessandro had brought her -into a fairy-land. - -"What a beautiful world!" she cried; and riding up so close to Benito -that she could lay her hand on Alessandro's, she said solemnly: "Do you -not think we ought to be very happy, Alessandro, in such a beautiful -world as this? Do you think we might sing our sunrise hymn here?" - -Alessandro glanced around. They were alone on the breezy open; it was -not yet full dawn; great masses of crimson vapor were floating upward -from the hills behind San Diego. The light was still burning in the -light-house on the promontory walling the inner harbor, but in a few -moments more it would be day. "No, Majella, not here." he said. "We must -not stay. As soon as the sun rises, a man or a horse may be seen on this -upper coast-line as far as eye can reach. We must be among the trees -with all the speed we can make." - -It was like a house with a high, thick roof of oak tree-tops, the -shelter they found. No sun penetrated it; a tiny trickle of water still -remained, and some grass along its rims was still green, spite of the -long drought,--a scanty meal for Baba and Benito, but they ate it with -relish in each other's company. - -"They like each other, those two," said Ramona, laughing, as she watched -them. "They will be friends." - -"Ay," said Alessandro, also smiling. "Horses are friends, like men, and -can hate each other, like men, too. Benito would never see Antonio's -mare, the little yellow one, that he did not let fly his heels at her; -and she was as afraid, at sight of him, as a cat is at a dog. Many a -time I have laughed to see it." - -"Know you the priest at San Diego?" asked Ramona. - -"Not well," replied Alessandro. "He came seldom to Temecula when I was -there; but he is a friend of Indians. I know he came with the men from -San Diego at the time when there was fighting, and the whites were in -great terror; and they said, except for Father Gaspara's words, there -would not have been a white man left alive in Pala. My father had sent -all his people away before that fight began. He knew it was coming, but -he would have nothing to do with it. He said the Indians were all crazy. -It was no use. They would only be killed themselves. That is the worst -thing, my Majella. The stupid Indians fight and kill, and then what can -we do? The white men think we are all the same. Father Gaspara has never -been to Pala, I heard, since that time. There goes there now the -San Juan Capistrano priest. He is a bad man. He takes money from the -starving poor." - -"A priest!" ejaculated Ramona, horror-stricken. - -"Ay! a priest!" replied Alessandro. "They are not all good,--not like -Father Salvierderra." - -"Oh, if we could but have gone to Father Salvierderra!" exclaimed -Ramona, involuntarily. - -Alessandro looked distressed. "It would have been much more danger, -Majella," he said, "and I had no knowledge of work I could do there." - -His look made Ramona remorseful at once. How cruel to lay one -feather-weight of additional burden on this loving man. "Oh, this is -much better, really," she said. "I did not mean what I said. It is only -because I have always loved Father Salvierderra so. And the Senora will -tell him what is not true. Could we not send him a letter, Alessandro?" - -"There is a Santa Inez Indian I know," replied Alessandro, "who comes -down with nets to sell, sometimes, to Temecula. I know not if he goes -to San Diego. If I could get speech with him, he would go up from Santa -Inez to Santa Barbara for me, I am sure; for once he lay in my father's -house, sick for many weeks, and I nursed him, and since then he is -always begging me to take a net from him, whenever he comes. It is not -two days from Santa Inez to Santa Barbara." - -"I wish it were the olden time now, Alessandro," sighed Ramona, "when -the men like Father Salvierderra had all the country. Then there would -be work for all, at the Missions. The Senora says the Missions were like -palaces, and that there were thousands of Indians in every one of them; -thousands and thousands, all working so happy and peaceful." - -"The Senora does not know all that happened at the Missions," replied -Alessandro. "My father says that at some of them were dreadful things, -when bad men had power. Never any such things at San Luis Rey. Father -Peyri was like a father to all his Indians. My father says that they -would all of them lie down in a fire for him, if he had commanded it. -And when he went away, to leave the country, when his heart was broken, -and the Mission all ruined, he had to fly by night, Majella, just as you -and I have done; for if the Indians had known it, they would have risen -up to keep him. There was a ship here in San Diego harbor, to sail for -Mexico, and the Father made up his mind to go in it; and it was over -this same road we have come, my Majella, that he rode, and by night; and -my father was the only one he trusted to know it. My father came with -him; they took the swiftest horses, and they rode all night, and my -father carried in front of him, on the horse, a box of the sacred things -of the altar, very heavy. And many a time my father has told me the -story, how they got to San Diego at daybreak, and the Father was rowed -out to the ship in a little boat; and not much more than on board was -he, my father standing like one dead on the shore, watching, he loved -him so, when, lo! he heard a great crying, and shouting, and trampling -of horses' feet, and there came galloping down to the water's edge three -hundred of the Indians from San Luis Rey, who had found out that the -Father had gone to San Diego to take ship, and they had ridden all night -on his track, to fetch him back. And when my father pointed to the ship, -and told them he was already on board, they set up a cry fit to bring -the very sky down; and some of them flung themselves into the sea, and -swam out to the ship, and cried and begged to be taken on board and go -with him. And Father Peyri stood on the deck, blessing them, and -saying farewell, with the tears running on his face; and one of the -Indians--how they never knew--made shift to climb up on the chains -and ropes, and got into the ship itself; and they let him stay, and -he sailed away with the Father. And my father said he was all his life -sorry that he himself had not thought to do the same thing; but he -was like one dumb and deaf and with no head, he was so unhappy at the -Father's going." - -"Was it here, in this very harbor?" asked Ramona, in breathless -interest, pointing out towards the blue water of which they could see a -broad belt framed by their leafy foreground arch of oak tops. - -"Ay, just there he sailed,--as that ship goes now," he exclaimed, as a -white-sailed schooner sailed swiftly by, going out to sea. "But the ship -lay at first inside the bar; you cannot see the inside harbor from here. -It is the most beautiful water I have ever seen, Majella. The two high -lands come out like two arms to hold it and keep it safe, as if they -loved it." - -"But, Alessandro," continued Ramona, "were there really bad men at the -other Missions? Surely not the Franciscan Fathers?" - -"Perhaps not the Fathers themselves, but the men under them. It was -too much power, Majella. When my father has told me how it was, it has -seemed to me I should not have liked to be as he was. It is not right -that one man should have so much power. There was one at the San Gabriel -Mission; he was an Indian. He had been set over the rest; and when a -whole band of them ran away one time, and went back into the mountains, -he went after them; and he brought back a piece of each man's ear; the -pieces were strung on a string; and he laughed, and said that was to -know them by again,--by their clipped ears. An old woman, a Gabrieleno, -who came over to Temecula, told me she saw that. She lived at the -Mission herself. The Indians did not all want to come to the Missions; -some of them preferred to stay in the woods, and live as they always -had lived; and I think they had a right to do that if they preferred, -Majella. It was stupid of them to stay and be like beasts, and not know -anything; but do you not think they had the right?" - -"It is the command to preach the gospel to every creature," replied the -pious Ramona. "That is what Father Salvierderra said was the reason -the Franciscans came here. I think they ought to have made the Indians -listen. But that was dreadful about the ears, Alessandro. Do you believe -it?" - -"The old woman laughed when she told it," he answered. "She said it was -a joke; so I think it was true. I know I would have killed the man who -tried to crop my ears that way." - -"Did you ever tell that to Father Salvierderra?" asked Ramona. - -"No, Majella. It would not be polite," said Alessandro. - -"Well, I don't believe it," replied Ramona, in a relieved tone. "I don't -believe any Franciscan ever could have permitted such things." - -The great red light in the light-house tower had again blazed out, -and had been some time burning before Alessandro thought it prudent to -resume their journey. The road on which they must go into old San Diego, -where Father Gaspara lived, was the public road from San Diego to San -Luis Rey, and they were almost sure to meet travellers on it. - -But their fleet horses bore them so well, that it was not late when they -reached the town. Father Gaspara's house was at the end of a long, low -adobe building, which had served no mean purpose in the old Presidio -days, but was now fallen into decay; and all its rooms except those -occupied by the Father, had been long uninhabited. On the opposite -side of the way, in a neglected, weedy open, stood his chapel,--a -poverty-stricken little place, its walls imperfectly whitewashed, -decorated by a few coarse pictures and by broken sconces of -looking-glass, rescued in their dilapidated condition from the -Mission buildings, now gone utterly to ruin. In these had been put -handle-holders of common tin, in which a few cheap candles dimly lighted -the room. Everything about it was in unison with the atmosphere of the -place,--the most profoundly melancholy in all Southern California. Here -was the spot where that grand old Franciscan, Padre Junipero Serra, -began his work, full of the devout and ardent purpose to reclaim the -wilderness and its peoples to his country and his Church; on this very -beach he went up and down for those first terrible weeks, nursing -the sick, praying with the dying, and burying the dead, from the -pestilence-stricken Mexican ships lying in the harbor. Here he baptized -his first Indian converts, and founded his first Mission. And the only -traces now remaining of his heroic labors and hard-won successes were a -pile of crumbling ruins, a few old olive-trees and palms; in less than -another century even these would be gone; returned into the keeping of -that mother, the earth, who puts no head-stones at the sacredest of her -graves. - -Father Gaspara had been for many years at San Diego. Although not a -Franciscan, having, indeed, no especial love for the order, he had been -from the first deeply impressed by the holy associations of the place. -He had a nature at once fiery and poetic; there were but three things he -could have been,--a soldier, a poet, or a priest. Circumstances had made -him a priest; and the fire and the poetry which would have wielded the -sword or kindled the verse, had he found himself set either to fight or -to sing, had all gathered into added force in his priestly vocation. -The look of a soldier he had never quite lost,--neither the look nor the -tread; and his flashing dark eyes, heavy black hair and beard, and -quick elastic step, seemed sometimes strangely out of harmony with his -priest's gown. And it was the sensitive soul of the poet in him which -had made him withdraw within himself more and more, year after year, as -he found himself comparatively powerless to do anything for the hundreds -of Indians that he would fain have seen gathered once more, as of old, -into the keeping of the Church. He had made frequent visits to them in -their shifting refuges, following up family after family, band after -band, that he knew; he had written bootless letter after letter to the -Government officials of one sort and another, at Washington. He had made -equally bootless efforts to win some justice, some protection for them, -from officials nearer home; he had endeavored to stir the Church itself -to greater efficiency in their behalf. Finally, weary, disheartened, -and indignant with that intense, suppressed indignation which the poetic -temperament alone can feel, he had ceased,--had said, "It is of no use; -I will speak no word; I am done; I can bear no more!" and settling down -into the routine of his parochial duties to the little Mexican and Irish -congregation of his charge in San Diego, he had abandoned all effort to -do more for the Indians than visit their chief settlements once or twice -a year, to administer the sacraments. When fresh outrages were brought -to his notice, he paced his room, plucked fiercely at his black beard, -with ejaculations, it is to be feared, savoring more of the camp than -the altar; but he made no effort to do anything. Lighting his pipe, he -would sit down on the old bench in his tile-paved veranda, and smoke -by the hour, gazing out on the placid water of the deserted harbor, -brooding, ever brooding, over the wrongs he could not redress. - -A few paces off from his door stood the just begun walls of a fine -brick church, which it had been the dream and pride of his heart to -see builded, and full of worshippers. This, too, had failed. With San -Diego's repeatedly vanishing hopes and dreams of prosperity had gone -this hope and dream of Father Gaspara's. It looked, now, as if it -would be indeed a waste of money to build a costly church on this site. -Sentiment, however sacred and loving towards the dead, must yield to -the demands of the living. To build a church on the ground where Father -Junipero first trod and labored, would be a work to which no Catholic -could be indifferent; but there were other and more pressing claims to -be met first. This was right. Yet the sight of these silent walls, only -a few feet high, was a sore one to Father Gaspara,--a daily cross, which -he did not find grow lighter as he paced up and down his veranda, year -in and year out, in the balmy winter and cool summer of that magic -climate. - -"Majella, the chapel is lighted; but that is good!" exclaimed -Alessandro, as they rode into the silent plaza. "Father Gaspara must -be there;" and jumping off his horse, he peered in at the uncurtained -window. "A marriage, Majella,--a marriage!" he cried, hastily returning. -"This, too, is good fortune. We need not to wait long." - -When the sacristan whispered to Father Gaspara that an Indian couple had -just come in, wishing to be married, the Father frowned. His supper was -waiting; he had been out all day, over at the old Mission olive-orchard, -where he had not found things to his mind; the Indian man and wife whom -he hired to take care of the few acres the Church yet owned there had -been neglecting the Church lands and trees, to look after their own. The -Father was vexed, tired, and hungry, and the expression with which he -regarded Alessandro and Ramona, as they came towards him, was one of the -least prepossessing of which his dark face was capable. Ramona, who had -never knelt to any priest save the gentle Father Salvierderra, and who -had supposed that all priests must look, at least, friendly, was shocked -at the sight of the impatient visage confronting her. But, as his first -glance fell on Ramona, Father Gaspara's expression changed. - -"What is all this!" he thought; and as quick as he thought it, he -exclaimed, in a severe tone, looking at Ramona, "Woman, are you an -Indian?" - -"Yes, Father," answered Ramona, gently. "My mother was an Indian." - -"Ah! half-breed!" thought Father Gaspara. "It is strange how sometimes -one of the types will conquer, and sometimes another! But this is no -common creature;" and it was with a look of new interest and sympathy -on his face that he proceeded with the ceremony,--the other couple, a -middle-aged Irishman, with his more than middle-aged bride, standing -quietly by, and looking on with a vague sort of wonder in their ugly, -impassive faces, as if it struck them oddly that Indians should marry. - -The book of the marriage-records was kept in Father Gaspara's own rooms, -locked up and hidden even from his old housekeeper. He had had bitter -reason to take this precaution. It had been for more than one man's -interest to cut leaves out of this old record, which dated back to 1769, -and had many pages written full in the hand of Father Junipero himself. - -As they came out of the chapel, Father Gaspara leading the way, the -Irish couple shambling along shamefacedly apart from each other, -Alessandro, still holding Ramona's hand in his, said, "Will you ride, -dear? It is but a step." - -"No, thanks, dear Alessandro, I would rather walk," she replied; and -Alessandro slipping the bridles of the two horses over his left arm, -they walked on. Father Gaspara heard the question and answer, and was -still more puzzled. - -"He speaks as a gentleman speaks to a lady," he mused. "What does it -mean? Who are they?" - -Father Gaspara was a well-born man, and in his home in Spain had been -used to associations far superior to any which he had known in his -Californian life, A gentle courtesy of tone and speech, such as that -with which Alessandro had addressed Ramona, was not often heard in -his parish. When they entered his house, he again regarded them both -attentively. Ramona wore on her head the usual black shawl of the -Mexican women. There was nothing distinctive, to the Father's eye, in -her figure or face. In the dim light of the one candle,--Father Gaspara -allowed himself no luxuries,--the exquisite coloring of her skin and the -deep blue of her eyes were not to be seen. Alessandro's tall figure -and dignified bearing were not uncommon. The Father had seen many as -fine-looking Indian men. But his voice was remarkable, and he spoke -better Spanish than was wont to be heard from Indians. - -"Where are you from?" said the Father, as he held his pen poised in -hand, ready to write their names in the old raw-hide-bound book. - -"Temecula, Father," replied Alessandro. - -Father Gaspara dropped his pen. "The village the Americans drove out the -other day?" he cried. - -"Yes, Father." - -Father Gaspara sprang from his chair, took refuge from his excitement, -as usual, in pacing the floor. "Go! go! I'm done with you! It's all -over," he said fiercely to the Irish bride and groom, who had given him -their names and their fee, but were still hanging about irresolute, not -knowing if all were ended or not. "A burning shame! The most dastardly -thing I have seen yet in this land forsaken of God!" cried the Father. -"I saw the particulars of it in the San Diego paper yesterday." Then, -coming to a halt in front of Alessandro, he exclaimed: "The paper said -that the Indians were compelled to pay all the costs of the suit; that -the sheriff took their cattle to do it. Was that true?" - -"Yes, Father," replied Alessandro. - -The Father strode up and down again, plucking at his beard. "What are -you going to do?" he said. "Where have you all gone? There were two -hundred in your village the last time I was there." - -"Some have gone over into Pachanga," replied Alessandro, "some to San -Pasquale, and the rest to San Bernardino." - -"Body of Jesus! man! But you take it with philosophy!" stormed Father -Gaspara. - -Alessandro did not understand the word "philosophy," but he knew what -the Father meant. "Yes, Father," he said doggedly. "It is now twenty-one -days ago. I was not so at first. There is nothing to be done." - -Ramona held tight to Alessandro's hand. She was afraid of this fierce, -black-bearded priest, who dashed back and forth, pouring out angry -invectives. - -"The United States Government will suffer for it!" he continued. "It is -a Government of thieves and robbers! God will punish them. You will see; -they will be visited with a curse,--a curse in their borders; their sons -and their daughters shall be desolate! But why do I prate in these vain -words? My son, tell me your names again;" and he seated himself once -more at the table where the ancient marriage-record lay open. - -After writing Alessandro's name, he turned to Ramona. "And the woman's?" -he said. - -Alessandro looked at Ramona. In the chapel he had said simply, -"Majella." What name should he give more? - -Without a second's hesitation, Ramona answered, "Majella. Majella Phail -is my name." - -She pronounced the word "Phail," slowly. It was new to her. She had -never seen it written; as it lingered on her lips, the Father, to -whom also it was a new word, misunderstood it, took it to be in two -syllables, and so wrote it. - -The last step was taken in the disappearance of Ramona. How should any -one, searching in after years, find any trace of Ramona Ortegna, in the -woman married under the name of "Majella Fayeel"? - -"No, no! Put up your money, son," said Father Gaspara, as Alessandro -began to undo the knots of the handkerchief in which his gold was tied. -"Put up your money. I'll take no money from a Temecula Indian. I would -the Church had money to give you. Where are you going now?" - -"To San Pasquale, Father." - -"Ah! San Pasquale! The head man there has the old pueblo paper," said -Father Gaspara. "He was showing it to me the other day. That will, it -may be, save you there. But do not trust to it, son. Buy yourself a -piece of land as the white man buys his. Trust to nothing." - -Alessandro looked anxiously in the Father's face. "How is that, Father?" -he said. "I do not know." - -"Well, their rules be thick as the crabs here on the beach," replied -Father Gaspara; "and, faith, they appear to me to be backwards of motion -also, like the crabs: but the lawyers understand. When you have picked -out your land, and have the money, come to me, and I will go with you -and see that you are not cheated in the buying, so far as I can tell; -but I myself am at my wit's ends with their devices. Farewell, son! -Farewell, daughter!" he said, rising from his chair. Hunger was again -getting the better of sympathy in Father Gaspara, and as he sat down -to his long-deferred supper, the Indian couple faded from his mind; but -after supper was over, as he sat smoking his pipe on the veranda, they -returned again, and lingered in his thoughts,--lingered strangely, it -seemed to him; he could not shake off the impression that there was -something unusual about the woman. "I shall hear of them again, some -day," he thought. And he thought rightly. - - - - -XIX - -AFTER leaving Father Gaspara's door, Alessandro and Ramona rode slowly -through the now deserted plaza, and turned northward, on the river road, -leaving the old Presidio walls on their right. The river was low, and -they forded it without difficulty. - -"I have seen this river so high that there was no fording it for many -days," said Alessandro; "but that was in spring." - -"Then it is well we came not at that time," said Ramona, "All the times -have fallen out well for us, Alessandro,--the dark nights, and the -streams low; but look! as I say it, there comes the moon!" and she -pointed to the fine threadlike arc of the new moon, just visible in the -sky. "Not big enough to do us any harm, however," she added. "But, dear -Alessandro, do you not think we are safe now?" - -"I know not, Majella, if ever we may be safe; but I hope so. I have been -all day thinking I had gone foolish last night, when I told Mrs. Hartsel -that I was on my way to San Pasquale. But if men should come there -asking for us, she would understand, I think, and keep a still tongue. -She would keep harm from us if she could." - -Their way from San Diego to San Pasquale lay at first along a high mesa, -or table-land, covered with low shrub growths; after some ten or twelve -miles of this, they descended among winding ridges, into a narrow -valley,--the Poway valley. It was here that the Mexicans made one of -their few abortive efforts to repel the American forces. - -"Here were some Americans killed, in a fight with the Mexicans, -Majella," said Alessandro. "I myself have a dozen bullets which I picked -up in the ground about here. Many a time I have looked at them and -thought if there should come another war against the Americans, I -would fire them again, if I could. Does Senor Felipe think there is -any likelihood that his people will rise against them any more? If they -would, they would have all the Indians to help them, now. It would be a -mercy if they might be driven out of the land, Majella." - -"Yes," sighed Majella. "But there is no hope. I have heard the Senora -speak of it with Felipe. There is no hope. They have power, and great -riches, she said. Money is all that they think of. To get money, they -will commit any crime, even murder. Every day there comes the news of -their murdering each other for gold. Mexicans kill each other only for -hate, Alessandro,--for hate, or in anger; never for gold." - -"Indians, also," replied Alessandro. "Never one Indian killed another, -yet, for money. It is for vengeance, always. For money! Bah! Majella, -they are dogs!" - -Rarely did Alessandro speak with such vehemence; but this last outrage -on his people had kindled in his veins a fire of scorn and hatred -which would never die out. Trust in an American was henceforth to him -impossible. The name was a synonym for fraud and cruelty. - -"They cannot all be so bad, I think, Alessandro," said Ramona. "There -must be some that are honest; do you not think so?" - -"Where are they, then," he cried fiercely,--"the ones who are good? -Among my people there are always some that are bad; but they are in -disgrace. My father punished them, the whole people punished them. If -there are Americans who are good, who will not cheat and kill, why do -they not send after these robbers and punish them? And how is it that -they make laws which cheat? It was the American law which took Temecula -away from us, and gave it to those men! The law was on the side of the -thieves. No, Majella, it is a people that steals! That is their name,--a -people that steals, and that kills for money. Is not that a good name -for a great people to bear, when they are like the sands in the sea, -they are so many?" - -"That is what the Senora says," answered Ramona. "She says they are all -thieves; that she knows not, each day, but that on the next will come -more of them, with new laws, to take away more of her land. She had once -more than twice what she has now, Alessandro." - -"Yes," he replied; "I know it. My father has told me. He was with Father -Peyri at the place, when General Moreno was alive. Then all was his to -the sea,--all that land we rode over the second night, Majella." - -"Yes," she said, "all to the sea! That is what the Senora is ever -saying: 'To the sea!' Oh, the beautiful sea! Can we behold it from San -Pasquale, Alessandro?" - -"No, my Majella, it is too far. San Pasquale is in the valley; it has -hills all around it like walls. But it is good. Majella will love it; -and I will build a house, Majella. All the people will help me. That is -the way with our people. In two days it will be done. But it will be a -poor place for my Majella," he said sadly. Alessandro's heart was ill at -ease. Truly a strange bride's journey was this; but Ramona felt no fear. - -"No place can be so poor that I do not choose it, if you are there, -rather than the most beautiful place in the world where you are not, -Alessandro," she said. - -"But my Majella loves things that are beautiful," said Alessandro. "She -has lived like a queen." - -"Oh, Alessandro," merrily laughed Ramona, "how little you know of -the way queens live! Nothing was fine at the Senora Moreno's, only -comfortable; and any house you will build, I can make as comfortable -as that was; it is nothing but trouble to have one so large as the -Senora's. Margarita used to be tired to death, sweeping all those -rooms in which nobody lived except the blessed old San Luis Rey saints. -Alessandro, if we could have had just one statue, either Saint Francis -or the Madonna, to bring back to our house! That is what I would like -better than all other things in the world. It is beautiful to sleep with -the Madonna close to your bed. She speaks often to you in dreams." - -Alessandro fixed serious, questioning eyes on Ramona as she uttered -these words. When she spoke like this, he felt indeed as if a being of -some other sphere had come to dwell by his side. "I cannot find how to -feel towards the saints as you do, my Majella," he said. "I am afraid of -them. It must be because they love you, and do not love us. That is what -I believe, Majella. I believe they are displeased with us, and no longer -make mention of us in heaven. That is what the Fathers taught that the -saints were ever doing,--praying to God for us, and to the Virgin and -Jesus. It is not possible, you see, that they could have been praying -for us, and yet such things have happened, as happened in Temecula. I do -not know how it is my people have displeased them." - -"I think Father Salvierderra would say that it is a sin to be afraid of -the saints, Alessandro," replied Ramona, earnestly. "He has often told -me that it was a sin to be unhappy; and that withheld me many times from -being wretched because the Senora would not love me. And, Alessandro," -she went on, growing more and more fervent in tone, "even if nothing but -misfortune comes to people, that does not prove that the saints do not -love them; for when the saints were on earth themselves, look what they -suffered: martyrs they were, almost all of them. Look at what holy -Saint Catharine endured, and the blessed Saint Agnes. It is not by what -happens to us here in this world that we can tell if the saints love us, -or if we will see the Blessed Virgin." - -"How can we tell, then?" he asked. - -"By what we feel in our hearts, Alessandro," she replied; "just as I -knew all the time, when you did not come,--I knew that you loved me. -I knew that in my heart; and I shall always know it, no matter what -happens. If you are dead, I shall know that you love me. And you,--you -will know that I love you, the same." - -"Yes," said Alessandro, reflectively, "that is true. But, Majella, it is -not possible to have the same thoughts about a saint as about a person -that one has seen, and heard the voice, and touched the hand." - -"No, not quite," said Ramona; "not quite, about a saint; but one can -for the Blessed Virgin, Alessandro! I am sure of that. Her statue, in my -room at the Senora's, has been always my mother. Ever since I was little -I have told her all I did. It was she helped me to plan what I should -bring away with us. She reminded me of many things I had forgotten, -except for her." - -"Did you hear her speak?" said Alessandro, awe-stricken. - -"Not exactly in words; but just the same as in words," replied Ramona, -confidently. "You see when you sleep in the room with her, it is very -different from what it is if you only see her in a chapel. Oh, I could -never be very unhappy with her in my room!" - -"I would almost go and steal it for you, Majella," cried Alessandro, -with sacrilegious warmth. - -"Holy Virgin!" cried Ramona, "never speak such a word. You would be -struck dead if you laid your hand on her! I fear even the thought was a -sin." - -"There was a small figure of her in the wall of our house," said -Alessandro. "It was from San Luis Rey. I do not know what became of -it,--if it were left behind, or if they took it with my father's things -to Pachanga. I did not see it there. When I go again, I will look." - -"Again!" cried Ramona. "What say you? You go again to Pachanga? You will -not leave me, Alessandro?" - -At the bare mention of Alessandro's leaving her, Ramona's courage always -vanished. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, she was transformed -from the dauntless, confident, sunny woman, who bore him up as it were -on wings of hope and faith, to a timid, shrinking, despondent child, -crying out in alarm, and clinging to the hand. - -"After a time, dear Majella, when you are wonted to the place, I must -go, to fetch the wagon and the few things that were ours. There is the -raw-hide bed which was Father Peyri's, and he gave to my father. Majella -will like to lie on that. My father believed it had great virtue." - -"Like that you made for Felipe?" she asked. - -"Yes; but it is not so large. In those days the cattle were not so -large as they are now: this is not so broad as Senor Felipe's. There -are chairs, too, from the Mission, three of them, one almost as fine -as those on your veranda at home. They were given to my father. And -music-books,--beautiful parchment books! Oh, I hope those are not lost, -Majella! If Jose had lived, he would have looked after it all. But in -the confusion, all the things belonging to the village were thrown into -wagons together, and no one knew where anything was. But all the people -knew my father's chairs and the books of the music. If the Americans did -not steal them, everything will be safe. My people do not steal. -There was never but one thief in our village, and my father had him so -whipped, he ran away and never came back. I heard he was living in San -Jacinto, and was a thief yet, spite of all that whipping he had. I think -if it is in the blood to be a thief, not even whipping will take it out, -Majella." - -"Like the Americans," she said, half laughing, but with tears in the -voice. "Whipping would not cure them." - -It wanted yet more than an hour of dawn when they reached the crest of -the hill from which they looked down on the San Pasquale valley. Two -such crests and valleys they had passed; this was the broadest of the -three valleys, and the hills walling it were softer and rounder of -contour than any they had yet seen. To the east and northeast lay ranges -of high mountains, their tops lost in the clouds. The whole sky was -overcast and gray. - -"If it were spring, this would mean rain," said Alessandro; "but it -cannot rain, I think, now." - -"No!" laughed Ramona, "not till we get our house done. Will it be of -adobe, Alessandro?" - -"Dearest Majella, not yet! At first it must be of the tule. They are -very comfortable while it is warm, and before winter I will build one of -adobe." - -"Two houses! Wasteful Alessandro! If the tule house is good, I shall not -let you, Alessandro, build another." - -Ramona's mirthful moments bewildered Alessandro. To his slower -temperament and saddened nature they seemed preternatural; as if she -were all of a sudden changed into a bird, or some gay creature outside -the pale of human life,--outside and above it. - -"You speak as the birds sing, my Majella," he said slowly. "It was well -to name you Majel; only the wood-dove has not joy in her voice, as you -have. She says only that she loves and waits." - -"I say that, too, Alessandro!" replied Ramona, reaching out both her -arms towards him. - -The horses were walking slowly, and very close side by side. Baba and -Benito were now such friends they liked to pace closely side by side; -and Baba and Benito were by no means without instinctive recognitions of -the sympathy between their riders. Already Benito knew Ramona's voice, -and answered it with pleasure; and Baba had long ago learned to stop -when his mistress laid her hand on Alessandro's shoulder. He stopped -now, and it was long minutes before he had the signal to go on again. - -"Majella! Majella!" cried Alessandro, as, grasping both her hands in -his, he held them to his cheeks, to his neck, to his mouth, "if the -saints would ask Alessandro to be a martyr for Majella's sake, like -those she was telling of, then she would know if Alessandro loved her! -But what can Alessandro do now? What, oh, what? Majella gives all; -Alessandro gives nothing!" and he bowed his forehead on her hands, -before he put them back gently on Baba's neck. - -Tears filled Ramona's eyes. How should she win this saddened man, this -distrusting lover, to the joy which was his desert? "Alessandro can -do one thing," she said, insensibly falling into his mode of -speaking,--"one thing for his Majella: never, never say that he has -nothing to give her. When he says that, he makes Majella a liar; for -she has said that he is all the world to her,--he himself all the world -which she desires. Is Majella a liar?" - -But it was even now with an ecstasy only half joy, the other half -anguish, that Alessandro replied: "Majella cannot lie. Majella is like -the saints. Alessandro is hers." - -When they rode down into the valley, the whole village was astir. The -vintage-time had nearly passed; everywhere were to be seen large, flat -baskets of grapes drying in the sun. Old women and children were turning -these, or pounding acorns in the deep stone bowls; others were beating -the yucca-stalks, and putting them to soak in water; the oldest women -were sitting on the ground, weaving baskets. There were not many men in -the village now; two large bands were away at work,--one at the autumn -sheep-shearing, and one working on a large irrigating ditch at San -Bernardino. - -In different directions from the village slow-moving herds of goats or -of cattle could be seen, being driven to pasture on the hills; some men -were ploughing; several groups were at work building houses of bundles -of the tule reeds. - -"These are some of the Temecula people," said Alessandro; "they -are building themselves new houses here. See those piles of bundles -darker-colored than the rest. Those are their old roofs they brought -from Temecula. There, there comes Ysidro!" he cried joyfully, as a man, -well-mounted, who had been riding from point to point in the village, -came galloping towards them. As soon as Ysidro recognized Alessandro, he -flung himself from his horse. Alessandro did the same, and both running -swiftly towards each other till they met, they embraced silently. -Ramona, riding up, held out her hand, saying, as she did so, "Ysidro?" - -Pleased, yet surprised, at this confident and assured greeting, Ysidro -saluted her, and turning to Alessandro, said in their own tongue, "Who -is this woman whom you bring, that has heard my name?" - -"My wife!" answered Alessandro, in the same tongue. "We were married -last night by Father Gaspara. She comes from the house of the Senora -Moreno. We will live in San Pasquale, if you have land for me, as you -have said." - -What astonishment Ysidro felt, he showed none. Only a grave and -courteous welcome was in his face and in his words as he said, "It -is well. There is room. You are welcome." But when he heard the soft -Spanish syllables in which Ramona spoke to Alessandro, and Alessandro, -translating her words to him, said, "Majel speaks only in the Spanish -tongue, but she will learn ours," a look of disquiet passed over his -countenance. His heart feared for Alessandro, and he said, "Is she, -then, not Indian? Whence got she the name of Majel?" - -A look of swift intelligence from Alessandro reassured him. "Indian on -the mother's side!" said Alessandro, "and she belongs in heart to our -people. She is alone, save for me. She is one blessed of the Virgin, -Ysidro. She will help us. The name Majel I have given her, for she is -like the wood-dove; and she is glad to lay her old name down forever, to -bear this new name in our tongue." - -And this was Ramona's introduction to the Indian village,--this and her -smile; perhaps the smile did most. Even the little children were not -afraid of her. The women, though shy, in the beginning, at sight of her -noble bearing, and her clothes of a kind and quality they associated -only with superiors, soon felt her friendliness, and, what was more, -saw by her every word, tone, look, that she was Alessandro's. If -Alessandro's, theirs. She was one of them. Ramona would have been -profoundly impressed and touched, could she have heard them speaking -among themselves about her; wondering how it had come about that she, -so beautiful, and nurtured in the Moreno house, of which they all knew, -should be Alessandro's loving wife. It must be, they thought in their -simplicity, that the saints had sent it as an omen of good to the Indian -people. Toward night they came, bringing in a hand-barrow the most aged -woman in the village to look at her. She wished to see the beautiful -stranger before the sun went down, they said, because she was now so old -she believed each night that before morning her time would come to die. -They also wished to hear the old woman's verdict on her. When Alessandro -saw them coming, he understood, and made haste to explain it to Ramona. -While he was yet speaking, the procession arrived, and the aged woman in -her strange litter was placed silently on the ground in front of Ramona, -who was sitting under Ysidro's great fig-tree. Those who had borne her -withdrew, and seated themselves a few paces off. Alessandro spoke -first. In a few words he told the old woman of Ramona's birth, of their -marriage, and of her new name of adoption; then he said, "Take her hand, -dear Majella, if you feel no fear." - -There was something scarcely human in the shrivelled arm and hand -outstretched in greeting; but Ramona took it in hers with tender -reverence: "Say to her for me, Alessandro," she said, "that I bow down -to her great age with reverence, and that I hope, if it is the will of -God that I live on the earth so long as she has, I may be worthy of such -reverence as these people all feel for her." - -Alessandro turned a grateful look on Ramona as he translated this -speech, so in unison with Indian modes of thought and feeling. A murmur -of pleasure rose from the group of women sitting by. The aged woman made -no reply; her eyes still studied Ramona's face, and she still held her -hand. - -"Tell her," continued Ramona, "that I ask if there is anything I can do -for her. Say I will be her daughter if she will let me." - -"It must be the Virgin herself that is teaching Majella what to say," -thought Alessandro, as he repeated this in the San Luiseno tongue. - -Again the women murmured pleasure, but the old woman spoke not. "And say -that you will be her son," added Ramona. - -Alessandro said it. It was perhaps for this that the old woman had -waited. Lifting up her arm, like a sibyl, she said: "It is well; I am -your mother. The winds of the valley shall love you, and the grass shall -dance when you come. The daughter looks on her mother's face each day. I -will go;" and making a sign to her bearers, she was lifted, and carried -to her house. - -The scene affected Ramona deeply. The simplest acts of these people -seemed to her marvellously profound in their meanings. She was not -herself sufficiently educated or versed in life to know why she was so -moved,--to know that such utterances, such symbolisms as these, among -primitive peoples, are thus impressive because they are truly and -grandly dramatic; but she was none the less stirred by them, because she -could not analyze or explain them. - -"I will go and see her every day," she said; "she shall be like my -mother, whom I never saw." - -"We must both go each day," said Alessandro. "What we have said is a -solemn promise among my people; it would not be possible to break it." - -Ysidro's home was in the centre of the village, on a slightly rising -ground; it was a picturesque group of four small houses, three of tule -reeds and one of adobe,--the latter a comfortable little house of two -rooms, with a floor and a shingled roof, both luxuries in San Pasquale. -The great fig-tree, whose luxuriance and size were noted far and near -throughout the country, stood half-way down the slope; but its boughs -shaded all three of the tule houses. On one of its lower branches was -fastened a dove-cote, ingeniously made of willow wands, plastered with -adobe, and containing so many rooms that the whole tree seemed sometimes -a-flutter with doves and dovelings. Here and there, between the houses, -were huge baskets, larger than barrels, woven of twigs, as the eagle -weaves its nest, only tighter and thicker. These were the outdoor -granaries; in these were kept acorns, barley, wheat, and corn. Ramona -thought them, as well she might, the prettiest things she ever saw. - -"Are they hard to make?" she asked. "Can you make them, Alessandro? I -shall want many." - -"All you want, my Majella," replied Alessandro. "We will go together to -get the twigs; I can, I dare say, buy some in the village. It is only -two days to make a large one." - -"No. Do not buy one," she exclaimed. "I wish everything in our house -to be made by ourselves." In which, again, Ramona was unconsciously -striking one of the keynotes of pleasure in the primitive harmonies of -existence. - -The tule house which stood nearest to the dove-cote was, by a lucky -chance, now empty. Ysidro's brother Ramon, who had occupied it, having -gone with his wife and baby to San Bernardino, for the winter, to work; -this house Ysidro was but too happy to give to Alessandro till his own -should be done. It was a tiny place, though it was really two houses -joined together by a roofed passage-way. In this passage-way the tidy -Juana, Ramon's wife, kept her few pots and pans, and a small stove. -It looked to Ramona like a baby-house. Timidly Alessandro said: "Can -Majella live in this small place for a time? It will not be very long; -there are adobes already made." - -His countenance cleared as Ramona replied gleefully, "I think it will be -very comfortable, and I shall feel as if we were all doves together in -the dove-cote!" - -"Majel!" exclaimed Alessandro; and that was all he said. - -Only a few rods off stood the little chapel; in front of it swung on -a cross-bar from two slanting posts an old bronze bell which had once -belonged to the San Diego Mission. When Ramona read the date, "1790," on -its side, and heard that it was from the San Diego Mission church it had -come, she felt a sense of protection in its presence. - -"Think, Alessandro," she said; "this bell, no doubt, has rung many times -for the mass for the holy Father Junipero himself. It is a blessing to -the village. I want to live where I can see it all the time. It will be -like a saint's statue in the house." - -With every allusion that Ramona made to the saints' statues, -Alessandro's desire to procure one for her deepened. He said nothing; -but he revolved it in his mind continually. He had once gone with his -shearers to San Fernando, and there he had seen in a room of the old -Mission buildings a dozen statues of saints huddled in dusty confusion. -The San Fernando church was in crumbled ruins, and such of the church -properties as were left there were in the keeping of a Mexican not -over-careful, and not in the least devout. It would not trouble him to -part with a saint or two, Alessandro thought, and no irreverence to -the saint either; on the contrary, the greatest of reverence, since -the statue was to be taken from a place where no one cared for it, and -brought into one where it would be tenderly cherished, and worshipped -every day. If only San Fernando were not so far away, and the wooden -saints so heavy! However, it should come about yet. Majella should -have a saint; nor distance nor difficulty should keep Alessandro from -procuring for his Majel the few things that lay within his power. But he -held his peace about it. It would be a sweeter gift, if she did not know -it beforehand. He pleased himself as subtly and secretly as if he had -come of civilized generations, thinking how her eyes would dilate, if -she waked up some morning and saw the saint by her bedside; and how sure -she would be to think, at first, it was a miracle,--his dear, devout -Majella, who, with all her superior knowledge, was yet more credulous -than he. All her education had not taught her to think, as he, untaught, -had learned, in his solitude with nature. - -Before Alessandro had been two days in San Pasquale, he had heard of a -piece of good-fortune which almost passed his belief, and which startled -him for once out of his usual impassive demeanor. - -"You know I have a herd of cattle of your father's, and near a hundred -sheep?" said Ysidro. - -"Holy Virgin!" cried Alessandro, "you do not mean that! How is that? -They told me all our stock was taken by the Americans." - -"Yes, so it was, all that was in Temecula," replied Ysidro; "but in the -spring your father sent down to know if I would take a herd for him up -into the mountains, with ours, as he feared the Temecula pasture would -fall short, and the people there, who could not leave, must have their -cattle near home; so he sent a herd over,--I think, near fifty head; -and many of the cows have calved; and he sent, also, a little flock of -sheep,--a hundred, Ramon said; he herded them with ours all summer, and -he left a man up there with them. They will be down next week. It is -time they were sheared." - -Before he had finished speaking, Alessandro had vanished, bounding like -a deer. Ysidro stared after him; but seeing him enter the doorway of the -little tule hut, he understood, and a sad smile passed over his face. He -was not yet persuaded that this marriage of Alessandro's would turn out -a blessing. "What are a handful of sheep to her!" he thought. - -Breathless, panting, Alessandro burst into Ramona's presence. "Majella! -my Majella! There are cattle--and sheep," he cried. "The saints be -praised! We are not like the beggars, as I said." - -"I told you that God would give us food, dear Alessandro," replied -Ramona, gently. - -"You do not wonder! You do not ask!" he cried, astonished at her calm. -"Does Majella think that a sheep or a steer can come down from the -skies?" - -"Nay, not as our eyes would see," she answered; "but the holy ones who -live in the skies can do anything they like on the earth. Whence came -these cattle, and how are they ours?" - -When he told her, her face grew solemn. "Do you remember that night in -the willows," she said, "when I was like one dying, because you would -not bring me with you? You had no faith that there would be food. And -I told you then that the saints never forsook those who loved them, and -that God would give food. And even at that moment, when you did not know -it, there were your cattle and your sheep feeding in the mountains, -in the keeping of God! Will my Alessandro believe after this?" and she -threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. - -"It is true," said Alessandro. "I will believe, after this, that the -saints love my Majella." - -But as he walked at a slower pace back to Ysidro, he said to himself: -"Majella did not see Temecula. What would she have said about the -saints, if she had seen that, and seen the people dying for want of -food? It is only for her that the saints pray. They are displeased with -my people." - - - - -XX - -ONE year, and a half of another year, had passed. Sheep-shearings and -vintages had been in San Pasquale; and Alessandro's new house, having -been beaten on by the heavy spring rains, looked no longer new. It stood -on the south side of the valley,--too far, Ramona felt, from the blessed -bell; but there had not been land enough for wheat-fields any nearer, -and she could see the chapel, and the posts, and, on a clear day, the -bell itself. The house was small. "Small to hold so much joy," she said, -when Alessandro first led her to it, and said, deprecatingly, "It is -small, Majella,--too small;" and he recollected bitterly, as he spoke, -the size of Ramona's own room at the Senora's house. "Too small," he -repeated. - -"Very small to hold so much joy, my Alessandro," she laughed; "but quite -large enough to hold two persons." - -It looked like a palace to the San Pasquale people, after Ramona had -arranged their little possessions in it; and she herself felt rich as -she looked around her two small rooms. The old San Luis Rey chairs -and the raw-hide bedstead were there, and, most precious of all, the -statuette of the Madonna. For this Alessandro had built a niche in the -wall, between the head of the bed and the one window. The niche was deep -enough to hold small pots in front of the statuette; and Ramona kept -constantly growing there wild-cucumber plants, which wreathed and -re-wreathed the niche till it looked like a bower. Below it hung her -gold rosary and the ivory Christ; and many a woman of the village, when -she came to see Ramona, asked permission to go into the bedroom and say -her prayers there; so that it finally came to be a sort of shrine for -the whole village. - -A broad veranda, as broad as the Senora's, ran across the front of the -little house. This was the only thing for which Ramona had asked. She -could not quite fancy life without a veranda, and linnets in the thatch. -But the linnets had not yet come. In vain Ramona strewed food for them, -and laid little trains of crumbs to lure them inside the posts; they -would not build nests inside. It was not their way in San Pasquale. They -lived in the canons, but this part of the valley was too bare of trees -for them. "In a year or two more, when we have orchards, they will -come," Alessandro said. - -With the money from that first sheep-shearing, and from the sale of part -of his cattle, Alessandro had bought all he needed in the way of farming -implements,--a good wagon and harnesses, and a plough. Baba and Benito, -at first restive and indignant, soon made up their minds to work. Ramona -had talked to Baba about it as she would have talked to a brother. In -fact, except for Ramona's help, it would have been a question whether -even Alessandro could have made Baba work in harness. "Good Baba!" -Ramona said, as she slipped piece after piece of the harness over his -neck,--"Good Baba, you must help us; we have so much work to do, and -you are so strong! Good Baba, do you love me?" and with one hand in his -mane, and her cheek, every few steps, laid close to his, she led Baba up -and down the first furrows he ploughed. - -"My Senorita!" thought Alessandro to himself, half in pain, half in -pride, as, running behind with the unevenly jerked plough, he watched -her laughing face and blowing hair,--"my Senorita!" - -But Ramona would not run with her hand in Baba's mane this winter. There -was a new work for her, indoors. In a rustic cradle, which Alessandro -had made, under her directions, of the woven twigs, like the great -outdoor acorn-granaries, only closer woven, and of an oval shape, and -lifted from the floor by four uprights of red manzanita stems,--in -this cradle, on soft white wool fleeces, covered with white homespun -blankets, lay Ramona's baby, six months old, lusty, strong, and -beautiful, as only children born of great love and under healthful -conditions can be. This child was a girl, to Alessandro's delight; to -Ramona's regret,--so far as a loving mother can feel regret connected -with her firstborn. Ramona had wished for an Alessandro; but the -disappointed wish faded out of her thoughts, hour by hour, as she gazed -into her baby-girl's blue eyes,--eyes so blue that their color was the -first thing noticed by each person who looked at her. - -"Eyes of the sky," exclaimed Ysidro, when he first saw her. - -"Like the mother's," said Alessandro; on which Ysidro turned an -astonished look upon Ramona, and saw for the first time that her eyes, -too, were blue. - -"Wonderful!" he said. "It is so. I never saw it;" and he wondered in his -heart what father it had been, who had given eyes like those to one born -of an Indian mother. - -"Eyes of the sky," became at once the baby's name in the village; and -Alessandro and Ramona, before they knew it, had fallen into the way of -so calling her. But when it came to the christening, they demurred. The -news was brought to the village, one Saturday, that Father Gaspara would -hold services in the valley the next day, and that he wished all the -new-born babes to be brought for christening. Late into the night, -Alessandro and Ramona sat by their sleeping baby and discussed what -should be her name. Ramona wondered that Alessandro did not wish to name -her Majella. - -"No! Never but one Majella," he said, in a tone which gave Ramona a -sense of vague fear, it was so solemn. - -They discussed "Ramona," "Isabella." Alessandro suggested Carmena. This -had been his mother's name. - -At the mention of it Ramona shuddered, recollecting the scene in -the Temecula graveyard. "Oh, no, no! Not that!" she cried. "It is -ill-fated;" and Alessandro blamed himself for having forgotten her only -association with the name. - -At last Alessandro said: "The people have named her, I think, Majella. -Whatever name we give her in the chapel, she will never be called -anything but 'Eyes of the Sky,' in the village." - -"Let that name be her true one, then," said Ramona. And so it was -settled; and when Father Gaspara took the little one in his arms, -and made the sign of the cross on her brow, he pronounced with some -difficulty the syllables of the Indian name, which meant "Blue Eyes," or -"Eyes of the Sky." - -Heretofore, when Father Gaspara had come to San Pasquale to say mass, he -had slept at Lomax's, the store and post-office, six miles away, in the -Bernardo valley. But Ysidro, with great pride, had this time ridden to -meet him, to say that his cousin Alessandro, who had come to live in the -valley, and had a good new adobe house, begged that the Father would do -him the honor to stay with him. - -"And indeed, Father," added Ysidro, "you will be far better lodged and -fed than in the house of Lomax. My cousin's wife knows well how all -should be done." - -"Alessandro! Alessandro!" said the Father, musingly. "Has he been long -married?" - -"No, Father," answered Ysidro. "But little more than two years. They -were married by you, on their way from Temecula here." - -"Ay, ay. I remember," said Father Gaspara. "I will come;" and it was -with no small interest that he looked forward to meeting again the -couple that had so strongly impressed him. - -Ramona was full of eager interest in her preparations for entertaining -the priest. This was like the olden time; and as she busied herself with -her cooking and other arrangements, the thought of Father Salvierderra -was much in her mind. She could, perhaps, hear news of him from Father -Gaspara. It was she who had suggested the idea to Alessandro; and when -he said, "But where will you sleep yourself, with the child, Majella, -if we give our room to the Father? I can lie on the floor outside; but -you?"--"I will go to Ysidro's, and sleep with Juana," she replied. "For -two nights, it is no matter; and it is such shame to have the Father -sleep in the house of an American, when we have a good bed like this!" - -Seldom in his life had Alessandro experienced such a sense of -gratification as he did when he led Father Gaspara into his and Ramona's -bedroom. The clean whitewashed walls, the bed neatly made, with broad -lace on sheets and pillows, hung with curtains and a canopy of bright -red calico, the old carved chairs, the Madonna shrine in its bower of -green leaves, the shelves on the walls, the white-curtained window,--all -made up a picture such as Father Gaspara had never before seen in -his pilgrimages among the Indian villages. He could not restrain an -ejaculation of surprise. Then his eye falling on the golden rosary, he -exclaimed, "Where got you that?" - -"It is my wife's," replied Alessandro, proudly. "It was given to her by -Father Salvierderra." - -"Ah!" said the Father. "He died the other day." - -"Dead! Father Salvierderra dead!" cried Alessandro. "That will be a -terrible blow. Oh, Father, I implore you not to speak of it in her -presence. She must not know it till after the christening. It will make -her heart heavy, so that she will have no joy." - -Father Gaspara was still scrutinizing the rosary and crucifix. "To be -sure, to be sure," he said absently; "I will say nothing of it; but this -is a work of art, this crucifix; do you know what you have here? And -this,--is this not an altar-cloth?" he added, lifting up the beautiful -wrought altar-cloth, which Ramona, in honor of his coming, had pinned on -the wall below the Madonna's shrine. - -"Yes, Father, it was made for that. My wife made it. It was to be a -present to Father Salvierderra; but she has not seen him, to give it to -him. It will take the light out of the sun for her, when first she hears -that he is dead." - -Father Gaspara was about to ask another question, when Ramona appeared -in the doorway, flushed with running. She had carried the baby over to -Juana's and left her there, that she might be free to serve the Father's -supper. - -"I pray you tell her not," said Alessandro, under his breath; but it -was too late. Seeing the Father with her rosary in his hand, Ramona -exclaimed:-- - -"That, Father, is my most sacred possession. It once belonged to Father -Peyri, of San Luis Rey, and he gave it to Father Salvierderra, who gave -it to me, Know you Father Salvierderra? I was hoping to hear news of him -through you." - -"Yes, I knew him,--not very well; it is long since I saw him," stammered -Father Gaspara. His hesitancy alone would not have told Ramona -the truth; she would have set that down to the secular priest's -indifference, or hostility, to the Franciscan order; but looking at -Alessandro, she saw terror and sadness on his face. No shadow there -ever escaped her eye. "What is it, Alessandro?" she exclaimed. "Is it -something about Father Salvierderra? Is he ill?" - -Alessandro shook his head. He did not know what to say. Looking from -one to the other, seeing the confused pain in both their faces, Ramona, -laying both her hands on her breast, in the expressive gesture she had -learned from the Indian women, cried out in a piteous tone: "You will -not tell me! You do not speak! Then he is dead!" and she sank on her -knees. - -"Yes, my daughter, he is dead," said Father Gaspara, more tenderly than -that brusque and warlike priest often spoke. "He died a month ago, at -Santa Barbara. I am grieved to have brought you tidings to give you -such sorrow. But you must not mourn for him. He was very feeble, and he -longed to die, I heard. He could no longer work, and he did not wish to -live." - -Ramona had buried her face in her hands. The Father's words were only -a confused sound in her ears. She had heard nothing after the words, "a -month ago." She remained silent and motionless for some moments; then -rising, without speaking a word, or looking at either of the men, she -crossed the room and knelt down before the Madonna. By a common impulse, -both Alessandro and Father Gaspara silently left the room. As they stood -together outside the door, the Father said, "I would go back to Lomax's -if it were not so late. I like not to be here when your wife is in such -grief." - -"That would but be another grief, Father," said Alessandro. "She has -been full of happiness in making ready for you. She is very strong of -soul. It is she who makes me strong often, and not I who give strength -to her." - -"My faith, but the man is right," thought Father Gaspara, a half-hour -later, when, with a calm face, Ramona summoned them to supper. He did -not know, as Alessandro did, how that face had changed in the half-hour. -It wore a look Alessandro had never seen upon it. Almost he dreaded to -speak to her. - -When he walked by her side, later in the evening, as she went across the -valley to Fernando's house, he ventured to mention Father Salvierderra's -name. Ramona laid her hand on his lips. "I cannot talk about him yet, -dear," she said. "I never believed that he would die without giving us -his blessing. Do not speak of him till to-morrow is over." - -Ramona's saddened face smote on all the women's hearts as they met her -the next morning. One by one they gazed, astonished, then turned away, -and spoke softly among themselves. They all loved her, and half revered -her too, for her great kindness, and readiness to teach and to help -them. She had been like a sort of missionary in the valley ever since -she came, and no one had ever seen her face without a smile. Now she -smiled not. Yet there was the beautiful baby in its white dress, ready -to be christened; and the sun shone, and the bell had been ringing -for half an hour, and from every corner of the valley the people were -gathering, and Father Gaspara, in his gold and green cassock, was -praying before the altar; it was a joyous day in San Pasquale. Why did -Alessandro and Ramona kneel apart in a corner, with such heart-stricken -countenances, not even looking glad when their baby laughed, and reached -up her hands? Gradually it was whispered about what had happened. Some -one had got it from Antonio, of Temecula, Alessandro's friend. Then -all the women's faces grew sad too. They all had heard of Father -Salvierderra, and many of them had prayed to the ivory Christ in -Ramona's room, and knew that he had given it to her. - -As Ramona passed out of the chapel, some of them came up to her, and -taking her hand in theirs, laid it on their hearts, speaking no word. -The gesture was more than any speech could have been. - -When Father Gaspara was taking leave, Ramona said, with quivering lips, -"Father, if there is anything you know of Father Salvierderra's last -hours, I would be grateful to you for telling me." - -"I heard very little," replied the Father, "except that he had been -feeble for some weeks; yet he would persist in spending most of the -night kneeling on the stone floor in the church, praying." - -"Yes," interrupted Ramona; "that he always did." - -"And the last morning," continued the Father, "the Brothers found him -there, still kneeling on the stone floor, but quite powerless to move; -and they lifted him, and carried him to his room, and there they found, -to their horror, that he had had no bed; he had lain on the stones; and -then they took him to the Superior's own room, and laid him in the bed, -and he did not speak any more, and at noon he died." - -"Thank you very much, Father," said Ramona, without lifting her eyes -from the ground; and in the same low, tremulous tone, "I am glad that I -know that he is dead." - -"Strange what a hold those Franciscans got on these Indians!" mused -Father Gaspara, as he rode down the valley. "There's none of them would -look like that if I were dead, I warrant me! There," he exclaimed, "I -meant to have asked Alessandro who this wife of his is! I don't believe -she is a Temecula Indian. Next time I come, I will find out. She's had -some schooling somewhere, that's plain. She's quite superior to the -general run of them. Next time I come, I will find out about her." - -"Next time!" In what calendar are kept the records of those next times -which never come? Long before Father Gaspara visited San Pasquale again, -Alessandro and Ramona were far away, and strangers were living in their -home. - -It seemed to Ramona in after years, as she looked back over this life, -that the news of Father Salvierderra's death was the first note of -the knell of their happiness. It was but a few days afterward, when -Alessandro came in one noon with an expression on his face that -terrified her; seating himself in a chair, he buried his face in his -hands, and would neither look up nor speak; not until Ramona was near -crying from his silence, did he utter a word. Then, looking at her with -a ghastly face, he said in a hollow voice, "It has begun!" and buried -his face again. Finally Ramona's tears wrung from him the following -story: - -Ysidro, it seemed, had the previous year rented a canon, at the head of -the valley, to one Doctor Morong. It was simply as bee-pasture that the -Doctor wanted it, he said. He put his hives there, and built a sort of -hut for the man whom he sent up to look after the honey. Ysidro did not -need the land, and thought it a good chance to make a little money. He -had taken every precaution to make the transaction a safe one; had gone -to San Diego, and got Father Gaspara to act as interpreter for him, in -the interview with Morong; it had been a written agreement, and the rent -agreed upon had been punctually paid. Now, the time of the lease having -expired, Ysidro had been to San Diego to ask the Doctor if he wished -to renew it for another year; and the Doctor had said that the land was -his, and he was coming out there to build a house, and live. - -Ysidro had gone to Father Gaspara for help, and Father Gaspara had had -an angry interview with Doctor Morong; but it had done no good. The -Doctor said the land did not belong to Ysidro at all, but to the United -States Government; and that he had paid the money for it to the agents -in Los Angeles, and there would very soon come papers from Washington, -to show that it was his. Father Gaspara had gone with Ysidro to a lawyer -in San Diego, and had shown to his lawyer Ysidro's paper,--the old one -from the Mexican Governor of California, establishing the pueblo of San -Pasquale, and saying how many leagues of land the Indians were to have; -but the lawyer had only laughed at Father Gaspara for believing that -such a paper as that was good for anything. He said that was all very -well when the country belonged to Mexico, but it was no good now; that -the Americans owned it now; and everything was done by the American law -now, not by the Mexican law any more. - -"Then we do not own any land in San Pasquale at all," said Ysidro. "Is -that what it means?" - -And the lawyer had said, he did not know how it would be with the -cultivated land, and the village where the houses were,--he could -not tell about that; but he thought it all belonged to the men at -Washington. - -Father Gaspara was in such rage, Ysidro said, that he tore open his gown -on his breast, and he smote himself, and he said he wished he were a -soldier, and no priest, that he might fight this accursed United States -Government; and the lawyer laughed at him, and told him to look after -souls,--that was his business,--and let the Indian beggars alone! "Yes, -that was what he said,--'the Indian beggars!' and so they would be all -beggars, presently." - -Alessandro told this by gasps, as it were; at long intervals. His voice -was choked; his whole frame shook. He was nearly beside himself with -rage and despair. - -"You see, it is as I said, Majella. There is no place safe. We can do -nothing! We might better be dead!" - -"It is a long way off, that canon Doctor Morong had," said Ramona, -piteously. "It wouldn't do any harm, his living there, if no more came." - -"Majella talks like a dove, and not like a woman," said Alessandro, -fiercely. "Will there be one to come, and not two? It is the beginning. -To-morrow may come ten more, with papers to show that the land is -theirs. We can do nothing, any more than the wild beasts. They are -better than we." - -From this day Alessandro was a changed man. Hope had died in his bosom. -In all the village councils,--and they were many and long now, for the -little community had been plunged into great anxiety and distress -by this Doctor Morong's affair,--Alessandro sat dumb and gloomy. To -whatever was proposed, he had but one reply: "It is of no use. We can do -nothing." - -"Eat your dinners to-day, to-morrow we starve," he said one night, -bitterly, as the council broke up. When Ysidro proposed to him that -they should journey to Los Angeles, where Father Gaspara had said the -headquarters of the Government officers were, and where they could learn -all about the new laws in regard to land, Alessandro laughed at him. -"What more is it, then, which you wish to know, my brother, about the -American laws?" he said. "Is it not enough that you know they have made -a law which will take the land from Indians; from us who have owned -it longer than any can remember; land that our ancestors are buried -in,--will take that land and give it to themselves, and say it is -theirs? Is it to hear this again said in your face, and to see the man -laugh who says it, like the lawyer in San Diego, that you will journey -to Los Angeles? I will not go!" - -And Ysidro went alone. Father Gaspara gave him a letter to the Los -Angeles priest, who went with him to the land-office, patiently -interpreted for him all he had to say, and as patiently interpreted -all that the officials had to say in reply. They did not laugh, as -Alessandro in his bitterness had said. They were not inhuman, and -they felt sincere sympathy for this man, representative of two hundred -hard-working, industrious people, in danger of being turned out of house -and home. But they were very busy; they had to say curtly, and in few -words, all there was to be said: the San Pasquale district was certainly -the property of the United States Government, and the lands were in -market, to be filed on, and bought, according to the homestead laws, -These officials had neither authority nor option in the matter. They -were there simply to carry out instructions, and obey orders. - -Ysidro understood the substance of all this, though the details were -beyond his comprehension. But he did not regret having taken the -journey; he had now made his last effort for his people. The Los Angeles -priest had promised that he would himself write a letter to Washington, -to lay the case before the head man there, and perhaps something would -be done for their relief. It seemed incredible to Ysidro, as, riding -along day after day, on his sad homeward journey, he reflected on the -subject,--it seemed incredible to him that the Government would permit -such a village as theirs to be destroyed. He reached home just at -sunset; and looking down, as Alessandro and Ramona had done on the -morning of their arrival, from the hillcrests at the west end of the -valley, seeing the broad belt of cultivated fields and orchards, the -peaceful little hamlet of houses, he groaned. "If the people who make -these laws could only see this village, they would never turn us out, -never! They can't know what is being done. I am sure they can't know." - -"What did I tell you?" cried Alessandro, galloping up on Benito, and -reining him in so sharply he reared and plunged. "What did I tell you? -I saw by your face, many paces back, that you had come as you went, or -worse! I have been watching for you these two days. Another American -has come in with Morong in the canon; they are making corrals; they will -keep stock. You will see how long we have any pasture-lands in that end -of the valley. I drive all my stock to San Diego next week. I will sell -it for what it will bring,--both the cattle and the sheep. It is no use. -You will see." - -When Ysidro began to recount his interview with the land-office -authorities, Alessandro broke in fiercely: "I wish to hear no more of -it. Their names and their speech are like smoke in my eyes and my nose. -I think I shall go mad, Ysidro. Go tell your story to the men who are -waiting to hear it, and who yet believe that an American may speak -truth!" - -Alessandro was as good as his word. The very next week he drove all -his cattle and sheep to San Diego, and sold them at great loss. "It -is better than nothing," he said. "They will not now be sold by the -sheriff, like my father's in Temecula." The money he got, he took to -Father Gaspara. "Father," he said huskily. "I have sold all my stock. I -would not wait for the Americans to sell it for me, and take the money. -I have not got much, but it is better than nothing. It will make that we -do not starve for one year. Will you keep it for me, Father? I dare not -have it in San Pasquale. San Pasquale will be like Temecula,--it may be -to-morrow." - -To the Father's suggestion that he should put the money in a bank in San -Diego, Alessandro cried: "Sooner would I throw it in the sea yonder! I -trust no man, henceforth; only the Church I will trust. Keep it for me, -Father, I pray you," and the Father could not refuse his imploring tone. - -"What are your plans now?" he asked. - -"Plans!" repeated Alessandro,--"plans, Father! Why should I make plans? -I will stay in my house so long as the Americans will let me. You saw -our little house, Father!" His voice broke as he said this. "I have -large wheat-fields; if I can get one more crop off them, it will be -something; but my land is of the richest in the valley, and as soon as -the Americans see it, they will want it. Farewell, Father. I thank you -for keeping my money, and for all you said to the thief Morong. Ysidro -told me. Farewell." And he was gone, and out of sight on the swift -galloping Benito, before Father Gaspara bethought himself. - -"And I remembered not to ask who his wife was. I will look back at the -record," said the Father. Taking down the old volume, he ran his eye -back over the year. Marriages were not so many in Father Gaspara's -parish, that the list took long to read. The entry of Alessandro's -marriage was blotted. The Father had been in haste that night. -"Alessandro Assis. Majella Fa--" No more could be read. The name meant -nothing to Father Gaspara. "Clearly an Indian name," he said to himself; -"yet she seemed superior in every way. I wonder where she got it." - -The winter wore along quietly in San Pasquale. The delicious soft rains -set in early, promising a good grain year. It seemed a pity not to get -in as much wheat as possible; and all the San Pasquale people went early -to ploughing new fields,--all but Alessandro. - -"If I reap all I have, I will thank the saints," he said. "I will plough -no more land for the robbers." But after his fields were all planted, -and the beneficent rains still kept on, and the hills all along the -valley wall began to turn green earlier than ever before was known, -he said to Ramona one morning, "I think I will make one more field of -wheat. There will be a great yield this year. Maybe we will be left -unmolested till the harvest is over." - -"Oh, yes, and for many more harvests, dear Alessandro!" said Ramona, -cheerily. "You are always looking on the black side." - -"There is no other but the black side, Majella," he replied. "Strain my -eyes as I may, on all sides all is black. You will see. Never any more -harvests in San Pasquale for us, after this. If we get this, we are -lucky. I have seen the white men riding up and down in the valley, and -I found some of their cursed bits of wood with figures on them set up -on my land the other day; and I pulled them up and burned them to ashes. -But I will plough one more field this week; though, I know not why it -is, my thoughts go against it even now. But I will do it; and I will not -come home till night, Majella, for the field is too far to go and come -twice. I shall be the whole day ploughing." So saying, he stooped and -kissed the baby, and then kissing Ramona, went out. - -Ramona stood at the door and watched him as he harnessed Benito and Baba -to the plough. He did not once look back at her; his face seemed full of -thought, his hands acting as it were mechanically. After he had gone -a few rods from the house, he stopped, stood still for some minutes -meditatingly, then went on irresolutely, halted again, but finally went -on, and disappeared from sight among the low foothills to the east. -Sighing deeply, Ramona turned back to her work. But her heart was too -disquieted. She could not keep back the tears. - -"How changed is Alessandro!" she thought. "It terrifies me to see him -thus. I will tell the Blessed Virgin about it;" and kneeling before the -shrine, she prayed fervently and long. She rose comforted, and -drawing the baby's cradle out into the veranda, seated herself at her -embroidery. Her skill with her needle had proved a not inconsiderable -source of income, her fine lace-work being always taken by San Diego -merchants, and at fairly good prices. - -It seemed to her only a short time that she had been sitting thus, when, -glancing up at the sun, she saw it was near noon; at the same moment -she saw Alessandro approaching, with the horses. In dismay, she thought, -"There is no dinner! He said he would not come!" and springing up, was -about to run to meet him, when she observed that he was not alone. -A short, thick-set man was walking by his side; they were talking -earnestly. It was a white man. What did it bode? Presently they stopped. -She saw Alessandro lift his hand and point to the house, then to the -tule sheds in the rear. He seemed to be talking excitedly; the white -man also; they were both speaking at once. Ramona shivered with fear. -Motionless she stood, straining eye and ear; she could hear nothing, -but the gestures told much. Had it come,--the thing Alessandro had said -would come? Were they to be driven out,--driven out this very day, when -the Virgin had only just now seemed to promise her help and protection? - -The baby stirred, waked, began to cry. Catching the child up to her -breast, she stilled her by convulsive caresses. Clasping her tight in -her arms, she walked a few steps towards Alessandro, who, seeing her, -made an imperative gesture to her to return. Sick at heart, she went -back to the veranda and sat down to wait. - -In a few moments she saw the white man counting out money into -Alessandro's hand; then he turned and walked away, Alessandro still -standing as if rooted to the spot, gazing into the palm of his hand, -Benito and Baba slowly walking away from him unnoticed; at last he -seemed to rouse himself as from a trance, and picking up the horses' -reins, came slowly toward her. Again she started to meet him; again -he made the same authoritative gesture to her to return; and again she -seated herself, trembling in every nerve of her body. Ramona was now -sometimes afraid of Alessandro. When these fierce glooms seized him, -she dreaded, she knew not what. He seemed no more the Alessandro she had -loved. - -Deliberately, lingeringly, he unharnessed the horses and put them in -the corral. Then still more deliberately, lingeringly, he walked to the -house; walked, without speaking, past Ramona, into the door. A lurid -spot on each cheek showed burning red through the bronze of his skin. -His eyes glittered. In silence Ramona followed him, and saw him draw -from his pocket a handful of gold-pieces, fling them on the table, and -burst into a laugh more terrible than any weeping,--a laugh which wrung -from her instantly, involuntarily, the cry, "Oh, my Alessandro! my -Alessandro! What is it? Are you mad?" - -"No, my sweet Majel," he exclaimed, turning to her, and flinging his -arms round her and the child together, drawing them so close to his -breast that the embrace hurt,--"no, I am not mad; but I think I shall -soon be! What is that gold? The price of this house, Majel, and of the -fields,--of all that was ours in San Pasquale! To-morrow we will go out -into the world again. I will see if I can find a place the Americans do -not want!" - -It did not take many words to tell the story. Alessandro had not been -ploughing more than an hour, when, hearing a strange sound, he looked -up and saw a man unloading lumber a few rods off'. Alessandro stopped -midway in the furrow and watched him. The man also watched Alessandro. -Presently he came toward him, and said roughly, "Look here! Be off, will -you? This is my land. I'm going to build a house here." - -Alessandro had replied, "This was my land yesterday. How comes it yours -to-day?" - -Something in the wording of this answer, or something in Alessandro's -tone and bearing, smote the man's conscience, or heart, or what stood -to him in the place of conscience and heart, and he said: "Come, now, my -good fellow, you look like a reasonable kind of a fellow; you just clear -out, will you, and not make me any trouble. You see the land's mine. -I've got all this land round here;" and he waved his arm, describing a -circle; "three hundred and twenty acres, me and my brother together, and -we're coming in here to settle. We got our papers from Washington last -week. It's all right, and you may just as well go peaceably, as make a -fuss about it. Don't you see?" - -Yes, Alessandro saw. He had been seeing this precise thing for months. -Many times, in his dreams and in his waking thoughts, he had lived over -scenes similar to this. An almost preternatural calm and wisdom seemed -to be given him now. - -"Yes, I see, Senor," he said. "I am not surprised. I knew it would come; -but I hoped it would not be till after harvest. I will not give you any -trouble, Senor, because I cannot. If I could, I would. But I have -heard all about the new law which gives all the Indians' lands to the -Americans. We cannot help ourselves. But it is very hard, Senor." He -paused. - -The man, confused and embarrassed, astonished beyond expression at -being met in this way by an Indian, did not find words come ready to his -tongue. "Of course, I know it does seem a little rough on fellows like -you, that are industrious, and have done some work on the land. But you -see the land's in the market; I've paid my money for it." - -"The Senor is going to build a house?" asked Alessandro. - -"Yes," the man answered. "I've got my family in San Diego, and I want to -get them settled as soon as I can. My wife won't feel comfortable till -she's in her own house. We're from the States, and she's been used to -having everything comfortable." - -"I have a wife and child, Senor," said Alessandro, still in the same -calm, deliberate tone; "and we have a very good house of two rooms. It -would save the Senor's building, if he would buy mine." - -"How far is it?" said the man. "I can't tell exactly where the -boundaries of my land are, for the stakes we set have been pulled up." - -"Yes, Senor, I pulled them up and burned them. They were on my land," -replied Alessandro. "My house is farther west than your stakes; and I -have large wheat-fields there, too,--many acres, Senor, all planted." - -Here was a chance, indeed. The man's eyes gleamed. He would do the -handsome thing. He would give this fellow something for his house and -wheat-crops. First he would see the house, however; and it was for -that purpose he had walked back with Alessandro, When he saw the neat -whitewashed adobe, with its broad veranda, the sheds and corrals all -in good order, he instantly resolved to get possession of them by fair -means or foul. - -"There will be three hundred dollars' worth of wheat in July, Senor, you -can see for yourself; and a house so good as that, you cannot build for -less than one hundred dollars. What will you give me for them?" - -"I suppose I can have them without paying you for them, if I choose," -said the man, insolently. - -"No, Senor," replied Alessandro. - -"What's to hinder, then, I'd like to know!" in a brutal sneer. "You -haven't got any rights here, whatever, according to law." - -"I shall hinder, Senor," replied Alessandro. "I shall burn down the -sheds and corrals, tear down the house; and before a blade of the wheat -is reaped, I will burn that." Still in the same calm tone. - -"What'll you take?" said the man, sullenly. - -"Two hundred dollars," replied Alessandro. - -"Well, leave your plough and wagon, and I'll give it to you," said the -man; "and a big fool I am, too. Well laughed at, I'll be, do you know -it, for buying out an Indian!" - -"The wagon, Senor, cost me one hundred and thirty dollars in San Diego. -You cannot buy one so good for less. I will not sell it. I need it to -take away my things in. The plough you may have. That is worth twenty." - -"I'll do it," said the man; and pulling out a heavy buckskin pouch, he -counted out into Alessandro's hand two hundred dollars in gold. - -"Is that all right?" he said, as he put down the last piece. - -"That is the sum I said, Senor," replied Alessandro. "Tomorrow, at noon, -you can come into the house." - -"Where will you go?" asked the man, again slightly touched by -Alessandro's manner. "Why don't you stay round here? I expect you could -get work enough; there are a lot of farmers coming in here; they'll want -hands." - -A fierce torrent of words sprang to Alessandro's lips, but he choked -them back. "I do not know where I shall go, but I will not stay here," -he said; and that ended the interview. - -"I don't know as I blame him a mite for feeling that way," thought the -man from the States, as he walked slowly back to his pile of lumber. "I -expect I should feel just so myself." - -Almost before Alessandro had finished this tale, he began to move -about the room, taking down, folding up, opening and shutting lids; his -restlessness was terrible to see. "By sunrise, I would like to be off," -he said. "It is like death, to be in the house which is no longer ours." -Ramona had spoken no words since her first cry on hearing that terrible -laugh. She was like one stricken dumb. The shock was greater to her than -to Alessandro. He had lived with it ever present in his thoughts for a -year. She had always hoped. But far more dreadful than the loss of her -home, was the anguish of seeing, hearing, the changed face, changed -voice, of Alessandro. Almost this swallowed up the other. She obeyed -him mechanically, working faster and faster as he grew more and more -feverish in his haste. Before sundown the little house was dismantled; -everything, except the bed and the stove, packed in the big wagon. - -"Now, we must cook food for the journey," said Alessandro. - -"Where are we going?" said the weeping Ramona. - -"Where?" ejaculated Alessandro, so scornfully that it sounded like -impatience with Ramona, and made her tears flow afresh. "Where? I know -not, Majella! Into the mountains, where the white men come not! At -sunrise we will start." - -Ramona wished to say good-by to their friends. There were women in the -village that she tenderly loved. But Alessandro was unwilling. "There -will be weeping and crying, Majella; I pray you do not speak to one. Why -should we have more tears? Let us disappear. I will say all to Ysidro. -He will tell them." - -This was a sore grief to Ramona. In her heart she rebelled against it, -as she had never yet rebelled against an act of Alessandro's; but she -could not distress him. Was not his burden heavy enough now? - -Without a word of farewell to any one, they set off in the gray dawn, -before a creature was stirring in the village,--the wagon piled high; -Ramona, her baby in her arms, in front; Alessandro walking. The load was -heavy. Benito and Baba walked slowly. Capitan, unhappy, looking first at -Ramona's face, then at Alessandro's, walked dispiritedly by their side. -He knew all was wrong. - -As Alessandro turned the horses into a faintly marked road leading in a -northeasterly direction, Ramona said with a sob, "Where does this road -lead, Alessandro?" - -"To San Jacinto," he said. "San Jacinto Mountain. Do not look back, -Majella! Do not look back!" he cried, as he saw Ramona, with streaming -eyes, gazing back towards San Pasquale. "Do not look back! It is gone! -Pray to the saints now, Majella! Pray! Pray!" - - - - -XXI - -THE Senora Moreno was dying. It had been a sad two years in the Moreno -house. After the first excitement following Ramona's departure had -died away, things had settled down in a surface similitude of their old -routine. But nothing was really the same. No one was so happy as before. -Juan Canito was heart-broken. There had been set over him the very -Mexican whose coming to the place he had dreaded. The sheep had not done -well; there had been a drought; many had died of hunger,--a thing for -which the new Mexican overseer was not to blame, though it pleased Juan -to hold him so, and to say from morning till night that if his leg had -not been broken, or if the lad Alessandro had been there, the wool-crop -would have been as big as ever. Not one of the servants liked this -Mexican; he had a sorry time of it, poor fellow; each man and woman on -the place had or fancied some reason for being set against him; some -from sympathy with Juan Can, some from idleness and general impatience; -Margarita, most of all, because he was not Alessandro. Margarita, -between remorse about her young mistress and pique and disappointment -about Alessandro, had become a very unhappy girl; and her mother, -instead of comforting or soothing her, added to her misery by -continually bemoaning Ramona's fate. The void that Ramona had left in -the whole household seemed an irreparable one; nothing came to fill it; -there was no forgetting; every day her name was mentioned by some one; -mentioned with bated breath, fearful conjecture, compassion, and regret. -Where had she vanished? Had she indeed gone to the convent, as she said, -or had she fled with Alessandro? - -Margarita would have given her right hand to know. Only Juan Can felt -sure. Very well Juan Can knew that nobody but Alessandro had the wit and -the power over Baba to lure him out of that corral, "and never a rail -out of its place." And the saddle, too! Ay, the smart lad! He had done -the best he could for the Senorita; but, Holy Virgin! what had got into -the Senorita to run off like that, with an Indian,--even Alessandro! -The fiends had bewitched her. Tirelessly Juan Can questioned every -traveller, every wandering herder he saw. No one knew anything of -Alessandro, beyond the fact that all the Temecula Indians had been -driven out of their village, and that there was now not an Indian in the -valley. There was a rumor that Alessandro and his father had both -died; but no one knew anything certainly. The Temecula Indians had -disappeared, that was all there was of it,--disappeared, like any wild -creatures, foxes or coyotes, hunted down, driven out; the valley was rid -of them. But the Senorita! She was not with these fugitives. That could -not be! Heaven forbid! - -"If I'd my legs, I'd go and see for myself." said Juan Can. "It would -be some comfort to know even the worst. Perdition take the Senora, who -drove her to it! Ay, drove her to it! That's what I say, Luigo." In some -of his most venturesome wrathy moments he would say: "There's none -of you know the truth about the Senorita but me! It's a hard hand the -Senora's reared her with, from the first. She's a wonderful woman, our -Senora! She gets power over one." - -But the Senora's power was shaken now. More changed than all else in the -changed Moreno household, was the relation between the Senora Moreno and -her son Felipe. On the morning after Ramona's disappearance, words had -been spoken by each which neither would ever forget. In fact, the Senora -believed that it was of them she was dying, and perhaps that was not far -from the truth; the reason that forces could no longer rally in her to -repel disease, lying no doubt largely in the fact that to live seemed no -longer to her desirable. - -Felipe had found the note Ramona had laid on his bed. Before it was yet -dawn he had waked, and tossing uneasily under the light covering had -heard the rustle of the paper, and knowing instinctively that it was -from Ramona, had risen instantly to make sure of it. Before his mother -opened her window, he had read it. He felt like one bereft of his senses -as he read. Gone! Gone with Alessandro! Stolen away like a thief in the -night, his dear, sweet little sister! Ah, what a cruel shame! Scales -seemed to drop from Felipe's eyes as he lay motionless, thinking of -it. A shame! a cruel shame! And he and his mother were the ones who had -brought it on Ramona's head, and on the house of Moreno. Felipe felt -as if he had been under a spell all along, not to have realized this. -"That's what I told my mother!" he groaned,--"that it drove her to -running away! Oh, my sweet Ramona! what will become of her? I will go -after them, and bring them back;" and Felipe rose, and hastily dressing -himself, ran down the veranda steps, to gain a little more time to -think. He returned shortly, to meet his mother standing in the doorway, -with pale, affrighted face. - -"Felipe!" she cried, "Ramona is not here." - -"I know it," he replied in an angry tone. "That is what I told you we -should do,--drive her to running away with Alessandro!" - -"With Alessandro!" interrupted the Senora. - -"Yes," continued Felipe,--"with Alessandro, the Indian! Perhaps you -think it is less disgrace to the names of Ortegna and Moreno to have her -run away with him, than to be married to him here under our roof! I -do not! Curse the day, I say, when I ever lent myself to breaking the -girl's heart! I am going after them, to fetch them back!" - -If the skies had opened and rained fire, the Senora had hardly less -quailed and wondered than she did at these words; but even for fire from -the skies she would not surrender till she must. - -"How know you that it is with Alessandro?" she said. - -"Because she has written it here!" cried Felipe, defiantly holding -up his little note. "She left this, her good-by to me. Bless her! She -writes like a saint, to thank me for all my goodness to her,--I, who -drove her to steal out of my house like a thief!" - -The phrase, "my house," smote the Senora's ear like a note from some -other sphere, which indeed it was,--from the new world into which Felipe -had been in an hour born. Her cheeks flushed, and she opened her lips to -reply; but before she had uttered a word, Luigo came running round -the corner, Juan Can hobbling after him at a miraculous pace on his -crutches. "Senor Felipe! Senor Felipe! Oh, Senora!" they cried. "Thieves -have been here in the night! Baba is gone,--Baba, and the Senorita's -saddle." - -A malicious smile broke over the Senora's countenance, and turning to -Felipe, she said in a tone--what a tone it was! Felipe felt as if -he must put his hands to his ears to shut it out; Felipe would never -forget,--"As you were saying, like a thief in the night!" - -With a swifter and more energetic movement than any had ever before seen -Senor Felipe make, he stepped forward, saying in an undertone to his -mother, "For God's sake, mother, not a word before the men!--What is -that you say, Luigo? Baba gone? We must see to our corral. I will come -down, after breakfast, and look at it;" and turning his back on them, he -drew his mother by a firm grasp, she could not resist, into the house. - -She gazed at him in sheer, dumb wonder. - -"Ay, mother," he said, "you may well look thus in wonder; I have been no -man, to let my foster-sister, I care not what blood were in her veins, -be driven to this pass! I will set out this day, and bring her back." - -"The day you do that, then, I lie in this house dead!" retorted the -Senora, at white heat. "You may rear as many Indian families as you -please under the Moreno roof, I will at least have my grave!" In spite -of her anger, grief convulsed her; and in another second she had -burst into tears, and sunk helpless and trembling into a chair. No -counterfeiting now. No pretences. The Senora Moreno's heart broke within -her, when those words passed her lips to her adored Felipe. At the -sight, Felipe flung himself on his knees before her; he kissed the aged -hands as they lay trembling in her lap. "Mother mia," he cried, "you -will break my heart if you speak like that! Oh, why, why do you command -me to do what a man may not? I would die for you, my mother; but how can -I see my sister a homeless wanderer in the wilderness?" - -"I suppose the man Alessandro has something he calls a home," said the -Senora, regaining herself a little. "Had they no plans? Spoke she not in -her letter of what they would do?" - -"Only that they would go to Father Salvierderra first," he replied. - -"Ah!" The Senora reflected. At first startled, her second thought was -that this would be the best possible thing which could happen. "Father -Salvierderra will counsel them what to do," she said. "He could no doubt -establish them in Santa Barbara in some way. My son, when you reflect, -you will see the impossibility of bringing them here. Help them in any -way you like, but do not bring them here." She paused. "Not until I am -dead, Felipe! It will not be long." - -Felipe bowed his head in his mother's lap. She laid her hands on his -hair, and stroked it with passionate tenderness. "My Felipe!" she said. -"It was a cruel fate to rob me of you at the last!" - -"Mother! mother!" he cried in anguish. "I am yours,--wholly, devotedly -yours! Why do you torture me thus?" - -"I will not torture you more," she said wearily, in a feeble tone. "I -ask only one thing of you; let me never hear again the name of that -wretched girl, who has brought all this woe on our house; let her name -never be spoken on this place by man, woman, or child. Like a thief in -the night! Ay, a horse-thief!" - -Felipe sprang to his feet. - -"Mother." he said, "Baba was Ramona's own; I myself gave him to her as -soon as he was born!" - -The Senora made no reply. She had fainted. Calling the maids, in terror -and sorrow Felipe bore her to her bed, and she did not leave it for many -days. She seemed hovering between life and death. Felipe watched over -her as a lover might; her great mournful eyes followed his every motion. -She spoke little, partly because of physical weakness, partly from -despair. The Senora had got her death-blow. She would die hard. It would -take long. Yet she was dying, and she knew it. - -Felipe did not know it. When he saw her going about again, with a step -only a little slower than before, and with a countenance not so much -changed as he had feared, he thought she would be well again, after a -time. And now he would go in search of Ramona. How he hoped he should -find them in Santa Barbara! He must leave them there, or wherever he -should find them; never again would he for a moment contemplate the -possibility of bringing them home with him. But he would see them; help -them, if need be. Ramona should not feel herself an outcast, so long as -he lived. - -When he said, agitatedly, to his mother, one night, "You are so -strong now, mother, I think I will take a journey; I will not be away -long,--not over a week," she understood, and with a deep sigh replied: -"I am not strong; but I am as strong as I shall ever be. If the journey -must be taken, it is as well done now." - -How was the Senora changed! - -"It must be, mother," said Felipe, "or I would not leave you. I will set -off before sunrise, so I will say farewell tonight." - -But in the morning, at his first step, his mother's window opened, and -there she stood, wan, speechless, looking at him. "You must go, my son?" -she asked at last. - -"I must, mother!" and Felipe threw his arms around her, and kissed her -again and again. "Dearest mother! Do smile! Can you not?" - -"No, my son, I cannot. Farewell. The saints keep you. Farewell." And she -turned, that she might not see him go. - -Felipe rode away with a sad heart, but his purpose did not falter. -Following straight down the river road to the sea, he then kept up along -the coast, asking here and there, cautiously, if persons answering to -the description of Alessandro and Ramona had been seen. No one had seen -any such persons. - -When, on the night of the second day, he rode up to the Santa Barbara -Mission, the first figure he saw was the venerable Father Salvierderra -sitting in the corridor. As Felipe approached, the old man's face beamed -with pleasure, and he came forward totteringly, leaning on a staff in -each hand. "Welcome, my son!" he said. "Are all well? You find me very -feeble just now; my legs are failing me sorely this autumn." - -Dismay seized on Felipe at the Father's first words. He would not have -spoken thus, had he seen Ramona. Barely replying to the greeting, Felipe -exclaimed: "Father, I come seeking Ramona. Has she not been with you?" - -Father Salvierderra's face was reply to the question. "Ramona!" he -cried. "Seeking Ramona! What has befallen the blessed child?" - -It was a bitter story for Felipe to tell; but he told it, sparing -himself no shame. He would have suffered less in the telling, had he -known how well Father Salvierderra understood his mother's character, -and her almost unlimited power over all persons around her. Father -Salvierderra was not shocked at the news of Ramona's attachment for -Alessandro. He regretted it, but he did not think it shame, as the -Senora had done. As Felipe talked with him, he perceived even more -clearly how bitter and unjust his mother had been to Alessandro. - -"He is a noble young man," said Father Salvierderra. "His father was one -of the most trusted of Father Peyri's assistants. You must find them, -Felipe. I wonder much they did not come to me. Perhaps they may yet -come. When you find them, bear them my blessing, and say that I wish -they would come hither. I would like to give them my blessing before -I die. Felipe, I shall never leave Santa Barbara again. My time draws -near." - -Felipe was so full of impatience to continue his search, that he hardly -listened to the Father's words. "I will not tarry," he said. "I cannot -rest till I find her. I will ride back as far as Ventura to-night." - -"You will send me word by a messenger, when you find them," said the -Father. "God grant no harm has befallen them. I will pray for them, -Felipe;" and he tottered into the church. - -Felipe's thoughts, as he retraced his road, were full of bewilderment -and pain. He was wholly at loss to conjecture what course Alessandro and -Ramona had taken, or what could have led them to abandon their intention -of going to Father Salvierderra. Temecula seemed the only place, now, to -look for them; and yet from Temecula Felipe had heard, only a few days -before leaving home, that there was not an Indian left in the valley. -But he could at least learn there where the Indians had gone. Poor as -the clew seemed, it was all he had. Cruelly Felipe urged his horse -on his return journey. He grudged an hour's rest to himself or to the -beast; and before he reached the head of the Temecula canon the creature -was near spent. At the steepest part he jumped off and walked, to save -her strength. As he was toiling slowly up a narrow, rocky pass, he -suddenly saw an Indian's head peering over the ledge. He made signs -to him to come down. The Indian turned his head, and spoke to some one -behind; one after another a score of figures rose. They made signs to -Felipe to come up. "Poor things!" he thought; "they are afraid." He -shouted to them that his horse was too tired to climb that wall; but if -they would come down, he would give them money, holding up a gold-piece. -They consulted among themselves; presently they began slowly descending, -still halting at intervals, and looking suspiciously at him. He held -up the gold again, and beckoned. As soon as they could see his face -distinctly, they broke into a run. That was no enemy's face. - -Only one of the number could speak Spanish. On hearing this man's reply -to Felipe's first question, a woman, who had listened sharply and caught -the word Alessandro, came forward, and spoke rapidly in the Indian -tongue. - -"This woman has seen Alessandro," said the man. - -"Where?" said Felipe, breathlessly. - -"In Temecula, two weeks ago," he said. - -"Ask her if he had any one with him," said Felipe. - -"No," said the woman. "He was alone." - -A convulsion passed over Felipe's face. "Alone!" What did this mean! He -reflected. The woman watched him. "Is she sure he was alone; there was -no one with him?" - -"Yes." - -"Was he riding a big black horse?" - -"No, a white horse," answered the woman, promptly. "A small white -horse." - -It was Carmena, every nerve of her loyal nature on the alert to baffle -this pursuer of Alessandro and Ramona. Again Felipe reflected. "Ask her -if she saw him for any length of time; how long she saw him." - -"All night," he answered. "He spent the night where she did." - -Felipe despaired. "Does she know where he is now?" he asked. - -"He was going to San Luis Obispo, to go in a ship to Monterey." - -"What to do?" - -"She does not know." - -"Did he say when he would come back?" - -"Yes." - -"When?" - -"Never! He said he would never set foot in Temecula again." - -"Does she know him well?" - -"As well as her own brother." - -What more could Felipe ask? With a groan, wrung from the very depths of -his heart, he tossed the man a gold-piece; another to the woman. "I am -sorry," he said. "Alessandro was my friend. I wanted to see him;" and he -rode away, Carmena's eyes following him with a covert gleam of triumph. - -When these last words of his were interpreted to her, she started, made -as if she would run after him, but checked herself. "No," she thought. -"It may be a lie. He may be an enemy, for all that. I will not tell. -Alessandro wished not to be found. I will not tell." - -And thus vanished the last chance of succor for Ramona; vanished in a -moment; blown like a thistledown on a chance breath,--the breath of a -loyal, loving friend, speaking a lie to save her. - -Distraught with grief, Felipe returned home. Ramona had been very -ill when she left home. Had she died, and been buried by the lonely, -sorrowing Alessandro? And was that the reason Alessandro was going away -to the North, never to return? Fool that he was, to have shrunk from -speaking Ramona's name to the Indians! He would return, and ask again. -As soon as he had seen his mother, he would set off again, and never -cease searching till he had found either Ramona or her grave. But when -Felipe entered his mother's presence, his first look in her face told -him that he would not leave her side again until he had laid her at rest -in the tomb. - -"Thank God! you have come, Felipe," she said in a feeble voice. "I had -begun to fear you would not come in time to say farewell to me. I am -going to leave you, my son;" and the tears rolled down her cheeks. - -Though she no longer wished to live, neither did she wish to die,--this -poor, proud, passionate, defeated, bereft Senora. All the consolations -of her religion seemed to fail her. She had prayed incessantly, but got -no peace. She fixed her imploring eyes on the Virgin's face and on the -saints; but all seemed to her to wear a forbidding look. "If Father -Salvierderra would only come!" she groaned. "He could give me peace. If -only I can live till he comes again!" - -When Felipe told her of the old man's feeble state, and that he would -never again make the journey, she turned her face to the wall and wept. -Not only for her own soul's help did she wish to see him: she wished -to put into his hands the Ortegna jewels. What would become of them? To -whom should she transfer the charge? Was there a secular priest -within reach that she could trust? When her sister had said, in her -instructions, "the Church," she meant, as the Senora Moreno well knew, -the Franciscans. The Senora dared not consult Felipe; yet she must. Day -by day these fretting anxieties and perplexities wasted her strength, -and her fever grew higher and higher. She asked no questions as to the -result of Felipe's journey, and he dared not mention Ramona's name. At -last he could bear it no longer, and one day said, "Mother, I found no -trace of Ramona. I have not the least idea where she is. The Father had -not seen her or heard of her. I fear she is dead." - -"Better so," was the Senora's sole reply; and she fell again into still -deeper, more perplexed thought about the hidden treasure. Each day she -resolved, "To-morrow I will tell Felipe;" and when to-morrow came, -she put it off again. Finally she decided not to do it till she found -herself dying. Father Salvierderra might yet come once more, and -then all would be well. With trembling hands she wrote him a letter, -imploring him to be brought to her, and sent it by messenger, who was -empowered to hire a litter and four men to bring the Father gently and -carefully all the way. But when the messenger reached Santa Barbara, -Father Salvierderra was too feeble to be moved; too feeble even -to write. He could write only by amanuensis, and wrote, therefore, -guardedly, sending her his blessing, and saying that he hoped her -foster-child might yet be restored to the keeping of her friends. The -Father had been in sore straits of mind, as month after month had passed -without tidings of his "blessed child." - -Soon after this came the news that the Father was dead. This dealt the -Senora a terrible blow. She never left her bed after it. And so the year -had worn on; and Felipe, mourning over his sinking and failing mother, -and haunted by terrible fears about the lost Ramona, had been tortured -indeed. - -But the end drew near, now. The Senora was plainly dying. The Ventura -doctor had left off coming, saying that he could do no more; nothing -remained but to give her what ease was possible; in a day or two more -all would be over. Felipe hardly left her bedside. Rarely was mother so -loved and nursed by son. No daughter could have shown more tenderness -and devotion. In the close relation and affection of these last days, -the sense of alienation and antagonism faded from both their hearts. - -"My adorable Felipe!" she would murmur. "What a son hast thou been!" -And, "My beloved mother! How shall I give you up?" Felipe would reply, -bowing his head on her hands,--so wasted now, so white, so weak; those -hands which had been cruel and strong little more than one short year -ago. Ah, no one could refuse to forgive the Senora now! The gentle -Ramona, had she seen her, had wept tears of pity. Her eyes wore at times -a look almost of terror. It was the secret. How should she speak it? -What would Felipe say? At last the moment came. She had been with -difficulty roused from a long fainting; one more such would be the -last, she knew,--knew even better than those around her. As she regained -consciousness, she gasped, "Felipe! Alone!" - -He understood, and waved the rest away. - -"Alone!" she said again, turning her eyes to the door. - -"Leave the room," said Felipe; "all--wait outside;" and he closed the -door on them. Even then the Senora hesitated. Almost was she ready to -go out of life leaving the hidden treasure to its chance of discovery, -rather than with her own lips reveal to Felipe what she saw now, saw -with the terrible, relentless clear-sightedness of death, would make -him, even after she was in her grave, reproach her in his thoughts. - -But she dared not withhold it. It must be said. Pointing to the statue -of Saint Catharine, whose face seemed, she thought, to frown unforgiving -upon her, she said, "Felipe--behind that statue--look!" - -Felipe thought her delirious, and said tenderly, "Nothing is there, -dearest mother. Be calm. I am here." - -New terror seized the dying woman. Was she to be forced to carry -the secret to the grave? to be denied this late avowal? "No! no! -Felipe--there is a door there--secret door. Look! Open! I must tell -you!" - -Hastily Felipe moved the statue. There was indeed the door, as she had -said. - -"Do not tell me now, mother dear. Wait till you are stronger," he said. -As he spoke, he turned, and saw, with alarm, his mother sitting upright -in the bed, her right arm outstretched, her hand pointing to the door, -her eyes in a glassy stare, her face convulsed. Before a cry could pass -his lips, she had fallen back. The Senora Moreno was dead. - -At Felipe's cry, the women waiting in the hall hurried in, wailing -aloud as their first glance showed them all was over. In the confusion, -Felipe, with a pale, set face, pushed the statue back into its place. -Even then a premonition of horror swept over him. What was he, the son, -to find behind that secret door, at sight of which his mother had died -with that look of anguished terror in her eyes? All through the sad -duties of the next four days Felipe was conscious of the undercurrent -of this premonition. The funeral ceremonies were impressive. The little -chapel could not hold the quarter part of those who came, from far and -near. Everybody wished to do honor to the Senora Moreno. A priest from -Ventura and one from San Luis Obispo were there. When all was done, they -bore the Senora to the little graveyard on the hillside, and laid her by -the side of her husband and her children; silent and still at last, -the restless, passionate, proud, sad heart! When, the night after the -funeral, the servants saw Senor Felipe going into his mother's room, -they shuddered, and whispered, "Oh, he must not! He will break his -heart, Senor Felipe! How he loved her!" - -Old Marda ventured to follow him, and at the threshold said: "Dear Senor -Felipe, do not! It is not good to go there! Come away!" - -But he put her gently by, saying, "I would rather be here, good Marda;" -and went in and locked the door. - -It was past midnight when he came out. His face was stern. He had buried -his mother again. Well might the Senora have dreaded to tell to Felipe -the tale of the Ortegna treasure. Until he reached the bottom of the -jewel-box, and found the Senora Ortegna's letter to his mother, he was -in entire bewilderment at all he saw. After he had read this letter, he -sat motionless for a long time, his head buried in his hands. His soul -was wrung. - -"And she thought that shame, and not this!" he said bitterly. - -But one thing remained for Felipe now, If Ramona lived, he would find -her, and restore to her this her rightful property. If she were dead, it -must go to the Santa Barbara College. - -"Surely my mother must have intended to give it to the Church," he said. -"But why keep it all this time? It is this that has killed her. Oh, -shame! oh, disgrace!" From the grave in which Felipe had buried his -mother now, was no resurrection. - -Replacing everything as before in the safe hiding-place, he sat down and -wrote a letter to the Superior of the Santa Barbara College, telling -him of the existence of these valuables, which in certain contingencies -would belong to the College. Early in the morning he gave this letter to -Juan Canito, saying: "I am going away, Juan, on a journey. If anything -happens to me, and I do not return, send this letter by trusty messenger -to Santa Barbara." - -"Will you be long away, Senor Felipe?" asked the old man, piteously. - -"I cannot tell, Juan," replied Felipe. "It may be only a short time; it -may be long. I leave everything in your care. You will do all according -to your best judgment, I know. I will say to all that I have left you in -charge." - -"Thanks, Senor Felipe! Thanks!" exclaimed Juan, happier than he had been -for two years. "Indeed, you may trust me! From the time you were a boy -till now, I have had no thought except for your house." - -Even in heaven the Senora Moreno had felt woe as if in hell, had she -known the thoughts with which her Felipe galloped this morning out of -the gateway through which, only the day before, he had walked weeping -behind her body borne to burial. - -"And she thought this no shame to the house of Moreno!" he said. "My -God!" - - - - -XXII - -DURING the first day of Ramona's and Alessandro's sad journey they -scarcely spoke. Alessandro walked at the horses' heads, his face sunk on -his breast, his eyes fixed on the ground. Ramona watched him in anxious -fear. Even the baby's voice and cooing laugh won from him no response. -After they were camped for the night, she said, "Dear Alessandro, will -you not tell me where we are going?" - -In spite of her gentleness, there was a shade of wounded feeling in her -tone. Alessandro flung himself on his knees before her, and cried: "My -Majella! my Majella! it seems to me I am going mad! I cannot tell what -to do. I do not know what I think; all my thoughts seem whirling round -as leaves do in brooks in the time of the spring rains. Do you think I -can be going mad? It was enough to make me!" - -Ramona, her own heart wrung with fear, soothed him as best she could. -"Dear Alessandro," she said, "let us go to Los Angeles, and not live -with the Indians any more. You could get work there. You could play at -dances sometimes; there must be plenty of work. I could get more sewing -to do, too. It would be better, I think." - -He looked horror-stricken at the thought. "Go live among the white -people!" he cried. "What does Majella think would become of one Indian, -or two, alone among whites? If they will come to our villages and drive -us out a hundred at a time, what would they do to one man alone? Oh, -Majella is foolish!" - -"But there are many of your people at work for whites at San Bernardino -and other places," she persisted. "Why could not we do as they do?" - -"Yes," he said bitterly, "at work for whites; so they are, Majella has -not seen. No man will pay an Indian but half wages; even long ago, when -the Fathers were not all gone, and tried to help the Indians, my father -has told me that it was the way only to pay an Indian one-half that a -white man or a Mexican had. It was the Mexicans, too, did that, Majella. -And now they pay the Indians in money sometimes, half wages; sometimes -in bad flour, or things he does not want; sometimes in whiskey; and if -he will not take it, and asks for his money, they laugh, and tell him to -go, then. One man in San Bernardino last year, when an Indian would not -take a bottle of sour wine for pay for a day's work, shot him in the -cheek with his pistol, and told him to mind how he was insolent any -more! Oh, Majella, do not ask me to go work in the towns! I should kill -some man, Majella, if I saw things like that." - -Ramona shuddered, and was silent. Alessandro continued: "If Majella -would not be afraid, I know a place, high up on the mountain, where -no white man has ever been, or ever will be. I found it when I was -following a bear. The beast led me up. It was his home; and I said then, -it was a fit hiding-place for a man. There is water, and a little green -valley. We could live there; but it would be no more than to live,, it -is very small, the valley. Majella would be afraid?" - -"Yes, Alessandro, I would be afraid, all alone on a high mountain. Oh, -do not let us go there! Try something else first, Alessandro. Is there -no other Indian village you know?" - -"There is Saboba," he said, "at foot of the San Jacinto Mountain; I had -thought of that. Some of my people went there from Temecula; but it is -a poor little village, Majella. Majella would not like to live in it. -Neither do I believe it will long be any safer than San Pasquale. There -was a kind, good old man who owned all that valley,--Senor Ravallo; he -found the village of Saboba there when he came to the country. It is one -of the very oldest of all; he was good to all Indians, and he said they -should never be disturbed, never. He is dead; but his three sons have -the estate yet, and I think they would keep their father's promise to -the Indians. But you see, to-morrow, Majella, they may die, or go back -to Mexico, as Senor Valdez did, and then the Americans will get it, as -they did Temecula. And there are already white men living in the valley. -We will go that way, Majella. Majella shall see. If she says stay, we -will stay." - -It was in the early afternoon that they entered the broad valley of San -Jacinto. They entered it from the west. As they came in, though the sky -over their heads was overcast and gray, the eastern and northeastern -part of the valley was flooded with a strange light, at once ruddy and -golden. It was a glorious sight. The jagged top and spurs of San Jacinto -Mountain shone like the turrets and posterns of a citadel built of -rubies. The glow seemed preternatural. - -"Behold San Jacinto!" cried Alessandro. - -Ramona exclaimed in delight. "It is an omen!" she said. "We are going -into the sunlight, out of the shadow;" and she glanced back at the west, -which was of a slaty blackness. - -"I like it not!" said Alessandro. "The shadow follows too fast!" - -Indeed it did. Even as he spoke, a fierce wind blew from the north, and -tearing off fleeces from the black cloud, sent them in scurrying masses -across the sky. In a moment more, snow-flakes began to fall. - -"Holy Virgin!" cried Alessandro. Too well he knew what it meant. He -urged the horses, running fast beside them. It was of no use. Too much -even for Baba and Benito to make any haste, with the heavily loaded -wagon. - -"There is an old sheep-corral and a hut not over a mile farther, if we -could but reach it!" groaned Alessandro. "Majella, you and the child -will freeze." - -"She is warm on my breast," said Ramona; "but, Alessandro, what ice in -this wind! It is like a knife at my back!" - -Alessandro uttered another ejaculation of dismay. The snow was fast -thickening; already the track was covered. The wind lessened. - -"Thank God, that wind no longer cuts as it did," said Ramona, her teeth -chattering, clasping the baby closer and closer. - -"I would rather it blew than not," said Alessandro; "it will carry the -snow before it. A little more of this, and we cannot see, any more than -in the night." - -Still thicker and faster fell the snow; the air was dense; it was, as -Alessandro had said, worse than the darkness of night,--this strange -opaque whiteness, thick, choking, freezing one's breath. Presently -the rough jolting of the wagon showed that they were off the road. The -horses stopped; refused to go on. - -"We are lost, if we stay here!" cried Alessandro. "Come, my Benito, -come!" and he took him by the head, and pulled him by main force back -into the road, and led him along. It was terrible. Ramona's heart sank -within her. She felt her arms growing numb; how much longer could she -hold the baby safe? She called to Alessandro. He did not hear her; the -wind had risen again; the snow was being blown in masses; it was like -making headway among whirling snow-drifts. - -"We will die," thought Ramona. "Perhaps it is as well!" And that was the -last she knew, till she heard a shouting, and found herself being shaken -and beaten, and heard a strange voice saying, "Sorry ter handle yer so -rough, ma'am, but we've got ter git yer out ter the fire!" - -"Fire!" Were there such things as fire and warmth? Mechanically she put -the baby into the unknown arms that were reaching up to her, and tried -to rise from her seat; but she could not move. - -"Set still! set still!" said the strange voice. "I'll jest carry the -baby ter my wife, an' come back fur you. I allowed yer couldn't git up -on yer feet;" and the tall form disappeared. The baby, thus vigorously -disturbed from her warm sleep, began to cry. - -"Thank God!" said Alessandro, at the plunging horses' heads. "The child -is alive! Majella!" he called. - -"Yes, Alessandro," she answered faintly, the gusts sweeping her voice -like a distant echo past him. - -It was a marvellous rescue. They had been nearer the old sheep-corral -than Alessandro had thought; but except that other storm-beaten -travellers had reached it before them, Alessandro had never found it. -Just as he felt his strength failing him, and had thought to himself, -in almost the same despairing words as Ramona, "This will end all our -troubles," he saw a faint light to the left. Instantly he had turned the -horses' heads towards it. The ground was rough and broken, and more than -once he had been in danger of overturning the wagon; but he had pressed -on, shouting at intervals for help. At last his call was answered, and -another light appeared; this time a swinging one, coming slowly towards -him,--a lantern, in the hand of a man, whose first words, "Wall, -stranger, I allow yer inter trouble," were as intelligible to Alessandro -as if they had been spoken in the purest San Luiseno dialect. - -Not so, to the stranger, Alessandro's grateful reply in Spanish. - -"Another o' these no-'count Mexicans, by thunder!" thought Jeff Hyer to -himself. "Blamed ef I'd lived in a country all my life, ef I wouldn't -know better'n to git caught out in such weather's this!" And as he put -the crying babe into his wife's arms, he said half impatiently, "Ef I'd -knowed 't wuz Mexicans, Ri, I wouldn't ev' gone out ter 'um. They're -more ter hum 'n I am, 'n these yer tropicks." - -"Naow, Jeff, yer know yer wouldn't let ennythin' in shape ev a human -creetur go perishin' past aour fire sech weather's this," replied the -woman, as she took the baby, which recognized the motherly hand at its -first touch, and ceased crying. - -"Why, yer pooty, blue-eyed little thing!" she exclaimed, as she looked -into the baby's face. "I declar, Jos, think o' sech a mite's this bein' -aout'n this weather. I'll jest warm up some milk for it this minnit." - -"Better see't th' mother fust, Ri," said Jeff, leading, half carrying, -Ramona into the hut. "She's nigh abaout froze stiff!" - -But the sight of her baby safe and smiling was a better restorative for -Ramona than anything else, and in a few moments she had fully recovered. -It was in a strange group she found herself. On a mattress, in the -corner of the hut, lay a young man apparently about twenty-five, whose -bright eyes and flushed cheeks told but too plainly the story of his -disease. The woman, tall, ungainly, her face gaunt, her hands hardened -and wrinkled, gown ragged, shoes ragged, her dry and broken light hair -wound in a careless, straggling knot in her neck, wisps of it flying -over her forehead, was certainly not a prepossessing figure. Yet spite -of her careless, unkempt condition, there was a certain gentle dignity -in her bearing, and a kindliness in her glance, which won trust and -warmed hearts at once. Her pale blue eyes were still keen-sighted; and -as she fixed them on Ramona, she thought to herself, "This ain't no -common Mexican, no how." "Be ye movers?" she said. - -Ramona stared. In the little English she knew, that word was not -included. "Ah, Senora," she said regretfully, "I cannot talk in the -English speech; only in Spanish." - -"Spanish, eh? Yer mean Mexican? Jos, hyar, he kin talk thet. He can't -talk much, though; 'tain't good fur him; his lungs is out er kilter. -Thet's what we're bringin' him hyar fur,--fur warm climate! 'pears -like it, don't it?" and she chuckled grimly, but with a side glance of -ineffable tenderness at the sick man. "Ask her who they be, Jos," she -added. - -Jos lifted himself on his elbow, and fixing his shining eyes on Ramona, -said in Spanish, "My mother asks if you are travellers?" - -"Yes," said Ramona. "We have come all the way from San Diego. We are -Indians." - -"Injuns!" ejaculated Jos's mother. "Lord save us, Jos! Hev we reelly -took in Injuns? What on airth--Well, well, she's fond uv her baby's enny -white woman! I kin see thet; an', Injun or no Injun, they've got to stay -naow. Yer couldn't turn a dog out 'n sech weather's this. I bet thet -baby's father wuz white, then. Look at them blue eyes." - -Ramona listened and looked intently, but could understand nothing. -Almost she doubted if the woman were really speaking English. She had -never before heard so many English sentences without being able to -understand one word. The Tennessee drawl so altered even the commonest -words, that she did not recognize them. Turning to Jos, she said gently, -"I know very little English. I am so sorry I cannot understand. Will it -tire you to interpret to me what your mother said?" - -Jos was as full of humor as his mother. "She wants me to tell her what -you wuz sayin'," he said, "I allow, I'll only tell her the part on't -she'll like best.--My mother says you can stay here with us till the -storm is over," he said to Ramona. - -Swifter than lightning, Ramona had seized the woman's hand and carried -it to her heart, with an expressive gesture of gratitude and emotion. -"Thanks! thanks! Senora!" she cried. - -"What is it she calls me, Jos?" asked his mother. - -"Senora," he replied. "It only means the same as lady." - -"Shaw, Jos! You tell her I ain't any lady. Tell her everybody round -where we live calls me 'Aunt Ri,' or 'Mis Hyer;' she kin call me -whichever she's a mind to. She's reel sweet-spoken." - -With some difficulty Jos explained his mother's disclaimer of the title -of Senora, and the choice of names she offered to Ramona. - -Ramona, with smiles which won both mother and son, repeated after him -both names, getting neither exactly right at first trial, and finally -said, "I like 'Aunt Ri' best; she is so kind, like aunt, to every one." - -"Naow, ain't thet queer, Jos," said Aunt Ri, "aout here 'n thes -wilderness to ketch sumbody sayin' thet,--jest what they all say ter -hum? I donno's I'm enny kinder'n ennybody else. I don't want ter see -ennybody put upon, nor noways sufferin', ef so be's I kin help; but thet -ain't ennythin' stronary, ez I know. I donno how ennybody could feel -enny different." - -"There's lots doos, mammy," replied Jos, affectionately. "Yer'd find out -fast enuf, ef yer went raound more. There's mighty few's good's you air -ter everybody." - -Ramona was crouching in the corner by the fire, her baby held close to -her breast. The place which at first had seemed a haven of warmth, she -now saw was indeed but a poor shelter against the fearful storm which -raged outside. It was only a hut of rough boards, carelessly knocked -together for a shepherd's temporary home. It had been long unused, and -many of the boards were loose and broken. Through these crevices, at -every blast of the wind, the fine snow swirled. On the hearth were -burning a few sticks of wood, dead cottonwood branches, which Jef Hyer -had hastily collected before the storm reached its height. A few more -sticks lay by the hearth. Aunt Ri glanced at them anxiously. A poor -provision for a night in the snow. "Be ye warm, Jos?" she asked. - -"Not very, mammy," he said; "but I ain't cold, nuther; an' thet's -somethin'." - -It was the way in the Hyer family to make the best of things; they had -always possessed this virtue to such an extent, that they suffered -from it as from a vice. There was hardly to be found in all Southern -Tennessee a more contented, shiftless, ill-bestead family than theirs. -But there was no grumbling. Whatever went wrong, whatever was lacking, -it was "jest like aour luck," they said, and did nothing, or next to -nothing, about it. Good-natured, affectionate, humorous people; after -all, they got more comfort out of life than many a family whose surface -conditions were incomparably better than theirs. When Jos, their oldest -child and only son, broke down, had hemorrhage after hemorrhage, and -the doctor said the only thing that could save him was to go across the -plains in a wagon to California, they said, "What good luck 'Lizy was -married last year! Now there ain't nuthin' ter hinder sellin' the farm -'n goin' right off." And they sold their little place for half it was -worth, traded cattle for a pair of horses and a covered wagon, and set -off, half beggared, with their sick boy on a bed in the bottom of the -wagon, as cheery as if they were rich people on a pleasure-trip. A pair -of steers "to spell" the horses, and a cow to give milk for Jos, they -drove before them; and so they had come by slow stages, sometimes -camping for a week at a time, all the way from Tennessee to the San -Jacinto Valley. They were rewarded. Jos was getting well. Another six -months, they thought, would see him cured; and it would have gone hard -with any one who had tried to persuade either Jefferson or Maria Hyer -that they were not as lucky a couple as could be found. Had they not -saved Joshua, their son? - -Nicknames among this class of poor whites in the South seem singularly -like those in vogue in New England. From totally opposite motives, the -lazy, easy-going Tennesseean and the hurry-driven Vermonter cut down all -their family names to the shortest. To speak three syllables where one -will answer, seems to the Vermonter a waste of time; to the Tennesseean, -quite too much trouble. Mrs. Hyer could hardly recollect ever having -heard her name, "Maria," in full; as a child, and until she was married, -she was simply "Ri;" and as soon as she had a house of her own, to -become a centre of hospitality and help, she was adopted by common -consent of the neighborhood, in a sort of titular and universal -aunt-hood, which really was a much greater tribute and honor than she -dreamed. Not a man, woman, or child, within her reach, that did not call -her or know of her as "Aunt Ri." - -"I donno whether I'd best make enny more fire naow or not," she said -reflectively; "ef this storm's goin' to last till mornin', we'll come -short o' wood, thet's clear." As she spoke, the door of the hut burst -open, and her husband staggered in, followed by Alessandro, both covered -with snow, their arms full of wood. Alessandro, luckily, knew of a -little clump of young cottonwood-trees in a ravine, only a few rods from -the house; and the first thing he had thought of, after tethering the -horses in shelter between the hut and the wagons, was to get wood. Jeff, -seeing him take a hatchet from the wagon, had understood, got his own, -and followed; and now there lay on the ground enough to keep them warm -for hours. As soon as Alessandro had thrown down his load, he darted to -Ramona, and kneeling down, looked anxiously into the baby's face, then -into hers; then he said devoutly, "The saints be praised, my Majella! It -is a miracle!" - -Jos listened in dismay to this ejaculation. "Ef they ain't Catholics!" -he thought. "What kind o' Injuns be they I wonder. I won't tell mammy -they're Catholics; she'd feel wuss'n ever. I don't care what they be. -Thet gal's got the sweetest eyes'n her head ever I saw sence I wuz -born." - -By help of Jos's interpreting, the two families soon became well -acquainted with each other's condition and plans; and a feeling of -friendliness, surprising under the circumstances, grew up between them. - -"Jeff," said Aunt Ri,--"Jeff, they can't understand a word we say, -so't's no harm done, I s'pose, to speak afore 'em, though't don't seem -hardly fair to take advantage o' their not knowin' any language but -their own; but I jest tell you thet I've got a lesson'n the subjeck uv -Injuns. I've always hed a reel mean feelin' about 'em; I didn't want ter -come nigh 'em, nor ter hev 'em come nigh me. This woman, here, she's ez -sweet a creetur's ever I see; 'n' ez bound up 'n thet baby's yer could -ask enny woman to be; 'n' 's fur thet man, can't yer see, Jeff, he jest -worships the ground she walks on? Thet's a fact, Jeff. I donno's ever I -see a white man think so much uv a woman; come, naow, Jeff, d' yer think -yer ever did yerself?" - -Aunt Ri was excited. The experience was, to her, almost incredible. Her -ideas of Indians had been drawn from newspapers, and from a book or two -of narratives of massacres, and from an occasional sight of vagabond -bands or families they had encountered in their journey across the -plains. Here she found herself sitting side by side in friendly -intercourse with an Indian man and Indian woman, whose appearance and -behavior were attractive; towards whom she felt herself singularly -drawn. - -"I'm free to confess, Jos," she said, "I wouldn't ha' bleeved it. I -hain't seen nobody, black, white, or gray, sence we left hum, I've took -to like these yere folks. An' they're real dark; 's dark's any nigger in -Tennessee; 'n' he's pewer Injun; her father wuz white, she sez, but she -don't call herself nothin' but an Injun, the same's he is. D' yer -notice the way she looks at him, Jos? Don't she jest set a store by thet -feller? 'N' I don't blame her." - -Indeed, Jos had noticed. No man was likely to see Ramona with Alessandro -without perceiving the rare quality of her devotion to him. And now -there was added to this devotion an element of indefinable anxiety which -made its vigilance unceasing. Ramona feared for Alessandro's reason. -She had hardly put it into words to herself, but the terrible fear dwelt -with her. She felt that another blow would be more than he could bear. - -The storm lasted only a few hours. When it cleared, the valley was a -solid expanse of white, and the stars shone out as if in an Arctic sky. - -"It will be all gone by noon to-morrow," said Alessandro to Jos, who was -dreading the next day. - -"Not really!" he said. - -"You will see," said Alessandro. "I have often known it thus. It is like -death while it lasts; but it is never long." - -The Hyers were on their way to some hot springs on the north side of the -valley. Here they proposed to camp for three months, to try the waters -for Jos. They had a tent, and all that was necessary for living in their -primitive fashion. Aunt Ri was looking forward to the rest with great -anticipation; she was heartily tired of being on the move. Her husband's -anticipations were of a more stirring nature. He had heard that there -was good hunting on San Jacinto Mountain. When he found that Alessandro -knew the region thoroughly, and had been thinking of settling there, he -was rejoiced, and proposed to him to become his companion and guide -in hunting expeditions. Ramona grasped eagerly at the suggestion; -companionship, she was sure, would do Alessandro good,--companionship, -the outdoor life, and the excitement of hunting, of which he was fond. -This hot-spring canon was only a short distance from the Saboba village, -of which they had spoken as a possible home; which she had from the -first desired to try. She no longer had repugnance to the thought of an -Indian village; she already felt a sense of kinship and shelter with any -Indian people. She had become, as Carmena had said, "one of them." - -A few days saw the two families settled,--the Hyers in their tent and -wagon, at the hot springs, and Alessandro and Ramona, with the baby, in -a little adobe house in the Saboba village. The house belonged to an -old Indian woman who, her husband having died, had gone to live with -a daughter, and was very glad to get a few dollars by renting her own -house. It was a wretched place; one small room, walled with poorly made -adobe bricks, thatched with tule, no floor, and only one window. When -Alessandro heard Ramona say cheerily, "Oh, this will do very well, when -it is repaired a little," his face was convulsed, and he turned away; -but he said nothing. It was the only house to be had in the village, -and there were few better. Two months later, no one would have known it. -Alessandro had had good luck in hunting. Two fine deerskins covered the -earth floor; a third was spread over the bedstead; and the horns, hung -on the walls, served for hooks to hang clothes upon. The scarlet calico -canopy was again set up over the bed, and the woven cradle, on its red -manzanita frame, stood near. A small window in the door, and one more -cut in the walls, let in light and air. On a shelf near one of these -windows stood the little Madonna, again wreathed with vines as in San -Pasquale. - -When Aunt Ri first saw the room, after it was thus arranged, she put -both arms akimbo, and stood in the doorway, her mouth wide open, her -eyes full of wonder. Finally her wonder framed itself in an ejaculation: -"Wall, I allow yer air fixed up!" - -Aunt Ri, at her best estate, had never possessed a room which had -the expression of this poor little mud hut of Ramona's. She could not -understand it. The more she studied the place, the less she understood -it. On returning to the tent, she said to Jos: "It beats all ever I -see, the way thet Injun woman's got fixed up out er nothin'. It ain't no -more'n a hovel, a mud hovel, Jos, not much bigger'n this yer tent, fur -all three on 'em, an' the bed an' the stove an' everythin'; an' I vow, -Jos, she's fixed it so't looks jest like a parlor! It beats me, it does. -I'd jest like you to see it." - -And when Jos saw it, and Jeff, they were as full of wonder as Aunt Ri -had been. Dimly they recognized the existence of a principle here which -had never entered into their life. They did not know it by name, and -it could not have been either taught, transferred, or explained to the -good-hearted wife and mother who had been so many years the affectionate -disorderly genius of their home. But they felt its charm; and when, -one day, after the return of Alessandro and Jeff from a particularly -successful hunt, the two families had sat down together to a supper -of Ramona's cooking,--stewed venison and artichokes, and frijoles with -chili,--their wonder was still greater. - -"Ask her if this is Injun style of cooking, Jos," said Aunt Ri. "I never -thought nothin' o' beans; but these air good, 'n' no mistake!" - -Ramona laughed. "No; it is Mexican," she said. "I learned to cook from -an old Mexican woman." - -"Wall, I'd like the receipt on't; but I allow I shouldn't never git the -time to fuss with it," said Aunt Ri; "but I may's well git the rule, -naow I'm here." - -Alessandro began to lose some of his gloom. He had earned money. He -had been lifted out of himself by kindly companionship; he saw Ramona -cheerful, the little one sunny; the sense of home, the strongest passion -Alessandro possessed, next to his love for Ramona, began again to awake -in him. He began to talk about building a house. He had found things in -the village better than he feared. It was but a poverty-stricken little -handful, to be sure; still, they were unmolested; the valley was large; -their stock ran free; the few white settlers, one at the upper end and -two or three on the south side, had manifested no disposition to crowd -the Indians; the Ravallo brothers were living on the estate still, -and there was protection in that, Alessandro thought. And Majella was -content. Majella had found friends. Something, not quite hope, but akin -to it, began to stir in Alessandro's heart. He would build a house; -Majella should no longer live in this mud hut. But to his surprise, when -he spoke of it, Ramona said no; they had all they needed, now. Was not -Alessandro comfortable? She was. It would be wise to wait longer before -building. - -Ramona knew many things that Alessandro did not. While he had been away -on his hunts, she had had speech with many a one he never saw. She had -gone to the store and post-office several times, to exchange baskets or -lace for flour, and she had heard talk there which disquieted her. She -did not believe that Saboba was safe. One day she had heard a man say, -"If there is a drought we shall have the devil to pay with our stock -before winter is over." "Yes," said another; "and look at those damned -Indians over there in Saboba, with water running all the time in their -village! It's a shame they should have that spring!" - -Not for worlds would Ramona have told this to Alessandro. She kept it -locked in her own breast, but it rankled there like a ceaseless warning -and prophecy. When she reached home that day she went down to the spring -in the centre of the village, and stood a long time looking at the -bubbling water. It was indeed a priceless treasure; a long irrigating -ditch led from it down into the bottom, where lay the cultivated -fields,--many acres in wheat, barley, and vegetables. Alessandro himself -had fields there from which they would harvest all they needed for the -horses and their cow all winter, in case pasturage failed. If the whites -took away this water, Saboba would be ruined. However, as the spring -began in the very heart of the village, they could not take it without -destroying the village. "And the Ravallos would surely never let that be -done," thought Ramona. "While they live, it will not happen." - -It was a sad day for Ramona and Alessandro when the kindly Hyers pulled -up their tent-stakes and left the valley. Their intended three months -had stretched into six, they had so enjoyed the climate, and the waters -had seemed to do such good to Jos. But, "We ain't rich folks, yer know, -not by a long ways, we ain't," said Aunt Ri; "an' we've got pretty nigh -down to where Jeff an' me's got to begin airnin' suthin'. Ef we kin git -settled 'n some o' these towns where there's carpenterin' to be done. -Jeff, he's a master hand to thet kind o' work, though yer mightn't -think it; 'n I kin airn right smart at weavin'; jest give me a good -carpet-loom, 'n I won't be beholden to nobody for vittles. I jest du -love weavin'. I donno how I've contented myself this hull year, or nigh -about a year, without a loom. Jeff, he sez to me once, sez he, 'Ri, do -yer think yer'd be contented in heaven without yer loom?' an' I was free -to say I didn't know's I should." - -"Is it hard?" cried Ramona. "Could I learn to do it?" It was wonderful -what progress in understanding and speaking English Ramona had made in -these six months. She now understood nearly all that was said directly -to her, though she could not follow general and confused conversation. - -"Wall, 'tis, an' 'tain't," said Aunt Ri. "I don't s'pose I'm much of a -jedge; fur I can't remember when I fust learned it. I know I set in -the loom to weave when my feet couldn't reach the floor; an' I don't -remember nothin' about fust learnin' to spool 'n' warp. I've tried to -teach lots of folks; an' sum learns quick, an' some don't never learn; -it's jest 's 't strikes 'em. I should think, naow, thet you wuz one o' -the kind could turn yer hands to anythin'. When we get settled in San -Bernardino, if yer'll come down thar, I'll teach yer all I know, 'n' be -glad ter. I donno's 't 's goin' to be much uv a place for carpet-weavin' -though, anywheres raound 'n this yer country; not but what thar's plenty -o' rags, but folks seems to be wearin' 'em; pooty gen'ral wear, I sh'd -say. I've seen more cloes on folks' backs hyar, thet wan't no more'n fit -for carpet-rags, than any place ever I struck. They're drefful sheftless -lot, these yere Mexicans; 'n' the Injuns is wuss. Naow when I say -Injuns, I don't never mean yeow, yer know thet. Yer ain't ever seemed to -me one mite like an Injun." - -"Most of our people haven't had any chance," said Ramona. "You wouldn't -believe if I were to tell you what things have been done to them; how -they are robbed, and cheated, and turned out of their homes." - -Then she told the story of Temecula, and of San Pasquale, in Spanish, to -Jos, who translated it with no loss in the telling. Aunt Ri was aghast; -she found no words to express her indignation. - -"I don't bleeve the Guvvermunt knows anything about it." she said. "Why, -they take folks up, n'n penetentiarize 'em fur life, back 'n Tennessee, -fur things thet ain't so bad's thet! Somebody ought ter be sent ter tell -'em 't Washington what's goin' on hyar." - -"I think it's the people in Washington that have done it," said Ramona, -sadly. "Is it not in Washington all the laws are made?" - -"I bleeve so!" said Aunt Ri, "Ain't it, Jos? It's Congress ain't 't, -makes the laws?" - -"I bleeve so." said Jos. "They make some, at any rate. I donno's they -make 'em all." - -"It is all done by the American law," said Ramona, "all these things; -nobody can help himself; for if anybody goes against the law he has to -be killed or put in prison; that was what the sheriff told Alessandro, -at Temecula. He felt very sorry for the Temecula people, the sheriff -did; but he had to obey the law himself. Alessandro says there isn't any -help." - -Aunt Ri shook her head. She was not convinced. "I sh'll make a business -o' findin' out abaout this thing yit," she said. "I think yer hain't got -the rights on't yit. There's cheatin' somewhere!" - -"It's all cheating." said Ramona; "but there isn't any help for it, Aunt -Ri. The Americans think it is no shame to cheat for money." - -"I'm an Ummeriken!" cried Aunt Ri; "an' Jeff Hyer, and Jos! We're -Ummerikens! 'n' we wouldn't cheat nobody, not ef we knowed it, not -out er a doller. We're pore, an' I allus expect to be, but we're above -cheatin'; an' I tell you, naow, the Ummeriken people don't want any o' -this cheatin' done, naow! I'm going to ask Jeff haow 'tis. Why, it's a -burnin' shame to any country! So 'tis! I think something oughter be done -abaout it! I wouldn't mind goin' myself, ef thar wan't anybody else!" - -A seed had been sown in Aunt Ri's mind which was not destined to die for -want of soil. She was hot with shame and anger, and full of impulse to -do something. "I ain't nobody," she said; "I know thet well enough,--I -ain't nobody nor nothin'; but I allow I've got suthin' to say abaout the -country I live in, 'n' the way things hed oughter be; or 't least Jeff -hez; 'n' thet's the same thing. I tell yer, Jos, I ain't goin' to rest, -nor ter give yeou 'n' yer father no rest nuther, till yeou find aout -what all this yere means she's been tellin' us." - -But sharper and closer anxieties than any connected with rights to lands -and homes were pressing upon Alessandro and Ramona. All summer the baby -had been slowly drooping; so slowly that it was each day possible for -Ramona to deceive herself, thinking that there had been since yesterday -no loss, perhaps a little gain; but looking back from the autumn to the -spring, and now from the winter to the autumn, there was no doubt that -she had been steadily going down. From the day of that terrible chill -in the snow-storm, she had never been quite well, Ramona thought. Before -that, she was strong, always strong, always beautiful and merry, Now her -pinched little face was sad to see, and sometimes for hours she made a -feeble wailing cry without any apparent cause. All the simple remedies -that Aunt Ri had known, had failed to touch her disease; in fact, -Aunt Ri from the first had been baffled in her own mind by the child's -symptoms. Day after day Alessandro knelt by the cradle, his hands -clasped, his face set. Hour after hour, night and day, indoors and out, -he bore her in his arms, trying to give her relief. Prayer after prayer -to the Virgin, to the saints, Ramona had said; and candles by the dozen, -though money was now scant, she had burned before the Madonna; all in -vain. At last she implored Alessandro to go to San Bernardino and see a -doctor. "Find Aunt Ri," she said; "she will go with you, with Jos, and -talk to him; she can make him understand. Tell Aunt Ri she seems just as -she did when they were here, only weaker and thinner." - -Alessandro found Aunt Ri in a sort of shanty on the outskirts of San -Bernardino. "Not to rights yit," she said,--as if she ever would be. -Jeff had found work; and Jos, too, had been able to do a little on -pleasant days. He had made a loom and put up a loom-house for his -mother,--a floor just large enough to hold the loom, rough walls, and -a roof; one small square window,--that was all; but if Aunt Ri had -been presented with a palace, she would not have been so well pleased. -Already she had woven a rag carpet for herself, was at work on one for -a neighbor, and had promised as many more as she could do before spring; -the news of the arrival of a rag-carpet weaver having gone with despatch -all through the lower walks of San Bernardino life. "I wouldn't hev -bleeved they hed so many rags besides what they're wearin'," said Aunt -Ri, as sack after sack appeared at her door. Already, too, Aunt Ri -had gathered up the threads of the village life; in her friendly, -impressionable way she had come into relation with scores of people, and -knew who was who, and what was what, and why, among them all, far better -than many an old resident of the town. - -When she saw Benito galloping up to her door, she sprang down from -her high stool at the loom, and ran bareheaded to the gate, and before -Alessandro had dismounted, cried: "Ye're jest the man I wanted; I've -been tryin' to 'range it so's we could go down 'n' see yer, but Jeff -couldn't leave the job he's got; an' I'm druv nigh abaout off my feet, -'n' I donno when we'd hev fetched it. How's all? Why didn't yer come in -ther wagon 'n' fetch 'em 'long? I've got heaps ter tell yer. I allowed -yer hadn't got the rights o' all them things. The Guvvermunt ain't on -the side o' the thieves, as yer said. I knowed they couldn't be,' an' -they've jest sent out a man a purpose to look after things fur yer,--to -take keer o' the Injuns 'n' nothin' else. That's what he's here fur. He -come last month; he's a reel nice man. I seen him 'n' talked with him a -spell, last week; I'm gwine to make his wife a rag carpet. 'N' there's -a doctor, too, to 'tend ter yer when ye're sick, 'n' the Guvvermunt pays -him; yer don't hev to pay nothin'; 'n' I tell yeow, thet's a heap o' -savin', to git yer docterin' fur nuthin'!" - -Aunt Ri was out of breath. Alessandro had not understood half she said. -He looked about helplessly for Jos. Jos was away. In his broken English -he tried to explain what Ramona had wished her to do. - -"Doctor! Thet's jest what I'm tellin' yer! There is one here's paid by -the Guvvermunt to 'tend to the Injuns thet's sick. I'll go 'n' show yer -ter his house. I kin tell him jest how the baby is. P'r'aps he'll drive -down 'n' see her!" - -Ah! if he would! What would Majella say, should she see him enter the -door bringing a doctor! - -Luckily Jos returned in time to go with them to the doctor's house as -interpreter. Alessandro was bewildered. He could not understand this new -phase of affairs, Could it be true? As they walked along, he listened -with trembling, half-incredulous hope to Jos's interpretation of Aunt -Ri's voluble narrative. - -The doctor was in his office. To Aunt Ri's statement of Alessandro's -errand he listened indifferently, and then said, "Is he an Agency -Indian?" - -"A what?" exclaimed Aunt Ri. - -"Does he belong to the Agency? Is his name on the Agency books?" - -"No," said she; "he never heern uv any Agency till I wuz tellin' him, -jest naow. We knoo him, him 'n' her, over 'n San Jacinto. He lives in -Saboba. He's never been to San Bernardino sence the Agent come aout." - -"Well, is he going to put his name down on the books?" said the doctor, -impatiently. "You ought to have taken him to the Agent first." - -"Ain't you the Guvvermunt doctor for all Injuns?" asked Aunt Ri, -wrathfully. "Thet's what I heerd." - -"Well, my good woman, you hear a great deal, I expect, that isn't true;" -and the doctor laughed coarsely but not ill-naturedly, Alessandro all -the time studying his face with the scrutiny of one awaiting life and -death; "I am the Agency physician, and I suppose all the Indians will -sooner or later come in and report themselves to the Agent; you'd better -take this man over there. What does he want now?" - -Aunt Ri began to explain the baby's case. Cutting her short, the doctor -said, "Yes, yes, I understand. I'll give him something that will -help her;" and going into an inner room, he brought out a bottle of -dark-colored liquid, wrote a few lines of prescription, and handed it to -Alessandro, saying, "That will do her good, I guess." - -"Thanks, Senor, thanks," said Alessandro. - -The doctor stared. "That's the first Indian's said 'Thank you' in this -office," he said. "You tell the Agent you've brought him a rara avis." - -"What's that, Jos?" said Aunt Ri, as they went out. - -"Donno!" said Jos. "I don't like thet man, anyhow, mammy. He's no good." - -Alessandro looked at the bottle of medicine like one in a dream. Would -it make the baby well? Had it indeed been given to him by that great -Government in Washington? Was he to be protected now? Could this man, -who had been sent out to take care of Indians, get back his San Pasquale -farm for him? Alessandro's brain was in a whirl. - -From the doctor's office they went to the Agent's house. Here, Aunt Ri -felt herself more at home. - -"I've brought ye thet Injun I wuz tellin' ye uv," she said, with a wave -of her hand toward Alessandro. "We've ben ter ther doctor's to git some -metcen fur his baby. She's reel sick, I'm afeerd." - -The Agent sat down at his desk, opened a large ledger, saying as he did -so, "The man's never been here before, has he?" - -"No," said Aunt Ri. - -"What is his name?" - -Jos gave it, and the Agent began to write it in the book. "Stop him." -cried Alessandro, agitatedly to Jos. "Don't let him write, till I know -what he puts my name in his book for!" - -"Wait," said Jos. "He doesn't want you to write his name in that book. -He wants to know what it's put there for." - -Wheeling his chair with a look of suppressed impatience, yet trying -to speak kindly, the Agent said: "There's no making these Indians -understand anything. They seem to think if I have their names in my -book, it gives me some power over them." - -"Wall, don't it?" said the direct-minded Aunt Ri. "Hain't yer got any -power over 'em? If yer hain't got it over them, who have yer got it -over? What yer goin' to do for 'em?" - -The Agent laughed in spite of himself. "Well, Aunt Ri,"--she was already -"Aunt Ri" to the Agent's boys,--"that's just the trouble with this -Agency. It is very different from what it would be if I had all my -Indians on a reservation." - -Alessandro understood the words "my Indians." He had heard them before. - -"What does he mean by his Indians, Jos?" he asked fiercely. "I will not -have my name in his book if it makes me his." - -When Jos reluctantly interpreted this, the Agent lost his temper. -"That's all the use there is trying to do anything with them! Let him -go, then, if he doesn't want any help from the Government!" - -"Oh, no, no." cried Aunt Ri. "Yeow jest explain it to Jos, an' he'll -make him understand." - -Alessandro's face had darkened. All this seemed to him exceedingly -suspicious. Could it be possible that Aunt Ri and Jos, the first whites -except Mr. Hartsel he had ever trusted, were deceiving him? No; that was -impossible. But they themselves might be deceived. That they were simple -and ignorant, Alessandro well knew. "Let us go!" he said. "I do not wish -to sign any paper." - -"Naow don't be a fool, will yeow? Yeow ain't signin' a thing!" said Aunt -Ri. "Jos, yeow tell him I say there ain't anythin' a bindin' him, hevin' -his name 'n' thet book, It's only so the Agent kin know what Injuns -wants help, 'n' where they air. Ain't thet so?" she added, turning to -the Agent. "Tell him he can't hev the Agency doctor, ef he ain't on the -Agency books." - -Not have the doctor? Give up this precious medicine which might save his -baby's life? No! he could not do that. Majella would say, let the name -be written, rather than that. - -"Let him write the name, then," said Alessandro, doggedly; but he went -out of the room feeling as if he had put a chain around his neck. - - - - -XXIII - -THE medicine did the baby no good. In fact, it did her harm. She was too -feeble for violent remedies. In a week, Alessandro appeared again at the -Agency doctor's door. This time he had come with a request which to -his mind seemed not unreasonable. He had brought Baba for the doctor to -ride. Could the doctor then refuse to go to Saboba? Baba would carry -him there in three hours, and it would be like a cradle all the way. -Alessandro's name was in the Agency books. It was for this he had -written it,--for this and nothing else,--to save the baby's life. Having -thus enrolled himself as one of the Agency Indians, he had a claim on -this the Agency doctor. And that his application might be all in due -form, he took with him the Agency interpreter. He had had a misgiving, -before, that Aunt Ri's kindly volubility had not been well timed. Not -one unnecessary word, was Alessandro's motto. - -To say that the Agency doctor was astonished at being requested to ride -thirty miles to prescribe for an ailing Indian baby, would be a mild -statement of the doctor's emotion. He could hardly keep from laughing, -when it was made clear to him that this was what the Indian father -expected. - -"Good Lord!" he said, turning to a crony who chanced to be lounging in -the office. "Listen to that beggar, will you? I wonder what he thinks -the Government pays me a year for doctoring Indians!" - -Alessandro listened so closely it attracted the doctor's attention. "Do -you understand English?" he asked sharply. - -"A very little, Senor," replied Alessandro. - -The doctor would be more careful in his speech, then. But he made it -most emphatically clear that the thing Alessandro had asked was not -only out of the question, but preposterous. Alessandro pleaded. For the -child's sake he could do it. The horse was at the door; there was no -such horse in San Bernardino County; he went like the wind, and one -would not know he was in motion, it was so easy. Would not the doctor -come down and look at the horse? Then he would see what it would be like -to ride him. - -"Oh, I've seen plenty of your Indian ponies," said the doctor. "I know -they can run." - -Alessandro lingered. He could not give up this last hope. The tears came -into his eyes. "It is our only child, Senor," he said. "It will take you -but six hours in all. My wife counts the moments till you come! If the -child dies, she will die." - -"No! no!" The doctor was weary of being importuned. "Tell the man it -is impossible! I'd soon have my hands full, if I began to go about the -country this way. They'd be sending for me down to Agua Caliente next, -and bringing up their ponies to carry me." - -"He will not go?" asked Alessandro. - -The interpreter shook his head. "He cannot," he said. - -Without a word Alessandro left the room. Presently he returned. "Ask him -if he will come for money?" he said. "I have gold at home. I will pay -him, what the white men pay him." - -"Tell him no man of any color could pay me for going sixty miles!" said -the doctor. - -And Alessandro departed again, walking so slowly, however, that he heard -the coarse laugh, and the words, "Gold! Looked like it, didn't he?" -which followed his departure from the room. - -When Ramona saw him returning alone, she wrung her hands. Her heart -seemed breaking. The baby had lain in a sort of stupor since noon; -she was plainly worse, and Ramona had been going from the door to the -cradle, from the cradle to the door, for an hour, looking each moment -for the hoped-for aid. It had not once crossed her mind that the doctor -would not come. She had accepted in much fuller faith than Alessandro -the account of the appointment by the Government of these two men to -look after the Indians' interests. What else could their coming mean, -except that, at last, the Indians were to have justice? She thought, -in her simplicity, that the doctor must have died, since Alessandro was -riding home alone. - -"He would not come!" said Alessandro, as he threw himself off his horse, -wearily. - -"Would not!" cried Ramona. "Would not! Did you not say the Government -had sent him to be the doctor for Indians?" - -"That was what they said," he replied. "You see it is a lie, like the -rest! But I offered him gold, and he would not come then. The child must -die, Majella!" - -"She shall not die!" cried Ramona. "We will carry her to him!" The -thought struck them both as an inspiration. Why had they not thought of -it before? "You can fasten the cradle on Baba's back, and he will go so -gently, she will think it is but play; and I will walk by her side, or -you, all the way!" she continued. "And we can sleep at Aunt Ri's house. -Oh, why, why did we not do it before? Early in the morning we will -start." - -All through the night they sat watching the little creature. If they had -ever seen death, they would have known that there was no hope for the -child. But how should Ramona and Alessandro know? - -The sun rose bright and warm. Before it was up, the cradle was ready, -ingeniously strapped on Baba's back. When the baby was placed in it, she -smiled. "The first smile she has given for days," cried Ramona. "Oh, the -air itself will do good to her! Let me walk by her first! Come, Baba! -Dear Baba!" and Ramona stepped almost joyfully by the horse's side, -Alessandro riding Benito. As they paced along, their eyes never leaving -the baby's face, Ramona said, in a low tone, "Alessandro, I am almost -afraid to tell you what I have done. I took the little Jesus out of the -Madonna's arms and hid it! Did you never hear, that if you do that, the -Madonna will grant you anything, to get him back again in her arms' Did -you ever hear of it?" - -"Never!" exclaimed Alessandro, with horror in his tone. "Never, Majella! -How dared you?" - -"I dare anything now!" said Ramona. "I have been thinking to do it for -some days, and to tell her she could not have him any more till she gave -me back the baby well and strong; but I knew I could not have courage to -sit and look at her all lonely without him in her arms, so I did not do -it. But now we are to be away, I thought, that is the time; and I told -her, 'When we come back with our baby well, you shall have your little -Jesus again, too; now, Holy Mother, you go with us, and make the doctor -cure our baby!' Oh, I have heard, many times, women tell the Senora they -had done this, and always they got what they wanted. Never will she let -the Jesus be out of her arms more than three weeks before she will -grant any prayer one can make. It was that way she brought you to me, -Alessandro. I never before told you. I was afraid. I think she had -brought you sooner, but I could keep the little Jesus hid from her only -at night. In the day I could not, because the Senora would see. So she -did not miss him so much; else she had brought you quicker." - -"But, Majella," said the logical Alessandro, "it was because I could not -leave my father that I did not come. As soon as he was buried, I came." - -"If it had not been for the Virgin, you would never have come at all," -said Ramona, confidently. - -For the first hour of this sad journey it seemed as if the child were -really rallying; the air, the sunlight, the novel motion, the smiling -mother by her side, the big black horses she had already learned to -love, all roused her to an animation she had not shown for days. But -it was only the last flicker of the expiring flame. The eyes drooped, -closed; a strange pallor came over the face. Alessandro saw it first. -He was now walking, Ramona riding Benito. "Majella!" he cried, in a tone -which told her all. - -In a second she was at the baby's side, with a cry which smote the -dying child's consciousness. Once more the eyelids lifted; she knew her -mother; a swift spasm shook the little frame; a convulsion as of -agony swept over the face, then it was at peace. Ramona's shrieks were -heart-rending. Fiercely she put Alessandro away from her, as he strove -to caress her. She stretched her arms up towards the sky. "I have killed -her! I have killed her!" she cried. "Oh, let me die!" - -Slowly Alessandro turned Baba's head homeward again. - -"Oh, give her to me! Let her lie on my breast! I will hold her warm!" -gasped Ramona. - -Silently Alessandro laid the body in her arms. He had not spoken since -his first cry of alarm, If Ramona had looked at him, she would have -forgotten her grief for her dead child. Alessandro's face seemed turned -to stone. - -When they reached the house, Ramona, laying the child on the bed, ran -hastily to a corner of the room, and lifting the deerskin, drew from its -hiding-place the little wooden Jesus. With tears streaming, she laid it -again in the Madonna's arms, and flinging herself on her knees, sobbed -out prayers for forgiveness. Alessandro stood at the foot of the bed, -his arms folded, his eyes riveted on the child. Soon he went out, still -without speaking. Presently Ramona heard the sound of a saw. She groaned -aloud, and her tears flowed faster: Alessandro was making the baby's -coffin. Mechanically she rose, and, moving like one half paralyzed, -she dressed the little one in fresh white clothes for the burial; then -laying her in the cradle, she spread over it the beautiful lace-wrought -altar-cloth. As she adjusted its folds, her mind was carried back to the -time when she embroidered it, sitting on the Senora's veranda; the song -of the finches, the linnets; the voice and smile of Felipe; Alessandro -sitting on the steps, drawing divine music from his violin. Was that -she,--that girl who sat there weaving the fine threads in the beautiful -altar-cloth? Was it a hundred years ago? Was it another world? Was it -Alessandro yonder, driving those nails into a coffin? How the blows -rang, louder and louder! The air seemed deafening full of sound. With -her hands pressed to her temples, Ramona sank to the floor. A merciful -unconsciousness set her free, for an interval, from her anguish. - -When she opened her eyes, she was lying on the bed. Alessandro had -lifted her and laid her there, making no effort to rouse her. He thought -she would die too; and even that thought did not stir him from his -lethargy. When she opened her eyes, and looked at him, he did not speak. -She closed them. He did not move. Presently she opened them again. "I -heard you out there," she said. - -"Yes," he replied. "It is done." And he pointed to a little box of rough -boards by the side of the cradle. - -"Is Majella ready to go to the mountain now?" he asked. - -"Yes, Alessandro, I am ready," she said. - -"We will hide forever," he said. - -"It makes no difference," she replied. - -The Saboba women did not know what to think of Ramona now. She had never -come into sympathetic relations with them, as she had with the women of -San Pasquale. Her intimacy with the Hyers had been a barrier the Saboba -people could not surmount. No one could be on such terms with whites, -and be at heart an Indian, they thought; so they held aloof from Ramona. -But now in her bereavement they gathered round her. They wept at sight -of the dead baby's face, lying in its tiny white coffin. Ramona had -covered the box with white cloth, and the lace altar-cloth thrown over -it fell in folds to the floor. "Why does not this mother weep? Is she -like the whites, who have no heart?" said the Saboba mothers among -themselves; and they were embarrassed before her, and knew not what -to say. Ramona perceived it, but had no life in her to speak to them. -Benumbing terrors, which were worse than her grief, were crowding -Ramona's heart now. She had offended the Virgin; she had committed a -blasphemy: in one short hour the Virgin had punished her, had smitten -her child dead before her eyes. And now Alessandro was going mad; hour -by hour Ramona fancied she saw changes in him. What form would the -Virgin's vengeance take next? Would she let Alessandro become a raging -madman, and finally kill both himself and her? That seemed to Ramona -the most probable fate in store for them. When the funeral was over, and -they returned to their desolate home, at the sight of the empty cradle -Ramona broke down. - -"Oh, take me away, Alessandro! Anywhere! I don't care where! anywhere, -so it is not here!" she cried. - -"Would Majella be afraid, now, on the high mountain, the place I told -her of?" he said. - -"No!" she replied earnestly. "No! I am afraid of nothing! Only take me -away!" - -A gleam of wild delight flitted across Alessandro's face. "It is well," -he said. "My Majella, we will go to the mountain; we will be safe -there." - -The same fierce restlessness which took possession of him at San -Pasquale again showed itself in his every act. His mind was unceasingly -at work, planning the details of their move and of the new life. He -mentioned them one after another to Ramona. They could not take both -horses; feed would be scanty there, and there would be no need of two -horses. The cow also they must give up. Alessandro would kill her, and -the meat, dried, would last them for a long time. The wagon he hoped -he could sell; and he would buy a few sheep; sheep and goats could live -well in these heights to which they were going. Safe at last! Oh, yes, -very safe; not only against whites, who, because the little valley was -so small and bare, would not desire it, but against Indians also. For -the Indians, silly things, had a terror of the upper heights of San -Jacinto; they believed the Devil lived there, and money would not hire -one of the Saboba Indians to go so high as this valley which Alessandro -had discovered. Fiercely he gloated over each one of these features -of safety in their hiding-place. "The first time I saw it, Majella,--I -believe the saints led me there,--I said, it is a hiding-place. And -then I never thought I would be in want of such,--of a place to keep my -Majella safe! safe! Oh, my Majel!" And he clasped her to his breast with -a terrifying passion. - -For an Indian to sell a horse and wagon in the San Jacinto valley was -not an easy thing, unless he would give them away. Alessandro had hard -work to give civil answers to the men who wished to buy Benito and the -wagon for quarter of their value. He knew they would not have dared to -so much as name such prices to a white man. Finally Ramona, who had felt -unconquerable misgivings as to the wisdom of thus irrevocably parting -from their most valuable possessions, persuaded him to take both horses -and wagon to San Bernardino, and offer them to the Hyers to use for the -winter. - -It would be just the work for Jos, to keep him in the open air, if -he could get teaming to do; she was sure he would be thankful for the -chance. "He is as fond of the horses as we are ourselves, Alessandro," -she said. "They would be well cared for; and then, if we did not like -living on the mountain, we could have the horses and wagon again when we -came down, or Jos could sell them for us in San Bernardino. Nobody could -see Benito and Baba working together, and not want them." - -"Majella is wiser than the dove!" cried Alessandro. "She has seen what -is the best thing to do. I will take them." - -When he was ready to set off, he implored Ramona to go with him; but -with a look of horror she refused. "Never," she cried, "one step on that -accursed road! I will never go on that road again unless it is to be -carried, as we brought her, dead." - -Neither did Ramona wish to see Aunt Ri. Her sympathy would be -intolerable, spite of all its affectionate kindliness. "Tell her I love -her," she said, "but I do not want to see a human being yet; next year -perhaps we will go down,--if there is any other way besides that road." - -Aunt Ri was deeply grieved. She could not understand Ramona's feeling. -It rankled deep. "I allow I'd never hev bleeved it uv her, never," she -said. "I shan't never think she wuz quite right 'n her head, to do 't! -I allow we shan't never set eyes on ter her, Jos. I've got jest thet -feelin' abaout it. 'Pears like she'd gone klar out 'er this yer world -inter anuther." - -The majestic bulwark of San Jacinto Mountain looms in the southern -horizon of the San Bernardino valley. It was in full sight from the door -of the little shanty in which Aunt Ri's carpet-loom stood. As she sat -there hour after hour, sometimes seven hours to the day, working the -heavy treadle, and slipping the shuttle back and forth, she gazed with -tender yearnings at the solemn, shining summit. When sunset colors smote -it, it glowed like fire; on cloudy days, it was lost in the clouds. - -"'Pears like 'twas next door to heaven, up there, Jos," Aunt Ri would -say. "I can't tell yer the feelin' 't comes over me, to look up 't it, -ever sence I knowed she wuz there. 'T shines enuf to put yer eyes aout, -sometimes; I allow 'tain't so light's thet when you air into 't; 't -can't be; ther couldn't nobody stan' it, ef 't wuz. I allow 't must be -like bein' dead, Jos, don't yer think so, to be livin' thar? He sed ther -couldn't nobody git to 'em. Nobody ever seed the place but hisself. He -found it a huntin'. Thar's water thar, 'n' thet's abaout all thar is, -fur's I cud make aout; I allow we shan't never see her agin." - -The horses and the wagon were indeed a godsend to Jos. It was the very -thing he had been longing for; the only sort of work he was as yet -strong enough to do, and there was plenty of it to be had in San -Bernardino. But the purchase of a wagon suitable for the purpose was at -present out of their power; the utmost Aunt Ri had hoped to accomplish -was to have, at the end of a year, a sufficient sum laid up to buy one. -They had tried in vain to exchange their heavy emigrant-wagon for one -suitable for light work. "'Pears like I'd die o' shame," said Aunt Ri, -"sometimes when I ketch myself er thinkin' what luck et's ben to Jos, er -gettin' thet Injun's hosses an' waggin. But ef Jos keeps on, airnin' ez -much ez he hez so fur, he's goin' ter pay the Injun part on 't, when he -cums. I allow ter Jos 'tain't no more'n fair. Why, them hosses, they'll -dew good tew days' work'n one. I never see sech hosses; 'n' they're jest -like kittens; they've ben drefful pets, I allow. I know she set all the -world, 'n' more tew, by thet nigh one. He wuz hern, ever sence she wuz a -child. Pore thing,--'pears like she hedn't hed no chance!" - -Alessandro had put off, from day to day, the killing of the cow. It went -hard with him to slaughter the faithful creature, who knew him, and came -towards him at the first sound of his voice. He had pastured her, since -the baby died, in a canon about three miles northeast of the village,--a -lovely green canon with oak-trees and a running brook. It was here that -he had thought of building his house if they had stayed in Saboba. But -Alessandro laughed bitterly to himself now, as he recalled that dream. -Already the news had come to Saboba that a company had been formed for -the settling up of the San Jacinto valley; the Ravallo brothers had sold -to this company a large grant of land. The white ranchmen in the valley -were all fencing in their lands; no more free running of stock. The -Saboba people were too poor to build miles of fencing; they must soon -give up keeping stock; and the next thing would be that they would be -driven out, like the people of Temecula. It was none too soon that he -had persuaded Majella to flee to the mountain. There, at least, they -could live and die in peace,--a poverty-stricken life, and the loneliest -of deaths; but they would have each other. It was well the baby had -died; she was saved all this misery. By the time she had grown to be -a woman, if she had lived, there would be no place in all the country -where an Indian could find refuge. Brooding over such thoughts as -these, Alessandro went up into the canon one morning. It must be done. -Everything was ready for their move; it would take many days to carry -even their few possessions up the steep mountain trail to their new -home; the pony which had replaced Benito and Baba could not carry a -heavy load. While this was being done, Ramona would dry the beef which -would be their supply of meat for many months. Then they would go. - -At noon he came down with the first load of the meat, and Ramona began -cutting it into long strips, as is the Mexican fashion of drying. -Alessandro returned for the remainder. Early in the afternoon, as Ramona -went to and fro about her work, she saw a group of horsemen riding from -house to house, in the upper part of the village; women came running out -excitedly from each house as the horsemen left it; finally one of them -darted swiftly up the hill to Ramona. "Hide it! hide it!" she cried, -breathless; "hide the meat! It is Merrill's men, from the end of the -valley. They have lost a steer, and they say we stole it. They found the -place, with blood on it, where it was killed; and they say we did it. -Oh, hide the meat! They took all that Fernando had; and it was his own, -that he bought; he did not know anything about their steer!" - -"I shall not hide it!" cried Ramona, indignantly. "It is our own cow. -Alessandro killed it to-day." - -"They won't believe you!" said the woman, in distress. "They'll take it -all away. Oh, hide some of it!" And she dragged a part of it across the -floor, and threw it under the bed, Ramona standing by, stupefied. - -Before she had spoken again, the forms of the galloping riders darkened -the doorway; the foremost of them, leaping off his horse, exclaimed: -"By God! here's the rest of it. If they ain't the damnedest impudent -thieves! Look at this woman, cutting it up! Put that down, will you? -We'll save you the trouble of dryin' our meat for us, besides killin' -it! Fork over, now, every bit you've got, you--" And he called Ramona by -a vile epithet. - -Every drop of blood left Ramona's face. Her eyes blazed, and she came -forward with the knife uplifted in her hand. "Out of my house, you dogs -of the white color!" she said. "This meat is our own; my husband killed -the creature but this morning." - -Her tone and bearing surprised them. There were six of the men, and they -had all swarmed into the little room. - -"I say, Merrill," said one of them, "hold on; the squaw says her husband -only jest killed it to-day. It might be theirs." - -Ramona turned on him like lightning. "Are you liars, you all," she -cried, "that you think I lie? I tell you the meat is ours; and there is -not an Indian in this village would steal cattle!" - -A derisive shout of laughter from all the men greeted this speech; and -at that second, the leader, seeing the mark of blood where the Indian -woman had dragged the meat across the ground, sprang to the bed, and -lifting the deerskin, pointed with a sneer to the beef hidden there. -"Perhaps, when you know Injun's well's I do," he said, "you won't be for -believin' all they say! What's she got it hid under the bed for, if it -was their own cow?" and he stooped to drag the meat out. "Give us a hand -here, Jake!" - -"If you touch it, I will kill you!" cried Ramona, beside herself with -rage; and she sprang between the men, her uplifted knife gleaming. - -"Hoity-toity!" cried Jake, stepping back; "that's a handsome squaw when -she's mad! Say, boys, let's leave her some of the meat. She wasn't to -blame; of course, she believes what her husband told her." - -"You go to grass for a soft-head, you Jake!" muttered Merrill, as he -dragged the meat out from beneath the bed. - -"What is all this?" said a deep voice in the door; and Ramona, turning, -with a glad cry, saw Alessandro standing there, looking on, with an -expression which, even in her own terror and indignation, gave her a -sense of dread, it was so icily defiant. He had his hand on his gun. -"What is all this?" he repeated. He knew very well. - -"It's that Temecula man," said one of the men, in a low tone, to -Merrill. "If I'd known 't was his house, I wouldn't have let you come -here. You're up the wrong tree, sure!" - -Merrill dropped the meat he was dragging over the floor, and turned to -confront Alessandro's eyes. His countenance fell. Even he saw that -he had made a mistake. He began to speak. Alessandro interrupted him. -Alessandro could speak forcibly in Spanish. Pointing to his pony, which -stood at the door with a package on its back, the remainder of the meat -rolled in the hide, he said: "There is the remainder of the beef. -I killed the creature this morning, in the canon. I will take Senor -Merrill to the place, if he wishes it. Senor Merrill's steer was killed -down in the willows yonder, yesterday." - -"That's so!" cried the men, gathering around him. "How did you know? Who -did it?" - -Alessandro made no reply. He was looking at Ramona. She had flung her -shawl over her head, as the other woman had done, and the two were -cowering in the corner, their faces turned away. Ramona dared not look -on; she felt sure Alessandro would kill some one. But this was not the -type of outrage that roused Alessandro to dangerous wrath. He even felt -a certain enjoyment in the discomfiture of the self-constituted posse -of searchers for stolen goods. To all their questions in regard to the -stolen steer, he maintained silence. He would not open his lips. At -last, angry, ashamed, with a volley of coarse oaths at him for his -obstinacy, they rode away. Alessandro went to Ramona's side. She was -trembling. Her hands were like ice. - -"Let us go to the mountain to-night!" she gasped. "Take me where I need -never see a white face again!" - -A melancholy joy gleamed in Alessandro's eyes. Ramona, at last, felt as -he did. - -"I would not dare to leave Majella there alone, while there is no -house," he said; "and I must go and come many times, before all the -things can be carried." - -"It will be less danger there than here, Alessandro," said Ramona, -bursting into violent weeping as she recalled the insolent leer with -which the man Jake had looked at her. "Oh! I cannot stay here!" - -"It will not be many days, my Majel. I will borrow Fernando's pony, to -take double at once; then we can go sooner." - -"Who was it stole that man's steer?" said Ramona. "Why did you not tell -them? They looked as if they would kill you." - -"It was that Mexican that lives in the bottom, Jose Castro. I myself -came on him, cutting the steer up. He said it was his; but I knew very -well, by the way he spoke, he was lying. But why should I tell? They -think only Indians will steal cattle. I can tell them, the Mexicans -steal more." - -"I told them there was not an Indian in this village would steal -cattle," said Ramona, indignantly. - -"That was not true, Majella," replied Alessandro, sadly. "When they -are very hungry, they will steal a heifer or steer. They lose many -themselves, and they say it is not so much harm to take one when they -can get it. This man Merrill, they say, branded twenty steers for his -own, last spring, when he knew they were Saboba cattle!" - -"Why did they not make him give them up?" cried Ramona. - -"Did not Majella see to-day why they can do nothing? There is no help -for us, Majella, only to hide; that is all we can do!" - -A new terror had entered into Ramona's life; she dared not tell it to -Alessandro; she hardly put it into words in her thoughts. But she was -haunted by the face of the man Jake, as by a vision of evil, and on one -pretext and another she contrived to secure the presence of some one of -the Indian women in her house whenever Alessandro was away. Every day -she saw the man riding past. Once he had galloped up to the open door, -looked in, spoken in a friendly way to her, and ridden on. Ramona's -instinct was right. Jake was merely biding his time. He had made up his -mind to settle in the San Jacinto valley, at least for a few years, and -he wished to have an Indian woman come to live with him and keep his -house. Over in Santa Ysabel, his brother had lived in that way with an -Indian mistress for three years; and when he sold out, and left Santa -Ysabel, he had given the woman a hundred dollars and a little house for -herself and her child. And she was not only satisfied, but held herself, -in consequence of this temporary connection with a white man, much above -her Indian relatives and friends. When an Indian man had wished to marry -her, she had replied scornfully that she would never marry an Indian; -she might marry another white man, but an Indian,--never. Nobody had -held his brother in any less esteem for this connection; it was quite -the way in the country. And if Jake could induce this handsomest squaw -he had ever seen, to come and live with him in a smaller fashion, he -would consider himself a lucky man, and also think he was doing a good -thing for the squaw. It was all very clear and simple in his mind; -and when, seeing Ramona walking alone in the village one morning, he -overtook her, and walking by her side began to sound her on the -subject, he had small misgivings as to the result. Ramona trembled as he -approached her. She walked faster, and would not look at him; but he, in -his ignorance, misinterpreted these signs egregiously. - -"Are you married to your husband?" he finally said. "It is but a poor -place he gives you to live in. If you will come and live with me, you -shall have the best house in the valley, as good as the Ravallos'; -and--" Jake did not finish his sentence. With a cry which haunted -his memory for years, Ramona sprang from his side as if to run; then, -halting suddenly, she faced him, her eyes like javelins, her breath -coming fast. "Beast!" she said, and spat towards him; then turned and -fled to the nearest house, where she sank on the floor and burst into -tears, saying that the man below there in the road had been rude to her. -Yes, the women said, he was a bad man; they all knew it. Of this Ramona -said no word to Alessandro. She dared not; she believed he would kill -Jake. - -When the furious Jake confided to his friend Merrill his repulse, and -the indignity accompanying it, Merrill only laughed at him, and said: "I -could have told you better than to try that woman. She's married, fast -enough. There's plenty you can get, though, if you want 'em. They're -first-rate about a house, and jest's faithful's dogs. You can trust 'em -with every dollar you've got." - -From this day, Ramona never knew an instant's peace or rest till she -stood on the rim of the refuge valley, high on San Jacinto. Then, gazing -around, looking up at the lofty pinnacles above, which seemed to pierce -the sky, looking down upon the world,--it seemed the whole world, -so limitless it stretched away at her feet,--feeling that infinite -unspeakable sense of nearness to Heaven, remoteness from earth which -comes only on mountain heights, she drew in a long breath of delight, -and cried: "At last! at last, Alessandro! Here we are safe! This is -freedom! This is joy!" - -"Can Majella be content?" he asked. - -"I can almost be glad, Alessandro!" she cried, inspired by the glorious -scene. "I dreamed not it was like this!" - -It was a wondrous valley. The mountain seemed to have been cleft to -make it. It lay near midway to the top, and ran transversely on the -mountain's side, its western or southwestern end being many feet lower -than the eastern. Both the upper and lower ends were closed by piles of -rocks and tangled fallen trees; the rocky summit of the mountain itself -made the southern wall; the northern was a spur, or ridge, nearly -vertical, and covered thick with pine-trees. A man might roam years -on the mountain and not find this cleft. At the upper end gushed out -a crystal spring, which trickled rather than ran, in a bed of marshy -green, the entire length of the valley, disappeared in the rocks at the -lower end, and came out no more; many times Alessandro had searched for -it lower down, but could find no trace of it. During the summer, when -he was hunting with Jeff, he had several times climbed the wall and -descended it on the inner side, to see if the rivulet still ran; and, to -his joy, had found it the same in July as in January. Drought could not -harm it, then. What salvation in such a spring! And the water was pure -and sweet as if it came from the skies. - -A short distance off was another ridge or spur of the mountain, widening -out into almost a plateau. This was covered with acorn-bearing oaks; and -under them were flat stones worn into hollows, where bygone generations -of Indians had ground the nuts into meal. Generations long bygone -indeed, for it was not in the memory of the oldest now living, that -Indians had ventured so high up as this on San Jacinto. It was held to -be certain death to climb to its summit, and foolhardy in the extreme to -go far up its sides. - -There was exhilaration in the place. It brought healing to both -Alessandro and Ramona. Even the bitter grief for the baby's death was -soothed. She did not seem so far off, since they had come so much nearer -to the sky. They lived at first in a tent; no time to build a house, -till the wheat and vegetables were planted. Alessandro was surprised, -when he came to the ploughing, to see how much good land he had. The -valley thrust itself, in inlets and coves, into the very rocks of its -southern wall; lovely sheltered nooks these were, where he hated to -wound the soft, flower-filled sward with his plough. As soon as the -planting was done, he began to fell trees for the house. No mournful -gray adobe this time, but walls of hewn pine, with half the bark left -on; alternate yellow and brown, as gay as if glad hearts had devised it. -The roof, of thatch, tule, and yucca-stalks, double laid and thick, -was carried out several feet in front of the house, making a sort of -bower-like veranda, supported by young fir-tree stems, left rough. Once -more Ramona would sit under a thatch with birds'-nests in it. A little -corral for the sheep, and a rough shed for the pony, and the home was -complete: far the prettiest home they had ever had. And here, in the -sunny veranda, when autumn came, sat Ramona, plaiting out of fragrant -willow twigs a cradle. The one over which she had wept such bitter tears -in the valley, they had burned the night before they left their Saboba -home. It was in early autumn she sat plaiting this cradle. The ground -around was strewn with wild grapes drying; the bees were feasting on -them in such clouds that Ramona rose frequently from her work to drive -them away, saying, as she did so, "Good bees, make our honey from -something else; we gain nothing if you drain our grapes for it; we want -these grapes for the winter;" and as she spoke, her imagination sped -fleetly forward to the winter, The Virgin must have forgiven her, to -give her again the joy of a child in her arms. Ay, a joy! Spite of -poverty, spite of danger, spite of all that cruelty and oppression could -do, it would still be a joy to hold her child in her arms. - -The baby was born before winter came. An old Indian woman, the same -whose house they had hired in Saboba, had come up to live with Ramona. -She was friendless now, her daughter having died, and she thankfully -came to be as a mother to Ramona. She was ignorant and feeble but Ramona -saw in her always the picture of what her own mother might perchance -be, wandering, suffering, she knew not what or where; and her yearning, -filial instinct found sad pleasure in caring for this lonely, childless, -aged one. - -Ramona was alone with her on the mountain at the time of the baby's -birth. Alessandro had gone to the valley, to be gone two days; but -Ramona felt no fear. When Alessandro returned, and she laid the child in -his arms, she said with a smile, radiant once more, like the old smiles, -"See, beloved! The Virgin has forgiven me; she has given us a daughter -again!" - -But Alessandro did not smile. Looking scrutinizingly into the baby's -face, he sighed, and said, "Alas, Majella, her eyes are like mine, not -yours!" - -"I am glad of it," cried Ramona. "I was glad the first minute I saw it." - -He shook his head. "It is an ill fate to have the eyes of Alessandro," -he said. "They look ever on woe;" and he laid the baby back on Ramona's -breast, and stood gazing sadly at her. - -"Dear Alessandro," said Ramona, "it is a sin to always mourn. Father -Salvierderra said if we repined under our crosses, then a heavier cross -would be laid on us. Worse things would come." - -"Yes," he said. "That is true. Worse things will come." And he walked -away, with his head sunk deep on his breast. - - - - -XXIV - -THERE was no real healing for Alessandro. His hurts had gone too deep. -His passionate heart, ever secretly brooding on the wrongs he had borne, -the hopeless outlook for his people in the future, and most of all on -the probable destitution and suffering in store for Ramona, consumed -itself as by hidden fires. Speech, complaint, active antagonism, might -have saved him; but all these were foreign to his self-contained, -reticent, repressed nature. Slowly, so slowly that Ramona could not tell -on what hour or what day her terrible fears first changed to an even -more terrible certainty, his brain gave way, and the thing, in dread -of which he had cried out the morning they left San Pasquale, came upon -him. Strangely enough, and mercifully, now that it had really come, -he did not know it. He knew that he suddenly came to his consciousness -sometimes, and discovered himself in strange and unexplained situations; -had no recollection of what had happened for an interval of time, longer -or shorter. But he thought it was only a sort of sickness; he did not -know that during those intervals his acts were the acts of a madman; -never violent, aggressive, or harmful to any one; never destructive. -It was piteous to see how in these intervals his delusions were always -shaped by the bitterest experiences of his life. Sometimes he fancied -that the Americans were pursuing him, or that they were carrying off -Ramona, and he was pursuing them. At such times he would run with maniac -swiftness for hours, till he fell exhausted on the ground, and slowly -regained true consciousness by exhaustion. At other times he believed -he owned vast flocks and herds; would enter any enclosure he saw, where -there were sheep or cattle, go about among them, speaking of them to -passers-by as his own. Sometimes he would try to drive them away; but on -being remonstrated with, would bewilderedly give up the attempt. Once he -suddenly found himself in the road driving a small flock of goats, whose -he knew not, nor whence he got them. Sitting down by the roadside, he -buried his head in his hands. "What has happened to my memory?" he said. -"I must be ill of a fever!" As he sat there, the goats, of their own -accord, turned and trotted back into a corral near by, the owner of -which stood, laughing, on his doorsill; and when Alessandro came up, -said goodnaturedly, "All right, Alessandro! I saw you driving off my -goats, but I thought you'd bring 'em back." - -Everybody in the valley knew him, and knew his condition. It did not -interfere with his capacity as a worker, for the greater part of -the time. He was one of the best shearers in the region, the best -horse-breaker; and his services were always in demand, spite of the risk -there was of his having at any time one of these attacks of wandering. -His absences were a great grief to Ramona, not only from the loneliness -in which it left her, but from the anxiety she felt lest his mental -disorder might at any time take a more violent and dangerous shape. This -anxiety was all the more harrowing because she must keep it locked in -her own breast, her wise and loving instinct telling her that nothing -could be more fatal to him than the knowledge of his real condition. -More than once he reached home, breathless, panting, the sweat rolling -off his face, crying aloud, "The Americans have found us out, Majella! -They were on the trail! I baffled them. I came up another way." At such -times she would soothe him like a child; persuade him to lie down and -rest; and when he waked and wondered why he was so tired, she would say, -"You were all out of breath when you came in, dear. You must not climb -so fast; it is foolish to tire one's self so." - -In these days Ramona began to think earnestly of Felipe. She believed -Alessandro might be cured. A wise doctor could surely do something for -him. If Felipe knew what sore straits she was in, Felipe would help her. -But how could she reach Felipe without the Senora's knowing it? And, -still more, how could she send a letter to Felipe without Alessandro's -knowing what she had written? Ramona was as helpless in her freedom on -this mountain eyrie as if she had been chained hand and foot. - -And so the winter wore away, and the spring. What wheat grew in their -fields in this upper air! Wild oats, too, in every nook and corner. -The goats frisked and fattened, and their hair grew long and silky; the -sheep were already heavy again with wool, and it was not yet midsummer. -The spring rains had been good; the stream was full, and flowers grew -along its edges thick as in beds. - -The baby had thrived; as placid, laughing a little thing as if its -mother had never known sorrow. "One would think she had suckled pain," -thought Ramona, "so constantly have I grieved this year; but the Virgin -has kept her well." - -If prayers could compass it, that would surely have been so; for night -and day the devout, trusting, and contrite Ramona had knelt before the -Madonna and told her golden beads, till they were wellnigh worn smooth -of all their delicate chasing. - -At midsummer was to be a fete in the Saboba village, and the San -Bernardino priest would come there. This would be the time to take the -baby down to be christened; this also would be the time to send the -letter to Felipe, enclosed in one to Aunt Ri, who would send it for her -from San Bernardino. Ramona felt half guilty as she sat plotting what -she should say and how she should send it,--she, who had never had in -her loyal, transparent breast one thought secret from Alessandro since -they were wedded. But it was all for his sake. When he was well, he -would thank her. - -She wrote the letter with much study and deliberation; her dread of its -being read by the Senora was so great, that it almost paralyzed her pen -as she wrote. More than once she destroyed pages, as being too sacred a -confidence for unloving eyes to read. At last, the day before the fete, -it was done, and safely hidden away. The baby's white robe, finely -wrought in open-work, was also done, and freshly washed and ironed. -No baby would there be at the fete so daintily wrapped as hers; and -Alessandro had at last given his consent that the name should be -Majella. It was a reluctant consent, yielded finally only to please -Ramona; and, contrary to her wont, she had been willing in this instance -to have her own wish fulfilled rather than his. Her heart was set upon -having the seal of baptism added to the name she so loved; and, "If I -were to die," she thought, "how glad Alessandro would be, to have still -a Majella!" - -All her preparations were completed, and it was yet not noon. She seated -herself on the veranda to watch for Alessandro, who had been two days -away, and was to have returned the previous evening, to make ready for -the trip to Saboba. She was disquieted at his failure to return at the -appointed time. As the hours crept on and he did not come, her anxiety -increased. The sun had gone more than an hour past the midheavens before -he came. He had ridden fast; she had heard the quick strokes of the -horse's hoofs on the ground before she saw him. "Why comes he riding -like that?" she thought, and ran to meet him. As he drew near, she saw -to her surprise that he was riding a new horse. "Why, Alessandro!" she -cried. "What horse is this?" - -He looked at her bewilderedly, then at the horse. True; it was not his -own horse! He struck his hand on his forehead, endeavoring to collect -his thoughts. "Where is my horse, then?" he said. - -"My God! Alessandro," cried Ramona. "Take the horse back instantly. They -will say you stole it." - -"But I left my pony there in the corral," he said. "They will know I -did not mean to steal it. How could I ever have made the mistake? I -recollect nothing, Majella. I must have had one of the sicknesses." - -Ramona's heart was cold with fear. Only too well she knew what summary -punishment was dealt in that region to horse-thieves. "Oh, let me take -it back, dear!" she cried, "Let me go down with it. They will believe -me." - -"Majella!" he exclaimed, "think you I would send you into the fold of -the wolf? My wood-dove! It is in Jim Farrar's corral I left my pony. I -was there last night, to see about his sheep-shearing in the autumn. And -that is the last I know. I will ride back as soon as I have rested. I am -heavy with sleep." - -Thinking it safer to let him sleep for an hour, as his brain was -evidently still confused, Ramona assented to this, though a sense of -danger oppressed her. Getting fresh hay from the corral, she with her -own hands rubbed the horse down. It was a fine, powerful black horse; -Alessandro had evidently urged him cruelly up the steep trail, for -his sides were steaming, his nostrils white with foam. Tears stood -in Ramona's eyes as she did what she could for him. He recognized her -good-will, and put his nose to her face. "It must be because he was -black like Benito, that Alessandro took him," she thought. "Oh, Mary -Mother, help us to get the creature safe back!" she said. - -When she went into the house, Alessandro was asleep. Ramona glanced -at the sun. It was already in the western sky. By no possibility could -Alessandro go to Farrar's and back before dark. She was on the point -of waking him, when a furious barking from Capitan and the other dogs -roused him instantly from his sleep, and springing to his feet, he ran -out to see what it meant. In a moment more Ramona followed,--only a -moment, hardly a moment; but when she reached the threshold, it was to -hear a gun-shot, to see Alessandro fall to the ground, to see, in the -same second, a ruffianly man leap from his horse, and standing over -Alessandro's body, fire his pistol again, once, twice, into the -forehead, cheek. Then with a volley of oaths, each word of which seemed -to Ramona's reeling senses to fill the air with a sound like thunder, he -untied the black horse from the post where Ramona had fastened him, and -leaping into his saddle again, galloped away, leading the horse. As he -rode away, he shook his fist at Ramona, who was kneeling on the ground, -striving to lift Alessandro's head, and to stanch the blood flowing -from the ghastly wounds. "That'll teach you damned Indians to leave -off stealing our horses!" he cried, and with another volley of terrible -oaths was out of sight. - -With a calmness which was more dreadful than any wild outcry of grief, -Ramona sat on the ground by Alessandro's body, and held his hands in -hers. There was nothing to be done for him. The first shot had been -fatal, close to his heart,--the murderer aimed well; the after-shots, -with the pistol, were from mere wanton brutality. After a few seconds -Ramona rose, went into the house, brought out the white altar-cloth, and -laid it over the mutilated face. As she did this, she recalled words -she had heard Father Salvierderra quote as having been said by Father -Junipero, when one of the Franciscan Fathers had been massacred by the -Indians, at San Diego. "Thank God." he said, "the ground is now watered -by the blood of a martyr!" - -"The blood of a martyr!" The words seemed to float in the air; to -cleanse it from the foul blasphemies the murderer had spoken. "My -Alessandro!" she said. "Gone to be with the saints; one of the blessed -martyrs; they will listen to what a martyr says." His hands were warm. -She laid them in her bosom, kissed them again and again. Stretching -herself on the ground by his side, she threw one arm over him, and -whispered in his ear, "My love, my Alessandro! Oh, speak once to -Majella! Why do I not grieve more? My Alessandro! Is he not blest -already? And soon we will be with him! The burdens were too great. He -could not bear them!" Then waves of grief broke over her, and she sobbed -convulsively; but still she shed no tears. Suddenly she sprang to her -feet, and looked wildly around. The sun was not many hours high. Whither -should she go for help? The old Indian woman had gone away with the -sheep, and would not be back till dark. Alessandro must not lie there -on the ground. To whom should she go? To walk to Saboba was out of the -question. There was another Indian village nearer,--the village of the -Cahuillas, on one of the high plateaus of San Jacinto. She had once been -there. Could she find that trail now? She must try. There was no human -help nearer. - -Taking the baby in her arms, she knelt by Alessandro, and kissing him, -whispered, "Farewell, my beloved. I will not be long gone. I go to bring -friends." As she set off, swiftly running, Capitan, who had been lying -by Alessandro's side, uttering heart-rending howls, bounded to his feet -to follow her. "No, Capitan," she said; and leading him back to the -body, she took his head in her hands, looked into his eyes, and said, -"Capitan, watch here." With a whimpering cry, he licked her hands, and -stretched himself on the ground. He understood, and would obey; but his -eyes followed her wistfully till she disappeared from sight. - -The trail was rough, and hard to find. More than once Ramona stopped, -baffled, among the rocky ridges and precipices. Her clothes were torn, -her face bleeding, from the thorny shrubs; her feet seemed leaden, she -made her way so slowly. It was dark in the ravines; as she climbed spur -after spur, and still saw nothing but pine forests or bleak opens, her -heart sank within her. The way had not seemed so long before. Alessandro -had been with her; it was a joyous, bright day, and they had lingered -wherever they liked, and yet the way had seemed short. Fear seized her -that she was lost. If that were so, before morning she would be with -Alessandro; for fierce beasts roamed San Jacinto by night. But for the -baby's sake, she must not die. Feverishly she pressed on. At last, just -as it had grown so dark she could see only a few hand-breadths before -her, and was panting more from terror than from running, lights suddenly -gleamed out, only a few rods ahead. It was the Cahuilla village. In a -few moments she was there. - -It is a poverty-stricken little place, the Cahuilla village,--a cluster -of tule and adobe huts, on a narrow bit of bleak and broken ground, -on San Jacinto Mountain; the people are very poor, but are proud -and high-spirited,--veritable mountaineers in nature, fierce and -independent. - -Alessandro had warm friends among them, and the news that he had been -murdered, and that his wife had run all the way down the mountain, with -her baby in her arms, for help, went like wild-fire through the place. -The people gathered in an excited group around the house where Ramona -had taken refuge. She was lying, half unconscious, on a bed. As soon -as she had gasped out her terrible story, she had fallen forward on the -floor, fainting, and the baby had been snatched from her arms just in -time to save it. She did not seem to miss the child; had not asked for -it, or noticed it when it was brought to the bed. A merciful oblivion -seemed to be fast stealing over her senses. But she had spoken words -enough to set the village in a blaze of excitement. It ran higher and -higher. Men were everywhere mounting their horses,--some to go up and -bring Alessandro's body down; some organizing a party to go at once to -Jim Farrar's house and shoot him: these were the younger men, friends of -Alessandro. Earnestly the aged Capitan of the village implored them to -refrain from such violence. - -"Why should ten be dead instead of one, my sons?" he said. "Will you -leave your wives and your children like his? The whites will kill us all -if you lay hands on the man. Perhaps they themselves will punish him." - -A derisive laugh rose from the group. Never yet within their experience -had a white man been punished for shooting an Indian. The Capitan knew -that as well as they did. Why did he command them to sit still like -women, and do nothing, when a friend was murdered? - -"Because I am old, and you are young. I have seen that we fight in -vain," said the wise old man. "It is not sweet to me, any more than to -you. It is a fire in my veins; but I am old. I have seen. I forbid you -to go." - -The women added their entreaties to his, and the young men abandoned -their project. But it was with sullen reluctance; and mutterings were -to be heard, on all sides, that the time would come yet. There was more -than one way of killing a man. Farrar would not be long seen in the -valley. Alessandro should be avenged. - -As Farrar rode slowly down the mountain, leading his recovered horse, he -revolved in his thoughts what course to pursue. A few years before, he -would have gone home, no more disquieted at having killed an Indian than -if he had killed a fox or a wolf. But things were different now. This -Agent, that the Government had taken it into its head to send out to -look after the Indians, had made it hot, the other day, for some fellows -in San Bernardino who had maltreated an Indian; he had even gone so -far as to arrest several liquor-dealers for simply selling whiskey to -Indians. If he were to take this case of Alessandro's in hand, it might -be troublesome. Farrar concluded that his wisest course would be to make -a show of good conscience and fair-dealing by delivering himself up -at once to the nearest justice of the peace, as having killed a man -in self-defence, Accordingly he rode straight to the house of a Judge -Wells, a few miles below Saboba, and said that he wished to surrender -himself as having committed "justifiable homicide" on an Indian, or -Mexican, he did net know which, who had stolen his horse. He told a -plausible story. He professed not to know the man, or the place; but did -not explain how it was, that, knowing neither, he had gone so direct to -the spot. - -He said: "I followed the trail for some time, but when I reached a turn, -I came into a sort of blind trail, where I lost the track. I think the -horse had been led up on hard sod, to mislead any one on the track. I -pushed on, crossed the creek, and soon found the tracks again in soft -ground. This part of the mountain was perfectly unknown to me, and very -wild. Finally I came to a ridge, from which I looked down on a little -ranch. As I came near the house, the dogs began to bark, just as I -discovered my horse tied to a tree. Hearing the dogs, an Indian, or -Mexican, I could not tell which, came out of the house, flourishing a -large knife. I called out to him, 'Whose horse is that?' He answered -in Spanish, 'It is mine.' 'Where did you get it?' I asked. 'In San -Jacinto,' was his reply. As he still came towards me, brandishing the -knife, I drew my gun, and said, 'Stop, or I'll shoot!' He did not stop, -and I fired; still he did not stop, so I fired again; and as he did not -fall, I knocked him down with the butt of my gun. After he was down, I -shot him twice with my pistol." - -The duty of a justice in such a case as this was clear. Taking the -prisoner into custody, he sent out messengers to summon a jury of six -men to hold inquest on the body of said Indian, or Mexican; and early -the next morning, led by Farrar, they set out for the mountain. When -they reached the ranch, the body had been removed; the house was -locked; no signs left of the tragedy of the day before, except a few -blood-stains on the ground, where Alessandro had fallen. Farrar seemed -greatly relieved at this unexpected phase of affairs. However, when he -found that Judge Wells, instead of attempting to return to the valley -that night, proposed to pass the night at a ranch only a few miles -from the Cahuilla village, he became almost hysterical with fright. -He declared that the Cahuillas would surely come and murder him in the -night, and begged piteously that the men would all stay with him to -guard him. - -At midnight Judge Wells was roused by the arrival of the Capitan and -head men of the Cahuilla village. They had heard of his arrival with his -jury, and they had come to lead them to their village, where the body of -the murdered man lay. They were greatly distressed on learning that they -ought not to have removed the body from the spot where the death had -taken place, and that now no inquest could be held. - -Judge Wells himself, however, went back with them, saw the body, and -heard the full account of the murder as given by Ramona on her first -arrival. Nothing more could now be learned from her, as she was in high -fever and delirium; knew no one, not even her baby when they laid it -on her breast. She lay restlessly tossing from side to side, talking -incessantly, clasping her rosary in her hands, and constantly mingling -snatches of prayers with cries for Alessandro and Felipe; the only token -of consciousness she gave was to clutch the rosary wildly, and sometimes -hide it in her bosom, if they attempted to take it from her. - -Judge Wells was a frontiersman, and by no means sentimentally inclined; -but the tears stood in his eyes as he looked at the unconscious Ramona. - -Farrar had pleaded that the preliminary hearing might take place -immediately; but after this visit to the village, the judge refused his -request, and appointed the trial a week from that day, to give time -for Ramona to recover, and appear as a witness. He impressed upon the -Indians as strongly as he could the importance of having her appear. It -was evident that Farrar's account of the affair was false from first to -last. Alessandro had no knife. He had not had time to go many steps from -the door; the volley of oaths, and the two shots almost simultaneously, -were what Ramona heard as she ran to the door. Alessandro could not have -spoken many words. - -The day for the hearing came. Farrar had been, during the interval, in a -merely nominal custody; having been allowed to go about his business, -on his own personal guarantee of appearing in time for the trial. It -was with a strange mixture of regret and relief that Judge Wells saw the -hour of the trial arrive, and not a witness on the ground except Farrar -himself. That Farrar was a brutal ruffian, the whole country knew. This -last outrage was only one of a long series; the judge would have been -glad to have committed him for trial, and have seen him get his deserts. -But San Jacinto Valley, wild, sparsely settled as it was, had yet as -fixed standards and criterions of popularity as the most civilized of -communities could show; and to betray sympathy with Indians was more -than any man's political head was worth. The word "justice" had lost its -meaning, if indeed it ever had any, so far as they were concerned. The -valley was a unit on that question, however divided it might be upon -others. On the whole, the judge was relieved, though it was not without -a bitter twinge, as of one accessory after the deed, and unfaithful to -a friend; for he had known Alessandro well. Yet, on the whole, he was -relieved when he was forced to accede to the motion made by Farrar's -counsel, that "the prisoner be discharged on ground of justifiable -homicide, no witnesses having appeared against him." - -He comforted himself by thinking--what was no doubt true--that even if -the case had been brought to a jury trial, the result would have been -the same; for there would never have been found a San Diego County jury -that would convict a white man of murder for killing an Indian, if -there were no witnesses to the occurrence except the Indian wife. But he -derived small comfort from this. Alessandro's face haunted him, and also -the memory of Ramona's, as she lay tossing and moaning in the wretched -Cahuilla hovel. He knew that only her continued illness, or her death, -could explain her not having come to the trial. The Indians would have -brought her in their arms all the way, if she had been alive and in -possession of her senses. - -During the summer that she and Alessandro had lived in Saboba he had -seen her many times, and had been impressed by her rare quality. His -children knew her and loved her; had often been in her house; his wife -had bought her embroidery. Alessandro also had worked for him; and no -one knew better than Judge Wells that Alessandro in his senses was as -incapable of stealing a horse as any white man in the valley. Farrar -knew it; everybody knew it. Everybody knew, also, about his strange fits -of wandering mind; and that when these half-crazed fits came on him, -he was wholly irresponsible. Farrar knew this. The only explanation of -Farrar's deed was, that on seeing his horse spent and exhausted from -having been forced up that terrible trail, he was seized by ungovernable -rage, and fired on the second, without knowing what he did. "But he -wouldn't have done it, if it hadn't been an Indian!" mused the judge. -"He'd ha' thought twice before he shot any white man down, that way." - -Day after day such thoughts as these pursued the judge, and he could not -shake them off. An uneasy sense that he owed something to Ramona, or, if -Ramona were dead, to the little child she had left, haunted him. There -might in some such way be a sort of atonement made to the murdered, -unavenged Alessandro. He might even take the child, and bring it up in -his own house. That was by no means an uncommon thing in the valley. The -longer he thought, the more he felt himself eased in his mind by this -purpose; and he decided that as soon as he could find leisure he would -go to the Cahuilla village and see what could be done. - -But it was not destined that stranger hands should bring succor to -Ramona. Felipe had at last found trace of her. Felipe was on the way. - - - - -XXV - -EFFECTUALLY misled by the faithful Carmena, Felipe had begun his search -for Alessandro by going direct to Monterey. He found few Indians in the -place, and not one had ever heard Alessandro's name. Six miles from the -town was a little settlement of them, in hiding, in the bottoms of the -San Carlos River, near the old Mission. The Catholic priest advised him -to search there; sometimes, he said, fugitives of one sort and another -took refuge in this settlement, lived there for a few months, then -disappeared as noiselessly as they had come. Felipe searched there also; -equally in vain. - -He questioned all the sailors in port; all the shippers. No one had -heard of an Indian shipping on board any vessel; in fact, a captain -would have to be in straits before he would take an Indian in his crew. - -"But this was an exceptionally good worker, this Indian; he could turn -his hand to anything; he might have gone as ship's carpenter." - -"That might be," they said; "nobody had ever heard of any such thing, -however;" and very much they all wondered what it was that made the -handsome, sad Mexican gentleman so anxious to find this Indian. - -Felipe wasted weeks in Monterey. Long after he had ceased to hope, he -lingered. He felt as if he would like to stay till every ship that had -sailed out of Monterey in the last three years had returned. Whenever he -heard of one coming into harbor, he hastened to the shore, and closely -watched the disembarking. His melancholy countenance, with its eager, -searching look, became a familiar sight to every one; even the children -knew that the pale gentleman was looking for some one he could not find. -Women pitied him, and gazed at him tenderly, wondering if a man could -look like that for anything save the loss of a sweetheart. Felipe made -no confidences. He simply asked, day after day, of every one he met, for -an Indian named Alessandro Assis. - -Finally he shook himself free from the dreamy spell of the place, -and turned his face southward again. He went by the route which the -Franciscan Fathers used to take, when the only road on the California -coast was the one leading from Mission to Mission. Felipe had heard -Father Salvierderra say that there were in the neighborhood of each of -the old Missions Indian villages, or families still living. He thought -it not improbable that, from Alessandro's father's long connection with -the San Luis Rey Mission, Alessandro might be known to some of these -Indians. He would leave no stone unturned; no Indian village unsearched; -no Indian unquestioned. - -San Juan Bautista came first; then Soledad, San Antonio, San Miguel, San -Luis Obispo, Santa Inez; and that brought him to Santa Barbara. He -had spent two months on the journey. At each of these places he found -Indians; miserable, half-starved creatures, most of them. Felipe's heart -ached, and he was hot with shame, at their condition. The ruins of the -old Mission buildings were sad to see, but the human ruins were sadder. -Now Felipe understood why Father Salvierderra's heart had broken, and -why his mother had been full of such fierce indignation against the -heretic usurpers and despoilers of the estates which the Franciscans -once held. He could not understand why the Church had submitted, -without fighting, to such indignities and robberies. At every one of the -Missions he heard harrowing tales of the sufferings of those Fathers who -had clung to their congregations to the last, and died at their posts. -At Soledad an old Indian, weeping, showed him the grave of Father -Sarria, who had died there of starvation. "He gave us all he had, to the -last," said the old man. "He lay on a raw-hide on the ground, as we did; -and one morning, before he had finished the mass, he fell forward at the -altar and was dead. And when we put him in the grave, his body was only -bones, and no flesh; he had gone so long without food, to give it to -us." - -At all these Missions Felipe asked in vain for Alessandro. They knew -very little, these northern Indians, about those in the south, they -said. It was seldom one from the southern tribes came northward. They -did not understand each other's speech. The more Felipe inquired, and -the longer he reflected, the more he doubted Alessandro's having ever -gone to Monterey. At Santa Barbara he made a long stay. The Brothers -at the College welcomed him hospitably. They had heard from Father -Salvierderra the sad story of Ramona, and were distressed, with Felipe, -that no traces had been found of her. It grieved Father Salvierderra to -the last, they said; he prayed for her daily, but said he could not get -any certainty in his spirit of his prayers being heard. Only the day -before he died, he had said this to Father Francis, a young Brazilian -monk, to whom he was greatly attached. - -In Felipe's overwrought frame of mind this seemed to him a terrible -omen; and he set out on his journey with a still heavier heart -than before. He believed Ramona was dead, buried in some unknown, -unconsecrated spot, never to be found; yet he would not give up the -search. As he journeyed southward, he began to find persons who had -known of Alessandro; and still more, those who had known his father, old -Pablo. But no one had heard anything of Alessandro's whereabouts since -the driving out of his people from Temecula; there was no knowing where -any of those Temecula people were now. They had scattered "like a flock -of ducks," one Indian said,--"like a flock of ducks after they are -fired into. You'd never see all those ducks in any one place again. The -Temecula people were here, there, and everywhere, all through San Diego -County. There was one Temecula man at San Juan Capistrano, however. The -Senor would better see him. He no doubt knew about Alessandro. He was -living in a room in the old Mission building. The priest had given it -to him for taking care of the chapel and the priest's room, and a little -rent besides. He was a hard man, the San Juan Capistrano priest; he -would take the last dollar from a poor man." - -It was late at night when Felipe reached San Juan Capistrano; but he -could not sleep till he had seen this man. Here was the first clew he -had gained. He found the man, with his wife and children, in a large -corner room opening on the inner court of the Mission quadrangle. The -room was dark and damp as a cellar; a fire smouldered in the enormous -fireplace; a few skins and rags were piled near the hearth, and on these -lay the woman, evidently ill. The sunken tile floor was icy cold to the -feet; the wind swept in at a dozen broken places in the corridor side -of the wall; there was not an article of furniture. "Heavens!" thought -Felipe, as he entered, "a priest of our Church take rent for such a hole -as this!" - -There was no light in the place, except the little which came from the -fire. "I am sorry I have no candle, Senor," said the man, as he came -forward. "My wife is sick, and we are very poor." - -"No matter," said Felipe, his hand already at his purse. "I only want to -ask you a few questions. You are from Temecula, they tell me." - -"Yes, Senor," the man replied in a dogged tone,--no man of Temecula -could yet hear the word without a pang,--"I was of Temecula." - -"I want to find one Alessandro Assis who lived there. You knew him, I -suppose," said Felipe, eagerly. - -At this moment a brand broke in the smouldering fire, and for one second -a bright blaze shot up; only for a second, then all was dark again. But -the swift blaze had fallen on Felipe's face, and with a start which -he could not control, but which Felipe did not see, the Indian had -recognized him. "Ha, ha!" he thought to himself. "Senor Felipe Moreno, -you come to the wrong house asking for news of Alessandro Assis!" - -It was Antonio,--Antonio, who had been at the Moreno sheep-shearing; -Antonio, who knew even more than Carmena had known, for he knew what a -marvel and miracle it seemed that the beautiful Senorita from the Moreno -house should have loved Alessandro, and wedded him; and he knew that on -the night she went away with him, Alessandro had lured out of the corral -a beautiful horse for her to ride. Alessandro had told him all about -it,--Baba, fiery, splendid Baba, black as night, with a white star in -his forehead. Saints! but it was a bold thing to do, to steal such a -horse as that, with a star for a mark; and no wonder that even now, -though near three years afterwards, Senor Felipe was in search of him. -Of course it could be only the horse he wanted. Ha! much help might he -get from Antonio! - -"Yes, Senor, I knew him," he replied. - -"Do you know where he is now?" - -"No, Senor." - -"Do you know where he went, from Temecula?" - -"No, Senor." - -"A woman told me he went to Monterey. I have been there looking for -him." - -"I heard, too, he had gone to Monterey." - -"Where did you see him last?" - -"In Temecula." - -"Was he alone?" - -"Yes, Senor." - -"Did you ever hear of his being married?" - -"No, Senor." - -"Where are the greater part of the Temecula people now?" - -"Like this, Senor," with a bitter gesture, pointing to his wife. "Most -of us are beggars. A few here, a few there. Some have gone to Capitan -Grande, some way down into Lower California." - -Wearily Felipe continued his bootless questioning. No suspicion that the -man was deceiving him crossed his mind. At last, with a sigh, he -said, "I hoped to have found Alessandro by your means. I am greatly -disappointed. - -"I doubt not that, Senor Felipe Moreno," thought Antonio. "I am sorry, -Senor," he said. - -It smote his conscience when Felipe laid in his hand a generous -gold-piece, and said, "Here is a bit of money for you. I am sorry to see -you so poorly off." - -The thanks which he spoke sounded hesitating and gruff, so remorseful -did he feel. Senor Felipe had always been kind to them. How well they -had fared always in his house! It was a shame to lie to him; yet the -first duty was to Alessandro. It could not be avoided. And thus a second -time help drifted away from Ramona. - -At Temecula, from Mrs. Hartsel, Felipe got the first true intelligence -of Alessandro's movements; but at first it only confirmed his worst -forebodings. Alessandro had been at Mrs. Hartsel's house; he had been -alone, and on foot; he was going to walk all the way to San Pasquale, -where he had the promise of work. - -How sure the kindly woman was that she was telling the exact truth. -After long ransacking of her memory and comparing of events, she fixed -the time so nearly to the true date, that it was to Felipe's mind a -terrible corroboration of his fears. It was, he thought, about a week -after Ramona's flight from home that Alessandro had appeared thus, -alone, on foot, at Mrs. Hartsel's. In great destitution, she said; and -she had lent him money on the expectation of selling his violin; but -they had never sold it; there it was yet. And that Alessandro was dead, -she had no more doubt than that she herself was alive; for else, he -would have come back to pay her what he owed. The honestest fellow that -ever lived, was Alessandro. Did not the Senor Moreno think so? Had he -not found him so always? There were not many such Indians as Alessandro -and his father. If there had been, it would have been better for their -people. "If they'd all been like Alessandro, I tell you," she said, "it -would have taken more than any San Diego sheriff to have put them out of -their homes here." - -"But what could they do to help themselves, Mrs. Hartsel?" asked Felipe. -"The law was against them. We can't any of us go against that. I myself -have lost half my estate in the same way." - -"Well, at any rate they wouldn't have gone without fighting!" she said. -"'If Alessandro had been here!' they all said." - -Felipe asked to see the violin. "But that is not Alessandro's," he -exclaimed. "I have seen his." - -"No!" she said. "Did I say it was his? It was his father's. One of the -Indians brought it in here to hide it with us at the time they were -driven out. It is very old, they say, and worth a great deal of money, -if you could find the right man to buy it. But he has not come along -yet. He will, though. I am not a bit afraid but that we'll get our money -back on it. If Alessandro was alive, he'd have been here long before -this." - -Finding Mrs. Hartsel thus friendly, Felipe suddenly decided to tell -her the whole story. Surprise and incredulity almost overpowered her at -first. She sat buried in thought for some minutes; then she sprang -to her feet, and cried: "If he's got that girl with him, he's hiding -somewhere. There's nothing like an Indian to hide; and if he is hiding, -every other Indian knows it, and you just waste your breath asking any -questions of any of them. They will die before they will tell you one -thing. They are as secret as the grave. And they, every one of them, -worshipped Alessandro. You see they thought he would be over them, after -Pablo, and they were all proud of him because he could read and -write, and knew more than most of them. If I were in your place," she -continued, "I would not give it up yet. I should go to San Pasquale. Now -it might just be that she was along with him that night he stopped here, -hid somewhere, while he came in to get the money. I know I urged him to -stay all night, and he said he could not do it. I don't know, though, -where he could possibly have left her while he came here." - -Never in all her life had Mrs. Hartsel been so puzzled and so astonished -as now. But her sympathy, and her confident belief that Alessandro might -yet be found, gave unspeakable cheer to Felipe. - -"If I find them, I shall take them home with me, Mrs. Hartsel," he said -as he rode away; "and we will come by this road and stop to see you." -And the very speaking of the words cheered him all the way to San -Pasquale. - -But before he had been in San Pasquale an hour, he was plunged into a -perplexity and disappointment deeper than he had yet felt. He found the -village in disorder, the fields neglected, many houses deserted, the -remainder of the people preparing to move away. In the house of Ysidro, -Alessandro's kinsman, was living a white family,--the family of a man -who had pre-empted the greater part of the land on which the village -stood. Ysidro, profiting by Alessandro's example, when he found -that there was no help, that the American had his papers from the -land-office, in all due form, certifying that the land was his, had -given the man his option of paying for the house or having it burned -down. The man had bought the house; and it was only the week before -Felipe arrived, that Ysidro had set off, with all his goods and -chattels, for Mesa Grande. He might possibly have told the Senor more, -the people said, than any one now in the village could; but even Ysidro -did not know where Alessandro intended to settle. He told no one. He -went to the north. That was all they knew. - -To the north! That north which Felipe thought he had thoroughly -searched. He sighed at the word. The Senor could, if he liked, see the -house in which Alessandro had lived. There it was, on the south side of -the valley, just in the edge of the foothills; some Americans lived in -it now. Such a good ranch Alessandro had; the best wheat in the valley. -The American had paid Alessandro something for it,--they did not know -how much; but Alessandro was very lucky to get anything. If only they -had listened to him. He was always telling them this would come. Now it -was too late for most of them to get anything for their farms. One man -had taken the whole of the village lands, and he had bought Ysidro's -house because it was the best; and so they would not get anything. They -were utterly disheartened, broken-spirited. - -In his sympathy for them, Felipe almost forgot his own distresses. -"Where are you going?" he asked of several. - -"Who knows, Senor?" was their reply. "Where can we go? There is no -place." - -When, in reply to his questions in regard to Alessandro's wife, Felipe -heard her spoken of as "Majella," his perplexity deepened. Finally he -asked if no one had ever heard the name Ramona. - -"Never." - -What could it mean? Could it be possible that this was another -Alessandro than the one of whom he was in search? Felipe bethought -himself of a possible marriage-record. Did they know where Alessandro -had married this wife of his, of whom every word they spoke seemed both -like and unlike Ramona? - -Yes. It was in San Diego they had been married, by Father Gaspara. - -Hoping against hope, the baffled Felipe rode on to San Diego; and here, -as ill-luck would have it, he found, not Father Gaspara, who would at -his first word have understood all, but a young Irish priest, who had -only just come to be Father Gaspara's assistant. Father Gaspara was -away in the mountains, at Santa Ysabel. But the young assistant would do -equally well, to examine the records. He was courteous and kind; brought -out the tattered old book, and, looking over his shoulder, his breath -coming fast with excitement and fear, there Felipe read, in Father -Gaspara's hasty and blotted characters, the fatal entry of the names, -"Alessandro Assis and Majella Fa--" - -Heart-sick, Felipe went away. Most certainly Ramona would never have -been married under any but her own name. Who, then, was this woman whom -Alessandro Assis had married in less than ten days from the night on -which Ramona had left her home? Some Indian woman for whom he felt -compassion, or to whom he was bound by previous ties? And where, in what -lonely, forever hidden spot, was the grave of Ramona? - -Now at last Felipe felt sure that she was dead. It was useless searching -farther. Yet, after he reached home, his restless conjectures took one -more turn, and he sat down and wrote a letter to every priest between -San Diego and Monterey, asking if there were on his books a record of -the marriage of one Alessandro Assis and Ramona Ortegna. - -It was not impossible that there might be, after all, another Alessandro -Assis, The old Fathers, in baptizing their tens of thousands of Indian -converts, were sore put to it to make out names enough. There might -have been another Assis besides old Pablo, and of Alessandros there were -dozens everywhere. - -This last faint hope also failed. No record anywhere of an Alessandro -Assis, except in Father Gaspara's book. - -As Felipe was riding out of San Pasquale, he had seen an Indian man and -woman walking by the side of mules heavily laden. Two little children, -two young or too feeble to walk, were so packed in among the bundles -that their faces were the only part of them in sight. The woman was -crying bitterly. "More of these exiles. God help the poor creatures!" -thought Felipe; and he pulled out his purse, and gave the woman a piece -of gold. She looked up in as great astonishment as if the money had -fallen from the skies. "Thanks! Thanks, Senor!" she exclaimed; and the -man coming up to Felipe said also, "God reward you, Senor! That is more -money than I had in the world! Does the Senor know of any place where I -could get work?" - -Felipe longed to say, "Yes, come to my estate; there you shall have -work!" In the olden time he would have done it without a second thought, -for both the man and the woman had good faces,--were young and strong. -But the pay-roll of the Moreno estate was even now too long for -its dwindled fortunes. "No, my man, I am sorry to say I do not," he -answered. "I live a long way from here. Where were you thinking of -going?" - -"Somewhere in San Jacinto," said the man. "They say the Americans have -not come in there much yet. I have a brother living there. Thanks, -Senor; may the saints reward you!" - -"San Jacinto!" After Felipe returned home, the name haunted his -thoughts. The grand mountain-top bearing that name he had known well -in many a distant horizon. "Juan Can," he said one day, "are there many -Indians in San Jacinto?" - -"The mountain?" said Juan Can. - -"Ay, I suppose, the mountain," said Felipe. "What else is there?" - -"The valley, too," replied Juan. "The San Jacinto Valley is a fine, -broad valley, though the river is not much to be counted on. It is -mostly dry sand a good part of the year. But there is good grazing. -There is one village of Indians I know in the valley; some of the -San Luis Rey Indians came from there; and up on the mountain is a big -village; the wildest Indians in all the country live there. Oh, they are -fierce, Senor!" - -The next morning Felipe set out for San Jacinto. Why had no one -mentioned, why had he not himself known, of these villages? Perhaps -there were yet others he had not heard of. Hope sprang in Felipe's -impressionable nature as easily as it died. An hour, a moment, might see -him both lifted up and cast down. When he rode into the sleepy little -village street of San Bernardino, and saw, in the near horizon, against -the southern sky, a superb mountain-peak, changing in the sunset lights -from turquoise to ruby, and from ruby to turquoise again, he said to -himself, "She is there! I have found her!" - -The sight of the mountain affected him, as it had always affected Aunt -Ri, with an indefinable, solemn sense of something revealed, yet hidden. -"San Jacinto?" he said to a bystander, pointing to it with his whip. - -"Yes, Senor," replied the man. As he spoke, a pair of black horses came -whirling round the corner, and he sprang to one side, narrowly escaping -being knocked down. "That Tennessee fellow'll run over somebody yet, -with those black devils of his, if he don't look out," he muttered, as -he recovered his balance. - -Felipe glanced at the horses, then driving his spurs deep into his -horse's sides, galloped after them. "Baba! by God!" he cried aloud in -his excitement and forgetful of everything, he urged his horse faster, -shouting as he rode, "Stop that man! Stop that man with the black -horses!" - -Jos, hearing his name called on all sides, reined in Benito and Baba -as soon as he could, and looked around in bewilderment to see what had -happened. Before he had time to ask any questions, Felipe had overtaken -him, and riding straight to Baba's head, had flung himself from his own -horse and taken Baba by the rein, crying, "Baba! Baba!" Baba knew his -voice, and began to whinny and plunge. Felipe was nearly unmanned. For -the second, he forgot everything. A crowd was gathering around them. It -had never been quite clear to the San Bernardino mind that Jos's title -to Benito and Baba would bear looking into; and it was no surprise, -therefore, to some of the on-lookers, to hear Felipe cry in a loud -voice, looking suspiciously at Jos, "How did you get him?" - -Jos was a wag, and Jos was never hurried. The man did not live, nor -could the occasion arrive, which would quicken his constitutional drawl. -Before even beginning his answer he crossed one leg over the other and -took a long, observant look at Felipe; then in a pleasant voice he said: -"Wall, Senor,--I allow yer air a Senor by yer color,--it would take -right smart uv time tew tell yeow haow I cum by thet hoss, 'n' by the -other one tew. They ain't mine, neither one on 'em." - -Jos's speech was as unintelligible to Felipe as it had been to Ramona, -Jos saw it, and chuckled. - -"Mebbe 't would holp yer tew understand me ef I wuz tew talk Mexican," -he said, and proceeded to repeat in tolerably good Spanish the sum and -substance of what he had just said, adding: "They belong to an Indian -over on San Jacinto; at least, the off one does; the nigh one's his -wife's; he wouldn't ever call thet one anything but hers. It had been -hers ever sence she was a girl, they said, I never saw people think so -much of hosses as they did." - -Before Jos had finished speaking, Felipe had bounded into the wagon, -throwing his horse's reins to a boy in the crowd, and crying, "Follow -along with my horse, will you? I must speak to this man." - -Found! Found,--the saints be praised,--at last! How should he tell this -man fast enough? How should he thank him enough? - -Laying his hand on Jos's knee, he cried: "I can't explain to you; I -can't tell you. Bless you forever,--forever! It must be the saints led -you here!" - -"Oh, Lawd!" thought Jos; "another o' them 'saint' fellers! I allow not, -Senor," he said, relapsing into Tennesseean. "It wur Tom Wurmsee led me; -I wuz gwine ter move his truck fur him this arternoon." - -"Take me home with you to your house," said Felipe, still trembling with -excitement; "we cannot talk here in the street. I want to hear all -you can tell me about them. I have been searching for them all over -California." - -Jos's face lighted up. This meant good fortune for that gentle, sweet -Ramona, he was sure. "I'll take you straight there," he said; "but first -I must stop at Tom's. He will be waiting for me." - -The crowd dispersed, disappointed; cheated out of their anticipated -scene of an arrest for horse-stealing. "Good for you, Tennessee!" and, -"Fork over that black horse, Jos!" echoed from the departing groups. -Sensations were not so common in San Bernardino that they could afford -to slight so notable an occasion as this. - -As Jos turned the corner into the street where he lived, he saw his -mother coming at a rapid run towards them, her sun-bonnet half off her -head, her spectacles pushed up in her hair. - -"Why, thar's mammy!" he exclaimed. "What ever hez gone wrong naow?" - -Before he finished speaking, she saw the black horses, and snatching -her bonnet from her head waved it wildly, crying, "Yeow Jos! Jos, hyar! -Stop! I wuz er comin' ter hunt yer!" - -Breathlessly she continued talking, her words half lost in the sound -of the wheels. Apparently she did not see the stranger sitting by Jos's -side. "Oh, Jos, thar's the terriblest news come! Thet Injun Alessandro's -got killed; murdered; jest murdered, I say; 'tain't no less. Thar wuz an -Injun come down from ther mounting with a letter to the Agent." - -"Good God! Alessandro killed!" burst from Felipe's lips in a -heart-rending voice. - -Jos looked bewilderedly from his mother to Felipe; the complication was -almost beyond him. "Oh, Lawd!" he gasped. Turning to Felipe, "Thet's -mammy," he said. "She wuz real fond o' both on 'em." Turning to his -mother, "This hyar's her brother," he said. "He jest knowed me by Baba, -hyar on ther street. He's been huntin' 'em everywhar." - -Aunt Ri grasped the situation instantly. Wiping her streaming eyes, she -sobbed out: "Wall, I'll allow, arter this, thar is sech a thing ez a -Providence, ez they call it. 'Pears like ther couldn't ennythin' less -brung yer hyar jest naow. I know who yer be; ye're her brother Feeleepy, -ain't yer? Menny's ther time she's tolt me about yer! Oh, Lawd! How air -we ever goin' to git ter her? I allow she's dead! I allow she'd never -live arter seein' him shot down dead! He tolt me thar couldn't nobody -git up thar whar they'd gone; no white folks, I mean. Oh, Lawd, Lawd!" - -Felipe stood paralyzed, horror-stricken. He turned in despair to Jos. -"Tell me in Spanish," he said. "I cannot understand." - -As Jos gradually drew out the whole story from his mother's excited and -incoherent speech, and translated it, Felipe groaned aloud, "Too late! -Too late!" He too felt, as Aunt Ri had, that Ramona never could have -survived the shock of seeing her husband murdered. "Too late! Too late!" -he cried, as he staggered into the house. "She has surely died of the -sight." - -"I allow she didn't die, nuther," said Jos; "not ser long ez she hed -thet young un to look arter!" - -"Yer air right, Jos!" said Aunt Ri. "I allow yer air right. Thar -couldn't nothin' kill her, short er wild beasts, ef she hed ther baby -'n her arms! She ain't dead, not ef the baby ez erlive, I allow. Thet's -some comfort." - -Felipe sat with his face buried in his hands. Suddenly looking up, he -said, "How far is it?" - -"Thirty miles 'n' more inter the valley, where we wuz," said Jos; "'n' -the Lawd knows how fur 'tis up on ter the mounting, where they wuz -livin'. It's like goin' up the wall uv a house, goin' up San Jacinto -Mounting, daddy sez. He wuz thar huntin' all summer with Alessandro." - -How strange, how incredible it seemed, to hear Alessandro's name thus -familiarly spoken,--spoken by persons who had known him so recently, and -who were grieving, grieving as friends, to hear of his terrible death! -Felipe felt as if he were in a trance. Rousing himself, he said, "We -must go. We must start at once. You will let me have the horses?" - -"Wall, I allow yer've got more right ter 'em 'n--" began Jos, -energetically, forgetting himself; then, dropping Tennesseean, he -completed in Spanish his cordial assurances that the horses were at -Felipe's command. - -"Jos! He's got ter take me!" cried Aunt Ri. "I allow I ain't never gwine -ter set still hyar, 'n' thet girl inter sech trouble; 'n' if so be -ez she is reely dead, thar's the baby. He hadn't orter go alone by -hisself." - -Felipe was thankful, indeed, for Aunt Ri's companionship, and expressed -himself in phrases so warm, that she was embarrassed. - -"Yeow tell him, Jos," she said, "I can't never git used ter bein' called -Senory. Yeow tell him his' sister allers called me Aunt Ri, 'n' I jest -wish he would. I allow me 'n' him'll git along all right. 'Pears like -I'd known him all my days, jest ez 't did with her, arter the fust. -I'm free to confess I take more ter these Mexicans than I do ter these -low-down, driven Yankees, ennyhow,--a heap more; but I can't stand -bein' Senory'd! Yeow tell him, Jos. I s'pose thar's a word for 'aunt' in -Mexican, ain't there? 'Pears like thar couldn't be no langwedge 'thout -sech a word! He'll know what it means! I'd go off with him a heap easier -ef he'd call me jest plain Aunt Ri, ez I'm used ter, or Mis Hyer, either -un on 'em; but Aunt Ri's the nateralest." - -Jos had some anxiety about his mother's memory of the way to San -Jacinto. She laughed. - -"Don't yeow be a mite oneasy," she said. "I bet yeow I'd go clean back -ter the States ther way we cum. I allow I've got every mile on 't 'n -my hed plain's a turnpike. Yeow nor yer dad, neiry one on yer, couldn't -begin to do 't. But what we air gwine ter do, fur gettin' up the -mounting, thet's another thing. Thet's more 'n I dew know. But thar'll -be a way pervided, Jos, sure's yeow're bawn. The Lawd ain't gwine to get -hisself hindered er holpin' Ramony this time; I ain't a mite afeerd." - -Felipe could not have found a better ally. The comparative silence -enforced between them by reason of lack of a common vehicle for their -thoughts was on the whole less of a disadvantage than would have at -first appeared. They understood each other well enough for practical -purposes, and their unity in aim, and in affection for Ramona, made a -bond so strong, it could not have been enhanced by words. - -It was past sundown when they left San Bernardino, but a full moon made -the night as good as day for their journey. When it first shone out, -Aunt Ri, pointing to it, said curtly, "Thet's lucky." - -"Yes," replied Felipe, who did not know either of the words she had -spoken, "it is good. It shows to us the way." - -"Thar, naow, say he can't understand English!" thought Aunt Ri. - -Benito and Baba travelled as if they knew the errand on which they were -hurrying. Good forty miles they had gone without flagging once, when -Aunt Ri, pointing to a house on the right hand of the road, the only one -they had seen for many miles, said: "We'll hev to sleep hyar. I donno -the road beyant this. I allow they're gone ter bed; but they'll hev to -git up 'n' take us in. They're used ter doin' it. They dew consid'able -business keepin' movers. I know 'em. They're reel friendly fur the kind -o' people they air. They're druv to death. It can't be far frum their -time to git up, ennyhow. They're up every mornin' uv thar lives long -afore daylight, a feedin' their stock, an' gittin' ready fur the day's -work. I used ter hear 'em 'n' see 'em, when we wuz campin' here. The -fust I saw uv it, I thought somebody wuz sick in the house, to git 'em -up thet time o' night; but arterwards we found out 't wan't nothin' but -thar reggerlar way. When I told dad, sez I, 'Dad, did ever yer hear -sech a thing uz gittin' up afore light to feed stock?' 'n' ter feed -theirselves tew. They'd their own breakfast all clared away, 'n' dishes -washed, too, afore light; 'n' prayers said beside; they're Methodys, -terrible pious. I used ter tell dad they talked a heap about believin' -in God; I don't allow but what they dew believe in God, tew, but -they don't worship Him so much's they worship work; not nigh so much. -Believin' 'n' worshippin' 's tew things. Yeow wouldn't see no sech -doin's in Tennessee. I allow the Lawd meant some time fur sleepin'; 'n' -I'm satisfied with his times o' lightin' up. But these Merrills air reel -nice folks, fur all this I've ben tellin' yer!--Lawd! I don't believe -he's understood a word I've said, naow!" thought Aunt Ri to herself, -suddenly becoming aware of the hopeless bewilderment on Felipe's face. -"'Tain't much use sayin' anything more'n plain yes 'n' no, between folks -thet can't understand each other's langwedge; 'n' s' fur's thet goes, I -allow thar ain't any gret use'n the biggest part o' what's sed between -folks thet doos!" - -When the Merrill family learned Felipe's purpose of going up the -mountain to the Cahuilla village, they attempted to dissuade him from -taking his own horses. He would kill them both, high-spirited horses -like those, they said, if he took them over that road. It was a cruel -road. They pointed out to him the line where it wound, doubling and -tacking on the sides of precipices, like a path for a goat or chamois. -Aunt Ri shuddered at the sight, but said nothing. - -"I'm gwine whar he goes," she said grimly to herself. "I ain't a gwine -ter back daown naow; but I dew jest wish Jeff Hyer wuz along." - -Felipe himself disliked what he saw and heard of the grade. The road -had been built for bringing down lumber, and for six miles it was at -perilous angles. After this it wound along on ridges and in ravines till -it reached the heart of a great pine forest, where stood a saw-mill. -Passing this, it plunged into still darker, denser woods, some fifteen -miles farther on, and then came out among vast opens, meadows, and -grassy foot-hills, still on the majestic mountain's northern or eastern -slopes. From these, another steep road, little more than a trail, led -south, and up to the Cahuilla village. A day and a half's hard journey, -at the shortest, it was from Merrill's; and no one unfamiliar with the -country could find the last part of the way without a guide. Finally -it was arranged that one of the younger Merrills should go in this -capacity, and should also take two of his strongest horses, accustomed -to the road. By the help of these the terrible ascent was made without -difficulty, though Baba at first snorted, plunged, and resented the -humiliation of being harnessed with his head at another horse's tail. - -Except for their sad errand, both Felipe and Aunt Ri would have -experienced a keen delight in this ascent. With each fresh lift on the -precipitous terraces, the view off to the south and west broadened, -until the whole San Jacinto Valley lay unrolled at their feet. The pines -were grand; standing, they seemed shapely columns; fallen, the upper -curve of their huge yellow disks came above a man's head, so massive was -their size. On many of them the bark had been riddled from root to top, -as by myriads of bullet-holes. In each hole had been cunningly stored -away an acorn,--the woodpeckers' granaries. - -"Look at thet, naow!" exclaimed the observant Aunt Ri; "an' thar's -folk's thet sez dumb critters ain't got brains. They ain't noways dumb -to each other, I notice; an' we air dumb aourselves when we air ketched -with furriners. I allow I'm next door to dumb myself with this hyar -Mexican I'm er travellin' with." - -"That's so!" replied Sam Merrill. "When we fust got here, I thought I'd -ha' gone clean out o' my head tryin' to make these Mexicans sense my -meanin'; my tongue was plaguy little use to me. But now I can talk their -lingo fust-rate; but pa, he can't talk to 'em nohow; he hain't learned -the fust word; 'n' he's ben here goin' on two years longer'n we have." - -The miles seemed leagues to Felipe. Aunt Ri's drawling tones, as she -chatted volubly with young Merrill, chafed him. How could she chatter! -But when he thought this, it would chance that in a few moments more he -would see her clandestinely wiping away tears, and his heart would warm -to her again. - -They slept at a miserable cabin in one of the clearings, and at early -dawn pushed on, reaching the Cahuilla village before noon. As their -carriage came in sight, a great running to and fro of people was to be -seen. Such an event as the arrival of a comfortable carriage drawn by -four horses had never before taken place in the village. The agitation -into which the people had been thrown by the murder of Alessandro had -by no means subsided; they were all on the alert, suspicious of each new -occurrence. The news had only just reached the village that Farrar had -been set at liberty, and would not be punished for his crime, and the -flames of indignation and desire for vengeance, which the aged Capitan -had so much difficulty in allaying in the outset, were bursting forth -again this morning. It was therefore a crowd of hostile and lowering -faces which gathered around the carriage as it stopped in front of the -Capitan's house. - -Aunt Ri's face was a ludicrous study of mingled terror, defiance, and -contempt. "Uv all ther low-down, no-'count, beggarly trash ever I laid -eyes on," she said in a low tone to Merrill, "I allow these yere air the -wust! But I allow they'd flatten us all aout in jest abaout a minnit, -if they wuz to set aout tew! Ef she ain't hyar, we air in a scrape, I -allow." - -"Oh, they're friendly enough," laughed Merrill. "They're all stirred -up, now, about the killin' o' that Injun; that's what makes 'em look -so fierce. I don't wonder! 'Twas a derned mean thing Jim Farrar did, a -firin' into the man after he was dead. I don't blame him for killin' -the cuss, not a bit; I'd have shot any man livin' that 'ad taken a good -horse o' mine up that trail. That's the only law we stock men've got -out in this country. We've got to protect ourselves. But it was a mean, -low-lived trick to blow the feller's face to pieces after he was dead; -but Jim's a rough feller, 'n' I expect he was so mad, when he see his -horse, that he didn't know what he did." - -Aunt Ri was half paralyzed with astonishment at this speech. Felipe had -leaped out of the carriage, and after a few words with the old Capitan, -had hurried with him into his house. Felipe had evidently forgotten that -she was still in the carriage. His going into the house looked as if -Ramona was there. Aunt Ri, in all her indignation and astonishment, was -conscious of this train of thought running through her mind; but not -even the near prospect of seeing Ramona could bridle her tongue now, -or make her defer replying to the extraordinary statements she had just -heard. The words seemed to choke her as she began. "Young man," she -said, "I donno much abaout yeour raisin'. I've heered yeour folks wuz -great on religion. Naow, we ain't, Jeff 'n' me; we warn't raised thet -way; but I allow ef I wuz ter hear my boy, Jos,--he's jest abaout yeour -age, 'n' make tew, though he's narrerer chested,--ef I should hear him -say what yeou've jest said, I allow I sh'd expect to see him struck by -lightnin'; 'n' I sh'dn't think he hed got more 'n his deserts, I allow I -sh'dn't!" - -What more Aunt Ri would have said to the astounded Merrill was never -known, for at that instant the old Capitan, returning to the door, -beckoned to her; and springing from her seat to the ground, sternly -rejecting Sam's offered hand, she hastily entered the house. As she -crossed the threshold, Felipe turned an anguished face toward her, and -said, "Come, speak to her." He was on his knees by a wretched pallet on -the floor. Was that Ramona,--that prostrate form; hair dishevelled, eyes -glittering, cheeks scarlet, hands playing meaninglessly, like the hands -of one crazed, with a rosary of gold beads? Yes, it was Ramona; and -it was like this she had lain there now ten days; and the people had -exhausted all their simple skill for her in vain. - -Aunt Ri burst into tears. "Oh, Lawd!" she said. "Ef I had some 'old man' -hyar, I'd bring her aout er thet fever! I dew bleeve I seed some on 't -growin' not more'n er mile back." And without a second look, or another -word, she ran out of the door, and springing into the carriage, said, -speaking faster than she had been heard to speak for thirty years: "Yeow -jest turn raound 'n' drive me back a piece, the way we come. I allow -I'll git a weed thet'll break thet fever. Faster, faster! Run yer -hosses. 'Tain't above er mile back, whar I seed it," she cried, leaning -out, eagerly scrutinizing each inch of the barren ground. "Stop! Here -'tis!" she cried. "I knowed I smelt the bitter on 't somewhars along -hyar;" and in a few minutes more she had a mass of the soft, shining, -gray, feathery leaves in her hands, and was urging the horses fiercely -on their way back. "This'll cure her, ef ennything will," she said, as -she entered the room again; but her heart sank as she saw Ramona's eyes -roving restlessly over Felipe's face, no sign of recognition in them. -"She's bad," she said, her lips trembling; "but, 'never say die!' ez -allers our motto; 'tain't never tew late fur ennything but oncet, 'n' -yer can't tell when thet time's come till it's past 'n' gone." - -Steaming bowls of the bitterly odorous infusion she held at Ramona's -nostrils; with infinite patience she forced drop after drop of it -between the unconscious lips; she bathed the hands and head, her own -hands blistered by the heat. It was a fight with death; but love and -life won. Before night Ramona was asleep. - -Felipe and Aunt Ri sat by her, strange but not uncongenial watchers, -each taking heart from the other's devotion. All night long Ramona -slept. As Felipe watched her, he remembered his own fever, and how she -had knelt by his bed and prayed there. He glanced around the room. In a -niche in the mud wall was a cheap print of the Madonna, one candle just -smouldering out before it. The village people had drawn heavily on their -poverty-stricken stores, keeping candles burning for Alessandro and -Ramona during the past ten days. The rosary had slipped from Ramona's -hold; taking it cautiously in his hand, Felipe went to the Madonna's -picture, and falling on his knees, began to pray as simply as if he were -alone. The Indians, standing on the doorway, also fell on their knees, -and a low-whispered murmur was heard. - -For a moment Aunt Ri looked at the kneeling figures with contempt. "Oh, -Lawd!" she thought, "the pore heathen, prayin' ter a picter!" Then a -sudden revulsion seized her. "I allow I ain't gwine ter be the unly one -out er the hull number thet don't seem to hev nothin' ter pray ter; I -allow I'll jine in prayer, tew, but I shan't say mine ter no picter!" -And Aunt Ri fell on her knees; and when a young Indian woman by her side -slipped a rosary into her hand, Aunt Ri did not repulse it, but hid it -in the folds of her gown till the prayers were done. It was a moment and -a lesson Aunt Ri never forgot. - - - - -XXVI - -THE Capitan's house faced the east. Just as day broke, and the light -streamed in at the open door, Ramona's eyes unclosed. Felipe and Aunt -Ri were both by her side. With a look of bewildered terror, she gazed at -them. - -"Thar, thar, naow! Yer jest shet yer eyes 'n' go right off ter sleep -agin, honey," said Aunt Ri, composedly, laying her hand on Ramona's -eyelids, and compelling them down. "We air hyar, Feeleepy 'n' me, 'n' -we air goin' ter stay. I allow yer needn't be afeerd o' nothin'. Go ter -sleep, honey." - -The eyelids quivered beneath Aunt Ri's fingers. Tears forced their way, -and rolled slowly down the cheeks. The lips trembled; the voice strove -to speak, but it was only like the ghost of a whisper, the faint -question that came,--"Felipe?" - -"Yes, dear! I am here, too," breathed Felipe; "go to sleep. We will not -leave you!" - -And again Ramona sank away into the merciful sleep which was saving her -life. - -"Ther longer she kin sleep, ther better," said Aunt Ri, with a sigh, -deep-drawn like a groan. "I allow I dread ter see her reely come to. -'T'll be wus'n the fust; she'll hev ter live it all over again!" - -But Aunt Ri did not know what forces of fortitude had been gathering -in Ramona's soul during these last bitter years. Out of her gentle -constancy had been woven the heroic fibre of which martyrs are made; -this, and her inextinguishable faith, had made her strong, as were -those of old, who "had trial of cruel mocking, wandering about, being -destitute, afflicted, tormented, wandered in deserts and in mountains, -and in dens and caves of the earth." - -When she waked the second time, it was with a calm, almost beatific -smile that she gazed on Felipe, and whispered, "How did you find me, -dear Felipe?" It was rather by the motions of her lips than by any -sound that he knew the words. She had not yet strength enough to make an -audible sound. When they laid her baby on her breast, she smiled again, -and tried to embrace her, but was too weak. Pointing to the baby's eyes, -she whispered, gazing earnestly at Felipe, "Alessandro." A convulsion -passed over her face as she spoke the word, and the tears flowed. - -Felipe could not speak. He glanced helplessly at Aunt Ri, who promptly -responded: "Naow, honey, don't yeow talk. 'Tain't good fur ye; 'n' -Feeleepy 'n' me, we air in a powerful hurry ter git yer strong 'n' -well, 'n' tote ye out er this--" Aunt Ri stopped. No substantive in her -vocabulary answered her need at that moment. "I allow ye kin go 'n a -week, ef nothin' don't go agin ye more'n I see naow; but ef yer git ter -talkin', thar's no tellin' when yer'll git up. Yeow jest shet up, honey. -We'll look arter everythin'." - -Feebly Ramona turned her grateful, inquiring eyes on Felipe. Her lips -framed the words, "With you?" - -"Yes, dear, home with me," said Felipe, clasping her hand in his. "I -have been searching for you all this time." - -An anxious look came into the sweet face. Felipe knew what it meant. How -often he had seen it in the olden time. He feared to shock her by the -sudden mention of the Senora's death; yet that would harm her less than -continued anxiety. "I am alone, dear Ramona," he whispered. "There is no -one now but you, my sister, to take care of me. My mother has been dead -a year." - -The eyes dilated, then filled with sympathetic tears. "Dear Felipe!" -she sighed; but her heart took courage. Felipe's phrase was like one -inspired; another duty, another work, another loyalty, waiting for -Ramona. Not only her child to live for, but to "take care of Felipe"! -Ramona would not die! Youth, a mother's love, a sister's affection and -duty, on the side of life,--the battle was won, and won quickly, too. - -To the simple Cahuillas it seemed like a miracle; and they looked on -Aunt Ri's weather-beaten face with something akin to a superstitious -reverence. They themselves were not ignorant of the value of the herb -by means of which she had wrought the marvellous cure; but they had made -repeated experiments with it upon Ramona, without success. It must be -that there had been some potent spell in Aunt Ri's handling. They would -hardly believe her when, in answer to their persistent questioning, she -reiterated the assertion that she had used nothing except the hot water -and "old man," which was her name for the wild wormwood; and which, -when explained to them, impressed them greatly, as having no doubt some -significance in connection with the results of her preparation of the -leaves. - -Rumors about Felipe ran swiftly throughout the region. The presence in -the Cahuilla village of a rich Mexican gentleman who spent gold like -water, and kept mounted men riding day and night, after everything, -anything, he wanted for his sick sister, was an event which in the -atmosphere of that lonely country loomed into colossal proportions. He -had travelled all over California, with four horses, in search of her. -He was only waiting till she was well, to take her to his home in the -south; and then he was going to arrest the man who had murdered her -husband, and have him hanged,--yes, hanged! Small doubt about that; -or, if the law cleared him, there was still the bullet. This rich Senor -would see him shot, if rope were not to be had. Jim Farrar heard these -tales, and quaked in his guilty soul. The rope he had small fear of, for -well he knew the temper of San Diego County juries and judges; but the -bullet, that was another thing; and these Mexicans were like Indians in -their vengeance. Time did not tire them, and their memories were long. -Farrar cursed the day he had let his temper get the better of him on -that lonely mountainside; how much the better, nobody but he himself -knew,--nobody but he and Ramona: and even Ramona did not know the bitter -whole. She knew that Alessandro had no knife, and had gone forward with -no hostile intent; but she knew nothing beyond that. Only the murderer -himself knew that the dialogue which he had reported to the judge and -jury, to justify his act, was an entire fabrication of his own, and -that, instead of it, had been spoken but four words by Alessandro, and -those were, "Senor, I will explain;" and that even after the first shot -had pierced his lungs, and the blood was choking in his throat, he had -still run a step or two farther, with his hand uplifted deprecatingly, -and made one more effort to speak before he fell to the ground dead. -Callous as Farrar was, and clear as it was in his mind that killing an -Indian was no harm, he had not liked to recall the pleading anguish in -Alessandro's tone and in his face as he fell. He had not liked to recall -this, even before he heard of this rich Mexican brother-in-law who -had appeared on the scene; and now, he found the memories still more -unpleasant. Fear is a wonderful goad to remorse. There was another -thing, too, which to his great wonder had been apparently overlooked by -everybody; at least, nothing had been said about it; but the bearing of -it on his case, if the case were brought up a second time and minutely -investigated, would be most unfortunate. And this was, that the only -clew he had to the fact of Alessandro's having taken his horse, was that -the poor, half-crazed fellow had left his own well-known gray pony in -the corral in place of the horse he took. A strange thing, surely, for a -horse-thief to do! Cold sweat burst out on Farrar's forehead, more -than once, as he realized how this, coupled with the well-known fact -of Alessandro's liability to attacks of insanity, might be made to tell -against him, if he should be brought to trial for the murder. He was -as cowardly as he was cruel: never yet were the two traits separate -in human nature; and after a few days of this torturing suspense and -apprehension, he suddenly resolved to leave the country, if not forever, -at least for a few years, till this brother-in-law should be out of the -way. He lost no time in carrying out his resolution; and it was well -he did not, for it was only three days after he had disappeared, that -Felipe walked into Judge Wells's office, one morning, to make inquiries -relative to the preliminary hearing which had been held there in the -matter of the murder of the Indian, Alessandro Assis, by James Farrar. -And when the judge, taking down his books, read to Felipe his notes of -the case, and went on to say, "If Farrar's testimony is true, Ramona's, -the wife's, must be false," and "at any rate, her testimony would not be -worth a straw with any jury," Felipe sprang to his feet, and cried, "She -of whom you speak is my foster-sister; and, by God, Senor, if I can find -that man, I will shoot him as I would a dog! And I'll see, then, if a -San Diego County jury will hang me for ridding the country of such a -brute!" and Felipe would have been as good as his word. It was a wise -thing Farrar had done in making his escape. - -When Aunt Ri heard that Farrar had fled the country, she pushed up -her spectacles and looked reflectively at her informant. It was young -Merrill. "Fled ther country, hez he?" she said. "Wall, he kin flee ez -many countries ez he likes, an' 't won't dew him no good. I know yeow -folks hyar don't seem ter think killin' an Injun's enny murder, but I -say 'tis; an' yeow'll all git it brung home ter yer afore yer die: ef -'tain't brung one way, 't'll be anuther; yeow jest mind what I say, 'n' -don't yeow furgit it. Naow this miser'ble murderer, this Farrar, thet's -lighted out er hyar, he's nothin' more'n a skunk, but he's got the Lawd -arter him, naow. It's jest's well he's gawn; I never did b'leeve in -hangin'. I never could. It's jest tew men dead 'stead o' one. I don't -want to see no man hung, no marter what he's done, 'n' I don't want to -see no man shot down, nuther, no marter what he's done; 'n' this hyar -Feeleepy, he's thet highstrung, he'd ha' shot thet Farrar, any minnit, -quicker'n lightnin', ef he'd ketched him; so it's better all raound -he's lit aout. But I tell yeow, naow, he hain't made much by goin'! Thet -Injun he murdered 'll foller him night 'n' day, till he dies, 'n' long -arter; he'll wish he wuz dead afore he doos die, I allow he will, naow. -He'll be jest like a man I knowed back in Tennessee. I wa'n't but a -mite then, but I never forgot it. 'Tis a great country fur gourds, East -Tennessee is, whar I wuz raised; 'n' thar wuz two houses, 'n' a fence -between 'em, 'n' these gourds a runnin' all over the fence; 'n' one o' -ther childun picked one o' them gourds, an' they fit abaout it; 'n' then -the women took it up,--ther childun's mothers, yer know,--'n' they got -fightin' abaout it; 'n' then 't the last the men took it up, 'n' they -fit; 'n' Rowell he got his butcher-knife, 'n' he ground it up, 'n' he -picked a querril with Claiborne, 'n' he cut him inter pieces. They hed -him up for 't, 'n' somehow they clared him. I don't see how they ever -did, but they put 't off, 'n' put 't off, 'n' 't last they got him free; -'n' he lived on thar a spell, but he couldn't stan' it; 'peared like -he never hed no peace; 'n' he came over ter our 'us, 'n' sed he, -'Jake,'--they allers called daddy 'Jake,' or 'Uncle Jake,'--'Jake,' sed -he, 'I can't stan' it, livin' hyar.' 'Why,' sez daddy, 'the law o' the -country's clar'd ye.' 'Yes,' sez he, 'but the law o' God hain't; 'n' -I've got Claiborne allers with me. Thar ain't any path so narrer, but -he's a walkin' in it, by my side, all day; 'n' come night, I sleep with -him ter one side, 'n' my wife 't other; 'n' I can't stan' it.' Them's -ther very words I heered him say, 'n' I wuzn't ennythin' but a mite, but -I didn't furgit it. Wall, sir, he went West, way aout hyar to Californy, -'n' he couldn't stay thar nuther, 'n' he came back hum agin; 'n' I wuz -bigger then, a gal grown, 'n' daddy sez to him,--I heern him,--'Wal,' -sez he, 'did Claiborne foller yer?' 'Yes,' sez he, 'he follered me. I'll -never git shet o' him in this world. He's allers clost to me everywhar.' -Yer see, 'twas jest his conscience er whippin' him. Thet's all 't wuz. -'T least, thet's all I think 't wuz; though thar wuz those thet said -'t wuz Claiborne's ghost. 'N' thet'll be the way 't 'll be with this -miser'ble Farrar. He'll live ter wish he'd let hisself be hanged er -shot, er erry which way, ter git out er his misery." - -Young Merrill listened with unwonted gravity to Aunt Ri's earnest words. -They reached a depth in his nature which had been long untouched; a -stratum, so to speak, which lay far beneath the surface. The character -of the Western frontiersman is often a singular accumulation of such -strata,--the training and beliefs of his earliest days overlain by -successions of unrelated and violent experiences, like geological -deposits. Underneath the exterior crust of the most hardened and -ruffianly nature often remains--its forms not yet quite fossilized--a -realm full of the devout customs, doctrines, religious influences, which -the boy knew, and the man remembers, By sudden upheaval, in some great -catastrophe or struggle in his mature life, these all come again into -the light. Assembly Catechism definitions, which he learned in his -childhood, and has not thought of since, ring in his ears, and he is -thrown into all manner of confusions and inconsistencies of feeling and -speech by this clashing of the old and new man within him. It was much -in this way that Aunt Ri's words smote upon young Merrill. He was not -many years removed from the sound of a preaching of the straitest New -England Calvinism. The wild frontier life had drawn him in and under, as -in a whirlpool; but he was New Englander yet at heart. - -"That's so, Aunt Ri!" he exclaimed. "That's so! I don't s'pose a man -that's committed murder 'll ever have any peace in this world, nor in -the next nuther, without he repents; but ye see this horse-stealin' -business is different. 'Tain't murder to kill a hoss-thief, any way you -can fix it; everybody admits that. A feller that's caught horse-stealin' -had ought to be shot; and he will be, too, I tell you, in this country!" - -A look of impatient despair spread over Aunt Ri's face. "I hain't no -patience left with yer," she said, "er talkin' abaout stealin' hosses ez -ef hosses wuz more'n human bein's! But lettin' thet all go, this Injun, -he wuz crazy. Yer all knowed it. Thet Farrar knowed it. D'yer think ef -he'd ben stealin' the hoss, he'd er left his own hoss in the corral, -same ez, yer might say, leavin' his kyerd to say 't wuz he done it; 'n' -the hoss er tied in plain sight 'n front uv his house fur ennybody ter -see?" - -"Left his own horse, so he did!" retorted Merrill. "A poor, miserable, -knock-kneed old pony, that wa'n't worth twenty dollars; 'n' Jim's horse -was worth two hundred, 'n' cheap at that." - -"Thet ain't nuther here nor thar in what we air sayin'," persisted Aunt -Ri. "I ain't a speakin' on 't ez a swap er hosses. What I say is, he -wa'n't tryin' to cover 't up thet he'd tuk the hoss. We air sum used ter -hoss-thieves in Tennessee; but I never heered o' one yit thet left -his name fur a refference berhind him, ter show which road he tuk, 'n' -fastened ther stolen critter ter his front gate when he got hum! I allow -me 'n' yeow hedn't better say anythin' much more on ther subjeck, fur I -allow we air bound to querril ef we dew;" and nothing that Merrill said -could draw another word out of Aunt Ri in regard to Alessandro's death. -But there was another subject on which she was tireless, and her speech -eloquent. It was the kindness and goodness of the Cahuilla people. The -last vestige of her prejudice against Indians had melted and gone, in -the presence of their simple-hearted friendliness. "I'll never hear a -word said agin 'em, never, ter my longest day," she said. "The way the -pore things hed jest stripped theirselves, to git things fur Ramony, -beat all ever I see among white folks, 'n' I've ben raound more'n most. -'N' they wa'n't lookin' fur no pay, nuther; fur they didn't know, till -Feeleepy 'n' me cum, thet she had any folks ennywhar, 'n' they'd ha' -taken care on her till she died, jest the same. The sick allers ez took -care on among them, they sed, 's long uz enny on em hez got a thing -left. Thet's ther way they air raised; I allow white folks might take a -lesson on 'em, in thet; 'n' in heaps uv other things tew. Oh, I'm done -talkin' again Injuns, naow, don't yeow furgit it! But I know, fur all -thet, 't won't make any difference; 'pears like there cuddn't nobody -b'leeve ennythin' 'n this world 'thout seein' 't theirselves. I wuz thet -way tew; I allow I hain't got no call ter talk; but I jest wish the hull -world could see what I've seen! Thet's all!" - -It was a sad day in the village when Ramona and her friends departed. -Heartily as the kindly people rejoiced in her having found such a -protector for herself and her child, and deeply as they felt Felipe's -and Aunt Ri's good-will and gratitude towards them, they were yet -conscious of a loss,--of a void. The gulf between them and the rest of -the world seemed defined anew, their sense of isolation deepened, their -hopeless poverty emphasized. Ramona, wife of Alessandro, had been as -their sister,--one of them; as such, she would have had share in all -their life had to offer. But its utmost was nothing, was but hardship -and deprivation; and she was being borne away from it, like one rescued, -not so much from death, as from a life worse than death. - -The tears streamed down Ramona's face as she bade them farewell. She -embraced again and again the young mother who had for so many days -suckled her child, even, it was said, depriving her own hardier babe -that Ramona's should not suffer. "Sister, you have given me my child," -she cried; "I can never thank you; I will pray for you all my life." - -She made no inquiries as to Felipe's plans. Unquestioningly, like a -little child, she resigned herself into his hands. A power greater than -hers was ordering her way; Felipe was its instrument. No other voice -spoke to guide her. The same old simplicity of acceptance which had -characterized her daily life in her girlhood, and kept her serene -and sunny then,--serene under trials, sunny in her routine of little -duties,--had kept her serene through all the afflictions, and calm, -if not sunny, under all the burdens of her later life; and it did not -desert her even now. - -Aunt Ri gazed at her with a sentiment as near to veneration as her dry, -humorous, practical nature was capable of feeling. "I allow I donno but -I sh'd cum ter believin' in saints tew," she said, "ef I wuz ter live -'long side er thet gal. 'Pears like she wuz suthin' more 'n human. 'T -beats me plum out, ther way she takes her troubles. Thar's sum would -say she hedn't no feelin'; but I allow she hez more 'n most folks. I kin -see, 'tain't thet. I allow I didn't never expect ter think 's well uv -prayin' to picters, 'n' strings er beads, 'n' sech; but ef 't 's thet -keeps her up ther way she's kept up, I allow thar's more in it 'n -it's hed credit fur. I ain't gwine ter say enny more agin it' nor agin -Injuns. 'Pears like I'm gittin' heaps er new idears inter my head, these -days. I'll turn Injun, mebbe, afore I git through!" - -The farewell to Aunt Ri was hardest of all. Ramona clung to her as to a -mother. At times she felt that she would rather stay by her side than go -home with Felipe; then she reproached herself for the thought, as for a -treason and ingratitude. Felipe saw the feeling, and did not wonder at -it. "Dear girl," he thought; "it is the nearest she has ever come to -knowing what a mother's love is like!" And he lingered in San Bernardino -week after week, on the pretence that Ramona was not yet strong enough -to bear the journey home, when in reality his sole motive for staying -was his reluctance to deprive her of Aunt Ri's wholesome and cheering -companionship. - -Aunt Ri was busily at work on a rag carpet for the Indian Agent's wife. -She had just begun it, had woven only a few inches, on that dreadful -morning when the news of Alessandro's death reached her. It was of her -favorite pattern, the "hit-er-miss" pattern, as she called it; no set -stripes or regular alternation of colors, but ball after ball of the -indiscriminately mixed tints, woven back and forth, on a warp of a -single color. The constant variety in it, the unexpectedly harmonious -blending of the colors, gave her delight, and afforded her a subject, -too, of not unphilosophical reflection. - -"Wall," she said, "it's called ther 'hit-er-miss' pattren; but it's -'hit' oftener'n 'tis 'miss.' Thar ain't enny accountin' fur ther way -ther breadths'll come, sometimes; 'pears like 't wuz kind er magic, when -they air sewed tergether; 'n' I allow thet's ther way it's gwine ter -be with heaps er things in this life. It's jest a kind er 'hit-er-miss' -pattren we air all on us livin' on; 'tain't much use tryin' ter reckon -how 't 'll come aout; but the breadths doos fit heaps better 'n yer'd -think; come ter sew 'em, 'tain't never no sech colors ez yer thought -'t wuz gwine ter be; but it's allers pooty, allers; never see a -'hit-er-miss' pattren 'n my life yit, thet wa'n't pooty. 'N' ther wa'n't -never nobody fetched me rags, 'n' hed 'em all planned aout, 'n' jest -ther way they wanted ther warp, 'n' jest haow ther stripes wuz ter come, -'n' all, thet they wa'n't orful diserpynted when they cum ter see 't -done. It don't never look's they thought 't would, never! I larned thet -lesson airly; 'n' I allers make 'em write aout on a paper, jest ther -wedth er every stripe, 'n' each er ther colors, so's they kin see it's -what they ordered; 'r else they'd allers say I hedn't wove 't's I wuz -told ter. I got ketched thet way oncet! I allow ennybody's a bawn fool -gits ketched twice runnin' ther same way. But fur me, I'll take ther -'hit-er-miss' pattren, every time, sir, straight along." - -When the carpet was done, Aunt Ri took the roll in her own independent -arms, and strode with it to the Agent's house. She had been biding the -time when she should have this excuse for going there. Her mind was -burdened with questions she wished to ask, information she wished to -give, and she chose an hour when she knew she would find the Agent -himself at home. - -"I allow yer heered why I wuz behind time with this yere carpet," she -said; "I wuz up ter San Jacinto Mounting, where thet Injun wuz murdered. -We brung his widder 'n' ther baby daown with us, me 'n' her brother. -He's tuk her home ter his house ter live. He's reel well off." - -Yes, the Agent had heard this; he had wondered why the widow did not -come to see him; he had expected to hear from her. - -"Wall, I did hent ter her thet p'raps yer could dew something, ef she -wuz ter tell yer all abaout it; but she allowed thar wa'n't enny use in -talkin'. Ther jedge, he sed her witnessin' wouldn't be wuth nuthin' to -no jury; 'n' thet wuz what I wuz a wantin' to ask yeow, ef thet wuz so." - -"Yes, that is what the lawyers here told me," said the Agent. "I was -going to have the man arrested, but they said it would be folly to bring -the case to trial. The woman's testimony would not be believed." - -"Yeow've got power ter git a man punished fur sellin' whiskey to Injuns, -I notice," broke in Aunt Ri; "hain't yer? I see yeour man 'n' the -marshal here arrestin' 'em pooty lively last month; they sed 'twas yeour -doin'; yeow was a gwine ter prossacute every livin' son o' hell--them -wuz thar words--thet sold whiskey ter Injuns." - -"That's so!" said the Agent. "So I am; I am determined to break up this -vile business of selling whiskey to Indians. It is no use trying to do -anything for them while they are made drunk in this way; it's a sin and -a shame." - -"Thet's so, I allow ter yeow," said Aunt Ri. "Thar ain't any gainsayin' -thet. But ef yeow've got power ter git a man put in jail fur sellin' -whiskey 't 'n Injun, 'n' hain't got power to git him punished ef he goes -'n' kills thet Injun, 't sems ter me thar's suthin' cur'us abaout thet." - -"That is just the trouble in my position here, Aunt Ri," he said. "I -have no real power over my Indians, as I ought to have." - -"What makes yer call 'em yeour Injuns?" broke in Aunt Ri. - -The Agent colored. Aunt Ri was a privileged character, but her logical -method of questioning was inconvenient. - -"I only mean that they are under my charge," he said. "I don't mean that -they belong to me in any way." - -"Wall, I allow not," retorted Aunt Ri, "enny more 'n I dew. They air -airnin' their livin', sech 's 'tis, ef yer kin call it a livin'. I've -been 'mongst 'em, naow, they hyar last tew weeks, 'n' I allow I've had -my eyes opened ter some things. What's thet docter er yourn, him thet -they call the Agency doctor,--what's he got ter do?" - -"To attend to the Indians of this Agency when they are sick," replied -the Agent, promptly. - -"Wall, thet's what I heern; thet's what yeow sed afore, 'n' thet's why -Alessandro, the Injun thet wuz murdered,--thet's why he put his name -down 'n yeour books, though 't went agin him orful ter do it. He wuz -high-spereted, 'n' 'd allers took keer er hisself; but he'd ben druv out -er fust one place 'n' then another, tell he'd got clar down, 'n' pore; -'n' he jest begged thet doctor er yourn to go to see his little gal, 'n' -the docter wouldn't; 'n' more'n thet, he laughed at him fur askin.' 'N' -they set the little thing on the hoss ter bring her here, 'n' she died -afore they'd come a mile with her; 'n' 't wuz thet, on top er all the -rest druv Alessandro crazy. He never hed none er them wandrin' spells -till arter thet. Naow I allow thet wa'n't right eh thet docter. I -wouldn't hev no sech docter's thet raound my Agency, ef I wuz yeow. -Pr'aps yer never heered uv thet. I told Ramony I didn't bleeve yer -knowed it, or ye'd hev made him go." - -"No, Aunt Ri," said the Agent; "I could not have done that; he is only -required to doctor such Indians as come here." - -"I allow, then, thar ain't any gret use en hevin' him at all," said Aunt -Ri; "'pears like thar ain't more'n a harndful uv Injuns raound here. I -expect he gits well paid?" and she paused for an answer. None came. The -Agent did not feel himself obliged to reveal to Aunt Ri what salary -the Government paid the San Bernardino doctor for sending haphazard -prescriptions to Indians he never saw. - -After a pause Aunt Ri resumed: "Ef it ain't enny offence ter yeow, I -allow I'd like ter know jest what 'tis yeow air here ter dew fur these -Injuns. I've got my feelin's considdable stirred up, bein' among 'em -'n' knowing this hyar one, thet's ben murdered. Hev ye got enny power to -giv' 'em ennything,--food or sech? They air powerful pore, most on 'em." - -"I have had a little fund for buying supplies for them in times -of special suffering;" replied the Agent, "a very little; and the -Department has appropriated some money for wagons and ploughs; not -enough, however, to supply every village; you see these Indians are in -the main self-supporting." - -"Thet's jest it," persisted Aunt Ri. "Thet's what I've ben seein'; 'n' -thet's why I want so bad ter git at what 'tis the Guvvermunt means ter -hev yeow dew fur 'em. I allow ef yeow ain't ter feed 'em, an' ef yer -can't put folks inter jail fur robbin' 'n' cheatin' 'em, not ter say -killin' 'em,--ef yer can't dew ennythin' more 'n keep 'em from gettin' -whiskey, wall, I'm free ter say--" Aunt Ri paused; she did not wish to -seem to reflect on the Agent's usefulness, and so concluded her sentence -very differently from her first impulse,--"I'm free ter say I shouldn't -like ter stan' in yer shoes." - -"You may very well say that, Aunt Ri," laughed the Agent, complacently. -"It is the most troublesome Agency in the whole list, and the least -satisfactory." - -"Wall, I allow it mought be the least satisfyin'," rejoined the -indefatigable Aunt Ri; "but I donno whar the trouble comes in, ef so -be's thar's no more kin be done than yer wuz er tellin'." And she looked -honestly puzzled. - -"Look there, Aunt Ri!" said he, triumphantly, pointing to a pile of -books and papers. "All those to be gone through with, and a report to be -made out every month, and a voucher to be sent for every lead-pencil I -buy. I tell you I work harder than I ever did in my life before, and for -less pay." - -"I allow yer hev hed easy times afore, then," retorted Aunt Ri, -good-naturedly satirical, "ef yeow air plum tired doin' thet!" And she -took her leave, not a whit clearer in her mind as to the real nature and -function of the Indian Agency than she was in the beginning. - -Through all of Ramona's journey home she seemed to herself to be in a -dream. Her baby in her arms; the faithful creatures, Baba and Benito, -gayly trotting along at a pace so swift that the carriage seemed -gliding; Felipe by her side,--the dear Felipe,--his eyes wearing the -same bright and loving look as of old,--what strange thing was it which -had happened to her to make it all seem unreal? Even the little one -in her arms,--she too, seemed unreal! Ramona did not know it, but -her nerves were still partially paralyzed. Nature sends merciful -anaesthetics in the shocks which almost kill us. In the very sharpness -of the blow sometimes lies its own first healing. It would be long -before Ramona would fully realize that Alessandro was dead. Her worst -anguish was yet to come. - -Felipe did not know and could not have understood this; and it was with -a marvelling gratitude that he saw Ramona, day after day, placid, -always ready with a smile when he spoke to her. Her gratitude for each -thoughtfulness of his smote him like a reproach; all the more that he -knew her gentle heart had never held a thought of reproach in it towards -him. "Grateful to me!" he thought. "To me, who might have spared her all -this woe if I had been strong!" - -Never would Felipe forgive himself,--no, not to the day of his death. -His whole life should be devoted to her and her child; but what a -pitiful thing was that to render! - -As they drew near home, he saw Ramona often try to conceal from him that -she had shed tears. At last he said to her: "Dearest Ramona, do not fear -to weep before me. I would not be any constraint on you. It is better -for you to let the tears come freely, my sister. They are healing to -wounds." - -"I do not think so, Felipe," replied Ramona. "Tears are only selfish and -weak. They are like a cry because we are hurt. It is not possible always -to keep them back; but I am ashamed when I have wept, and think also -that I have sinned, because I have given a sad sight to others. Father -Salvierderra always said that it was a duty to look happy, no matter how -much we might be suffering." - -"That is more than human power can do!" said Felipe. - -"I think not," replied Ramona. "If it were, Father Salvierderra would -not have commanded it. And do you not recollect, Felipe, what a smile -his face always wore? and his heart had been broken for many, many years -before he died. Alone, in the night, when he prayed, he used to weep, -from the great wrestling he had with God, he told me; but we never -saw him except with a smile. When one thinks in the wilderness, alone, -Felipe, many things become clear. I have been learning, all these years -in the wilderness, as if I had had a teacher. Sometimes I almost thought -that the spirit of Father Salvierderra was by my side putting thoughts -into my mind. I hope I can tell them to my child when she is old enough. -She will understand them quicker than I did, for she has Alessandro's -soul; you can see that by her eyes. And all these things of which I -speak were in his heart from his childhood. They belong to the air and -the sky and the sun, and all trees know them." - -When Ramona spoke thus of Alessandro, Felipe marvelled in silence. He -himself had been afraid to mention Alessandro's name; but Ramona spoke -it as if he were yet by her side. Felipe could not fathom this. There -were to be many things yet which Felipe could not fathom in this lovely, -sorrowing, sunny sister of his. - -When they reached the house, the servants, who had been on the watch -for days, were all gathered in the court-yard, old Marda and Juan Can -heading the group; only two absent,--Margarita and Luigo. They had been -married some months before, and were living at the Ortegas ranch, where -Luigo, to Juan Can's scornful amusement, had been made head shepherd. - -On all sides were beaming faces, smiles, and glad cries of greeting. -Underneath these were affectionate hearts quaking with fear lest the -home-coming be but a sad one after all. Vaguely they knew a little of -what their dear Senorita had been through since she left them; it seemed -that she must be sadly altered by so much sorrow, and that it would -be terrible to her to come back to the place so full of painful -associations. "And the Senora gone, too," said one of the outdoor hands, -as they were talking it over; "it's not the same place at all that it -was when the Senora was here." - -"Humph!" muttered Juan Can, more consequential and overbearing than -ever, for this year of absolute control of the estate. "Humph! that's -all you know. A good thing the Senora died when she did, I can tell you! -We'd never have seen the Senorita back here else; I can tell you that, -my man! And for my part, I'd much rather be under Senor Felipe and the -Senorita than under the Senora, peace to her ashes! She had her day. -They can have theirs now." - -When these loving and excited retainers saw Ramona--pale, but with her -own old smile on her face--coming towards them with her babe in her -arms, they broke into wild cheering, and there was not a dry eye in the -group. - -Singling out old Marda by a glance, Ramona held out the baby towards -her, and said in her old gentle, affectionate voice, "I am sure you will -love my baby, Marda!" - -"Senorita! Senorita! God bless you, Senorita!" they cried; and closed -up their ranks around the baby, touching her, praising her, handing her -from one to another. - -Ramona stood for a few seconds watching them; then she said, "Give her -to me, Marda. I will myself carry her into the house;" and she moved -toward the inner door. - -"This way, dear; this way," cried Felipe. "It is Father Salvierderra's -room I ordered to be prepared for you, because it is so sunny for the -baby!" - -"Thanks, kind Felipe!" cried Ramona, and her eyes said more than her -words. She knew he had divined the one thing she had most dreaded in -returning,--the crossing again the threshold of her own room. It would -be long now before she would enter that room. Perhaps she would never -enter it. How tender and wise of Felipe! - -Yes; Felipe was both tender and wise, now. How long would the wisdom -hold the tenderness in leash, as he day after day looked upon the face -of this beautiful woman,--so much more beautiful now than she had been -before her marriage, that Felipe sometimes, as he gazed at her, thought -her changed even in feature? But in this very change lay a spell which -would for a long time surround her, and set her as apart from lover's -thoughts as if she were guarded by a cordon of viewless spirits. There -was a rapt look of holy communion on her face, which made itself felt by -the dullest perception, and sometimes overawed even where it attracted. -It was the same thing which Aunt Ri had felt, and formulated in her own -humorous fashion. But old Marda put it better, when, one day, in reply -to a half-terrified, low-whispered suggestion of Juan Can, to the effect -that it was "a great pity that Senor Felipe hadn't married the Senorita -years ago,--what if he were to do it yet?" she said, also under her -breath. "It is my opinion he'd as soon think of Saint Catharine herself! -Not but that it would be a great thing if it could be!" - -And now the thing that the Senora had imagined to herself so often -had come about,--the presence of a little child in her house, on the -veranda, in the garden, everywhere; the sunny, joyous, blest presence. -But how differently had it come! Not Felipe's child, as she proudly -had pictured, but the child of Ramona: the friendless, banished -Ramona returned now into full honor and peace as the daughter of the -house,--Ramona, widow of Alessandro. If the child had been Felipe's own, -he could not have felt for it a greater love. From the first, the little -thing had clung to him as only second to her mother. She slept hours in -his arms, one little hand hid in his dark beard, close to his lips, -and kissed again and again when no one saw. Next to Ramona herself in -Felipe's heart came Ramona's child; and on the child he could lavish the -fondness he felt that he could never dare to show to the mother, Month -by month it grew clearer to Felipe that the mainsprings of Ramona's -life were no longer of this earth; that she walked as one in constant -fellowship with one unseen. Her frequent and calm mention of Alessandro -did not deceive him. It did not mean a lessening grief: it meant an -unchanged relation. - -One thing weighed heavily on Felipe's mind,--the concealed treasure. A -sense of humiliation withheld him, day after day, from speaking of -it. But he could have no peace until Ramona knew it. Each hour that he -delayed the revelation he felt himself almost as guilty as he had held -his mother to be. At last he spoke. He had not said many words, before -Ramona interrupted him. "Oh, yes!" she said. "I knew about those things; -your mother told me. When we were in such trouble, I used to wish -sometimes we could have had a few of the jewels. But they were all given -to the Church. That was what the Senora Ortegna said must be done with -them if I married against your mother's wishes." - -It was with a shame-stricken voice that Felipe replied: "Dear Ramona, -they were not given to the Church. You know Father Salvierderra died; -and I suppose my mother did not know what to do with them. She told me -about them just as she was dying." - -"But why did you not give them to the Church, dear?" asked Ramona, -simply. - -"Why?" cried Felipe. "Because I hold them to be yours, and yours only. -I would never have given them to the Church, until I had sure proof that -you were dead and had left no children." - -Ramona's eyes were fixed earnestly on Felipe's face. "You have not read -the Senora Ortegna's letter?" she said. - -"Yes, I have," he replied, "every word of it." - -"But that said I was not to have any of the things if I married against -the Senora Moreno's will." - -Felipe groaned. Had his mother lied? "No, dear," he said, "that was not -the word. It was, if you married unworthily." - -Ramona reflected. "I never recollected the words," she said. "I was -too frightened; but I thought that was what it meant. I did not marry -unworthily. Do you feel sure, Felipe, that it would be honest for me to -take them for my child?" - -"Perfectly," said Felipe. - -"Do you think Father Salvierderra would say I ought to keep them?" - -"I am sure of it, dear." - -"I will think about it, Felipe. I cannot decide hastily. Your mother did -not think I had any right to them, if I married Alessandro. That was -why she showed them to me. I never knew of them till then. I took one -thing,--a handkerchief of my father's. I was very glad to have it; -but it got lost when we went from San Pasquale. Alessandro rode back a -half-day's journey to find it for me; but it had blown away. I grieved -sorely for it." - -The next day Ramona said to Felipe: "Dear Felipe, I have thought it all -over about those jewels. I believe it will be right for my daughter to -have them. Can there be some kind of a paper written for me to sign, to -say that if she dies they are all to be given to the Church,--to Father -Salvierderra's College, in Santa Barbara? That is where I would rather -have them go." - -"Yes, dear," said Felipe; "and then we will put them in some safer -place. I will take them to Los Angeles when I go. It is wonderful no one -has stolen them all these years!" - -And so a second time the Ortegna jewels were passed on, by a written -bequest, into the keeping of that mysterious, certain, uncertain thing -we call the future, and delude our selves with the fancy that we -can have much to do with its shaping. - - ***** - -Life ran smoothly in the Moreno household,--smoothly to the eye. Nothing -could be more peaceful, fairer to see, than the routine of its days, -with the simple pleasures, light tasks, and easy diligence of all. -Summer and winter were alike sunny, and had each its own joys. There was -not an antagonistic or jarring element; and, flitting back and forth, -from veranda to veranda, garden to garden, room to room, equally at -home and equally welcome everywhere, there went perpetually, running, -frisking, laughing, rejoicing, the little child that had so strangely -drifted into this happy shelter,--the little Ramona. As unconscious of -aught sad or fateful in her destiny as the blossoms with which it was -her delight to play, she sometimes seemed to her mother to have been -from the first in some mysterious way disconnected from it, removed, set -free from all that could ever by any possibility link her to sorrow. - -Ramona herself bore no impress of sorrow; rather her face had now an -added radiance. There had been a period, soon after her return, when -she felt that she for the first time waked to the realization of her -bereavement; when every sight, sound, and place seemed to cry out, -mocking her with the name and the memory of Alessandro. But she wrestled -with this absorbing grief as with a sin; setting her will steadfastly -to the purposes of each day's duty, and, most of all, to the duty of -joyfulness. She repeated to herself Father Salvierderra's sayings, till -she more than knew them by heart; and she spent long hours of the night -in prayer, as it had been his wont to do. - -No one but Felipe dreamed of these vigils and wrestlings. He knew them; -and he knew, too, when they ceased, and the new light of a new -victory diffused itself over Ramona's face: but neither did the first -dishearten, nor the latter encourage him. Felipe was a clearer-sighted -lover now than he had been in his earlier youth. He knew that into the -world where Ramona really lived he did not so much as enter; yet her -every act, word, look, was full of loving thoughtfulness of and for -him, loving happiness in his companionship. And while this was so, all -Felipe's unrest could not make him unhappy. - -There were other causes entering into this unrest besides his yearning -desire to win Ramona for his wife. Year by year the conditions of life -in California were growing more distasteful to him. The methods, aims, -standards of the fast incoming Americans were to him odious. Their -boasted successes, the crowding of colonies, schemes of settlement and -development,--all were disagreeable and irritating. The passion for -money and reckless spending of it, the great fortunes made in one hour, -thrown away in another, savored to Felipe's mind more of brigandage and -gambling than of the occupations of gentlemen. He loathed them. Life -under the new government grew more and more intolerable to him; both his -hereditary instincts and prejudices, and his temperament, revolted. -He found himself more and more alone in the country. Even the Spanish -tongue was less and less spoken. He was beginning to yearn for -Mexico,--for Mexico, which he had never seen, yet yearned for like an -exile. There he might yet live among men of his own race and degree, -and of congenial beliefs and occupations. Whenever he thought of this -change, always came the quick memory of Ramona. Would she be willing -to go? Could it be that she felt a bond to this land, in which she had -known nothing but sufferings. - -At last he asked her. To his unutterable surprise, Ramona cried: -"Felipe! The saints be praised! I should never have told you. I did not -think that you could wish to leave this estate. But my most beautiful -dream for Ramona would be, that she should grow up in Mexico." - -And as she spoke, Felipe understood by a lightning intuition, and -wondered that he had not foreknown it, that she would spare her daughter -the burden she had gladly, heroically borne herself, in the bond of -race. - -The question was settled. With gladness of heart almost more than he -could have believed possible, Felipe at once communicated with some rich -American proprietors who had desired to buy the Moreno estate. Land in -the valley had so greatly advanced in value, that the sum he received -for it was larger than he had dared to hope; was ample for the -realization of all his plans for the new life in Mexico. From the hour -that this was determined, and the time for their sailing fixed, a new -expression came into Ramona's face. Her imagination was kindled. An -untried future beckoned,--a future which she would embrace and conquer -for her daughter. Felipe saw the look, felt the change, and for the -first time hoped. It would be a new world, a new life; why not a new -love? She could not always be blind to his devotion; and when she saw -it, could she refuse to reward it? He would be very patient, and wait -long, he thought. Surely, since he had been patient so long without -hope, he could be still more patient now that hope had dawned! But -patience is not hope's province in breasts of lovers. From the day when -Felipe first thought to himself, "She will yet be mine," it grew harder, -and not easier, for him to refrain from pouring out his love in words. -Her tender sisterliness, which had been such balm and comfort to him, -grew at times intolerable; and again and again her gentle spirit -was deeply disquieted with the fear that she had displeased him, so -strangely did he conduct himself. - -He had resolved that nothing should tempt him to disclose to her his -passion and its dreams, until they had reached their new home. But there -came a moment which mastered him, and he spoke. - -It was in Monterey. They were to sail on the morrow; and had been on -board the ship to complete the last arrangements. They were rowed back -to shore in a little boat. A full moon shone. Ramona sat bareheaded in -the end of the boat, and the silver radiance from the water seemed to -float up around her, and invest her as with a myriad halos. Felipe gazed -at her till his senses swam; and when, on stepping from the boat, she -put her hand in his, and said, as she had said hundreds of times before, -"Dear Felipe, how good you are!" he clasped her hands wildly, and cried, -"Ramona, my love! Oh, can you not love me?" - -The moonlight was bright as day. They were alone on the shore. Ramona -gazed at him for one second, in surprise. Only for a second; then she -knew all. "Felipe! My brother!" she cried, and stretched out her hands -as if in warning. - -"No! I am not your brother!" he cried. "I will not be your brother! I -would rather die!" - -"Felipe!" cried Ramona again. This time her voice recalled him to -himself. It was a voice of terror and of pain. - -"Forgive me, my sweet one!" he exclaimed. "I will never say it again. -But I have loved you so long--so long!" - -Ramona's head had fallen forward on her breast, her eyes fixed on the -shining sands; the waves rose and fell, rose and fell, at her feet -gently as sighs. A great revelation had come to Ramona. In this supreme -moment of Felipe's abandonment of all disguises, she saw his whole -past life in a new light. Remorse smote her. "Dear Felipe," she said, -clasping her hands, "I have been very selfish. I did not know--" - -"Of course you did not, love," said Felipe. "How could you? But I have -never loved any one else. I have always loved you. Can you not learn to -love me? I did not mean to tell you for a long time yet. But now I have -spoken; I cannot hide it any more." - -Ramona drew nearer to him, still with her hands clasped. "I have always -loved you," she said. "I love no other living man; but, Felipe,"--her -voice sank to a solemn whisper,--"do you not know, Felipe, that part of -me is dead,--dead? can never live again? You could not want me for your -wife, Felipe, when part of me is dead!" - -Felipe threw his arms around her. He was beside himself with joy. "You -would not say that if you did not think you could be my wife," he cried. -"Only give yourself to me, my love, I care not whether you call yourself -dead or alive!" - -Ramona stood quietly in his arms. Ah, well for Felipe that he did not -know, never could know, the Ramona that Alessandro had known. This -gentle, faithful, grateful Ramona, asking herself fervently now if she -would do her brother a wrong, yielding up to him what seemed to her only -the broken fragment of a life; weighing his words, not in the light of -passion, but of calmest, most unselfish action,--ah, how unlike was she -to that Ramona who flung herself on Alessandro's breast, crying, "Take -me with you! I would rather die than have you leave me!" - -Ramona had spoken truth. Part of her was dead. But Ramona saw now, with -infallible intuition, that even as she had loved Alessandro, so Felipe -loved her. Could she refuse to give Felipe happiness, when he had saved -her, saved her child? What else now remained for them, these words -having been spoken? "I will be your wife, dear Felipe," she said, -speaking solemnly, slowly, "if you are sure it will make you happy, and -if you think it is right." - -"Right!" ejaculated Felipe, mad with the joy unlooked for so soon. -"Nothing else would be right! My Ramona, I will love you so, you will -forget you ever said that part of you was dead!" - -A strange look which startled Felipe swept across Ramona's face; it -might have been a moonbeam. It passed. Felipe never saw it again. - -General Moreno's name was still held in warm remembrance in the city of -Mexico, and Felipe found himself at once among friends. On the day after -their arrival he and Ramona were married in the cathedral, old Marda -and Juan Can, with his crutches, kneeling in proud joy behind them. -The story of the romance of their lives, being widely rumored, greatly -enhanced the interest with which they were welcomed. The beautiful young -Senora Moreno was the theme of the city; and Felipe's bosom thrilled -with pride to see the gentle dignity of demeanor by which she was -distinguished in all assemblages. It was indeed a new world, a new life. -Ramona might well doubt her own identity. But undying memories stood -like sentinels in her breast. When the notes of doves, calling to each -other, fell on her ear, her eyes sought the sky, and she heard a voice -saying, "Majella!" This was the only secret her loyal, loving heart had -kept from Felipe. A loyal, loving heart indeed it was,--loyal, loving, -serene. Few husbands so blest as the Senor Felipe Moreno. - -Sons and daughters came to bear his name. The daughters were all -beautiful; but the most beautiful of them all, and, it was said, the -most beloved by both father and mother, was the eldest one: the one -who bore the mother's name, and was only step-daughter to the -Senor,--Ramona,--Ramona, daughter of Alessandro the Indian. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ramona, by Helen Hunt Jackson - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RAMONA *** - -***** This file should be named 2802.txt or 2802.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/2/8/0/2802/ - -Produced by David Reed - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* - - - - - -Prepared by David Reed haradda@aol.com or davidr@inconnect.com - - - - - -Ramona - -by Helen Hunt Jackson - - - - -I - -IT was sheep-shearing time in Southern California, but -sheep-shearing was late at the Senora Moreno's. The Fates had -seemed to combine to put it off. In the first place, Felipe Moreno -had been ill. He was the Senora's eldest son, and since his father's -death had been at the head of his mother's house. Without him, -nothing could be done on the ranch, the Senora thought. It had -been always, "Ask Senor Felipe," "Go to Senor Felipe," "Senor -Felipe will attend to it," ever since Felipe had had the dawning of a -beard on his handsome face. - -In truth, it was not Felipe, but the Senora, who really decided all -questions from greatest to least, and managed everything on the -place, from the sheep-pastures to the artichoke-patch; but nobody -except the Senora herself knew this. An exceedingly clever woman -for her day and generation was Senora Gonzaga Moreno,-- as for -that matter, exceedingly clever for any day and generation; but -exceptionally clever for the day and generation to which she -belonged. Her life, the mere surface of it, if it had been written, -would have made a romance, to grow hot and cold over: sixty -years of the best of old Spain, and the wildest of New Spain, Bay -of Biscay, Gulf of Mexico, Pacific Ocean,-- the waves of them all -had tossed destinies for the Senora. The Holy Catholic Church had -had its arms round her from first to last; and that was what had -brought her safe through, she would have said, if she had ever said -anything about herself, which she never did,-- one of her many -wisdoms. So quiet, so reserved, so gentle an exterior never was -known to veil such an imperious and passionate nature, brimful of -storm, always passing through stress; never thwarted, except at -peril of those who did it; adored and hated by turns, and each at -the hottest. A tremendous force, wherever she appeared, was -Senora Moreno; but no stranger would suspect it, to see her gliding -about, in her scanty black gown, with her rosary hanging at her -side, her soft dark eyes cast down, and an expression of mingled -melancholy and devotion on her face. She looked simply like a -sad, spiritual-minded old lady, amiable and indolent, like her race, -but sweeter and more thoughtful than their wont. Her voice -heightened this mistaken impression. She was never heard to speak -either loud or fast. There was at times even a curious hesitancy in -her speech, which came near being a stammer, or suggested the -measured care with which people speak who have been cured of -stammering. It made her often appear as if she did not known her -own mind; at which people sometimes took heart; when, if they -had only known the truth, they would have known that the speech -hesitated solely because the Senora knew her mind so exactly that -she was finding it hard to make the words convey it as she desired, -or in a way to best attain her ends. - -About this very sheep-shearing there had been, between her and -the head shepherd, Juan Canito, called Juan Can for short, and to -distinguish him from Juan Jose, the upper herdsman of the cattle, -some discussions which would have been hot and angry ones in -any other hands than the Senora's. - -Juan Canito wanted the shearing to begin, even though Senor -Felipe were ill in bed, and though that lazy shepherd Luigo had not -yet got back with the flock that had been driven up the coast for -pasture. "There were plenty of sheep on the place to begin with," -he said one morning,-- "at least a thousand;" and by the time they -were done, Luigo would surely be back with the rest; and as for -Senor Felipe's being in bed, had not he, Juan Canito, stood at the -packing-bag, and handled the wool, when Senor Felipe was a boy? -Why could he not do it again? The Senora did not realize how time -was going; there would be no shearers to be hired presently, since -the Senora was determined to have none but Indians. Of course, if -she would employ Mexicans, as all the other ranches in the valley -did, it would be different; but she was resolved upon having -Indians,-- "God knows why," he interpolated surlily, under his -breath. - -"I do not quite understand you, Juan," interrupted Senora Moreno -at the precise instant the last syllable of this disrespectful -ejaculation had escaped Juan's lips; "speak a little louder. I fear I -am growing deaf in my old age." - -What gentle, suave, courteous tones! and the calm dark eyes rested -on Juan Canito with a look to the fathoming of which he was as -unequal as one of his own sheep would have been. He could not -have told why he instantly and involuntarily said, "Beg your -pardon, Senora." - -"Oh, you need not ask my pardon, Juan," the Senora replied with -exquisite gentleness; "it is not you who are to blame, if I am deaf. I -have fancied for a year I did not hear quite as well as I once did. -But about the Indians, Juan; did not Senor Felipe tell you that he -had positively engaged the same band of shearers we had last -autumn, Alessandro's band from Temecula? They will wait until -we are ready for them. Senor Felipe will send a messenger for -them. He thinks them the best shearers in the country. He will be -well enough in a week or two, he thinks, and the poor sheep must -bear their loads a few days longer. Are they looking well, do you -think, Juan? Will the crop be a good one? General Moreno used to -say that you could reckon up the wool-crop to a pound, while it -was on the sheep's backs." - -"Yes, Senora," answered the mollified Juan; "the poor beasts look -wonderfully well considering the scant feed they have had all -winter. We'll not come many pounds short of our last year's crop, if -any. Though, to be sure, there is no telling in what case that -- -Luigo will bring his flock back." - -The Senora smiled, in spite of herself, at the pause and gulp with -which Juan had filled in the hiatus where he had longed to set a -contemptuous epithet before Luigo's name. - -This was another of the instances where the Senora's will and Juan -Canito's had clashed and he did not dream of it, having set it all -down as usual to the score of young Senor Felipe. - -Encouraged by the Senora's smile, Juan proceeded: "Senor Felipe -can see no fault in Luigo, because they were boys together; but I -can tell him, he will rue it, one of these mornings, when he finds a -flock of sheep worse than dead on his hands, and no thanks to -anybody but Luigo. While I can have him under my eye, here in -the valley, it is all very well; but he is no more fit to take -responsibility of a flock, than one of the very lambs themselves. -He'll drive them off their feet one day, and starve them the next; -and I've known him to forget to give them water. When he's in his -dreams, the Virgin only knows what he won't do." - -During this brief and almost unprecedented outburst of Juan's the -Senora's countenance had been slowly growing stern. Juan had not -seen it. His eyes had been turned away from her, looking down -into the upturned eager face of his favorite collie, who was leaping -and gambolling and barking at his feet. - -"Down, Capitan, down!" he said in a fond tone, gently repulsing -him; "thou makest such a noise the Senora can hear nothing but -thy voice." - -"I heard only too distinctly, Juan Canito," said the Senora in a -sweet but icy tone. "It is not well for one servant to backbite -another. It gives me great grief to hear such words; and I hope -when Father Salvierderra comes, next month, you will not forget to -confess this sin of which you have been guilty in thus seeking to -injure a fellow-being. If Senor Felipe listens to you, the poor boy -Luigo will be cast out homeless on the world some day; and what -sort of a deed would that be, Juan Canito, for one Christian to do -to another? I fear the Father will give you penance, when he hears -what you have said." - -"Senora, it is not to harm the lad," Juan began, every fibre of his -faithful frame thrilling with a sense of the injustice of her -reproach. - -But the Senora had turned her back. Evidently she would hear no -more from him then. He stood watching her as she walked away, at -her usual slow pace, her head slightly bent forward, her rosary -lifted in her left hand, and the fingers of the right hand -mechanically slipping the beads. - -"Prayers, always prayers!" thought Juan to himself, as his eyes -followed her. "If they'll take one to heaven, the Senora'll go by the -straight road, that's sure! I'm sorry I vexed her. But what's a man to -do, if he's the interest of the place at heart, I'd like to know. Is he to -stand by, and see a lot of idle mooning louts run away with -everything? Ah, but it was an ill day for the estate when the -General died,-- an ill day! an ill day! And they may scold me as -much as they please, and set me to confessing my sins to the -Father; it's very well for them, they've got me to look after matters. -Senor Felipe will do well enough when he's a man, maybe; but a -boy like him! Bah!" And the old man stamped his foot with a not -wholly unreasonable irritation, at the false position in which he -felt himself put. - -"Confess to Father Salvierderra, indeed!" he muttered aloud. "Ay, -that will I. He's a man of sense, if he is a priest," -- at which slip of -the tongue the pious Juan hastily crossed himself,-- "and I'll ask -him to give me some good advice as to how I'm to manage -between this young boy at the head of everything, and a doting -mother who thinks he has the wisdom of a dozen grown men. The -Father knew the place in the olden time. He knows it's no child's -play to look after the estate even now, much smaller as it is! An ill -day when the old General died, an ill day indeed, the saints rest his -soul!" Saying this, Juan shrugged his shoulders, and whistling to -Capitan, walked towards the sunny veranda of the south side of the -kitchen wing of the house, where it had been for twenty odd years -his habit to sit on the long bench and smoke his pipe of a morning. -Before he had got half-way across the court-yard, however, a -thought struck him. He halted so suddenly that Capitan, with the -quick sensitiveness of his breed, thought so sudden a change of -purpose could only come from something in connection with -sheep; and, true to his instinct of duty, pricked up his ears, poised -himself for a full run, and looked up in his master's face waiting -for explanation and signal. But Juan did not observe him. - -"Ha!" he said, "Father Salvierderra comes next month, does he? -Let's see. To-day is the 25th. That's it. The sheep-shearing is not to -come off till the Father gets here. Then each morning it will be -mass in the chapel, and each night vespers; and the crowd will be -here at least two days longer to feed, for the time they will lose by -that and by the confessions. That's what Senor Felipe is up to. He's -a pious lad. I recollect now, it was the same way two years ago. -Well, well, it is a good thing for those poor Indian devils to get a -bit of religion now and then; and it's like old times to see the -chapel full of them kneeling, and more than can get in at the door; -I doubt not it warms the Senora's heart to see them all there, as if -they belonged to the house, as they used to: and now I know when -it's to be, I have only to make my arrangements accordingly. It is -always in the first week of the month the Father gets here. Yes; she -said, 'Senor Felipe will be well enough in a week or two, he -thinks.' Ha! ha! It will be nearer two; ten days or thereabouts. I'll -begin the booths next week. A plague on that Luigo for not being -back here. He's the best hand I have to cut the willow boughs for -the roofs. He knows the difference between one year's growth and -another's; I'll say that much for him, spite of the silly dreaming -head he's got on his shoulders." - -Juan was so pleased with his clearing up in his mind as to Senor -Felipe's purpose about the time of the sheep-shearing, that it put -him in good humor for the day,-- good humor with everybody, and -himself most of all. As he sat on the low bench, his head leaning -back against the whitewashed wall, his long legs stretched out -nearly across the whole width of the veranda, his pipe firm wedged -in the extreme left corner of his mouth, his hands in his pockets, -he was the picture of placid content. The troop of youngsters -which still swarmed around the kitchen quarters of Senora -Moreno's house, almost as numerous and inexplicable as in the -grand old days of the General's time, ran back and forth across -Juan's legs, fell down between them, and picked themselves up by -help of clutches at his leather trousers, all unreproved by Juan, -though loudly scolded and warned by their respective mothers -from the kitchen. - -"What's come to Juan Can to be so good-natured to-day?" saucily -asked Margarita, the youngest and prettiest of the maids, popping -her head out of a window, and twitching Juan's hair. He was so -gray and wrinkled that the maids all felt at ease with him. He -seemed to them as old as Methuselah; but he was not really so old -as they thought, nor they so safe in their tricks. The old man had -hot blood in his veins yet, as the under-shepherds could testify. - -"The sight of your pretty face, Senorita Margarita," answered Juan -quickly, cocking his eye at her, rising to his feet, and making a -mock bow towards the window. - -"He! he! Senorita, indeed!" chuckled Margarita's mother, old -Marda the cook. "Senor Juan Canito is pleased to be merry at the -doors of his betters;" and she flung a copper saucepan full of not -over-clean water so deftly past Juan's head, that not a drop touched -him, and yet he had the appearance of having been ducked. At -which bit of sleight-of-hand the whole court-yard, young and old, -babies, cocks, hens, and turkeys, all set up a shout and a cackle, -and dispersed to the four corners of the yard as if scattered by a -volley of bird-shot. Hearing the racket, the rest of the maids came -running,-- Anita and Maria, the twins, women forty years old, born -on the place the year after General Moreno brought home his -handsome young bride; their two daughters, Rosa and Anita the -Little, as she was still called, though she outweighed her mother; -old Juanita, the oldest woman in the household, of whom even the -Senora was said not to know the exact age or history; and she, poor -thing, could tell nothing, having been silly for ten years or more, -good for nothing except to shell beans: that she did as fast and well -as ever, and was never happy except she was at it. Luckily for her, -beans are the one crop never omitted or stinted on a Mexican -estate; and for sake of old Juanita they stored every year in the -Moreno house, rooms full of beans in the pod (tons of them, one -would think), enough to feed an army. But then, it was like a little -army even now, the Senora's household; nobody ever knew exactly -how many women were in the kitchen, or how many men in the -fields. There were always women cousins, or brother's wives or -widows or daughters, who had come to stay, or men cousins, or -sister's husbands or sons, who were stopping on their way up or -down the valley. When it came to the pay-roll, Senor Felipe knew -to whom he paid wages; but who were fed and lodged under his -roof, that was quite another thing. It could not enter into the head -of a Mexican gentleman to make either count or account of that. It -would be a disgraceful niggardly thought. - -To the Senora it seemed as if there were no longer any people -about the place. A beggarly handful, she would have said, hardly -enough to do the work of the house, or of the estate, sadly as the -latter had dwindled. In the General's day, it had been a free-handed -boast of his that never less than fifty persons, men, women and -children, were fed within his gates each day; how many more, he -did not care, nor know. But that time had indeed gone, gone -forever; and though a stranger, seeing the sudden rush and muster -at door and window, which followed on old Marda's letting fly the -water at Juan's head, would have thought, "Good heavens, do all -those women, children, and babies belong in that one house!" the -Senora's sole thought, as she at that moment went past the gate, -was, "Poor things! how few there are left of them! I am afraid old -Marda has to work too hard. I must spare Margarita more from the -house to help her." And she sighed deeply, and unconsciously held -her rosary nearer to her heart, as she went into the house and -entered her son's bedroom. The picture she saw there was one to -thrill any mother's heart; and as it met her eye, she paused on the -threshold for a second,-- only a second, however; and nothing -could have astonished Felipe Moreno so much as to have been told -that at the very moment when his mother's calm voice was saying -to him, "Good morning, my son, I hope you have slept well, and -are better," there was welling up in her heart a passionate -ejaculation, "O my glorious son! The saints have sent me in him -the face of his father! He is fit for a kingdom!" - -The truth is, Felipe Moreno was not fit for a kingdom at all. If he -had been, he would not have been so ruled by his mother without -ever finding it out. But so far as mere physical beauty goes, there -never was a king born, whose face, stature, and bearing would set -off a crown or a throne, or any of the things of which the outside of -royalty is made up, better than would Felipe Moreno's. And it was -true, as the Senora said, whether the saints had anything to do with -it or not, that he had the face of his father. So strong a likeness is -seldom seen. When Felipe once, on the occasion of a grand -celebration and procession, put on the gold-wrought velvet mantle, -gayly embroidered short breeches fastened at the knee with red -ribbons, and gold-and-silver-trimmed sombrero, which his father -had worn twenty-five years before, the Senora fainted at her first -look at him,-- fainted and fell; and when she opened her eyes, and -saw the same splendid, gayly arrayed, dark-bearded man, bending -over her in distress, with words of endearment and alarm, she -fainted again. - -"Mother, mother mia," cried Felipe, "I will not wear them if it -makes you feel like this! Let me take them off. I will not go to -their cursed parade;" and he sprang to his feet, and began with -trembling fingers to unbuckle the sword-belt. - -"No, no, Felipe," faintly cried the Senora, from the ground. "It is -my wish that you wear them;" and staggering to her feet, with a -burst of tears, she rebuckled the old sword-belt, which her fingers -had so many times -- never unkissed -- buckled, in the days when -her husband had bade her farewell and gone forth to the uncertain -fates of war. "Wear them!" she cried, with gathering fire in her -tones, and her eyes dry of tears,-- "wear them, and let the -American hounds see what a Mexican officer and gentleman -looked like before they had set their base, usurping feet on our -necks!" And she followed him to the gate, and stood erect, bravely -waving her handkerchief as he galloped off, till he was out of -sight. Then with a changed face and a bent head she crept slowly -to her room, locked herself in, fell on her knees before the -Madonna at the head of her bed, and spent the greater part of the -day praying that she might be forgiven, and that all heretics might -be discomfited. From which part of these supplications she derived -most comfort is easy to imagine. - -Juan Canito had been right in his sudden surmise that it was for -Father Salvierderra's coming that the sheep-shearing was being -delayed, and not in consequence of Senor Felipe's illness, or by the -non-appearance of Luigo and his flock of sheep. Juan would have -chuckled to himself still more at his perspicacity, had he overheard -the conversation going on between the Senora and her son, at the -very time when he, half asleep on the veranda, was, as he would -have called it, putting two and two together and convincing -himself that old Juan was as smart as they were, and not to be kept -in the dark by all their reticence and equivocation. - -"Juan Can is growing very impatient about the sheep-shearing," -said the Senora. "I suppose you are still of the same mind about it, -Felipe,-- that it is better to wait till Father Salvierderra comes? As -the only chance those Indians have of seeing him is here, it would -seem a Christian duty to so arrange it, if it be possible; but Juan is -very restive. He is getting old, and chafes a little, I fancy, under -your control. He cannot forget that you were a boy on his knee. -Now I, for my part, am like to forget that you were ever anything -but a man for me to lean on." - -Felipe turned his handsome face toward his mother with a beaming -smile of filial affection and gratified manly vanity. "Indeed, my -mother, if I can be sufficient for you to lean on, I will ask nothing -more of the saints;" and he took his mother's thin and wasted little -hands, both at once, in his own strong right hand, and carried them -to his lips as a lover might have done. "You will spoil me, -mother," he said, "you make me so proud." - -"No, Felipe, it is I who am proud," promptly replied the mother; -"and I do not call it being proud, only grateful to God for having -given me a son wise enough to take his father's place, and guide -and protect me through the few remaining years I have to live. I -shall die content, seeing you at the head of the estate, and living as -a Mexican gentleman should; that is, so far as now remains -possible in this unfortunate country. But about the sheep-shearing, -Felipe. Do you wish to have it begun before the Father is here? Of -course, Alessandro is all ready with his band. It is but two days' -journey for a messenger to bring him. Father Salvierderra cannot -be here before the 10th of the month. He leaves Santa Barbara on -the 1st, and he will walk all the way,-- a good six days' journey, for -he is old now and feeble; then he must stop in Ventura for a -Sunday, and a day at the Ortega's ranch, and at the Lopez's,-- there, -there is a christening. Yes, the 10th is the very earliest that he can -be here,-- near two weeks from now. So far as your getting up is -concerned, it might perhaps be next week. You will be nearly well -by that time." - -"Yes, indeed," laughed Felipe, stretching himself out in the bed -and giving a kick to the bedclothes that made the high bedposts -and the fringed canopy roof shake and creak; "I am well now, if it -were not for this cursed weakness when I stand on my feet. I -believe it would do me good to get out of doors." - -In truth, Felipe had been hankering for the sheep-shearing himself. -It was a brisk, busy, holiday sort of time to him, hard as he worked -in it; and two weeks looked long to wait. - -"It is always thus after a fever," said his mother. "The weakness -lasts many weeks. I am not sure that you will be strong enough -even in two weeks to do the packing; but, as Juan Can said this -morning, he stood at the packing-bag when you were a boy, and -there was no need of waiting for you for that!" - -"He said that, did he!" exclaimed Felipe, wrathfully. "The old man -is getting insolent. I'll tell him that nobody will pack the sacks but -myself, while I am master here; and I will have the sheep-shearing -when I please, and not before." - -"I suppose it would not be wise to say that it is not to take place till -the Father comes, would it?" asked the Senora, hesitatingly, as if -the thing were evenly balanced in her mind. "The Father has not -that hold on the younger men he used to have, and I have thought -that even in Juan himself I have detected a remissness. The spirit -of unbelief is spreading in the country since the Americans are -running up and down everywhere seeking money, like dogs with -their noses to the ground! It might vex Juan if he knew that you -were waiting only for the Father. What do you think?" - -"I think it is enough for him to know that the sheep-shearing waits -for my pleasure," answered Felipe, still wrathful, "and that is the -end of it." And so it was; and, moreover, precisely the end which -Senora Moreno had had in her own mind from the beginning; but -not even Juan Canito himself suspected its being solely her -purpose, and not her son's. As for Felipe, if any person had -suggested to him that it was his mother, and not he, who had -decided that the sheep-shearing would be better deferred until the -arrival of Father Salvierderra from Santa Barbara, and that nothing -should be said on the ranch about this being the real reason of the -postponing, Felipe would have stared in astonishment, and have -thought that person either crazy or a fool. - -To attain one's ends in this way is the consummate triumph of art. -Never to appear as a factor in the situation; to be able to wield -other men, as instruments, with the same direct and implicit -response to will that one gets from a hand or a foot,-- this is to -triumph, indeed: to be as nearly controller and conqueror of Fates -as fate permits. There have been men prominent in the world's -affairs at one time and another, who have sought and studied such -a power and have acquired it to a great degree. By it they have -manipulated legislators, ambassadors, sovereigns; and have -grasped, held, and played with the destinies of empires. But it is to -be questioned whether even in these notable instances there has -ever been such marvellous completeness of success as is -sometimes seen in the case of a woman in whom the power is an -instinct and not an attainment; a passion rather than a purpose. -Between the two results, between the two processes, there is just -that difference which is always to be seen between the stroke of -talent and the stroke of genius. - -Senora Moreno's was the stroke of genius. - -II - -THE Senora Moreno's house was one of the best specimens to be -found in California of the representative house of the half barbaric, -half elegant, wholly generous and free-handed life led there by -Mexican men and women of degree in the early part of this -century, under the rule of the Spanish and Mexican viceroys, when -the laws of the Indies were still the law of the land, and its old -name, "New Spain," was an ever-present link and stimulus to the -warmest memories and deepest patriotisms of its people. - -It was a picturesque life, with more of sentiment and gayety in it, -more also that was truly dramatic, more romance, than will ever be -seen again on those sunny shores. The aroma of it all lingers there -still; industries and inventions have not yet slain it; it will last out -its century,-- in fact, it can never be quite lost, so long as there is -left standing one such house as the Senora Moreno's. - -When the house was built, General Moreno owned all the land -within a radius of forty miles,-- forty miles westward, down the -valley to the sea; forty miles eastward, into the San Fernando -Mountains; and good forty miles more or less along the coast. The -boundaries were not very strictly defined; there was no occasion, -in those happy days, to reckon land by inches. It might be asked, -perhaps, just how General Moreno owned all this land, and the -question might not be easy to answer. It was not and could not be -answered to the satisfaction of the United States Land -Commission, which, after the surrender of California, undertook to -sift and adjust Mexican land titles; and that was the way it had -come about that the Senora Moreno now called herself a poor -woman. Tract after tract, her lands had been taken away from her; -it looked for a time as if nothing would be left. Every one of the -claims based on deeds of gift from Governor Pio Fico, her -husband's most intimate friend, was disallowed. They all went by -the board in one batch, and took away from the Senora in a day the -greater part of her best pasture-lands. They were lands which had -belonged to the Bonaventura Mission, and lay along the coast at -the mouth of the valley down which the little stream which ran -past her house went to the sea; and it had been a great pride and -delight to the Senora, when she was young, to ride that forty miles -by her husband's side, all the way on their own lands, straight from -their house to their own strip of shore. No wonder she believed the -Americans thieves, and spoke of them always as hounds. The -people of the United States have never in the least realized that the -taking possession of California was not only a conquering of -Mexico, but a conquering of California as well; that the real -bitterness of the surrender was not so much to the empire which -gave up the country, as to the country itself which was given up. -Provinces passed back and forth in that way, helpless in the hands -of great powers, have all the ignominy and humiliation of defeat, -with none of the dignities or compensations of the transaction. - -Mexico saved much by her treaty, spite of having to acknowledge -herself beaten; but California lost all. Words cannot tell the sting -of such a transfer. It is a marvel that a Mexican remained in the -country; probably none did, except those who were absolutely -forced to it. - -Luckily for the Senora Moreno, her title to the lands midway in the -valley was better than to those lying to the east and the west, which -had once belonged to the missions of San Fernando and -Bonaventura; and after all the claims, counter-claims, petitions, -appeals, and adjudications were ended, she still was left in -undisputed possession of what would have been thought by any -new-comer into the country to be a handsome estate, but which -seemed to the despoiled and indignant Senora a pitiful fragment of -one. Moreover, she declared that she should never feel secure of a -foot of even this. Any day, she said, the United States Government -might send out a new Land Commission to examine the decrees of -the first, and revoke such as they saw fit. Once a thief, always a -thief. Nobody need feel himself safe under American rule. There -was no knowing what might happen any day; and year by year the -lines of sadness, resentment, anxiety, and antagonism deepened on -the Senora's fast aging face. - -It gave her unspeakable satisfaction, when the Commissioners, -laying out a road down the valley, ran it at the back of her house -instead of past the front. "It is well," she said. "Let their travel be -where it belongs, behind our kitchens; and no one have sight of the -front doors of our houses, except friends who have come to visit -us." Her enjoyment of this never flagged. Whenever she saw, -passing the place, wagons or carriages belonging to the hated -Americans, it gave her a distinct thrill of pleasure to think that the -house turned its back on them. She would like always to be able to -do the same herself; but whatever she, by policy or in business, -might be forced to do, the old house, at any rate, would always -keep the attitude of contempt,-- its face turned away. - -One other pleasure she provided herself with, soon after this road -was opened,-- a pleasure in which religious devotion and race -antagonism were so closely blended that it would have puzzled the -subtlest of priests to decide whether her act were a sin or a virtue. -She caused to be set up, upon every one of the soft rounded hills -which made the beautiful rolling sides of that part of the valley, a -large wooden cross; not a hill in sight of her house left without the -sacred emblem of her faith. "That the heretics may know, when -they go by, that they are on the estate of a good Catholic," she said, -"and that the faithful may be reminded to pray. There have been -miracles of conversion wrought on the most hardened by a sudden -sight of the Blessed Cross." - -There they stood, summer and winter, rain and shine, the silent, -solemn, outstretched arms, and became landmarks to many a -guideless traveller who had been told that his way would be by the -first turn to the left or the right, after passing the last one of the -Senora Moreno's crosses, which he couldn't miss seeing. And who -shall say that it did not often happen that the crosses bore a sudden -message to some idle heart journeying by, and thus justified the -pious half of the Senora's impulse? Certain it is, that many a good -Catholic halted and crossed himself when he first beheld them, in -the lonely places, standing out in sudden relief against the blue -sky; and if he said a swift short prayer at the sight, was he not so -much the better? - -The house, was of adobe, low, with a wide veranda on the three -sides of the inner court, and a still broader one across the entire -front, which looked to the south. These verandas, especially those -on the inner court, were supplementary rooms to the house. The -greater part of the family life went on in them. Nobody stayed -inside the walls, except when it was necessary. All the kitchen -work, except the actual cooking, was done here, in front of the -kitchen doors and windows. Babies slept, were washed, sat in the -dirt, and played, on the veranda. The women said their prayers, -took their naps, and wove their lace there. Old Juanita shelled her -beans there, and threw the pods down on the tile floor, till towards -night they were sometimes piled up high around her, like -corn-husks at a husking. The herdsmen and shepherds smoked -there, lounged there, trained their dogs there; there the young made -love, and the old dozed; the benches, which ran the entire length of -the walls, were worn into hollows, and shone like satin; the tiled -floors also were broken and sunk in places, making little wells, -which filled up in times of hard rains, and were then an invaluable -addition to the children's resources for amusement, and also to the -comfort of the dogs, cats, and fowls, who picked about among -them, taking sips from each. - -The arched veranda along the front was a delightsome place. It -must have been eighty feet long, at least, for the doors of five large -rooms opened on it. The two westernmost rooms had been added -on, and made four steps higher than the others; which gave to that -end of the veranda the look of a balcony, or loggia. Here the -Senora kept her flowers; great red water-jars, hand-made by the -Indians of San Luis Obispo Mission, stood in close rows against -the walls, and in them were always growing fine geraniums, -carnations, and yellow-flowered musk. The Senora's passion for -musk she had inherited from her mother. It was so strong that she -sometimes wondered at it; and one day, as she sat with Father -Salvierderra in the veranda, she picked a handful of the blossoms, -and giving them to him, said, "I do not know why it is, but it seems -to me if I were dead I could be brought to life by the smell of -musk." - -"It is in your blood, Senora," the old monk replied. "When I was -last in your father's house in Seville, your mother sent for me to -her room, and under her window was a stone balcony full of -growing musk, which so filled the room with its odor that I was -like to faint. But she said it cured her of diseases, and without it -she fell ill. You were a baby then." - -"Yes," cried the Senora, "but I recollect that balcony. I recollect -being lifted up to a window, and looking down into a bed of -blooming yellow flowers; but I did not know what they were. How -strange!" - -"No. Not strange, daughter," replied Father Salvierderra. "It would -have been stranger if you had not acquired the taste, thus drawing -it in with the mother's milk. It would behoove mothers to -remember this far more than they do." - -Besides the geraniums and carnations and musk in the red jars, -there were many sorts of climbing vines,-- some coming from the -ground, and twining around the pillars of the veranda; some -growing in great bowls, swung by cords from the roof of the -veranda, or set on shelves against the walls. These bowls were of -gray stone, hollowed and polished, shining smooth inside and out. -They also had been made by the Indians, nobody knew how many -ages ago, scooped and polished by the patient creatures, with only -stones for tools. - -Among these vines, singing from morning till night, hung the -Senora's canaries and finches, half a dozen of each, all of different -generations, raised by the Senora. She was never without a young -bird-family on hand; and all the way from Bonaventura to -Monterey, it was thought a piece of good luck to come into -possession of a canary or finch of Senora Moreno's 'raising. - -Between the veranda and the river meadows, out on which it -looked, all was garden, orange grove, and almond orchard; the -orange grove always green, never without snowy bloom or golden -fruit; the garden never without flowers, summer or winter; and the -almond orchard, in early spring, a fluttering canopy of pink and -white petals, which, seen from the hills on the opposite side of the -river, looked as if rosy sunrise clouds had fallen, and become -tangled in the tree-tops. On either hand stretched away other -orchards,-- peach, apricot, pear, apple pomegranate; and beyond -these, vineyards. Nothing was to be seen but verdure or bloom or -fruit, at whatever time of year you sat on the Senora's south -veranda. - -A wide straight walk shaded by a trellis so knotted and twisted -with grapevines that little was to be seen of the trellis wood-work, -led straight down from the veranda steps, through the middle of -the garden, to a little brook at the foot of it. Across this brook, in -the shade of a dozen gnarled old willow-trees, were set the broad -flat stone washboards on which was done all the family washing. -No long dawdling, and no running away from work on the part of -the maids, thus close to the eye of the Senora at the upper end of -the garden; and if they had known how picturesque they looked -there, kneeling on the grass, lifting the dripping linen out of the -water, rubbing it back and forth on the stones, sousing it, wringing -it, splashing the clear water in each other's faces, they would have -been content to stay at the washing day in and day out, for there -was always somebody to look on from above. Hardly a day passed -that the Senora had not visitors. She was still a person of note; her -house the natural resting-place for all who journeyed through the -valley; and whoever came, spent all of his time, when not eating, -sleeping, or walking over the place, sitting with the Senora on the -sunny veranda. Few days in winter were cold enough, and in -summer the day must be hot indeed to drive the Senora and her -friends indoors. There stood on the veranda three carved oaken -chairs, and a carved bench, also of oak, which had been brought to -the Senora for safe keeping by the faithful old sacristan of San -Luis Rey, at the time of the occupation of that Mission by the -United States troops, soon after the conquest of California. Aghast -at the sacrilegious acts of the soldiers, who were quartered in the -very church itself, and amused themselves by making targets of the -eyes and noses of the saints' statues, the sacristan, stealthily, day by -day and night after night, bore out of the church all that he dared to -remove, burying some articles in cottonwood copses, hiding others -in his own poor little hovel, until he had wagon-loads of sacred -treasures. Then, still more stealthily, he carried them, a few at a -time, concealed in the bottom of a cart, under a load of hay or of -brush, to the house of the Senora, who felt herself deeply honored -by his confidence, and received everything as a sacred trust, to be -given back into the hands of the Church again, whenever the -Missions should be restored, of which at that time all Catholics -had good hope. And so it had come about that no bedroom in the -Senora's house was without a picture or a statue of a saint or of the -Madonna; and some had two; and in the little chapel in the garden -the altar was surrounded by a really imposing row of holy and -apostolic figures, which had looked down on the splendid -ceremonies of the San Luis Rey Mission, in Father Peyri's time, no -more benignly than they now did on the humbler worship of the -Senora's family in its diminished estate. That one had lost an eye, -another an arm, that the once brilliant colors of the drapery were -now faded and shabby, only enhanced the tender reverence with -which the Senora knelt before them, her eyes filling with indignant -tears at thought of the heretic hands which had wrought such -defilement. Even the crumbling wreaths which had been placed on -some of the statues' heads at the time of the last ceremonial at -which they had figured in the Mission, had been brought away -with them by the devout sacristan, and the Senora had replaced -each one, holding it only a degree less sacred than the statue itself. - -This chapel was dearer to the Senora than her house. It had been -built by the General in the second year of their married life. In it -her four children had been christened, and from it all but one, her -handsome Felipe, had been buried while they were yet infants. In -the General's time, while the estate was at its best, and hundreds of -Indians living within its borders, there was many a Sunday when -the scene to be witnessed there was like the scenes at the -Missions,-- the chapel full of kneeling men and women; those who -could not find room inside kneeling on the garden walks outside; -Father Salvierderra, in gorgeous vestments, coming, at close of the -services, slowly down the aisle, the close-packed rows of -worshippers parting to right and left to let him through, all looking -up eagerly for his blessing, women giving him offerings of fruit or -flowers, and holding up their babies that he might lay his hands on -their heads. No one but Father Salvierderra had ever officiated in -the Moreno chapel, or heard the confession of a Moreno. He was a -Franciscan, one of the few now left in the country; so revered and -beloved by all who had come under his influence, that they would -wait long months without the offices of the Church, rather than -confess their sins or confide their perplexities to any one else. -From this deep-seated attachment on the part of the Indians and -the older Mexican families in the country to the Franciscan Order, -there had grown up, not unnaturally, some jealousy of them in the -minds of the later-come secular priests, and the position of the few -monks left was not wholly a pleasant one. It had even been -rumored that they were to be forbidden to continue longer their -practice of going up and down the country, ministering -everywhere; were to be compelled to restrict their labors to their -own colleges at Santa Barbara and Santa Inez. When something to -this effect was one day said in the Senora Moreno's presence, two -scarlet spots sprang on her cheeks, and before she bethought -herself, she exclaimed, "That day, I burn down my chapel!" - -Luckily, nobody but Felipe heard the rash threat, and his -exclamation of unbounded astonishment recalled the Senora to -herself. - -"I spoke rashly, my son," she said. "The Church is to be obeyed -always; but the Franciscan Fathers are responsible to no one but -the Superior of their own order; and there is no one in this land -who has the authority to forbid their journeying and ministering to -whoever desires their offices. As for these Catalan priests who are -coming in here, I cannot abide them. No Catalan but has bad blood -in his veins!" - -There was every reason in the world why the Senora should be -thus warmly attached to the Franciscan Order. From her earliest -recollections the gray gown and cowl had been familiar to her -eyes, and had represented the things which she was taught to hold -most sacred and dear. Father Salvierderra himself had come from -Mexico to Monterey in the same ship which had brought her father -to be the commandante of the Santa Barbara Presidio; and her -best-beloved uncle, her father's eldest brother, was at that time the -Superior of the Santa Barbara Mission. The sentiment and -romance of her youth were almost equally divided between the -gayeties, excitements, adornments of the life at the Presidio, and -the ceremonies and devotions of the life at the Mission. She was -famed as the most beautiful girl in the country. Men of the army, -men of the navy, and men of the Church, alike adored her. Her -name was a toast from Monterey to San Diego. When at last she -was wooed and won by Felipe Moreno, one of the most -distinguished of the Mexican Generals, her wedding ceremonies -were the most splendid ever seen in the country. The right tower of -the Mission church at Santa Barbara had been just completed, and -it was arranged that the consecration of this tower should take -place at the time of her wedding, and that her wedding feast should -be spread in the long outside corridor of the Mission building. The -whole country, far and near, was bid. The feast lasted three days; -open tables to everybody; singing, dancing, eating, drinking, and -making merry. At that time there were long streets of Indian -houses stretching eastward from the Mission; before each of these -houses was built a booth of green boughs. The Indians, as well as -the Fathers from all the other Missions, were invited to come. The -Indians came in bands, singing songs and bringing gifts. As they -appeared, the Santa Barbara Indians went out to meet them, also -singing, bearing gifts, and strewing seeds on the ground, in token -of welcome. The young Senora and her bridegroom, splendidly -clothed, were seen of all, and greeted, whenever they appeared, by -showers of seeds and grains and blossoms. On the third day, still in -their wedding attire, and bearing lighted candles in their hands, -they walked with the monks in a procession, round and round the -new tower, the monks chanting, and sprinkling incense and holy -water on its walls, the ceremony seeming to all devout beholders -to give a blessed consecration to the union of the young pair as -well as to the newly completed tower. After this they journeyed in -state, accompanied by several of the General's aids and officers, -and by two Franciscan Fathers, up to Monterey, stopping on their -way at all the Missions, and being warmly welcomed and -entertained at each. - -General Moreno was much beloved by both army and Church. In -many of the frequent clashings between the military and the -ecclesiastical powers he, being as devout and enthusiastic a -Catholic as he was zealous and enthusiastic a soldier, had had the -good fortune to be of material assistance to each party. The Indians -also knew his name well, having heard it many times mentioned -with public thanksgivings in the Mission churches, after some -signal service he had rendered to the Fathers either in Mexico or -Monterey. And now, by taking as his bride the daughter of a -distinguished officer, and the niece of the Santa Barbara Superior, -he had linked himself anew to the two dominant powers and -interests of the country. - -When they reached San Luis Obispo, the whole Indian population -turned out to meet them, the Padre walking at the head. As they -approached the Mission doors the Indians swarmed closer and -closer and still closer, took the General's horse by the head, and -finally almost by actual force compelled him to allow himself to -be lifted into a blanket, held high up by twenty strong men; and -thus he was borne up the steps, across the corridor, and into the -Padre's room. It was a position ludicrously undignified in itself, but -the General submitted to it good-naturedly. - -"Oh, let them do it, if they like," he cried, laughingly, to Padre -Martinez, who was endeavoring to quiet the Indians and hold them -back. "Let them do it. It pleases the poor creatures." - -On the morning of their departure, the good Padre, having -exhausted all his resources for entertaining his distinguished -guests, caused to be driven past the corridors, for their inspection, -all the poultry belonging to the Mission. The procession took an -hour to pass. For music, there was the squeaking, cackling, hissing, -gobbling, crowing, quacking of the fowls, combined with the -screaming, scolding, and whip-cracking of the excited Indian -marshals of the lines. First came the turkeys, then the roosters, -then the white hens, then the black, and then the yellow, next the -ducks, and at the tail of the spectacle long files of geese, some -strutting, some half flying and hissing in resentment and terror at -the unwonted coercions to which they were subjected. The Indians -had been hard at work all night capturing, sorting, assorting, and -guarding the rank and file of their novel pageant. It would be safe -to say that a droller sight never was seen, and never will be, on the -Pacific coast or any other. Before it was done with, the General -and his bride had nearly died with laughter; and the General could -never allude to it without laughing almost as heartily again. - -At Monterey they were more magnificently feted; at the Presidio, -at the Mission, on board Spanish, Mexican, and Russian ships -lying in harbor, balls, dances, bull-fights, dinners, all that the -country knew of festivity, was lavished on the beautiful and -winning young bride. The belles of the coast, from San Diego up, -had all gathered at Monterey for these gayeties, but not one of -them could be for a moment compared to her. This was the -beginning of the Senora's life as a married woman. She was then -just twenty. A close observer would have seen even then, -underneath the joyous smile, the laughing eye, the merry voice, a -look thoughtful, tender, earnest, at times enthusiastic. This look -was the reflection of those qualities in her, then hardly aroused, -which made her, as years developed her character and stormy fates -thickened around her life, the unflinching comrade of her soldier -husband, the passionate adherent of the Church. Through wars, -insurrections, revolutions, downfalls, Spanish, Mexican, civil, -ecclesiastical, her standpoint, her poise, remained the same. She -simply grew more and more proudly, passionately, a Spaniard and -a Moreno; more and more stanchly and fierily a Catholic, and a -lover of the Franciscans. - -During the height of the despoiling and plundering of the -Missions, under the Secularization Act, she was for a few years -almost beside herself. More than once she journeyed alone, when -the journey was by no means without danger, to Monterey, to stir -up the Prefect of the Missions to more energetic action, to implore -the governmental authorities to interfere, and protect the Church's -property. It was largely in consequence of her eloquent entreaties -that Governor Micheltorena issued his bootless order, restoring to -the Church all the Missions south of San Luis Obispo. But this -order cost Micheltorena his political head, and General Moreno -was severely wounded in one of the skirmishes of the insurrection -which drove Micheltorena out of the country. - -In silence and bitter humiliation the Senora nursed her husband -back to health again, and resolved to meddle no more in the affairs -of her unhappy country and still more unhappy Church. As year by -year she saw the ruin of the Missions steadily going on, their vast -properties melting away, like dew before the sun, in the hands of -dishonest administrators and politicians, the Church powerless to -contend with the unprincipled greed in high places, her beloved -Franciscan Fathers driven from the country or dying of starvation -at their posts, she submitted herself to what, she was forced to -admit, seemed to be the inscrutable will of God for the discipline -and humiliation of the Church. In a sort of bewildered resignation -she waited to see what further sufferings were to come, to fill up -the measure of the punishment which, for some mysterious -purpose, the faithful must endure. But when close upon all this -discomfiture and humiliation of her Church followed the -discomfiture and humiliation of her country in war, and the near -and evident danger of an English-speaking people's possessing the -land, all the smothered fire of the Senora's nature broke out afresh. -With unfaltering hands she buckled on her husband's sword, and -with dry eyes saw him go forth to fight. She had but one regret, -that she was not the mother of sons to fight also. - -"Would thou wert a man, Felipe," she exclaimed again and again -in tones the child never forgot. "Would thou wert a man, that thou -might go also to fight these foreigners!" - -Any race under the sun would have been to the Senora less hateful -than the American. She had scorned them in her girlhood, when -they came trading to post after post. She scorned them still. The -idea of being forced to wage a war with pedlers was to her too -monstrous to be believed. In the outset she had no doubt that the -Mexicans would win in the contest. - -"What!" she cried, "shall we who won independence from Spain, -be beaten by these traders? It is impossible!" - -When her husband was brought home to her dead, killed in the last -fight the Mexican forces made, she said icily, "He would have -chosen to die rather than to have been forced to see his country in -the hands of the enemy." And she was almost frightened at herself -to see how this thought, as it dwelt in her mind, slew the grief in -her heart. She had believed she could not live if her husband were -to be taken away from her; but she found herself often glad that he -was dead,-- glad that he was spared the sight and the knowledge of -the things which happened; and even the yearning tenderness with -which her imagination pictured him among the saints, was often -turned into a fierce wondering whether indignation did not fill his -soul, even in heaven, at the way things were going in the land for -whose sake he had died. - -Out of such throes as these had been born the second nature which -made Senora Moreno the silent, reserved, stern, implacable -woman they knew, who knew her first when she was sixty. Of the -gay, tender, sentimental girl, who danced and laughed with the -officers, and prayed and confessed with the Fathers, forty years -before, there was small trace left now, in the low-voiced, -white-haired, aged woman, silent, unsmiling, placid-faced, who -manoeuvred with her son and her head shepherd alike, to bring it -about that a handful of Indians might once more confess their sins -to a Franciscan monk in the Moreno chapel. - -III - -JUAN CANITO and Senor Felipe were not the only members of -the Senora's family who were impatient for the sheep-shearing. -There was also Ramona. Ramona was, to the world at large, a far -more important person than the Senora herself. The Senora was of -the past; Ramona was of the present. For one eye that could see the -significant, at times solemn, beauty of the Senora's pale and -shadowed countenance, there were a hundred that flashed with -eager pleasure at the barest glimpse of Ramona's face; the -shepherds, the herdsmen, the maids, the babies, the dogs, the -poultry, all loved the sight of Ramona; all loved her, except the -Senora. The Senora loved her not; never had loved her, never -could love her; and yet she had stood in the place of mother to the -girl ever since her childhood, and never once during the whole -sixteen years of her life had shown her any unkindness in act. She -had promised to be a mother to her; and with all the inalienable -stanchness of her nature she fulfilled the letter of her promise. -More than the bond lay in the bond; but that was not the Senora's -fault. - -The story of Ramona the Senora never told. To most of the -Senora's acquaintances now, Ramona was a mystery. They did not -know -- and no one ever asked a prying question of the Senora -Moreno -- who Ramona's parents were, whether they were living -or dead, or why Ramona, her name not being Moreno, lived always -in the Senora's house as a daughter, tended and attended equally -with the adored Felipe. A few gray-haired men and women here -and there in the country could have told the strange story of -Ramona; but its beginning was more than a half-century back, and -much had happened since then. They seldom thought of the child. -They knew she was in the Senora Moreno's keeping, and that was -enough. The affairs of the generation just going out were not the -business of the young people coming in. They would have -tragedies enough of their own presently; what was the use of -passing down the old ones? Yet the story was not one to be -forgotten; and now and then it was told in the twilight of a summer -evening, or in the shadows of vines on a lingering afternoon, and -all young men and maidens thrilled who heard it. - -It was an elder sister of the Senora's,-- a sister old enough to be -wooed and won while the Senora was yet at play,-- who had been -promised in marriage to a young Scotchman named Angus Phail. -She was a beautiful woman; and Angus Phail, from the day that he -first saw her standing in the Presidio gate, became so madly her -lover, that he was like a man bereft of his senses. This was the -only excuse ever to be made for Ramona Gonzaga's deed. It could -never be denied, by her bitterest accusers, that, at the first, and -indeed for many months, she told Angus she did not love him, and -could not marry him; and that it was only after his stormy and -ceaseless entreaties, that she did finally promise to become his -wife. Then, almost immediately, she went away to Monterey, and -Angus set sail for San Blas. He was the owner of the richest line of -ships which traded along the coast at that time; the richest stuffs, -carvings, woods, pearls, and jewels, which came into the country, -came in his ships. The arrival of one of them was always an event; -and Angus himself, having been well-born in Scotland, and being -wonderfully well-mannered for a seafaring man, was made -welcome in all the best houses, wherever his ships went into -harbor, from Monterey to San Diego. - -The Senorita Ramona Gonzaga sailed for Monterey the same day -and hour her lover sailed for San Blas. They stood on the decks -waving signals to each other as one sailed away to the south, the -other to the north. It was remembered afterward by those who -were in the ship with the Senorita, that she ceased to wave her -signals, and had turned her face away, long before her lover's ship -was out of sight. But the men of the "San Jose" said that Angus -Phail stood immovable, gazing northward, till nightfall shut from -his sight even the horizon line at which the Monterey ship had long -before disappeared from view. - -This was to be his last voyage. He went on this only because his -honor was pledged to do so. Also, he comforted himself by -thinking that he would bring back for his bride, and for the home -he meant to give her, treasures of all sorts, which none could select -so well as he. Through the long weeks of the voyage he sat on -deck, gazing dreamily at the waves, and letting his imagination -feed on pictures of jewels, satins, velvets, laces, which would best -deck his wife's form and face. When he could not longer bear the -vivid fancies' heat in his blood, he would pace the deck, swifter -and swifter, till his steps were like those of one flying in fear; at -such times the men heard him muttering and whispering to -himself, "Ramona! Ramona!" Mad with love from the first to the -last was Angus Phail; and there were many who believed that if he -had ever seen the hour when he called Ramona Gonzaga his own, -his reason would have fled forever at that moment, and he would -have killed either her or himself, as men thus mad have been -known to do. But that hour never came. When, eight months later, -the "San Jose" sailed into the Santa Barbara harbor, and Angus -Phail leaped breathless on shore, the second man he met, no friend -of his, looking him maliciously in the face, said. "So, ho! You're -just too late for the wedding! Your sweetheart, the handsome -Gonzaga girl, was married here, yesterday, to a fine young officer -of the Monterey Presidio!" - -Angus reeled, struck the man a blow full in the face, and fell on -the ground, foaming at the mouth. He was lifted and carried into a -house, and, speedily recovering, burst with the strength of a giant -from the hands of those who were holding him, sprang out of the -door, and ran bareheaded up the road toward the Presidio. At the -gate he was stopped by the guard, who knew him. - -"Is it true?" gasped Angus. - -"Yes, Senor," replied the man, who said afterward that his knees -shook under him with terror at the look on the Scotchman's face. -He feared he would strike him dead for his reply. But, instead, -Angus burst into a maudlin laugh, and, turning away, went -staggering down the street, singing and laughing. - -The next that was known of him was in a low drinking-place, -where he was seen lying on the floor, dead drunk; and from that -day he sank lower and lower, till one of the commonest sights to -be seen in Santa Barbara was Angus Phail reeling about, tipsy, -coarse, loud, profane, dangerous. - -"See what the Senorita escaped!" said the thoughtless. "She was -quite right not to have married such. a drunken wretch." - -In the rare intervals when he was partially sober, he sold all he -possessed,-- ship after ship sold for a song, and the proceeds -squandered in drinking or worse. He never had a sight of his lost -bride. He did not seek it; and she, terrified, took every precaution -to avoid it, and soon returned with her husband to Monterey, - -Finally Angus disappeared, and after a time the news came up -from Los Angeles that he was there, had gone out to the San -Gabriel Mission, and was living with the Indians. Some years later -came the still more surprising news that he had married a squaw,-- -a squaw with several Indian children, -- had been legally married -by the priest in the San Gabriel Mission Church. And that was the -last that the faithless Ramona Gonzaga ever heard of her lover, -until twenty-five years after her marriage, when one day he -suddenly appeared in her presence. How he had gained admittance -to the house was never known; but there he stood before her, -bearing in his arms a beautiful babe, asleep. Drawing himself up to -the utmost of his six feet of height, and looking at her sternly, with -eyes blue like steel, he said: "Senora Ortegna, you once did me a -great wrong. You sinned, and the Lord has punished you. He has -denied you children. I also have done a wrong; I have sinned, and -the Lord has punished me. He has given me a child. I ask once -more at your hands a boon. Will you take this child of mine, and -bring it up as a child of yours, or of mine, ought to be brought up?" - -The tears were rolling down the Senora Ortegna's cheeks. The -Lord had indeed punished her in more ways than Angus Phail -knew. Her childlessness, bitter as that had been, was the least of -them. Speechless, she rose, and stretched out her arms for the -child. He placed it in them. Still the child slept on, undisturbed. - -"I do not know if I will be permitted," she said falteringly; "my -husband --" - -"Father Salvierderra will command it. I have seen him," replied -Angus. - -The Senora's face brightened. "If that be so, I hope it can be as you -wish," she said. Then a strange embarrassment came upon her, and -looking down upon the infant, she said inquiringly, "But the child's -mother?" - -Angus's face turned swarthy red. Perhaps, face to face with this -gentle and still lovely woman he had once so loved, he first -realized to the full how wickedly he had thrown away his life. -With a quick wave of his hand, which spoke volumes, he said: -"That is nothing. She has other children, of her own blood. This is -mine, my only one, my daughter. I wish her to be yours; otherwise, -she will be taken by the Church." - -With each second that she felt the little warm body's tender weight -in her arms, Ramona Ortegna's heart had more and more yearned -towards the infant. At these words she bent her face down and -kissed its cheek. "Oh, no! not to the Church! I will love it as my -own," she said. - -Angus Phail's face quivered. Feelings long dead within him stirred -in their graves. He gazed at the sad and altered face, once so -beautiful, so dear. "I should hardly have known you, Senora!" burst -from him involuntarily. - -She smiled piteously, with no resentment. "That is not strange. I -hardly know myself," she whispered. "Life has dealt very hardly -with me. I should not have known you either -- Angus." She -pronounced his name hesitatingly, half appealingly. At the sound -of the familiar syllables, so long unheard, the man's heart broke -down. He buried his face in his hands, and sobbed out: "O -Ramona, forgive me! I brought the child here, not wholly in love; -partly in vengeance. But I am melted now. Are you sure you wish -to keep her? I will take her away if you are not." - -"Never, so long as I live, Angus," replied Senora Ortegna. "Already -I feel that she is a mercy from the Lord. If my husband sees no -offence in her presence, she will be a joy in my life. Has she been -christened?" - -Angus cast his eyes down. A sudden fear smote him. "Before I had -thought of bringing her to you," he stammered, "at first I had only -the thought of giving her to the Church. I had had her christened -by" -- the words refused to leave his lips -- "the name -- Can you -not guess, Senora, what name she bears?" - -The Senora knew. "My own?" she said. - -Angus bowed his head. "The only woman's name that my lips ever -spoke with love," he said, reassured, "was the name my daughter -should bear." - -"It is well," replied the Senora. Then a great silence fell between -them. Each studied the other's face, tenderly, bewilderedly. Then -by a simultaneous impulse they drew nearer. Angus stretched out -both his arms with a gesture of infinite love and despair, bent -down and kissed the hands which lovingly held his sleeping child. - -"God bless you, Ramona! Farewell! You will never see me more," -he cried, and was gone. - -In a moment more he reappeared on the threshold of the door, but -only to say in a low tone, "There is no need to be alarmed if the -child does not wake for some hours yet. She has had a safe -sleeping-potion given her. It will not harm her." - -One more long lingering look into each other's faces, and the two -lovers, so strangely parted, still more strangely met, had parted -again, forever. The quarter of a century which had lain between -them had been bridged in both their hearts as if it were but a day. -In the heart of the man it was the old passionate adoring love -reawakening; a resurrection of the buried dead, to full life, with -lineaments unchanged. In the woman it was not that; there was no -buried love to come to such resurrection in her heart, for she had -never loved Angus Phail. But, long unloved, ill-treated, -heartbroken, she woke at that moment to the realization of what -manner of love it had been which she had thrown away in her -youth; her whole being yearned for it now, and Angus was -avenged. - -When Francis Ortegna, late that night, reeled, half-tipsy, into his -wife's room, he was suddenly sobered by the sight which met his -eyes,-- his wife kneeling by the side of the cradle, in which lay, -smiling in its sleep, a beautiful infant. - -"What in the devil's name," he began; then recollecting, he -muttered: "Oh, the Indian brat! I see! I wish you joy, Senora -Ortegna, of your first child!" and with a mock bow, and cruel -sneer, he staggered by, giving the cradle an angry thrust with his -foot as he passed. - -The brutal taunt did not much wound the Senora. The time had -long since passed when unkind words from her husband could give -her keen pain. But it was a warning not lost upon her new-born -mother instinct, and from that day the little Ramona was carefully -kept and tended in apartments where there was no danger of her -being seen by the man to whom the sight of her baby face was only -a signal for anger and indecency. - -Hitherto Ramona Ortegna had, so far as was possible, carefully -concealed from her family the unhappiness of her married life. -Ortegna's character was indeed well known; his neglect of his -wife, his shameful dissipations of all sorts, were notorious in every -port in the country. But from the wife herself no one had even -heard so much as a syllable of complaint. She was a Gonzaga, and -she knew how to suffer in silence, But now she saw a reason for -taking her sister into her confidence. It was plain to her that she -had not many years to live; and what then would become of the -child? Left to the tender mercies of Ortegna, it was only too certain -what would become of her. Long sad hours of perplexity the lonely -woman passed, with the little laughing babe in her arms, vainly -endeavoring to forecast her future. The near chance of her own -death had not occurred to her mind when she accepted the trust. - -Before the little Ramona was a year old, Angus Phail died. An -Indian messenger from San Gabriel brought the news to Senora -Ortegna. He brought her also a box and a letter, given to him by -Angus the day before his death. The box contained jewels of value, -of fashions a quarter of a century old. They were the jewels which -Angus had bought for his bride. These alone remained of all his -fortune. Even in the lowest depths of his degradation, a certain -sentiment had restrained him from parting with them. The letter -contained only these words: "I send you all I have to leave my -daughter. I meant to bring them myself this year. I wished to kiss -your hands and hers once more. But I am dying. Farewell." - -After these jewels were in her possession, Senora Ortegna rested -not till she had persuaded Senora Moreno to journey to Monterey, -and had put the box into her keeping as a sacred trust. She also -won from her a solemn promise that at her own death she would -adopt the little Ramona. This promise came hard from Senora -Moreno. Except for Father Salvierderra's influence, she had not -given it. She did not wish any dealings with such alien and -mongrel blood, "If the child were pure Indian, I would like it -better," she said. "I like not these crosses. It is the worst, and not -the best of each, that remains." - -But the promise once given, Senora Ortegna was content. Well she -knew that her sister would not lie, nor evade a trust. The little -Ramona's future was assured. During the last years of the unhappy -woman's life the child was her only comfort. Ortegna's conduct -had become so openly and defiantly infamous, that he even -flaunted his illegitimate relations in his wife's presence; subjecting -her to gross insults, spite of her helpless invalidism. This last -outrage was too much for the Gonzaga blood to endure; the Senora -never afterward left her apartment, or spoke to her husband. Once -more she sent for her sister to come; this time, to see her die. -Every valuable she possessed, jewels, laces, brocades, and -damasks, she gave into her sister's charge, to save them from -falling into the hands of the base creature that she knew only too -well would stand in her place as soon as the funeral services had -been said over her dead body. - -Stealthily, as if she had been a thief, the sorrowing Senora Moreno -conveyed her sister's wardrobe, article by article, out of the house, -to be sent to her own home. It was the wardrobe of a princess. The -Ortegnas lavished money always on the women whose hearts they -broke; and never ceased to demand of them that they should sit -superbly arrayed in their lonely wretchedness. - -One hour after the funeral, with a scant and icy ceremony of -farewell to her dead sister's husband, Senora Moreno, leading the -little four-year-old Ramona by the hand, left the house, and early -the next morning set sail for home. - -When Ortegna discovered that his wife's jewels and valuables of -all kinds were gone, he fell into a great rage, and sent a messenger -off, post-haste, with an insulting letter to the Senora Moreno, -demanding their return. For answer, he got a copy of his wife's -memoranda of instructions to her sister, giving all the said -valuables to her in trust for Ramona; also a letter from Father -Salvierderra, upon reading which he sank into a fit of despondency -that lasted a day or two, and gave his infamous associates -considerable alarm, lest they had lost their comrade. But he soon -shook off the influence, whatever it was, and settled back into his -old gait on the same old high-road to the devil. Father Salvierderra -could alarm him, but not save him. - -And this was the mystery of Ramona. No wonder the Senora -Moreno never told the story. No wonder, perhaps, that she never -loved the child. It was a sad legacy, indissolubly linked with -memories which had in them nothing but bitterness, shame, and -sorrow from first to last. - -How much of all this the young Ramona knew or suspected, was -locked in her own breast. Her Indian blood had as much proud -reserve in it as was ever infused into the haughtiest Gonzaga's -veins. While she was yet a little child, she had one day said to the -Senora Moreno, "Senora, why did my mother give me to the -Senora Ortegna?" - -Taken unawares, the Senora replied hastily: "Your mother had -nothing whatever to do with it. It was your father." - -"Was my mother dead?" continued the child. - -Too late the Senora saw her mistake. "I do not know," she replied; -which was literally true, but had the spirit of a lie in it. "I never -saw your mother." - -"Did the Senora Ortegna ever see her?" persisted Ramona. - -"No, never," answered the Senora, coldly, the old wounds burning -at the innocent child's unconscious touch. - -Ramona felt the chill, and was silent for a time, her face sad, and -her eyes tearful. At last she said, "I wish I knew if my mother was -dead." - -"Why?" asked the Senora. - -"Because if she is not dead I would ask her why she did not want -me to stay with her." - -The gentle piteousness of this reply smote the Senora's conscience. -Taking the child in her arms, she said, "Who has been talking to -you of these things, Ramona?" - -"Juan Can," she replied. - -"What did he say?" asked the Senora, with a look in her eye which -boded no good to Juan Canito. - -"It was not to me he said it, it was to Luigo; but I heard him," -answered Ramona, speaking slowly, as if collecting her various -reminiscences on the subject. "Twice I heard him. He said that my -mother was no good, and that my father was bad too." And the -tears rolled down the child's cheeks. - -The Senora's sense of justice stood her well in place of tenderness, -now. Caressing the little orphan as she had never before done, she -said, with an earnestness which sank deep into the child's mind, -"Ramona must not believe any such thing as that. Juan Can is a -bad man to say it. He never saw either your father or your mother, -and so he could know nothing about them. I knew your father very -well. He was not a bad man. He was my friend, and the friend of -the Senora Ortegna; and that was the reason he gave you to the -Senora Ortegna, because she had no child of her own. And I think -your mother had a good many." - -"Oh!" said Ramona, relieved, for the moment, at this new view of -the situation,-- that the gift had been not as a charity to her, but to -the Senora Ortegna. "Did the Senora Ortegna want a little daughter -very much?" - -"Yes, very much indeed," said the Senora, heartily and with fervor. -"She had grieved many years because she had no child." - -Silence again for a brief space, during which the little lonely heart, -grappling with its vague instinct of loss and wrong, made wide -thrusts into the perplexities hedging it about, and presently -electrified the Senora by saying in a half-whisper, "Why did not -my father bring me to you first? Did he know you did not want any -daughter?" - -The Senora was dumb for a second; then recovering herself, she -said: "Your father was the Senora Ortegna's friend more than he -was mine. I was only a child, then." - -"Of course you did not need any daughter when you had Felipe," -continued Ramona, pursuing her original line of inquiry and -reflection without noticing the Senora's reply. "A son is more than -a daughter; but most people have both," eying the Senora keenly, -to see what response this would bring. - -But the Senora was weary and uncomfortable with the talk. At the -very mention of Felipe, a swift flash of consciousness of her -inability to love Ramona had swept through her mind. "Ramona," -she said firmly, "while you are a little girl, you cannot understand -any of these things. When you are a woman, I will tell you all that -I know myself about your father and your mother. It is very little. -Your father died when you were only two years old. All that you -have to do is to be a good child, and say your prayers, and when -Father Salvierderra comes he will be pleased with you. And he will -not be pleased if you ask troublesome questions. Don't ever speak -to me again about this. When the proper time comes I will tell you -myself." - -This was when Ramona was ten. She was now nineteen. She had -never again asked the Senora a question bearing on the forbidden -subject. She had been a good child and said her prayers, and Father -Salvierderra had been always pleased with her, growing more and -more deeply attached to her year by year. But the proper time had -not yet come for the Senora to tell her anything more about her -father and mother. There were few mornings on which the girl did -not think, "Perhaps it may be to-day that she will tell me." But she -would not ask. Every word of that conversation was as vivid in her -mind as it had been the day it occurred; and it would hardly be an -exaggeration to say that during every day of the whole nine years -had deepened in her heart the conviction which had prompted the -child's question, "Did he know that you did not want any -daughter?" - -A nature less gentle than Ramona's would have been embittered, or -at least hardened, by this consciousness. But Ramona's was not. -She never put it in words to herself. She accepted it, as those born -deformed seem sometimes to accept the pain and isolation caused -by their deformity, with an unquestioning acceptance, which is as -far above resignation, as resignation is above rebellious repining. - -No one would have known, from Ramona's face, manner, or -habitual conduct, that she had ever experienced a sorrow or had a -care. Her face was sunny, she had a joyous voice, and never was -seen to pass a human being without a cheerful greeting, to highest -and lowest the same. Her industry was tireless. She had had two -years at school, in the Convent of the Sacred Heart at Los Angeles, -where the Senora had placed her at much personal sacrifice, during -one of the hardest times the Moreno estate had ever seen. Here she -had won the affection of all the Sisters, who spoke of her -habitually as the "blessed child." They had taught her all the dainty -arts of lace-weaving, embroidery, and simple fashions of painting -and drawing, which they knew; not overmuch learning out of -books, but enough to make her a passionate lover of verse and -romance. For serious study or for deep thought she had no -vocation. She was a simple, joyous, gentle, clinging, faithful -nature, like a clear brook rippling along in the sun,-- a nature as -unlike as possible to the Senora's, with its mysterious depths and -stormy, hidden currents. - -Of these Ramona was dimly conscious, and at times had a tender, -sorrowful pity for the Senora, which she dared not show, and could -only express by renewed industry, and tireless endeavor to fulfil -every duty possible in the house. This gentle faithfulness was not -wholly lost on Senora Moreno, though its source she never -suspected; and it won no new recognition from her for Ramona, no -increase of love. - -But there was one on whom not an act, not a look, not a smile of -all this graciousness was thrown away. That one was Felipe. Daily -more and more he wondered at his mother's lack of affection for -Ramona. Nobody knew so well as he how far short she stopped of -loving her. Felipe knew what it meant, how it felt, to be loved by -the Senora Moreno. But Felipe had learned while he was a boy that -one sure way to displease his mother was to appear to be aware -that she did not treat Ramona as she treated him. And long before -he had become a man he had acquired the habit of keeping to -himself most of the things he thought and felt about his little -playmate sister,-- a dangerous habit, out of which were slowly -ripening bitter fruits for the Senora's gathering in later years. - -IV - -IT was longer even than the Senora had thought it would be, -before Father Salvierderra arrived. The old man had grown feeble -during the year that she had not seen him, and it was a very short -day's journey that he could make now without too great fatigue. It -was not only his body that had failed. He had lost heart; and the -miles which would have been nothing to him, had he walked in the -companionship of hopeful and happy thoughts, stretched out -wearily as he brooded over sad memories and still sadder -anticipations,-- the downfall of the Missions, the loss of their vast -estates, and the growing power of the ungodly in the land. The -final decision of the United States Government in regard to the -Mission-lands had been a terrible blow to him. He had devoutly -believed that ultimate restoration of these great estates to the -Church was inevitable. In the long vigils which he always kept -when at home at the Franciscan Monastery in Santa Barbara, -kneeling on the stone pavement in the church, and praying -ceaselessly from midnight till dawn, he had often had visions -vouchsafed him of a new dispensation, in which the Mission -establishments should be reinstated in all their old splendor and -prosperity, and their Indian converts again numbered by tens of -thousands. - -Long after every one knew that this was impossible, he would -narrate these visions with the faith of an old Bible seer, and -declare that they must come true, and that it was a sin to despond. -But as year after year he journeyed up and down the country, -seeing, at Mission after Mission, the buildings crumbling into ruin, -the lands all taken, sold, resold, and settled by greedy speculators; -the Indian converts disappearing, driven back to their original -wildernesses, the last traces of the noble work of his order being -rapidly swept away, his courage faltered, his faith died out. -Changes in the manners and customs of his order itself, also, were -giving him deep pain. He was a Franciscan of the same type as -Francis of Assisi. To wear a shoe in place of a sandal, to take -money in a purse for a journey, above all to lay aside the gray -gown and cowl for any sort of secular garment, seemed to him -wicked. To own comfortable clothes while there were others -suffering for want of them -- and there were always such -- seemed -to him a sin for which one might not undeservedly be smitten with -sudden and terrible punishment. In vain the Brothers again and -again supplied him with a warm cloak; he gave it away to the first -beggar he met: and as for food, the refectory would have been left -bare, and the whole brotherhood starving, if the supplies had not -been carefully hidden and locked, so that Father Salvierderra could -not give them all away. He was fast becoming that most tragic yet -often sublime sight, a man who has survived, not only his own -time, but the ideas and ideals of it. Earth holds no sharper -loneliness: the bitterness of exile, the anguish of friendlessness at -their utmost, are in it; and yet it is so much greater than they, that -even they seem small part of it. - -It was with thoughts such as these that Father Salvierderra drew -near the home of the Senora Moreno late in the afternoon of one of -those midsummer days of which Southern California has so many -in spring. The almonds had bloomed and the blossoms fallen; the -apricots also, and the peaches and pears; on all the orchards of -these fruits had come a filmy tint of green, so light it was hardly -more than a shadow on the gray. The willows were vivid light -green, and the orange groves dark and glossy like laurel. The -billowy hills on either side the valley were covered with verdure -and bloom,-- myriads of low blossoming plants, so close to the -earth that their tints lapped and overlapped on each other, and on -the green of the grass, as feathers in fine plumage overlap each -other and blend into a changeful color. - -The countless curves, hollows, and crests of the coast-hills in -Southern California heighten these chameleon effects of the spring -verdure; they are like nothing in nature except the glitter of a -brilliant lizard in the sun or the iridescent sheen of a peacock's -neck. - -Father Salvierderra paused many times to gaze at the beautiful -picture. Flowers were always dear to the Franciscans. Saint Francis -himself permitted all decorations which could be made of flowers. -He classed them with his brothers and sisters, the sun, moon, and -stars,-- all members of the sacred choir praising God. - -It was melancholy to see how, after each one of these pauses, each -fresh drinking in of the beauty of the landscape and the balmy air, -the old man resumed his slow pace, with a long sigh and his eyes -cast down. The fairer this beautiful land, the sadder to know it lost -to the Church, -- alien hands reaping its fulness, establishing new -customs, new laws. All the way down the coast from Santa -Barbara he had seen, at every stopping-place, new tokens of the -settling up of the country,-- farms opening, towns growing; the -Americans pouring in, at all points, to reap the advantages of their -new possessions. It was this which had made his journey -heavy-hearted, and made him feel, in approaching the Senora -Moreno's, as if he were coming to one of the last sure strongholds -of the Catholic faith left in the country. - -When he was within two miles of the house, he struck off from the -highway into a narrow path that he recollected led by a short-cut -through the hills, and saved nearly a third of the distance. It was -more than a year since he had trod this path, and as he found it -growing fainter and fainter, and more and more overgrown with -the wild mustard, he said to himself, "I think no one can have -passed through here this year." - -As he proceeded he found the mustard thicker and thicker. The -wild mustard in Southern California is like that spoken of in the -New Testament, in the branches of which the birds of the air may -rest. Coming up out of the earth, so slender a stem that dozens can -find starting-point in an inch, it darts up, a slender straight shoot, -five, ten, twenty feet, with hundreds of fine feathery branches -locking and interlocking with all the other hundreds around it, till -it is an inextricable network like lace. Then it bursts into yellow -bloom still finer, more feathery and lacelike. The stems are so -infinitesimally small, and of so dark a green, that at a short -distance they do not show, and the cloud of blossom seems -floating in the air; at times it looks like golden dust. With a clear -blue sky behind it, as it is often seen, it looks like a golden -snow-storm. The plant is a tyrant and a nuisance,-- the terror of the -farmer; it takes riotous possession of a whole field in a season; -once in, never out; for one plant this year, a million the next; but it -is impossible to wish that the land were freed from it. Its gold is as -distinct a value to the eye as the nugget gold is in the pocket. - -Father Salvierderra soon found himself in a veritable thicket of -these delicate branches, high above his head, and so interlaced that -he could make headway only by slowly and patiently disentangling -them, as one would disentangle a skein of silk. It was a fantastic -sort of dilemma, and not unpleasing. Except that the Father was in -haste to reach his journey's end, he would have enjoyed threading -his way through the golden meshes. Suddenly he heard faint notes -of singing. He paused,-- listened. It was the voice of a woman. It -was slowly drawing nearer, apparently from the direction in which -he was going. At intervals it ceased abruptly, then began again; as -if by a sudden but brief interruption, like that made by question -and answer. Then, peering ahead through the mustard blossoms, he -saw them waving and bending, and heard sounds as if they were -being broken. Evidently some one entering on the path from the -opposite end had been caught in the fragrant thicket as he was. The -notes grew clearer, though still low and sweet as the twilight notes -of the thrush; the mustard branches waved more and more -violently; light steps were now to be heard. Father Salvierderra -stood still as one in a dream, his eyes straining forward into the -golden mist of blossoms. In a moment more came, distinct and -clear to his ear, the beautiful words of the second stanza of Saint -Francis's inimitable lyric, "The Canticle of the Sun:" - -"Praise be to thee, O Lord, for all thy creatures, and especially for -our brother the Sun,-- who illuminates the day, and by his beauty -and splendor shadows forth unto us thine." - -"Ramona!" exclaimed the Father, his thin cheeks flushing with -pleasure. "The blessed child!" And as he spoke, her face came into -sight, set in a swaying frame of the blossoms, as she parted them -lightly to right and left with her hands, and half crept, half danced -through the loop-hole openings thus made. Father Salvierderra was -past eighty, but his blood was not too old to move quicker at the -sight of this picture. A man must be dead not to thrill at it. -Ramona's beauty was of the sort to be best enhanced by the waving -gold which now framed her face. She had just enough of olive tint -in her complexion to underlie and enrich her skin without making -it swarthy. Her hair was like her Indian mother's, heavy and black, -but her eyes were like her father's, steel-blue. Only those who -came very near to Ramona knew, however, that her eyes were -blue, for the heavy black eyebrows and long black lashes so -shaded and shadowed them that they looked black as night. At the -same instant that Father Salvierderra first caught sight of her face, -Ramona also saw him, and crying out joyfully, "Ah, Father, I knew -you would come by this path, and something told me you were -near!" she sprang forward, and sank on her knees before him, -bowing her head for his blessing. In silence he laid his hands on -her brow. It would not have been easy for him to speak to her at -that first moment. She had looked to the devout old monk, as she -sprang through the cloud of golden flowers, the sun falling on her -bared head, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shining, more like an -apparition of an angel or saint, than like the flesh-and-blood -maiden whom he had carried in his arms when she was a babe. - -"We have been waiting, waiting, oh, so long for you, Father!" she -said, rising. "We began to fear that you might be ill. The shearers -have been sent for, and will be here tonight, and that was the -reason I felt so sure you would come. I knew the Virgin would -bring you in time for mass in the chapel on the first morning." - -The monk smiled half sadly. "Would there were more with such -faith as yours, daughter," he said. "Are all well on the place?" - -"Yes, Father, all well," she answered. "Felipe has been ill with a -fever; but he is out now, these ten days, and fretting for -- for your -coming." - -Ramona had like to have said the literal truth,-- "fretting for the -sheep-shearing," but recollected herself in time. - -"And the Senora?" said the Father. - -"She is well," answered Ramona, gently, but with a slight change -of tone,-- so slight as to be almost imperceptible; but an acute -observer would have always detected it in the girl's tone whenever -she spoke of the Senora Moreno. "And you,-- are you well -yourself, Father?" she asked affectionately, noting with her quick, -loving eye how feebly the old man walked, and that he carried -what she had never before seen in his hand,-- a stout staff to steady -his steps. "You must be very tired with the long journey on foot." - -"Ay, Ramona, I am tired," he replied. "Old age is conquering me. It -will not be many times more that I shall see this place." - -"Oh, do not say that, Father," cried Ramona; "you can ride, when it -tires you too much to walk. The Senora said, only the other day, -that she wished you would let her give you a horse; that it was not -right for you to take these long journeys on foot. You know we -have hundreds of horses. It is nothing, one horse," she added, -seeing the Father slowly shake his head. - -"No;" he said, "it is not that. I could not refuse anything at the -hands of the Senora. But it was the rule of our order to go on foot. -We must deny the flesh. Look at our beloved master in this land, -Father Junipero, when he was past eighty, walking from San Diego -to Monterey, and all the while a running ulcer in one of his legs, -for which most men would have taken to a bed, to be healed. It is a -sinful fashion that is coming in, for monks to take their ease doing -God's work. I can no longer walk swiftly, but I must walk all the -more diligently." - -While they were talking, they had been slowly moving forward, -Ramona slightly in advance, gracefully bending the mustard -branches, and holding them down till the Father had followed in -her steps. As they came out from the thicket, she exclaimed, -laughing, "There is Felipe, in the willows. I told him I was coming -to meet you, and he laughed at me. Now he will see I was right." - -Astonished enough, Felipe, hearing voices, looked up, and saw -Ramona and the Father approaching. Throwing down the knife -with which he had been cutting the willows, he hastened to meet -them, and dropped on his knees, as Ramona had done, for the -monk's blessing. As he knelt there, the wind blowing his hair -loosely off his brow, his large brown eyes lifted in gentle -reverence to the Father's face, and his face full of affectionate -welcome, Ramona thought to herself, as she had thought hundreds -of times since she became a woman, "How beautiful Felipe is! No -wonder the Senora loves him so much! If I had been beautiful like -that she would have liked me better." Never was a little child more -unconscious of her own beauty than Ramona still was. All the -admiration which was expressed to her in word and look she took -for simple kindness and good-will. Her face, as she herself saw it -in her glass, did not please her. She compared her straight, massive -black eyebrows with Felipe's, arched and delicately pencilled, and -found her own ugly. The expression of gentle repose which her -countenance wore, seemed to her an expression of stupidity. -"Felipe looks so bright!" she thought, as she noted his mobile -changing face, never for two successive seconds the same. "There -is nobody like Felipe." And when his brown eyes were fixed on -her, as they so often were, in a long lingering gaze, she looked -steadily back into their velvet depths with an abstracted sort of -intensity which profoundly puzzled Felipe. It was this look, more -than any other one thing, which had for two years held Felipe's -tongue in leash, as it were, and made it impossible for him to say -to Ramona any of the loving things of which his heart had been -full ever since he could remember. The boy had spoken them -unhesitatingly, unconsciously; but the man found himself suddenly -afraid. "What is it she thinks when she looks into my eyes so?" he -wondered. If he had known that the thing she was usually thinking -was simply, "How much handsomer brown eyes are than blue! I -wish my eyes were the color of Felipe's!" he would have perceived, -perhaps, what would have saved him sorrow, if he had known it, -that a girl who looked at a man thus, would be hard to win to look -at him as a lover. But being a lover, he could not see this. He saw -only enough to perplex and deter him. - -As they drew near the house, Ramona saw Margarita standing at -the gate of the garden. She was holding something white in her -hands, looking down at it, and crying piteously. As she perceived -Ramona, she made an eager leap forward, and then shrank back -again, making dumb signals of distress to her. Her whole attitude -was one of misery and entreaty. Margarita was, of all the maids, -most beloved by Ramona. Though they were nearly of the same -age, it had been Margarita who first had charge of Ramona; the -nurse and her charge had played together, grown up together, -become women together, and were now, although Margarita never -presumed on the relation, or forgot to address Ramona as Senorita, -more like friends than like mistress and maid. - -"Pardon me, Father," said Ramona. "I see that Margarita there is in -trouble. I will leave Felipe to go with you to the house. I will be -with you again in a few moments." And kissing his hand, she flew -rather than ran across the field to the foot of the garden. - -Before she reached the spot, Margarita had dropped on the ground -and buried her face in her hands. A mass of crumpled and stained -linen lay at her feet. - -"What is it? What has happened, Margarita mia?" cried Ramona, -in the affectionate Spanish phrase. For answer, Margarita removed -one wet hand from her eyes, and pointed with a gesture of despair -to the crumpled linen. Sobs choked her voice, and she buried her -face again in her hands. - -Ramona stooped, and lifted one corner of the linen. An involuntary -cry of dismay broke from her, at which Margarita's sobs redoubled, -and she gasped out, "Yes, Senorita, it is totally ruined! It can never -be mended, and it will be needed for the mass to-morrow morning. -When I saw the Father coming by your side, I prayed to the Virgin -to let me die. The Senora will never forgive me." - -It was indeed a sorry sight. The white linen altar-cloth, the cloth -which the Senora Moreno had with her own hands made into one -solid front of beautiful lace of the Mexican fashion, by drawing -out part of the threads and sewing the remainder into intricate -patterns, the cloth which had always been on the altar, when mass -was said, since Margarita's and Ramona's earliest recollections,-- -there it lay, torn, stained, as if it had been dragged through muddy -brambles. In silence, aghast, Ramona opened it out and held it up. -"How did it happen, Margarita?" she whispered, glancing in terror -up towards the house. - -"Oh, that is the worst of it, Senorita!" sobbed the girl. "That is the -worst of it! If it were not for that, I would not be so afraid. If it had -happened any other way, the Senora might have forgiven me; but -she never will. I would rather die than tell her;" and she shook -from head to foot. - -"Stop crying, Margarita!" said Ramona, firmly, "and tell me all -about it. It isn't so bad as it looks. I think I can mend it." - -"Oh, the saints bless you!" cried Margarita, looking up for the first -time. "Do you really think you can mend it, Senorita? If you will -mend that lace, I'll go on my knees for you all the rest of my life!" - -Ramona laughed in spite of herself. "You'll serve me better by -keeping on your feet," she said merrily; at which Margarita -laughed too, through her tears. They were both young. - -"Oh, but Senorita," Margarita began again in a tone of anguish, her -tears flowing afresh, "there is not time! It must be washed and -ironed to-night, for the mass to-morrow morning, and I have to -help at the supper. Anita and Rosa are both ill in bed, you know, -and Maria has gone away for a week. The Senora said if the Father -came to-night I must help mother, and must wait on table. It -cannot be done. I was just going to iron it now, and I found it -- so --- It was in the artichoke-patch, and Capitan, the beast, had been -tossing it among the sharp pricks of the old last year's seeds." - -"In the artichoke-patch!" ejaculated Ramona. "How under heavens -did it get there?" - -"Oh, that was what I meant, Senorita, when I said she never would -forgive me. She has forbidden me many times to hang anything to -dry on the fence there; and if I had only washed it when she first -told me, two days ago, all would have been well. But I forgot it till -this afternoon, and there was no sun in the court to dry it, and you -know how the sun lies on the artichoke-patch, and I put a strong -cloth over the fence, so that the wood should not pierce the lace, -and I did not leave it more than half an hour, just while I said a -few words to Luigo, and there was no wind; and I believe the -saints must have fetched it down to the ground to punish me for -my disobedience." - -Ramona had been all this time carefully smoothing out the torn -places, "It is not so bad as it looks," she said; "if it were not for the -hurry, there would be no trouble in mending it. But I will do it the -best I can, so that it will not show, for to-morrow, and then, after -the Father is gone, I can repair it at leisure, and make it just as -good as new. I think I can mend it and wash it before dark," and -she glanced at the sun. "Oh, yes, there are good three hours of -daylight yet. I can do it. You put the irons on the fire, to have them -hot, to iron it as soon as it is partly dried. You will see it will not -show that anything has happened to it." - -"Will the Senora know?" asked poor Margarita, calmed and -reassured, but still in mortal terror. - -Ramona turned her steady glance full on Margarita's face. "You -would not be any happier if she were deceived, do you think?" she -said gravely. - -"O Senorita, after it is mended? If it really does not show?" -pleaded the girl. - -"I will tell her myself, and not till after it is mended," said -Ramona; but she did not smile. - -"Ah, Senorita," said Margarita, deprecatingly, "you do not know -what it is to have the Senora displeased with one." - -"Nothing can be so bad as to be displeased with one's self," -retorted Ramona, as she walked swiftly away to her room with the -linen rolled up under her arm. Luckily for Margarita's cause, she -met no one on the way. The Senora had welcomed Father -Salvierderra at the foot of the veranda steps, and had immediately -closeted herself with him. She had much to say to him,-- much -about which she wished his help and counsel, and much which she -wished to learn from him as to affairs in the Church and in the -country generally. - -Felipe had gone off at once to find Juan Canito, to see if -everything were ready for the sheep-shearing to begin on the next -day, if the shearers arrived in time; and there was very good -chance of their coming in by sundown this day, Felipe thought, for -he had privately instructed his messenger to make all possible -haste, and to impress on the Indians the urgent need of their losing -no time on the road. - -It had been a great concession on the Senora's part to allow the -messenger to be sent off before she had positive intelligence as to -the Father's movements. But as day after day passed and no news -came, even she perceived that it would not do to put off the -sheep-shearing much longer, or, as Juan Canito said, "forever." -The Father might have fallen ill; and if that were so, it might very -easily be weeks before they heard of it, so scanty were the means -of communication between the remote places on his route of -visitation. The messenger had therefore been sent to summon the -Temecula shearers, and Senora had resigned herself to the -inevitable; piously praying, however, morning and night, and at -odd moments in the day, that the Father might arrive before the -Indians did. When she saw him coming up the garden-walk, -leaning on the arm of her Felipe, on the afternoon of the very day -which was the earliest possible day for the Indians to arrive, it was -not strange that she felt, mingled with the joy of her greeting to her -long-loved friend and confessor, a triumphant exultation that the -saints had heard her prayers. - -In the kitchen all was bustle and stir. The coming of any guest into -the house was a signal for unwonted activities there,-- even the -coming of Father Salvierderra, who never knew whether the soup -had force-meat balls in it or not, old Marda said; and that was to -her the last extreme of indifference to good things of the flesh. -"But if he will not eat, he can see," she said; and her pride for -herself and for the house was enlisted in setting forth as goodly an -array of viands as her larder afforded, She grew suddenly -fastidious over the size and color of the cabbages to go into the -beef-pot, and threw away one whole saucepan full of rice, because -Margarita had put only one onion in instead of two. - -"Have I not told you again and again that for the Father it is always -two onions?" she exclaimed. "It is the dish he most favors of all; -and it is a pity too, old as he is. It makes him no blood. It is good -beef he should take now." - -The dining-room was on the opposite side of the courtyard from -the kitchen, and there was a perpetual procession of small -messengers going back and forth between the rooms. It was the -highest ambition of each child to be allowed to fetch and carry -dishes in the preparation of the meals at all times; but when by so -doing they could perchance get a glimpse through the dining-room -door, open on the veranda, of strangers and guests, their restless -rivalry became unmanageable. Poor Margarita, between her own -private anxieties and her multiplied duties of helping in the -kitchen, and setting the table, restraining and overseeing her army -of infant volunteers, was nearly distraught; not so distraught, -however, but that she remembered and found time to seize a -lighted candle in the kitchen, run and set it before the statue of -Saint Francis of Paula in her bedroom, hurriedly whispering a -prayer that the lace might be made whole like new. Several times -before the afternoon had waned she snatched a moment to fling -herself down at the statue's feet and pray her foolish little prayer -over again. We think we are quite sure that it is a foolish little -prayer, when people pray to have torn lace made whole. But it -would be hard to show the odds between asking that, and asking -that it may rain, or that the sick may get well. As the grand old -Russian says, what men usually ask for, when they pray to God, is, -that two and two may not make four. All the same he is to be -pitied who prays not. It was only the thought of that candle at Saint -Francis's feet, which enabled Margarita to struggle through this -anxious and unhappy afternoon and evening. - -At last supper was ready,-- a great dish of spiced beef and cabbage -in the centre of the table; a tureen of thick soup, with force-meat -balls and red peppers in it; two red earthen platters heaped, one -with the boiled rice and onions, the other with the delicious -frijoles (beans) so dear to all Mexican hearts; cut-glass dishes -filled with hot stewed pears, or preserved quinces, or grape jelly; -plates of frosted cakes of various sorts; and a steaming silver -teakettle, from which went up an aroma of tea such as had never -been bought or sold in all California, the Senora's one -extravagance and passion. - -"Where is Ramona?" asked the Senora, surprised and displeased, -as she entered the dining-room, "Margarita, go tell the Senorita -that we are waiting for her." - -Margarita started tremblingly, with flushed face, towards the door. -What would happen now! "O Saint Francis," she inwardly prayed, -"help us this once!" - -"Stay," said Felipe. "Do not call Senorita Ramona." Then, turning -to his mother, "Ramona cannot come. She is not in the house. She -has a duty to perform for to-morrow," he said; and he looked -meaningly at his mother, adding, "we will not wait for her." - -Much bewildered, the Senora took her seat at the head of the table -in a mechanical way, and began, "But --" Felipe, seeing that -questions were to follow, interrupted her: "I have just spoken with -her. It is impossible for her to come;" and turning to Father -Salvierderra, he at once engaged him in conversation, and left the -baffled Senora to bear her unsatisfied curiosity as best she could. - -Margarita looked at Felipe with an expression of profound -gratitude, which he did not observe, and would not in the least -have understood; for Ramona had not confided to him any details -of the disaster. Seeing him under her window, she had called -cautiously to him, and said: "Dear Felipe, do you think you can -save me from having to come to supper? A dreadful accident has -happened to the altar-cloth, and I must mend it and wash it, and -there is barely time before dark. Don't let them call me; I shall be -down at the brook, and they will not find me, and your mother will -be displeased." - -This wise precaution of Ramona's was the salvation of everything, -so far as the altar-cloth was concerned. The rents had proved far -less serious than she had feared; the daylight held out till the last -of them was skilfully mended; and just as the red beams of the -sinking sun came streaming through the willow-trees at the foot of -the garden, Ramona, darting down the garden, had reached the -brook, and kneeling on the grass, had dipped the linen into the -water. - -Her hurried working over the lace, and her anxiety, had made her -cheeks scarlet. As she ran down the garden, her comb had -loosened and her hair fallen to her waist. Stopping only to pick up -the comb and thrust it in her pocket, she had sped on, as it would -soon be too dark for her to see the stains on the linen, and it was -going to be no small trouble to get them out without fraying the -lace. - -Her hair in disorder, her sleeves pinned loosely on her shoulders, -her whole face aglow with the earnestness of her task, she bent -low over the stones, rinsing the altar-cloth up and down in the -water, anxiously scanning it, then plunging it in again. - -The sunset beams played around her hair like a halo; the whole -place was aglow with red light, and her face was kindled into -transcendent beauty. A sound arrested her attention. She looked -up. Forms, dusky black against the fiery western sky, were coming -down the valley. It was the band of Indian shearers. They turned to -the left, and went towards the sheep sheds and booths. But there -was one of them that Ramona did not see. He had been standing -for some minutes concealed behind a large willow-tree a few rods -from the place where Ramona was kneeling. It was Alessandro, -son of Pablo Assis, captain of the shearing band. Walking slowly -along in advance of his men, he had felt a light, as from a mirror -held in the sun, smite his eyes. It was the red sunbeam on the -glittering water where Ramona knelt. In the same second he saw -Ramona. - -He halted, as wild creatures of the forest halt at a sound; gazed; -walked abruptly away from his men, who kept on, not noticing his -disappearance. Cautiously he moved a few steps nearer, into the -shelter of a gnarled old willow, from behind which he could gaze -unperceived on the beautiful vision,-- for so it seemed to him. - -As he gazed, his senses seemed leaving him, and unconsciously he -spoke aloud; "Christ! What shall I do!" - -V - -THE room in which Father Salvierderra always slept when at the -Senora Moreno's house was the southeast corner room. It had a -window to the south and one to the east. When the first glow of -dawn came in the sky, this eastern window was lit up as by a fire. -The Father was always on watch for it, having usually been at -prayer for hours. As the first ray reached the window, he would -throw the casement wide open, and standing there with bared -head, strike up the melody of the sunrise hymn sung in all devout -Mexican families. It was a beautiful custom, not yet wholly -abandoned. At the first dawn of light, the oldest member of the -family arose, and began singing some hymn familiar to the -household. It was the duty of each person hearing it to immediately -rise, or at least sit up in bed, and join in the singing. In a few -moments the whole family would be singing, and the joyous -sounds pouring out from the house like the music of the birds in -the fields at dawn. The hymns were usually invocations to the -Virgin, or to the saint of the day, and the melodies were sweet and -simple. - -On this morning there was another watcher for the dawn besides -Father Salvierderra. It was Alessandro, who had been restlessly -wandering about since midnight, and had finally seated himself -under the willow-trees by the brook, at the spot where he had seen -Ramona the evening before. He recollected this custom of the -sunrise hymn when he and his band were at the Senora's the last -year, and he had chanced then to learn that the Father slept in the -southeast room. From the spot where he sat, he could see the south -window of this room. He could also see the low eastern horizon, at -which a faint luminous line already showed. The sky was like -amber; a few stars still shone faintly in the zenith. There was not a -sound. It was one of those rare moments in which one can without -difficulty realize the noiseless spinning of the earth through space. -Alessandro knew nothing of this; he could not have been made to -believe that the earth was moving. He thought the sun was coming -up apace, and the earth was standing still,-- a belief just as grand, -just as thrilling, so far as all that goes, as the other: men -worshipped the sun long before they found out that it stood still. -Not the most reverent astronomer, with the mathematics of the -heavens at his tongue's end, could have had more delight in the -wondrous phenomenon of the dawn, than did this simple-minded, -unlearned man. - -His eyes wandered from the horizon line of slowly increasing light, -to the windows of the house, yet dark and still. "Which window is -hers? Will she open it when the song begins?" he thought. "Is it on -this side of the house? Who can she be? She was not here last year. -Saw the saints ever so beautiful a creature!" - -At last came the full red ray across the meadow. Alessandro sprang -to his feet. In the next second Father Salvierderra flung up his -south window, and leaning out, his cowl thrown off, his thin gray -locks streaming back, began in a feeble but not unmelodious voice -to sing,-- - -"O beautiful Queen, -Princess of Heaven." - -Before he had finished the second line, a half-dozen voices had -joined in,-- the Senora, from her room at the west end of the -veranda, beyond the flowers; Felipe, from the adjoining room; -Ramona, from hers, the next; and Margarita and other of the maids -already astir in the wings of the house. As the volume of melody -swelled, the canaries waked, and the finches and the linnets in the -veranda roof. The tiles of this roof were laid on bundles of tule -reeds, in which the linnets delighted to build their nests. The roof -was alive with them,-- scores and scores, nay hundreds, tame as -chickens; their tiny shrill twitter was like the tuning of myriads of -violins. - -"Singers at dawn -From the heavens above -People all regions; -Gladly we too sing," - -continued the hymn, the birds corroborating the stanza. Then men's -voices joined in,-- Juan and Luigo, and a dozen more, walking -slowly up from the sheepfolds. The hymn was a favorite one, -known to all. - -"Come, O sinners, -Come, and we will sing -Tender hymns -To our refuge," - -was the chorus, repeated after each of the five verses of the hymn. - -Alessandro also knew the hymn well. His father, Chief Pablo, had -been the leader of the choir at the San Luis Rey Mission in the last -years of its splendor, and had brought away with him much of the -old choir music. Some of the books had been written by his own -hand, on parchment. He not only sang well, but was a good player -on the violin. There was not at any of the Missions so fine a band -of performers on stringed instruments as at San Luis Rey. Father -Peyri was passionately fond of music, and spared no pains in -training all the neophytes under his charge who showed any -special talent in that direction. Chief Pablo, after the breaking up -of the Mission, had settled at Temecula, with a small band of his -Indians, and endeavored, so far as was in his power, to keep up the -old religious services. The music in the little chapel of the -Temecula Indians was a surprise to all who heard it. - -Alessandro had inherited his father's love and talent for music, and -knew all the old Mission music by heart. This hymn to the - -"Beautiful Queen, -Princess of Heaven," - -was one of his special favorites; and as he heard verse after verse -rising, he could not forbear striking in. - -At the first notes of this rich new voice, Ramona's voice ceased in -surprise; and, throwing up her window, she leaned out, eagerly -looking in all directions to see who it could be. Alessandro saw -her, and sang no more. - -"What could it have been? Did I dream it?" thought Ramona, drew -in her head, and began to sing again. - -With the next stanza of the chorus, the same rich barytone notes. -They seemed to float in under all the rest, and bear them along, as -a great wave bears a boat. Ramona had never heard such a voice. -Felipe had a good tenor, and she liked to sing with him, or to hear -him; but this -- this was from another world, this sound. Ramona -felt every note of it penetrating her consciousness with a subtle -thrill almost like pain. When the hymn ended, she listened eagerly, -hoping Father Salvierderra would strike up a second hymn, as he -often did; but he did not this morning; there was too much to be -done; everybody was in a hurry to be at work: windows shut, doors -opened; the sounds of voices from all directions, ordering, -questioning, answering, began to be heard. The sun rose and let a -flood of work-a-day light on the whole place. - -Margarita ran and unlocked the chapel door, putting up a heartfelt -thanksgiving to Saint Francis and the Senorita, as she saw the -snowy altar-cloth in its place, looking, from that distance at least, -as good as new. - -The Indians and the shepherds, and laborers of all sorts, were -coming towards the chapel. The Senora, with her best black silk -handkerchief bound tight around her forehead, the ends hanging -down each side of her face, making her look like an Assyrian -priestess, was descending the veranda steps, Felipe at her side; and -Father Salvierderra had already entered the chapel before Ramona -appeared, or Alessandro stirred from his vantage-post of -observation at the willows. - -When Ramona came out from the door she bore in her hands a -high silver urn filled with ferns. She had been for many days -gathering and hoarding these. They were hard to find, growing -only in one place in a rocky canon, several miles away. - -As she stepped from the veranda to the ground, Alessandro walked -slowly up the garden-walk, facing her. She met his eyes, and, -without knowing why, thought, "That must be the Indian who -sang." As she turned to the right and entered the chapel, -Alessandro followed her hurriedly, and knelt on the stones close to -the chapel door. He would be near when she came out. As he -looked in at the door, he saw her glide up the aisle, place the ferns -on the reading-desk, and then kneel down by Felipe in front of the -altar. Felipe turned towards her, smiling slightly, with a look as of -secret intelligence. - -"Ah, Senor Felipe has married. She is his wife," thought -Alessandro, and a strange pain seized him. He did not analyze it; -hardly knew what it meant. He was only twenty-one. He had not -thought much about women. He was a distant, cold boy, his own -people of the Temecula village said. It had come, they believed, of -learning to read, which was always bad. Chief Pablo had not done -his son any good by trying to make him like white men. If the -Fathers could have stayed, and the life at the Mission have gone -on, why, Alessandro could have had work to do for the Fathers, as -his father had before him. Pablo had been Father Peyri's right-hand -man at the Mission; had kept all the accounts about the cattle; paid -the wages; handled thousands of dollars of gold every month. But -that was "in the time of the king;" it was very different now. The -Americans would not let an Indian do anything but plough and sow -and herd cattle. A man need not read and write, to do that. - -Even Pablo sometimes doubted whether he had done wisely in -teaching Alessandro all he knew himself. Pablo was, for one of his -race, wise and far-seeing. He perceived the danger threatening his -people on all sides. Father Peyri, before he left the country, had -said to him: "Pablo, your people will be driven like sheep to the -slaughter, unless you keep them together. Knit firm bonds between -them; band them into pueblos; make them work; and above all, -keep peace with the whites. It is your only chance." - -Most strenuously Pablo had striven to obey Father Peyri's -directions. He had set his people the example of constant industry, -working steadily in his fields and caring well for his herds. He had -built a chapel in his little village, and kept up forms of religious -service there. Whenever there were troubles with the whites, or -rumors of them, he went from house to house, urging, persuading, -commanding his people to keep the peace. At one time when there -was an insurrection of some of the Indian tribes farther south, and -for a few days it looked as if there would be a general Indian war, -he removed the greater part of his band, men, women, and children -driving their flocks and herds with them, to Los Angeles, and -camped there for several days, that they might be identified with -the whites in case hostilities became serious. - -But his labors did not receive the reward that they deserved. With -every day that the intercourse between his people and the whites -increased, he saw the whites gaining, his people surely losing -ground, and his anxieties deepened. The Mexican owner of the. -Temecula valley, a friend of Father Peyri's, and a good friend also -of Pablo's, had returned to Mexico in disgust with the state of -affairs in California, and was reported to be lying at the point of -death. This man's promise to Pablo, that he and his people should -always live in the valley undisturbed, was all the title Pablo had to -the village lands. In the days when the promise was given, it was -all that was necessary. The lines marking off the Indians' lands -were surveyed, and put on the map of the estate. No Mexican -proprietor ever broke faith with an Indian family or village. thus -placed on his lands. - -But Pablo had heard rumors, which greatly disquieted him, that -such pledges and surveyed lines as these were corning to be held -as of no value, not binding on purchasers of grants. He was -intelligent enough to see that if this were so, he and his people -were ruined. All these perplexities and fears he confided to -Alessandro; long anxious hours the father and son spent together, -walking back and forth in the village, or sitting in front of their -little adobe house, discussing what could be done. There was -always the same ending to the discussion,-- a long sigh, and, "We -must wait, we can do nothing." - -No wonder Alessandro seemed, to the more ignorant and -thoughtless young men and women of his village, a cold and -distant lad. He was made old before his time. He was carrying in -his heart burdens of which they knew nothing. So long as the -wheat fields came up well, and there was no drought, and the -horses and sheep had good pasture, in plenty, on the hills, the -Temecula people could be merry, go day by day to their easy work, -play games at sunset, and sleep sound all night. But Alessandro -and his father looked beyond. And this was the one great reason -why Alessandro had not yet thought about women, in way of love; -this, and .also the fact that even the little education he had -received was sufficient to raise a slight barrier, of which he was -unconsciously aware, between him and the maidens of the village. -If a quick, warm fancy for any one of them ever stirred in his -veins, he found himself soon, he knew not how, cured of it. For a -dance, or a game, or a friendly chat, for the trips into the -mountains after acorns, or to the marshes for grasses and reeds, he -was their good comrade, and they were his; but never had the -desire to take one of them for his wife, entered into Alessandro's -mind. The vista of the future, for him, was filled full by thoughts -which left no room for love's dreaming; one purpose and one fear -filled it,-- the purpose to be his father's worthy successor, for Pablo -was old now, and very feeble; the fear, that exile and ruin were in -store for them all. - -It was of these things he had been thinking as be walked alone, in -advance of his men, on the previous night, when he first saw -Ramona kneeling at the brook. Between that moment and the -present, it seemed to Alessandro that some strange miracle must -have happened to him. The purposes and the fears had alike gone. -A face replaced them; a vague wonder, pain, joy, he knew not -what, filled him so to overflowing that he was bewildered. If he -had been what the world calls a civilized man, he would have -known instantly and would have been capable of weighing, -analyzing, and reflecting on his sensations at leisure. But he was -not a civilized man; he had to bring to bear on his present situation -only simple, primitive, uneducated instincts and impulses. If -Ramona had been a maiden of his own people or race, he would -have drawn near to her as quickly as iron to the magnet. But now, -if he had gone so far as to even think of her in such a way, she -would have been, to his view, as far removed from him as was the -morning star beneath whose radiance he had that morning -watched, hoping for sight of her at her window. He did not, -however, go so far as to thus think of her. Even that would have -been impossible. He only knelt on the stones outside the chapel -door, mechanically repeating the prayers with the rest, waiting for -her to reappear. He had no doubt, now, that she was Senor Felipe's -wife; all the same he wished to kneel there till she came out, that -he might see her face again. His vista of purpose, fear, hope, had -narrowed now down to that,-- just one more sight of her. Ever so -civilized, he could hardly have worshipped a woman better. The -mass seemed to him endlessly long. Until near the last, he forgot to -sing; then, in the closing of the final hymn, he suddenly -remembered, and the clear deep-toned voice pealed out, as before, -like the undertone of a great sea-wave, sweeping along. - -Ramona heard the first note, and felt again the same thrill. She was -as much a musician born as Alessandro himself. As she rose from -her knees, she whispered to Felipe: "Felipe, do find out which one -of the Indians it is has that superb voice. I never heard anything -like it." - -"Oh, that is Alessandro," replied Felipe, "old Pablo's son. He is a -splendid fellow. Don't you recollect his singing two years ago?" - -"I was not here," replied Ramona; "you forget." - -"Ah, yes, so you were away; I had forgotten," said Felipe. "Well, -he was here. They made him captain of the shearing-band, though -he was only twenty, and he managed the men splendidly. They -saved nearly all their money to carry home, and I never knew them -do such a thing before. Father Salvierderra was here, which might -have had something to do with it; but I think it was quite as much -Alessandro. He plays the violin beautifully. I hope he has brought -it along. He plays the old San Luis Rey music. His father was -band-master there." - -Ramona's eyes kindled with pleasure. "Does your mother like it, to -have him play?" she asked. - -Felipe nodded. "We'll have him up on the veranda tonight," he -said. - -While this whispered colloquy was going on, the chapel had -emptied, the Indians and Mexicans all hurrying out to set about the -day's work. Alessandro lingered at the doorway as long as he -dared, till he was sharply called by Juan Canito, looking back: -"What are you gaping at there, you Alessandro! Hurry, now, and -get your men to work. After waiting till near midsummer for this -shearing, we'll make as quick work of it as we can. Have you got -your best shearers here?" - -"Ay, that I have," answered Alessandro; "not a man of them but -can shear his hundred in a day, There is not such a band as ours in -all San Diego County; and we don't turn out the sheep all bleeding, -either; you'll see scarce a scratch on their sides." - -"Humph." retorted Juan Can. "'Tis a poor shearer, indeed, that -draws blood to speak of. I've sheared many a thousand sheep in my -day, and never a red stain on the shears. But the Mexicans have -always been famed for good shearers." - -Juan's invidious emphasis on the word "Mexicans" did not escape -Alessandro. "And we Indians also," he answered, good-naturedly, -betraying no annoyance; "but as for these Americans, I saw one at -work the other day, that man Lomax, who settled near Temecula, -and upon my faith, Juan Can, I thought it was a slaughter-pen, and -not a shearing. The poor beasts limped off with the blood running." - -Juan did not see his way clear at the moment to any fitting -rejoinder to this easy assumption, on Alessandro's part, of the -equal superiority of Indians and Mexicans in the sheep-shearing -art; so, much vexed, with another "Humph!" he walked away; -walked away so fast, that he lost the sight of a smile on -Alessandro's face, which would have vexed him still further. - -At the sheep-shearing sheds and pens all was stir and bustle. The -shearing shed was a huge caricature of a summerhouse,-- a long, -narrow structure, sixty feet long by twenty or thirty wide, all roof -and pillars; no walls; the supports, slender rough posts, as far apart -as was safe, for the upholding of the roof, which was of rough -planks loosely laid from beam to beam. On three sides of this were -the sheep-pens filled with sheep and lambs. - -A few rods away stood the booths in which the shearers' food was -to be cooked and the shearers fed. These were mere temporary -affairs, roofed only by willow boughs with the leaves left on. Near -these, the Indians had already arranged their camp; a hut or two of -green boughs had been built, but for the most part they would -sleep rolled up in their blankets, on the ground. There was a brisk -wind, and the gay colored wings of the windmill blew furiously -round and round, pumping out into the tank below a stream of -water so swift and strong, that as the men crowded around, wetting -and sharpening their knives, they got well spattered, and had much -merriment, pushing and elbowing each other into the spray. - -A high four-posted frame stood close to the shed; in this, swung -from the four corners, hung one of the great sacking bags in which -the fleeces were to be packed. A big pile of bags lay on the ground -at the foot of the posts. Juan Can eyed them with a chuckle. "We'll -fill more than those before night, Senor Felipe," he said. He was in -his element, Juan Can, at shearing times. Then came his reward for -the somewhat monotonous and stupid year's work. The world held -no better feast for his eyes than the sight of a long row of big bales -of fleece, tied, stamped with the Moreno brand, ready to be drawn -away to the mills. "Now, there is something substantial," he -thought; "no chance of wool going amiss in market!" - -If a year's crop were good, Juan's happiness was assured for the -next six months. If it proved poor, he turned devout immediately, -and spent the next six months calling on the saints for better luck, -and redoubling his exertions with the sheep. - -On one of the posts of the shed short projecting slats were nailed, -like half-rounds of a ladder. Lightly as a rope-walker Felipe ran up -these, to the roof, and took his stand there, ready to take the -fleeces and pack them in the bag as fast as they should be tossed -up from below. Luigo, with a big leathern wallet fastened in front -of him, filled with five-cent pieces, took his stand in the centre of -the shed. The thirty shearers, running into the nearest pen, dragged -each his sheep into the shed, in a twinkling of an eye had the -creature between his knees, helpless, immovable, and the sharp -sound of the shears set in. The sheep-shearing had begun. No rest -now. Not a second's silence from the bleating, baa-ing, opening -and shutting, clicking, sharpening of shears, flying of fleeces -through the air to the roof, pressing and stamping them down in -the bales; not a second's intermission, except the hour of rest at -noon, from sunrise till sunset, till the whole eight thousand of the -Senora Moreno's sheep were shorn. It was a dramatic spectacle. As -soon as a sheep was shorn, the shearer ran with the fleece in his -hand to Luigo, threw it down on a table, received his five-cent -piece, dropped it in his pocket, ran to the pen, dragged out another -sheep, and in less than five minutes was back again with a second -fleece. The shorn sheep, released, bounded off into another pen, -where, light in the head no doubt from being three to five pounds -lighter on their legs, they trotted round bewilderedly for a moment, -then flung up their heels and capered for joy. - -It was warm work. The dust from the fleeces and the trampling -feet filled the air. As the sun rose higher in the sky the sweat -poured off the men's faces; and Felipe, standing without shelter on -the roof, found out very soon that he had by no means yet got back -his full strength since the fever. Long before noon, except for sheer -pride, and for the recollection of Juan Canito's speech, he would -have come down and yielded his place to the old man. But he was -resolved not to give up, and he worked on, though his face was -purple and his head throbbing. After the bag of fleeces is half full, -the packer stands in it, jumping with his full weight on the wool, -as he throws in the fleeces, to compress them as much as possible. -When Felipe began to do this, he found that he had indeed -overrated his strength. As the first cloud of the sickening dust -came up, enveloping his head, choking his breath, he turned -suddenly dizzy, and calling faintly, "Juan, I am ill," sank helpless -down in the wool. He had fainted. At Juan Canito's scream of -dismay, a great hubbub and outcry arose; all saw instantly what -had happened. Felipe's head was hanging limp over the edge of the -bag, Juan in vain endeavoring to get sufficient foothold by his side -to lift him. One after another the men rushed up the ladder, until -they were all standing, a helpless, excited crowd, on the roof, one -proposing one thing, one another. Only Luigo had had the presence -of mind to run to the house for help. The Senora was away from -home. She had gone with Father Salvierderra to a friend's house, a -half-day's journey off. But Ramona was there. Snatching all she -could think of in way of restoratives, she came flying back with -Luigo, followed by every servant of the establishment, all talking, -groaning, gesticulating, suggesting, wringing their hands,-- as -disheartening a Babel as ever made bad matters worse. - -Reaching the shed, Ramona looked up to the roof bewildered. -"Where is he?" she cried. The next instant she saw his head, held -in Juan Canito's arms, just above the edge of the wool-bag. She -groaned, "Oh, how will he ever be lifted out!" - -"I will lift him, Senora," cried Alessandro, coming to the front, "I -am very strong. Do not be afraid; I will bring him safe down." And -swinging himself down the ladder, he ran swiftly to the camp, and -returned, bringing in his hands blankets. Springing quickly to the -roof again, he knotted the blankets firmly together, and tying them -at the middle around his waist, threw the ends to his men, telling -them to hold him firm. He spoke in the Indian tongue as he was -hurriedly doing this, and Ramona did not at first understand his -plan. But when she saw the Indians move a little back from the -edge of the roof, holding the blankets firm grasped, while -Alessandro stepped out on one of the narrow cross-beams from -which the bag swung, she saw what he meant to do. She held her -breath. Felipe was a slender man; Alessandro was much heavier, -and many inches taller. Still, could any man carry such a burden -safely on that narrow beam! Ramona looked away, and shut her -eyes, through the silence which followed. It was only a few -moments; but it seemed an eternity before a glad murmur of voices -told her that it was done, and looking up, she saw Felipe lying on -the roof, unconscious, his face white, his eyes shut. At this sight, -all the servants broke out afresh, weeping and wailing, "He is -dead! He is dead!" - -Ramona stood motionless, her eyes fixed on Felipe's face. She, too, -believed him dead; but her thought was of the Senora. - -"He is not dead," cried Juan Canito, who had thrust his hand under -Felipe's shirt. "He is not dead. It is only a faint," - -At this the first tears rolled down Ramona's face. She looked -piteously at the ladder up and down which she had seen -Alessandro run as if it were an easy indoor staircase. "If I could -only get up there!" she said, looking from one to another. "I think I -can;" and she put one foot on the lower round. - -"Holy Virgin!" cried Juan Can, seeing her movement. "Senorita! -Senorita! do not attempt it. It is not too easy for a man. You will -break your neck. He is fast coming to his senses." - -Alessandro caught the words. Spite of all the confusion and terror -of the scene, his heart heard the word, "Senorita." Ramona was not -the wife of Felipe, or of any man. Yet Alessandro recollected that -he had addressed her as Senora, and she did not seem surprised. -Coming to the front of the group he said, bending forward, -"Senorita!" There must have been something in the tone which -made Ramona start. The simple word could not have done it. -"Senorita," said Alessandro, "it will be nothing to bring Senor -Felipe down the ladder. He is, in my arms, no more than one of the -lambs yonder. I will bring him down as soon as he is recovered. He -is better here till then. He will very soon be himself again. It was -only the heat." Seeing that the expression of anxious distress did -not grow less on Ramona's face, he continued, in a tone still more -earnest, "Will not the Senorita trust me to bring him safe down?" - -Ramona smiled faintly through her tears. "Yes," she said, "I will -trust you. You are Alessandro, are you not?" - -"Yes, Senorita," he answered, greatly surprised, "I am Alessandro." - -VI - -A BAD beginning did not make a good ending of the Senora -Moreno's sheep-shearing this year. One as superstitiously -prejudiced against Roman Catholic rule as she was in favor of it, -would have found, in the way things fell out, ample reason for a -belief that the Senora was being punished for having let all the -affairs of her place come to a standstill, to await the coming of an -old monk. But the pious Senora, looking at the other side of the -shield, was filled with gratitude that, since all this ill luck was to -befall her, she had the good Father Salvierderra at her side to give -her comfort and counsel. - -It was not yet quite noon of the first day, when Felipe fainted and -fell in the wool; and it was only a little past noon of the third, -when Juan Canito, who, not without some secret exultation, had -taken Senor Felipe's place at the packing, fell from the cross-beam -to the ground, and broke his right leg,-- a bad break near the knee; -and Juan Canito's bones were much too old for fresh knitting. He -would never again be able to do more than hobble about on -crutches, dragging along the useless leg. It was a cruel blow to the -old man. He could not be resigned to it. He lost faith in his saints, -and privately indulged in blasphemous beratings and reproaches of -them, which would have filled the Senora with terror, had she -known that such blasphemies were being committed under her -roof. - -"As many times as I have crossed that plank, in my day!" cried -Juan; "only the fiends themselves could have made me trip; and -there was that whole box of candles I paid for with my own money -last month, and burned to Saint Francis in the chapel for this very -sheep-shearing! He may sit in the dark, for all me, to the end of -time! He is no saint at all! What are they for, if not to keep us from -harm when we pray to them? I'll pray no more. I believe the -Americans are right, who laugh at us." From morning till night, -and nearly from night till morning, for the leg ached so he slept -little, poor Juan groaned and grumbled and swore, and swore and -grumbled and groaned. Taking care of him was enough, Margarita -said, to wear out the patience of the Madonna herself. There was -no pleasing him, whatever you did, and his tongue was never still a -minute. For her part, she believed that it must be as he said, that -the fiends had pushed him off the plank, and that the saints had -had their reasons for leaving him to his fate. A coldness and -suspicion gradually grew up in the minds of all the servants -towards him. His own reckless language, combined with -Margarita's reports, gave the superstitious fair ground for believing -that something had gone mysteriously wrong, and that the Devil -was in a fair way to get his soul, which was very hard for the old -man, in addition to all the rest he had to bear. The only alleviation -he had for his torments, was in having his fellow-servants, men -and women, drop in, sit by his pallet, and chat with him, telling -him all that was going on; and when by degrees they dropped off, -coming more and more seldom, and one by one leaving off coming -altogether, it was the one drop that overflowed his cup of misery; -and he turned his face to the wall, left off grumbling, and spoke -only when he must. - -This phase frightened Margarita even more than the first. Now, she -thought, surely the dumb terror and remorse of one who belongs to -the Devil had seized him, and her hands trembled as she went -through the needful ministrations for him each day. Three months, -at least, the doctor, who had come from Ventura to set the leg, had -said he must lie still in bed and be thus tended. "Three months!" -sighed Margarita. "If I be not dead or gone crazy myself before the -end of that be come!" - -The Senora was too busy with Felipe to pay attention or to give -thought to Juan. Felipe's fainting had been the symptom and -beginning of a fierce relapse of the fever, and he was lying in his -bed, tossing and raving in delirium, always about the wool. - -"Throw them faster, faster! That's a good fleece; five pounds more; -a round ton in those bales. Juan! Alessandro! Captain! -- Jesus, -how this sun burns my head!" - -Several times he had called "Alessandro" so earnestly, that Father -Salvierderra advised bringing Alessandro into the room, to see if -by any chance there might have been something in his mind that he -wished to say to him. But when Alessandro stood by the bedside, -Felipe gazed at him vacantly, as he did at all the others, still -repeating, however, "Alessandro! Alessandro!" - -"I think perhaps he wants Alessandro to play on his violin," sobbed -out Ramona. "He was telling me how beautifully Alessandro -played, and said he would have him up on the veranda in the -evening to play to us." - -"We might try it," said Father Salvierderra. "Have you your violin -here, Alessandro?" - -"Alas, no, Father," replied Alessandro, "I did not bring it." - -"Perhaps it would do him good it you were to sing, then," said -Ramona. "He was speaking of your voice also." - -"Oh, try, try." said the Senorita, turning to Alessandro. "Sing -something low and soft." - -Alessandro walked from the bed to the open window, and after -thinking for a moment, began a slow strain from one of the -masses. - -At the first note, Felipe became suddenly quiet, evidently listening. -An expression of pleasure spread over his feverish face. He turned -his head to one side, put his hand under his cheek and closed his -eyes. The three watching him looked at each other in -astonishment. - -"It is a miracle," said Father Salvierderra. "He will sleep." - -"It was what he wanted!" whispered Ramona. - -The Senora spoke not, but buried her face in the bedclothes for a -second; then lifting it, she gazed at Alessandro as if she were -praying to a saint. He, too, saw the change in Felipe, and sang -lower and lower, till the notes sounded as if they came from afar; -lower and lower, slower; finally they ceased, as if they died away -lost in distance. As they ceased, Felipe opened his eyes. - -"Oh, go on, go on!" the Senora implored in a whisper shrill with -anxiety. "Do not stop!" - -Alessandro repeated the strain, slow, solemn; his voice trembled; -the air in the room seemed stifling, spite of the open window; he -felt something like terror, as he saw Felipe evidently sinking to -sleep by reason of the notes of his voice. There had been nothing -in Alessandro's healthy outdoor experience to enable him to -understand such a phenomenon. Felipe breathed more and more -slowly, softly, regularly; soon he was in a deep sleep. The singing -stopped; Felipe did not stir. - -"Can I go?" whispered Alessandro. - -"No, no." replied the Senora, impatiently. "He may wake any -minute." - -Alessandro looked troubled, but bowed his head submissively, and -remained standing by the window. Father Salvierderra was -kneeling on one side of the bed, the Senora at the other, Ramona at -the foot,-- all praying; the silence was so great that the slight -sounds of the rosary beads slipping against each other seemed -loud. In a niche in the wall, at the head of the bed, stood a statue of -the Madonna, on the other side a picture of Santa Barbara. Candles -were burning before each. The long wicks smouldered and died -down, sputtering, then flared up again as the ends fell into the -melted wax. The Senora's eyes were fixed on the Madonna. The -Father's were closed. Ramona gazed at Felipe with tears streaming -down her face as she mechanically told her beads. - -"She is his betrothed, no doubt," thought Alessandro. "The saints -will not let him die;" and Alessandro also prayed. But the -oppression of the scene was too much for him. Laying his hand on -the low window-sill, he vaulted over it, saying to Ramona, who -turned her head at the sound, "I will not go away, Senorita, I will -be close under the window, if he awakes." - -Once in the open air, he drew a long breath, and gazed -bewilderedly about him, like one just recovering consciousness -after a faint. Then he threw himself on the ground under the -window, and lay looking up into the sky. Capitan came up, and -with a low whine stretched himself out at full length by his side. -The dog knew as well as any other one of the house that danger -and anguish were there. - -One hour passed, two, three; still no sound from Felipe's room. -Alessandro rose, and looked in at the window. The Father and the -Senora had not changed their attitudes; their lips were yet moving -in prayer. But Ramona had yielded to her fatigue; slipped from her -knees into a sitting posture, with her head leaning against the post -of the bedstead, and fallen asleep. Her face was swollen and -discolored by weeping, and heavy circles under her eyes told how -tired she was. For three days and nights she had scarcely rested, so -constant were the demands on her. Between Felipe's illness and -Juan Can's, there was not a moment without something to be done, -or some perplexing question to be settled, and above all, and -through all, the terrible sorrow. Ramona was broken down with -grief at the thought of Felipe's death. She had never known till she -saw him lying there delirious, and as she in her inexperience -thought, dying, how her whole life was entwined with his. But -now, at the very thought of what it would be to live without him, -her heart sickened. "When he is buried, I will ask Father -Salvierderra to take me away. I never can live here alone," she said -to herself, never for a moment perceiving that the word "alone" -was a strange one to have come into her mind in the connection. -The thought of the Senora did not enter into her imaginations of -the future which so smote her with terror. In the Senora's presence, -Ramona always felt herself alone. - -Alessandro stood at the window, his arms folded, leaning on the -sill, his eyes fixed on Ramona's face and form. To any other than a -lover's eyes she had not looked beautiful now; but to Alessandro -she looked more beautiful than the picture of Santa Barbara on the -wall beyond. With a lover's instinct he knew the thoughts which -had written such lines on her face in the last three days. "It will kill -her if he dies," he thought, "if these three days have made her look -like that." And Alessandro threw himself on the ground again, his -face down. He did not know whether it were an hour or a day that -he had lain there, when he heard Father Salvierderra's voice -speaking his name. He sprang up, to see the old monk standing in -the window, tears running down his cheeks. "God be praised," he -said, "the Senor Felipe will get well. A sweat has broken out on his -skin; he still sleeps, but when he wakes he will be in his right -mind. The strength of the fever is broken. But, Alessandro, we -know not how to spare you. Can you not let the men go without -you, and remain here? The Senora would like to have you remain -in Juan Can's place till he is about. She will give you the same -wages he had. Would it not be a good thing for you, Alessandro? -You cannot be sure of earning so much as that for the next three -months, can you?" - -While the Father was speaking, a tumult had been going on in -Alessandro's breast. He did not know by name any of the impulses -which were warring there, tearing him in twain, as it were, by their -pulling in opposite directions; one saying "Stay!" and the other -saying "Go!" He would not have known what any one meant, who -had said to him, "It is danger to stay; it is safety to fly." All the -same, he felt as if he could do neither. - -"There is another shearing yet, Father," he began, "at the Ortega's -ranch. I had promised to go to them as soon as I had finished here, -and they have been wroth enough with us for the delay already. It -will not do to break the promise, Father." - -Father Salvierderra's face fell. "No, my son, certainly not," he said; -"but could no one else take your place with the band?" - -Hearing these words, Ramona came to the window, and leaning -out, whispered, "Are you talking about Alessandro's staying? Let -me come and talk to him. He must not go." And running swiftly -through the hall, across the veranda, and down the steps, she stood -by Alessandro's side in a moment. Looking up in his face -pleadingly, she said: "We can't let you go, Alessandro. The Senor -will pay wages to some other to go in your place with the shearers. -We want you to stay here in Juan Can's place till he is well. Don't -say you can't stay! Felipe may need you to sing again, and what -would we do then? Can't you stay?" - -"Yes, I can stay, Senorita," answered Alessandro, gravely. "I will -stay so long as you need me." - -"Oh, thank you, Alessandro!" Ramona cried. "You are good, to -stay. The Senora will see that it is no loss to you;" and she flew -back to the house. - -"It is not for the wages, Senorita," Alessandro began; but Ramona -was gone. She did not hear him, and he turned away with a sense -of humiliation. "I don't want the Senorita to think that it was the -money kept me," he said, turning to Father Salvierderra. "I would -not leave the band for money; it is to help, because they are in -trouble, Father." - -"Yes, yes, son. I understand that," replied the monk, who had -known Alessandro since he was a little fellow playing in the -corridors of San Luis Rey, the pet of all the Brothers there. "That is -quite right of you, and the Senora will not be insensible of it. It is -not for such things that money can pay. They are indeed in great -trouble now, and only the two women in the house; and I must -soon be going on my way North again." - -"Is it sure that Senor Felipe will get well?" asked Alessandro. - -"I think so," replied Father Salvierderra. "These relapses are -always worse than the first attack; but I have never known one to -die, after he had the natural sweat to break from the skin, and got -good sleep. I doubt not he will be in his bed, though, for many -days, and there will be much to be seen to. It was an ill luck to -have Juan Can laid up, too, just at this time. I must go and see him; -I hear he is in most rebellious frame of mind, and blasphemes -impiously." - -"That does he!" said Alessandro. "He swears the saints gave him -over to the fiends to push him off the plank, and he'll have none of -them from this out! I told him to beware, or they might bring him -to worse things yet if he did not mend his speech of them." - -Sighing deeply as they walked along, the monk said: "It is but a -sign of the times. Blasphemers are on the highway. The people are -being corrupted. Keeps your father the worship in the chapel still, -and does a priest come often to the village?" - -"Only twice a year," replied Alessandro; "and sometimes for a -funeral, if there is money enough to pay for the mass. But my -father has the chapel open, and each Sunday we sing what we -know of the mass; and the people are often there praying." - -"Ay, ay! Ever for money!" groaned Father Salvierderra, not -heeding the latter part of the sentence. "Ever for money! It is a -shame. But that it were sure to be held as a trespass, I would go -myself to Temecula once in three months; but I may not. The -priests do not love our order." - -"Oh, if you could, Father," exclaimed Alessandro, "it would make -my father very glad! He speaks often to me of the difference he -sees between the words of the Church now and in the days of the -Mission. He is very sad, Father, and in great fear about our village. -They say the Americans, when they buy the Mexicans' lands, drive -the Indians away as if they were dogs; they say we have no right to -our lands. Do you think that can be so, Father, when we have -always lived on them, and the owners promised them to us -forever?" - -Father Salvierderra was silent a long time before replying, and -Alessandro watched his face anxiously. He seemed to be hesitating -for words to convey his meaning. At last he said: "Got your father -any notice, at any time since the Americans took the country,-- -notice to appear before a court, or anything about a title to the -land?" - -"No, Father," replied Alessandro. - -"There has to be some such paper, as I understand their laws," -continued the monk; "some notice, before any steps can be taken -to remove Indians from an estate. It must be done according to the -law, in the courts. If you have had no such notice, you are not in -danger." - -"But, Father," persisted Alessandro, "how could there be a law to -take away from us the land which the Senor Valdez gave us -forever?" - -"Gave he to you any paper, any writing to show it?" - -"No, no paper; but it is marked in red lines on the map. It was -marked off by Jose Ramirez, of Los Angeles, when they marked all -the boundaries of Senor Valdez's estate. They had many -instruments of brass and wood to measure with, and a long chain, -very heavy, which I helped them carry. I myself saw it marked on -the map. They all slept in my father's house,-- Senor Valdez, and -Ramirez, and the man who made the measures. He hired one of -our men to carry his instruments, and I went to help, for I wished -to see how it was done; but I could understand nothing, and Jose -told me a man must study many years to learn the way of it. It -seemed to me our way, by the stones, was much better. But I know -it is all marked on the map, for it was with a red line; and my -father understood it, and Jose Ramirez and Senor Valdez both -pointed to it with their finger, and they said, 'All this here is your -land, Pablo, always.' I do not think my father need fear, do you?" - -"I hope not," replied Father Salvierderra, cautiously; "but since the -way that all the lands of the Missions have been taken away, I have -small faith in the honesty of the Americans. I think they will take -all that they can. The Church has suffered terrible loss at their -hands." - -"That is what my father says," replied Alessandro. "He says, 'Look -at San Luis Rey! Nothing but the garden and orchard left, of all -their vast lands where they used to pasture thirty thousand sheep. If -the Church and the Fathers could not keep their lands, what can we -Indians do?' That is what my father says." - -"True, true!" said the monk, as he turned into the door of the room -where Juan Can lay on his narrow bed, longing yet fearing to see -Father Salvierderra's face coming in. "We are all alike helpless in -their hands, Alessandro. They possess the country, and can make -what laws they please. We can only say, 'God's will be done,'" and -he crossed himself devoutly, repeating the words twice. - -Alessandro did the same, and with a truly devout spirit, for he was -full of veneration for the Fathers and their teachings; but as he -walked on towards the shearing-shed he thought: "Then, again, -how can it be God's will that wrong be done? It cannot be God's -will that one man should steal from another all he has. That would -make God no better than a thief, it looks to me. But how can it -happen, if it is not God's will?" - -It does not need that one be educated, to see the logic in this -formula. Generations of the oppressed and despoiled, before -Alessandro, had grappled with the problem in one shape or -another. - -At the shearing-shed, Alessandro found his men in confusion and -ill-humor. The shearing had been over and done by ten in the -morning, and why were they not on their way to the Ortega's? -Waiting all day,-- it was now near sunset,-- with nothing to do, and -still worse with not much of anything to eat, had made them all -cross; and no wonder. The economical Juan Can, finding that the -work would be done by ten, and supposing they would be off -before noon, had ordered only two sheep killed for them the day -before, and the mutton was all gone, and old Marda, getting her -cue from Juan, had cooked no more frijoles than the family needed -themselves; so the poor shearers had indeed had a sorry day of it, -in no wise alleviated either by the reports brought from time to -time that their captain was lying on the ground, face down, under -Senor Felipe's window, and must not be spoken to. - -It was not a propitious moment for Alessandro to make the -announcement of his purpose to leave the band; but he made a -clean breast of it in few words, and diplomatically diverted all -resentment from himself by setting them immediately to voting for -a new captain to take his place for the remainder of the season. - -"Very well!" they said hotly; "captain for this year, captain for -next, too!" It wasn't so easy to step out and in again of the -captaincy of the shearers! - -"All right," said Alessandro; "please yourselves! It is all the same -to me. But here I am going to stay for the present. Father -Salvierderra wishes it." - -"Oh, if the Father wishes it, that is different." "Ah, that alters the -case!" "Alessandro is right!" came up in confused murmur from -the appeased crowd. They were all good Catholics, every one of -the Temecula men, and would never think of going against the -Father's orders. But when they understood that Alessandro's -intention was to remain until Juan Canito's leg should be well -enough for him to go about again, fresh grumblings began. That -would not do. It would be all summer. Alessandro must be at home -for the Saint Juan's Day fete, in midsummer,-- no doing anything -without Alessandro then. What was he thinking of? Not of the -midsummer fete, that was certain, when he promised to stay as -long as the Senorita Ramona should need him. Alessandro had -remembered nothing except the Senorita's voice, while she was -speaking to him. If he had had a hundred engagements for the -summer, he would have forgotten them all. Now that he was -reminded of the midsummer fete, it must be confessed he was for -a moment dismayed at the recollection; for that was a time, when, -as he well knew. his father could not do without his help. There -were sometimes a thousand Indians at this fete, and disorderly -whites took advantage of the occasion to sell whisky and -encourage all sorts of license and disturbance. Yes, Alessandro's -clear path of duty lay at Temecula when that fete came off. That -was certain. - -"I will manage to be at home then," he said. "If I am not through -here by that time, I will at least come for the fete. That you may -depend on." - -The voting for the new captain did not take long. There was, in -fact, but one man in the band fit for the office. That was Fernando, -the only old man in the band; all the rest were young men under -thirty, or boys. Fernando had been captain for several years, but -had himself begged, two years ago, that the band would elect -Alessandro in his place. He was getting old, and he did not like to -have to sit up and walk about the first half of every night, to see -that the shearers were not gambling away all their money at cards; -he preferred to roll himself up in his blanket at sunset and sleep till -dawn the next morning. But just for these few remaining weeks he -had no objection to taking the office again. And Alessandro was -right, entirely right, in remaining; they ought all to see that, -Fernando said; and his word had great weight with the men. - -The Senora Moreno, he reminded them, had always been a good -friend of theirs, and had said that so long as she had sheep to shear, -the Temecula shearers should do it; and it would be very -ungrateful now if they did not do all they could to help her in her -need. - -The blankets were rolled up, the saddles collected, the ponies -caught and driven up to the shed, when Ramona and Margarita -were seen coming at full speed from the house. - -"Alessandro! Alessandro!" cried Ramona, out of breath, "I have -only just now heard that the men have had no dinner to-day. I am -ashamed; but you know it would not have happened except for the -sickness in the house. Everybody thought they were going away -this morning. Now they must have a good supper before they go. It -is already cooking. Tell them to wait." - -Those of the men who understood the Spanish language, in which -Ramona spoke, translated it to those who did not, and there was a -cordial outburst of thanks to the Senorita from all lips. All were -only too ready to wait for the supper. Their haste to begin on the -Ortega sheep-shearing had suddenly faded from their minds. Only -Alessandro hesitated. - -"It is a good six hours' ride to Ortega's," he said to the men. "You'll -be late in, if you do not start now." - -"Supper will be ready in an hour," said Ramona. "Please let them -stay; one hour can't make any difference." - -Alessandro smiled. "It will take nearer two, Senorita, before they -are off," he said; "but it shall be as you wish, and many thanks to -you, Senorita, for thinking of it." - -"Oh, I did not think of it myself," said Ramona. "It was Margarita, -here, who came and told me. She knew we would be ashamed to -have the shearers go away hungry. I am afraid they are very hungry -indeed," she added ruefully. "It must be dreadful to go a whole day -without anything to eat; they had their breakfast soon after sunrise, -did they not?" - -"Yes, Senorita," answered Alessandro, "but that is not long; one -can do without food very well for one day. I often do." - -"Often." exclaimed Ramona; "but why should you do that?" Then -suddenly bethinking herself, she said in her heart, "Oh, what a -thoughtless question! Can it be they are so poor as that?" And to -save Alessandro from replying, she set off on a run for the house, -saying, "Come, come, Margarita, we must go and help at the -supper." - -"Will the Senorita let me help, too," asked Alessandro, wondering -at his own boldness,-- "if there is anything I can do?" - -"Oh, no," she cried, "there is not. Yes, there is, too. You can help -carry the things down to the booth; for we are short of hands now, -with Juan Can in bed, and Luigo gone to Ventura for the doctor. -You and some of your men might carry all the supper over. I'll call -you when we are ready." - -The men sat down in a group and waited contentedly, smoking, -chatting, and laughing. Alessandro walked up and down between -the kitchen and the shed. He could hear the sounds of rattling -dishes, jingling spoons, frying, pouring water. Savory smells began -to be wafted out. Evidently old Marda meant to atone for the -shortcoming of the noon. Juan Can, in his bed, also heard and -smelled what was going on. "May the fiends get me," he growled, -"if that wasteful old hussy isn't getting up a feast for those beasts -of Indians! There's mutton and onions, and peppers stewing, and -potatoes, I'll be bound, and God knows what else, for beggars that -are only too thankful to get a handful of roasted wheat or a bowl of -acorn porridge at home. Well, they'll have to say they were well -feasted at the Moreno's, -- that's one comfort. I wonder if -Margarita'll think I am worthy of tasting that stew! San Jose! but it -smells well! Margarita! Margarita!" he called at top of his lungs; -but Margarita did not hear. She was absorbed in her duties in the -kitchen; and having already taken Juan at sundown a bowl of the -good broth which the doctor had said was the only sort of food he -must eat for two weeks, she had dismissed him from her mind for -the night. Moreover, Margarita was absent-minded to-night. She -was more than half in love with the handsome Alessandro, who, -when he had been on the ranch the year before, had danced with -her, and said many a light pleasant word to her, evenings, as a -young man may; and what ailed him now, that he seemed, when he -saw her, as if she were no more than a transparent shade, through -which he stared at the sky behind her, she did not know. Senor -Felipe's illness, she thought, and the general misery and confusion, -had perhaps put everything else out of his head; but now he was -going to stay, and it would be good fun having him there, if only -Senor Felipe got well, which he seemed likely to do. And as -Margarita flew about, here, there, and everywhere, she cast -frequent glances at the tall straight figure pacing up and down in -the dusk outside. - -Alessandro did not see her. He did not see anything. He was -looking off at the sunset, and listening. Ramona had said, "I will -call you when we are ready." But she did not do as she said. She -told Margarita to call. - -"Run, Margarita," she said. "All is ready now; see if Alessandro is -in sight. Call him to come and take the things." - -So it was Margarita's voice, and not Ramona's, that called -"Alessandro! Alessandro! the supper is ready." - -But it was Ramona who, when Alessandro reached the doorway, -stood there holding in her arms a huge smoking platter of the stew -which had so roused poor Juan Can's longings; and it was Ramona -who said, as she gave it into Alessandro's hands, "Take care, -Alessandro, it is very full. The gravy will run over if you are not -careful. You are not used to waiting on table;" and as she said it, -she smiled full into Alessandro's eyes,-- a little flitting, gentle, -friendly smile, which went near to making him drop the platter, -mutton, gravy, and all, then and there, at her feet. - -The men ate fast and greedily, and it was not, after all, much more -than an hour, when, full fed and happy, they were mounting their -horses to set off. At the last moment Alessandro drew one of them -aside. "Jose," he said, "whose horse is the faster, yours or -Antonio's?" - -"Mine," promptly replied Jose. "Mine, by a great deal. I will run -Antonio any day he likes." - -Alessandro knew this as well before asking as after. But -Alessandro was learning a great many things in these days, among -other things a little diplomacy. He wanted a man to ride at the -swiftest to Temecula and back. He knew that Jose's pony could go -like the wind. He also knew that there was a perpetual feud of -rivalry between him and Antonio, in matter of the fleetness of their -respective ponies. So, having chosen Jose for his messenger, he -went thus to work to make sure that he would urge his horse to its -utmost speed. - -Whispering in Jose's ear a few words, he said, "Will you go? I will -pay you for the time, all you could earn at the shearing." - -"I will go," said Jose, elated. "You will see me back tomorrow by -sundown." - -"Not earlier?" asked Alessandro. "I thought by noon." - -"Well, by noon be it, then," said Jose. "The horse can do it." - -"Have great care!" said Alessandro. - -"That will I," replied Jose; and giving his horse's sides a sharp -punch with his knees, set off at full gallop westward. - -"I have sent Jose with a message to Temecula," said Alessandro, -walking up to Fernando. "He will be back here tomorrow noon, -and join you at the Ortega's the next morning." - -"Back here by noon to-morrow!" exclaimed Fernando. "Not unless -he kills his horse!" - -"That was what he said," replied Alessandro, nonchalantly. - -"Easy enough, too!" cried Antonio, riding up on his little dun mare. -"I'd go in less time than that, on this mare. Jose's is no match for -her, and never was. Why did you not send me, Alessandro?" - -"Is your horse really faster than Jose's?" said Alessandro. "Then I -wish I had sent you. I'll send you next time." - -VII - -IT was strange to see how quickly and naturally Alessandro fitted -into his place in the household. How tangles straightened out, and -rough places became smooth, as he quietly took matters in hand. -Luckily, old Juan Can had always liked him, and felt a great sense -of relief at the news of his staying on. Not a wholly unselfish -relief, perhaps, for since his accident Juan had not been without -fears that he might lose his place altogether; there was a Mexican -he knew, who had long been scheming to get the situation, and had -once openly boasted at a fandango, where he was dancing with -Anita, that as soon as that superannuated old fool, Juan Canito, -was out of the way, he meant to be the Senora Moreno's head -shepherd himself. To have seen this man in authority on the place, -would have driven Juan out of his mind. - -But the gentle Alessandro, only an Indian,-- and of course the -Senora would never think of putting an Indian permanently in so -responsible a position on the estate,-- it was exactly as Juan would -have wished; and he fraternized with Alessandro heartily from the -outset; kept him in his room by the hour, giving him hundreds of -long-winded directions and explanations about things which, if -only he had known it, Alessandro understood far better than he -did. - -Alessandro's father had managed the Mission flocks and herds at -San Luis Rey for twenty years; few were as skilful as he; he -himself owned nearly as many sheep as the Senora Moreno; but -this Juan did not know. Neither did he realize that Alessandro, as -Chief Pablo's son, had a position of his own not without dignity -and authority. To Juan, an Indian was an Indian, and that was the -end of it. The gentle courteousness of Alessandro's manner, his -quiet behavior, were all set down in Juan's mind to the score of the -boy's native amiability and sweetness. If Juan had been told that -the Senor Felipe himself had not been more carefully trained in all -precepts of kindliness, honorable dealing, and polite usage, by the -Senora, his mother, than had Alessandro by his father, he would -have opened his eyes wide. The standards of the two parents were -different, to be sure; but the advantage could not be shown to be -entirely on the Senora's side. There were many things that Felipe -knew, of which Alessandro was profoundly ignorant; but there -were others in which Alessandro could have taught Felipe; and -when it came to the things of the soul, and of honor, Alessandro's -plane was the higher of the two. Felipe was a fair-minded, -honorable man, as men go; but circumstances and opportunity -would have a hold on him they could never get on Alessandro. -Alessandro would not lie; Felipe might. Alessandro was by nature -full of veneration and the religious instinct; Felipe had been -trained into being a good Catholic. But they were both singularly -pure-minded, open-hearted, generous-souled young men, and -destined, by the strange chance which had thus brought them into -familiar relations, to become strongly attached to each other. After -the day on which the madness of Felipe's fever had been so -miraculously soothed and controlled by Alessandro's singing, he -was never again wildly delirious. When he waked in the night from -that first long sleep, he was, as Father Salvierderra had predicted, -in his right mind; knew every one, and asked rational questions. -But the over-heated and excited brain did not for some time wholly -resume normal action. At intervals he wandered, especially when -just arousing from sleep; and, strangely enough, it was always for -Alessandro that he called at these times, and it seemed always to -be music that he craved. He recollected Alessandro's having sung -to him that first night. "I was not so crazy as you all thought," he -said. "I knew a great many of the things I said, but I couldn't help -saying them; and I heard Ramona ask Alessandro to sing; and -when he began, I remember I thought the Virgin had reached down -and put her hand on my head and cooled it." - -On the second evening, the first after the shearers had left, -Alessandro, seeing Ramona in the veranda, went to the foot of the -steps, and said, "Senorita, would Senor Felipe like to have me play -on the violin to him tonight?" - -"Why, whose violin have you got?" exclaimed Ramona, -astonished. - -"My own, Senorita." - -"Your own! I thought you said you did not bring it." - -"Yes, Senorita, that is true; but I sent for it last night, and it is -here." - -"Sent to Temecula and back already!" cried Ramona. - -"Yes, Senorita. Our ponies are swift and strong. They can go a -hundred miles in a day, and not suffer. It was Jose brought it, and -he is at the Ortega's by this time." - -Ramona's eyes glistened. "I wish I could have thanked him," she -said. "You should have let me know. He ought to have been paid -for going." - -"I paid him, Senorita; he went for me," said Alessandro, with a -shade of wounded pride in the tone, which Ramona should have -perceived, but did not, and went on hurting the lover's heart still -more. - -"But it was for us that you sent for it, Alessandro; the Senora -would rather pay the messenger herself." - -"It is paid, Senorita. It is nothing. If the Senor Felipe wishes to -hear the violin, I will play;" and Alessandro walked slowly away. - -Ramona gazed after him. For the first time, she looked at him with -no thought of his being an Indian,-- a thought there had surely been -no need of her having, since his skin was not a shade darker than -Felipe's; but so strong was the race feeling, that never till that -moment had she forgotten it. - -"What a superb head, and what a walk!" she thought. Then, -looking more observantly, she said: "He walks as if he were -offended. He did not like my offering to pay for the messenger. He -wanted to do it for dear Felipe. I will tell Felipe, and we will give -him some present when he goes away." - -"Isn't he splendid, Senorita?" came in a light laughing tone from -Margarita's lips close to her ear, in the fond freedom of their -relation. "Isn't he splendid? And oh, Senorita, you can't think how -he dances! Last year I danced with him every night; he has wings -on his feet, for all he is so tall and big." - -There was a coquettish consciousness in the girl's tone, that was -suddenly, for some unexplained reason, exceedingly displeasing to -Ramona. Drawing herself away, she spoke to Margarita in a tone -she had never before in her life used. "It is not fitting to speak like -that about young men. The Senora would be displeased if she -heard you," she said, and walked swiftly away leaving poor -Margarita as astounded as if she had got a box on the ear. - -She looked after Ramona's retreating figure, then after -Alessandro's. She had heard them talking together just before she -came up. Thoroughly bewildered and puzzled, she stood -motionless for several seconds, reflecting; then, shaking her head, -she ran away, trying to dismiss the harsh speech from her mind. -"Alessandro must have vexed the Senorita," she thought, "to make -her speak like that to me." But the incident was not so easily -dismissed from Margarita's thoughts. Many times in the day it -recurred to her, still a bewilderment and a puzzle, as far from -solution as ever. It was a tiny seed, whose name she did not dream -of; but it was dropped in soil where it would grow some day, -- -forcing-house soil, and a bitter seed; and when it blossomed, -Ramona would have an enemy. - -All unconscious, equally of Margarita's heart and her own, -Ramona proceeded to Felipe's room. Felipe was sleeping, the -Senora sitting by his side, as she had sat for days and nights,-- her -dark face looking thinner and more drawn each day; her hair -looking even whiter, if that could be; and her voice growing -hollow from faintness and sorrow. - -"Dear Senora," whispered Ramona, "do go out for a few moments -while he sleeps, and let me watch,-- just on the walk in front of the -veranda. The sun is still lying there, bright and warm. You will be -ill if you do not have air." - -The Senora shook her head. "My place is here," she answered, -speaking in a dry, hard tone. Sympathy was hateful to the Senora -Moreno; she wished neither to give it nor take it. "I shall not leave -him. I do not need the air." - -Ramona had a cloth-of-gold rose in her hand. The veranda eaves -were now shaded with them, hanging down like a thick fringe of -golden tassels. It was the rose Felipe loved best. Stooping, she laid -it on the bed, near Felipe's head. "He will like to see it when he -wakes," she said. - -The Senora seized it, and flung it far out in the room. "Take it -away! Flowers are poison when one is ill," she said coldly. "Have I -never told you that?" - -"No, Senora," replied Ramona, meekly; and she glanced -involuntarily at the saucer of musk which the Senora kept on the -table close to Felipe's pillow. - -"The musk is different," said the Senora, seeing the glance. "Musk -is a medicine; it revives." - -Ramona knew, but she would have never dared to say, that Felipe -hated musk. Many times he had said to her how he hated the odor; -but his mother was so fond of it, that it must always be that the -veranda and the house would be full of it. Ramona hated it too. At -times it made her faint, with a deadly faintness. But neither she nor -Felipe would have confessed as much to the Senora; and if they -had, she would have thought it all a fancy. - -"Shall I stay?" asked Ramona, gently. - -"As you please," replied the Senora. The simple presence of -Ramona irked her now with a feeling she did not pretend to -analyze, and would have been terrified at if she had. She would not -have dared to say to herself, in plain words: "Why is that girl well -and strong, and my Felipe lying here like to die! If Felipe dies, I -cannot bear the sight of her. What is she, to be preserved of the -saints!" - -But that, or something like it, was what she felt whenever Ramona -entered the room; still more, whenever she assisted in ministering -to Felipe. If it had been possible, the Senora would have had no -hands but her own do aught for her boy. Even tears from Ramona -sometimes irritated her. "What does she know about loving Felipe! -He is nothing to her!" thought the Senora, strangely mistaken, -strangely blind, strangely forgetting how feeble is the tie of blood -in the veins by the side of love in the heart. - -If into this fiery soul of the Senora's could have been dropped one -second's knowledge of the relative positions she and Ramona -already occupied in Felipe's heart, she would, on the spot, have -either died herself or have slain Ramona, one or the other. But no -such knowledge was possible; no such idea could have found -entrance into the Senora's mind. A revelation from Heaven of it -could hardly have reached even her ears. So impenetrable are the -veils which, fortunately for us all, are forever held by viewless -hands between us and the nearest and closest of our daily -companions. - -At twilight of this day Felipe was restless and feverish again. He -had dozed at intervals all day long, but had had no refreshing -sleep. - -"Send for Alessandro," he said. "Let him come and sing to me." - -"He has his violin now; he can play, if you would like that better," -said Ramona; and she related what Alessandro had told her of the -messenger's having ridden to Temecula and back in a night and -half a day, to bring it. - -"I wanted to pay the man," she said; "I knew of course your mother -would wish to reward him. But I fancy Alessandro was offended. -He answered me shortly that it was paid, and it was nothing." - -"You couldn't have offended him more," said Felipe. "What a pity! -He is as proud as Lucifer himself, that Alessandro. You know his -father has always been the head of their band; in fact, he has -authority over several bands; General, they call it now, since they -got the title from the Americans; they used to call it Chief., and -until Father Peyri left San Luis Rey, Pablo was in charge of all the -sheep, and general steward and paymaster. Father Peyri trusted -him with everything; I've heard he would leave boxes full of -uncounted gold in Pablo's charge to pay off the Indians. Pablo -reads and writes, and is very well off; he has as many sheep as we -have, I fancy!" - -"What!" exclaimed Ramona, astonished. "They all look as if they -were poor." - -"Oh, well, so they are," replied Felipe, "compared with us; but one -reason is, they share everything with each other. Old Pablo feeds -and supports half his village, they say. So long as he has anything, -he will never see one of his Indians hungry." - -"How generous!" warmly exclaimed Ramona; "I think they are -better than we are, Felipe!" - -"I think so, too," said Felipe. "That's what I have always said. The -Indians are the most generous people in the world. Of course they -have learned it partly from us; but they were very much so when -the Fathers first came here. You ask Father Salvierderra some day. -He has read all Father Junipero's and Father Crespi's diaries, and -he says it is wonderful how the wild savages gave food to every -one who came." - -"Felipe. you are talking too much," said the Senora's voice, in the -doorway; and as she spoke she looked reproachfully at Ramona. If -she had said in words, "See how unfit you are to be trusted with -Felipe. No wonder I do not leave the room except when I must!" -her meaning could not have been plainer. Ramona felt it keenly, -and not without some misgiving that it was deserved. - -"Oh, dear Felipe, has it hurt you?" she said timidly; and to the -Senora, "Indeed, Senora, he has been speaking but a very few -moments, very low." - -"Go call Alessandro, Ramona, will you?" said Felipe. "Tell him to -bring his violin. I think I will go to sleep if he plays." - -A long search Ramona had for Alessandro. Everybody had seen -him a few minutes ago, but nobody knew where he was now. -Kitchens, sheepfolds, vineyards, orchards, Juan Can's -bedchamber,-- Ramona searched them all in vain. At last, standing -at the foot of the veranda steps, and looking down the garden, she -thought she saw figures moving under the willows by the -washing-stones. - -"Can he be there?" she said. "What can he be doing there? Who is -it with him?" And she walked down the path, calling, "Alessandro! -Alessandro!" - -At the first sound, Alessandro sprang from the side of his -companion, and almost before the second syllables had been said, -was standing face to face with Ramona. - -"Here I am, Senorita. Does Senor Felipe want me? I have my -violin here. I thought perhaps he would like to have me play to him -in the twilight." - -"Yes," replied Ramona, "he wishes to hear you. I have been -looking everywhere for you." As she spoke, she was half -unconsciously peering beyond into the dusk, to see whose figure it -was, slowly moving by the brook. - -Nothing escaped Alessandro's notice where Ramona was -concerned. "It is Margarita," he said instantly. "Does the Senorita -want her? Shall I run and call her?" - -"No," said Ramona, again displeased, she knew not why, nor in -fact knew she was displeased; "no, I was not looking for her. What -is she doing there?" - -"She is washing," replied Alessandro, innocently. - -"Washing at this time of day!" thought Ramona, severely. "A mere -pretext. I shall watch Margarita. The Senora would never allow -this sort of thing." And as she walked back to the house by -Alessandro's side, she meditated whether or no she would herself -speak to Margarita on the subject in the morning. - -Margarita, in the mean time, was also having her season of -reflections not the pleasantest. As she soused her aprons up and -down in the water, she said to herself, "I may as well finish them -now I am here. How provoking! I've no more than got a word with -him, than she must come, calling him away. And he flies as if he -was shot on an arrow, at the first word. I'd like to know what's -come over the man, to be so different. If I could ever get a good -half-hour with him alone, I'd soon find out. Oh, but his eyes go -through me, through and through me! I know he's an Indian, but -what do I care for that. He's a million times handsomer than Senor -Felipe. And Juan Jose said the other day he'd make enough better -head shepherd than old Juan Can, if Senor Felipe'd only see it; and -why shouldn't he get to see it, if Alessandro's here all summer?" -And before the aprons were done, Margarita had a fine air-castle -up: herself and Alessandro married, a nice little house, children -playing in the sunshine below the artichoke-patch, she herself still -working for the Senora. "And the Senorita will perhaps marry -Senor Felipe," she added, her thoughts moving more hesitatingly. -"He worships the ground she walks on. Anybody with quarter of a -blind eye can see that; but maybe the Senora would not let him. -Anyhow, Senor Felipe is sure to have a wife, and so and so." It was -an innocent, girlish castle, built of sweet and natural longings, for -which no maiden, high or low, need blush; but its foundations -were laid in sand, on which would presently beat such winds and -floods as poor little Margarita never dreamed of. - -The next day Margarita and Ramona both went about their day's -business with a secret purpose in their hearts. Margarita had made -up her mind that before night she would, by fair means or foul, -have a good long talk with Alessandro. "He was fond enough of -me last year, I know," she said to herself, recalling some of the -dances and the good-night leave-takings at that time. "It's because -he is so put upon by everybody now. What with Juan Can in one -bed sending for him to prate to him about the sheep, and Senor -Felipe in another sending for him to fiddle him to sleep, and all the -care of the sheep, it's a wonder he's not out of his mind altogether. -But I'll find a chance, or make one, before this day's sun sets. If I -can once get a half-hour with him, I'm not afraid after that; I know -the way it is with men!" said the confident Margarita, who, truth -being told, it must be admitted, did indeed know a great deal about -the way it is with men, and could be safely backed, in a fair field, -with a fair start, against any girl of her age and station in the -country. So much for Margarita's purpose, at the outset of a day -destined to be an eventful one in her life. - -Ramona's purpose was no less clear. She had decided, after some -reflection, that she would not speak to the Senora about -Margarita's having been under the willows with Alessandro in the -previous evening, but would watch her carefully and see whether -there were any farther signs of her attempting to have clandestine -interviews with him. - -This course she adopted, she thought, chiefly because of her -affection for Margarita, and her unwillingness to expose her to the -Senora's displeasure, which would be great, and terrible to bear. -She was also aware of an unwillingness to bring anything to light -which would reflect ever so lightly upon Alessandro in the -Senora's estimation. "And he is not really to blame," thought -Ramona, "if a girl follows him about and makes free with him. She -must have seen him at the willows, and gone down there on -purpose to meet him, making a pretext of the washing. For she -never in this world would have gone to wash in the dark, as he -must have known, if he were not a fool. He is not the sort of -person, it seems to me, to be fooling with maids. He seems as full -of grave thought as Father Salvierderra. If I see anything amiss in -Margarita to-day, I shall speak to her myself, kindly but firmly, -and tell her to conduct herself more discreetly." - -Then, as the other maiden's had done, Ramona's thoughts, being -concentrated on Alessandro, altered a little from their first key, -and grew softer and more imaginative; strangely enough, taking -some of the phrases, as it were, out of the other maiden's mouth. - -"I never saw such eyes as Alessandro has," she said. "I wonder any -girl should make free with him. Even I myself, when he fixes his -eyes on me, feel a constraint. There is something in them like the -eyes of a saint, so solemn, yet so mild. I am sure he is very good. - -And so the day opened; and if there were abroad in the valley that -day a demon of mischief, let loose to tangle the skeins of human -affairs, things could not have fallen out better for his purpose than -they did; for it was not yet ten o'clock of the morning, when -Ramona, sitting at her embroidery in the veranda, half hid behind -the vines, saw Alessandro going with his pruning-knife in his hand -towards the artichoke-patch at the east of the garden, and joining -the almond orchard. "I wonder what he is going to do there," she -thought. "He can't be going to cut willows;" and her eyes followed -him till he disappeared among the trees. - -Ramona was not the only one who saw this. Margarita, looking -from the east window of Father Salvierderra's room, saw the same -thing. "Now's my chance!" she said; and throwing a white reboso -coquettishly over her head, she slipped around the corner of the -house. She ran swiftly in the direction in which Alessandro had -gone. The sound of her steps reached Ramona, who, lifting her -eyes, took in the whole situation at a glance. There was no possible -duty, no possible message, which would take Margarita there. -Ramona's cheeks blazed with a disproportionate indignation. But -she bethought herself, "Ah, the Senora may have sent her to call -Alessandro!" She rose, went to the door of Felipe's room, and -looked in. The Senora was sitting in the chair by Felipe's bed, with -her eyes closed. Felipe was dozing. The Senora opened her eyes, -and looked inquiringly at Ramona. - -"Do you know where Margarita is?" said Ramona. - -"In Father Salvierderra's room, or else in the kitchen helping -Marda," replied the Senora, in a whisper. "I told her to help Marda -with the peppers this morning." - -Ramona nodded, returned to the veranda, and sat down to decide -on her course of action. Then she rose again, and going to Father -Salvierderra's room, looked in. The room was still in disorder. -Margarita had left her work there unfinished. The color deepened -on Ramona's cheeks. It was strange how accurately she divined -each process of the incident. "She saw him from this window," -said Ramona, "and has run after him. It is shameful. I will go and -call her back, and let her see that I saw it all. It is high time that -this was stopped." - -But once back in the veranda, Ramona halted, and seated herself in -her chair again. The idea of seeming to spy was revolting to her. - -"I will wait here till she comes back," she said, and took up her -embroidery. But she could not work. As the minutes went slowly -by, she sat with her eyes fixed on the almond orchard, where first -Alessandro and then Margarita had disappeared. At last she could -bear it no longer. It seemed to her already a very long time. It was -not in reality very long,-- a half hour or so, perhaps; but it was long -enough for Margarita to have made great headway, as she thought, -in her talk with Alessandro, and for things to have reached just the -worst possible crisis at which they could have been surprised, -when Ramona suddenly appeared at the orchard gate, saying in a -stern tone, "Margarita, you are wanted in the house!" At a bad -crisis, indeed, for everybody concerned. The picture which -Ramona had seen, as she reached the gate, was this: Alessandro, -standing with his back against the fence, his right hand hanging -listlessly down, with the pruning-knife in it, his left hand in the -hand of Margarita, who stood close to him, looking up in his face, -with a half-saucy, half-loving expression. What made bad matters -worse, was, that at the first sight of Ramona, Alessandro snatched -his hand from Margarita's, and tried to draw farther off from her, -looking at her with an expression which, even in her anger, -Ramona could not help seeing was one of disgust and repulsion. -And if Ramona saw it, how much more did Margarita! Saw it, as -only a woman repulsed in presence of another woman can see and -feel. The whole thing was over in the twinkling of an eye; the -telling it takes double, treble the time of the happening. Before -Alessandro was fairly aware what had befallen, Ramona and -Margarita were disappearing from view under the garden trellis,-- -Ramona walking in advance, stately, silent, and Margarita -following, sulky, abject in her gait, but with a raging whirlwind in -her heart. - -It had taken only the twinkling of an eye, but it had told Margarita -the truth. Alessandro too. - -"My God." he said, "the Senorita thought me making love to that -girl. May the fiends get her!The Senorita looked at me as if I were -a dog. How could she think a man would look at a woman after he -had once seen her! And I can never, never speak to her to tell her! -Oh, this cannot be borne!" And in his rage Alessandro threw his -pruning-knife whirling through the air so fiercely, it sank to the -hilt in one of the old olive-trees. He wished he were dead. He was -minded to flee the place. How could he ever look the Senorita in -the face again! - -"Perdition take that girl!" he said over and over in his helpless -despair. An ill outlook for Margarita after this; and the girl had not -deserved it. - -In Margarita's heart the pain was more clearly defined. She had -seen Ramona a half-second before Alessandro had; and dreaming -no special harm, except a little confusion at being seen thus -standing with him,-- for she would tell the Senorita all about it -when matters had gone a little farther, -- had not let go of -Alessandro's hand. But the next second she had seen in his face a -look; oh, she would never forget it, never! That she should live to -have had any man look at her like that! At the first glimpse of the -Senorita, all the blood in his body seemed rushing into his face, -and he had snatched his hand away,-- for it was Margarita herself -that had taken his hand, not he hers,-- had snatched his hand away, -and pushed her from him, till she had nearly fallen. All this might -have been borne, if it had been only a fear of the Senorita's seeing -them, which had made him do it. But Margarita knew a great deal -better than that. That one swift, anguished, shame-smitten, -appealing, worshipping look on Alessandro's face, as his eyes -rested on Ramona, was like a flash of light into Margarita's -consciousness. Far better than Alessandro himself, she now knew -his secret. In her first rage she did not realize either the gulf -between herself and Ramona, or that between Ramona and -Alessandro. Her jealous rage was as entire as if they had all been -equals together. She lost her head altogether, and there was -embodied insolence in the tone in which she said presently, "Did -the Senorita want me?" - -Turning swiftly on her, and looking her full in the eye, Ramona -said: "I saw you go to the orchard, Margarita, and I knew what you -went for. I knew that you were at the brook last night with -Alessandro. All I wanted of you was, to tell you that if I see -anything more of this sort, I shall speak to the Senora." - -"There is no harm," muttered Margarita, sullenly. "I don't know -what the Senorita means." - -"You know very well, Margarita," retorted Ramona. "You know -that the Senora permits nothing of the kind. Be careful, now, what -you do." And with that the two separated, Ramona returning to the -veranda and her embroidery, and Margarita to her neglected duty -of making the good Father's bed. But each girl's heart was hot and -unhappy; and Margarita's would have been still hotter and -unhappier, had she heard the words which were being spoken on -the veranda a little later. - -After a few minutes of his blind rage at Margarita, himself, and -fate generally, Alessandro, recovering his senses, had ingeniously -persuaded himself that, as the Senora's; and also the Senorita's -servant, for the time being, he owed it to them to explain the -situation in which he had just been found. Just what he was to say -he did not know; but no sooner had the thought struck him, than he -set off at full speed for the house, hoping to find Ramona on the -veranda, where he knew she spent all her time when not with -Senor Felipe. - -When Ramona saw him coming, she lowered her eyes, and was -absorbed in her embroidery. She did not wish to look at him. - -The footsteps stopped. She knew he was standing at the steps. She -would not look up. She thought if she did not, he would go away. -She did not know either the Indian or the lover nature. After a -time, finding the consciousness of the soundless presence -intolerable, she looked up, and surprised on Alessandro's face a -gaze which had, in its long interval of freedom from observation, -been slowly gathering up into it all the passion of the man's soul, -as a burning-glass draws the fire of the sun's rays. Involuntarily a -low cry burst from Ramona's lips, and she sprang to her feet. - -"Ah! did I frighten the Senorita? Forgive. I have been waiting here -a long time to speak to her. I wished to say --" - -Suddenly Alessandro discovered that he did not know what he -wished to say. - -As suddenly, Ramona discovered that she knew all he wished to -say. But she spoke not, only looked at him searchingly. - -"Senorita," he began again, "I would never be unfaithful to my -duty to the Senora, and to you." - -"I believe you, Alessandro," said Ramona. "It is not necessary to -say more." - -At these words a radiant joy spread over Alessandro's face. He had -not hoped for this. He felt, rather than heard, that Ramona -understood him. He felt, for the first time, a personal relation -between himself and her. - -"It is well," he said, in the brief phrase so frequent with his people. -"It is well." And with a reverent inclination of his head, he walked -away. Margarita, still dawdling surlily over her work in Father -Salvierderra's room, heard Alessandro's voice, and running to -discover to whom he was speaking, caught these last, words. -Peering from behind a curtain, she saw the look with which he said -them; saw also the expression on Ramona's face as she listened. - -Margarita clenched her hands. The seed had blossomed. Ramona -had an enemy. - -"Oh, but I am glad Father Salvierderra has gone!" said the girl, -bitterly. "He'd have had this out of me, spite of everything. I -haven't got to confess for a year, maybe; and much can happen in -that time." - -Much, indeed! - -VIII - -FELIPE gained but slowly. The relapse was indeed, as Father -Salvierderra had said, worse than the original attack. Day after day -he lay with little apparent change; no pain, but a weakness so great -that it was almost harder to bear than sharp suffering would have -been. Nearly every day Alessandro was sent for to play or sing to -him. It seemed to be the only thing that roused him from his half -lethargic state. Sometimes he would talk with Alessandro on -matters relative to the estate, and show for a few moments -something like his old animation; but he was soon tired, and would -close his eyes, saying: "I will speak with you again about this, -Alessandro; I am going to sleep now. Sing." - -The Senora, seeing Felipe's enjoyment of Alessandro's presence, -soon came to have a warm feeling towards him herself; moreover, -she greatly liked his quiet reticence. There was hardly a surer road -to the Senora's favor, for man or woman, than to be chary of -speech and reserved in demeanor. She had an instinct of kinship to -all that was silent, self-contained, mysterious, in human nature. -The more she observed Alessandro, the more she trusted and -approved him. Luckily for Juan Can, he did not know how matters -were working in his mistress's mind. If he had, he would have been -in a fever of apprehension, and would have got at swords' points -with Alessandro immediately. On the contrary, all unaware of the -real situation of affairs, and never quite sure that the Mexican he -dreaded might not any day hear of his misfortune, and appear, -asking for the place, he took every opportunity to praise -Alessandro to the Senora. She never visited his bedside that he had -not something to say in favor of the lad, as he called him. - -"Truly, Senora," he said again and again, "I do marvel where the -lad got so much knowledge, at his age. He is like an old hand at -the sheep business. He knows more than any shepherd I have,-- a -deal more; and it is not only of sheep. He has had experience, too, -in the handling of cattle. Juan Jose has been beholden to him more -than once, already, for a remedy of which he knew not. And such -modesty, withal. I knew not that there were such Indians; surely -there cannot be many such." - -"No, I fancy not," the Senora would reply, absently. "His father is a -man of intelligence, and has trained his son well." - -"There is nothing he is not ready to do," continued Alessandro's -eulogist. "He is as handy with tools as if he had been 'prenticed to -a carpenter. He has made me a new splint for my leg, which was a -relief like salve to a wound, so much easier was it than before. He -is a good lad,-- a good lad." - -None of these sayings of Juan's were thrown away on the Senora. -More and more closely she watched Alessandro; and the very thing -which Juan had feared, and which he had thought to avert by -having Alessandro his temporary substitute, was slowly coming to -pass. The idea was working in the Senora's mind, that she might do -a worse thing than engage this young, strong, active, willing man -to remain permanently in her employ. The possibility of an Indian's -being so born and placed that he would hesitate about becoming -permanently a servant even to the Senora Moreno, did not occur to -her. However, she would do nothing hastily. There would be plenty -of time before Juan Can's leg was well. She would study the young -man more. In the mean time, she would cause Felipe to think of -the idea, and propose it. - -So one day she said to Felipe: "What a voice that Alessandro has, -Felipe. We shall miss his music sorely when he goes, shall we -not?" - -"He's not going!" exclaimed Felipe, startled. - -"Oh, no, no; not at present. He agreed to stay till Juan Can was -about again; but that will be not more than six weeks now, or -eight, I suppose. You forget how time has flown while you have -been lying here ill, my son." - -"True, true!" said Felipe. "Is it really a month already?" and he -sighed. - -"Juan Can tells me that the lad has a marvellous knowledge for -one of his years," continued the Senora. "He says he is as skilled -with cattle as with sheep; knows more than any shepherd we have -on the place. He seems wonderfully quiet and well-mannered. I -never saw an Indian who had such behavior." - -"Old Pablo is just like him," said Felipe. "It was natural enough, -living so long with Father Peyri. And I've seen other Indians, too, -with a good deal the same manner as Alessandro. It's born in -them." - -"I can't bear the idea of Alessandro's going away. But by that time -you will be well and strong," said the Senora; "you would not miss -him then, would you?" - -"Yes, I would, too!" said Felipe, pettishly. He was still weak -enough to be childish. "I like him about me. He's worth a dozen -times as much as any man we've got. But I don't suppose money -could hire him to stay on any ranch." - -"Were you thinking of hiring him permanently?" asked the Senora, -in a surprised tone. "I don't doubt you could do so if you wished. -They are all poor, I suppose; he would not work with the shearers -if he were not poor." - -"Oh, it isn't that," said Felipe, impatiently. "You can't understand, -because you've never been among them. But they are just as proud -as we are. Some of them, I mean; such men as old Pablo. They -shear sheep for money just as I sell wool for money. There isn't so -much difference. Alessandro's men in the band obey him, and all -the men in the village obey Pablo, just as implicitly as my men -here obey me. Faith, much more so!" added Felipe, laughing. "You -can't understand it, mother, but it's so. I am not at all sure I could -offer Alessandro Assis money enough to tempt him to stay here as -my servant." - -The Senora's nostrils dilated in scorn. "No, I do not understand it," -she said. "Most certainly I do not understand it. Of what is it that -these noble lords of villages are so proud? their ancestors,-- naked -savages less than a hundred years ago? Naked savages they -themselves too, to-day, if we had not come here to teach and -civilize them. The race was never meant for anything but servants. -That was all the Fathers ever expected to make of them,-- good, -faithful Catholics, and contented laborers in the fields. Of course -there are always exceptional instances, and I think, myself, -Alessandro is one. I don't believe, however, he is so exceptional, -but that if you were to offer him, for instance, the same wages you -pay Juan Can, he would jump at the chance of staying on the -place." - -"Well, I shall think about it," said Felipe. "I'd like nothing better -than to have him here always. He's a fellow I heartily like. I'll think -about it." - -Which was all the Senora wanted done at present. - -Ramona had chanced to come in as this conversation was going -on. Hearing Alessandro's name she seated herself at the window, -looking out, but listening intently. The month had done much for -Alessandro with Ramona, though neither Alessandro nor Ramona -knew it. It had done this much,-- that Ramona knew always when -Alessandro was near, that she trusted him, and that she had ceased -to think of him as an Indian any more than when she thought of -Felipe, she thought of him as a Mexican. Moreover, seeing the two -men frequently together, she had admitted to herself, as Margarita -had done before her, that Alessandro was far the handsomer man -of the two. This Ramona did not like to admit, but she could not -help it. - -"I wish Felipe were as tall and strong as Alessandro," she said to -herself many a time. "I do not see why he could not have been. I -wonder if the Senora sees how much handsomer Alessandro is." - -When Felipe said that he did not believe he could offer Alessandro -Assis money enough to tempt him to stay on the place, Ramona -opened her lips suddenly, as if to speak, then changed her mind, -and remained silent. She had sometimes displeased the Senora by -taking part in conversations between her and her son. - -Felipe saw the motion, but he also thought it wiser to wait till after -his mother had left the room, before he asked Ramona what she -was on the point of saying. As soon as the Senora went out, he -said, "What was it, Ramona, you were going to say just now?" - -Ramona colored. She had decided not to say it, - -"Tell me, Ramona," persisted Felipe. "You were going to say -something about Alessandro's staying; I know you were." - -Ramona did not answer. For the first time in her life she found -herself embarrassed before Felipe. - -"Don't you like Alessandro?" said Felipe. - -"Oh, yes!" replied Ramona, with instant eagerness. "It was not that -at all. I like him very much;" But then she stopped. - -"Well, what is it, then? Have you heard anything on the place -about his staying?" - -"Oh, no, no; not a word!" said Ramona. "Everybody understands -that he is here only till Juan Can gets well. But you said you did -not believe you could offer him money enough to tempt him to -stay." - -"Well," said Felipe, inquiringly, "I do not. Do you?" - -"I think he would like to stay," said Ramona, hesitatingly. "That -was what I was going to say." - -"What makes you think so?" asked Felipe. - -"I don't know," Ramona said, still more hesitatingly. Now that she -had said it, she was sorry. Felipe looked curiously at her. Hesitancy -like this, doubts, uncertainty as to her impressions, were not -characteristic of Ramona. A flitting something which was far from -being suspicion or jealousy, and yet was of kin to them both, went -through Felipe's mind,-- went through so swiftly that he was scarce -conscious of it; if he had been, he would have scorned himself. -Jealous of an Indian sheep-shearers Impossible! Nevertheless, the -flitting something left a trace, and prevented Felipe from forgetting -the trivial incident; and after this, it was certain that Felipe would -observe Ramona more closely than he had done; would weigh her -words and actions; and if she should seem by a shade altered in -either, would watch still more closely. Meshes were closing -around Ramona. Three watchers of her every look and act,-- -Alessandro in pure love, Margarita in jealous hate, Felipe in love -and perplexity. Only the Senora observed her not. If she had, -matters might have turned out very differently, for the Senora was -clear-sighted, rarely mistaken in her reading of people's motives, -never long deceived; but her observing and discriminating powers -were not in focus, so far as Ramona was concerned. The girl was -curiously outside of the Senora's real life. Shelter, food, clothes, all -external needs, in so far as her means allowed, the Senora would, -without fail, provide for the child her sister had left in her hands as -a trust; but a personal relation with her, a mother's affection, or -even interest and acquaintance, no. The Senora had not that to -give. And if she had it not, was she to blame? What could she do? -Years ago Father Salvierderra had left off remonstrating with her -on this point. "Is there more I should do for the child? Do you see -aught lacking, aught amiss?" the Senora would ask, -conscientiously, but with pride. And the Father, thus inquired of, -could not point out a duty which had been neglected. - -"You do not love her, my daughter," he said. - -"No." Senora Moreno's truthfulness was of the adamantine order. -"No, I do not. I cannot. One cannot love by act of will." - -"That is true," the Father would say sadly; "but affection may be -cultivated." - -"Yes, if it exists," was the Senora's constant answer. "But in this -case it does not exist. I shall never love Ramona. Only at your -command, and to save my sister a sorrow, I took her. I will never -fail in my duty to her." - -It was of no use. As well say to the mountain, "Be cast into the -sea," as try to turn the Senora's heart in any direction whither it did -not of itself tend. All that Father Salvierderra could do, was to love -Ramona the more himself, which he did heartily, and more and -more each year, and small marvel at it; for a gentler, sweeter -maiden never drew breath than this same Ramona, who had been -all these years, save for Felipe, lonely in the Senora Moreno's -house. - -Three watchers of Ramona now. If there had been a fourth, and -that fourth herself, matters might have turned out differently. But -how should Ramona watch? How should Ramona know? Except -for her two years at school with the nuns, she had never been away -from the Senora's house. Felipe was the only young man she had -known,-- Felipe, her brother since she was five years old. - -There were no gayeties in the Senora Moreno's home. Felipe, when -he needed them, went one day's journey, or two, or three, to get -them; went as often as he liked. Ramona never went. How many -times she had longed to go to Santa Barbara, or to Monterey, or -Los Angeles; but to have asked the Senora's permission to -accompany her on some of her now infrequent journeys to these -places would have required more courage than Ramona possessed. -It was now three years since she left the convent school, but she -was still as fresh from the hands of the nuns as on the day when, -with loving tears, they had kissed her in farewell. The few -romances and tales and bits of verse she had read were of the most -innocent and old-fashioned kind, and left her hardly less childlike -than before. This childlikeness, combined with her happy -temperament, had kept her singularly contented in her monotonous -life. She had fed the birds, taken care of the flowers, kept the -chapel in order, helped in light household work, embroidered, -sung, and, as the Senora eight years before had bade her do, said -her prayers and pleased Father Salvierderra. - -By processes strangely unlike, she and Alessandro had both been -kept strangely free from thoughts of love and of marriage,-- he by -living in the shadow, and she by living in the sun; his heart and -thoughts filled with perplexities and fears, hers filled by a placid -routine of light and easy tasks, and the outdoor pleasures of a -child. - -As the days went on, and Felipe still remained feeble, Alessandro -meditated a bold stroke. Each time that he went to Felipe's room to -sing or to play, he felt himself oppressed by the air. An hour of it -made him uncomfortable. The room was large, and had two -windows, and the door was never shut; yet the air seemed to -Alessandro stifling. - -"I should be as ill as the Senor Felipe, if I had to stay in that room, -and a bed is a weakening thing, enough to pull the strongest man -down," said Alessandro to Juan Can one day. "Do you think I -should anger them if I asked them to let me bring Senor Felipe out -to the veranda and put him on a bed of my making? I'd wager my -head I'd put him on his feet in a week." - -"And if you did that, you might ask the Senora for the half of the -estate, and get it, lad," replied Juan, Seeing the hot blood -darkening in Alessandro's face at his words, he hastened to add, -"Do not be so hot-blooded. I meant not that you would ask any -reward for doing it; I was only thinking what joy it would be to the -Senora to see Senor Felipe on his feet again. It has often crossed -my thoughts that if he did not get up from this sickness the Senora -would not be long behind him. It is but for him that she lives. And -who would have the estate in that case, I have never been able to -find out." - -"Would it not be the Senorita?" asked Alessandro. - -Juan Can laughed an ugly laugh. "Ha, ha! Let the Senora hear you -say that!" he said. "Faith, it will be little the Senorita gets more -than enough for her bread, may be, out of the Moreno estate. Hark -ye, Alessandro; if you will not tell, I will tell you the story of the -Senorita. You know she is not of the Moreno blood; is no relation -of theirs." - -"Yes," said Alessandro; "Margarita has said to me that the Senorita -Ramona was only the foster-child of the Senora Moreno." - -"Foster-child!" repeated Juan Can, contemptuously, "there is -something to the tale I know not, nor ever could find out; for when -I was in Monterey the Ortegna house was shut, and I could not get -speech of any of their people. But this much I know, that it was the -Senora Ortegna that had the girl first in keeping; and there was a -scandalous tale about her birth." - -If Juan Can's eyes had not been purblind with old age, he would -have seen that in Alessandro's face which would have made him -choose his words more carefully. But he went on: "It was after the -Senora Ortegna was buried, that our Senora returned, bringing this -child with her; and I do assure you, lad, I have seen the Senora -look at her many a time as if she wished her dead. And it is a -shame, for she was always as fair and good a child as the saints -ever saw. But a stain on the blood, a stain on the blood, lad, is a -bitter thing in a house. This much I know, her mother was an -Indian. Once when I was in the chapel, behind the big Saint Joseph -there, I overheard the Senora say as much. She was talking to -Father Salvierderra, and she said, 'If the child had only the one -blood in her veins, it would be different. I like not these crosses -with Indians.'" - -If Alessandro had been civilized, he would at this word "Indian" -have bounded to his feet. Being Alessandro, he stood if possible -stiller than before, and said in a low voice, "How know you it was -the mother that was the Indian?" - -Juan laughed again, maliciously: "Ha, it is the Ortegna face she -has; and that Ortegna, why, he was the scandal byword of the -whole coast. There was not a decent woman would have spoken to -him, except for his wife's sake." - -"But did you not say that it was in the Senora Ortegna's keeping -that the child was?" asked Alessandro, breathing harder and faster -each moment now; stupid old Juan Can so absorbed in relish of his -gossip, that he noticed nothing. - -"Ay, ay. So I said," he went on; "and so it was. There be such -saints, you know; though the Lord knows if she had been minded -to give shelter to all her husband's bastards, she might have taken -lease of a church to hold them. But there was a story about a man's -coming with this infant and leaving it in the Senora's room; and -she, poor lady, never having had a child of her own, did warm to it -at first sight, and kept it with her to the last; and I wager me, a -hard time she had to get our Senora to take the child when she -died; except that it was to spite Ortegna, I think our Senora would -as soon the child had been dead." - -"Has she not treated her kindly?" asked Alessandro, in a husky -voice. - -Juan Can's pride resented this question. "Do you suppose the -Senora Moreno would do an unkindness to one under her roof?" he -asked loftily. "The Senorita has been always, in all things, like -Senor Felipe himself. It was so that she promised the Senora -Ortegna, I have heard." - -"Does the Senorita know all this?" asked Alessandro. - -Juan Can crossed himself. "Saints save us, no!" he exclaimed. "I'll -not forget, to my longest day, what it cost me, once I spoke in her -hearing, when she was yet small. I did not know she heard; but she -went to the Senora, asking who was her mother. And she said I had -said her mother was no good, which in faith I did, and no wonder. -And the Senora came to me, and said she, 'Juan Canito, you have -been a long time in our house; but if ever I hear of your -mentioning aught concerning the Senorita Ramona, on this estate -or anywhere else in the country, that day you leave my service!' -- -And you'd not do me the ill-turn to speak of it, Alessandro, now?" -said the old man, anxiously. "My tongue runs away with me, lying -here on this cursed bed, with nothing to do,-- an active man like -me." - -"No, I'll not speak of it, you may be assured," said Alessandro, -walking away slowly. - -"Here! Here!" called Juan. "What about that plan you had for -making a bed for Senor Felipe on the verandah Was it of raw-hide -you meant?" - -"Ah, I had forgotten," said Alessandro, returning. "Yes, that was it. -There is great virtue in a raw-hide, tight stretched; my father says -that it is the only bed the Fathers would ever sleep on, in the -Mission days. I myself like the ground even better; but my father -sleeps always on the rawhide. He says it keeps him well. Do you -think I might speak of it to the Senora?" - -"Speak of it to Senor Felipe himself," said Juan. "It will be as he -says. He rules this place now, from beginning to end; and it is but -yesterday I held him on my knee. It is soon that the old are pushed -to the wall, Alessandro." - -"Nay, Juan Canito," replied Alessandro, kindly. "It is not so. My -father is many years older than you are, and he rules our people -to-day as firmly as ever. I myself obey him, as if I were a lad still." - -"What else, then, but a lad do you call yourself, I wonder?" thought -Juan; but he answered, "It is not so with us. The old are not held in -such reverence." - -"That is not well," replied Alessandro. "We have been taught -differently. There is an old man in our village who is many, many -years older than my father. He helped to carry the mortar at the -building of the San Diego Mission, I do not know how many years -ago. He is long past a hundred years of age. He is blind and -childish, and cannot walk; but he is cared for by every one. And -we bring him in our arms to every council, and set him by my -father's side. He talks very foolishly sometimes, but my father will -not let him be interrupted. He says it brings bad luck to affront the -aged. We will presently be aged ourselves." - -"Ay, ay!" said Juan, sadly. "We must all come to it. It is beginning -to look not so far off to me!" - -Alessandro stared, no less astonished at Juan Can's unconscious -revelation of his standard of measurement of years than Juan had -been at his. "Faith, old man, what name dost give to yourself -to-day!" he thought; but went on with the topic of the raw-hide -bed. "I may not so soon get speech with Senor Felipe," he said. "It -is usually when he is sleepy that I go to play for him or to sing. But -it makes my heart heavy to see him thus languishing day by day, -and all for lack of the air and the sun, I do believe, indeed, Juan." - -"Ask the Senorita, then," said Juan. "She has his ear at all times." - -Alessandro made no answer. Why was it that it did not please -him,-- this suggestion of speaking to Ramona of his plan for -Felipe's welfare? He could not have told; but he did not wish to -speak of it to her. - -"I will speak to the Senora," he said; and as luck would have it, at -that moment the Senora stood in the doorway, come to ask after -Juan Can's health. - -The suggestion of the raw-hide bed struck her favorably. She -herself had, in her youth, heard much of their virtues, and slept on -them. "Yes," she said, "they are good. We will try it. It was only -yesterday that Senor Felipe was complaining of the bed he lies on; -and when he was well, he thought nothing could be so good; he -brought it here, at a great price, for me, but I could not lie on it. It -seemed as if it would throw me off as soon as I lay down; it is a -cheating device, like all these innovations the Americans have -brought into the country. But Senor Felipe till now thought it a -luxury; now he tosses on it, and says it is throwing him all the -time." - -Alessandro smiled, in spite of his reverence for the Senora. "I once -lay down on one myself, Senora," he said, "and that was what I -said to my father. It was like a wild horse under me, making -himself ready to buck. I thought perhaps the invention was of the -saints, that men should not sleep too long." - -"There is a pile of raw-hides," said Juan, "well cured, but not too -stiff; Juan Jose was to have sent them off to-day to be sold; one of -those will be just right. It must not be too dry." - -"The fresher the better," said Alessandro, "so it have no dampness. -Shall I make the bed, Senora?" he asked, "and will the Senora -permit that I make it on the veranda? I was just asking Juan Can if -he thought I might be so bold as to ask you to let me bring Senor -Felipe into the outer air. With us, it is thought death to be shut up -in walls, as he has been so long. Not till we are sure to die, do we -go into the dark like that." - -The Senora hesitated. She did not share Alessandro's prejudice in -favor of fresh air. - -"Night and day both?" she said. "Surely it is not well to sleep out in -the night?" - -"That is the best of all, Senora," replied Alessandro, earnestly. "I -beg the Senora to try it. If Senor Felipe have not mended greatly -after the first night he had so slept, then Alessandro will be a liar." - -"No, only mistaken," said the Senora, gently. She felt herself -greatly drawn to this young man by his devotion, as she thought, of -Felipe. "When I die and leave Felipe here," she had more than once -said to herself, "it would be a great good to him to have such a -servant as this on the place." - -"Very well, Alessandro," she replied; "make the bed, and we will -try it at once." - -This was early in the forenoon. The sun was still high in the west, -when Ramona, sitting as usual in the veranda, at her embroidery, -saw Alessandro coming, followed by two men, bearing the -raw-hide bed. - -"What can that be?" she said. "Some new invention of -Alessandro's, but for what?" - -"A bed for the Senor Felipe, Senorita," said Alessandro, running -lightly up the steps. "The Senora has given permission to place it -here on the veranda, and Senor Felipe is to lie here day and night; -and it will be a marvel in your eyes how he will gain strength. It is -the close room which is keeping him weak now; he has no illness." - -"I believe that is the truth, Alessandro," exclaimed Ramona; "I -have been thinking the same thing. My head aches after I am in -that room but an hour, and when I come here I am well. But the -nights too, Alessandro? Is it not harmful to sleep out in the night -air?" - -"Why, Senorita?" asked Alessandro, simply. - -And Ramona had no answer, except, "I do not know; I have always -heard so." - -"My people do not think so," replied Alessandro; "unless it is cold, -we like it better. It is good, Senorita, to look up at the sky in the -night." - -"I should think it would be," cried Ramona. "I never thought of it. I -should like to do it." - -Alessandro was busy, with his face bent down, arranging the -bedstead in a sheltered corner of the veranda. If his face had been -lifted, Ramona would have seen a look on it that would have -startled her more than the one she had surprised a few days -previous, after the incident with Margarita. All day there had been -coming and going in Alessandro's brain a confused procession of -thoughts., vague yet intense. Put in words, they would have been -found to be little more than ringing changes on this idea: "The -Senorita Ramona has Indian blood in her veins. The Senorita -Ramona is alone. The Senora loves her not. Indian blood! Indian -blood!" These, or something like them, would have been the -words; but Alessandro did not put them in words. He only worked -away on the rough posts for Senor Felipe's bedstead, hammered, -fitted, stretched the raw-hide and made it tight and firm, driving -every nail, striking every blow, with a bounding sense of exultant -strength, as if there were suddenly all around him a new heaven -and a new earth. - -Now, when he heard Ramona say suddenly in her girlish, eager -tone, "It must be; I never thought of it; I should like to try it," these -vague confused thoughts of the day, and the day's bounding sense -of exultant strength, combined in a quick vision before -Alessandro's eyes,-- a vision of starry skies overhead, Ramona and -himself together, looking up to them. But when he raised his head, -all he. said was, "There, Senorita! That is all firm, now. If Senor -Felipe will let me lay him an this bed, he will sleep as he has not -slept since he fell ill." - -Ramona ran eagerly into Felipe's room, "The bed is all ready on -the veranda," she exclaimed. "Shall Alessandro come in and carry -you out?" - -Felipe looked up, startled. The Senora turned on Ramona that -expression of gentle, resigned displeasure, which always hurt the -girl's sensitive nature far worse than anger. "I had not spoken to -Felipe yet of the change, Ramona," she said. "I supposed that -Alessandro would have informed me when the bed was ready; I am -sorry you came in so suddenly. Felipe is still very weak, you see." - -"What is it? What is it?" exclaimed Felipe, impatiently. - -As soon as it was explained to him, he was like a child in his haste -to be moved. - -"That's just what I needed!" he exclaimed. "This cursed bed racks -every bone in my body, and I have longed for the sun more than -ever a thirsty man longed for water. Bless you, Alessandro," he -went on, seeing Alessandro in the doorway. "Come here, and take -me up in those long arms of yours, and carry me quick. Already I -feel myself better." - -Alessandro lifted him as if he were a baby; indeed, it was but a -light burden now, Felipe's wasted body, for a man much less strong -than Alessandro to lift. - -Ramona, chilled and hurt, ran in advance, carrying pillows and -blankets. As she began to arrange them on the couch, the Senora -took them from her hands, saying, "I will arrange them myself;" -and waved Ramona away. - -It was a little thing. Ramona was well used to such. Ordinarily it -would have given her no pain she could not conceal. But the girl's -nerves were not now in equilibrium. She had had hard work to -keep back her tears at the first rebuff. This second was too much. -She turned, and walked swiftly away, the tears rolling down her -cheeks. - -Alessandro saw it; Felipe saw it. - -To Felipe the sight was, though painful, not a surprise. He knew -but too well how often his mother hurt Ramona. All he thought -now, in his weakness, was, "Alas! what a pity my mother does not -love Ramona!" - -To Alessandro the sight was the one drop too much in the cup. As -he stooped to lay Felipe on the bed, he trembled so that Felipe -looked up, half afraid. - -"Am I still so heavy, Alessandro?" he said smiling. - -"It is not your weight, Senor Felipe," answered Alessandro, off -guard, still trembling, his eyes following Ramona. - -Felipe saw. In the next second, the eyes of the two young men met. -Alessandro's fell before Felipe's. Felipe gazed on, steadily, at -Alessandro. - -"Ah!" he said; and as he said it, he closed his eyes, and let his head -sink back into the pillow. - -"Is that comfortable? Is that right?" asked the Senora, who had -seen nothing. - -"The first comfortable moment I have had, mother," said Felipe. -"Stay, Alessandro, I want to speak to you as soon as I am rested. -This move has shaken me up a good deal. Wait." - -"Yes, Senor," replied Alessandro, and seated himself on the -veranda steps. - -"If you are to stay, Alessandro," said the Senora, "I will go and -look after some matters that need my attention. I feel always at -ease about Senor Felipe when you are with him. You will stay till I -come back?" - -"Yes, Senora," said Alessandro, in a tone cold as the Senora's own -had been to Ramona. He was no longer in heart the Senora -Moreno's servant. In fact, he was at that very moment revolving -confusedly in his mind whether there could be any possibility of -his getting away before the expiration of the time for which he had -agreed to stay. - -It was a long time before Felipe opened his eyes. Alessandro -thought he was asleep. - -At last Felipe spoke. He had been watching Alessandro's face for -some minutes. "Alessandro," he said. - -Alessandro sprang to his feet, and walked swiftly to the bedside. -He did not know what the next word might be. He felt that the -Senor Felipe had seen straight into his heart in that one moment's -look, and Alessandro was preparing for anything. - -"Alessandro," said Felipe, "my mother has been speaking to me -about your remaining with us permanently. Juan Can is now very -old, and after this accident will go on crutches the rest of his days, -poor soul! We are in great need of some man who understands -sheep, and the care of the place generally." - -As he spoke, he watched Alessandro's face closely. Swift changing -expressions passed over it. Surprise predominated. Felipe -misunderstood the surprise. "I knew you would be surprised," he -said. "I told my mother that you would not think of it; that you had -stayed now only because we were in trouble." - -Alessandro bowed his head gratefully. This recognition from -Felipe gave him pleasure. - -"Yes, Senor," he said, "that was it. I told Father Salvierderra it was -not for the wages. But my father and I have need of all the money -we can earn. Our people are very poor, Senor. I do not know -whether my father would think I ought to take the place you offer -me, or not, Senor. It would be as he said. I will ask him." - -"Then you would be willing to take it?" asked Felipe. - -"Yes, Senor, if my father wished me to take it," replied -Alessandro, looking steadily and gravely at Felipe; adding, after a -second's pause, "if you are sure that you desire it, Senor Felipe, it -would be a pleasure to me to be of help to you." - -And yet it was only a few moments ago that Alessandro had been -turning over in his mind the possibility of leaving the Senora -Moreno's service immediately. This change had not been a caprice, -not been an impulse of passionate desire to remain near Ramona; -it had come from a sudden consciousness that the Senor Felipe -would be his friend. And Alessandro was not mistaken. - -IX - -WHEN the Senora came back to the veranda, she found Felipe -asleep, Alessandro standing at the foot of the bed, with his arms -crossed on his breast, watching him. As the Senora drew near, -Alessandro felt again the same sense of dawning hatred which had -seized him at her harsh speech to Ramona. He lowered his eyes, -and waited to be dismissed. - -"You can go now, Alessandro," said the Senora. "I will sit here. -You are quite sure that it will be safe for Senor Felipe to sleep here -all night?" - -"It will cure him before many nights," replied Alessandro, still -without raising his eyes, and turning to go. - -"Stay," said the Senora. Alessandro paused. "It will not do for him -to be alone here in the night, Alessandro.' - -Alessandro had thought of this, and had remembered that if he lay -on the veranda floor by Senor Felipe's side, he would also lie under -the Senorita's window. - -"No, Senora," he replied. "I will lie here by his side. That was what -I had thought, if the Senora is willing." - -"Thank you, Alessandro," said the Senora, in a tone which would -have surprised poor Ramona, still sitting alone in her room, with -sad eyes. She did not know the Senora could speak thus sweetly to -any one but Felipe. "Thank you! You are kind. I will have a bed -made for you." - -"Oh, no." cried Alessandro; "if the Senora will excuse me, I could -not lie on a bed. A raw-hide like Senor Felipe's, and my blanket, -are all I want. I could not lie on any bed." - -"To be sure," thought the Senora; "what was I thinking of! How the -boy makes one forget he is an Indian! But the floor is harder than -the ground, Alessandro," she said kindly. - -"No, Senora," he said, "it is all one; and to-night I will not sleep. I -will watch Senor Felipe, in case there should be a wind, or he -should wake and need something." - -"I will watch him myself till midnight," said the Senora. "I should -feel easier to see how he sleeps at first." - -It was the balmiest of summer nights, and as still as if no living -thing were on the earth. There was a full moon, which shone on -the garden, and on the white front of the little chapel among the -trees. Ramona, from her window, saw Alessandro pacing up and -down the walk. She had seen him spread down the raw-hide by -Felipe's bed, and had seen the Senora take her place in one of the -big carved chairs. She wondered if they were both going to watch; -she wondered why the Senora would never let her sit up and watch -with Felipe. - -"I am not of any use to anybody," she thought sadly. She dared not -go out and ask any questions about the arrangements for the night. -At supper the Senora had spoken to her only in the same cold and -distant manner which always made her dumb and afraid. She had -not once seen Felipe alone during the day. Margarita, who, in the -former times, -- ah, how far away those former times looked now! --- had been a greater comfort to Ramona than she realized,-- -Margarita now was sulky and silent, never came into Ramona's -presence if she could help it, and looked at her sometimes with an -expression which made Ramona tremble, and say to herself, "She -hates me; She has always hated me since that morning." - -It had been a long, sad day to Ramona; and as she sat in her -window leaning her head against the sash, and looked at -Alessandro pacing up and down, she felt for the first time, and did -not shrink from it nor in any wise disavow or disguise it to herself, -that she was glad he loved her. More than this she did not think; -beyond this she did not go. Her mind was not like Margarita's, full -of fancies bred of freedom in intercourse with men. But distinctly, -tenderly glad that Alessandro loved her, and distinctly, tenderly -aware how well he loved her, she was, as she sat at her window -this night, looking out into the moonlit garden; after she had gone -to bed, she could still hear his slow, regular steps on the -garden-walk, and the last thought she had, as she fell asleep, was -that she was glad Alessandro loved her. - -The moon had been long set, and the garden, chapel-front, trees, -vines, were all wrapped in impenetrable darkness, when Ramona -awoke, sat up in her bed, and listened. All was so still that the -sound of Felipe's low, regular breathing came in through her open -window. After hearkening to it for a few moments, she rose -noiselessly from her bed, and creeping to the window parted the -curtains and looked out; noiselessly, she thought; but it was not -noiselessly enough to escape Alessandro's quick ear; without a -sound, he sprang to his feet, and stood looking at Ramona's -window. - -"I am here, Senorita," he whispered. "Do you want anything?" - -"Has he slept all night like this?" she whispered back. - -"Yes, Senorita. He has not once moved." - -"How good!" said Ramona. "How good!" - -Then she stood still; she wanted to speak again to Alessandro, to -hear him speak again, but she could think of no more to say. -Because she could not, she gave a little sigh. - -Alessandro took one swift step towards the window. "May the -saints bless you, Senorita," he whispered fervently. - -"Thank you, Alessandro," murmured Ramona, and glided back to -her bed, but not to sleep. It lacked not much of dawn; as the first -faint light filtered through the darkness, Ramona heard the -Senora's window open. - -"Surely she will not strike up the hymn and wake Felipe," thought -Ramona; and she sprang again to the window to listen. A few low -words between the Senora and Alessandro, and then the Senora's -window closed again, and all was still. - -"I thought she would not have the heart to wake him," said -Ramona to herself. "The Virgin would have had no pleasure in our -song, I am sure; but I will say a prayer to her instead;" and she -sank on her knees at the head of her bed, and began saying a -whispered prayer. The footfall of a spider in Ramona's room had -not been light enough to escape the ear of that watching lover -outside. Again Alessandro's tall figure arose from the floor, turning -towards Ramona's window; and now the darkness was so far -softened to dusk, that the outline of his form could be seen. -Ramona felt it rather than saw it, and stopped praying. Alessandro -was sure he had heard her voice. - -"Did the Senorita speak?" he whispered, his face close at the -curtain. Ramona, startled, dropped her rosary, which rattled as it -fell on the wooden floor. - -"No, no, Alessandro," she said, "I did not speak." And she -trembled, she knew not why. The sound of the beads on the floor -explained to Alessandro what had been the whispered words he -heard. - -"She was at her prayers," he thought, ashamed and sorry. "Forgive -me," he whispered, "I thought you called;" and he stepped back to -the outer edge of the veranda, and seated himself on the railing. He -would lie down no more. Ramona remained on her knees, gazing -at the window. Through the transparent muslin curtain the -dawning light came slowly, steadily, till at last she could see -Alessandro distinctly. Forgetful of all else, she knelt gazing at him. -The rosary lay on the floor, forgotten. Ramona would not finish -that prayer, that day. But her heart was full of thanksgiving and -gratitude, and the Madonna had a better prayer than any in the -book. - -The sun was up, and the canaries, finches, and linnets had made -the veranda ring with joyous racket, before Felipe opened his eyes. -The Senora had come and gone and come again, looking at him -anxiously, but he stirred not. Ramona had stolen timidly out, -glancing at Alessandro only long enough to give him one quick -smile, and bent over Felipe's bed, holding her breath, he lay so -still. - -"Ought he to sleep so long?" she whispered. - -"Till the noon, it may be," answered Alessandro; "and when he -wakes, you will see by his eye that he is another man." - -It was indeed so. When Felipe first looked about him, he laughed -outright with pure pleasure. Then catching sight of Alessandro at -the steps, he called, in a stronger voice than had yet been heard -from him, "Alessandro, you are a famous physician. Why couldn't -that fool from Ventura have known as much? With all his learning, -he had had me in the next world before many days, except for you. -Now, Alessandro, breakfast! I'm hungry. I had forgotten what the -thought of food was like to a hungry stomach. And plenty! plenty!" -he called, as Alessandro ran toward the kitchen. "Bring all they -have." - -When the Senora saw Felipe bolstered up in the bed, his eye -bright, his color good, his voice clear, eating heartily like his old -self, she stood like a statue in the middle of the veranda for a -moment; then turning to Alessandro, she said chokingly, "May -Heaven reward you!" and disappeared abruptly in her own room. -When she came out, her eyes were red. All day she moved and -spoke with a softness unwonted, indeed inconceivable. She even -spoke kindly and without constraint to Ramona. She felt like one -brought back from the dead. - -After this, a new sort of life began for them all. Felipe's bed on the -veranda was the rallying point for everything and everybody.. The -servants came to look up at him, and wish him well, from the -garden-walk below. Juan Can, when he first hobbled out on the -stout crutches Alessandro had made him of manzanita wood, -dragged himself all the way round the house, to have a look at -Senor Felipe and a word with him. The Senora sat there, in the big -carved chair, looking like a sibyl with her black silk banded -head-dress severely straight across her brow, and her large dark -eyes gazing out, past Felipe, into the far south sky. Ramona lived -there too, with her embroidery or her book, sitting on cushions on -the floor in a corner, or at the foot of Felipe's bed, always so -placed, however,-- if anybody had noticed, but nobody did, -- so -placed that she could look at Felipe without looking full at the -Senora's chair, even if the Senora were not in it. - -Here also came Alessandro many times a day,-- sometimes sent -for, sometimes of his own accord. He was freely welcome. When -he played or sang he sat on the upper step of the stairs leading -down to the garden. He also had a secret, which he thought all his -own, in regard to the positions he chose. He sat always, when -Ramona was there, in the spot which best commanded a view of -her face. The secret was not all his own. Felipe knew it. Nothing -was escaping Felipe in these days. A bomb-shell exploding at their -feet would not have more astonished the different members of this -circle, the Senora, Ramona, Alessandro, than it would to have been -made suddenly aware of the thoughts which were going on in -Felipe's mind now, from day to day, as he lay there placidly -looking at them all. - -It is probable that if Felipe had been in full health and strength -when the revelation suddenly came to him that Alessandro loved -Ramona, and that Ramona might love Alessandro, he would have -been instantly filled with jealous antagonism. But at the time when -this revelation came, he was prostrate, feeble, thinking many times -a day that he must soon die; it did not seem to Felipe that a man -could be so weak as he was, and ever again be strong and well. -Side by side with these forebodings of his own death, always came -the thought of Ramona. What would become of her, if he were -gone? Only too well he knew that the girl's heart would be broken; -that she could not live on alone with his mother. Felipe adored his -mother; but he understood her feeling about Ramona. - -With his feebleness had also come to Felipe, as is often the case in -long illnesses, a greater clearness of perception. Ramona had -ceased to puzzle him. He no longer asked himself what her long, -steady look into his eyes meant. He knew. He saw it mean that as a -sister she loved him, had always loved him, and could love him in -no other way. He wondered a little at himself that this gave him no -more pain; only a sort of sweet, mournful tenderness towards her. -It must be because he was so soon going out of the world, he -thought. Presently he began to be aware that a new quality was -coming into his love for her. He himself was returning to the -brother love which he had had for her when they were children -together, and in which he had felt no change until he became a -man and Ramona a woman. It was strange what a peace fell upon -Felipe when this was finally clear and settled in his mind. No -doubt he had had more misgiving and fear about his mother in the -matter than he had ever admitted to himself; perhaps also the -consciousness of Ramona's unfortunate birth had rankled at times; -but all this was past now. Ramona was his sister. He was her -brother. What course should he pursue in the crisis which he saw -drawing near? How could he best help Ramona? What would be -best for both her and Alessandro? Long before the thought of any -possible union between himself and Ramona had entered into -Alessandro's mind, still longer before it had entered into Ramona's -to think of Alessandro as a husband, Felipe had spent hours in -forecasting, plotting, and planning for them. For the first time in -his life he felt himself in the dark as to his mother's probable -action. That any concern as to Ramona's personal happiness or -welfare would influence her, he knew better than to think for a -moment. So far as that was concerned, Ramona might wander out -the next hour, wife of a homeless beggar, and his mother would -feel no regret. But Ramona had been the adopted daughter of the -Senora Ortegna, bore the Ortegna name, and had lived as -foster-child in the house of the Morenos. Would the Senora permit -such a one to marry an Indian? - -Felipe doubted. The longer he thought, the more he doubted. The -more he watched, the more he saw that the question might soon -have to be decided. Any hour might precipitate it. He made plan -after plan for forestalling trouble, for preparing his mother; but -Felipe was by nature indolent, and now he was, in addition, feeble. -Day after day slipped by. It was exceedingly pleasant on the -veranda. Ramona was usually with him; his mother was gentler, -less sad, than he had ever seen her. Alessandro was always at hand, -ready for any service,-- in the field, in the house,-- his music a -delight, his strength and fidelity a repose, his personal presence -always agreeable. "If only my mother could think it," reflected -Felipe, "it would be the best thing, all round, to have Alessandro -stay here as overseer of the place, and then they might be married. -Perhaps before the summer is over she will come to see it so." - -And the delicious, languid, semi-tropic summer came hovering -over the valley. The apricots turned golden, the peaches glowed, -the grapes filled and hardened, like opaque emeralds hung thick -under the canopied vines. The garden was a shade brown, and the -roses had all fallen; but there were lilies, and orange-blossoms, -and poppies, and carnations, and geraniums in the pots, and -musk,-- oh, yes, ever and always musk. It was like an enchanter's -spell, the knack the Senora had of forever keeping relays of musk -to bloom all the year; and it was still more like an enchanter's -spell, that Felipe would never confess that he hated it.' But the bees -liked it, and the humming-birds,-- the butterflies also; and the air -was full of them. The veranda was a quieter place now as the -season's noon grew near. The linnets were all nesting, and the -finches and the canaries too; and the Senora spent hours, every -day, tirelessly feeding the mothers. The vines had all grown and -spread out to their thickest; no need any longer of the gay blanket -Alessandro had pinned up that first morning to keep the sun off -Felipe's head. - -What was the odds between a to-day and a to-morrow in such a -spot as this? "To-morrow," said Felipe, "I will speak to my -mother," and "to-morrow," and "to-morrow;" but he did not. - -There was one close observer of these pleasant veranda days that -Felipe knew nothing about. That was Margarita. As the girl came -and went about her household tasks, she was always on the watch -for Alessandro, on the watch for Ramona. She was biding her -time. Just what shape her revenge was going to take, she did not -know. It was no use plotting. It must be as it fell out; but that the -hour and the way for her revenge would come she never doubted. - -When she saw the group on the veranda, as she often did, all -listening to Alessandro's violin, or to his singing, Alessandro -himself now at his ease and free in the circle, as if he had been -there always, her anger was almost beyond bounds. - -"Oh, ho! like a member of the family; quite so!" she sneered. "It is -new times when a head shepherd spends his time with the ladies of -the house, and sits in their presence like a guest who is invited! We -shall see; we shall see what comes of all this!" And she knew not -which she hated the more of the two, Alessandro or Ramona. - -Since the day of the scene at the artichoke-field she had never -spoken to Alessandro, and had avoided, so far as was possible, -seeing him. At first Alessandro was sorry for this, and tried to be -friendly with her. As soon as he felt assured that the incident had -not hurt him at all in the esteem of Ramona, he began to be sorry -for Margarita. "A man should not be rude to any maiden," he -thought; and he hated to remember how he had pushed Margarita -from him, and snatched his hand away, when he had in the outset -made no objection to her taking it. But Margarita's resentment was -not to be appeased. She understood only too clearly how little -Alessandro's gentle advances meant, and she would none of them. -"Let him go to his Senorita," she said bitterly, mocking the -reverential tone in which she had overheard him pronounce the -word. "She is fond enough of him, if only the fool had eyes to see -it. She'll be ready to throw herself at his head before long, if this -kind of thing keeps up. 'It is not well to speak thus freely of young -men, Margarita!' Ha, ha! Little I thought that day which way the -wind set in my mistress's temper! I'll wager she reproves me no -more, under this roof or any other! Curse her! What did she want -of Alessandro, except to turn his head, and then bid him go his -way!" - -To do Margarita justice, she never once dreamed of the possibility -of Ramona's wedding Alessandro. A clandestine affair, an intrigue -of more or less intensity, such as she herself might have carried on -with any one of the shepherds,-- this was the utmost stretch of -Margarita's angry imaginations in regard to her young mistress's -liking for Alessandro. There was not, in her way of looking at -things, any impossibility of such a thing as that. But marriage! It -might be questioned whether that idea would have been any more -startling to the Senora herself than to Margarita. - -Little had passed between Alessandro and Ramona which -Margarita did not know. The girl was always like a sprite,-- here, -there, everywhere, in an hour, and with eyes which, as her mother -often told her, saw on all sides of her head. Now, fired by her new -purpose, new passion, she moved swifter than ever, and saw and -heard even more, There were few hours of any day when she did -not know to a certainty where both Alessandro and Ramona were; -and there had been few meetings between them which she had not -either seen or surmised. - -In the simple life of such a household as the Senora's, it was not -strange that this was possible; nevertheless, it argued and involved -untiring vigilance on Margarita's part. Even Felipe, who thought -himself, from his vantage-post of observation on the veranda, and -from his familiar relation with Ramona, well informed of most -that happened, would have been astonished to hear all that -Margarita could have told him. In the first days Ramona herself -had guilelessly told him much,-- had told him how Alessandro, -seeing her trying to sprinkle and bathe and keep alive the green -ferns with which she had decorated the chapel for Father -Salvierderra's coming, had said: "Oh, Senorita, they are dead! Do -not take trouble with them! I will bring you fresh ones;" and the -next morning she had found, lying at the chapel door, a pile of -such ferns as she had never before seen; tall ones, like -ostrich-plumes, six and eight feet high; the feathery maidenhair, -and the gold fern, and the silver, twice as large as she ever had -found them. The chapel was beautiful, like a conservatory, after -she had arranged them in vases and around the high candlesticks. - -It was Alessandro, too, who had picked up in the artichoke-patch -all of the last year's seed-vessels which had not been trampled -down by the cattle, and bringing one to her, had asked shyly if she -did not think it prettier than flowers made out of paper. His people, -he said, made wreaths of them. And so they were, more beautiful -than any paper flowers which ever were made,-- great soft round -disks of fine straight threads like silk, with a kind of saint's halo -around them of sharp, stiff points, glossy as satin, and of a lovely -creamy color. It was the strangest thing in the world nobody had -ever noticed them as they lay there on the ground. She had put a -great wreath of them around Saint Joseph's head, and a bunch in -the Madonna's hand; and when the Senora saw them, she -exclaimed in admiration, and thought they must have been made -of silk and satin. - -And Alessandro had brought her beautiful baskets, made by the -Indian women at Pala, and one which had come from the North, -from the Tulare country; it had gay feathers woven in with the -reeds,-- red and yellow, in alternate rows, round and round. It was -like a basket made out of a bright-colored bird. - -And a beautiful stone bowl Alessandro had brought her, glossy -black, that came all the way from Catalina Island; a friend of -Alessandro's got it. For the first few weeks it had seemed as if -hardly a day passed that there was not some new token to be -chronicled of Alessandro's thoughtfulness and good-will. Often, -too, Ramona had much to tell that Alessandro had said,-- tales of -the old Mission days that he had heard from his father; stories of -saints, and of the early Fathers, who were more like saints than -like men, Alessandro said,-- Father Junipero, who founded the first -Missions, and Father Crespi, his friend. Alessandro's grandfather -had journeyed with Father Crespi as his servant, and many a -miracle he had with his own eyes seen Father Crespi perform. -There was a cup out of which the Father always took his chocolate -for breakfast,-- a beautiful cup, which was carried in a box, the -only luxury the Father had; and one morning it was broken, and -everybody was in terror and despair. "Never mind, never mind," -said the Father; "I will make it whole;" and taking the two pieces -in his hands, he held them tight together, and prayed over them, -and they became one solid piece again, and it was used all through -the journey, just as before. - -But now, Ramona never spoke voluntarily of Alessandro. To -Felipe's sometimes artfully put questions or allusions to him, she -made brief replies, and never continued the topic; and Felipe had -observed another thing: she now rarely looked at Alessandro. -When he was speaking to others she kept her eyes on the ground. If -he addressed her, she looked quickly up at him, but lowered her -eyes after the first glance. Alessandro also observed this, and was -glad of it. He understood it. He knew how differently she could -look in his face in the rare moments when they were alone -together. He fondly thought he alone knew this; but he was -mistaken. Margarita knew. She had more than once seen it. - -It had happened more than once that he had found Ramona at the -willows by the brook, and had talked with her there. The first time -it happened, it was a chance; after that never a chance again, for -Alessandro went often seeking the spot, hoping to find her. In -Ramona's mind too, not avowed, but half consciously, there was, if -not the hope of seeing him there, at least the memory that it was -there they had met. It was a pleasant spot,-- cool and shady even at -noon, and the running water always full of music. Ramona often -knelt there of a morning, washing out a bit of lace or a -handkerchief; and when Alessandro saw her, it went hard with him -to stay away. At such moments the vision returned to him vividly -of that first night when, for the first second, seeing her face in the -sunset glow, he had thought her scarce mortal. It was not that he -even now thought her less a saint; but ah, how well he knew her to -be human! He had gone alone in the dark to this spot many a time, -and, lying on the grass, put his hands into the running water, and -played with it dreamily, thinking, in his poetic Indian fashion, -thoughts like these: "Whither have gone the drops that passed -beneath her hands, just here? These drops will never find those in -the sea; but I love this water!" - -Margarita had seen him thus lying, and without dreaming of the -refined sentiment which prompted his action, had yet groped -blindly towards it, thinking to herself: "He hopes his Senorita will -come down to him there. A nice place it is for a lady to meet her -lover, at the washing-stones! It will take swifter water than any in -that brook, Senorita Ramona, to wash you white in the Senora's -eyes, if ever she come upon you there with the head shepherd, -making free with him, may be! Oh, but if that could only happen, -I'd die content!" And the more Margarita watched, the more she -thought it not unlikely that it might turn out so. It was oftener at -the willows than anywhere else that Ramona and Alessandro met; -and, as Margarita noticed with malicious satisfaction, they talked -each time longer, each time parted more lingeringly. Several times -it had happened to be near supper-time; and Margarita, with one -eye on the garden-walk, had hovered restlessly near the Senora, -hoping to be ordered to call the Senorita to supper. - -"If but I could come on them of a sudden, and say to her as she did -to me, 'You are wanted in the house'! Oh, but it would do my soul -good! I'd say it so it would sting like a lash laid on both their faces! -It will come! It will come! It will be there that she'll be caught one -of these fine times she's having! I'll wait! It will come!" - -X - -IT came. And when it came, it fell out worse for Ramona than -Margarita's most malicious hopes had pictured; but Margarita had -no hand in it. It was the Senora herself. - -Since Felipe had so far gained as to be able to be dressed, sit in his -chair on the veranda, and walk about the house and garden a little, -the Senora, at ease in her mind about him, had resumed her old -habit of long, lonely walks on the place. It had been well said by -her servants, that there was not a blade of grass on the estate that -the Senora had not seen. She knew every inch of her land. She had -a special purpose in walking over it now. She was carefully -examining to see whether she could afford to sell to the Ortegas a -piece of pasture-land which they greatly desired to buy, as it joined -a pasturage tract of theirs. This bit of land lay farther from the -house than the Senora realized, and it had taken more time than -she thought it would, to go over it; and it was already sunset on -this eventful day, when, hurrying home, she turned off from the -highway into the same shortcut path in which Father Salvierderra -had met Ramona in the spring. There was no difficulty now in -getting through the mustard tangle. It was parched and dry, and -had been trampled by cattle. The Senora walked rapidly, but it was -dusky twilight when she reached the willows; so dusky that she -saw nothing -- and she stepped so lightly on the smooth brown -path that she made no sound -- until suddenly, face to face with a -man and a woman standing locked in each other's arms, she halted, -stepped back a pace, gave a cry of surprise, and, in the same -second, recognized the faces of the two, who, stricken dumb, stood -apart, each gazing into her face with terror. - -Strangely enough, it was Ramona who spoke first. Terror for -herself had stricken her dumb; terror for Alessandro gave her a -voice. - -"Senora," she began, - -"Silence! Shameful creature!" cried the Senora. "Do not dare to -speak! Go to your room!" - -Ramona did not move. - -"As for you," the Senora continued, turning to Alessandro, "you," --- she was about to say, "You are discharged from my service from -this hour," but recollecting herself in time, said,-- "you will answer -to Senor Felipe. Out of my sight!" And the Senora Moreno -actually, for once in her life beside herself with rage, stamped her -foot on the ground. "Out of my sight!" she repeated. - -Alessandro did not stir, except to turn towards Ramona with an -inquiring look. He would run no risk of doing what she did not -wish. He had no idea what she would think it best to do in this -terrible dilemma. - -"Go, Alessandro," said Ramona, calmly, still looking the Senora -full in the eye. Alessandro obeyed; before the words had left her -lips, he had walked away. - -Ramona's composure, and Alessandro's waiting for further orders -than her own before stirring from the spot, were too much for -Senora Moreno. A wrath, such as she had not felt since she was -young, took possession of her. As Ramona opened her lips again, -saying, "Senora," the Senora did a shameful deed; she struck the -girl on the mouth, a cruel blow. - -"Speak not to me!" she cried again; and seizing her by the arm, she -pushed rather than dragged her up the garden-walk. - -"Senora, you hurt my arm," said Ramona, still in the same calm -voice. "You need not hold me. I will go with you. I am not afraid." - -Was this Ramona? The Senora, already ashamed, let go the arm, -and stared in the girl's face. Even in the twilight she could see -upon it an expression of transcendent peace, and a resolve of -which no one would have thought it capable. "What does this -mean?" thought the Senora, still weak, and trembling all over, -from rage. "The hussy, the hypocrite!" and she seized the arm -again. - -This time Ramona did not remonstrate, but submitted to being led -like a prisoner, pushed into her own room, the door slammed -violently and locked on the outside. - -All of which Margarita saw. She had known for an hour that -Ramona and Alessandro were at the willows, and she had been -consumed with impatience at the Senora's prolonged absence. -More than once she had gone to Felipe, and asked with assumed -interest if he were not hungry, and if he and the Senorita would not -have their supper. - -"No, no, not till the Senora returns," Felipe had answered. He, too, -happened this time to know where Ramona and Alessandro were. -He knew also where the Senora had gone, and that she would be -late home; but he did not know that there would be any chance of -her returning by way of the willows at the brook; if he had known -it, he would have contrived to summon Ramona. - -When Margarita saw Ramona shoved into her room by the pale -and trembling Senora, saw the key turned, taken out, and dropped -into the Senora's pocket, she threw her apron over her head, and -ran into the back porch. Almost a remorse seized her. She -remembered in a flash how often Ramona had helped her in times -gone by,-- sheltered her from the Senora's displeasure. She -recollected the torn altar-cloth. "Holy Virgin! what will be done to -her now?" she exclaimed, under her breath. Margarita had never -conceived of such an extremity as this. Disgrace, and a sharp -reprimand, and a sundering of all relations with Alessandro, -- this -was all Margarita had meant to draw down on Ramona's head. But -the Senora looked as if she might kill her. - -"She always did hate her, in her heart," reflected Margarita; "she -shan't starve her to death, anyhow. I'll never stand by and see that. -But it must have been something shameful the Senora saw, to have -brought her to such a pass as this;" and Margarita's jealousy again -got the better of her sympathy. "Good enough for her. No more -than she deserved. An honest fellow like Alessandro, that would -make a good husband for any girl!" Margarita's short-lived remorse -was over. She was an enemy again. - -It was an odd thing, how identical were Margarita's and the -Senora's view and interpretation of the situation. The Senora -looking at it from above, and Margarita looking at it from below, -each was sure, and they were both equally sure, that it could be -nothing more nor less than a disgraceful intrigue. Mistress and -maid were alike incapable either of conjecturing or of believing -the truth. - -As ill luck would have it,-- or was it good luck? -- Felipe also had -witnessed the scene in the garden-walk. Hearing voices, he had -looked out of his window, and, almost doubting the evidence of his -senses, had seen his mother violently dragging Ramona by the -arm,-- Ramona pale, but strangely placid; his mother with rage and -fury in her white face. The sight told its own tale to Felipe. -Smiting his forehead with his hand, he groaned out: "Fool that I -was, to let her be surprised; she has come on them unawares; now -she will never, never forgive it!" And Felipe threw himself on his -bed, to think what should be done. Presently he heard his mother's -voice, still agitated, calling his name. He remained silent, sure she -would soon seek him in his room. When she entered, and, seeing -him on the bed, came swiftly towards him, saying, "Felipe, dear, -are you ill?" he replied in a feeble voice, "No, mother, only tired a -little to-night;" and as she bent over him, anxious, alarmed, he -threw his arms around her neck and kissed her warmly. "Mother -mia!" he said passionately, "what should I do without you?" The -caress, the loving words, acted like oil on the troubled waters. -They restored the Senora as nothing else could. What mattered -anything, so long as she had her adoring and adorable son! And she -would not speak to him, now that he was so tired, of this -disgraceful and vexing matter of Alessandro. It could wait till -morning. She would send him his supper in his room, and he -would not miss Ramona, perhaps. - -"I will send your supper here, Felipe," she said;. "you must not -overdo; you have been walking too much. Lie still." And kissing -him affectionately, she went to the dining-room, where Margarita, -vainly trying to look as if nothing had happened, was standing, -ready to serve supper. When the Senora entered, with her -countenance composed, and in her ordinary tones said, "Margarita, -you can take Senor Felipe's supper into his room; he is lying down, -and will not get up; he is tired," Margarita was ready to doubt if -she had not been in a nightmare dream. Had she, or had she not, -within the last half-hour, seen the Senora, shaking and speechless -with rage, push the Senorita Ramona into her room, and lock her -up there? She was so bewildered that she stood still and gazed at -the Senora, with her mouth wide open. - -"What are you staring at, girl?" asked the Senora, so sharply that -Margarita jumped. - -"Oh, nothing, nothing, Senora! And the Senorita, will she come to -supper? Shall I call her?" she said. - -The Senora eyed her. Had she seen? Could she have seen? The -Senora Moreno was herself again. So long as Ramona was under -her roof, no matter what she herself might do or say to the girl, no -servant should treat her with disrespect, or know that aught was -wrong. - -"The Senorita is not well," she said coldly. "She is in her room. I -myself will take her some supper later, if she wishes it. Do not -disturb her." And the Senora returned to Felipe. - -Margarita chuckled inwardly, and proceeded to clear the table she -had spread with such malicious punctuality two short hours before. -In those two short hours how much had happened! - -"Small appetite for supper will our Senorita have, I reckon," said -the bitter Margarita, "and the Senor Alessandro also! I'm curious to -see how he will carry himself." - -But her curiosity was not gratified. Alessandro came not to the -kitchen. The last of the herdsmen had eaten and gone; it was past -nine o'clock, and no Alessandro. Slyly Margarita ran out and -searched in some of the places where she knew he was in the habit -of going; but Alessandro was not to be found. Once she brushed so -near his hiding-place that he thought he was discovered, and was -on the point of speaking, but luckily held his peace, and she passed -on. Alessandro was hid behind the geranium clump at the chapel -door; sitting on the ground, with his knees drawn up to his chin, -watching Ramona's window. He intended to stay there all night. -He felt that he might be needed: if Ramona wanted him, she would -either open her window and call, or would come out and go down -through the garden-walk to the willows. In either case, he would -see her from the hiding-place he had chosen. He was racked by his -emotions; mad with joy one minute, sick at heart with misgiving -the next. Ramona loved him. She had told him so. She had said she -would go away with him and be his wife. The words had but just -passed her lips, at that dreadful moment when the Senora appeared -in their presence. As he lived the scene over again, he -re-experienced the joy and the terror equally. - -What was not that terrible Senora capable of doing? Why did she -look at him and at Ramona with such loathing scorn? Since she -knew that the Senorita was half Indian, why should she think it so -dreadful a thing for her to marry an Indian man? It did not once -enter into Alessandro's mind, that the Senora could have had any -other thought, seeing them as she did, in each other's arms. And -again what had he to give to Ramona? Could she live in a house -such as he must live in,-- live as the Temecula women lived? No! -for her sake he must leave his people; must go to some town, must -do -- he knew not what -- something to earn more money. Anguish -seized him as he pictured to himself Ramona suffering -deprivations. The more he thought of the future in this light, the -more his joy faded and his fear grew. He had never had sufficient -hope that she could be his, to look forward thus to the practical -details of life; he had only gone on loving, and in a vague way -dreaming and hoping; and now,-- now, in a moment, all had been -changed; in a moment he had spoken, and she had spoken, and -such words once spoken, there was no going back; and he had put -his arms around her, and felt her head on his shoulder, and kissed -her! Yes, he, Alessandro, had kissed the Senorita Ramona, and she -had been glad of it, and had kissed him on the lips, as no maiden -kisses a man unless she will wed with him,-- him, Alessandro! Oh, -no wonder the man's brain whirled, as he sat there in the silent -darkness, wondering, afraid, helpless; his love wrenched from him, -in the very instant of their first kiss,-- wrenched from him, and he -himself ordered, by one who had the right to order him, to begone! -What could an Indian do against a Moreno! - -Would Felipe help him? Ay, there was Felipe! That Felipe was his -friend, Alessandro knew with a knowledge as sure as the wild -partridge's instinct for the shelter of her brood; but could Felipe -move the Senora? Oh, that terrible Senora! What would become of -them? - -As in the instant of drowning, men are said to review in a second -the whole course of their lives, so in this supreme moment of -Alessandro's love there flashed through his mind vivid pictures of -every word and act of Ramona's since he first knew her. He -recollected the tone in which she had said, and the surprise with -which he heard her say it, at the time of Felipe's fall, "You are -Alessandro, are you not?" He heard again her soft-whispered -prayers the first night Felipe slept on the veranda. He recalled her -tender distress because the shearers had had no dinner; the evident -terribleness to her of a person going one whole day without food. -"O God! will she always have food each day if she comes with -me?" he said. And at the bare thought he was ready to flee away -from her forever. Then he recalled her look and her words only a -few hours ago, when he first told her he loved her; and his heart -took courage. She had said, "I know you love me, Alessandro, and -I am glad of it," and had lifted her eyes to his, with all the love that -a woman's eyes can carry; and when he threw his arms around her, -she had of her own accord come closer, and laid one hand on his -shoulder, and turned her face to his. Ah, what else mattered! There -was the whole world; if she loved him like this, nothing could -make them wretched; his love would be enough for her,-- and for -him hers was an empire. - -It was indeed true, though neither the Senora nor Margarita would -have believed it, that this had been the first word of love ever -spoken between Alessandro and Ramona, the first caress ever -given, the first moment of unreserve. It had come about, as lovers' -first words, first caresses, are so apt to do, unexpectedly, with no -more premonition, at the instant, than there is of the instant of the -opening of a flower. Alessandro had been speaking to Ramona of -the conversation Felipe had held with him in regard to remaining -on the place, and asked her if she knew of the plan. - -"Yes," she said; "I heard the Senora talking about it with Felipe, -some days ago." - -"Was she against my staying?" asked Alessandro, quickly. - -"I think not," said Ramona, "but I am not sure. It is not easy to be -sure what the Senora wishes, till afterward. It was Felipe that -proposed it." - -This somewhat enigmatical statement as to the difficulty of -knowing the Senora's wishes was like Greek to Alessandro's mind. - -"I do not understand, Senorita," he said. "What do you mean by -'afterward'?" - -"I mean," replied Ramona, "that the Senora never says she wishes -anything; she says she leaves everything to Felipe to decide, or to -Father Salvierderra. But I think it is always decided as she wishes -to have it, after all. The Senora is wonderful, Alessandro; don't you -think so?" - -"She loves Senor Felipe very much," was Alessandro's evasive -reply. - -"Oh, yes," exclaimed Ramona. "You do not begin to know how -much. She does not love any other human being. He takes it all. -She hasn't any left. If he had died, she would have died too. That is -the reason she likes you so much; she thinks you saved Felipe's -life. I mean, that is one reason," added Ramona, smiling, and -looking up confidingly at Alessandro, who smiled back, not in -vanity, but honest gratitude that the Senorita was pleased to -intimate that he was not unworthy of the Senora's regard. - -"I do not think she likes me," he said. "I cannot tell why; but I do -not think she likes any one in the world. She is not like any one I -ever saw, Senorita." - -"No," replied Ramona, thoughtfully. "She is not. I am, oh, so afraid -of her, Alessandro! I have always been, ever since I was a little -girl. I used to think she hated me; but now I think she does not care -one way or the other, if I keep out of her way." - -While Ramona spoke these words, her eyes were fixed on the -running water at her feet. If she had looked up, and seen the -expression in Alessandro's eyes as he listened, the thing which was -drawing near would have drawn near faster, would have arrived at -that moment; but she did not look up. She went on, little dreaming -how hard she was making it for Alessandro. - -"Many's the time I've come down here, at night, to this brook, and -looked at it, and wished it was a big river, so I could throw myself -in, and be carried away out to the sea, dead. But it is a fearful sin, -Father Salvierderra says, to take one's own life; and always the -next morning, when the sun came out, and the birds sang, I've been -glad enough I had not done it. Were you ever so unhappy as that, -Alessandro?" - -"No, Senorita, never," replied Alessandro; "and it is thought a great -disgrace, among us, to kill one's self. I think I could never do it. -But, oh, Senorita, it is a grief to think of your being unhappy. Will -you always be so? Must you always stay here?" - -"Oh, but I am not always unhappy!" said Ramona, with her sunny -little laugh. "Indeed, I am generally very happy. Father -Salvierderra says that if one does no sin, one will be always happy, -and that it is a sin not to rejoice every hour of the day in the sun -and the sky and the work there is to do; and there is always plenty -of that." Then, her face clouding, she continued: "I suppose I shall -always stay here. I have no other home; you know I was the -Senora's sister's adopted child. She died when I was little, and the -Senora kindly took me. Father Salvierderra says I must never -forget to be grateful to her for all she has done for me, and I try not -to." - -Alessandro eyed her closely. The whole story, as Juan Can had -told it to him, of the girl's birth, was burning in his thoughts. How -he longed to cry out, "O my loved one, they have made you -homeless in your home. They despise you. The blood of my race is -in your veins; come to me; come to me! be surrounded with love!" -But he dared not. How could he dare? - -Some strange spell seemed to have unloosed Ramona's tongue -to-night. She had never before spoken to Alessandro of her own -personal history or burdens; but she went on: "The worst thing is, -Alessandro, that she will not tell me who my mother was; and I do -not know if she is alive or not, or anything about her. Once I asked -the Senora, but she forbade me ever to ask her again. She said she -herself would tell me when it was proper for me to know. But she -never has." - -How the secret trembled on Alessandro's lips now. Ramona had -never seemed so near, so intimate, so trusting. What would happen -if he were to tell her the truth? Would the sudden knowledge draw -her closer to him, or repel her? - -"Have you never asked her again?" he said. - -Ramona looked up astonished. "No one ever disobeyed the -Senora," she said quickly. - -"I would!" exclaimed Alessandro. - -"You may think so," said Ramona, "but you couldn't. When you -tried, you would find you couldn't. I did ask Father Salvierderra -once." - -"What did he say?" asked Alessandro, breathless. - -"The same thing. He said I must not ask; I was not old enough. -When the time came, I would be told," answered Ramona, sadly. "I -don't see what they can mean by the time's coming. What do you -suppose they meant?" - -"I do not know the ways of any people but my own, Senorita," -replied Alessandro. "Many things that your people do, and still -more that these Americans do, are to me so strange, I know -nothing what they mean. Perhaps they do not know who was your -mother?" - -"I am sure they do," answered Ramona, in a low tone, as if the -words were wrung from her. "But let us talk about something else, -Alessandro; not about sad things, about pleasant things. Let us talk -about your staying here." - -"Would it be truly a pleasure to the Senorita Ramona, if I stayed?" -said Alessandro. - -"You know it would," answered Ramona, frankly, yet with a -tremor in her voice, which Alessandro felt. "I do not see what we -could any of us do without you. Felipe says he shall not let you -go." - -Alessandro's face glowed. "It must be as my father says, Senorita," -he said. "A messenger came from him yesterday, and I sent him -back with a letter telling him what the Senor Felipe had proposed -to me, and asking him what I should do. My father is very old, -Senorita, and I do not see how he can well spare me. I am his only -child, and my mother died years ago. We live alone together in our -house, and when I am away he is very lonely. But he would like to -have me earn the wages, I know, and I hope he will think it best -for me to stay. There are many things we want to do for the -village; most of our people are poor, and can do little more than -get what they need to eat day by day, and my father wishes to see -them better off before he dies. Now that the Americans are coming -in all around us, he is afraid and anxious all the time. He wants to -get a big fence built around our land, so as to show where it is; but -the people cannot take much time to work on the fence; they need -all their time to work for themselves and their families. Indians -have a hard time to live now, Senorita. Were you ever in -Temecula?" - -"No," said Ramona. "Is it a large town?" - -Alessandro sighed. "Dear Senorita, it is not a town; it is only a -little village not more than twenty houses in all, and some of those -are built only of tule. There is a chapel, and a graveyard. We built -an adobe wall around the graveyard last year. That my father said -we would do, before we built the fence round the village." - -"How many people are there in the village?" asked Ramona. - -"Nearly two hundred, when they are all there; but many of them -are away most of the time. They must go where they can get work; -they are hired by the farmers, or to do work on the great ditches, or -to go as shepherds; and some of them take their wives and children -with them. I do not believe the Senorita has ever seen any very -poor people." - -"Oh, yes, I have, Alessandro, at Santa Barbara. There were many -poor people there, and the Sisters used to give them food every -week." - -"Indians?" said Alessandro. - -Ramona colored. "Yes," she said, "some of them were, but not like -your men, Alessandro. They were very different; miserable -looking; they could not read nor write, and they seemed to have no -ambition." - -"That is the trouble," said Alessandro, "with so many of them; it is -with my father's people, too. They say, 'What is the use?' My father -gets in despair with them, because they will not learn better. He -gives them a great deal, but they do not seem to be any better off -for it. There is only one other man in our village who can read and -write, besides my father and me, Senorita; and yet my father is all -the time begging them to come to his house and learn of him. But -they say they have no time; and indeed there is much truth in that, -Senorita. You see everybody has troubles, Senorita." - -Ramona had been listening with sorrowful face. All this was new -to her. Until to-night, neither she nor Alessandro had spoken of -private and personal matters. - -"Ah, but these are real troubles," she said. "I do not think mine -were real troubles at all. I wish I could do something for your -people, Alessandro. If the village were only near by, I could teach -them, could I not? I could teach them to read. The Sisters always -said, that to teach the ignorant and the poor was the noblest work -one could do. I wish I could teach your people. Have you any -relatives there besides your father? Is there any one in the village -that you -- love, Alessandro?" - -Alessandro was too much absorbed in thoughts of his people, to -observe the hesitating emphasis with which Ramona asked this -question. - -"Yes, Senorita, I love them all. They are like my brothers and -sisters, all of my father's people," he said; "and I am unhappy about -them all the time." - -During the whole of this conversation Ramona had had an -undercurrent of thought going on, which was making her uneasy. -The more Alessandro said about his father and his people, the -more she realized that he was held to Temecula by bonds that -would be hard to break, the more she feared his father would not -let him remain away from home for any length of time. At the -thought of his going away, her very heart sickened. Taking a -sudden step towards him, she said abruptly, "Alessandro, I am -afraid your father will not give his consent to your staying here." - -"So am I, Senorita," he replied sadly. - -"And you would not stay if he did not approve of it, of course," she -said. - -"How could I, Senorita?" - -"No," she said, "it would not be right;" but as she said these words, -the tears filled her eyes. - -Alessandro saw them. The world changed in that second. -"Senorita! Senorita Ramona!" he cried, "tears have come in your -eyes! O Senorita, then you will not be angry if I say that I love -you!" and Alessandro trembled with the terror and delight of -having said the words. - -Hardly did he trust his palpitating senses to be telling him true the -words that followed, quick, firm, though only in a whisper,-- "I -know that you love me, Alessandro, and I am glad of it!" Yes, this -was what the Senorita Ramona was saying! And when he -stammered, "But you, Senorita, you do not -- you could not --" -"Yes, Alessandro, I do -- I love you!" in the same clear, firm -whisper; and the next minute Alessandro's arms were around -Ramona, and he had kissed her, sobbing rather than saying, "O -Senorita, do you mean that you will go with me? that you are -mine? Oh, no, beloved Senorita, you cannot mean that!" But he -was kissing her. He knew she did mean it; and Ramona, -whispering, "Yes, Alessandro, I do mean it; I will go with you," -clung to him with her hands, and kissed him, and repeated it, "I -will go with you, I love you." And then, just then, came the -Senora's step, and her sharp cry of amazement, and there she stood, -no more than an arm's-length away, looking at them with her -indignant, terrible eyes. - -What an hour this for Alessandro to be living over and over, as he -crouched in the darkness, watching! But the bewilderment of his -emotions did not dull his senses. As if stalking deer in a forest, he -listened for sounds from the house. It seemed strangely still. As the -darkness deepened, it seemed still stranger that no lamps were lit. -Darkness in the Senora's room, in the Senorita's; a faint light in the -dining-room, soon put out,-- evidently no supper going on there. -Only from under Felipe's door streamed a faint radiance; and -creeping close to the veranda, Alessandro heard voices fitfully -talking,-- the Senora's and Felipe's; no word from Ramona. -Piteously he fixed his eyes on her window; it was open, but the -curtains tight drawn; no stir, no sound. Where was she? What had -been done to his love? Only the tireless caution and infinite -patience of his Indian blood kept Alessandro from going to her -window. But he would imperil nothing by acting on his own -responsibility. He would wait, if it were till daylight, till his love -made a sign. Certainly before long Senor Felipe would come to his -veranda bed, and then he could venture to speak to him. But it was -near midnight when the door of Felipe's room opened, and he and -his mother came out, still speaking in low tones. Felipe lay down -on his couch; his mother, bending over, kissed him, bade him -good-night, and went into her own room. - -It had been some time now since Alessandro had left off sleeping -on the veranda floor by Felipe's side. Felipe was so well it was not -needful. But Felipe felt sure he would come to-night, and was not -surprised when, a few minutes after the Senora's door closed, he -heard a low voice through the vines, "Senor Felipe?" - -"Hush, Alessandro," whispered Felipe. "Do not make a sound. -To-morrow morning early I will see you, behind the little -sheepfold. It is not safe to talk here." - -"Where is the Senorita?" Alessandro breathed rather than said. - -"In her room," answered Felipe. - -"Well?" said Alessandro. - -"Yes," said Felipe, hoping he was not lying; and this was all -Alessandro had to comfort himself with, through his long night of -watching. No, not all; one other thing comforted him,-- the notes -of two wood-doves, that at intervals he heard, cooing to each -other; just the two notes, the call and the answer, "Love?" "Here." -"Love?" "Here," -- and long intervals of silence between. Plain as if -written on a page was the thing they told. - -"That is what my Ramona is like," thought he, "the gentle -wood-dove. If she is my wife my people will call her Majel, the -Wood-Dove." - -XI - -WHEN the Senora bade Felipe good-night, she did not go to bed. -After closing her door, she sat down to think what should be done -about Ramona. It had been a hard task she had set herself, talking -all the evening with Felipe without alluding to the topic uppermost -in her mind. But Felipe was still nervous and irritable. She would -not spoil his night's rest, she thought, by talking of disagreeable -things. Moreover, she was not clear in her own mind what she -wished to have done about Alessandro. If Ramona were to be sent -away to the nuns, which was the only thing the Senora could think -of as yet, there would be no reason for discharging Alessandro. -And with him the Senora was by no means ready to part, though in -her first anger she had been ready to dismiss him on the spot. As -she pursued her reflections, the whole situation cleared itself in her -mind; so easily do affairs fall into line, in the plottings and -plannings of an arbitrary person, who makes in his formula no -allowance for a human element which he cannot control. - -Ramona should be sent in disgrace to the Sisters' School, to be a -servant there for the rest of her life. The Senora would wash her -hands of her forever. Even Father Salvierderra himself could not -expect her any longer to keep such a shameless creature under her -roof. Her sister's written instructions had provided for the -possibility of just such a contingency. Going to a secret closet in -the wall, behind a life-size statue of Saint Catharine, the Senora -took out an iron box, battered and rusty with age, and set it on the -bed. The key turned with difficulty in the lock. It was many years -since the Senora had opened this box. No one but herself knew of -its existence. There had been many times in the history of the -Moreno house when the price of the contents of that box would -have averted loss and misfortune; but the Senora no more thought -of touching the treasure than if it had been guarded by angels with -fiery swords. There they lay, brilliant and shining even in the dim -light of the one candle,-- rubies, emeralds, pearls, and yellow -diamonds. The Senora's lip curled as she looked at them. "Fine -dowry, truly, for a creature like this!" she said. "Well I knew in the -beginning no good would come of it; base begotten, base born, she -has but carried out the instincts of her nature. I suppose I may be -grateful that my own son was too pure to be her prey!" "To be -given to my adopted daughter, Ramona Ortegna, on her wedding -day," -- so the instructions ran,-- "if she weds worthily and with -your approval. Should such a misfortune occur, which I do not -anticipate, as that she should prove unworthy, then these jewels, -and all I have left to her of value, shall be the property of the -Church." - -"No mention as to what I am to do with the girl herself if she -proves unworthy," thought the Senora, bitterly; "but the Church is -the place for her; no other keeping will save her from the lowest -depths of disgrace. I recollect my sister said that Angus had at first -intended to give the infant to the Church. Would to God he had -done so, or left it with its Indian mother!" and the Senora rose, and -paced the floor. The paper of her dead sister's handwriting fell at -her feet. As she walked, her long skirt swept it rustling to and fro. -She stooped, picked it up, read it again, with increasing bitterness. -No softness at the memory of her sister's love for the little child; -no relenting. "Unworthy!" Yes, that was a mild word to apply to -Ramona, now. It was all settled; and when the girl was once out of -the house, the Senora would breathe easier. She and Felipe would -lead their lives together, and Felipe would wed some day. Was -there a woman fair enough, good enough, for Felipe to wed? But -he must wed; and the place would be gay with children's voices, -and Ramona would be forgotten. - -The Senora did not know how late it was. "I will tell her to-night," -she said. "I will lose no time; and now she shall hear who her -mother was!" - -It was a strange freak of just impulse in the Senora's angry soul, -which made her suddenly remember that Ramona had had no -supper, and led her to go to the kitchen, get a jug of milk and some -bread, and take them to the room. Turning the key cautiously, that -Felipe might not hear, she opened the door and glided in. No voice -greeted her; she held her candle high up; no Ramona in sight; the -bed was empty. She glanced at the window. It was open. A terror -seized the Senora; fresh anger also. "She has run off with -Alessandro," she thought, "What horrible disgrace." Standing -motionless, she heard a faint, regular breathing from the other side -of the bed. Hastily crossing the room, she saw a sight which had -melted a heart that was only ice; but the Senora's was stone toward -Ramona. There lay Ramona on the floor, her head on a pillow at -the feet of the big Madonna which stood in the corner. Her left -hand was under her cheek, her right arm flung tight around the -base of the statue. She was sound asleep. Her face was wet with -tears. Her whole attitude was full of significance. Even helpless in -sleep, she was one who had taken refuge in sanctuary. This -thought had been distinct in the girl's mind when she found herself, -spite of all her woe and terror, growing sleepy. "She won't dare to -hurt me at the Virgin's feet," she had said; "and the window is -open. Felipe would hear if I called; and Alessandro will watch." -And with a prayer on her lips she fell asleep. - -It was Felipe's nearness more than the Madonna's, which saved her -from being roused to hear her doom. The Senora stood for some -moments looking at her, and at the open window. With a hot rush -of disgraceful suspicions, she noted what she had never before -thought of, that Alessandro, through all his watching with Felipe, -had had close access to Ramona's window. "Shameful creature!" -she repeated to herself. "And she can sleep! It is well she prayed, if -the Virgin will hear such!" and she turned away, first setting down -the jug of milk and the bread on a table. Then, with a sudden and -still more curious mingling of justness in her wrath, she returned, -and lifting the coverlet from the bed, spread it over Ramona, -covering her carefully from head to foot. Then she went out and -again locked the door. - -Felipe, from his bed, heard and divined all, but made no sound. -"Thank God, the poor child is asleep!" he said; "and my poor dear -mother feared to awake me by speaking to her! What will become -of us all to-morrow!" And Felipe tossed and turned, and had barely -fallen into an uneasy sleep, when his mother's window opened, and -she sang the first line of the sunrise hymn. Instantly Ramona -joined, evidently awake and ready; and no sooner did the watching -Alessandro hear the first note of her voice, than he struck in; and -Margarita, who had been up for an hour, prowling, listening, -peering, wondering, her soul racked between her jealousy and her -fears,-- even Margarita delayed not to unite; and Felipe, too, sang -feebly; and the volume of the song went up as rounded and -melodious as if all hearts were at peace and in harmony, instead of -being all full of sorrow, confusion, or hatred. But there was no one -of them all who was not the better for the singing; Ramona and -Alessandro most of all. - -"The saints be praised," said Alessandro. "There is my wood-dove's -voice. She can sing!" And, "Alessandro was near. He watched all -night. I am glad he loves me," said Ramona. - -"To hear those two voices." said the Senora; "would one suppose -they could sing like that? Perhaps it is not so bad as I think." - -As soon as the song was done, Alessandro ran to the sheepfold, -where Felipe had said he would see him. The minutes would be -like years to Alessandro till he had seen Felipe. - -Ramona, when she waked and found herself carefully covered, and -bread and milk standing on the table, felt much reassured. Only the -Senora's own hand had done this, she felt sure, for she had heard -her the previous evening turn the key in the lock, then violently -take it out; and Ramona knew well that the fact of her being thus a -prisoner would be known to none but the Senora herself. The -Senora would not set servants to gossiping. She ate her bread and -milk thankfully, for she was very hungry. Then she set her room in -order, said her prayers, and sat down to wait. For what? She could -not imagine; in truth, she did not much try. Ramona had passed -now into a country where the Senora did not rule. She felt little -fear. Felipe would not see her harmed, and she was going away -presently with Alessandro. It was wonderful what peace and -freedom lay in the very thought. The radiance on her face of these -two new-born emotions was the first thing the Senora observed as -she opened the door, and slowly, very slowly, eyeing Ramona with -a steady look, entered the room. This joyous composure on -Ramona's face angered the Senora, as it had done before, when she -was dragging her up the garden-walk. It seemed to her like nothing -less than brazen effrontery, and it changed the whole tone and -manner of her address. - -Seating herself opposite Ramona, but at the farthest side of the -room, she said, in a tone scornful and insulting, "What have you to -say for yourself?" - -Returning the Senora's gaze with one no less steady, Ramona -spoke in the same calm tone in which she had twice the evening -before attempted to stay the Senora's wrath. This time, she was not -interrupted. - -"Senora," she said slowly, "I tried to tell you last night, but you -would not hear me. If you had listened, you would not have been -so angry. Neither Alessandro nor I have done anything wrong, and -we were not ashamed. We love each other, and we are going to be -married, and go away. I thank you, Senora, for all you have done -for me; I am sure you will be a great deal happier when I am -away;" and Ramona looked wistfully, with no shade of resentment, -into the Senora's dark, shrunken face. "You have been very good to -do so much for a girl you did not love. Thank you for the bread -and milk last night. Perhaps I can go away with Alessandro to-day. -I do not know what he will wish. We had only just that minute -spoken of being married, when you found us last night." - -The Senora's face was a study during the few moments that it took -to say these words. She was dumb with amazement. -Instantaneously, on the first sense of relief that the disgrace had -not been what she supposed, followed a new wrath, if possible -hotter than the first; not so much scorn, but a bitterer anger. -"Marry! Marry that Indian!" she cried, as soon as she found voice. -"You marry an Indian? Never! Are you mad? I will never permit -it." - -Ramona looked anxiously at her. "I have never disobeyed you, -Senora," she said, "but this is different from all other things; you -are not my mother. I have promised to marry Alessandro." - -The girl's gentleness deceived the Senora. - -"No," she said icily, "I am not your mother; but I stand in a -mother's place to you. You were my sister's adopted child, and she -gave you to me. You cannot marry without my permission, and I -forbid you ever to speak again of marrying this Indian." - -The moment had come for the Senora Moreno to find out, to her -surprise and cost, of what stuff this girl was made, -- this girl, who -had for fourteen years lived by her side, docile, gentle, sunny, and -uncomplaining in her loneliness. Springing to her feet, and -walking swiftly till she stood close face to face with the Senora, -who, herself startled by the girl's swift motion, had also risen to -her feet, Ramona said, in a louder, firmer voice: "Senora Moreno, -you may forbid me as much as you please. The whole world -cannot keep me from marrying Alessandro. I love him. I have -promised, and I shall keep my word." And with her young lithe -arms straight down at her sides, her head thrown back, Ramona -flashed full in the Senora's face a look of proud defiance. It was -the first free moment her soul had ever known. She felt herself -buoyed up as by wings in air. Her old terror of the Senora fell from -her like a garment thrown off. - -"Pshaw!" said the Senora, contemptuously, half amused, in spite of -her wrath, by the girl's, as she thought, bootless vehemence, "you -talk like a fool. Do you not know that I can shut you up in the -nunnery to-morrow, if I choose?" - -"No, you cannot!" replied Ramona, - -"Who, then, is to hinder me." said the Senora, insolently. - -"Alessandro!" answered Ramona, proudly. - -"Alessandro!" the Senora sneered. "Alessandro! Ha! a beggarly -Indian, on whom my servants will set the dogs, if I bid them! Ha, -ha!" - -The Senora's sneering tone but roused Ramona more. "You would -never dare!" she cried; "Felipe would not permit it!" A most -unwise retort for Ramona. - -"Felipe!" cried the Senora, in a shrill voice. "How dare you -pronounce his name! He will none of you, from this hour! I forbid -him to speak to you. Indeed, he will never desire to set eyes on you -when he hears the truth." - -"You are mistaken, Senora," answered Ramona, more gently. -"Felipe is Alessandro's friend, and -- mine," she added, after a -second's pause. - -"So, ho! the Senorita thinks she is all-powerful in the house of -Moreno!" cried the Senora. "We will see! we will see! Follow me, -Senorita Ramona!" And throwing open the door, the Senora strode -out, looking back over her shoulder. - -"Follow me!" she cried again sharply, seeing that Ramona -hesitated; and Ramona went; across the passage-way leading to the -dining-room, out into the veranda, down the entire length of it, to -the Senora's room,-- the Senora walking with a quick, agitated -step, strangely unlike her usual gait; Ramona walking far slower -than was her habit, and with her eyes bent on the ground. As they -passed the dining-room door, Margarita, standing just inside, shot -at Ramona a vengeful, malignant glance. - -"She would help the Senora against me in anything," thought -Ramona; and she felt a thrill of fear, such as the Senora with all -her threats had not stirred. - -The Senora's windows were open. She closed them both, and drew -the curtains tight. Then she locked the door, Ramona watching her -every movement. - -"Sit down in that chair," said the Senora, pointing to one near the -fireplace. A sudden nervous terror seized Ramona. - -"I would rather stand, Senora," she said. - -"Do as I bid you." said the Senora, in a husky tone; and Ramona -obeyed. It was a low, broad armchair, and as she sank back into it, -her senses seemed leaving her. She leaned her head against the -back and closed her eyes. The room swam. She was roused by the -Senora's strong smelling-salts held for her to breathe, and a -mocking taunt from the Senora's iciest voice: "The Senorita does -not seem so over-strong as she did a few moments back!" - -Ramona tried to reason with herself; surely no ill could happen to -her, in this room, within call of the whole house. But an -inexplicable terror had got possession of her; and when the Senora, -with a sneer on her face, took hold of the Saint Catharine statue, -and wheeling it half around, brought into view a door in the wall, -with a big iron key in the keyhole, which she proceeded to turn, -Ramona shook with fright. She had read of persons who had been -shut up alive in cells in the wall, and starved to death. With -dilating eyes she watched the Senora, who, all unaware of her -terror, was prolonging it and intensifying it by her every act. First -she took out the small iron box, and set it on a table. Then, -kneeling, she drew out from an inner recess in the closet a large -leather-covered box, and pulled it, grating and scraping along the -floor, till it stood in front of Ramona. All this time she spoke no -word, and the cruel expression of her countenance deepened each -moment. The fiends had. possession of the Senora Moreno this -morning, and no mistake. A braver heart than Ramona's might -have indeed been fearful, at being locked up alone with a woman -who looked. like that. - -Finally, she locked the door and wheeled the statue back into its -place. Ramona breathed freer. She was not, after all, to be thrust -into the wall closet and left to starve. She gazed with wonder at the -old battered boxes. What could it all mean? - -"Senorita Ramona Ortegna," began the Senora, drawing up a chair, -and seating herself by the table on which stood the iron box, "I will -now explain to you why you will not marry the Indian Alessandro." - -At these words, this name, Ramona was herself again,-- not her old -self, her new self, Alessandro's promised wife. The very sound of -his name, even on an enemy's tongue, gave her strength. The -terrors fled away. She looked up, first at the Senora, then at the -nearest window. She was young and strong; at one bound, if worst -came to worst, she could leap through the window, and fly for her -life, calling on Alessandro. - -"I shall marry the Indian Alessandro, Senora Moreno," she said, in -a tone as defiant, and now almost as insolent, as the Senora's own. - -The Senora paid no heed to the words, except to say, "Do not -interrupt me again. I have much to tell you;" and opening the box, -she lifted out and placed on the table tray after tray of jewels. The -sheet of written paper lay at the bottom of the box. - -"Do you see this paper, Senorita Ramona?" she asked, holding it -up. Ramona bowed her head. "This was written by my sister, the -Senora Ortegna, who adopted you and gave you her name. These -were her final instructions to me, in regard to the disposition to be -made of the property she left to you." - -Ramona's lips parted. She leaned forward, breathless, listening, -while the Senora read sentence after sentence. All the pent-up -pain, wonder, fear of her childhood and her girlhood, as to the -mystery of her birth, swept over her anew, now. Like one -hearkening for life or death, she listened. She forgot Alessandro. -She did not look at the jewels. Her eyes never left the Senora's -face. At the close of the reading, the Senora said sternly, "You see, -now, that my sister left to me the entire disposition of everything -belonging to you," - -"But it hasn't said who was my mother," cried Ramona. "Is that all -there is in the paper?" - -The Senora looked stupefied. Was the girl feigning? Did she care -nothing that all these jewels, almost a little fortune, were to be lost -to her forever? - -"Who was your mother?" she exclaimed, scornfully, "There was no -need to write that down. Your mother was an Indian. Everybody -knew that!" - -At the word "Indian," Ramona gave a low cry. - -The Senora misunderstood it. "Ay," she said, "a low, common -Indian. I told my sister, when she took you, the Indian blood in -your veins would show some day; and now it has come true." - -Ramona's cheeks were scarlet. Her eyes flashed. "Yes, Senora -Moreno," she said, springing to her feet; "the Indian blood in my -veins shows to-day. I understand many things I never understood -before. Was it because I was an Indian that you have always hated -me?" - -"You are not an Indian, and I have never hated you," interrupted -the Senora. - -Ramona heeded her not, but went on, more and more. -impetuously. "And if I am an Indian, why do you object to my -marrying Alessandro? Oh, I am glad I am an Indian! I am of his -people. He will be glad!" The words poured like a torrent out of -her lips. In her excitement she came closer and closer to the -Senora. "You are a cruel woman," she said. "I did not know it -before; but now I do. If you knew I was an Indian, you had no -reason to treat me so shamefully as you did last night, when you -saw me with Alessandro. You have always hated me. Is my mother -alive'? Where does she live? Tell me; and I will go to her to-day. -Tell me! She will be glad that Alessandro loves me!" - -It was a cruel look, indeed, and a crueller tone, with which the -Senora answered: "I have not the least idea who your mother was, -or if she is still alive, Nobody ever knew anything about her,-- -some low, vicious creature, that your father married when he was -out of his senses, as you are now, when you talk of marrying -Alessandro!" - -"He married her, then?" asked Ramona, with emphasis. "How -know you that, Senora Moreno?" - -"He told my sister so," replied the Senora, reluctantly. She grudged -the girl even this much of consolation. - -"What was his name?" asked Ramona. - -"Phail; Angus Phail," the Senora replied almost mechanically. She -found herself strangely constrained by Ramona's imperious -earnestness, and she chafed under it. The tables were being turned -on her, she hardly knew how. Ramona seemed to tower in stature, -and to have the bearing of the one in authority, as she stood before -her pouring out passionate question after question. The Senora -turned to the larger box, and opened it. With unsteady hands she -lifted out the garments which for so many years had rarely seen the -light. Shawls and ribosos of damask, laces, gowns of satin, of -velvet. As the Senora flung one after another on the chairs, it was a -glittering pile of shining, costly stuffs. Ramona's eyes rested on -them dreamily. - -"Did my adopted mother wear all these?" she asked, lifting in her -hand a fold of lace, and holding it up to the light, in evident -admiration. - -Again the Senora misconceived her. The girl seemed not -insensible to the value and beauty of this costly raiment. Perhaps -she would be lured by it. - -"All these are yours, Ramona, you understand, on your wedding -day, if you marry worthily, with my permission," said the Senora, -in a voice a shade less cold than had hitherto come from her lips. -"Did you understand what I read you?" - -The girl did not answer. She had taken up in her hand a ragged, -crimson silk handkerchief, which, tied in many knots, lay in one -corner of the jewel-box. - -"There are pearls in that," said the Senora; "that came with the -things your father sent to my sister when he died." - -Ramona's eyes gleamed. She began untying the knots. The -handkerchief was old, the knots tied tight, and undisturbed for -years. As she reached the last knot, and felt the hard stones, she -paused. "This was my father's, then." she said. - -"Yes," said the Senora, scornfully. She thought she had detected a -new baseness in the girl. She was going to set up a claim to all -which had been her father's property. "They were your father's, and -all these rubies, and these yellow diamonds;" and she pushed the -tray towards her. - -Ramona had untied the last knot. Holding the handkerchief -carefully above the tray, she shook the pearls out. A strange, spicy -fragrance came from the silk. The pearls fell in among the rubies, -rolling right and left, making the rubies look still redder by -contrast with their snowy whiteness. - -"I will keep this handkerchief," she said, thrusting it as she spoke, -by a swift resolute movement into her bosom. "I am very glad to -have one thing that belonged to my father. The jewels, Senora, you -can give to the Church, if Father Salvierderra thinks that is right. I -shall marry Alessandro;" and still keeping one hand in her bosom -where she had thrust the handkerchief, she walked away and -seated herself again in her chair. - -Father Salvierderra! The name smote the Senora like a -spear-thrust, There could be no stronger evidence of the abnormal -excitement under which she had been laboring for the last -twenty-four hours, than the fact that she had not once, during all -this time, thought to ask herself what Father Salvierderra would -say, or might command, in this crisis. Her religion and the long -habit of its outward bonds had alike gone from her in her sudden -wrath against Ramona. It was with a real terror that she became -conscious of this. - -"Father Salvierderra?" she stammered; "he has nothing to do with -it." - -But Ramona saw the change in the Senora's face, at the word, and -followed up her advantage. "Father Salvierderra has to do with -everything," she said boldly. "He knows Alessandro, He will not -forbid me to marry him, and if he did --" Ramona stopped. She -also was smitten with a sudden terror at the vista opening before -her,-- of a disobedience to Father Salvierderra. - -"And if he did," repeated the Senora, eyeing Ramona keenly, -"would you disobey him?" - -"Yes," said Ramona. - -"I will tell Father Salvierderra what you say," retorted the Senora, -sarcastically, "that he may spare himself the humiliation of laying -any commands on you, to be thus disobeyed." - -Ramona's lip quivered, and her eyes filled with the tears which no -other of the Senora's taunts had been strong enough to bring. -Dearly she loved the old monk; had loved him since her earliest -recollection. His displeasure would be far more dreadful to her -than the Senora's. His would give her grief; the Senora's, at utmost, -only terror. - -Clasping her hands, she said, "Oh, Senora, have mercy! Do not say -that to the Father!" - -"It is my duty to tell the Father everything that happens in my -family," answered the Senora, chillingly. "He will agree with me, -that if you persist in this disobedience you will deserve the -severest punishment. I shall tell him all;" and she began putting the -trays back in the box. - -"You will not tell him as it really is, Senora," persisted Ramona. "I -will tell him myself." - -"You shall not see him! I will take care of that!" cried the Senora, -so vindictively that Ramona shuddered. - -"I will give you one more chance," said the Senora, pausing in the -act of folding up one of the damask gowns. "Will you obey me? -Will you promise to have nothing more to do with this Indian?" - -"Never, Senora," replied Ramona; "never!" - -"Then the consequences be on your own head," cried the Senora. -"Go to your room! And, hark! I forbid you to speak of all this to -Senor Felipe. Do you hear?" - -Ramona bowed her head. "I hear," she said; and gliding out of the -room, closed the door behind her, and instead of going to her -room, sped like a hunted creature down the veranda steps, across -the garden, calling in a low tone, "Felipe! Felipe! Where are you, -Felipe?" - -XII - -THE little sheepfold, or corral, was beyond the artichoke-patch, on -that southern slope whose sunshine had proved so disastrous a -temptation to Margarita in the matter of drying the altar-cloth. It -was almost like a terrace, this long slope; and the sheepfold, being -near the bottom, was wholly out of sight of the house. This was the -reason Felipe had selected it as the safest spot for his talk with -Alessandro. - -When Ramona reached the end of the trellised walk in the garden, -she halted and looked to the right and left. No one was in sight. As -she entered the Senora's room an hour before, she had caught a -glimpse of some one, she felt almost positive it was Felipe, turning -off in the path to the left, leading down to the sheepfold. She stood -irresolute for a moment, gazing earnestly down this path. "If the -saints would only tell me where he is!" she said aloud. She -trembled as she stood there, fearing each second to hear the -Senora's voice calling her. But fortune was favoring Ramona, for -once; even as the words passed her lips, she saw Felipe coming -slowly up the bank. She flew to meet him. "Oh, Felipe, Felipe!" -she began. - -"Yes, dear, I know it all," interrupted Felipe; "Alessandro has told -me." - -"She forbade me to speak to you, Felipe," said Ramona, "but I -could not bear it. What are we to do? Where is Alessandro?" - -"My mother forbade you to speak to me!" cried Felipe, in a tone of -terror. "Oh, Ramona, why did you disobey her? If she sees us -talking, she will be even more displeased. Fly back to your room. -Leave it all to me. I will do all that I can." - -"But, Felipe," began Ramona, wringing her hands in distress. - -"I know! I know!" said Felipe; "but you must not make my mother -any more angry. I don't know what she will do till I talk with her. -Do go back to your room! Did she not tell you to stay there?" - -"Yes," sobbed Ramona, "but I cannot. Oh, Felipe, I am so afraid! -Do help us! Do you think you can? You won't let her shut me up in -the convent, will you, Felipe? Where is Alessandro? Why can't I go -away with him this minute? Where is he? Dear Felipe, let me go -now." - -Felipe's face was horror-stricken. "Shut you in the convent!" he -gasped. "Did she say that? Ramona, dear, fly back to your room. -Let me talk to her. Fly, I implore you. I can't do anything for you if -she sees me talking with you now;" and he turned away, and -walked swiftly down the terrace. - -Ramona felt as if she were indeed alone in the world. How could -she go back into that house! Slowly she walked up the garden-path -again, meditating a hundred wild plans of escape. Where, where -was Alessandro? Why did he not appear for her rescue? Her heart -failed her; and when she entered her room, she sank on the floor in -a paroxysm of hopeless weeping. If she had known that Alessandro -was already a good half-hour's journey on his way to Temecula, -galloping farther and farther away from her each moment, she -would have despaired indeed. - -This was what Felipe, after hearing the whole story, had -counselled him to do. Alessandro had given him so vivid a -description of the Senora's face and tone, when she had ordered -him out of her sight, that Felipe was alarmed. He had never seen -his mother angry like that. He could not conceive why her wrath -should have been so severe. The longer he talked with Alessandro, -the more he felt that it would be wiser for him to be out of sight till -the first force of her anger had been spent. "I will say that I sent -you," said Felipe, "so she cannot feel that you have committed any -offence in going. Come back in four days, and by that time it will -be all settled what you shall do." - -It went hard with Alessandro to go without seeing Ramona; but it -did not need Felipe's exclamation of surprise, to convince him that -it would be foolhardy to attempt it. His own judgment had told him -that it would be out of the question. - -"But you will tell her all, Senor Felipe? You will tell her that it is -for her sake I go?" the poor fellow said piteously, gazing into -Felipe's eyes as if he would read his inmost soul. - -"I will, indeed, Alessandro; I will," replied Felipe; and he held his -hand out to Alessandro, as to a friend and equal. "You may trust -me to do all I can do for Ramona and for you." - -"God bless you, Senor Felipe," answered Alessandro, gravely, a -slight trembling of his voice alone showing how deeply he was -moved. - -"He's a noble fellow," said Felipe to himself, as he watched -Alessandro leap on his horse, which had been tethered near the -corral all night,-- "a noble fellow! There isn't a man among all my -friends who would have been manlier or franker than he has been -in this whole business. I don't in the least wonder that Ramona -loves him. He's a noble fellow! But what is to be done! What is to -be done!" - -Felipe was sorely perplexed. No sharp crisis of disagreement had -ever arisen between him and his mother, but he felt that one was -coming now. He was unaware of the extent of his influence over -her. He doubted whether he could move her very far. The threat of -shutting Ramona up in the convent terrified him more than he -liked to admit to himself. Had she power to do that? Felipe did not -know. She must believe that she had, or she would not have made -the threat. Felipe's whole soul revolted at the cruel injustice of the -idea. - -"As if it were a sin for the poor girl to love Alessandro!" he said. -"I'd help her to run away with him, if worse comes to worst. What -can make my mother feel so!" And Felipe paced back and forth till -the sun was high, and the sharp glare and heat reminded him that -he must seek shelter; then he threw himself down under the -willows. He dreaded to go into the house. His instinctive shrinking -from the disagreeable, his disposition to put off till another time, -held him back, hour by hour. The longer he thought the situation -over, the less he knew how to broach the subject to his mother; the -more uncertain he felt whether it would be wise for him to broach -it at all. Suddenly he heard his name called. It was Margarita, who -had been sent to call him to dinner. "Good heavens! dinner -already!" he cried, springing to his feet. - -"Yes, Senor," replied Margarita, eyeing him observantly. She had -seen him talking with Alessandro, had seen Alessandro galloping -away down the river road. She had also gathered much from the -Senora's look, and Ramona's, as they passed the dining-room door -together soon after breakfast. Margarita could have given a -tolerably connected account of all that had happened within the -last twenty-four hours to the chief actors in this tragedy which had -so suddenly begun in the Moreno household. Not supposed to -know anything, she yet knew nearly all; and her every pulse was -beating high with excited conjecture and wonder as to what would -come next. - -Dinner was a silent and constrained meal,-- Ramona absent, the -fiction of her illness still kept up; Felipe embarrassed, and unlike -himself; the Senora silent, full of angry perplexity. At her first -glance in Felipe's face, she thought to herself, "Ramona has spoken -to him. When and how did she do it?" For it had been only a few -moments after Ramona had left her presence, that she herself had -followed, and, seeing the girl in her own room, had locked the -door as before, and had spent the rest of the morning on the -veranda within hands' reach of Ramona's window. How, when, and -where had she contrived to communicate with Felipe? The longer -the Senora studied over this, the angrier and more baffled she felt; -to be outwitted was even worse to her than to be disobeyed. Under -her very eyes, as it were, something evidently had happened, not -only against her will, but which she could not explain. Her anger -even rippled out towards Felipe, and was fed by the recollection of -Ramona's unwise retort, "Felipe would not let you!" What had -Felipe done or said to make the girl so sure that he would be on her -side and Alessandro's? Was it come to this, that she, the Senora -Moreno, was to be defied in her own house by children and -servants! - -It was with a tone of severe displeasure that she said to Felipe, as -she rose from the dinner-table, "My son, I would like to have some -conversation with you in my room, if you are at leisure." - -"Certainly, mother," said Felipe, a load rolling off his mind at her -having thus taken the initiative, for which he lacked courage; and -walking swiftly towards her, he attempted to put his arm around -her waist, as it was his affectionate habit frequently to do. She -repulsed him gently, but bethinking herself, passed her hand -through his arm, and leaning on it heavily as she walked, said: -"This is the most fitting way, my son. I must lean more and more -heavily on you each year now. Age is telling on me fast. Do you -not find me greatly changed, Felipe, in the last year?" - -"No, madre mia," replied Felipe, "indeed I do not. I see not that -you have changed in the last ten years." And he was honest in this. -His eyes did not note the changes so clear to others, and for the -best of reasons. The face he saw was one no one else ever beheld; -it was kindled by emotion, transfigured by love, whenever it was -turned towards him. - -The Senora sighed deeply as she answered: "That must be because -you so love me, Felipe. I myself see the changes even day by day. -Troubles tell on me as they did not when I was younger. Even -within the last twenty-four hours I seem to myself to have aged -frightfully;" and she looked keenly at Felipe as she seated herself -in the arm-chair where poor Ramona had swooned a few hours -before. Felipe remained standing before her, gazing, with a tender -expression, upon her features, but saying nothing. - -"I see that Ramona has told you all!" she continued, her voice -hardening as she spoke. What a fortunate wording of her sentence! - -"No, mother; it was not Ramona, it was Alessandro, who told me -this morning, early," Felipe answered hastily, hurrying on, to draw -the conversation as far away from Ramona as possible. "He came -and spoke to me last night after I was in bed; but I told him to wait -till morning, and then I would hear all he had to say." - -"Ah!" said the Senora, relieved. Then, as Felipe remained silent, -she asked, "And what did he say?" - -"He told me all that had happened." - -"All!" said the Senora, sneeringly. "Do you suppose that he told -you all?" - -"He said that you had bidden him begone out of your sight," said -Felipe, "and that he supposed he must go. So I told him to go at -once. I thought you would prefer not to see him again." - -"Ah!" said the Senora again, startled, gratified that Felipe had so -promptly seconded her action, but sorry that Alessandro had gone. -"Ah, I did not know whether you would think it best to discharge -him at once or not; I told him he must answer to you. I did not -know but you might devise some measures by which he could be -retained on the estate." - -Felipe stared. Could he believe his ears? This did not sound like -the relentless displeasure he had expected. Could Ramona have -been dreaming? In his astonishment, he did not weigh his mother's -words carefully; he did not carry his conjecture far enough; he did -not stop to make sure that retaining Alessandro on the estate might -not of necessity bode any good to Ramona; but with his usual -impetuous ardor, sanguine, at the first glimpse of hope, that all -was well, he exclaimed joyfully, "Ah, dear mother, if that could -only be done, all would be well;" and, never noting the expression -of his mother's face, nor pausing to take breath, he poured out all -he thought and felt on the subject. - -"That is just what I have been hoping for ever since I saw that he -and Ramona were growing so fond of each other. He is a splendid -fellow, and the best hand we have ever had on the place. All the -men like him; he would make a capital overseer; and if we put him -in charge of the whole estate, there would not be any objection to -his marrying Ramona. That would give them a good living here -with us." - -"Enough!" cried the Senora, in a voice which fell on Felipe's ears -like a voice from some other world,-- so hollow, so strange. He -stopped speaking, and uttered an ejaculation of amazement. At the -first words he had uttered, the Senora had fixed her eyes on the -floor,-- a habit of hers when she wished to listen with close -attention. Lifting her eyes now, fixing them full on Felipe, she -regarded him with a look which not all his filial reverence could -bear without resentment. It was nearly as scornful as that with -which she had regarded Ramona. Felipe colored. - -"Why do you look at me like that, mother?" he exclaimed. "What -have I done?" - -The Senora waved her hand imperiously. "Enough!" she reiterated. -"Do not say any more. I wish to think for a few moments;" and she -fixed her eyes on the floor again. - -Felipe studied her countenance. A more nearly rebellious feeling -than he had supposed himself capable of slowly arose in his heart. -Now he for the first time perceived what terror his mother must -inspire in a girl like Ramona. - -"Poor little one!" he thought. "If my mother looked at her as she -did at me just now, I wonder she did not die." - -A great storm was going on in the Senora's bosom. Wrath against -Ramona was uppermost in it. In addition to all else, the girl had -now been the cause, or at least the occasion, of Felipe's having, for -the first time in his whole life, angered her beyond her control. - -"As if I had not suffered enough by reason of that creature," she -thought bitterly to herself, "without her coming between me and -Felipe!" - -But nothing could long come between the Senora and Felipe. Like -a fresh lava-stream flowing down close on the track of its -predecessor, came the rush of the mother's passionate love for her -son close on the passionate anger at his words. - -When she lifted her eyes they were full of tears, which it smote -Felipe to see. As she gazed at him, they rolled down her cheeks, -and she said in trembling tones: "Forgive me, my child; I had not -thought anything could make me thus angry with you. That -shameless creature is costing us too dear. She must leave the -house." - -Felipe's heart gave a bound; Ramona had not been mistaken, then. -A bitter shame seized him at his mother's cruelty. But her tears -made him tender; and it was in a gentle, even pleading voice that -he replied: "I do not see, mother, why you call Ramona shameless. -There is nothing wrong in her loving Alessandro." - -"I found her in his arms!" exclaimed the Senora. - -"I know," said Felipe; "Alessandro told me that he had just at that -instant told her he loved her, and she had said she loved him, and -would marry him, just as you came up." - -"Humph!" retorted the Senora; "do you think that Indian would -have dared to speak a word of love to the Senorita Ramona -Ortegna, if she had not conducted herself shamelessly? I wonder -that he concerned himself to speak about marriage to her at all." - -"Oh, mother! mother!" was all that Felipe could say to this. He was -aghast. He saw now, in a flash, the whole picture as it lay in his -mother's mind, and his heart sank within him. "Mother!" he -repeated, in a tone which spoke volumes. - -"Ay," she continued, "that is what I say. I see no reason why he -hesitated to take her, as he would take any Indian squaw, with -small ceremony of marrying." - -"Alessandro would not take any woman that way any quicker than -I would, mother," said Felipe courageously; "you do him injustice." -He longed to add, "And Ramona too," but he feared to make bad -matters worse by pleading for her at present. - -"No, I do not," said the Senora; "I do Alessandro full justice. I -think very few men would have behaved as well as he has under -the same temptation. I do not hold him in the least responsible for -all that has happened. It is all Ramona's fault." - -Felipe's patience gave way. He had not known, till now, how very -closely this pure and gentle girl, whom he had loved as a sister in -his boyhood, and had come near loving as a lover in his manhood, -had twined herself around his heart. He could not remain silent -another moment, and hear her thus wickedly accused. - -"Mother!" he exclaimed, in a tone which made the Senora look up -at him in sudden astonishment. "Mother, I cannot help it if I make -you very angry; I must speak; I can't bear to hear you say such -things of Ramona. I have seen for a long time that Alessandro -loved the very ground under her feet; and Ramona would not have -been a woman if she had not seen it too! She has seen it, and has -felt it, and has come to love him with all her soul, just as I hope -some woman will love me one of these days. If I am ever loved as -well as she loves Alessandro, I shall be lucky. I think they ought to -be married; and I think we ought to take Alessandro on to the -estate, so that they can live here. I don't see anything disgraceful in -it, nor anything wrong, nor anything but what was perfectly -natural. You know, mother, it isn't as if Ramona really belonged to -our family; you know she is half Indian." A scornful ejaculation -from his mother interrupted him here; but Felipe hurried on, partly -because he was borne out of himself at last by impetuous feeling, -partly that he dreaded to stop, because if he did, his mother would -speak; and already he felt a terror of what her next words might be. -"I have often thought about Ramona's future, mother. You know a -great many men would not want to marry her, just because she is -half Indian. You, yourself, would never have given your consent to -my marrying her, if I had wanted to." Again an exclamation from -the Senora, this time more of horror than of scorn. But Felipe -pressed on. "No, of course you would not, I always knew that; -except for that, I might have loved her myself, for a sweeter girl -never drew breath in this God's earth." Felipe was reckless now; -having entered on this war, he would wage it with every weapon -that lay within his reach; if one did not tell, another might. "You -have never loved her. I don't know that you have ever even liked -her; I don't think you have. I know, as a little boy, I always used to -see how much kinder you were to me than to her, and I never -could understand it. And you are unjust to her now. I've been -watching her all summer; I've seen her and Alessandro together -continually. You know yourself, mother, he has been with us on -the veranda, day after day, just as if he were one of the family. I've -watched them by the hour, when I lay there so sick; I thought you -must have seen it too. I don't believe Alessandro has ever looked or -said or done a thing I wouldn't have done in his place; and I don't -believe Ramona has ever looked, said, or done a thing I would not -be willing to have my own sister do!" Here Felipe paused. He had -made his charge; like a young impetuous general, massing all his -forces at the onset; he had no reserves. It is not the way to take -Gibraltars. - -When he paused, literally breathless, he had spoken so fast,-- and -even yet Felipe was not quite strong, so sadly had the fever -undermined his constitution,-- the Senora looked at him -interrogatively, and said in a now composed tone: "You do not -believe that Ramona has done anything that you would not be -willing to have your own sister do? Would you be willing that your -own sister should marry Alessandro?" - -Clever Senora Moreno! During the few moments that Felipe had -been speaking, she had perceived certain things which it would be -beyond her power to do; certain others that it would be impolitic to -try to do. Nothing could possibly compensate her for antagonizing -Felipe. Nothing could so deeply wound her, as to have him in a -resentful mood towards her; or so weaken her real control of him, -as to have him feel that she arbitrarily overruled his preference or -his purpose. In presence of her imperious will, even her wrath -capitulated and surrendered. There would be no hot words between -her and her son. He should believe that he determined the policy of -the Moreno house, even in this desperate crisis. - -Felipe did not answer. A better thrust was never seen on any field -than the Senora's question. She repeated it, still more deliberately, -in her wonted gentle voice. The Senora was herself again, as she -had not been for a moment since she came upon Alessandro and -Ramona at the brook. How just and reasonable the question -sounded, as she repeated it slowly, with an expression in her eyes, -of poising and weighing matters. "Would you be willing that your -own sister should marry Alessandro?" - -Felipe was embarrassed. He saw whither he was being led. He -could give but one answer to this question. "No, mother," he said, -"I should not; but --" - -"Never mind buts," interrupted his mother; "we have not got to -those yet;" and she smiled on Felipe,-- an affectionate smile, but it -somehow gave him a feeling of dread. "Of course I knew you -could make but one answer to my question. If you had a sister, you -would rather see her dead than married to any one of these -Indians." - -Felipe opened his lips eagerly, to speak. "Not so," he said. - -"Wait, dear!" exclaimed his mother. "One thing at a time, I see -how full your loving heart is, and I was never prouder of you as my -son than when listening just now to your eloquent defence of -Ramona, Perhaps you may be right and I wrong as to her character -and conduct. We will not discuss those points." It was here that the -Senora had perceived some things that it would be out of her -power to do. "We will not discuss those, because they do not touch -the real point at issue. What it is our duty to do by Ramona, in -such a matter as this, does not turn on her worthiness or -unworthiness. The question is, Is it right for you to allow her to do -what you would not allow your own sister to do?" The Senora -paused for a second, noted with secret satisfaction how puzzled -and unhappy Felipe looked; then, in a still gentler voice, she went -on, "You surely would not think that right, my son, would you?" -And now the Senora waited for an answer. - -"No, mother," came reluctantly from Felipe's lips. "I suppose not; -but --" - -"I was sure my own son could make no other reply," interrupted -the Senora. She did not wish Felipe at present to do more than -reply to her questions. "Of course it would not be right for us to let -Ramona do anything which we would not let her do if she were -really of our own blood. That is the way I have always looked at -my obligation to her. My sister intended to rear her as her own -daughter. She had given her her own name. When my sister died, -she transferred to me all her right and responsibility in and for the -child. You do not suppose that if your aunt had lived, she would -have ever given her consent to her adopted daughter's marrying an -Indian, do you?" - -Again the Senora paused for a reply, and again the reluctant Felipe -said, in a low tone, "No, I suppose she would not." - -"Very well. Then that lays a double obligation on us. It is not only -that we are not to permit Ramona to do a thing which we would -consider disgraceful to one of our own blood; we are not to betray -the trust reposed in us by the only person who had a right to -control her, and who transferred that trust to us. Is not that so?" - -"Yes, mother," said the unhappy Felipe. - -He saw the meshes closing around him. He felt that there was a -flaw somewhere in his mother's reasoning, but he could not point it -out; in fact, he could hardly make it distinct to himself. His brain -was confused. Only one thing he saw clearly, and that was, that -after all had been said and done, Ramona would still marry -Alessandro. But it was evident that it would never be with his -mother's consent. "Nor with mine either, openly, the way she puts -it. I don't see how it can be; and yet I have promised Alessandro to -do all I could for him. Curse the luck, I wish he had never set foot -on the place!" said Felipe in his heart, growing unreasonable, and -tired with the perplexity. - -The Senora continued: "I shall always blame myself bitterly for -having failed to see what was going on. As you say, Alessandro -has been with us a great deal since your illness, with his music, -and singing, and one thing and another; but I can truly say that I -never thought of Ramona's being in danger of looking upon him in -the light of a possible lover, any more than of her looking thus -upon Juan Canito, or Luigo, or any other of the herdsmen or -laborers. I regret it more than words can express, and I do not -know what we can do, now that it has happened." - -"That's it, mother! That's it!" broke in Felipe. "You see, you see it -is too late now." - -The Senora went on as if Felipe had not spoken. "I suppose you -would really very much regret to part with Alessandro, and your -word is in a way pledged to him, as you had asked him if he would -stay on the place, Of course, now that all this has happened, it -would be very unpleasant for Ramona to stay here, and see him -continually -- at least for a time, until she gets over this strange -passion she seems to have conceived for him. It will not last. Such -sudden passions never do." The Senora artfully interpolated, "What -should you think, Felipe, of having her go back to the Sisters' -school for a time? She was very happy there." - -The Senora had strained a point too far. Felipe's self-control -suddenly gave way, and as impetuously as he had spoken in the -beginning, he spoke again now, nerved by the memory of -Ramona's face and tone as she had cried to him in the garden, "Oh, -Felipe, you won't let her shut me up in the convent, will you?" -"Mother!" he cried, "you would never do that. You would not shut -the poor girl up in the convent!" - -The Senora raised her eyebrows in astonishment. "Who spoke of -shutting up?" she said. "Ramona has already been there at school. -She might go again. She is not too old to learn. A change of scene -and occupation is the best possible cure for a girl who has a thing -of this sort to get over. Can you propose anything better, my son? -What would you advise?" And a third time the Senora paused for -an answer. - -These pauses and direct questions of the Senora's were like -nothing in life so much as like that stage in a spider's processes -when, withdrawing a little way from a half-entangled victim, -which still supposes himself free, it rests from its weaving, and -watches the victim flutter. Subtle questions like these, assuming, -taking for granted as settled, much which had never been settled at -all, were among the best weapons in the Senora's armory. They -rarely failed her. - -"Advise!" cried Felipe, excitedly. "Advise! This is what I advise -- -to let Ramona and Alessandro marry. I can't help all you say about -our obligations. I dare say you're right; and it's a cursedly awkward -complication for us, anyhow, the way you put it." - -"Yes, awkward for you, as the head of our house," interrupted the -Senora, sighing. "I don't quite see how you would face it." - -"Well, I don't propose to face it," continued Felipe, testily. "I don't -propose to have anything to do with it, from first to last. Let her go -away with him, if she wants to.' - -"Without our consent?" said the Senora, gently. - -"Yes, without it, if she can't go with it; and I don't see, as you have -stated it, how we could exactly take any responsibility about -marrying her to Alessandro. But for heaven's sake, mother, let her -go! She will go, any way. You haven't the least idea how she loves -Alessandro, or how he loves her. Let her go!" - -"Do you really think she would run away with him, if it came to -that?" asked the Senora, earnestly. "Run away and marry him, spite -of our refusing to consent to the marriage?" - -"I do," said Felipe. - -"Then it is your opinion, is it, that the only thing left for us to do, is -to wash our hands of it altogether, and leave her free to do what -she pleases?" - -"That's just what I do think, mother," replied Felipe, his heart -growing lighter at her words. "That's just what I do think. We can't -prevent it, and it is of no use to try. Do let us tell them they can do -as they like." - -"Of course, Alessandro must leave us, then," said the Senora. -"They could not stay here." - -"I don't see why!" said Felipe, anxiously. - -"You will, my son, if you think a moment. Could we possibly give -a stronger indorsement to their marriage than by keeping them -here? Don't you see that would be so?" - -Felipe's eyes fell. "Then I suppose they couldn't be married here, -either," he said, - -"What more could we do than that, for a marriage that we heartily -approved of, my son?" - -"True, mother;" and Felipe clapped his hand to his forehead. "But -then we force them to run away!" - -"Oh, no." said the Senora, icily. "If they go, they will go of their -own accord. We hope they will never do anything so foolish and -wrong. If they do, I suppose we shall always be held in a measure -responsible for not having prevented it. But if you think it is not -wise, or of no use to attempt that, I do not see what there is to be -done." - -Felipe did not speak. He felt discomfited; felt as if he had betrayed -his friend Alessandro, his sister Ramona; as if a strange -complication, network of circumstances, had forced him into a -false position; he did not see what more he could ask, what more -could be asked, of his mother; he did not see, either, that much less -could have been granted to Alessandro and Ramona; he was angry, -wearied, perplexed. - -The Senora studied his face. "You do not seem satisfied, Felipe -dear," she said tenderly. "As, indeed, how could you be in this -unfortunate state of affairs? But can you think of anything different -for us to do?" - -"No," said Felipe, bitterly. "I can't, that's the worst of it. It is just -turning Ramona out of the house, that's all." - -"Felipe! Felipe!" exclaimed the Senora, "how unjust you are to -yourself! You know you would never do that! You know that she -has always had a home here as if she were a daughter; and always -will have, as long as she wishes it. If she chooses to turn her back -on it, and go away, is it our fault? Do not let your pity for this -misguided girl blind you to what is just to yourself and to me. Turn -Ramona out of the house! You know I promised my sister to bring -her up as my own child; and I have always felt that my son would -receive the trust from me, when I died. Ramona has a home under -the Moreno roof so long as she will accept it. It is not just, Felipe, -to say that we turn her out;" and tears stood in the Senora's eyes. - -"Forgive me, dear mother," cried the unhappy Felipe. "Forgive me -for adding one burden to all you have to bear. Truth is, this -miserable business has so distraught my senses, I can't seem to see -anything as it is. Dear mother, it is very hard for you. I wish it were -done with." - -"Thanks for your precious sympathy, my Felipe," replied the -Senora. "If it were not for you, I should long ago have broken -down beneath my cares and burdens. But among them all, have -been few so grievous as this. I feel myself and our home -dishonored. But we must submit. As you say, Felipe, I wish it were -done with. It would be as well, perhaps, to send for Ramona at -once, and tell her what we have decided. She is no doubt in great -anxiety; we will see her here." - -Felipe would have greatly preferred to see Ramona alone; but as -he knew not how to bring this about he assented to his mother's -suggestion. - -Opening her door, the Senora walked slowly down the -passage-way, unlocked Ramona's door, and said: "Ramona, be so -good as to come to my room. Felipe and I have something to say to -you." - -Ramona followed, heavy-hearted. The words, "Felipe and I," -boded no good. - -"The Senora has made Felipe think just as she does herself," -thought Ramona. "Oh, what will become of me!" and she stole a -reproachful, imploring look at Felipe. He smiled back in a way -which reassured her; but the reassurance did not last long. - -"Senorita Ramona Ortegna," began the Senora. Felipe shivered. He -had had no conception that his mother could speak in that way. -The words seemed to open a gulf between Ramona and all the rest -of the world, so cold and distant they sounded,-- as the Senora -might speak to an intruding stranger. - -"Senorita Ramona Ortegna," she said, "my son and I have been -discussing what it is best for us to do in the mortifying and -humiliating position in which you place us by your relation with -the Indian Alessandro. Of course you know -- or you ought to -know -- that it is utterly impossible for us to give our consent to -your making such a marriage; we should be false to a trust, and -dishonor our own family name, if we did that." - -Ramona's eyes dilated, her cheeks paled; she opened her lips, but -no sound came from them; she looked toward Felipe, and seeing -him with downcast eyes, and an expression of angry -embarrassment on his face, despair seized her. Felipe had deserted -their cause. Oh, where, where was Alessandro! Clasping her hands, -she uttered a low cry,-- a cry that cut Felipe to the heart. He was -finding out, in thus being witness of Ramona's suffering, that she -was far nearer and dearer to him than he had realized. It would -have taken very little, at such moments as these, to have made -Felipe her lover again; he felt now like springing to her side, -folding his arms around her, and bidding his mother defiance. It -took all the self-control he could gather, to remain silent, and trust -to Ramona's understanding him later. - -Ramona's cry made no break in the smooth, icy flow of the -Senora's sentences. She gave no sign of having heard it, but -continued: "My son tells me that he thinks our forbidding it would -make no difference; that you would go away with the man all the -same. I suppose he is right in thinking so, as you yourself told me -that even if Father Salvierderra forbade it, you would disobey him. -Of course, if this is your determination, we are powerless. Even if I -were to put you in the keeping of the Church, which is what I am -sure my sister, who adopted you as her child, would do, if she were -alive, you would devise some means of escape, and thus bring a -still greater and more public scandal on the family. Felipe thinks -that it is not worth while to attempt to bring you to reason in that -way; and we shall therefore do nothing. I wish to impress it upon -you that my son, as head of this house, and I, as my sister's -representative, consider you a member of our own family. So long -as we have a home for ourselves, that home is yours, as it always -has been. If you choose to leave it, and to disgrace yourself and us -by marrying an Indian, we cannot help ourselves." - -The Senora paused. Ramona did not speak. Her eyes were fixed on -the Senora's face, as if she would penetrate to her inmost soul; the -girl was beginning to recognize the Senora's true nature; her -instincts and her perceptions were sharpened by love. - -"Have you anything to say to me or to my son?" asked the Senora. - -"No, Senora," replied Ramona; "I do not think of anything more to -say than I said this morning. Yes," she added, "there is. Perhaps I -shall not speak with you again before I go away. I thank you once -more for the home you have given me for so many years. And you -too, Felipe," she continued, turning towards Felipe, her face -changing, all her pent-up affection and sorrow looking out of her -tearful eyes,-- "you too, dear Felipe. You have always been so good -to me. I shall always love you as long as I live;" and she held out -both her hands to him. Felipe took them in his, and was about to -speak, when the Senora interrupted him. She did not intend to have -any more of this sort of affectionate familiarity between her son -and Ramona. - -"Are we to understand that you are taking your leave now?" she -said. "Is it your purpose to go at once?" - -"I do not know, Senora," stammered Ramona; "I have not seen -Alessandro; I have not heard --" And she looked up in distress at -Felipe, who answered compassionately,-- - -"Alessandro has gone." - -"Gone!" shrieked Ramona. "Gone! not gone, Felipe!" - -"Only for four days," replied Felipe. "To Temecula. I thought it -would be better for him to be away for a day or two. He is to come -back immediately. Perhaps he will be back day after to-morrow." - -"Did he want to go? What did he go for? Why didn't you let me go -with him? Oh, why, why did he go?" cried Ramona. - -"He went because my son told him to go," broke in the Senora, -impatient of this scene, and of the sympathy she saw struggling in -Felipe's expressive features. "My son thought, and rightly, that the -sight of him would be more than I could bear just now; so he -ordered him to go away, and Alessandro obeyed." - -Like a wounded creature at bay, Ramona turned suddenly away -from Felipe, and facing the Senora, her eyes resolute and dauntless -spite of the streaming tears, exclaimed, lifting her right hand as she -spoke, "You have been cruel; God will punish you!" and without -waiting to see what effect her words had produced, without -looking again at Felipe, she walked swiftly out of the room. - -"You see," said the Senora, "you see she defies us." - -"She is desperate," said Felipe. "I am sorry I sent Alessandro -away." - -"No, my son," replied the Senora, "you were wise, as you always -are. It may bring her to her senses, to have a few days' reflection in -solitude." - -"You do not mean to keep her locked up, mother, do you?" cried -Felipe. - -The Senora turned a look of apparently undisguised amazement on -him. "You would not think that best, would you? Did you not say -that all we could do, was simply not to interfere with her in any -way? To wash our hands, so far as is possible, of all responsibility -about her?" - -"Yes, yes," said the baffled Felipe; "that was what I said. But, -mother --" He stopped. He did not know what he wanted to say. - -The Senora looked tenderly at him, her face full of anxious -inquiry. - -"What is it, Felipe dear? Is there anything more you think I ought -to say or do?" she asked. - -"What is it you are going to do, mother?" said Felipe. "I don't seem -to understand what you are going to do." - -"Nothing, Felipe! You have entirely convinced me that all effort -would be thrown away. I shall do nothing," replied the Senora. -"Nothing whatever." - -"Then as long as Ramona is here, everything will be just as it -always has been?" said Felipe. - -The Senora smiled sadly. "Dear Felipe, do you think that possible? -A girl who has announced her determination to disobey not only -you and me, but Father Salvierderra, who is going to bring disgrace -both on the Moreno and the Ortegna name,-- we can't feel exactly -the same towards her as we did before, can we?" - -Felipe made an impatient gesture. "No, of course not. But I mean, -is everything to be just the same, outwardly, as it was before?" - -"I supposed so," said the Senora. "Was not that your idea? We -must try to have it so, I think. Do not you?" - -"Yes," groaned Felipe, "if we can!" - -XIII - -THE Senora Moreno had never before been so discomfited as in -this matter of Ramona and Alessandro. It chafed her to think over -her conversation with Felipe; to recall how far the thing she finally -attained was from the thing she had in view when she began. To -have Ramona sent to the convent, Alessandro kept as overseer of -the place, and the Ortegna jewels turned into the treasury of the -Church,-- this was the plan she had determined on in her own -mind. Instead of this, Alessandro was not to be overseer on the -place; Ramona would not go to the convent: she would be married -to Alessandro, and they would go away together; and the Ortegna -jewels,-- well, that was a thing to be decided in the future; that -should be left to Father Salvierderra to decide. Bold as the Senora -was, she had not quite the courage requisite to take that question -wholly into her own hands. - -One thing was clear, Felipe must not be consulted in regard to -them. He had never known of them, and need not now. Felipe was -far too much in sympathy with Ramona to take a just view of the -situation. He would be sure to have a quixotic idea of Ramona's -right of ownership. It was not impossible that Father Salvierderra -might have the same feeling. If so, she must yield; but that would -go harder with her than all the rest. Almost the Senora would have -been ready to keep the whole thing a secret from the Father, if he -had not been at the time of the Senora Ortegna's death fully -informed of all the particulars of her bequest to her adopted child. -At any rate, it would be nearly a year before the Father came again, -and in the mean time she would not risk writing about it. The -treasure was as safe in Saint Catharine's keeping as it had been all -these fourteen years; it should still lie hidden there. When Ramona -went away with Alessandro, she would write to Father -Salvierderra, simply stating the facts in her own way, and telling -him that all further questions must wait for decision until they met. - -And so she plotted and planned, and mapped out the future in her -tireless weaving brain, till she was somewhat soothed for the -partial failure of her plans. - -There is nothing so skilful in its own defence as imperious pride. It -has an ingenious system of its own, of reprisals, -- a system so -ingenious that the defeat must be sore indeed, after which it cannot -still find some booty to bring off! And even greater than this -ingenuity at reprisals is its capacity for self-deception. In this -regard, it outdoes vanity a thousandfold. Wounded vanity knows -when it is mortally hurt; and limps off the field, piteous, all -disguises thrown away. But pride carries its banner to the last; and -fast as it is driven from one field unfurls it in another, never -admitting that there is a shade less honor in the second field than -in the first, or in the third than in the second; and so on till death. It -is impossible not to have a certain sort of admiration for this kind -of pride. Cruel, those who have it, are to all who come in their -way; but they are equally cruel to themselves, when pride demands -the sacrifice. Such pride as this has led many a forlorn hope, on the -earth, when all other motives have died out of men's breasts; has -won many a crown, which has not been called by its true name. - -Before the afternoon was over, the Senora had her plan, her chart -of the future, as it were, all reconstructed; the sting of her -discomfiture soothed; the placid quiet of her manner restored; her -habitual occupations also, and little ways, all resumed. She was -going to do "nothing" in regard to Ramona. Only she herself knew -how much that meant; how bitterly much! She wished she were -sure that Felipe also would do "nothing;" but her mind still -misgave her about Felipe. Unpityingly she had led him on, and -entangled him in his own words, step by step, till she had brought -him to the position she wished him to take. Ostensibly, his position -and hers were one, their action a unit; all the same, she did not -deceive herself as to his real feeling about the affair. He loved -Ramona. He liked Alessandro. Barring the question of family -pride, which he had hardly thought of till she suggested it, and -which he would not dwell on apart from her continuing to press -it,-- barring this, he would have liked to have Alessandro marry -Ramona and remain on the place. All this would come uppermost -in Felipe's mind again when he was removed from the pressure of -her influence. Nevertheless, she did not intend to speak with him -on the subject again, or to permit him to speak to her. Her ends -would be best attained by taking and keeping the ground that the -question of their non-interference having been settled once for all, -the painful topic should never be renewed between them. In -patient silence they must await Ramona's action; must bear -whatever of disgrace and pain she chose to inflict on the family -which had sheltered her from her infancy till now. - -The details of the "nothing" she proposed to do, slowly arranged -themselves in her mind. There should be no apparent change in -Ramona's position in the house. She should come and go as freely -as ever; no watch on her movements; she should eat, sleep, rise up -and sit down with them, as before; there should be not a word, or -act, that Felipe's sympathetic sensitiveness could construe into any -provocation to Ramona to run away. Nevertheless, Ramona should -be made to feel, every moment of every hour, that she was in -disgrace; that she was with them, but not of them; that she had -chosen an alien's position, and must abide by it. How this was to -be done, the Senora did not put in words to herself, but she knew -very well. If anything would bring the girl to her senses, this -would. There might still be a hope, the Senora believed, so little -did she know Ramona's nature, or the depth of her affection for -Alessandro, that she might be in this manner brought to see the -enormity of the offence she would commit if she persisted in her -purpose. And if she did perceive this, confess her wrong, and give -up the marriage,-- the Senora grew almost generous and tolerant in -her thoughts as she contemplated this contingency,-- if she did thus -humble herself and return to her rightful allegiance to the Moreno -house, the Senora would forgive her, and would do more for her -than she had ever hitherto done. She would take her to Los -Angeles and to Monterey; would show her a little more of the -world; and it was by no means unlikely that there might thus come -about for her a satisfactory and honorable marriage. Felipe should -see that she was not disposed to deal unfairly by Ramona in any -way, if Ramona herself would behave properly. - -Ramona's surprise, when the Senora entered her room just before -supper, and, in her ordinary tone, asked a question about the chili -which was drying on the veranda, was so great, that she could not -avoid showing it both in her voice and look. - -The Senora recognized this immediately, but gave no sign of -having done so, continuing what she had to say about the chili, the -hot sun, the turning of the grapes, etc., precisely as she would have -spoken to Ramona a week previous. At least, this was what -Ramona at first thought; but before the sentences were finished, -she had detected in the Senora's eye and tone the weapons which -were to be employed against her. The emotion of half-grateful -wonder with which she had heard the first words changed quickly -to heartsick misery before they were concluded; and she said to -herself: "That's the way she is going to break me down, she thinks! -But she can't do it. I can bear anything for four days; and the -minute Alessandro comes, I will go away with him." This train of -thought in Ramona's mind was reflected in her face. The Senora -saw it, and hardened herself still more. It was to be war, then. No -hope of surrender. Very well. The girl had made her choice. - -Margarita was now the most puzzled person in the household. She -had overheard snatches of the conversation between Felipe and his -mother and Ramona, having let her curiosity get so far the better -of her discretion as to creep to the door and listen. In fact, she -narrowly escaped being caught, having had barely time to begin -her feint of sweeping the passage-way, when Ramona, flinging the -door wide open, came out, after her final reply to the Senora, the -words of which Margarita had distinctly heard: "God will punish -you." - -"Holy Virgin! how dare she say that to the Senora?" ejaculated -Margarita, under her breath; and the next second Ramona rushed -by, not even seeing her. But the Senora's vigilant eyes, following -Ramona, saw her; and the Senora's voice had a ring of suspicion in -it, as she called, "How comes it you are sweeping the passage-way -at this hour of the day, Margarita?" - -It was surely the devil himself that put into Margarita's head the -quick lie which she instantaneously told. "There was early -breakfast, Senora, to be cooked for Alessandro, who was setting -off in haste, and my mother was not up, so I had it to cook." - -As Margarita said this, Felipe fixed his eyes steadily upon her. She -changed color. Felipe knew this was a lie. He had seen Margarita -peering about among the willows while he was talking with -Alessandro at the sheepfold; he had seen Alessandro halt for a -moment and speak to her as he rode past,-- only for a moment; -then, pricking his horse sharply, he had galloped off down the -valley road. No breakfast had Alessandro had at Margarita's hands, -or any other's, that morning. What could have been Margarita's -motive for telling this lie? - -But Felipe had too many serious cares on his mind to busy himself -long with any thought of Margarita or her fibs. She had said the -first thing which came into her head, most likely, to shelter herself -from the Senora's displeasure; which was indeed very near the -truth, only there was added a spice of malice against Alessandro. A -slight undercurrent of jealous antagonism towards him had begun -to grow up among the servants of late; fostered, if not originated, -by Margarita's sharp sayings as to his being admitted to such -strange intimacy with the family. - -While Felipe continued ill, and was so soothed to rest by his -music, there was no room for cavil. It was natural that Alessandro -came and went as a physician might. But after Felipe had -recovered, why should this freedom and intimacy continue? More -than once there had been sullen mutterings of this kind on the -north veranda, when all the laborers and servants were gathered -there of an evening, Alessandro alone being absent from the group, -and the sounds of his voice or his violin coming from the south -veranda, where the family sat. - -"It would be a good thing if we too had a bit of music now and -then," Juan Canito would grumble; "but the lad's chary enough of -his bow on this side the house." - -"Ho! we're not good enough for him to play to!" Margarita would -reply; "'Like master, like servant,' is a good proverb sometimes, but -not always. But there's a deal going on, on the veranda yonder, -besides fiddling!" and Margarita's lips would purse themselves up -in an expression of concentrated mystery and secret knowledge, -well fitted to draw from everybody a fire of questions, none of -which, however, would she answer. She knew better than to -slander the Senorita Ramona, or to say a word even reflecting -upon her unfavorably. Not a man or a woman there would have -borne it. They all had loved Ramona ever since she came among -them as a toddling baby. They petted her then, and idolized her -now. Not one of them whom she had not done good offices for,-- -nursed them, cheered them, remembered their birthdays and their -saints'-days. To no one but her mother had Margarita unbosomed -what she knew, and what she suspected; and old Marda, frightened -at the bare pronouncing of such words, had terrified Margarita into -the solemnest of promises never, under any circumstances -whatever, to say such things to any other member of the family. -Marda did not believe them. She could not. She believed that -Margarita's jealousy had imagined all. - -"And the Senora; she'd send you packing off this place in an hour, -and me too, long's I've lived here, if ever she was to know of you -blackening the Senorita. An Indian, too! You must be mad, -Margarita!" - -When Margarita, in triumph, had flown to tell her that the Senora -had just dragged the Senorita Ramona up the garden-walk, and -shoved her into her room and locked the door, and that it was -because she had caught her with Alessandro at the washing-stones, -Marda first crossed herself in sheer mechanical fashion at the -shock of the story, and then cuffed Margarita's ears for telling her. - -"I'll take the head off your neck, if you say that aloud again! -Whatever's come to the Senora! Forty years I've lived under this -roof, and I never saw her lift a hand to a living creature yet. You're -out of your senses, child!" she said, all the time gazing fearfully -towards the room. - -"You'll see whether I am out of my senses or not," retorted -Margarita, and ran back to the dining-room. And after the -dining-room door was shut, and the unhappy pretence of a supper -had begun, old Marda had herself crept softly to the Senorita's door -and listened, and heard Ramona sobbing as if her heart would -break. Then she knew that what Margarita had said must be true, -and her faithful soul was in sore straits what to think. The Senorita -misdemean herself! Never! Whatever happened, it was not that! -There was some horrible mistake somewhere. Kneeling at the -keyhole, she had called cautiously to Ramona, "Oh, my lamb, what -is it?" But Ramona had not heard her, and the danger was too great -of remaining; so scrambling up with difficulty from her rheumatic -knees, the old woman had hobbled back to the kitchen as much in -the dark as before, and, by a curiously illogical consequence, -crosser than ever to her daughter. All the next day she watched for -herself, and could not but see that all appearances bore out -Margarita's statements. Alessandro's sudden departure had been a -tremendous corroboration of the story. Not one of the men had had -an inkling of it; Juan Canito, Luigo, both alike astonished; no word -left, no message sent; only Senor Felipe had said carelessly to Juan -Can, after breakfast: "You'll have to look after things yourself for a -few days, Juan. Alessandro has gone to Temecula." - -"For a few days!" exclaimed Margarita, sarcastically, when this -was repeated to her. "That's easy said! If Alessandro Assis is seen -here again, I'll eat my head! He's played his last tune on the south -veranda, I wager you." - -But when at supper-time of this same eventful day the Senora was -heard, as she passed the Senorita's door, to say in her ordinary -voice, "Are you ready for supper, Ramona?" and Ramona was seen -to come out and walk by the Senora's side to the dining-room; -silent, to be sure,-- but then that was no strange thing, the Senorita -always was more silent in the Senora's presence,-- when Marda, -standing in the court-yard, feigning to be feeding her chickens, but -keeping a close eye on the passage-ways, saw this, she was -relieved, and thought: "It's only a dispute there has been. There -will be disputes in families sometimes. It is none of our affair. All -is settled now." - -And Margarita, standing in the dining-room, when she saw them -all coming in as usual,-- the Senora, Felipe, Ramona,-- no change, -even to her scrutinizing eye, in anybody's face, was more surprised -than she had been for many a day; and began to think again, as she -had more than once since this tragedy began, that she must have -dreamed much that she remembered. - -But surfaces are deceitful, and eyes see little. Considering its -complexity, the fineness and delicacy of its mechanism, the results -attainable by the human eye seem far from adequate to the -expenditure put upon it. We have flattered ourselves by inventing -proverbs of comparison in matter of blindness,-- "blind as a bat," -for instance. It would be safe to say that there cannot be found in -the animal kingdom a bat, or any other creature, so blind in its own -range of circumstance and connection, as the greater majority of -human beings are in the bosoms of their families. Tempers strain -and recover, hearts break and heal, strength falters, fails, and -comes near to giving way altogether, every day, without being -noted by the closest lookers-on. - -Before night of this second day since the trouble had burst like a -storm-cloud on the peaceful Moreno household, everything had so -resumed the ordinary expression and routine, that a shrewder -observer and reasoner than Margarita might well be excused for -doubting if any serious disaster could have occurred to any one. -Senor Felipe sauntered about in his usual fashion, smoking his -cigarettes, or lay on his bed in the veranda, dozing. The Senora -went her usual rounds of inspection, fed her birds, spoke to every -one in her usual tone, sat in her carved chair with her hands folded, -gazing out on the southern sky. Ramona busied herself with her -usual duties, dusted the chapel, put fresh flowers before all the -Madonnas, and then sat down at her embroidery. Ramona had -been for a long time at work on a beautiful altar-cloth for the -chapel. It was to have been a present to the Senora. It was nearly -done. As she held up the frame in which it was stretched, and -looked at the delicate tracery of the pattern, she sighed. It had been -with a mingled feeling of interest and hopelessness that she had for -months been at work on it, often saying to herself, "She won't care -much for it, beautiful as it is, just because I did it; but Father -Salvierderra will be pleased when he sees it." - -Now, as she wove the fine threads in and out, she thought: "She -will never let it be used on the altar. I wonder if I could any way -get it to Father Salvierderra, at Santa Barbara. I would like to give -it to him. I will ask Alessandro. I'm sure the Senora would never -use it, and it would be a shame to leave it here. I shall take it with -me." But as she thought these things, her face was unruffled. A -strange composure had settled on Ramona. "Only four days; only -four days; I can bear anything for four days!" these words were -coming and going in her mind like refrains of songs which haunt -one's memory and will not be still. She saw that Felipe looked -anxiously at her, but she answered his inquiring looks always with -a gentle smile. It was evident that the Senora did not intend that -she and Felipe should have any private conversation; but that did -not so much matter. After all, there was not so much to be said. -Felipe knew all. She could tell him nothing; Felipe had acted for -the best, as he thought, in sending Alessandro away till the heat of -the Senora's anger should have spent itself. - -After her first dismay at suddenly learning that Alessandro had -gone, had passed, she had reflected that it was just as well. He -would come back prepared to take her with him. How, or where, -she did not know; but she would go with no questions. Perhaps she -would not even bid the Senora good-by; she wondered how that -would arrange itself, and how far Alessandro would have to take -her, to find a priest to marry them. It was a terrible thing to have to -do, to go out of a home in such a way: no wedding -- no wedding -clothes -- no friends -- to go unmarried, and journey to a priest's -house, to have the ceremony performed; "but it is not my fault," -said Ramona to herself; "it is hers. She drives me to do it. If it is -wrong, the blame will be hers. Father Salvierderra would gladly -come here and marry us, if she would send for him. I wish we -could go to him, Alessandro and I; perhaps we can. I would not be -afraid to ride so far; we could do it in two days." The more -Ramona thought of this, the more it appeared to her the natural -thing for them to do. "He will be on our side, I know he will," she -thought. "He always liked Alessandro, and he loves me." - -It was strange how little bitterness toward the Senora was in the -girl's mind; how comparatively little she thought of her. Her heart -was too full of Alessandro and of their future; and it had never -been Ramona's habit to dwell on the Senora in her thoughts. As -from her childhood up she had accepted the fact of the Senora's -coldness toward her, so now she accepted her injustice and -opposition as part of the nature of things, and not to be altered. - -During all these hours, during the coming and going of these -crowds of fears, sorrows, memories, anticipations in Ramona's -heart, all that there was to be seen to the eye was simply a calm, -quiet girl, sitting on the veranda, diligently working at her -lace-frame. Even Felipe was deceived by her calmness, and -wondered what it meant,-- if it could be that she was undergoing -the change that his mother had thought possible, and designated as -coming "to her senses." Even Felipe did not know the steadfast -fibre of the girl's nature; neither did he realize what a bond had -grown between her and Alessandro. In fact, he sometimes -wondered of what this bond had been made. He had himself seen -the greater part of their intercourse with each other; nothing could -have been farther removed from anything like love-making. There -had been no crisis of incident, or marked moments of experience -such as in Felipe's imaginations of love were essential to the -fulness of its growth. This is a common mistake on the part of -those who have never felt love's true bonds. Once in those chains, -one perceives that they are not of the sort full forged in a day. They -are made as the great iron cables are made, on which bridges are -swung across the widest water-channels,-- not of single huge rods, -or bars, which would be stronger, perhaps, to look at, but of -myriads of the finest wires, each one by itself so fine, so frail, it -would barely hold a child's kite in the wind: by hundreds, hundreds -of thousands of such, twisted, re-twisted together, are made the -mighty cables, which do not any more swerve from their place in -the air, under the weight and jar of the ceaseless traffic and tread -of two cities, than the solid earth swerves under the same ceaseless -weight and jar. Such cables do not break. - -Even Ramona herself would have found it hard to tell why she thus -loved Alessandro; how it began, or by what it grew. It had not been -a sudden adoration, like his passion for her; it was, in the -beginning, simply a response; but now it was as strong a love as -his,-- as strong, and as unchangeable. The Senora's harsh words -had been like a forcing-house air to it, and the sudden knowledge -of the fact of her own Indian descent seemed to her like a -revelation, pointing out the path in which destiny called her to -walk. She thrilled with pleasure at the thought of the joy with -which Alessandro would hear this,-- the joy and the surprise. She -imagined to herself, in hundreds of ways, the time, place, and -phrase in which she would tell him. She could not satisfy herself as -to the best; as to which would give keenest pleasure to him and to -her. She would tell him, as soon as she saw him; it should be her -first word of greeting. No! There would be too much of trouble -and embarrassment then. She would wait till they were far away, -till they were alone, in the wilderness; and then she would turn to -him, and say, "Alessandro, my people are your people!" Or she -would wait, and keep her secret until she had reached Temecula, -and they had begun their life there, and Alessandro had been -astonished to see how readily and kindly she took to all the ways -of the Indian village; and then, when he expressed some such -emotion, she would quietly say, "But I too am an Indian, -Alessandro!" - -Strange, sad bride's dreams these; but they made Ramona's heart -beat with happiness as she dreamed them. - -XIV - -THE first day had gone, it was near night of the second, and not a -word had passed between Felipe and Ramona, except in the -presence of the Senora. It would have been beautiful to see, if it -had not been so cruel a thing, the various and devious methods by -which the Senora had brought this about. Felipe, oddly enough, -was more restive under it than Ramona. She had her dreams. He -had nothing but his restless consciousness that he had not done for -her what he hoped; that he must seem to her to have been disloyal; -this, and a continual wonder what she could be planning or -expecting which made her so placid, kept Felipe in a fever of -unrest, of which his mother noted every sign, and redoubled her -vigilance. - -Felipe thought perhaps he could speak to Ramona in the night, -through her window. But the August heats were fierce now; -everybody slept with wide-open windows; the Senora was always -wakeful; if she should chance to hear him thus holding secret -converse with Ramona, it would indeed make bad matters worse. -Nevertheless, he decided to try it. At the first sound of his -footsteps on the veranda floor, "My son, are you ill? Can I do -anything?" came from the Senora's window. She had not been -asleep at all. It would take more courage than Felipe possessed, to -try that plan again; and he lay on his veranda bed, this afternoon, -tossing about with sheer impatience at his baffled purpose. -Ramona sat at the foot of the bed, taking the last stitches in the -nearly completed altar-cloth. The Senora sat in her usual seat, -dozing, with her head thrown back. It was very hot; a sultry -south-wind, with dust from the desert, had been blowing all day, -and every living creature was more or less prostrated by it. - -As the Senora's eyes closed, a sudden thought struck Felipe. -Taking out a memorandum-book in which he kept his accounts, he -began rapidly writing. Looking up, and catching Ramona's eye, he -made a sign to her that it was for her. She glanced apprehensively -at the Senora. She was asleep. Presently Felipe, folding the note, -and concealing it in his hand, rose, and walked towards Ramona's -window, Ramona terrifiedly watching him; the sound of Felipe's -steps roused the Senora, who sat up instantly, and gazed about her -with that indescribable expression peculiar to people who hope -they have not been asleep, but know they have. "Have I been -asleep?" she asked. - -"About one minute, mother," answered Felipe, who was leaning, as -he spoke, against Ramona's open window, his arms crossed behind -him. Stretching them out, and back and forth a few times, yawning -idly, he said, "This heat is intolerable!" Then he sauntered leisurely -down the veranda steps into the garden-walk, and seated himself -on the bench under the trellis there. - -The note had been thrown into Ramona's room. She was hot and -cold with fear lest she might not be able to get it unobserved. What -if the Senora were to go first into the room! She hardly dared look -at her. But fortune is not always on the side of tyrants. The Senora -was fast dozing off again, relieved that Felipe was out of speaking -distance of Ramona. As soon as her eyes were again shut, Ramona -rose to go. The Senora opened her eyes. Ramona was crossing the -threshold of the door; she was going into the house. Good! Still -farther away from Felipe. - -"Are you going to your room, Ramona?" said the Senor . - -"I was," replied Ramona, alarmed. "Did you want me here?" - -"No," said the Senora; and she closed her eyes again. - -In a second more the note was safe in Ramona's hands. - -"Dear Ramona," Felipe had written, "I am distracted because I -cannot speak with you alone. Can you think of any way? I want to -explain things to you. I am afraid you do not understand. Don't be -unhappy. Alessandro will surely be back in four days. I want to -help you all I can, but you saw I could not do much. Nobody will -hinder your doing what you please; but, dear, I wish you would not -go away from us!" - -Tearing the paper into small fragments, Ramona thrust them into -her bosom, to be destroyed later. Then looking out of the window, -and seeing that the Senora was now in a sound sleep, she ventured -to write a reply to Felipe, though when she would find a safe -opportunity to give it to him, there was no telling. "Thank you, -dear Felipe. Don't be anxious. I am not unhappy. I understand all -about it. But I must go away as soon as Alessandro comes." Hiding -this also safe in her bosom, she went back to the veranda. Felipe -rose, and walked toward the steps. Ramona, suddenly bold, -stooped, and laid her note on the second step. Again the tired eyes -of the Senora opened. They had not been shut five minutes; -Ramona was at her work; Felipe was coming up the steps from the -garden. He nodded laughingly to his mother, and laid his finger on -his lips. All was well. The Senora dozed again. Her nap had cost -her more than she would ever know. This one secret interchange -between Felipe and Ramona then, thus making, as it were, -common cause with each other as against her, and in fear of her, -was a step never to be recalled,-- a step whose significance could -scarcely be overestimated. Tyrants, great and small, are apt to -overlook such possibilities as this; to forget the momentousness -which the most trivial incident may assume when forced into false -proportions and relations. Tyranny can make liars and cheats out -of the honestest souls. It is done oftener than any except close -students of human nature realize. When kings and emperors do -this, the world cries out with sympathy, and holds the plotters -more innocent than the tyrant who provoked the plot. It is Russia -that stands branded in men's thoughts, and not Siberia. - -The Senora had a Siberia of her own, and it was there that Ramona -was living in these days. The Senora would have been surprised to -know how little the girl felt the cold. To be sure, it was not as if -she had ever felt warmth in the Senora's presence; yet between the -former chill and this were many degrees, and except for her new -life, and new love, and hope in the thought of Alessandro, Ramona -could not have borne it for a day. - -The fourth day came; it seemed strangely longer than the others -had. All day Ramona watched and listened. Felipe, too; for, -knowing what Alessandro's impatience would be, he had, in truth, -looked for him on the previous night. The horse he rode was a fleet -one, and would have made the journey with ease in half the time. -But Felipe reflected that there might be many things for -Alessandro to arrange at Temecula. He would doubtless return -prepared to take Ramona back with him, in case that proved the -only alternative left them. Felipe grew wretched as his fancy dwelt -on the picture of Ramona's future. He had been in the Temecula -village. He knew its poverty; the thought of Ramona there was -monstrous, To the indolent, ease-loving Felipe it was incredible -that a girl reared as Ramona had been, could for a moment -contemplate leading the life of a poor laboring man's wife. He -could not conceive of love's making one undertake any such life. -Felipe had much to learn of love. Night came; no Alessandro. Till -the darkness settled down, Ramona sat, watching the willows. -When she could no longer see, she listened. The Senora, noting all, -also listened. She was uneasy as to the next stage of affairs, but she -would not speak. Nothing should induce her to swerve from the -line of conduct on which she had determined. It was the full of the -moon. When the first broad beam of its light came over the hill, -and flooded the garden and the white front of the little chapel, just -as it had done on that first night when Alessandro watched with -Felipe on the veranda, Ramona pressed her face against the -window-panes, and gazed out into the garden. At each flickering, -motion of the shadows she saw the form of a man approaching. -Again and again she saw it. Again and again the breeze died, and -the shadow ceased. It was near morning before, weary, sad, she -crept to bed; but not to sleep. With wide-open, anxious eyes, she -still watched and listened. Never had the thought once crossed her -mind that Alessandro might not come at the time Felipe had said. -In her childlike simplicity she had accepted this as unquestioningly -as she had accepted other facts in her life. Now that he did not -come, unreasoning and unfounded terror took possession of her, -and she asked herself continually, "Will he ever come! They sent -him away; perhaps he will be too proud to come back!" Then faith -would return, and saying to herself, "He would never, never -forsake me; he knows I have no one in the whole world but him; -he knows how I love him," she would regain composure, and -remind herself of the many detentions which might have prevented -his coming at the time set. Spite of all, however, she was heavy at -heart; and at breakfast her anxious eyes and absent look were sad -to see. They hurt Felipe. Too well he knew what it meant. He also -was anxious. The Senora saw it in his face, and it vexed her. The -girl might well pine, and be mortified if her lover did not appear. -But why should Felipe disquiet himself? The Senora disliked it. It -was a bad symptom. There might be trouble ahead yet. There was, -indeed, trouble ahead,-- of a sort the Senora's imaginings had not -pictured. - -Another day passed; another night; another, and another. One -week now since Alessandro, as he leaped on his horse, had grasped -Felipe's hand, and said: "You will tell the Senorita; you will make -sure that she understands why I go; and in four days I will be -back." One week, and he had not come. The three who were -watching and wondering looked covertly into each other's faces, -each longing to know what the others thought. - -Ramona was wan and haggard. She had scarcely slept. The idea -had taken possession of her that Alessandro was dead. On the sixth -and seventh days she had walked each afternoon far down the river -road, by which he would be sure to come; down the meadows, and -by the cross-cut, out to the highway; at each step straining her -tearful eyes into the distance,-- the cruel, blank, silent distance. -She had come back after dark, whiter and more wan than she went -out. As she sat at the supper-table, silent, making no feint of -eating, only drinking glass after glass of milk, in thirsty haste, even -Margarita pitied her. But the Senora did not. She thought the best -thing which could happen, would be that the Indian should never -come back. Ramona would recover from it in a little while; the -mortification would be the worst thing, but even that, time would -heal. She wondered that the girl had not more pride than to let her -wretchedness be so plainly seen. She herself would have died -before she would go about with such a woe-begone face, for a -whole household to see and gossip about. - -On the morning of the eighth day, Ramona, desperate, waylaid -Felipe, as he was going down the veranda steps. The Senora was in -the garden, and saw them; but Ramona did not care. "Felipe!" she -cried, "I must, I must speak to you! Do you think Alessandro is -dead? What else could keep him from coming?" Her lips were dry, -her cheeks scarlet, her voice husky. A few more days of this, and -she would be in a brain fever, Felipe thought, as he looked -compassionately at her. - -"Oh, no, no, dear! Do not think that!" he replied. "A thousand -things might have kept him." - -"Ten thousand things would not! Nothing could!" said Ramona. "I -know he is dead. Can't you send a messenger, Felipe, and see?" - -The Senora was walking toward them. She overheard the last -words. Looking toward Felipe, no more regarding Ramona than if -she had not been within sight or hearing, the Senora said, "It seems -to me that would not be quite consistent with dignity. How does it -strike you, Felipe' If you thought best, we might spare a man as -soon as the vintage is done, I suppose." - -Ramona walked away. The vintage would not be over for a week. -There were several vineyards yet which had not been touched; -every hand on the place was hard at work, picking the grapes, -treading them out in tubs, emptying the juice into stretched -raw-hides swung from cross-beams in a long shed. In the willow -copse the brandy-still was in full blast; it took one man to watch it; -this was Juan Can's favorite work; for reasons of his own he liked -best to do it alone; and now that he could no longer tread grapes in -the tubs, he had a better chance for uninterrupted work at the still. -"No ill but has its good," he thought sometimes, as he lay -comfortably stretched out in the shade, smoking his pipe day after -day, and breathing the fumes of the fiery brandy. - -As Ramona disappeared in the doorway, the Senora, coming close -to Felipe, and laying her hand on his arm, said in a confidential -tone, nodding her head in the direction in which Ramona had -vanished: "She looks badly, Felipe. I don't know what we can do. -We surely cannot send to summon back a lover we do not wish her -to marry, can we? It is very perplexing. Most unfortunate, every -way. What do you think, my son?" There was almost a diabolical -art in the manner in which the Senora could, by a single phrase or -question, plant in a person's mind the precise idea she wished him -to think he had originated himself. - -"No; of course we can't send for him," replied Felipe, angrily; -"unless it is to send him to marry her; I wish he had never set foot -on the place. I am sure I don't know what to do. Ramona's looks -frighten me. I believe she will die." - -"I cannot wish Alessandro had never set foot on the place," said -the Senora, gently, "for I feel that I owe your life to him, my -Felipe; and he is not to blame for Ramona's conduct. You need not -fear her dying, She may be ill; but people do not die of love like -hers for Alessandro." - -"Of what kind do they die, mother?" asked Felipe, impatiently. - -The Senora looked reproachfully at him. "Not often of any," she -said; "but certainly not of a sudden passion for a person in every -way beneath them, in position, in education, in all points which are -essential to congeniality of tastes or association of life." - -The Senora spoke calmly, with no excitement, as if she were -discussing an abstract case. Sometimes, when she spoke like this, -Felipe for the moment felt as if she were entirely right, as if it were -really a disgraceful thing in Ramona to have thus loved -Alessandro. It could not be gainsaid that there was this gulf, of -which she spoke. Alessandro was undeniably Ramona's inferior in -position, education, in all the external matters of life; but in nature, -in true nobility of soul, no! Alessandro was no man's inferior in -these; and in capacity to love,-- Felipe sometimes wondered -whether he had ever known Alessandro's equal in that. This -thought had occurred to him more than once, as from his sick-bed -he had, unobserved, studied the expression with which Alessandro -gazed at Ramona. But all this made no difference in the perplexity -of the present dilemma, in the embarrassment of his and his -mother's position now. Send a messenger to ask why Alessandro -did not return! Not even if he had been an accepted and publicly -recognized lover, would Felipe do that! Ramona ought to have -more pride. She ought of herself to know that. And when Felipe, -later in the day, saw Ramona again, he said as much to her. He -said it as gently as he could; so gently that she did not at first -comprehend his idea. It was so foreign, so incompatible with her -faith, how could she? - -When she did understand, she said slowly: "You mean that it will -not do to send to find out if Alessandro is dead, because it will -look as if I wished him to marry me whether he wished it or not?" -and she fixed her eyes on Felipe's, with an expression he could not -fathom. - -"Yes, dear," he answered, "something like that, though you put it -harshly." - -"Is it not true," she persisted, "that is what you mean?" - -Reluctantly Felipe admitted that it was. - -Ramona was silent for some moments; then she said, speaking still -more slowly, "If you feel like that, we had better never talk about -Alessandro again. I suppose it is not possible that you should -know, as I do, that nothing but. his being dead would keep him -from coming back. Thanks, dear Felipe;" and after this she did not -speak again of Alessandro. - -Days went by; a week. The vintage was over. The Senora -wondered if Ramona would now ask again for a messenger to go -to Temecula. Almost even the Senora relented, as she looked into -the girl's white and wasted face, as she sat silent, her hands folded -in her lap, her eyes fixed on the willows. The altar-cloth was done, -folded and laid away. It would never hang in the Moreno chapel. It -was promised, in Ramona's mind, to Father Salvierderra. She had -resolved to go to him; if he, a feeble old man, could walk all the -way between Santa Barbara and their home, she could surely do -the same. She would not lose the way. There were not many roads; -she could ask. The convent, the bare thought of which had been so -terrible to Ramona fourteen days ago, when the Senora had -threatened her with it, now seemed a heavenly refuge, the only -shelter she craved. There was a school for orphans attached to the -convent at San Juan Bautista, she knew; she would ask the Father -to let her go there, and she would spend the rest of her life in -prayer, and in teaching the orphan girls. As hour after hour she sat -revolving this plan, her fancy projected itself so vividly into the -future, that she lived years of her life. She felt herself middle-aged, -old. She saw the procession of nuns, going to vespers, leading the -children by the hand; herself wrinkled and white-haired, walking -between two of the little ones. The picture gave her peace. As soon -as she grew a little stronger, she would set off on her journey to the -Father; she could not go just yet, she was too weak; her feet -trembled if she did but walk to the foot of the garden. Alessandro -was dead; there could be no doubt of that. He was buried in that -little walled graveyard of which he had told her. Sometimes she -thought she would try to go there and see his grave, perhaps see his -father; if Alessandro had told him of her, the old man would be -glad to see her; perhaps, after all, her work might lie there, among -Alessandro's people. But this looked hard: she had not courage for -it; shelter and rest were what she wanted,-- the sound of the -Church's prayers, and the Father's blessing every day. The convent -was the best. - -She thought she was sure that Alessandro was dead; but she was -not, for she still listened, still watched. Each day she walked out -on the river road, and sat waiting till dusk. At last came a day -when she could not go; her strength failed her. She lay all day on -her bed. To the Senora, who asked frigidly if she were ill, she -answered: "No, Senora, I do not think I am ill, I have no pain, but I -cannot get up. I shall be better to-morrow." - -"I will send you strong broth and a medicine," the Senora said; and -sent her both by the hands of Margarita, whose hatred and jealousy -broke down at the first sight of Ramona's face on the pillow; it -looked so much thinner and sharper there than it had when she was -sitting up. "Oh, Senorita! Senorita!" she cried, in a tone of poignant -grief, "are you going to die? Forgive me, forgive me!" - -"I have nothing to forgive you, Margarita," replied Ramona, raising -herself on her elbow, and lifting her eyes kindly to the girl's face as -she took the broth from her hands. "I do not know why you ask me -to forgive you." - -Margarita flung herself on her knees by the bed, in a passion of -weeping. "Oh, but you do know, Senorita, you do know! Forgive -me!" - -"No, I know nothing," replied Ramona; "but if you know anything, -it is all forgiven. I am not going to die, Margarita. I am going -away," she added, after a second's pause. Her inmost instinct told -her that she could trust Margarita now. Alessandro being dead, -Margarita would no longer be her enemy, and Margarita could -perhaps help her. "I am going away, Margarita, as soon as I feel a -little stronger. I am going to a convent; but the Senora does not -know. You will not tell?" - -"No, Senorita!" whispered Margarita,-- thinking in her heart, "Yes, -she is going away, but it will be with the angels." -- "No, Senorita, -I will not tell. I will do anything you want me to." - -"Thanks, Margarita mia," replied Ramona. "I thought you would;" -and she lay back on her pillow, and closed her eyes, looking so -much more like death than like life that Margarita's tears flowed -faster than before, and she ran to her mother, sobbing out, -"Mother, mother! the Senorita is ill to death. I am sure she is. She -has taken to her bed; and she is as white as Senor Felipe was at the -worst of the fever." - -"Ay," said old Marda, who had seen all this for days back; "ay, she -has wasted away, this last week, like one in a fever, sure enough; I -have seen it. It must be she is starving herself to death." - -"Indeed, she has not eaten for ten days,-- hardly since that day;" -and Margarita and her mother exchanged looks. It was not -necessary to further define the day. - -"Juan Can says he thinks he will never be seen here again," -continued Margarita. - -"The saints grant it, then," said Marda, hotly, "if it is he has cost -the Senorita all this! I am that turned about in my head with it all, -that I've no thoughts to think; but plain enough it is, he is mixed up -with whatever 'tis has gone wrong." - -"I could tell what it is," said Margarita, her old pertness coming -uppermost for a moment; "but I've got no more to say, now the -Senorita's lying on her bed, with the face she's got. It's enough to -break your heart to look at her. I could just go down on my knees -to her for all I've said; and I will, and to Saint Francis too! She's -going to be with him before long; I know she is." - -"No," said the wiser, older Marda. "She is not so ill as you think. -She is young. It's the heart's gone out of her; that's all. I've been -that way myself. People are, when they're young." - -"I'm young!" retorted Margarita. "I've never been that way." - -"There's many a mile to the end of the road, my girl," said Marda, -significantly; "and 'It's ill boasting the first day out,' was a proverb -when I was your age!" - -Marda had never been much more than half-way fond of this own -child of hers. Their natures were antagonistic. Traits which, in -Margarita's father, had embittered many a day of Marda's early -married life, were perpetually cropping out in Margarita, making -between the mother and daughter a barrier which even parental -love was not always strong enough to surmount. And, as was -inevitable, this antagonism was constantly leading to things which -seemed to Margarita, and in fact were, unjust and ill-founded. - -"She's always flinging out at me, whatever I do," thought -Margarita. "I know one thing; I'll never tell her what the Senorita's -told me; never,-- not till after she's gone." - -A sudden suspicion flashed into Margarita's mind. She seated -herself on the bench outside the kitchen door, to wrestle with it. -What if it were not to a convent at all, but to Alessandro, that the -Senorita meant to go! No; that was preposterous. If it had been -that, she would have gone with him in the outset. Nobody who was -plotting to run away with a lover ever wore such a look as the -Senorita wore now. Margarita dismissed the thought; yet it left its -trace. She would be more observant for having had it; her -resuscitated affection far her young mistress was not yet so strong -that it would resist the assaults of jealousy, if that passion were to -be again aroused in her fiery soul. Though she had never been -deeply in love with Alessandro herself, she had been enough so, -and she remembered him vividly enough, to feel yet a sharp -emotion of displeasure at the recollection of his devotion to the -Senorita. Now that the Senorita seemed to be deserted, unhappy, -prostrated, she had no room for anything but pity for her; but let -Alessandro come on the stage again, and all would be changed. -The old hostility would return. It was but a dubious sort of ally, -after all, that Ramona had so unexpectedly secured in Margarita. -She might prove the sharpest of broken reeds. - -It was sunset of the eighteenth day since Alessandro's departure. -Ramona had lain for four days well-nigh motionless on her bed. -She herself began to think she must be going to die. Her mind -seemed to be vacant of all thought. She did not even sorrow for -Alessandro's death; she seemed torpid, body and soul. Such -prostrations as these are Nature's enforced rests. It is often only by -help of them that our bodies tide over crises, strains, in which, if -we continued to battle, we should be slain. - -As Ramona lay half unconscious,-- neither awake nor yet asleep,-- -on this evening, she was suddenly aware of a vivid impression -produced upon her; it was not sound, it was not sight. She was -alone; the house was still as death; the warm September twilight -silence reigned outside, She sat up in her bed, intent -- half -alarmed -- half glad -- bewildered -- alive. What had happened? -Still there was no sound, no stir. The twilight was fast deepening; -not a breath of air moving. Gradually her bewildered senses and -faculties awoke from their long-dormant condition; she looked -around the room; even the walls seemed revivified; she clasped -her hands, and leaped from the bed. "Alessandro is not dead!" she -said aloud; and she laughed hysterically. "He is not dead!" she -repeated. "He is not dead! He is somewhere near!" - -With quivering hands she dressed, and stole out of the house. After -the first few seconds she found herself strangely strong; she did -not tremble; her feet trod firm on the ground. "Oh, miracle!" she -thought, as she hastened down the garden-walk; "I am well again! -Alessandro is near!" So vivid was the impression, that when she -reached the willows and found the spot silent, vacant, as when she -had last sat there, hopeless, broken-hearted, she experienced a -revulsion of disappointment. "Not here!" she cried; "not here!" and -a swift fear shook her. "Am I mad? Is it this way, perhaps, people -lose their senses, when they are as I have been!" - -But the young, strong blood was running swift in her veins. No! -this was no madness; rather a newly discovered power; a fulness of -sense; a revelation. Alessandro was near. - -Swiftly she walked down the river road. The farther she went, the -keener grew her expectation, her sense of Alessandro's nearness. In -her present mood she would have walked on and on, even to -Temecula itself, sure that she was at each step drawing nearer to -Alessandro. - -As she approached the second willow copse, which lay perhaps a -quarter of a mile west of the first, she saw the figure of a man, -standing, leaning against one of the trees. She halted. It could not -be Alessandro. He would not have paused for a moment so near -the house where he was to find her. She was afraid to go on. It was -late to meet a stranger in this lonely spot. The figure was strangely -still; so still that, as she peered through the dusk, she half fancied -it might be an optical illusion. She advanced a few steps, -hesitatingly, then stopped. As she did so, the man advanced a few -steps, then stopped. As he came out from the shadows of the trees, -she saw that he was of Alessandro's height. She quickened her -steps, then suddenly stopped again. What did this mean? It could -not be Alessandro. Ramona wrung her hands in agony of suspense. -An almost unconquerable instinct urged her forward; but terror -held her back. After standing irresolute for some minutes, she -turned to walk back to the house, saying, "I must not run the risk of -its being a stranger. If it is Alessandro, he will come." - -But her feet seemed to refuse to move in the opposite direction. -Slower and slower she walked for a few paces, then turned again. -The man had returned to his former place, and stood as at first, -leaning against the tree. - -"It may be a messenger from him," she said; "a messenger who has -been told not to come to the house until after dark." - -Her mind was made up. She quickened her pace to a run. A few -moments more brought her so near that she could see distinctly. It -was -- yes, it was Alessandro. He did not see her. His face was -turned partially away, his head resting against the tree; he must be -ill. Ramona flew, rather than ran. In a moment more, Alessandro -had heard the light steps, turned, saw Ramona, and, with a cry, -bounded forward, and they were clasped in each other's arms -before they had looked in each other's faces. Ramona spoke first. -Disengaging herself gently, and looking up, she began: -"Alessandro --" But at the first sight of his face she shrieked. Was -this Alessandro, this haggard, emaciated, speechless man, who -gazed at her with hollow eyes, full of misery, and no joy! "O God," -cried Ramona, "You have been ill! you are ill! My God, -Alessandro, what is it?" - -Alessandro passed his hand slowly over his forehead, as if trying to -collect his thoughts before speaking, all the while keeping his eyes -fixed on Ramona, with the same anguished look, convulsively -holding both her hands in his. - -"Senorita," he said, "my Senorita!" Then he stopped. His tongue -seemed to refuse him utterance; and this voice,-- this strange, hard, -unresonant voice,-- whose voice was it? Not Alessandro's. - -"My Senorita," he began again, "I could not go without one sight of -your face; but when I was here, I had not courage to go near the -house. If you had not come, I should have gone back without -seeing you." - -Ramona heard these words in fast-deepening terror, What did they -mean? Her look seemed to suggest a new thought to Alessandro. - -"Heavens, Senorita!" he cried, "have you not heard? Do you not -know what has happened?" - -"I know nothing, love," answered Ramona. "I have heard nothing -since you went away. For ten days I have been sure you were dead; -but to-night something told me that you were near, and I came to -meet you." - -At the first words of Ramona's sentence, Alessandro threw his -arms around her again. As she said "love," his whole frame shook -with emotion. - -"My Senorita!" he whispered, "my Senorita! how shall I tell you! -How shall I tell you!" - -"What is there to tell, Alessandro?" she said. "I am afraid of -nothing, now that you are here, and not dead, as I thought." - -But Alessandro did not speak. It seemed impossible. At last, -straining her closer to his breast, he cried: "Dearest Senorita! I feel -as if I should die when I tell you,-- I have no home; my father is -dead; my people are driven out of their village. I am only a beggar -now, Senorita; like those you used to feed and pity in Los Angeles -convent!" As he spoke the last words, he reeled, and, supporting -himself against the tree, added: "I am not strong, Senorita; we have -been starving." - -Ramona's face did not reassure him. Even in the dusk he could see -its look of incredulous horror. He misread it. - -"I only came to look at you once more," he continued. "I will go -now. May the saints bless you, my Senorita, always. I think the -Virgin sent you to me to-night. I should never have seen your face -if you had not come." - -While he was speaking, Ramona had buried her face in his bosom. -Lifting it now, she said, "Did you mean to leave me to think you -were dead, Alessandro?" - -"I thought that the news about our village must have reached you," -he said, "and that you would know I had no home, and could not -come, to seem to remind you of what you had said. Oh, Senorita, it -was little enough I had before to give you! I don't know how I -dared to believe that you could come to be with me; but I loved -you so much, I had thought of many things I could do; and --" -lowering his voice and speaking almost sullenly -- "it is the saints, -I believe, who have punished me thus for having resolved to leave -my people, and take all I had for myself and you. Now they have -left me nothing;" and he groaned. - -"Who?" cried Ramona. "Was there a battle? Was your father -killed?" She was trembling with horror. - -"No," answered Alessandro. "There was no battle. There would -have been, if I had had my way; but my father implored me not to -resist. He said it would only make it worse for us in the end. The -sheriff, too, he begged me to let it all go on peaceably, and help -him keep the people quiet. He felt terribly to have to do it. It was -Mr. Rothsaker, from San Diego. We had often worked for him on -his ranch. He knew all about us. Don't you recollect, Senorita, I -told you about him,-- how fair he always was, and kind too? He -has the biggest wheat-ranch in Cajon; we've harvested miles and -miles of wheat for him. He said he would have rather died, almost, -than have had it to do; but if we resisted, he would have to order -his men to shoot. He had twenty men with him. They thought there -would be trouble; and well they might, -- turning a whole village -full of men and women and children out of their houses, and -driving them off like foxes. If it had been any man but Mr. -Rothsaker, I would have shot him dead, if I had hung for it; but I -knew if he thought we must go, there was no help for us." - -"But, Alessandro," interrupted Ramona, "I can't understand. Who -was it made Mr. Rothsaker do it? Who has the land now?" - -"I don't know who they are," Alessandro replied, his voice full of -anger and scorn. "They're Americans -- eight or ten of them. They -all got together and brought a suit, they call it, up in San Francisco; -and it was decided in the court that they owned all our land. That -was all Mr. Rothsaker could tell about it. It was the law, he said, -and nobody could go against the law." - -"Oh," said Ramona, "that's the way the Americans took so much of -the Senora's land away from her. It was in the court up in San -Francisco; and they decided that miles and miles of her land, -which the General had always had, was not hers at all. They said it -belonged to the United States Government." - -"They are a pack of thieves and liars, every one of them!" cried -Alessandro. "They are going to steal all the land in this country; we -might all just as well throw ourselves into the sea, and let them -have it. My father had been telling me this for years. He saw it -coming; but I did not believe him. I did not think men could be so -wicked; but he was right. I am glad he is dead. That is the only -thing I have to be thankful for now. One day I thought he was -going to get well, and I prayed to the Virgin not to let him. I did -not want him to live. He never knew anything clear after they took -him out of his house. That was before I got there. I found him -sitting on the ground outside. They said it was the sun that had -turned him crazy; but it was not. It was his heart breaking in his -bosom. He would not come out of his house, and the men lifted -him up and carried him out by force, and threw him on the ground; -and then they threw out all the furniture we had; and when he saw -them doing that, he put his hands up to his head, and called out, -'Alessandro! Alessandro!' and I was not there! Senorita, they said it -was a voice to make the dead hear, that he called with; and nobody -could stop him. All that day and all the night he kept on calling. -God! Senorita, I wonder I did not die when they told me! When I -got there, some one had built up a little booth of tule over his head, -to keep the sun off. He did not call any more, only for water, -water. That was what made them think the sun had done it. They -did all they could; but it was such a dreadful time, nobody could -do much; the sheriff's men were in great hurry; they gave no time. -They said the people must all be off in two days. Everybody was -running hither and thither. Everything out of the houses in piles on -the ground. The people took all the roofs off their houses too. They -were made of the tule reeds; so they would do again. Oh, Senorita, -don't ask me to tell you any more! It is like death. I can't!" - -Ramona was crying bitterly. She did not know what to say. What -was love, in face of such calamity? What had she to give to a man -stricken like this' - -"Don't weep, Senorita," said Alessandro, drearily. "Tears kill one, -and do no good." - -"How long did your father live?" asked Ramona, clasping her arms -closer around his neck. They were sitting on the ground now, and -Ramona, yearning over Alessandro, as if she were the strong one -and he the one to be sheltered, had drawn his head to her bosom, -caressing him as if he had been hers for years. Nothing could have -so clearly shown his enfeebled and benumbed condition, as the -manner in which he received these caresses, which once would -have made him beside himself with joy. He leaned against her -breast as a child might. - -"He! He died only four days ago. I stayed to bury him, and then I -came away. I have been three days on the way; the horse, poor -beast, is almost weaker than I. The Americans took my horse," -Alessandro said. - -"Took your horse!" cried Ramona, aghast. "Is that the law, too?" - -"So Mr. Rothsaker told me. He said the judge had said he must -take enough of our cattle and horses to pay all it had cost for the -suit up in San Francisco. They didn't reckon the cattle at what they -were worth, I thought; but they said cattle were selling very low -now. There were not enough in all the village to pay it, so we had -to make it up in horses; and they took mine. I was not there the day -they drove the cattle away, or I would have put a ball into Benito's -head before any American should ever have had him to ride. But I -was over in Pachanga with my father. He would not stir a step for -anybody but me; so I led him all the way; and then after he got -there he was so ill I never left him a minute. He did not know me -any more, nor know anything that had happened. I built a little hut -of tule, and he lay on the ground till he died. When I put him in his -grave, I was glad." - -"In Temecula?" asked Ramona. - -"In Temecula." exclaimed Alessandro, fiercely. "You don't seem to -understand, Senorita. We have no right in Temecula, not even to -our graveyard full of the dead. Mr. Rothsaker warned us all not to -be hanging about there; for he said the men who were coming in -were a rough set, and they would shoot any Indian at sight, if they -saw him trespassing on their property." - -"Their property!" ejaculated Ramona. - -"Yes; it is theirs," said Alessandro, doggedly. "That is the law. -They've got all the papers to show it. That is what my father -always said,-- if the Senor Valdez had only given him a paper! But -they never did in those days. Nobody had papers. The American -law is different." - -"It's a law of thieves!" cried Ramona. - -"Yes, and of murderers too," said Alessandro. "Don't you call my -father murdered just as much as if they had shot him? I do! and, O -Senorita, my Senorita, there was Jose! You recollect Jose, who -went for my violin? But, my beloved one, I am killing you with -these terrible things! I will speak no more." - -"No, no, Alessandro. Tell me all, all. You must have no grief I do -not share. Tell me about Jose," cried Ramona, breathlessly. - -"Senorita, it will break your heart to hear. Jose was married a year -ago. He had the best house in Temecula, next to my father's. It was -the only other one that had a shingled roof. And he had a barn too, -and that splendid horse he rode, and oxen, and a flock of sheep. He -was at home when the sheriff came. A great many of the men were -away, grapepicking. That made it worse. But Jose was at home; for -his wife had a little baby only a few weeks old, and the child -seemed sickly and not like to live, and Jose would not leave it. -Jose was the first one that saw the sheriff riding into the village, -and the band of armed men behind him, and Jose knew what it -meant. He had often talked it over with me and with my father, -and now he saw that it had come; and he went crazy in one minute, -and fell on the ground all froth at his mouth. He had had a fit like -that once before; and the doctor said if he had another, he would -die. But he did not. They picked him up, and presently he was -better; and Mr. Rothsaker said nobody worked so well in the -moving the first day as Jose did. Most of the men would not lift a -hand. They sat on the ground with the women, and covered up -their faces, and would not see. But Jose worked; and, Senorita, one -of the first things he did, was to run with my father's violin to the -store, to Mrs. Hartsel, and ask her to hide it for us; Jose knew it -was worth money. But before noon the second day he had another -fit, and died in it,-- died right in his own door, carrying out some of -the things; and after Carmena -- that's his wife's name -- saw he -was dead, she never spoke, but sat rocking back and forth on the -ground, with the baby in her arms. She went over to Pachanga at -the same time I did with my father. It was a long procession of us." - -"Where is Pachanga?" asked Ramona. - -"About three miles from Temecula, a little sort of canon. I told the -people they'd better move over there; the land did not belong to -anybody, and perhaps they could make a living there. There isn't -any water; that's the worst of it." - -"No water!" cried Ramona. - -"No running water. There is one little spring, and they dug a well -by it as soon as they got there; so there was water to drink, but that -is all. I saw Carmena could hardly keep up, and I carried the baby -for her on one arm, while I led my father with the other hand; but -the baby cried, so she took it back. I thought then it wouldn't live -the day out; but it did live till the morning of the day my father -died. Just a few hours before he died, Carmena came along with -the baby rolled up in her shawl, and sat down by me on the ground, -and did not speak. When I said, 'How is the little one?' she opened -her shawl and showed it to me, dead. 'Good, Carmena!' said I. 'It is -good! My father is dying too. We will bury them together.' So she -sat by me all that morning, and at night she helped me dig the -graves. I wanted to put the baby on my father's breast; but she said, -no, it must have a little grave. So she dug it herself; and we put -them in; and she never spoke, except that once. She was sitting -there by the grave when I came away. I made a cross of two little -trees with the boughs chopped off, and set it up by the graves. So -that is the way our new graveyard was begun,-- my father and the -little baby; it is the very young and the very old that have the -blessed fortune to die. I cannot die, it seems!" - -"Where did they bury Jose?" gasped Ramona. - -"In Temecula," said Alessandro. "Mr. Rothsaker made two of his -men dig a grave in our old graveyard for Jose. But I think Carmena -will go at night and bring his body away. I would! But, my -Senorita, it is very dark, I can hardly see your beloved eyes. I think -you must not stay longer. Can I go as far as the brook with you, -safely, without being seen? The saints bless you, beloved, for -coming. I could not have lived, I think, without one more sight of -your face;" and, springing to his feet, Alessandro stood waiting for -Ramona to move. She remained still. She was in a sore strait. Her -heart held but one impulse, one desire,-- to go with Alessandro; -nothing was apparently farther from his thoughts than this. Could -she offer to go? Should she risk laying a burden on him greater -than he could bear? If he were indeed a beggar, as he said, would -his life be hindered or helped by her? She felt herself strong and -able. Work had no terrors for her; privations she knew nothing of, -but she felt no fear of them. - -"Alessandro!" she said, in a tone which startled him. - -"My Senorita!" he said tenderly. - -"You have never once called me Ramona." - -"I cannot, Senorita!" he replied. - -"Why not?" - -"I do not know. I sometimes think 'Ramona,'" he added faintly; -"but not often. If I think of you by any other name than as my -Senorita, it is usually by a name you never heard." - -"What is it?" exclaimed Ramona, wonderingly. - -"An Indian word, my dearest one, the name of the bird you are -like,-- the wood-dove. In the Luiseno tongue that is Majel; that was -what I thought my people would have called you, if you had come -to dwell among us. It is a beautiful name, Senorita, and is like -you." - -Alessandro was still standing. Ramona rose; coming close to him, -she laid both her hands on his breast, and her head on her hands, -and said: "Alessandro, I have something to tell you. I am an Indian. -I belong to your people." - -Alessandro's silence astonished her. "You are surprised," she said. -"I thought you would be glad." - -"The gladness of it came to me long ago, my Senorita," he said. "I -knew it!" - -"How?" cried Ramona. "And you never told me, Alessandro!" - -"How could I?" he replied. "I dared not. Juan Canito, it was told -me." - -"Juan Canito!" said Ramona, musingly. "How could he have -known?" Then in a few rapid words she told Alessandro all that -the Senora had told her. "Is that what Juan Can said?" she asked. - -"All except the father's name," stammered Alessandro. - -"Who did he say was my father?" she asked. - -Alessandro was silent. - -"It matters not," said Ramona. "He was wrong. The Senora, of -course, knew. He was a friend of hers, and of the Senora Ortegna, -to whom he gave me. But I think, Alessandro, I have more of my -mother than of my father." - -"Yes, you have, my Senorita," replied Alessandro, tenderly. "After -I knew it, I then saw what it was in your face had always seemed to -me like the faces of my own people," - -"Are you not glad, Alessandro?" - -"Yes, my Senorita." - -What more should Ramona say? Suddenly her heart gave way; and -without premeditation, without resolve, almost without -consciousness of what she was doing, she flung herself on -Alessandro's breast, and cried: "Oh, Alessandro, take me with you! -take me with you! I would rather die than have you leave me -again!" - -XV - -ALESSANDRO'S first answer to this cry of Ramona's was a -tightening of his arms around her; closer and closer he held her, till -it was almost pain; she could hear the throbs of his heart, but he -did not speak. Then, letting his arms fall, taking her hand in his, he -laid it on his forehead reverently, and said, in a voice which was so -husky and trembling she could barely understand his words: "My -Senorita knows that my life is hers. She can ask me to go into the -fire or into the sea, and neither the fire nor the sea would frighten -me; they would but make me glad for her sake. But I cannot take -my Senorita's life to throw it away. She is tender; she would die; -she cannot lie on the earth for a bed, and have no food to eat. My -Senorita does not know what she says." - -His solemn tone; this third-person designation, as if he were -speaking of her, not with her, almost as if he were thinking aloud -to God rather than speaking to her, merely calmed and -strengthened, did not deter Ramona. "I am strong; I can work too, -Alessandro. You do not know. We can both work. I am not afraid -to lie on the earth; and God will give us food," she said. - -"That was what I thought, my Senorita, until now. When I rode -away that morning, I had it in my thoughts, as you say, that if you -were not afraid, I would not be; and that there would at least -always be food, and I could make it that you should never suffer; -but, Senorita, the saints are displeased. They do not pray for us any -more. It is as my father said, they have forsaken us. These -Americans will destroy us all. I do not know but they will -presently begin to shoot us and poison us, to get us all out of the -country, as they do the rabbits and the gophers; it would not be any -worse than what they have done. Would not you rather be dead, -Senorita, than be as I am to-day?" - -Each word he spoke but intensified Ramona's determination to -share his lot. "Alessandro," she interrupted, "there are many men -among your people who have wives, are there not?" - -"Yes, Senorita!" replied Alessandro, wonderingly. - -"Have their wives left them and gone away, now that this trouble -has come?" - -"No, Senorita." still more wonderingly; "how could they?" - -"They are going to stay with them, help them to earn money, try to -make them happier, are they not?" - -"Yes, Senorita." Alessandro began to see whither these questions -tended. It was not unlike the Senora's tactics, the way in which -Ramona narrowed in her lines of interrogation. - -"Do the women of your people love their husbands very much?" - -"Very much, Senorita." A pause. It was very dark now. Alessandro -could not see the hot currents running swift and red over Ramona's -face; even her neck changed color as she asked her last question. -"Do you think any one of them loves her husband more than I love -you, Alessandro?" - -Alessandro's arms were again around her, before the words were -done. Were not such words enough to make a dead man live? -Almost; but not enough to make such a love as Alessandro's -selfish. Alessandro was silent. - -"You know there is not one!" said Ramona, impetuously. - -"Oh, it is too much!" cried Alessandro, throwing his arms up -wildly. Then, drawing her to him again, he said, the words pouring -out breathless: "My Senorita, you take me to the door of heaven, -but I dare not go in. I know it would kill you, Senorita, to live the -life we must live. Let me go, dearest Senorita; let me go! It had -been better if you had never seen me." - -"Do you know what I was going to do, Alessandro, if you had not -come?" said Ramona. "I was going to run away from the Senora's -house, all alone, and walk all the way to Santa Barbara, to Father -Salvierderra, and ask him to put me in the convent at San Juan -Bautista; and that is what I will do now if you leave me!" - -"Oh, no, no, Senorita, my Senorita, you will not do that! My -beautiful Senorita in the convent! No, no!" cried Alessandro, -greatly agitated. - -"Yes, if you do not let me come with you, I shall do it. I shall set -out to-morrow." - -Her words carried conviction to Alessandro's soul. He knew she -would do as she said. "Even that would not be so dreadful as to be -hunted like a wild beast, Senorita; as you may be, if you come with -me." - -"When I thought you were dead, Alessandro, I did not think the -convent would be dreadful at all. I thought it would be peace; and I -could do good, teaching the children. But if I knew you were alive, -I could never have peace; not for one minute have peace, -Alessandro! I would rather die, than not be where you are. Oh, -Alessandro, take me with you!" - -Alessandro was conquered. "I will take you, my most beloved -Senorita," he said gravely,-- no lover's gladness in his tone, and his -voice was hollow; "I will take you. Perhaps the saints will have -mercy on you, even if they have forsaken me and my people!" - -"Your people are my people, dearest; and the saints never forsake -any one who does not forsake them. You will be glad all our lives -long, Alessandro," cried Ramona; and she laid her head on his -breast in solemn silence for a moment, as if registering a vow. - -Well might Felipe have said that he would hold himself fortunate -if any woman ever loved him as Ramona loved Alessandro. - -When she lifted her head, she said timidly, now that she was sure, -"Then you will take your Ramona with you, Alessandro?" - -"I will take you with me till I die; and may the Madonna guard -you, my Ramona," replied Alessandro, clasping her to his breast, -and bowing his head upon hers. But there were tears in his eyes, -and they were not tears of joy; and in his heart he said, as in his -rapturous delight when he first saw Ramona bending over the -brook under the willows he had said aloud, "My God! what shall I -do!" - -It was not easy to decide on the best plan of procedure now. -Alessandro wished to go boldly to the house, see Senor Felipe, and -if need be the Senora. Ramona quivered with terror at the bare -mention of it. "You do not know the Senora, Alessandro," she -cried, "or you would never think of it. She has been terrible all this -time. She hates me so that she would kill me if she dared. She -pretends that she will do nothing to prevent my going away; but I -believe at the last minute she would throw me in the well in the -court-yard, rather than have me go with you." - -"I would never let her harm you," said Alessandro. "Neither would -Senor Felipe." - -"She turns Felipe round her finger as if he were soft wax," -answered Ramona. "She makes him of a hundred minds in a -minute, and he can't help himself. Oh, I think she is in league with -the fiends, Alessandro! Don't dare to come near the house; I will -come here as soon as every one is asleep. We must go at once." - -Ramona's terrors overruled Alessandro's judgment, and he -consented to wait for her at the spot where they now stood. She -turned back twice to embrace him again. "Oh, my Alessandro, -promise me that you will not stir from this place till I come," she -said. - -"I will be here when you come," he said. - -"It will not be more than two hours," she said, "or three, at the -utmost. It must be nine o'clock now." - -She did not observe that Alessandro had evaded the promise not to -leave the spot. That promise Alessandro would not have given. He -had something to do in preparation for this unexpected flight of -Ramona. In her innocence, her absorption in her thoughts of -Alessandro and of love, she had never seemed to consider how she -would make this long journey. As Alessandro had ridden towards -Temecula, eighteen days ago, he had pictured himself riding back -on his fleet, strong Benito, and bringing Antonio's matchless little -dun mare for Ramona to ride. Only eighteen short days ago; and as -he was dreaming that very dream, he had looked up and seen -Antonio on the little dun mare, galloping towards him like the -wind, the overridden creature's breath coming from her like pants -of a steam-engine, and her sides dripping blood, where Antonio, -who loved her, had not spared the cruel spurs; and Antonio, seeing -him, had uttered a cry, and flinging himself off, came with a bound -to his side, and with gasps between his words told him. Alessandro -could not remember the words, only that after them he set his -teeth, and dropping the bridle, laid his head down between Benito's -ears, and whispered to him; and Benito never stopped, but -galloped on all that day, till he came into Temecula; and there -Alessandro saw the roofless houses, and the wagons being loaded, -and the people running about, the women and children wailing; -and then they showed him the place where his father lay on the -ground, under the tule, and jumping off Benito he let him go, and -that was the last he ever saw of him. Only eighteen days ago! And -now here he was, under the willows,-- the same copse where he -first halted, at his first sight of Ramona; and it was night, dark -night, and Ramona had been there, in his arms; she was his; and -she was going back presently to go away with him,-- where! He -had no home in the wide world to which to take her,-- and this -poor beast he had ridden from Temecula, had it strength enough -left to carry her? Alessandro doubted. He had himself walked more -than half the distance, to spare the creature, and yet there had been -good pasture all the way; but the animal had been too long starved -to recover quickly. In the Pachanga canon, where they had found -refuge, the grass was burned up by the sun, and the few horses -taken over there had suffered wretchedly; some had died. But -Alessandro, even while his arms were around Ramona, had -revolved in his mind a project he would not have dared to confide -to her. If Baba, Ramona's own horse, was still in the corral, -Alessandro could without difficulty lure him out. He thought it -would be no sin. At any rate, if it were, it could not be avoided. -The Senorita must have a horse, and Baba had always been her -own; had followed her about like a dog ever since he could run; in -fact, the only taming he had ever had, had been done by Ramona, -with bread and honey. He was intractable to others; but Ramona -could guide him by a wisp of his silky mane. Alessandro also had -nearly as complete control over him; for it had been one of his -greatest pleasures, during the summer, when he could not see -Ramona, to caress and fondle her horse, till Baba knew and loved -him next to his young mistress. If only Baba were in the corral, all -would be well. As soon as the sound of Ramona's footsteps had -died away, Alessandro followed with quick but stealthy steps; -keeping well down in the bottom, below the willows, he skirted -the terrace where the artichoke-patch and the sheepfolds lay, and -then turned up to approach the corral from the farther side. There -was no light in any of the herdsmen's huts. They were all asleep. -That was good. Well Alessandro knew how sound they slept; many -a night while he slept there with them he had walked twice over -their bodies as they lay stretched on skins on the floor,-- out and in -without rousing them. If only Baba would not give a loud whinny. -leaning on the corral-fence, Alessandro gave a low, hardly audible -whistle. The horses were all in a group together at the farther end -of the corral. At the sound there was a slight movement in the -group; and one of them turned and came a pace or two toward -Alessandro. - -"I believe that is Baba himself," thought Alessandro; and he made -another low sound. The horse quickened. his steps; then halted, as -if he suspected some mischief. - -"Baba," whispered Alessandro. The horse knew his name as well -as any dog; knew Alessandro's voice too; but the sagacious -creature seemed instinctively to know that here was an occasion -for secrecy and caution. If Alessandro whispered, he, Baba, would -whisper back; and it was little more than a whispered whinny -which he gave, as he trotted quickly to the fence, and put his nose -to Alessandro's face, rubbing and kissing and giving soft -whinnying sighs. - -"Hush! hush! Baba," whispered Alessandro, as if he were speaking -to a human being. "Hush!" and he proceeded cautiously to lift off -the upper rails and bushes of the fence. The horse understood -instantly; and as soon as the fence was a little lowered, leaped over -it and stood still by Alessandro's side, while he replaced the rails, -smiling to himself, spite of his grave anxiety, to think of Juan -Can's wonder in the morning as to how Baba had managed to get -out of the corral. - -This had taken only a few moments. It was better luck than -Alessandro had hoped for; emboldened by it, he began to wonder -if he could not get the saddle too. The saddles, harnesses, bridles, -and all such things hung on pegs in an open barn, such as is -constantly to be seen in Southern California; as significant a -testimony, in matter of climate, as any Signal Service Report could -be,-- a floor and a roof; no walls, only corner posts to hold the -roof. Nothing but summerhouses on a large scale are the South -California barns. Alessandro stood musing. The longer he thought, -the greater grew his desire for that saddle. - -"Baba, if only you knew what I wanted of you, you'd lie down on -the ground here and wait while I got the saddle. But I dare not risk -leaving you. Come, Baba!" and he struck down the hill again, the -horse following him softly. When he got down below the terrace, -he broke into a run, with his hand in Baba's mane, as if it were a -frolic; and in a few moments they were safe in the willow copse, -where Alessandro's poor pony was tethered. Fastening Baba with -the same lariat, Alessandro patted him on the neck, pressed his -face to his nose, and said aloud, "Good Baba, stay here till the -Senorita comes." Baba whinnied. - -"Why shouldn't he know the Senorita's name! I believe he does!" -thought Alessandro, as he turned and again ran swiftly back to the -corral. He felt strong now,-- felt like a new man. Spite of all the -terror, joy thrilled him. When he reached the corral, all was yet -still. The horses had not moved from their former position. -Throwing himself flat on the ground, Alessandro crept on his -breast from the corral to the barn, several rods' distance. This was -the most hazardous part of his adventure; every other moment he -paused, lay motionless for some seconds, then crept a few paces -more. As he neared the corner where Ramona's saddle always -hung, his heart beat. Sometimes, of a warm night, Luigo slept on -the barn floor. If he were there to-night, all was lost. Groping in -the darkness, Alessandro pulled himself up on the post, felt for the -saddle, found it, lifted it, and in a trice was flat on the ground -again, drawing the saddle along after him. Not a sound had he -made, that the most watchful of sheep-dogs could hear. - -"Ha, old Capitan, caught you napping this time!" said Alessandro -to himself, as at last he got safe to the bottom of the terrace, and, -springing to his feet, bounded away with the saddle on his -shoulders. It was a weight for a starving man to carry, but he felt it -not, for the rejoicing he had in its possession. Now his Senorita -would go in comfort. To ride Baba was to be rocked in a cradle. If -need be, Baba would carry them both, and never know it; and it -might come to that, Alessandro thought, as he knelt by the side of -his poor beast, which was stretched out on the ground exhausted; -Baba standing by, looking down in scornful wonder at this strange -new associate. - -"The saints be praised!" thought Alessandro, as he seated himself -to wait. "This looks as if they would not desert my Senorita." - -Thoughts whirled in his brain. Where should they go first? What -would be best? Would they be pursued? Where could they hide? -Where should he seek a new home? - -It was bootless thinking, until Ramona was by his side. He must -lay each plan before her. She must decide. The first thing was to -get to San Diego, to the priest, to be married. That would be three -days' hard ride; five for the exhausted Indian pony. What should -they eat on the ways Ah! Alessandro bethought him of the violin at -Hartsel's. Mr. Hartsel would give him money on that; perhaps buy -it. Then Alessandro remembered his own violin. He had not once -thought of it before. It lay in its case on a table in Senor Felipe's -room when he came away, Was it possible? No, of course it could -not be possible that the Senorita would think to bring it. What -would she bring? She would be wise, Alessandro was sure. - -How long the hours seemed as he sat thus plotting and -conjecturing; more and more thankful, as each hour went by, to -see the sky still clouded, the darkness dense. "It must have been -the saints, too, that brought me on a night when there was no -moon," he thought; and then he said again, devout and -simple-minded man that he was. "They mean to protect my -Senorita; they will let me take care of her." - -Ramona was threading a perilous way, through great difficulties. -She had reached her room unobserved, so far as she could judge. -Luckily for her, Margarita was in bed with a terrible toothache, for -which her mother had given her a strong sleeping-draught. -Margarita was disposed of. If she had not been, Ramona would -never have got away, for Margarita would have known that she had -been out of the house for two hours, and would have watched to -see what it meant. - -Ramona came in through the court-yard; she dared not go by the -veranda, sure that Felipe and his mother were sitting there still, for -it was not late. - -As she entered her room, she heard them talking. She closed one -of her windows, to let them know she was there. Then she knelt at -the Madonna's feet, and in an inaudible whisper told her all she -was going to do, and prayed that she would watch over her and -Alessandro, and show them where to go. - -"I know she will! I am sure she will!" whispered Ramona to herself -as she rose from her knees. - -Then she threw herself on her bed, to wait till the Senora and -Felipe should be asleep. Her brain was alert, clear. She knew -exactly what she wished to do. She had thought that all out, more -than two weeks ago, when she was looking for Alessandro hour by -hour. - -Early in the summer Alessandro had given to her, as curiosities, -two of the large nets which the Indian women use for carrying all -sorts of burdens. They are woven out of the fibres of a flax-like -plant, and are strong as iron. The meshes being large, they are very -light; are gathered at each end, and fastened to a band which goes -around the forehead. In these can be carried on the back, with -comparative ease, heavier loads than could be lifted in any other -way. Until Ramona recollected these, she had been perplexed to -know how she should carry the things which she had made up her -mind it would be right for her to take,-- only a few; simply -necessaries; one stuff gown and her shawls; the new altar-cloth, -and two changes of clothes; that would not be a great deal; she had -a right to so much, she thought, now that she had seen the jewels -in the Senora's keeping. "I will tell Father Salvierderra exactly -what I took," she thought, "and ask him if it was too much." She -did not like to think that all these clothes she must take had been -paid for with the Senora Moreno's money. - -And Alessandro's violin. Whatever else she left, that must go. -What would life be to Alessandro without a violin! And if they -went to Los Angeles, he might earn money by playing at dances. -Already Ramona had devised several ways by which they could -both earn money. - -There must be also food for the journey. And it must be good food, -too; wine for Alessandro. Anguish filled her heart as she recalled -how gaunt he looked. "Starving," he said they had been. Good -God! Starving! And she had sat down each day at loaded tables, -and seen, each day, good food thrown to the dogs to eat. - -It was long before the Senora went to her room; and long after that -before Felipe's breathing had become so deep and regular that -Ramona dared feel sure that he was asleep. At last she ventured -out. All was dark; it was past midnight. - -"The violin first!" she said; and creeping into the dining-room, and -through the inner door to Felipe's room, she brought it out, rolled it -in shawl after shawl, and put it in the net with her clothes. Then -she stole out, with this net on her back, "like a true Indian woman -as I am," she said, almost gayly, to herself,-- through the -court-yard, around the southeast corner of the house, past the -garden, down to the willows, where she laid down her load, and -went back for the second. - -This was harder. Wine she was resolved to have and bread and -cold meat. She did not know so well where to put her hand on old -Marda's possessions as on her own, and she dared not strike a light. -She made several journeys to the kitchen and pantry before she -had completed her store. Wine, luckily, she found in the -dining-room,-- two full bottles; also milk, which she poured into a -leathern flask which hung on the wall in the veranda. - -Now all was ready. She leaned from her window, and listened to -Felipe's breathing. "How can I go without bidding him good-by?" -she said. "How can I?" and she stood irresolute. - -"Dear Felipe! Dear Felipe! He has always been so good to me! He -has done all he could for me. I wish I dared kiss him. I will leave a -note for him." - -Taking a pencil and paper, and a tiny wax taper, whose light would -hardly be seen across a room, she slipped once more into the -dining-room, knelt on the floor behind the door, lighted her taper, -and wrote:-- - -"DEAR FELIPE,-- Alessandro has come, and I am going away -with him to-night. Don't let anything be done to us, if you can help -it. I don't know where we are going. I hope, to Father Salvierderra. -I shall love you always. Thank you, dear Felipe, for all your -kindness. - -"RAMONA." - -It had not taken a moment. She blew out her taper, and crept back -into her room. Felipe's bed was now moved close to the wall of the -house. From her window she could reach its foot. Slowly, -cautiously, she stretched out her arm and dropped the little paper -on the coverlet, just over Felipe's feet. There was a risk that the -Senora would come out in the morning, before Felipe awaked, and -see the note first; but that risk she would take. - -"Farewell, dear Felipe!" she whispered, under her breath, as she -turned from the window. - -The delay had cost her dear. The watchful Capitan, from his bed at -the upper end of the court, had half heard, half scented, something -strange going on. As Ramona stepped out, he gave one short, quick -bark, and came bounding down. - -"Holy Virgin, I am lost!" thought Ramona; but, crouching on the -ground, she quickly opened her net, and as Capitan came towards -her, gave him a piece of meat, fondling and caressing him. While -he ate it, wagging his tail, and making great demonstrations of joy, -she picked up her load again, and still fondling him, said, "Come -on, Capitan!" It was her last chance. If he barked again, somebody -would be waked; if he went by her side quietly, she might escape. -A cold sweat of terror burst on her forehead as she took her first -step cautiously. The dog followed. She quickened her pace; he -trotted along, still smelling the meat in the net. When she reached -the willows, she halted, debating whether she should give him a -large piece of meat, and try to run away while he was eating it, or -whether she should let him go quietly along. She decided on the -latter course; and, picking up her other net, walked on. She was -safe now. She turned, and looked back towards the house; all was -dark and still. She could hardly see its outline. A great wave of -emotion swept over her. It was the only home she had ever known. -All she had experienced of happiness, as well as of bitter pain, had -been there,-- Felipe, Father Salvierderra, the servants, the birds, the -garden, the dear chapel! Ah, if she could have once more prayed in -the chapel! Who would put fresh flowers and ferns in the chapel -now? How Felipe would miss her, when he knelt before the altar! -For fourteen years she had knelt by his side. And the Senora,-- the -hard, cold Senora! She would alone be glad. Everybody else would -be sorry. "They will all be sorry I have gone,-- all but the Senora! I -wish it had been so that I could have bidden them all good-by, and -had them all bid me good-by, and wish us good fortune!" thought -the gentle, loving girl, as she drew a long sigh, and, turning her -back on her home, went forward in the path she had chosen. - -She stooped and patted Capitan on the head. "Will you come with -me, Capitan?" she said; and Capitan leaped up joyfully, giving two -or three short, sharp notes of delight. "Good Capitan, come! They -will not miss him out of so many," she thought, "and it will always -seem like something from home, as long as I have Capitan." - -When Alessandro first saw Ramona's figure dimly in the gloom, -drawing slowly nearer, he did not recognize it, and he was full of -apprehension at the sight. What stranger could it be, abroad in -these lonely meadows at this hour of the night? Hastily he led the -horses farther back into the copse, and hid himself behind a tree, to -watch. In a few moments more he thought he recognized Capitan, -bounding by the side of this bent and slow-moving figure. Yet this -was surely an Indian woman toiling along under a heavy load. But -what Indian woman would have so superb a collie as Capitan? -Alessandro strained his eyes through the darkness. Presently he -saw the figure halt,-- drop part of its .burden. - -"Alessandro!" came in a sweet, low call. - -He bounded like a deer, crying, "My Senorita! my Senorita! Can -that be you? To think that you have brought these heavy loads!" - -Ramona laughed. "Do you remember the day you showed me how -the Indian women carried so much on their backs, in these nets? I -did not think then I would use it so soon. But it hurts my forehead, -Alessandro. It isn't the weight, but the strings cut. I couldn't have -carried them much farther!" - -"Ah, you had no basket to cover the head," replied Alessandro, as -he threw up the two nets on his shoulders as if they had been -feathers. In doing so, he felt the violin-case. - -"Is it the violin?" he cried. "My blessed one, where did you get it?" - -"Off the table in Felipe's room," she answered. "I knew you would -rather have it than anything else. I brought very little, Alessandro; -it seemed nothing while I was getting it; but it is very heavy to -carry. Will it be too much for the poor tired horse? You and I can -walk. And see, Alessandro, here is Capitan. He waked up, and I -had to bring him, to keep him still. Can't he go with us?" - -Capitan was leaping up, putting his paws on Alessandro's breast, -licking his face, yelping, doing all a dog could do, to show -welcome and affection. - -Alessandro laughed aloud. Ramona had not more than two or three -times heard him do this. It frightened her. "Why do you laugh, -Alessandro?" she said. - -"To think what I have to show you, my Senorita," he said. "Look -here;" and turning towards the willows, he gave two or three low -whistles, at the first note of which Baba came trotting out of the -copse to the end of his lariat, and began to snort and whinny with -delight as soon as he perceived Ramona. - -Ramona burst into tears. The surprise was too great. - -"Are you not glad, Senorita?" cried Alessandro, aghast. "Is it not -your own horse? If you do not wish to take him, I will lead him -back. My pony can carry you, if we journey very slowly. But I -thought it would be joy to you to have Baba." - -"Oh, it is! it is!" sobbed Ramona, with her head on Baba's neck. "It -is a miracle,-- a miracle. How did he come here? And ,,the saddle -too!" she cried, for the first time observing that. "Alessandro," in -an awe-struck whisper, "did the saints send him? Did you find him -here?" It would have seemed to Ramona's faith no strange thing, -had this been so. - -"I think the saints helped me to bring him," answered Alessandro, -seriously, "or else I had not done it so easily. I did but call, near the -corral-fence, and he came to my hand, and leaped over the rails at -my word, as quickly as Capitan might have done. He is yours, -Senorita. It is no harm to take him?" - -"Oh, no!" answered Ramona. "He is more mine than anything else -I had; for it was Felipe gave him to me when he could but just -stand on his legs; he was only two days old; and I have fed him out -of my hand every day till now; and now he is five. Dear Baba, we -will never be parted, never!" and she took his head in both her -hands, and laid her cheek against it lovingly. - -Alessandro was busy, fastening the two nets on either side of the -saddle. "Baba will never know he has a load at all; they are not so -heavy as my Senorita thought," he said. "It was the weight on the -forehead, with nothing to keep the strings from the skin, which -gave her pain." - -Alessandro was making all haste. His hands trembled. "We must -make all the speed we can, dearest Senorita," he said, "for a few -hours. Then we will rest. Before light, we will be in a spot where -we can hide safely all day. We will journey only by night, lest they -pursue us." - -"They will not," said Ramona. "There is no danger. The Senora -said she should do nothing. 'Nothing!'" she repeated, in a bitter -tone. "That is what she made Felipe say, too. Felipe wanted to help -us. He would have liked to have you stay with us; but all he could -get was, that she would do 'nothing!' But they will not follow us. -They will wish never to hear of me again. I mean, the Senora will -wish never to hear of me. Felipe will be sorry. Felipe is very good, -Alessandro." - -They were all ready now,-- Ramona on Baba, the two packed nets -swinging from her saddle, one on either side. Alessandro, walking, -led his tired pony. It was a sad sort of procession for one going to -be wed, but Ramona's heart was full of joy. - -"I don't know why it is, Alessandro," she said; "I should think I -would be afraid, but I have not the least fear,-- not the least; not of -anything that can come, Alessandro," she reiterated with emphasis. -"Is it not strange?" - -"Yes, Senorita," he replied solemnly, laying his hand on hers as he -walked close at her side. "It is strange. I am afraid,-- afraid for you, -my Senorita! But it is done, and we will not go back; and perhaps -the saints will help you, and will let me take care of you. They -must love you, Senorita; but they do not love me, nor my people." - -"Are you never going to call me by my name?" asked Ramona. "I -hate your calling me Senorita. That was what the Senora always -called me when she was displeased." - -"I will never speak the word again!" cried Alessandro. "The saints -forbid I should speak to you in the words of that woman!" - -"Can't you say Ramona?" she asked. - -Alessandro hesitated. He could not have told why it seemed to him -difficult to say Ramona. - -"What was that other name, you said you always thought of me -by?" she continued. "The Indian name,-- the name of the dove?" - -"Majel," he said. "It is by that name I have oftenest thought of you -since the night I watched all night for you, after you had kissed me, -and two wood-doves were calling and answering each other in the -dark; and I said to myself, that is what my love is like, the -wood-dove: the wood-dove's voice is low like hers, and sweeter -than any other sound in the earth; and the wood-dove is true to one -mate always --" He stopped. - -"As I to you, Alessandro," said Ramona, leaning from her horse, -and resting her hand on Alessandro's shoulder. - -Baba stopped. He was used to knowing by the most trivial signs -what his mistress wanted; he did not understand this new situation; -no one had ever before, when Ramona was riding him, walked by -his side so close that he touched his shoulders, and rested his hand -in his mane. If it had been anybody else than Alessandro, Baba -would not have permitted it even now. But it must be all right, -since Ramona was quiet; and now she had stretched out her hand -and rested it on Alessandro's shoulder. Did that mean halt for a -moment? Baba thought it might, and acted accordingly; turning his -head round to the right, and looking back to see what came of it. - -Alessandro's arms around Ramona, her head bent down to his, -their lips together,-- what could Baba think? As mischievously as -if he had been a human being or an elf, Baba bounded to one side -and tore the lovers apart. They both laughed, and cantered on,-- -Alessandro running; the poor Indian pony feeling the contagion, -and loping as it had not done for many a day. - -"Majel is my name, then," said Ramona, "is it? It is a sweet sound, -but I would like it better Majella. Call me Majella." - -"That will be good," replied Alessandro, "for the reason that never -before had any one the same name. It will not be hard for me to -say Majella. I know not why your name of Ramona has always -been hard to my tongue." - -"Because it was to be that you should call me Majella," said -Ramona. "Remember, I am Ramona no longer. That also was the -name the Senora called me by -- and dear Felipe too," she added -thoughtfully. "He would not know me by my new name. I would -like to have him always call me Ramona. But for all the rest of the -world I am Majella, now,-- Alessandro's Majel!" - -XVI - -AFTER they reached the highway, and had trotted briskly on for a -mile, Alessandro suddenly put out his hand, and taking Baba by -the rein, began turning him round and round in the road. - -"We will not go any farther in the road," he said, "but I must -conceal our tracks here. We will go backwards for a few paces." -The obedient Baba backed slowly, half dancing, as if he -understood the trick; the Indian pony, too, curvetted awkwardly, -then by a sudden bound under Alessandro's skilful guidance, -leaped over a rock to the right, and stood waiting further orders. -Baba followed, and Capitan; and there was no trail to show where -they had left the road. - -After trotting the pony round and round again in ever-widening -circles, cantering off in one direction after another, then backing -over the tracks for a few moments, Ramona docilely following, -though much bewildered as to what it all meant, Alessandro said: -"I think now they will never discover where we left the road. They -will ride along, seeing our tracks plain, and then they will be so -sure that we would have kept straight on, that they will not notice -for a time; and when they do, they will never be able to see where -the trail ended. And now my Majella has a very hard ride before -her. Will she be afraid?" - -"Afraid." laughed Ramona. "Afraid,-- on Baba, and with you!" - -But it was indeed a hard ride. Alessandro had decided to hide for -the day in a canon he knew, from which a narrow trail led direct to -Temecula,-- a trail which was known to none but Indians. Once in -this canon, they would be safe from all possible pursuit. -Alessandro did not in the least share Ramona's confidence that no -effort would be made to overtake them. To his mind, it appeared -certain that the Senora would never accept the situation without -making an attempt to recover at least the horse and the dog. "She -can say, if she chooses, that I have stolen one of her horses," he -thought to himself bitterly; "and everybody would believe her. -Nobody would believe us, if we said it was the Senorita's own -horse." - -The head of the canon was only a couple of miles from the road; -but it was in a nearly impenetrable thicket of chaparral, where -young oaks had grown up so high that their tops made, as it were, a -second stratum of thicket. Alessandro had never ridden through it; -he had come up on foot once from the other side, and, forcing his -way through the tangle had found, to his surprise, that he was near -the highway. It was from this canon that he had brought the ferns -which it had so delighted Ramona to arrange for the decoration of -the chapel. The place was filled with them, growing almost in -tropical luxuriance; but this was a mile or so farther down, and to -reach that spot from above, Alessandro had had to let himself -down a sheer wall of stone. The canon at its head was little more -than a rift in the rocks, and the stream which had its rise in it was -only a trickling spring at the beginning. It was this precious water, -as well as the inaccessibility of the spot, which had decided -Alessandro to gain the place at all hazards and costs. But a wall of -granite would not have seemed a much more insuperable obstacle -than did this wall of chaparral, along which they rode, vainly -searching for a break in it. It appeared to Alessandro to have -thickened and knit even since the last spring. At last they made -their way down a small side canon,-- a sort of wing to the main -canon; a very few rods down this, and they were as hidden from -view from above as if the earth had swallowed them. The first red -tints of the dawn were coming. From the eastern horizon to the -zenith, the whole sky was like a dappled crimson fleece. - -"Oh, what a lovely place." exclaimed Ramona. "I am sure this was -not a hard ride at all, Alessandro! Is this where we are to stay?" - -Alessandro turned a compassionate look upon her. "How little -does the wood-dove know of rough places!" he said. "This is only -the beginning; hardly is it even the beginning." - -Fastening his pony to a bush, he reconnoitred the place, -disappearing from sight the moment he entered the chaparral in -any direction. Returning at last, with a grave face, he said, "Will -Majella let me leave her here for a little time? There is a way, but I -can find it only on foot. I will not be gone long. I know it is near." - -Tears came into Ramona's eyes. The only thing she dreaded was -the losing sight of Alessandro. He gazed at her anxiously. "I must -go, Majella," he said with emphasis. "We are in danger here." - -"Go! go! Alessandro," she cried. "But, oh, do not be long!" - -As he disappeared in the thicket, the tough boughs crackling and -snapping before him, it seemed to Ramona that she was again -alone in the world. Capitan, too, bounded after Alessandro, and did -not return at her call. All was still. Ramona laid her head on Baba's -neck. The moments seemed hours. At last, just as the yellow light -streamed across the sky, and the crimson fleeces turned in one -second to gold, she heard Alessandro's steps, the next moment saw -his face. It was aglow with joy. - -"I have found the trail!" he exclaimed; "but we must climb up -again out of this; and it is too light. I like it not." - -With fear and trembling they urged their horses up and out into the -open again, and galloped a half-mile farther west, still keeping as -close to the chaparral thicket as possible. Here Alessandro, who -led the way, suddenly turned into the very thicket itself; no -apparent opening; but the boughs parted and closed, and his head -appeared above them; still the little pony was trotting bravely -along. Baba snorted with displeasure as he plunged into the same -bristling pathway. The thick-set, thorny branches smote Ramona's -cheeks. What was worse, they caught the nets swung on Baba's -sides; presently these were held fast, and Baba began to rear and -kick. Here was a real difficulty. Alessandro dismounted, cut the -strings, and put both the packages securely on the back of his own -pony. "I will walk," he said. "It was only a little way longer I would -have ridden. I shall lead Baba, where it is narrow." - -"Narrow," indeed. It was from sheer terror, soon, that Ramona shut -her eyes. A path, it seemed to her only a hand's-breadth wide,-- a -stony, crumbling path,-- on the side of a precipice, down which the -stones rolled, and rolled, and rolled, echoing, far out of sight, as -they passed; at each step the beasts took, the stones rolled and fell. -Only the yucca-plants, with their sharp bayonet-leaves, had made -shift to keep foothold on this precipice. Of these there were -thousands; and their tall flower-stalks, fifteen, twenty feet high, set -thick with the shining, smooth seed-cups, glistened like satin -chalices in the sun. Below -- hundreds of feet below -- lay the -canon bottom, a solid bed of chaparral, looking soft and even as a -bed of moss. Giant sycamore-trees lifted their heads, at intervals, -above this; and far out in the plain glistened the loops of the river, -whose sources, unknown to the world, seen of but few human -eyes, were to be waters of comfort to these fugitives this day. - -Alessandro was cheered. The trail was child's play to him. At the -first tread of Baba's dainty steps on the rolling stones, he saw that -the horse was as sure-footed as an Indian pony. In a few short -hours, now, they would be all at rest. He knew where, under a -sycamore-clump, there was running water, clear as crystal, and -cold,-- almost colder than one could drink,-- and green grass too; -plenty for two days' feed for the horses, or even three; and all -California might be searched over in vain for them, once they were -down this trail. His heart full of joy at these thoughts, he turned, to -see Ramona pallid, her lips parted, her eyes full of terror. He had -forgotten that her riding had hitherto been only on the smooth -ways of the valley and the plain, There she was so fearless, that he -had had no misgiving about her nerves here; but she had dropped -the reins, was clutching Baba's mane with both hands, and sitting -unsteadily in her saddle. She had been too proud to cry out; but she -was nearly beside herself with fright. Alessandro halted so -suddenly that Baba, whose nose was nearly on his shoulder, came -to so sharp a stop that Ramona uttered a cry. She thought he had -lost his footing. - -Alessandro looked at her in dismay. To dismount on that perilous -trail was impossible; moreover, to walk there would take more -nerve than to ride. Yet she looked as if she could not much longer -keep her seat. - -"Carita," he cried, "I was stupid not to have told you how narrow -the way is; but it is safe. I can run in it. I ran all this way with the -ferns on my back I brought for you." - -"Oh, did you?" gasped Ramona, diverted, for the moment, from -her contemplation of the abyss, and more reassured by that change -of her thoughts than she could have been by anything else. "Did -you? It is frightful, Alessandro. I never heard of such a trail. I feel -as if I were on a rope in the air. If I could get down and go on my -hands and knees, I think I would like it better. Could I?" - -"I would not dare to have you get off, just here, Majella," answered -Alessandro, sorrowfully. "It is dreadful to me to see you suffer so; -I will go very slowly. Indeed, it is safe; we all came up here, the -whole band, for the sheep-shearing,-- old Fernando on his horse all -the way." - -"Really," said Ramona, taking comfort at each word, "I will try not -to be so silly. Is it far, dearest Alessandro?" - -"Not much more as steep as this, dear, nor so narrow; but it will be -an hour yet before we stop." - -But the worst was over for Ramona now, and long before they -reached the bottom of the precipice she was ready to laugh at her -fears; only, as she looked back at the zigzag lines of the path over -which she had come,-- little more than a brown thread, they -seemed, flung along the rock,-- she shuddered. - -Down in the bottom of the canon it was still the dusky gloaming -when they arrived. Day came late to this fairy spot. Only at high -noon did the sun fairly shine in. As Ramona looked around her, -she uttered an exclamation of delight, which satisfied Alessandro. -"Yes," he said, "when I came here for the ferns, I wished to myself -many times that you could see it. There is not in all this country so -beautiful a place. This is our first home, my Majella," he added, in -a tone almost solemn; and throwing his arms around her, he drew -her to his breast, with the first feeling of joy he had experienced. - -"I wish we could live here always," cried Ramona. - -"Would Majella be content?" said Alessandro. - -"Very," she answered. - -He sighed. "There would not be land enough, to live here," he said. -"If there were, I too would like to stay here till I died, Majella, and -never see the face of a white man again!" Already the instinct of -the hunted and wounded animal to seek hiding, was striving in -Alessandro's blood. "But there would be no food. We could not -live here." Ramona's exclamation had set Alessandro to thinking, -however. "Would Majella be content to stay here three days now?" -he asked. "There is grass enough for the horses for that time. We -should be very safe here; and I fear very much we should not be -safe on any road. I think, Majella, the Senora will send men after -Baba." - -"Baba!" cried Ramona, aghast at the idea. "My own horse! She -would not dare to call it stealing a horse, to take my own Baba!" -But even as she spoke, her heart misgave her. The Senora would -dare anything; would misrepresent anything; only too well -Ramona knew what the very mention of the phrase -"horse-stealing" meant all through the country. She looked -piteously at Alessandro. He read her thoughts. - -"Yes, that is it, Majella," he said. "If she sent men after Baba, there -is no knowing what they might do. It would not do any good for -you to say he was yours. They would not believe you; and they -might take me too, if the Senora had told them to, and put me into -Ventura jail." - -"She's just wicked enough to do it!" cried Ramona. "Let us not stir -out of this spot, Alessandro,-- not for a week! Couldn't we stay a -week? By that time she would have given over looking for us." - -"I am afraid not a week. There is not feed for the horses; and I do -not know what we could eat. I have my gun, but there is not much, -now, to kill." - -"But I have brought meat and bread, Alessandro," said Ramona, -earnestly, "and we could eat very little each day, and make it last!" -She was like a child, in her simplicity and eagerness. Every other -thought was for the time being driven out of her mind by the terror -of being pursued. Pursuit of her, she knew, would not be in the -Senora's plan; but the reclaiming of Baba and Capitan, that was -another thing. The more Ramona thought of it, the more it seemed -to her a form of vengeance which would be likely to commend -itself to the Senora's mind. Felipe might possibly prevent it. It was -he who had given Baba to her. He would feel that it would be -shameful to recall or deny the gift. Only in Felipe lay Ramona's -hope. - -If she had thought to tell Alessandro that in her farewell note to -Felipe she had said that she supposed they were going to Father -Salvierderra, it would have saved both her and Alessandro much -disquietude. Alessandro would have known that men pursuing -them, on that supposition, would have gone straight down the river -road to the sea, and struck northward along the coast. But it did not -occur to Ramona to mention this; in fact, she hardly recollected it -after the first day. Alessandro had explained to her his plan, which -was to go by way of Temecula to San Diego, to be married there -by Father Gaspara, the priest of that parish, and then go to the -village or pueblo of San Pasquale, about fifteen miles northwest of -San Diego. A cousin of Alessandro's was the head man of this -village, and had many times begged him to come there to live; but -Alessandro had steadily refused, believing it to be his duty to -remain at Temecula with his father. San Pasquale was a regularly -established pueblo, founded by a number of the Indian neophytes -of the San Luis Rey Mission at the time of the breaking up of that -Mission. It was established by a decree of the Governor of -California, and the lands of the San Pasquale Valley given to it. A -paper recording this establishment and gift, signed by the -Governor's own hand, was given to the Indian who was the first -Alcalde of the pueblo. He was Chief Pablo's brother. At his death -the authority passed into the hands of his son, Ysidro, the cousin of -whom Alessandro had spoken. - -"Ysidro has that paper still," Alessandro said, "and he thinks it will -keep them their village. Perhaps it will; but the Americans are -beginning to come in at the head of the valley, and I do not -believe, Majella, there is any safety anywhere. Still, for a few years -we can perhaps stay there. There are nearly two hundred Indians in -the valley; it is much better than Temecula, and Ysidro's people -are much better off than ours were. They have splendid herds of -cattle and horses, and large wheat-fields. Ysidro's house stands -under a great fig-tree; they say it is the largest fig-tree in the -country." - -"But, Alessandro," cried Ramona, "why do you think it is not safe -there, if Ysidro has the paper? I thought a paper made it all right." - -"I don't know," replied Alessandro. "Perhaps it may be; but I have -got the feeling now that nothing will be of any use against the -Americans. I don't believe they will mind the paper." - -"They didn't mind the papers the Senora had for all that land of -hers they took away," said Ramona, thoughtfully. "But Felipe said -that was because Pio Pico was a bad man, and gave away lands he -had no right to give away." - -"That's just it," said Alessandro. "Can't they say that same thing -about any governor, especially if he has given lands to us? If the -Senora couldn't keep hers, with Senor Felipe to help her, and he -knows all about the law, and can speak the American language, -what chance is there for us? We can't take care of ourselves any -better than the wild beasts can, my Majella. Oh, why, why did you -come with me? Why did I let you?" - -After such words as these, Alessandro would throw himself on the -ground, and for a few moments not even Ramona's voice would -make him look up. It was strange that the gentle girl, unused to -hardship, or to the thought of danger, did net find herself terrified -by these fierce glooms and apprehensions of her lover. But she was -appalled by nothing. Saved from the only thing in life she had -dreaded, sure that Alessandro lived, and that he would not leave -her, she had no fears. This was partly from her inexperience, from -her utter inability to conceive of the things Alessandro's -imagination painted in colors only too true; but it was also largely -due to the inalienable loyalty and quenchless courage of her soul,-- -qualities in her nature never yet tested; qualities of which she -hardly knew so much as the name, but which were to bear her -steadfast and buoyant through many sorrowful years. - -Before nightfall of this their first day in the wilderness, Alessandro -had prepared for Ramona a bed of finely broken twigs of the -manzanita and ceanothus, both of which grew in abundance all -through the canon. Above these he spread layers of glossy ferns, -five and six feet long; when it was done, it was a couch no queen -need have scorned. As Ramona seated herself on it, she exclaimed: -"Now I shall see how it feels to lie and look up at the stars at night! -Do you recollect, Alessandro, the night you put Felipe's bed on the -veranda, when you told me how beautiful it was to lie at night out -of doors and look up at the stars?" - -Indeed did Alessandro remember that night,-- the first moment he -had ever dared to dream of the Senorita Ramona as his own. "Yes, -I remember it, my Majella," he answered slowly; and in a moment -more added, "That was the day Juan Can had told me that your -mother was of my people; and that was the night I first dared in my -thoughts to say that perhaps you might some day love me." - -"But where are you going to sleep, Alessandro?" said Ramona, -seeing that he spread no more boughs. "You have made yourself -no bed." - -Alessandro laughed. "I need no bed," he said. "We think it is on -our mother's lap we lie, when we lie on the ground. It is not hard, -Majella. It is soft, and rests one better than beds. But to-night I -shall not sleep. I will sit by this tree and watch." - -"Why, what are you afraid of?" asked Ramona. - -"It may grow so cold that I must make a fire for Majella," he -answered. "It sometimes gets very cold before morning in these -canons; so I shall feel safer to watch to-night." - -This he said, not to alarm Ramona. His real reason for watching -was, that he had seen on the edge of the stream tracks which gave -him uneasiness. They were faint and evidently old; but they looked -like the tracks of a mountain lion. As soon as it was dark enough to -prevent the curl of smoke from being seen from below, he would -light a fire, and keep it blazing all night, and watch, gun in hand, -lest the beast return. - -"But you will be dead, Alessandro, if you do not sleep. You are not -strong," said Ramona, anxiously. - -"I am strong now, Majella," answered Alessandro. And indeed he -did already look like a renewed man, spite of all his fatigue and -anxiety. "I am no longer weak; and to-morrow I will sleep, and you -shall watch." - -"Will you lie on the fern-bed then?" asked Ramona, gleefully. - -"I would like the ground better," said honest Alessandro. - -Ramona looked disappointed. "That is very strange," she said. "It is -not so soft, this bed of boughs, that one need fear to be made -tender by lying on it," she continued, throwing herself down; "but -oh, how sweet, how sweet it smells!" - -"Yes, there is spice-wood in it," he answered. "I put it in at the -head, for Majella's pillow." - -Ramona was very tired, and she was happy. All night long she -slept like a child. She did not hear Alessandro's steps. She did not -hear the crackling of the fire he lighted. She did not hear the -barking of Capitan, who more than once, spite of all Alessandro -could do to quiet him, made the canon echo with sharp, quick -notes of warning, as he heard the stealthy steps of wild creatures in -the chaparral. Hour after hour she slept on. And hour after hour -Alessandro sat leaning against a huge sycamore-trunk, and -watched her. As the fitful firelight played over her face, he thought -he had never seen it so beautiful, Its expression of calm repose -insensibly soothed and strengthened him. She looked like a saint, -he thought; perhaps it was as a saint of help and guidance, the -Virgin was sending her to him and his people. The darkness -deepened, became blackness; only the red gleams from the fire -broke it, in swaying rifts, as the wind makes rifts in black -storm-clouds in the heavens. With the darkness, the stillness also -deepened. Nothing broke that, except an occasional motion of -Baba or the pony, or an alert signal from Capitan; then all seemed -stiller than ever. Alessandro felt as if God himself were in the -canon. Countless times in his life before he had lain in lonely -places under the sky and watched the night through, but he never -felt like this. It was ecstasy, and yet it was pain. What was to come -on the morrow, and the next morrow, and the next, and the next, -all through the coming years? What was to come to this beloved -and loving woman who lay there sleeping, so confident, so trustful, -guarded only by him,-- by him, Alessandro, the exile, fugitive, -homeless man? - -Before the dawn, wood-doves began their calling. The canon was -full of them, no two notes quite alike, it seemed to Alessandro's -sharpened sense; pair after pair, he fancied that he recognized, -speaking and replying, as did the pair whose voices had so -comforted him the night he watched under the geranium hedge by -the Moreno chapel,-- "Love?" "Here!" "Love?" "Here!" They -comforted him still more now. "They too have only each other," he -thought, as he bent his eyes lovingly on Ramona's face. - -It was dawn, and past dawn, on the plains, before it was yet -morning twilight in the canon; but the birds in the upper boughs' of -the sycamores caught the tokens of the coming day, and began to -twitter in the dusk. Their notes fell on Ramona's sleeping ear, like -the familiar sound of the linnets in the veranda-thatch at home, and -waked her instantly. Sitting up bewildered, and looking about her, -she exclaimed, "Oh, is it morning already, and so dark? The birds -can see more sky than we! Sing, Alessandro," and she began the -hymn: -- - -"'Singers at dawn -From the heavens above -People all regions; -Gladly we too sing,'" - -Never went up truer invocation, from sweeter spot. - -"Sing not so loud, my Majel," whispered Alessandro, as her voice -went carolling like a lark's in the pure ether. "There might be -hunters near who would hear;" and he joined in with low and -muffled tones. - -As she dropped her voice at this caution, it seemed even sweeter -than before: -- - -"'Come, O sinners, -Come, and we will sing -Tender hymns -To our refuge,'" - -"Ah, Majella, there is no sinner here, except me!" said Alessandro. -"My Majella is like one of the Virgin's own saints." And indeed he -might have been forgiven the thought. as he gazed at Ramona, -sitting there in the shimmering light, her face thrown out into relief -by the gray wall of fern-draped rock behind her; her splendid hair, -unbound, falling in tangled masses to her waist; her cheeks -flushed, her face radiant with devout and fervent supplication, her -eyes uplifted to the narrow belt of sky overhead, where filmy -vapors were turning to gold, touched by a sun she could not see. - -"Hush, my love," she breathed rather than said. "That would be a -sin, if you really thought it. - -'O beautiful Queen, -Princess of Heaven,'" - -she continued, repeating the first lines of the song; and then, -sinking on her knees, reached out one hand for Alessandro's, and -glided, almost without a break in the melodious sound, into a low -recitative of the morning-prayers. Her rosary was of fine-chased -gold beads, with an ivory crucifix; a rare and precious relic of the -Missions' olden times. It had belonged to Father Peyri himself, was -given by him to Father Salvierderra, and by Father Salvierderra to -the "blessed child," Ramona, at her confirmation. A warmer token -of his love and trust he could not have bestowed upon her, and to -Ramona's religious and affectionate heart it had always seemed a -bond and an assurance, not only of Father Salvierderra's love, but -of the love and protection of the now sainted Peyri. - -As she pronounced the last words of her trusting prayer, and -slipped the last of the golden beads along on its string, a thread of -sunlight shot into the canon through a deep narrow gap in its rocky -eastern crest,-- shot in for a second, no more; fell aslant the rosary, -lighted it; by a flash as if of fire, across the fine-cut facets of the -beads, on Ramona's hands, and on the white face of the ivory -Christ. Only a flash, and it was gone! To both Ramona and -Alessandro it came like an omen,-- like a message straight from -the Virgin. Could she choose better messenger,-- she, the -compassionate one, the loving woman in heaven; mother of the -Christ to whom they prayed, through her,-- mother, for whose sake -He would regard their least cry,-- could she choose better -messenger, or swifter, than the sunbeam, to say that she heard and -would help them in these sore straits' - -Perhaps there were not, in the whole great world, at that moment -to be found, two souls who were experiencing so vivid a happiness -as thrilled the veins of these two friendless ones, on their knees, -alone in the wilderness, gazing half awe-stricken at the shining -rosary. - -XVII - -BEFORE the end of their second day in the canon, the place had -become to Ramona so like a friendly home, that she dreaded to -leave its shelter. Nothing is stronger proof of the original intent of -Nature to do more for man than the civilization in its arrogance -will long permit her to do, than the quick and sure way in which -she reclaims his affection, when by weariness, idle chance, or -disaster, he is returned, for an interval, to her arms. How soon he -rejects the miserable subterfuges of what he had called habits; -sheds the still more miserable pretences of superiority, makeshifts -of adornment, and chains of custom! "Whom the gods love, die -young," has been too long carelessly said. It is not true, in the sense -in which men use the words. Whom the gods love, dwell with -nature; if they are ever lured away, return to her before they are -old. Then, however long they live before they die, they die young. -Whom the gods love, live young -- forever. - -With the insight of a lover added to the instinct of the Indian, -Alessandro saw how, hour by hour, there grew in Ramona's eyes -the wonted look of one at home; how she watched the shadows, -and knew what they meant. - -"If we lived here, the walls would be sun-dials for us, would they -not?" she said, in a tone of pleasure. "I see that yon tall yucca has -gone in shadow sooner than it did yesterday." - -And, "What millions of things grow here, Alessandro! I did not -know there were so many. Have they all names? The nuns taught -us some names; but they were hard, and I forgot them, We might -name them for ourselves, if we lived here. They would be our -relations." - -And, "For one year I should lie and look up at the sky, my -Alessandro, and do nothing else. It hardly seems as if it would be a -sin to do nothing for a year, if one gazed steadily at the sky all the -while." - -And, "Now I know what it is I have always seen in your face, -Alessandro. It is the look from the sky. One must be always serious -and not unhappy, but never too glad, I think, when he lives with -nothing between him and the sky, and the saints can see him every -minute." - -And, "I cannot believe that it is but two days I have lived in the air, -Alessandro. This seems to me the first home I have ever had. Is it -because I am Indian, Alessandro, that it gives me such joy?" - -It was strange how many more words Ramona spoke than -Alessandro, yet how full she felt their intercourse to be. His silence -was more than silent; it was taciturn. Yet she always felt herself -answered. A monosyllable of Alessandro's, nay, a look, told what -other men took long sentences to say, and said less eloquently. - -After long thinking over this, she exclaimed, "You speak as the -trees speak, and like the rock yonder, and the flowers, without -saying anything!" - -This delighted Alessandro's very heart. "And you, Majella," he -exclaimed; "when you say that, you speak in the language of our -people; you are as we are." - -And Ramona, in her turn, was made happy by his words, -- happier -than she would have been made by any other praise or fondness. - -Alessandro found himself regaining all his strength as if by a -miracle. The gaunt look had left his face. Almost it seemed that its -contour was already fuller. There is a beautiful old Gaelic legend -of a Fairy who wooed a Prince, came again and again to him, and, -herself invisible to all but the Prince, hovered in the air, sang -loving songs to draw him away from the crowd of his indignant -nobles, who heard her voice and summoned magicians to rout her -by all spells and enchantments at their command. Finally they -succeeded in silencing her and driving her off; but as she vanished -from the Prince's sight she threw him an apple,-- a magic golden -apple. Once having tasted of this, he refused all other food. Day -after day, night after night, he ate only this golden apple; and yet, -morning after morning, evening after evening, there lay the golden -fruit, still whole and shining, as if he had not fed upon it; and when -the Fairy came the next time, the Prince leaped into her magic -boat, sailed away with her, and never was seen in his kingdom -again. It was only an allegory, this legend,-- a beautiful allegory, -and true,-- of love and lovers. The food on which Alessandro was, -hour by hour, now growing strong, was as magic and invisible as -Prince Connla's apple, and just as strength-giving. - -"My Alessandro, how is it you look so well, so soon?" said -Ramona, studying his countenance with loving care. "I thought that -night you would die. Now you look nearly strong as ever; your -eyes shine, and your hand is not hot! It is the blessed air; it has -cured you, as it cured Felipe of the fever." - -"If the air could keep me well, I had not been ill, Majella," replied -Alessandro. "I had been under no roof except the tule-shed, till I -saw you. It is not the air;" and he looked at her with a gaze that -said the rest. - -At twilight of the third day, when Ramona saw Alessandro leading -up Baba, saddled ready for the journey, the tears filled her eyes. At -noon Alessandro had said to her: "To-night, Majella, we must go. -There is not grass enough for another day. We must go while the -horses are strong. I dare not lead them any farther down the canon -to graze, for there is a ranch only a few miles lower. To-day I -found one of the man's cows feeding near Baba." - -Ramona made no remonstrance. The necessity was too evident; -but the look on her face gave Alessandro a new pang. He, too, felt -as if exiled afresh in leaving the spot. And now, as he led the -horses slowly up, and saw Ramona sitting in a dejected attitude -beside the nets in which were again carefully packed their small -stores, his heart ached anew. Again the sense of his homeless and -destitute condition settled like an unbearable burden on his soul. -Whither and to what was he leading his Majella? - -But once in the saddle, Ramona recovered cheerfulness. Baba was -in such gay heart, she could not be wholly sad. The horse seemed -fairly rollicking with satisfaction at being once more on the move. -Capitan, too, was gay. He had found the canon dull, spite of its -refreshing shade and cool water. He longed for sheep. He did not -understand this inactivity. The puzzled look on his face had made -Ramona laugh more than once, as he would come and stand before -her, wagging his tail and fixing his eyes intently on her face, as if -he said in so many words, "What in the world are you about in this -canon, and do not you ever intend to return home? Or if you will -stay here, why not keep sheep? Do you not see that I have nothing -to do?" - -"We must ride all night, Majella," said Alessandro, "and lose no -time. It is a long way to the place where we shall stay to-morrow." - -"Is it a canon?" asked Ramona, hopefully. - -"No," he replied, "not a canon; but there are beautiful oak-trees. It -is where we get our acorns for the winter. It is on the top of a high -hill." - -"Will it be safe there?" she asked. - -"I think so," he replied; "though not so safe as here. There is no -such place as this in all the country." - -"And then where shall we go next?" she asked. - -"That is very near Temecula," he said. "We must go into -Temecula, dear Majella. I must go to Mr. Hartsel's. He is friendly. -He will give me money for my father's violin. If it were not for -that, I would never go near the place again." - -"I would like to see it, Alessandro," she said gently. - -"Oh, no, no, Majella!" he cried; "you would not. It is terrible; the -houses all unroofed,-- all but my father's and Jose's. They were -shingled roofs; they will be just the same; all the rest are only -walls. Antonio's mother threw hers down; I don't know how the old -woman ever had the strength; they said she was like a fury. She -said nobody should ever live in those walls again; and she took a -pole, and made a great hole in one side, and then she ran Antonio's -wagon against it with all her might, till it fell in. No, Majella. It -will be dreadful." - -"Wouldn't you like to go into the graveyard again, Alessandro?" -she said timidly. - -"The saints forbid!" he said solemnly. "I think it would make me a -murderer to stand in that graveyard! If I had not you, my Majel, I -should kill some white man when I came out. Oh, do not speak of -it!" he added, after a moment's silence; "it takes the strength all out -of my blood again, Majella. It feels as if I should die!" - -And the word "Temecula" was not mentioned between them again -until dusk the next day, when, as they were riding slowly along -between low, wooded hills, they suddenly came to an opening, a -green, marshy place, with a little thread of trickling water, at -which their horses stopped, and drank thirstily; and Ramona, -looking ahead, saw lights twinkling in the distance. "Lights, -Alessandro, lights!" she exclaimed, pointing to them. - -"Yes, Majella," he replied, "it is Temecula," and springing off his -pony he came to her side, and putting both his hands on hers, said: -"I have been thinking, for a long way back, Carita, what is to be -done here. I do not know. What does Majella think will be wise? If -men have been sent out to pursue us, they may be at Hartsel's. His -store is the place where everybody stops, everybody goes. I dare -not have you go there, Majella; yet I must go. The only way I can -get any money is from Mr. Hartsel." - -"I must wait somewhere while you go!" said Ramona, her heart -beating as she gazed ahead into the blackness of the great plain. It -looked vast as the sea. "That is the only safe thing, Alessandro." - -"I think so too," he said; "but, oh, I am afraid for you; and will not -you be afraid?" - -"Yes," she replied, "I am afraid. But it is not so dangerous as the -other." - -"If anything were to happen to me, and I could not come back to -you, Majella, if you give Baba his reins he will take you safe -home,-- he and Capitan." - -Ramona shrieked aloud. She had not thought of this possibility. -Alessandro had thought of everything. "What could happen?" she -cried. - -"I mean if the men were there, and if they took me for stealing the -horse," he said. - -"But you would not have the horse with you," she said. "How could -they take you?" - -"That mightn't make any difference," replied Alessandro. "They -might take me, to make me tell where the horse was." - -"Oh, Alessandro," sobbed Ramona, "what shall we do!" Then in -another second, gathering her courage, she exclaimed, -"Alessandro, I know what I will do. I will stay in the graveyard. No -one will come there. Shall I not be safest there?" - -"Holy Virgin! would my Majel stay there?" exclaimed Alessandro. - -"Why not?" she said. "It is not the dead that will harm us. They -would all help us if they could. I have no fear. I will wait there -while you go; and if you do not come in an hour, I will come to -Mr. Hartsel's after you. If there are men of the Senora's there, they -will know me; they will not dare to touch me. They will know that -Felipe would punish them. I will not be afraid. And if they are -ordered to take Baba, they can have him; we can walk when the -pony is tired." - -Her confidence was contagious. "My wood-dove has in her breast -the heart of the lion," said Alessandro, fondly. "We will do as she -says. She is wise;" and he turned their horses' heads in the -direction of the graveyard. It was surrounded by a low adobe wall, -with one small gate of wooden paling. As they reached it, -Alessandro exclaimed, "The thieves have taken the gate!" - -"What could they have wanted with that?" said Ramona - -"To burn," he said doggedly, "It was wood; but it was very little. -They might have left the graves safe from wild beasts and cattle!" - -As they entered the enclosure, a dark figure rose from one of the -graves. Ramona started. - -"Fear nothing," whispered Alessandro. "It must be one of our -people. I am glad; now you will not be alone. It is Carmena, I am -sure. That was the corner where they buried Jose. I will speak to -her;" and leaving Ramona at the gate, he went slowly on, saying in -a low voice, in the Luiseno language, "Carmena, is that you? Have -no fear. It is I, Alessandro!" - -It was Carmena. The poor creature, nearly crazed with grief, was -spending her days by her baby's grave in Pachanga, and her nights -by her husband's in Temecula. She dared not come to Temecula by -day, for the Americans were there, and she feared them. After a -short talk with her, Alessandro returned, leading her along. -Bringing her to Ramona's side, he laid her feverish hand in -Ramona's, and said: "Majella, I have told her all. She cannot speak -a word of Spanish, but she is very glad, she says, that you have -come with me, and she will stay close by your side till I come -back." - -Ramona's tender heart ached with desire to comfort the girl; but all -she could do was to press her hand in silence. Even in the darkness -she could see the hollow, mournful eyes and the wasted cheek. -Words are less needful to sorrow than to joy. Carmena felt in every -fibre how Ramona was pitying her. Presently she made a gentle -motion, as if to draw her from the saddle. Ramona bent down and -looked inquiringly into her face. Again she drew her gently with -one hand, and with the other pointed to the corner from which she -had come. Ramona understood. "She wants to show me her -husband's grave," she thought. "She does not like to be away from -it. I will go with her." - -Dismounting, and taking Baba's bridle over her arm, she bowed -her head assentingly, and still keeping firm hold of Carmena's -hand, followed her. The graves were thick, and irregularly placed, -each mound marked by a small wooden cross. Carmena led with -the swift step of one who knew each inch of the way by heart. -More than once Ramona stumbled and nearly fell, and Baba was -impatient and restive at the strange inequalities under his feet. -When they reached the corner, Ramona saw the fresh-piled earth -of the new grave. Uttering a wailing cry, Carmena, drawing -Ramona to the edge of it, pointing down with her right hand, then -laid both hands on her heart, and gazed at Ramona piteously. -Ramona burst into weeping, and again clasping Carmena's hand, -laid it on her own breast, to show her sympathy. Carmena did not -weep. She was long past that; and she felt for the moment lifted -out of herself by the sweet, sudden sympathy of this stranger,-- this -girl like herself, yet so different, so wonderful, so beautiful, -Carmena was sure she must be. Had the saints sent her from -heaven to Alessandro? What did it mean? Carmena's bosom was -heaving with the things she longed to say and to ask; but all she -could do was to press Ramona's hand again and again, and -occasionally lay her soft cheek upon it. - -"Now, was it not the saints that put it into my head to come to the -graveyard?" thought Ramona. "What a comfort to this poor -heart-broken thing to see Alessandro! And she keeps me from all -fear. Holy Virgin! but I had died of terror here all alone. Not that -the dead would harm me; but simply from the vast, silent plain, -and the gloom." - -Soon Carmena made signs to Ramona that they would return to the -gate. Considerate and thoughtful, she remembered that Alessandro -would expect to find them there. But it was a long and weary -watch they had, waiting for Alessandro to come. - -After leaving them, and tethering his pony, he had struck off at a -quick run for Hartsel's, which was perhaps an eighth of a mile -from the graveyard. His own old home lay a little to the right. As -he drew near, he saw a light in its windows. He stopped as if shot. -"A light in our house!" he exclaimed; and he clenched his hands. -"Those cursed robbers have gone into it to live already!" His blood -seemed turning to fire. Ramona would not have recognized the -face of her Alessandro now. It was full of implacable vengeance. -Involuntarily he felt for his knife. It was gone. His gun he had left -inside the graveyard, leaning against the wall. Ah! in the -graveyard! Yes, and there also was Ramona waiting for him. -Thoughts of vengeance fled. The world held now but one work, -one hope, one passion, for him. But he would at least see who -were these dwellers in his father's house. A fierce desire to see -their faces burned within him. Why should he thus torture himself? -Why, indeed? But he must. He would see the new home-life -already begun on the grave of his. Stealthily creeping under the -window from which the light shone, he listened. He heard -children's voices; a woman's voice; at intervals the voice of a man, -gruff and surly; various household sounds also. It was evidently the -supper-hour. Cautiously raising himself till his eyes were on a -level with the lowest panes in the window, he looked in. - -A table was set in the middle of the floor, and there were sitting at -it a man, woman, and two children. The youngest, little more than -a baby, sat in its high chair, drumming with a spoon on the table, -impatient for its supper. The room was in great confusion,-- beds -made on the floor, open boxes half unpacked, saddles and harness -thrown down in the corners; evidently there were new-comers into -the house. The window was open by an inch. It had warped, and -would not shut down. Bitterly Alessandro recollected how he had -put off from day to day the planing of that window to make it shut -tight. Now, thanks to the crack, he could hear all that was said. -The woman looked weary and worn. Her face was a sensitive one, -and her voice kindly; but the man had the countenance of a brute,-- -of a human brute. Why do we malign the so-called brute creation, -making their names a unit of comparison for base traits which -never one of them possessed? - -"It seems as if I never should get to rights in this world!" said the -woman. Alessandro understood enough English to gather the -meaning of what she said. He listened eagerly. "When will the next -wagon get here?" - -"I don't know," growled her husband. "There's been a slide in that -cursed canon, and blocked the road. They won't be here for several -days yet. Hain't you got stuff enough round now? If you'd clear up -what's here now, then 'twould be time enough to grumble because -you hadn't got everything." - -"But, John," she replied, "I can't clear up till the bureau comes, to -put the things away in, and the bedstead. I can't seem to do -anything." - -"You can grumble, I take notice," he answered. "That's about all -you women are good for, anyhow. There was a first-rate raw-hide -bedstead in here. If Rothsaker hadn't been such a fool's to let those -dogs of Indians carry off all their truck, we might have had that!" - -The woman looked at him reproachfully, but did not speak for a -moment. Then her cheeks flushed, and seeming unable to repress -the speech, she exclaimed, "Well, I'm thankful enough he did let -the poor things take their furniture. I'd never have slept a wink an -that bedstead, I know, if it had ha' been left here. It's bad enough to -take their houses this way!" - -"Oh, you shut up your head for a blamed fool, will you!" cried the -man. He was half drunk, his worst and most dangerous state. She -glanced at him half timorously, half indignantly, and turning to the -children, began feeding the baby. At that second the other child -looked up, and catching sight of the outline of Alessandro's head, -cried out, "There's a man there! There, at the window!" - -Alessandro threw himself flat on the ground, and held his breath. -Had he imperilled all, brought danger on himself and Ramona, by -yielding to this mad impulse to look once more inside the walls of -his home? With a fearful oath, the half-drunken man exclaimed, -"One of those damned Indians, I expect. I've seen several hangin' -round to-day. We'll have to shoot two or three of 'em yet, before -we're rid of 'em!" and he took his gun down from the pegs above -the fireplace, and went to the door with it in his hand. - -"Oh, don't fire, father, don't." cried the woman. "They'll come and -murder us all in our sleep if you do! Don't fire!" and she pulled -him back by the sleeve. - -Shaking her off, with another oath, he stepped across the -threshold, and stood listening, and peering into the darkness. -Alessandro's heart beat like a hammer in his breast. Except for the -thought of Ramona, he would have sprung on the man, seized his -gun, and killed him. - -"I don't believe it was anybody, after all, father," persisted the -woman. "Bud's always seein' things. I don't believe there was -anybody there. Come in; supper's gettin' all cold." - -"Well, I'll jest fire, to let 'em know there's powder 'n shot round -here," said the fiend. "If it hits any on 'em roamin' round, he won't -know what hurt him;" and levelling his gun at random, with his -drunken, unsteady hand he fired. The bullet whistled away -harmlessly into the empty darkness. Hearkening a few moments, -and hearing no cry, he hiccuped, "Mi-i-issed him that time," and -went in to his supper. - -Alessandro did not dare to stir for a long time. How he cursed his -own folly in having brought himself into this plight! What needless -pain of waiting he was inflicting on the faithful one, watching for -him in that desolate and fearful place of graves! At last he -ventured,-- sliding along on his belly a few inches at a time, till, -several rods from the house, he dared at last to spring to his feet -and bound away at full speed for Hartsel's. - -Hartsel's was one of those mongrel establishments to be seen -nowhere except in Southern California. Half shop, half farm, half -tavern, it gathered up to itself all the threads of the life of the -whole region. Indians, ranchmen, travellers of all sorts, traded at -Hartsel's, drank at Hartsel's, slept at Hartsel's. It was the only place -of its kind within a radius of twenty miles; and it was the least bad -place of its kind within a much wider radius. - -Hartsel was by no means a bad fellow -- when he was sober; but as -that condition was not so frequent as it should have been, he -sometimes came near being a very bad fellow indeed. At such -times everybody was afraid of him,-- wife, children, travellers, -ranchmen, and all. "It was only a question of time and occasion," -they said, "Hartsel's killing somebody sooner or later;" and it -looked as if the time were drawing near fast. But, out of his cups, -Hartsel was kindly, and fairly truthful; entertaining, too, to a -degree which held many a wayfarer chained to his chair till small -hours of the morning, listening to his landlord's talk. How he had -drifted from Alsace to San Diego County, he could hardly have -told in minute detail himself, there had been so many stages and -phases of the strange journey; but he had come to his last halt now. -Here, in this Temecula, he would lay his bones. He liked the -country. He liked the wild life, and, for a wonder, he liked the -Indians. Many a good word he spoke for them to travellers who -believed no good of the race, and evidently listened with polite -incredulity when he would say, as he often did: "I've never lost a -dollar off these Indians yet. They do all their trading with me. -There's some of them I trust as high's a hundred dollars. If they -can't pay this year, they'll pay next; and if they die, their relations -will pay their debts for them, a little at a time, till they've got it all -paid off. They'll pay in wheat, or bring a steer, maybe, or baskets -or mats the women make; but they'll pay. They're honester 'n the -general run of Mexicans about paying; I mean Mexicans that are as -poor's they are." - -Hartsel's dwelling-house was a long, low adobe building, with still -lower flanking additions, in which were bedrooms for travellers, -the kitchen, and storerooms. The shop was a separate building, of -rough planks, a story and a half high, the loft of which was one -great dormitory well provided with beds on the floor, but with no -other article of bedroom furniture. They who slept in this loft had -no fastidious standards of personal luxury. These two buildings, -with some half-dozen out-houses of one sort and another, stood in -an enclosure surrounded by a low white picket fence, which gave -to the place a certain home-like look, spite of the neglected -condition of the ground, which was bare sand, or sparsely tufted -with weeds and wild grass. A few plants, parched and straggling, -stood in pots and tin cans around the door of the dwelling-house. -One hardly knew whether they made the place look less desolate -or more so. But they were token of a woman's hand, and of a -nature which craved something more than the unredeemed -wilderness around her afforded. - -A dull and lurid light streamed out from the wide-open door of the -store. Alessandro drew cautiously near. The place was full of men, -and he heard loud laughing and talking. He dared not go in. -Stealing around to the rear, he leaped the fence, and went to the -other house and opened the kitchen door. Here he was not afraid. -Mrs. Hartsel had never any but Indian servants in her employ. The -kitchen was lighted only by one dim candle. On the stove were -sputtering and hissing all the pots and frying-pans it would hold. -Much cooking was evidently going on for the men who were -noisily rollicking in the other house. - -Seating himself by the fire, Alessandro waited. In a few moments -Mrs. Hartsel came hurrying back to her work. It was no uncommon -experience to find an Indian quietly sitting by her fire. In the dim -light she did not recognize Alessandro, but mistook him, as he sat -bowed over, his head in his hands, for old Ramon, who was a sort -of recognized hanger-on of the place, earning his living there by -odd jobs of fetching and carrying, and anything else he could do. - -"Run, Ramon," she said, "and bring me more wood; this cotton -wood is so dry, it burns out like rotten punk; I'm off my feet -to-night, with all these men to cook for;" then turning to the table, -she began cutting her bread, and did not see how tall and unlike -Ramon was the man who silently rose and went out to do her -bidding. When, a few moments later, Alessandro re-entered, -bringing a huge armful of wood, which it would have cost poor old -Ramon three journeys at least to bring, and throwing it down, on -the hearth, said, "Will that be enough, Mrs. Hartsel?" she gave a -scream of surprise, and dropped her knife. "Why, who --" she -began; then, seeing his face, her own lighting up with pleasure, she -continued, "Alessandro! Is it you? Why, I took you in the dark for -old Ramon! I thought you were in Pachanga." - -"In Pachanga!" Then as yet no one had come from the Senora -Moreno's to Hartsel's in search of him and the Senorita Ramona! -Alessandro's heart felt almost light in his bosom, From the one -immediate danger he had dreaded, they were safe; but no trace of -emotion showed on his face, and he did not raise his eyes as he -replied; "I have been in Pachanga. My father is dead. I have buried -him there." - -"Oh, Alessandro! Did he die?" cried the kindly woman, coming -closer to Alessandro, and laying her hand on his shoulder. "I heard -he was sick." She paused; she did not know what to say. She had -suffered so at the time of the ejectment of the Indians, that it had -made her ill. For two days she had kept her doors shut and her -windows close curtained, that she need not see the terrible sights. -She was not a woman of many words. She was a Mexican, but -there were those who said that some Indian blood ran in her veins. -This was not improbable; and it seemed more than ever probable -now, as she stood still by Alessandro's side, her hand on his -shoulder, her eyes fixed in distress on his face. How he had -altered! How well she recollected his lithe figure, his alert motion, -his superb bearing, his handsome face, when she last saw him in -the spring! - -"You were away all summer, Alessandro?" she said at last, turning -back to her work. - -"Yes," he said: "at the Senora Moreno's." - -"So I heard," she said. "That is a fine great place, is it not? Is her -son grown a fine man? He was a lad when I saw him. He went -through here with a drove of sheep once." - -"Ay, he is a man now," said Alessandro, and buried his face in his -hands again. - -"Poor fellow! I don't wonder he does not want to speak," thought -Mrs. Hartsel. "I'll just let him alone;" and she spoke no more for -some moments. - -Alessandro sat still by the fire. A strange apathy seemed to have -seized him; at last he said wearily: "I must be going now. I wanted -to see Mr. Hartsel a minute, but he seems to be busy in the store." - -"Yes," she said, "a lot of San Francisco men; they belong to the -company that's coming in here in the valley; they've been here two -days. Oh, Alessandro," she continued, bethinking herself, "Jim's -got your violin here; Jose brought it." - -"Yes, I know it," answered Alessandro. "Jose told me; and that was -one thing I stopped for." - -"I'll run and get it," she exclaimed. - -"No," said Alessandro, in a slow, husky voice. "I do not want it. I -thought Mr. Hartsel might buy it. I want some money. It was not -mine; it was my father's. It is a great deal better than mine. My -father said it would bring a great deal of money. It is very old." - -"Indeed it is," she replied; "one of those men in there was looking -at it last night. He was astonished at it, and he would not believe -Jim when he told him about its having come from the Mission." - -"Does he play? Will he buy it?" cried Alessandro, - -"I don't know; I'll call Jim," she said; and running out she looked in -at the other door, saying, "Jim! Jim!" - -Alas, Jim was in no condition to reply. At her first glance in his -face, her countenance hardened into an expression of disgust and -defiance. Returning to the kitchen, she said scornfully, disdaining -all disguises, "Jim's drunk. No use your talking to him to-night. -Wait till morning." - -"Till morning!" A groan escaped from Alessandro, in spite of -himself. "I can't!" he cried. "I must go on to-night." - -"Why, what for?" exclaimed Mrs. Hartsel, much astonished. For -one brief second Alessandro revolved in his mind the idea of -confiding everything to her; only for a second, however. No; the -fewer knew his secret and Ramona's, the better. - -"I must be in San Diego to-morrow," he said. - -"Got work there?" she said. - -"Yes; that is, in San Pasquale," he said; "and I ought to have been -there three days ago." - -Mrs. Hartsel mused. "Jim can't do anything to-night," she said; -"that's certain. You might see the man yourself, and ask him if he'd -buy it," - -Alessandro shook his head. An invincible repugnance withheld -him. He could not face one of these Americans who were "coming -in" to his valley. Mrs. Hartsel understood. - -"I'll tell you, Alessandro," said the kindly woman, "I'll give you -what money you need to-night, and then, if you say so, Jim'll sell -the violin to-morrow, if the man wants it, and you can pay me back -out of that, and when you're along this way again you can have the -rest. Jim'll make as good a trade for you's he can. He's a real good -friend to all of you, Alessandro, when he's himself." - -"I know it, Mrs. Hartsel. I'd trust Mr. Hartsel more than any other -man in this country," said Alessandro. "He's about the only white -man I do trust!" - -Mrs. Hartsel was fumbling in a deep pocket in her under-petticoat. -Gold-piece after gold-piece she drew out. "Humph! Got more'n I -thought I had," she said. "I've kept all that's been paid in here -to-day, for I knew Jim'd be drunk before night." - -Alessandro's eyes fastened on the gold. How he longed for an -abundance of those little shining pieces for his Majella! He sighed -as Mrs. Hartsel counted them out on the table,-- one, two, three, -four, bright five-dollar pieces. - -"That is as much as I dare take," said Alessandro, when she put -down the fourth. "Will you trust me for so much?" he added sadly. -"You know I have nothing left now. Mrs. Hartsel, I am only a -beggar, till I get some work to do." - -The tears came into Mrs. Hartsel's eyes. "It's a shame!" she said,-- -"a shame, Alessandro! Jim and I haven't thought of anything else, -since it happened. Jim says they'll never prosper, never. Trust you? -Yes, indeed. Jim and I'd trust you, or your father, the last day of -our lives." - -"I'm glad he is dead," said Alessandro, as he knotted the gold into -his handkerchief and put it into his bosom. "But he was murdered, -Mrs. Hartsel,-- murdered, just as much as if they had fired a bullet -into him." - -"That's true." she exclaimed vehemently. "I say so too; and so was -Jose. That's just what I said at the time,-- that bullets would not be -half so inhuman!" - -The words had hardly left her lips, when the door from the -dining-room burst open, and a dozen men, headed by the drunken -Jim, came stumbling, laughing, reeling into the kitchen. - -"Where's supper! Give us our supper! What are you about with -your Indian here? I'll teach you how to cook ham!" stammered Jim, -making a lurch towards the stove. The men behind caught him and -saved him. Eyeing the group with scorn, Mrs. Hartsel, who had not -a cowardly nerve in her body, said: "Gentlemen, if you will take -your seats at the table, I will bring in your supper immediately. It is -all ready." - -One or two of the soberer ones, shamed by her tone, led the rest -back into the dining-room, where, seating themselves, they began -to pound the table and swing the chairs, swearing, and singing -ribald songs. - -"Get off as quick as you can, Alessandro," whispered Mrs. Hartsel, -as she passed by him, standing like a statue, his eyes, full of hatred -and contempt, fixed on the tipsy group. "You'd better go. There's -no knowing what they'll do next." - -"Are you not afraid?" he said in a low tone. - -"No!" she said. "I'm used to it. I can always manage Jim. And -Ramon's round somewhere,-- he and the bull-pups; if worse comes -to worse, I can call the dogs. These San Francisco fellows are -always the worst to get drunk. But you'd better get out of the way!" - -"And these are the men that have stolen our lands, and killed my -father, and Jose, and Carmena's baby!" thought Alessandro, as he -ran swiftly back towards the graveyard. "And Father Salvierderra -says, God is good. It must be the saints no longer pray to Him for -us!" - -But Alessandro's heart was too full of other thoughts, now, to -dwell long on past wrongs, however bitter. The present called him -too loudly. Putting his hand in his bosom, and feeling the soft, -knotted handkerchief, he thought: "Twenty dollars! It is not much! -But it will buy food for many days for my Majella and for Baba!" - -XVIII - -EXCEPT for the reassuring help of Carmena's presence by her -side, Ramona would never have had courage to remain during this -long hour in the graveyard. As it was, she twice resolved to bear -the suspense no longer, and made a movement to go. The chance -of Alessandro's encountering at Hartsel's the men sent in pursuit of -him and of Baba, loomed in her thoughts into a more and more -frightful danger each moment she reflected upon it. It was a most -unfortunate suggestion for Alessandro to have made. Her excited -fancy went on and on, picturing the possible scenes which might -be going on almost within stone's-throw of where she was sitting, -helpless, in the midnight darkness,-- Alessandro seized, tied, -treated as a thief, and she, Ramona, not there to vindicate him, to -terrify the men into letting him go. She could not bear it; she -would ride boldly to Hartsel's door. But when she made a motion -as if she would go, and said in the soft Spanish, of which Carmena -knew no word, but which yet somehow conveyed Ramona's -meaning, "I must go! It is too long! I cannot wait here!" Carmena -had clasped her hand tighter, and said in the San Luiseno tongue, -of which Ramona knew no word, but which yet somehow -conveyed Carmena's meaning, "O beloved lady, you must not go! -Waiting is the only safe thing. Alessandro said, to wait here. He -will come." The word "Alessandro" was plain. Yes, Alessandro -had said, wait; Carmena was right. She would obey, but it was a -fearful ordeal. It was strange how Ramona, who felt herself -preternaturally brave, afraid of nothing, so long as Alessandro was -by her side, became timorous and wretched the instant he was lost -to her sight. When she first heard his steps coming, she quivered -with terror lest they might not be his. The next second she knew; -and with a glad cry, "Alessandro! Alessandro!" she bounded to -him, dropping Baba's reins. - -Sighing gently, Carmena picked up the reins, and stood still, -holding the horse, while the lovers clasped each other with -breathless words. "How she loves Alessandro!" thought the -widowed Carmena. "Will they leave him alive to stay with her? It -is better not to love!" But there was no bitter envy in her mind for -the two who were thus blest while she went desolate. All of Pablo's -people had great affection for Alessandro. They had looked -forward to his being over them in his father's place. They knew his -goodness, and were proud of his superiority to themselves. - -"Majella, you tremble," said Alessandro, as he threw his arms -around her. "You have feared! Yet you were not alone." He -glanced at Carmena's motionless figure, standing by Baba. - -"No, not alone, dear Alessandro, but it was so long!" replied -Ramona; "and I feared the men had taken you, as you feared. Was -there any one there?" - -"No! No one has heard anything. All was well. They thought I had -just come from Pachanga," he answered. - -"Except for Carmena, I should have ridden after you half an hour -ago," continued Ramona. "But she told me to wait." - -"She told you!" repeated Alessandro. "How did you understand her -speech?" - -"I do not know. Was it not a strange thing?" replied Ramona. "She -spoke in your tongue, but I thought I understood her, Ask her if she -did not say that I must not go; that it was safer to wait; that you -had so said, and you would soon come." - -Alessandro repeated the words to Carmena. "Did you say that?" he -asked. - -"Yes," answered Carmena. - -"You see, then, she has understood the Luiseno words," he said -delightedly. "She is one of us." - -"Yes," said Carmena, gravely, "she is one of us." Then, taking -Ramona's hand in both of her own for farewell, she repeated, in a -tone as of dire prophecy, "One of us, Alessandro! one of us!" And -as she gazed after their retreating forms, almost immediately -swallowed and lost in the darkness, she repeated the words again -to herself,-- "One of us! one of us! Sorrow came to me; she rides to -meet it!" and she crept back to her husband's grave, and threw -herself down, to watch till the dawn. - -The road which Alessandro would naturally have taken would -carry them directly by Hartsel's again. But, wishing to avoid all -risk of meeting or being seen by any of the men on the place, he -struck well out to the north, to make a wide circuit around it. This -brought them past the place where Antonio's house had stood. -Here Alessandro halted, and putting his hand on Baba's rein, -walked the horses close to the pile of ruined walls. "This was -Antonio's house, Majella," he whispered. "I wish every house in -the valley had been pulled down like this. Old Juana was right. -The Americans are living in my father's house, Majella," he went -on, his whisper growing thick with rage. "That was what kept me -so long. I was looking in at the window at them eating their -supper. I thought I should go mad, Majella. If I had had my gun, I -should have shot them all dead!" - -An almost inarticulate gasp was Ramona's first reply to this. -"Living in your house!" she said. "You saw them?" - -"Yes," he said; "the man, and his wife, and two little children; and -the man came out, with his gun, on the doorstep, and fired it. They -thought they heard something moving, and it might be an Indian; -so he fired. That was what kept me so long." - -Just at this moment Baba tripped over some small object on the -ground. A few steps farther, and he tripped again. "There is -something caught round his foot, Alessandro," said Ramona. "It -keeps moving." - -Alessandro jumped off his horse, and kneeling down, exclaimed, -"It's a stake,-- and the lariat fastened to it. Holy Virgin! what --" -The rest of his ejaculation was inaudible. The next Ramona knew, -he had run swiftly on, a rod or two. Baba had followed, and -Capitan and the pony; and there stood a splendid black horse, as -big as Baba, and Alessandro talking under his breath to him, and -clapping both his hands over the horse's nose, to stop him, as often -as he began whinnying; and it seemed hardly a second more before -he had his saddle off the poor little Indian pony, and striking it -sharply on its sides had turned it free, had saddled the black horse, -and leaping on his back, said, with almost a sob in his voice: "My -Majella, it is Benito, my own Benito. Now the saints indeed have -helped us! Oh, the ass, the idiot, to stake out Benito with such a -stake as that! A jack rabbit had pulled it up. Now, my Majella, we -will gallop! Faster! faster! I will not breathe easy till we are out of -this cursed valley. When we are once in the Santa Margarita -Canon, I know a trail they will never find!" - -Like the wind galloped Benito,-- Alessandro half lying on his back, -stroking his forehead, whispering to him, the horse snorting with -joy: which were gladder of the two, horse or man, could not be -said. And neck by neck with Benito came Baba. How the ground -flew away under their feet! This was companionship, indeed, -worthy of Baba's best powers. Not in all the California herds could -be found two superber horses than Benito and Baba. A wild, -almost reckless joy took possession of Alessandro. Ramona was -half terrified as she heard him still talking, talking to Benito. For -an hour they did not draw rein. Both Benito and Alessandro knew -every inch of the ground. Then, just as they had descended into the -deepest part of the canon, Alessandro suddenly reined sharply to -the left, and began climbing the precipitous wall. "Can you follow, -dearest Majella?" he cried. - -"Do you suppose Benito can do anything that Baba cannot?" she -retorted, pressing on closely. - -But Baba did not like it. Except for the stimulus of Benito ahead, -he would have given Ramona trouble. - -"There is only a little, rough like this, dear," called Alessandro, as -he leaped a fallen tree, and halted to see how Baba took it. -"Good!" he cried, as Baba jumped it like a deer. "Good! Majella! -We have got the two best horses in the country. You'll see they are -alike, when daylight comes. I have often wondered they were so -much alike. They would go together splendidly." - -After a few rods of this steep climbing they came out on the top of -the canon's south wall, in a dense oak forest comparatively free -from underbrush. "Now," said Alessandro, "I can go from here to -San Diego by paths that no white man knows. We will be near -there before daylight." - -Already the keen salt air of the ocean smote their faces. Ramona -drank it in with delight. "I taste salt in the air, Alessandro," she -cried. - -"Yes, it is the sea," he said. "This canon leads straight to the sea. I -wish we could go by the shore, Majella. It is beautiful there. When -it is still, the waves come as gently to the land as if they were in -play; and you can ride along with your horse's feet in the water, -and the green cliffs almost over your head; and the air off the -water is like wine in one's head." - -"Cannot we go there?" she said longingly. "Would it not be safe?" - -"I dare not," he answered regretfully. "Not now, Majella; for on the -shore-way, at all times, there are people going and coming." - -"Some other time, Alessandro, we can come, after we are married, -and there is no danger?" she asked. - -"Yes, Majella," he replied; but as he spoke the words, he thought, -"Will a time ever come when there will be no danger?" - -The shore of the Pacific Ocean for many miles north of San Diego -is a succession of rounding promontories, walling the mouths of -canons, down many of which small streams make to the sea. These -canons are green and rich at bottom, and filled with trees, chiefly -oak. Beginning as little more than rifts in the ground, they deepen -and widen, till at their mouths they have a beautiful crescent of -shining beach from an eighth to a quarter of a mile long, The one -which Alessandro hoped to reach before morning was not a dozen -miles from the old town of San Diego, and commanded a fine -view of the outer harbor. When he was last in it, he had found it a -nearly impenetrable thicket of young oak-trees. Here, he believed, -they could hide safely all day, and after nightfall ride into San -Diego, be married at the priest's house, and push on to San -Pasquale that same night. "All day, in that canon, Majella can look -at the sea," he thought; "but I will not tell her now, for it may be -the trees have been cut down, and we cannot be so close to the -shore." - -It was near sunrise when they reached the place. The trees had not -been cut down. Their tops, seen from above, looked like a solid -bed of moss filling in the canon bottom. The sky and the sea were -both red. As Ramona looked down into this soft green pathway, it -seemed, leading out to the wide and sparkling sea, she thought -Alessandro had brought her into a fairy-land. - -"What a beautiful world!" she cried; and riding up so close to -Benito that she could lay her hand on Alessandro's, she said -solemnly: "Do you not think we ought to be very happy, -Alessandro, in such a beautiful world as this? Do you think we -might sing our sunrise hymn here?" - -Alessandro glanced around. They were alone on the breezy open; it -was not yet full dawn; great masses of crimson vapor were floating -upward from the hills behind San Diego. The light was still -burning in the light-house on the promontory walling the inner -harbor, but in a few moments more it would be day. "No, Majella, -not here." he said. "We must not stay. As soon as the sun rises, a -man or a horse may be seen on this upper coast-line as far as eye -can reach. We must be among the trees with all the speed we can -make." - -It was like a house with a high, thick roof of oak tree-tops, the -shelter they found. No sun penetrated it; a tiny trickle of water still -remained, and some grass along its rims was still green, spite of -the long drought,-- a scanty meal for Baba and Benito, but they ate -it with relish in each other's company. - -"They like each other, those two," said Ramona, laughing, as she -watched them. "They will be friends." - -"Ay," said Alessandro, also smiling. "Horses are friends, like men, -and can hate each other, like men, too. Benito would never see -Antonio's mare, the little yellow one, that he did not let fly his -heels at her; and she was as afraid, at sight of him, as a cat is at a -dog. Many a time I have laughed to see it." - -"Know you the priest at San Diego?" asked Ramona. - -"Not well," replied Alessandro. "He came seldom to Temecula -when I was there; but he is a friend of Indians. I know he came -with the men from San Diego at the time when there was fighting, -and the whites were in great terror; and they said, except for Father -Gaspara's words, there would not have been a white man left alive -in Pala. My father had sent all his people away before that fight -began. He knew it was coming, but he would have nothing to do -with it. He said the Indians were all crazy. It was no use. They -would only be killed themselves. That is the worst thing, my -Majella. The stupid Indians fight and kill, and then what can we -do? The white men think we are all the same. Father Gaspara has -never been to Pala, I heard, since that time. There goes there now -the San Juan Capistrano priest. He is a bad man. He takes money -from the starving poor." - -"A priest!" ejaculated Ramona, horror-stricken. - -"Ay! a priest!" replied Alessandro. "They are not all good, -- not -like Father Salvierderra." - -"Oh, if we could but have gone to Father Salvierderra!" exclaimed -Ramona, involuntarily. - -Alessandro looked distressed. "It would have been much more -danger, Majella," he said, "and I had no knowledge of work I could -do there." - -His look made Ramona remorseful at once. How cruel to lay one -feather-weight of additional burden on this loving man. "Oh, this is -much better, really," she said. "I did not mean what I said. It is -only because I have always loved Father Salvierderra so. And the -Senora will tell him what is not true. Could we not send him a -letter, Alessandro?" - -"There is a Santa Inez Indian I know," replied Alessandro, "who -comes down with nets to sell, sometimes, to Temecula. I know not -if he goes to San Diego. If I could get speech with him, he would -go up from Santa Inez to Santa Barbara for me, I am sure; for once -he lay in my father's house, sick for many weeks, and I nursed him, -and since then he is always begging me to take a net from him, -whenever he comes. It is not two days from Santa Inez to Santa -Barbara." - -"I wish it were the olden time now, Alessandro," sighed Ramona, -"when the men like Father Salvierderra had all the country. Then -there would be work for all, at the Missions. The Senora says the -Missions were like palaces, and that there were thousands of -Indians in every one of them; thousands and thousands, all -working so happy and peaceful." - -"The Senora does not know all that happened at the Missions," -replied Alessandro. "My father says that at some of them were -dreadful things, when bad men had power. Never any such things -at San Luis Rey. Father Peyri was like a father to all his Indians. -My father says that they would all of them lie down in a fire for -him, if he had commanded it. And when he went away, to leave -the country, when his heart was broken, and the Mission all ruined, -he had to fly by night, Majella, just as you and I have done; for if -the Indians had known it, they would have risen up to keep him. -There was a ship here in San Diego harbor, to sail for Mexico, and -the Father made up his mind to go in it; and it was over this same -road we have come, my Majella, that he rode, and by night; and -my father was the only one he trusted to know it. My father came -with him; they took the swiftest horses, and they rode all night, and -my father carried in front of him, on the horse, a box of the sacred -things of the altar, very heavy. And many a time my father has told -me the story, how they got to San Diego at daybreak, and the -Father was rowed out to the ship in a little boat; and not much -more than on board was he, my father standing like one dead on -the shore, watching, he loved him so, when, lo! he heard a great -crying, and shouting, and trampling of horses' feet, and there came -galloping down to the water's edge three hundred of the Indians -from San Luis Rey, who had found out that the Father had gone to -San Diego to take ship, and they had ridden all night on his track, -to fetch him back. And when my father pointed to the ship, and -told them he was already on board, they set up a cry fit to bring the -very sky down; and some of them flung themselves into the sea, -and swam out to the ship, and cried and begged to be taken on -board and go with him. And Father Peyri stood on the deck, -blessing them, and saying farewell, with the tears running on his -face; and one of the Indians -- how they never knew -- made shift -to climb up on the chains and ropes, and got into the ship itself; -and they let him stay, and he sailed away with the Father. And my -father said he was all his life sorry that he himself had not thought -to do the same thing; but he was like one dumb and deaf and with -no head, he was so unhappy at the Father's going." - -"Was it here, in this very harbor?" asked Ramona, in breathless -interest, pointing out towards the blue water of which they could -see a broad belt framed by their leafy foreground arch of oak tops. - -"Ay, just there he sailed,-- as that ship goes now," he exclaimed, as -a white-sailed schooner sailed swiftly by, going out to sea. "But the -ship lay at first inside the bar; you cannot see the inside harbor -from here. It is the most beautiful water I have ever seen, Majella. -The two high lands come out like two arms to hold it and keep it -safe, as if they loved it." - -"But, Alessandro," continued Ramona, "were there really bad men -at the other Missions? Surely not the Franciscan Fathers?" - -"Perhaps not the Fathers themselves, but the men under them. It -was too much power, Majella. When my father has told me how it -was, it has seemed to me I should not have liked to be as he was. It -is not right that one man should have so much power. There was -one at the San Gabriel Mission; he was an Indian. He had been set -over the rest; and when a whole band of them ran away one time, -and went back into the mountains, he went after them; and he -brought back a piece of each man's ear; the pieces were strung on a -string; and he laughed, and said that was to know them by again,-- -by their clipped ears. An old woman, a Gabrieleno, who came over -to Temecula, told me she saw that. She lived at the Mission -herself. The Indians did not all want to come to the Missions; -some of them preferred to stay in the woods, and live as they -always had lived; and I think they had a right to do that if they -preferred, Majella. It was stupid of them to stay and be like beasts, -and not know anything; but do you not think they had the right?" - -"It is the command to preach the gospel to every creature," replied -the pious Ramona. "That is what Father Salvierderra said was the -reason the Franciscans came here. I think they ought to have made -the Indians listen. But that was dreadful about the ears, -Alessandro. Do you believe it?" - -"The old woman laughed when she told it," he answered. "She said -it was a joke; so I think it was true. I know I would have killed the -man who tried to crop my ears that way." - -"Did you ever tell that to Father Salvierderra?" asked Ramona. - -"No, Majella. It would not be polite," said Alessandro. - -"Well, I don't believe it," replied Ramona, in a relieved tone. "I -don't believe any Franciscan ever could have permitted such -things." - -The great red light in the light-house tower had again blazed out, -and had been some time burning before Alessandro thought it -prudent to resume their journey. The road on which they must go -into old San Diego, where Father Gaspara lived, was the public -road from San Diego to San Luis Rey, and they were almost sure -to meet travellers on it. - -But their fleet horses bore them so well, that it was not late when -they reached the town. Father Gaspara's house was at the end of a -long, low adobe building, which had served no mean purpose in -the old Presidio days, but was now fallen into decay; and all its -rooms except those occupied by the Father, had been long -uninhabited. On the opposite side of the way, in a neglected, -weedy open, stood his chapel,-- a poverty-stricken little place, its -walls imperfectly whitewashed, decorated by a few coarse pictures -and by broken sconces of looking-glass, rescued in their -dilapidated condition from the Mission buildings, now gone utterly -to ruin. In these had been put handle-holders of common tin, in -which a few cheap candles dimly lighted the room. Everything -about it was in unison with the atmosphere of the place,-- the most -profoundly melancholy in all Southern California. Here was the -spot where that grand old Franciscan, Padre Junipero Serra, began -his work, full of the devout and ardent purpose to reclaim the -wilderness and its peoples to his country and his Church; on this -very beach he went up and down for those first terrible weeks, -nursing the sick, praying with the dying, and burying the dead, -from the pestilence-stricken Mexican ships lying in the harbor. -Here he baptized his first Indian converts, and founded his first -Mission. And the only traces now remaining of his heroic labors -and hard-won successes were a pile of crumbling ruins, a few old -olive-trees and palms; in less than another century even these -would be gone; returned into the keeping of that mother, the earth, -who puts no head-stones at the sacredest of her graves. - -Father Gaspara had been for many years at San Diego. Although -not a Franciscan, having, indeed, no especial love for the order, he -had been from the first deeply impressed by the holy associations -of the place. He had a nature at once fiery and poetic; there were -but three things he could have been,-- a soldier, a poet, or a priest. -Circumstances had made him a priest; and the fire and the poetry -which would have wielded the sword or kindled the verse, had he -found himself set either to fight or to sing, had all gathered into -added force in his priestly vocation. The look of a soldier he had -never quite lost,-- neither the look nor the tread; and his flashing -dark eyes, heavy black hair and beard, and quick elastic step, -seemed sometimes strangely out of harmony with his priest's -gown. And it was the sensitive soul of the poet in him which had -made him withdraw within himself more and more, year after year, -as he found himself comparatively powerless to do anything for -the hundreds of Indians that he would fain have seen gathered once -more, as of old, into the keeping of the Church. He had made -frequent visits to them in their shifting refuges, following up -family after family, band after band, that he knew; he had written -bootless letter after letter to the Government officials of one sort -and another, at Washington. He had made equally bootless efforts -to win some justice, some protection for them, from officials -nearer home; he had endeavored to stir the Church itself to greater -efficiency in their behalf. Finally, weary, disheartened, and -indignant with that intense, suppressed indignation which the -poetic temperament alone can feel, he had ceased,-- had said, "It is -of no use; I will speak no word; I am done; I can bear no more!" -and settling down into the routine of his parochial duties to the -little Mexican and Irish congregation of his charge in San Diego, -he had abandoned all effort to do more for the Indians than visit -their chief settlements once or twice a year, to administer the -sacraments. When fresh outrages were brought to his notice, he -paced his room, plucked fiercely at his black beard, with -ejaculations, it is to be feared, savoring more of the camp than the -altar; but he made no effort to do anything. Lighting his pipe, he -would sit down on the old bench in his tile-paved veranda, and -smoke by the hour, gazing out on the placid water of the deserted -harbor, brooding, ever brooding, over the wrongs he could not -redress. - -A few paces off from his door stood the just begun walls of a fine -brick church, which it had been the dream and pride of his heart to -see builded, and full of worshippers. This, too, had failed. With -San Diego's repeatedly vanishing hopes and dreams of prosperity -had gone this hope and dream of Father Gaspara's. It looked, now, -as if it would be indeed a waste of money to build a costly church -on this site. Sentiment, however sacred and loving towards the -dead, must yield to the demands of the living. To build a church on -the ground where Father Junipero first trod and labored, would be -a work to which no Catholic could be indifferent; but there were -other and more pressing claims to be met first. This was right. Yet -the sight of these silent walls, only a few feet high, was a sore one -to Father Gaspara,-- a daily cross, which he did not find grow -lighter as he paced up and down his veranda, year in and year out, -in the balmy winter and cool summer of that magic climate. - -"Majella, the chapel is lighted; but that is good!" exclaimed -Alessandro, as they rode into the silent plaza. "Father Gaspara -must be there;" and jumping off his horse, he peered in at the -uncurtained window. "A marriage, Majella, -- a marriage!" he -cried, hastily returning. "This, too, is good fortune. We need not to -wait long." - -When the sacristan whispered to Father Gaspara that an Indian -couple had just come in, wishing to be married, the Father -frowned. His supper was waiting; he had been out all day, over at -the old Mission olive-orchard, where he had not found things to his -mind; the Indian man and wife whom he hired to take care of the -few acres the Church yet owned there had been neglecting the -Church lands and trees, to look after their own. The Father was -vexed, tired, and hungry, and the expression with which he -regarded Alessandro and Ramona, as they came towards him, was -one of the least prepossessing of which his dark face was capable. -Ramona, who had never knelt to any priest save the gentle Father -Salvierderra, and who had supposed that all priests must look, at -least, friendly, was shocked at the sight of the impatient visage -confronting her. But, as his first glance fell on Ramona, Father -Gaspara's expression changed. - -"What is all this!" he thought; and as quick as he thought it, he -exclaimed, in a severe tone, looking at Ramona, "Woman, are you -an Indian?" - -"Yes, Father," answered Ramona, gently. "My mother was an -Indian." - -"Ah! half-breed!" thought Father Gaspara. "It is strange how -sometimes one of the types will conquer, and sometimes another! -But this is no common creature;" and it was with a look of new -interest and sympathy on his face that he proceeded with the -ceremony,-- the other couple, a middle-aged Irishman, with his -more than middle-aged bride, standing quietly by, and looking on -with a vague sort of wonder in their ugly, impassive faces, as if it -struck them oddly that Indians should marry. - -The book of the marriage-records was kept in Father Gaspara's -own rooms, locked up and hidden even from his old housekeeper. -He had had bitter reason to take this precaution. It had been for -more than one man's interest to cut leaves out of this old record, -which dated back to 1769, and had many pages written full in the -hand of Father Junipero himself. - -As they came out of the chapel, Father Gaspara leading the way, -the Irish couple shambling along shamefacedly apart from each -other, Alessandro, still holding Ramona's hand in his, said, "Will -you ride, dear? It is but a step." - -"No, thanks, dear Alessandro, I would rather walk," she replied; -and Alessandro slipping the bridles of the two horses over his left -arm, they walked on. Father Gaspara heard the question and -answer, and was still more puzzled. - -"He speaks as a gentleman speaks to a lady," he mused. "What -does it mean? Who are they?" - -Father Gaspara was a well-born man, and in his home in Spain had -been used to associations far superior to any which he had known -in his Californian life, A gentle courtesy of tone and speech, such -as that with which Alessandro had addressed Ramona, was not -often heard in his parish. When they entered his house, he again -regarded them both attentively. Ramona wore on her head the -usual black shawl of the Mexican women. There was nothing -distinctive, to the Father's eye, in her figure or face. In the dim -light of the one candle,-- Father Gaspara allowed himself no -luxuries,-- the exquisite coloring of her skin and the deep blue of -her eyes were not to be seen. Alessandro's tall figure and dignified -bearing were not uncommon. The Father had seen many as -fine-looking Indian men. But his voice was remarkable, and he -spoke better Spanish than was wont to be heard from Indians. - -"Where are you from?" said the Father, as he held his pen poised in -hand, ready to write their names in the old raw-hide-bound book. - -"Temecula, Father," replied Alessandro. - -Father Gaspara dropped his pen. "The village the Americans drove -out the other day?" he cried. - -"Yes, Father." - -Father Gaspara sprang from his chair, took refuge from his -excitement, as usual, in pacing the floor. "Go! go! I'm done with -you! It's all over," he said fiercely to the Irish bride and groom, -who had given him their names and their fee, but were still -hanging about irresolute, not knowing if all were ended or not. "A -burning shame! The most dastardly thing I have seen yet in this -land forsaken of God!" cried the Father. "I saw the particulars of it -in the San Diego paper yesterday." Then, coming to a halt in front -of Alessandro, he exclaimed: "The paper said that the Indians were -compelled to pay all the costs of the suit; that the sheriff took their -cattle to do it. Was that true?" - -"Yes, Father," replied Alessandro. - -The Father strode up and down again, plucking at his beard. "What -are you going to do?" he said. "Where have you all gone? There -were two hundred in your village the last time I was there." - -"Some have gone over into Pachanga," replied Alessandro, "some -to San Pasquale, and the rest to San Bernardino." - -"Body of Jesus! man! But you take it with philosophy!" stormed -Father Gaspara. - -Alessandro did not understand the word "philosophy," but he knew -what the Father meant. "Yes, Father," he said doggedly. "It is now -twenty-one days ago. I was not so at first. There is nothing to be -done." - -Ramona held tight to Alessandro's hand. She was afraid of this -fierce, black-bearded priest, who dashed back and forth, pouring -out angry invectives. - -"The United States Government will suffer for it!" he continued. -"It is a Government of thieves and robbers! God will punish them. -You will see; they will be visited with a curse,-- a curse in their -borders; their sons and their daughters shall be desolate! But why -do I prate in these vain words? My son, tell me your names again;" -and he seated himself once more at the table where the ancient -marriage-record lay open. - -After writing Alessandro's name, he turned to Ramona. "And the -woman's?" he said. - -Alessandro looked at Ramona. In the chapel he had said simply, -"Majella." What name should he give more? - -Without a second's hesitation, Ramona answered, "Majella. -Majella Phail is my name." - -She pronounced the word "Phail," slowly. It was new to her. She -had never seen it written; as it lingered on her lips, the Father, to -whom also it was a new word, misunderstood it, took it to be in -two syllables, and so wrote it. - -The last step was taken in the disappearance of Ramona. How -should any one, searching in after years, find any trace of Ramona -Ortegna, in the woman married under the name of "Majella -Fayeel"? - -"No, no! Put up your money, son," said Father Gaspara, as -Alessandro began to undo the knots of the handkerchief in which -his gold was tied. "Put up your money. I'll take no money from a -Temecula Indian. I would the Church had money to give you. -Where are you going now?" - -"To San Pasquale, Father." - -"Ah! San Pasquale! The head man there has the old pueblo paper," -said Father Gaspara. "He was showing it to me the other day. That -will, it may be, save you there. But do not trust to it, son. Buy -yourself a piece of land as the white man buys his. Trust to -nothing." - -Alessandro looked anxiously in the Father's face. "How is that, -Father?" he said. "I do not know." - -"Well, their rules be thick as the crabs here on the beach," replied -Father Gaspara; "and, faith, they appear to me to be backwards of -motion also, like the crabs: but the lawyers understand. When you -have picked out your land, and have the money, come to me, and I -will go with you and see that you are not cheated in the buying, so -far as I can tell; but I myself am at my wit's ends with their -devices. Farewell, son! Farewell, daughter!" he said, rising from -his chair. Hunger was again getting the better of sympathy in -Father Gaspara, and as he sat down to his long-deferred supper, the -Indian couple faded from his mind; but after supper was over, as -he sat smoking his pipe on the veranda, they returned again, and -lingered in his thoughts,-- lingered strangely, it seemed to him; he -could not shake off the impression that there was something -unusual about the woman. "I shall hear of them again, some day," -he thought. And he thought rightly. - -XIX - -AFTER leaving Father Gaspara's door, Alessandro and Ramona -rode slowly through the now deserted plaza, and turned northward, -on the river road, leaving the old Presidio walls on their right. The -river was low, and they forded it without difficulty. - -"I have seen this river so high that there was no fording it for many -days," said Alessandro; "but that was in spring." - -"Then it is well we came not at that time," said Ramona, "All the -times have fallen out well for us, Alessandro,-- the dark nights, and -the streams low; but look! as I say it, there comes the moon!" and -she pointed to the fine threadlike arc of the new moon, just visible -in the sky. "Not big enough to do us any harm, however," she -added. "But, dear Alessandro, do you not think we are safe now?" - -"I know not, Majella, if ever we may be safe; but I hope so. I have -been all day thinking I had gone foolish last night, when I told -Mrs. Hartsel that I was on my way to San Pasquale. But if men -should come there asking for us, she would understand, I think, -and keep a still tongue. She would keep harm from us if she -could." - -Their way from San Diego to San Pasquale lay at first along a high -mesa, or table-land, covered with low shrub growths; after some -ten or twelve miles of this, they descended among winding ridges, -into a narrow valley,-- the Poway valley. It was here that the -Mexicans made one of their few abortive efforts to repel the -American forces. - -"Here were some Americans killed, in a fight with the Mexicans, -Majella," said Alessandro. "I myself have a dozen bullets which I -picked up in the ground about here. Many a time I have looked at -them and thought if there should come another war against the -Americans, I would fire them again, if I could. Does Senor Felipe -think there is any likelihood that his people will rise against them -any more? If they would, they would have all the Indians to help -them, now. It would be a mercy if they might be driven out of the -land, Majella." - -"Yes," sighed Majella. "But there is no hope. I have heard the -Senora speak of it with Felipe. There is no hope. They have power, -and great riches, she said. Money is all that they think of. To get -money, they will commit any crime, even murder. Every day there -comes the news of their murdering each other for gold. Mexicans -kill each other only for hate, Alessandro,-- for hate, or in anger; -never for gold." - -"Indians, also," replied Alessandro. "Never one Indian killed -another, yet, for money. It is for vengeance, always. For money! -Bah! Majella, they are dogs!" - -Rarely did Alessandro speak with such vehemence; but this last -outrage on his people had kindled in his veins a fire of scorn and -hatred which would never die out. Trust in an American was -henceforth to him impossible. The name was a synonym for fraud -and cruelty. - -"They cannot all be so bad, I think, Alessandro," said Ramona. -"There must be some that are honest; do you not think so?" - -"Where are they, then," he cried fiercely,-- "the ones who are -good? Among my people there are always some that are bad; but -they are in disgrace. My father punished them, the whole people -punished them. If there are Americans who are good, who will not -cheat and kill, why do they not send after these robbers and punish -them? And how is it that they make laws which cheat? It was the -American law which took Temecula away from us, and gave it to -those men! The law was on the side of the thieves. No, Majella, it -is a people that steals! That is their name,-- a people that steals, -and that kills for money. Is not that a good name for a great people -to bear, when they are like the sands in the sea, they are so many?" - -"That is what the Senora says," answered Ramona. "She says they -are all thieves; that she knows not, each day, but that on the next -will come more of them, with new laws, to take away more of her -land. She had once more than twice what she has now, -Alessandro." - -"Yes," he replied; "I know it. My father has told me. He was with -Father Peyri at the place, when General Moreno was alive. Then -all was his to the sea,-- all that land we rode over the second night, -Majella." - -"Yes," she said, "all to the sea! That is what the Senora is ever -saying: 'To the sea!' Oh, the beautiful sea! Can we behold it from -San Pasquale, Alessandro?" - -"No, my Majella, it is too far. San Pasquale is in the valley; it has -hills all around it like walls. But it is good. Majella will love it; -and I will build a house, Majella. All the people will help me. That -is the way with our people. In two days it will be done. But it will -be a poor place for my Majella," he said sadly. Alessandro's heart -was ill at ease. Truly a strange bride's journey was this; but -Ramona felt no fear. - -"No place can be so poor that I do not choose it, if you are there, -rather than the most beautiful place in the world where you are -not, Alessandro," she said. - -"But my Majella loves things that are beautiful," said Alessandro. -"She has lived like a queen." - -"Oh, Alessandro," merrily laughed Ramona, "how little you know -of the way queens live! Nothing was fine at the Senora Moreno's, -only comfortable; and any house you will build, I can make as -comfortable as that was; it is nothing but trouble to have one so -large as the Senora's. Margarita used to be tired to death, sweeping -all those rooms in which nobody lived except the blessed old San -Luis Rey saints. Alessandro, if we could have had just one statue, -either Saint Francis or the Madonna, to bring back to our house! -That is what I would like better than all other things in the world. -It is beautiful to sleep with the Madonna close to your bed. She -speaks often to you in dreams." - -Alessandro fixed serious, questioning eyes on Ramona as she -uttered these words. When she spoke like this, he felt indeed as if a -being of some other sphere had come to dwell by his side. "I -cannot find how to feel towards the saints as you do, my Majella," -he said. "I am afraid of them. It must be because they love you, and -do not love us. That is what I believe, Majella. I believe they are -displeased with us, and no longer make mention of us in heaven. -That is what the Fathers taught that the saints were ever doing,-- -praying to God for us, and to the Virgin and Jesus. It is not -possible, you see, that they could have been praying for us, and yet -such things have happened, as happened in Temecula. I do not -know how it is my people have displeased them." - -"I think Father Salvierderra would say that it is a sin to be afraid of -the saints, Alessandro," replied Ramona, earnestly. "He has often -told me that it was a sin to be unhappy; and that withheld me many -times from being wretched because the Senora would not love me. -And, Alessandro," she went on, growing more and more fervent in -tone, "even if nothing but misfortune comes to people, that does -not prove that the saints do not love them; for when the saints were -on earth themselves, look what they suffered: martyrs they were, -almost all of them. Look at what holy Saint Catharine endured, and -the blessed Saint Agnes. It is not by what happens to us here in this -world that we can tell if the saints love us, or if we will see the -Blessed Virgin." - -"How can we tell, then?" he asked. - -"By what we feel in our hearts, Alessandro," she replied; "just as I -knew all the time, when you did not come,-- I knew that you loved -me. I knew that in my heart; and I shall always know it, no matter -what happens. If you are dead, I shall know that you love me. And -you,-- you will know that I love you, the same." - -"Yes," said Alessandro, reflectively, "that is true. But, Majella, it is -not possible to have the same thoughts about a saint as about a -person that one has seen, and heard the voice, and touched the -hand." - -"No, not quite," said Ramona; "not quite, about a saint; but one can -for the Blessed Virgin, Alessandro! I am sure of that. Her statue, in -my room at the Senora's, has been always my mother. Ever since I -was little I have told her all I did. It was she helped me to plan -what I should bring away with us. She reminded me of many -things I had forgotten, except for her." - -"Did you hear her speak?" said Alessandro, awe-stricken. - -"Not exactly in words; but just the same as in words," replied -Ramona, confidently. "You see when you sleep in the room with -her, it is very different from what it is if you only see her in a -chapel. Oh, I could never be very unhappy with her in my room!" - -"I would almost go and steal it for you, Majella," cried Alessandro, -with sacrilegious warmth. - -"Holy Virgin!" cried Ramona, "never speak such a word. You -would be struck dead if you laid your hand on her! I fear even the -thought was a sin," - -"There was a small figure of her in the wall of our house," said -Alessandro. "It was from San Luis Rey. I do not know what -became of it,-- if it were left behind, or if they took it with my -father's things to Pachanga. I did not see it there. When I go again, -I will look." - -"Again!" cried Ramona. "What say you? You go again to -Pachanga? You will not leave me, Alessandro?" - -At the bare mention of Alessandro's leaving her, Ramona's courage -always vanished. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, she was -transformed from the dauntless, confident, sunny woman, who -bore him up as it were on wings of hope and faith, to a timid, -shrinking, despondent child, crying out in alarm, and clinging to -the hand. - -"After a time, dear Majella, when you are wonted to the place, I -must go, to fetch the wagon and the few things that were ours. -There is the raw-hide bed which was Father Peyri's, and he gave to -my father. Majella will like to lie on that. My father believed it had -great virtue." - -"Like that you made for Felipe?" she asked. - -"Yes; but it is not so large. In those days the cattle were not so -large as they are now: this is not so broad as Senor Felipe's. There -are chairs, too, from the Mission, three of them, one almost as fine -as those on your veranda at home. They were given to my father. -And music-books,-- beautiful parchment books! Oh, I hope those -are not lost, Majella! If Jose had lived, he would have looked after -it all. But in the confusion, all the things belonging to the village -were thrown into wagons together, and no one knew where -anything was. But all the people knew my father's chairs and the -books of the music. If the Americans did not steal them, -everything will be safe. My people do not steal. There was never -but one thief in our village, and my father had him so whipped, he -ran away and never came back. I heard he was living in San -Jacinto, and was a thief yet, spite of all that whipping he had. I -think if it is in the blood to be a thief, not even whipping will take -it out, Majella," - -"Like the Americans," she said, half laughing, but with tears in the -voice. "Whipping would not cure them." - -It wanted yet more than an hour of dawn when they reached the -crest of the hill from which they looked down on the San Pasquale -valley. Two such crests and valleys they had passed; this was the -broadest of the three valleys, and the hills walling it were softer -and rounder of contour than any they had yet seen. To the east and -northeast lay ranges of high mountains, their tops lost in the -clouds. The whole sky was overcast and gray. - -"If it were spring, this would mean rain," said Alessandro; "but it -cannot rain, I think, now." - -"No!" laughed Ramona, "not till we get our house done. Will it be -of adobe, Alessandro?" - -"Dearest Majella, not yet! At first it must be of the tule. They are -very comfortable while it is warm, and before winter I will build -one of adobe." - -'Two houses! Wasteful Alessandro! If the tule house is good, I -shall not let you, Alessandro, build another." - -Ramona's mirthful moments bewildered Alessandro. To his slower -temperament and saddened nature they seemed preternatural; as if -she were all of a sudden changed into a bird, or some gay creature -outside the pale of human life,-- outside and above it. - -"You speak as the birds sing, my Majella," he said slowly. "It was -well to name you Majel; only the wood-dove has not joy in her -voice, as you have. She says only that she loves and waits." - -"I say that, too, Alessandro!" replied Ramona, reaching out both -her arms towards him. - -The horses were walking slowly, and very close side by side. Baba -and Benito were now such friends they liked to pace closely side -by side; and Baba and Benito were by no means without instinctive -recognitions of the sympathy between their riders. Already Benito -knew Ramona's voice, and answered it with pleasure; and Baba -had long ago learned to stop when his mistress laid her hand on -Alessandro's shoulder. He stopped now, and it was long minutes -before he had the signal to go on again. - -"Majella! Majella!" cried Alessandro, as, grasping both her hands -in his, he held them to his cheeks, to his neck, to his mouth, "if the -saints would ask Alessandro to be a martyr for Majella's sake, like -those she was telling of, then she would know if Alessandro loved -her! But what can Alessandro do now? What, oh, what? Majella -gives all; Alessandro gives nothing!" and he bowed his forehead on -her hands, before he put them back gently on Baba's neck. - -Tears filled Ramona's eyes. How should she win this saddened -man, this distrusting lover, to the joy which was his desert? -"Alessandro can do one thing," she said, insensibly falling into his -mode of speaking,-- "one thing for his Majella: never, never say -that he has nothing to give her. When he says that, he makes -Majella a liar; for she has said that he is all the world to her,-- he -himself all the world which she desires. Is Majella a liar?" - -But it was even now with an ecstasy only half joy, the other half -anguish, that Alessandro replied: "Majella cannot lie. Majella is -like the saints. Alessandro is hers." - -When they rode down into the valley, the whole village was astir. -The vintage-time had nearly passed; everywhere were to be seen -large, flat baskets of grapes drying in the sun. Old women and -children were turning these, or pounding acorns in the deep stone -bowls; others were beating the yucca-stalks, and putting them to -soak in water; the oldest women were sitting on the ground, -weaving baskets. There were not many men in the village now; -two large bands were away at work,-- one at the autumn -sheep-shearing, and one working on a large irrigating ditch at San -Bernardino. - -In different directions from the village slow-moving herds of goats -or of cattle could be seen, being driven to pasture on the hills; -some men were ploughing; several groups were at work building -houses of bundles of the tule reeds, - -"These are some of the Temecula people," said Alessandro; "they -are building themselves new houses here. See those piles of -bundles darker-colored than the rest. Those are their old roofs they -brought from Temecula. There, there comes Ysidro!" he cried -joyfully, as a man, well-mounted, who had been riding from point -to point in the village, came galloping towards them. As soon as -Ysidro recognized Alessandro, he flung himself from his horse. -Alessandro did the same, and both running swiftly towards each -other till they met, they embraced silently. Ramona, riding up, held -out her hand, saying, as she did so, "Ysidro?" - -Pleased, yet surprised, at this confident and assured greeting, -Ysidro saluted her, and turning to Alessandro, said in their own -tongue, "Who is this woman whom you bring, that has heard my -name?" - -"My wife!" answered Alessandro, in the same tongue. "We were -married last night by Father Gaspara. She comes from the house of -the Senora Moreno. We will live in San Pasquale, if you have land -for me, as you have said." - -What astonishment Ysidro felt, he showed none. Only a grave and -courteous welcome was in his face and in his words as he said, "It -is well. There is room. You are welcome." But when he heard the -soft Spanish syllables in which Ramona spoke to Alessandro, and -Alessandro, translating her words to him, said, "Majel speaks only -in the Spanish tongue, but she will learn ours," a look of disquiet -passed over his countenance. His heart feared for Alessandro, and -he said, "Is she, then, not Indian? Whence got she the name of -Majel?" - -A look of swift intelligence from Alessandro reassured him. -"Indian on the mother's side!" said Alessandro, "and she belongs in -heart to our people. She is alone, save for me. She is one blessed -of the Virgin, Ysidro. She will help us. The name Majel I have -given her, for she is like the wood-dove; and she is glad to lay her -old name down forever, to bear this new name in our tongue." - -And this was Ramona's introduction to the Indian village, -- this -and her smile; perhaps the smile did most. Even the little children -were not afraid of her. The women, though shy, in the beginning, -at sight of her noble bearing, and her clothes of a kind and quality -they associated only with superiors, soon felt her friendliness, and, -what was more, saw by her every word, tone, look, that she was -Alessandro's. If Alessandro's, theirs. She was one of them. Ramona -would have been profoundly impressed and touched, could she -have heard them speaking among themselves about her; wondering -how it had come about that she, so beautiful, and nurtured in the -Moreno house, of which they all knew, should be Alessandro's -loving wife. It must be, they thought in their simplicity, that the -saints had sent it as an omen of good to the Indian people. Toward -night they came, bringing in a hand-barrow the most aged woman -in the village to look at her. She wished to see the beautiful -stranger before the sun went down, they said, because she was now -so old she believed each night that before morning her time would -come to die. They also wished to hear the old woman's verdict on -her. When Alessandro saw them coming, he understood, and made -haste to explain it to Ramona. While he was yet speaking, the -procession arrived, and the aged woman in her strange litter was -placed silently on the ground in front of Ramona, who was sitting -under Ysidro's great fig-tree. Those who had borne her withdrew, -and seated themselves a few paces off. Alessandro spoke first. In a -few words he told the old woman of Ramona's birth, of their -marriage, and of her new name of adoption; then he said, "Take -her hand, dear Majella, if you feel no fear." - -There was something scarcely human in the shrivelled arm and -hand outstretched in greeting; but Ramona took it in hers with -tender reverence: "Say to her for me, Alessandro," she said, "that I -bow down to her great age with reverence, and that I hope, if it is -the will of God that I live on the earth so long as she has, I may be -worthy of such reverence as these people all feel for her." - -Alessandro turned a grateful look on Ramona as he translated this -speech, so in unison with Indian modes of thought and feeling. A -murmur of pleasure rose from the group of women sitting by. The -aged woman made no reply; her eyes still studied Ramona's face, -and she still held her hand. - -"Tell her," continued Ramona, "that I ask if there is anything I can -do for her. Say I will be her daughter if she will let me." - -"It must be the Virgin herself that is teaching Majella what to say," -thought Alessandro, as he repeated this in the San Luiseno tongue. - -Again the women murmured pleasure, but the old woman spoke -not. "And say that you will be her son," added Ramona. - -Alessandro said it. It was perhaps for this that the old woman had -waited. Lifting up her arm, like a sibyl, she said: "It is well; I am -your mother. The winds of the valley shall love you, and the grass -shall dance when you come. The daughter looks on her mother's -face each day. I will go;" and making a sign to her bearers, she was -lifted, and carried to her house. - -The scene affected Ramona deeply. The simplest acts of these -people seemed to her marvellously profound in their meanings. -She was not herself sufficiently educated or versed in life to know -why she was so moved,-- to know that such utterances, such -symbolisms as these, among primitive peoples, are thus impressive -because they are truly and grandly dramatic; but she was none the -less stirred by them, because she could not analyze or explain -them. - -"I will go and see her every day," she said; "she shall be like my -mother, whom I never saw." - -"We must both go each day," said Alessandro. "What we have said -is a solemn promise among my people; it would not be possible to -break it." - -Ysidro's home was in the centre of the village, on a slightly rising -ground; it was a picturesque group of four small houses, three of -tule reeds and one of adobe,-- the latter a comfortable little house -of two rooms, with a floor and a shingled roof, both luxuries in -San Pasquale. The great fig-tree, whose luxuriance and size were -noted far and near throughout the country, stood half-way down -the slope; but its boughs shaded all three of the tule houses. On -one of its lower branches was fastened a dove-cote, ingeniously -made of willow wands, plastered with adobe, and containing so -many rooms that the whole tree seemed sometimes a-flutter with -doves and dovelings. Here and there, between the houses, were -huge baskets, larger than barrels, woven of twigs, as the eagle -weaves its nest, only tighter and thicker. These were the outdoor -granaries; in these were kept acorns, barley, wheat, and corn. -Ramona thought them, as well she might, the prettiest things she -ever saw. - -"Are they hard to make?" she asked. "Can you make them, -Alessandro? I shall want many." - -"All you want, my Majella," replied Alessandro. "We will go -together to get the twigs; I can, I dare say, buy some in the village. -It is only two days to make a large one." - -"No. Do not buy one," she exclaimed. "I wish everything in our -house to be made by ourselves." In which, again, Ramona was -unconsciously striking one of the keynotes of pleasure in the -primitive harmonies of existence. - -The tule house which stood nearest to the dove-cote was, by a -lucky chance, now empty. Ysidro's brother Ramon, who had -occupied it, having gone with his wife and baby to San Bernardino, -for the winter, to work; this house Ysidro was but too happy to -give to Alessandro till his own should be done. It was a tiny place, -though it was really two houses joined together by a roofed -passage-way. In this passage-way the tidy Juana, Ramon's wife, -kept her few pots and pans, and a small stove. It looked to Ramona -like a baby-house. Timidly Alessandro said: "Can Majella live in -this small place for a time? It will not be very long; there are -adobes already made." - -His countenance cleared as Ramona replied gleefully, "I think it -will be very comfortable, and I shall feel as if we were all doves -together in the dove-cote!" - -"Majel!" exclaimed Alessandro; and that was all he said. - -Only a few rods off stood the little chapel; in front of it swung on a -cross-bar from two slanting posts an old bronze bell which had -once belonged to the San Diego Mission. When Ramona read the -date, "1790," on its side, and heard that it was from the San Diego -Mission church it had come, she felt a sense of protection in its -presence. - -"Think, Alessandro," she said; "this bell, no doubt, has rung many -times for the mass for the holy Father Junipero himself. It is a -blessing to the village. I want to live where I can see it all the time. -It will be like a saint's statue in the house." - -With every allusion that Ramona made to the saints' statues, -Alessandro's desire to procure one for her deepened. He said -nothing; but he revolved it in his mind continually. He had once -gone with his shearers to San Fernando, and there he had seen in a -room of the old Mission buildings a dozen statues of saints -huddled in dusty confusion. The San Fernando church was in -crumbled ruins, and such of the church properties as were left -there were in the keeping of a Mexican not over-careful, and not in -the least devout. It would not trouble him to part with a saint or -two, Alessandro thought, and no irreverence to the saint either; on -the contrary, the greatest of reverence, since the statue was to be -taken from a place where no one cared for it, and brought into one -where it would be tenderly cherished, and worshipped every day. If -only San Fernando were not so far away, and the wooden saints so -heavy! However, it should come about yet. Majella should have a -saint; nor distance nor difficulty should keep Alessandro from -procuring for his Majel the few things that lay within his power. -But he held his peace about it. It would be a sweeter gift, if she did -not know it beforehand. He pleased himself as subtly and secretly -as if he had come of civilized generations, thinking how her eyes -would dilate, if she waked up some morning and saw the saint by -her bedside; and how sure she would be to think, at first, it was a -miracle,-- his dear, devout Majella, who, with all her superior -knowledge, was yet more credulous than he. All her education had -not taught her to think, as he, untaught, had learned, in his solitude -with nature. - -Before Alessandro had been two days in San Pasquale, he had -heard of a piece of good-fortune which almost passed his belief, -and which startled him for once out of his usual impassive -demeanor. - -"You know I have a herd of cattle of your father's, and near a -hundred sheep?" said Ysidro. - -"Holy Virgin!" cried Alessandro, "you do not mean that! How is -that? They told me all our stock was taken by the Americans." - -"Yes, so it was, all that was in Temecula," replied Ysidro; "but in -the spring your father sent down to know if I would take a herd for -him up into the mountains, with ours, as he feared the Temecula -pasture would fall short, and the people there, who could not -leave, must have their cattle near home; so he sent a herd over,-- I -think, near fifty head; and many of the cows have calved; and he -sent, also, a little flock of sheep,-- a hundred, Ramon said; he -herded them with ours all summer, and he left a man up there with -them. They will be down next week. It is time they were sheared." - -Before he had finished speaking, Alessandro had vanished, -bounding like a deer. Ysidro stared after him; but seeing him enter -the doorway of the little tule hut, he understood, and a sad smile -passed over his face. He was not yet persuaded that this marriage -of Alessandro's would turn out a blessing. "What are a handful of -sheep to her!" he thought. - -Breathless, panting, Alessandro burst into Ramona's presence. -"Majella! my Majella! There are cattle -- and sheep," he cried. -"The saints be praised! We are not like the beggars, as I said." - -"I told you that God would give us food, dear Alessandro," replied -Ramona, gently. - -"You do not wonder! You do not ask!" he cried, astonished at her -calm. "Does Majella think that a sheep or a steer can come down -from the skies?" - -"Nay, not as our eyes would see," she answered; "but the holy ones -who live in the skies can do anything they like on the earth. -Whence came these cattle, and how are they ours?" - -When he told her, her face grew solemn. "Do you remember that -night in the willows," she said, "when I was like one dying, -because you would not bring me with you? You had no faith that -there would be food. And I told you then that the saints never -forsook those who loved them, and that God would give food. And -even at that moment, when you did not know it, there were your -cattle and your sheep feeding in the mountains, in the keeping of -God! Will my Alessandro believe after this?" and she threw her -arms around his neck and kissed him. - -"It is true," said Alessandro. "I will believe, after this, that the -saints love my Majella." - -But as he walked at a slower pace back to Ysidro, he said to -himself: "Majella did not see Temecula. What would she have said -about the saints, if she had seen that, and seen the people dying for -want of food? It is only for her that the saints pray. They are -displeased with my people." - -XX - -ONE year, and a half of another year, had passed. Sheep-shearings -and vintages had been in San Pasquale; and Alessandro's new -house, having been beaten on by the heavy spring rains, looked no -longer new. It stood on the south side of the valley,-- too far, -Ramona felt, from the blessed bell; but there had not been land -enough for wheat-fields any nearer, and she could see the chapel, -and the posts, and, on a clear day, the bell itself. The house was -small. "Small to hold so much joy," she said, when Alessandro first -led her to it, and said, deprecatingly, "It is small, Majella,-- too -small;" and he recollected bitterly, as he spoke, the size of -Ramona's own room at the Senora's house. "Too small," he -repeated. - -"Very small to hold so much joy, my Alessandro," she laughed; -"but quite large enough to hold two persons." - -It looked like a palace to the San Pasquale people, after Ramona -had arranged their little possessions in it; and she herself felt rich -as she looked around her two small rooms. The old San Luis Rey -chairs and the raw-hide bedstead were there, and, most precious of -all, the statuette of the Madonna. For this Alessandro had built a -niche in the wall, between the head of the bed and the one -window. The niche was deep enough to hold small pots in front of -the statuette; and Ramona kept constantly growing there -wild-cucumber plants, which wreathed and re-wreathed the niche -till it looked like a bower. Below it hung her gold rosary and the -ivory Christ; and many a woman of the village, when she came to -see Ramona, asked permission to go into the bedroom and say her -prayers there; so that it finally came to be a sort of shrine for the -whole village. - -A broad veranda, as broad as the Senora's, ran across the front of -the little house. This was the only thing for which Ramona had -asked. She could not quite fancy life without a veranda, and linnets -in the thatch. But the linnets had not yet come. In vain Ramona -strewed food for them, and laid little trains of crumbs to lure them -inside the posts; they would not build nests inside. It was not their -way in San Pasquale. They lived in the canons, but this part of the -valley was too bare of trees for them. "In a year or two more, when -we have orchards, they will come," Alessandro said. - -With the money from that first sheep-shearing, and from the sale -of part of his cattle, Alessandro had bought all he needed in the -way of farming implements,-- a good wagon and harnesses, and a -plough. Baba and Benito, at first restive and indignant, soon made -up their minds to work. Ramona had talked to Baba about it as she -would have talked to a brother. In fact, except for Ramona's help, -it would have been a question whether even Alessandro could have -made Baba work in harness. "Good Baba!" Ramona said, as she -slipped piece after piece of the harness over his neck,-- "Good -Baba, you must help us; we have so much work to do, and you are -so strong! Good Baba, do you love me?" and with one hand in his -mane, and her cheek, every few steps, laid close to his, she led -Baba up and down the first furrows he ploughed. - -"My Senorita!" thought Alessandro to himself, half in pain, half in -pride, as, running behind with the unevenly jerked plough, he -watched her laughing face and blowing hair,-- "my Senorita!" - -But Ramona would not run with her hand in Baba's mane this -winter. There was a new work for her, indoors. In a rustic cradle, -which Alessandro had made, under her directions, of the woven -twigs, like the great outdoor acorn-granaries, only closer woven, -and of an oval shape, and lifted from the floor by four uprights of -red manzanita stems,-- in this cradle, on soft white wool fleeces, -covered with white homespun blankets, lay Ramona's baby, six -months old, lusty, strong, and beautiful, as only children born of -great love and under healthful conditions can be. This child was a -girl, to Alessandro's delight; to Ramona's regret,-- so far as a loving -mother can feel regret connected with her firstborn. Ramona had -wished for an Alessandro; but the disappointed wish faded out of -her thoughts, hour by hour, as she gazed into her baby-girl's blue -eyes,-- eyes so blue that their color was the first thing noticed by -each person who looked at her. - -"Eyes of the sky," exclaimed Ysidro, when he first saw her. - -"Like the mother's," said Alessandro; on which Ysidro turned an -astonished look upon Ramona, and saw for the first time that her -eyes, too, were blue. - -"Wonderful!" he said. "It is so. I never saw it;" and he wondered in -his heart what father it had been, who had given eyes like those to -one born of an Indian mother. - -"Eyes of the sky," became at once the baby's name in the village; -and Alessandro and Ramona, before they knew it, had fallen into -the way of so calling her. But when it came to the christening, they -demurred. The news was brought to the village, one Saturday, that -Father Gaspara would hold services in the valley the next day, and -that he wished all the new-born babes to be brought for -christening. Late into the night, Alessandro and Ramona sat by -their sleeping baby and discussed what should be her name. -Ramona wondered that Alessandro did not wish to name her -Majella. - -"No! Never but one Majella," he said, in a tone which gave -Ramona a sense of vague fear, it was so solemn. - -They discussed "Ramona," "Isabella." Alessandro suggested -Carmena. This had been his mother's name. - -At the mention of it Ramona shuddered, recollecting the scene in -the Temecula graveyard. "Oh, no, no! Not that!" she cried. "It is -ill-fated;" and Alessandro blamed himself for having forgotten her -only association with the name. - -At last Alessandro said: "The people have named her, I think, -Majella. Whatever name we give her in the chapel, she will never -be called anything but 'Eyes of the Sky,' in the village." - -"Let that name be her true one, then," said Ramona. And so it was -settled; and when Father Gaspara took the little one in his arms, -and made the sign of the cross on her brow, he pronounced with -some difficulty the syllables of the Indian name, which meant -"Blue Eyes," or "Eyes of the Sky." - -Heretofore, when Father Gaspara had come to San Pasquale to say -mass, he had slept at Lomax's, the store and post-office, six miles -away, in the Bernardo valley. But Ysidro, with great pride, had this -time ridden to meet him, to say that his cousin Alessandro, who -had come to live in the valley, and had a good new adobe house, -begged that the Father would do him the honor to stay with him. - -"And indeed, Father," added Ysidro, "you will be far better lodged -and fed than in the house of Lomax. My cousin's wife knows well -how all should be done." - -"Alessandro! Alessandro!" said the Father, musingly. "Has he been -long married?" - -"No, Father," answered Ysidro. "But little more than two years. -They were married by you, on their way from Temecula here." - -"Ay, ay. I remember," said Father Gaspara. "I will come;" and it -was with no small interest that he looked forward to meeting again -the couple that had so strongly impressed him. - -Ramona was full of eager interest in her preparations for -entertaining the priest. This was like the olden time; and as she -busied herself with her cooking and other arrangements, the -thought of Father Salvierderra was much in her mind. She could, -perhaps, hear news of him from Father Gaspara. It was she who -had suggested the idea to Alessandro; and when he said, "But -where will you sleep yourself, with the child, Majella, if we give -our room to the Father? I can lie on the floor outside; but you?" -- -"I will go to Ysidro's, and sleep with Juana," she replied. "For two -nights, it is no matter; and it is such shame to have the Father sleep -in the house of an American, when we have a good bed like this!" - -Seldom in his life had Alessandro experienced such a sense of -gratification as he did when he led Father Gaspara into his and -Ramona's bedroom. The clean whitewashed walls, the bed neatly -made, with broad lace on sheets and pillows, hung with curtains -and a canopy of bright red calico, the old carved chairs, the -Madonna shrine in its bower of green leaves, the shelves on the -walls, the white-curtained window, -- all made up a picture such as -Father Gaspara had never before seen in his pilgrimages among the -Indian villages. He could not restrain an ejaculation of surprise. -Then his eye falling on the golden rosary, he exclaimed, "Where -got you that?" - -"It is my wife's," replied Alessandro, proudly. "It was given to her -by Father Salvierderra." - -"Ah!" said the Father. "He died the other day." - -"Dead! Father Salvierderra dead!" cried Alessandro. "That will be -a terrible blow. Oh, Father, I implore you not to speak of it in her -presence. She must not know it till after the christening. It will -make her heart heavy, so that she will have no joy." - -Father Gaspara was still scrutinizing the rosary and crucifix. "To -be sure, to be sure," he said absently; "I will say nothing of it; but -this is a work of art, this crucifix; do you know what you have -here? And this,-- is this not an altar-cloth?" he added, lifting up the -beautiful wrought altar-cloth, which Ramona, in honor of his -coming, had pinned on the wall below the Madonna's shrine. - -"Yes, Father, it was made for that. My wife made it. It was to be a -present to Father Salvierderra; but she has not seen him, to give it -to him. It will take the light out of the sun for her, when first she -hears that he is dead," - -Father Gaspara was about to ask another question, when Ramona -appeared in the doorway, flushed with running. She had carried the -baby over to Juana's and left her there, that she might be free to -serve the Father's supper. - -"I pray you tell her not," said Alessandro, under his breath; but it -was too late. Seeing the Father with her rosary in his hand, -Ramona exclaimed: -- - -"That, Father, is my most sacred possession. It once belonged to -Father Peyri, of San Luis Rey, and he gave it to Father -Salvierderra, who gave it to me, Know you Father Salvierderra? I -was hoping to hear news of him through you." - -"Yes, I knew him,-- not very well; it is long since I saw him," -stammered Father Gaspara. His hesitancy alone would not have -told Ramona the truth; she would have set that down to the secular -priest's indifference, or hostility, to the Franciscan order; but -looking at Alessandro, she saw terror and sadness on his face. No -shadow there ever escaped her eye. "What is it, Alessandro?" she -exclaimed. "Is it something about Father Salvierderra? Is he ill?" - -Alessandro shook his head. He did not know what to say. Looking -from one to the other, seeing the confused pain in both their faces, -Ramona, laying both her hands on her breast, in the expressive -gesture she had learned from the Indian women, cried out in a -piteous tone: "You will not tell me! You do not speak! Then he is -dead!" and she sank on her knees. - -"Yes, my daughter, he is dead," said Father Gaspara, more tenderly -than that brusque and warlike priest often spoke. "He died a month -ago, at Santa Barbara. I am grieved to have brought you tidings to -give you such sorrow. But you must not mourn for him. He was -very feeble, and he longed to die, I heard. He could no longer -work, and he did not wish to live." - -Ramona had buried her face in her hands. The Father's words were -only a confused sound in her ears. She had heard nothing after the -words, "a month ago." She remained silent and motionless for -some moments; then rising, without speaking a word, or looking at -either of the men, she crossed the room and knelt down before the -Madonna. By a common impulse, both Alessandro and Father -Gaspara silently left the room. As they stood together outside the -door, the Father said, "I would go back to Lomax's if it were not so -late. I like not to be here when your wife is in such grief." - -"That would but be another grief, Father," said Alessandro. "She -has been full of happiness in making ready for you. She is very -strong of soul. It is she who makes me strong often, and not I who -give strength to her." - -"My faith, but the man is right," thought Father Gaspara, a -half-hour later, when, with a calm face, Ramona summoned them -to supper. He did not know, as Alessandro did, how that face had -changed in the half-hour. It wore a look Alessandro had never seen -upon it. Almost he dreaded to speak to her. - -When he walked by her side, later in the evening, as she went -across the valley to Fernando's house, he ventured to mention -Father Salvierderra's name. Ramona laid her hand on his lips. "I -cannot talk about him yet, dear," she said. "I never believed that he -would die without giving us his blessing. Do not speak of him till -to-morrow is over." - -Ramona's saddened face smote on all the women's hearts as they -met her the next morning. One by one they gazed, astonished, then -turned away, and spoke softly among themselves. They all loved -her, and half revered her too, for her great kindness, and readiness -to teach and to help them. She had been like a sort of missionary in -the valley ever since she came, and no one had ever seen her face -without a smile. Now she smiled not. Yet there was the beautiful -baby in its white dress, ready to be christened; and the sun shone, -and the bell had been ringing for half an hour, and from every -corner of the valley the people were gathering, and Father Gaspara, -in his gold and green cassock, was praying before the altar; it was -a joyous day in San Pasquale. Why did Alessandro and Ramona -kneel apart in a corner, with such heart-stricken countenances, not -even looking glad when their baby laughed, and reached up her -hands? Gradually it was whispered about what had happened. -Some one had got it from Antonio, of Temecula, Alessandro's -friend. Then all the women's faces grew sad too. They all had -heard of Father Salvierderra, and many of them had prayed to the -ivory Christ in Ramona's room, and knew that he had given it to -her. - -As Ramona passed out of the chapel, some of them came up to -her, and taking her hand in theirs, laid it on their hearts, speaking -no word. The gesture was more than any speech could have been. - -When Father Gaspara was taking leave, Ramona said, with -quivering lips, "Father, if there is anything you know of Father -Salvierderra's last hours, I would be grateful to you for telling me." - -"I heard very little," replied the Father, "except that he had been -feeble for some weeks; yet he would persist in spending most of -the night kneeling on the stone floor in the church, praying." - -"Yes," interrupted Ramona; "that he always did." - -"And the last morning," continued the Father, "the Brothers found -him there, still kneeling on the stone floor, but quite powerless to -move; and they lifted him, and carried him to his room, and there -they found, to their horror, that he had had no bed; he had lain on -the stones; and then they took him to the Superior's own room, and -laid him in the bed, and he did not speak any more, and at noon he -died." - -"Thank you very much, Father," said Ramona, without lifting her -eyes from the ground; and in the same low, tremulous tone, "I am -glad that I know that he is dead." - -"Strange what a hold those Franciscans got on these Indians!" -mused Father Gaspara, as he rode down the valley. "There's none -of them would look like that if I were dead, I warrant me! There," -he exclaimed, "I meant to have asked Alessandro who this wife of -his is! I don't believe she is a Temecula Indian. Next time I come, I -will find out. She's had some schooling somewhere, that's plain. -She's quite superior to the general run of them. Next time I come, I -will find out about her." - -"Next time!" In what calendar are kept the records of those next -times which never come? Long before Father Gaspara visited San -Pasquale again, Alessandro and Ramona were far away, and -strangers were living in their home. - -It seemed to Ramona in after years, as she looked back over this -life, that the news of Father Salvierderra's death was the first note -of the knell of their happiness. It was but a few days afterward, -when Alessandro came in one noon with an expression on his face -that terrified her; seating himself in a chair, he buried his face in -his hands, and would neither look up nor speak; not until Ramona -was near crying from his silence, did he utter a word. Then, -looking at her with a ghastly face, he said in a hollow voice, "It has -begun!" and buried his face again. Finally Ramona's tears wrung -from him the following story: - -Ysidro, it seemed, had the previous year rented a canon, at the -head of the valley, to one Doctor Morong. It was simply as -bee-pasture that the Doctor wanted it, he said. He put his hives -there, and built a sort of hut for the man whom he sent up to look -after the honey. Ysidro did not need the land, and thought it a good -chance to make a little money. He had taken every precaution to -make the transaction a safe one; had gone to San Diego, and got -Father Gaspara to act as interpreter for him, in the interview with -Morong; it had been a written agreement, and the rent agreed upon -had been punctually paid. Now, the time of the lease having -expired, Ysidro had been to San Diego to ask the Doctor if he -wished to renew it for another year; and the Doctor had said that -the land was his, and he was coming out there to build a house, -and live. - -Ysidro had gone to Father Gaspara for help, and Father Gaspara -had had an angry interview with Doctor Morong; but it had done -no good. The Doctor said the land did not belong to Ysidro at all, -but to the United States Government; and that he had paid the -money for it to the agents in Los Angeles, and there would very -soon come papers from Washington, to show that it was his. Father -Gaspara had gone with Ysidro to a lawyer in San Diego, and had -shown to his lawyer Ysidro's paper,-- the old one from the -Mexican Governor of California, establishing the pueblo of San -Pasquale, and saying how many leagues of land the Indians were to -have; but the lawyer had only laughed at Father Gaspara for -believing that such a paper as that was good for anything. He said -that was all very well when the country belonged to Mexico, but it -was no good now; that the Americans owned it now; and -everything was done by the American law now, not by the -Mexican law any more. - -"Then we do not own any land in San Pasquale at all," said Ysidro. -"Is that what it means?" - -And the lawyer had said, he did not know how it would be with the -cultivated land, and the village where the houses were,-- he could -not tell about that; but he thought it all belonged to the men at -Washington. - -Father Gaspara was in such rage, Ysidro said, that he tore open his -gown on his breast, and he smote himself, and he said he wished -he were a soldier, and no priest, that he might fight this accursed -United States Government; and the lawyer laughed at him, and -told him to look after souls, -- that was his business,-- and let the -Indian beggars alone! "Yes, that was what he said,-- 'the Indian -beggars!' and so they would be all beggars, presently." - -Alessandro told this by gasps, as it were; at long intervals. His -voice was choked; his whole frame shook. He was nearly beside -himself with rage and despair. - -"You see, it is as I said, Majella. There is no place safe. We can do -nothing! We might better be dead!" - -"It is a long way off, that canon Doctor Morong had," said -Ramona, piteously. "It wouldn't do any harm, his living there, if no -more came." - -"Majella talks like a dove, and not like a woman," said Alessandro, -fiercely. "Will there be one to come, and not two? It is the -beginning. To-morrow may come ten more, with papers to show -that the land is theirs. We can do nothing, any more than the wild -beasts. They are better than we." - -From this day Alessandro was a changed man. Hope had died in -his bosom. In all the village councils,-- and they were many and -long now, for the little community had been plunged into great -anxiety and distress by this Doctor Morong's affair,-- Alessandro -sat dumb and gloomy. To whatever was proposed, he had but one -reply: "It is of no use. We can do nothing." - -"Eat your dinners to-day, to-morrow we starve," he said one night, -bitterly, as the council broke up. When Ysidro proposed to him -that they should journey to Los Angeles, where Father Gaspara had -said the headquarters of the Government officers were, and where -they could learn all about the new laws in regard to land, -Alessandro laughed at him. "What more is it, then, which you wish -to know, my brother, about the American laws?" he said. "Is it not -enough that you know they have made a law which will take the -land from Indians; from us who have owned it longer than any can -remember; land that our ancestors are buried in,-- will take that -land and give it to themselves, and say it is theirs? Is it to hear this -again said in your face, and to see the man laugh who says it, like -the lawyer in San Diego, that you will journey to Los Angeles? I -will not go!" - -And Ysidro went alone. Father Gaspara gave him a letter to the -Los Angeles priest, who went with him to the land-office, patiently -interpreted for him all he had to say, and as patiently interpreted -all that the officials had to say in reply. They did not laugh, as -Alessandro in his bitterness had said. They were not inhuman, and -they felt sincere sympathy for this man, representative of two -hundred hard-working, industrious people, in danger of being -turned out of house and home. But they were very busy; they had -to say curtly, and in few words, all there was to be said: the San -Pasquale district was certainly the property of the United States -Government, and the lands were in market, to be filed on, and -bought, according to the homestead laws, These officials had -neither authority nor option in the matter. They were there simply -to carry out instructions, and obey orders. - -Ysidro understood the substance of all this, though the details were -beyond his comprehension. But he did not regret having taken the -journey; he had now made his last effort for his people. The Los -Angeles priest had promised that he would himself write a letter to -Washington, to lay the case before the head man there, and -perhaps something would be done for their relief. It seemed -incredible to Ysidro, as, riding along day after day, on his sad -homeward journey, he reflected on the subject,-- it seemed -incredible to him that the Government would permit such a village -as theirs to be destroyed. He reached home just at sunset; and -looking down, as Alessandro and Ramona had done on the -morning of their arrival, from the hillcrests at the west end of the -valley, seeing the broad belt of cultivated fields and orchards, the -peaceful little hamlet of houses, he groaned. "If the people who -make these laws could only see this village, they would never turn -us out, never! They can't know what is being done. I am sure they -can't know." - -"What did I tell you?" cried Alessandro, galloping up on Benito, -and reining him in so sharply he reared and plunged. "What did I -tell you? I saw by your face, many paces back, that you had come -as you went, or worse! I have been watching for you these two -days. Another American has come in with Morong in the canon; -they are making corrals; they will keep stock. You will see how -long we have any pasture-lands in that end of the valley. I drive all -my stock to San Diego next week. I will sell it for what it will -bring,-- both the cattle and the sheep. It is no use. You will see." - -When Ysidro began to recount his interview with the land-office -authorities, Alessandro broke in fiercely: "I wish to hear no more -of it. Their names and their speech are like smoke in my eyes and -my nose. I think I shall go mad, Ysidro. Go tell your story to the -men who are waiting to hear it, and who yet believe that an -American may speak truth!" - -Alessandro was as good as his word. The very next week he drove -all his cattle and sheep to San Diego, and sold them at great loss. -"It is better than nothing," he said. "They will not now be sold by -the sheriff, like my father's in Temecula." The money he got, he -took to Father Gaspara. "Father," he said huskily. "I have sold all -my stock. I would not wait for the Americans to sell it for me, and -take the money. I have not got much, but it is better than nothing. -It will make that we do not starve for one year. Will you keep it for -me, Father? I dare not have it in San Pasquale. San Pasquale will -be like Temecula,-- it may be to-morrow." - -To the Father's suggestion that he should put the money in a bank -in San Diego, Alessandro cried: "Sooner would I throw it in the sea -yonder! I trust no man, henceforth; only the Church I will trust. -Keep it for me, Father, I pray you," and the Father could not refuse -his imploring tone. - -"What are your plans now?" he asked. - -"Plans!" repeated Alessandro,-- "plans, Father! Why should I make -plans? I will stay in my house so long as the Americans will let -me. You saw our little house, Father!" His voice broke as he said -this. "I have large wheat-fields; if I can get one more crop off -them, it will be something; but my land is of the richest in the -valley, and as soon as the Americans see it, they will want it. -Farewell, Father. I thank you for keeping my money, and for all -you said to the thief Morong. Ysidro told me. Farewell." And he -was gone, and out of sight on the swift galloping Benito, before -Father Gaspara bethought himself. - -"And I remembered not to ask who his wife was. I will look back -at the record," said the Father. Taking down the old volume, he ran -his eye back over the year. Marriages were not so many in Father -Gaspara's parish, that the list took long to read. The entry of -Alessandro's marriage was blotted. The Father had been in haste -that night. "Alessandro Assis. Majella Fa--" No more could be -read. The name meant nothing to Father Gaspara. "Clearly an -Indian name," he said to himself; "yet she seemed superior in every -way. I wonder where she got it." - -The winter wore along quietly in San Pasquale. The delicious soft -rains set in early, promising a good grain year. It seemed a pity not -to get in as much wheat as possible; and all the San Pasquale -people went early to ploughing new fields,-- all but Alessandro. - -"If I reap all I have, I will thank the saints," he said. "I will plough -no more land for the robbers." But after his fields were all planted, -and the beneficent rains still kept on, and the hills all along the -valley wall began to turn green earlier than ever before was -known, he said to Ramona one morning, "I think I will make one -more field of wheat. There will be a great yield this year. Maybe -we will be left unmolested till the harvest is over." - -"Oh, yes, and for many more harvests, dear Alessandro!" said -Ramona, cheerily. "You are always looking on the black side." - -"There is no other but the black side, Majella," he replied. "Strain -my eyes as I may, on all sides all is black. You will see. Never any -more harvests in San Pasquale for us, after this. If we get this, we -are lucky. I have seen the white men riding up and down in the -valley, and I found some of their cursed bits of wood with figures -on them set up on my land the other day; and I pulled them up and -burned them to ashes. But I will plough one more field this week; -though, I know not why it is, my thoughts go against it even now. -But I will do it; and I will not come home till night, Majella, for -the field is too far to go and come twice. I shall be the whole day -ploughing." So saying, he stooped and kissed the baby, and then -kissing Ramona, went out. - -Ramona stood at the door and watched him as he harnessed Benito -and Baba to the plough. He did not once look back at her; his face -seemed full of thought, his hands acting as it were mechanically. -After he had gone a few rods from the house, he stopped, stood -still for some minutes meditatingly, then went on irresolutely, -halted again, but finally went on, and disappeared from sight -among the low foothills to the east. Sighing deeply, Ramona -turned back to her work. But her heart was too disquieted. She -could not keep back the tears. - -"How changed is Alessandro!" she thought. "It terrifies me to see -him thus. I will tell the Blessed Virgin about it;" and kneeling -before the shrine, she prayed fervently and long. She rose -comforted, and drawing the baby's cradle out into the veranda, -seated herself at her embroidery. Her skill with her needle had -proved a not inconsiderable source of income, her fine lace-work -being always taken by San Diego merchants, and at fairly good -prices. - -It seemed to her only a short time that she had been sitting thus, -when, glancing up at the sun, she saw it was near noon; at the -same moment she saw Alessandro approaching, with the horses. In -dismay, she thought, "There is no dinner! He said he would not -come!" and springing up, was about to run to meet him, when she -observed that he was not alone. A short, thick-set man was -walking by his side; they were talking earnestly. It was a white -man. What did it bode? Presently they stopped. She saw -Alessandro lift his hand and point to the house, then to the tule -sheds in the rear. He seemed to be talking excitedly; the white man -also; they were both speaking at once. Ramona shivered with fear. -Motionless she stood, straining eye and ear; she could hear -nothing, but the gestures told much. Had it come,-- the thing -Alessandro had said would come? Were they to be driven out,-- -driven out this very day, when the Virgin had only just now -seemed to promise her help and protection? - -The baby stirred, waked, began to cry. Catching the child up to her -breast, she stilled her by convulsive caresses. Clasping her tight in -her arms, she walked a few steps towards Alessandro, who, seeing -her, made an imperative gesture to her to return. Sick at heart, she -went back to the veranda and sat down to wait. - -In a few moments she saw the white man counting out money into -Alessandro's hand; then he turned and walked away, Alessandro -still standing as if rooted to the spot, gazing into the palm of his -hand, Benito and Baba slowly walking away from him unnoticed; -at last he seemed to rouse himself as from a trance, and picking up -the horses' reins, came slowly toward her. Again she started to -meet him; again he made the same authoritative gesture to her to -return; and again she seated herself, trembling in every nerve of -her body. Ramona was now sometimes afraid of Alessandro. When -these fierce glooms seized him, she dreaded, she knew not what. -He seemed no more the Alessandro she had loved. - -Deliberately, lingeringly, he unharnessed the horses and put them -in the corral. Then still more deliberately, lingeringly, he walked -to the house; walked, without speaking, past Ramona, into the -door. A lurid spot on each cheek showed burning red through the -bronze of his skin. His eyes glittered. In silence Ramona followed -him, and saw him draw from his pocket a handful of gold-pieces, -fling them on the table, and burst into a laugh more terrible than -any weeping,-- a laugh which wrung from her instantly, -involuntarily, the cry, "Oh, my Alessandro! my Alessandro! What -is it? Are you mad?" - -"No, my sweet Majel," he exclaimed, turning to her, and flinging -his arms round her and the child together, drawing them so close -to his breast that the embrace hurt,-- "no, I am not mad; but I think -I shall soon be! What is that gold? The price of this house, Majel, -and of the fields,-- of all that was ours in San Pasquale! -To-morrow we will go out into the world again. I will see if I can -find a place the Americans do not want!" - -It did not take many words to tell the story. Alessandro had not -been ploughing more than an hour, when, hearing a strange sound, -he looked up and saw a man unloading lumber a few rods off'. -Alessandro stopped midway in the furrow and watched him. The -man also watched Alessandro. Presently he came toward him, and -said roughly, "Look here! Be off, will you? This is my land. I'm -going to build a house here." - -Alessandro had replied, "This was my land yesterday. How comes -it yours to-day?" - -Something in the wording of this answer, or something in -Alessandro's tone and bearing, smote the man's conscience, or -heart, or what stood to him in the place of conscience and heart, -and he said: "Come, now, my good fellow, you look like a -reasonable kind of a fellow; you just clear out, will you, and not -make me any trouble. You see the land's mine. I've got all this land -round here;" and he waved his arm, describing a circle; "three -hundred and twenty acres, me and my brother together, and we're -coming in here to settle. We got our papers from Washington last -week. It's all right, and you may just as well go peaceably, as make -a fuss about it. Don't you see?" - -Yes, Alessandro saw. He had been seeing this precise thing for -months. Many times, in his dreams and in his waking thoughts, he -had lived over scenes similar to this. An almost preternatural calm -and wisdom seemed to be given him now. - -"Yes, I see, Senor," he said. "I am not surprised. I knew it would -come; but I hoped it would not be till after harvest. I will not give -you any trouble, Senor, because I cannot. If I could, I would. But I -have heard all about the new law which gives all the Indians' lands -to the Americans. We cannot help ourselves. But it is very hard, -Senor." He paused. - -The man, confused and embarrassed, astonished beyond -expression at being met in this way by an Indian, did not find -words come ready to his tongue. "Of course, I know it does seem a -little rough on fellows like you, that are industrious, and have done -some work on the land. But you see the land's in the market; I've -paid my money for it." - -"The Senor is going to build a house?" asked Alessandro. - -"Yes," the man answered. "I've got my family in San Diego, and I -want to get them settled as soon as I can. My wife won't feel -comfortable till she's in her own house. We're from the States, and -she's been used to having everything comfortable." - -"I have a wife and child, Senor," said Alessandro, still in the same -calm, deliberate tone; "and we have a very good house of two -rooms. It would save the Senor's building, if he would buy mine." - -"How far is it?" said the man. "I can't tell exactly where the -boundaries of my land are, for the stakes we set have been pulled -up." - -"Yes, Senor, I pulled them up and burned them. They were on my -land," replied Alessandro. "My house is farther west than your -stakes; and I have large wheat-fields there, too,-- many acres, -Senor, all planted." - -Here was a chance, indeed. The man's eyes gleamed. He would do -the handsome thing. He would give this fellow something for his -house and wheat-crops. First he would see the house, however; and -it was for that purpose he had walked back with Alessandro, When -he saw the neat whitewashed adobe, with its broad veranda, the -sheds and corrals all in good order, he instantly resolved to get -possession of them by fair means or foul. - -"There will be three hundred dollars' worth of wheat in July, -Senor, you can see for yourself; and a house so good as that, you -cannot build for less than one hundred dollars. What will you give -me for them?" - -"I suppose I can have them without paying you for them, if I -choose," said the man, insolently. - -"No, Senor," replied Alessandro. - -"What's to hinder, then, I'd like to know!" in a brutal sneer. "You -haven't got any rights here, whatever, according to law." - -"I shall hinder, Senor," replied Alessandro. "I shall burn down the -sheds and corrals, tear down the house; and before a blade of the -wheat is reaped, I will burn that." Still in the same calm tone. - -"What'll you take?" said the man, sullenly. - -"Two hundred dollars," replied Alessandro. - -"Well, leave your plough and wagon, and I'll give it to you," said -the man; "and a big fool I am, too. Well laughed at, I'll be, do you -know it, for buying out an Indian!" - -"The wagon, Senor, cost me one hundred and thirty dollars in San -Diego. You cannot buy one so good for less. I will not sell it. I -need it to take away my things in. The plough you may have. That -is worth twenty." - -"I'll do it," said the man; and pulling out a heavy buckskin pouch, -he counted out into Alessandro's hand two hundred dollars in gold. - -"Is that all right?" he said, as he put down the last piece. - -"That is the sum I said, Senor," replied Alessandro. "Tomorrow, at -noon, you can come into the house." - -"Where will you go?" asked the man, again slightly touched by -Alessandro's manner. "Why don't you stay round here? I expect you -could get work enough; there are a lot of farmers coming in here; -they'll want hands." - -A fierce torrent of words sprang to Alessandro's lips, but he -choked them back. "I do not know where I shall go, but I will not -stay here," he said; and that ended the interview. - -"I don't know as I blame him a mite for feeling that way," thought -the man from the States, as he walked slowly back to his pile of -lumber. "I expect I should feel just so myself." - -Almost before Alessandro had finished this tale, he began to move -about the room, taking down, folding up, opening and shutting -lids; his restlessness was terrible to see. "By sunrise, I would like -to be off," he said. "It is like death, to be in the house which is no -longer ours." Ramona had spoken no words since her first cry on -hearing that terrible laugh. She was like one stricken dumb. The -shock was greater to her than to Alessandro. He had lived with it -ever present in his thoughts for a year. She had always hoped. But -far more dreadful than the loss of her home, was the anguish of -seeing, hearing, the changed face, changed voice, of Alessandro. -Almost this swallowed up the other. She obeyed him -mechanically, working faster and faster as he grew more and more -feverish in his haste. Before sundown the little house was -dismantled; everything, except the bed and the stove, packed in the -big wagon. - -"Now, we must cook food for the journey," said Alessandro. - -"Where are we going?" said the weeping Ramona. - -"Where?" ejaculated Alessandro, so scornfully that it sounded like -impatience with Ramona, and made her tears flow afresh. "Where? -I know not, Majella! Into the mountains, where the white men -come not! At sunrise we will start." - -Ramona wished to say good-by to their friends. There were women -in the village that she tenderly loved. But Alessandro was -unwilling. "There will be weeping and crying, Majella; I pray you -do not speak to one. Why should we have more tears? Let us -disappear. I will say all to Ysidro. He will tell them." - -This was a sore grief to Ramona. In her heart she rebelled against -it, as she had never yet rebelled against an act of Alessandro's; but -she could not distress him. Was not his burden heavy enough now? - -Without a word of farewell to any one, they set off in the gray -dawn, before a creature was stirring in the village,-- the wagon -piled high; Ramona, her baby in her arms, in front; Alessandro -walking. The load was heavy. Benito and Baba walked slowly. -Capitan, unhappy, looking first at Ramona's face, then at -Alessandro's, walked dispiritedly by their side. He knew all was -wrong. - -As Alessandro turned the horses into a faintly marked road leading -in a northeasterly direction, Ramona said with a sob, "Where does -this road lead, Alessandro?" - -"To San Jacinto," he said. "San Jacinto Mountain. Do not look -back, Majella! Do not look back!" he cried, as he saw Ramona, -with streaming eyes, gazing back towards San Pasquale. "Do not -look back! It is gone! Pray to the saints now, Majella! Pray! Pray!" - -XXI - -THE Senora Moreno was dying. It had been a sad two years in the -Moreno house. After the first excitement following Ramona's -departure had died away, things had settled down in a surface -similitude of their old routine. But nothing was really the same. No -one was so happy as before. Juan Canito was heart-broken. There -had been set over him the very Mexican whose coming to the -place he had dreaded. The sheep had not done well; there had been -a drought; many had died of hunger,-- a thing for which the new -Mexican overseer was not to blame, though it pleased Juan to hold -him so, and to say from morning till night that if his leg had not -been broken, or if the lad Alessandro had been there, the -wool-crop would have been as big as ever. Not one of the servants -liked this Mexican; he had a sorry time of it, poor fellow; each -man and woman on the place had or fancied some reason for being -set against him; some from sympathy with Juan Can, some from -idleness and general impatience; Margarita, most of all, because -he was not Alessandro. Margarita, between remorse about her -young mistress and pique and disappointment about Alessandro, -had become a very unhappy girl; and her mother, instead of -comforting or soothing her, added to her misery by continually -bemoaning Ramona's fate. The void that Ramona had left in the -whole household seemed an irreparable one; nothing came to fill -it; there was no forgetting; every day her name was mentioned by -some one; mentioned with bated breath, fearful conjecture, -compassion, and regret. Where had she vanished? Had she indeed -gone to the convent, as she said, or had she fled with Alessandro? - -Margarita would have given her right hand to know. Only Juan -Can felt sure. Very well Juan Can knew that nobody but -Alessandro had the wit and the power over Baba to lure him out of -that corral, "and never a rail out of its place." And the saddle, too! -Ay, the smart lad! He had done the best he could for the Senorita; -but, Holy Virgin! what had got into the Senorita to run off like -that, with an Indian,-- even Alessandro! The fiends had bewitched -her. Tirelessly Juan Can questioned every traveller, every -wandering herder he saw. No one knew anything of Alessandro, -beyond the fact that all the Temecula Indians had been driven out -of their village, and that there was now not an Indian in the valley. -There was a rumor that Alessandro and his father had both died; -but no one knew anything certainly. The Temecula Indians had -disappeared, that was all there was of it,-- disappeared, like any -wild creatures, foxes or coyotes, hunted down, driven out; the -valley was rid of them. But the Senorita! She was not with these -fugitives. That could not be! Heaven forbid! - -"If I'd my legs, I'd go and see for myself." said Juan Can. "It would -be some comfort to know even the worst. Perdition take the -Senora, who drove her to it! Ay, drove her to it! That's what I say, -Luigo." In some of his most venturesome wrathy moments he -would say: "There's none of you know the truth about the Senorita -but me! It's a hard hand the Senora's reared her with, from the first. -She's a wonderful woman, our Senora! She gets power over one." - -But the Senora's power was shaken now. More changed than all -else in the changed Moreno household, was the relation between -the Senora Moreno and her son Felipe. On the morning after -Ramona's disappearance, words had been spoken by each which -neither would ever forget. In fact, the Senora believed that it was -of them she was dying, and perhaps that was not far from the truth; -the reason that forces could no longer rally in her to repel disease, -lying no doubt largely in the fact that to live seemed no longer to -her desirable. - -Felipe had found the note Ramona had laid on his bed. Before it -was yet dawn he had waked, and tossing uneasily under the light -covering had heard the rustle of the paper, and knowing -instinctively that it was from Ramona, had risen instantly to make -sure of it. Before his mother opened her window, he had read it. -He felt like one bereft of his senses as he read. Gone! Gone with -Alessandro! Stolen away like a thief in the night, his dear, sweet -little sister! Ah, what a cruel shame! Scales seemed to drop from -Felipe's eyes as he lay motionless, thinking of it. A shame! a cruel -shame! And he and his mother were the ones who had brought it -on Ramona's head, and on the house of Moreno. Felipe felt as if he -had been under a spell all along, not to have realized this. "That's -what I told my mother!" he groaned,-- "that it drove her to running -away! Oh, my sweet Ramona! what will become of her? I will go -after them, and bring them back;" and Felipe rose, and hastily -dressing himself, ran down the veranda steps, to gain a little more -time to think. He returned shortly, to meet his mother standing in -the doorway, with pale, affrighted face. - -"Felipe!" she cried, "Ramona is not here." - -"I know it," he replied in an angry tone. "That is what I told you we -should do,-- drive her to running away with Alessandro!" - -"With Alessandro!" interrupted the Senora. - -"Yes," continued Felipe,-- "with Alessandro, the Indian! Perhaps -you think it is less disgrace to the names of Ortegna and Moreno to -have her run away with him, than to be married to him here under -our roof! I do not! Curse the day, I say, when I ever lent myself to -breaking the girl's heart! I am going after them, to fetch them -back!" - -If the skies had opened and rained fire, the Senora had hardly less -quailed and wondered than she did at these words; but even for fire -from the skies she would not surrender till she must. - -"How know you that it is with Alessandro?" she said. - -"Because she has written it here!" cried Felipe, defiantly holding -up his little note. "She left this, her good-by to me. Bless her! She -writes like a saint, to thank me for all my goodness to her,-- I, who -drove her to steal out of my house like a thief!" - -The phrase, "my house," smote the Senora's ear like a note from -some other sphere, which indeed it was,-- from the new world into -which Felipe had been in an hour born. Her cheeks flushed, and -she opened her lips to reply; but before she had uttered a word, -Luigo came running round the corner, Juan Can hobbling after him -at a miraculous pace on his crutches. "Senor Felipe! Senor Felipe! -Oh, Senora!" they cried. "Thieves have been here in the night! -Baba is gone,-- Baba, and the Senorita's saddle." - -A malicious smile broke over the Senora's countenance, and -turning to Felipe, she said in a tone -- what a tone it was! Felipe -felt as if he must put his hands to his ears to shut it out; Felipe -would never forget,-- "As you were saying, like a thief in the -night!" - -With a swifter and more energetic movement than any had ever -before seen Senor Felipe make, he stepped forward, saying in an -undertone to his mother, "For God's sake, mother, not a word -before the men! -- What is that you say, Luigo? Baba gone? We -must see to our corral. I will come down, after breakfast, and look -at it;" and turning his back on them, he drew his mother by a firm -grasp, she could not resist, into the house. - -She gazed at him in sheer, dumb wonder. - -"Ay, mother," he said, "you may well look thus in wonder; I have -been no man, to let my foster-sister, I care not what blood were in -her veins, be driven to this pass! I will set out this day, and bring -her back." - -"The day you do that, then, I lie in this house dead!" retorted the -Senora, at white heat. "You may rear as many Indian families as -you please under the Moreno roof, I will at least have my grave!" -In spite of her anger, grief convulsed her; and in another second -she had burst into tears, and sunk helpless and trembling into a -chair. No counterfeiting now. No pretences. The Senora Moreno's -heart broke within her, when those words passed her lips to her -adored Felipe. At the sight, Felipe flung himself on his knees -before her; he kissed the aged hands as they lay trembling in her -lap. "Mother mia," he cried, "you will break my heart if you speak -like that! Oh, why, why do you command me to do what a man -may not? I would die for you, my mother; but how can I see my -sister a homeless wanderer in the wilderness?" - -"I suppose the man Alessandro has something he calls a home," -said the Senora, regaining herself a little. "Had they no plans? -Spoke she not in her letter of what they would do?" - -"Only that they would go to Father Salvierderra first," he replied. - -"Ah!" The Senora reflected. At first startled, her second thought -was that this would be the best possible thing which could happen. -"Father Salvierderra will counsel them what to do," she said. "He -could no doubt establish them in Santa Barbara in some way. My -son, when you reflect, you will see the impossibility of bringing -them here. Help them in any way you like, but do not bring them -here." She paused. "Not until I am dead, Felipe! It will not be -long." - -Felipe bowed his head in his mother's lap. She laid her hands on -his hair, and stroked it with passionate tenderness. "My Felipe!" -she said. "It was a cruel fate to rob me of you at the last!" - -"Mother! mother!" he cried in anguish. "I am yours,-- wholly, -devotedly yours! Why do you torture me thus?" - -"I will not torture you more," she said wearily, in a feeble tone. "I -ask only one thing of you; let me never hear again the name of that -wretched girl, who has brought all this woe on our house; let her -name never be spoken on this place by man, woman, or child. Like -a thief in the night! Ay, a horse-thief!" - -Felipe sprang to his feet. - -"Mother." he said, "Baba was Ramona's own; I myself gave him to -her as soon as he was born!" - -The Senora made no reply. She had fainted. Calling the maids, in -terror and sorrow Felipe bore her to her bed, and she did not leave -it for many days. She seemed hovering between life and death. -Felipe watched over her as a lover might; her great mournful eyes -followed his every motion. She spoke little, partly because of -physical weakness, partly from despair. The Senora had got her -death-blow. She would die hard. It would take long. Yet she was -dying, and she knew it. - -Felipe did not know it. When he saw her going about again, with a -step only a little slower than before, and with a countenance not so -much changed as he had feared, he thought she would be well -again, after a time. And now he would go in search of Ramona. -How he hoped he should find them in Santa Barbara! He must -leave them there, or wherever he should find them; never again -would he for a moment contemplate the possibility of bringing -them home with him. But he would see them; help them, if need -be. Ramona should not feel herself an outcast, so long as he lived. - -When he said, agitatedly, to his mother, one night, "You are so -strong now, mother, I think I will take a journey; I will not be away -long,-- not over a week," she understood, and with a deep sigh -replied: "I am not strong; but I am as strong as I shall ever be. If -the journey must be taken, it is as well done now." - -How was the Senora changed! - -"It must be, mother," said Felipe, "or I would not leave you. I will -set off before sunrise, so I will say farewell tonight." - -But in the morning, at his first step, his mother's window opened, -and there she stood, wan, speechless, looking at him. "You must -go, my son?" she asked at last. - -"I must, mother!" and Felipe threw his arms around her, and kissed -her again and again. "Dearest mother! Do smile! Can you not?" - -"No, my son, I cannot. Farewell. The saints keep you. Farewell." -And she turned, that she might not see him go. - -Felipe rode away with a sad heart, but his purpose did not falter. -Following straight down the river road to the sea, he then kept up -along the coast, asking here and there, cautiously, if persons -answering to the description of Alessandro and Ramona had been -seen. No one had seen any such persons. - -When, on the night of the second day, he rode up to the Santa -Barbara Mission, the first figure he saw was the venerable Father -Salvierderra sitting in the corridor. As Felipe approached, the old -man's face beamed with pleasure, and he came forward totteringly, -leaning on a staff in each hand. "Welcome, my son!" he said. "Are -all well? You find me very feeble just now; my legs are failing me -sorely this autumn." - -Dismay seized on Felipe at the Father's first words. He would not -have spoken thus, had he seen Ramona. Barely replying to the -greeting, Felipe exclaimed: "Father, I come seeking Ramona. Has -she not been with you?" - -Father Salvierderra's face was reply to the question. "Ramona!" he -cried. "Seeking Ramona! What has befallen the blessed child?" - -It was a bitter story for Felipe to tell; but he told it, sparing himself -no shame. He would have suffered less in the telling, had he -known how well Father Salvierderra understood his mother's -character, and her almost unlimited power over all persons around -her. Father Salvierderra was not shocked at the news of Ramona's -attachment for Alessandro. He regretted it, but he did not think it -shame, as the Senora had done. As Felipe talked with him, he -perceived even more clearly how bitter and unjust his mother had -been to Alessandro. - -"He is a noble young man," said Father Salvierderra. "His father -was one of the most trusted of Father Peyri's assistants. You must -find them, Felipe. I wonder much they did not come to me. -Perhaps they may yet come. When you find them, bear them my -blessing, and say that I wish they would come hither. I would like -to give them my blessing before I die. Felipe, I shall never leave -Santa Barbara again. My time draws near." - -Felipe was so full of impatience to continue his search, that he -hardly listened to the Father's words. "I will not tarry," he said. "I -cannot rest till I find her. I will ride back as far as Ventura -to-night." - -"You will send me word by a messenger, when you find them," -said the Father. "God grant no harm has befallen them. I will pray -for them, Felipe;" and he tottered into the church. - -Felipe's thoughts, as he retraced his road, were full of -bewilderment and pain. He was wholly at loss to conjecture what -course Alessandro and Ramona had taken, or what could have led -them to abandon their intention of going to Father Salvierderra. -Temecula seemed the only place, now, to look for them; and yet -from Temecula Felipe had heard, only a few days before leaving -home, that there was not an Indian left in the valley. But he could -at least learn there where the Indians had gone. Poor as the clew -seemed, it was all he had. Cruelly Felipe urged his horse on his -return journey. He grudged an hour's rest to himself or to the beast; -and before he reached the head of the Temecula canon the creature -was near spent. At the steepest part he jumped off and walked, to -save her strength. As he was toiling slowly up a narrow, rocky -pass, he suddenly saw an Indian's head peering over the ledge. He -made signs to him to come down. The Indian turned his head, and -spoke to some one behind; one after another a score of figures -rose. They made signs to Felipe to come up. "Poor things!" he -thought; "they are afraid." He shouted to them that his horse was -too tired to climb that wall; but if they would come down, he -would give them money, holding up a gold-piece. They consulted -among themselves; presently they began slowly descending, still -halting at intervals, and looking suspiciously at him. He held up -the gold again, and beckoned. As soon as they could see his face -distinctly, they broke into a run. That was no enemy's face. - -Only one of the number could speak Spanish. On hearing this -man's reply to Felipe's first question, a woman, who had listened -sharply and caught the word Alessandro, came forward, and spoke -rapidly in the Indian tongue. - -"This woman has seen Alessandro," said the man. - -"Where?" said Felipe, breathlessly. - -"In Temecula, two weeks ago," he said. - -"Ask her if he had any one with him," said Felipe. - -"No," said the woman. "He was alone." - -A convulsion passed over Felipe's face. "Alone!" What did this -mean! He reflected. The woman watched him. "Is she sure he was -alone; there was no one with him?" - -"Yes." - -"Was he riding a big black horse?" - -"No, a white horse," answered the woman, promptly. "A small -white horse." - -It was Carmena, every nerve of her loyal nature on the alert to -baffle this pursuer of Alessandro and Ramona. Again Felipe -reflected. "Ask her if she saw him for any length of time; how long -she saw him." - -"All night," he answered. "He spent the night where she did." - -Felipe despaired. "Does she know where he is now?" he asked. - -"He was going to San Luis Obispo, to go in a ship to Monterey." - -"What to do?" - -"She does not know." - -"Did he say when he would come back?" - -"Yes." - -"When?" - -"Never! He said he would never set foot in Temecula again." - -"Does she know him well?" - -"As well as her own brother." - -What more could Felipe ask? With a groan, wrung from the very -depths of his heart, he tossed the man a gold-piece; another to the -woman. "I am sorry," he said. "Alessandro was my friend. I wanted -to see him;" and he rode away, Carmena's eyes following him with -a covert gleam of triumph. - -When these last words of his were interpreted to her, she started, -made as if she would run after him, but checked herself. "No," she -thought. "It may be a lie. He may be an enemy, for all that. I will -not tell. Alessandro wished not to be found. I will not tell." - -And thus vanished the last chance of succor for Ramona; vanished -in a moment; blown like a thistledown on a chance breath,-- the -breath of a loyal, loving friend, speaking a lie to save her. - -Distraught with grief, Felipe returned home. Ramona had been -very ill when she left home. Had she died, and been buried by the -lonely, sorrowing Alessandro? And was that the reason Alessandro -was going away to the North, never to return? Fool that he was, to -have shrunk from speaking Ramona's name to the Indians! He -would return, and ask again. As soon as he had seen his mother, he -would set off again, and never cease searching till he had found -either Ramona or her grave. But when Felipe entered his mother's -presence, his first look in her face told him that he would not leave -her side again until he had laid her at rest in the tomb. - -"Thank God! you have come, Felipe," she said in a feeble voice. "I -had begun to fear you would not come in time to say farewell to -me. I am going to leave you, my son;" and the tears rolled down -her cheeks. - -Though she no longer wished to live, neither did she wish to die,-- -this poor, proud, passionate, defeated, bereft Senora. All the -consolations of her religion seemed to fail her. She had prayed -incessantly, but got no peace. She fixed her imploring eyes on the -Virgin's face and on the saints; but all seemed to her to wear a -forbidding look. "If Father Salvierderra would only come!" she -groaned. "He could give me peace. If only I can live till he comes -again!" - -When Felipe told her of the old man's feeble state, and that he -would never again make the journey, she turned her face to the -wall and wept. Not only for her own soul's help did she wish to see -him: she wished to put into his hands the Ortegna jewels. What -would become of them? To whom should she transfer the charge? -Was there a secular priest within reach that she could trust? When -her sister had said, in her instructions, "the Church," she meant, as -the Senora Moreno well knew, the Franciscans. The Senora dared -not consult Felipe; yet she must. Day by day these fretting -anxieties and perplexities wasted her strength, and her fever grew -higher and higher. She asked no questions as to the result of -Felipe's journey, and he dared not mention Ramona's name. At last -he could bear it no longer, and one day said, "Mother, I found no -trace of Ramona. I have not the least idea where she is. The Father -had not seen her or heard of her. I fear she is dead." - -"Better so," was the Senora's sole reply; and she fell again into still -deeper, more perplexed thought about the hidden treasure. Each -day she resolved, "To-morrow I will tell Felipe;" and when -to-morrow came, she put it off again. Finally she decided not to do -it till she found herself dying. Father Salvierderra might yet come -once more, and then all would be well. With trembling hands she -wrote him a letter, imploring him to be brought to her, and sent it -by messenger, who was empowered to hire a litter and four men to -bring the Father gently and carefully all the way. But when the -messenger reached Santa Barbara, Father Salvierderra was too -feeble to be moved; too feeble even to write. He could write only -by amanuensis, and wrote, therefore, guardedly, sending her his -blessing, and saying that he hoped her foster-child might yet be -restored to the keeping of her friends. The Father had been in sore -straits of mind, as month after month had passed without tidings of -his "blessed child." - -Soon after this came the news that the Father was dead. This dealt -the Senora a terrible blow. She never left her bed after it. And so -the year had worn on; and Felipe, mourning over his sinking and -failing mother, and haunted by terrible fears about the lost -Ramona, had been tortured indeed. - -But the end drew near, now. The Senora was plainly dying. The -Ventura doctor had left off coming, saying that he could do no -more; nothing remained but to give her what ease was possible; in -a day or two more all would be over. Felipe hardly left her bedside. -Rarely was mother so loved and nursed by son. No daughter could -have shown more tenderness and devotion. In the close relation -and affection of these last days, the sense of alienation and -antagonism faded from both their hearts. - -"My adorable Felipe!" she would murmur. "What a son hast thou -been!" And, "My beloved mother! How shall I give you up?" Felipe -would reply, bowing his head on her hands,-- so wasted now, so -white, so weak; those hands which had been cruel and strong little -more than one short year ago. Ah, no one could refuse to forgive -the Senora now! The gentle Ramona, had she seen her, had wept -tears of pity. Her eyes wore at times a look almost of terror. It was -the secret. How should she speak it? What would Felipe say? At -last the moment came. She had been with difficulty roused from a -long fainting; one more such would be the last, she knew,-- knew -even better than those around her. As she regained consciousness, -she gasped, "Felipe! Alone!" - -He understood, and waved the rest away. - -"Alone!" she said again, turning her eyes to the door. - -"Leave the room," said Felipe; "all -- wait outside;" and he closed -the door on them. Even then the Senora hesitated. Almost was she -ready to go out of life leaving the hidden treasure to its chance of -discovery, rather than with her own lips reveal to Felipe what she -saw now, saw with the terrible, relentless clear-sightedness of -death, would make him, even after she was in her grave, reproach -her in his thoughts. - -But she dared not withhold it. It must be said. Pointing to the -statue of Saint Catharine, whose face seemed, she thought, to -frown unforgiving upon her, she said, "Felipe -- behind that statue --- look!" - -Felipe thought her delirious, and said tenderly, "Nothing is there, -dearest mother. Be calm. I am here." - -New terror seized the dying woman. Was she to be forced to carry -the secret to the grave? to be denied this late avowal? "No! no! -Felipe -- there is a door there -- secret door. Look! Open! I must -tell you!" - -Hastily Felipe moved the statue. There was indeed the door, as she -had said. - -"Do not tell me now, mother dear. Wait till you are stronger," he -said. As he spoke, he turned, and saw, with alarm, his mother -sitting upright in the bed, her right arm outstretched, her hand -pointing to the door, her eyes in a glassy stare, her face convulsed. -Before a cry could pass his lips, she had fallen back. The Senora -Moreno was dead. - -At Felipe's cry, the women waiting in the hall hurried in, wailing -aloud as their first glance showed them all was over. In the -confusion, Felipe, with a pale, set face, pushed the statue back into -its place. Even then a premonition of horror swept over him. What -was he, the son, to find behind that secret door, at sight of which -his mother had died with that look of anguished terror in her eyes? -All through the sad duties of the next four days Felipe was -conscious of the undercurrent of this premonition. The funeral -ceremonies were impressive. The little chapel could not hold the -quarter part of those who came, from far and near. Everybody -wished to do honor to the Senora Moreno. A priest from Ventura -and one from San Luis Obispo were there. When all was done, -they bore the Senora to the little graveyard on the hillside, and laid -her by the side of her husband and her children; silent and still at -last, the restless, passionate, proud, sad heart! When, the night -after the funeral, the servants saw Senor Felipe going into his -mother's room, they shuddered, and whispered, "Oh, he must not! -He will break his heart, Senor Felipe! How he loved her!" - -Old Marda ventured to follow him, and at the threshold said: "Dear -Senor Felipe, do not! It is not good to go there! Come away!" - -But he put her gently by, saying, "I would rather be here, good -Marda;" and went in and locked the door. - -It was past midnight when he came out. His face was stern. He had -buried his mother again. Well might the Senora have dreaded to -tell to Felipe the tale of the Ortegna treasure. Until he reached the -bottom of the jewel-box, and found the Senora Ortegna's letter to -his mother, he was in entire bewilderment at all he saw. After he -had read this letter, he sat motionless for a long time, his head -buried in his hands. His soul was wrung. - -"And she thought that shame, and not this!" he said bitterly. - -But one thing remained for Felipe now, If Ramona lived, he would -find her, and restore to her this her rightful property. If she were -dead, it must go to the Santa Barbara College. - -"Surely my mother must have intended to give it to the Church," he -said. "But why keep it all this time? It is this that has killed her. -Oh, shame! oh, disgrace!" From the grave in which Felipe had -buried his mother now, was no resurrection. - -Replacing everything as before in the safe hiding-place, he sat -down and wrote a letter to the Superior of the Santa Barbara -College, telling him of the existence of these valuables, which in -certain contingencies would belong to the College. Early in the -morning he gave this letter to Juan Canito, saying: "I am going -away, Juan, on a journey. If anything happens to me, and I do not -return, send this letter by trusty messenger to Santa Barbara." - -"Will you be long away, Senor Felipe?" asked the old man, -piteously. - -"I cannot tell, Juan," replied Felipe. "It may be only a short time; it -may be long. I leave everything in your care. You will do all -according to your best judgment, I know. I will say to all that I -have left you in charge." - -"Thanks, Senor Felipe! Thanks!" exclaimed Juan, happier than he -had been for two years. "Indeed, you may trust me! From the time -you were a boy till now, I have had no thought except for your -house." - -Even in heaven the Senora Moreno had felt woe as if in hell, had -she known the thoughts with which her Felipe galloped this -morning out of the gateway through which, only the day before, he -had walked weeping behind her body borne to burial. - -"And she thought this no shame to the house of Moreno!" he said. -"My God!" - -XXII - -DURING the first day of Ramona's and Alessandro's sad journey -they scarcely spoke. Alessandro walked at the horses' heads, his -face sunk on his breast, his eyes fixed on the ground. Ramona -watched him in anxious fear. Even the baby's voice and cooing -laugh won from him no response. After they were camped for the -night, she said, "Dear Alessandro, will you not tell me where we -are going?" - -In spite of her gentleness, there was a shade of wounded feeling in -her tone. Alessandro flung himself on his knees before her, and -cried: "My Majella! my Majella! it seems to me I am going mad! I -cannot tell what to do. I do not know what I think; all my thoughts -seem whirling round as leaves do in brooks in the time of the -spring rains. Do you think I can be going mad? It was enough to -make me!" - -Ramona, her own heart wrung with fear, soothed him as best she -could. "Dear Alessandro," she said, "let us go to Los Angeles, and -not live with the Indians any more. You could get work there. You -could play at dances sometimes; there must be plenty of work. I -could get more sewing to do, too. It would be better, I think." - -He looked horror-stricken at the thought. "Go live among the white -people!" he cried. "What does Majella think would become of one -Indian, or two, alone among whites? If they will come to our -villages and drive us out a hundred at a time, what would they do -to one man alone? Oh, Majella is foolish!" - -"But there are many of your people at work for whites at San -Bernardino and other places," she persisted. "Why could not we do -as they do?" - -"Yes," he said bitterly, "at work for whites; so they are, Majella -has not seen. No man will pay an Indian but half wages; even long -ago, when the Fathers were not all gone, and tried to help the -Indians, my father has told me that it was the way only to pay an -Indian one-half that a white man or a Mexican had. It was the -Mexicans, too, did that, Majella. And now they pay the Indians in -money sometimes, half wages; sometimes in bad flour, or things -he does not want; sometimes in whiskey; and if he will not take it, -and asks for his money, they laugh, and tell him to go, then. One -man in San Bernardino last year, when an Indian would not take a -bottle of sour wine for pay for a day's work, shot him in the cheek -with his pistol, and told him to mind how he was insolent any -more! Oh, Majella, do not ask me to go work in the towns! I -should kill some man, Majella, if I saw things like that." - -Ramona shuddered, and was silent. Alessandro continued: "If -Majella would not be afraid, I know a place, high up on the -mountain, where no white man has ever been, or ever will be. I -found it when I was following a bear. The beast led me up. It was -his home; and I said then, it was a fit hiding-place for a man. There -is water, and a little green valley. We could live there; but it would -be no more than to live,, it is very small, the valley. Majella would -be afraid?" - -"Yes, Alessandro, I would be afraid, all alone on a high mountain. -Oh, do not let us go there! Try something else first, Alessandro. Is -there no other Indian village you know?" - -"There is Saboba," he said, "at foot of the San Jacinto Mountain; I -had thought of that. Some of my people went there from -Temecula; but it is a poor little village, Majella. Majella would not -like to live in it. Neither do I believe it will long be any safer than -San Pasquale. There was a kind, good old man who owned all that -valley,-- Senor Ravallo; he found the village of Saboba there when -he came to the country. It is one of the very oldest of all; he was -good to all Indians, and he said they should never be disturbed, -never. He is dead; but his three sons have the estate yet, and I think -they would keep their father's promise to the Indians. But you see, -to-morrow, Majella, they may die, or go back to Mexico, as Senor -Valdez did, and then the Americans will get it, as they did -Temecula. And there are already white men living in the valley. -We will go that way, Majella. Majella shall see. If she says stay, -we will stay." - -It was in the early afternoon that they entered the broad valley of -San Jacinto. They entered it from the west. As they came in, -though the sky over their heads was overcast and gray, the eastern -and northeastern part of the valley was flooded with a strange -light, at once ruddy and golden. It was a glorious sight. The jagged -top and spurs of San Jacinto Mountain shone like the turrets and -posterns of a citadel built of rubies. The glow seemed -preternatural. - -"Behold San Jacinto!" cried Alessandro. - -Ramona exclaimed in delight. "It is an omen!" she said. "We are -going into the sunlight, out of the shadow;" and she glanced back -at the west, which was of a slaty blackness. - -"I like it not!" said Alessandro. "The shadow follows too fast!" - -Indeed it did. Even as he spoke, a fierce wind blew from the north, -and tearing off fleeces from the black cloud, sent them in scurrying -masses across the sky. In a moment more, snow-flakes began to -fall. - -"Holy Virgin!" cried Alessandro. Too well he knew what it meant. -He urged the horses, running fast beside them. It was of no use. -Too much even for Baba and Benito to make any haste, with the -heavily loaded wagon. - -"There is an old sheep-corral and a hut not over a mile farther, if -we could but reach it!" groaned Alessandro. "Majella, you and the -child will freeze." - -"She is warm on my breast," said Ramona; "but, Alessandro, what -ice in this wind! It is like a knife at my back!" - -Alessandro uttered another ejaculation of dismay. The snow was -fast thickening; already the track was covered. The wind lessened. - -"Thank God, that wind no longer cuts as it did," said Ramona, her -teeth chattering, clasping the baby closer and closer. - -"I would rather it blew than not," said Alessandro; "it will carry the -snow before it. A little more of this, and we cannot see, any more -than in the night." - -Still thicker and faster fell the snow; the air was dense; it was, as -Alessandro had said, worse than the darkness of night,-- this -strange opaque whiteness, thick, choking, freezing one's breath. -Presently the rough jolting of the wagon showed that they were off -the road. The horses stopped; refused to go on. - -"We are lost, if we stay here!" cried Alessandro. "Come, my -Benito, come!" and he took him by the head, and pulled him by -main force back into the road, and led him along. It was terrible. -Ramona's heart sank within her. She felt her arms growing numb; -how much longer could she hold the baby safe? She called to -Alessandro. He did not hear her; the wind had risen again; the -snow was being blown in masses; it was like making headway -among whirling snow-drifts. - -"We will die," thought Ramona. "Perhaps it is as well!" And that -was the last she knew, till she heard a shouting, and found herself -being shaken and beaten, and heard a strange voice saying, "Sorry -ter handle yer so rough, ma'am, but we've got ter git yer out ter the -fire!" - -"Fire!" Were there such things as fire and warmth? Mechanically -she put the baby into the unknown arms that were reaching up to -her, and tried to rise from her seat; but she could not move. - -"Set still! set still!" said the strange voice. "I'll jest carry the baby -ter my wife, an' come back fur you. I allowed yer couldn't git up on -yer feet;" and the tall form disappeared. The baby, thus vigorously -disturbed from her warm sleep, began to cry. - -"Thank God!" said Alessandro, at the plunging horses' heads. "The -child is alive! Majella!" he called. - -"Yes, Alessandro," she answered faintly, the gusts sweeping her -voice like a distant echo past him. - -It was a marvellous rescue. They had been nearer the old -sheep-corral than Alessandro had thought; but except that other -storm-beaten travellers had reached it before them, Alessandro had -never found it. Just as he felt his strength failing him, and had -thought to himself, in almost the same despairing words as -Ramona, "This will end all our troubles," he saw a faint light to the -left. Instantly he had turned the horses' heads towards it. The -ground was rough and broken, and more than once he had been in -danger of overturning the wagon; but he had pressed on, shouting -at intervals for help. At last his call was answered, and another -light appeared; this time a swinging one, coming slowly towards -him,-- a lantern, in the hand of a man, whose first words, "Wall, -stranger, I allow yer inter trouble," were as intelligible to -Alessandro as if they had been spoken in the purest San Luiseno -dialect. - -Not so, to the stranger, Alessandro's grateful reply in Spanish. - -"Another o' these no-'count Mexicans, by thunder!" thought Jeff -Hyer to himself. "Blamed ef I'd lived in a country all my life, ef I -wouldn't know better'n to git caught out in such weather's this!" -And as he put the crying babe into his wife's arms, he said half -impatiently, "Ef I'd knowed 't wuz Mexicans, Ri, I wouldn't ev' -gone out ter 'um. They're more ter hum 'n I am, 'n these yer -tropicks." - -"Naow, Jeff, yer know yer wouldn't let ennythin' in shape ev a -human creetur go perishin' past aour fire sech weather's this," -replied the woman, as she took the baby, which recognized the -motherly hand at its first touch, and ceased crying. - -"Why, yer pooty, blue-eyed little thing!" she exclaimed, as she -looked into the baby's face. "I declar, Jos, think o' sech a mite's this -bein' aout'n this weather. I'll jest warm up some milk for it this -minnit." - -"Better see't th' mother fust, Ri," said Jeff, leading, half carrying, -Ramona into the hut. "She's nigh abaout froze stiff!" - -But the sight of her baby safe and smiling was a better restorative -for Ramona than anything else, and in a few moments she had -fully recovered. It was in a strange group she found herself. On a -mattress, in the corner of the hut, lay a young man apparently -about twenty-five, whose bright eyes and flushed cheeks told but -too plainly the story of his disease. The woman, tall, ungainly, her -face gaunt, her hands hardened and wrinkled, gown ragged, shoes -ragged, her dry and broken light hair wound in a careless, -straggling knot in her neck, wisps of it flying over her forehead, -was certainly not a prepossessing figure. Yet spite of her careless, -unkempt condition, there was a certain gentle dignity in her -bearing, and a kindliness in her glance, which won trust and -warmed hearts at once. Her pale blue eyes were still keen-sighted; -and as she fixed them on Ramona, she thought to herself, "This -ain't no common Mexican, no how." "Be ye movers?" she said. - -Ramona stared. In the little English she knew, that word was not -included. "Ah, Senora," she said regretfully, "I cannot talk in the -English speech; only in Spanish." - -"Spanish, eh? Yer mean Mexican? Jos, hyar, he kin talk thet. He -can't talk much, though; 'tain't good fur him; his lungs is out er -kilter. Thet's what we're bringin' him hyar fur,-- fur warm climate! -'pears like it, don't it?" and she chuckled grimly, but with a side -glance of ineffable tenderness at the sick man. "Ask her who they -be, Jos," she added. - -Jos lifted himself on his elbow, and fixing his shining eyes on -Ramona, said in Spanish, "My mother asks if you are travellers?" - -"Yes," said Ramona. "We have come all the way from San Diego. -We are Indians." - -"Injuns!" ejaculated Jos's mother. "Lord save us, Jos! Hev we reelly -took in Injuns? What on airth -- Well, well, she's fond uv her -baby's enny white woman! I kin see thet; an', Injun or no Injun, -they've got to stay naow. Yer couldn't turn a dog out 'n sech -weather's this. I bet thet baby's father wuz white, then. Look at -them blue eyes." - -Ramona listened and looked intently, but could understand -nothing. Almost she doubted if the woman were really speaking -English. She had never before heard so many English sentences -without being able to understand one word. The Tennessee drawl -so altered even the commonest words, that she did not recognize -them. Turning to Jos, she said gently, "I know very little English. I -am so sorry I cannot understand. Will it tire you to interpret to me -what your mother said?" - -Jos was as full of humor as his mother. "She wants me to tell her -what you wuz sayin'," he said, "I allow, I'll only tell her the part -on't she'll like best.-- My mother says you can stay here with us till -the storm is over," he said to Ramona. - -Swifter than lightning, Ramona had seized the woman's hand and -carried it to her heart, with an expressive gesture of gratitude and -emotion. "Thanks! thanks! Senora!" she cried. - -"What is it she calls me, Jos?" asked his mother. - -"Senora," he replied. "It only means the same as lady." - -"Shaw, Jos! You tell her I ain't any lady. Tell her everybody round -where we live calls me 'Aunt Ri,' or 'Mis Hyer;' she kin call me -whichever she's a mind to. She's reel sweet-spoken." - -With some difficulty Jos explained his mother's disclaimer of the -title of Senora, and the choice of names she offered to Ramona. - -Ramona, with smiles which won both mother and son, repeated -after him both names, getting neither exactly right at first trial, and -finally said, "I like 'Aunt Ri' best; she is so kind, like aunt, to every -one." - -"Naow, ain't thet queer, Jos," said Aunt Ri, "aout here 'n thes -wilderness to ketch sumbody sayin' thet,-- jest what they all say ter -hum? I donno's I'm enny kinder'n ennybody else. I don't want ter -see ennybody put upon, nor noways sufferin', ef so be's I kin help; -but thet ain't ennythin' stronary, ez I know. I donno how ennybody -could feel enny different." - -"There's lots doos, mammy," replied Jos, affectionately. "Yer'd -find out fast enuf, ef yer went raound more. There's mighty few's -good's you air ter everybody." - -Ramona was crouching in the corner by the fire, her baby held -close to her breast. The place which at first had seemed a haven of -warmth, she now saw was indeed but a poor shelter against the -fearful storm which raged outside. It was only a hut of rough -boards, carelessly knocked together for a shepherd's temporary -home. It had been long unused, and many of the boards were loose -and broken. Through these crevices, at every blast of the wind, the -fine snow swirled. On the hearth were burning a few sticks of -wood, dead cottonwood branches, which Jef Hyer had hastily -collected before the storm reached its height. A few more sticks -lay by the hearth. Aunt Ri glanced at them anxiously. A poor -provision for a night in the snow. "Be ye warm, Jos?" she asked. - -"Not very, mammy," he said; "but I ain't cold, nuther; an' thet's -somethin'." - -It was the way in the Hyer family to make the best of things; they -had always possessed this virtue to such an extent, that they -suffered from it as from a vice. There was hardly to be found in all -Southern Tennessee a more contented, shiftless, ill-bestead family -than theirs. But there was no grumbling. Whatever went wrong, -whatever was lacking, it was "jest like aour luck," they said, and -did nothing, or next to nothing, about it. Good-natured, -affectionate, humorous people; after all, they got more comfort out -of life than many a family whose surface conditions were -incomparably better than theirs. When Jos, their oldest child and -only son, broke down, had hemorrhage after hemorrhage, and the -doctor said the only thing that could save him was to go across the -plains in a wagon to California, they said, "What good luck 'Lizy -was married last year! Now there ain't nuthin' ter hinder sellin' the -farm 'n goin' right off." And they sold their little place for half it -was worth, traded cattle for a pair of horses and a covered wagon, -and set off, half beggared, with their sick boy on a bed in the -bottom of the wagon, as cheery as if they were rich people on a -pleasure-trip. A pair of steers "to spell" the horses, and a cow to -give milk for Jos, they drove before them; and so they had come by -slow stages, sometimes camping for a week at a time, all the way -from Tennessee to the San Jacinto Valley. They were rewarded. -Jos was getting well. Another six months, they thought, would see -him cured; and it would have gone hard with any one who had -tried to persuade either Jefferson or Maria Hyer that they were not -as lucky a couple as could be found. Had they not saved Joshua, -their son? - -Nicknames among this class of poor whites in the South seem -singularly like those in vogue in New England. From totally -opposite motives, the lazy, easy-going Tennesseean and the -hurry-driven Vermonter cut down all their family names to the -shortest. To speak three syllables where one will answer, seems to -the Vermonter a waste of time; to the Tennesseean, quite too much -trouble. Mrs. Hyer could hardly recollect ever having heard her -name, "Maria," in full; as a child, and until she was married, she -was simply "Ri;" and as soon as she had a house of her own, to -become a centre of hospitality and help, she was adopted by -common consent of the neighborhood, in a sort of titular and -universal aunt-hood, which really was a much greater tribute and -honor than she dreamed. Not a man, woman, or child, within her -reach, that did not call her or know of her as "Aunt Ri." - -"I donno whether I'd best make enny more fire naow or not," she -said reflectively; "ef this storm's goin' to last till mornin', we'll -come short o' wood, thet's clear." As she spoke, the door of the hut -burst open, and her husband staggered in, followed by Alessandro, -both covered with snow, their arms full of wood. Alessandro, -luckily, knew of a little clump of young cottonwood-trees in a -ravine, only a few rods from the house; and the first thing he had -thought of, after tethering the horses in shelter between the hut and -the wagons, was to get wood. Jeff, seeing him take a hatchet from -the wagon, had understood, got his own, and followed; and now -there lay on the ground enough to keep them warm for hours. As -soon as Alessandro had thrown down his load, he darted to -Ramona, and kneeling down, looked anxiously into the baby's -face, then into hers; then he said devoutly, "The saints be praised, -my Majella! It is a miracle!" - -Jos listened in dismay to this ejaculation. "Ef they ain't Catholics!" -he thought. "What kind o' Injuns be they I wonder. I won't tell -mammy they're Catholics; she'd feel wuss'n ever. I don't care what -they be. Thet gal's got the sweetest eyes'n her head ever I saw -sence I wuz born." - -By help of Jos's interpreting, the two families soon became well -acquainted with each other's condition and plans; and a feeling of -friendliness, surprising under the circumstances, grew up between -them. - -"Jeff," said Aunt Ri,-- "Jeff, they can't understand a word we say, -so't's no harm done, I s'pose, to speak afore 'em, though't don't -seem hardly fair to take advantage o' their not knowin' any -language but their own; but I jest tell you thet I've got a lesson'n -the subjeck uv Injuns. I've always hed a reel mean feelin' about -'em; I didn't want ter come nigh 'em, nor ter hev 'em come nigh me. -This woman, here, she's ez sweet a creetur's ever I see; 'n' ez bound -up 'n thet baby's yer could ask enny woman to be; 'n' 's fur thet -man, can't yer see, Jeff, he jest worships the ground she walks on? -Thet's a fact, Jeff. I donno's ever I see a white man think so much -uv a woman; come, naow, Jeff, d' yer think yer ever did yerself?" - -Aunt Ri was excited. The experience was, to her, almost -incredible. Her ideas of Indians had been drawn from newspapers, -and from a book or two of narratives of massacres, and from an -occasional sight of vagabond bands or families they had -encountered in their journey across the plains. Here she found -herself sitting side by side in friendly intercourse with an Indian -man and Indian woman, whose appearance and behavior were -attractive; towards whom she felt herself singularly drawn. - -"I'm free to confess, Jos," she said, "I wouldn't ha' bleeved it. I -hain't seen nobody, black, white, or gray, sence we left hum, I've -took to like these yere folks. An' they're real dark; 's dark's any -nigger in Tennessee; 'n' he's pewer Injun; her father wuz white, she -sez, but she don't call herself nothin' but an Injun, the same's he is. -D' yer notice the way she looks at him, Jos? Don't she jest set a -store by thet feller? 'N' I don't blame her." - -Indeed, Jos had noticed. No man was likely to see Ramona with -Alessandro without perceiving the rare quality of her devotion to -him. And now there was added to this devotion an element of -indefinable anxiety which made its vigilance unceasing. Ramona -feared for Alessandro's reason. She had hardly put it into words to -herself, but the terrible fear dwelt with her. She felt that another -blow would be more than he could bear. - -The storm lasted only a few hours. When it cleared, the valley was -a solid expanse of white, and the stars shone out as if in an Arctic -sky. - -"It will be all gone by noon to-morrow," said Alessandro to Jos, -who was dreading the next day. - -"Not really!" he said. - -"You will see," said Alessandro. "I have often known it thus. It is -like death while it lasts; but it is never long." - -The Hyers were on their way to some hot springs on the north side -of the valley. Here they proposed to camp for three months, to try -the waters for Jos. They had a tent, and all that was necessary for -living in their primitive fashion. Aunt Ri was looking forward to -the rest with great anticipation; she was heartily tired of being on -the move. Her husband's anticipations were of a more stirring -nature. He had heard that there was good hunting on San Jacinto -Mountain. When he found that Alessandro knew the region -thoroughly, and had been thinking of settling there, he was -rejoiced, and proposed to him to become his companion and guide -in hunting expeditions. Ramona grasped eagerly at the suggestion; -companionship, she was sure, would do Alessandro good,-- -companionship, the outdoor life, and the excitement of hunting, of -which he was fond. This hot-spring canon was only a short -distance from the Saboba village, of which they had spoken as a -possible home; which she had from the first desired to try. She no -longer had repugnance to the thought of an Indian village; she -already felt a sense of kinship and shelter with any Indian people. -She had become, as Carmena had said, "one of them." - -A few days saw the two families settled,-- the Hyers in their tent -and wagon, at the hot springs, and Alessandro and Ramona, with -the baby, in a little adobe house in the Saboba village. The house -belonged to an old Indian woman who, her husband having died, -had gone to live with a daughter, and was very glad to get a few -dollars by renting her own house. It was a wretched place; one -small room, walled with poorly made adobe bricks, thatched with -tule, no floor, and only one window. When Alessandro heard -Ramona say cheerily, "Oh, this will do very well, when it is -repaired a little," his face was convulsed, and he turned away; but -he said nothing. It was the only house to be had in the village, and -there were few better. Two months later, no one would have -known it. Alessandro had had good luck in hunting. Two fine -deerskins covered the earth floor; a third was spread over the -bedstead; and the horns, hung on the walls, served for hooks to -hang clothes upon. The scarlet calico canopy was again set up over -the bed, and the woven cradle, on its red manzanita frame, stood -near. A small window in the door, and one more cut in the walls, -let in light and air. On a shelf near one of these windows stood the -little Madonna, again wreathed with vines as in San Pasquale. - -When Aunt Ri first saw the room, after it was thus arranged, she -put both arms akimbo, and stood in the doorway, her mouth wide -open, her eyes full of wonder. Finally her wonder framed itself in -an ejaculation: "Wall, I allow yer air fixed up!" - -Aunt Ri, at her best estate, had never possessed a room which had -the expression of this poor little mud hut of Ramona's. She could -not understand it. The more she studied the place, the less she -understood it. On returning to the tent, she said to Jos: "It beats all -ever I see, the way thet Injun woman's got fixed up out er nothin'. -It ain't no more'n a hovel, a mud hovel, Jos, not much bigger'n this -yer tent, fur all three on 'em, an' the bed an' the stove an' everythin'; -an' I vow, Jos, she's fixed it so't looks jest like a parlor! It beats me, -it does. I'd jest like you to see it." - -And when Jos saw it, and Jeff, they were as full of wonder as Aunt -Ri had been. Dimly they recognized the existence of a principle -here which had never entered into their life. They did not know it -by name, and it could not have been either taught, transferred, or -explained to the good-hearted wife and mother who had been so -many years the affectionate disorderly genius of their home. But -they felt its charm; and when, one day, after the return of -Alessandro and Jeff from a particularly successful hunt, the two -families had sat down together to a supper of Ramona's cooking, -- -stewed venison and artichokes, and frijoles with chili,-- their -wonder was still greater. - -"Ask her if this is Injun style of cooking, Jos," said Aunt Ri. "I -never thought nothin' o' beans; but these air good, 'n' no mistake!" - -Ramona laughed. "No; it is Mexican," she said. "I learned to cook -from an old Mexican woman." - -"Wall, I'd like the receipt on't; but I allow I shouldn't never git the -time to fuss with it," said Aunt Ri; "but I may's well git the rule, -naow I'm here." - -Alessandro began to lose some of his gloom. He had earned -money. He had been lifted out of himself by kindly -companionship; he saw Ramona cheerful, the little one sunny; the -sense of home, the strongest passion Alessandro possessed, next to -his love for Ramona, began again to awake in him. He began to -talk about building a house. He had found things in the village -better than he feared. It was but a poverty-stricken little handful, to -be sure; still, they were unmolested; the valley was large; their -stock ran free; the few white settlers, one at the upper end and two -or three on the south side, had manifested no disposition to crowd -the Indians; the Ravallo brothers were living on the estate still, and -there was protection in that, Alessandro thought. And Majella was -content. Majella had found friends. Something, not quite hope, but -akin to it, began to stir in Alessandro's heart. He would build a -house; Majella should no longer live in this mud hut. But to his -surprise, when he spoke of it, Ramona said no; they had all they -needed, now. Was not Alessandro comfortable? She was. It would -be wise to wait longer before building. - -Ramona knew many things that Alessandro did not. While he had -been away on his hunts, she had had speech with many a one he -never saw. She had gone to the store and post-office several times, -to exchange baskets or lace for flour, and she had heard talk there -which disquieted her. She did not believe that Saboba was safe. -One day she had heard a man say, "If there is a drought we shall -have the devil to pay with our stock before winter is over." "Yes," -said another; "and look at those damned Indians over there in -Saboba, with water running all the time in their village! It's a -shame they should have that spring!" - -Not for worlds would Ramona have told this to Alessandro. She -kept it locked in her own breast, but it rankled there like a -ceaseless warning and prophecy. When she reached home that day -she went down to the spring in the centre of the village, and stood -a long time looking at the bubbling water. It was indeed a priceless -treasure; a long irrigating ditch led from it down into the bottom, -where lay the cultivated fields,-- many acres in wheat, barley, and -vegetables. Alessandro himself had fields there from which they -would harvest all they needed for the horses and their cow all -winter, in case pasturage failed. If the whites took away this water, -Saboba would be ruined. However, as the spring began in the very -heart of the village, they could not take it without destroying the -village. "And the Ravallos would surely never let that be done," -thought Ramona. "While they live, it will not happen." - -It was a sad day for Ramona and Alessandro when the kindly -Hyers pulled up their tent-stakes and left the valley. Their intended -three months had stretched into six, they had so enjoyed the -climate, and the waters had seemed to do such good to Jos. But, -"We ain't rich folks, yer know, not by a long ways, we ain't," said -Aunt Ri; "an' we've got pretty nigh down to where Jeff an' me's got -to begin airnin' suthin'. Ef we kin git settled 'n some o' these towns -where there's carpenterin' to be done. Jeff, he's a master hand to -thet kind o' work, though yer mightn't think it; 'n I kin airn right -smart at weavin'; jest give me a good carpet-loom, 'n I won't be -beholden to nobody for vittles. I jest du love weavin'. I donno how -I've contented myself this hull year, or nigh about a year, without a -loom. Jeff, he sez to me once, sez he, 'Ri, do yer think yer'd be -contented in heaven without yer loom?' an' I was free to say I didn't -know's I should." - -"Is it hard?" cried Ramona. "Could I learn to do it?" It was -wonderful what progress in understanding and speaking English -Ramona had made in these six months. She now understood nearly -all that was said directly to her, though she could not follow -general and confused conversation. - -"Wall, 'tis, an' 'tain't," said Aunt Ri. "I don't s'pose I'm much of a -jedge; fur I can't remember when I fust learned it. I know I set in -the loom to weave when my feet couldn't reach the floor; an' I -don't remember nothin' about fust learnin' to spool 'n' warp. I've -tried to teach lots of folks; an' sum learns quick, an' some don't -never learn; it's jest 's 't strikes 'em. I should think, naow, thet you -wuz one o' the kind could turn yer hands to anythin'. When we get -settled in San Bernardino, if yer'll come down thar, I'll teach yer all -I know, 'n' be glad ter. I donno's 't 's goin' to be much uv a place for -carpet-weavin' though, anywheres raound 'n this yer country; not -but what thar's plenty o' rags, but folks seems to be wearin' 'em; -pooty gen'ral wear, I sh'd say. I've seen more cloes on folks' backs -hyar, thet wan't no more'n fit for carpet-rags, than any place ever I -struck. They're drefful sheftless lot, these yere Mexicans; 'n' the -Injuns is wuss. Naow when I say Injuns, I don't never mean yeow, -yer know thet. Yer ain't ever seemed to me one mite like an Injun." - -"Most of our people haven't had any chance," said Ramona. "You -wouldn't believe if I were to tell you what things have been done to -them; how they are robbed, and cheated, and turned out of their -homes." - -Then she told the story of Temecula, and of San Pasquale, in -Spanish, to Jos, who translated it with no loss in the telling. Aunt -Ri was aghast; she found no words to express her indignation. - -"I don't bleeve the Guvvermunt knows anything about it." she said. -"Why, they take folks up, n'n penetentiarize 'em fur life, back 'n -Tennessee, fur things thet ain't so bad's thet! Somebody ought ter -be sent ter tell 'em 't Washington what's goin' on hyar." - -"I think it's the people in Washington that have done it," said -Ramona, sadly. "Is it not in Washington all the laws are made?" - -"I bleeve so!" said Aunt Ri, "Ain't it, Jos? It's Congress ain't 't, -makes the laws?" - -"I bleeve so." said Jos. "They make some, at any rate. I donno's -they make 'em all." - -"It is all done by the American law," said Ramona, "all these -things; nobody can help himself; for if anybody goes against the -law he has to be killed or put in prison; that was what the sheriff -told Alessandro, at Temecula. He felt very sorry for the Temecula -people, the sheriff did; but he had to obey the law himself. -Alessandro says there isn't any help." - -Aunt Ri shook her head. She was not convinced. "I sh'll make a -business o' findin' out abaout this thing yit," she said. "I think yer -hain't got the rights on't yit. There's cheatin' somewhere!" - -"It's all cheating." said Ramona; "but there isn't any help for it, -Aunt Ri. The Americans think it is no shame to cheat for money." - -"I'm an Ummeriken!" cried Aunt Ri; "an' Jeff Hyer, and Jos! We're -Ummerikens! 'n' we wouldn't cheat nobody, not ef we knowed it, -not out er a doller. We're pore, an' I allus expect to be, but we're -above cheatin'; an' I tell you, naow, the Ummeriken people don't -want any o' this cheatin' done, naow! I'm going to ask Jeff haow -'tis. Why, it's a burnin' shame to any country! So 'tis! I think -something oughter be done abaout it! I wouldn't mind goin' myself, -ef thar wan't anybody else!" - -A seed had been sown in Aunt Ri's mind which was not destined to -die for want of soil. She was hot with shame and anger, and full of -impulse to do something. "I ain't nobody," she said; "I know thet -well enough,-- I ain't nobody nor nothin'; but I allow I've got suthin' -to say abaout the country I live in, 'n' the way things hed oughter -be; or 't least Jeff hez; 'n' thet's the same thing. I tell yer, Jos, I ain't -goin' to rest, nor ter give yeou 'n' yer father no rest nuther, till yeou -find aout what all this yere means she's been tellin' us." - -But sharper and closer anxieties than any connected with rights to -lands and homes were pressing upon Alessandro and Ramona. All -summer the baby had been slowly drooping; so slowly that it was -each day possible for Ramona to deceive herself, thinking that -there had been since yesterday no loss, perhaps a little gain; but -looking back from the autumn to the spring, and now from the -winter to the autumn, there was no doubt that she had been -steadily going down. From the day of that terrible chill in the -snow-storm, she had never been quite well, Ramona thought. -Before that, she was strong, always strong, always beautiful and -merry, Now her pinched little face was sad to see, and sometimes -for hours she made a feeble wailing cry without any apparent -cause. All the simple remedies that Aunt Ri had known, had failed -to touch her disease; in fact, Aunt Ri from the first had been -baffled in her own mind by the child's symptoms. Day after day -Alessandro knelt by the cradle, his hands clasped, his face set. -Hour after hour, night and day, indoors and out, he bore her in his -arms, trying to give her relief. Prayer after prayer to the Virgin, to -the saints, Ramona had said; and candles by the dozen, though -money was now scant, she had burned before the Madonna; all in -vain. At last she implored Alessandro to go to San Bernardino and -see a doctor. "Find Aunt Ri," she said; "she will go with you, with -Jos, and talk to him; she can make him understand. Tell Aunt Ri -she seems just as she did when they were here, only weaker and -thinner." - -Alessandro found Aunt Ri in a sort of shanty on the outskirts of -San Bernardino. "Not to rights yit," she said,-- as if she ever would -be. Jeff had found work; and Jos, too, had been able to do a little -on pleasant days. He had made a loom and put up a loom-house for -his mother,-- a floor just large enough to hold the loom, rough -walls, and a roof; one small square window,-- that was all; but if -Aunt Ri had been presented with a palace, she would not have -been so well pleased. Already she had woven a rag carpet for -herself, was at work on one for a neighbor, and had promised as -many more as she could do before spring; the news of the arrival -of a rag-carpet weaver having gone with despatch all through the -lower walks of San Bernardino life. "I wouldn't hev bleeved they -hed so many rags besides what they're wearin'," said Aunt Ri, as -sack after sack appeared at her door. Already, too, Aunt Ri had -gathered up the threads of the village life; in her friendly, -impressionable way she had come into relation with scores of -people, and knew who was who, and what was what, and why, -among them all, far better than many an old resident of the town. - -When she saw Benito galloping up to her door, she sprang down -from her high stool at the loom, and ran bareheaded to the gate, -and before Alessandro had dismounted, cried: "Ye're jest the man I -wanted; I've been tryin' to 'range it so's we could go down 'n' see -yer, but Jeff couldn't leave the job he's got; an' I'm druv nigh -abaout off my feet, 'n' I donno when we'd hev fetched it. How's all? -Why didn't yer come in ther wagon 'n' fetch 'em 'long? I've got -heaps ter tell yer. I allowed yer hadn't got the rights o' all them -things. The Guvvermunt ain't on the side o' the thieves, as yer said. -I knowed they couldn't be,' an' they've jest sent out a man a purpose -to look after things fur yer,-- to take keer o' the Injuns 'n' nothin' -else. That's what he's here fur. He come last month; he's a reel nice -man. I seen him 'n' talked with him a spell, last week; I'm gwine to -make his wife a rag carpet. 'N' there's a doctor, too, to 'tend ter yer -when ye're sick, 'n' the Guvvermunt pays him; yer don't hev to pay -nothin'; 'n' I tell yeow, thet's a heap o' savin', to git yer docterin' fur -nuthin'!" - -Aunt Ri was out of breath. Alessandro had not understood half she -said. He looked about helplessly for Jos. Jos was away. In his -broken English he tried to explain what Ramona had wished her to -do. - -"Doctor! Thet's jest what I'm tellin' yer! There is one here's paid by -the Guvvermunt to 'tend to the Injuns thet's sick. I'll go 'n' show yer -ter his house. I kin tell him jest how the baby is. P'r'aps he'll drive -down 'n' see her!" - -Ah! if he would! What would Majella say, should she see him -enter the door bringing a doctor! - -Luckily Jos returned in time to go with them to the doctor's house -as interpreter. Alessandro was bewildered. He could not -understand this new phase of affairs, Could it be true? As they -walked along, he listened with trembling, half-incredulous hope to -Jos's interpretation of Aunt Ri's voluble narrative. - -The doctor was in his office. To Aunt Ri's statement of -Alessandro's errand he listened indifferently, and then said, "Is he -an Agency Indian?" - -"A what?" exclaimed Aunt Ri. - -"Does he belong to the Agency? Is his name on the Agency -books?" - -"No," said she; "he never heern uv any Agency till I wuz tellin' -him, jest naow. We knoo him, him 'n' her, over 'n San Jacinto. He -lives in Saboba. He's never been to San Bernardino sence the -Agent come aout." - -"Well, is he going to put his name down on the books?" said the -doctor, impatiently. "You ought to have taken him to the Agent -first." - -"Ain't you the Guvvermunt doctor for all Injuns?" asked Aunt Ri, -wrathfully. "Thet's what I heerd." - -"Well, my good woman, you hear a great deal, I expect, that isn't -true;" and the doctor laughed coarsely but not ill-naturedly, -Alessandro all the time studying his face with the scrutiny of one -awaiting life and death; "I am the Agency physician, and I suppose -all the Indians will sooner or later come in and report themselves -to the Agent; you'd better take this man over there. What does he -want now?" - -Aunt Ri began to explain the baby's case. Cutting her short, the -doctor said, "Yes, yes, I understand. I'll give him something that -will help her;" and going into an inner room, he brought out a -bottle of dark-colored liquid, wrote a few lines of prescription, and -handed it to Alessandro, saying, "That will do her good, I guess." - -"Thanks, Senor, thanks," said Alessandro. - -The doctor stared. "That's the first Indian's said 'Thank you' in this -office," he said. "You tell the Agent you've brought him a rara -avis." - -"What's that, Jos?" said Aunt Ri, as they went out. - -"Donno!" said Jos. "I don't like thet man, anyhow, mammy. He's no -good." - -Alessandro looked at the bottle of medicine like one in a dream. -Would it make the baby well? Had it indeed been given to him by -that great Government in Washington? Was he to be protected -now? Could this man, who had been sent out to take care of -Indians, get back his San Pasquale farm for him? Alessandro's -brain was in a whirl. - -From the doctor's office they went to the Agent's house. Here, Aunt -Ri felt herself more at home. - -"I've brought ye thet Injun I wuz tellin' ye uv," she said, with a -wave of her hand toward Alessandro. "We've ben ter ther doctor's -to git some metcen fur his baby. She's reel sick, I'm afeerd." - -The Agent sat down at his desk, opened a large ledger, saying as -he did so, "The man's never been here before, has he?" - -"No," said Aunt Ri. - -"What is his name?" - -Jos gave it, and the Agent began to write it in the book. "Stop -him." cried Alessandro, agitatedly to Jos. "Don't let him write, till I -know what he puts my name in his book for!" - -"Wait," said Jos. "He doesn't want you to write his name in that -book. He wants to know what it's put there for." - -Wheeling his chair with a look of suppressed impatience, yet -trying to speak kindly, the Agent said: "There's no making these -Indians understand anything. They seem to think if I have their -names in my book, it gives me some power over them." - -"Wall, don't it?" said the direct-minded Aunt Ri. "Hain't yer got -any power over 'em? If yer hain't got it over them, who have yer -got it over? What yer goin' to do for 'em?" - -The Agent laughed in spite of himself. "Well, Aunt Ri," -- she was -already "Aunt Ri" to the Agent's boys,-- "that's just the trouble with -this Agency. It is very different from what it would be if I had all -my Indians on a reservation." - -Alessandro understood the words "my Indians." He had heard them -before. - -"What does he mean by his Indians, Jos?" he asked fiercely. "I will -not have my name in his book if it makes me his." - -When Jos reluctantly interpreted this, the Agent lost his temper. -"That's all the use there is trying to do anything with them! Let him -go, then, if he doesn't want any help from the Government!" - -"Oh, no, no." cried Aunt Ri. "Yeow jest explain it to Jos, an' he'll -make him understand." - -Alessandro's face had darkened. All this seemed to him -exceedingly suspicious. Could it be possible that Aunt Ri and Jos, -the first whites except Mr. Hartsel he had ever trusted, were -deceiving him? No; that was impossible. But they themselves -might be deceived. That they were simple and ignorant, -Alessandro well knew. "Let us go!" he said. "I do not wish to sign -any paper." - -"Naow don't be a fool, will yeow? Yeow ain't signin' a thing!" said -Aunt Ri. "Jos, yeow tell him I say there ain't anythin' a bindin' him, -hevin' his name 'n' thet book, It's only so the Agent kin know what -Injuns wants help, 'n' where they air. Ain't thet so?" she added, -turning to the Agent. "Tell him he can't hev the Agency doctor, ef -he ain't on the Agency books." - -Not have the doctor? Give up this precious medicine which might -save his baby's life? No! he could not do that. Majella would say, -let the name be written, rather than that. - -"Let him write the name, then," said Alessandro, doggedly; but he -went out of the room feeling as if he had put a chain around his -neck. - -XXIII - -THE medicine did the baby no good. In fact, it did her harm. She -was too feeble for violent remedies. In a week, Alessandro -appeared again at the Agency doctor's door. This time he had come -with a request which to his mind seemed not unreasonable. He had -brought Baba for the doctor to ride. Could the doctor then refuse to -go to Saboba? Baba would carry him there in three hours, and it -would be like a cradle all the way. Alessandro's name was in the -Agency books. It was for this he had written it,-- for this and -nothing else,-- to save the baby's life. Having thus enrolled himself -as one of the Agency Indians, he had a claim on this the Agency -.doctor. And that his application might be all in due form, he took -with him the Agency interpreter. He had had a misgiving, before, -that Aunt Ri's kindly volubility had not been well timed. Not one -unnecessary word, was Alessandro's motto. - -To say that the Agency doctor was astonished at being requested to -ride thirty miles to prescribe for an ailing Indian baby, would be a -mild statement of the doctor's emotion. He could hardly keep from -laughing, when it was made clear to him that this was what the -Indian father expected. - -"Good Lord!" he said, turning to a crony who chanced to be -lounging in the office. "Listen to that beggar, will you? I wonder -what he thinks the Government pays me a year for doctoring -Indians!" - -Alessandro listened so closely it attracted the doctor's attention. -"Do you understand English?" he asked sharply. - -"A very little, Senor," replied Alessandro. - -The doctor would be more careful in his speech, then. But he made -it most emphatically clear that the thing Alessandro had asked was -not only out of the question, but preposterous. Alessandro pleaded. -For the child's sake he could do it. The horse was at the door; there -was no such horse in San Bernardino County; he went like the -wind, and one would not know he was in motion, it was so easy. -Would not the doctor come down and look at the horse? Then he -would see what it would be like to ride him. - -"Oh, I've seen plenty of your Indian ponies," said the doctor. "I -know they can run." - -Alessandro lingered. He could not give up this last hope. The tears -came into his eyes. "It is our only child, Senor," he said. "It will -take you but six hours in all. My wife counts the moments till you -come! If the child dies, she will die." - -"No! no!" The doctor was weary of being importuned. "Tell the -man it is impossible! I'd soon have my hands full, if I began to go -about the country this way. They'd be sending for me down to -Agua Caliente next, and bringing up their ponies to carry me." - -"He will not go?" asked Alessandro. - -The interpreter shook his head. "He cannot," he said. - -Without a word Alessandro left the room. Presently he returned. -"Ask him if he will come for money?" he said. "I have gold at -home. I will pay him, what the white men pay him." - -"Tell him no man of any color could pay me for going sixty -miles!" said the doctor. - -And Alessandro departed again, walking so slowly, however, that -he heard the coarse laugh, and the words, "Gold! Looked like it, -didn't he?" which followed his departure from the room. - -When Ramona saw him returning alone, she wrung her hands. Her -heart seemed breaking. The baby had lain in a sort of stupor since -noon; she was plainly worse, and Ramona had been going from the -door to the cradle, from the cradle to the door, for an hour, looking -each moment for the hoped-for aid. It had not once crossed her -mind that the doctor would not come. She had accepted in much -fuller faith than Alessandro the account of the appointment by the -Government of these two men to look after the Indians' interests. -What else could their coming mean, except that, at last, the Indians -were to have justice? She thought, in her simplicity, that the doctor -must have died, since Alessandro was riding home alone. - -"He would not come!" said Alessandro, as he threw himself off his -horse, wearily. - -"Would not!" cried Ramona. "Would not! Did you not say the -Government had sent him to be the doctor for Indians?" - -"That was what they said," he replied. "You see it is a lie, like the -rest! But I offered him gold, and he would not come then. The -child must die, Majella!" - -"She shall not die!" cried Ramona. "We will carry her to him!" The -thought struck them both as an inspiration. Why had they not -thought of it before? "You can fasten the cradle on Baba's back, -and he will go so gently, she will think it is but play; and I will -walk by her side, or you, all the way!" she continued. "And we can -sleep at Aunt Ri's house. Oh, why, why did we not do it before? -Early in the morning we will start." - -All through the night they sat watching the little creature. If they -had ever seen death, they would have known that there was no -hope for the child. But how should Ramona and Alessandro know? - -The sun rose bright and warm. Before it was up, the cradle was -ready, ingeniously strapped on Baba's back. When the baby was -placed in it, she smiled. "The first smile she has given for days," -cried Ramona. "Oh, the air itself will do good to her! Let me walk -by her first! Come, Baba! Dear Baba!" and Ramona stepped almost -joyfully by the horse's side, Alessandro riding Benito. As they -paced along, their eyes never leaving the baby's face, Ramona said, -in a low tone, "Alessandro, I am almost afraid to tell you what I -have done. I took the little Jesus out of the Madonna's arms and -hid it! Did you never hear, that if you do that, the Madonna will -grant you anything, to get him back again in her arms' Did you ever -hear of it?" - -"Never!" exclaimed Alessandro, with horror in his tone. "Never, -Majella! How dared you?" - -"I dare anything now!" said Ramona. "I have been thinking to do it -for some days, and to tell her she could not have him any more till -she gave me back the baby well and strong; but I knew I could not -have courage to sit and look at her all lonely without him in her -arms, so I did not do it. But now we are to be away, I thought, that -is the time; and I told her, 'When we come back with our baby -well, you shall have your little Jesus again, too; now, Holy Mother, -you go with us, and make the doctor cure our baby!' Oh, I have -heard, many times, women tell the Senora they had done this, and -always they got what they wanted. Never will she let the Jesus be -out of her arms more than three weeks before she will grant any -prayer one can make. It was that way she brought you to me, -Alessandro. I never before told you. I was afraid. I think she had -brought you sooner, but I could keep the little Jesus hid from her -only at night. In the day I could not, because the Senora would see. -So she did not miss him so much; else she had brought you -quicker." - -"But, Majella," said the logical Alessandro, "it was because I could -not leave my father that I did not come. As soon as he was buried, -I came." - -"If it had not been for the Virgin, you would never have come at -all," said Ramona, confidently. - -For the first hour of this sad journey it seemed as if the child were -really rallying; the air, the sunlight, the novel motion, the smiling -mother by her side, the big black horses she had already learned to -love, all roused her to an animation she had not shown for days. -But it was only the last flicker of the expiring flame. The eyes -drooped, closed; a strange pallor came over the face. Alessandro -saw it first. He was now walking, Ramona riding Benito. -"Majella!" he cried, in a tone which told her all. - -In a second she was at the baby's side, with a cry which smote the -dying child's consciousness. Once more the eyelids lifted; she -knew her mother; a swift spasm shook the little frame; a -convulsion as of agony swept over the face, then it was at peace. -Ramona's shrieks were heart-rending. Fiercely she put Alessandro -away from her, as he strove to caress her. She stretched her arms -up towards the sky. "I have killed her! I have killed her!" she cried. -"Oh, let me die!" - -Slowly Alessandro turned Baba's head homeward again. - -"Oh, give her to me! Let her lie on my breast! I will hold her -warm!" gasped Ramona. - -Silently Alessandro laid the body in her arms. He had not spoken -since his first cry of alarm, If Ramona had looked at him, she -would have forgotten her grief for her dead child. Alessandro's -face seemed turned to stone. - -When they reached the house, Ramona, laying the child on the -bed, ran hastily to a corner of the room, and lifting the deerskin, -drew from its hiding-place the little wooden Jesus. With tears -streaming, she laid it again in the Madonna's arms, and flinging -herself on her knees, sobbed out prayers for forgiveness. -Alessandro stood at the foot of the bed, his arms folded, his eyes -riveted on the child. Soon he went out, still without speaking. -Presently Ramona heard the sound of a saw. She groaned aloud, -and her tears flowed faster: Alessandro was making the baby's -coffin. Mechanically she rose, and, moving like one half -paralyzed, she dressed the little one in fresh white clothes for the -burial; then laying her in the cradle, she spread over it the beautiful -lace-wrought altar-cloth. As she adjusted its folds, her mind was -carried back to the time when she embroidered it, sitting on the -Senora's veranda; the song of the finches, the linnets; the voice and -smile of Felipe; Alessandro sitting on the steps, drawing divine -music from his violin. Was that she, -- that girl who sat there -weaving the fine threads in the beautiful altar-cloth? Was it a -hundred years ago? Was it another world? Was it Alessandro -yonder, driving those nails into a coffin? How the blows rang, -louder and louder! The air seemed deafening full of sound. With -her hands pressed to her temples, Ramona sank to the floor. A -merciful unconsciousness set her free, for an interval, from her -anguish. - -When she opened her eyes, she was lying on the bed. Alessandro -had lifted her and laid her there, making no effort to rouse her. He -thought she would die too; and even that thought did not stir him -from his lethargy. When she opened her eyes, and looked at him, -he did not speak. She closed them. He did not move. Presently she -opened them again. "I heard you out there," she said. - -"Yes," he replied. "It is done." And he pointed to a little box of -rough boards by the side of the cradle. - -"Is Majella ready to go to the mountain now?" he asked. - -"Yes, Alessandro, I am ready," she said. - -"We will hide forever," he said. - -"It makes no difference," she replied. - -The Saboba women did not know what to think of Ramona now. -She had never come into sympathetic relations with them, as she -had with the women of San Pasquale. Her intimacy with the Hyers -had been a barrier the Saboba people could not surmount. No one -could be on such terms with whites, and be at heart an Indian, they -thought; so they held aloof from Ramona. But now in her -bereavement they gathered round her. They wept at sight of the -dead baby's face, lying in its tiny white coffin. Ramona had -covered the box with white cloth, and the lace altar-cloth thrown -over it fell in folds to the floor. "Why does not this mother weep? -Is she like the whites, who have no heart?" said the Saboba -mothers among themselves; and they were embarrassed before her, -and knew not what to say. Ramona perceived it, but had no life in -her to speak to them. Benumbing terrors, which were worse than -her grief, were crowding Ramona's heart now. She had offended -the Virgin; she had committed a blasphemy: in one short hour the -Virgin had punished her, had smitten her child dead before her -eyes. And now Alessandro was going mad; hour by hour Ramona -fancied she saw changes in him. What form would the Virgin's -vengeance take next? Would she let Alessandro become a raging -madman, and finally kill both himself and her? That seemed to -Ramona the most probable fate in store for them. When the funeral -was over, and they returned to their desolate home, at the sight of -the empty cradle Ramona broke down. - -"Oh, take me away, Alessandro! Anywhere! I don't care where! -anywhere, so it is not here!" she cried. - -"Would Majella be afraid, now, on the high mountain, the place I -told her of?" he said. - -"No!" she replied earnestly. "No! I am afraid of nothing! Only take -me away!" - -A gleam of wild delight flitted across Alessandro's face. "It is -well," he said. "My Majella, we will go to the mountain; we will -be safe there." - -The same fierce restlessness which took possession of him at San -Pasquale again showed itself in his every act. His mind was -unceasingly at work, planning the details of their move and of the -new life. He mentioned them one after another to Ramona. They -could not take both horses; feed would be scanty there, and there -would be no need of two horses. The cow also they must give up. -Alessandro would kill her, and the meat, dried, would last them for -a long time. The wagon he hoped he could sell; and he would buy -a few sheep; sheep and goats could live well in these heights to -which they were going. Safe at last! Oh, yes, very safe; not only -against whites, who, because the little valley was so small and -bare, would not desire it, but against Indians also. For the Indians, -silly things, had a terror of the upper heights of San Jacinto; they -believed the Devil lived there, and money would not hire one of -the Saboba Indians to go so high as this valley which Alessandro -had discovered. Fiercely he gloated over each one of these features -of safety in their hiding-place. "The first time I saw it, Majella,-- I -believe the saints led me there,-- I said, it is a hiding-place. And -then I never thought I would be in want of such,-- of a place to -keep my Majella safe! safe! Oh, my Majel!" And he clasped her to -his breast with a terrifying passion. - -For an Indian to sell a horse and wagon in the San Jacinto valley -was not an easy thing, unless he would give them away. -Alessandro had hard work to give civil answers to the men who -wished to buy Benito and the wagon for quarter of their value. He -knew they would not have dared to so much as name such prices to -a white man. Finally Ramona, who had felt unconquerable -misgivings as to the wisdom of thus irrevocably parting from their -most valuable possessions, persuaded him to take both horses and -wagon to San Bernardino, and offer them to the Hyers to use for -the winter. - -It would be just the work for Jos, to keep him in the open air, if he -could get teaming to do; she was sure he would be thankful for the -chance. "He is as fond of the horses as we are ourselves, -Alessandro," she said. "They would be well cared for; and then, if -we did not like living on the mountain, we could have the horses -and wagon again when we came down, or Jos could sell them for -us in San Bernardino. Nobody could see Benito and Baba working -together, and not want them." - -"Majella is wiser than the dove!" cried Alessandro. "She has seen -what is the best thing to do. I will take them." - -When he was ready to set off, he implored Ramona to go with -him; but with a look of horror she refused. "Never," she cried, "one -step on that accursed road! I will never go on that road again -unless it is to be carried, as we brought her, dead." - -Neither did Ramona wish to see Aunt Ri. Her sympathy would be -intolerable, spite of all its affectionate kindliness. "Tell her I love -her," she said, "but I do not want to see a human being yet; next -year perhaps we will go down,-- if there is any other way besides -that road." - -Aunt Ri was deeply grieved. She could not understand Ramona's -feeling. It rankled deep. "I allow I'd never hev bleeved it uv her, -never," she said. "I shan't never think she wuz quite right 'n her -head, to do 't! I allow we shan't never set eyes on ter her, Jos. I've -got jest thet feelin' abaout it. 'Pears like she'd gone klar out 'er this -yer world inter anuther." - -The majestic bulwark of San Jacinto Mountain looms in the -southern horizon of the San Bernardino valley. It was in full sight -from the door of the little shanty in which Aunt Ri's carpet-loom -stood. As she sat there hour after hour, sometimes seven hours to -the day, working the heavy treadle, and slipping the shuttle back -and forth, she gazed with tender yearnings at the solemn, shining -summit. When sunset colors smote it, it glowed like fire; on -cloudy days, it was lost in the clouds. - -"'Pears like 'twas next door to heaven, up there, Jos," Aunt Ri -would say. "I can't tell yer the feelin' 't comes over me, to look up 't -it, ever sence I knowed she wuz there. 'T shines enuf to put yer -eyes aout, sometimes; I allow 'tain't so light's thet when you air -into 't; 't can't be; ther couldn't nobody stan' it, ef 't wuz. I allow 't -must be like bein' dead, Jos, don't yer think so, to be livin' thar? He -sed ther couldn't nobody git to 'em. Nobody ever seed the place but -hisself. He found it a huntin'. Thar's water thar, 'n' thet's abaout all -thar is, fur's I cud make aout; I allow we shan't never see her agin." - -The horses and the wagon were indeed a godsend to Jos. It was the -very thing he had been longing for; the only sort of work he was as -yet strong enough to do, and there was plenty of it to be had in San -Bernardino. But the purchase of a wagon suitable for the purpose -was at present out of their power; the utmost Aunt Ri had hoped to -accomplish was to have, at the end of a year, a sufficient sum laid -up to buy one. They had tried in vain to exchange their heavy -emigrant-wagon for one suitable for light work. "'Pears like I'd die -o' shame," said Aunt Ri, "sometimes when I ketch myself er -thinkin' what luck et's ben to Jos, er gettin' thet Injun's hosses an' -waggin. But ef Jos keeps on, airnin' ez much ez he hez so fur, he's -goin' ter pay the Injun part on 't, when he cums. I allow ter Jos -'tain't no more'n fair. Why, them hosses, they'll dew good tew days' -work'n one. I never see sech hosses; 'n' they're jest like kittens; -they've ben drefful pets, I allow. I know she set all the world, 'n' -more tew, by thet nigh one. He wuz hern, ever sence she wuz a -child. Pore thing,-- 'pears like she hedn't hed no chance!" - -Alessandro had put off, from day to day, the killing of the cow. It -went hard with him to slaughter the faithful creature, who knew -him, and came towards him at the first sound of his voice. He had -pastured her, since the baby died, in a canon about three miles -northeast of the village,-- a lovely green canon with oak-trees and -a running brook. It was here that he had thought of building his -house if they had stayed in Saboba. But Alessandro laughed -bitterly to himself now, as he recalled that dream. Already the -news had come to Saboba that a company had been formed for the -settling up of the San Jacinto valley; the Ravallo brothers had sold -to this company a large grant of land. The white ranchmen in the -valley were all fencing in their lands; no more free running of -stock. The Saboba people were too poor to build miles of fencing; -they must soon give up keeping stock; and the next thing would be -that they would be driven out, like the people of Temecula. It was -none too soon that he had persuaded Majella to flee to the -mountain. There, at least, they could live and die in peace,-- a -poverty-stricken life, and the loneliest of deaths; but they would -have each other. It was well the baby had died; she was saved all -this misery. By the time she had grown to be a woman, if she had -lived, there would be no place in all the country where an Indian -could find refuge. Brooding over such thoughts as these, -Alessandro went up into the canon one morning. It must be done. -Everything was ready for their move; it would take many days to -carry even their few possessions up the steep mountain trail to -their new home; the pony which had replaced Benito and Baba -could not carry a heavy load. While this was being done, Ramona -would dry the beef which would be their supply of meat for many -months. Then they would go, - -At noon he came down with the first load of the meat, and -Ramona began cutting it into long strips, as is the Mexican fashion -of drying. Alessandro returned for the remainder. Early in the -afternoon, as Ramona went to and fro about her work, she saw a -group of horsemen riding from house to house, in the upper part of -the village; women came running out excitedly from each house as -the horsemen left it; finally one of them darted swiftly up the hill -to Ramona. "Hide it! hide it!" she cried, breathless; "hide the meat! -It is Merrill's men, from the end of the valley. They have lost a -steer, and they say we stole it. They found the place, with blood on -it, where it was killed; and they say we did it. Oh, hide the meat! -They took all that Fernando had; and it was his own, that he -bought; he did not know anything about their steer!" - -"I shall not hide it!" cried Ramona, indignantly. "It is our own cow. -Alessandro killed it to-day." - -"They won't believe you!" said the woman, in distress. "They'll -take it all away. Oh, hide some of it!" And she dragged a part of it -across the floor, and threw it under the bed, Ramona standing by, -stupefied. - -Before she had spoken again, the forms of the galloping riders -darkened the doorway; the foremost of them, leaping off his horse, -exclaimed: "By God! here's the rest of it. If they ain't the -damnedest impudent thieves! Look at this woman, cutting it up! -Put that down, will you? We'll save you the trouble of dryin' our -meat for us, besides killin' it! Fork over, now, every bit you've got, -you --" And he called Ramona by a vile epithet. - -Every drop of blood left Ramona's face. Her eyes blazed, and she -came forward with the knife uplifted in her hand. "Out of my -house, you dogs of the white color!" she said. "This meat is our -own; my husband killed the creature but this morning." - -Her tone and bearing surprised them. There were six of the men, -and they had all swarmed into the little room. - -"I say, Merrill," said one of them, "hold on; the squaw says her -husband only jest killed it to-day. It might be theirs." - -Ramona turned on him like lightning. "Are you liars, you all," she -cried, "that you think I lie? I tell you the meat is ours; and there is -not an Indian in this village would steal cattle!" - -A derisive shout of laughter from all the men greeted this speech; -and at that second, the leader, seeing the mark of blood where the -Indian woman had dragged the meat across the ground, sprang to -the bed, and lifting the deerskin, pointed with a sneer to the beef -hidden there. "Perhaps, when you know Injun's well's I do," he -said, "you won't be for believin' all they say! What's she got it hid -under the bed for, if it was their own cow?" and he stooped to drag -the meat out. "Give us a hand here, Jake!" - -"If you touch it, I will kill you!" cried Ramona, beside herself with -rage; and she sprang between the men, her uplifted knife gleaming. - -"Hoity-toity!" cried Jake, stepping back; "that's a handsome squaw -when she's mad! Say, boys, let's leave her some of the meat. She -wasn't to blame; of course, she believes what her husband told -her." - -"You go to grass for a soft-head, you Jake!" muttered Merrill, as he -dragged the meat out from beneath the bed. - -"What is all this?" said a deep voice in the door; and Ramona, -turning, with a glad cry, saw Alessandro standing there, looking -on, with an expression which, even in her own terror and -indignation, gave her a sense of dread, it was so icily defiant. He -had his hand on his gun. "What is all this?" he repeated. He knew -very well. - -"It's that Temecula man," said one of the men, in a low tone, to -Merrill. "If I'd known 't was his house, I wouldn't have let you -come here. You're up the wrong tree, sure!" - -Merrill dropped the meat he was dragging over the floor, and -turned to confront Alessandro's eyes. His countenance fell. Even -he saw that he had made a mistake. He began to speak. Alessandro -interrupted him. Alessandro could speak forcibly in Spanish. -Pointing to his pony, which stood at the door with a package on its -back, the remainder of the meat rolled in the hide, he said: "There -is the remainder of the beef. I killed the creature this morning, in -the canon. I will take Senor Merrill to the place, if he wishes it. -Senor Merrill's steer was killed down in the willows yonder, -yesterday." - -"That's so!" cried the men, gathering around him. "How did you -know? Who did it?" - -Alessandro made no reply. He was looking at Ramona. She had -flung her shawl over her head, as the other woman had done, and -the two were cowering in the corner, their faces turned away. -Ramona dared not look on; she felt sure Alessandro would kill -some one. But this was not the type of outrage that roused -Alessandro to dangerous wrath. He even felt a certain enjoyment -in the discomfiture of the self-constituted posse of searchers for -stolen goods. To all their questions in regard to the stolen steer, he -maintained silence. He would not open his lips. At last, angry, -ashamed, with a volley of coarse oaths at him for his obstinacy, -they rode away. Alessandro went to Ramona's side. She was -trembling. Her hands were like ice. - -"Let us go to the mountain to-night!" she gasped. "Take me where I -need never see a white face again!" - -A melancholy joy gleamed in Alessandro's eyes. Ramona, at last, -felt as he did. - -"I would not dare to leave Majella there alone, while there is no -house," he said; "and I must go and come many times, before all -the things can be carried." - -"It will be less danger there than here, Alessandro," said Ramona, -bursting into violent weeping as she recalled the insolent leer with -which the man Jake had looked at her. "Oh! I cannot stay here!" - -"It will not be many days, my Majel. I will borrow Fernando's -pony, to take double at once; then we can go sooner." - -"Who was it stole that man's steer?" said Ramona. "Why did you -not tell them? They looked as if they would kill you." - -"It was that Mexican that lives in the bottom, Jose Castro. I myself -came on him, cutting the steer up. He said it was his; but I knew -very well, by the way he spoke, he was lying. But why should I -tell? They think only Indians will steal cattle. I can tell them, the -Mexicans steal more." - -"I told them there was not an Indian in this village would steal -cattle," said Ramona, indignantly. - -"That was not true, Majella," replied Alessandro, sadly. "When -they are very hungry, they will steal a heifer or steer. They lose -many themselves, and they say it is not so much harm to take one -when they can get it. This man Merrill, they say, branded twenty -steers for his own, last spring, when he knew they were Saboba -cattle!" - -"Why did they not make him give them up?" cried Ramona. - -"Did not Majella see to-day why they can do nothing? There is no -help for us, Majella, only to hide; that is all we can do!" - -A new terror had entered into Ramona's life; she dared not tell it to -Alessandro; she hardly put it into words in her thoughts. But she -was haunted by the face of the man Jake, as by a vision of evil, and -on one pretext and another she contrived to secure the presence of -some one of the Indian women in her house whenever Alessandro -was away. Every day she saw the man riding past. Once he had -galloped up to the open door, looked in, spoken in a friendly way -to her, and ridden on. Ramona's instinct was right. Jake was -merely biding his time. He had made up his mind to settle in the -San Jacinto valley, at least for a few years, and he wished to have -an Indian woman come to live with him and keep his house. Over -in Santa Ysabel, his brother had lived in that way with an Indian -mistress for three years; and when he sold out, and left Santa -Ysabel, he had given the woman a hundred dollars and a little -house for herself and her child. And she was not only satisfied, but -held herself, in consequence of this temporary connection with a -white man, much above her Indian relatives and friends. When an -Indian man had wished to marry her, she had replied scornfully -that she would never marry an Indian; she might marry another -white man, but an Indian,-- never. Nobody had held his brother in -any less esteem for this connection; it was quite the way in the -country. And if Jake could induce this handsomest squaw he had -ever seen, to come and live with him in a smaller fashion, he -would consider himself a lucky man, and also think he was doing a -good thing for the squaw. It was all very clear and simple in his -mind; and when, seeing Ramona walking alone in the village one -morning, he overtook her, and walking by her side began to sound -her on the subject, he had small misgivings as to the result. -Ramona trembled as he approached her. She walked faster, and -would not look at him; but he, in his ignorance, misinterpreted -these signs egregiously. - -"Are you married to your husband?" he finally said. "It is but a -poor place he gives you to live in. If you will come and live with -me, you shall have the best house in the valley, as good as the -Ravallos'; and --" Jake did not finish his sentence. With a cry -which haunted his memory for years, Ramona sprang from his side -as if to run; then, halting suddenly, she faced him, her eyes like -javelins, her breath coming fast. "Beast!" she said, and spat -towards him; then turned and fled to the nearest house, where she -sank on the floor and burst into tears, saying that the man below -there in the road had been rude to her. Yes, the women said, he -was a bad man; they all knew it. Of this Ramona said no word to -Alessandro. She dared not; she believed he would kill Jake. - -When the furious Jake confided to his friend Merrill his repulse, -and the indignity accompanying it, Merrill only laughed at him, -and said: "I could have told you better than to try that woman. -She's married, fast enough. There's plenty you can get, though, if -you want 'em. They're first-rate about a house, and jest's faithful's -dogs. You can trust 'em with every dollar you've got." - -From this day, Ramona never knew an instant's peace or rest till -she stood on the rim of the refuge valley, high on San Jacinto. -Then, gazing around, looking up at the lofty pinnacles above, -which seemed to pierce the sky, looking down upon the world,-- it -seemed the whole world, so limitless it stretched away at her -feet,-- feeling that infinite unspeakable sense of nearness to -Heaven, remoteness from earth which comes only on mountain -heights, she drew in a long breath of delight, and cried: "At last! at -last, Alessandro! Here we are safe! This is freedom! This is joy!" - -"Can Majella be content?" he asked. - -"I can almost be glad, Alessandro!" she cried, inspired by the -glorious scene. "I dreamed not it was like this!" - -It was a wondrous valley. The mountain seemed to have been cleft -to make it. It lay near midway to the top, and ran transversely on -the mountain's side, its western or southwestern end being many -feet lower than the eastern. Both the upper and lower ends were -closed by piles of rocks and tangled fallen trees; the rocky summit -of the mountain itself made the southern wall; the northern was a -spur, or ridge, nearly vertical, and covered thick with pine-trees. A -man might roam years on the mountain and not find this cleft. At -the upper end gushed out a crystal spring, which trickled rather -than ran, in a bed of marshy green, the entire length of the valley, -disappeared in the rocks at the lower end, and came out no more; -many times Alessandro had searched for it lower down, but could -find no trace of it. During the summer, when he was hunting with -Jeff, he had several times climbed the wall and descended it on the -inner side, to see if the rivulet still ran; and, to his joy, had found it -the same in July as in January. Drought could not harm it, then. -What salvation in such a spring! And the water was pure and sweet -as if it came from the skies. - -A short distance off was another ridge or spur of the mountain, -widening out into almost a plateau. This was covered with -acorn-bearing oaks; and under them were flat stones worn into -hollows, where bygone generations of Indians had ground the nuts -into meal. Generations long bygone indeed, for it was not in the -memory of the oldest now living, that Indians had ventured so high -up as this on San Jacinto. It was held to be certain death to climb -to its summit, and foolhardy in the extreme to go far up its sides. - -There was exhilaration in the place. It brought healing to both -Alessandro and Ramona. Even the bitter grief for the baby's death -was soothed. She did not seem so far off, since they had come so -much nearer to the sky. They lived at first in a tent; no time to -build a house, till the wheat and vegetables were planted. -Alessandro was surprised, when he came to the ploughing, to see -how much good land he had. The valley thrust itself, in inlets and -coves, into the very rocks of its southern wall; lovely sheltered -nooks these were, where he hated to wound the soft, flower-filled -sward with his plough. As soon as the planting was done, he began -to fell trees for the house. No mournful gray adobe this time, but -walls of hewn pine, with half the bark left on; alternate yellow and -brown, as gay as if glad hearts had devised it. The roof, of thatch, -tule, and yucca-stalks, double laid and thick, was carried out -several feet in front of the house, making a sort of bower-like -veranda, supported by young fir-tree stems, left rough. Once more -Ramona would sit under a thatch with birds'-nests in it. A little -corral for the sheep, and a rough shed for the pony, and the home -was complete: far the prettiest home they had ever had. And here, -in the sunny veranda, when autumn came, sat Ramona, plaiting out -of fragrant willow twigs a cradle. The one over which she had -wept such bitter tears in the valley, they had burned the night -before they left their Saboba home. It was in early autumn she sat -plaiting this cradle. The ground around was strewn with wild -grapes drying; the bees were feasting on them in such clouds that -Ramona rose frequently from her work to drive them away, saying, -as she did so, "Good bees, make our honey from something else; -we gain nothing if you drain our grapes for it; we want these -grapes for the winter;" and as she spoke, her imagination sped -fleetly forward to the winter, The Virgin must have forgiven her, -to give her again the joy of a child in her arms. Ay, a joy! Spite of -poverty, spite of danger, spite of all that cruelty and oppression -could do, it would still be a joy to hold her child in her arms. - -The baby was born before winter came. An old Indian woman, the -same whose house they had hired in Saboba, had come up to live -with Ramona. She was friendless now, her daughter having died, -and she thankfully came to be as a mother to Ramona. She was -ignorant and feeble but Ramona saw in her always the picture of -what her own mother might perchance be, wandering, suffering, -she knew not what or where; and her yearning, filial instinct found -sad pleasure in caring for this lonely, childless, aged one. - -Ramona was alone with her on the mountain at the time of the -baby's birth. Alessandro had gone to the valley, to be gone two -days; but Ramona felt no fear. When Alessandro returned, and she -laid the child in his arms, she said with a smile, radiant once more, -like the old smiles, "See, beloved! The Virgin has forgiven me; she -has given us a daughter again!" - -But Alessandro did not smile. Looking scrutinizingly into the -baby's face, he sighed, and said, "Alas, Majella, her eyes are like -mine, not yours!" - -"I am glad of it," cried Ramona. "I was glad the first minute I saw -it." - -He shook his head. "It is an ill fate to have the eyes of Alessandro," -he said. "They look ever on woe;" and he laid the baby back on -Ramona's breast, and stood gazing sadly at her. - -"Dear Alessandro," said Ramona, "it is a sin to always mourn. -Father Salvierderra said if we repined under our crosses, then a -heavier cross would be laid on us. Worse things would come." - -"Yes," he said. "That is true. Worse things will come." And he -walked away, with his head sunk deep on his breast. - -XXIV - -THERE was no real healing for Alessandro. His hurts had gone too -deep. His passionate heart, ever secretly brooding on the wrongs -he had borne, the hopeless outlook for his people in the future, and -most of all on the probable destitution and suffering in store for -Ramona, consumed itself as by hidden fires. Speech, complaint, -active antagonism, might have saved him; but all these were -foreign to his self-contained, reticent, repressed nature. Slowly, so -slowly that Ramona could not tell on what hour or what day her -terrible fears first changed to an even more terrible certainty, his -brain gave way, and the thing, in dread of which he had cried out -the morning they left San Pasquale, came upon him. Strangely -enough, and mercifully, now that it had really come, he did not -know it. He knew that he suddenly came to his consciousness -sometimes, and discovered himself in strange and unexplained -situations; had no recollection of what had happened for an -interval of time, longer or shorter. But he thought it was only a sort -of sickness; he did not know that during those intervals his acts -were the acts of a madman; never violent, aggressive, or harmful -to any one; never destructive. It was piteous to see how in these -intervals his delusions were always shaped by the bitterest -experiences of his life. Sometimes he fancied that the Americans -were pursuing him, or that they were carrying off Ramona, and he -was pursuing them. At such times he would run with maniac -swiftness for hours, till he fell exhausted on the ground, and slowly -regained true consciousness by exhaustion. At other times he -believed he owned vast flocks and herds; would enter any -enclosure he saw, where there were sheep or cattle, go about -among them, speaking of them to passers-by as his own. -Sometimes he would try to drive them away; but on being -remonstrated with, would bewilderedly give up the attempt. Once -he suddenly found himself in the road driving a small flock of -goats, whose he knew not, nor whence he got them. Sitting down -by the roadside, he buried his head in his hands. "What has -happened to my memory?" he said. "I must be ill of a fever!" As he -sat there, the goats, of their own accord, turned and trotted back -into a corral near by, the owner of which stood, laughing, on his -doorsill; and when Alessandro came up, said goodnaturedly, "All -right, Alessandro! I saw you driving off my goats, but I thought -you'd bring 'em back." - -Everybody in the valley knew him, and knew his condition. It did -not interfere with his capacity as a worker, for the greater part of -the time. He was one of the best shearers in the region, the best -horse-breaker; and his services were always in demand, spite of -the risk there was of his having at any time one of these attacks of -wandering. His absences were a great grief to Ramona, not only -from the loneliness in which it left her, but from the anxiety she -felt lest his mental disorder might at any time take a more violent -and dangerous shape. This anxiety was all the more harrowing -because she must keep it locked in her own breast, her wise and -loving instinct telling her that nothing could be more fatal to him -than the knowledge of his real condition. More than once he -reached home, breathless, panting, the sweat rolling off his face, -crying aloud, "The Americans have found us out, Majella! They -were on the trail! I baffled them. I came up another way." At such -times she would soothe him like a child; persuade him to lie down -and rest; and when he waked and wondered why he was so tired, -she would say, "You were all out of breath when you came in, -dear. You must not climb so fast; it is foolish to tire one's self so." - -In these days Ramona began to think earnestly of Felipe. She -believed Alessandro might be cured. A wise doctor could surely do -something for him. If Felipe knew what sore straits she was in, -Felipe would help her. But how could she reach Felipe without the -Senora's knowing it? And, still more, how could she send a letter -to Felipe without Alessandro's knowing what she had written? -Ramona was as helpless in her freedom on this mountain eyrie as -if she had been chained hand and foot. - -And so the winter wore away, and the spring. What wheat grew in -their fields in this upper air! Wild oats, too, in every nook and -corner. The goats frisked and fattened, and their hair grew long -and silky; the sheep were already heavy again with wool, and it -was not yet midsummer. The spring rains had been good; the -stream was full, and flowers grew along its edges thick as in beds. - -The baby had thrived; as placid, laughing a little thing as if its -mother had never known sorrow. "One would think she had -suckled pain," thought Ramona, "so constantly have I grieved this -year; but the Virgin has kept her well." - -If prayers could compass it, that would surely have been so; for -night and day the devout, trusting, and contrite Ramona had knelt -before the Madonna and told her golden beads, till they were -wellnigh worn smooth of all their delicate chasing. - -At midsummer was to be a fete in the Saboba village, and the San -Bernardino priest would come there. This would be the time to -take the baby down to be christened; this also would be the time to -send the letter to Felipe, enclosed in one to Aunt Ri, who would -send it for her from San Bernardino. Ramona felt half guilty as she -sat plotting what she should say and how she should send it,-- she, -who had never had in her loyal, transparent breast one thought -secret from Alessandro since they were wedded. But it was all for -his sake. When he was well, he would thank her. - -She wrote the letter with much study and deliberation; her dread of -its being read by the Senora was so great, that it almost paralyzed -her pen as she wrote. More than once she destroyed pages, as -being too sacred a confidence for unloving eyes to read. At last, -the day before the fete, it was done, and safely hidden away. The -baby's white robe, finely wrought in open-work, was also done, -and freshly washed and ironed. No baby would there be at the fete -so daintily wrapped as hers; and Alessandro had at last given his -consent that the name should be Majella. It was a reluctant -consent, yielded finally only to please Ramona; and, contrary to -her wont, she had been willing in this instance to have her own -wish fulfilled rather than his. Her heart was set upon having the -seal of baptism added to the name she so loved; and, "If I were to -die," she thought, "how glad Alessandro would be, to have still a -Majella!" - -All her preparations were completed, and it was yet not noon. She -seated herself on the veranda to watch for Alessandro, who had -been two days away, and was to have returned the previous -evening, to make ready for the trip to Saboba. She was disquieted -at his failure to return at the appointed time. As the hours crept on -and he did not come, her anxiety increased. The sun had gone -more than an hour past the midheavens before he came. He had -ridden fast; she had heard the quick strokes of the horse's hoofs on -the ground before she saw him. "Why comes he riding like that?" -she thought, and ran to meet him. As he drew near, she saw to her -surprise that he was riding a new horse. "Why, Alessandro!" she -cried. "What horse is this?" - -He looked at her bewilderedly, then at the horse. True; it was not -his own horse! He struck his hand on his forehead, endeavoring to -collect his thoughts. "Where is my horse, then?" he said. - -"My God! Alessandro," cried Ramona. "Take the horse back -instantly. They will say you stole it." - -"But I left my pony there in the corral," he said. "They will know I -did not mean to steal it. How could I ever have made the mistake? -I recollect nothing, Majella. I must have had one of the -sicknesses." - -Ramona's heart was cold with fear. Only too well she knew what -summary punishment was dealt in that region to horse-thieves. -"Oh, let me take it back, dear!" she cried, "Let me go down with it. -They will believe me." - -"Majella!" he exclaimed, "think you I would send you into the fold -of the wolf? My wood-dove! It is in Jim Farrar's corral I left my -pony. I was there last night, to see about his sheep-shearing in the -autumn. And that is the last I know. I will ride back as soon as I -have rested. I am heavy with sleep." - -Thinking it safer to let him sleep for an hour, as his brain was -evidently still confused, Ramona assented to this, though a sense -of danger oppressed her. Getting fresh hay from the corral, she -with her own hands rubbed the horse down. It was a fine, powerful -black horse; Alessandro had evidently urged him cruelly up the -steep trail, for his sides were steaming, his nostrils white with -foam. Tears stood in Ramona's eyes as she did what she could for -him. He recognized her good-will, and put his nose to her face. "It -must be because he was black like Benito, that Alessandro took -him," she thought. "Oh, Mary Mother, help us to get the creature -safe back!" she said. - -When she went into the house, Alessandro was asleep. Ramona -glanced at the sun. It was already in the western sky. By no -possibility could Alessandro go to Farrar's and back before dark. -She was on the point of waking him, when a furious barking from -Capitan and the other dogs roused him instantly from his sleep, -and springing to his feet, he ran out to see what it meant. In a -moment more Ramona followed,-- only a moment, hardly a -moment; but when she reached the threshold, it was to hear a -gun-shot, to see Alessandro fall to the ground, to see, in the same -second, a ruffianly man leap from his horse, and standing over -Alessandro's body, fire his pistol again, once, twice, into the -forehead, cheek. Then with a volley of oaths, each word of which -seemed to Ramona's reeling senses to fill the air with a sound like -thunder, he untied the black horse from the post where Ramona -had fastened him, and leaping into his saddle again, galloped -away, leading the horse. As he rode away, he shook his fist at -Ramona, who was kneeling on the ground, striving to lift -Alessandro's head, and to stanch the blood flowing from the -ghastly wounds. "That'll teach you damned Indians to leave off -stealing our horses!" he cried, and with another volley of terrible -oaths was out of sight. - -With a calmness which was more dreadful than any wild outcry of -grief, Ramona sat on the ground by Alessandro's body, and held his -hands in hers. There was nothing to be done for him. The first shot -had been fatal, close to his heart,-- the murderer aimed well; the -after-shots, with the pistol, were from mere wanton brutality. After -a few seconds Ramona rose, went into the house, brought out the -white altar-cloth, and laid it over the mutilated face. As she did -this, she recalled words she had heard Father Salvierderra quote as -having been said by Father Junipero, when one of the Franciscan -Fathers had been massacred by the Indians, at San Diego. "Thank -God." he said, "the ground is now watered by the blood of a -martyr!" - -"The blood of a martyr!" The words seemed to float in the air; to -cleanse it from the foul blasphemies the murderer had spoken. -"My Alessandro!" she said. "Gone to be with the saints; one of the -blessed martyrs; they will listen to what a martyr says." His hands -were warm. She laid them in her bosom, kissed them again and -again. Stretching herself on the ground by his side, she threw one -arm over him, and whispered in his ear, "My love, my Alessandro! -Oh, speak once to Majella! Why do I not grieve more? My -Alessandro! Is he not blest already? And soon we will be with him! -The burdens were too great. He could not bear them!" Then waves -of grief broke over her, and she sobbed convulsively; but still she -shed no tears. Suddenly she sprang to her feet, and looked wildly -around. The sun was not many hours high. Whither should she go -for help? The old Indian woman had gone away with the sheep, -and would not be back till dark. Alessandro must not lie there on -the ground. To whom should she go? To walk to Saboba was out -of the question. There was another Indian village nearer,-- the -village of the Cahuillas, on one of the high plateaus of San Jacinto. -She had once been there. Could she find that trail now? She must -try. There was no human help nearer, - -Taking the baby in her arms, she knelt by Alessandro, and kissing -him, whispered, "Farewell, my beloved. I will not be long gone. I -go to bring friends." As she set off, swiftly running, Capitan, who -had been lying by Alessandro's side, uttering heart-rending howls, -bounded to his feet to follow her. "No, Capitan," she said; and -leading him back to the body, she took his head in her hands, -looked into his eyes, and said, "Capitan, watch here." With a -whimpering cry, he licked her hands, and stretched himself on the -ground. He understood, and would obey; but his eyes followed her -wistfully till she disappeared from sight. - -The trail was rough, and hard to find. More than once Ramona -stopped, baffled, among the rocky ridges and precipices. Her -clothes were torn, her face bleeding, from the thorny shrubs; her -feet seemed leaden, she made her way so slowly. It was dark in the -ravines; as she climbed spur after spur, and still saw nothing but -pine forests or bleak opens, her heart sank within her. The way had -not seemed so long before. Alessandro had been with her; it was a -joyous, bright day, and they had lingered wherever they liked, and -yet the way had seemed short. Fear seized her that she was lost. If -that were so, before morning she would be with Alessandro; for -fierce beasts roamed San Jacinto by night. But for the baby's sake, -she must not die. Feverishly she pressed on. At last, just as it had -grown so dark she could see only a few hand-breadths before her, -and was panting more from terror than from running, lights -suddenly gleamed out, only a few rods ahead. It was the Cahuilla -village. In a few moments she was there, - -It is a poverty-stricken little place, the Cahuilla village, -- a cluster -of tule and adobe huts, on a narrow bit of bleak and broken -ground, on San Jacinto Mountain; the people are very poor, but are -proud and high-spirited,-- veritable mountaineers in nature, fierce -and independent. - -Alessandro had warm friends among them, and the news that he -had been murdered, and that his wife had run all the way down the -mountain, with her baby in her arms, for help, went like wild-fire -through the place. The people gathered in an excited group around -the house where Ramona had taken refuge. She was lying, half -unconscious, on a bed. As soon as she had gasped out her terrible -story, she had fallen forward on the floor, fainting, and the baby -had been snatched from her arms just in time to save it. She did -not seem to miss the child; had not asked for it, or noticed it when -it was brought to the bed. A merciful oblivion seemed to be fast -stealing over her senses. But she had spoken words enough to set -the village in a blaze of excitement. It ran higher and higher. Men -were everywhere mounting their horses,-- some to go up and bring -Alessandro's body down; some organizing a party to go at once to -Jim Farrar's house and shoot him: these were the younger men, -friends of Alessandro. Earnestly the aged Capitan of the village -implored them to refrain from such violence. - -"Why should ten be dead instead of one, my sons?" he said. "Will -you leave your wives and your children like his? The whites will -kill us all if you lay hands on the man. Perhaps they themselves -will punish him." - -A derisive laugh rose from the group. Never yet within their -experience had a white man been punished for shooting an Indian. -The Capitan knew that as well as they did. Why did he command -them to sit still like women, and do nothing, when a friend was -murdered? - -"Because I am old, and you are young. I have seen that we fight in -vain," said the wise old man. "It is not sweet to me, any more than -to you. It is a fire in my veins; but I am old. I have seen. I forbid -you to go." - -The women added their entreaties to his, and the young men -abandoned their project. But it was with sullen reluctance; and -mutterings were to be heard, on all sides, that the time would come -yet. There was more than one way of killing a man. Farrar would -not be long seen in the valley. Alessandro should be avenged. - -As Farrar rode slowly down the mountain, leading his recovered -horse, he revolved in his thoughts what course to pursue. A few -years before, he would have gone home, no more disquieted at -having killed an Indian than if he had killed a fox or a wolf. But -things were different now. This Agent, that the Government had -taken it into its head to send out to look after the Indians, had -made it hot, the other day, for some fellows in San Bernardino -who had maltreated an Indian; he had even gone so far as to arrest -several liquor-dealers for simply selling whiskey to Indians. If he -were to take this case of Alessandro's in hand, it might be -troublesome. Farrar concluded that his wisest course would be to -make a show of good conscience and fair-dealing by delivering -himself up at once to the nearest justice of the peace, as having -killed a man in self-defence, Accordingly he rode straight to the -house of a Judge Wells, a few miles below Saboba, and said that -he wished to surrender himself as having committed "justifiable -homicide" on an Indian, or Mexican, he did net know which, who -had stolen his horse. He told a plausible story. He professed not to -know the man, or the place; but did not explain how it was, that, -knowing neither, he had gone so direct to the spot. - -He said: "I followed the trail for some time, but when I reached a -turn, I came into a sort of blind trail, where I lost the track. I think -the horse had been led up on hard sod, to mislead any one on the -track. I pushed on, crossed the creek, and soon found the tracks -again in soft ground. This part of the mountain was perfectly -unknown to me, and very wild. Finally I came to a ridge, from -which I looked down on a little ranch. As I came near the house, -the dogs began to bark, just as I discovered my horse tied to a tree. -Hearing the dogs, an Indian, or Mexican, I could not tell which, -came out of the house, flourishing a large knife. I called out to -him, 'Whose horse is that?' He answered in Spanish, 'It is mine.' -'Where did you get it?' I asked. 'In San Jacinto,' was his reply. As -he still came towards me, brandishing the knife, I drew my gun, -and said, 'Stop, or I'll shoot!' He did not stop, and I fired; still he -did not stop, so I fired again; and as he did not fall, I knocked him -down with the butt of my gun. After he was down, I shot him twice -with my pistol." - -The duty of a justice in such a case as this was clear. Taking the -prisoner into custody, he sent out messengers to summon a jury of -six men to hold inquest on the body of said Indian, or Mexican; -and early the next morning, led by Farrar, they set out for the -mountain. When they reached the ranch, the body had been -removed; the house was locked; no signs left of the tragedy of the -day before, except a few blood-stains on the ground, where -Alessandro had fallen. Farrar seemed greatly relieved at this -unexpected phase of affairs. However, when he found that Judge -Wells, instead of attempting to return to the valley that night, -proposed to pass the night at a ranch only a few miles from the -Cahuilla village, he became almost hysterical with fright. He -declared that the Cahuillas would surely come and murder him in -the night, and begged piteously that the men would all stay with -him to guard him. - -At midnight Judge Wells was roused by the arrival of the Capitan -and head men of the Cahuilla village. They had heard of his arrival -with his jury, and they had come to lead them to their village, -where the body of the murdered man lay. They were greatly -distressed on learning that they ought not to have removed the -body from the spot where the death had taken place, and that now -no inquest could be held. - -Judge Wells himself, however, went back with them, saw the -body, and heard the full account of the murder as given by -Ramona on her first arrival. Nothing more could now be learned -from her, as she was in high fever and delirium; knew no one, not -even her baby when they laid it on her breast. She lay restlessly -tossing from side to side, talking incessantly, clasping her rosary in -her hands, and constantly mingling snatches of prayers with cries -for Alessandro and Felipe; the only token of consciousness she -gave was to clutch the rosary wildly, and sometimes hide it in her -bosom, if they attempted to take it from her. - -Judge Wells was a frontiersman, and by no means sentimentally -inclined; but the tears stood in his eyes as he looked at the -unconscious Ramona. - -Farrar had pleaded that the preliminary hearing might take place -immediately; but after this visit to the village, the judge refused his -request, and appointed the trial a week from that day, to give time -for Ramona to recover, and appear as a witness. He impressed -upon the Indians as strongly as he could the importance of having -her appear. It was evident that Farrar's account of the affair was -false from first to last. Alessandro had no knife. He had not had -time to go many steps from the door; the volley of oaths, and the -two shots almost simultaneously, were what Ramona heard as she -ran to the door. Alessandro could not have spoken many words. - -The day for the hearing came. Farrar had been, during the interval, -in a merely nominal custody; having been allowed to go about his -business, on his own personal guarantee of appearing in time for -the trial. It was with a strange mixture of regret and relief that -Judge Wells saw the hour of the trial arrive, and not a witness on -the ground except Farrar himself. That Farrar was a brutal ruffian, -the whole country knew. This last outrage was only one of a long -series; the judge would have been glad to have committed him for -trial, and have seen him get his deserts. But San Jacinto Valley, -wild, sparsely settled as it was, had yet as fixed standards and -criterions of popularity as the most civilized of communities could -show; and to betray sympathy with Indians was more than any -man's political head was worth. The word "justice" had lost its -meaning, if indeed it ever had any, so far as they were concerned. -The valley was a unit on that question, however divided it might -be upon others. On the whole, the judge was relieved, though it -was not without a bitter twinge, as of one accessory after the deed, -and unfaithful to a friend; for he had known Alessandro well. Yet, -on the whole, he was relieved when he was forced to accede to the -motion made by Farrar's counsel, that "the prisoner be discharged -on ground of justifiable homicide, no witnesses having appeared -against him." - -He comforted himself by thinking -- what was no doubt true -- that -even if the case had been brought to a jury trial, the result would -have been the same; for there would never have been found a San -Diego County jury that would convict a white man of murder for -killing an Indian, if there were no witnesses to the occurrence -except the Indian wife. But he derived small comfort from this. -Alessandro's face haunted him, and also the memory of Ramona's, -as she lay tossing and moaning in the wretched Cahuilla hovel. He -knew that only her continued illness, or her death, could explain -her not having come to the trial. The Indians would have brought -her in their arms all the way, if she had been alive and in -possession of her senses. - -During the summer that she and Alessandro had lived in Saboba he -had seen her many times, and had been impressed by her rare -quality. His children knew her and loved her; had often been in her -house; his wife had bought her embroidery. Alessandro also had -worked for him; and no one knew better than Judge Wells that -Alessandro in his senses was as incapable of stealing a horse as -any white man in the valley. Farrar knew it; everybody knew it. -Everybody knew, also, about his strange fits of wandering mind; -and that when these half-crazed fits came on him, he was wholly -irresponsible. Farrar knew this. The only explanation of Farrar's -deed was, that on seeing his horse spent and exhausted from -having been forced up that terrible trail, he was seized by -ungovernable rage, and fired on the second, without knowing what -he did. "But he wouldn't have done it, if it hadn't been an Indian!" -mused the judge. "He'd ha' thought twice before he shot any white -man down, that way." - -Day after day such thoughts as these pursued the judge, and he -could not shake them off. An uneasy sense that he owed something -to Ramona, or, if Ramona were dead, to the little child she had -left, haunted him. There might in some such way be a sort of -atonement made to the murdered, unavenged Alessandro. He -might even take the child, and bring it up in his own house. That -was by no means an uncommon thing in the valley. The longer he -thought, the more he felt himself eased in his mind by this -purpose; and he decided that as soon as he could find leisure he -would go to the Cahuilla village and see what could be done. - -But it was not destined that stranger hands should bring succor to -Ramona. Felipe had at last found trace of her. Felipe was on the -way. - -XXV - -EFFECTUALLY misled by the faithful Carmena, Felipe had begun -his search for Alessandro by going direct to Monterey. He found -few Indians in the place, and not one had ever heard Alessandro's -name. Six miles from the town was a little settlement of them, in -hiding, in the bottoms of the San Carlos River, near the old -Mission. The Catholic priest advised him to search there; -sometimes, he said, fugitives of one sort and another took refuge -in this settlement, lived there for a few months, then disappeared -as noiselessly as they had come. Felipe searched there also; equally -in vain. - -He questioned all the sailors in port; all the shippers. No one had -heard of an Indian shipping on board any vessel; in fact, a captain -would have to be in straits before he would take an Indian in his -crew. - -"But this was an exceptionally good worker, this Indian; he could -turn his hand to anything; he might have gone as ship's carpenter." - -"That might be," they said; "nobody had ever heard of any such -thing, however;" and very much they all wondered what it was that -made the handsome, sad Mexican gentleman so anxious to find -this Indian. - -Felipe wasted weeks in Monterey. Long after he had ceased to -hope, he lingered. He felt as if he would like to stay till every ship -that had sailed out of Monterey in the last three years had returned. -Whenever he heard of one coming into harbor, he hastened to the -shore, and closely watched the disembarking. His melancholy -countenance, with its eager, searching look, became a familiar -sight to every one; even the children knew that the pale gentleman -was looking for some one he could not find. Women pitied him, -and gazed at him tenderly, wondering if a man could look like that -for anything save the loss of a sweetheart. Felipe made no -confidences. He simply asked, day after day, of every one he met, -for an Indian named Alessandro Assis. - -Finally he shook himself free from the dreamy spell of the place, -and turned his face southward again. He went by the route which -the Franciscan Fathers used to take, when the only road on the -California coast was the one leading from Mission to Mission. -Felipe had heard Father Salvierderra say that there were in the -neighborhood of each of the old Missions Indian villages, or -families still living. He thought it not improbable that, from -Alessandro's father's long connection with the San Luis Rey -Mission, Alessandro might be known to some of these Indians. He -would leave no stone unturned; no Indian village unsearched; no -Indian unquestioned. - -San Juan Bautista came first; then Soledad, San Antonio, San -Miguel, San Luis Obispo, Santa Inez; and that brought him to -Santa Barbara. He had spent two months on the journey. At each -of these places he found Indians; miserable, half-starved creatures, -most of them. Felipe's heart ached, and he was hot with shame, at -their condition. The ruins of the old Mission buildings were sad to -see, but the human ruins were sadder. Now Felipe understood why -Father Salvierderra's heart had broken, and why his mother had -been full of such fierce indignation against the heretic usurpers -and despoilers of the estates which the Franciscans once held. He -could not understand why the Church had submitted, without -fighting, to such indignities and robberies. At every one of the -Missions he heard harrowing tales of the sufferings of those -Fathers who had clung to their congregations to the last, and died -at their posts. At Soledad an old Indian, weeping, showed him the -grave of Father Sarria, who had died there of starvation. "He gave -us all he had, to the last," said the old man. "He lay on a raw-hide -on the ground, as we did; and one morning, before he had finished -the mass, he fell forward at the altar and was dead. And when we -put him in the grave, his body was only bones, and no flesh; he had -gone so long without food, to give it to us." - -At all these Missions Felipe asked in vain for Alessandro. They -knew very little, these northern Indians, about those in the south, -they said. It was seldom one from the southern tribes came -northward. They did not understand each other's speech. The more -Felipe inquired, and the longer he reflected, the more he doubted -Alessandro's having ever gone to Monterey. At Santa Barbara he -made a long stay. The Brothers at the College welcomed him -hospitably. They had heard from Father Salvierderra the sad story -of Ramona, and were distressed, with Felipe, that no traces had -been found of her. It grieved Father Salvierderra to the last, they -said; he prayed for her daily, but said he could not get any -certainty in his spirit of his prayers being heard. Only the day -before he died, he had said this to Father Francis, a young -Brazilian monk, to whom he was greatly attached. - -In Felipe's overwrought frame of mind this seemed to him a -terrible omen; and he set out on his journey with a still heavier -heart than before. He believed Ramona was dead, buried in some -unknown, unconsecrated spot, never to be found; yet he would not -give up the search. As he journeyed southward, he began to find -persons who had known of Alessandro; and still more, those who -had known his father, old Pablo. But no one had heard anything of -Alessandro's whereabouts since the driving out of his people from -Temecula; there was no knowing where any of those Temecula -people were now. They had scattered "like a flock of ducks," one -Indian said,-- "like a flock of ducks after they are fired into. You'd -never see all those ducks in any one place again. The Temecula -people were here, there, and everywhere, all through San Diego -County. There was one Temecula man at San Juan Capistrano, -however. The Senor would better see him. He no doubt knew -about Alessandro. He was living in a room in the old Mission -building. The priest had given it to him for taking care of the -chapel and the priest's room, and a little rent besides. He was a -hard man, the San Juan Capistrano priest; he would take the last -dollar from a poor man." - -It was late at night when Felipe reached San Juan Capistrano; but -he could not sleep till he had seen this man. Here was the first -clew he had gained. He found the man, with his wife and children, -in a large corner room opening on the inner court of the Mission -quadrangle. The room was dark and damp as a cellar; a fire -smouldered in the enormous fireplace; a few skins and rags were -piled near the hearth, and on these lay the woman, evidently ill. -The sunken tile floor was icy cold to the feet; the wind swept in at -a dozen broken places in the corridor side of the wall; there was -not an article of furniture. "Heavens!" thought Felipe, as he -entered, "a priest of our Church take rent for such a hole as this!" - -There was no light in the place, except the little which came from -the fire. "I am sorry I have no candle, Senor," said the man, as he -came forward. "My wife is sick, and we are very poor." - -"No matter," said Felipe, his hand already at his purse. "I only want -to ask you a few questions. You are from Temecula, they tell me." - -"Yes, Senor," the man replied in a dogged tone,-- no man of -Temecula could yet hear the word without a pang,-- "I was of -Temecula." - -"I want to find one Alessandro Assis who lived there. You knew -him, I suppose," said Felipe, eagerly. - -At this moment a brand broke in the smouldering fire, and for one -second a bright blaze shot up; only for a second, then all was dark -again. But the swift blaze had fallen on Felipe's face, and with a -start which he could not control, but which Felipe did not see, the -Indian had recognized him. "Ha, ha!" he thought to himself. "Senor -Felipe Moreno, you come to the wrong house asking for news of -Alessandro Assis!" - -It was Antonio,-- Antonio, who had been at the Moreno -sheep-shearing; Antonio, who knew even more than Carmena had -known, for he knew what a marvel and miracle it seemed that the -beautiful Senorita from the Moreno house should have loved -Alessandro, and wedded him; and he knew that on the night she -went away with him, Alessandro had lured out of the corral a -beautiful horse for her to ride. Alessandro had told him all about -it,-- Baba, fiery, splendid Baba, black as night, with a white star in -his forehead. Saints! but it was a bold thing to do, to steal such a -horse as that, with a star for a mark; and no wonder that even now, -though near three years afterwards, Senor Felipe was in search of -him. Of course it could be only the horse he wanted. Ha! much -help might he get from Antonio! - -"Yes, Senor, I knew him," he replied. - -"Do you know where he is now?" - -"No, Senor." - -"Do you know where he went, from Temecula?" - -"No, Senor." - -"A woman told me he went to Monterey. I have been there looking -for him." - -"I heard, too, he had gone to Monterey." - -"Where did you see him last?" - -"In Temecula." - -"Was he alone?" - -"Yes, Senor." - -"Did you ever hear of his being married?" - -"No, Senor." - -"Where are the greater part of the Temecula people now?" - -"Like this, Senor," with a bitter gesture, pointing to his wife. "Most -of us are beggars. A few here, a few there. Some have gone to -Capitan Grande, some way down into Lower California." - -Wearily Felipe continued his bootless questioning. No suspicion -that the man was deceiving him crossed his mind. At last, with a -sigh, he said, "I hoped to have found Alessandro by your means. I -am greatly disappointed. - -"I doubt not that, Senor Felipe Moreno," thought Antonio. "I am -sorry, Senor," he said. - -It smote his conscience when Felipe laid in his hand a generous -gold-piece, and said, "Here is a bit of money for you. I am sorry to -see you so poorly off." - -The thanks which he spoke sounded hesitating and gruff, so -remorseful did he feel. Senor Felipe had always been kind to them. -How well they had fared always in his house! It was a shame to lie -to him; yet the first duty was to Alessandro. It could not be -avoided. And thus a second time help drifted away from Ramona. - -At Temecula, from Mrs. Hartsel, Felipe got the first true -intelligence of Alessandro's movements; but at first it only -confirmed his worst forebodings. Alessandro had been at Mrs. -Hartsel's house; he had been alone, and on foot; he was going to -walk all the way to San Pasquale, where he had the promise of -work. - -How sure the kindly woman was that she was telling the exact -truth. After long ransacking of her memory and comparing of -events, she fixed the time so nearly to the true date, that it was to -Felipe's mind a terrible corroboration of his fears. It was, he -thought, about a week after Ramona's flight from home that -Alessandro had appeared thus, alone, on foot, at Mrs. Hartsel's. In -great destitution, she said; and she had lent him money on the -expectation of selling his violin; but they had never sold it; there it -was yet. And that Alessandro was dead, she had no more doubt -than that she herself was alive; for else, he would have come back -to pay her what he owed. The honestest fellow that ever lived, was -Alessandro. Did not the Senor Moreno think so? Had he not found -him so always? There were not many such Indians as Alessandro -and his father. If there had been, it would have been better for their -people. "If they'd all been like Alessandro, I tell you," she said, "it -would have taken more than any San Diego sheriff to have put -them out of their homes here." - -"But what could they do to help themselves, Mrs. Hartsel?" asked -Felipe. "The law was against them. We can't any of us go against -that. I myself have lost half my estate in the same way." - -"Well, at any rate they wouldn't have gone without fighting!" she -said. "'If Alessandro had been here!' they all said." - -Felipe asked to see the violin. "But that is not Alessandro's," he -exclaimed. "I have seen his." - -"No!" she said. "Did I say it was his? It was his father's. One of the -Indians brought it in here to hide it with us at the time they were -driven out. It is very old, they say, and worth a great deal of -money, if you could find the right man to buy it. But he has not -come along yet. He will, though. I am not a bit afraid but that we'll -get our money back on it. If Alessandro was alive, he'd have been -here long before this." - -Finding Mrs. Hartsel thus friendly, Felipe suddenly decided to tell -her the whole story. Surprise and incredulity almost overpowered -her at first. She sat buried in thought for some minutes; then she -sprang to her feet, and cried: "If he's got that girl with him, he's -hiding somewhere. There's nothing like an Indian to hide; and if he -is hiding, every other Indian knows it, and you just waste your -breath asking any questions of any of them. They will die before -they will tell you one thing. They are as secret as the grave. And -they, every one of them, worshipped Alessandro. You see they -thought he would be over them, after Pablo, and they were all -proud of him because he could read and write, and knew more -than most of them. If I were in your place," she continued, "I -would not give it up yet. I should go to San Pasquale. Now it might -just be that she was along with him that night he stopped here, hid -somewhere, while he came in to get the money. I know I urged -him to stay all night, and he said he could not do it. I don't know, -though, where he could possibly have left her while he came here." - -Never in all her life had Mrs. Hartsel been so puzzled and so -astonished as now. But her sympathy, and her confident belief that -Alessandro might yet be found, gave unspeakable cheer to Felipe. - -"If I find them, I shall take them home with me, Mrs. Hartsel," he -said as he rode away; "and we will come by this road and stop to -see you." And the very speaking of the words cheered him all the -way to San Pasquale, - -But before he had been in San Pasquale an hour, he was plunged -into a perplexity and disappointment deeper than he had yet felt. -He found the village in disorder, the fields neglected, many houses -deserted, the remainder of the people preparing to move away. In -the house of Ysidro, Alessandro's kinsman, was living a white -family,-- the family of a man who had pre-empted the greater part -of the land on which the village stood. Ysidro, profiting by -Alessandro's example, when he found that there was no help, that -the American had his papers from the land-office, in all due form, -certifying that the land was his, had given the man his option of -paying for the house or having it burned down. The man had -bought the house; and it was only the week before Felipe arrived, -that Ysidro had set off, with all his goods and chattels, for Mesa -Grande. He might possibly have told the Senor more, the people -said, than any one now in the village could; but even Ysidro did -not know where Alessandro intended to settle. He told no one. He -went to the north. That was all they knew. - -To the north! That north which Felipe thought he had thoroughly -searched. He sighed at the word. The Senor could, if he liked, see -the house in which Alessandro had lived. There it was, on the -south side of the valley, just in the edge of the foothills; some -Americans lived in it now. Such a good ranch Alessandro had; the -best wheat in the valley. The American had paid Alessandro -something for it,-- they did not know how much; but Alessandro -was very lucky to get anything. If only they had listened to him. He -was always telling them this would come. Now it was too late for -most of them to get anything for their farms. One man had taken -the whole of the village lands, and he had bought Ysidro's house -because it was the best; and so they would not get anything. They -were utterly disheartened, broken-spirited. - -In his sympathy for them, Felipe almost forgot his own distresses. -"Where are you going?" he asked of several. - -"Who knows, Senor?" was their reply. "Where can we go? There is -no place." - -When, in reply to his questions in regard to Alessandro's wife, -Felipe heard her spoken of as "Majella," his perplexity deepened. -Finally he asked if no one had ever heard the name Ramona. - -"Never." - -What could it mean? Could it be possible that this was another -Alessandro than the one of whom he was in search? Felipe -bethought himself of a possible marriage-record. Did they know -where Alessandro had married this wife of his, of whom every -word they spoke seemed both like and unlike Ramona? - -Yes. It was in San Diego they had been married, by Father -Gaspara. - -Hoping against hope, the baffled Felipe rode on to San Diego; and -here, as ill-luck would have it, he found, not Father Gaspara, who -would at his first word have understood all, but a young Irish -priest, who had only just come to be Father Gaspara's assistant. -Father Gaspara was away in the mountains, at Santa Ysabel. But -the young assistant would do equally well, to examine the records. -He was courteous and kind; brought out the tattered old book, and, -looking over his shoulder, his breath coming fast with excitement -and fear, there Felipe read, in Father Gaspara's hasty and blotted -characters, the fatal entry of the names, "Alessandro Assis and -Majella Fa --" - -Heart-sick, Felipe went away. Most certainly Ramona would never -have been married under any but her own name. Who, then, was -this woman whom Alessandro Assis had married in less than ten -days from the night on which Ramona had left her home? Some -Indian woman for whom he felt compassion, or to whom he was -bound by previous ties? And where, in what lonely, forever hidden -spot, was the grave of Ramona? - -Now at last Felipe felt sure that she was dead. It was useless -searching farther. Yet, after he reached home, his restless -conjectures took one more turn, and he sat down and wrote a letter -to every priest between San Diego and Monterey, asking if there -were on his books a record of the marriage of one Alessandro -Assis and Ramona Ortegna. - -It was not impossible that there might be, after all, another -Alessandro Assis, The old Fathers, in baptizing their tens of -thousands of Indian converts, were sore put to it to make out -names enough. There might have been another Assis besides old -Pablo, and of Alessandros there were dozens everywhere. - -This last faint hope also failed. No record anywhere of an -Alessandro Assis, except in Father Gaspara's book. - -As Felipe was riding out of San Pasquale, he had seen an Indian -man and woman walking by the side of mules heavily laden. Two -little children, two young or too feeble to walk, were so packed in -among the bundles that their faces were the only part of them in -sight. The woman was crying bitterly. "More of these exiles. God -help the poor creatures!" thought Felipe; and he pulled out his -purse, and gave the woman a piece of gold. She looked up in as -great astonishment as if the money had fallen from the skies. -"Thanks! Thanks, Senor!" she exclaimed; and the man coming up -to Felipe said also, "God reward you, Senor! That is more money -than I had in the world! Does the Senor know of any place where I -could get work?" - -Felipe longed to say, "Yes, come to my estate; there you shall have -work!" In the olden time he would have done it without a second -thought, for both the man and the woman had good faces,-- were -young and strong. But the pay-roll of the Moreno estate was even -now too long for its dwindled fortunes. "No, my man, I am sorry to -say I do not," he answered. "I live a long way from here. Where -were you thinking of going?" - -"Somewhere in San Jacinto," said the man. "They say the -Americans have not come in there much yet. I have a brother -living there. Thanks, Senor; may the saints reward you!" - -"San Jacinto!" After Felipe returned home, the name haunted his -thoughts. The grand mountain-top bearing that name he had -known well in many a distant horizon. "Juan Can," he said one -day, "are there many Indians in San Jacinto?" - -"The mountain?" said Juan Can. - -"Ay, I suppose, the mountain," said Felipe. "What else is there?" - -"The valley, too," replied Juan. "The San Jacinto Valley is a fine, -broad valley, though the river is not much to be counted on. It is -mostly dry sand a good part of the year. But there is good grazing. -There is one village of Indians I know in the valley; some of the -San Luis Rey Indians came from there; and up on the mountain is -a big village; the wildest Indians in all the country live there. Oh, -they are fierce, Senor!" - -The next morning Felipe set out for San Jacinto. Why had no one -mentioned, why had he not himself known, of these villages? -Perhaps there were yet others he had not heard of. Hope sprang in -Felipe's impressionable nature as easily as it died. An hour, a -moment, might see him both lifted up and cast down. When he -rode into the sleepy little village street of San Bernardino, and -saw, in the near horizon, against the southern sky, a superb -mountain-peak, changing in the sunset lights from turquoise to -ruby, and from ruby to turquoise again, he said to himself, "She is -there! I have found her!" - -The sight of the mountain affected him, as it had always affected -Aunt Ri, with an indefinable, solemn sense of something revealed, -yet hidden. "San Jacinto?" he said to a bystander, pointing to it -with his whip. - -"Yes, Senor," replied the man. As he spoke, a pair of black horses -came whirling round the corner, and he sprang to one side, -narrowly escaping being knocked down. "That Tennessee fellow'll -run over somebody yet, with those black devils of his, if he don't -look out," he muttered, as he recovered his balance. - -Felipe glanced at the horses, then driving his spurs deep into his -horse's sides, galloped after them. "Baba! by God!" he cried aloud -in his excitement and forgetful of everything, he urged his horse -faster, shouting as he rode, "Stop that man! Stop that man with the -black horses!" - -Jos, hearing his name called on all sides, reined in Benito and -Baba as soon as he could, and looked around in bewilderment to -see what had happened. Before he had time to ask any questions, -Felipe had overtaken him, and riding straight to Baba's head, had -flung himself from his own horse and taken Baba by the rein, -crying, "Baba! Baba!" Baba knew his voice, and began to whinny -and plunge. Felipe was nearly unmanned. For the second, he forgot -everything. A crowd was gathering around them. It had never been -quite clear to the San Bernardino mind that Jos's title to Benito and -Baba would bear looking into; and it was no surprise, therefore, to -some of the on-lookers, to hear Felipe cry in a loud voice, looking -suspiciously at Jos, "How did you get him?" - -Jos was a wag, and Jos was never hurried. The man did not live, -nor could the occasion arrive, which would quicken his -constitutional drawl. Before even beginning his answer he crossed -one leg over the other and took a long, observant look at Felipe; -then in a pleasant voice he said: "Wall, Senor,-- I allow yer air a -Senor by yer color,-- it would take right smart uv time tew tell -yeow haow I cum by thet hoss, 'n' by the other one tew. They ain't -mine, neither one on 'em." - -Jos's speech was as unintelligible to Felipe as it had been to -Ramona, Jos saw it, and chuckled. - -"Mebbe 't would holp yer tew understand me ef I wuz tew talk -Mexican," he said, and proceeded to repeat in tolerably good -Spanish the sum and substance of what he had just said, adding: -"They belong to an Indian over on San Jacinto; at least, the off one -does; the nigh one's his wife's; he wouldn't ever call thet one -anything but hers. It had been hers ever sence she was a girl, they -said, I never saw people think so much of hosses as they did." - -Before Jos had finished speaking, Felipe had bounded into the -wagon, throwing his horse's reins to a boy in the crowd, and -crying, "Follow along with my horse, will you? I must speak to this -man." - -Found! Found,-- the saints be praised,-- at last! How should he tell -this man fast enough? How should he thank him enough? - -Laying his hand on Jos's knee, he cried: "I can't explain to you; I -can't tell you. Bless you forever,-- forever! It must be the saints led -you here!" - -"Oh, Lawd!" thought Jos; "another o' them 'saint' fellers! I allow -not, Senor," he said, relapsing into Tennesseean. "It wur Tom -Wurmsee led me; I wuz gwine ter move his truck fur him this -arternoon." - -"Take me home with you to your house," said Felipe, still -trembling with excitement; "we cannot talk here in the street. I -want to hear all you can tell me about them. I have been searching -for them all over California." - -Jos's face lighted up. This meant good fortune for that gentle, -sweet Ramona, he was sure. "I'll take you straight there," he said; -"but first I must stop at Tom's. He will be waiting for me." - -The crowd dispersed, disappointed; cheated out of their -anticipated scene of an arrest for horse-stealing. "Good for you, -Tennessee!" and, "Fork over that black horse, Jos!" echoed from -the departing groups. Sensations were not so common in San -Bernardino that they could afford to slight so notable an occasion -as this. - -As Jos turned the corner into the street where he lived, he saw his -mother coming at a rapid run towards them, her sun-bonnet half -off her head, her spectacles pushed up in her hair. - -"Why, thar's mammy!" he exclaimed. "What ever hez gone wrong -naow?" - -Before he finished speaking, she saw the black horses, and -snatching her bonnet from her head waved it wildly, crying, "Yeow -Jos! Jos, hyar! Stop! I wuz er comin' ter hunt yer!" - -Breathlessly she continued talking, her words half lost in the sound -of the wheels. Apparently she did not see the stranger sitting by -Jos's side. "Oh, Jos, thar's the terriblest news come! Thet Injun -Alessandro's got killed; murdered; jest murdered, I say; 'tain't no -less. Thar wuz an Injun come down from ther mounting with a -letter to the Agent." - -"Good God! Alessandro killed!" burst from Felipe's lips in a -heart-rending voice. - -Jos looked bewilderedly from his mother to Felipe; the -complication was almost beyond him. "Oh, Lawd!" he gasped. -Turning to Felipe, "Thet's mammy," he said. "She wuz real fond o' -both on 'em." Turning to his mother, "This hyar's her brother," he -said. "He jest knowed me by Baba, hyar on ther street. He's been -huntin' 'em everywhar." - -Aunt Ri grasped the situation instantly. Wiping her streaming eyes, -she sobbed out: "Wall, I'll allow, arter this, thar is sech a thing ez a -Providence, ez they call it. 'Pears like ther couldn't ennythin' less -brung yer hyar jest naow. I know who yer be; ye're her brother -Feeleepy, ain't yer? Menny's ther time she's tolt me about yer! Oh, -Lawd! How air we ever goin' to git ter her? I allow she's dead! I -allow she'd never live arter seein' him shot down dead! He tolt me -thar couldn't nobody git up thar whar they'd gone; no white folks, I -mean. Oh, Lawd, Lawd!" - -Felipe stood paralyzed, horror-stricken. He turned in despair to -Jos. "Tell me in Spanish,." he said. "I cannot understand." - -As Jos gradually drew out the whole story from his mother's -excited and incoherent speech, and translated it, Felipe groaned -aloud, "Too late! Too late!" He too felt, as Aunt Ri had, that -Ramona never could have survived the shock of seeing her -husband murdered. "Too late! Too late!" he cried, as he staggered -into the house. "She has surely died of the sight." - -"I allow she didn't die, nuther," said Jos; "not ser long ez she hed -thet young un to look arter!" - -"Yer air right, Jos!" said Aunt Ri. "I allow yer air right. Thar -couldn't nothin' kill her, short er wild beasts, ef she hed ther baby -'n her arms! She ain't dead, not ef the baby ez erlive, I allow. Thet's -some comfort." - -Felipe sat with his face buried in his hands. Suddenly looking up, -he said, "How far is it?" - -"Thirty miles 'n' more inter the valley, where we wuz," said Jos; "'n' -the Lawd knows how fur 'tis up on ter the mounting, where they -wuz livin'. It's like goin' up the wall uv a house, goin' up San -Jacinto Mounting, daddy sez. He wuz thar huntin' all summer with -Alessandro." - -How strange, how incredible it seemed, to hear Alessandro's name -thus familiarly spoken,-- spoken by persons who had known him -so recently, and who were grieving, grieving as friends, to hear of -his terrible death! Felipe felt as if he were in a trance. Rousing -himself, he said, "We must go. We must start at once. You will let -me have the horses?" - -"Wall, I allow yer've got more right ter 'em 'n --" began Jos, -energetically, forgetting himself; then, dropping Tennesseean, he -completed in Spanish his cordial assurances that the horses were at -Felipe's command. - -"Jos! He's got ter take me!" cried Aunt Ri. "I allow I ain't never -gwine ter set still hyar, 'n' thet girl inter sech trouble; 'n' if so be ez -she is reely dead, thar's the baby. He hadn't orter go alone by -hisself." - -Felipe was thankful, indeed, for Aunt Ri's companionship, and -expressed himself in phrases so warm, that she was embarrassed. - -"Yeow tell him, Jos," she said, "I can't never git used ter bein' -called Senory. Yeow tell him his' sister allers called me Aunt Ri, 'n' -I jest wish he would. I allow me 'n' him'll git along all right. 'Pears -like I'd known him all my days, jest ez 't did with her, arter the -fust. I'm free to confess I take more ter these Mexicans than I do -ter these low-down, driven Yankees, ennyhow,-- a heap more; but I -can't stand bein' Senory'd! Yeow tell him, Jos. I s'pose thar's a word -for 'aunt' in Mexican, ain't there? 'Pears like thar couldn't be no -langwedge 'thout sech a word! He'll know what it means! I'd go off -with him a heap easier ef he'd call me jest plain Aunt Ri, ez I'm -used ter, or Mis Hyer, either un on 'em; but Aunt Ri's the -nateralest." - -Jos had some anxiety about his mother's memory of the way to San -Jacinto. She laughed. - -"Don't yeow be a mite oneasy," she said. "I bet yeow I'd go clean -back ter the States ther way we cum. I allow I've got every mile on -'t 'n my hed plain's a turnpike. Yeow nor yer dad, neiry one on yer, -couldn't begin to do 't. But what we air gwine ter do, fur gettin' up -the mounting, thet's another thing. Thet's more 'n I dew know. But -thar'll be a way pervided, Jos, sure's yeow're bawn. The Lawd ain't -gwine to get hisself hindered er holpin' Ramony this time; I ain't a -mite afeerd." - -Felipe could not have found a better ally. The comparative silence -enforced between them by reason of lack of a common vehicle for -their thoughts was on the whole less of a disadvantage than would -have at first appeared. They understood each other well enough for -practical purposes, and their unity in aim, and in affection for -Ramona, made a bond so strong, it could not have been enhanced -by words. - -It was past sundown when they left San Bernardino, but a full -moon made the night as good as day for their journey. When it first -shone out, Aunt Ri, pointing to it, said curtly, "Thet's lucky." - -"Yes," replied Felipe, who did not know either of the words she -had spoken, "it is good. It shows to us the way." - -"Thar, naow, say he can't understand English!" thought Aunt Ri. - -Benito and Baba travelled as if they knew the errand on which they -were hurrying. Good forty miles they had gone without flagging -once, when Aunt Ri, pointing to a house on the right hand of the -road, the only one they had seen for many miles, said: "We'll hev -to sleep hyar. I donno the road beyant this. I allow they're gone ter -bed; but they'll hev to git up 'n' take us in. They're used ter doin' it. -They dew consid'able business keepin' movers. I know 'em. They're -reel friendly fur the kind o' people they air. They're druv to death. -It can't be far frum their time to git up, ennyhow. They're up every -mornin' uv thar lives long afore daylight, a feedin' their stock, an' -gittin' ready fur the day's work. I used ter hear 'em 'n' see 'em, when -we wuz campin' here. The fust I saw uv it, I thought somebody -wuz sick in the house, to git 'em up thet time o' night; but -arterwards we found out 't wan't nothin' but thar reggerlar way. -When I told dad, sez I, 'Dad, did ever yer hear sech a thing uz -gittin' up afore light to feed stock?' 'n' ter feed theirselves tew. -They'd their own breakfast all clared away, 'n' dishes washed, too, -afore light; 'n' prayers said beside; they're Methodys, terrible pious. -I used ter tell dad they talked a heap about believin' in God; I don't -allow but what they dew believe in God, tew, but they don't -worship Him so much's they worship work; not nigh so much. -Believin' 'n' worshippin' 's tew things. Yeow wouldn't see no sech -doin's in Tennessee. I allow the Lawd meant some time fur -sleepin'; 'n' I'm satisfied with his times o' lightin' up. But these -Merrills air reel nice folks, fur all this I've ben tellin' yer! -- Lawd! -I don't believe he's understood a word I've said, naow!" thought -Aunt Ri to herself, suddenly becoming aware of the hopeless -bewilderment on Felipe's face. "'Tain't much use sayin' anything -more'n plain yes 'n' no, between folks thet can't understand each -other's langwedge; 'n' s' fur's thet goes, I allow thar ain't any gret -use'n the biggest part o' what's sed between folks thet doos!" - -When the Merrill family learned Felipe's purpose of going up the -mountain to the Cahuilla village, they attempted to dissuade him -from taking his own horses. He would kill them both, high-spirited -horses like those, they said, if he took them over that road. It was a -cruel road. They pointed out to him the line where it wound, -doubling and tacking on the sides of precipices, like a path for a -goat or chamois. Aunt Ri shuddered at the sight, but said nothing. - -"I'm gwine whar he goes," she said grimly to herself. "I ain't a -gwine ter back daown naow; but I dew jest wish Jeff Hyer wuz -along." - -Felipe himself disliked what he saw and heard of the grade. The -road had been built for bringing down lumber, and for six miles it -was at perilous angles. After this it wound along on ridges and in -ravines till it reached the heart of a great pine forest, where stood a -saw-mill. Passing this, it plunged into still darker, denser woods, -some fifteen miles farther on, and then came out among vast -opens, meadows, and grassy foot-hills, still on the majestic -mountain's northern or eastern slopes. From these, another steep -road, little more than a trail, led south, and up to the Cahuilla -village. A day and a half's hard journey, at the shortest, it was from -Merrill's; and no one unfamiliar with the country could find the -last part of the way without a guide. Finally it was arranged that -one of the younger Merrills should go in this capacity, and should -also take two of his strongest horses, accustomed to the road. By -the help of these the terrible ascent was made without difficulty, -though Baba at first snorted, plunged, and resented the humiliation -of being harnessed with his head at another horse's tail. - -Except for their sad errand, both Felipe and Aunt Ri would have -experienced a keen delight in this ascent. With each fresh lift on -the precipitous terraces, the view off to the south and west -broadened, until the whole San Jacinto Valley lay unrolled at their -feet. The pines were grand; standing, they seemed shapely -columns; fallen, the upper curve of their huge yellow disks came -above a man's head, so massive was their size. On many of them -the bark had been riddled from root to top, as by myriads of -bullet-holes. In each hole had been cunningly stored away an -acorn,-- the woodpeckers' granaries. - -"Look at thet, naow!" exclaimed the observant Aunt Ri; "an' thar's -folk's thet sez dumb critters ain't got brains. They ain't noways -dumb to each other, I notice; an' we air dumb aourselves when we -air ketched with furriners. I allow I'm next door to dumb myself -with this hyar Mexican I'm er travellin' with." - -"That's so!" replied Sam Merrill. "When we fust got here, I thought -I'd ha' gone clean out o' my head tryin' to make these Mexicans -sense my meanin'; my tongue was plaguy little use to me. But now -I can talk their lingo fust-rate; but pa, he can't talk to 'em nohow; -he hain't learned the fust word; 'n' he's ben here goin' on two years -longer'n we have." - -The miles seemed leagues to Felipe. Aunt Ri's drawling tones, as -she chatted volubly with young Merrill, chafed him. How could -she chatter! But when he thought this, it would chance that in a -few moments more he would see her clandestinely wiping away -tears, and his heart would warm to her again. - -They slept at a miserable cabin in one of the clearings, and at early -dawn pushed on, reaching the Cahuilla village before noon. As -their carriage came in sight, a great running to and fro of people -was to be seen. Such an event as the arrival of a comfortable -carriage drawn by four horses had never before taken place in the -village. The agitation into which the people had been thrown by -the murder of Alessandro had by no means subsided; they were all -on the alert, suspicious of each new occurrence. The news had -only just reached the village that Farrar had been set at liberty, and -would not be punished for his crime, and the flames of indignation -and desire for vengeance, which the aged Capitan had so much -difficulty in allaying in the outset, were bursting forth again this -morning. It was therefore a crowd of hostile and lowering faces -which gathered around the carriage as it stopped in front of the -Capitan's house. - -Aunt Ri's face was a ludicrous study of mingled terror, defiance, -and contempt. "Uv all ther low-down, no-'count, beggarly trash -ever I laid eyes on," she said in a low tone to Merrill, "I allow -these yere air the wust! But I allow they'd flatten us all aout in jest -abaout a minnit, if they wuz to set aout tew! Ef she ain't hyar, we -air in a scrape, I allow." - -"Oh, they're friendly enough," laughed Merrill. "They're all stirred -up, now, about the killin' o' that Injun; that's what makes 'em look -so fierce. I don't wonder! 'Twas a derned mean thing Jim Farrar -did, a firin' into the man after he was dead. I don't blame him for -killin' the cuss, not a bit; I'd have shot any man livin' that 'ad taken -a good horse o' mine up that trail. That's the only law we stock -men've got out in this country. We've got to protect ourselves. But -it was a mean, low-lived trick to blow the feller's face to pieces -after he was dead; but Jim's a rough feller, 'n' I expect he was so -mad, when he see his horse, that he didn't know what he did." - -Aunt Ri was half paralyzed with astonishment at this speech. -Felipe had leaped out of the carriage, and after a few words with -the old Capitan, had hurried with him into his house. Felipe had -evidently forgotten that she was still in the carriage. His going into -the house looked as if Ramona was there. Aunt Ri, in all her -indignation and astonishment, was conscious of this train of -thought running through her mind; but not even the near prospect -of seeing Ramona could bridle her tongue now, or make her defer -replying to the extraordinary statements she had just heard. The -words seemed to choke her as she began. "Young man," she said, -"I donno much abaout yeour raisin'. I've heered yeour folks wuz -great on religion. Naow, we ain't, Jeff 'n' me; we warn't raised thet -way; but I allow ef I wuz ter hear my boy, Jos,-- he's jest abaout -yeour age, 'n' make tew, though he's narrerer chested,-- ef I should -hear him say what yeou've jest said, I allow I sh'd expect to see -him struck by lightnin'; 'n' I sh'dn't think he hed got more 'n his -deserts, I allow I sh'dn't!" - -What more Aunt Ri would have said to the astounded Merrill was -never known, for at that instant the old Capitan, returning to the -door, beckoned to her; and springing from her seat to the ground, -sternly rejecting Sam's offered hand, she hastily entered the house. -As she crossed the threshold, Felipe turned an anguished face -toward her, and said, "Come, speak to her." He was on his knees -by a wretched pallet on the floor. Was that Ramona,-- that -prostrate form; hair dishevelled, eyes glittering, cheeks scarlet, -hands playing meaninglessly, like the hands of one crazed, with a -rosary of gold beads? Yes, it was Ramona; and it was like this she -had lain there now ten days; and the people had exhausted all their -simple skill for her in vain. - -Aunt Ri burst into tears. "Oh, Lawd!" she said. "Ef I had some 'old -man' hyar, I'd bring her aout er thet fever! I dew bleeve I seed some -on 't growin' not more'n er mile back." And without a second look, -or another word, she ran out of the door, and springing into the -carriage, said, speaking faster than she had been heard to speak for -thirty years: "Yeow jest turn raound 'n' drive me back a piece, the -way we come. I allow I'll git a weed thet'll break thet fever. Faster, -faster! Run yer hosses. 'Tain't above er mile back, whar I seed it," -she cried, leaning out, eagerly scrutinizing each inch of the barren -ground. "Stop! Here 'tis!" she cried. "I knowed I smelt the bitter on -'t somewhars along hyar;" and in a few minutes more she had a -mass of the soft, shining, gray, feathery leaves in her hands, and -was urging the horses fiercely on their way back. "This'll cure her, -ef ennything will," she said, as she entered the room again; but her -heart sank as she saw Ramona's eyes roving restlessly over Felipe's -face, no sign of recognition in them. "She's bad," she said, her lips -trembling; "but, 'never say die!' ez allers our motto; 'tain't never -tew late fur ennything but oncet, 'n' yer can't tell when thet time's -come till it's past 'n' gone." - -Steaming bowls of the bitterly odorous infusion she held at -Ramona's nostrils; with infinite patience she forced drop after drop -of it between the unconscious lips; she bathed the hands and head, -her own hands blistered by the heat. It was a fight with death; but -love and life won. Before night Ramona was asleep. - -Felipe and Aunt Ri sat by her, strange but not uncongenial -watchers, each taking heart from the other's devotion. All night -long Ramona slept. As Felipe watched her, he remembered his -own fever, and how she had knelt by his bed and prayed there. He -glanced around the room. In a niche in the mud wall was a cheap -print of the Madonna, one candle just smouldering out before it. -The village people had drawn heavily on their poverty-stricken -stores, keeping candles burning for Alessandro and Ramona during -the past ten days. The rosary had slipped from Ramona's hold; -taking it cautiously in his hand, Felipe went to the Madonna's -picture, and falling on his knees, began to pray as simply as if he -were alone. The Indians, standing on the doorway, also fell on -their knees, and a low-whispered murmur was heard. - -For a moment Aunt Ri looked at the kneeling figures with -contempt. "Oh, Lawd!" she thought, "the pore heathen, prayin' ter a -picter!" Then a sudden revulsion seized her. "I allow I ain't gwine -ter be the unly one out er the hull number thet don't seem to hev -nothin' ter pray ter; I allow I'll jine in prayer, tew, but I shan't say -mine ter no picter!" And Aunt Ri fell on her knees; and when a -young Indian woman by her side slipped a rosary into her hand, -Aunt Ri did not repulse it, but hid it in the folds of her gown till -the prayers were done. It was a moment and a lesson Aunt Ri -never forgot. - -XXVI - -THE Capitan's house faced the east. Just as day broke, and the -light streamed in at the open door, Ramona's eyes unclosed. Felipe -and Aunt Ri were both by her side. With a look of bewildered -terror, she gazed at them. - -"Thar, thar, naow! Yer jest shet yer eyes 'n' go right off ter sleep -agin, honey," said Aunt Ri, composedly, laying her hand on -Ramona's eyelids, and compelling them down. "We air hyar, -Feeleepy 'n' me, 'n' we air goin' ter stay. I allow yer needn't be -afeerd o' nothin'. Go ter sleep, honey." - -The eyelids quivered beneath Aunt Ri's fingers. Tears forced their -way, and rolled slowly down the cheeks. The lips trembled; the -voice strove to speak, but it was only like the ghost of a whisper, -the faint question that came,-- "Felipe?" - -"Yes, dear! I am here, too," breathed Felipe; "go to sleep. We will -not leave you!" - -And again Ramona sank away into the merciful sleep which was -saving her life. - -"Ther longer she kin sleep, ther better," said Aunt Ri, with a sigh, -deep-drawn like a groan. "I allow I dread ter see her reely come to. -'T'll be wus'n the fust; she'll hev ter live it all over again!" - -But Aunt Ri did not know what forces of fortitude had been -gathering in Ramona's soul during these last bitter years. Out of -her gentle constancy had been woven the heroic fibre of which -martyrs are made; this, and her inextinguishable faith, had made -her strong, as were those of old, who "had trial of cruel mocking, -wandering about, being destitute, afflicted, tormented, wandered in -deserts and in mountains, and in dens and caves of the earth." - -When she waked the second time, it was with a calm, almost -beatific smile that she gazed on Felipe, and whispered, "How did -you find me, dear Felipe?" It was rather by the motions of her lips -than by any sound that he knew the words. She had not yet strength -enough to make an audible sound. When they laid her baby on her -breast, she smiled again, and tried to embrace her, but was too -weak. Pointing to the baby's eyes, she whispered, gazing earnestly -at Felipe, "Alessandro." A convulsion passed over her face as she -spoke the word, and the tears flowed. - -Felipe could not speak. He glanced helplessly at Aunt Ri, who -promptly responded: "Naow, honey, don't yeow talk. 'Tain't good -fur ye; 'n' Feeleepy 'n' me, we air in a powerful hurry ter git yer -strong 'n' well, 'n' tote ye out er this --" Aunt Ri stopped. No -substantive in her vocabulary answered her need at that moment. "I -allow ye kin go 'n a week, ef nothin' don't go agin ye more'n I see -naow; but ef yer git ter talkin', thar's no tellin' when yer'll git up. -Yeow jest shet up, honey. We'll look arter everythin'." - -Feebly Ramona turned her grateful, inquiring eyes on Felipe. Her -lips framed the words, "With you?" - -"Yes, dear, home with me," said Felipe, clasping her hand in his. "I -have been searching for you all this time." - -An anxious look came into the sweet face. Felipe knew what it -meant. How often he had seen it in the olden time. He feared to -shock her by the sudden mention of the Senora's death; yet that -would harm her less than continued anxiety. "I am alone, dear -Ramona," he whispered. "There is no one now but you, my sister, -to take care of me. My mother has been dead a year." - -The eyes dilated, then filled with sympathetic tears. "Dear Felipe!" -she sighed; but her heart took courage. Felipe's phrase was like one -inspired; another duty, another work, another loyalty, waiting for -Ramona. Not only her child to live for, but to "take care of Felipe"! -Ramona would not die! Youth, a mother's love, a sister's affection -and duty, on the side of life,-- the battle was won, and won -quickly, too. - -To the simple Cahuillas it seemed like a miracle; and they looked -on Aunt Ri's weather-beaten face with something akin to a -superstitious reverence. They themselves were not ignorant of the -value of the herb by means of which she had wrought the -marvellous cure; but they had made repeated experiments with it -upon Ramona, without success. It must be that there had been -some potent spell in Aunt Ri's handling. They would hardly -believe her when, in answer to their persistent questioning, she -reiterated the assertion that she had used nothing except the hot -water and "old man," which was her name for the wild wormwood; -and which, when explained to them, impressed them greatly, as -having no doubt some significance in connection with the results -of her preparation of the leaves. - -Rumors about Felipe ran swiftly throughout the region. The -presence in the Cahuilla village of a rich Mexican gentleman who -spent gold like water, and kept mounted men riding day and night, -after everything, anything, he wanted for his sick sister, was an -event which in the atmosphere of that lonely country loomed into -colossal proportions. He had travelled all over California, with -four horses, in search of her. He was only waiting till she was well, -to take her to his home in the south; and then he was going to -arrest the man who had murdered her husband, and have him -hanged, -- yes, hanged! Small doubt about that; or, if the law -cleared him, there was still the bullet. This rich Senor would see -him shot, if rope were not to be had. Jim Farrar heard these tales, -and quaked in his guilty soul. The rope he had small fear of, for -well he knew the temper of San Diego County juries and judges; -but the bullet, that was another thing; and these Mexicans were -like Indians in their vengeance. Time did not tire them, and their -memories were long. Farrar cursed the day he had let his temper -get the better of him on that lonely mountainside; how much the -better, nobody but he himself knew,-- nobody but he and Ramona: -and even Ramona did not know the bitter whole. She knew that -Alessandro had no knife, and had gone forward with no hostile -intent; but she knew nothing beyond that. Only the murderer -himself knew that the dialogue which he had reported to the judge -and jury, to justify his act, was an entire fabrication of his own, -and that, instead of it, had been spoken but four words by -Alessandro, and those were, "Senor, I will explain;" and that even -after the first shot had pierced his lungs, and the blood was -choking in his throat, he had still run a step or two farther, with his -hand uplifted deprecatingly, and made one more effort to speak -before he fell to the ground dead. Callous as Farrar was, and clear -as it was in his mind that killing an Indian was no harm, he had not -liked to recall the pleading anguish in Alessandro's tone and in his -face as he fell. He had not liked to recall this, even before he heard -of this rich Mexican brother-in-law who had appeared on the -scene; and now, he found the memories still more unpleasant. Fear -is a wonderful goad to remorse. There was another thing, too, -which to his great wonder had been apparently overlooked by -everybody; at least, nothing had been said about it; but the bearing -of it on his case, if the case were brought up a second time and -minutely investigated, would be most unfortunate. And this was, -that the only clew he had to the fact of Alessandro's having taken -his horse, was that the poor, half-crazed fellow had left his own -well-known gray pony in the corral in place of the horse he took. A -strange thing, surely, for a horse-thief to do! Cold sweat burst out -on Farrar's forehead, more than once, as he realized how this, -coupled with the well-known fact of Alessandro's liability to -attacks of insanity, might be made to tell against him, if he should -be brought to trial for the murder. He was as cowardly as he was -cruel: never yet were the two traits separate in human nature; and -after a few days of this torturing suspense and apprehension, he -suddenly resolved to leave the country, if not forever, at least for a -few years, till this brother-in-law should be out of the way. He lost -no time in carrying out his resolution; and it was well he did not, -for it was only three days after he had disappeared, that Felipe -walked into Judge Wells's office, one morning, to make inquiries -relative to the preliminary hearing which had been held there in -the matter of the murder of the Indian, Alessandro Assis, by James -Farrar. And when the judge, taking down his books, read to Felipe -his notes of the case, and went on to say, "If Farrar's testimony is -true, Ramona's, the wife's, must be false," and "at any rate, her -testimony would not be worth a straw with any jury," Felipe sprang -to his feet, and cried, "She of whom you speak is my foster-sister; -and, by God, Senor, if I can find that man, I will shoot him as I -would a dog! And I'll see, then, if a San Diego County jury will -hang me for ridding the country of such a brute!" and Felipe would -have been as good as his word. It was a wise thing Farrar had done -in making his escape. - -When Aunt Ri heard that Farrar had fled the country, she pushed -up her spectacles and looked reflectively at her informant. It was -young Merrill. "Fled ther country, hez he?" she said. "Wall, he kin -flee ez many countries ez he likes, an' 't won't dew him no good. I -know yeow folks hyar don't seem ter think killin' an Injun's enny -murder, but I say 'tis; an' yeow'll all git it brung home ter yer afore -yer die: ef 'tain't brung one way, 't'll be anuther; yeow jest mind -what I say, 'n' don't yeow furgit it. Naow this miser'ble murderer, -this Farrar, thet's lighted out er hyar, he's nothin' more'n a skunk, -but he's got the Lawd arter him, naow. It's jest's well he's gawn; I -never did b'leeve in hangin'. I never could. It's jest tew men dead -'stead o' one. I don't want to see no man hung, no marter what he's -done, 'n' I don't want to see no man shot down, nuther, no marter -what he's done; 'n' this hyar Feeleepy, he's thet highstrung, he'd ha' -shot thet Farrar, any minnit, quicker'n lightnin', ef he'd ketched -him; so it's better all raound he's lit aout. But I tell yeow, naow, he -hain't made much by goin'! Thet Injun he murdered 'll foller him -night 'n' day, till he dies, 'n' long arter; he'll wish he wuz dead afore -he doos die, I allow he will, naow. He'll be jest like a man I -knowed back in Tennessee. I wa'n't but a mite then, but I never -forgot it. 'Tis a great country fur gourds, East Tennessee is, whar I -wuz raised; 'n' thar wuz two houses, 'n' a fence between 'em, 'n' -these gourds a runnin' all over the fence; 'n' one o' ther childun -picked one o' them gourds, an' they fit abaout it; 'n' then the women -took it up,-- ther childun's mothers, yer know, -- 'n' they got fightin' -abaout it; 'n' then 't the last the men took it up, 'n' they fit; 'n' -Rowell he got his butcher-knife, 'n' he ground it up, 'n' he picked a -querril with Claiborne, 'n' he cut him inter pieces. They hed him up -for 't, 'n' somehow they clared him. I don't see how they ever did, -but they put 't off, 'n' put 't off, 'n' 't last they got him free; 'n' he -lived on thar a spell, but he couldn't stan' it; 'peared like he never -hed no peace; 'n' he came over ter our 'us, 'n' sed he, 'Jake,' -- they -allers called daddy 'Jake,' or 'Uncle Jake,' -- 'Jake,' sed he, 'I can't -stan' it, livin' hyar.' 'Why,' sez daddy, 'the law o' the country's clar'd -ye.' 'Yes,' sez he, 'but the law o' God hain't; 'n' I've got Claiborne -allers with me. Thar ain't any path so narrer, but he's a walkin' in it, -by my side, all day; 'n' come night, I sleep with him ter one side, 'n' -my wife 't other; 'n' I can't stan' it.' Them's ther very words I heered -him say, 'n' I wuzn't ennythin' but a mite, but I didn't furgit it. Wall, -sir, he went West, way aout hyar to Californy, 'n' he couldn't stay -thar nuther, 'n' he came back hum agin; 'n' I wuz bigger then, a gal -grown, 'n' daddy sez to him,-- I heern him,-- 'Wal,' sez he, 'did -Claiborne foller yer?' 'Yes,' sez he, 'he follered me. I'll never git -shet o' him in this world. He's allers clost to me everywhar.' Yer -see, 'twas jest his conscience er whippin' him. Thet's all 't wuz. 'T -least, thet's all I think 't wuz; though thar wuz those thet said 't wuz -Claiborne's ghost. 'N' thet'll be the way 't 'll be with this miser'ble -Farrar. He'll live ter wish he'd let hisself be hanged er shot, er erry -which way, ter git out er his misery." - -Young Merrill listened with unwonted gravity to Aunt Ri's earnest -words. They reached a depth in his nature which had been long -untouched; a stratum, so to speak, which lay far beneath the -surface. The character of the Western frontiersman is often a -singular accumulation of such strata, -- the training and beliefs of -his earliest days overlain by successions of unrelated and violent -experiences, like geological deposits. Underneath the exterior -crust of the most hardened and ruffianly nature often remains -- its -forms not yet quite fossilized -- a realm full of the devout customs, -doctrines, religious influences, which the boy knew, and the man -remembers, By sudden upheaval, in some great catastrophe or -struggle in his mature life, these all come again into the light. -Assembly Catechism definitions, which he learned in his -childhood, and has not thought of since, ring in his ears, and he is -thrown into all manner of confusions and inconsistencies of -feeling and speech by this clashing of the old and new man within -him. It was much in this way that Aunt Ri's words smote upon -young Merrill. He was not many years removed from the sound of -a preaching of the straitest New England Calvinism. The wild -frontier life had drawn him in and under, as in a whirlpool; but he -was New Englander yet at heart. - -"That's so, Aunt Ri!" he exclaimed. "That's so! I don't s'pose a man -that's committed murder 'll ever have any peace in this world, nor -in the next nuther, without he repents; but ye see this horse-stealin' -business is different. 'Tain't murder to kill a hoss-thief, any way -you can fix it; everybody admits that. A feller that's caught -horse-stealin' had ought to be shot; and he will be, too, I tell you, -in this country!" - -A look of impatient despair spread over Aunt Ri's face. "I hain't no -patience left with yer," she said, "er talkin' abaout stealin' hosses ez -ef hosses wuz more'n human bein's! But lettin' thet all go, this -Injun, he wuz crazy. Yer all knowed it. Thet Farrar knowed it. -D'yer think ef he'd ben stealin' the hoss, he'd er left his own hoss in -the corral, same ez, yer might say, leavin' his kyerd to say 't wuz he -done it; 'n' the hoss er tied in plain sight 'n front uv his house fur -ennybody ter see?" - -"Left his own horse, so he did!" retorted Merrill. "A poor, -miserable, knock-kneed old pony, that wa'n't worth twenty dollars; -'n' Jim's horse was worth two hundred, 'n' cheap at that." - -"Thet ain't nuther here nor thar in what we air sayin'," persisted -Aunt Ri. "I ain't a speakin' on 't ez a swap er hosses. What I say is, -he wa'n't tryin' to cover 't up thet he'd tuk the hoss. We air sum -used ter hoss-thieves in Tennessee; but I never heered o' one yit -thet left his name fur a refference berhind him, ter show which -road he tuk, 'n' fastened ther stolen critter ter his front gate when -he got hum! I allow me 'n' yeow hedn't better say anythin' much -more on ther subjeck, fur I allow we air bound to querril ef we -dew;" and nothing that Merrill said could draw another word out -of Aunt Ri in regard to Alessandro's death. But there was another -subject on which she was tireless, and her speech eloquent. It was -the kindness and goodness of the Cahuilla people. The last vestige -of her prejudice against Indians had melted and gone, in the -presence of their simple-hearted friendliness. "I'll never hear a -word said agin 'em, never, ter my longest day," she said. "The way -the pore things hed jest stripped theirselves, to git things fur -Ramony, beat all ever I see among white folks, 'n' I've ben raound -more'n most. 'N' they wa'n't lookin' fur no pay, nuther; fur they -didn't know, till Feeleepy 'n' me cum, thet she had any folks -ennywhar, 'n' they'd ha' taken care on her till she died, jest the -same. The sick allers ez took care on among them, they sed, 's long -uz enny on em hez got a thing left. Thet's ther way they air raised; I -allow white folks might take a lesson on 'em, in thet; 'n' in heaps -uv other things tew. Oh, I'm done talkin' again Injuns, naow, don't -yeow furgit it! But I know, fur all thet, 't won't make any -difference; 'pears like there cuddn't nobody b'leeve ennythin' 'n this -world 'thout seein' 't theirselves. I wuz thet way tew; I allow I hain't -got no call ter talk; but I jest wish the hull world could see what -I've seen! Thet's all!" - -It was a sad day in the village when Ramona and her friends -departed. Heartily as the kindly people rejoiced in her having -found such a protector for herself and her child, and deeply as they -felt Felipe's and Aunt Ri's good-will and gratitude towards them, -they were yet conscious of a loss,-- of a void. The gulf between -them and the rest of the world seemed defined anew, their sense of -isolation deepened, their hopeless poverty emphasized. Ramona, -wife of Alessandro, had been as their sister,-- one of them; as such, -she would have had share in all their life had to offer. But its -utmost was nothing, was but hardship and deprivation; and she -was being borne away from it, like one rescued, not so much from -death, as from a life worse than death. - -The tears streamed down Ramona's face as she bade them -farewell. She embraced again and again the young mother who had -for so many days suckled her child, even, it was said, depriving her -own hardier babe that Ramona's should not suffer. "Sister, you -have given me my child," she cried; "I can never thank you; I will -pray for you all my life." - -She made no inquiries as to Felipe's plans. Unquestioningly, like a -little child, she resigned herself into his hands. A power greater -than hers was ordering her way; Felipe was its instrument. No -other voice spoke to guide her. The same old simplicity of -acceptance which had characterized her daily life in her girlhood, -and kept her serene and sunny then,-- serene under trials, sunny in -her routine of little duties,-- had kept her serene through all the -afflictions, and calm, if not sunny, under all the burdens of her -later life; and it did not desert her even now, - -Aunt Ri gazed at her with a sentiment as near to veneration as her -dry, humorous, practical nature was capable of feeling. "I allow I -donno but I sh'd cum ter believin' in saints tew," she said, "ef I wuz -ter live 'long side er thet gal. 'Pears like she wuz suthin' more 'n -human. 'T beats me plum out, ther way she takes her troubles. -Thar's sum would say she hedn't no feelin'; but I allow she hez -more 'n most folks. I kin see, 'tain't thet. I allow I didn't never -expect ter think 's well uv prayin' to picters, 'n' strings er beads, 'n' -sech; but ef 't 's thet keeps her up ther way she's kept up, I allow -thar's more in it 'n it's hed credit fur. I ain't gwine ter say enny more -agin it' nor agin Injuns. 'Pears like I'm gittin' heaps er new idears -inter my head, these days. I'll turn Injun, mebbe, afore I git -through!" - -The farewell to Aunt Ri was hardest of all. Ramona clung to her as -to a mother. At times she felt that she would rather stay by her side -than go home with Felipe; then she reproached herself for the -thought, as for a treason and ingratitude. Felipe saw the feeling, -and did not wonder at it. "Dear girl," he thought; "it is the nearest -she has ever come to knowing what a mother's love is like!" And -he lingered in San Bernardino week after week, on the pretence -that Ramona was not yet strong enough to bear the journey home, -when in reality his sole motive for staying was his reluctance to -deprive her of Aunt Ri's wholesome and cheering companionship. - -Aunt Ri was busily at work on a rag carpet for the Indian Agent's -wife. She had just begun it, had woven only a few inches, on that -dreadful morning when the news of Alessandro's death reached -her. It was of her favorite pattern, the "hit-er-miss" pattern, as she -called it; no set stripes or regular alternation of colors, but ball -after ball of the indiscriminately mixed tints, woven back and -forth, on a warp of a single color. The constant variety in it, the -unexpectedly harmonious blending of the colors, gave her delight, -and afforded her a subject, too, of not unphilosophical reflection. - -"Wall," she said, "it's called ther 'hit-er-miss' pattren; but it's 'hit' -oftener'n 'tis 'miss.' Thar ain't enny accountin' fur ther way ther -breadths'll come, sometimes; 'pears like 't wuz kind er magic, when -they air sewed tergether; 'n' I allow thet's ther way it's gwine ter be -with heaps er things in this life. It's jest a kind er 'hit-er-miss' -pattren we air all on us livin' on; 'tain't much use tryin' ter reckon -how 't 'll come aout; but the breadths doos fit heaps better 'n yer'd -think; come ter sew 'em, 'tain't never no sech colors ez yer thought -'t wuz gwine ter be; but it's allers pooty, allers; never see a -'hit-er-miss' pattren 'n my life yit, thet wa'n't pooty. 'N' ther wa'n't -never nobody fetched me rags, 'n' hed 'em all planned aout, 'n' jest -ther way they wanted ther warp, 'n' jest haow ther stripes wuz ter -come, 'n' all, thet they wa'n't orful diserpynted when they cum ter -see 't done. It don't never look's they thought 't would, never! I -larned thet lesson airly; 'n' I allers make 'em write aout on a paper, -jest ther wedth er every stripe, 'n' each er ther colors, so's they kin -see it's what they ordered; 'r else they'd allers say I hedn't wove 't's I -wuz told ter. I got ketched thet way oncet! I allow ennybody's a -bawn fool gits ketched twice runnin' ther same way. But fur me, I'll -take ther 'hit-er-miss' pattren, every time, sir, straight along." - -When the carpet was done, Aunt Ri took the roll in her own -independent arms, and strode with it to the Agent's house. She had -been biding the time when she should have this excuse for going -there. Her mind was burdened with questions she wished to ask, -information she wished to give, and she chose an hour when she -knew she would find the Agent himself at home. - -"I allow yer heered why I wuz behind time with this yere carpet," -she said; "I wuz up ter San Jacinto Mounting, where thet Injun wuz -murdered. We brung his widder 'n' ther baby daown with us, me 'n' -her brother. He's tuk her home ter his house ter live. He's reel well -off." - -Yes, the Agent had heard this; he had wondered why the widow -did not come to see him; he had expected to hear from her. - -"Wall, I did hent ter her thet p'raps yer could dew something, ef -she wuz ter tell yer all abaout it; but she allowed thar wa'n't enny -use in talkin'. Ther jedge, he sed her witnessin' wouldn't be wuth -nuthin' to no jury; 'n' thet wuz what I wuz a wantin' to ask yeow, ef -thet wuz so." - -"Yes, that is what the lawyers here told me," said the Agent. "I was -going to have the man arrested, but they said it would be folly to -bring the case to trial. The woman's testimony would not be -believed." - -"Yeow've got power ter git a man punished fur sellin' whiskey to -Injuns, I notice," broke in Aunt Ri; "hain't yer? I see yeour man 'n' -the marshal here arrestin' 'em pooty lively last month; they sed -'twas yeour doin'; yeow was a gwine ter prossacute every livin' son -o' hell -- them wuz thar words -- thet sold whiskey ter Injuns." - -"That's so!" said the Agent. "So I am; I am determined to break up -this vile business of selling whiskey to Indians. It is no use trying -to do anything for them while they are made drunk in this way; it's -a sin and a shame." - -"Thet's so, I allow ter yeow," said Aunt Ri. "Thar ain't any -gainsayin' thet. But ef yeow've got power ter git a man put in jail -fur sellin' whiskey 't 'n Injun, 'n' hain't got power to git him -punished ef he goes 'n' kills thet Injun, 't sems ter me thar's suthin' -cur'us abaout thet." - -"That is just the trouble in my position here, Aunt Ri," he said. "I -have no real power over my Indians, as I ought to have." - -"What makes yer call 'em yeour Injuns?" broke in Aunt Ri. - -The Agent colored. Aunt Ri was a privileged character, but her -logical method of questioning was inconvenient. - -"I only mean that they are under my charge," he said. "I don't mean -that they belong to me in any way." - -"Wall, I allow not," retorted Aunt Ri, "enny more 'n I dew. They air -airnin' their livin', sech 's 'tis, ef yer kin call it a livin'. I've been -'mongst 'em, naow, they hyar last tew weeks, 'n' I allow I've had my -eyes opened ter some things. What's thet docter er yourn, him thet -they call the Agency doctor,-- what's he got ter do?" - -"To attend to the Indians of this Agency when they are sick," -replied the Agent, promptly. - -"Wall, thet's what I heern; thet's what yeow sed afore, 'n' thet's why -Alessandro, the Injun thet wuz murdered,-- thet's why he put his -name down 'n yeour books, though 't went agin him orful ter do it. -He wuz high-spereted, 'n' 'd allers took keer er hisself; but he'd ben -druv out er fust one place 'n' then another, tell he'd got clar down, -'n' pore; 'n' he jest begged thet doctor er yourn to go to see his little -gal, 'n' the docter wouldn't; 'n' more'n thet, he laughed at him fur -askin.' 'N' they set the little thing on the hoss ter bring her here, 'n' -she died afore they'd come a mile with her; 'n' 't wuz thet, on top er -all the rest druv Alessandro crazy. He never hed none er them -wandrin' spells till arter thet. Naow I allow thet wa'n't right eh thet -docter. I wouldn't hev no sech docter's thet raound my Agency, ef I -wuz yeow. Pr'aps yer never heered uv thet. I told Ramony I didn't -bleeve yer knowed it, or ye'd hev made him go." - -"No, Aunt Ri," said the Agent; "I could not have done that; he is -only required to doctor such Indians as come here." - -"I allow, then, thar ain't any gret use en hevin' him at all," said -Aunt Ri; "'pears like thar ain't more'n a harndful uv Injuns raound -here. I expect he gits well paid?" and she paused for an answer. -None came. The Agent did not feel himself obliged to reveal to -Aunt Ri what salary the Government paid the San Bernardino -doctor for sending haphazard prescriptions to Indians he never -saw. - -After a pause Aunt Ri resumed: "Ef it ain't enny offence ter yeow, I -allow I'd like ter know jest what 'tis yeow air here ter dew fur these -Injuns. I've got my feelin's considdable stirred up, bein' among 'em -'n' knowing this hyar one, thet's ben murdered. Hev ye got enny -power to giv' 'em ennything,-- food or sech? They air powerful -pore, most on 'em." - -"I have had a little fund for buying supplies for them in times of -special suffering;" replied the Agent, "a very little; and the -Department has appropriated some money for wagons and -ploughs; not enough, however, to supply every village; you see -these Indians are in the main self-supporting." - -"Thet's jest it," persisted Aunt Ri. "Thet's what I've ben seein'; 'n' -thet's why I want so bad ter git at what 'tis the Guvvermunt means -ter hev yeow dew fur 'em. I allow ef yeow ain't ter feed 'em, an' ef -yer can't put folks inter jail fur robbin' 'n' cheatin' 'em, not ter say -killin' 'em,-- ef yer can't dew ennythin' more 'n keep 'em from -gettin' whiskey, wall, I'm free ter say --" Aunt Ri paused; she did -not wish to seem to reflect on the Agent's usefulness, and so -concluded her sentence very differently from her first impulse,-- -"I'm free ter say I shouldn't like ter stan' in yer shoes." - -"You may very well say that, Aunt Ri," laughed the Agent, -complacently. "It is the most troublesome Agency in the whole list, -and the least satisfactory." - -"Wall, I allow it mought be the least satisfyin'," rejoined the -indefatigable Aunt Ri; "but I donno whar the trouble comes in, ef -so be's thar's no more kin be done than yer wuz er tellin'." And she -looked honestly puzzled. - -"Look there, Aunt Ri!" said he, triumphantly, pointing to a pile of -books and papers. "All those to be gone through with, and a report -to be made out every month, and a voucher to be sent for every -lead-pencil I buy. I tell you I work harder than I ever did in my life -before, and for less pay." - -"I allow yer hev hed easy times afore, then," retorted Aunt Ri, -good-naturedly satirical, "ef yeow air plum tired doin' thet!" And -she took her leave, not a whit clearer in her mind as to the real -nature and function of the Indian Agency than she was in the -beginning. - -Through all of Ramona's journey home she seemed to herself to be -in a dream. Her baby in her arms; the faithful creatures, Baba and -Benito, gayly trotting along at a pace so swift that the carriage -seemed gliding; Felipe by her side, -- the dear Felipe,-- his eyes -wearing the same bright and loving look as of old,-- what strange -thing was it which had happened to her to make it all seem unreal? -Even the little one in her arms,-- she too, seemed unreal! Ramona -did not know it, but her nerves were still partially paralyzed. -Nature sends merciful anaesthetics in the shocks which almost kill -us. In the very sharpness of the blow sometimes lies its own first -healing. It would be long before Ramona would fully realize that -Alessandro was dead. Her worst anguish was yet to come. - -Felipe did not know and could not have understood this; and it was -with a marvelling gratitude that he saw Ramona, day after day, -placid, always ready with a smile when he spoke to her. Her -gratitude for each thoughtfulness of his smote him like a reproach; -all the more that he knew her gentle heart had never held a thought -of reproach in it towards him. "Grateful to me!" he thought. "To -me, who might have spared her all this woe if I had been strong!" - -Never would Felipe forgive himself,-- no, not to the day of his -death. His whole life should be devoted to her and her child; but -what a pitiful thing was that to render! - -As they drew near home, he saw Ramona often try to conceal from -him that she had shed tears. At last he said to her: "Dearest -Ramona, do not fear to weep before me. I would not be any -constraint on you. It is better for you to let the tears come freely, -my sister. They are healing to wounds." - -"I do not think so, Felipe," replied Ramona. "Tears are only selfish -and weak. They are like a cry because we are hurt. It is not -possible always to keep them back; but I am ashamed when I have -wept, and think also that I have sinned, because I have given a sad -sight to others. Father Salvierderra always said that it was a duty to -look happy, no matter how much we might be suffering." - -"That is more than human power can do!" said Felipe. - -"I think not," replied Ramona. "If it were, Father Salvierderra -would not have commanded it. And do you not recollect, Felipe, -what a smile his face always wore? and his heart had been broken -for many, many years before he died. Alone, in the night, when he -prayed, he used to weep, from the great wrestling he had with God, -he told me; but we never saw him except with a smile. When one -thinks in the wilderness, alone, Felipe, many things become clear. I -have been learning, all these years in the wilderness, as if I had had -a teacher. Sometimes I almost thought that the spirit of Father -Salvierderra was by my side putting thoughts into my mind. I hope -I can tell them to my child when she is old enough. She will -understand them quicker than I did, for she has Alessandro's soul; -you can see that by her eyes. And all these things of which I speak -were in his heart from his childhood. They belong to the air and -the sky and the sun, and all trees know them." - -When Ramona spoke thus of Alessandro, Felipe marvelled in -silence. He himself had been afraid to mention Alessandro's name; -but Ramona spoke it as if he were yet by her side. Felipe could not -fathom this. There were to be many things yet which Felipe could -not fathom in this lovely, sorrowing, sunny sister of his. - -When they reached the house, the servants, who had been on the -watch for days, were all gathered in the court-yard, old Marda and -Juan Can heading the group; only two absent,-- Margarita and -Luigo. They had been married some months before, and were -living at the Ortegas ranch, where Luigo, to Juan Can's scornful -amusement, had been made head shepherd. - -On all sides were beaming faces, smiles, and glad cries of greeting. -Underneath these were affectionate hearts quaking with fear lest -the home-coming be but a sad one after all. Vaguely they knew a -little of what their dear Senorita had been through since she left -them; it seemed that she must be sadly altered by so much sorrow, -and that it would be terrible to her to come back to the place so -full of painful associations. "And the Senora gone, too," said one -of the outdoor hands, as they were talking it over; "it's not the -same place at all that it was when the Senora was here." - -"Humph!" muttered Juan Can, more consequential and overbearing -than ever, for this year of absolute control of the estate. "Humph! -that's all you know. A good thing the Senora died when she did, I -can tell you! We'd never have seen the Senorita back here else; I -can tell you that, my man! And for my part, I'd much rather be -under Senor Felipe and the Senorita than under the Senora, peace -to her ashes! She had her day. They can have theirs now." - -When these loving and excited retainers saw Ramona -- pale, but -with her own old smile on her face -- coming towards them with -her babe in her arms, they broke into wild cheering, and there was -not a dry eye in the group. - -Singling out old Marda by a glance, Ramona held out the baby -towards her, and said in her old gentle, affectionate voice, "I am -sure you will love my baby, Marda!" - -"Senorita! Senorita! God bless you, Senorita!" they cried; and -closed up their ranks around the baby, touching her, praising her, -handing her from one to another. - -Ramona stood for a few seconds watching them; then she said, -"Give her to me, Marda. I will myself carry her into the house;" -and she moved toward the inner door. - -"This way, dear; this way," cried Felipe. "It is Father Salvierderra's -room I ordered to be prepared for you, because it is so sunny for -the baby!" - -"Thanks, kind Felipe!" cried Ramona, and her eyes said more than -her words. She knew he had divined the one thing she had most -dreaded in returning,-- the crossing again the threshold of her own -room. It would be long now before she would enter that room. -Perhaps she would never enter it. How tender and wise of Felipe! - -Yes; Felipe was both tender and wise, now. How long would the -wisdom hold the tenderness in leash, as he day after day looked -upon the face of this beautiful woman,-- so much more beautiful -now than she had been before her marriage, that Felipe sometimes, -as he gazed at her, thought her changed even in feature? But in this -very change lay a spell which would for a long time surround her, -and set her as apart from lover's thoughts as if she were guarded by -a cordon of viewless spirits. There was a rapt look of holy -communion on her face, which made itself felt by the dullest -perception, and sometimes overawed even where it attracted. It -was the same thing which Aunt Ri had felt, and formulated in her -own humorous fashion. But old Marda put it better, when, one day, -in reply to a half-terrified, low-whispered suggestion of Juan Can, -to the effect that it was "a great pity that Senor Felipe hadn't -married the Senorita years ago,-- what if he were to do it yet?" she -said, also under her breath. "It is my opinion he'd as soon think of -Saint Catharine herself! Not but that it would be a great thing if it -could be!" - -And now the thing that the Senora had imagined to herself so often -had come about,-- the presence of a little child in her house, on the -veranda, in the garden, everywhere; the sunny, joyous, blest -presence. But how differently had it come! Not Felipe's child, as -she proudly had pictured, but the child of Ramona: the friendless, -banished Ramona returned now into full honor and peace as the -daughter of the house,-- Ramona, widow of Alessandro. If the -child had been Felipe's own, he could not have felt for it a greater -love. From the first, the little thing had clung to him as only -second to her mother. She slept hours in his arms, one little hand -hid in his dark beard, close to his lips, and kissed again and again -when no one saw. Next to Ramona herself in Felipe's heart came -Ramona's child; and on the child he could lavish the fondness he -felt that he could never dare to show to the mother, Month by -month it grew clearer to Felipe that the mainsprings of Ramona's -life were no longer of this earth; that she walked as one in constant -fellowship with one unseen. Her frequent and calm mention of -Alessandro did not deceive him. It did not mean a lessening grief: -it meant an unchanged relation. - -One thing weighed heavily on Felipe's mind,-- the concealed -treasure. A sense of humiliation withheld him, day after day, from -speaking of it. But he could have no peace until Ramona knew it. -Each hour that he delayed the revelation he felt himself almost as -guilty as he had held his mother to be. At last he spoke. He had not -said many words, before Ramona interrupted him. "Oh, yes!" she -said. "I knew about those things; your mother told me. When we -were in such trouble, I used to wish sometimes we could have had -a few of the jewels. But they were all given to the Church. That -was what the Senora Ortegna said must be done with them if I -married against your mother's wishes." - -It was with a shame-stricken voice that Felipe replied: "Dear -Ramona, they were not given to the Church. You know Father -Salvierderra died; and I suppose my mother did not know what to -do with them. She told me about them just as she was dying." - -"But why did you not give them to the Church, dear?" asked -Ramona, simply. - -"Why?" cried Felipe. "Because I hold them to be yours, and yours -only. I would never have given them to the Church, until I had sure -proof that you were dead and had left no children." - -Ramona's eyes were fixed earnestly on Felipe's face. "You have not -read the Senora Ortegna's letter?" she said. - -"Yes, I have," he replied, "every word of it." - -"But that said I was not to have any of the things if I married -against the Senora Moreno's will." - -Felipe groaned. Had his mother lied? "No, dear," he said, "that was -not the word. It was, if you married unworthily." - -Ramona reflected. "I never recollected the words," she said. "I was -too frightened; but I thought that was what it meant. I did not -marry unworthily. Do you feel sure, Felipe, that it would be honest -for me to take them for my child?" - -"Perfectly," said Felipe. - -"Do you think Father Salvierderra would say I ought to keep -them?" - -"I am sure of it, dear." - -"I will think about it, Felipe. I cannot decide hastily. Your mother -did not think I had any right to them, if I married Alessandro. That -was why she showed them to me. I never knew of them till then. I -took one thing,-- a handkerchief of my father's. I was very glad to -have it; but it got lost when we went from San Pasquale. -Alessandro rode back a half-day's journey to find it for me; but it -had blown away. I grieved sorely for it." - -The next day Ramona said to Felipe: "Dear Felipe, I have thought -it all over about those jewels. I believe it will be right for my -daughter to have them. Can there be some kind of a paper written -for me to sign, to say that if she dies they are all to be given to the -Church,-- to Father Salvierderra's College, in Santa Barbara? That -is where I would rather have them go." - -"Yes, dear," said Felipe; "and then we will put them in some safer -place. I will take them to Los Angeles when I go. It is wonderful -no one has stolen them all these years!" - -And so a second time the Ortegna jewels were passed on, by a -written bequest, into the keeping of that mysterious, certain, -uncertain thing we call the future, and delude our selves with the -fancy that we can have much to do with its shaping. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - -Life ran smoothly in the Moreno household,-- smoothly to the eye. -Nothing could be more peaceful, fairer to see, than the routine of -its days, with the simple pleasures, light tasks, and easy diligence -of all. Summer and winter were alike sunny, and had each its own -joys. There was not an antagonistic or jarring element; and, flitting -back and forth, from veranda to veranda, garden to garden, room -to room, equally at home and equally welcome everywhere, there -went perpetually, running, frisking, laughing, rejoicing, the little -child that had so strangely drifted into this happy shelter,-- the -little Ramona. As unconscious of aught sad or fateful in her -destiny as the blossoms with which it was her delight to play, she -sometimes seemed to her mother to have been from the first in -some mysterious way disconnected from it, removed, set free from -all that could ever by any possibility link her to sorrow. - -Ramona herself bore no impress of sorrow; rather her face had -now an added radiance. There had been a period, soon after her -return, when she felt that she for the first time waked to the -realization of her bereavement; when every sight, sound, and place -seemed to cry out, mocking her with the name and the memory of -Alessandro. But she wrestled with this absorbing grief as with a -sin; setting her will steadfastly to the purposes of each day's duty, -and, most of all, to the duty of joyfulness. She repeated to herself -Father Salvierderra's sayings, till she more than knew them by -heart; and she spent long hours of the night in prayer, as it had -been his wont to do. - -No one but Felipe dreamed of these vigils and wrestlings. He knew -them; and he knew, too, when they ceased, and the new light of a -new victory diffused itself over Ramona's face: but neither did the -first dishearten, nor the latter encourage him. Felipe was a -clearer-sighted lover now than he had been in his earlier youth. He -knew that into the world where Ramona really lived he did not so -much as enter; yet her every act, word, look, was full of loving -thoughtfulness of and for him, loving happiness in his -companionship. And while this was so, all Felipe's unrest could not -make him unhappy. - -There were other causes entering into this unrest besides his -yearning desire to win Ramona for his wife. Year by year the -conditions of life in California were growing more distasteful to -him. The methods, aims, standards of the fast incoming Americans -were to him odious. Their boasted successes, the crowding of -colonies, schemes of settlement and development,-- all were -disagreeable and irritating. The passion for money and reckless -spending of it, the great fortunes made in one hour, thrown away in -another, savored to Felipe's mind more of brigandage and -gambling than of the occupations of gentlemen. He loathed them. -Life under the new government grew more and more intolerable to -him; both his hereditary instincts and prejudices, and his -temperament, revolted. He found himself more and more alone in -the country. Even the Spanish tongue was less and less spoken. He -was beginning to yearn for Mexico,-- for Mexico, which he had -never seen, yet yearned for like an exile. There he might yet live -among men of his own race and degree, and of congenial beliefs -and occupations. Whenever he thought of this change, always -came the quick memory of Ramona. Would she be willing to go? -Could it be that she felt a bond to this land, in which she had -known nothing but sufferings - -At last he asked her. To his unutterable surprise, Ramona cried: -"Felipe! The saints be praised! I should never have told you. I did -not think that you could wish to leave this estate. But my most -beautiful dream for Ramona would be, that she should grow up in -Mexico." - -And as she spoke, Felipe understood by a lightning intuition, and -wondered that he had not foreknown it, that she would spare her -daughter the burden she had gladly, heroically borne herself, in the -bond of race. - -The question was settled. With gladness of heart almost more than -he could have believed possible, Felipe at once communicated -with some rich American proprietors who had desired to buy the -Moreno estate. Land in the valley had so greatly advanced in -value, that the sum he received for it was larger than he had dared -to hope; was ample for the realization of all his plans for the new -life in Mexico. From the hour that this was determined, and the -time for their sailing fixed, a new expression came into Ramona's -face. Her imagination was kindled. An untried future beckoned,-- a -future which she would embrace and conquer for her daughter. -Felipe saw the look, felt the change, and for the first time hoped. It -would be a new world, a new life; why not a new love? She could -not always be blind to his devotion; and when she saw it, could she -refuse to reward it? He would be very patient, and wait long, he -thought. Surely, since he had been patient so long without hope, he -could be still more patient now that hope had dawned! But -patience is not hope's province in breasts of lovers. From the day -when Felipe first thought to himself, "She will yet be mine," it -grew harder, and not easier, for him to refrain from pouring out his -love in words. Her tender sisterliness, which had been such balm -and comfort to him, grew at times intolerable; and again and again -her gentle spirit was deeply disquieted with the fear that she had -displeased him, so strangely did he conduct himself. - -He had resolved that nothing should tempt him to disclose to her -his passion and its dreams, until they had reached their new home. -But there came a moment which mastered him, and he spoke. - -It was in Monterey. They were to sail on the morrow; and had been -on board the ship to complete the last arrangements. They were -rowed back to shore in a little boat. A full moon shone. Ramona -sat bareheaded in the end of the boat, and the silver radiance from -the water seemed to float up around her, and invest her as with a -myriad halos. Felipe gazed at her till his senses swam; and when, -on stepping from the boat, she put her hand in his, and said, as she -had said hundreds of times before, "Dear Felipe, how good you -are!" he clasped her hands wildly, and cried, "Ramona, my love! -Oh, can you not love me?" - -The moonlight was bright as day. They were alone on the shore. -Ramona gazed at him for one second, in surprise. Only for a -second; then she knew all. "Felipe! My brother!" she cried, and -stretched out her hands as if in warning. - -"No! I am not your brother!" he cried. "I will not be your brother! I -would rather die!" - -"Felipe!" cried Ramona again. This time her voice recalled him to -himself. It was a voice of terror and of pain. - -"Forgive me, my sweet one!" he exclaimed. "I will never say it -again. But I have loved you so long -- so long!" - -Ramona's head had fallen forward on her breast, her eyes fixed on -the shining sands; the waves rose and fell, rose and fell, at her feet -gently as sighs. A great revelation had come to Ramona. In this -supreme moment of Felipe's abandonment of all disguises, she saw -his whole past life in a new light. Remorse smote her. "Dear -Felipe," she said, clasping her hands, "I have been very selfish. I -did not know --" - -"Of course you did not, love," said Felipe. "How could you? But I -have never loved any one else. I have always loved you. Can you -not learn to love me? I did not mean to tell you for a long time yet. -But now I have spoken; I cannot hide it any more." - -Ramona drew nearer to him, still with her hands clasped. "I have -always loved you," she said. "I love no other living man; but, -Felipe," -- her voice sank to a solemn whisper,-- "do you not know, -Felipe, that part of me is dead,-- dead? can never live again? You -could not want me for your wife, Felipe, when part of me is dead!" - -Felipe threw his arms around her. He was beside himself with joy. -"You would not say that if you did not think you could be my -wife," he cried. "Only give yourself to me, my love, I care not -whether you call yourself dead or alive!" - -Ramona stood quietly in his arms. Ah, well for Felipe that he did -not know, never could know, the Ramona that Alessandro had -known. This gentle, faithful, grateful Ramona, asking herself -fervently now if she would do her brother a wrong, yielding up to -him what seemed to her only the broken fragment of a life; -weighing his words, not in the light of passion, but of calmest, -most unselfish action,-- ah, how unlike was she to that Ramona -who flung herself on Alessandro's breast, crying, "Take me with -you! I would rather die than have you leave me!" - -Ramona had spoken truth. Part of her was dead. But Ramona saw -now, with infallible intuition, that even as she had loved -Alessandro, so Felipe loved her. Could she refuse to give Felipe -happiness, when he had saved her, saved her child? What else now -remained for them, these words having been spoken? "I will be -your wife, dear Felipe," she said, speaking solemnly, slowly, "if -you are sure it will make you happy, and if you think it is right." - -"Right!" ejaculated Felipe, mad with the joy unlooked for so soon. -"Nothing else would be right! My Ramona, I will love you so, you -will forget you ever said that part of you was dead!" - -A strange look which startled Felipe swept across Ramona's face; -it might have been a moonbeam. It passed. Felipe never saw it -again. - -General Moreno's name was still held in warm remembrance in the -city of Mexico, and Felipe found himself at once among friends. -On the day after their arrival he and Ramona were married in the -cathedral, old Marda and Juan Can, with his crutches, kneeling in -proud joy behind them. The story of the romance of their lives, -being widely rumored, greatly enhanced the interest with which -they were welcomed. The beautiful young Senora Moreno was the -theme of the city; and Felipe's bosom thrilled with pride to see the -gentle dignity of demeanor by which she was distinguished in all -assemblages. It was indeed a new world, a new life. Ramona might -well doubt her own identity. But undying memories stood like -sentinels in her breast. When the notes of doves, calling to each -other, fell on her ear, her eyes sought the sky, and she heard a -voice saying, "Majella!" This was the only secret her loyal, loving -heart had kept from Felipe. A loyal, loving heart indeed it was,-- -loyal, loving, serene. Few husbands so blest as the Senor Felipe -Moreno. - -Sons and daughters came to bear his name. The daughters were all -beautiful; but the most beautiful of them all, and, it was said, the -most beloved by both father and mother, was the eldest one: the -one who bore the mother's name, and was only step-daughter to the -Senor,-- Ramona,-- Ramona, daughter of Alessandro the Indian. - - - - - -End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Ramona, by Helen Hunt Jackson - diff --git a/old/rmona10.zip b/old/rmona10.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 8a19a6d..0000000 --- a/old/rmona10.zip +++ /dev/null |