diff options
| author | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-04-28 13:21:03 -0700 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-04-28 13:21:03 -0700 |
| commit | bc50809db0d662f1dcbae1844690b846d0b04263 (patch) | |
| tree | bf0e33d58e698c6e16c31bb0dbc418ca41c36c21 /old/rmona10.txt | |
| parent | 184a527c415b62f551599fe965665be0834672e0 (diff) | |
Diffstat (limited to 'old/rmona10.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/rmona10.txt | 16424 |
1 files changed, 0 insertions, 16424 deletions
diff --git a/old/rmona10.txt b/old/rmona10.txt deleted file mode 100644 index edc04db..0000000 --- a/old/rmona10.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,16424 +0,0 @@ -**The Project Gutenberg Etext of Ramona, by Helen Hunt Jackson** - -Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check -the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!! - -Please take a look at the important information in this header. -We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an -electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. - -*It must legally be the first thing seen when opening the book.* -In fact, our legal advisors said we can't even change margins. - -**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** - -**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** - -*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* - -Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and -further information is included below. We need your donations. - - -Title: Ramona - -Author: Helen Hunt Jackson - -September, 2001 [Etext #2802] - - -**The Project Gutenberg Etext of Ramona, by Helen Hunt Jackson** -******This file should be named rmona10.txt or rmona10.zip****** - -Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, rmona11.txt -VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, rmona10a.txt - - -Prepared by David Reed haradda@aol.com or davidr@inconnect.com - -Project Gutenberg Etexts are usually created from multiple editions, -all of which are in the Public Domain in the United States, unless a -copyright notice is included. Therefore, we usually do NOT keep any -of these books in compliance with any particular paper edition. - - -We are now trying to release all our books one month in advance -of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing. - -Please note: neither this list nor its contents are final till -midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement. -The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at -Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A -preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment -and editing by those who wish to do so. To be sure you have an -up to date first edition [xxxxx10x.xxx] please check file sizes -in the first week of the next month. Since our ftp program has -a bug in it that scrambles the date [tried to fix and failed] a -look at the file size will have to do, but we will try to see a -new copy has at least one byte more or less. - - -Information about Project Gutenberg (one page) - -We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The -time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours -to get any etext selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright -searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. This -projected audience is one hundred million readers. If our value -per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2 -million dollars per hour this year as we release thirty-six text -files per month, or 432 more Etexts in 1999 for a total of 2000+ -If these reach just 10% of the computerized population, then the -total should reach over 200 billion Etexts given away this year. - -The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away One Trillion Etext -Files by December 31, 2001. [10,000 x 100,000,000 = 1 Trillion] -This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers, -which is only ~5% of the present number of computer users. - -At our revised rates of production, we will reach only one-third -of that goal by the end of 2001, or about 3,333 Etexts unless we -manage to get some real funding; currently our funding is mostly -from Michael Hart's salary at Carnegie-Mellon University, and an -assortment of sporadic gifts; this salary is only good for a few -more years, so we are looking for something to replace it, as we -don't want Project Gutenberg to be so dependent on one person. - -We need your donations more than ever! - - -All donations should be made to "Project Gutenberg/CMU": and are -tax deductible to the extent allowable by law. (CMU = Carnegie- -Mellon University). - -For these and other matters, please mail to: - -Project Gutenberg -P. O. Box 2782 -Champaign, IL 61825 - -When all other email fails. . .try our Executive Director: -Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com> -hart@pobox.com forwards to hart@prairienet.org and archive.org -if your mail bounces from archive.org, I will still see it, if -it bounces from prairienet.org, better resend later on. . . . - -We would prefer to send you this information by email. - -****** - -To access Project Gutenberg etexts, use any Web browser -to view http://promo.net/pg. This site lists Etexts by -author and by title, and includes information about how -to get involved with Project Gutenberg. You could also -download our past Newsletters, or subscribe here. This -is one of our major sites, please email hart@pobox.com, -for a more complete list of our various sites. - -To go directly to the etext collections, use FTP or any -Web browser to visit a Project Gutenberg mirror (mirror -sites are available on 7 continents; mirrors are listed -at http://promo.net/pg). - -Mac users, do NOT point and click, typing works better. - -Example FTP session: - -ftp metalab.unc.edu -login: anonymous -password: your@login -cd pub/docs/books/gutenberg -cd etext90 through etext99 or etext00 through etext01, etc. -dir [to see files] -get or mget [to get files. . .set bin for zip files] -GET GUTINDEX.?? [to get a year's listing of books, e.g., GUTINDEX.99] -GET GUTINDEX.ALL [to get a listing of ALL books] - -*** - -**Information prepared by the Project Gutenberg legal advisor** - -(Three Pages) - - -***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS**START*** -Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers. -They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with -your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from -someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our -fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement -disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how -you can distribute copies of this etext if you want to. - -*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS ETEXT -By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -etext, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept -this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive -a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this etext by -sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person -you got it from. If you received this etext on a physical -medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request. - -ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM ETEXTS -This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG- -tm etexts, is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor -Michael S. Hart through the Project Gutenberg Association at -Carnegie-Mellon University (the "Project"). Among other -things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright -on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and -distribute it in the United States without permission and -without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth -below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this etext -under the Project's "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark. - -To create these etexts, the Project expends considerable -efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain -works. Despite these efforts, the Project's etexts and any -medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other -things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or -corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged -disk or other etext medium, a computer virus, or computer -codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment. - -LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES -But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below, -[1] the Project (and any other party you may receive this -etext from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext) disclaims all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including -legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR -UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT, -INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE -OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE -POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES. - -If you discover a Defect in this etext within 90 days of -receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) -you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that -time to the person you received it from. If you received it -on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and -such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement -copy. If you received it electronically, such person may -choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to -receive it electronically. - -THIS ETEXT IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER -WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS -TO THE ETEXT OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A -PARTICULAR PURPOSE. - -Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or -the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the -above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you -may have other legal rights. - -INDEMNITY -You will indemnify and hold the Project, its directors, -officers, members and agents harmless from all liability, cost -and expense, including legal fees, that arise directly or -indirectly from any of the following that you do or cause: -[1] distribution of this etext, [2] alteration, modification, -or addition to the etext, or [3] any Defect. - -DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm" -You may distribute copies of this etext electronically, or by -disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this -"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg, -or: - -[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this - requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the - etext or this "small print!" statement. You may however, - if you wish, distribute this etext in machine readable - binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form, - including any form resulting from conversion by word pro- - cessing or hypertext software, but only so long as - *EITHER*: - - [*] The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and - does *not* contain characters other than those - intended by the author of the work, although tilde - (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may - be used to convey punctuation intended by the - author, and additional characters may be used to - indicate hypertext links; OR - - [*] The etext may be readily converted by the reader at - no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent - form by the program that displays the etext (as is - the case, for instance, with most word processors); - OR - - [*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at - no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the - etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC - or other equivalent proprietary form). - -[2] Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this - "Small Print!" statement. - -[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Project of 20% of the - net profits you derive calculated using the method you - already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you - don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are - payable to "Project Gutenberg Association/Carnegie-Mellon - University" within the 60 days following each - date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare) - your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return. - -WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? -The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time, -scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty -free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution -you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg -Association / Carnegie-Mellon University". - -We are planning on making some changes in our donation structure -in 2000, so you might want to email me, hart@pobox.com beforehand. - - - - -*END THE SMALL PRINT! 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 - |